Midnight's Sun: A Story of Wolves Read online

  ‘I wonder what it’s like to be a bird,’ he said in an unguarded moment, and too late he realised his tone had been wistful. Ragisthor, however, seemed disturbed for both of them. The older wolf looked around, carefully inspecting a patch of stunted willows to the south.

  ‘Careful, my little shrub,’ said Ragisthor, ‘the rocks tell tales.’

  He glanced behind him, then continued, ‘I should think it would be a very graceful existence, if you were a hawk or falcon, but a pretty grubby one if a sparrow. More specifically, it might be a change, though,’ he glanced around him again, ‘an inferior one of course, if one were to sprout swan-like wings and be able to view the world from above.’

  ‘Why not gulls’ wings? They can glide and cut.’

  Ragisthor gave a slight shudder.

  ‘Gulls, my curled fern, are ghastly creatures that will eat dead herrings. Have you ever smelled a dead herring? I thought not. It is an experience to be missed, I can assure you. The world would not be a poorer place without dead herrings. Swans, on the other hand, are graceful creatures …’

  ‘They dip their beaks in mud,’ protested Athaba.

  ‘Out of sight, young sapling, out of sight. They do it under the water where, I am reliably informed, there are no odours and few witnesses. It is like picking the dirt out of one’s pads. One waits for darkness before carrying out these necessary but offensive tasks.’

  ‘You do, but the rest don’t.’

  ‘Quite. Which is why I have taste and they do not.’

  Athaba said, ‘Ragisthor, have you ever taken a mate?’

  ‘Certainly not. Too much responsibility. And if one takes a mate one is expected to propagate. Ugh! All that to-ing and fro-ing, fetching and carrying, after the pups are born.’ He gave a little shudder. ‘Nasty little creatures, pups. Puking and mewling half the time. You have to eat their food first and then bring it up for them. Disgusting business. I’m glad I was never one myself. Eating regurgitated food –’

  ‘But, Ragisthor. You must have been a pup, once upon a time?’

  ‘No, never. I utterly refute it. I was born a yearling. I could never have been one of those blind deaf blobs with the appearance of pink rats. Never. I reject the notion completely. The statement is made. Let it stand. Desist. I cannot abide little pups.’

  ‘But I’ve seen you playing with Urkati’s new little ones. You enjoy yourself. And you used to tumble with me, when I was a pup.’

  ‘Only for the good of the pack. Without my tuition you youngsters would never survive. The other wolves are all right, in their way, but they haven’t my intelligence, poor fools.’

  ‘Have you ever been headwolf?’

  Ragisthor stopped and stared into Athaba’s eyes.

  ‘Are you quite mad, sapling? If I were ever made headwolf, perish the thought, I would throw myself over the nearest cliff. For the good of the pack, don’t ever say that again.’

  For the good of the pack. How often Athaba heard that phrase. Everything had to be for the good of the pack.

  Suddenly, Athaba started. There was a scent on the wind. Man. The distinct odour of man. It was one of those from the south, smelling like sickly flowers. A hunter on foot, thankfully.

  His legs ‘went spider’ and his underhairs touched the ground. Ragisthor still stood, but his nose was up and his head tilted to one side.

  ‘To the north-west,’ said the mega. ‘I hear him now. He’s very close. He must have started downwind, but the direction’s changed and caught him out. Knows we’ve got his scent. Probably aiming right now, to get one of us before we run …’ there was a zithering sound in the grasses, followed a moment later by the distant noise of an explosion.

  ‘Run!’ said Ragisthor. ‘Warn the pack.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’ll distract him.’

  Something skimmed Athaba’s flank and left a thin line of searing pain behind. He nipped at the surface wound, a brown mark along his pelt. He had almost been shot! This was enough to set the yearling’s legs working. He ran straight across the tundra with Ragisthor yelling after him, ‘Zig-zag, like a hare, you gannet’s brain! This is no time for style.’

  He did as he was told, glancing back only once, to see Ragisthor creeping furtively around a rise. Incredibly, he seemed to be stalking the human. Athaba’s skull buzzed as if it had a mosquito trapped inside. Was he going to attack the hunter? Athaba had heard of such a thing, a wolf attacking a man, but usually it was a last ditch attempt at self-defence, or the wolf was driven by hunger.

  Athaba wondered if the hunter had a machine with him. Wolves knew from experience that there were two distinctly different things that moved on the landscape: a living thing, like a wolf or caribou or man; or the things that some men brought with them, which the wolves had single word for, though they qualified it: the flying machine and the ground machine. The machines were easily identified by their smell and noise. Both would carry men.

  If the hunter had a ground machine with him, Ragisthor would have to be very, very quick.

  When Athaba reached camp he found the megas in conference with six or seven strangers. They had been making overtures for days, wanting to join Athaba’s pack, their own having been depleted in numbers. It was possible, of course, to have a pack consisting of only two members, but there were definite advantages to having packs around twenty strong. The addition of these strangers would put Athaba’s pack at twenty-three.

  Athaba ran immediately to his mother.

  ‘Meshiska,’ he cried, ‘there are hunters behind me. Ragisthor’s trying to draw them off.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘I only smelled one, but you’ve often said only the tundra dwellers hunt alone. Outsiders usually come in two, three or more.’

  ‘It was an outsider?’

  ‘A poor marksman. He missed twice.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Sounds like an outsider. We must move.’

  She turned to the group of megas.

  ‘You heard that. We must make a decision fast and be on our way. I say we absorb the newcomers. Urkati? Itakru? Seven is not too many. We don’t need them, but they need us.’

  There was general agreement that the new wolves should join the pack. Once said, it was done. The whole pack including the new members then began to move westwards, towards a distant tree line. Pelts ranging from slate blue to white, through chocolate and brown, ochre, cinnamon and grey and blond, moved quietly but swiftly over the landscape.

  Meshiska was not headwolf that day. Itakru was the wolf directing the retreat. He carried out his duties efficiently, making sure that the new pups born to Urkati were carried, and that the elderly were herded in the middle of the pack.

  Athaba was posted as the south rear flankwolf. It was a dangerous position, way out on the periphery of the pack. If the hunters blundered across country, as they very well might being outsiders, and they happened by accident to be on the correct lateral course, the first wolf they would meet would be the south rear flankwolf.

  However, Athaba accepted the post without a murmur. Not that it would have gained him any credit to have argued. For the good of the pack Ragisthor was down there amongst the hunters, doing what he could to pull them away from the area. How could Athaba quarrel over a position within the pack? All he hoped was that Ragisthor would outsmart the hunters. They were outsiders. Ragisthor had always held human outsiders in contempt. He scorned them, he said. The local hunters were considered extremely dangerous and not to be taken lightly. But outsiders? Their weapons were powerful and accurate, but their eyes were close and their vision poor. Sometimes they came on foot with a local tracker, but mostly they used vehicles which could be smelled miles away. They often smelled themselves, of fermented berries. They stank of firesmoke, made loud noises, clinked things, tripped over stones and turfs. They snatched shots at targets too distant for their guns.

  Occasionally, one would come who was indistinguishable from the tundra-dwelling humans in hi
s ability to hunt. But that was very rare. Athaba hoped these were contemptibles, for Ragisthor’s sake.

  The pack travelled twenty miles with unbroken stride, into high timber country. Once amongst the trees they found a place to rest. The two rear flankwolves were sent back, along the trail to scout for signs of Ragisthor and to keep a nose to the wind for the smell of the men.

  When night came there was still no sign of Ragisthor. Athaba and the other flankwolf returned to the pack. Now that the immediate danger was behind them, Athaba was given a hero’s welcome for his part in running the guns to bring word to the pack. Itakru came forward and gave him a ‘comrade’s body-slam’, to show how pleased he was with him. Urkati gripped his muzzle between her great jaws and then released him. His mother stood by, the pride evident in her eyes, then came forward to lick his brown wound. Skassi was nowhere to be seen: he was on Howling Sentry.

  They made a great fuss of him, because he had done right, done well for the good of the pack. Itakru whispered a promised position of shoulderwolf ‘just occasionally’ which was almost unheard of for a junior undermega.

  No one spoke of Ragisthor.

  All night and for two days afterwards, Athaba watched for the coming of the mega he now regarded as a close friend. The trees held their shadows close to them and the skies were mottled, swirling like ice formed in a sea of slow currents. Dragonflies whispered messages to each other, their voices too small for a wolf to hear. Ground squirrels watched from distant rises. Islands in the tarns of the wetlands, peppered with snow-coloured balls of seed, held thousands of geese all shouting to each other about the danger of foxes. Terns dive-bombed the seals along the coast. Frogs, at their northern limit, propagated.

  In short, the world went on, even though the best friend of a young wolf was lost in the wilderness.

  On the third night of Ragisthor’s absence, the Howling Sentry woke the whole pack with an alarm. Instantly, every wolf was on its feet, ready for flight. Then the alarm tone changed suddenly, to one of welcome to a lost comrade. Finally, through the trees came a weary-looking but unmarked wolf.

  Ragisthor.

  He entered the camp in triumph, his poise and manner that of a conquering hero. Ragisthor was a large wolf and his presence could never be ignored. He stood in a shaft of moonlight and looked about him quizzically for a moment, before seemingly noticing Urkati and Itakru. He continued towards these two. There was just a slight roll to his shoulders. Not a swagger – Ragisthor would never stoop to such artificial postures – more an easing of the muscles as he walked. He was haughty, of course, as he nodded greetings to each of the megas. Occasionally, he tilted his head at a pup, to show that even great wolves acknowledge the new generation. His large dark-ringed eyes took in Athaba as he passed him. The undermega thought he noticed an expression of faint amusement in them but was willing to grant that he might be mistaken.

  ‘Sapling?’ Ragisthor murmured.

  When he reached the two headwolves, he stopped.

  ‘You will gather from my presence here that the hunters failed in their efforts to kill even one of our pack. They were in fact quite happy with the caribou I led them to, further south. The sort of hunters that will shoot at anything that moves, though whether they ever hit their target is another matter. I fancy that little harm will come to caribou, despite their bulk. To these hunters, nothing is an easy target. Now, if you will excuse me, I shall get some rest.’

  Urkati nodded.

  ‘Ragisthor, the pack is grateful.’

  ‘I thank the pack for its gratitude, but I was merely doing my duty. The youngster – his name escapes me for the moment – ?’

  ‘You mean Athaba?’

  ‘Exactly. Gratitude should be hurled in his direction, if it is to be sent anywhere. He kept his head under fire, sustained a slight wound I understand, and managed to break through to give the warning.’ He turned his head, to nod at Athaba. ‘Well done, undermega.’

  With that, Ragisthor curled up in a warm hollow between two roots at the base of a tree and closed his eyes.

  Athaba knew that the mega hadn’t forgotten his name, but it was just like Ragisthor to play to the pack. He went across to the wolf in question and lay down beside him. Eventually the whole camp turned in and the Howling Watch was changed. Later, when no one was paying attention, Athaba whispered, ‘You didn’t forget my name. Was it so you couldn’t be accused of partisanship?’

  Ragisthor opened one eye.

  ‘Partly that, my little shrub, and partly the fact that if you get someone else to say the name, they are more likely to remember it in the future. Had it slipped glibly off my own tongue, it might have failed to stick sufficiently strongly.’

  ‘You deserve the credit. You’re the one that drew the hunters off. Why do you want me to get the biggest share of the glory?’

  Ragisthor sighed.

  ‘I have no use for glory. I’m seven years of age. But you, you’re young and ambitious. This will look well on your record of achievements. You want to be headwolf one day, don’t you?’

  Athaba tried to sound surprised.

  ‘Headwolf,’ he said. ‘I hadn’t thought about it. I’m far too young to consider such things yet …’

  ‘Liar,’ murmured Ragisthor, his eyes closed again. ‘I was never a pup but I know your dreams. Every night you have visions of yourself leading the pack.’

  True. It was true. Ragisthor was one of the wisest wolves Athaba had ever known, except perhaps for his father.

  Athaba whispered his father’s riddle into Ragisthor’s twitching ear.

  ‘What does it mean?’ he asked.

  Ragisthor sighed. ‘I have no idea. Floating stone? Sinking wood? Let me sleep, please. I’ve had a hard three days.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Athaba, ‘drawing those hunters southward. I can imagine what a terrifying ordeal that was – or perhaps you were too exhausted, to concerned with the task, to be frightened?’

  Ragisthor, was half asleep.

  ‘What?’ he muttered. ‘Oh! Oh, yes. Ran rings round those hunters in half a day.’

  Athaba thought about this, then said.

  ‘Two or three days, surely?’

  ‘No,’ murmured the voice. ‘Only half a day. It was the she-wolf that wore me out … insistent …’

  ‘Ragisthor?’ said Athaba, firmly.

  The older wolf’s eyes opened. There was a shine to them that Athaba had not noticed before. He slid a little closer to the undermega.

  ‘You may have thought me invulnerable, little sapling, to all things under the sun. True, may be immortal so far as the hunter’s gun is concerned, but alas, I am not impervious to the attractions of a she-wolf in spring. I have to tell someone – experiences of this kind are like that – and you’re the only wolf I can trust to keep it to himself.’

  Ragisthor’s jaws were close Athaba’s ear now. He could feel the hot excited breath on his face. He could smell the herbs caught in Ragisthor’s coat. There was a crushed beetle trapped by its legs in Ragisthor’s cuff. Clearly, he had been rolling on some soft bank somewhere, collecting seeds in his pelt.

  ‘Listen, sapling. It only took me half a day to get rid of those fools with the guns. Then I went across country and sneaked into forbidden territories until I found myself a willing female. It is spring after all. Do I not have desires, like any headwolf? Do I not feel the turf stirring beneath my paws? Quivering? Do I not …’

  ‘But you said propagating was obnoxious to you?’

  ‘Only if one has to look after the pups,’ murmured Ragisthor.

  ‘Some other wolf will have that pleasure. In any case, there are no available females in our own pack. They are all spoken for and I have no wish to demean myself by fighting some half-witted block-shouldered oaf for the pleasure. No, no, this was the only way.’

  Athaba was not sure he approved.

  ‘But everybody thinks you behaved like a hero!’

  Ragisthor looked a little hurt.

  ‘O
h, but I did. You should have seen me, sapling. I was truly heroic. You would have been proud of me. I spoke with the tongues of kittiwakes. I was as gentle as a roundworm. I was as passionate as a lynx. I was – magnificent. A hero indeed.’

  ‘It isn’t even the mating season!’ Athaba retorted.

  ‘You sound indignant about it. There are those who will mate out of season. I am one. I found another. Now go to sleep. You’re boring me, sapling.’

  And with that, Ragisthor fell asleep himself. He was obviously exhausted. Athaba stared at the great grey animal lying on its side, its ribcage rising and falling slowly, with each breath, and wondered how on earth he had survived all these years.

  Chapter Four

  Wolves tell a tale of one of their kind who found a flock of geese lying dead, scattered amongst the grasses of a hillside. Thinking himself fortunate the wolf took each goose and cached it somewhere: one he put in a hollow log, another he buried just beneath the turf in some soft soil where it would be easy to retrieve, a third was placed in the space beneath two rocks that touched brows. And so on, until at least twelve hiding places held a future meal. The wolf then went back and reported to the pack.

  When he returned later that day with some extra jaws to help carry some of the cached geese, he found the hollow log empty, the turf disturbed with nothing beneath it, and between the two rocks was just air. And so on, until every hiding place was checked and not a goose was to be found. The wolf was very angry with himself because as he discovered empty cache, he gradually realised what had happened.

  There are some things that wolves as a group never learn. One of the reasons for this – perhaps the main reason – is that individuals amongst them hate admitting to a mistake. They would rather keep absolutely quiet about an error than pass on valuable information at the risk of losing face. Therefore, they have these stories which they pass on to their young in which something happened to another wolf (not to them) which the young ones should be wary of. Young wolves, being what they are, take everything literally, and as far as they are concerned, geese are geese and ducks are ducks.