Night of the Wolf by Alice Borchardt Read Free Book Online

delight, an act of joy?
    When he was sure she could no longer see him, he shifted to his wolf shape and shadowed her up through the pines, back to the rath, the rude Celtic farmstead where she lived.
    He stood at the edge of the forest when she pushed aside the skin curtain that covered the opening to her dwelling.
    “Imona!” someone cried. “We were about to go down to the lake. Look, our torches are kindled. What happened? Where have you been?”
    “I’m sorry.” Her voice was low, almost a stammer. “I drifted off to sleep after my bath. I had no idea I’d sleep so long. The sun was already behind the mountains when I awakened . . . I came back as quickly—”
    The other she’s voice broke in on her. “You should be more careful. I swear I believe you do these things to bring misery on your unhappy kin.”
    “Kat, I’m so sorry. I never meant to worry you.”
    Kat, eh, and Imona,
the wolf thought.
Screech Kat.
Maeniel had met a few small, furred, clawed beasts. Loud voices, they had. They hung about and scavenged near human dwellings. They were quick and could run straight up trees. Imona’s voice was low and lovely. This Kat sounded like a shrew.
    The night wind was rising as the mountains let go their heat and the roar of the forest drowned out further conversation in the ringfort.
    Imona,
the wolf thought.
They have names. She has a name. Wolves don’t. Only me—the name She gave me when She made me more—or less—than wolf Maeniel.
High above, small clouds scudded past the glowing half moon.
The gray ones are like those clouds. Each one different, but somehow all the same. We come, we pass through life, we drift over the mountains as those clouds drift past the moon, then descend into darkness and are forgotten. They give each other names that they can remember. Remember at least for a time when they once loved. Do they try to reach beyond death?
The wolf was baffled. He thought of the mother of the pack, now surely only bones cradled in the overhang’s moist earth.
    And suddenly, he knew his difference from the rest of the pack. To them, if they thought of her at all, she was but a dim memory. He voiced a soft whine and shook himself.
    Far away, a wolf howled. Then, smoothly and swiftly as water tumbles over a streambed in the teeming rain, others joined the chorus. The new pack mother gave the first cry, then the young males, and last of all the fleet virgin shes. Each voice was known to him, each conjured up an image and an emotional association in his mind. He raised his head, but then, with very unwolflike calculation, realized how close he was to human dwellings. It was unwise to provoke them or their powerful mastiff watchdogs.
    He knew his pack would gather at the pool before the hunt, so he turned and entered the forest.

 
    II
     
     
     
    Outside of Mir’s hut, Dryas wrapped herself tightly in a woolen mantle. The first chill of winter gripped the mountain meadow. She paused a moment to allow her eyes to grow used to the darkness.
I didn’t have to wait when I was younger,
she thought ruefully. Then, the transition had been instantaneous. She was still young, but age was beginning its slow work, blunting the warrior skills of her youth.
    As for the wolf, if Mir could be believed, this creature had another use for women than it did for men. In fact, if it partook of anything of the dog’s nature, it might be harmless to her. The woman scent couldn’t always be relied upon, but she’d often seen vicious mastiffs reduced to fawning submission at a brush of a woman’s skirts.
    Gradually, her eyes began to pick out the tree trunks and other structures surrounding Mir’s hut. She moved slowly within the shadows.
    Mir’s little wife had described a well-worn path that led to a clearing and a standing stone that overlooked the whole valley. So she moved slowly over the treacherous rocky ground until her boots found the well-tramped footway. It was deeply cut.
Old,
Dryas thought,
very