without her noticing.
She returned to her furs and lay awake a long time, head aswirl
with stars. She tried to follow the progress of the messengers and
was startled at how clearly the touch came tonight. She could grasp
wisps of their thoughts.
Grauel was far down the river now, traveling by moonlight, and
only hours away from the packfast. She had expected to arrive
sooner but had been delayed by deep drifts in places, and by having
to avoid nomads a few times. Barlog was making better time, gaining
on the other huntress. She was thinking of continuing after
sunrise.
Emboldened by her success, Marika strayed farther afield,
curious about the packfast itself. But she could not locate the
place, and there was no one there she knew. There was no familiar
resonance she could home in on.
Still curious, she roamed the nearby hills, searching for
nomads. Several times she brushed what might have been minds, but
without any face she could visualize she could not come close
enough to capture thoughts. Once, eastward, she brushed something
powerful and hurried away, frightened. It had a vaguely male
flavor. This wehrlen creature the Wise were so fussed about?
Then she gave herself a real nightmare scare. She sent her
thoughts drifting up around Machen Cave, and there she found that
dread thing she had sensed last summer, only now it was awake and
in a malevolent mood—and seemingly aware of her inspection.
As she reeled away, ducked, and fled, she had a mental image of a
huge, starving beast charging out of the cave at some small game
unlucky enough to happen by.
Twice in the next few minutes she thought she felt it looking
for her, blundering around like a great, angry, stupid, hungry
beast. She huddled into her furs and shook.
She would have to warn Kublin.
Sleep finally came.
Nothing happened all next day. In tense quiet the pack simply
continued to prepare for trouble, and the hours shuffled away. The
huntresses spoke infrequently, and then only in low voices. The
males spoke not at all. Horvat drove them mercilessly. The Wise
sent up appeals to the All, helped a little, got in the way a
lot.
Marika did another turn on watch, and sharpened the captured
axe, which her dam deemed a task suitable for a pup her age.
----
----
III
Autumn had come. High spirits were less often seen. Huntresses
ranged the deep woods, ambushing game already migrating southward.
Males smoked and salted with a more grim determination. Pups
haunted the woods, gleaning deadwood. The Wise read omens in the
flights of flyers, the coloration of insects, how much mast small
arboreals stowed away, how deep the gurnen burrowed his place of
hibernation.
If the signs were unfavorable, the Wise would authorize the
felling of living trees and a second or even third gathering of
chote root. Huntresses would begin keeping a more than casual eye
on the otec colonies and other bearers of fur, seeing what
preparations they made for winter. It was in deep winter that those
would be taken for their meat and hides.
As winter gathered its legions behind the Zhotak and the meth of
the upper Ponath became ever more mindful of the chance of sudden,
deadly storms, time for play, for romping the woods on casual
expeditions, became ever more scarce. There was always work for any
pair of paws capable of contributing. Among the Degnan even the
toddlers did their part.
As many as five days might pass without Marika’s getting a
chance to run free. Then, usually, she was on firewood detail. Pups
tended to slip away from that. Their shirking was tolerated.
That autumn the Wise concluded that it would be a hard winter,
but they did not guess half the truth. Even so, the Degnan always
put away far more than they expected to need. A simple matter of
sensible precaution.
Marika slipped off to Machen Cave for the last time on a day
when the sky was gray and the wind was out of the north, damp and
chill. The Wise were arguing about whether or not it bore the scent
of
She returned to her furs and lay awake a long time, head aswirl
with stars. She tried to follow the progress of the messengers and
was startled at how clearly the touch came tonight. She could grasp
wisps of their thoughts.
Grauel was far down the river now, traveling by moonlight, and
only hours away from the packfast. She had expected to arrive
sooner but had been delayed by deep drifts in places, and by having
to avoid nomads a few times. Barlog was making better time, gaining
on the other huntress. She was thinking of continuing after
sunrise.
Emboldened by her success, Marika strayed farther afield,
curious about the packfast itself. But she could not locate the
place, and there was no one there she knew. There was no familiar
resonance she could home in on.
Still curious, she roamed the nearby hills, searching for
nomads. Several times she brushed what might have been minds, but
without any face she could visualize she could not come close
enough to capture thoughts. Once, eastward, she brushed something
powerful and hurried away, frightened. It had a vaguely male
flavor. This wehrlen creature the Wise were so fussed about?
Then she gave herself a real nightmare scare. She sent her
thoughts drifting up around Machen Cave, and there she found that
dread thing she had sensed last summer, only now it was awake and
in a malevolent mood—and seemingly aware of her inspection.
As she reeled away, ducked, and fled, she had a mental image of a
huge, starving beast charging out of the cave at some small game
unlucky enough to happen by.
Twice in the next few minutes she thought she felt it looking
for her, blundering around like a great, angry, stupid, hungry
beast. She huddled into her furs and shook.
She would have to warn Kublin.
Sleep finally came.
Nothing happened all next day. In tense quiet the pack simply
continued to prepare for trouble, and the hours shuffled away. The
huntresses spoke infrequently, and then only in low voices. The
males spoke not at all. Horvat drove them mercilessly. The Wise
sent up appeals to the All, helped a little, got in the way a
lot.
Marika did another turn on watch, and sharpened the captured
axe, which her dam deemed a task suitable for a pup her age.
----
----
III
Autumn had come. High spirits were less often seen. Huntresses
ranged the deep woods, ambushing game already migrating southward.
Males smoked and salted with a more grim determination. Pups
haunted the woods, gleaning deadwood. The Wise read omens in the
flights of flyers, the coloration of insects, how much mast small
arboreals stowed away, how deep the gurnen burrowed his place of
hibernation.
If the signs were unfavorable, the Wise would authorize the
felling of living trees and a second or even third gathering of
chote root. Huntresses would begin keeping a more than casual eye
on the otec colonies and other bearers of fur, seeing what
preparations they made for winter. It was in deep winter that those
would be taken for their meat and hides.
As winter gathered its legions behind the Zhotak and the meth of
the upper Ponath became ever more mindful of the chance of sudden,
deadly storms, time for play, for romping the woods on casual
expeditions, became ever more scarce. There was always work for any
pair of paws capable of contributing. Among the Degnan even the
toddlers did their part.
As many as five days might pass without Marika’s getting a
chance to run free. Then, usually, she was on firewood detail. Pups
tended to slip away from that. Their shirking was tolerated.
That autumn the Wise concluded that it would be a hard winter,
but they did not guess half the truth. Even so, the Degnan always
put away far more than they expected to need. A simple matter of
sensible precaution.
Marika slipped off to Machen Cave for the last time on a day
when the sky was gray and the wind was out of the north, damp and
chill. The Wise were arguing about whether or not it bore the scent
of
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