at me when I ate the rumen. They always leave that to the gnaw wolves, and gnaw wolves hardly ever eat it. But I ate it and was never really hungry,” Faolan said.
“Eating another animal’s stomach is not exactly appealing,” the Whistler said.
“Perhaps not, but a grass eater’s stomach, like a caribou or a moose, is filled with lichen and moss. It’s nourishing. Look at the size grizzlies grow to. That should be proof enough.”
“You’re not exactly tiny,” Dearlea said.
“You see! I’m living proof. I ate what my second Milk Giver told me to eat. So eat these roots.”
The Whistler got up and went to relieve himself by a rock several paces from the foxes’ lair where they had made camp for the evening. He was about to raise his leg when he noticed that the ice sheathing the rock had been scratched off recently and there were claw marks on its dark surface.
Could this be a whispering rock?
He tapped the rock with his own claws. Nothing. How hard did one have to tap or claw? He dragged the five toes of his fore-paw across the rock’s surface. There was a scratchy sound and then beneath it a distinct hiss. He felt a delicate vibration through the ice he was standing on. The icewas a conduit! A perfect channel for the sound.
How strange!
the Whistler thought.
But a few seconds later something even weirder occurred. The rock the Whistler stood near began to hiss — hiss with no provocation — and beneath his feet he once again felt a vibration. Almost like a whisper. The rock and the earth were whispering to him! Someone was sending a message or replying to what he had scratched.
The Whistler tried scratching several more times, and each time there was a response.
This must be what Tearlach heard
, the Whistler thought. But he did not recall a rock near where they had found Tearlach’s body. Had Tearlach’s hearing been so acute that he could pick up the messages directly from the frozen ground, from the conduit of ice?
Oh, if only I had the listening skills of that dear old earless wolf, I might be able to tell where these whispers are coming from!
thought the Whistler.
But then he had an idea. Deep in the Whistler’s crooked throat was a hole through which the drafts and winds of his inhalations and his exhalations streamed. Often he would pick up the edges of maverick winds and gusts when he opened his mouth to howl. A curious alchemy occurred between these winds and his own expirations that transformed his croaking voice into beautifulliquid notes that rose in the darkness of the night and seemed to touch the moon. He could close the hole to make higher notes or open it wider and feel the harmonics quavering in the back of his throat and then blooming into the night in a soulful resonance.
What would happen if he pressed his neck to the ground? He knew exactly where, deep within the channel of his throat. Could he catch the vibrations emanating from the whisper rock? The owls used the stars to navigate and their own hearing to locate the position of prey. A Barn Owl could hear so well that it could detect the heartbeat of a mouse on the ground a hundred feet below. It could contract and expand the muscles of its facial disks to funnel in the sound to its unevenly placed ear slits. The Whistler had a hole in his throat. He could close it and open it. He could very possibly rotate his neck in some way so as to funnel these vibrations to that odd throat of his and perhaps locate the source of a sound.
“Urskadamus! What are you doing? I thought you came here to relieve yourself.”
“Shussh!” The Whistler flashed the whites of his eyes.
Faolan fell silent immediately. After several seconds, the Whistler got up, walked a few feet away, and releaseda hot stream of urine. He then walked back to where he had lain with his throat pressed to the ground. The snow had melted in the spot. He wagged his tail. He looked proud, almost smug — an expression rarely seen on the face of a gnaw wolf.
“My
“Eating another animal’s stomach is not exactly appealing,” the Whistler said.
“Perhaps not, but a grass eater’s stomach, like a caribou or a moose, is filled with lichen and moss. It’s nourishing. Look at the size grizzlies grow to. That should be proof enough.”
“You’re not exactly tiny,” Dearlea said.
“You see! I’m living proof. I ate what my second Milk Giver told me to eat. So eat these roots.”
The Whistler got up and went to relieve himself by a rock several paces from the foxes’ lair where they had made camp for the evening. He was about to raise his leg when he noticed that the ice sheathing the rock had been scratched off recently and there were claw marks on its dark surface.
Could this be a whispering rock?
He tapped the rock with his own claws. Nothing. How hard did one have to tap or claw? He dragged the five toes of his fore-paw across the rock’s surface. There was a scratchy sound and then beneath it a distinct hiss. He felt a delicate vibration through the ice he was standing on. The icewas a conduit! A perfect channel for the sound.
How strange!
the Whistler thought.
But a few seconds later something even weirder occurred. The rock the Whistler stood near began to hiss — hiss with no provocation — and beneath his feet he once again felt a vibration. Almost like a whisper. The rock and the earth were whispering to him! Someone was sending a message or replying to what he had scratched.
The Whistler tried scratching several more times, and each time there was a response.
This must be what Tearlach heard
, the Whistler thought. But he did not recall a rock near where they had found Tearlach’s body. Had Tearlach’s hearing been so acute that he could pick up the messages directly from the frozen ground, from the conduit of ice?
Oh, if only I had the listening skills of that dear old earless wolf, I might be able to tell where these whispers are coming from!
thought the Whistler.
But then he had an idea. Deep in the Whistler’s crooked throat was a hole through which the drafts and winds of his inhalations and his exhalations streamed. Often he would pick up the edges of maverick winds and gusts when he opened his mouth to howl. A curious alchemy occurred between these winds and his own expirations that transformed his croaking voice into beautifulliquid notes that rose in the darkness of the night and seemed to touch the moon. He could close the hole to make higher notes or open it wider and feel the harmonics quavering in the back of his throat and then blooming into the night in a soulful resonance.
What would happen if he pressed his neck to the ground? He knew exactly where, deep within the channel of his throat. Could he catch the vibrations emanating from the whisper rock? The owls used the stars to navigate and their own hearing to locate the position of prey. A Barn Owl could hear so well that it could detect the heartbeat of a mouse on the ground a hundred feet below. It could contract and expand the muscles of its facial disks to funnel in the sound to its unevenly placed ear slits. The Whistler had a hole in his throat. He could close it and open it. He could very possibly rotate his neck in some way so as to funnel these vibrations to that odd throat of his and perhaps locate the source of a sound.
“Urskadamus! What are you doing? I thought you came here to relieve yourself.”
“Shussh!” The Whistler flashed the whites of his eyes.
Faolan fell silent immediately. After several seconds, the Whistler got up, walked a few feet away, and releaseda hot stream of urine. He then walked back to where he had lain with his throat pressed to the ground. The snow had melted in the spot. He wagged his tail. He looked proud, almost smug — an expression rarely seen on the face of a gnaw wolf.
“My
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