of that great, drumming heart. Those rhythms had been as much a part of Faolan as the beating of his own heart.
Faolan had just roused himself from a short nap in a cave far to the north of Thunderheart's winter den. The cycle of one moon had passed since Thunderheart had disappeared. And although the weather was growing warmer, there were still patches of snow in the territory he entered. He was surprised to see that the trees were different here as well. There were hardly any broadleaved trees, but mostly the kind with green needles and the cones that Thunderheart loved to eat. Faolan wondered if he was getting close to the Outermost.
Since it was colder, the trees also kept their frost longer. So even now as he wove his way through the closely growing trees, their needles prickled with minuscule stars of frost, wrapping the woods in a dazzling radiance. Sometimes the trees thinned and for great stretches the land became almost entirely barren. The ground was covered with lichen, which Thunderheart had told him made for fat caribou. Perhaps this was a sign that he was drawing closer to the Outermost. He decided to push on.
A few nights, Faolan heard the howling of wolves, and at first he was excited. But the howls were as different from the ones he had heard in the Beyond as the trees were. They were not melodious in the least, and seemed oddly meaningless. More like crude snarls in the night. Indeed, if the howls reminded him of anything, it was of that cataclysmic moment when he had felt the earth move. He had thought perhaps the world had been possessed of the foaming-mouth disease that Thunderheart had warned him about. She had told him to beware of any animal with a foaming mouth. He must never hunt one, but stay as far as possible from such a creature, even if it was a tiny ground squirrel.
Although Faolan felt sure he was entering the Outermost, it was frustrating that he had not picked up the scent of any grizzly. He ached for that old summer den where the glacier lilies grew and the banks of the river were thick with irises. The gilded summer mornings he spent swimming and looking for trout now felt as fragile and fleeting as the cloud pictures he and Thunderheart had loved to watch.
The days started to lengthen, and as they lengthened, they seemed emptier. Faolan was diligent in his scent marking so that even if he could not find Thunderheart, perhaps she could find him. But she never came and she did not fade from his memory. Still, Faolan never gave up hope.
In the meantime, he had to go on with the business of living. He had to find meat. He must eat and grow fat as Thunderheart had taught him. Even though he did not sleep through winter, he must be strong and fat to keep the cold away when it came again.
The loneliness of his life grew. Deep within him there was an emptiness that seemed to expand little by little until he felt almost hollow. One day he passed a tree that had been struck by lightning. Its trunk had been scoured out and all that was left was a deep black gash. Its limbs were gray and skeletal, barren of any needles. As he looked at it he realized that he was exactly like that tree. It still stood, but why? It was not living, yet it was not dead. He walked on, the hollowness inside him amplifying with every step. But the hollow steps brought him no closer to Thunderheart.
***
Faolan continued to hear the howls of the other wolves, but they made no more sense than before. He knew they were wolves, and yet he felt no kinship with them. They might as well have been as different from him as the marmot he had killed a few nights before. Was that what Thunderheart had meant when she said that this place might not be good for his kind?
Faolan preferred to hunt at night, but the nights were becoming shorter and shorter. And when the frost forest seemed to tilt and turn full into the sun, the night simply vanished along with the last remnants of sparkling frost. Thunderheart had told him this
Faolan had just roused himself from a short nap in a cave far to the north of Thunderheart's winter den. The cycle of one moon had passed since Thunderheart had disappeared. And although the weather was growing warmer, there were still patches of snow in the territory he entered. He was surprised to see that the trees were different here as well. There were hardly any broadleaved trees, but mostly the kind with green needles and the cones that Thunderheart loved to eat. Faolan wondered if he was getting close to the Outermost.
Since it was colder, the trees also kept their frost longer. So even now as he wove his way through the closely growing trees, their needles prickled with minuscule stars of frost, wrapping the woods in a dazzling radiance. Sometimes the trees thinned and for great stretches the land became almost entirely barren. The ground was covered with lichen, which Thunderheart had told him made for fat caribou. Perhaps this was a sign that he was drawing closer to the Outermost. He decided to push on.
A few nights, Faolan heard the howling of wolves, and at first he was excited. But the howls were as different from the ones he had heard in the Beyond as the trees were. They were not melodious in the least, and seemed oddly meaningless. More like crude snarls in the night. Indeed, if the howls reminded him of anything, it was of that cataclysmic moment when he had felt the earth move. He had thought perhaps the world had been possessed of the foaming-mouth disease that Thunderheart had warned him about. She had told him to beware of any animal with a foaming mouth. He must never hunt one, but stay as far as possible from such a creature, even if it was a tiny ground squirrel.
Although Faolan felt sure he was entering the Outermost, it was frustrating that he had not picked up the scent of any grizzly. He ached for that old summer den where the glacier lilies grew and the banks of the river were thick with irises. The gilded summer mornings he spent swimming and looking for trout now felt as fragile and fleeting as the cloud pictures he and Thunderheart had loved to watch.
The days started to lengthen, and as they lengthened, they seemed emptier. Faolan was diligent in his scent marking so that even if he could not find Thunderheart, perhaps she could find him. But she never came and she did not fade from his memory. Still, Faolan never gave up hope.
In the meantime, he had to go on with the business of living. He had to find meat. He must eat and grow fat as Thunderheart had taught him. Even though he did not sleep through winter, he must be strong and fat to keep the cold away when it came again.
The loneliness of his life grew. Deep within him there was an emptiness that seemed to expand little by little until he felt almost hollow. One day he passed a tree that had been struck by lightning. Its trunk had been scoured out and all that was left was a deep black gash. Its limbs were gray and skeletal, barren of any needles. As he looked at it he realized that he was exactly like that tree. It still stood, but why? It was not living, yet it was not dead. He walked on, the hollowness inside him amplifying with every step. But the hollow steps brought him no closer to Thunderheart.
***
Faolan continued to hear the howls of the other wolves, but they made no more sense than before. He knew they were wolves, and yet he felt no kinship with them. They might as well have been as different from him as the marmot he had killed a few nights before. Was that what Thunderheart had meant when she said that this place might not be good for his kind?
Faolan preferred to hunt at night, but the nights were becoming shorter and shorter. And when the frost forest seemed to tilt and turn full into the sun, the night simply vanished along with the last remnants of sparkling frost. Thunderheart had told him this
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