of Nature
stretched entirely across the northern border of the
woodland between the two mountain passes. It was
not actually a collection of lakes at all but one continuous marshland fed from beneath the ground by
boiling-hot springs. From somewhere deep in the
smoldering core of the earth, these springs flowed
summer and winter alike. The potency of their heat
was so great that not even the sub-Arctic icecap could
subdue it. The result was a constantly crumbling
honeycomb of rotten moss ice and spongy tundra
snow to which no wild creature would trust itself.
Awklet had plodded patiently along the southern
edge of the great thermal swamp, looking for a way
to cross over it northward. When he found none, he
turned back to the Hemlock Wood. Nature had told
him in her mysterious way that no animal could
travel across those smoking morasses of rotten ice.
Loki would not be coming that way. No mortal wolf,
not Loki or any other, would come into the Hemlock
Wood across Rotten Lakes Swamp. In fortunate con sequence, Awklet could leave to Nature the guarding of four-fifths of the border between the Hemlock
Wood and Loki's land to the north.
With his explorations accomplished, Awklet lost
his restlessness and settled down to await the coming winter. He was content and the herd was ready.
They had followed him wherever his instincts had
taken him, and they had done it quickly and without question. Clearly they were happy with their
new leader and just as clearly they would obey him
when the time came to do so. Indeed, both the powerful young leader and the big-eared, gentle-eyed
followers had real cause for content with one another and with the woodland they loved so well.
The forefathers of the present herd had chosen
well when they ended their barren-ground retreat in
the Hemlock Wood. It was surely a region that resolute fighters might hope to defend. The caribou had
only to keep herd sentinels on watch over the two
trails, Boulder Hill and Icy Mountain, by which the
white wolves always came south. That was an easy
task and one that came quite naturally to a deer tribe
whose safety had depended for generations upon
just such herd sentinels. Once warned in good time
of the approach of the Arctic raiders, the fighting
circle could be formed successfully, as in the old
days of the tundra ancestors.
The only small danger was that Loki might know
of some third way into the Hemlock Wood, but that
was scarcely any danger at all. The white wolves
had always used those same two ancient roads. It
seemed unlikely that there were any other trails into
this peaceful land. And so the contentment of the
caribou herd grew greater and their sense of security more false.
Summer grew late, autumn disappeared like
quicksilver, winter shut in swiftly. The first two
months brought nothing but light snows. The big
cold did not come. The short gray days passed endlessly with no sign of the wolf pack. Awklet became
extremely concerned.
The winter deepened into December. The new
year turned. January and February fled by. Still the
animals of the Hemlock Wood awaited the deep
cold that always brought the white wolves down
from their Arctic homeland. But the cold did not
come. Nor did the wolves.
It was the strangest winter in the memory of the
eldest caribou, yet its mystery had a simple answer.
Once in a very long while, the great cold would not
come with its usual fierceness to the land of the
midnight sun. As a result, the wolves would not be
frozen out of their far northern hunting ranges,
would not be driven south to seek food. This was
such an unusual time, such a rare and open winter.
Spring came. The forest browse grew rich and
heavy on every hand and the living was good for
Awklet and his caribou followers. Another golden
Arctic summer swiftly faded. Autumn lingered
briefly. Soon the snows of early winter whitened the
Hemlock Wood. The animals sniffed the cold north
wind and
stretched entirely across the northern border of the
woodland between the two mountain passes. It was
not actually a collection of lakes at all but one continuous marshland fed from beneath the ground by
boiling-hot springs. From somewhere deep in the
smoldering core of the earth, these springs flowed
summer and winter alike. The potency of their heat
was so great that not even the sub-Arctic icecap could
subdue it. The result was a constantly crumbling
honeycomb of rotten moss ice and spongy tundra
snow to which no wild creature would trust itself.
Awklet had plodded patiently along the southern
edge of the great thermal swamp, looking for a way
to cross over it northward. When he found none, he
turned back to the Hemlock Wood. Nature had told
him in her mysterious way that no animal could
travel across those smoking morasses of rotten ice.
Loki would not be coming that way. No mortal wolf,
not Loki or any other, would come into the Hemlock
Wood across Rotten Lakes Swamp. In fortunate con sequence, Awklet could leave to Nature the guarding of four-fifths of the border between the Hemlock
Wood and Loki's land to the north.
With his explorations accomplished, Awklet lost
his restlessness and settled down to await the coming winter. He was content and the herd was ready.
They had followed him wherever his instincts had
taken him, and they had done it quickly and without question. Clearly they were happy with their
new leader and just as clearly they would obey him
when the time came to do so. Indeed, both the powerful young leader and the big-eared, gentle-eyed
followers had real cause for content with one another and with the woodland they loved so well.
The forefathers of the present herd had chosen
well when they ended their barren-ground retreat in
the Hemlock Wood. It was surely a region that resolute fighters might hope to defend. The caribou had
only to keep herd sentinels on watch over the two
trails, Boulder Hill and Icy Mountain, by which the
white wolves always came south. That was an easy
task and one that came quite naturally to a deer tribe
whose safety had depended for generations upon
just such herd sentinels. Once warned in good time
of the approach of the Arctic raiders, the fighting
circle could be formed successfully, as in the old
days of the tundra ancestors.
The only small danger was that Loki might know
of some third way into the Hemlock Wood, but that
was scarcely any danger at all. The white wolves
had always used those same two ancient roads. It
seemed unlikely that there were any other trails into
this peaceful land. And so the contentment of the
caribou herd grew greater and their sense of security more false.
Summer grew late, autumn disappeared like
quicksilver, winter shut in swiftly. The first two
months brought nothing but light snows. The big
cold did not come. The short gray days passed endlessly with no sign of the wolf pack. Awklet became
extremely concerned.
The winter deepened into December. The new
year turned. January and February fled by. Still the
animals of the Hemlock Wood awaited the deep
cold that always brought the white wolves down
from their Arctic homeland. But the cold did not
come. Nor did the wolves.
It was the strangest winter in the memory of the
eldest caribou, yet its mystery had a simple answer.
Once in a very long while, the great cold would not
come with its usual fierceness to the land of the
midnight sun. As a result, the wolves would not be
frozen out of their far northern hunting ranges,
would not be driven south to seek food. This was
such an unusual time, such a rare and open winter.
Spring came. The forest browse grew rich and
heavy on every hand and the living was good for
Awklet and his caribou followers. Another golden
Arctic summer swiftly faded. Autumn lingered
briefly. Soon the snows of early winter whitened the
Hemlock Wood. The animals sniffed the cold north
wind and
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