Old Wolf, Page 2

  10

  Nashoba was deep in the valley. Daylight had brightened. Small white clouds eased through the trees only to fade away like shy ghosts. Blue shadows slid across the land even as they shrank in size. Birds chirped randomly. Snowmelt flowed.

  Now and again the old wolf lifted his nose. The wind had shifted. It was coming from the north now, behind him. The shift not only limited his depth of smell, it all but assured a big change in the weather. Another frustration.

  Nashoba halted to sniff a bush, then a boulder. There were elk scent markings but nothing recent. He listened. Where was that raven? He waited.

  “Caw! Caw!”

  The bird was closer but still farther down valley. Nashoba hesitated. The lower he went, the more likely he would come upon humans.

  I can avoid them, he told himself, and kept on.

  11

  Backpack stuffed with schoolbooks in one hand, archery book in the other, Casey climbed into the shotgun seat of his mom’s old SUV. At the same time, his dad got into his Ford panel truck, parked alongside.

  Casey’s mom rolled down her window and called to her husband, “Where you working today, honey?”

  “A line is sparking over by Philbeck.”

  “See if you can get home early. Weather is coming, and I think we’ve got a birthday dinner tonight.”

  Troy looked past Bess to his son, and grinned. “Wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

  “Be safe!” she called to him—what she said every time he went off.

  Troy’s diesel motor truck rumbled to life, idled for a short time, and then began to bump and bounce down the dirt road.

  Casey’s mom followed. The moment her SUV moved onto the tar-smooth county road south to Clarksville, Casey flipped open his new book. His eyes took in the first words:

  You must learn how to handle archery equipment safely. Target archers and bowhunters alike must be aware of the harm an arrow can do if they do not exercise care at all times.

  The text went on.

  When we were kids, the local police department gave a demonstration on the park archery range. A policeman filled a gallon jug with sand and placed a balloon behind it. He fired a handgun into the jug. The sand stopped the bullet. An archer shot an arrow into the jug. It passed through the sand and popped the balloon. The policeman made his point to would-be archers: an arrow can be lethal when shot from a bow.

  Casey stopped reading and stared out the window, thrilled at the thought of all that power.

  12

  Nashoba jogged along the forest trail for two more miles but saw nothing of the raven. He had traveled six miles now and was tired. His paw was throbbing. When he drew near a clearing that he recognized, he stopped, unsure about continuing.

  He sniffed the air but if there were animals—or humans—in or beyond the clearing, the back-blowing breeze did not bring him any clue. He remained motionless, watching and listening intensely, only to have the silence broken by a brash Caw!

  The raven was close.

  Nashoba waited. Once again the raven’s cry came: “Caw, Caw!”

  Is it a warning or a welcome? Nashoba wondered. He moved to the edge of the clearing then halted to study the open space. It was almost ninety yards end to end. Opposite where he stood, the ground rose into a hill covered with leafless aspen trees. The center earth looked muddy from runoff from the hill. Here and there, stinkweed had begun to poke up, looking like green flames.

  To the left was a small pond, walled in on the far side by a border of high grass, still brown. Two thin disks of ice floated on the still waters. The pond surface mirrored the trees on the hill so perfectly, it was hard to know what was real, what was a reflection. As Nashoba looked on, a pair of red-winged blackbirds called to each other from the tall grass.

  Sensing nothing to fear, Nashoba stepped into the clearing.

  Next to the pond stood an ancient aspen, its lower trunk encircled by crusty gray bark. One branch reached over the pond. As Nashoba looked, a raven flew onto it. A female, he was sure of it.

  She was a big bird—some twenty-four inches in length. Completely black, her feathers glistened with an ebony sheen. The large, pointy, and slightly curved bill—its base partly covered with feathers—was just as black. Around her neck, feathers were shaggy. Each of her black legs had four sharp talons, which gripped the branch tightly. The tail was wedge shaped. Her eyes are black and beady—bright, Nashoba thought, with the knowledge of something.

  He studied the bird suspiciously.

  The raven leaned toward him. “Caw!” she cried. “You took your time, wolf! I’ve been waiting quite a while.”

  To Nashoba’s ears, the bird’s voice was loud, coarse, and rude.

  Not wanting her to think he had come merely because she called, Nashoba ambled to the edge of the pond and casually lapped some cold water. It eased his hunger.

  His drink done, he kept his head low, the better to scan the pond. Perhaps there would be a fish or a frog to eat.

  “It’s still too cold for frogs!” the raven squawked.

  Irritated that the bird had guessed what he was thinking, Nashoba made no reply.

  Nonetheless, the bird leaned forward, opened her beak, extended her black tongue, and made clacking noises. “In case you didn’t know,” she said, “it’ll take two more weeks of good weather before the frogs start peeping.” She cocked her head to one side. “Would you, Nashoba, leader of the Iron Mountain pack, really eat a frog?”

  Ignoring the gibe but pleased that the bird knew who and what he was, the wolf glanced up. “Do I know you?”

  The raven sidestepped toward the end of the branch, her weight causing it to bow down closer to Nashoba’s head.

  “My name is Merla,” said the raven.

  “And you have heard of me,” said Nashoba.

  “I know everything about this forest.”

  “Everything?”

  Merla bobbed her head. “We ravens are smart. The smartest.”

  Nashoba, annoyed by the raven’s conceit, did not reply.

  “Everybody knows how smart we are,” said the bird. “No creatures in the world are as clever as ravens.”

  “What about wolves?”

  “Caw!” cried Merla, and to Nashoba it sounded like laughter. “I know many things,” the raven went on, cocking her head to the side. “And one of them is that it’s not smart to argue with someone who wants to help you.”

  “You’re just a bird,” snapped Nashoba. “How can a bird help a wolf like me?” He sat, tail extended, and deliberately kept his eyes on the pond. The pair of red-winged blackbirds fluttered about, their red shoulder marks flashing like flaring flames. The wolf wondered if the birds had built a nest, and if there were eggs in it. He would be glad to eat one—or two.

  The raven remained quiet for a few moments and studied Nashoba. Then she said, “When a wolf sits by a cold pond willing to eat slimy frogs and small bird eggs, I’d say he’s very hungry.”

  How did she guess my thoughts again? Nashoba wondered. All he said, however, was, “Better to eat than to starve.”

  “What an original idea!” the bird cried mockingly. “But I imagine you’d be interested if I told you there was a small herd of elk not far from here. No bulls, Nashoba, just cows and calves—the calves so young, they are still spotted. “Caw!” cried the raven. “Very tender and tasty, to be sure.”

  Nashoba, trying to contain his eagerness, waited before saying, “I suppose I might be interested.”

  “I suppose you might,” echoed Merla, her voice thick with sarcasm. “I suppose you just might,” she said again, and made two quick scratchy rubs of her bill on the branch as if to sharpen her wit. “And you and I might be of use to each other.”

  “Not likely,” Nashoba said.

  “Don’t be a worm-wit, wolf!” cried the raven. “You know perfectly well what I’m suggesting. When wolves kill, ravens feast.”

  Now, Nashoba knew that when wolves were successful in a hunt, rav
ens quickly gathered at the remains. They liked to eat what wolves killed. He found the practice contemptible. That he might be beholden to such a creature was offensive to him.

  “Wolf!” cried the raven. “Think! It’s almost spring. The elk don’t have much energy. The bull is nowhere in sight or smell of his harem. Just cows, Nashoba, just cows and their calves.” She leaned forward. “And the calves are defenseless. Sometimes they are even left alone. Easy food, old wolf. Yours for the taking!”

  The word food made Nashoba’s stomach rumble. But to take advice from a bird . . . Then he thought to himself, The pack needn’t know how I found elk. He looked up. “Show me,” he said as casually as he could.

  Merla, head to one side, gazed at the wolf with her beady black eyes. She was enjoying the moment. Then she gave a loud Caw! and leaped into the air.

  Once airborne, she made a sharp turn, extending her wings their full four feet until her feathery tips stuck out like individual fingers. Whoosh-whoosh. Looking like her own shadow, she flew in a southerly direction.

  Nashoba had to scramble to keep her in sight.

  13

  Everybody in the small Clarksville school knew it was Casey’s thirteenth birthday. Mrs. Washington, the principal, announced it on the PA system first thing that morning, as she did for all kids’ birthdays. Then his classroom teacher, Ms. Oates, had the class sing the usual song. They even did the “Stand up and show us your pretty face!” part. Though Casey thought it babyish, he went along, grinning. Even so, what he wanted to say was, I’m not a kid anymore. I’m a teenage hunter.

  Casey’s favorite class was geometry. For him the charts and graphs were really mapmaking, and he loved it. As he worked out problems and measured lines, he imagined he was finding his way through the forest, on the trail, deeper into the game.

  14

  Nashoba followed Merla for two more miles but halted when he lost sight of her. He was breathing hard, mouth open, tongue extended, legs unsteady with effort. His front right paw throbbed and his tail drooped. While rushing through the woods, clumps of his winter underfur had caught on bushes. He began to think, This raven is mocking me.

  Noticing a patch of crusty old snow, he went to it, swallowed a mouthful, and lay down. The cold wetness soothed his chest. He rubbed his face in it. Then he looked around.

  The valley trees—fewer pine, more aspen, and some cottonwoods—were clustered together. A multitude of tiny leaf buds infused the air with a hazy green.

  Detecting no hint of elk, Nashoba told himself that ravens were not to be trusted. You can only depend on yourself.

  Even as he had the thought, he felt a sharp pain on the tip of his tail. He leaped and whirled about only to see a flutter of black wings.

  Merla had pecked him. The bird, now on a bush, leaned toward him and stuck out her black tongue.

  “Caw! Caw!” She laughed. “I thought wolves were faster than that. Just how old are you? Nine?”

  “Never mind my age,” snapped Nashoba, struggling to keep his temper. “Where are those elk?”

  “Oh my! Your sense of smell has grown weak too. Really, how old are you?”

  “Where are the elk?” Nashoba demanded.

  “I’d say you were at least nine,” said Merla.

  “Where?” snarled Nashoba.

  Merla ruffled her neck feathers, leaned again toward the wolf, and said, “What about your eyesight? That failing too?”

  “Do you or do you not know about elk?” cried Nashoba.

  “Of course I do.”

  Glowering, Nashoba pulled back his black lips and exposed his sharp teeth, almost all forty-two of them.

  Instead of retreating, Merla sidled a bit closer while remaining on the bush. Fluffing out her shaggy neck feathers, she said, “Hungry, aren’t you?”

  Furious, Nashoba leaped at her. With ease, the raven fluttered out of reach to a nearby tree. “Caw!” she laughed. “And you’re lame, too!”

  Disgusted with himself and the bird, Nashoba lay on the ground, gasping for breath. Instead of looking at her, he studied his wounded foot. It was hurting. The scab had split, and blood was oozing. He turned to the bird. “For someone who knows everything,” he said, “you ask a lot of questions.”

  “Ravens have a saying: Foolish creatures live by answers; wise creatures live by questions.”

  Nashoba, struggling again with his temper, snapped, “Are you going to tell me where the elk are or not?”

  The raven shrugged, pointed her bill, and said, “Just beyond that knoll.”

  Nashoba turned quickly and looked. Thirty yards on, there was a rise in the ground, a knoll studded with gray boulders and close-standing trees. Taking a deep breath, he caught the distinct musty smell of elk.

  He stood up. Ears pricked forward, he now heard the elks’ slow puffy breathing. He heard calves squealing and mewing, the cows barking softly. He thought, They must be grazing on new grass.

  Nashoba’s momentary elation gave way to frustration that he had not found them on his own. All the same, he took a step toward the knoll.

  “Stop!” the bird cried, with such urgency that Nashoba halted.

  “Look here, wolf,” she cried. “You’re positively tottering. You’re too old to catch anything by yourself.”

  “Must you insult me?” cried Nashoba.

  “Caw! Here’s another raven saying: an insult isn’t an insult if it’s the truth. If you go after those elk alone, you’ll just frighten them away. If you want to be successful, you’ll need to fetch your pack.”

  Sensing the bird was right, Nashoba clenched his jaws with annoyance. Then he said, “I don’t want to lose the chance.”

  “Don’t worry,” said the raven. “We’ll keep a watch.”

  “We?”

  “Look up.”

  On the tree where Merla sat—but higher—seven ravens were perched on as many branches. They were gazing down at Nashoba, eyes bright like so many burning black candles.

  “You call your family a pack,” Merla said. “Do you know what humans call a group of ravens?”

  “I don’t care about humans.”

  “A conspiracy of ravens.”

  The wolf thought but did not say, That’s about right.

  “Listen to me, wolf,” whispered the bird, “It’s that time of year. Everybody in the forest is hungry. We ravens are just as hungry as you are.

  “Very well,” she continued. “Here’s the offer. We guide you to the elk, and your pack will kill one, maybe two. Eat what you want. Just make sure you leave enough for us. That’s the offer. Food for you, no trickery from us. Do you agree or not?”

  Nashoba took his time before saying, “I agree.”

  “How smart of you,” said the raven. “Now, get back to your pack and return quickly. To this exact spot. We’ll keep an eye on the elk.”

  “It’s miles,” Nashoba said.

  “Food, wolf, food.”

  Nashoba turned toward the knoll and sniffed again. The irksome bird was right. Elk were there, no question.

  Next moment he began running back along the path he had just taken.

  “Caw! Caw!” cried the raven. “Hurry, old wolf! Hurry!”

  Ignoring the pain in his foot, and his weariness, Nashoba pushed himself to run faster.

  That I have to depend on a bird! he thought. Aggravating creature. A raven! The pack—especially Garby—will consider it a weakness. Well, no one need know. And if we get the elk, it won’t matter. Yes, it will be a long run. Eight miles to the den. Eight miles back. But if the raven does keep a watch . . . then . . . no more starving!

  And I’ll have shown Garby I’m not too old to hunt.

  15

  For Casey, the school day dragged. True, Fridays always seemed to last forever, with kids eager and impatient for the weekend. Fortunately, Friday recess was extra long. The school seemed to understand the kids’ need to work off restless energy running and playing hard—not sitting.

  Casey spent most of his time
daydreaming about the “big gift” he was promised he would receive at dinner. He wanted so many things: the newest Madden football game, a new computer, airline tickets to visit his grandparents in Chicago, a bow-and-arrow set, cross-country skis, a dog. What would he name a dog?

  He almost regretted that he and his mom had planned a party for Saturday afternoon, when he and a bunch of his friends—taken by his mom after her morning work—were going to a movie in Lockport, some seventeen miles on. At least he would have the morning to mess around with whatever the present was.

  The picture of that zebra, feet up, which he had killed that morning, came into his mind. And the raven that had gotten away. What, he wondered, would he kill when he got home?

  He could hardly wait.

  16

  As Nashoba hurried back to the den, he realized he should have investigated the elk for himself, considered the land to work out a hunting strategy, and decided which elk would be the easiest to take down. At the least, he should have counted them.

  Yes, his wolves would follow him. However, with Gorby’s challenge, they would be watching and judging everything he did. He must be successful.

  The raven is right, he thought. Elk cows often leave their calves alone. With any luck, the calves will not go far.

  Nashoba tried to run faster. He found it difficult. Twice he had to stop and rest, but the more he rested, the more anxious he became. He must not let those elk get away.

  17

  As the old wolf moved out of the valley, the hurt in his front paw worsened. Working hard to ignore it, he maintained a steady pace, the better to save his energy. When he came within a mile of the pack den, he stopped and rested. He did not want to appear tired when he arrived.

  It was cooler at the higher altitude, a half-mile from the den. Tall lodgepole pine and spruce crowded the ground and shaded the dark green and fragrant air. The rocky earth was frozen in spots, often crusty with a brittle covering of dead leaves. Patches of dirty snow, dotted with pine needles, lay at random. Nothing new was growing here, not yet.