Dunoon Breaks His Silence

 

Before Dunoon grew into the most famous keeper of all wulves in Lisnafaer, his pack called him selfish, a rebel. Whenever he came near, his den mates scowled. “You’re nothing but a sneak,” they said with their tails high and ears pointing at him.

He stood his ground. “I am no sneak. I scout.”

They laughed and rolled in the dirt. They spat and taunted, “You’re a pest.” Dunoon’s heart hurt when they called him that.

The curious pup just had an itch. He looked to the woods where the pack disappeared each night. “I need to go find out . . . find what. . . . I need to go somewhere.”

All the adults huffed and said, “No. Stay put.”

Dunoon would rather stick his snout in a bee hive than sit on his haunches, waiting for the hunters to bring back prey. Often, he gave up eating his paltry share just to hear tidings from the trails they had run. As the adults licked their chops, yawned, or groomed one another, details got garbled. Dunoon swallowed his frustration. When his belly rumbled, he plopped down and crawled closer, trying to hear any morsel of their forays into the wild. Then they fell asleep and left him craving to hear more.

That’s why he chased after every beast: crawler, hopper, racer, or flyer. The more he sniffed the scents they left behind, near and far, the bigger his snout seemed to grow. And his ears? Much too big! His white-rimmed eyes accented his keen gaze. With such outsized eyes, ears, and muzzle he ran the risk of being driven away—or worse.

As he grew, his body caught up with those beacons of ridicule. The pack allowed him to join the hunt. Though he tried to pay attention to his always hungry pack, he’d veer off, sniffing his quarries’ secrets. Without fail, the pack punished him for getting lost.

After each buffet, he’d say, “I wasn’t lost.”

When he tried to tell what he discovered, the others cuffed and bit him. “We don’t care what the fool hares whisper in their warrens. We can’t eat gossip.”

And so as he added tidbits here and there to his secret hoard of lore, he grew silent.

And silent he crossed River Melvalina, back and forth between Wulf Paw and Faerswell

Forests. Silent he roamed from one Lac to another: from Alina to Lundi, from Tara to Ardra, and even ventured to Lac Morna. His gold-flecked brownish grey fur helped him to blend into surrounding trees and brush, but stillness became his greatest asset. If he slept little and roamed much, he knew more about which way the wind blows than any of the packs north of the Guardian Mountains or the forests adjoining River Fawert. Each autumn he followed deer herds, even tracking King Stag on his trek home to his sanctuary on Green Isle. Dunoon never dared to venture on to the Isle itself, but hid amongst the oaks and holly surrounding Lac Neala.

Aye, Dunoon learned a great deal about deer.

Not being faint of heart, nor stupid, Dunoon knew the danger of roaming alone. Wulves are a clannish sort. They don’t like strange wulves who might eat their coveted prey. Many a skirmish—one time he nearly lost his tail—taught him to offer a prize in exchange for his life. Irresistible knowledge of where the nearest, fattest (or at least not skeletal) prey huddled or burrowed saved his hide.

Another time, having nearly fainted from hunger, he saw the necessity of hunting, but what use was life if he couldn’t learn something new? No doubt about it, when it came to prey, Dunoon preferred to share secrets of nearby hollows and close-woven thickets. But he forced himself to chase them down. In guilty gulps he changed sick deer or lame ewes, more often hapless hares and voles, into Dunoon-wulf. Always, he made certain to thank his prey for their gift.

One winter, long after the Faer Ones came from There to Here, the Long Snow covered Lisnafaer. It piled high enough to top trees. Even as the days grew long, nights short, and Grian shone hot and bright, hardly any snow retreated to uncover the green. By the time Midsummer approached, the high wulves howled without stop, their cries echoing from one mountain to another. They called a truce between the packs. They would hold council on the longest day, shortest night, the time Oak King died and Holly King revived—bringing winter in his wake.

After all the high wulves and their packs gathered, a greying auld wulf, much slowed in his gait, asked, “Who knows all the ways of our prey?” All knew that, though no longer a high wulf, he had led his pack well. He could start the confab without needing to posture and prove his worth.

Another wulf answered, “All high wulves know their pack, its strengths and weaknesses, and where the deer run.” Many nodded. A ginger, fierce-eyed dam who had birthed many litters moved forward. “The pack reads signs: the sky, light and dark, and ravens’ flight; the land and rivers, deep and shallow.”

The auld grey wulf pawed the grass, enjoying the pull on his long nails. He exhaled a kind of gargling harumph. “They listen. They sniff. They see. But of the prey, do they know all?” He raked the assembly with his rheumy gaze. “Do they know how to find any lively prey when so many are dead?”

Well over half the group bristled their fur coats, still straggling half shed winter fur. They boasted that all wulves know how to change prey into wulf, fit for the long run. These were the boar wulves, the hunters. All in the circle nodded their heads, as if agreeing with the high wulves confirmed undeniable truth.

Dunoon, now grown into full adult stature, chafed at supposedly wise wulves beating the bushes long after the birds had flown. As he pushed his way forward, a frown clouded his winsome face and glistening eyes. The fur over his lean body rippled as his shoulders pumped left, right, left, right, a juggernaut of muscle and bone. Dunoon’s infrequent presence always raised another question: was he boar, apple, or some other kind of wulf?

He howled in a voice that skritched like ice cracking; it raised the hackles of all who heard. After the last shard of song flew beyond hearing, he broke his long silence. “You all know how the rains’ and winds’ scent, of how the sky’s colors and play of light; of how trampled grasses, bent twigs, scat, and bones; of how the flow of creeks, depth of ponds, and thickness of ice speak to the wise.”

His gaze sharpened. “When each wulf dies, what he knows dies too.”

He shook, plumping his fur. “We need more. When my bones cover the ground, all that I know will be lost.”

The wulves leaned forward, their ears focused on Dunoon.

After pausing a heartbeat, he said, “All that I have wheedled or stolen from all living—and dead—beasts will be gone.”

A few grumbled that his tongue wagged too long, that the prey he brought home too little. Must be an apple wulf. Most of the wulves’ ears perked and tails waved, their heads abuzz with a new question. What more? “More? More?” reverberated around the circle.

Dunoon answered. “A wulf to keep our lore. A bright-eyed wulf. A keeper.” He winked and yawned wide enough to bare bright fangs. “One to make the pack stop when told no, not that way or no, the ravens never fly over that fen.”

In the space of their silence he added, “More than one wulf. Many wulves. All keepers. We have much to keep and pass on to new cubs who will grow into fine hunters.”

“And singers?” ventured one of the apple wulves.

Dunoon’s eyes twinkled. “These cries that signal who and when, what and where, how and why merely serve for one time. Alba the apple thief gave us song for our joys and sorrows. Maybe more. Why not put Alba’s gift to good use? If songs help keepers gather and store all we know, like prey saved for another day buried in the ground, let us use them. Keepers can store what we learn in our heads and hearts.”

A boar wulf, ribs visible under dull fur, curled his lips to expose yellowed fangs. “We can’t eat what is in the head of some keeper.”

“True, Karr.” Dunoon cocked his head, just so, acknowledging his antagonist’s wisdom. Then he sniffed the air: up, left, and right. “What if the keepers told us where our best hunters find most prey?” He waited. “Or how the wiliest wulves evade dangers, hidden day by day.” He pressed on. “But known to keepers beyond each day.” Dunoon let that sink in. “We could eat more, sire fine cubs, and keep our packs safe.”

The boar wulf snorted. “Do you know how to bring down the stag on the run?”

“Better. I know where the stag hides.”

Karr snarled but had no good reason to not allow keepers, especially if it meant knowing where the deer hide and siring fine cubs. “Are you a keeper, Dunoon?”

Dunoon smiled. “Yes.”

Thus Dunoon broke his silence—and changed his world.

L. N. Passmore

 

L. N. Passmore bids you to come visit Lisnafaer and her other green worlds.