Chapter 16

The wind whipped Molarsh's face as he put forth a new burst of speed, leading his pack in their daily hunts. There was a herd of deer several helirdeeths, or the length of a deer herd, in front of them. He loved the wind, the nehyum, as much as his pack, for the spirits of his ancestors from many, many moons ago danced through his fur like invisible rivulets of soothing spring water. The forest flashed by, and the landscape changed in a myriad of ever-flowing colours, like a river of rainbow wolves.

The white-furred Streaker Skyriaah flanked him while his mate, Alkara, the lead-Sprinter of the pack, followed him close from behind, her muzzle just over his tail. Silvea and Santia followed, sprinting fast as outflankers at the front group of the pack, controlling the flow of direction of the pack with every minute flick of their tails. Unlike other wolf packs, the younger wolves in Molarsh's wolf pack flanked the pack while the seasoned ones ran the middle columns. It was a strategy unknown by the other wolf packs. This hathsveen, or hunting formation, allowed one seasoned wolf to guide two younger wolves at the same time so that the other wolves were free to form a hathsveen of their own on the other side. The aim of Molarsh's hathsveen was to chase the deer into the slathsveen, or cornering formation,led by Karneon, his maternal cousin.

As they ran they sang their song at a frequency that was haunting to their prey, and Alkara's eagle-like fikrahh split the air, with a lower fiorah from Krishaa. It was a song passed down and edited for generations, a calling that needs no practice or training. The hathsvleek-orn, or hunting song, coursed through the air and sent waves into the wind.

I sprint out from the streak of silver,

From the running river.

I won't tolerate any failure,

I run among my pack.

We chase an old, weak cattle,

My paws are light as feathers,

Now only the prey matters.

They were gaining speed on the wizened caribou. She was limping badly on her left hindleg, and the usual klik-klik sound of caribou joints was not heard in that leg. With a signaling flick of his tail, Molarsh gained speed and the group split. Now three hathsveens was pinning the prey in, each led by the sub-Archers, Navreen, Norian and Nykliv, littermates. In a few seconds the fight was over, and the wolf pack surrounded their prey completely, their fangs bared and their eyes flashing. All of them sang in low voices while their prey submitted, with its head bowed. It was this truce among the wolf community with other animals that fell prey with them that ensured peace and harmony between them even when their own kind was killed. There was no seeking of revenge, and no war among the species.

Among the grass we crouch,

The beast's panting so loud.

Making no sound,

Waiting, we surround.

The leader gives the signal,

We sprint out on our widow.

Biting with vicious blows,

It collapses like a willow.

Staring into its amber eyes,

I see its lonely cry.

An agreement from its glazed eyes,

And I watched as it dies.

It was over, and their prey collapsed in its death. Her flank bore numerous wounds that bled copiously even after the spirit and life, or lervrinne, has left from her body.

Molarsh stalked forward and ate first, flicking his tail to beckon Alkara, then his own pups, and then the wolves with the closest blood relations to him, his Vor-ed family. In other wolf packs, the lower-ranking wolves never had the chance to eat, and they could only lick the bones to satisfy their insatiable hunger. But in his pack, it was different, meat was cut out equally to all wolves, and wolf mothers obtained a little more. It was this spirit of love and sharing that enabled the success of his pack—no wolves ever left to form their own packs, never in the wolf history.

As he shared his meal with his mate Alkara, whose soft pelt brushed his as she savored the meat that has not been offered for three long days of hiding, Molarsh wondered about the girl who has saved her pack. Her name was like a gentle imprint in his canine mind, ShaoMao, ShaoMao... It was like the whispers of the wind that brought back ancient memories. She was the wolf spirit, she was his soul, they were one, a human, a wolf, and the moon was their link.

He could hear some faint murmurs in the cave from the younger wolves who were singing.

I am one of the mists,

I am one of the streams,

I am one of the winds,

Let me be.

The moon rose amid the leaves, and Molarsh slept with his mate, hoping yet again that he would not enter the realm of Shibaan. But yet again, his wish was denied.