White Feather 3-Book Bundle. Jennifer Dance

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СКАЧАТЬ wasn’t until the following Christmas, when Red Wolf watched other Grade Ones perform the identical pageant, that he realized “Mary” was a girl’s name, that the boy in blue was supposed to be the mother of Jesus, and the boxes that the wise men carried were empty.

      CHAPTER TEN

      After the small Upright had disappeared into the waves of sun-bleached grass, Crooked Ear had waited in the shelter of the forest for the child to return, but the tall Upright had come back alone. The days were becoming shorter and instinct was tugging at his paws, telling them to go back to the place of his birth, back to the granite ridge at Clear Lake. But there was a stronger force tugging at him, also, and he followed it … right to the barbed-wire fence of the school. Under the cover of darkness he trotted around the perimeter, looking for a way past the fence, but there was none. He stood on his hind legs and stretched his forelegs as far as they would go, feeling the sharp barbs of the wire. He whined softly and scrabbled at the base of the fence, but the wire went into the earth also. He could smell his little Upright, but there were many other smells too, ones that filled him with fear. He spun, broke into a lope, and started the journey back to Clear Lake.

      Snow was falling long before Crooked Ear reached the place of his birth. He pushed on through the cold, his limbs cramping with exhaustion, his instinct telling him that respite was not far away. He loped the last few miles and rushed into the old pack with tail wagging and a lupine smile across his face.

      His mother and father and siblings were not there to greet him.

      The pack stared at him with an aloofness that bordered on hostility. Crooked Ear knew what to do. He lowered his head, tail, and ears. He averted his gaze from their amber and yellow eyes. He flattened his body toward the ground. He held this pose for a few seconds, his keen senses judging the reaction among the other wolves. One, alone, bared his fangs and snarled. Crooked Ear discerned that this wolf was the pack’s new alpha male, and he recognized him: his Uncle Seraph, Tall-Legs’s younger brother. The rest of the pack waited for Seraph to make the decision as to whether or not Crooked Ear would be allowed back into the family. In the silence Crooked Ear judged that things were not going well. He was about to roll onto his back in the ultimate gesture of submission when Seraph charged.

      Crooked Ear stumbled as he veered away. It slowed him down. Seraph’s jaws locked onto his throat, fangs pierced his flesh, body weight pinned him to the ground. Crooked Ear struggled briefly, but he was not yet fully grown. He lacked the muscle and body weight of his uncle, he was depleted from the exhausting journey, and he had not eaten for two days. Instinct told him to submit with what could be his last breath. He lay still.

      As quickly as the attack started, it was over. Seraph released Crooked Ear and returned to the others. They crowded around him, backing him up, growling at the interloper, their lips withdrawn, their gleaming fangs exposed.

      Crooked Ear dragged himself to his feet and slunk away. He slept alone in a shallow scrape under the cover of thick balsam branches. He curled up as tightly as he could, his chin resting on all four paws so his breath warmed them, his bushy tail encircling him. When snow fell it cloaked him, adding insulation and rendering him invisible. Even the tip of his nose was perfectly camouflaged among the dark balsam cones. A passerby would never have suspected he was there.

      Crooked Ear’s urge to be with the pack was, however, strong. He wanted to curl up and sleep next to other wolves, to feel their breath, to benefit from the warmth of the huddle. But more than that, he needed to be with the pack in order to find food to survive the winter. He quickly learned how close he could be without enraging Seraph. And for a while that was where he stayed, on the fringe, barely in sight of the other wolves. But as the nights became colder and food scarcer, he moved closer, submitting to Seraph many times a day. Gradually the alpha’s anger was replaced by cool disregard and tolerance. This change permitted the others to accept Crooked Ear into the pack, as long as he stayed at the bottom of the hierarchy.

      It was a hard, hungry winter, and all the wolves lost weight, but Crooked Ear, low in social standing, was particularly thin. His coat was lacklustre, and although the long guard hairs still disguised his ribs, little flesh covered his skeleton.

      Finally the breeze blew soft, and once again the wolves stretched out on the great slabs of granite that angled slightly towards the sky. Beneath them, the glare ice of Clear Lake was criss-crossed with grey-brown fissures and gleaming channels of black water, but high on the ridge the rocks had been swept clean of snow by winter winds and warmed by the spring sunshine. It was here that they lay, just as their ancestors had for centuries.

      Seraph was in a relaxed mood and Crooked Ear, taking advantage of his uncle’s congeniality, flopped on his side with the other wolves, his thick winter coat absorbing the sun’s rays. At one year, he was almost full grown. He was lofty, as his father had been, but still lacked the girth and muscle of a mature wolf.

      Seraph raised his head and blinked his sleepy eyes then leapt to his feet, alert and attentive, stretching his head toward the scent carried on the breeze. With a whine and a wag of his bushy tail, he sprang off the rocks and trotted down the narrow trail that led to the trees. The other wolves stretched, yawned, and followed him to where the balsam firs grew dense and dark. There, on the south-facing slope, where the sun peeked through the trees, a pile of freshly excavated sandy soil marked the entrance to the old den where Seraph’s mate had recently birthed their first litter.

      The wolves cocked their heads in response to the mewling that came from deep underground. Seraph bowed down and rested his head on enormous paws, a whine of anticipation coming from his throat. In response, the she-wolf crawled along the root-lined tunnel into the daylight.

      Seraph bounded toward her but stopped abruptly when he saw the angle of her ears and the stony stare in her yellow eyes. Tentatively he sniffed the air, savouring the unfamiliar smells of birth and milk that mingled with the alluring odour of she-wolf. He stretched toward her, but her withdrawn lips told him that she was in no mood to be friendly. He took a step back and observed with all of his senses. Her hairless belly was slung low with two rows of swollen teats, ribs stared out of her coarse coat, and hip bones protruded through the tight skin of her haunches. Seraph spun and loped down the well-worn trail, where thin soil barely covered the ancient rocks of the Canadian Shield. The other wolves scrambled after him, their claws gaining traction on the stubborn patches of packed, dirty snow. Survival of the offspring was now the pack’s shared priority.

      Crooked Ear was the first to return, a mouse held gently in his lips.

      The den held strong memories of his own mother, memories he could not resist. He entered, dragging himself down the tunnel on his belly. Despite his offering, the she-wolf bared her fangs, snarling and growling viciously. He dropped the rodent and quickly retreated, rump first, into Seraph. Fortunately the alpha’s fangs were clamped onto a vole and all he could do was lash out with his front claws. Crooked Ear veered away and retreated to the perimeter of the pack once more.

      The she-wolf moved to the trees and urinated, then, flattening herself to the ground, she crawled back inside the den. The mewling intensified for a few moments as each of the squirrel-sized pups scrambled on wobbly legs to find a source of nourishment and comfort. Soon their crying was replaced by sucking, swallowing, and snuffled breathing.

      Crooked Ear did his part in feeding the she-wolf, who, in turn, fed the growing pups. Of the five, four remained. The runt had been sickly from birth. During the first few hours she had vigorously licked the floppy creature and had repeatedly pushed it toward her belly, but it lacked the strength to nurse. She nosed it to one side of the den, away from the others. As soon as she realized that there was no breath coming from its nose, she licked it one last time, and then, in the manner of wolves, she ate it.

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