The Echoing Woods (pt. 8)

The Sour Smell

Something was wrong on the other side. They could see it, hear it, taste it and feel it. Before long, the slow ones would gather their things and try to enter. It had been so long since they had had to face that threat, and the other ones who had always lived here had always known enough to respect the rules. But there were new ones who had come again, who had been here years ago, and who had overpowered the older ones. They had killed many, and burned many of the buildings, and driven a few of the slow ones into the forest, begging for sanctuary. The white ones knew better than to allow them to stay.

The oldest one was currently watching the hole deep inside. There had been many strange signs, and ever since the twisted one had taken his pack into the hole, they had been on edge. They should never have been allowed to enter, but they had been sneaky, and they had overpowered the guardians. The fact was, on that dark night, they had distracted two of the guardians, and they had run inside. After disappearing, there was no way to go after them. All they could do was wait.

She was not used to being so close to the edge of the forest. She preferred to stay deep inside, near one of the deep lakes where the icy water from the mountains pooled and formed a chilly reflection of the sky. Her pups were with her, and had been disciplined to obey and to be observant. They could smell the men from several miles away, and knew that they were nervous. They had obviously been gathering supplies for some time, and as the days grew warmer, and the trees grew greener, they knew that the slow ones would march to the river with their supplies.

They shared in the dreams of the slow ones. From time to time, under cover of darkness, they had ventured out as they always did, to monitor the slow ones in their frantic burst of building and reclaiming of the settlements that they had taken from the older ones. Dreams were easy to share, and after cowing the dogs into remaining quiet, shivering in fright or running off into the distance, they would settle down next to the tents and slowly enter into the dreams of the men who slept inside. Dreams were like odors, they were exhaled by the men, and they were read by the wolves, who could read the emotions, read the thoughts, read even the ideas that the men were dreaming.

The wolves had known all along that the men were dreaming of the forest. They were dreaming as well of the mountains off to the west, those tall and jagged peaks that so terrified the wolves, but perversely, enthralled and bewitched the men. The short-tailed one in particular was adept at reading these dreams, and of detecting the hope of discovery, of minerals, of golden rocks hidden inside, great rivers of precious minerals that they hoped to tap, and for which they needed to enter into the forest and make use of it to expand their settlements and provide the means by which to dig into the mountains.

The short-tailed one knew that the men dreamed of the hole, of that entrance that the wolves guarded, without knowing why it shouldn’t be disturbed. It was poisonous, and it reeked with death and the whisperings of hidden ones who wished to leave the mountain and take the forest. But the men knew little of this. They dreamed of gold, and they manifestly weren’t satisfied with having reclaimed the open land.

The golden-eyed wolf had heard the tale brought by the short-tailed one, and by other sentries who had ventured out into the prairie, and had listened to the men. They smelled the plans of these slow ones, who gathered metal objects in little bags, and horses, and packs of dogs that once had been wolves but had become too dependent upon men. The dogs would be easy enough to deal with. They would be easily cowed, the way they were out in the prairies, and they would flee the forest one the wolves gave the signals. But the men would not be so easily cowed, and they would need to find a way to dissuade them from venturing too deep.

Her pups were patient, the way she was. They huddled close to her, for like her, they disliked being so close to the edge. They also preferred the warm interior of the forest, the enveloping green sanctuary, the moss and branches and dirt that was all they had known. Perhaps they would be trained to become sentries in the future, to venture out and to keep watch over the men out in the prairie, but for now, they were satisfied with the rituals of the interior, with the hunt on moonlit nights, and the roads that they had marked deep inside, roads that were little more than scent trails, but that traced out hidden narratives, and told them who had been where and for how long, and when they had eaten, and what they had eaten, and what they had been feeling and thinking. They remarked on the myriad scents of other creatures too, of the deer that traveled in their own packs, and the badgers, and the squirrels and snakes and foxes and moles. It was a living language, written on a living terrain.

But the plains were different. They felt exposed, and the open land was a faulty text that was continually erased by the shifting wind, and dampened by the rain, and scrambled because of the lack of stable markers that could be imprinted.

She was ready to move her pups. They were following on the scent trail of the yellow one, and it was their nature to follow the paths of those who had preceded them. The yellow one had stood where she was watching for several hours, and had moved to the south. It was almost dawn, and time for her to follow.

As she got up, her cubs stirred then followed quickly. They made no noise. Both cubs still preserved the dark fur coats of their adolescence, but as they became adults, they would soon turn completely white. That was the nature of their pack, the nature of the sentinels of the forest.

The older one, who had a slightly stronger pungent smell that was almost like a heavy knock on her nose, jogged eagerly by her side. The younger one followed, staying closer to her heels. This was natural, for the stronger and more dominant one should always be in front.

The scent trail left behind by the yellow one weaved around trees, and usually avoided hidden rocks. It was a trail that revealed nothing out of the ordinary, nothing but a routine change of position, following the curve of the forest to the south, further and further away from the river. She was attentive to these signs, and it was like a script that unfurled before her, and that was unmistakable, and a second instinct.

But then they noticed the wrong note. It was a smell that was coming further ahead along the scent trail left behind by the yellow one. It was very clear, and it registered alarm. It also registered the slowed movement of the yellow one, who had stopped, and hunkered down, and had waited for some time before moving on ahead.

She stopped as well, and her cubs, who had detected the scent also, followed her lead. They became more aware of their surroundings, and to the smell of the many animals and plants and insects around them. And what became evident to them was that the smell of fear had grown more powerful, and had been shared as well by squirrels as well as rodents and also the infinitesimal scent trails left behind by beetles and other insects.

There was evidently something wrong up ahead. Her first instinct was to retrace her steps, but it was plain to her as well that the yellow one had chosen to forge ahead, and the trail appeared to go in the direction of a stand of trees off to the side. They smelled alarm, and curiosity, but no outright danger.  The wolves had little enough to fear in the forest, other than the opening deep inside that was guarded by their sentinels. They had no natural predators, and even the bears knew enough to avoid the wolves, solitary creatures that they were, unable as well to withstand any coordinated attacks. There was no scent of bear, and no scent of man, and no other recognizable scent of danger.

Slowly, she followed the scent trails. It registered the increasing alertness of the yellow one, a mature and older wolf who no longer received regular sentinel duty, and was assigned to patrol, given his ability and practice in reading the dreams of men. But could it be that the yellow one had grown careless, and was registering unnecessary alarm?

They proceeded forward, and the cub were attentive to the scent of their mother as she ventured forward. They circled around the stand of trees ahead, and they continued following a line that seemed to follow the curve of the forest at times, and at other times, ventured hundreds of yards in. The trees were pack closely together at the edge, something that had been achieved since time immemorial and the rule of their mythical founder, the ragged one, who had deemed it necessary to build a barrier against the incursions of others. All the wolves well remembered the stories of old, of how the white wolves had arrived after a trek of years from the far north, and of how they had been followed. They had had to fend off their pursuers and lay claim to the forest, and for years, they had been hounded and threatened before they had managed to make their stand. The result was that they had come to see the forest not only as a new home, but as a fortress that they had to protect.

The trail snaked steadily inward, and then, they all stopped and their fur rose in shock. The overwhelming smell of death overtook them, and it was mingled with the smell of the yellow one. It was like a blow so strong that it overwhelmed the smellscape of the rest of the forest, blotting it out. They knew it could only be one thing. The body of the yellow one lay up ahead.

For animals that were used to the quiet, it had become deathly still. Outside the forest, they could make out the slowly brightening rays of approaching daylight. The big she-wolf could smell even daylight, in the way the air was warmed, and could feel it as well in the way it heated up and rose in waves. But what was more overwhelming was the smell of death, and the fact that the yellow one had apparently chosen to run ahead from what she could detect of the scent trail.

She cautioned her cubs to stay behind, and moved forward cautiously. She had need to see what she could see, in order to give a complete report. For one thing, it was known that the slow one, the men of the plains, were known to have metals sticks that shot fire. She could detect no such smell. It was, instead, an unknown smell, something that was more sour than she could place, a smell that resembled drying fish left out in the air, but mixed with something else.

Slowly she crept up to the tree, and stepped carefully over the rock that was covered in leaves and moss. The overwhelming stench of death assaulted her, but she tried to stay attentive to the scent indicators left by the yellow one as he moved ahead, while alive. There seemed to be no fear mixed in, and from what she could determine, death had been sudden.

She saw the spatters of blood, or rather, smelled them on the tree up ahead. It had been a messy death, and as the light of the early morning grew brighter, she wondered if the Yellow One might not have been crushed by a tree. But she would have noticed the smell of an uprooted tree, and this smell was not present, nor did she notice anything out of the ordinary in the branches or the adjacent trees. She peaked around the trees carefully...

…and noticed the body of the Yellow One on its side, with paws stretched out, as if they had tried to push something away. The white hide was soaked in dry blood, and the leaves around the dead wolf registered the imprint of what had been some heavy object, for the leaves were crushed deeply into the soil. The flies were buzzing in a swarm around the body, but she found this unusual, for the fur seemed to show no open wounds. She inched closer and around the death scene, and then her fur stood up in horror.

The Yellow One’s head was missing. The flies were thickest her, because here they had access to the body, access to their food. Something had torn away the head, for this was not an accidental death. It had been done by something, and from what she could see, the cut had been thorough and clean. The head had evidently been bitten off.

She looked from one side to the next, wondering if she might find it or at least detect the scent trail of blood as it led away. Then she saw the dark shadow jump down from above, quicker than she could have imagined, and as she turned to fend it off, she felt it land on her and she smelled the blood of the Yellow One, but also, that sour smell, more powerful. 

She had time to yip a cry of alarm as she lost consciousness, and her last thought was of her cubs, lying in wait back along the trail. 

(Feb. 15, 2014)

OGRomero © 2014
(Copyrighted by OGRomero, 2014) 

The Echoing Woods (pt. 7)

The Little Robbin and the Falling Light

She loved to hide and listen as her mother called her name. It was something she had been doing for as long as she could remember, and it was a game that made her feel close to her mother. Her father and her brothers might not particularly notice her, and they very rarely spoke to her other than to call her "little raven" and chide her for being in the way, but for her mother, it mattered whether she was there or not. Her mother might get annoyed with her from time to time, and might hold out a sharp word for her, but most of the time, as busy as she was, she knew when her daughter was in a playful mood, and indulged her.

The little girl's favorite hiding place was the storage pit. Every dwelling had one, for they needed to protect their food from the dust and the heat of the plains, and they needed to find a place where the flies and other insects couldn't get to it. Almost as soon as a dwelling was set up, in their summer or winter camps, they would dig out a small pit, of almost three feet in depth, and line it with sacks that they had woven, then place their wrapped food inside. Whether it was dried fish or smoked meat or grains and nuts, they found a place for it, and then the covered up the pit with another sack, and placed a sturdy lid of woven branches, and then a few heavy rocks on top of the lid. This usually did the trick, and when they didn't have fresh food, such as a fresh kill brought by the men from their hunting expeditions, they could dip in to their supplies. It was a pit that might be more tempting to rodents if it weren't for the precautions that were taken to keep it contained, and for the fact that it was inside the dwelling, where food smells were mixed with people smells, the latter being a repellent for most rodents.

The pit was never very big to begin with, and then again, the little girl was very small. She would set the lid off to the side, and lie down on top of the wrapped items, then cover herself up with a sack and put the woven lid of branches on top. This was never an easy task, for the lid was heavier than it might seem, and she certainly couldn't manage to put the heavy rocks on top either, so the settled for the lid, and made sure her face was partially uncovered, so she could breath.

Mayalin, where are you?, she would hear her mother call from outside. Where have you flown to this time?

She would hear her mother call out with an exaggerated voice, and she would hear some of the neighbors chuckle out, and call to her mom, Has the robin flown away again? You will need a better cage to keep that one, she is a robin, but she fancies herself an eagle, and doesn't know the difference. Little Mayalin would grumble from her hiding place, and think to herself that she did know the difference, and she could be what she wanted to be, even if her father and her brothers thought she was little more than a silly squirrel.

Her mother would then make a show of entering the dwelling, peeling back one of the flaps of the ten, and call out again, Mayalin, where are you? The little girl would squirm and suppress a giggle, and would try to stay absolutely still as she hear her mother walking around the tent, talking to herself in a tone of mock sadness, where is my robin, her wings aren't strong enough, I hope she isn't hungry, for flying is hard work, and if she gets hungry, she might not be able to stay up in the air, and then, what will happen to her? Where will I find another robin?

It always made Mayalin feel elated to hear her mother talking about her this way, for then she knew she mattered to someone, at least to her mother, and she would relish the feeling for as long as she could, although deep down inside she also felt a slight pang of anguish, for she felt a little guilty for the suffering she might be causing.Was she being a nuisance again, as her brothers said over and over?

"Mayalin, are you here? I need help with the cooking, if you can hear me. I need you to go fetch some water from the creek. You can go by yourself, and you can see the fishes you like to tell me about, and if you're quick, maybe you will catch one this time, and bring it back, and I'll cook it just for you, and put a little of the herbs you like so much, and only you can eat it, not me, not your father, and not your brothers, only you. But come out if you are here, I need you! Don't tell me the wind blew you away!

And Mayalin would desperately try to suppress a giggle. There was a point where she always felt the temptation to jump and cry out, Here I am!, but it had to be the perfect moment, when her mother was close to her, and she could see her mother jump up in surprise, for if she picked the wrong moment, where was the fun in that? Although she had to admit, she always loved to go down to the creek, especially during the evening, where she was less likely to see Tolzin and the other girls, the ones that ignored her and would laugh behind her back. She had noticed, of course, when they mocked her, and make flapping motions, as if they could make fun of her nickname, little robin. 

So she held her breath, while her mother move around with exaggerated motions, checking behind the baskets and announcing, Not here! Then she would open the wicker box, sigh and exclaim, Not here either! Perhaps Mayalin knew deep down inside that it was a game that couldn't be prolonged indefinitely, and of course her mother was humoring her, which made it all the more precious, but at the same time, she wanted to move to the final stage, the popping out of the hiding place, and the sight of her mother jumping in the air with the cry of surprise.The best time was when her mother because maudlin, for she couldn't bear it.

Oh, I'm going to miss my little Mayalin, the one with the funny little nose, the one who never liked to listen to her mother, and who was probably being carried off right this minute by the wind, hungry and unable to fly straight, blown all the way over to the forest, where the wolves will see her and run after her, and when she sets down, they'll be waiting. What will the wolves do with such a disobedient little robin? How would she like to fetch water for a pack of thirsty wolves?

Mayalin couldn’t hold it any longer, and she let out a little chirp. Her mother in turn let out a startled cry, saying, What was that? Is the little robin inside after all? Where could it be? Did it fly into a basket and not know how to fly out? Did it get tangled in the tent, unable to get free? I wonder if this little robin can smell its way out, for doesn't it have a funny little nose, and isn't it used to smelling the air and running back inside to tell me that her brothers and her father are on their way back? Maybe this isn't my robin but another robin, a thin little bird that has run away and no longer had a place to call home. We could use that robin, but only if we catch it and eat it!

And with that, she would feel her mother reach under the lid and grab her, and Mayalin would squeal and burst out laughing from her hiding place. They would both hug, laughing together, and then her mother would sit down and shake her head, and look at her with her shining eyes, and tell her that she shouldn't hide when her mother calls her, for one day, it will be important, and she should be ready. Maybe not now, but soon, for life isn't secure, and there were stories, but for now, grab a few of the pots and go down to the creek, we need water for dinner, and I want you to help me. Run along, little robin, or should I say fly!

So the little girl reluctantly gathered the two pots and the balancing stick, and started the trek down to the creek. As she weaved through the other dwellings, she would see other mothers with young children hanging around, and some of them were weaving still by the evening light, and others were sewing, and a few were cleaning pots in preparation for dinner as well. The men would be back soon, and they needed to get ready.

As Mayalin walked, she caught sight of the crooked tree next to the creek. She had climbed it many times, loving as she did to perch on the highest branches, looking off into the distance, or just hiding, waiting to see if any other children from the camp ventured out, and hoping to spy on them. It wasn't always easy to remain hidden, and by now, the other children knew of her penchant for hiding in the tree, and would always look up instinctively and shout out, "Get down, lazy robin!". 

It was another matter when it came to her brothers. It was easy to spot them, because although they were older than her, they were still small and somewhat unsure, especially when it came to handling their horses, and they still had unsteady command of their animals. They would weave back and forth, and they would both bounce up and down, something that was all the more evident when the horses ran, so much that she love to tease them endlessly about it. She almost never failed at spotting them as evening set in, they and the group of two dozen other men who returned in a group.

The tree wasn’t always so hospitable, however. Many times during the hot summer months she found it swarming with ants, and because of this, impossible to tolerate. She could stand one or two ants, but at times there were swarms of ants climbing up the tree, and these weren't mild and inoffensive ants but instead angry ants that bided no intrusion. They would climb all over her, and torment her endlessly, especially if they got in her hair, because there was almost no way to get them out short of jumping into the creek and getting thoroughly wet. Which, perversely, she enjoyed, and provided one of the incentives for climbing up the tree when it was swarming with ants.

Most of the time, however, the tree was a welcoming presence. She loved the feel of it, and she was able to climb all the way to the top, something that the older children couldn’t do because they were simply too big, and the branches would start to dip down and move alarmingly. She had been witness to many an alarming fall by her heavier rivals.

So she walked out to the tree, and called out a friendly greeting, Hello, sturdy one, I can’t join you yet, because I don't have the time, and I have to fill these pots, but did you have any visitors today? Did you see any ravens, or eagles, or darting sparrows. I spent all day at the camp, hearing mother and her friends talk about the clothes we would need for later this year, and about the camp and the hunt this summer, and I’m tired and bored. Do you know when the ants will be back?

She then walked to the edge of the creek, next to a bend where a large rock was located, and lookeddown into the clear water. It was very cold at this time of year, and would numb her hand if she submerged it. She lowered the pot and filled it, then set it aside and reached over for the next one. And then she heard it, two plops to the side, but with no discernible splash, just two quick plops, as if a small stone had been thrown in. Was it a stone falling out of the sky, or could it be a fish sticking its mouth outside the water. Maybe it was trying to tell her something?

The fish were never big at this time of the year, but she knew that they were in the creek, venturing at times close to the surface. They loved to hide in places where long grasses and weeds provided cover, or else, in the shadows of the rocks that lined the creek. At times, when trees were blown down by the wind or were hit by lightning, falling into the water, these fallen trees provided another hiding place for the little fish who darted around quickly. She loved to watch them for minutes on end, moving in slow motion, but was always frustrated to find that if she stuck her hand inside the water and tried to catch one, they moved impossibly fast. There were ways to catch them, which involved setting traps in the water, and splashing around, and herding them into the shallow areas, and her brothers always said that this was the same way in which they herded and caught buffalo. For Mayalin, it didn't seem nearly as satisfying.

Those fish, she was sure, knew many secrets. It was only natural, for didn’t they come from the mountains far to the west? She was absolutely sure that if anyone or anything could tell her about the eagles, and about the wolves, and about the shadows that playing overhead at night, it would be the eagles. Far above them, it was said by the old women, the sun traveled endlessly, for it was said that the great mountain giant had picked it up from the mountain and thrown it as hard as he could, burning himself in the act, but nonetheless the great ball rolled endlessly across the sky, looking for a way to return but not finding the place from which it had been lifted. This was held to be a good thing, however, for if the sun were ever to come to rest again on the ground, the world would be consumed by fires. In that case, maybe the safest place would be to hide in the creek, where the fire couldn’t touch them. Maybe the fish knew something they didn't know. 

She looked around, but couldn’t find where the plop had come from. Then she heard it again, plop!, and she stood up quickly, and looked behind her, and she saw the expanding ripples on the surface of the water. She ran closer, and stared intently, waiting, but nothing else was heard, and after a while, she grew tired, and walked back to where she had left her pots, and filled the other one. The tree overhead seemed to sigh quietly, and she sighed with it, for she hated secrets, and wished someone would share any with her if they had any. People always said to her, when you’re older, you’ll understand, and they never seemed to realize how much this upset her. 

The evening light was taking on the cast of night, and she walked back quickly with the pots. She might be seven years old, but she took big steps, and counted them, over and over, from bitem to aitem to zetem, and she reached the camp and noticed that her mother had gotten the fire started, and that smoke was curling up slowly. It was a lovely sight to see these fingers of smoke rising up along the camp, from two dozen dwellings, knowing that food would shortly be prepared. As she looked off to the east, she could see a pack of horses and men approaching, and two small stallions careening back and forth, racing with each other to reach the tent. Her brothers would return with their large appetites, and with their loud talk of raccoons and eagles and foxes spotted, and the mysteries of the plains that they alone knew.

The shadows were growing longer all the while.

(Feb. 1, 2014)

OGRomero © 2014
(Copyrighted by OGRomero, 2014)