Chapter 1
They took her on a summer night.
Once upon a time, many a year ago, a golden-haired girl and a lean, grey wolf were stalking the pine forests of a small island not far from Nidarossfjorden's muzzle. The girl was small and dirty, and the wolf… eh, the wolf was just a common beast; though it seemed very, very happy to run with her.
The sky above them was high and dark—dark blue, nigh black, and filled with the shining eyes of the pack that hunted up there; silent hunters, all of them, gliding across the vast vault, never tired, always hungry. The girl knew them well. They were good.
But not all who wandered there in the black were to be trusted. The Traitoress, for one, had not yet shown her pale, spotted face, not that evening—but she would. Soon. Yes, the girl remembered with a quiet dread: ere long, the Traitoress would climb above yon border, that restless line endlessly swallowed by the foaming salty water which roared and struck against the hollow walls of the high cliff. And then… Oh, her light would creep through the forest and betray every hiding place, every secret path, any daring Runner!
Down in the narrow ravine, those odd, two-legged creatures who had recently come to her forest were doing strange things. Now they were spoiling the fresh meat, holding it over a great Fire until it sizzled and shrank. A tribute, she thought, watching with her head tilted. Yes — the Fire gave warmth and light, and it deserved its share. Maybe so…
She could understand this because her siblings, when hunting alone or in small groups during the short summer, always called the Forerunner when they had brought down a big prey. And that meant one of those mountains of sweet meat—the beautiful Animals, the ones that fed on grass and moss and flowers—or, sometimes, even a wounded or sickly Crooked Wood. Then the Forerunner would come, dignified and lazy, and eat until he was full of the best parts.
In sooth, he devoured whatever he pleased, for the girl realized with some surprise that her own tastes in food were somewhat different from those of her furry brothers. And that thought made her feel ashamed, as she touched her skin—disgustingly smooth, with only a few wild, insignificant patches of fur in small and hidden places. Or that long, unnatural, and yellow mane on her head—disgusting and shameful too. She was desperate when staring into the clear water of a lake: she didn't have that beautiful, long snout full of wonderful white fangs, nor that long red tongue. Oh no, she couldn't even drink water as all her brothers did!
And she couldn't run as gracefully as her siblings for long; she always had to rise on her hind legs to endure the long, wild raids against the Tall Grass-Eater herds, or those endless, feverish flights through the frosty nights when the Traitoress seemed eager to snatch at least one of her brothers. Or even her, though she doubted that such a dangerous, vile creature, living high in the vault of the sky, could ever prefer something as ugly and clumsy as she was to one of those wonderful beings who ran so lightly beside her.
Because of this, she was never truly afraid of the Traitoress, nor did she howl at her as her siblings did. Besides, even if she had wanted to, her voice was nothing like theirs—neither melodious nor deep. It would thicken, break, and vanish when she screamed too long or too loud. 'Where did her voice run, and why? Perchance it was disgusted by her ugly look,' she thought, overcome with sadness.
Next to her, her beloved sister Zaza felt her pain and whined softly, licking her ear. Oh, how she loved the rough gentleness of their tongues—warm, wet, alive—against her loathsome skin! And she could never answer them in kind, for their thick, wondrous fur never seemed to feel that crippled sign of love.
So now she clung to Zaza, holding her tight, feeling the wild heartbeat beneath her ribs. Sometimes, her brothers liked this show of affection. But not all of them. Especially the older ones would roll her in the mud and bite her, angry, when she tried the same with them. And even Zaza, who loved her so dearly, was sad now—restless, even angry. She whimpered softly and bit her hand when she tried to stroke that wonderful fur. No, her sister did not want to remain there a moment longer. The wind, carrying the pleasant scents from the fire of those creatures—creatures like her, yet so different and hostile, deeply unsettled Zaza.
She, too, knew well that the Runner should never tarry near dangerous Animals when the wind blew as fiercely as it did now, for the wind could also be treacherous at times. But the girl truly could not help herself in this matter. Beyond curiosity, she felt a strange pull toward those two-legged beings who looked so much like her. Many times she had crept near their fires before, listening to their whinings—unusual, but not unpleasant.
Old memories—so old they seemed dreams nested in other dreams—stirred within her, reminding her of a voice like theirs, gentle and kind, heard once long ago beside a terrible fire. The Fire... yes, she feared it, but it spread such a soft, beguiling warmth... And the meat roasting there—ah, it smelled... better than raw meat. Yes, she had to admit that, though she did not like the thought at all.
Suddenly, a strange feeling embraced her in cold arms; it was not the old, well-known fear, that fierce god urging her to run fast and far away, to hide, and then, eventually, to strike. Her sister felt it too and ceased her whining. Then Zaza froze; her ears—always quicker than eyes—twitched sharply, then flattened against her skull. A low growl trembled in her throat, not meant for attack but for warning.
The strong shiver that ran through her sister's body passed into her own. They waited, bellies pressed to the damp earth, listening and sniffing around. Ah, the wind—that treacherous wind—had shifted; the pleasant scents of the fire vanished, swept away by something sharper: salt, sweat, the bitter breath of dust—and many, far too many, other strange fragrances. Zaza's muscles tensed beneath her hand. She turned, nostrils flaring, eyes fixed on the darkness behind them.
Then a hiss cleft the night. A breath, a sound like a flying snake—too quick to see. Zaza jerked once, violently, the sound of her breath torn away, and fell; her body quivered; her eyes, still open, searched for her sister but could no longer find her.
The girl could not move. The world shrank to the beat of her own heart and the ragged breath in her throat. She reached for Zaza, but hands—rough, strong, smelling of smoke and salt—seized her from behind. She struggled, twisting, half snarling, half crying, but the grip only tightened.
She wanted to howl—to call the Forerunner, the pack, the night itself—but no sound came.
The world spun: firelight flashing through the trees, eyes glinting like wet stones, a shout in a strange tongue. The girl glimpsed one of the two-legged beings lowering a curved stick, his face bright with the same cold light that gleamed on the Traitoress—now climbing above the horizon.
And she thought, before the darkness closed in: 'The Traitoress has come at last—and she has taken Zaza first. And Zaza's warmth faded into the earth.'
