Lone Wolf

too bright. How can this be? thought the old chieftain. I am deaf already and nearly blind!
    When the chieftain looked about, there was not a trace of his old pelt or his bones. He looked down. His paws were not misty, but planted firmly in the mud. He  lifted one and stared in wonder at his paw print in the mud. I am not old, but young. I am here on earth and not in the Cave of Souls. My time has not come.
    And then from the cave where the pack was hunkered down came a chorus of howls in response to the skreeleen.
    "And that is why," the pack howled, "our chieftains wear pelts and necklaces of bones in honor of the great chieftain Fengo, who led us from the Long Cold. For that was the reason Fengo lived again."
    Through the bolts of thunder
    our history is read.
    A threshold between two lands, the living and the dead.
    Forsake the starry ladder, the cave of our souls,
    Bring pelt and bone together.
    The work is not yet done, heed the call of Fengo toward the setting sun.
    The song of the wolves stirred something deep and mysterious within Faolan. He understood the words of the song, but there was something beyond the simple meaning  that eluded him. When the song ended he had turned to leave. But the wind blew whisperings from the cave toward him. The pack sounded frightened. "Dangerous."
    "An enemy's coming."
    "Stranger. Beware."
    What are they scared of? Faolan wondered. They are a strong pack. Safe in the cave, heavy with fresh meat. But he did not stay around to find out.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
    ***
    MOON ROT AND DOOM

    THE RAINS HAD STOPPED FOR several hours when, after a long trek, Angus MacAngus, the clan chief of the MacAnguses, arrived at the cave where the pack of the western scree had spent the night of the storm. He had come in response to the skreeleen's howling. There were many interpretations that one could bring to the ceilidh fyre, or the sky dance of fire, as the wolves called lightning. It was disturbing that the skreeleen saw the story of the wolf who did not die, for it usually presaged misfortune.
    The chieftain had not worn his ceremonial robes nor his necklace of bones. He did not want to make a fuss. It would alarm the pack unnecessarily if he had appeared in the elaborate garments usually worn in the gadderheal. They would think he found the situation so serious that  they would all be summoned for a gadder. The gadderheal was the ceremonial cave of each clan where the gravest of matters were discussed.
    The skreeleen came out to greet him. She was a handsome wolf, her silvery pelt glinting darker underneath. She lowered herself immediately to the ground, scraping her belly and grinding the side of her face into the dirt. Her ears were laid flat and her black lips drawn back in a classic gesture of total submission to her clan chief.
    "No fire, Aislinn?"
    "No, the dance did not cast a spark to the ground."
    There were certain rules that governed conversation between the clan chieftain and the skreeleen who interpreted the ceilidh fyre. Although the chieftain was of higher rank than the skreeleen, he was not permitted to doubt her howled testimony. He was only allowed to ask for concrete signs or evidence that might support the grim possibility that the ceilidh fyre suggested. Even though the story of the wolf who fell from the star ladder was ultimately a heroic one, it involved much sadness and death. A fire ignited by a thunderbolt or even just a scorched rock would be considered most dire, a signal of an imminent calamity. The chieftain sniffed, trying to pick up any telltale scent of ash or fire. He widened his circle. The pack watched him carefully. A sudden shift in the wind  brought with it a new scent. Angus MacAngus crinkled his brow and sniffed something.
    "Any bears around here?" he asked.
    "No, never," replied a high-ranking wolf. "They never come this far from the river."
    "I don't understand. I smell bear, but wolf, too. No wolf from here, though."
    "You smell two scents together?" asked the skreeleen.
    "Yes, oddly mingled."
    "As if they were traveling together? Walking side by side?"
    Angus MacAngus stopped in his tracks and peered down at a strange paw print. His hackles rose stiffly, and he shoved his ears forward. So this was the misfortune foretold in the ceilidh fyre! The toe pads of the strange paw print were spread widely, splayed. It was the paw print of a wolf with the foaming-mouth disease. The sickness would end in death. But madness preceded the death and if