said softly.
“We certainly do.” He came over, and began licking his mate’s face. He could taste the oily tears that leaked from her eyes.
“I would have told you, but, you see, the forgetting works. It worked so well until, until—”
“Until you found the scent of your son, the silver one.”
Morag looked at Brangwen through her filmy eyes. He didn’t call the pup a malcadh . Not an it , but a son . “Oh, Brangwen, you called him my son.”
“Of course. I might not be a female. I cannot claim ever to have birthed a pup, let alone one taken by an Obea to a tummfraw . But I can feel things.” He paused. “And I know that this silver pup you never named burns like a bright little star inside you.”
“How can you feel all this?” she said in a trembling voice.
“We are paw fast, are we not?”
“That we are!” Morag replied vigorously.
“We made our paw-fast vows—was it two autumns ago during the Caribou Moon?”
“No, the Red Leaf Moon. I remember.” And then, in just a whisper, “I remember too much.”
“We must talk now,” Brangwen said with his head nuzzled close to the ear he had just been licking. “You must tell me about your eyes. What is happening?”
“The darkness that was in my womb where the silver pup grew has come back and spread to my eyes.”
“And so you only see blackness. Is it like night always?”
“No, it is more like sinking into a haze. But I am sinking fast.” She paused. “I have had time to think about this, Brangwen. I must go to the Sark of the Slough.”
She could feel his hackles rise. Males were always more frightened of the Sark of the Slough than females. Her powers disturbed them. Morag had not gone to the Sark after her own loss. Perhaps she should have, she thought now. The Sark was said to have potions that helped with the forgetting, and tonics that healed the womb so it would be ready and eager for a new litter. But now she must go to the Sark to lift the haze.
“I shall go with you,” Brangwen said firmly.
“You are not afraid of the Sark?” Morag asked.
“I am more afraid of you stumbling or becoming lost.”
“But scents come to me more quickly now. More sharply than ever.”
“You cannot smell a hole and you cannot smell your way to the Sark,” Brangwen said.
“Yes, I suppose you are right. What about the yearlings? Who shall take care of them?”
“Their auntie Daraigh, of course,” Brangwen answered.
“She’s so strict.”
He was about to say, Not as strict as you used to be . But he held his tongue.
And so it was decided. They would leave at dawn for the Slough and the camp of the Sark.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
T HE G IZZARD OF G WYNNETH
AT THE SAME DAWN HOUR THAT Morag and her mate set out for the Sark of the Slough, Gwynneth lifted off from a ledge at the Ring of Sacred Volcanoes. Her harvest of bonk coals had been excellent. She had stayed through a full moon. But she was obsessed by the terrible scene she had witnessed on the ridge. The sounds of that malcadh ’s terrified screams and the image of that torn little body haunted Gwynneth. It seemed like a scene from the darkest realms of hagsmire. Had Hamish, the old Fengo of the Watch, been there, she would have discussed it with him. But there was a new Fengo now, a wolf named Finbar, and she did not feel as close to him.
I suppose, Gwynneth thought, I could visit the Sark of the Slough . Gwynneth was an owl—an owl with bonk coals. The Sark loved coals. Both Gwynneth and herfather before her father had traded with the Sark. Some said she got along better with owls than she did with her own kind.
The Sark was just removing pots from her kiln when Gwynneth landed. “I have some very good bonk coals for you, ma’am.” Owls called the Sark ma’am when addressing her. She seemed to like it. If she hadn’t, she would certainly have let them know.
“Any lesser-grade ones?”
“Lesser grades. Why would you want them?”
The Sark turned her head and
“We certainly do.” He came over, and began licking his mate’s face. He could taste the oily tears that leaked from her eyes.
“I would have told you, but, you see, the forgetting works. It worked so well until, until—”
“Until you found the scent of your son, the silver one.”
Morag looked at Brangwen through her filmy eyes. He didn’t call the pup a malcadh . Not an it , but a son . “Oh, Brangwen, you called him my son.”
“Of course. I might not be a female. I cannot claim ever to have birthed a pup, let alone one taken by an Obea to a tummfraw . But I can feel things.” He paused. “And I know that this silver pup you never named burns like a bright little star inside you.”
“How can you feel all this?” she said in a trembling voice.
“We are paw fast, are we not?”
“That we are!” Morag replied vigorously.
“We made our paw-fast vows—was it two autumns ago during the Caribou Moon?”
“No, the Red Leaf Moon. I remember.” And then, in just a whisper, “I remember too much.”
“We must talk now,” Brangwen said with his head nuzzled close to the ear he had just been licking. “You must tell me about your eyes. What is happening?”
“The darkness that was in my womb where the silver pup grew has come back and spread to my eyes.”
“And so you only see blackness. Is it like night always?”
“No, it is more like sinking into a haze. But I am sinking fast.” She paused. “I have had time to think about this, Brangwen. I must go to the Sark of the Slough.”
She could feel his hackles rise. Males were always more frightened of the Sark of the Slough than females. Her powers disturbed them. Morag had not gone to the Sark after her own loss. Perhaps she should have, she thought now. The Sark was said to have potions that helped with the forgetting, and tonics that healed the womb so it would be ready and eager for a new litter. But now she must go to the Sark to lift the haze.
“I shall go with you,” Brangwen said firmly.
“You are not afraid of the Sark?” Morag asked.
“I am more afraid of you stumbling or becoming lost.”
“But scents come to me more quickly now. More sharply than ever.”
“You cannot smell a hole and you cannot smell your way to the Sark,” Brangwen said.
“Yes, I suppose you are right. What about the yearlings? Who shall take care of them?”
“Their auntie Daraigh, of course,” Brangwen answered.
“She’s so strict.”
He was about to say, Not as strict as you used to be . But he held his tongue.
And so it was decided. They would leave at dawn for the Slough and the camp of the Sark.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
T HE G IZZARD OF G WYNNETH
AT THE SAME DAWN HOUR THAT Morag and her mate set out for the Sark of the Slough, Gwynneth lifted off from a ledge at the Ring of Sacred Volcanoes. Her harvest of bonk coals had been excellent. She had stayed through a full moon. But she was obsessed by the terrible scene she had witnessed on the ridge. The sounds of that malcadh ’s terrified screams and the image of that torn little body haunted Gwynneth. It seemed like a scene from the darkest realms of hagsmire. Had Hamish, the old Fengo of the Watch, been there, she would have discussed it with him. But there was a new Fengo now, a wolf named Finbar, and she did not feel as close to him.
I suppose, Gwynneth thought, I could visit the Sark of the Slough . Gwynneth was an owl—an owl with bonk coals. The Sark loved coals. Both Gwynneth and herfather before her father had traded with the Sark. Some said she got along better with owls than she did with her own kind.
The Sark was just removing pots from her kiln when Gwynneth landed. “I have some very good bonk coals for you, ma’am.” Owls called the Sark ma’am when addressing her. She seemed to like it. If she hadn’t, she would certainly have let them know.
“Any lesser-grade ones?”
“Lesser grades. Why would you want them?”
The Sark turned her head and
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