That night, as they camped by the Blackwater, Bale came to him for the last time.
Torak knows that he is dreaming, but he also knows that what's happening is true. He stands on the pebbly shore of the Bay of Seals, watching Bale carry his skinboat down to the Sea. Bale is strong and whole again, and he balances his skinboat on his shoulder with easy grace. When he reaches the shallows, he sets it on the water, jumps in and takes up his paddle.
Torak runs down to him, desperate to catch up, but already Bale is flying like a cormorant over the waves, leaving him behind.
Torak tries to call to him, but only manages a broken whisper. 'Wait!'
Out on the shining Sea, Bale brings his craft about.
'May the guardian swim with you!' cries Torak.
Bale waves his paddle in a glittering arc, and breaks into a grin. 'And run with you, kinsman!' he calls back.
Then he is off, his golden hair streaming behind him as he heads west, to where the sun is going to sleep in the Sea. 'Why not?' said Renn three moons later. 'You miss him. I do too. So let's go and find him.'
Torak didn't reply. He wore his stubborn look, and she knew it was no use suggesting that he should simply howl for Wolf. He wouldn't want to risk the disappointment, because these days, Wolf didn't often howl back. From time to time over the summer, he'd come to them, but although he was as affectionate and playful as ever, and had clearly got over his shock at Torak not being a wolf, at times, Renn sensed a distance in him, as if he were somewhere else. Torak didn't talk of it, but she knew that he felt it too, and that in his worst moments, he feared it meant the end of their old closeness.
So why doesn't he go and find him? she thought in exasperation. 'Torak,' she said out loud. 'You're the best tracker in the Forest. So. Track!'
She had to admit, though, it did feel odd to be tracking Wolf. But then, everything about this summer felt odd. She was still getting used to being a Mage, and although Saeunn remained the Clan Mage, people treated her even more warily than before.
Her gear, too, was unfamiliar: new medicine horn and pouch (this an unexpected gift from Durrain), new strike-fire, new axe, new knife. New bow. She'd laid the remains of her faithful friend in the Raven bone-ground, and the old Auroch man who turned out to have known Fin-Kedinn in the past and taught him bow-making had made her a splendid new one. It was of yew wood felled by the light of the waxing moon, and subtly fitted to her left-handed way of shooting. But she couldn't get used to it, and today she'd left it in camp; although she was beginning to worry that it might feel left out, so maybe next time she'd bring it along.
It was the Moon of Green Ashseed, and the willowherb stood shoulder-high. It was so hot that Rip and Rek flew with their beaks open to keep cool. It had been an unusually good summer, with plenty of prey and no-one dangerously ill. If Renn sometimes woke in the night from dreams of eagle owls and tokoroths, she soon went back to sleep.
She watched Torak stoop to examine a furrow where a wolf had scratched the earth after scent-marking. He sighed. 'It's not Wolf.'
Later, he picked a strand of black wolf hair off a juniper bush.
'Wolf has some black in his fur,' Renn said hopefully. 'In his tail and across the shoulders.'
'His hairs are only black at the tips,' said Torak. 'Not like this.'
For a long time after that, he went into what she called his tracking trance, following no sign that she could detect. Then he crouched so abruptly that she nearly fell over him.
By his knee, she made out the faintest shadow of a paw-print. 'Is it Wolf?' she whispered.
He nodded. His face was tense with hope, and Renn felt sorry for him, and cross with Wolf for not sensing that his pack-brother needed him.
But as they went on, she forgot her crossness and gathered some green hazelnuts as a present. The previous summer, Wolf had watched her forage in a hazel bush, then done the same, although he'd ignored the ripe ones and only crunched up the green.
She was thinking of that when a wolf howled in the next valley.
She stared at Torak. 'Wolf?' she mouthed.
He nodded. 'He's asking us to come to him.' He frowned. 'But I've never heard him make that call before.'
They reached the rise above the river, and suddenly Wolf was flattening Torak with a huge wolf welcome mixed up with a fervent apology. I'm so happy you're here! Sorry, sorry, I missed you too! Happy! Sorry!
Eventually he jumped off Torak and pounced on Renn to say it all over again, leaving Torak free to look about.
The space around the Den was littered with well-chewed scraps of bone and hide, the earth packed hard by many paws. Torak noticed that Wolf was thinner, probably because he'd had to do so much hunting. He began to smile. 'I should have guessed,' he murmured.
'Me too,' said Renn, pushing Wolf's nose away. Her eyes were shining, and she looked as happy as Torak felt.
A magnificent black she-wolf with green amber eyes emerged from the Den and trotted towards them, wagging her tail and sleeking back her ears in a diffident greeting.
Torak thought, Yes, of course. This is right.
Turning to Renn, he told her that the she-wolf had been part of the pack he'd befriended the previous summer. Together, they watched her lie down on her belly and sweep the earth with her tail, while Wolf disappeared into the Den.
'I think we should move back a bit,' said Torak, suddenly unsure how they should behave. He and Renn retreated a polite distance from the Den mouth, and sat cross-legged on the ground.
They didn't have long to wait. Wolf backed out, carrying a small, wriggling bundle in his jaws. Lashing his tail, he padded to Torak and set it before him.
Torak tried to smile, but his heart was too full.
The cub was about a moon old. It was fat and fluffy and not very steady on its short legs. Its ears were still crumpled, its eyes a slatey, unfocussed blue; but it wobbled eagerly towards Torak, as fearless and inquisitive as its father had been when he was a cub.
Torak whined softly and held out his hand for the cub to sniff, and it yipped and wagged its stubby tail and tried to eat his thumb. He scooped it up and nuzzled its belly. It batted him with small, neat paws, and snagged his hair with claws as fine as bramble thorns. When he set it down, it scampered back to its father.
The she-wolf raised her muzzle and whined, and two more cubs emerged from the Den and bounded towards her, mewing and nuzzling her jaws. One was black, with its mother's greenish eyes, while the other was grey, like Wolf, but with reddish-brown ears. All were trembling with excitement at this amazing new world.
Rip and Rek flew down, and two of the cubs fled, while their sister began to stalk. The ravens walked about, apparently unaware. They let the cubs prowl almost within reach, then flew off with raucous laughs.
Torak watched Renn lying on her side and dragging a stick for the cubs to chase, while unknown to her the black one sneaked up and gnawed her boots.
Torak glanced at Wolf, who stood proudly wagging his tail. Thank you, he said in wolf talk. Then to Renn, 'Do you realize what this means?'
She grinned. 'Well, I think it means Wolf has found a mate.'
He laughed. 'Yes, but it's more than that. This is the cubs' first time ever out of the Den. That's the most important day of all, because it's when they meet the rest of the pack.'
With a wave of his hand, he took in Wolf and his mate and the cubs, and Renn and himself. 'The rest of the pack,' he said again. 'That's us.'
AUTHOR'S NOTE.
Torak's world is the world of six thousand years ago: after the Ice Age, but before the spread of farming to his part of north-west Europe, when the land was one vast Forest.
The people of Torak's world looked pretty much like you or me, but their way of life was very different. They didn't have writing, metals or the wheel, but they didn't need them. They were superb survivors. They knew all about the animals, trees, plants and rocks of the Forest. When they wanted something, they knew where to find it, or how to make it.
They lived in small clans, and many of them moved around a lot: some staying in camp for just a few days, like the Wolf Clan; others staying for a whole moon or a season, like the Raven and Willow Clans; while others stayed put all year round, like the Seal Clan. Thus some of the clans have moved since the events in Outcast, as you'll see from the amended map.
When I was researching Oath Breaker, I visited a number of the ancient trees with which the UK is so richly endowed. I also spent time in the largest area of primeval lowland forest left in Europe, in the Biaowiea National Park in eastern Poland. There I saw the ubro (a hybrid of cattle and European bison), boar, tarpan (a kind of wild horse), a number of lighting-struck trees, and more species of woodpecker than I'd ever seen. In Biaowiea I gained inspiration for the various parts of the Deep Forest and its inhabitants, particularly during my long hikes into the Strictly Protected Area of the Forest. I also got the chance to study two magnificent beaver dams and lodges, which gave me the inspiration for Torak's hiding place.
Needless to say, I have also kept up my friendship with the wolves of the UK Wolf Conservation Trust. Watching the cubs grow to young adulthood and talking to their devoted volunteer carers has been a constant source of inspiration and encouragement.
I want to thank everyone at The UK Wolf Conservation Trust for letting me get close to their wonderful wolves; The Woodland Trust for helping me gain access to some of the ancient trees featured in my research; Mr Derrick Coyle, the Yeoman Ravenmaster of the Tower of London, whose extensive knowledge and experience of the ravens there has been a continual inspiration; the friendly and helpful people of the Authority of the Biaowiea National Park and the Natural History and Forestry Museum at Biaowiea; the guides of the Biuro Usug Przewodnickich Puszcza Biaowiea and the PTTK Biuro Turistyczne, particularly the Rev. Mieczysaw Piotrowski, Chief Guide of the PTTK, who with the gracious permission of the Chief Forester of the Druszki district of the Biaowiea National Forest made it possible for me to see those beaver lodges.
Finally, and as always, I want to thank my agent, Peter Cox, for his tireless enthusiasm and support; and my truly gifted and altogether wonderful editor and publisher, Fiona Kennedy, for her imagination, commitment and understanding.
Michelle Paver.
2008.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS.
I want to thank everyone at The UK Wolf Conservation Trust for letting me get close to their wonderful wolves; The Woodland Trust for helping me gain access to some of the ancient trees featured in my research; Mr Derrick Coyle, the Yeoman Ravenmaster of the Tower of London, whose extensive knowledge and experience of the ravens there has been a continual inspiration; the friendly and helpful people of the Authority of the Biowiea National Park and the Natural History and Forestry Museum at Biowiea; the guides of the Biuro Usug Przewodnickich Puszcza Biowiea and the PTTK Biuro Turistyczne, particularly the Rev. Mieczysaw Piotrowski, Chief Guide of the PTTK, who with the gracious permission of the Chief Forester of the Druszki district of the Biowiea National Forest made it possible for me to see those beaver lodges.
Finally, and as always, I want to thank my agent, Peter Cox, for his tireless enthusiasm and support; and my truly gifted and altogether wonderful editor and publisher, Fiona Kennedy, for her imagination, commitment and understanding.
Michelle Paver.
London.
Ghost Hunter.
ONE.
Torak doesn't want to enter the silent camp. The fire is dead. Fin-Kedinn's axe lies in the ashes. Renn's bow has been trodden into the mud. The only trace of Wolf is a scatter of paw-prints.
Axe, bow and prints are dusted with what looks like dirty snow. As Torak draws closer, grey moths rise in a swarm. Grimacing, he flicks them away. But as he moves off, they settle again to feed.
At the shelter, he halts. The doorpost feels sticky. He catches that sweet, cloying smell. He dare not go in.
It's dark in there, but he glimpses a heaving mass of grey moths and beneath it, three still forms. His mind rejects what he sees, but his heart already knows.
He backs away. He falls. Darkness closes over him . . .
With a gasp, Torak sat up.
He was in the shelter, huddled in his sleeping-sack. His heart hammered against his ribs. His jaws ached from grinding his teeth. He had not been asleep. His muscles were taut with the strain of constant vigilance. But he had seen those bodies. It was as if Eostra had reached into his mind and twisted his thoughts.
It's what she wants you to see, he told himself. It isn't true. Here is Fin-Kedinn, asleep in the shelter. And Wolf and Darkfur and the cubs are safe at the resting place. And Renn is safe with the Boar Clan. It isn't true.
Something crawled along his collarbone. He crushed it with his fist. The grey moth left a powdery smear and a taint of rottenness.
At the back of the shelter, another moth settled on Fin-Kedinn's parted lips.
Torak kicked off his sleeping-sack and crawled to his foster father. The moth rose, circled, and flitted out into the night.
Fin-Kedinn moaned in his sleep. Already, nightmares were seeping into his dreams. But Torak knew not to wake him. If he did, the evil images would haunt the Raven Leader for days.
Torak's own vision clung to him like the moths' unclean dust. Pulling on leggings, jerkin and boots, he left the shelter.
The Blackthorn Moon cast long blue shadows across the clearing. Around it, the breath of the Forest floated among the pines.
A few dogs raised their heads as Torak passed, but the camp was quiet. You had to know the Raven Clan as well as he did to perceive how wrong things were. The shelters clustered like frightened aurochs about the long-fire which burned through the night. Saeunn had ringed the clearing with smoking juniper brands mounted on stakes, in an attempt to ward off the moths.
In the fork of a birch tree, Rip and Rek roosted with their heads tucked under their wings. They slept peacefully. So far, the grey moths had only blighted people.
Ignoring the ravens' gurgling protests, Torak gathered them up and went to sit by the long-fire, his arms full of drowsy, feathered warmth.
In the Forest, a stag roared.
When he was little, Torak loved hearing the red deer bellow on misty autumn nights. Snuggled in his sleeping-sack, he would gaze into the embers and imagine he saw tiny, fiery stags clashing antlers in fiery valleys. He'd felt safe, knowing that Fa would keep the dark and the demons away.
He knew better now. Three autumns ago, on a night such as this, he had crouched in the wreck of a shelter, and watched his father bleed his life away.
The stag fell silent. Trees creaked and groaned in their sleep. Torak wished someone would wake up.
He longed for Wolf; but howling for him would disturb the whole camp. And he couldn't face the long walk to find the pack.
How has it come to this? he wondered. I'm afraid to go into the Forest alone.
'This is how it starts,' Renn had told him half a moon before. 'She sends something small, which comes in the night. Something you can't keep out. And the grey moths are only the beginning. The fear will grow. That's what she feeds on. That's what makes her strong.'
Far away, an eagle owl called: oo-hu, oo-hu.
Torak grabbed a stick and jabbed savagely at the fire. He couldn't take much more of this. He was ready: he had a quiverful of arrows, and his fingertips ached from sewing his winter clothes. He'd ground the edges of his axe and knife so sharp they could split hairs.
If only he knew where to find her. But Eostra had hidden herself in her Mountain lair. Like a spider, she had cast her web across the Forest. Like a spider, she sensed the least tremor in its furthest strand. She knew he would hunt her. She wanted him to try. But not yet.
Scowling, Torak tried to lose himself in the glowing embers.
He woke to a voice calling his name.