Page 9 of Moonless

The edge slips against my palm, and I brace it with my forearm. My claws scrape rock as I work them underneath. Hitto. On any other night, I’d have the meat out already.

I set the cover down and wait for my stomach to settle, because the new moon has been coming for days now. I felt it yesterday on the climb, stopping twice where I usually keep going. Tonight even dried meat is hard to look at, but I take enough for a meal.

There’s more in the rear cache, with marrow bones underneath, and it’ll last through the slow days after tonight. I can hunt near the mountain while my strength returns, then range farther as the moon fills, until I can carry enough back for the next decline.

I sit and pull a strip apart with one claw. Tough sinew catches against my upper fang, so I turn the piece and tear it free. I lean back until the wall flattens the fur down my spine.

I keep chewing until I can swallow another mouthful.

Väinö would’ve made me finish it.

The meat tastes of old smoke. Weeks ago, on my last far ranging, I caught that same smell across the river and followed it to a hunters’ camp.

I stayed downwind, well beyond the firelight, where their smoke reached me through the trees thick with roasting fat. They had a skin of drink between them, and the man nearest the fire spilled some down his wrist whenever he lifted it.

“My brother saw it. Wardens have a new weapon.” He wiped his chin with his sleeve. “Wolves die as men now.”

Another man reached for the skin. “Your brother sees plenty after drinking.”

“Go ask him. Went down a wolf, died a man. We’ll clear the whole bloody forest.”

The one with the brother grabbed for the skin and missed.

The wind held toward me. They went on boasting, and I left them to it.

The wolves can tend to their own trouble.

I finish the meat and push the cover into place. By morning I’ll need more food whether I want it or not.

I rise with one hand against the wall and straighten slowly, a pull under my ribs easing when I stop. I wait until my legs will hold me, then turn deeper into the mountain.

I go through the relic cache, past the wrapped bundles on their shelves. The small room beyond has space enough to kneel. I duck beneath its low opening, brushing stone with the pale fur at my shoulder.

The air comes cooler here, down a shaft far overhead, and on other nights a little moonlight reaches the stone beneath it. Tonight I set my feet by touch and lower myself onto my knees.

The lamp stands beside my right knee, cold and full. The wick would take a flame if I struck the flint. I rest my hand beside it instead, claws lifted clear. The dish of river stones sits behind it, and I draw that in beside my knee.

It’s stayed dark for two hundred years. I leave it.

Väinö taught me the order while I was still small enough to sit beneath his table. I hid under it once, certain he couldn’t make me work if he couldn’t reach me.

He pulled his chair closer and began the lesson.

Oldest den first, down to the youngest. Within each den, eldest to newest-born. Every full name, with each title joined to the person who held it. If memory fails, begin again.

He made me repeat a whole den once for shortening a name.

My memory has never failed during the vigil.

I draw enough air to begin and speak the first name.

“Kaleva, alpha.”

My grandfather’s name comes out rough, so I clear my throat. I give the next name the pause Väinö taught me.

He used to touch one claw to the table between names. I still leave room for the tap.

“Väinö, heir-tutor.”