3. Tundra

The third chapter in Watcher of the Wolves.

            Marrok leaped to his paws in a split second, thrown from the dream like a bird from its perch by a strong gust of wind blowing across the branches like a wave of an arm. He blinked open his eyes, wide in shock. His heart raced like a thousand paws beating against the snow stained ground in the mid winter ground, and Marrok was still shivering from more than just the cold blowing through the widened den entrance.

            He struggled to gain a sturdy balance and took a few deep breaths, his eyes beating wide and then wincing over and over to the thunder of his heart. Marrok’s head felt as if he had just been kicked by the elk that sometimes grazed along the edge of the forest.

            The edge of the forest, Marrok though regretfully. That was one of the downsides to this den. He had wandered further than he thought the day before, coming to a break in the forest where open tundra lay before him. He had thought it impossible for so vast fields of snow to exist, but yet again he was wrong.

            The rising sun’s rays streamed through the entrance to the den. Marrok still regretted picking a den where he faced the entrance directly, but at least he had something. Starving to the ribs, his stomach rumbled like thunder. He could have sworn it was a thunderstorm besides the fact that the sky was clear. Then again, snow storms rolled in faster than a sprinting wolf these days.

            Stop being so negative! He scolded himself. You agreed to stop yesterday, so do it.

            Agreeing with himself again, Marrok stumbled to the edge of the entrance so his torso was sticking out the front. There had been a fresh snow fall that night and a blanket of white pure as the dawn sky sparkled in the sunlight. He winced at it, angry that something could be so perfect when he was doing so horrible. He shivered angrily.

            Well, it’s your fault for not building a den when Ly- your mother had just died. He caught himself about to say his mother’s name and paused, angry at himself. Marrok knew that saying it always lead him to a dark train of thought that he would rather avoid. Again, he believed what he told himself. Why hadn’t be built a den fresh after his mother’s death?

            Because you’re too sensitive- face it, you’re a- he searched for the right word, not caring enough to stop another quiet insult. –you’re just an overgrown pup.

            Marrok shook his head, praying that the thoughtfulness would leave in to the wind, and looked confidently at the plains. At least there was life there. The shrubs scattering the ground could easily shelter a family of rabbits who made a den there, and there were those plus occasional patches of grass to feed elk. And there was always the occasional bird that stopped to scavenge off of a carcass here and there.

            He was half convinced to just expand on the tiny den he had found before, but remembering the glare of moonlight in his face and the haunting dreams of his mother convinced him against it. Marrok twitched an ear and stepped out of the edge of the forest, wandering through the vast plains searching for a suitable den location.

            Marrok spent the best part of the afternoon wandering along the snow-covered plains. His eyes were still dull and heavy, weak from his retching the day before and the thorn wound had started to untidily scab over. He trod on bird nests and deep elk tracks so often that he eventually twisted a back paw so much that he was left to limping pathetically over the tundra.

            Eventually he came upon a slightly larger bush that had nothing around it. He bent down at an awkward angle with his rump in the air and torso touching the ground in the typical dog-play angle, but started to furiously dig at the edge of the bush, the frozen ground tugging at his claws and making his feet ache. Marrok worked hard at his digging for what seemed like hours when finally he had a decent hole protruding below the bush. He stood back to admire his work, paws aching and claws slightly broken from the icy ground. At least it wasn’t too far off until spring.

            The den was a hole, roughly the size of a curled up wolf, and it went deep in to the ground at a diagonal angle for about three meters. It was wide enough for a few wolves to lay down in it abreast but it wasn’t giant, just large enough to store food when needed. Marrok was angry to have to stoop so low that he was scavenging like a vulture, but at least it was something he could do besides staggering around feeling sorry for himself like some ragged old she-wolf.

            He raised a narrow muzzle to the air and sniffed cautiously. There were no fresh rabbit scents in the air, and Marrok knew that was to be expected since his claws screeching against the frozen floor of the icy tundra would have alerted them that there’s a wolf nearby. After several moments, he gave up. All he could smell was freshly churned soil and thick pine-like shrub, with a hint of water that had been frozen over by ice.

            Quietly, Marrok cursed himself for making such a racket and scaring away the prey. Could you have waited until you had a decent meal first, bird brain? He scolded himself. Lyall would never make that mistake.

            Too late, he realized that he had thought the forbidden name. He had to stop doing that. All it did was make him remember his days as a pup, curled against her warm belly and eating the half digested remains of whatever she had managed to catch for him-

            Shut up and stop thinking about her! She’s gone, and that’s what you need to focus on- surviving for yourself!

            Marrok staggered a few paces and sniffed again, hoping he was luckier. A faint trace of squirrel came from the forest about a hundred bounds north of where he was. He was tempted to stay in his warm den, but the thought of food- even a tiny, thin squirrel- made his mouth water. Marrok turned towards where the wind had carried the scent from and leaped towards the forest.

            He wasn’t prepared for the huge gust of wind. It blew directly in to his face and pressed his thick winter coat flat against his sides. Marrok tried to slow and brace himself against it, but the wind was surely stronger than a scrawny young wolf who hadn’t groomed well in moons. Marrok was flung on to his back legs, and then forced over on to his back in an awkward, helpless position of submission. He had often seen the wolves that his mother fought off submit to this position after her harsh teeth had defeated them, or even if they were thrown on to their backs in the roughness of the battle- but never had he been forced in to this position before, all four powerful legs in the air.

            After the blow of the wind had passed and calmed to a slight breeze, Marrok took a deep breath and stumbled to his feet. He turned back towards the direction where the squirrel was and more cautiously bounded toward it, braced for another impact against the wind that never came. He reached the tree line shortly after, but only to find that the squirrel had gone further in to the woods.

            The decision stood before him. He had a den, and the wind hadn’t helped him trudge away from it to search for this pathetic creature. And now it had gone off deeper in to the woods, which meant endless tracking and a path that lead him yet again away from the comfortable warmth of his temporary home. But he hadn’t had a decent meal in a while. Who knows? Maybe the squirrel could be a plump, large morsel. He hadn’t gotten much of a sign from the scent, but he was desperate for something more- anything.

            Finally, Marrok ruefully darted after the squirrel and deeper in to the depth of the forest. He knew that it would be a long time before he would be able to leave for his den, with or without the squirrel- but it was worth a shot.

            He was desperate.

 

Author's Note

So... what do you think? I know the plot hasn't started to develop yet. It does that in chapter four.