Another glade. Another clump of black hair. He cannot be that far.
There was no reason for Gin to follow the black wolf. It was not even wise, not at all – maybe he was a competition, maybe an outright threat. Maybe those strands caught on thorns and branches of low hazel bushes were older then he had thought and he was chasing a phantom. Well, not that it would be the first time, anyways. After all, a phantom can be as good company as any other.
The moon was hidden behind the clouds and Gin kept on glaring at him, as he made his way further into the forest. It was insanely difficult to spot dark fur in the maze of wide spruces and pines, and he was glad for that. The one he chased was young, child even, and with no pack he was bound to not outlive next winter. Black made him invisible, at least as far as to hide him before humans, their fear and their dogs. Gin had met both and still wondered which one was more dangerous.
Other wolves would find him in no time, but there were no other wolves in this forest. Just old Gin and his howls went unanswered for such a long time he forgot what they sounded like.
He figured howling at the young one would have no effect – he would just make him more scared, as if he surely was not scared enough. The forest is scary even if you know all the trees and secret passages and paths that smell of humans so strongly it makes you feel faint. When the moon shines though, it becomes in addition to all of that also filled with shadows moving with slightest wind and meagre silver firs sparkle in the light as much as Gin's fur does. He hated the moon once. But that was long time before, when his fur was not silver and he was not called Gin and his howls always found their response. He likes it now. He learned to like many things, or at least consider them bearable through the years, but the moonlight was pure beauty. It was not shining tonight, though, and he was on the search. Memories can wait – and they do, oh, they do – but the young one will not.
The dangers the forest hides do not wait either, but that is token.
There are not many of them, if you are grown-up wolf. That was what he had been told as a child, when he could barely stand on his own feet and hiding from buzzards blending into brown scenery. Small laugh came out from his throat as he rampaged carefully on his way to another clearance. Its sadness turned into relief once he finally smelled – he is here, the young one, and alive and moving. There was no smell of blood he half-expected – his prey was tougher than he assumed him to be. Not child, but not old enough to start his own pack and master hunting.
For a moment, Gin wondered if it would not be wiser to let him die of hunger. Or more merciful.
He let that thought die out, just as he did with all of the unnecessary thoughts. Follow the instinct, that was the best advice he ever got and used, and it was telling him to save the black wolf. Not because he needed to be saved, but because he, Gin, needed- What was that what he needed? Not a pack, not a family. A companion, maybe. A companion that is free to leave him whenever he feels the urge to. He is becoming old, he is, he sighed and hoped the moon would come out for the shortest second.
It was when the night started to fade when he saw something moving across the hazels.
He did not expect to meet him so soon. He did not expect for him to be real at all. What he followed was an enigma, something to haunt during long silver nights when deer slept and Gin did not. But he was real and in the first rays that were not to become morning for hours he saw that his fur was really black – how rare, he thought, because he did not want to call it beautiful just yet – with barely noticeable gold streaks on the tops of hair. He was standing, halted mid-step and Gin cursed his carelessness. He spotted him through the leaves, of course he did. Gin was not prepared for this situation. Everything seemed like a wrong thing to do – how do you persuade a terrified beast whose legs are trembling from fear that you want to become friends?
Oh, damn it. He was always becoming careless around this time of night.
He howled.
It came out rasp and silent and at that moment he knew that out of all the wrong things to do, this was the most wrong of all. Humans will hear, their ears still not forgetting completely the sound of two wolves talking. Two wolves. A pack, a threat, or so they will think. He wanted to tell him to run, run as far as he could, away from this forest, from humans, from him. But he is selfish, after all. He tried to tell him that he knows all the secrets of the forest, the deer paths, the caves – and he will show him. He tried to explain that he will introduce himself later, when the young one will be fed and calm. That there are humans nearby and they need to hide, because they come with steel and wood – he knows that, for sure?
He tried and did not succeed, because before he remembered how to howl the black wolf's legs trembled for the last time and his limp body fell down to the grass.
Mitsuba.
The name was meant to be shouted out, to be cried in agony, but all the powerless body managed was small whimper. He realized he was not surprised. The name was the answer to the questions – the ones that would become important later. Not yet, not now. Not when the one who could answer them was lying on his side on the bed of rotting hazel leaves, barely breathing and so tired death would feel more comfortable. Gin knows that feeling, knows it far too well. That is why he stayed, despite chilly autumn midday sun high on the sky. He will wake up soon – or never.
The humans did not come yet.
He was sure they would come. He was prepared to smell the foul scent that carried traces of others – sweat and blood, none of them theirs. They must have heard his early morning shout. Or perhaps it did not sound wolfish anymore? Maybe it could pass as a stray dog or a nighthawk. Maybe the times have changed and no one hunts wolves anymore.
The young wolf whimpered again, his legs twitched in obviously conscious movement and Gin realized he had not thought about what to do after he would wake up. He will be hungry and he will need water and there is none of that. He did not really expect him to hold on, did he? No, that is not it – he would have to leave him. Bad things happen to the ones you leave, when the humans are to come. The useless thoughts again. They will not feed him, nor they-
Gin turned his sight only to spot the black wolf with his eyes wide open, observing him with combination of fear and stubbornness. Not a trace of confusion, as one would expect, he just stared, unwavering at the silver wolf, almost as if he dared him to attack.
"I will not hurt you," Gin knew the words would not sound convincing; they never did if they were coming from the creature bigger and more powerful than you. "Nor will anything else here."
The limbs of the young one twisted into the defensive posture – subconsciously, probably, considering reluctance and false bravery in his eyes. Did he understand? Has Gin really forgotten the way wolves speak to each other during those years of solitude? Even if he did, he had no reason to believe him. Gin was perhaps old and weary and not that difficult to overpower, but the forest was vast and dark, because that is how forests look like everywhere, and surely hides one or two surprises that will come out with the evening star. He must know that. He must have come from one.
"Are you hurt?" he tried once more, in hopes the other one was just light-headed from the sleep or too weak to respond. Or he could not hear at all – encounters with humans' rifles and sticks came with many unpleasant consequences. If that is the case-
"Go away," his voice came out far too old for the one who barely shed his first winter fur. It was not important. As long as he talks, everything is in order.
"Are you hurt?" Gin asked again. He did not feel one bit necessary to comply with his request. In his forest, on his glade, under his hazel, he can keep companionship to the one that needs it. "I can bring you meat if you want, the deer is nearby. Not water though."
He was now convinced the black one did not understand. He tried for soothing tone of voice, if not with words, then at least that way conveying the message. He wondered if already too much time has passed, since he met another wolf – he stopped counting. The stars will not stop rising and setting just because someone is lonely down there. One day or one year will not make any difference, that was what he had been talking to himself all that time, and in his head, those words sounded just like before. Hah, he is getting old. And not wiser, it seems.
"Leave me alone," it was more of a plea than a demand. It did not sound any braver than before. The sun was at its peak, the sparse branches of trees rimming the clearance could not offer anything but tiny shadows creeping down on grass. Too far from any spring or lake. Soon he will try to lick moss or chew on rotten leaves from previous autumns and after that howl for the rain that never comes in time or help that comes even later, and then-
No. He is not wounded, just tired, and soon he will stand up and search for a water source by himself. The most Gin can do is to show him the way or bring him one of the deer standing nearby to make him stand up sooner.
That could work. Words do not seem to – they probably would not even if he understood – so this could be better option.
It was not until he held soft, still breathing fawn when he realized it must have looked like he had left him.
Everything was a smudge, branches and leaves, mud and flashes of light, everything merged into one chaos accompanied my howls and squealing and pain. The moon was fully visible tonight, hanging up on the pitch-black sky like one of those lanterns on the dangerous crossroads on the forest's edge. Only without any signs warning wanderers from danger. The danger came that night, unannounced and uninvited. And with sticks and chains and who knows what else.
"He's coming."
He heard them from afar, half-broken howls of relief. He howled back, for no other purpose than to tell them to endure. The raspberry stems skewered their tiny thorns into his legs, where the fur was already stained with blood – he did not care whose. His pack was already there, he could see them, shining black fur and the hazel one, the dark brown and the one that looked almost purple in the traitorous moonlight.
And just as many times before, moon betrayed him again.
The humans must have spotted him in the maze of trees, unmistakable white, shining like pearls or fresh snow or the moon itself – could the moon not help them, since they look so much alike? Hide itself behind a cloud, just for few minutes-
He howled for the last time, for his pack to know and for the humans to be afraid.
"The White Demon is here-"
,,Who is White Demon?"
He did not remember falling asleep.
And certainly did he not remember falling asleep next to the young black intruder whose trust he tried so hard to gain yesterday.
The other wolf was watching him warily, but without a trace of desperation from before. He was still lying on his side, but it was obvious he had stood up at some point. Gin searched the surroundings – the nibbled bones discarded on the grass were enough proof that what happened was not part of a dream. The dream – did he really, again-
"Thanks for the meat," the young one was following his gaze. "I thought you really left me."
I thought you would be gone by next day, Gin thought. I thought you wanted to be left alone with whatever caused you to run and end up in my forest. He did not say anything. He stood up, not giving away any of his distress and confusion that always came from waking up. The forest did not care about its intruder, looking just like it did any other morning – losing all the temporary charm the moonlight gifted him with, now left with nothing but vast emptiness that not even whistling of the tree crowns and packs of deer and squirrels awaken from slumber could fill. As much as nights were of memories – as unpleasant as they were, mornings always came with faint smell of humans and gun powder no matter how far from the forest's edge he had laid himself to sleep, and unbearable loneliness. His forest was too big for him to handle alone.
"You cried from sleep," the young one explained. Gin had a feeling he said it to himself more than to anyone else. For some unfathomable reason it made him sad, sadder than he was in all those empty years he spent by cursing the moon and admiring its beauty.
"You cried, too, you know," he said and knew the young one would stay.