The winter of wolves Part 3 – The long chase.
.oOo.
The sleigh slides on a heavy, gray snow in the waning day. The hunter, his eyes fixed on his trail, heaves to the rhythm of his skate steps, easing the effort of the harnessed dogs. The mingled raspy breaths of mastiffs and master, flow as thin white scrolls, signs of an obstinate and ardent life, the dry air instantly dissolves in cold mineral silence. The swift and repetitive rhythm carries the thoughts of the huntsman in a fleeting half-consciousness.
Finran likes to let go in the thrill of the race, letting the hunter's will blend into the pack's instinct. The big game recalls his soul as a young man, lord among the warriors of his clan. In the high valleys of Anduin, the Eothraim then measured the man's value, with the number of his war victories as well as the prowess of his pack. At that time, his father commanded a free nation, who fought the orcs Gundabad, living on raising goats and hunting.
The distant memory of his first battles returns floats in Finran's fluid consciousness - the incredible influx of vitality irrigating all his being with exhilaration and hope, when victory sublimates combat rage and terror in the clash of arms. He sees himself back as a boy, proudly reaching the target for the first time in a pine glade, in a morning of eternity on the northern roof of the world. Therefore his silver arrow meets its mark every time, provided he saves it for the right time.
The immanent danger also floats, the slow defeat of his kin, driven from village to village, the grieving of his relatives and repressed tears in the eyes of the warrior widows. Danger did not defeat them; the end came when hope waned.
That is why Finran has shaken the fearful winter torpor of his friends in Thalion, his new family, his new people. But he seems he has failed again. His prestige as a captain has led them to brave their fear, to face the winter of the wolf, but the beast has crushed their pitiful rebellion and cast terror into their hearts. The beast... or whatever he is now tracking, since he dares not guess which creature has left traces of such gigantic hooves...
The snow begins to fall as darkness grows, sowing its veil of doubt on their track, and numbness in their hearts. The dogs certainly feel the drop of their master's will. The pack slows down, pulling Finran from his dark thoughts.
The night coming neigh, he cannot find a place to make a fire. He sets up the two tents in a hurry and shelters his pack, that curls up after some bickering of precedence.
.oOo.
Dawn calls for effort without bringing hope. Low anthracite clouds spread their smoothly coated malice on the downs, freezing the hills in icy stupor.
The hunter probes the horizon and sniffs the flakes still falling around: the day before, he had launched his horses toward the west, stalking his prey three leagues along, before being forced off. Now, although his innate sense of direction whispers where the track was heading to yesterday, the hunter may not cast his dogs on the trail, hidden under a considerable snow depth.
The huntsman, without conviction, then packs up his equipment. He sets up the hitch, but saves the bitch, he leads before him on her leash, just in case, to the west. After a mile, the flakes are scarce and Finran sees again some bushes, their bare branches dart from under a small layer of snow. By some miracle, the storm seems to have been fierce just on the eminence where he spent the night...
Still persisting, the hunter has the dog work in a wide valley, in order to regain the lost track. The brave animal finds several, much to the confusion of her master, who must put her back on the hunt after recognizing the footprint of a lone wolf.
After two hours of research with conflicting and confusing results, the huntsman admits defeat. With rage in his heart, he harnesses the bitch with the packs, and launches his sleigh to the south and Thalion.
.oOo.
As the hunter climbs a dreary slope in order to angle at the top, suddenly dogs swerve and station themselves at a standstill, except for the mastiff which already wants to rush.
A plain opens to the west, bathed by a surreal glow under the dark cloudy canopy. There a large deer raises its majestic antlers. The huntsman has difficulty in assessing its age, the powerful black silhouette shivering like a mirage on the pristine slope. The dark forest giant seems to defy the bewildered hunter.
Here is the bloodthirsty beast with gigantic hooves! Victory still lies within reach!
Finran launches the hitch with a dry order.
The team quickly approaches his game, which proudly gazes at them, motionless under the cloudy sky rolling its dark threats. The vast breadth of the beast slowly reveals to the subdued hunter, amazed by the small scale of the animal's antlers. Finran avidly observes the powerful anatomy of his opponent. The antlers seem built to cut and kill, their narrowness must give the animal a high mobility in the undergrowth. Its strong and dark legs nervously scratch the snow like an aurochs of Rhûn, ready for charging. The challenging posture surprises the hunter, who, taken in doubt, slows his pace and looks around. When he unhitches his pack and launches it at full speed, less than a furlong away from the beast, it takes flight with a leap while the dogs snarlingly yap, sensing the kill.
But the enthusiasm of the hunter is short. The vigorous beast outruns the unleashed pack with supernatural ease, forcing Finran to collect his dogs and re-harness to pursue it.
The hunt will be long, but time works in favor of the hunter, who knows that the number of pursuers ordinary proves a decisive advantage.
Finran leads his pack along the fresh tracks, saving the force of his dogs and anticipating some turns of the beast, sometimes pushing westward, sometimes northward. In the maze of the downs, the hunters pursue strange rumors, their game's track alongside other traces, sometimes heavy droppings the huntsman cannot identify. At the bare summits spiked with chalky rocks, the manners of the beast confuse the hunting, pushing it to speed up, feigning the slips of tired games. Twice in the bottom of valleys filled with snow, the beast comes back on itself, its track repeating strangely at the crossroads of ancient and garbled ways1.
The winter sun makes a brief appearance at its zenith, as the trackers reach a gentle wooded slope descending before them. At the bottom of the valley, a wood protects a rapid river which bed, deeply trenched, runs westward to meet the Brandywine. Again the dogs give voice. When Finran unties them, all burst forward.
But the beast may not be so easily cornered. One jump is enough for him to cross the river. It passes like a shadow of fear, hung with pale golden rays that pierce above the icy riverbed.
Finran admires the aerial grace of the dark colossus, that lingers on the opposite bank to brave him a few moments, before resuming its light running to the north. Recovered from his shock, the huntsman gathers his frantic dogs, and without risking to cross it, slides along the river, cursing his opponent.
At nightfall, finally, the hunter finds an upstream passage and beat the thickets on the presumed path of his game, north of its crossing.
The track stretches before him, clear and yet troubled by strange counter-ways. But Finran must resolve to set up camp. He distributes their food to the dogs, ensuring that the pack leader receives her due first.
All night long, during the light sleep of the huntsman, many thoughts confront in his mind - his passion for hunting, his vital need to conquer and his fearful wonder at the beast, this brute force from the forests, which has decimated its assailants and so far beaten his pursuit.
.oOo.
La neige a cessé de tomber des cieux embrumés lorsque la traque reprend à l'aube, au long d'une piste ténue. Finran doit bientôt faire travailler sa lice en avant de la meute. De plateaux désolés en halliers encombrés de congères, l'équipage chemine lentement, vers l'ouest et le nord.
The snow has stopped falling from the misty skies when the hunt resumes at dawn, along a thin track. Soon Finran must have his bitch work ahead of the pack. From desolate plateaus to thickets crowded with snowdrifts, the team slowly travels westward and northward.
As the bitch appears to have diverted to other routes, again the hunter gains height and again sees the great deer, his threatening hieratic figure defying him at the edge of a bare wood. Does the beast begins to feel tired, to linger this way after two days of pursuit?
Finran launches his team at the bottom of a ravine, to approach the game without being seen. When ordered to leave it, the crew gives a furious jerk. But the mastiff collapses with a shrill yelp, paralyzing the sled.
Le chasseur remet de l'ordre dans la meute et examine l'énorme dogue qui geint doucement, couché sur le côté dans la neige. Le mâtin souffre d'un allongement du postérieur, incapable de courir.
The hunter puts his pack back in order and examines the enormous dog that whines softly, lying on his side in the snow. The mastiff is suffering from a lengthening of the posterior, and is unable to run.
Finran swears under his breath. In the remote valleys of the Gray Mountains, poor dogs, injured at full speed, were sacrificed, especially during a ritual hunt. But the huntsman no longer feels the heart to abandon a companion which faithfully served him, and by the way does not belong to him. He has already caused enough deaths during this hunt.
Finran makes an inventory of his equipment: besides salt meat, biscuits, salt and water, they transport tents, blankets, utensils and some hunting weapons - spears, arrows and daggers. Food being scarce, he cannot feed his team if hunting remains vain.
The huntsman heals the mastiff and, with rage in his heart, leaves with the bitch. Long they hunt the hare and Finran must correct his bloodhound, who gets distracted by seeing squirrels dig their hiding places. In hare coursing, a-views are pernicious for young dogs, because they are getting used to searching with their eyes rather than their nose. Hours later, the hunter shot a couple of white hares he distributes to his pack.
.oOo.
But Finran has also established a comprehensive plan of big game ways around. And he feels more troubled and worried than ever. Ways of wolves and other animals co-exist, that should not even cross. And again he saw some traces of the beast's monstrous hooves.
So far his pride, his town's honor and his hunter's instinct pushed him forward. Now he feels, he knows that a monster, a powerful animal from the legendary depths of the old forest, cast a curse against men, and against him in particular.
Deep inside, the seasoned hunter whispers to give up and come back in great numbers to trap the beast. But the warrior he still is, knows that dispelling the shadow of fear must be accomplished promptly. Finran resolves to pursue the beast and slay it if he can.
He loads the ailing mastiff on his sleigh, and resumes his hunt, determined to flush out the beast.
.oOo.
Therefore Finran follows dark tracks, interspersed with cunning traps, constantly get him close to the disturbing shadow of the old forest. The team soon feels the influence of its spells.
A path steeply leads them to the midst of a frozen pool, which gives way under their weight. Finran saves his pack but he loses some of his equipment.
Lorsqu'il tente de prendre son chemin, ce dernier semble avoir disparu…
When he attempts to make his way, the latter seems to have disappeared ...
Further away, the dogs at bay are driven into a deep lair, they exit defeated but covered with parasites and painful thorns. The hunter must stop again, for hours of care and a new cold night.
The next day, the tracks still prove as confusing, but all day monstrous hooves' prints spur Finran.
As the twilight thickens ghostly shadows, snow starts to fall again. But the poor trees surrounding the camp are not covered. All night long, their black branches whisper in the wind, the malicious chant of trees disturbed in their winter slumber.
.oOo.
Finran, despite his exhaustion, at first cannot get to sleep, under his makeshift shelter. Finally, an hour before dawn, he sinks into a strange dream.
His shelter has turned into a cabin.
His four-legged friends are gone, perhaps relegated to the threshold.
But Finran cannot sleep because the bed is occupied by a woman.
She bears the determined traits of Aleth, the baker of Thalion, plump and talkative widow, who shares many nights with the landlord.
Then Finran discovers why he cannot join Aleth: she is right in childbirth!
Finran helps his best, vaguely touched by this hypothetical sudden fatherhood.
But through the small wooden windows, hunting scenes can be seen, and hounds and horns are heard around the cabin.
Suddenly a powerful fist knocks on the door of the hovel.
The opening door reveals the face of Finran's father, imploring the aid of the young father to find rest.
Should he abandon the child for the curse of the wandering hunt to finally stop?
Finran wakes with a start.
Usually he does not dream - at least, he does not remember his dreams. Never had he felt the evocative power of what he has just seen. Thus these disjointed thoughts are binding upon him like a truth. But he still has to decode them...
Should he sacrifice himself to save Thalion? His father had sacrificed for their people to escape to Eriador. Finran doesn't possess anything from them, except the silver arrow, the arrow with which he learned to shoot. Would his fate be to follow his example?
Or does the dream require him to get back to Thalion, like the Hir of the tale?
Stubborn as ever, Finran resolves to continue hunting ...
.oOo.
To be followed...
.oOo.
NOTES
1 Track of a pursued animal, followed thanks to dogs' olfaction.