During the time of the clans, it was uncommon to hear any mention of the Others, since for many it remained a taboo subject of sorts, one so full of mystery and doubt it was difficult to discuss them without creating total confusion. The reality was no wolf knew anything about the Others or their demise, so it seemed pointless at best to investigate into the truth any further.
Though this did not stop a small few to pursue their interest in the mysterious civilization. Some spread fantastical stories of the strange people. Others, in contrast, would travel with magpies, who were the wisest of all creatures on the subject of the Others, gaining valuable knowledge to share with the wolf world. What little they found, if anything, never stuck with the general population, but did appeal to the tiny niche of those who would bother listen. And finally there were the rest: the silent majority of those who dreamed and longed for the return of the Others, whoever they were, but never spoke out of their desires for fear of being seen as cag mag in the eyes of their peers. No, they could not let anyone know; the clan wolves were too religious, too invested in the spiritual world. The Others would tear their Great Chain apart and equally disturb the very structure of society. Whether they intended them to be or not, the Others were dangerous.
Marinia was one of these silent followers. Years ago when she was a pup her mother would sleep beside her and whisper the tales of the Others. Her father was the type who took great offense to such stories, so she would only tell them in secret, even when he was out hunting alone, since her brothers, Daragh and Nollaig, were big-mouthed tattletales. The two were caught in the act often, usually when Marinia would giggle at her mother's crude humor, and many times her father threatened to leave her and the pups if she continued her heresy. But her mother was a strong wolf, and she knew Marinia had the ears to hear; she had attempted to fascinate the brothers numerous occasions, but they were stubborn and lacked imagination. Marinia, on the other hand, was bright and open-minded; she understood the importance of the Others. Her mother was growing old, and her pelt had begun to sag from her shoulders and lose its starry strands of glimmering sapphire. Marinia promised on her dying day she would continue her mother's mission her entire life, and no amount of wolf superstition or clan nonsense could convince her otherwise.
There was reason enough to doubt the sayings of the MacAnguses. The most superstitious of all clan wolves, they never failed to justify something as simple and essential as weather predictions with something deeply religious, say, an act of Lupus, or the result of a rare lineup of stars. At least that is what they argued this time. They were wrong so very often, and the times they weren't were practically coincidental. For this reason she now found herself perched atop a stone along a small ridge, scouting for foul weather using her own senses and intellect. Revealed to her now was a vast barren landscape; birch trees, leafless and dying, filled the valleys, and between them endless rolling hills stretched as far as she could see. The time of day she could not tell, since overhead lay a thick layer of clouds which dissolved the sun's light, filling every bit of air with a dense grey glow.
As she scouted the horizon, she was surprised to feel the gentle touch of snowfall along her spine. She looked upward; the flakes were tiny, almost invisible when cast against the backdrop of the sky, and the lack of wind created an odd sensation. Like a soft rustling of fur, a blanket of dry, arid cold. Calming indeed, especially after the blizzards of weeks past, but she had to admit to herself: when the first snow landed spot on her muzzle, she did for a moment experience a sense of dread, which during its brief existence felt heavy on her shoulders and unsettling in her stomach. Maybe the star interpreters were right. In that instant she felt compelled to run to the pack for comfort, but by the time she had wheeled around to dart into the thicket, she had collected herself. She would return, but not in a hurry. Hurry implied distress, and distress implied fear. She would not fear something she did not understand.
She leisurely trotted beside the bank of a small stream that ran downhill in the rough direction of her pack, the Pack of the Tall Hill. In her wandering she wondered what had really happened to the once beautiful Beyond. It was peculiar, very peculiar, what was occurring around her; the herds were travelling along drunken paths, the flowers failed to bloom, and the luscious leaves and grasses hardly returned in the time between the last winter and whatever strange climate phenomenon that was currently revealing itself.
When she caught her first sight of the camp later that evening, she could see a large, roaring bonfire rising from the center of the clearing; this was no surprise, since she had detected the scent of burning birch wood many leagues away. But that was ages ago, and as she entered the camp with some newfound urgency she saw the pack members, a few dozen of them, were all tightly huddled around the fire, including the gnaw wolves. She wondered if they had been there the whole time.
A voice was rising up from the group, and she could tell it was lord Tierney. He must have been seated on a rock, because his ears seemed to stand higher than those of others. Yet on closer inspection is seemed the others were not at full attention, or at least not from their appearance, since they all had a strange slouch in their posture, like they were showing submission with only with their heads. Even Tierney was this way, though his eyes seemed to dart anxiously this way and that every so often, and soon enough he saw Marinia standing behind the group. He finished midsentence and raised his head to make eye contact. The other wolves seemed lifted of this strange trance as well.
"Marinia," Tierney said in a raspy yet gentle tone, pausing just long enough for the group's attention to redirect to her, "we were scared senseless about you. Your brothers thought you met an accident in the woods."
Marinia chuckled. "I'm very sorry, lord Tierney," she said with a mix of guilt and sarcasm, "in this weather it's hard to tell the difference between noon and midnight. And the snow, too."
Instead of a response, Tierney looked long into her eyes. She could only hear the rustling of bare branches swaying in the low wind. The fire hissed and popped.
"Marinia, please." He said, a little more collected, "The news is sudden, but you must understand, this pack is going to experience some difficult changes."
"Oh?" she said. "Like what?"
"Not a famine, exactly, but a lessened food supply, if you will believe it." He said. "We'll need to issue rations and participate in clan byrrgises if we wish to survive this most strange summer."
"No, I don't believe it to be honest. I never imagined the beasts could perish so quickly." She said. "You do mean to say the herds are in trouble?"
"Exactly." He said. "Clans are reporting many have vanished."
"I'm sorry I doubted you, lord Tierney." She whimpered.
"Young one, I know how much you despise our wolfish ways," he assured her, "But you should be glad, because although we're supposititious, yes, and sometimes irrational, we'll do whatever we can to survive as a family."
After a moment of thought Marinia nodded silently. Tierney broke his glance at her and addressed the whole pack.
"Isn't that right?" he laughed. They agreed all at once. And with a slow turning of his paw around the fire he motioned for attention, and once again the silence of early evening engulfed them.
"Don't be gloomy!" He exclaimed, "We will survive! And should we fall, then by Lupus will we be given swift passage to the Star Ladder. Then we will climb together!"
She was hardly comforted, but the sudden cheers of the group made her slightly at home. Marinia noticed Tierney lift his head back, eyes aimed starward. A howl filled the air.
Such bonfires were tradition in the Pack of the Tall Hill, as were closing prayers before being dismissed, but rather than the typical communal chants and dancing this time only Tierney sung. It was low and steady, and the sound seemed to ring from his chest. It was a wish of good luck and thankfulness. She always hated the prayers and she hated the dancing. But the words were different, now modern and honest, not contrived and lifeless. It was alive and among them. It shook her marrow and struck her heart. Some of them dared to accompany the song with their own notes, low and high, soft and clear. As the beautiful choir filled the night, she looked around and witnessed mates embrace each other, young pups watch with big, fascinated eyes, and gnaw wolves cling to their bones, blessing the heavens above. Yet here was Marinia, the only outsider of them all.