Chapter 41
"Focus"
I am running late.
The snow melted away. Wildflowers sprang up in droves as the weather warmed. I meant to go home. Time was of the essence. Yet, everywhere I went, there was a Little Digger stuck between some rocks that needed digging out. Bell Sprouts in need of so much pruning, the poison pouches in my jaws filled. Spear Beak hatchlings required a nudge back into their ground nests. Ring Tail eggs were left without watch while Golden Necks prowled about. Even a Striking Beast accepted a charge from the static of my fur to get it going again when the grass proved too green and short and lively. They knew not my name, yet they called to the Spirit and I heard them. I helped instead of hunting. My stomach fell empty, yet I found myself less and less inclined to kill. Even for my own survival. Somehow, I kept on.
Just never in the direction I intended.
Runner, baffled by my persistent distraction, went on ahead. He could no longer refrain from sprinting full force across the grasslands to the pack he missed so dearly. I thought the Spirit of the grasslands would command the same from me when I returned, but I felt no difference between the soft grasses and stony mountain dirt. Naphtali warned of the repercussions of my isolation, but I was never alone. I found my way from one creature to another, both day and night, until, eventually, my own kind appeared before me. There were too few to be my pack. Their movements were more efficient than social, but they were not without their bonds.
Every pack had an Alpha, and theirs was one of the toughest of them all, facing challengers at every turn due to the fact he never claimed any rank. But this was his belief, not his truth, and although any could come and go as they pleased in his pack, order still existed because this was the pack of restless souls. Those drawn together by the endless need for motion and purpose. These were the Wanderers. Considered a lesser pack of the grasslands, yet unbound by borders, they had a knack for picking up those without place. Together, they created sanctuary and success with numbers and teamwork until each member found their true purpose.
I thought of how their pack was much bigger when I last saw them. Then again, it was only because of the council at Castle Rock that they ever had such defined destination and purpose. Most members likely returned home. Others might have perished through encounters. Now, only five remained. Warrior, a Mighty Hena of my own tutelage, led the little band of Hena towards me. He was longer limbed than most. Better to see over the grasses and distance with. Thus, his marks were too. They extended up the back of his ears to coat them black. It was a trait of his bloodline from grasslands of a different sort. One who's land was taller and drier with less seasons. Warrior trotted up to me with a pleased yet searching smile in his eyes. Their color wandered from orange to red. Another trait of his ancestors. One perfectly matched to his soul.
"They say you were lost, and here, you are found," he greeted.
I expected no less of him and his pack. As insignificant as his pack might come off to be because of its small numbers, transient nature, and lack of strict structure, Warrior was more attuned to the Spirit than most. It was why he was never lost and always happened to be at the right place at the right time to find Mighty Hena in need and get them to where they belonged.
Is that why Warrior found his way to me, because I was getting lost in this new way of experiencing the Spirit?
To further explain Warrior's meaning, another Mighty Hena trotted up from the back to stand beside him. This Hena's marks were so similar to my own that I saw myself when I looked at him. Sahrahsahe Iron Claw ducked his head and sheepishly wagged his tail, turning that black mask up at me with the hopes of reunion instead of disappointment. The Wanderers must have come across Mato and the others at some point and Sahrahsahe decided to go with them. But he was not the only one from our pack. Another Mighty Hena trotted around to the forefront. Apache was his name and he left the grasslands at Castle Rock to follow Warrior in his hunt for the Iron Mouths. He greeted me with much sniffing and playful posture. There was another in the group I did not recognize and an older female who kept her distance. She was no stranger to me. Cherokee of the New Lands in the East was her name, but we were no friends. I once taught her a lesson she would never forget about motherhood, so she kept her tail low and ears back, eyes always out of my gaze. But with Sahrahsahe suddenly so bashful, she grew bolder and stood closer than before. Her eyes always darted back to him.
"What of the Iron Mouths?" I asked, turning to Warrior again.
Sahrahsahe picked up his head and relaxed.
"There are many," Warrior explained, "and their bite is unmatched."
I thought of the Striking Beasts at the river.
"But we shut tight," Apache suddenly interjected in typical broken speech, eager to show off their success.
Warrior cared not of such offenses. We both watched in amusement as Apache hurriedly dug out a wad of grass, grabbed the collection of roots with his teeth, and tossed it with a practiced flick of his head a little ways away. It landed with a soft thud. I did not understand until Apache pounced on it with a clap of his teeth.
"Tricks fool," he boasted for it was his ingenuity that they figured it out.
Apache then began to pick up little rocks and dirt clods and practiced throwing them in the same spot. He was not Blessed, but he was always thinking, always calculating, but never scheming. Good Hena that could evaluate and analyze and experiment better than most. Curious and fearless and far too reckless for the stability of the pack. Which was probably why he decided to stay with Warrior.
But what of Sahrahsahe?
I glanced at him again. He straightened up a little, thinking I wanted more as if it were a test. But he was not well with words. His tail and head and ears went down. My own kin unable to look at me. The Pack of the Grasslands was ruled by the Alpha of Alphas, consisting of the very best who expected no different. So many Blessed. So many to compete with. All while dealing with the trials of war. Iron claws were just as good for running as they were for fighting. Not all could bear such pressure. Sensing Sahrahsahe's sudden distress, Cherokee came over, watchful and concerned. Present, but without practice. Such was the attention of a Prima who lost too many pups.
She could not defend them nor die for them, and thus, lost her rank in the lesser packs of the east. When we first met, she came to the grasslands and was drawn to our pups. I nearly killed her for it, but I was glad I did not for now she watched over young ones who did not need nursing, but had little experience and still needed the watch of another. Then, there was Apache, one Sahrahsahe already knew and could be comfortable with. The newcomer shared in his awkwardness and Warrior was there to keep them safe. It was the start of a core that would only continue to grow given the opportunity. The Spirit constantly searched new ways to flow between them. Even now, at my mere appearance, the threads connecting them thickened and intertwined and strengthened.
Warrior of the Wanderers may not represent a lesser pack for long. This could prove problematic for Mato and the grasslands in the future, yet I could not help but hope for Warrior's success.
But there were much more pressing matters to worry about.
"The creatures you call human," Warrior continued, having learned much about them since Castle Rock. "They set the Iron Mouths to catch us. Some to kill. Some to keep. Some to make disappear. They hunt us and that is why we have come so far, to lead them away."
Warrior glanced behind him.
"Exile comes from the riverlands with his strange creatures and many of the lesser packs have joined him. Alpha of Alphas prepares for a great battle, but Prima is nursing souls. Soon, she will be unable to battle. Hunter quarrels with the lesser packs of the east and rumor claims the north is already overrun. There are too many enemies and not enough teeth."
Warrior turned to me again. The only help the grasslands had to call upon were the burnt blunt teeth of an old Mighty Hena. For the first time, I feared they would do no good. But Warrior did not see as I did. His eyes were much brighter than mine.
"You must return to the den before Exile reaches it."
He said it with such importance that he truly believed it would make all the difference. Did he have a vision? Then why not stay himself? Were the humans truly so terrifying that he could not risk them coming upon us? I remembered the way My Man looked when shaded by the light of the jeep with his rifle in hand. I used that same focus and direction and power at the moon altar. Maybe this was for the best. The Spirit was growing despite this Doom Seer worthy prediction. If Warrior believed in me, there was hope yet.
"We cannot take you back without risking the humans catching on," Warrior said, unapologetic.
Which meant this reunion had already come to an end. A briefing before the battle to come. It felt like the old days of war.
Good thing I was already warmed up.
"The way is dangerous."
When was it not?
"Exile's scouts travel ahead. It is not safe to go alone."
Did he not just say that they could not go back? That the wild had no Mighty Hena but me to spare? Yet Warrior was conflicted. Unable to leave me in confidence should I get lost again. Did the black of my face from the bear paint trick him into thinking I was a young one again? Warrior would not fulfill his purpose catering to me and I would not force his pack to shoulder my purpose. They were not capable of it. His words were not meant for me or himself. There were others in abundance. I just never thought to call upon them until now.
I looked up at the night sky, searching for the shadow I knew to fall upon the pack from above. It took only a moment before a dash of wings blocked out the stars. There was not one, but two, Brown Owls circling above.
"Come to me," I called out to them, "and I will give you rest."
The two owls lowered, coming into clearer view as they circled us. Cherokee and the newcomer ducked and shuffled and fidgeted, but Sahrahsahe already knew of such things and Warrior had his suspicions. Apache was merely curious.
"Waited for this day, we have!" one of the owls happily hooted.
These birds and their sight. At least today it was actually useful. The owl that spoke up came down even further and landed on my back, hopping a little for proper placement.
"Go with you, I will!" he announced, binding me in a contract.
The other flew up high out of reach again, but not as far away as before. Warrior kept his eyes on the bird now that he could distinguish it from the dark. That one was his.
"Is that why they follow us?" he asked, but it was much more than that.
After watching the owls for some time now, I realized they meant to establish themselves as High Spirits.
"They follow all of the packs," I explained, "to take the place of the Doom Seers."
The baffled unsteady looks I received meant they did not understand the deeper relationship of the Doom Seers and Mighty Hena, especially as liaisons at council and times of conflict, but Warrior understood the base purpose.
"An alliance then," he said as he understood it.
The small flare of his eyes, brush of his tail, and shift of his weight signaled his acceptance. Warrior could not lead the way he did without having the most accepting and patient of hearts. Warrior glanced down again as the owl at my shoulders flapped his wings, too excited to settle. The bird quickly found my mane to be thick and long and to his liking. All blemish and damage washed away in the dangerous and secret waters of Bear Country.
"What is your name?" I asked of him with a glance over my shoulder.
If I formally entered a covenant with him, then I should at least know as much. Not every owl could be called Hootie Hoot.
"Tell you, I will," he began, honored by the request. "Thomas Aquinas Alexander III of the Scholastic Branch, Doctor of the-,"
"Aquino, then," I shortened because even Mighty Hena had a limit on the breath of a name.
The bird ruffled his feathers with such a whistle, surprising the whole group. Warrior tilted his head with a smile.
"I see now," Warrior chuckled. "Your shadow is very full."
Of feathers, perhaps. I remembered the way Sky Tail colors once entwined themselves in Omega's mane at a time that felt like ages ago. I liked the look. It matched the bear paint on my muzzle.
"Now, leave you, we will," the owl suddenly proclaimed.
None of us could have said it any better. As Mighty Hena, we never really needed to say anything at all. Warrior fulfilled his purpose. Now, he and his pack must continue on before passing on something less desirable. Neither of us could afford any more distractions.