Nuala & her Secret Wolf
Chapter One
The wolf howled in the night. Again and again the cry rose up, and its
echo bounced from hill to hill so that it sounded as if there were a whole pack
out there, roaming the valley and surrounding the fort.
Nuala sat up in bed and shivered. She did not shiver from fear; Nuala feared
no animal and the cry of the wolf filler her with a strange sort of excitement.
She shivered because she was cold. She wanted to sit and list and imagine the
wolf loping along the valley of the river Fergus, right up to the great forest
of Kylemore, but her teeth were chattering and she was forced to lie down again
and wrap the sheepskin covering over her head and let her warm breath thaw out
her icy hands. She could no longer hear the wolf. Soon the shivering stopped,
and she fell asleep.
It was no warmer in the morning, though. Nuala had been very ill that year
and, although she was better now, she always seemed to be cold – and this
winter was colder than any other she could remember in her twelve years. The
little round thatched house which she shared with her parents and her two
brothers was bleak and chill on this February morning. She knew from experience
that main house in the centre of the enclosure, the house there they sometimes
joined her grandparents and her uncles and aunts for feasts and special meals,
would be even colder. The souterrain, where they stored the dried fruits and
nuts from the autumn gathering, was always damp and after a wet winter the heavy
clay soil would be waterlogged and probably flooded.
O, there was nothing for it but to gather her courage and go out. It was no
good huddling in front of a smoking fire any longer. The cold of the stone bench
had begun to penetrate through the wolfskin on which Nuala sat, and she knew
that she was not going to get any warmer by lingering. She got to her feet and
lifting the heavy sheepskin which hung in front of the door. Walked out.
It was a windy day, although not as windy inside the fort as it was outside.
Nuala went towards the entrance her long black hair blowing over her shoulders
as the gust west wind penetrated the stone walls of the enclosure. She stood for
a while gazing across the grey-green fields towards where smoking was rising
from another fort on the hill opposite. Then she turned and walked around the
steep sides of the fort until she faced into the strong west wind. She started
running down the mossy wet fields to where she could see her father and brothers
down in the flat fields which were called the Isle of Maain.
As Nuala approached, she could hear her father’s voice raised in anger and
the sound of heavy blows. Her brother’s voices were shrill, and there was a
note of fear in the voice of Niall, who was the younger of the two.
Climbing on top of the stone wall, she could see the reason for the fear: a
large she-wolf had attacked one of the calves. The calf lay bleeding on the
ground fifteen-year-old Ciaran was endeavouring to stop the flow of blood with
handfuls of moss. However, it was upon her father that her horrified gaze
rested. She had never seen him like this before. She knew how important the
cattle were to him; Usna would stay up all night with a cow who was giving
birth. Nevertheless she hated with all her might at this moment. In his hand he
had a heavy club made from blackthorn, and with it he was beating the
unfortunate wolf to death. In a moment, Nuala had run across the lane and was
beside her father, clinging to his arm with all her strength and shouting:
‘Stop, Father, stop!’
‘Get away, you stupid girl,’ grunted her father. With a jerk of his
arm, he knocked her sprawling on to the ground.
Sobbing helplessly, she watched him aim another few blows at the dying
animal. When at last it was still, he went over to the calf, tenderly lifted in
his strong arms and examined her carefully.
‘She may recover. I’ll take her back to the house and we’ll see what
good nursing can do. Ciaran, take the spade and dig a hole to bury the wolf’s
body when we have skinned it. Then you and Niall go and search around – that
wolf has been feeding cubs recently and there should be a den somewhere. Make
sure you kill the cubs. We want no wolves here.’
With that he turned, ignoring his sobbing daughter, and strode up the lane
carrying the injured calf in his arms. Nuala felt as if her heart would break.
Never before had her father hurt her. Although he had often beaten the boys, she
had always been his favourite and usually she had been able to influence him.
‘Serves you right,’ observed Ciaran, as he dug the yellow clay with his
heavy iron spade. ‘What did you expect Father to do?’
Nuala made no answer and presently Ciaran finished the job and went off with
Niall. She lay there, wet, cold and miserable, and quite soon heard the excited
shouts which she dreaded. Roused to new efforts, she jumped to her feet and ran
as fast as could down the track, until she came to an old quarry now full of
briars.
The sight that met her eyes filled her with sick despair: the two boys with
blood on their hands, even a smear on Ciaran’s cheek, and at their feet four
little bodies. She let out a wail of despair and Niall who was feel a little
uneasy himself, relieved his feelings by shouting, ‘Nuala’s afraid of blood,
Nuala’s afraid of blood. Girls are stupid. Girls are stupid.’
Nuala turned away from them. Never, she thought, will I forget today. I will
never forget the look on that dying wolf’s face and I will never forget the
sight of those dead babies. Still shivering, she walked back the way she had
come.
I want my mother, she thought, as if she were once again a small child. Her
legs dragged as she climbed the steep hill. It seemed years since she rundown it
with the salt taste of the west wind on her lips. Once more, she walked around
the deep fosse, or ditch, which surrounded the fort of her clan, and entered the
enclosure from the open eastern side.
Nuala’s mother stood at the door of their house and watched her daughter
slowly cross the large circular enclosure. Despite the fact that Nuala’s face
was pinched with cold and smeared with tears her mother thought proudly and
fondly that she was the prettiest girl in the neighbourhood. Her hair was long
and hung below her waist in two glossy black plaits, her eyes were huge and
dark, and already she moved with long-legged grace. She was dressed in a simple
woven purple robe. The wool had shorn from the sheep last year and then spun on
the spindle, dyed with the blackberries which grew everywhere and finally woven
on the loom which stood in the corner of their house.
However, Eva’s proud glance was tinged with anxiety; Nuala was not strong.
Already she had lost three daughters, buried them out the fort; was she doomed
to lose a fourth? Nuala ate very little shivered from one end of the winter to
the other, was frequently ill and, as now, seemed to get upset over trifles more
easily than any other hild she had known.
‘Come inside, my darling,’ she said tenderly. ‘You look cold. Come in
and have some warm mile.’
Nuala came reluctantly and knelt in front of the smouldering peat fire,
stretching out her thin hands to its smoky warmth. Her mother seated herself on
the stone stool and gathered her daughter on to her lap, holding the mug of hot
milk to her lips and petting her like a baby.
‘You must not get yourself so upset,’ Eva said softly. ‘Your father
had to kill the wolf. After all, she would have killed the calf, and soon
there will be new lambs and we cannot risk them. What would we eat if we lost
our animals?’
Nuala sobbed on quietly to herself. She knew that her mother was right, and
yet something in her hated the thought that life was choked out of beautiful
living creatures in order that her family should eat. As it was, Nuala made sure
that she was nowhere near whenever the butchering was to be done. She sometimes
suspected Niall felt like she did but was ashamed to admit it.
‘Is father still angry with me?’ she asked finally, choking down her
sobs.
‘No,’ her mother’s voice was soothing. ‘He is sorry that you are
upset and hopes he did not hurt you. You are lucky, you know. Most other
fathers would have beaten their daughters for less. He knows how much you love
animals. Come now! Help me with the injured calf. See whether you get it to
suck some milk from your fingers. The poor thing has had a terrible fright.
For the next hour Nuala helped her mother with the injured calf, feeding it,
cleaning its wounds and bandaging its leg with strips of cloth padded with moss.
The terrified look began to fade from the little animal’s eyes, its breathing
became steadier and it relaxed on the bed of rushes and son fell asleep.
‘There you are, now,’ said her mother, ‘there is no one like you for
looking after sick animals. I think they trust you and they know how much you
love them. You go out now and take a walk around, and see that the sheep have
not been disturbed. They are down near the river.’
Nuala came out of the fort entrance and hesitated. If she turned and went
back in the western direction, she knew she would meet her father again. She
could hear voices and guessed that he and the boys were probably skinning the
wolf. Its warm fur would make a cloak for one of them, or perhaps a cosy
bedcover. She did not mind the sight of the dead animal – she had seen many in
her life – but she did not want to meet her father again for a little while,
so she turned and went down the southern meadow until she reached the small
river which flowed through the valley. In the summer it was quite low, but now
it was in full flood and, as she looked into it, she caught the glimpse of the
white underbelly of a fish.
Now she could see the sheep. They were wandering around in the far meadow, up
near the Isle of Maain. Perhaps she had better go up and look at them more
carefully, in case a dead or wounded sheep was lying on the grass behind some
blackthorn bus. Slowly she made her way up there, already beginning to count off
the sheep on her fingers in the way her father had taught her.
Two hands, she thought; there is one hand missing – oh, there they are.
Further up near the quarry she could see another little flock. She ran up and
counted them off on the fingers of her left hand. Yes, they were all there.
Nuala hesitated. She could go home and tell her mother, but there was nothing
to do. Her mother would only suggest that she sweep the stone floor of their
house, or that she cut some new rushes for the floor under the calf. She could,
perhaps, walk along the river and go to see the waterfall where she kept her
small treasures behind a stone; or she could join her father and make her peace
with him.
Nuala stood there; deep down, she knew what she really wanted to do. Fear,
disgust and a morbid curiosity fought with in her. The curiosity won and she
continued steadily on to the quarry where the wolf cubs had been killed.
The sun had come out and it shone on the small bodies. Nuala stepped over
them with a shudder and went into the den. She could see the she-wolf had made a
bed for her babies with pieces of heather, and she could see well-gnawed bones
lying around. She was turning to go, half-blinded by her tears, when suddenly
she stopped. The sun, now low in the sky, was shining directly into the den; and
at the back amongst the fallen stone, Nuala saw a flash of emerald. She was not
alone.
Back to Drumshee Timeline Series booklist
Banished
from Drumshee (book 14) (to be published spring 2004)
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