I was alone. I smelled the dry hay, and Emmia’s scent — merely from her blanket. Late moonlight showed me the loft window. The spider-bite was a harmless itch and soreness. I found my sack and felt of the golden horn. It was not mine.
I knew what that action must be, good and honest and difficult. My horn must go back to an ugly creature who could make no use of it. Was that good? Well, it was difficult and honest. I could never tell of it to Emmia — unless maybe I dressed up the story — changed the mue to a hermit perhaps? Nay, when had I ever told the girl anything but the simplest every-day matters? Why, in my day-dreams. Then, sure, she never failed to respond wonderfully.
I would run away, scorned, abused, in danger of my life because Emmia had reported me to the authorities for not killing the mue. Then, let’s see-would I fall prey to the policer dogs? Facing them, I would say — nope. Well, climb a tree, talk from there? Balls.
However, some far-off day I might revisit Skoar, a scarred and sad-faced man disinclined to mention heroic action in the far-off wars of — Nuin? Corncut? Why wouldn’t I captain an expedition that did away, with the Cod Islands pirates? So in gratitude a friendly nation made me Governor of them balmy isles—
Kay, in those days how was I to know the Cods are a few lumps scattered through the waters off Nuin as if someone had flung gobs of wet sand out of a bucket?
Emmia, having sorrowfully blamed herself all these years, might recognize me, but alas—
A rat lolloping across an overhead beam scared the bejasus out of me. I slung on my clothes, and felt for the lump of my luck-charm in the sack. I must find another cord and wear it again the right way. I would cut a length of fishline for it when I got to my cave. I tried not to think of the horn. My moccasins went into the sack on top of it, and I settled my knife-belt.
Emmia’s blanket mustn’t be found here by somebody who’d say it proved we spent the night together under it. I crammed it on top of the moccasins and went down the ladder. Going away for real, I thought.
But Emmia mustn’t be harmed, as she might be if the blanket merely turned up missing. All permanent property of the Bull-and-Iron seemed to be attached to Mam Robson by a God-damn mystic cord. Food in moderation you could steal, but let a blanket or candlestick or such-like walk with Abraham, and something wounded the Mam deep in her soul; she couldn’t rest till she’d searched out the cause of the pain, all the better if she could drive Old Jon into a twittering frenzy while she did it.
I stood under Emmia’s window studying the big jinny-creeper. The ancient stem was sturdy and should hold me. Old Jon and the Main slept on the other side of the building. The rooms nearest Emmia’s were for guests; below was a store-room. Only a reckless randy-john would climb up there. I climbed.
The vine gripped the bricks with ten thousand toes, bent and whispered but did not break. I clung with an arm over the sill. I’d carried the blanket up in my teeth and left my sack in deep shadow. I dropped the blanket inside the room that was nch with Emmia’s fragrance. I heard a small puppy-moan that must mean sleep, maybe the nudging of a dream. She might wake, see my shadow and scream the house down. This was the shape my fear took that time. I was on the ground and jittering away down Kurin Street before I could stop trembling.
Sick-angry too because I had not gone to her bed, but I could dream up plentiful reasons for not going back now. They drove me on — over the stockade, up the mountain. But I would return, I told myself, after I restored the horn. I’d try to please her. Hell, I’d even go to church if there was no way to weasel out of it. And (said another self) I would get it in.
Dion has offered the colonists a name for the island — Neonarcheos. I think I like it. It is from Greek, a language already ancient and unspoken in the Golden Age. Dion is one of the few among the Heretics who studied that, and Latin. (The Church forbids to the public anything at all in a language not English — it could be sorcery.) He introduced me to the Greek and Latin authors in translation; I note that they also looked backward toward a Golden Age preceding what they called the Age of Iron…
Dion’s name for this place says something I wanted said — new-old. It connects us somehow with the age when this island — and the others that must lie close over the horizon, all of different shape and smaller than they were before the ocean rose — was a Portuguese possession, whatever that may have meant to it; yes, and with a time far more remote, when civilization capable of recording itself was a new thing on earth, and this island was a speck of green in the blue inhabited, as when we found it, only by the birds and other shy things who live their entire lifetimes without either wisdom or malice.
When I climbed North Mountain again to return the horn I did not see true sunrise, for by the time it arrived I was in that big-tree region where the day before I might so easily have killed my monster. I was not hurrying; reluctance made me feel as though the air itself had thickened to a barrier. I did not feel much afraid of the mue, though when I entered the tangle where his grapevine pathways ran I was looking upward too much, until certain timorous fancies were flooded out of me by a wrong smell — wolf smell.
I drew my knife, exasperated — must I be halted, distracted by a danger not connected with my errand? The scent was coming from dead ahead, where I had to go in order not to lose the marks of my passage of the day before. I was not far from the tulip tree. Knife ready, I made no effort to be quiet — if the wolf was lurking anywhere within a hundred yards he knew exactly where I was.
You can’t look quite straight at black wolf even from the rail above the baiting-pit. Something about him pushes your gaze off true. I spoke of that once to Dion, who remarked that maybe we glimpse a fraction of our selves in him. My dear friend Sam Loomis, a gentle heart if ever there was one, used to claim he was sired by an irritated black wolf onto the cunt of a hurricane; in such nonsense talk he may have been saying something not entirely nonsense.
When a man hears black wolf’s cold long cry in the dark, his heart does strain at its human boundaries. You, I, anyone. You know you won’t go out there to hunt with him, quarrel with him over the bleeding meat, run down the glades of midnight with him and his diamond-eyed female, be a thing like him. But we are deep enough to contain the desire; it does not altogether sleep. All nights are resonant with the unspoken. Latent in our brains, our muscles, our sex, are all the harsh lusts that ever blazed. We are lightning and the avalanche, fire and the crushing storm.
That morning I found my black wolf quickly. She was below the grapevine that hung down outside the catbriers, and she was dead. An old bitch wolf — my knife prodded the huge scrawny carcass, six feet long from her snout to the base of her mangy tail. Scarred, foul, hair once black gone rusty with festered spots. When alive, for all her decay she could still have hamstrung a wild boar. But her neck was broken.
Lifting, poking with my knife — I could not have touched her with my hand and not puked — I proved to myself that her neck was broken. Doubt it if you like — you never saw my North Mountain mue and his arms. Her body was already losing stiffness, and a line of the midget yellow carrion ants had laid out their mysterious highway to her, so she must have been dead for several hours. The cover was too dense to admit the wings of crows or vultures, and it is said the small scavenger dogs of the wilderness will not touch black wolf’s body. I rubbed away a bit of the ants’ path and watched stupidly as they fiddled about restoring it. The dry blood on the rocks, the ground, the grape-stem, was not from the dead wolf, who had no wound but a broken neck.