And as the moon cleared the horizon and hung in the blue sky, it showed the brilliant white glow all the way around it, confirming the true full. It was a huge one, much bigger than the setting sun had been. The last sunset of his wander; as he realized that, a pang pierced him, the world grew to something more immense than he could grasp. Oh that it had to end! Would he ever be this alive again, would the world ever again be so beautiful as in this moment?
No. Never. It was not possible. This was his moment, his alone, the end of his wander, the peak of his gyre. It would never come again. Now he was a man, and a horse had blessed him. Tomorrow he would be back in his pack, Thorn’s apprentice. This huge new feeling, could he hold to it then? Could he remember it?
It seemed very unlikely. He would see when it happened. He had to go home. And it was true he was hungry.
In the dusk he arranged his things, and repainted his face and the palms of his hands. He pronged down the slope of the hill to camp, the full moon pouring its light over everything he saw. At the last moment he decided to discard only the second walking stick. Prong was too much of a friend, sturdy and reliable, stained at the top with the sweat of his hand, the wood at its bottom perfectly rounded by all the times he had stuck it onto the stony ground. He would come in showing how he had got along despite Crouch, showing that nothing had stopped him on his wandering way.
He saw the fire almost the entire hike down the hill. They had made it big to welcome him back. The bee buzz filled him again, and he burned as he floated down the hill, adjusting his clothing and hoping that his facepaint had been applied neatly. If not he might only look as if he had been recently murdered. If so, that too would be fine. He had indeed died, and was returning as someone else. He felt that so strongly he was sure they would see it.
The black trees marking the curve of the meadow’s loop were pulsing upward as if trying to float away, held to the earth by their trunks, but tugging up against them with all their branches. He himself was floating with a nearly perfect buoyancy through the air, pegging down with Prong in a perfect balance for his feet, halfway between landing and flying into the sky. Crouch said to him, I am all right, I will do whatever you ask, I am not really here tonight, good-bye for now. Pleased at that, Loon focused on keeping the three points of his walking in a smooth flow, a dance down to his pack in their camp. The fire flickered through the trees, trying like everything else that night to fly up and away. The moon over the trees was still immense, and superbly white all around its edge: a fuller moon could not exist. Full moon of the fourth month: here they were again. The hunger month was over, summer not that far away. The rabbit in the moon, stirring her bowl of earthblood with which to paint the dawn, was putting her whole body into the stir, and though her head was in profile, he could see she was looking to her left to watch him walk down the hill. She would indeed paint the coming dawn for him, for they would stay up all night to celebrate.
He came into camp and realized at the last moment that he had not announced himself, that he might surprise them, and so he hooted the little roop roop greeting that loons made when they came up after a dive and were locating their friends.
His people heard it and cheered. The men howled like wolves and came out to greet him, grinning hugely and shouting his name. Loon dropped Prong and they lifted him up under his legs and around his back and carried him to the fireside on their shoulders. Loon was glad he was all cried out; he was full but empty, he could see them all with a calm little smile. It was a big bonfire. All the women and girls and boys called his name and hugged him one by one, many hands always touching him, and then the women brought their finest fur robes to drape him.
Even Heather smiled for a moment, then ducked her toothless head and darted away, returned with a bowl of hot spruce tea and some little honey seedcakes.
— Don’t eat too much too fast, she warned him in her ordinary voice.-How did you do out there, are you all right?
— I twisted my ankle, he confessed at once.-There’s something still not right in there.
— Ah. She shot an evil glance at Thorn. She did not like the men’s wanders, nor any unnecessary danger of any kind.
Thorn ignored her, caught up as he was in his own close inspection of Loon. Loon could not guess what the old man was thinking, and turned to the others; but that didn’t feel right, that was too much like before. He didn’t want to fall back into the old habits of his life in the pack, least of all with Thorn. Even though it was a huge relief to be among them again. What a life it would be to be a woodsman or a traveler, hunted night and day, unable ever to let down one’s guard, and no one to talk to!
— Tell us about it! they were saying.-Tell us what you did, what happened to you!
— Wait a moment, he said, casting himself across what seemed an immense gulf of time, back into the present instant by the fire. It was hard. He had to collect himself. There were so many faces, and he knew each one like the palm of his hand.
— Well, I couldn’t get a fire started that first night in the storm.
They groaned and laughed to hear this.
— So I had to dance all night to stay warm.
— Oh too bad! A lot of the men were laughing at him, or with him.-I hate it when that happens!
— Then the next day I got a fire going. He took a deep breath, and they saw it and fell silent, all their eyes on his:
And I stayed with that fire three days.
I ate fish and old berries and meadow onions,
And I saw two bears attack a deer,
And they fought over it and I got part of it away,
Not much, when they were done.
Then I had something to work with,
But an ibex broke my first snare
And I didn’t get anything till later.
Third time I set a snare that held a deer
And I killed it. I used its skin for clothes,
And did pretty well after that.
But I ran into some old ones,
There are old ones around up there, you know-
And some of the men nodded, and Heather too, their eyes round. Loon kept glancing at Sage, he was telling this story to Sage most of all, Sage and Heather, and Thorn of course:
— they hunted me and I had to run for my life,
And walk in the creek to Lower’s Upper,
And I got away, but I hurt my ankle,
So I had to find a good tuck, and I did.
Up in a broken tree it was.
When my leg felt better I left there
And started back to here,
And when I saw there were two more nights to go
I ate a witch’s nightcap, and artemisia leaves.
This he said to Thorn, but here Thorn shook his head.-Tell me about that later, he said.-That’s shaman stuff.
— All right, Loon said. Although what followed had been the biggest night of the wander by far, and would have made a good story. Later he would tell it, he decided: now wasn’t a good time to defy the old man. Or was it?
Loon pondered this. But yes, now he could see what Thorn meant. He didn’t want to tell just how afraid he had been of the thing on the riverbank; he wouldn’t have been able to convey it, and so he would have had to lie about it, one way or another. And so far he had not lied.
He could see Thorn watching him closely, watching to see if he understood why he should stay quiet about the thing in the night, and the terror; looking to see if he had changed or not, and if so, in what ways. But two could play at stone face, and so Loon merely returned his gaze, happy at the warmth of the bonfire, and the sight of Sage there in the firelight. He was still seeing everything bounce and bloom before him, trying to fly up into the sky, and now the people of Wolf pack were all of them bouncing, on fire with themselves, every face the perfect image of that person’s character, bursting with his or her particular self, and he was among them; and although that meant trouble, it was the best trouble in the world.