nothing
to eat. He was dizzy and often had to rest.
Day by day he adapted to this new life, always on the
move. He started finding wood grouse hens and their
broods. He herded the frightened, peeping chicks, running
rapidly in a wide circle where he'd heard the cackling and
the hen taking flight. He grabbed each chick by the neck
and chomped. The fluttering wings and twitching body
excited him. His jaws clamped down again. His teeth ripped
through feathers and down, reaching warm flesh.
He rarely caught game birds, surviving mainly on rodents.
At the foot of the spruces he sniffed out mouse nests and
tore out the young, but up here he never found very much
in any one place. He loped on, a muscular grey body, almost
invisible in the sheets of fog across the marsh at dawn.
Sometimes he crossed his own tracks, returning to places
they'd disappeared, where only the scent of an old marking
clung to a stump. This wasn't enough to make the place
seem familiar. Only where the loons were: there he often
stopped, lying on the steep northern banks above the tarn
and listening. He rarely saw the loons, just their streaks in the
water, but he heard their cries from far away as he roamed
the ridges; that made him want to turn back.
He covered more ground than hunger compelled. When he
was running long distances he had an economical, slightly
uneven lope that didn't tire him out. It took him deep into
a different area, into belts of forest in the mountains. Under
high stands of blooming sowthistle he listened for lemmings.
They were easy to catch: prey that went limp when he bit
them across the back, revolting little bags of patchy skin. If
he was hungry he swallowed them, otherwise he let them
be. Some of them didn't run away; instead they sat on their
haunches, chattering furiously. At first this bewildered,
almost frightened him.
He ate cloudberries that had ripened in the sun. At dawn
he sneaked up on game birds out on the marshes but he
never caught anything in such open terrain. When he'd
frightened them off he did as they did, gobbled wet cloudberries
until his belly felt heavy. He knew the foxes came
here to eat. When he got farther up the mountainside he
caught another scent that he avoided, of something heavy
that made enormous, deep tracks in the marshy soil. This
scent made him veer and get as far away as he could.
The marshes were narrow, running between the ridges
and the islands of birch forest where the ground was dry. Up
here the wind had more bite. Black-beard lichen fluttered in
the birches and the lady fern and sowthistle rustled. There
was rarely a period of calm between the gusts, and the wind
from the mountains carried a whiff of snow.
One day he crossed the last of the marshes, coming up to
a treeless slope. The ground was hard, covered with brush
and heather. The wind pressed his ears back, making him
uneasy. He could hear nothing but the whining in the air.
When he scared up a grouse he was startled. It seemed to
come out of nowhere, tearing at the air with its flapping
wings. He started noticing rocks and thickets of dwarf birch
and willow. He kept a lookout by them, crouched and listening,
but the grouse always came from unexpected
directions and he could never catch them. Frustration made
him more and more restless and irritable as he ran.
He came to a large field of snow that was trampled down
by hooves and speckled with droppings. The snow was
coarse, porous and sunken. He sniffed at reindeer hairs and
ate some snow but was afraid to walk on the expanse of
white. Disturbed by the roaring wind in his ears, which
deafened him and made his surroundings unreliable, he
turned and began loping downward.
That night he slept under one of the first large spruces became
to once he was back in the forest. The days had grown
shorter and no insects tormented him, but he was stiff when
he awakened in the morning and the bump on his hind hock
hurt. Below
to eat. He was dizzy and often had to rest.
Day by day he adapted to this new life, always on the
move. He started finding wood grouse hens and their
broods. He herded the frightened, peeping chicks, running
rapidly in a wide circle where he'd heard the cackling and
the hen taking flight. He grabbed each chick by the neck
and chomped. The fluttering wings and twitching body
excited him. His jaws clamped down again. His teeth ripped
through feathers and down, reaching warm flesh.
He rarely caught game birds, surviving mainly on rodents.
At the foot of the spruces he sniffed out mouse nests and
tore out the young, but up here he never found very much
in any one place. He loped on, a muscular grey body, almost
invisible in the sheets of fog across the marsh at dawn.
Sometimes he crossed his own tracks, returning to places
they'd disappeared, where only the scent of an old marking
clung to a stump. This wasn't enough to make the place
seem familiar. Only where the loons were: there he often
stopped, lying on the steep northern banks above the tarn
and listening. He rarely saw the loons, just their streaks in the
water, but he heard their cries from far away as he roamed
the ridges; that made him want to turn back.
He covered more ground than hunger compelled. When he
was running long distances he had an economical, slightly
uneven lope that didn't tire him out. It took him deep into
a different area, into belts of forest in the mountains. Under
high stands of blooming sowthistle he listened for lemmings.
They were easy to catch: prey that went limp when he bit
them across the back, revolting little bags of patchy skin. If
he was hungry he swallowed them, otherwise he let them
be. Some of them didn't run away; instead they sat on their
haunches, chattering furiously. At first this bewildered,
almost frightened him.
He ate cloudberries that had ripened in the sun. At dawn
he sneaked up on game birds out on the marshes but he
never caught anything in such open terrain. When he'd
frightened them off he did as they did, gobbled wet cloudberries
until his belly felt heavy. He knew the foxes came
here to eat. When he got farther up the mountainside he
caught another scent that he avoided, of something heavy
that made enormous, deep tracks in the marshy soil. This
scent made him veer and get as far away as he could.
The marshes were narrow, running between the ridges
and the islands of birch forest where the ground was dry. Up
here the wind had more bite. Black-beard lichen fluttered in
the birches and the lady fern and sowthistle rustled. There
was rarely a period of calm between the gusts, and the wind
from the mountains carried a whiff of snow.
One day he crossed the last of the marshes, coming up to
a treeless slope. The ground was hard, covered with brush
and heather. The wind pressed his ears back, making him
uneasy. He could hear nothing but the whining in the air.
When he scared up a grouse he was startled. It seemed to
come out of nowhere, tearing at the air with its flapping
wings. He started noticing rocks and thickets of dwarf birch
and willow. He kept a lookout by them, crouched and listening,
but the grouse always came from unexpected
directions and he could never catch them. Frustration made
him more and more restless and irritable as he ran.
He came to a large field of snow that was trampled down
by hooves and speckled with droppings. The snow was
coarse, porous and sunken. He sniffed at reindeer hairs and
ate some snow but was afraid to walk on the expanse of
white. Disturbed by the roaring wind in his ears, which
deafened him and made his surroundings unreliable, he
turned and began loping downward.
That night he slept under one of the first large spruces became
to once he was back in the forest. The days had grown
shorter and no insects tormented him, but he was stiff when
he awakened in the morning and the bump on his hind hock
hurt. Below
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