him the marsh lay under a layer of frost. Each
blade of grass was pristine and powdery when he started
nosing for the sickly-sweet smell of overripe cloudberries.
He was heading down, running long stretches each day. The
mountain wind at his back carried his own scent ahead,
making it impossible to pick up whatever was moving or
hiding in front of him, but he paid no attention since he
wasn't hunting. He loped along unevenly and purposefully.
His paws got used to the gravel of the logging roads. His
pads became hard and slick, his claws dull and worn down.
He'd turned back just before the first night of frost when
he encountered a sharp wind on the mountainside. Since
then he'd only hunted at dawn. Even if he didn't catch anything
he started running after a while. What drove him was
a stronger incentive than hunger.
After drinking from a brook he would doze for a while
under a spruce, but never for long. Soon he was on his way
again. He didn't know where he was heading, but an inner
sense told him he should run towards something more compelling
than the cry of the loon above a distant mountain
tarn.
Not all the days were strong, bold days for running.
Confusion seized him sometimes, making him run aimlessly,
not knowing if he was hunting or just following something
distant he'd caught on the wind. When the rain washed the
logging road clean from gravel and dug furrows in the sand
he stayed off it.
Long, cold rains blew in off the ocean beyond the mountains.
Clouds shrouded the jagged ridges in grey mist, not
dissolving until they had emptied all their water over the
forests and marshes. But the one caught in the downpour
didn't know where it had come from or where it was going.
He was in a chamber of swirling water, trapped and miserable.
His coat was drenched nearly down to the skin, a
thick, unpleasant wetness that made him so cold he shivered
all night no matter how tightly he curled up around himself.
His hock ached.
When it wasn't raining too hard he would run anyway, at
a measured, steady pace, a dark grey body with worn paws
and a tight belly. He was running from the pain and his
hunger and confusion, which pursued him like persistent,
raw fog.
By day, the one who swooped down was in the spruce
tree, dozing. The one who hunted voles was by the edge of
the marsh. The little ones who cheeped and fluttered busied
themselves in the trees. Each was where it belonged. They
circled, roamed and fluttered, each in its own domain, and
they always returned. But he was the one who kept running.
One
night he slept near the logging road in a jumble of
roots and stones. There were raspberry seeds between his
teeth. He was engulfed in a freezing fog that muffled all
sounds. He slept curled up, stiff from the cold.
At dawn the wind lifted the fog, carrying with it a complex
fabric of smells that penetrated his sleep. His paws
twitched and he started whimpering like a pup.
When he woke up he stood facing the wind, taking in the
scents. It was all his. It was far more compelling than the cry
of the loon. He took off running before he had even peed,
before he had even found a stream to drink from.
He reached the marsh up above the pasture before the last
clouds of mist had risen from the sedgegrass. The higher
ground was orange after the frost, and the pit holes were
black and saturated with rain. He sniffed. Everything was
familiar. His paws knew every bump in the ground and
nothing frightened him. His markings were still there in the
wood of the barn. He peed on it again. It was all his, but he
needed to mark it once more.
Although he was hungry he didn't feel like hunting. The
scent of a hare hung in the wet grass. It was quite fresh but
he didn't follow it. He needed to ring in the whole area first.
Nose to the ground, he ran in circles. Lots of others had
been through this grass. The enormous grey creatures had
left huge prints. They'd broken the stalks of
blade of grass was pristine and powdery when he started
nosing for the sickly-sweet smell of overripe cloudberries.
He was heading down, running long stretches each day. The
mountain wind at his back carried his own scent ahead,
making it impossible to pick up whatever was moving or
hiding in front of him, but he paid no attention since he
wasn't hunting. He loped along unevenly and purposefully.
His paws got used to the gravel of the logging roads. His
pads became hard and slick, his claws dull and worn down.
He'd turned back just before the first night of frost when
he encountered a sharp wind on the mountainside. Since
then he'd only hunted at dawn. Even if he didn't catch anything
he started running after a while. What drove him was
a stronger incentive than hunger.
After drinking from a brook he would doze for a while
under a spruce, but never for long. Soon he was on his way
again. He didn't know where he was heading, but an inner
sense told him he should run towards something more compelling
than the cry of the loon above a distant mountain
tarn.
Not all the days were strong, bold days for running.
Confusion seized him sometimes, making him run aimlessly,
not knowing if he was hunting or just following something
distant he'd caught on the wind. When the rain washed the
logging road clean from gravel and dug furrows in the sand
he stayed off it.
Long, cold rains blew in off the ocean beyond the mountains.
Clouds shrouded the jagged ridges in grey mist, not
dissolving until they had emptied all their water over the
forests and marshes. But the one caught in the downpour
didn't know where it had come from or where it was going.
He was in a chamber of swirling water, trapped and miserable.
His coat was drenched nearly down to the skin, a
thick, unpleasant wetness that made him so cold he shivered
all night no matter how tightly he curled up around himself.
His hock ached.
When it wasn't raining too hard he would run anyway, at
a measured, steady pace, a dark grey body with worn paws
and a tight belly. He was running from the pain and his
hunger and confusion, which pursued him like persistent,
raw fog.
By day, the one who swooped down was in the spruce
tree, dozing. The one who hunted voles was by the edge of
the marsh. The little ones who cheeped and fluttered busied
themselves in the trees. Each was where it belonged. They
circled, roamed and fluttered, each in its own domain, and
they always returned. But he was the one who kept running.
One
night he slept near the logging road in a jumble of
roots and stones. There were raspberry seeds between his
teeth. He was engulfed in a freezing fog that muffled all
sounds. He slept curled up, stiff from the cold.
At dawn the wind lifted the fog, carrying with it a complex
fabric of smells that penetrated his sleep. His paws
twitched and he started whimpering like a pup.
When he woke up he stood facing the wind, taking in the
scents. It was all his. It was far more compelling than the cry
of the loon. He took off running before he had even peed,
before he had even found a stream to drink from.
He reached the marsh up above the pasture before the last
clouds of mist had risen from the sedgegrass. The higher
ground was orange after the frost, and the pit holes were
black and saturated with rain. He sniffed. Everything was
familiar. His paws knew every bump in the ground and
nothing frightened him. His markings were still there in the
wood of the barn. He peed on it again. It was all his, but he
needed to mark it once more.
Although he was hungry he didn't feel like hunting. The
scent of a hare hung in the wet grass. It was quite fresh but
he didn't follow it. He needed to ring in the whole area first.
Nose to the ground, he ran in circles. Lots of others had
been through this grass. The enormous grey creatures had
left huge prints. They'd broken the stalks of
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