It only took one time making the long hike from Staddle to the lodge, carrying two bales of hay, for Heriwulf to conclude that there had to be another way. Bales of hay don't weigh very much; surely carrying two over the few miles through the Chetwood would be no great hardship, particularly if he had the whole day to do it, two bales at a time over several journeys? So went his thinking when he promised Ljota, at a recent clan moot, that he'd get the hay they needed so they could buy some goats or sheep. (Faron had suggested she knew someone in Bree who could loan a cart, but he didn't count on that. In fact, Faron had, as she had so many times before, vanished right after the moot, and no sign of a cart. In fact, she'd been gone for more than a sennight now, something he tried not to worry about, given how glib she'd been about being gone for a sennight the last time he'd worried. And look how that had turned out. He wondered: back home in the Vales, did Faron tend to disappear for days on end, or was that only here?)
So there he was, hauling two bales of hay from Staddle through the woods, at first thinking this was easy going; but while bales of hay are not that heavy, they are an awkward size, requiring a clumsy posture to hold them. Time and again he'd pause to try to shift them to a different position, or figure out a way to hang one on his back (ineffectually), or just stop to rub his arms, aching from the strain not of the weight but the difficult angle they'd been held at for so long. Maybe in his youth it might have gone easier, he thought, but maybe not even then.
By the time he made it to the clan's lodge and tossed the bales into the fenced-in pen Aelfrida had built for the livestock to come, he had made up his mind. "Aelfrida!" he shouted, and went looking for his sister. She wasn't in the yard building something, so she was either out bringing in lumber, acorns, or something else, in which case he'd need the help of Dalgo, his best scent-hound, to find her and her crew; or she was… Well, the kitchen was nearer to hand and easier to check, so he tried there first.
* * * * *
His next hike back from Staddle was much easier because, this time, all he was carrying was a cart-wheel and the axle and other metalworking required for a cart. Aelfrida had explained patiently to him -- well, "patiently" might be being too generous, but at least she didn't treat him too thoroughly like a simple child -- that, while she could knock up the body of a cart easily enough, as it was just planks and nails and a few poles, the wheel and axle were a whole different matter. There was, she said, an entire trade for making those well, called a "wheelwright", naturally enough, and while she might be able to put together a wheel given some time, it wouldn't roll easily, particularly over roots and rocky paths through the woods, nor would it last very long.
But if he could buy the wheel, she could build the rest of the cart. As their stock of pennies was getting low and they still had livestock to buy, it seemed sensible to buy just the wheel, rather than a whole cart; and as he'd guessed, with a bit of legwork he'd been able to find someone who had an old, run-down cart that he could buy just the parts he needed from. Only a single wheel, so it'd be a smaller cart, but that would be much easier to drive through the narrow paths of the woods anyway, and more than big enough to carry a few kegs, or a few bales of hay.
* * * * *
A couple of days later he was wheeling the cart back to Staddle for another run of hay. Things went so much more easily this time, it felt almost restful. Though the kind of restful that left his mind plenty of room to wander. He was trying to watch, as he always did, for signs of a wolf to tame; with Brunan, now more than a sennight overdue to birth her litter, sure to never bear another, he felt more and more keenly the need for new blood in the pack. His mind tried to pursue, like Dalgo's nose following a scent-trail, the winding ways Faron might have taken to who-knows-where, or those Hildegund was now following on a lengthier-than-usual scouting journey seeking good dens to relocate the hungry, hemmed-in wolves to. It fretted over whether Brunan might have a hard birthing. It totted up how many pennies were left, and what he might do to earn some more, by selling fish or furs (with neither Faron hunting nor Hildegund trapping, though, he could only hope to make a scant few pennies now and then; he was an adequate hunter, but not a good one).
He'd even considered holding off on buying those kegs of cider and mead he'd meant the cart to help him carry, until he could make a few more pennies. And yet, as he wheeled those same two kegs slowly back through the woods, counting the days since Faron had been seen last (now at eleven) and trying to convince himself she was undoubtedly fine (and hating the idea of her crossing his mind so oft), that the swiveling ears of Niht and a scent of wolf somewhere behind him drew him up short. The cart settled silently on the path, he took shelter behind it and espied best he could, while gesturing to Niht to be silent and alert.
It was surely a single wolf, alone. A hundred thoughts formed in his mind, jostled for position, then fell into an orderly queue. Assessments of threat, if it were a hungry wolf shunned from its pack, of course, but also, evaluations of possibilities should it prove to be a strong wolf, alone. If this were a chance to tame a wolf, he would have to take it, even at risk of losing the kegs, or worse yet, the cart.
When he finally caught a glimpse of the wolf, for a moment his blood thrummed -- it looked like a young, healthy wolf, white of fur and strong of limb; and, nose to the ground, it was undoubtedly following his and Niht's scent-trail. It would soon walk right up to them. If he could get the salves in place and set just a couple of traps he might be able to turn an ambush into an opportunity with a fraction of the usual time spent setting things up. It would be risky, of course. The wiser option would be to find a hiding place, and then do the typical, long, time-consuming approach. A higher risk of losing the wolf doing it that way, but a much lower risk of being mauled. His hands were finding the small clay jars of salve in his pockets without his conscious thought, while his eyes, locked on the trail of the wolf, stared.
Then blinked. What was that hanging from the wolf's neck?
His sigh was loud, easily audible across the woods; the wolf's ears turned towards it in an instant, and it was soon bounding towards him. His hands were aquiver now, and his whole body, with relief and disappointment and even more relief. This was no wolf for him to tame. This was Maugrim, which meant Akela was nearby, as was Faron. He wondered if she meant to surprise him, catch him unawares. Perhaps even now she had crept up behind him to show off how skilled a hunter she was (as if he didn't know). He decided it would be best to let such a thing play out. If she wanted to show off, let her. He was just relieved that she returned.
But when Maugrim found his way to Heriwulf, there was still no sign of his sister Akela, nor of their mistress Faron. The white-furred wolf stared at him as if to say I am here, but I don't like it. Even her hounds didn't like him, he mused. And "hound-friend" was his use-name. Maugrim just seemed to be waiting, and there was no sight, sound, or scent of the others. Heriwulf peered at the strange thing dangling from the wolf's neck.
It was a raw-hide pouch, long and narrow, secured on a leather thong.
The wolf snapped irritably at Heriwulf as he reached for it, but allowed him, with obvious reluctance, to untie the thong and remove the pouch. At that, he immediately jumped back, clearly glad to no longer have to bear anything. Heriwulf opened the pouch and pulled out a bit of parchment, like those Radagast had sent, scribbled with some of the same scratchings. Runes, they were called, or cirth, he had learned. And no more intelligible to him than ever.
He sighed. I suppose eventually I am going to have to learn how to interpret these things, he thought irritably. When Hildegund was back, he could ask her.
But he couldn't ask her until then, and the contents of this message perhaps couldn't wait. Could Faron write? The woman was such a jumble of mysteries, he wouldn't put it past her. She'd been going into Bree for months before he had even ventured there, before he knew any of the clan had done so. She had some regular business there of which she would say nothing, save that no one else could do it for her. For all he knew, she had written this herself. The runes seemed very neat, far more even than those of Radagast's notes, which made him think they were drawn hastily, as if the pen could not keep up with the hand, nor the hand with the mind. These had been done deliberately; the lines were precise, carefully fitted to correspond with one another, perfect not merely as cirth but almost as art. (Or so it seemed to Heriwulf. Unbeknownst to him, the scribe's hand had been shaking and he considered the writing to be below his usual standards.) Could Faron's pen-hand be so methodical?
Very possibly, Heriwulf thought. The eyes that could see the slightest movement of leaves in a bush a half-mile away, the hand that held the bow-string steady as if it were made of wrought iron, the icy calm that made the most cruel-hearted words seem effortless, surely they could put every line of ink into its precise place, and would brook no rebellion from the slightest dot on the page.
This might be a secret, he thought. Faron does not know that Hildegund is away so long just now, so she would not hesitate to write something meant only for our eyes. So I cannot take it to Staddle or Combe and ask another to read it, for fear such a secret would be revealed. But to wait for Hildegund seemed untenable as well; what if the word were more urgent?
He could see only one dim path ahead. He remembered what Radagast's previous two missives had said, approximately. He recalled Hildegund describing how the cirth represented sounds. It would be clumsy, slow, and painstaking work, but he could try to decipher which certh meant which sound from a study of Radagast's letters, and then use that to determine some of what Faron's letter said.
He took up the cart and continued on his way back to the lodge, now trailed by both Niht and Maugrim, part of him relishing a new challenge, and part of him dreading it.
