Seasons of the Wolf, Seasons of the Heart

The winter day was dawning clear, and the sun's first white rays reflected brightly from the snow-capped mountaintops surrounding the Holt. An unbroken frosting of newfallen snow covered the ground and weighed down the branches of the pines. The air still crackled with cold, but it was so clear, Cricketsong fancied the shining mountaintops looked close enough to reach out and touch.

She nudged the hide curtain further aside and pushed her head and shoulders out the window of her treehome. Some elves said wryly that that if you don't like the weather at Farcorners Holt, wait a moment -- it will change. That particular witticism had not been true of late. The past moon had been a monotony of snowstorms and overcast skies. Finally, a break in the weather! Cric smiled, her pale cheeks as radiant and almost as white as the mountaintops. It was a beautiful day! She couldn't stay inside a moment longer.

She ducked back inside to don her cloak and scarf. Her eyes fell on her lute and, on a whim, she grabbed that too, together with the tools alongside it. Returning to the window, she slithered out through the narrow opening, a maneuver her lithe, slender form seemed made for. Once she got her footing on the branch beneath, she nearly lost her balance waving a friendly greeting to Heartsgold, so rarely seen here in the center of the holt. Heartsgold's wolf Shadow was bearing her quickly through the waist-deep snow back toward the caves she shared with her mate, Gritlock.

A squeak sounded beside Cricketsong. Cric turned to see her pet mouse Littlefluff sitting on the rim of the window. She picked him up and tucked him into her scarf, then picked her way carefully out along the branch.

Cric did not usually expose herself to the sun much, but today she was determined to eke some warmth out of the sunshine. It had been too many days that the sun had been cloaked in clouds. "Nothing better than a sunny winter day, unless it's a dark summer night," she remarked to Littlefluff. The rodent still seemed to prefer the dark hollow between her neck and her scarf, though.

"Crisp sunshine, Clayshard!" Cricketsong called out as she knocked snow off the branch and seated herself, legs dangling. Clayshard was hurrying along the path that had just been broken by Heartsgold, but in the opposite direction. The quickness in her gait made her mane of tight black curls bounce prettily, although she was being careful to keep the burden in her arms steady. Her wolf Mudpaw, meanwhile, was bouncing back and forth across the path, breaking the icy crust with his paws and trying to bite it, acting for all the world as though he'd never seen snow before.

"Bright skies, Cricketsong!" Clayshard called in reply. As she continued along her way, Cric could see that she was carrying one of her lovely wreaths -- this one made with boughs of bluish spruce adorned with fresh green mistletoe and red berries. She also had a stewpot full of something that smelled delicious. "Look at that, Littlefluff," Cricketsong whispered. "Looks like someone is getting a very nice gift."

It was almost too cold outside to do close work, but after she slapped her hands and blew on them a few times, Cricketsong was ready to begin. The lute needed restringing and this little chore usually took her a while. She hummed as she worked. Littlefluff snuggled closer -- he seemed to like the vibrations in her throat.

When the restringing was done, she straightened herself, rubbed her hands briskly to warm them up, and took care in tuning the lute. Just as she was satisfied with the scales and had begun a little tune, Clayshard reappeared, empty-handed now, walking briskly back to her treehome.

"Sky above, Cricketsong, have you been out on that limb this whole time?" exclaimed Clayshard, pausing. "You'll freeze your ears off!"

"Oh, I'll be fine," the wine-brewer replied, blowing on her hands again. "It's not that cold."

"Well... I'll tell Raintree you said so when she has to fix your frostbitten fingers."

"I'll go inside in a little bit, I promise," said Cricketsong sheepishly.

"Have you --" Clayshard began when a panicked sending from her son Toss stopped her short.

**Ma! Help! Newrain's climbed to the top branches of the treehome again! I can't get her to come down! She's flinging off all her winter clothes!**

Cricketsong caught most of the sending and suppressed a chuckle. "Bright day, Clayshard," she called as the potter hopped onto Mudpaw and made for her treehome at top speed. Clayshard's daughter Newrain, at five turns old, was quite a handful.

Cricketsong smiled as she watched the elf and wolf depart. "She has a point, though, these fingers are getting a bit stiff, eh, Littlefluff? How about just one song -- after all, that's why I wanted to get the lute in shape today in the first place."

She rubbed her hands once more then began strumming. It was a song of her own composition, but it had been so long since she had played it that she couldn't quite remember how to begin.

"Bright sun --" she sang. "No, hold a moment..." She started over.

Bright sun, winter's white sky,
Brave hawk wheeling over head --

"Crack it. 'Over head'? Yes, 'over head.'" She fiddled with the lute keys for a bit while she silently reviewed the lyrics.

"Hoy, Cricketsong."

The lutist nearly jumped off her branch. "Oh, Arrowsong!" She hadn't heard the huntress approach.

"Do you know where Diver is?" The small wolfrider settled into an easy, wide-legged hunter's stance, her hands thrust deeply into the pockets of her jacket.

"I think he's out on a hunt. Why?"

"I saw his aunt at the entrance to her tree a while ago. She looked as miserable as a longtooth with an underbite. I thought he might want to pay a call on her. Maybe he could cheer her up some."

"Shadesong?" Cric set her lute aside, concern spreading over her features. "I'll go to her. Thank you, Arrowsong."

"It's a little cold for sitting outside, anyway," remarked Arrowsong drily, watching the lutist pick her way down from the branch. Cric noticed that their breath formed clouds of vapor.

"You're not the first to mention that," Cricketsong muttered, throwing the lute over her shoulder and tossing her tools in through the window. "Bright skies, Arrowsong."

Cric tugged her cloak tightly around herself and plowed her way through the broken snow along the path Clayshard had taken with the gifts. It occurred to her that Shadesong's tree might have been Clayshard's destination -- whenever anyone in the Holt needed comforting, kind-hearted Clayshard was always among the first to know. Well, Shadesong certainly had a lot to be comforted about -- just half a turn ago she had had a run-in with a couple of trolls and had nearly been killed. Worse yet, she had found evidence that her two wandering sons had been captured or perhaps killed by the green-skinned brutes -- for one of the trolls Shadesong encountered had possessed a sword belonging to her elder son, Sunhawk.

Cricketsong shivered, not entirely from the cold. She herself had been lovemates with Sunhawk, and their daughter Cleo was the living result of the pleasure they had shared. When Cric Recognized Sunhawk's younger brother Whiteflash, it had been nothing but joy to all three elves -- yet somehow it had also precipitated the departure of the two brothers, some thirty turns of the seasons ago now, after Whiteflash's son had been born. Despite the immediate intimacy of Recognition, it was still Sunhawk who had occupied the warmest chambers of Cricketsong's heart.

After Raintree had shooed Cricketsong and the other concerned and horrified Holt members away from Shadesong's healing half a turn ago, Cric had taken it upon herself to clean Sunhawk's sword. (Frostbite, who had helped to examine the troll's body, said that there was no trace of the scabbard which used to go with it.) Cric had taken the bare naked blade down to the running stream and washed it, over and over, scrubbing it with sand, until finally it no longer smelled of troll. She had wept a little, more in shock over Shadesong's brush with death than about Sunhawk. The sword in her water-roughened hands had been an enigma - what could it mean? It had told her so little -- where was Sunhawk now? Could he be dead?

This must be what preyed on Shadesong's mind now. A bright blue-skied day, with the sun dazzling off the snow, was just the thing to call Sunhawk to mind. Shadesong had been holding up well these past two seasons, Cricketsong thought. The older elf had confided to her that when she was angry, she channeled her energy into practice with her new lance, and when she was sad, she tried to put it out of her mind by playing with the children of the Holt.

Sure enough, Clayshard's path led straight to Shadesong's treehome. Heartsgold's path did, too. Cricketsong pushed open the heavy wooden door and let herself in. It was an old habit -- Shadesong and Cricketsong had been in and out of each other's trees all the time when Cric's cubs were little. They had even considered treeing together, but their housekeeping styles were too different: Shadesong's living space was tidy and organized, while Cric's could be kindly described as a happy chaos.

Hanging her cloak upon a peg, her wolfrider's sharp nose told her that Wolfheart and the Old Wolf's outer garments had hung there not long before. "Hmmm, did everyone in the Holt know Shadesong was sad before I did?" she whispered to Littlefluff. Cric suddenly missed the closeness she used to share with Shadesong. With the cubs grown and no longer needing care, the two females had each drifted back to their old circles of friends and responsibilities. "That has got to change." She tucked her nose into her scarf before unwinding it, and addressed Littlefluff again. "She needs me now."

After hanging up her scarf, Cricketsong climbed the gentle rise of stairs up to the main living area. The windows were shuttered tight against the cold, and a single candle flame provided the light. Clayshard's wreath hung neatly on the wall. Shadesong and old Silverclaw were stretched out in the furs, the elf's hand idly stroking the sleeping wolf's pelt. Shadesong's face was as peaceful and composed as ever, but there were dark hollows under her eyes as if she had not slept.

"Peace and comfort, Shadesong."

Shadesong sat up. "Welcome, Cricketsong." She held out her hands. "Come sit with me, daughter of my heart." Cric clasped the elder elf's hands and seated herself on the furs. Littlefluff scampered off her shoulder and began exploring.

"How are you?" asked Cricketsong earnestly.

"Oh, I am holding up," Shadesong said bravely. "It is always difficult, but..." She sighed. Then a frown creased her brow and she looked down in concern. "Cricketsong, your hands are freezing! And your cheeks are pink... let me feel your ears..."

Cric laughed nervously and held Shadesong's hands more tightly. "No, it's nothing, don't bother. I was just playing the lute, out in the sun -- I thought it would get warmer as the sun rose, not colder."

The black-haired elf pursed her lips in mild vexation, with a hint of a smile. "And, knowing you, you noticed nothing beyond your fingertips until someone with sense told you to come in out of the cold."

Cricketsong smiled wistfully. "Yes, Clayshard nagged me. I wish, instead, she had told me of your sorrow."

"Dear Clayshard." Shadesong sighed again. "Did you know, Clayshard was just a toddler when I bonded with Silverclaw?" She disentangled one hand from Cric's and began to stroke the wolf's silver-tipped ears. "We called her Berryheart then. Once when I was cubsitting her and her sister, Warmrain, Silverclaw got into my things and chewed up two pairs of boots. One old pair, one just made. Nothing but shreds left!" She chuckled softly, reminiscing.

Cric smiled faintly in empathy, but she wanted to get to the heart of the matter. "You know, Shadesong," she said seriously, "as I told you, that if something happened to Whiteflash, I would have felt it. He is ever present in my mind, if only faintly. But Sunhawk..." The golden-eyed elf struggled to express as certainty what was merest wish. "I think perhaps either you or I would know if anything happened to Sunhawk."

Shadesong grew serious as well and replaced her hand atop the brewer's. "I know your bond of Recognition with Whiteflash will not fail us," she said. "But Sunhawk was never more than your lovemate, however cherished. I fear all we can now know of him is that, if both my sons live, they are together, inseparable as always."

"Do you not think there is more hope than that?" asked the younger female. "He was not my one 'True Love,' as Tadpole calls it --" She smiled at the thought of the earnest, romantic youth -- "but there was a bond, of some kind, I feel. And perhaps still is! Might we not rest with the thought that he must still live, or we would know?"

"Oh, my dear friend," said Shadesong kindly, lifting her hand to stroke Cricketsong's cheek comfortingly. "Hope is wonderful but, like anything else, it should not be taken to excess. I am quite resigned to the idea that my sons had an unfortunate encounter with trolls. Everyone in Farcorners has some idea of what that must mean." She paused for a moment, and both elves reflected on those whose lives had been scarred by the trolls' cruelty and violence. "I let hope wander the edges of my thoughts, but it does not belong at their center."

"But Whiteflash -"

"Yes! Whiteflash still lives!" Shadesong lifted Cricketsong's chin with a touch, and the brewer saw that Shadesong's smile was genuinely happy. "And I know that thanks to you. Your gift is the most precious of all."

"I hope I have been of some comfort to you," cried the younger elf, throwing her arms around the elder.

"Of course, you are always so my child." Shadesong returned the embrace. "I see you have brought your lute. Shall we have music?"

"Yes, I know just the song," replied Cric, her pale brown braids falling over her shoulders as she bent to pick up the instrument.

"How about 'Running with the Pack'?" suggested Shadesong. "It has been so long for Silverclaw and me -- in fact, Clayshard was carrying Tadpole in her womb when Silverclaw left the pack. Did I ever tell you that once Tadpole said to me, 'You used to hunt with the wolfpack, Shadesong?'" Her dark brown eyes sparkled faintly with laughter as she imitated his tone of surprise. "All these young cubs see me as such a homebody."

"I had thought to sing 'Bright Sun'..." Cricketsong's voice trailed off, a puzzled expression growing on her face.

"Oh, the song you wrote for Sunhawk? Yes, that will be nice," said Shadesong pleasantly, settling down to listen.

"Hold on, I feel I'm missing something," said Cricketsong, letting the lute drop into her lap. "You keep speaking of Silverclaw -- is there something wrong?"

It was Shadesong's turn to be puzzled. "You came to comfort me -- I thought you knew."

"Knew what?"

"Her time is soon." Shadesong turned to stroke the old wolf's neck again. "The weather this last moon was very hard on her, and now she is refusing food and drink. She has a handful of days left, little more."

"Oh!" cried the slender lutist. "No one told me!"

"Heartsgold gave her a potion earlier, to ease her aches. There is nothing to do now but wait and keep her company."

"Shadesong, I'm sorry!" gasped Cricketsong. She set the lute aside and leaned to embrace Shadesong again. "How horrible!"

"Oh, it is not so bad," Shadesong squeezed Cric and both turned to gaze at the peacefully sleeping she-wolf. "Each part of the wolf's life brings its own pains and pleasures. A wolf cub is an armload of happiness, but comes with muddy pawprints, chewed-up boots, and sleepless days. And in their prime, they sometimes become so busy jostling for pack-rank that they can almost forget they have a rider." She sighed and caressed Silverclaw once more. "The winter of the wolf is a peaceful time. Silverclaw and I have been together more than ever these past turns. We depend on each other in ways we never have before. It is sweet, and slow, and close. Now her shortest day is almost here." A tear found a path down Shadesong's cheek. "It is the Way."

"I've been such a fool," mourned Cricketsong, pushing some stray braids from her face. "To disturb you with all this talk of Sunhawk..."

"It is said that in the random shapes of clouds, we each impose our own symbols," mused Shadesong slowly. "I believe that you have revealed your own heart's conflict today. Are you still anxious over my son's fate?"

Cricketsong struggled to hold back tears that were suddenly ready to erupt from nowhere. "In truth, I knew it not!" she cried. "I was thinking of him today... he always loved the winter sun..."

"I hope I can help you find peace with what little we know, Cricketsong," the elder replied, reaching a hand out to offer another embrace. "You will see him again someday, or you will not; in the meantime, you mustn't tear yourself to pieces with worry."

"It's the not knowing," sobbed Cricketsong, pressing her head into Shadesong's shoulder. "Will we ever find out what happened?"

"I don't know," admitted Shadesong. "When such thoughts prey on me, and nothing else helps, I escape to the Now of wolf-thought. I always return with a clearer head. Perhaps that can help you, too."

"I don't want to forget him."

"Never forget him, but let him walk his own path. Let him go, as we did when he left. And perhaps he will someday return. There is always some hope."

Cric sighed, her golden brown eyes subdued with tears.

Shadesong straightened. "You escape into your music, I had forgotten. That is as good for you as wolf-thought. Play the song for me now, will you? Please?"

Half an eightday later, Cricketsong was again playing her lute -- snug inside a warm hollow this time -- when Shadesong sent to her.

**Cricketsong, please come to me!**

Cric leapt up at once, distressed by the undertones of that sending. She excused herself from Songwood and Tadpole, who had been practicing with her, and didn't even bother with her cloak and scarf. Her feet flew over the snow as she dashed to Shadesong's treehome.

Emerging into the main chamber, she saw Shadesong's long black braid undulating across her back as the elf shook her head, racked with sobs. She was leaning over her bond-friend's body.

"She's gone," breathed Cricketsong.

**Yes.**

Cricketsong edged around the furs and sat down across from the distraught elder. She didn't know what to say. She reached to stroke the wolf's silvery-gray pelt. It was still warm.

"It just happened," Cric whispered.

Shadesong didn't reply. Cric reached out and caught Shadesong in an embrace. "There, there," she crooned. Shadesong clung to her for support. She cried for a long time. Cricketsong hummed pieces of old songs and rocked the elder as she would a child.

At last, Shadesong pulled away. "We'll howl tonight for Silverclaw," she whispered, her voice husky from crying. "We must tell the others."

"You've told me, alone," said Cricketsong in wonderment. "I would have thought your oldest friends would be here -- Raintree... the Old Wolf..."

"We'll go tell them soon enough," Shadesong replied, sniffling a bit. "But I wanted you, Cricketsong. The best thing about these last few days have been your visits. Everyone has been so kind and comforting. I am foolish, I suppose, but what has comforted me the most is having someone else to comfort."

Cricketsong had to smile at that. "I finished that new song I was telling you about," she murmured. "Would you like to hear it now?"

"'Seasons of the Heart' is ready? Yes, do... do play it for me."

Cricketsong picked up the lute, cleared her throat and began.

New Leaf, springtime, the flowers begin,
My heart is a bud closed up tight
Coaxed open at last when you tiptoe through
My petals spread out with delight:
All senses awakened to you

Hot Sun, summertime, endless twilights,
We two each the other explore
I find you, you find me, games become bliss
Together like two birds we soar.
Oh, let it always be like this

Leaf Fall, autumn time, harvest grows ripe
The taste of you deepens like wine
All the trees' colors are changing, still bright
We howl as two orange moons shine.
I want to hold on to tonight

White Cold, wintertime, snow on the ground
Trees lose hold of each leaf they grew
And I can no longer hold you at all.
The land sleeps and our hearts sleep too
Each chasing a separate dream's call.

The seasons turn, they never turn back.
And now it is time to let go.
I only know that I must not forget.
I will always remember, oh,
I will never forget
You.