Piers Torday - The Last Wild

I duck and the stag plunges through the hole. Then, heaving for breath, he skids to a halt immediately.

*But the Guardians?* I’m convinced we’re finally about to become their lunch.

*See … for … yourself,* he says between gulps of air.

I look back.

The wolves are standing on the edge of the forest, only a leap behind, howling to the sky. They paw the ground and swipe chunks out of the earth with their claws — but they don’t follow us.

*Why?*

*They are the Guardians. Animals who have sworn an oath to protect the wild against all intruders. They cannot pass beyond the Ring of Trees while the others still live within.*

I look at them quickly, their green eyes flashing and tongues hanging out. The cub is there too, standing between the bigger ones. He catches my eye and holds it — but I look away. I’m not going to feel guilty about the grizzled wolf. He wanted me dead.

Instead I get my first proper look at the Ring from the outside.

The wolves stand on the edge of the forest, which is fenced in by rusting barbed wire, curving all the way round, as tall as the grey and whippy trees. Between the concrete posts that hold the fence up hangs a series of old white wooden signs, with red words painted on them. Half of the signs have rotted away with wind or rain, but there are enough of them left for me to make out a few letters:

ILITARY IRING RANGE EP OUT

Somehow I don’t think it was just the Guardians keeping humans out of the Ring of Trees.

*And you — as their Wildness — will you be allowed to return?*

We look behind us. The wolves have melted away and we are on our own once again. The shadows of the wood stretch out along the ground like crooked black fingers.

*Certainly not. The wolves would tear me apart. You must lead us all to your father’s magic.* And then, spoken in a way which is impossible to argue with — *We must go on alone. We will form our own wild to save those we left behind.* He digs his hoofs into the ground. *They must be saved.*

I look out over the moors, shading my eyes. Inside the Ring everything looked all soft and blurry, but out here in the open the light is so clear, the edges so sharp, it kind of burns your eyes. We can’t go back. Yet at the same time … I turn to the stag. *You have no idea. There are other humans out there, humans who will want you dead. They send out patrols. They kill anything that moves.*

Cullers. Former soldiers sent in the early days to try and stop the virus by slaughtering contaminated herds or packs. When that failed, their orders changed. They were told to kill anything non-human that moved — and they did.

I jump off the stag. *Stay here with your wild — let me go. I will make my own way home to my city and find you your cure.*

Even though I’ve no idea how to get there. The stag doesn’t reply at first. Instead he straightens his long neck and gazes at the horizon. All I can see are miles and miles of empty moor stretching ahead, and then just beyond them, through a blue haze, the rocky tips of a mountain range — so much outdoors , like I’ve never seen before.

He looks like he’s seeing something else, something far away, inside his mind.

*The Great Open,* he says at last. *We lost so many on this land as we made our way here. Some from the plague, others at the hands of those you describe. I made a promise in their memory. That I would keep those who survived the journey safe, as long as I had breath in my body.* He wheels about to face me. *And if that means I must carry you all the way into the heart of the human land itself — then so be it.*

The pigeons dance about in the sky like crazy, while the General clambers out of my pocket and with a flutter of his little wings buzzes on to the stag’s horns.

*That’s the spirit, Stag!* he chirps. *Let’s see what you’re really made of — stag or mouse!*

The deer growls angrily and shakes his head from side to side, trying to tip him off, but the General clings on.

They’re both missing the point. I try one last time.

*Stag, the Quarantine Zone — it’s too dangerous. I’m not even allowed to be out here. I know it’s a long way, but I’m small, I can hide, I’ll find help—*

*I made a promise,* says the stag bluntly, and lowers his horns at me. I’m not going to disagree with them. So I climb back on to him.

The General gives a cheer and scuttles up to the very highest tip of the horns, shouting, in such a deep voice that the pigeons nearly fall out of the sky in surprise, *So be it — let the journey begin!*

*Now then,* says the stag to me, warmer than before, *where is this famous city of yours?*

Once again I realize I have no answer to his question. I don’t even know where we are. But this time I’m not going to make the same mistake as in the Ring of Trees and just guess. I think of where we lived and what Dad taught me — before I got taken away.

*On the tip of a map — in the south, I think.*

*Can you guide us south, birds?* he calls out to the pigeons.

I doubt it’s going to be that easy.

But they yell out, *It is enough!* before speeding off over the moors. Correction: the grey pigeons speed off over the moors away from the Ring; the white pigeon flaps up into the air and heads straight back towards the forest.

He realizes his mistake in time and wheels around, going as fast as he can to catch up with the others, muttering to himself, *You say north, I’ll fly north, you say south, I’ll fly—*

*North?* suggests the stag as the little bird passes overhead.

I dig my knees in tight, and he sets off across the fields without another word. Just like that. The pigeons seemed to know automatically which way south is, and the stag only sniffed the air before following fast behind.

I’ve never seen the world from the back of a deer before. The country is so smooth and wide, nothing but open land for miles. As the stag pounds across the ground, the pigeons fly high above our heads, occasionally disappearing over the top of a hill in the distance.

Riding along, the animals tell me things I never knew before. The grey pigeons tell me how they never forget a tree or a face, and the white pigeon tells me what a forgettable face I have. How they always know which way is north, south, east or west. They don’t even need to see the sun or the moon. The stag tells me about all the different scents he can smell: here was a fox a long time ago, these are old sheep walk-upons, and there is good grass for grazing over there. He uses his nose more than his eyes.

*And what about me?* I ask.

*I don’t follow,* says the stag, sweeping down a grassy slope.

*I mean, you can do all these things — that’s what you do, you’re animals. But how can I talk to you? I still don’t understand.*

*Your voice is a gift,* he says simply.

*You keep saying that. It’s not normal though. How did it happen? How come I can talk to you and no one else can? I can’t even talk to other people.*

He suddenly stops on a hillock of reeds the colour of rusty metal, looking down at the valley below and sniffing the air. He doesn’t answer my question.

*Was it something I said?* I ask the General.

But he doesn’t reply either. He’s following the gaze of the stag, his antennae bristling. I can’t see what they’re looking at that’s so special.

Stretching over the dip in between the hills there are four crumbling walls, connected together to form a square. Each wall is made of huge jagged rocks, each one at least half the size of me. To try and lift even just one would be impossible.