C. Cherryh - Chernevog

“No!”

“Or Brodyachi could carry two—if that would clear your thinking. Dear, we can’t wait here for the world to be better. Take it as it is.”

“No!” she said.

“Then what will you have it be?”

“Mother, just let me think, let me think!” She rested her head on her hands, she tried to shape her wish, but even thinking of Pyetr she could conjure no certainty, and her eyes burned and her nose ran disgustingly. She wiped at it, and wiped at her eyes, and wanted—

Something shapeless and far-reaching and angry—in a moment at the edge of thought, the edge of exhaustion and smoke-bred dreams.

Wanted—

God!

Her heart jumped, her head came up, she found herself looking into yellow eyes, brown face.

Terror struck her like winter wind. She was eye to eye with Brodyachi, thinking, Where was he? Where did he come from?

“He’s been here,” her mother said, touching her arm, compelling her attention. “He’s been here all along. Don’t be afraid. Kavi wants that. But you don’t have to be.”

There was something outside the door. She knew that there was something outside the door—and there could not be. Brodyachi was here, quite calm. Brodyachi certainly would permit nothing foreign near her mother.

“You’re safe,” her mother said. “You’re all right, dear.”

She looked askance at the door, she listened to her mother speaking to her, telling her not to be afraid—and something was there. She knew that it was, a sense of presence absolute and dreadful.

Out there was what she had called, and it was all Draga had said and all the belief she could muster—

“Daughter?” Draga said.

She had to get up, she had to go to that door, no matter how dreadful the answer, it was an answer, it was her answer, once for all. She put her hand on the latch, she pulled it up and pulled the door back-Wolves met her. The pack surged at her.

Not attacking, no, not snapping at her… accepting her, swirling about her, tugging at her skirts, her hands, with gentle jaws. Their thoughts were like their movements: everywhere, constantly changing, as Draga stepped back against the fireside, as Brodyachi drew back and bristled up, threatening with a massive paw—

She was not afraid any longer. The wolves were everywhere about her, they occupied the door, they pressed against her legs, they saw everything, wolves, and not wolves—chaotic as leaven in a gale. Nothing could catch them. No single wish could hold them—no single wish could find them all at once, or compass all their darting thoughts.

She looked at Draga—knew, suddenly, there was no question of her mother’s ultimate, ineluctable treachery. But her mother said, “Malenkova,” and her thoughts whirled and spun, recognizing that name from the inside.

Draga wanted—things that did not interest her. Her own way interested her. What fled her interested her. Mostly she wanted what belonged to her. She recollected—indeed, she had never forgotten—she wanted Sasha. Sasha had to do what he was told, join her, stop thinking he knew everything.

There was thunder in the distance. The wolves heard it, and pricked up their ears, though her own ears could not hear it. She tought, That’s Kavi’s working. Kavi wants Sasha to come here and confuse us. Kavi’s calling on whatever will listen to him.

She wanted what was hers, that was all, she wanted everything that was hers to be where she could see it and watch it— everything she loved, in one place, in her keeping, never scaring her again. That was what she wanted.

No more foolishness. None from Sasha, and none from Pyetr. They would do what she told them, she would take care of them and they would be happy.

And for Kavi, who threatened what was hers—

The anger turned over and over in her, paced on multiple paws, looked through multiple eyes, anger with no limits and no conscience at all. Draga looked at her with a satisfying tear, wanted things of her, wanted certain things of no interest to her, but that was very well, she sensed a clear direction in Draga, interests which made one thing more important than other things. Draga wanted her to listen and understand, but Draga was only one more voice clamoring for her attention, and her consent, and her intent, which had many feet and many directions.

She wanted things of Draga, all in her own interest, and Draga would do them: Draga had tried to escape many times, but Draga was a fragment not much more than the wolves, more determined than the rest, perhaps—able to compel a direction. Otherwise the pieces came together by chance, or when a few purposes coincided. In Draga’s presence things did come together. She said, “Go on,” because Draga knew what to do, Draga and she quite well agreed on certain things and the rest absolutely did not interest her.

Rain drizzled down through the canopy, glistened in gray daylight on forest mold and living leaves, a grim, soggy kind of morning that sneaked through the trees without the cheer of sunlight. Sasha walked, Missy being by now very sore and very tired: Babi rested among the packs she carried, a small black ball with unhappy, wary eyes. Babi weighed very little in that form; and Missy liked his presence there: Yard-things she had known would stay close by stables, and horses outside their yards were outside their watching—but this one stayed right with her, and combed her mane and tail and warmed her back.

Sasha knew this, riding Missy’s thoughts, clinging to a lock of Missy’s mane for balance, his two feet and Missy’s four being damnably difficult to manage at once, not mentioning that Missy thought a great deal about what she was seeing on the ground and around and behind her, and about how her legs ached and her stomach was truly, awfully empty, even considering there had indeed been apples and grain a while ago. Missy was unhappy and worried in this deep tangle of woods, in which anything might hide. She could hear the rain sneaking up on them.

Sasha worried for other reasons, and dared not stay overlong listening to Missy, because there were things he feared Missy’s nose might not smell nor her ears and eyes detect.

Babi would be aware of them. And when Babi suddenly growled and lifted his head from his paws Sasha wished Missy to stop and to stand still for a moment.

He put out his hand to comfort Babi, to reassure him.

Babi hissed, scrambled up and bristled, and before Sasha could draw his hand back, Babi snapped at him and vanished into thin air.

Not that Babi had not hissed at him before—Babi hissed and growled at all his friends—but never with such anger.

And never offered to bite. God!

“Babi?” he said, more shaken now he thought of it than in the instant he was saving his hand. “Babi, what’s wrong?”

As if—he thought—it might have been him Babi was growling at, as if Babi had suddenly failed to recognize him, or to recognize him as a friend.

He could not recall now what he had just been thinking, or whether he had done anything that might have offended Babi; or whether—

Whether something had just gone wrong in a way Babi could not accept, something to do with things he had done—like leaving Pyetr.

God, no, he must not think of that, he dared not think about that, dared not, for Pyetr’s own sake, and his, and ’Veshka’s. “Come on,” he said, “Missy, there’s a girl, let’s just keep going.”

Missy was so tired, so very tired and making her go on was Not Fair. The bang-thumps were coming, and the wind, and she was wet and shivery and too tired to run when they got here. It was Not Fair. She had rather stand here and rest till they did. She saw no grabby-things. Was there an apple?

Later, he promised her. “There’s no time,” he said, and pulled on her reins and led her, promising her apples, promising her a currying if she would only keep going and watch her feet, god… “Please, Missy.”