The First Wolves

23. MADLA’S MISSION

Loud jeers, conversations of commerce, and bellows of bartering overlapped in the market place, like a disorganised senate house. Despite nearly thirsty years having passed, Madla pulled his hood further forward over his face, and continued to stroll steadily in order to bring the least attention to himself. Different cities, different times, same precautions. This was the mantra that had kept him alive. Diverting to the less savoury alleys, he confidently walked into the apothecary’s shop. The jar was in its usual place, but this time he deliberated over the quantity he should purchase. Food supplies had to be prioritised, but it would be wise to take as much of the tonic as he could so it would last through the winter.

“Here again? You’ll be wanting the milk of the poppy?” The wise woman assumed.

Usually, attention to detail would be welcomed by her customers who were struggling, but to Madla it was a reason to be defensive. He wouldn’t be returning, not now, he was remembered.

“I’ll take the whole bottle, we will be moving on soon,” Madla lied, before sighing at the astronomical cost.

Pulling the hares he had hunted from his bag, he headed first to the butchers to sell his prizes. He had kept back plenty of the best ones to keep them going through the harsher months ahead. The textile stalls next to the leather worker caught his attention, he looked at the money in the palm of his hand, and then returned his gaze to the blanket laid out. Weighing every choice with harsh scrutiny, he calculated the benefits of buying it. If he bought the blanket, and saved a little coin for salt, he could preserve the meat that was currently hanging up at home. If he didn’t get the blanket, he could buy wheat and some lemons. Running his hand through the wool, he admired the soft thickness of it. Unsurprisingly, he left with the blanket, knowing how much it would be needed in the cold months ahead. Turning the corner, he was shocked by the angry taunts at the salt stall. The proprietor stepped forward, his arms were outstretched, and his palms that were facing the ground slowly bounced up and down.

“There’s no use shouting at me, the escaped slaves stole all the wolves from the nearest salt mine. We have a national shortage, and if you think us plebs are going to get any after the patricians have had their usual amount, then you need to see the doctor three streets down. If you want to complain, then speak to General Tarquin. Although beware, he has a short temper and you still won’t like the news.” The anger in his voice increased with his incredulity at the unappeased crowd.

Madla’s attention was fixed on the ‘escaped slaves’. Could this be a way to true freedom? A life where he didn’t have to hide his face and look over his shoulder? A wolf could only dream of such a life.

Entering the busier market place in the next square, the only way out of the city, Madla abruptly stopped. He studied the posters being nailed to the doors of the shops. Madla could not read, however even without this learning, he recognised the dreaded lettering beneath each sketch. HOUSE OF HEATON. The cause of his half-lived life and persecuted existence was written in bold lettering, and frustratingly Madla had no idea what had happened. Tempting him to learn more, he lingered at the back of the crowd that had gathered, firing questions at the soldiers. Questions he was desperate to hear the answers to.

“Which one of those animals is the leader? Why haven’t they been caught yet? When will we be able to buy salt at a reasonable price again?” The overlap of angry voices called out.

“General Tarquin, has heroically chased them from their camp, killing many of our enemies. We believe they are heading north, which is why I have been ordered to nail these posters, so you know what they look like, and you can keep yourselves safe. The salt will return to the usual trading price as soon as the next shipment of slaves arrives from the empire. For now, our general has provided a temporary solution of using criminals, so that they can make amends to the capital. This is the sketch of their leader. His name is Conri. Next to him is his w***e Fidella. We believe the second in command is this man here. Ewan is his name.” The solider concluded, making it clear he would answer no more questions.

Madla had felt a splinter of hope pierce through his pessimism when he heard about the salt mines, but seeing the image of the second in command left him with little doubt. It was Aoife’s son. Never had a child looked so like both his parents, and clearly had their tenacity too.

Blending into the crowd to avoid suspicion, and ensure he wasn’t followed, Madla made his way back to his temporary shelter. Slinging his supplies more securely across his back, he began to climb up the vertical rock formation, cooled by the water that sprayed the left side of his face. At the mid-point, he reached into the water that thunderously spilled from above, and gripped onto the rock that jutted out. Tentatively, his foot searched for the ledge that would lead to the cave behind the curtain of water. Although he was fairly confident about entering their temporary home now, when he made the ascent the first time, with Aoife strapped and clinging to his back, it had been life-threatening for them both. It was the type of dangerous entrance that Madla liked. He knew a human would never be able to manage the climb, and that knowledge gave him comfort.

Usually, Madla would whistle to alert Aoife that he was approaching, however his mind was so busy with all the information and suspicions that he continued his journey deeper behind the waterfall in silence. His mistake. As soon as he crossed into their living space, he felt an obstruction trip him up, then tangle his legs into an unyielding grip.

“Aoife, it’s just me…Madla. I forgot to whistle. I’m sorry I scared you.” Immediately, he felt the pressure lift.

He placed the supplies on the ground, then turned to pick up Aoife. She was panting with exhaustion. The Aoife he first met wasn’t afraid of anything, and would have started fights to prove it. The greatest warrior he had ever seen, so accomplished with her skill that she was victorious over death. After the Damnation of Beasts, she had changed so greatly he struggled to remember that she was the same person. Her injuries had healed poorly, always causing her dull pain that was accented with sharper agonies, and her wolf had never returned. Someone had died on the sands that day: Neve. It had taken months for her to be able to shuffle along as she did now for the short periods of time that she could. He knew she would have dragged herself over to the entrance in order to conserve as much energy as she could. She had knocked him to the ground, but the price of doing so would be pain and fatigue. He looked down at her face, her eyes were already beginning to close against her will. Despite all these alterations to who she was, the most significant change was how afraid she was of being found by the humans, before she found her family. At the beginning of their escape, after more than a few near misses, they had devised the whistling plan to keep each other safe. Therefore, he felt guilty, not only for causing her to strain herself unnecessarily, but also for the terror she must have felt.

The fire was roaring, and he lay Aoife next to it, hoping it would calm her shivers. Panting, she was struggling to catch her breath, but her eyes were wide, wanting to know what was distracting him. Madla pulled the thick blanket he had bought from the supplies, and huddled her in to it as the adrenaline gave way to the cold, and her body trembled uncontrollably.

“I’m going to ask you something I’ve never asked you before…I really need you to answer me…” Madla gazed at her hesitantly, “Did you name your pup Ewan?”

Aoife struggled to sit up, only being able to use her stronger arm. Her other hand had never righted itself after she had pulled it out of the silver chains.

“Yes” She chattered, fearful of how Madla had found out about the name she had never told him, the name she hadn’t said out loud for nearly thirty years.

Proceeding to tell her everything he had learnt at the market, her face seemed younger and glowed more brightly than the flame. He told her that the House of Heaton had fallen along with Magnus and Antonia, and that there had been a rescue from the same wolves at the mine, but most importantly, that the picture of the Beta of the pack was the perfect mix of her and her mate.

“We must look for them, Madla!” Aoife declared breathlessly, but this time from excitement.

Brushing the tears from her eyes, she stood precariously on her feet, attempting to hide how exhausted she was from simply standing up right.

“Aoife, that’s not a good idea. They are miles away, and they will be moving further every day. Today you are having a good day, but we can’t guarantee them for tomorrow. Some days the milk of the poppy is all we have to stop your pain, and then you sleep for days. Neve is gone. If she was ever going to come back, she would have by now. What living wolf could let their human suffer so much?” Madla tried to reason with her, but seeing her face drop he realised he had gone too far.

“A wolf who is in more pain than her human! That’s the type of wolf that would keep away. The physical pain I feel is agonising, but the pain in my heart and hers is excruciating, and if I was able to disappear for a while to keep it at bay, I would.” Aoife snapped at him.

The silence stretched between them.

“I’ll find them, Aoife. That was the vow I made you in the Temple of Selene and I will not revert on that promise. I will bring them here, but you have to stay…you have to wait a little longer for them.”

A heavy sigh and slump in her shoulder was the first indication of her reluctant acceptance.

By the time Madla had packed some provisions, Aoife had positioned herself by the fire, and was turning her wrist welcoming the pain that came from the movement that she had to use to stop it seizing up. Her friend had brought the meat, water and wood closer to her so she wouldn’t need to venture outside while he was gone. There was enough to last her for three weeks. Reaching into his bag, he pulled out the milk from the poppy. She glared at it in disgust. She hated needing it, she hated needing to be dependent on it sometimes, just like she was dependant on Madla who had taken care of her for all these years. Usually, her face would sag with the grief of all she had lost. The years tormented and tortured her as she struggled to recover. Retreating into a cold, hard survivor was the only resilience she could call on. It brought Madla joy to see that her lips were tugged straight, and her eyes were wild as she clutched onto the possibility that she would soon see her family. She felt validated for each day she had clung to life, embraced the pain, and fought against the whispers of self-deprecation. For the first time in many years, she looked alive.

“I’ll be gone three weeks at most. If I haven’t found them by then I’ll have to turn around because the winter will have arrived.” Madla pulled Aoife into a hug, and stilled when she returned the gesture, something she rarely did.

Leaving the cave, he made his second vow to her that he would return with her family. After all, it was hope of hearing this news one day that had kept her alive since the day she was sentenced to die.