Firstborn Read Online Free PDF Page B

Boy picked up a scent and made short work of a deer. After dinner we both had a good sleep, and before sunrise Blue Boy got up and headed due north. But he moved less briskly than usual and left behind speckles of blood. The bullet must have penetrated his neck after all. Toward the end of the day he slumped down under a white pine without doing his usual circling.
    â€œDoes it hurt?” I asked from the lowest limb.
    â€œNot much,” he said.
    The next morning I woke before he did. His wound was festering. I flew back to the deer carcass. Other creatures had been at it, and insects, too, but there was still some flesh hanging from the bones. I pulled off the biggest piece I could manage and flew it back to the white pine. Blue Boy was awake but hadn’t moved. When I dropped the bit of venison by his muzzle, he sniffed it.
    â€œThanks,” he said, and he ate it.
    It wasn’t much of a breakfast for him, but he licked his lips and rose to his feet and continued north. Around midday we reached the base of a steep, snowcapped peak. For me this wasn’t a major hurdle, but most wingless creatures, even ones without festering bullet wounds, would have avoided such a grueling climb. To the east and west the terrain was considerably more hospitable. But Blue Boy was determined to keep on his northerly route, and he headed straight up the mountainside.
    His powerful hind legs started to wobble and shake, but he struggled on. About halfway to the summit he collapsed. To keep his spirits up, I asked him about his home, but as dusk closed in around us his voice seemed to give out. My spirits sank. I’d thrown in my lot with this wolf, actually grown to admire him, and now he was going to die and leave me all alone in this craggy place.
    But I was wrong about his voice. As a nearly full moon appeared between two peaks to the east, Blue Boy sat up and lifted his snout and let out a sound that made my neck feathers stand up. I’ve heard many wolf howls since, and they’re always spine-tingling, but this one was so haunting, so melancholy, so soul-stirring that I swear the moon quivered in the sky.
    It was only a matter of seconds before I heard my next howl: a small chorus of them, coming from far off to the south. I realized Blue Boy must have been calling for help. The howling went on for some time, back and forth, the other howls gradually growing louder, closer. The moon was near its zenith when it picked out three pairs of eyes on the edge of a pinewood downhill from us.
    The glint of wolves’ eyes in the night is a chilling sight. If I’d been wingless, I would have been terrified. Three wolves stepped out into the moonlight. Two were females who looked as if they might be related. The smaller, curvier one had a more lustrous gray coat and more flirtatious eyes. She walked by the side of the male, while the larger, sturdier female lagged a little behind. I liked the look of the male right off, for he had my color scheme: black and white, including a white blaze on his face. He was good-sized and probably would have impressed me if I hadn’t seen Blue Boy first. As he approached, he growled, pulling his lips back to expose his fangs, and it occurred to me then that Blue Boy had howled not for help but as a way of putting himself out of his misery.
    From my fox experience I knew there’s a big difference between dreaming of ending things and actually facing death. But, unlike me, Blue Boy didn’t shake or try to hide. He didn’t as much as flinch. He just held the other male’s gaze steadily.
    â€œEver seen such a big wolf?” the male said.
    â€œNever,” said his consort. “He’s in bad shape, though. Look at his neck. Let’s finish him.”
    I have no idea what got into me. As the couple crouched, their ears tilting forward aggressively, I dropped onto the ground in front of Blue Boy and squawked at the top of my lungs. The male wolf looked