near the home of another of the hunting kind, and wolves are on good terms with the moon.
When the curse was finished, the she-wolf said, “What prey can that be, that the Butcher, that stupid killer of river-horses, has found, when you, O my husband, who wind the lizards that frisk on the rocks of the mountains that lie beyond Urth, have been content to worry a parched stick?”
“I do not devour carrion,” the he-wolf answered shortly. “Nor do I pull worms from the morning grass, nor angle for frogs in the shallows.”
“No more does the Butcher sing for them,” said his wife. Then the he-wolf raised his head and sniffed the air. “He hunts the son of Meschia and the daughter of Meschiane, and you know no good can come of such meat.” At this the she-wolf nodded, for she knew that alone among the living creatures, the sons of Meschia kill all when one of their own is slain. That is because the Pancreator gave Urth to them, and they have rejected the gift. His song ended, the Butcher roared so as to shake the leaves from the trees; then he screamed, for the curses of wolves are strong curses so long as the moon shines.
“How has he come to grief?” asked the she-wolf, who was licking the face of one of her daughters.
The he-wolf sniffed again. “Burnt flesh! He has leaped into their fire.” He and his wife laughed as wolves do, silently, showing all their teeth; their ears stood up as tents stand in the desert, for they were listening to the Butcher as he blundered through the thickets looking for his prey.
Now the door of the wolves' house stood open, because when either of the grown wolves were at home they did not care who entered, and fewer departed than came in. It had been full of moonlight (for the moon is always a welcome guest in the houses of wolves) but it grew dark. A child stood there, somewhat fearful, it may be, of the darkness, but smelling the strong smell of milk. The he-wolf snarled, but the she-wolf called in her most motherly voice, “Come in, little son of Meschia. Here you may drink, and be warm and clean. Here are the bright- eyed, quick-footed playmates, the best in all the world.”
Hearing this, the boy entered, and the she-wolf put down her milkgorged cubs and took him to her breast.
“What good is such a creature?” said the he-wolf. The she-wolf laughed. “You can suck at a bone of the last moon's kill and ask that? Do you not remember when war raged hereabouts, and the armies of Prince Spring Wind scoured the land? Then no son of Meschia hunted us, for they hunted one another. After their battles we came out, you and I and all the Senate of Wolves, and even the Butcher, and He Who Laughs, and the Black Killer, and we moved among the dead and dying, choosing what we wished.”
“That is true,” said the he-wolf. “Prince Spring Wind did great things for us. But that cub of Meschia's is not he.” The she-wolf only smiled and said, “I smell the battle smoke in the fur of his head, and upon his skin.” (It was the smoke of the Red Flower.) “You and I shall be dust when the first column marches from the gate of his wall, but that first shall breed a thousand more to feed our children and their children, and their children's children.” The he-wolf nodded to this, for he knew that the she-wolf was wiser than he, and even as he could sniff out things that lay beyond the shores of Urth, so could she see the days beyond the next year's rains.
“I shall call him Frog,” said the she-wolf. “For indeed the Butcher angled for frogs, as you said, O my husband.” She believed that she said this in compliment to the he-wolf, because he had so readily acquiesced to her wishes; but the truth was that the blood of the people of the mountaintop beyond Urth ran in Frog, and the names of those who bear the blood cannot be concealed for long. Outside wild laughter pealed. It was the voice of He Who Laughs, calling, “It is there, Lord! There, there, there! Here, here, here is the spoor! It went in at the door!”
“You see,” the he-wolf remarked, “what comes of mentioning evil. To name is to call. That is the law.” And he got down his sword and fingered the edge.
The doorway was darkened again. It was a narrow doorway, for none but fools and temples have wide doors, and wolves are no fools; Frog had filled most of it. Now the Butcher filled it all, turning his shoulders to get in, and stooping his great head. Because the wall was so thick, the doorway was like a passage.
“What seek you?” asked the he-wolf, and he licked the flat of his blade.
“What is my own, and only that,” said the Butcher. Smilodons fight with a curved knife in either hand, and he was much larger than the he-wolf, but he did not wish to have to engage him in that close place.
“It was never yours,” said the she-wolf. Setting Frog on the floor, she came so near the Butcher that he might have struck at her if he dared. Her eyes flashed fire. “The hunt was unlawful, for an unlawful prey. Now he has drunk of me and is a wolf forever, sacred to the moon.”
“I have seen dead wolves,” said the Butcher.
“Yes, and eaten their flesh, though it were too foul for the flies, I dare say. It may be you shall eat mine, if a falling tree kill me.”
“You say he is a wolf. He must be brought before the Senate.” The Butcher licked his lips, but with a dry tongue. He would have faced the he-wolf in the open, perhaps; but he had no heart to face the pair together, and he knew that if he gained the doorway they would snatch up Frog and retreat to the passages below ground among the tumbled ashlars of the tomb, where the she-wolf would soon be behind him.
“And what have you to do with the Senate of Wolves?” the she-wolf asked.
“Perhaps as much as he,” said the Butcher, and went to look for easier meat.
The senate of wolves meets under each full moon. All come who can, for it is assumed that any who do not come plot treachery, offering, perhaps, to guard the cattle of the sons of Meschia in return for scraps. The wolf who is absent for two Senates must stand trial when he returns, and he is killed by the shewolves if the Senate finds him guilty. Cubs too must come before the Senate, so that any grown wolf who wishes may inspect them to assure himself that their father was a true wolf. (Sometimes a she-wolf lies with a dog for spite, but though the sons of dogs often look much like wolf cubs, they have always a spot of white on them somewhere, for white was the color of Meschia, who remembered the pure light of the Pancreator; and his sons leave it still for a brand on all they touch.) Thus the she-wolf stood before the Senate of Wolves at the full moon, and her cubs played before her feet, and Frog — who looked a frog indeed when the moonlight through the windows stained his skin green — stood beside her and clung to the fur of her skirt. The President of the Pack sat in the highest seat, and if he was surprised to see a son of Meschia brought before the Senate, his ears did not show it. He sang:
“Here are the five! The sons and daughters born alive! If they be false, say how-ow-ow! If ye would speak,
