They used to play on the field that adjoined the woods. Of course I can remember it. Though it was many years ago, and I am old. By they, I mean the greyish one, and the
other. Those two were already
inseparable at that time. Of course,
there were many other children around, either cubs of less than yearling stage,
who couldn’t be too far or too long away from their mothers, but used to watch
their bigger siblings at their more violent play, which was by that time
already more than play, and in which might be seen already the personalities
and hierarchies that would be fully formed in no time. They watched them play, with that familiar
mixture of envy and fear in their eyes, just as they chatted on in their
childish way, half in a language they had made up, the language their brothers
and sisters were anxious to forget.
There were also older ones, practically adults, who were being initiated
into the ways and cares of adulthood, and who regarded the play with a disdain
that had begun as affected and had become more and more genuine as they grey
up. Occasionally one of the young ones
would get over confident and mount a challenge to a younger adult. When this occurred they would be put in their
place, sometimes quite brutally. One of
my own sons lost an eye in this way. He
found it difficult to hunt after that.
Last winter he died, aged four.
Not old, but not young either.
This son of mine knew these two, and they were
friendly. They would hunt together. After the injury, they would often bring him
food, despite being far from the most adept hunters in the group. He appreciated it, though of course he was
ashamed. And I was ashamed of him, in a
way. It was right that he died when he
did. Else he would have been a
burden. It was after they went away for
a while, the first time, that he died.
When they returned, he was dead.
They looked for him over this way, at the den he used at the edge of the
wood. I went to see what was happening,
as he stayed with a vixen who had given birth to a later litter of mine. I arranged it. They didn’t say much. I asked them where they had been, and they
said to the city, father. We weren’t
related but lots of the young ones called me father and they still do. I didn’t think so much of their having been
away, as they were always disappearing for longish stretches. Some just do – they have a longer range,
whereas others are content to lead their whole lives within a short radius of
the hole they were born in. What was
unusual was that they generally went together.
Well, it won’t be long for me now.
Another winter perhaps.
