“Next move?” asked Ysil, from within the bush. “What move could we hope to make that could influence anything at all? We are even fearful to flee, as if we do, surely the predators will know we are here.” Ysil looked down at the dried, dead leaves below him and remembered his grandfather’s words:
I will always be with you. . .
Could he really do something to weaken the wolf? To defeat the unworthy new King Crow?
“My dear little bird, I am afraid the wolf and his kind know very well that you are here, as I and my kind do likewise.” She smiled in her own unique way. “We can smell you.” She once again bounced her bald head in the direction of the Murder’s Tree then quickly bounced it back and moved in a bit closer. “You are small, yes, but sometimes size is not that important. This action I suggest for you to take now will bring into play those who are even smaller than you. Size is not important if your numbers are in the thousands. I have a suggestion for you, that is all. And if truth be told, the dead are the dead to us, and we would just as soon pick the bones of the wolf as of the deer—or quail.” Ysil shivered but kept looking the vulture straight in the eye. “We could always eat more. And though the plan I have for you may not bring about the death of the wolf, it will at least aggravate his wretched soul.” She shuddered and an issuing of dried blood rained from her feathers. “But should you not succeed in your mission, you likely will not live to tell me of your failing.”
And so Ekbeth told them of her plan, one both dangerous and possible. The quail listened and feared but found some hope. And when she had finished, she silently moved back into the field.
The three looked at one another with expectation.
“Could it really work?” asked Cormo.
“Perhaps,” said Ysil. “But it is hugely treacherous!”
“Ysil,” said Harlequin, “we should do this thing. We owe it to Gomor and Cotur Ada and the others who have died at least to try.”
Ysil and Cormo stared back at her for a moment, then at each other.
“Yes,” said Ysil. “We must try, at least.”
They crept away from their hiding place until they felt at a safe distance. Then they took to the air, flying with all the force their wings could muster, over the golden and red treetops, past the man’s house, and on to a sizable stand of pine beyond. They flew to the tallest of the pines, gnarled and old, and landed upon its upper branches. With undeniable danger hanging just below them, they looked at the immense, pasty nest and considered their next move.
T
ORTRIX LAY AT
his King’s side, his only King. From beneath him came a tremble, as if far, far below a great beast rolled over within the fiery center of the world. The snake laid his head to one side and listened intently for some time. Then he smelled the air with his tongue.
“I have returned to the land of my birth and taken it as my own. I will never leave again, not alive,” said the wolf. Asmod was hurt, but he had stopped bleeding.
“I am with you, my King,” said the copperhead. “I have a word from the earth for you.”
“A word from the earth?” asked Asmod, uncertain.
“Yesss. As the rook hears the words of the wind, I likewise hear the speakings of the earth. The earth is in agreement with you. It sssayss you are to be the only king here. It sssayss that the crows are not itss own and should not consider the field theirs likewise.”
“Yes, this I know to be true. I have felt it also.” Asmod rose. “You are to be the sage of the field, Tortrix,” said the wolf. “You are the interpreter of the earth and closest to it of all.”
“And sssurely you are the only King—”
“Treachery!” came a scream from the branches above. “You speak treachery!” It was Darus, the General of all the murder, that screamed now; he had been spying on their whisperings.
Then Sintus was there, at Darus’s side.
“What is this treachery you speak of, Darus?”
The wolf and snake glared up. Around them were Drac and Puk, and moving in were three coyotes and another fox. Many weasels and lizards were killed in battle, but still there were some left, and they also moved closer to the wolf.
“He speaks of the fact that I am the only true King here,” asserted the wolf.
The crows above began to gather in the branches with Sintus. They all looked to their leader for some action or command, though their reaction to such would be less than enthusiastic. Sintus stared at the wolf in shock.
“You may have your tree and your new nest, but as you can see,” said the wolf, looking around at his followers, “we hold the field.”
“Traitor!” screamed Sintus. “We were to rule both the field and the Murder’s Tree together.”
“Well, perhaps you will descend and we can come to a conclusion on that down here.” Asmod looked at Tortrix. “Down to earth, we might say, eh, Tortrix?”
And with that the wolf began to laugh, and his laugh turned into the challenge of a bitter howl.
Sintus cawed in rueful fury and flew back to his nest. Darus and all of his army gathered close to consider what to do about the wolf and its band below. About the nest, the skulls of his grandfathers and father stared at him with vacant, disdainful eyes. And below the nest, posted unnoticed upon the tip of a dead branch, the tiny skull of Cotur Ada viewed the beasts below, his gaze equally void.
Asmod walked from underneath the tree and out into the field. “My followers! We are victorious!” A rousing hurray came in response. “But alas, we are yet to dispose of our final enemy! I speak of the crows in the tree above!”
Howls and yelps of agreement came back.
“And to each of you, snakes and lizards alike. When you sleep in the winter’s cold, the crows will surely rout your nests and tear you up!”
To this there were sounds of agreement, a chorus of hisses. And as the hisses settled, before the wolf could go on, there came a steady and growing buzz. Asmod stopped and looked toward the sound.
Out of the tree line burst a small quail, flying with hasty speed straight at the wolf and his army. The wolf laughed. “What is this? Has this quail decided to fight me? Perhaps a brave little suicide?” Around him the other animals laughed as the quail grew closer.
Then the source of the buzz came into sight in the form of a great yellow cloud, churning and enraged. The cloud was moving in a swift, roiling motion across the field.
The quail was fleeing these hornets, not attacking. And as the wolf realized this, it came to him that perhaps the quail was not fleeing randomly, and was in fact leading the hornets precisely where he intended.
After the tiny quail raced past, inches above the wolf’s head, it became clear what the bird was doing. It dived headlong into the freshly cut grass, putting the wolf between itself and the attacking hornets.
“Clever little bird. . .” Asmod mumbled. But it was too late to do anything. The hornets were upon him.
N
O ONE EVER
spoke to the hornets. They would not listen. The hornets kept to themselves and tended to their own and seldom sought anyone out, unless that someone could be eaten. No one approached a hornet. If a hornet came close to one, buzzing and irritated (as hornets always are), one gently backed away. No one spoke to the hornets.
The first memory Ysil had of hornets was when Cotur Ada warned Cormo and him against them. But his grandfather had taken them near the nest, so they would know the hornets’ borders and range. Cotur Ada had flown in close to the pine grove and, from the edge of it, on a cool, late spring day while the hornets were sleeping (they hoped), he had pointed out the nest. It was hanging from a lower branch, arcane and wondrous, the color of birch bark. But when Ysil asked if it was a part of the tree, his grandfather said no, that the hornets made it with their spit.
“Their spit?” said Ysil.
“That’s disgusting,” said Cormo. “You mean they live in a house made of their own spit?”
“That is exactly where they live,” said Cotur Ada. “And they are especially proud of their home. Never touch it. Never even get near it. If you do, they may all come out in a rush and sting you at once. This would kill you. We have a rule with the hornets, one we never break: leave them alone, and they will leave us alone. This is within the order.”
And when Ysil, Harlequin, and Cormo had perched above the hornets’ nest, they heard the buzzing within. But there were no hornets to be seen around the grove.
“I’ll do it,” said Cormo.
“I must be the one,” said Ysil. “Cormo, you and I race all the time.” He looked at Harlequin, not wanting to sound like he was bragging. “Who wins, Cormo?”
Cormo stared back. “You do,” he said.
“Be careful,” said Harlequin.
“There is nothing careful, nor sane for that matter, about what I am going to do, not at all,” said Ysil, and the three shared a brief, nervous laugh.
Ysil flew down upon the branch the nest was welded to and moved carefully and quietly toward it. There were still no hornets to be seen, only the steady buzz from within. He knew this was a dire measure, but he must do something to stop the wolf, even if it meant his own death. Then he did exactly what Ekbeth had suggested. He poked a hole in the nest with his beak, one quick and strong peck, and with all the strength his wings could propel, he flew back in the direction of the field, and he did not look back. Before he cleared the edge of the pine grove, he heard the buzzing din of angry hornets pursuing him.
And so he led the angry mob to the field, and once again, as he flew, there at the tip of his wing, just for an instant, he was sure he had seen another bird flying with him.
T
HE HORNETS WERE
about the wolf like a funnel cloud, and immediately engulfed his body. Asmod howled in pain and began to thrash about, biting and pawing at the angry insects. Those close to him were caught in the cloud also. Tortrix was stung and slithered away fast, dragging one writhing hornet with him, its stinger impaled deeply in the snake’s rust-colored back. And then the wolf was rolling across the ground, smashing hornets beneath him and wailing in agony. The hornets then left the wolf and flew onto a young coyote close by. They covered the coyote in a writhing yellow blanket. The coyote struggled and twisted its body, biting at its hide. And then the hornets were on a nearby fox, leaving the coyote wriggling about in a poisoned daze.
Ysil lay motionless on the field in the midst of this mayhem, hoping that for another moment he would go unnoticed in the chaos. He was exhausted, his eyes nearly swollen shut. Perhaps he would appear a small brown stone in the great field, but alas, his quick breathing would give him away. The wolf stood up and looked around. Ysil knew that if he were to flee, it must be now. So he jumped to the air and flew with all his might.
“After the little bird!” screamed Asmod. “Bring him to me!”
But Ysil did not look back. He was nearly at the edge of the field now. Safety was only a few feet away. Closer... Closer...
Then with a red blur before him, he was brought to the ground. He felt the teeth tight in his side, and beneath that spot he felt and heard the tight snap and crunch of a rib bone breaking. He looked around frantically to see who his captor was and saw the smiling eyes of Drac—and a swift movement to his left was Puk. Puk had something in his mouth also: the struggling form of Harlequin.
“Bring them to me!” bellowed Asmod from the center of the field.
C
ORMO AND
H
ARLEQUIN
had followed just behind the swarm and taken to the edge of the field. They watched in wonder as the hornets overwhelmed the huge wolf. They had seen the wolf’s struggles and saw their friend take flight toward them. No sooner had Ysil jumped than a great thrashing occurred in the brush behind them. They both flushed quickly, but Harlequin had not been fast enough. Cormo looked back to see her taken to the ground by the familiar form of the scoundrel fox, Puk by name.
And with fear in his heart and tears in his eyes, Cormo had taken high into the air and flown away fast, the terror of his own death propelling him forward, close at his tail feathers.
He had flown only a short distance before he realized what he was doing: fleeing and leaving his friends to die. With a fresh resolve he came down and landed within the high branches of a sycamore. He looked back to the field. There at its edge were the shapes of two red foxes, and within their jaws were the twisting and thrashing forms of two little gray birds.
N
O SOONER HAD
the hornets come than they were gone, the cloud moving with its raging purpose back in the direction from where it had come, a bit smaller now than upon its arrival.
Asmod was lying on his side, stung all over. Still, he was crazed with wrath. He heard laughter from above and looked up. Sintus was just above him, circling low with five other crows. “So, the tiniest of the enemies has caused the great wolf the most pain!” said Sintus.
“I am in need of a truce, as certainly we do need each other!” said Asmod. His face was beginning to swell, as was the back of his neck and his posterior. Tortrix gingerly slithered back to his side, the tip of his tail stretched to twice its normal size, an enormous hornet stinger protruding from it.
Drac and Puk were to the wolf now, and they laid Ysil and Harlequin down, holding them firmly with their paws. Ysil’s side throbbed in agony. Harlequin was awake but seemed in shock. Ysil looked to her but she did not look back, though her eyes were wide open. They were both trembling all over.
“You cursed little birds,” Asmod said. “You will die long, painful deaths for this.” He looked up and forced his puffy body to stand. “Hear me! Hear me, all who are in hiding about the field! I know you are all there! I can smell every one of you. Let the deaths of these two be a warning memory to you, lest we kill you all as you sleep in the night or gather during the day! I am the King of this field!” And he looked at Sintus. “Beside Sintus I will rule!” Tortrix looked up to the wolf and tongued the air.