Hard as Ice

Some places in the world boast a warm winter; tropics, places near the equator, ocean islands. These places never quite know cold, the deep biting sensation that feels like a beast no man can tame. The wolf was not so lucky as to born in an area such as this.

The mountain the wolf lived on knew cold, knew it like one knew a close friend. The winter months boasted snow, storms, ice, nights so cold that many animals died rather than brave leaving their burrows. In fact, so far as he knew, the wolf was the only beast out in the bitter temperatures.

Being the only beast around didn't bother the wolf. He was young, strong, and despite the rarity of prey around the woods, he had managed to bring down a doe just two days previous. He wasn't out to hunt, and if he had the ability to say why he was out in the frozen wildlands, he would reply that he didn't himself know.

The answer was that the wolf felt one of the basic rules of nature, one of the oldest truths of the world. A rule that had passed down to him from his father, who had it from his father, who had it from his. A predator keeps moving.

With his lean strength and sharp fangs, the wolf ruled his territory. He loped down the mountain, his long coat making the sharp weather feel but a distant thought. Past tall trees, large boulders, and scrub brush that filled the area, he continued his trek. He didn't have a destination, merely a drive to keep moving.

Tongue lolling from his mouth, lungs pumping in the cold, feet pounding the snow beneath his feet, he ran on. Never too fast, just fast enough that he could cover miles without feeling tired. On and on he ran. Then came the clearing.

The clearing was a place not quite like any other the wolf had been. There were no trees in it, no brush, no boulders. As if it were a sacred spot that none dared enter. Even the snow fall seemed to still as it fell into the ring, careful to leave the holy area undisturbed. The only thing in the valley was one tall Fir, with a top split from lightning. It loomed above the clearing, sternly enforcing silence and solemnity. Older than the grandfather of the grandfather of the wolf, the Fir rightly considered himself the master of the clearing.

The wolf didn't care for such ancient beings or who they thought should be in charge. He decided that the Fir made a good place to mark his territory. In a human it might have been teenage rebellion. In the wolf's mind it was just practical.

From across the clearing came a noise, faint on the wind, so slight that it barely could be heard in the muffled silence. The wolf perked his ears up, whether prey or foe, he knew the sound meant another living creature, and he wanted to see it.

Silently he padded across the clearing. No more speed, no more displays of strength in his form, he slunk low to the ground, ears back, inching his way with all his thousands of years of instinct bright and alert. Up to the edge of the clearing he traveled, silent as Death himself.

Even Death would have reason to fear a predator such as this.

He kept low, barely appearing over the edge of the knoll as he crested it. He didn't stop at the top of the hill, allowing his silhouette to be outline against the back drop. He came swiftly yet silent until he paused half way down the hill to observe what he found there.

Down the hill from the wolf stood a creature he had never seen before. It stood like the bear, but was lean like the cougar. It's hair grew in a wild mane around its head nearly covering its face where bright eyes peered out. He smelled of fire, not a common smell in the woods where the wolf grew up, but one he remembered from his youth.

Staying where he was, the wolf watched the creature make its way along through the snow. Where the wolf loped, this creature trudged. Where the wolf ran, light-footed, this beast seemed to put every ounce of strength into his next step. Never had the wolf seen a beast with so little agility and grace roaming this forest.

If he hadn't eaten so recently, and his stomach still full, the wolf may have taken the creature down as an easy meal. As it was, he was content to watch as it made its way through the woods.

The wolf would never know what made the creature look up. He had made no noise, no movement could have given him away, the wind that so easily carried the faint smell of smoke to his nose was blowing the wrong way for the creature to scent him. Yet, look up the creature did.

Their eyes met. And the wolf's opinion of the creature changed. In its eyes was something the wolf had seen in no other beast, a look of intelligence, so far past the cunning the wolf had or the instinct of his prey. It was a look that told of mysteries unknown and places unseen. The wolf was cunning, foremost among beasts of the forest, yet this creature outshone him like the sun outshines the moon.

This creature was an alien to the woods, and yet, the wolf sensed that it ruled here as much as he did.

The wolf didn't feel fear. He was physically incapable of the emotion, but something he had never felt before did rise in him. In him rose respect. A mighty respect, the only respect he had ever felt for any other than himself.

Never before had the wolf met something he would consider an equal, and yet, on a cold, frozen day, here he had. It was an experience the wolf would never forget, though he didn't realize it as he turned away to climb the hill again.

He never saw what happened after his back was turned. Never knew the thoughts going through the creature's mind.

Never saw the hand, raised in respect, from one mighty hunter to the other.