The night was cool and clear, with hardly a thread of moonlight from the trees above. The whole pack was asleep but her.
Mouala stretched cautiously under her tree, watching it dance on a bush below. Its dark, lush leaves gleamed like water as the light hit them; had it been there some wind, anyone could take it for a spring in the hill.
The thought sent her a shiver. It had been so long since she found the river, the clearing and the den, yet her throat still went dry at the memories. Long, agonizing days fighting over a puddle, a piece of fresh kill, anything that could keep her alive another day in that blazing summer, and her thick, black fur did not help. She chose it. Her pack had been too exhausted to take care of more than pups and the prey was dying like fleas from the heat. She was not a pup anymore, but no hunter, either: nobody would say it, but she was not a help. So she had left.
How big had seemed the forest, back then, how still. And how deadly. She had been a big, proud wolf like her father, so she had managed to learn to travel when the sun was down and slash and bite her way for a while even without the pack. But the heat was scorching, the sun a live mass that pushed her down and seemed to show only fur and bones and fighting.
Then, right when she thought she would die, the wind brought rain, hope and the future.
She remembered it, too, it was night again. She had just found a cozy hole on the side of a hill, just outside the forest, and was in front of her first deer leg in weeks, when she heard a noise. She remembered turning around to see a little tawny bundle trying to sneak behind her, growling it away, and turning back to find one of gold trying to do the same thing. Just a little earlier she would have been rabid, savage from heat and hunger and despair, but not now: those little things were pups, trying to survive despite barely standing on their paws. For the first time, big Mouala had thought back to her pack, to her brothers and sisters, and had felt alone.
The pups had their fill, that night, Yunan and Tilne were their names, and they remained with her and all the ones who came after, some pups, some castaways, some wanderers like her. And the little hole in the hill was dug to become a den for all. For a pack, no, a family, led by the best alpha and friend she could think of. And for many seasons she had taken care of all them, missed the ones who left, and rejoiced for the pups who came. And for her own, too, she thought with a smile.
Then there was a sudden change and the old female raised her head. But there was no danger, just the wind, combing her fur with invisible licks, and she greeted it like an old friend. The grass glimmered under the moon, droplets of dew shining almost as bright as her light, like every night. Yes, it was a beautiful night, in a beautiful land, among friends who had known hunger and solitude, and, she prayed, would never meet them again. And she could rest knowing she would never be alone again. She was grateful that, after all those seasons, she would live to see it.
Mouala breathed in deeply, calling to her the memories of her friends, her lovers, and her dear Yunan, and closed her eyes.
To Mouala, one of the best wolves I ever had
Winter 
Day Weather: 
