Free Firstborn by Tor Seidler Page A

them. By late afternoon the endearing little things were falling asleep on their feet, and Alberta herded them into the den.
    Next morning I went off with the hunters, but after a few quick pecks of that day’s kill I zoomed back to the den site. I made it in time for the pups’ second appearance. Today Rider came out under his own steam, peering around hungrily. Alberta must have begun weaning them, for the other three pups came out looking hungry too. Frick had slept in as usual but woke up when Lamar started nuzzling his belly in search of a nipple.
    â€œThat’s a dead end, I’m afraid,” Frick said.
    Lamar looked disappointed, but before long the hunting party returned, and Lamar and the other pups raced up to them and poked the corners of the adults’ mouths with their snouts. It must have been wolfish instinct. The hunters regurgitated pre-chewed food onto the ground, and the pups dug in.
    â€œWhat is this?” Lamar cried after gulping down a mouthful.
    â€œElk,” said Blue Boy.
    â€œIt’s the best thing I ever tasted.”
    â€œOut of your vast culinary experience,” Frick murmured.
    Libby and Ben kept shouldering Rider away from the food, but when the feeding frenzy was over, Lamar spat some up for the runt. I don’t think Blue Boy approved of this—pups are supposed to grab all the nourishment they can—but he didn’t interfere.
    â€œIs elk over there?” Lamar asked, staring off toward the valley.
    â€œDon’t you worry about where it comes from,” Blue Boy said. “Just have fun.”
    By “fun” he meant sparring. This was early training for the hunt. Lamar sparred with his brothers and sister for a while, but in time he got bored and tottered over to Frick.
    â€œWhat are those tall things?” he asked, looking up the hill.
    â€œLodgepole pines,” Frick said.
    â€œWhat are the big creatures way over there with the spiky green fur?”
    â€œThose are called mountains.”
    Lamar immediately headed toward the mountains, but his parents growled. Pups aren’t supposed to venture far from the den. Lamar had to content himself with asking about things.
    And ask he did. Ask, ask, ask. But at least he didn’t repeat the same questions over and over. Once he got an answer, he moved on. And it didn’t take him long to figure out who not to bother. He picked up on his father’s disapproval of his questions, and Raze’s annoyance, and Lupa’s disinterest. He zeroed in on Frick—and me.
    The height of the lodgepole pines amazed him, as did the sudden pageant of wildflowers. The sky amazed him too. One day it was the blue of his father’s fur, the next it was the lustrous gray of Lupa’s, the next it seemed to be full of the puffy white things, and the next it spat at us.
    â€œLook, the birds can go up into it!” Lamar cried one morning.
    â€œThose are just chipping sparrows,” I told him.
    I showed him what real flying looks like. When I landed back in the aspen, he was jumping up and down, trying to fly himself—a pitiable sight indeed. Not wanting to rub his nose in the natural superiority of birds, I pointed out that we couldn’t howl.
    â€œWhat’s ‘howl’?” he said.
    He soon found out. One night in the wake of a hearty elk feast Blue Boy, Hope, Raze, and Lupa were keeping me up with their howling when Lamar’s head poked out of the den. His little ears cupped at the sound of answering howls in the distance. I think this was his first inkling that they weren’t the only wolves in the world. As he inched outside, he said in an awed voice:
    â€œLook at the big yellow wolf eye!”
    I think I was the only one who heard him. I was about to tell him it was called the moon when there was a different howl from far away, higher and more musical than the rest.
    â€œWhat kind of wolf is that?” he asked.
    At this the grown-ups