by Pat Murphy
“Doggie,” he said to Beka, in a tone of accusation.
He was naked now, and Sarah stared at him in fascination. She had never seen such a small, naked human before. He was hairless, like her. He had hands, rather than paws—not so good for running but better for grooming and picking up rocks and such. As she studied him, she noticed that he wasn’t exactly like her—he had an extra bit of flesh dangling between his legs. But on the whole, he was more similar than different.
Beka was already standing beside Robby, sniffing his face. The other wolves were watching, ears up, alert and curious. Marek and Istas and Luyu were heading over, and Rolon had gotten up. Sarah stepped over to meet this strange creature. He was so small and softlooking; she wasn’t afraid of him as she was of other humans.
At that moment, Robby’s sister Martha stepped from the bushes. Their wagon train had stopped for the day in a meadow a short distance downriver. Her mother was washing clothes; her father was trying his hand at panning for gold in a small stream that flowed into the river.
Martha was supposed to be watching Robby, but she had been distracted by a school of minnows swimming in a shallow pool. She had splashed in the water, trying unsuccessfully to catch the fish in her hands. When she finally gave up, she realized that Robby had wandered off, following the trail that ran alongside the river.
She had pursued him, hurrying to catch up. “Robby, you come back here. Mama said we shouldn’t go too far…” She had left the shelter of the bushes behind before she realized that Robby was not alone. A pack of wolves and a little girl in a dirty sweater watched her with great curiosity.
To Martha’s credit, she did not scream. She stood very still returning Sarah’s stare.
“Robby, come here,” she said, her voice a perfect imitation of her mother’s commanding tone. “Right now. Not another word.”
But Robby was laughing as Beka sniffed his face. He stayed where he was.
Sarah watched as Martha hurried to her brother’s side and grabbed his hand. Marek was just a few feet from the boy now, pushing Beka aside so that he could examine these strange creatures. Sarah could see the tension in Martha’s body, smell the fear in the girl’s sweat—Martha was ready to run, which would have been a terrible mistake.
At the moment, the wolves were curious. They had fed recently and weren’t hungry. But if Martha ran, they would chase her—that was an instinctive reaction, triggered by the sight of a fleeing animal.
Sarah stepped between Marek and Martha, taking hold of the girl’s hand, just as Martha held her brother’s. Martha stared at her, eyes wide and fearful. Martha said something—“Who are you?”—but Sarah didn’t understand the words, funny noises that reminded her of the past.
As she gripped Martha’s hand tightly, Sarah stared at Marek, warning him off. She growled and bared her childish teeth. She never used her teeth in her play fights with the young wolves, but snarling and showing her teeth communicated her intentions. Her knife, the weapon that substituted for her teeth, was already in her hand.
Beka turned to face Marek, standing beside Robby. She added her growls to Sarah’s, warning her brother to back off.
Marek hesitated, uncertain. Like any bully, he preferred situations where he could gain the upper hand with no risk to himself.
Taking advantage of his uncertainty, Sarah tugged on Martha’s hand, leading her back to the path through the bushes. The girl followed willingly, dragging Robby with her. Beka lagged behind, watching Marek to make sure he didn’t attack.
Sarah led the two children along the river, until she could smell the smoke of a campfire. As they walked, Martha asked her questions: “Who are you? What are you doing here? Where is your mama?”
So many strange sounds. Sarah remembered that long ago time when she had talked to her mama and papa. She had known several dozen words, which she strung into sentences and questions of a sort. “Hungry now.” “Mama eat?” “We go now?” Old memories.
She stood by the river, sniffing the breeze. Campfire smoke and coffee and corn bread baking by the fire.
“Robby! Martha! Where are you?” A woman’s voice calling. Sarah hesitated, still holding Martha’s hand.
“It’s Mama,” Martha said. “Come on.” “Martha! Robby!” A man’s voice.
Sarah stiffened, remembering the crack of a rifle shot, Omuso falling, a man’s voice calling.
She released Martha’s hand and stepped away. “We go now,” she said, shaping the old words. “We go.”
She turned and ran, with Beka at her heels.
Martha’s mother was dubious about Martha’s account of the encounter with the wolves and very upset about the loss of Robby’s clothes. Martha’s father threatened her with a switching for telling lies, but she stuck to her story and led them to where she had seen the wolves.
Sarah and the wolves were gone, along with Robby’s clothes. Martha found the grimy sweater that Sarah had been wearing, tossed in the bushes beside the river.
Sarah wore Robby’s clothes through the winter. In the spring, she cached the sweater and shirt and boots in a rocky cave. The wolves cached food, burying kills for later consumption, and Sarah had, even at her young age, recognized the value of saving something for later.
Sarah remained weaker and slower than her packmates, but she compensated for her physical lacks with her keen intelligence. She learned from observing the creatures in the world around her. Seeing raccoons hunt for frogs in the marshy meadows, she tried it herself—and discovered that spring peepers can be tasty. Watching a spotted skunk raid the nest of a quail, she learned to search out nests and devour the eggs. Observing squirrels feasting on the seeds of the sugar pine, she took to harvesting the cones herself, cracking the nuts between two stones and eating the tasty meat inside.
From the cougar, the golden lion of the California mountains, she learned stealth. When she lay still, she became one with the land beneath her. From the badger, she learned the value of putting up a fierce appearance. From the black bear, she learned to look beneath the surface. After watching a bear turn over logs and find tasty grubs, she added these insects to her diet.
Though she lacked the strength and stamina of a young wolf, Sarah had abilities that the wolves lacked. When a burr got caught in Rolon’s ear, Sarah’s clever hands yanked it free. She could climb up oak trees and scramble up rocky faces too steep for the wolves to ascend. She could snatch a choice bit of meat from a kill, then escape into a tree to eat in peace, out of reach of her hungry packmates.
After Omuso’s death, she had been careful to stay out of sight of any humans—but she observed people without being observed. The brown-skinned people who had lived in these hills long before the settlers had come from the east knew what plants could be eaten. Sarah watched them from hiding and followed their example, harvesting the bulbs of wild onions and quamish plants that grew in wet meadows, eating the sweet flowers and leaves of wild mountain violets, the tender shoots of bracken ferns, and the spicy leaves of wild mint.
White people both frightened and fascinated her. One of the trails that emigrants to California followed down to the Sacramento Valley ran through the southern edge of the wolf pack’s territory. When the pack was traveling in that area, Sarah often hid near the trail to watch wagon trains of emigrants pass, marveling at the lumbering oxen and the creaking wagons.
Once, Sarah saw two boys playing by the riverside. The older of the two, a lad of twelve, was skipping stones in a wide pool. That had been a valuable lesson. Later that day, Sarah had tried throwing rocks herself. Her first attempts were weak, but she persisted until she could lob a stone with considerable accuracy and power. It was a glorious day when a stone she threw struck a fat quail squarely in the head, bringing the bird down.
She was still wearing Robby’s trousers when she learned to throw stones. She took to carrying rounded stones in the pockets, ready for use at any time. When the weather grew warm, she used her knife to cut off the trouser legs, but continued wea
ring the rest, unwilling to give up the convenience of pockets.
Another time, she spied on a man who sat by the river and sharpened his knife, honing the blade on a stone worn smooth by the river. That, too, she had imitated, using a river rock to sharpen the blade that she wore at her side, honing the steel to a razor-sharp edge.
Sometimes, she stole from the emigrants, snatching clothing that had been spread to dry on rocks by the river. When she outgrew Robby’s trousers, she stole another pair. More than once, she slipped silently into emigrant camps at night, wandering among the sleeping travelers, looking for items that she could use: a pair of wool socks, a new pair of moccasins, suspenders to hold up her trousers, a hunting knife that was stronger and sharper than hers.
By the time she was seven years of age, she was an amazing young savage. From her youngest days, she had done her best to keep up with the pack. As she grew older, her stamina increased until she could run for hours without tiring, eating up the miles with an effortless loping pace.
She could climb like a squirrel, scrambling up rocky faces and sprawling oak trees with ease. She could sit quietly in the forest while a covey of quail walked within a few feet of her, unaware that the motionless figure beneath the trees was a human being. She knew every rock and tree in the pack’s territory—the best time and place to find berries and birds’ nests and edible greens, the best hunting grounds, the best places to hide.
Her life among the wolves was happy. Wauna and Yepa were her mentors; Beka was her friend. She remembered her true parents only dimly; they were vague figures that appeared in her dreams. Mama was a soft voice and a comforting lap, a memory that blended with her memory of cuddling up to Wauna’s warm fur. Papa was a rough voice and a pair of hands that lifted her high above the earth.
She knew that she was different from her packmates. Their bodies were covered with warm fur, while hers was smooth and hairless. Their teeth were strong and sharp, while hers were small and blunt. She had a flat face and a tiny nose and she ran upright, rather than on all fours.
Even so, she thought of herself as a wolf. She watched people—the Indians and the miners—but she did not think of herself as one of them. No, she belonged to the pack. She watched people; she stole from people, but she was not one of them.
PART TWO
1855
9 STONE WOLF
“There are many humorous things in the world; among them, the white man’s notion that he is less savage than the other savages.”
—Following the Equator; Mark Twain
STANDING ANKLE DEEP IN MUDDY WATER, Malila dug for nettle roots. The village chief was suffering from aches and pains in his joints. Malila’s grandfather, Hatawa, was the village healer. He said that bathing in water in which nettle roots had steeped would soothe the chief.
A short distance up the creek, Hatawa was gathering the shoots of the horsetail plant. A tea brewed from these plants would ease a feverish patient. Malila could hear him chanting, giving thanks to the horsetail and the nettle for their help. A shaman and healer, Hatawa knew the proper way to behave. In a world that was changing, it was his duty to strive to maintain the balance between the people and the spirits, a task that had become more difficult since the coming of the strange people who seemed so intent on destroying the world.
The snows had melted in the high country, and the streams were full. The air was cool and carried the scent of green, growing plants.
Before the white men came, Malila’s people had lived on Rock Creek. It had been a rich land, abundant with deer in the hills and fish in the streams. A few white men came, then more, and still more. Then many, many white men, as numerous as ants on an anthill. The white men were as busy as ants, busy destroying the world. Tearing down the hills and throwing dirt into the streams to poison the fish. Cutting down trees and building dirty, crowded villages to which more white men came. Poisoning themselves with their own powerful firewater and letting the visions tempt them to fight and kill their fellow white men—and any others who strayed into their path.
Malila’s people grew sick with diseases—fevers and poxes that killed without mercy. Her mother died of a fever, though her grandfather treated her with herbal medicines and chanted over her sweating body. Against Hatawa’s wishes, Malila’s father went to work in the white men’s mines, saying that he would return with food and clothing and an understanding of the ways of these strange people. But his friends returned without him and told Hatawa that the riverbank had collapsed in an avalanche of rocks and dirt, burying Malila’s father.
When Malila was twelve years old, her village had moved away from the place where their ancestors had lived, building a new village higher in the hills, where the winters were colder but the streams still ran clear. That same year, Malila had been visited by powerful dreams that convinced her grandfather that she had the potential to become a shaman.
High in the mountains, Malila had gone on a vision quest. For three days, she had fasted and prayed. Alone beside a creek, she had drunk a tea that Hatawa had brewed, a sacred drink that brought visions. As she sat in the sunshine, she listened to the creek whisper and babble as it flowed among granite boulders.
One boulder drew her eye. Mottled gray granite, worn smooth by flowing water and blowing wind, it resembled a wolf that had curled up to sleep. Sunlight reflecting from the flowing water played on the boulder’s surface, making the stone look like fur, rippling in the breeze. Malila squinted at the stone, surprised by how much it looked like a sleeping wolf. A shadow formed an ear; two dark streaks marked the animal’s eyes.
As she watched, the stone that was a sleeping wolf opened her eyes, pricked up her ears, and lifted her head to look at Malila. The wolf’s eyes shone in the sun like the gold that the white men sought. Malila closed her eyes, startled at the vision.
She felt hot breath on her face and opened her eyes. A great gray wolf stood before her. The animal’s nose was just inches from Malila’s face. Golden eyes stared into hers. In the pupil of each eye, she could see her own reflection: dark hair, dark eyes wide with excitement.
The wolf spoke to her. “I am glad you have come, my daughter. You will join my pack.”
Malila saw that the other stones were moving, too. A black boulder shook itself and became a black wolf with green-gold eyes. A mica-streaked stone was a silver-gray wolf with pale blue eyes. The landscape shifted around her as the wolves came to sniff her face.
“You will come with us,” the first wolf said.
Once, as a child, her cousin had jumped from a high cliff into a deep pool in the river. Not to be outdone, Malila had followed him, launching herself into space. In that moment of falling, there was joy and terror, an exhilarating rush ending in a splash of ice-cold water.
As she stared into the eyes of the wolf, Malila felt that rush again. She was falling, dizzy, tumbling through space with a rush of joy and terror. Then the rush changed to the headlong rush of running—she was running on all fours. All around her were wolves, great beasts with sharp teeth, grinning and running in pursuit of a deer. The terrified deer stumbled, and the lead wolf, the great wolf who had come to Malila first, leapt up to grab the animal’s nose and pull her head down. The pack was on the deer then, ripping at her haunches and tearing at her throat. Malila was attacking with the others, her teeth bared, her heart burning with a fierce joy.
She came back to her body in the woods with the taste of blood in her mouth. The great wolf still stood beside her. The others surrounded them.
“You are one of us,” the great wolf told her. “You are a wolf. Listen.” Malila listened, and the great wolf sang a song that ebbed and flowed like the voice of the river, a sweet meandering tune like the lullaby a mother sings to comfort her child.
“Remember this,” the wolf said. Then the animal curled up beside the creek, closing her eyes. She became a gray stone beside the water, nothing more.
Malila laid her hand on the stone, and it was warm—perhaps from the sun, perhaps
from the wolf within. There by the flowing water she sang the song the wolf had taught her.
Strong magic, her grandfather had said when she told him of her vision. She had to be strong to contain such a powerful spirit. He worked with her over the years—teaching her to channel her power and use it for healing, teaching her the ways of the shaman.
Now, four years after the wolf had visited her in a vision, she was a self-assured woman of sixteen. She helped her grandfather in ceremonies. When they needed medicinal plants that grew in the lower altitudes, she went with him down the mountain.
The sun was low in the sky when Malila waded out of the water and walked up the creek to where her grandfather was working. “Grandfather! If you stand in the water too long, you’ll need this nettle root as much as the chief. I will make a fire and cook dinner.” That night, they sat by the fire, eating acorn mush. Malila was tired. It had been a long day’s journey from the village to the swampy ground where the horsetails grew, followed by hours of digging to unearth the nettle roots.
Her grandfather must have been tired, but he didn’t show it. He sat by the fire, placidly eating the acorn mush she had prepared. She had seen him in rituals, dancing and calling on the spirits, and she knew his power. But that power was hidden now. The firelight revealed only a tough old man, as enduring as the manzanita bushes that clung to the mountainside. The flames danced in his dark eyes; his skin shone in the firelight like burnished leather.
Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled. Another joined in, and then a chorus. From another direction came an answering howl. Malila glanced at her grandfather, then added her voice to the chorus, letting the wolves know, in their own language, that she was passing through their territory, that she meant no harm.
“They call to me,” she told her grandfather. “Sometimes, I dream about running with them and never coming back.”
He nodded. “You have the wolf in you. But you belong to the people, too.”