Timber Wolf

by Caroline Pignat

  The slow steps creak to a stop just behind me on the other side of the dying fire. I don’t have to hear its wet panting to know it’s there. Can’t I feel the weight of its yellow stare? Its very presence crushes me. I can’t breathe.

  “R-r-r- r,” a low noise rolls up its throat and over its teeth on hot breath. “R-r-r-ruff.”

  There’s nothing to do but face it. I slowly roll to my back, turn my head to where it stands in the embers’ eerie glow. The sight of the creature looming on slender legs both terrifies and amazes me. Be it fear or awe, and probably both, I still can’t take a breath. There is nothing but the wolf and my heart beating in my head.

  Its broad chest of black-tipped, creamy fur rises and falls as each pant passes through its bloodstained muzzle. But it isn’t the fresh blood that holds my stare, nor the deadly fangs behind those black lips. ’Tis the eyes. Framed beneath their dark brows, they seem almost human. More than human, truth be told. For they’re wise. Ageless. Not yellow, but gold, fresh from the blacksmith’s forge, flecked with amber and flickering firelight. And when their black centers find mine, I feel seen. Known.

  Ears pricked, the wolf arches one brow and tilts its head ever so slightly. It seems as intrigued by me, though I can’t imagine what’s interesting about a boy in a bed of boughs, and a scrawny boy, at that. Neither of us moves for a long time. Or so it seems. Then the wolf lowers its head and starts to step forward.

  Scrambling back, I hit the wall. There’s nowhere for me to go, now. I want to scream, but no sound comes. Nosing something forward, the wolf stops right in front of me, and all I can think is, Lord in heaven, he’s breathtaking, as I reach up to touch its creamy coat, just once. The wolf’s bloodied muzzle turns to my hand and I freeze midair, but somehow, somewhere, I know he won’t hurt me.

  His twitching black nose reaches for my fingertips, sniffs, and, satisfied, lowers to nudge a small carcass up onto my lap. A pheasant, or at least I think it was. ’Tis half devoured and a right bloody mess, yet there’s still good eating on what’s left.

  The wolf takes a step back, looks at the bird and then at me.

  “Thank you,” I whisper. My voice cracks the silence, breaking the spell. The wolf turns, lunges back to the wood, then stops at the clearing’s edge for one last look with those golden eyes, before melting into the shadows.

  CHAPTER 10

  I thought I’d dreamt the wolf’s visit, but the half-eaten pheasant I’d cooked and finished for breakfast the next morning was real enough. The wolf could have attacked me in my sleep, it could have eaten me ... and I touched it—petted it, no less! Wait until I tell them—

  Them. Despite my fire’s signal, there’s been no sign of them, whoever they are. No scent of home on the cold air. No sounds but winter’s silence. Touching the wolf emboldened me—as though some of its spirit had seeped from fur to fingers. Enough waiting. ’Tis high time I take matters into my own hands. My side’s near healed and, though my head still aches fierce from time to time, I can handle a trek. I think. How far can it be? Not very—if I am walking in the right direction. Mind you, figuring out exactly which direction is the problem.

  And so I walk. Each day I choose a direction and venture a bit further into the woods, hoping I’ll stumble upon a farm fence or country road that might lead me back to what I can’t recall. I’ve seen glimpses of them in my dreaming. But so far, all I find in my waking is more wilderness.

  After another afternoon of finding nothing but bare trunks and thick evergreen, I am losing hope. My home might well be a stone’s throw away from where I stand and I’ll not see it. Like a needle in a haystack, some familiar voice echoes in my brain. I know the saying but not the sayer, and that only frustrates me all the more.

  “Trees, trees, and more bloody trees!” I yell, startling a hawk from the oak’s top branches. “Tell me, then,” I shout at it. “Tell me what you see.” For if my home is nearby, surely that bird has spied it. But it doesn’t answer. After the wolf encounter, half of me expects the hawk to settle on my shoulder and whisper in my ear—’tis only down the way, lad. You’re nearly there.

  Nearly mad, the other half thinks.

  “Bad enough I can’t remember a thing,” I mutter. “Now, I’m cursing trees and berating birds—not to mention talking to myself.” I sigh, still wishing I could see what that bird sees. “And why can’t I?”

  I don’t remember climbing trees, but I surely have, for, with little thought and even less effort, I scurry up the oak. Moving limb to limb like a right squirrel, I climb until the slender branches near the top bend beneath my weight. Without the shelter of the forest, the biting wind skips along the treetops, stopping to gnaw at my cheeks. It stings my eyes and makes them water, but I rub them on my mitten and scan the horizon, twice to be sure. There has to be some clue, a sign, something to give me a sense of which way leads home, but all I see is a thawing river, cutting through miles upon miles of rolling forest. A gray sea of wood. And me adrift in the middle of it.

  The climb down is slow going, but what’s the rush? Is there any point in trekking further? Is there any point in waiting to be found? Is there any point at all?

  I just want to sit down and cry. For a moment, I think I will. But if someone is looking for me, the last thing I’d want is for them to come upon me blubbering like a right fool.

  And if they’re not looking for me?

  Well, I wipe my runny nose on the back of my mitten, if they’re not looking, well then, crying’s no help, neither.

  My stomach rumbles, reminding me of how long it’s been since it had that pheasant. Knowing which way to go is no use if I don’t have food, if I don’t keep up my strength. Picking up my spear, I follow the gorge, a trail I know will take me to the lake. To fish. Now all I have to do is figure out how to catch one.

  CHAPTER 11

  Trudging through the snow warms me up, but I’m careful not to overheat. Sweating only makes me that much colder once I stop moving. I’d learned that the hard way while gathering wood a few days ago.

  With every step, the snow rises and falls, rises and falls, like whitecaps spilling off a ship’s prow. And me the figurehead. I smile at the thought. For I’m nothing like the mythical women carved on ships’ prows, with their wild hair and full bosoms. Sure, I don’t even look like the bearded monk carved on the front of my ship.

  I stop. My ship.

  His wooden face is as clear to me as the trees before me, hair carved as though caught in the sea wind as he gazes out at the wide horizon. I remember studying his chiseled profile before I boarded, desperately trusting he would bring me to that distant place he’d set his sights upon. Don’t look back. Don’t look back.

  And yet now, I can’t. I close my eyes, try to see more than his face. What is this ship? Who is with me? Where are we going? But I see nothing. The memories are buried deep, like summer grass, waiting for the thaw. And I can do nothing but stare at wide, blank white and wait.

  “Dunbrody,” I whisper the word, unsure if it is his name or mine. Or perhaps the place I left. A sharp wind swirls the snow around me, bringing me back to the woods. “Dunbrody,” I repeat. I know this name, I do, and I don’t want to let it go for fear I’ll lose it forever. Setting down my spear, I pull out my knife and take off my belt. The brown leather is worn, but smooth enough for the task at hand. Slipping off my mittens, I rest the belt on a fallen tree and beside the wolf print and days’ tally, begin to carve the tired leather. d ... u ... n ... my fingers sting from the cold and I stop to rub them, blow some heat into their icy cup. I know enough to take my time with the carving. A slip of the knife would prove costly. b ... r ... o ... d ... y. Finally, I finish. The letters along the middle of the strap are small and crooked, but legible. Permanent. Satisfied, I pocket the knife, rub my reddened hands, don mittens and belt, and continue deeper into the world of white.

  The gorge trail leads me to the lake, a great slab of ice, rimmed by barren sticks and stalks. Traveling the shoreline, I search
for the best fishing site, but even with the recent thaw and bit of water lapping the shore, the ice is still too thick. No fish are in the shallows. Where then? I wonder. For surely, Mahingan has found some. Deeper? But how did he get them?

  My eyes drift over the sheet of white, stopping on a darker patch about a hundred yards offshore. It hits me then. If the lake is frozen, you just walk on it to deeper waters. Simple. I fairly glow with pride, and rightly so. For there’s none can outsmart me. Not even that Mahingan. “My family hunting grounds,” I sneer as I gingerly step onto the ice, but ’tis solid enough. “Whose forest is it now, boyo?”

  CHAPTER 12

  Snippets of a story come to mind—a man, Peter, I think, tries to walk on water but sinks because he doesn’t believe. I can scarce believe it myself. This is solid ice, I tell myself, yet with every gust of wind, every time I look back at the shore disappearing behind me and imagine the lake deepening beneath me, panic ripples in my gut. This is madness!

  A loud crack echoes from behind. I turn, half expecting to see Mahingan there, chopping firewood, or standing, slingshot cocked, aiming his next shot at me, but the shore is empty. I curse myself for being so jumpy, blame it on the lake. The sooner the better I’m off this thing. I spy the hole. It’s about a foot across, if that. So, that’s how he does it. The discovery delights me, so it does. Without the ice lid to stop me, I know now I can catch as many fish as I can eat. But the delight doesn’t last long, for as I squat to peer into the circle of black water, I realize this hole is too dark, too small. Even if there is a fish in there, I’ll not see it.

  A small snowball hits my cheek like an ice fist. I shake my head to make the ringing stop, only to hear him shouting, “... you pwanawito ... ininigoban! ”

  Mahingan. I should have known. He’s pacing back and forth, arms flailing as he yells from the shoreline, his glare colder than the ice melting down my neck. I have no idea what he’s saying, and, by the sound of it, that’s probably just as well. I wipe my stinging face and, standing, turn to the shore as I rest the butt of my spear on the ice. He doesn’t scare me. “You don’t own this lake!” I shout back. “Keep your bloody hole, I’ll dig my—”

  A thunderous crack rings out like a shot. For a second, I think it is a gun—only it came from beneath my feet.

  The ice!

  The terror on Mahingan’s face mirrors my own. But before I can move a muscle, before I can take another breath, the ice beneath my feet splinters and explodes, plunging me into the frigid lake, and I’m swallowed in biting cold. Stunned, I sink into numbness for a few long seconds—

  No!

  Kicking hard, I break the water’s surface. Coughing. Gasping for air. I claw at the ice, desperate for a hold. ’Tis as though time itself has slowed, sodden, frigid, and heavy. Twice, I get a grip and thrust with my legs. I no sooner mount the ice’s edge when it shatters beneath me and I’m submerged once again. The cold crushes me, squeezes my lungs, squashes my brain. I can’t last much longer. I haven’t the strength. ’Tis as though some creature wants to pull me to the depths. Swallow me in darkness. Giving in, I sink one last time.

  Already, my soul has left my hands and feet, for I feel them no longer. Light ripples above, only inches away, but even that seems so far.

  Too far.

  CHAPTER 13

  “Da?” I shiver.

  Someone raises my head, presses a cup to my lips. The hot, sweet tea radiates like an ember rolling down my chest as I swallow. It feels good. Like the glow of hearth light from a window at the end of a long, dark road. The promise of home.

  I wonder if I am there now. My memory strains with my eyes as they focus on the sapling framework crisscrossing overhead, the smoke drifting through the hole into the black sky. The scent of evergreen fills my head. Helps it clear. No, this isn’t home. For as surely as I don’t know where I am, I do know I’ve never been here before.

  I want to get up, get answers, but the shadow beside me lowers my head and I haven’t the strength to lift it. Once again, I feel myself going down. The swallowing darkness. The sense that something is dragging me under. Only this time, it’s warm and welcoming and I sink into it wholeheartedly.

  “You snore like a snuffling skunk.”

  Something pokes my shoulder, waking me from my deepest sleep in ages. I know I slept like the dead, for I can’t for the life of me recall who I am or where I am, but even as my mind comes to—neither are answered. The only thing I do know is the lad before me, the one poking me with that bloody stick.

  “Mahingan,” I mutter, rubbing my head, annoyed that the one thing I can recall is the person I least want to. “Where am I?”

  I look around the small dwelling. ’Tis as though we are under a great cone of bark. The floor, a circle twelve feet across, is carpeted in fresh evergreen boughs. A hide, much like the one covering me, hangs over what must be the door. Dangling from a long rope, a pot simmers over the fire in the middle. Mahingan pokes at the embers. There’s no one here but him and me. I feel for my knife, surprised to discover that under this fur blanket, I’m as naked as the day I was born. “Where’s my knife,” I blurt, “and my clothes?”

  Mahingan jabs at the burning log with his poking stick. “You call that a knife?”

  “My father gave it to me,” I say. “I want it back.”

  He draws a large knife from the sheath by the fire. “This is my father’s knife. One worthy of a great son.” He flourishes its shining blade at me. I cringe, but only because I’m naked, unarmed, and vulnerable. He doesn’t scare me. Not really. If I had my knife or my spear, or even a pair of breeches, I’d take him.

  “Judging by how you skinned my rabbit,” he looks at me, “a good knife would just be wasted on you.”

  That’s it. Pants or not, he’s getting it. I fling the mound of hides and lunge for him. Be it my ferocity or, more likely, the sight of my naked body, winter white and mottled with yellow-green bruises, leaping for him, I catch him by surprise and gain the advantage. But it doesn’t last long. For a small lad, he’s fair strong. Next thing I know, I’m on my back and he is straddling across my chest, knife at my throat.

  “I’ll show you how it’s done.” A grin seeps across his dark face. “Let’s skin a skunk.”

  CHAPTER 14

  “Mahingan!” The word is hard and sharp, striking its target dead center. The man’s voice is surprisingly powerful, given his lean frame. He says something to Mahingan in a language I don’t understand, but his tone is clear enough. Mahingan relents, shifting his weight off me.

  If the old man entering through the door is surprised to see a white, buck-naked boy wrestling at his fireside, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he opens his hand and waits for Mahingan to lay the great knife in his palm. I wonder if the old man will strap him for that. Pulling a knife on a guest, and a sickly guest at that. But the old man seems more upset about the fact that Mahingan touched the knife than by what the boy was doing with it.

  Sheathing the blade once more, he reverently returns Mahingan’s father’s knife by the fire.

  Mahingan, flustered, gestures at me as though ’tis my fault he attacked me with a knife. “Mishomis, he— ”

  The old man raises his hand, cutting Mahingan short. He’s built like Mahingan, lean and wiry, with the same dark eyes, same nose and cheekbones whittled to sharp points. They must be related. His father? No, too old. Grandfather, then. Still, for a small man, there’s a certain power about him. His long hair may be white and his skin weathered, but his presence alone leads me to think that underneath the icy exterior, the current runs strong and deep.

  He grasps my clothes, draped over sticks on the other side of the fire. I hadn’t even noticed them there, but the sight of them reminds me I’m naked. I reach for them but, once again, the old man holds up his hand. “Patience.” His English is as good as Mahingan’s, but his accent is richer, bolder, like a well-steeped tea. He makes no move to give me the clothes, though they look dry enough. Still, I’m a good bit s
haky and my head aches. I know I’m too weak to leave just yet, so I sit down and wrap myself in one of the hides as Mahingan scowls. Besides, whatever’s simmering smells inviting, even if Mahingan’s face is not.

  I wait for his grandfather to ask me questions. Surely, he’s wondering where I came from or what my name is, at least. But he doesn’t speak. Slowly, he fills a bowl with hot liquid from the pot of boiling bones. He hands it to me and another to Mahingan, before settling fireside with his own. My stomach rumbles as the steam wafts into my face. As good as it smells, and as hungry as I am, ’tis answers I most want—only no one’s offering any. The three of us slurp in silence until I can take it no longer.

  “Do you know me?” I blurt. “I mean, do you know who I am? Where I came from?” Even as I say it, each question sounds more ridiculous.

  The old man doesn’t look up from his steaming bowl. I wonder if he’s slightly deaf. I speak a bit louder.

  “It’s just I think ... I think I’m lost ...” My voice cracks on the last word and my eyes burn. It must be the steam or maybe the smoke from the fire.

  Mahingan snorts. The man cocks his white eyebrow, and his dark gaze smothers any further sounds from the boy.

  So not deaf, not by a long shot. Still, the old man’s silence tells me he can’t help me. He doesn’t know the answers.

  “Crane,” he says, between sips, his full attention on his bowl.

  “That’s my family name?” I ask.

  “By the river, he stands on one leg. For hours he does not move. But when a fish swims by—splash!” The man’s arm snaps out and back before closing in a tight fist. “He grabs it.”