Hannah and the Wild Woods

by Carol Anne Shaw

  “Hey,” Marcus says, placing his hand on my arm. “Are you okay?”

  I snap out of it. “Yeah. I … I’m fine. It’s just kind of hot in here, that’s all.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes,” I say, laughing. “Really. I’m fine.” I steer the conversation away from me, but I can’t stop thinking about the tea leaf reading Ruth did for me.

  There’s something about the number nine…

  “You sure know a lot about kitsunes.” I look down at the paper napkin I’ve been shredding in my lap; the paper curls have formed a small mountain on my right knee.

  Marcus suddenly clears his throat, sits up straight and places his left hand over his heart. “I will carry myself with honour. I will protect the defenceless. I will help the helpless. I will seek the good and reject evil. I will speak only the truth. I will serve the light.” He looks at me and then grins. “That’s the Zenko oath. Pretty cool, eh?”

  I nod in agreement. “Very.”

  “I studied Japanese mythology at U of T,” Marcus says, “and kitsunes are pretty cool animals. Very badass.”

  “So, you actually believe all that stuff?”

  “I’m pretty open-minded,” he says with a smile, “especially when it comes to animals. I grew up around here, and two of my best buddies are part of the Nuu-chah-nulth First Nation. They believe all animals are pretty powerful.”

  I think of Jack, and of Two-Step and Tango, the eagles back home in Cowichan Bay that Izzy and I cared for last summer. I couldn’t agree with Marcus and his friends more. “What about wolves?” I ask, thinking about “my” wolf—the one I spotted from my bedroom window.

  “Ah,” Marcus says. “Wolves are special—the Nuu-chahnulth believe they are symbolic of family.”

  That starts me wondering if my wolf has a family, and if she does, where they are? I remember those ribs. She must be so hungry. Is she hunting alone?

  “Some of my best friends are animals,” Marcus says, “and I consider my dog, Alexander, to be part of my family.”

  “Your dog is named Alexander?”

  “Alexander the Great, formally. Alex for short.”

  “I have a raven friend,” I say. “I call him Jack. We’ve been hanging out for almost three years.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. He actually flew all the way up here from the Cowichan Valley, just to be with me over spring break,” I say. “He’s very wise.”

  “No surprise there,” Marcus says. “We should all stop talking so much and listen more to critters, I think.”

  “So, is that why you got your tattoo? Because you listened to that kitsune—that fox? Because she saved your life?”

  “Pretty much. She had my back, to be sure.”

  “So … Zenko kitsunes aren’t dangerous?”

  “Not dangerous, but if there’s a kitsune around, there’s almost always going to be drama.”

  “Really?”

  “Really,” he says. “Firefox power is quite something.”

  “Fire?” I wonder if Marcus thinks I’m an imbecile, because I keep repeating his words, but if he does, he doesn’t let on.

  “Kitsunes and fire go hand in hand. They can actually start them with their tails. And that hoshi no tama they carry around—that’s the source of all their power.”

  I grab hold of the counter again, the image of the smoking tree and the sparking tip of the fox’s tail oh-so-clear in my mind. Lightning? No way. But why would a fox—a kitsune start a random fire in the woods? And to me, that fox actually looked more scared than anything else.

  A horn honks out on the street, and through the window I see Peter waving at us from the idling Chevy.

  Sabrina yells rudely from the other side of the diner. “Come on, Hannah! Let’s GO!” She pays the bill at the cash register and then walks out the door without so much as a thank you to the hostess behind the counter.

  “Oh. My ride is here,” I tell Marcus, standing up. “I have to go, but it was really interesting talking to you. Thanks for the story.”

  “Any time. It was nice talking to you, too, Hannah,” he says. “See you around town.”

  In a daze, and overloaded with information, I walk on shaky legs to the door. Marcus calls out after me. “Hey, Hannah!”

  I freeze. “Yes?”

  “Make sure you keep your eye on that dog.’

  I smile.” Will do.’

  But Norman isn’t the only four-legged creature I’ll be watching.

  Chapter Thirteen

  On the drive back to the lodge, I go over my conversation with Marcus in my head. It’s a relief to know I’m not hallucinating. My eyes are working just fine, thank you very much, and so, it would seem, are my instincts. Right from the start, I knew there was something different about Kimiko. That glass ball I found is her star ball. What did Marcus call it? A hoshi no tama. It’s Kimiko’s hoshi no tama! That’s what she had balanced on her tail next to that smoking tree—something she’s been without since the Japanese tsunami of 2011. Yep, there is no doubt in my mind; our newest Coast-is-Clear member is a kitsune.

  I hate that I have no one I can talk to about this. Certainly not Sabrina! And Izzy? Even if I did manage to catch her on the phone, what can she do from Cow Bay? As for Max, well, Max is doing Max things: surfing and working on his tan. I wonder if he’s even thinking about me at all? His last text the one about my moving to Victoria—was casual at best.

  We work all afternoon at the big dining room table—it feels nice to concentrate on photos and charts and things, but I find myself sneaking glances at Kimiko every chance I get.

  It’s so obvious now … those ears … very fox like … and those amber eyes… not really human eyes at all …

  When dinnertime comes, Kimiko proudly carries out all the sushi she made while we were in town. It’s the most impressive display I’ve ever seen. There must be at least ten different kinds. And kitsune or not, Kimiko has made a delicious meal.

  “Do you like it?” she asks me tentatively.

  “Ifth dewishus,” I say, my mouth mostly full. I’m sampling a delicious fish cake with a red spiral design on top. It reminds me so much of the design on the hoshi no tama. I think I have spirals on the brain!

  “My father would be in food heaven,” Jade says, helping herself to a tuna roll. “He’s crazy about sushi.”

  At the mention of the word “father,” I realize again that I really need to talk to mine. I need to call him, because maybe my aunt got it all wrong. Maybe the house thing isn’t a done deal after all. The more I think about it, the more I decide that’s probably what’s happened. Dad would have told me if something that huge had gone down.

  “Um,” I say, “will you guys excuse me? I just remembered I’m supposed to call my dad.”

  “Try the land line, honey,” Ruth says when I pull out my cell. “The cell service out here is so hit and miss. We’re in a bit of a dead zone.”

  “But it’s long distance,” I say.

  “You can work it off with extra compost duty.” Ruth shoots me a wink before walking off with a stack of empty platters. I wait for her to go back into the Big Kahuna before I pick up the receiver on the wall in the kitchen.

  He answers on the first ring. “David Anderson.” It’s how he always answers the phone. Personally, I’m a fan of the plain old, “hello?”

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “Hey! Hannah Banana!”

  Hannah Banana. My dad has been calling me this ever since I was in diapers. I’m pretty sure I’ll take the embarrassing moniker with me to my grave.

  “Sorry I haven’t called sooner, Dad. Are you still in Toronto?”

  “For a few more days. I just got back to the hotel a few minutes ago—about to eat a grilled cheese sandwich. How are you doing up there, anyway?”

  “Okay,” I say.

  There is a slight pause. “You sure about that, Han?”

  “Sure. I’m fine. Just a little tired. We’ve been working pretty hard up here
and stuff.”

  “Nope,” Dad says. “Not buying it. Never known you to complain about hard work.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I know you, kid. Something’s up. Spill.”

  I sigh. “It’s just …”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s just that Aunt Maddie told me that you and Anne found a house in Victoria, near Beacon Hill Park. But I know she must have got it wrong, because I know you would have told me if it were true. Right?”

  “Hannah,” Dad says, and pauses. It makes me nervous, because whenever parents begin a sentence with your name after you ask them a serious question, it’s never good. “Hannah … of course I was going to tell you, but I thought it would be best to wait until we were both back home.”

  “You mean Aunt Maddie’s right? It’s true?”

  “It was too good an opportunity to pass up, sweetheart. We had to jump on it.”

  “So, we’re moving to Victoria? Just like that? It’s a done deal?”

  “Not until the summer, Hannah. Not till you’re finished school.”

  “Wait. I can’t believe this! You didn’t even ask me!” I look over my shoulder, but except for Norman, I’m the only one in the kitchen.

  “We’ve talked about this a lot, love,” Dad says. “You know the houseboat is falling apart. It would cost the earth to fix it up.”

  “So? Your book is a B.C. best-seller. And you got that big advance in January.”

  “It may be the only book I write that does well, though. I can’t count on royalties.”

  My ears start to burn and I squeeze my eyes shut to try to stop the images of Cowichan Bay that are cycling through my head at warp speed. “This is all about Anne, isn’t it?”

  “What do you mean? I thought you liked Anne.”

  “I do like Anne. She’s great, but—”

  “Hannah,” Dad interrupts. “I like Anne, too. A lot. I didn’t think I’d ever find another person I’d want to share my life with.”

  “It’s that serious?”

  “Yes,” Dad says calmly. “It is.”

  I don’t say anything. I feel numb.

  “Annie needs to be in Victoria, for work. You know that. But as long as I have my laptop and an Internet connection, I can work anywhere.”

  “But what about Cowichan Bay? What about all our friends? It’s our home, Dad.”

  “Cowichan Bay will always be there, Hannah. And our friends will always be our friends. Moving an hour down the road isn’t going to change that. Things can’t stay the same forever, honey.”

  Tears spring from my eyes, and my nose begins to run.

  “Listen,” Dad says. “You’re upset. I understand that. But let’s not do this on the phone. We can talk more when we both get home. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I blubber.

  “I love you, kid. You know that, right?”

  “I know,” I say, but I can’t say it back.

  I hang up the phone and wander over to the sink to stare into the black night outside. Pearl comes into the kitchen on silent paws and begins winding herself around my ankles, but when I bend over to pick her up, she darts out into the hallway.

  I decide to go up to my room and spend the entire evening listening to the foghorn sounding and feeling sorry for myself. I lie on my bed and stare at the wall, unable to remember the last time I felt this lonely.

  A loud crash from the kitchen, followed by a frantic scream interrupts my pity party. Ruth!

  I’m down the stairs in a few bounds and find her standing on the kitchen counter, her back pressed flat against the cupboards. Pearl sits on the floor next to an overturned kitchen chair, casually batting around a little grey mouse with her paw as though it were some sort of fuzzy grey ping-pong ball.

  “Another mouse,” Ruth says, flapping her hands. “I know it’s ridiculous, but I just don’t think I’ll ever get used to them!”

  “Get down from there, Ruthie. It’s not safe.” Peter says, coming into the kitchen. He extends his hand to Ruth.

  “No way! Safer up here than down there,” she says nervously.

  “I don’t get you!” Peter shakes his head. “You can run around Manhattan by yourself in the middle of the night, but you’re freaked out by tiny, harmless rodent.”

  “I know. It’s just that they’re so, so … quick! And sneaky!” She grimaces as Pearl suddenly scoops up the little mouse in her paw. We watch in horror as it somersaults through the air to land across the floor against the baseboard.

  “Don’t worry,” I tell her. “I’ll deal with it.” I don’t know why I say this, because I have no idea how a person is supposed to “deal” with a freaked-out and possibly injured mouse, not to mention a feline in hunt-mode. But luck is with me. I manage to barricade the little guy by the back door in the pantry with a dustpan just long enough to flip open the kitty door. The little grey mouse darts through it with Pearl in close pursuit.

  Godspeed, little grey mouse.

  “Is it gone?” Ruth asks in a shaky voice.

  “It’s all good. You can climb down now.” It’s hard not to laugh when I see the way her white knuckles are clutching at the front of her apron. She just doesn’t seem like the sort of person who would be scared of a mouse. I guess looks can be deceiving.

  Peter helps her down off the counter, and, once on the floor, she sticks her feet back into her slippers. “Phew! I’m glad that’s over. I’m too old to be tiptoeing around on kitchen counters!” She picks up the bucket of vegetable peelings next to the sink and holds it out to me. “Be a love, Hannah? Could you run this out to the compost bin? It’s probably what attracted that little intruder inside the first place.”

  I laugh. “You weren’t kidding about owing for the long distance call. Sure thing.”

  The night air is cold and still. It feels more like mid December than late March. There is no sign of Pearl, or her tiny terrified rodent friend. I hope it got away. I know it is just nature doing its thing, but hey, the mouse got this far. Seems only fair it should have a second chance.

  I walk to the ramshackle outbuilding where the garbage and compost bins are kept. There’s a collection of old pails piled outside the door, and a tangle of hose lying across the path to the shed. It looks like an accident waiting to happen so I do my best to haul the hoses away. Then I place the bucket of vegetable peelings on the ground and pull on the chain hanging from the bare light bulb above the door. That’s when I see them, the tracks on the ground. Dog tracks? They circle around the hose, and then go back toward the lodge where they stop directly under the window. They are a little different from Norman’s tracks, wider somehow, and the two middle toenails point toward each other, instead of away. We did a unit on animal tracks in Environmental Science class last year. These are wolf tracks.

  I whirl around, suddenly conscious of the fact that I’m not alone. And sure enough, as I peer past Ruth’s property line into the shadowy forest, I hear him before I see him—hear the soft swish, swish, swish of his wings as they fly through the night toward me.

  “There you are, buddy,” I whisper as Jack lands on my shoulder. His wing brushes the side of my face, cool and smooth against my cheek. I raise my hand and stroke his tail feathers.

  “You keeping busy exploring?”

  He nods his head and I take that as his answer. It makes me laugh. Good old Jack.

  Something moves in the forest, and Jack makes a throaty little noise from somewhere deep in his chest. The bushes part, but my feet stay rooted to the ground as she emerges from the woods, silent as a ghost.

  Canis Crassodon, the elusive Vancouver Island wolf! It’s the same one as before, the almost-grown female. She stops next to a giant Sitka spruce, her silver, black-tipped tail held straight out behind her. My common sense tells me to retreat slowly and get back to the lodge, but I can’t seem to make myself move so I stay where I am.

  The wolf’s eyes are almond shaped, and they watch me watch her. I force myself to look away for a moment because I don’t
want her to think I’m challenging her but even so, she doesn’t move.

  “Who are you?” I whisper softly. She doesn’t spook when she hears my voice, but she does tilt her head ever so slightly. Then she looks past me to the lodge, and raises her head.

  “What?” I whisper. “Is there something in the tree?” I look up but all I see is the light in our bedroom window.

  Jack jumps from my shoulder to land between us, and the wolf lowers her head to nudge him gently with her nose.

  This feels surreal, like a dream. Here I am, standing in the dark with a raven and a wild wolf. It’s crazy awesome! That the wolf accepts my presence here is even more so.

  The light from the shed travels along the wolf’s back as she circles the spruce tree, revealing flecks of blue and gunmetal-grey fur mixed in with the silver. But she is very thin, and I wonder when, and what, she last ate.

  “Hey! Everything okay out there?” Ruth calls from the kitchen. In a flash both the wolf, and Jack, are gone.

  “Fine!” I call out.

  I dump the peelings in the big bin, run back to the lodge and place the empty compost bucket back in the cupboard under the sink.

  Just as I’m drifting off to sleep, I hear howling again, but it seems so far away, as though it’s travelling across the ocean. I have to concentrate really hard to hear it. I sink lower under the covers, and when it stops, I wait for “my” wolf to answer. Only she doesn’t.

  I can still see her standing so silently beside the big Sitka spruce, its gray-blue needles, so similar to the colour of her fur, almost iridescent under the faint glow of the porch light.

  Sitka. It’s the perfect name for her.

  I spend the next day working on the beach in a state of high alert, watching Kimiko—watching for signs of … anything. I keep my eye out for Sitka, too, but there is no trace of her. No tracks. No nothing. Last night seems like a dream, and eventually I just pull down my hat and get busy doing what I came here to do: clean up.

  It’s so grey and drizzly today that halfway through the morning I dash back to the lodge to put on my favourite piece of clothing that I own—my Cowichan sweater—lovingly made for me by Izzy’s mom, Emma Tate, one of the best Cowichan knitters in the valley. The design she chose for my sweater is beautiful—a raven, of course—and as soon as I have it on, I feel better. The weight and warmth of the wool is comforting; a little slice of home.