Long Snows Moon

by Stacey Darlington

  “Lovely to meet you, too.” Devon smiled.

  “She’s right. I know exactly which one I want to give you.”

  “Sorry I’m not much help.”

  “Come back into the kitchen and relax.” Jameson helped her into a chair and pushed her up to the table. “Don’t worry, please unwind, I want you to be open to the experience we are about to have. Can I get you anything for right now?”

  “I feel like a princess,” Devon admitted, “having you wait on me like this.”

  “I’m sure that’s nothing new for you. You are obviously wealthy. What about your servants and housekeepers?”

  Devon giggled, “Servants? Don’t be silly. I do have a housekeeper that comes once a week, I take care of myself and always will. Maybe I was born into a life of privilege, but my mother wasn’t. I have humble roots.”

  “Do you really?” Jameson teased.

  “Sure,” Devon nodded eyeing the bottle of liquor still on the table. “I’ll tell you my life story later. It will take about five minutes.”

  “I doubt that, but it’s a deal, and I’ll tell you mine.” She turned to leave.

  “Jameson,” Devon asked, “would you bring me a glass, please? With two ice cubes?”

  Jameson did and left the kitchen.

  Devon heard Moon groan when she poured herself a drink. She sulked under the kitchen table.

  “Just one,” Devon assured Moon. “One little one.”

  When the dirty water makes you cry, my sister, who will sing you to sleep?

  Devon searched the room for the voice. She narrowed her eyes at Moon.

  “Did you hear that?”

  Moon barked twice.

  Chapter Seventeen

  An hour later, they were deep within the woods setting up camp in a familiar clearing. After Jameson built a fire, she put up the tent. Devon watched her, feeling contented, from atop the mound of blankets and bedrolls Jameson arranged for her. The fire crackled, its flames licked curiously high and Devon swore she saw the shape of a snake within the smoke.

  We are all prey to something.

  She watched Moon explore the edge of the bank, extending a tentative paw toward the water. She looked back at Devon and barked.

  “I know, it’s cold, huh? You’re okay. You’re wearing your lovely winter coat.”

  Moon barked and pranced along the edge of the bank, yipping at the tiny ripples in the water.

  “Moon,” Jameson called. “Would you get me some more branches? About this size, please.” She showed her a branch.

  Moon barked once and began to gather branches and twigs.

  Devon sipped brandy from her flask and tossed the kindling Moon retrieved into the fire.

  A semi-circle of tightly knit trees canopied the clearing. The tent hugged the edge of the woods, close to the narrow path that led them there. The fire was set up a few feet from the tent. Between the fire and the stream was a circular pattern of rocks that was about the diameter of child’s inflatable pool. The strange formation that baffled Devon the night before still baffled her now.

  Jameson joined Devon on the stack of blankets, her beautiful face gleaming with excitement and the work involved in putting up the tent. She took the flask from Devon and had a sip.

  “I’m glad you decided to humor me and come back out here,” she admitted, handing the flask back to Devon. “I know you didn’t want to.”

  “I’m not much of a nature girl, that’s all. But, I do love the company,” Devon smiled.

  Jameson draped a blanket over Devon’s shoulders.

  “This is cozy, so soft,” Devon muttered, wrapping it around her.

  “My mother gave it to me when I went to college.”

  “What did you study?”

  “Art, but I dropped out when I found out my mother was ill.”

  “That must have been awful. I can’t even imagine losing my mother. Well, I can imagine it, but I suppose her leaving without a trace is better than her leaving this life.”

  “See what you’ve learned? The scope of your view has widened and you are able to see beyond what is happening at hand. Growth is about perspective. I learned that lesson right here, in this clearing the night my mother died. That was when I made the medicine wheel. That was the moment I began to walk the wheel towards perfection of being.”

  “How can a bunch of rocks help you with that?”

  “Each rock within the wheel corresponds to a separate lesson. The center stone represents The Great Mystery, God, Wakan Tanka, and the essential part of your being. The four outer stones are the four cardinal directions, east, south, west, and north, each with its own teaching. For instance, the south represents the animals, plants, and trees. The Great Mystery has provided us these things for our sustenance. They give themselves for our essential needs, the clothes we wear as well as food and shelter. In addition, as you now know, the south is the direction of trust, honesty, and youth.”

  “It’s like an empathy wheel,” Devon mused.

  “Yes.”

  “This is interesting to me. I have always had an interest in Native American culture probably because of you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, meeting you as a child changed me. I never finished college either, but I wanted to study American history.”

  “You still can.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Well, you inspired me,” Jameson said.

  “How?”

  “In my art,” Jameson told her. “I used to sit under a tree at school waiting for my mother or Lauren to pick me up, thinking about you.”

  “You thought about me?”

  Jameson nodded as she touched the locket around her neck. “All the time, that’s why I carved a protection for you into the tree. My art teacher caught me.”

  “Oh no, did you get in trouble?”

  “No way. Granville loved my work, I could have spray-painted graffiti on the school walls and he would have applauded my technique.”

  “You called your teacher, Granville?”

  “Not to his face. He was really young, fresh out of college.”

  “Your first crush?” Devon teased.

  “My second,” Jameson blushed.

  Devon stroked Jameson’s face. “I thought about you, too.”

  “What did you think about?”

  Devon averted her eyes. “I thought about sleeping beside you. I thought about how your hot hands would feel on my skin. I thought about your mouth and imagined kissing you and that you tasted like peppermint gum and cigarettes.”

  “Pretty racy thoughts,” Jameson chuckled. “Gum and cigarettes, huh?” She took a pack of peppermint gum from her pocket and offered it to Devon.

  Devon chuckled and took a piece. “Okay, tell me more about the protection thing you carved for me. Or show me like you did before. What an amazing meditation. Plus, I love seeing you as a little girl.”

  “Oh yeah? Okay, then I will take you to meet my art teacher, Granville. Close your eyes and see me in the woods. I’m fourteen.”

  * * * *

  “It’s hotter than hell,” Jameson muttered as she tramped along the well-worn path through the woods to her private place. She chuckled at how Lauren Martine said it with her Creole accent.

  “It’s hotter than a witch’s tit in a brass bra,” Jameson mimicked.

  The raven flitted from branch to branch and cast a reproachful look.

  “Well, it is,” Jameson shrugged. Shadow Wolf would have thought it was funny.

  She was smack dab in the middle of her summer break and loving being able to roam the woods whenever she chose. She was glad school was finally out it had been so boring lately. Only her art teacher made it all bearable. Granville Allbright was the best teacher Jameson ever had. He was warm and encouraging and a gifted painter himself. He introduced Jameson to acrylic and Jameson’s talent flourished under his guidance.

  Jameson knew that Granville had a raven totem like her. This gave them a secret connection. She
also knew he put up a false front, pretending that being terrorized by bullies all of his life for being sensitive and artistic hadn’t bothered him. She wished she didn’t see this about him, but she couldn’t stop her visions, or knowings, as she called them. She also knew he never told anyone that they broke his finger or that he taped it to an ice cream stick. As a result, couldn’t bend it so it stuck out when he used a paintbrush or pencil. This brought on chuckles from the boys in the class. Stupid boys that judged based on what they saw instead of what they knew. The crooked pinky finger made Granville more charming to her if that was possible. Plus, he had a cool name, Granville Allbright. It sounded like the name of a renowned artist, although Jameson also knew he would never be more than a schoolteacher.

  Granville was like Two Stars, both lone wolfs and both with a crooked part.

  When she looked at Granville with his sparkly blue eyes and ruffled hair, she saw him as a twelve-year old child. She knew when he was with her he felt like one. He was not far from his teen years, although he seemed a hundred years older than Jameson did at the age of twenty-two.

  Granville would get a good chuckle over the witch’s tit thing, too. Who wouldn’t?

  It was because of Granville she sought her private place in the woods, partly him, and partly Shadow Wolf. Not to mention that she didn’t want Doc Jo Jo fawning all over her as she did any time Jameson drew, painted or created something. She would be carving her first flute today and she wanted to focus. She felt inspired when her animals were around her. She felt dozens of eyes peering nosily at her through the bushes or from the trees. Jameson enjoyed the company of the Standing People, the trees. It was especially important they observed her as she transformed one of their brother’s branches into a musical instrument.

  “I will give you a beautiful voice,” she told the trees, smiling and waving the branch she held. She’d cut and dried a cedar branch for her flute. She planned to carve the spirit keepers on it, Mudjewkeewis, Wabun, Shawnodese, and Waboose, as they represented the four cardinal directions. She wanted to please her mother with the tribute.

  Carving the flute was a challenge she accepted from Granville when he discovered her sitting beneath a tree in the empty schoolyard the day school let out for the summer. She’d been ashamed when he caught her whittling into the tree. She carved the image of a wolf with a raven flying above it. She thought back to the day, just a few weeks prior, that inspired her today . . .

  * * * *

  Intrigued, he flopped down, all legs and arms, and marveled at the carving. He informed her she was far and above the most astonishing artist he ever met at any age and in any given medium. Jameson laughed at the way his eyes lit up and he raked his fingers through his shaggy hair in bewildered awe.

  “A god-given gift, amazing,” he muttered, lighting a cigarette and offering one to Jameson.

  She took one and he lit it for her not taking his eyes off the carving.

  “What else do you carve? What do you use?” he wondered as he traced his fingers over the images on the tree.

  Jameson took a deep drag and drew her knees to her chest. “I carve sticks and branches, whatever I feel like. I use this old pocket knife, it belonged to my dad.”

  “Wow, incredible,” he nodded.

  “It’s not that great, give me a break.” Jameson rolled her eyes.

  Granville Allbright laughed. “Talented and humble, it runs in the family, huh?”

  “What do you mean?” She studied the ember on her cigarette.

  “Your father was a gifted writer. I have one of his books, Rhythm of Nations. I’ve read it three times. I heard he donated all the money he made from his book sales back to the local tribes.”

  “They were the ones who gave him the knowledge for his books, why shouldn’t he give the money to them?”

  Granville grinned. “Most people wouldn’t have.”

  Jameson didn’t like discussing her father.

  “He wasn’t most people,” she stated. She snuffed her cigarette out between the blades of grass then stuffed the butt in her jeans pocket.

  “Have you ever tried to carve a flute? It would such a reverence to make the Standing People sing.”

  “The trees sing to me all the time,” Jameson shrugged, secretly excited about the idea.

  “Is there any significance to your carving?” he asked as he ran his fingers over the images, studying each cut and scrape of her knife. “Are they your animal totems?”

  Jameson smiled. It was cute he knew about totems.

  “No, I just like wolves and birds,” Jameson fibbed, not willing to tell him the truth. This, too, was personal. She carved it for Shadow Wolf. The symbol of the raven above the wolf was a protection for her and a tribute to their meeting. It was sacred.

  Granville studied her with admiring eyes and a smile that said he knew she lied.

  Keep your secrets, my sister, the truth unspoken is still the truth. I see strength in your reserve.

  * * * *

  She didn’t have to tell him the truth. Thoughts relating to Shadow Wolf were sanctified. They were tucked in a private place in her mind. It was a pure place.

  Jameson held the branch above her head.

  “Shadow Wolf, I will use the flute I create to comfort you when you are sad and lonely. When a breeze moves the trees hear me whisper, I love you.”

  Now, the path opened to the small clearing by the rivulet. Jameson imagined the fawn at the bank except this time, she didn’t slip into the hungry water.

  Run, little sister, it’s not your time.

  Remembering the fawn made her feel angry and betrayed. The memory of the fawn’s terrified eyes as it slid, flailing into the stream, the memory of the owl’s harsh words.

  She belongs to the woods now.

  She flopped down on ground and leaned against a tree. She tucked thoughts of Shadow Wolf away from such a gloomy image. Although she crossed many other animals since the deer, she still suffered for her the most. It made her understand to be maternal. Her anger at herself stemmed from helplessness to ease its terror. That must be how Doc Jo Jo felt when Jameson got hurt or put herself in danger. She filed the notion away and would reference it later, when her mom gave her a hard time about approaching wild animals like Two Stars. It made more sense now, on a different level.

  Jameson smiled up at her raven that was, per usual, perched above her.

  “I guess I’m maturing,” she declared.

  The raven squawked and flapped its wings in approval.

  Jameson set about her task. She arranged her carving tools on the ground in front of her. She decided later she would do some inlay work with turquoise and onyx around the finger holes. That would be a pretty combination on the amber wood. Maybe she would do a deer with a raven above it near the mouthpiece.

  Perhaps an owl.

  Jameson scowled at the owl. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping? I’m busy, go away.”

  Your services are needed, my sister.

  “No, find someone else. All of this death ruins my happiness.”

  Death happens whether you are happy or unhappy.

  “I know,” Jameson sighed. “It’s just so sad.”

  Perhaps they welcome the opportunity to cross over and do not fear it as most Two-legged do.

  * * * *

  Devon was at full attention with the blanket pulled around her. “Amazing, I saw everything like it was a movie.”

  “See, you can journey and you didn’t even know it.”

  “Journey? You mean the meditation?”

  “Yep.”

  “Okay. I heard you.”

  Jameson chuckled. “I’m glad your ears are working.”

  “I mean I heard you whisper in the trees. I heard it all the time growing up. Then it went away for a while.”

  “It didn’t go away, you just weren’t tuned in.” Jameson pulled out a smoke. “Do you mind?”

  “Of course not, oh, you roll your own?”

  “I grow my own blen
d.”

  “Okay, so what was this owl telling you to do? What services?”

  “I help animals cross over. Sometimes I do healing on them, but mostly I help them cross.”

  “Holy shit,” Devon breathed, taking Jameson’s cigarette and dragging deeply. “That tastes like pot.” She handed it back with a grimace.

  “It’s an acquired taste.”

  “You do save them sometimes, right?”

  “Occasionally, not often. Almost never.”

  Jameson got up, ran long metal skewers through ears of corn, stuck them in the ground, and suspended them over the fire. “I hate it. But I have to do it.” She joined Devon under the blanket. “It's my gift.”

  “Some gift. Did you have to cross your own dog? Is that why you never replaced her?”

  “She is incomparable to me. Berry’s death hit me almost as hard as the loss of my mother. I will never get over losing either of them. Their deaths were both sudden. Besides, I have all of the creatures in these woods as my companions.” She turned to the woods and whistled.

  Immediately, branches began to snap and rustle. Eyes appeared from the shadows. Devon peered into the woods her eyes wide with surprise.

  “What are they, wolves?” she breathed.

  “Yes, and others,” Jameson nodded. She whistled again and the eyes retreated.

  “No wonder you’re not afraid to live in the woods or to camp out here. You’re protected.”

  “I’m not afraid of anything,” Jameson stated.

  “Come on, you have to be afraid of something,” Devon countered.

  “Nope, nothing.”

  “Well, I have a fear of frogs,” Devon admitted.

  “My mom was afraid of butter,” Jameson told her.

  “Isn’t that odd?”

  “I always thought so.”

  “Seriously, you’re not afraid of anything?”

  “Afraid of needing someone, I guess, of losing them.”

  “I can relate.”

  They ate their corn in silence, Devon burdened by the heavy nature of Jameson’s gift.

  When they finished, Devon stood and pulled Jameson to her feet. Together they entered the tent.

  When Jameson changed her sweater for a heavy sweatshirt, Devon noticed the scar across her abdomen.