Fragments*

*Originally posted at Cascade Mountain Wolf

The Traveler

Once I had a name.

I began my life as prairie wolves had done for millennia; I rejoiced with my siblings, I hunted mice in the long grass and licked the sweet dew from the autumn rain. Life was hard then; food was always urgency and surplus was unknown. Still we embraced what life there was, ever knowing that we were free and the prairie was ours. On rare occasions, when the moon is high and the wind caresses the leaves of my new home, I recall the days of my youth beneath the endless night skies.

There is not much good in remembering the end of those days, the dormant rage ever threatens to rise again and once more make me a thing of terror. It suffices to say that my life would forever change. Perhaps it was fortune that I was not murdered, instead one of the few chosen for exhibition behind bars of iron. Perhaps it was damnation. The brief death that frees us to our eternal life is a small price to pay for avoiding the horror and hate that I have known. I must recall some detail, however; at the risk of stoking the fires of vengeance, that my story might be told.

They took me away from my ancient home, far to the east, I remember my neck burned and ached from the rope they used to imprison me in a hard little box. I remember the forests of this strange place, the first forests I had ever seen. I could not feel their splendor. I could only feel the hard box that stole my freedom and the pain of my abused body. And the suffocating sadness.

I arrived in the place called the Ouachita, a hilled and forested land unlike the sea of grass that I had once known. There I was forced into a room of iron and stone. Far too small for even a solitary young wolf, I immediately smelled – and then saw – that I was not alone in this gaol. A strange wolf, his coat a light gray, lay in the only dry corner. His eyes watched me intently though his body did not move. He surely knew I was not of his tribe; a slight red marked my fur, as it often did those of my people.

This other wolf, Toromo was his name I believe, had also come from a distant place. Once he had roamed the ancient hills to the east. We did not fight; I believe we longed for the comfort of another like ourselves. As the coming days brought many men, some with eyes of curiosity and others with malevolent stares, I needed him more than him me. Other than the distant crack of a rifle or billowing black beast that thundered down track stretching the whole world over, I had never known man before he took away my family and my freedom. Now they were at nose-length from me, on the outside of the iron bars, and their smell was everywhere. Toromo was accustomed to this grotesque existence, though he loathed the bars and the jeering faces. His strength kept me alive and his wisdom prepared me for a future that at the time I dared not dream I would have.

When I was struck in the mouth by a rock, Toromo comforted me with stories of his youth. He remembered the fragrance of wild roses on the slopes beneath the mountains, and how his people roamed the highlands and the dales, searching out the sweet taste of venison. I had never seen a deer, much less eaten one; but old Neit of my people knew of them. I hearkened back to Neit and his stories as a solace during my darkest hours, and I found that I had learned everything from him. Toromo brought Neit’s words back to me, and in my darkest hours the two stood side-by-side in my mind, pushing me to survive, to hope again for freedom. Toromo was much like Neit and shall forever hold a place in the most sacred heart of my spirit.

The summer slipped away, and in the autumn, as the trees burst forth in a bonfire of color, I did take heed of them. For the first time since I had lost my freedom I noticed something of beauty. Much as the leaves themselves, the small joys would not last. I grew ever accustomed to men. Their smells no longer terrified me; their bodies spoke to me, some were fearful in spite of the iron bars, others had a strange sympathy for my plight. Some were full of hatred; these almost mocked me as if I would be the last, lost member of my dead people. The fiery evil in their eyes promised me that. But fury and hatred would not be theirs alone; a time was coming when I too would embrace that darkness.

I would leave the world of cages and faces in the late fall; it was a blessing, but one that would take much time to understand and even longer to appreciate. Men forced us into boxes; I was sure we were to be killed, and when the thought arose I became sad, not because I would perish, but for the lack of fear and anguish that I felt. There was a numb void; death no longer mattered. I lamented the impending doom of Toromo; he deserved a much richer fate, to die old and satisfied, looking one last time at his grandchildren playing near the den.

We did not die; instead we were loaded into a man-vehicle, a four-wheeled, smoky creation that ran on dirt and stone rather than rail. Toromo was unperturbed; he had suffered this before. He told me we were going to a large gathering of men; there would be a large, soft room and other animals, bears and huge cats called lions. They would look at us, some having come from far away where wolves had not ever lived. Then we would return to the cold stone room. We did not arrive at our destination, however. On a winding trail deep in the Ouachita the man who controlled the metal man-vehicle somehow lost his mastery of the metal beast. We crashed and I believe he was slain; he did not emerge from the devastated front of the creation. The boxes that held us leapt from the flat rear of the metal-thing and we came to rest among the trees. Both Toromo and I were released from our enclosures, bruised but otherwise unharmed. One of our companions, an energetic and likeable coyote was sadly killed in the accident. We honored him for a moment, I mentioned the time I deliberately chased a mouse from our cell and into his waiting paws; and then we devoured his body for energy. There was no more time for remorse; if we were to survive and regain our freedom, we would need the strength his little body would provide. His final act in death was a gift to us, a gift of life.

Toromo and I ran blindly, putting as much distance as possible from the wreck. We knew that men would come and would scour the earth for us. They would not cage us this time; they would kill. This I actually preferred; never again would I lose my birthright. For three nights we fled until, exhausted, we settled in a small copse of river birch. It was there that I realized that we must part company. Toromo said nothing; yet his sorrowful eyes betrayed that he too had come to that conclusion. Toromo would head home, to the east. He would seek out the mountains and the thick woodland and search for the remains of his tribe. I would make my way west, to my beloved prairies and endless starry skies. We both knew that two wolves would attract attention in this alien land, home to our red cousins but now bereft of our people and their haunting night voices. It was time to say goodbye.

I never did meet Toromo again, and a part of my spirit departed with him as he loped off into the tangled woods.

I would wander the forested land through the winter and into spring. Occasionally I would detect the man-smell; my time in the stone room had made their scent intimate to me, and now just the faintest waft betrayed their presence. I became so skilled at sensing them and anything that they had touched that I could track and observe humans from a distance without them ever knowing. They seemed blind to my stare; this was at first quite surprising, as every animal I had known, friend and foe, predator and prey, would have felt my eyes and either fled or prepared for battle. After a while the humans came rarely or not at all; they must have thought us dead or long gone. I knew the difficulty of finding food in the prairie to the west, especially in winter, so I lurked the wooded Ouachita where mice and rabbits lived, and I spied my first deer. I honed my already sharp hunting skills and became adept at the swift kill. Soon I too experienced the sweet taste of venison, so enjoyed by my departed friend Toromo.

I did not lose sight of my mission, my heart’s desire to go home. That is, until the early spring day when I found the little wooden place.

It was obviously a man-place; there were no windows, but a door of wood that scraped the dirt. Near the wooden place was a large man-den made of logs and a man-vehicle not unlike the one that had unintentionally returned my freedom. When I first came to the little wooden place, smoke was coming from the man-den. I decided to observe this place. I do not remember why it fascinated me so, why I did not feel any fear when any sane wolf would have. Perhaps the losses, the pain and the anger had bled the sanity from my mind.

There are times I wish I had abandoned that horrible place; times I wish I had continued my trek to the sparse woods of the west and on to the grass. I would have remained ignorant; I could have still felt the warmth of happiness. I would not have become the monster I have been.

A man came from the man-den. He was carrying a large piece of meat, cradled in his arms. This he tossed into the open back of the man-vehicle. I had not seen very many men with their food, but those I observed seemed concerned that it never strike the earth, nor did they allow flies to alight upon it. I was bewildered that this man would so carelessly throw his meat into the open end of the man-creation. Caution is vital in dealing with humans, and I did not allow my curiosity to best me; I waited until the humans departed or returned to their man-den.

Return they did; and among the awakening trees and brush I crept closer. I had long ago smelled the men. Now I began to smell the meat. My first thoughts were of stealing this huge piece. My stomach growled as my nose enticed me further. Again I triumphed over my desire, and I waited in a small, obscured ditch near the man-vehicle. When I was certain that no men were outside the man-den, and that I could swiftly steal away should one emerge, I cautiously approached the rear of the vehicle.

I could have grabbed the meat and scurried away. I could have escaped with this grand prize, filling my aching belly with more than just mice and an occasional ragged deer. If I had not known the horror and pain, the depths of wickedness and evil that I had seen, I would have run off with the huge feast. As any other unsuspecting wolf or coyote, I would have thankfully devoured my prize. Like so many others, I would have perished in terror and agony.

There was a smell, so faint as to be almost unnoticeable to me; still it was there, undeniably. Such a smell would not have dissuaded me in the past, in my other, innocent life. But I suspected deviltry and I left it to rot. It was then that I noticed the wind had cracked open the door to the little wooden place.

I returned to the ditch and crept around the rear of the man-den. Arriving through the brush and woods, which hugged the man-den and the little wooden place on three sides, I noticed a terrible smell as I approached the little wooden place. It was the smell of fear and helplessness. It was the smell of death.

What I saw when I peered through the opening would change me forever. It shall forever dwell in the depths of my spirit. I have since left behind the darkness, hoping to never return; but alone and lost, my people destroyed and surrounded by the very evil that had destroyed them, I found it impossible to resist the shadow cast upon me. I embraced the fury and the hate.

We were not ignorant of poisons; the mushrooms that littered the prairie after a summer rain could be lethal and were best avoided. We knew that men had an affinity for poison, but their clumsy attempts to kill were sporadic and amateur; any wolf or coyote for that matter could smell right through them. This soft smell, this almost undetectable monstrosity was different. And from the bodies of our red cousins, twisted and broken and frozen in their moment of death, the murdered bodies I had seen through the boards of the little wooden place, it dawned upon me that there was another reason the humans chose this poison; not only did it offer little warning, it slew with horrendous cruelty and pain. It was chosen not to rid the humans of a pest; it was chosen to inflict indescribable suffering, a choice born of hate and malice.

In an instant I lost my desire to go home. A longing that had kept me alive through the anguish and hopelessness was instantly extinguished. Another desire filled my spirit, a burning lust for vengeance. I embraced that dark and violent mistress. For the next three years I would serve her sanguine bidding, in the end becoming a most able servant.
From behind the iron bars I had sensed the motives of men. It was true that some pitied us and lamented our fate; a few may even have cherished us, perhaps we reminded some of the glory of Creation, or of a world they wished to cling to, a wild and beautiful world soon to be lost. These few men were the final bright leaves of a bitter fall. Most humans loathed us, either through fear or a hatred of that which they could not tame. They had no reason to fear or hate us, yet they did. The only explanation for this intensity was that they needed their cherished falsehoods so that they might slaughter us with heartless ferocity and still call themselves civilized.

When I fell into darkness I became the monster of their lies. I stalked the Ouachita like a spectral demon, slaying unseen the animals that man held dear, without the slightest remorse. Just as he had slain us. Fowl and bovine, ass and pony, they all felt my ultimate wrath. His closest friends, dog and cat, these I murdered without feeling. I lurked in the darkness of night, awaiting the moment that their masters would retreat into slumber. When the men were away from their dens I unfettered my darkest hatreds; it was then that my vengeance rose to its greatest proportion. To the west, an entire herd of milk cattle suffered my incandescent fury. Not three nights later I massacred a flock of sheep; none were spared. Men came, they laid their wicked metal jaws under the earth and the grass, but never could they touch me. I had come to know their scent better than my own; in order to set their traps they had to touch them, or at least be in their presence, and the man-smell, no matter how indistinct, warned me of their lethal devices. They could not lay a finger on a single hair of my hide.

I avoided all manner of carrion, whether it carried man-scent or not. I had learned the lessons of his new poisons and would not allow him to claim me so easily; he would have to look into my face if he were to kill me, his sworn enemy. For sustenance I did eat his chickens and turkeys. I could devour them quickly and then flee, leaving behind my grim work. Or, in some cases, I could then return to finishing the slaughter. His cattle and pets I never ate; out of spite and wrath I simply killed them. As he had let my brethren rot on the plains and in the woods, so too did I leave his animal family to rot in the sun.

For two years I roamed the Ouachita, from the great rivers of the east to the hard mountains of the west. I never questioned my existence or what drove me forward. Home became a distant memory, further and further from my thoughts. Toromo and Neit and Lunasa and the faces and names from my people faded so that, for some I became unsure of their names or lost them entirely. At the time it caused me no grief. I had my purpose and sentimental attachments might hinder the grim task I had chosen.

The coyotes called me The Traveler. They feared me though I did not ever harm them. The few of our red cousins who remained avoided me; this was just as well, for they knew not to avoid the deadly machinations of man and any affiliation with me would mean certain doom. And like the coyotes they too could sense a terrible force in my spirit. Later I came to understand.

Although I did not see large numbers of them, I know that many men came for me. There were traps and poison bait wherever I lurked. Their anger must have been enormous.

In truth the wolf of the prairie, the rambunctious young wolf who lived for the sweet dews and the wind in the grass and the spellbinding stories of Old Neit had long since passed away, and with him went his name. I realized this one early fall day. I had come to a small brook in the mountains and paused to take drink. When I spied my rolling reflection in the little pool I realized that I had forgotten my name. I felt the horror come back, horror once banished by my own evil, the horror of the day my family was taken from me, the horror of the little wooden place. My spirit came to life again and it wailed and wept like a great spring thunderstorm. I had ceased being a wolf. What would come to me no longer mattered; I had to leave the Ouachita, made a place of death and terror by the evil of my enemy, as well as my own. I had to become a wolf again.

For what seemed like ages I wandered the Ouachita. From then on I killed only to eat; my war of hate was over, forever. Those who hunted me began to lose interest in time. I really had no idea where life, or what was left of life, would lead me. I could not return to the prairie; there was nothing there for me now. In a dream Neit spoke to me, and heeding his words I went north. On and on I traveled, through sparse woodland and field of corn. I very nearly died on my journey, of exhaustion and, once, in a fight with feral dogs. I bested them, killing four before the rest fled, but it cost me dearly in both stamina and blood.

It was as a beautiful dream when I finally came to my new home. The north woods, thick with deer and squirrel, home to the robust buffalo wolf, an ancient tribe known to us for their strength and nobility, this wolf’s paradise would be my final destination. Behind me I left the prairie, the joys of my youth, and also the land of death and pain to the south. My war is over. I can become a wolf again.

The price I have paid is staggering. My spirit aches for love lost and for evil that shall forever stain my paws. Although I begin anew in the lush, unmolested land of ten thousand lakes, I am still The Traveler, for included in that price is my real name, the name given me by my dear mother so many years ago. When I ceased being a wolf it was lost to me for all time.

‡

Neit and the Sky Aflame

Old Neit lived many summers for one of our people. No one could recall him not being there. It seemed he was as old as the prairie and sky. Neit would say that in his youth he was a peripheral figure, not quite accepted by the old Wichita Mountain pack to which he was born. Eventually he came to our home and became accepted among the people of my forefathers. The seed of wanderlust grew strong in him, though, and he was known to wander the prairie even to the north woods that I now call home.

Neit told many a story, some of his own experience, others that he remembered from other wolves long since departed. He told me of a time when prairie wolves did not hunt mice and voles, or prairie dogs; that a great woolly beast roamed the prairie in endless herds. They were dangerous but just one would feed an entire family of wolves for some time. Many brave wolves fell in combat with the wooly beasts; but there was a dignity and a pride in fighting the mighty creature, the mighty buffalo. Mice and locusts could not kill but we no longer lived as our ancestors did. I was thankful that Neit at least had the image of the buffalo in his mind. In his own way he gave it to us all, and we again knew the ways of our forefathers.

He did not live to see the destruction of my people, and for that I am thankful. One warm evening, as the big prairie moon rose above the little pups who he loved so dearly, Neit lay down and departed this world for the next, where he would be free of painful bones and the sting of loved ones long gone. My spirit wailed in grief when he died, but now that I have lived through the terrors that lurked outside the grass, I am happy that his last days were full of joy and hope. It was his gift to live long and happy, and even greater, it was his reward to pass on peacefully and without sadness.

Once, on just such a summer evening, Neit came up close to me. He saw that I was staring at the big yellow moon, the same moon that stirred in our spirits, enticing us to howl into the night, and it moved him to tell a story. He asked if I had ever seen the sky aflame; I responded that I had not. It was then that he recalled to me one of his many travels, the greatest of his life, all the way to the north woods.

Neit was not yet one of our people when he went on his greatest adventure. He crossed the great and endless prairie to the north, coming to the painted hills and dusty, broken black rocks. He could almost hear the buffalo who once thundered across those slopes. He could not remember how, but there was a thought in his head, a vision of a great forest not far from the hills. In spite of fatigue he would keep up his voyage. He would cut through the white-and rust-banded stones of the Badlands.

Between the great red stones Neit felt an overpowering thirst, no doubt from the dryness in the air. Fortunately he came across a small clear stream, the remnant of thunderstorms several days past. He had seen them on the horizon, lightning dancing in the sky. As Neit bent down to drink something in his ancient spirit told him that he was being watched. He looked up in a flash, ready to bolt, expecting to see a hunter and hoping his nemesis was not so skilled with a gun. Instead he saw a wolf. This wolf was not of his people, there was no red in its fur. Neit stood still. Perhaps this was the leader of a small tribe, one that did not appreciate interlopers. Or perhaps it was a loner who would cherish their meeting. The other wolf stood still as well, making no sound, looking down from the slope of a hill.

Neit mentally prepared himself for battle. He had no intention of fighting this stranger, nor did he ascribe any bellicosity to the white figure who stood ghostly on the ridge. Neit was already wise beyond his years, however, and he knew that he was an intruder into this strange land. This harsh realm was probably the hunting ground of some pack, and considering how difficult it had been for Neit to find food and water, the natives no doubt barely eked out an existence among the stones and the ashes. The last thing they needed was an interloper gobbling up their precious bounty. It would be within their rights to drive Neit off, even attacking him if they must.

The stranger did not move. A wind played in his long white hair while the waning evening sun lit his face. He showed no sign of ferocity or outrage at Neit’s intrusion. Neit read something altogether different in the white wolf’s face. When he looked into the stranger’s yellow eyes he saw many years looking back at him; years of toil, years of joy, years of pain. Neit cautiously forded the creek and approached the rise of the hill. He looked up at the silent stranger and when he stopped he assumed a non-threatening stance. Perhaps this might entice the white wolf to abandon his high perch and approach. Neit lost his apprehension, which was replaced with a burning curiosity to hear the stranger’s story.

Just as Neit began to doubt that the white wolf would come down from the heights, in four rapid bounds the ghostly stranger came face-to-face with Neit. Neit felt his apprehension rise again; perhaps the strange wolf would attack him after all. After several tense moments Neit lost his nerve to remain silent, and he spoke to the white wolf.“I am Neit of the Southern Plains. My people do not live in your lands nor do we seek to usurp them from you. I am passing through to a great forest that has spoken to me in my dreams.”The ghostly white wolf looked upon Neit for some time. The sun was more than halfway below the horizon and the reds of the sky melted into those of the rusty hills. Finally the white wolf spoke.“All these lands are ours and yet none of them. What once was home is now the heart of the enemy’s territory. You are not the only one trespassing, Neit of the Southern Plains. We all trespass here.”This was a very odd thing for a local to tell an interloper. At first Neit surmised that the white wolf was also a loner, wandering far from home. Then he began to doubt, and was ready to believe that this strange wolf was more spirit than flesh.“Do you have a name?” Neit asked. It was a question more common for a pup than a big brute wolf. Neit was tired and somewhat frightened and his aching body got the best of his mind. The white wolf did not seem to mind the abrupt question. He answered without altering his demeanor.“I was the Star over the Trees; now the men call me Custer.”Neit did not ask how this wolf could know what men called him, or how he could possibly understand their voices. With increasing fear he began to wonder once more if this wolf, “Custer”, was indeed a ghost.
Just as Neit began to doubt that the white wolf would come down from the heights, in four rapid bounds the ghostly stranger came face-to-face with Neit. Neit felt his apprehension rise again; perhaps the strange wolf would attack him after all. After several tense moments Neit lost his nerve to remain silent, and he spoke to the white wolf.“I am Neit of the Southern Plains. My people do not live in your lands nor do we seek to usurp them from you. I am passing through to a great forest that has spoken to me in my dreams.”The ghostly white wolf looked upon Neit for some time. The sun was more than halfway below the horizon and the reds of the sky melted into those of the rusty hills. Finally the white wolf spoke.“All these lands are ours and yet none of them. What once was home is now the heart of the enemy’s territory. You are not the only one trespassing, Neit of the Southern Plains. We all trespass here.”This was a very odd thing for a local to tell an interloper. At first Neit surmised that the white wolf was also a loner, wandering far from home. Then he began to doubt, and was ready to believe that this strange wolf was more spirit than flesh.“Do you have a name?” Neit asked. It was a question more common for a pup than a big brute wolf. Neit was tired and somewhat frightened and his aching body got the best of his mind. The white wolf did not seem to mind the abrupt question. He answered without altering his demeanor.“I was the Star over the Trees; now the men call me Custer.”Neit did not ask how this wolf could know what men called him, or how he could possibly understand their voices. With increasing fear he began to wonder once more if this wolf, “Custer”, was indeed a ghost.

Custer told Neit of his people, of the ancient buffalo and the great fires that occasionally swept the hills. There was no way that an ordinary wolf could live so long to experience so much; but like Neit himself, perhaps the heavens came to Custer and spoke to him in his sleep, telling him of the past and even the future. Nightfall came and during a lull in their conversation Neit looked around for a place to sleep the night. The ground was hard here and it would not be a comfortable rest. Custer simply lay down on the rocky earth as he must have done on countless nights. The two sat silent; Neit believed that they would drift off into slumber, and if Custer remained in the morning perhaps they might hunt together. With two, a wolf doesn’t have to content himself with voles. Custer, however, continued to stare at Neit. This made him uneasy; he began to suspect, once more, that Custer was more spirit than flesh. Then Custer spoke.

“The green fire will come tonight. Have you seen the sky aflame?”

Neit was stunned by the question. He felt a fearful agitation raise the hair on his back. A green fire is coming? Will it destroy us, the hills? Why are we laying here when we should be running?

Custer must have noticed the anxiety in Neit’s eyes. Calmly, his voice never raising nor wavering, he spoke.

“The green flame will dance in the sky; it shall bless us with a vision. We shall know many terrible days yet our people will persevere.”

Custer then lay down his head, but he did not sleep. He awaited the coming flame. Neit was beside himself; he did not know this wolf, who might not be corporeal for all he knew. His instincts told him to flee but a deep and ancient desire in his spirit commanded him to stay. Enthralled by thoughts of the sight to come, he lay his head down and watched Custer. He suspected his companion’s calm demeanor would become more lively as the moment approached.

In the silent calm of late night Neit saw the first flicker of green in the northern sky. Before he could lift his head it grew into a great ribbon, like a living fog of light, dancing and rolling in the heavens themselves. Neit was transfixed by the sight. In his mind he was alone in the entire world, and paid no heed to Custer or the rusted hills or even his growing thirst. A herd of ancient buffalo could have roared by with nary a glance from Neit. There the sky aflame danced its green serenade in utter silence. That would have been enough for the memory of a lifetime. It did not, however, end with the visual.

Neit stared at the flames for what seemed an eternity. And then he began to see shapes in them. He saw wolves and pups; he saw the ancient herds of buffalo, endless in number. There were great storms and whirlwinds. He could see huge bears roaming the grass and huge prairie dog communities among the dusty plains. He saw a lone wolf among the hills, and another among the forest. These visions spoke to him, deeply, and he knew that while most were of a distant past, some were of things yet to come. Finally, as the green flash of the rising sun caught his eye, and the flames began to fade into the dying night, he thought of his companion and turned to see Custer’s face. Perhaps here would be a hint of awe there as well. When Neit glanced around he did not see Custer. His ghostly acquaintance was no longer by his side.

With the morning came the old familiar fears and desires. True, the night had been extraordinary, but the perils and hunger that lurked in the scrub grass and over the rusted hills cared not for visions and wonder. They would prey upon his lack of concentration if he allowed them. Neit wished to remember his visions to the members of his tribe. Returning home would be a tremendous undertaking and he would need his wits, in addition to a little luck and blessing, to make it back. He would begin the arduous trek home to the prairie once he could, but first there was a matter of deeper concern. In the vision he saw a lone wolf searching, his body and his spirit wounded by battle and loss. This wolf needed him, for in the vision the lone wolf – one of Neit’s people – could not find a new home. The hills were harsh and barren and afforded no comfort or food. A voice whispered on the badland wind, telling of a place to the east, across the rolling grasses and rocks, a place of deep wood and plentiful waters. There the trout leapt from crystal streams and the deer and moose grew as big and sweet as the dew-covered leaves.

Stirring