Wolf Child

Wolf Child

v   

The boy sat shivering in the cold and the night. His toes had gone numb, limp stubs that would do him no good. He rubbed his hands together clumsily, occasionally blowing hot damp breath between the palms. It prevented the deadness from taking them, but he knew it wouldn’t help for much longer. The sun had set long ago. It snuck soundless through the dark and graying sky, unknowingly taking with it the last of his hopes. He had awakened confused in the woods, unable to tell if it was night or day. An endless, blinding whiteness of snow invaded his vision, and he could see no line between ground and sky. All was the same, an overwhelming oneness of white moonbeams and eternal snow, each magnified by the other.

 He recognized the feeling, had awakened the same way once before. Something in that sightless vertigo, at once cold and whooshing, triggered (as things often did for the boy) the night he had come to think of as changing his life forever. 

His father had been drinking, and the rusted Chevy swerved across the icy road, gaining momentum until it simply flew through the darkness like a giant stone acrobat. It finally landed in a nearly fatal crunch. The boy and his father, his mother later told listeners, saved by what could only be divine intervention. But the boy remembers none of this. He only remembers waking up in the hospital; the bright overhead lights in the examining room revealing his naked body cold against the metal of the table, his lap covered in a thin white sheet.  His mother was crying and holding him with papery hands. His father was sitting across the room, a fresh crimson scrape painted across his face. He was rocking violently, still drunk and whispering to himself. It seemed to the boy that as his father rocked, the bloody cut was opening like a slick side-ways mouth. What was it he had been saying? The boy couldn’t remember.

He saw it all, the accident, the weeks following in which his father moved out and he and his mother moved to a small apartment across town, like scenes from a movie. And for a moment when he woke in the woods, able to see nothing but pure white and feeling the stinging dampness of snow beneath his body, he thought he was back in that same examining room where it all began. 

After a few minutes his eyes adjusted and colors appeared once again.  He was able to distinguish dark woodlands surrounding him. He was lying at the edge of the forest which seemed to thicken on his left side. Above his head were the gnarled roots of an outlying tree trunk. Through them he saw the moon, bright and full, and the red ring surrounding it. The ring flooded the outermost reaches of the moon’s glow, fading from the deep red of blood to a faint auburn. The boy was scared. He thought of childhood stories and superstitions, of werewolves and of vampires.  He saw creatures, dark and half-dead, creeping in the woods. He was after all just a boy.

Eventually the fullness of the moon allowed him to see almost as well as if it was day, but he knew the light was deceiving. It lacked the warmth its bright beams promised, and he laid freezing in the snow as the chill slowly seeped to his bones. He wondered how long he had slept, struggled to recall how he’d gotten here in the first place. His head felt as if someone had cracked it open, what his mother called a migraine. He felt a deep cut in the base of his skull, and when he pulled back his fingers they were bloody. Strands of sand colored hair stuck to their tips. His mind shook off the effect of his cold slumber. Memories came flooding back, crashing through his mind as if in one great wave. He had tripped, his sneakers caught on an upturned root. He landed hard on the ground. The resulting abrasions on his arm had mixed with dirty snow. His ankle was the worst off; he felt sharp bolts of pain each time he tried to move it.

Next to him was a nylon backpack. Its contents were spilled across the ground in a surprisingly neat line. Only a few things were within the boy’s reach: a book, t-shirt, baseball cap. He could just reach the slingshot his father had given him for his birthday. He never was much good at using it. He looked at the backpack and noticed a bulge at its bottom. The pound of hamburger meat was still tucked snugly inside.

The snow had been too thick for his mother to drive the truck, so he had walked. Phil’s Deli was less than a mile away, and when he left it had been early afternoon; plenty of light, plenty of time. Now a dark gloom permeated the woods, the chill air. He tried to deduce the amount of time elapsed while he had slept. It couldn’t be more than six or seven hours. Something told him it was still early in the night. Tall trees loomed above, their cracked branches like shadowy arms reaching in the wind. He heard a howl. It was deep and far away, a warning cry from the woods themselves.

        Another time and he would have loved to be in the snowy wilderness. His father had taken him hiking close by a few years earlier, telling stories about the Indians who lived deep inside the forest. Warring tribes battled between the trees, setting them afire.  Sioux chiefs scaled enemy settlers. He wished his father was here to tell him stories again.

        He pulled his jean above the hurt ankle. It was swollen and red, a sharp bone jutting against the taut skin.  He grabbed the old t-shirt and stick lying close and went to work.  He placed the wooden stick against his bone and wrapped the t-shirt tightly around it, using his shoe lace to tie them together. It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do.

        The makeshift splint finished, he decided to try standing. He pushed up from the cold ground with his arms and his head swam with blood and pressure. He used the trunk of the tree for support, his weight anywhere but the hurt ankle. His head throbbed, its rhythm quickening, threatening oblivion. His vision was a blur of white snow and dark trees as he gripped at the rough bark. His hands slowly slipped down the great trunk.

v   

The boy slept and dreamt of his family. His parents were together at the old house. Evening light leaked softly through the double paned windows of their living room. Outside grew tall oak trees that shadowed the many paved drives. There was a bus stop a few blocks away. His mother walked him down to it in the mornings before school.

His father’s face was pinched as he held the patent black telephone to his ear. His voice was worried. It was only a mile’s walk, and he’s been gone for over two hours. No, we will not wait any longer.

His parents went looking for him. Not as man and woman, but as mother and father as if imbued with some predestined fortitude to persevere, and it also seemed an instinctive sense of direction. It was still light when he woke to the warmth of his mother’s arms. We were so worried about you, his father said, huddling to the ground. He pushed back yellow hair from his son’s dirty face.

Later that night they sat around the fire. His father and mother were close on the couch, the boy Indian style on the floor. They drank hot cocoa and talked about the scare they had that day.

The boy was awakened by the freeze slowly taking the rest of his body, a sluggish disease that had spread to his wrists and ankles. He thought about his dream and a different, yet undeniable, possibility edged itself into his mind. No one was looking for him. No one was coming to save him. He was going to die in these woods, alone with the cold and the darkness. 

 

v   

As night crept closer to hours of dawn, the boy edged closer to consciousness. He began to drift, bordering the sleeping world and waking life. His dreams were of little boy worries, baseballs games and school work, but every so often he would wake, interspersing his visions with the intruding whiteness of snow. Eventually he could no longer keep the two worlds apart. He became unsure whether what he was seeing was true: he was at a spelling bee at school, saw his parents arguing at home, was shooting his slingshot with his best friend. Then he was ripped from those past life’s reveries, the new world of wintry moonlight realer than any he’d seen before. His eyes fluttered open, mind still groggy with dreams.

There was a wolf between the trees. It dipped its great grey head towards him, taking a steady step with thick and heavy paws. The raw definition of this beast, inquisitor eyes an icy blue grey, convinced the boy this was no dream, no vision from before the woods. The wolf was a part of this new world, as real as the blood stained moon.

He tried to move his fingers, managing to half way curl them around the sling shot. He knew it wouldn’t provide much protection, but he felt he must do something.  He used the pressure from his palms (his fingers had lost almost all their mobility) to pull the heavy, t-shaped weapon to him. The wolf regarded the boy and his weapon, and he thought he saw disappointment shining in its eyes. The boy pulled the slingshot and rock to his lap, and the wolf moved closer.

He looked down quickly, using the last of his strength to place the rock in the holder. The effort proved too much. The boy collapsed, his face falling sideways into powdered snow. But before deep unconsciousness took him once again, he had a final vision of the wolf. It wasn’t alone. There was a small, native boy, dark skin and feral eyes, riding the huge animal, a wolf child. The wolf was harnessed with ropes, a sling of animal hide trailing behind it, and he heard the young, wild native whisper, ”Tsilugi Oginalii,” as he strapped the boy in.

v   

He woke to foreign tongues and a bitter herb stinging his nose. He was at the lowest level of consciousness, having not even the strength to open his eyes. He used his other senses to explore. He felt heat and knew there must be a fire close by. He felt stiff fingers rubbing his arms and legs in small circular motions. He heard two voices speaking and he listened intently, attempting to pick out any familiar words. The language was strangely beautiful, repeating lulls and vowels that rhymed synchronously together. As if each sentence was poetry. He thought they sounded concerned, like they were speaking of something of great importance. When his vision cleared he was sure of it.

The structure he was in was much like a small house. It had only one room encompassed by a high doom roof. It was made of wood and birch bark. The boy slowly lifted his head and attempted to look at himself. All of his clothing, excepting his undergarments, had been removed.  A small elderly man hunched over him in concentration. The man’s chest was painted with bright shades of red, around his eyes a mask of white.

The man massaged with strong and callused hands, but he was incredibly gently when grazing the hurt areas. On these spots he elicited the greatest attention, soaking the scraped skin with dampened herbs.

A few feet away someone was kneeling on a circular woven mat, his face was hidden by dark locks. Like the elderly man he was dressed simply. He wore only a narrow band of cloth that looked to be made from animal hide. The strip passed between his legs, looping over the front and rear of a belt made of similar material. His body bore no paint. His only ornaments were two carved earrings made of bone that peaked through his dark hair like little moonlit ships.

The man massaging stopped his work. The conversation ceased as the one kneeling lifted his face to the light. It was the native boy who had saved him, the wolf child. Their eyes met; his wild and bright. They danced with excitement, and he looked as if he wished to speak. Instead he tore a coat of grey rabbit’s fur from the floor and wrapped it around his naked torso. With a regretful look he left.

The man crawled to the opening of the tent, quickly tying it shut with a long rope. He turned around and looked hard at the boy. As he spoke the white paint crinkled into tiny crevasses of wrinkled skin around his eyes. “He has it in his head that he was meant to find you,” he nodded to where the boy had just left. His voice was raspy and deep, and though his words were slow they were spoken with perfect accent, “He says when he first saw you in the snow he knew he had finally found you.”

“He said something to me,” the boy struggled to remember.  “Tsilugi Oginalii?”

“It means welcome friend. We believe that there exists a special connection between certain people. That in each life they are destined to find one another,” the man had returned to his side.

 “Does he speak English too?” the boy asked.

“He does, like most of our tribe, but we prefer our native language. It’s something from our past that cannot be taken away,” he said, grinding a small bundle of bright herbs in a wooden bowl. The boy wondered at the old man’s strength and dexterity. When the herbs were close to mush he dipped a spidery finger into the bowl, scraping it steadily. His eyes were closed he leaned his face to the bowl and inhaled the scent.

“My name is Achak,” he said, speaking the first consonant with particular emphasis. “I am the Shaman and healer of this tribe. You have slept through the day, and I have helped where I can.”

The boy tried to sit up, and the wound at the base of his skull burst with fresh pain, “No,” Achak said, pushing him back to the mat, “you still have much healing left to do. You must not push yourself.”

The boy struggled to remain conscious, to understand these new pieces of information. It was night again. He had slept through the day. His family had to be looking for him by now.

“What tribe are you from?” he managed to utter. It was an odd question, but he couldn’t help feeling entranced with Achak. He wanted to prolong this conversation and was already feeling drained. The Indian man spoke slowly.

“We have many names, but mostly we call ourselves the Inuna-Ina,” once the herb had been applied he began wrapping the boy’s ankle with a thick woolen material.

“Inuna- Ina,” the boy repeated, letting the name roll on his tongue. “What does it mean?”

“It means our people,” Achak said.

“Aren’t you going to ask my name?”

Achak ignored this question. He rose from his knees slowly and with great effort and walked to the far side of the hut. The boy heard the soft clank of wood on wood, and Achak returned with a small cup, “Drink,” he said.

The liquid was a sweet berry juice he’d never tasted before. He drank it greedily, drops seeping in little red rivers out the corners of his mouth. Achak wiped at them, and the boy blushed, “I’ve learned about Native American tribes in school,” he said, careful not to call them Indians.

“Ah,” Achak’s dark eyes looked amused, “and what have you learned?”

“I know about the Sioux and the Cherokee. My dad told me stories about battles in these woods,” the boy said. “Does your tribe have great warriors?”

Achak returned to the fire and poked its contents with a long, charred stick. The flames grew brighter, revealing a wide shelf that lined the inside walls of the hut.  “The Inuna- Ina are peaceful people,” he said, turning back to the boy, “known for our treaties, not wars.”

“I’ve learned about those. Treaties,” he said. He couldn’t help but feel the need to impress. “You give the settlers land, and in exchange we make you move to another place. A reservation, that’s what these woods are. ”

Acahk chuckled and returned his stick to its place on the shelf, “You speak as if you were among those settlers from so many years ago. But you are a just boy, speaking of stories told to you. You do not know the hearts of those men just as they do not know yours,” Achak said, tucking a light cloth blanket around the boy. “You must rest. When you wake we will talk more.”

The boy tried to speak. A part of him wanted to tell the wise wrinkled man that he had a family. They would be looking for him. But another part of him wanted to stay with Achak and his tribe, the Inuna-Ina. The native words he heard, the unfamiliar scents and noises, spoke of lives not yet lived. Of adventures the boy had yet to venture upon. I could start over here, he thought as he slumped his head once again upon the ground.

v   

He woke alone. The hollow beat of drums pulsed steadily outside. The fire had died, and he peeled off layers of blanketing before slowing sitting up. He felt much better. His headache was gone, a thin wrapping of gauzy material placed across the wound. He looked to his left and saw a pair of crutches carved from wood. As he reached for them the tent’s entrance opened, drums momentarily pounding louder through the gap.

 It was the boy who saved him. He appeared both beautifully exotic and intimidating. Shoulder length hair, incredibly black and straight, framed a dark complexion and delicate cheeks. The boy knew he owed him his life. “What is your name?” he asked as he closed the tent’s flap.

The boy hated his name. He was ashamed of it, and it was always the first thing people knew about him. “Randolph,” he said reluctantly.

“Ron- duff,” the Indian boy giggled. “I have never heard anything like that. I like it though,” he smiled with two rows of perfect teeth. “I’m Patwin. What does Ron-duff mean?”

“You’re pronouncing it wrong,” the boy corrected him. “It’s Randolph, and it doesn’t mean anything.” He cracked his knuckles, “It was my father’s name.”

“Was? “ Patwin said. “Did he die?’

“No.”

“Then why did you speak as if he did?”

“I didn’t,” the boy said, at the same time knowing that he had. But that was the way he had come to think of it. It was certainly easier than explaining the truth; that his mother couldn’t trust his father to take care of him, even for a night. His father had chosen alcohol over his own son.

“My father and mother are both dead,” Patwin said unfazed. “Achak is my grandfather,” he grabbed the crutches and handed them to the boy. “These should help you get around.”

The wood was soft and smooth under the boy’s fingers, and there was a groove carved at the base of each crutch for his thumbs to tuck under. “What’s the name of this structure?” the boy said, looking around. “It’s so warm. It doesn’t look like a tee-pee.”

“Tee-pees are too flimsy to protect from this cold,” Patwin said, as a demonstration breathing out an arrow of hot breath that smoked through the air. “This is a wigwam.” Outside the drums picked up a new beat. “They are preparing for the ceremony,” Patwin nodded his head towards the sound. “Tonight is a full moon. Would you like to go?”

“Sure.”

Patwin nodded and walked to a wooden box that was carved with a huge bear. He pulled out a parchment colored shirt, and the boy’s old beat up pair of blue jeans. Patwin turned his back so the boy could dress, “Tonight the members that have left our tribe return. Family and friends are able to reunite under the full moon, because its brightness is the greatest of any night. Achak says it is as if the Great Spirit were shining upon the whole world.”

“It lit up the whole forest last night,” the boy said, and in his mind’s eye he saw the wolf; its silvery coat and eyes that seemed to pull the moonlight, refracting the beams in shimmery emissions. He wanted to ask Patwin about the wolf, but he remained silent. He was half convinced the vision had been a figment of his imagination, nurtured by his wounded head and energy depleted body.

“Probably the biggest reason I found you so easily. I knew you were in trouble, knew you would die if I didn’t find you,” Patwin turned back around and the drums beat louder, their rhythm flowing with his words. “I’m so glad I did, Randolph,” he said the boy’s name slowly, sure to pronounce it right. When the boy gave him an approving nod, Patwin smiled and walked towards the entrance of the tent.  He picked up a shawl of animal fur and handed it to the boy, “you’ll need this.”

 The crutches worked well. He was on his feet and almost out the door when another wooden box caught his eye. It was on the shelf like all of Achak’s other objects. But the box, painted with black and orange tribal strokes, stood out to him. “Patwin, what’s that?” he said.

Patwin lifted the box from the shelf, “Achak is the Shaman of this tribe. He told you that. When my father was alive he was a Shaman too. This is a sacred box that holds his remains.”

“Like… his ashes?”

“His bones,” Patwin said, fiddling with the lid. 

“You have your father’s bones?” The boy made a disgusted face.

Patwin furrowed his brow, quickly putting the box back, “It is a special honor.”

Patwin left the tent, and the boy struggled to keep up. The air outside was crisp and fresh. He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Patwin,” he said. “I’m stupid. I didn’t know.”

Patwin looked over his shoulder at the boy. “It’s alright,” he said, slowing his speed and smoothing long strands of raven hair from his face, “and you can call me Pat. Let’s get something to eat.”

Author's Note

this is only the first half and is still very much in the editing process. The second half has been written, but not edited enough to post. I love criticism that makes my work better and am open to story ideas.