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 kept his fingers mobile by clumsily rubbing them together, blowing hot, damp breath between the palms of his hands. 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, unknown to the boy, soundlessly through the graying sky and took with it his chance for hope. When he awoke in the woods, he was at first unsure whether it was night or day, thinking perhaps he had been unconscious for only a few minutes. The 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 awoken the same way once before. Something in the blinding, sightless feeling of 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.  And when he does think back on that night it’s all he can remember.

 His father had been drinking and the rusted Chevy swerved across the icy road, gaining momentum until it flew through the darkness, simple in its solitude, like a gigantic, stone acrobat. It finally landed in a nearly fatal crunch, but the boy remembers none of this. He only remembers waking up in the hospital; the bright, overhead lights in the examining room ceiling, his naked body against the cold metal of the table, lap covered in a thin, white sheet.  His mother was crying beside him, holding his arm with her soft, wrinkled hands. His father was sitting across the room and it seemed he was so far away. He had a long crimson scrape across his face. He was rocking violently, still drunk and whispering to himself, and it looked to the boy that as his father rocked the bloody cut was opening like a slick, side-ways mouth. What was he 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 cold clamminess of snow beneath his body, he thought he was back in that same examining room where it had all begun. 

It took a few minutes for his eyes to adjust well enough to distinguish dark woodlands surrounding him. Colors began appearing once again, and the moon lit slices of green forest. The boy was lying at the edge of the woods, which, to his right, seemed to thicken.

 Above his head were the gnarled roots of an outlying tree trunk. Through them he saw the bright, fullness of the moon, and a faint, auburn ring surrounding it. The ring flooded the outermost reaches of the moon’s pure white glod, fading from an amber orange to the deep red of blood. The boy had become scared. Childhood stories and superstitions of werewolves and vampires filled his head. He saw dark creatures damp and half-dead, creeping in the damp woods. He was, after all, just a boy.

Eventually the fullness of the moon allowed the boy to see almost as well as if it was day, but he knew its light was deceiving. It lacked the warmth its bright beams promised, and he laid freezing in the snow, the chill seeping into his bones.

He wondered how long he had been sleeping, struggling to remember how he got to this spot 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. Then it seemed that the boy’s memories came flooding back. He had tripped. His sneakers were caught on an upturned root and he landed hard on the ground. He had long scrapes across his arms, dirt mixing with the abrasions. But 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 spilled across the ground in a 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 gotten him for his birthday, but he never was much good at using it. He looked at the backpack and noticed a bulge at its bottom. When he inched it closer, and peaked inside, he saw the pound of hamburger meat tucked snugly inside. His mind shook off some of the effect of the cold’s lazy slumber and memories flooded back to him.

 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 the he left it was early afternoon, plenty of time, plenty of light. Now it was dark and damp, a dark gloom permeating the woods and chill air. He tried to deduce the amount of time that had elapsed while he had slept, and thought it couldn’t be more than six or seven hours. Something told the boy is was still early in the night. Tall trees loomed above their cracked branches casting shadowy arms, swaying and reaching for him in the wind. He heard a howl. It was far away and deep, and it seemed to the boy to be 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 ago, telling him stories about the Indians who lived deep inside the forest. With his words he created for the boy visions of warring tribes battling between the trees, setting them on fire and Sioux chief’s scaling enemy settlers. The boy wished his father was here to tell him stories again.

        He pulled up 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 as tightly as he could 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 dirt and snow with his arms, leaning on his good ankle. His head swam with blood and pressure. Lying that long, unconscious in the snow had drained him utterly drained him of his strength.

The boy used the trunk of the tree for support, all of his weight anywhere but his hurt ankle. His head pulsed harder, threatening oblivion, his vision a blur of white snow and dark trees. He gripped harder at the rough bark, hands slowly slipping 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, beyond which grew tall oak trees shadowing the many paved drives. There was a bus stop a few blocks away. His mother would walked him down to it in the mornings before school.

His father’s face was pinched as held a patent black telephone to his ear. His voice sounded 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 awoke to the warmth of his mother’s arms. We were so worried about you his father said, huddling to the ground and pushing back yellow hair from his son’s dirty face.

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

The boy was awakened by the freeze slowly taking the rest of his body. It had spread to his wrists and ankles like a sluggish disease. He thought about the 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 the night reached closer into the 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 thoughts and 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 and 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 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 a great grey head towards, taking a step with thick, 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, and managed to half way curl them around the sling shot. He knew it wouldn’t provide much protection, but he felt he must try to do something.  Slowly he used the pressure from his palms to pull the heavy, t-shaped weapon, to him. The wolf regarded the boy and his weapon, disappointment in its icy eyes. The boy pulled the slingshot and rock to his side, and the wolf moved closer.

He used the last of his strength to place a nearby rock in the holder, but the effort, little as it was, 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 animal was harnessed with ropes from on its back, a sling of animal hide trailing behind it. The young, wild native whispered, ”Tsilugi Oginalii,” as he strapped the boy in.

v   

The boy awoke to foreign tongues and a strong and bitter alien herb stinging his nose. He was at the lowest level of consciousness, having not even the strength to open his eyes so he used his other senses to explore.

 He felt heat and knew there must be a fire close by. He felt stiff fingers on his arms and legs, slowly rubbing in the pungent herb with small circular motions. There were two voices he listened, attempting to pick out any familiar words. He thought the language strangely beautiful, repeating lulls and vowels that seemed to rhyme synchronously together. Although he couldn’t tell what was being said, he felt they were discussing something of great importance. When his vision cleared he was sure of it.

The structure he was in was much like a small house with only one room. It was made of birch bark and wood, a dome room high above his head. It kept in the heat and the boy smiled at the warmth.  He slowly lifted his head, and looked at himself. All of his clothing, excepting his undergarments, had been removed.  An elderly man with a small, wrinkled body hunched over him in concentration. His chest and stomach were painted with bright oranges and reds, around his eyes a mask of white.

He massaged the boy’s with tight, circular motions. He had strong and callused hands, but was incredibly gently when grazing the hurt areas. On these spots he would illicit the greatest attention, slowly soaking the scraped skin with water dampened herbs.

Kneeling on the ground was someone smaller, what could only be a boy. His face was hidden by dark locks. He, like the elderly man, was dressed simply, wearing only a narrow band of cloth. It looked to be made from animal hide and passing between his legs, looping over the front and rear of a belt made of similar material. His body bore no paint, his only ornaments two carved earrings made of bone that peaked through his dark hair.

The elder man stopped his work, and turned to the boy as the conversation stopped.  The one kneeling lifted his face, and the boy knew an instant before that it was the native boy who had saved him, the wolf child. He knew those eyes, wild and bright that now seemed to be dancing with excitement. He looked as if they wished to speak, but instead tore a coat of grey rabbit’s fur from the floor and wrapped it around his naked torso. Then he opened the flap of the tent, and left.

The man crawled to the tent’s opening and tied it shut with a long rope. He turned around and looked hard at the boy through his mask of crinkled, white paint, “He thinks you are his lost friend.” He spoke with a voice raspy and deep. His words were slow, but spoken with a perfect accent, “He says he knew when he first saw you in the moonlight, lying in the snow that he had finally found you.”

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

“It means welcome friend. There is a belief in our tribe that there exists a special kind of relationship, between friends. Each time one of the members is reborn, they find one another.”

“Does he speak English?”

“He does, like most of our tribe, but we prefer our native language. It’s something from our past that cannot be taken away,” the man squished herbs between his fingers as he spoke, closing his eyes to inhale the scent. He began grinding the herb in a wooden bowl.

“My name is Achak,” he said, speaking the first consonant with particular emphasis. “I am the Shaman and healer of this tribe.” Achak began wrapping the boy’s lower leg with a thick woolen material. “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. He struggled to remain conscious as Achak pushed him back to the ground. It was night again which meant he had slept all day. He’d been gone for over twenty-four hours, 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 the boy couldn’t help feeling slightly entranced with Achak. He wanted to prolong this, but already he was feeling drained. The Indian man spoke slowly.

“We have many names, but mostly we call ourselves the Inuna-Ina.”

“Inuna- Ina,” the boy repeated, letting the name roll on his tongue. “And what does �"“

“Our people,” Achak said before the boy could finish. “You are too preoccupied with meanings.”

“Aren’t you going to ask me 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 clatter of wood on wood, and then Achak returned with brought a small cup, “Drink,” he said.

The liquid was sweet, he thought it was some kind of berry juice, but was sure he’d never tired it before. The boy blushed, “I’ve learned about Native American tribes in school,” he said, careful not to call them Indians.

“Ah,” Achak’s dark brown 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 warriors?”

Achak was leaning over the fire, poking its contents with a long, charred stick. The fire burned brighter revealing a wide shelf lining the inside walls of the hut.  “The Inuna- Ina are a peaceful people,” he said, turning back to the boy. “We are 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. 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 tucked a light cloth blanket around the boy’s legs, “You must rest, when you wake, we will talk more.”

He 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 this Achak and his tribe, the Inuna-Ina. The native words he heard, the unfamiliar scents and noises, seemed to speak of lives not yet lived, adventures the boy had yet to venture upon. I could start over here, he thought, slumping his head back upon a pelt of grey rabbit’s fur.

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.