CHAPTER 10 - THE VISION

‘Look,’ the white wolf says, peering at Awahawapiia Peak as it licks its paws. ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’

‘Yes, it is,’ Wolf Shield says. ‘One day, I shall climb it to the top.’

‘Will it be easy?’

The youth shakes his head. ‘No, it will not.’

‘You are right. It will be painful.’ The animal nibbles its nails. ‘To reach that point, you will endure ice-cold nights, you will lose fingernails while climbing sheer rock faces, you will be filled with much misery.’

‘But what sense is there in all this?’ Wolf Shield asks in a tired voice. ‘I shall never find her, anyway. And even if I do, I do not even know why I crave her. It is like a sickness.’

While it smoothes its fur, the timber-wolf observes the sky. ‘Look how different they are.’

Wolf Shield peers upward and notices how large the stars are.

‘Up here, they shine so much brighter.’ The great white wolf stops smoothing its fur and, for a while, they remain quiet, sitting under the swaying branches of the oak tree.

Leaning forward, Wolf Shield scratches the white wolf’s head slightly above its eyebrows. ‘You love that, don’t you?’

The beast does not answer, but blinks its eyes ecstatically and grunts with pleasure.

‘Tell me, why must it be so hard?’ Wolf Shield insists. ‘Why cast us apart and have us seek each other ceaselessly?’

‘Nothing exists unless split in two. Only in duality can one thing be measured against another,’ the beast says. ‘The Great Mystery did not make any mistakes.’

‘But the pain!’ The young man cries out. ‘Why must we suffer so?’

‘Everything happens for a reason,’ it says, its eyes still fixed upon the mountain of mountains, the silence broken only by the lone call of a loon.

‘Look!’ The wolf lifts its snout towards a craggy boulder. In a dark crevice, hundreds of butterflies hang like tiny bats, their closed yellow wings quivering. ‘They are dreaming.’

Talk, footsteps, falling chairs… the chill undertow of reality confuses him.

‘Am I dreaming?’

‘What if you are?’ the wolf says. ‘Awake, I am barely aware of anything but my next lunch; when I dream, I come back home and converse with the sky.’

‘Am I dead, then?’

‘Ha! You are a tough one, Wolf Shield,’ the wolf growls and shakes its head. ‘Reckon ye’ve got sand.’

The young warrior remains silent, his mind refusing to acknowledge the sudden change of voice. From a hollow place in his mind, he hears laughter and bellows mocking him, and what lurks in those shadows horrifies him.

‘I’s giving ye facts, is all.’

Rooted where he stands, Wolf Shield sinks onto his heels, head bowed, with that all too familiar sense of unease creeping back into him, that peculiar helplessness, which treads through the blood-red waters of dream. At a loss, he tries to blot out the fetid presence.

‘Let m --’ He stops, choking, unable to breath. Then, he gasps and lowers his head into his hands and bursts into tears.

Hell, Wolfie, yer all gone down ter shit, all broke down like a runty camp dog.

‘No!’ he cries out though his fingers. ‘Why can’t I just stay here?’

While he kneels, his body wracks with great tearing sobs. A boot jabs at his ribs.

Git! Wake up!

Wolf Shield looks desperately at the beast, now a pale blot against the starry night.

Sucking deeply on its pipe, the great timber spits a stream of tobacco juice in the young warrior’s face and, speaking as if through a mouthful of gravel, says, ‘Listen well, Wolfie, and remember this: While we walk the path, we change costumes many times. But, between dances, we all yank off our masks and see the world through clear eyes…’

Weary, Wolf Shield blinks and rubs his burning eyes. Beyond the timber’s blurred features, heat waves, like a silvered dream, shimmer across the waving grass. He has a floating sensation of being cast adrift into the spinning sky.

‘…And when the music starts once more, we don our masquerade costumes and return to the Earth Walk and we forget who we are, why we came, and that we are simply playing the infinite enlightenment game.’

Cursing, the beast stands up and empties a bucketful of icy water on him.

‘Tell ye whut, Wolfie, me boy,’ Pederson says, ‘Lessen ye deliver the goods, yer aboot as much use ter me as a limp cock.’

The mere sound of his voice grates on Wolf Shield’s nerves like a fingernail on slate. Although he still feels dizzy and nauseous, the freezing water sobers him. He realizes it might not be a good idea to try to stand up yet - he can hardly raise his head. He does his best to ignore Pederson and lets his eyes wander about the area, taking in the changes. He winces at the sight of Eagle Walks, who is lying on the floor in the middle of the room. Leaning over him, one foot on his stomach, Aldrich is telling a story that has the others whooping with laughter. Bent at the waist, Erik wraps one thick arm around the skinny man’s shoulders, and clamps the other over his happy mouth. His chin is greasy and his beady eyes glitter with delight.

Wolf Shield sickens of their hoots of laughter and of the heat in the stinking lodge. However important he had thought his task to be, he will not suffer this any longer. Nothing good can come out of this encounter. Of this, he is now sure.

When my strength returns, I shall leave.

He closes his eyes and the voices merge into one mumbling drone that goes on without end. Just as Wolf Shield drifts back into mid-slumber, the door slams open and a number of hunters barge in, cursing and dragging in a struggling and screaming captive.

The sound of Two Souls’ voice jolts him awake.