Spray
slaps Nimble Foot’s face as he paddles beneath the ice-cold
downpour, gasping and spitting. He thrashes his legs underwater and
gropes about blindly until he hits a big rock. Clinging to the smooth
and slippery surface, he finds a foothold and drags himself up.
Coughing out water, he collapses on the frothing ledge. Panting,
eyebrows crinkled against the stinging drizzle, the boy pushes himself
on his hands and knees.
The
youth stands upright and throws back his head, cupping his hands
around his eyes. He observes the moon sail across the narrow slice of
sky between the cliffs. Two majestic birds soar against the outline of
the crags.
He
watches the slow-circling eagles with wonder. Below, the glassy water
thunders over a lofty boulder that gleams under the stars. In awe
before the endless outpour, he stares at the height from which the
water comes crashing down until it makes him dizzy.
‘How
did I confront such fury? It should have killed me.’
He
inhales deeply, holds his breath and steps under the cataract.
Standing erect, he spreads his arms in a cross and begins humming in
tune with the torrent that lashes his shoulders.
The
water beats hard; soon, his skin numbs. The tiredness and drunkenness
disappear, replaced by an overwhelming sense of self.
‘It
is like singing inside,’ he whispers.
He
senses how thin reality is, how tightly stretched, like skin over the
blood and tissue of an elusive and all encompassing entity. He breaks
free.
Nimble
Foot blinks and finds himself stalling at the very brink of the
foaming hole that surrounds him. Shivering, the boy rubs his hands
over his arms to slick the water off, hip-deep in surging spray. A few
feet away, the vicious snarl of white-water subsides and gives way to
a quiescent pool before the rapids resume their course, rolling
through a narrow channel, singing and dancing around protruding reefs,
swelling over slick lumps of glassy stone. Ahead, a flight of honking
geese flaps across the water in a flurry of wings before rounding the
cottonwood-lined bend.
Standing
on an island in the middle of the stream, he chucks a bit of driftwood
into the tumbling waves and watches it disappear into the cataract.
Leaning
forward on slightly bent knees, poised with his arms held behind him,
Nimble Foot gathers momentum and jumps, his scream lost in the racket
of the rapid.
He
pops out, gasping for air, and hauls himself back onto the platform
only to dive again.
After
his swim, he wades downstream along the eastern shore, scrambling over
the drifting logs that occasionally block his way, observing
everything with insatiable curiosity. He glances at the woods and sees
faces in the tree knots, arms in the branches; he looks at the bushes
and sees the NunumBi elves curse at him and yell when the breeze shakes the
leaves as it filters through, whispering secrets.
Gazing
back at the slick gleam of water that pours over the towering boulder
into the feathery fury below, he feels pride to have faced such an
awesome force.
He
raises his two fists in the air, tosses back his head, and crows.
Under
a spell, he sloshes through the water until he reaches a patch of sand
at the edge of the tree line. The surface of the river is so smooth it
appears still.
Standing
in the shallows, he wrings his hair as he watches the sandy bottom,
flat and undisturbed except by his strange white feet. He sees the
moon’s twin glimmer on the surface, then stares at his liquid
reflection smiling back at him.
At
the sight of his grinning face, he realizes that, against all
expectations, he is enjoying himself. For the first time in his life,
he is without another person. He does not feel lonely because his
parents and his friends are not with him. Instead, he feels the
freedom of relying only upon his wits. He reminds himself he is not
alone, that nothing exists in isolation, that all lives are
intricately woven within the whole.
He
cries out as an acorn strikes his cheek. He glances upward and sees a
squirrel scurry away on an overhanging branch.
Has this tiny
four-legged ever felt lost?
‘How
could it,’ he answers aloud as he rubs his cheek, ‘when the whole
world is its home?’
Sighing,
the boy acknowledges how much more difficult life is for the
two-legged that need to learn how to live in balance with Nature by
observing the other creatures around them.
He
watches the small four-legged scuttle down a trunk and leap out of
sight into a bright opening a hundred paces from the riverbank.
Puzzled, Nimble Foot peers at the starlight that filters in through
the crisscross of leaves and branches.
He struggles up
the steep, spongy gully all night, crawling blindly through thick
brambles, dragging himself up on crumbling soil. Overhead, moonlight
pierces through the darkness. Two more yards and he will reach the
higher level. Clutching a large rotten trunk in both hands, he tugs to
check if it is safe, then grabs a root and hoists himself onto terra
firma.
Covered
with mud, bleeding from a hundred scratches, he lays on the ground,
breathing hard while he gazes at a path that leads out of the forest
depths and opens into a magnificent meadow, green and silvery under a
million stars. At once, the stiffness leaves his legs. He rises and
walks, his stride light.
Tall
grasses, thickets of willow and forests of flowers fill the glade.
Following an invisible trail, Nimble Foot walks through chest-high
patches of paintbrush, columbines, buttercups and silvery lupines.
Three
whitetails and a newborn fawn step into full view beside a clump of
thin trees. As Nimble Foot watches them nibble harebells and clover,
he sees them radiate pale blue light. The halo around the infant is so
faint it is nearly translucent. Nimble Foot’s eyes go round in
wonder; he knows this is part of his vision. Startled, they raise
their heads and peer at him before bounding gracefully away in slow
motion, followed by the ephemeral trail of their previous positions.
The
grass rustles beneath his feet and hisses around his calves. Looking
around, everything he sees is so beautiful and lush with growth, he
knows this place is special. After hours of hard climbing, he has
reached his destination and thanks the Standing People for guiding him
all the way along his sacred path.
The
foliage, the long weeds, the patches of blue and rose flowers, sway
with the warm Chinook. From
the corner of his eye, he catches movement in the shadow under the
wind-lashed trees. A lone doe breaks from a clump of birches. It
freezes and stares at him with glowing eyes, its graceful silhouette
dark brown against the starry sky. The wind dies down and it leaps out
of sight, spurts of clod flying off its hoofs. For an instant,
everything stills in the grassy valley. The loons stop warbling and
the frogs stop croaking. Nothing moves but the puffy clouds that drift
eastward. Only the hushed rush of the river breaks the quiet.
Silence,
the very voice of the Great Spirit.
The
cicadas chirr again.
Standing
in thigh-deep grass, Nimble Foot contemplates the sprawling prairie
and, beyond, on all sides, rows upon rows of snow-crested mountains.
As
he skirts the meadow, he has a strong feeling he knows this place. He
has been here before. How can that be? He has never left his tribe.
And yet he recognizes each tree’s distinct features, the valley’s
unique aspect, the jagged outline of the mountain range, even the
arrangement of the stars in the open sky.
The
sense of memory is so intense he stops. Something rustles in the
gloomy underbrush. Immobile, Nimble Foot remembers it before even
catching sight of it. The next instant, he looks up and sees the oak
tree, black against the starlit sky.
‘Wolf
Shield, Wolf Shield,’ whispers the face in the waving leaves.
Nimble
Foot stares at the vast silhouette, blurry in the starlight.
‘Do
not be frightened, Wolf Shield,’ emanates from what could be its
mouth. ‘I am not a Big Snake Man.’
Wolf Shield? My
man’s name has already found its place in the song of the forest.
Shivering,
the young warrior tries his best to stand tall in that presence. Eyes
sharpened by fear, he sees two glowing eyes beneath the swaying
leafage.
As
the veil starts fraying, threads of the greater reality begin weaving
an endless tapestry where all times mingle and become one. The facts
of his life seep in. In a flash of dreadful enlightenment, Nimble Foot
understands the profound link that ties his fate to that of the timber
wolves, and cries out.
‘Do
not be appalled, Wolf Shield,’ the creature beneath the tree growls,
‘There is never a choice. Come closer.’
Numb with shock,
the youth steps forward and kneels before the wolf. At once, the smell
of fresh blood overwhelms him. The
newborn fawn, perhaps.
Close
up, the wolf’s eyes shine like stars and its fur is white as snow.
Prostrating himself, Nimble Foot gently strokes the animal’s head
and begs for forgiveness and gives thanks for permission to approach
him. The wolf remains quiet, yawns and blinks its eyes.
‘You
have peeled the veil away, Wolf Shield,’ it growls. ‘Tonight, your
path changes. You will remember why we are here; you will remember
your purpose within His plan.’
‘I
am honoured, Great Spirit,’ the boy says in a shaky voice.
‘I
am not Great Spirit. I am Gabriel. You cannot remember me, but we have
met many times. And though you have made a long journey, it is far
from ended.’ The beast buries its snout in a patch of weeds and
barks, ‘Eat!’
The
boy pulls a handful of weeds and starts chewing. Compared to the
mushroom, the grass is a feast. His head spins as he masticates.
‘Get
up and take a step forward and look back at the houses of your eternal
spirit.’
The
boy obeys and stands, feeling at the same time heavy and light-headed.
Everything glows in the valley. He takes a step forward, looks back
and sees himself. He shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut and
when he opens them, he stares at his mirror image shimmering under the
starlight. Then, the image’s shiny outline wavers before splitting
infinitely into an endless procession of two-legged shifting in and
out of focus. They stare back at him. In their eyes, he sees exactly
the same expression, the same prayer, the same dream, the same
unending quest. He knows these faces and with recognition comes
soul-numbing shock: these men are all he ever was and will ever be.
‘Pay
heed, loved one.’ As it rises, the wolf becomes an angel and spreads
its wings. ‘If you look in the right direction, you will see her.
And if your heart is open, you will recognize her.’
Dazed,
Nimble Foot allows the craving to take hold of him.
He remembers
falling, falling, falling…
And then, millennia after millennia, he remained hanging, motionless,
a captive witness of the four-legged that slept, hunted, mated and
devoured one another, endlessly, never aware of him. In the wake of
this surge of impressions, he recalls the utter loneliness and the
longing --
He
cries out.
His
face crumples and twists and he lets himself fall sprawling in the
grass. Tears roll down his face as he remembers how he laughed while
she sang and danced around him in their perfect realm.
‘Ao!’
Yearning
to hug and kiss her, he calls out her name over and over.
Helpless,
he moans and bangs his fists on the ground, then crawls towards the
oak tree. When he reaches it, he sits on his heels and looks up at the
empty place where he hung for an eternity.