by Elyse Draper
I decide to unload the truck, and check on the progress of the whelping pen. I think mostly, I am just biding time until I can watch the interaction between the kid and the wolf. Their connection gives me the willies, but at the same time I catch myself watching them like they are the starring act at the local circus.
After about twenty minutes, I decide I probably ought to search for them, just in case Ursa went into labor while they were out. Tracking has always been second nature to me, but Christopher has an amazing talent for hiding his tracks if he doesn’t want to be found … luckily that wasn’t the case today. His heavy boot prints, and Lune’s paws, left holes pressed into the deep snow… they were being lead by Ursa’s huge prints. She definitely knew exactly where she was going, but trudging through the snow had to be hard on her, in her condition. I can tell she was having problems: some of her tracks were strained, and she had to sit a few times to rest. Whatever drew them out here; it must have been extremely important to her. By this stage, if she was still in the wild, she would be looking for a quiet place to hunker down and give birth, not wading through two-and-three-foot snow drifts.
“What are they up to? Where did they need to go?” I can see my breath when I whisper the words, like steam hanging over a hot spring in winter.
As I approach an opening in the trees, I can hear the panting and muffled growls erupting out of more than two muzzles.
“The pack! Damn him! Like one wolf wasn’t enough to worry about, he has to play with the entire, damn pack!” I curse myself for speaking out loud, but fortunately Christopher and his 'friends' are too busy to pay attention to my interruption.
If I thought, watching Christopher and Ursa was amazing; watching him with the pack is mind-blowing. The Alpha sits next to him on his right, Ursa and Lune on his left. An older female is doting over Ursa, licking her face and putting her muzzle under the pregnant wolf’s chin. The nurse-wolf is inspecting her as if to say; look up so I can check your eyes. And how have you been holding up? In the meantime Christopher nods once in awhile in the Alpha’s direction, and then says something that sounds like deep incomprehensible mumbling. As this meeting happens on the sidelines, the real show is going on in front of them, where five other members of the pack wrestle and play. The intricate dance is a jumbled mess of teeth and fur, the only clue to its friendly nature are the tails wagging happily in the air.
The sight of the pack is breathtaking; they are the epitome of grievous beauty. I’ve never seen a human standing among them like this. Usually, when I work with the biologists, we have to tranquilize them so that we can check their health stats and chip them. We would never assume that approaching them like this was a good idea.
I remember asking Christopher why he named Ursa that, instead of the name the biologist gave her. He told me when he asked her what her name was; she showed him a picture of the constellation Ursa Major. I thought he was full of crap. The connection between the kid and the wolf was hard to ignore, but communicating … that was just impossible.
Now, watching him with the pack I understand, I finally understand … at some point Christopher stopped being solely human and became something more … something primal; he is wild.
I feel a pit form in my stomach as the comprehension filters into my head, “He’s not in danger from them … he’s as dangerous as them.”
This time my whispered words bring the attention I was hoping to avoid. The Alpha turns his head and focuses his hard, golden eyes on me standing on the outskirts of their meadow. Responding to the Alpha’s shift in attention, Christopher looks over his shoulder and shakes his head. He reaches down and says something to the wolf as he strokes the massive animal’s neck. I understand right away that he is soothing the creature, explaining that I am of no danger to the pack. Christopher then raises his hand open-faced toward me, warning me to stay where I am, and not to move.
As he walks over to me with Lune at his side, the pack closes rank around Ursa. They lick her coat, whine, and gently paw at her sides. Then the pack splits and lets the Alpha walk in closer to her. He puts his muzzle on top of hers and rubs the side of his face up to the top of her head. That gesture must be the signal to the rest of the pack that it is time to leave. As they move away, into the trees on the other side of the meadow, Ursa walks laboriously over to join Lune and Christopher, who are now standing right in front of me.
As I look into Christopher’s eyes, I feel dumbfounded … this friendship was never about me protecting him from the big bad world; he allowed this friendship in spite of his version of the big bad world.
I suddenly feel very foolish for seeing him as a kid; he understands more about the dangers around us than even the most experienced survivalist. He and I never had a conspiracy protecting Ursa. Christopher and nature have an agreement that humans aren’t supposed to understand. I suddenly feel very small and insignificant standing next to his relationship with the wolves. Bitterly, I have to laugh at my mistaken opinion that Christopher and Ursa should be performing as the starring acts at the local circus.
Christopher looks at me with a smirk growing on his face. He shakes his head and simply says as he walks past, “You give me too much credit. I really do think I’d be at home in a freak show.”
Silently I turn, and follow the self-proclaimed freak, and his sideshow animals, out of the forest and back to the cabin.
Chapter 3
Truth
Watching Ursa closely as we trudge our way back out of the trees, I notice just how labored her movements have become. Wolves, unlike Huskies, tend to keep their tails down, showing that they are always cautious, always prepared. It isn’t until we reach the cabin that I notice the blood staining the long white fur of her tail, and know it is time to settle her down in the whelping pen.
As we walk in, Christopher acknowledges that I have laid out newspapers and towels in the caged area that he’s built for the birth. He looks down at Ursa, and in one smooth movement, they walk over to the pen where he unlocks one section and lets her in.
I go over to the stove and stoke the fire. Seeing that we need more wood, I go outside to the shed to collect a bundle, giving Ursa and Christopher the chance to settle down.
Upon returning, I am surprised, although I shouldn’t be, to find Christopher in the pen curled around Ursa’s back, while Lune lies at her head licking her face.
Once, I thought that their relationship was too unusual to be real; but now, I understand differently … they have a pact. Lune and Christopher are going to care for her, no matter what. They are a pack, connected in spirit. One of the most powerful fears for anyone dealing with wolves … is the pack. They hunt as one, play as one, communicate as one. Their relationship has never been understood, becoming the substance of folklore.
I have to admit, what I am witnessing is, in fact, the perfect example of an unbelievable story that if retold, would make me sound like a lunatic.
How ironic that this could have been written as one of the many myths I’ve read. Or any one of the many myths I've heard spoken by the tribal elders. Legends that I have entertained as stories from primitive people … they don’t seem so primitive anymore.
When Christopher starts whispering to someone standing over the trio, the hair on the back of my neck stands up on end. Incoherent, with a pleading tone, he mumbles to an unseen individual. And I understand right away that he is asking for help … but from whom?
“What is it? What’s happening?” I can’t keep the anxiety from my voice, and knowing that hiding my feelings from Christopher is useless; I set down the cord of wood and enter the pen.
“She can’t get the first pup to pass … it's stuck, and she’s in pain.” He is keeping her calm, but as he speaks she whimpers softly.
While he holds her, I reach down and notice the sack around the baby is starting to pass, and then slides back in, disappearing from sight. On the next contraction, I firmly grab with my fingers and probe to find out how the pup is positioned. Turning it gently, so I can feel
the muzzle and shoulders, I pull the rest of the tiny form out. As the sack tears I notice the malformed shoulder and twisted front paw. Quickly bending around, Ursa begins to clean up the pup and chew through the umbilical cord.
Looking up, I become aware of the disturbing fact that Christopher wasn’t just keeping her calm … he has been keeping her from attacking me. Forgetting how dangerous wild animals can be when they’re in pain is a rookie mistake. I can’t believe how foolish I’ve become, so very reckless and passive.
I look at Christopher, and for a moment he looks frustrated by the fact I can’t understand him, without him actually speaking to me. “Michael, she wants you to take him now… she says something is wrong.”
“There is. He’s malformed, and so far … not breathing.” I pick up the tiny body and start rubbing his sides. Then delicately pushing my finger in past his tiny teeth, I scoop out any fluid and start blowing lightly into his nose and mouth. I can feel his little rib cage expand but he isn’t alive, no breath escapes that I haven’t forced out by rubbing. After ten minutes of rubbing and breathing for the pup, I take the stethoscope and listen, confirming what I already know to be true … he is stillborn. I place the limp body by Ursa’s muzzle, she licks him a couple times and Lune prods him with his nose. Then Lune gently picks up the first pup by the scruff of its neck and moves it over to the edge of the pen, where Ursa won’t have to see it. Returning, he repositions himself where he was before, next to his mate.
“They know you did your best … but she says the pup just wasn’t meant to survive. Michael, the next one is coming, and she says she doesn’t think this one is alive either.” Between Ursa’s whimpering, Lune’s downcast eyes, and the crack in Christopher’s voice, the grief is obvious. But they aren’t going to let it show, not until they have finished what is started.
Ursa was right; I have to help deliver the next one, same as the first. This time though, before I hand it over to the mother wolf, I shake my head and speak to Christopher. “Its neck is broken; I don’t think its spine was formed right in the first place.”
While Christopher buried his head in Ursa's mane, and whispered again to the unknown presence in the room, I listened carefully and heard. “I’m sorry, Lune.” In response, Lune crawled on his stomach, over to stick his nose under Christopher’s chin.
Then, as if this small spell has been broken, Christopher sits up and scratches Ursa’s head, while Lune moves another limp body over to the corner.
We sit silently for some time before Christopher finally gets up and brings Ursa a bowl of water. Then without saying a word, he picks up the bodies from the corner and walks outside, leaving me alone with Ursa and Lune. The great husky comes to sit right in front of me, and cocking his head, he asks to be scratched by moaning quietly under his pant.
I run my fingers through the rabbit-soft fur behind his ears, “I’m sorry, Lune. I’m sorry, Ursa.” I’ve talked to animals before, but never because I knew they understood me, or all the sentiment attached to my words. Lune lies down with a heavy harrumph, and puts his head in my lap, where I can absentmindedly continue to rub his neck.
Our trance is broken when Christopher comes back in, about fifteen minutes later. Walking into the kitchen, he speaks with a heaviness that, in anyone else, would hint towards crying. His hands are covered in dirt, and although his face holds very little emotion, I can see he is mournful. “She says, she thinks there are two more. But she doesn’t have the heart to touch their minds to see if they are alive.”
“What were you doing outside?”
“I asked Ursa if the pups had names. She told me that they don’t name the dead, and asked if I would bury the small ones … so they could return to their rightful place in nature.” I can almost hear bitterness in his cold answer, but I think better of it … cold, yes, but bitter … never. Listening closely to his tone, I make note that he seems as detached as nature itself, incapable of sentimentality.
I take pride in my ability to read people, and use that knowledge daily in my work … but Christopher is a different creature altogether. Like his ability to hide his tracks if he doesn't want to be found, he can conceal his emotions where no one can see ... except for, maybe, his Ellie.
He stares back at my scrutiny, and simply states, “Ursa says she’s in pain again … the next one is coming.”
As we take up our positions, I have to ask, “You keep saying Ursa ‘says’… so, she speaks? Would that be in English, or do you speak wolf?” The absurdity of the question brings a smile to my face, and in return Christopher starts to laugh. It is one of those moments that happens much too often in life … laughing at the wrong time over decidedly sober situations. A much needed break, because as soon as we stop, Ursa starts whimpering again.
The next pup comes quickly; it is so small, holding it up and comparing it to its mother, I wonder how such small animals can become such massive beasts. When it rolls in my fingers and squeaks, I quickly clean around her muzzle and we all breathe a sigh of relief … I don’t think any of us realized we were holding our breath.
Laying the pup down where Ursa can check it out and clean it up, I turn in just enough time to see the last pup fall with a soft thump. I clean him up and notice his breathing is labored … but at least he is breathing. Counting each placenta, I know we just need to wait for Ursa to pass the last sack; in the meantime the two surviving pups begin to root around and nurse. Survival rears its miraculous head as I watch instinct take hold of the babies.
Ursa finishes cleaning up her little ones, and keeps prodding the bigger pup, the male, to eat. His skin is black and brown with a white diamond on his forehead, barely visible under his fine coat. His sister, the runt, squeaks and squeals as she noses around for milk, but her brother just keeps becoming more and more lethargic. Ursa starts licking more roughly; she is instinctively trying to stimulate the pup to breath. When he stops, I know I need to start breathing for him. I pick him up and start blowing into his nose and mouth like I did for the first pup. Grabbing the stethoscope I listen to his heart, and can actually hear it slowing down. Compressing his chest, behind his elbow, I try to massage some life back into his little body. Continuing the CPR, I stop after about three minutes and check his heart beat, no change; the little guy’s heart is just giving up. I look at Ursa … she has no aggression in her eyes, just sorrow. I don’t want to let her down, so I continue to work on him until Christopher takes him from me.
“Michael, he’s gone … she knows he’s gone. I can tell you’re trying for her, because there's no longer the need to try for him. It's okay, time to let him go back to nature. She asked us to let him go.”
This time, I, take the pup outside and bury him with the others, just deep enough to not attract scavengers. When I return, Christopher is in the kitchen making dinner. He has already put a bowl with a small amount of dog food, mixed with what looks like cottage cheese, next to Ursa’s water. Lune is cleaning her ears while she sleeps soundly with her head on his front paws.
I am finally able to see the runt clearly; Ursa has licked her clean before falling asleep. The pup is wriggling against her mother's belly, happily making suckling noises. At first, I think I am not seeing the miniscule wiggle worm correctly; I think maybe she is covered by her mother’s hairy, white underbelly. But now I can see … the pup is pure white, every centimeter of her exposed skin is the palest pink. I‘ve never seen anything like it. Arctic wolves are entirely white, but their pups are dark … maybe she is an albino. I feel an incredible compulsion to ensure this little one’s safety … above all else, I have to make sure she survives.
Turning to find Christopher standing behind me, he was watching the new family with an expression that was impossible to read.
“You’re right, we need to protect her … for some reason, I get the feeling she’s very important to our future.” I know Christopher is talking to me … but I can tell I am not the only one that he feels is listening to his statement. Looking around, expectin
g to find a specter of some sort, I finally write it off to his connection with the animals.
“You know, Christopher, I thought your talents were limited to hearing true thoughts when someone was lying … why, do you read me, all the time?”
“Well, actually, I'm sure that it’s kind of like hearing the animals … you always tell the truth, a rarity by far. I’m starting to understand that before my unfortunate time in Los Vegas, I heard the truth from lies, because the chemical response to fabricating deceit. That fabrication makes part of a person’s honest mind actually scream the facts. I’ve always been able to hear thoughts; I’m just sensitive to that particular reaction. You, on the other hand, you whisper all the time, always thinking, always analyzing … it’s like you have no room in your head for dishonesty or manipulation. Since you are always stating the facts in your head, as long as I listen closely, I can always hear you.” He has a smile on his face that makes me wonder if he is giving me a compliment, or enjoying his version of a freak show… Ladies and gentlemen, the amazing honest man, as rare as the illusive unicorn.
“What is your attraction to freak shows?” Christopher starts laughing so hard that tears roll down his face.
Blushing, I react by puffing up my chest, and then ask what we are having for dinner and what can I do to help. Christopher pulls himself together in just enough time to tell me, all I have to do is grab a bowl. It is a simple soup that he had apparently frozen; so all he had to do was throw it in a pot to thaw. The kid is a good cook. His independence always surprises me; I wasn’t nearly this together at nineteen.
Sitting down at his table with a bowl full of soup and a roll from the Polebridge Mercantile, I hadn't realized just how hungry I was; until I noticed my mouth had started watering.
To accompany our meal, Christopher sets a mug of the richest, dark coffee, in front me; and, I know instantly that he makes his coffee the same way as Lilly … and simply thinking her name, takes me back to her.
