Wolf! Happily Ever After?

by Nancy Temple Rodrigue

  Knowing the louder sounds were moving away from them, Wolf ignored those unimportant noises and fell back on his training from birth. Being a Lakota brave of the wilderness, he would need every trick he knew to help his friends survive.

  “Do you think it’s safe enough to start a fire?”

  Even though the question was whispered, the sound still seemed overloud in their perilous condition. “Shh, Wals. Not so loud. I can hear you just fine. No. I know we need the warmth,” and the false sense of security it would provide, he silently added to himself, “but it isn’t a good idea just yet. We still don’t know who or what is around us. Sorry, Rose.” Still dripping from the moat water, he had refrained from shaking off of his thick coat of fur. It would have just reminded them that he was impervious to the cold and dampness that they were feeling.

  Whatever else Wolf was going to say died in his throat when he realized they were not alone in that small clearing in the misty forest. A different, unique smell came to his nose. Unable to place it, his head jerked upward when a soft rustling noise settled on a limb high over their heads. Eyes narrowed and teeth bared, he saw they were being watched by a pair of golden-yellow eyes. Half-closed, the eyes seemed to be disapproving.

  The hair on the scruff of his neck stood as he took a defensive posture in front of his friends. Head down and front feet wide apart, Wolf’s back legs were tense, ready to spring at a moment’s notice. Not sure what the wolf had seen, Wals placed a steady hand on the sword hanging at his side. Knuckles white, his fingers wrapped around the elaborate hilt. Eyes trained upward, he pulled the steel blade a few inches out of the scabbard and waited.

  They all watched in silence as a dark shape dropped from the tree and headed straight toward them.

  Burbank — 1963

  “How do you make cartoons, Walt?” Pencil poised, the National Geographic interviewer had already fired his next question.

  Before answering, Walt picked up the phone and made some arrangements. “Well, if you’ll come this way, I’ll show you the animators at work.”

  As the two men arrived at the first department, Walt smiled, pleased with himself. The day was going very well so far, and the interviewer seemed fascinated by every facet of the workings within the Studio.

  The first stop they made was the Story Department. One prominent wall displayed the sketches that showed the feature-length cartoon that was currently in production: The Sword in the Stone. Walt explained how the main ideas were made into drawings. Once pinned to this large wall, they were then either used, rearranged, or discarded as the storyline progressed.

  In the Sound Department, the man was disappointed to see a large, empty room that was filled with chairs and music stands. His host told him the orchestra would arrive for the next session. Then, voices, sound effects and music would be recorded after the right songs and background music were written and the perfect voice was auditioned and chosen for the characters.

  An animator at work was next on the list for their visit. Walt continued talking while the interviewer scribbled furiously in his notebook. Walt explained that the animators needed to be actors themselves to be able to portray and then draw the movements they see in the mirror that was mounted next to their desks. Once the director of the film told the animators how the scene will play out, they would get to work drawing their assigned character. In the next cubicle, Walt introduced an animator named Shirley who was busy drawing the outline of Merlin. Used to interruptions from the boss, she pointed out that the drawing would later be painted on the reverse side and then photographed over a woodland scene deep in the forest.

  The layout man was an artist, too. He provided the visually stunning backgrounds that were a favorite feature of the full-length cartoons. Next, the visitor saw how the inkers and painters traced the animator’s drawings onto clear celluloids, or cels as they were more often called, and then referred to a color guide to get the correct, pre-determined colors for the characters.

  Once the cameraman received the finished, dried cels, they would be placed, one at a time, over the correct background and then he would shoot them. “It requires sixteen different drawings for just one foot of film,” Walt pointed out, indicating the cels waiting on the nearby table. “What we are working on here, The Sword in the Stone, will end up with something like two hundred twenty-seven thousand hand drawings!”

  Walt and his guest next met the film editor. He handed the interviewer a piece of the film he had just edited out, explaining it took eighteen drawings for the owl in that part of the film to flap his wings one time. Holding the piece of film up to the light, the National Geographic man could see the brown, round face of the owl. “May I?” Walt could hear the eagerness in his voice and gave a nod. Smiling, he slipped the piece of film into his pocket.

  Depending on the progress of the film on which they were working, the Projection Room came with many moods. If it was going well, it would be a light, joking atmosphere, as it was that day. “If not, well, it was back to the drawing board,” Walt said with a chuckle. He knew, all too well, how often that could happen and how months of work would be scrapped in the desire to have a perfect finished product.

  Clearly enthralled, the interviewer shook his head at all the things he had just seen. “This has been amazing, Walt. Our readers will love to get this behind-the-scenes glimpse into your world. So, tell me something about Disneyland.”

  “Tell you?” Walt gave a laugh, a twinkle in his eye as he rubbed his hands together. “How about if I show you. You have time?”

  “You bet.” His enthusiastic reply was cut short. Jamming his hat on his head, he had to hurry when he saw his host was already halfway to the door.

  Disneyland — 2008

  “Who so pulleth out this sword of this stone and anvil is rightwise ruler born of England.” The words were embossed on an elaborately-shaped gold shield and attached to a large rock in the courtyard of Fantasyland. Sitting on the rock was a golden anvil and embedded in the anvil was a golden-handled sword. Only a few inches of the sword protruded from the anvil, tempting all those who passed to test their strength and worth. With the backdrop of the King Arthur Carrousel, it was a fitting reminder of Days of Olde when knights pursued glorious quests and their fair maidens awaited in their castles.

  “Hear Ye! Hear Ye! By proclamation of Arthur, the right and true king of the land, it is time to choose a temporary ruler of the land.”

  Preceded by an energetic blast of trumpets, the voice came out of an unseen speaker, and settled over the guests in Fantasyland. As if materializing out of thin air, a tall, blue-robed figure strode majestically through the milling people. “Merlin!” was the cry from knowing youngsters as they immediately flocked around him, following his circuitous route to the embedded sword.

  “Yes, yes, it is time.” Merlin glanced at the huge wooden hourglass that hung from his belt. “You’re late,” he called upward to the hidden voice.

  “A new ruler is needed to keep the kingdom safe while our good King is….”

  Merlin interrupted the anxious voice. “Is what? What is King Arthur doing that requires a temporary ruler?”

  “On vacation. Hey, every ruler needs a break….” The voice now sounded put out that he needed to defend the rights of the King.

  “Oh, we know, we know. Get on with it. We understand.” Merlin waved his arms around to include the entire, growing crowd. They were gathered outside the thin ropes he had quickly set up around the sword and the stone.

  The grand, invisible voice continued. “Presiding over this most sacred ceremony and selection is the royal prestidigitator, the royal wizard, and the official temporary royal ruler selector…Merlin!”

  Arms out, Merlin accepted the applause that flowed around him. “That’s me!”

  “Let the ceremony commence,” declared the voice.

  “Thought it already did.” Easily overheard, Merlin mumbled as if to himself and then waved his hand as if getting rid of an annoying gnat. “You
can go now, Voice. I am Merlin, the most humble adviser to good King Arthur, and I must find amongst all of you delightful subjects of the realm the one who is most qualified to be the temporary ruler while Arthur is, er, sunbathing in Bermuda. Now, in order to find a good candidate, it takes a little extra….” Pointing to the nearby entrance to Peter Pan, Merlin opened his large soft-sided bag and reached inside. Pulling out a pair of red long johns, he hurriedly stuffed them back inside, red of face and embarrassed. “Oops, wrong bag…. Oh, wait, here it is.” After throwing a cloud of sparkles into the air, he picked up where he had left off. “It takes a little extra help. Now, who feels confident that they can provide the needed protection and direction this realm needs? Any volunteers?”

  A sea of hands shot into the air. Merlin, one hand stroking his chin, walked around the rope barrier and approached a large, smiling man. “Ah, I can see courage, strength, moral charisma, and a definite fashion statement,” as he pointed to the pair of Mickey Mouse ears on the man’s head. “You…you are the choice. Come with me.”

  The fanfare of trumpets came from speakers above as the chosen guest was led to the back of the waiting sword.

  “What is your name, good sir?”

  The man, getting into the spirit of the moment, threw out his arms as if in greeting. “I am Jeff.” He was rewarded by answering hoots from his family in the audience who had their cameras ready for the fun to come.

  “You are correct! You have passed the intelligence portion of the exam. Sir Jeff,” Merlin continued, “Before I can allow you to ascend the throne of Arthur, according to tradition, only the right and true king can pull the sword from the stone. You look like a strapping young man, so don’t get carried away here. Just pull the sword about halfway out. Now, place your hands on the handles of the sword. Are you ready, Sir Jeff, to take your rightful place in history? Are you ready to pull?”

  Jeff looked like he was straining. “I already am,” he admitted as his face turned red.

  “What? You couldn’t possibly be pulling. Put your back into it, man!”

  Jeff tried again and it was obvious the sword wasn’t going to budge.

  “Hmmm, I’m not sure what is wrong…well, besides you, of course…. Perhaps I should try another fellow and proclaim that you are the Official Royal Bodyguard. Stand to the side, Sir Jeff, over there,” Merlin pointed.

  Adjusting his tall, cocked hat, Merlin looked out over the audience again. “Well, I’m going to lose my credentials if I don’t get this right. Usually this is so simple even a child can do it! Ah, that’s it!” Merlin stopped in front of a small, smiling boy about eight years old. He could see the pleading look in the boy’s eyes. “You,” as he laid his hand on the child’s head, the boy’s mother busy snapping pictures and grinning. “Come with me. Your name, young squire?”

  “Kyle!” Nervous and excited at the same time, the boy giggled as he bounced up and down on his toes.

  “Sir Kyle.” Merlin led him to the position behind the sword and had him face the audience. Merlin next went to the waiting Jeff and positioned him behind the boy, his arms outward toward Kyle. “Now you guard him, Sir Jeff…. Perhaps you can get that right,” Merlin mumbled out of the side of his mouth, eliciting a chuckle from the audience. “Sir Kyle, how old are you?”

  “I’m, uh, eight.”

  “Are you married? No, never mind. Now, I want you to think of a wonderful place…. Oh, wrong story, sorry. I want you to think courageous thoughts and then pull the sword. Can you do it, Sir Kyle? Are you ready?”

  Kyle chuckled uncertainly and shrugged his shoulders.

  “Oh, your confidence is so assuring! Now, get in position….”

  The sound of trumpets came from the speakers as Kyle tugged upward on the sword. It slid easily from the anvil and stood gleaming in the afternoon light as the audience clapped their approval.

  “You did it! Whew.” Merlin blew out his cheeks and wiped the nonexistent sweat from his brow. Pulling a red cape out of his bag, he fastened it around Kyle’s neck. “Our new temporary ruler, King Kyle!”

  The audience broke out into applause again as Kyle waved to his parents.

  “Now, Your Majesty, it is time for your first official business of the land, your first proclamation. You can make any law you want. Anything you can think of, it will come true. Anything at all. Ice cream for dinner. Free FastPasses for Indy for everyone. Anything you want. So, think carefully.” Merlin kept up his banter as he pulled up his hourglass and checked it. “Oh, I’m sorry, your time is up.” He removed the cape from the youngster’s shoulders and stuffed it back in the bag. Holding up a golden medallion he had just retrieved from his pocket, Merlin looked at the confused boy. “Since the joy of the day has been somewhat diminished, I would like to present you with this royal medallion that commemorates your time as our ruler and kind King. Now, return to your family and think of your rule fondly.” Merlin turned to Sir Jeff, who had just now thought to lower his arms, and stood awaiting his reward. Fumbling around in his bag, he turned empty-handed to the guest. “And, for you, Sir Jeff, you will always have this warm, wonderful memory!”

  As the audience continued clapping, Jeff laughed and went back to his wife Jean who was still snapping pictures.

  With a grand flourish of his robes, Merlin, his work finished, turned and strode toward the Cast Member Only door in the Castle and vanished from their sight.

  England — 589 C.E.

  A small fire blazed in the arched, stone fireplace, a well-used, blackened cooking pot hung from a crude metal hook and bubbled contentedly off to the side. The cheery light of the flames did little to brighten the rest of the small cottage. Nestled in the depths of the dripping, quiet forest, the stone house was cocooned by a cozy gray blanket of fog.

  Sitting in an overstuffed chair—one that somehow looked too modern and out-of-place in the rustic thatched dwelling—was an old man whose half-shut eyes stared into the flames. Dangling from his relaxed fingers was a bent pipe that had gone out hours before. To a passerby, the old man’s tranquil attitude could possibly signify that he might be thinking back over his long life. There was a look of contentment on his lined face that indicated his life had been a good one, filled with more happiness than sadness.

  But there was no one to pass by at that early hour to peer in through the wavy, yellowed glass in the window. And this was no old man. Oh, he looked to be of great age—and he was—but his appearance could change as often as his many moods. This appearance, the one he was now settled into, did well for him. It served his purpose. This was the look that was expected of someone in his position, his authority. And he certainly aimed to please.

  The shaggy gray tufts that formed his eyebrows narrowed as he gazed into the flames. Hands on the arms of his chair, he suddenly leaned forward and impatiently shoved aside the footstool on which his slippered feet had been resting. The peaceful countenance began to alter as he looked deeper into the dancing flickers.

  “What’s this? What’s this?” His long, pointed beard came alarmingly close to the burning embers as he leaned even nearer. “What kind of foolishness is this?” Curiosity and interest filled his green eyes as he stared intently at the figures seen deep within the flames. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, practically unseen behind his gray beard. This could prove to be an interesting day after all. His head turned slightly to the left, eyes still on the sight in front of him, he next spoke out loud. “It looks like we are going to have visitors this morning, Ar….” He broke off when he realized he was alone. A glance into the far corner proved he was correct. “Hmmph, gone already. Figures.” He continued to mumble to himself as his attention returned to the fire, and idly wondered where his footstool had run off. As if an afterthought, he raised his face and said aloud to the ceiling, “Bring them to me when you can.”

  With the sound of fluttering wings, the black, indistinct shape slowly materialized out of the fog. As it got closer, all of the watching eyes strained to se
e through the misty air, trying to determine what it was that came at them. Taken aback, they finally could make out a brown and white owl that hovered, it sincerely hoped, just out of reach of the possible snapping jaws of the wolf. As it slowly flapped its wings, the owl kept one eye on the defensive stance of the wolf. His blue eyes narrow as he glared at the newcomer, the huge wolf didn’t look too happy to see the bird.

  “Who….”

  “It’s an owl!” Wals’ observation was unnecessary as his sword lowered. As he looked back at his companions, there was a mixture of relief and humor on his face. “Kinda scruffy-looking one, too.”

  “…are you?” The owl finished his interrupted sentence, and chose to ignore the insult to his appearance that the man had given him. Turning his head almost one hundred and eighty degrees away from them, the owl then curtly spoke to someone unseen. “Yes, yes, I know. I’m on it.” His head swiveled back to scrutinize the intruders in the forest. The wolf had eased up on his defensive stance, the man still seemed amused, and the beauty had relaxed enough to smile up at him and seemed to want to chat.

  Wolf thought it best that he should remain silent and, catching that, Wals took over as their spokesman. “A talking owl! How is that possible? What’s going on here?”

  Wolf groaned and was rethinking his decision not to talk. Wals heard him, and caught Wolf’s not-so-subtle meaning. Clearing his throat, Wals tried again. “Who are you and where exactly are we? We seem to be lost.”

  The owl seemed to find that amusing. “A talking human! How is that possible?” He mimicked Wals’ voice perfectly and then chuckled to himself. “Yes, I think you are very lost, considering how you are dressed. But, first, let me introduce myself.” In a graceful flutter of wings, he settled on a low-hanging branch just in front of them and gave a small cough. “I am Archimedes.” He stopped there, and, in a grand gesture, spread his wings outward to await the accolades. He was rewarded with silence as three pairs of eyes stared at him. “Ah, I take it, then, that you have not heard of me.” With a resigned sigh, he refolded his wings with a shake of feathers. “Well, then, I suppose I should take you to my master. Let him straighten this mess out. Follow me, please,” he directed as he flapped into the air and immediately headed deeper into the forest.