Wolf! Happily Ever After?

by Nancy Temple Rodrigue

  When the eyes of the two men watching him got wide, Wals knew they understood where Wolf had gone. Perhaps not precisely, but they knew he was back further in time. Now for the fun part. Wals had to groan as he wished he had done better in his art classes at school.

  Using the twig, he scratched out a picture of what might be either a pony or a large dog next to the castle he had just drawn. Identifying it as Wolf, he saw the amusement flicker through their eyes again. Next to Wolf he drew a tall stick figure in a horned hat that set on top of long hair, wearing what might have been a cape. In her bony hand was a long stick with a round blob on top. Wals then drew a lightning bolt from the round blob to Wolf. “And now we get to play charades,” he told them dryly when they frowned at him. Whatever he had done to Wolf didn’t look very encouraging.

  Wals pointed at himself. “I’m Wolf, okay?”

  “Okay,” the Shaman repeated in English, earning a small smile from his son.

  Wals let his eyes roll up into their sockets and staggered backwards, holding his head. Then, holding his fingers like curved claws, he approached Mato and growled, taking a swing at him. He did the same to the Shaman. Turning back to his drawing, he pointed at the figure in the tall hat and pretended to bow down to it.

  When he returned to his feet, he could see the two men were in shock. He assumed the message was properly delivered—Wolf was under the power of someone else and was turning on people.

  Now he had another message to convey. Going back to the timeline Mato had drawn, Wals pointed at himself, then at Mato, and then at the castle he had drawn. “We have to go there and help Wolf. You, me, go back,” as he repeated his stabs with the stick.

  Eyes even wider, Mato knew what he meant, but he had no idea how they could get back in time to that place. He didn’t even understand how Wals got here without his brother, let alone how he would get back to his own time on his own. He pointed to the River and made a twirling motion with his fingers and then did a startlingly-good imitation of a peal of thunder. Holding his shoulders up and hands out in front of him, he obviously asked Wals how they would get back.

  Remembering the forgotten recorder in his pocket, Wals’ solemn face suddenly lit with a wide smile. Once it was pulled out of his pants pocket, he was obviously pleased of the small device as he held it out for the two men to see.

  “Oh, great. Another one of their worthless things. Remember that silver one that was supposed to make fire?” The Shaman half-laughed, half-groaned, as he recalled the Zippo lighter that had belonged to Doctor Houser. It had made one little spark and, because the fluid was all gone, had never worked again. And the doctor had been so proud of it, just as Wals was evidently proud of this new thing.

  Mato grunted his agreement. Wolf had tried to explain to them the many different inventions over the centuries, but he hadn’t had much success. These people lived off the land and everything they needed was provided by the forest and the River.

  Seeing the dubious expressions on their faces, Wals gave them a smug grin. “Fine, just wait until you hear this.” He made a great show of pushing the Play button and the two men leaned in closer. They heard some static and the first note of Wolf’s howl when the tape stopped. “What?” Wals mumbled. “Oh, come on!” He pushed the Stop button and then tried again after he shook the little machine. When the clear plastic lid that protected the cassette tape was opened, a stream of water spilled out. “Oh, great, it got wet. No wonder it broke.” He slapped a hand to his forehead as the realization of what he just said sunk in. “It broke! How am I supposed to get home? How could we forget to wrap it? I wonder how long it will take Lance to come looking for me…. How would he even know that I didn’t just come back and immediately leave again?” Wals was just on the verge to panic. His head shot up and he looked at the two braves. They just stared at him, waiting skeptically for whatever miracle he was about to show them. With an angry yell, Wals threw the broken recorder as hard as he could over the trees and into the surrounding forest.

  “That’s the first intelligent thing he’s done since he got here,” the Shaman mumbled out of the side of his mouth to Mato.

  “Agreed.” Mato tried desperately not to laugh. “But, did you hear that sound it made before it stopped? It sounded just like Wolf.”

  “I heard something,” was all the Shaman would admit.

  “That must’ve been what Wals used to call the storm. How else could he get here?”

  “But how will he—and you, if that is what he meant—go back?”

  Mato stared at his father for a long minute. “I think I can call the storm,” he finally told him in a quiet voice.

  The older man hoped his expression didn’t convey the sudden pounding in his heart. “What makes you think so?”

  “If that…thing Wals just threw away had the call of Wolf on it, then it appears that Wolf doesn’t need to actually be there. It must be the essence of his howl that the storm hears…. I can imitate his call. I’ve done it before.”

  With no idea of what they were saying, Wals could only look back and forth at the two men who were now apparently in an argument. Mato had just said something that his father obviously did not like at all.

  Eyes narrowed, his father demanded, “So, you have tried to call the storm? Why haven’t you told me?”

  “Because you would have reacted just as you are now. It was many years ago, after one of Wolf’s visits.” The brave knew he had better talk fast. “I…I was intrigued after he had gone and wanted to see if I could do it, too.”

  “Did you go through the storm?” The question was asked in a calm voice, as if they were discussing the next hunt. But, the dark eyes behind the wolf headdress were wide, expectant as he awaited the reply.

  “No, I didn’t. I had no need or desire to see what Wolf had told us about. My life is here. With my family,” he stressed.

  “Ah, so the storm did come on your call.”

  “Yes. I can imitate the calls of all in our camp.”

  Satisfied for the moment that his oldest hadn’t done something foolish, the Shaman just grunted. “You always did have the gift of mimicry.” He looked away, torn between the desire to help his one son who was obviously in some kind of grave danger and the desire to not lose his other son to possibly the same fate. However, it wasn’t his decision to make. His son was a grown man. But, that admission did nothing to still his fears. “What do you want to do, my son? You’ve always been able to calm your brother when he forgot who he was.”

  Mato took his time before he answered, looking over at his own tipi where his wife and son patiently waited for him to share their evening meal. It would be a lie to say he had no curiosity about Wolf’s other life—no matter what he had just told his father. He had to admit to himself that he wanted to see his brother’s world. And, now that he realized Wolf was in danger and that his brother had to have taken a big chance by sending Wals, he felt he had to do something. This was his misun, his little brother. He had protected Wolf from the taunts of the other children as they grew up when they realized Wolf was different—starting with his vivid blue eyes and ending with his scary ability to turn a placid River into a raging whirlpool and then disappear through it for years at a time. His responsibility as the older brother hadn’t ended when Wolf vanished from sight the first time when they were teenagers. Yes, he would help his brother, however he could.

  His father could see the decision in his son’s determined eyes even before Mato spoke. His heart swelled with pride at the same time it sunk with fear within his chest. Without the word being spoken, he gave one regal nod and walked over to Wals who had been ignored all this time. Putting a kindly hand on the man’s shoulder, the Shaman thanked him, “Philámayaye. Inahni!” hurry!, and, head erect, slowly walked over to the Cooking Woman for a bowl of stew that he knew he wouldn’t be able to eat.

  Mato approached Wals and pointed at the picture of Wolf. Putting his arm around Wals’ shoulder, he talked—much to Wals’ relief—in a
mixture of English and sign language. “We go see Wolf. I call storm.” He then indicated Wals should wait where he was. He had some things he had to do before they left.

  Going to his tipi, he gathered his family in his arms. In a calm, unhurried voice, he told them what was going on and where he had to go. His wife had tears in her eyes, but she understood the bond between the two brothers and simply nodded. Young Igmutaka saw it as a grand adventure to share with his beloved uncle Wolf and wanted to go along. Mato held him close and whispered that they would have a different type of adventure together when he got back. They all hoped that the time would come for him to fulfill this promise he had just made to his son.

  Once he had gathered his weapons, Mato belted on a sharp dagger and took up his bow and arrows. Slinging the quiver over his back, he went to say, “Doka,”—see you later—to his father and asked him to watch over his family while he was gone. Their people didn’t say goodbye. With a nod of respect to the Cooking Woman, he went to rejoin Wals. The small canoe that had brought Wals had been fetched earlier by some of the tribesmen and a small hole repaired.

  Both men looked back when the Shaman called over to Mato. “When you see your brother, tell him I want my canoe back. It was my favorite.”

  The tension broken, Mato tilted his head back and gave a perfect imitation of Wolf’s cry. A collective shudder went through the village when they heard it. Mato called again and was rewarded by the slow approach of the familiar fog bank as it crept toward them from the Beaver Dam. When the clouds gathered overhead and began to collide, they all knew it had worked.

  As Wals climbed to the front of the canoe, two other braves clasped forearms with Mato and then readied themselves on each side of the small craft to push them off when Wals gave the signal.

  Lightning forked above and streaked down to touch the agitated River, sending up waves of green water and pink sparks. When the fury mounted to a peak, Wals gave the yell and they were pushed into the rapid current, aimed straight at the heart of the chasm.

  Back at his rocky platform, the anguished Shaman couldn’t tear his eyes away from the spectacle in front of them all. At the end, he had to reach out a hand and weakly grasp the side of his enclosure in the effort to stay upright when he saw his last son vanish as if into the thin air and the water close over the top of him.

  Disneyland — 2008

  Wals regained consciousness in front of the small cabin on Tom Sawyer’s Island. This time he was thankful he hadn’t bashed his head on one of the rocks in the Keel Boat Rapids. Once on his feet, he remembered he hadn’t been alone in that nightmare and looked around for Mato.

  He saw the brave in front of the brown, motionless horse in its corral next to the Settler’s Cabin. Mato reached out a tentative hand to touch the horse’s nose. Getting no reaction from the familiar-looking animal, he ran his hand over the hard material that formed the fiberglass animal, displacing dust and leaves in the process. Wals knew he’d never be able to explain the two-part cloth and resin process that had made the horse.

  A glance at the sun told Wals it was past its zenith and probably well after noon. When he had left, he had the covering darkness of night and vaguely wondered how many days had passed. As he took stock of what Mato was wearing, he decided they wouldn’t attract too much attention. Wals was still dressed in his canoe costume. Mato’s native garb of deerskin trousers, moccasins, and the blanket that had been repositioned around his shoulders would blend in well enough with their location in Frontierland. Just as long as Mato kept his dagger and arrows out of sight they should be fine until Wals could advise Lance that they were back.

  The canoe fared better on this trip as Wals tipped it sideways to empty out the water from the vortex. With a disgusted shake of his head, Mato walked over to Wals, all the while grumbling in Lakota about a fake horse. Wals didn’t even want to know what he was saying. When he heard the steamship, the Mark Twain, whistle as it passed the canoe dock, Wals knew they had to get off the small clearing pretty quickly. They would have to paddle all the way around Tom Sawyer’s Island, following the proper flow of traffic.

  The canoe was pushed into the water near the entrance to the Keel Boat Rapids. Wals motioned for Mato to get in front and he took up the position as sternman, gesturing for his companion to wait. The Mark Twain was almost at their position and they had to let the bigger boat have right-of-way.

  He could see the look of amazement on Mato’s face as the pristine white boat slowly chugged past their location. There was an almost-identical Mark Twain in Mato’s time. Only, the ship in the past was much larger and was actually a working ship that took cargo and supplies up the River to the various settlements. Occasionally there would be passengers on excursions from the neighboring New Orleans if the pilot had room on deck and allowed it.

  Mato didn’t know what to think about the oddly-dressed people who waved at the two men in the canoe. They also pointed small boxes at him that looked like more of those worthless things Wals and the doctor had shown his tribe. He didn’t understand that the guests who floated by were merely snapping pictures of “something new” on the Rivers of America. His head whipped around to Wals for clarification. All he received was a raised, calming hand that indicated it was okay and he needed to be patient. Uncomfortable with the feeling that he was on display, Mato turned his head away from the boat and mumbled under his breath. Wals smiled when he recognized a few words Wolf occasionally had used but would never translate for him.

  Once the Mark Twain was far enough in front of them, Wals knew it was safe for him to push off. With a call to Mato, he dug in with his paddle and the canoe surged ahead. Wals figured Wolf had told, or tried to tell, his brother about Frontierland and its different scenes around the River. The canoe angled over toward the Friendly Village and Wals heard a sharp breath. Mato recognized his Father positioned in his familiar spot, the wolf headdress obscuring most of his face as he gestured while telling a familiar story. The encampment was much too small, but it definitely gave him an eerie feeling of home.

  Wals got the canoe in motion again and they followed in the choppy wake of the steamship. The next bend of the River had no elements of civilization, just nature and the Beaver Dam. The broken-down yellow mining train caught Mato’s eye as the marmots popped up their heads to whistle at him. The amused brave gave an answering, identical whistle, but they dropped down out of sight and wouldn’t come up again.

  The Mark Twain was already alongside the white dock and unloading as they slowly approached its location. The various features of Tom Sawyer’s Island—the barrel bridge and the suspension bridge—earned a long stare as countless children and adults ran over the Island, climbing in and out of caves and obviously having a grand time. He saw a huge, familiar-looking pirate flag, but could tell it elicited no alarm from any of the visitors on the Island. In his time, the pirates had taken over the Island and even attacked his village. Since their dismal defeat, however, the pirates had left them completely alone and kept themselves to the backside of the Island.

  Once near the steamship dock, Wals ducked his head and dug in with his paddle to get the canoe moving faster. He had recognized the Mark Twain’s pilot and didn’t want to have to answer any questions as to why he was back on the River. As they glided past the main walkway of the ornate New Orleans Square/Frontierland area filled with families, they could see couples and children wandering in every direction. Mato spied the Haunted Mansion and recognized it as the empty house near the River in his time and shook his head in amazement.

  Wals was glad the Davy Crockett Explorer Canoes weren’t running that day. He had worked there until he ignominiously had been sent to Fantasyland and the Casey Jr. Train. He had to listen to a lot of derision from his friends on the Canoes and he wasn’t in the mood to hear any more of it today.

  Right after the empty Canoe dock was the Hungry Bear Restaurant. Just past the two decks of people enjoying a meal was the small dock where he would return this small canoe an
d hurry backstage—or, behind the scenes where the guests were not allowed—so he could put in a call to Lance.

  Whenever a cast member did something that was considered “different” than what the guests usually saw, there was always some interest and attention. Wals noticed everything he and Mato did was being closely watched and quite a few pictures were being taken of the two of them in their respective costumes. Always a cast member, he smiled and waved and put a friendly arm around the irritated brave with the hope Mato would take the hint. He did not. But, the guests were just as happy that the Native American was proud and aloof as they would have been if he had broken into a wide grin and waved back.

  Wals sighed with relief when the Cast Member Only door under the restaurant slammed shut and they were out of sight. Going over to the phone on the wall, he asked the operator to patch him through to Lance, whom, he hoped, was on security detail.

  “Wals, I can’t do anything about it. You know that. There’s going to be thousands of teenagers running around Fantasyland tonight and we just can’t take the chance.”

  Wals glared at Lance, but he knew the security guard was right. He had forgotten about Grad Night when thousands of high school seniors were bussed in from all over California and Arizona for an all-night party at Disneyland before their graduation. Given full run of the Park, the seniors were known to get into all kinds of mischief that their school chaperones and undercover security guards tried in vain to stop. Wals knew he and Mato would have no chance to sneak into the Castle and call the portal without being seen—and possibly interrupted or, even worse, followed—by scores of teenagers who continually looked for “something exciting and different.” There were two more nights of Grad Night until the Park returned to its normal schedule.