Wolf Dreamer

by Madeline Baker

  His gaze moved to the corral, noting the broken rail, the way the gate sagged. The house needed repairs, as well. The roof looked as though it would blow off with the first winter wind.

  He shook his head ruefully, wondering what his father would think if he could see him now, naked as a newborn babe, relieving himself against a tree.

  She returned for him a short time later. He would have shunned her help, but he was too weak to make it back to the house on his own. He was panting and out of breath when they returned to her room. When they reached the bed, he collapsed on the mattress, cursing the nausea and weakness that swept through him.

  The woman covered him with the blankets, offered him a cup of cool water. She left the room, returning with a bowl of the broth she had cooked earlier. She sat beside him, feeding him a spoonful at a time, as if he were a child. It humbled him as few other things had done.

  Utterly weary, warmed by the broth, he fell asleep once again.

  When next he woke, it was dark. No lights burned in the house. All was quiet. He lay still and silent, listening, wondering what had awakened him. And then he heard it again, a muffled groan edged with pain.

  Summoning what little strength he had, he slid out of the bed. For a moment, he stood there, one hand grasping the bed frame. And then he made his way into the other room.

  Peering into the darkness, he saw the woman lying on the floor in front of the fireplace, her body curled in on itself. The scent of blood reached his nostrils.

  She became aware of his presence then. “Help me,” she whimpered. “My baby …”

  He crossed the room and knelt at her side. Closing his eyes, he reached deep down inside himself, drawing on the indomitable strength of will that was his heritage. He felt the power within him come to life, infusing him with the strength of his wolf spirit. Lifting the woman in his arms, he carried her into the bedroom and lowered her onto the cot.

  It was too early for the child to be born.

  He stripped her of her soiled dress and covered her with one of the blankets. His insides clenched as she cried out, her hands clutching her stomach.

  He stood beside the bed, his own pain forgotten as he watched the woman writhe in agony as she sought to expel the child from her womb. She looked up at him, her eyes dark, tormented, and he knew he could not let her suffer. She had saved his life. He could not let her die, not when it was in his power to save her.

  Kneeling by the bed, he took her hand in his. “Woman.”

  She clutched his hand in hers, her nails digging into his skin, her body convulsing with pain.

  “Woman, will you trust me?”

  “What … what do you mean?”

  “I can help you.”

  “How?”

  “Look into my eyes.”

  She hadn’t been afraid of him before, but she was now. He could smell the sharp scent of her fear.

  “Look into my eyes, woman. Do not be afraid. Only trust me, and I will take your pain.”

  “How … how can you do that?”

  “Will you trust me to help you?”

  She nodded weakly.

  His gaze locked with hers. Putting everything else from his mind, he concentrated on the woman, listening to the sound of her breathing. Gradually, his body took on her rhythm, so that his heart beat in time with hers, his breathing mimicked hers. When his body was in tune with hers, he reached deep within her and drew her pain into himself, absorbing the knife-like contractions that engulfed her, amazed that such a frail creature could endure such agony. The pain was worse than anything he had ever experienced. It started low in her back and wrapped around to the front. He sucked in a deep breath, feeling as though he were about to be tom in half. He concentrated on the pain, made it a part of himself.

  Panting softly, he looked into her eyes, eyes now empty of pain, and wished he could spare her the heartache to come, but only time would heal the sorrow that awaited her.

  He wiped the sweat from her brow, wondering how he would find the words to tell her that the child she had so gladly anticipated was dead.

  Chapter 3

  The infant was born a short time later, a tiny scrap of humanity with a thatch of wispy red hair. Even knowing the child was dead, he tried to revive it, but to no avail.

  The woman watched him in tight-lipped silence, tears dripping like rain down her pale sunken cheeks.

  When he had done all he could, she held out her arms. “Give me my baby.”

  As tenderly as if the child lived, he wrapped the tiny infant in a length of swaddling cloth and laid it in her arms.

  The woman gazed down at the stillborn child, her tears dripping onto the waxen cheeks. “Poor little girl,” she crooned. “How pretty you would have been.” She held the child close to her breast, her tears coming harder and faster. When he tried to take the infant from her, she shook her head. “No! No!”

  While she cried over the child, he disposed of the afterbirth, then went into the kitchen to warm some water. He sat at the table while he waited for the water to heat, his head resting on his folded arms. How strange it felt to sit where the woman had sat. He had never sat at a table before. His wound throbbed dully; he felt weak and lightheaded and wanted nothing more than to lie down in front of the fire and sleep, but that would have to wait. The woman needed help.

  When the water was hot enough, he poured it into a bowl and carried it into the bedroom.

  The woman looked up at him, a wildness lurking in the back of her eyes. “What are you going to do?”

  “Wash you,” he said.

  She didn’t argue. She clutched the lifeless child to her breast while he washed her body from her waist down to her feet, then he stripped the soiled bedding from the mattress and spread a clean sheet beneath her.

  When that was done, he held out his arms. “Give me the child.”

  She shook her head weakly. “No.”

  “The child is dead. She must go to join her ancestors.”

  “No!” She held the baby tighter still. “Please don’t take her from me. She’s all I have left. I can’t be alone again. Please.”

  “You are not alone, woman,” he said quietly. “I am here.”

  She looked up at him, her eyes wet with tears. “Why are you helping me? Who are you?”

  “I am Wolf Dreamer, son of Cloud Woman and Catches Thunder, shaman to the people of the high mountains.”

  Her eyes widened in disbelief. “You’re an Indian?”

  He nodded.

  She shook her head. “I’ve never seen an Indian with eyes that color.”

  A muscle worked in his jaw. Once, his eyes had been as black as midnight. Only after he had gone to seek his vision had the change taken place. It was the sign that he was truly the chosen one, destined to be the shaman of his people when the time came.

  He had gone to the pinnacle of a mountain to seek his vision. Three days and nights of fasting and prayer. When he woke the morning of the fourth day, he had awakened to find a large gray wolf standing over him, and standing behind the great cat was the shadowed image of a woman with hair the red of an autumn leaf and sun-kissed skin.

  Lying on his back, he had stared up at the wolf, certain he was about to be killed. So, the wolf said, his voice like the echo of thunder over the mountains, you are the chosen one.

  Before he could reply, the gray wolf sank its teeth into his left arm; he still bore the mark of the animal’s teeth. And with that bite, the wolf had given him the mystical healing powers that caused some to fear him and some to hunt him.

  For the next four days, the gray wolf had taught him the ways of the shaman, the prayers, the chants, the healing arts. On the last day, the gray wolf had told him that he would now wear a new name, Wolf Dreamer, and that he would one day have a son who would lead the People to their final destiny.

  Wolf Dreamer shook the memory from his mind. “And you are called Rebecca Hathaway.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “It does n
ot matter. Rebecca.” He said her name quietly, liking the way it sounded.

  It was then that he heard the voice of his old friend, the gray wolf, speak to his mind and heart.

  She is the one. The other half of your soul.

  Wolf Dreamer stared at the woman. He recognized her now. She was the red-haired woman he had seen in his vision.

  It was only when the child grew cold and stiff in her arms that the woman let him take the infant from her. He wrapped it in the blanket she gave him, one made by a mother’s loving hands, and then he carried the tiny body outside. He found a shovel in the bam and after a great deal of effort, he managed to dig a suitable hole beside the grave of the woman’s husband. He was breathing heavily by the time he finished. Blood leaked from the wound in his side.

  He was about to lower the tiny body into the ground when he looked up and saw the woman walking slowly toward him. Her hair fell in a tangled mass over her shoulders; her face was almost as white as her gown.

  “You should not be out of bed,” he told her.

  “Neither should you.”

  They stared at each other from opposite sides of the grave. For the first time, it occurred

  to him that he was still naked, but the woman didn’t seem to notice. She was staring at the blanket-wrapped body.

  “It doesn’t seem right, to bury her without a proper coffin.”

  He frowned at her. “Coffin? What is coffin?”

  “A box to put her in.”

  “She will rest more comfortably in the arms of mother earth than in a box.”

  His voice, low and filled with compassion, brought fresh tears to Rebecca’s eyes. She bit down on her lip as he began to shovel dirt into the grave. She glanced at Gideon’s final resting place. A tin can filled with a wilted bouquet of wildflowers marked his grave. And now their daughter lay beside him.

  With a sigh, she sank down on her knees beside her child’s grave and bid a silent farewell to her last reason for living. Soon, she thought, soon she would join them.

  She wondered who would put flowers on the graves of her husband and her daughter when she lay in the ground beside them.

  She had set her face toward death. Wolf Dreamer recognized the look in her eyes. He had seen it before, on the faces of Old Ones who had lost the will to five. They refused food and water, growing weaker and weaker, until their spirit left their body to travel the long road to the Afterworld. Sometimes, to spare their loved ones the sight of their dying, they walked away from the village, never to return.

  He had stood at the woman’s side as long as he could, and then he had taken her by the arm and lifted her to her feet. They had trudged back to the house, their arms wrapped around each other for support. And now she lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, her eyes blank, her face as pale as the covering on the pillow.

  Though he wanted nothing more than to sink down on the floor and sleep, he knew they both needed food to sustain them, to strengthen them for the journey ahead.

  He filled a bowl with broth from the iron kettle, but she took one look at it and turned away.

  He ate because it was necessary, then stretched out on the bed beside her and closed his eyes.

  Deep in the night, he woke to find her curled up in his arms, her cheeks damp with tears. The sight of her tears touched an aching place deep within him. Was there no relief for her, even in sleep?

  He placed his hand over her heart. It beat slow and steady. Closing his eyes, he called to the pain that engulfed her, felt it flow into him. He groaned as he took her grief into himself. How did she survive such anguish? His hands clenched as her agony washed through him, a pain that was deeper than that she had endured in the hours of childbirth, more excruciating than any pain he had ever known. He felt her sorrow, her loss, the aching emptiness in the deepest part of her soul.

  With a sigh, he drew her closer, his hand stroking her hair. Gradually, she relaxed in his arms.

  He held her all through the night, his heart speaking to hers in the ancient tongue of his kind, soft words that soothed her troubled soul and cocooned her in layers of sweet forgetfulness until the dawn.

  Chapter 4

  Then he woke, he was alone in the woman’s bed. He went into the kitchen, thinking she might be there, but there was no sign of her. He had watched her make tea, and he put the kettle on, then, gazing out the window, he raised his arms over his head and offered his Dawn Song to the Great Spirit Who Ruled Over All, praying that he might quickly regain his strength so that he could care for the woman.

  The woman. Rebecca.

  She is the one, the gray wolf had said. The other half of your soul.

  Had he known it all along? Was that why he had been drawn to this place all these years, the reason why he had been compelled to watch her, why he had struggled so hard to learn her language? She was not of his people. Would they accept her? Would they accept him after so long an absence?

  Taking the kettle from the stove, he made himself a cup of the hot bitter brew.

  He was staring out the window when he heard the voice of the wolf speaking in his mind again.

  You have been gone long enough. It is time to go home. Time to accept who and what you are. Time to meet your destiny.

  He drained the cup, then left the house in search of the woman.

  He found her where he had expected, lying across her child’s grave. She was asleep, her arms outstretched as if to encompass the child. There were tear tracks on her cheeks.

  Bending, he lifted her into his arms and cradled her against his chest. “Rebecca.” He murmured her name, liking the sound of it, the taste of it on his tongue.

  Her eyelids fluttered open. She looked at him a moment, her eyes filled with grief, then buried her face against his shoulder. He felt the warmth of her tears against his skin as he carried her back to the house.

  Inside, he placed her on the bed, then sat down beside her. Her skin was pale. Dirt clung to her arms, her feet, her cheek. Her eyes were swollen and red.

  Leaving her, he went into the kitchen and warmed a pot of water. When the water was hot, he poured it into a bowl and returned to the bedroom. Setting the bowl down, he began to remove her sleeping gown.

  “Leave me alone.”

  “I am going to wash you.”

  She started to protest, then sighed in resignation, as if it didn’t matter what he did to her.

  He removed her gown, washed her gently, found clean cloths to absorb the after fluids of the birth. When he was finished, he put her gown on her again and covered her with a blanket.

  He had to find a way to revive her spirit, but how?

  Returning to the kitchen, he warmed the tea, filled a cup, insisted she drink it.

  She did so reluctantly, then turned on her side and closed her eyes.

  She slept all that day.

  He bathed in the river, found an ax and chopped wood for the fire. The exertion left him breathless and sweating and he sank down on the ground, cursing his weakness. The wound in his side was still tender.

  Stretching out on the ground, he closed his eyes, his mind filling with images of the woman. Since the first time he had seen her, she had never been far from his thoughts. He had carried her image with him wherever he went, held it close when the weight of who he was grew too heavy to bear. Time and again, he had been drawn back to this place, this woman.

  He rested for an hour, then went into the house to check on her. She was still asleep, one hand beneath her cheek. Unable to resist the lure of her soft flesh, he caressed her cheek. Her skin was smooth and warm beneath his fingertips.

  A sob escaped her lips. A tear rolled down her cheek. The sight tore at his heart.

  “Ah, Rebecca,” he murmured, and sitting down on the bed, he drew her into his arms.

  Rocking her gently, he stroked her hair and back, singing to her as he did so. It was an ancient lullaby, handed down from mother to child, a song that spoke of love and hope and the beauty of the human spirit. He s
ang it in the ancient tongue of his people, hoping it would soothe her even though she could not understand the words.

  Gradually, her sobs lessened and she relaxed against him. He continued to hold her, content to do so. Content to hold her as long as she needed.

  The sun was setting in a blaze of crimson and gold when his stomach growled.

  Rebecca sat up, blinking at him. “You’re hungry.”

  He nodded.

  “I’ll fix you something to eat.”

  “I can do it.”

  She shook her head. “No.” Rising, she left the room.

  His arms felt empty, bereft, without her. He listened to her move about the small kitchen. Soon, the scent of venison stew filled the air. His stomach growled again.

  A short time later, she called him into the kitchen. Her eyes widened, and a blush stained her cheeks. He frowned at her, then realized he was still naked.

  She moved past him, her gaze averted. She returned a short time later and handed him a pair of woolen trousers.

  He looked at her askance.

  “They were my husband’s.”

  He nodded, then stepped into the trousers. He was not comfortable in them, and not just because they were a little too snug, a little too short. She offered him a shirt, as well, but he waved it away.

  “Sit down.” She gestured toward a chair, then turned to the stove and filled a bowl with stew. She placed it on the table in front of him. “Careful, it’s hot.”

  “You are not eating?”

  “No.”

  “You must eat.”

  She shook her head.

  He stood up, pulled out a chair, and pushed her, very gently, into it. He filled a bowl and set it before her. “Do you want me to feed you?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “You want to die,” he said. “But you will not. I will not allow it.”

  She looked up at him through eyes filled with sorrow. “Please, just let me go.” She made a gesture that encompassed the house. “I have nothing left to live for. No reason to go on.”

  He picked up his spoon, scooped up some broth, and offered it to her. “Eat.”