The Blond-Haired Man gave a small smile. Maybe now is the best time. “Wolf sent you something, Boss. I think you’ll be pleased to see it.” With a glance out of the window to make sure no one was approaching the room, he pulled a black velvet box out of his pocket.
A spark of pleasure filled Walt’s face. “He found it!” he whispered, content for the moment just to look at the fiery presence. “Did he catch the guy? Is Dr. Houser back?” Walt looked over his friend’s shoulder as if the doctor should be walking into the room right now to make everything right.
The green eyes shifted away from Walt’s. “Well, he knows who took the pendant, but the guy is still out there somewhere. We aren’t sure where he is right now. And, with the last set of instructions Wolf got, he once again threatened to kill Claude if he got even a whiff that we were on to him. So, no, the doctor is still safe in New Orleans.”
Some of the eagerness faded from Walt’s face.
“It’s all right, Walt. We’re still on track with what we need to do. You will be safe,” was the sure promise.
The weakness showed itself as Walt tried to reach for the pendant. “I want to touch it again. Just this one last time. You’ll have to help me.” It wasn’t a request.
Swallowing his hesitations on what might happen, the pendant was carefully taken from its velvet cocoon. Holding it by its gold link chain, the slowly-turning pendant was held out near Walt’s hand. As the pendant rotated this way and that, the three circles in the back once again revealed Mickey’s outline. That sight brought a smile to Walt’s face every time he saw it.
He lifted one finger to touch the cold stone. Just as it had first happened in the jungle of Columbia over twenty years earlier, his mind was instantly transported somewhere into the future. His future. Only now he saw a red Monorail hovering a foot above the cement track as it raced across the beloved entrance of his Park. He saw himself walking through a turnstile at the entrance and into the tunnel under the steam train. In the Town Square, he watched as he pushed a button and some kind of clear projection of himself popped out and started a speech….
His hand dropped to the cover of the bed once more. Happiness radiated out of his face. The Blond-Haired Man silently put the mysterious pendant back in its box, chastising himself for doubting. Walt was happy. That was all that mattered.
He thought Walt might have drifted off to sleep and was going to gather the papers spread out in the room. However, he heard a whispered, “Thank you. You’re a good friend. And the doctor is safe. Thank Wolf for me, too.” Walt gave a contented sigh and seemed to gather himself. “You know where to put it now?” he asked, indicating the velvet box sitting on top of a little black book.
Nodding, his right-hand man reached over and put the box out of sight, deep into his pocket. He indicated the black diary. “You’re sure about this?”
Thinking back on what he had just seen, Walt gave a firm, final, “Yes!”
New Orleans – 1815
“Come on, Doc! The show’s about to start. You know Paulette won’t go on unless y’all are in your seat!”
Doc gave a laugh. “Now, girls. You know the show isn’t set to start for another ten minutes,” as he checked his gold pocket watch, then carefully tucked it back in his vest pocket. “Master Gracey here was just telling me about the fine mansion he’s building on the outskirts of town near the River. If y’all are real nice to him, he might invite you to dinner some evening.” Ignoring the look being given him by his companion, he smiled at the girls hanging on his arm.
Master Gracey took a sip of his drink and gave a dignified snort. “I think my new bride might have something to say about that, Doctor.”
“Probably so, sir, probably so! Still, I would enjoy another tour of your plantation. The views of the River are quite appealing.”
“Once the problems with the British are solved—here’s to Andrew Jackson’s success.” Pausing, he raised his glass in a salute. “We can get back to farming our own land and raising our families. Napoleon sold this land as part of the Louisiana Purchase in 1803. That should have ended the entire matter.”
Doctor Houser had no interest in either politics or war. He sipped his drink politely as his companion continued, only half listening. Watching how the candles burning in the red and white globes of the chandelier made the amber liquid in his glass sparkle and shimmer, he was actually relieved when they were interrupted again.
“Doc!” The feminine voices called again, and this time he allowed the serving girls to pull him away from the ornate bar and its etched mirrors. As he grabbed the glass of bourbon in front of him, he gave a ‘What can I do?’ look to Master Gracey—who was suitably unimpressed by the girls’ shenanigans. Doctor Houser was tugged along the wooden floor until they reached his curtained-off, secluded box. Loudly clamoring up the wooden steps, the girls, dressed in low-cut, tight-fitting black lace, bumped the oil painting on the back wall. As he dropped into the saloon chair next to the scarred oval table in the center of the little opera box, the red velvet privacy curtain fell back into place. With a contented sigh, he propped his booted feet on the dark railing that covered the white carved posts curving outward and over the actual wooden stage. All was lit by brass-backed hurricane lamps.
“Doc is in the house! Start the show!” came the call from the rest of the audience. Hands slapped the tabletops and boots stomped on the floor. Somebody threw an empty shot glass at the huge red velvet curtain edged with golden tassels that covered the stage. It ineffectively bounced off the fabric and fell noisily to the stage. At the loud racket, the can-can girls, each with a different colored flounced petticoat showing under her shocking knee-length dancing dress, peeked from the wings and smiled over at the private box. Settled on the doctor’s lap, his favorite server, Collette, regally waved the girls away, the feather in her hair tickling his unshaven chin.
The piano player pounded out the opening song as the curtain slowly parted and the Irish tenor emerged to a hail of applause and boos. The tenor who wasn’t sure which to believe—the clapping or the hissing—was relieved, once again, that Slue Foot Sue didn’t allow firearms inside of her Golden Horseshoe Saloon.
The Island – 1815
On the edge of the forest in a clearing near the riverbank, a wolf sat at ease on the hard dusty ground. He was a magnificent specimen. His silver-tipped black fur concealed the solid muscle of his 120-pound frame, heavier than the ordinary wolf. He measured forty-two inches at the shoulder, taller than the ordinary wolf. His eyes were masked by dark gray that extended down his pointed nose and around his mouth. There was a small patch of white fur on his broad black chest. The vivid white usually drew the attention of the observer, but only for a moment. The attention was always drawn back to the wolf’s eyes—eyes that mesmerized and terrorized almost everyone who looked into them—eyes that were alert, watching, soul-searching, and an intense shade of sapphire blue. This was no ordinary wolf.
Seated in a semi-circle in front of the wolf were four braves. They neither acknowledged nor ignored the wolf. He was just there, as silent and attentive as they were. A slow breeze drifted over them as they sat listening. The breeze carried scents familiar and comforting to them—the ever-present River, the pine trees that surrounded their encampment, occasional smoke from the cooking fire, the deer hide being scraped over in the camp. The smells washed over them and so did the words they were hearing. The words were stories of the past, their past—stories they would pass down to their children and their children’s children. Victories. Struggles. Changes. How the flute came to their people. The Shaman spoke in his low, deep voice, his face half hidden by the wolf headdress he wore. A strip of cloth woven in a vivid blue edged with orange was draped over his shoulders as the furred fringe of his deerskin tunic moved in the breeze when he gestured as he spoke. Behind him was a three-sided rocky outcrop that sheltered him from most of the wind that was getting stronger as he continued to teach them. Ignoring the chill and the hard ground on which
they sat, the wolf and the four braves, wrapped in their colorful blankets, listened in respectful silence.
“Go now,” the Shaman finally told them when the stories were finished. “Go to your homes and remember. Tell the tales to the women and your children—even though they were listening as they prepared the meal,” he added with a half-smile. He turned away from them and looked out across the River, dismissing them. As his men filed away, his dark eyes were focused on the Island located on the other side of the life-giving River. There was a clearing on the Island way in the distance upstream, barely seen from where he now stood. He could see activity going on there and his smile faded as he watched. There was something else that weighed heavily on his mind. He didn’t acknowledge the wolf when it came and sat beside him.
“Atewaye ki,” the wolf said, respectfully dipping his head.
The Shaman gave a short harrumph. “You call me ‘My Father’, yet you don’t obey me.”
The wolf’s mouth opened, showing his teeth, grinning only as he could. “Does any son?”
“That’s true.” He allowed a small smile as he paused before speaking again. There was much he wanted to say, but didn’t know how much would be favorably received. “You stay on with the wiya. You should be here. This is your home.” He turned to look at his son. It was an old argument, one he knew he wouldn’t win. He saw the silver-tipped fur on the shoulders rise and fall in an inaudible sigh. The sharp, unnatural blue eyes closed once as the large head slowly shook side to side. The Shaman knew his son was counting to ten before answering him. That pleased him greatly.
“The wiya has a name, Father. The woman is Rose, as you know.” Wolf ignored the amusement in the black eyes that were watching him closely. “After you found her in the River, and brought her back to health, you appointed me as her Protector and she still requires my help. As you also know,” he added in an undertone.
Wolf looked back across the River where his father’s attention was again fixed. Rose, or Mrs. Stephens as she was formally called, could barely be seen working her meager garden in front of the dilapidated log cabin in which she lived. Her brown mare, Sukawaka, stood and watched patiently from behind a worn split-rail fence. Some clothes were drying on a line and started to whip around more and more as the impending storm drew closer. She would soon have to take in the clothes as it was beginning to get dark and they were threatening to blow into the nearby River. Hands on her hips, they saw her look around her clearing and into the dense, surrounding forest. Lifting her fingers to her lips in a most unladylike manner, they heard the remnants of her shrill whistle as it faded in the air around them.
The Shaman looked back at Wolf, impatient and irritated. Wolf ignored him and gave a short answering howl. Rose turned in the direction of the sound, but could see nothing in the great distance between them. Satisfied that he was somewhere nearby, she turned with a smile to her laundry that was threatening to come loose from the wooden pins. Not wanting to have to wash it all by hand again, she quickly got to work.
“You have been summoned, Wolf. Inahni.”
“There’s no need to hurry.” Choosing to overlook his father’s sarcasm, Wolf brought the discussion around to where he wanted it. “You spoke of changes in your story today. You understand there are changes coming to the Island, yet you choose not to see my part in it. I was chosen to protect—both here and in my other time. Even though I don’t know exactly when she came to be here—as you choose not to tell me—we both know Rose doesn’t belong in this time, and she should go back.”
The Shaman ignored Wolf’s references to the wiya. “There have always been changes. Some for the good. Some for the bad. I haven’t seen any evidence of the changes of which you speak.”
“These changes will be dangerous for the wiya.”
His father would not let it go. “You must let the changes come as they will. Some people get swept away. Others get stronger. Let her be and return to your home. Here, with us.”
“Taku khoyakipha he?” asked Wolf pointedly.
“What do I fear?” the Shaman repeated, mildly surprised. He paused. He hadn’t expected Wolf to question him. He should have known better. The wolf skin was pulled closer around his shoulders against the chill in the air. His mouth tightened before he answered. When he spoke, his voice was low, hesitant, as if no one else should hear his words spoken aloud and perhaps make them come true. “I fear you will go through the fog to their world one night and never come back.”
Wolf moved next to his father to lean against his leg. He felt the Shaman’s hand come to rest lightly on top of his head. “It gets more difficult each time I pass through,” he admitted. “The confusion, the disorientation…” He broke off and shook his head, remembering all too well the feeling and hating it. “I will always return, Father,” he promised, “Just as I come back to check on the doctor, and the man Daniel Crain that I brought through last time.”
“That one is evil,” his father commented sourly. “Why did have to bring him here?”
Knowing which man his father meant, Wolf looked in the direction of the Fort and lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I had to remove Crain immediately. Luck of the draw, I guess.” He would have smiled if his face allowed it.
“Next time draw from a different deck, my son. He has a hatred of your wiya, you know.”
Wolf glanced up at the deceptively passive face. “How do you know that?”
“I am the Shaman. I know everything.”
Waiting in silence, Wolf just sat there, staring at his father’s face.
“And, your brother told me,” he finally admitted with a wry smile.
“That’s more like it.” Mato was always good for news from the Fort. “The wiya reminds the soldier of another woman from his own time, only he doesn’t remember that. She is a beautiful blond as well.… Speaking of Crain, that red pendant I gave you when I brought him here. Is it still safe?”
“No, I traded it for that canoe.” With a tilt of his chin, he indicated the wooden rack of canoes near the water’s edge. “Of course it’s safe.” The twinkle in the dark eyes faded as he thought about the odd piece of jewelry. It had been hanging from Wolf’s jaws, clenched tight as the wolf had swum to the clearing and collapsed at his father’s feet. “That stone. It has strange powers. You must be aware of that.”
Wolf nodded. “I know, but it doesn’t work for me. Did you touch the stone? Did you see anything?”
His father was silent again for a long time. When he spoke, his voice was low. “Yes, I touched the diamond. What I saw…it didn’t make sense.”
Intrigued, Wolf asked, “Can you tell me or would you rather not?”
“I would rather not have touched it,” was the dry reply. “But, I did.” He stopped talking and Wolf wasn’t sure if he would continue. When the Shaman did decide to tell his story, his voice was hushed, confused. “I saw myself, dressed as I am now. It seemed many seasons went by and the leaves changed and changed again. Yet, I was always as I am now, here within this shelter of rocks, telling my stories to my braves over and over again. I never changed. I don’t understand the meaning.”
Wolf dropped his head and sighed. He thought how he might explain the village of the friendly Pinewoods. “You will be remembered for ages to come. Your words and stories will be heard by many generations.”
That seemed to please his father who instinctively realized he should not question it any further. He said simply, “It’s good to be remembered.” The Shaman looked up at the darkening sky. The sliver of the moon was becoming obscured by fog. He knew the signs as well as his son. “You will go back tonight?”
“Yes, after Rose sleeps.”
Knowing any argument would be fruitless, his father nodded. “Take care, my son.”
“And you, atewaye ki.”
The Shaman watched as the wolf entered the green water of the River and began the long swim toward the Island. The black shape of the wolf disappeared as the darkness overtook him. Soon the sound
of Wolf’s strokes diminished and he could hear only the River. He turned towards the cluster of tipi and his dinner, his thoughts sad.
“There you are, Wolf! I wondered what happened to you. I heard your howl earlier this evening. It gave me the shivers! At least, I think it was you. It sounded so…so odd. It was like you were calling for someone and it made you very sad. You sounded more like yourself just a minute ago. Oh, you’re all wet. You must have been in the River again. I guess you really love fish for dinner. Come by the fire and dry off.”
Rose had stopped sewing when Wolf padded into the isolated cabin. She already dropped the heavy beam of wood across the entry door to bar it for the night, knowing Wolf would use his hidden access when he was ready to come home. His blue eyes watched her from across the room. Ignoring the welcome warmth of the fire, he dropped down in the small kitchen and put his head on his front paws, feigning tiredness. He hoped that she would take the hint and go to bed. The storm was almost upon them and he had a lot to do. He gave a huge, tooth-filled yawn.
She resumed chatting as the lonely do when someone or something else is in the room with them. “My, you must have had a big day! You seem awfully tired. I didn’t see much of you today. But,” she sighed, “I did get a lot done. That laundry took all day. Looks like a storm might be coming in. What do you think?”
Wolf yawned again, and stretched out on his side, breathing evenly.
The second yawn worked. Rose put a hand over her mouth to cover her own. “Oh, excuse me! Well, perhaps it is getting late. My eyes are pretty tired.” The sewing was returned to the wicker basket with a resigned sigh as she started to change for bed. After being alone all day, she had looked forward to having a chat with her wolf. Disappointed that he was so tired, she blew out the tallow candle and let the remaining firelight guide her to her small bedroom.
Wolf! The Legend of Tom Sawyer's Island Page 5
