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, expecting 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.
Sitting in her kitchen, alone and talking, while everyone else was in town, I watched the snow fall outside her kitchen window. The very same window I would watch her from when I would return from my patrols around the property boundaries. The coffee she set in front of me, to warm me up, tasted different than the stuff the guys made by the gallon in our barracks. I would watch her press her brew in a small glass carafe, asking questions the entire time. When I wouldn’t answer honestly or mumbled, she would look at me from under her bangs with an eyebrow raised; her dark eyes would make my breath stop in my throat.
Quickly taking a drink of the hot coffee to cover my reaction, I burnt my tongue every time. Those eyes, I had never seen eyes like hers before, and I doubt I’ll ever see anything like them again: sea green around the outside and rich brown at the center. When I finally kissed her, the brown had turned deep red … almost the same color as her hair.
Back at Christopher’s table, staring at the mug of coffee in front of me, in the dark liquid I can see Lilly’s window and the snow. Long dark nights full of giant snowflakes … light reflected and broken on the surface of the steaming drink. “Snow … cold, bitter; frozen…we sat in comfortable silence just watching the snow.” I say dreamily.
When I look up, Christopher has his arms crossed over his chest, nodding. The defensive posture of his arms is openly betrayed by the understanding look in his eyes. Looking down at the table he speaks quietly, “Ellie devoured my soul too … the consumption of such intense passion can derange your mind, forever.”
We sit nodding at the unspoken vulnerability laid out on the table, but nothing more is said on the topic of our obsessions.
Eating in silence, then cleaning up after ourselves, and stoking the fire, we sit down in the living room adjacent to the whelping pen. “Tell me about what happened in Vegas. One doesn't have to be ‘talented’ to know you’re hiding from something, and I think that something is in Nevada.”
With an obvious bitter tone he blurts out, “I suppose the whole ‘What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas’ thing won’t work for you, will it?”
Shaking his head like he is trying to forget a bad taste he continues, “I found out that there are actually worse creatures than simple humans; I found out that monsters are real.”
Waiting for him to continue, I realize he is going to need prodding. “Monsters? Like what … Frankenstein or serial murderers?” As surreal as the question is, I admit I am curious to know the answer.
The goose bumps that form on Christopher’s arms arrive as his gaze shifts to the left, and his expression softens considerably. Like before, watching him talk to air, this reaction makes the hair on my neck stand on end again. Whispering “Yes, all right” to the phantom, he returns his eyes back to me … but he is looking through me, not at me.
“My world changed about thirteen months ago … I started having these nightmares, hearing voices; and I was angry all the time. It took every ounce of my strength to not take my pain out on everyone around me. I was sure I’d gone insane. Have you ever had so much anxiety, anger, and pressure, that your head and stomach actually hurt? The discomfort leads to not sleeping, which of course, leads to more pain. I muddled through school, work, and my so-called home life, but I was being pulled apart inside. Then my grandfather, my closest friend in the world, had to be moved to a hospice; he was dying of brain cancer. I lost him within a week of the move, but during that week something unseen held me together. A sweet voice in the back of my mind … soft touches on my skin, and just a small glimpse in my peripheral vision … were leaving me walking in a waking dream. I thought I was hallucinating, even before she revealed herself to me.” Still looking through me, he smiles at the memory.
“Let me guess … Ellie?” I am not sure what he means by ‘before she revealed herself to me’, but I do recognize the look in his eyes … it is love. Watching his expression change from affirmation to confusion, I start wondering what he is thinking.
“I tell you that she is unseen, and before she presented herself she might as well have been voices in my head, crazy hallucinations … and no questions? I finally tell you the truth … well, the surface of the truth; and the only thing that sticks out is that I’m talking about Ellie? Michael, I know the questions have passed through your mind … I’ve heard them … Who do I talk to? What am I hiding from? Where did I get these scars?" He almost looks exacerbated to the point of yelling at me.
“Christopher, you are a very private person … for that matter, so am I. I was giving you space to tell me what you want … when you want. I can’t read your mind, I can only read your body language, and you let everyone know that you don’t want to let anyone in. So if you know my questions, then answer them, without me asking. I think we’ll both be happier. I’ll tell you this one without you poking around in my head, I want to know the truth, tell me the truth.”
“The truth is, even when I look back at my memories of Ellie, I still don’t know if they are real. My life was unfolding like a bad dream, before I knew she existed; and I was desperate for release from the nightmare before it broke me. The nightmare’s name was James. Ironically, his presence helped to entice Ellie to my side, bringing about my means of escape; even though she didn’t know why I was special to her at the time. Ellie showed herself to me in a dream, and then let me know she was real by touching me and talking to me while I was awake. She explained her idea of what she was … a creature alive in the ethereal mist. She found purpose in helping others, like a muse of sorts. She was human once, but after her death, she moved to a place of lost potential … where special people lost before their time, still survive. She didn’t realize that ‘lost potential’ could include inhumanely powerful capability for good, or evil. Hell, she didn’t even realize there were others like her … out there in the mist.” His expression reflects bitterness again, but I can still hear the love in his words.
“So you’re telling me that Ellie died?” Well, that would explain the ghostly presence.
“Yes and no. She was lost from our world in 1940, during the London Blitz … but she saw that as a passing over to a different life, not ceasing to exist like we normally think of death. She broke after World War Two, slid into an emotionally paralyzing fugue state … a state of mind that she said she couldn't awake from, until she found me. She would say things like, ‘I love you. I give you everything that I am, and I don’t want to make the mistake of not telling you how I feel. Sharing feelings, even if they might be a mistake, should never be regretted. Life is too short, to not be honest with yourself.’ Her purity made me feel so small, and the fact that she chose me to give it to … well, her selflessness overwhelmed my senses. I fell fast and hard; there was no way I could avoid falling in love with her.”
“She sounds like a remarkable girl.” I am dumbfounded by his description; her self-sacrifice seems more fictional than her existence. “Tell me, have you seen the mist?”
“Not for myself, no … but there are other ways to know something exists without seeing. The influences of these creatures can be witnessed all the time … if you watch close enough. James could force emotions onto someone else and cause hallucinations, and Ellie could feel others’ emotions and even project herself into your mind. Then there was James's mentor, V. He was a real monster, one that fed off fear and sadness. He could strip any internal defenses you might have, and force you to relive torturous memories so that he could feed on the negative energy. They were all like me once, talented humans; and I will most likely end up like them.”
I asked for the truth, and I got the truth … or at least what, I can see, Christopher believes is the truth. If he is right, then I have a lot to think about. Knowing about his talents, and seeing his interaction with the animals, brings me to question the validity of some of the folklore I’ve read over the years. Now, confronted by the idea that ghost stories could be real? My mind is reeling from what the kid is saying, battling with my ideas about reality … all the possible examples of interaction with these creatures throughout history.
My God, we could have been living with, secretly watched and manipulated by, these creatures forever … since the beginning of mankind.
“Hey, Christopher, do you have anything stronger to drink?”
