When I wake, the haze of my dream world still hangs thick around my head. Stepping out of bed, I walk right into my normal, daily routine. It doesn’t hit me that Lune and Ursa haven’t slept on me, until I am already outside with a cord of wood in my arms. Listening to the crunch of my boots on the hard-crusted surface of the March snow, a cold breeze whips me completely into the waking world. Suddenly, I remember, becoming as excited as a child on Christmas morning: Ursa had her pups last night. Looking out to the tree line and seeing the fresh mound of dark dirt marring the surrounding snow … my heart sinks as I remember the pups we lost.
“We still have one … one survived.”
“Yes … she is special, and we have to protect her.” Ellie's voice is a shadow, similar to her dream image, just a poor reflection of the real thing. I miss the touch of real electricity that would be a spark of heat compared to the strikingly bitter breeze.
“Good morning Ell. We had an unusual night last night, didn’t we? I haven’t dreamt like that since my first month here, back in September.” I imagine her ironic grin, as she slowly nods her head.
“When will you let me go? You don't need this illusion; you do need to understand you’re becoming whole again, without me. When will you realize, you don’t need me any longer?” I don’t have an answer for her; the weight of those simple questions is crushing my windpipe.
Balancing the wood in the crook of one arm, I open the door of the cabin, where I am greeted by the soft squeals of the pup rooting around for milk. After restarting the fire in the stove, I turned to check on Ursa and Lune resting in the whelping pen. Then taking the food and water dishes out, I refilled them and added another food bowl for Lune. He isn’t going to leave his new family long enough to even walk into the kitchen and eat. I don’t think this is normal behavior for a dog … then again Lune is anything but a normal dog.
When I hear the squeaking springs of the bed up in the loft, it dawns on me that Michael is still here. As the tea pot whistles, I turn to make coffee and Michael mumbles something about the racket and needing caffeine. From the kitchen, I watch him walk down the stairs, wearing a pair of flannel pants and an exhausted expression. His appearance reminds me of how hard his brain was twisting and turning in his sleep. Now I know why he always looks like he is one more sleepless night away from collapsing.
I never really think about Michael’s size, and considering his unassuming nature, I am surprised by how big he is across his chest and shoulders. Even though he’s never without a sidearm, and although his intense scrutiny with wide-set eyes that are always squinting, studying everyone and everything … I, in no way, ever think of him as intimidating. Now looking at his stature, despite the fact that he is a head shorter than me, I can see that the lack of intimidation comes from his consciously choosing to not be a bully. Although, I’ve never actually watched him interrogate anyone, only listened, I can see why when he needs to take command of a situation … no one can stop him. He is a force of nature; it would be like stopping a Grizzly bear from attacking, with your bare hands.
Dark, blond hair is kept cropped short to his scalp, and his steel-blue and moss-green, hazel eyes give hints of horrors once witnessed, but never spoken. Usually reserved and intellectual, his twenty-seven years of age is the mask that hides a very old soul. He is made up of contradictions, an eccentric personality that is easy to make laugh, but almost impossible to stereotype.
Thinking back on the past six months, I should have seen his potential for brutality; especially after watching him pick up a deer carcass, easily 300 pounds, and carrying it over to effortlessly toss it in the back of his truck.
Even with my talents, I still shouldn’t underestimate the possibilities for people to surprise me … I can never presume to know everything about someone just because I can hear their thoughts. Maybe, that’s why Michael can read people so well; he never underestimates anyone, always calculating, instinctively trying to figure out their next move.
He eyes me suspiciously when I hand him his coffee, and mumbles, “Thank you”.
Carrying the mug over to the whelping pen, he breathes out a low whistle, “I’m glad to see the little family doing so well … mostly I’m just glad that we didn’t lose all the pups.”
Nodding, I step over the gate, scratch Lune and Ursa’s heads, pick up the pup and hand it to Michael, then turning I tell the adults to go outside. Letting them out of the pen, then out the front door, their drive to sprint has almost completely vanished. No howling to run free, no crazed running around then sliding out of the door. They just walk outside, do their business, and come back inside.
I set the pup back down near Ursa, forcing the little one to stretch her new muscles in search of her mom. Ursa, understanding what I am doing, lies down out of the pup’s reach. Squatting down next to her, I scratch her head while we watch the determined, tiny body blindly search back and forth, shakily testing each step. Ursa gives me images, and I nod, knowing that when the pup is weaned, this thought, these pictures are the only gifts the wolf will be leaving behind for her offspring.
Speaking up toward Michael’s curious face, I tell him, “She gave me pictures, as a name, to pass on to the baby; the constellation Ursa Major with the crescent moon hanging as a pendant from the bear’s neck. She once watched a human, female hunter, when she lived with the pack … this woman drew back a bow that was as long as she was tall; her strength and courage was obvious as she brought down a full-grown bull elk. I think they are symbols; Ursa’s way of combining our worlds.”
Now looking into his expectant expression I ask, “Can you think of a name that would include all those images. I mean … I can show the pup the images and she’ll answer to them as her name; but I think something spoken is probably going to be necessary for the rest of the world.” Internally I smirk at how different and alone I have become … a freak in Michael’s sideshow.
I wait with my own secret, expectant expression … wait for Ellie to touch me, as always, proving me wrong, and reminding me that I’m never alone.
The electricity doesn’t come, and I decide maybe Ellie is taking a break. ‘Maybe she has gone flying; she has always loved to fly.’ Silently I try to convince myself that my musings are true, upsetting the legion of voices hidden in the back of my skull; they scream, "LIAR!” Flinching, I bring myself back to Michael’s steady deep voice.
“Well, Ursa Major is actually Callisto, another name for the great bear; and I’m assuming the crescent moon would be Lune, since he is named after the moon … and the female hunter, a huntress.” I can almost see the gears turning in his head as he tries to put the images together like a three-dimensional puzzle.
Pacing, and taking gulps of coffee as he speaks to no one in particular, there are gaps in his words that make his thought process all that much harder to understand. Then I hear his clear and deliberate voice from the kitchen.
“Artemis!” He is excited, “Artemis, the goddess of the hunt in Greek mythology. She turned Callisto into a bear, and then Zeus put the bear's image in the heavens as Ursa Major. Artemis is also the goddess of the moon; she rules the sky at night while her twin brother, Apollo, rules over the sun during daytime.”
“Artemis” I whisper in Ursa’s ear. She leans back against my chest, and bringing her muzzle up my neck, she licks my chin. “She likes it, Michael; she says thank you.”
Then once again, picking up the puppy, I whisper, “Welcome to my broken, little family, Artemis.”
She squirms in my fingers, making happy little noises until I pull her close to my chest, where she settles down and falls asleep. Lune, curious about the exchange, comes to my side and places his head in my lap. Breathing slowly, he takes turns licking Ursa’s ear and sniffing his baby in my arms. He is happy; he tells me in his own way that this isn’t broken … this is just as it should be. He may see us as whole, but without Ellie … we’ll always be broken.
As a perfectly normal reaction, I am picturing Ellie in my mind, my favorite image: the one Lune had shared, to pull me back to reality in Vegas. Ellie was surrounded by green light; her favorite color …’the color of life’ as she would say. Artemis reacts instantly to the image that Lune and I are sharing.
Squirming again, she presses her little muzzle into the crook of my arm and starts to shake, not trembling with fear of Ellie; she responds to the image itself warmly. She is picturing Ursa, Lune, Michael, along with my own face, with the love of her pack … she is unconsciously asking me if Ellie is part of our family. I don’t understand that she is probing for an answer, until she touches the legion’s voices. The monsters living in my psyche frighten her young, naive mind. No, this isn’t simple fear … this is terror.
Holding her closer to my heart, I whisper a hush in her tiny ear and begin rocking slowly back and forth. My body remembers the nurturing movement it learned with Ellie’s love, not only calming Artemis, but silencing the menacing voices inside my subconscious thoughts.
The scene before me as I walk back over to the whelping pen is … perplexing. Ursa and Lune seem to be in a trance as Christopher rocks back and forth in what looks like a semi-catatonic state. Not sure what to do, when not even the dogs acknowledge my approach, I step over the gate.
“Christopher?” No response, no reaction.
“Christopher, hey man, are you okay?” this time I reach down and feel his pulse at his neck. Stable. His breathing is fine and his color is perfectly normal … he just seems to be in some sort of deep sleep or mediation.
I creep back out of the pen, and tiptoe over to the recliners, where Christopher and I sat and talked last night. I have no idea why I am being so careful; he didn’t flinch when I spoke or touched him … why in the hell am I tiptoeing around?
I watch the kid and the animals; little Artemis is sleeping with soft snores, cradled against Christopher’s chest. After about twenty minutes, my muscles are sore just thinking about sitting on the floor for that long, I decide to make some breakfast.
"Maybe that will wake you up." Nope, still no reaction to my voice.
After finishing the omelets and making extra bacon and toast, I start to become annoyed by the idea that I might have to eat all this food alone. Imagining the dogs knocking Christopher down and licking him raw, I grab a couple pieces of bacon and walk back to the pen, raising my hand to throw the bacon at Christopher. He opens his eyes and stares calmly at the fist now perched over my head, dripping bacon grease down my hand. I try to smile innocently; feigning a turn back to the kitchen, I throw the bacon at Christopher’s head. Lune, apparently anticipating my action, nonchalantly raises his head and catches the fastball of meat before it can reach its target.
The kid sits smiling, annoyingly not surprised, and says, “Nice throw.”
Looking at Lune now, avoiding Christopher’s smug face, I tell the dog,” Nice catch.”
I stand, absorbing the false tension until Christopher starts to laugh. “That really was a nice catch.”
He puts Artemis down with Ursa and scratches Lune’s head as he stands. Walking to the kitchen and then washing his hands, he looks over the breakfast I prepared.
“I’m starving, this looks good.” His voice still holds an annoying amount of smugness that makes him sound surprised by my cooking ability.
“Dig in … and maybe I can get you to explain what that was all about.” I look back at Artemis; she already looks healthier than the runt that was born yesterday. She is definitely stronger than the little creature that was nursing on her mother this morning, although she isn’t any bigger. Some sort of exchange happened between Christopher and the pup … and whatever it was, they both look stronger and more content. I have a feeling this is going to be an extremely interesting relationship to watch grow.
Shaking my head to release the bewilderment, I join Christopher in the kitchen. Loading a plate for myself, my mouth start to water, “I could eat breakfast all day long … if I had the time to make it.”
“Considering how good this is, I can’t blame you.” He speaks as he stuffs a forkful of eggs, onion, ham and stringy, melted cheese into his mouth.
Watching him like this, I could almost believe he is still in his teens, still growing. Grunting a laugh in the back of my throat, ‘still growing’? The kid is already a giant: almost as wide as me and at least six inches taller. Standing next to him, even the wolves look small. He doesn’t see it though … always stuck in his head, listening, watching, and thinking. He has no idea that, to some, his size is as intimidating as his precious ‘talents’.
“We make quite the pair.” He still has a mouthful, and is stuffing more in, “I was thinking the same thing about you earlier.”
I am not surprised by his interpreting my thoughts, and then answering them. But, I am in awe at the simple changes in his personality as he speaks. For approximately six months, I’ve watched this kid, and this is the most relaxed I’ve seen him. He’s almost more … open. I’ve never seen anything like it: people with as many walls as Christopher, don’t just pull them down like this. The tension around his eyes has released and the muscles on his jaw become slack between the bites and chewing. It makes his face look softer, younger … and his eyes are almost glowing. I’ve watched those eyes, studied them for motive and lies, and they have always been a muted, blue-green, nothing remarkable … but now they are almost, iridescent.
