A wolf shadows anyone or anything that passes through her territory. It is her way of gathering information. It is the equivalent of manifesting and then becoming like smoke, and then manifesting again.
Wolves can move ever so softly. The sound they make is in the manner of los angeles timidos, the shyest angels. First they fall back and shadow...Then, all of a sudden, they appear ahead, peeking half-face with one golden eye from behind a tree. Abruptly, the wolf turns and vanishes in a blur of white ruff and plumed tail, only to backtrack and pop up behind...that is shadowing.
Clarissa Pinkola Estes, Ph.D.
Women Who Run With the Wolves
..............
The Indian came closer, his arms and legs seeming almost jointless. 'Shapeshifter,' he whispered. 'Please tell me your secret.'
To calm the man, Bob sat firmly down on his haunches.
'Think what it would mean to my people, shapeshifter.' The Indian squatted before Bob, his hands open and pleading. 'We Indians could change into wolves, foxes and deer, and we could go back into the forest!'
Bob was ashamed of himself when the notion of simply trotting off flashed through his mind. Bob could not say why, but his deepest instincts, wolf and human, were telling him to do this, to leave and run into the wild.
He did run, farther and farther...toward afternoon it began to snow. He ran as much toward the wilderness as he did from his family and former life.
He heard the flakes hiss on the hemlock boughs, felt them snap cold on his nose. As he ran the world changed from the last of autumn to the first of winter, and all memories, all desires, were covered with a kindness of snow. There was something in his soul that was urging him north.
He mounted a ridge. From here there was a view for miles. The St. Lawrence glimmered in the northern distance a jagged tumble of ice. Far to the south rose the Adirondacks.
And right there, at the end of Ontario Street stood a big black timber wolf. No doubt about it, they'd come down from Canada because the winter had been so hard.
Bob was torn, his heart ached, and when a wolf's heart aches, he is as inspired as when he is joyful or lonely, and he howls, forming with his tongue and lips the music of The Wild.
Whitley Strieber
The Wild
- - - - - - - -
Daryl stood in the fall-leaf-mounded fields and gazed with jaundiced eye upon the grand grey pile beyond, which resembled nothing so much as a rather gaudy mausoleum to him now; or perhaps a great squatting toad cast in concrete and stone.
'What manner of ego-maniacal madman and pompous ass created that monstrosity?' Daryl murmured to himself, feeling like smacking himself upside the head as he did so, for indeed, he had been that very madman.
Daryl was arrived at last, back on native soil...thinking to himself that at least he had some Indian blood, and so felt at home here in the states as well as across the border in Grandmother's Land.
'To hell with the bloody borders of white men,' he said to himself, thinking: 'bloody' being the operative word here.
Massachusetts. Home, of sorts...only sometimes. Never now.
He had disembarked from the nearest coach stop, and had decided to hike the remaining distance to his old stomping grounds and, more importantly, to the gatehouse and Athena.
He wasn't disobeying orders to stay out of the old mansion house he'd once built in a manic fit of hubris and poor taste. He had no wish to go near the place, much less within it -- too many memories, too much like bad dreams to him now.
He turned his back on the great hulk of a folly, and let his boots take him cross country, past the still lake, alive with creatures small and great; dragon and damselflies danced over the water, redwing blackbirds and the odd loon traded calls. This, he thought, is the real treasure: the wild lands.
Daryl was thus relieved to have escaped from St.John's political machinations and the stress of forced travel, (Daryl was loath to admit having been a victim of 'abduction'.) He was becoming giddy despite or because of his long hours on the road.
Gad, but what a relief it was to be free! Out in the woods, hearing bird song...free of people and crowds, loud voices and argument. Squirrels chittering and chasing each other seemed the loudest contingent in the forest. Squirrels he could handle.
As he moseyed onward, the trees closed about him giving him the feeling of a blanket of protection. He welcomed the dark woods; his friends pine and spruce, alder, maple, cottonwood, hemlock and birch. He felt a regular coureur de bois.
He watched his booted feet pad along the trail mulched with evergreen needles and was beginning to feel anchored in his body again at last. He paused, eyes closed, and breathed in the intoxicating scent of fall leaves and forest floor. Utter bliss. He sighed softly and resumed his hike.
Good boots, a settled stomach, knees and hips that still worked well enough; indeed he had all he needed within. When his back was not attacking him, true. Still, to hell with the world of men and machines! For a good long while, he hoped.
'"What would the world be once bereft of wet and wildness?"' Daryl quoth G.M. Hopkins to himself, as he leaned over and found a just-right walking stick to aid him on his hike.
As he traveled onward he hoped, too, that Athena was home. If not, he could sleep in the stable overnight. Perhaps even run into Manuel there, checking on the horses. Wouldn't be the first time he'd resorted to a hay and horse blanket bed. Probably not his last.
The man with the mansion on the hill, felt no qualms about sharing a horse blanket in the hay. 'Good enough for Jesus!' he snorted with a laugh.
As much as he enjoyed a walk in the woods, he did notice, suddenly, that the birds were oddly quiet, even the nutty squirrels had settled down to silence.
He stopped a moment, checked behind him. It wasn't a feeling of being watched, exactly, but he didn't feel like whistling.
He turned and resumed his stroll a ways, then whipped quickly about.
Ah. Was that the fleeting brush of a white tail? Behind that tree? Daryl gazed slowly around him. Were it a deer, the birds et al would not silence their song.
Daryl picked up his pace; laissez faire meandering no longer suited him. Surely he would be at the gatehouse soon...
Could have been a wolf, he finally decided. He wasn't unduly concerned; usually a lone wolf on patrol would not attack a man in the full flush of a warm fall day. Daryl had noticed deer, and the brush of a fox tail as he hiked; the woods were not lacking in other than human meat. Not now. Were it a wolf pack in winter, well, that was something else again. But a curious wolf was someone Daryl didn't mind sharing the woods with.
-- Briefly.
................
Shannon looked at Emlyn, her eyes sympathetic, yet mixed with exasperation. 'How the divvil did you get intoxicated? 'Tis but apple cider!'
She took Em by the arm, hauling her upstanding.
Emlyn ran a hand over her forehead, lifted high her chin and addressed Shannon in her best lady-of-the-manor-ese:
'I, do not drink!' She informed her. 'Much.'
She frowned. 'It's gotten away from me, somehow...all that cider since noon...not used to it...bit tipsy is all.'
'No doubt they planned it, aye,' Shannon declared, scenting conspiracy. 'Let's get ya awa' from here, luv.'
'How?' Emlyn inquired, stopping.
'You'll be coming along w'us, the Bards and me. Plenty of room in the waggon. We'll get ya home to Missus Murphy's, nivver ya fear...'
'No, Shannon,' Em slowly shook her head. 'I must have a reason to be, ah...exiting with you. It would seem odd, after such fine hospitality on the Kidd's part, not to be staying. We don't want to offend Jeanne.' She slowed up. 'And, they may get suspicious.'
'Right...' Shannon swiveled her head, gazing about them. 'Unless -- ah, there he is!' She grabbed hold of Em and hustled her along. 'Did ya not notice the fine Welsh bass player with the Bards now? Dylan, he is. Come meet him!'
'Aye...' Emlyn had noticed, but she'd been rather too anxious and worried to think much on it. 'Oh, I'm hardly in a state to be meeting a new man!'
Especially after seeing ghosts of Welsh faeries past.
Shannon ignored this. 'As far as the Kidds know, you and Dylan are now quite matey. That's the reason for your desertion! All's fair in love...'
Shannon took Emlyn behind the stage where the Bards enjoyed their own wee break area and a cider cask, all theirs as well, compliments of lord of the manor and misrule, Alex Kidd. There they hid out while Shannon apprised Allyn of their plan and the reason for it.
She also sent Dylan over to see to Em.
'Would you like some cold water, lass?'
Emlyn sat on the back of the stage, leaning against the barn wall and was near to dozing when she was aware of someone beside her. 'Oh! Ta, thank you, ah, Dylan, is it?'
'Dylan of the Waves, that's me.' He smiled and sat beside her, handing her a cold jar.
Em returned his smile, and sipped.
'Emlyn.' She shook his hand and looked up in study of him now, taking time to take in her new 'friend'.
A fine Welshman indeed, she decided; dark curls ringed his face, which seemed to have had more miles of smiles etched upon his features than frowns. Light hazel eyes that crinkled at the corners. He seemed a bit older than the rest of the Bards, perhaps mid-to-late 30's or so?
'So, did you enjoy the ceilidh, then?' Dylan asked, seating himself beside her.
'Very much. Is it over already?' Em thought she must have dozed off longer than she'd earlier surmised.
Dylan nodded. 'We're all packed up. Be heading out soon. Did you bring a shawl? It may get cool in the open waggon.'
Em truly could not recall. Jeanne had hurried her off so fast, it had been more of an abduction. 'I don't believe I do,' she frowned.
Dylan shed himself of his jacket, settling it over her shoulders. 'Fear not, for I am a gentleman and can help to keep us both warm if I may sit with you, traveling home.'
He slipped an arm about her shoulders as well.
'Jethro and I will be staying the night in Arcadia.'
Emlyn was delighted at how things were working out. She had not foreseen such a fine and serendipitous ending to such a mad, confounding day...
'That would be lovely,' she allowed.
Shannon approached then, carrying a large pumpkin and set it down. 'Don't let me forget that!' She smiled, hands on hips. 'Jeanne said we're all free to take home the punkins, they've a bumper crop. She and Alex have returned to the house...so, Em, ready to beard the lion in his den?'
Emlyn hauled herself upwards, noting then how very tired she was now, having been running on adrenaline and nerves all night. 'Bears in den… Let's get this over with and be off. I am ready to drop!' Em was actually. Losing altitude.
'I'm right here with you.' Shannon took her arm. 'We'll be back directly!' She called to Dylan over her shoulder, 'Meet up at the waggon.'
Dylan nodded, and hefted her pumpkin.
Shannon took Emlyn back toward the house, noticing less folk here with the hour no doubt becoming quite late. 'Tis nearly three in the a.m.' Shannon yawned, tired as well.
Emlyn held onto Shannon's arm with both hands.
“….The Hour of the Wolf,' she intoned, as if prophesying.
'Oh, let us hope not! We've enough to think about.' Shannon slowed as they approached the veranda. 'I've an idea...let's just go quietly about the place and see what we can see first, eh?'
Em shrugged herself into Dylan's tweed jacket, liking the scent of it; like wild forest wind and a bit of wood smoke. She crouched low behind Shannon as they crept along the veranda, listening and peeking into windows, making a circuit of the house.
They came at last onto the large French windows and Em grasped Shannon's skirt to slow her.
'Easy here,' she whispered. I can hear them all talking inside. Let's try to find out what's going on.'
She sidled closer to Shannon and they knelt upon the porch boards and leaned in as close as they dared to the open doors.
Emlyn risked a peek inside and was astounded at what she beheld:
Alex was standing at his 'great muckle table' addressing a group of the local landowners and a few politicians and businessmen from Pankhurst and environs, Jeanne sitting at his side in rapt attention.
They all were attired with gold sashes worn diagonally across the chest, embroidered with tiny royal blue fleur de lis and with a white rosette pinned at the top. Alex was waxing fervent, waving arms and fists. Aright distraction, thought Em.
Shannon crept to the open doors and held up a hand, listening. Em hovered over her shoulder intent upon Alex's rousing rhetoric.
'We stand at the brink of a new tomorrow and a new world, ours for the taking of it, if we but dare!' He would have chewed scenery if he but had haddock. He gazed about the table with hawk-like intensity, cliché like and piratesque, focused upon his prey.
'For is not this New World, OUR world, eh? Did not the Sinclair discover this land of ours long before that laggard Columbus? We can join with our brothers to the north, and together create a true Nova Scotia, a New Scots Land! No longer under the thumb of antiquated British laws, rules and custom! And our relations back in our motherland in Scotland, will flock to our shores, far beyond the reach of British royals and such nonsense; knowing that here, HERE! -- is true freedom, liberty and equality, which is our birthright, at last!
'"Man was born free and he is everywhere in chains!"' He shouted; the crowd of fired-up Jacobites roared assent.
Shannon turned round to Em, and rolled her eyes. She'd seen and heard enough already. Silently, grabbing Em's arm, she lead her away. They snuck back down the porch and only when they were hastening back to the barn did they dare to even breathe. It reeked of ego even here.
'Good goddess, save us!' Shannon waved an arm. 'The blighted wee bugger is quoting Rousseau of all things! 'Tis much worse than I thought...'
Emlyn did not know what to think. It all seemed so unreal. Were they truly planning an uprising? She pulled Dylan's jacket tight about her and counted herself lucky to be escaping into the night.
Being close with Jeanne now could get tricky for them. And dangerous. She thought of all that weaponry that Alex kept here. She'd no doubt that he had the ways and means to see this uprising to its bloody end.
Whatever that was.
'Oh, let us hope not! We've enough to think about.' Shannon slowed as they approached the veranda. 'I've an idea...let's just go quietly about the place and see what we can see first, eh?'
Em shrugged herself into Dylan's tweed jacket, liking the scent of it; like wild forest wind and a bit of wood smoke. She crouched low behind Shannon as they crept along the veranda, listening and peeking into windows, making a circuit of the house.
They came at last onto the large French windows and Em grasped Shannon's skirt to slow her.
'Easy here,' she whispered. I can hear them all talking inside. Let's try to find out what's going on.'
She sidled closer to Shannon and they knelt upon the porch boards and leaned in as close as they dared to the open doors.
Emlyn risked a peek inside and was astounded at what she beheld:
Alex was standing at his 'great muckle table' addressing a group of the local landowners and a few politicians and businessmen from Pankhurst and environs, Jeanne sitting at his side in rapt attention.
They all were attired with gold sashes worn diagonally across the chest, embroidered with tiny royal blue fleur de lis and with a white rosette pinned at the top. Alex was waxing fervent, waving arms and fists. Aright distraction, thought Em.
Shannon crept to the open doors and held up a hand, listening. Em hovered over her shoulder intent upon Alex's rousing rhetoric.
'We stand at the brink of a new tomorrow and a new world, ours for the taking of it, if we but dare!' He would have chewed scenery if he but had haddock. He gazed about the table with hawk-like intensity, cliché like and piratesque, focused upon his prey.
'For is not this New World, OUR world, eh? Did not the Sinclair discover this land of ours long before that laggard Columbus? We can join with our brothers to the north, and together create a true Nova Scotia, a New Scots Land! No longer under the thumb of antiquated British laws, rules and custom! And our relations back in our motherland in Scotland, will flock to our shores, far beyond the reach of British royals and such nonsense; knowing that here, HERE! -- is true freedom, liberty and equality, which is our birthright, at last!
'"Man was born free and he is everywhere in chains!"' He shouted; the crowd of fired-up Jacobites roared assent.
Shannon turned round to Em, and rolled her eyes. She'd seen and heard enough already. Silently, grabbing Em's arm, she lead her away. They snuck back down the porch and only when they were hastening back to the barn did they dare to even breathe. It reeked of ego even here.
'Good goddess, save us!' Shannon waved an arm. 'The blighted wee bugger is quoting Rousseau of all things! 'Tis much worse than I thought...'
Emlyn did not know what to think. It all seemed so unreal. Were they truly planning an uprising? She pulled Dylan's jacket tight about her and counted herself lucky to be escaping into the night.
Being close with Jeanne now could get tricky for them. And dangerous. She thought of all that weaponry that Alex kept here. She'd no doubt that he had the ways and means to see this uprising to its bloody end.
Whatever that was.
Did he even know?
................
'Home at last.'
Daryl paused as the gatehouse finally came into view.
He realised how true that felt to him now; Athena's wee cottage had always seemed more like a home to him than, that other.
Sunset here in the fall, maples glowing a radiant crimson, a more perfect setting one could not imagine. Daryl sighed deeply. He felt happy, and sad at once. It seemed like an age since he'd been here sharing tea and a chat with his Athena. For it was that way with him; she was his dear friend and they belonged to one another, always. He would never forsake her, and he hoped that she felt the same.
Gods but he'd forgotten how much he loved that sacred circle of an old friendship. Few indeed could he count on thus; few who knew his past, their shared past, and all the trials they'd weathered together.
He hurried this last leg of the long journey, hoping so that she'd be home. He would wait for her, naturally, if not. But he was so in need of her presence, to reassure himself that the goddess was in her heaven and all was right with their small world...
Standing at last outside her wooden door, thick as half a tree trunk, he rapped upon it and stood back, feeling a giddiness of anticipation like butterflies in his stomach.
Nothing was heard for some time, he turned about, noting that the sun was nearly set and Venus risen, and raised his hand to rap again, when suddenly the door opened to reveal:
-- a half-naked tattooed man with long braids to his waist!
Daryl was dumbfounded, to say the least.
.........
CLICK BELOW TO LISTEN!
Wha’ll be King but Cherlie?
................
'Home at last.'
Daryl paused as the gatehouse finally came into view.
He realised how true that felt to him now; Athena's wee cottage had always seemed more like a home to him than, that other.
Sunset here in the fall, maples glowing a radiant crimson, a more perfect setting one could not imagine. Daryl sighed deeply. He felt happy, and sad at once. It seemed like an age since he'd been here sharing tea and a chat with his Athena. For it was that way with him; she was his dear friend and they belonged to one another, always. He would never forsake her, and he hoped that she felt the same.
Gods but he'd forgotten how much he loved that sacred circle of an old friendship. Few indeed could he count on thus; few who knew his past, their shared past, and all the trials they'd weathered together.
He hurried this last leg of the long journey, hoping so that she'd be home. He would wait for her, naturally, if not. But he was so in need of her presence, to reassure himself that the goddess was in her heaven and all was right with their small world...
Standing at last outside her wooden door, thick as half a tree trunk, he rapped upon it and stood back, feeling a giddiness of anticipation like butterflies in his stomach.
Nothing was heard for some time, he turned about, noting that the sun was nearly set and Venus risen, and raised his hand to rap again, when suddenly the door opened to reveal:
-- a half-naked tattooed man with long braids to his waist!
Daryl was dumbfounded, to say the least.
.........
CLICK BELOW TO LISTEN!
Wha’ll be King but Cherlie?
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