Consequences (11 page)

Opening up to Michael, and exposing the
fragile underbelly of my broken psyche, brings about an exhaustion
that rivals the side effects of V's manipulation. I hate that I may
have ruined Michael’s opinion of me. Hurting my friends seems to be
the norm for me, anymore.

“Apparently, so has self-pity,
Christopher.”

“Ellie, where have you been? If you had been
here, maybe I wouldn’t be in the condition that I am now.” My words
are partially muffled by my pillow as I lie down on the bed.

“I can do nothing to ease the pain of your
choices. You have to accept them, good and bad. They were decisions
that you brought into being … the happiness, as well as the pain,
and the consequences are yours alone to endure.”

My eyelids are growing heavy; drained of
energy … all that is left to feel, is shame. Embarrassment, over
what I had allowed to happen, burn my tear ducts. I haven’t
finished telling Michael the entire story. I told him how I hid
from the horror of James’s death like a coward, but I neglected to
tell him that I didn’t regret pulling the trigger leading to
James's excruciating end. I had become completely indifferent,
reduced to the sociopath that James wanted me so badly to be. Lying
there, on that bed in Vegas, unable to move, unable to withdraw
from what I’d seen, I realized, I had no more connections to the
world outside the ethereal veil ... and I wished for a death that
might return me to Ellie.

Back in Montana, before slipping into
unconsciousness, I hear Ellie’s voice one last time, “Are you so
ready to feed yourself to the wolves … just promise me that you’ll
finish telling Michael everything. You need to tell the whole
story, Christopher, and then maybe you’ll actually be able to
accept that what you accomplished in the end was right. Maybe you
will realize that you can forgive yourself … that in the end, you
tried to make the honorable choice. You’re only human.”

It isn’t until her voice starts to fade that
I notice she hasn't been touching me, there were no sparks
preceding her words. I write it off as maybe I am asleep, or
perhaps I am just imagining her voice. Luckily, Michael is going to
be here until tomorrow, and then he will have to report back to
work.

Thankful for his help, I let the waves of
shame take me under, for now. Yes, that is what I need to do, fold
myself into sleep and allow my subconscious deal with how exposed
and vulnerable I have become.

**~~**

Stiff and sore, I open my eyes and take in
the morning light. For a moment, I stare at the stream of sunshine
flowing from the east; the rays are higher in the sky than when I
woke the day before. Chastising myself for actually sleeping until
the next day, I rise to get a jump start on my chores, and
hopefully make breakfast before Michael has to leave. Cracking the
door, I listen carefully to see if anyone else is awake. Satisfied
that I might be able to pay back Michael’s kindness with at least
breakfast, I hurry to turn on the teakettle, start the generator,
and stoke the fire.

Cord of wood in hand, I glance in the
whelping pen; Lune looks up at me, communicating that he is happy
to see me up and around. To my eyes, his spirit has grown so much
in the past nine months; I am in wonder that he continues to choose
me for a companion. Artemis is sleeping curled up to her mother’s
belly; her stomach is round and full, obviously just done with
eating her breakfast. I pick her up and hold her warm little body
close to my chest as I let the adults outside. Some of Ursa and
Lune’s enthusiasm returns to normal as they leap into the snow
banks that have blown up against the trees. Visualizing their
thoughts, I know that today, they both want to hunt, stretch, and
play.

Leaving them to their duties, I return to the
recliners situated by the whelping pen. With Artemis still sleeping
soundly in my arms, striding around the first chair, I see familiar
feet propped up, and have to laugh at the awkward position in which
Michael has fallen asleep. I sit in the farthest chair from the
fire, adjacent to Michael. Turning the pup onto her back, I start
rubbing her belly. Her head tilts back, little arms and legs
hanging limp, she stays stubbornly unconscious while I tickle her.
Once in awhile she flicks her paws in response to a dream, or my
affection. I can't help, but smile at her innocence and sweet
demeanor; she lifts the remaining weight of yesterday’s confession
off my shoulders.

I lightly touch her mind with my own, and in
a flash of pictures she shows me that she is chasing a rabbit
through the trees. But that can’t be right; she has never been
outside the cabin, and has never seen trees … or rabbits for that
matter. Looking down I see the huge paws of an adult wolf, and then
Lune crosses our path, racing off after the hare with incredible
speed … Ahhh, she is watching the hunt through Ursa’s eyes. Warm
and welcoming, I can feel Artemis turn her consciousness to my
presence; she is giving me the acknowledgment, the love of a pack
member.

The screaming whistle from the kitchen pulls
me out of the little one’s mind, and I look up to see that it has
also woken up Michael.

“How’s your neck? I can’t imagine sleeping in
that position is very fun to wake up to. Why did you sleep down
here, man … the bed upstairs has got to be more comfortable than
that chair?”

His short hair sticks out in swirls on the
side of his head, and his eyes swim while I am talking to him. He
doesn’t answer; his mind is still too lethargic to think of a
response, much less speak one. I hand Artemis to him and walk into
the kitchen to make some black, liquid energy … and something more
substantial in the energy department. After handing him a mug, I
feel a smirk developing as I watch the big man with the still
slumbering pup. He is just as much a sucker for her as I am.

Returning to the kitchen, I decide to make
biscuits and gravy with the elk sausage I have stored away in my
freezer. Searching through the cupboards, I find that my potato
stash is starting to sprout, needing to be used right away, so I
add them to the menu, in the form of cubed hash browns. Setting
them to fry in the skillet, I add onions and diced chili peppers to
the mix. Then making the biscuits and placing them in the oven, I
start the elk cooking while I make the white sauce with milk,
cream, flour, and the bacon drippings from breakfast yesterday.

Michael comes wandering in to the kitchen and
sits down at the table, Artemis in one hand and his coffee in the
other. He looks content, as he points out again, how much he likes
breakfast. “Smells good. Thank you.”

“No problem. When do you have to report back
to work?”

“After we eat, I’ll head back to my place and
get cleaned up; I was planning on reporting in at about ten. Are
you going to be okay here? I’ll check back in on you, guys,
tonight. If you need me to pick up anything while I’m out, just
text my cell.”

“I think we’ll be fine … I’m fine, I just
needed a minute, or a day, to gather my thoughts and recoup. Sorry,
I left you hanging yesterday.”

“That’s fine, kid, I understand … as long as
you’re okay. I don’t really know when I’ll be able to get back, but
I’ll try tonight … if it’s too late I’ll check in tomorrow.”

I can see the truth of his statement forming
in his head: he really does want to keep an eye on us. He is more
concerned about me than he is willing to let on, and he feels
comfortable here … it surprises the hell of him, but he is
comfortable here. I can also see that he is bogged down at work,
and is expecting to return to a mountain of paperwork.

“Michael, don’t worry about us … just catch
up on what you need to do, and let me know if I can help in any
way.” He nods over the top of his mug.

It feels good to get back to business as
usual and put yesterday behind me. I know I am going to eventually
finish telling my story; I feel that I need to justify myself to
Michael, even though he doesn’t think any less of me. I know Ellie
is right though; I need to find some sort of resolution.

Eating in relative silence, I can feel the
comfortable peace resting over us. I’ve only know one other person
that made me feel this comfortable ─ my grandfather, and his
thoughts were as honest and pure as Michael’s. Befriending their
minds gave me glimpses at the untainted possibilities inside every
man … right when I thought I had lost the ability to appreciate
humanity’s potential. If I hadn’t had my grandfather in my life, I
doubt I would understand how grateful I should be to have found a
friend, a mentor that shares Grandpa’s ethical strength. Both men
have not only seen, but conscientiously chosen, to fight amoral
influences. They would never claim to be innocent, or even remotely
perfect. Both have been victims to their anger and passions, yet
they take on everyday as a new opportunity to try and protect
innocence. Michael takes great pride in protecting the land and its
animals, building relationships with people in the area, and
providing support whenever possible. My grandfather served his
country in the Marines, and then helped raise his oddball grandson,
while also being a philanthropist, donating his time and money to
many worthy causes. If I could just remember to listen with more
than my skepticism, I might be able to learn that we always have a
choice, mistakes are made, and life goes on. Maybe, I’ll even learn
to forgive myself.

Daydreaming about Ellie, while sitting in the
safe embrace of my grandfather’s memories: I can see her in front
of me, our last day together, explaining the mindset of a survivor.
“There are worse things in this world than someone taking your
life, and after you have lived through that realization, you savor
simple pleasures, and treasure loved ones.” Ellie’s philosophy
reminds me of a story that my grandfather told me about Jewish
prisoners in a Nazi concentration camp. When the Americans
liberated the camp, they came back telling stories of physically
broken human beings exhibiting more strength than the American
soldiers had ever seen, or will ever see. Men and Women, some
walking, some carrying others, they were naked and starved … they
didn’t move to take revenge on their captors. They didn’t really
even care to take clothes or boots from the German guards, because
those kinds of amenities weren’t nearly as important as their
dignity. Heads held high, carrying a menorah they had made out of
nails from their barrack’s floorboards, and caring for one another,
they walked out of that camp gracious and proud. Had those
prisoners committed atrocities while under the guards’ thumbscrews?
Yes. Did they give up that one last little bit of their humanity?
No. Their strength came from hanging on to the realization, even if
the price for that comprehension was their life; they understood
freewill wasn’t about physically resisting. Physical resistance
isn’t always possible … it is mentally, emotionally, and
spiritually withstanding the pressure to forget humanity’s
potential for kindness over cruelty. Choosing to accept
consequences while still holding your head high, vulnerable and
naked … you are stronger for the pain.

Ellie had lived through England standing on
its own, cut off from any allies during World War Two. She had not
physically survived the bombing of London; yet with what she had
left, as an ethereal spirit, she chose to share compassion and love
for humanity in general. She has a consideration for her fellow
man; friend or foe, that she rarely witnessed in her former life
... Ellie’s empathy gives her the gut-wrenching gift of
understanding the feelings of even her enemies. I feel like an
idiot, feeling sorry for myself, and letting my mind be crippled by
guilt. Even berating myself now, is an insult to the memories of my
grandfather and Ellie. Time to pick myself up and start living
again … the time will come when I have to finish my story, but that
time isn’t now. For now, I need to care for my little family, and
try to give back to the world that has given me so much.

I pull back from my thoughts in time to pick
up the breakfast dishes, let in Ursa and Lune with their fresh
kills, and help Michael pack up his belongings. Michael sets out
with plenty of time to get ready for work, and I make sure to thank
him repeatedly for his help over the past few days. He just nods
his head humbly, not seeing his role as anything extraordinary.
Then he looks at Artemis, and once again I can see that he feels
she is as special as I do … neither of us know why, but we know she
needs to be protected.

**~~**

Time passes in a comfortable routine of days
watching Artemis growing in strength, and Michael checking in
regularly. I am grateful for his nonjudgmental company; as we both
feel compelled to care for this pack. Michael has become the
closest thing to a brother I think I’ve ever known. The nights are
still cold, but as spring makes itself known, I have taken to
sitting outside. Artemis would lay in my lap, with Michael in the
chair next to us, holding a beer, and Ursa and Lune sitting between
us looking content.

The whelping pen was taken down last week,
and Artemis, now the size of a basketball, and just as round, has
started sleeping on my bed with her parents. Completely weaned at
seven weeks, she is still just a pup … but large for her age, even
compared to a wolf. Ursa showed me images of average wolf pups;
even she is surprised by the growth of her daughter.

Her coat is still pure white. When I let her
outside, she disappears into the snow. Her eyes, finally losing
their deep blue from birth, are showing a mixture of Ursa’s yellow
and Lune’s ice blue. They are mesmerizing: swirls like the colors
in an agate stone … never quite mixing into a cloudy green. The
stark separations in the colors make me think of an alien planet
viewed from outer space, the borders of land and sea clearly
visible.