Consequences (4 page)

Now, watching him with the pack I understand,
I finally understand … at some point Christopher stopped being
solely human and became something more … something primal; he is
wild.

I feel a pit form in my stomach as the
comprehension filters into my head, “He’s not in danger from them …
he’s as dangerous as them.”

This time my whispered words bring the
attention I was hoping to avoid. The Alpha turns his head and
focuses his hard, golden eyes on me standing on the outskirts of
their meadow. Responding to the Alpha’s shift in attention,
Christopher looks over his shoulder and shakes his head. He reaches
down and says something to the wolf as he strokes the massive
animal’s neck. I understand right away that he is soothing the
creature, explaining that I am of no danger to the pack.
Christopher then raises his hand open-faced toward me, warning me
to stay where I am, and not to move.

As he walks over to me with Lune at his side,
the pack closes rank around Ursa. They lick her coat, whine, and
gently paw at her sides. Then the pack splits and lets the Alpha
walk in closer to her. He puts his muzzle on top of hers and rubs
the side of his face up to the top of her head. That gesture must
be the signal to the rest of the pack that it is time to leave. As
they move away, into the trees on the other side of the meadow,
Ursa walks laboriously over to join Lune and Christopher, who are
now standing right in front of me.

As I look into Christopher’s eyes, I feel
dumbfounded … this friendship was never about me protecting him
from the big bad world; he allowed this friendship in spite of his
version of the big bad world.

I suddenly feel very foolish for seeing him
as a kid; he understands more about the dangers around us than even
the most experienced survivalist. He and I never had a conspiracy
protecting Ursa. Christopher and nature have an agreement that
humans aren’t supposed to understand. I suddenly feel very small
and insignificant standing next to his relationship with the
wolves. Bitterly, I have to laugh at my mistaken opinion that
Christopher and Ursa should be performing as the starring acts at
the local circus.

Christopher looks at me with a smirk growing
on his face. He shakes his head and simply says as he walks past,
“You give me too much credit. I really do think I’d be at home in a
freak show.”

Silently I turn, and follow the
self-proclaimed freak, and his sideshow animals, out of the forest
and back to the cabin.

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?”