The Song Of The Wolf (Edited & Rewritten)

Chapter Eight

The stars above and the mountains below watched as shimmering lights pulsed between them. Painted arcs of emerald, azure and amethyst. The moon bestowed her pale radiance upon the stone sentinels, caressing their summits, her special attention going unnoticed.

Through countless cycles, as darkness and coldness descended on the world, the mountains soared to greater heights. Their fingers, every last boulder and pebble, would stretch up to the heavens and lie in waiting. In pursuit of aurora borealis and her touch of grace that forever remained out of reach. Cycle after cycle, they tried again. Undeterred. Getting taller and taller.

The display reflected on the surface of a glacial lake, where in the shallow end, a woman stood. Ripples disturbed the liquid mirror as she waded a path to shore. Her drenched garments frosted over upon contact with the air, crystallised spheres forming on the ends of her hair. She stepped onto solid ground and followed a red thread down the mountain. The snow welcomed her feet, stealing their warmth. Sharp rocks dug into her palms and soles as she climbed, breaking the skin and dotting the white with scarlet.

Far from the trees that marked the forest's edge, an oak had taken root. Its age surpassed that of any colonial settlement in Yukon, and of the forest itself. Its gnarled trunk burst from a wound in the earth, moss and lichen clinging to bark skin. It had seen seedlings sprout, shoots reaching for the sun, to grow into giants. It had seen the forest expand and adapt, seen its harmonious coexistence with the indigenous peoples and the devastation wrought by the arrival of the white man. The oak had borne witness to epochs of growth and decay, seasons changing, and the mountains leaping for unreciprocated love.

While the other deciduous trees had long surrendered their foliage to the frigid cold, the oak retained its leaves. Each leaf a rich russet hue, papery rustles in the wind. And under the dense canopy, near the trunk, an unclothed shadow kneeled.

Where the man may have once been human, he had now been reduced to little more than a wispy spectre with hunched shoulders. Every muscle and sinew of his back drew taut in prayer, stark under the moon's scrutiny.

'Are you alright?' she asked and put a hand on his shoulder, causing him to turn around. She recognised the stranger, and her heart took residence somewhere between her mouth and ribcage. His arms were contorted into angles and pressed to his side, balancing something in the crook of each elbow. A living pair of scales striving to evenly distribute the weight.

A faint whimper reached her ears, and it dawned on her whom he held rather than what. Stepping forward, her eyes lowered to his bare upper body and the two infants cradled to his chest.

Delicate eyelashes rested on rosy cheeks, tiny lungs filling up with air, chests rising and falling. From their navels, umbilical cords flowed, uncut and glistening with the sheen of nascent life. The woman traced the tubes to the source, expecting to find the newborns tethered to their mother or perhaps a placenta. As the cords slithered away, blueish grey flesh browned and intertwined with the intricate network of roots that sprawled the ground.

One of the babies squirmed and made a noise as it snuggled closer to the man, seeking a breast that was not there. Distressed by its mother's absence, the child's whines increased in volume, turning into a cry that made her ears ring.

Fearing the noise would wake the sibling, she knelt down in the snow, shushing the fussy infant and offering a finger. A miniature hand clasped her pinky, and the cries quieted into hushed fascination as the baby gazed at the digit.

As if the moon mocked her efforts, a bright beam breached the other baby's face. At the intrusion of light, the baby stirred, its eyelids fluttering open. A lump formed, impeding the flow of her breath as eyes identical to her own stared back at her.