Little Wolf

Ch 18 Wolf In the Smoke

I knew Dad disapproved of me grabbing Mac's bottle. Dad's philosophy, understandably, was one of choice. Mac stood in the doorway and looked as if he wanted to tear into me.

I had a feeling it was my dad standing at his shoulder that kept Mac in place. He didn't need to worry, though, either of them. I'll give the bottle back in a minute.

I dug through my saddlebags to pull out Auntie's jar of salve. I set it on the bike's seat. Auntie was a great herbalist and used a combination of essential oils and witch hazel that helped with aches and bruises. Then I dug deeper.

I pulled out the brown paper-wrapped package Grandfather had given me. It was time.

I heard Dad's sudden indrawn breath. He nudged his way past Mac but stopped after a few steps.

"You'll need a fire."

Dad came over and took the box of wooden matches from me. He headed toward the back yard.

I looked at Mac, holding out his bottle to him. The big man came over slowly. I could tell he was thinking about asking, but my dad's reaction to the package in my hands had Mac hesitating. I closed up the saddlebags.

"Mac, among my mother's people, well, it's probably different than you're used to. Just bear with me. This is my first time using it. Come on."

I could smell the fire from the backyard, even though there was hardly any smoke.

The guys followed me back. Curiosity won over any attitude they might still have.

I went to the far side of the small fire Dad had started. I sat cross-legged, motioning for Mac to sit. Dad sat an arm's length away on my left. Mac awkwardly attempted a cross-legged position.

"Sit however, Mac. It doesn't matter."

There was a certain amount of reverence to my motions as I unwrapped my gift. The paper got fed to the fire. I beheld a long leather pouch, the beadwork showing a wolf's head. I gently untied the pouch, opened the flap, and slid out the contents.

I brought the small pouch of tobacco and herbs that grandfather had included with my gift to the center of my lap. I had to take a moment to enjoy looking at the workmanship on the formal pipe.

The beauty of the pipe captivated me. It had an antler bowl instead of a stone one. The dark stem held the hint of wolves; they were partially carved, with burnt engravings highlighting the images into the wooden stem, taking advantage of the wood grain. The images of wolves could only partially be made out as if they were hidden by the very smoke that would come out of the pipe.

I knew my mother had carved the stem. Looking at dad, I saw tears streaming down his face. Apparently, this was his first time seeing the formal pipe.

Mom's craftsmanship with her bowls and cups had been famous, locally at least. I wonder when she made it, how long Grandfather had saved it. My fingers brushed against the antler bowl, remembering my first major kill as a wolf. I knew where the piece of antler had come from.

I opened the smaller pouch, pulled out enough tobacco to fill the pipe. There is a ceremony among my people; prayers offered east, south, west, north, toward the ground below, and the firmament above.

I took enough puffs to start it, drawing in the smoke. It was as if I could feel the smoke dancing and swirling within me. This wasn't just a casual smoke. This was a pipe ceremony. I had mostly only watched, participated in just a few. I had never started one myself, but I knew how it went.