19 Ch 19 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 like he'd like 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 that helped with aches and bruises. Then I dug in deeper.

I pulled out the brown paper-wrapped package that 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, took the box of wooden matches from me, and headed toward the back yard.

I looked at Mac, holding out his bottle to him. He 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 wasn't 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 arms length away on my left. Mac awkwardly attempted a cross legged position.

"Sit however Mac, 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 just 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 the stem had been carved by my mother. 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 the smoke in. 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.

I went through the steps of the ceremony, giving considerate thought to every word spoken in my mother's native tongue.

For the first time, I truly prayed to the spirits, to the Great Father, Creator of life. Peace for my friend who was drawn to the bottle to drown his pain. Peace for my father who still so profoundly felt the absence of my mother. Peace for those wolves out there who had the wolf forced upon them and knew nothing of what they truly were. Peace for myself, not knowing where this journey would take me.

The official part of the ceremony done, I paused, cleared my lungs of all smoke.

Smoke in, I held it. I let it absorb all of my insecurities, all my doubts and fears. I blew it all out. My eyes were closed, but I could see the smoke gather like a mist in front of me. A second puff, drawing in strength, hope. I let it fill me; then sent it out to share it with those willing to accept it.

I opened my eyes then. It was only Mac and my dad by the fire. The other guys were standing back. That was ok.

A third draw, eyes closing again. The gathering mist behind my eyelids swirled. There was the hint of a shape solidifying within the billowing smoke.

I opened my eyes, releasing the smoke. I passed the pipe to dad.

Not a word said after the formal prayers, not yet.

I could see Dad; it was like two images superimposed. I saw Dad the man, holding onto the pipe. I saw Dad the wolf, with a wolffish grin, sitting on his haunches.

The fire was low. I had the pipe back in my hand. Dad was up, getting more wood, directing Mac's men.

Mac. He sat there, looking at me. I drew smoke in. It felt like I drew in something from Mac. I could see the brokenness within him. The image of a fist, a drunken fist, coming down on someone.

My hand found its way to his arm, sharing his grief. I handed him the pipe.

Mac looked at it for a second. He set his bottle down next to him, took the pipe, took a short draw.

"Again. Deeper this time."

Mac obeyed, drawing deeper on the pipe this time. My mind follow the smoke, watching it draw from Mac what it could, pulling some of his angst out as the smoke left his body. Mac handed me the pipe.

I looked at it again. It truly was a thing of beauty.

What made it beautiful?

The question was asked of me. The design, I thought, the carvings. It was an ingenious use of carving. I could appreciate the artistry. It's artistry wasn't what made it beautiful.

The answer was in the ceremony that was a connection to an ancient past. It was the connection to my mother's people, even here.

It was how the smoke went beyond the pipe, the way life flowed into the future. It was the movement of the smoke becoming one with the world, the way song of the wolf became one with the sky.

It was life, the ember in the bowl burning bright. It was death, that glimmer of life contained to this small space. The wolf knew both to be essential.

Smoke in. I closed my eyes, mist swirling. Eyes looking at me. Grey eyes, grey fur. Hints of blacks, browns, and reds in that fur. Bright grey eyes laughed at me. I grinned back. Smoke out, like a song that spread across the sky.

I passed the pipe to dad. I actually heard wolf song in his exhaled smoke. My eyes closed. I heard dad pass the pipe to Mac.

Grey Spirit Wolf was running, smoke spinning, the world moving beneath his feet. Life sprung from the ground below his paws. Death came with the snapping of his jaws.

The pipe was in my hands. Smoke in. Wolves. Some real, forever limited to four legs. Others...

I saw a white Arctic wolf, her attention was drawn to me. An old grey, looking at me knowingly.

A vast forest, an old black wolf running shoulder to shoulder with a strong young black wolf who was broad in the shoulder. Their pack ran behind them.

Smoke out. I passed the pipe to Mac. I saw him draw smoke in. As he released it, I released my song.

A howl shook the small yard. It wasn't my usual short howl. This was a notice to all those wolves out there that a new wolf walked among them.

I saw a startled wolf, so lonely it broke my heart, yet he was scared of being found. A small family, I saw their welcoming smile. A young girl, almost a woman, her eyes lighting up with excitement. The Arctic wolf nodded acknowledgment. The old grey laughed with glee.

In the depth of a city, one wolf turned in fear. I could almost smell the sickness within him, a festering black cloud. Near him, a young wolf, listening with hope, struggling to find his courage. Lone Wolf stood near him, blocking the way to a small pack I could barely make out.

And across the world, on the old stone steps of a long-forgotten monastery, the old black wolf listened, heard my song, let loose his own call, probing, questioning, doubting what he heard.

Dad had the pipe, had taken in smoke, heard that call. How could he not? The sky belonged to all wolves. Smoke out, one with the world.

The pipe was in my hands.

Dad threw his head back and answered that call. His long howl sang of the blood bond, the life that flowed from his past out of his father and grandfather, to his future in me. I wondered if he saw my uncle and cousins, wolves in that ancient forest. My song joined with his. Our song on this side of the river was incomplete, the absence of my mother's voice was obvious to me.

Smoke in, grey eyes questioning me.

Who are you? What are these wolves to you?

Smoke out. Who am I? It was a question I had asked myself. What were those wolves I had seen, from the white Arctic wolf to my black-furred cousins, to me? Family. Brothers. One and all. The connection could not be denied.

The spirit wolf that lived in the swirling grey mist nodded, smiled.

Brother-to-All-Wolves, he said, you will know when it is time.

Smoke in, I opened my eyes. The fire, which had gotten bigger, was dying down some. The tobacco in the bowl was almost spent. Smoke out. I passed the pipe to Mac.

Mac fingered it, hesitating.

"Mac?"

He looked at me, startled, almost guilty. I smiled at him, a soft gentle smile. Mac was mine, whether he knew it or not, part of my pack, no matter that he was human.

"How long before Lone Wolf comes around again?"

"A day, a week, a month... I don't know."

"There's a reason he stays gone. He has a job to do. Guard? Protector? He keeps them safe."

Mac was obviously startled.

"He told you..."

"No. I saw him, just now. He's doing his job, remaining true to himself, taking abuse he shouldn't have to so others stay safe. He's protecting them, shielding them from what would stalk them, and it's breaking him.

"But you... The wolf knows how to wait for what it wants. You will have to be patient. One choice was denied him. The choice to accept help will have to be his.

"Give him time, and know that it will take time. More than one visit, more than two. That might mean months. I'll be here. Dad will be available. It will just take time."

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Mac knew what I said made sense. Months. You could see the pain of waiting that long in him, especially now that he had some sort of answer to what had happened to his friend.

I motioned toward the pipe.

Mac had a wide range of emotions running through him. He looked like he was about to break down himself. He took a draw, drew the smoke in deep. His breath, when he released it, was the beginning of a sob.

I took the pipe.

There was no sound from anyone but Mac as the guys stood back and listened as Mac finally, after how many years, released at least some of the pain within him.