Wolf Mother

This was painted by my friend Kira at a stormy time in her life

The Old Woman steps out of the cave onto the icy stone. The waterfall has frozen into a mass of white, ropey icicles. Winter Solstice is coming and the sunlight these days barely seems to crest over the island. It glides smoothly through the lower half of the sky, with hints of corals and the palest lavender mixed in with the yellows. On the rainy days, the whole world looks bathed in shades of cold blue so thick the sun can hardly shine through. Today, however, is one of the clear, cold days, when the few hours of sunlight are more precious for how short they last. The Old Woman glances up at Raven wheeling about with the Seagulls and a smattering of other Ravens in the invisible thermals. She smiles to herself at how much joy he can make in all kinds of weather.

She makes her way carefully down to the beach for more driftwood for the fire. Her gnarled old hands are so tough, the cold takes a long time to seep in under her skin. Raven sees her and croaks out a greeting. She stands up like a fern uncoiling and waves up at him. As soon as she has bent over again to pick up the next piece of wood, Raven dives for the cave opening.

“What mischief is he up to now?” The Old Woman wonders as she carries her bundle of driftwood up the stones. She steps on the outer edges, being careful to avoid the ice that has collected in her worn, old footsteps.

Raven has, indeed, been up to his usual mischief. He has taken crimson and olive green balls of neatly wrapped yarn and unraveled them all over the cave walls like a schizophrenic spider’s web. The Old Woman surveys the damage while Raven hoots from the top of the loom, his neck feathers all fluffed out.

“I decorated!” he announces gleefully.

The Old Woman laughs out loud. “You call that decorating?”

“Sure do!”

“Well, I suppose we can leave it up for a few days,” she concedes. “But you are making me nervous sitting on my loom like that. Why don’t you tuck up some of these low hanging strands while I work?”

“And miss seeing you get tangled up? Not a chance. I’m going to tell you a story instead. The Ravens just carried it on the wind, so it’s fresh in my mind.”

“Is it any good?”

“That’s for you to decide.”

Raven rustles his wings, resettling them before he begins.

“Wolf Mother paws at the thick sphagnum moss under a pile of fallen branches.

“‘Why, oh why did I leave this until now?’ she mutters to herself. Winter’s claws had dug into the ground before her, leaving shards of ice to pierce the tender places in her paws.

“‘At least the Bears are asleep,’ she grumbles. ‘But still, the Eagles and Ravens could descend at any moment.’ 

“Wolf Mother takes a break to lick the blood from between her toes. The ancient red cedar creaks in the wind above her. She looks up at the rain-pelted tree and cold water drips in her eyes.

“‘There is always so much weather here,’ she remarks, ‘like the day I buried this.’

“With that thought, she returns to her digging. There had been another day, one that carried a rainbow, and she naïvely hoped it was a sign that the birth of her pups would go well. They weren’t her first litter, after all. But the rainbow turned out to be a single ray of sunshine in a storm, nothing more.

“Wolf Mother gave birth on that rainbow day to only two pups, but they were turned all wrong inside her. Her hips stretched too far and she tore as they came out. She could not believe how much pain they caused for how little they were. And they were little, much smaller than her first litter.

“Her afterbirth slipped out unnoticed and she forgot all about it when the pups would not stop squealing. For some reason, they were not nursing right. They cried for milk, but something seemed to be wrong with her nipples. She could feel her milk fill her teats, but only half would make it into the pups’ mouths. The rest sprayed them in their faces.

“They cried after eating, as if their stomachs were not digesting. Their excrement stunk and frothed like algae in a stagnant pond. In short, the pups were ailing and she did not know why, or how to help them. They cried the worst at night. The older they grew, the louder they cried, howling until dawn sometimes.

“Meanwhile, her afterbirth lie rotting on the den floor.

“Finally, one soaker of a day, while the pups slept from the sheer exhaustion of endless crying, she crawled from her den with the stinking, festering remains of her afterbirth clutched in her jaws. Limping, as her hips had not yet healed from the birth, she made her way to the Grandmother Cedar Tree.

“That old tree overlooks the beaches flanking a narrow spit of land that points the way to the horizon between islands and mainland. Weather whistles in from three different directions, and Grandmother Cedar stands guardian through each storm. The cove beach is all sand and small pebbles, with an occasional larger rock and plenty of driftwood. Boulders mark the transition to the rougher beach made of slanted shale the ocean kicked up when the coastline formed long ago. Only hardy creatures - or very small ones that fit in cracks and crevices - could make a good life there.

“On that day, as she buried her afterbirth between Grandmother Cedar’s roots, Wolf Mother worried about her pups. They did not seem very hardy, and though they were small, wolves do not thrive in crevices, like anemones and sea stars. She wondered how they were ever going to survive.

"With that thought in mind, Wolf Mother dragged a heavy, sodden branch over the place where she had buried her afterbirth. She returned home as fast as her aching hips would take her.

“Trying to shift the branch now that she had put in place on that other stormy day, Wolf Mother finds other fallen debris has ensnared it. 

“‘No wonder this is still here,’ she huffs in exasperation. ‘No one can shift this tangle!’

“She stops digging long enough to walk around the area to see if there is a better way to get through. Moss and lichens cover every surface, making each step sink into the forest floor. Another gust of wind and rain rushes through, rustling the branches overhead and soaking her pelt.

“She wishes she had help.

“Her pack began to disperse when she became pregnant. Some left to start a new pack, others just disappeared. Hunters, perhaps, were to blame, or possibly fights with another pack. She was not sure. All she knew was that when she needed her pack the most, she found herself alone, with just her mate. The loneliness ate at her.

“She loves her pups - truly she does. Why else would she live like this, sacrificing so much of herself? They are the sweetest little darlings, and she feels so protective of them. She feels so lost in how to care for them.

“She sees her mate sacrificing himself, too. He hunts so hard for all their sakes. He keeps them fed and protects their den. He is good at rescuing, and they would not live long without him. In some ways, though, he is like a pup as well. He needs reassurance and affection as much as their actual pups. She needs him, so, depleted as she is, she makes sure to give him the attention he demands. Her resentment builds.

“Occasionally, a remaining pack member pokes their nose in the den, but no one seems to know how to help. Or perhaps they have their own den troubles and no real pack for support.

“Wolf Mother rears up on her hind legs and shoves against a limb amongst the tangle. There is nowhere she can go to howl. She starts to let one loose, and one of the pups starts howling, too. So, she swallows hard and tends to her pup. Her mate tells her she is too loud, too scary; she will attract danger. All she feels is too much, yet all she does is never enough.

“Even now that they are weaned, the pups still whine, whimper, and howl in their piercing little voices. Their bodies hurt after every meal. Their skin crawls, making them nibble on their own flesh until they have gouged open, weeping wounds. She brings them yarrow for their wounds from edge of the forest above the shale beach. She strips willow bark for their pain from the tree by a little stream, but their problems persist. Her whole life feels like a festering mess and she is bone-tired.

“Thinking back, she realizes now that the howl-holding has led to some unfortunate repercussions. With every howl she swallowed, a growl grew, and they are slippery little creatures, much harder to hold onto. The growls slip out, snarling and scary, at the slightest trigger. She hates them because they make her pups fear her. Her mate hates them, too, and for the same reason, but she has no control over them. He is much more practiced at ignoring his feelings, or perhaps he just does not have an overwhelming well of emotions building up pressure inside him. Or maybe, the wind sweeps his away while he is out hunting, rather than holed up inside the den with sick pups. Eventually, all that howl swallowing turned into numbness.

“The numbness started in her belly, slowly spreading outward until food had no taste and desire for her mate faded into a dream from another life. She went through the motions of life, but was not fully there.

“As the wolf pups grew, Wolf Mother let herself walk hollow-eyed down to the beaches from time to time. She would shove pebbles around until they formed a pattern: the only semblance of control she could find in her life. She made rock art whenever she could, but the cairns always toppled. The images she tried to make were never complete by the time she had to return to the den. Sometimes, that breath of fresh air was too freeing: she let her lungs expand and she sent her senses far out to sea and deep into the forest. For a moment, she became big and full, only to have to squeeze herself back into the confines of the den. More growls slipped out.

“Wolf Mother’s ears perk up at a whoosh of feathers. ‘And now the Ravens descend,’ she grumbles.

“‘Oh, I’ve been here the whole time, listening to you mutter to yourself.’

“‘Well, what do you want?’

“‘If you lift that long branch sticking out over there, you will loosen the whole pile.’

“Wolf Mother cocks her head, gazing up at the Raven in confusion.

“‘Why are you wasting your time staring at me? Just go lift up that branch.’

“The wolf pads over to the limb in question and uses her front paws to shove it.

“‘No, you have to get under it and push it up,’ the Raven explains.

“Wolf Mother follows the Raven’s instructions and the whole tangle shifts.

“‘Why are you helping me?’ she asks suspiciously.

“‘Because I’m getting exhausted watching you lose in a fight with a pile of wood.’

“Wolf Mother snorts indignantly. Then she sets about slowly clearing away the wood while the Raven offers sage advice every time she gets stuck.”

“How magnanimous of this Raven,” interjects The Old Woman as she weaves a white weft onto her loom.

“Everyone knows Ravens are the best problem solvers,” explains Raven.

“Of course. Please continue.”

“The Raven sitting in Grandmother Cedar asks, ‘Why are you moving all this wood anyway?’ but Wolf Mother doesn’t answer, she just starts digging.

“‘Oh! This ought to be good!’ thinks the Raven and takes to the sky to call the others.

“The Eagles are listening, nosy as they are, so they fly over to Grandmother Cedar, too. A couple of Ravens hop down to peck away at the moss beside the wolf. All this action is too exciting to pass up, though the Eagles just sit around looking bored, waiting for everyone else to do all the work.

“The first whiff of rotting flesh gets everyone all worked up. Some younger Ravens take out their pent-up energy by pestering the Eagles, but staying just out of talons’ reach. Wolf Mother gets more territorial, growling at the Ravens working beside her. They back away, but watch attentively from the wood pile nearby.

“‘What is it?’

“‘What did you bury?’

“‘When can we eat it?’ The birds chorus around Wolf Mother. She ignores them and sniffs the foul-smelling carrion.

“How could this disgusting piece of flesh have once been a part of her? It smells of decomposing life and old pain. Her hips ache, her womb aches, her teats ache, her heart aches as the smell wafts into her nostrils.

“Finally, her body can handle the stench no longer and she throws back her head in a great, long howl.

“The birds descend.

“The Eagles, of course, vie for the choicest pieces while the wily Ravens sneak in under Wolf Mother’s body to snag their own before it’s all gone. Some of the Ravens chase the luckiest Eagles relentlessly, trying to wrest their bite away.

“Wolf Mother just howls all of the howls she has had to keep inside. She howls for her pups’ pain, and her own. She howls for all the times she listened to her mate when he told her she was too much. She howls for her loneliness and the pack that dissolved. She howls for how much she loves her family, but snaps because she is barely holding herself together. She howls for letting her mate blunder in and take over. She howls for how much she lost herself in the face of survival. She howls for the numbness. She howls for all the moments that went wrong.

“‘What is this?’ wonders a Raven.

“‘I don’t know - I don’t ask,’ proclaims an Eagle.

“‘I’ve never tasted anything like it,’ interjects a juvenile Raven.

“When her last howl fades, Wolf Mother hears the birds’ conversation. She remembers she is not alone.

“‘You… you like eating that?’ she asks incredulously.

“‘Yes!’

“‘It’s delicious!’

“That was my afterbirth,’ Wolf Mother tells them. ‘I should have eaten it myself right after my pups were born, but… they needed so much care, I didn’t make the time to. Then it started to rot, so I buried it. I figured I should eat it now, but it smelled so bad…’

“Why waste good food on someone who can’t appreciate it?’ an Eagle stiffly observes.

“‘You don’t find it… disgusting?’ Wolf Mother quietly asks, her tail sagging.

“‘We don’t!’ pipes up one of the Ravens.

“‘But it’s rotten,’ Wolf Mother curls her lip. ‘I only dug it up because I thought if I ate it, it would help me heal.’

“‘No, you just needed to dig it up,’ offers the first Raven. ‘That’s what set you off howling. You needed to digest the emotions. We were happy to digest the flesh for you.’

“‘But why? Why would you do that for me when my own mate and pack won’t?’

“‘You aren’t just a wolf, and wolves aren’t just a pack,’ the first Raven explains. ‘We are all a whole forest.’

“Grandmother Cedar agrees - look,’ an Eagle points with a curved talon.

Wolf Mother looks down at the ragged hole in the ground with bits of bloody moss strewn about. She sees a young Cedar sapling growing out of the mess of her afterbirth.

The last pink rays of daylight shine in through the cave opening, landing on the Old Woman’s loom and all of Raven’s “decorating.”

“Digesting grief - that’s a rather sober theme for you.”

“Oh, I don’t know, we Ravens are known for eating the dead. We digest death all the time, and it feeds us, so we’re good to have around.”

“Even if you are pesky, sometimes,” The Old Woman agrees. “Still, it’s a good reminder that we are not alone, even during our darkest times.”

“And it takes a Raven to solve the tangled problems of the world.”

“Only because you made them in the first place!” laughs The Old Woman, gesturing to the cave walls bedecked in yarn.

“I have to keep this place interesting, somehow!”

Happy Winter Solstice!