The Wild

The Wild #1

The hills are full of prophecies
And ancient voices of the dead;
Of hidden shapes that no man sees,
Pale, visionary presences,
That speak the things no tongue hath said,
No mind hath thought, no eye hath read.

Madison Julius Casein (Intimations of the Beautiful)

'In nature there are neither rewards nor punishments; there are consequences.'

Robert Green Ingersoll

Tweedsmuir National Park, British Columbia, 1980

It was quiet in the clearing as they sat around the old man, listening to his stories. The edges of their awareness were tuned to any sounds that might indicate the possible approach of a predator, maybe bear, wolf or cougar. They were well-trained local First Nations children, brought up in the rules of survival in the Forest and who understood the fine point between living and a hard death by tooth or claw.

At the moment, the Forest was at peace, save for the light breeze that whispered its path through the summer branches, bringing to them the scent of pine resin, mouldering leaves and fungus. Echoing up from the depths the birds called - mockingbirds, magpies, woodpeckers and the indignant hoot of a barred owl. The distance rendered them with a melodic tone that haunted the memory afterwards. The children's eyes followed the brilliant blue of a Stellar's Jay as it flitted beyond the lime green leaves, then was gone.

They had walked here in their worn shoes with the old shaman, even though the going was hard for him. His ceremonial name was Nutsakwaax, which means Wolf.

In their language there was no word for shaman, a word originating from the steppes of Central Asia. In this land, he was aluk'la. It was a difficult path, and a person could so easily go the wrong way, and become sxak, a dark one. The young ones needed to understand these things while there was still time.

The old man knew his body was failing him. Cancer, doctors would have told him if he could have afforded the tests, but they were poor people.

'We're not made to last forever,' he'd told his family who said they'd pool their savings for his care. 'Nature has its own laws, it's foolish to try and resist. Manakays calls me. Save your money for the children, for their futures. You'll need it.'

So even as he'd travelled with his young students, wrapped warmly in his ceremonial blanket with its family crest of Wolf and Tree, he could feel the dying cells spreading like the lengthening of shadows at dusk.

Now seated at last, a relief for his weary feet and soul, he breathed in the green air deeply, thankful for its gift, all the while knowing it could give him no benefit. His will could not fight Nature's final call. To deny it would be to deny his life's teachings.

Amongst the young ones circled round him sat his grandson, named for the great blue heron, Maqw'ants, and who looked back at him with his steady gaze. The child was an old soul. Try as he might to look into those depths with his shaman eyes, the old man couldn't. They were as dark as the forest pool the heron watches, a patience as unending.

At this moment, Maqw'ants, whose English name was Tom, was outwardly as carefree and green as a new shoot, enjoying an outing with his friends, and this asserted itself as the boy broke into a gap-toothed grin, unable to keep up the serious formality. No, the old shaman's feeling was for something shadowed in the future. He had lived a long time near this arboreal wilderness, and knew some of its secrets, though the sheer depth and number of them was a thing denied to humanity, Nature's prodigal sons and daughters. There was a power in this place that could pull a person back, stake Nature's claim to the human soul. He prayed his grandson would have the power to resist it.