The Wolf the Wizard and the Woad Read online

  In her homeland, when she’d been very young, she’d often felt herself being drawn into the stories as the smoke around the fire sent wispy tendrils around her head, engulfing her with the pungent, earthy scents of peat and heather. And always, she sensed a warmth—not from the fire, but from a Presence, an unseen visitor.

  Now, years later in this strange new land, she found herself pulled into the stories Ooma, the medicine woman, told at the campfire of this new tribe. She now realized the stories were the same, no matter which side of the Great Water she lived on.

  She’d been aware of this Presence since birth, and was pleased it was with her here as it provided a tether to her early life. She fervently hoped it would assist her with finding her people, her family. But as to “being called,” she had no idea why she’d been chosen.

  THE MEDICINE WOMAN had cared for Ci-Cero since the day of her arrival, had been her mother in every sense of the word. That was more than six years ago now, but to Ooma it was time that passed too quickly. She lay on her mat next to Ci-Cero and ran her hand gently across the girl’s brow.

  The visitor—the one that only came in the dark of night—had come more often the first few years, but even now wandered through the girl’s dreams as though an open invitation had been issued.

  “Hush, child, 'tis only a dream. Come back now, come back to Ooma. I’m here. All is well." But all wasn’t well. Ooma was becoming more anxious for Ci-Cero, even though she had known this day would come eventually.

  But she’s only a child, Ooma thought, knowing this was not exactly true. At fifteen or so years of age, Ci-Cero was no longer a child but was becoming a young woman. And in her case, a very headstrong, independent one.

  I simply must put my own fears aside and ready her for her journey. It is inevitable. She must go. This would require great discipline on Ooma’s part, to participate in an event that filled her with misgivings and longings at the same time. But yes, the time was near.

  Ooma recalled the day Standing Beaver made his great discovery, not one he had been particularly pleased with. It was years ago now, but her memory of that time was as fresh as if it had happened recently.

  Standing Beaver was designated leader of the hunting party that day. This was his opportunity to prove his ability to lead a group of young braves through the forest and demonstrate his skills in tracking, approaching, and making a kill to provide food for the tribe.

  He and several other braves traveled through the edge of the forest and on to the coastline, knowing if they got to the area of the ancient trees—the ones with gnarled limbs twisted from the winds coming from the ocean—they might come upon a small boar or a white-tailed deer, as both those animals often prowled this copse of trees.

  The dune higher up on the beach was covered with vegetation and flowering plants that were home to burrowing animals. They might get lucky and come across one of the loggerhead turtles that made their nests in the sand—good eating for the tribe.

  The beach was littered with large boulders and numerous smaller rocks, the only place where either was found in this area. The tribe’s elders believed the boulders were markers left by ancestors as a warning to go no farther south, as they had no knowledge of what lay beyond. Perhaps danger awaited them beyond this place.

  They were getting close, could see the ancient trees a short distance away. They entered farther into the small wooded area and Standing Beaver’s ears picked up an unusual sound. He was not quite as sure of himself today as he had been yesterday when he volunteered for this task.

  “Listen now,” he said, motioning the braves to crouch down. “Hear that? That low growling? There's something there, beyond those brambles.”

  The braves listened intently, prepared to respond to his directions as they had great respect for his skills. He cautiously moved into the brush, then halted as he realized to move any farther would be detrimental to his health. Just a few yards in front of him in a small clearing stood the largest four-legged creature he’d seen in a long while.

  “Lobo,” he whispered, hoping they didn’t see the fear he was sure was written on his face. His voice quivered with surprise as well as fear, for this animal was unlike any found in their forests, and certainly never found on the beaches. He and the others remained kneeling, hoping to stay hidden from the great animal.

  “Just look at him. He’s twice the size of any lobo in our area. And that fur, black as the soot from the ashes of our campfire. And look at his humongous teeth. Probably a good hunter himself.” Standing Beaver again wished he’d not volunteered for this outing.

  “Do you think this is the animal the elders speak of when they enter their dreamtime, when they tell of a huge creature much like our own lobo, but larger and not found in our forests anymore?" asked Chaska.

  “He’s vicious. He can kill our horses, our other animals. Even some of us. We must make sure he’s dead before we leave this place. Our people are depending on us to keep them safe,” he said. The others nodded, but none stepped forward to land the first blow. Shortly, they heard another sound and turned in the direction of the new noise.

  “Shh. Hear that? There's another animal hovering close by." Standing Beaver’s pulse raced even faster now. “Maybe there’s more than one lobo.”

  They all heard the sound—something whimpering—then rustling in the brush. The huge wolf had heard the sound long before they did, and now, when the brush began to shake, he rushed to the edge of the small trees, hackles standing on end, his large canines still on display. His stance alone told them to come no closer, that this was his territory.

  Abruptly, the whimpering stopped. As the bushes parted, a small girl walked out holding a long stick in each hand. Her thin, small arms had rivulets of blood running down them from struggling to get through the thorny brush.

  She looked each brave in the eye, lifted her tiny chin, and then stood with her feet far apart—a warrior’s stance. Looking from side to side, her eyes flashed as she narrowed them and stared at the tribesmen. The wolf moved closer to her, lifted his nose, then let the rippling, quivering muscles in his shoulders send their own message, one that stated unquestionably that coming closer would not be in their best interest.

  Standing Beaver and the tribesmen looked at each other, unsure what their next steps should be. In fact, perhaps there shouldn’t be any steps. Running rapidly in the opposite direction might be a smarter move.

  Mohe, one of the younger braves, wiped his sweaty palms down his pants and tried to steady his quivering knees. This was his first hunt, and it didn’t appear to be going well. He shivered in his moccasins when the young girl began screaming at the hunting party.

  “If you come any closer, I’ll strike you with my sticks!” She jabbed at the air with both limbs and then pointed to the wolf, whose raised hackles spoke volumes. Then she started screaming again. “And Rakki will tear you to shreds. Stand back, I tell you, stand back!”

  Any other words that were left unsaid were expressed in her darting, flashing eyes and trembling hands. She’d not moved an inch, and neither had her protector.

  The braves had no idea what the girl had said, for her tongue was different than theirs. But they had all understood her meaning: Don’t mess with me or I’ll clobber you with my sticks, and my wolf will tear your throats out!

  Yes, they got her message. Standing Beaver had been surprised to see the large lobo, but finding a child in the brush was even more surprising.

  “What spirit has brought this?” wailed old Tuutan, wringing his hands, looking skyward. Tuutan was an older tribesman, who believed the spirits were responsible for all things, both good and bad, and thought this strange-looking child certainly must be a bad omen.

  “We must leave her here and return to our campfire. We should plead with the Great Spirit to take her away. She is possessed by the demon, Kalona, and will bring disaster to our people,” he cried as he pulled at his pants, which forever threatened to drop to his ankles as he was very slim.
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  Standing Beaver could see the animal was not going to let anyone near the child. He called to Mohe, the fastest runner in the hunting party.

  “Mohe, find Ooma. She’s in the berry bushes a short way back. Bring her quickly. We need her wisdom and help. This strange child is bleeding and needs her medicines.”

  The young brave fled the area, keeping well out of the way of the lobo. When he arrived at the berry patch, Ooma was down on her knees picking the ripe berries from the lower branches. When she raised her head, she saw Mohe bent over, breathing hard, trying to get enough oxygen to spit out his words.

  "Ooma, you must come quickly. Standing Beaver needs you now. There’s a child in the woods.”

  Ooma grabbed her medicine pouch and followed Mohe, moving as quickly as her twisted foot would allow. Upon arrival, the medicine woman stood still for a moment taking in the sight before her—a small child with a great lobo standing guard over her.

  "Be careful, Ooma. You can't trust that animal. He could attack at any minute," Standing Beaver whispered. The tribesmen backed away making room for Ooma to come forward. All had their spears held high, ready to let them fly if needed.

  Ooma cautiously walked closer. She was rather matronly looking, with a few extra pounds around the middle, and streaks of gray ran through her dark hair, which she wore in a braid wound around her head. Unlike the other women of her tribe, she also wore colorful crustacean shell ornaments on her earlobes, indicating her status as someone special.

  She wasn’t actually so old, but had been born with a foot that turned toward the inside, a club foot, and she limped when she got in a hurry, making her appear older than she was. Ooma's intelligence and quick mind were her greatest assets. She had the ability to dissect complicated issues that others had difficulty with, and was called upon in situations having nothing to do with medicine.

  She took small steps and inched her way toward the child. Apparently the lobo, still at attention, sensed this woman was one to be trusted, for he retracted his hackles and ceased baring his impressive fangs, which brought great relief to the tribesmen.

  Ooma began to sing, a soft, mellow lullaby a mother would soothe a child with. Then she took a few steps forward—just a heartbeat closer—and the great protector lowered his head and lay down at the child’s feet.

  "Easy now, easy now. Ooma only brings medicines. Easy, big lobo. Just look at you, you magnificent creature. You’re quite a sight for my old eyes." She spoke in a quiet, reassuring tone and got down on her knees.

  The child ceased her whimpering and stood perfectly still. Then she took one step in Ooma’s direction, dropped her sticks, held her arms up, and proceeded to make the strangest sounds any of them had ever heard.

  “MiMi, MiMi,” she wailed.

  That outburst was followed by uncontrolled crying and unintelligible sounds.

  "Hear those strange noises? I tell you she's possessed by a demon!” Tuutan yelled to the others.

  The tribesmen looked at each other, then at Ooma, who had wrapped her arms around the small girl.

  "Ooma? This is very confusing. What should we do?" asked Standing Beaver.

  Ooma thought a moment before responding. She was confused herself, but didn't especially want the others to know. Medicine women were expected to always have an answer, so she would make one up if need be.

  "She speaks with another tongue. In the village near the Great Water, I once heard a man from the tall ships speaking. He spoke an unknown tongue, too. Perhaps she belongs to his people. But her clothing is much like ours."

  The child wore a brown tunic made from soft animal skin, the same as her shoes. She also had a sheepskin pouch, which she had flung over her shoulder and tied at the waist. Over all this she wore a woolen wrap that she held on to for dear life and would not relinquish when Ooma tried to remove it.

  "She's not been without food or water for very long," observed Ooma, gently lifting the child's chin and searching her face. “As far as needing medicines, she has a few scratches from hiding in the bushes, but nothing serious. But what is a child doing out here by herself? She must have wandered off from her people. Is lost. Some mother must be out of her mind with worry. Whatever the reason, we can't leave her out her alone. She's a most unusual looking child, maybe five or six years of age. Difficult to know for sure. I've never seen skin like hers, as white as the sands near the Great Water.”

  Ooma ran her hands gently over the girl's arms, wondering if the white skin felt different from her own. "It feels just like ours.”

  But when she reached up to touch the child's hair, she was amazed. “Her hair—so long, down to her waist, hanging like a thousand serpents about her head. It springs back up when you try to pull it straight, and the color is like the flames of our campfire.” The Sohochees and other indigenous tribes in the area had dark, straight, coarse hair, both male and female.

  "I've never seen anyone with hair this color or skin this white. These are unusual characteristics, most interesting. And look at her eyes, the color of the Great Water. No one in our tribe has eyes like hers.”

  Ooma held the child away from her and gently touched her face, checking for broken bones. Then she ran her thumb over the child's small cheek and down to her neck.

  "What’s this? Look, her tribe has marked her neck, here, just below her left ear."

  Standing Beaver came closer and gently touched the child's neck, then quickly drew his hand back when the lobo’s snarl reminded him he was still there.

  "Ooma, it's some kind of circle. What does it mean? Is it evil?" asked Tuutan.

  Ooma studied the image for a moment. "No, it’s not a circle. Look closely. It's a serpent eating its own tail—the sign of a healer."

  Ooma slowly lifted her long skirt, and there, just on the inside of her ankle, was an image very similar to the one on the child's neck.

  "This sign was placed on me by my mother. She took the leaves of the green okra and boiled it. Then she used the sharpest bone from the bullhead fish, the one with whiskers, and imbedded the juice from the okra into my skin. It was very painful, but I didn’t mind. The ritual is one the healer waits for, as it signifies she is part of the healer’s group then. A proud day for both my mother and me."

  She ran her finger over the image once again. "But this child's image is a bit different from mine. They’re both of the serpent swallowing its own tail, but hers has some ornate markings along the serpent's body as well. Perhaps this is how they recognize their own."

  "What do you think these drawings mean?" asked one of the younger tribesmen, pointing to the child’s arms. Ooma glanced over to the men, who were standing close together.

  “Perhaps these symbols are her totem markings,” Ooma responded.

  The tribesmen nodded their heads. That seemed a reasonable explanation to them.

  “We Sohochees decorate our bodies with dye as well, for special rituals and in recognition of a particularly brave deed. But those markings have to be earned. We would never mark a child’s face or neck, and whatever dye was used for the child’s markings was something unusual. Deep blue, almost black. And this band around her arm. I've never seen animals such as these.”

  Ooma slowly ran her hand up the child’s arm, carefully fingering the metallic band.

  “That one looks like a soaring eagle with four legs, and there, that one’s some kind of large creature with ridges down its back and fire coming from its mouth. And here, drawings of plants and flowers all interwoven."

  Ooma stood, faced the tribesmen, then bowed to Tuutan.

  "Tuutan, honored one. A child would never be used as a messenger of evil. Children are gifts from the Great Spirit and should be cared for, as they are carriers of the memories and traditions of all that is past and all that will be in the future. We have nothing to fear from this child. We must take her with us." The medicine woman had spoken.

  Tuutan was old, and at times cantankerous, but he also held a special position within the tribe, being
one of its elders. It took much cajoling for Ooma to convince him and the others, but they finally agreed to the medicine woman's suggestion.

  The child had remained perfectly still while Ooma examined her, as if she had experienced this head-to-toe assessment before, and latched on to Ooma's hand as if her life depended on it, which it probably did.

  Standing Beaver heard Ooma’s words and, with a great deal of reluctance, began to lead the group back to the village, his head hanging low. "How will I ever bear the shame of returning from a hunt with nothing of any value?"

  He was not happy to be returning to the campfire with a strange-looking child in tow and a great, black lobo trailing behind them. He’d expected to bring home a deer or wild hog, or something that would please the chief and put him in good standing as a future leader. This little episode could well bring an end to his hopes of gaining an honorable position in the tribe.

  Hours later, as the tired group straggled into the village, Standing Beaver kept his head down, embarrassed to be seen leading this motley crew. He knew there would be no feast to celebrate a kill, no dancing and singing to give thanks to the spirits.

  As they passed through the village, one of the older women called out, "Standing Beaver, good hunting? Where did you go? Did you bring us something to cook?"

  Some of the women were cooking over the campfire, and others busied themselves weaving baskets under a tree.

  "What's that you have there, Standing Beaver? Doesn't look like anything to eat." The old men sitting together around the fire laughed, puffing on their pipes.

  As they entered the campfire area, the wolf moved even closer to the small girl, and both made mental notes of all they saw, heard and smelled.

  Mohe, caught up in the delicious aromas floating on the air, failed to pay attention to where he was walking and made the mistake of coming too close to the child.

  “Grrrrr!” The lobo’s hackles stood tall as he jerked his great head around, turning his full attention to Mohe. The young brave’s face went as white as the child’s.