As cold as it was, the constellations told me that winter was coming to an end. For the past months I had seen Orion in the east. Now he and his two hunting dogs had crossed the sky to the west, where they would eventually disappear altogether, come summer. Orion always made me think of Billy Cronk, the best tracker of deer I had met since my father died.
I pulled my duffel from the back seat and hauled it with me up the steps. Peter Landry had replaced the propane tank and left the lines open to the glass lanterns hanging from the ceilings. I waved a match under the mantle of the nearest one until the silk mesh caught fire.
Peter had left me a dusty box of Sears, Roebuck–brand shotshells atop a stack of even older-looking flesh magazines. The periodicals had names such as Oui and Nugget and Black Busters, and the copious pubic hair on the nude models was a testament to the decades that had passed since their publication.
The accompanying note was brief and to the point:
Found these in the walls. Thought you might have some use for them if you get lonely.;-)
I did have a use for the magazines. I tore them into shreds and wadded them between two pine logs, sprinkled some wood shavings over it, and built a pyramid of kindling over the naked ladies.
The ancient porn magazines caught easily, then the edges of the kindling began to turn orange, and when I could see that I wouldn’t need to return my fire-starting merit badge, I arranged three logs crosswise over the leaping flames. It was an old stove, this rusted Ranger, but it drew well, and I sat back on my haunches for a minute to take pleasure in what I had built.
I put a match to every lantern in the cabin. I filled the place with light. No doubt the homey glow could be seen across the half-frozen pond, maybe even from the top of the nearest hill.
I found an old pail by the door. I trudged through the ankle-deep snow behind the cabin down to Tantrattle Pond. The ice hadn’t entirely refrozen along the edges after a day in the sun. A haze was beginning to settle in over the valley. When I looked at the sky now, it seemed as if a sheet of gauze were stretched between the mountains, and only the brightest stars and planets showed as dull blurs through the canopy of clouds. Mars appeared as a small red stain.
I broke through the crust and dipped the pail into the inky water and hauled it back with me to set on the stove to boil. I spent five minutes listening for owls or coyotes, but the night was quiet, except for the wind sighing in the boughs. I might have tried calling them, but it would have been an act of profanity: like shouting in a cathedral.
The builders hadn’t had time to sweep the floors, but they had left me a broom. Before I brought my sleeping bag and pillow inside, along with the rest of my gear, I busied myself brushing out the rooms. The last time I had felt this kind of childish delight was on some Christmas morning long ago.
I filtered the steaming water through a triple layer of coffee filters to catch the sediment and used it to cook some spaghetti. I stirred the tomato sauce in with the drained pasta and sprinkled on hot-pepper flakes. When I was done with dinner, I refilled the pail to wash my dishes. Then I added a couple of maple logs that would burn all night to the fire. I brushed my teeth with strained water from the pond and climbed, fully dressed, into my sleeping bag. After a minute I got up to open the window above my bed so I could listen to the wind in the trees.
I was settled. Nothing could touch me. It was a good place to camp.
I awoke to the sound of howling. I sat up with a start. The room was pitch-black. I checked my watch, but the luminous hands had faded. I reached for the little flashlight I had hidden under my pillow alongside my pistol and shone the beam on the dial and saw that it was five minutes until midnight.
I waited, unsure. Then the howling started again, and it was, without question, a wolf. I had listened to too many recordings—in the event I ever heard Shadow calling again—to be fooled by a dog or coyote. The noise was coming from somewhere high above and far away. It echoed across the natural bowl that contained the pond.
All of my life I have fought the urge to attribute human thoughts and emotions to animals, not only because I view anthropomorphism as a childish stage of brain development. It is my heartfelt belief that ascribing human traits to other species denies them their uniqueness and dignity as sentient beings. Why can’t we just let wolves be wolves?
Despite these hardened opinions, the thought came to me as I listened to the eerie, searching sound that this wolf, presumably the female, was calling for her lost packmate. She howled and waited for a response, but the reply did not—and would never—come.
Let it go.
I laced my boots and went outside, where I was surprised to find luminous flakes of snow falling silently. The wolf continued to howl. My internal compass placed her somewhere in the general direction of Mount Blue. The night was calm except for those distant wails.
Feeling my own heart starting to break, I lifted my face to the sky, letting the flakes melt as they landed on warm skin, admitted my own arrogance and ignorance, and surrendered to the mysteries of a universe
