~Welcome~
~To Two Wolves Legend-A Love Story~

Two Wolves
A Love Story that became a Legend
by
Robert Joseph Thompson



Of particular importance, are the impressions of those who knew the wolves best; the Indians who hunted the same lands. They respected wolves for their:
Intelligence
Hunting Ability
Stamina
Loyalty
Parenthood

The word “wolf�?is one of the more frequently used in Indian names, and the Indian’s believed that name giving was a sacred rite, linking the individual to the Divine.


The great black wolf finally reached the cave.
His short journey had taken a long time, costing him much blood.
He inspected the floor carefully, as if choosing a first, or last, resting place.
Completing this ritual, he slowly turned full-circle,
and then sank, exhausted, to the sandy floor.
A shadow moved to his side.
The she-wolf washed his face and cleansed his wound.
Sharp rib-bones protruded from his crushed side.
Around their whiteness the black pelt was matted with much flowed wetness.
The dark wolf no longer remembered the she-bear killing the wolf-pup.
No longer did he hear the screams of his dying daughter.
Experience was drowned in rage.....and he had been careless.
The snow was tinted for miles now with the price of his error.
Each time his shattered self trembled with pain, she leapt to her feet,
and stood, attentively, over him.
Only after yet another washing of face and wound would she again lay beside him.
The time before them would bring change,
to a worsening, or a bettering.
Of again leading the pack, or, with his absence, for the pack to choose a new leader.
He, himself, had twice hunted for crippled wolves,
but they rarely lived a year, and never survived a hard winter.
Now, fitfully sleeping, he dreamed of pain-free days, of their days, together.
Visions from times past flowed through him;
romping puppy-like through dark forests.
Swimming rivers and wading lake shores.
Prancing as a pair in flowered meadows,
fishing streams by herding the shallows,
test-chasing the caribou ever seeking the weak one,
the varied litters and joint duties of parenthood,
that sudden, harsh blizzard when they curled against each other under the snow.
Rare among mammals, he was always with her at birthings,
and, most soul-stirring,
they shared prayer of prehistoric duets to the shimmering heavens.
Everywhere, every day, they were together.
They were seen as inseparable
and the red people came to speak of two devoted lovers by saying;
“as close as the two wolves.�?BR>While he slept, she brought him meat, freshly hunted,
first, a grouse,
then, a rabbit,
and even, morsels of moose,
but he could eat nothing.
He dreamed of leading the troop again, remembering the fight
to become pack-leader.
No wolf ever shared leadership, but they did.
Perhaps, because she had always been near him,
she remained there.
Only she, was faster than he,
and during the chase, she raced in front, leading them all.
All this, was much talked about
around the fires at night
and the words, “a good mating�?BR>always spoke of a superior couple, be they animal, or people.
He quivered, his strength seeping away, through his injury.
He floated back through the many years of good hunts.
With her, ever near him, they ran as one.
Invincible, were they.
No animal could out-plan them.
Trailing the caribou, for weeks at a time
they preyed on a series of weaker animals.
Much meat, many times, for many hungers.
They were good leaders, guiding their brethren to hunt well and thus survive.
Their most peaceful times, in any season
came, when they were resting.
Perhaps, with his muzzle touching her, or her head resting on him.
He dreamed on, the memories coming faster now:
their first singing, together,
to the spectacular streakings of Northern Lights,
their young coming into the sunlight for the first time,
blinded, blinking,
how they haunched and wondered at the world
After birth-times, he hunted for all.
Later, they alternated food-gathering,
one of them always remaining with the young.
And later still, the last step, when they became teachers
leading the young to hunt.
How quickly the whelps grew
How soon they became young adults.
How quiet the cave once more
How swiftly came yet another winter.
His pain was greatest with any movement, however slight.
Then, each breath brought discomfort,
and increasingly greater pain.
When she noticed a tear of blood seeping from his mouth,
she whimpered in uneasiness at the nearness of death.
Her ears raised as the wind groaned softly echoing her grief.
She heard an owl call and saw the snowy sweep of wind dusting their door.
He, alone, saw the distant spirit-pack rushing to greet him.
Only he, heard their yelpings grow louder as they drew ever closer.
Frantically, desperately, the she-wolf tried to rouse him,
with barks and tugs, then pleadings and whinings.
But, he was already running at the front of the ghost-pack,
whose sharp yelps of excitement followed him across the heavens
as he rapidly neared the spirit-elk that sought, futilely,
to escape him among the stars.
The cave became colder, the blood stopped seeping,
the dark form set and stiffened.
She, ever faithful, continued the solitary vigil.
Puzzled, at the newness of his not breathing, she became more restless,
nuzzling and whimpering against the shadowy stillness,
but he answered not.
A long, heart-stricken cry announced to the world that her mate was gone.
It proclaimed , again and again,
that where two had been one,
there was now but one,
and that one,
incomplete.
Many days passed and still she mourned in and near the cave.
She alternated between a stricken sentinel at his side,
and the mourner, sharing her sorrow by way of the wind with all the world.
Such a long time she spent there that all the village came to know
that the black leader lay quiet in the cave
and she, as yet,
could not,
would not,
leave him.
They saw that she hunted not and grew gaunt.
The grey-heads nodded at her will to not live.
Sometimes the survivor chose to feed only on sorrow.
It had happened before.
As she approached death, the impressed villagers
added this to their tribal lore,
“as faithful, as the grieving she-wolf�?
It was seen, thereafter, that her hair began turning lighter,
beginning along the muzzle, then inching back along her face,
until her head was completely white.
In bright starlight her snowy head would glitter
near the mouth of the cave
and words were passed from brave to squaw,
that she too, had died,
but her eyes and ears remained,
to watch and listen
for his return.
The people were startled when her living skeleton was seen again,
for they had thought her dead.
She was much observed running all their old trails.
Always alone,
looking here,
looking there,
ever coming back to the end and resting again,
beside the quiet shadow,
that was no longer he.
The familiar paths, their paths,
these were the ones she constantly padded,
as if, by trailing their past, she might find him present.
She thought he was teasing her by playing the hiding game,
as she had teased by hiding on him.
But he had never before hid so well, nor for so long.
So, she continued, calling and searching,
and the hunters who many times saw this,
added these to the village words,
“search as the she-wolf searches.....endlessly�?
After many pleadings to end the game she always returned,
in desolation, to the cave.
Within a season she was completely white
and in the moonlight
appeared as a thing not of this world.
The families believed that she had died.
But, unable to find her mate in the star world,
her spirit had returned to search for him here.
Whenever seen she became much talked about,
because, to see her, was considered a sacred thing.
When the time came for the pack to gather,
they assembled near the cave,
but she joined them not.
They were loyal, remaining near the cave,
continually pleading, coaxing her daily,
with delicacies.
They were persuasive, and they persisted.
When the gray wolves again ran as a hunting-pack,
She was seen, as before, running at the fore.
When an ancient was told of this,
he smiled and said,
“even the spirits must eat�?
She maintained an aloneness even while with the hunting group.
One thing was forever changed.
Each time a pack member approached her too closely,
she would turn on that unfortunate with great rage.
This was always true, whether running, or eating, or resting.
The space around her became inviolate.
When a red-person lost a mate
but hunted, or cooked for two,
or made the extra sleeping space,
of such a one, it would be said,
“like the she-wolf, a place is reserved....for the lost one�?
She accepted no other mate.
When not leading the grey troop she continued alone, always searching.
She followed this pattern in all seasons for the rest of her life.
He had always been the strongest, and she,
being with him always, grew stronger.
Thus, to a new bride, this was said,
“like the she-wolf, stay by his side and grow strong�?
A few times each year the entire pack
followed her to the cave and then waited uneasily.
She no longer called for him
but entered and lay a while
at the place where he,
began his journey to hunt the spirit-elk.
After that tribute, she returned to her following
and resumed the permanent homage
of mating again, never.
He was the wisest and because she always watched, she learned much.
And so, parents were heard to say,
“watch as the she-wolf watches, and you will learn.�?BR>Those that traveled spoke to other tribes calling her
“the she-ghost�?
and marveled that the gray pack should follow a spirit.
Behind her, they were formidable, moving with one will,
hunting well, and surviving.
Her ability to find game became so uncanny
that is was said her mate spoke to her from the star-clouds
telling her where to hunt.
Every council fire re-told the story of the silver she-spirit,
all knowing leader of the northern wolves,
ever-successful guide to whom the stars spoke.
She, the eternal seeker after her mate.
Years of searching.
And then the white wolf was no more seen by the eyes of this world.
Generations repeated their story,
telling of how she trailed him along the path
of The Great White Way
as she searched for him among the stars.
They are not forgotten.
Each time a strong wind howls down a canyon,
the red brethren say,
“listen The she-wolf still mourns�?
They are often remembered.
Each year when the Northern Lights
gayly splash across the path
of The Milky Way,
it is said,
“the she-wolf has, at last, found him,
for this reason......the heavens dance�?