Chapter 52— Excerpt from The Wind and the Wolf, Book 8 in the Voice of the Wind: the Shadows of Time series.
Zalan watched until Noji and the sleigh disappeared from sight before heeling Cloud around and heading back to his cottage. In the gathering twilight, the pearl ball of the sun slanting low in the west, the Sparrow Hills was an eerie setting: a stark world of rock, water, and frozen grass whistling icy tunes as the wind rushed past, bending close to the craggy bones of the rugged hills. The wind, relentless in its sculpting, had scoured the granite rock to bare outcrops among scatterings of oak, hickory, and pine woodlands. In the shallow soil depressions, mosses and lichens flourished, and perennial herbs flowered during the spring and summer months.
An unsettling watchfulness settled on the land — eyes of predator, eyes of prey scurrying into frozen burrows, startled birds taking wing. An owl hooted; a wolf bayed to the settling watchfulness of the descending night. A chorus of howls echoed from the surrounding ring of hills in answer, the wolves’ voices almost human sounding.
From the corner of his eye, Zalan glimpsed a fleeting gray shape loping parallel beside him. The beasts were brave, warily creeping closer despite the scent of man.
After a season of solitude, living at Sparrow Top, his only company Dog and the black-faced sheep he tended, Zalan looked forward to spending a pleasant evening in Oanada’s company. He was eager for the hearth fire, knowing his sheep were secure for the night against the looming threat of starving predators stalking the Sparrow Hills.
Oanada watched for his return. She stood silhouetted in the yellow light of the window that fronted the cottage. She pushed open the door; her welcoming, dimpled smile reminded him of their mother.
Zalan shrugged off his outer layers of protective coats and leggings down to his knitted sweater, homespun wool trousers, and thick woolen stockings. He hung the winter garments on an antlered rack beside the door. More than once during the night he had pulled on those garments layer by layer before venturing out to check on his sheep.
“I heard howling. The wolves sound close,” Oanada said.
“Noji told me Jora may form a hunt.” Zalan did not mention the predator he had seen, uncertain whether it was only a shadow cast by the settling nightfall that played with his imagination.
He sat down to the warm supper Oanada set on the table for him and offered her a grin. She placed a basket of sliced bread on the table and slid into the chair across from him.
“Dinner smells delicious — almost as good as Mother’s cooking,” Zalan teased. “Have I told you how glad I am you are here?”
“You mean for reasons other than my excellent cooking?”
Zalan grinned, shook his head. “I always missed you when you returned to Ameradale for the winter. I never wanted you to leave.”
***
Oanada nibbled on a crust of bread, content to gaze affectionately at her youngest brother. She loved Zalan for his uncommon individuality and creativity, for his startling bi-colored eyes, one eye blue and one eye gray, both crisp and bright beneath his tousled cap of bluish black hair. Of the four of their parent’s children, Zalan was the quiet one. His thoughts ran as deep and vast as the night vaulted sky and, in his words echoed an old soul.
“Why did you choose to follow the Gahada and become a Keeper?” Zalan asked between chewing his food and swallowing sips of hot tea.
“Why do you choose to lead the solitary life of a shepherd?”
“You know why — because I am neither mother’s people nor father’s people. If I set myself apart it is to find my own way between two different paths.”
“That is why I chose to keep the ways of the Gahada — to learn who I am.” Oanada leaned toward him, covered his hand with her hand. “You and I share the same blood, Zalan. Perhaps I am no more Gahada than you? I have forsaken so much this past year.”
“Because of the Mikuyi?”
Oanada sighed, sat back. “Inali has been a greater part of everything that has happened to me. He touched my life and everyone I love and hold dear, including you, brother-mine, and your solitary shepherd’s life. I do not believe either one of us was ready for marriage. We could not even make it for a year and a day.”
***
Zalan nodded. He finished eating his supper in silence. He did not tell Oanada about the autumn nights when Inali had shared his campfire and his food. In return, the Mikuyi had revealed a rare side of himself to the quiet, studious youth who tended his sheep among the hills Inali hunted, ranging far from Fayerfield House. More than once since Oanada’s arrival, Zalan had glimpsed against the sky the silhouette of a horse and rider watching over them.
After the supper dishes were washed and dried, brother and sister pulled their chairs closer to the hearth fire. Zalan cherished such moments of quiet contentment he shared with Oanada. They listened to the crackle and pop of the fire logs, the whispering flames and marveled at the brilliant blues and greens of a burning pinecone. Sometimes they popped kernels of corn and told ghost stories.
Some evenings, Oanada recited poems written by their ancestor Tarostar. Zalan sat listening, pondering the hidden meanings of Tarostar’s words now lost to time. More often he reached for his lap harp, lute or pan flute and played a melody to accompany the song Oanada’s lilting voice wove with Tarostar the poet’s words.
Other evenings, he contemplated his sister’s quiet serenity, trying to grasp the thoughts that flickered behind Oanada’s fire-glazed eyes. Did she think about the Mikuyi? Or did her thoughts stray no further than the child moving within the round swell of her womb? Did one stir memories of the other?
© 2021, Elizabeth A. Monroe
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