False Accusations and the Dire Wolf
Yolanda unexpectedly tumbles. Her skirts fly. She lands akimbo
on the ground, disarrayed. Hollers "she hit me;" points at me.
Shakes her finger. I'm yards away. And innocent.
Indignant at the false accusation, I dash over to defend
myself as bystanders help her up. She leads me to a window display
of trophies, pointing to one that says "Micaelson's." "You spelled it wrong,"
she says, her voice rising with anger. "I didn't make that one," I explain.
I point to the trophies I made, hand-carved from wood, unvarnished.
The one she's pointing at is black, fancy, plastic and metal, manufactured.
"And anyway, Camp Micaelson's has no "h" even if I had
made it." I ask her to hug me, to heal this rift between us.
She wavers, withholding.
Down the road toward us, a wolf charges, huge, black, bent on attack.
Without hesitation, I step between the wolf and Yolanda. As it springs,
I tackle it, knocking it down, grabbing it by the jaw, putting a knee
on its chest. It gnaws my hand; we struggle. Breathlessly, I tell Yolanda
I am a Shaman and can subdue the wolf, but I am not so sure. The wolf
fights with power and strength. I wonder if I am I courageous
and tenacious or simply puny. I feel puny, but battle on and on
until the wolf shrinks to a small fox. "Go," I say pointing down the road.
It slinks away, tail between it's legs, then pauses, looking back.
"It wants to be my spirit guide," I tell Yolanda, "Come on," I call.
The small fox runs back. My other two wolves attack it. "Down," I say,
"play nice." The fox leaps to my shoulders, curls like a shawl
around my shoulders. Wolves on either side, fox on my shoulder,
I smile at Yolanda and say nothing more.
Mary Stebbins Taitt
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