Bad Grrlz' Guide to Reality: The Complete Novels Wild Angel and Adventures in Time and Space with Max Merriwell by Pat Murphy Page B
Authors: Pat Murphy
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the woods with the taste of blood in her mouth. The great wolf still stood beside her. The others surrounded them.
“You are one of us,” the great wolf told her. “You are a wolf. Listen.” Malila listened, and the great wolf sang a song that ebbed and flowed like the voice of the river, a sweet meandering tune like the lullaby a mother sings to comfort her child.
“Remember this,” the wolf said. Then the animal curled up beside the creek, closing her eyes. She became a gray stone beside the water, nothing more.
Malila laid her hand on the stone, and it was warm—perhaps from the sun, perhaps from the wolf within. There by the flowing water she sang the song the wolf had taught her.
Strong magic, her grandfather had said when she told him of her vision. She had to be strong to contain such a powerful spirit. He worked with her over the years—teaching her to channel her power and use it for healing, teaching her the ways of the shaman.
Now, four years after the wolf had visited her in a vision, she was a self-assured woman of sixteen. She helped her grandfather in ceremonies. When they needed medicinal plants that grew in the lower altitudes, she went with him down the mountain.
The sun was low in the sky when Malila waded out of the water and walked up the creek to where her grandfather was working. “Grandfather! If you stand in the water too long, you’ll need this nettle root as much as the chief. I will make a fire and cook dinner.” That night, they sat by the fire, eating acorn mush. Malila was tired. It had been a long day’s journey from the village to the swampy ground where the horsetails grew, followed by hours of digging to unearth the nettle roots.
Her grandfather must have been tired, but he didn’t show it. He sat by the fire, placidly eating the acorn mush she had prepared. She had seen him in rituals, dancing and calling on the spirits, and she knew his power. But that power was hidden now. The firelight revealed only a tough old man, as enduring as the manzanita bushes that clung to the mountainside. The flames danced in his dark eyes; his skin shone in the firelight like burnished leather.
Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled. Another joined in, and then a chorus. From another direction came an answering howl. Malila glanced at her grandfather, then added her voice to the chorus, letting the wolves know, in their own language, that she was passing through their territory, that she meant no harm.
“They call to me,” she told her grandfather. “Sometimes, I dream about running with them and never coming back.”
He nodded. “You have the wolf in you. But you belong to the people, too.”
She nodded, smiling because she knew what he would say
next. “I must find the balance between the wolf and the woman,” she said.
He returned her smile, nodding. “You know it all now. You don’t need my advice anymore.”
The wolves howled again and Malila responded.
When Malila howled, Sarah was not with the rest of the pack. She and Beka had been wandering along the edge of the creek—Sarah was foraging for greens while Beka hunted for mice and rabbits and other small game. Beka was four years old, an adult wolf. When Sarah strayed from the pack, Beka came along, more often than not.
That day, their trail had crossed that of three white men, traveling up the mountain. Sarah had followed them for a time, out of curiosity. Beka had tagged along.
Sarah didn’t like the smell of the men: they reeked of tobacco and gunpowder. When the men had made camp on the creek, she had lost interest. When Rolon howled, summoning the pack, she and Beka were heading back to rejoin them for the evening hunt. She and Beka had responded to the pack’s howl—and then Malila had responded as well.
Beka had headed straight back to where the pack waited. She had spent the day exploring with Sarah and was eager for the hunt. But Sarah had delayed, following the sound of Malila’s voice until she
“You are one of us,” the great wolf told her. “You are a wolf. Listen.” Malila listened, and the great wolf sang a song that ebbed and flowed like the voice of the river, a sweet meandering tune like the lullaby a mother sings to comfort her child.
“Remember this,” the wolf said. Then the animal curled up beside the creek, closing her eyes. She became a gray stone beside the water, nothing more.
Malila laid her hand on the stone, and it was warm—perhaps from the sun, perhaps from the wolf within. There by the flowing water she sang the song the wolf had taught her.
Strong magic, her grandfather had said when she told him of her vision. She had to be strong to contain such a powerful spirit. He worked with her over the years—teaching her to channel her power and use it for healing, teaching her the ways of the shaman.
Now, four years after the wolf had visited her in a vision, she was a self-assured woman of sixteen. She helped her grandfather in ceremonies. When they needed medicinal plants that grew in the lower altitudes, she went with him down the mountain.
The sun was low in the sky when Malila waded out of the water and walked up the creek to where her grandfather was working. “Grandfather! If you stand in the water too long, you’ll need this nettle root as much as the chief. I will make a fire and cook dinner.” That night, they sat by the fire, eating acorn mush. Malila was tired. It had been a long day’s journey from the village to the swampy ground where the horsetails grew, followed by hours of digging to unearth the nettle roots.
Her grandfather must have been tired, but he didn’t show it. He sat by the fire, placidly eating the acorn mush she had prepared. She had seen him in rituals, dancing and calling on the spirits, and she knew his power. But that power was hidden now. The firelight revealed only a tough old man, as enduring as the manzanita bushes that clung to the mountainside. The flames danced in his dark eyes; his skin shone in the firelight like burnished leather.
Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled. Another joined in, and then a chorus. From another direction came an answering howl. Malila glanced at her grandfather, then added her voice to the chorus, letting the wolves know, in their own language, that she was passing through their territory, that she meant no harm.
“They call to me,” she told her grandfather. “Sometimes, I dream about running with them and never coming back.”
He nodded. “You have the wolf in you. But you belong to the people, too.”
She nodded, smiling because she knew what he would say
next. “I must find the balance between the wolf and the woman,” she said.
He returned her smile, nodding. “You know it all now. You don’t need my advice anymore.”
The wolves howled again and Malila responded.
When Malila howled, Sarah was not with the rest of the pack. She and Beka had been wandering along the edge of the creek—Sarah was foraging for greens while Beka hunted for mice and rabbits and other small game. Beka was four years old, an adult wolf. When Sarah strayed from the pack, Beka came along, more often than not.
That day, their trail had crossed that of three white men, traveling up the mountain. Sarah had followed them for a time, out of curiosity. Beka had tagged along.
Sarah didn’t like the smell of the men: they reeked of tobacco and gunpowder. When the men had made camp on the creek, she had lost interest. When Rolon howled, summoning the pack, she and Beka were heading back to rejoin them for the evening hunt. She and Beka had responded to the pack’s howl—and then Malila had responded as well.
Beka had headed straight back to where the pack waited. She had spent the day exploring with Sarah and was eager for the hunt. But Sarah had delayed, following the sound of Malila’s voice until she
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