A Light Among The Trees

 

 
            All the rest of that day I looked with new eyes at my beloved forest family. I noticed anew their long silky coats and their great size, compared to the Nomads which we had peeked at. I stroked my own arm, for the first time realizing the extent of our differences. I followed Jula around camp as she worked, moving here and there, just hanging on to her soft hair at about knee level.
            While I followed her I asked her questions. “Jula, what does human mean?”
            “Humans are people. Not like us. They are smaller, mostly hairless and come in many colors and sizes. There are more of them than you could ever count. They are one kind of people.  There are others,” she said.
            “Jula, where did I come from?” All that I knew of my past was Fila’s den.  I had no idea of how I had gotten there. “Did I come from those people by the river?”
            “No, no. Let’s sit and talk, Soosha,” she said, taking a seat by the fire, drawing me along too.
            “Once, a few years ago, a family lived over on the next mountain side. The father was a hunter and a woodcutter. The mother made beautiful things at home and cared for the family in all ways. There was a boy child and a girl who was a baby. A time of sickness came to the human people on our mountains.  People just lay down and didn’t rise again.  We, that is our band here, looked among them and saw no one left alive. It seemed that all the humans had died in their beds, or even out walking in the forest.  We saw no survivors. But we missed one.
            “Now the Wolf Mother has very sharp ears, and a very soft heart. She heard crying one day. The sound must have been coming out of a kind of den that human people make with wood and other things.  This is where your family was living Soosha. This place is not very far from where we sit right now.  You had a father and a mother and brother. They perished of the infection, but you lived and were left alone there. No doubt Mother Wolf could not bear to hear your cries, and go on her way without helping you.
            “She could not tell Hofel, when he found you in her den, how it was that you were there with her children.  But I think we can guess pretty well. This is what I believe happened. She heard you crying, she went into the human den, and she carried you to her den by the clothing that you wore. There, she cared for you until Hofel saw you with the wolf children.” 
            Do tiny children grieve? Is it possible to grieve the unknown, the never to be known? I know that I wept with my face buried in Jula’s bosom.  Because as I said at the beginning of my story, I knew that everyone, each creature is born to a mother and a father.  And I knew that I would never know mine, but that I had come into the world the same way that all living creatures do. It was truth, but it was sad also.
            “Little one,” she said, “it’s true that your family have entered eternity and you have not. But listen. There are other human people.  If we search for the right ones, we can find you a family of people who are like you. They will love you just like we do, and you will understand each other.
            “Those Nomads down in the valley know of us in the mountain. They tell each other stories about us, and some of those stories are true! Let’s go down there again and talk with them tomorrow.  This time we won’t hide,” she laughed.
            I was still sleeping in the basket nest that Hofel had woven for me, and Jula had lined with soft furs. My nest was close to theirs. Theirs was quite large with a shelter built over it, which sheltered me too.  At night I was close enough to have the homely comfort of hearing Hofel snoring. Sometimes he woke me in the night with his snoring. 
            Deep in the dark of that very night something did awaken me.  I saw a bright light moving through the trees at about head height. It was as if the moon had come down and was searching the surface of the earth for something. It wasn’t just a light either. There was some kind of object enclosing the light. I had no way to understand what I was seeing. It seemed unreal.  But as I dropped off to sleep again I thought I heard Jula’s voice say, “yes, she is here.  She is safe.”
            In the excitement of the trip to the valley and meeting the Nomad family, I forgot all about the confusing nighttime impressions. I was scrubbed and recombed and braided when we started downhill on the familiar path out of the forest and onto the open meadow. The land was almost level as we neared the river.
            I held Jula’s hand tightly as we neared the first dwelling.  I was excited but held back out of shyness too. I remember hearing the river run, and being close to the horses, which were fantastic looking to me. So tall, looking at me with big brown eyes.
            Suddenly, a flap of the hide coving the entrance to the first structure popped open and a woman in a skin dress stepped out. She had a wide dark skinned face, looked a little startled, but then smiled. I remember that her eyes nearly squinted shut, she was smiling that hard! And I remember that her dress was decorated with complex bead patterns and that her shoes were very much like mine.
            Jula spoke some words in a language that I had never heard her use before, and the woman spoke back. The woman went back inside and came right back out with a blanket which she spread on the grass. Then she got another and spread it also. More words were spoken between them, and we all sat.  We had to visit outside because Jula was much too big to go into the hide covered structure.
            A small girl, but taller than me, came out to see what was happening, then sat in her mother’s lap. She was dressed nearly the same as I was. She was almost too shy to look at us.  I will admit we must have been quite a surprise showing up as we did, out of nowhere. Looking back, I try to picture the scene.  A very large forest woman covered in hair and a little kid who didn’t match either the Forest People or the Nomads.

The story so far.