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A Bedtime Story and a True Tale

I wanna tell you a story… A story about a wolf and a river.

There are many variations of this tale, versions that go as far back as the beginning of time.

Fables from West Africa. There are old English parables of this account, too.

Arabian stories and Nordic ones, to boot.

The character names and specific creatures involved change from one place to another, but there’s always a body of water, for it’s the founder and the rebirth, and a mammal involved to lead the charge.

Man. Hoofed creature. Woolly and fanged.

My mama’s mama told me this story when I was a lil’ boy, and it goes a lil’ something like this…

There was a big gray wolf named Stone who lived in a beautiful, lush forest. How he came to live there is the real beauty.

The magic. Stone lived in the wilderness out in the country, the leader of his pack, but he’d traveled far and wide to find a nice place for his family to settle.

See, Stone had been lookin’ for the perfect place for him and his pack, and during his long travels, he came upon a river.

When he stopped to drink in that river, he saw his reflection, and in that reflection he was smiling.

To him, that was a sign. Then, the river spoke to him.

The waters shifted and a melodic voice came from the depths, saying, ‘This will be your home. There will be blood. There will be rebirth. Two seasons. You must stay for each. If you stay through it all, you will be happy for the rest of your days.’

He did as the river advised. Sure enough, he was happy here.

Yes, this was the perfect spot. Time went on, and the wolves had abundant food and lived in harmony.

That same beautiful river ran through the middle of the entire wilderness, keeping them all hydrated and in good health.

Every day, the wolves would go and play in the river, drink and get clean.

Sometimes, they’d even get lucky and catch a fish.

There was also plenty of vegetation around that river, and things to eat such as berries and fresh, clean grass when their tummies were upset.

For the longest, Stone and his pack lived in harmony with the Indians.

The Indians left Stone alone, and he left them alone.

But when the Indians were run out, their land stolen, and the settlers took over, things changed.

It was no longer safe to go to the river anytime they pleased.

It was no longer safe to go much of anywhere in the light of day, for the settlers feared the wolves, and were killing them.

Stone warned his pack. He told them that certain areas of the forest were now forbidden to roam.

He disclosed the best times of day to hunt without being detected, and when to return to the den.

See, he had studied the settlers—specifically, their hunters.

He figured out their patterns and behaviors.

He observed them from a distance and made mental notes.

Stone was older and wiser, but he was still the strongest wolf in that entire forest, hellbent on protecting his pack.

Day after day, week after week, other wolves from other packs were being killed by the settlers.

Stone was concerned. He cautioned his pack once again to never drift too far from the den.

It was no longer safe to sleep out in the open at night like they used to, either.

He thought about relocating, but remembered what the river had said all of those years ago.

This must be the season of blood. Despite these warnings, one day, several wolves of his own pack went missin’.

The next week, more were gone. He’d heard their howls and yells in the far distance, and knew they’d been murdered by the colonizers.

With only a few pups left and his mate, he gave a stark warnin’ about the doom that loomed ahead if they were not careful and disobeyed him.

Stone said, “Don’t go far, and stay away from the river during the day.

Late at night, we will all go and drink together. ”

That day, Stone went to sleep with his family. Just as the sun was setting, he awoke, prepared to start making the trek to the river, just as he’d promised. But when he got to his feet and looked around, he realized that his family was gone…

His pups had complained days before that they didn’t want to be tied down and have to wait.

They were thirsty for fresh water, not the insular muddy puddles, and wanted to play in the daytime when the sun was warm.

There were fish near the bank. His mate didn’t listen, either, for she complained that she wanted to hunt for the best squirrels, rabbits and elk, and catch the tastiest moles, which were far away on the other side of the forest—near the river, and in abundance only during the daytime.

Stone howled and howled for his family, but received no answer in response.

In a panic, he ran towards the river in hopes of finding them before it was too late, but soon he stopped dead in his tracks.

In the distance, he heard the all too familiar voices of his family—their painful cries and wails.

They sounded injured. Dying. Slipping away… and then, everything went silent…

His heart sank in despair. His wolfpack was gone. Every last one of them. Stone was now all alone.

Things got worse. Now word spread about a huge, lone gray wolf that was hunting the town.

The huntsmen were talking and plotting to kill Stone.

They said he was a monster, that he was big as the moon.

He heard them talking amongst themselves, accusing him of eatin’ up all their chickens, gobbling the cattle, and destroying the vegetation along the riverbank.

Stone hadn’t done any of those things. He knew where those chickens were, and the cattle, too, but he never bothered those areas, for he knew the possible ramifications.

He got his food from the wilderness, and down by the river, and that was what he’d taught his pack to get their sustainment, too.

As far as the river, he hadn’t been there nearly as much due to the hunting of wolves, and only went there in the dead of night for a bit of fresh water.

He wasn’t responsible for any of the problems that hunters blamed on him, and realized that even staying out of their way would not work.

Stone didn’t have other wolves to protect any longer, and he had no one helping him, either.

He was now a lone wolf, but not by choice.

Resentment and sadness set in. At times he felt like he had nothing to live for.

Despite these challenges, Stone tried to stay hidden as much as possible.

He kept to himself. But a rage built up inside of him, one that kept growing and festerin’.

He wanted revenge. He couldn’t let go of the past.

He kept thinking about his mate and cubs, how they’d been gunned down by the true monsters, and he was haunted by their final howls of despair playing over and over in his head.

A part of him convinced himself that he no longer cared about anything at all, just so he could make it through each day.

He didn’t do much of anything anymore. He retreated and felt nothing but pure apathy—no love, no emotion.

He was a protector, provider and lover by nature.

But now, there was no one to protect, provide for, or love.

He’d become sloth-like. Not lazy, but unmotivated and indifferent.

A complete change from his true nature, and he didn’t know how to feel alive again.

He now was a number one target. The townsfolk complained about his ferociousness—said there was a huge gray wolf in the wilderness that needed to be shot and killed. But Stone was too fast. Too cunning. Somehow, some way, Stone always got away. He noticed this, too.

Not too long after these close calls, the townsfolk complained about other things as well.

Like their dwindling crops, and lost vegetation.

That got Stone to thinking. He suddenly remembered something from when he was a little pup in a different forest, so long ago!

An Indian had told his family to protect the wolves, for they help the river, the vegetation, and the land.

Stone figured, if he could show the hunters and settlers that he was beneficial to them, they would stop hunting the wolves.

Maybe they would see his good deeds and how these helped them, and they would thank him, and leave him in peace.

So, during the day, and late that night, Stone came out of hiding and hunted the elk near the river.

He’d get his kill and take it back to his hidden den, under brush and fallen trees.

But before he’d go, he’d head to the river to take a sip of water.

It was so cool and delicious at night, but now when he’d see his reflection in the river, he couldn’t bear to look at himself.

All he saw looking back at him was a lonely, angry monster.

So, he started closin’ his eyes when he’d drink, since he couldn’t stand the sight of himself.

He did this day after day, night after night, month after month until a whole year had gone by.

The townsfolk began to notice something over time: more elk were gone, but instead of it being a problem, it was a blessing!

They realized that the elk had been the ones eating all of the vegetation, tearing into their crops, and messing up the river.

There were too many elks since all of the wolves were gone.

It was just one of those things that happens in nature.

Too much of anything is disruptive, ya see?