The hut was quiet. The fire had long gone out, but River did not stir to stoke it. A breath of frost traced its fingers across the inner walls. The White Wolf lay curled at the hearth, her breath shallow, her belly heaving with the weight of something ancient.
River sat in silence, cross-legged on the floor, brush in hand. The canvas before him was nearly blank, save for a single curve—blue, like the wind made visible. He had painted nothing for days.
The Mountain had gone silent.
He had pressed his hands into the earth just yesterday, desperate, listening. Once, the soil would hum. The roots of great trees would rise to meet him. Once, the stones would whisper, and the wind would cradle his thoughts.
Now, nothing.
The White Wolf stirred, a low whimper in her throat. Her time had come.
River moved to her side. She had raised him as her own, suckled him alongside her cubs. She had protected him through storms and dreams and long, feral nights. She was old now; her eyes clouded, her fur thin where once it gleamed like snow.
And yet, somehow she was pregnant.
River did not understand it. She had not taken a mate in years. And yet, her belly swelled, and life moved within her.
She cried out, and he placed his hand on her side. Her breath slowed. Her body heaved.
And then, there was silence.
A single pup emerged, slick with birth, trembling and small. He was like no other.
River cleaned him gently with woven cloth and warm breath. The pup did not cry. He opened his eyes immediately—blue, like River’s, not amber or gold. His fur was pure white, but silver, too, with husky markings—his ears tipped in shadow.
The White Wolf let out a final breath and did not take another.
River wept, not with sound, but with stillness. He pressed his forehead to hers. “Thank you,” he whispered.
The pup crawled to him, not the mother now lost. He nestled against River’s chest and let out a sound, half sigh, half knowing.
River did not move for a long time. The fire never returned. Morning had not yet come.
But in the hush between night and light, River whispered, “You are the last thing she gave me.”
And the pup looked up, his eyes the color of cloudless blue sky.
It rained for three days after the White Wolf died. Not a cleansing rain. Not the kind that washes away grief or clears the sky for something new. This was the kind of rain that soaks into stone. The kind that makes the trees hunch their shoulders.
River did not speak.
He wrapped the pup in the wool of the White Wolf’s bedding and lifted her body in his arms. Her great head rested against his shoulder. She was light for her size, thinner than he remembered. He carried her up the Mountain. The pup didn’t whimper. He didn’t cry. Just watched, his blue eyes open to the sky.
The climb was steep and rough. Stones shifted underfoot. Trees leaned toward the valley, gnarled and dry. As he reached the ledge, River set the wolf’s body down, gently, and uncovered the pup. He laid her on a bed of pine boughs and wild sage. He combed her fur. He closed her eyes. He buried her in silence, alone but for the pup who watched him with azure eyes, too wise, too still. There were no prayers. Only the wind. Only the scrape of stone as he sealed the cairn.
He did not name her grave. She was not gone. She had become the Mountain again.
Inside the hut, he tried to paint. He smeared ochre across the canvas, but it wouldn’t hold. He dipped his fingers into black ink and dragged it like a shadow across the page. But it wasn’t grief. Not yet. It was refusal.
The pup, still unnamed, sat near the hearth. He didn’t cry. He didn’t whimper. He simply watched.
River pressed his hands to the floorboards. Nothing. Not even a whisper from the earth.
On the fourth day, the clouds broke for an hour. River stepped outside with the pup tucked inside his cloak. The world was steam and light and dampness.
He stood barefoot in the mud and whispered, “Where are you?” A single hawk circled overhead, distant and indifferent. He looked down at the pup. “Did she tell you my name?” The pup blinked. He sat on the threshold and wrapped himself around the small body curled against his chest. “You don’t need to speak,” he said. “I know you know.”
That night, River dreamed of snow falling into fire.
Notes:
‘a man called River’ was born in the pages of Endlessly Falling Leaves, available on Amazon in paperback and e-book/Kindle.