Lone Wolves Read Online Free Page B

for a few minutes, just watching the way her grandfather meticulously scraped the pelt, careful not to cut the dead animal’s skin.
    â€œYou remember the word for beaver?” he asked without slowing his work.
    â€œ Tsa’ ,” Denny replied, properly pronouncing the one-syllable word “chaw.”
    â€œVery good. And what about the pelt?”
    â€œI don’t think you or grandma ever taught me that one,” said Denny.
    â€œThe word for skin is zes ; so the word for beaver pelt is tsa’ zes ,” said the old man.
    Both were quiet for a long time. Finally, Denny broke the silence.
    â€œThere are a lot of wolves in this country. What if they come after me when I’m out on the trail alone?”
    The old man stopped, raising his eyes to meet hers.
    â€œJust be wary at all times. You never know what a wild animal is going to do. It don’t matter how much respect you show it. A bear may bite you whether you call it bear or Mr. Bear. For the most part, wolves keep to themselves when it comes to people. Sometimes they don’t. I was attacked by wolves a long time ago, when I was fifteen. I was alone, just like that teacher—a small, scrawny boy all alone in the great white with nothin’ but a single-shot .22 rifle. I thought I was a goner.”
    â€œWhat did you do? How did you escape?” asked Denny.
    Just then her mother called out that it was time for supper.
    The old man struggled to his feet, placed a hand in the small of his back and groaned.
    â€œI tell you some other time,” he said, as he shuffled to the dinner table.
    That night, after helping her grandmother wash the dishes and taking a bath in the metal tub, Denny lay in bed and wrote in her diary.

    Today a teacher was killed by wolves. I always liked her. All day long I’ve been thinking about that terrible moment. Did she run? Did she try to fight them off? I don’t know what I would have done. I’ve never been afraid of wolves before, but now I don’t know. At school Mary P. was drinking again. I told her it was bad for her baby, but she blew me off like always. Why can’t people see the destruction they cause? I mean, people blame the past for their bad decisions, but someday in the future, their choices become the past. Time is a circle in that way. Everyone’s always saying how they can’t wait to leave the village. I don’t feel that way. What would happen if all the young people left? Who would take care of the elders? If only they could see the beauty of this place, instead of what they see on television—all them music videos trying to convince them that life is one giant party if they only lived in a big city. I’ve been thinking about another poem. I wrote part of it during school today. It doesn’t have a title yet. I know it’s not important. No one will ever read these. No one even really cares.

    I am beginning to write in our language,
    but it is difficult.

    Only elders speak our words,
    and they are forgetting.

    There are not many words anyhow.
    They are scattered like clouds,

    like salmon in Stepping Creek
    at Tonsina River.

    I do not speak like an elder,
    but I hear the voice of a spirit,
    hear it at a distance
    speaking quietly to me.

    Dahwdezeldiin’ koht’aene kenaege’,
    ukesdezt’aet.

    Yaane’ koht’aene yaen’,
    nekenaege’ nadahdelna.

    Koht’aene kenaege’ k’os nadestaan,
    Å‚ukae c’ena’ ti’taan’, Tez’aedzi Na’.

    Sii ‘e koht’aene k’e kenaes,
    Sii ndahwdel’en,
    dandiilen
    s’dayn’tnel’en.

3
    Na’ baaghe
    River’s Edge
    T he week passed quickly with no sightings of the wolves that had killed the teacher, and Deneena woke up excited on Saturday morning. Her mother had reluctantly agreed that she could snowshoe up to a small log cabin about seven miles back in the mountains to stay the night. She knew