Witches and Wolves and the Witches Exile Road
So after the storm, I looked around in my satisfied way. God was good to us, and the chicken house were still standing and lo and behold the chickens weren't harmed.
After the storm, I believe a spirit, could have been an angel, and it could have been my Indian Guide I had picked up sometime when I was a little child in my life, told me, "Go on out a bit into the tall grass growing by the outhouse and find what you will find."
I did and there it was proud as anything, a wand stick, the storm had brought through a tornado and with the help of the gods themselves. Just as I started to pick up the knarled stick about the length of my hand and narrow, but thick as about three inches across, I heard a growl and looked up to see a wolf at the edge of the thicket of trees which lead to the site of an ancient burial ground. “Are you the ghost of a slain warrior?” I asked him just as pretty as you please. I was spunky then.
But in truth, I was so petrified. I felt weak in my knees and wanted to call out to my husband, but my mouth was dry and my words came not. What could I say, it was a big grey wolf and its snarl exposed sharp glistening white teeth. The wolf looked sharp and powerful and it was in a stance which seemed it was going to pounce on me.
“Stay back,” I said it lamely and knew futilely if the wolf intended to jump me, I would probably die, because he was large and I was short and he could go for my neck and I would die agonizing. Then I heard the other wolves. And I saw the fog coming off the wet grass. It would be so beautiful if I didn’t face certain death.
I faced death, of course I did. I could plainly hear the other wolves then. Wolves never travel alone. I thought with the wolves I heard a footstep and then another. Forests are magic things in the early morning and late evenings.. Spirits and ghosts and even fairies haunt the thick hidden depths of forests like these that go on and on but our vision is blinded by the thickness of the trees themselves, the falling and gathering in piles leaves and the cloudy, cold autumn skies. And the fog thick and swirling ugly grey in that place. “Don’t you hurt me now.”
End of note in Book of Days
- Anna Patterson, July 2011
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