Peace at the Last by Walter Wangerin Jr

Author:Walter Wangerin Jr.
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: FICTION/General
Publisher: Diversion Books
Published: 2013-09-02T22:00:00+00:00

Even so have Pertelote’s spirits fallen and risen through her long, purposeless wanderings. Weeks of confidence, months of desolations. Her life too long, her life lived more wholly in the present.

But after sunrise the following day, Pertelote is as heartened as anyone else in her community. For now there is a way. A direction. The Cream-Colored Wolf has granted her a focus and a where to go. Wachanga is not wandering. She is following. And Pertelote follows her.

Wachanga trots swiftly ahead of the Animal Band. Pertelote on open wings sails above her. The rest are neither weary nor hungry any more. They chat and laugh. Pertelote’s fresh assurance has freshened them too.

“A scent, you say,” Pertelote says.

“Yes, ma’am, since last spring.”

“Can you tell me whose scent?”

“The Ancient Ones. I’m going where my Ancestors have gone.”

“Your ancestors?”

“I can tell by the age of their scent. And by the comfort.”

Pertelote considers the Cream-Wolf’s words. They hold a deeper meaning than she can fathom.

“Wachanga, do you know where your ancestors are leading you? Can you tell me where we’re going?”

“What I know, ma’am, all that I know, is what my heart hears. Home.”

Wachanga bounds to a frozen bush and snuffles it. Pertelote flies above her, flies a little higher than before in order to seek anything that looks like a home. But from her height it isn’t a home she sees. It’s four Creatures standing in the snow ahead of her. Pronghorns, looking miserable.

The Hen sails toward the Pronghorns and lands among them. Her sudden presence frightens them. They yank back their heads and widen their eyes.

“Whisht,” she says. “Don’t be afraid.”

They don’t try to run. Perhaps the snow is too deep for their slender legs. But neither do they relax.

A Cream-Colored Wolf comes walking near.

“Hey, babe!” a gravelly voice calls, and Kangi Sapa drops from the skies. “What’s happening?”

The Pronghorns are delicate in stature, unable to defend themselves. Their eyes twitch nervously from the Raven to the Wolf to the Hen and back to the Raven again.

John Wesley arrives, a Creature scarier than all the rest. “Why-come girlies is so sad?”

One of the Pronghorns yips twice, then bleats a long cadenza. “Morrr!”

“Is whats?”

But Kangi Sapa is a Bird of ten thousand tongues.

“Give me room, brother,” he says and moves past the Weasel. The car-crash of a black Bird says to Pertelote, “Excuse me, Mrs. P. This is my bailiwick.”

The poor Pronghorn says mournfully, “Mere, pere, morrr.”

The Raven translates: “Their parents are dead.”

Apparently, Pertelote’s sympathy releases the Pronghorn’s word-horde. “Loup,” she says. “Un jaune de oeils appel femine Root.”

In a sober voice Kangi Sapa repeats: “A Wolf with yellow eyes who calls his mate Rutt.”

Wachanga gasps. “No, no,” she whispers, “he’s back.”

“Is a yellow eye?” cries John Wesely. “Is Eurus! Is a bloody-teeths Eurus-Wolfie what kills Critters!”

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