Sheila and the Wolf - part 2

    Sheila woke that morning with a sense that something had changed. She had heard nothing from Tim, although the phone was working again. The radio was of course still dead, and there was no TV. There hadn’t been for two years, since William left. She hated TV, but she wished for it now. Not for herself... it was Tim she was nervous about. Although there were plenty of logical explanations, her heart told her that Tim should have made it back. And she somehow felt guilty, without knowing why. Sheila went out and braved the cold. The animals needed tending, and she was too upset to sit around any longer. It was still very cold, but the wind had lessened.

Epilogue:

    The heart is like a pond, it’s surface covered with fallen leaves. Push them aside, and there’s a world underneath. Yet most of us take the leaves for reality, and look no further.
    At nine PM, the county Sheriff called. They had found Tim about six-thirty, and had brought his body back to what passed for a town. Sheila sat in the wood-backed chair near the wooden table beside the wood-burning stove for the next two hours. She had not cried. She saw the clear-edged moon rise over the barn, and just before midnight she heard the sad howls of the pack returning.
    Without thought, Sheila went to the living room, and took Tim’s rifle from it’s wall mount. She walked across the room to his desk, and found the box of shells. Dry eyed, without fear or feeling, she unlocked and opened the door, and stepped into the cold, crisp moonlight. There, on the East hill, the pack stood in a group. They had stopped howling, as if on command. One dark, shadowy figure broke ranks and moved forward in the snow, down the hill toward her. The others remained behind.
    As the Grey Wolf approached, Sheila stood tall and silent, her rifle still low at her side. The wolf strode to within ten yards of her, then stopped. He stared deeply and intensely into Sheila’s eyes. For a long moment they stood thusly, some secret communication passing between them. Then, as if on cue, as if the bright moon was directing the drama, the wolf growled low and menacing, then leapt forward, fangs bared, his eyes wild. And Sheila raised Tim’s rifle and fired quickly, knowing she would not miss at this range. The wolf howled in pain and fell into the snow, not ten feet from her. He moved convulsively, still alive.
    Sheila walked over to him, and they looked at each other. The wolf stopped moving, and just looked into Sheila’s eyes. His expression was impossible to read, as was hers. Sheila raised the rifle and shot the wolf in the head. Then she turned and went back to the house.

    The rifle returned to it’s mounting, Sheila made some coffee, and brought it to the chair by the window. She opened the curtain, so as to watch the moon sink toward the western sky. She sipped her coffee, and then she began to cry... a little at first, then in heart-wrenching sobs. She cried for a long time, then sat up for an hour or so. Finally, Sheila took her cup to the kitchen, and herself to bed. She did not dream that night, nor for quite a while thereafter. She slept long and deeply, and in the morning, Sheila awoke to a clear and warmer day.


The End
copyright 1997-2004
Penrose (W.S.Rose)