The Dog, An Owl, A Wolf And I

Finding a haven deep in the ancient forest

Credit: Jonathan Foster

1.

Deep in the ancient world, amongst the towering pines and papery birches, far from the realm of men, two figures blink through the shallow autumnal rays like a flickering zoetrope, a man and a dog forging their way along the wild desire paths carved by wolf and deer and elk and bear.

The man has a small bag slung over his shoulder, his chanterelle and blueberry stained hand folded around the leather strap, walking with calm intention as the dog zigs and zags along trails of scent, nose fixed to the ground, scouring the velvet mosses.

Even as the night’s tears dry away and the day’s boldness brings new promise an ominous spirit still lingers under the rust and orange pines. The man whistles with me and the dog heels as they drift further into the forest side by side.

I keep my eyes flickering through the trees. Something from the living realm has an eye on us, a wolf or an owl perhaps. The dog’s step is cautious, he knows we are not alone. We both stop and listen to the silence rumbling below the wind.

They scramble down the steep ravine path toward the river that flows across this slowly rising landscape, 12,000 years freed from the weight of ice. Two small figures ambered into this forest in the flowing river of time, heading toward a house buried in the trees where two more figures transcend both rivers to keep a wild eye on the world.

They head to where the water is knee depth bubbling over rounded stones from countless millennia of tumbling under winter ice and bounding along on sparkling summer days, whittling themselves away, year after year, until they become sand carried gently toward the sea.

I feel the weight of eyes as the river rolls silently below me, I can see neither grey wolf nor owl but I can feel them. The dog and I both peer across the open riverbank into the umbrage of trees. We walk on, one thing on our minds.

Two wolves step out from the trees and watch the man and dog cross the river to the northern bank and disappear into the forest. The wolves amble slowly to the water and drink a little, then they too head across the river toward the northern bank.

2.

My hope is a complex creature, as courageous as it is pathetic, bipolar in its oscillations, erratic in its prophecies.

I remove my boots and wade into the river’s ice cold current as it flows toward the crisp blue horizon. The dog is already a quarter way across.

I know it is foolish having seen what I’ve seen but still I tend this flickering flame of hope when I should just let it burn away to blackness. But I can’t help myself. None of us can. It’s not we that choose our disposition for we are not blank canvasses onto which we paint some perfect self. We’re the beautiful scribbled graffiti of a million ancestors, a fountain of tendencies and behaviours and ideas and thoughts, the best we can do is pay attention and apply the brakes. But because we’re bewildered suffering wrapped round bone we step hard on the accelerator to escape ourselves.

The dog knows of this folly. He doesn’t say anything but I know he’s often puzzled by the absurdity of it all. Of course it’s easy for him with four legs planted firmly upon the earth whereas I have become rootless, pulled up from the ground by my frivolous mind, vulnerable to every storm that blows through my head.

I have been convinced for so long that collapse is the end. But the thought arises that I have been wrong. Collapse brings salvation. Only the mad would want to preserve where we are and only the blind can’t see where we’re heading. The mad and the blind are dragging us to hell with their poems disguised as prophesies. For them there are no brakes for their deceitful poems of hubris push them harder and harder.

The dog looks pitifully at me as we wade across the river, “You speak in these riddles all the time, why bother? Just say it as it is.”

I look at him, “As it is?,” I smile, “these riddles are the stories that have brought us here and only stories can take us home.”

“You are home,” he says, “this is the house you’ve built.”

“No,” I say, “this house has been built around me, this house must be retold.”

“Perhaps,” he says, “though most believe they are the story and they are wedded to it, besides try silencing those tongues that do the telling.”

“Perhaps,” I say, “but this house is built on bad foundations so it’s coming down either way.”

The icy river water numbs us as a great grey owl slices silently through the sky seen by no one but the dog and I.

3.

There is the thock of an axe, not mechanical but unrhythmed, chopping kindling, someone taking their time, reaching and placing a log on the block then thock, echoing the sound of the ages, stone on wood, bronze on wood, iron on wood, always wood, our closest ally as forests pump life into us all through the ever present Wood Age.

The molecules of woodsmoke floating in the morning air bring no panic, but rather a gentle comfort, like a tended hearth in a nested haven. “They’re coming,” she says,” “the ambered, they are on their way.”

This place was sculpted through leathered hands and keen eyes where time was taken in thoughtful concentration. A place of bread and horses, open windows and laughter, elves and dreams and skin on skin. And because we are human fountains of unbidden thought that erupt with fret and anguish elves can become demons in a flash.

The thocking axe rests and ears listen and eyes watch, “They’re a way off,” he says and swings and thocks and reaches and places one more upon the block to be kindling, to be fire, to be bread, to be warm exchanges in the well worn bed.

Two wolves lope with intention through the warming day. The horse whinny's and snorts and she walks up and places her hand upon his flank. They look at each other as a great grey owl comes to silent rest on a fallen tree between the forest and the gooseberry bushes. “It’s a man and a dog,” she says and he lowers the axe head to rest upon the ground and then rests his own hand on the axe shaft.

“What does he want?” he says.

“He wants solace,” she says.

“He wants change,” he says.

“Change has been a long time coming,” they both say and laugh.

Two wolves appear on the outer edges of the clearing, their green eyes shining.

4.

The abandoned house and stable in this bright clearing were built by meticulous hands expertly assembling wood and stone into this sanctuary.

I stand before the house for a moment then sit on the porch steps and reach into my bag and take out a handful of the waxy blueberries and golden chanterelle. I place them beside me causing the dog to come nosing up to check but he’s unimpressed. I take out my flask and pour one large and one small coffee and place the small cup beside the meagre offering of berries and mushrooms. I raise my cup and nod to the world in general and take a sip.

Sitting on this dilapidated porch my foreboding retreats. This old house is slowly transforming into fungi and mosses and lichen, enriching and returning to the forest like a fallen tree.

Out here on this clear autumnal morning as the planet begins to roll toward darker days the dog and I are sheltered from the world’s confused and grandiose pronouncements. We are free of the duplicitous voices shattering the peace with their spurious debates defiling all who speak or hear. Hope has become a bag of butterflies battered in a storm. Is there no end to this buffeting? Must we batten down the hatches forever?

I sip my coffee and feel a presence in the worn doorsill from umpteen snowy boots or slick bare feet that have tramped and padded across the years. In the humility and attention used to carve a wolf and an owl on the door panel, so beautiful that the aesthetics seems to reveal the character of the carver, the beauty revealing the very point of life. In the sheened iron window hooks that have been lifted and lowered as often as the sun breaks through the clouds where mood and inclination are revealed. In the once tended and nurtured garden, not just for food but to embrace the very symbiosis of existence, now being returned to the forest. This place is a museum of moments curated by those who have now passed through the shimmer. Then the thought comes unbidden of the museum we are curating these very days.

“You’re talking in riddles again,” the dog says.

“I think I’m making perfect sense,” I say, then I smile and sip my coffee and look toward the trees and I see green eyes and yellow eyes seeking mine. I call the dog to come beside me and I swear I can smell wood smoke and feel a soothing older hand resting on my shoulder. Two wolves stand in the slanting rays at the edge of the plot, their greyness mirroring my own, and I rest my hand upon the dog as we stare back at the wild creatures.

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