The Cries of Canis

Most people associate fire with comfort. Crackling campfires have a way of reviving the weary and shaking the winter chill out of old bones. But the flames before my eyes are anything but comforting. As they lick hungrily at the kindling, camaraderie and warmth are the farthest things from my mind.

Though the frigid night air numbs my fingertips, I flinch away from the fire’s radiant heat. Consumed branches squeal and pop like tormented souls in the bowels of hell. I turn my nose away from the acrid smoke. Desperate for a distraction, my eyes search the snow-covered ground nearby for familiar footprints. Has Canis come this way recently?

Other people standing around this fire seem oblivious to its evil nature. Their callous laughter and jubilant shouts add to my outrage. They speak of werewolves and devils, glancing my way and shaking their heads. I cannot comprehend their small-mindedness.

My mind takes refuge in the past.

Shortly after my husband and I moved to the New World, he died of cholera. Other colonists in our community refused to help me bury his body. Shortly after, I moved to this god-forsaken wilderness to escape my misery. I built my shelter a full day’s walk from the local settlements. Survival was more challenging, but I preferred isolation over the company of cruel people who didn’t understand me.

My only solace during those moonlit, grief-stricken nights was listening to the solemn and ghostly howls of the timber wolves. They would surround my shanty, point their noses upward, and cry with me. Finally, I was not alone in my sadness.

The colonists were obsessed with wiping out these magnificent, misunderstood creatures. Of the devil, they called them. The forests and creek beds were thick with traps and snares. I, on the other hand, was drawn to the wolves. The largest wolf in the pack, the alpha I named Canis, often left his massive footprints in the snow outside my door to mark his visits. I would thank him for his company by leaving him frozen bits of rabbit meat that I couldn’t bring myself to eat.

I would trek through the woods for hours, hoping for a glimpse of coarse silver fur, desperate to connect with the creatures that understood my solitary nature and eased my loneliness. I would sit for hours, waiting for them to approach. Gaining their trust thrilled me. I felt far more alive in their presence than I ever felt amongst humans.

It’s no wonder I was an outcast. I kept strange company. What sane woman prefers the company of wolves over that of respected men and their god-fearing wives? News of my obsession soon spread to nearby towns, and stories were spun. I was cast as a mystic who somehow controlled the fanged creatures who gobbled up little children and threatened the safety of their narrow-minded community.

The oppressive heat from the flames brings me back to reality. I stand atop the pyre of wood, my mind scrambling to make sense of the lunacy. The temperature is becoming unbearable. Sweat trickles into my eyes. I can’t wipe it away because my hands are bound to the pole behind me. My stomach lurches, and I feel faint.

Those who have gathered to watch me suffer shout obscenities, feeding ravenously on my fear. They are so much more vicious than the creatures they accuse me of controlling.

“Die, witch!” they snarl. The flames have engulfed their humanity.

I hear a woman’s voice cry out, but strangely, it’s not mine. She covers her mouth in horror and points to the wooded area to my left. A large wolf charges the group, fangs bared. Canis has come---not to grieve with me, but to free me. He is followed by the entire pack, sending terror through the crowd. Their paws move silently across the snow. In my delirium, they are as beautiful as they are deadly. Most of my tormentors turn and flee, and those who choose to remain pay the price.

Flames lap at the soles of my feet, and I can’t help but whimper. Canis turns his head, his glowing eyes meeting mine briefly before he lunges. His massive body slams into the pole I’m bound to, tipping it over. I tumble off the pyre, my shoulders wrenching as my hands slip free of the rope.

“Canis!” I scream, throwing my eyes in every direction, seeking my rescuer. He stands proudly, backlit by the fire, head tilted curiously. In the far distance, firelight glints off a raised gun barrel. I leap to my feet and throw my body in front of Canis, just as the shot rings out.

I fall to the ground, blood gushing from my chest, the word “No” silently frozen on my lips. Tears slide silently down my cheeks. Canis raises his chin to the moon and, once again, cries with me over the tragic state of human existence. He understands my grief.

After all, people often try to destroy what they don’t understand.