A century ago, the settlers arrived to the mountains in hordes, hoping to escape the poverty that had plagued several of their generations after years of drought in the South. They were promised work and a dwelling in exchange for their calloused, strong hands and able shoulders. They were going to bore a hole through the mountains to make way for the railway track that would connect the pines to the outside world, and so, tame and humanize the wilderness.
As years passed and work progressed, the mountains cracked and deer fled from the loud bursts of the drills. The settlers expanded their small dwellings into houses and cottages. Wives grew pregnant and gave birth to healthy babies, who then turned into farmers and sheep rearers, and settled down, calling the pines their home. Farms stretched far and wide, dotted with sheep and cows and horses. Markets sprang up. A church was built. Every morning and evening, the masses gathered, singing hymns and whispering prayers. Meanwhile, the pines receded back as if to pry themselves apart from humans. The wolves fled deeper and deeper into the woods before vanishing altogether. No one cared for their absence, until years later a researcher set out to document the history of the town that named itself ‘Pine Haven.’
The result of his research was an essay that spanned twenty crinkly pages and no more. It was published in an obscure journal and then forgotten. Presently, the dusty journal rested in Esther’s hands. She was sitting in the local library which housed barely a few hundred books, none of them newer than the ones published in the 1920s.
When Esther had arrived that morning, the librarian was busy knitting. On the counter was a clump of bright yellow wool that was slowly coming unspooled to form what looked like a scarf. Now and then, the pink tip of the librarian’s tongue peeked out to dampen her cracked lips.
Esther did not disturb the woman. She walked past the counter and started browsing through the first shelf that caught her eye. There were only three, divided into several sections with the help of small, faded labels.
The library was utterly quiet. Through the high windows, a steady stream of sunlight fell through and pooled on the floor. Noticing that the librarian was still busy, Esther lifted her hand and passed it through the beams of warm light, watching the dust particles dance on her palm. Her skin glowed pink.
Back when she was a young girl, she would lie on the grass upon the hills where the sheep treaded silently, and read books upon books borrowed from the library. She devoured pages swollen with romance and adventure and horror. Under the cover of her bed, when the rest of the world was asleep, she read books dripping with honeyed kisses and words, her heart bobbing up and down on a wave. She dreamed of castles and princesses in distress, of men in suits and women in lovely cloche hats, of secret agents, and ships sailing in the dark, cutting the black sea against the gibbous moon. And then when she became full of words, they started spilling on the paper.
As her words sharpened and world expanded, the pines turned into boundary walls. The local library looked small just like the rest of Pine Haven. She was a bird that had outgrown her nest and needed to take flight. And she did.
It was by mere chance that she had came across the journal. After browsing the history section and giving up, she had moved to the fairy tales merely because she did not want to go home empty handed. She brushed her fingertip along the ridges of the dusty tomes that looked lonely and neglected. Some of them had spines that were held together by nothing more than a few strands of thread. One came apart in her hands. Luckily, no one noticed and she could put it away quietly. Sandwiched between these worn books, was a thin journal which she could’ve easily overlooked if not for the wine-colored, tattered cover with veins of gold. Someone had made the effort to restore it. She pulled it out.
Turning the pages one by one, Esther went through the columns of text which were accompanied by small printed illustrations. She traced her fingertip over the sloping cottages, the shy but sturdy women dressed in their pinafores, the men standing proud by the finished railway tracks. In the distance, the small smudge of ink formed the peaks of the mountains.
At a page full of detailed sketches of plants, she paused, then turned to the previous page again.
A man made of ink lines stood with his foot on top of a dead wolf, a rifle slung over his shoulder. It looked heavy and probably warmed by the recent kill.
Beneath the sketch, a small caption read:
‘The last of the wolves were observed in the 1900s. Since then, their population has dwindled due to trapping and hunting activities. As of now, they are seen no more.’
Eagerly, Esther turned to the next page. To her dismay, there was no explanation or expansion of that picture. The rest of the journal spoke of the growth of farming in the mountains. She went through the remaining pages, then closed the journal and pressed her nose to the spine. It smelled musty, ancient-- a palimpsest of stories and lives. And yet, it held no clues to the white, rogue wolf.
Outside, the air was chilly. Bundled in her sweaters, her hands sheathed in gloves, Esther stepped down the stairs of the library, intending to return home. Her day was empty now. Lost in thoughts, she wandered past the school which had shut down for the approaching Christmas, waded nervously through a flock of sheep that were being led up the hill and stopped at the sight of a plump Waxwing sitting on the bare branch of a tree. It tilted his head to stare at her, shifting a little now and then when a breeze ruffled its soft feathers.
The sharp pain came from nowhere. It burst on her cheek, icy and cold, before blurring her vision with white smudges and powdering down her clothes.
A snowball.
She glanced around and spotted a blot of red--the top of a knitted woolen hat , hiding behind a half-formed snowman. Esther narrowed her eyes.
“Listen,”she said, “I can see you.”
The top of the hat floated up, followed by a rosy, round face which she recognized. Her irritation melted away. Esther neared the boy and sat on her haunches.“What are you doing here, Lark?”
“I wanted to hit the bird, not you.”
She glanced up, noting that the bird had flown away.
“What for?”
“I was practicing. Papa says the Ptarmigans are tasty to eat but I don’t know how to catch them and he won’t give me his slingshot.”
Esther gave him a smile. “That wasn’t a Ptarmigan.”
His cheeks colored. “I said I was practicing.”
“Maybe Papa doesn’t want you to hurt yourself or anyone else by mistake.”
He kicked a clump of snow, turning away from her.
“Where are your friends?”she asked.
He shrugged. “Where are yours?”
Esther watched him for a few moments, gazing at the pale hair and the fur lined collar of his coat, catching hints of Johnny in the way he moved and a shadow of Lova when he spoke. She stood up and brushed her skirt to smoothen it.
“Lark, can you show me the prettiest spot you know?”
Lark gave her a searching look but his eyes had gained a twinkle. A while later, they were walking down the road together.
The prettiest spot he knew was the edge of the hill beyond which the earth crumbled into a valley clogged with pines. As she stood clasping the wooden fence, facing the misty clouds, the wind whipped back her red hair. With every breath, a bit of the clean gray sky settled in her lungs.
“Ma’am?”
“Yes?”
“Are you going to go back to the city?”
“I don’t want to anymore.”
“Don’t you have a home there?”
“I did once.” She cupped her palms, holding a memory of Dorothy in her arms. “It was this small.”
“Houses aren’t that small.”
“They are of different sizes and shapes, some even have the shape of a particular person. You’ll know when you grow up a bit more.”
“So you have a house of a proper shape and size here?”
Esther could not answer that one with ease.
“I am looking for it,”she said.
“Then you’d stay?”
“Yes.”
“I could show you some more spots then,”he said, brightening. “And you probably don’t know how to fish or roast a bird properly. Or even hunt quails and grouses.”
She smiled. “Sure, do teach me all those things.”
He nodded.
For a while they were silent. Esther with her hands hidden in her pockets, Lark bent into the snow, poking at a frozen flower.
“Lark, do you hear the wolf howling?”
“Mhm. But Ma says not to worry too much. He is probably lost or scared in the dark.”
“Is it always at night you hear him?”
“Yes.” The round eyes turned on her. “Why do you ask?”
She shook her head and neared him. Fixing his cap, she smiled. “Come, I’ll give you some hot cocoa for showing me this beautiful place. You’ll like that, won’t you?”
He tugged his cap back to the previous position and smiled.
The next evening, Esther found herself tracing the dark path into the woods, a lantern clasped in her pale hands. Deeper and deeper she went, until she found herself at the rim of the lake.
***
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