In what was the dead of winter, an annual snowshoe to the cabin by the lake to sit under the night sky, enjoy an open fire, sip hot chocolate and toast the new year with a shot of Sortilege or Scottish whisky, had become a tradition.
It appeared that the seven of us had luck on our side as for the past 10 years, all but one gathering had been celebrated under a clear sky with the northern constellations suspended above us. Once we even saw spell-binding northern lights ripple across the horizon. Often, we would sit transfixed to watch a full moon rise and often, despite the camaraderie, we were quiet, drinking in the magic of it all.
Una’s enchanting and contagious laugh would suddenly echo in the stillness of the night and we would turn back to the fire. She was always the one to give the final toast to “good craic, good friends and more moments like these.” Shortly after, most would make their way back to their starting place where cars needed to be coaxed to warm up for the short trip home, but not I.
I lived on the other side of the hill from the cabin and knew intimately the well-trod path through the forest. I knew the seasonal shifts and the changing sights and sounds. With every season the smell of pine and spruce was as welcome to my nose as a summer rose. I had had encounters with all sorts of critters, from the ubiquitous white-tailed deer to partridge, rabbits, owls, coyotes and even a cougar, but on one particular January night, coming back from our annual gathering under the light of the crescent moon, I had one of the most amazing experiences of my life.
While I was never afraid in the woods, I was sometimes wary. Childhood fairy tales, books and movies with witches and trees waving arms and big, bad wolves are hard-wired in my brain, along with a natural sense of caution when moving under the cloak of darkness.
With only the dim light of the crescent moon illuminating the snowy woods, I relied on my flashlight to allow me to check my footing and periodically scan the woods. I made it safely up the hill. It was on my descent, nearing the field by my house, that I saw a canine shadow and then another and then another. I could see by my light that they were wolves. In a panic, I shut off my light, frozen in place. Instinct told me to run, but I couldn’t. They came towards me, close, and stared at me as if to say, “we’ve seen you here before.” Mesmerized, I stared back and after what seemed like ages, they turned and disappeared up the hill.
(A short story inspired by winter moon magic. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely possible.)
Wandering Wakefield 