THE DREAM

                 Bamby could hear strange voices, she was standing next to the FireHole River and it was winter. She could see her mother on the other side, she was saying something but Bamby was unable to hear.

                 “Where am I, what is this place,”? Bamby asked aloud.

                 “You are across the water”, a voice answered, a voice that sent a chill through his bones and swept through him like a wind. It was the voice of Wyoming, the black wolf. “You are my Witness.”

                At that moment Bamby saw other Wolves, they appeared out of the steam that swirled from the Fire Hole River. There were twenty-seven white wolves; they had risen from the snow. They came to the river and stopped. They were looking to the North. Then Bamby saw the voices that she had been hearing, they were on the water. She had no way of knowing but she was looking at Anasazi Indians.

               “This is where it happened”.

               Bamby turned to see the Spirit of Wyoming standing next to him.

                “You will witness the second Extinction.” His voice was like an Eagles’ wings.

               “Who are they …”? Bamby was looking towards the Indians who were chanting on the water. The Indians crouched shoulder to shoulder on the water, from bank to bank. They crouched and sang to the East and West, forming a human bridge and Bamby could hear a drum.

                “They are the Bridge,” Wyoming spoke.

                 Bamby felt Wyoming’s words in his heart. “I don’t understand”, said Bamby.

                 “You will”, said Wyoming.

                 There was a clap of thunder and the ground shook. There were many voices and the world trembled. Then Bamby saw them; Buffalo. They appeared from the North and swept across the Bridge. Everything that touched them and everything that they touched burst into flames and it was their intent to burn everything. The sound of echoes. The sound of death. The sound of burning pitch and charcoal. The Blackness of Wyoming the Wolf was upon the land.

                 The “One’s With No Heart”, ninety Grey Wolves, swept across the bridge and across the water, no hearts, no souls, death incarnate. The ground bubbled beneath Bamby’s hooves. Ravens and crows followed the Grey Wolves. Like black arrows, the ravens and crows attacked Wyoming and his pack. The smoke of many fires turned the sun red; the Fire Hole River carried the blood of Yellowstone.

               The wolves battled among the passing Buffalo who swept over the Bridge, thousands upon thousands of Buffalo galloping from Oblivion into Eternity.

              Wolves knifed and bit and fell. Tongues were bitten in two. Hearts burst. Buffalo hooves ground Grey’s and White’s alike, until at last, all that was left was Wyoming.                        

             Twelve Grey wolves surrounded him on the ice of Yellowstone Lake. Ash fell like dead snow. The sun was red. The ice was red. The drum stopped. Wyoming was no more.

              The Indians silently stood, and all turned to face west as the sun went down.

              The last buffalo to cross the Bridge was a calf. The Buffalo calf stopped and turned to Bamby and spoke: “We are the Wind, we are the Fire, we are the Grass, we are the Blizzard, we have crossed the Water but we are hidden. You have seen us, you now have Medicine.”

                The Indians stood on the water of the Fire Hole River for a long time. Then turned and silently followed the buffalo calf south.

                Bamby understood.

                                                    Midnight

             Bamby was awakened by an owl; the moon was sweeping through the sky. Bamby heard the owl again, only this time she understood that the owl was talking to her.

             “Do- you- hear- me?” said the owl, “Do- you- see- me? I- see- you.”

             “I do hear you,” said Bamby,” Do you know Aldo?”

              “Do-you”? The owl fluffed his feathers; the moonlight was trapped in his large eyes, a gargoyle in feathers silhouetted against a full moon.

             “Why can I hear you?” asked Bamby, more to herself than the owl.

             “You- just -do, now follow me,” the owl leapt into the waiting night.

              “But what about Aldo?” There was no answer, only the distinct feeling that she should follow the owl.

                Making his way through the downed timber was no easy task. Bamby heard and saw those things that go bump in the night. Clouds chased the moon across the sky, but steadily the owl moved them up Togwotee pass.

              When they reached Wind River Lake the owl told Bamby to wait. “Stay here. I must go and look ahead. Stay out of the wind and out of site. You are not safe.”

              Bamby waited

      THE WOLVES: “We are the tools of lesser men, death is what we do”.

            O’Grady led the pack of wolves, their private Demons kept them silent and swift, a band of Butchers.

             O’Grady was the Wolf that had nearly gotten Bamby, O’Grady hated failure, he chastised himself- then he consoled himself-then he rededicated himself, O’Grady was insane.

             They lost Bamby’s scent at the Little Buffalo River; desperation was in full control as they cast back and forth, up and down the river bank.

             O’Grady pounced on the youngest wolf and killed him, “Find it”! He said to the rest of them.

              A howl went up, “We are the tools of lesser men, death is what we do”. The trail had been found, swiftly and silently they headed east.

             They moved like smoke on the wind, their eyes were like brass, and their hearts were stones. The land was silent for they had killed almost everything, almost. This was maddening for O’Grady he wanted it all Dead, then he wanted to kill “Them”, he looked at his band of butchers and was repulsed. That would have to wait; he had smaller fish to fry.

               When they came to the timber they spread out, like a net, they seined the forest.

                                     ( To Be Continued)