72 TWO MOON, SUN SPIRIT

72

TWO MOON, SUN SPIRIT

Although Sherlock, Whimsey, and Marple have been freed from their leashes so that they will feel equal to the six wolves, they remain obedient and close to Sam, currently ceding the affection of Vida to their wild brethren. Here on the long slope leading to the meadowy glen where Two Moon and Sun Spirit reside, the forest is dense, with such little undergrowth that they can proceed directly rather than on a wandering path shaped by generations of deer.

Accompanied by dogs and wolves, they pass through purple and midnight-blue shadows that are pierced by bolts of sunshine as narrow as the beams of penlights. Although Vida has never before been in this far reach of the wilderness, it feels familiar to her.

In the lead, Lupo looks back at her, and for a moment all is changed. The forest is centuries younger, the trees farther apart, and a more revelatory light pours down on them, not the light of the sun, but the ghostly light of a full and enormous moon. In spite of a sense of familiarity, she cannot ever have been in this long-ago place, for she had not yet been born, nor would Lupo and his pack have existed then. This is not a memory or a vision of a true past, but something stranger; it is almost a message of reassurance—from whom?—that although our lives pass like shadows, a continuity of experience shapes the world, and the world in all its glory would not be as magnificent as it is if even one of those lives had not passed through.

Lupo looks away from Vida, and the forest becomes as it had been before the curious change—the trees close-packed and gathered in deep gloom, sun streaming down in penlight beams, the moon once more on the far side of the planet.

When they come out of the woods and into the grassy glen, the house is as Sam described it; he's been here twice in his roaming with his dogs, although not when leading a search party. The place is modest. No more than eight or nine hundred square feet. Weathered cedar siding. Fronted by a deep loggia for shade in the summer. At one end, a fireplace chimney built of native stones. Sheet-copper roof greened by time.

Maybe three hundred yards beyond the house, legions of white spectral forms writhe skyward. The smoking river.

A second, smaller structure with its own chimney is a stable for two horses. Currently the stallion and mare are grazing in an adjacent pasture encircled by a split-rail fence; though they raise their heads and cock their ears, pausing in their eating to observe the dogs and wolves, they are not alarmed.

There is as well a deep stand-alone ice cellar that remains functional seven months of the year.

According to Sam, all structures were built by the residents with the help of others from the Cheyenne nation who did not choose to retreat from a world gone wrong but who supported Two Moon's and Sun Spirit's desire to do so. The building materials were brought to this remote site in pickups with all-wheel drive, which was the first time the raucousness of the modern world had penetrated this primeval realm though surely not the last.

The thirtysomething pair who live here tend gardens in these fields; the husband also hunts for game and otherwise forages the forest. Every six weeks, they make a three-day round-trip trek on horseback, into Kettleton, to purchase staples. Using a manual typewriter, she is a novelist of modest success, writing tales that some call "magical realism," but that she insists are "just the way things are."

Perhaps one of them happens to be looking out a window when Vida and Sam and their low-to-the-ground entourage emerge from the forest into the meadow. However, as Sun Spirit opens the front door and steps onto the loggia with Two Moon behind her, the rustic house and the grazing horses and the sun-washed glen seem to exist in a state of grace. Vida feels sure that, by a sense other than the common five, these people have known that visitors with a grave purpose are coming.

Sun Spirit goes to Sam, takes one of his hands in both of hers, and kisses his cheek. "Man of the hounds, woman of the wolves, each clothed in the same light."

Sam murmurs something Vida can't hear.

Dogs and wolves commingle around the woman, gazing up at her and moving with her as she comes to Vida. "Although I've never seen you before, why do I think I know you?"

"I wonder if you knew my fiancé—José Nochelobo."

The woman's hair is thick and black and glossy; it frames a face of chiseled features and matches the color of eyes that, in their seeing, seem always to be searching. "I've never heard that name before."

From her jacket, Vida retrieves the notepad paper that was given to her by Anna Lagare, the mortician's daughter. "This was found in the pocket of the shirt José was wearing the day that he was murdered."

"Murdered."

"Yes."

"I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thank you. I'm determined he won't have died for nothing."

Sun Spirit unfolds the paper and reads. "Two Moon. Sun Spirit. Below the smoking river."

Her husband joins her to read what, only yesterday, had been a cryptic message. He is tall and strong and has a face that might at times seem fierce, but his hand on his wife's shoulder rests with an unmistakable tenderness.

Vida says, "Someone must have given that to José before he addressed the crowd. Someone who thought maybe you could help him."

"Addressing a crowd? Was your fiancé a politician?"

"No. Quite the opposite. A teacher, a coach, a lover of nature. He was speaking against the Grand Plateau project."

"Project?"

"You don't know about it?"

"We seek to know as little of the world beyond this forest as possible. It is a world gone mad, and such madness as that can be infectious."

Although Vida's opinion of the world, in its present condition, is not as dark as theirs, she understands their viewpoint and must admit that their grim assessment might be right, her optimism wrong.

She indicates the note. "Do you recognize the handwriting?"

"I'm afraid I do not." Sun Spirit returns the slip of paper. "But come in the house. We'll have coffee. You can tell us about this project, and we might see why someone thought we could help your Mr. Nochelobo."

The wolves settle in the yard to sun themselves.

The dogs lie to one side of the front door, in the shade of the loggia.

Entering the house behind Sun Spirit, Vida takes only two steps before she halts in surprise. On the wall hangs an exquisite pencil portrait of a Cheyenne elder, rendered in such detail and with such power that it's apparent the artist captured not just how the old man looked but also the quality of his character and the condition of his heart. In the bottom right corner of the image, where the creator's signature should be, there is only a small, stylized image of a deer.

"Eternal Fawn," says Vida.

Sun Spirit turns, as surprised as her visitor. "You know her work?"

"I have one of her drawings."

"She never sold them."

"I didn't buy it. It was a gift to my uncle. My great-uncle. His portrait. In fact, I have it with me. How do you know her?"

"She was my grandmother."