Post by Mingan on Dec 19, 2005 23:46:02 GMT -5
Mingan, a young Native American man who has recently been transformed into a wolf, is just getting used to the fact that he's very clumsy on two legs, thus, he has surrendered himself to the four-footed way. Wandering out over the frigid Alaskan tundra, he travels into the wind, ducking his head against the penetrating cold, his soft ears pinned flat against his skull as he trudges onward--his destination unknown, his path aimless.
Snow collects on the many sentimental things he wears around his neck--his totem, his deer antler whistle, the Native American beads, and the linked rings which are a constant reminder of his mother. As the drifting snow thickens to a full-blown white-out, Mingan falters in his steps and ends up tumbling down a steep incline.
Landing in a heap at the base of the hill, he tries to get up and defy the cold weather that mocks his very existence. Struggling on numb and weakened paws he gets halfway up, but does not have the energy to push himself any further. As the cold creeps in, it claims his consciousness and he lies down in the snow, unable to go on.
In his final moments of consciousness, he recalls the words spoken to him when he was growing up--words that always lifted his spirit and helped him to carry on. They always seemed to have a strengthening power to them...but not in this dark hour. Now, the words so full of hope seem hollow...empty...just like Mingan's heart.
Awakening several hours later, he is surprised to realize he is still alive. At first, all he can see it the blinding white everywhere, but then his blurred vision clears and he can see the dark trees along the horizon. The snow, though still falling steadily, has lightened up to some degree.
Mingan once again struggles to get on his feet. He knows if he stops moving altogether, he will surely freeze to death. Shaking the snow from his dense, blue-gray fur, he finally stands on trembling legs and he staggers forward, forcing himself into motion. He is now limping on three legs, holding his right forepaw up out of the snow. No doubt it was injured in the fall he had taken.
Still uncertain as to where he is going, he continues on his aimless way--mostly in an effort to keep warm. Were it not for that, he would have loved nothing more than to lie down and rest. But there is no rest for the restless.
Snow collects on the many sentimental things he wears around his neck--his totem, his deer antler whistle, the Native American beads, and the linked rings which are a constant reminder of his mother. As the drifting snow thickens to a full-blown white-out, Mingan falters in his steps and ends up tumbling down a steep incline.
Landing in a heap at the base of the hill, he tries to get up and defy the cold weather that mocks his very existence. Struggling on numb and weakened paws he gets halfway up, but does not have the energy to push himself any further. As the cold creeps in, it claims his consciousness and he lies down in the snow, unable to go on.
In his final moments of consciousness, he recalls the words spoken to him when he was growing up--words that always lifted his spirit and helped him to carry on. They always seemed to have a strengthening power to them...but not in this dark hour. Now, the words so full of hope seem hollow...empty...just like Mingan's heart.
Awakening several hours later, he is surprised to realize he is still alive. At first, all he can see it the blinding white everywhere, but then his blurred vision clears and he can see the dark trees along the horizon. The snow, though still falling steadily, has lightened up to some degree.
Mingan once again struggles to get on his feet. He knows if he stops moving altogether, he will surely freeze to death. Shaking the snow from his dense, blue-gray fur, he finally stands on trembling legs and he staggers forward, forcing himself into motion. He is now limping on three legs, holding his right forepaw up out of the snow. No doubt it was injured in the fall he had taken.
Still uncertain as to where he is going, he continues on his aimless way--mostly in an effort to keep warm. Were it not for that, he would have loved nothing more than to lie down and rest. But there is no rest for the restless.