Alaska's Song

• Renatha Du Toit, Grade 10, Northside Christian College
• Short Story
• 2015

Excellence Award in the 'Read Write Repeat 2015' competition

Snowflakes fall with the jingle of tiny silver bells, so quiet, so beautiful. It falls on her soft fur, turning the grey coat white. The stars glimmer and the moon shimmers in the dark night, the snow gone as quickly as it had come.

Around her, tall pines with needle teeth leaves glower from above. The wind rustles them, calling her name in hushed whispers. She hastily climbed up the icy rocks, marked with the bitter frost of winter.

There, away from snagging thorns and entrapping bristles, she stood. Waiting. Watching. The land lit with the moon's radiant beam, entranced with the magic of night. The pearl of the sky reflected in every stream, puddle and deadly icicle.

The frozen wind wove itself around her as she stood firm inside, welcoming it's familiarity. This was her last night, there'd be no more. Her pack, disappearing to death's harmony when the sound, as loud as thunder, struck them down. It killed like magic but sometimes you escaped, she was the living proof.

Her shoulder, not thick with beautiful fur soft like a kitten's, but marked with an ugly scar and missing clumps of fur. The colour red streaming down like waterfalls, coating her an enriching scarlet colour.

She turned two wise eyes to the moon, letting it comfort her with its enchanting beauty. Then she howled. A celestial song of pain and promise and goodbye. Her final song to her majestic night, to the magnificent moon she sang to every month.

Two-legged creatures with no fur except that which they stole, listened intensely, following each note like a perfectly set out path. Silver barrels in their hands, the power of death. They trudged quietly, in rhythm with their own impending beat. They found her, the last grey wolf, they found her howling at the moon.

"She's ours now," one of the creatures said, aiming his thunder gun for the dignified head.

A loud BANG! rang through the forest as it held its silence for the deceased. The men worked their way up, finding the dead wolf in a puddle of red liquid. The greedy men leered gleefully at their prize.

The sky, angry, darkened with clouds and hid the light. At first, it came slowly, burying her. Then wind and snow crashed down on the men, causing them to flee as their cries drowned in the storm. They never made it home.

This isn't the end, however, for other wolves replaced the old and multiplied into countless packs but the land was plagued. For six months, no light, no warmth, no hope would exist. The night stretched on until it returned for six months of light.

But when the moon is full on a clear night with silent wind, you can just here the echoing of the the Grey Wolf's song beyond the mountains peaks. Some say it's just the wind or one's illusion, but they're wrong. The Grey Wolf remains, singing through her descendants the song of that night.