Mogi

An old woman sits by a campfire under an eternity of stars and surrounded by the flickering faces of smiling grandchildren eager to hear one of her stories. She puffs her pipe, leans forward through the smoke, and draws the youngsters in with the gesture of his old, wise, wrinkled hand.

“Have I ever told you the legend of Mogi the Redwolf?” She asks.

The grandchildren shake their heads.

“Well,” she puffs his pipe again. “It all began long ago and long away. North of north of here in a mysterious forest known as the Icewoods. And at the time, our hero, Mogi was a villain…”

Mogi was the leader of his wolfpack, you see. He was young, brave, cunning, and beautiful with his pelt as white as the Icewood snow. But most of all, Mogi was ambitious. He wanted his pack, the pack he loved so dearly, to be the greatest in all the land. It indeed grew and thrived because of his ambition – for a time. His unmatched hunting instincts guided the pack throughout the Icewoods, taking down prey wherever they roamed from the smallest mouse to the largest moose and beyond. Day after day, kill after kill, however, Mogi’s ego began poisoning his ambition. He became addicted to death, you see, and the power that came with his ability to administer it wherever and whenever he saw fit. That power was a most dangerous high made all-the-more potent knowing there was nothing that could be done to stop him.

After so much killing, his face, Mogi’s beautiful face, became stained crimson from the constant flow of blood from his prey. Seasons changed, but the killing remained constant, and the stains only grew further down his pelt. Mogi, it seemed, was gone. Hunted down and killed by the Redwolf he’d become. The demon of the Icewoods.

The pack became weary of their half-red, half-crazed leader’s orders. Pups died of exhaustion from their constant travel, brave followers gave their lives to needlessly take down sabretooths and mammoths, and any who challenged their leader’s rule only added to the red stains on his pelt. And on it went like this, the pack suffering and starving while the Redwolf’s ego feasted on the high of power.

Prey eventually lost its luster to the Redwolf because it no longer satiated his bloodlust and they couldn’t hunt him back. He wanted a challenge, wanted the power to regain its potency, and that’s when he began waging wars against the other wolfpacks in the Icewoods with whom there’d been peace for years. The Redwolf got his fix of death, time went on, and his stains grew with age.

Eventually, the pack – once 50 strong – dwindled to just he and his two starving pups roaming the Icewoods for food in the autumn cold. The leader’s ribs bulged out of his blood red pelt and he knew it wouldn’t be long before he and his sons starved to death. He showed love for his pups and an earnest to keep them alive. Echoes of genuine love and affection Mogi once had, but the Redwolf convinced himself it was only because they represented his bloodline. To keep them alive was to keep his glory – the glory of the Redwolf Demon of the Icewoods – alive after his death.

He instructed them to wait by a lone pine atop a hill and save what strength they had left while he went and hunted, but the Icewoods were dead, you see. The prey had either been killed or run off through the Redwolf’s hunts or wolf wars. Dead and quiet it was, but somehow, the Redwolf felt as if he were being watched. Hunger makes the mind weak, he told himself paying no mind to the feeling. Suddenly, the silence was broken when the lone leader heard a roar in the direction of his pups. A roar neither were capable of making.

The Redwolf hustled back as fast as he could and reached his pups in time to see a grizzly taking her last bites of them. His legs trembled from exhaustion and shock. He asked himself, how did the Redwolf fall so far? His pride was shattered and heart torn by the loss of his pups. Only then did he realize what reaching his ambition had cost him, how it crumbled upon its foundation of vanity and ego, and how worthless his life was without his pack to live with. Pain of their loss coursed through his bones, he wanted to vomit, but nothing was in his stomach and all that came out of him were tears.

The grizzly eyed the wolf toiling in his thoughts. It was going to be a long winter, she thought, and an extra helping of wolf sounded just splendid before hibernation.

With nothing left to live for but death, the Redwolf attacked the bear. He managed to shred one of her eyes in the suicidal dash, but the grizzly bit him in the scruff of his neck and tossed him down a hill. The hulking beast gave pursuit, the Redwolf’s vision blurred, his body was broken, and as he stared into the gaping maw of the grizzly, it roared in pain. Then again, and again, and before unconsciousness took him, the old wolf saw the bear running away with feathered sticks poking out of him. Strange, he thought to himself, so strange.

The Redwolf did not know how much time had passed by the time he came to. It was winter, his instincts told him, but he was confused as to why he felt so warm. He blinked once, twice, and stared at a glowing orange aura before him and felt the tightness of strange wrappings around his body. His eyes darted around the shelter until they saw him, Loboko. The rival leader he never killed, and now his head poked above the warm, glowing orange aura staring at the Redwolf without eyes in his head. The old wolf struggled to fight his way free but was too weak to do so.

Confusion and bewilderment became him, because approaching him was a two-legged wolf with Loboko’s head over its own. Its pelt wasn’t furry either, but brown and smooth. Then the two-legged wolf removed Loboko’s head to reveal her own with flowing black fur unlike he’d ever seen before that fell around her shoulders.

His instincts assured him between his heavy breaths that this was no enemy, but the two-legged Shewolf who saved him from the grizzly. His heart ceased its racing to a canter, and he realized she was nursing him back to health. So, he rested his head and let sleep take him again. The lone wolf’s consciousness drifted, and he found himself wondering aimlessly in a dark land until found a glowing pond. He looked into it and staring back in the shimmers of water was the face of every animal he’d killed. All the prey, every enemy wolf, every member of his wolf pack, his pups, until finally he stared back into the eyes of a wolf whose face white as snow. He hardly recognized the beautiful, young wolf he used to be and tears dripped off the stained crimson fur into the pond. They told the young wolf how sorry he was for what he had become, for killing what peaceful life he could have lived with his pack and his family.

The young wolf leaned closer to the Redwolf and the Redwolf closer to the young wolf until their noses touched in the reflection of the pond’s water. Their tongues lapped the water, and the young wolf cleansed the red from the old wolf’s pelt. Mogi stepped back and saw the reflection of his younger self and his old pack behind him. Their forgiveness coursed through his veins, a rush more vividly splendid than his old addiction to death and power could have possibly given him. Happiness became him, and Mogi’s head shot up to the stars and howled with his pack.

Mogi leapt from his slumber and began to howl the best he could in his weakened state. Meanwhile, the Shewolf sat and smiled at the strange beast she’d brought back to her teepee. She rubbed his back until he fell back to sleep and continued her work washing the red from his pelt with wet rags and applying herbs to the gashes the grizzly left.

Her elders had told her about the Redwolf demon of the Icewoods and how it’d killed all the game within it. In fact, it was her task to kill the Redwolf on her quest of becoming and to bring back its pelt. The wolf’s death would mean the rebalancing of nature within the Icewoods so life may thrive there once again.

The Shewolf walked her own path, however. Near the advice of her elders but true to her own way of things using her heart as her north star – exactly as her father had taught her growing up. The Shewolf had become the best hunter in her tribe under his guidance, and as she turned 14, she was ready for her year-long quest of becoming. Not all returned from it, however. They would become lost on their quest, the elders would proclaim, only to be found again in the afterlife. Most were scared as they left the tribe on their quest, but not the Shewolf. No, she was counting down the days before she could take off.

She’d spent the first few months on her quest of becoming stalking the Redwolf, staying downwind, observing his actions, reactions, and his hunting instincts so she could prepare herself to kill him. The Shewolf could not deny the imbalance the Redwolf brought to nature, but also couldn’t help but admire his tenacity, fearlessness, and genius within the hunt. She also observed his pack dying away one by one, making her task of killing the Redwolf easier as they did, for they would protect their leader.

Remorse came over her, though, the more she witnessed. The wolf wars were by far the most savage display of nature she’d ever seen. She pitied the old wolf, saw the pain in his eyes from afar and high above in the pines. She saw a snow-white wolf who truly loved his pack, wanted to provide for them, but was trapped in a cage of red that controlled his actions. She saw Mogi.

In a way, she grew to admire and love the tragic wolf and thought to herself, why would I kill a potential companion? He is not a menace but has only lost his way. She waited for the right time to make contact with the Redwolf. Too soon could cost her, her life, she knew. The Redwolf was desperate now, and starving, and he would attack her without a second thought. Then killing him would be inevitable for her survival, but she didn’t want to kill Mogi. Not at all, she wanted to save Mogi, and kill the Redwolf demon of the Icewoods. And during that month revitalizing and healing the old wolf, that’s exactly what she did. She’d rescued Mogi from death.

It took some time to regain his strength, eating small amounts of food the Shewolf provided and drinking bizarre, herbal tonics she concocted. As his strength grew, so too did Mogi’s trust in the Shewolf, even allowing her to rub his belly when she’d spark another orange aura at night to sit by.

She reintroduced him to the wild, to the hunt, but also to balance. The Shewolf and Mogi hunted in the outskirts of the Icewoods, only eating what they needed and never overindulging. He’d also taken a liking to the strange meat growing from the bushes. They were black and juicy, not as good as venison, Mogi knew, but good as he chomped down at them awkwardly.

They were kindred spirits born of the same instinct, Mogi and the Shewolf. Natural born hunters perfectly synchronized in thought and heartbeat as they stalked their prey and struck simultaneously. Months passed of hunting and foraging and protecting one another when predators would come around hungry for two or four-legged wolves. Always at each other’s side, and Mogi realized he was in a new pack with the Shewolf. Except this time, he wasn’t the leader, and he couldn’t have been happier simply being there to help her survive and keep her warm at night. Love and affection for the Shewolf grew within Mogi, but also a touch of guilt thinking himself undeserving of such happy feelings after all he’d done. He whined at the thoughts at night and her touch would always put him at ease.

Such time had passed, and Winter warned at its return as steam rose from the pack’s exhales once again. Although healthy and happy, Mogi felt age growing on his joints and vision, and felt a dramatic change coming to his life. Knowing not what, or why, only the knowing.

One day, the shewolf came to him. She wore Koboko’s head over her flowing black fur as she ran her claws through his pelt which was now white from age. Mogi didn’t understand her words but could understand her tears. Their spiritual connection relayed all she wanted to say, how much she enjoyed her time with Mogi, how much she loved him, and that it was time to return to her pack. Hers was a nomadic one, all wolf packs were, and this wasn’t her territory. Mogi knew this, and it did nothing to ease the pain of losing his Shewolf.

It was not her choice, but simply time for her pack to move on. A change as inevitable and unstoppable as the seasons, and they both knew his age and pride wouldn’t allow him to travel with their pack and away from the Icewoods. He licked her face, and she gave her friend a kiss and bid him farewell.

Mogi howled as she left, a thank you for saving him, for loving him, and he turned and lost himself in the Icewoods.

The lone wolf survived the way his leader had taught him. Only eating what he needed, letting the other living beings thrive in the Icewoods, and maintaining the balance of life he was not beyond, but a part of. He missed hunting with her and felt her absence weighing heavy on him. He’d spend time remembering her, but it was never the same nor enough to ease the pain she’d once been able to expel from his heart. The old wolf’s bones and joints missed her too, how she’d been so nimble and performing the heavy-lifting tasks of the hunt.

As it had promised, winter dug its claws deep into the air and Icewoods. It was colder than Mogi had ever remembered, and death used hunger like a stick to poke at his gut. It growled and pained him and he knew this would be his last winter. The bush meat satiated him enough to keep him walking and drinking from the stream that ran through the forest. That was about all he could do now.

Mogi roamed the Icewoods, recognizing every inch, watching the memories of his youth and life play around him in the falling snow. Then he stopped at a certain pine, one he recognized well. The one he told his pups to rest at while he hunted. But instead of his pups, Mogi saw two baby deer fawn no larger than rabbits. In the back of his mind, Mogi knew he’d killed more fawn than he could count. He knew he could easily kill these two and they’d keep the hunger away for a time. They stared at each other as Mogi crept toward them, the snow not so much as crunching under the skilled, wise pads of the old hunter. Frozen in fear, the fawns only watched and shivered as Mogi came upon them. His mouth opened, drool dripping from his fangs, and he began licking their tiny heads. Where’s your mother? Mogi wondered looking in all directions of the frosty, white-covered nature. She was nowhere to be seen or smelled, so, he curled himself around them and warmed them for the night.

A roar woke them in the morning. Though they didn’t speak the same language, Mogi’s instincts told the fawns to stay still as he turned and faced a familiar, one-eyed grizzly with his Shewolf’s feathered sticks still in her shoulders. He bore his teeth and approached feeling as young and powerful as he’d ever been once upon a time. Mogi bound left, then right, and bit a chunk from the grizzly’s belly. Another roar came and Mogi couldn’t believe his jaw was strong enough to have bitten such a chunk out of the bear. Then the bear swiped faster than Mogi could react. Somehow, someway, the massive claw seemed to pass through him. He and the bear stopped, she glanced at Mogi in sheer surprise. Surprise then gave way to rage, and the bear stood upon her hind legs, some 14 feet tall, and roared a mighty roar with her innards falling out of her belly.

Mogi sneered a smile of his younger self, feeling the rush of a challenge, and willingness to die to protect his own. Mogi howled to answer the grizzly’s challenge. The howl shook the trees, drowned out the grizzly’s roar, and came to a stop once Mogi’s jaws chomped down upon the bear’s open throat.

The grizzly shook violently, swinging Mogi left and right like a ragdoll, but he didn’t let go. Not until the bear lowered herself into the snow and died in a steaming, red puddle. Mogi turned to the fawn, both standing and staring at him. The he was confused, though because behind the fawns was an old wolf curled in a ball and covered in a nightfall’s layer of snow. Mogi walked by the fawns and recognized it was him. He turned back and saw in the reflection of their large, innocent eyes a spectral wolf staring back. There was no red stain, no white, only the sparkling bluish white of ice.

The fawns rubbed their faces against their guardian, he did not feel them as their noses fell through his spirit self, but he knew they were thanking him for the last warmth of his life. For without it, they wouldn’t have survived the night. A twig snapped behind them and all three turned their heads to see a large doe – the fawns’ mother. She regarded Mogi, bowed her head as did the fawns. Mogi returned the bow and watched them disappear into the Icewoods.

Mogi gave a last look to the grizzly, felt no remorse nor hatred for the beast that’d killed his sons. Rather, gratitude. Without the grizzly, Mogi never would have changed, never would have escaped the dreaded Redwolf demon of the Icewoods. Perhaps without the grizzly, he never would have met his Shewolf or felt the warmth of her love.

Now Mogi was more, he thought to himself walking to a mountain bluff that overlooked all the Icewoods. He surveyed his home, felt a deep love for it all and appreciation for every mistake he’d made there and learned from. Mogi realized he was not alive, nor dead, but a spirit made of his instinct, memory, spirit, and purpose. His was a destiny beyond death, and the forest would never be without balance again so long as he was there to protect it – the eternal quest of becoming for the guardian demon of the Icewoods. The thought pleased Mogi, ready for his task as he sparkled in the sunrise with rest of the snow covering his home.

Mogi gave howl, echoing throughout the trees, across the land, afterlife, and eternity. It reverberated miles upon miles away where the young Shewolf was back with her pack. They celebrated her return from her quest of becoming and having slain the Redwolf. Around an orange aura she sat with a smile across her face, much like the ones her grandchildren have now, as an image her old friend appeared in her mind’s eye. Her spirit animal. Her Mogi.

"That's a really great story, grandma," said one of the grandchildren.

"You think so?" She said leaning back and taking another puff of her pipe.

"I do! But, what happened to the Shewolf?"

"Oh, she went on and got married and started a wolfpack of her own," the grandmother smiled. "And guess what? All her pups had pups of their own who all love sitting around campfires listening to the adventures of their grandmother's youth."

The grandchildren's' eyes lit up as bright as the stars with their faces warm around the orange aura.