Bringing Mae Flowers

            When she first say him, he was sleeping under and ancient pine tree. Intrigued by his silver fur and powerful form she ached to move closer, to become a part of him. Enveloping him in an armless embrace, he felt nothing but the caresses of a strong breeze. His eyes opened, golden and alert as a watch fire. Gentle as a summer breeze, she breathed into his pointed ear, “Be calm, be still, all is well.” And so, their love began.

He was a wolf, and she the wind, but their devotion was true and their love pure. His howls were her voice, and her gusts his speed. They flew through the pines of the northern forests together.  He ran where she led, and she carried his song through the skies, lamenting the love that could never truly be. For the wolf was a mortal and the wind couldn’t be held- so their story could only end in tragedy.

With the wind in his ear, the silver wolf led his pack. They led as Father and Mother, providers, protectors, and teachers, with her far-reaching sight, and his strong form. They were regarded as one in mind and one in soul- something more than just lover or mates. They guided the pack through times of feast and famine, through fires and floods, through the blackest of nights and the brightest of days.

 As the years passed the wolf’s paws lost their swiftness, his voice grew hoarse and his gleaming silver fur faded to gray. The wind was still as lively and strong as she ever was, but the old wolf new time was coming to an end.

“My only regret is that never got to hold you.” He whimpered; his golden eyes lost their luster before they closed for the final time.

“Be calm, be still, all is well.” She replied, stroking him with a gentle breeze- just as the first night when the wolf met the wind.

When the wolf breathed his last the pack sang his song, and the wind fell silent and still. Then, with a sweep of emotion, the wind ripped the trees from the ground, in a storm that raged with all her might. The mourning pack howled out the words of love and pain- into the black, starless night.

The moon goddess took pity on this impossible love. For years she watched as they loved, led, and lost. Now, moved by the wind’s storm and the packs cries, she traveled to the underworld she reclaimed the old wolf’s soul from death itself.

 Joy rustled the needles of every tree as lovers became one: the wolf’s spirit and the wind. The pack, sensing the reunion of their leader and his love, ceased their song of mourning and instead sang a song of love and praise.

It was from this pack that all wolves came and spread throughout the world. Wolves of all packs that ever were remember the story of the first pack leader and the wind, and how the moon goddess came to their aid. Now all wolves sing to the moon goddess every night as the spirits of the wind; now her most devoted worshippers, carry their prayers of gratitude to her ear.