Long Snows Moon
Authors: Stacey Darlington
Tags: #coming of age, #lesbian, #native american, #glbt, #sexual awakening, #drunk, #socialite, #animal magic, #haunted woods, #lost dog, #family lineage, #long snows moon, #stacey darlington, #wolf hybrid
by Stacey
Darlington
Published by
Melange Books, LLC
White Bear Lake, MN 55110
Long Snows Moon, Copyright 2013 by Stacey
Darlington
ISBN: 978-1-61235-638-9
Names, characters, and incidents depicted in this
book are products of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales,
organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher. No part of
this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any
means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,
or by any information storage and retrieval system, without
permission in writing from the publisher.
Published in the United States of America.
Cover Art by Caroline Andrus
LONG SNOWS MOON
STACEY DARLINGTON
A young socialite finds herself hurled from
her comfort zone of luxury and self-denial into the esoteric world
of animal magic. When her pet wolf/husky hybrid, Long Snows Moon,
plummets from her car window to the forest below, Devon Danforth
must explore the haunted woods to find her. During her drunken
stumble through the forest, Devon finds love in the arms of Jameson
Jordan, the Native American girl she met as a teen during a family
skiing vacation. During her sexual awakening, Devon discovers her
own animal nature and her wild family lineage.
Dedication
This book was
inspired by and dedicated to my Mavis.
Sixteen years and four months was not long
enough.
July 1997 – November 2012
Special thank you to Lorenzo Alisande Martinez
Alisande, this is my thesis for you. You changed my
life.
I hope it makes you proud. May the gods bless
you.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Her night vision was excellent. From her
vantage, she noticed a mouse scurry under a root. Perhaps it sensed
her presence and feared her. Her mission was not about a mouse, she
was there to observe a transformation. She was a sentry, a
protector, an ardent spectator. She was quiet and invisible. She
was empathic.
She watched Devon Danforth topple down the
embankment, then her drunken spill into the woods. She suppressed a
maternal urge to help. Devon would be more afraid than comforted by
her presence, besides, to soothe was not her purpose.
The forest floor seemed offensive against
Devon's backside. The bloody gash on her forehead crystallized from
the frigid winter air. Her ragged breath formed a cloud as she
gasped from the bumps and bruises she gained from her fall. She
strained to distinguish the unfamiliar sounds around her, the
rustling of leaves, and the hoot of an owl. She was a city girl
with her non-sensible shoes and her flimsy garments. She’d grown
into a beautiful woman, of course, she had, but she was scattered
and lacked discipline. She needed to learn.
A lewd root made her yelp. She used a low
branch to pull herself up. Her eyes were wild as she searched the
dark woods for foe. Beauty paid no homage to this goddess this
night and the haunted forest did not give a damn what she looked
like.
The occasional sounds of civilization
receded, no more headlights, or winking taillights. The clouds
coveted the moon and begrudged a single wish in the sky. It seemed
Devon had nocturnal vision because she screamed when she noticed
the bear towering above her.
She scrambled to sit, tried to stand but fell
backward, again, victim to the rogue root. She huddled on the
ground and trembled, waiting for the bear to make its move.
Fumbling with numb fingers, she untied her
monogrammed scarf from around her neck. She waved it in the air as
if the bear would see it as a flag of surrender. The bear did not
surrender. Its desire was instinctual.
Chapter One
Jameson sprinted
through the woods trying to outrun her thoughts. She dodged
branches and leapt over roots, with the agility of a cat. Her
braids streamed behind her, the winter air made her blush. Her
backpack clattered against her back echoing her
heartbeat.
Rubek joined her on the narrow path. He loped
beside her, nudging her thigh with his muzzle to go faster. She
laughed. As if she could outrun a wolf. She burst ahead and left
him in a hail of pebbles and dirt.
“Is that all you’ve got?” Jameson glanced
back to taunt the wolf. Rubek was gone.
She trotted the rest of the way, letting her
muscles cool down as she entered the clearing. The truth was she
could outrun a wolf. It was Kai’s gift.
The way the late noon sun angled through the
trees made the clearing light up like a stage. She paused and
marveled at the beauty of the makeshift graveyard. Jameson noted on
her watch the precise hour as time tended to slip when she entered
the sacred woods.
She stood above the grave, squinting as the
sun dazzled the crude headstone. It shimmered, a dubious diamond in
the snow. She stared at it for a while before opening her pack and
arranging her paints. She had been considering changing the
headstone for something much grander, but time also slipped when
she was not in the woods.
The monument was no larger than a human
skull, yet it had remained in place tucked beneath Elk’s Pass
Bridge for five years. Rooted and grounded above the spot she’d
planted her beloved pet, Ripe Berries Moon. She preferred the word
planted because it brought about the expectation of rebirth.
Jameson was overjoyed when a stem sprouted
above the grave the first year she returned to commune with Berry.
By now, that sprig stood hip high and as wide as a cheerleader at
her ten-year reunion. She’d be damned if the sapling wasn’t
sporting tiny red berries.
She was always reluctant to visit the burial
site. Her mother insisted she must walk the medicine wheel. It was
part of their tradition. The wheel gave a person a chance to
reflect on previous mistakes. It was an opportunity to complete
lessons. Jameson wobbled along this part of her life’s wheel five
times and each time lost her balance.
If you refuse to change, the world will
force change upon you.
That was one of her mother, the late
great Doctor Joann Jordan favorite wisdomisms. Jameson could
believe it, even preach it, but was having a hard time relating it
to her life. Especially when accepting death, and, death did chase
her. It always had.
As painful as it was for her, Jameson
benefited from their passings. The animals she helped cross imbued
in her their magic. She was sure-footed as a mountain lion. She was
as strong as a bear and as gentle as a fawn. She ran as fast as a
wolf and moved with the swiftness of a snake.
Jameson thought of Rubek and smiled. She
spread out a blanket and arranged her paints and canvas. She sat
with her back to the overpass, allowing herself a broad view of the
shadowy woods beyond the clearing. Soon dusk would steal her good
working light so she began her ceremony. She put herself into a
warrior pose and concentrated on her breath.
It was her favorite time of day, between
Shawnodese and Mudjewkeewis, to Jameson a mystical time. She stared
at a knot in a tree, ignoring the burning pain in her thighs. She
sank deeper into the pose as snowflakes dappled her hair and kissed
her freckled face. Her leg muscles began to quiver. She took a deep
breath and held it as if she were about to submerge under water for
longer than she could bear. She let the memory hit her with both
barrels.
Bang the gunshots, the bloody snow, and
shrill screams, distant and haunting. She forced herself to embrace
the dark ache, to face the anger that cast monstrous shadows in her
mind. Jameson gasped and opened her eyes before the monster became
her. A snowflake blended with her tears. She felt it roll down her
cheek. She moved into mountain pose and thanked the sky.
A rabbit bounded into the clearing.
Jameson sat on the snow and beckoned the
rabbit. She rubbed her hands together to gather the necessary
heat.
The rabbit hopped into Jameson’s lap and
snuggled against her, passive and peaceful. It was obvious he
hadn’t come to die. As she stroked the rabbit, she listened to his
wisdom.
Do not cry, my sister, you do not have time
for self-pity. You must realize that is the nature of your grief.
You, as one of the chosen humans should understand this. The past
is a story. You must live in the moment.
The rabbit scampered for the woods casting
furtive glances, knowing and ever conscious he was prey.
“Thank you, my brother,” she whispered. “Be
careful this is a dangerous world for you.”
We are all prey to something.
The
rabbit nodded before he disappeared into the darkening woods.
“That’s true.” Jameson blinked back her
tears, accepting the implication of the rabbit. He represented
action and growth. He would not tolerate depression, defeatism, or
self-pity.
If the rabbit thought her worthy of his
medicine, the least she could do was accept it. Jameson set up her
canvas and began selecting her bold colors. It was time to make a
change. This year she would accept her pain.
“Thank you, Brother Rabbit,” she hollered.
She grinned as her voice echoed back. Liberation was at hand. She
felt free and giddy.
She shaded her eyes as her raven descended
from the bridge railing above. It landed on Jameson’s backpack and
fixed her with its black eyes.
“Have you been up there the whole time?”
Jameson asked.
The bird ignored her and groomed its
wing.
Jameson smirked. “Keep your secrets, it’s
what you do. I, however, am free. Free as a bird. I am bursting
with energy and light. I have a good feeling about the upcoming
year. I found the missing ingredient in my mother’s secret
recipe.”
The raven squawked and settled on top of
Jameson’s winter hat. Jameson grinned at it as the bird peered over
her forehead.
“I’m thinking about getting another dog,
too.”
On the overpass above, a reckless car
careened across the icy bridge. Jameson knew the squeal of tires
overhead signaled another out-of-towner cutting through to Salt
Lake City. The locals were skilled drivers on the ice and snow.
They knew how to accelerate into the slide resisting the urge to
smash on the brakes.
She ignored the traffic, adjusted her bird
hat, and set about her task. It was her tradition to paint the
landscape at this time, each a visual journal as she charted the
subtle changes in the land. The raven relocated to Jameson’s knee
and preened one of her braids.
As she mixed the colors, images of Berry
filled her mind. Jameson sensed the puff of Berry’s excited breath.
She imagined hearing the distinctive howl intrinsic to the wild
breed. Jameson promised herself she would not cry. How long could a
person mourn a dog? The truth was Berry hadn’t been an ordinary
dog. She had been her best friend, her constant companion and saw
Jameson through the disturbing and sudden passing of her mother.
Dogs the quality of Ripe Berries Moon didn’t just fall from the
sky.
