Trinkets for her…well, she didn’t know in what esteem she’d held him then. Perhaps he was just a curiosity at first. A hurt and wounded creature in need of healing, in need of cheer. But now….
Now, he’d become something much more to her. Something vital. Something she dared not name. Dared not admit, even to herself.
Back then, he’d finally noticed the collection of silvery bits and other oddities accumulating on the deck of the porch after weeks of inertia—and only when she’d accidentally dropped a chipped and tarnished hood ornament on his chest.
Plunk.
A ram’s head insignia. Shiny. Unlike the cracked blue-and-white BMW medallion already littering his doorstep. But she considered the ram a greater reward. He seemed much more of a truck kind of guy.
He’d sat up and snatched the chunk of metal off his rib cage, stared at it, blinked and then looked around, as if for the first time. Taking in his surroundings, the half-inch of detritus carpeting the planks on which he’d lain. She’d thought he’d sweep the mess away, relegate the whole mass of junk to a garbage can.
But he’d gathered everything together, painstakingly sorted through the lot and made groupings out of the motley hodgepodge, then arranged her offerings in precise lines and rows. Counted them. Began again. If a breeze happened to ripple through the assortment, juggling an item from its place, he’d quickly reformed his collection, aligning the trinkets once more, as if he couldn’t bear the slightest deviation from the rigid order he imposed on the jumble. He appeared obsessed. And his obsession had fascinated her. A male seeking to impose meaning out of meaningless chaos.
She’d started looking for more and more flashy bits of miscellany to add to his cache: crackly red cellophane, the dented pipe from an old wind chime. She could barely carry some things in her beak or talons. But she had to try. For him. Her heart swelled at the thought that he treasured the cast-off items she brought him.
After a few more deliveries, he’d gazed at the large carpenter’s box bristling with tools and stuck in a corner of the porch near the woodpile, eyes thoughtful. Selecting a large ax and a saw, he ventured down the short steps into his yard slowly, his limbs stiff as an old man’s. Cutting down his first tree, he sawed it into rough boards. Sanded the planks smooth. Then, to her amazement, he returned to the porch and started building shelves.
When he removed his shirt the first time, the discolored patchwork of bruises on his chest and back made her gasp. Sorrow and dismay softened her heart. Clearly, he’d been abused. She didn’t know what he’d done to warrant such a battering. But no one deserved to be treated that way.
She’d wanted, needed, to bring him joy. His elusive smile became for her a treasure rarer and dearer than any of the shiny bits she’d dropped on his porch.
So she’d sung for him. Not a raven’s raucous caw. But a clear, sweet melodic sound. Her special gift.
As if her song stunned him, he’d morphed into frozen marble, silent and still. Then, spitting the nails from between his teeth, he’d dropped the hammer and stepped off the porch again. He paced the yard in front of the cabin, scanning the skies, studying each of the trees. Had he found her? She couldn’t be sure.
“Thank you,” he’d said, his voice deep, but soft as a weeping willow bud.
She hadn’t known what to do. But her playful nature took over. She pelted him with a black walnut.
His mouth cracked, his lips quirking upward. He had a lovely smile, like sunlight suddenly bursting through dark, forbidding storm clouds. One that sent hot tingles rippling through her in places she’d never been warmed.
He’d grinned up at her. Or at least in her direction. Her heart clenched.
He’d touched her soul. She recognized a kindred being. She could no more stop watching him now, stop coming to his glade, than she could cease to soar in the bright wind, against the wide blue heaven in her favorite guise. The raven gave her the freedom she craved. Escape from the suffocating hold of her ever more greedy family.
When he finished building his shelves during those first weeks, he once again positioned the small baubles she had dropped. Again, in precise rows, no trinket misaligned…as if he needed tangible proof he could bring order to some part of his world. He built shelves for the interior of the cabin, too.
Gee seemed pleased the next time he visited.
“Progress,” he’d said. “You’re making a home.”
“I can live here,” the youth said. “I don’t hear voices. Just beautiful songs.”
“One day you’ll need pack. As they will need you. You will have to return.”
Ah, so he was wolf.
“Maybe.” He’d shrugged. “But not now.”
The older shifter nodded. “Get strong. Let the spirits of these woods speak to you. They have much to impart. Learn from them.”
Gee showed him a martial arts technique called t’ai chi ch’uan, part stillness, part meditation, all physicality.