Disclaimer: S. Meyer created and owns these characters. In return, they own me.
"...we drove up north, almost to the hot springs - there's a good spot just about a mile up the trail. But when we were halfway there...we saw something." ~ Angela, New Moon pg 155
I will never forget that foggy morning along the Ruby Beach trail or how the sight of that magnificent animal set my heart pounding in my chest. From the beginning, I'd been hesitant to share what had happened. The critical response I received from Lauren, and the dismissal by the rest of my friends the next day at school ensured that what I had seen would remain my secret. I let them think they convinced me I had seen a bear, but something in Bella's eyes when she confirmed the animal attacks her father had been looking into told me she believed I'd seen something else. It was obvious she had secrets of her own.
What I saw my senior year of high school changed everything for me. I sought it out like a drug. Despite my previously sedentary nature, and all of the warnings to do otherwise, I'd wandered in the woods, hoping to find it again. Every major life choice that followed was colored by my secret desire to get back to that moment, that feeling. Ben quickly tired of my camping fixation, though he'd come along more often than not in the beginning. I'm sure we'd have drifted apart anyway, for reasons that became obvious to me later; my lack of focus on anything other than my time in the forest certainly hastened that relationship's demise.
I'd gone away to Oregon State University after high school, seduced by their participation in the Leopold Project, a study of the re-introduction of predatory species into the wild. There, I'd spent every spare weekend and break during the first years of my undergrad education volunteering on tracking missions into the backcountry of Oregon looking for the wolves that ranged through the area. Each time we would encounter a new pack my pulse would race in anticipation, hoping for that same feeling. Though they possessed a graceful beauty that left me in awe, I never felt the spark again. I wanted it so desperately.
Our group's guide into the backcountry, Peo, was a member of the Umatilla tribe, which had resided on the land of Northern Oregon since before the wolves had been hunted to near extinction. Our group found his stories fascinating, and I found that his presence on the trips made them an even more amazing experience for me.
As an English major, I didn't always blend with the scientific crowd on the expeditions, but my enthusiasm for the subject and talent with a camera made me worth bringing along. The first time we'd encountered a pack I'd stood awestruck. I was so captivated that I was unable to lift the camera to capture the images my naked eye refused to part with.
Peo's voice broke me from my reverie. "You are lalawísh átawit," he said, looking smug, but refused to tell me what it meant when I asked. He'd taken to calling me Lala for the rest of the trip, and every day since. Our campmates assumed he'd derived the nickname from Angela. It amused me that they would think that a man so gifted with language would use an alliterative nonsense word in reference to a young female colleague, but they never really saw him clearly.
Later that week in the library I was able to find the meaning of his words, and it left me stunned. I'd gotten used to living up to the expectations of what other people saw when they looked at me, the preacher's daughter, tall girl, the nerd. I'd hidden behind these things, played the roles which allowed me the freedom of my own pursuits when no one looked any deeper.
The translation of Peo's words left me feeling as if I'd been stripped bare, and truly been seen. It was a comfort unlike anything I'd known.
He was calling me 'lover of wolves'.
Peo and I bonded over our mutual adoration of words and nature, and he honored me by teaching me as much Sahaptin, his first language, that I could grasp. He was roughly my father's age, and his presence in my life felt like family. When he told me of the Indigenous Language Project during my junior year, I jumped on the chance to focus my major while being able to contribute to something that had become so important to me. Ethnologists were trying to record the languages and culture of the native tribes while there were still those alive to share the stories and speak the words. Funding was scarce, but my friendship with Peo had sparked a passion for preserving his people's way of life. Grant writing required a firm grasp of English and a stubborn constitution. I had both. The research was fascinating, if a bit exhaustive, and we had great success.
When the opportunity to work with the Quileute nation came up, it felt like my roots and my destiny had converged, and I applied for it without hesitation. Thankfully, assignments in the rainy Olympic Peninsula were not in high demand, and I was chosen to assist the tribal elders in the cataloging of the history and recording of the language of the tribe as well as developing textbooks, dictionaries and an online translator.
Despite my excitement to head back to Northwest Washington, it was difficult to say goodbye to Peo and the life I had built in Oregon. The night before I left, I went to have dinner with his family. I promised him and his wife that I would keep in touch, and we discussed the work that I would be doing, which made him beam with pride.
"Thank you for setting me on the path," I said, feeling I should acknowledge the impact he'd had in my decision to pursue this.
He was somber when he replied, "I could no more set you on your path than I could tell the moon to rise, I'm just pleased to have walked it with you for a while."
"I'll miss you."
"You won't have time. You'll be too busy saving the future and protecting the past." Peo dismissed my serious tone, like a man who was all too practiced at goodbyes. I, however, wasn't, and a bit of melancholy encroached on the comfort I'd always felt in his home, in his presence. I was going to miss this.
Peo broke the silence before it became uncomfortable by inquiring about my new assignment. "Which nation is fortunate enough to be getting you as the savior of their language?"
"I'll be working with the Quileutes."
"You're going home to the wolves?" A crinkle in the corner of his eye gave away his curiosity before he spoke.
"Wh- ," I stuttered, processing what he'd said, and trying to form a response. Logically wolves no longer inhabited the region where I was going, and I'd never shared my secret encounter with anyone, not even my good friend.
"The wolves were trapped to extinction on the Olympic Peninsula decades ago Peo. You of all people know that." I bluffed.
"Maybe so, lalawísh átawit, but wolves are beginning to thrive again. I think you might be surprised by what you find," he said. His words felt like a blessing, and bolstered my hopes that I'd made the right decision. That lightness stayed with me through the following days as I prepared for the long drive back to Forks.
There were plenty of reasons for coming home; my family was still here, my career could flourish, but deep down, there was only one true motivation for going back. I wanted to recapture that feeling of mystery and amazement that I'd had that day when I crossed paths with that mythical animal.
It was here. I came home to find the giant wolf in Clallam County.
A/N: This is for BookJunkie, who bought me in a FGB auction, and waited like, two years for her story. She is wonderful, a true supporter of writing, and a gift to fandom.
Forever love to EinfachMich and MJinAspen for handholding and characterization reality checks. Errors are mine.