The Path of the Ice Wolf

Translated from the Spanish by Allana C. Noyes.

I’d spend hours looking out my bedroom window at the glaciers that encircled the village where we lived. I’d lose myself, following the arc of birds migrating through the sky and wonder about the animals here before, if there really had been foxes, wild horses, other creatures.
One morning I peered through the kitchen window, and there he was, next to the bush, that great artic wolf wagging its tail. This was the fifth time this week he’d showed up, standing in front of our house. It was as if he’d come looking for me, calling to me, as if he wanted to show me something unknown.
I finished my oatmeal and placed the bowl in the dishwasher. I slipped on my jacket and went out the front door.
The sun poured down, glistening through his thick white coat, his sky-blue eyes giving off an air of self-assuredness. Spring had arrived, bringing all its kindliness to our village after an especially harsh winter, casting its renewed strength over the pines and fields of wild flowers down the valley.
The animal straightened its body, pointing its tail up which flitted back and forth, both ears rigid as two cones and began trotting down the road as if inviting me to follow. I walked behind him down the main road until the highway’s juncture. We crossed over it, trampling through a green meadow until coming to a lake recently borne from another glacier’s melting. The artic wolf approached the water’s edge, bent its muzzle down and lapped at the frigid water. Before us stretched out the towering mountain range, still working to rouse itself from yet another long winter. The wolf drank again. Then, shaking out his fur, began to walk along the lake’s shore until he arrived at the mountain’s base. He was familiar with this trail and was guided by the scents as they entered his snout. He walked sure of himself, body erect, sniffing out the obstacles that earth had placed in his path. When I stopped to rest I felt as if my lungs were folding in on themselves and the wolf fixed its piercing eyes on me, wagging his tail as if to signal that I mustn’t stop. We climbed for several more hours until we arrived at a crystalline stream and that’s where we finally stopped. We lapped up the glacial water.
As I sat in the field looking down into the valley we’d crossed, I felt a shiver run through my body, my hair standing on end. How far did we trek? Thirty, forty miles? The sun was beginning to set, and I could hear the sounds of animals coming from different points on the mountain. Foxes emerging to hunt? Wolves in search of fresh prey? It was no secret that many had lost their way in the foothills of this mountain range, and everyone knew it was prohibited to venture out on the glaciers. Bears maybe, or who knows what other animals, I thought, swallowing hard. The wolf howled. I cursed myself for following this wolf out here, it was as if he tricked me, luring me straight to a pack of starving beasts. I could almost feel the animals nestled among the rocks following me with their eyes, waiting for their moment to pounce. My heart pounded in my throat, my stomach sank. I looked out at the lonely barns on the plain. Just beyond the lake, I could make out the woods and the houses of the town lined up in three main streets, but they seemed so far away, so inaccessible from where I was seeing them. I felt the sweat coming down my back.
Something in me fell silent. Time stood still.
The water rushed down pure and diaphanous from the mountain, bestowing life upon the town. I thought of how those small and secluded houses had been accepted into the fold of this mountain range’s millennia-old life. I watched the wolf with his extra senses, the subtle sounds emanating from all around us. Without changing his rigid posture, he sat next to me. I stroked his chest with the palm of my hand and with his damp tongue he licked my wrist, assuring me that he knew the way home better than anyone.

Allana C. Noyes is a literary translator from Reno, Nevada. She holds an MFA from the University of Iowa and in 2015 was granted a Fulbright to Mexico. In 2018, she was awarded the World Literature Today Translation Prize in Poetry. Her translations have appeared in World Literature Today, Asymptote, Lunch Ticket, Exchanges, and are forthcoming with Catapult/Soft Skull in the Tiny Nightmares Anthology of Short Horror Fiction.

El camino del lobo de hielo

Pasaba horas enteras en la ventana de mi habitación mirando las montañas con sus glaciares que rodeaban la aldea en donde vivíamos. Me perdía mirando las aves en cielo migrar. Me preguntaba si de verdad había zorros, caballos salvajes y otros animales.
Una mañana me asomé a la ventana de la cocina. Al lado de un arbusto, vi aquel lobo ártico, moviendo la cola. Era la quinta vez en esta semana que venia, y se paraba al frente de nuestra casa. Pareciese como si hubiera venido a buscarme, como si me hablara, como si quisiera enseñarme algo importante. Me terminé mi plato de avena y dejé la vasija en el lavaplatos; me puse mi chaqueta y salí al jardín.
El sol brillaba potente sobre su pelaje abundante blanco. Sus ojos celestes se imponían con seguridad. La primavera había llegado con gran bondad a nuestra aldea tras un prolongado invierno; proyectaba su nueva fuerza en los pinos y flores silvestres del valle. El animal se posicionaba recto, su cola apuntaba hacia arriba haciendo movimientos pequeños y sus orejas se mantenían erguidas como dos conos.
Empezó a caminar calle abajo, como si me invitara a seguirlo. Empecé a caminar detrás de él por la calle principal hasta llegar a la carretera; la atravesamos; y caminamos por la pradera verde hasta llegar a una laguna que se había formado tras el derretimiento de otro glaciar; el lobo se acercó a la orilla, inclinó el hocico y empezó a beber del agua fría. Frente a nosotros se erigía aquella cordillera inmensa despertando aun del largo invierno. Volvió a beber agua. Se sacudió el pelaje, y empezó a caminar rodeando la orilla del lago hasta llegar al pie de la montana; conocía bien el camino, se guiaba oliendo cuanto encontraba frente de su hocico; avanzaba seguro de sí mismo, cuerpo recto, oliendo cuantos obstáculos la tierra o el hielo le iba interponiendo.
Cuando me detuve sintiendo como si mis pulmones se empezaran a encoger, el animal clavó sus ojos garzos a mí, movió la cola y se acercó como pidiéndome que no me detuviera. Continuamos ascendiendo por varias horas hasta llegar a un arroyo cristalino, allí nos detuvimos. Bebimos del agua glacial.
Me senté en el prado mirando el valle que habíamos recorrido. Sentí un escalofrió en todo mi cuerpo, mis pelos se pusieron de punta. ¿Cuánto habíamos avanzado? ¿Veinte, treinta, cuarenta millas? El sol empezaba a descender. Varios sonidos de animales llegaban desde diferentes puntos de la montaña. ¿Eran zorros que salían a casar? ¿Eran lobos que buscaban nuevas presas? No era un secreto que muchos se habían se habían perdido en el pie de esta cadena de montañas, era bien sabido que era prohibido caminar en los glaciares. ¿Y los osos? ¿Y cuántos animales más que no conocía? pensé, tragué saliva con dificultad. Maldije el momento en el que decidí seguir a este animal; sentí como si aquel lobo me hubiera engañado para entregarme a una jauría de animales hambrientos. El lobo aulló. Sentí como si los animales me observaran escondidos entre las rocas esperando para atacarme. Sentí el corazón en la garganta, el estómago encogido. Observé las granjas aisladas en la planicie. Mas allá del lago, podía ver el bosque; las casas del pueblo se presentaban ordenas en las tres calles principales pero lejanas e inalcanzables desde donde las observaba. Sentí las gotas de sudor bajar por mi espalda.
Todo quedó en silencio en mi interior como si el tiempo del mundo se hubiera detenido.
El agua seguía bajando pura y cristalina de la montaña abasteciendo de vida al pueblo. Sentí como si desde hacia mucho tiempo atrás aquellas casas ya hubieran sido aceptadas por la vida milenaria de la cadena de montañas. Observé al lobo que seguía con todos sus sentidos los sonidos que emanaban de desde diferentes lugares. Se acercó a mí sin perder su postura. Se sentó a mi lado. Le sobé el pecho con la palma de la mano; él me lambió la muñeca con su lengua húmeda como asegurándome de que el conocía mejor que nadie el camino de regreso a casa.

Ivan

About Ivan Garcia

Ivan Garcia is the author of the book of short stories Texarkana. His stories and essays have been published in Spain, United Kingdom, Mexico and the United States. He holds an MFA in Spanish Creative Writing from the University of Iowa and is a PhD researcher in translation and comparative literature at the University of Michigan.

Ivan Garcia is the author of the book of short stories Texarkana. His stories and essays have been published in Spain, United Kingdom, Mexico and the United States. He holds an MFA in Spanish Creative Writing from the University of Iowa and is a PhD researcher in translation and comparative literature at the University of Michigan.

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