Bears And Wolves Quotes

The doors to the world of the wild Self are few but precious. If you have a deep scar, that is a door, if you have an old, old story, that is a door. If you love the sky and the water so much you almost cannot bear it, that is a door. If you yearn for a deeper life, a full life, a sane life, that is a door.

It looked like the sort of book described in library catalogues as 'slightly foxed', although it would be more honest to admit that it looked as though it had been badgered, wolved and possibly beared as well.

She sighed, annoyed at her restlessness. “So,” she said, disrupting Wolf in another backward glance. “Who would win in a fight—you or a pack of wolves?” He frowned at her, all seriousness. “Depends,” he said, slowly, like he was trying to figure out her motive for asking. “How big is the pack?” “I don’t know, what’s normal? Six?” “I could win against six,” he said. “Any more than that and it could be a close call.” Scarlet smirked. “You’re not in danger of low self-esteem, at least.” “What do you mean?” “Nothing at all.” She kicked a stone from their path. “How about you and … a lion?” “A cat? Don’t insult me.” She laughed, the sound sharp and surprising. “How about a bear?” “Why, do you see one out there?” “Not yet, but I want to be prepared in case I have to rescue you.” The smile she’d been waiting for warmed his face, a glint of white teeth flashing. “I’m not sure. I’ve never had to fight a bear before.

In the event of some sort of gathering, if one of the bossy, over bearing, possessive, fur balls has not flipped his switch and attacked some poor young pup in some misguided attempt to protect his woman's virtue, then the night is not yet over.

A human body in no way resembles those that were born for ravenousness; it hath no hawk’s bill, no sharp talon, no roughness of teeth, no such strength of stomach or heat of digestion, as can be sufficient to convert or alter such heavy and fleshy fare. But if you will contend that you were born to an inclination to such food as you have now a mind to eat, do you then yourself kill what you would eat. But do it yourself, without the help of a chopping-knife, mallet or axe, as wolves, bears, and lions do, who kill and eat at once. Rend an ox with thy teeth, worry a hog with thy mouth, tear a lamb or a hare in pieces, and fall on and eat it alive as they do. But if thou had rather stay until what thou eat is to become dead, and if thou art loath to force a soul out of its body, why then dost thou against nature eat an animate thing? There is nobody that is willing to eat even a lifeless and a dead thing even as it is; so they boil it, and roast it, and alter it by fire and medicines, as it were, changing and quenching the slaughtered gore with thousands of sweet sauces, that the palate being thereby deceived may admit of such uncouth fare.

What if I say I can't bear to lose you?" A smile tugged at her lips. "I'd say you're a liar. That claims like that belong to romantic ninnies." She raised her hand and let her fingertips trace the line of his beautiful jaw. He closed his eyes. "We would go on, you and I. If I couldn't be queen, you would find a way to win this battle and save this country. You would make a sheltering place for my people. You would march an bleed and crack terrible jokes until you had done all you said you would. I suppose that's why I love you.

Fairy tales have a moral: Stay on the path. Don’t trust wolves. Don’t steal things, not even things you think no normal person would care about. Share your food but don’t trust people who want to share their food with you; don’t eat their shiny red apples, not their candy houses, nor any of it. Be nice, always nice, and polite to everyone: kings and beggars, witches and wounded bears. Don’t break a promise.

Cycling, cycling forever bear, wolf, caribou. When had it all started, where will it end? We are all part of one, from such simple beginnings and yet all so different. Yet one. One and again.

She'd read once that if you ran into a bear in the woods you should avoid eye contact and you shouldn't run away, but all she knew about wolves is that you should never tell them how to find your grandmother's house.

If you have a deep scar, that is a door, if you have an old, old story, that is a door. If you love the sky and the water so much you almost cannot bear it, that is a door. If you yearn for a deeper life, a full life, a sane life, that is a door.

Wolves know when they’re being raised by bears.

For wolves and pigs and bears, thinking that they’re human is a tragedy. For a cat, it’s an experience.

Are you scared of going in to see the raghnaid [the council]?” asked a gray female pup. “Are you cag mag [crazy]? If a bear was his Milk Giver, you think he’s scared of the raghnaid?

We wanted to blast the world free of history.... picture yourself planting radishes and seed potatoes on the fifteenth green of a forgotten golf course. You'll hunt elk through the damp canyon forests around the ruins of Rockefeller Center, and dig clams next to the skeleton of the Space Needle leaning at a forty-five degree angle. We'll paint the skyscrapers with huge totem faces and goblin tikis, and every evening what's left of mankind will retreat to empty zoos and lock itself in cages as protection against the bears and big cats and wolves that pace and watch us from outside the cage bars at night.

She racked her brain for the training session she’d taken on bear encounters, but it had been a long time ago. Stay still. It can’t see me if I don’t move. No, wait - that’s what you’re supposed to do for a T-Rex.

A starved soul can become so filled with pain, a woman can no longer bear it. Because women have a soul-need to express themselves in their own soulful ways, they must develop and blossom in ways that are sensible to them and without molestation from others.

Outside the window, there slides past that unimaginable and deserted vastness where night is coming on, the sun declining in ghastly blood-streaked splendour like a public execution across, it would seem, half a continent, where live only bears and shooting stars and the wolves who lap congealing ice from water that holds within it the entire sky. All white with snow as if under dustsheets, as if laid away eternally as soon as brought back from the shop, never to be used or touched. Horrors! And, as on a cyclorama, this unnatural spectacle rolls past at twenty-odd miles an hour in a tidy frame of lace curtains only a little the worse for soot and drapes of a heavy velvet of dark, dusty blue.

Accept that you are bad and dirty and cheap and should be thrown to the wolves as scrap meat, and must never bear children, for who knows the faces they would be locked behind from birth until death.

We bear the grins of the smiling dead.

I thought that I would go to Romania and that when I got there I would go to some small town and buy secondhand clothes in the market. Shoes. A blanket. I’d burn everything I owned. My passport. Maybe I’d just put my clothes in the trash. Change money in the street. Then I’d hike into the mountains. Stay off the road. Take no chances. Crossing the ancestral lands by foot. Maybe by night. There are bears and wolves up there. I looked it up. You could have a small fire at night. Maybe find a cave. A mountain stream. I’d have a canteen for water for when the time came that I was too weak to move about. After a while the water would taste extraordinary. It would taste like music. I’d wrap myself in the blanket at night against the cold and watch the bones take shape beneath my skin and I would pray that I might see the truth of the world before I died. Sometimes at night the animals would come to the edge of the fire and move about and their shadows would move among the trees and I would understand that when the last fire was ashes they would come and carry me away and I would be their eucharist. And that would be my life. And I would be happy.

Every creature on earth returns to home. It is ironic that we have made wildlife refuges for ibis, pelican, egret, wolf, crane, deer, mouse, moose, and bear, but not for ourselves in the places we live day after day. We understand that the loss of habitat is the most disastrous event that can occur to a free creauture. We fervently point out how other creatures' natural territories have become surrounded by cities, ranches, highways, noise, and other dissonance, as though we are not affected also. We know that for creatures to live on, they must at least from time to time have a home place, a place where they feel both protected and free

Wildlife, we are constantly told, would run loose across our towns and cities were it not for the sport hunters to control their population, as birds would blanket the skies without the culling services of Ducks Unlimited and other groups. Yet here they are breeding wild animals, year after year replenishing the stock, all for the sole purpose of selling and killing them, deer and bears and elephants so many products being readied for the market. Animals such as deer, we are told, have no predators in many areas, and therefore need systematic culling. Yet when attempts are made to reintroduce natural predators such as wolves and coyotes into these very areas, sport hunters themselves are the first to resist it. Weaker animals in the wild, we hear, will only die miserable deaths by starvation and exposure without sport hunters to control their population. Yet it's the bigger, stronger animals they're killing and wounding--the very opposite of natural selection--often with bows and pistols that only compound and prolong the victim's suffering.

We don’t like to think of ourselves as prey—it is a lessening thought—but the truth is that in our arrogance and so-called knowledge we forget that we are not unique. We are part of nature as much as other animals, and some animals—sharks, fever-bearing mosquitoes, wolves and bear, to name but a few—perceive us as a food source, a meat supply, and simply did not get the memo about how humans are superior. It can be shocking, humbling, painful, very edifying and sometimes downright fatal to run into such an animal.

Two weeks earlier than scheduled, she flew into Vancouver and signed on with Greenpeace. The work was neither taxing nor truly exciting but the people she met more than compensated and she forged many new friendships. The high points were the trips they made by sea kayak, exploring the wild inlets farther up the coast. They watched bears scoop salmon from the shallows and paddled among pods of orcas, so close you could have reached out and touched them. At night they camped at the water's edge, listening to the blow of whales in the bay and the distant howls of wolves in the forest above.

She sat silently in her rocking chair. Some people are good at talking, but Granny Weatherwax was good at silence. She could sit so quiet and still that she faded. You forgot she was there. The room became empty. Tiffany thought of it as the I’m-not-here spell, if it was a spell. She reasoned that everyone had something inside them that told the world they were there. That was why you could often sense when someone was behind you, even if they were making no sound at all. You were receiving their I-am-here signal. Some people had a very strong one. They were the people who got served first in shops. Granny Weatherwax had an I-am-here signal that bounced off the mountains when she wanted it to; when she walked into a forest, all the wolves and bears ran out the other side. She could turn it off, too. She was doing that now. Tiffany was having to concentrate to see her. Most of her mind was telling her that there was no one there at all.

Had the new people learned what Original Man was taught at a council of animals—never damage Creation, and never interfere with the sacred purpose of another being—the eagle would look down on a different world. The salmon would be crowding up the rivers, and passenger pigeons would darken the sky. Wolves, cranes, Nehalem, cougars, Lenape, old-growth forests would still be here, each fulfilling their sacred purpose. I would be speaking Potawatomi. We would see what Nanabozho saw. It does not bear too much imagining, for in that direction lies heartbreak.

A long time ago Darren had said that bears and wolves weren’t meant to get along. I thought he’d been talking about state troopers, though. This

There was a time when you were not a slave, remember that. You walked alone, full of laughter, you bathed bare-bellied. You say you have lost all recollection of it, remember. The wild roses flower in the woods. Your hand is torn on the bushes gathering the mulberries and strawberries you refresh yourself with. You run to catch the young hares you flay with stones from the rocks to cut them up and eat all hot and bleeding. You know how to avoid meeting a bear on the track. You know the winter fear when you hear the wolves gathering. But you can remain seated for hours in the treetops to await morning. You say there are no words to describe this time, you say it does not exist. But remember. Make an effort to remember. Or, failing that, invent.

She had been Zoya’s teacher, feared and beloved, powerful beyond measure. “I watched her throw herself from a mountaintop. She sacrificed herself to stop you. Was that her martyrdom?” The Darkling said nothing. Zoya couldn’t stop herself. “Grigori was eaten by a bear. Elizaveta was drawn and quartered. Still, they returned. There are stories whispered in the Elbjen mountains of the Dark Mother. She crowds in when the nights grow long. She steals the heat from kitchen fires.” “Liar.” “Maybe. We all have stories to tell.

GOd let women bear children so women would never give up hope. Even if here on earth women were denied everything else, God would always let them bear children. Children were a promise brighter than the rainbow.

That it was a wolf was somewhat comforting. Wolves talked occasionally. So did bears. Foxes talked all the time, particularly if you caught them in the hen house, where they would do their best to addle you with fine nonsense until they could slip out the door, and it was generally believed that all cats could talk and simply refused to do so for inscrutable reasons of their own. 

The wise man doesn't poke a sleeping bear with a stick.

A woman alone was in danger from all sorts of predatory creatures - bears, wolves, men.

I have often heard it said that cowardice is the mother of cruelty, and I have found by experience that malicious and inhuman animosity and fierceness are usually accompanied by weakness. Wolves and filthy bears, and all the baser beasts, fall upon the dying.

I’ll tell you right now, the doors to the world of the wild Self are few but precious. If you have a deep scar, that is a door, if you have an old, old story, that is a door. If you love the sky and the water so much you almost cannot bear it, that is a door. If you yearn for a deeper life, a full life, a sane life, that is a door.

The old witch bears many giants for sons, and all in the shape of wolves; and from this source are those wolves sprung. The saying runs thus: from this race shall come one that shall be mightiest of all; he that is named Moon-Hound; he shall be filled with the flesh of all those men that die, and he shall swallow the moon, and sprinkle with blood the heavens and all the air; thereof shall the sun lose her shining, and the winds in that day shall be unquiet and roar on every side.

Keep an eye out for caves," she told Logan. "And sometimes you can crawl into the big trees, nest in around the roots. But we have to be careful." "Because of bears?" Logan asked. "And wolves," she said. "Wolves like places like that." "Oh. There are wolves now. Yay," Logan said.

Our lips just trespassed on those inner labyrinths hidden deep within our ears, filled them with the private music of wicked words, hers in many languages, mine in the off color of my own tongue, until as our tones shifted, and our consonants spun and squealed, rattled faster, hesitated, raced harder, syllables soon melting with groans, or moans finding purchase in new words, or old words, or made-up words, until we gathered up our heat and refused to release it, enjoying too much the dark language we had suddenly stumbled upon, craved to, carved to, not a communication really but a channeling of our rumored desires, hers for all I know gone to Black Forests and wolves, mine banging back to a familiar form, that great revenant mystery I still could only hear the shape of, which in spite of our separate lusts and individual cries still continued to drive us deeper into stranger tones, our mutual desire to keep gripping the burn fueled by sound, hers screeching, mine – I didn’t hear mine – only hears, probably counter-pointing mine, a high-pitched cry, then a whisper dropping unexpectedly to practically a bark, a grunt, whatever, no sense any more, and suddenly no more curves either, just the straight away, some line crossed, where every fractured sound already spoken finally compacts into one long agonizing word, easily exceeding a hundred letters, even thunder, anticipating the inevitable letting go, when the heat is ultimately too much to bear, threatening to burn, scar, tear it all apart, yet tempting enough to hold onto for even one second more, to extend it all, if we can, as if by getting that much closer to the heat, that much more enveloped, would prove … - which when we did clutch, hold, postpone, did in fact prove too much after all, seconds too much, and impossible to refuse, so blowing all of everything apart, shivers and shakes and deep in her throat a thousand letters crashing in a long unmodulated fall, resonating deep within my cochlea and down the cochlear nerve, a last fit of fury describing in lasting detail the shape of things already come. Too bad dark languages rarely survive.

Times may change, but I guess cowboys don't.

Ducks are practically defenseless, and as a result, they have many predators. There are foxes, coyotes, wolves, raccoons, bobcats, hawks, and Janet Yellen.

There once was an infant lost in the woods, crying its heart out, wondering why no one answered, drawing down the wolves

The child, ravaged by wolves, falls quiet in the forest, and the long darkness is filled with an undisturbed silence.

It looked the sort of book described in library catalogues as “slightly foxed,” although it would be more honest to admit that it looked as though it had been badgered, wolved and possibly beared as well.

Finally the larger animals returned—bears and wolves, who paraded around at night with human bones in their mouths. Nobody remarked on this. The rains had washed the blood off their hands and refilled the streams.

Stand down, Matthew,” Philippe growled. The sound was as leonine as the rest of him. The de Clermont family was a menagerie of formidable beasts. In Matthew’s presence I was always reminded of wolves. With Ysabeau it was falcons. Gallowglass had made me think of a bear. Philippe was akin to yet another deadly predator.

Fairy tales have a moral: Stay on the path. Don’t trust wolves. Don’t steal things, not even things you think no normal person would care about. Share your food but don’t trust people who want to share their food with you; don’t eat their shiny red apples, nor their candy houses, nor any of it. Be nice, always nice, and polite to everyone: kings and beggars, witches and wounded bears. Don’t break a promise. Be bold, be bold, but not too bold. It’s important that we learn the lessons our mother didn’t.

We don’t like to think of ourselves as prey—it is a lessening thought—but the truth is that in our arrogance and so-called knowledge we forget that we are not unique. We are part of nature as much as other animals, and some animals—sharks, fever-bearing mosquitoes, wolves and bear, to name but a few—perceive us as a food source, a meat supply, and simply did not get the memo about how humans are superior.

The association of the wild and the wood also run deep in etymology. The two words are thought to have grown out of the root word wald and the old Teutonic word walthus, meaning 'forest.' Walthus entered Old English in its variant forms of 'weald,' 'wald,' and 'wold,' which were used to designate both 'a wild place' and 'a wooded place,' in which wild creatures -- wolves, foxes, bears -- survived. The wild and wood also graft together in the Latin word silva, which means 'forest,' and from which emerged the idea of 'savage,' with its connotations of fertility....

Few people will campaign for an alternative vision of black holes or magnetic inversion, but we know from experience that about soils, vaccines, earthworms, bears, wolves, neurotransmitters, mushrooms, water circulation, or the composition of air, the smallest study will immediately be plunged into a full-scale battle of interpretations. The Critical Zone is not a classroom; the relationship between researchers and the public is anything but purely pedagogical. If we still had any doubts on this point, the pseudocontroversy over the climate suffices to dispel them. There is no evidence that any major corporation has spent a penny to produce ignorance about the detection of the Higgs boson. But denying the climatic mutation is another matter entirely: financing floods in. Ignorance on the part of the public is such a precious commodity that it justifies immense investments.

Mr. Lockery—my biology teacher—says if dinosaurs were magically brought forward in time today, we’d have nothing to worry about. Dogs, wolves, and bears would make short work of tyrannosaurs.” She nodded at Schrödinger, who was now padding across the floor in the opposite direction. “Big cats, too. They’re faster, tougher, and brighter than anything that existed seventy million years ago. Everything is always ramping up, always escalating.

But clouds bellied out in the sultry heat, the sky cracked open with a crimson gash, spewed flame-and the ancient forest began to smoke. By morning there was a mass of booming, fiery tongues, a hissing, crashing, howling all around, half the sky black with smoke, and the bloodied sun just barely visible. And what can little men do with their spades, ditches, and pails? The forest is no more, it was devoured by fire: stumps and ash. Perhaps illimitable fields will be plowed here one day, perhaps some new, unheard-of wheat will ripen here and men from Arkansas with shaven faces will weigh in their palms the heavy golden grain. Or perhaps a city will grow up-alive with ringing sound and motion, all stone and crystal and iron-and winged men will come here flying over seas and mountains from all ends of the world. But never again the forest, never again the blue winter silence and the golden silence of summer. And only the tellers of tales will speak in many-colored patterned words about what had been, about wolves and bears and stately green-coated century-old grandfathers, about old Russia; they will speak about all this to us who have seen it with our own eyes ten years - a hundred years! - ago, and to those others, the winged ones, who will come in a hundred years to listen and to marvel at it all as at a fairy tale. ("In Old Russia")

much of the peat sold in garden centres is now imported from other countries, notably from Ireland, Estonia, Latvia and Finland. Estonia is a wild and unspoiled country where bears and wolves still roam, and it is sad to reflect that great chunks of it are now being dug up so that we can grow begonias.

The woods were full of peril—rattlesnakes and water moccasins and nests of copperheads; bobcats, bears, coyotes, wolves, and wild boar; loony hillbillies destabilized by gross quantities of impure corn liquor and generations of profoundly unbiblical sex; rabies-crazed skunks, raccoons, and squirrels; merciless fire ants and ravening blackfly; poison ivy, poison sumac, poison oak, and poison salamanders; even a scattering of moose lethally deranged by a parasitic worm that burrows a nest in their brains and befuddles them into chasing hapless hikers through remote, sunny meadows and into glacial lakes.

Down in the valley, leaves fall from trees, the branches are bare. All the flowers have faded, their blossoms once so beautiful. The frost attacks many herbs and kills them. I grieve. But if the winter is so cold, there must be new joys. Help me sing a joy of a hundred thousand times greater than the buds of May. I will sing of roses on the red cheeks of my lady. Could I win her favor, this lovely lady would give me such joy I would need no other. (Jack) What are you saying? (Lorelei) Noble lady, I ask nothing of you save that you should accept me as your servant. I will serve you as a good lord should serve, whatever the reward may be. Here I am, then, at your orders, sincere and humble, gay and courteous. You are not, after all, a bear or lion, and would not kill me, surely, if I put myself between your hands. I love you, my lady, Lorelei. Marry me and I swear I shall never again do or say anything to harm you and I will slay anyone who does. (Jack)

These are among the people I've tried to know twice, the second time in memory and language. Through them, myself. They are what I've become, in ways I don't understand but which I believe will accrue to a rounded truth, a second life for me as well as them. Cracking jokes in the mandatory American manner of people self-concious about death. This is the humor of violent surprise. How do you connect things? Learn their names. It was a strange conversation, full of hedged remarks and obscure undercurrents, perfect in its way. I was not a happy runner. I did it to stay interested in my body, to stay informed, and to set up clear lines of endeavor, a standard to meet, a limit to stay within. I was just enough of a puritan to think there must be some virtue in rigorous things, although I was careful not to overdo it. I never wore the clothes. the shorts, tank top, high socks. Just running shoes and a lightweight shirt and jeans. I ran disguised as an ordinary person. -When are you two going to have children? -We're our own children. In novels lately the only real love, the unconditional love I ever come across is what people feel for animals. Dolphins, bears, wolves, canaries. I would avoid people, stop drinking. There was a beggar with a Panasonic. This is what love comes down to, things that happen and what we say about them. But nothing mattered so much on this second reading as a number of spirited misspellings. I found these mangled words exhilarating. He'd made them new again, made me see how they worked, what they really were. They were ancient things, secret, reshapable.The only safety is in details. Hardship makes the world obscure. How else could men love themselves but in memory, knowing what they know? The world has become self-referring. You know this. This thing has seeped into the texture of the world. The world for thousands of years was our escape, was our refuge. Men hid from themselves in the world. We hid from God or death. The world was where we lived, the self was where we went mad and died. But now the world has made a self of its own.

Beware of the false prophets, who come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly are ravenous wolves. 16You will know them by their fruits. Grapes are not gathered from thorn bushes nor figs from thistles, are they? 17So every good tree bears good fruit, but the bad tree bears bad fruit. 18A good tree cannot produce bad fruit, nor can a bad tree produce good fruit. 19Every tree that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire. 20So then, you will know them by their fruits.

Well, you know. Some people are like wolves and some are like bears. And bears and wolves don’t go together. You don’t see me trying to convince you to be a wolf? So, why are you trying to convince me to be a bear?” I could hear him blinking on the other side of the line. “Can you translate that into English?” “Wolves mate for life. Bears hit and run.

It is hypocritical to exhort the Brazilians to conserve their rainforest after we have already destroyed the grassland ecosystem that occupied half the continent when we found it. A large-scale grassland restoration project would give us some moral authority when we seek conservation abroad. I must admit that I also like the idea because it would mean a better home for pronghorn, currently pushed by agriculture into marginal habitats-The high sagebrush deserts of the West. I would love to return the speedsters to their evolutionary home, the Floor of the Sky. Imagine a huge national reserve where anyone could see what caused Lewis and Clark to write with such enthusiasm in their journals-the sea of grass and flowers dotted with massive herds of bison, accompanied by the dainty speedsters and by great herds of elk. Grizzly bears and wolves would patrol the margins of the herds and coyotes would at last be reduced to their proper place. The song of the meadowlarks would pervade the prairie and near water the spring air would ring with the eerie tremolos of snipe.

The world hasn’t changed ever since, Even the Medusas now have to bear the wrath Of being beautiful, appealing or outspoken, The wolves so many times cross their path!

It is bad enough to have a bear in your house, but it does not seem to me to mend matters if you call in a pack of ferocious wolves as well.

The stars behind the glowing, swelling Earth suddenly filled with menace; he imagined them as the glints of wolves’ eyes in an infinite night-bound forest.

For some reason, Beck's unexpected kindness was hard to bear - it made tears prick my eyes where Jack's threats hadn't.

So, what idiot put hothead on the door tonight?" Dev "I be said idiot. Thank you very much. Thought he was you. Could one of you bastards cut your hair so I can tell you apart?" Fang

There aren't any bears or wolves in this forest. A few poisonous snakes, perhaps. The most dangerous creature here would have to be me. So maybe I'm just frightened of my own shadow.

Their idea of quitting themselves like men is to achieve victory by means of something which only man possessed, that is, by the power of the intellect. They say any animal can fight with its body - bears, lions, boars, wolves, dogs can all do it, and most of them are stronger and fiercer than we are - but what raises us above them is our reason and intelligence.

When women do not speak, when not enough people speak, the voice of the Wild Woman becomes silent, and therefore the world becomes silent of the natural and wild too. Silent, eventually, of wolf and bear and raptors. Silent of singings and dancing's and creations. Silent of loving, repairing, and holding. Bereft of clear air and water and the voices of consciousness.

How dare you say such a thing to me?” “Well, now. I’ve faced down charging bears and starving wolves and murdering Chickamaugas. Reckon the pique of a pretty miss ain’t like to daunt me.

Then why are women by nature, by God’s own design, the gentler sex? Women faint at the slightest scare. (Morgan) Slight scare, Captain? I assure you, sir, that I have seen women suffer for days to bring a child into this world. And I have yet to see a woman faint during the labor of it. I beg you, show me a man who would willingly bear that much pain for that many hours, and not cry out for his mommy! In fact, you want to know why women have a higher tolerance for pain, Captain Drake? I’ll tell you why, it’s so that we women can put up with you men! (Serenity)

Charlock’s prince is in one of those old warrior traditions. You know the kind, Istvhan, your homeland’s lousy with them.” Istvhan nodded. “The sacred order of this and that and that thing over there. Usually wolves. Or bears. Sometimes blood.” “Blood?” said Stephen. “Look, you can only have so many Sacred Order of the Wolfs in one region or it gets embarrassing. So then you have to be the Sacred Order of the Blood Moon, which still sounds impressive and you can keep all the wolf paraphernalia around and don’t have to get new sword hilts and standards and whatnot.

. . . she at once put on an extremely arrogant demeanour instead of the modest gait and bearing proper to the gentle sex,” the Gesta’s author complained, “began to walk and speak and do all things more stiffly and more haughtily than she had been wont, to such a point that soon, in the capital of the land subject to her, she actually made herself queen of all England and gloried in being so called.

To the ancients, bears symbolized resurrection. The creature goes to sleep for a long time, its heartbeat decreases to almost nothing. The male often impregnates the female right before hibernation, but miraculously, egg and sperm do not unite right away. They float separately in her uterine broth until much later. Near the end of hibernation, the egg and sperm unite and cell division begins, so that the cubs will be born in the spring when the mother is awakening, just in time to care for and teach her new offspring. Not only by reason of awakening from hibernation as though from death, but much more so because the she-bear awakens with new young, this creature is a profound metaphor for our lives, for return and increase coming from something that seemed deadened. The bear is associated with many huntress Goddesses: Artemis and Diana in Greece and Rome, and Muerte and Hecoteptl, mud women deities in the Latina cultures. These Goddesses bestowed upon women the power of tracking, knowing, 'digging out' the psychic aspects of all things. To the Japanese the bear is the symbol of loyalty, wisdom, and strength. In northern Japan where the Ainu tribe lives, the bear is one who can talk to God directly and bring messages back for humans. The cresent moon bear is considered a sacred being, one who was given the white mark on his throat by the Buddhist Goddess Kwan-Yin, whose emblem is the crescent moon. Kwan-Yin is the Goddess of Deep Compassion and the bear is her emissary. "In the psyche, the bear can be understood as the ability to regulate one's life, especially one's feeling life. Bearish power is the ability to move in cycles, be fully alert, or quiet down into a hibernative sleep that renews one's energy for the next cycle. The bear image teaches that it is possible to maintain a kind of pressure gauge for one's emotional life, and most especially that one can be fierce and generous at the same time. One can be reticent and valuable. One can protect one's territory, make one's boundaries clear, shake the sky if need be, yet be available, accessible, engendering all the same.

The Lord was living with a great colony of bats in a cave. Two boys with BB guns found the cave and killed many of the bats outright, leaving many more to die of their injuries. The boys didn’t see the Lord. He didn’t make His presence known to them. On the other hand, the Lord was very fond of the bats but had done nothing to save them. He was becoming harder and harder to comprehend. He liked to hang with the animals, everyone knew that, the whales and bears, the elephants and bighorn sheep and wolves. They were rather wishing He wasn’t so partial to their company. Hang more in the world of men, they begged Him. But the Lord said He was lonely there.

YORK. She-wolf of France, but worse than wolves of France, Whose tongue more poisons than the adder's tooth, How ill-beseeming is it in thy sex To triumph, like an Amazonian trull, Upon their woes whom fortune captivates! But that thy face is, vizard-like, unchanging, Made impudent with use of evil deeds, I would assay, proud queen, to make thee blush. To tell thee whence thou cam'st, of whom deriv'd, Were shame enough to shame thee, wert thou not shameless. Thy father bears the type of King of Naples, Of both the Sicils and Jerusalem, Yet not so wealthy as an English yeoman. Hath that poor monarch taught thee to insult? It needs not, nor it boots thee not, proud queen; Unless the adage must be verified, That beggars mounted run their horse to death. 'T is beauty that doth oft make women proud; But, God he knows, thy share thereof is small. 'T is virtue that doth make them most admir'd; The contrary doth make thee wond'red at. 'T is government that makes them seem divine; The want thereof makes thee abominable. Thou art as opposite to every good As the Antipodes are unto us, Or as the south to the Septentrion. O tiger's heart wrapp'd in a woman's hide! How couldst thou drain the life-blood of the child, To bid the father wipe his eyes withal, And yet be seen to bear a woman's face? Women are soft, mild, pitiful, and flexible; Thou stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless. Bid'st thou me rage? why, now thou hast thy wish: Wouldst have me weep? why, now thou hast thy will; For raging wind blows up incessant showers, And when the rage allays the rain begins. These tears are my sweet Rutland's obsequies, And every drop cries vengeance for his death, 'Gainst thee, fell Clifford, and thee, false Frenchwoman.

Every creature on earth returns to home. It is ironic that we have made wildlife refuges for ibis, pelican, egret, wolf, crane, deer, mouse, moose, and bear, but not for ourselves in the places where we live day after day.

If you loved something too much, especially something girl-shaped, you were all but begging the whole host of nature to swoop down and pick its bones clean. Well-loved things must taste sweeter to wolves and frostbite and bears.

He ground his teeth together, the torture of it almost more than he could bear. The urge to pull her to him was overwhelming, but to do that would cost him dearly, for no doubt she would run out the door, damning him with every step. This was Lorelei, the artist, and she didn't see him as a man. Right now, he was about as human as the ridiculous fruit she'd painted in the past. And if he played along with her wants, perhaps she'd let him show her his...banana.

All stories are lessons. Fairy tales have a moral: Stay on the path. Don't trust wolves. Don't steal things, not even things you think no normal person would care about. Share your food but don't trust people who want to share their food with you; don't eat their shiny red apples, nor their candy houses, nor any of it. Be nice, always nice, and polite to everyone: kings and beggars, witches and wounded bears. Don't break a promise. Be bold, be bold, but not too bold.

The names of the dogs were Pretty and Amandier. Pretty was a little dog with silky, ivory-coloured fur. He was what people call a lap dog, though this was not at all how he thought of himself. Amandier was a pale hunting dog, fine-boned, rough-coated and sensitive in nature. I do hope there’s no bears or wolves in this part of the wood today, she said. Can you smell wolves? She was rather an anxious person. I love wolfies, said Apple happily. They’re so-oo darling! Pretty looked at her. You have odd ideas for a pig, he said.

Since he will be following it through a jungle, however, he should bear in mind the supremely practical guidance provided nearly two thousand years ago: "Behold, I send you forth as sheep in the midst of wolves: be ye therefore wise as serpents, and harmless as doves.

My fingers curl through the holes in the wicker, through the wet grass beneath it, trying to hold tight to the sharp blades of the present. Somewhere in my brain a sinkhole is bubbling over, and each bubble contains a scene from a tiny sunken world ... I have never been the prophet of my own past before. It makes me wonder how the healthy dreamers can bear to sleep at all, if sleep means that you have to peer into that sinkhole by yourself. ... I had almost forgotten this occipital sorrow, the way you are so alone with the things you see in dreams.

As humans, our territory is on land. If we were meant to control the skies, we would have been given wings, and if we were meant to control the seas and oceans, we would have been designed to breathe underwater. The Creator created for us many natural water sources: lakes, ponds, rivers, springs, and streams — so that we would not tamper with the seas or oceans. This is why there is salt in the them, so we do not drink from them, or bother the huge creatures he put there to control the food chain. The salt content found in huge bodies of water is extremely vital to the elevation and balancing of the earth. This can be explained through basic physics or metaphysics. At the same time, wild creatures were also placed in jungles and forests to keep humans out of them. Plants are vital to purifying the atmosphere, and many wild animals rely on them as their food and medicine. Had the Creator not placed animals like tigers, wolves, bears, and other big creatures in untamed regions which are intended to remain inhabited, he knew that mankind would take over those areas — leaving nothing for the animals.

We spend just as much time—more even—studying dragons, learning their habits, cataloging what they eat, mapping where they go. See, the Earth is changing around us at a crazy pace. Forests are disappearing, ice caps are melting, the climate is shifting. There are people working to protect other species—the polar bears and wolves, turtles, gorillas. But who’s looking out for dragons?” Dominick’s voice was low and urgent. “We are the only people in the world who know about them. If we’re going to do a good job protecting them, we sure as heck better understand them.

What’s wrong Fane?” she asked him. “You know what you are to me, yes?” he asked. Jacque whispered her answered out loud, “Mate.” Fane nodded his head, “Yes, Meu inimă, you are my mate . The other half of my soul, and the thought of you not wanting me is more than I can bear,” Fane told her honestly. “No pressure huh?” Jacque said trying to lighten the mood. “I would never ask you to do something you do not want to Luna, but I will not lie and say that I won’t follow you around like a sick puppy,” Fane said with a smile, though the tears were not quite gone yet.

Out here, the deadly shit seeking your blood and meat is not confined to snakes and bears and weather. Other forces resent your presence too. Ghosts of long-gone wolves and buffalo and Indians and pioneers, dead in the service of implacable history. If you stop and camp early, while it's still early, while it's still daylight--claim your space, plant your flag, build your fire--you push them back into the past. But alone in the dark, the minute you sit your ass down they circle close around. Lie on the ground, and the cold seeps up as they try to equalize your temperature with theirs. Get quiet, and you hear the voices. A few words in English, but mostly in other languages. The ones that came before the Indians. Words the long-gone animals thought to one another. Words flowing against you. Wishing you ill. Yet, somehow, all gentle as an outbreath.

In my culture, animals are celebrated as beautiful, mysterious, powerful, dangerous, and benevolent. There was a period, before we lost the ability to listen, when the animals took pity on us, protected and taught us to the point where they became human in times of need. (Henry Standing Bear)

We know that Rangi can at least mutter because Digger Gibson says he used to talk to the bear. In his group home for orphaned Moa boys, Rangi had a pet cinnamon bear. I saw her once. She was just a wet-nosed cub, a cuff of pure white around her neck. Rangi found her on the banks of the Waitiki River and walked her around on a leash. He filed her claws and fed her tiny, smelly fishes. They shot her the day his new father, Digger, came to pick him up. "Burying that bear," I overheard Digger tell Mr. Oamaru once. "The first thing we ever did together as father and son." Rangi's given us this global silent treatment ever since, a silence he extends to people, animals, ice.

Fairy tales have a moral: Stay on the path. Don’t trust wolves. Don’t steal things, not even things you think no normal person would care about. Share your food but don’t trust people who want to share their food with you; don’t eat their shiny red apples, nor their candy houses, nor any of it. Be nice, always nice, and polite to everyone: kings and beggars, witches and wounded bears. Don’t break a promise.

When we think of social animals-that is, animals who live together in well-defined groups, and form enduring relationships- we usually think of the great apes, of wolves and other members of the dog family, and, or course, of humans. Science considers bears to be solitary animals. But while bears don't live in established groups or obey rigid hierarchies as chimps and wolves do, they have amazingly complex social relationships.

Long I have known and feared this day would come. Like the circle of Earth, the circle of life is changing. Here in the north, there are those who can still feel, see, and smell the changes wrought in and around Earth by Money Chiefs. The air is no longer clean, winter grows warmer, rivers flood without a sign, and the soil, once dark and rich, lies pale and weak. Bears, wolves, and other forest Spirits will soon go the way of the buffalo, for their food dwindles like birds that once ruled the skies.

With the vague hope that it might somehow explain his dream, he took one of his old textbooks from the shelves and tried to read the chapter on lycanthropy. The book cataloged the queerly universal primitive beliefs that human beings could change into dangerous carnivorous animals. He skimmed the list of human wolves and bears and jaguars, human tigers and alligators and sharks, human cats and human leopards and human hyenas. The were-tigers of Malaysia, he read, were believed invulnerable in the transformed

I could have warned her. If we were back home, and Mirabella had come under attack by territorial beavers or snow-blind bears, I would have warned her. But the truth is that by Stage 3 I wanted her gone. Mirabella's inability to adapt was taking a visible toll. Her teeth were ground down to nubbins; her hair was falling out. ... her ribs were poking through her uniform. Her bright eyes had dulled to a sour whiskey color. But you couldn't show Mirabella the slightest kindness anymore-she'd never leave you alone!

The identification we feel towards the places where we live or were born can give us an anchor in a chaotic world and strengthen our connections to family, community, and the generations that preceded and will follow us. At their best, such feelings are a celebration of culture and all that comes with it in the form of literature, language, music, food, folktales, and even the wildlife we associate with our homelands--the eagle in America, for instance, or in the Czech Republic what's left of our lions, wolves, and bears. There is, however, a tipping point, where loyalty to one's own tribe curdles into resentment and hatred, then aggression towards others. That's when Fascism enters the picture, trailed by an assortment of woes, up to and including the Holocaust and global war. Because of that history, postwar statesmen established organizations to make it harder for deluded nationalists to trample on the rights of neighbors. These bodies include the United Nations--hence Truman's speech--and regional institutions in Europe, Africa, Asia, and the Americas.

Wynter's Pass was a picturesque region in the north of Vohlfhein, where the Bleak Hills eventually collapsed into the Frozen Sea. From the back of Mr. Buckles, who had been on a slow trot since sunrise, Monch watched the light glisten off of the frozen branches of the evergreens. As the sun warmed the frozen ground, sending the evening's frost into retreat, Monch absorbed the splendor of it all and wondered how expensive the local real estate must be around here. He then contemplated attempting to find an agent that would represent his interests well. "This land is such a spectacular wonder," the Lion of Ahriman declared. "It would be very much sought after if they could just do something about the bears, the White Orts, the wolves, the bloodthirsty cannibals, the snow manapés, the frost wizards, the northern bandit gangs, the dire lynxes, the similarly sounding but not related pygmy bloodthirsty cannibals, the demon possessed yaks, the dead-soul animated trees, the..." Monch paused for a moment. "It just occurred to me that this land is really not safe at all. It seems almost everything in it wants to kill me," the Templar admitted.

The animals in the zoo-those that had not been stolen in previous administrations-were slain or left to starve. One zealous, perhaps mad, Taliban jumped into a bear’s cage and cut off his nose, reputedly because the animal’s “beard” was not long enough. Another fighter, intoxicated by events and his own power, leaped into the lion’s den and cried out, “I am the lion now!” The lion killed him. Another Taliban solider threw a grenade into the den, blinding the animal. These two, the noseless bear and the blind lion, together with two wolves, were the only animals that survived Taliban rule.

The woods were full of peril — rattlesnakes and water moccasins and nests of copperheads; bobcats, bears, coyotes, wolves, and wild boar; loony hillbillies destabilized by gross quantities of impure corn liquor and generations of profoundly unbiblical sex; rabies-crazed skunks, raccoons, and squirrels; merciless fire ants and ravening blackfly; poison ivy, poison sumac, poisonoak, and poison salamanders; even a scattering of moose lethally deranged by a parasitic worm that burrows a nest in their brains and befuddles them into chasing hapless hikers through remote, sunny meadows and into glacial lakes.

Most intellectuals and most artists belong to the same type. Only the strongest of them force their way through the atmosphere of the bourgeois earth and attain to the cosmic. The others all resign themselves or make compromises. Despising the bourgeoisie, and yet belonging to it, they add to its strength and glory; for in the last resort they have to share their beliefs in order to live. The lives of these infinitely numerous persons make no claim to the tragic; but they live under an evil star in a quite considerable affliction; and in this hell their talents ripen and bear fruit. The few who break free seek their reward in the unconditioned and go down in splendor. They wear the thorn crown and their number is small. The others, however, who remain in the fold and from whose talents the bourgeoisie reaps much gain, have a third kingdom left open to them, an imaginary and yet a sovereign world, humor. The lone wolves who know no peace, these victims of unceasing pain to whom the urge for tragedy has been denied and who can never break through the starry space,who feel themselves summoned thither and yet cannot survive in its atmosphere—for them is reserved, provided suffering has made their spirits tough and elastic enough, a way of reconcilement and an escape into humor. Humor has always something bourgeois in it, although the true bourgeois is incapable of understanding it. In its imaginary realm the intricate and manyfaceted ideal of all Steppenwolves finds its realisation. Here it is possible not only to extol the saint and the profligate in one breath and to make the poles meet, but to include the bourgeois, too, in the same affirmation. Now it is possible to be possessed by God and to affirm the sinner, and vice versa, but it is not possible for either saint or sinner (or for any other of the unconditioned) to affirm as well that lukewarm mean, the bourgeois. Humor alone, that magnificent discovery of those who are cut short in their calling to highest endeavor, those who falling short of tragedy are yet as rich in gifts as in affliction, humor alone (perhaps the most inborn and brilliant achievement of the spirit) attains to the impossible and brings every aspect of human existence within the rays of its prism. To live in the world as though it were not the world, to respect the law and yet to stand above it, to have possessions as though "one possessed nothing," to renounce as though it were no renunciation, all these favorite and often formulated propositions of an exalted worldly wisdom, it is in the power of humor alone to make efficacious.

URSKADAMUS TINE SMYORFIN MASACH!” Edme wasn’t sure what to believe now — her ears or her eye? There was only one wolf who swore in both the language of bears and that of Old Wolf. “Faolan?” “Who else, for the love of Lupus? One would think you saw a ghost.” “But with all that frost — you look like a lochin.” Faolan gave a dismissive bark. “You should see yourself,” Edme persisted. “You’ve got icicles hanging from your chin fur. Your belly fur looks as if it’s …” “I know! I know! I can feel it!” he replied crankily. “You look absolutely ancient. I mean older than the Sark.” “Thanks a lot,” Faolan huffed. “Well, what did you find?” “No meat.” His voice dwindled.

They came late to the empty land and looked with bitterness upon the six wolves watching them from the horizon's rim. With them was a herd of goats and a dozen black sheep. They took no account of the wolves' possession of this place, for in their minds ownership was the human crown that none other had the right to wear. The beasts were content to share in survival's struggle, in hunt and quarry, and the braying goats and bawling sheep had soft throats and carelessness was a common enough flaw among herds; and they had not yet learned the manner of these two-legged intruders. Herds were fed upon by many creatures. Often the wolves shared their meals with the crows and coyotes, and had occasion to argue with lumbering bears over a delectable prize. When I came upon the herders and their longhouse on a flat above the valley, I found six wolf skulls spiked above the main door. In my travels as a minstrel I knew enough that I had no need to ask - this was a tale woven into our kind, after all. No words, either, for the bear skins on the walls, the antelope hides and elk racks. Not a brow lifted for the mound of bhederin bones in the refuse pit, or the vultures killed by the poison-baited meat left for the coyotes. That night I sang and spun tales for my keep. Songs of heroes and great deeds and they were pleased enough and the beer was passing and the shank stew palatable. Poets are sembling creatures, capable of shrugging into the skin of man, woman, child and beast. There are some among them secretly marked, sworn to the cults of the wilderness. And that night I shared out my poison and in the morning I left a lifeless house where not a dog remained to cry, and I sat upon a hill with my pipe, summoning once more the wild beasts. I defend their ownership when they cannot, and make no defence against the charge of murder; but temper your horror, friends: there is no universal law that places a greater value upon human life over that of a wild beast. Why would you ever imagine otherwise?

The more you love roses the more you must bear with thorns. The more you love honey the more you must bear with bees. The more you love plants the more you must bear with soil. The more you love fruits the more you must bear with trees. The more you love forests the more you must bear with wolves. The more you love jungles the more you must bear with lions. The more you love wildernesses the more you must bear with beasts. The more you love sharks the more you must bear with oceans. The more you love rainbows the more you must bear with storms. The more you love summer the more you must bear with heat. The more you love winter the more you must bear with cold. The more you love light the more you must bear with darkness. The more you love space the more you must bear with clutter. The more you love order the more you must bear with chaos. The more you love silence the more you must bear with sound. The more you love truth the more you must bear with opinions. The more you love proof the more you must bear with suspicion. The more you love existence the more you must bear with oblivion. The more you love life the more you must bear with death. The more you love beginnings the more you must bear with endings. The more you love science the more you must bear with curiosity. The more you love nature the more you must bear with technology. The more you love faith the more you must bear with reality. The more you love time the more you must bear with mortality.

Miraculously, some animals survived at the zoo and many escaped across the bridge, entering Old Town while the capital burned. People brave enough to stand by their windows, or unlucky enough to be outside, watched a biblical hallucination unfolding as the zoo emptied into Warsaw's streets. Seals waddled along the banks of the Vistula, camels and llamas wandered down alleyways, hooves skidding on cobblestone, ostriches and antelope trotted beside foxes and wolves, anteaters called out hatchee, hatchee as they scuttled over bricks. Locals saw blurs of fur and hide bolting past factories and apartment houses, racing to outlying fields of oats, buckwheat, and flax, scrambling into creeks, hiding in stairwells and sheds. Submerged in their wallows, the hippos, otters, and beavers survived. Somehow the bears, bison, Przywalski horses, camels, zebras, lynxes, peacocks and other birds, monkeys, and reptiles survived, too.

Samwell Tarly looked at him for a long moment, and his round face seemed to cave in on itself. He sat down on the frost-covered ground and began to cry, huge choking sobs that made his whole body shake. Jon Snow could only stand and watch. Like the snowfall on the barrowlands, it seemed the tears would never end. It was Ghost who knew what to do. Silent as shadow, the pale direwolf moved closer and began to lick the warm tears off Samwell Tarly's face. The fat boy cried out, startled... and somehow, in a heartbeat, his sobs turned to laughter. Jon Snow laughed with him. Afterward they sat on the frozen ground, huddled in their cloaks with Ghost between them. Jon told the story of how he and Robb had found the pups newborn in the late summer snows. It seemed a thousand years ago now. Before long he found himself talking of Winterfell. "Sometimes I dream about it," he said. "I'm walking down this long empty hall. My voice echoes all around, but no one answers, so I walk faster, opening doors, shouting names. I don't even know who I'm looking for. Most nights it's my father, but sometimes it's Robb instead, or my little sister Arya, or my uncle." The thought of Benjen Stark saddened him; his uncle was still missing. The Old Bear had sent out rangers in search of him. Ser Jaremy Rykker had led two sweeps, and Quorin Halfhand had gone forth from the Shadow Tower, but they'd found nothing aside from a few blazes in the trees that his uncle had left to mark his way. In the stony highlands to the northwest, the marks stopped abruptly and all trace of Ben Stark vanished. "Do you ever find anyone in your dream?" Sam asked. Jon shook his head. "No one. The castle is always empty." He had never told anyone of the dream, and he did not understand why he was telling Sam now, yet somehow it felt good to talk of it. "Even the ravens are gone from the rookery, and the stables are full of bones. That always scares me. I start to run then, throwing open doors, climbing the tower three steps at a time, screaming for someone, for anyone. And then I find myself in front of the door to the crypts. It's black inside, and I can see the steps spiraling down. Somehow I know I have to go down there, but I don't want to. I'm afraid of what might be waiting for me. The old Kings of Winter are down there, sitting on their thrones with stone wolves at their feet and iron swords across their laps, but it's not them I'm afraid of. I scream that I'm not a Stark, that this isn't my place, but it's no good, I have to go anyway, so I start down, feeling the walls as I descend, with no torch to light the way. It gets darker and darker, until I want to scream." He stopped, frowning, embarrassed. "That's when I always wake." His skin cold and clammy, shivering in the darkness of his cell. Ghost would leap up beside him, his warmth as comforting as daybreak. He would go back to sleep with his face pressed into the direwolf s shaggy white fur.

There were, to be sure, some grounds for the ranchers’ bitterness toward sheep. It was known that sheep cold be destructive to grass. Their small, sharp hoofs knifed deep into the sod, turning it up and cutting it so thoroughly that years were necessary for a new growth of grass to appear. In grazing also it could be held that they were harmful to the ranges because of their method of cropping down close to the roots and at times even below them. A sheep band allowed to graze too long on one range could utterly destroy it, reduce it to barren uselessness as quickly and completely as could a cloud of locusts swarm down and destroy a tract of grain. Bed grounds also were harmful to the pastures. Herders brought their sheep together at night to protect them from the ravages of roving wolves, coyotes, and bears, and should the band be permitted to occupy the same bed grounds for too long a period, the growth was soon worn off, exposing the bare earth, hopeless for future grass.

form of Banks. “I’m not a dog, Banks. My name’s Sophia.” Craig Banks, head guard and all-around asshole, grinned as his eyes traveled the length of her. Sophia fought the shiver running down her spine as the six-foot-one guard puffed out his broad chest, trying to impress her. The man could be dressed in the finest wool suit instead of the camo pants, blank t-shirt, and combat boots he was wearing, and she’d still want to throw up at the sight of him. The man enjoyed hurting others. Last month when he’d tortured that poor bear shifter for information, Banks had been cracking jokes the entire time. “No, cupcake, you’re certainly not a dog, not with that body and that gorgeous face.” Banks ran his fingers across her bruised cheek. She flinched, but not from the pain of her cheek. “And that’s a compliment. I don’t usually go for brunettes, but you’re the exception.” Lucky me. For once, she was glad for all the people still hanging out talking nearby. Banks wouldn’t touch her here, well, no more than he had already. Her eyes started to drift in the direction of the prison, but she caught herself. Ironic how the shifter felt trapped in there and she felt trapped out here. Right now, she’d gladly switch places with him. “I’m still waiting for that walk in the woods you promised me,” Banks added, letting his hand slide down her neck to the top of her blouse. Resisting the urge to bite his hand, Sophia subtly stepped out of his reach.

No More lyrics BAKER No more questions, Please. No more tests. Comes the day you say, "What for?" Please- no more. MYSTERIOUS MAN They disappoint, They disappear, They die but they don't... BAKER What? MYSTERIOUS MAN They disappoint In turn, I fear. Forgive, though, they won't... BAKER No more riddles. No more jests. No more curses you can't undo, Left by fathers you never knew. No more quests. No more feelings. Time to shut the door. Just- no more. MYSTERIOUS MAN Running away- let's do it, Free from the ties that bind. No more depair Or burdens to bear Out there in the yonder. Running away- go to it. Where did you have in mind? Have to take care: Unless there's a "where," You'll only be wandering blind. Just more questions. Different kind. Where are we to go? Where are we ever to go? Running away- we'll do it. Why sit around, resugned? Trouble is, son, The farther you run, The more you feel undefined For what you've left undone And, nore, what you've left behind. We disappoint, We leave a mess, We die but we don't... BAKER We disappoint In turn, I guess. Forget, though, we won't... BOTH Like father, like son. BAKER No more giants Waging war. Can't we just pursue our lives With out children and our wives? 'Till that happy day arrives, How do you ignore All the witches, All the curses, All the wolves, all the lies, The false hopes, the goodbyes, The reverses, All the wondering what even worse is Still in store? All the children... All the giants... No more.

when a really cold day like this come along he’d take my grammaw, and the kids, my uncle and my aunt and my daddy—he was the youngest—and the serving girl and the hired man, and he’d go down with them to the creek, give ’em a little rum-and-herbs drink, it was a recipe he’d got from the old country, then he’d pour creek water over them. Course they’d freeze in seconds, stiff and blue as so many popsicles. He’d haul them to a trench they’d already dug and filled with straw, and he’d stack ’em down there, one by one, like so much cordwood in the trench, and he’d pack straw around them, then he’d cover the top of the trench with two-b’-fours to keep the critters out—in those days there were wolves and bears and all sorts you never see any more around here, no hodags though, that’s just a story about the hodags and I wouldn’t ever stretch your credulity by telling you no stories, no, sir,—he’d cover the trench with two-b’-fours and the next snowfall would cover it up completely, save for the flag he’d planted to show him where the trench was. “Then my grampaw would ride through the winter in comfort and never have to worry about running out of food or out of fuel. And when he saw that the true spring was coming he’d go to the flag, and he’d dig his way down through the snow, and he’d move the two-b’-fours, and he’d carry them in one by one and set the family in front of the fire to thaw. Nobody ever minded except one of the hired men who lost half an ear to a family of mice who nibbled it off one time my grampaw didn’t push those two-b’-fours all the way closed. Of course, in those days we had real winters. You could do that back then. These pussy winters we get nowadays it don’t hardly get cold enough.

Every time the cataclysmic concept has come to life, the 'beast' has been stoned, burned at the stake, beaten to a pulp, and buried with a vengeance; but the corpse simply won't stay dead. Each time, it raises the lid of its coffin and says in sepulchral tones: 'You will die before I.' The latest of the challengers is Prof. Frank C. Hibben, who in his book, 'The Lost Americans,' said: 'This was no ordinary extinction of a vague geological period which fizzled to an uncertain end. This death was catastrophic and all inclusive. [...] What caused the death of forty million animals. [...] The 'corpus delicti' in this mystery may be found almost anywhere. [...] Their bones lie bleaching in the sands of Florida and in the gravels of New Jersey. They weather out of the dry terraces of Texas and protrude from the sticky ooze of the tar pits off Wilshire Boulevard in Los Angeles. [...] The bodies of the victims are everywhere. [...] We find literally thousands together [...] young and old, foal with dam, calf with cow. [...] The muck pits of Alaska are filled with evidence of universal death [...] a picture of quick extinction. [...] Any argument as to the cause [...] must apply to North America, Siberia, and Europe as well.' '[...] Mamooth and bison were torn and twisted as though by a cosmic hand in a godly rage.' '[...] In many places the Alaskan muck blanket is packed with animal bones and debris in trainload lots [...] mammoth, mastodon [...] bison, horses, wolves, bears, and lions. [...] A faunal population [...] in the middle of some cataclysmic catastrophe [...] was suddenly frozen [...] in a grim charade.' Fantastic winds; volcanic burning; inundation and burial in muck; preservation by deep-freeze. 'Any good solution to a consuming mystery must answer all of the facts,' challenges Hibben.

Another howl ruptured the quiet, still too far away to be a threat. The Beast Lord, the leader, the alpha male, had to enforce his position as much by will as by physical force. He would have to answer any challenges to his rule, so it was unlikely that he turned into a wolf. A wolf would have little chance against a cat. Wolves hunted in a pack, bleeding their victim and running them into exhaustion, while cats were solitary killing machines, designed to murder swiftly and with deadly precision. No, the Beast Lord would have to be a cat, a jaguar or a leopard. Perhaps a tiger, although all known cases of weretigers occurred in Asia and could be counted without involving toes. I had heard a rumor of the Kodiak of Atlanta, a legend of an enormous, battle-scarred bear roaming the streets in search of Pack criminals. The Pack, like any social organization, had its lawbreakers. The Kodiak was their Executioner. Perhaps his Majesty turned into a bear. Damn. I should have brought some honey. My left leg was tiring. I shifted from foot to foot . . . A low, warning growl froze me in midmove. It came from the dark gaping hole in the building across the street and rolled through the ruins, awakening ancient memories of a time when humans were pathetic, hairless creatures cowering by the weak flame of the first fire and scanning the night with frightened eyes, for it held monstrous hungry killers. My subconscious screamed in panic. I held it in check and cracked my neck, slowly, one side then another. A lean shadow flickered in the corner of my eye. On the left and above me a graceful jaguar stretched on the jutting block of concrete, an elegant statue encased in the liquid metal of moonlight. Homo Panthera onca. The killer who takes its prey in a single bound. Hello, Jim. The jaguar looked at me with amber eyes. Feline lips stretched in a startlingly human smirk. He could laugh if he wanted. He didn’t know what was at stake. Jim turned his head and began washing his paw. My saber firmly in hand, I marched across the street and stepped through the opening. The darkness swallowed me whole. The lingering musky scent of a cat hit me. So, not a bear after all. Where was he? I scanned the building, peering into the gloom. Moonlight filtered through the gaps in the walls, creating a mirage of twilight and complete darkness. I knew he was watching me. Enjoying himself. Diplomacy was never my strong suit and my patience had run dry. I crouched and called out, “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.” Two golden eyes ignited at the opposite wall. A shape stirred within the darkness and rose, carrying the eyes up and up and up until they towered above me. A single enormous paw moved into the moonlight, disturbing the dust on the filthy floor. Wicked claws shot forth and withdrew. A massive shoulder followed, its gray fur marked by faint smoky stripes. The huge body shifted forward, coming at me, and I lost my balance and fell on my ass into the dirt. Dear God, this wasn’t just a lion. This thing had to be at least five feet at the shoulder. And why was it striped? The colossal cat circled me, half in the light, half in the shadow, the dark mane trembling as he moved. I scrambled to my feet and almost bumped into the gray muzzle. We looked at each other, the lion and I, our gazes level. Then I twisted around and began dusting off my jeans in a most undignified manner. The lion vanished into a dark corner. A whisper of power pulsed through the room, tugging at my senses. If I did not know better, I would say that he had just changed. “Kitty, kitty?” asked a level male voice. I jumped. No shapechanger went from a beast into a human without a nap. Into a midform, yes, but beast-men had trouble talking. “Yeah,” I said. “You’ve caught me unprepared. Next time I’ll bring cream and catnip toys.” “If there is a next time.

experience, and to our consequent estrangement from the earthly world around us. So the ancient Hebrews, on the one hand, and the ancient Greeks on the other, are variously taken to task for providing the mental context that would foster civilization’s mistreatment of nonhuman nature. Each of these two ancient cultures seems to have sown the seeds of our contemporary estrangement—one seeming to establish the spiritual or religious ascendancy of humankind over nature, the other effecting a more philosophical or rational dissociation of the human intellect from the organic world. Long before the historical amalgamation of Hebraic religion and Hellenistic philosophy in the Christian New Testament, these two bodies of belief already shared—or seem to have shared—a similar intellectual distance from the nonhuman environment. In every other respect these two traditions, each one originating out of its own specific antecedents, and in its own terrain and time, were vastly different. In every other respect, that is, but one: they were both, from the start, profoundly informed by writing. Indeed, they both made use of the strange and potent technology which we have come to call “the alphabet.” — WRITING, LIKE HUMAN LANGUAGE, IS ENGENDERED NOT ONLY within the human community but between the human community and the animate landscape, born of the interplay and contact between the human and the more-than-human world. The earthly terrain in which we find ourselves, and upon which we depend for all our nourishment, is shot through with suggestive scrawls and traces, from the sinuous calligraphy of rivers winding across the land, inscribing arroyos and canyons into the parched earth of the desert, to the black slash burned by lightning into the trunk of an old elm. The swooping flight of birds is a kind of cursive script written on the wind; it is this script that was studied by the ancient “augurs,” who could read therein the course of the future. Leaf-miner insects make strange hieroglyphic tabloids of the leaves they consume. Wolves urinate on specific stumps and stones to mark off their territory. And today you read these printed words as tribal hunters once read the tracks of deer, moose, and bear printed in the soil of the forest floor. Archaeological evidence suggests that for more than a million years the subsistence of humankind has depended upon the acuity of such hunters, upon their ability to read the traces—a bit of scat here, a broken twig there—of these animal Others. These letters I print across the page, the scratches and scrawls you now focus upon, trailing off across the white surface, are hardly different from the footprints of prey left in the snow. We read these traces with organs honed over millennia by our tribal ancestors, moving instinctively from one track to the next, picking up the trail afresh whenever it leaves off, hunting the meaning, which would be the meeting with the Other.2

In 1995, the gray wolf was reintroduced to Yellowstone National Park after a seventy-year hiatus. Scientists expected an ecological ripple effect, but the size and scope of the trophic cascade took them by surprise.7 Wolves are predators that kill certain species of animals, but they indirectly give life to others. When the wolves reentered the ecological equation, it radically changed the behavioral patterns of other wildlife. As the wolves began killing coyotes, the rabbit and mouse populations increased, thereby attracting more hawks, weasels, foxes, and badgers. In the absence of predators, deer had overpopulated the park and overgrazed parts of Yellowstone. Their new traffic patterns, however, allowed the flora and fauna to regenerate. The berries on those regenerated shrubs caused a spike in the bear population. In six years’ time, the trees in overgrazed parts of the park had quintupled in height. Bare valleys were reforested with aspen, willow, and cottonwood trees. And as soon as that happened, songbirds started nesting in the trees. Then beavers started chewing them down. Beavers are ecosystem engineers, building dams that create natural habitats for otters, muskrats, and ducks, as well as fish, reptiles, and amphibians. One last ripple effect. The wolves even changed the behavior of rivers—they meandered less because of less soil erosion. The channels narrowed and pools formed as the regenerated forests stabilized the riverbanks. My point? We need wolves! When you take the wolf out of the equation, there are unintended consequences. In the absence of danger, a sheep remains a sheep. And the same is true of men. The way we play the man is by overcoming overwhelming obstacles, by meeting daunting challenges. We may fear the wolf, but we also crave it. It’s what we want. It’s what we need. Picture a cage fight between a sheep and a wolf. The sheep doesn’t stand a chance, right? Unless there is a Shepherd. And I wonder if that’s why we play it safe instead of playing the man—we don’t trust the Shepherd. Playing the man starts there! Ecologists recently coined a wonderful new word. Invented in 2011, rewilding has a multiplicity of meanings. It’s resisting the urge to control nature. It’s the restoration of wilderness. It’s the reintroduction of animals back into their natural habitat. It’s an ecological term, but rewilding has spiritual implications. As I look at the Gospels, rewilding seems to be a subplot. The Pharisees were so civilized—too civilized. Their religion was nothing more than a stage play. They were wolves in sheep’s clothing.8 But Jesus taught a very different brand of spirituality. “Foxes have dens and birds have nests,” said Jesus, “but the Son of Man has no place to lay his head.”9 So Jesus spent the better part of three years camping, fishing, and hiking with His disciples. It seems to me Jesus was rewilding them. Jesus didn’t just teach them how to be fishers of men. Jesus taught them how to play the man! That was my goal with the Year of Discipleship,

If you have a deep scar, that is a door, if you have an old, old story, that is a door. If you love the sky and the water so much that you almost cannot bear it, that is a door. If you yearn for a deeper life, a full life, a sane life, that is a door.

I remembered the stories that DavRian told. That we killed indiscriminately, that we wanted nothing more than human blood. That our mouths were full of poison. I realized how much courage it took the human to try to help me. He wasn’t young either, he was a male halfway through his life, the kind that was usually the most distrustful of us, and he wasn’t helping me for his own gain. I wasn’t bringing him prey or protecting him or any of the other things that the humans valued about us. He wanted to help me. He was behaving as if he couldn’t bear to see me in pain. It was almost as if he thought of me as a human pup.

squirrels, deer, wolves, black bears—but there would be a few

I Tonight my father steps drunk into the snare, is lifted in his fur coat like a small bear who upside down feels only the weight of its tongue. Alone in moonlight he circles for hours on the palms of his hands, finds by touch, the green bottle of wine upright in snow. Already his eyes are small pockets of ice a paw has pushed through. And these are the tracks he follows into the first few moments of sleep, into a life now hanging by one heel among the birches. This is the world gone white at the edges of maps where even wolves disappear in silence, where my father's bewildered ear twists its own deaf center, calling home. II By morning he is still alive, this noose a last foothold turning his body slowly in a light snow. He wakes like a man whose skin has swallowed the cold, thin air wintering in the heart of a stone. Here, he dreams of dragging a sled of pelts across a field. But always his one caught leg keeps falling behind like en exhausted animal too heavy to move on the crust. There is sweat and a stiff wind carving a trail in his back, snow falling harder in every direction but time. III At last he thinks of a woman undressing below him in the snow. Her skin is blue, her legs crossed and long. When he reaches down darkness falls all the way from his chest. Inside one finger he has written his name in blood. Now he must bed down for good in the thought of this one woman cold and naked who begins to stir openly in her perfect camouflage like absence entering the eye of this storm.

Years later he had tried to find his parents, to tell them that their Lump had become the great Varamyr Sixskins, but both of them were dead and burned. Gone into the trees and streams, gone into the rocks and earth. Gone to dirt and ashes. That was what the woods witch told his mother, the day Bump died. Lump did not want to be a clod of earth. The boy had dreamed of a day when bards would sing of his deeds and pretty girls would kiss him. When I am grown I will be the King-Beyond-the-Wall, Lump had promised himself. He never had, but he had come close. Varamyr Sixskins was a name men feared. He rode to battle on the back of a snow bear thirteen feet tall, kept three wolves and a shadowcat in thrall, and sat at the right hand of Mance Rayder. It was Mance who brought me to this place. I should not have listened. I should have slipped inside my bear and torn him to pieces.

The sacred order of this and that and that thing over there. Usually wolves. Or bears. Sometimes blood.” “Blood?” said Stephen. “Look, you can only have so many Sacred Order of the Wolfs in one region or it gets embarrassing. So then you have to be the Sacred Order of the Blood Moon, which still sounds impressive and you can keep all the wolf paraphernalia around and don’t have to get new sword hilts and standards and whatnot.

He told her that on these tours he had begun to see the strangest behavior: Often, when his group encountered a mother bear with, say, two cubs, she would leave her young close to the photo-snapping tourists and go off to hunt by herself. She did it, he realized quickly, because she knew the cubs would be safe from wolves whenever they were close to a group of humans. She was leaving her cubs with the nanny while she took a little Me Time.

Clearly, I’m in The Jungle Book,” Konstantin said. “I have met the wolves, the bear, and the panther.” “Don’t worry, there’s no python.” He gave me an odd look. “I already met her.

A crime is a breach of an important social rule. Solitary animals don’t have rules. A bear will trash another bear’s cave, steal its food and kill its young. Wolves don’t do those things: if they did, they couldn’t live in packs.

You would think that one of the largest perennial streams in the American Southwest, brought to life by a wilderness holding deep snows in its higher reaches, would be full of life. But the Gila River is all but dead. And so is the forest. Much of it looks devastated. There used to be wolves, grizzly bears, Merriam’s elk, beavers, black-footed ferrets, and river otters here. Most of them exist, now, only on the cracked pottery of the long-vanished Mogollon.

A large, but not particularly impressive, book. Other books in the University’s libraries had covers inlaid with rare jewels and fascinating wood, or bound with dragon skin. This one was just a rather tatty leather. It looked the sort of book described in library catalogues as “slightly foxed,” although it would be more honest to admit that it looked as though it had been badgered, wolved and possibly beared as well.

return a hefty percentage of the land to the kind of place it had been before Europeans arrived. The industrial agriculture of yesteryear had turned the valley into a giant factory floor, bereft of anything but products grown for sale; unsustainable, ugly, devastated, inhuman, and this in a place that had been called “the Serengeti of North America,” alive with millions of animals, including megafauna like tule elk and grizzly bear and mountain lion and wolves.

Our first trip was to the Canadian Arctic, where we were supposed to witness the migration of the Porcupine caribou herd, the largest and most magnificent movement of mammals in North America, and document their crossing of a remote river called the Firth, which Pete assured our editors at National Geographic Adventure “shouldn’t be too big of a deal,” given the size of the herd (roughly 123,000 animals, flanked by wolves, grizzly bears, and other predators). Unfortunately, we planned so poorly that we failed to locate a single caribou, returning home with little to show, aside from a lone photo capturing a set of antlers lying forlornly on the tundra—which, one of the magazine’s fact-checkers indignantly informed me, had actually belonged to a moose.

Often, when his group encountered a mother bear with, say, two cubs, she would leave her young close to the photo-snapping tourists and go off to hunt by herself. She did it, he realized quickly, because she knew the cubs would be safe from wolves whenever they were close to a group of humans. She was leaving her cubs with the nanny while she took a little Me Time.

This was not the last time she remembered those nightmarish times when he went to hunt the devil. It is an animal of evil, a demon in animal form, and a scavenger from hell. No one had ever walked out alive on the crutches of death. My father was the only one to be spared alive to this day. I don’t know; maybe it's luck or he is a skilled hunter. I believe in the latter. I have heard stories of my father killing wolverines, moose, wolves, Kamchatka, and polar bears. The skins and heads of these animals are hanging as trophies in my house. It was only once that my father took me hunting polar bears along with Barbos.

• to leave the old parents of the psyche, descend to the psychic land unknown, while depending on the goodwill of whomever we meet along the way • to bind the wounds inflicted by the poor bargain we made somewhere in our lives • to wander psychically hungry and trust nature to feed us • to find the Wild Mother and her succor • to make contact with the sheltering animus of the underworld • to converse with the psychopomp (the magician) • to behold the ancient orchards (energic forms) of the feminine • to incubate and give birth to the spiritual childSelf • to bear being misunderstood, to be severed again and again from love • to be made sooty, muddy, dirty • to stay in the realm of the woodspeople for seven years till the child is the age of reason • to wait • to regenerate the inner sight, inner knowing, inner healing of the hands • to continue onward even though one has lost all, save the spiritual child • to re-trace and grasp her childhood, girlhood, and womanhood • to re-form her animus as a wild and native force; to love him; and he, her • to consummate the wild marriage in the presences of the old Wild Mother and the new childSelf

We give a 24-hour view of all of the activities, foods, and supplements you can use to be in a peak state all day. First, it’s important to honor your chronotype to know when you should wake up each day: Lions are morning people Wolves are night people Bears are in the middle Dolphins are light sleepers who struggle to get a good night’s sleep

Dad's intentions were good, but even so, it was like living with a wild animal. Like those crazy hippies the Alaskans talked about who lived with wolves and bears and invariably ended up getting killed. The natural-born predator could seem domesticated, even friendly, could lick your throat affectionately or rub up against you to get a back scratch. But you knew, or should know, that it was a wild thing you lived with, that a col- lar and leash and a bowl of food might tame the actions of the beast, but couldn't change its essential nature. In a split second, less time than it took to exhale a breath, that wolf could claim its nature and turn, fangs bared.

In the old countries, and still today, in order to launder one’s clothes one descends to the river, and there makes the ritualistic ablutions that people have made since the beginning of time in order to renew the cloth. This is a very fine symbol for a cleansing and purification of the entire bearing of the psyche.

C. G. asked me if I knew of a place called Wallowa. I did, because nearby Joseph, Oregon, was known for fly-fishing, which I’d learned after seeing A River Runs Through It. He emailed, I don’t like artificial heat. I get the fire going, throw some blankets on the ground and imagine it’s a cold night in a teepee. I like the natural warmth of a fire, the sound of the wood burning and the smell. Remember that scene in Dances with Wolves when Kevin Costner is sitting by the fire and telling his concerns to Ten Bears? He’s told to forget his concerns and to just enjoy the fire. There’s comfort in simplicity. His emails left me breathless and burning in a way my body didn’t recognize.

thirty-five species of canines, from wolves to dholes, jackals to foxes. Felines number forty-one. Cetaceans—whales, porpoises, dolphins—are abundant with more than ninety species. And there are as many as five hundred species of primates. Bears don’t even enter the double digits.

If you have a deep scar, that is a door, if you have an old, old story, that is a door. If you love the sky and the water so much you almost cannot bear it, that is a door. If you yearn for a deeper life, a full life, a sane life, that is a door. The

Writing this book afforded me the opportunity to find out and to honor these creatures in stories and in science. I’m grateful to all the grizzly bears, wolves, wolverines, cougars, lynx, and jaguars who live along the Carnivore Way for your big lessons about wildness and why it matters in our rapidly changing world. Long may you run. This

Shifters In Love brings you another great collection of full-length shifter romance stories from USA Today and NYT bestselling authors, Hot Summer Love. Scorching hot passion jumps from the pages in these shifter stories featuring lions, bears, wolves, panthers and cougars. Fall in love with alpha men that strong heroines can’t wait to tame.

Yes, all of this I thought about, all of this filled me with sorrow and a sense of helplessness, and if there was a world I turned to in my mind, it was that of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, with its enormous forests, its sailing ships and horse-drawn carts, its windmills and castles, its monasteries and small towns, its painters and thinkers, explorers and inventors, priests and aldrugstores. What would it have been like to live in a world where everything was made from the power of yours hands, the wind or the water? What would it have been like to live in a world where the American Indians still lived their lives in peace? Where that life was an actual possibility? Where Africa was unconquered? Where darkness came with the sunset and light with the sunrise? Where there were too few humans and their tools were too rudimentary to have any effect on animal stocks, let alone wipe them out? Where you could not travel from one place to another without exerting yourself, and a comfortable life was something only the rich could afford, where the sea was full of whales, the forests full of bears and wolves, and there were still countries that were so alien no adventure story could do them justice, such as China, to which a voyage not only took several months and was the prerogative of only a tiny minority of sailors and traders, but was also fraught with danger. Admittedly, that world was rough and wretched, filthy and ravaged with sickness, drunken and ignorant, full of pain, low life expectancy and rampant superstition, but it produced the greatest writer, Shakespeare, the greatest painter, Rembrandt, the greatest scientist, Newton, all still unsurpassed in their fields, and how can it be that this period achieved this wealth? Was it because death was closer and life was starker as a result?

Ants eat seeds, spiders eats ants, birds eat spiders, foxes eat birds, wolves eat foxes, bears eat wolves. The Sun alone will never be prey; it preys on all.

Leaving the Connecticut River March 8, 1704 Temperature 40 degrees They marched until the captives could not take another step. Eben dragged Eliza half the way and Sarah dragged her the rest. Mercy and Joseph took turns hauling Ruth. That night they slept like rocks, and in the morning Mercy understood why bears spent the whole winter sleeping. It sounded good to Mercy. Perhaps it sounded good to the Indians too, because they did not leave camp. Instead, they built two fires, gathering an enormous woodpile. Joseph was stripped of his English clothes. Too torn and filthy to bother with, they were tossed into the woods. He was given a long deerskin shirt and leggings that hung from thigh to ankle, held up by cords strung to a belt. Then came coat, hat and mittens, all Indian. How dark Joseph’s hair was. How tan his skin. Joseph looked like a young brave. In a moment, the Indians did the same with Eben, whose coloring was very English, ruddy cheeks and straw-yellow hair. He did not look at all Indian, but in deerskin, he looked tough and strong and much older. The girls were nervous. They did not want their clothes stripped off their bodies, no matter how torn and filthy. But Eben’s Indian, Thorakwaneken, hoisted a flintlock musket and looked questioningly at each girl. Mercy could not imagine what he was asking of her. Eliza did not notice him or the gun. And Ruth was the last person to whom a sensible Indian would hand a weapon. Sarah, however, nodded. “I’m a good shot.” She took the musket from Thorakwaneken. Food was such a problem that even Joseph and Eben would be armed and sent forth to hunt. The girls would stay by the fire with enough wood to last for days, and Sarah to fend off wolves.

I would think wolves would prefer spicy things. It’s bears that crave sweets.” “We don’t like spicy food. Once we found red fang-shaped fruit among the cargo of a shipwreck. We ate it and regretted it loud and long!” “Ah, hot peppers. Expensive, those.” “We dunked our heads in the river and decided humans were terrifying indeed,” said Holo with a chuckle, enjoying the memory for a moment as she gazed at the stalls.

Bears and wolves are our fairy-tale archenemies, and in these tales we teach our children only, and always, to kill them, rather than to tiptoe past and let them sleep. Maybe that's why I'm comforted by the image of a small child curled in the embrace of a mother bear. We need new bear and wolf tales for our times, since so many of our old ones seem to be doing us no good. Now we're finding that it takes our every effort of will and imagination to pull back, to stop in our tracks as hunger and hunted, to halt our habit of killing, before every kind of life we know arrives at the brink of extinction.

Introduction Shifters In Love brings you another great collection of full-length shifter romance stories from USA Today and NYT bestselling authors, Hot Summer Love. Scorching hot passion jumps from the pages in these shifter stories featuring lions, bears, wolves, panthers and cougars. Fall in love with alpha men that strong heroines can’t wait to tame. Want to keep up with the latest from Shifters in Love? Sign up for our newsletter. Like our Facebook Page.

Baladar shook his head. “They were very common back in my day, when wolves and bears inter-mated. You see, the combination is only possible with the opposite race. It’s how things were meant to be. Yin and Yang. Balance. The reason bears have male heirs and wolves have females. The leaders have always been meant to be together.

I pictured love as a big hairy giant with a dead fish in his mouth. Grizzly bear claws and his heart half out of his chest cause it’s too big and the lungs have to fit. He never stops walking. Over mountains. Through the desert. On top of icy lakes. Past huge cities. And he hunts and kills for you and always comes back with plenty to eat.

I think I was actually channelling my grandfather,’ she admitted. ‘He lived right out in the woods in this little cottage and he used to scare the life out of me and my older sister with stories about bears and wolves.’ ‘I didn’t know you grew up in a Grimm fairy-tale.’ ‘Ha, ha – Russia, actually.’ ‘Ahh, I see: Katia Bialogawski,' he pronounced her name slowly, rolling it over his tongue like a boiled sweet, with all the right inflections. It made her spine tingle.

Goodbye Damini" (A Tribute to Jyoti Panday) Once I was a little Girl Once i could freely swim through the air I could laugh , i could play I was all bright colors in array But one dark night Wolves played with my plight Tore me inside out And burnt me with their hateful sight I screamed, I yelled, I cried, I plead For hours that I couldn't breath From the pain I couldn't bear From the pain I wanted to share There were many to watch There were many to see But was none there Who cared to help but not stare I was just another object I was just another soul Once I was a woman Next, another ragdoll Today I gasped, Today I choked I wanted to stay strong but then I broke I hugged myself, consoled my own pride Now life deceives me and so does the prayer Goodbye honor, so long morality I take my leave now, don't worry I am fine I was in pain but now i'm at ease Today I died world, hope you rest in peace.

Relatively speaking, the tigers’ appetite for us pales before our appetite for them. Humans have haunted tigers by various means for millennia, but not long ago there was a strange and heated moment in our venerable relationship with these animals that has been echoed repeatedly in our relations with other species. It bears some resemblance to what wolves do when they get into a sheep pen: they slaughter simply because they can and, in the case of humans, until a profit can no longer be turned. For the sea otter, this moment occurred between 1790 and 1830; for the American bison, it happened between 1850 and 1880; for the Atlantic cod, it lasted for centuries, ending only in 1990. These mass slaughters have their analogue in the financial markets to which they are often tied, and they end the same way every time. The Canadian poet Eric Miller summed up the mind-set driving these binges better than just about anyone: A cornucopia! / Bliss of killing without ever seeming to subtract from the tasty sum of infinity!

WOLVES IN SHEEP’S CLOTHING—I’VE MET THEM, AND SO HAVE YOU Watch out for false prophets. They come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ferocious wolves. Matthew 7:15 Alaska has its wolves. You can’t miss them. They’re ferocious and deadly. But at least they’re obvious. Washington, D.C., has wolves, too, though they dress in sheep’s clothing—at least at election time. Still, if you watch long enough, and closely enough, you’ll catch them stripping off their disguising, flea-ridden wool and exposing their wolfish fangs. The media obviously push certain politicians to the forefront, and more often than not it’s the most liberal of the bunch. In other words, they’re pushing false prophets who want to sell you a bill of goods while they “fundamentally transform” our country. So do your own homework on candidates and issues, and investigate what’s beneath the sheep’s clothing. The voting record—and business record—of a politician will tell you a lot of what you need to know. We have a responsibility to elect leaders who will bear good fruit. That means we need to be wise in the voting booth. It means that if you vote for a liberal Democrat, don’t be surprised if he appoints an activist judge who overturns the will of the people, or if he hires left-leaning bureaucrats who regulate you out of basic constitutional rights. (And by the way, keep an eye on Republicans too: most of them need to get serious about out-of-control spending.) When you vote for politicians, think about the fullness of what they can do, how they will make decisions, how they will vote or lead. It’s a heavy responsibility—but it’s ours. SWEET FREEDOM IN Action Before any election, don’t listen to the mainstream media insisting you vote for their chosen one. Look out for false prophets, for wolves in sheep’s clothing. Inform yourself and make your decision—and remember that you are morally accountable for your vote.

Is it safe out here?" I whisper. "Mmm?" "The animals? Bears? Wolves?" Oskar laughs. "Well, I've already claimed you, so the other predators are out of luck.

Humans have hunted tigers by various means for millennia, but not long ago there was a strange and heated moment in our venerable relationship with these animals that has been echoed repeatedly in our relations with other species. It bears some resemblance to what wolves do when they get into a sheep pen: they slaughter simply because they can and, in the case of humans, until a profit can no longer be turned. For the sea otter, this moment occurred between 1790 and 1830; for the American bison, it happened between 1850 and 1880; for the Atlantic cod, it lasted for centuries, ending only in 1990. These mass slaughters have their analogue in the financial markets to which they are often tied, and they end the same way every time. The Canadian poet Eric Miller summed up the mind-set driving these binges better than just about anyone: A cornucopia! Bliss of killing without ever seeming to subtract from the tasty sum of infinity!

Within minutes, the other angels followed the sound of the collapsed tunnel and found Mikael’s location. They were able to dislodge enough of the rock and pull his broken body from the rubble. He had been severely crushed. Gabriel held him. “I can bring him back to the surface to heal.” Raphael said, “That leaves five. We can split up and try to surround the mole. He can’t hide here forever.” They heard the sound of a howl. “Dire wolves,” said Uriel. “We can’t chase him here forever.” Dire wolves were vicious, fanged black hounds of hell almost as tall as a man. Raphael said, “He must have bred them down here. There could be dozens.” “Or hundreds,” said Uriel. The angels could kill dozens of the wolves. But hundreds was another matter altogether. Several of them had almost been overwhelmed by a hundred dire wolves in the days of the giant King Arba, while rescuing Abraham and Sarah from the clutches of the Anakim in Kiriath-arba. They were rescued by a hundred archers. But they didn’t have a hundred archers down in this dungeon of dread darkness. “Take Mikael to safety,” said Uriel. “The rest of you draw the wolves back up to the surface.” They looked at Uriel with fear. Gabriel said, “No, Uriel. We can do this together.” Uriel grasped the leather harness of the special weapon strapped to his back. “I must do this alone.” They all knew what it meant. Uriel had the most sensitive senses. He was the best tracker of all of them. Gabriel protested more, “I will not let you.” “You have no choice.” They heard the sound of wolves getting closer. “And I have no time to quibble with you, Gabriel. Leave — all of you. Draw them after you.” Gabriel teared up. What Uriel was going to do was akin to suicide for humans. Raphael said, “He’s right.” They agreed silently. Gabriel went and grasped his friend in a bear hug that he didn’t seem to want to let go. “My brother.” “Stop your pouting, Gabriel. It’s only until the judgment.” Gabriel pulled away with an angry look in his face. It softened, and he said with a smirk, “You will finally outdo me, little friend.” Uriel gave him a dirty look. Little friend. There was still time to tease. “I outdid you a long time ago,” said Uriel with a grin. Gabriel added, “But there is still Armageddon. You don’t know what I might be capable of.” Uriel said, “Go. We’ll have all eternity to debate that.” They turned to leave. But their delay had lost them time. The underworld dire wolves were upon them. Fifty glowing eyes locked on them, approaching slowly, ready to pounce. There was only enough room to fight against one or two wolves at a time through the narrow passages. Gabriel stood at the back, carrying the broken form of Mikael, who was starting to heal, but not able to fight yet. The other four approached the wolves in single file.

At that time the North American continent was host to many large mammals, mammoths, mastodons, camels, horses, giant ground sloths and beavers the size of today’s black bears, saber-toothed cats, savage short-faced bears, cheetahs, lions and dire wolves. Scores of other large species roamed the continent as well. They all vanished about 12,000 years ago in a geological eye blink. Twenty- seven different mammalian genera were destroyed completely from North America.[473]

In the year 1377, a poet in what is now Germany speaks of entering the Great Wilderness, an unbroken forest that took three days to cross and was home to bison, wild boar, wild horses, wolves, bears, lynxes, and wolverines: “Pleasantry and laughing had become hushed,” he writes.

The wolves, the bears, the phantom elk and bobcat and cougars. The geese in their uniform squadrons and the ducks and wild loons. But the deer remain my favorite. That pasture that I watch, their families moving through like nomads or refugees or better natives-I'll never know. ..Other Wisconsinites, I know, think of them almost as vermin, a pestilence, some kind of creature that is nothing but an inconvenience, a species that daily commits mass suicide by walking into oncoming traffic, a creature that harms crops, that ruins gardens, whose population has grown to the point of infestation. But I've never believed any of that. We're the reason there are os many deer. It's not their fault. Maybe there are too many of us: too many people driving cars, eating too much corn, building too many houses, crowding out the wolves and coyotes. I love deer.

If brute force wouldn't suffice, however, there was always the famous Viking cunning. The fleet was put to anchor and under a flag of truce some Vikings approached the gate. Their leader, they claimed, was dying and wished to be baptized as a Christian. As proof, they had brought along the ailing Hastein on a litter, groaning and sweating.  The request presented a moral dilemma for the Italians. As Christians they could hardly turn away a dying penitent, but they didn't trust the Vikings and expected a trick. The local count, in consultation with the bishop, warily decided to admit Hastein, but made sure that he was heavily guarded. A detachment of soldiers was sent to collect Hastein and a small retinue while the rest of the Vikings waited outside.  Despite the misgivings, the people of Luna flocked to see the curiosity of a dreaded barbarian peacefully inside their city. The Vikings were on their best behavior as they were escorted to the cathedral, remaining silent and respectful. Throughout the service, which probably lasted a few hours, Hastein was a picture of reverence and weakness, a dying man who had finally seen the light. The bishop performed the baptism, and the count stood in as godfather, christening Hastein with a new name. When the rite had concluded, the Vikings respectfully picked up the litter and carried their stricken leader back to the ships.  That night, a Viking messenger reappeared at the gates, and after thanking the count for allowing the baptism, sadly informed him that Hastein had died. Before he expired, however, he had asked to be given a funeral mass and to be buried in the holy ground of the cathedral cemetery.  The next day a solemn procession of fifty Vikings, each dressed in long robes of mourning, entered the city carrying Hastein's corpse on a bier. Virtually all the inhabitants of the city had turned out to witness the event, joining the cavalcade all the way to the cathedral. The bishop, surrounded by a crowd of monks and priests bearing candles, blessed the coffin with holy water, and led the entire procession inside.  As the bishop launched into the funerary Mass, reminding all good Christians to look forward to the day of resurrection, the coffin lid was abruptly thrown to the ground and a very much alive Hastein leapt out. As he cut down the bishop, his men threw off their cloaks and drew their weapons. A few ran to bar the doors, the rest set about slaughtering the congregation.  At the same time – perhaps alerted by the tolling bell – Bjorn Ironside led the remaining Vikings into the city and they fanned out, looking for treasure. The plundering lasted for the entire day. Portable goods were loaded onto the ships, the younger citizens were spared to be sold as slaves, and the rest were killed. Finally, when night began to fall, Hastein called off the attack. Since nothing more could fit on their ships, they set fire to the city and sailed away.97 For the next two years, the Norsemen criss-crossed the Mediterranean, raiding both the African and European coasts. There are even rumors that they tried to sack Alexandria in Egypt, but were apparently unable to take it by force or stealth.

In medieval Europe (and even colonial America) thousands of animals were summoned to court and put on trial for a variety of offenses, ranging from trespassing, thievery and vandalism to rape, assault and murder. The defendants included cats, dogs, cows, sheep, goats, slugs, swallows, oxen, horses, mules, donkeys, pigs, wolves, bears, bees, weevils, and termites. These tribunals were not show trials or strange festivals like Fools Day. The tribunals were taken seriously by both the courts and the community.

Fyodor Stephanovich dominated the room with the careless ease that one would expect of a Prince among wolves.

Human, all of them, in deference to the waning moon but there was no way any of thm could be mistaken for anything but wolves.

Fyodor came up behind him, a wolf among wolves, and pressed his body against the boy’s narrow back. Vanya moved back, shifting from foot to foot, an anxious whine hovering low in his throat. Ian shivered harder, Keith and Fyodor holding him tight, arms around each other’s shoulders, eyes meeting as Ian buried his head in his father’s shoulder and folded into the embrace.

Wolves don’t live long, who walk heedlessly into a moonlit field. Even one that amounts to their backyard.

Mississippi: The rich deep black alluvial soil which would grow cotton taller than the head of a man on a horse, already one jungle one brake one impassable density of brier and cane and vine interlocking the soar of gum and cypress and hickory and pinoak and ash, printed now by the tracks of unalien shapes—bear and deer and panthers and bison and wolves and alligators and the myriad smaller beasts, and unalien men to name them too perhaps—the (themselves) nameless though recorded predecessors who built the mounds to escape the spring floods and left their meagre artifacts: the obsolete and the dispossessed, dispossessed by those who were dispossessed in turn because they too were obsolete: the wild Algonquian, Chickasaw and Choctaw and Natchez and Pascagoula, peering in virgin astonishment down from the tall bluffs at a Chippeway canoe bearing three Frenchmen—and had barely time to whirl and look behind him at ten and then a hundred and then a thousand Spaniards

What the Faeries touch cannot be trusted, and they tell naught but lies wrapped in the skin of truth. Wolves in wool coats.

Todd and I carried tents framed with plastic bones and thin metal poles, bug screens and nylon. To Pleistocene travelers accustomed to hides on wood frames and floors dug into the earth, peeled down to permafrost, our tents would have looked as if we were draping ourselves nightly in gossamer. What would have been the use? People have different needs at different times. Our tents kept mosquitoes out. Theirs warded off giant bears and Beringian wolves, a piece of ground to defend, the difference between travelers and inhabitants.

Without You Everything Is Hideous How are you? , sweetheart, here I am writing these letters and your thought does not leave me and here you are still the closest to me since that day, which did not end until now. I scatter my letters in front of your beautiful eyes to tell you that I am wrong and guilty ; Although I have not forgotten you for a moment, even while I am trying to convince myself that everything is finished from your point of view, but I make up for it and say well, this is enough for me to try to snatch her icy heart again, this heart that loved me with all sincerity that innocent childish heart that never hated One even over the one who is because of him has left me for a long time due to false suspicion I remember all your letters, so I read them from time to time How nice it was to call me a childish nickname - capturing like your cheeks a happy nickname. You didn’t know all my reasons, sweetie I indirectly told you about the biggest reason when I told you to read “So Forgive Me ”You are the most beautiful thing that has happened to me since I knew you. My beauty, today I want to tell you that you forgot something one day. You asked me: Have you loved before? So I told you : Yes I did it was a long time ago when I was a teenager; I never thought that I would love again after I was wounded by that deep wound, when I was left alone, the wolves of loneliness and separation scattered me, and no one comes to me to pull me from the bottom of the debris that happened in my heart, And to be honest, I was not afraid for myself as much as I feared for your tender heart; I don’t ever want to be the lover who leaves his lover, especially if it is you. My beautiful woman, I wanted to make sure that my heart never beats for anyone but you It’s not easy, believe me I admire you since we became close, since we started speaking in the innocent language of children, since you used to say to me you are late to respond, even if I was late for a few seconds since night became for us a second day we talk about it until dawn and more Since you were quarreling with others trying to make them understand my point of view. How delicious days were when you looked at me from a distance and smiled, and when I heard your laughter as much as I was jealous, my heart beat with joy All your conditions were beautiful even when you quarreled with me I am not here trying to tell you that I am innocent, I am not I hurt you many times but I swear it was not with intent They were rather fleeting and spontaneous things. I admit that I have hurt your pride and here I am now bearing the consequences of this matter, and I swear it is not an easy thing. But, my flower, when you told me that excuse to stay away from me for three months, it smashed me, how can someone take my moon from me? The one that shone my eyes and melted the ice around my heart after my heart became so attached to her that I became so addicted to her that when I talk to any girl I call her by your name. My little girl I lost my love previously, and I do not want to lose you, because I know that you are a twin of my soul, even if you deny this now, but in the depths of your heart you know the validity of this matter. I apologize for every moment that made you think with pain I just wanted to protect you from fleeting feelings or just those feelings that were attracted to you And I know you crave someone to love you just because you are beautiful I wanted to protect you from the feelings of a teenager And if it was a year or less late to reveal it You know that valuable things no matter how late they are, their value will be better, finer, sincere and thinner, and you deserve strong, sincere feelings that stem from the depths of the heart and from the depths of the soul feelings befitting you I see in you all the beauties in life And without you, everything is Hideous You have all my feelings, beautiful cheeks.

Seiji was direly embarrassed by Nicholas’s presence, not to mention his appearance. He hadn’t wished to see Jesse again. If forced to, he would have preferred to see him while winning Olympic gold. Failing that, Seiji would’ve preferred to see Jesse literally anywhere other than here. In the middle of the woods, in a state of undress, with a companion who had apparently been raised by wolves and then abandoned by the pack for being too scruffy. There was… another consideration, besides embarrassment. Sometimes there were people who were obviously not on the winning side, and never would be. Bad at fencing or at words or at life in some crucial way Jesse could always ascertain. Occasionally, Jesse would casually amuse himself at some unfortunate soul’s expense. Seiji wouldn’t laugh because he never actually understood the jokes or why they were funny, but he didn’t care much. It was simply Jesse’s way. Now he recalled with unwelcome vividness how those people’s cheeks would bear sudden swift streaks of red, as though slashed. Or they might slink off with a curious look of defeat, as if a lunch table were a fencing match. Some of them, Seiji had noticed, never came back again. Seiji didn’t want to see Jesse do that to Nicholas. Not Nicholas.

Division There is a depth of darkness In the wild country, days of evening And the silence of the moon. I have crept upon the bare ground Where animals have left their tracks, And faint cries carry on the summits, Or sink to silence in the muffled leaves. Here is the world of wolves and bears And of old, instinctive being, So noble and indifferent as to be remote To human knowing. The scales upon which We seek a balance measure only a divide.

Oh aye, right, into the mountains we go. No bother there. Not like there’s fucken wolves and bears and whatnot. Always fucken wolves. Wildlife, shitehawks all. If I see a fucken wolf I’m gonna brain it with a fucken hammer and wear its flat head like a fucken hat. No fucken wolf better come near me. Lemon the wolf-hammer, that’s what they call me. Too fucken right, wolfy, just you try it. Just you show me your little wolfy teeth. I’ll have your fucken tail to clean my arse.’ ‘Lemon, please, hush,’ Foss sighed from a few paces over. ‘No,’ said Lemon.

Time had slowed down to a dreamlike pace. “I can see ten miles below me, the lakes, the islands, the beaches, the rivers, the forests, the rocks, the town named Kisoos, the geese, the foxes, the wolves, the bears, the moose, the beaver, the mink, the trout, the town named Kitoon, the whitefish, the pike, the pickerel, the robins, the terns, the hawks, the owls, the spiders, the ants, the grass, the town named Poosees, the ferns, the spruce, the violets, the wild pink roses, the wild cranberries, the whole wide world in all its splendour. It’s amazing.” He started weeping and weeping and weeping, not with sadness but with a joy he had known only in dreams.

Behind me, my entourage was whispering again. “There really are forty wolves.” “Can’t expect less of the bear.” “Mess with the bear and you’ll end up like those wolves.” “I want her to punch me.” “I want her to step on me.

In Transylvania the keeping of sheep involves constant vigilance and a pack of large and well-trained dogs. The dogs are not for herding but for protection against wild animals. In the British Isles bears were wiped out by the sixteenth century, and the last wolf was said to have been shot by Sir Ewen Cameron of Lochiel in 1686. But here wolves still carry off sheep by the scruff of their necks and bears tear pigs in half like loaves of bread. As Gregor Von Rezzori wrote in one of his beautiful memoirs of Romania, 'The poetic gentleness of the flowery slopes was all too deceptive in obscuring the wildness of the deep forests.' (p. 221)

Every tale begins with the words ‘This is how it was.’ This story begins differently—with the words ‘This is what will be.’ This is what will be, then. There will be born a man, luckier and stronger than you, Armagirgin, though his name will be different. He will best the stoutest and fattest creatures of the sea, catch the fastest on land, and with his bare, mighty hands will be able to strangle wolves and bears. Far and wide, people will praise him and even make up tales and legends of his doings. “But it will not be enough for him that people can see his glad face when he is in front of them; he will wish to be present always, in each and every yaranga. Skilled carvers will cut his likeness from walrus tusk, and his image will be painted onto white hides and hung from high poles. He will wish, too, that his very smell be present in every yaranga, and will order people to sniff him whenever they meet him, and will fill yarangas with his scent. “But this will also not be enough. He will be clothed in the newest and best garments, but these will not do for him, and so the most accomplished embroiderers will decorate his clothes, and he will shine like the sun’s twin…. Yes, and they shall liken him to the very sun, too, but even this will not be enough for him. He will desire that real stars be brought to hang from his clothes, and will send people to gather them, and these people will perish on their journeys. And he shall be left all alone then, and the shore will be wild and deserted, just as it was when I first came here, young …” Nau’s tale was finished, and she fell silent. Everyone else was silent, too, for there was much that was baffling in the old woman’s words.

It is not so difficult to comprehend why old forests and old women are viewed as not very important resources. It is not such a mystery. It is not so coincidental that wolves and coyotes, bears and wildish women have similar reputations. They all share related instinctual archetypes, and as such, both are erroneously reputed to be ingracious, wholly and innately dangerous, and ravenous.

Ten grey wolves check if Polar Bear is on the mend.

But, darlin’, we’re bears,” he said. “We don’t hurt others because we want to play with our prey like cats. We’re not wolves to be pushed into idiocy by the pack. We stumble into stuff because sometimes we’re just clumsy. Yeah?” Her eyes were still filled with tears, but she nodded. There.

Father,” he said finally, “I don’t understand why the Council had to question Padan Fain.” With an effort he took his eyes off the woods and looked across Bella at Tam. “It seems to me, the decision you reached could have been made right on the spot. The Mayor frightened everybody half out of their wits, talking about Aes Sedai and the false Dragon here in the Two Rivers.” “People are funny, Rand. The best of them are. Take Haral Luhhan. Master Luhhan is a strong man, and a brave one, but he can’t bear to see butchering done. Turns pale as a sheet.” “What does that have to do with anything? Everybody knows Master Luhhan can’t stand the sight of blood, and nobody but the Coplins and the Congars thinks anything of it.” “Just this, lad. People don’t always think or behave the way you might believe they would. Those folk back there…let the hail beat their crops into the mud, and the wind take off every roof in the district, and the wolves kill half their livestock, and they’ll roll up their sleeves and start from scratch. They’ll grumble, but they won’t waste any time with it. But you give them just the thought of Aes Sedai and a false Dragon in Ghealdan, and soon enough they’ll start thinking that Ghealdan is not that far the other side of the Forest of Shadows, and a straight line from Tar Valon to Ghealdan wouldn’t pass that much to the east of us. As if the Aes Sedai wouldn’t take the road through Caemlyn and Lugard instead of traveling cross-country! By tomorrow morning half the village would have been sure the entire war was about to descend on us. It would take weeks to undo. A fine Bel Tine that would make. So Bran gave them the idea before they could get it themselves. They’ve seen the Council take the problem under construction, and by now they’ll be hearing what we decided. They chose us for the Village Council because they trust we can reason things out in the best way for everybody. They trust our opinions. Even Cenn’s, which doesn’t say much for the rest of us, I suppose. At any rate, they will hear there isn’t anything to worry about, and they’ll believe it. It is not that they couldn’t reach the same conclusion, or would not, eventually, but this way we won’t have Festival ruined, and nobody has to spend weeks worrying about something that isn’t likely to happen. If it does against all odds…well, the patrols will give us enough warning to do what we can.

An insidious little smile spreads across Amina’s lips. “It won’t do you much good. It’s not the wolves or bears you should be afraid of. The night creatures, the ones with no name who come alive in the moonlight—those are the things you should be worried about.

During this period, the colonists sought allies from any quarter, reaching out to friendly Native Americans. The address of Massachusetts to the Mohawk and other eastern tribes drafted by Samuel Adams and dated May 15, 1775, used simplified language in perhaps one of the most concise and forceful renditions of the American cause: brothers: the great, wickedness of such as should be our friends, bur are our enemies, we mean the ministry of Great Britain, has laid deep plots to take away our liberty and your liberty, they want to get all our money; make us pay it to them, when they never earned it; to make you and us their servants; and let us have nothing to eat, drink, or wear, but what they say we shall; and prevent us from having guns and powder to use, and kill our deer, and wolves, and other game, or to send to you, for you to kill your game with, and to get skins and fur to trade with us for what you want: but we hope soon to be able to supply you with both guns and powder, of our own making.

...an incisive, smartly informative memoir that celebrates the power of the cohesive family unit—its outcome will offer positivity and hope to those facing similar challenges. —KIRKUS REVIEWS Deep Waters is a survival story of the highest order, navigating the complex terrain of marriage, medical crisis, and a future reimagined. After the trauma of her husband’s stroke, Mathews returns to a basic truth: through love, we discover who we are, and who we hope to become. —CAROLINE VAN HEMERT, award-winning author of The Sun is a Compass Mathews has penned a deeply personal love story with the careful rigor of the scientist she is, free of any giddy prose or rainbows. Instead, Deep Waters comes at the reader with the gloves off and goes a full twelve rounds, documenting in granular detail the fears and conflicts attending a life-altering event that can drive even a strong relationship onto the ropes, and the endurance, commitment, and deep love that can save it. —LYNN SCHOOLER, critically acclaimed author of The Blue Bear and Walking Home With love as rugged and wild as the Alaskan landscape she made home, biologist Beth Ann Mathews tells the story of another wilderness: marriage after a life-altering stroke. Deep Waters is a thoughtful and provoking read, a reminder that life and love are inexplicably fragile and resilient, full of unexpected discovery. —ABBY MASLIN, author of Love You Hard Urgent, informative, emotionally satisfying, and thought-provoking, Deep Waters opens with a harrowing medical mystery and rewards the reader with a loving account of an adventurous partnership made stronger by crisis. —ANDROMEDA ROMANO-LAX, author of Annie and the Wolves We felt like we were there with Beth, sharing her emotions, anguish and struggles through the stroke, hospital stay, and recovery. We felt like part of the family as we read, gasped, cried and hoped for recovery and for peace in her heart.”—TBD BOOK CLUB, Seattle, WA If books were birds, this one would be an arctic tern—powerful and graceful, beset by storms and learning to survive, and more, to thrive. The writing is feather-light yet strong. —KIM HEACOX, author of Jimmy Bluefeather Mathews writes with poignant honesty about the challenges of marriage, family, and community in a moving story that highlights the strengths of human relationships. Deep Waters starts with a bang and just keeps going—lively, vivid, and personal. — ROMAN DIAL, author of The Adventurer’s Son: A Memoir

Sam, new to adult words, had described his feelings in one staggering fritz of emotion: Wolves know when they’re being raised by bears. She stared at the words. Rolled them around in her head, where they gelled together with his cryptic phrases at the park, the words in Winnie’s journal. “Day after day, it eats me.

The Viking warriors created “warrior cults” of the bear and the wolf. The ones that were members of the bear cult were known as the berserkers. They raided all across Europe, and their appearance was described as notorious due to their timing and speed. Whereаs Berserkers were considered men who fought аnd behаved like beаrs, the Ulfhednа, wаrriors of the wolf cult, were considered to be men who becаme wolves. They wore wolf skins and howled in battle, аnd their behаviour influenced lаter Europeаn werewolf folklore. Unlike the beаrs, they hаd no shields. Lаter, they eventuаlly merged with the berserkers in nаme, yet continued to prefer their own methods.

These days, though, it’s not tigers, bears, and wolves that our mind warns us about—it’s losing our job, being rejected, getting a speeding ticket, embarrassing ourselves in public, getting cancer, or a million and one other common worries. As a result, we all spend a lot of time worrying about things that, more often than not, never happen.

The Glory Yet to Be God called to us, His people To be His holy bride From out the rest of living souls He calls us to His side The way He calls is rugged Steep The way He knows We are His sheep By grand design, He has the goals His love leads to the waterholes Gives us this day our daily bread And hitherto, He's always led Though dark the way The path is steep He drives the wolves from us, His sheep At times the clouds obscure His face But, bless His name, supplies of grace Can fortify against every shock His wisdom plans for all the flock Just now the skies seemed solid brass For not, just think It came to pass The furnace, seven times hotter be My grace sufficient is for thee Your soul is riding out the gail Your courage falters, and the tale Is not yet told, but brighter gold Comes from this long hostility As Jesus calls, look unto Me I've planned for thee eternal days I've planned for thee a thousand ways I went through my Gethsemany Will you, my child, bear this for Me? My back was stripped--I bore the rod Will bear this for Me, your God? I plan for thee a jeweled crown Will you go through, or let me down? Can you bear up a few more years Or will you cause your master tears? While Joseph's brothers made a pile Joseph suffered for a while That while did not seem a lengthy season With no design, no rhyme or reason The brothers did not care a bit That Joseph languished in a pit They showed no sorrow for his plight They cared not for the wrong or right But, God was there, behind the cloud He does not shout His plan aloud The path through pit and prison led For Joseph to the nation's head Not then did Joseph weep or groan Each step was leading to a throne The starving brothers soon behold A ruler with a chain of gold They wept, and each his breast did smite Before one sold to Ishmalite Their brother, with the power of death Each man fell down with baited breath Forgiving, Joseph understood Yee meant for evil, God meant for good He did not leave me, or forsake He knew each step I had to take My shepherd, led by pastures green No other way could there have been For me, I proved that He is God Endured the dark, and kissed the rod Take this example from His word And follow on to know the Lord Now, through darksome glass we see But oh, the glory yet to be

He called it Firmos. Firmos was reliable. The hearts of wolves and stone bears and shadow cats and rabbits and deer could be trusted. The kiss of the wind upon whitebark and catredanto pine was always true, and never false.

We can see from similar events that have occurred over our lifetimes that when women do not speak, when not enough people speak, the voice of the Wild Women becomes silent, and therefore the world becomes silent of the natural and wild too. Silent, eventually, of wolf and bear and raptors. Silent of singing a and dancings and creations. Silent of loving, repairing and holding. Silent of air and water and the voices of consciousness.

Blood red, for the House of Craving. It's the house of siphons—legacies like vampires, sirens, succubi and incubi, and a few others. They feed on blood, dreams, emotions, and so forth in exchange for their intimidating powers, including immortality. Golden yellow, for the House of Shifters. There were once animal shifters of all kinds, but now only the apex predators remain. Wolves, bears, lions, tigers, sea serpents, griffins… Theirs is the House of primal instinct and territorial savagery. Silvery blue, for the House of Elementals. The gods bless the descendants of this House with the ability to wield the four elements: fire, air, water, or earth. This House is far more devout in worshipping the gods, who handpick the elementals’ abilities for them at birth. And finally, emerald green for the House of Arcana. Full of magic-users—aka casters—of all origins. Fae, sorcerers, witches and wizards, mages…it’s a mixed bag of various talents, but everyone here has magic in their very blood, which they can wield. It's the House I was sorted into.

In their great herds, caribou and reindeer spread like the tributaries of a river; where the gray strands pool, they are indistinguishable at a distance from the land. It is more than an illusion. In life, as the herds paw and yank at their fodder, they churn nutrients and dead vegetation into the earth, where it rots in summer, raising the soil temperature. In the presence of scarce warmth, seeds germinate. A grazing herd, where it does not eat foliage to the quick, amplifies tundra productivity.' Alive, reindeer feed swarms of mosquitoes so massive, the insects can drain half a liter of blood in a day. In death, reindeer muscle becomes bears, eagles, foxes, lynx, people, ravens, wolverines, wolves. The wolf pup grows and drags down a reindeer. Around the stripped carcass, arctic poppies bud. Rangifer migration is the tundra respiring, an oscillation of energy rather than air.

Imagine mixing the deadliest traits of some of nature's greatest predators. Bear tigers? Panthers with scorpion stingers for tails? Apes that spun webs like spiders? Wolves with crab shells for defense? Dogs that shot bees from their mouths? Hyenas with kangaroo legs, monkey arms, and paralytic claws so that when they jump on you, they cling to you and paralyze you with their laughter (and claws)?

The area was home to wolves, elk, deer, bears, outlaws, and anyone seeking solitude, such as the monks of the Winds Abbey.

OLD GRIZZLY ADAMS. [37-*] James C. Adams, or “Grizzly Adams,” as he was generally termed, from the fact of his having captured so many grizzly bears, and encountered such fearful perils by his unexampled daring, was an extraordinary character. For many years a hunter and trapper in the Rocky and Sierra Nevada Mountains, he acquired a recklessness which, added to his natural invincible courage, rendered him truly one of the most striking men of the age. He was emphatically what the English call a man of “pluck.” In 1860, he arrived in New York with his famous collection of California animals, captured by himself, consisting of twenty or thirty immense grizzly bears, at the head of which stood “Old Sampson”—now in the American Museum—wolves, half a dozen other species of bear, California lions, tigers, buffalo, elk, etc., and Old Neptune, the great sea-lion, from the Pacific.

There’s wolves out here bigger than she is. Bears. Moose, wild boars, and more poisonous snakes than I can shake a stick at. She should not be wondering out alone at night!

Are you all right? Can I call someone for you? The priest, perhaps? Your family?” “There is no one, not anymore. I’m Rudy Romanov. You must have heard the news about my parents.” An unholy vision burst in her head. She saw wolves boiling from the forest, red eyes gleaming fiercely, a huge black wolf leading the pack and bearing straight down on Hans Romanov. From the young man’s head, she picked up the memory of his mother, Heidi, lying on her bed, her husband’s fingers around her throat. For one awful moment she couldn’t breathe. What this man had suffered! Both parents taken from him in a matter of hours. His fanatical father had murdered his mother. “I’ve been ill with the flu; this is my first time out in days.” She moved closer to him beneath the outstretched limbs of the trees. She couldn’t very well tell him the truth--that she had been involved in the entire horrendous affair.

Uh, Maya?” Corey said behind me. “Maybe…this isn’t such a good idea.” I turned. The others were ten feet back, barely inside the tree line. Nicole and Hayley had moved closer to Corey. Sam hung back, looking into the woods as if I was asking her to jump off a cliff. “The fog’s gone in here,” I said. “It was marine fog. It doesn’t penetrate the forest.” “Yeah,” Corey said. “I’m thinking the fog’s not such a problem. It’s very…dark. We don’t know what’s in there.” “Yeah, we do,” Sam said. “Bears, cougars, wolves…” “None of which are nocturnal,” I said. Actually, they were crepuscular, which meant they were most active at twilight--both dawn and dusk. In others words, right about now. But I wasn’t telling these guys that. “They’ll stay out of our way if we stay out of theirs.” “But how can we stay out of their way if we can’t see them?” Hayley asked.

The fog’s gone in here,” I said. “It was marine fog. It doesn’t penetrate the forest.” “Yeah,” Corey said. “I’m thinking the fog’s not such a problem. It’s very…dark. We don’t know what’s in there.” “Yeah, we do,” Sam said. “Bears, cougars, wolves…” “None of which are nocturnal,” I said. Actually, they were crepuscular, which meant they were most active at twilight--both dawn and dusk. In others words, right about now. But I wasn’t telling these guys that.

The fog’s gone in here,” I said. “It was marine fog. It doesn’t penetrate the forest.” “Yeah,” Corey said. “I’m thinking the fog’s not such a problem. It’s very…dark. We don’t know what’s in there.” “Yeah, we do,” Sam said. “Bears, cougars, wolves…

What did she know about the Black Forest? Only what she’d been able to glean from the maps in the library and from Luc’s fairy tales: Castles hidden in glens. Trees as tall as city buildings. Wolves and stags and bears. Mad princes who drowned in lakes. None of Mada Vittora’s books described an ancient academy deep in the woods, a place where it always snowed, where girls wanted magic badly enough to die for it.

Once I was at my plane’s cruising altitude, I headed south, toward the range I’d been frequenting for the last ten years. My favorite spot to land was about a three-hour flight from Two Rivers and about one hundred miles south of the Arctic Circle. It wasn’t on the way to anything, and I’d never once seen another plane or person while there. It was isolated heaven. It was also bear country, and the grizzlies were plentiful. As were the wolves. That was why I had a rifle strapped to the outside of the plane, and I never went anywhere without it. While I lived for photographing animals doing what animals did, I had no intention of becoming their dinner

In the tilled fields around his cities his mastery was disputed by wolves and occasional bears, and beyond those fields began the dense forest realm where Nature held sway undisputed by man and where every journey became an adventure.

One morning last week, he pulled up to find a bear cub stuck in one of his traps set on the edge of a tree line. He approached the juvenile, which struggled frantically then gave up, sat on its butt, and whimpered. Two dozen yards back in the trees, a smallish mother bear paced. She too emitted a whiney wheezy sound, one Ryan had never heard a black bear utter. He returned to his truck and pulled it up close to the cub, but he left the door open in case the mom got nasty. He used a catchpole to secure the cub’s head and then stepped on the lifters to open the trap’s jaws. The cub’s foot slipped out unharmed. He released it from the noose and it scampered off in a beeline for the she bear.

While species like black bears and foxes can migrate inland, red wolves face a continent’s worth of coyotes to their west, north, and south. Red wolves that stay on the peninsula will be squeezed within the recovery area as the coastal habitat around them degrades. They will have nowhere left to run. Since it is unlikely that red wolves will evolve blowholes or fins by the century’s close, they will need additional reintroduction sites in the coming decades.

Environmental historian Valeria Fogleman wrote that perhaps the early Christian colonists saw themselves figuratively as the wolves’ prey based on the New Testament’s anecdote of Jesus sending his followers out as sheep among wolves. Their antipathy and fear toward wolves was a physical manifestation of their spiritual protectiveness, she wrote, for “wolves were considered capable of murdering a person’s soul.” Wolves were also viewed through a religious and cultural lens as animals that made pacts with the devil, thereby garnering them the stigma of being full of trickery and evil. Livestock damages may have been the rational argument for clearing wolves from the woods around settlements, but wolves likely also symbolized a potent religious threat in the minds of some early colonists. The Native Americans did not view wolves so negatively, and some even tattooed images of wolves - along with moose, deer, bears, and birds - on their cheeks and arms, according to William Wood, writing about New England in 1634, described the “ravenous howling Wolfe: Whose meagre paunch suckes like a swallowing gulfe” in a passage that imparts the belief that wolves consumed more prey than was necessary. Wood wished that all the wolves of the country could be replaced by bears, but only on the condition that the wolves were banished completely, because he believed wolves hunted and ate black bears. He also lamented that “common devourer,” the wolf, preying upon moose and deer. No doubt, the colonists wanted the bears, moose, and deer for their own meat and hide supplies. Yet Wood also observed the wolves of New England to be different from wolves in other countries. He wrote that they were not known to attack people, and that they did not attack horses or cows but went after pigs, goats, and red calves. The colonists seemed to believe the wolves mistook calves that were more coppery colored for deer, so much so that a red-colored calf sold for much less than a black one.

Our language contained expressions that described the dusk—the dusk, that is to say, before sunrise—as “wolf-light”, lykophos or lykauges.{402} One story of Leto’s wanderings tells us that Zeus turned her for twelve days into a she-wolf. In this shape she came to the island of Delos from the Hyperboreans, the fortunate inhabitants of a northern country of the gods whither Apollon was thought to repair once a year. This is the reason, it is said, why she-wolves bear all their cubs within a space of twelve days in each year. The Delians actually stated{403} that she-wolves suffered travail for twelve days and twelve nights on end.

Certain animal species who burrow into the Earth for places of solace or safety, or who inhabit the sheltering arches of caves alongside the spirits of the rocks, are the bridgers between these inner and outer levels of reality. Rabbits, gophers, moles, prairie dogs, wolves, and bears in hibernation all remember and recreate their rootedness in Mother Earth.

Wolves and bears were never supposed to be separated, and I was going to bring them back together.