La Loba

I'm writing a short story about one of my dogs. While reading Women Who Run With the Wolves, I came across a passage about a Pueblo myth called "La Loba" and decided to incorporate it into the story. So, here's my rendition of the myth:

There is an old woman who lives among the many ridges and hollows of the Southern Appalachians. She lives in a hidden place that everyone knows but few have ever seen. La Loba does her collecting at night, particularly on a night like this, when the full moon glows blue over the entire valley. A single seeing eye peers out from beneath her hood, the other pale and lifeless. She clings her flowing robes tightly around her fat body as she moves, hopscotching quickly along the dry riverbed in tattered sandals. She is excited, scanning the ground feverishly, looking for that pale ivory object jutting out among the round gray stones. After a while, she finds what she is looking for. She dives for it, plucking it from the ground and examining it carefully with her fingers, sniffing it and rubbing the sharp edges. Satisfied and giddy, she opens the makeshift pouch at her waist and drops it in with the rest of the bones. La Loba turns around and trots up the hill, gripping the fabric around her prize.

She arrives back at her secret place, where her campfire has burned low. She carefully empties the folds of her robe and lets the bones tumble to the ground. She grabs a poker and turns the coals in the fire, feeds it a few more logs, and watches as it roars back to life. The light illuminates the pale white object on the other side. A wolf's skull lies on the ground before an incomplete skeleton. Dozens of vertebrae form the spine all the way down to the narrow tail. The ribcage is a hodgepodge of narrow curved pieces, many broken and missing. Several flat pieces form the hips and shoulders, and the long bones of the legs descend to the many-jointed paws. La Loba leans over her criatura, selecting each bone carefully and placing it like a puzzle in its right place. When she has placed the last, she sits back and grins widely at her beautiful white sculpture.

La Loba rocks back and forth on her haunches for many moments, studying the skeleton, thinking about what song she will sing. When she thinks of the right song, she stands up and throws many sticks and logs onto the fire till it burns high in the air, eye level with her. She spreads her arms and begins to sing. Her voice is soft at first, concentrated at the project before her. All of her energy is focused on the white objects, as if throwing sparks and asking them to light. The bones rattle and begin to shift. First the ribcage begins to flesh out as the sculpture rises from the earth. Then the hips and the shoulders move into place and fuse, muscle and tendon washing over them. La Loba sings louder, riding the crest of this creative wave. White fur sprouts on the chest and moves down the spine, down the legs, down the tail. She looks at the face of the skull as it turns from white to red to pink, then sprouts delicate white fur. She moves her hands in the air inches above the body.

There is a long pause and La Loba's voice grows feverish and low. She smacks the ground with her hands and guttural syllables come out of her song. Her brow wrinkles in determination as she watches the fur climb down the feet to the paws, watches the nails grow. Then they begin to twitch. The tail moves up and down, the chest begins to heave slightly and she can feel the vibration of a heartbeat through the earth. The eyes of the wolf open and take her in, still singing and beating against the ground. Her voice breaks into high pitches and her incantations fill the valley. The white wolf stands and stares at her, listening, breathing heavily. Her song ends. She kneels down and looks deeply into the wolf's pale blue eyes, sizing her up.

“Ir! Tráeme a alma!”

The white wolf barks once in assent.

“Ir!” She points off into the mountains.

The white wolf turns and bounds off. La Loba lifts her neck and cackles at the night sky. She dances around the fire, arms spread wide, her robes spinning about her. She herself hoots and howls at the moon. Up on a ridge, she sees the outline of her beautiful, beautiful criatura silhouetted in the moonlight, looking down at her. She howls at it, bellowing:

“Tráeme a almaaaa!”