The Cloud Atlas

“When the wolf left, I knew I had done wrong,” Ronnie said. “I took the breath, I went to the boy-but it had been too long now, and without the wolf, I could not plunge his breath deep enough inside him. Lily only knew-Lily only knew that I tried. She saw my tears and saw my failure, but did not see all of it. Lou-is: when her lover came, this Saburo, when she asked me to help him out of town, help him deliver the baby's body into the tundra? Yes. I would never say no again.

“One of the aunties had talked-there were soldiers, police, everywhere. We almost got caught, several times. We took two kayaks; I led him an hour downriver, and from there, he insisted he go on alone. You would know the place? Where the bank is worn away? Where the ircenrrat gather? He said to wait there for him, that he would come back, return the map-the path Lily might take to see their son.” Ronnie shook his head. “Why there?”

“I know it,” I said quietly. “I know the place.”

“It was not a place I could go, not then, not after my tuunraq had left me, run before me and set all the other spirits against me. I could feel them coming, worming through the ayuq, the soil, down the bank, to the water. I ran for my kayak, I started upstream.”

“You left Saburo?”

“He found me,” Ronnie said. “I took the map from him, but-but by the time he caught up with me, I'd almost made it back to Bethel. A boat-with a light-it saw us. I went to shore, into the cottonwood. Saburo went downriver. I heard yelling, shots, then nothing.”

I waited before speaking.

“What did Lily say when she saw the map?” I asked.

“I couldn't face her, not then,” Ronnie said. “Not after what I knew had happened to Saburo. I found some gin. Then more gin. I got drunk. Police came. And when I woke up in my cell, the book was gone. I at least gave Lily and Saburo this: I would not let them beat the truth out of me. I played the drunk fool, said I had no idea where the map came from, what it meant.” Ronnie scrunched his face at the memory. “I was the drunk fool,” he said, and looked at me, shrugged. “Proof.”

I shook my head. Ronnie smiled, exhausted, and looked outside.

“The wolf, he's closer,” Ronnie said. “Not close enough.” The window looked the way our televisions up here used to before satellite: snow swirling against a dark screen, pressing to get in. “But you'll help him, Lou-is, won't you? Give him what he's coming for.” Ronnie paused, tried to smile once more. “Tell him he's late.”

“Ronnie,” I said, on my feet, desperate to stop him. Or the wolf. “It's no good, Ronnie-wait. I don't believe-”

Ronnie looked at his wrist. “I need the bracelet,” he said.

I slowly shook my head.

“I need it for the wolf,” he said.

“Not yet,” I said.

“I need it to tie him to me. I'm not going to let him escape again this time.”

“Ronnie,” I said.

“Lou-is,” Ronnie said. “What have I asked?”

I sat silent, then reached in my pocket, took out the pyx, opened it, and removed the bracelet. I unraveled it as carefully as if it were a chain of diamonds and then affixed it to his wrist. “Let's pray,” I said, not looking up.

Ronnie looked pleased, and shook his head. “I can't pray if I don't believe, Lou-is.”

I couldn't answer, only taunt: “Well, I'm getting ready to go after your wolf, and I don't exactly believe in him, so-”

“It's okay,” Ronnie interrupted. “He believes in you.” He smiled, but to himself, and then lay back on the pillow. “Now,” he said, the word coming quite clearly, “this is what you must give him-” But here his voice faltered again. He went down, deep in his chest to find his breath, to cough it out once more, but this time it did not come.

I shouted. I shook him. I ran to the hall. I called for help. I was crying, tears actually running down my face, my old man's face. I dropped the side rail. I bent over him. And then-

I breathed. Once, twice. My mouth to his. Then my hands on his chest. One, two, three, four, five. But it was no good: the bed was too soft. Sometimes there was a board beneath you could pull out for CPR. I couldn't find it. I thought about dragging him onto the floor, but there wasn't enough time. Jesus, Mary, and you, too, Joseph. Breathe. Again to his chest. One, two, three, four-I could hear footsteps, voices behind me.

Thank you, Lord, for this: for the help of doctors and nurses, for those who can truly bring the dead back to life. I explained between breaths, between compressions, what I was doing, how I was saving him, how I needed help. I was on the verge of saying why-of saying that I needed to save him from the wolf, or for the wolf, or that I needed to keep him alive long enough to tell me, an old priest, a believer, one baptized in the waters of everlasting life, just what it was that I had to give this wolf.

They pulled me away from Ronnie. I fought, but they pulled me away-and I decided: they know best. They know better than I: they are the professionals; they are younger. Let them breathe, let them save him.

They did not.