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Somewhere beyond the lonely cabin, deeper in the woods, the woeful cry of the wild wolves thrilled upon the chill night air. Within the one-room space, lit only by the small fire in the hearth, the gray-furred fox listened with a fascinated detachment. Fully sentient, like most therians, the fox still wondered at the ancestral roots that still held secrets in his subconscious, in his hindbrain. There was something in there that wanted something simple, unadorned, perhaps even feral, at least in terms of living in this ever-more complicated world. It's why the cabin had attracted him, along with its comparative quiet. He wanted to feel a sense of calm, of natural order. He felt it settling over himself, and his detachment turned to something more like relief.

The cabin was not his; it, and eight others, were rentals spread widely around the small lake. He had taken pains to make sure that he would leave everything neat and clean. There wasn't much there, but there wasn't meant to be. The brochures called them "comfortable, private, semi-primitive cabins." Electric lines were carefully buried, and outlets were few. The refrigerator was tiny, and the stove had only two burners. The sink had no garbage disposal. A simple kitchen table with two chairs snugged against the wall, under the kitchen's window. The bed was large, comfortable, in a plain wooden support. A simple bedside table held a small lamp. In another corner, a comfortable armchair was overseen by a goose-neck lamp, another small table next to it. The bathroom, with toilet, sink, and shower, was discreetly tucked away in much the same way that the single closet was secreted with pocket doors on the same side of the cabin. It was a "single," as the proprietors would call it, although two could manage there if they were friendly. That was no longer a concern of the fox. He was alone now.

Looking around the darkened space carefully, he assessed the cabin with a clinical eye. It was swept clean, surfaces dusted, bed made. It wouldn't do to leave a mess behind. He stood naked, his single change of clothes set aside, carefully folded and set on the table next to the armchair. A notebook and pen rested atop these, words set down faithfully, just as he had felt them. It was good to set them free. His mind was clear, finally, his heart damped down like the fire in the hearth, his spirit at peace in the deep night of the welcoming woods around him. He would go out there soon, to make himself part of the forest. He relished the quiet and solitude, and this had been the place to find it.

Which is why the knock at the door startled him.

He thought at first of ignoring it, but the light of the fireplace would show through the curtains in the front window. If it were the property owners, and they thought he'd left an untended fire, he could be charged a fee, or they might even call out the local fire department. That wouldn't do. The figure, silhouetted against the drawn curtains, stood outside the window, not looking in, just standing at the door, waiting patiently. Donning quickly a pair of shorts, the gray fox moved to the door and opened it only a little.

The bright white moon outside was occluded slightly by passing clouds. The covered porch, which held two Adirondack-style wood chairs, cast a deep shadow in which a larger, deeper shadow stood.

"Forgive me," a soft voice begged. "I am very tired and hungry. May I trouble you for some bread, and to rest on one of your chairs?"

Moved by the sense of sorrow in the asking, the fox opened the door wider. The voice belonged to a large brown bear whose fur hung a little too close to his body. His clothes were old but cared for, and his voice was as soft as down on the wind, as deep as ocean waves. This was no thief, no dangerous criminal. Everything about him touched what little was left of the fox's heart, and he found himself saying, "Come in."

Slowly, the bear entered, his step soft yet labored. "Thank you, good fox. Thank you."

Once inside, the visitor made no move toward chair, bed, nor table. The fox closed the door quietly against the night and spoke to his guest. "I don't have much here," he said apologetically. "Some leftovers from dinner."

"I thank you for your generosity." The bear moved stiffly, as if trying to bow and not quite being able to. His muzzle seemed too exhausted to smile, but the dark eyes were gentle and grateful.

The fox went to the small refrigerator and took out the remains of the meat that he'd not had the stomach to eat. Setting it on a clean plate from the drainer near the sink, he reached for the few biscuits that he'd left in the plastic bag atop the fridge, putting them on the plate as well. He looked to see that the bear still had not moved from his place. "Here," he said, nodding to the small kitchen table. "Sit here. The chairs outside lean back to far to be comfortable for eating."

"Thank you," the bear whispered, his voice sounding resigned yet appreciative. He shuffled slowly, stiffly, across the room as the fox set the plate and a glass of water on the table and pulled out the chair next to the uncurtained kitchen window. Outside, shadows passed across the face of the moon as the bear took his place and sat for a long moment not eating. The fox, standing to one side, wondered what stopped him. Then the bear put his forepaws together, leaned his forehead against them, and began talking softly.

The word_Wakantanka_ was the only sound that the fox could understand; according to the stories that he'd heard in his past, many of the First Peoples used that same sound to speak to the Great Mystery. The rest was, to the vulpine, a susurration of vowels and some few consonants, but the meaning was obvious even to the worn-out heart of the jaded modernist. The bear was being grateful, saying grace even in the state of his distress. And then, before the soft-voiced ursine had finished, the fox found himself staring, thunderstruck. As the clouds passed from the face of the moon, light white as dawn shone down upon the praying bear, and the fox could see clearly the vast lengths of heavy chain that wrapped around the ursine's ragged frame. Hundreds of links, each a good 5cm or larger, circled the bear's too-thin body, weaving in and out of their coils, trailing behind and beside him, some glinting brightly, some dark as pitch, some rough, some smooth, each covered in some type of rune or iconography that the fox could not begin to translate. They moved and shifted as the bear breathed out his prayers, and the fox realized that he could hear them now, creaking, clanking, some strange life of their own crying beneath the whispered words as if they, too, needed to be heard.

The fox fell to the floor, unable to keep his hindpaws under him. His unblinking eyes saw the bear turn his muzzle up to the brightness of the moon. It seemed reflected in his eyes, as if to fill his too-thin frame. His last words were, "Thank you, Grandmother." He unfolded his forepaws and slowly, appreciatively, began to eat.

Breathing quickly, the gray-furred vulpine scooted himself backward until his back struck the bed, his eyes wide as saucers, his tail puffed out as much as the fur on his body stuck outward in sheer terror. He could not have looked away if his life depended upon it. Before him, the brown bear ate, slowly, quietly, taking his dinner with silent gratitude. It was only after some long minutes that the bear spoke again.

"You see them."

"What?"

"You see them. The links. The chains."

"I don't..."

The bear chewed another bite of his dinner slowly, then swallowed. He still did not look at the fox when he spoke. "Yes."

A full minute passed before the fox whispered, "Yes."

Nodding a little, the bear said, "You have a link to give me."

"No!" the fox cried out. "How could I? What are... how can you...?"

"Only those who have a link to give to me can see the chain."

The vulpine gulped. "What is it?"

"You mean, who are they."

Trembling, the fox could say nothing.

"Each link came to me from someone who needed to give it to me. You have something to give me. You have something that you cannot carry any longer." The bear looked at the fox, his eyes deep, sorrowful, understanding. "I will carry it for you."

The fox could say nothing.

The dish on the table was empty, the glass of water more than half so. The bear looked slowly around the cabin, nodded again. "I have seen this before. Places like this. Feelings like this. I know what you must give to me, although I don't yet know its name. You know it. I can take it from you."

"No," the fox whispered. "No, you can't..."

"I must. It is... what I do." The great brown ursine stood slowly, spreading his arms wide. "I will carry it now."

"I can't."

"You must."

"No." The fox jumped to his feet, his eyes wild, looking around the cabin. "There's something here, I know there is. Cutters, an ax, a hammer and chisel, something. I can't let you keep on like--"

"...like I have done all my long life." The bear's smile held an agonizing peace, a dreadful acceptance. "It is what I do."

The fox, unborn tears in his eyes, moved slowly toward the bear, an outstretched forepaw daring to touch what could only be seen by the light of the last moon. Cold. Heavy. Impossible. On each link, the markings shifted slightly, not quite speaking, never heard by any other. "I want to... I want to help... please, I could..."

One of the bear's forepaws reached out to touch the fox's headfur with infinite tenderness. "Best let it be."

Sobbing, the fox flung himself against the bear, hugging him even through the mass of chains that encircled him. He felt himself hugged in return, felt something inside himself shift, felt the cry burst forth from him even as the sound of something hard and metallic striking the floor assaulted his ears. He felt the bear dip his muzzle to the top of his head and place a kiss there, even as the great ursine thanked him again and again for his supper, until at last he released the fox and moved slowly toward the door.

"How can I...?"

At the door, the bear paused and looked back at the fox. His smile was warm, with pain, with understanding. "Live."

He walked out the door, off the porch, and vanished slowly in the brightness of the moon.

That was thirty-two years ago now. I went home the next morning, after taking the handgun and throwing it into the lake as far as I could. I did what he told me. I lived. He took the weight that I could no longer carry; he bore it without complaint. Me and how many others? I will never know. But on certain nights, on certain full-moon nights, no matter where I may lay my head, whether alone or in the arms of my lover, I remember to thank him, again and again, to live my grace and to thank him. No matter how many years may pass, I can still hear him dragging that chain...

Long Chain On as sung by Peter, Paul, and Mary YouTube:https://youtu.be/xhM0hAzrl8A

One night as I lay on my pillow, moonlight as bright as the dawn I saw a man come a walking, he had a long chain on. I heard his chains a clankin', they made a mournful sound, Welded around his body, draggin' along the ground.

Chorus: He had a long chain on He had a long chain on He had a long chain on

He stood beside my window, he looked at me and he said "I am so tired and hungry. Give me a bite of your bread" He didn't look like a robber, he didn't look like a thief His voice was as soft as the moonlight, a face full of sorrow and grief.

(Chorus)

I went into my kitchen, fetched him a bowl full of meat A drink and a pan of cold biscuits, that's what I gave him to eat Though he was tired and hungry, a bright light came over his face He bowed his head in the moonlight, he said a beautiful grace.

(Chorus)

I got my hammer and chisel, offered to set him free He looked at me and said softly, "I guess we had best let it be." When he had finished his supper, he thanked me again and again. Though it's been years since I've seen him, still hear him draggin' his chain.