On his dreadful journey, after the shaman has wandered
through dark forests and
over great ranges of mountains . . .
he reaches an opening in
the ground. The most difficult stage of
the adventure now begins.
The depths of the
underworld open before him.
- Uno Harva, quoted by Joseph Campbell
in "The Hero With a Thousand Faces"
As the sun set dramatically, casting his luminescent robes about himself before he fled behind the hills, Ryan approached a man slowly, fighting the jackhammering of his heart. The man was tall, thin, and pale, not unlike a willow tree. Even his coloration was reminiscent of a willow; his eyes were a piercing leaf green and his hair, although thinning, was the light ginger of a willow’s bark. Even the slender, narrow fingers that grasped the handle of his beer mug with a vice grip seemed like twigs. Yet despite this apparent frailty, Ryan was aware that this man was a legend in his own right. His name was Brendan Dooley, the leader, or Righ, of the local Fianna and a fifth rank Ahroun; simply put, an individual that a clever bloke sure didn’t want angry at him. And if one looked closely at those sharp leaf-green eyes, it was easy to see that. They were eyes of fire.
It was easy to understand why a young cub like Ryan was nervous about approaching him, but normally, he wouldn’t have been. Brendan Dooley was a decent fellow, and a joy to be around once he’d had a few (unless someone angered him.) Yet, today was a different matter entirely. Today, Ryan had determined, was the day.
“Well,” the Ahroun began with twinkling eyes in an Irish brogue that was too archaic to be real. Ryan suspected that the Righ affected the accent so that he might more effectively maintain Fianna traditions. This seemed to be universal among their tribe, as far as Ryan could tell. “If t’isn’t young Windrunner, off on some diplomatic mission, I’d wager. Top o’ the evenin’ to ye, lad!” He tipped his old-fashioned gray fidora in Ryan’s direction with a flourish.
Ryan lowered his head respectfully and tipped his own hat in return. “G’day, Elder Dooley,” he began in a polite, yet friendly tone, careful not to reveal his writhing nervousness. “And as much as I hate to tell ya this, sir, yer dead wrong about me purpose.” He grinned a wry, good-humored grin at the Ahroun. “I’m ‘ere fer another reason entirely. I’d like to challenge fer me second rank.”
Brendan Dooley put a hand to his chin and regarded Ryan thoughtfully. “Well now, are ye challengin’ me, lad?”
Quickly Ryan pondered this. It was uncommon for any challenge to be made to anyone that wasn’t of your own auspice, although technically, it was permissible to challenge any Elder of your own tribe. Furthermore, a challenge was almost never made by a mere Claith to an Elder of Dooley’s caliber. It was believed that in doing such a thing, a young Garou risked more difficult trials and a less sympathetic judgment; just as two-tour veterans in Vietnam would have treated the “cherries.” Ryan would be jeered at, and lose prestige in the eyes of his fellow Garou if he failed whatever arduous task the Fianna Elder set before him. Yet, a metis had to work twice as hard as any other Garou in order to earn a fifth of the respect, especially among the Fianna. If he succeeded, it would result in better treatment from his tribemates all over the world, and perhaps improve the status of all Fianna metis in a small way.
He almost declined. But then it occurred to him: what did he have to lose, a metis cub like himself? And besides, what could be worse than the Black Spiral Labyrinth? The young Philodox straightened his body to its full height. “Yes sir,” he replied emphatically.
Brendan Dooley’s eyes widened in surprise, but seeing that Ryan was resolute, he cleared his throat and said, “Well, all right then, lad. Prepare yourself, and gather the clan fer sunset, I will.”
Ryan nodded. “Yes sir,” he smiled.
As he ran off into the woods, Dooley watched him with an attentive eye. The young lad shows promise, he does, he mused in his innermost thoughts. Too bad metis he was born. Never do the metis amount to anything, the poor sorry sots. And with a sigh, he turned and walked back the way he’d come, determining the tests that he would lay before the young Fianna. He would make it especially difficult. Perhaps then the metis cub would learn his place.
Bodhran drums thundered out an ominous heartbeat as Ryan approached the Fianna camp with his heart somewhere around his tonsils. When the lovely lady Galliard who had first invited him to Lughnasadh caught sight of him, she began to pump air into her bagpipes, which soon rang out with a long, low note of sweetest purity that split the twilight in two like a lightning bolt. The Fianna of the sept gathered about her, observing Ryan like a panel of judges. It was intimidating, and it was meant to be. He refused to falter in his step, refused to hesitate at all in his stride. His eyes, smouldering with determination, met those of Brendan Dooley’s without blinking or looking away. As the Fianna of old, as it had been for more than a thousand years, he was naked to the waist, and painted from face to the waistband of his jeans with blue woad. In the dim blue light, with the shadows of their ceremonial fire dancing over the woad-adorned features shrouded beneath his felt slouch hat, to some he might have made a sinister apparition; to others, an inspiring one.
All at once, the drums stopped, and the pipes fell silent. Brendan Dooley called out to him, “Welcome, Ryan Windrunner. Have ye had time enough to prepare?”
Ryan’s voice rang clear and true. “I have,” he simply said.
“Then come ye forward,” the Ahroun intoned, “and join the Fianna of Finn.”
As he stepped fully into the firelight, Ryan felt the presence of his ancestors. Their spirits were all around him, taking his hand and guiding his heart. He even thought he heard a voice whisper quietly, “Come on, lad,” in encouragement. When he looked around, no one was there.
He knew in his heart that he was ready.
The beautiful freckled Galliard smiled softly in his direction and winked a glittering blue eye. He smiled in return. She, for one, wanted him to succeed, and it bolstered his confidence.
Then she spoke.
“You know the traditions as well as any, I’m sure. It is said that Fionn MacCumhail’s Fianna were chosen as much for their intelligence as for their brawn. Recite from one of the Twelve Books of Poetry. Prove that you are a warrior-poet.”
The young Fianna’s smile spread. It was to be the easiest task first, was it? Well, Ryan’s mother was a Fianna Galliard, and she had taught her little boy well. So it was that he began:
“On the day that we mustered on Sliabh Truim,
“The Fianna of Finn, full of valor,
“Many a brave hero and hound were there
“Which on the turf were matchless . . .”
The choice of poem was perhaps as important as the recital itself, but from the red-haired Galliard’s growing smile, he judged he had chosen well. The poem, called “The Hunt of Sliabh Truim,” was old when Argyle was young, and since it was about the Fianna, it spoke tellingly of Ryan's tribal pride. Still, there was no certainty in this task. Ryan’s voice was admittedly beautiful, and his love of literature unmistakable in the zeal he expressed, but he was Australian. Might his accent cost him in the judgment of these Canadian Fianna?
When he had uttered the last phrase, the forest fell silent; even the birds, as though they, too, had been listening. Ryan had no idea how he’d fared. Even the red-haired Galliard who was his ally in this endeavor gave no sign. Her eyes were closed and her expression far away.
One of the Fianna, a small, lithe young man, now spoke.
“In the war against the Wyrm,” he said, “as we Ragabash well know, sometimes discretion is indeed the better part of valor. We Fianna ask that even our Ahrouns be fleet and light of foot. The challenge is an ancient one. We will test your knowledge of our lore by seeing if you can figure it out.” With that, the gathered Fianna came forward, and began to weave his now shoulder-length hair into braids.
Ryan nodded knowingly. “I remember,” he told them firmly. His heart beat furiously. He knew the test from legends. With his woven hair, they would chase him through the woods. If he were caught, if his braids were disturbed by twigs or leaves, or if a stick snapped beneath his feet, he would fail.
There was only one problem. This was a task normally given to the Ragabash. He doubted that he could be that stealthy, or that quick. He needed a way to beat his own limitations. What could he do?
Another Galliard, not the redheaded girl, began to beat a bodhran drum.
“Go!” Brendan Dooley bellowed, and he went. Like a racer from the starting gate, he fled into a stand of trees. After a brief pause, Dooley led the other Fianna into the woods after him.
He ran, he dodged the branches of the cedars and the pines, he chose a path where the undergrowth was thin and easily visible. But already the pursuing pack was gaining ground. They were of higher rank, more experienced, some faster, many stronger. They would catch him before long, and there was nothing he could do about it.
If only there were some way that he could get enough of a lead to take a moment to shift to his lupus form!
That’s when he saw the river.
A flash of inspiration struck him. As the pursuers called out to
one another, gauging his position, he leaped directly down the riverbank.
As he did so, he said a short prayer and summoned his frustration and Rage.
He changed.
When he connected with the river’s muddy bank, it was not with two legs, but with four. Four paws with hairy pads which caught in the muck and prevented him from sliding into the water and making a disastrous splash. Now he was in a smaller, sleeker shape, with greater natural talents of stealth, and there were no braids on his body to be disturbed by anything. Also, he had the entire straight stretch of the riverbank in which to gain a commanding lead. Momentarily he wondered if shapechange might be construed as cheating, but dismissed that idea almost immediately. This was as much a test of wits as a test of ability, or so the legends always said.
Flat out, he fled up the river, leaping from side to side when the terrain became too rough, and before long, he was deep into the woods, and he could no longer hear anyone behind him.
He had passed.
The weary Garou rested briefly, panting into his paws. When he finally looked up, he was startled to discover a white stag looking down at him with mischief in his blackly gleaming eyes. Then Ryan blinked, and when his eyes opened again, the stag was gone, leaving him to ponder whether or not he had imagined it.
He found his way back to the campfire. By this time, darkness had claimed the world in its embrace. He returned weary, but with a victorious smile on his face. The red-haired girl was also smiling. Dooley, on the other hand, was scowling darkly.
“Well done, lad,” the Elder complimented him in a voice that was anything besides complimentary. “Now comes the final test. Know ye the story of Ossian?”
“I do, Elder,” Ryan answered.
“Then know ye will the task before you.” He pointed to a deep, body-sized hole freshly dug, not too far from the campfire but almost invisible in the dark.
Ryan was horrified. He knew this task, all right. His heart sinking, he lowered his body into the hole. The ground was level with his mid-section. As he did so, the other Fianna took paws or shovels and packed dirt in around his body. When that was completed, he was given a round wooden shield, just as his ancestors might have used, and a strong hazel stick, weathered and well-used. Then all of the Fianna present took their human shapes if they weren’t already in them, and lined up several feet away. Each took up a crude spear from a stack by the fire as they did so.
Yes, Ryan knew the test. The spears would be cast in his direction. He’d been given the tools with which to defend himself. If he was wounded, he would fail.
To his knowledge, such a test had never been performed in the darkness. And he was no warrior, really. He would not have expected to succeed in the daylight. Well, mused the dismayed youth glumly, at least they gave me a fightin’ chance. They put the fire at me back.
All at once, Ryan could feel again the presence of an ancestral spirit. It was urgently seeking contact with his inner self. He sensed in it a powerful desire to help him. In desperation, he gave in, and permitted it to bind with his spirit.
Suddenly there was a strange voice inside his mind, a rich, male voice that spoke with a thick Scottish burr, and that voice seemed to know exactly what to do. <Lad,> the stranger began, <I’ve done this test meself. I dinna think ye’ll find it that hard. If ye call upon yer Rage, ye should only need a sweepin’ arc to the right with the wand; aye, and then ye should lean yer shield to the left and duck under it. Like the shield wall at Bannockburn. Nothing to it.>
Ryan wasn’t so certain. <I’m sure ya were a great warrior, mate,> he extended his thoughts in return, hoping that they could be heard by his anonymous ancestor, <but I ‘ardly know the first thing about this. ‘Ow d’ya know I’ll be able to do it?>
In response was a low-throated and rousing, if ghostly, chuckle. <Trust me, lad,> his progenitor urged.
“Are you ready, Ryan Windrunner?” Brendan Dooley bellowed.
Ryan determined that the Scottish spirit’s advice was certainly a better plan than any he’d come up with. He decided to do exactly that. That way, no matter what happened, he could at least say that he tried. “Yes sir!” Ryan called out in return.
With that, Dooley drew back his spear, and on cue, his companions did the same. They waited. Ryan waited. After an eternity of suspense, the Ahroun finally roared out, “Release!”
The spears flew. Ryan was already in motion.
With the supernatural speed that only Rage could bring, he swung his hazel wand. It connected with the tip of the first spear, the head of the second, the fastening of the third, and the staff of the fourth and fifth, barely scraping off of the last, but still deflecting the spear off-course. Then there was no more time. Slightly to the left, he turtled beneath his unnervingly thin shield and held his breath in an agony.
There were two thundering crunches and a horrible ripping sound as two spears punctured the shield; one on its edge, and one which narrowly missed his hand; so narrowly, in fact, that it tore the end of the leather thong he grasped right from its bolt, and split it into a fork with a sound like tearing flesh. His shield twisted to one side as it surrendered to the forces of gravity, dangling loosely from the thong about his arm. For a terrible second, he knew with all certainty that he would not succeed; the last two spears would fly about the shield, now nearly useless, and he would fail.
But nothing happened.
Slowly he emerged from beneath the shield and looked around himself, dazed. The red-haired lass was positively beaming, and even Brendan Dooley was nodding his approval. Then it struck him. The last two spears must have missed.
Ryan sighed his relief, and then he smiled.
He had succeeded.
His fellow Fianna exploded into a raucous cheer, and before he knew it, he was out of the earth and they were trying to feed him a frothing mug of beer. The freckled Galliard played her pipes and sang old folk songs. Long into the night roared the celebration, but to Ryan it was all a colored blur. All he knew was that by whatever miracle, he had succeeded. No longer was he an unknown pup. He was a seasoned warrior of the second rank. <Thanks, mate,> he directed cheerfully at his forefather’s specter, but the presence was no longer there.
As Ryan skipped back to his pack’s encampment, weariness long forgotten in his state of semi-drunkenness and the thrill of his impossible victory, he was intercepted by Moon Howler. The wolf wuffled quietly, and his erect tail surrendered to an urge to wag a little. His eyes were full of questions. In response, Ryan returned a sunny, radiant grin. The lupus Galliard stopped fighting his tail entirely and pressed his forepaws to the Philodox’s midsection. Although he staggered a little under the weight and his own untrustworthy balance, cheerily the boy embraced him.
Then the alpha dropped back on his four feet and turned towards the camp with a firm glance at Ryan. Obediently he followed.
Grunnar was awaiting the two of them at the fire that heated the night’s dinner, which consisted of, to Ryan’s surprise and delight, bacon, flapjacks, and eggs. Manymoons was flipping the bacon in a skillet and casting the occasional triumphant glare at Aaron. The Ahroun pointedly ignored him.
Moon Howler thieved a slice of bacon from the plate at the Ragabash’s side. He sat respectfully before the Athro and waited for him to speak.
“Ah, Ryan,” the giant redhead greeted him with a cheerful smile. As he drew himself to his feet, the smile twisted briefly into an involuntary grimace. Ryan knew that the Fenrir Skuld had his share of battle scars, among them a back injury that pained him in sudden dampness. Must mean that rain was on the way. “So, how’d it go?” he wanted to know of the young Philodox.
Smiling proudly, Ryan simply replied, “I made it. I’m Fostern now.”
“Hot damn!” Manymoons cheered enthusiastically. He flipped a pancake with a flourish.
“Way to go!” Aaron piped up. He cast Ryan a toothy grin.
Moonscar came over and licked him.
Grunnar was nodding. “There. See? I knew you could do it.” He patted Ryan on the shoulder with an amazingly gentle, enormous hand. Just to show that he was keeping an eye on things, he added with a conspiratorial wink, “Now, whether or not Dooley was willing to admit you could do it was another question entirely.”
Ryan didn’t like the inference. Quickly he came to the Elder’s defense. “Brendanrhya’s just doin’ ‘is job by makin’ it tough on me,” he told the Fenrir Galliard firmly. His pointed use of the old form suffix -rhya, an honorific meaning “Greater in station,” was not lost on the Get of Fenris. He frowned his disagreement, but didn’t voice it. To say such things would merely have brought dishonor down upon his own head; a fact that Ryan well knew. “Well, sit down,” Grunnar invited, “before you fall down.”
Ryan did not argue. The pseudo-pleasant pain of well-worked muscles settled into Ryan’s body as he did so. The beer and Irish whiskey were wearing off, it seemed.
Grunnar chose not to follow suit, but instead to walk about in a way that suggested that he might be trying to rid himself of a persistent ache. “Well then,” he began with a sigh when he was certain that everyone was paying attention, “how does a trip up north sound to you all?”
The two lupus among them perked up their ears and thumped tails excitedly. Both of them had packs in British Columbia’s northern woods, and they were starting to feel a little homesick. Besides, it was almost time for mating season. Moonscar was beginning to feel it in her body and bones. The last thing that she, or anybody else wanted, was for her to be alone among her all-male pack when the need came upon her, with no wolves in sight. The pack would fight each other instead of the Wyrm, and all for the right to a mating forbidden by their people. Perhaps they would all be able to exercise homid restraint, but perhaps not. No, it was safer and easier to be with a wolf pack when the time came. Perhaps, too, Moon Howler and Wyrmsbane would find suitable mates, and then there would be not one litter, but three. And Gaia’s cycle would continue on.
Aaron’s reaction was a complete about-face of that of his packmates. “What, at this time of year?” he exclaimed in surprise. “But winter’s coming! What would we eat up there?”
“Br’er,” Manymoons said darkly, “like y’all say, winter is comin’.
What we gonna eat down here?”
Aaron sneered, but he gave no answer.
As much as he hated to admit it, the Ragabash had a point. Manymoons
could steal them only so much food, and they were probably right out of
luck for shelter from the wind and snow.
“There’s trouble up north,” continued
Grunnar as his eyes met Aaron’s.
Well, that was all the young Ahroun needed. “Well, why didn’t you tell me that in the first place, Grunnarrhya? When do we leave? What’s the trouble?”
Moon Howler let out a disgusted snort. Aaron glared at him angrily,
but wisely held his tongue.
“This one came to us from Moon
Howl himself,” Grunnar informed the pack. His eyes came to rest on
Moon Howler. “This might be a good chance for you to impress your
grandfather.”
The pack alpha’s ears perked up excitedly. Anything to impress his grandfather!
Manymoons’ limited patience came to an end. “Well don’t y’all be leavin’ us in suspense! What’s de problem?” He tipped a pancake on to a plate and passed it to Ryan. The Philodox’s stomach rumbled audibly. He dug in, not bothering to wait for the butter, syrup, or silverware.
“Poachers,” Grunnar announced. “There’s a large-scale fur trade operation going on up near Prince George. The Wendigo wanted a few young Garou to join up with the local wolf packs and draw the hunters out. They’d need some lupus to successfully mingle with the packs, and some homids to track the poachers through human society. I thought of you.”
The Cajun nodded appreciatively. “We sound like just what de doctor
ordered. Right, Alpha?”
The lupus cast him an affirmative
look.
“One more thing,” the Galliard cautioned them. “The targets of the
poachers are wolves.”
This met with various reactions.
Manymoons glanced up from his cooking sharply, and then he swore violently
because in that moment of carelessness, he’s managed to burn himself.
Ryan nearly choked on the bite of pancake he’d been swallowing. Moon
Howler lowered his ears and growled. Moonscar drooped her head down
and whined. And Aaron said, with trademark homid redundancy, “I thought
that wolves were an endangered species. Aren’t they protected by
law?”
Manymoons resisted the urge to slap him.
“Well,” started in Grunnar with a grin, “I always thought so.”
Aaron didn’t find this funny. “So, why aren’t the cops doing anything about it then? That’s what I want to know. Human law’s on our side with this one.” He folded his arms across his chest with mingled irritation and satisfaction, knowing that he had made a good point.
“If you can get the local authorities to help you without violating the Veil, great!” Grunnar shrugged. “The problem is that they have to catch these guys first.”
That made sense to the young Ahroun. The law needed hard evidence. Besides, who gave a rat’s ass about wolves? It wasn’t as though these poachers were shooting people. “Yeah, that is a problem,” he growled in reluctant agreement.
“This is more than just a couple of hunters, it seems,” added Grunnar just to be clear. “See if you can’t trace it to the source, all right?” With that, Grunnar said his good-nights, passing up Manymoons’ offer of a pancake or two by pleading pain and weariness.
Spirits were high when the young Garou retired for the evening. Aaron’s grumbling objections to spending a winter in the open snow were thoroughly banished when Moon Howler confided that mating season was approaching. Aaron, of course, had never experienced life with a wolf pack, but his strong Get of Fenris blood found the idea of “going native,” as the Glass Walkers called it, curiously appealing. Manymoons eagerly began to crow about the possibilities; at least, until Aaron snarled in a surly tone, “What the hell do you care about mating season? It’s not like that’ll make much difference to you, mule.”
Involuntarily Ryan winced, even though the insult was not directed at him. In these dark times, when the Garou were a dying race, Ryan was deeply ashamed of his inability to reproduce.
Evidently so was Manymoons. He snapped, “Just ‘cause I can’t make babies don’t mean dat I don’t take pleasure in de act, Ape-boy! And it don’t mean I can’t perform it, either.”
Pleased that he had finally found a crack in the armor of the Cajun’s good humor, the Ahroun jeered, “Doesn’t it?”
The Ragabash recovered his composure. Smirking, he invited, “Well, I could demonstrate if y’all want. Bend over; I’m sure y’all know the drill.”
Aaron stood up. Ryan interposed himself between them. “Now just calm down, both of you,” he said firmly. “Yer just pissin’ and moanin’ ‘cause yer worried about the wolves. All of that was uncalled fer. Just ‘ave a Bex, righto?”
The homid Ahroun cast venomous eyes in Manymoons’ direction, and then turned the same murderous look upon Ryan. The Philodox accepted the challenge and fiercely returned the gaze. Intensely they faced off against one another, and for nearly two minutes, nothing else passed between them. But at last Ryan’s force of will won out over Aaron’s temper, and the Ahroun looked away, defeated. “I’m sorry, Ryan,” he apologized glumly. “I never meant that to offend you.” His eyes, still smouldering, flickered back to Manymoons.
“No worries, mate,” Ryan lied with a forgiving smile. Well, he reasoned, it wasn’t all Aaron’s fault that he felt justified in making thoughtless remarks like that. Aaron couldn’t help the prejudices that were instilled by Garou society. Besides, he really had no right to be offended. Why should he honestly care about mating season? “Besides, ya might ‘ave a point. We halfbreeds ought to leave the matin’ to those who have a chance of makin’ ankle-biters.”
“Why?” demanded Manymoons impatiently. “Why’s it matter, anyways? Bitches don’t go outta heat ‘til their preggers, right? So why can’t you and I have a little fun before these sumbitches get to ‘em? It ain’t like anybody’s plannin’ to marry ‘em or anythin’ like that.”
Ryan opened his mouth to reply, but Aaron beat him to the punch. “Why the fuck not?” he shrugged nonchalantly, which effectively stunned both metis, first, because he seemed the jealous type, and second, because he was actually supporting Manymoons. “It’s like you say. Even if you’re not going to knock them up, I don’t see why you should have to miss out on the entertainment value. If we’re going to live like wolves for a while, we might as well enjoy it. And yeah,” he barked sharply, “I mean all that. Shit, Ragabash, I was only bugging you.”
Manymoons beamed. “Well damn, Ape-boy, why didn’t y’all just tell me that?” And he crawled into his sleeping bag, obviously much cheered.
That night, Ryan dreamed. And he remembered the dream with perfect clarity, like the tolling of a bell in the night, unheard of since the Labyrinth.
He fell asleep in wolf shape, as was his custom. With days of drought and starvation long behind him, Ryan now displayed his pure and true Fianna blood. His mottled fur was marred no more by patching, and the line of ribs had melted back into his pelt, which glistened and shimmered with the good health of the young and strong, as grass in a spring breeze. But like said grass it was short yet, designed for warmer climes, and so when Ryan awoke in the midst of a snowstorm, he was freezing.
His yellow-green wolfen eyes blinked in an expression of drowsy confusion. The gesture blew snowflakes from his eyelashes and whiskers, momentarily blurring vision. More arrived to replace them. He could see now, through the white haze, the remains of their campfire - nothing but smouldering cinders. Even the odor of it was feeble and faint in this . . . was this what the Yanks would call a blizzard?
He stood up and shook the white flakes from his fur, only to have them immediately return and stick to him like lint on staticky wool. Only twice in his life had Ryan even seen snow. Once was when he’d gone south to the Fianna caern of Tower Hill with his mother, where fairy penguins of Antarctica made their winter homes. The other had been only last winter, which he’d spent shivering somewhere in the woods of Vermont. He didn’t much care for it, truthfully. It filled the air and covered the ground, burying tracks and spoor. It hardened the earth like a hardened heart, making digging well nigh impossible. And of course, there was the fierce and bitter wet cold, like a salivating, carnivorous monster gnawing at his bones.
It was night no longer, but some kind of grey and bitter twilight, almost as if he had been driven by the storm out of time entire. Suddenly Ryan was deeply afraid. He stared into the white shroud at the campfire, and it seemed to him - but it might only have been a trick of the light and wind! - the ashes formed the outline of a skull.
There was a low bark behind him. With more than a little relief, Ryan recognized it as belonging to Moon Howler, who was calling the pack close. He became aware of other wolf shapes in the half-light, and although he could smell nothing, he identified the silhouettes. He was not alone in the valley of the shadow of death, it seemed.
“I hunger,” Moon Howler informed them all in the primal language of their lupine ancestors.
Ryan, too, became aware of a desperate gnawing sensation in the pit of his gullet, not unlike that of the hungry days of Australian drought. He snuffled his agreement and nuzzled his alpha, knowing that there would be no other way to communicate this. The eerie wind moaned in their sensitive ears like the howl of a maddened beast. With his most important senses blinded, Ryan was distinctly reminded of the savage dust storms that sometimes raged over the Simpson Desert and across the savannah. Under these circumstances his instincts should be screaming for him to find shelter. They were, he found; but the need to fill the emptiness, the need to feed, was simply too overwhelming to ignore. And the diminished scent of the packmates who were brushing up against him, all wolven now, concurred. It was winter, and the pack was ravenous. They would hunt.
They snuffled around in the snow a bit, seeking tracks, faint spoor, anything. The snow swirled mockingly about them, capering and gibbering. Something about it reminded Ryan of distant, half-reflected, half-shrouded memories in shards of black glass. He shuddered from more than cold.
At last there was a bark in the obfuscation. It was Moonscar’s. She had found something. The pack gathered to her, found her side, and sought the scent; but Ryan smelled nothing and saw less. He cast her a quizzical glance and whined directly into her ear.
She pressed her muzzle to his. Her body quivered with excitement. Her eyes and aroma radiated nothing but certainty. Whether Ryan could detect it or not, she had. There was no question in her mind whatsoever.
Moon Howler growled. He did not care that he smelled nothing. Moonscar had; and there was nothing else. She led the pack into the snowy wastes, barking every now and then to keep them together, to keep them from getting lost in the nothing. They could do naught else but follow. There was a horrible, dark dread that had settled in the pit of Ryan’s guts. What if this was a case of lunatic Theurge “ramblings,” a case of misplaced intuition? Theurges were all partly mad, after all - everyone knew it. What if they were chasing shadows?
How long they wandered in this shadow-realm, Ryan did not know. He made no attempt to guess, either. He knew that logically, it must have been less than a day, because they did not sleep. Other than that, only the gods could say. Time had no meaning here, and unlike in the Little Falls jail cell, Ryan was without human timepieces.
Yet sometime in that no-time, Ryan learned that Moonscar was not mad, after all; or perhaps they all were. For suddenly, out of nowhere, he smelled meat. Cooking meat.
His stomach clenched furiously. He began to salivate. He let out a happy bark and ran towards it, dimly aware that his pack was doing the same. They would not starve after all! Gaia would provide.
They were so intent upon running that they nearly collided with the old man.
By now, the snowy shroud had begun to thin a little, and like a stage hand drawing a curtain it drew the snow aside to reveal the man at the absolutely last possible second. He shuffled through the snow on a twisted white staff, almost buried in the mountain of skins and furs that covered him from the cold. His impossibly long white beard was strewn thickly with icicles that seemed almost part of it. Ryan pulled up short, leaving a trail of streaks in the snow behind him. Then he noticed that part of that mound of pelts was actually the carcass of a deer. Somehow the old man was packing the kill over his shoulder, right next to his rough bow and quiver. His lively, ice-blue eyes fixed them all intently. He did not seem in the least surprised by their presence.
It’s a spirit, Ryan realized. That’s why only Moonscar could smell it. This is a spirit who has chosen to appear human, at least fer now. We must be in the Umbra.
The man-spirit spoke in the fierce wind, which died just a little as he did so, as if bowing to his will and silencing itself in respect to his words. “Come join me,” he invited, but the voice was just more icy, bitter wind, and it gave Ryan no comfort. “Come join me, all of you. I have meat enough for all.”
For just a brief moment, Ryan almost refused, although he could not have said why. His heart leaped and thundered in his breast. Then he saw that Aaron had already stepped forward, and Moon Howler was following, and the other two were hot at his heels. His hunger conquered his fear. He followed too.
Old Man Winter, for Ryan was sure that this was who he must be, trekked
ahead just a little. He was amazingly agile for a man of such advanced
age. Aaron, also sensing the spirit’s true nature, shifted to his
Crinos form and held his arms out to alleviate the Old Man of his burden.
The Old Man accepted his silent offer.
They walked through the snow until
they came to a cave in the side of a hill. It was a warm orange light
in the grey semi-darkness, but still Ryan did not trust it. The shadows
cast by the firelight on the cave’s entrance appeared briefly to form the
ghost of a skull. They vanished.
The Old Man went into the cave, and beckoned for the Garou to join him.
Inside, enormous fires burned in a large chamber that must have resembled King Hrothgar’s mead-hall before Grendel’s arrival. Over the fires were numerous spits, where meat roasted. There were deer and jackrabbits; duck, goose, and quail; veal, wild boar, and even a couple of ‘roos. Suddenly the hunger in Ryan’s belly became insurmountable. He quavered desperately as the sudden influx of scent, after the sterility of the wasteland, overwhelmed him.
The Old Man seated himself upon a bed of furs, and cast a generous hand about the room like a sorcerer casting a spell. “Come and join me,” he urged gently. The icicles in his beard did not look as though they were melting at all, despite the cavern’s intense warmth. “I would be honored if you would dine with me, noble warriors. I wanted to congratulate you on your battle against the Lust Banes.” He seized a roasting duck and began to eat it greedily.
Ryan started. This was the most recent battle the pack had faced. The Banes had infested Bear Creek Park in Surrey, just off of the King George Highway, drawn by (or perhaps drawing) the prostitutes that frequented the spot. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Ryan had won that one for them. The succubi-like Banes had used the only weapon they had; the temptation of seduction. Ryan was merely revolted by their ghostly caresses. His ability to keep his head enabled the other pack members to do the same, and Aaron and Moon Howler tore them apart. How had this spirit known of it? And why would he care?
But the others were already beginning to take the meat, and Ryan was wolf enough to fight for his own share before the others could devour it all. What does it matter? his instincts cried. Dammit, you fool, EAT!
His teeth sank gluttonously into a roasting pork haunch.
The meat was too hot, but he chewed it anyway and swallowed quickly. But it wasn’t pork that he was feasting upon. It tasted not in the least like pork, but something both richer and sweeter. As he considered this, he went back for another bite, and what he saw made him growl in horror and his hackles rose and he backed away, his fangs and gums bared in a fierce, frightened snarl. It was no savory pork haunch on the spit before him, but a man’s severed leg!
He was not the only one. Aaron was snarling furiously. The other three had also stopped eating, and they were studying the human flesh - for that’s what it was, all of it, every last bit - with expressions of supreme puzzlement and mild suspicion.
Aaron took his Homid form. Blood was on his mouth. “What the fuck is this?!” he demanded of the Old Man with a fist raised.
The Old Man raised a hand in return, a hand meant to stay the Ahroun’s wrath. “Be calm,” he said, and he, like them, began to shift and to change. He grew to three, maybe four times his height, and the furs spread and covered his body and turned an impossible icy blue. His teeth and nails elongated, burnished black, and his feet twisted and mangled themselves into stumps of hooves. His ice-blue eyes blazed like ice on fire, like a cold so fierce it burned. The creature looked like a psychotic’s vision of a yeti mated with a demon, and Ryan backed away from it now, trembling uncontrollably, his ruff raised like a push-broom.
But Moon Howler was not frightened. His eyes widened and a glad expression flashed in them. His ears perked up, yet he lowered his head in deep respect, then went one further and exposed the tender flesh of his belly to the creature. “Grandfather Wendigo,” he whined joyously. “We are honored by your presence.”
Grandfather Wendigo. The sacred Totem of the Wendigo tribe. Understanding dawned in Ryan’s eyes as he recalled Moon Howler’s campfire stories. The Wendigo was an ancient and powerful spirit of the primordial Earth. He was incarnate of the Wyld’s savage nature, master of the wind and snow, Lord of the Northlands, a spirit of vengeance; and He was known in legend as the Cannibal Spirit.
Now the Cannibal Spirit loomed over them, looking down upon them with terrible half-mad eyes. The fury of a warrior blazed forth from this being in a naked expression of a Darwinian savage beast. Kill or be killed, the eyes told them matter-of-factly, and meeting those eyes was a task for greater beings than they. Almost against his will Ryan found himself showing submission. He did not fight the urge. Nor did his packmates, not that he could tell, not even Aaron.
The Wendigo cast its wild gaze over them one at a time. Ryan was consumed by a sense of just how ancient, how primeval, this being truly was. How must it view them, the pack? Surely no more than insects, no more than dust motes, in its long existence! Ryan mused in great humility that to the Wendigo, he and his friends must seem as brief as the melting snowflakes. <Rise, noble warriors,> He commanded them in a voice that was as much feeling as sound, a Voice that echoed in their minds and caused their very bones to tremble. <Come and dine with me.>
The pack hesitated no longer. Moonscar’s eyes were bright. The pack’s totem had finally revealed itself. At last they had been chosen. It was a great, auspicious event. Evidently, this was some sort of test, perhaps of their loyalty. She feasted with relish. Moon Howler and Manymoons found meat as well.
Ryan was not so certain. Didn’t the Litany forbid devouring the flesh of Man?
The Wendigo sensed his doubt. <I am the Cannibal Spirit,> he proclaimed with pride. <My practices were old when Gaia was young. I would have you as my pack, but my path is not for the foolish or weak. I wish for you to help me to reinstate the Impergium.>
“The Impergium?” echoed Aaron doubtfully. “But the Elders of old put a stop to that because it was doing more harm than good. I mean, it led to the Curse and the Delirium.” He stopped, his expression confused, which was by no means a common state of affairs for Aaron.
<Look about you,> the Cannibal Spirit proclaimed. <Is the Weaver not a plague upon the Earth? Are not the humans responsible? Once, the Garou maintained the natural order. Now the humans are permitted to breed out of control, like rats or rabbits, and everything in their path is devoured to feed their growing hunger. They are a cancer, and they are consuming Gaia just as a cancer consumes its victim.>
This gave both Aaron and Ryan pause. The Spirit had an excellent point.
<The Garou were created to cull the flock,> the Cannibal Spirit continued. <Is it not so? You are predators. Humans are prey. They are meant to be your prey, but your people will not see it. I came to you because I believed you wiser than that.>
Aaron was nodding emphatically. “You’re so right, Grandfather Wendigo,” he agreed wholeheartedly. “Never did have much respect for those fucking sheep.” He returned once again to the wolf aspect and bent to his meal.
Well, Ryan reasoned, it was true that the humans were breeding out of control. And it was true that their rising numbers were forcing them to consume Gaia’s bounty at an alarming rate. He did not share Aaron’s disparaging opinion of humanity, but perhaps “culling the flock” might reduce the spread of Wyrm-tainted Weavertech. Perhaps the more militant of the Garou tribes had a point, after all. Besides, the others trusted the Wendigo. It was the will of the pack.
He joined them.
