Humanskin: Pack Mentality

Dear Readers: I am in the process of world-building, creating a common setting for a group of stories and longer works. An earlier piece posted on this blog, “A Different Kind of Werewolf Story” introduces a set of characters that I revisit in this piece. Enjoy it, and please let me know what you think! Also, look forward to the next chapter of Afterglow: Godfall–and if you haven’t, take a moment to read the first installment. As always, thank you for your interest and support!  – Alexander C. Chirila


Old Mother had tried to save the little girl, but it was too late. She was supposed to have been the newest member of the pack, one of the youngest awakened to the Totem’s gift. They had watched her for nearly a season. The snows covered the sleeping earth and the vibrant scent-trails of autumn faded into the muted palette of winter. Colorful pockets of warmth were hidden among the blacks, whites, and browns of midseason frost; bear-dens and foxholes, bird’s nests and underground warrens.

The smell of human cookfires drifted in billowing clouds, torn by the wind into bands of thick scent. Burning fat, crisping hides, firewood, death, sweat, blood, and the overpowering fog of humanity hung over the western foothills. How noisy they were! Iron and Snow found it difficult to imagine how the others could have spent so much time surrounded by so much noise. Even at night, in the deep hours between moonset and sunrise, the pack could hear them rustling and breathing, crying aloud in their nightmares and shushing their children to bed.

The little girl would wait until her mother was asleep, wearied by a day of toil in the settlement. Then she would sneak away, silent as a born hunter, and stalk small prey among the dogwoods. She did not hunt as the humans hunted, with traps and tools. She pursued her prey, running it down and biting through fur and flesh with teeth that were made for rending and tearing. There was no question that the Totem was with her.

The pack kept near her, day and night. Her scent-trail became familiar to them.

Rust and Coal adored her. He had even risked contact, though the Alpha had warned them against it. One night the girl had chased down a rabbit; she crouched over it, preparing to tear into its soft abdomen. When the wind changed she caught the pack’s scent and froze. But she wasn’t afraid. She eagerly scanned the trees as if anticipating the appearance of a long-awaited friend.

Rust and Coal slinked cautiously forward, ignoring the warning growls of the Alpha. The girl sighted him. She didn’t move. When he came closer, no more than a breath away from her, she lowered herself down and nudged the fresh kill towards him. He bowed his head and obligingly nipped at the carcass, leaving her the greater portion. When it was done he brushed past her, allowing her to touch him, and loped into the night-shadows of the surrounding forest. The Alpha punished his disobedience, but a little bit of bloodshed wasn’t enough to cause Rust and Coal to regret the risk he had taken.

Soon, the Fever would overtake her. Young as she was, she wouldn’t be able to hide it; the symptoms would manifest and the wolf would wax strong inside of her. Old Mother prepared the ritual tools she would need to free the girl from her original humanskin when the time was right.

They had all been born with an original humanskin. Each of them had been weaned on human milk and nurtured by human mothers. They came to the Totem only later. Overtaken by the Fever, they had chosen exile over quarantine and death. Driven to the staggering precipice of madness by the visions, they had each of them ranged far into the wild. Old Mother had found them all, bringing them flailing and frenzied to her dwelling-place.

She had torn through their tightening shrouds of frail skin. Their screams became howls, echoing among the rounded, forested mountains of Appalachia. Only Iron and Snow had seen the ritual firsthand. Her practiced hand, guided by a bloodline as old as the world, had never failed to release the wolf from the dying chrysalis of human flesh.

At last the Fever came. Her human mother hid her away. A Fever-stricken would not be allowed to live, child or otherwise. It had happened before; an entire settlement wiped out, left rotting under the baking sun and reeking of death.

It had been known by different names in the beginning, when the healers in the World That Ended still believed they could defend their species against it. Before the packs of humankind fell by the droves, rotting alive in their dens while the healthy among them vied like rabid dogs over the corpse of their civilization. By the time the Fever had run its course, the cities were dead, the tribes of humankind scattered into small settlements huddled against the vengeful wilderness. Traces of the Fever still remained, but things were different: the Lineages had awakened, for so long dormant and hidden in the blood of the Old Mothers. Those who belonged to the Lineages were called by the Fever. Some wise-men may have known what it was, having seen it before even in the World That Ended…but most men believed it was the plague returned to finish off the few survivors that had escaped.

They all knew how it was done; all of them except Iron and Snow. The victim would be weak and sluggish for several days. Then, on the fifth day, the delirium would begin. There were fleeting glimpses at first, and strange sounds; a sense of disembodiment. It would progress until it seemed a great crack had appeared in the reality of things, a crack though which poured endless rivers of indescribable vision and sensation. At this point, unless the individual was a solitary wanderer—as Bone and Sand, the ghost-wolf, had been—the settlers would quarantine the Fever-stricken. If the symptoms persisted, as they often did, the victim would be killed and his or her body and belongings burned. His or her family would be quarantined until they were deemed clear of the Fever. This, at least, was the merciful approach.

Mercy was often a luxury of the rational mind.

The little girl’s mother couldn’t keep her condition hidden away. Humans asked too many questions. The pack knew this was coming. The people began to secrete fear. It smoked through the air, a pungent tang that played and tugged at the pack’s instincts.

The day came when an overeager neighbor ran to one of the elders and announced that one of the settlers had been taken by the Fever. That was all it took. Word spread, like maggots through rotting meat, and not an hour passed before the settlers swarmed around the little girl’s dwelling-place. Agitated and gibbering they clustered and gestured. At last the settlers’ leaders came forward and held council.

The men of the encampment chose their brand of mercy. They dragged the poor girl kicking and screaming from her sweat-soaked cot and over to the tanner’s field. They made certain that her flesh did not touch theirs. They threw her down with as much compassion as their terror would allow. One of them drew a pistol. He made ready to shoot her.

Her mother had run after them through a gauntlet of restraining arms and blows, yelling for her daughter. ‘It’s not the Fever,’ she shouted, ‘It’s not the Fever!’ The men did not listen. She threw herself over her daughter and the bullet meant for the little girl found her instead. The crack of the shot echoed against the mountains.

The sky was a thick red color over the empty vastness of the west. Above the mountains the first stars gleamed from the cobalt heights.

The girl managed to squirm out from under her mother’s dying body. Covered in blood, her breath pluming in the winter’s bitter cold, she staggered into the field. She stood there, bewildered. Her eyes scanned the shadows of the woods. She was looking for him. She was looking for Rust and Coal. She could scent him, waiting for her just beyond the field.

She took one step forward, then another. The man with the gun pointed it at her, his hand trembling. The mob surged behind him, urging him to shoot. He swallowed and straightened his arm, trying to call up the strength for it. He failed. He lowered the pistol.

Then the little girl howled.

Rust and Coal went feral, breaking away from the pack and the concealing shadows of the forest. The mob was fixated on the little girl; they didn’t even see him coming. A young male had strayed close to the edge of the woods. He heard the rustle of tall grass and the low growl, turning too late. Rust and Coal hamstrung him; his warning cry turned into a gasping wail.

The crowd looked towards the sound.

The young male’s shrieking warped into a bloody gurgle. Rust and Coal looked up, his muzzle slick with blood, the ribbed cartilage of the boy’s windpipe dangling from his teeth. The man with the pistol trained it on him, but his target was too far and there were too many people in his way. He started to run forward, momentarily forgetting about the little girl. She did not waste the opportunity. She broke into a run, her bound hands stretched out before her.

Rust and Coal darted around the other side, trying to distract the man with the pistol. The mob rippled and shifted like a school of fish surrounded by circling sharks. The girl had almost made it—a few steps further and the welcome dark of the forest would have enfolded her. The pack would have protected her.

But the man with the pistol was not the only man who had brought his weapon. A second, older male brought up his long-barreled rifle and leveled it at the small, fleeing figure. There was just enough light to see her, and that was all he needed. He fired. This was a weapon born of the precise machines that still worked in the World That Ended. The girl’s body was hurled sideways by the impact of the bullet.

Iron and Snow was the closest to her. She was a deer’s long stride away from him. He knew the wound was fatal the moment she hit the ground.

The man with the pistol fired on Rust and Coal and missed. The wolf ran towards the downed girl, pausing long enough to seize her by the fabric of her clothes and drag her into the forest. The two men met in the field and ran forward; after a few paces the one with the long-barreled rifle stopped and gripped the other man’s shoulder.

‘No,’ he said, ‘why bother? That wolf wasn’t the only one; the rest of the pack has to be nearby. They must have smelled the Fever on the girl. Let them have her. They’ll finish her off if my bullet didn’t. We can post a guard to make sure the settlement’s safe.’

‘But she could wander back…the Fever…’

‘Didn’t you see what just happened? Look,’ the older man said, ‘this all went down wrong. Her mother’s dead and the girl will bleed out long before the wolves make a meal out of her. Look at the blood!’ he pointed to the darkened grass, nearly indiscernible now in the gloom.

The younger man relented. ‘Her mother was probably infected anyway,’ he said.

The mob dispersed as the last of the daylight drained behind the world. The wolves waited, protecting the girl in the deeper dark of the forest. They waited for Old Mother to come and take the girl to the Totem’s Pool by the hidden paths of the mountains. Old Mother would surely save her. She was an unparalleled healer. She would save the little girl. The pack would be complete, then. Old Mother would save the little girl.

But the tiny wolf trapped inside that weak, broken shell wasn’t strong enough to hold on. The spirit fled, leaving only the rigid cold behind. By the time Old Mother came, it was too late. The girl was dead. Old Mother gathered the body into her arms and started back, the pack sullenly keeping pace with her steady, trackless step.


* * * *


This was a Wolves’ Moot; a pack gathering. Old Mother sat on the broken trunk of an old oak felled by lightning a few seasons past. She was silent, listening to the growls, howls, ululations, and subtle variations of the pack’s language. The wolf-speak had come easily to the human-born members of the pack, who even in their former lives could understand the melancholy symphony that haunted the moonlit night.

Rust and Coal was calling for revenge.

Night and Stone, the Alpha and eldest member of the pack, snarled at the younger wolf. Vengeance was not the way of the wolf. If the pack had gotten to the girl earlier, they could have safeguarded her. It was a failure; no more, no less. What would vengeance accomplish? It would draw attention to the pack and to the Totem. The wolves knew what humans did to the sacred. They destroyed it. It was best to move on.

Smoke and Copper moved closer to her mate, her eyes fixed dangerously on Night and Stone. She was careful to moderate her body language, but there was no mistaking the intent in her eyes. Iron and Snow knew she was instigating Rust and Coal to challenge the Alpha; but for all his stubbornness and ferocity, Rust and Coal was not ready to make a bid for leadership. Smoke and Copper was the younger of the two females in the pack. She was also almost feral; more vicious than Rust and Coal, very nearly uncontrollable. Old Mother was the only one she really listened to. She heeled to the Alpha, but only because he dominated her—as he dominated all of them. Old Mother had chosen him first, and he had earned his position many times over. Still, Smoke and Copper did not respond well to his leadership.

Sooner or later, she would goad her mate into challenging Night and Stone. The old wolf would not go easily.

Bone and Sand, the ghost wolf, did not give expression to his thoughts. He never did. He only listened. Iron and Snow suspected that Old Mother knew his mind, as she knew all of their minds. She kept his secrets.

Ice and Soot snapped at Smoke and Copper. It was a warning; she would not abide the younger female’s challenge in front of Old Mother. The pack waited to see whether Smoke and Copper would snap back. Iron and Snow was almost certain she would, but not this time. The younger wolf lowered her head and back-stepped slowly away from the confrontation. Ice and Soot’s curled lips and furrowed snout smoothed, her amber-gold eyes glittering in the moonlight streaming through the trees and setting the small clearing aglow.

‘The humans have done what they always do,’ Old Mother told them. ‘If we attack them, we will have no choice but to protect the Totem at all costs; until all of them are dead or fled. Had we a larger pack, I would drive them from this place. They are too close to the Totem as it is. I fear that it is only a matter of time before the winter drives them deeper into the mountains. Then, we will have a choice to make. But now…’ she sighed, ‘we are not in a position of strength.’

Night and Stone looked at each of them in turn, dominating them, pushing them into submission with an unseen force of presence and strength that did not abide resistance. He would not fall until his ability to dominate the pack visibly weakened. Iron and Snow suspected that Rust and Coal was waiting for that moment. Until then, the unwritten laws that governed their little society would remain the axis around which their actions revolved.

Still, in the World After, things were different. These wolves had been human beings once, and they were able to clothe themselves in human flesh again. Some trace of that humanness lingered, sewn into the mind of the wolf. Was Rust and Coal ambitious enough, reckless enough, to challenge the Alpha before his weakness showed itself?

Iron and Snow loped after Old Mother, leaving the rest of the pack to prepare for the Night Hunt. This was something the young pup loved: to walk beside the Guardian of the Totem, Heiress of the Lineage. If she was so inclined, she would speak her mind to him. He didn’t always understand her thoughts, but it was enough that she trusted him.

She followed an uphill trail that crested one of the smaller peaks in the range. You could see the mighty Atlantic from the promontory, crashing against the eastern hills of the Appalachians. In the distance, over the black sheet of the ocean, lightning flashed behind smoky layers of gray cloud. Thunderheads marched towards the moon, slowly erasing the reflected band of sparkling light that carpeted the waves below.

‘I am disappointed,’ Old Mother said suddenly.

She didn’t turn to Iron and Snow, but spoke out over the steep drop. The wind whisked her voice away, down through the slopes below and the frothing surf beyond. ‘The Lineage must be stronger if we are to hold our own against the settlers. If we cannot grow our numbers, it will be as before, in the World That Ended. They will hunt us down, powerful as we are, and drive the Totem into a silence so final that no upheaval will awaken her again.’

Iron and Snow waited for her to continue, laying his head on his forearms. She said nothing for awhile. The thunderheads overtook the moon; the lightning broke through the cloud bank, streaking through the space between sea and sky.

‘I had counted us fortunate to find a sister so close at hand,’ she said. Now she turned to look down at Iron and Snow. ‘There is nothing quite like the taste of hope turned to bitterness in your mouth. Still, there is one more door open to us.’ Iron and Snow raised his head. Old Mother frowned. ‘When the pack returns from the Night Hunt, I will tell them.’


First Chapter from AFTERGLOW: GODFALL

Greetings, everyone. It’s been awhile since I’ve posted in any of my categories here. Meditating at the Crossroads is back, however, and I plan to keep it up and running with frequent updates. What follows below is the first chapter of what *may* turn into a larger novel…IF the first chapter seems to resonate with YOU, my dear readers. If you enjoy it, please do not hesitate to indicate your feelings either in poll box or comment section provided below. At any rate, let me know what you think of it, and enjoy! Thank you for your support and your time.



Beryl Toren needed to wash the stink of the Stronghold out of his mouth, and in his experience, the best way to do that was with a tall shot of moonshine. Not the filthy swill poured out of the Council-sanctioned taps, but actual, honest-to-goodness homemade spirits. There was only one man in the Northeast Stronghold he knew had the stones to make it.

He started walking towards Barry’s bar, already looking forward to the indulgent perfection of the man’s homemade liquor. The prospect of returning to his studio filled him with disgust. The children next door would be wailing disconsolately for a mother who wasn’t there; that unnerving skittering and crunching sound carried on sporadically throughout the night; and every Moon Day’s evening a Council-sanctioned Tout would holler a litany of new ordinances passed throughout the Nation until midnight, when he would host a sequence of inane advertisements sponsored by Council-sanctioned merchants. The Council openly claimed that it did not interfere in merchant business, but the Sixth Council member was a merchant himself, as were his brothers, uncles, and distant cousins. Together they commanded a dynasty that dominated the market, peddling everything from liquor to soap. Nor did the Sixth Council member shy away from passing ordinances that made it difficult—if not impossible—for his competitors to do business; including an ordinance that penalized bootlegging with exile. Barry Windham was an exception to the rule, and there’s a story behind that.

Two years ago, one of the transport Millipedes had derailed, tearing off the tracks at breakneck speed and plunging into Slum Quarter 25 in the south of the Stronghold. It didn’t happen often, but every now and again one of the Great Beasts would remember that it had a mind of its own. Most of the citizens on the Millipede had died immediately, and a good many others were lying contorted in pools of their own blood or writhing underneath piles of debris. A few people managed to worm their way free of the wreck, and one of these was the fifth daughter of the Seventh Council Member. There are Eyes and Ears all over the Stronghold, and you’d be hard-pressed to find a corner, alley, hovel, or hole that wasn’t crawling with the Council’s spies—but the denizens of the Slums know their territory, and they know when and where those eyes and ears are turned in other directions.

When that poor girl came up out of the canal all bloodied and messed up, she found herself face to face with a few area boys who would have vented their frustration with Council policy on her in a few choice ways—starting with rape and likely ending with butchery. It would have taken the Medicals a good bit of time to get there (no rush: seems no one knew the Seventh Council Member’s fifth daughter would be on that Millipede); plenty of time for the mongrels to have their fun. Lucky for her, Barry Windham had business in Slum Quarter 25 that night.  He fought off the mongrels and saved the girl’s life. He did her one better, too: kept her hidden away until the ruckus surrounding the accident died down, so the girl could contact her mother privately and be taken home without too many prying eyes speculating as to why such a prominent citizen would have taken a public Millipede to begin with.

In exchange, the Seventh Council Member turned a blind eye—and all other eyes—away from Barry’s illicit business. Only a few people knew this story, and Beryl was one of them…primarily because he had helped bind the poor girl’s wounds. Trick he learned from his ex-wife. He was in Slum 25 on business also: tax collecting. A euphemism for wading through blood, tears, and hate on behalf of the Council; especially in the slums, where the citizens knew well that they were giving up their coin for nothing they would ever see in return. That’s where the blood came in: no coin, one less mouth to feed.

Beryl was no Skull player, but tax collectors were expected to be imposing. They were expected to frighten the submissive and intimidate the aggressive. More than a few bravos had tried their luck with him in physical combat. If they had stopped to think about it, they might have remembered that tax collectors receive intense martial training for years before their first assignment, and practice consistently thereafter. Unlike those who enforced the Council’s laws, tax collectors were trained to subdue rather than kill, bruise rather than break, immobilize rather than mutilate. You couldn’t pay your coin if you were dead, and you couldn’t make your coin if your legs were broken.

There were a few patrons in Barry’s dingy backwater joint this evening; two regulars, several strangers, and a honey-trap sitting at the end of the bar. Half the prostitutes (“sexual service providers”) in the Stronghold were Council-sanctioned, a little better than the Eyes and Ears skittering in and out of sight or droning blatantly on the message poles. A little bit of pillow talk could get you killed if you didn’t keep your mouth shut any better than you kept your pants up.

More than a few of the girls, though, were just down-and-outs looking to make a little coin.

Beryl knew this one. He didn’t exchange the common greeting with her (“Prosperity and Progress, citizen”), as in this part of town that would more than likely elicit a sneer and a curse as anything else. He was reviled enough as it was for his work. He was thankful at least for one rule that made sense: tax collectors never worked where they lived. They worked among strangers. They were constantly rotated throughout the Stronghold, and in a metropolis of over forty million people and one tax collector for every two thousand, it was easy for them to remain faceless and anonymous. Of course, it was still hazardous. Most of the tax collectors worked in at least one of the slum quarters, and a bit of common sense went a long way. Asking the desperate and angry to give up what little they had usually added another body to the murky canals that crisscrossed the city. Beryl had often written “pending” in his ledger, giving more than a few citizens the opportunity to defer payment until his route took him through their neighborhood again.

He was under no illusions that his leniency was any kind of help to them. If they couldn’t find work to pay their coin, they would make money some other way—and they would keep making it that way. Lizzie was a perfect example. Poor girl was no simpleton; her ambition had once painted her in colors far more vibrant than these. But another tax collector had written “pending” in his ledger one too many times.

“You missed the Tout,” she said.

Beryl grunted. “What’s the news of the day, then?”

Barry Windham came out of the stock room, his face brightening to see Beryl. One look at his friend’s haggard countenance and he disappeared again, no doubt to retrieve the good stuff.

“There’s to be a Godfall,” Lizzie said.

That took Beryl by surprise. There hadn’t been a Godfall since he was a kid. It was rare for any citizen to witness more than one in a lifetime. His own father had seen only one, and his grandfather had been a boy himself when he saw his own. “Huh,” Beryl said, taking a stool and breaking into a grin when Barry came out with a clear bottle of his specialty.

Barry nodded, uncorking the bottle and pouring him a shot. “They say it’s because the Stronghold is larger. More people. Takes more power to keep everything running. Makes sense to me,” he said, pushing the glass across the narrow bar. Beryl took the shot, slammed the glass down, and savored the aftertaste—watermelon. Real watermelon. Not the “tweaked” monstrosities peddled in the Council-sanctioned markets. He motioned for a refill.

“Savor it this time, you philistine,” Barry said. “I don’t sweat over this stuff so you can go through it like water.”

Beryl grinned. “First time’s to set the mood,” he said. “Which one of the Old Gods is it?”

“Who knows? Tout said something about them turning off the water and rationing supplies…”

“One of the Old River Gods then,” Beryl said. He took a sip of the moonshine, but the taste had lost a bit of its luster. The Stronghold would be in a riot over the Godfall. It would generate more excitement than any of the games, parades, or celebrity appearances that kept the citizens from focusing on anything important. Until it was over and they cast the spent husk of the Old God from the Pinnacle Tower, there would be talk of little else. Beryl had no stomach for it. As far as he was concerned, it was a hideous spectacle with an explicit motive: a testament to the unassailable supremacy of the Council over the world and the utter annihilation of everything that had once been magical, wondrous, and divine.

His granddaddy told him once that the Old Gods had been worshiped. That they had willingly given a portion of their immense power to those who knelt before them and to the priests who invoked their names. They had spread the Wild like a blanket over the created earth; they had gathered up the mountains from the bedrock of the world; they had dipped their hands into the mighty oceans and scattered the first rains with their palms across the dry country. They had given shape to the beasts and the Great Monsters that had once ranged beyond the fragile habitations of humankind.

Now they were chained in pens beneath the Strongholds, bound by the techno-sorcery of the Alchemists. Their power was used to fuel the Strongholds and the Council’s innumerable machines. The Siphons drained them day and night, funneling their divine energies into the immense network of pipes, conduits, and arteries stretched between the 9 Strongholds. There was even some speculation that the network itself had been one of them, hollowed out and used to funnel the energies of its brethren across the country.

“I wonder what they look like,” Lizzie said, “you know, before they’re all drained and everything…”

Barry looked at her oddly.

“What?” Lizzie leaned over the bar and whispered, “I don’t see any Eyes or Ears in here.” Beryl made a slight gesture with his head towards the strangers sitting around a table in the back. “Oh, them? They’re just some working boys out for a drink,” she winked.  Beryl rolled his eyes and shook his head. “What?” Lizzie challenged him playfully. “All you have to do is ask, Beryl, and I’m yours for the night.”

“Quit it Lizzie,” Barry said. “Lay off your talk or I’ll cut you off.”

Lizzie frowned. “Don’t tell me you never wondered, Barry. What they look like.”

“No. Never wondered. All I know is they keep the city running. You may come here for a shot or two of homemade, but at the end of the day, you get your food from the Dispensaries like everyone else. Ride the Millipedes to work like everyone else. Breathe the same filtered air. You want to try your luck with the exiles out in the barrens and Wilds, you just keep asking the wrong questions.”

“There’s a Godfall coming up, Barry. You think I’m the only one asking these questions?”

“Lizzie,” Beryl said, “you shouldn’t…”

“Shouldn’t what? Barry’s bar is safe, Beryl; been safe for two years now. Besides, I know better than the both of you how to protect myself. I’m no Council-sanctioned whore. And working boys like those,” she jerked her finger towards the three men in the back, “feel comfortable enough to talk to me about all kinds of things. An’ more than one of ‘em’s wondered about the Old Gods, locked away under this prison of a city. Wondered what it must’ve been like in the old days before the War, when there were still monsters to fight and heroes to fight them. Sure, most guys don’t give a damn one way or the other—they eat, they drink, they work, and their cares pretty much end at what’s between my legs and whether or not they’ll catch a show. But some of ‘em have more between their ears than they have hanging below their bellies—only they’re too damn scared to say anything within earshot of anyone other than me.”

“You think this place is safe, Lizzie?” Barry asked, shaking his head. “You’re a fool to think so—she watches me closer than anyone because of what happened two years ago. She wants to make sure I don’t tell anyone what happened. So why don’t you just calm down and lay off the subject…”

Lizzie growled and slammed her empty bottle down on the bar. The men in the back turned their heads sharply in alarm. Beryl nervously clenched his fist. “It’s good that there’s someplace I can go to feel safe,” Lizzie said. Barry shook his head, opening his mouth to interrupt, but the words that poured out of her mouth may as well have been boulders tumbling downhill.

“Safe from the damned Orders and their robed freaks!” One of the men in the back coughed up his drink. “Safe from all those damned abominations!” One of the two regulars all but ran out, bursting through the door in a blur of frantic desperation. Barry reached over the counter and tried to grab Lizzie’s arm. She pulled away, tipping over her stool. “Safe,” she hissed, looking around the room, “from all the ‘citizens’ who could care less about what the Old Gods looked like before they were chained up. Safe from the damned Council!”


“Alright, I’m done, I’m done!” She glanced around with a look of desperate disdain. “It’s dead in here anyway, and time for me to get to work…” She abruptly closed her mouth as the door opened.

A robed figure entered the bar, features obscured by a gray hood pulled low. Silence fell over the room, and in the quietude—punctuated only by the sputtering of the gas lamps in their dusty globes—everyone could hear a low whispering coming from the figure. Pale lips could be seen moving quickly beneath the shadows. Hands gestured in tandem with words spoken too softly to be heard. It could have been male or female, but everyone knew what the black robe and gray hood meant: it was a member of the Order of Whispering. The warning-givers (“Woe unto those to whom the Whisperers speak”).

The Whisperer approached Lizzie, who stood immobile and terrified. Beryl knew what she was thinking: how did they know? How did it happen so quickly? The strangers in the back rose and made themselves scarce. Lizzie started shaking her head and trembling. She was losing it. The regular boozer tottered to his feet and made for the door. He slammed against the dead music-box and crashed to the floor, dragging himself on his hands and knees towards the exit. The Whisperer was towering over Lizzie now, leaning in close to utter its fateful warning.

Then Beryl saw it. One of the Council’s Ears.

In the days before the War, there were all manner of lesser beasts. During the Period of Ascendance, before the Old Gods were enslaved, the Alchemists began to “harvest” them. Capturing them and twisting them to serve their purposes. Beryl didn’t know how they did it—no one but the Alchemists themselves knew—but the abominations they created were grotesque. People had gotten used to them, apparently, but Beryl couldn’t stand to look at them.

The Ears used to monitor the citizens of the Stronghold had been made from the feral cats that once wandered the streets. The Alchemists had emptied them of their innards, pulled their naked skin over unnaturally extended limbs, and replaced their red blood with some foul brew drained by the Siphons from one of the Old Gods. Their skulls had similarly been reshaped; wrought by vulgar hands into a bony jumble of canals and orifices designed to capture and isolate sound. They heard everything. The Alchemists had also found some way for the Ears to transmit what they heard directly to a receiver. Beryl knew this because, sometimes, a dumb fool who had let slip something he shouldn’t have had thought to capture and kill the Ear that had heard him—but it was never any use. Someone somewhere already knew.

There was a Godfall coming up, Beryl reminded himself; there would be Eyes and Ears everywhere.

But dammit all, she’d just asked a honest question…! Beryl watched the Ear slink into the overhead shadows, seriously contemplating throwing a bottle at it. He turned back to see the Whisperer move away from Lizzie. She looked even paler than before, turning a dismal gray color. She seemed on the verge of fainting. Beryl gave the Whisperer a wide berth, trying to catch a glimpse of its face under the gray hood—he could only see those ugly lips moving.

“What did he say to you, Lizzie?” Barry asked from behind the bar after the Whisperer had left.

Lizzie said nothing. Instead, she reached over to the bottle she had finished, and with a quick snap of her arm, broke it over the edge of the bar.

Barry and Beryl both shouted, but she was too fast: she struck the jagged edge of the broken bottle into her neck and drew it across her throat, flaying the skin open. She dropped to the hardwood floor, gouts of blood spurting from the ghastly wound. Too much blood to stop in time.

Beryl tried to stem the flow, but it gushed up between his fingers. Lizzie tried to speak some final words, freed by imminent death from the prison of her fear. Beryl leaned in close, wanting to comfort her, to tell her that was going to be alright…but he didn’t. He needed to hear what she was trying to say.

“I just wanted to know what they looked like. They must have been beautiful…”

Then she died. Barry was standing over Beryl and trying to pull him away. “You have to calm yourself down, man! You have to…” Beryl pushed his friend roughly aside. He knew her. He had known her. Now she was dead, so much meat for them to cart away and dump in the wastes beyond the walls.

Barry tried to tell him there was nothing he could do, but he was wrong. There was something he could do. In his heart the decision had already been made. Beryl rose to his feet, smiled at his old friend, and walked out of the bar. The Whisperer was gone, but that didn’t matter. The Council was everywhere. Watching. Listening. Not far from Barry’s bar there was a square, one of the innumerable hubs where the boulevards and avenues crisscrossing the city converged. When the Gods fell, nothing remained of them; but trophies of the slain Great Beasts were on display all over the Stronghold. Testaments to the supremacy of the Alchemists.

This one had been a creature of immense size; its skull stretched the length of five men. Beryl didn’t know what it had been called by the people before the War, nor even how it must have looked when alive. What mattered to Beryl now was that one of the Council Touts was drawing a crowd. Appropriately enough, he was announcing the upcoming Godfall.

Several years ago, Beryl had been working in Slum Quarter 37 in the northeast quad of the Stronghold. Tax collectors weren’t authorized to break down doors, but, if they didn’t write “pending” in their ledgers, they instead recorded the addresses of those who believed that a closed door would spare them. Sooner or later, someone who was authorized would come through and break down their door; they would take a pound of flesh as interest. On this occasion, Beryl had knocked on a door that looked the same as every other door in every other building in the quarter—except for a small symbol etched into the wood.

The door had opened of its own accord, swinging wide as if in response to some magic word. He would never have expected what he saw inside. It was a vigil. His mother had taught him the word; but it was a forbidden rite in the Stronghold. The dead were dead. Nothing but husks to be thrown unceremoniously away. Citizens were allowed to mourn—an emotional, human habit that couldn’t be stopped—but any observances or rituals devoted to the dead were punishable with exile.

An old man had been reading something over the body of a child. When Beryl entered he snapped around, surprised. He rose in a fury, his eyes wide and frantic. He started shouting at Beryl—What are you doing here? How did you get in? When Beryl told him that the door had simply opened, the man stopped abruptly and stared at him. He looked back at the body. He had been nervous, fearful that Beryl would report him. Instead he said, “The door wouldn’t have opened otherwise.” For awhile, he said nothing else. Beryl stood awkwardly in the foyer, ledger in hand.

When the old man spoke again he said, “I’m going to give you something. Words. But you must remember them. They aren’t just any words. You must never utter them unless you mean it. You must never allow anyone in this place to hear them—not until you are ready for the consequences. They are the words of a very powerful prayer. Do you know what that is? A prayer?”

“They were spoken to the Old Gods by their priests, before…”

“Yes,” the old man had said, interrupting him. “Before. I am going to give you the words of a prayer. Will you remember them?”

Yes, Beryl had said. And he did. The words came to him when Lizzie’s blood was gushing through his fingers. He knew why, and he knew what to do with them. Now, he was ready for the consequences.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw them. People used to call them “dogs.” Packs of them would wander the streets, scavenging for food. People even kept them as companions. They were commonplace before the ascendance of the Alchemists. After that, they were harvested. As with all the other lesser beasts, their desired ability had been distorted and exaggerated, wedded to the machinery of the Alchemists’ craft and subordinated to the will of the Council. In this case, it was empathy; some part of the dog’s brain that could tune into human emotions, developed over centuries of cooperation. The Alchemists had toyed with it, discovering that its function could be heightened when exposed to the effects of a certain chemical. They rounded up the street packs, and for decades it became increasingly rare to see a dog roaming free. In the meantime, the Stronghold commanded that a certain vine be grown throughout the Stronghold—a thorny, tangled, and oily thing that clung to every lattice and stairway, choked every narrow alley and wound about every ruin and crumbling façade. This vine secreted the very same chemical that the Alchemists used to warp the dogs’ natural ability.

Then, only about a decade ago, the dogs were released. They had been bred to feed on the vine, but its side effects were…unfortunate. The oil from the vine had physically warped them, and from one generation to the next they had adapted to survive these mutations and use their enhanced empathy with uncanny precision. Some of them had elongated limbs, stilted legs that supported a skeletal torso; others were sheathed in a tight skin that pulled their lips away from their fangs, stretched taught over every rippling muscle.

Different breeds were trained to respond in different ways to different emotions—excessive emotions. Fear, anger, guilt; all of them seeped from human pores with a specific scent. Gestures, movements, voice patterns; no amount of subtlety or restraint could prevent one of the dogs from catching on. The larger, more aggressive breeds responded to anger. Packs of leaner, quicker brutes responded to fear. Others responded to remorse, others to euphoria, others to caution. The Keepers of the Dogs tracked them and every citizen that they took an interest in. Sometimes, the dogs got overeager.

Beryl could not even begin to describe what he was feeling. Ecstasy? Rage? Fulfillment? Everything at once? Every damned pack and stray in the city would be coming for him.

He stopped within thirty yards of the Council Tout. The dogs were moving in closer. People at the edge of the crowd were starting to exclaim, murmur and scatter. Beryl had only a moment to say his piece before the dogs frightened his audience away, and he needed an audience for this. People had to hear it.

He moved forward, startling the Tout; the boy stammered in midsentence, his deformed throat quivering grotesquely. The Alchemists worked their craft on people, also. How else would a human voice be able to reach hundreds, even thousands, across the din of a crowded sector? He was using only a fraction of his volume now, and his voice could easily be heard on the far side of the square and across Processional Boulevard 6.

Beryl seized the flustered youth by his shoulders and learned forward. The boy cowered under his grip. “There is something I want you to say,” he growled. The Tout nodded. “You will say the words exactly as I say them, pronouncing them exactly as I pronounce them. If you do not do this, I will make sure you never speak above a whisper again. Do you understand?” Of course he did: the “children” of the Alchemists were task-specific citizens; if they couldn’t perform their tasks, they would be discarded like unwanted refuse. Beryl wasn’t entirely sure if he could do it. The boy was innocent, after all—no one asked to be “adopted” by the Alchemists. But after what happened to Lizzie, Beryl didn’t really know where his limits were anymore. Apparently, that showed clearly enough in his eyes. The Tout nodded frantically. Beryl loosed his grip, nodded and swallowed.

The words were still there, in his mind. Good.

He spoke them; slowly, carefully, mindfully. The Tout repeated them perfectly—they could mimic virtually any sound or voice imaginable. Choruses of Touts would put on Council-sanctioned performances in the squares at least once a week. Beryl never cared for them, but nearly every citizen in the Stronghold eagerly attended at least half of the biweekly performances. One needed to wander far indeed not to hear them echoing about the streets.

Beryl cocked his head to look at the crowd. The people were frozen. Their eyes were wide, their jaws slack, and they looked for all the world like a choreographed and synchronized mimicry of utter disbelief. Beryl wasn’t sure they would even remember what a prayer sounded like; it had been years since any prayers had been heard in the Nation. But they did remember. Even the young ones somehow knew what it was they were hearing. Beryl looked into the Tout’s eyes. Even he knew.

Beryl smiled. This was exactly what he’d wanted.

Then something happened that he did not expect. Near the prayer’s end, the dogs stopped in their approach and sat back on their haunches. They started howling. Howling!

Beryl understood, in a flash of insight, why the old man had given him the words of this prayer. They had somehow hidden his grief for his dead son. Otherwise the dogs would have been there, their claws skittering up the steps of that dingy building, their ravenous panting echoing up the stairwell. But they didn’t come. The old man had offered a prayer to one of the Old Gods, and whatever It was had heard him, shielded him, protected him.

The dogs turned tail and ran, darting about the motionless citizens and vanishing into the innumerable cracks and crevices of the Stronghold. They were no longer a problem…

…but the cloaked figures moving toward him with gliding, unhurried steps were.




Backwater Brook came in through the Hedge behind Slum Quarter 46. It ran underneath the barricades that kept citizens from trying to cross through the Hedge (willing exile was forbidden, and the poisoned thorns of the seventy-foot tall bush made the attempt almost certain suicide). It passed through the trading stalls of the slum markets (you could find literally anything there), wound through the mazelike gutters of the quarter, and emptied out into Canal 108. It circled through the pipes and purification tunnels, finally emptying out of Murdock Fountain. While in Slum Quarter 46, it passed in front of a peculiar shop, nestled between two decaying brownstones on the west side of what the neighborhood called Parlor Street. A handwritten sign posted outside read “Appraisal Shop.” When people wanted to barter their goods, it sometimes paid for them to make damn sure they knew what their goods were worth on the market. Otherwise, an exaggerated price could easily anger the wrong potential customer. Many a stall had been trashed by an irate resident who thought he or she was being cheated.

This indispensible service was offered by Owl Tannerson. His daddy was a trader in tinctures, salves, balms, and unguents. On the side he traded in bones. Owl’s granddaddy had been a trapper Beyond the Hedge in the old days. But he didn’t trade with the Alchemists. Never once in his life. He traded bush meat in the slum markets. Back then, the Council Dispensaries were running, but an intrepid fellow with skills and a set of brass balls could make a living dealing in real, fresh, normal meat. No one did that anymore, but the Tannerson family remained well respected in 46. Owl was no lover of the Council, that was for sure. The tax collector had written “pending” in his ledger the last time he’d come around, though, and Owl did not relish the thought of running afoul of the authorities.

At this moment, Owl was entertaining a rather nervous client. On the table between them was a pile of assorted baubles and trinkets. Unfortunately for the nervous man, they were worth less than the ashtray next to them.

Fiction: Totem Cycle, part 1

‘They’re vintage,’ the trader held up a yellowed bundle of papers, ‘newspapers from the World That Ended. You won’t see anything like them. Not here. Maybe on the other side. But here…? I can see that you’re interested. Look at them. See that headline? It’s from 4 years before the War.’

‘I don’t know…’

The trader smiled knowingly. ‘This is knowledge, right here. I’ve already read it. But I don’t know anyone else who has. Come on; you only know the stories people tell you. This here,’ he tapped the newspaper, ‘is the truth. The absolute, unvarnished truth. In fact, it’s priceless…’ he frowned, ‘…but I can’t carry them anymore. See, my father entrusted them to me, but I’ve already lost so many of them. Half of them were stolen by Red Robert’s people…’

‘You survived an attack by Red Robert?’

‘I was traveling with a caravan. Me and one other survived, a blacksmith living down near Arizona Bay. He could tell you. I lost 3 more in the rain last season. You remember it? So I’ll give you the rest for a good deal. I’m telling you, this is a last-chance opportunity here.’

‘I don’t know that I have anything to trade…’

The trader scanned the old hunter quickly, assessing what he could see, guessing at what he could not. A hunting rifle, and not one of those made since the War. No, this was an antique even older than his newspapers, kept in impeccable condition. The old hunter wouldn’t want to part with it, or with any ammunition he carried for it. His clothes were soiled and torn in places, but the belts that held his knives and tools were fairly new.

‘I’ll take one of your knives. I’ve only got an old hunting one, but it’s in bad shape.’

The hunter frowned. ‘A knife for a few pieces of old paper?’ He shook his head. ‘The knife is more useful, whatever those papers say. What can I do with them? Stories are better than the truth. Who is ever going to ask me for the truth?’

‘Alright then, you tell me.’

‘Tell you what. You come back with me, break bread at my table, and we’ll talk. You can tell me the latest word, and we can trade over those newspapers.’

‘How do I know you won’t just kill me?’

The hunter snorted. ‘This would have been a better place for it. There’s no one living in these woods for miles.’

The trader considered the offer for a moment, but his stomach had already decided the matter for him: ‘Sure, sure. Why not? It is as you say. How far is your home?’

‘Not far. You’re lucky I was on my way back. These woods aren’t safe after dark.’

Their footsteps shuffled through wet brown leaves, thick on the trail and sodden with last night’s heavy rain. The late afternoon sun dipped behind the trees, shimmering between leaves the color of sunset. The air was cold and crisp, but not yet biting with winter’s harshness.

The two men did not speak again while they walked. The trail had been level beneath a ridge of small, rocky peaks; now it fell suddenly, cutting deeper into the forest below and winding through the western foothills of the Appalachians. The smoke of cookfires rose into the still air and deepening blue of the cloudless sky.

‘What do you call this settlement?’ the trader asked, breaking the silence.

‘Forthright,’ the hunter answered.

‘I’ve heard of it. It’s one of the largest settlements in these parts, isn’t it?’

‘Shouldn’t you know? Where were you going?’

‘To the District Barony,’ the trader answered after a moment.

The hunter glanced at him over his shoulder. ‘The Barony? Are you a fool, or a liar?’ he stopped and looked hard at the trader.  ‘You couldn’t get within fifteen miles of the Barony. The whole city’s surrounded by a ring of marauders, scavengers, and butchers that would kill you in a heartbeat and trade your wares between themselves…and make no mistake: your organs, whether they’re healthy or not, can still fetch a bargain.’

The trader met the hunter’s eyes steadily. ‘You’ve been there?’

‘When I was young and stupid.’

‘Well, that’s where I’m going,’ the trader said. ‘I’ve haven’t anywhere else to go. Besides, I have a few tricks up my sleeve,’ he added enigmatically. ‘There are places even the marauders, scavengers, and butchers won’t go.’

The hunter chuckled derisively. ‘You mean the swamps? That’s been tried. There’s a reason no one goes there. There’s just no way to make it through the swamps alive. No way. No one’s been in or out of the District Barony in thirty years.’

The trader shrugged and lapsed into silence. The trail widened into a small, shadowed clearing. A sentry tower stood in the center, a scaffolding of wooden beams topped by a small shed. The guard standing watch leaned over the railing, an arrow notched and pointed at the trader. When he saw the hunter he nodded but did not lower the bow. ‘Devin!’ he called out. ‘How was the hunting today?’

Devin looked up and waved. ‘Some rabbits is all.’ He motioned to the trader. ‘Met a trader on the trail. Invited him to break bread with my family.’

The watchman lowered the bow but kept the arrow notched. ‘Where’s he going?’

‘Says he was headed here, to Forthright,’ Devin lied. ‘He’s got some old newspapers to trade.’

‘Newspapers?’ the watchman thought about this for a moment. ‘From when?’

‘I have a series from 2100 to 2115,’ the trader called out, ‘in good condition.’

‘Let me take a look at them,’ the watchman said. ‘Come up.’

The trader smiled and ascended the tall ladder, followed by Devin. The watchman shook hands with them both. ‘Good to see you, Nick,’ Devin said warmly. ‘How’s Sam?’

‘She’s fine,’ Nick answered, ‘healer’s looking after her. How about Annie and Winn? They getting on?’

‘I would have taken them with me, but Annie’s been feeling out of sorts for the past couple of days.’

‘Want me to tell the healer to pay a visit?’

Devin shook his head. ‘No, it’s nothing serious. Really. You know those kids have always been sensitive. It’s just the winter coming on. They’ve always been able to feel it.’

Nick looked as if to press the point of the healer, then relented. He nodded towards the trader and said, ‘Alright. Let’s take a look at what you’ve got there. 2100 you said? That when the War started?’

‘No, no,’ the trader replied, ‘the Third World War started in 2110. But, see, a great many things happened in the decade preceding the War. Scandals and court cases, skirmishes and embargos, revolutions and invasions. It’s the truth of what really happened!’

Nick smiled. ‘Does it make for a good story?’

The trader looked bewildered for a second. ‘Of course!’ he answered at last. ‘It’s the best story there is!’

Nick nodded to a woolen cloak hung from a nail in the corner. ‘I’m sold. I can’t read all that well, but my grandfather used to tell me stories about history. Said he used to read books. Imagine that! Well, since he died I miss those stories…if these newspapers of yours are anything like that, I’ll trade you that cloak there for a few of them. How about it? Winter’s coming on, and it comes down hard in these parts.’

The trader looked over the cloak, rubbed the material between his fingers, examined the seams. ‘Fine,’ he said at last. ‘It’s got a few years on it, but it’ll hold for another season. Go on—look them over and take a few that you like. October 14, 2103 is a good one. That’s a nail in the coffin for sure.’

Silence hung in the shed, broken only by the rustle of old paper and muttered exclamations of interest from Nick. Devin had taken the rifle from his back and laid it on the knotted wooden railing; his hunter’s eyes scanned the trees. The sun was going down behind the hills in the west. A few minutes and it would be gone.

The season was turning, and the leaves were changing in that bittersweet pageantry of color that marked the end of summer. The mountains stretched out on either side to the north and south, fading into shades of deepening blue. The birds had stopped chattering among the trees. A blanket of cold wind settled with a whistle of harsh breath over the sentry tower. Devin shivered…

…and heard a series of howls rising up from the forest.

They washed over the treetops like a wave of sound, lapping softly up against the wooden frame of the tower. Everyone looked sharply up. Devin readied his rifle. He glanced at the trader; the man did not appear in the least bit afraid. He was looking out over the forest as if he knew exactly where they were coming from. Devin leveled the rifle’s sight in that direction.

‘How many?’

‘It’s been at least 15 for the past three nights,’ Nick answered. ‘They came past Darwin’s post last night, and he killed one and clipped another. It was 17 that night. Joey swears that 20 of them came past his tower two nights before that, and that was the night we lost Tom’s kids and 5 heads of cattle. I’m telling you, if we don’t figure out a way to stop them, we’ll be left hungry for the winter…already they’re starting to talk, saying that our stores won’t make it into February.’

Devin grunted.

‘You won’t be able to stop them,’ the trader said softly.

Nick looked at him sharply. ‘Don’t say that,’ he growled. He glared at the trader contemplatively and said, ‘Where did you sleep last night? They would have eaten you alive anywhere in these woods…’

‘They’re big woods,’ the trader snapped, then pointed. ‘Pay attention; here they come.’

They broke out of the gloom, loping towards the tower. There were 16 of them. It was the largest pack Devin had ever seen. Their yellow eyes gleamed, lips curled in snarls of rapacious frenzy. Their rust and soot colored coats tangled behind their ears and gathered in thick manes behind their jaws. Others were the color of iron and midnight, and several were pitch black.

The elders said that the old wolves had been different; more like to avoid a man than attack him outright. Things changed. Hearing howls in the woods was a death-knell to any group of travelers few in number, armed only with knives and tools—even guns were no guarantee. The wolves had plenty of game to eat, to be sure; but they preferred the blood of men.

Devin waited and aimed with patient precision. Only when he was sure of the shot, he fired. The rifle thundered out across the canopy and the muzzle flash was bright in the twilight. There was a cry as one of the animals was thrown against its side. The echo of the shot struck the mountains. Devin was already reloading.

Nick released an arrow, but the shaft thudded into the soft ground. He notched and loosed another, just missing one of the wolves. They spoke in growled utterances and sharp yips, coordinating a predator’s strategy. Circling the tower, an overzealous wolf made an attempt to scale the scaffolding and tumbled down, glaring up at them in cold spite.

‘We can’t possibly get them all before they reach Forthright,’ Nick said through clenched teeth. ‘What are they going to take this time? Our children?’ He hissed in desperate frustration, notched another arrow, and let it fly. It struck through the wolf that had tried to scale the tower. Devin fired the rifle again, taking another wolf down.

The pack gathered and started off towards the town. Nick cursed and rang the sentry bell. The old iron clanged and Devin listened for the reply; another bell answered, in the east tower beside the city walls. Whoever was in the fields outside the walls would be running in; the stragglers and those too far away to make it in time would have to rely on luck and the aim of the guardsmen. Others, living in the houses and shacks outside the settlement, would bolt their frail doors and wait it out—but the wolves were known to break into homes, and God help anyone with a wailing infant among them.

‘I’m gone,’ Devin said, hastening down the ladder. When he reached the ground he broke into a sprint towards the settlement. If the guards were able to scatter them, he might have a shot at one of two of them.

He underestimated his vigor—he’d been trekking all day, and his legs were not the legs of a young athlete anymore. He had to stop within sight of the settlement; the wolves were barely visible as dark shapes moving quickly toward the gray face of the city wall. It would be a wasted shot, most likely, but it was the only shot he had. By the time he gathered his strength to run again the wolves would have scattered, each smaller pack looking for a kill. He propped the rifle against the crook of his elbow, got down on his belly, and followed one of the darting shapes. The sentry on the east tower fired, and a small cloud of dust shot up next to one of the wolves; it paused, momentarily distracted, and Devin fired. The bullet took it in the head.

The pack scattered. Every shot now was wasted; they stayed out of the spheres of light cast by the lanterns atop the wall, groups of two or three moving quickly through fields and outlying houses. Annie and Winn…! Devin rose and charged forward with renewed energy; he knew his grandchildren. They wouldn’t have gone in behind the wall without him. Winn was good with a shotgun, and he would keep it loaded and handy; but against three wolves…! He increased his pace, fueling his aching muscles with panic and desperation.

Devin finally saw the red brick of his small house, the green door, the herb garden; he listened for any sound of struggle or pain. It was quiet. The wolves were around here somewhere, he had seen those three heading in this direction…he readied his rifle and slowed his pace, approaching the house cautiously. He had rushed to defend his grandchildren, but he was a likelier kill than anyone behind closed doors.

The thought occurred to him just in time; one of them had been watching him from behind the house. It charged at him, moving faster than he could possibly hope to point and shoot. He dropped the rifle, drew one of his hunting knives, and braced himself. He anticipated that the wolf would lunge; he would bring up his forearm, let it try and bite through his coat, and stab it through the heart—but he anticipated wrong. The wolf came in under his arm, turned its head, and tried for his hamstring. He twisted his leg out of the way, but it cost him: he was on the ground, scrambling to get up. Too slow, too slow…

The wolf came over him, its jaws snapping over his face, its wild yellow eyes glowing against its charcoal fur. It was near 180 pounds of snarling wolf, but Devin managed to push up and throw it off him for the split of a second he would have before it came up again—just enough to grab the knife, and follow through with a hasty stab on his hands and knees.

He was lucky; the knife went into its throat and it bit down on the empty air, whining in sudden pain and drawing hastily away. It loped quickly off, shaking its head and losing blood. Devin panted tiredly and got up. Where were the other two?

‘Winn!’ he shouted, ‘Annie! The wolves are here…!’ Devin stumbled towards the house. Why haven’t they responded? He slammed himself against the door and threw it open.

They were sitting at the table, looking at him as if he were raving. Annie, Winn, and the trader. Annie was putting down a tray of fresh bread and Winn was looking over the newspapers; the trader was smiling at him as if passing a secret between them. Devin took a moment to process the scene, his heart thudding in his chest, his knife clutched in his hand, his torn pant leg trailing blood over the floor.

‘What happened?’ Winn cried, rising from the table and moving forward.

‘Wolves…’ Devin answered, slowly trying to come to his senses. He stared at the trader. ‘How did you get here so quickly? You were still at the tower…’ he focused on his grandson. ‘When did he get here? Didn’t you hear the bells? There are wolves in the camp!’

Winn stared at him, then glanced back at the trader. ‘Bells?’ he asked wonderingly. ‘I didn’t hear any…wolves? Are you sure?’ he looked again at his grandfather and moved quickly to take up the shotgun beside the door. ‘I know this man—he’s traded here before. He told us you were with Nick at the tower, and that you were on your way.’

‘Grandfather…?’ Annie set the tray down and moved towards the sound of their voices.

‘Annie,’ Devin said, moving forward, ‘step away from him.’ Annie backed away from the trader. Winn looked at him questioningly, but Devin didn’t have time for explanations; as far as he was concerned, this man was dangerous. He would have seen the man moving toward his home; how did he get here so quickly…?

He started with the basics. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded. ‘You’re no trader. You said you were for the District Barony…why? You knew where the wolves were coming from; you had no fear of them. What’s your business here? Answer me!’

The trader put up his hands. ‘I come with a warning,’ he said. ‘I should have gone about it differently…but if I had told you the truth from the beginning, you would have shot me in the woods and left me for dead.’

Devin smiled dangerously. ‘I’m like to shoot you right here. You’re a stranger. No one would question a man defending his family against an intruder. You’ve nothing to lose by telling me the truth now. I guarantee that it will go poorly with you unless your explanation satisfies me.’

‘Very well,’ the trader put down his hands. ‘They’re coming for your granddaughter.’

Winn and Annie both started talking at once; Devin stared at the old trader, trying to make sense of what he was saying. With another ear he listened for the wolves, prowling around the grounds outside.

‘Annie,’ Devin said, ‘open the door.’

Outside, there were two men standing naked in the cold and dark. There was no shame in their nakedness; only a quiet, subtle danger that shone in eyes the color of gold. Still, Devin was momentarily grateful that his granddaughter could not see. Winn leveled the shotgun on them, as did he; they were often of a common mind, he and his grandson. He hoped that was enough to get them through this alive.

‘Who are you?’ he demanded, wondering why he didn’t just shoot them. Winn was waiting on his signal.

The men said nothing. They simply stood outside, waiting for a signal of their own. From the trader, no doubt. Devin turned, another question ready on his lips…

The old wolf stood on the wooden table, its hackles bristling in threat, lips curled over the feral horror of its exposed gums and vicious teeth.

The naked men bowed their heads in submission.

‘The Totem has chosen your granddaughter,’ one of them growled. ‘She will come with us.’

‘The hell you say,’ Devin replied. He turned and fired on the old wolf…






Short Story: The Hidden Road

This is based on some of what I have learned in southwest Nigeria. I would like to extend my gratitude for those who have helped me learn more about the Yoruba and their spiritual traditions. While this narrative is an exaggerated account (in some respects), I hope my readers will recognize how rich and deep the practice is.  Enjoy, and don’t forget to “like” it if you do.

Alexander Chirila 2013

Alexander Chirila 2013



The Hidden Road


They say there is no power in magic without blood. Olumide is dead. Tokunbo had prevailed over him; he and the men from Ilé-Iku had killed everyone in the compound. Olumide, his wife, his firstborn, his junior brother—everyone.

Olumide was babalawo of the village; the spirits were strong with him. They did not withhold knowledge of the future from him. When the sick came to him, he healed them. When the troubled came to him for divination, he consulted the Oracle on their behalf. Everyone said that his predictions were accurate. How many had ignored his warnings only to find that Esu had taken their wealth? Even the oba had come to him for his blessing.

I was his apprentice. Clothed in white robes, I listened to him recite the verses. I watched him cast the divining chain. At first, I did not believe the spirits spoke to him. I secretly doubted his reverent silence, eyes closed, immersed in contemplation. When he nodded sagely and extended a wrinkled hand over the tray, his finger trembling above the dust, I credited his performance. When he cut the markings in the dust and interpreted them, I credited his imagination.

I know better now.

The spirits told him that there would be an attack. That death was coming. That only the most extreme sacrifice would suffice to keep death away. When the markings were cut in the sand, his eyes widened and his teeth chattered. ‘Get out!’ he yelled at me, ‘This is not for your eyes to see!’

But I had already seen. I needed to know what the markings meant. I approached another diviner—a taboo of the highest order to Olumide—and showed him the arrangement of figures. At first, he refused to interpret them. Then he wanted to swindle and mislead me. To him I was just another oyinbo with a fetish for African juju. There are serious prohibitions against disclosing the traditions to outsiders. Let them have stories and falsehoods, they won’t be able to tell the difference.

I could, and I made sure he knew that.

At last he told me that the markings meant almost certain death for the diviner who cast them. He said that the only way to prevent the prescribed destiny was to offer the highest order of sacrifice.

‘No snail, no pigeon, no rat, no she-goat,’ he said. ‘Only human.’


* * * *


‘There are hidden gods,’ Ona-Ode says, ‘that have never left this country. Some of the Orisha traveled with our people across the waters. Shango, Ogun, Osun; they have worshipers in Haiti, Cuba, Brazil, the United States. You may not have realized it, oyinbo, but you have met Osun before. You may know the Orisha by different names, but they were the spirits of this place long before Islam came to the north and long before your people brought Jesus to our shores. There are spirits that your people have never seen. Spirits that went deep into the bush when the foreigners came. Spirits that could not be placated and did not suffer themselves to be hidden away.’

Ona-Ode is the lastborn of seven brothers, himself an Ifa apprentice. He wears the white robes, as do I. I serve Orunmila, the Custodian of Destiny and father of divination; a white deity and one of the most powerful and benevolent among the Orisha. Ona-Ode serves Osanyin; he can tell you the medicinal properties of every single tree, root, and herb in the Yoruba nation. He ranges across southwest Nigeria, Benin, and Togo, administering his mixtures and concoctions throughout the local villages. His son runs a shop in Lagos, selling herbs and potions to urban Nigerians and foreign businessmen.

Olumide would often buy medicines from him; that’s how I met him. Ona-Ode is a genius when it comes to traditional medicine. Of his six brothers, only two remain; one is a devout Christian. The other lives way out into the bush and miles away from even the smallest villages. Awo-Iku serves an entirely different sort of spirit.

We had taken the car as far as it would go off-road; the rains had gutted whatever dirt track there was. Ona-Ode and I trek out into the forest, following a vague herding trail that wound into the hills north of Ogbomosho. ‘Black, red, white. The ancient colors. All creation is balanced between these forces. White is good, benevolent, wise, and cool-headed. You can reason with the white deities; only don’t offend them, and observe their taboos. Red is violent, bloodthirsty, always angry and hot-headed. You can work with the red deities, but you must be very careful.’ Ona-Ode grabs a thick vine slung across the trail and cleaves it aside with his machete. ‘In my village, there was a stone they used to worship Shango. No one was supposed to touch it. There are stories in the Corpus that say the old gods went into the ground and became immortal.’ He grins at me. ‘Is it not true that you would call this idolatry? This worship of stones?’

I smile; Ona-Ode knows I am a practitioner. His question is both a test and a jibe. ‘We don’t worship stones,’ I say. ‘The stones are only vessels, a place for the spirits to rest when we call them to consult with us.’

Ona-Ode nods. ‘This is so. This stone was in my village since before. One boy, he was the son of the babalawo. He saw the stone when he was initiated by his father. He went and told his mates about it, and they all wanted to see it. This boy, he was stubborn. He took the stone from its place and showed it to them. His father hears of it and goes to consult Shango and make ebo, so that his son would not be killed. Shango now tells him that his son will die; but because of the ebo, he will not kill all the boys that saw the stone. The boy was killed by lightning. Some of the boys who saw the stone went blind, and others went deaf because of the thunder. Now the others in the village, the fathers of the boys who were blinded and made deaf, they now gather against him. “How can you be our babalawo when you allow this to happen?” They are too hot against him; it was Shango, you understand, who caused them to be so hot. They killed him and burned his body.’

I look at him. He grins and says, ‘This place is not like where you come from.’

‘What about the black?’ I ask.

He frowns. ‘The black,’ he begins hesitantly, ‘is dangerous. Unpredictable. Like death. You never know from which direction death will come. Black is like that. They say that the black deities cannot be invoked or summoned. They do not listen to human beings. Others say that they respond to human sacrifice.’

‘Why would anyone want to work with gods that demand human blood?’

‘They are extremely powerful,’ Ona-Ode says. ‘They will do anything for the one who sacrifices to them. They can kill anyone, anywhere in the world. They can bring wealth, children, abundance. But the black deities are somehow. They say that no one who has sacrificed to them has ever lived long enough to enjoy their blessings. They are greedy and deceitful.’

‘But there are those who still sacrifice to them,’ I say.

‘Yes. My senior brother, Awo-Iku. You do not know the kind of man you must become in order to sacrifice to the hidden gods,’ Ona-Ode says. ‘If not for Olumide, I would not be coming here. You say that he was killed by magic. That the Odu foretold his death, and that he refused to offer the prescribed sacrifice.’

‘Of course he did! Can you imagine Olumide offering human sacrifice? Even for his own sake?’

Ona-Ode motions for us to stop. He looks intently ahead; the trail goes on for a few steps and then vanishes. While he scours the terrain, I look around. The sun shines over a dense forest, a lush, green, breathing organism unrolled like a carpet over the stepped hills. In the far distance I can see a radio tower and the rusty corrugated metal roofs of a small town. Someone is burning a tire; a column of thick, choking smoke pillars into the blue sky.

‘No, he wouldn’t do that,’ Ona-Ode says, answering my earlier question. ‘So what are you looking for? Revenge? There is nothing you can do unless you are willing to go further than your teacher.’

I shake my head. ‘It’s not that. Olumide knew Tokunbo. They were rivals long before I came to Nigeria. Olumide didn’t expect that Tokunbo would go so far…the kind of blood that he needed to spill, to do what he did…I don’t want anything to do with that. No, this is about something Olumide said to me before they came for him. “You are my student,” he told me, “initiated into my lineage. A part of my spirit, a part of my ori will always be with you.” You know what that means, don’t you?’

Ona-Ode looks at me. ‘Tokunbo killed everyone he could find,’ I say. ‘He intends to utterly destroy Olumide’s lineage. I am the last living heir to his teachings. Oyinbo or not, I am the only person to whom Olumide entrusted his knowledge. Tokunbo and his people will come after me, now.’

Ona-Ode thinks about this for a second. ‘It is good that we are going see my senior brother, then. If you mean to defend yourself against this kind of magic, Awo-Iku well tell you how to do it.’ He shoulders his pack and sets off further up the slope. I don’t see the trail, but he moves with certainty, the clack of his machete resounding in the moist, heavy air.

‘Awo-Iku was initiated by “Reed Mat Covers Deadfall,” an itinerant diviner from a little village just over these mountains.’ Ona-Ode points in the direction we are going. ‘The village is empty now.’

We pause on a small outcropping of dark stone overlooking a rushing cascade.  The trees here are ancient, prehistoric monsters that must have witnessed the birth of humankind and the movement of tribes across the Continent. We are mercifully shaded from the baking sun; our ascent had been exposed, and by now my shirt is soaked through with rapidly cooling sweat. From here on out we descend into the small, densely forested valleys of the mountains. There are no roads here, no wide trails; just imperceptible windings.

I have the sense that I am standing between worlds. Behind me is the patchwork reality that is Nigeria, filled with torrents of modernity intermingled with blood and tradition. Ahead is darkness and wisdom and the courts of the old gods.

‘Ready?’ Ona-Ode asks.

Not at all, I think. ‘Let’s go,’ I say. He nods and starts on the descent, picking his way down a tumble of piled boulders. I smile and look out over the hills of northern Oyo State.


* * * *

One year ago on the road from Lokoja to Ibadan. The bus was rickety and hot and filthy. Four hours out of Abuja and my head was spinning brokenly around an epicenter of nausea. We were driving behind a truck, its back painted in bright, garish designs—what looked like swans entwined around a collage of Christian symbols. The truck was trembling and sputtering towards a bottleneck in Okene. A single, narrow, broken road squeezed between ramshackle shops and concrete buildings, filled with jalopies, motorcycles, and transports. It was a disastrous, breathing wreak that sucked in lives and machines and coughed exhaust fumes over the cries of hawkers standing precariously between lines of traffic.

Olumide had sent me to meet a man named Norman Westwood, a British expat who worked with an NGO out of Abeokuta. He was doing business in Okene and agreed to meet with whomever Olumide sent. Olumide had performed a service for Mr. Westwood and had chosen not to ask for money. Norman could have paid him a small fortune. He offered 5K in Pounds, a sum that would have gone a long way. Instead, my teacher had asked him for a favor. When I questioned him, Olumide answered, ‘A favor from a powerful man is worth more than his money.’

I called a stop, shouldered my backpack, and stepped down from the bus. Okene was a loud place; loud enough to be uncomfortable. Behind me and down a rocky embankment shadowed by trees, a group of women were washing clothes in the stream. It was the middle of the rainy season, and the small river rushed along between the boulders while the women kneaded and twisted the colorful fabrics. There was a line of dusty shops on the other side of the narrow road; I was supposed to meet Westwood in a small restaurant. I jogged through a standstill of trucks and cars, dodging motorbikes and hawkers.

Westwood was waiting for me by a Baobab tree next to the place. We exchanged greetings and went inside. ‘You know they don’t serve good coffee outside of cities filled with foreigners or businessmen,’ he said. We waited while a woman cleaned off a wooden table for us. We sat down and asked for egusi soup with goat meat and peppered snails; soft pounded yam and two bottles of Star beer. ‘It’s good that you enjoy Nigerian food. I couldn’t handle the peppers when I first came here. I know they say British food tastes bland, but it most certainly does to me now. So,’ he said, looking me over, ‘you’re Olumide’s new apprentice? An oyinbo? Then it’s true what he tells me; that none of his children are interested in learning the tradition.’

‘He has only one son. You know the story; he refuses to teach any of his three daughters. He loves them to death, of course, and dotes on them endlessly…but he won’t teach them. Osunlana is keen on it, and she keeps asking and asking. She’s going to become a priestess of Osun.’ The food came and we started on it, exchanging snippets of conversation as we ate.

‘How did you get into…all this?’

I dip a piece of the pounded yam into the soup. ‘I came to Nigeria as a graduate student. I was working on my dissertation. Some nonsense about development. Don’t ask me about it now. Anyway, I was staying at Obafemi Awolowo University. I met some people who knew about…all this…and it wasn’t long before I started asking the right questions.’ I didn’t want to say anything else about it, at least not to him. I shifted the conversation to the business at hand. ‘What about you? What did Olumide help you with?’

He took a swig of beer, smacked his lips, and shrugged. ‘I was fresh out of Manchester with some work…some nonsense about development,’ he smiled. ‘You know how it is for expats, right? This was my first time out of the country. I didn’t know what I was getting into, and Nigeria is not an easy place. It’s not an easy place at all. I ended up getting into some business I shouldn’t have. Now in England, something like this happens and the local boys come knocking on your door in the middle of the night, drag you outside and give you the beating of your life.’

‘That happens here too,’ I said.

‘Sure does,’ Westwood agreed. ‘but something else happens here too. Sometimes they decide they’re not going to risk getting into trouble for coming after a white man the old fashioned way. They decide they’re going to resort to juju.’

I frowned at the word. ‘Witchcraft?’

He nodded. ‘The worst kind. I had a fondness for palm wine, and there was a little shanty I would go to. There was a woman who sold freshly tapped palm wine there, and she ran a popular little business. Late afternoon, towards evening, you could find a few people enjoying a cup of palm wine and exchanging gossip. One night I drove out there and the shanty was empty. I don’t know why, but I got out of the car and approached the place. There was a little path that ran through a field and into the jungle. I was standing there waiting for the woman to appear when I saw a man walk out of the jungle and towards the shanty. He was wearing a cap, black on one side and red on the other.

‘When he came near he stopped and went over to the barrel. He opened it and took a cup from the table nearby. He looked at me and motioned for me to sit down on one of the wooden benches, saying nothing all the while. I must have been aware that it was all quite strange, but it was like a dream; I couldn’t do anything about it. I sat down and watched this man lower the cup into the barrel. When he handed it to me I saw that the liquid was red. I knew that the woman served only clear palm wine. I drank it anyway,’ Westwood whispered over the table. He shook his head and frowned at the peppered snail in his bowl. I had already finished mine. I wondered whether he wanted his own.

‘I don’t really know what happened next,’ he continued. ‘I can drink quite a few cups of palm wine, but that wasn’t like any palm wine I’d tasted before. It wasn’t like anything I’d tasted before. I slipped in and out of consciousness, as if I were nodding off right there on the bench. Every time I opened my eyes I saw something different. I saw that man, only he kept changing. At one point he seemed to have a face divided between black and albino; then he seemed older, far older, stooped over a cane. Then I heard him laughing at me, standing over me, and his laughter became a ruckus of cawing as the sky was suddenly filled with crows—so many it seemed that night had fallen.’ He finished his beer and gestured for another, handing back the empty bottle.

‘When I woke up I was sick and my car was gone. I had to walk, hoping someone would pick me up and take me back. I must have passed out a half-dozen times on the side of the road. Given the way they drive here, it’s a bloody miracle I didn’t get run over. No one would have noticed. When someone finally rescued me they took me to the local hospital. I had a raging fever and the doctors diagnosed me with malaria. They gave me medicine but it didn’t work. It just kept getting worse. I kept going back to the hospital and each time they would tell me something different and prescribe different medicine. Nothing. Finally someone told me I should see a babalawo. They pointed me in the direction of your teacher, Olumide. You know what happened next.’

‘Olumide told you that you had been cursed,’ I said, ‘that you had to offer sacrifice and make restitution.’ I cleansed my hands in a large metal bowl and passed it over to Westwood. ‘Olumide gathered the materials, performed the sacrifice, and sucked the curse out of you. What you don’t know is that I saw him struggling with whatever he took from you.’ Norman stopped what he was doing and stared at me. ‘That’s right; he suffered for a week after that, caught in the grips of an intense spiritual battle. He would lie sweating on the reed mat in the temple, his head moving back and forth; sometimes he would get up and thrash around. At one point I thought he would die. Wracked with pain, he fought with whatever had been sent after you; in his dreams, in his waking life, it went on. At last he won over it, and it was finished. He was exhausted as hell, but he was healthy.’ I looked at him. ‘That was some nasty business.’

Norman nodded. ‘Yes, it was. You know what I offered to pay him. More than I needed to pay off those buggers I fell in with. I tell you—after all that—the world became a different place. This work in Abeokuta is lucrative, but I can’t wait to get out of here. Once you get past the sheen of the cities, the bush is hard, ancient and unforgiving.’ He paid the bill and we left the restaurant. We stood by the tree and he lit a Dunhill cigarette. ‘So,’ he said, ‘what is it your teacher wants from me?’

‘The man who put the curse on you, his name is Tokunbo. Olumide knows him. It took him a while to figure it out, but it seems that each of the traditions, each of the lineages, works in a different way. To an outsider, these differences may seem slight—in one tradition, Olorun or Oludumare is the supreme deity; in another, it is Orishala. But it’s more than just mythology. Each of the lineages invokes different aspects of the deities; the Orishas have many faces, many dimensions. Some are so bipolar that you would think them entirely different spirits…’ I scanned his face to make sure he was still following me. ‘Each of the lineages leaves a specific mark on the magic.’ Westwood nodded and took a drag of the cigarette. ‘Olumide was able to trace the curse back to its caster. But there’s a problem. This Tokunbo is from a rival lineage, and he knows that it was Olumide who turned back his spirit. We believe that he wants to start a war. A spiritual war.’

Westwood threw down the cigarette. ‘What in the bloody hell do you think I can do?’

‘Olumide isn’t asking for something he knows you can’t do,’ I said.

‘That would be a first in this country,’ Westwood muttered.

‘My teacher knows what you did,’ I said, cutting to the heart of it. He inhaled sharply and looked at me. ‘He knows what kind of business you got into. African artifacts. You thought you could fetch a pretty penny by selling genuine West African antiques back in the UK.’ He stared at me, mechanically lighting another cigarette. ‘When you didn’t find anyone willing to deal wholesale, you decided to ask around; seems the local area boys were willing to get their hands dirty for a few stacks. They said they could find what you were looking for, and you didn’t ask any questions. Does that sound about right? You stole the wrong artifacts from the wrong people, Mr. Westwood. When you made restitution, you gave most of it back, didn’t you?’ He nodded. ‘But not all of it. You paid for a few items in cash and claimed that you had already sold them. You still have them.’

Westwood said nothing, looking out over the busy street to where the women were still washing clothing in the stream. Taking his silence as confirmation, I continued, ‘Olumide needs something you took from Tokunbo; a piece of fulgurite, shaped in the likeness of a man holding a pouch and carrying a fly-whisk. Do you still have it?’

Westwood gritted his teeth and nodded reluctantly. ‘A favor is a favor, Mr. Westwood. That stone is very important to my teacher, and fitting repayment for your life. It also has more value as a ritual instrument than it does as an art object.’ I wanted to add a threat, but I guessed that it wasn’t necessary. We arranged to meet again a week after that; I had a few more errands to run for Olumide in Lagos.

When I returned to Okene, a week to the day, there were no women washing clothes in the river. There were no trucks rumbling down the narrow street; no motorbikes, no hawkers. There were a few pedestrians hurrying up and down the road, a few people half-glimpsed in dark windows. A car drove up a quiet junction street.

Westwood wasn’t there. Instead, there was an old woman waiting by the tree at the entrance to the restaurant. A wind started to blow; it looked like a storm was coming in from the southeast. Lightning flashed near the horizon. I crossed the empty street and walked up to her.

‘You are far from the gods of your homeland, oyinbo,’ she said.

It was a riddle; fortunately, my teacher had prepared me with a proper answer. ‘Tí a bá wí fún ni, tí a bá gbó, ayé a má a ye ni.’ It was part of an Odu verse, a snippet of divinatory prediction passed down from practitioner to practitioner. Roughly translated, it meant: life is easy and comfortable for the one who listens to and accepts a warning. ‘I hear what you say. What do you have to tell me?’

‘There was a taboo on the man you came to see. He broke it. The cost of breaking this taboo was death. Didn’t your teacher warn you? There is always a condition. Go back to Olumide and tell him that the stone has been reclaimed. Tell him that he should consult Ifa. He will not like what the Odu tell him.’

‘You would leave Olumide defenseless against Tokunbo?’

The woman smiled. ‘Olumide cannot be defenseless. What has begun will find its end far from here.’


* * * *

We pass through a curtain of reeds into a clearing. The small house in the center of the clearing is surrounded by shrines. A collection of artifacts and trinkets favored by the orishas decorates each shrine; here an iron railroad spike consecrated to Ogun, there a laterite half-buried in the ground, doused in red palm oil. Streaks of blood discolor the stone. The heat is oppressive, magnified by an almost visible humidity. The trees seem pressed in conference over the house; brightly colored birds flit musically across the gap in the canopy.

I remember Olumide’s response when I returned from my trip to Lagos and Okene. ‘Reclaimed!’ he had bitterly cursed. ‘Those foolish witches! Would they rather Tokunbo surpass me in power? He is wicked!’ That piece of lightning-carved fulgarite would have made all the difference in the upcoming battle. It would have given my teacher access to spirits of such blinding whiteness that Tokunbo and his people would have run wailing back to their jungle hovels. Instead, Olumide became despondent; the Odu seemed to have abandoned him. There was no ebo  he could perform that would stay death’s march towards his door.

Ona-Ode and I stand in front of the temple house. I can feel the power pulsating from it, like a giant heart half-buried in the forest, pumping raw power into the air and through the ground. The trees shake and I look up; white-throated monkeys swing into sight from hidden perches and chatter at one another. A storm is coming in; thunder rumbles in the southwest. An image flashes across my mind—of a man, clad in a warrior’s dress and wielding a vicious club, striding across miles of forest. Shango, spirit of thunder and lightning.

When I look down again I see the same woman who was in Okene. I should be surprised but I’m not. Ona-Ode greets the woman in Yoruba. She returns his greeting and looks at me. ‘I am sorry for Olumide,’ she offers. ‘Sometimes, this is what happens. You are the heir of his lineage; Tokunbo will not agree to let you live. The matter must be settled.’

‘I don’t even know how their rivalry started!’ Now that I’ve heard the words Tokunbo will not agree to let you live, the reality of this long sojourn sinks in with all the terrible finality of a dial tone after a desperate phone call to a jilted lover in the middle of the night. I’m not handling it well. I am conscious of Ona-Ode looking at me, but I just go on. ‘He never told me this was happening! Why does this have anything to do with me? This isn’t fair!’ The old woman stares at me the way a grandmother would stare at a petulant child throwing a tantrum, waiting until I exhaust my supply of protests. I cut them short, snapping my mouth shut.

I get it. This was always part of the bargain, always part of the sacrifice. The consequences of the choice I had made come rushing through my brain like a comet trailing a tidal wave of emotion. My stomach turns, my head pounds with pressure. So this is what it means to learn Ifa. ‘Ok,’ I hear myself saying, ‘ok.’

I look up, composing myself. ‘We’re here to see Awo-Iku,’ I say.

The woman nods and grins at me. ‘He is inside.’

We take off our shoes and enter in through an anteroom. The entrance to the inner chamber is covered by a beaded curtain. In the dark recesses of this room I can see someone else sitting there. A chill runs up my spine. I look at Ona-Ode and he is frozen in awe, staring at the man.

He is dressed in white, bent over a mortar, grinding herbs into fine powder. Behind him is an iron crossbow and three arrows set against a small mirror. A stag’s horn lies on the reed mat beside him. He reaches over without looking up and gathers another bunch of herbs into his palm; he throws them into the mortar and grinds them up with the others. When he is finished he produces a small glass decanter of liquid and pours it into the mortar. He sets to grinding again until he is left with a paste. He takes one arrow after another and daubs their pointed tips into the paste.

I look at the mirror behind him again. In the mirror, he is dressed in red.

The old woman steps in front of me and ushers us into the inner chamber. Awo-Iku is reclined against the far wall. There are shrines and statues all around us, shrouded in shadow and colored cloth, adorned in the blood of sacrifices and palm oil. My vision trembles. They seem to be moving; now growing larger and rising from their places, now turning to one another, slowly and ponderously, as if to utter some terrible word that would send the universe careening from its foundations.

Ona-Ode’s brother is dressed in black; he is holding some kind of curved bone in his right hand. His eyes look suspended in the recesses of his face, long and smoothed in conformity to the shape of the skull beneath. His dark skin is etched rather than wrinkled, as if an artist went to work with a scalpel and a delicate hand, just grazing the surface, laying down an intricate cartography of lines.

Êgbön Ôkùnrin,’ Ona-Ode says. ‘It is good to see you.’

Awo-Iku smiles, and he seems for all the world like a normal man; but something else dances behind his skin, smiling in mimicry. The brothers exchange words in Yoruba, catching up as if we just happened to be passing through and dropped in.

Then Awo-Iku turns to me and says, ‘Oyinbo, I have thought of a name to give you: A Stranger Who Travels Home by the Hidden Road. The Odu have spoken well of you, but there is still something you must do.’ He turns to Ona-Ode. ‘Go and have words with your friend outside. There is something I would say to A Stranger Who Travels Home by the Hidden Road.’

Ona-Ode nods and steps into the antechamber. His senior brother bids me sit down and I do. He gathers his black robes and makes himself comfortable opposite me. I see something in his left hand. It looks like a divining chain, but like none I’ve ever seen before. Instead of the dried halves of kola nuts, the beads are strung together through tiny skulls. He taps the curved bone against the ground between us, whispering under his breath. He does this three times before reaching for a bottle of schnapps. He pours a shot-glass, offers an oblation and recites a prayer. ‘Asé’ he says after every phrase. He takes the shot, pours another, and hands it to me. I do the same.

‘You have inherited an enemy from your teacher,’ Awo-Iku says. ‘I have consulted Ifa on your behalf, and I will now tell you the ese that the Odu revealed to me.’ I nod—the ese Ifa are the stories that form the bulk of the mythological Corpus of the tradition. To an outsider, they are just stories; narratives involving gods, humans, and anthropomorphized creatures of all kinds. Some stories have the expected moral lesson, while others are more…opaque. To a practitioner, however, the ese are far more than just stories: they are encoded with a wealth of information, secrets to harm or heal, to kill or bless.

Awo-Iku begins the narrative, changing his tone in way that I’ve heard Olumide do countless times before. It is a tone that brooks no interruption and commands complete attention. ‘A Long Journey Does Not End With Death divined for King Efòn.

‘King Efòn inherited a calabash from his father, sealed with a lid.

‘He wanted to see what was inside, but he could not open the lid. He called his warriors and they could not do it.

‘He then said, “let me consult a diviner.” They called for A Long Journey Does Not End With Death. He said, “is this one a diviner?” His advisors said, “yes, he is a diviner.”

‘A Long Journey Does End With Death came and inquired into the matter of the sealed calabash. He now returned with an answer and said to King Efòn:

‘“you must gather 28,000 cowries, a giant rat, a black cloth, and a woven net. Make a sacrifice of these items. Then you will be able to open the calabash; only be warned, as there is one taboo you must observe: when the calabash is opened, you must be ready to trap whatever is inside when it comes out. You must wrap it in the black cloth, and you must never unravel it. It should remain wrapped in the black cloth.”

‘King Efòn gathered the materials and performed the sacrifice. He opened the calabash with his left hand, holding the woven net in his right hand; with the lid removed there now came a snake from the calabash. King Efòn cast the net over the snake and seized it. He then wrapped it in the black cloth, wondering all the while why his father would have kept a snake hidden away in a sealed calabash.

‘The snake now said to him, “Let me go and I will help you. The people of your father’s kingdom are plotting against you. Let me go and I will tell you who they are and how to deal with them.” King Efòn said to himself, “what? If I let this one go, I may never know who is plotting against me!” So he unwrapped the snake and set him free.

‘The snake now went and bit King Efòn’s wife and firstborn son; the snake went and bit them. Desperate to save them, the King summoned A Long Journey Does Not End With Death, who said to him, “I told you not to unwrap whatever came out of the calabash! Now see what has happened to you. If you would overturn your misfortune, you must allow the snake to bite you. When it bites you, strike its head and kill it. When the snake is dead, make a sacrifice of it by mixing your envenomed blood with that of the snake.”

‘“Won’t I die?” asked King Efòn. A Long Journey Does Not End With Death, divined for King Efòn. Do you understand?’ Awo-Iku stares at me.

‘Do I understand what? The story has no ending!’

Awo-Iku smiles enigmatically. ‘No,’ he says, ‘not yet. The story is here, now. The story ends with a question that you must answer. Now go outside—the snake is waiting for you.’

‘What?’ I stand up and rush out of the temple, through the empty antechamber and out into the clearing. Ona-Ode is already outside, but he looks—different somehow. He is dressed in white robes, holding the bow and poison-tipped arrows. Where is the other man?

Tokunbo is here.

He looks past Ona-Ode and meets my eyes. ‘Oyinbo!’ he calls out. ‘You have come far into the bush! The gods here do not recognize you!’

I assess him; he is younger than I, dressed in red robes. His eyes are wide and feverish. He radiates power without presence. Why did Olumide fear him so? ‘Why do you hide behind Ochosi?’ he calls out.

Ochosi? What is he talking about?

Ona-Ode starts forward, and I see that it is not just Ona-Ode but Ochosi also, Orisha of hunters and of medicine. Ona-Ode notches an arrow, raises the bow, and lets the arrow fly. Tokunbo just stands there, watching him—I hold my breath—

I would have thought it impossible for a man to move so quickly. He darts underneath the arrow and charges forward. Ona-Ode notches another arrow, but he is too late. Tokunbo roars and the sound is like a shockwave. The black sheets flutter wildly on their lines; the trees bend and sigh above us. Ona-Ode tries to discard the bow and raise an arrow to defend himself, but Tokunbo is on him—he strikes with a blow that is like lightning splitting a tree down the middle. Ona-Ode falls to the ground and rolls away, his hands covering his face.

Tokunbo stands, and it seems as if his entire body is vibrating in place. His attention slowly focuses on me. If I don’t figure out a way to defend myself, he will strike me down as easily as he did Ona-Ode. My mind goes frantically after an answer. I remember what Awo-Iku said: the snake is waiting for you.

I remember something Olumide told me on the day he first cast the diving chain for me: ‘When you come to a far place, you will know it for your home.’ I know what I need to do. I am A Stranger Who Travels Home by the Hidden Road.

I stare at Tokunbo and whisper under my breath, calling out a name I couldn’t possibly know, a name that was never taught to me, a name that rips out of my throat like a barbed arrowhead from a wounded animal.

It is the name of a hidden god.

I move toward Tokunbo and he falters. I can see doubt in his eyes; he did not expect that I would stand against him. The trees whisper to one another in hushed tones and the tall grasses surrounding the clearing bend and wave. Tokunbo steps backward. I chant at him, calling out the names of diviners and spirits in a thunderous litany. All the verses taught to me by Olumide come pouring out distorted, as if I were somehow retelling them from another, darker perspective. I weave narratives of terrible magic around my enemy, strangling him with a power that creeps out of the black earth like some writhing vine. He shouts at me but I hear nothing.

Ona-Ode tries to tell me something, but it is too late. I have it: the end of Awo-Iku’s story, left incomplete so that I could use it as a weapon. ‘“You will not die.” A Long Journey Does Not End With Death. Divined for King Efòn. King Efòn let the snake bite him; the snake bit him. He struck it down—’ I raise my hand. Tokunbo wavers and cowers before me.

‘The snake died at his hands; the power of the snake belonged to him. He was dancing,’ I snap forward and strike Tokunbo down; he falls to his knees. ‘He was rejoicing—’ I strike him again and he falls onto his back. ‘He praised his diviner, A Long Journey Does Not End With Death!’

I roar down at him and the shadows that have been crawling along the edges of my vision lunge forward, focused to a point aimed directly into the center of Tokunbo’s forehead. He tries to rise and resist, but at the moment of my exclamation his head snaps back and strikes the ground. I can almost see something leave him, some red spirit of wrath and rage and bloodthirst; and then it is gone, snaking away through the tall grasses.

Ona-Ode inches closer to me. ‘You shouldn’t have invoked that Odu,’ he whispers. ‘Look at what you’ve done…’ Tokunbo lies dead at my feet. I stare down at my hands. I shouldn’t have been able to do that. I am bleeding from an unknown wound in my belly; I am holding an unfamiliar knife in my left hand. A memory flashes across my mind—of Awo-Iku handing me the knife during his recitation of the ese. I was holding the knife when I ran outside.

I used it to make a sacrifice of myself. Human blood. I used human blood.

I stare at Tokunbo’s body. There is no discernible wound on him. His eyes are rolled back in his head, his mouth gaping open. How did I kill him? What terrible power could fell a man without physically wounding him?

Awo-Iku appears outside the temple. He comes forward and smiles at me. ‘Long have I pitted Olumide and Tokunbo against one another; the white against the red. Long have I cultivated this moment. Now you are mine, A Stranger Who Travels Home by the Hidden Road. You have invoked a spirit known only to my lineage. You have stained your white robes black. You are bound to a different destiny, now.’


Oyinbo! You are mine-o!’ he cackles at his junior brother. ‘You have brought me a fine gift, Ona-Ode; an apprentice of uncommon power to reinvigorate the tradition. Olumide thought himself the highest among us, and Tokunbo thought himself a worthy successor to a throne of ancient power. Now both are slain and what was hidden shall be honored again.’

‘I am sorry,’ Ona-Ode says to me.

And just like that, I know. I will not leave here. It is as Tokunbo said; I have come far into the bush. But he was wrong—the gods here do recognize me.

I am at home among them.


A Different Kind of Werewolf Story, Part 2

This is the SECOND half of the story. Please see the previous post to start from the beginning. If you enjoy it, please “like” it and share it.

Alexander Chirila

Humanskin, Part 2

We enter the town hall to see the settlers in an uproar, shouting incoherently. The stench is almost overwhelming. Wearing the humanskin dampens our senses, but this sweaty, unwashed, agitated mass of humanity produces a miasma thicker than water. It is profoundly uncomfortable. I have two choices: I can either smell, listen, and feel all of it at once, or I can focus on a single thread of sound and scent.

A noise uncoils itself across the room, like a wave unspooling over the surf. They are saying something, shouting…I know what this is. To call it a ‘trial’ would be a mockery of whatever that word might have meant in the world that ended. There is an accused, there are witnesses, and there is a moderator. Then there is a churn that turns a crowd into a mob. The reality of the thing is simple: either you’re forgiven by the mob or you’re not. If you’re not, there is exile and there is death.

My father had taken me to one of these when I was still a boy. ‘You need to see what a mob is capable of,’ he had said. And I did. They were pronouncing judgment on a thief. Everyone agreed that there was ample testimony: the one witness who claimed that he had seen the accused running away from his house with his daughter’s virginity.

The man begged and pleaded for a mercy that would never come. ‘Never expect mercy from a mob,’ my father had said, ‘anymore than you would expect respect from the vultures who are going to pick out his eyes while he hangs from the old oak tree down the road.’

‘What now?’ Red and Coal mutters.

‘Let’s find out,’ Soot and Snow says, pushing her way into the crowd. Old Wolf grunts and follows, as do we. We are barely noticed; every eye is bent towards the far end of the room, where a dais is separated from the crowd by a polished wooden banister.

Then I see her. I remember her. My wife—Elizabeth. Lizzie.

My will is overtaken; something from deep inside my mind comes tunneling forward. I am conscious of my pack-mates moving towards me. White and Gray is looking at me with concern. Red and Coal is shaking his head. Soot and Snow realizes what is happening almost instantly. But it is Old Wolf I fear, who is looking at me steadily with those yellow eyes of his. I am helpless to acknowledge him. All I can do is listen as one of the elders—Nick’s father!—raises his hand to quiet the surging crowd.

‘This woman,’ Mr. Robbins motions towards my wife, ‘stands accused of a most uncommon crime.’ He pauses for a moment, trying to find the words to express his thoughts. ‘In the world that ended, many of us believed in impossible things. Many of us believed in salvation. That the world would begin anew. Well here we are, in the same world. You have told me some tall tales, I believe.

‘Now I know that you’re all scared. These attacks have taken an incalculable toll on all of us. Many of us have lost loved ones,’ he nods to a grim-faced man, ‘but we cannot allow our fear to drive us into suspicion and superstition,’ he spits out the dirty word. ‘We have buried these beliefs alongside the bodies of our fathers and grandfathers. We have left them in empty churches, where they belong, among the ruins of a world that we can never go back to. This town hall was built sixteen years ago. It was the first building that we labored to build out of this wilderness. This is what we believe in. We can’t afford to resurrect the ghosts of our past; they led us astray once before. We have a chance to preserve whatever good we can. Witch hunts, inquisitions—let’s just leave those things behind.

‘Please, I implore you…tell me the truth.’

The crowd roars at him, a barely restrained animal baring its teeth at a trainer standing too close. ‘You’ll get the truth!’ a woman cries out. ‘The truth!’ an elderly man warbles incoherently. Mr. Robbins raises his hands and nods.

‘Let’s hear it then, from our witness. Mrs. Miller, please come forward and have a seat right here…’ he taps on one of the several chairs arranged opposite Lizzie. Where is our son? I start looking around. My pack-mates regard me warily. White and Gray nods at me, trying to remind me of what we’re here for. None of this matters to the pack. If anything, this is an inconvenience: a mob is harder to scatter, single-minded as it is. Soon, Black and Rust will set up his distraction to lure the settlers out into the open and towards the outskirts of the encampment…

I remember Mrs. Miller. She was our neighbor, an old widowed woman whose husband had died of the fever. She was a comfort to me after my father died, when I lived alone in the years before I married my wife. What could she have to say against Lizzie? She was midwife at our son’s birthing!

After a bit of prompting, my former neighbor begins. ‘I want you to know that I understand what you said before, Mr. Robbins, about superstition. In the world that ended, my mother was a good Christian woman. She went to Church near every day and prayed for salvation. She used to tell me that the world would end, but that she and I had nothing to worry about. She’s been dead near thirty years now, and I haven’t set foot in a church since. This isn’t about that. What I seen, I seen with my own eyes. What I tell you is the truth, and you can all decide for yourselves.’

‘Well go on then, Mrs. Miller, and say what you have to say.’

‘Just a little over a year ago,’ she begins, ‘I saw something. Something old. Something evil. Lizzie was struggling with her newborn. Her husband had been taken by the fever,’ she whispers the last word. ‘After he left, she had a hard time of it. I tried to help as much as I could, but she just kept getting worse. I remember talking to her but once before it happened. She told me that she thought maybe her child had the fever, too. I know the signs of the fever, and that baby was healthy! She kept on about how sick he was, so I decided to keep an eye on her. If she decided to take the baby into the forest, like they used to do when the fever was bad—I would follow her and try to stop her.’

What is she talking about? Lizzie would never…!

‘Why now, Mrs. Miller?’ the schoolteacher asks. ‘Why did you keep this to yourself for so long?’

She looks at him as if his question had been asked in another language. ‘No one would’ve believed me!’ she shouts. ‘With all these wolf attacks, I had to come forward. You don’t understand. I saw it with my own eyes. Meeting in secret with an old crone in the wilderness…!’

My head snaps towards my pack-mates, immobilized in their places. ‘…some kind of witch-woman. Lizzie brought her child with her. I followed her, you see? The night she took her child away, I followed her deep into the mountains. I kept thinking she would dash the boy’s head against a stone or just leave him crying somewhere. She just kept walking as if she knew right where she was going in all that darkness! We come across a river and she tracks it upstream to a cascade, well into this narrow valley on the other side of Clingmans Dome.’

Red and Coal slinks away from the crowd. His hands are shaking. Soon, he will break free of his humanskin. I understand the implications of what Mrs. Miller has just said. If we fail tonight, they will come into the heart of our territory and destroy the Totem. I can feel my hackles threatening to shear through this paper-thin skin. The crowd waits. I can almost feel it about to start. I am hoping that it will—these memories, these feelings—I want them torn asunder in the ripping freedom of release. This humanskin is choking me, strangling my mind.

‘They made some kind of pact that night,’ Mrs. Miller says. ‘She and the crone. I know it. Lizzie left the witch’s hovel alone. Don’t you see? She sacrificed her own babe to that monstrous woman…! I couldn’t just leave. I needed to see what the crone intended to do with the child. I creep up to the window unseen…’

Something isn’t right with this. Old mother may be old, but her senses are as keen as any of ours. Mrs. Miller wouldn’t have been able to creep at all without tripping over her own feet, much less unseen, and much less after a grueling hike through the mountains. Unless I never really knew her at all.

‘…and I see the old witch holding a knife to the child, preparing to cut him open on an altar! Surrounded by the talismans and charms of her foul religion! She howled as I ran from that place, howled like a wolf!’

Our son? What did she do to our son? I stumble backward in confusion. I remember the day he was born. My baby boy.

There’s an expression I never understood before I met Elizabeth. ‘Love at first sight.’ Before her, it was just another one of those sayings that have no context in this world.She was alone in a world where women who walk alone rarely meet with a kind fate. Most of the women who abandon the dead cities without a partner or companion do not survive long unless they join themselves to a larger group. Lizzie walked alone and unafraid. No one had ever seen anything like it. She was beautiful and raw, unapologetically merciless with anyone who crossed her.

I eventually learned that she had been tracking her mother. The woman had left her years ago, but Lizzie had come across someone who insisted that she was still alive. Lizzie told me that her mother had ‘gone crazy’ just before she fled from the dead city; that she had fallen terribly ill. It wasn’t the fever, and it wasn’t any kind of sickness that she’d seen before.

‘I felt like she was in two worlds at the same time,’ Lizzie told me, ‘this one, and another one that no one could see but her. Sometimes I think I see it too.’

We were married two years later. She told me that she knew she would marry me when she realized that she had given up on finding her mother. Our boy was born shortly afterward.

The crowd, setting free its own true face, rumbles and shakes, churning itself into a mob. The wooden floorboards thunder with their stamping feet. Lizzie didn’t stir in the slightest during the whole proceeding; now she rises and looks out over the thrashing mass of people.

Mr. Robbins is yelling for the crowd to just calm down, but there is no calming down. ‘This is insanity!’ he shouts, ‘Madness! How can you believe this testimony? Come now, listen to some reason…’ at last the crowd seethes back, momentarily rebuked. ‘Good, good,’ the schoolteacher breathes heavily. ‘Now Mrs. Miller, what exactly is it that you expect us to believe? That an old witch in the woods sacrificed this woman’s child in some occult ritual? Why, that sounds like a fairy tale!’

I am hardly listening now—my head is spinning—why would old mother have lied to us? Why would she have lied to me? Why would she have told us that she had found the infant drowned in the cascade pool? Old mother had made it seem a predestined thing, that a woman of her lineage should have tried to drown her firstborn in waters sacred to the Totem she unknowingly served. ‘She must have thought that she was destroying something monstrous,’ old mother had said, ‘but the spirit inside her knew otherwise. She was simply giving her baby to the only power capable of ensuring his safety.’

When I saw Black and Rust for the first time, he was a sodden little thing peering at us with large, frightened eyes. A wolf pup cradled against old mother’s bosom. It wasn’t until he took on the humanskin for the first time that we understood what he was: a wolf-born, the first of his kind.

‘I don’t expect you to believe me,’ Mrs. Miller says, rising from her chair. ‘I expect you to believe what you see, just like I did.’ She digs her hand into the pocket of her homespun dress and holds out a familiar object—a ceremonial knife.

It is the same knife used by old mother to shear through my humanskins on the night of my rebirth. ‘It is time,’ she said, hovering over me. My last human memory is of old mother, invoking the Totem and holding that dagger with both hands above her head, thrown back in the ecstasy of her magic. A brazier from the world that ended burned with hot coals to my right. Gusts of cold, rain-sprinkled wind blew into the dim room, tossing the ragged old tapestries that hung over the windows. I tried to rise and push her away from me, but I was too weak.

Mrs. Miller stabs the knife into the table and says, ‘This is what the witch used to cut the child! This is the murder weapon!’

Old mother thrust the dagger into my chest, just underneath my floating ribs. I expected her to push through but she leaned forward, concentrating, parting the skin horizontally across my abdomen. When the flesh was opened she extended her right arm towards the wound. I stared—way beyond pain or shock—as she pushed her wrinkled old hand through the divided skin and into my body. She reached in, the blood pooling and soaking around her thin forearm. Her hand clawed through me until her fingers closed around my beating heart. With a triumphant grin she withdrew, gingerly holding the organ in her hand, pumping in her palm.

She arched her back and howled. She screamed and wailed her incantations, holding the my heart like some offering to a deity stepping through a wound in the skin of reality. When she was done she bent forward again and pushed the heart through the cut, stretching forward with her arm until it seemed as if she wanted to crawl entirely inside my body.

‘Blessed are you by the Spirit of the Wolf,’ she cried, lifting me into her arms as if I were no more than a stick figure. She carried me outside her hovel and to the cascade pool, laying me down into the cold waters.

I was somewhere between life and death.

Lizzie suddenly stands up, her fists clenched and her thin frame shuddering with anger. She starts to move towards Mrs. Miller, but then she stops and scans the room, her nostrils flaring. She’s looking for something…or someone. Then she sees me.

Lizzie starts walking towards me. The crowd is pushing and pulling, beginning to turn, congeal, and sharpen itself into a mob. My pack-mates have already scattered to the far corners of the room. I need to talk to Lizzie.

I push my way towards her, locking eyes with her as I move forward. When I get close enough, I seize her my her arms and bring her close to me. ‘How do you know old mother? What did she do to our son?’ I growl into her face. She is trembling and shaking her head, her eyes wide and staring at me. I ask her again, shaking her roughly. Somewhere in the background, I hear an impossible gargle distorting into a howl that only a wolf could produce. People in the crowd are screaming.

Lizzie turns to me and brings her lips close to my ear. ‘She’s lying,’ Lizzie whispers to me, ‘I sent him to you. I knew you were still out there…’ How could she have known?

She turns away to look. It is impossible not to. Old Wolf is tearing free of his humanskin.

The Totem wraps us in humanskin, but it is an illusion. It feels real, to both ourselves and to anyone who doesn’t pay too much attention—but it’s a veil. We are wolves, a new species of monster born together with a new world. We really are something new. When we shed the humanskin, there is no bone-breaking, agonized transformation. It is subtle, almost impossible for the human eye to register. I see it—and so does Lizzie.

Old Wolf’s humanskin sighs into a curtain of vapor, like moisture revealing a seam in the wall of reality. The beast comes out, parting the curtain and taking shape like a shadow imbued with sudden form and substance. To the human eye, this all happens in less than a second.

When it happens, the humans’ reaction is something to see. In the world that ended, it would have been worse; how cowardly they were by the end! When it all came crashing down around their heads, many of the survivors envied the fever-stricken. Five to seven days of agony compared to watching the husk of civilization break apart.

‘They almost stopped believing in monsters,’ Mr. Robbins once said to me. ‘They managed to convince themselves that they weren’t real. Real monsters existed only in stories and nightmares, fictions and hallucinations. There were only monstrous people. The beast was in the mind.

In this new world, the real monsters have returned.

If they were ever truly in our minds, they must have crawled out of the broken skulls of the billions that died when the world ended.

Nowadays, humans don’t scare so easy. Most of the people flee the town hall in a panicked frenzy, but the stalwart remain; those who carved this settlement out of the wilderness with their bare hands. About twelve settlers stay. I recognize all of them from my old life, but they wouldn’t recognize me. My humanskin is not the same.

When I lived here, there were only seven shotguns, eleven pistols, two rifles, and enough ammunition to keep the settlement safe under normal circumstances. Two of the shotguns are here, and I know who’s holding them—Mickey Donahue and Alan Griselli, refugees from what used to be New York City. Otherwise, unless things changed, the first town rule is that no one carry firearms to a public meeting. Tensions were always high, and one of the first incidents that provided a precedent for that ordnance cost ten lives over a petty dispute.

Old Wolf charges, his jaws open, the skin of his snout pulled back and his teeth—still sharp for all his years—snapping with an audible crack that I can hear above the yelling of the settlers. I step in front of Lizzie and push her behind me. Old Wolf leaps forward, a blur of yellow eyes and gnashing fangs. How quickly he moves! I brace my arms, knowing even as I do that his massive jaws can close over both my wrists and snap them like dry branches. I am ready to sacrifice my arms to protect my throat, but Old Wolf lowers his head and slams into me. I am thrown backward several feet, and he is already over me before I have a chance to raise my head. He snarls at me, defenseless beneath him. I know what he is asking me to do.

He is asking me to submit.

Behind him, a man grabs Lizzie and holds her arms behind her back. Several others cluster around him; one of them slaps her across the cheek. Her hair whips around her face with the force of the impact. I can hear her snarling. She struggles against her captor, her eyes locked on mine. Across from her, White and Gray paws at the wooden floor and mutters a nearly inaudible growl that I understand well enough: now isn’t the time.

I said I would kill Old Wolf tonight.

The doors to the town hall burst open. One of the night watchmen staggers in, his clothing in tatters and his intestines snaking out from between his clutching fingers. Is this the distraction Black and Rust had in mind? I expect him to burst through the doorway with blood around his mouth and gore hanging from his fangs. Instead, two more settlement men come shuffling in, holding a bulk of matted fur and caked blood between them. If not for all the competing scents in the town hall, I would have known sooner that it was Black and Rust.

In the middle of a transformation, we really do think with two minds. The wolf was nearly feral, a confused mess of anger and survival instinct. As for my human mind…She said that she had send him to me. Our son. Why didn’t old mother tell me? Why didn’t she tell me that Black and Rust was my son? My son! What have they done to my son? Old mother once told that me that the most dangerous part of the transformation is when both minds vie for dominance over the Spirit. ‘The human spirit is more cunning,’ she told me, ‘but the wolf spirit is older.’

The two settlement men throw their burden down across the floor of the town hall. It is a calculated move. The others had been trying to stay hidden, letting Old Wolf distract the mob; they had slunk into the shadows and side chambers, waiting for the signal to attack. Now they spring forward, unable to hold back from assessing our pack-mate’s condition and protecting him from further assault. I am no different. I lunge forward across the floor. The settlers back away, but more slowly. The men are starting to realize that they have the upper hand here. The element of surprise we were depending on is lost.

The pup is alive, but seriously wounded. They shouldn’t have been able to capture him. Black and Rust moves faster than any human. He is stealthier than all of us; stronger, deadlier. My son! How did they know he was coming? How did they find him? The rest of the pack circles Black and Rust, their hackles raised, an unbroken harmony of vengeful growling undercutting the fatal quiet of the hall. We are in defensive mode, uncertain of what to do next. Normally, we would all look to Old Wolf for guidance—but he has betrayed us. Why did he attack Lizzie? What is wrong with him?

‘You see with your own eyes!’ Mrs. Miller yells, holding old mother’s ceremonial knife.

Mickey Donahue steps forward and levels the shotgun at Red and Coal. Soot and Snow yips and darts in front of her mate. Mickey fires, the buckshot taking her full on the side. She tumbles away, skidding to a bloody stop against the far wall. Another man, holding a knife, brings his arm back in readiness to stab it through her. Red and Coal is in motion already. He leaps towards the second man and bites through his forearm, pulverizing the bone and turning the muscle to useless pulp.

White and Gray launches herself at Mickey Donahue; he brings up his hands to defend himself, but she doesn’t hold back the way Old Wolf had done with me. The stock of the gun strikes her face, turning her away just enough so that her jaws close around the man’s elbow. She bites down and nearly severs the arm at the joint. She is about to crunch through his face when Old Wolf advances and locks his jaws around her neck. Her pulls her away from the struggling settler and throws her roughly against the floor. She thrashes and snaps but he forces her down, biting until she stops fighting.

He is trying to force her to submit. She is resisting him with every ounce of her strength, her muscles rippling underneath her fur. If she doesn’t yield, he will keep biting until his fangs break through her skin. I want to ask him what he thinks he’s doing. I want to ask him why he betrays us. But I don’t have the words anymore. I have only action. I spring forward, crashing my right shoulder into his flank. He rolls away from White and Gray and my vision narrows to nothing but him: I am ready for this confrontation. I am ready to take my rightful place as alpha.

White and Gray steps between us, tilting her head to look at me. If you were to translate every nuance and gesture of body language expressed by every creature, you may appreciate the immense vocabulary at our command. Add to that the unique scent attached to every emotion on the spectrum, and you may understand that the wolf can discern more in a single moment than what can be spoken in many. Now is not the time, she tells me.

The men to my right are still holding Lizzie. Red and Coal has driven the settlers away from his wounded mate; those who didn’t choose flight chose death. My son’s wolf blood has already sealed his wounds.  The other settlers are likely regrouping for another assault. Those that return will return with weapons. If we stay here, they will finish us. Much as I hate having to back down, White and Gray is right. There is no disgrace in shifting my attention to the more immediate threat.

The schoolteacher looks directly at me for the first time. ‘I know you,’ he says. I stare at him. There is something off about him. I didn’t notice it before, but it seems obvious to me now. My eyes focus on Mrs. Miller. I see the same strange effect. Their eyes don’t match their expressions. They don’t even match their faces.

They are wearing humanskins.

They are not wolves underneath. I would have known. Lizzie would have known. ‘What are you?’ I shout at Mrs. Miller. ‘You’re no wolf!’ Those blessed by the Spirit of the Wolf know one another, regardless of the humanskins they wear.

‘Territory is power,’ she says. ‘That old hag of yours has been snatching up more than she deserves. And this pup,’ she motions disdainfully toward Black and Rust, ‘is a player best removed from the game early. As is your wife…’ She brandishes the ceremonial knife and moves toward Lizzie.

The men holding my wife stiffen when Mrs. Miller moves forward, uncertain of what to do. In that, they give themselves away: this whole affair has been coordinated. Some of them knew what to expect when Old Wolf shed his humanskin before their eyes. Clearly, some of them knew where to find my son. Why would Mrs. Miller have chosen this night, of all nights, to publically denounce Lizzie? She must have known we were going to attack. Old Wolf called the attack. My wife had led a rival to her own mother’s den. I have learned all I can from this vantage, wearing the humanskin. The wolf will be able to tell so much more.

When the decision is made to shed the humanskin, there is no cunning, no intelligence, no anchor of self-identity that can prevent the wolf from coming through. It is a release, not an agony, like relaxing a muscle cramping with tension.

I unloose the wolf-mind, shedding the illusion as if it was an awkward facial expression held for too long. I pass through the tear in the wound between worlds. On the other side is strength, speed, vitality, and clarity. Perfect clarity. On the other side is my true form.

The last question in my mind while wearing the humanskin—what are they?—is still my first priority. I need to identify the threat. I sift through the mélange of scents clouding the town hall: human, dog, rat, ant, fly, blood, feces, urine, bile, phlegm, tobacco, wood, stone, earth, plant, cooked meat, sickness…wolf…and something else…something that doesn’t fit…


I focus my senses on each of them, trying to learn as much as I can before springing into action. The woman—Mrs. Miller—smells like old mother, but different. With old mother it is human and wolf and…magic. The man—Mr. Robbins—smells like serpent tinged with the familiar, subtle odor of humanskin. Old Wolf smells like…disease. Sickness. Like an animal bitten by a venomous snake. And Lizzie…I know that scent. Human and wolf and magic.

Three targets, three choices. Red and Coal moves forward and catches my eye. He is ready. I look down at Black and Rust, training my senses on him; he is conscious, playing possum. White and Gray is dutifully lowering her head to Old Wolf, but things have changed. The men holding Lizzie are coming around to realize that they aren’t in control of anything. They are surrounded by monsters.

They look to the schoolteacher for direction, but Mr. Robbins only stares at me and says: ‘You are not the only monsters born into this new world. The Great Totems have all returned, choosing their blessed ones from among the survivors of the world that ended.’ He suddenly drops to his belly. ‘You may play at wearing humanskins, but to you they will always be cumbersome. They are like gloves to us. You knew me when you were children. I insinuated myself into this community long before the big bad wolf came huffing and puffing. I was there in the grass, waiting for the best time to strike.’

The magic of transformation is the same, but the movement is different. The humanskin becomes dry and brittle, crumbling away from the serpent beneath. The beast itself is massive. He unravels himself from between worlds one great length after another, until it seems the whole hall is filled with his coils. I briefly hope that his bulk limits his speed, but he demonstrates his impossible swiftness only a moment later—darting towards Alan Griselli. Alan fires a round, but his arms are shaking and his senses are static with terror. The shot clips the serpent’s scales, shattering a few into translucent shards. The monster that was Mr. Robbins swirls around Alan, crushing every bone in his body with an audible series of wet pops and crunches. When he is a boneless ruptured mess the serpent gapes open its muscled mouth and leers over him; it funnels down, swallowing the poor man whole. It gulps and undulates, forcing him into its body while the pack watches.

I should have anticipated that those blessed by the Spirit of the Serpent would move with unimaginable speed. The men holding Lizzie let her go and flee from the town hall. Mrs. Miller laughs and plunges the ceremonial knife into my wife’s belly. Lizzie cries out, clutching at the old woman’s arms as if they were two boxers embracing after a fierce exchange of blows.

Black and Rust ends his charade. With a rumbling growl that passes into the dreadful silence of an unrestrained attack, he lunges at Mrs. Miller. The serpent lashes out at him, knocking him aside with a whip of coiled muscle. My son yips in frustration and rebounds, charging at the monster. The snake tries to wind itself around him; he is too quick and too agile. He evades every turn and winding strike, but he is on the defensive. I look towards Red and Coal, who acknowledges my signal. In that moment, all rivalries are forgiven and set aside. A pack member is in danger. My brother sprints into the battle. Soot and Snow, unwilling to let her mate face the threat alone, forces herself up. The ghastly wound on her side is closed, but she’s lost a good deal of blood. She shouldn’t be standing, much less fighting, but that doesn’t matter. My pack-mates charge the serpent.

‘There is an old story that the Great Beasts came first,’ Mr. Robbins once said. ‘In the world that ended, people uncovered their bones buried in a history book of stone. But bones are physical remains. What happened to the spirits of the great beasts? We can argue that they didn’t have any…but what if,’ his voice lowered as the class listened enrapt, ‘they just went into hiding? What if they were just waiting while the humans scurried arrogantly about and proclaimed them gone forever? We once celebrated our power over them by wearing their faces as masks. What if they are doing the same, celebrating their return?’

Lizzie’s broken away from the snake-mother, trying to stem the flow of blood from her abdomen. The witch turns too late to evade my attack. I come in from below, angling my head so that I can open my mouth over her belly and rip through the flesh. She screams and staggers away; I taste blood and muscle in my mouth. I press the assault, nipping at her hamstring as she stumbles in agony towards the exit. She goes down, hissing and dragging herself across the floor. Stepping over her, I give her a muttered growl that I hope conveys everything I feel for her. Then I close my teeth over her face and grind through her skull as if it were a walnut. I relish my kill—what a delicacy!—but I have to restrain myself. Lizzie is bleeding out and the settlers are returning, no doubt armed with every firearm in the settlement.

To my left, Old Wolf is holding his own against White and Gray, but she’s younger, faster, and stronger. She’s playing it safe, knowing that he will exhaust himself long before she does. Behind me, Mr. Robbins thrashes in his death throes as my son, my brother, and Soot and Snow finish him off, crunching through the bones of his spine.

I catch her scent a second before I see her. How did she get inside so quickly? Old mother is here, kneeling over my human wife and administering a pungent tincture that smells like healing. I turn to the battle between our former alpha and his mate. Old Wolf seems to have caught a second wind; he hooks White and Gray’s leg with a bite, severing the tendon. She stumbles, yelps when she puts her weight down, and slips.

I don’t waste any time. Old Wolf sees me coming and turns, but I am counting on that. I have one shot at this. I lower myself when I get close, feigning a posture of submission. He makes to get a hold of my throat. I lunge upward and bite as deep into his neck as my fangs can find purchase. He tries to pull away, but I clench my jaws and pull against him. The serrated backs of my canines cleave through the muscle and tissue of his throat. When he succeeds in jerking his head away, most of his windpipe catches between my teeth.

I can taste the sickness in him. The serpent-mother corrupted him somehow. She must have taken him when he wore the humanskin; otherwise he would have sensed what she was. ‘Have you met Mrs. Miller’s new squeeze?’ Lizzie was always fond of using expressions from the world that ended. ‘He’s an older gentleman from one of the dead cities further south. Atlanta, they used to call it. He’s been on his own for quite awhile, hunting and trapping in the marshes near the bay. He’s a bit strange, and there’s something about him I find unnervingly familiar. I keep thinking I’ve seen him before.’

‘Strange? Everyone around here’s strange, Lizzie.’

She’d laughed. ‘Fine. How about this, then: I saw him around back one evening, just outside the light of the torch behind our house. I could swear that his eyes glowed in the darkness. He walked off towards the mountains, and I kept watching him. I’m telling you, when he got out past the road he disappeared. A second later I saw a wolf run off into the forest…’

‘Wait…this was at night? You can’t see anything past the road, even when there’s a full moon! Lizzie, if you’re going to tell me stories…’

Old mother is already administering to Soot and Snow. Lizzie is standing, a poultice binding her wound closed. We have to go, she says to me, tell your pack that it’s time.

My pack.

I mutter a soft growl of command. The others snap to attention. Old mother returns to Lizzie’s side and nods at me; she and her daughter will take care of themselves. I run towards the window on the far side of the hall. I tuck my head down and propel myself through the glass, landing at a run and taking off through the back ways of the settlement. Through the communal herb garden, past Mr. Frederick’s house, down the dirt road leading past the tannery, and into the relief of the dark woods. I know my pack is behind me; I can hear and distinguish their individual gaits and scents. Soot and Snow is keeping up. She will need to rest, but not before we are well into the forest and over the ridge nearest the encampment.

White and Gray paces beside me. My eyes catch hers. You are the alpha now, she says. But that’s not all she says. My human wife is a living heir to the lineage of our Totem. My human mind, with all its memories and sentiments, is still mated to Lizzie—now more than ever. But the wolf has already chosen White and Gray. Black and Rust, loping ahead to my right, is invigorated by our victory. He is Elizabeth’s son; he is our son.

I can’t help but wonder how many lineages exist in this new world, whether we will vie with other monsters for territory. How many of them wear humanskin? How many of them will consider themselves our enemy?

I remember sitting with Lizzie on the ridge overlooking the settlement. ‘Do you think we’ll make it this time?’ Lizzie asked me.

‘I don’t know,’ I answered. ‘They say everything is different. Mr. Robbins once told me that time is cyclical. The age of humanity has ended, he said. Things are going back to beginning; back to an age of gods and monsters.’

‘Maybe we were the monsters,’ Lizzie said.

A Different Kind of Werewolf Story

What follows is the first half of a story entitled “Humanskin.” It presents a different take on traditional werewolf mythology, employing a setting and perspective that is unique and provocative. If you enjoy it, please “like” it.  Share this narrative with anyone you believe may appreciate it. I write first and foremost for my audience, so let me know if I have one! Thank you for your time, and I hope you enjoy it. Look for the second half of the story to appear soon.

Alexander Chirila 2013



I am going to kill Old Wolf today.

The others are expecting this. They see me trying him. I know that, when I was a man, I would not have killed him. I would not have killed anyone. But it is good that I should kill Old Wolf today. It is good that I should take his place as alpha.

Tonight, we hunt with purpose.

The humans’ dwelling-places are encroaching. They do as they did before; they burn, they destroy, they spread and they consume. We will remind them that this is our territory. They will come for us, but we know their weapons. We know their movements. We know their scent.

We run between the dogwoods and falling leaves, quickly over the uneven earth and through the tall grass. Winter is in the bitter wind, in the early morning frost. We lope alongside a river. It is clean, good water. Dark, slippery pebbles shift as we pad upstream. The mountains are blue in the predawn. The distance between their round, forested peaks is measured in shades of blue.

I can smell a buck somewhere on an adjoining peak, separated by a narrow valley. I am hungry, but I can wait. Normally, White and Gray would break off from the pack and see to her own belly. Even she obeys tonight.

She knows that I want her, that I would take her as a mate. She belongs to Old Wolf, and he guards her jealously. He is old, and his eyes are weak. He is no longer fit to be the alpha. It is time for him to find a new place.

The wind shifts, west to east. The scent-trails of cookfires cut through the forest in visible ribbons. On the surface of the ground, there is a fine mesh of varied smells. The more intense seem to move and shift, while those weathered down by time and season are still and faint. There are trails within this network; the footprints of an animal, the burrowing of insects. Our own signatures mark our territory like signposts stapled to trees.

I glance to my right—Black and Rust is darting agilely through a tumble of boulders; young, strong, and just coming of age. Full of piss and vinegar. Damn fool made a play for Soot and Snow last night, but my brother checked him. Nearly took his eyes, and would have served him right. Old Wolf intervened, but Red and Coal nearly made the bid for alpha there and then. Better that he didn’t. My brother should know that my time has come.

* * * *

I don’t like wearing humanskin. I must have been comfortable in it once, when it was mine. I just want to claw it off now. It feels fragile, thin, vulnerable. When I wear it, I remember snatches of things, like pieces of dry tendon sticking to an old bone left out in the sun. I can’t put them together.

Human speech is getting more difficult. I don’t talk to the others—there’s no need. I can read their body language better than if they were whispering their innermost thoughts into my ear.

I’m shivering. It’s harder to feel things, sense things, smell things. I have to paw through all this debris in my mind—I want to see my family again—to find the simplest thing…

For all his weaknesses, Old Wolf remembers everything. He remembers when he wore his own humanskin. He remembers himself. He walks upright without difficulty. The first time I walked upright, I tottered and reeled, flailing my arms like a bird with broken wings. I’ve gotten better since then, but the pebbles are slippery with mist thrown off from the cascade pool. My brother laughs when I fall—he is not my brother—and I try to growl at him. My throat cannot make the same sounds.

Black and Rust changes so quickly. He dons the humanskin smoothly, effortlessly, and it is an irony that a born wolf should so easily wear the mask of a boy. It is a face I always think I recognize. He watches me clutch at the embankment for support, standing with his flat white teeth showing in his face. Impudent pup.

I see White and Gray rising from a stand of cattails, her smooth shoulders flexing as she stretches. I must have wanted other human females—I loved my wife—when I was a man. Then, their skin must not have seemed so thin, or delicate; their shape must not have seemed so awkward and ill-suited to the harshness of the unforgiving earth. She is different. Somehow the wolf is visible, like a new moon on a clear night.

There is an impulse that tears through every single coherent thought, an electric need snagged on an exposed livewire. I just want to take all this energy and do something with it. I want to fight, I want to hunt, I want to range over the wide earth…

She soothes me.

My brother and his mate help one another rise. Red and Coal casts a vicious human eye at Black and Rust. It is the eye of jealousy. He is right to be anxious. When Black and Rust grows, he will become the strongest among us. He is a born wolf. When the time comes, he will make a play for Soot and Snow, and there is a chance he will emerge the stronger. I know that my own time as alpha will be short, when he grows. It is a thing as inevitable as the turning of the world in the dark.

Further up the ridge, away from the cascade pool and the Totem who guards it, there is a ramshackle little hovel assembled from bits and pieces of the world that came before. The world that ended. The old woman who assembled it is the last living heir of an ancient lineage dedicated to the service of the Totem. The Totem herself is a focal point, a living crossroads between worlds.

‘Very few people know about the Totems,’ my wife told me once. We used to walk together for hours to get away from the settlement. Our normal route would take us west, towards one of the many decayed roads that linked the dead cities together. On this day, we went into the mountains.

She would tell me stories of her life in the dead city; about the gangs, the fever breakouts, the starvation, paranoia, and violence. When I asked her why anyone would cling to those crumbling tombs of glass and steel she told that me that many people believe the wilderness is worse—reclaimed by ‘a Mother Nature pissed off at the world.’ Yes, I would tell her, the earth is pitiless and unfriendly…but at least it is alive.

She would also tell me stories about Her Great Journey South, a lonely exodus of refugees that trekked the abandoned roads in search of new homes and new lives. I always imagined that if you could fly above the country, as they say people once did, you would see campfires flickering here and there in the blackness between settlements. Wandering bands of refugees huddling over their light, surrounded by dangerous mystery.

Lizzie was huddled around one of these lights on the night she heard the story, in the company of a strange group of travelers—they were wolves wearing humanskin—who explained that ‘when the world ended, it left a wound. The wound had been there for a long time, but the people had sewn it up with their roads and machines, skyscrapers and subterranean tunnels. The wound bled inside, never clotting up. There was too much poison thinning the blood. But afterward the Fever, with no people to keep stitching the wound, the sutures broke open and the tainted blood poured out. But that’s how it’s done—the poison needs to come out so that the blood can run pure again.

‘When the earth took back what was hers, her children came with her. The Spirits of things. The Totems. They spring up in places where the pure blood flows again. There are people who can see them. They say that in the world of man, the medicine of the Spirits was quieted; but after the world ended, it was reignited. Old lineages that had dripped sleeping down the generations were awakened to power.

Old Wolf is already speaking to old mother by the time the rest of us drag our awkward bodies up the trail and into the clearing. Black and Rust is probably inside already, dining on the lavish meals she prepares for us. ‘I used to cook,’ she once told me, ‘but I have no children to cook for except for the six of you. And you’—she’d laughed in a way that reminded me of a little girl bounding through a field of wildflowers—‘can’t enjoy what I cook unless you wear the humanskin.’

It is she who advises Old Wolf, and we who listen. It is she who knows when the Totem will sheathe us in humanskin, that we may walk among our enemies.

‘What news?’ Old Wolf asks her.

She glances at me. Does she know that I will kill him tonight? Of course she knows. She will say nothing of my intentions to him. She never interferes in the business of the pack.

‘The humans are gathering tonight,’ she says, ‘to deliberate.’

Black and Rust appears in the doorway behind the old woman, his mouth stained with elderberry juice, his eyes glaring. Of all of us, he is the fiercest defender of the Totem. She is at the heart of our territory; she is the caretaker of the blood that binds us to one another and to our ancestors. To him, she is an undying surrogate to replace the mother that tried to sacrifice him in his infancy.

Old Wolf growls; he does not seem to suffer the strictures of his humanskin throat. ‘Their hunting parties kill our brothers and sisters. They push closer to the Totem with each season. Any further and they will find her resting-place. I know what humans do to the sacred.’

He knew. Old Wolf was among the first to be given the Spirit of the Wolf after the wilderness swarmed over the empty habitations of the world that ended.

‘You have harried them for too long,’ old mother says. ‘Now it is time to go for the jugular.’ She grins and draws a bony finger across her thin neck. ‘Go in among their dwelling-places; attend this gathering and be wary of their suspicions. Your attacks will have stirred them into a vengeful frenzy—but this is what we intended. They fight for their survival. We fight for our dominion.’ Her eyes narrow. ‘Show them the boundaries of their territory.’

‘Let me be the one to lure them,’ Black and Rust says, ‘I am the fastest of the pack.’ Old Wolf looks at my brother. Red and Coal says nothing, but his silence is plain enough to understand. The alpha grunts, and the upstart pup bears his flat human teeth in a triumphant snarl.

With the matter settled, the others are ushered into the hovel by the old woman. I remain outside for a moment, staring at an old tin board with the drawing of a woman holding a glass Coca-Cola bottle. I remember that drawing. Old Matheson’s General Store. Trinkets and relics from the World Before. My father loved that store; for every derelict and ruin of bits he could tell the most wondrous stories.

‘You came from this place,’ Old Wolf was saying. ‘If you are not strong enough to find your way out of it again…’

I bear my flat human teeth in response to his not-so-subtle challenge. ‘There is no trap of theirs that can snare me.’

* * * *

‘I know what you’re planning,’ Black and Rust says, interrupting my reverie. I turn from the cascade pool to regard his approach.

To the others, Black and Rust is a trickster. A mischievous spirit, both man and wolf, comfortable in both skins. Old Wolf does not entirely trust him. My wolf-brother would just as soon finish him. Soot and Snow tolerates his impertinent advances. It is only with White and Gray that he behaves like a pup; they roughhouse with one another, and he always comes away with nicks and scratches. I’ve no doubt that she could overcome her mate, but that is a human thought. She will remain with Old Wolf until he is defeated.

‘Do you?’ I ask him mildly.

He smiles. Both as a wolf and wearing the humanskin, he bears his teeth often. ‘You should do it,’ he says. ‘The time has come for it.’

I turn pensively back to the cascade pool. ‘Yes. The time has come for it. He is reluctant to attack the settlement outright. I can smell his unease. He is too cautious. Still,’ I add uneasily, ‘he is an elder. I am a member of his pack. He was chosen by old mother before all of us. What right do I have to vie for his place?’

‘It is the way of things,’ Black and Rust says.

I shake my head. ‘I envy you. Old mother brought you into this pack as a pup. Have you any human memories in you at all?’

This is a sore subject with him. Old mother had found him lifeless in the cascade pool. The child’s mother had drowned him and left him for dead in the water. Her footprints had been plain to see; the stink of her fear and regret hung like snakeskin from invisible branches in the air. When the pack had arrived in response to old mother’s summons—a call inaudible to the humans in their settlement—we had found her cradling a wolf cub.

The pup had been born a wolf sheathed in humanskin, able to shed one and take up the other with no need of the elaborate ritual conducted by old mother. For the rest of us, she observed the movements of the stars and listened to the murmuring voice of the Totem. When all the auguries of her craft deemed the moment right, she summoned us. We came, and amidst incantations and terrible contortions she implored the Totem to sheathe us in humanskin—what a torment it always is! With Black and Rust it is different. The magic is inside of him. He was born of it.

‘Only a woman of my lineage could have birthed him,’ old mother had said. She herself was a woman too old to bear children. Why would the pup’s mother have tried to destroy him? This is a question that remains unanswered even now.

Black and Rust joined our pack no more than a year ago, only a few months after I received the Spirit of the Wolf. I have known him for all of this life. I realize now, just looking at him in his humanskin, how quickly he has grown. As a wolf, it seemed only natural. In another several years, he will be full grown. Looking at him now, I realize how strange it is that he should so rapidly advance in age. To a human, he would appear to have grown a full ten years in the space of one. In another year, he will wear the face of a young man. Would the mother who birthed him even recognize him now?

Black and Rust looks at me. ‘I know that your time has come. I know that I would rather follow you than Old Wolf. All I have ever known is the pack. It doesn’t matter to me where I come from, in that world,’ he gestures towards the settlement, ‘any more than it matters to any of you. We all died to that world when we received the Spirit of the Wolf.’

‘It’s just that you’ve never had a chance to live in it,’ I say.

This startles him. He considers it for a moment, eyeing me strangely. ‘Maybe,’ he says, and I marvel at how easily human speech comes to him. Maybe. What a human word that is.

* * * *

There is a barren place in the foothills, like a burn-blister gutted out of the flesh with a clamshell. I used to call this place home. I remember settling down here with my father when I was a little boy. It used to be nothing but a gathering of tents in a clearing. We were a family of hunters and trappers; we weren’t  refugees from the dead cities. We knew the woods.

It is more than a gathering of tents now. The humans had smoothed out a crossroads and town square. Around it they had built up a town hall, general store, schoolhouse—like something malignant beaten back again and again only to crawl forward in the same, repetitive, inevitable way. There were only a few other children there, the sons and daughters of something new. They were always telling us how we were ‘something new.’ This is a new world, they kept saying, and we must learn from our mistakes. My best friend Nick was the son of the schoolteacher, Mr. Robbins. He was a haunted man, as all our fathers were, fled from the horrors of the world that ended. His father, Nick’s grandfather, had survived the Third World War, the Fever, and the struggle for survival that followed. They burrowed like maggots through the corpses of the cities until Mr. Robbins and his son fled into the open country.

He was a learned man, and he knew more about history than anyone in the settlement. ‘This isn’t something new,’ he said to me once, in confidence, ‘this is something old come back again. An age of monsters.’

‘Hey,’ Red and Coal growls, ‘pay attention.’

We are approaching the settlement from the northeast. In our true forms, we could have run from old mother’s den to the settlement in little over an hour. Wearing humanskin, we’ve been trekking since dusk; it is now well into the evening. While dulled, our senses are not entirely impoverished. We can see well enough in the dark.

We pause on a ridge overlooking the settlement. The torches around the town square are lit, as are many windows in the wooden houses that line the dirt road. Several night watchmen patrol the crossroads, meeting in the square to exchange a few words of an ongoing conversation before continuing their circuit.

After the world that ended, the humans began to creep out of their hiding-places. They were not like the ones that came before. They were neither soft, nor dull, nor cocooned in their chrysalises of metal and artificial light. They came as scavengers first, picking at the carcass of the generation that birthed them out of a dying womb. Now they come as settlers, trying to reclaim territory that we have since taken as our own. The men are dangerous and rough, tempered on the forge of a world no longer under the dominion of their grandfathers. To them a wolf is a wild dog, and it is no complicated thing to put a bullet into one, or into a dozen, even. They know better than to come alone; they learned that quickly enough. We taught them that lesson.

Now it is time for them to learn another.

We come down from the ridge. I am getting easily caught up in the clothing given me by the old woman; the fabric against my skin is distracting and disconcerting. I concentrate on my surroundings. A wave of wind rolls through the canopy of trees, shaking loose the leaves ready to fall and causing the bare branches to clack together. It feels like winter. It smells damp, like rain on dark loam. Ahead, my pack picks its way silently among the rocks and broken branches and dry leaves.

‘We finish them,’ Old Wolf says.

We reach the leveled ground of the settlement. I remember the last time I stood upright on this road, wearing humanskin. The fever left its victims with little choice. They were quarantined or euthanized outright, and then burned to nothing; medieval medicine at its best. There was a doctor among us, an elderly man with a proper degree from the world that ended. Cut-off from the machinery of modern medicine, he was just another healer in the wilderness, forced to learn his craft from scratch. He did what he could, bless his heart, but the fever had nearly slain an entire world. Its vector had cut a swath across the most populated places on the planet, reducing the entire human equation to an endgame of strategy and survival.

In the world that followed, despite the constant fear of sickness, despite the bitter mercilessness of a landscape that culled the weak with an overeager hand—there was still joy. Fragile, fleeting, and terrible in its contrast to the world beyond the small, flickering light it cast on the tired faces of those who tasted it. My family. My wife and son. The last time I stood on this road, it was to say goodbye.

‘Your memories of this place are better than mine,’ Soot and Snow said. This is true. The pack had taken her three years after I had torn free of my humanskin. We had found her buried underneath a heap of deer carcasses. She had been raped by the settlement boys, the darlings of our little community. Red and Coal had been about finishing her off there and then, but White and Gray had stayed his jaws and loped off to summon old mother. When she came she had bid us drag the broken human on a makeshift pallet all the way to the cascade pool. There she had performed her rituals and invoked the Totem, as she had done with all of us.

Soot and Snow remembered everything. Unlike the rest of us, her transition did not throw up a barred gate between her human life and her life with us. To her, it was all one continuity. Old Mother said this was remarkable; that normally, without this barred gate, the mind breaks against the strain. The wolf goes feral. When she first arose from the pool, we thought she was feral—the only choice would have been to finish her. It was Red and Coal who stopped us then. He recognized her anger for what it was. He knew what she wanted, above all else. She wanted it with one mind. Revenge.

The entire pack was ready, of course, but Red and Coal insisted that it be only the two of them. He had already chosen her as his mate. How the settlers had defended those three boys! I knew them. Knew them and hated them. Those little mongrels. They were treated so well, forgiven every sin. They were handled like princes, pathetic as they were, and their families let them have their run of the place, to piss on every damned bush.

I often wondered what the others must have thought, when they found the bodies horribly mutilated among the deer carcasses. Whatever they kept telling me about this ‘new world,’ it didn’t seem right that pain, suffering, violence and fear were the signs of a better dispensation. We were all survivors. As far as I was concerned, my father had rightly taught me the only rule worth following: you fight so that you and your family can survive; but unless your own survival depends on it, you must never endanger the survival of another. ‘We are too few in this world,’ he had said, ‘and we need one another.’

With their guns, hidden behind their walls and windows, the humans can pick us off. We can do a lot of damage, and we have. We can destroy stores of food, massacre their livestock and trample their crops—but we cannot so easily kill them. If they should come against us in force, we are outnumbered. Wearing the humanskin, we are vulnerable. In exchange, we can walk amongst them, allay their suspicions. One moment they will believe their numbers swollen with unexpected aid from a group of strangers. In the next, they will know that this is not the world of their fathers and grandfathers. This is our world now.

Old Wolf’s plan is too simple. I dislike it; he relies too heavily on the strategies of another world, another time. He takes advantage of Black and Rust’s eagerness to prove his worth. He intends that the pup should distract them with a ruckus. When they pour out of the town hall to investigate, we will be among them. If they expect a trap, they will be reassured when they find nothing but a rogue wolf causing trouble.

It is then that he expects us to shed our humanskins and attack them. He assumes too much; he assumes that the humans will accept our disguises—for they are disguises, regardless of whether we were human once. He assumes that they will take the bait and readily abandon the safety of the settlement. He assumes that Black and Rust is faster and more cunning than their hunters and trackers. He is placing the pack in danger.

Part of me thinks that I should have challenged him already. Still, I will not assume that the rest of the pack will accept my right to challenge him. If White and Gray defends him, my bid is lost and I will be disgraced. She must see how foolish he has become. I only hope that we can survive it—and that when it is done, his failure will stand in plain sight for the pack to see.

We approach the first of the houses on the main road. The night watchman spots us. White and Gray steps forward. The moment he sees her, his body language and posture change. The air is suddenly suffused with the unmistakable pheromones of his lust. She knows this, playing her disguise to perfection; nor is she awkward in her mimicry of human speech. She explains that we have come by road from a settlement just over the mountains. There was a settlement there, destroyed by a rival pack claiming the eastern Appalachians as their own.

The night watchman, regaining enough of his wits to look us over, notices that we have no weapons to speak of, nothing that could be perceived as a threat. Old Wolf looks like an elder. My brother and I are playing the part of weary and haggard. Soot and Snow clings to her man, just another refugee looking for safety in numbers. We have absolute command of our bodies. We have meticulously orchestrated every twitch, sigh, and gesture. We betray nothing that we do not wish to.

The night watchman agrees to take us to the town hall meeting; someone will provide us with a fair supper. He offers no guarantee as to our accommodations, but then none is expected. Strangers are not often welcome, and rarely anticipated. That we should be received at all is a gamble that we thought might not succeed. Old Wolf did not tell us whether he had an alternate plan.

The wilderness had received me, another one of countless exiles driven away by the fever. I had been so concerned for my newborn son and young wife that I had failed to see the symptoms in myself. It wouldn’t have made any difference if I had. Still, it was not until the fever took me that I realized what happened. There was time enough to gather some few belongings and say my goodbyes from a safe distance.

For nights the pack must have watched me suffer alone in the forest. I had taken shelter under a natural lean-to of moss-carpeted boulders and the fallen trunks of old growth trees. It rained every day and every night, trickling in glittering fever-enhanced streams from the canopy above. When it did not rain the insects droned on in the night and the wolves whispered in a language of breaking twigs and rustling leaves.

Old mother came to me on the fifth night. The way the fever works, you languish for days in agony. Your skin feels like the skin of some dead bird stapled into the raw muscle. My brain felt like a jigsaw puzzle assembled and scattered over and over again by a lunatic child. On the fifth night, the fever breaks. Just like that. The pain and brokenness is abruptly replaced by clarity. Perfect, uncompromising, enlightened clarity.

She came to me, and I saw her as she was.

‘Strange night for you to be coming through,’ the night watchman says as we approach the town hall. ‘You folks are going to have to explain some things,’ he says, ‘like how you managed to pass over the mountains unharmed.’

‘We never said we were unharmed,’ Old Wolf answers quickly. What a sharp mind he has! ‘If you’re talking about the wolves, we already know about them. We fought them off more than once—but not without loss.’ He nods toward White and Gray, who joins his play as if they had laid it all out beforehand. She bows her head, exuding sorrow and mourning. Old Wolf nods and turns back to the watchman. ‘In the first attack, they took her baby…’

‘Oh!’ The night watchman’s mouth opens in shamed horror. ‘I’m sorry—my apologies—yes, yes, then you already know…’ he recovers himself. ‘Yes, well, there wolves have been harassing us for years. I think they’re trying to run us off…like we’re in their territory and they want us out.’ He nods sagely, proud of his conclusion. He couldn’t possibly know how accurate he was. ‘Anyway, in the past few months, they’ve managed to destroy our stores and slaughter our livestock. We’ve had to trade with the western settlements. They’ve killed our men and women.

‘Everyone figured this was just the way of things; that the wolves were here before us, and they’re just trying to hold onto what’s theirs. But now, they’re saying that maybe something else is going on. It may sound crazy to you folks,’ he looks at us apologetically, ‘but they’re saying that maybe the wolves are being sent after us, deliberately, like someone sicced them on us…’ he shakes his head. ‘Anyway, I think I’ll let you hear all about it for yourselves. Just don’t get involved; the people are pretty riled up tonight. Just hang back and I’ll ask Maggie to look after you.’

From the Modern Fable short story series: Telling True Stories


“The world was birthed in violence,” the old man said to the boy. “Among the elder gods there were two brothers. The younger of the two delighted in creating all kinds of things, and the other was a skilled craftsman without imagination. He could build according to any design, but he could do little more than what he was told; his dreams were empty. His younger brother, however, was full of imagination, but less skillful with his hands; they could not give form and substance to what he saw in his mind’s eye.

“One day, the younger brother created the world, but he could not get it to work. It was dull and senseless, and nothing like what he had imagined. He called his brother and asked him to build another world according to his design. The older brother, desirous of greater acclaim among the other gods, saw his opportunity to overturn their disappointment: he would build the world and claim that he had dreamt of it himself. If his brother should protest, he had only to show them the dull lump of lifeless clay the younger one had tried to create.

“He set to work and made the world according to his brother’s design. He created the fiery heart of the world and surrounded it with earth; he poured water over the hot clay to cool it, working it with his fingers until it took the intended shape. The waters coursed and pooled into the grooves he had made with his fingers, and he took some of the water and spread it over the ridges and plains. When it seemed that he had finished, he brought the world before the other gods and displayed it proudly. ‘Look what I have done!’ he exclaimed. ‘I dreamt it and gave it form and life with my hands!’

“But the other gods did not react as he expected,” the old man continued after a pause. “They looked at his work and admired it as they did all the work of his hands, but they did not look upon the world with wonder. They nodded and told him that it was an interesting little bauble, handing it back to him with no further concern for his effort. He returned dejectedly to his workshop and thought, ‘I have done something wrong. Anything my younger brother does is greeted with admiration and esteem; yet I have done better, and have little to show for it. I will bring my younger brother in here and let him see what I have done. When he tells me that the world I have made is how he envisioned it, I will know that the other gods have slighted me without cause.’

“When the younger brother saw what the other had done, he smiled and said, ‘Yes, very good, that is exactly how I imagined it. Now, give it back to me so that I might finish my work, for there is yet something that I must add to it.’

“Now this, the older brother did not expect. Startled, he said, ‘It is not finished? Why did you not tell me this? Why do you ask me to give it back to you now? If it is unfinished, tell me what needs to be done and I will do it. If I give it back, you will only ruin it—don’t you know that nothing you try to create with your hands turns out as you intend?’

“‘Nonetheless,’ the younger brother replied angrily, ‘this is not something you can do—it requires imagination.’ He seized the world his brother had fashioned at his request and went away with it. The older brother resolved to follow him and see what he would do; he reasoned that his brother wanted to keep it secret, and this did not sit well with him. His already felt betrayed in that his brother had not told him there was more to do; but his anger stemmed from the reaction of the other gods, who he had fully expected would receive his effort with praise rather than disinterest.”

“But grandfather,” the little boy protested suddenly, “you’re talking as if these were ordinary people! Didn’t you say that they could never die, and that they were more powerful than ordinary people? They sound like everyone else!”

The old man laughed. “‘Ordinary people’ had to have come from somewhere,” he answered with a wry smile. “Where do you think we learned how to behave the way we do? From the gods!”

The boy shook his head. “I don’t believe you,” he answered stoutly. “You promised me that you would tell me a story about real gods.”

“Well, I am,” the old man said stiffly. “Now do you want to hear what happens next or not?” The boy pouted and rolled his eyes. He said nothing, but the old man understood that the boy wanted him to continue. He smiled and went on, “Very good. Now the younger brother took the world to his place of work, and there brought out something that he had made; he had labored over this for many days. It was a palette, daubed with all manner of colors and designs, each one of them intricate and unique. They were unlike anything the older brother had made; they were frail, delicate things that sparkled as if composed of fine dust.

“The older brother watched as the other gathered some of this dust between his fingers and scattered it over the world. When the dust fell across the grooves and pools of the world, a slight movement stirred; the older brother strained to see, craning his neck and peering curiously into the workshop. The pools of water tossed and churned, small things flitted back and forth beneath the surface; a flutter of shapes darted across the airy skin covering the sphere. The younger brother took another sprinkle of powder from a second design on the palette and scattered this also; on the surface of the world, between the ridges, another sign of movement erupted into a rush of shapes across the plains and level surfaces. Again and again the younger brother scattered the powders he had made over the world, and each time, another portion of the sphere was endowed with movement and life. But the older brother could not see any of this clearly from his hidden vantage point, so he decided to make himself known and enter the space.

“When he appeared, his younger brother hastened to throw a cloth over the world. His older brother frowned and said, ‘Why are you taking such pains to hide your work from me? Are you so embarrassed of your effort that you wish no one to see your failure? Come now, let me see it.’

“‘Why do you ask me this?’ demanded the younger brother indignantly. ‘Are you so angry that I did not tell you what I intended to do, that you would charge in here and confront me? Do you wish so badly to see what I have done? Here, look!’ he tore the cloth away from the world, now filled with myriad forms of life in all its corners, and his older brother beheld the wonder and mystery of it.

“‘You will show what you have done to the other gods?’ whispered the older brother.

“‘Is that your concern?’ inquired his sibling. ‘You fear that my merit will eclipse yours?’ he smiled at his older brother, his anger softening. ‘The remedy is simple: we will go and present our creation to the other gods together. I will tell them that I could not have finished my work without you. The world that I had created was dull, and would not have received the final imprint of my vision; but the world that you fashioned for me was perfectly crafted according to my design. Why would you bear me ill-will now? Do you think I would have brought the world before the others and claimed it my work entire?’

“The older brother realized that he had made a grievous mistake: he had taken the unfinished world to the other gods and had claimed it as his own. If his brother presented the world to them now, they would know what he had tried to do. They would punish him. They would exile him and send him away into a place of suffering and anguish…”

The boy’s eyed widened. “Just for that?” he asked incredulously.

The old man nodded seriously. “Oh yes,” he answered, “just for that. So, you can imagine how fearful the older brother became. He tried to dissuade his sibling, saying, ‘No, you mustn’t take this thing before the other gods! Look, you’ve already ruined it,’ he said, pointing to the world, ‘just as you always do. Surely this is not what you intended; if you take it before the other gods they will ridicule your efforts. Come, listen to reason: abandon this project.’

“‘The younger brother looked on the world. It was beautiful to him, exactly as he had imagined it. He had so labored to create life on it, and now that he saw all the profusion of living things bustling in every corner of the world, he could not destroy them. So he said, ‘It is beautiful to me; I will not destroy it. Why would you have me do this thing? Are you so envious of this little thing I have done that you would bear me hatred on account of it?’

“When the older brother saw that he would not prevail over his sibling, a wicked notion came into his heart. He pushed his brother aside and seized the world, straining his arms to crush it; great rents and cracks appeared in the earth, and the waters overran their courses and flooded over the level surfaces. Fire bubbled up from the heart of it and swept in burning trails over the living things, scrambling to get away. The younger brother cried out and tried to stop him, but to no avail; his sibling was stronger by far than he.

“So he grabbed some of the powder he had made and threw it into his brother’s eyes. The older one shouted in pain and dropped the world; it tumbled over the ground. The younger brother took it up, concerned for the work he had done. When he saw the damage done to the world, he began to weep; many of the living things were destroyed, and the shape of it had been utterly distorted from his original vision. Truly, he thought, it had been ruined. His brother had won.

“But that was no longer enough for the older brother; his sibling’s instinctual reaction had done more harm than intended—he was blind! He flailed about, enraged beyond reason, and his hand chanced to brush over a familiar object: the dull, lifeless world his brother had earlier tried to create himself. The clay had hardened. He smashed his fist against it and it shattered into pieces; his hand closed over a sharp fragment. The edges bit into his fingers. The younger brother was still surveying the damage and weeping, oblivious to his approaching sibling; the sound of his mourning was guiding the other to him.

“It was too late when he came at last to his senses. His brother’s hand darted forward, the pointed shard of his failed world piercing his heart. His lifeblood poured over the damaged sphere, and his body collapsed on top of it. His brother struck and struck again until his anger was spent; and when at last he realized what he had done, he dropped the fragment and screamed. His wail was so loud that it alerted the other gods, and they rushed out of their chambers to see what had happened.

“The older brother sat beside his sibling, lamenting what he had done. He did not see that his brother’s blood had mixed with the earth, giving rise to new, unexpected life—his body shrouded the world they had wrought together, and so many times pierced that countless wounds shone with his luminous lifeblood. The gods were rightly angry, and some of them even clamored for the older brother’s life; ‘blood for blood,’ they said. But mercy prevailed that day, and it was decided that the older brother should be banished to the frozen wastes beyond their celestial home. First, however, he was to perform the funeral rites for his sibling as further expiation for his terrible crime.

“He stood vigil over his brother’s body, still wrapped as it was around the world. The other gods had since left, and the chamber was silent—until the older brother began to hear a slight noise. It sounded like voices and music. He went to the door and listened, but the halls of the gods’ home were silent. He listened intently, following the sound. It came from his brother’s body! Or more accurately, it came from the world his body enshrouded. Gently, mournfully, he lifted his sibling’s body and laid it beside the sphere; he leaned closer, intent on discerning the origin of the sound. He could not see, so he relied entirely on what he could hear.

“There was still life in the world! There was movement of all kinds, and much of it the older brother recognized: the crying of the birds in the airy veil of the world; droning of insects and the calls of wild animals; even the songs of the leviathan beasts that moved ponderously through the waters. But the shapes of the waters and ridges and plains were altered, and a new kind of living thing seemed to have propagated across the surface of the world. This new thing was nothing like the others; the older brother leaned closer, trying to listen—and he heard more clearly now, music and voices raised in chant and song. When he had taken aside his brother’s body, the bright light of his workshop’s lamp shone over the sphere, and a great change swept over the world: growing things spread across the level surfaces; life teemed in the waters; and the music and chanting became so loud that it rang into the workshop and sounded against the walls.

“The older brother cupped his hands over his ears and shouted for the noise to stop; but it only became louder and louder, until it seemed to him that this new life was crying out for the brother he had slain. In a panic he blindly ran to his own workshop and shut the door. Still he heard it, the shouting and chanting and music, as insistent now as the thunder of rain against a thatched roof. He could no longer bear it! He groped around his familiar space, finding at last the door to the furnace; he stoked the fire until it roared. He meant to burn the world and all the living things on it, if only that would silence the noise! He made his way into his brother’s workshop and gathered the sphere into his arms, rushing quickly down the corridors he knew so well.

“When he entered his workshop he set the world down and locked the door; he couldn’t have any of the other gods bursting in…”

“Didn’t they hear the noise?” the boy demanded. “He’s not going to burn the world, is he? If he is, then I don’t want to hear the rest of it. You can change it, can’t you? If that’s the ending, you can change it so that he doesn’t burn the world…”

“Of course he doesn’t burn it,” the old man answered with a huff. “We’re still here, aren’t we? And no, I can’t change the ending. That’s not how stories work. They’re supposed to be remembered the way they’re told.”

“Well that’s silly,” answered the boy with a superior air. “You’re the storyteller. If you want to change the ending, then you should be able to change it.”

The old man shook his head. “Then no stories would be true,” he pointed out.

The boy glared at him incredulously. “You’re telling me this is a true story?” he asked doubtfully.

“Why not?” the old man asked. “I’m telling you the story the way it was told to me, and it’s been told this way since the beginning. It has had the same ending all this time. Now do you want to hear the ending or not?”

“Fine,” the boy replied indignantly. “But if the older brother burns the world, I don’t want to hear it.”

The old man sighed. “Well,” he continued, “the fire was roaring in the furnace, and still the older brother could hear the music and chanting. The people were calling for the one whose blood had made them. Their cries sent shards of guilt and anguish into his murderer, and the older brother relented in his decision. He could not destroy the world; it had been his sibling’s first and final true creation. His blood had given new life to it.

“It seemed only fair that his blood should be given to it in sacrifice.

“He took the hammer and chisel he had used to shape the world and struck the point into his heart. His lifeblood spilled over the globe, and wherever it fell it caused strange life to spring forth: brambles and thorny vines among the green things; predators long in tooth and claw among the wild animals; birds that feasted on the carcasses of dead things; and those fish that prey alike on men and others of their own kind.

“‘What have I done?’ whispered the older brother…” The old man paused and shook his head. “When the other gods came, they also heard the music and the chanting. They wondered and marveled at the world, even at the beasts and predator and poisonous things that swarmed over it. ‘What should we do with it?’ they asked one another. ‘The brothers both paid their lives for it,’ said one. ‘We should preserve it.’

“So it was decided that the brothers’ work would be preserved for as long as it should last.”

“That’s it?” demanded the boy.

“That’s it,” answered the old man, “that’s how our world came to be.”

The boy shook his head. “I still don’t believe it,” he muttered stubbornly. “It doesn’t make any sense!”

The old man smiled and reached over the tousle the boy’s unkempt hair. “Not now, perhaps,” he said. “…but that isn’t the only story I have about how we came to be.”

The boy frowned. “But you said it was a true story! How can two different stories be true at the same time?”

The old man laughed. “There are many stories that are true at the same time,” he said with a smile.