As ugly and disgusting as I am, you will not believe my story.

I am below the filth of the fields and am worthy of nothing. That is how I grew up. My bone structure and skin wasn’t appealing and my rags made other rags wilt in shame. I knew little of human interaction; just enough to sell the hair on my head for the penny that would feed me.

I traveled daily so that wouldn’t bother the normal, good people around me. Initially I was ignored, but apparently my face was so ugly it drew just enough attention to have me removed from town by force. I wish I knew what it looked like.

One day I sat below a tree to rest my aching feet and an old man joined me. I was more than a little startled when I realized he was trying to talk to me. The man had wispy white hair and his beard was like a cloud hovering below his nose. I noticed his dark and wrinkled skin and realized he must be a hard worker. Only hard workers had dark skin from the sun. I couldn’t be a hard worker.

“Where might you be going?” he asked. He was smiling, at me. I’ve never known anyone to do that before.

I shrugged. In reality I just followed the road to the next town and then the next one after that. Then I turned around and went back the way I came. The cycle always seemed to work for me. At the time, I didn’t know how to explain this to a stranger.

“Mmm,” he mused, still staring at me with that really nice smile. “do you like games?”

I shrugged. I didn’t know if I liked games since I’d never played one before. I loved watching children play in the streets and watching the older men play cards and stones were interesting enough.

“I-“ I said and had to clear my throat. He was old and I wasn’t sure if he would be able to hear my voice. “I don’t have a ball…or cards…or stones-“

The man laughed, “No, no, young lady! Not those kinds of games-“

I didn’t catch what he said next because my ears were ringing with the words, ‘young lady’. Everyone just called me a ‘hag’. It was true that I wasn’t really that old, but no one ever saw me as young. I could feel the heat rise in my cheeks and I really didn’t know how to respond.

“-so what do you think?” He asked.

“Um, sure,” I said. I hadn’t been listening, it’s all my fault. Before I could ask what game we were going to play he lifted one hand and snapped his fingers.

A moment later I sat blinking the shadows from my eyes. There had been a white light and for a moment I couldn’t see. I could feel that there was no longer grass beneath me, but cold stone. I dared not move. I had been in jail once for disturbing the beauty of the rich side of town. It had not been pleasant. Still, to be so kind and then put me into prison, well, that seemed like something that should be normal for me. So while my eyes adjusted I sat still and silent; it’s better to not draw anyone's attention.

As my eyes adjusted to the new light and I noticed at once that I wasn’t in a cell. I felt kind of stupid since it hadn’t smelled like one, but I had to see it to make sure. It was a singular room with a table, a bed, a wardrobe, and a small fireplace. On the table was a plate, utensils, and a goblet made of gold. The bed was big enough for two people.

Turning in a circle I realized that there was no door, only a single window. I stumbled to the window and, looking down at myself, realized I was wearing a large dress…silk, with LAYERS! And LACE! I was so stunned that I forgot about the window. I instead stumbled to the wardrobe and threw it open. It was full of rich and beautiful dresses.

I couldn’t find my rags anywhere.

Making my way through the silk to the window again I threw open the shutters and let out an, “EEP!” as I looked at a sea of clouds. I couldn’t see the ground at all. My vision spun and thought I would vomit. Somehow I was able to back away from the deadly drop and tripped over the hem of the useless dress.

It took me a moment to notice I was crying. I didn’t know what to do or what was expected of me. This was all very unfamiliar and, though it was just me and myself, I was humiliated. I didn’t know how I got here, or in a dress I didn’t know how to manage!

After I calmed down a bit, I took a deep breath and tried to focus on what i should do.

I won’t bore you with day by day details. I panicked and had fits for the first little while, then when hunger won me over, I figured out how to get food. It was strange since magic wasn’t something that was common- or even welcomed- in most countries. I had to ask the plate and goblet for what I wanted to eat and drink. At first I asked for what I’d always eaten, bread, water, and sometimes hard cheese. But then I thought that maybe I could ask for some meat and fruit and, forgive my reaching, but I asked for sweets. I’d never eaten so well in my life! I started to fill out and, magically, the dresses would resize themselves to fit my new form.

The dresses were something else I had to figure out. It took longer than I’d like to admit to take off the dress I had started in. And It took longer to learn to put one on. It was a good thing I was alone and could take my time in my shiff to work it out.

The fireplace was also magic, where it lit when it got cold and doused itself when it was too hot. I could open the window with the broom I found under the bed, but when it was open, I stayed on the other side of the room. I also used the broom to close the window.

Days melted together, and the only evidence I had that time passed was my hair, which grew to an impossible length. It had been irritating at first, but I soon got used to it and liked playing with it.

Then he happened to climb into my room.

With a grappling hook.

He stumbled in, heaving after what I was sure must have been a long and hard climb. He wore leather armor and his dark hair blew about in the wind coming in from behind him. I honestly was too stunned to speak. I had been sitting at the table enjoying some tea and cookies. When it finally occurred to me that I should be panicking he spoke.

“Princess,” he still sounded a little winded, “I’ve come to get you-”

What?

“-I am Prince Quin Hue Grimmton-“

Wait wait wait!!

“-I was met by an old man that said you needed rescuing-“

“WAIT!” I winced at my own raised voice and pressed a hand to my mouth. I stared at my feet. It was getting really hard to breathe. “I-i-i…I’m not…not a p-p-p-princess…”

“What?” He looked confused. I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak again.

We stood, well he stood, I sat, in silence while we each came to terms with each other’s company. After a while he let out a heavy sigh and plopped himself on the floor. He even laughed a little bit.

“Sorry,” he said, “I knew it was too good an opportunity to be true.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, why was he apologizing?! No one had ever apologised to me! I stared at my plate full of cookies and decided to offer him some.

“What’s this?” he asked as I brought over the cookies to him, trying extra hard not to trip.

“Cookies,” I muttered, my head still as low as i could make it, now second guessing myself, “Th-they always make me feel better…”

By the heavens what was I saying?! He was a prince! I was scum! How could I even admit I’d eaten them let alone offer him some!

As I stressed I heard him laugh. It was a lovely sound, but it still didn’t fix my dilemma.

“I would love a cookie,” he said, “And if I could ask for some water?”

“Um,” I set the cookies down and walked to the table, so flustered that I forgot to watch my step and fell flat on my face.

“Are you ok?” He rushed over and helped me up. He lifted my face to look at my head and i finally got a good look at the man in front of me.

He was tan, his eyes were a shade of blue i wasn’t familiar with, his nose had been broken - i’d say more than once - but it didn’t take away from the beauty or strength of his bone structure. My vision spun and if there ever was a time in my life I felt more like a cockroach, I couldn’t remember. Forcing my head down again I saw the cookies.

“Oh,” my heart sank and i began to tremble, “I put it on the floor. I can’t believe I put it on the floor….”

“That’s not the point,” he said, leading me to the chair at the table. “That was quite the fall.”

“Oh, oh, that was n-n-nothing…”

i could feel his eyes on me and I wanted to cry again. I was never a “crier” before. I took my knocks and I was grateful they weren’t worse. But for some reason I couldn’t take this level of stress.

"Do you want to be a princess?"

The question came out of nowhere.

"Eh?" Came my intelligent reply.

"Forgive my selfishness, but I need a wife," he said .. and he got down on the floor and locked eyes with mine. "If not, a betrothed. We need not get married so long as I can hold off the joining of my country with the other. I need to settle the major problems with the treaty. You see, if my country rushes into this…I feel as if there's something we've overlooked. My intuition is rarely wrong, but I need time. Will you give me that time?"

“Ah…” I was on a role. He took my hand, and pulled me to my feet. As he led me to the window I instinctively I dug my heels in. I wasn’t going anywhere near that window!

“Do you not want to?” he asked. I shook my head.

“T-t-t-to high,” I squeaked. He laughed again.

“How about this,” he said bending slightly to be eye level to me. “If I can get you out of this tower without you being afraid, will you come and be my fake bride?”

I was so confused, but he spoke with such confidence and authority I nodded without much thought.

He beckoned me toward the window and I made sure I was looking straight and up, not down. He grabbed my arms, not hard, but it still made me jump. He wrapped my arms around his neck so that my hands clasped in front of his throat. Then he bent forward and lifted my legs up to rest on his hips and I was clinging to his back.

"Don't be so stiff," he said turning his head to the side a bit. "Hook your ankles in front because I'll need both hands to climb down. Also, don't hold on so tight around my neck, or you'll choke me."

Right…it’s not good to choke the man that's the only thing connecting you to a flimsy rope! What was I doing?! I was touching a prince! I was going to be beheaded! Did i want to fall or be beheaded?

"Close your eyes," he said and I didn't need any urging. I could tell he was climbing out the window and my heart jumped into my throat as in my mind I saw the long drop down. Beheading was looking better every second.

"Keep your eyes closed," he said; before I was able to tell him that it wasn't working he added. "So, what's your name?"

"Huh? Oh, ummm, i-it’s, ah," I had to think for a moment. I only remembered my name on principal since no one had ever asked it of me before. "I-its Sabilla."

"You can call me Quin," he was panting slightly. "Prince of the Kingdom of Halron. Second in line to the throne."

Only second? Then why was he part of the treaty? This was not like the stories I'd hear from the the performers.

"My older brother is already betrothed," he continued, answering my unasked question, "I'm actually a military man myself, being the second son, but I was forced home in order for this treaty to be made."

"You don't trust your enemy," I mumbled starting to get the gist. I didn't know much about politics, but I knew that when one person has been fighting another for a while, then it's natural for them to mistrust each other.

"No, I do not," he said quietly, "We've been fighting for too long and are too different for them to suddenly decide to draw up a treaty. Things like this take time; it's just too soon."

He was seriously uneasy about it. I guess if he was desperate enough to try to get me to pretend to be his wife, whatever that meant, then he must really be in a bigger fix than I had ever been. I also didn't know much about the military or wars, but I'd been in a few fistfights. So I could see why the guy you had been beating up suddenly wanting to be friends would be a bit awkward.

"We’re here," He said suddenly interrupting my thoughts. My eyes snapped open to find that I was on solid earth once more.

"So," he set me down, "how did I do Princess?"

He had distracted me with chatter to keep me from thinking about the drop. That was very clever. I quickly stored that information in case it needed to be used again.

”So, Princess Sabilla," he said bowing and holding out his hand. "May I escort you to your new home?"

I blinked a few times and wondered what in the name of the seven angels I'd just gotten myself into. I couldn't pretend to be civil. There was just no way. I was a street urchin at best. Lower than that even!

"A-are you sure?" I asked, my eyes fixed on my feet. I had left the slippers in the tower. He straightened up and lifted my head. He was smiling at me.

"If I wasn't sure I would not have bothered to take you out of the tower," he replied, his hand still out for me to take.

I took a deep breath and took it.

Aching. Screaming. Pain. All around. Inside. Outside. In your bones, in your flesh, in your muscles, in your blood. In your heart, in your mind, in your spirit, in your soul. All of it. You walk home as the last of the sun's light disappears beyond the horizon.

It hasn't started snowing yet but it will soon. The last of the crumbling dry leaves crunch beneath your feet as you walk by the cars that could easily hit you if they swerved to the side of the road. You shiver as you step into the ramshackle assortment of a few hundred huts made of sheet plastic and stuff from the scrap yard.

There they are. You life. Your heart. Your reason to live. Despite the best efforts of the local capitalists who give zero fucks, here your community is and you all love each other. You walk down the narrow dusty aisles of your crowded community. You are welcomed into the warmth of a lean-to made sheet plastic and rusted metal. It smells like plastic it's small and it's cold and it's home.

Reality shifts into focus back around you.

There's your little sister. Bright like a guiding star in the darkness and kinder than anyone you've ever met. Good at keeping secrets and so very full of life. So very full of life no matter how much death there is around her. A child just like all the other children suffering in this place.

There's your girlfriend. Kind. Hopeful. Clever. Angry. As visionary as she is hilarious. As good at telling tall tales as she is at telling vivid stories. She is a pillar of the community, and deeply beloved by all the children in this slum that passes for a neighbourhood to you all.

There's your best friend. Warm. Dependable. Intelligent. Exhausted. Enraged at the status quo and ready to fight like hell to fix it. Somehow still confident in the face of so much adversity. Grasping at the faith and hope that has increasingly been slipping through everyone’s fingers.

There's your adopted niece, or maybe your adopted daughter, you don't know. Small and clever and in more pain than a child had any right to be. She's a good kid. Very good. She just lives in a bad world. She's just desperate. Desperate and hungry. You all are. That's why you help each other.

And here's your other best friend. They're sensitive, too sensitive. So deeply aware of their feelings and everyone else's feelings. So deeply angered by injustice. So deeply grieved by how her people suffer. Yet so brave. They care about everyone else so much more than themself.

There's your sister's boyfriend. He has such an open heart. He wants equality. He can't wrap his head around why some people value material wealth more than human lives. He's almost too pure for this world. He is respectful and empathetic and forgiving.

There's your adopted father. He is kind and gentle. He is careful and perceptive. He taught you to always help others. To always try to increase the amount of justice in the world. To stand up for people who couldn't stand up for themselves. To fight for what was right however you could. To use whatever power you had to protect people.

You don't know who you would have ended up being if he hadn't taken you in, no questions asked, as if you were there all along.

And here you are home. And it's the tiniest of sparks in the oilest of darks. And here you are. And you can feel the crushing weight of the day falling away as their existence washed over you.

You smile as you hand over the stack of cash that made up your week's wages. And of course the money you made in top of that. It looks like a lot. But it's nothing compared to how extortionately much everything costs. Your girlfriend puts it in the metal box under at the corner of the tent. She locks the box and puts the key around her neck. It's already full of cash yet making the cash stretch a week would be a chore.

There are so many children around the community to take care of. There are parents with babies. People who need medicine. And everyone needs food and water and firewood and warm clothes. There was never enough. But no matter. You have learned to share what you have even if it's never enough. You've learned that survival is a collective action. You've learned that life is a constant unending war and you have to be the type of soldier that never stops fighting and never backs down.

You hug your daughter and sit on the plastic-covered ground. The lean-to is tiny. It's crowded. There's barely space. It is cold, even with the fire going. But it's home. You ruffle the small child's dark black hair. She smiles. She's adorable. You hope against hope that her life ends up better than yours.

"How's it going?"

You all talk. For hours. Until sleep overwhelms your companions. Your insides burn with hunger. They often do. You don't have enough for dinner. Especially now that your neighbour's baby is sick. Hopefully the sweet child will make it out of this. Hopefully the sweet child will live. But you have to chip in to pay for medicine. It's what your dad would want you to do. What your birth parents would've wanted you to do before they died. What you want to do. What you should do.

Everyone drifts off to sleep. And then it's just you awake. You can't sleep yet. See the thing about you is you're cursed with the kind of beauty that rich people want. You're blessed with a family you need to protect. So all too often you find yourself letting rich men do things to you in exchange for money. You hate it but thankfully you're good at lying. In a world like this being good at lying is the difference between life and death. You're also good at sex. And you can never sleep after a day like this. You feel stifled and too hot despite how cold the tent actually is. You silently step outside the tent, closing the door flap behind you.

The night is still. Silent. Dark. There are no stars but you think you can see the faintest outline of some. Everything is still and cold as the world is settled into a deep sleep. The only other soul awake is a teenaged boy that lives across the way. His face glows orange in the light of the streetlights. You walk up to him.

"Couldn't sleep?" He asks, his voice warm and kind.

"Yeah. Tough day. Spent time getting stabbed for money."

"Oh. I'm really very sorry. That's not fair at all." He holds your hand and looks at you. His eyes are soft and sad and they hold just a bit of anger in them. You want to hug him. So you do.

"And what about you? Why are you up?"

"I had to watch a man get beaten up at work today. I wish I could've helped."

"That would've only made it worse and we both know it."

"Yeah." You look at each other again. There is so much said in the corners of your eyes and the curves of your lips that cannot be translated into words. So much grief. So much want.

Suddenly something catches the corner of your eye. Something bright. Something flickering.

"Who lit a fire outside?" His voice is confused.

"Let's go check."

The two of you walk towards the source of the light. And yes. Yes it is flame. But not like any flame you've seen before. Mostly because it dances across the head and down the back of a little girl, draped as if it is hair. The girl herself is small and short and scrawny. She couldn't be more than ten years old. Probably she is younger. Her face and arms glow orange but brighter than they would if they had merely been illuminated by the streetlight. She has tears streaking down her glowing face and she huddles hugging her knees.

You kneel before her. He follows suit. Eye to eye. You speak softly.

"What's up?"

She keeps crying.

He looks at her with his soft, worried eyes. She flicks her amber eyes over to him for the briefest moment. He gives her a small smile.

"Are you alright?"

She keeps crying. But she looks up with those striking amber eyes of hers. You tell her your names.

"I ..." she starts, "is it safe?"

"We won't hurt you."

"I ... they were hurting me. I don't know how I escaped. But I did."

She glows bright against the darkness of the night. Red and orange and yellow constantly move and dance and shift through her entire being. She's fragile. So fragile. But bright. So bright. She is ... you know who she is.

Your father had told you the stories. And your mother before him. And aunts and uncles and friends. You told your daughter. You told your ex boyfriend. You told whoever asked you to tell them. The community shared them over summer Sundays and winter nights. Everyone knew.

The Child of Flame. The god of the fire. The spirit of change, of hope, of dawn, of new beginnings. The embodiment of energy and life and longing. Of community and togetherness and nights spent around the fire sharing food. She was the simple act of baking bread on the hearth. She was the revolutionary act of burning your abusers' house down. She was the holy act of a forest or grassland renewing itself. She was power and protection rolled into one. Destruction and rebirth. She was change embodied. And hope embodied even more.

She came as a young girl. She came as a bird. She came as a butterfly. She came as a spider. She came as a shooting star. She came as a literal flame. She came as the spark behind people's eyes or the mischievous secretive upturn of their mouths. She came as a hug between strangers, as a secret shared in the nighttime. She came as a protest cry and a war song. She came as a martyr's last breaths. And she had not come for years now.

Nobody had seen her in decades. Not in any of her forms. And here she is.

"They ... what were they like? You don't have to tell me."

"They kept me locked up all lone in a dark room. There was no-one. Every day they took a piece of me and they put it out. I was getting weaker and weaker. I don't know how I escaped."

"Well you escaped. And we won't let them take you." He smiles. She smiles at him back.

You reach your arms out towards her and she crawls into a hug. She feels warm and so very much alive in your arms. A while later she crawls onto his lap and he lifts her up. She wraps her arms around his neck and buries her head into his shoulders.

"Would you like to get some sleep, little Miss Flame?"

She nods against his neck, causing him to stifle a laugh.

"Wait," you say, before they turn to leave, "my neighbour's baby is very sick. Can you give her some of your healing energy?"

She raises her head to look at you. She smiles. She nods confidently. You lead the boy still carrying the girl to the tent beside yours. You know the code for their lock. You push the flimsy plastic aside. The girl gets down to stand beside you and then to kneel beside the sweet, sleeping form of the tiny baby beside her worried father. The child's sleep is fitful and her face is too sallow for her youngness. You are amazed as the Child of Flame passes a hand over her, and for a moment the baby glows faintly. And then when she takes her hand away, the infant has more colour in her cheeks, more roundness to them. Her sleep is deeper now. Softer. Her breathing more strong. You know she will make it.

"Thank you." Your words are solemn.

The god smiles.

"Shall we take you to my tent, my Lady?"

"Yes."

"Tomorrow is a Sunday. Thank the moon. We'll introduce the whole community to you."

"They'll love you. We've been searching for you for so long. We'll always protect you."

Wolftown’s wolf response was headquartered in Holy Trinity Lutheran Church and School’s gymnasium, ideal for muddy, wet people. The wolf responders stationed constantly in the gymnasium sandbagged the doorways between the locker rooms and the gymnasium. Expecting Wolftown’s water level to rise another two or three feet, volunteers prepared classrooms for flooded-out families. Somebody monitored the generator. The town plumber, Phil, and a church and school custodian, Gary, bailed out the boys’ locker room.

“What’s wrong with the sewer system?” Wayne asked.

Phil said, “Something blocked it all over town.”

“This didn’t happen last time we had this rainfall,” Gary said.

“I don’t think the sewers were inspected before the storm,” Phil said.

“They should have been,” Gary said.

Phil shrugged. “Try the restroom on the upper floors.”

“We’re muddy,” Wayne said.

“I spread plastic over the carpets,” Gary said.

Wayne changed his clothes and John hung up his foul-weather gear.

The responders napped in classrooms and ate in the combination fellowship hall and school cafeteria. Pastor Virgil Mickelson officiated optional, short church services.

In the gymnasium, Wayne and John sat at a folding table. John plugged his laptop into an extension cord plugged into another orange one, but, at least, Holy Trinity’s wall outlets had surge protectors.

“We don’t have internet access,” Wayne said.

“If you don’t use it, I won’t need to.”

“Why do you have it anyway?”

“Paula thinks computer technology will make conservation easier. I keep notes on floppy disks, write, copy files, and can’t do much more.”

“What about Y2K?”

“Thankfully, she didn’t need to reimburse anyone for wasting $2,000.”

Wayne shuffled through notes and papers left at his folding table seat. “The kid was a missing person.”

“Oh, no,” John said.

“No one said he was when the police asked us to identify him.” Wayne sighed.

“I forgot about the beaver trapper, but I bet he was one of the missing persons Mayor Dwyer mentioned. Search-and-rescue declared him presumed dead today.”

“Condolences,” John said.

“We kept an eye out for him while looking for the wolf.”

“Did a wolf attack him?”

“No idea. I don’t know if we will know because of the flood. The first rabies tests came back negative,” Wayne said.

“Good.” John inserted a floppy disk.

“Here’s a note from Schuster: ‘Megan photographed Zach’s wolf bites, wrote down the measurements, and made a few copies. She said to call if you had questions. Megan can say what she wants. I’m working on Barbara Luben’s evidence. You are authorized to view evidence of Zach and Mrs. Luben’s attacks. I’ll try to bring them to you but can’t guarantee it.’”

“Do you want to look at fatal injures? It’s hard.”

“And harder if you know the people or live in the same town. I need to.”

“Do you want me to start with the hiker or the official first victim?”

“The hiker if it is chronological. I can take notes out-of-order, but I have to put it in order sometime.”

“I know I said I could tell you about the hikers, but I forgot about the police,” Wayne said. “They haven’t found Sergio Vasquez’s body yet, and Miranda Vasquez’s story is a little difficult to understand.”

As one of the most informed people involved in the wolf response, Wayne considered classifying the wolf situation pointless at best and, at worst, prevented an adequate response. He released any data somebody requested; it possibly provoked Mayor Dwyer’s restriction of out-of-town journalism and non-communication with local media.

Wayne suggested the most useful people to contact. Via Sharon Smith, Mayor Dwyer’s secretary, Wayne pestered the mayor for permission to answer the questions or to contact another person. Within half an hour, Mayor Dwyer allowed Wayne to explain details he considered pertinent—except about the wolf which attacked Miranda and Sergio Vasquez. The police continued to investigate Sergio Vasquez’s death. Mayor Dwyer permitted details about how they encountered the wolf, how it attacked, and how it stopped. To John’s surprise, Wayne agreed without argument.

John typed notes and listed evidence to copy.

While Sergio and Miranda Vasquez honeymooned in the woods near Wolftown. On March 6 and 7, they briefly met Peter, a stranger. He warned them about wolves in the area and suggested camping a couple of miles west. However, they stayed at their campsite. They built a fire and bear-proofed their food, which coincidentally deterred wolves.

In the middle of the night, Miranda left the tent to relieve herself. She zipped up the tent, but the hikers woke to a lone wolf inside the tent.

John said, “Sometimes the zipper doesn’t catch the other side of the fabric, but it sounds like it zipped.”

“I asked her. I haven’t had time to find out if a wolf can tear through a tent, but I told her I would,” Wayne said.

Sergio fought the wolf and slashed an escape hole for Miranda. She brandished a burning branch, which ignited the tent. Somehow, Sergio and the wolf struggled out of the tent, as Sergio yelled for Miranda to climb a tree.

Miranda tugged singed, bleeding Sergio from the tent, while the smoldering wolf rolled on the ground. The wolf retreated slightly, giving Sergio time to boost Miranda into a sugar maple tree. She hauled him up, but the wolf dragged him down. While Sergio stopped screaming, the wolf bit Miranda’s leg. The wolf’s teeth shredded her left leg, but Miranda tugged her leg out of the wolf’s mouth.

“How?” John asked.

“Adrenaline,” Wayne said. “But I’m surprised her the bone didn’t break, and he didn’t bite an artery or a vein.”

Wayne continued the chronological order, moving to the wolves entering Wolftown on March 8. Each wolf entered Wolftown on a different side of town by 2:00 PM, March 8. People treated them as a curiosity because sometimes wild animals passed the city limits.

Later, Wayne named the wolves Abel, Barker, and Charlie, although he initially thought Barker and Charlie were the same. Wayne said, “Abel looks like an overweight male, Barker is underweight, and Charlie is average. I don’t know Barker and Charlie’s sexes, but if the wolves are a pack, they are probably females. The wolves are about the same size, but people said Abel was big. Locals have a better idea of a wolf’s size than tourists have, but a wolf looks bigger in real life.”

“Probably more when you think it’s dangerous,” John said.

“And he was fat, and people called him fat.”

“He is.”

“At first, I thought the wolf was pregnant, but he is a male. I think he is bigger than Barker, but not unusually big.”

Around 3:00, Abel loped down Main Street into Holy Trinity Church and School’s playground. Barking and growling, he trotted, then cantered, then galloped. Kids scattered, and adults hustled children indoors, into cars, on top of the jungle gym, or down the street. Witnesses said fleeing felt like a natural response and thought the wolf could not chase everybody at once.

Playing hopscotch, Mallory Vaughn stood on one leg. Abel knocked her down; his paw left a smudged print on her pink jacket. Her older brother, Raymond, swung his stuffed backpack at Abel. He scooped up winded Mallory and dashed to the nurse’s office. On the way to the nurse’s office, Mallory accused Raymond of shoving her, even though Raymond babysat her. She merely skinned her knees, palms, and chin, and bumped her nose.

The wolf galloped out of the playground under a barrage of textbooks, lunch boxes, a ball, a copy of An Explanation of the Small Catechism, and a Furby. The playground monitor, Cindy Brown, slammed the gate shut and locked it.

As Abel wove through traffic, Maurice Williams nearly crashed into him; days later, he told Wayne he wished he totaled his car and killed Abel. The wolf caused erratic driving and two minor accidents. School-hour traffic and pulling over for the police cars complicated matters.

The wolf bounded through the grounds of the Sun ‘n’ Rain Childcare Center and the Giggling Forward Preschool. He circled the blocks and bounded again. Steve Taylor considered shooting the wolf, but the children were too close.

Throughout the town, people called 911 or Happy Howlers to report sightings. The wolves often left before anybody arrived—everybody focused on the schoolchildren. But the number of calls and the locations indicated two or three wolves roamed Wolftown.

Chief of Police Dennis Laufenberg was out of town. Until he arrived, Deputy Chief of Police Vincent Woods oversaw the police’s response. He told officers to carry tranquilizers and fire a gun as a last resort.

Because a wolf could easily jump Holy Trinity, the daycare, or the preschools’ fences, Wayne recommended that the staff keep children indoors until their parents arrived. To his relief, quite a few adults and children came to the same conclusion. The staff and parents arranged impromptu carpools and pickups. Officer Jones watched for wolves and staff or parents walked the children to the cars.

Police officers patrolled for unaccompanied walking children and drove them home, and they offered rides to accompanied children. Officer Matthews escorted the school bus and officers or parents walked children to their doors.

Around 4:30 PM, one wolf disappeared, probably into the woods, while two others continued prowling Wolftown. Wayne still wondered which wolf fled and which wolf remained.

Raymond and the adults’ reactions scared Mallory more than a wolf running her over. Just as a precaution, Dr. Groves ordered a rabies vaccine. Wayne examined Mallory’s jacket and collected wolf hairs from Raymond’s backpack.

The police unjammed traffic, despite Barker’s presence.

While Abel wreaked havoc, black-and-white security footage tracked Barker and Charlie, either of whom could have also chased the school bus. The wolf walked and loped, stopping to howl or bark. If somebody tried chasing him away, he cantered or galloped. He loitered around Main Street, but neither entered the school grounds nor threatened the parking lot. Wayne supposed the cars scared him.

Calvin, a Happy Howlers’ employee, tracked down Barker or Charlie at approximately 5:00. The wolf saw the car, turned around, and hid in a residential area. Suzanne backed up Calvin, and they almost cornered him. He jumped a fence at 6:00, but they tranquilized him. He headed for the woods and the Happy Howlers employees followed on foot at 6:10, plenty of time for the wolf to pass out. Neither wanted to chase the wolf on foot or search thoroughly for a trail, so they gave up a couple of minutes later. The wolf escaped. Wayne defended Calvin and Suzanne’s decision.

Around 6:30 PM, a wolf mauled Jill Vogel’s off-leash dachshund-Yorkie-miscellaneous mix. The wolf picked up Button and bolted out of the park. Button’s death eventually indicated Charlie existed.

Sightings halted after the attack.

The Happy Howlers administrative assistant, Rebecca Austin, sent information to the local media, which reported the wolf sightings for the evening news or morning paper. Other people heard rumors or they told their friends.

Happy Howlers intended to tranquilize the wolves and ask Dr. Jodi Richardson to examine them. If she declared the wolves healthy, Happy Howlers would tag, vaccinate, and release them. Employees nursed ill or dying wolves, except for rabid ones.

John disagreed with euthanizing animals for any reason but understood the reasons behind killing a rabid animal. Paula and the Nature Protection Society thought rabies and other diseases justified euthanasia. Because of that and Wolftown’s sensitive situation, he felt uncomfortable mentioning his opinion. He thought Wayne guessed, but they did not discuss it.

Wolftown’s nightlife consisted of McDonald's, the Old Wolftown Restaurant, and the Wunderbar, but they were quieter than normal.

“What’s the Wunder Bar?” John asked.

“It’s the only bar in town. One word, W-U-N-D-E-R-B-A-R.”

“Thanks.”

Mayor Dwyer made town officials, his family, and close friends to eat out, buy gas at the BP Gas Station, and play in the park.

“I told him it was a stupid decision,” Wayne said.

“Did something happen to him?” John asked.

“No, but it’s like living in Jaws! Would you have gone outside?”

“I’m a homebody.”

“And you already got into a wolf situation.”

“I had an escape route.”

Wayne sighed.

“You do it,” John said.

“I’m armed and keeping an eye out for the wolf. I don’t want to kill the wolf, but I want to survive.”

Seven businesses and the police station had security cameras. Four businesses had taped over their footage before police requested copies, and two showed barely any wolf. The police refused to turn over their videotaped footage but copied the low-quality time-lapse tapes. Wayne borrowed the school’s TV and paused the footage when necessary.

The security footage showed the wolf returned to downtown Wolftown at approximately 8:30 PM.

A couple of anonymous teenagers snuck out of their houses to buy junk food at the BP Gas Station and eat it in Sugar Maple Park. They noticed wolf tracks in the playground sand. Button died on the opposite side of the park, so Wayne suspected they found the first overnight tracks. The teenagers looked for the wolves because wolves would deter tourism, which their families depended on.

Schuster spotted their flashlights. He told them that Laufenberg ordered the police to send children and teenagers home, regardless of their parents’ usual rules, if the children walked or rode bikes alone after dark. Apparently, the teenagers had sneaked out. They could either go to the police station and give a statement about the wolf or go home without any mention of the wolf. The wolf howled behind the teenagers, too close. Schuster hustled them into the car, but the teenagers went voluntarily.

“I bet the parents found out anyway,” Wayne said.

“I won’t identify them,” John said.

(Part Five coming on August 9 or 16, 2024.)

I look down at these lands with my all-seeing eyes. This town had once been my home, before I died. Before I found peace. Before I saved my town, if only for a handful of years. Before I poisoned myself and the one who most wronged me. Before I went though unimaginable pain. Before my life and my freedom and my personhood were ripped from me. Before all of that I was a poor farmer. This place had once been the place where I worked and worried and fell asleep in the arms of my mother. This place had once been somewhere I could love. This place had always been a place of unimaginable misery though. And now it was no different.

The moon glows pale through my skin, casting only half a shadow. I float soundlessly though the narrow, decrepid dirt streets. They hadn't changed much since I was a young girl toiling on the farm. If anything they'd gotten worse. Much worse.

I stop before a ramshackle hut, made of walls too thin to keep out the cold or the heat and a roof too full of holes to keep out the rain. Many of the houses are like this. I hear the familiar sounds of a woman in labour, of a midwife and neighbours encouraging her on. I look in, ready to bless the mother and her new child with my protection.

The mother is beautiful. She has dark hair and warm skin and angular features. Her name is Maia. Her mother is not here. Her mother lives in a distant town. The girl came here looking for work when she was sixteen and she also found love. She did not however find a way out of the crippling poverty that enveloped so many. Her child takes after her. She is a little baby girl with deep brown eyes and ebony black hair. I can already tell she'll grow up to be the type of girl men write books and poetry about. The type of girl I was.

This is not even remotely a good thing.

I add her to the list of the infinite people who I keep my eye on.

It used to be that I looked after the town. But now I look after whoever needs me to look after them, wherever they're from. There is misery in all the corners of the Earth.

They name her Mikali. I give her my protection.

She grows up dirt poor. She knows intimately what hunger feels like. She knows how the weather can rip at you while you have no protection. She knows what it's like to have to make a bucket of water stretch the whole day between ten people. She know what it feels like to be sick with no hope of medicine. She knows what it feels like to toil in a factory until your arms and legs and mind and heart are nothing but constant screaming. She knows what it feels like to watch neighbours and friends die.

She knows what it feels like to love. She's the oldest daughter of the block, all the other children being younger than her. She has her baby sister, Violia, her even younger sister Kiani, her neighbour's sons Tomnio and Julio and Ehano and Jaziko. She has her other neighbour's children Tami and Lina and Bei and Alissi. She has the children who live across the alley from her, Dialo, Amali, Laia, Aveno, Biko, Tiena, Aria, Joan and Amir. She has her cousins Bailia and Sienna. And she has an unending love and protectiveness for her people and her land.

All the children do. Every single one of them. They are all born into misery and toil, into dehumanization and danger. They are all as strong as they can be. They take care of each other however they can. They are a new generation of young gods, crushed under the heel of oppression just as I was. They have my blessing. Every single one of them.

I watch over them. I look after them. They are children of my town. They are children of my world. They are my children.

Tragedy follows poverty like a shadow because they are two parts of the same whole. When Mika is ten a plague sweeps through. It kills her parents. And the parents of her next-door neighbours. She barely has time to let her grief flow through and out of her. She has to take on extra shifts at the factory, and hold on her pain until it grows and grows into something that tears her apart from the inside. But she has no choice. She has to provide for her family. She has to keep them alive. Even if it kills her. She once again reminds me of myself. They all do.

Time goes past and soon enough Mika is fourteen. She blooms into an extraordinarily beautiful fourteen-year-old girl, face full of angles and eyes darker than the night and larger than the moon. She doesn't look a bit like me. I have a round face and thick curls. But we both hold the same beauty. I fear for her. But I know I would've always feared for her. No matter what. She was born into the shadow of death as it was. That's what poverty is.

My fears prove to be well-founded. One day she is out buying groceries. A shiny black limousine is driving by, its shaded windows drawn closed against the smells of the slums. It bears the unmistakable polish of the bourgeoisie who rule from the fine mansions of the garden district. Everyone turns and stares at it in fear.

A young man in a fine silk suit and coiffed brown hair steps out. He holds himself like a king. He practically is one. He has no business to be in a place like this.

Everyone waits to hear what he had to say.

He asks if a Miss Mikali Sarin is here. She steps forwards, expression carefully blanked. I follow them, keeping invisible. I follow the anxious murmur of the crowd as well. They all know Mika fondly. They all worry for her. When I was alive my community was like this as well. When I died they grieved me but they were relieved that I was finally free. Will it go the same way this time around as well?

Meanwhile in the car he tells her that he will pay for her loved ones' expenses, he will take care of them. But only if she comes to live with him. It's not a choice. Not really. Let your loved ones suffer and die or do as I say. That is not a choice. It just isn't.

She doesn't even get to say goodbye as she is whisked far away from her home, from her people, from all the people who see her as a person.

It's far too familiar. She is not able to cry. I was not able to cry when it was my time. So I cry for her as I float alongside the car.

She gets to see her family once every few months. It is not nearly enough. But it's all she has. For the vast majority of the time, she smiles and laughs and lies and hides and plays pretend that she's the perfect doll for him.

I know that it's eating her up inside. It eventually ended up killing me after all.

I fucking died.

She bites her tongue as they eat pastries and cakes, while she knows that most people can barely scrape by on beans and rice if even that. She bites her tongue when they do renovations to add another level onto their already huge house, while she knows people who died living on the streets. She bites her tongue as she's forced into silk dress after silk dress after silk dress while she remembers the children who don't have winter coats or shoes. She acts loyal and loving and reverent.

And she lets him do whatever he wants to her.

She owes him after all, is what he says.

It's something I've heard before. It's something that's never said with sincerity. Even if he believes his own lies. It doesn't change the fact that they're lies. There is no benevolent capitalist any more than there is a benevolent king or a benevolent empire or a benevolent master. They're all the same thing after all.

I follow her still. Give her the bits of strength and protection I can. Being a god doesn't mean you have ultimate power. I desperately wish I could do more.

One day I follow her to the bridge. She leans down. Gazes intently at the water below. It's icy. Rushing. Is she going to kill herself? Can she no longer live like this? I understand. I reach out to give her one last hug. So that she might die feeling loved.

She gasps and turns around. Her face is full of surprise yet she looks calmer than she has in a while. And the calm is genuine. After a bit of searching her eyes land on me.

"I ... are ... are you a god?" Her eyes are wide and reverent and more than a bit startled.

"I am. Do you know about Mihu the farmer's daughter? That's me." I keep my voice as soft as I can to calm her down.

I did not think it possible but her eyes go even wider.

"I'm sorry my Lady. It's an honour. Beyond an honour. To meet you. I'm ... sorry. My Lady." She quickly moves to kneel down, as she speaks these words, despite the dirty ground beneath us, her face one of pure reverence. As she starts bowing her head, I catch her face in my hands and gently pull her up.

"No, my child. Don't kneel. You do not need to kneel in my presence."

"But ... my Lady ... really?"

"Yes really. Stand. Let us talk eye-to-eye."

"My Lady." She still bows her head before I lift her chin up. "What can I do for you?"

"It's more about what I can do for you, my child. I've been with you since you were but a baby cradled in your mother's arms. I have seen your life. And I cannot help but weep."

Her face goes carefully blank at that.

"My Lady I have wronged you. I'm sorry. How can I ever make it up?" she says solemnly, before moving a hand to cover her mouth.

"No. No you haven't wronged me. Not at all. You've been wronged. You've been wronged just as I have been. Just as your friends and family have been and just as oppressed people across all of time and space have been. We have all been wronged by inequality and hierarchy. And the way you have been wronged specifically reminds me so much of how I've been wronged."

"My Lady. I am not worthy to compare myself to you."

"None of that," I cut her off, "you are my cherished one. As are all your siblings, both biological and adopted. As are all those in the slums of this town. As are the oppressed people the world over. You have no need to doubt yourself."

I hold her softly, gently by the shoulders. And I look at her. Her eyes are filled with so much grief. So much repression. I know very intimately what it feels like to have eyes like that. I cry. She reaches out to gingerly brush her fingers over my face. When she pulls them back they are stained red.

"I'm so sorry for all that you've gone though," I sob quietly. Her resolve breaks. She starts crying too. Tear after tear after tear flowing down her face. I take her into my arms and she hugs me tight back. We stay like this for a while. Holding each other. Crying into each other's shoulders. Crying for ourselves. For each other. For the world. Finally, as the sun is painting the sky orange, she pulls back.

"Are you still afraid, child?" I ask, holding her shoulder softly and stroking her cheek in the way that her mother used to do.

"No, my Lady. But it's still ... it's still an honour."

"It's an honour for me as well. Now tell me, do you remember my story?"

"Yes. Everyone does. My mother told us the version of the story that was passed down in her hometown. The authorities do not allow people to speak of gods and spirits there. They say it's mere superstition and foolishness. But the people still tell each other. They still pass it down. Not just your story. Countless others." I nod. This is information I already know but she needs to talk about her mother. The thought warms her.

"And my aunts. They told us of your story too. And the stories of the other gods and spirits and heroes. Their tales were, well they were much the same. But they were always insistent that you all were still fighting on our side. That you hated the system still and you were fighting for the workers however you could. See, though I think you know, the authorities here never deny the existence of the spirits. But they declare that after your deification, you all moved to create the modern world. They claim that you created the modern world in the way that was to your liking. That you approve of the status quo. My aunts always vehemently denied that. They said that gods could not meddle too much with the affairs of the humans but they could give us the strength and inspiration to change the world ourselves, when the time comes. They said that there is no way the gods could be alright with this hierarchical mess of a society." I notice that she is speaking her mind much more freely now, yet all the reverence in her tone remains. If anything it is stronger, as she thinks about her mother and her aunts and the family she left behind.

"They were right," I say softly yet strongly. "They were all right. They were all very wise to share the stories with you. Your mother was taught that the gods were not real. But she was right to follow her heart and keep believing. She was right to tell you we were real. Your aunts were taught that the gods were on the side of their oppressors. But they were right to have faith in themselves. They were right to teach you that the gods are on the side of the have-nots."

"Thank you. I ... I spent so long among the bourgeoisie, nodding along at their entitledness and attending their church services and being told I was nothing that ... that I was beginning to forget."

"That's understandable. You need not feel ashamed of that. I'm on the side of the poor. Of the powerless. I always have been. I always will be. So is every other divine being. But let me tell you something else."

"Yes my Lady?"

I smile at her, cupping her cheeks in my hands.

"What you must realize is that you are part of our story. That you all are part of our story. The story of the gods, of the world, is about people surviving through and struggling against oppression. It is the story of people fighting for equality. It's the story of those who have been stripped of their rights and dehumanized. You can probably easily see how my story parallels your own, no?"

"Yes my Lady." We exchange sad, knowing looks.

"Yes. But I also see myself in all the factory workers and the farmers and the unemployed people. They have all been stripped of their humanity and their power, forced to work, and suffer, and miss their loved ones, and be who they don't want to be. I'm sure Amina from the mining town or Imiko the orphan or Ala the child would see themselves so easily in all the people who are held down by the system. In all the people who have to either kill themselves working or starve, who have to grieve loved one after loved one, who have to smile and pretend everything is okay. Haynen the thief and Amia the teenaged girl would relate to the resourcefulness of the poor and the way you bend or even outright break rules to keep each other safe. I sure relate. I poisoned my abuser. Amia gave me a high five for that, once I reached the Otherworld. Your stories mirror our stories and our stories mirror yours. The fight is for universal equality and liberation. Not to trade old masters for new ones."

"So what do I do?" Her voice has more hope in it than I've heard from her in a long while.

"You tell people what I told you. That you met me. You talked to me. That the gods are definitely on their side. You talk to different gods. And we will tell you how we see ourselves in the people. How the people should see themselves in us. How we are supporting and encouraging them to find liberation. They already know this. Of course they already know this. It's undeniable. But hearing it from the mouth of a prophet will give them so much strength, so much power. Because now, who are the elites to say that the gods are on their side? Their argument holds no strength at all. Not against the word of a prophet. Do you understand?"

"I do. They will no longer be able to deny it, the bourgeoisie, that the gods are on our side."

"Yes. And are you willing?"

"Of course I am. I'll teach your truths, and the truths of the other gods. And all of us together, the gods and the workers and everyone who's downtrodden. We'll create a new future. A good future. Free of wealth inequality and power hierarchies. Where we take care of and love each other and the Land and the Water, where we are truly free and truly together."

She looks so full of life and hope and energy in the orange light of the sunset. She almost seems to glow with it. Of course the sadness is still there. It will always be there. But she has hope now. And that's a victory.

"Yes my daughter. Now dry your tears and don't let him see your pain. We'll talk more tonight."

"Yes my Lady."

We hug one last time. I bring my fingers through her hair and kiss her cheek. And then she bows and walks off into the blazing sunset.

A soldier

A poet

A king

The three friends coming together to forge a little but wild town called Ascot Ridge.

But what happens when they form a common enemy amongst themselves? Yeah, no one really gave me the answer when I sort of moved here for a new beginning of sorts.

Hi, my name is Sel & i’m the best archer in the whole of Blackwood pines & maybe heir to the Scarlet empire guild. But I was kicked out because I disrespected a high ranked member because I refused to pay respect. Not my fault he couldn’t make his own Duff beer.

I moved to Ascot Ridge to find the legendary Danethorpe guild & Draycott, their leader who is the most handsome dragon rider I’ve heard about & almost seen, I could prove my worth as a mastermind archer after I improve on my skills. Not that I lost them or anything. Besides, I don’t want my head to be a feeding can for a dragon.

Standing in front of the only tavern around, I take a quick look into my pouch, all I can see is 15 Gil which would only take me 6 to 8 days max & that’s just for feeding. If I add accommodations, more or less 4 days. Maybe I might consider plaihor bridge. I hear the downside is attractive at night.

Deciding to get myself a quick oogli, I hit a massive wall or rather the stiff massive wall hit me & I got a stupid ache on my head in return.

“ouch. Watch where you’re going you scruffy-looking nerf herder!” I cried out and waited for an apology.

“who are you calling scruffy-looking?” The stiff wall replied

He’s handsome no doubt

About to curse more, I looked up & saw the longest white hair paired with green eyes looking down on me like I’m some miscreant.

I fought long & hard for a seat on that wagon thank you very much.

Before I could talk back, he leaned towards me & whispered “the next time I see you in this town, I’ll kill you” and with that, he left the tavern.

I stood there in disbelief, paying less attention to the whispers around me & finally dragged my feet to the table top to order my beloved oogli.

“you do know who that is don’t you?” the bar tender asked as he approached.

“one oogli, foaming & cold. And no, I do not care for rude miscreants”

“you know he could kill you with a circle of fire very easily” he continued.

“a lot of people do that & I can learn it in three tarat days. So I do not see how his circle of fire is very important than the average fire guilds”

He lifted his left brow like I said something foolish

“it’s important because he’s Draycott”

I opened my pouch & pulled out aki coins to pay for the oogli I didn’t drink and ran out the door.

This chapter is part of "The Small Town Magic Arc." Links for prior chapters in this storyline can be found here: https://www.theprose.com/post/746871/the-small-town-magic-arc

"You won't lay a finger on him!" Essie yelled angrily as Rick and the ice that held him disappeared from Cyclo's approaching fist, immediately reappearing by her side.

"Ha ha ha ha, wanna bet?" Cyclo sneered. "Maybe it's time for me to head over there and see how you are all doing on that side of the field!"

"Not going to happen, Cyclo." Essie smiled sweetly, gaining her composure back. She pointed at the ground, and four skeletal arms popped out around Cyclo, gripping his arms and legs.

"Ha ha ha ha! These scrawny things won't be enough to keep me from visiting you, little lady!" Cyclo laughed. His guffawing stopped when his attempts to break the grip of the skeletal hands were unsuccessful.

"I will admit that I am almost impressed, but I already feel the strength of these things weakening. Hope you have another trick handy, young one."

"Oh, I sure do." Essie retorted, still smiling. If Rick hadn't been unconscious within his ice prison, Essie's beaming face would have likely been enough to melt the encasement.

Essie continued pointing at the ground, and a skeletal fist flew out and punched Cyclo in the face. Unfazed by the blow, he looked at the fist that lay on the ground with amusement.

"Cute. Maybe you should have worked for a kiddie haunted house. Unfortunately, any career options you might have had will fall to pieces once I break loose and return the favor."

"Who said I was off the clock yet?" Essie replied, still grinning. Swarms of skeletal fists then flew out of the ground and relentless struck Cyclo all over his body. Cyclo flailed back and forth helplessly as the fists mercilessly assaulted him, giving him no chance to breathe or react to anything except for the pain that he certainly no longer considered adorable. After what no doubt felt like an eternity for Cyclo, the fists retired and made room for swarms of skeletal arms that came out of the ground, the hands of each grabbing the cyclops until all that was visible was a mass of skeletal limbs.

"Hang in there Rick." Essie said tenderly. "I will thaw and heal you after I end this right here and now!"

To be continued....