Wolftown, Part Five
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 Kurt Phelps 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.)
The Land of Perpetual Misery
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.
Essie Strikes Back!
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....
Wolftown, Part Two
The wolf charged John. He yanked the antiquarian bookshop’s door open and squeezed into the bookshop. Simultaneously, Schuster activated his lights and sirens, and accelerated, and began firing his gun.
As the bookshop door closed, the wolf cracked the glass. Schuster’s car hydroplaned and skidded sideways onto the curb. John flattened himself on the floor but had seen the wolf gallop away.
Schuster stood in front of the bookshop and continued firing. John rushed out, hands raised, and saw the wolf dodge from a doorway to an intersection.
“Hey! Stop! It ran away! Stop! I was in a safe place! The wolf couldn’t attack!” John also yelled other comments.
Schuster alternated chasing and shooting the wolf, radioing throughout, and John chased Schuster. The wolf crossed the intersection a second time and bolted down the block.
Just when two patrollers and a wolfjäger splashed up, Schuster emptied his magazine, and the wolf turned a corner.
“Are you okay?” Schuster reloaded.
John took a deep breath.
“Are you okay?” Schuster resembled a snapped rubber band five minutes ago, but now he looked glued together, and the glue was still wet.
“The wolf isn’t, but I’m fine,” John said.
The armed patroller asked, “Why were you chasing the wolf away?”
“Okay, guys, everything is fine.” John wondered why Schuster tolerated the patroller’s revolver.
“Come on, Dogzilla.” The wolfjäger and handler ran, but the other patroller asked,
“He aided and abetted a suspect. I heard him.”
“You go that way and around in a circle.” Schuster pointed.
“But he helped the wolf.”
“I was present at the time.”
Over the patroller’s objections, Schuster said, “Mr. Dalton, you can go ahead and lower your hands.”
John did.
Schuster spoke deliberately and firmly. “Let’s get back on track. Circle the block, meet up with your partner, and patrol. Radio observations.”
The patroller complied.
“Okey-dokey, we will be stuck here for a while because I discharged my weapon,” Schuster said.
“Your arm is bleeding.”
“It’s fine. I mean we will be here. You are a witness now. Let’s go back to my car.”
“Have I broken a law?” John asked.
“No, sir, but you witnessed the wolf, and Wolftown would appreciate your cooperation in the investigation.”
John understood little of Schuster’s radio message.
“I’d like a lawyer to be present before I say anything,” John said.
“Okay, no problem.”
Sitting in the police car with the door open, Schuster juggled fresh bandages and the radio, both urgent issues. Once John noticed, Schuster accepted his help with the bandage. It was the first time John saw sutured wolf bites in person, and the shooting had torn and separated several stitches. The long pattern and the smaller punctures matched a large carnivore’s teeth, and the welts and scratches were inconsequential.
Schuster and the police dispatcher struggled to send more police officers to the scene. He told a patroller with the other police officers to lend his walkie-talkie to Officer Matthews. “You guys are two blocks away and can’t get anybody here?” Schuster asked. Convincing Officer Matthews to use his radio, Schuster forced himself to speak calmly and evenly. Then his volume increased with every word: “No, Dustin, I’m not going to investigate my own shooting alone! Come on! Get your asses over here, damn it!” He restrained further outbursts and regained his composure.
Finally, the supervisor intervened, and Schuster’s taut rubber band tendencies relaxed.
Observing Dogzilla, John wondered if some people reported false sightings: a wolfjäger misidentified as a wolf. Dogzilla was approximately the same size as a Great Dane, St. Bernard, or English mastiff. His tail and head resembled a German shepherd’s, though his pointy ears sat further apart, closer to a wolf’s position. Soaked fur emphasized his pointer dog shape. Medium-long, bushy fur covered him—mottled and darker on his back and sides, with a light underbelly, and pale facial and leg markings. Especially in low visibility and from a distance, a frightened person unfamiliar with comparing canines might become confused.
On John’s last trip, he met a wolfjäger breeder, Ruby Klug, who said that Germans bred the dogs to hunt wolves and bears. Wisconsin banned hunting wolves, and the dogs mangled anything smaller than a fox. Most hunters trained the wolfjägers for elk and deer.
In 1982, some wolfjägers escaped Ruby Klug’s property, and two or three bred with wolves. Though she, Happy Howlers, animal control, and government departments searched and captured some, the wolf-wolfjägers caused mayhem. Then they mauled a young girl to death. Wolftown requested the public’s assistance in trapping or killing them. The effort succeeded. Although many people supported euthanizing them, Wayne welcomed them into Happy Howlers and had them sterilized.
Between the patrollers’ suspicions and the risk of another attack upon the wolf, John decided to accept Schuster’s offered ride. He overheard an argument between Schuster and another policeman, whom Schuster thought should take John to the police station and question him. The policeman, Matthews, thought he had more important duties. They compromised: Schuster transferred John, and Matthews would question him when time allowed.
Regarding riding in a police officer’s car, John was less than thrilled. He felt all right with Schuster, who uncovered police corruption, which threatened his career. Though John considered himself minimally cooperative, Schuster accepted his hesitations.
Schuster searched and handcuffed John, assuring him it was routine for both people’s safety and particularly important because John rode in the front seat. Foster’s blood had soaked the backseat and dried. Though Schuster rinsed the floorboard and wiped down the interior, blood dribbled and dotted the police car. Also, his bitten arm had stained the driver’s side.
“You’re a wildlife biologist, right?” Schuster asked.
“Yeah, though I’m more familiar with African, Asian, and South American animals than with wolves.”
“How did you end up on three continents?”
“I worked for a charity concerned with the illegal wildlife trade.” Mentioning that he burned out and quit seemed thoughtless, compared to Schuster’s recent experiences.
“Believe it or not, I really hate seeing animals suffer.”
“I agree with you about that, but I was okay in the bookshop.”
“Can I ask you a question that is about wolves?”
“Sure.”
“I couldn’t tell visually, but I fired seventeen times. We found fifteen bullets, and one of them went through the wolf.”
John prevented himself from saying, Poor wolf, aloud.
“I’d say I shot it three times. If it’s the same wolf, I shot it five times total today, and one of the shots grazed it,” Schuster said.
“In the same day?” John asked.
“Yeah. My question is, should the wolf be dead, let alone able to attack?”
“It survived somehow, but it should be dying, and too weak to find a safe place to die.”
“I was trying to kill it both times. I hit its hip and chest.”
“It shouldn’t have galloped.”
“Did you see blood?”
“No, but it was moving fast, and I couldn’t see well. The rain probably washed off blood, too,” John said.
“I’d say he was high if he was a human, but he is a wolf. Here we are.”
Schuster parked behind Wolftown City Hall.
Wolftown’s police station was inside City Hall, and Schuster brought John through the police entrance. In an office area, one police officer worked at a desk. A middle-aged woman knocked on the Chief of Police’s office and entered.
Schuster looked around the seated people and pointed John to the lawyer. Kevin Miller snored under a newspaper, but fumbled and rustled to the surface.
“Hi. Sorry to wake you up,” John said.
Kevin waved it aside.
“Officer Lang said you were a lawyer?”
Kevin nodded, standing up in black socks, and shook John’s hand. “Kev—” he yawned, “excuse me.”
“My name is John Dalton,” John said. “Officer Schuster said to wake you up.”
He rubbed his eyes. “Kevin Miller. I offer any legal services people need, issues with the wolf are pro bono.”
“How did you know?”
“I came here yesterday for that purpose, among others. I might not be available otherwise. Let me wake up for a moment.” Kevin stretched, then retrieved his black shoes from under the chair. He wore a loose paisley tie, partially untucked white shirt, and a brown suit; the jacket hung over the chair’s back.
Kevin tidied up in the restroom. John wondered how he managed to fall asleep in the awful chairs.
In one of two interrogation rooms, John told Kevin what happened since his arrival in Wolftown. Kevin asked, “Does something specifically bother you?”
“The local authorities sanction killing the wolf, and I’m worried if a man with a wolfdog murdered people, the wolfdog will be killed,” John said.
“Other than professional concerns, what concerns you?”
“The corruption,” John asked.
“It is completely separate from the wolf attacks. You may feel better if you know the Chief of Police is unavailable,” Kevin said.
John raised his eyebrows. “Really?”
“There are strong reasons to prefer the Deputy Chief of Police,” Kevin said.
“Vincent Woods. Honestly, I think you have scarcely anything to worry about. You can expect routine questions. Why would anybody suspect you?”
“I grew up in a bad LA neighborhood. I made two of my life goals not being shot at by anybody and not being killed by a gang. I don’t want to see a police shooting, too.”
“The police supervise the patrollers closely, but they have been threatening or going beyond their authority. I know what people think of them, and how police respond to them.”
John and Kevin made small talk while waiting for Officer Matthews’ arrival.
Officer Matthews rushed, impatient for the questioning’s ending. Kevin predicted the questions accurately, until Matthews left, and Lang entered with two evidence bags. Both held fur, one wet and one dry.
“Just a moment,” Kevin said. “Why are those pertinent?”
“They may help our investigation,” Lang said.
Pointing between John and Lang, Kevin said, “I would like a minute alone with you, then him, or you, then him. Either order.”
“Me first,” Lang said.
Kevin opened the door a minute later, calling into the lobby, “You had opportunity yourself, Danny!”
“Oh, go tell him,” Lang said.
“He expects me to tell you.” Kevin sat.
“About what?” John asked.
Lang stuck his head in. “You wanted him to be informed before I questioned him and if I told him, you would want to listen, and if you listened, you would find something objectionable.”
“Why didn’t you say so first?” Kevin asked.
Lang muttered, “End with the strongest point,” as the door shut.
“We grew up together,” Kevin said.
“You seemed to know each other,” John said.
“Have you been to the local museum, by any chance?” Kevin asked.
“Last time I visited. I understand that some Wolftown residents think the wolf is a werewolf or böxenwolf. It’s a kind of werewolf?”
“Yes, and I think Lang will ask you about them. How do you want to answer?”
“I’ll tell them I don’t know much about them, and I’d be telling the truth.”
“I can easily stop the böxenwolf line of questioning. Just say so, anytime.”
“But why do the böxenwolves matter to the police?” John asked.
“I highly doubt the police force in general believes in the böxenwolf, as in, believing a man can turn into a wolf. Who could turn from one thing into something else? But just the same, we can’t separate Wolftown’s emergency procedures from the böxenwolf legend. Maybe at some point, the emergency procedures and laws will change, but at the moment, we have them. Wolftown laws state that being a böxenwolf in and of itself is not a crime and that a person who commits a crime while being a böxenwolf cannot receive a lighter or heavier sentence or unlawful treatment owing to his transfigured state. It was a reaction to Germany’s treatment of werewolves. Maybe I can predict the questions.”
“Sure,” John said.
Kevin’s questions included idealizing wolves or having an interest in tanning and taxidermy, German folklore, alchemy, and Satan. According to legend, the Devil gave a person a wolf pelt girdle or belt that transformed the wearer into a wolf. But in exchange for the gift, or as a condition of receiving the wolf strap, the wearer either performed the Devil’s work or the Devil possessed him. Therefore, Kevin explained, in the 1980s Wolftown, people voluntarily turned wolf straps over to the museum or police. Without mentioning specifics, Kevin said that modern experiences contradicted the occult theory. Wolftown citizens owned wolf straps; police found all kinds of things in crime scenes. He doubted Lang would ask about Satan, but the idea mattered to the legend and Wolftown’s history.
Lang asked if John had been to Germany or Poland, killed a wolf, or acquired an uncured wolf pelt or a cured wolf pelt product, or instructions for tanning a wolf hide. He omitted questions Kevin considered unlikely—like idealizing wolves or having an interest in alchemy, German folklore, or tanning and taxidermy.
“This is an example of a suspicious object.” Lang passed John an evidence bag holding a strip of dry fur. “Can you identify the object?”
John felt sorry for the animal. “It looks like a wolf strap from the museum, but I don’t know if this was the one I saw on display or not,” he said.
“Do you notice anything about it?”
“Why?” Kevin asked.
“I’m asking him as a wildlife biologist and because he had some idea about what it was.”
“I’ll answer,” John said. “Can I look at it up close?”
“I brought a pair of gloves and a magnifying glass. Don’t let it trail on the floor.”
The bag listed the fur’s dimensions (about five feet long and seven inches wide), so John pulled out one end, from which dangled a rawhide string. He examined it. “It is a cured strip of animal fur, probably from a wolf or a coyote. I think it is wolf fur, though. Wolves have darker fur on their backs and lighter fur on their bellies, but I can’t tell if it came from the wolf’s back or side. The fur is white and grey, probably from an older wolf. A wolf grows a thick undercoat in winter and sheds it in the spring, and the fur doesn’t have an undercoat. The wolf was probably killed in summer.”
John thought the muddy fur belonged to a young but full-grown wolf, and it died in spring or autumn. The strip changed color from creamy to mottled brown and black, and along with its shorter length, indicated the skinner lay the hide flat and cut side-to-side instead of lengthwise.
The wolf straps’ musty, stinky wolf odor had faded, but the first strap smelled like the plastic bag and the second like Wisconsin’s forests and mud. Furs he sniffed in second-hand stores absorbed perfume, cigarette smoke, closet must, or dry-cleaning chemicals, none of which applied to either wolf strap.
“Thank you for your cooperation,” Lang said. “You are free to leave now.”
“I’d still like to offer assistance or stay to observe,” John said.
“Mayor Dwyer knows, and you need his permission.”
Lang suggested waiting with Kevin, since the wolf response used a buddy system, among other teamwork, close contact, and communication methods. Kevin was willing. To demonstrate cooperation, John agreed.
Since John needed to update Paula, his boss, Kevin directed John to a pay phone and returned to his seat.
“If you don’t feel safe now, you will feel less safe later, and don’t forget about the floodwaters,” Paula said.
“I won’t. I want to stay and find out what is going on. I’m making more observations now than I could last time. If it gets too weird, I’ll leave.”
“Weird how? The werewolf?”
“Yeah. I don’t know how to express it yet, but I’m thinking of something. I think we would miss a lot if we came back later, and I don’t know if it would be a cover-up or people unwilling to talk to strangers.” John spoke over Paula, who stopped talking. “Somebody can find out if they try, but a lot of people wouldn’t try, or they overlooked something, or something has to fit the right way to be understood, or people have impressions. Somebody reconstructing events wouldn’t figure it out easily, and I don’t think I could understand it. I don’t know if multiple observers could, or if they would come to one conclusion. I’m wondering if a local could, but I don’t know if they would try, or if they want to. Sorry, I interrupted. What did you say?”
“Be careful,” Paula said. “Thinking of something else?”
“Like I said, I don’t know what I’m thinking yet.”
“Now, be really careful.”
“I’m probably fine, but the wolf isn’t. I’ll call again before leaving City Hall.”
(Next part coming Friday, June 21, 2024.)
Plainer in a Plane Land
Poly lived happily in a 2-D world, her plane of life determined by three points: herself; her husband, Quad; and her little boy polygon, Trap. They were plain people living the plane life.
Quad was quite ordinary, all of his angles adding up to 360º. His were all righteous angles, but the ones that Trap had, although adding up to 360º, were skewed — two acute and two obtuse, and too dissimilar. So it goes with youth and naïvité.
When Trap grew older, he would sweep their plane for girls, and he often intersected with them. One day, however, he met "the 1," a lovely quadrilateral named Rhomba.
Rhomba liked Poly and Quad, but as her tangents with Trap increased in frequency, Poly felt she was being distanced from him. She knew what the shortest distance was, between the two of them, and she couldn't help but notice that intermediate points were beginning to define newly angled departures from the straight line. She began to see Rhomba as a strange attractor, leading Trap into fractal non-Euclidean indiscretions.
Quad, having such righteous angles, felt lines should not only be straight, but by the straight-and-narrow.
Perhaps Poly was too overbearing, a weightiness distorting their planar world. Such dents in the planar fabric caused each of them to circumnavigate, drawn to a strange Newtonian two-dimensional gravity. When Poly derived this coherency in her 2-D sensibility, she was pleased, as her family began to circle each other, approaching true intersections of mind.
But Rhomba added another dimension to the world — for Trap, anyway.
As their love deepened, they began to rise, that is, develop depth. Both Rhomba and Trap grew sides.
Rhomba did it first, since her angles were malleable. She experimented wildly with her body, pushing past 360º. She titillated her vertices. Her sides throbbed.
SHe also tried different religions. She joined the Parallelograms; she served at the altar of the Square. She even researched the very strange cult of Circles, which even Trap couldn't abide. In fact, when Romba massaged her vertices into her sides and became well-rounded, Trap could no longer follow her. His angles were what he felt made him, him.
Trap returned to the plane, descending into the common-sense reality determined by three points, yet was haunted by the possibilities. Could extensions of height and width determine self-actualization?
Poly regarded her son warily. Quad fretted. They knew such inclinations were a slippery slope (i.e., hazardous rise-over-run). She had known several friends, so tempted, who had vanished along what were theorized to be asymptotes.
Still, Trap wondered. How would his functions alter with other variables introduced--like ones of depth?
One day, a mysterious feature appeared on Poly's, Quad's, and Trap's plane. It began as a dot--a mere point. It began to grow. It widened. Radius and circumference enlarged exponentially, becoming an ever-widening circle changing colors.
Their plane scintillated in a variegated, hypnotic, stroboscopic display. Poly, Quad, and Trap were mesmerized.
Trap, however, having been exposed to spatial ambiance determined by three dimensions, recognized the truth. It was Romba! His love! How he had missed her.
But where Poly and Quad could only appreciate her surface features — a simple obscene circle--he saw the whole person.
For she was a sphere! A globe of multicolored enhancements of space, texture, and global existentialism. She was glorious.
He felt foolish. How could he continue living in only two-thirds of a world? He needed more dimension.
And so while he remained a simple trapezoid on Poly's and Quad's plain plane, he lived a secret, unseen life, in global ecstasy with his lover. They could look down on Poly and Quad, but Poly and Quad were unable to look up. Yet, they knew that their son was more than than just the 360º of his four angles; more than just four straight and narrow sides. More than just a simple quadrilateral. They suspected he was on an asymptote.
Poly lamented to Quad. "My tears need a minute to find the edges of my face. If you'll please excuse me." And with that, she was tempted to collapse into a line, albeit a straight and narrow one. But Quad had seen such collapse before and knew that there was a single endpoint that would surely follow.
Quad did not want singularity; he wanted dimensions to his love with Poly. And that's when he experienced a true epiphany:
Love is boundless. It really should be asymptotic. Multidimensional and growing. Cartesionally challenged, exponential, and unbound by geometry, planar or otherwise.
For Rhomba and Trap, they were now boundlessly in love, fractally recursive in their devotions to each other. But they still left--on that plane--a simple presence each, lined shadows that limited myopic, possessive beings could not fully appreciate, blind to the possibilities of space and time.
- This story is part of a collaborative project with additional talented writers. The previous chapters can be found here: https://theprose.com/post/438830/tag-list-and-schedule
All of the sights of Little Dafford had left Brian in awe, but nothing like the training grounds of the warrior army. Once he stepped through the iron gate that Coban opened, he observed sparring matches of a good hundred warriors, all armored with protection that was on par with the iron walls that surrounded the vast dirt grounds. Brian had not seen much combat in his life besides a few fist fights in his school days, but instead of being overwhelmed by the mighty men and women battling around him, he felt more determined than ever to join their ranks.
The pair finally reached a large roundhouse, and Brian followed Coban in. A tall, lanky man sat up on a cot and smiled at Coban.
"Lad! I thought I gave thee the day off? Or do ye have a recruit for me?"
"He requested an audience with you." Coban groaned. "My brother dumped him on me, and insisted I answer his questions. The bloke wouldn't drop the prospect of being trained to fight as a warrior. Can you deal with him? My apologies Master Ravok."
"Nonsense son, the more the merrier!" Ravok chuckled. "Leave 'em ere, and I'll size up his potential."
Coban bowed down, then ran out as quick as he could. Ravok arose from the cot, and walked to the corner of the room where the cries "Sword Up!" were coming out of a crystal that flashed various bright colors. Ravok put his hand on the crystal, and it reverted to a bright white before going silent.
"Sorry, figured better turn off thee game so I could hear ye out." Ravok said warmly as he approached Brian.
"That was a game?" Brian asked. "I assumed that was a battle!"
"Nah, just an old game where two teams are trying to get thee other's king. The crystal there taps into locations where games get played, and I listen to 'em to relax."
"So, like a radio broadcast?"
"Never heard of a radio, that some kind of magic from ye village?"
"Yeah, some kind of magic." Brian replied.
This is really the leader? He seems too laid back compared to everyone outside.
"Anyway, you're the leader of the warriors? Pardon me if I sound a bit rude, but you seem a bit different from the others out there."
Ravok looked at Brian incredulously before letting out a great belly laugh.
"Don't believe in me skills eh? Alright then, take me on if ye think ye can!"
"Hold on, I have no training! Forgive me, I didn't mean to upset-"
"Upset? Hardly! I've seen much on the battlefield far more upsetting. I have nothing to prove, just want to see what ye may bring to the army. Here, let me give ye something to help."
Ravok stomped his foot, and a hole opened up in the floor. A shelf emerged from the opening in front of Brian. The shelf was decked with various armor, helmets, shields, and weapons.
"Go on, feel free to borrow from me armory." Ravok said cheerfully. "Everything here is imbued with magic, and will enhance ye abilities."
Brian donned a matching steel helmet, chest plate, and a long sword. Ravok wasn't bluffing, as Brian now felt like he could take on ten armies thanks to the magic from the gear. He turned to Ravok, who then carried over a handful of white powder, which he then proceeded to spread around Brian.
"Before ye face me, let's see how ye fare in a farce battle."
"Farce battle?" Brian questioned.
"The substance around ye will simulate a battleground, and a foe of ye choice." Ravok explained as the powder evaporated into a fog that surrounded Brian. "Ye thoughts will be read, and the battle ye envision will appear. Don't worry, tis merely an illusion, but a fine way to measure fighting skills."
Brian was surrounded by darkness, and one of the fiends that had previously tortured him stood before him, wearing his wife's face and smirking.
"After I play with you, I'm gonna gut you and deliver your insides to your lady." The monster laughed cruelly.
"Not this time!" Brian screamed, charging at the beast. He felt amazing as he lunged, not only feeling faster and stronger, but fully aware of how to use the sword he held, even without proper training. Magic truly is an amazing thing.
"Awwwww, so the hapless fool thinks he can take me now, huh?" The monster mocked as Brian drew closer. "No matter what enhancements you hold, you are noth-"
Brian sliced the monster's head off, apologizing to Sarah under his breath. He continued slashing the headless fiend until a bloody pile of gore was all that remained. The darkness cleared and the creature remains then vanished. Brian then found himself looking at a grinning Ravok a few feet ahead.
"The gear ye chose approved of ye, well done indeed! Now come at me lad, and face a real opponent!"
"Aren't you going to equip yourself?" Brian asked.
"No need, I am protected enough." Ravok smiled. "Ye have shown me what ye can do, now give me ye best!"
Brian was worried that he could truly maim Ravok with the power he held from his armor and sword, but he assumed that Ravok wouldn't agree to this without some kind of enhancements of his own, even if he was only wearing a simple leather shirt and trousers. He felt the same level of skill that he had felt during the mock battle a moment ago as he charged at Ravok.
"Impressive approach, now use thee sword lad!" Ravok said as he stood his ground, even without a weapon of his own at his disposal.
Brian swung the sword involuntarily as instructed. Ravok smiled as he ducked under the strike. He then lunged at Brian and tripped him, knocking him to the ground. Ravok caught the sword that slipped from his opponent's grasp, and pointed it at his neck.
"This gear is incredible, and made me feel incredible." Brian said with awe, as Ravok lowered the sword and helped him up. "But I still had no chance against you. Please tell me, was there a special magic that you used just now?"
"Nay lad, just me own personal strength from training, along with the blessing of the great Lyrane!"
"Lyrane? Who's that?"
"Our God of strength and courage of course! Me and all the warriors in our army possess Lyrane's blessing. As long as we keep his favor, we triumph in any battle, even without magic!"
Brian stood in awe once more, remembering Olban's revelation of the gods of his world earlier. So Lyrane is one of them....
"Please Ravok, train me and allow me to join your forces." Brian pleaded softly, bowing down before Ravok. "I wish to tear apart the monstrous bastards that tortured me. I am getting up there in age, but I wish to have one more adventure, and if you teach me and help me seek Lyrane's blessing, I know I could be worthwhile to you and your army."
"Stand up lad, don't bow to me!" Ravok said sharply, his smile fading. "The only one worthy of thee worship is Lyrane, and his brethren!"
"Of course, I apologize." Brian said as he stood up meekly. "Please, will you help me?"
Ravok gave Brian a kind smile but shook his head.
"I'm sorry lad, but I cannot."
"But why?" Brian asked in a dejected tone.
"Forgive me bluntness, but training ye would be a waste. Ye showed great skill with the enhanced armory, but that is all ye currently have. Tis true I could strengthen ye, but without the blessing of Lyrane, it wouldn't be enough."
"Is that it?" Brian replied with slight annoyance. "You don't think Lyrane will bless me?"
"Nay lad." Ravok answered solemnly. "Lyrane would smite ye on thee spot."
"He would? Why?"
Ravok pointed to Brian's chest and gave him a woeful look.
"Ye heart. Tis full of rage and self-fulfillment when it comes to ye desire to fight. Lyrane would never approve."
Dragons
Many people think humans adopt dragons
But they’re wrong.
There is something crazily, insanely, terrifyingly powerful about dragons.
And there is something hauntingly forbidding about the fact that they might almost, exist.
The one thing I know about dragons is that they are protective of what they call home.
In tales they burn down villages to take their sheep and break into castles for the treasures they seek.
In truth, we don’t know any of this. Maybe dragons are the little lizards we find on the ground and nothing more.
But I do know, that there is something hauntingly forbidding about the fact that might, almost exist.
I know that they might not guard treasures or slaves, but something tells me they never left their grave.
That they are soaring above the clouds. Just out of reach, amidst thunder showers.
There is something so hauntingly forbidding that’s it’s almost real, about the fact that dragons might be real.
There are some things that prove us wrong. Like that no bones or fossils are ever found.
But, there’s something else like an itch in my brain, that we might almost, one day, see them again.
I should be pushing up daisies
the way the charcoal
eyeliner sticks
to the fingertips
and the landscape
presses itself to the face
pale as moist tissue papers
readied for capture
always
a smudge off, from perfection
I would unbury these
blending stumps, or
tortillons,
to the surface
and hurry the seeds
with happy dew tears
The Witch in the Woods
A witch lived in the woods.
She was there by choice.
Never alone was she.
She had friends aplenty.
Patting on the asphalt she wore all black
But in the woods green was her clad
A raven might be called her closest friend
And to her horses come a’ wanderin’
I hear she lives in the woods alone
She makes a garden dwelling her only home.
Barefoot she walks on the grass
In silver moonlight dancing
Wandering among the many trees
You can see her tumbling.
A price did meet her one day.
Kept him asleep for a week, they say
Then she sent him on his way
But he kept his promises, to this day
Now she is our queen
And a pretty thing is she
In a castle
All alone
No love has she for her own
there for power all alone
That is what happened to the witch in the woods
She became a queen, yet is still misunderstood.
She doesn’t mind, because she will always be a queen inside.