Changes by Peter Berry

Chapter Two of a Hypothetical Novel

Greg Barber leaned against the smooth bark of a birch tree and put his hands in the pockets of his jeans. Despite the sharp autumn breeze that rustled drying leaves all around him, his jacket hung unused from a nearby tree. He ran a hand through his scruffy, thick mop of hair to mash it back into place. Greg stood at the edge of a large clearing, and the wind took every opportunity to swoop down into it and run among the many log benches and whistle past the monolithic, irregularly shaped stone in the center of the clearing. Greg took a step back and settled further into the forest. Recently, the forest was the only place he could relax, in amongst the trees. Their spirits were moved by little besides the changing of the seasons, and Greg admired, with just a touch of envy, their constancy.

A sudden howl split the night and Greg jerked his head up. The howl was long and low, and Greg’s eyes narrowed in recognition. Greg pushed himself away from the tree and jogged back to the clearing. He wove his way between the many weather-worn benches. They had many carvings scratched into their surfaces, but Greg passed these without a second glance, and came to the large stone in the center of the clearing. It too was covered with carvings, the marks forming hundreds of runes, painstakingly etched and worn with age.

The cairn stone dominated the clearing, standing easily twice as tall as Greg and nearly ten feet wide. It was filled with small crevasses and recesses, thrown into shadow by the moonlight. Greg circled the monolith, his fingers trailing across the slashes in the cold stone. He found the place where the stone formed a broad overhang about four feet off the ground and sat down. He slid through the hidden door, quickly found the first step, and started down the stone latter within. Once inside the monolith, Greg straightened up.

The light cast by the thin crescent of the moon did little to illuminate the interior of the cairn. Still, Greg made his way down the ladder quickly, by feel and familiarity alone. At the bottom, a torch-lined tunnel opened up before him. The passages under the clearing itself were carved from the same rock that formed the monolith above, but those extending into the forest were actually formed out of tree roots. Greg had heard that his ancestors had built these tunnels, and they must have used some long-forgotten Gift to coax the roots into forming a network of underground passages, ten feet wide and tall. Greg thought it sad that the ability to deal with trees in such a way had been lost so long ago; the root-passages were ancient; the ones carved of stone were older still.

Walking down the hall, Greg squinted in the flickering light and read the symbols painted on the wall and turned down a narrower side passage. He stopped in front of a woven, plant-dyed blanket suspended across a doorway. “Lady?” he called through the curtain. “Lady Voice, are you there?”

“One moment,” came a calm voice from behind the curtain.

Greg waited in the hall, reading the runes etched into the wall. Some spoke of Gaia’s received words: ‘My Children, my Blood: do not despair, for you are never alone. Look, my Children, to my Voice and to my Arm, for they will guide you and aid you in you great struggle. Be true to your Caste, yourself, and your cairn, and you may weather the storm ahead.’ Across the hall was another curtain; behind it, Greg knew, was the Arm’s room. But Greg was not here to see the Wyrmbane, and he turned his attention back to the inscriptions on the wall.

The largest rune was centrally located. It was a simple glyph, a circle rising above a slightly curved, horizontal line with several short, vertical marks below it. Greg could read most of the characters on the curtain, but he was especially familiar with this one. Greg had a matching tattoo on his back, an addition that had shocked his friends. He was secretly pleased at their reaction, even if most who saw it didn’t know its significance. It was the sign of his tribe, the Blood of Gaia. Below that symbol were several more, naming the surrounding tunnels and forest as the Cairn of Slàinte, Protectorate of the Blood of Gaia and the favored dwelling of Bear.

Greg heard a rustling of cloth and looked up. The curtain was pushed aside by a small hand that was followed by the rest of Cathryn, the Voice of the Goddess. She was a small woman, almost dwarfed by Greg’s tall frame, but he stepped back and unconsciously bowed a little as she emerged from her room. Her smooth, unwrinkled face did not match the age that was beginning to touch her hair, streaking it with gray. The Voice was dressed in a faded World Wildlife Foundation t-shirt and blue jeans with worn knees. She turned her handsome face upwards and spoke in her usual, quiet tone. “Hello, Gregory. What brings you down here tonight?”

“A Call for the Hunt was sounded a few minutes ago,” said Greg, describing the howl he had heard. Cathryn tensed. “Someone found a Caste Dancer about four miles northwest of here. No sign of a pack, though.” Cathryn relaxed noticeably. “It sounded like one of the Svenson brothers, and there are plenty of sentries out, so they should have it under control. I just thought you might like to know, lady Voice.”

“Please, Gregory. My name is Cathryn,” she smiled. “I’ve told you before, you have been here too long to refer to me by that title.” She sighed. “I do suppose Lars and Jon can handle a lone Dancer. They are capable, if overzealous, warriors. They mentioned only one, you say?” Greg nodded. “Then let us hope that they are not being overly confident again. The Wyrmbane is patrolling as well, though, so it should be safe. Still, it’s troubling that that one of the Casteless should come to close to the cairn.”

“Should I wait outside for news?” asked Greg.

“It would be best, just in case things turn out poorly. Jon and Lars should be back soon, though, and then perhaps we can find out what the Dancer was doing here. Oh,” she paused. “Has Alix spoken to you this evening? She wanted you to wait for her up above.”

Greg gave a nod and a quick bow, and moved off down the passage. He retraced his steps, climbed the ladder, and exited the cairn stone.

The light from the moon’s crescent was a sharp change from the tunnels’ torchlight. Letting his eyes adjust to the lower light, he took in the fullness of the nighttime woods, reveling in his senses. Greg could interpret a wolf’s call perfectly, and could glean as much information from a few howled notes as most people could from a short news article. He could navigate unfamiliar land with only a sliver of Luna’s light as guidance. As a wolf, he could track prey through the thickest woods with the mere scent of the target, and would hear the clear cracking of a twig under a deer’s hoof, five hundred feet away. For all his superior senses, though, Greg still did not notice the person sitting on one of the benches behind him until she coughed politely.

Greg whirled around, his fingernails beginning to lengthen into wolf’s claws until he saw who had startled him. With a reproachful look he let his nails return to normal. Then, Greg smiled. “Do you have to do that every time you see me?” Greg walked over to the bench where she sat.

The girl seated on the log bench grinned up at him. “Only as long as you keep falling for it!” She laughed, and leaned back to look up into the night sky. Greg scowled a little. “Oh, I’m just teasing you. Chill, Greg.”

Alix Friedman was a tall girl, although she still fell several inches short of Greg. Greg had always thought her quite attractive, but they had met as friends in high school and it had, though it sometimes disappointed him, stayed that way for the five years since.

“You’ve the jumpiest Half-Moon I’ve ever met, Greg. And tonight even more than normal. What’s up?” Alix turned towards him and scooted backwards, making room for him on the bench.

Greg didn’t sit down immediately. He stood, pacing and watching the surrounding forest for any movement. It was then that he noticed her clothing, and why she had been a bit hard to see. She wore black sweatpants, and her ponytail of blonde hair, resplendent with streaks of red, green, blue and her other favorite dyes-of-the-week, touched the top of her tight, black shirt. Other than her raucous hair, she blended very neatly into the night. “The Svensons found a Caste Dancer nearby,” Greg said grimly. Alix raised her eyebrows. “It was a little while ago, have you been out here long?”

“A few minutes. I haven’t heard anything,” Alix said coolly. Greg noticed that her eyes were darting about, though, scanning the edge of the clearing.

“You’re obviously too busy sneaking up on poor, unsuspecting people like me to hear the warning calls.” Greg dropped onto the bench next to Alix. You’re getting pretty damn good, though, I have to say. I didn’t even smell you, this time.”

Alix grinned, and untied something from around her waist. She chucked it at Greg in response. “You forgot your coat in the woods. Nothing beats your prey’s scent for camouflage.”

“Oh, thanks. So I’m your prey now?”

“You wish. Hey,” said Alix, “I think I see Hans and Frans.” She nodded at the far side of the clearing, where a pair of wolves had just trotted out of the trees. Both were large and dark, with black patches throughout their lighter gray hides. As they entered the clearing they slowed to a walk, and their fur began to thin as their limbs changed into human arms and legs. Fur was replaced by jeans and dusty jackets, and Jon and Lars rose up onto their hind legs.

“Oh, joy. The Svensons. Well, let’s see what happened,” said Greg, rising from the bench. Alix followed as Greg approached the werewolf brothers. “Was that you with the hunting call earlier?” he called out. Greg regarded them coldly. He considered the brothers overly violent and careless, which was saying something for a pair of Full-Moons. Their Caste valued violence and glory above all else, though that was supposed to be tempered with honor and at least a touch of wisdom. Greg was convinced that the Svensons had missed out on that part of the job description.

“Yeah, that was me.” Lars, the smaller of the two, grinned, showing several broken teeth. “I knew we could handle the Dancer, so there was no need to call for help,” he spat.

Alix groaned quietly and rolled her eyes, and Greg sighed noisily. “You two took on a Caste Dancer alone? Why did you risk that? What if its pack had been around too? You’re pretty damn lucky to have escaped with just that,” he finished, pointing to the long gash in Jon’s side. It shone with blood, and Jon was doing his best to conceal the pain.

“Hey, screw you, man!” shouted Jon, who cringed only slightly as he did.

“Yeah,” retorted Lars, “you’re just jealous you didn’t get in on this fight! It was a good one, too! Man, Jon, you remember that chick shredding the Dancer? That was some good-”

“Chick?” Alix cut in. “There was someone besides you and the Casteless in the fight?”

“Yeah, some crazy girl. I guess she was a cub or something.” Lars shrugged. “But I pissed her off pretty good, and she frenzied. Tore that Dancer’s throat out! Hell yeah!” said Lars, high-fiving Jon, who clutched his side afterwards. Greg’s anger was now bubbling almost to the surface, held back only by practice and force of will. He was thankful for his Half-Moon blood; he was certain that its balancing nature was all that kept him from shifting into the war-form and letting Lars feel his teeth. He clenched his fists and turned his back on the brothers, walking over towards Cathryn, who had just emerged from the cairn stone.

Alix walked casually up to Lars, stopping only inches from his face. Her eyes were level with his, and she cocked her head to the side. “Tell me again what happened, Lars, because I can’t quite wrap my head around it.”

“Tell you what, Gibbous-Moon?” Lars said, looked rather confused. “We already told you, we killed one of the Casteless.” He spat into the dirt. “There’s nothing here for your campfire stories. You won’t get any renown from telling about my adventures.” He pointed to himself. “We only came back so that friend of yours could make with the healing. That Casteless got lucky when it hit Jon, but those things have more diseases on ‘em than you’ll find in a whole city block.”

“Oh, please. If the cities were that pestilent, we wouldn’t have any humans left to bother protecting.” Alix crossed her arms.

“Wouldn’t be such a bad thing,” Jon mumbled, nursing his side.

“Oh, that’s right!” Alix walked over to the taller brother. “Because obviously you guys don’t care about your duties, as long as you get to have a good brawl.” She ended by jabbing a finger into Jon’s stomach. He moaned and backed quickly away, baring his teeth at her.

“Easy there, girl,” Lars growled behind her. She wheeled back to face him. “Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

“And you two morons are so good at finishing things, right?” Alix pointed out towards the forest. “Because I seem to remember that there’s a girl out there who you made frenzy, and, funny thing, I don’t see her around anywhere.” Alix made an exaggerated gesture of looking around the entire clearing. Lars was now baring his teeth, and hair was starting to sprout across his face and arms. Alix smirked. “What? Don’t like hearing about your own screw-ups? Because if anything happened to that girl, who is one of us, I will make damn sure that everyone at the next convocation hears how you lost the first cub anyone around here has seen in years.”

Now Jon was growling at her too, and Lars threw his head back and howled, shifting into his huge, hybrid form. Alix stood her ground, spreading her feet and looking up at Lars. His head now resembled a wolf’s, and his torso and arms grew and muscles and hair multiplied until Lars stood nine feet tall, gnashing his fangs at her. Lars furrowed the ground with his back paws, and growled out words as best as his throat could. “I’ve heard enough of your taunts, you little-”

“Enough!” Cathryn’s voice cut across the clearing. Cathryn’s small form was suddenly between Alix and Lars, her hands in the air. “Lars, control yourself. And Alix, stop baiting him, however satisfying it may be.” Lars struggled to control himself, and melted back down into his human form. Alix snorted. “You’re both Gaians, so start acting like it. If you want to fight, go hunt down a corrupted spirit or more Casteless, but you will not shed each others’ blood while I am your Voice. Understood?” She looked back and forth between the two werewolves.

Alix nodded, but Lars’ hackles were still up. “A Voice should let us settle our differences the way they were meant to be settled, wolf to wolf! What kind of a Gaian takes that kind of talk with his tail between his legs?” He pointed to Alix, who had backed a few steps away from Lars and Cathryn.

“If you mean to make a challenge, do so.” Cathryn still hadn’t moved, and even in his human form, Lars stood almost a foot taller than her. The two locked eyes, Lars growling and Cathryn staring with an intensity absent until a moment before. Greg, Alix, and Jon watched as their bodies tensed; Cathryn stood ready as Lars clenched his fist, and his arm twitched forward, feigning a move to attack. Cathryn did not flinch, and after another moment of staring down Lars, the larger werewolf unclenched his fist and broke the Voice’s gaze, inclining his head slightly as he did so.

Cathryn stepped towards Lars and waved towards his exposed neck. “Good. We need not speak of this again. Jon, sit down, I will tend to your wound. I have the healing Gift as well.” Everyone relaxed, and Jon walked over to a bench and sat stoically down, wincing only a little as he did. Cathryn moved towards the Greg glared at Lars, who was busy averting his eyes from everyone in the clearing.

To keep his mind off how near that exchange had come to blows, Greg shot one last glare at Lars and moved out into the forest, following the path of trampled brush and drops of blood the brothers had left as they plowed back to the cairn. Soon his thoughts were lost in the effort of tracking, so he was a little surprised when someone barked out a question.

Do you know where the fight was?

Greg paused and glanced over his shoulder. A wolf trailed him closely, her mouth open and tongue out as she panted. Alix had run after him into the woods. The Brightcoat, as she was known throughout the region, certainly deserved her nickname; the dyes that chased through her hair ran just as brightly through her light fur. The green patches even appeared to glow in the dark, and Greg smiled. In lupus form, Alix looked almost like a huge, lean, feral golden retriever making a fashion statement.

The same was true for most Glass Wolves, and Alix was not one to be left out. Her tribe was heavily influenced by human trends, and they were far more active in human politics and business than any other tribe. The tribe was also filled with technophiles, though a proclivity for gadgets was often looked upon with suspicion and disdain in Gaian society. Technology was a tool of Fíodóir, the binder: one of the enemies of Gaia and of her chosen warriors, the werewolves. The Glass Wolves’ idiosyncrasies were tolerated, however, since the tribe’s fondness for technology let them do things that other werewolves could not. Because of this, their odd fondness of cell phones, designer suits, and hair dye were tolerated by their brethren.

What’s funny? asked Alix, cocking her head at the look Greg had given her. “Just that your green patch glows. It looks pretty cool.” Greg turned back to the ground, but he had lost the trail of broken branches and blood-smeared leaves that had led him this far. “They came from this way. Can you help me backtrack? The girl they mentioned must be in trouble, otherwise she would have come back with them.”

Only if those two didn’t open their stupid mouths, Alix barked. Greg laughed. Alix lowered her nose to the ground and started sniffing. You’re right. We should hurry. Alix quickly picked up the trail and trotted off through the trees, Greg close behind.

They wove between the trees for several minutes before Greg broke the silence. “Did you catch any of what Hans and Frans said about a cub?” Everyone called the Svenson brothers by those names, but never to their faces.

Sounds like it that’s who the girl was, the one they said frenzied. But we should have heard about any cubs in the area, shouldn’t we? There’s someone at the cairn from pretty much every tribe, so you’d think they’d have been ready to pick up any cubs about to go through their first change. Alix lost the scent for a moment, and then noticed a trod-upon plant and set off again.

“You’re right, this is pretty unusual. Then again, there’s nothing normal about a Caste Dancer coming so close to the cairn.” The continued for a few minutes in silence, and then Greg paused mid-stride. “What if she’s a Lost Cub?”

Alix turned her head and looked back at Greg, cocking her head to one side. The future of a werewolf’s offspring was a quicksilver thing; there was no reliable way of telling whether the parent’s nature would be inherited until the child underwent its first change. Most never did, and rather than risk subjecting otherwise normal human children to the rigors and frequent terrors of a werewolf’s life, cubs were given over to surrogate, human parents - kinfolk of the tribes, the rare humans who knew of the Gaian’s existence. All Gaians’ children were carefully watched and protected, but only a few ever manifested their heritage. In the joyous event that the child did turn out to be a cub, a full werewolf, then members of the cub’s tribe were usually close at hand, ready to intercept and adopt the cub after the carnage that all too often accompanied the first change and the realization that, as you were entering the already beastly phase of life known as puberty, you were actually a creature typically reserved for bad horror flicks and vaguely Goth role-playing games. Finally, once the bedraggled cub had settled down enough, she was taken to the nearest cairn to learn the ways of her people: Gaia’s warrior children.

But this is not always the case, as Greg knew. Sometimes the overseeing werewolves lost track of their charge, and the unfortunate cub was left to fend for herself. Greg had only once before encountered a Lost Cub, and he had a scar in his right side to prove it. Greg had been young at the time, barely rid of the title “cub” himself. He had met the boy wandering the woods near the cairn, and had instinctively recognized him as a werewolf. Greg had no idea, however, that the boy himself was not yet aware of his own nature. Greg had also been in his hybrid form when he had hailed the young werewolf.

The youth, terrified at Greg’s half-man, half-wolf form, had reacted on instinct and underwent his first change, also transforming into the hybrid war-form and going berserk with fear. Greg, taken completely aback, had barely escaped death at the cub’s claws, and had had to beat the cub unconscious to subdue him.

Shaking his head at the memory, Greg recalled his grief at the scars he had caused the unsuspecting boy. He also grimaced at his own scar from the encounter. Although no one blamed him for the results of that night, he had kept it a secret from almost everyone; only the cub and the cairn elders knew. He doubted that his friends would think any less of him for it, but still, something drove him to keep it hidden. His wandering thoughts were brought abruptly back to the forest by Alix’s voice.

I think we’re where the fight was.

Greg shook his head to clear it. “Why do you say tha-” Greg stopped as he took in the scene laid out before them.

Almost directly in front of them was a huge, black corpse. He recognized it easily as one of the Casteless. Its snout was short and thick, its face was spotted and shaped distinctly like a hyena’s, but its enormous ears resembled those one might find on a huge bat. As if the innate ugliness of the beast were not enough, its head hung limply back from its shoulders. The tendons of its neck had been severed, and most of the throat had been torn out. The rest of the body was in little better condition; bite marks and claw slashes, black with blood, crisscrossed the creature’s torso and limbs.

Greg noted that the beast had not gone down quickly or cleanly, and took a grim satisfaction in it. Alix looked on with similar approval. Though Greg had little love of killing, he took some enjoyment in the slaying of the Casteless. Their roots stretched back in a story that every Gaian knew well, if they did not often speak of it.

There was once a tribe known only as the Glan-Faols. The Glan-Faol were the gem of Gaian society, and had even crafted the werewolves’ language. A strong and proud tribe, descended from the Picts of old northern Britain, the Glan-Faol led many crusades against Scriost, the wyrm, and other enemies of Gaia. Flushed with victory and howling for more wyrm-blood, the Glan-Faol embarked on their greatest quest – to pass deep into the spirit realm, where they could slay Scriost in its very den. No word ever came from the Glan-Faol. Those werewolves who emerged were twisted, both physically and mentally. After years in the spirit realms, the formerly Gaian werewolves had forgotten the teachings of their goddess and had strayed from their Castes. While their time among the spirits had opened up new avenues of power, it had also stricken them with lunacy.

The moon drove the werewolves, and Luna granted them the strength to defend Gaia and all her children against the minions of Scriost and Fíodóir. Luna’s power, however, was a double-edged sword. The moon’s influence would have eventually driven all werewolves mad, but Gaia intervened and presented her Chosen with the Castes. The five castes, representing the five phases of the moon, let the werewolves control their powers and keep their minds intact. Each Gaian werewolf’s caste was fluid until their first change, when it was ritually set according to the phase of the moon, and they grew up more or less stable. The Caste Dancers, as the Glan-Faol came to be known, had persisted since that ancient day in spreading chaos and slaughter throughout the world, rejecting the gifts of Gaia and fighting as agents of Scriost. They are also one of the Gaian’s greatest enemies, being of the same nature, albeit inverted. While their minds were warped by insanity, they still held many secrets that the Gaians would have preferred kept from their enemies.

In disgust, Alix turned and urinated on the dead Caste Dancer, and Greg spat. Absorbed in the hated creature before them, both were startled to hear a faint groan. Greg looked to Alix, who shifted back into her human form, and together they pushed through the abused undergrowth towards the sound.

At first, neither recognized what they found as anything but the bloodied, wounded body of a young woman. Her shirt and jacket had been torn apart and hung in limp, bloodied strips from her shoulders. Greg was nearly overcome with the stink of the drying, blackened blood that covered her in a splotchy coat. He noted quickly that she had several major wounds across her chest and legs, though most of the blood flow had miraculously stopped.

“Jesus,” whispered Alix. “Did she do all this?”

Greg’s eyes were wide at the poor girl’s condition. He knelt by the girl’s head, listening to her shallow breaths. He nodded nervously. “She’s alive, but barely. How in Gaia’s name did she survive a Caste Dancer attack? If she’s a cub like they said…I wonder if the Svensons pitched in after all. We need to get her back to-” Greg stopped as he brushed long, red hair off of the girl’s face. He blanched. Alix opened her mouth to speak, but Greg cut her off. “Alix,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Alix. It’s Meghan!”