“Them?” I wondered, more confused.
“The Shifters.”
“You mean…werewolves?”
She nodded. “And from what I can see,” she
aimed her eyes at the top of my head, as if reading something. “You
are in love with one of them.”
I looked up, trying to see what she was
looking at. But there was nothing, just the invisible fusty air
flowing under the dim yellow lights. I lowered my chin, wondering
what confused me more: knowing she was right about, oh God, me
loving Tristan, not knowing how she figured it out, or the fact
that he might be a…werewolf.
A werewolf for God’s sake! How in the world
was that possible? It was totally irrational, ridiculous. Yes, he
was enigmatic and puzzling. But to think he was a bestial creature
that changed under the full moonlight was a whole other issue, one
that went beyond the edges of a sane human mind.
“That’s insane,” I said, shaking my head.
“Werewolves don’t exist. They’re just made-up characters.”
“I guess you will have to find it out on your
own, then. There are several ways for you to do so, if that is your
wish.”
I stared into her small eyes. “Tell me,” I
said in a low voice, surprised by my silliness in following her up
on this crazy thing.
“His index finger. Usually for humans it’s
shorter than the middle one.” I looked down at my hand. “But for
them, it has the exact same length.”
I hadn’t seen Tristan’s hand in detail. “What
are the other ways?”
“They have a tiny puncture in the upper edge
of their ear. It’s really tiny, so you need to strain to see it,”
she advised. “But their unusual warmth is also a revealing
factor.”
I gulped. “Warmth?” I said, anxious. “What do
you mean by unusual?”
“Their blood heat runs higher than ours due
to their frequent transformations. Each time they turn themselves
into Shifters, you can notice the difference in their body
temperature. It’s usually high, but as time passes by, the heat
diminishes, until they transform once more and the process starts
all over again.”
The memory of that day at Ski Apache came to
my mind, when my hands had been stiff-frozen and he’d brought them
to life. And human heat wasn’t capable of that. “How do you know
all of this?” I asked.
“I have my sources,” she smiled.
I thought about it once more. “No way.” I
said, shaking my head. “There’s no way this can be true. It makes
no sense, no sense at all.”
“Keep saying that to yourself and you will
never find the truth.”
“The truth? There’s no truth in that crazy
explanation.”
“Yes, dear. So crazy that it fills you with
doubt now.” She looked above my head once more.
I dropped my eyes, frustrated. I was, indeed,
beginning to considerate the tiny-microscopically ridiculous
possibility of the werewolf theory, simply because it explained so
many things.
I stared back at her. “When you said ‘them,’
what did you mean? How many are there?”
She smiled again, pleased by my renewed
interest. “A pack of five, including your beloved one.”
“Five?” I said. “And I know some of
them?”
“The leader is the oldest. The other four are
younger.” She narrowed her eyes. “One of them is different, though.
He’s not like the other ones. I think it’s the one your heart
seeks.”
Tristan? And Julian Winfield? Werewolves?
Then, Elan and Mingan…and perhaps Tristan’s brother…five? No
way.
“I have to go.” I rushed to the door, unable
to ride the wave of confusion in my head anymore.
“Wait.” She stopped me. “I want to give you
something.” She opened the small chest on the desk. “Take it as an
early birthday present.” She took out a velvety bag of a deep
amethyst color.
How did she found out about my birthday?
“It’s not necessary,” I told her with a wave of my hand.
She ignored me and shook the bag, closing her
eyes. It sounded like there were several dominos inside of it,
rubbing against each other. She opened her eyes. “Do the same,” she
instructed, handing me the bag. “Clear your mind and think of a
specific question as you shake it. But think carefully. The runes
do not give their wisdom to the foolish,” she warned.
I grimaced. “The runes? Is that what’s
inside?” I looked down at the mysterious bag in my hands.
She nodded. “They’re considered to be
magical, to hold within their symbols the secrets of creation and
of time itself. To speak the name of a rune, or to carve it upon an
object, was believed to summon an aspect of the power of the
universe.”
I looked back at her. “What are they
exactly?”
“Runes are angular symbols, usually carved on
stone, metal or wood. They belong to a specific alphabet called
“Futhark” made by the ancient Germanic people. The ones you’re
holding are made of wood.”
“So…if I ask a question, they’re going to
give me an answer? Like a card reading?”
“Indeed. A rune reading,” she explained.
“When you’re done asking your question, pick randomly three rune
stones one by one and lay them out in a flat line. We’re going to
use the runic spread of the Norns, the three goddesses of fate in
Norse mythology.” She slid her hand across the wooden surface of
the desk. “Each of the three runes is named after Urd, Verdandi,
and Skuld, better known as Past, Present, and Future.”
Even if I didn’t believe too much in
divination, something told me this was the time to give it a
chance. It sounded interesting. It was definitely not the same old
card reading thing.
I closed my eyes and shook the bag, mixing
the runes well. And the questions that came to my mind were
obvious, as obvious as the heartbeats that pumped in my chest every
time I thought about him. The only thing that could sum up all my
questions in that moment was one word.
Tristan
, I thought to myself, closing
my eyes. I opened them and pulled open the ruffled top of the bag.
I shoved my hand inside, grasped the first rune—a black domino-like
thing, with a more rounded shape—and laid it out on the desk, next
to the chest. The rune had a strange white symbol on it, similar to
a small “n” but one side of the letter higher than the other. The
second one I took out looked the same, but its symbol looked like
an arrow pointing to the left. The third was a plain black rune,
with no symbols on it. That one scared me a little. I didn’t know
if the lack of a symbol was good or bad.
The old lady fixed her eyes on the three
runes, engrossed into her inner interpretations. Several seconds
passed as she observed them cautiously, catching a glimpse of
something in them every time she went back and forth with her eyes.
“Okay,” she began. “The first rune represents the place of Urd, the
Past.” She pointed her finger at the rune. “The one you chose is
the rune of irresistible force, Uruz. This one is connected with
the aurochs, the untamable wild bulls so greatly feared in northern
Europe a long time ago. When Uruz is in the inverted position, as
it is now, it shows that rough times were flooding your life. The
powerful charge of the bull overwhelmed you emotionally as you were
mauled by events over which your reason didn’t have control. There
was pain and turmoil and confusion. You were lost.” She passed onto
the next rune.
“Then, here at the Place of Verdandi, the
Present, you have the rune of passion and insight, Kaunaz. It is
regarded as the rune of enlightenment and the igniting of passion
and love. You came across a powerful realization that helped you
out from a sea of confusion and changed your perspective
entirely—there is sudden clarity. I can see the beginning of
something new, something spiritual and passionate.
“Yet, the place of Skuld, the Future, shows
us the rune of fate, Wyrd, which reveals the workings of fate. You
are about to reach a point in your life that is completely
predestined, a period in which your willpower will have little
influence and events will unroll as they have been ordained.”
“Is that good or bad?” I looked at her,
worried.
She shook her head. “There’s no way to know.
Wyrd only says destiny is at work. Whether negative or positive,
time will reveal it.”
“But, what about my present? Does it mean
he’s…in love with me, too?” I said, struggling to pronounce the
last part. Jeez, I couldn’t even believe I was saying that.
She smiled. “Dear, your past is veiling your
eyes and heart from seeing the truth. As I told you before, see
things for what they really are, with your heart.” She placed her
hand on her chest. “Close your eyes to your mind, and feel the
truth. It is healthy to do so from time to time—more than healthy,
necessary for our welfare. We humans have forsaken the language of
our heart.”
I lowered my eyes and handed her the bag,
deep in thought. The problem with Tristan was that I wasn’t sure
about anything with him. He was so confusing. And perhaps it was me
who felt that truth, me who transformed his nice demeanor into
something more, when perhaps it wasn’t anything more than what it
really was, him merely being nice to me.
And then, there was Chloe…
“I really need to go back.” I smiled. I
pulled open the heavy door and stopped onto the threshold. “It was
really nice to meet you.” I turned to look at her.
She gave me a short nod. “Don’t be afraid.
The Ylem is with you.”
The Ylem?
I nodded and stepped out of
the bookstore. That Old Lady surely was a bit of a nutcase.
Fresh air wrapped my face, making me feel as
if I’d just woken up from a bizarre dream—a very odd reverie
involving medieval werewolves’ stories and Tristan as one of
them.
Real or not, I didn’t know what to think or
feel. Using my heart was really hard, but keeping it safe wasn’t a
priority anymore. If thinking with it meant finding the truth, then
yes, I was going to unlock it and make use of it, of its
language.
No pain, no gain, right?
A piercing horn startled me, jolting me out
of my thoughts and freezing me right in the middle of the road. The
car screeched to a halt a few inches from me. The short distance
between the ear-splitting thing and me should’ve scared me, but I
found myself amazed at the sight.
Another Transformer
. The
yellow SUV in front of me was breathtaking. It had widened fenders
on the side and lowered ones in front. The head lights in the front
were vertical, like those of a sports car, and in the middle of the
hood was a small black shield with a golden bull.
What’s the matter with cool cars and this
town? And by cool cars, I meant never-before-seen cars.
I tried to look through the tinted windshield
to see who the driver was, but my mortal eyes didn’t have the
see-through ability Clark Kent had. It was just plain black. I
rushed to the sidewalk and once there, turned to see if I could
catch the car again. To my surprise, it was still there,
motionless, as if the driver didn’t want to move. For a second I
wondered if he, or she, was looking at me. I started to feel
self-conscious.
I turned to go to the gourmet shop and the
powerful roar of engines roared in my ears. I looked back to see
the yellow car tear away. I shook my head. Definitely one deathtrap
I wouldn’t dare to get in.
A queasy feeling suddenly clawed my chest,
followed by a cold tingle in my spine. I looked around. The hairs
in the back of my neck rose. I felt as if I was being watched.
Though I was standing in a crowded area in the middle of the day,
goose bumps dotted my arms. I turned around. Nothing. I decided to
let it go and started walking. But then, right across the street,
over the edge of the wall of an antique boutique, a black shadow
moved and drew back, hiding itself from my eyes.
I stopped. What was that? Was I being
watched?
I remained there, waiting to see something.
And nothing.
This is why I don’t watch horror movies or read
horror books
.
They make me paranoid
. I pulled down the
red flags in my head and started walking once more. But the queasy
feeling never disappeared. I could still feel someone’s eyes
watching me.
Van Morrison’s song “Beside You” streamed
through the speakers, soothing the dry air inside the Escape. My
dad loved his music and I’d grown used to the rich, mellow voice
singing the lyrical tunes. This song in particular was one of my
favorites. But not even the soulful sound of the guitar could
defocus my mind from the recent discoveries.
The depths of the black forest
, I
remembered. I could definitely see in my mind's eye a werewolf
traveling in that thick barrier of trees edging the road. But there
was a big difference between imagining and actually believing. The
old lady’s words seemed so real it was hard not to believe them.
But again, they didn’t sound logical. How could they? These
creatures were supposed to be the product of our imagination, not
something real. It went against science.
Yet, there was always that zero point zero
one percent of possibility…
I sighed. "Dad…have you ever wondered if some
legends are true? Say like werewolves?"
“Werewolves?” He said in the same skeptical
tone I’d used with the old lady. "Why the asking?"
"I read some book and…I don't know, I just
wondered."
He paused, as if thinking how to answer.
“Well, you know what they say.”
I looked at him.
“There’s no smoke without fire.”
“Your point?”
“There is usually a cause for everything.
Like a rumor for instance. It doesn’t start for no reason. There’s
always some truth to it.”
I frowned. “You’re saying there might be some
truth behind werewolf stories?”
“Not behind werewolf stories, but behind the
creation of the character, of the legend itself. It’s one of the
most ancient and widespread stories in the world—Brazil, Argentina,
Russia, Italy, Germany, France…all of these countries have their
own beliefs about the werewolf phenomena. And when something has
that degree of popularity, you start wondering.”