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The night after the meeting passes quietly, each person reminded of the
spectre of death that stalks the shadows of the village. Imaginations
work not on the inward pains that can mean a slow decay, or the
accidents that happen in everyday living, but on bloody fates:
decapitation, disembowelment, becoming no more than slick meat in the
mouths of monsters. Those killed by the beasts are never recovered to
be washed and prepared for the afterworld, and that terrifies the
pious almost as much as its seemingly random selection of victims.
Sleep comes easy to few that night, but Adam has an especially
terrible night. He tosses, sweaty even in the chilly air of the hut,
and dreams. He dreams of being one with the monsters, of the taste of
raw deer in his mouth, of the power of furred arms and legs and the
exciting fear in battle. His inward ears echo with howls that come
from monsters that are not as dark-furred as those that haunt his
village. But still, be their fur black or white or yellow, still they
shift. Still their eyes burn in the moonlight. And he is one of them.

As dawn begins, the silence in the house is broken by Adam's awakening
yell. He's sitting upright in his bed, and a thin sheen of sweat can
be seen on his face in the early light.

It doesn't take long for the yell to get a response. Noise of movement
comes from the area of the house that Petre uses as his room. The thin
light of early morning filters through a few cracks around the windows
and doors, but the banked fire gives very little light in the closed
home. "Son?"

The boy is shivering too hard to really respond, breath coming in forced
gasps, as if Adam has to remember how to breathe.

More noise, then the sound of flint and steel as a spark flares to light
a crude lamp. Petre's voice holds more concern. "Son?"

"Get away," Adam gasps, wrapping the flimsy blanket around himself more.
"We have-*gasp* to get away."

Petre comes closer, the flickering light making his face look lined and
old. "There's no where to go, son. Shhh, calm now. You had a bad
dream." He sets the lamp down on a table and sits on the floor cot
where Adam sleeps.

Adam shakes his head, quickly. "We can...can go anywhere." His breathins
slows a bit, but is still shaking. "We cannot live like this."

Petre shakes his head. He rubs his sleep-clogged eyes with one brawny
fist before replying. "When I was a child, two strangers came to town.
I remember it, because it's so rare. No one dares spend a night in the
woods, but these dared. They'd started five strong, all young men firm
in belief of their fighting ability. They were looking for a safe
haven, somewhere beyond the grey monsters that preyed on their
village. Two of them died the first night, then one more a few nights
before they stumbled on our village. They were madmen, that jumped at
every shadow because of the way they'd seen them die. They couldn't
stay within our walls. They went on, to the south." His hands clench
as he says bitterly, "The monsters are everywhere. Nothing stops
them."

"Is that all we're here for," the blond boy asks, "to spend out lives
jumping at shadows." Angry tears begin to form in his eyes, as he
whispers. "We have seen first hand, what they can do..."

Petre's eyes are dry, though even the dim light can't distinguish the
anguish on his face when he recalls his wife. "Yes. The gods..." His
throat closes; he adds no more than a shallow cough.

"We have to do something," Adam's voice breaks the silence. "We
can't...we have no reason, to live our lives in fear."

Petre pushes to his feet. His voice is husky as he says, "It's better
than not living at all."

The boy's anger rises. "This isn't life! Life is meant to be lived, not
to be spent waiting to die! How...we have to do something."

Petre shakes his head, turning away from his son. "You can't reason with
monsters."

You paged Adam with 'That strikes a sour note, but you don't know why.'.

Adam sighs quietly. "When is someone up there going to start looking out
for us?"

Petre just shakes his head. He goes to the fire and kneels to begin
building it up. The day has begun.

Adam climbs out of his cot, throwing on some simple work clothes. "One
of these days, the nightmares will stop." This isn't said as much to
Petre as to himself.

Petre doesn't respond, if he hears. He slowly feeds the fire, working
carefully until he has small flames licking the new timber. He doesn't
look up as he mentions blandly, "We're low on water."

Adam nods slowly, and opens the door, squinting in the sunlight as he
goes to the well to draw water.

People already move at their tasks, even though the sun still stains the
eastern sky a brilliant red and gold. Several are just beginning the
day, like Adam, and others look as if they'd already been at work for
some time before sunrise. There are already backs bent in the field.
Joseph, one of the apprentices to the goat herder, walks carefully
toward the center of the town. His path will carry him past the well,
but the straining way he carries his bucket reveals that the well
isn't his destination. White foam drips down one side as he sloshes
the contents.

Adam lowers the well bucket with practiced ease, and nods to the
Goatherder's boy as he wanders past. "Morning to you."

Joseph gives a gap-toothed grin to Adam, who bests him by a couple of
hands in height and a handful of years. "Morning, Adam. Jamal wants to
know if you can help cut grass, after noon. Got to pen up all the
white goats."

Adam doesn't seem to mind the prospect, but shakes his head. "Want to,
but can't. Ben's foals are almost grown, and he needs saddles for them
to break them in on. Have my work cut out for me today."

The boy nods. "Tell him," he promises. "I have to hurry, though." Joseph
again picks up the pail from where he'd momentarily put it down and
does the curious stiff-legged walk of someone carrying something
liquid and heavy as he continues to head for the village square.

Adam draws up the first bucket, emptying it in the one brought from the
house. His eyes follow his friend as the latter goes towards the
villiage square.

Joseph takes the bucket into one of the houses of the center. After
another bucket drawn from the well, Adam sees his friend running off
without the bucket--full or empty--back toward the fields kept as
grazeland.

Adam sees Joseph go, and takes his bucket back to the house, going
inside.

The air inside the house is full of the scents of breakfast as it cooks
on the flat rock heated by the fire. Tea and a thick gruel also bubble
nearby, cooked by dropping in heated stones. Petre is bent over near
the cooking food, carving on a piece of wood with his rough knife. For
just a moment, another figure flickers in and out of Adam's perception
where his father sits. Instead of his father's burly shoulders and
bent head, he sees the slender dark-haired figure of a woman. She
carves by firelight, running her roughened fingertips over her work.

The odd vision takes Adam completely by surprise. He drops the bucket,
its contents spilling.

Petre's voice shatters the image, and his father is again by the fire.
"By the Wolf, boy!" He drops his carving and stands. Even as he
strides to where Adam stands in shock, the water is beginning to soak
into the hard-packed soil.

"But-I mean-who? That woman?" Adam asks. He barely notices the water
seeping in, since he's still in shock.

Petre begins to sound angry as he makes it to Adam's side. He puts his
hands on Adam's shoulders and looks into the young man's face. "What
woman?"

Adam's eyes are a little glazed over, but focus on his father's own
eyes. "R-right where you were sitting, Pa. I saw you, but I saw a
woman there, too, carving wood. Slender, dark hair."

Petre shakes his head violently. "Don't you talk like that. No woman
here. People will start to think you mad." He shoves Adam roughly
toward a corner, where a rough whisk broom made of branches sits.
"Sweep that water out, then get some more. No more crazy talk."

"She was there," Adam gasps, quickly reaching for the broom. He throws
open the door, sweeping out as much of the water as he can.

Petre's face knits into a scowl. "No, she wasn't," he snaps. "Hasn't
been a woman in here other than the healer since your mother died.
Maybe after you get that water, you should go see the old crone. Get
her to drive whatever spirit out of you."

Sweeping the water, Adam's brow furrows. "I...I just might."

Petre continues to scowl, but he turns away to attend to the breakfast
before it burns. The woodworking lies where he dropped it, forgotten
for now.

Adam finishes his sweeping. Putting the broom back in the corner,
wordlessly, he goes to pick up the piece of wood his father was
working on.

Petre's attitude is still soured, but he shoves a bowl and plate at his
son. "Eat," he says gruffly. "Then get the damn water. Just leave that
there. I've got to get to work, anyway." The steeped tea is to one
side with two rough earthenware cups. Adam's father eats with short,
decisive bites, spitting a husk into the fire when his chewing catches
on it.

Adam glowers slightly at the sudden shift of tone of Petre. But, he
doesn't say anything, eating quietly. He looks back to the
woodcarving, wondering what it is.

The carving seems to be in very early stages, perhaps a rough likeness
of a person from the length and general shape. Though far from his
main profession, Petre sometimes makes rough toys for the children in
his spare time. He always seems to need something in his hands.

Adam regards the figure for a moment, then goes back to eating. When
done, the boy rises. "Work to do," he mutters.

Petre jerks his head in a nod. It's only when Adam has almost left the
house that he says, "If you need to see her, go. The work will get
done."

That's all Adam needs. He nods once, and leaves the house, looking for
the crone.

Memory supplies the location of the healer's hut: at the center of town,
a few buildings over from the cheese maker. People respect the healer,
who deals with the spirits as much as the herbs. She has true status
in the town, which few women enjoy. But there is a touch of fear
there, too, for one that traffics with the unseen. The healer. The
crone. Cinabar.

Adam stands at the doorway of Cinabar's hut. For once, he is not
thinking of other things, or being indecisive. He has to know. Another
moment, and he knocks on the door.

Cinabar's voice quivers with the weakness of the aged as she calls out.
"It's not locked." For some reason that seems to amuse her, because
Adam can hear faint cackling inside.

Opening the door, Adam steps inside the hut. "I," he says, "I have a
problem. it's...something that I think, ma'am, needs your help."

Cinabar's dark eyes are clear over a nose that could generously be
called 'beaky.' She motions to a place near the fire. Once Adam sits,
she thrusts a bowl in his hands. "Stir that. Now, what's the problem?
Some woman?"

"Nothing that simple, I'm afraid," Adam says, taking the proffered seat.
"I...think I may be losing my mind."

Cinabar's eyes narrow and she leans into Adam's face, staring into his
eyes. Her breath has the same slightly foul flavor of any in the
village, and which Adam hardly notices. She doesn't look away, as if
she's trying to see into the young man's soul by the poor light of the
fire and early morning light though one window.

Adam, not knowing the healing ways of Cinabar's profession, doesn't look
away.

You paged Adam with 'This stirs a memory, an anger. She's trying to
discipline you. Prove she's better than you. You can't look away. But
you must look away. She's respected. Older. A healer.'.

The boy tries, really tries to keep that gaze. But, in an instant, he
wrenches his eyes away from the woman, the anger in him suddenly
rising again.

Cinabar snorts. "Don't get touchy, young Adam." She moves over, back to
her seat. Age cripples the ease of her motions, but she gets around
well enough. "I didn't see any spirit in your eyes. You having
headaches or anything?"

Adam shakes his head. "No. It's just these nightmares. It's about them."

Cinabar doesn't soften at the word. "Ah. Them." She waits for a few
moments, then snaps. "Don't stop stirring."

"What do you expect me to do then?" Adam snaps back, reflexively. He
shakes his head. "This...this dream was different. Not like the other
ones about Mama."

Cinabar motions sharply. "Stir and I'll tell you." She waits, but
finally says after the task is begun, "Half the village is having
nightmares. The wolf spirits prey on dreams before they come. It
doesn't mean you're mad."

"Even if," Adam replies, speaking softly, "even if I dream I'm /one/ of
them?"

Cinabar looks up in sudden fear. She narrows her eyes at the boy,
inspecting him closely again. "There's only one reason you'd dream of
that." Her voice quavers with more than age. "One of the wolf spirits
must have stayed inside you, after your dreams. We need to drive it
out."

"How," Adam asks. "How?"

Cinabar gets up, motioning after her. "Come after me. I'll have to
hurry. This will have to be done when the sun is the highest in the
sky." Her dark eyes, nested in wrinkled skin, bore into Adam's. "Do
you promise to try to hold the spirit down until it's done? I can't
tell you how, or the spirit could prepare."

Adam rises sharply. "I will do as best I can."

Cinabar leads Adam to a storage hut and shuts him inside. She points at
the potter as he walks by toward the well, though Adam can't see who
she's talking to. "You! Watch this door. Don't let the boy out, on
pain of his life." There's then the sound of her moving away.

Adam sits on the dirt floor in the stroage hut. He draws his knees close
to his chest, waiting as his inner restless grows. He hears nothing,
which makes him more edgy.

Rolling his shoulders in tension, Adam squeezes his eyes shut. In his
mind's eye, he tries to fins that face, the one of the 'wolf-spirit,'
and bring it to the fore of his mind in order to focus on it, and push
it down. He trembles, as a thin sheen of sweat begins to cover him.

Time goes by with Adam concentrating. Finally he seems to fall into a
slight trance, or perhaps he falls asleep in the still air of the hut.
He seems to be looking into his own face, looking for this wolf
spirit. Finally, that face speaks to him. "You can't push me down,
Adam. I'm you."

"I am me," Adam gasps. "I am pushing down the evil, since I am not
evil."

The dream-Adam shakes his head. His voice is sad. "They aren't evil. The
tribe taught us about this. They think they're doing the right thing."

"What?" Adam's voice is frantic, as opposed to the other's serenity.
"What tribe. I am not one of them! They killed Mama! I am not one of
them!"

The stress destroys the dream, if dream it is. Adam's dream face
disappears in a red haze, the only impression of his presence a
mournful howl in the inner ears.

No, Adam thinks. The answers! The boy, inwardly, at least to his own
reckoning, echoes the howl. Come back! Please...what's wrong with
me...

The face does not return, but a voice does whisper in answer. Your tribe
is one of peace. Peace. Peace.

Peace, he asks inwardly. What peace, when we live in fear. peace, no moe
fear, no more hiding...never knew, never know...trapped...stop...make
it stop...

Adam has the impression of cool hands pressed to his brow. Peace, the
voice continues to whisper. The voice finally changes from its whisper
to the sound of a running stream, gentle and calming.

Adam pulls himself to that sound, the water. He wants that, so badly
that it pains him that he isn't at that water. Peace...peace...

The rough reality of one of the shed's walls brings Adam back to the
storage hut.

Adam doesn't even bother to supress a shudder at the feel of the rough
wood wall on his hand. He starts to tremble again, as the questions
seem to multiply into infinity. he drags himself to a corner, huddling
away from everything, if possible.

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