Datos jerárquicos y no jerárquicos

The man born seventy-odd years ago as Cecil Mains but now known as The Wolf That Walks as a Man peered deep into the snowfall. The red-tinted black- out light of his ancient Skidoo snowmobile showed the few traces of the game trail he and his fellow poachers were following, packs loaded down with fresh meat, hides, bones, and other items to smuggle from the Algonquin-Manitou Council lands and back into his native UCAS. The forest closed tight around the small vehicles and their riders, the evergreen and bare branches hiding them at least partially from view above, magic and spirits hiding the rest. This was his element, the middle of winter, in snowfall, moving in ways that even magicians could not spot. But there were worse things in the woods of what had once been central Manitoba, and shelter was needed for the night. A handful of kilometers, his thoughts ringed in a constant tolling. We can do it.

But that cycle was interrupted by the on-and-off blinking of a light just like the one on his own snow- mobile. It came from behind him, similar to the way a person in the city might flash some high-beams to get someone’s attention. The AMC military’s search- and-rescue teams might just be out on a night like

tonight, and anything that would attract their atten- tion was forbidden to the group outside of what was necessary to travel, unless it was a true emergency. Even magic could only do so much to keep them concealed when someone was shouting and waving lights, and the group only had meager magical pow- ers available to them to begin with. The AMC was literal death on poachers, and Wolf knew his team wanted to live to realize and enjoy their meager gains. It would be a brief respite—it always was—and then they would head back into the forests that made up their real lives, the spot that gave purpose to the skills and abilities they had. Most modern metahu- mans had thought their particular set of skills to be obsolete, long unnecessary in the tech- and Mag- ic-aided Sixth World. Wolf lived to prove them wrong. The four circled the halftracks, killing the engines, and huddled close together so they wouldn’t have to speak loudly at each other through the blanketing snow. Betty was the easiest to notice, being a troll and all, a fact that was clearly visible as she was the least bundled up. Also, she was huge. But she was used to weather worse than this in the Northern Winnipeg Barrens that had been her home. She was

do, and rarely even grunting. Charleen was her op- posite, needing to tell at least one tall tale per day, and bundled up so tight that only her eyes and tusks could be seen. The fourth member was Fred, the dwarf who gathered them together and led them. He was an expert in trapping small game—and he had heard all the “small game” jokes as well. At the mo- ment, he looked very, very worried. “Checked the astral plane when I felt a chill,” he said. His ability to astrally perceive was his only magical ability, but a very useful one. “I saw a herd of windmares coming, and”—he swallowed hard—“a windstallion.”

The Wolf thought hard, not wasting any time ask- ing for a confirmation, for windmares were bad news. Their cold chill when they went through a person was horrific, especially in a cold place like this, and no shel- ter stopped them. Their chill went deep, right into the core, leaving your soul frozen. The much-rarer wind- stallion would pick up that soul, taking it with them as they ran through a metahuman. No shelter other than a proper home would protect against them, and no quickly summoned spirit would be strong enough to protect people. He needed something stronger,

lions and himself both

“Set up a quinzhee,” The Wolf ordered the others, “I’ll see about getting us the protection we need.” The other three looked at each other, wondering what was going to happen, but just as quickly set to the snow-hut shelter, the snow absolutely perfect for just such a thing. The wind was dying down; snow starting to stave off, but it was the calm before the stampede, before the ill meaning creatures of the Sixth World came forth to strip from them the ability to gaze upon yet another day.

Picking through his meager supplies, Wolf careful- ly picked out a few pieces that meant a lot to him and to the area in general—all things he made from these woods and were used for hunting. Tools and small traps, handmade and natural items, the last of his homegrown tobacco, and a locket with a pic- ture of his long-dead parents, who had been in the woods of former Northern Ontario during the Great Ghost Dance and never had their bodies recovered. He also brought out the hand drum he had crafted many years ago. Finally, he pulled out the last of his smudge pack, lighting it up and having the smoke go

But the patrols were thicker in their area than ever, ap- parently hunting after some lost civilians. Prepared, he found an area of snow that he was able to quickly shift away, finding a few rocks and frozen hard dirt to hold his objects while he sat down on a hard piece of ice. He then made a tiny fire in the center.

Wolf chanted low, centering him as he started to shift his perception, seeing what was not really there, things the vast majority of people in the world could never imagine. Wisps of mana flowed out from him. As he mentally pleaded for one of the local spirits to arrive and talk, the fire twisted, broke free and wandered over to make a deal. He started sweat- ing, and he paused in his drumming to wring out his headband by instinct, adding his own personal scent to the summoning. Minutes passed. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty. He tried all the languages he had learned in his long life, English, French, Cree, Ojibwe, Inukti- tut, Spanish, Portuguese, and Newfie. But the spirits only watched, staying silent in the trees and under the snow. His fellow travelers were making prog- ress building a four-person shelter, similar to a cheap and knocked-together igloo that wouldn’t last long. It only needed to stay upright for a night or two. A shanty shack made of snow, essentially.

“Sing,” he ordered, wanting their physical voices to join his mental chant. They looked at each other in confusion, but the snow started to fall harder again, and they broke into the ancient classic rowing song “Alouette,” which had been sung by their hunting and traveling forbearers, Le Voyageurs, as they used the song to time how they worked on the quinzhee. This song attracted attention—many old spirits had heard it time and again as they slept through the time of low magic that was the Fifth World, and now they came closer, to see what voices were bringing back this simple tale.

Their interest was piqued, but still none of the spir- its came forward to engage. The trio shifted to “En Roulant Ma Boule,” as Wolf threw a few more items into the little fire. Spices and herbs to make the bland trail food more interesting, a hand-rolled Cuban ci- gar he had planned to enjoy when he got back to the UCAS, a piece of jerky that was originally intended to be part of dinner. Finally, as the snow and wind rose to skin-cutting levels, he sighed and rolled up his sleeve, pulling out a small flint knife he knapped himself. He cut deep into his leathery skin, next to the many, many other scars that had come from a far-too-long

drops of it into the fire, sizzling and bringing forth the smoke to the entire crowd of collected wild spirits, making him easy prey. If the spirits here decided he was unwanted, they could track him long and far for however wide an area they wanted. Some of them might well decide he would never be free of them.

But it worked. A spirit emerged from the smoke, whirling around like a small tornado that grabbed pieces of wood and clumps of dirt from all over the forested area, forming itself from the environment. Smoke, sticks, snow, rocks, ice, and an elk’s skull, glowing in the empty sockets that shined with the age of countless centuries. It towered over the small group, then settled down, hunching over as if to talk to a small child. It inclined its skull and motioned with a hand made from twigs and small bones. Light- ly glowing sap could be seen between the cracks of the materials that made up his form. The source of the glow was unclear; if Wolf were pressed, he would say it was the glow of life. A heat came off the spirit’s physical form, warm for now but threatening to burn. There was magic here that humanity had long forgot- ten, some elements that perhaps were best left that way. The spirit gave a cough—as if it somehow had lungs and a throat that were coated with dust from long years of disuse.

“You have caught my attention, mortal, but only briefly. Not all who have done so have survived the experience. I smell the blood of much game on your soul, and the blood of more than one of your own kind, but little accomplishment in your scent. You are unlike most hunters I smell in this age. None have I spoken to know of you killing for sport. This and this alone gives you a splinter of my time.” The spirit made no physical sound as it “spoke.” Its words went to the hearts of the gathered group, resonating in their blood. It spoke the language of mana, meaning Wolf was in the best position to understand its nu- ances and inflections.

“We are, as you see, four hunters, oh spirit of this land. We follow—or try to follow, for none are able to succeed at all times—the old ways, ways that had been half-forgotten before we were born. We take the old, the lame. We devour them in thanks. All of their body is used, none going to waste. But now, this changed, fallen world would hunt us like those others you speak of, bringing death for sport and pleasure. Please, great spirit, I beg your aid so that I might con- tinue to teach these ways to others, and the ones I

stallion got to them. And death might have been a blessing compared to what some of these wild spirits were said to be able to do.

The skull looked the group over, somehow mak- ing its skull mouth frown at the snowmobiles. It then shrugged. “If my cousins wish you, why should I stop them? You have no hold over me, I am not some mere tiny spirit to be summoned and commanded, even if you try to twist your orders into questions.”

Wolf slowly reached into some pouches in his belt. “I bring offerings, freely given. I can provide candied maple syrup from the French lands to the east. Or bear pemmican with blueberries and honey from a reclaimed and re-greened valley. Cane sug- ar harvested by my own hand, grown far beyond its native lands on farms that use special waters and no soil.” He offered each in turn as he pulled out Québec maple cookies, preserved meat and dried berries coated in honey to make them last longer from Blezard Valley, and plain sugar cane stolen from one of the many Saeder-Krupp hydropon- ics facilities situated around the city of Winnipeg, feeding the various soft drink factories and canner- ies in that same area.

The spirit pawed at the items, which were laid down carefully in front of it as the fire sputtered. Rath- er than go out, however, it spat for a few seconds, then erupted into an even more powerful flame in a color that defied description, fueled by something beneath the dirt and behind the air, something more elemental than the elements. Wolf didn’t jerk back, but his companions did, wondering if they’d survive to see the coming threats, and if they had blundered from the frying pan into the very oddly colored fire. The storm was coming, visible now, slowly moving forward like a huge wave of wind and snow. The windmares were now visible to the naked eye, horses made of rapid, chill winds and bad omens. The herd had been let loose upon the former prairie provinces and states during the Great Ghost Dance, and Hal- ley’s Comet had multiplyied their numbers. At their head wasn’t a windstallion, larger and meaner than the windmares, but a beast of blood-red snow and rage—a windmustang. Mares and stallions were deadly but generally indifferent to the people they ran through. Windmustangs, though, actively hunted, seeking new blood to shed and new souls to devour. They were creatures constructed from nightmares,

terest, but it was too apparent in motion and voice. This was a new thing to it, something different after millennia of similarity.

“Two more pieces, about the same size.” Wolf an- swered quickly, his skin not quite turning pale only due to the leathery nature of it. It had been too tanned for too many years to lose any color. The weathered nature was intrinsic. He quickly brought out the last two items in his offering pouch and hoped it would be enough.

“Cuddle in your shelter, then. None shall enter while I watch it.” The spirit’s words carried the force of an order, and it violently ripped the stalks of sugar- cane out of Wolf’s hand. The four metahumans hap- pily dove into the little snow hut. Wolf went in last, offering a nod of thanks to the spirit that now tow- ered over all the area. He barely got his windproof outer coat off to act as a door for the entrance when the horse-like screaming winds started. Each form inside the quinzhee shuddered and collapsed inside themselves, trying to make as small a target as pos- sible, but it was unnecessary. The windmares were unable to get in, just as the spirit promised, and a sigh of relief came from all as Wolf started to bandage his arm. All that would attack them this night was the sound of the wind and the cold around it. That was bad enough, but not life threatening.

“Last time I let myself run out of tobacco, sweet- grass, cedar, and sage,” Wolf grumbled, shifting his remaining outfit to get warm and comfortable. He soon drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

Above the little shelter, the spirit sat upon the hut lightly, legs astride the entrance. Somehow the ani- mal skull smiled and slowly chewed. The traditional offerings were good, indeed, and maple syrup was an old-remembered treat, but this new thing, this cane sugar was far, far more suited to its personal tastes indeed. It might be time to move beyond the trees that had long bound its entire existence, and see what these tiny creatures had been doing in this world. And discover where this cane sugar could be found in abundance.

POSTED BY: ELIJAH

UNIVERSAL