Present Day, on the island of Nua Bhaile…
I beam at the silver pendant around my sister’s neck. “I wanna be just like you!” I squeal, which elicits a gentle laugh from her. She pats my head and reassures, “One day, little Kiana, you will be the strongest werewolf in all the land.”
“You really think so?”
“Oh, I know so. The Great Mother Aoibh shall shine brightly upon you before you join her in the sky.”
It’s a sacred compliment among us werewolves. A werewolf’s greatest honor is to be a strong, courageous warrior worthy of Aoibh and Cadhla’s gift. Only the most courageous wolves get to join The Great Mother in the sky. Each time a worthy werewolf dies, a new star lights up in the night sky, which is guarded by Aoibh’s holy symbol – the moon.
I blush at the compliment and hide my face, which my sister – Sorcha – notices. She boops my nose and smirks. “Come on now, no future warrior would be ashamed of a blush. Chin up, squirt!”
A pang of jealousy lights a fire in my chest. I want to wear that shining silver pendant one day. A warrior earns that necklace when they’ve completed a difficult hunt; it’s rare for a huntress such as Sorcha to earn it so young.
I’ll get my silver pendant even younger than you! I think to myself with mounting determination.
A sickly cough jolts me back to reality. Hm. My little brother, Cillian, sounds worse today. Worry settles in my lungs, stealing my breath. I fight it the only way I know how: by plastering on a smile and throwing a playful punch at Sorcha, who easily dodges it. She barks a laugh and puts me in a firm headlock.
Our wrestling match is cut short when Mother calls out, “Dinner time!”
Dinner is quiet and somber as usual. ‘Royal wolves aren’t boisterous during dinner,’ as my parents say. Me and my family – Mom, Dad, Sorcha, and Cillian – are all seated on floor pillows around a long, low rectangular table made of swirling wood. We’re surrounded by glass windows and a glass roof, so that we are never wholly separated from the wilderness around us. The floor is built with moss-coated cobblestone, and flowering vines crawl around the pillars of the grand dining room. A fountain burbles peacefully nearby.
Dinner is a code of rules that happens to also fill our bellies: no slouching, no pointless talking, elbows off the table, no loud clangs of cutlery, no—
Another cough, wet and rumbling. Cillian’s slight frame shudders as his body violently hacks out all the air in his ailing lungs. The worry now wriggles in my throat, and I swallow it with an oversized bite of steak.
“Hey Ian,” I whisper to Cillian as he catches his breath. His golden eyes peer at me atop his tomato-red cheeks and pale lips. “After dinner, wanna play with cars?”
His eyes sparkle, restoring some semblance of life to his face, and he nods enthusiastically. Playing with toy cars is his favorite thing, and even though I don’t really enjoy it, it’s worth it to see him come alive…even if for just a few precious moments.
“No whispering at the table,” Dad scolds gently, though his voice lacks its usual sternness. He spares a pitying look at Cillian and sighs uneasily. Mom shifts in her chair and purses her lips, looking down at her lap. Sorcha takes another bite of food. Cillian wheezes and suppresses another cough with a drawn-out groan.
Later that night, I launch my toy car in the air and mimic the sound of a jet-engine taking off:
“VVVVROOOOOOOOOM!”
Cillian cackles. “Carth can’t fly, thilly!” he wheezes, his ear-to-ear grin showing off his two missing front teeth.
“This one can! And that’s because…” I cup my hands and announce, “…it’s a SUPERVILLAIN CAR! BUM-BUM-BUUUM!”
Cillian crawls across the carpet and snatches a red-and-gold toy car. “Well, thith one’th a thuperhero car! You’re going down!” He stops and looks to me for help. “Psst…what’th your car’th name?”
“This car is the feared – the dreaded – the terrible! – CAPTAIN GOBBLE-YOU-UP!” I pounce on Cillian and tackle him to the ground. He squeals in delight, but his fun is cut short when he doubles over coughing again. His skeletal body wracks against my stomach, and I gently wrap my arms around him.
I wish he wasn’t so sick all the time. I wish I had big-sister superpowers to heal him.
Maybe when his Wolf Spirit awakens, he’ll be healed. But that would be years from now. I’m eleven, and my inner wolf won’t awaken until I’m at least eighteen. Cillian’s five. That’s thirteen more years he has to live like this.
Cillian finally stops coughing, and he wipes his spit-and-mucous sprinkled lips. He lays there for a few moments to catch his breath, and I rub his back…it’s all I can do.
“I hate thith…” he grumbles under his breath, smoothing out his ruffled blond hair.
“…Me too,” I confess, continuing to rub his back. I try to think of something else to distract him. “Hey Ian – what do you wanna be when you grow up?”
“A rockthtar,” he answers matter-of-factly. “Duh.”
“Of course, duh. My mistake,” I reply with a forced smile. “Why’s that?”
He hums thoughtfully as I stroke his hair. “I wanna do cool trickth on-thtage, and I want people to clap for me.”
“That’s wonderful!”
“Mm-hmm.” He sounds absent-minded before he says, “Mom never athkth me what I wanna be when I grow up.”
“Never?”
“Mm-mm.”
Why not? I wonder.
The door swings open without a knock – ah, so it must be Sorcha. I glance over my shoulder and am greeted with her carefree, toothy grin.
“Aw, well aren’t you two sweet?” she coddles, which Cillian insists, “No we’re not!” and hastily crawls out from my arms.
“Well, idiots, I’m off. I gotta go back to training,” Sorcha announces.
“Already?” I whine with dismay.
“Yep. No rest for the wicked,” she sighs, stretching her arms and cracking her neck. I wish I was as laidback as she. She doesn’t seem to worry about anything at all. Must be nice.
“When will we thee you again?” Cillian asks.
“Dunno. Within a couple weeks, hopefully.” Sorcha kneels down and hugs us both. “I’ll miss you guys. Expect a call from me, all right?”
Our farewell goes by all too fast. Before I know it, I’m waving goodbye as Sorcha drives back to her dojo.
I wish I was you.
I can’t sleep that night. Cillian’s coughing from the next room over keeps me awake, and even when I smother my head with my pillow, I can still hear him. Finally, around two in the morning, he stops coughing, and I drift into a fitful slumber.
But something feels…off. I awaken a few hours later at the crack of dawn, and I sniff the air.
His rooms smells empty. The tangy stench of mucous is faded, as is the pine-like scent of his soap.
Another pungent scent bombards me. Musk and sweat and oil, thick and laced with emotion that stings my nose.
I pad down the stairs and rub my bleary eyes. Mom and Dad are sitting around the dining room table, the dim light of dawn framing their features in a soft red glow.
“What’s wrong?” I croak, still waking up.
They look up at me, their faces tear-streaked. Mom’s stifling sobs behind her cupped hands, and Dad looks lifeless.
“It’s about Cillian…” Dad begins, and Mom sobs harder.
Their conversation to me is a blur. Before I know it, I’m running across the fields as fast as I can, dread tying a chain-link noose around my neck. I can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t run fast enough. Somehow, if I run faster, maybe Cillian will still…
I stop by a wooden box. The fetid tang of mucous and pine emanates from inside, along with the metallic stench of blood. I drop to my knees and stare numbly at it. Why can’t I cry?
Dad’s words ring like death knolls in my mind:
“As royal wolves, we mustn’t have any weakness within our living bloodline. The rules of politics demand that only the strongest survive.
“Cillian never would have made it to eighteen, anyway.”