Nine hundred years ago, on the island of Mag Mell…
Mac Tíre bounded across the thistles and weeds of the thick forest, his black bristled fur fading into the onyx shadows of trees. He was a monstrous beast, taller than a man with hackles raised, with yellowed fangs as large as knives and eyes that glowed crimson.
His hunter, Cormac, gave chase with a small party of young, confident men. He bellowed his war cries and shouted instructions to corner the Trickster Wolf. One of Cormac’s men tackled the swift-footed Mac Tíre, but he was promptly bucked into the dirt; a breath later, he was back on his feet, without a scratch, and ran back at his prey.
Mac Tíre was flushed out of the forest and into the moonlit clearing. Tall, silver-soaked grass brushed against his bony legs, and as his seething eyes scanned the horizon, he was met with a circle of men.
A dozen arrows pointed straight at him.
Mac Tíre loosed a low growl, which thundered in his throat. Cormac laughed, clapping his hands with arrogant cheer. “We’ve cornered you, Trickster. Once we deliver your hide to the village, we’ll be hailed as legends,” he boasted, his gaze feasting on Mac Tíre’s wiry pelt.
“If you kill me,” Mac Tíre responded, his voice cacophonous and rasped, “you mortal men will suffer a fate worse than death.”
“Oh?” Cormac cooed, sauntering closer.
“Perhaps we should listen,” one of Cormac’s men suggested, his voice cracking a little. “We don’t know what this Trickster spirit will curse us with.”
“His curse cannot outmatch the boon of glory!” Cormac bellowed, eliciting cheers from several of his comrades. “We shall finish the hunt, Mac Tíre, and men will sing my name for generations to come!”
Mac Tíre snarled. “You have been warned…” A devilish grin twisted the wolf’s maw, and he howled victoriously at the moon as Cormac shot the killing arrow.
Mac Tíre drew his final gasp and fell dead. The crows went mute. The breeze fled. The moonlight flickered…and was eclipsed by darkness.
The men panicked as a disembodied voice whispered in their ears:
“Because you have robbed me of this Earth, I, too, will rob you of your connection to the land. No longer will you run wild; compared to the lowly hare, you will hobble.
“No longer will you be strong; your bones will be brittle as twigs, your skin as frail as cloth.
“No longer will you see in the night; you will stumble blindly until daylight comes, and when night falls, you will hide in fear of the dark.
“No longer will you commune with the wild; the birds and deer will fear you, the grass will become infested with thorny weeds, and wolves will hunt you for sport. You will forever be a stranger in your own lands; forever lost in the endless fields and forests you once called home. Your only home will be in the measly huts you build that shelter you from the wild.
“You and your kind are now enemies of the wilderness...”
The moonlight returned and looked down upon the new race of men. They wept as they realized their fate. They returned to their grieving village, not as heroes, but as eternal villains of all mankind. Never again would man be connected to the Earth as he once was; that unbridled, untamed freedom was something generations could only dream about now.
Until a young pilgrim, named Aoibh, changed everything.
Aoibh was a young girl, only twelve years old, and the great-great granddaughter of Cormac. She mourned for a life in the wilderness, and she dreamt of running wild and free as humans once had. So, she sent out to appease the Spirits.
She had very little, for her family was poor. So she gathered twigs and flowers and weaved a humble garland. Then, she journeyed to the fated site where Mac Tíre took his last breath.
When she reached the clearing, in her tattered sackcloth dress, she knelt down and prayed. The moonlight danced around her in silvery ribbons. “Mac Tíre, if your soul is listening from heaven, I’m sorry.” She looked ashamedly at her pathetic little garland. “Um, I-I hope you take this as a gift… It’s the best I could do.”
A gentle breeze flitted through the field and caressed her hair, blowing the blond locks away from her dirt-scuffed cheeks. Then, a shimmering wolf stepped into the clearing from the tangle of trees. The wolf’s fur was pure white, and its long tresses swirled in the breeze. It was almost as tall as the trees and stood atop willowy legs. A trail of creek-blue mist curled from its left eye, while gold ribbons of smoke curled from its right.
Aoibh gasped and bowed, trembling with terror.
“It’s all right,” the Spirit soothed. “My name is Cadhla. I am not Mac Tíre; I’m a lone traveler who heals wounds and tends to lost creatures. Why are you here, little human?”
“I—I—” Aoibh tried to speak, but her breath kept hitching. “I’m here to…ask forgiveness from Mac Tíre… my great-great-grandfather killed him many years ago… And I wish he hadn’t! I just want to be free in the wilderness, like people used to be… I want to live wild!”
Cadhla walked closer and observed the garland. “And this is your offering?”
“Yes, my lady,” Aoibh whimpered. “I wish I had more… Please, is Mac Tíre’s soul listening?”
Cadhla’s blue eyes filled with compassion, and she nuzzled Aoibh’s forehead. “Mac Tíre no longer communes with anything on Earth. He died long ago, and he can never come back. But I have heard your apology, and I want to heal you.”
“Heal me?” Aoibh questioned, hope flickering in her eyes.
“Yes. I cannot heal all of mankind, nor can I undo Mac Tíre’s curse. But I can add a blessing, to ease your pain.” She nods to the small child before her. “Hold out your hand.”
Aoibh obeyed, marveling at the Spirit that towered over her. Cadhla placed her spectral paw in Aoibh’s hand and vowed:
“You, child of Cormac the Slayer, may take my soul. I will live within you, and every full moon, you will run wild and free once more. Your sons and daughters will share this gift; every one of your children shall have the spirit of a Wolf within them, to guide and run with.
“You shall be known as Werewolves, and though you will not run with the feet of a human, you will run with the paws of a wolf.”