Chapter Nine

1583 Words
There’s no use in hiding. I reek of stress and sweat, and my chattering teeth will do nothing to help my cause. So, I prepare to run. An elder steps into view, also glistening with sweat as she finishes wrapping a thick fur robe around her frail body. Her blind, milky eyes still glow white, and her fingernails are still extended into sharp claws, but otherwise she’s completed the transformation under the dawn’s light. It takes me a moment to recognize her without the adornments of jewelry and paint. “Memory!” I gasp, hastily bowing and suppressing my pathetic shivers. She’s the only wolf in the Bleeding Heart Pack that the almighty Luna consults. Decades ago, when Memory was a nine-year-old girl, she hit her head and was stricken with anterograde amnesia. Her mind, empty of new memories, attracted a Wolf Spirit. It called itself Memory, and it claimed her as its host, just as Cadhla claimed Aoibh. Now, the feared elder can peer into the memories of everyone inside the Pack – living or dead. She’s resorted to a hermit’s life, only coming out every full moon to hobble around the pack grounds as a wolf. And even then, she’s difficult to find. Though blind, she stares right at me, her face expressionless. She knows what I’ve done. Memory tils her head. “Why did you bury them?” she asks, her voice gnarled and quieted with age. “I-I don’t know – I’m sorry!” I yelp, clasping my bare shoulders to shield myself from the chilling mist and dew. “We don’t judge you. We simply want to know,” Memory states flatly, no compassion or anger in her voice. I hesitate. If I tell her the truth, will I be banished from the pack? I’m already as good as gone, anyhow. I may as well face it bravely. I try to muster confidence, but my words still tumble out clumsily as I tremble. “I, I just, well – I’ve met a human before – I’m really sorry! A-A girl, who was my age, I think? She was, um, injured. She didn’t seem dangerous, so I helped her… I don’t know why I couldn’t just stand by. And I don’t know why I couldn’t stand by with this man. He…he didn’t deserve to die. We started this fight…he was just trying to protect himself. I couldn’t fault him for that.” I mumble another apology, my heart racing with horror. My first morning as a full-fledged werewolf, and I’m about to be banished from the pack…or worse. Memory hums thoughtfully. “You know why you helped The Girl. You wanted someone to protect. You missed Cillian.” I flinch, startled by the mention of my brother. Of course she’d know all about him; she’s probably held onto my memories for years. “…Yes,” I confess wearily. “I missed him terribly that day.” “He misses you, too,” comes Memory’s factual reply. I gasp, lingering on her words for a moment before the depth of them sinks in. “Wait – what do you know of Cillian? Is he—does he have a Wolf Spirit? Is it…here?” Memory turns her bird-like head slowly around the forest, her back hunched. “His Wolf Spirit is not here right now. Most recently, it lingered on the field where its host was killed.” “How does he have a Spirit? He never got to meet his Wolf!” I cry. “Everyone is born with a Wolf Spirit. It simply remains quiet until adulthood, when a child discovers who they are. Then, it finds its voice and its name,” Memory explains patiently. “Cillian’s Wolf Spirit remembers only its host’s final moments of terror. It doesn’t know how to leave that fated field, or how to get rid of its terror. It’s lost.” The panic of helplessness rises in my chest. “How do I help it remember who Cillian was? Not just his terror, but his joy, imagination, and playfulness? There must be something I can do!” “Yes,” Memory muses, her voice sounding distant. “You have visited the grave of Cillian Aoibhson many times. His Wolf Spirit knows. A few times, it’s almost remembered its host. It feels your sorrow and your memory. It can feed off that.” I’m stunned. My taboo visits to the graveyard have been helping Cillian’s lost Wolf Spirit remember who it is? Maybe my grief can still serve a purpose after all. “So…if I keep visiting Cillian’s grave…his Wolf might remember who it is? Who Cillian was? Who they were supposed to be?” “We think so,” Memory confirms, and the confidence in her voice strikes me. I dare to ask another question. “…What about Cillian’s soul – his human soul? Is it wandering, too?” “No. Human souls do not remain on Earth. We do not know where they go; only that the Human and Wolf are separated at death. The Wolf remains with the Earth…the Human soul goes somewhere else.” For the first time, Memory’s voice swells with emotion: curiosity. I don’t know what to feel. Should I feel hopeful that I can still do something to help a piece of my brother? A Wolf Spirit is a person’s other half – if I can help his Spirit, then I can help a part of him. Yes…I do feel hopeful. There’s something I can do aside from wish his return. I turn back to the human farmer’s corpse. “Will you punish me for honoring a Son of Cormac?” I brace myself for her answer. “No,” comes her simple yet profound reply. “We do not judge. We simply observe.” I breathe a deep sigh of relief, and the chill that’s gripped my body ebbs for a moment. Hesitantly, I pile on the last of the rocks over the body, and I crouch down by my makeshift grave. I don’t know his name, so I scrawl “Cormacson” in the dirt as Memory silently watches. I look at my handiwork and deflate. “It’s pathetic,” I groan. “Yes,” she agrees as though having commented on the weather. “But we like the honor you show to your enemy.” I shrug uneasily, wrapping my arms around my cold knees. “He doesn’t feel like my enemy,” I admit sheepishly. Memory falls silent for a moment before observing, “Your Wolf calls itself Deliverance?” I’m taken aback by the seemingly random question, but I reply. She hums again, contemplating something that knits her wrinkled brow tight together. It’s startling, to see her emotionless mask contort into one of deep thought. “I-Is that a bad thing?” I stammer, suddenly afraid of her again. “We don’t know. It could be…it might not be.” Oh, well…good. Great. Her words hang ominously across my shoulders. “We rarely get the pleasure of bestowing a last name on young werewolves anymore. May we have the privilege of bestowing yours?” I’m stunned – I didn’t expect to earn a last name yet! Dread snags my breath. Oh no…it’s probably going to be “Man Slayer” or something like that. Surely, it’s what any of the other elders would do. Still, to be named by someone so revered and mysterious…it’s an honor. I nod and bow my head with respect, staring down at my freezing toes. Memory clasps a bony hand on my shoulder, her icy grip shaking like an autumn leaf. “We admire how you treat the dead. You risk everything to show them respect. You watch over the souls of both Cormac’s children and Aoibh’s children. That is brave. So we name you ‘Kiana Graveheart.’” Memory accompanies me back to the Pack grounds, holding me close to her warm fur robe as I shiver against the morning mist. Soon, dozens of werewolves crowd around me, babbling excitedly about my victory against a Human hunter. No-one questions how thicky I stink of Human; after all, I had just killed one. One young werewolf clothes me in a robe, and I wrap it protectively around my naked body. “This young lady has earned her name,” Memory announces proudly. “Graveheart.” Prince Donnacha approaches, wearing a charismatic smirk. He feigns pride in his bright eyes, but I can see something far more sinister behind it. Jealousy. “You deserve that name,” he declares with bravado to the other werewolves crowded around. “For you, Miss Kiana, emerged victorious from a deathtrap and walked away from it with a beating heart!” Funny how he refers to me as “miss” in front of others. Memory shoots a sly wink at me. She’s clever, giving me a name that could be interpreted differently than its intended meaning. I relax a little. One of the pack warriors – a dojo trainer, from the looks of it, saunters up to me, a glistening necklace dangling between his fingers. My heart freezes, and a cold sweat breaks out all over me again. He drapes it around my neck, and everyone claps. A silver pendant. So, that’s how they’re awarded. Sorcha, too, had killed a man. A mirthless, ironic chuckle escapes me. I did promise that I’d earn my pendant sooner than she had.
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