THE LADY OF THE WOLVES

The morning sun brushed with its first rays across the expanse of the barren moor, illuminating the tiny flowers of heather. The still reddish glow flattered the contours of the rugged mountains, lending the landscape a deceptive touch of softness that the stormy wind refuted. Cutting cold, it roared in gusts from the west, tugging at the garment of the lone figure in the midst of Connemara Moor and pulling the hood from her white hair. A final sunbeam caressed the woman's face, then clouds swallowed the morning sun and the peaks of the mountains. An icy shower descended, and the moor once again showed its forbiddingly dark face.

The woman stopped, pulled the hood over her head, and continued her path undeterred. Though her face may have been gaunt and furrowed, as if it had seen far more than a hundred years, and her body thin beneath the long, wide garment, she still strode vigorously and held her back straight. She seemed not to need her long staff as support for the increasingly steep ascent. Though no path was visible anywhere, she continued forward without hesitation, circling pools of black shimmering water and bottomless mire, walking along rocky cliffs and through prickly bushes bending eastward under the wind. She had long left behind the ditches and rectangular indentations in the marshy ground that betrayed the work of peat cutters. Rarely did a human venture up here, as the brownish growth of the mountainsides was not even suitable for grazing a few sheep.

The woman stopped. The two gray wolves that had followed her at some distance closed in on her and settled beside her. Her gaze wandered up to the peaks of the Twelve Bens or Beanna Beola, as the Celts had called the mountains, which were intermittently visible between the racing clouds. And for a moment, she thought she could also glimpse the crevice in the rock that was the destination of her journey. Then the gray fog swallowed her again. The old woman resumed her journey.

Even before the cotton grass meadows and brown mats turned into rock, a man suddenly emerged from the shadow of one of the megalithic tombs, whose mighty pillars and stone slabs still stood in many places in the lonely west of the island. He approached her and bowed his head.

"Druid Tamara Clíodhna, greetings," he said. No smile brightened his gaunt features. He also nodded to the two wolves. "Deartháir beag, deirfiúr beag" - little brother, little sister.

The druid returned his greeting. "Cén chaoi a bhfuil tú, Mac Gaoth?"

Again, he nodded his head and replied with a question, "Cén chaoi a bhfuil tú féin, Tamara Clíodhna?" - and how are you -, without his expression becoming friendlier.

"Tá mé go maith, go raibh maith agat." The druid assured - as was proper - that she was well. With that, the pleasantries were over. Mac Gaoth turned and walked up the mountainside without another word. The old woman followed him, her eyes on his sinewy back. He walked quickly and didn't even look back at her, but she kept pace with him and showed no signs of exhaustion. They called him Mac Gaoth - Son of the Wind. He was one of the younger members of the tribe that resided in the area of the Twelve Bens, and he belonged to the wild ones who had not yet been tamed by the years.

Soon they reached the rocks, and Mac Gaoth turned onto a barely discernible path until the crevice suddenly opened before them.

"Who do you bring?" a voice asked from the darkness.

Silently, the young man stepped aside and allowed the druid and her two wolves to enter. It was so dark that her eyes could barely make out the outline of the man, who seemed as tall and gaunt as Mac Gaoth. But she recognized his voice.

"Áthair Faolchu, Father of the Wolves, I had hoped to find you here!"

"Tamara Clíodhna, what a surprise," said the ageless voice in the darkness. Like Mac Gaoth, Áthair Faolchu was one of the few who addressed her by her full name; everyone else called her Tara.

"Ah bhfuil aon scéal agat?" Tara nodded. "Yes, I have something to tell!"

"Well then, come in. Our little brother and little sister may follow you." The druid placed her hands on the heads of the two gray wolves that had stepped beside her and allowed herself to be guided by them through the dark passage until it expanded into a dome-like cave after several turns. Small oil lamps burned in holders on columns and protrusions, casting shadows on the rugged granite walls.

Tara looked at the man who had stopped in front of her and now turned to face her. He had not changed since she had met him many dozens of years ago. The parchment-like skin stretched tightly over his bones, giving his face the appearance of a skull. This impression was reinforced by his deeply set eyes, which shimmered reddish in the glow of the small flames. The clothes that covered his thin body were made of leather. The fur of a large gray wolf hung over his shoulders, the skull serving as a hood over his head. Tara had known the wolf. It had been killed at a ripe old age by a group of sheep farmers. Áthair Faolchu himself had brought back its mortal shell and now wore it like the legacy of an ancestor.

The werewolf led her past a small group of men and women who scrutinized her curiously. She recognized Mahon, Bidelia, and Cairbre, three old werewolves who had been in Áthair Faolchu's retinue since she could remember, and the young Ivarr, who liked to gather with some others around the rebellious Mac Gaoth.

Áthair Faolchu led the druid into a smaller cave lined with blankets and furs. "Sit down. Unfortunately, I have nothing to offer that would please your palate." The druid raised her hand defensively. "That's not necessary. I didn't come here to dine with you."

The man nodded and carefully settled opposite her on a bear hide. "What can we do for you? It's still too early to fulfill the pact. And my instinct tells me that you haven't just come to bring us new stories from the world!" He leaned back into the furs. The druid was not deceived by his ailing appearance. Tara knew that he was not only quick and strong but also the oldest and most powerful werewolf of his pack. Nevertheless, she would conduct the conversation in her own way.

"The stories from the world are certainly worth hearing! I have traveled all the way to Rome."

For the first time, something resembling a smile crossed his pale lips. "Did you want to see with your own eyes how the vampire clans tear each other's throats out? Our Lycana and the Vamalia from Hamburg, the Nosferas from Rome, the Vyrad from London, and the Pyras from Paris, yes, and the revered Dracas from Vienna – did I get them all?" He glanced at the druid. She nodded.

"All of them within the same walls of the old golden Neropalace, the Domus Aurea? I can imagine much blood has been spilled!"

"No!" Tara contradicted sharply. "The war between the vampire clans is over. A year ago, I proposed to the clan leaders at our meeting at Chillon Castle on Lake Geneva to jointly train and strengthen the young vampires of all families, and they swore to make peace - or at least, to no longer fight each other."

"Your meeting?" repeated the old werewolf, smiling cunningly. "Are you claiming they invited you to consult with you?"

She dodged the question. "Donnchadh agreed. And he is the leader of the Lycana, the old family of Irish vampires."

"Donnchadh," Áthair Faolchu repeated, seeming to listen to the sound of the name. "And what does the beautiful Mistress Catriona say about it?"

The druid raised both hands. "There is nothing that escapes you!"

"Not much. But you wanted to tell me about Rome and convince me that this experiment did not end in a catastrophe?" 

"No, not a catastrophe. The plan seems to be working. The young vampires are learning to bury the enmity nurtured over centuries, which has brought their families closer to the brink of destruction than humans could ever have done. No, it has been a good year, which has strengthened them all and forged new alliances." The old woman smiled now, but then her brow clouded. "Yet there is a danger looming over them that I did not foresee!"

"Something even the great, all-knowing Tara did not foresee? I can hardly believe it!"

"This concerns not only the Lycana and all the vampires. It also threatens one of yours, whom you certainly do not want to lose!"

The mocking smile was wiped away. "Have we not lost him long ago?"

"No! How can you say such a thing!"

The werewolf leaned forward slightly. "Report! And tell me, what can I do? What can we do to prevent disaster?"

The druid stood up and reached for her staff. The light of the flames glided over the engraved patterns of intertwined spirals, magical symbols of the Celts who had inhabited this island long before the Christians. The two wolves rushed to her side.

"The power of ancient magic is waning. Faster than before. I have felt it for months already. And what that means, I need not tell you!"

Áthair Faolchu also stood up and stepped into the corridor. His expression was serious.

"Take me to the cloch adhair," Tara demanded as she stood beside him. "I must feel the power of the stone to decide what to do."

The werewolf hesitated. Although he had promised her his support only moments ago, he now visibly resisted complying with her demand. Tara waited patiently and observed the inner struggle reflected in his expression. She hesitated to remind him of the pact. She had the right to see and touch him anytime!

"Very well, then come," he finally said. "And take one of the lamps with you. We have no light for visitors in there!"

The druid picked up one of the oil lamps from its holder and followed the werewolf into the depths of the mountain. They spoke no words. It had been a long time since Tara had been in the heart of the mountain. They descended winding stairs, ducked under boulders, followed branching passages, and crossed vast halls. Tara probably would not have found the way alone. But the werewolves would not have allowed anyone, even the Druid Tara, whom they respected and revered but did not worship, and whose magical voice they did not have to obey, to descend here without their guidance, despite the pact.

Tara noticed how the stone walls changed. The gray granite disappeared and was replaced by white and green speckled marble, through which dark and copper-colored veins ran. They were nearing their destination.

Finally, they arrived in the small, almost circular cave that housed the precious stone. Tara approached to within three steps of the altar-like pedestal on which it rested on a black velvet cushion. Áthair Faolchu stood beside her.

"Cloch adhair, the power of our land."

The druid nodded. Silently, they both contemplated the stone made of green Connemara marble, which many also called anam nan - the soul. The stone was about two feet long and shaped like Ireland in its contours.

"Green like the island's lush grass, which is the foundation of all life, white like the light of the souls that live on it, ascend to the Otherworld, and are reborn, and black like the shadows of war that the foreigners have brought upon us for centuries," said the werewolf. "Do you feel its power?"

"Yes, its power is unbroken, but that of its children is waning. I fear they have been too long and too far away from Ireland. The protection will soon be lost. They must come here before the Day of Change dawns."

Áthair Faolchu remained silent for a while before asking, "Why this haste? Isn't our land and our families protection enough?"

"No!" the druid replied curtly. "I can see the darkness on the horizon, stretching its fingers all the way to Ireland. Even here, they are soon to be threatened!"

"Then we must be vigilant," the werewolf replied, without taking his reddish eyes off the stone.

"We will renew the pact and strengthen the depleted powers at the source of their strength!" Tara said firmly.

Now he looked at her. His eyes narrowed. "You want to bring them here?"

"Yes, I have the right to do so, and you know it," the druid said softly. "There is no need to remind me of the pact, but the voices opposing it are getting louder."

"As long as you lead your tribe, I will trust that the werewolves will stand by their word!" He fell silent, but she felt his reluctance as he led her back into the cave, where the other members of the pack were already impatiently awaiting the evening. Tonight was the full moon. A night when they would bathe their bodies in the silver light and strengthen their powers.

The druid bid her farewell. She knew the werewolves wanted to be among themselves for the impending ritual. They were bound not only by good feelings to the werewolf tribe, and they knew it. Old wounds, anger, sorrow, and even hatred threatened to surface on such nights. It had been a long journey to build mutual respect and trust. How easily it could be destroyed in just a few moments. Tara stepped out of the crevice and began her descent. She felt the werewolves watching her, but she did not look back. The sun was almost behind the peaks, while in the east, a pale moon hung in the sky. The storm had blown away the clouds. The last gray shreds raced across the sky, as if trying to catch up with their brothers and sisters.

The druid stopped at the dolmen where she had encountered Mac Gaoth and sat down on its slightly slanted slab in a cross-legged position. With the staff laid across her knees and her palms open to the sky, she sat there as the sun faded and the moonlight gained strength. The druid did not need to turn around to see what was happening in front of the rocky cleft between twisted bushes and heather. She had witnessed the transformation often enough with her own eyes. How the face elongated and began to form a wolf's snout, how fur broke through the skin, how the body trembled and deformed, and how it shook with pain before falling to four paws and sending a first triumphant howl to the sky. Yes, the transformation was a painful but also liberating process that only the experienced and powerful werewolves could perform through sheer force of will at any time of day or night. The young and the weak were forced to assume their animal form and go hunting at full moon. They were dangerous, for they were wild and unrestrained in their greed for fresh meat. People feared them rightly and locked doors and windows in these nights, hanging amulets and magical spells over their beds.

A howl drifted down from the mountain, answered by many voices. Tara could hear the joy in the voices. The two wolves by her side whimpered restlessly. The druid rose, descended from the slab of the dolmen, and continued her way down into the valley, while the werewolves set off on the hunt in feverish anticipation.