Spiritride

by Mark Shepherd

  "Just carry her," someone ordered as he climbed off the bike. "She's a weak, light thing. You should have no trouble with her."

  We'll see about that, she considered, careful to keep her thoughts to herself.

  "Take her to the place," the voice said, the vaguely familiar face drifting in and out of her limited view as the other slung her inelegantly over his shoulder. Even though they had dismissed the luggage glamorie, she still felt like a sack of stolen goods. "I will go and gather Wolf."

  Wolf? Have they captured him too? She pushed vainly against the paralysis, her determination now fueled by her need to help Wolf.

  As the Gate's field closed in around her, she saw that the Unseleighe were already riding away; the motorcycles' roar sounded like a large hornet in a long hollow tube. Then, sudden silence as the Gate closed in around them.

  At the dream's edge, Wolf was in full wolf costume, face whitened with chalk dust, eyes blackened with charcoal. He wore a large wolf's hide, the flap of its skinned head hanging over the top of his face, and the rest reaching all the way down his back.

  Grandfather was there too, with the circle of Chaniwa, pounding on drums and shaking turtleshell rattles, the beat rising in power and speed. Wolf danced around the fire, alone but not alone. There was the spirit of his soul's mate, the she-wolf his ancestors knew who had come to the circle. Then there was the soul of the white witch, wearing the Hand around her neck on a leather thong. Above was the Moon Goddess, looking down on the fire with the loving expression of a mother. The Horned God lurked in the woods, his naked flesh reflected briefly as he stalked the forest.

  Wolf was not alone as he danced around the fire, the white witch and she-wolf following him as he went deosil. He walked barefoot on the few coals that dribbled off the intense fire, feeling nothing but the Horned God's warmth. . . .

  The dream dissolved in an instant as he flashed to wakefulness.

  I'm a prisoner.

  On a cold cement floor in a strange room, he lay with his hands and ankles in what felt like handcuffs. Moonlight from the window was the only illumination. The cuffs had been clamped tightly around his boots, and the resultant folded leather crimped painfully against his legs. A rag tied around his head covered his mouth. From somewhere beyond the four walls he heard a truck or a van driving away, with the rattle of gravel announcing its departure.

  He smelled blood, lots of it, intermingled with the stench of rotting meat. Something went clunk, then rustle, on the other side of the wall. He listened for more, sensing someone else over there, possibly in the same mess he was in. Whoever it was they weren't talking.

  Then he felt it, far beyond the walls.

  First was the awareness of something dark, out there. Wind blew against the building, poking through the narrow window, bringing with it the scent of . . . cat.

  He remembered grandfather's woodcarving, now sitting on his altar, at home. Ha- his mind began, but he dare not even think the name. With imminent danger at his doorstep, this was easier to do than he would have otherwise thought.

  Not unless I'm looking into the Hand, he thought. How things have changed; a few days ago, he was laughing at the concept of the cat spirit. Now, the cat spirit was here.

  Cat spirit, cat spirit, cat spirit, he thought frantically, forcing her true name out of his head. Cat spirit, begone. . . .

  But the cat spirit was still out there. It screamed, loudly, like a mountain lion. Like a woman in pain.

  It's out there. It's coming here.

  Then it began to happen.

  The first wave hit, bringing nausea, cooling quickly to a heightened alertness. He closed his eyes, praying he didn't vomit with the gag in his mouth, and saw the wolf spirit within him. It burned like a bed of white hot coals. It was starting to happen, but he was hanging onto his human body. Let it go, the wolf spirit said. Let it happen.

  Then, Let me rise. I can fight Ha-Sowa. It is my purpose, and I have done it for a long time.

  With one, loud exhalation through his nostrils, he relaxed on the concrete, closed his eyes, and let the spirit take over. The nausea came again as his insides shifted, making a squishy, wet noise. Across his skin, from head to toe, something wriggled and stuffed itself against his clothes. He ventured a peek out of one eye; he looked down a long, brown snout, growing longer and furrier. With his now overly long tongue, he licked the long teeth that had sprouted from the top of his mouth. The scents around him became razor sharp, as if all along he'd been smelling in two dimensional black and white, and his senses had suddenly become three dimensional color, with surround sound; the odor was about to knock the wind out of him. But the blood and the other stenches were the loudest of all, and he now knew with certainty this was human blood, human meat. People had died violently in this place.

  The change continued with a vengeance throughout his body, and he felt his arms and legs grow thinner. Feet and ankles slid easily out of the handcuffs, and the shackles fell with a loud rattle to the concrete floor. He looked at his hands, and as he watched the fingers became shorter, the ends morphed into tough pads, and fingernails became round, long and pointed. He watched the hair grow rapidly across the surface of his darkening skin, reminding him of a high-speed movie of flowers growing in a field.

  The change was not happening in his clothes, which were becoming tight in certain places, and about to fall off in others. Something told him to take them off, while he still had the dexterity to do so. The gag had fallen off on its own, but his thick, canine shoulders were squeezing through the collar of the t-shirt, painfully. The jean jacket had slipped off with the cuffs, and he reached around and pulled off the t-shirt bunching around his shoulders. As he worked the shirt and jeans off, he felt the heart pendant Wenlann had given him, hanging around his neck. Once he had all garments off he stood on all fours, panting.

  I am here, I am the wolf, the spirit said from within, joining with his own thoughts symbiotically, the human part of him now taking a back seat in the situation.

  Fur and muscles thickened, his vision sharpened; he lost some of the color of his human eyesight, but gained much more definition. But while exploring his new senses and shape, a loud scream, along with the stronger scent of cat, drew his awareness away.

  Ha-Sowa. He was no longer afraid to think the word.

  Wolf was all wolf now, and he let his new self have control. His vision turned red, and he growled deeply with the rise of his hackles, seized with death-fever, the soul of the hunt. Wolf lunged at the door. It broke under his weight, and as he forced his way through it splintered into a dozen pieces.

  Ha-Sowa crouched before him. Wolf landed on all fours, back arched, teeth bared. The cat hissed, and turned loose another scream, then the two animals were upon each other.

  Wolf went for the throat, missing the huge claws by a heartbeat, but the cat was too fast. Both swirled around one another like a cyclone, Wolf nipping but not gaining purchase on anything, until a hind leg came into view. With his huge jaws, he clamped down, hard. Something went snap between his teeth, just as fangs sank into his rear haunches. Locked in this mutual death grip, the wolf spirit within fought against pain. Finally, the cat released, and Wolf pulled away.

  The two beasts regarded one another in mutual hatred, pacing back and forth, not in the desert but on a wide plane, with darkness on one side, and light on the other. Pacing, pacing, circling each other, wolf and cat tested the other's motions, Wolf noting the limp the cat had. His failure to break the bone enraged him, and he crouched for another attack.

  Wolf had been here before, he knew the scent of the place, which was a total absence of odor, save for the musky cat scent, the smell of a wounded, angry animal.

  Wolf made ready to leap at the cat again, finding a split second when the cat's neck was partially exposed toward him; Ha-Sowa turned its massive feline head toward him, her eyes now brilliant white orbs within the black skull. The light spread through the body, and the body changed like he had changed, only insta
ntly. The light faded back into the eyes.

  The eyes were still that of the cat. The face was not.

  The cat eyes were Wenlann's eyes, staring back at him seductively.

  No! Wolf thought. It's an illusion, it's trying to trick me! Ha-Sowa had become the beautiful chi-en of his dreams, dressed not in motorcycle gear but buckskin, like that of a brave. But this was no Chaniwa brave; her beautiful, rounded breasts filled the buckskin nicely, the twin nipples announcing their pointed presence. Her hair cascaded down her shoulders like a waterfall, longer and deeper brown than he'd remembered.

  This can't be he thought, but his resolve to attack the cat dwindled, replaced by a longing in his loins.

  Wenlann looked down at his excitement, turned her head delicately, and laughed piercingly.

  At the moment of maximum humiliation, Wenlann turned her head back, her eyes now orbs of light again. Their eyes locked, and Wolf was caught in an instant of indecision.

  In that instant, Wenlann vanished, replaced by the angry black cat, in mid-leap.

  Wolf dodged out of the way, finding himself again in the desert. Ha-Sowa! he thought, looking around; the cat had vanished, but no, wait, there she was, silhouetted by the rising, full moon. Some distance away, she stood and shrieked at him, turned, and dropped behind the rise.

  No, she's not getting away! he thought, the animal rage filling him again. He caught sight of Ha-Sowa again, moving at a slow lope, the limp in her hind leg much more pronounced now. She was apparently more injured than he'd first perceived. Again, another illusion. Wolf bolted after the cat, ignoring the pain in his right paw.

  You are not getting away! his thoughts raged on, but as he ran after Ha-Sowa, her image faded, until she was no more. He wanted to chase her into the spirit world, where she had certainly gone, but try as he would he didn't know how to reach it. That she was able to pull him into it, and discharge him from it at will, lent a disturbing advantage to her.

  Home, his instinct told him. Go home. It will be safe there. For now. Without thinking twice about where home was, he turned toward it and began a slow ambling lope, the ancient motion of a wolf in transit.

  * * *

  Presently Wolf arrived at his home, avoiding houses, farms and highways. Humans shot wolves out here, to protect their sheep, or just for the hell of it. During his journey the moon crept higher, then began her descent, lighting the ground around him so brilliantly that he feared his own visibility. Someone with a scope could pick him off, and with this light they wouldn't need IR.

  He didn't feel completely safe until he saw his altar, standing in the full light of the moon as if a lamp were poised over it. Everything remained in its place, including the carving of Ha-Sowa, which no longer seemed as threatening.

  Wolf sat back on his haunches and started nibbling at a small cactus thorn that had planted itself in one of his rear paws. In the comforting environment of his home, the wolf spirit seemed to be at ease again. Wolf heard it, whispering within his soul.

  The danger has passed, but do not deceive yourself. Now Ha-Sowa knows who and where you are, wolf-self said.

  As if on cue, he felt the changes again, his shifting organs, the ripple of his skin. Hair that had only recently grown out withdrew back into the skin. He lay on his side, to let the change happen more easily. He welcomed the cage of his humanity, the familiar touch of hairless skin, of limbs, and of opposing thumbs.

  She will return. I will keep watch. While you're awake, while you sleep. I will protect you. I will be with you always.

  As wolf body turned to human body, he braced himself for the pain he remembered before the change. Oddly, the pain didn't return. He looked down at himself, his nude body now lying prone in the bright moonlight. The bruises were gone. His muscles were a bit stiff, but far from the agonizing soreness he'd known before.

  As the wolf-spirit retreated into the core of his soul, it had one more parting thought for him.

  Your desert sickness is healed, also. You are well.

  He blinked at the star-filled sky, and a grin spread across his now-human features.

  No Gulf War sickness, he thought. I'll be goddamned.

  He sat up, feeling giddy. The impact of what had just happened was starting to sneak up now, giving him goose bumps. If only I had more control over it . . . My wolf self seems to have a mind of its own. He listened for the wolf spirit to answer, but it was a dim spark, dormant but awake, and listening. It will tell me what I need to know when I am ready, he knew, the thoughts emerging from that formerly hidden pool of ancestral knowledge.

  The old coot was right.

  But the trouble was only beginning, he knew; Ha-Sowa was injured, but not out of the game. She will be back. Then the Unsaylee, to muddy matters.

  He stood and stretched to his full human height, feeling something metal, and heavy, against the top of his chest. The pendant hung there from its frail-looking chain. Now he was confused. How did this silver chain survive that fight? he wondered, taking the chain off. It felt different from the pendant. He pulled on it tentatively. The chain gave no sign of breaking. Again he pulled, harder. The chain was solid, more solid than steel. His muscles strained against it, the chain leaving a line on his palms. The chain remained intact.

  "Strong stuff," he said to the pendant, in admiration. The Celtic knot shone back at him, catching the moon just right.

  Wenlann, he thought, his heart aching. I must go to her. . . .

  The moment his longing for her crystallized into the thought, he felt a vibration, a singing of pain course through the chain to his fingers. Wenlann is in trouble, he thought, knew, from what this pendant was telling him. He held it directly in his palms, the chain looping back over his hands.

  He held it, and sent . . .

  His thought sailed through time and space, and ran firmly into a black wall, a layer of bad magic that he'd tasted before.

  The Unsaylee. He released the thought, lest the dark elves follow it back to him. It would not do for them to know he was back in action again.

  I've got to go there, came the frenzied thought. He went for the Indian motorcycle, which was nestled safely in his shed, and was prepared to start her up and take off for Albuquerque when he remembered something.

  I'm naked.

  It would get a little breezy, riding the Indian in the nude. He rushed back into the shed and rummaged for yet another set of riding clothes. He was running out of things to wear.

  Damn, even the boots are gone. Back at that cabin. He picked up an old pair of air conditioned Nike high tops. They will have to do. Grandfather's old hunting knife and sheath glinted at him in the moonlight, and he hurriedly strapped it onto his belt.

  The goggles were still hanging off the handlebars, and like a champ the Indian started right up. Wasting no more time, he put her in gear and hit the gravel drive a little faster than was safe.

  I told them La Puerta. I hope that's where they went, he thought, but something in the information he'd received when sending the mental probe to Wenlann told him that was precisely where they had gone; perhaps it was a flash of the motel, of the single elvensteed parked in front, masked in some sort of magical goo. Then the image was gone. Just as well, he had to concentrate on the road, and getting there quickly.

  Where the hell is Thorn, anyway? he wondered, not knowing if the angel was with him or not. Then he caught himself, between third and fourth gear. Thorn is my guardian, and he saved my life. I owe him. It's not the other way around.

  Ahead, on the highway he saw what at first appeared to be a large car or truck approaching. Then he recognized it for the illusion it was, two motorcycles riding in side by side touring formation.

  "Thorn and the Saylee?" he said aloud, slowing down himself, looking back, then turning around. It was Petrus and the tall dark one, Odorous or something. But where the hell was Wenlann?

  They met on the median, facing opposite directions.

  "You've escaped," Thorn said, sounding slightly puzzl
ed. "How—?"

  "I'll tell you later," he told the Guardian Spirit. "You were coming for me, weren't you?"

  "Of course I was," Thorn said, falling into his country drawl. "It's what I'm best at. You okay?"

  "Like I said, later," he said, turning his attention to the elves. "We got another problem." Petrus yanked his helmet off, looking very accusingly at Wolf.

  "Where's Wenlann?" Wolf asked the young elf.

  "Why?" Petrus replied, his eyes flashing with jealousy.

  Wolf tried not to roll his eyes too obviously. "She's in trouble. This pendant—" he said, reaching for it.

  "We're going after Japhet. The Unseleighe," Petrus said. "Why do you think she's in trouble?"

  Petrus might be an elf with some degree of magical ability, but right then, sitting on the beemer, he looked like a little rat-faced punk. The other one, who had a thick aura of magic about him, was entering into some kind of trance. It occurred to Wolf that this older elf might be the one actually pulling the strings in the little group, however inconspicuous he might be.