On dark and stormy nights, grandfather would sit with me by the fire and tell me of our people. He would tell me how we descended from wolves. how we have the forest’s life essence running through our veins. He spun tales of how his father’s father brought his people down from the mountains to save them from the great plague in order to give us a future.
The journey was hard-fought. Our people braved the jagged peaks and perilous snowstorms. They wandered the barren rock lands where they lost many Dryas and twice as many people due to a lack of food and water. They finally found a valley deep in the thick coniferous forests. Those who did survive the journey tolled tirelessly to create a haven among the trees; a true haven of the hallowed. It was with a heavy soul that they christened their new home Darkheart Hallow. Here they planted the seed of a willow tree, along with the hopes of a new generation who would keep the old ways intact.
When six autumns passed, grandfather took me down to Mother Lake. He purified me in its crystal waters. He placed me on a pregnant mare and put a bow in my hand. As the crisp air blew through my hair he anointed me with the mare’s blood. Binding the soul of the foal the mare carried and me for life, making me one of the people.
When eight autumns passed, grandfather took me to meet a ranger from the Brotherhood of the Rookery. An academy that sits in the heart of our city hunched like a massive raven. I remember him saying you can never lead if you do not learn to follow. Brother Mathias took me over the rolling hills teaching me how all of the animals are our brethren, and how to find them. How to move through the grass with the grace of a wolf, not making a whisper. Every print, every scent, and every snapped twig told a story and I learned them all. He instilled in me that survival comes with a price and every hunt burns a mark in your soul forever.
When eleven autumns passed, I was sent out to find a warren of hares and bring one home. My first successful hunt would signify that I had become an adult in the tribe’s eyes. I read the stars in the night’s sky and I traveled south down Mother Lake to Leffit peaks. Where its namesake basks and breeds during the sweet-smelling months of spring. The warren I found tucked into the peak’s side belonged to no hare but a canis rabbit. I prayed to the ancestors that my arrow rang true.
As I marched through town, the rabbit hanging from my bleeding fingers. I passed by the Prancing Dryas inn, Finnery’s blacksmith, and Gabring’s artillery shop. Countless homes with their windows aglow with candlelight. None of those mattered though I was headed for the Rookery. When I pushed the giant door open I found my grandfather sitting at the hearth. I laid the rabbit at his feet, he plucked the arrow from its eye and placed it into the fire. When the head glowed as bright as the sun he pressed it into my palm, searing in a deep allegiance to the land and the people. I was on my way to being a ranger.
When sixteen autumns passed, I committed to the ritual pursuit of passage. I spent a month with a wolf pack hunting as they did. Watching as they hunted conifer rats in the ground when times were scarce. Seeing the forests through their eyes, becoming one with them. When I returned I made my way up the knolls, past the herds of great black horses that my people pride themselves on. Through the gated city, meeting the eyes of everyone knowing that many have tried before me but did not make it. I made my way to the glen that held the sacred Grandmother Willow.
I was met with the sight of the brothers standing underneath her gently swaying tendrils. As I knelt before my grandfather I presented to him the wolf pelt. His eyes soft with pride, his voice booming off the stone walls. Arise, my granddaughter, you have weathered the storm, you are now a member of the Brotherhood. You have learned the old ways, you have done your people proud.
