The First Stain

by Dakota Rayne et al.

  He hated her. He hated everything that she represented. She was loved. He was despised. Her legs moved her body as if she walked on air. His one mangled leg caused him to stagger as if he were stuck in the mud. She was the chief’s youngest daughter. He was the chief’s disgraced older son. She was courted by the warriors. He was mocked by the very same warriors because of his failure to become a man.

  Wuul stepped into the wet grass along the forest’s edge and limped toward the village. His green eyes watched Flower of the Morning Dew move toward the river. Every morning after her duties, she bathed. He had time. Those awake in the village wouldn’t see him. He was disgraced. He was invisible to them. When he reached the hooghan of his parents, he quietly drew a mark in the dirt with the oak staff. He pulled back the deerskin that hung over the entrance and stepped inside for the first time since the previous Crow moon. The dried skin fell closed behind him as he hobbled deeper into his parents’ domain. Like an owl, his eyes adjusted quickly to the faded light. It wouldn’t take long to complete the task.

  His father and mother stood as one from their sleeping pads by the fire. A smile stretched across his mother’s beautiful face, seeing him after such a long absence. His father hissed between clenched teeth. His mother’s hand curled around her husband’s bicep in restraint. Wuul stepped closer to his father. His father eyed the staff. With great effort, Wuul straightened to his full height to meet the older man’s eyes.

  Wuul killed his father, the chief, first. Wuul’s staff leaned against his body as he hugged the older man before stealing his father’s spirit. He wasn’t sure why. He believed it was an impulsive act, or maybe it was his last attempt to see if his father found favor in him. The hug no longer mattered. The chief’s embrace was weak and reluctant compared to Wuul’s.

  The blade penetrated his father’s flesh just below the rib cage. The old man didn’t make a sound as the blade spilled his blood. Wuul released him and the chief pushed back from the hug to ask his son a question. The question was unimportant and forgotten, but Wuul smiled at the sound of his father’s voice. Wuul chanted darkly. The mist of words hung suspended in the air between the two men. Wuul closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. The mist mingled with his breath like a bittersweet fragrance. The chief’s voice was his. His father’s eyes went wide with recognition.

  Before the father could react, Wuul’s knife moved across his exposed throat. The father slumped to his knees staring up at his only son. Wuul watched as his father’s spirit ascended from the corporal body into the Great Sky. The dead husk of flesh crumpled to the ground atop the embers in the fire.

  Mother was helpless and speechless. She had fallen to her knees as if her husband’s life blood was connected to her own. His mother was half dead from a broken heart before he buried the length of the blade into her chest. Unlike her husband, she did not make a sound. She simply withered away. The son wanted her voice too. For a moment he was disappointed. The moment passed. He would lure his sister another way.

  He stood for a long time staring into the fire. He sat between his parents’ bodies and pulled the meat from the stoneware and ate. Grease dripped down his chin. He swiped at it with the back of his hand. He tasted iron on his lips. He peered at his hand through the firelight and saw the drying blood. Uncaring, he bathed his hand in his mother’s chest and smeared the blood on his face. Wuul struggled to stand with the help of his staff. He tossed a thick log on the fire and watched the embers explode in protest. His parents, the chief and his mate, would remain undisturbed as he left the village.

  Wuul pulled back the deerskin hide from the entrance and peered into the morning light. The sounds of morning from the nearby hooghans pricked his ears. He saw a young warrior and his dog weave through the village to the river. Quietly, he slipped from the hooghan. Casually, he limped away from the dwelling toward the forest. His black hair covered his blood-streaked face as he leaned over his staff. Wuul knew he had time to move through the village unnoticed, before his actions were discovered. More than enough time for him to complete the ritual he had started on the day of the hunt when he was to become a man.

  On the day of the hunt during the time of the Crow moon, the boy who would become Wuul was sent out into the dark forest alone. He was supposed to kill a beast of the forest and bring back its body to prove to the tribe he was ready to be a man. He had three passes of the moon to prove his worth. Unbeknownst to his father, Wuul had darker intentions, influenced as he had been by the banished shaman.

  Wuul had found the Cave of the Shimmering Light years ago while playing in the forest. He told no one in his father’s tribe about the cave, not even Flower of the Morning Dew. Only he and the chief’s older brother, the banished shaman, knew of the cave. The cave was the shaman’s home. The shaman sensed the seed of evil hiding behind the boy’s green eyes. Over the years the shaman shared his secrets with Wuul. During that time the shaman weaved a tale of lies against the chief to fan the evil within the young boy’s mind. In return, Wuul pledged his devotion to the old man. Before the previous harvest, the shaman stepped into the shimmering light and vanished before Wuul’s eyes. On the day of the hunt, Wuul began the final ritual as directed by the shaman.

  The first pass of the moon, Wuul went to the cave of the shimmering light and summoned a creature that lived in his nightmares. Mothers of the tribe told the young ones tales of the hideous creature to keep them close to the village. The creature taunted and ridiculed him throughout the night to the point of tears. Wuul wanted to flee. He wanted to turn away from the dark path. He wanted to scream and cry for his mother to protect him. Instead, as instructed by the shaman, he bit into the oak staff until his teeth ached. When morning finally came, Wuul finished carving his staff with the shards of an old deer bone.

  The second pass of the moon, the creature from his childhood fears took physical form. Wuul was forced to confront the beast. The creature slipped from the trees and bathed in the moonlight. It towered over Wuul by at least a stretch of his arms. The beast stood on two skinny legs like Brother Coyote. Its body was lean and muscular like a village warrior’s. The creature’s head was shaped like a wolf’s, with a snout and pointy ears. The beast’s front paws were shaped like a man’s hands, with claws as sharp as arrow points.

  The creature raised its dog-shaped head and screamed at the moon that hung low in the night sky. Then it lunged at Wuul. The creature moved as if it was lighter than air but what struck Wuul was heavier than a stone parting the waters of the river.

  The impact of the dog-faced creature caused Wuul to drop his bow and arrow when he struck the ground. He immediately turned on his hands and knees to scurry away from the predator like a frightened rabbit. The creature grabbed his leg and yanked Wuul back toward its snapping jaws. Wuul screamed. The jaws of the dog-faced creature clamped onto the boy’s lower leg with such a force that the bone cracked and splintered. Wuul howled as searing pain brought a wave of sickness to the back of his throat. The creature released its bite and pulled him closer. Wuul frantically groped on the ground for anything to use as a weapon. His hand found a broken arrow shaft and his fingers curled around the thin wood. This time he screamed at the thought of failure. Before the creature could bite again, Wuul plunged the tip of the arrowhead into the beast’s eye. Steaming blood sprayed over Wuul’s face and torso. The taste of metal, sweat, and dirt mingled in his mouth. The creature howled in pain and shock. It released its hold of Wuul.

  Wuul did not release the broken arrow shaft. He gritted through the pain of his shattered leg and pushed the arrowhead deeper into the creature’s eye. The creature tried to roll away. Wuul hung on and pressed his body against the snapping jaws of the beast. Together they struggled through the leaf-littered forest floor. Wuul used his body weight to push the length of the broken arrow shaft fully into the beast’s head. Even after the dog-faced creature stopped moving, he pressed the arrow shaft deeper. When morning finally came, Wuul bathed in the creature’s blood.

  Th
e third pass of the moon, Wuul skinned the dog-faced creature. He hung the skin on deer bones in the cave with the shimmering light. The bones he discarded in a pile. He sat in contemplation. When morning finally came, Wuul dragged himself back to his father’s tribe, empty-handed and broken. As he entered the village, the first thing he saw was the disappointment in his father’s eyes, for he had failed to become a man.

  Quietly, father and son moved through the village to the center hooghan. His father pulled back the deerskin and motioned for Wuul to enter. Wuul could feel the cold disgrace of his father’s eyes as he stumbled into the family’s hooghan. He heard the soft swoosh of the dried skin fall closed as his father entered. He felt the sharp sting of his father’s hand as it struck the back of Wuul’s head. Thrown off balance by the force of the strike, Wuul fell toward the fire. He desperately reached out to break his fall. His face struck a smoldering log on the edge of the flames. The hot ash melted into the skin of his face. Before he could scream in pain his father pulled him from the fire by his long hair. The chief tossed him away in disgust. Wuul rolled along the dirt floor and felt the minuscule pieces of sand bite into his burned flesh. His father squatted over him with a look of disgust and disappointment. The anger Wuul felt at his father’s disappointment fertilized the evil that had always been a part of him.

  Wuul stumbled over a root, pulling him from his reverie. He reached the edge of the forest as the sun moved towards afternoon over the peak of the mountains. Using his father’s stolen voice, he called to his sister. He knew the call would lure Flower of the Morning Dew to the forest. Wuul struggled with his mangled leg over the rock-strewn ground and through the trees toward the cave with the shimmering light.

  Wuul repeatedly called for his sister with their father’s voice. Flower of the Morning Dew called back in pursuit. Through the trees, Wuul glimpsed her moving toward him. He reached the cave of the shimmering light with enough time to hide and wait for her. Hiding behind a large oak tree, he let the forest shadows mask his presence. He continued to call for her until she stood at the entrance of the cave.

  Quietly, Wuul stepped out of his hiding place behind his sister and struck her on the head with his staff. She crumpled to the ground. He struggled to drag her limp body into the darkness of the cave. Once inside the main chamber, Wuul lit small fires and watched the shadows dance on the rock walls. He sprinkled the necessary herbs for the ritual he would complete.

  Wuul continued to struggle with his mangled leg to tie his sister’s body over the large rock in the center of the cave. Wuul bound her arms and legs and cut away the leather skins she wore to reveal the nakedness of her body. He then removed his own leather skins. Moving through the shadows he retrieved the skin of the dog-faced creature.

  Pulling the head of the nightmare creature over his own, he covered his nakedness. Stalking back to his sister like a beast, he stood before her, breathing through the creature’s nostrils. With his clawed hand he slapped his sister hard across the face. She awoke and immediately screamed at the sight of their childhood nightmares. Wuul waved his clawed hand in front of his sister’s face and chanted dark words only known by the shaman of their people. Her scream faded away in his closed hand. Holding the creature’s fist in front of her face, Wuul partially uncurled his fingers to let part of the scream slip through the claws.

  Wuul immediately squeezed the creature’s fingers shut and whispered, “I have your voice, Sister.”

  Placing the curled fist to his snout, Wuul inhaled his sister’s voice as his own.

  Flower of the Morning Dew blinked in recognition of her older brother draped in the skin of a nightmare.

  The girl opened her mouth but no sound came from her lips.

  Her brother clenched his fist tighter in front of her face, hissing through his teeth. “Your words are foolish and do not deserve to be heard.”

  Wuul whirled around, laughing in his dog-faced skin. When he faced her again, tears streamed down her young face. She mouthed soundlessly, Why?

  Wuul leaned in closer to her tear-streaked face. Staring into her brown eyes through the empty eye sockets of the dog-face creature, he almost felt sympathy for her.

  Then Wuul screamed in her face, “Because-I-was-shamed!”

  He whirled away to hide the momentary weakness his sister might see in his eyes. In a whisper he added, “Because I was selfish.”

  Wuul saw his hideous shadow cloaked in the dog-face’s skin dance across the cave walls in the firelight. “I wanted to be more than a man.”

  He crouched with his back before Flower of the Morning Dew like a savage beast. After a time, he slowly stood and faced his sister with more composure. Moving close, Wuul spoke like an elder, “Our people are dead. The pale-face comes to take our land, kill our Brother Bison for fun, and mock our beliefs.”

  As Wuul spoke the words, he heard the shaman’s voice echo in his ears. He heard his father’s pleas of protest against his brother seep through the rock walls. Wuul howled like the dog-face creature in protest to clear the voices of his ancestors. He then moved toward the fire that cast his hideous shadow on the rock ceiling of the cave. Pacing back toward his sister, he unsheathed the knife he brought for this moment. Pressing the edge between her breasts, he leaned his body close to hers. The dog-face skin and hair brushed against his innocent sister’s bare flesh. Tears flooded her eyes as she shook her head, wordless screams dying in the air. Her body strained against the leather straps but held her fast to the boulder. “You, my sister, known among our people as Flower of the Morning Dew, will give me the power to become what I need. What our people need.”

  With his sister’s voice, Wuul screamed as the knife split her soft skin. Flower of the Morning Dew’s pain and despair washed over him as if baptizing him into a new life. As Wuul dragged the knife down through his sister’s body from her collarbone to her navel, he chanted the black incantations that would complete his transformation.

  Dropping the knife to the stone floor, he watched his dying sister’s eyes widen as the dog-face skin curled around his body, becoming his flesh. Wuul howled in delight as he felt himself become one with the skin of the beast he killed to become a man.

  He reached out with both clawed hands and grasped the sides of his sister’s throat. Slowly, he dug the claws into her flesh and forced Flower of the Morning Dew to look upon what he had become. His dog-like tongue licked the side of her cheek as she whimpered in protest. Changing back to his human-form with a thought, Wuul hissed against his sister’s cheek.

  “When you see our ancestors in the Great Sky, tell them my man-name is Wuul and I have the spirit of the skinwalker.”

  Wuul stepped away from his sister, transforming back into the dog-face creature of their nightmares. As the light of life seeped from her eyes, Wuul completed the dark ceremony by ending her life. Gripping the sides of her neck again with his massive clawed hands, he tore Flower of the Morning Dew’s head from her body.

  Transforming back into a man, Wuul held the severed head above his own and bathed in the blood. His howl of acceptance echoed throughout the cave and into the fading sunlight. The blood that had given Flower of the Morning Dew life destroyed the last of Wuul’s humanity as he embraced the way of the skinwalker.

  Ernest Solar

  About the author

  Ernest Solar is an author and a professor. He’s written several books and education-related articles about the use of mindfulness in public schools. His most recent books include The Well House and Spirit of Sasquatch. In his free time, Ernest is out hiking, meditating, or doing research related to Sasquatch, the paranormal, aliens and UFOs, or anything weird and fascinating. Ernest loves meeting new people and is always open to talking with anyone about their experiences, books, philosophies, or the mysteries of the universe. A professor at Mount St. Mary's University in Maryland, he lives with his family in Lovettsville, Virginia.

  The Chain

  By Samuel Hale

  Torches lit the monastery.
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br />   “Pax,” Arch-Inquisitor Mastus rasped from his throne.

  Inquisitor Pax, swathed in white robes, knelt upon the marble floor. He avoided staring at the puckered socket of Mastus’ missing eye, and looked upon the only man who’d ever cared for him.

  “The Inquisition took you in. A brash and driven youth, without a family to call your own. A weak link in the Chain that binds all of Cre’.” Mastus cleared his throat, sweat beading on waxen flesh. He fingered a loop of chain similar to the one around Pax’s neck, though Mastus’ featured intricate runes carved into each thick link of steel.

  The Arch-Inquisitor’s second, High-Inquisitor D’Nai, stood at a long, intricately-carved altar behind his throne. She tended to various weapons and armor. A circular mass of chain hung from the high walls behind her. “And, from that of a lowly Initiate, you became an Inquisitor. One most notable, in fact, Pax.”

  Notable? His name meant peace, someone who brings an end to conflict. Pax had a difficult time reconciling his peace with the smell of smoke and blood still clinging to his robes.

  A chill wind blew through the monastery, sawing at the torches hanging from walls festooned with tabards, frescoes, and relics. Chains hanging from the ceiling danced lazily to the sudden breeze.

  Despite the cold night air, the Arch-Inquisitor dabbed at his brow with the robe of his office—white for the remaining light left to the country of Cre’, red for the blood Inquisitors shed protecting their homeland. And black; a reminder of the goddess Nil’s encroaching darkness and Her shadow clad demons threatening to envelop Cre’ once and for all.