Skinwalkers

I heard him shriek violently. He was saying words, though they were slurred and jumbled. But somehow I knew what he meant;'How could you, Tristan?' He kept screaming, but his voice became lost within the chaos. Noise, noise, so much noise! Was that a buzz in my ear, or was something else making that awful cacophonous sound?'Where is she,' I kept thinking,'Where is she?' My vision blurred in and out of focus until I could see no more. I clawed at the air blindly, hoping to find her. It was so helplessly dark. After frenzied searching, my hand came in contact with something. I was sightless, but I knew it was her. 'Let’s go,' I urged, and again as I yanked at her arm, 'Run!' But she would not budge. Flames licked up and consumed us and I wondered why she would not run from this terrible place full of darkness and hellfire! And suddenly, without warning, we were falling. Falling so fast through a deep, black, endless hole. And as we fell, his words found me again.'If I cannot have her, no one can.' Then her hand was gone from mine, and we were falling away from each other.

I jolted awake, a visible coating of sweat lining my brow. For a fleeting moment I was disoriented and had to sit up and absorb my surroundings. I attempted groggily to figure out where I was, but all I saw was a vast, empty copse of trees. Once I saw the snowy white she-wolf curled up beside my body, however, I finally remembered it all. Ah, yes. I was Tristan, the cursed skinwalker of the forest, and that dream was real.

I had had the same recurring nightmare since that fateful day so very long ago – not every night, but enough times to permanently put me on edge. The dream was not exactly a true depiction of what had happened, but somehow, it was worse. There were no flames, no falling, but it was how I felt that day; I felt as though I was falling in the very pits of Hell.

With a shiver of the spine I pushed those thoughts to the very back of my mind. Not wanting to disturb the slumbering wolf, I snuck away as quietly as possible to gather a batch of firewood. I hastily cooked a small breakfast then packed up the rest of my things. Once I had finished I nudged the dog, which at first jumped at my touch, but then hopped onto her feet and followed me into the forest. I need not worry about fixing her breakfast; she would find herself a rabbit or other small creature once we began our day’s walk.

*****

“Les lilas sont en fleur,” I said offhandedly to the white wolf perched loyally at my side, although I knew quite well that she could not understand my human words. I knew it, and it killed me. I did not mind pretending, though. It seemed that, as of late, I found myself talking to her more and more—as if growing desperate for some sort of companionship in my desolate solitude. I had even acquired the habit of talking to her in my native language of French, despite having lived in the Irish countryside for four years. It was comforting to me, and sometimes I even felt as though the dog could understand me better when I used it; like it was our own private language. For, the she-wolf was born and raised in France as well as myself. She was a beautiful, glorious creature, although not many seemed to appreciate her beauty as deeply as I did. We shared a profound history that many people sensed, but none dared to inquire about. It was easy to tell that it was a tender tale full of wounds that continued to ache. It was commonly known that the vagrant man cared for his wolf, more than his own life.

I did not speak again for hours, letting a comfortable silence encompass us. I was good at being silent, as it was something that I had dealt steadily with for the past long while. Sometimes, though, I found myself longing for the simple hum of a human voice within my hollow ears. But, alas, I could not risk human contact, or contact with any creature for that matter. One small slip of the tongue could result in a monstrous disaster. You see, me and my wolf had secrets; ones that I was sure that any man would gawk at were he ever to discover them. Attention was the last thing I desired; my sole longing was to break the miserable curse that we lived by. That is why we lurked only in the shadows of society, always stealthily traveling on the hidden trails and in the shadows of the forest. If there was one thing that I had learned over my four year-long journey was that people were dangerous, and were not to be trusted. In my mind, no creature—mortal, immortal, or otherwise—was worthy of my complete faith. Suspicion was my metaphorical dwelling; it encompassed me from day to day, protecting me from the dangers of the outside world. When you trusted no one and lived with a dagger at hand, it was almost impossible to be harmed. So I trusted no one. Except for my wolf, of course. But I had hope that one day when this seemingly everlasting search had ended, that I could reunite with my people without any trace of suspicion. Oh, how I longed to live without constantly having to guard my back.

We walked for a long while along a well-hidden path in the forest. We were comfortable, tucked away safely in a dense forest, for the forest had become our home since we became cursed. The forest in which my companion and I now traveled in stretched for an endless distance; hundreds of miles, or so it seemed.

Suddenly, a noise came from behind me, freezing me mid-stride. My canine companion was no where to be seen, most likely off to fetch some breakfast.

“Please, good fellow, could you spare a coin?” Slowly and cautiously, I turned to face the haggardly woman before me. She bore a torn and ragged shawl, and by the looks of it, had no shoes to call her own. Finding it strange that an old beggar was way out here, so deep in the forest, I was wary in my actions. One did not simply wander this far. I may have been suspicious, however, but I was not cruel. I had to consider the fact that she may truly just be an old woman, and if she was, then I could not refuse the poor thing a few coppers.

“Here you are, old woman. Now please leave me be, I travel alone.” She smirked knowingly and hobbled forward a few paces.

“Ah, but what about your she-wolf? Does she not count as a travel companion?” I narrowed my eyes, and within an instant had my fingers curled around the hilt of my dagger. I could have it unsheathed in a fraction of a second, if I so wished.

“Who are you? How do you know of her?” I dared not speak the wolf’s name, for if the woman were truly malevolent, her learning the name could be used against us. It seemed, however, that my efforts were pointless in the end. This creature, whatever it was, was all-knowing.

“Who, Clair?” Her voice crackled like the dry wrinkles that adorned her skin. Any normal person would have been easily repulsed by her visage, but I was too surprised at her knowledge of Clair’s name to take notice of her ugliness. “Why, my son, I know everything.” I opened my mouth to speak, but she cut me off.

“Your story is one that is well-known amongst my people. Most people think it to be myth, but I know better, dear Tristan.” I shuddered at the use of my name. I had not even given it to her, but somehow she knew it, just like she had known Clair’s. I remained silent however, as she continued. “Not long ago," she began, "there was a French kingdom that lived peacefully. They had a respected King by the name of Dartagnon, and his royal guards were some of the most honored people of the kingdom. Dartagnon was betrothed to a lively, bright star of a girl by the name of Lady Clair. He was hopelessly enamored with her, and could not wait until the day they would marry. Until, that is, the King’s most trusted guard and good friend fell in love with Clair. It is said that she was as madly in love with the guard, Tristan, as he was with her. When the King discovered their affair, however, he was outraged by the betrayal and summoned the powers of dark magic to cast a curse upon the two. By day, she would live in the form of a white wolf while the guard remained human, but when the sun set, they would switch roles; she a human and he a wolf as black as night. Never again would they be able to face each other as humans, never would they be able to hold the other in their arms. For all eternity, they would wander the earth stuck in opposite forms.

“After the curse was cast, the King disappeared, too heartbroken to continue leading his people. His disappearance sent the kingdom into a swift decadence, and many blamed the two lovers. So the newly-made skinwalkers left together, somehow still bound to the other despite their inability to communicate. Since then, they have wandered the forest—the man and his snow wolf, the woman and her shadow dog—in search of the King that cursed them so many years ago. Sometimes, when the cry of a wolf is heard, they say that it is one of the skinwalkers, crying in agony for their lost love. Because, although they remain close to the other always, they can never again be together.”

It was utterly silent for a moment as I absorbed the old woman’s words. I had no idea that our story was known so notoriously, but then again I had spent all my time roaming forests and the occasional village since that day.

“So, yes, I know of the curse that you and she live by. I know of your quest to pursue Dartagnon.” She suddenly hunched forward, as if about to whisper some clandestine secret. “And I know of the way to repeal said curse.”

My eyes widened in shock as I slowly released my death grip on the dagger. I dared not believe her, for it would only result in false hope and crushed dreams. But still...

"Go on, old woman..."