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| Happy Gay Halloween |
| 10.27.05 (5:15 pm) [edit] |
BRIAN AND THE WEREWOLF
In a time when lonely old ladies were being burned for witchcraft and young men were tied with bundles of sticks to light these fires, a woman died at childbirth on the edge of a village. The child's name was Brian, because he was born in the briars. He grew to be a lover of men; but these were dangerous times for brotherly love. Brian therefore lived a lonely life of heartache, and hatred for the ignorant folk with whom he daily bargained to survive. Until he met Damien, the werewolf.
Damien was a special werewolf, for he loved Man, and longed for a maiden to bear a pack of frisky pups. But most people are stupid, and fear all creatures of God's design that they cannot tame for their own selfish needs.
It was, of course, on a night of the Full Moon that the howling began. The townfolk bolted their doors and did not set foot outside their cottages--except Brian, who loved adventure. On the third Full Moon of the Howling, Brian hid himself in the forest where he last heard the werewolf's cries.
Brian's patience was rewarded, for there in a clearing under the brilliance of an August Moon, appeared Damien. "What a magnificent creature," thought Brian. "His fur glistens with resin, and he steps around the little blossoms."
Now, the werewolf has a sharp sense of smell and keen ears; but Brian was crouched downwind in the nettle, possessed by the stillness of all creatures of the wood before the werewolf howls.
Damien raised his face to the moon and pierced the night with the cry of a soul that is damned. Tears sparkled down the canine face, and Brian quietly wept.
The howling only ceased when the moon hung low in the sky. Then the werewolf sat on a rock and sobbed, covering his wet face with large, soiled hands. Brian wanted to surrender himself to the werewolf, but he knew it was not the time. When the werewolf vanished into the forest again, Brian stepped into the clearing and sat on the rock, and thought. Then he picked some clover, placed them on the rock, and went home.
On the fourth Full Moon there was no howling, and the villagers rejoiced. Except Brian. He crouched all night in the nettle, but the werewolf never returned. The clover was gone, however. But it could have been washed away by the rain, or blown by the wind, or woven into a nest. Brian placed another bouquet on the rock; and cried, and slept, beside it.
When he awoke, the werewolf lay beside him. "You were shivering," said Damien. Brian trembled in the warmth of the werewolf's arms, and his heart leapt for joy. He nuzzled his face in the werewolf's chest, and the scent of cedar filled his nostrils. But when he tried to kiss the werewolf on the nose, it leapt from their bed of rotting leaves.
"I brought you some breakfast," said Damien, and scooped some quails' eggs from the ground. When Brian began gathering sticks to light a fire, the werewolf grabbed his arm. "No. Just eat them," said the werewolf, who cracked open an egg and licked the gooey substance from the cup of his hand. Brian smiled and ate quails' eggs until his stomach could hold no more.
This is how Brian learned to live in the forest and find shelter, food, and companionship, without bargaining.
"Damien," said Brian one day as they rested in a meadow of dogwood, "I pray every night that God will turn me into a woman, so our love would be complete."
Damien looked down at his companion whose head was resting against his thigh. "Our love is complete," said the werewolf, caressing the brow of his only friend.
But Brian longed to please the werewolf in more than a filial way--and the werewolf understood. For each in his agony had found a place in his heart to love the other.
The villagers lived without fear of the werewolf for five, peaceful years. And Brian learned many mysteries of the ways of nature from the tender wisdom of his friend.
Every evening, as the sun slipped below the hills of Devonshire, Damien would sing songs on the lute that Brian carved for him out of birch wood:
"When I saw you sleeping in the briar,
I knew you were dreaming of me.
We live in the dale of Clover-on-rock,
Beneath the cherry tree."
And under the veil of night, deep in the forest, they embraced. Brian would whisper himself to sleep: "My dear, beautiful, wolf friend."
One day, when Brian was gathering rosebuds for tea, he heard Damien's howl. It came from the village.
By the time he got there, it was all over. The ignorant folk had captured and killed the werewolf. Brian returned to the woods and watched, all night long, the village festivities around the bonfire to celebrate the death of his gentle friend.
Where the blood had been spilled, now grows Wolf's Bane. And for a hundred years after the murder of Brian's beloved friend, the townfolk bolted their doors against the fullness of the moon, and the howl of a werewolf on the edge of the forest.
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posted by: idiotbubble (reply)
post date: 10.27.05 (9:59 pm)
Hey i like ur bloggie!
posted by: zekeblog (reply)
post date: 10.30.05 (8:59 pm)
Thanks "idiotbubble"...that's a cute handle, BTW, makes me chuckle.
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