Werewolf the Podcast: Back to Black. (Episode 195)

We join our protagonists, the werewolf and the Professor, as they spend some time in quiet reflection. There is no happily ever after at the end of their stories. No, that is a childish thought we use in children's stories, in fairytales. There is never a happy ever after. There is just that the story continues.

Wil and Fen try to relive their past. Innocent in its way, they had no guilt, no regret.

The Professor has a moment of rest. Some time to himself and explains the contents of his fearsome library. The good and the bad books he keeps prisoner in his library are those that mortals must be kept from, for their sake.

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Transcript

Darkness is a friend once more as I stretch our paws. We are out under the stars, only my best friend and I. There have been too many others recently. Fen and I are enough. When others are added to our lives, be they people or beings, it adds so many complications that I have not had to consider before. I don't want to have to consider this night. I want to be. We want to be. We are together, yet not. Each of us sits in the mind of the beast. Our own mental narratives play out in our respective minds. We are one, yet not; that was how it was for the best part of my life. The best part of my life feels like it is in the past. I was so innocent in my thoughts. Not innocent in the true sense of the word. Innocent as to what others would bring when considered. 

We have become the Wolf. A giant beast. Black as my soul and yellow-eyed. It is dark, and the sky is a cloudy mess. The grass beneath my feet is damp from the rain that petered out just moments ago, and I pause for a moment to shake my body from nose to tail to send the drops coalescing on my pelt free and into the dark. They are sent on their respective journeys without having to consider them. If only people could be shed as easily. Shaken from their incessant clinging and sent into the dark without further thought.

The past few months have been troubling. Pathos and empathy have been brought to my attention. Sadness was new to me. In the past, I did not need it. I had anger that fulfilled that niche in my emotional requirements. Empathy has replaced hate. I had hate in my heart for those who were weak and needed understanding. No one understood me, so why would I need to understand others? I then found those that did understand me. I wish I had not. 

I wish to ignore many things this night. I just want to hunt and remember the earlier days when life was so much simpler. I used to think that nostalgia was pathetic. To look back on better times and enjoy them. I now understand nostalgia as what it is. 

Nostalgia is not a look back to better times but a recognition of a time you lived that you could never relive because you are no longer that person or thing. I wish to get back to a time when I was just the Wolf; even in my human form, I was just the Wolf. 

I was only pursuing power and control over the things I wanted. I cared not whose they were or how my taking them affected them. I just took and gave nothing. No, that is not true. I never considered the gifts that I gave. I suppose I did give to my victims, if you can say misery, grief, loss and in some cases death are gifts? They are gifts of a kind. 

But I did not care about the negative effect that I had on their lives. That was not my issue. Only there's. It never even entered my head that they would have to deal with those things. In fact, I enjoyed their loss and misery. Life was simpler.

It has seemed for the last few months, everything has been taken from me, and I have gained nothing but a heavy heart. A sadness that I did not know I was capable of. I have learnt to suffer emotion and wish I did not suffer it. 

In the past, all was a search for fun and joy every day. That was always at a cost to others. They were mine to take from. If they had it and I wanted it then it was mine. No consideration of them or theirs. It was mine, with no consideration of the consequences either.

As I have said, not only would I take it, but I would take great pleasure in doing so. It was as though I was some kind of vampire feeding off others' losses in order to feed myself. It sounds in a way that I require your pity. Not so. I pity myself.

The air is fragrant with life and brings snatches of intriguing scents. My wolf form is my favourite form. The world feels so much realer when you have the ability to sample it through these senses. I pause and raise my head momentarily to get my bearings by the strength of the flavours that float to me in the evening air. 

I smell the sweet freshness of the stream. I hear its gurgle and rush to my left. I smell the rodents that huddle in their shelters at my passing. They fear me as they should, but they are not on my wolfy wishlist this evening. To my right is a small woodland. I can make out the trees but can not make out what they are by sight in the darkness. They betray their kind by their own scents. Sycamores, ash, and oaks predominantly rustle their leaves in the wind, which gently flows through their tops. 

I drop my head once more, taking my nose to the sweet-scented path that I follow. This is the scent that I follow as I trot on at the Wolf pace. A pace that I know will eat up the miles quickly, yet I can maintain for hours. Wolf pace. 

A screech from an Owl shocks me a little. It was unexpected, and it stalls my search for a moment. It must have been us that caused the Owl's outburst. The white ghost on silent wings sails over me and lands on a fence post a small distance from me where we lock predatory eyes.

The barn owl bobs its head and looks me over as I stand and wait for its decision about me. It screeches again; I feel that it has recognised me as another equal creature in the night before opening those wings and flying into the dark once more.

I smile internally for a moment as I think how incredible nature is. That bird is silent. Silent death on the night's air. A perfect predator for its task. Killing and eating small, fluffy, squeaky things. I have envy for its ignorance. It has no concept of right or wrong. It has no guilt. It just is. Something that I had. Something that I will never have again.

Professor.

Sitting in my office should be the greatest pleasure I can have. I am away from the world. That damnable cell phone is off—the landline. Yes, I am one of those strange few who have a landline. It is my age, possibly. It is unplugged from its socket in the wall. 

On my rich darkwood desk is a glass of the finest whisky that can no longer be bought. It brings me a memory of past times and how they are past times and will inevitably be lost as that time passes. More whisky of equal standard will come, but it will not be this one. Water flows beneath the bridge and is never the same water twice. With whisky, it is similar but at a batch at a time.

My first taste of 'Uisge Beatha' was in the 1400's. I remember the day well. When I sip this draught, I can still remember it. A bottle of the water of life had been brought to England, where I was doing my knightly duty for King and country under another name and at an easier time where and when the law of the land lay on the blade of a well-swung sword.

I had taken a wound in some squabble that I had with a local noble and was recouping in an abbey; I do not remember the noble's name or the Abbey. It was one of those that were destroyed later in 1536 and beyond. Nice place. Hospital of sorts. I do remember the monk. Father Peter. He gave me a sip from the bottle for medicinal reasons. I have never looked back. It is a medicine of sorts. It is more of a mental medicine often used as a mental crutch when required. I do drink to forget. Sad but true. A tool is a tool.

I sit swirling the liquor as I stare into a roaring fire that sits in the Victorian fireplace. It is not required for its heat on such a pleasant evening, but fires simplicity in the modern world brings me joy. 

I look into the flames as they lap around the coals. They present me with pictures as I sit and sort my memories. I need this. I need just this to waste some time in my head, not thinking about the things I need to think about—thinking about thinking and not focusing on my place in the world, just to be. 

Oh, do not get me wrong. I am not shirking my responsibilities. I could never do that, but I have to have some time to myself. Without consideration of others, it is earned and justified. Just allow me an hour. An hour to smile and empty my mind of the myriad of reflections that still flash through the mirror of the past, which is my mind. 

I need this; everyone does, do they not? I now take my eyes from the flames and look around the room. It is a library of sorts. Some of these books and manuscripts that sit around me on shelves and surfaces are some of the most abhorrent and dangerous texts that have ever existed. You will not find them in a public library. A lot have a power of their own that can not be out there in the hands of the masses. 

Let me give you some examples of the things that I have that You should not know about. I can tell you the titles. I can never let you see them.

If we turn to my right, we will find the Hebrew Bible. It's there. The blueprint of certain modern Abrahamic religions. It shares its space with the Koran, which sounds strange, but bear with me.

The two books sit with multiple versions of themselves and others. Yes, versions of themselves. These books were not handed down from God to man. Man compiled these holy books from what had been written about God and heaven. Man decided what would be in them and what could be shared with the faithful. Not only did they determine what should be in them, but they also made the first interpretations of what they read. Below the shelves in climate-controlled draws are many of the Dead Sea scrolls that have been found. Many of them are those used to write God's words. Many of them are not. Many I found myself when going on a sort of pilgrimage in the 1800's. Never seen by other eyes than my own.

The Bible was written by compiling and taking sections of the 900 or so Dead Sea Scrolls. I have so many more. I have read so many more. I can not tell you the contents as it would change everything. I know that does not seem possible. You may sit there and say well, I am an Atheist, and religion has no control over me. This is true, but certain religions have shaped your societal framing. If these, I can not say new texts, but these unobserved texts came to light. Society may well collapse. There is always the temptation to let them free in the world, but that would be a mistake. A glorious error that would be wonderful to live through as it took place. 

For example, I have the fragments and the compilation of the book of Enoch written by Noah's Grandfather. Not included in the Bible, it tells us about the Angels and Demons. Something that was decided by those who chose these things that the common people should not know. 

Enoch is part of some religions erm... holy texts, but in a much holy watered-down version, I am afraid. I have to say I agree with the watering down in this case. To believe the things it literally tells us would be... quite... inhumane. It also tells us of the coming of the Messiah. That coming is not the coming of the Messiah we recognise. I will leave that to settle in your mind. 

I have other versions of the Bible built by other faiths at different times. I have famously the only remaining copy of the Duestan Bible. I will not date it or tempt you to find its contents, but its words are based on the hate of God for a race that ignores his wishes, a very different being than even the Old Testament God. According to that text, we will always try to make up for Adam and Eve's sin—something we can not do. We will also always be held responsible for the death of his Son—one of many sons, according to this book.

The so-called Wisemen built these texts. Who decided they were the Wisemen capable of choosing God's words and implementing them? I do not know, but they chose what was there and what was not. I have much of what was not included, and I can utterly understand why it is not in the holiest of textbooks.

The other wall contains what we classify as bad books. Grimoires, spell books. I would go into the details of those, but I will not. It is not worth your temptation for power. They are well written to grip a soul, and if I had to count the souls that those books had taken, I would be in the many millions.

I suppose you might say that I am withholding information that should be available to all. You are right. I am a miser of mysteries, but the average human being is a child. They seek only power and wealth, and these books would use that to bring even more harm into this world of ours. Why am I the judge of this? Just be thankful that I have taken on this task.

I also do not care what you think. I know I can only be judged by God. I know. I have been and found wanting. 

They are here and nowhere else based on my feelings about them. Why, you ask? Well, predominantly because I don't want to have to clean up the mess they would make in the world, and each of these would make a mess. I know I have collected each of these books from their owners, no victims, after tidying up the mess that it has produced.

I also have books that would make the world Idyllic and peaceful. There they are, all five of them, on that little shelf above the window.

Why do I withhold these? It is a great question. It may be a power trip of sorts, but these beautiful books were written by those teetering on the edge of reality and sanity. Beautiful, broken minds could only write these liturgies. Their authors were not staring into the abyss. They were staring into a perfect world. We are not ready for that perfect world. Human beings could not cope with a return to an Eden, just yet. In the future, maybe. I will never see it, though. I don't want to.

I have often thought that we will never be ready for happiness. These good books would be misunderstood at this point and misrepresented in the world. So I have to be the librarian of the evilest and most good books. I really am just a Librarian. Just a librarian? I remember when that meant that you were the keeper of all knowledge. Sad the change. My charges will never make it to the World Wide Web. I would burn them first. All of them, and probably will have to. (Laugh)

It is strange to hear that I keep them from everyone. I suppose I keep them from the populace and the Fae to ensure the balance. I know I am giving myself a God-like status in a way. I am making the choices for you. I am, but I know these things need to be hidden. I know this from the hundreds of years of bad and good experiences I have lived and died experiencing. 

Arrogantly, I think I have the knowledge and the ability to choose what is good or bad for this world. I am an expert in this stuff. You are not. I wish I had not mentioned the bloody books now.

I take another sip of the amber liquid that sits deep in my heavy-cut crystal whisky glass. The searing beauty of its bite refreshes my thoughts as I hold it in my mouth, savouring its aroma. As I swallow, I change my line of thought. I need to think of what comes next. It's time to turn on the phone. It's time to plug back into the world.

As the phone wakes up, I smell the liquid in the glass. Its vapours are almost as delightful as the drink itself. I laugh at the thought that this is the water of life. Such a perfect description.

The phone starts to ping, ping, and ping. Life starts again. Madness starts again. I down the last of my drink, regretting turning the bloody thing on; I reach for the mobile device. 

Wil

I bury my maw, ripping and tearing into the abdomen of the still-living creature. It screams and yells its pain as canines pierce the skin, and I worry my head back and forth to tear access to the vitals in that cavity. The screams of the thing excite me as I stand on its body and pull to wrench a mouthful from the flesh. The scent of the blood sparks in my mind. Like a fine wine, its smell is alluring and tantalising.

Again, I reach down, the muzzle now bloody—gobbets of flesh launch into the air. The thing still lives as I wrench a hole large enough in its hide in which to bury my nose. 

I grasp the slippy contents of the abdomen and pull. They come away easily, and my front paws slip on the bloody skin, meaning I have to re-establish my position and rip back into the body. 

This I have missed. This killing and death for the simple pleasure of it. As I Stand above the mess on the floor, I watch its muscles relax.

'Why?' It asks before it finally shivers and slowly settles and a red tide beneath it blooms. I settle to eat. I have missed this. We have missed this. 

'Why?' What a ridiculous question. 'Why?' 

I have done it because I am what I am. We are what we are. 

Werewolf.