A Barrel of Apples
As he stepped off of the bus and took his first look at Cluster Springs, a once-booming coal mining town of Virginia, Mark Francini tasted the fresh small-town air for the first time. He had come here to locate the Sept of the Joined Waters, a place where people like Mark once gathered to protect the spiritual energy of the earth. A caern of mystical value.
Mark was a garou, a galliard tale-singer of the Glasswalker tribe. A garou is what you or I might call a werewolf. You might have seen the movies, or the tabloid stories at your local supermarket, or even heard a few tales told around a campfire on a moonlit summer night. The image of a mindless monster with fangs and claws, a solitary beast cursed to wander the night may come readily to mind, bringing shrieks of terror like all good horror stories should.
Garou aren't like those lone monsters, however. In fact, garou are a deeply social people, with a rich culture and history. They've been around for thousands of years, perhaps more, serving their goddess Mother Gaia, the earth. Several tribes make up the garou, each one with a unique attitude and vision on how to protect the world and it's inhabitants from the evils that threaten to engulf them. Creatures of the maddened Wyrm, the insane primordial god, and those that serve him. Including the Fallen Garou known as the Black Spiral Dancers, one of the Wyrm's most loyal servants.
They only thing that agreed with the horror films was that they could grow into 9 feet tall creatures at will; creatures that were a mixture of man and wolf. And of spirit.
The powerful looking man with the brown, short curly hair, large hands, and deep blue eyes gazed upon the small town. He was a man of twenty-seven, comfortably dressed in a plaid cotton shirt and dark denim jeans not missing the usual casual suits he is usually seen in. He seemed like he could be at home wherever he went. Even the hint of the Rage common to all garou appeared hidden safely away beneath the friendly face of the galliard.
The quiet main street held only a glimmer of the activity it once was host to, as a few lights acted as beacons to wandering strangers, as the late evening began to make quiet shadows grow with a patient stride. There were a few old buildings lining the street, many bearing signs of the modernization that had occured in the last fifty years, allowing such basic ammenities as lights, heat... and even the fax machine.
Progress has not forgotten Cluster Springs, even if the rest of the world has.
Mark considered how he was going to locate the old sept. There wasn't much to go on, and it was a good bet that the sept had gone forgotten over the years. Left to the winds and ashes just as this town had been. Still, even a forgotten sept leaves it's clawmarks.
With a few hours to kill before nightfall, Mark decided to settle in, get aquainted and make plans to explore the town in the morning.
He walked toward one of the hotels, hoping that the sign wasn't out of date. In small towns, change seems to take place slowly, and is often a sign of the community's sense of humor. Not that he objected. Just that it could be very inconvenient at times.
"Hey!"
A voice called out, and Mark turned his head, locating the source of the summons. The only thing he could see was an old woman, sitting on a grocer's porch, waving him over with a paper fan she kept in her hand like some clutched treasure.
"Say, boy. Look like you could use some directions, am I right?"
Mark nodded to the crone, her smile widening in his affirmation, "that I am, that I am. Are you offering any that I could use?"
The woman shifted in her seat, as if to get out a cramp from sitting for so long, "well, now, what sort of guidance would please you, young feller?"
Mark considered his approach, not wanting to bring out any undue attention. He walked over and leaned up against the post, assessing the woman. She had the requisite grey hair that denotes age, and wisdom. Her eyes were bright, a testament to her sharpness and perhaps a spot of wit as well. He knew that he could warm up to this woman rather quickly and took an apple from a barrel, handing her a dollar.
"I'm a traveller, from the city. I'm searching for legends, whispers, of ghosts and the like. I heard that Cluster Springs had it's share at one time."
The woman chuckled with the sound of a merry cackle, giving a nod to the man in her company, brushing aside the money, "all the old towns have 'em boy. And you can forget the apples, they's free. Ain't much more than drawings for the hungry types. The real merchandise is inside."
"So you know of a few old tales," he suggested.
She leaned back and seemed to fall into a trance, humming softly to herself, "old tales, not many folks come looking for that sort of thing any more. Nope, not many."
"That is a shame, old woman," Mark apologised, "the old stories can light up many cold nights, with the right speaker at the helm."
The woman looked up at him and smiled, showing a few gaps among her teeth, "call me Clara, most folks here do. Good thing it happens to be m' name, heh?"
"I am Mark Francini, miss Clara. A pleasure to meet such a cunnning soul."
"Mark Francini, eh? Sounds eye-tal-yon, I reckon. So, any particular tales you're seeking?"
Mark nodded, pulling himself closer, and leveling himself evenly with her, "yes ma'am. Looking for one in particular, and others as well. Ever hear of a man going by the name of Iron? John Iron?"
Her composure changed, and he knew that the name was known to her, and he watched her take him in completely now, as if there was something she was looking for. He realised that John's tales may have left a much more lasting impression around here even after nearly a century and a half.
"Old John, biggest galoot I think this town ever saw, when this was almost a city back in the old days. Before the Depression, and before the mines closed," she sighed and continued, "word was, he had a tongue on him, used both for the drink and the dame. Both got him into trouble at times. Still, he was a good soul, loved his friends well. He had a temper though, that made him a real coot to those who sparked it."
Mark recognised that sort, especially in himself, "I have heard that he helped when a fire took hold of this area."
"Mark m'boy. Them's only the small stuff. He done more'n that, I reckon. Much more," her eyes gleamed and Mark realised that she may have had the silver tongue about her as well.
"I'd be happy to hear any tales you can offer, just name your price. Plus, if you happen to know how to travel these woods, I'd be most grateful."
She shook her head and clucked her tongue, "boy, there's places some city folks just don't belong, and I tell you that them woods is one of them. Still, you have the look of a man that has the resolve to walk right into hell, I reckon. If you want yerself a guide to the woods, you'll need Cool Willie. He's rare much of the time, but the tavern sees him most nights when bones feel the winter's wind coming. He's the one t' ask."
Mark accepted the woman's advice and stood up, "I'm heading in to the tavern then. But you can be sure I'll be by to hear your tales."
He took another apple and tossed it upwards with a smile catching it with a playful snap, "maybe I could share a tale or two in return, grandmother."
He knew she'd have to be of the Bone Gnawers, one of the other tribes of the garou, or linked to them. Her knowing chuckle confirmed that in no time at all, "a son of the city calling me such a dear. I reckon we're both in for a treat, boy."
He liked her well enough, but remembered the losses back home, and the rumors that the Bone Gnawer tribe may have conspired with the invading Ratkin, a people that like the garou, had a deep connection to Mother Earth.. Along with a long-standing grudge with the garou since they had presumably died out during the War of Rage, thousands of years ago. Everyone knew that the Gnawers had a fondness for rats, and many suspect they have been working with these Ratkin.
He may like this woman, but he knew better than to let personal feelings endanger his own tribe.
He left her sitting on the porch with a friendly wave and walked toward the tavern hoping that Willie would be there. He also hoped he might be another garou, perhaps even a Glasswalker. He could only hope.
And sometimes hope is good enough.