A Cool Guide
The sun filtered inside the small room, a ray of light danced upon the bed, tickling Mark's face. He awoke, wondering where the noise of morning traffic went, before he remembered he was far from the din of the city. Far away from the troubles of New Bremen.
Sitting up, he ran a broad hand through his brown locks, recalling the disappointment that Cool Willie had not shown up the night before. He had waited quite a while giving up only when the tavern had to close. He noticed that the owner's daughter looking at him as he headed to the hotel. Usually, fair maids tried to avoid his gaze, but this one met it with a certain fearlessness.
Pulling aside the sheets, he got up and washed his face in the bathroom sink, putting the night's sleep out of his head. Slipping on a shirt and shoes, and checking that he had everything he needed, he stepped outside, and headed downstairs, the soft creaking of the wooden boards barely disturbing the cold morning air.
"Morning," he greeted, acknowledging the nod of the attendant as he decended the stairs. He accepted the breakfast that was displayed in the eating room, noting with great relief that there weren't other boarders present.
The hotel was a rustic old building from the early mining era, converted from a public dining hall around the early nineteen-twenties. There were several antique photographs lining the walls depicting faces long since faded into history. Smiling faces that knew the harshness of the mines yet had the spirit of community bringing them together, even when poverty was all they could afford. If any of these faces were of John Iron, it was hard to tell. But there was no doubt in Mark's mind that this was the sort of life John enjoyed. Hard, yet rewarding.
"They're all at the plant."
"Excuse me?" Mark addressed the hotel manager, shaken from his thoughts, "the plant?"
"Most young folks here work at the packing plant about ten miles south of here. Been that way since the mines closed."
He remembered Clara saying something about that, "why did they close the mines?"
The manager shrugged, "after the big war, there was a push for cleaner fuel. Interest in coal pretty much died out. Over half the town left to find jobs in the cities, like Richmond."
Mark mused on this for a bit as he ate his breakfast. While a cleaner fuel should have been a good thing for Gaia, the loss of jobs can be a means for the Wyrm to win more victims. An interesting and worrisome trade-off. Maybe Clara could shed some light on the events back then.
Just as he made this resolution, he felt the room get colder, and looked to the doorway to see a man walk in, kicking off the dust off of his boots. The man looked like a cross between a Native American and a con man. A rather successful one.
"I thought I'd find you here," he spoke glancing over at Mark, "Clara said you was looking for me."
"Clara mentioned a that Cool Willie could show me around the woods. That would be you?"
He nodded affirmatively and opened the door, inviting him to follow, "time's wasting then, city boy. Let's hit them trees."
Mark stood, grabbed his pack and followed, watching the man as he was led down Main street toward a side road that lead further away from the buildings and homes. He could tell that he wasn't Indian, just dressed in chaps and leather. He was of European lineage, that was for sure, possibly from Norway or thereabouts. His dusty hair and reddened cheeks definately had a mark of the saxon blood in him.
What he didn't have was any pedigree that Mark could tell.
"You look English, but you dress like a redskin, quite an unusal amalgam," he commented, keeping just behind the man.
Without looking back, he grunted understanding, "I can see you're more from the Mediteranian, possibly Greek or Caledonian. Guess we both have the same broken chain in our blood."
Mark began to understand, pleased to have found a relation, "then you're a city boy too, I take it?"
Willie's nod was all he needed. They kept silent for the next half hour as they walked deeper into the woods, following trail markers only the enigmatic guide seemed to recognise. Soon, however, he called for a stop holding up a hand as they neared a open area. Mark could see a spring, or what seemed to be one in the distant past.
"Joined Waters," he whispered.
He looked at Willie as the man began to explain, "there is another reason the jobs dried up more'n fifty years ago. Hope you got a strong stomach, Mister Francini."
Mark swallowed once and nodded, wondering just what lay ahead, his resolve urging him forward. As Willie stepped aside, he moved past, getting a full view of the area and he gasped in shock. The land was just rotted.
The uneven ground was littered with stones, many covered with a light blue mosslike growth that indicated the sickness that had rooted itself in the land. The stones themselves were placed in various patterns, suggesting ritual and ceremony, something that all garou are familiar with. Each stone, hewn with the decay of time, were placed with a reverence to Gaia, from which all life springs. Faint scratches could still be seen on a few, obviously placed there by the Theurge-moons, the garou most in tune with the spirits.
"What caused this," he stammered.
"Many things, happening all at once. Basically, the mines were affecting the land, making this place weaker with each day. Then came the Fallen Ones, followed soon after by other things. We fought hard, but in the end, we had begun to realise that there wasn't much left to fight for. So we up and left."
He joined Mark onto the sickened earth, "we stopped the mines ourselves, us 'walkers. Just bought up all the financial interests and shut it down. It wasn't an easy decision to make, cost lots of people their jobs, but Gaia comes first. She always will."
Mark agreed, dropping into a crouch to touch the land with his hands, "is she ever coming back?"
The unresolved sigh told him of the uncertainty in the guide's voice, "we just don't know."
Rising, Mark began to explore the area, touching stones and stumps, trying to feel a glimmer of the rich history that they used to carry. Nothing. He couldn't get a thing out of the sickly land. Still, he had to believe that something from the past had managed to survive. Something had to have been preserved.
Willie seened to read his mind, "The cave is over there. There's not much, but a few glyphs are still there. Some hints of the tales your moons have sung here. I'll wait here, until you're finished."
Following the direction implied, Mark hopped over a jutting rock and walked into the cave, pulling out his light to see the interior of what must have been a fantastic caern. He looked for the glyphs promised and was shocked. If this was just a few hints, he couldn't begin to imagine what was lost over the years. There was an entire wall full of tales that he had no idea existed. Tales of heroism and loss. Victory and shame. Tales of the Americas and even tales as far back as the War of Rage.
Then he saw it. On the next wall. There was something hinting about a battle with the Ratkin. A battle of cunning, and a sound victory. But his hopes were quickly dashed. Time had faded much of the tale. There was nothing about how they won, and no clue as to where this battle took place. No sept that he could seek for the answers he needed.
"Only the ancestors know. But there's nothing here, not today. Not in this part of the world."
After committing a few of the remaining tales to memory, he stepped back out into the pale sunlight that shown just overhead. He shook his head to Willie, indicating the failure he found inside.
"Must have been important, wasn't it?"
Mark nodded and shrugged in defeat, "I was hoping to find some wisdom, some way to fight the people of the Rat. All I got was just an old tale lost to time. I was hoping..."
Willie looked at the man strangely, as if he didn't know what Mark was after. After taking a breath, Mark told him what he could. Of the loss of the Caern in New Bremen, and even worse, of the loss of the leadership to the 'walker tribes, "we need real leaders. Men with the conviction to be strong for the tribe. Men of Renown. I don't see how a bunch of cliath are going to do any good."
"Mark, I can't say much 'bout no rats, but I can set in motion that leadership you ask for. I know a few that can be trusted to make the usual quiet inquiries, see what turns up. I won't tell Clara, you have my word. No reason to risk anything on something this delicate. Like you said, best to keep this in the family."
"My thanks. I just hope we can get a strong leader soon. I fear that we will be at each others throats like untrained cubs if we don't."
Willie promised to do what he could in the fastest speed possible as they returned to the town. The sun had dropped level with the treetops by the time neared the hotel.
"Before you go, I got to ask. You know if there are any nearby that could teach me the Moot Rite?"
Mark wasn't the least bit surprised as Willie pointed back to the grocer's shop, "Clara isn't just 'bout tales, mister. She knows a fair 'mount of practices. Talk to her and I'm sure she'll help you out."
Willie walked off, making speed to keep his promise as Mark returned to the rented room, deciding that the best time to go see the old woman was after the sun fell. Night time in a small town had it's own magic. A perfect time for tales and the sharing of magic.
If only he learned of some way to defeat the Ratkin.
"There's still hope, there always is," he muttered as he let sleep close his tired eyes.