Wednesday, September 18, 2013


The females all squeezed into a little niche, a warm, dark pocket at the back of the cave. The alpha male didn't enter. He never does, preferring to stand imperiously away from the rest.... Scipio Africanus  surveying the troops, attended by his loyal, for now, betas.

They helped the human mother crouch down on a pile of rabbit skins and straw. ...'Daddy's gone a hunting to get a baby bunting. To get a little rabbit skin to wrap the baby bunting in...' Pity the poor rabbits. They get it every time. This 'daddy's' obviously accumulated a lot of skins. 

Shimmy Kate (the mama) groaned. She wanted to lay down, but they wouldn't let her. Hard, lupine hands peeled off her torn, thin rags. Someone drizzled water on her head, using a wadded up piece of moss for a sponge. Another wolfie female shoved a leaf in her mouth. She chewed... an instinctive response, releasing a drug-filled resin... It helped.

Now we (the disembodied spirits who narrate everything in The Vampire wonderland) could tell you 'bout contractions and pains and rivulets of fluid squirting out from nether regions, but you've heard that before. A birth is a birth is a birth, at least among mammals. Some take place in sterile environments surrounded by shamefully high priced 'concerned do-gooders for hire,' and others happen in humbler places.

Romulus and Remus were coming. Two little organisms jockeyed for position, waiting for their chance to survive the birth canal and breathe. And as far as these wolf-folk could, they prayed, or rather radiated a desire for a particular outcome.

The mother might provide that. She had it in her blood. Let them look human. Let them blend in. Free them from the shadows and the swamps of the bayou. Other werewolves, higher castes, live that way. They talk. They look. They go and they see.... wolves when it's right and men when it isn't. 

The alpha 'prayed' too. Such a selfless thing he did, though the reluctant mother wouldn't think so. But if this worked, his band, in their present state, would disappear... rather like the Neanderthals. Yet permit us to tell you, oh 'human' children, that first-formed lines do not disappear, not truly. They are with us still, running through creation like underground streams... cold, dark and abiding.

Romulus and Remus are coming. They bite and gouge and scratch even now, fighting to be first. And 'le monde lupiniere' will never be the same....

Allez le bon temps roullez.......

Pardon our French, but we disembodied spirits hail from another part of the forest.

And now the wolf-folk keen...
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