Cave of the Wolfening-Dance

A young hunter undergoes an esoteric initiation rite.

The evening sky was brazen, pink clouds sailing like ships on an amber sea as the sun descended ever westwards, the dusk signalling the coming of a new day. On the earth, amongst the hills of a green country, great pyres for bonfires could be seen. It was the eve of Beltiniyá, the festival which marked the beginning of Summer, and the folk of that pastoral country were preparing for all the sacral rites and gay festivities of the night. 

Companies of men were kindling the bonfires around which later the tribe would dance and between which cattle would be driven to cleanse sheep and kye of murrain, and bless them during the pasturing-season. While the men were lighting the great fires, the womenfolk were scattering their doorways with primrose and whin, and weaving from those blooms fair wreaths with which to bedeck their cattle, and garlands to bedeck themselves and their menfolk. 

When the sun had passed beyond the horizon, and the land was illumined solely by the leaping red of the bonfires, the druids would drive the herd between the pyres, before selecting an auspicious bullock to sacrifice, which would then be butchered for a feast followed by hours of dancing. When all the festivities were over and the dawn began to draw near, the people would take grey ash from the dying fires to powder themselves in a purifying rite, and each family would take a torch from the bonfire with which to relight the household hearth, thus ensuring protection against evil forces for the light half of the year. 

Cúnagnos wished he was preparing for the Beltiniyá rites that evening, but instead he and his four closest comrades were trudging through the wilds beyond the village, following close behind a guide as they traversed unfamiliar thickets. The brush was dense and coarse, the scattered trees forming a broken canopy through which the gloaming sun shone, slivers of amber light amidst the shadow. From every bough birds sang unseen. The bright eyes of burrowing beasts glinted from every hollow log and den-mouth. Tawny deer fled upon the approach of the small procession. 

In most respects, this excursion was no different from the many hunting trips in which Cúnagnos had partaken, but he felt in his very bones how different this excursion really was. It was not merely that the way was strange, Cúnagnos was only twelve winters old and he was accustomed to following older hunters through unfamiliar trails. Nor was it that he was travelling at dusk;, he had been in the woods at night many times, even if he was easily frightened by queer noises in the dark; not that he would ever admit it, of course. No, what made this particular excursion different from every other excursion he had hitherto partaken was neither the strangeness of the way, nor the lateness of the hour, but the purpose and destination of the trek. 

"How much further reckonst thou till we reach wherever we're going, Cúno?" A hushed voice asked. It belonged towas Cúnagnos's dear friend Lugudex, blue eyes wide, either with anxious curiosity or nervous fear; Cúnagnos could not discern which. Lugudex had never been the boldest boy in the tribe. He was something of a runt, being shorter and scrawnier than most boys his age. The curly fringes of his golden locks hung down over a fawnlike countenance. Lugodex was often mocked for his smallness and his skittishness; that he was the fastest runner of his peer-group was the one skill which saved him from total ostracisation.

"I kenna, Lugu." Cúnagnos himself was of average height for his age, though considering the impressive stature of his father Cwennowindos, it was generally expected that he would be quite tall in manhood. His eyes were a murky grey, the colour of the sky just before a thunderstorm, and his unkempt hair was a chestnut hue. Cúnagnos was neither the strongest nor the bravest of the tribe's youths, but he was a good tracker. He could discern the difference between the prints of a dog and a wolf by their gait, and knew the songs of every bird by heart. These skills he had learnt mostly from his elder brother Dubnowalos, one of the finest hunters of the youth-band.

"Just seems we've been walking for a while now, and the night'll be setting in."

"What's the matter, Lugu, scared of the dark?" A third voice, that of Gáromáros, whispered mockingly. Gáromáros was the boldest of the comradery; tall and hale, with glinting blue eyes and brazen locks. Both his father Orgetorígos and his elder brothers Swáduríx and Ariogaisos were amongst the most respected warriors of the tribe; each a man of many battles, their family home replete with the heads of foemen. Thus, the expectations for Gáromáros were quite high, and that he met those expectations nigh unfailingly earnt him much praise. 

"I ain't scared of the dark!" Hissed Lugu defencively. "Though I don't much fancy being caught out in the woods when the wolves are prowling."

"Not to mention the ghosts!" Added a fourth voice, that of Segomáros, oaken locks half-covering his jestful grimace. 

"Ghosts? On Beltiniyá?" Challenged a fifth boy, whose name was Daru; dark hair and leaden eyes matching his gloomier disposition. 

"Why not? Tis the threshold of summer. The dead are always rowdier on threshold days."

"Not all threshold days, eejit; the dead are only roused on Samonyos."

"Who'rt thou calling an eejit? And the dead do too rouse on other threshold days!"

"Do not!"

"Do too!"

"Do not!"

"Quit the gabbing all of you!" The quarrelling hisses of the boys had drawn the ire of their guide Cérosagnos . He was an older boy of sixteen winters, and a keen hunter of the youth-band. He was also Cúnagnos's first cousin, and it was to Cérosagnos that he owed all his tracking skills not learnt from his brother. 

"Sorry Céro," said Segomáros and Daru in feigned deference. Cérosagnos was not very well liked by the younger boys outside his own family, but none would dare to show their disdain openly to a youth who was larger, stronger and more experienced in killing; especially when said older youth was one's only hope of making it there and back again through a strange wood. 

"You best be sorry," Cérosagnos growled surlily."Cúno my wee cousin, keep this litter from further eejitry, wilt thou?"

"Yerra,  cousin." Cúnagnos was generally considered the most responsible boy of his peer-group; less brash than Gáromáros, less nervous than Lugudex, less jestful than Segomáros, and less unpersonable than Daru. 

The procession trudged wordlessly through the dim wood till finally the trees began to clear, and they came upon a small meadow, gay with the blossoms of young summer. In the midst of the meadow was a fierce outcrop of rock. The carrock was larger than a house, its dark stone cracked and mossy. A cave opened into the side of the outcrop, its mouth low and irregular. All about the cave-mouth the carrock was scorned with triskelions, the visages of hunting beasts, and icons of wild gods. To either side of the cave-mouth was a wooden pillar carved in the likeness of a wolf. Out from the cave-mouth, Cúnagnos could hear, faintly, the sounds of chanting. There was something hypnotic about it; the cave was as a gaping black maw, foreboding and ensorcelling in the same instance. 

"Come, lads,." said Cérosagnos to the boys, shaking Cúnagnos from his trance. The older youth came before the cave-mouth and began to nake. First he took his dirk out from his belt and clenched the sheathed dagger between his teeth. Thereafter he ungirt his belt, laying it upon the grass. Then he pulled off his tunic, folded it and put it beside the pedestal of the left wolf-totem. Finally he regirt his belt and stuck his dirk into the girdle. His ruddy skin seemed almost to gleam in the gloaming-light, dark hair contrasting white skin and fierce, bright eyes. "Do as I. Strip off your clothes and leave both tunic and belt without the cavern. Take only your dirks."

The boys did as bidden, casting off their garments and clutching their long, sheathed knives in-hand. In the brazen light of dusk, their white, freckled skin seemed red-tinged. With the naking done, Cérosagnos passed through the threshold of the cave, his white form fading into the black maw. For a moment the boys hesitated without. 

"Damn cowardice!" Said Gáromáros finally, and he strode into the cave. Daru was the second to cross the threshold.

"Fie if Daru thinks he's braver than I!" Shouted Segomáros as he ran in after. With some amusement at the foolish swaggering of his comrades, Cúnagnos followed after his companions, but when he sensed none behind, he halted and turned. Lugudex was not following, but stood trembling without the threshold, bright eyes wide with nervousness. Seeing this, Cúnagnos ran back out of the cave and took Lugudex's shaky hand into his own.

"There is nothing to fear in mere sunlessness," said Cúnagnos with smiling reassurance. At this Lugudex seemed emboldened and the two boys entered the black maw hand-in-hand as the sun fell below the horizon of the deathly west and out of the east the veil of night came over the world. 

The cavern was dim and dank, echoing with the drone of low, ominous chanting from deeper within. Cúnagnos could just barely discern the shapes of his friends through the shadowy murk, and he almost stumbled several times due to the dark and the unevenness of the stony floor. As the five boys came to the end of the subterranean corridor, the chanting loudened and they perceived a glimmer of red light. 

They entered into a large chamber of living stone. In the midst of the cavern was a small bonfire, tongues of flame lapping up towards the ceiling, casting a flickersome red glow upon the walls. Behind the dancing tendril of fire sat a wizened figure mantled in a white cloak. A hood was over his gaunt face, grey eyes barely visible. From his age-worn lips he sang, slow and methodical, for he was the source of the ominous chant. Cúnagnos recognised the cryptic elder. His name was Dagodubnos, the head druid of the tribe. 

The druid was flanked by two youths, neither older than sixteen winters, tall and hale, who sat cross-legged upon the stone. Unclad were they, save for belts with buckles of bronze about their waists, and wolf-tooth necklaces hanging from their halses. Their skin was sun-harrowed to ruddiness, their boyish faces grim. Golden locks gleamed like sunbeams in the firelight, stormy eyes smouldered fell "Cúnagnos  dared not meet their gaze. In the right hand of both were grasped spears with brazen tips and ashen shafts, in the left hand of both were clutched fierce daggers, blades etched with beast-shapes. In stark and solemn silence they sat, seeming almost like two statues framing the cloaked figure. Red tongues of flame leapt up from the bonfire, casting the druid and his guard in a hellish glow; red ghasts amidst a black world.

Cérosagnos came before Dagodubnos and gave a low bow, placing his dirk to his breast. Cúnagnos and the other boys bowed likewise in imitation. Thereafter the older youth turnt away from the druid and, moving to the edge of the firelight, took a seat upon the stone. Again the boys imitated their guide, huddling together like whelps. For some span of indeterminable time, Cúnagnos sat in eerie silence against his comrades, staring awe-stricken at the druid and the stormy youths. 

Finally, much raucous noise was heard from the tunnel and out into the cavern poured a great procession. Some twenty youths emerged from the murk. Their hair was like strands of gold, bronze and copper; their eyes were bright with blue fire; their naked forms strong and fair-hued. Daggers were girt at belts which were their sole adornments. Spears and axes were in their hands, shields were slung over their backs. In the midst of their throng was a magnificent white bull, which they drove slowly towards the druid's seat. Cúnagnos recognised all the youths, and he knew almost all by name. There was Orgetoríxs, their captain, a tall and mighty youth of eighteen winters. Beside him was doughty Wroikos, Lugudex's brother. So too was Dubnowalos amongst that company; Cúnagnos met eyes with his brother as he passed him. 

All the youths save one came before the venerable Dagodubnos and bowed to him before seating themselves upon the stone. The remaining youth led the bull to the druid's seat, both hands firmly gripping the white stirk's lead-rope. Suddenly, Dagodubnos ceased his chanting and rose to his feet. A hush came over the gathered youths.

"Hark!" shouted the druid "Hear me, O silver-handed Nódentos, lord of hounds, wisest in the healing-art! Hear me, O blood-lusting Aisos, whose wrath is unmatched by any god! Hear, me, O stormy Toranos, axe-wielder, worm-slayer, cloud-driver! And hear me, O gloomy Dusnos, father of our race, lord of the deathly west! Hear me, O mighty gods, and accept this sacrifice that you might bestow upon these youths your strength and art!" 

With this passionate sermon, Dagodubnos produced from beneath the folds of his white cloak a brazen dagger. Taking the hilt in both wizened hands, he raised the knife high above his head and then thrust it down, plunging it into the neck of the bull. The beast gave a thunderous bellow and as the blood spurted from its pierced vein, it began to panic. It tried to charge, but its handler took hold of its horns and wrestled the bull to the ground, using all his might to restrain it. With one hand pinning the bull's head to the stone, the youth took an axe from his belt and with three great swings he sundered head from neck. Face dripping with sweat and dark blood, the youth stood erect, holding the bull's severed head high. 

At the sight of this, a great roar of jubilance arose from the elder youths. Spears were beaten against shields, the very rock seemed to shudder from the loudness of their cheers. Several youths leapt from the stone and rushed to place vessels beneath the bleeding neck of the victim, lest the blood run wasted onto the ground. Knives were produced to butcher the bull, and all the youths, including Cúnagnos, began to water at the mouth.

After some minutes, the carcass was skinned, eviscerated, and split into its many cuts; the stirk's dark blood collected into several vessels; the bones, fat and offals were cast into the fire as offerings to the gods. But to Cúnagnos's surprise, no cauldron was produced to boil the meat, no spit was erected to roast it. As he wondered at this queerness, Orgetoríxs approached Dagodubnos, who presented the youth-captain with a flank-cut and a bowl of blood. Orgetoríxs bowed and humbly accepted the provender. Then Wroikos came before the druid, and he too received flesh and blood. The whole score of youths followed this same ritual, till at last only the five youngest boys remained, and found themselves beckoned towards the altar.  

Cúnagnos was the first to approach the altar. Dagodubnos gave the boy a wizened smile, and though he shuddered to meet eyes with the druid, he dared not turn his gaze lest he disrespect the elder.  Dagodubnos handed him a wooden mazer filled almost to the brim with dark blood, in which soaked the bull's severed tongue. Thereafter, Cúnagnos turnt and returned to his spot on the cave floor. 

Once all the youths were served, a hush came again over the congregation. Dagodubnos stood as a white figure amidst the lapping flames. He began to speak:

"Hark! O youths, yestermorn you were the sons of men, but tonight you will be reborn as wolves! Put now to lip your houseled flesh, taste now the vein-wine of the ritual-beast. Thus shall you cast off your mannishness and become as the servants of Nódentos!" These words were met with exultary cheering. "But heed well my words, ye who tonight commune your first, and to those of many hunts, do not forget old warnings;  though all evils committed in the wolfingtide are cast off with the summer, there is one deed which shall stain your soul evil still. Do not taste the flesh of man, for then you shall become as a wolf forever!" 

No exultant cheers leapt from the lips of the boy-troop. Solemnity was on the countenances of the elder youths. Fear and bafflement was upon the faces of Cúnagnos's comrades. Lugudex's eyes were wide, his pale face even paler than wont. Even bold Gáromáros could not hide the disquiet in his heart. Cúnagnos himself pondered well the words of the druid, and wondered at their meaning. 

As he sat in contemplation, the older youths ceased their hush. Orgetoríxs of the golden hair got down on all fours and began to lap blood from his mazer as though he were a dog. Cúnagnos marvelled at the sight, wondering if the captain had lost his wits. But then another youth began to eat like a stray, and then another. Soon all the older youths were lapping blood and fretting flesh. 

Cúnagnos looked down at his own portion and felt his stomach turn. He liked blood well enough in sausages and stews, but to drink it straight seemed revolting. To say nothing of eating raw flesh, and on all-fours like a dog at that! But a ritual was a ritual, and Cúnagnos had no intention of failing his initiation. Thus, he got down upon his hands and knees and thrust his face into the mazer. As he lapped the blood, the sourness of the dark liquid stung his tongue--the difference a little milk makes! he thought to himself. He frate the severed tongue, rending the raw flesh between his bloodied teeth. Cúnagnos had never been terribly fond of tongue, and his stomach handled raw meat quite poorly; taken together the supper proved most unpleasant. He could hear Segomáros gagging nearby, and for once Cúnagnos did not think he was being overdramatic.

The five boys were just managing to guzzle the last morsels of bleeden flesh down their throats when Dagodubnos again rose to his feet, and hush came over the boy-troop. The druid looked out upon the assembled youths with his pale, weary, eyes. From his robes he produced a sheaf of green herbs, purplish buds upon the stalks. Cúnagnos recognised it as nightshade. Dagodubnos unbound the sheaf, and taking the herbs into both hands, he cast the nightshade into the fire. Red tongues leap higher, flaring as they were fed. A noxious cloud of dark smoke erupted from the flame and writhed as it danced up and outwards. The smoke stung Cúnagnos's nose and caused his eyes to water. With each breath his mouth seemed dryer and dryer. His comrades were no better off; Lugudex was having a coughing fit, Segomáros seemed close to vomiting (though the raw offals he ate might be equally to blame), Gáromáros's face was wet with tears and his eyes were red. 

As Cúnagnos and his friends were gagging on the nightshade-smoke, a most miraculous and frightful thing began to happen. The druid began to chant once more, slow at first, but with building loudness and intensity. Suddenly, the two fierce-eyed youths who flanked him leapt up from the cold stone and began to bang spear against shield with a bellicose, drumming beat. They joined the druid's chanting with lupine growls and began to dance around the fire. 

One by one, all the older youths joined in this rite. Round and round they danced, drumming their shields and beating their breasts. They snarled and growled and barked and gave terrible howls, as though they were overcome with madness. Their locks of gold and bronze and copper seemed to glow with brilliant halos in the fire-light. Their bright eyes were fierce and manic. Despite the terror of the sight, Cúnagnos felt himself drawn to the wolf-dance. Gripping his dirk in-hand, he let out a howl and leapt amongst the throng. His comrades were quick to follow. 

Round and round they danced. Their pace quickened, their growls and wails became fiercer and more savage, the shield-drumming loudened, the druid's chanting became a sorcerous incantation. How long they had been dancing Cúnagnos could not tell; an hour and a year seemed the same in the madness of the cave. Still they danced on. Suddenly, the youths began to howl and wail even more horribly than before. They began to shudder and then convulse, falling to the ground as they spasmed. Cúnagnos felt himself overcome with the same affliction. Foam came pouring out from his mouth as though he were rabid; the foam pink from the mixing of froth and lip-staining blood. Still the druid chanted. 

The nightshade-smoke seemed to have grown more acrid over the course of the dance, and now as Cúnagnos spasmed and frothed upon the cold stone, he felt a burning pain in his nose and in his eyes. He wailed in pain, unable to so much as sit up, let alone stand. His vision too was impaired by the stinging murk. All was blurred, the very cave seemed to undulate, and Cúnagnos felt terribly nauseous. 

As the burning and the spasming and the frothing and the nausea worsened, he looked through teary eyes upon the cave-wall. The stone was red from the glow of the fire, upon which were cast the dark shadows of the youths, their shadesome doublegangers seeming like ghosts out of deepest Hell; spasming and writhing alongside the flesh-and-blood boy-troop. Suddenly, the shadows began to shift, and they were the forms of youths no longer, but the shades of wolves. It was as though Cúnagnos were gazing into Hell through a veil, the silhouettes of devils shrieking and writhing. 

Black spots were beginning to cloud Cúnagnos's vision. Still he frothed, still the youths spasmed, still the fire licked and writhed, still the devils on the wall danced, still the druid chanted. But when Cúnagnos looked upon Dagodubnos through smoke-stung eyes, terror took hold of the boy. For the druid was a man no longer. Where the wizened elder had stood mere moments before, a wild god now stood. Tall and hale was he, his limbs strong and his form unclad. His face was masked by a stag's skull, great many-tined antlers protruding like vast wings. Red eyes gleamed from the sockets. Around his neck was a shining torc wrought of red gold, and his limbs were adorned with bands of gold which glew like the sun. In each sure hand was a writhing serpent, and each serpent had the head of a ram. The horned god was in the midst of the chamber, and the fire curled around him as though it too was a serpent, and the god sang a frightful song, thunderous and cacophonic. 

Stricken with terror to behold the wild god, Cúnagnos tried to leapt to his feet, but he could see naught and the strength of his limbs was gone from him, so that when he attempted to rise, he collapsed once more. The sting in his nostrils and his eyes was worse than ever, and his chin was thick with blood-froth and the nausea was as a dagger in his chest. Finally, the poison of the smoke overtook him, and he slipped from wakefulness into a dwimmery slumber. The last thing he beheld was the shadow of the horned god dancing amongst the shade-wolves, and then he knew no more.