It's no "Black Tarn." Even Clay is really "Eyes-of-Clay," a deed name earned for brave deeds before your parents were born. But the old theurge waves you toward the apple tree and you say your name. Then again, louder. The air feels thin. Your vision sparkles.
"Good," Black Tarn says. She laughs, then howls. "They hear us, Matulo! The spirit of this place hears us. Now follow, if you can." She stares at her reflection, then…she's gone. The icicle cracks and spills onto the ground, and for a moment you see a thousand Black Tarns reflected in their facets as she disappears into the Umbra.
But you remain where you are. Black Tarn told you only that the spirit world was now so toxic that only the greatest theurges could enter on their own. And you're an untried philodox. But every werewolf must enter the Umbra and face the horrors and challenges there to become a true Garou. Why wait any longer? You're strong now. Who cares if Clay will not acknowledge your victory? The spirits must.
I use my survival skills and cunning to seek out a wild place, untouched by civilization, where I can make the transition.
Black Tarn has spoken about occult patterns in the land. I think back to her lessons—where did she say was another "thin point" around here?
I shouldn't rely on scholarship to enter the spirit world. I empty my thoughts and stay calm and composed, "feeling" my way toward an entrance.
I'll be damned if I'm going to chase Black Tarn across the cosmos to fix Clay's mistake. I head back inside.
Next
Maybe you could rely on your occult education if Black Tarn had formally instructed you, but she didn't even teach you what a philodox needs to know. But now, your hopes lie in the sensitivity of your faculties and your spiritual focus. You remember Black Tarn telling you that her rite used a reflective surface to enter the Umbra. But presumably not just anything will do. What is suitable for your journey? You close your eyes and concentrate.
The air here is thin and images assail you: useless howling nonsense, the echoes of half-formed or long-extinct spirits. You feel the cold sinking into your bones. A healthy werewolf can regenerate from almost any injury, but you're still screwed if you freeze solid. Ignoring the spreading numbness, you listen until you sense something. You start to walk, following an elusive trail, a faint tug.
A snowy tree branch brushes your face, and you open your eyes. You're before a frozen stream, as yet uncovered by snow, that glitters in the starlight. A great sense of rightness assails you here, so clear it feels almost violent in its intensity. This is it. Breath coming quickly, you focus on stars and spirits, and stare deep into the ice. And there, moving behind and beyond the ice, among the stars, is Beaver—the spirit of Clay's pack.
Beaver floats in slumber, tumbling slowly like a civilization-ending asteroid, rimed with frost and glittering with starlight. Trails wind through the frozen river made of stars or spirits or ice. A canine shape slips along one of them, a flickering black shadow, then disappears.
Your fingers touch the ice. You're off the Map now, close to the Umbra, but not there yet.
"Beaver, wake up!" I pound the ice. I need him to help me enter the Umbra, and I can't awaken him with the proper rites because I don't know them.
"Black Tarn, where are you?" I know she's on the other side, deeply attuned to this spirit-realm. I reach into the ice, hoping to feel her hand.
We're doing this to cure Clay. And the first step is looking around for what infected him. Do I see anything unclean on the other side of the ice?
I wait in silence for Beaver or Black Tarn to help. Here I really do feel like a cub, and I'll follow my elders' advice.
Next
You have never even seen the Umbra, and you're not even sure this is the spirit world itself or just some kind of pocket realm where Beaver dwells. You look for the flies that covered the horse and rider, sniff the ice for the scent of rancid or sweet-smelling meat. Nothing. This place, at least, seems untouched by the Bane's rancid presence. But what does that mean?
You lean over the ice, then realize that you've leaned your head into the water. The ice. No, the…You pull back. Silver-white ripples echo across the surface of the river. Ripples in the ice, as it flows like water. You try again, pushing your head through the surface. There is no sensation of cold, or of breaking ice. The way is open, and you prepare to step through.
As the wind howls and the wall between the worlds starts to come down, Black Tarn appears as an occulting of the frozen stars. She drifts toward you, half wolf and half woman, eyes like galaxies, her clawed hand reaching for you. But you can see her inner struggle, and as the barriers fade and she floats within reach, her expression grows vague again in a way you recognize…then hard and cruel.
"Stupid cub," she says, her voice wild and mad. "Let it end here! No more ambitious little pups! No more footprints in the snow! Leave us alone!"
And she brings her fist down on the wall from the other side. It shatters and collapses, blasting you with ice and grit.
When you can see again, the river-ice is cracked and frozen, and the way is shut.
Next
The spirit world retreats like it was never there, the enchantment bleeding out of the world as the half-moon disappears below the western horizon, as if the moon has dissolved in the light pollution of Buffalo. From somewhere, the angry blat-blat-blat of a truck's air brakes. You are terribly cold.
Did you see anything wicked in there? Something that should never be allowed into this world?
Who said that? Who thought that? Your head swims.
Don't you know who you are? Where you begin and end? Perhaps you don't have my clarity of will. At least not yet. Sitting on a crumbling brick wall is a little gray house cat. That's right, here I am. Well, here is a body. A bit scrawny. Sick, I fear—one last moment of glory before the end.
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