“Oh, I spend a lot of time dreaming. I see the gods there all the time - always shifting forms. Dreams are fluid, you know. You can be in different places at once, always changing identities. It’s a lot like being a god, actually. Like I recently, I dreamed I was watching a Michael Jackson concert, and then I was onstage with Michael Jackson, and we were singing this duet, and I could not remember the words for ‘The Girl Is Mine.’ Oh man, it was so embarrassing, I -"
Last night I dreamed that I was part of an action-movie esque team that was hired to recover some stolen antique jewels (or something similar. They brought me on board because I was knowledgeable about gems, jewels, and antiquities). I may have been in an action movie, or was watching one, or both at once. Dream perspectives are pretty fluid.
This team was led by a man who looked a lot like a young Rutger Hauer save that his hair was silvery grey, and his partner/packmate/wife, a slender woman with mesmerising dark eyes and the same shade of frost to her hair.
He and his team, as well as their families, were all Werewolves. They all belonged to a… sect? Offshoot? Recognized cult? A wolf-church.
During one scene I was with this team and we passed a building where an evangelical Christian organization was having an event where different Christian groups would sing religious songs that showcased the best qualities of their individual churches. Love! Brotherhood! Togetherness! Of course.
We entered the building just as a group of elementary school kids were finishing up a slightly off-key ‘Jesus-loves-me’ number.
As the kids filed out of the arch-ceilinged chapel/small auditorium, Rutger and his wife filed in, followed by me and the rest of the pack. At the front of the room was a woman who reminded me of a school teacher, leaning over a desk and marking something on some papers, then checking a list. Probably a list of performing groups?
The pack leader woman approached her and asked, gesturing to herself and back to the rest of us, ‘may we sing?’
Schoolteacher regarded us all with a look of discomfort. We *clearly* were not on the list. We also all looked like we were geared up fir an action movie! Grey-black paramilitary gear on some of the guys, guns, general ass-kicking wear. Lotsa boots.
‘Well…’ she says, not wanting to offend. But, she must have figured that it was supposed to be a day of tolerance and faith, after all, so… “of course!” She smiled.
We took the stage. I stood a little off to the side. There was a little girl with us (for some reason? She was one of the pack member’s children I think) and she stood next to me, watching with wide eyes.
The pack leader spread her arms, and sang a long, soft note. It was flat and discordant, hanging in the air like a dust mote.
The Schoolteacher frowned.
The pack leader sang a second note, stronger this time, it wavered and searched for pitch, eerie and far.
With the third note, the rest of the gathered assembly joined in, and their voices all together wove a haunting tapestry of sound that swelled and filled the room.
It was not exactly like the singing of wolves, but similar - waves of overlapping voices that each had their own pitch and tone, but which melded together with a beauty that spoke of wild places.
As the wolf-chorus swelled in the auditoroum, the pack leader spread her arms and began to chant in tune to the howling song. The effect was like that of Gregorian singing.
“Let us give praise to God our Creator
Who in the Days and in the Nights has blessed us and favored us.
Who has given us sight with clear eyes.
Who has given us strength and fortitude.
For the Mysteries of Change are ours,
And the Truth of Protean Nature is ours,
As they are unto God ,
Who inhabits all Being, and whose form is Limitless.”
(At this point one of the other female pack members knelt down beside the little girl and translated the song line by line for her into a non-English language that growled and rolled. I think it was their wolf-tongue which the pack learned along with English as children?
But it could have been Basque, or some Slavic speech, or whatever tongue the Benadanti spoke, for all I knew.
I did realize that in the same way that the words of the pack’s song were being translated from English into another language for the little girl, they were being translated *into English* with the pack leaders chanting, so that I and the Schoolteacher could understand. The howling chorus itself was the purest tongue of praise.
“Thus shall we remember and embody the Truest Virtue
And give Praise with our Voice
Of God in whose Nature we partake
Who being Limitless and Ever-Sung will endure even beyond the Dissolution of the World.