The Tempest Wolves

The small, little village of Senhoneng was, to all outsiders, much like any other little village in rural Ireland. There, within the center square, was a small well as the community drinking supply; adorable little shops, such as the trading post, unique restaurants, and the pub where the local musicians played and the men went to get drunk before they were forced home to their nagging, violent wives. But, for its normal behavior, the town held dangerous, deadly secrets.

Looks are always deceiving.

Every hundred generations, two children are born to the village, yet separated by a mark on the small of their back. The image is a birthmark, a dark imprint of a wolf; and those who bear the mark, are said to be the prophets of the village, until their deaths, when new ones are born.

The mark holds another meaning, other than the gift of sight. It shows of the creatures that come but once, every year on the eve of the next. Those creatures that thrive on the village's fear; the people and the creatures have a strange, almost equal relationship. The village needs them, and they need the village.

The Tempest Wolves.

It was December 31. Only a few hours left until the time comes . . .

* * *

Michael Jacques, American Tourist by trade, somewhat nosey, busybody by nature, but usual good guy, had heard of a wonderfully charming little village on the outskirts of modern Ireland. Senhoneng, he was pretty sure that was what the travel package said as he flipped through it on the long plane ride from New York to Dublin. He had planned on spending the holidays with his family who resided in Bantry, Cork; but when he approached the door and heard the familiar sound of glass shattering against the wall . . .

And so there he was, shot-gunning rather uncomfortably on the wooden seat in the front of an old fashioned horse drawn buggy. On his way, not surprising to him, to Senhoneng, where he would certainly have to find a small sort of hotel or inn. Assuming there was a hotel or inn; it was a rural village in the southern most part of the Emerald Isle. He wasn't even sure they spoke English, but for his own good he hoped to God they did. Turning his gaze to the driver next to him, he chose to study his driver for the remainder of the journey, however long that may take.

The man was rather plump, and short, as if his maker dropped him between a rock and a hard place, then stretched him the wrong way before being finished with him. His hair was a sandy gray shade, slightly bald, yet hidden behind a deep brown fedora. His trousers were a dirty brown – matching his boots – his shirt, a crème color, covered by a light brown jacket.

For how lightly he dressed, Michael was surprised that his driver wasn't frozen solid, even claiming in his Irish accent how warm it was for the time of year. Michael, meanwhile, was wrapped in six or seven layers of shirts, pants, socks, long johns, gloves and underwear; finished off with a large, puffy red traveler's coat and black scarf. And he was frozen solid. The older gentleman sitting next to him simply smiled and chattered as if the younger fellow wasn't about to fall of the seat from lack of feeling.

A light snow began to fall, and the horse neighed, causing the driver to slightly stiffen in his seat. When Michael noticed this, the man quickly relaxed, then smiled in the cute foreign way.

"Yessir, nearly there!" he said in such a way, Michael could hardly make out his words. But as soon as the little village made its presence known when the two men emerged from the woods, he knew what was said. The buildings were arranged in a circular pattern, focusing around the center well and podium, where Michael assumed all the town meetings were held during the hot months. Each building had a chimney, which emulated smoke from it mouth, dancing up towards the cloudy, snowy sky.

As soon as the buggy entered the front gates, a bell from the small church tolled, and a few people could be seen emerging from the doors of the buildings. The snow had picked up, and although there was little wind, it was stormy. The driver stopped at the door of a young woman in her twenties and an older woman, a sign above the door stating "The Weary Traveler" in old style letters.

The driver acknowledged the two, and began to unload Michael's luggage to the young woman, while the older led him inside.

"Welcome to Senhoneng, Mr. Jacques." She said in yet another foreign accent, and Michael had a hard time deciphering what she had said. So he simply nodded with a smile and sat in an overstuffed chair in front of the fire where she placed him. The young woman came in quickly, covered in the white powder, the driver following shortly thereafter. The older woman disappeared into the kitchen, while the younger came before Michael and flopped into a chair beside him.

"I hope you enjoy your stay here, Mr. Jacques." She turned to him, and he was surprised to hear a fairly decent British accent. Smiling at his response, she tucked a lock of long, curly black hair behind her ear, and turned to face the fire, only to hear shouting come from the kitchen.

"Coming!" she shouted, and made her way to meet the older lady. Within minutes, the older lady and the driver came into the sitting room in front of the fire, the younger woman following with a tray in her hands. Offering everyone tea and a biscuit, she sat herself down at the only available seat – next to Michael. Her intoxicating scent of vanilla and roses filled his nostrils as she poured the tea into the fine china, and handed everyone their cups.

"So, Mr. Jacques, what brings you to Senhoneng?" the young woman asked as she breathed onto the surface of her tea in an attempt to cool it.

"Well, I had planned on spending the holidays with relatives in Bantry, but then decided I'd rather go on an adventure instead." He smiled, and the older woman turned to the driver, her iron gray hair almost silver by the firelight.

"Brady, isn't your son in Bantry?" she asked, slightly more understandable.

"Aye, he and Molly just bought a small cottage, what with Molly havin' a hard time getting' 'round an' all."

The older woman nodded her understandment.

"Well, pregnancy is never an easy thing, and with Molly's petite figure, I'm sure the birth will be hard on her." The young woman continued.

"Say, 'Delle, how's 'bout you let an on' frien' stay the nigh'? What with all this cold weather an' all."

The older woman nodded, and led Brady, the driver, up the stair, the two chattering aimlessly. The young woman turned back to Michael, the milk and sugar in her hands.

"Milk and Sugar?" she offered, which he readily accepted, nearly burning his taste buds off his tongue. She nearly laughed at his eagerness to have her grandmother's tea.

"Slow down Mr. Jacques, you'll need your taste buds later for my grandmother's cooking. Here, I'll get you a napkin." She made a move towards the tea tray, and offered him a crème colored cloth.

"Thank you Miss, uhh . . ."

"Call me Salendra." She nodded, and he gave her his greatest mystified expression.

"Well, Salendra, how do you know my name?" blushing at the remark, she refused to look at him as she poured herself some more tea.

"The Cards told me I would receive a guest on the Eve of the New Year, and the Tea Leaves gave me a name: Jacques." He continued to watch her as she subtly refused to look at him.

"Michael."

That caught her attention.

"What?"

"My name is Michael."

Holding out her hand, she smiled as they shook.

"Pleased to meet you Michael. Welcome to Senhoneng."

* * *

Trinadelle opened the curtains only slightly to look at the blizzard taking place outside the small, three-story inn. Letting a tiny sigh escape her aged lips, she turned back to the two young people placed in front of the fire, talking lazily of nothingness.

"So, Michael, how long are you planning on staying with us in Senhoneng?"

She heard her granddaughter ask the weary traveler, and Trinadelle knew there was bound to be some sort of chemistry.

"Well, if it isn't too much trouble, I was hoping on spending the holidays here, at least until this storm calms." At his answer, Salendra shared a look with her grandmother, then stood, pulling up the waist of her jeans.

"Well, I'm sure you must be hungry. I'll go make us some soda bread and champ." As she walked away from him, Michael noticed the smallest mark on her back, just above the jeans. His glimpse was only for a fleeting moment, but he was sure the mark was in the shape of a wolf.

Trinadelle saw his eyes wander about her granddaughter, and quickly made a move to stop his mind from her birthmark.

"Mr. Jacques -"

"Please, call me Michael."

"Mr. Jacques, what origin was your mother?" Small talk. Works all the time with American Tourists.

"Actually, my mother was from Amsterdam, my father from Boston." She nodded her understandment, then quickly turned back towards the window.

"So, ma'am, how long have you lived here in Senhoneng?" Again, small talk.

"All my life. Salendra's ancestors helped establish it when Ireland was still a land of the Good People." She informed him as Salendra made her way back into the sitting room, ready to distribute the meal. Suddenly, her grandmother stood, making her way up the stairs.

"I'll go tell Brody supper's ready."

Salendra nodded her grandmother's wishes, then turned back to Michael.

"I hope you don't stay until the New Year."

Slightly shocked and, for some reason, hurt, Michael made his way over to his hostess and sat beside her.

"Why would you say that?"

She turned to him, her eyes cold.

"This village has secrets. Deadly secrets. Now, I am sick and tired of helping them with their –"

"Salendra." A deep, baritone voice came across the room, and Salendra turned her head to find the intruder.

"Cole." The man had dark hair, now only slightly white from the snow, and had the features that, admittedly, even Michael was attracted to. Salendra's look was cold, yet her voice had a playful ring to it. "What kept you?"

Meandering his way over, he bent over to kiss her forehead, then shook Michael's hand.

"I'm sorry Salendra, but we had to make sure all the cellars were protected. Mr. Jacques, I presume?"

Michael could only nod, his tongue lost in the beauty of Cole's face.

"Is everyone ready?"

He nodded in response to her question, then looked around.

"Where is Trinadelle?"

She smiled, offering him a bowl of champ with a slice of bread.

"She is up stairs, telling Brody that dinner is ready."

Cole nodded again, and accepted the meal with love as he sat in a chair opposite Salendra.

"Oh, you know how much I love your cooking. So far, everyone is ready for the coming -" his sentence was cut off by the sound of an old grandfather clock somewhere in the inn. Eleven o'clock. The chimes brought Salendra and Cole to there feet, a look of fear expressed on their faces.

"Eleven o'clock. Better tell the others to prepare."

Salendra nodded, turning to Michael to give him a couscous smile.

"Michael, the cellar is the best place for you to be. Safest. Grandmother!" Salendra called, turning her attention to the stairs, where she found her grandmother coming down with Brody in tow.

"You remember Kerma?"

"That sweet old lady who used to live next door to you?" she replied, to which he nodded.

"Well, Barder and Molly had bought a dog, and named her Kerma. One day, while they were shoppin' for the new baby, and left the dog with us; well, that damn dog had gotten into Surrendra's tomatoes, and she was madder than a wet hen.

"'Kerma!' I shouted when she ran, 'Kerma! Get yer ass over here now!' and then, from 'cross the street I hear a soft voice says 'I'll be righ' there!'."

Trinadelle was laughing at Brody's stories, yet her expression changed when she saw Cole and Salendra standing in the sitting room, Michael cluelessly sitting with the meal in his lap.

"Shall we get to the cellar, Brody?" she prompted and he nodded, while she led him to a door beneath the stairs, then turned to Michael.

"Come, Mr. Jacques. Cole, take care of Salendra."

Cole nodded, taking Salendra's hand while Michael disappeared with the two old folks down the stairs.

"Salendra."

"Cole, we need to prepare." As soon as she told him, the wind picked up, and a wolf's howl could be heard in the distance. She jumped, and, in a moment of love, he wrapped his arms around the small woman.

"Salendra, we need to go, they're almost here."

She nodded, then began to remove her shirt, while he pulled off his jacket.

Soon, the two stood in their undergarments. As he turned towards the door, she smiled and felt the mark on the small of his back. He smiled, and turned towards the dark haired lady.

"Cole, I'm ready."

Suddenly, the power went out, the storm picked up, and the howling became louder. Taking a deep breath, Cole opened the door, and the two stepped out, into the center of the village, bracing themselves against the snow.

Pulling Salendra into his arms, he kissed her with a love and devotion she hadn't seen in him for years. As they pulled away, she smiled, then slowly turned towards the village entrance gate. Slowly, a pack of wolves emerged from the darkness, just as all the clocks in the village chimed twelve.

The wolves were white and grey, blending in beautifully with the snow, the golden glint of their eyes sparkling where moonlight failed. The two largest stepped forward, heads held high as the four watched each other.

Salendra.

A voice as soft as the wind and as strong as the mountains came over the sounds of the storm. Salendra bowed her head to one of white wolves, one of which bowed back.

Cole.

Another voice, just as soft, yet slightly stronger voice rang out, and Cole bowed to the other wolf, who bowed in reply. Suddenly, the rest of the pack made their way from house to house, dispersing their forms to enter the homes. All was quiet, as the two pack leaders suddenly leapt, and entered Salendra and Cole through their mouths. Heaving and convulsing, the two went into a seizure-like state, until they stood, green and dark eyes turned golden. Walking from house to house, they had black out of all events.

* * *

Slowly, Cole and Salendra awoke to the sound of howling wolves and the calming of a storm. For every three people, one was gone. Michael Jacques should have braved his violent relatives. The wolves have done their jobs, their village will survive another year.

Until next year, Our Prophets. Until next year.