When the night waned, and the moon was full, I heard it calling on the wind.
I heard the wolf song.
Old and enchanted. Lilting and intoning. Bidding me to run, to hide, to go forth. Bidding that I get up, that I not be still, that I look.
That I find.
Follow the hollow in the forest’s mound,
Follow it deep, deep underground.
Wolves tell the tales of the things hiding in the dark,
Wolves tell because others cannot, death to the lark.
Death to the lark.
I didn’t know what it meant.
Really, I still don’t.
I’ve only ever heard the song before. Never followed it to its end. It moves, you see, through the night. Weaves in between the dark branches, the hollows of moonlight. It breaths between the shaking of leaves, and dies before the glistening signs of dew.
It’s a song that is steady, consistent.
And yet, it doesn’t linger.
If you’re to take the song seriously, you must follow it while you can. While the song is still loud in your ears. At the first words, you have to take action.
Take the opportunity before it is gone.
Listen intently the moment it rises.
Listen for the wolf song.
And, when you follow, you will often find that nothing is what you thought it would be.
You will find fields, and forests. You will find crackling streams, and fireflies that hiss before they buzz. You will see eyes that glow green in the dark, hidden between the branches of the bushes. Sneaking to get just a peek at the one who is bold enough to listen.
Bold enough to follow.
As you go, you will find yourself more and more entranced.
Intent, unlike before. Unable to turn away from the wolf song.
Death to the lark, he gives us our name.
Death to the lark, we offer his grave.
The day is done and the lark is the same.
Day is over! Moon-drunk, we crave!
Track the song to the hollow, the mound, underground.
Follow the wolves.
To night’s call, we all are bound.
And as you follow, that lilting, burning song, you find yourself staring into the dark. More and more often, you find that you’re somewhere darker. Somewhere richer. The moon is still visible, still lit above you, and yet.
It’s darker, still.
And it gets darker still as you move along.
You look for the dark, and it finds you with ease. Surrounding you, trapping you. It wraps, and it coddles you. You find that where there was fear in the dark before, you’re… different now. You can’t seem to feel those eyes, though they’re staring quiet blankly, quite apparently, at you from between the trees. You can’t feel the creeping, you can’t feel the crawling of your skin. That stinging sensation that lets you know something is amiss, that you’re body bathes in danger, that gooseflesh is bumping along the roots of your hairs. No, as you follow further, you find that the dark felt nothing like it did before.
It felt nothing like this.
I still don’t quite know what the wolf song means. I followed it to its end, I swear I did. I don’t know what the lyrics point to, where I ended up. Don’t know why the eyes are always there, staring from my closet, my window, my ceiling. Don’t know why I hear the scratching from underneath my bed. And I don’t know why I get to humming every time the sun is out, or why I can’t stand the sound of morning birds.
I wait for it now.
Eager to hear it call. Eager to hear those lyrics.
Eager to lose myself to the wolf song.