"Wolves are really a sacred being for us," Maquinna, hereditary chief of the Ahousaht First Nation explained.
"In our belief the wolf transforms into a killer whale. We feel that the wolf and orca are one in the same creature. We had a story from a village here: not too long ago, we had an elder, she might of been about 110 when she passed. Her name was K'wina.
"She was sitting on her porch in Nuchalitz on Vancouver Island. It's kind of like a bay...the killer whales came in, and they went into this small harbor and there was no way out, and it's a long ways for them to go. They have to come up to breathe...she saw them come in, and they never came back out.
"She looked over on the beach and she noticed all of these wolves that were all wet, coming out of the water. She actually saw it, the transformation. This would've happened maybe about seventy years ago, when she saw this. She was a young woman, maybe in her 30s when that happened. That's what she saw. So the killer whale and our wolf is one in the same being."
Maquinna, as told to:
David Moskowitz
Wolves in the Land of Salmon
..........
..::It was a long and terrible journey, passing beyond the midnight country of sorrow and the sun-drained wastes of solitude into the undiscovered country of Kennaquhair, whose latitude is 91 degrees north and longitude 181 degrees west.
Here, in the luminous hollow of a tree stump that had been blasted by lightning and whittled clean by the winds of knowledge, they alighted on the outstretched hands of the goddess.
Athene was invisible, or at least the Wart never remembered having seen her afterwards. At the time he did not notice that she was invisible -- it only struck him when he woke up next morning -- because he was aware of her without seeing her.
He was aware that her unthinkable beauty was neither that of age nor of youth. That her eyes were the only things you thought of looking at, and that to be her was terrible, whereas to be with her was the only joy...Archimedes kissed her tenderly::..
T.H. White
The Sword in the Stone
...........
..::In April 2001, it was revealed that extensive studies undertaken by the University College of London, had determined that the Basques of Spain and France are the "genetic blood brothers" of the Welsh and Irish.
When the university staff decided...to focus their attentions on the people of the Basque country, they discovered something incredible and ground breaking. The team, Professor Goldstein explained, found that "there's something quite striking about the Celtic populations in that there's not a lot of genetic variation on the Y-chromosome. The Celtic population turn out to be statistically indistinguishable from the Basques."::..
University College of London (UCL)
"Genes Link Celts to Basques", 2001
.........
..::We see how one group of people that is significantly and physically different from the rest of the population, the Basques, may have inherited their uniqueness, and their bloodline, from the...Cro Magnon, who had the honor, if that's the right term, of becoming guinea pigs of a gene-manipulating alien civilization, tens of thousands of years ago.::..
Nick Redfern
Bloodline of the Gods
----------------
'I've been waiting for you,' the Indian man said. 'Please, come in.'
Daryl shook himself inwardly, and obeyed. '-- Athena...?' he began. But the man only nodded.
'She is out, flying the kestrel. She will return.' Daryl followed him into the parlor. 'Please, sit down.'
Daryl looked about him, half expecting the entire scene to suddenly shift on him. But he sat, at last, upon the sofa before the fire, as he had many times before. That, at least, was a familiarity.
He realised suddenly how very tired he was.
While shrugging out of his overcoat, he felt every bone in his body ached. A soft groan escaped him as he leaned back, closing his eyes a moment.
'Mocha.' The Indian man set a hot mug before him. 'Coffee and cocoa. It is good, especially on a cold day.' He took a seat himself in the wing chair beside the fire, sipping his own mugful.
Daryl felt rather beat up, mentally, emotionally, physically; he'd been on the run and dodging St.John's dodgy plans for him for days...maybe longer. He'd lost all track of time.
Feeling dopey from exhaustion, he took a long drink of mocha. And another.
'Better?' Daryl's locum tenens host almost smiled at him.
'Oh. Much. Thank you.' Daryl nodded, rubbing his neck. He looked across the room at the man, studying him a moment.
'I saw you. Earlier. From the coach. You were in a field with a white owl. And a large...wolf?' His statement ended with a question.
The man nodded. 'I am called Wolf Star. Wolf, is my totem.'
'Daryl,' Daryl offered. 'I...don't know my totem.' Unless it's a cuckoo, he thought dismally to himself, taking the hot mug in his lap and leaning back against the sofa.
'This is good.' He saluted with his mug the man before him, and drank all the mocha and shut his eyes again...bigods if he wasn't nearly asleep.
'I might just...fall over, here a while...' Daryl put his empty cup on the large antique chest before him which doubled as Athena's coffee table. Pulling his coat over him, he fell softly sideways on the couch. In a second he was out, snoring gently.
The Indian man removed his boots, setting them upon the hearth.
-- Daryl snored on.
..........
It was early dawn when Sean Munroe's waggon turned down the lane leading into Arcadia proper and trundled into the yard of Mrs.Murphy's rooming house. Emlyn awoke with the jouncing and noticed that Shannon and Allyn were up as well as Dylan, who handed her an apple. Once halted, they all began to unload musical instruments, crates of apples, and sundry items of clothing, baggage and expropriated pumpkins.
Shannon approached Emlyn, handing her a small pumpkin. 'Tis enough for a wee pie, I think!' She seemed to be in better spirits this morning. 'We will be in touch! We have some heavy thinking to do.' She nodded toward Allyn, who had hefted her big pumpkin and was headed their way.
'I think we need to inform a few central individuals who may help us in this endeavor. "Fortune sides with those who dare!" We'll talk. Later! Get some sleep now, lass.' And with that, they were away, Allyn escorting Shannon off to her wee cottage behind the shop.
Emlyn took her pumpkin to where Dylan and Jethro were deep in conversation. Sean Munroe and Mrs. Murphy were already heading into the house. Em felt stiff, sore, groggy and still craving rest and sleep.
Jethro picked up his guitar and mandolin and turned to Em. 'Well, perhaps I'll be seeing you later. I'm dead on my feet, from dancing, for a change!' He gave Em a chaste kiss on her forehead. 'Nite, Em...'
'Good night, Jethro. I'll be around.' She watched him go with warm thoughts of her friend. She noticed then that Dylan had hold of his bass and had donned his jacket at last. 'Thank you for the use of your coat,' Em approached, smiling up at him. 'And a warm shoulder to lean on.'
Dylan swept a small bow before her. 'My pleasure, milady. Any time.' He placed a well-worn fedora on his head. 'I will bid thee adieu, in hopes that we may meet again.' He took her hand and turning it palm up, placed a kiss upon her tender wrist.
'"I trim myself to the storm of time,
I man the rudder, reef the sail,
Right onward drive unharmed,
the port, well worth the cruise, is near,
and every wave is charmed."'
Em chuckled. 'A Bard, indeed, even in the early morning! A true Welshman, you are then!'
He shouldered his baggage and smiled. 'Only a bit of Emerson, paraphrased, as it were.' He leaned forward, giving Em a soft kiss upon her cheek. 'Sleep well, and may thy dreams be sweet.'
'Good night...' Em called softly after him, watching as Dylan followed Jethro into the barn. She knew they would do well enough there, the tack room doubled as comfortable extra rooming; Mrs. Murphy was not about to leave anyone bereft of bed on her watch.
'And not a Welsh fairy in sight!' Emlyn sighed with relief, as she turned and headed into the rooming house, pumpkin in hand.
............
Strange and wandering were her dreams that night...
A yellowish sort of fog had enveloped her. She was walking through tall grasses; autumn still, their golden heads waved in the breeze.
She found a trail through the endless grassland, heading downward. This she followed until she could discern breakers crashing upon the shore, smell the brine on the wind, hear the calling of sea birds.
Once more, her dreams brought her to this sea and shore. There upon the beach a small campfire burned within a circle of boulders. A man sat before it upon a large log of bleached driftwood which resembled the bones of a lost and extinct giant.
Something about him seemed familiar to her as she approached.
But she couldn't quite place him, seeing him from behind. As she closed the distance between them, she slowed her pace...
the dark hair, the set of his shoulders, the way he almost turned his face to the side, eyes glancing downward; she knew him then. She halted.
'Gwydion. Why are you here?' Emlyn couldn't even trust her dreams anymore.
'Emlyn. Cariad.' Gwydion slowly turned and stood in one flowing movement. 'You came.'
'Had I a choice?' She frowned as she slowly approached, not at all liking this unforeseen rendezvous.
The Welsh wizard made a sweeping gesture that was a half-bow. 'I am not here to argue, or coerce you. Please, sit.'
Sighing, Emlyn took a seat upon the pale log beside him. 'Well?' She asked.
If it were possible for the Twyleth Teg to age, Em thought she detected this in the lines of care about Gwydion's face as well as the wings of grey that swept above his ears.
'Yes. I have been worried of late, it's true.' Gwydion spoke softly, as he resumed his seat and stared out at the sea, barely visible in the golden fog all about them.
'How does this concern me?' Emlyn feared the worst. It usually was, with him.
'It's about Llew.' He looked at her then. 'You must have some care for the lad. He is, nearly 16 of your years now. Soon, he will be a man.'
'How time flies in the Other World,' Em stated flatly.
'Indeed.' Gwydion began sifting sand through his fingers, watching the tan and silver streams glisten as they fell.
'There is...something I must tell you. We will speak together now as equals. As if I were more human, and as if you were more...otherworldly.' He glanced her way.
'All right.' Em decided it was easier, quicker to simply go along to get along before this meeting could end.
'In your world, you have ever created the gods in your image. Oh, yes. Not the other way round.' Gwydion grimaced and dusted the sand from his fingers. 'Yes. You create thought-forms, and the more "faith" and "belief" you emote before them, the stronger and more solid these gods become. Do you follow?'
Emlyn did, oddly enough.
'Yes, I have actually thought something along those lines myself. Archetypes, they are.'
'Just so.' Gwydion sat up, gazing out to sea once more. 'You create your reality much more than you people realise; in your thoughts, in your words, you make your world. And, sometimes, over the years, decades, centuries, if they should last so long, these tales of the gods become legend and even scripture.' He sighed, and put a hand to his forehead. 'We are, in fact, your slaves.'
Em laughed. She couldn't help herself. 'Oh? Somehow it seemed rather the opposite. To us.'
Gwydion said nothing. For a change. It didn't last.
'Let us walk,' he said at last, and stood, holding a hand to her.
Emlyn figured she had to see this charade to its end. She took his hand and allowed him to pull her up. He gazed into her eyes briefly, the first he had truly acknowledged her.
Then he looked back out to sea and let her hand go free. They began walking.
'There is such a legend, which features Llew,' he began, 'at about the age he is now, he becomes involved with a being, a girl, Blodeuwedd. I fashion for him from flowers, the loveliest creature on the sweet earth, to fall in love with. This he does. She, on the other hand, betrays him and together with her paramour, whom she favors above our dear Llew, does him to death in a rather horrible fashion.'
Emlyn ceased her walk. 'But that is terrible! Surely this does not have to be!'
Gwydion halted beside her. He turned and stared at her. 'It does. It is. It is Legend.'
Em could not fathom this. 'But, the old gods are rarely thought of nowadays. This, old tale, and the power of it, have waned, though!'
'You've not read your Mabinogion.' Then Gwydion, oddly, began to laugh. 'Oh, to be free to be thus! To be able to do as one wilt...' He stared at the sand, slowly shaking his head. 'No Emlyn. It will be so. It is already happening. I can do nothing to stop it. It is not my Role, you see. I, have been writ otherwise.' He put a hand upon her arm. 'However, an outside agent, someone in your world, might influence legend into resolving a different outcome.'
Emlyn gazed about her. Was this true? Oh, why was she suddenly called upon to untangle so many Things of Emergent Import from all quarters?
'Of course...if I can help, I will.' Emlyn regretted her words as soon as she said them. 'I don't see how I could not but try. I do care for Llew and only wish that, I could have had more...influence.'
'You have more influence than you know.' Gwydion narrowed his gaze at her, looking through her, as it were. 'You have access, shall we say, to a certain Sanctuary. There, even the Twyleth Teg may remain out of the way of Legend.'
Truly? Em could not imagine what 'sanctuary' she could offer.
'I still don't see --'
Gwydion interrupted: '-- You are still in touch with your, friend, Van Horn, yes?'
'Daryl?' Em was surprised. She knew Gwydion knew of Daryl; it had been from under Daryl's very nose that he had spirited her away that fateful Winter Solstice Ball so many years ago.
'Indeed. I was, in my Role. As with many other things.' Gwydion mouth was set tight. 'The large estate in the eastern province of Massachusetts? You have access there?'
Ah. THAT "Sanctuary".
'Well, yes, I do. But Daryl is still the owner and keeper of the keys, as it were. The entire matter would be up to him, not me.'
'Whatever is necessary, it must be done,' said the god-slave in that same imperious manner he'd always had. Gwydion suddenly took her arms and addressed her fully. 'It is a place of refuge from time. For Llew's sake, don't let this tale become the death of him! You needn't be there. Simply allow him to stay there, safe. Emlyn, his fate is in your hands. Please.'
He looked at his wit's end with this, Em thought. Well, if all it meant was to allow the lad access to the old place, surely that wasn't such a trial to bear.
'How long?' She asked.
'How long, what?' Gwydion frowned.
Em sighed. Gods: they were truly sans clue sometimes. 'How long must Llew stay hidden?'
She saw his shoulders relax and he sighed softly. 'Thank you, cariad. It is a grand favour you do us. I will keep watch on things in the Otherworld. Our streams of time run divergent. I will let you both know when everything is safe for his return.'
He didn't know when, she realised. Well, it was the least she could do, she supposed. 'All right. But this is all rather sudden! You must give me time. I do not know where Daryl is, I have to see to things first...'
'You will have the time you need.' Gwydion smiled then. He was a handsome god-slave, still, she had to admit. He bent and kissed her forehead. 'Look for me!' He held out his arms and then began to spin round and round, causing a whirlwind about him...soon he was disappeared.
Emlyn then saw the mist begin to thicken about her and when she was enfogged completely, she felt herself begin to fall, slowly...
An abrupt jerk brought her awake in bed.
She sat up, rubbing her forehead. She remembered her dream, all too well. She knew that hoping it was Only A Dream was futile.
So much for her relaxing return to the countryside.
CLICK BELOW TO LISTEN! Robin Williamson's 
Gwydion's Song to Lleu
by Emerald Rose
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