Seventeen times did the snows come and go in the Whitewood. The village of knotted branches continued its simple work of crafting, hunting and fishing. Fiádh had grown quickly. He was tall, just over 192cm, though still a head shorter than his father. The young man wasn’t as broad or muscular as his father either, possessing a more lean strength. His features were like that of his father, Adohan, but softer from youth and the fairer influence of his mother, Gwyn. The fair faced fellow now had a full head of fiery red hair that draped down to his shoulders like a waterfall of soft flame, though no fur had yet grown on his face or his chest. Much to his annoyance. His lean frame was clad in the tanned leather hide of an elk, his body tattooed with blue symbols of protection from the druids, and like the rest of his people, he wore no shoes.

Growing up, Fiádh’s parents had found him to be a rambunctious and dangerously curious child. When he was three he had burnt his hand after sticking it directly into the fire. At the age of seven he climbed a tree and disturbed a beehive for its honey, suffering multiple stings. Then, when he was twelve, young Fiádh had snuck out past the protection of the knotted branches with his father’s spear, looking for a boar to hunt. He spent that same night up a tree after being chased by half a dozen of the irate wild pigs. Still, his parents hardly ever scolded him. The cuts, bruises and stings he received in his foolhardiness were punishment enough even if they did little to discourage his curiosity.

When he was six years old, Fiádh was sent with the other village youth to the druid to be tutored in the old ways of his people. His parents hoped that this would steer his nature into something less destructive.

“Listen to old Enid. She sees more than the crow, and knows more than the fox.” The words came from Fiádh’s mother, Gwyn. Her dirty blonde hair billowed as a breeze went by.
Next to her stood Adohan, Fiádh’s father. He had a few silver hairs in his orange beard now, though he seemed strong as ever. The aging hunter handed his son his spear. The body was made of redwood, hardened with a layer of resin. The head of the spear was a chiseled black stone that was light as glass, but could punch through steel. At least, the druid claimed it could. The making of suh weapons were lost to his people, and being allowed to carry it, even for such a short and safe trip as to Old Enid’s hut, gave Fiádh pause. “I expect this back when you return. And this time, no hunting trips! I want you to return with the stories of the old ways, and knowledge of healing wounds…Not bloody spear and back.”

The fiery haired young man took the spear and muttered. “What if it’s Old Enid who bloodies my back with lashings…”

“Then you probably earned it.” His father croaked. For the signs of age he showed, his hearing was as keen as ever. Fiádh winced but his mother took his face in her hands and gave a kiss to his forehead. “Get moving. If you’re late, you’re guaranteed a lashing or two.”
The young man smiled and made his way to Old Enid’s hut.

The druid’s hut, carved out of the shell of a giant tortoise, lay outside the knotted oaken branches of the village. It lay on a hill, on the edge of the Whitewood and much closer to the river. The hut was painted blue, with the symbols of his people. Within her hut, bones dangled from string. Clay pots filled with strange berries and fungi were scattered about and a fire pit was dug out in the middle. The village youth sat in a circle around this fire, listening to what the druid had to teach them.
Her name was Enid. Said to be as old as the forest itself. Fiádh guessed that this was true. Enid’s face was as wrinkled as dried mistletoe berries. She had a slightly hunched frame, and an odd habit of stopping mid sentence to gaze for long periods at nothing. The young man wondered if he might one day grow so old, and shuddered.

Enid’s voice was harsh, like a crow. She would squawk about the importances of harvesting the right berries. Knowing which weeds could be used as medicine and how to feel the flow of the Weave. Fiádh had heard all of this a dozen times over by now, so he gazed into the fire, letting old Enid’s cawing voice fade until it was a hum in the back of his head. He felt his mind slip into the grip of sleep as he leaned against his A sudden hot stinging sensation on his shoulder brought him back. In one motion, his hand went up to his shoulder, feeling the warmth of several shallow cuts. Old Enid was standing over him, looming like a vulture with a glare in her eyes. Despite her age, Fiádh  could see she still held that vibrant green in her eyes. She was holding a bundle of juniper twigs in her palm that she used to lash his shoulder with.

“Fiádh.” She squawked. “Is there something in the fire that is more interesting than what I have to say?”

The young man took a shallow breath to chase away the sting from his shoulder. “Aye. I saw a wolf chasing a deer in the flames. And it made me wonder why I am not doing that instead.” His voice, like all those of his people, held a thick Irish accent.

Enid’s glare deepened. “Doing what? Chasing deer?”

“No, Enid. Hunting.”

“You hunted yesterday. Today is for learning.”

“Yes, but why am I not learning to hunt as the wolves do. Yesterday I hunted as a man. With spear and knife. But to hunt as a wolf does. With fang and claw.”

The old druid’s gaze still pierced through him, and now everyone else had their eyes fixed upon him. “And why does that interest you so? Would you rather you were born a wolf?”

Fiádh shrugged. “No, not exactly. I just want to know what it feels like. If you would teach me how to change my shape into a wolf then-”
He was cut off by another quick smack from old Enid’s bundle of twigs. In the exact same spot. The young man could not speak again before Enid did.

“Children.” She cawed, her voice filling the hut. “That is enough for today. Return to the village, and do not stop to swim in the river. Baleeye is hunting closer to the Whitewood these past moons.” She pointed one wrinkled finger at Fiádh, “You will stay here.”

Fiádh gave a weak smile of apology, silently asking not to be kept here alone. He knew the old druid would not harm him but being alone with her was a curiosity even he never held. He looked pleadingly to the other youths as they left the tortoise hut one by one. Their faces held looks of apology, if they looked at him at all. Finally, he and Old Enid were alone. He quietly watched as she shuffled in her hut, taking out a strange black berry and eating it, before turning her still youthful gaze to him.

“It was only one moon past since you begged me to teach you how to change your shape into that of a beast. Four moons since I taught you how to channel Nature’s power, and use the Weave to channel magic.”

Fiádh still said nothing, knowing that the druid wasn’t finished lecturing yet. She continued.

“And now you talk of running as a wolf. Not for power or the use of it to protect your home, but because you…want to know what it’s like?” Her question was rhetorical, and held a heavy tone of judgment. “I have fed your curiosity many times, Fiádh, but curiosity killed the bobcat.”

The orange-haired man smiled. “Well, then I guess it’s a good thing I was born a man, eh?”
He saw Enid was reaching for her bundle of twigs again.
“Sorry. But you know I can do it! And I promise I won't hurt anyone.”

“Won’t you?”

“Of course not! I can take the shape of squirrels, spiders, rabbits and even weasels without hardship. Why should a wolf or even a bear be any different?”

Enid shook her head slowly from side to side. “You do not understand. The more powerful the beast, the more powerful their instincts. When we druids take on the shape of the wild beasts, we become them! Body and mind!” Her hand smacked the boy on his chest and head respectfully, emphasizing her words. “If the wolf’s spirit takes you over, then what? You live as a beast, you die as a beast.” Her words were cutting. Deep down Fiádh knew she was speaking the truth, but still that curiosity blazed within him. Against his fear of dying, he couldn’t help but wonder if dying as a beast would be any different from dying as a man. He wanted to ask Enid, but thought better of it.
“You’re right, druid. I will not bring it up again.”

The old woman’s harsh expression softened. “Good...go home now. Practice your wild shape. Rabbits, rats and squirrels only! And don’t forget to meditate!”

The young man gave a light nod and left Old Enid’s hut.

As he walked down the hill, approaching the river, he thought more about running as a wolf. The more he thought on it, the more his curiosity ate through his fears and reasons. He looked around, green eyes scanning the clearing. There was no one. He was alone. “I can do it. Change right back and then be home before sundown.” Setting his father’s spear on the ground, he took a deep breath. As Old Enid had taught him, he felt nature all around him. He felt the wind softly kiss his sink and stroke his hair. He felt the grass beneath his bare feet and the call of birds. Through it all, he could feel the weave. Everyone had a small amount of the Weave’s mystical essence with them. People, animals, plants, even the stone and water. Fiádh, being a druid’s apprentice, had a bit more than most. Even still, this was but a small puddle of magical essence, and if he wanted to change shape or cast even the simplest of spells, he needed to draw from what the Weave could offer. 

With every breath he pulled more and more of that primal magic stuff into his body, a raging river feeding his small puddle, turning it into a lake. Concentrating, he halted the flood of magic before it overwhelmed him. Another habit that Old Enid had lashed into him. Following her teachings, he imagined himself being submerged in this lake. Feeling warm water encapsulating his entire being. Loosening and molding him like clay, all while keeping the image of a proud wolf in his mind.

The blue tattoos on Fiádh’s body began to glow with an emerald green light. Faintly at first, and only on the smallest parts of the art upon his form. Quickly it enveloped all the tattoos, like fresh water filling up an old streambed. When Fiádh opened his eyes, he saw he was much lower to the ground. A hairy muzzle ending in a wet black nose stuck out before him. He was no longer upright, but instead stood upon four large black paws, and the swishing of a fuzzy tail behind him. Gazing at his reflection in the river, he found not a fiery haired young man looking back at him…but rather a young wolf. Overwhelmed with feelings of elation and vindication, he threw his head back and howled.