Not a one of them looks Irish or anything close to it, and I think that’s grand. It’s best, methinks, to have Druids from all over Gaia; that way they’ll each have a special stretch of the earth calling to their hearts. It’s what we should have done back in the old days, if we’d been thinking properly, but instead of actively trying to spread Druidry everywhere, we just assumed it would grow outward from Ireland and keep going. It never got out of the European continent, and that’s a mistake we don’t need to repeat.
I’m standing a good distance from the house in a field of bunch grass already gone dormant for the winter. Pines stand tall behind me in formations leading up the mountain, and the air is crisp. There are worse places I could start a grove. Greta presents me to them all, and I nod once and say, “Welcome.” I get a few nods and a couple of shy smiles in return. Then the introductions begin.
First is a married couple and a wee girl from someplace called Mongolia. They have a translator with them while they’re learning English, but Greta assures me that she’s pack also. Straight dark hair, high cheekbones, golden-brown complexions. The father, Nergüi, is the new pack member; his wife’s name is Oyuunchimeg, but she wants to simply be called “Meg” in the United States. The girl is seven and her name is Enkhtuya. The parents get nods, but I squat down on me haunches so I’m not so large and intimidating and grin at the girl, who wants to be called Tuya.
“Nice to meet ye, Tuya,” I says, and she relays a polite reply via the translator.
Next in line is a family from Peru. Both of the parents, Diego and Rafaela, are new pack members and are very worried about protecting their boy, Ozcar. They speak English with a charming accent and have warm-brown skin and thick black eyebrows. Ozcar is a shy lad and doesn’t respond to my greeting except after prompting from his parents. He might be a bit small for his age, a bit thin. Time and oats will take care of it.
Mohammed and his son, Mehdi, hail from a village in the mountains of Morocco, a place called Chefchaouen, which is rather fun to say out loud. The boy’s mother is missing, but I don’t inquire about it right then; she may be in the house, or simply elsewhere, and if not, there is plenty of time to collect such stories later. They’re dressed in white, and Mohammed has a little cap on his head that I suspect has some kind of religious significance. I’m not up to speed on all the religions that have sprung up since me own day, but it really doesn’t matter. Gaia doesn’t require worship, so Druids can pray to whomever they want.
“Thank you for doing this,” Mohammed says. “I don’t want to outlive my son. If Mehdi becomes a Druid, he can live longer, yes, like wolves?”
“That’s right,” I tell him, though I leave out that this is a recent development thanks to Siodhachan. “I know I don’t look like it, but I’m in me seventies.”
Mohammed clasps his hands together and says something in a language I don’t recognize as he lowers his head in what I assume is a prayer of thanks. One of the monotheist religions, I’m guessing.
The religion of Sajit, however, is a serious problem for him now that he is a werewolf, as his translator explains. He’s a Hindu from Nepal and this has something to do with why he’s a strict vegetarian, yet when he shifts once a month his wolf won’t let him shift back without eating meat, which he finds very distressing. He wants to make it very clear, therefore, that his daughter, Amita, should not be forced to eat meat as part of her apprenticeship.
“Ye both can eat what ye want,” I says to him, and shrug. “It doesn’t matter to me.” Amita’s mother is absent as well, and the wee girl is reluctant to make eye contact. Her complexion is lighter than her father’s—tawny where his is a warm sepia—but I can tell she’s going to be tall like him.
Luiz is an earnest six-year-old from Brazil and missing his father. His mother, Natália, greets me in broken English. They have a translator but clearly already know a few words. Luiz has a gap between his front teeth that makes me like him.
The last family is a father and daughter from Zambia, and they possess skin of a deep, rich umber; their hair is cropped very close to their skulls. The girl is by far the tallest of the children, though I’m unsure if that’s simply because she’s older than the rest or if she’s truly above average. The father, Sonkwe, is fluent in English, and his daughter, Thandi, is learning well. I note that her eyes take in everything: When she’s finished absorbing me, her eyes drift to the trees as her father speaks, volunteering why he’s a single parent: “After I was bitten,” he says, “my wife left us. She thinks I am a monster now.”
If she truly thinks that, then I wonder why she would leave her child with a monster, but I keep me questions in reserve. Now is not the time for them.
“There isn’t a one of ye that’s a monster,” I says, and nod to the translators to indicate that they should relay my words. “You’re just bound to lycanthropy now. Fancy word for a certain kind of binding. All magic is a binding of some kind. And Druids are bound to the earth. To Gaia.” I’d stood to meet the other children after Tuya, but I go ahead and squat again so that the kids would know I was speaking to them and not their parents. I pull up my right sleeve to reveal my tattoos, then speak to the apprentices, sweeping my eyes across them in turn. “This ink is not for decoration. It’s my binding to the earth, and that in turn allows me to bind myself to four animal shapes and do many other things besides. When you are ready, you will be bound to the earth in the same way, and then you will be able to shape-shift into four different creatures. But a Druid’s shape-shifting is different from a werewolf’s. It’s faster, painless, and we don’t have to do it at all if we don’t want to. But you’re probably going to want to. Wouldn’t you like to fly?” The kids nod and I smile. “Sure! Who wouldn’t? One of your shapes will be a bird of some kind. I’ll show you in a minute.”
My eyes flick over to Greta and she nods, encouraging me to continue. She coached me on what to do next, warning me about modern cultural standards of modesty.
“The thing about shape-shifting is, ye can’t do it with your clothes on. Or if ye do it’s mighty painful and ye can hurt yourself. Better to get rid of your clothes first, and get rid of any shame about your body while you’re at it. The shape you were born with is perfect in Gaia’s eyes. That should be good enough for anybody.”
I rise from me crouch and say, “I’m going to shape-shift to a red kite now, just to show ye what I’ll have ye workin’ for in the years ahead. All the language schooling, all the mental exercises, and all the physical training will be to get you ready for the responsibility. But make no mistake. It’s fun too.”
Switching to Old Irish, I bind my shape to a red kite as I turn my back and throw off my robe. They see it fall and me shrink down to a bird of prey at the same time. I screech at them and all of them gasp, but the new pack members especially—they’ve all endured the painful transformation to a werewolf and can’t conceive of the process being fast and smooth. I take wing and circle around them a couple of times, their eyes following me, and I can see the kids are excited now. I light next to me robe and shape-shift directly to a bear, giving them a friendly grunt. They’re delighted by it, and this is Greta’s cue to come on over and drape the robe across me back. I turn around and shift back to human and the robe falls into place—all her idea.