Wotan

Morostide in Shadowglen was Wotan's favorite and busiest time. He loved the people who came to pay their respects to the dead and delighted in the fact that people came not just to mourn the deaths but to celebrate the lives of the ones they'd loved and lost. He watched the spirits dance and shiver into human-like forms in the moonlight and he knew that not all of them were bad. Many were the spirits of the departed that had been buried in the sacred soil. The costumes entranced him, overflowing with wild colors, intense reds, oceanic blues, greens that shimmered like emerald fire, yellows that broke up the light and reflected like gold dust, and his favorite, the orange, explosive yet peaceful, warm and inviting. As a Nightmare Archan, Wotan blended into the vicious masks, plastic fangs, spiderwebs, and dark costumes that surrounded him. He loved that he could walk around as himself. The nightmarish clouds swirled around him, his long fangs gleamed in the moonlight, and he was free to show himself for what he was. Mostly he loved to see the pumpkin patch, swollen with vivid orange pumpkins, bright with the smiling faces of families picking out pumpkins, and overflowing with vines that gave under his heavy paws. Wotan was in love with Morostide, and pumpkins, and most especially he loved the very last day of Morostide. The 31st of October, Halloween every year, Wotan had a very important job to do.
Every Halloween Wotan watched as the good spirits happily left their families and friends and faded softly back to their resting places. The spirits, though, were not all good. There were many who weren't happy with their fate and would try to take human form. These spirits would find people who were wandering or children who had separated from their group or from their parents, then the spirits would try to possess them, though they often failed. The process, even without fully achieving possession, would leave the human ill and weak with a magical poisoning. There were gruesome and tedious cures of course, but Wotan didn't want to see them have to go through that. The teeth, the claws, the vicious snarls, they were just the outside of Wotan. He could be fierce when he needed to be but he was honorable, trustworthy, and he was avidly attached to his post as protector.
It was on this chilly, windblown day, the mystical day in October, that Wotan found his true calling. The breeze was rustling the trees in the distance, stirring up the scents coming from the last of the season's harvest in the pumpkin patch where Wotan crouched. Small children gathered amongst the vines and gourds to get their last minute Jack-O-lanterns ready for that evening. Their costumes shivered and danced in the breeze and they ran excitedly back and forth trying to find the perfect pumpkin from the few that were left. Fur ruffling and blood pumping, Wotan kept himself focused. He could feel a spirit lurking, even though he couldn't see it. He didn't want to scare the children, so he crouched out of sight. He knew that if they saw him unexpectedly they may still be scared and they could run right into the clutches of the spirit. On Halloween every year a vast full moon, ablaze with energy, rose over the land of Shadowglen. Then these spirits, both good and bad were at their strongest, and Wotan, with his strange powers, was at his strongest.
One's deepest fears, the worst scenario, the hideous truths of one's past, the worst possible thoughts all swarmed with an energy that was nearly livid just behind Wotan's thick black coat. He may blend in, but he still gave some people a sense of unease. Some, though, were more sensitive to the supernatural realm. Those that were sensitive couldn't be around the bone-chilling archan without intense pain. They could feel the cataclysmic magic that enveloped him. This harrowing power gave Wotan the strength and ability to push away the spirits. The ones with the most hatred, malice, shame, and regret were the ones who were the most sensitive to the traumas he carried in his dark form. The blessing and curse, the magical tragedy of the Nightmare Archan was this very same power. Loyal hearts beat within tremendously frightening bodies, bodies that had the power to bring dread to those who most deserved it, bodies that had the power to lead them to where they could find the most revulsion. These same bodies could be in tune with the loyal hearts and chase away the depraved spirits.
That was perhaps why Wotan felt his sense of responsibility swell as the children happily left the pumpkin patch, and he felt the spirit follow them. He jumped up silently, being careful to stay far enough behind that he wouldn't be seen. Night had not yet fallen, the moon had not yet risen, so the spirit was was still weak. Wotan couldn't feel the intentions of this spirit, be it good or bad. The spirit could possibly be an old friend or a family member trying to make peaceful contact with the children after nightfall, but he also knew it could be something much worse. He would just have to follow the spirit until dusk to find out.
Into the verdant forest he followed, deeper and deeper down the winding paths, feeling the spirit's energy grow stronger as the last pools of light and warmth drained from the day. Wotan could see the spirit now, and knew what it wanted. It was an old relative and it did not want the children. What the spirit wanted was much more atrocious. The children had led the spirit to a cottage set back in a small clearing. There was the happy flickering of candle light from inside the cottage and the smell of fresh pumpkin pie came quickly to Wotan, warming and tingling pleasantly on the inside of his nose. The children rushed happily inside and Wotan crept up to the window. Inside he saw a family, a mother with long rosy curls, pale skin and a happy face, the three children from the pumpkin patch, a father, rugged and strong from life in the forest, and a little girl, pale, weak, frail, in a bed that had been moved to the kitchen for the evening meal. Wotan could feel the life emanating from the slender, pallid body. He knew she was alive, and that she was nearly weak enough for the spirit to overtake. He also knew that her body wouldn't survive that kind of trauma.
The spirit buzzed with anticipation, knowing that soon the new life would be his. Darkness bent around him like refracting light making a beautiful but grotesque rainbow in the night. Energy pulled from the child into the spirit, causing it to grow, become more clearly formed. Threadbare rags and decaying shackles clothed a scaly figure shaped much like a bat with no wings or feathers. The spirit was the embodiment of envy and shame. The young child's body would be perfect for the spirit. Little girls are often trusted, ignored even, well provided for, but nearly invisible to most anyone important enough to stop the spirit from taking everything it ever wanted. The spirit's evil face twisted with glee, and Wotan felt it get even more excited as the girl grew closer to death. If it could only wait long enough.
Wotan watched as the alabaster moon moved across the sky. It was a slow process, but the waxen light that spread over the land filled him with a sense of purpose. The night was chilly, the lighting was foreboding, and all of the ghoulish threat the night seemed to hold only pushed Wotan to keep waiting for the spirit to make a move. The spirit was not directly attacking the girl, and the family was still inside, getting ready for the night of trick or treating. Just as the moon seemed to settle on the canopy of trees around him, the children left, along with one of their parents. The little girl stayed behind with her mother.
Hours passed, the spirit grew restless with excitement, Wotan grew sore and wanted to stretch his vast, sinewy muscles, but he stayed still. He needed to wait until this spirit was at a weak point, and he needed to wait until the family was quiet and resting, so they wouldn't see him. The spirit was too strong with the bleached moonlight and Wotan didn't need the family's shocked reactions to act as another challenge in the way of his success. By this time the young children had returned from their trip, cheeks rosy with excitement and the chill of the night, the scent of candy and treats. It was approaching ten o'clock and the excitement had yet to drain from the house.
This treat-filled night of childish fun was also about spiritual strength. There were souls wandering from grave to grave, from graves to houses to see their loved ones. These spirits would not be as powerful or able to rise from the sacred soil after midnight, and as the night progressed they erupted in a party that would last them until the following year. Everywhere there were spirits dancing in flowing gowns, seeming to blossom out of graves like flowers that thrive on moonlight. There were war veterans telling battle stories, mother souls loving lost children, there were babies laughing and racing children, chefs and doctors, explorers and bird watchers. Every kind of person imaginable was gathered, and they were all very happy. And there wasn't a living soul in sight.
Wotan's noble mind, sharp with the need to protect, spread through the land. He could feel the beings, feel the party, the excitement. He found no other trace of evil, but the demonic form he now watched was enough evil to fill the night with a sense of ominous dread. The clock ticked nearer to midnight and the spirit didn't leave, it didn't fade, it simply waited. The family settled, the older children went to bed, the young, sickly girl had to be sponged clean, and helped into her pajamas before being helped into bed. The time was coming and Wotan was nearly wild with the thrill of the upcoming fight. Adrenaline chased the blood through his veins and he bolted to the spirit.
He bolted. One leap was enough to throw him 30 yards, with the power that coursed through him. He overshot, but spun around. The spirit was facing him, shocked speechless, but trembling with glee, instead of fright. The old spirit was bored, tired of the bleak afterlife he left in the wake of his wicked life. All at once Wotan's fur, swarming with nightmares that moved like an electric current, started building energy. A cloud swarmed around him like a thousand tiny insects and the milky light of the moon seemed to dim. An ear-splitting shriek echoed through the sleepy forest. The spirit was writhing and trying to run away. Every scream from every child he'd ever hit, every tear from every love he'd ever left, every drop of blood from every cut he'd given in every fight all landed on this macabre menace. Every thought, every nightmare, every single shameful thing that had twisted this soul into the unrecognizable devil that stood before Wotan, pushed it down, beat it until it couldn't move.
Still it crawled, shrieking in agony, bodiless mist against the dark leaves. The moon had dimmed, the power had gone, midnight had come and past like a breath and the creature was still there, bowed with pain in front of Wotan. It seemed to perk up, to grin with a gruesome delight that it had survived the rise and fall of that mystical Halloween moon. The burst of joy was short lived, as they neared the corner of the graveyard. The other spirits were resting, gone to the worlds they'd built themselves. Their happiness and love shining into their lives even after their lives had ended. This spirit was fighting to stay out of the Hell it had created. Fighting its hardest, draining Wotan's power with each step but suddenly, without warning it vanished. A hole opened up and within Wotan could see faces, fire, stacks of burnt money. A mighty roar echoed through the night. Wotan had been too weak to notice that it was he, himself that had made the sound. A cry of triumph as the hole closed up and the air seemed to become lighter and easier to breathe. Then all at once Wotan saw the ground coming closer and realized a second too late that he was about to collapse from the effort.
Wotan had passed into the spirit world, he was dying, or dead, he couldn't be sure. It was a magical night, of course, he could have ended up there by accident. A light flickered in the distance. A spirit was brighter than the rest. Something brilliant and glittering became so bright in Wotan's vision that his eyes began to burn. His vision was cloudy but as his eyelids slowly lifted, he could tell he was back on earth again. There was something bright in the distance, but it wasn't moving toward him. It was darting back in forth in a way that made it seem panicked. It was small, wavy, and held some significance that Wotan couldn't quite connect. He was regaining his senses. He could hear hear again, and smell. Somewhere in the distance there was a fire. Freshly lit. Someone had just woken up in the night. There was someone calling out, and someone was screaming. Someone was screaming a name. A woman's name, or a girl perhaps.
“Annabelle” a woman's voice sobbed.
“No, no, Annabelle” a high pitched wail. A child's voice.
Realization flooded through him. The screams, the tiny shimmering movement. The girl had passed and now her spirit wandered, afraid, confused. The family was mourning and Wotan could hear them. He streaked through the night, nearly invisible in the darkness that gathered as the moon vanished in the trees. He was desperate to find the little girl, to guide her soul to the spirit world. She wasn't buried yet, so she didn't have a final resting place, and he needed to show her where to go.
“Annabelle” he called in a strange spirit voice.
The movement, the intense panic, the building stress all vanished. Clarity and light flooded the forest, turning it green again, instead of the inky nighttime purples and blues. There she was in front of him, a beautiful spirit, shining with joy. She wasn't confined to a bed anymore. She wasn't sick, she was nearly free. Free and happy and delighted to see Wotan. This girl was not afraid of him. The nightmares that swirled around him didn't seem to touch her. She had already lived her worst nightmare, and escaped it.
“Follow me” he said softly, swelling a bit with peace and pride.
The girl listened, and as they passed through the gates of the graveyard she shimmered and faded out of his sight. From that day on Wotan knew. He had to protect these happy spirits, needed to protect the humans. He knew there would always be darkness and always be light, they would always be fighting, always be at war. He also knew that the war may rage on forever and possibly no one would win, but he vowed to help win the battles as long as he was able.


Story by the wonderful Chrystle