Fata Morgana

He slept, and he dreamed.

He dreamt of an unending shallow sea. In the distance, he saw a shore hovering over the horizon. He walked towards it, wading through dark, stagnant water that never rose past his chest. He felt nothing but mud under his paws; no rocks, no shells, nothing solid. He had been here many times before, though when and where he could not explain.

The shore faded in and out of sight—images flickering and overlaying one another, duplicating, merging, splitting. He needed to reach it. He did not know why—but he could feel the silt slipping under toes, feet, paws, claws—he could not be stranded here. He could not—

He awoke shivering and gasping for air.

Around him, stone columns stood stark and bare against the dense mass of vegetation behind. The air felt humid and damp. There was a trace of salt, too. His ears twitched: he could hear crashing waves echoed in the stone.

The wolf rose to his feet, unsteady but not injured. He was a wolf, he was sure—a wolf, and nothing more. A vague concept of hands drifted into his head as he looked down at his paws. He quickly shook his head, and the odd recollection flitted away from him like a fly. The sea, he thought. I have to get back.

A strange thought. Why would he need to go back? He remembered his lungs filling with fluid, his chest squeezing, and he swayed on the spot. He was sick on the stone floor.

When he recovered himself enough to move, he walked down the steps of the entranceway. No, it was an exit. Why was it an exit? He glanced behind himself at the blank, staring eyes of lupine statues before proceeding.

When he felt dry leaf litter crunch under his feet, the smells around him suddenly seemed so much sharper. Forest, rot, earth, rain, wolf.

“Who’s there?” he asked. He lowered his head instinctively.
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“Esmerelda, Siren of the Saltwoods.” The mottled silver queen announced herself confidently, having watched as the man stepped from the ruins. He appeared confused, the way the born-anew always did. It certainly was a trend here but by now, Esmerelda was quite used to it, even if they were not.

While shed had not been passing by, she had been exploring the ruins again — this time on her own — when she'd heard movement. It had been a touch alarming, as the Nerei had been here just the other day, but she decided to investigate rather than run away. This was, after all, close to their home and she would let nothing threaten that, or her children.

“I take it you have just awoken?”

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Woken up. It was an odd turn of phrase, yet it was all that matched with what he was feeling.

“Er…yes,” he agreed hesitantly. The scent of wolves washed over him again as he opened his mouth. They had been here recently and often. Esmerelda was chief among them—and she had a definite confidence about her. He could guess at her relationship to the others.

“And this is your home.”

Part of him wanted to ask exactly what this place was. There were too many questions, and they tangled and died in his throat. He fell silent as his attention wandered to soaring, moss-covered trunks and overgrown ferns. His ears swivelled in the direction of bird calls echoing through the canopy—eerie and familiar all at once. Saltwoods.

The most different of all was the wolf in front of him. In some way, she was unlike all other wolves he’d met before. (When had that been, exactly? His head ached.)

“You’re a wolf like me,” he blurted out.

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Hesitant. Unsure. Hallmarks of those that were born again in this place, deposited here as if placed intentionally, as if they were playthings to some giant god. But instead of questions, the man was able to look past all his hesitancy and make a statement. This one was smart, observant. Qualities she found men often didn’t have.

“Not quite, but my home is close by.” Perhaps others wouldn’t have told a stranger such a fact but Esme knew it was obvious. Her crew wandered the whole of this island, not just their own side.

The Mystic waited, patiently, as the man looked about, taking in his surroundings. It was truly a pretty, intriguing place; the trees, the statues, the ruins themselves. It’s oddness and obscurity made it all beautiful to her.

Her ears flickered at his next statement, an eyebrow rising slightly. “Yes. I have been many things in many lives, but I am a wolf, now.” And oh, did she love this life and all the things it had blessed her with. “Were you something else Before?”
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Many things in many lives.

Her words made him pause for a moment. He tried to think back to…before. Before he found himself here. An icy jolt went through him.

“Yes…and no,” he said. “I was a wolf, but I was also…” He remembered a dark space. A room; a lukewarm kettle; a shaking cup.

He realized he was shaking, too. He looked down and stiffened his shoulders, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. It’s hard to remember. But…I was—am—called Ilya.”

Ilya looked back up at Esmerelda, and couldn’t help but try to look for answers in the other wolf’s face. He didn’t question her earlier statement; there was a wisdom about her that Ilya would never achieve.

“Er… Thank you,” he added awkwardly.

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She could almost feel the sway in him as he struggled to remember, struggled to recall what had been left behind. She remembered her moment of such efforts, the way her vision swam and her head had ached. “It is alright. Do not strain,” She reassured him, voice gentle, warm. Understanding and patience came with being a leader, and a mother.

“Ilya. It is a pleasure.” It was disorienting to wake alone, especially in a place such as this. “Do not think of it. I'm happy to help,” She said, a soft wave of her tail given behind her. “Walk with me. Get your legs about you while you tell me about yourself.”

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At the very least, Esmerelda didn’t begrudge his confusion. He nodded gratefully; with gentle, careful steps, he followed. Her question gave him pause. She had been nothing but kind and helpful to him, and she certainly had the right to know about any stranger wandering about her pack’s home. He knew he owed her a proper answer. But he didn’t really know what to say–partly because he couldn’t remember, and partly because there just…wasn’t much there. Or so he thought, anyway.

“That’s a risky question to ask,” he said mildly. “You’ll be very bored before long. Er…”

He tried to think of something a bit more satisfactory. As he did so, he studied the shapes of decayed, ancient logs, covered in trailing moss and poked with holes that almost resembled eyes. A strange and beautiful place. One that he was sure he would remember for years to come.

“Well, I suppose I’ve traveled a lot. I remember…different places.” A structure among snow-covered pines; a winding riverbank where the air had buzzed with insects. He had the sense he’d seen many different things. Not always by choice, but he didn’t voice that.

“I…used to take care of plants. Flowers. I was a gardener, sometimes. Other times, I hunted. I carried things that were too heavy for others…Er. I suppose I just do what I need to, really.”

He trailed off. She probably didn’t need to hear the rest of his inspiring achievements.

“Did…you wake up here too?” Ilya asked, genuinely curious about this mysterious leader. She might be called Siren, but she didn’t seem the type to drown unsuspecting sailors–at least, not without due cause.

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She would laugh, soft and good natured. “I highly doubt that. I love myself a long story.” For she loved to learn of the world through others' eyes, loved to learn of their stories and their pasts. There was much wisdom to be found in such things, and Esmerelda found herself bolstered by such knowledge and experience, even if it was not first hand.

Gardening, hunting, helping. He was a good, well-rounded man, it seemed. “It sounds as if you lived a good life.” Or some lives, if it had not been all in one. “I'm sure you will find some calling here, in this world, as well.” She had, surely. The call of the ocean, the call of her wife, and of the Saltwoods. It all wove one harmonious tune.

“I did, some time ago. Everyone I've met has experienced the same thing, oddly enough. It seems to be the nature of this world, oddly enough.” But it was second nature, by now, both to find those who woke here and to explain it all as well. “We are on an island here; the mainland is close by, across a sandbar during low tide. You are more than welcome to stay here, if you choose, too.”

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A good life.

Yes, he supposed it had been. Why, then, did the thought make him so uneasy? He was quiet for a moment as he willed his stomach to settle; he did not wish to disturb the kind woman.

There was a void in his memory. Silent as a stone, preventing him from seeing what was there—and for the moment, he would not try to budge it. Even as he felt it beg.

Instead, he offered Esmerelda a smile—the first since he’d woken in this odd new world.

“Thank you. You’ve been very generous,” he said honestly. “I won’t overstay my welcome…but I can always return with more stories, if you like.”

He had no idea what his calling in this strange new world might be—but, slowly, a realization was creeping on him. In this world, no one knew him.

Maybe he would finally keep it that way.

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i think this is a good place to finish?

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