Anchored

There was a time not too long ago when I felt totally betrayed by the guardians of the local flame. Deep in the fireheart, their ordinal superiors agreed that I'd been given rather the short end of the stick. And perhaps the greatest irony was that Lord Thunder felt moved to pray for my immortal soul, for after all, my discouragement might lead me into sin.

Strangely though, I was not discouraged. That story is told elsewhere. But now I will focus on the centre of the storm, and the words that held me fast amid the wrack and warp of hope. There is a hymn, you see, that my grandfathers (both chaplains of that particular Order of Midnight), were wont to sing. It is about an anchor. And here let me show you wolf and anchor, wanderer and fixed point, made one.

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Wolf worried about the anchor. It was an unnatural mass of iron, from an unnatural world where wood was shaped and left to float constructively at sea. He himself had no quarrel with storms; the fall of rain soothed him as it failed against his fur. But there it was, an anchor in the middle of the wood. It had some special significance, but Wolf had forgotten it, being Wolf.

And there he was, sniffing at the anchor, trying to remember what it meant, when he smelt the man-smell a little too late. They had rifles, and although badly-trained, the myth of the wolf was potent. They had knives for the kill and the gutting, and were not inclined to see that the wolf was actually a noble kind of dog – not a slave, but a more independent creature.

The first shot cracked, whined against the iron cross of the anchor. Wolf spat in surprise and ducked, frantically seeking the enemy and looking for a bolt-hole. That saved him from the second shot, which raised his hackles as it groaned complaining off into the night. A hunter flung himself at Wolf, a long knife flashing. There was no time to howl. Wolf twisted, turned.

The snow steamed around them. Humans and wolf danced a deadly ballet around the unmoving iron in the midnight wood. In the distance were dim lights, a church where watchnight music was sung. The lights flickered in the wind. The trees were very old, and if they had sympathies, those were more with Wolf than with his pursuers.

Rain he could stand, but his fur was not proof against steel. His blood steamed on the ground. Wolf felt more irritated than afraid. The hunters cried out, unable to bring their guns to bear at close range, in the too-populated dark. It would be knife work. They were frustrated by ice, iron and night. Wolf felt their fear. He had weapons too. He struck, silently.

The music thrilled him. He heard it running like a horse, like fire or water. It informed his strategy. It made him feel more alive than the shadows who hunted him. Their nightmare was his strength. He laughed, and bit someone else. Everything got confused. Wolf heard the singing, and if he could have sung, he would have joined in. The hunters cursed.

Will your anchor hold in the storms of life,
When the clouds unfold their wings of strife?
When the strong tides lift and the cables strain,
Will your anchor drift, or firm remain?

We have an anchor that keeps the soul
Steadfast and sure while the billows roll,
Fastened to the Rock which cannot move,
Grounded firm and deep in the Saviour’s love.

Morning came. It rolled out white and clean, like lightning in the hills. Wolf licked his silent, empty wounds. He was still alive. The hunters had gone, taking their guns, their knives, their casualties. Wolf had no idea of what it was he had forgotten, but he knew it was right. Turning his back on carnage, but remembering the anchor, he wandered off into the cheerful day.