[18+] An old ritual journey takes a new form, a student learns not all ancestral wisdom is worth listening to, and a haunting must be confronted.

Today’s story is the first of two parts of “The Green Night” by Rob MacWolf, and you can find more of his stories and poetry on his SoFurry gallery.

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This week's two-parter is an adult story for mature listeners.

If that's not your cup of tea,

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you can skip these

and there'll be new stories for you next week. You're

listening to The Voice of Dog,

and today's story

is the first of two parts of

The Green Night by Rob MacWolf.

You can find more of his stories and poetry on his

SoFurry Gallery.

Please enjoy. The Green Night

by Rob MacWolf, part one of two.

Read for you by the author himself.

The air smelled green up in the mountains. Bertilak had insisted they'd have supper first,

and talk on the back deck afterward.

Gawain's explanation that he'd come a long way, didn't Bertilak know that?

It took a day and a half by train and ferry and bus to get this far up the mountains?

had been as effective as if he'd said nothing at all.

So the badger had served supper,

some cheese and onion pie,

and they'd cleared the table.

Then they'd done the dishes.

Then they'd gone out to the back deck, sat down in old wooden patio chairs,

and the badger had opened a bottle with no label and poured himself a full glass and a much smaller glass for the dog.

Gawain had decided, after an experimental sniff of what must be liquorice and rotting christmas tree,

he didn't want to know what it was,

and had set it on the railing.

Bertilak had sat down again.

And then they'd sat for what felt like an eternity while Bertilak just gazed off into the distance.

Gawain would admit it was a lovely view:

the steep forest, the lights of the town below that grew more visible as darkness descended,

the sea beyond. It was mostly invisible in the night now.

While this old man was looking at nothing, the dog fumed internally,

he was sitting on hot coals waiting for another attack of-

Gawain felt his shoulders tense.

He made very sure

not to turn to look,

but in the glass beside him on the rail,

he could see the reflection of a wolfhound standing behind him.

Rougher, darker fur than Gawain's,

mud colored rather than gold.

No curl to his tail,

no lift to his ears.

Tightly pressed lips,

disapproving face,

clerical collar, severe clothes.

Old severe clothes, at that.

The Interrupter. Any second the Interrupter would start talking,

and he wouldn't be able to stop him,

and the things he was about to say-

"So," Bertilak finally broke the silence, "Hear

you're having trouble at college.

college." "Uh, yeah." Gawain did risk a glance over his shoulder.

There was nobody on the back deck but him

and the badger and the smell of the forest.

"I finished my practicals and I've made contact with a patron, ahead of my class, but-"

"Who is it?" "Who is what?"

"Your patron. You said you made contact."

"Oh, they're... something to do with thunderstorms.

They haven't taken any of the names I've offered yet, they just...

look at me." Gawain didn't mention he had a decent idea why his patron didn't talk to him.

It would come up.

Bertilak took another sip of the overpowering drink.

"Then you started having trouble.

Percy called me, said you weren't showing up for meals, weren't showing up for exercise,

you broke things off with the different fellas you were seeing.

Said he was gonna send you to me."

"Professor DeGral said he knew someone who could help, yeah." Gawain tried not to sound small, and failed.

"Dunno yet if I can.

Now, it's not unheard of for something to pop up where it's not supposed to be when you've first stuck a toe in the otherworld.

All sorts of spirits, maybe,

think they can do whatever they want with a shaman who doesn't have experience.

experience." The badger set his empty glass down,

glanced at Gawain's untouched drink through an unimpressed eyebrow.

"And from your lack of reaction to my saying so,

I'd guess that's what happened.

Am I right?" Gawain was about to answer

when the wolfhound was back.

"As if it were any business of some drunken pervert!

You're only suffering because that's the natural world's right and proper reaction to your

twisted unnaturalness!"

he shouted, looming over Gawain, thin lips pursed in acidic disgust.

"He can't cure you of me because there's nothing wrong with me being here, you miserable reprobate!

I'll spend the rest of your life rubbing your face in the truth you refuse to admit!"

Gawain felt someone gently pry his paws off his face and realized he'd clamped them there.

Bertilak leaned forward

and looked him in the eyes.

"Did... you hear that?"

the dog gulped a deep breath.

The wolfhound was nowhere to be seen, right now, but that had never stopped him before.

"No," the badger had an ear cocked, suspiciously, and glanced from side to side,

"but I saw what happened when you did."

"It's..." Wait, no, not ready to admit that yet.

Gawain changed tactics.

"He's a wolfhound.

Appears right the second when I don't expect him and just starts

screaming the most vile, insulting, hateful things.

things." "Like what?" Bertilak's voice was calm, practical,

as if he were talking about getting more wood for the fire.

"Like I'm perverted, and disgusting.

He's called me... things I'm not gonna repeat."

"He just doesn't like you?"

"No, no, he," Gawain scrubbed his floppy ear with one paw to make himself focus through the anxiety.

"He doesn't like that I'm attracted to...

that I have... sex. With men."

There was a long silence.

Bertilak stared into his eyes.

"He knows that's why you're a shaman, though, right?

That it doesn't work if you're hetero, right?

That without being oriented the way we are, you wouldn't be able to see or hear him,

he'd still be stuck in whatever homophobic hell he was in

before he caught hold of you?"

"I don't know if he cares." Gawain

slumped back in his chair.

"He just rants about, like,

how not sleeping with women is the same as murdering millions of people.

Or hours-long lectures about how I don't deserve a chance to try to be a better person.

person." "He's got dedication, then."

"At first he just waited till I was with a guy." Gawain

felt his voice turning resentful, but Bertilak didn't seem to object.

"Soon as we're undressed or making out, boom, screaming at me.

Once I couldn't have sex with anybody anymore, he would disrupt class.

Then he moved on to whenever I tried to sleep."

"Well shit. Assume you tried wards? Banishing?"

Bertilak got to his feet and stretched. Gawain nodded. "The university sacred spaces?

And those didn't work or

you wouldn't be here now."

Gawain bit his lip, trying not to blurt out impatient hope.

It sounded like the old badger was finally moving toward the sort of solution he'd been promised, but he didn't want to say so

in case the Interrupter had a rebuttal.

"Only sensible to test, I suppose.

suppose." Bertilak took a deep breath,

in through his nose,

his gut pulled down as his lungs filled.

Something about his muscles

changed, it wasn't that they grew, it was that

they seemed to be suddenly

more full. The front of his shirt popped open, whether from his muscles or his breath or

some other force, and written down his chest were glyphs,

shimmering with the same soft green light as his

eyes. Gawain hadn't gotten very far in that class yet, but he knew the big one near the center meant 'courage.'

Bertilak laid one hand on the string of tree lights wound around the deck railing.

They flickered on,

then burned steadily, one by one,

till they were lit with the same soft green all around the house.

"Alright, should be as secure as I can make it.

it." Bertilak said. The glyphs faded.

He didn't bother to button his shirt again.

"That was... just to ward the house?"

Gawain whined. The dog couldn't help thinking of some of Prof. DeGral's lectures, what the ocelot had thought of 'flashiness.' Bertilak snorted. "If Percy wants a say in how I do my wards,

in my house, on my land,

he can come say it himself.

So, where's whatever's haunting you?"

"I don't see him." Gawain said,

"but he likes to wait till he can catch me off-guard.

Or interrupt something.

something." "Well, then let's give him something to interrupt.

interrupt." Bertilak was suddenly very close.

And his shirt was very open.

And his eyes were very green.

"I... are you sure," and Gawain very much had a thing for older men,

"that's a good idea?"

"I'm sure that you,"

said Bertilak, close enough that Gawain could feel warm breath

move the fur on his neck,

"haven't gotten so much as a handshake in months.

months." He had a point there.

Gawain closed his eyes

and leaned forward into Bertilak's arms.

The badger's lips tasted odd,

almost green, must have been the drink, but Gawain didn't care,

he pressed a hand to the badger's chest, and-

"Filthy unrepentant sodomite," bayed the Interrupter, directly into Gawain's

ear it felt like,

"the fact you yet draw breath is an unforgivable insult to nature itself!"

He'd been expecting it and he still jumped, lost balance, upended the patio chair and went sprawling onto the

deck. "Huh." Bertilak scratched his chin, thoughtfully.

"Still didn't hear or see it.

Felt it go right through the wards like water through a sieve, though." The badger talked as if the dog weren't fumbling to right the patio chair he'd fallen from,

which Gawain decided

made him feel less embarrassed.

"Best guess is it's someone or something with a connection to you

in particular. You wouldn't happen to know who this is, would you?"

Gawain heaved a sigh

and slumped on his knees,

his forehead against the chair cushion.

There was the question he'd been dreading

almost as much as he'd learned to dread the Interruptor.

"His name's St. Galahad of L'Ougres.

He's my ancestor."

The hearth inside was made of green tile, and the fireplace doors were green stained glass.

Gawain hadn't noticed while they were having dinner, but now that his attention wanted something,

anything, to focus rather than the discussion he was having,

the firelight flickering through them was beautiful.

"He lived about five centuries ago,"

he explained, "he was a theologian and philosopher at the

court of one of the last big renaissance popes,

Aragorn the Something-th,

I dunno, one of the ones

commissioning lavish frescos and

having all the conspiracies with dowagers or dukes or burgermeisters.

The sort of thing you think of when you hear 'Renaissance Pope.'"

"So he's from the old church?"

Bertilak had tossed his shirt over the back of the pine-colored plush sofa,

and Gawain was doing his best not to look at the badger's, uh,

stripes, because he could feel the Interuptor's hackles bristle when he did.

"Explains the hostility, I guess."

"I recognize him from the pictures back home.

Dad grew up Aperiostasic, and he

SAYS he doesn't believe it anymore,

but he's still got all the books about him on his shelf, and he's still obviously proud to be descended from

'a Literal Saint!'" "Not that it did him any good,"

screamed Galahad, "you appalling deviant!

I know exactly what you're thinking, trying to look as if you don't want to sit closer to him,

cover yourself in his degradation,

shame your father and your poor mother!

Truly it would be better if you murdered them than dishonor them by-" Bertilak noticed Gawain's frozen wincing and spoke a little louder.

"You been over bloodline channeling yet,

in any classes?" "Perhaps indeed your perversion is the punishment for your father's apostasy!"

commented Galahad.

"Uh, I think that's a junior-level elective." Gawain

blinked, struggling to focus over the tirade of saintly abuse.

"I hadn't thought much about those yet,

then this started and I didn't see much point, since I probably wasn't gonna be back next year..."

"For fuck's sake,

Percy!" Bertilak glowered at the rafters,

as if the professor was going to be hiding among them.

"You're not covering the basics?

I swear, that man's got no business teaching,

don't care how many books he's written.

Anyway. Let's talk about bloodlines."

"Would that there WERE no bloodline," snarled Galahad,

"connecting me to you!"

"Yeah, that would NICE, wouldn't it?!"

shouted Gawain. Bertilak blinked at him.

"Sorry, that was... to him.

Not you. Uh. bloodlines, please."

"Ok." Bertilak lay back against the armrest.

"When you meet your patron spirit, you're

establishing a bond, right?

When you give it a name, you're strengthening that bond, right?"

"Yeah, I know that much."

"Good to hear, because let me tell you I was seriously questioning Percy's credentials.

credentials." Bertilak grumbled.

"That bond's how you communicate with your Patron,

accept power from it,

experience things the way it does, even let it take over your body a little if you need.

You meet more spirits, you make more bonds,

you're able to channel them too."

"Yeah," Gawian nodded,

"that's how you grow more powerful as a Shaman."

"That's one way," Bertilak corrected,

"you grow as a Shaman. There's

more than one kind of bond." Gawain stared into the fire through thick bottle-green glass.

"You're saying because he's my ancestor I already had a shamanistic bond

to St. Galahad? Even before I knew I was a Shaman?"

"Do not presume to apply your degenerate heathen witchcraft,"

sneered the wolfhound only Gawain could see,

"to my righteous admonition!"

"You got it." Bertilak said.

"That's why he was able to get right through my wards,

through whatever banishments and consecrations the university's got.

As far as they know,

he's your patron spirit, and you're the one calling him.

him." Gawain felt his ears flatten and his fur stand on end.

"I'm calling him?!" he couldn't keep a puppyish whimper out of his voice,

"I've been doing this to myself

for months?!" "Yes, yes!"

Galahad gloated, floating over the couch,

"at last you understand your guilt!

Stop resisting and accept the depth of your sins,

only then can you begin to work toward repentance and seek atonement,

though it take all your remaining days!"

"You're not doing this,"

Bertilak contradicted, unaware he was doing so,

"you're partway in the otherworld, always have been.

That's where spirits are.

It's not your fault nobody got around to telling you how to manage them

till after one got his teeth into you.

you." The badger reached to touch the dog's face,

but stopped when Gawain hunched his shoulders and shrank away.

"He didn't like me doin that, huh?"

Gawain shook his head.

"Well, how'd you like it?"

"I, uh," Gawian gulped, "I'd like

-" he stopped mid word as if he'd bitten his tongue,

turned and shouted over the back of the sofa.

"You won't even let me SAY I like a man?!"

"Let not sin be spoken!"

St. Galahad declaimed,

"and let he that speaketh sin

be suffered to speak no more!"

"We'll come back to that.

that." Bertilak sighed. "Ok.

So obviously some shamans get a talent for one kinda bond or another.

Some can talk with anything--ghost, tree, landscape,

fully abstract concept,

some can project out of their bodies before they've

ever even met a spirit,

and some," he gestured to the hungry-eyed dog as if presenting him as a prize on a game show

"can channel the spirits of their ancestors so hard they can't get rid of them." "...

"...fuck." Gawain breathed.

"You need that drink now?"

Bertilak asked.

Gawain nodded. "Sit tight,

I'll grab it." The drink still tasted like green liquorice compost,

but the alcohol burn had at least chased that away after Gawain gulped it down.

"So, I have to learn how...

not to bloodline channel?" "Hell no." Bertilak poured himself another shot of the intensely foul green drink,

downed it with apparent relish.

"If you've got a friend who's an asshole,

the answer aint having no friends.

You get other friends, who aren't assholes.

They make him shut up."

"As if anyone" St. Galahad growled, though he wasn't visible,

"who'd consent to being called 'friend' by a pathetic and debased sodomite

would have the intellectual rigor or courage

to stand up to one of the foremost theological minds of the Aperiostosic church!"

"I dunno," Gawain sank back surprisingly far into the worn sofa cushion,

"pretty much all my Dad's family, Mom's too,

were hardcore religious.

I'd be worried, if I tried to channel anybody else on my bloodline, they'd,

you know," he waved a derisive paw at the empty air,

"take his side." "Then it's a good thing,"

Bertilak sat closer on the sofa than he needed to,

and leaned toward Gawain,

"your own bloodline aint the only option you got."

"What do you mean?" Gawain asked, and 'why does it sound sexy'

he didn't. "Well, how do you get a bloodline?"

Bertilak, holding eye contact.

His eyes were greener than should have been possible. "Uh,

you need ancestors and descendants, so...

a lot of people over the years have kids?"

"And what," Bertilak chuckled,

"do people do first

if they're gonna have kids?" "Wait,"

the dog sputtered,

"you're saying I need to have sex?!" "You

lay with someone,

you connect to their bloodline,

spiritually, and they to yours." Bertilak's voice was low and perilously close, Gawain could feel it tingle

somewhere between his diaphragm and stomach,

"just how it works." Gawain

could smell the badger,

his sweat, his fur, the woodsmoke, the forest outside,

and even the strange drink on his breath which

among the others didn't even smell bad,

it harmonized somehow.

"If you don't have anybody on your bloodline you trust to have your back, you're welcome

to, you know," Bertilak got close enough to stroke Gawain's cheek fuzz

and lay a hand supportively

on the back of his neck,

"try mine." Gawain had enough time to realise he was

desperately hard

and that he had reached out to place his hands on the Badger's bare chest before an avalanche of unearthly screaming crashed over him

and all he could hear was Galahad's

relentless, wordless

rage. This was the first of two parts of

The Green Night by Rob MacWolf,

read for you by the author himself.

Tune in next time

to find out whether Bertilak's plan

can really stand up to St. Galahad's bigotry.

As always, you can find more stories on the web at TheVoice.dog,

or find the show wherever you get your podcasts.

And thank you for listening

to The Voice of Dog.