Everything

The Nenets lifestyle centers on reindeer herding. Reindeer comprise much of the Vaygach Nenets diet, their transportation, and their textiles. Vaygach is known for its idols, over 200 ivory, wood, and stone statues observing traditional Nenets religious and spiritual practices. Many feature deities, many feature reindeer. Even among the Ne­ nets, it’s not clear what every idol stands for. Many Nenets people travel to the Vaygach as a pilgrimage.

While I was there, I visited as many of these idols as I could. I found them deeply fascinating.

At times, I’ve attributed this fascination with Nenets idols to my nature as Garou; I felt that since eventually I would change, some spark inside of me knew that, and drew to something so much like the Gaian truth. Then, I realized I was full of shit. We — the Garou — are not leaders. We’re warriors. Cultures worldwide created, developed, sometimes abandoned, and practice rituals very similar to ours. This isn’t a coincidence. We didn’t teach all of humanity; they taught us. Everything we do is a mirror of culture. It’s a warped mirror, a mirror covered in a predator’s saliva. But it’s a mirror. We’re reflections of human animism.

Before you take up arms, I’m not saying that’s a bad thing. It’s a good thing, in my opinion. We’re a strange mishmash of human mythology, belief, and ritual, all melted and dished out worldwide. It’s really cool when you think of it. In essence, we’re an iconic, homogenous expression of human devotional practice. We preserve that beauty

by our very natures, since we’re going to be standing on the brink when everything ends. Sure, we have our little Tribal clichés, but that’s all set dressing. We, Garou, are like museums of unwritten tradition. We’re like shrines, homages to spiritual tradition.

Anyway, the idols. I felt like it was my first legitimate spiritual experience. I found one of the Nenets totems, it was maybe a penis, maybe a face. You can’t really tell with old weathered rocks. It looked like a penis. But then again, I was 12. Everything looked like a penis. Unless — of course — it looked like a vagina. I couldn’t keep my eyes off this idol. While my father dug around for animal dung, I stared for over an hour. Eventually, I gave in and fondled the statue. With my retroactive clarity, I know that I must have been looking into the Umbra. I saw ice spirits, death spirits, and water spirits. I saw a magnificent vista in the distance, where the Aurora Borealis is in the night sky. It’s difficult to remember exactly what it looked like; at the time it was just an awe-inspiring streak of colors I didn’t have words to describe. I’ve struggled ever since, trying to apply my Garou senses to the vision.

I don’t know if it was just me, or if the Nenets could see what I saw with those totems. I want to assume it’s the latter, but maybe that’s hopeful thinking. It’s such a touchy topic, even when I returned, I wasn’t comfortable bringing it up. We have laws, after all.

In 2006, I returned to Vaygach. A lot changed in a decade and a half. For one, I changed. I returned because my experience the first time was downright transformative, and I wanted to approach the island again with my Garou perspective. Again, I went with my father, but on the pretense of a vacation, a chance to spend some time with him in a familiar place. He couched it in another ecological study.

My return raised more questions than it answered. I spoke to the Nenets people this time, using my Gifts to bridge the language gap. They painted a bleak picture. They told me “the right doors are closing, and the wrong doors are opening”. They weren’t kidding. Stepping sideways felt like I never left the city. The Umbra didn’t want me.

The worst part, that aurora I mentioned? It wasn’t there. I imagined a sky that a child wiped paint across, but all I saw was blackness, with a red, almost eye-like hole that stared me in the face, no matter what direction I looked. You all know Siberia’s cold, right? It’s one of the coldest places on Earth. That eye was colder. It drew the warmth from all around.

The idols did not exist in the Umbra. That’s strange — not everything has a mirror in the Umbra, but the idols were negative space, like you might imagine antimatter. You could see a gap where the idols should be, but if you

touch them, your hand goes right through; it like they are non-spaces or a dimensional anomaly.

The Nenets still make pilgrimages to Vaygach, but they aren’t celebratory observances; they’re voyages of lament. Their prayers are more like apologies and promises than devotionals and requests. They don’t know what’s going on any more than I do; they can’t see that red hole in the sky, they can’t see the voids where the idols should be in the Umbra. They just know something’s wrong, and they feel responsible for fixing it.

I barely met any Garou on my trip. The Nenets had a Silver Fang and his pack among them. I had a brief con­ versation with the Silver Fang alpha, but mostly just for permission to camp on their island for a few weeks. They weren’t keen on outsiders. What I did meet, though, was two Ice Stalkers. What’s an Ice Stalker? They’re a type of Gurahl, or werebear. Ice Stalkers — like you might guess — are polar bear shifters.

I admire the shit out of them. Basically, they stay in these ridiculously extreme environments, and they defend and heal wherever possible. They’re surprisingly welcoming; they’re open to anyone with an interest in protecting the frozen islands. I guess I gave off that air, or they assumed that any lone Garou traveling up there had to be traveling on good will.

I met two, but they are lone warriors. One, Nise, lived in a cave on the west side of the island. The other, Pirnu, lived in a house along the eastern shore.

The most exciting part of the trip was a battle against a cluster of ultraviolet jagglings. I don’t usually fight spirits of light; that’s a strange proposition. But these were infected, Wyrm spirits dedicated to destroying everything on the island. Let me just put it out there: if it weren’t for Nise saving my ass, I would not be here tonight. She put herself on the line, and those jagglings tore him all to fuck. I’ve seen a lot, but I’ve never seen anything that could survive the brutality those jagglings brought to Nise. Nise laughed, and ripped them apart with her remaining arm. It was that kind of brutal.

As the jagglings fell to Nise’s massive claws, they stopped fighting. They didn’t resist their killer at all; they instead looked to the sky, to the terrifying red hole. Strange enough, Nise doubled down and intensified her assault to destroy them quicker. I asked her later what drove her urgency once the danger subsided. She said she doesn’t have the ability to explain to something so young. I imagine she meant that Garou are younger, but I didn’t press the issue out of respect. Well, partly respect. Partly because she regrew her arm while I wasn’t looking.

Moral of the story? If you ever find yourself torn between fighting a Gurahl and not fighting a Gurahl, go with not fighting the Gurahl.

We came because climate change is ruining the ecosys­ tem. As temperatures increase, arctic ice melts and raises the sea level. I’m sure you’ve seen it all over the news. But I’ve seen it first hand. There’s no embellishment. If anything, the media downplays the effects because they’re afraid the public won’t believe the whole truth.

From the 90s to a few years ago, it got worse. You could see the effects back then if you knew what you were look­ ing for. If you knew the plant life, you’d see the structural weaknesses. If you knew the animals, you’d see the subtle differences in body mass. But when I returned, it would have been obvious to even the most fervent denier. You couldn’t walk the ice without finding rotting carcasses.

Let’s not forget, this is a part of the world too harsh for your average Silver Fang. Most Garou wouldn’t make it for much longer than a short expedition. The people living in this region are some of the hardiest imaginable, and their land is literally disintegrating under their feet. But then again, this happens all over. Wastewater destroys homes. Strip mining devastates entire regions. It’s not like the nearly uninhabitable Arctic Circle has a monopoly on ecological devastation.

Natural gas fracking efforts produce toxic and radio­ active waste. All over Ohio, all around Columbus, you can find patches where it’s unsafe to live thanks to greed and oil. Recently, a family’s drinking water exploded from methane infusion. Parts of Ohio have non-potable water that can give the runs to a Garou, Gaia knows what it’d do to a human. The whole state’s known for its ghost towns. I think the term “ghost town” is a complete fucking cop out. It’s not like those people just disappeared. Corporate interests decided the people were no longer viable after disasters, or just economic shifts.

You don’t even need to go further than Columbus. On the north side, you can find remnants of Flint, a rail town that died with the old railroads. On the southeast, Hibernia used to be a little community that faded into nonexistence over the course of a century. Now, there’s a cookie cutter apartment complex standing there; the old cemetery is the only remnant of the old village. If you go further, down toward McArthur, you can find the skeleton of Moonville out in the woods. It was a booming little town, and it thrived up until the corporations pulled every drop of coal and iron out of the Hocking Hills. If you go East to New Straitsville, there was a coal seam fire that damned near ended the town back in 1884. The fires burn underground

to this day; they’ll probably never stop. Those fires might very well be a road to Malfeas. It was a disgusting story. The mining companies blamed striking workers for the fires. Nobody should have believed a word of it.

Dolgaya Guba’s no bigger than any of these towns. It’s never even compared to Moonville in its heyday. But nobody cares about Moonville. Nobody wonders what Ohio town’s going to be the next Moonville. I’m not telling you to ignore the melting arctic ice, but be aware that external problems can sound sexy and epic, when they’re really just the same problems on a different scale, or just in a different time zone. You’ve got to make your own bed, first.

Before I move on to the next tidbit, I almost forgot: in 2007, we got our wildlife preserve. We’re already seeing more whales, polar bears, seals, and walruses than before. We know that in the end, the big story won’t have a happy ending for anyone. But I think this small story is shaping up better than I ever would have expected.

If you haven’t gathered this, I’ve done the whole back­ packing thing. If it’s a popular tourist hub, I’ve probably been there. If it’s a classic challenge for foreigners, I’ve faced it. For a prime example, let me tell you about the time I went to Mount Kilimanjaro and the Serengeti. This is a little more story-like. This will make me sound much more like a character in traditional fiction.

Kilimanjaro is a classic exotic place for tourist validation. If you climb Kilimanjaro, you can somehow tell yourself that you’re “authentic” or “traveled”. I went as Garou, so I didn’t feel particularly impressed with myself, but it is a lovely view.

The area I visited primarily existed in the human bounds of Tanzania, but it bled a bit into Kenya. For the Gaian breeds, no such boundaries existed. The territory I visited was the land of a massive pride of Simba. Simba, if you’re unaware, are lion shifters. And no, they’re not named after the kids’ movie. It’s an old name.

When I arrived, I announced myself with a proper howl. The response was difficult to describe. The pride roared back. But the roar was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. Close your eyes for a second. Picture a large man, twice your weight. Imagine him punching you square in the chest, and following through with all his weight. Stand up to the pressure. Now, that’s not what the roar feels like. But the moment afterwards, where your body bounces back, your lungs rapidly refill, and your muscles

all melt with the shock? That is what the roar feels like. Your blood pressure drops. You lose your sense of position and direction for just a split second.

I’ll add, this was from miles away. From close, it’s a whole different animal.

Curiously enough, that roar was the friendly variant. That’s just their way of acknowledging someone, and telling them they’re not currently being hunted. Very straightfor­ ward. You’ll find that of the Simba; they like direct and they like honesty. If they don’t like you, you won’t be left wondering. You may be left breathing, if you’re lucky.

There’s no Fodor’s Guide to traveling through Simba territory. They don’t communicate in a familiar language to Garou. Don’t forget this for a second, because ignorance of their language is no excuse to them. Come with someone that can translate with Gifts, or who knows a few rudimentary sounds. That said, it’s difficult to explain their language. We just don’t have the same vocal capabilities; anything I tell you is going to be told with Garou vocal chords. It’d be pale emulation. If you’re going to rely on third person tutelage, make sure you know your shit.

They followed the message with a command to meet them, and a rough direction. This is a classic tactic; they tell you basically where to go, but not specifically. This way they can watch you, and control the circumstances of the meeting. I knew the tactic. I’m pretty sure they knew that I knew the tactic. But for them, it was a formality — a terri­ fying formality. You see, when I got so far on my path, they surrounded me. Twenty Simba, representing all their forms, circled in. A young woman charged, leapt, and shifted in air to her war form. I shifted if only to survive the assault. She knocked me to the ground, and quickly had jaws around my neck. I froze. Fighting would have been fatal. Seconds later, she released me, stood, and offered a hand to show me to my feet. She introduced herself as Rehema.

I shifted back to Homid as I stood, and offered a sculpture from my knapsack. This is a thing I do. I make sculptures out of iron, and I give them to people that im­ presses me in my travels. She took the sculpture, nodded, and motioned the pride to follow her. I ran with them, back to a outcropping they’d made into a lair. We cooked and ate a zebra. Before you ask, it was delicious. I think they cooked it for me, but that’s just a sneaking suspicion. We told stories all night. You might have guessed it, but story time was like crack for me.

They told me an amazing story about their conflict with the Ajaba — the hyena shifters — about forty years ago. Without getting into the long of it, the hyenas refused to acknowledge the sovereignty of the Simba king Black Tooth. The Simba didn’t really agree with Black Tooth’s complete dominance; they figured they’d always find fringe elements outside even the mightiest kingdom. The problem

was, Black Tooth was a mean fucker, and would rip the throat out of dissidents in his court. So the Simba fell in line, and oppressed the Ajaba.

Black Tooth ruled for years. He kept allies amongst the leeches, and kept much of the continent down. From a political standpoint, he tried positioning the Ajaba as an inherent enemy of the crown. While the Simba complied with his orders, they never really bought into the line of thinking. Eventually, with the help of an Ajaba named Kisasi,

and numer­