The Walls of Jericho

Convergence

Channing’s POV

I’ve always known Jericho for the impartial, unprejudiced sort. Even working at Esteban’s diner, where customers and sometimes Esteban himself could be rude, judgmental and downright unkind to her, she evaluates people levelheadedly and treats them compassionately despite their faults. It’s part of what makes me love her.

It’s definitely something that makes for a good Luna, even if it does challenge me woefully as her Alpha.

More than anything else, her clairvoyance tasks me. Not just that her visions are strong, and that strength just keeps growing incalculably.

But also that what she sees.

What she shares.

Living in Crossroads, her Sight was mostly narrow, self-centered even. It was about her and her one lifetime of experience with one dragon. And in that, she and Avernus were aligned.

Or at least I thought we were.

As her abilities grow, more and more, behind those hypnotizing, amber-colored eyes of hers, I see a wisdom that’s older, broader than mine. Larger than the sum of everything I’ve been told my entire life. As she’s transforming fully into herself, she’s altering me.

I forget what it was she said that got me thinking about dragons and wolves, and which species is the aggressor. But spending the last five weeks with twenty-two hours’ worth of flight time gave me lots of moments to consider it.

There’s no denying the dragons’ civil war ravaged the world, devastating it. Though they don’t attribute it to dragons, even the human-kept histories document the affects. That’s always been enough for werewolves. That we had proof of the dragons’ wrongdoing, evidence of their detrimental impact all over the planet.

Now, Jericho’s Sight makes me wonder if my ancestor, the Wolf King, dealt fairly with the dragons after all. It makes me wonder how much of that devastation that the dragon war wrought might have been avoided if the wolves had taken a stand. If we’d taken up arms and taken a side.

Werewolves assume the dragons kept us and the majority of the planet's human population from prospering, truly prospering. We assume that dragons in positions of power strip us of our rights and treat us with contempt. We assume that’s a deliberate decision on the dragons’ parts and not something circumstantial.    

Sure, there are surges of wealth, like Cadmus’ impact on Belfast in the previous century. Wolves don’t deny it.  But we assume that to be coincidental, that the trickle-down prosperity of the industry and markets the dragons exploit was something they didn’t intend when their reformations and restructures, their new philosophies, innovations and science have a beneficial impact on the surrounding communities. Believing that, we’ve refused to yield, even to the proof before our own eyes.

The proof Jericho sees.

She makes me wonder if Avernus’ act of rebellion, its goal to throw off the yoke of dragon ‘oppression’ isn’t less about their wrongdoings and more about werewolf refusal to grow into a compassionate, levelheaded identity.

When I think about it, that’s what Jericho’s identity is—a rebellion against two long-standing, undisputed and acrimonious schools of thought. Like any good wolf, she rejects relinquishing herself to either.

As her mate, I find myself battling my own heart over it, pleading with her to accept my way. As her Alpha, I find myself battling my own head, trying to curb her with threats and demands, insisting she cease entertaining such absurdity.

Like any great wolf, still, she stands firm.  

I’ve told myself that she can’t be like this. I’ve fought her, and ineffably, insidiously, she’s got me embracing the impossible. Believing that maybe what we wolves know is perhaps not wrong, but definitely incomplete.

Both times these visions have happened, Jericho walks right into them. Blindly. As soon as they begin to encroach upon the fabric of now, she charges into them like a toddler follows a butterfly, heedless of any danger. Her curiosity teases her in further, straining for just a bit more. It’s maddening really.

Like I'm living a nightmare, she’s lured in deeper to the past, and in my present, she fades. She becomes transparent, like a reflection in glass, a figment of my imagination and not part of my reality anymore. The soft cloud of her hair becomes receding tendrils of fog or shadow. The tangible shape of her wanes into insubstantial smoke. It fills me with an irrational panic that only grows when I yell for her to come back and her image merely wavers in response. The dense canopy of the Dark Hedges overhead bears silent witness to her disregard and my terror.

I shout again for her to come back, to stay with me. I reach for the faint trace of her that lingers where she’d been. I roar her name again and swing my arms wildly and my fingers phase through a whisper of her. Without a second thought, I close my fist around it, trying to draw her back to me. 

Only to find that I’m drawn in instead.

At first, I can’t tell the difference between the then and the now. Beyond the perimeter formed by the hedges—to either side, above and below—there’s nothing but an envelope of gray mist, an eerie stillness, absent life, absent sound. Against me, I can feel the line of Jericho’s shoulder, the press of her hip and thigh, but I can’t see her. I cling to it anyway, refusing to lose her, refusing to let her go alone.

I think I hear her whisper my name, a rustle in the leaves as the mist writhes and the present grows distant, then she materializes beside me. Instantly, my eyes are drawn upward by movement, by the host of small animals fluttering about the twisting branches in darting glides and stuttering hops.

That’s when I realize they aren’t animals at all. “Jesus, Jericho,” I breathe, my time-befuddled mind slowly taking inventory. “They’re dragons, but—tiny.”

“I think they’re babies,” Jericho replies. Of course, she’d already figured that out, she’s been here longer than I have.

It’s still alarming. Do baby dragons make dragonfire? Are their teeth, claws and spines as sharp?

Were it only a few, I wouldn’t feel quite so much alarm. Much like a single piranha isn’t likely to do lethal damage to a person, a few of these aren’t likely to hurt us much either. But the entire flock— “Holy s**t. There’s hundreds of them.”

Obviously, I don’t have to tell her that either. “I don’t think I want you wearing that ring anymore.”

Jericho’s fingers slide down my wrist, twining with mine, and I can feel her concern through them. “I don’t think the ring has anything to do with this.”

“Hello. I wasn’t certain there were any left to come.” My gaze drops immediately and my eyes zero in on this new potential threat, a woman with a pleasant voice not unlike my mate’s. It rings with the echoes of ages.

In much the same way the dragons, the werewolves and the unicorns were embroidered on the tapestry we saw at the Ulster Museum, this woman wavers between two images, like a lenticular print—one human, wearing a flowing gray dress and with long gray hair that drags the ground, and the other a gray unicorn with a silvery, spiraling horn.

“Um. Who’s this?” I mutter.

“I think this is the Grey Lady.”

When my mate told me that story, I expected the Grey Lady was a ghost, a specter of a human life long since over. “But—she’s—a unicorn.”

As if putting something else together in her mind, Jericho glances up at the dragon-filled canopy overhead. “It appears she's both.” Her fingers tighten around mine. “What do you mean by ‘any left to come’?” she asks the Grey Lady.

“There is a point where this one’s war will end.”

She nods towards me and a wild hope surges inside—an end to the dragons! Then an insidious terror creeps in—what if the Grey Lady’s prophesy means the end of the wolves?

The unicorn turns her focus back to Jericho. “Then there will be no need for us anymore.”

My grip rachets tighter on Jericho’s hand and she gives soft whimper of protest. “You mean mages?” I demand. I swear on all that’s holy, if even one iota of that splinter cell inside Avernus still exists, I will rout it. I’ll rend limb from limb every wolf that dares think harm against my mate. I’ll take the dragon down piecemeal if that’s what it takes to keep her safely with me.

“No,” the Grey Lady replies mildly. “I mean peacekeepers. The tortured and tormented.”

I frown, confused. Tortured? Tormented? For diplomacy? My gaze swivels.  “Jericho?”

She exhales softly, relieved, and her shoulders relax. There’s no denying the truth in her eyes when she looks up at me. “Don’t you see?” she says softly. The resignation there horrifies me.

I shake my head. “I won’t let anyone hurt you and I won’t ever let you go.”

“That’s the point, Channing. As long as you fight,” she looks back at the Grey Lady, “this pain goes on. I’m not just Jericho who once was Mia. I’m all of them. One soul, trapped in between, until it finishes the job.”

“What job?”

“Look.” Jericho points to the verge at the base of the trees.

Among the tall grasses, the low underbrush, and the curtaining vines that span between them and climb high into the twisting branches like a second shadow, I see movement. Like the canopy above, it teems with life. The leaves rustle. Branches wiggle, waving like flags as tiny figures dart through them, positioning and repositioning to get a better angle.

Surrounding us.

Oh God. I have to get us out of here.

As if sensing my panic, she murmurs, “Look closer.” She tugs on my hand, pulling me down to a squat so I can see.

I fix my eyes on one point and leave them. Like an autostereogram—or the ‘magic eye’ pictures sometimes used in psychological tests and for entertainment and advertisements—my eyes diverge in order to resolve the hidden three-dimensional creature within the pattern of twigs and leaves, the dappled light and shadows.

Once I make out the shape of pupil and eye, smooth nose and prick ears, the mottled brownish coat, I can’t unsee it. As I stand upright, I see them all.  “They’re wolf pups.”

"They're the same." 

Jericho throws her arms about my neck and I hold her tight against me. The hands of time speed up, spinning wildly and I lose my balance, lurch violently one direction and fall. Closing my eyes, I brace for the impact.

The branches above us are empty when I next light upon them. The verge at the side of the road is unoccupied. The Grey Lady is gone.

My mate’s limbs are tangled with mine and we lay in a breathless pile, our hearts pounding. The utter silence is broken by birdsong. The leaves rustle in the wind. The distant voices from other tourists to the Dark Hedges drift over us. Bracing against the ground, Jericho starts to lift herself off of me.

Instead, I hold her tighter. “You vanish when that happens. You disappear. And I know if I don’t catch hold of you—if I don’t go with you—I’ll never see you again.”

Her eyes meet mine, and against the gloom of the hedges and the gray overcast beyond, they seem unnaturally bright, the amber alight with glittering inclusions that dance like flames. She searches my gaze for understanding. Without hesitating, I bear testimony.

“When you told me that story, of the Grey Lady, when you said there were ghosts, I thought you meant—well, I guess I thought you meant unbound souls.” I stumble over my words, trying to find the right one for the concept. “You’re bound to us. Not just me. To the dragon too. And we’re all bound here. Repeating. Living the same lives over and over, just with time marching on.”

“Yes, Channing.” She nods, her eyes fixed on mine. “I’m bound between werewolves and dragons. Ancestor and descendent. Until I can make a peace. One that values and respects both. The fate of all lies in my hands.”

“Jesus, Jericho.” I brush my lips against hers. Gently. Chastely. “I’m so sorry.”

“You two alright?”

My head turns with Jericho’s towards the voice, as a spry older man and a woman who must be his mate hurry towards us.

“My wife saw you talking, looking up at the trees. Saw your missus catch you off guard and the both of you fall,” he says, coming to a stop over us. He extends a hand to Jericho to help her up. He gestures briefly at the canopy overhead. “It can give you vertigo—something about the shape of it, the way it surrounds you—especially if you don’t keep one eye on the horizon.”

With Jericho on her feet, I get to mine quickly and dust myself off. “Thank you for checking on us.” I take my mate’s hand.

“Oh aye! Americans!” He casts a glance towards his wife. “Are you staying hereabouts? Or only passing through?”

“We’ve rented a cottage a few days. Over near Bushmills.”

“Good for you! Be sure to check out the popular chippie in the main street Bushmills,” he advises.

The Irish capacity for small talk and pleasantry astounds me. It’s as though nothing is strange. Nothing surprises them. Or maybe it’s that seeing someone topple over when their mate crashes into them isn’t all that weird. I’m the one still reeling from a bizarre experience.

“Also try the Copper Kettle for breakfasts. Oh, and very good evening meals at the Bayview Hotel in nearby Portballintrae. It’s supposed to be nice weather the next day or so. The beaches will be lovely too.” He nods his head by way of good-bye, turning towards his wife and back the way he came. “Enjoy your stay and come back again.”

When they’ve gone, I turn to Jericho. “You look pale, babydoll. Are you okay?”

“Are you?” she says.

I shrug. “I can’t say I don’t feel a little blindsided,” I admit. “I really wish you’d tell me what you know.”

“The cottage you mentioned. Can we go?”

I nod. “It’s ready whatever time we get there today.”

“Then let’s find something to eat and go relax somewhere private,” she says. “Then we can both talk.”