Acharya led the blacksmith outside. He looked at the dry land around him. The old man stepped up beside him just as Acharya saw what he was looking for. He walked over to a small shrub bush that was barely as big as his finger.

  Acharya knelt down and looking up at the old man, he lowered his hand and touched the dry dirt around the shrub. He pressed his life along through the ground and nourished the plant. He could feel the roots grow in strength and size. He forced the plant to grow but only a little. This far away from water he didn’t want to force the plant to grow too much, it wouldn’t get enough water and nutrients to keep itself alive if he made it grow too much, just enough for the old man to see. When Acharya stood back up, the plant had grown to about one and half times it original size.

  The old man looked a bit taken aback by what he saw. He shook his head, “It’s not possible…” He stumbled back to his hut and disappeared back inside. Acharya followed him.

  The old man was pacing back and forth, wiping his face and mouth with his hands. He was mumbling to himself.

  Acharya leaned over to Mary, “Well, that could have gone a bit better.” Mary smiled in spite of herself but was careful to hide her smile behind her hand.

  The old man leaned against the wall of his hut. For the first time Acharya saw him for what he was, a frail, aging old man who had lost the strength that he once had. He was scared of a changing world, and most of all, he was scared of what all this could mean. Acharya was suddenly painfully aware that he had no idea what lore these Bultungin subscribed to. Nor did he know what sort of auguries or portents their culture practiced in. For the first time he thought of what could be implicated by them being here. For this old man, his world had changed and it was never going to go back to what it was even a day ago.

  “Sir, please,” Tara said weakly from her place against the wall. “We’re fighting for our home. I know your people lost your home a long time ago. We’re asking for your help. Your people were unable to save your home. Help us save ours and wash away that very old stain of shame and failure that marks your people, even now so many years later.”

  The old man turned around and faced them, every year, every pain, and every regret weighed heavily on his shoulders. It looked like he would collapse under the weight of life that he had experienced.

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  His tired eyes looked at the Native woman, “You did that out there? You gave of your own life to help this village?”

  Tara nodded sleepily, “I didn’t have a choice. I would have done it even if you didn’t help us. I would have done it for anyone who had offered us shelter and food from their own meager stores. It’s what I do,” she said this last with a smile and a shrug.

  The old man’s legs finally gave out and he slide weakly to the floor. He shook his head and wept. Acharya felt sorry for the old man. Everything he thought he knew had just been crushed, his distrust of all outsiders, his preconception of the world, all came crumbling down and it was too much for him to take. The old man’s shoulders shook like leaves in the warm summer wind.

  Aiman said softly, “Sir, we have to reach your Matriarch. We know that it is She who speaks for you and your people. Please help us find her and convince her that our cause is just and that we are worthy of aid.”

  The old man looked up, his eyes streamed tears as he listened to the Muslim. “Who are you? Why have you put this burden on my shoulders? I’m just a foolish old man, not worthy of offering help to anyone.”

  Asclepius stood up and hunching over so he wouldn’t hit his head on the roof of the hut he shifted.

  The old man’s expression didn’t change. He stared at the werewolf that was hunching in his hut as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

  “We were cousins once,” Asclepius spoke quietly. “Werewolves and Bultungin, two sides of the same force of nature that was seeking a balance between humans and beasts. We are asking you, cousin, will you help us?”

  The old man stared at the beast with tears in his eyes. He blinked rapidly and looked at the five humans in turn. The five members of the pack each in their turn hunched down and shifted, except for Tara. She smiled weakly and nodded, “Of course, I’m a Shape shifter too. Please forgive me, I’m a little too tired to shift right now.”

  The old man slowly leaned forward as if he was an animal stretching after a long nap. With tears in his eyes, he gritted his teeth and shifted into his spotted hyena form. The hyena moved around the hut and greeted each werewolf in their turn. When he came to Tara he nuzzled her outstretched hand.

  After they had greeted each other, the hyena took his place at the far side of the hut before shifting back into his human form. The pack, in turn, shifted back to their respective human and animal forms.

  The old man looked at each of them and stood back up. None of the frailty from a few moments before was evident. Indeed, his body seemed to, if anything, have gained in size. He was no longer a frail pathetic old man, but a respectable aged man who still had much of his youthful strength at his disposal. His jaw was set and he nodded curtly.

  “I will help you, as much as I can,” His voice was commanding and strong, with no hint of the indecisiveness of a few moments ago. “You have helped my nephews and nieces by helping this village. For that I will follow you to whatever end the great wheel has in store for me.”