MetaViews - 6. MetaView 6: Fate

“Leave it open!” Fate barked with an authority steeled over millenia.

The old woman complied, but her brown eyes turned sad when she asked: “Why? It’s getting cold here at night.” – ‘Here, so far away from civilization,’ she seemed to think.

“He needs to hear the howls.”

The old woman uttered an exasperated sigh.

“He has chosen. Now he needs to learn to like it,” Fate continued coldly, the word ‘like’ coming out not quite the right way.

“He’s barely seven years old.”

“The better. The earlier he learns the better for him. And for the world.” Fate sounded particularly harsh today.

“He’s a little boy … look, he barely looks old enough to go to school.”

Fate’s hand moved dismissively. “He’ll grow up.”

The old woman in her traditional, white apron just shook her head in acceptance, few loose grey hairs moving with her. “So many boys were lost before; he’s just …”

Fate sent her that stern look she knew too well. “I see you made him apple and apricot pies …” Fate’s face softened when tasting some pieces.

“He loves them. He loves everything I bake: the strawberry tart, the plum cake, the cherry cream slices … they must let him starve over there …”

“They don’t. We have an eye on it, you know that,” Fate interrupted her.

“So why is he so thin … he will never … remember Manchester?” she asked full of grandmother warmth.

Fate just shrugged and turned around. “Is his present ready?”

The old woman cleaned her nose as quietly as possible watching over the tiny figure in the bed, as he had rolled himself into the over-sized duvet as if to protect him from all evil of the world. As so right he was with that instinct. Here in Silesia he was reasonably safe; it was the origin of the wolf shifter mythology thousands of years ago, already before recorded time. Only the most daring or stupid vampires would dare to come here; and they wouldn’t enjoy their powers given the presence of the shifters, they would have to lure him away, and Colt was too smart for that. But when the boy returned to that barren place he called home in Texas, she would have to fear for his life again. As she had feared for the lives of so many other boys over the past decades. “Yes,” she finally answered. “Custom-made.”

“Good.”

“Why wolves? It’s disgu…” She didn’t finish the sentence.

“He has chosen. I don’t know why,” Fate answered dismissively. It wasn’t important it seemed.

“But how many …”

Fate decided not answer. “As he has chosen his enemy. And we have talked about good and evil before. One cannot live without the other. One requires the other. Bravery can only exist if dangers exist. Protection can only be felt if there is a need for protection. You Westeners will never understand.”

If the old woman hadn’t known Fate better, much better, she would have taken offense at the last statement, but she only smiled magnanimously, nearly lovingly.

“And for the number: you know.” Fate lovingly pushed one of the old woman’s grey strands of hair behind her ear.

The grandmother nodded slowly. She knew. The implications thereof made her shiver. Eight wolves. ‘Poor little boy,’ she thought. How could she even think these thoughts? The boy was barely seven. And she was imagining how one day this boy would be mutilated by eight hairy beasts and their unhealthy drives. She shivered so strongly she wanted to close the window again, but refrained. Fate had ordered. And Fate would be obeyed. As Fate had always been obeyed. “He will suffer,” she whispered.

Fate nodded. “He will learn through pain. They will learn through pain. They will understand they only have each other. And only that will make them win against evil; against the Lord he had chosen.”

“But now … he is young … a bit of happiness …”

Fate growled. “No. He has to learn.”

“Give him a friend.”

“Nothing stops him from making friends,” Fate answered hypocritically.

“You will destroy it for him.”

Fate’s chin rose. “Maybe.”

“His parents … I mean,” she couldn’t even think of them as parents.

“He’s fine. And if he turns 13 he will get money …”

‘”If?”’ the old woman wanted to ask, but she knew better. There was a good chance the boy would not survive his 13^th birthday – by his own choosing or the choosing of his chosen enemies. She swallowed. Her gentle eyes lay on the boy. He moved a bit restless in the too big bed, rolled in the too big duvet. He had a nightmare. She knew that was part of his learning as well; he was to have lots of nightmares; and he would have nightmares he didn’t even know were nightmares. Everything for the prophecy.

She swallowed hard. “Will he have to kill – will he have to kill with his own hands?” she asked. How could that small boy kill evil? The slightest blow of the wind, the mean growl of a beast, the maddening look of evil would scare him; he was so small.

“You know the prophecy. You were there. It has to be done,” Fate summarized impatiently. It seems Fate couldn’t deal well with the sentimental kind of woman folk.

When they carefully closed the door behind them, she put the present away. Colt’s birthday was only in some months. She would send it in time. It was obvious what Fate tried to do with it. And she obeyed. She understood why it was needed, still she felt sorry for that little boy next door. A menacing howl crossed the night air; the source much scarier than the little plastic dragons in the box she was hiding. It was another piece of puzzle in their plan: To prepare this boy. To help him succeed where so many other boys had failed. All those boys that had made the wrong choices by killing themselves, killing others or getting killed, and thereby killing the world’s hope for a renewed Golden Era. They had to succeed this time; the options were dwindling.

Originally, the box had had ten knights in its standard edition, but understanding Colt she had realized she could only include eight – fully in line with her and his heritage. Fate was pleased. Christianity – the great Western cultural blend of symbiology – had offered dragons – the symbol of the evil inside and outside – as the enemy. It was good that current popular culture made this choice appropriate. But she knew she would have found an alternative if needed in whatever cultural context.

“What’s this?” Fate asked pointing at some black leather on the rough kitchen table.

“It will help him to find his true powers,” the old woman asked. “The Apt one has left it here. She will finish it soon.” The Apt one had the most skilled fingers to handle sturdy leather needles.

Fate smiled knowingly, the tense facial expression softening at the thought of the Apt one.

“One day he will wear it,” the woman whispered caressing the soft black leather.

Fate’s face darkened again remembering the boy’s ‘life style choice.’ Good thing The Messenger had already prepared the owl: another way to help the boy to embrace his powers within his own chosen construct. She would hand it to him when he had used it for the first time; to help him use it again and again to the benefit of his quest; to the benefit of the ‘army of strength’ he would need to vanquish his evil. “Yes, he will,” Fate approved, tension leaving the body. Maybe the boy’s choices weren’t too bad. After all the Spartan warriors had been considered the most fearsome centuries later, despite or because of their Eros.

“What will you do now?” she asked while she unwrapped some pocket books. She bent and twisted the covers to make them look old and read before she put them on the shelf. She had no clue who ‘W.E.B. Griffin’ was, but she knew she had to have Colt find them to reinforce his ‘preferences.’

“I have to go to Mesopotamia … war doesn’t start itself,” Fate smiled cruelly.

The old woman just nodded in submissive acceptance. The boy needed to succeed, but he needed a heart for the time after. “Please don’t kill his first love,” she begged.

Fate huffed: “Oh, his first love will do worse to him …” and kissed the hair of the old woman.

She looked up, ready to beg for a bit of happiness for the boy …

… but Fate was already gone, leaving only the ever tantalizing scent of sweet nectar behind.