Click here to return home. Zeke for President, 2004

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writing free of charge (including translation into any
language)...under condition that no profit is made therefrom,
and that it remain intact and complete, including title and 
credit to the original author.

Ezekiel J. Krahlin

(A short story and an essay)

(Dedicated to two Brians: my homeless buddy of many years 
ago, and one I've never met, except on a website being
maintained since his sad death.)

(a parable for the 21st century)

© 2001 by Ezekiel J. Krahlin
(Jehovah's Queer Witness)

In a time when lonely old ladies were being burned for
witchcraft and young men were tied with bundles of sticks to
light these fires, a woman died at childbirth on the edge of a
village.  The child's name was Brian, because he was born in
the briars.  He grew to be a lover of men; but these were
dangerous times for brotherly love.  Brian therefore lived a
lonely life of heartache, and hatred for the ignorant folk
with whom he daily bargained to survive.  Until he met Damien,
the werewolf.

Damien was a special werewolf, for he loved Man, and longed
for a maiden to bear a pack of frisky pups.  But most people
are stupid, and fear all creatures of God's design that they
cannot tame for their own selfish needs.

It was, of course, on a night of the Full Moon that the
howling began. The townfolk bolted their doors and did not set
foot outside their cottages--except Brian, who loved
adventure. On the third Full Moon of the Howling, Brian hid
himself in the forest where he last heard the werewolf's

Brian's patience was rewarded, for there in a clearing under
the brilliance of an August Moon, appeared Damien. "What a
magnificent creature," thought Brian.   "His fur glistens with
resin, and he steps around the little blossoms."

Now, the werewolf has a sharp sense of smell and keen ears;
but Brian was crouched downwind in the nettle, possessed by
the stillness of all creatures of the wood before the werewolf

Damien raised his face to the moon and pierced the night with
the cry of a soul that is damned.   Tears sparkled down the
canine face, and Brian quietly wept.

The howling only ceased when the moon hung low in the sky.
Then the werewolf sat on a rock and sobbed, covering his wet
face with large, soiled hands.  Brian wanted to surrender
himself to the werewolf, but he knew it was not the time. When
the werewolf vanished into the forest again, Brian stepped
into the clearing and sat on the rock, and thought. Then he
picked some clover, placed them on the rock, and went home.

On the fourth Full Moon there was no howling, and the
villagers rejoiced. Except Brian.  He crouched all night in
the nettle, but the werewolf never returned.   The clover was
gone, however.  But it could have been washed away by the
rain, or blown by the wind, or woven into a nest.  Brian
placed another bouquet on the rock; and cried, and slept,
beside it.

When he awoke, the werewolf lay beside him.   "You were
shivering," said Damien.   Brian trembled in the warmth of the
werewolf's arms, and his heart leapt for joy.   He nuzzled his
face in the werewolf's chest, and the scent of cedar filled
his nostrils.  But when he tried to kiss the werewolf on the
nose, it leapt from their bed of rotting leaves.

"I brought you some breakfast," said Damien, and scooped some
quails' eggs from the ground.  When Brian began gathering
sticks to light a fire, the werewolf grabbed his arm.   "No.
Just eat them," said the werewolf, who cracked open an egg and
licked the gooey substance from the cup of his hand.  Brian
smiled and ate quails' eggs until his stomach could hold no

This is how Brian learned to live in the forest and find
shelter, food, and companionship, without bargaining.

"Damien," said Brian one day as they rested in a meadow of
dogwood, "I pray every night that God will turn me into a
woman, so our love would be complete."

Damien looked down at his companion whose head was resting
against his thigh.   "Our love  is  complete," said the
werewolf, caressing the brow of his only friend.

But Brian longed to please the werewolf in more than a filial
way--and the werewolf understood.   For each in his agony had
found a place in his heart to love the other.

The villagers lived without fear of the werewolf for five,
peaceful years. And Brian learned many mysteries of the ways
of nature from the tender wisdom of his friend.

Every evening, as the sun slipped below the hills of
Devonshire, Damien would sing songs on the lute that Brian
carved for him out of birch wood:

     "When I saw you sleeping in the briar,
     I knew you were dreaming of me.
     We live in the dale of Clover-on-rock,
     Beneath the cherry tree."

And under the veil of night, deep in the forest, they
embraced.  Brian would whisper himself to sleep:   "My dear,
beautiful, wolf friend."

One day, when Brian was gathering rosebuds for tea, he heard
Damien's howl.   It came from the village.

By the time he got there, it was all over.  The ignorant folk
had captured and killed the werewolf.  Brian returned to the
woods and watched, all night long, the village festivities
around the bonfire to celebrate the death of his gentle

Where the blood had been spilled, now grows Wolf's Bane. And for
a hundred years after the murder of Brian's beloved friend,
the townfolk bolted their doors against the fullness of the
moon, and the howl of a werewolf on the edge of the forest.

(late-night musings by a candle, August 19, 2001)

How did the villagers manage to capture and kill Damien? Well,
he and Brian would sometimes sneak into the village late at
night, to steal some tasty morsels or useful tools from the
shops there. They'd disguise themselves in dark cloaks, and
stealthily move about the gloomy streets to gain their prizes.
Never in their excursions did they enter someone's home, nor
did they injure anyone. On one of their nocturnal visits,
Brian paused before a window full of handcrafted jewelry.
Damien stepped up to him, and peered over his shoulder to
admire the object of Brian's delight: an ivory cross carved
with roses all about that hanged from a lovely chain of pure
silver. Damien remembered that cross, and wanted to surprise
Brian with it, as a birthday gift. So the love struck werewolf
sneaked into town all by himself, without Brian's knowledge,
and snatched the rosy cross from its ledge.

Sadly, a villager glimpsed Damien's eerie shadow moving
through the desolate streets, and alerted his
neighbors...which led to his capture, and death. (Damien was
crucified on a stake of dogwood, and burned alive. Despite the
agony and his howls, he kept one hand firmly clenched even
unto death, as if to say: "They may have caught me, but
they'll never get this! My boundless love for you, Brian, will
rise from the ashes some day, like a phoenix." And his final
thought was: "Hail to the Great White Wolf. May you curse my
enemies, and shower mercy on my beloved.")

Many years later, a plague wiped out the entire village, and
thus Brian could safely pay his honors to his only love, by
visiting the spot where they burned the unwanted. Deep, deep,
under layers of ashes (from other poor souls that came after
Damien), he uncovered what remained of his beloved: a few
bones that once composed his left hand...and lying among these
bones was that ivory cross, untouched by fire or ash. (These 
finger bones, he gathered into a small, sacred pouch; and wore 
them close to his heart.)

Was Damien truly handsome, even as a werewolf? Well, yes, he
surely was. Brian did not need to dig deep at all into his
spirit, to find the beauty in Damien. For even though fur
covered his entire face, it did not conceal for a moment, the
remarkable good looks of the werewolf. Should he shave his
face down to his smooth, flawless skin, people would be
stunned at this terribly handsome young man. But no one really
bothered to see through his hirsute countenance...except
Brian, who instantly flipped over this gorgeous dude!

Damien was also very well built: strong, well-muscled and
perfectly proportioned body: the type that would inspire
Classical Greek sculptors to the ultimate heights of their
talents! Except, of course, for all that copious,
fur. Again, Brian had the vision to see through all this hair.
Or, to put it humorously: he could still see the forest
despite all the trees.

And let us not ignore their love-making, for love they surely
did manifest in sexual, erotic ways, as well as in friendship,
devotion, and affection. Damien, being canine, was true to his
nature, and loved licking Brian clean from head to toe, then
back up again, all over his trembling body. Not an inch of
this lad's fair flesh was neglected, anywhere. They would
nuzzle and bark at each other, and tumble in the leaves and
grasses, late into the night, under the stars and the waxing
moon. Among the many, many things Brian learned about
werewolves, was that puppy love is the best love, by anyone's
measure. And so they growled at each other in their night
embraces, nippy love bites while they dreamt of racing each
other, chasing rabbits and birds through the meadows of

While Brian instantly fell in love with Damien the very first
time he laid eyes on him, it took some months before he gave
up a residual amount of wariness that was ingrained deep 
into his psyche. This was a simple matter of the survival
instinct in a world of treacherous evil. And Damien's keen
werewolf senses told him of his lover's hesitation in this
matter; so he wondered how to break down this final wall,
gently...else he feared driving Brian away. However, he need
not have anxiety over such an outcome.  But this fear was just
a simple matter of Damien's residual caution; a survival
instinct in a brutal world.

So the last wall of distrust came down one beautiful, summer
night when a cool breeze bowed the heads of daffodils, and
made rustling wind chimes of the trees across the wooded
hills. It was five months into their friendship, when Damien
paused from cleaning up their evening meal, and suddenly
dropped to his knees before Brian, and embraced his legs. And
he looked up at Brian's confused face, and spoke: "I thank the
Green Lord from the bottom of my little puppy heart for
bringing us together, and giving me such happiness I could
never imagine in this life. Oh, Brian, I don't know how I
could ever go on without you, now that our souls have touched.
You are a lovely boy, my magnificent and tender pup!" 

Brian shivered in rapture, and dropped to the ground, where he
curled up into Damien's arms, and wept tears. They were tears
of joy, though Brian did not realize that, for he just cried
and cried like a newborn baby, for days on end. Damien laughed
with delight as he led Brian around by hand, watching him
stumble through the bramble and shrubs, in order to remain as
close as possible to his werewolf love. For Brian was born
again...into the heart of Gaia that came through Damien's
tender counsel and caresses. No longer was there any wall at
all, to block the incredible trust he now held, in complete
devotion, for the wonder that is The Werewolf.

Indeed, Brian became a werewolf, one of the brotherhood who
need never be a stranger in the woods ever again, no matter
how far from human settlements. And, like all good werewolves:
the farther away, the better he liked it.

It is my conjecture that those labeled "werewolves" in olden
days, were merely people born with abundant hair over their
entire face and body. So they were cast out as infants, into
the forest to die or fend on their own (perceived as they
were, as devil's spawn). Naturally, most died in a short time,
but a rare few survived. Damien was such a one. And this
explains why Brian remained alone after Damien's passing:
there were no other werewolves around to befriend. But let not
sorrow be the final seal to this story. For they were reborn
in this life, to find each other once again, and to live this
time, a very long life together with great affection,
fulfillment, and, of course, puppy love. How do I know this? I
was Damien, the werewolf. And my Brian came to me twelve years
ago, homeless and in need of a good friend.

I would delight him with my tales; and one day he asked me to
write a story just for him. So I said, sure, what kind of
stories do you like? "Horror stories", he said. "What kind of
monster do you like the most?" I queried...and he answered
"Werewolves". So I set about to write my werewolf tale for
Brian, intending it to be quite funny. Instead, this
wonderful, but tragic, tale flowed from my pen as if by magic.
I was worried that Brian might not like it, but once he read
it, he simply adored the tale, and carried it with him,
always, folded in a pocket.

It is only now, twelve years later, that Damien came to me in
a lovely dream, and taught me more about werewolves, which is
the purpose of my addendum. The werewolf that I once was, in a
past life, now chooses to awaken and emerge into my conscious
self. Where will this take me in the long run? For one, I will
expand this short tale into an extraordinary novel, as Damien
further instructs me on the Way of the Wolves. For another, I
will become a werewolf, and acquire all the wondrous
attributes of this noble creature...including a keen sense of
smell and hearing, and an unswerving devotion to those whom I
love. So when you visit San Francisco, and on some full-moon
night, way after everyone's gone to bed, you are awakened by
the eerie howl of nothing that resembles a domesticated
canine...know that it is me, Damien, prowling the city streets
to protect my gay brothers and sisters who remain homeless in
the cold night, huddled together for the warmth and
companionship they sorely deserve. 

And if you are one to spit upon my people: BEWARE!


              May green clover sprout in your steps,
              And may you always walk in God's Light.
              You are one of the Little People,
              You are one of Us,
              You are my beloved Brother;
              And there is nothing I won't do
              To guide you back to the Light
              Should darkness blind you on your Sacred Journey.
              Wherever I am, you have a home:
              A place of Joy, Light, and Love.
              Wherever you go, I walk beside you
              And scare the evil ones away.

              What is past is past,
              Forgiven and forgotten.
              Doors to better dimensions await you,
              And one of them is mine.
              I wish you the blessing of Our Creator,
              For with that one wish is born all others.

              Your best friend,

              P.S.:  God bless you, little werewolf.  And remember:  the best
              speed is Godspeed.  Please call me.

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