Sanctuary in the Storm

Part I

 You know how dreams can be incredibly lusive and solid at times? Almost malleable because you know that you're dreaming? That's the best kind of dream. In those dreams, I will often find myself in Spain back in the 1730's, when my father and I met for the first time and grew close in spirit. His pack in Spain had welcomed me as one of their own very quickly. Perhaps because of my father, our alpha, grew gentler with his newfound daughter by his side. In my dreams, I go back to Spain, back to the warm sunshine on the beautiful buildings.

I go back to the golden years where our pack roamed the Spanish forests without fear or paranoia of human discovery. We lived alongside them, true enough. But we were never truly accepted. It's an unspoken truth of the werewolves. Sure humans may not be able to point out a wolf among a group of humans, but the hairs on the back of their neck raise when they catch glimpses of the monsters lurking behind a familiar facade. Usually, they don't even know it's happened. They simply remember that a person made them feel as if they were being followed in the woods on a night with no moonlight to beat back the shadows. Usually, they'll smile politely and disengage from us. In my dreams, it didn't matter that the humans could occasionally see the monster peeking from behind our eyes.

Or at least it didn't until the alarm on my phone began chiming quietly. Drowsy with the remnants of a newly shed sleep, I rub my eyes and stumble to the bathroom. Rinsing away the last traces of the ghost of the hot Spanish sun from my face, I begin to put myself together for the day. It was, after all, another beautifully cold and rainy day in Boston Massachusetts.

* * *

The brass bell hanging above the door chimes lightly as I push my way against the rain and wind into my shop, Estrella's Garden, at just after 8:00am. The door slams closed behind me as a clap of thunder echoes above the shop and I call out, "G'morning!"

A light chorus of replies echo back to me as I tuck my car keys into my purse and fold my umbrella. "Any issues this morning?" I ask my right hand manager, Steph, while rounding the checkout counter and heading to my office.

"Other than the storm to end all other storms, nothing major is happening!" She answers grumpily. "Though I had a whole list of things I wanted to have the trainees get done outside. They're bothering me again. I sent the three of them to organize pots in storage. Maybe I'll send them outside anyway." She had a serious expression about her face that gave me a momentary pause.

"Well that would certainly get them out from under your feet, but I have a feeling that sending them outside right now would result in zero trainees left at the end of the day," I reason with an amused grin.

"Ah. What a pity. Would that be the worst of things?" That contemplative look on Steph's sun tanned face had returned.

We had hired three young aspiring botanists from Boston University that had wanted more experience in plant husbandry. All three girls are giggly and flighty. How they had chosen botany as a profession was beyond me. But it was early spring, and most college students were wanting less hours to study for exams and preparing to go home for the summer. These three are planning to stay the summer here in Boston for 'the history vibe'. Whatever that meant.

There are times when I worry that I'm too old to be mingling in human affairs so closely. Being as old as I am, 354 this spring to be exact, it can be easy to slide into a maddening depression. However, my shop does help ground me to the now, and drags my focus back from the days long passed to the individual days of the present.

"It would certainly be inconvenient. And you would have yet another three spots to fill in mid March," I sigh to her. "No-can-do."

Steph nods sadly, her blonde hair bobbing from her ponytail. "You do have a fair point there. I do hate interviews."