Humans Bite Back

The bright and robust globe in the sky was cause for celebration and melancholy for the werewolf community in Silverdale. It was the final night of the three-moon cycle, and the air carried the scent of heightened pheromones from young werewolves hoping to mate.

It was a night full of anxiety for mated wolves who were hoping to conceive; according to lore, Luna feels particularly well on this night and is more than charitable towards couples wanting to expand their packs. Unfortunately, the pressure is too much for some and the evening is often spent streaming movies instead.

For the young pups entering wolfhood, it was an exciting time. Puppies entering adulthood would skip bathing for a week in hopes of permeating a scent that would attract their forever mate. If a wolf remained unmated by the third night, the young wolves would howl and make a racket, alerting any ladies that might want a whiff.

As I heard the hormonal wolves cry out into the night, I suddenly wished I could join them. The full moon may have been a night filled with blossoming young love and clandestine affairs in the werewolf community, but if you were a young warlock, the full moon was a night to dread.

I sat in my room, attempting to put off the inevitable as I listened to my father tear apart the house in search of his most prized possession, his witching hat.

My father’s witching hat was a monstrosity, which people gaped at in shock that my father often mistook for envy. He had made it himself using a traffic cone, black felt, and any item he could get his hands on in the crafts section. The result was a glittering tower of unsold fabric flowers, lace, plastic spiders, and shiny charms. Above the brim, the hat read “Grandmaster,” in letters my father had cut out himself using a stencil set.

The hat was atrocious and the cause of my humiliation at each assembly, as if the behavior of the elder warlocks wasn’t enough cause for embarrassment.

The Warlock assembly was a relatively new concept in the warlock community, though our female counterparts, the witches, have had covens for centuries. The most experienced witches were the High Priestess, who governed the smaller covens that elected their own Grand Witch, whose prime responsibility was to manage the coven members below her.

Witches were by default superior to warlocks, most of them well versed in herbal magic and possessed the power of conjuring. Why our female counterparts were born with skills while warlocks were stilted was still a mystery, but my father had developed a theory. He claimed it was our punishment for The Witch Trials, a dark period in wizard history in which the female witches had been blamed for warlock shenanigans.

Perhaps this was why warlocks were banned from attending coven meetings, and though most warlocks wouldn’t admit it, this was the primary cause of friction in the magical community.

Warlocks have gathered in mobs, intending to infiltrate the coven meetings in protest, but these calls to action always failed because the warlocks were unable to find the location of these meetings. Though it was only a rumor, most of the warlocks believed that witches possessed the ability to shift, and this is how they were able to move about undetected.

Though I was sure the tales of a witch’s abilities were greatly exaggerated, I had no doubt that they were far more capable than any warlock. We were not entirely impotent; there was some magic there, a small amount that we often conjured up by rubbing our thumbs and forefingers together until we worked up enough friction to ignite a small spark.

Warlocks of the past generation had been too proud to form covens, claiming that they valued their independence. In the modern era, warlocks have come to realize that independence may be overrated and have decided it was high time that the warlocks had covens of their own.

At first, it was suggested that the warlocks break up into small groups, but feuding often ensued when they squabbled over who should be named the coven leader. So the warlocks scrapped that idea and decided that it may be best if they just came together in the spirit of inclusiveness.

On the surface, this seemed like an excellent idea. Still, the wizards couldn’t determine who should be in charge since all the members met the very low criteria and were equally matched when it came to the magical arts, so they developed strategies to settle the matter.

They had tried forming a democracy, which involved campaigning and a vote. This idea failed when every warlock voted for himself; so they appealed to their competitive nature and turned the meetings into a competition. The wizard who could produce that most powerful spark would be rewarded with the title of Grandmaster.

This tactic had not been well planned, and most of the meetings consisted of the warlocks gathering, rubbing their fingers together in their best crab imitation. The challenge often ended in a draw, each competitor being sent home with third-degree burns and bruised egos.

Though it was evident that this strategy was a bust, the warlocks were reluctant to give it up and develop a new game plan. Instead, they decided to oppose each other in other ways. They bought fancy cars and wore flashy outfits, and these meetings were what inspired my father to design The Grandmaster hat.

I had found these battles entertaining at one time. I and the other young warlocks would often place bets on whose father would get hurt first, but as time went on, the feuding was no longer amusing, and the gambling was no fun once the outcomes became predictable.

The younger and I have become disenchanted with the meetings and only attended because our elders insisted. Each one believed that he would be named The Grandmaster one day and wanted their sons present to watch them bask in their glory.

I had hoped that my father might skip the meeting tonight when he failed to locate his hat, but as I heard him scrambling in search of it, I knew that there would be no such luck. Just as I had relented and started preparing to leave, my father called out to me from the living room.

“Bishop,” he cried, “Bishop, come help me find my Grandmaster hat,” from my room, I could hear him muttering to himself, “I could have sworn I hung it on the coat rack.”

I sighed and put aside my graphic comic that I had been pretending to read while listening to my father tear apart the house, searching for his hat. I grabbed my hooded sweatshirt, then padded down the hall and stood at the threshold of the living room, leaning up against the frame, watching my father search the coat closet for the third time that evening.

I felt guilty for placing him in distress, but in my defense, he never seemed too concerned about how I thought about that stupid hat. It wasn’t just the ridiculous nature of the cap itself; he refused to forgo wearing it during the trip to the convention hall where our meetings were held.

When we exited the car, my father would request that I straighten out the crushed tip and search for any trinkets missing from the hat. I often suggested that he place it in the back seat to prevent any damage, but my father was persistent, “No, they have to know that I am committed,” to which I would respond, “Everyone already agrees that you need to be committed.”

My father acting unreasonably about the hat was how I had justified hiding it in the first place. Now, as I felt a bit gleeful watching him go out of his mind over its loss, I had to wonder if I had hidden the hat because I resented it so.

Paul Kelly emerged from the closet and extracted his handkerchief to dab away the droplets of perspiration that had formed on his brow. “Where could it be?” he cried aloud as his eyes scanned the room. Before he moved on to search the most unlikely places, I reminded him of the time.

I felt a little spark of hope when my father said, “I can’t very well attend the meeting without my Grandmaster hat,” but that hope was extinguished when my father relented, “But I suppose we have to get going if we don’t want to be late.”

I knew that I would find the meeting grueling, but the fact that we were attending sans the hat made attending a little more bearable.

“I feel naked without it,” my father proclaimed as he patted his thinning hair, “Perhaps I should do one more sweep….”

“I overheard that Brian Camery wanted to bring back the voting system; if we don’t arrive on time, he may pursue the others to elect him Grandmaster,” I intervened. It was a lie; of course, Brian Camery had said no such thing, but I knew the mere suggestion would cause my father to abandon his search.

“Then we must make haste,” my father cried, waving his car keys and ranting as we exited the house. “That Brian is a snake in the grass. I just knew he was plotting to steal the honor for himself.”

Though it was unbeknown to Brian, he was my father’s arch-nemesis. Just the mention of Brian’s name was enough to provoke my father; though my dad didn’t like to admit it, Brian had never done him any harm. I suppose Brian reminded my father of his own failings.

Brian was a sad man’s idea of masculinity. Brian was good at putting on a show of bravado in front of the other warlocks; I knew things were much different at home. I knew better because I was friends with Brian’s son Bryce and a regular visitor in their home, where Bryce’s mother ruled the roost.

My father was seething before we had even left the driveway. “Stop pussyfooting around, boy,” my father scolded me, though I was keeping pace, “We have a diabolical plan to foil.”

I had not even strapped on my seatbelt when my father hit the gas and reversed out of the driveway in one sweep. I was starting to regret getting under his skin.

“It’s the last day of the full moon,” I reminded him as I hurried to snap on my seatbelt, “You need to watch for roaming wolves.”

“Darn, dogs need to stick to the woods,” my father snapped, sounding indigent, but to my relief, he did ease off the gas pedal.

My father rambled on the entire ride. “You know that Brian Camery wears a toupee,” my father told me, nodding, “There is no way a warlock his age has a full head of hair,” I wanted to point out that he might have a full head of hair, too if he didn’t yank on it when he was outraged, but I decided not to poke the bear. When we pulled up to the intersection, I realized that I had made a wise decision.

We crossed paths with Brian and Bryce as we waited for the traffic light to turn green. I recognized Bryce’s car immediately and raised my hand, intending to give a friendly little wave, but when I spotted what was on Brian’s head, I froze.

Brian’s father passed by, looking rather pleased as he drove to the meeting wearing his newly minted Grandmaster’s hat.