The Cult Of The Wolf - Prologue


Here in this forgotten corner of the world I became known as Marie Christine Émilie Deffand, or more appropriately, Mother Marie Deffand. But in fact, my name is Urtra, the sorceress of the Valley of the Wolves, this true name whose pronunciation has been longing for my ears, which have long been captive to the sublime silence.

Come to understand today, this moonless night, that the truth of my feelings is only overcome by courage - the courage to seek them unconditionally, even without what seems to be the permission of the days. Having this consequences, of course. An immediate, perhaps, is the fact of discovering in the life of these more recent days, dust in suspension, similar to what happens when a crowd passes and a cloud appears in its wake, as it sometimes happens, a dark dust abruptly raised by the wind only to fall nervously back to the ground. It is how I can narrate the fragmentation of my being.

I am no longer deluded by many things, but I confess: I have been dreaming of dreams, and sometimes, when I am incredulous of everything, of the naivete of a girl. Sorceress I have done for my heart and my will, and I can not regret anything because I chose this pagan and lonely way, living at a distance from the world, from men and their God. But, curiously enough, always being present when one of them needs it.

I want to definitively open this day, my soul, my heart and my mind to the mystery: limit and criterion of my life, because I will not reach my tracks yesterday. And now, fretful, I write my last drafts, my last steps. Steps essentially in the form of words and feelings.

Without any apprehension of times past and without the warmth of the spring youth, burning with enthusiasm, I will try in these lines, forged in the struggle of the pen against the paper and in the soft furnace of my will, to be faithful to my several dawns, endeavored not to believe of an existence in which all could go to the inner search, the diligent search for an encounter with itself, having, I want to humbly point out, been reached this conviction after this long life. And today, absolutely convinced, if not the most important mystery of human existence, certainly the most true.

This cold night, I do not want anything else and I will not feed these pages with what I believe, precious words. Sleep seduces me, loaded with Dionysian drunkenness. Outside in the woods, there is a croaking that made itself loud inside the house by proximity and silence, reverberating like majestic bells in the central nave of a church. A hungry bird had just announced its nocturnal awakening.

The day, this friday of mid-March of the year 1531, dawned shrouded in solemn mists and then cleared completely. The cold is not as intense as it was in the early hours of dawn this morning, for spring will open in a few days. My usual tasks are largely fulfilled, thanks to my morning mood, when, from an early age, I got up for work, and I could write for the rest of the day, if I so desired. And not wasting more time on other household chores that always exist, even more often if we look for them. He asked me out loud:

"Where, for Hecate, did I leave yesterday's writings?"

This, as he rummaged through the papers on the table, many still in disorder. - Here it is, "... of the truest." Well, giving continuity right here, how you want the pen and my permanent will.
Death ... By the way, the good death, this already lurks in my patience and persistence of the countless centuries, being a reality that I am not given to dominate. But now, perhaps with more clarity and humility, aided by a night of tranquil and refreshing sleep, a sensible understanding begins in me. This, in particular, points to the need to thank for their constant presence, not only in these days now, but during what has been my entire walk in this long life, seeking in some way to reach a higher judgment in relation to these the enigmatic subjects of destiny, much more than I have dedicated myself. This to better recognize that, besides my untiring sorrow, which now shakes and feverish scrawls this rotten piece of paper, she, death, is my other companion who has always been with me and has been supporting me at the end of my existence. Companion, let it be said, with all devotion, tenacious and faithful like no other with whom he has lived.

Death ... By the way, the good death, this already lurks in my patience and persistence of the countless centuries, being a reality that I am not given to dominate. But now, perhaps with more clarity and humility, aided by a night of tranquil and refreshing sleep, a sensible understanding begins in me. This, in particular, points to the need to thank for their constant presence, not only in these days now, but during what has been my entire walk in this long life, seeking in some way to reach a higher judgment in relation to these the enigmatic subjects of destiny, much more than I have dedicated myself. This to better recognize that, besides my untiring sorrow, which now shakes and feverish scrawls this rotten piece of paper, she, death, is my other companion who has always been with me and has been supporting me at the end of my existence. Companion, let it be said, with all devotion, tenacious and faithful like no other with whom he has lived.

It is when, to my surprise, at the same instant, I lean over the old greasy table, impregnated with the most diverse odors for the handling of herbs over the years, still wandering in search of older memories, and once more, reviewing these last thoughts written on the aged paper, is that as I turn, turning almost suddenly and involuntarily my body to one side of the room, now fixing my eyes on the little window, which is half-open, I could clearly hear a message brought by the warm breeze of the air spirits and by the east wind:

"Prepare yourself, great lady. Much has already been fulfilled in your existence, and little or nothing remains."

I give faith, but ...

That the present days became months and were spent in a laborious routine, becoming the very luck of life. For only then, after a long time, to unveil once again the path of reasonable and imperishable understanding. However, I could not get out of this period unharmed because of one of the greatest human afflictions - disillusionment with life - which, as we all know, the routine days make a point of bringing maliciously with them. I have yet to be true even to myself, another motive has been added, precisely, with regard to my other companion, death, about whom I have spoken with special attention.


With the dragging of the months, and without the customary jolts that the body accused for the intimate approach of the sickle's maiden, it had made me strangely and in the whole, no longer accustomed to it without its presence, without its sweet breath of the desired freedom. So much so that I called her when she did not lie down with me or walked away without warning, and willingly I even proposed eternal communion without further delay. And she, pretending to listen carefully to what she considered to be a just proposal, would leave me to believe that she would be willing that evening, punctually or at the latest, if she was overwhelmed with her cousin, the "Pest" in her work at the next dawn would vows of the grave. She even insisted on coming resolutely, because she would be encouraged by our cousin to define our situation, making me feel, in my voluntary credulity, quite relieved. Feeding, as it could not be, the expectation of a brief solution. Yet, insistently, I did not take this body of mine. And so, persevering heirs, many nights were spent in unfulfilled nuptials which, to me, a disagreeable bride, seemed endless. So the worst came to pass.

In an unbridled impulse, strange even to myself, accustomed to the serenity of the moonless nights, to the decency of age, and especially to the resignation I had reached, I came again inconsolable and stout, under the tutelage of my instincts, to address her forbidden and severe words .

"O mistress of filthy worms, what do you expect?" Why delay and unfulfilled promises, have you no respect for the earnestness of your dirty word?

But ... To my surprise and despair, she simply keeps silent ... She turns away with disconcerting shyness, bordering almost to a childish wavering, even in the face of behind those leaked timeless eyes hiding all truth from the relentless time. And this happens, just at the moment when mutual trust was established in our fellowship. When even confessions of her difficulties and existential limitations were entrusted to me without restrictions, or even of her wishes of maiden. What mortal could suspect that death has its secret yearnings and its responsibilities? I know now that I have demanded too much of your goodwill ...

Know all, how many can hear me! And I speak especially to those who may yet unjustly raise any doubt of their suitability and respect for their office or for dishonest acts, in a fraternal relationship, such as ours, which was established by affinity and solitude. I learned devotedly, it was not rude at all on her part, she was always a jealous of her obligations and her appeals to her, but they would be there, the greatest things in the universe that are above both of us.

With this, and in the face of certain evidences, there arose in me an uneasiness - that minimum of mistrust that precedes a certainty. It was clear that there was a very important reason for me to remain alive. Maybe something you missed. Which reminded me, and very opportunely, the matriarch Bithias who, in a certain way, had said:

"No one is innocent of anything."

Because of this, as if a thunderbolt had fallen on my head, opening it in half, I understood my whole current situation.

"Yes, you fool, your decaying wolf, you awkward, how did I escape my memories?" - It hurts to the wind.

There remains one last and important thing to do in this world of mists that is only one. I am sure now, it is related to the book that tells the exploits and difficulties of my old order, known as the Sisterhood of the Wolf. The writing reveals the last events lived in the tradition of fire and of the Great Mother Earth. Narrating among other things: the great mysteries of this Brotherhood, the early disappearance, our group life, our struggles and our hopes. By this tradition, I proudly became the highest priestess and perpetual matriarch, perhaps the only survivor of those years gone forever.

Without doubt, my faithful pity! And please excuse me once again sister death. For, as you see, I have the vices of the flesh, and my virtues are far behind in the face of your greatness and wisdom. Definitely then, all this time did not consist only of frivolous desires or a philosophical tantrum with death. How could I not see this before? So many vicissitudes and follies I have gone unnecessarily ...

Or not, old wolf Urtra?


This writing was written by me from my impressions and recollections of the events that took place in that service of the werewolves. The task was passed on to me by my matriarch and greater priestess, before me. Having as essential condition the most reliable account of those last days and, later, when its definitive end to the delivery of those letters reserved for someone who would appear to pick them up and only her, specifically, should be delivered.

When I left the church robes and went into the country, I had to face all sorts of unscrupulous and envious neighbors who were always there in some way to incriminate their neighbors. To do so, usurp the possessions of the victim or as revenge for some previous strife. It would be an indefensible condition, and particularly fateful for someone like me, to possess some book. So I sometimes wanted to burn it.

So many women had gone to campfire or gallows for unconfessable nonsense, even though they were totally innocent of the charges. That is why everything, as is still being heard, among those of good will: "any suspicious and unusual event falls, first and foremost, to elderly women of solitary life." Today I know, indeed, by some wonderful formula of the Great Generator of the world that I have never really been able to get rid of him, for he is a true amulet and protector of all my works.

The book wrapped in black cloth of the finest linen was inside a small chest that had been buried, or rather stored on a false floor on the kitchen floor, near the furnace of an old hut destroyed in a thunderstorm several years ago. Preserved there, I once again affirmed to myself, by precaution and safety. Nevertheless, at this moment, the heart accelerates telling me of a certain personal negligence. I then bring to my new address for further investigation.

In the trunk were other small objects belonging to the Brotherhood or to Grand Master. Particularly the most valuable was a jewel, the ring of the great priestess before me. Piece made in silver and gold marked with spelling strange to the current or to the Latin of the scholars. To my knowledge, it would be the ancient Egyptian writing of the gods, standing out in relief the snake that swallowed its tail, the "Uroboros" and a pentagram with an emerald eye to the center. As I admired him, I felt an urge to put it permanently around the index finger. As if, from that day forward, I had already attained the state of mastery which, I myself, prudently believe, did not ascribe to me.

What had surprised me the most was the noticeable smell of the sweetest jasmine mixed with that black cloth at the time of the last wrapping. Her tanned cloaks of a she-wolf's ancient skin resisted by its grayish tint, softening slightly as in a painting of masters in various shades of white ice. When I open it, I still admire the silver star, embroidered with delicate threads of the best silver, made by the skillful hands of the late Cailantra. I can not escape, even though I have seen so many times, a strong, almost uncontained emotion, when I remember her rosy, joyous cheeks, as her most vibrant laughs in the relaxed hours. And it is difficult, I realized, even during all this time, to understand that I was in the disruptive continuity of time. While all my sisters faded away through the scars of fate. However, everything seems to continue in some way in the memories, in the actions and in my unique and true material heritage, this book named long ago by the matriarch Bithias as:

 "Of the Clarity and the Shadows".

The feather sliding smoothly between my fingers agrees without hesitation. She treats me well, and helps me talk about the most diverse things and has been faithful in these almost three decades, especially in the healing and healing treatises I have written and passed on to the so-called "initiates of the north," the Druids. However, a long time ago, reminding me with longing that neither they appear and I know that probably they will not appear more. For many have perished and others try to keep the work alive by hiding from greedy and corrupting eyes.

My mission was fulfilled in what I could do best, of that I could even be proud. But this inheritance of the Fellowship of the Wolf had not yet found its destiny. It would have to be given to a particular person, as I had been determined before. And now, with what I thought to be old age and the end of life, there is a sincere desire to find strength at all costs to realize this higher will. When, on the other hand, I am also overwhelmed by the possibility of not seeing the untransferable task fulfilled, by a total darkness of the path to follow and which I can define little by my own will and conscience.

Then my feelings are blurred at the confluence of the past and of what I live now. Because? I am embarrassed in this other anguish of feeling my own impotence. The person had never appeared when he was promised to me that he would appear someday. And this now began to torment me more terribly than I had intended myself a few moments ago. Did I come here just to reach this terrible conclusion? I could not believe it. Nor was it what my inner voice seemed to say. He must have trusted that voice, it was the most valuable thing he had.

Seeking the serenity of the flowers that open in the spring and the stillness of the dawn. I look closely again at that small window that, long ago, led the wind of the wisdom of the centuries, from the east portal. For most of the year, by its particular disposition, in the tireless progress of the day, it projects light and shadows with different depths throughout the environment. Widely varying the amount of clarity and the shaded tones that the light makes give of itself when so confined in closed places, or even more there, when focused on and between the bulkheads of all shapes, sizes and dispositions. And it is not by chance that by this same window, again, a warm breeze comes to penetrate with the softness of the perfumes of the distant mountains, bringing a rare fragrance, above all, I believe, by the importance of the message.

"The silver bird flies away from home in search of the food of the mind and spirit ... It will not delay, for its cause is noble and the right moment. but the angelic commands will give you the universal ether that you can participate in soon, but this will not lead you to the grave, because your body has been anointed by a grace that is far beyond the science of men.We will follow our eternal obligations before creation and will fly throughout the earth as divine heralds to announce the truths of now and yesterday.To all creatures, of all worlds, visible and invisible, do not fail to receive the sacred messages of the Goddess You are also the atmosphere of the lady of the winds ... And we will bless you at the top of the sky and we will build forever and ever the altar of all the winds " .

I felt, then, possessed by a wonderful breath on the wings of a deep peace. But it flutters with vitality by favoring the expansion of consciousness in several spheres of the invisible worlds. Enjoying, he was sure, a fullness for a long time untested.

Although soon after, I feel like I awakens abruptly from a trance. Having occurred, I believe, by wrecking in chains of contradictory and inopportune thoughts. However, I still realized that, subtly, I was still being linked, now, with a new breath. This very different, but like the other, indescribable. Much, it is necessary to clarify, for the unique difficulty of describing it here and at the moment. In what also constitutes the ordinary and unsurpassable limitation of words, even if these solicitous offer themselves for the accomplishment of the august work. This, I reaffirm, is precisely to reveal in good measure the superior feelings for others. When it is almost impossible to write anymore, it is taken that it is by the very movement of the higher principles.

I insist, however ...

In this way, I simply lie down on the chair covered with geese feathers (this chair was a reminder of the convent which I kept under my guard.) If I have time to spare, I will still tell the story. located far behind, away from the work table. I went to her and to those sides of the room, still enveloped by a certain drunkenness of the spirit, trying to reach for this new revelation of the spirits of the air, while seeking to maintain the feeling of stillness and elevation that I came to feel moments later.
As this somehow continued to surface within the uniqueness and power that enveloped me, I was instantly snatched into a greater understanding of myself, this understanding, devoid of any reflection or successful thought, which I say, when worked to the satisfaction of dictates of reason.
It was in this unexpected condition that I again leafed through the first page of the book - "Of Clarity and Shadows" - and it was not by excess, the fright manifested at that hour.

 In an unusual way, as soon as his first words were written, the nearest realities seemed to emerge, floating like feathers in the air, and then, in the second instant, to come and come from every corner. Sometimes blending into a spontaneous and incomprehensible re-creation of paths never experienced. In part, this was due to the great radiated magic of my past history; being another part, he intuited, of an unrevealed until this day of grace; and still of a third and last, more mysterious, almost of dubious existence, by the impressive sense and origin of my essence, the fallen angels. All this was happening, when it was suddenly led to a distant and imaginary world, and, incredibly, even to myself, witness of those events, at the very moment unknown. "In these days...