Measurement
It begins with a circle. Circles hold great power. Circles represent unity, strength, renewal. Be it the circle of life, the cycle of the seasons, the cycle of the moon, or a wedding band, there is great mystical power found within its confines. The sacred space is defined by a perimeter, a line of power that protects those within it from harm. Working in conjunction with his wiccan mother-in-law, Marcus had created such a mystical barrier between his people and the world beyond. The property was not a perfect circle, but the line of protection was closed, and could be walked in a circuit.
Two hundred acres, nearly nine million square feet of abandoned woodland with a perimeter of roughly one and one-third mile. Not a very long distance for a seasoned runner, but good enough to get his heart going and the sweat working.
This is important because after the circle comes the spiritual cleansing. It is not a washing away of sin, not a way of purifying oneself, but simply a ritual in itself of clearing the mind. Running flat out across the earth has always done wonders for clearing even the most stubborn thoughts from his mind. All he thinks about as his feet hit the earth is counting. Counting breaths, counting steps, and heartbeats. Counting laps, miles passing beneath his two feet. Or four, depending on how desperate his need to empty his mind.
This was always how it began.
He stepped out of the main building and tied his hair back, hair that hung nearly to his waist, longer when wet and hanging straight, but masses of curls kept it bouncy and light, nearly feminine. He tied it off with a navy blue, his favorite color, hair band he'd stolen from his wife. He took several deep breaths of the morning air. Ah spring, one quarter of the solar year, yet another cycle turning itself about his head. Day to night, spring to summer, year to year.
He walked a line from the door of the building to the edge of the property at a particular spot. A line he had never taken the time to measure, but it was only a few minutes' walk to the powerful line he had lay on the earth, invisible to the eye, but resonating with the earth's force. Protection.
A few more deep breaths of the strong wind blowing in from the distant ocean, centering himself amid the elements. The earth below his feet, the air blowing across him, the light fog in the morning light. He stepped onto that powerful line and took off. This distance, for him, was nearly insignificant, so he took it at a sprint. Arms and legs working, powerful honed muscles tensing as they carried him over uneven ground. He opened his mind to the wolf, finding those instincts deep inside him that let him anticipate dangers ahead, bad places to step, rocks, and holes.
At a sprint of twenty miles-per-hour, his top speed, he could run 1.33 miles in just over three minutes. On ground like this, slightly uneven, pitted, and oddly shaped, it took him six minutes to make the circuit. When he returned to his start, his heart was racing and his lungs, weakened by years of smoking, were burning. His body dripped with sweat, matting his freshly washed hair to his neck and face, causing his light clothes to cling to his body. His limbs tingled and his head was light, but he felt at ease. Ready.
He stepped off the line at the exact spot he'd stepped on, a full circle, and no more or less. Fingers laced behind his head, he walked slowly to another circle, one much smaller within this one.
This was a spot he'd picked ages ago. It hummed, even before he'd turned it into his space. Somehow, Nature had looked ahead and given him a circle of trees. It wasn't perfect, but few things in Nature were. It was more of a square, with a single pine tree in each of the cardinal directions. He certainly did not believe this to be coincidence.
In the center of this natural circle, he had lay a flat stone. It wasn't one he'd found, he'd bought it some time ago at a garden store, roughly an inch thick and oblong in shape. He'd had it for years, taking it with him wherever he went. For in his months as a nomad, having a tiny piece of familiarity helped his focus. One does not change altars lightly.
Sitting on the stone altar was a rough wooden bowl filled with the night's rainwater. The once yellow surface of the stone was scarred with dirt and ashes, marks of a lifetime's service to the elements.
Before entering the space, he walked the circle, pausing at each tree, laying a hand on its trunk, eyes closed. "Be at peace," he whispered to each, speaking both to the spirits within the trees and the spirits within the four winds. Once more, he returned to the start of his circle and stepped in, feeling the wind pick up around him, sighing through the trees above. Some might call this coincidence, but it happened every time. Nature was answering him, the spirits were joining him in this place.
He knelt before the altar, knees pressing into the cold, damp earth, moisture seeping through his sweats to his hot flesh. From a bag sitting beside the stone, he removed a handful of birdseed, which he scattered to the four directions, an offering of seed to replenish and renew as thanks for the sacred site.
"I have come," he spoke to the world, "to ease my mind. To bring myself the peace I need to listen, the strength I need to lead, and the courage to make it through the hard times. I ask the Mother and her children, the spirits of the earth, to help me seek what I need."
The wind picked up, blowing his damp hair out of his face and whipping it back. He closed his eyes, tilting his head back and breathing in the soft scent of pine and earth.
He reached into his shirt and pulled out a short branch of mistletoe that he had worn on a thong about his neck for his run, letting it absorb his troubles as he worked them out of his body with sweat and breath. It was remarkably dry despite its damp home. He dug in his pocket for his lighter and set it to the tip, causing the branch to alight. As the flame burned, he stared deep into the fire.
"Four elements, each around me, accept this and take with it my trouble." He dropped the burning branch into the basin of rainwater, and it sizzled briefly, then grew quiet, a plume of steam rising up to join the fog.
As he breathed in the remainder of the fragrant smoke, he let his eyes drift closed again. His mind wandered away from the place and changed shape. In this calm, meditative state, it was safe to embrace the Beast. To listen to what the wolf could tell him, aided by the voice of the wind and trees.
As in many of his dreams, the world he enters is barren. The trees lie broken and burned, the cities razed to the ground, twisted hunks of concrete and steel, eternal tombs for the sorry souls trapped inside. The wolf is searching for home, for the one place in the bleak landscape where harmony still lives. While this is mostly a representation of what he fears the world may become, it may also stand for what lives inside. Something has corrupted a once peaceful mind. The wolf has remained the same, he knows this, the pure bestial half of a dual man. The human has become corrupted. Corrupted by fears and doubt. This is something the wolf understands while his human host may not. That is why it is searching, padding through the endless wasteland, searching for the place where peace still reigns, where the balance between man and beast can finally be realized. Only then will the uncertainty end.
He opened his eyes slowly, blinking against the sunlight. His body, not adequately stretched after his run, was stiff from kneeling on the cold ground. He had no idea how long he'd been there. He lengthened his spine, hearing it crackle as it stretched. Next to the bag of seed was a tightly closed flask. He flicked it open and the strong scent of whiskey flowed out. The drink of the ancestors, traveling back to his people's homeland. He took a long drink, feeling the warmth of the alcohol spread immediately to his limbs, filling him with fire.
Flask put away, he sat for several moments in the stillness, focusing on the world outside his mind. The quiet creak of the trees in the wind, the song of their needles, the rustling of the bushes as a rabbit made its way by. His eyes tracked the edge of the circle, looking for a sign, some sort of answers from the spirits he had called to the circle. Of course, he knew the answer already, the spirit within him had told him. Strength was not something he could find without, he had to find it in himself. He devoted himself to balance, but he had let his life fall far out of balance, tipping toward human logic. To be at peace with himself and his beast, he had to find the center of things, that spot where the two halves could coexist. He was closer to that spot than he'd ever been, but still a long ways off.
He lay his hands on the cold earth below him. "Thank you for your guidance," he said to the spirits around him. "I shall return your gifts, as is right, when they are spent. Their purpose is fulfilled, their sacrifice remembered." He lifted the branch from the basin and carefully buried it in the earth some feet from the altar. He then dumped the water from the basin into the grass.
He stood in the center of the circle, listening for any parting words, then walked to a point on the perimeter and retraced his circular path around, touching each tree and thanking it for its protection and guidance. When he reached the start he stepped out. Satisfied that the circle was now empty of those things that he had called, he turned his back on the site and headed up to the building to start his day.