The other two members of our group introduced themselves—Tim, a quiet guy from New Mexico with turquoise rings on three fingers, and Ellen, a sharp-eyed girl from somewhere in the Pacific Northwest.
Professor Tomlinson moved between groups, explaining the format. When he reached ours, his eyes met mine for just a moment—checking in, I realized. Making sure I was okay.
I looked away.
"Share your myths conversationally," he said. "No formal presentations. Just tell the story the way it was told to you. After everyone shares, discuss: what does the mythdo? What behavior does it shape? What does it reveal about the culture that created it?" He paused. "Who wants to start?"
Ivy's hand shot up. "I'll go!"
Her myth was a Hawaiian legend about Pele and Hi'iaka—sisters, jealousy, transformation, the birth of volcanic islands. She told it with animated gestures and sound effects, and by the end, even Ellen was smiling.
"It's about loyalty," Ivy said when she finished. "And what happens when you break it. Hawaiian culture is all about'ohana—family, connection. The myth teaches that betraying your family has cosmic consequences."
Tim went next. A Navajo story about Coyote stealing fire for humans, getting burned in the process, forever marked by his own greed and generosity. James followed with a Montana rancher's tale about a ghost horse that appeared before blizzards—a warning, a guide, depending on who was telling it.
He told it simply, without embellishment, and I found myself leaning forward despite my resolve to stay detached. His voice had a rhythm to it, unhurried and warm, like he had all the time in the world and wanted to spend it here, with these people, sharing something that mattered.
The hum purred.
Stop it.
Ellen shared a Salish story about salmon people who could shed their scales and walk as humans. Then everyone was looking at me.
"Lumi?" Ivy prompted. "Your turn."
I could feel Vince watching from across the room. Not staring—he was too careful for that—but aware. Waiting.
I took a breath.
"This story was told to me when I was ten," I said. "By a friend who was the leader of a small town near where I grew up. A man named Darian."
The name felt strange in my mouth, spoken aloud after so many years. Darian, with his weathered face and knowing eyes, sitting by Gregor's fire and spinning words like thread.
"He called it a Trickster myth, but I'm not sure that's right. The woman in the story wasn't a trickster, exactly. She was just... different."
I paused, gathering the threads of memory. The fire crackling. The smell of woodsmoke and pine. Darian's voice, low and rhythmic, weaving the story into being. He'd told it to a crowd who understood whatpacksandferalsreally meant. I didn't have that luxury.
"There was a woman born between worlds," I began, choosing my words carefully. "Not quite belonging to the villages, not quite belonging to the mountain tribes. She had no home, no people—only herself and the wild spaces where outcasts go."
James had gone still. I could feel his attention like a physical thing, focused and intent.
"She was called the Trickster, though that wasn't quite right. She didn't trick—she revealed. She showed people what they really were beneath their masks and rules. The villages feared her laughter. The tribes distrusted her joy. Both called her dangerous."
I let myself fall into the rhythm Darian had used, the cadence of oral tradition.
"But in the high places lived the ferals—people who'd lost themselves to rage or pain, becoming pure instinct. Outcasts even among outcasts. Everyone feared them, hunted them, called them monsters." I paused. "But the Trickster? She sought them out."
"Why?" Elena asked, leaning forward.
"Because ferals couldn't lie. They were exactly what they appeared to be—wild, dangerous, broken, but honest. No politics, no manipulation. The Trickster would walk into their territories with no weapons, no fear, just herself."
The classroom had gone quiet. Not just our group—the clusters nearby had stilled too, students pausing mid-conversation to listen.
"The first feral she met tried to kill her, of course. But she laughed—not cruel laughter, but the kind that comes fromrecognizing something absurd. 'You're trying so hard to be scary,' she told him, 'but you're just hurt.' The feral stopped, confused. No one had ever seen past his rage to the pain beneath."
I heard Darian's voice layered under my own now, the story telling itself.
"She didn't tame him. She accepted him. Exactly as he was. She didn't try to fix him or change him or make him safe. She just stayed. Brought food. Told jokes to the wind. Danced under the moon. And slowly, the feral remembered things besides rage. Found something new. Something besides pain."
