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When you struggle with your mental health on a daily basis, it can be hard to take action on the things that matter most to you. The mental barriers anxiety creates often appear insurmountable. But sometimes, when you really need to, you can break those barriers down. This week, with encouragement from some great people on the internet, I pushed against my anxiety and made some calls to members of our government. Here’s a comic about how you can do that, too. (Resources and transcript below.)

Motivational resources: There are a lot! Here are a few I really like:

Emily Ellsworth explains why calling is the most effective way to reach your congressperson.

Sharon Wong posted a great series of tweets that helped me manage my phone anxiety and make some calls.

Kelsey is tweeting pretty much daily with advice and reminders about calling representatives. I found this tweet an especially great reminder that calls aren’t nearly as big a deal as anxiety makes them out to be.

Informational resources: There are a lot of these, as well! These three are good places to start:

Find your representative at house.gov

Find your senators at senate.gov

Use the “We’re His Problem Now” scripts when calling (or write your own!)

Take a sneak peek at the Adventure Cats book! Pre-order a copy and be the first to get your paws on it!

This is my cat Tappy, but at Christmas I call her Catzilla. She always makes herself a spot in the Christmas village even if it means knocking trees aside or biting villager’s head.

ARMORED IN THE DEAD by China DeSpain

You can learn all you need to know of a civilization, the Elders say, by observing the ways they treat their dead. I can only suppose this is true, as I have never left my town, but I’ve heard stories. Tales of the Zazaru people to the north, who hide their dead beneath the ground, as if the corpses are secret treasure. Or the Wefts who live along the sea and whose dead are kept in small houses made of stone, so that they will have eternal shelter in the afterlife.

My people are not blessed with a luxury of land for storing the empty shells of our departed. Instead, it is our custom to burn our dead and paint ourselves with the ashes. We wear our lost like armor, a protective skin of familial blood and bone, and today I will shield myself in what is left of my mother.

With her death, I’m called upon to take her place as Leader. Gael teases that I’m too young for the role, but at seventeen, I’m two years older than she was when she took up the mantle. Her legacy looms large, and I must rely on my meager training and consecrated blood to live up to her.

That’s why I step toward her smoldering funeral pyre with a bravery I do not feel. The Council of Elders surrounds me, and with care, I dip my copper bowl into the remains of my mother. On a quick breath, I plunge two fingers in. Without flinching, I streak the still-hot ashes across my face and neck, making my mother a part of me, just as I have always been a part of her. The Elders nod as one, and I know what it means—they’ve accepted me, they’ve seen me fulfill my duty, and at any moment, they will initiate me into my new role.

“Calia,” Elder Radmir intones. “You will follow us now.”

In perfect unison, they turn and march away from the pyre, their smoke-gray robes swirling in the dust. I glance at the embers once more, and Gael takes my hand.

“I’ll stay with her,” he whispers, squeezing my fingers.

His mother and sister are here, too, as are many of the families who helped raise me. I know they are here for me, not Mother, and their support clogs my throat. I won’t let them down. I swallow the lump and nod to them all, then follow in the Elders’ wake, the remnants of my mother still hot on my skin.

In the ceremonial tent, one of the death artisans washes my face with a rough cloth. She takes the bowl from my hand, and using a damp brush, reapplies my mother’s ashes to my skin. This time it’s not in streaks and smears, but in carefully executed whorls, flowers, and dots. My face and neck are her canvas, my mother her paint, and when she is done, I will be rendered a work of delicate, precise art.

“Do you fear your new role?” she asks. “The beasts?”

How to answer that? Of course I do. The creatures in our forest are deadly and I’ll be alone with them. But a true leader shows no fear.

“Who am I to fear destiny?” I finally say.

Once she finishes her work, she hands me a robe not unlike that of the Elders’, except in the dull, dusky blue hue of a river stone. I emerge from the tent and stride to the altar at the center of our town, where I stand before the Council.

“Calia Glass,” Elder Paloma says. “Do you know why you are here?”

I nod. “I have been summoned to take my mother’s place as Leader.”

“And do you accept the responsibilities therein?” she asks.

This is the moment. Perhaps I could try to refuse, walk away and start a new life in the north, leaving my home and the people who raised me to fend for themselves. Or I could accept my familial duty and all it entails, and keep my village safe. There is no real choice.

“I do.”

#

It’s been six generations since our town has seen war. The Elders say it’s because the gods smile on us, while the villagers whisper that a demon is our true protector. Only my family knows the truth.

Yes, my people know what haunts the forest and they’ve learned to keep their distance. Yes, they know we must subdue the Panthahunds to keep the village safe from them. But they do not know we force the creatures to protect us, to serve as an army of sorts. That aspect of our power has been kept secret by every member of my line.

Without us, our village would fall.

When I am of age, I will be allowed to take a lover. Not a partner, but a mate who will give me a child. He will not be involved in the parenting, the training, the life the child and I will lead. He will be honored and respected for his contribution to my line, but that is all. Whomever I choose, when the time comes, will not be allowed to refuse me.

But until then, I will live in seclusion, in the mist-shrouded hut in the forest. I’m the only one allowed there, the only one who can serve as Leader. If I fail, not only will I die in agony, but my line will end without anyone to take my place. That is a failure I cannot bear.

“Calia,” Radmir says, bringing my attention back to the Elders. “You know what we expect of you. Do not disobey.”

I stare at him, meeting his cold blue gaze. He wants my vow that I will be different from my mother, that I will not flout the rules as she did. I know this, because he and the other Elders have impressed this upon me time and again, whenever my mother left me in the care of the villagers.

“You have my word,” I say.

The Elders accept my pledge and excuse me, sending a Council servant to escort me home. This is the last time I will walk in the village until it’s time to procreate, and I have only a few hours to pack my belongings—the hand-bound journal I will keep my notes in, the delicate scarf Gael’s mother wove for me, my mother’s beaded necklace—and settle my affairs.

Naturally, Gael is waiting in my room.

“Did you do it?” he asks.

His dark gaze bores into me, and I look away. “What do you think?”

“I think you have the right to choose your own path.”

I shake my head. “You know I don’t. I’m the only one who can serve as Leader. Would you really have me abandon our people?”

He takes my hand, running his thumb along mine. His touch is tender. It makes me want to weep. “Five years, Calia. How am I supposed to go that long without seeing you? Without talking to you?” He strokes my thumb again. “Without touching you? And what if…” He swallows hard. “What if something happens to you out there? There won’t be anyone to help you.”

“I’ll be fine. We both will. You have work of your own. And Talisha Ren has her eye on you.” I nudge his ribs and he rolls his eyes.

“Talisha has her eye on anyone with a stubbled jaw and strong bicep. I’ll wait for you.”

“You can’t. I can’t come back to this life.”

“You can choose me when the time comes. I could be your mate.”

I shake my head. We have not yet kissed, and I won’t cheapen our connection by asking him to be a breeder. “I won’t do that to you. You deserve better. And so do your children.”

I wrap him in a quick, fierce hug, and then hurry from my home before he has the chance to see the tears slipping down my cheeks.

#

When I stride into the forest at sunset, I am alone. It’s quiet, without the trills of birds or the songs of insects, though they must be around somewhere. The unnatural silence doesn’t surprise me. This is not a forest of life. The Panthahunds that dwell here are smart, savage, and spectral. Not fully of this world.

I walk with my spine straight and my shoulders thrown back, hoping to project an image of confidence and courage. I cannot appear afraid. The ashes on my face help. They scent me with death, a much-needed camouflage here.

The Leader’s Hut is waiting for me, a solitary space in the midst of banyan trees. Inside, it is dusty and stale with disuse, a stark space for a lonely job. My mother was the last one to live here, and yet, there’s no sign of her. No lingering scent. No stray hairpin. No forgotten journal.

Nothing.

It’s as if she never existed, and the weight of her absence is crushing.

In what passes for the hut’s kitchen, I collapse. The sobs—the ones I held fast before the pyre and before the Elders and before Gael—wrench themselves loose now, wracking my body and turning my mother’s ashes to mud.

How could she leave me like this? I’m not ready!

I swipe at my eyes, but the ashes blur my vision, and self-pity gets the best of me. If this is to be my fate, my mother should have trained me better. Without her, I am lost, horribly unprepared for the task ahead of me.

I should have spent my life preparing in this hut, but no, she had to break tradition. When she mated, she decided not to rear me in the forest where the beasts roamed, nor allow me to be raised by the man who fathered me. Instead, she claimed a small house in town as her own, and brought me up there. During her stints in the forest, which were frequent and could last for weeks at a time, she left me in the care of the villagers—often Gael’s family.

The Elders frowned on her for this; they believed I should have been isolated in the forest, focused on my training. But she refused, and they couldn’t force her, because they relied on her service. But unlike my mother, the Elders prepared me well: I’ve been warned all my life not to do the same. They needn’t have worried. I’m not strong as she was. I don’t break the rules.

I wish I knew how she managed it. I wish I could go back.

More than anything, I wish she were still alive.

The Panthahunds live as a pack, working as one swift and deadly unit. Now I must insert myself into that pack as their alpha, just as my mother did before me and her father did before her. But how can I be expected to control them? I have never even seen a Panthahund—all I know of them is what Mother told me.

I was seven when we first discussed it, a conversation emblazoned on my memory. She had picked me up from Gael’s house and we walked from one end of the village to the other.

“This is what we protect, Calia,” she said, gesturing at the rows of rough-hewn wooden homes. “It’s why I go to the forest. It’s why you’ll live there one day.”

“What do you do there?”

She smiled, but it was grim. “I battle the Panthahunds. They are semi-corporeal creatures, impossible to kill or destroy, but fully capable of doing both to our people. It is an endless job.”

I didn’t know what semi-corporeal meant, but she brushed that aside and continued with her lecture. We were standing at the far edge of the village by then, where the waves of the bay crashed upon the rocks.

“The beasts are feral and vicious, but we have one advantage,” she said. “They hunt only in the early morning, when the mists shroud the forest. That is when we meet them. At night, we are safe.”

“That’s why you leave in the mornings?”

She nodded. “The beasts are clever, Calia. They watch and they wait, and they strike in unguarded moments.”

She knelt, so she was looking me right in the eye. “This is the most important part of the lesson and our family’s secret. The Panthahunds are our village defense. We are the their masters, and the beasts do not like being enslaved. We can use them to fight our enemies, to guard us. This is what keeps our village safe from war.”

The job is mine now.

Gripping the table’s edge, I drag myself back up. If I cannot yet bring myself face the Panthahunds, then at least I can tidy up this hut. I find a rag in a cabinet and assault the layers of dust. The hut, though basic, has running water that I use to wash the crockery. I hang the bedding over a low branch and beat the dirt out of it, grateful for the scattered bits of citrus peel that discouraged insects from making my sheets their home. I sweep, and I scour, and I scrub, and by moonrise, the hut is habitable if not homey.

I remake the bed and drop to my knees, praying to my mother for guidance.

Please give me the skills to survive and thrive as Leader.

Please let me see Gael again one day.

Please do not let tomorrow be my last day in this world.

And then I collapse on the bed and let sleep embrace me in its comforting arms.

#

Rain pummeled the hut through the night, and this morning the forest is humid, shrouded in a heavy haze. Insects swarm the air, thick as blankets, and in the distance, I can hear the eerie howls of the Panthahunds. I’m no more prepared to take them on now than I was yesterday, but I must try. I still have the bowl of Mother’s ashes, and I paint my face anew, ready for battle.

I stripe it on like war paint, feeling a rush deep within me. This is my armor, the custom of my people, and the power of my ancestors races in my blood. Emboldened, I tighten my boots, weave twirls of lemon peel into my braids to discourage the insects, and set out to find my pack.

The only item I bring with me is the Leader’s whistle. It is the lone tool Leaders have, as weapons are useless against spectral beasts. I inherited the whistle when I accepted my position, and legend says it will assist in training the Panthahunds. I assume it works, since my mother must have used it before me.

The whistle is slim and white; the Elders’ stories say it was carved from the leg bone of one of the Panthahunds themselves. How this is possible, when they are not fully corporeal, I do not know. Maybe it is merely a tale meant to make me feel better.

It doesn’t.

When I’m far enough into the forest, I blow the whistle: three short, sharp tones. Almost immediately, I hear rustling, both in the underbrush and from above, in the leaves of the canopy.

The beasts are coming.

#

They are like nothing I have ever seen.

The Panthahunds have bodies like jaguars, with fierce claws, and the heads of vicious, slavering hounds. They are large and stocky, but with a translucent quality to their striped bodies that allows me to see through them to the ferns behind.

They hurtle from the trees and ferns like a fog rolling in, solidifying more and more as they grow close. The pack encircles me, hackles raised and growling, an unearthly sound that raises the hair on my arms. I blow the whistle again, a single, brief blast, and they step back. Even so, their predatory manner doesn’t change. I count sixteen of them; they reek of wet, dank fur and something rotten. Howls in the distance tell me that this is just part of the pack, and beads of sweat pool in the curve of my lower back.

The biggest one, the current alpha, lifts its great head and yowls. I jump back at the screech and wipe my damp palms on my pants.

I can do this.

I blow the whistle again, and they stay in their slow, pacing circle. It’s clear from look in their yellow eyes that they’re waiting for a chance to disembowel me. But the whistle seems to hold them at bay—for now.

“Sit!” I order in the most authoritative voice I can muster.

They do not sit.

“Sit!” I yell even louder this time, pouring all the alpha control I can muster into the command.

The big one growls, but drops to its haunches and the rest follow suit. A quicksilver burst of success surges through me, an actual physical power in my veins. This is what it is to be Leader! But it’s short-lived. The beast rises again only seconds later, and this time it moves closer.

No.

I stand taller and hold my ground, making eye contact with the Panthahund, proving myself dominant. Its growls do not abate, but it steps back and sits. I bask in the glow of success.

Then the beast leaps up and our battle begins anew.

I try again and again, but that tingle of success doesn’t return, and the Panthahunds continue prowling as if they sense the weakness in me.

How am I supposed to do this? I’m keeping some of them distracted, true, but this isn’t nearly enough to protect the village. The rest of the pack could attack while I’m stuck here. Why didn’t my mother give me some specific way to bend these creatures to my will, a plan of attack?

Instead, all I have is my birthright, my determination, a whistle, and my armor.

It must be enough.

I roll my neck, trying to relieve the tension that’s settled there. I’ve been at this for hours, and every muscle aches with the strain of keeping these beasts from killing me. The Panthahunds have far more patience than I. They’ve settled into a rhythm, taking turns lashing out and testing me, claws raking the air near my face. But with the whistle keeping them back, we’re deadlocked.

Frustrated, I take the biggest breath I can and blow the whistle, an endless, shrill shriek. I keep it going as long as I can, until spots dance before my eyes. It finally breaks the Panthahunds’ willpower and they retreat, leaping back into the trees. This is something, at least. I cannot control them yet, but I can drive them away. Perhaps I will have better luck tomorrow.

I turn, ready to make the long march back to the hut, and that’s when they strike. One of the creatures springs from behind a stand of ferns and lunges at me. I duck to the left, stumbling over a low branch, and fall to my knees. The beast lets out a guttural roar and the others come running.

I scramble to my feet and sprint, hindered by a newly twisted ankle. I have no hope of outrunning them; my only shot is to beat them back with the whistle. I scramble behind a tree for cover and fumble in my pockets, but they’re empty.

The whistle is gone.

I press my back against the bark and consider my choices. Climb the tree and hope they leave. Keep running on the slight chance that I will make it either to the hut or the village. Or stand tall against them and dig deep within for that shimmering sensation of authority I felt earlier—the power in my blood that marks me as their alpha—and hope that this time, they obey my commands.

I reach up and skim my fingers along my cheek. My mother is with me; she is my armor against the beasts. I feel her presence suddenly, almost as if she were standing next to me. A placid warmth settles over my bones and I can hear the words she made me repeat, a mantra I learned by rote: I was born for this role.

“I was born for this role.” I tell myself, I tell the beasts, I tell the world. “I was born for this role!”

Once again, the silvery burst of alpha power surges within me, and my fear is replaced by a strange, calm certainty. I will not fail.

I step back around the tree to face my fate.

China DeSpain a former bookstore manager, teen librarian, publishing intern, and blogger who received her MFA in Creative Writing: Writing for Young People from Lesley University. She’s the creator of the Wary Tales collection of feminist fairy tales and co-host at the short story site Vine and Bean, a café of the imagination.