Shadow of the Werewolf

by Magnus Hansen

  “Your mission?”

  Pursing his lips, Cathal cursed inwardly. He then lifted his hands and gently rubbed his temples. He needed to guard his thoughts more carefully. “Never mind,” he said warily. “I'm just tired.”

  Faolan crinkled his brow, but said nothing.

  Music started to play outside, coming from the direction of the campfire. From what he could hear, the instruments sounded like a lute and drums. The song was slow and mournful, much like a dirge. Cathal shot a questioning glance to Faolan.

  “Every Sunday night, the Slavs like to throw a big party and drink and dance. Since the wolf attacks and all that transpired this last week, I didn't think they would bother.”

  “It doesn't sound like much of a celebration,” noted Cathal. He walked over to the window on the far side of the cabin and propped open the wooden shutters. Peering outside, he could see four of the Slavic woodcutters, plus Domyan and Danika sitting around the campfire. Two of the loggers were playing their instruments, while Danika started to sing a hauntingly beautiful poem. She was on the other side of the campfire, staring into the flames as she sang.

  Cathal caught his breath as he watched her. She was such an unusual woman; elegant in manner yet so reserved. He found her absolutely captivating. Her soft voice carried through the evening, beckoning to him. He stood there for a moment, mesmerized by her beauty. Then, from the corner of his eye, he observed a slight movement. Turning his head, Cathal was horrified to see Domyan starting right at him; the foreman's judgmental eyes seemed to peer right into his soul. With a barely audible gasp, Cathal quickly turned away and walked back to his cot.

  “Do you think we should join them?” asked Faolan.

  “No,” Cathal quietly replied. “I think they are mourning their dead.”

  Chapter 10

  The next few days passed by without incident. If nothing else, the blisters on Cathal's hands started to heal. But as his hands healed, his thoughts became more troubled. Images of shadowy creatures clutched at the fringes of his mind, threatening his already disordered sense of reasoning.

  Shaking his head, Cathal waved off his encroaching dementia and continue to chop away at his birch trees. As he worked, he kept one eye on the northern treeline. He was almost certain the monster, that half-man, half-wolf beast, was just beyond the trees, waiting for him. Often, he would stop work and jerk his head wildly around at some imagined noise, only to realize a moment later that it was all a fabrication from his addled mind.

  At times, it seemed as if the mystery and danger that surrounded Cathal would melt away, and was replaced by a clarity of mind and conviction of purpose. At those times, he was positive that he understood the pieces of the puzzle before him – the connection between the different religions, the wolves, and most importantly, how they all pointed to that dark legend that dwelt in the forest.

  He became obsessed with those connections. He meticulously went over the different myths in his mind, piecing together fragments from different histories and different cultures to fill in the gaps. He compared the ancient gods to one another. What were the differences between Perun, the Slavic god of thunder, to Thor, the Norse god of thunder? What were the differences between the Turkish legend of the werewolf, to the Norse and Slavic legends?

  During one such moment of contemplation, Cathal put down his ax, turned to Gustav and asked, “What do you know of Fenris?”

  The old slave briefly paused from his labors and said, “Fenris is the great wolf, son of Loki, and harbinger of the end times. He will kill Odin, and in turn, be killed by Odin's son Vidar.”

  Cathal nodded impatiently. He already understood the myth. He wanted the Norseman's interpretation of the tale. He asked, “What does that mean to you?”

  Gustav leaned on the birch tree he was working on and contemplated for a moment. Finally, he said, “The myths are written in such a way that each man can interpret a personal meaning from them. That is why the Norse religion is so much more powerful than Christianity. While the pantheon of Norse gods reflect the nature of man, Christianity merely holds up a perfect deity, and expects man to conform to that impossible ideal.”

  “But why do you think the end times will be brought about by a giant wolf?”

  Gustav shrugged his shoulders. “In the case of Fenris, he is one of three children, born of a wicked father. Of course Fenris grew up to be an unruly wolf and had to be chained – he had the same blood as the trickster god Loki running through his veins. Isn't the son's penchant for destruction a consequence to the sins of his father? It shows that a man is responsible for more than himself, that his own wickedness reaches far beyond his own life, and affects all those around him, especially his children. Fenris, enraged at the world for the simple fact that he was brought into existence, means to destroy all of creation, if only to end his pain and torment from those who would chain him.”

  Cathal stood there, impressed with the slave's explanation. He found the Norse people quiet and contemplative. They might be outwardly boastful and jovial, yet inwardly they were brooding and forlorn. Was it because of the stark, cold landscapes they inhabited, or something else?

  He then looked over to Gustav's brother, Greger, who was still shaking and looking off into the distance. Greger was a quiet man, stoic even. Perhaps he was contemplating mysteries even greater than the riddles Cathal was trying to solve. Peering closer, he could see that the old slave was making smacking noises with his lips and drooling. A two-foot string of spittle was dangling from his mouth.

  Perhaps Greger wasn't as contemplative as he first imagined, grinned Cathal.

  A sharp whistle, far in the distance, caused Cathal to whip his head around. Peering into the woodline, he could see Domyan, motioning for him to come closer.

  “Cathal! Stop lounging around. You're needed back at camp.” With that, the foreman turned around and walked back into the woods.

  Gustav shot a worried glance at Cathal and asked, “Are you going to be okay?”

  “I'll be fine. I'm sure Greger will pick up the slack for me while I'm gone.” He offered Gustav a half-smile as he slung his ax over his shoulder. He then quickly walked back towards camp.

  When he entered the logging camp, Cathal spotted a curious thing – a large black cauldron sitting on the ground, with a huge stack of birch logs stacked beside it. Domyan was standing beside the cauldron, impatiently waiting for him.

  With an agitated sigh, the foreman said, “The chieftain just came by. He placed an order for a couple barrels of tar. Have you ever made tar before?”

  Cathal shook his head, no.

  “Well, come on then, it's not too hard. Even an Irishman can do it.” Domyan laughed as he kicked the black cauldron, causing it to ring like a giant, ominous bell. He then pointed to the stack of logs. “You're going to need to cut those logs into strips, about three inches thick, like this.” He picked up one of the logs and, with an ax, started to chop away at it. A few moments later, he had five evenly cut sections of wood, which he neatly stacked into the cauldron. “The trick is to have all these small strips of wood stacked side-by-side, pressed up against each other, so they hold in place. It will take you a few hours to chop all the wood. I've asked Mirko to lend you a hand.”

  Pursing his lips, Cathal nodded and gripped his ax. He would rather do this alone, than have to listen to Mirko all day. As he started to chop away at the birch logs, Domyan walked back to his cabin and closed the door behind him. A few minutes later, Mirko walked out of the woods and joined him.

  Without a greeting, the Slav sat on an old stump, took off his boots, and started to rub his feet. “Have you ever made tar before?” he asked in his raspy voice, while kneading his toes with his fingers.

  Cathal averted his gaze. “Domyan just showed me how.”

  “So you've never made tar before,” Mirko spat. He then put on his boots and stood up. Walking over to the tool shed, he grabbed a shovel, then walked back with a smug look on his face. “Just keep doing what
you're doing. I'll start digging a trench. With any luck, we'll be done by the end of the day.”

  “Why are you digging a trench?”

  “Just do as you're told, Irishman.” Mirko gave him a condescending stare, then started to dig. “If a senior logger tells you to do something, you do it. Why is that so hard?”

  Cathal didn't reply. He sighed inwardly. Of all the people he could have worked with, it had to be Mirko.

  “I hear you've been sneaking around, asking people about things better left unsaid.”

  “Sneaking?” asked Cathal, incredulously.

  Mirko coughed and spat upon the ground. He grabbed the front of his neck and grimaced. He then scratched at his scar and mumbled a curse under his breath. “The wolves have been a problem for Birka long before you arrived. They'll continue to be a problem long after you're gone. Whatever it is you're trying to do won't help matters. I can assure you of that.”

  “And what makes you so sure?”

  Mirko stopped digging and gave the Irishman a disdainful look. “What is it with you Irishmen? Always imposing yourself on everybody – just like your damned religion. If hundreds of screaming Norsemen in Birka can't solve the wolf problem, then I doubt one skinny Irishman will make much of a difference.”

  “I'm simply looking for a way to mitigate the danger; to save lives. Did you know that the Turks in the reindeer camp each get bows for protection?”

  “The Turks? Those idiots?” Mirko laughed, then coughed. “We have axes for protection. If a woodcutter isn't strong enough to defend himself with a good ax, then maybe he should look for another line of work.”

  “And what about the other creatures that lurk in the woods?”

  Mirko cleared his throat and spat once again. “Tall tales made by superstitious men. If there are such creatures, I've never seen them. Dammit!” He stopped digging and clutched at his throat.

  Cathal smiled inwardly. He had to admit, the Slav's discomfort from his damaged throat brought him a good deal of satisfaction. He wondered if Mirko's nasty disposition was a result of the hanging, or if he was always a miserable son of a bitch.

  For three solid hours, Cathal cut the birch logs into strips and placed them into the cauldron. Once the cauldron was tightly filled, they pushed it over the trench and turned it upside down.

  After sticking several handfuls of kindling beneath the cauldron, Mirko lit a fire, then explained, “Once the fire gets hot enough, the wood will start to burn and tar will drip down into the trench and then flow into this recession I've dug out. Every few minutes, you'll need to scoop out the tar and put it into one of these barrels. While you're waiting to scoop tar out of the pit, keep yourself busy by chopping wood for the next batch of tar.” He then dropped off his shovel by the tool shed and walked towards the sleeping quarters.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Mind your own damn business,” cursed Mirko in his raspy voice. He then coughed a few times and slammed the door shut behind him.

  Cathal didn't protest, he would rather work alone than with the sour woodcutter, even if it meant taking twice as long to procure the tar. He stood there impatiently, waiting for the tar to drip down into the trench. Finally, a thin trickle of gooey black liquid fell from the cauldron. Cathal shook his head in wonder; he never would have guessed that tar was made in such a manner.

  After an hour of scooping tar from the trench, the first batch was completed. Cathal had one of the two barrels filled with tar and was chopping extra wood into strips for the second batch. A few hours later, the second batch was complete. Exhausted, Cathal looked at his hands – they were stained pitch black. He imagined that his face looked the same way from all the black tar smoke.

  The door to the foreman's cabin creaked open and Domyan stepped out. He was carrying a curved horn, fashioned from a goat's antler. He blew on the horn, signaling the end of the workday. The foreman then walked over to Cathal and asked, “All done?”

  Pointing towards the two barrels, Cathal replied, “All done.”

  Domyan nodded and said, “Good, good. Where's Mirko?”

  With no small amount of satisfaction, Cathal pointed to the worker's quarters.

  Domyan scowled and marched over to the ramshackle building and stepped inside. A few moments later, Cathal could hear the foreman yelling Slavic curses, as a sleepy-eyed Mirko stumbled out of the building.

  Cathal laughed, just as Mirko snapped his head up and bore him a scathing glance. The Slav then clenched his fists and stomped off into the woods. A moment later Domyan walked out of the cabin, looked around, and asked, “Where is he?”

  Shrugging his shoulders, Cathal pointed towards the woodline. The foreman simply shook his head and walked back to his cabin.

  A few minutes later, the loggers started to enter the camp. They came from all directions, in ones and twos, wearied and worn. Biter then loped out of the woods, followed by Faolan.

  Cathal raised his hand to wave a greeting as Biter jumped up and placed his front paws on his shoulders and proceeded to lick his face. The great wolfhound then sneezed, after tasting the awful black tar that encrusted his skin. Cathal laughed and scratched the dog behind the ears.

  “You look like hell,” noted Faolan.

  “That bad, eh?” lamented Cathal. He tried to rub the black tar off his hands with limited success.

  “It takes a few days for the tar to wear off,” said Faolan.

  Nodding his head, Cathal asked, “You've done this before?”

  “Of course. The Norsemen use the tar to seal their longships. Every week or two we get an order to make that crap. It's a nasty job, so Domyan usually has the least senior worker procure the tar.”

  Cathal nodded his head glumly. “Heh, and here I thought he gave me the job because he didn't like me.”

  “Oh, he definitely doesn't like you,” laughed Faolan. “Come to think of it, I don't think he likes anyone.”

  “Well, I'm sure the feeling is mutual,” grumbled Cathal.

  The next morning, Cathal rejoined Gustav and Greger at the north end of the lumber camp. He was glad to be out chopping wood again, as he found procuring tar to be a foul, unhealthy assignment.

  As two of the men chopped wood, Greger continued to shake and stare off into the distance. Finally, Cathal put down his ax, turned to Gustav, and said, “I don't think your brother has chopped down a single tree since he started here.”

  “Don't you worry about Greger. If the wolves decide to attack us, you'll be glad he's here.”

  Cathal looked dubiously at the old slave. “You must be joking. He can barely stand on his own, much less fend off a wolf attack.”

  “You don't understand. Once the berserker rage overcomes him, absolutely nothing can stop Greger. If you ever saw him fight, you would hold your tongue,” spat Gustav.

  With narrowed eyes, Cathal looked at the old slave. Greger was shaking like dry leaf in a stiff breeze. He shook his head in exasperation, but decided not to make an issue of it.

  Later on that afternoon, Cathal started to get an uneasy feeling. It had been eleven days since the last wolf attack. In that time, he had not so much as seen a wolf lurking in the woods. He wasn't sure if his mind was playing tricks on him, but he was almost certain that he saw a few wolves darting between trees, far in the distance. He asked Gustav if he noticed anything. The old slave simply shook his head and continued to work.

  More than a little uneasy, Cathal hefted his ax and walked over to a new birch tree. In the last week, they had cleared quite a few trees from the area, and were pushing farther northward.

  The snap of a twig caused him to whip his head around. “Did you hear that?” asked Cathal.

  “I didn't hear anything,” huffed Gustav. It was getting late, and the old slave was showing signs of extreme fatigue. Every few minutes, he needed to take a break to collect himself.

  Snap. There it was again!

  With wild eyes, Cathal scanned the forest around him. Nothing. Far off in the di
stance, he heard the sound of Domyan's horn, signaling the end of the work day.

  “It's about damn time,” muttered Gustav.

  At that moment, Cathal saw a pack of four black wolves charge out of the treeline, racing towards them. He gripped his ax with white knuckles, frozen with fear. Behind him, a bony hand grasped his shoulder as Gustav leaned in and said, “Not to worry! Greger will take care of those pups.”

  Cathal whipped his head around and gave Greger an incredulous stare. The old man, who not two minutes ago was shaking like a leaf, held his ax high above his head and was shouting war-cries to Odin!

  Greger then sprinted forward, yelling like a man possessed.

  With a laugh, Gustav slapped Cathal on the back. “Now you'll see some real action!” the old man bellowed. “My brother's specialty is killing wolves!”

  Cathal watched in awe, as Greger sprinted right into the midst of the pack and swung his ax at the largest wolf. The wolf nimbly jumped to the side, causing the old man to miss and stumble forward. The three other wolves saw their opportunity and jumped on the Norseman's back, tearing into him with wild abandon. Cathal involuntarily winced as he could hear the crunch of bones as the wolves bit into him again and again. The old man screamed out in pain as he was dragged to the ground, with chunks of flesh ripped from his frail body.

  With crazed eyes, Gustav pulled at Cathal's tunic and screamed, “Run!”

  Chapter 11

  Cathal and Gustav ran as fast as their legs could carry them, as the sound of snarling and crunched bones faded into the distance. After a few minutes, Gustav fell to his knees and began sobbing. The old man was too exhausted to continue on.

  “Just leave me here,” he sobbed. “I don't want to live in this world without my brother.”

  Cathal grabbed him by the shoulders and pleaded, “Get up, get up!” He then turned his head towards camp and screamed for help as he dragged the old man down the trail.