“That damned woodcutter was the beast,” mumbled one of the Norsemen.
Mirko? Cathal was just as surprised as anyone else. Then something tugged at the back of his mind. He crinkled his brow in contemplation. That scar on Mirko's neck – he remembered Domyan saying that Mirko was hung by a group of Irishmen. Cathal knew the legend of the werewolf was alive and well in Ireland. People who were suspected of lycanthropy were tied to a post and burned alive, or hanged...
For a moment, Cathal scratched his chin and pondered the possibilities. Perhaps Mirko changed into a werewolf as he was being hanged? He shook his head; they would never know. But there was still at least one matter left to consider – Cathal was certain that Domyan knew more than he was letting on.
The chieftain had able-bodied men construct stretchers to carry the dead and wounded back to town. As Cathal tended to the injured, he could hear the clattering of axes chopping down branches to construct the litters. It didn't take long to realize that they didn't have enough people to carry the dead and infirm, so the chieftain instructed one man to run to the Turkish camp to get more help.
“How are you holding up?” asked Torsten.
Cathal looked up from his surgery and wiped his brow with the back of his wrist. “I'm fine. I wasn't injured in the attack.”
Nodding his head, Torsten said, “I want to thank you for what you did. One of my guardsmen told me what happened – how you risked your life to save my own. You've shown real courage, as much as any Norseman. I owe you my life.”
Cathal offered a weak smile. He knew that the men he was operating on would soon be dead from the frothing disease; it was only a matter of time. Hell, he might be dead within a week. Uncomfortable with the chieftain's praise, and morbidly mulling his own fate, he decided to change the subject. “After I killed the werewolf, the wolves seemed disoriented, as if they were under some sort of spell. A few moments later, they stopped attacking and ran into the woods.”
“Never mind all that,” said Torsten. “What matters is that the beast is dead, though it cost us gravely.”
“Yes,” whispered Cathal, as he bent his head and continued stitching together his patient. Was that it, then? Was the nightmare over? He had a nagging suspicion that there was more to this infernal puzzle. Then the words of the Turkish foreman rang in the back of his mind – There are at least three of those black demons prowling the forest...
As the chieftain walked away to tend to other matters, Cathal had a strange feeling that he was being watched. He looked up and slowly scanned the forest around him. Then he saw it – a single wolf, far in the distance, casually looking at him with discerning eyes. It then averted its gaze and loped off into the woods.
Several hours later, the hunting party had enough stretchers constructed to carry the wounded and dead back to Birka. Over a dozen Turks from the herding camp arrived to lend a hand. They were more than cooperative, and carried their heavy burdens without complaint.
Cathal was happy to see that Old Mats made it through the attack unscathed. Looking over the gathering of Norsemen, he counted a total of fifteen men who were uninjured, including the chieftain and Faolan.
“You are the hero of the day, eh?” beamed Old Mats, as he puffed on his pipe.
“I suppose so,” answered Cathal. “Although I don't feel heroic. I approached the beast from behind and struck him when he wasn't looking.”
“And if you didn't, the chieftain and everyone else would have died. Don't worry yourself over such things. Battles are a chaotic; anything can and will happen.”
Cathal offered the old fisherman a grim smile, but did not reply. He was bothered by too many questions. He knew that Mirko hated him, but the werewolf never singled him out. There was no recognition in the beast's eyes when it gazed directly at him. And to tell the truth, he saw no hint of humanity in those monstrous eyes, only hate and rage. Yet the werewolf did not hunt or kill the wolves. In fact, it seemed to somehow control them. He remembered the look the wolf in the woods gave him before it loped off. There was something else to the puzzle, just beyond his grasp. He was certain of it.
It took over four hours to drag the injured and dead back to town. With aching backs and feet, they set the stretchers down in front of the infirmary, then collapsed from exhaustion. As they sat on the ground, amongst the injured and dead, the nurses and the old völva rushed out and started to tend to the injured.
Cathal remembered the old völva. The woman refused to give him a needle and thread on account of the fact that he was a migrant. He shook his head and let out a long sigh; that seemed so long ago.
“There's the man of the hour,” said Torsten, as he took a seat on a stump, next to Cathal. The chieftain leaned forward and said, “Six-hundred and forty-two silver, by my count.”
“What?” asked Cathal.
“We lost a total of thirty men – twelve dead, and another eighteen men as good as dead. They'll die soon enough from the frothing disease. At twenty silver per man, that's six-hundred silver. Plus and additional forty-two silver for the wolves we killed.”
Cathal sighed and canted his head downward, looking at the ground before him. “You'll get your money.”
“Damn right,” said Torsten. “That money goes to compensate the families of the men we lost in battle.”
Cathal narrowed his eyes. He was fairly certain that half the Norsemen here in Birka didn't have families. They were here simply to make some silver, then move on to the next lucrative job, wherever that might be. “A representative from the church of Dublin should be here in a few weeks.”
“Good. After we get this situation sorted out and the injured are in the infirmary, come visit me in my longhouse. We have matters to discuss.” The chieftain then stood up and made his rounds, talking with the injured Norsemen.
Other matters? Cathal furrowed his brow. What other matters could he possibly be talking about? Something bothered him about the chieftain's manner – he didn't seem overly concerned with the men who fell in battle. Perhaps that was more a sign of the times than any lack of empathy on Torsten's part. They were working in a dangerous frontier town where the only motive was profit, after all.
What concerned Cathal the most, however, was the fact that over the last few months, Mirko was contented with killing his own people – the Slavs of the logging camp. He never made a full-scale assault on the Norsemen until they invaded his territory. There was something to that behavior; something more animal than human, but he wasn't quite sure what to make of it.
Cathal stayed at the infirmary for a time, helping where he could, though the old völva and the other nurses paid him no heed. Just as well, he mused. He had no desire to integrate with these people, in this cursed land of wolves and dark gods.
He spent most of his time tending to the Norsemen's wounds and helping the injured to their cots inside the infirmary. As he was finishing up, he noticed Faolan quietly sobbing over Biter.
“What's the matter?” asked Cathal. “Did the stitches come loose?”
“No,” said Faolan, in between sobs. “Biter will eventually die from the frothing disease. Then I'll have nobody.” He gently stroked behind the dog's ears.
“Were there any other bites or scratches on her body?”
“I don't think so. No.”
Cathal offered him a reassuring smile as he knelt down and patted Biter on the rump. “I think she'll be okay. Mirko didn't have rabies.”
Faolan looked up with a gleam of hope in his eyes. “That's right! I hadn't even considered.” He looked incredulous, with a smile spreading slowly across his lips. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
As the sun began to set, casting long shadows across Birka, Cathal made his way to the chieftain's longhouse. The guardsman at the front door nodded and let him in, which was a far cry from the disdainful conduct the man had for him before the hunting expedition.
“Have a seat,” said Torsten, as he motioned towards a large oaken table.
Cathal
eyed the chieftain carefully. It seemed that Torsten had spent the last couple of hours drinking. He could see his troubled, bloodshot eyes and reddened nose, and his slightly unbalanced posture as he swayed back and forth.
The chieftain sat heavily behind the table, where several half-empty jugs of mead and overturned cups were haphazardly scattered about. “Help yourself,” he absently pointed at the jugs of mead, as he grabbed the cup closest to him and drained its contents. It seemed that the day's events affected Torsten more than he had initially let on.
After carefully pouring himself a cup, Cathal took a few measured sips and said, “Not bad.”
“Eh?”
“The mead. It's not bad.”
“Ha! Yes, it's the good stuff. This is a celebration, to mark my conversion,” the chieftain slurred.
Cathal narrowed his eyes. “Conversion?”
The chieftain burped loudly and waved off the question. He set his cup heavily down upon the table and stared at his guest with watery eyes. “Something about your story doesn't add up.”
“What do you mean?”
“You say you're a doctor and a messenger from the Church of Dublin...that makes no sense. I've been a Christian for over ten years, and I've never heard of such a thing. I've heard of missionaries traveling to the far corners of the earth, spreading the word of the gospel, but you've never once mentioned your faith. That's very unusual for a messenger of god – they usually can't stop talking about Jesus.”
Cathal stiffened. What was the chieftain getting at?
“I've never heard of a Christian doctor making money from selling his services to heathen religions, either; unless they were on a mission.”
“I never claimed to be on a mission,” said Cathal.
“Hmm.” The chieftain looked at Cathal with suspicious eyes. “Tell me truthfully, is there an envoy coming from Dublin with my silver?”
“Yes. As I said, you'll get your money.”
“Then what is your position in the Church of Dublin?”
Cathal let out a heavy sigh. The accumulation of the day's events were starting to wear on him – the wolf attacks, the dying men, and the possibility that he might have contracted the frothing disease sent him to a dark, despondent place. “I'm not a member of the clergy, but I am a member of the church,” he said guardedly.
“How so?”
Cathal brought up his hand and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefingers. He closed his eyes for a moment, then said, “Before Ireland converted to Christianity, the people worshiped the old gods. Our gods were older than the Norse and Slavic gods, they were perhaps the oldest, most powerful gods ever known to man. We had worshiped those ancient gods for thousands of years before we converted to Christianity. Our traditions and beliefs held true power – far greater than the Christian church was officially willing to admit. The problem facing the church was twofold. One – our holy men didn't keep those thousands of years of ancient knowledge written down. That knowledge was passed down through an oral tradition. And two – the church, zealous though it was, understood that abolishing our religion would destroy thousands of years of accumulated knowledge. So instead of destroying our order, the Christian church silently integrated our religion into its own, allowing our religious leaders to continue on with our traditions, in exchange for sharing knowledge.”
The chieftain leaned forward in his chair and said, “You're not a Christian, then?”
“No,” Cathal admitted. “I'm a member of the ancient order that came before our lands converted to Christianity.”
“Which is?”
Cathal paused for a moment and considered his circumstance. He had already admitted far more than he should have; he was under an oath of secrecy that forbid divulging information about the council or their collaboration with the church. Finally, he shook his head and said, “I need your assurance that what I say next, never leaves this room.”
The chieftain straightened in his chair. “You have my word.”
After taking a deep breath, Cathal slowly exhaled and said, “Over one thousand years ago, the Celts ruled most of Europe and Britannia, but that was quickly changing. The Romans aggressively expanded to the north, slaughtering our people by the hundreds of thousands. They wiped out entire cities and did their best to destroy all traces of our religion and customs. They pushed us to the north, until eventually the Celts inhabited only Ireland and northern England. There the Celts made their last stand, it was a stalemate that lasted for hundreds of years. One of the Roman emperors even built a wall – Hadrian's Wall. The wall divided our land in two. To the north of the wall were the Celts, to the south, the Britons and Romans. After the Romans fell from power, Christianity swept over Europe. The Celtic religion that was once repressed by Roman gods was now repressed by the Christian god. However, the Christian clergy were more open-minded than the Romans. As I said before, instead of destroying every last trace of our religion, the Christian bishops and monks integrated our holy men under the very roofs of their own churches and monasteries.”
“And what were those holy men called?” asked Torsten.
Cathal looked at the chieftain with weary eyes and said, “The druids.”
The chieftain canted his head and gave him a sidelong glance. “Are you one of these druids, then?”
Shaking his head, Cathal said, “I'm not yet a full druid. It takes twenty years to learn the oral traditions – the myths, the medicines, and the histories. The druids must memorize a mountain of information. They are judges, philosophers, historians, and doctors. In addition, they are the caretakers of the most ancient knowledge that man has ever known.”
“How long until you become a full druid?” asked Torsten.
Cathal let out a weary sigh. “A few more years. They save the most ancient secrets and knowledge until the last year. It is then that I will become a full druid and be accepted into the Council of Thirteen. Until then, the council sends me on these investigations to prove my worth.”
“And that is why you are here now?”
Nodding, Cathal took another sip from his cup. “Yes, to investigate rumors of lycanthropy. You see, the Celtic religion has known of werewolves for thousands of years. The Norse, Turkic, and Slavic religions also mention lycanthropy in their myths. The druids have a great interest in these beasts, for reasons I'm not quite certain. But whenever a rumor reaches the shores of Ireland, you can be sure the druids will investigate, no matter where in the world the rumor originated from.”
The chieftain laughed and pounded on the table three times in quick succession. He then raised his cup high into the air and said, “A toast, then. It appears that neither one of us is Christian.”
Cathal furrowed his brow and asked, “How do you mean?”
“Isn't it obvious? We just suffered the worst wolf attack in the history of Birka. The Christian god has abandoned us. I have implored Odin to let me back into his fold, for this is a problem only the old gods can solve.”
“I don't understand. We might have suffered horrific losses today, but we did manage to dispatch the werewolf.”
Torsten looked intently at Cathal with haunted eyes; eyes that had seen far too much pain and sorrow. He then leaned forward and said, “I've always had my suspicions about that logging camp. Domyan in particular. You see, the wolf attacks didn't start until after those migrants came to our shores. Since then, year-by-year, the attacks have gotten worse. Not only have the rumors escalated, but sightings of the beasts as well, and I happen to know for a fact that there's more than one werewolf out there.”
Chapter 14
That night, Cathal slept in the chieftain's longhouse. Since it was discovered that Mirko was one of the werewolves, there was no telling how Domyan might react. Would the foreman deny any knowledge of Mirko's metamorphosis? Would he plan an all out attack on Birka? Unfortunately, their hands were tied; they simply had no evidence that Domyan had any connection to the wolf attacks.
Finally, it was de
cided that Cathal would stay with the chieftain until the matter was settled, or until the envoy from Dublin arrived in Birka; whichever came first. They came up with the excuse that, because he was a doctor, Cathal was needed at the infirmary due to the large influx of patients. This would allow him to freely visit the logging camp without suspicion.
The matter weighed heavily upon Cathal, as he realized the stakes were much higher now. Domyan was now aware that the entire town held him under suspicion. What would the foreman do?
The next day, as they formulated a plan to protect the town, the chieftain suggested a raid against the logging camp – a preemptive strike, before Domyan could mount an attack against Birka.
“I'm not sure the creature would do such a thing,” said Cathal.
“Why not? The werewolf just tore into fifty of the most able-bodied men in Birka. Could you imagine the destruction those beasts would cause with a surprise attack in the middle of the night?”
“Wolves are highly territorial. I think the reason they attacked us yesterday was simply because we were trespassing. And if you look at the attacks before yesterday, the werewolf was killing other Slavs, not Norsemen.”
“What are you getting at?” asked the chieftain.
Cathal canted his head to the side, searching for the right words. Finally, he said, “We might be overthinking this. I believe that the werewolf has a hatred for man and man alone, regardless of race. I believe that the creature hunts the closest, easiest target, as any predator would do.”
“Fine, let the damn beasts wipe out the entire logging camp, for all I care,” mumbled Torsten, throwing his hands in the air. He then shook his head and said, “All I can do is increase security and wait for another attack. There's no way the men of this town would volunteer for another hunting party. They certainly aren't afraid to die in battle, but dying a slow death from the frothing disease is less than an honorable way to go.”
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