Shadow of the Werewolf

by Magnus Hansen

  “We can't just assault the logging camp without evidence. Those men have rights, no matter how much suspicion they're under.”

  Torsten shook his head. “I leave it to you to come up with a plan, for the gods refuse to give me any guidance. They silently judge me from above. Perhaps Odin is punishing me for worshiping the Christian god.” He then looked at Cathal with haunted eyes and said, “Beseech your ancient gods, and find a way to rid this island of those damnable creatures once and for all!”

  Cathal was more than a little apprehensive from the heavy burden placed upon him. As their meeting concluded, he walked out of the chieftain's longhouse and marched his way towards the center of town. He should restock his supply of herbs, and perhaps visit the infirmary, but first he needed to visit the logging camp. Faolan was still at the camp, and he feared for his safety.

  He trudged northward towards the logging camp with a mounting sense of dread. The fear he had of Domyan conflicted with the feelings he had for Danika. What if she was a part of this? What if the whole camp was a pack of werewolves? What if Faolan was the werewolf, and he recently bit Mirko, making Domyan and the rest of the Slavs innocent? There were too many questions, and he realized that what he didn't know, could get him killed. He was walking into the camp blind.

  As he approached the logging camp, he saw Domyan standing by the campfire. A reindeer was strung upside down from an overhead branch, a steady stream of blood was pooling beneath it. The foreman was diligently cutting away at the carcass.

  Cathal cursed himself for his stupidity. He should have walked around the campfire, avoiding Domyan entirely. It was late morning now; Faolan would be at his post, chopping trees at the northern edge of camp.

  With his back facing him, Domyan said, “You're late for work, Irishman.”

  Dammit. Too late. Cathal involuntarily stiffened and said, “The chieftain asked me to stay at the infirmary to help with the wounded.”

  “Why? They'll all be dead soon,” said Domyan, without a trace of emotion. “That means I'm down two more workers – you and Mirko. Did the chieftain mention anything about reimbursing me for lost workers?”

  “No.”

  “Of course he didn't!” snarled Domyan, as he stuck his knife through his belt, then proceeded to rip the reindeer's hide off with his hands. He pulled the hide downward in stiff, jerking motions.

  Cathal involuntarily swallowed and said, “Twelve men died yesterday, and an additional eighteen men are lying in the infirmary. Birka is in a state of panic, and your worrying about your bottom line?”

  “Fretting about what can't be controlled, doesn't pay the bills,” snapped Domyan. “Due to the loss of income from the decimation of my workers, I'm forced to hunt, simply to feed my own people!” He then took the knife from his belt and proceeded to saw the head off the reindeer. Halfway through his labors, he turned and flashed Cathal a malicious grin. “Why are you here, then? Come to see my sister?”

  “N-no,” stammered Cathal, as he tried to maintain an assured countenance. He swallowed once again and said, “I need to talk to Faolan.”

  “Faolan's busy,” Domyan retorted. “You're not trying to take away another one of my workers, are you?”

  “Of course not. I simply need-”

  “G0 back to your infirmary, doctor,” Domyan interrupted. “Lest I skin you next.” He took a threatening step towards Cathal, casually spinning the bloody knife in his hand. Behind him, the reindeer's head dangled from a thin stretch of muscle, slowly spinning in place.

  With faltering footsteps, Cathal stumbled backwards. He then turned around and ran back towards town, floundering over the uneven dirt path.

  “You're a coward, Irishman!” Domyan yelled after him. “A damnable coward!”

  Cathal pressed forward, running as fast as his legs would carry him. Werewolf or not, Domyan was a deranged lunatic. After a few moments, he chanced a glance behind him. Luckily, the foreman wasn't following. He slowed his pace as he gasped for air. That was the last time he would visit the logging camp, he promised himself.

  The quarrel with Domyan bothered Cathal more than he cared to admit. He had no doubt the foreman could come after him at any moment; hunt him like that damned reindeer. And what could he possibly do about it? He was no hunter or warrior. He was a scholarly man, simply investigating a curiosity. He shook his head in dismay. It would take at least three more weeks until an envoy arrived from Dublin. Was he to wait and do nothing until then?

  He clenched his jaw and attempted to steady his nerves. No, he would take action. He would show the council that he could take initiative and resolve matters on his own terms, no matter the apprehension he felt.

  When he finally reached town, he turned and marched towards the booth that sold herbs and tinctures. He had depleted his stocks, tending to the injured Norsemen. After greeting the merchant, Cathal pointed to the herbs he needed – comfrey, calendula, elderberry and wolfsbane, among others. He pursed his lips; the chieftain should be paying for this. His lips then creased into a grim smile. He should have asked Domyan for his last two days of pay.

  After purchasing the herbs, he walked back to the chieftain's longhouse. The place was deserted. Just as well, he mused. What he was about to attempt, required his undivided attention.

  He sat at the table and spread the herbs out before him. He also placed a jug of water and a jug of mead beside him. He would need to procure a pure alcohol extract from the mead, to concoct the proper tincture for the poison he was planning to make. He then walked over to the hearth, located in the middle of the longhouse, and suspended the jug of mead over the flames. While the mead came to a boil, he searched the longhouse for as many cups, pans, and containers as he could find. He then let out a long sigh. This was going to take a while.

  He grabbed a pan and poured in some water. He then proceeded to pinch a mixture of various herbs into the water as he swirled the pan to and fro. As the water evaporated, he added in additional herbs, and then poured the alcohol extract into the mixture.

  Several hours later, he had a small vial filled with poisonous liquid. He shook his head; all that work for such a small amount. Luckily, all he would need to ingest was one small sip a day. With any luck, he would build up a tolerance to the poison after a few days.

  He held up the small vial in front of him and exhaled; it was now or never. Cathal brought the glass vial to his lips and sipped, then shuddered violently. As he finished, his whole body shook and convulsed. His lips and the tips of his fingers became numb, and he started to sweat. Sickly red splotches appeared on his skin as he clenched his eyes shut, willing the pain to go away. After a few minutes, the nausea subsided and his breathing returned to normal. By the gods, what a foul concoction! Cathal sat there, shaking, his pupils mere pinpoints. After a few more minutes, the painful symptoms receded to a manageable level.

  As Cathal cleaned up the mess of plates and pans he had scattered around his work area, he staggered and swayed. The poison upset his balance and caused his mind to wander and lapse. He thought he saw faint lights, just outside the periphery of his vision, but as he snapped his head around, nothing could be seen. Cathal clenched his jaw and tried to steady his nerves. It's just the poison, he assured himself. In a few days, if all went as planned, the symptoms should dissipate.

  An hour later, the chieftain walked into the longhouse with his daughter. Cathal was seated by the hearth, shivering and clutching his sides.

  The chieftain's affable nature turned to one of concern, as he noticed the red splotches on Cathal's sweat-drenched face. He asked, “Are you alright? You look like hell.”

  “I'll be okay,” mumbled Cathal. “I'm just not accustomed to the food here.”

  Torsten grinned and said, “Ah, the lutefisk! That takes a while to get used to.” He then pulled up a chair to the hearth and was about to say something when he looked around, crinkling his nose. “What's that smell?”

  “I was procuring some medicine for the patients at the
infirmary,” lied Cathal. He didn't want to tell the chieftain about the poison. Not yet, at any rate.

  “Well, if you must, do that nonsense at the infirmary. I don't want my daughter breathing in these fumes.”

  Cathal nodded and whispered an apology. It was all he could do to keep the nausea in the pit of his stomach.

  “Have you given further thought as to how we'll take care of our little problem?” asked Torsten.

  “I have given it much thought, and I'm beginning to formulate a plan, though I will need more time to consult with the gods. Give me one more day, and I will have the answer. I am certain of it.”

  Torsten looked satisfied. “Good! I will hold you to it then. I don't know if you've been out amongst the populace, but the entire town is frightened beyond measure. The Christian priest is spouting some nonsense about this being the end times; that god is punishing us for our heathen ways. And the völva at the infirmary is implying something else entirely – that the Norse gods are punishing the people of Birka for turning against them and worshiping the Christian god. The entire town is accusing each other for this mess, and if I don't do something soon, we're going to have an uprising on our hands.” He then leaned forward and said, “You have one day to come up with a plan. If we wait any longer, they'll be rioting in the streets.”

  Through a cloud of delirium, Cathal stared back at the chieftain and said, “Since I arrived at Birka, I've been piecing together this mystery. I've been able to connect and contrast the parallels between different myths and religions, and I assure you they all point to the same answer. A few more prayers and meditations and I will have my final solution. One day is all I will need.”

  The chieftain left Cathal to his meditations. Luckily, the physical ailments he was suffering through diminished greatly by the end of the day.

  After imbibing the concoction on the second day, he felt as if he were starting to build up a tolerance to the poison. No longer was he suffering from the cold sweats, nausea, or ugly red splotches across his skin. However, instead of suffering physical ailments, the poison continued to have an accumulative effect upon his mind.

  Sometimes he would see strange phantoms appearing from the fringes of his addled mind, and other times he would hear sounds that couldn't possibly have occurred. On numerous occasions, he would ask the guardsman stationed at the front door if he heard a particular noise, only to have the Norseman furrow his brow and look at him with concern.

  On the other hand, there seemed to be a strange benefit from taking the poison, at least from his muddled perspective. There were moments of extreme clarity, where he knew that his chosen gods were smiling down upon him. Cathal became certain that he understood the pieces of the puzzle before him, and how they all pointed to the dark legend that dwelt within the forest.

  Towards the end of the second day, Cathal sat in front of the hearth, wrapped in a wool blanket, despite the warm summer weather. He nodded his head more than a few times and said, “Yes, of course.” Then he would smile and chuckle to himself. Sometimes he would raise his hand and wave it before his face, as if shooing away some bothersome insect, yet there was nothing there. But despite his odd mannerisms, there was a stern conviction in his eyes.

  The front door swung open and the chieftain strolled in with a weary countenance. Shaking his head, he grabbed a chair and pulled it next to the hearth, opposite of Cathal. After wiping his brow with the back of his hand, Torsten said, “I hope you have your plan ready. The people of Birka are increasingly agitated, and there are rumors of insurrection!”

  Cathal smiled and said, “The gods have granted me wisdom; they have shown me what must be done.”

  The chieftain leaned forward. “I'm listening.”

  With his eyes shining in a blaze of fervent devotion, Cathal straightened in his chair and said, “There is an ancient evil that has pervaded the cultures of the known world for thousands of years. This evil has been around since the dawn of man. No, even further back – this evil has permeated this world since the dawn of the predator. Do you think man is the originator of evil? What a laughable concept! Man was preceded by the gods, and the gods were preceded by the titans. The gods suffer the sins of the titans, just as man suffers the sins of the gods. We wail and reach our hands to the sky, beseeching the gods for deliverance, from this evil that surrounds us, and yet the gods have remained silent to our prayers. Do you know why?”

  The chieftain looked back at him, through the flames of the hearth, and said, “It is because we have forsaken the old gods, in favor of this new, upstart religion.”

  “Yes! That's exactly it!” said Cathal excitedly. His hands were shaking, almost jittery, yet his eyes were focused. “There are so many similarities between the ancient religions. Did you know that the Tree of Life is a central symbol in Turkic, Slavic, Celtic, and Norse religions?”

  Torsten shook his head, no.

  “It's true!” said Cathal, almost too loudly. He then stood up and cast off the blanket he had wrapped around his shoulders. He bent down next to the hearth, and with his forefinger started to draw the picture of a tree on the dirt floor of the longhouse. “Let's take the Slavic religion, for instance – the religion shared by Domyan and the rest of the Slavs at the logging camp. You see? Up here, at the top of the tree, is where Perun resides. Perun is the god of thunder, same as Thor. In the Celtic religion, Taranis is the god of thunder. They reside up here, above the tree of life.” He then waved his hand above the drawing of the tree.

  “What are you getting at?” asked Torsten, narrowing his eyes.

  “Hear me out. Hear me out.” Cathal was almost maniacal in his enthusiasm. It was clear the poison was having more than a small effect upon his mind. “Below the Tree of Life are the roots, reaching all the way down to the underworld. In the Slavic religion, this is where Veles resides. Veles is the evil one; he despises Perun. The two gods have been locked in conflict for thousands of years, just as Thor and Loki have been!” He looked up to make sure the chieftain was paying attention.

  Torsten edged forward in his seat, with a perplexed look in his eyes.

  Shaking his head, Cathal said, “Don't you see? The evil comes from Veles – the same god Domyan worships. The same god he has been praying to since he arrived on this island! That is where the evil is coming from.”

  “What are we to do?”

  Cathal stood up and beamed with pride. “We must show the true gods that Birka is worth saving. We must show them that our conviction is strong! The only way to do that is through sacrifice. If we sacrifice enough people to the god of thunder, then he will strike down Veles, lifting the curse upon this town.”

  “But we can't sacrifice Norsemen to a Slavic god. That's preposterous!”

  “You won't be. Tell the people of Birka that the sacrifice is to Thor. Don't you understand? Perun, Thor, and Taranis are one and the same – they are the same god, interpreted by different cultures. Once we give him the offering he awaits, the curse upon this island will be lifted.”

  “And what manner of sacrifice are you suggesting?”

  “I propose we sacrifice the eighteen men in the infirmary, the ones who are tainted with the frothing disease. They will be dead by the end of the week anyway. Their burnt remains will let the god of thunder know of our conviction.”

  Torsten leaned back in his chair and scratched his chin. “You're certain of this?”

  Looking directly into his eyes, Cathal said, “I have never been so certain of anything in my life. It will take three days to construct the effigy. At the end of the third day, we shall have our ritual, and this nightmare will be over.”

  The chieftain, wracked with guilt for previously abandoning the old Norse gods, nodded his head in agreement. In his mind, it was the only way. As the flames of the hearth reflected in his eyes, he said, “Let it be done.”

  Chapter 15

  A flurry of activity commenced the next morning, as Torsten ordered every able-bodied Norseman to assist in construct
ing the enormous effigy. Oak planks that were reserved for the construction of longships were instead used to build the sacrificial statue. The construction took place near the shore, halfway between the roads of Birka and the fishing docks. Cathal could hear the workers madly sawing and hammering away at the project from the chieftain's longhouse.

  Several times a day, Cathal would walk down to the construction site and oversee the worker's progress, often with a critical eye. “No! Each leg needs to be wider – at least three feet wide, ten feet tall, and hollow!” he would yell at the exacerbated workers. “Think of each leg as a long cylindrical cage. Do you understand?”

  The foreman of the project would scratch his head and nod an affirmation, though he was more than a bit dubious as to what Cathal was asking. But he was under strict guidelines from the chieftain to follow the Irishman's orders, so he would reluctantly agree then shout orders to his subordinates.

  By the end of the first day, the construction of both legs of the effigy was complete. As they stood, reaching towards the sky, Cathal craned his head back and admired it's beauty; the structure was proceeding just as planned. In another two days, the effigy would be ready.

  “What in the hell is going on?” asked a familiar voice behind him.

  He turned around to see Faolan and Biter, each with a curious expression on their face. Cathal stepped forward, and with a gracious smile, hugged his friend. “Isn't it magnificent?” beamed Cathal, with a peculiar hint of madness glinting in his eyes. He then held Faolan at arm's distance and said, “It is a monument to the old gods; a shining beacon of our devotion. It will be the most glorious effigy ever offered to Taranis.”

  A worried look crossed Faolan's face, as he stepped backward. His friend was acting in a very odd manner. “Are you sure you're okay?”