Shadow of the Werewolf

by Magnus Hansen

  For a moment, Cathal was taken back. A suppressed part of his mind understood that he was acting in an irrational manner, but for the life of him, he couldn't care less. The poison that permeated his addled mind compelled him onward, quelling all rational doubt. “I've never felt better,” he assured his friend. “In a couple of days, the curse will be lifted. Birka will once again be under the protection of the old gods, as it should be.”

  Faolan narrowed his eyes and canted his head to the side; his finer Christian sensibilities taking hold of him. His initial reaction was to lash out and condemn the blasphemous monument, but instead he simply shook his head and said, “I don't understand.”

  With an assured smile, Cathal replied, “I will tell you the same thing I told the chieftain: I am certain the Slavic god Veles is responsible for the evil behind these wolf attacks. And who is the mortal enemy of Veles? Perun, god of thunder! You see, not only do the Norse, Slavic, and Celtic religions acknowledge werewolves, but they each have a god of thunder. Thor is the Norse god of Thunder, Perun is the Slavic god of thunder, and Taranis is the Celtic god of thunder! I have supplicated Taranis for his wisdom, and he has shown me the way. To purge this town of corruption, we must construct a giant wicker man, made of wood and packed with humans, to sacrifice to the gods. Only then shall the ancient ones deliver us from evil!”

  Shaking his head, Faolan held up his hands and said, “Are you even listening to yourself? That sounds like complete madness!”

  Cathal leveled his gaze at his friend and said without a hint of equivocation, “Sanity is a small price to pay for the favor of the gods. You of all people should understand.”

  “How do you mean?” asked Faolan.

  “Back in Ireland...haven't you heard of the legend of St. Patrick and the werewolves?”

  Shaking his head, Faolan said, “Maybe...when I was a boy. What are you getting at?”

  “Five hundred years ago, when St. Patrick came to Ireland, he was incensed that certain tribes refused to convert to Christianity, so he cursed them, turning the supposed heretics into werewolves.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Isn't it obvious? There's nothing in the Christian doctrine that would have given St. Peter the knowledge or power to do such a thing. It was the druids that instructed St. Peter in such matters.”

  Faolan shook his head, uncomprehending.

  “St. Peter took the ancient knowledge of the druids and used it to suit his own needs, without the concession of the Celtic gods-”

  “Stop! Just...stop it. You are making a mockery of Christianity, twisting these fables, and that's what they are, fables, to suit your own convoluted needs. I mean, just look at you!”

  “Faolan, I-”

  The Irishman held up his hands, interrupting Cathal once again. “I want no part of this – whatever this is. I simply came down here to tell you that Torsten arrested Domyan and Danika. They're both in holding cells in Birka, awaiting trial.”

  “What? He can't do that without any evidence.”

  “Apparently, he has witnesses.” Faolan stared at the giant legs of the effigy, then shook his head in exasperation. “I fear for your safety. What if, after you sacrifice all those Norsemen, nothing happens? They'll crucify you.”

  “Don't distress yourself over such matters. Taranis has a plan.”

  With a heavy sigh, Faolan turned around and walked back to the lumber camp. He knew that his friend was beyond reason.

  “Faolan, stay! There's nothing for you back at the lumber camp. With Domyan locked up, how will you be paid?”

  As he walked away, the Irishman briefly turned his head and replied, “I won't be a part of this madness. I hope you come to your senses before it's too late.”

  Cathal sat by the hearth, staring into the flames. He was pleased with the day's progress. Both legs of the effigy were constructed, and the laborers were currently working on the torso. Cathal insisted they work in shifts, and work diligently through the night. It was the only way the statue would be completed in time for the ritual. They had a span of three days, where the full moon would be shining overhead.

  It was late in the evening, and the chieftain had just tucked his daughter into bed. Torsten wandered aimlessly about the longhouse, drinking mead and mumbling curses under his breath. The responsibilities of leadership never seemed to end, he lamented.

  Cathal watched the chieftain for a time, then finally asked, “What evidence do you have against Domyan and his sister?”

  Torsten barked out a short laugh and said, “What evidence do I need? We recently came under one of the worst attacks in this town's history. I'm simply mitigating the chance of another attack.”

  “But surely you can't just imprison someone without a trial. There are laws...”

  “Oh, but there will be a trial,” said Torsten with a vindictive grin. “In a couple of days, during the ritual sacrifice to the gods, Domyan and Danika will be brought before the judges. They will determine if the foreman and his sister are innocent or not.”

  Judges? Cathal understood only the rudiments of Norse law. The judges in Norse society were people of high station, respected and venerated, but they were not impartial. No doubt they would look unfavorably upon the Slavs. He scowled; Cathal didn't care what happened to Domyan, he was sure the foreman was guilty of something, but his sister...

  The fringes of Cathal's muddled mind twisted and pulled at his sanity. He held his fingers to his temples and rubbed in a measured, circular motion. Would he simply stand by while his beloved was unjustly accused?

  He let out a sharp laugh. Beloved? Since when did he think of Danika in that way? He must be more unbalanced than he initially thought.

  “Eh? What's so amusing?” asked Torsten.

  “Nothing. Everything,” answered Cathal, as he continued to stare into the flames of the hearth.

  From behind him, Cathal heard the chieftain mutter another curse, then he heard a muffled thump, as Torsten crashed into his bed. Soon, loud drunken snores reverberated throughout the longhouse.

  With an exasperated exhale, Cathal stood up and paced the dirt floor of the main room, shaking his head. His frustrations mounted with each step; he had to see her. He shot a furtive glance towards the chieftain's bedroom, he then quietly opened the front door of the longhouse and escaped into the night.

  “Where are you going?” asked the guardsman stationed outside the door.

  “Where do you think? I'm checking on the statue's progress,” lied Cathal, as he stomped down the dark trail. After he was out of the guard's sight, he turned to his left and walked towards the prison cells – a series of small wooden structures used to house criminals awaiting trial.

  Luckily, Torsten informed his guardsmen that Cathal had full authority, and they were to comply with all his requests relating to the ritual and the effigy. As Cathal approached the prison cells, he asked the guardsmen which cell housed the female Slav. He was quickly directed to a small, dark, windowless cabin.

  After instructing the guardsman to wait ten paces from the holding cell, Cathal walked into the pitch-black room and closed the door behind him.

  “I recognized your voice,” said Danika, as she sat up in her cot.

  Cathal squinted his eyes, straining to see through the darkness. “Are they treating you well?” he asked.

  “As well as could be expected.”

  With his hands held out before him, Cathal found the edge of her cot and sat down beside her. He felt more than a little awkward. He wanted to say so much to her, yet he could not find the right words. Finally, he said, “I'm sorry. I had no idea Torsten was planning to have you and your brother arrested. I didn't find out until Faolan informed me just a few hours ago.”

  “There's nothing you could have done,” lamented Danika. “The chieftain has despised us since the day we arrived in Birka. He's been looking for an excuse to lock us away.”

  “Still, it's not right. Hell, I don't think it's even
legal.” Cathal shook his head, unsure of what to do or say. Finally, he said, “What do you think will happen to you?”

  “Banishment, if we're lucky. But I don't think we'll be so fortunate. The people of Birka need closure, and it seems that my brother and I are going to be the victims for their groundless accusations.”

  Cathal let out a heavy sigh and said, “I figured as much.” He then stood up and walked to the door. He opened the door slightly and peered through the crack, then quietly closed it. “I can get you out of here. I'll distract the guards, and you can make your escape-”

  “To what end?” she interrupted. “We're on a small island; trapped. There's simply nowhere to run.”

  He walked back towards her and sat down. If only he could see her dark brown eyes; her blond hair. “I wish things could have been different between us. I'm not ashamed to admit that I've thought about you often.” Cathal caught himself, afraid he might say too much. His muddled state of mind granted him moments of dreadful confusion and moments of great clarity. He wasn't even sure if his feelings for her were real or not. He cursed himself inwardly; if only he had more time.

  She placed her hand on his knee and said, “In another life, perhaps.”

  Cathal placed his hand over hers and choked back a sob that stubbornly rose in his throat. “Yes, in another life.”

  As he stood up to leave, he felt her hand fall away from his knee. He clenched his jaw and stepped forward. Before he reached for the door, he said, “How long did you know about Mirko?”

  Her voice sounded distant and full of regret. “I knew about him from the very beginning.”

  “And your brother, is he one of them?”

  Silence.

  After waiting for a moment, he quietly opened the door and stepped outside. A warm summer breeze washed over him. He could smell the salty air from the ocean. Looking to his left, he could see the small windowless cell where Domyan was being held. Cathal furrowed his brow. If Domyan could turn into the same creature as Mirko, then he could easily break out of his cell. So why didn't he?

  With measured steps, he approached Domyan's cell, then stopped. There was nothing to be gained from talking to the man. Cathal knew that Domyan would never give up his secrets, and yet the council expected him to procure as much information as possible for their chronicles. Shaking his head, he stepped forward and waved the guardsman away. Then, reaching for the door handle, he froze.

  “Just a moment,” he told the guardsman. “Have your weapon ready.”

  The guardsman grabbed his ax and rested the haft of the weapon casually on his shoulder, unaware of the danger present.

  Cathal let out a short, agitated exhale. Steeling his nerves, he opened the door. Moonlight washed into the small room, revealing a man who was standing next to the door. The light only came up to his shoulders, leaving his face veiled in darkness.

  “You've been talking to my sister,” said Domyan in a listless tone.

  “I simply wanted to know her side of the story.”

  “I'll bet,” he laughed. “So tell me the truth. Were you working for the chieftain all this time?”

  “What?”

  “Heh. For a doctor, you sure are slow on the uptake. I had my suspicions about you the moment you walked into my camp. I figured the chieftain would hire someone from the outside; someone who wasn't a Norseman to come and spy on me.”

  “No. I can assure you that I'm a doctor from Ireland.” Cathal then stiffened, as he heard a sniffing noise coming from the foreman.

  “You smell that?” said Domyan in a low whisper.

  “I...what?” He could see moonlight glinting off the foreman's teeth as Domyan snarled.

  “Lies. Do you smell the lies?”

  Suddenly, Cathal felt as if he were clutched in ice. His distraught mind saw inky monstrosities reaching out from the darkness, towards his petrified soul. He stumbled back a step, then slammed the door shut, as Domyan laughed a banshees laugh.

  “You think this is a game, Irishman? You think you can come into my camp, steal my secrets, and fuck my sister? You know nothing!” he screamed.

  Crack! The thick oaken door bulged outward for a second as Domyan slammed against it. He then started to pound on the door with his bare hands. “You'll be the last to die, Irishman! I'm saving you for last!”

  Cathal tripped over his feet and fell backwards. He then lurched forward and stumbled down the dark path towards Birka, as Domyan continued to scream and pound on the door from inside his cell.

  Chapter 16

  The next morning, Cathal woke up to the sound of hammering and sawing. He was in the chieftain's longhouse, curled up in the corner of the main room, sleeping on the dirt floor with a few inches of straw scattered beneath him for padding. As he pushed his way to a sitting position, he gazed out the window. From the position of the sun, it appeared to be late morning.

  With a yawn, he tossed aside the woolen blanket that was covering him. He then stretched and slowly wiped the sleep from his eyes. Clutching his head, he muttered a few curses; he wasn't sure if the hammering was coming from the construction site or from inside his head.

  That reminded him – it was time to take his daily dose of poison. He took the small vial from one of the pouches cinched to his belt and held it before him. His stomach involuntarily heaved as he looked at the greenish-black mixture. Shaking his head in consternation, he uncorked the small vial and carefully took a sip, shuddering as the liquid burned its way down his throat.

  He clenched his eyes shut, then opened them, almost certain that he saw strange tentacles lash and sway from the corners of his distorted visage. The hallucinations were getting worse, but he contented himself with the fact that, for better or worse, it would soon be over – the curse would either be lifted from this island or he would soon be dead.

  The guardsman opened the front door of the longhouse and stepped inside. He looked around for a moment, then spied Cathal sitting on the floor. Then, with pursed lips and an arrogant countenance, he said, “The chieftain wants to talk to you, down by the construction site.”

  Cathal nodded in acknowledgment and slowly climbed to his feet, more than a little unsteady. He then pulled on his boots and walked through the door, as the guardsman eyed him with suspicion.

  Ignoring the Norseman, Cathal trudged down the dirt path towards the construction site. As the sound of hammering grew louder, the pain inside his head pulsed and pounded.

  “It's about damn time you woke up,” yelled Torsten. He was standing next to the effigy, beckoning to him with one hand.

  As Cathal approached the giant statue, he craned his head upward. The workers had bound and nailed the giant wicker torso to the legs – the monument already stood twenty feet at the shoulder, and the head wasn't even attached yet.

  “One day ahead of schedule!” beamed Torsten. “In less than twelve hours, the effigy will be complete. We will make the sacrifice to the gods tonight, and by tomorrow morning, the curse will be lifted.”

  So soon? Surprised though he was, the jabbering voices in his mind kept him distracted. “Yes,” whispered Cathal, rubbing his temple with one hand.

  The chieftain narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “You're not having second thoughts, are you? If the workers suspect you of going back on your word, there will be hell to pay.”

  “No, absolutely not,” assured Cathal, looking up with focused eyes. “It's just that...the preparations have taken a lot out of me. Make no mistake, I'll be ready.” Cathal attempted to sound more confident than he actually was.

  “Good. The last thing I need is a riot. The people of this town are so wound up that almost no one has bothered with going to work today.” The chieftain then exhaled loudly and said, “The sooner this mess is over with, the better.”

  Cathal looked to the side of the statue, where the workers were constructing the wooden head and arms, yet to be attached. The colossal wicker head seemed to be staring at him; accusing. Cathal averted his gaze and said, “
Why is Danika a suspect in the murders? All of the werewolves that were spotted had black fur, yet she has blond hair.”

  “Eh? What are you talking about?”

  “It makes sense, doesn't it? If a person changes into a beast, why would the color of their hair change? Danika has blond hair, yet no one has seen a werewolf with that color of fur.”

  The chieftain scratched at his beard and furrowed his brow. “You might have a point,” he admitted. “But there are two creatures that must be accounted for. If the people of Birka see only one man on trial tonight, there will be an uprising.”

  “But the judges will surely absolve her of all charges, once they hear the evidence, and we'll be in the same predicament.”

  “Dammit!” grumbled Torsten. “Blast it all to hell. Why must this be so difficult? Fine, I'll have my guardsmen round up the rest of the Slavs. We'll keep them imprisoned until we get this mess settled.”

  “You can't just imprison-”

  “That's final!” the chieftain interrupted. “You haven't seen the panic in the villager's eyes. You've been mulling around doing god knows what, while I've been doing all the work around here – overseeing the construction of this...thing. I'm trying to run this town and what have you done? You just sit in my longhouse and jabber nonsense to yourself all day long. Nine hells, this entire island has gone mad.” With that, the chieftain turned around and stomped off towards the tavern.

  Cathal watched after him for a moment, then he turned his head and looked at the docks, not a hundred yards away. A part of him wanted to steal a boat and be rid of this place; this insanity. He let out a bitter sigh and walked around the giant monument, inspecting its progress.

  As he oversaw the construction of the giant statue, he obsessed over the possibility of a third werewolf. After the death of Mirko, there were rumors of two more of the beasts. He was fairly certain that Domyan was one, but he had no idea who the other lycanthrope could possibly be. Most of the Norsemen in Birka had light-colored hair. Most, not all. There were a half-dozen Slavs back at the logging camp, most of whom had black hair, and all the Turks at the reindeer camp had black hair. Cathal almost laughed in exasperation. Perhaps the chieftain had the right idea – imprison anyone even slightly suspect.