The Wolf of Dorian Gray - A Werewolf Spawned by the Evil of Man

by Brian S. Ference

  She leaned in closer and placed her hand on Dorian’s knee. “Things like this can be fashionable in Paris, but in London the society here is really quite prejudiced. One should never have their debut clouded with scandal or dark rumors. Those things should come with old age. I suppose they do not know your name at the theatre? Tell me, did anyone see you visit her in her room?”

  Dorian was unable to answer for several moments. When he was able to speak it was difficult to get the words out. “Did—did you say there was to be an inquest? What do you mean by that? Be quick, and tell me everything at once.”

  “It really is quite curious and most horrific. It seems that as the girl was leaving the theatre in the evening at about half-past twelve, she decided to walk by the park in her neighborhood. There she was set upon by Jack the Ripper. Either that fiend or the High Rip Gang assisted by some Bulldogs—the constables are still debating various theories. They found her body dragged to the middle of the park. It was absolutely ripped apart you see. She met quite a brutal end with slashes and cuts everywhere and her throat and intestines torn out. She was so badly mutilated, the coroner was only able to identify the body by the engraving on the necklace she wore which bore her name.”

  “Stop, please stop! I can’t bear to hear anymore, how terrible!”

  “Yes it is very tragic. Things are quite out of control in the poorer areas of the city. Something really must be done about it. There have been several vicious attacks and murders of the like in recent weeks. But you must not get yourself mixed up in it all. I see by The Standard that the poor girl was seventeen. She seemed even younger, looking like such a child as she did—and with so little acting ability. But, you mustn’t let this trouble you. Come and dine with me this evening, and afterwards we will go to the opera.”

  Dorian spoke in a hushed tone. “So, I have murdered Sibyl Vane. Murdered her as surely as if I had cut her pretty little throat myself. This is a tragedy. It is too late now to go back and fix things to how we were before. Oh, if only I had not been so cruel to her! If only I had never walked into that theatre and never seen her upon the stage!”

  He looked out the window just then and continued. “Yet somehow, the birds still sing merrily in the garden. The crimson roses are no less lovely or fragrant. Tonight we will dine together on some delicacy and see art performed at the opera. How extraordinarily dramatic life is! Lady Helena, if I had read this in a book I would weep for days. Somehow, with it actually happening to me it seems too full of wonder for tears. There on my desk is the first passionate love-letter which I have ever composed in my life—and it is addressed to a dead girl. Can the dead feel, I wonder? Can Sibyl know now, that I meant to come back to her? How I deeply loved her once. She was everything to me! I said I would go back to her and now she is dead. My God. What shall I do? I might be in danger! She had no right to get herself killed. It was quite selfish indeed.”

  Lady Helena removed a cigarette from her gold-leafed case and struck a match. “My dear Mr. Gray, if you had married this girl you would have been wretchedly unhappy. I am sure that you would have been kind to the girl and she loved you wholly in return. But, eventually, you would have become indifferent towards her. And when a woman finds out her husband is indifferent towards her, she either becomes dreadful company or begins to seek the company of another woman’s husband. Trust me when I tell you the whole thing would have been an absolute failure.”

  Dorian begrudged her the point. “I suppose you are right. I only thought it was my duty to do so. It isn’t my fault that this abhorrent mishap has prevented me from doing what was right. But why can I not feel as deeply about this loss as I want to? I can’t be that heartless. Do you think me heartless?”

  Lady Helena gave him a melancholy smile as she looked over at the desk. “That foolish love letter is proof that you are not.”

  His frown deepened. “I am glad you do not think me heartless, for I am nothing of the kind. My heart soars when I hear well-played music and it quickens when I see beauty or appreciate fine craftsmanship. I know am not heartless. And yet, I must admit, I am not as affected by this as I should be. It all seems like the climactic ending to a Greek play that I have taken part in, but have not been truly wounded by.”

  “Ah, but most seem never to realize when the curtain has fallen. They always wish to continue with another act, rather than to acknowledge that the play has ended. They have no sense of art. Some chose to move on and are consoled by religion. Nothing makes one so vain, as being told they are a sinner. The Conscience makes egotists of us all. Now, there is one consolation which I enjoy more than anything—to take another’s admirer when you have lost one of your own. But really, Mr. Gray, Sibyl Vane was so different than most. There was even something quite beautiful about her death. She undoubtedly brought to life the essence of romance, passion, and love.”

  Dorian’s voice dropped to a low murmur. “She will never bring anything to life again.”

  “No, she will not. But do not forget that unless you have really lived, you have never really died. At least she was to you a tangible dream, filtered through Shakespeare’s plays and presented in its loveliest form. But do not mourn for her. Morn for Ophelia, or Cordelia, or the daughter of Brabantio. Do not waste your tears on Sibyl Vane, for she was less real than the characters she portrayed.”

  A long silence followed. Dorian ran his hand along his face. “Let us not talk again of what has happened. It was simply an incredible experience and that is all. Let us focus on what other unimaginable wonders that life has yet in store for us. I shall join you for the opera this evening. Only let me dress first for the club as we are rather late. Thank you for all that you have said to me. You are undoubtedly my best friend in this world. No one can ever understand me the way that you do.”

  As Lady Helena left, Dorian again uncovered the screen from the portrait on the wall. Now came the moment to make his choice. Would he choose a life of eternal youth, infinite passion, secret pleasures, wild joys, and elaborate sins? Or had the decision already been made for him? Yes, life had already decided on his behalf. He was to satisfy his unending curiosity of the mysteries that life had to offer. The wolf would, in turn, bear the full burden of his shame. For who would willingly surrender the chance to always remain young and beautiful? Besides, the change was no longer under his control. Why it had happened was really of no importance. What had happened, had happened. He would lock the portrait away and separate it from the sunlight and the condemnations of the rest of the world. A few hours later, he was at the opera with Lady Helena leaning seductively over his chair.

  Chapter 13.

  Romani Secrets

  Dorian was in the midst of a leisurely breakfast of buttery haddock and ripened fruit when Sage was shown into the room.

  She was breathing heavily as though after a brisk walk. “Dorian, thank goodness I have found you. I called on you last night, but they told me you were at the opera. I knew that couldn’t be possible and how heartbroken you must be about the whole dreadful thing. But where have you been? Did you go and see the girl’s poor mother? She must be besotted with grief. What did she say?”

  “My dear Sage, how should I know? I was at the opera with Lady Helena. You should have met us there. Let us not discuss such horrid subjects. If one does not discuss a thing, then it has never happened. Now why don’t you tell me about yourself and your latest paintings?”

  “You went to the opera?” said Sage, in a slow-strained voice. “You went to the opera after you heard that Sibyl Vane had been brutally murdered in the street?”

  Dorian leapt to his feet and yelled. “Stop, Sage! I will not hear it! What is done is done. What is past is in the past.”

  “You call yesterday the past?”

  “What does it matter how long it has been? A man can master himself and end his sorrow whenever he pleases. I am not at the mercy of my emotions, but rather I control and savor them.”

  “Dorian, this is horrible! What has change
d in you to make you so callous a person? You look like the same wonderful boy who used to sit in my studio, but you are no longer simple, natural, or affectionate. The world has spoiled you and you speak as if you have no heart or pity whatsoever. This must be Lady Helena’s influence.”

  “I owe a great deal to Lady Helena. She has taught me so much about life. You have only taught me about vanity. Now what is it that you want?”

  Sage regarded him sadly. “I want back the Dorian Gray that used to sit for me in my studio while I painted, for all those summer afternoons.”

  “You are so unfair Sage. You come here to console me and then you are furious when you find me consoled. I am no longer that schoolboy. I have developed new passions, new ideas, and a new understanding of beauty. I am much changed, but we are still friends—are we not? I am very fond of Lady Helena, but you are so much better and stronger. How happy we all used to be together! Please Sage, don’t quarrel with me. I am what I am and there is nothing more to say.”

  The painter felt suddenly moved. She could not reproach dear Dorian any further. After all, he had been a great turning point in her art. “I shan’t speak of it again. I trust your name will not be connected to this horrid affair?”

  Dorian shook his head. “No, they don’t even know my name.”

  “But surely Sibyl knew your name?”

  “Only my Christian name and she never mentioned it to anyone. They were far too curious to learn it and she thought it a fun sport to refer to me only as her Prince Charming. You must make me a drawing of her sometime. I should like to have something more than just broken memories.”

  “I will draw you something if it pleases you. But you must sit for me again. I simply can’t go on without you.”

  “I can never sit for you again Sage. I am sorry, but it is quite impossible!”

  Sage looked at him with shock. “What do you mean? Did you not like the painting of the wolf cub I did for you? Let me see it. Is that what you keep over there behind the screen? It is the finest work I have ever done. Why do you have it covered up in such a way? It is disgraceful to hide my best work like that.” Sage scowled and began walking towards the painting.

  A cry of terror came from Dorian’s mouth and he leaped between the painter and her artwork. His face took on a ghostly-white pallor. “Sage, you must not look at it. I forbid it.”

  Sage forced an unbelieving chuckle. “Not view my own work? You can’t be serious.”

  “If you try to look at it Sage, on my honor, I will never speak to you again for as long as I live. I cannot explain and you mustn’t ever ask me why. I am very serious about this and if you ever touch that screen, all will be over between us.”

  Sage was staggered and a look of pain came over her face, as if she had just taken a grievous wound. Her hands clenched and she began to tremble. Dorian had never seen her like this before.

  “Dorian. If you don’t want me to look at it, I won’t. But it all seems rather absurd for me to not view my own work, particularly when I will be exhibiting it in Paris this autumn. It will need another coat of varnish beforehand, so I will have to see it eventually.”

  Dorian roared in disbelief. “Exhibit it! You want to exhibit it?” An unstoppable feeling of alarm grew in Dorian’s chest. Was the whole world to see his terrible secret and know the most intimate details of his life? Impossible. He had to stop it at once.

  “Yes of course. You shouldn’t object to that. Georges Petit will be showing all my best works in a special collection in the Rue de Seze. It is set to open on the first week of October. The portrait will only be away from you for a month. If you keep it constantly covered by a screen, then you certainly can’t care that much for it.”

  Dorian put his hand to his forehead and felt beads of perspiration gathering there. He was in horrible danger.

  He put his face as close to her as it had ever been and fixed her with a serious stare. “Sage, I do have a secret. I will only tell you mine, if you tell me one of yours.”

  She drew back and quickly looked away. “Dorian, if I told you, you would think less of me and certainly laugh at me. I could not bear either. I will not look at the picture nor share it with the world if it will satisfy you. Your friendship is much dearer to me than any fame or reputation it could bring.”

  But Dorian was insistent. “No, Sage. You must tell me. I have a right to know the truth.” His feeling of terror had been replaced with one of burning curiosity and he was determined to find out what secrets Sage might be hiding. If necessary, those secrets could be used to prevent the portrait from ever being displayed.

  Sage’s face looked troubled. “Let us sit down, Dorian.” They moved to the other side of the room and both sat down in a chair. “Answer me one question. Have you ever noticed anything curious about the portrait?—something that revealed itself to you suddenly?”

  Dorian, clutched the arms of his chair with straining fingers. “Sage?”

  “I see that you have. Just listen to me for a moment and hear what I have to say first. As a girl, I grew up in a Romani caravan. I will tell you the tale.”

  As a young girl, Sage and her family moved constantly from place to place in a Romani caravan. They had a small horse-drawn Vardo with large spoke wheels on the side. It was home to Sage, her mother, and her father. It was cramped but comfortable, with a functioning chimney. It featured a tiny cast-iron stove and a narrow berth that all three shared in the back. Her favorite part though, was the brightly painted wood carvings on the inside walls. Sage’s joy in life was painting the intricately carved designs, which her father made on the inside and outside of the Vardo. He was known as a master woodcrafter—when he could get the work. They were not always welcomed by all communities as they traveled. When work was refused to them, they relied on music and fortune telling in exchange for food or money.

  Sage was never very good at either, but she loved to draw and paint. When she wasn’t helping her mother with the cooking and cleaning, or with foraging for wild berries and nuts, she spent her time drawing. She created detailed animals and intricate faces on any surface available and with any instrument she could find. When her father would return home, the two would work long into the night together to paint the carvings of their home by candlelight.

  When she was about ten years old, her father returned from seven days of labor in the nearby fields. She ran to greet him as he set down a coarse sackcloth and said, “Da’, yo’ home! Can we paint the carvings t’night? Can we please?”

  “Arvah, my Chey,” he replied, “but dikh, I ha’ some drab fo’ tu.” As he said this, he removed a precious gift that was wrapped carefully in the sackcloth. It was a set of charcoal and oil paints. It had cost nearly all of his wages to buy such an expensive gift.

  Tears welled up in Sage’s eyes as she hugged her father fiercely. “Thank tu, I’m so baxtalo to have my Da’.”

  They set to making brushes themselves with hair delicately plucked from the tail of their piebald Cob horse. Sage had raised the horse from a foal and had named him Buttercup. Buttercup was one of her closest playmates and she would spend long hours riding and grooming the horse.

  When the paints that her father purchased ran out, her mother took her deep into the forest at night to gather herbs and berries. She taught her the names and uses for all of them. Together they mixed all the different bright colors needed for painting. As the women worked, they would chant in the old tongue. Her mother forbade Sage from doing so when she was not present. One day, she asked her about it cautiously. “Dya, why can’t I sing the Romani chants without you?”

  “My Chey, it’s too dook, ta’ mix the drab and the bol. The spells of making are strazhno—too dangerous. Our power comes from the herbs taken from the earth, an’ our souls is channeled an’ focused thro’ our voices. When I tell fortunes, I use the power o’ namin’, to summon the Mulo spirits. Do no’ use these things lightly, an’ never link all three.”

  “I won’t Dya.” But she practiced all
of it as often as she could. If her mother hadn’t been so busy with the cooking and cleaning, she would have seen Sage chanting under her breath as she mixed spectacular colors and painted fantastic images.

  When she was twelve, Sage began scouring the forest for the perfect color of pink. It could only be found in the rare pyramidal orchid. It was very difficult to find and by the time she had gathered enough for her paints, the sun was hanging low in the sky. In her rush to return home, Sage became hopelessly lost.

  Her parents grew worried when their daughter did not return that evening, and set out together with an oil lamp to search the fringes of the dark woods. It was there that they were set upon by a group of local laborers, greatly displeased to have their work taken by the wandering tinkers and who had resorted to highway robbery in the forest. They had been drinking and had worked themselves into a fury over imagined slights and evils at the hands of the Romani people. They seized and beat her parents mercilessly. They spit and cursed at them, before looping two coils of rope around the limbs of a great oak tree. There they hung the husband and wife. The mob exited the forest and found the family’s Vardo at the edge of the trees. They burned the beautifully decorated wood to the ground. They mercilessly killed Buttercup and urinated over the corpse.

  The next morning, Sage eased the stiffness in her joints caused by a night spent under the stars. She stretched and warmed her hands before making her way towards her home. As she set out, she used the daylight to retrace her steps. She moved quickly, fearful of her parents’ anger and worry. The forest was strangely quiet that morning, as if grieving. She reached the clearing where the violence had taken place the previous night. It was the shadows of the two forms swaying lightly in the breeze that she saw on the ground first. She raised her eyes slowly and with a burgeoning sense of dread. At the sight of her dead parents swinging from the trees, her breath was crushed from her chest. She fell to her knees in disbelief and shock. Sobs racked her body as she bawled in dismay and anger. She refused to leave the bodies, but was unable to approach any closer to cut them down.