Lycanthropos

by Sackett, Jeffrey

  They looked for all the world like two young lovers enjoying the first warm days of peace after Europe’s half decade of mad, monstrous, vicious, suicidal war, as they lay upon the hillside in a placid embrace. But theirs was no romantic idyll, no springtime rite of awakening passion. They were waiting for the sun to set. They were waiting for the moon.

  On the plain below, the Gypsy caravan came to a slow stop on the edge of the forest, and an old man climbed awkwardly down from the front wagon and surveyed their surroundings. "Jurghis, Aladar, Blasko, Zorkis!" he called out, and four younger men came down from the driver’s seats of their wagons. They walked over to him and he said, "Let us camp here. This is a peaceful region. No need to hide in the woods. "

  Blasko, a strong, healthy man in his mid-thirties, shook his head, "Father, it is better to take unnecessary precautions than unnecessary risks. The forest is like a mother to us. What harm in seeking refuge in her?"

  "No harm, Blasko," the old man said. "But tomorrow we will go to the village of Hunyad to ply our trade, and from this spot we can reach the village before noon. If we go into the forest we may seek a campsite for hours, and we will waste much of the day tomorrow." He pointed with his gnarled old finger at the narrow pathway which led into the woods. "See, so poor a road."

  "Not too narrow for the wagons," Blasko observed.

  "No, not too narrow. But it will take time. Slow journeys make distant destinations." He nodded his hoary head as if his platitude had settled the matter. "We will camp here tonight."

  Blasko nodded, accepting the decision of the patriarch, and then returned to his wagon. He did not climb back up into the seat, however. Instead he walked to the rear of the wagon and, opening the small wooden door, entered it.

  "Visha," he said to his wife. "We will camp here for the night."

  His wife, a dark woman already growing portly from a diet too heavy in starches, raised her thick eyebrows in surprise. "Here? On the edge of the forest?"

  "Yes," he replied, opening an old wooden trunk and rummaging around in it. "Father has decided."

  Visha sighed. She knew better than to protest or question, though she would have felt much safer had she had the security of the forest when night fell. True, the past four years had been unusually calm ones for her people. The town dwellers in the countries through which the Gypsies roamed, the Magyars and the Romanians, the Italians and the Swiss, the Croats and the Poles, the Bulgars and the Bohemians and the Slovaks, were too busy slaughtering each other to pay their customary hostile attention to the Gypsies. But now the war of which they had heard so much was over, and Visha, like Blasko and most of the others in their tribe, expected the old ways to return. The forest had always been a refuge for them, and she longed for it this night. But who can argue with Father?

  As Blasko took a tin of tobacco from the trunk, the shrill wail of a baby cut through the silence of the interior of the wagon, and Visha said, "Lura is awake. She sleeps so well when the wagon is moving."

  "Do you need water?" Blasko asked.

  "Yes, please, my love." Visha reached down into the old wooden cradle and took their infant into her arms, carefully unwrapping the swaddling rags, making ready to wash her and replace the soiled rags with fresh ones. Blasko climbed out of the rear door, took a pot from its nail on the side of the wagon, dipped it into the water barrel which hung beside it, and then carried it back to his wife.

  He watched happily as Visha, chuckling and speaking playfully to their baby in soft, soothing maternal tones, washed the infant and wrapped her. Blasko took the soiled swaddling rags without being asked to, and threw them into a bucket which, like the barrel and the pot, was hanging from the side of the wagon. He returned to his wife and child, and smiled at them both with contentment. Visha had given birth to three other children in the years of their marriage, but all three had died, all of disease. This fourth child, Lura, was their last child, this they both knew, for the delivery had almost killed Visha. She had lain in delirium for days afterward, and even now, four months later, she was not fully recovered.

  Three children buried in nameless graves along the roadside, Blasko thought. And yet, how good is life. He watched his wife expose one breast and smiled as the child suckled greedily. Little Lura, he thought. How lovely you are, how dear.

  And outside the wagon, as the others were making ready the campfires and filling the stewpots with water, the sun was sinking slowly toward the tops of the trees.

  The nomads went about the nightly tasks. The food was plentiful, for hunting had been good, and the bottles of wine which they had obtained in the last town they had visited were passed around freely. Soon the darkening sky was witness to merriment and music, as the sounds of mandolins and pipes drifted up from the Gypsy camp.

  The sun disappeared behind the trees and soon the light of the full moon bathed the plain on the edge of the forest. The stars twinkled placidly in the cloudless sky, and the world seemed truly at peace for the first time in many years. No distant cannons boomed and nowhere was heard the whistle of flying shells or the cracking of distant rifle fire. The Gypsies rested in security and calm, sleepy and content around their flickering fires. And then the night was rent by a shriek of agony, and then by another; and then came the rasping, guttural howls.

  The Gypsies fell silent as the sounds reached their ears. The old man turned to the others and, in a hushed, trembling, terrified voice, whispered, "Vrolok!"

  Werewolf!

  As if responding to a silent command, the Gypsies broke from the campfire and rushed back to their respective wagons. They were not a people who had forgotten the myths and legends of the past as the town dwellers had done; they lived with the past as if it were the present, and their beliefs had led them to prepare for any eventuality. No Gypsy caravan traveled the plains of Central Europe without a supply of wolfsbane and silver bullets; one never knew when a werewolf would make its unholy appearance. Though they were what the Church called pagans, they nonetheless travelled with stakes and holy water and crucifixes to guard against the nosferatu. They kept talismans against demons and knew spells to drive away witches. Thus it was that when the cries of the werewolf broke the silence of the forest, the men of the Gypsy tribe began to load their old rifles with bullets of pure silver as the women, after herding the children into the wagons, began to remove the brittle sprigs of wolfsbane from their hiding places and began to affix the withered plants to the exteriors of the wagons.

  For years afterward, Blasko would review the events of that night in his mind, wondering if he was at fault, wondering if his bravado had caused the tragedy, wondering if he bore his own share of guilt for what transpired. He was confident, cocky, and just a bit ambitious within the context of his limited world. Father was old, and would die soon, and though his wife, whom everyone called Mother though she was much younger than he, would continue as the unofficial chief by virtue of her age, still a new leader would be chosen from among the men. The Gypsies, like most nomadic peoples, were an elective patriarchy, not a hereditary one; and who better to choose as leader than the man who braved the fury of the werewolf and slew it in the midst of the camp?

  Blasko loaded his gun as Visha rummaged through the trunk in search of the wolfsbane, and then he left the wagon and stood just outside it, awaiting the monster. The other Gypsies remained in their wagons, guns loaded and ready, the doors and windows draped with the protective plant. He alone stood in the open, nervous and frightened, yet somehow excited and eager to confront the beast.

  And then he remembered that his tribe had last gathered wolfsbane some four months before, when Visha was in her natal delirium; he remembered that she had been, of course, unable to go with the other women to pick the plant; he remembered that he had stayed with her during her illness, and had forgotten to get a supply of wolfsbane from another of his tribe; and Visha remembered all of this as well as her search for the plant was unavailing, for she cried, "Blasko! Blasko!" at the same moment that not one, but tw
o werewolves came bounding from the woods.

  Blasko faced death and accepted it, the instinct to protect his woman and his child overcoming his abject terror. He raised the gun and aimed at one of the approaching figures, knowing that if he killed one of them, surely his fellows would be able to kill the other. He could not change the fact that he would die in the battle; but Visha would live. And little Lura would live.

  Blasko prayed in the seconds between the emergence of the beasts and the firing of the gun, but he did not pray for life. He prayed that if he were bitten, the bite would kill him; for he knew full well what happened to anyone who survived the bite of a werewolf.

  Blasko fired the gun.

  One of the werewolves seemed to recoil from the impact of the red hot silver which slammed into its chest, but the hesitation was momentary. Almost immediately the other Gypsies opened fire, and both of the creatures were pounded by a hail of silver bullets. But they did not fall to the ground, they did not die. The barrage of silver bullets seemed merely to enrage them.

  The first of the werewolves rushed at Blasko, and the young Gypsy shifted his hands from the stock of his rifle to its barrel and then swung the weapon as a club. The wooden stock splintered as it struck the werewolf on the side of the head, but it did not impede the attack. The creature lashed out at Blasko, swung a taloned claw at him, and only the Gypsy’s quick reflexes, which caused him to jump backwards, saved him from decapitation. He stumbled over his own feet and fell hard to the ground.

  "Blasko! Blasko!" Visha screamed. The werewolf turned in the direction of the sound, and it leapt from the ground onto the roof of the wagon. It dug its talons into the old wood and then ripped the planks from the roof. As it jumped down into the wagon, Blasko got to his feet and began to run to the rear door, but the second werewolf jumped on him and raked his back with its claws. Another barrage of bullets caused the beast to release Blasko, and it ran at another of the wagons with a furious howl tearing from its throat. Blasko, his back bleeding and his body shuddering with pain, lost consciousness.

  He awoke an hour later. As he struggled to orient his confused thoughts, as he tried to focus his eyes, he saw faces, dozens of faces, gazing down at him. He realized at once that they were the faces of the others of his tribe, and the memory of what had happened struck him at the same moment. His fellows helped him to his feet and he stumbled over to the wreckage which had been his wagon.

  "No, Blasko," Father said. "No." But he had to see, he had to climb into the wreckage. Blasko screamed and collapsed into hysterical weeping when he realized that all that was left of his wife was torn cloth, wet bone and blood, and that all that remained of his little daughter, his precious, darling Lura, was one tiny, stiff, cold little hand.

  When morning came, the smoke from the Gypsy camp was drifting up into the cold morning air as Janos Kaldy awakened from his deep, dreamless sleep. He sat up on the grass of the hillside and looked over to Claudia, who was standing a few yards away, watching the smoke. She heard him move, and she glanced at him before returning her gaze to the distant scene. "They are burning a wagon," she said softly. "They buried something a little while ago."

  "A body?" he asked.

  "What was left of a body, I think. I couldn’t tell from this distance, but what they buried was too small to be a body. "

  He sighed. "They should have camped elsewhere."

  She turned and faced him. "So the fault is theirs?" Her voice was bitter and mournful, and tears welled up in her eyes.

  "No, Claudia, of course not," he said softly.

  She walked toward him. "They had a plant. I remember that they had a plant. It made me ill."

  He raised his eyebrows in surprise. "You remember something which happened during the...last night?!"

  "I think so. I’m not certain."

  "That’s remarkable, Claudia! I never remember anything from the time after the change."

  She shook her head. "No, no, I don’t really remember anything, nothing specific. I just remember that they had a plant which made me ill." Her delicate brow furrowed. "I have a picture in my mind, Janos, and I can’t remember from whence it comes, but it is connected to that plant."

  "What is the picture?"

  "An old man. A very old man with a long white beard, dressed in a purple robe. He is holding the same plant." She looked at him. "Do you remember something like that?"

  Kaldy closed his eyes and struggled to remember. After a few moments he shook his head. "No, Claudia, I...wait... wait..." His brow furrowed. "Yes...yes...a plant...a plant which..."

  "What is the memory, Janos?" she asked, suddenly excited and intense. "Who is the old man?"

  He shook his head once more. "I don’t remember. But the plant..." He paused, thinking, trying to dredge the memory up from deep in his mind, "There is a plant that..."

  "That can cure us?" she asked, and then, with greater hope in her voice, "That can kill us?"

  "That can control us," he answered.

  Her face, so recently animated and alive, sank back into its customary funereal cast. "Of no use to us, then."

  "Not true," Kaldy said, rising to his feet. "If they can control us, then they can keep us from killing when the change comes." He began to walk down the hillside toward the plain. He stopped and turned toward her. "It is something at least, is it not?"

  "It is nothing!" she shouted. "I don’t want to be controlled! I want to die, Janos, I want to die!"

  He shook his head. "We can’t die, Claudia. All we can do is kill."

  He did not turn to see if she was following him as he continued on down toward the billowing smoke.

  Louisa von Weyrauch was still holding the pencil which she was supposed to have been using to make notes during the session, but she had stopped writing soon after Kaldy began his reminiscence. She was gripping the pencil as if it were somehow supporting her as she listened with rapt, horrified fascination. Her husband wiped the sweat from his brow as he leaned forward from his stool toward the pallet upon which Kaldy was reclining. "And so you came be a companion of the Gypsy Blasko," he said.

  "Yes, eventually," Kaldy replied. "He tried to kill me, and found that he could not. He...he kept me. For the past quarter of a century, he has kept me. For twenty-five years I had not killed, until that night when the S.S. came."

  "What happened to Claudia?" Louisa asked.

  "I do not know," Kaldy sighed. "She is somewhere, still killing and still trying to die."

  Weyrauch sat back and let out the breath he had been holding in since the session had begun in the small room near the cell rows. "Did you make her into a... did you cause her to..."

  "In all likelihood," Kaldy said. "She claimed to remember that I attacked her. I do not know. In reality, she did not know either. It’s likely. Possible, at least."

  "How did you meet her?" Weyrauch asked. "Do you remember how you met her, when you met her?"

  "I do not know."

  "Do you remember who she was?"

  Kaldy allowed himself a small, humorless laugh. "I do not remember who I am, Doctor."

  Weyrauch nodded. Then he coughed and began, "Did you...that is to say, do werewolves...what I mean is, you being a male and she a female..."

  "Did we mate?" Kaldy turned his head toward Weyrauch and looked at him with irritation. "A rather trivial question, don’t you think, Doctor?"

  Whatever response Weyrauch would have made to Kaldy’s comment was cut short as the door of the small room was flung forcefully open and Colonel Helmuth Schlacht strode in, his face red with what may have been anger. The door struck the wall beside it loudly as Schlacht said, "There is another werewolf!"

  Weyrauch and Louisa looked at each other in surprise, and then Weyrauch asked. "Yes. How did you know?"

  Schlacht seemed startled by Weyrauch’s calm response. "How did I know?! Did you know?!"

  "Yes, of course. Kaldy..." Weyrauch paused. "What do you...do you mean that...?"

  Schlacht tossed a few papers dow
n at Weyrauch’s feet. "I told you that I had made certain that any unusual deaths would be reported to me, did I not? Well, I never rescinded those orders. And I just received this report from our people in Grushia, not five miles from where we are sitting. Last night, when our Gypsy was in chains, covered with wolfsbane and under constant watch, a werewolf killed three farmers in Grushia." He glowered at Kaldy. "Well?"

  Kaldy shrugged. "Claudia," he said simply.

  "Claudia?" Schlacht demanded, turning to Weyrauch. "What is the Gypsy talking about? Who is this Claudia?"

  "As you said yourself," Weyrauch replied. "Another werewolf."

  "A woman?!" the colonel exclaimed. "A female werewolf?!"

  "Don’t let it disconcert you so, Colonel Schlacht," Kaldy smiled. "In some circles, the notion might be regarded as quite progressive."

  "Keep your mouth shut, Gypsy," Schlacht snapped. "I wasn’t speaking to you."

  Kaldy continued to smile with amusement as he said, "I hope that your supply of wolfsbane is adequate to the task at hand, Colonel."

  "What do you mean, Herr Kaldy?" Louisa asked.

  The Gypsy shrugged again. "It is obvious, isn’t it? It is reasonable to assume that Claudia is trying to find me. It is also reasonable to assume that she will succeed."

  Louisa gasped as she looked over at her cousin. Schlacht appeared neither frightened nor disturbed by the Gypsy’s words; and then she noticed that his face had gone deathly pale.

  CHAPTER NINE

  "Oh Lord God, merciful Father, Who knoweth the sins of each man and from Whom no secrets are hidden, I, a poor, miserable sinner, come before Thee and beseech Thee to pardon my transgressions and forgive my iniquities..."

  Gottfried von Weyrauch knelt before the altar in the small but opulent private chapel on the ground floor of the Ragoczy Palace. Perhaps the chapel should not be described as opulent, for like so many of the old noble Magyar families, and unlike the bulk of the Hungarian peasants, the Ragoczys had been Calvinists, and the most ornate Calvinist chapel would look quite stark by Lutheran, Roman Catholic, or Eastern Orthodox standards; but the Ragoczys had lavished their wealth on their room for private prayer, and the abundance of precious metals and finely woven tapestries bespoke the affluence of the defunct family. In the part of his mind which was not concentrating on his confession, Weyrauch wondered when Göring’s avarice would lead him even to the dismantling of the walls and beams and railings of this chapel. Gold is gold, after all.