Lycanthropos

by Sackett, Jeffrey

  Petra smiled and nodded slightly. "Herr Reichsführer."

  "Fräulein," Himmler responded, kissing her hand.

  "Fräulein Loewenstein is the chemist who was transferred to my command by Dr. Mengele," Schlacht said. "She has made great progress in researching the...phenomenon, shall we say, of the Gypsy Kaldy."

  Himmler’s brows arched. "A chemist!" he exclaimed, and then frowned in mock annoyance. "It is unjust for one woman to possess such beauty and such intelligence."

  She smiled impishly and replied. "It is inevitable, Herr Reichsführer. I am German, after all."

  "Yes, of course," Himmler said, continuing to feign distress. "But I must be working Mengele too hard. Only a madman would allow you be transferred away from him."

  Schlacht saw that Himmler was in high spirits, and he asked, "We have champagne and hors d’oeuvres, Herr Reichsführer, if you wish to blunt the hunger and thirst of your journey." As he spoke, the musicians began to play a Strauss waltz.

  "That would be most welcome, Schlacht, most welcome indeed. And later, I hope that I can meet with you and Fräulein Loewenstein in private to discuss your progress. I have been reading your reports with great care and great interest." He looked around quizzically. "By the way, where is the psychologist?"

  "Gottfried, my wife’s cousin? He should be here somewhere."

  "I should like him to attend our meeting as well." Himmler paused. "A pity about Festhaller."

  "Yes," Schlacht lied. "He will be sorely missed."

  "Another of these creatures, you said in your report." Himmler shook his head. "Incredible."

  "Yes, very hard to believe," Schlacht agreed. "We will capture her as well, of course, eventually."

  "Of course, of course," Himmler nodded. "Professor Festhaller’s death has been officially listed as a combat death."

  "An excellent idea," Schlacht said.

  "The Führer has awarded him the Iron Cross Second Class. Posthumously, of course."

  "No one deserves a posthumous honor more than he," Petra said, glancing at Schlacht and smiling. Schlacht knew what she meant, and he pursed his lips to keep from laughing.

  "Well, Schlacht," Himmler said, "I do believe that I shall go and explore the champagne and greet some of your other guests. If you will excuse me, Fräulein?"

  "Of course, Herr Reichführer," Petra said, and watched as the little man walked away.

  The lilting melody of the Strauss waltz had filled the room, and Schlacht turned to Petra. "Would you care to dance, Fräulein?"

  "Oh, yes indeed, Herr Colonel," she replied, smiling demurely. "I would love to."

  She took his arm again and they walked to the center of the room where numerous people were already dancing to the flowing strains of the waltz. As they danced, Schlacht relished the sensation of placing his hand upon the cool silk which covered the soft, smooth body beneath it. His clear blue eyes gazed into her warm brown eyes, and they whirled about the room without speaking, each seemingly lost in the gaze of the other. The music played on and on.

  The next cycle of the full moon was two weeks away.

  "We are rolling back the years, Kaldy, moving farther and farther into the past..."

  "Yes…the past…."

  "Where are you now, Kaldy?"

  "Khanbaluc...we are in Khanbaluc..."

  "You are in the realm of the Mongols?"

  "Yes...Khanbaluc..."

  "When are you in Khanbaluc, Kaldy?"

  "I do not know...Temujin is Khan...Temujin..."

  "Who is Temujin, Kaldy?"

  "The Genghis Kha Khan...Temujin is called the Genghis Kha Khan..."

  "You have come to see Genghis Khan? It is the thirteenth century, and you have come to see Genghis Khan?"

  "No...a shaman...we heard of a Mongol shaman called Jagatuik..."

  "You seek to die at the hands of Jagatuik, Kaldy?"

  "Yes…yes…"

  "What is happening? What is Jagatuik telling you and Claudia?"

  "Nothing...nothing...ignorant sheep herders...they worship thunder...they know nothing...they know nothing..."

  "Back farther, Kaldy, back farther into your past."

  "Yes...the past..."

  "The years are moving backward, Kaldy, backward."

  "Yes...yes..."

  "Where are you now, Kaldy?"

  "The new city...we are in the new city..."

  "Which new city, Kaldy?"

  "Novgorod...new city...Novgorod..."

  "You are in Russia? You are in Novgorod in Russia?"

  "There is no Russia...the Varangians...Rurik of the Rus..."

  "Why are you in Novgorod, Kaldy?"

  "To die...shamans...warriors with horned helmets..."

  "Vikings, Kaldy? You have come to be killed by Vikings?"

  "Shamans…runes…"

  "Do you learn anything from these shamans?"

  "No…nothing…ignorance…barbarians…ignorance…"

  "Back farther, Kaldy. Go back farther. Remember the past. "

  "Yes...yes..." A pause. "Myrdden…Myrdden..."

  "Where are you, Kaldy? When are you?"

  "Myrdden..."

  "Is Myrdden a place, Kaldy? Where is Myrdden?"

  "Myrdden is a man…a sorcerer…"

  Gwynyth and Liam huddled together contentedly beneath the sheltering outcrop of rock which was affording them protection from the cold, wet wind. Neither Gwynyth’s father, the shepherd, nor Liam’s father, the oat grower, knew that their children had crept quietly from their small thatched huts after sunset to keep this sweetly wicked assignation, and if all went well they would both be back sleeping on their straw beds before the cock crow awakened their elders.

  Gwynyth gazed lovingly into the eyes of her love, delighting in his smooth, beardless face and unfurrowed brow, and Liam returned her wordless devotion as he studied her long, honey blonde hair and her inviting, ruby lips. "You are the world to me, dearest Gwynyth," he whispered.

  "And you to me, Liam," she replied softly stroking his cheek.

  "We shall marry come springtime, when you are of age," he said, his expression and tone bespeaking that serious certainty which the end of childhood leaves new adulthood as a passing heritage. "I shall persuade your father, and if he still refuses, we shall leave together."

  "Oh, Liam, where shall we go?" she asked happily, relishing the prospect of adventure and excitement.

  "North, to Pictland perhaps," he replied. "Or south, across the water to Belgia. It doesn’t matter, as long as we are together."

  "As long as we are together," she murmured, leaning her face forward and pressing her lips to his.

  "Children!" a deep, aged voice called out to them from the misty darkness. "What do you hear?"

  They jumped to their feet, startled and frightened, all semblance of adulthood lost in the childish fear of discovery. Gwynyth smoothed her skirts nervously as Liam asked with shaking voice, "Who...who is there?"

  The mist seemed to part and an old man approached them slowly. His face was a mass of wrinkles and his snow-white beard was wide and long, covering his body from mouth to waist, hiding much of the thick robe which was a purple so dark as to be almost black. He leaned on a thick, gnarled staff which had been smoothed and polished so that the moonlight was clearly reflected in the shiny wood. "You know me, Liam mac Ceorn," the old man said ominously, "as do you, Gwynyth ap Glendyn. Are you children fools to be out here alone in the darkness on this night?"

  "L...Lord Myrdden," the girl stammered. "We meant no harm...we wished merely to...we wished merely to..."

  "Aye, I know what you wished," the old man growled angrily, the moonlight illuminating his furious visage while the deep darkness masked the amused twinkle in his ancient eyes. "And did you not hear the warning, foolish children? Were you not present in the village when the words were spoken last week?"

  "Y...yes, Lord Myrdden, but..." Gwynyth began.

  "And what words were spoken, foolish ones? What was the warning whic
h I gave to the people of the village?"

  "You...you told us of the beast, Lord Myrdden…"

  "Yes, I told you of the beast!" the old man shouted. "The beast that prowls about on the nights of the full moon, the beast that kills and devours little fools like the two of you, the beast that has already killed many in our land. I told you of the werewolf, did I not?"

  "Yes...yes, Lord Myrdden," Liam said. "But we meant no disobedience. I love Gwynyth, and..."

  "Silence!" the patriarch bellowed. "Hie ye to your homes at once, and be thankful that I do not pull you back to your fathers by your hair, impudent cubs! Get ye gone!" He shouted the last words in a voice of wrath and doom. The boy and girl ran from him in different directions, and he waited until they had disappeared into the distance before allowing himself to chuckle at their innocence and discomfiture. The old man shook his head in amused exasperation and then continued his slow, self-appointed patrol. He reached into the pocket of his cloak and assured himself for the hundredth time that night that he had not forgotten to bring the bane flowers with him from his high tower. Satisfied that he had, he walked slowly forward, straining his ears and squinting his eyes, looking, watching, searching…

  When the terrified scream shattered the cold night, he hobbled onward in the direction of the sound as quickly as his stiff old legs would carry him.

  But he was too late to save young Liam. By the time he reached the clearing one of the creatures had already torn off one of the boy’s legs and was biting hunks of flesh from it while the other ripped into the dead boy’s motionless chest with its claws, greedily seeking the sweet, blood-rich heart. The werewolves heard the old man approach, and they looked up at him menacingly, snarls of warning and growls of anger rumbling forth in a mad, hellish duet.

  As they prepared to spring at him, the old man dropped his staff and filled both his hands with the plant from his deep pocket. The creatures were not prepared for what happened next, for the old man, displaying a strength which denied his age, himself leaped at them and pressed the plants into their faces. The creatures felt an instantaneous impotence, a numbing weakness, and as they fell to the ground the old man knelt down between them and pressed the plant more forcefully down upon them. The creatures seemed to lose consciousness. They lay insensate upon the wet forest floor and the old man remained motionless between them, praying that he would be able to maintain his vigil until dawn.

  The hours passed slowly, and still the old man did not move, still the werewolves were held captive by the potent flowers. Insects and rodents began to feast happily upon the shattered remains of Liam mac Ceorn, but the old man did not shoo them away. He did not move. He dared not move.

  As the sun rose, the creatures slowly resumed their human forms, and the old man allowed himself to fall backward upon his weary haunches as the werewolves were replaced by a thin, pale young man and dark-haired woman. A few moments after the change was complete they opened their eyes and sat up. They looked at the old man and then over at the carnage a few yards away.

  "Your doing, beasts," the old man said, his voice mingling sorrow and rage.

  The woman shook her head and replied in the Latin language, "We know not your tongue, old one. Do you know the tongue of the Romans?"

  "I do," the old man replied in Latin, "for the days when the Romans ruled our island are a memory to me, though but a legend, to the young. But you are not legends, beasts! You declare your reality and sign your names in blood!"

  The young man was looking at the plants. "What are these weak chains with which you bind us?"

  The old man’s eyebrows rose in surprise. "You remember, monster?"

  "Dimly," he replied, "as through night and fog."

  The old man nodded. "What matters the name of the plant? Chains are chains, and these chains shall bind you always." He paused. "Who are you? You are not Britons, surely."

  "I am called Ianus the Chaldean," the young man said. "It is true that I am not a Briton. I know not the land of my father, nor the name of my father. I know not what I am, nor why I am what I am."

  "And how is this?"

  "Time, ancient one, time. Memory fades after a hundred thousand sunsets."

  "But not yet for me!" the woman said hotly. "For not yet five centuries have passed since he made me what I am. I can feel my past crumbling within my mind, and yet still I know, still I know."

  "And what do you know, woman?" the old man asked gently, beginning to feel pity for them despite his hatred and fear, despite the rotting body whose members lay strewn about the clearing.

  "My name is Claudia Procula," she replied. "I am a Roman lady of a good family, and was content with my life until Ianus visited this curse upon me."

  "And what is your family, Lady Claudia?"

  She strained her mind to think for a moment, and then she shook her head. "Lost, lost. The name is gone, the image is dying."

  The old man looked at Ianus the Chaldean and asked, "Why have you come to Britannia? Rome is far from here, and the land of the Chaldeans farther still. Your cities, Ur and Babylon, are so distant that they are known to us only in the tales told by the Christian priests."

  "I do not know if I am a Chaldean," Ianus replied. "It is merely what I am called. And we have journeyed here in search of help."

  "Help!" the old man laughed sadly. "Can you not kill on your own?"

  "We do not wish to kill," the woman said. "We wish to die."

  "Yes," her companion agreed. "We wish to die. In Gallia we heard of a great wizard in the province of Britannia. We have come to seek him out that he may kill us."

  "I am called Myrdden," the old man said, "and the ignorance of the people leads them to call me a wizard, though my magic is knowledge and my powers are but the truths known to the ancients."

  Claudia shook her head. "Myrdden is not the name we have heard."

  "I am also called Merlinus, in the Roman tongue."

  They looked at each other and then Ianus sighed and nodded. "Then you are the wizard we seek, Merlinus. Can you help us?"

  "Can you kill us?" Claudia asked.

  Merlin shook his head. "I have no such power. But, with the plant, I can control you. I can bind you on the nights of the full moon and I can affix the plants to you, and I can watch over you..."

  And so it was throughout the last years of the life of the wizard, and through the years of the life of his apprentice; but all was lost when the Britannic chieftain Artorius was killed and the Britons were driven into the mountains of Wales by the invaders, by the Angles and the Saxons and the Jutes. The knowledge was lost, the power of the plant was forgotten, the line of Merlin was ended. And as the sixth century became the seventh, the black nights of the new dark age were again host to the murderous lusts of the creatures, and the painful cycle began again, and the blood flowed, and the wails of mourning rose into the dawn skies, and the years passed in slow and sorrowful progression for Claudia Procula and Ianus the Chaldean, and they wrote their names in blood from Britain to Novgorod to Khanbaluc to the Carpathians, from the fields of France to the plains of Hungary.

  And soon, even Claudia could not remember who she was.

  The next cycle of the full moon was one week away.

  Janos Kaldy lay silently upon the cold stone floor of the dungeon cell in the RagoczyPalace, and he stared up at the ceiling pensively. Why is it that this minister can strip away the layers of memory and reveal to me what lies beneath them, and yet I cannot do this myself, he wondered. Is it some special skill, this hypnosis, some hidden art? Certainly not. He speaks to me, has me concentrate on his voice, has me stare at something, and then he strips away the layers of time. Can I not do this thing alone, without him? Can I not dig down into the dungeon of my own mind and remember who I am and how I became the thing I am?

  Kaldy closed his eyes. Relax, he ordered himself. Breathe deeply. Empty the mind of thought. Allow the images to surface. Do not fight them, do not resist them. Allow them to float upwards from the darkness.
Remember. Remember.

  Time passed, and Kaldy lay immobile upon the stone floor. Blasko sat nearby, watching him, not knowing what his friend was doing, but knowing that Kaldy could not be sleeping, for Kaldy never slept, knowing that Kaldy could not be resting, for Kaldy never tired. Blasko watched in silence.

  Kaldy’s eyes remained closed, and for an instant he found himself standing in the crypt in the ruins of the vampire’s castle, gazing up at the rafters from which the vampire hung like a spider. "You threaten me with death, foolish Vroloki," the vampire was saying. "Do you not know that if you were capable of fighting evil, you would not be the cursed creatures that you are?"

  PAIN!

  Kaldy’s body rocked with agony and he felt as if his head were about to explode, but the images continued to surface, and each new image brought with it a stab of pain.

  "I shall keep you here until the end of my days, demons," Nostradamus was shouting into the still open entrance to the stronghold, "and I shall see to it that you remain here until the end of time."

  PAIN!

  Myrdden was binding them with thick ropes and the flowers were covering them.

  PAIN!

  "Haitaumash kakoshenkar, mashkamash kakosheshkar."

  PAIN!

  Desert winds. Sweat and offal. Fear and desire. Youth and hope and trust and

  PAIN!

  Haitaumash kakoshenkar, mashkamash kakosheshkar. Haitaumash kakoshenkar mashkamash kakosheshkar, haitaumash kakoshenkar, mashkamash kakosheshkar, haitaumashkakoshenkar,mashkamashkakosheshkarhaitaumashkakoshenkarmaskamashkakoshenkarhaitaumashkakoshenkarmaskamashkakosheshkar…

  PAIN! PAIN! PAIN!

  Kaldy screamed and grabbed his head. He rolled over onto his side and his thin body shuddered. Blasko rushed over to him and took him in his arms and began to rock him as if he were a baby, muttering, "Janos, Janos, poor Janos!"

  Janos Kaldy’s pain subsided, and he began to weep. He wept for himself and his long, tortured immortality. He wept for Claudia. He wept for the thousands of innocent lives he had taken over the long centuries. He wept and wept and wept.