by Hunter, Troy
“Lovely. What city?”
“Sheffield. We lived in the countryside nearby, around Derbyshire.”
I find the fact that he refers to his home in past tense peculiar. Does his family no longer live there? Have they moved in recent years? Or…
“That’s not too far from here, you know. Have you considered perhaps giving them a visit one of these days? I can accompany you if you’d like.” This is unfortunately the point where his normal sheepish, downtrodden manner of speech returns. His tail stops wagging and he looks down, ears drooping a bit. Well done, Kenneth. He was going so well until you mucked it up.
“That…won’t be necessary. With as long as it’s been, I doubt my father is even still alive. My siblings have probably all gone their separate ways, should they still be living.” He sits down with a faint whimper. “Besides, going back to Sheffield would bring about too many bad memories. J-Just because I learned to play the violin doesn’t mean I was ever any good at it.”
I tilt my head, confused by his choice of words. Lupus knew how to play The Devil’s Trill, an old piece of music that’s got enough content for a performance to last anywhere from twelve minutes to nearly twenty. That’s quite the achievement. No average violinist could manage a feat like that. Why would he think he’s an untalented violinist? “I highly doubt you were a sub-par musician, Lupus.”
He looks back up at me, a small growl rumbling in his throat. “Well I was. Terribly so. The people of Sheffield might’ve liked the feeble attempts of a farm boy way back when, but certainly not the people of…” He pauses and looks down at his feet. It’s become clear to me that the brown wolf had his fair share of troubles he wishes to get off his chest.
I want to push him. I want him to open up. He’d feel so much better if he’d just take the time to tell me his story. Lord knows I’ve ranted about my woes more than enough times around him. It would only be fair for him to do the same.
But alas, I don’t push him.
I want him to tell me himself, on his accord.
“F-Forgive me, Kenneth. But c-can we please change the subject? I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
Before I can answer, a yawn interrupts me. It must be fairly late by now. I don’t want to leave Lupus alone with his thoughts, but I don’t want to fall asleep on him either. As rare as it is for him to open up, I’d never be able to forgive myself if I ever gave him the impression that he bores me.
“All is forgiven. It’s getting late anyhow. I should probably transform soon and head back. You’re free to tag along if you wish.”
He hangs his head and whines. “Don’t misunderstand me, please. I want to continue talking. I just want to change the direction of the conversation is all.” He looks back up with watery eyes. “C-Can you…not transform tonight? I love our talks. I love being able to respond to you. I love when I can joke with you. I love just talking to you. It’s been so long since I’ve had anyone to hold a conversation with.” A small whine interrupts his heartfelt confession. “You can always transform in the morning. For tonight, just stay with me. Talk with me. Please, Kenneth?”
I can smell the salt from his tears. It rips at my heartstrings with the force of a lycan’s claws. The wolf really has been alone for a long time. I may never know exactly how long but maybe I don’t need to. His actions speak volumes already and I hate seeing him struggle. I wish I could put an end to all his sorrow.
I will one day.
For now, I can start by granting his request.
“Is right here good with you?” I jerk my head toward the ground below me.
His ears perk up, a slow wag of his tail following. There’s a bit of that hopefulness coming back. “Yes. This is a lovely spot to spend the night. The sound of the nearby stream usually helps me sleep.”
With that, we laid down beside each other and spent the remainder of the night talking about whatever crossed our minds.
Be it the weather or the moon, we discussed until we couldn’t keep our eyes open any longer.
* * *
The next morning, I temporarily part ways with the brown wolf. His mind is a bit more at ease than it was last night, as evidenced by his need to give me the piss. “By all means,” he tells me just before my transformation. “Go freshen up at the estate. I’d rather not have to sniff your body odor while you analyze rocks.”
I nod at the cheeky bastard and change back into my human form.
Our separation doesn’t last long, as I return outdoors as soon as I finish my morning routine of bathing, getting dressed, and eating breakfast. While we thoroughly enjoy exploring the castle grounds as wolves, our time spent as man and wolf isn’t much different. Every time I go outside to search for minerals to analyze, he sprints right over to me. I always pet him on the head and scratch behind his ears, a gesture he loves a little too much. For the entirety of my time working outdoors, he refuses to leave my side. In fact, I think the only time he’s ever willing to shuffle away is if either of us have to use the restroom.
As a human, my height serves to filter my sense of smell. I’m only able to catch the scent of his back fur, which carries the smells of bacteria latching themselves onto his coat. This is an inauthentic scent, the smell of filth and labor. When I’m in my wolf form, I’m closer to his level. I’m able to catch whiffs of many more scents such as sweat from his feet, residue soap from his latest bath, and rabbit blood from his saliva.
True, not all smells are pleasant.
But they are necessary for life to seem real.
As such, I find myself sometimes getting lost in the other wolf’s many scents.
I work on my research all morning and eventually burn myself out on it. I decide to take a walk around the estate with Lupus. After exploring the various watchtowers standing above the castle, I finally look over at the one place I was told to never explore.
“You know something, boy?” I say to my furry friend. “My first day here, Young Norris told me I was allowed to visit every area of this castle, except that chapel over there. The old codger never told me why, either. Then again, he never tells me anything,” I say the last part with a slight chuckle. “I’m thinking we should check it out. See if my great-uncle has left me anything.” I take a step toward the chapel but am immediately stopped by the wolf, who quickly runs in front of me to block my path.
“What? Don’t tell me you’re scared.” He begins growling, baring his teeth. “What’s with you all of a sudden? Do you know something about that chapel?” The wolf whines loudly but continues to bare his teeth. This gesture alone tells me his aggression isn’t based on anger or irritation. It’s from apprehension and fear. But fear of what exactly?
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone you said anything. Just tell me what the trouble is so I can understand.” After lowering the tone of my voice to a gentler volume, the wolf finally barks and runs toward the castle. As he climbs the steps, he turns back around to face me, barking two more times. He wants me to follow him.
I rush over to him. Once I’ve caught up, he paws at the twin doors. I push them open and he gallops into the main hall and up the staircase. I follow him all the way to the library. I then watch him as he rushes to the romance section. I notice him pawing at a leather-bound book, granted he struggles with trying to pull it out due to his lack of thumbs. Just as I try to offer him help, he manages to get it pulled out of place.
The wolf then picks the book up with his mouth and rushes back over to me. He holds the book up to me, inviting me to take it from him. I do as he requests and examine the front cover. There’s no printed text on the front, but there are what appear to be inkblots shaped suspiciously like paw prints, faded and aged by the look of it. I open the book and am taken aback by the handwritten title on the back of the cover.
“The Stagwood Confession: The Diary of Eustace Bertram, Missing Person”
9
To Know the Beast
Eustace
October 19, 1823
&
nbsp; Oh, praise be thy name!
Thank you, God.
Please, don’t lead me astray again.
I’m so relieved to see that my last transformation wasn’t a fluke. My reclaimed humanity was robbed from me again last month, this time by the sunrise. Like the first time I had transformed into a wolf, the pain was too unbearable to handle quietly. I considered myself lucky Missus Norris was the one who found me and not her master.
“Wadda? Wollo wollo,” were the words she whispered into my ear as she carried me out of the laboratory. I’m not sure what she said but I felt she said them with good intent. After all, she could’ve brought me to Elias. She could’ve woken him up and had him perform all sorts of ghastly experiments on me, all of which would likely end in a failure that would result in me getting yelled at once again.
She could’ve done that, but she didn’t.
If wolves could lend hands around the kitchen, I would’ve tried to return her kindness.
The following month brought about cooler weather, signaling the beginning of autumn. As a human, I used to enjoy seeing the leaves change color during this time of year. I found the scenery inspiring. I used to liken it to the life I wanted to lead. Life begins as but a seed, eventually growing into a sapling. As saplings, we are young children. We dream of impossible goals, but we care not. No one can tell us we’re wrong.
Like children, saplings grow up one day. Now beautiful trees, they stand above all life. They possess a certain presence that gives them power over other plants. And with that power comes majesty. Their lush greenery blesses the eyes of many during the spring and summer.
But in the autumn? That’s when the trees adapt to the cool temperature. They might lose their green through the months of unappreciated work and effort, but their will to stand tall never perishes. The colors do not signify decay, rather resilience.
I once aspired to be like a tree…but you see how that went for me.
At least the majestic leaves can’t taunt me as a wolf.
Mood dampened by the uneventful autumn, I found myself hiding inside the castle most days. The observatory is my favorite place to go, as the Norris family never seems to venture that far up, and Elias spent most of his time either in his study or his laboratory. It’s the ideal place to relax whenever he’s in one of his less than rational moods. It’s where I was when my current transformation occurred and if God could lend me a favor for once, it may be my last transformation.
Now that I’ve regained my true form, I have absolutely no intention of squandering my free time by simply twiddling my thumbs like a dim-witted buffoon. Now is the time for me to act. I need to rid myself of this awful curse.
I need to escape from Stagwood Grove for good.
As the aches in my body ceased, I thought perhaps Elias had formulated a cure for my condition. Considering his aversion to humans, I had a feeling he might not have bothered to research it. But I couldn’t afford to waste time by doubting my options. While being a wolf had its fun moments, I’m too euphoric in having received my human body back. The high is so intense that I know without a trace of doubt I never want to be a wolf ever again.
I’m sick of this curse.
It wore out its welcome a long time ago.
I want to go back to being human permanently.
Along with finding a cure to my affliction, my curious mind also wondered if Elias kept accounts of his old life before isolating himself from society. True, he gave me a brief synopsis of his life story, but some things just didn’t add up. I needed to know more about the man that robbed me of humanity. I’d been his science experiment for two months, but I still knew nothing about him other than what he allowed me to know.
I assumed Elias’ personal documents would’ve been in his laboratory. Despite having a study that he spent a good portion of his time in, he never seemed to leave any of his notes in there. All I ever found was old books. Every once in a while, he’d pen his thoughts down on blank parchment pads. But of course, he never let anyone close enough to him to read them and he always pocketed each finished note.
Once I was inside Elias’ laboratory, I was relieved to see he wasn’t in the room waiting for me. I also noticed my clothes and diary were still sitting on top of his potion station. Excellent. I began to search through the station. In no time at all, I found what appeared to be a journal that dated back to at least the fifteenth century. Good heavens, I thought to myself. Just how old is this crazy old man? I knew Elias was old. But to think he dated back that far?
How?
How was he still living?
If I didn’t try to find out, I might’ve never had the chance to try again.
And so I opened the journal and read.
* * *
His full name was Elias Cervante Adelbrecht and his birth year is estimated to be between 1478 and 1480. A child of the Renaissance, Elias always had an eye for the ornate. Even as a baby, he seemed to be fixated on early sculptures of starving street artists, often trying to grab onto them as if he were trying to take a piece home with him. As Elias grew into an adolescent, he decided to pick up the chisel himself and craft works of art that rivaled Michelangelo and DaVinci. After an unfortunate accident involving an ivory shard slicing into his hand, Elias retired from sculpting at the age of nine, switching his interests to science and painting, eventually proving to be quite proficient at both.
Elias possessed something of a troublemaker reputation due to his outspokenness in class. Making friends wasn’t easy for the young savant, as he often took great pleasure in instigating fiery debates amongst his peers. Most of the time, Elias’ point of view was correct, even if it truly wasn’t. And the young man was never satisfied with shallow small talk, as he quite often responded to it with obscene, out of the blue comments that were capable of starting public outcries.
Despite his obvious talent with a brush and canvas, girls found him to be too eccentric for their liking. Not one to give up the chase, Elias often resorted to using his namesake during times of rejection. As the Adelbrechts have always had a controversial reputation in every city they’ve lived in, the objects of his affection weren’t sure if they should fear him or love him. After all, shifters have always had quite the reputation for attracting mates.
But what the lasses didn’t know was that despite having shifter blood running strong in his bloodline, Elias was born an average human. The shifter gene had completely missed him during pregnancy, instead going to his sister, Maribel. Despite his humanity, Elias later proved to have a longer lifespan than most humans, living well over the age of one hundred and fifty by the time he disappeared from the public eye.
Indeed.
So glad I learned that after spending two months as a biochemically engineered shifter.
Burned out trying to make ends meet as an artist, Elias decided to make a career out of science, more specifically paranormal science. Some considered his field to be pseudoscience, but others saw just how useful it turned out to be in shining more light on the relationships between humans and other lifeforms all but invisible to the blind eye. A strong supporter of the shifter people, as he was still publicly labelling himself a shifter, he vowed to conquer the beast hunters employed by King Charles I.
The unholiest of holy wars took place across England, Ireland, and Scotland. Elias had been employed by the Lycan Militia to create weapons of mass destruction. Some called these enhanced creatures King Canis for their larger size and longer, sharper fangs.
But as Elias watched mortal men die effortlessly against the grisly wolfmen and their King Canis warriors, he began to reflect on his own life as a mortal man. He saw those men as disposable and weak, likening himself to that level. Elias became obsessed with the long lifespans of the lycans, looking to further increase his already prolonged life. However, he sought to go one better than them.
Elias wanted to find the source of immortality. He had no interest in searching for fairy tale artifacts such as the Holy Grail. Elias wa
s above that nonsense. He knew his own brilliance would bring about the discoveries he wanted.
But Elias needed samples to base his research on.
He needed lycan blood.
So, as the Battle of Dundalk was underway, Elias gave the signal for Charles I’s men to open fire. The firepower consisted of specially made silver rounds, personally enchanted by Elias Adelbrecht. The gunfire came from all sides, surrounding the wolves so they couldn’t retreat. Men, women, and children were all slaughtered in a manner of minutes.
When news broke of Elias’ betrayal, the Adelbrechts stationed in Ireland fled the country. When word reached the pack leaders of the Lycan Militia, they immediately surrendered to the British military and were ultimately exiled from the country. Mankind had won another war, but not every human was treated with respect. Elias Adelbrecht himself was exiled from his own family, his name omitted from all their records. Even his fiancée, Maria Josephine of Spain, cut off all forms of communication with him.
What happened next to Elias Adelbrecht was a mystery to the public eye. Some said he finally died from old age. Others said he’s living in isolation in a cottage in Hungary. Regardless of his fate, many soldiers remembered his name, repeating it like a snake savors his rattles. And any who lived to tell the tale of the Battle of Dundalk all had only one thing to say: four hundred and sixty-two lycans were killed in the name of Elias Adelbrecht’s own self-serving research.
* * *
I felt sick. I knew Elias was a crazy bastard, but I never knew he’d gone to such lengths for his fruitless research. It took me a moment to comprehend that I had been living with a war criminal this entire time. If it weren’t for the fact that this particular crime had been committed in the sixteenth century, I would turn him in to the royal guard.
But then I noticed one last page that I hadn’t read yet.
There was but one passage written on the final page.