Story: "Werewolf" (Part 1)

You wake to the singing.

The soft voices have infiltrated your dream, become part of it, carry you with them into the waking world. You, who normally sleep heavy and wake from a deep, black unremembered. This time, because of the singing, the dream is still with you, all of it clear, remembered whole, like a giant mural in your mind.

Then the shot rings out.

And the vast mural of your dream vanishes from memory in an instant.

You sit up straight, wide awake now.

The sky is a solid blue, not a single cloud, a uniform blue, like God took a roller to it and painted it the darker blue of early morning, and if you look closely, as you do now, you see the faint outline of the moon, pale in that dark-blue sky.

You've made camp high in the mountains, and you see the olive-green tents, spread out among the tall pine trees, spread out but close enough that it gives the feeling of a huddle, that comforting feeling of protection, family.

A group of men, Rollo among them, sit by the remnants of the campfire from last evening, the one you had warned against, the one that might attract unwanted visitors. Rollo had overruled you. 'We need the warmth tonight,' he said. 'After such a day, the fighters need to warm their souls by the glow of the fire in the night.'

And that was that. Rollo spoke. You all did as you were told. The fighters warmed their souls by the fire and sang, and — for a few hours — forgot about the war, the endless war.

There are five of them, the men by the white ashes of last night's fire. None of them singing now, the old guitar that constantly goes out of tune resting on the ground, the men's backs towards you, the tight stretch of their necks evidence that they are straining to see and hear.

Where did the shot come from? Who fired it?

You walk down until you stand behind them, put a hand on Rollo's shoulder. With any one of the others, this would have resulted in a shocked reaction, perhaps an overreaction, a cry, a punch, the jab of a knife, gunfire, an accidental gut-shot this early in the morning, before you've had your first cup of black coffee.

So, deliberately you select Rollo, the steady one.

He turns his head, and his great golden mane of hair is bright against the dark-blue dawn sky. He should wear a hat, a hood, something to cover that blond hair, that yellow beard, so easily recognizable, making him such a target: Rollo Frank, the big, blond leader of the resistance. But of course he won't do anything that could be interpreted as fearing for his personal safety, and you're tired of nagging.

Rollo lifts a finger to his lips. You nod.

"I think it came from over there." It's Jose, whispering. He points to the right.

"No, over there." It's Aureliano, pointing to the left.

A tent flap opens and Gratia crawls out, clearly having spent time getting ready, not just rolling out of his cot, unless he sleeps in his black shirt and pants, his black beret on his head, his black bandana around his neck, where it blends in with his thick, black beard.

Gratia's real name is Otto, a german name, Otto Tellich, although he doesn't have a German accent, at least not much of one, at least not when he's sober. He insists on being called 'Gratia', just 'Gratia'. It's his nom de guerre, his nom de plume, or nom d'artiste, or nom de pinceau. Gratia is a painter.

You can relate to his artistic temperament. You're a journalist, yes, just the facts, but a storyteller at heart, and stories are the basis for all great journalism, all great fiction, poetry, music, and, probably, all great paintings.

Gratia, in spite of his bulk, moves with grace, like a large black cat, a panther perhaps, settling in next to you.

"I think Aureliano is right," Rollo whispers. "I think the shot came from that direction." He points towards the left.

"There are echoes in these hills," you say. "Difficult to tell where any noise comes from."

Another tent flap opens and she comes out.

There are dozens of women in our company, but Bice Bardi is the one you reserve this single female pronoun for. She. Only she is She.

Bice stands up, stretches, lets us admire her, and we all do ... admire her. Copper-red hair, pale flawless skin, pale coral lips, emerald eyes, long, lithe limbs, narrow waist, gentle curves, taut.

Her first name, Bice, is short for Beatrice. She pronounces it 'BEE-che'.

Bice (BEE-che) knows how you feel about her, you think. One can never be sure with one such as Bice, of course, but there is something in the glint of her eye, the way she now makes a point of approaching you first, how she casually touches you, a light touch on the upper arm, the way she smiles at you (with eye contact), before she turns away and gives all her attention to Rollo, her man.

And you know, of course, that you and Bice can never be. Know, in fact, that such a thing would be viewed by most as an obscenity, unnatural, not right, violating if not the law of God, at least the law of common decency, which is, you know, the more important law, the law of the pack.

A scream rings out. A woman's scream. At least it sounds like a woman's scream, a high falsetto. Pure terror.

And, yes, it's coming from the direction Rollo and Aureliano have been pointing. Suddenly, with no signal, no coordination, the little group around the dead fire gets up, moving quickly, quietly, as one.

We are like a pack of hunting dogs, you think.

Over the ridge of the plateau where we are encamped, looking down through the tall pines, the City is far below on the plain.

It's Rollo's belief, his article of faith, that our small company, of less than one hundred fighters, can take the City, with a population of several thousand, perhaps even without much bloodshed.

'They are mostly with us, you know,' he says over and over, as if by repeating the words like an incantation, the gods and angels and demons and genies and imps of war will grant him his wish. 'It will take, at most, a little push. The City will be ours, the first one to join our cause, the first of many. Soon we will control the North, you will see. Then we march on the Capital.'

Of course, after we take it, how we will then hold the City, even if it is a rather small city, a town really, almost just a village, this is a different problem. For then, instead of being a small band of guerrilla hiding in the mountains among the trees, we will be an occupying army. That will be the true start of something. Or the end of everything.

Down through the forest, down the steep mountainside, the pack is hunting. You feel alive, hunting with them, with Rollo, with Jose and Aureliano, with the twins Segundo and Primero, with Raphael the giant Frenchman, with Otto who prefers to be called Gratia, and with her, with Bice.

It's pure, this feeling: running, breathing hard, blood pounding, the cool morning air on your skin whisking away the beads of sweat, the intense look on your friends' faces, all of one purpose, one, shared, pure purpose.

Why do we need to take the City down below the mountain?

Why do we need to complicate everything?

Why can't it stay just this way, pure and uncomplicated, hunting together in the mountains, forever?

***

And then we find her.

The woman sits, her back against a tree, legs spread, arms at her side, the gun loosely gripped in her right hand, her head hanging heavy to one side, dark hair all in a tangle, thrown to the left side, as if she has been violently shaken. Her eyes are open, glazed, staring. Her mouth is slack.

There is blood all down the front of her dress.

Her throat is slit open from side to side, from ear to ear. 

You lean in closer and see that is not right. This wound is not from the blade of a knife, it's ...

"It's an animal," you say, straightening up. "An animal did this. Her throat, it's ripped up, torn out."

Rollo leans in, then steps back.

"You're right," he says. "What animal?"

Primero and Segundo have seen much. The twins are more than sixty years old — how old exactly no-one knows — but strong, sinewy. They look like two old gnarled trees, here between the pines, skin browned from more than half a century in the sun, knotted muscles and raised veins over thick knobby bones. They examine the woman's wound, conferring with gestures and eyebrows, pursed lips and head tilts-and-cocks, a burst of hushed words, half-started sentences that need no completion. By now they read each other's minds.

"Wolf," Primero says.

"Wolf," Segundo agrees. "Very large."

"Did she wound him, the wolf?" It's Bice asking. She points to the gun in the corpse's hand. "That must have been the shot we heard, right? Did she shoot the wolf?"

"No," Primero shakes his head.

"Are you sure?"

Primero and Segundo both nod in unison.

"No wolf blood," Segundo says. "Only hers."

Rollo looks around. "So, he's out here somewhere. A lone wolf, a killer."

"But," you say. "Who is she?"

"A spy?" It's Raphael, the giant Frenchman. He sees spies everywhere.

"Or someone out picking berries," you say.

Raphael shakes his head.

"No berries," he says. "Is not the season."

He's right about that.

"I guess that makes her a spy." You say this with a straight face, but Raphael hears the sarcasm anyway. Giant of a man as he is, he's sensitive like a little girl. His face, under the ruddy beard, flushes, and he turns away.

"Spy or no, she's dead," Gratia says.

"Should we bury her?" It's Bice again.

"Or we could leave her as bait," you say. "Wait for the wolf to return to finish his meal, then," you make a pistol out of your index and middle finger, cock you thumb, "bang, bang, dead wolf!"

Rollo shakes his head. "Not a bad idea, but it won't work. This wolf won't come back. Not for her."

"You know this, how?"

"I know wolves." Is all he says.

"We can't just let him roam," Bice says. "None of us will be safe with that beast running around, no?"

"We will double the guards," Rollo says. "No-one leaves camp alone. This is good practice anyway, especially now that we are nearly ready to take the City. We need to stay vigilant."

"And watch out for spies." You can't help getting this in, giving Raphael a look.

"And watch out for spies, yes." Rollo is serious. "Let's bring her back to camp. This will be a good warning to the others, so they know why it is we must be serious when we implement our new procedures."

"And we can bury her," Bice says.

"Yes, and we can also make sure she is not someone known to our company. Perhaps someone from the City wanting to join our cause." Rollo uses everything as a sign that his cause, our cause, is inevitably going to attract a following beyond our meager numbers. "This is very possible," he adds, then turns around and walks back towards the camp, long blond hair flowing in the cool morning air.

He leaves before giving specific orders, so who should carry the corpse?

We look at each other.

Indecision.

This is why we need Rollo Frank.

***

So, of course, the woman, the corpse, is a complete unknown. At least no-one back in camp claims her.

She looks foreign, somehow. Something about the way she is dressed, her makeup. She does not seem like one of the peasants and merchants that inhabit the City at the bottom of the mountain.

"I still say we should hunt down that wolf," Bice states in a low voice. She is sitting next to you. Close. Does she do this on purpose? You both have steaming cups of hot, black coffee in tin cups. The handle is too hot, burning your finger, but you're used to it, welcome it, even, that morning wake-up call, the pain that tells you you're alive another day.

Later in the day you will rub that red spot on your index finger, where the hot handle of the tin cup has burned in the heat of the morning coffee, and when you rub that red spot, it's as if you're right back with that morning ritual: hot, black coffee, Bice sitting close, too close. Does she do it on purpose?

"How do we hunt down the wolf?" you ask, sipping the hot coffee, steam rising in the cool mountain air.

"I don't know. Rollo says he knows wolves. Maybe he knows how to hunt them?"

"Maybe, but he's the one who said we're not going to."

"Then Segundo and Primero. Those two know everything."

You take another sip of hot, black coffee. "They're too old for this game."

"For hunting wolves?"

"Sure, that too. I was thinking they're too old for this war."

Bice gets up, stretches, throws out the rest of her coffee, hangs the tin cup by its handle from a branch next to the pot. "I don't know," she says. "They're tough old birds. And motivated."

"Yeah," you say. We know the story. "They're motivated."

The story is that Primero and Segundo were married to sisters, perhaps twins themselves, those sisters, but more likely just sisters, the four of them, brothers and sisters, married more than twenty years. Then the Presidente's men, the Government men, came to their village. Exactly what happened, none of us knows, although there have been many stories, conflicting stories, all with this in common: the sisters ended up dead, Primero and Segundo sworn to avenge them. They were among the first to join Rollo Frank's great cause, our little company, where they have now been soldiers for more than ten lean years. They're motivated, not so much for Rollo's great cause as for that greater cause, the greatest of all causes: balancing the scales, justice, revenge.

Sitting there, watching Bice sway the way she does, as she walks away, wondering if she's going to look back over her shoulder, back your way, until she disappears behind one of the tents, you're musing idly about the great cause, about Rollo Frank, about the reasons we've all joined him.

Another sip of hot black coffee.

There are Primero and Segundo, and maybe a third of the company are like them, driven by some personal wound inflicted by the Government, by the Presidente's men. These are 'The Wounded', and they are all natives, people who have lived long under the oppressive rule of the Government.

Then there are those like Raphael, the sensitive giant Frenchman, and maybe Gratia falls into that category, it's hard to tell with him. These are 'The Romantics', the idealists, the true believers, their hearts stirred up emotionally by the romance of the cause itself. Those are not quite as many as the 'The Wounded', but maybe a quarter of the company fall into this category. They are mostly foreigners. Very few of the natives belong to 'The Romantics', though perhaps some of the young natives, for who is not a romantic when young. All causes, all idealistic ideologies, by their nature, have a certain amount of dramatic flair, oversimplification, black and white, bright lines between pure good and pure evil, lofty maxims, lies.

There is too much grey in this land, too much hard-scrabble in the soil, too much skepticism branded deep into their souls. Practical truth does not make for good romantics.

So, the natives, at least the ones that have lived long enough to learn the hard truths, are mostly realistic and in one way or another have self-interest as their true motivation, even if they have authentic stories of woe (and who does not), even if they mouth the words of the cause, even mimicking the fervor of 'The Romantics'. If they are not wounded, or at least not deeply wounded, then they are people like Aureliano and Jose. These are the sly, clever ones, like Aureliano, who have determined that Rollo Frank is the winning bet, at least for now, and by joining early they will achieve fame and fortune in the new regime. Or ... they are the desperate ones, like Jose, who have nothing to go home to, criminals many of them. These are 'The Pragmatists'.

Finally there is the core group of fanatics that will follow Rollo Frank no matter where he goes, what he says, what he commands, and you count yourself among this number, the smallest number. These are 'The Disciples', Rollo Frank's devoted followers.

Where does Bice fit?

It would seem, since Rollo is her man, that she is a 'Disciple', but somehow you doubt it. No, Bice, you decide, is a 'Pragmatist'. Yes, that's who she is. So, then, what does she want from Rollo Frank? Is it simply that he is the leader, the top dog?

"Penny for your thoughts." Gratia, having moved up without a sound, like the large, black panther he resembles, whispers these words, close to your ear. You smile.

"Come sit down," you say. "Keep me company. Answer a riddle."

"Oh, a riddle. I love riddles." Gratia walks over to the coffee pot, grabs a tin cup from the branch — it is, in fact, the same cup Bice just drank from — pours himself a steaming coffee, then sits down on the dewy ground with his back leaning against a pine tree, across from the fallen log where you're sitting.

"What's the riddle?"

"Bice."

"Oh, BEE-che," he says, smiles, sips the hot coffee. "The riddle of Bice."

"The riddle of Bice and Rollo."

"Sounds like a medieval epic poem." Gratia smiles. "I suppose that would be 'The Ballad of Bice and Rollo', no? You should write it."

"I have a feeling I may, one day, one way or another."

"If we win."

"When we win."

Gratia sips his coffee again. "You're so sure of that, are you?"

"I'm a gypsy, you know," you say. "We see the future."

"And you see our beloved Rollo as the next Presidente?"

"If that is what he wants. I see him as General Rollo Frank, victorious."

"And Bice?"

"That," you say, "is not so clear."

"Therefore the riddle."

"Yes."

"This is how I see her, our BEE-che. She is first, last, and always, the goddess at the center of her own universe. There she rules supreme. All must bow to her. All must worship her. That is food and drink for her, ambrosia and nectar."

You take a sip of coffee. Your tailbone and your back hurts from sitting too long on this fallen log.

"So, she's with Rollo, because ..."

"Because," Gratia says, "in his light, she shines. He's her pedestal. But you see this, don't you?"

You nod. "I do." Of course, that is the way of it, but is that all there is? "A bit cynical, don't you think?"

"I'm cynical," Gratia answers, "about the world in general. But not about Bice. I think Bice is right. She is a goddess. She deserves to shine in Rollo's light. She is beautiful and terrible, desirable, yes, but there's more than that. She is ethereal, a special creation of God, and so it is right that she should be worshipped."

"And you, do you worship her?"

"Of course I do." He smiles. "Just in the same way as I worship this mountain in the morning sunlight, the way I worship Primero's and Segundo's old strong hands, the way I worship the corpse of this unknown woman, the way I would worship the wolf who ripped her throat out, if only I could find him."

"And paint him?"

"And paint him. Yes. I would love the wolf to paint." Once in a while his words come out backwards, betraying his German origins. '...the wolf to paint.'

"Dead or alive."

"Preferably alive," Gratia says, takes another sip of coffee, then: "But dead will do."

"So, you're a proponent of hunting the wolf?"

"No, I'm a proponent of painting the wolf."

"And the fact that he's a killer, that doesn't matter?"

"On the contrary. The fact that the wolf is a killer, that is what makes him worth painting."

"What are you two gossiping about?" It is Rollo, walking over to the coffee pot, grabbing a tin cup.

"Of wolves and riddles," Gratia says.

"Ah, the riddle of the wolf." Rollo turns away, steps over to the ridge of our plateau, looking down the steep mountain side, down at his beloved City. "What do you think we should do about the wolf?"

"Gratia wants to paint him," you say.

"Of course he does. Gratia wants to paint everything and everyone." Rollo turns back to face Gratia. "Will you paint us when we take the City?"

"Paint the whole company?" Gratia asks.

Bice returns from behind the tent. She walks over to Rollo, puts a long, pale-skinned arm around his waist.

Rollo takes her by the hand, walks over to you, puts a hand on your shoulder, turns around to face Gratia once more.

"No," he says. "Not the whole company. When we take the City, I want you to paint us, the three of us." I stand up, my back relieved as I stretch. Rollo puts an arm around my middle, another around Bice's slim waist. "The three of us, victorious," he says.

Gratia gives us a long look, then smiles.

"Yes," he says. "That would be perfect."

"I want you to paint me with my foot on the dead wolf's head," you say.

"I suppose we do need to hunt him, then," Rollo says. "For you, my dearest friend, for you, so you can plant your conquering foot on his head, a symbol of our victory in the City and the many triumphs to come. It will be a heroic image."

"I can already see it my my mind," Gratia says.

***

So, we decide we will hunt the wolf, but, other than the dead woman, the foreign woman, the spy, her throat torn out, there is no other evidence of the wolf, no trace. So, we have nothing to hunt. Therefore we decide we will trap the wolf, snare him.

"Does anyone know how to trap a wolf?" It is Bice, and she looks at Rollo as she speaks.

"You snare it," he says. "It's really like snaring a rabbit or a fox, just two differences. First, the wolf, naturally is a very strong animal. We must use steel wire for the snare, but this is not a problem, for we can use the steel wires that anchor our tents. We carry spares. Second, the wolf is very cautious, much more careful than the fox, and a large, lone wolf doubly so. This is why I said that the wolf would not return to the dead woman. Once we have put our scent all over a spot, he will stay away. He will not come near it, nor anything that carries our scent. But, again, this is not difficult. Any good hunter knows how to mask human scent by use of smoke or better yet, the scent of urine or gall from the bait. We will snare and kill half a dozen rabbits, then use their urine and their gall to make our masking scent, and we will place the wolf-snares with the bait in all directions radiating from the camp. In this way, we will snare him, if he is here to be snared. In his caution, he may have already escaped. But if this wolf is mad with bloodlust, he will stay, stalking us as his prey. Then we will catch him."

"Rollo, you really know your wolves," you say.

"Did you ever doubt me, friend?"

"Me, never!"

"Of course it is easy for one such as me."

"Such as you?"

"Yes, one such as me, who was raised by wolves." Rollo grins, then throws his head back, lets out a long howl.

***

With all the snares we set for the wolf, it is he that snares us first, one of us.

The very next night.

In the morning, when we wake, we find the wolf's prey at the edge of the camp.

Segundo.

Throat torn out.

— END PART 1 - TO BE CONTINUED —

Click here to go to Part 2 of the story.