A full day of exhausting travel had left me completely worn out. On the way to the ruins, I twisted my ankle while climbing over some massive boulders, making every step a painful, limping endeavor. Not far away, there was a small village where I hoped to hire a carriage, but my hopes were quickly dashed. Few people there spoke French, and when I inquired with a local priest, he assured me that the village had only those solid-wheeled carts used for plowing fields—there were no other means of transport available, not even a single ridable horse. The kind priest offered me a place to stay for the night, but I had to decline, as my family planned to leave early the next morning.
It was then that the mayor, who had been accompanying me on the tour, spoke up: “Sir, under no circumstances should you cross the plains tonight on your way back. There is... there is...” His voice dropped to a whisper. “A werewolf.”
“He says he must go back!” the priest shouted in the local dialect. “But who will accompany him?”
“Ah, Monsieur Cullet! One of us could escort him, sure, but think about it—the escort would have to return alone!”
“Then two people must go with him,” the priest suggested, “so they can look out for each other on the way back.”
“Pegu told me he saw a werewolf just today, this very night,” a farmer chimed in. “He was crouching near the buckwheat field’s hedge as the sun was setting, thinking of heading home, when he heard a rustling on the other side of the fence. He looked up and saw a wolf as big as a calf standing in the clearing—its tongue hanging out, its eyes glowing red like fire in a swamp. God help us! If that devilish wolf attacks, what good would two men be? What good at all?”
“This is too great a risk,” an elder of the village remarked gravely. “If a man insists on throwing himself into danger, he mustn’t expect God to come to his aid. Isn’t that right, Father Cullet? Didn’t I hear you preach this from the pulpit on the first Sunday of Lent? It’s what the Gospel teaches.”
“Yes, indeed,” several others echoed.
“His tongue hung out, and his eyes burned like the fire in the swamps!” another of Pegu’s friends exclaimed.
“God above! If I were to come face-to-face with that demon, I’d run for my life,” another man declared.
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“That, Gautret, I absolutely believe you would do,” the mayor replied with a knowing nod.
“It was as big as a calf,” Pegu’s friend insisted.
“If it were just a mere wolf, well, of course, you know,” the mayor said, clearing his throat. “You know we wouldn’t even give it a thought. But, Father Cullet, it’s a monster—something worse than a monster. It’s a human turned into a wolf—a wolf-man.”
“But what about this young gentleman? What is he to do?” the priest asked, looking anxiously from one face to another.
“Do not worry,” I said, breaking my silence—I had been listening quietly and could understand their dialect. “There’s no need for concern. I’ll go back on my own. If I encounter the werewolf, I’ll cut off its ears and tail and send them as a gift to the mayor.”
A collective sigh of relief rippled through the crowd, as they realized they wouldn’t have to take part in this troublesome matter.
“He’s an Englishman,” the mayor said, nodding as though reassured that an Englishman would somehow be impervious to such a threat.
The desolate marshland was eerily still. Even during the day, it looked bleak, but now, under the veil of night, its desolation seemed magnified tenfold. The sky was devoid of clouds, painted in soft hues of gray and blue. A crescent moon, thin as a sliver, arched westward, offering the only light to the vast night. The swamp stretched endlessly toward the horizon, its stagnant pools reflecting a darkness that seemed bottomless. Frogs croaked incessantly, their calls piercing the summer air. Heather and ferns carpeted most of the ground, while thick clusters of irises and cattails grew closer to the water, swaying faintly in a breeze that sounded like a weary sigh.
Scattered sand dunes, topped with dark firs, dotted the landscape like black smudges flung against the gray sky. The only sign of human activity was a straight, pale path that snaked through the marshes for miles, its whiteness cutting through the gloom like a ghostly trail.
Given the wolves rumored to roam this area, I armed myself with a sturdy stick for defense as I descended the first slope, leaving the thicket behind.
This marked my first encounter with the concept of werewolves—a superstition that still flourishes in many regions. Intrigued, I resolved to study the history and habits of these mythic creatures. While I must admit I failed to obtain any live specimens for my research, I uncovered numerous traces of their existence. Though I had no living werewolf bound before me to sketch, much like paleontologists reconstruct prehistoric creatures from fossils and footprints, I hoped to piece together a coherent and accurate understanding of their lore.
Signs of their presence abound, much like relics of the dodo or dinosaurs. Whether prowling the snowy expanses of the north, stalking through medieval villages, or howling in Eastern tombs, werewolves have left their mark on history. They belong to a vile breed, and we should count ourselves fortunate to be free from their and their kin’s—vampires and ghouls—torments. Yet, who can say with certainty that we are not premature in declaring them extinct? Perhaps they still prowl the forests of Abyssinia, leave tracks on the Siberian steppes, or wail forlornly in the secluded cells of an asylum.