Author's notes for 'The Tale Of Agapito The Werewolf'

You can read the story The Tale Of Agapito The Werewolf here. What follows are the author's notes.

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Author’s notes.

 

The Tale Of Agapito The Werewolf is my retelling of ‘Bisclavret’, one of the lais, or narrative poems, of Marie de France, a French poet and translator most likely living in England during the twelfth and early thirteenth centuries A.D.

My main source for this retelling is this blog post: <http://www.dxsuperpremium.com/2010/10/bisclavret-lay-of-werewolf.html>, but I have consulted other sources too, including Judith P. Shoaf’s 1996 verse translation.  

 

Names and other modifications.

In Marie de France’s version of this story, none of the characters are given names, except for the werewolf himself, who is called ‘Bisclavret’ or ‘Bisclavaret’: names which simply mean ‘werewolf’.

In my retelling, I decided to name the characters, and chose names that are all derived from Italian, and have significant meanings.

• Agapito is ultimately from a Greek name that means ‘beloved’, for this character’s fate is defined by who loves him and who does not.
• Tancredi comes from a Germanic name that means ‘thought and counsel’, for this character is the king’s advisor and friend who notices what others do not, thinks deeply, and wisely counsels the king.
• Genoveffa is a name with uncertain origins which might mean ‘kin, family’ and ‘wife, woman’, and this character is the wife of Agapito and represents the families who often reject their queer members.
• Damiano comes ultimately from a Greek word which means ‘to tame’, for this character ‘tames’ the wolf and solves the problems of the plot with love and respect.
• Baldovino comes from ‘Baldwin’, which means ‘bold/brave friend’, for this character is bold to the point of shamelessness and selfishness, and is a friend and fellow conspirator of Genoveffa.  
• Lupo, of course, simply means ‘wolf’.

 

In Marie’s lai, we are never told how, or when, Bisclavret became a werewolf. I created an explanation, positing that Bisclavret/Agapito must have become a werewolf after he was married, for if he were a werewolf beforehand then (A) how on earth would he hide it from everyone? — and (B) he would be a bad man if he married someone without telling her of his condition or informing her that he would have to leave her for three days every week.

In keeping with my explanation for how Agapito became a werewolf, Lady Genoveffa must also become one, which is my own addition to the story, and replaces the use of the torture that Marie’s version states is used by the king to make the lady and her second husband confess. I had Baldovino reveal his wife’s werewolfism to the king without Genoveffa’s permission, just as Genoveffa revealed her first husband’s werewolfism to Baldovino without Agapito’s permission.

In Marie’s lai, Bisclavret bites off his wife’s nose when he attacks her. To Marie’s audience, this may have echoed the widespread custom of punishing an adulterous wife by cutting off her nose: by biting off her nose, the werewolf is indicating that this woman is his unfaithful wife. In my retelling, I decided to have Agapito lunge for his faithless wife’s throat, be interrupted and accidentally tear her lip instead, primarily for reasons explained below, but also because losing one’s nose in the age of medieval medicine would have been truly disfiguring. Thus, I arranged a different, but I hope equally poetic, punishment for the faithless wife.

I have made little attempt at historical accuracy. My retelling, like the original, can be assumed to take place in a real-world medieval setting, such as Marie de France’s Brittany; alternatively, the reader can imagine an indeterminate fairytale realm.

 

Themes.

One of the great joys of retelling an old story is reading between the lines and noticing what points the story may be making, while remembering that what a modern audience perceives from a tale may not be what its original, intended audience understood. I confess that, upon first reading this story, and subsequently encountering it in other forms, I did not see much of significance in it; it seemed a fairly standard fairytale, containing familiar tropes. Only when others mentioned the alleged ‘queer themes’ in the story (discussed below) did I look harder at the tale and notice its depth. Here follow the ideas that I, personally, have noticed in ‘Bisclavret’.

Communication is a persistent theme in the story. Who can communicate, who cannot; what can be communicated, what cannot; what is communicated, what is not; what things — such as the werewolf’s secrets — should not be communicated but are; what things — such the wife’s fears — should be communicated but are not; who attempts to communicate and who does not; how verbal communication is infeasible when our protagonist is in wolf form but how his actions can still be interpreted; et cetera. This is partly why I had Genoveffa’s lip be torn, instead of her nose bitten off as in Marie’s version: the wolf bites the mouth that urged him to give up his secrets and thence betrayed them to another.

We are not given the werewolf’s perspective while he is in wolf form. I altered this only a little, as I found the story more compelling when we are left to wonder what, exactly, is motivating the wolf to act as he does, and how much of his human mind and memory he retains. In this way, we, the readers, are left to guess the intentions of the wolf by interpreting his actions, just as the other characters are.  

The story is less about the werewolf and more about the people who love him: the king who loves him no matter what he is, and the lady who only loves him when he is what she thinks he should be; the king who tries to communicate with the wolf whether or not the creature understands him, and the lady who demands to be told her husband’s secrets but refuses to communicate her own feelings and worries to him; the king who risks life and limb to befriend a wild predator, and the lady who abandons her own husband at the first sign of potential danger; the king who invites a wild wolf into his bedroom, and the lady who no longer wants to lie beside her own husband even when he is in human form. The king who trusts actions despite appearances, and the lady who distrusts regardless of both. The king who gives second chances, and the lady who does not. The king who is chosen by the wolf and stays faithful to him, and the lady who chooses her husband but betrays him.

The lady’s concerns are valid, but her actions are awful. She did not sign up to be married to a werewolf. She was not expecting her husband to be absent from her and their home for almost half of every week. When she discovers the reasons for his actions, her reaction of fear is understandable and natural. But at that point her loving husband has never harmed her: he confesses that his reason for secrecy was not malice or selfishness but his fear that his beloved wife would leave him. And what is Genoveffa’s response? Does she reassure him that she still loves him and wishes to support him in his unusual condition? Does she discuss with her husband what contingency plans may be set in place if, for example, he becomes unable to reach the forest for his transformation? Does she express concern for him, and question him about his safety and his treatment of others while he is in his wolf form? Does she become his loving assistant and faithful protector of his secrets? Does she beg for a dignified divorce or separation? Does she even ask her husband if the affliction may be cured, or how it came upon him, or if he wishes to be free of it? Not at all: she immediately cheats on him and betrays him to a permanently inhuman state, robbing him of his home, his shape, his dignity, his wife, his love, his friends, his entire human life. In effect, she murders him. She unnecessarily involves Baldovino in the act, rendering him guilty also, and pointlessly sharing her husband’s sensitive secrets with another. Genoveffa’s concern over her husband’s perplexing absences is natural and understandable, as is her terror regarding his werewolfism; but from the moment she discovers his werewolfism — the moment she realises that he is not what she thought he was — her actions are supremely self-centred, starting with her tearful, manipulative harassment of her husband into admitting to her where his clothes are hidden, despite his fear and reluctance. Emotionally, she abandons him the instant she decides he is not what she wants him to be.

At no point in any of the translations that I found is Bisclavret’s condition referred to as a curse or disease. This is a small but intriguing detail. As discussed above, Marie de France’s version makes no mention of how or when Bisclavret became a werewolf. Historically, many different explanations are given, in various mythologies, as to how werewolves may come to exist, but Marie makes no reference to any possible means of becoming a werewolf, nor of ceasing to become one. At the end of ‘Bisclavret’, the protagonist is still a werewolf, and there is no indication that he will ever be ‘cured’. While Marie presents werewolfism as a negative thing because of the wicked deeds werewolves commit while in wolf form, including the eating of humans, Bisclavret himself reports only living in thick woods and eating prey animals and roots. It could be that Bisclavret desires not to confess his more savage or wicked deeds to his wife; or it could be that Marie de France was deliberately presenting her own werewolf character, her Bisclavret, as relatively harmless, highlighting the callousness of his wife in betraying a husband who showed no signs of being truly dangerous.

In my retelling, I have used the word ‘disease’ to describe Agapito’s werewolfism, as I imagine that that is how the character himself would view it, particularly since I gave it the explanation that Agapito seemingly caught it from another creature.

 

Queer themes.

It is uncertain to me whether Marie de France’s medieval audience would have identified any queer or homosexual themes in this story. In Marie’s culture, the idea of men embracing, kissing, or even sharing a bed did not necessarily carry any implication of homosexuality. A modern audience may — perhaps wishfully — view this differently, and while I have no desire to retroactively insert queer representation where previous storytellers intended none, in my own retelling I chose to accentuate any seemingly queer themes I might find in this story which is, ultimately, about unconditional, versus conditional, love.  

When modern readers refer to this fairytale as having ‘queer themes’, I believe they are referring to the kissing and embracing that the king gives to his newly un-wolfed friend — upon the king’s bed, no less, which seems extra intimate — who had gone missing and was presumed dead; but as I retold the story myself, I found, more and more, that the werewolf’s relationships with his wife and his king are similar to the relationships that many queer people have. When people realise you are queer, when they find out what you really are, when they learn your secrets, they may reject you, as Bisclavret’s wife does, or they may love and embrace you no matter what you are, as Bisclavret’s king does.

Bisclavret is terrified that his beloved, and loving, wife will abandon him when she knows that he is both wolf and man, so he remains ‘closeted’, showing only his human aspect to his wife and the rest of the world. Sure enough, when Bisclavret’s wife discovers his other aspect, she immediately abandons him to what is effectively a living death and replaces him with another man — a ‘fully human’, ‘normal’ one. But Bisclavret cannot help being a werewolf, and his love is no less valuable or true because he spends much of his life in wolf form. A comparison to bisexuality suggests itself: Bisclavret’s wife assumed he was heterosexual, he hides his ‘other aspect’, or same-gender attraction, and, when it is discovered, his once-loving wife rejects him and replaces him with a strictly heterosexual man. But the love of a bisexual person is not less valuable simply because it is not restricted to one gender: Bisclavret is a faithful and loving husband, whose secrecy is not born of duplicity but of a desire to preserve his marriage and retain his wife’s affections, and it is not his fault that his trust is punished with betrayal. While bisexuals in reality are often accused of being ‘greedy’ or promiscuous, due to their attraction to multiple genders, in this story the metaphorically bisexual Bisclavret is not the one who cheats on his spouse: his metaphorically biphobic wife is.

Denying the werewolf the chance to change his form is like denying a transgender person the ability to transition. Trapping the werewolf in a form he did not choose and cannot escape is effectively stealing his life from him, and that is tantamount to murder. When transgender people are denied the ability to medically transition, they are trapped in bodies they did not choose and cannot modify or escape. Moreover, Bisclavret’s wife exiles him from their house like a transphobic parent evicting her transgender child. The king is ready to punish the faithless wife and her new husband with death, because condemning someone to the wrong identity, the wrong form, the wrong body, is denying them agency over theirself and, effectively, trapping them in a body without their consent.

At the end of the story, the werewolf is still a werewolf, as mentioned above, and there is no indication that he will ever be otherwise, even if Bisclavret himself would like to be. But there is also no indication that the king minds whether he is wolf or human: he loved the man, he loved the wolf, and he will love the werewolf. A happy ending in which Bisclavret’s werewolfism were cured would be less happy than an ending in which he is loved irrespective of it.

Being loved and accepted for who we are, no matter what form we take or how we may transform or transition, is better than being ‘cured’ of the attributes that supposedly make us unlovable, undeserving, or undesirable.

 

 

G. Wulfing,

April 2023.

Short story: The Tale Of Agapito The Werewolf

 

The Tale Of Agapito The Werewolf

 

A retelling of ‘Bisclavret’, a lay of Marie de France.

 

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Content warnings: animal attack, blood, violence. 

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Once upon a time, there was a knight whose adventures transformed his body as well as his mind.

His name was Agapito; he was fit, intelligent, quiet but cheerful, and liked by almost all who knew him. He had brown eyes, curly dark-brown hair, and was skilled in all the ways that a knight should be.

He ran a manor house that lay not far from the castle of his lord, the king of that land, and often he would hunt in the company of the king, who treasured his friendship and bade him ride alongside him with Sir Tancredi, another friend of the king. The three of them had known each other for many years, and worked together often; and the king never smiled so much or so freely as when he was with these two friends.

It happened that Sir Agapito grew to love a lady of the court, named Genoveffa, and she loved him in return; and, after a year of courting, Agapito told the king that he wished to marry Genoveffa.

His friend King Damiano released Genoveffa from his service, and gave them his blessing. “I wish you long lives and happiness together,” King Damiano told him; “though I will miss you, Agapito, and I am glad that your manor is not far from my castle.”

And only Sir Tancredi noticed the sadness in the king’s eyes at Agapito’s wedding, but he said nothing, only laid his hand on the king’s shoulder, and filled his bowl with desserts.

 

~*~*~

 

Lady Genoveffa and Sir Agapito were happy together. Only one thing began to bother the lady. After every five days, Agapito would leave for some business he claimed required his attention on the other side of the forest that lay to the North of his manor. He would leave early on the fifth day, be absent for two nights, and return late in the evening of the seventh day. Whenever Genoveffa asked him where he went, or what he did, he would reply with vague excuses. Nor did any of his servants or tenants know where he went or why.

More than once, the lady asked, “You are always so tired when you return; why is that?”

And Agapito would reply, “Because I am rushing home to be with you, my love.”

More than once, the lady asked, “Whom do you talk with?”

And Agapito would reply, “No one as interesting as you, my dear,” and kiss her.

One evening when the knight returned, seeming in a contented mood despite his tiredness, the lady Genoveffa decided to press him.

“Husband,” she began, “sweet friend, I long to ask you for something, but I fear you will be angry with me. I would rather not ask it than displease you, but I am sorely tried by it.”

Sir Agapito took his wife in his arms and kissed her. “My dear,” he answered her, “ask what you will. What would you have, for it is yours already?”

“I am right relieved to hear you say that,” sighed Genoveffa. “Husband, the days when you are not here are dreary and fearful to me. I know not where you are or what may happen to you. Tell me, husband: where do you go? And why?”

Agapito’s heart sank, and he regretted his previous words. “Wife,” he whispered, “ask me anything but that. I pray you, do not ask me that.”

“But why, Agapito?! You abandon me for half of every week but you expect me not to ask why?”

The knight hung his head. “Ask me anything but that,” he repeated lowly.

His lady began to weep. “Do you have a lover, Agapito? Have you tired of me so soon?”

And so she begged and fretted in anguish, until her loving husband could no longer resist, and he agreed to tell her what she wished to know, but only in deep seclusion.

That night, in their bedroom, with all doors and shutters closed, he whispered to her his secret.

“I desired never to tell you this, but since it causes you so much grief, I will tell you; and as you are my wife you have a right to know, though even now I am terrified that you will hate me when you hear it.

“Genoveffa, I am a werewolf.

“I am forced to spend three days out of every seven in the form of a wolf. I cannot control it. When I feel the transformation approaching, I go into the forest, and live there as a wolf until the transformation leaves me.”

As his wife listened in amazement, Agapito explained how his condition had occurred. Soon after he and Genoveffa were married, Agapito had needed to visit a town several days’ ride away, on business for the king. The way was not dangerous, so he had travelled alone, but the path ran through a forest to the East of his manor; and while he sat among the trees, to rest his horse and eat his cheese and bread, a great grey wolf had sprung boldly from the bushes and seized the food from his hand, disappearing into the forest with its plunder. Agapito had been too busy trying to keep hold of his affrighted horse to pay much attention to the wolf or where it went, but when he had managed to calm his steed somewhat, he found that the wolf’s fangs had torn a small gash in his hand. Cleaning and bandaging the wound as best he could, he continued on his way to the next town, but when he woke the next morning at the inn where he stayed, he was consumed by fever. The illness lasted three days, but receded quickly, so he was able to continue on his way and complete his business.

Four days later, however, as he was on his way back through the forest, a feverish feeling came upon him, and in a state of near delirium he found himself dismounting, and casting off his clothes as his skin was inflamed with heat. To his horror, felt himself transforming. When his mind cleared, he found that he was a wolf. His horse abandoned him in terror, and in misery and confusion he wandered the forest for three days, until, on the evening of the third day, the feverish feeling returned and some strange urge compelled him to return to his clothes and attempt to garb his wolfish form. To his astonishment, his human body returned.

All that night he staggered toward his home, dishevelled, dirty, exhausted, famished, with a partly healed wound on his hand, wan with the horror of his ordeal.

His horse had made its way home without him, causing Lady Genoveffa and two of their servants to ride out seeking him. They found him before he left the forest, and their concern and relief were such that Agapito could not bear the thought of explaining to them the truth of what had happened to him; claiming instead that his horse had bolted deep into the forest and thrown him, and recounting only his earlier fever at the inn to explain his pallor and weakness.

In vain did he hope that the transformation would not happen again. For, four days later, he felt the fever upon him again, and, making an excuse, took himself on foot to the nearest forest: one that lay to the North of his manor.

From then on, he learned the pattern of his disease.

Lady Genoveffa well remembered the frightening incident; her dread upon seeing her husband’s horse return riderless, her relief upon finding him wretched but whole in the forest, and how her husband’s unease had lasted for days even after he was once again safe at home. Now she listened with mute terror to the full story.

Agapito told her that he had since ridden out to find the wolf who bit him, in the hope that it was also a werewolf and might be able to help him to lift his disease, and had searched in both wolf and human form; but had never found any trace of that creature who had stolen his food and changed his life forever.

When the lady again found her tongue, she stammered, “What of your clothes? Do they change with you?”

“No; the illness compels me to undress and leave them behind.”

“But — you are gone for days; how do you keep them safe and dry?”

Agapito’s brow crinkled, and he was silent in thought for some time. At last he said, “Genoveffa, my love, I cannot tell you. It is only as I put on my clothes that I change from wolf to man. Somehow, I feel that if I lose my clothing, I will be trapped as a wolf forever. Please, humour me in this, and let me keep this secret.”

The lady began to weep. “Do you not trust me, Agapito? — Me, your own wife?”

In vain did her husband explain that it was an abundance of caution, not a mote of distrust, that stayed his tongue. His wife would not be satisfied. And so she importuned him, with many tears, for an hour in the night, until her loving husband could stand it no longer.

He whispered to her that there was an ancient chapel in the forest, all overgrown with moss and mould, with young trees sprouting in its rooms, like forest acolytes, and ivy for its tapestries. It was difficult to see from the forest path, but for those who knew of it, it was easy enough to reach. At the farther end of the chapel was a cluster of bushes and a mess of rubble where part of the chapel wall had collapsed, and one of the largest stones he had hollowed out inside and concealed beneath a bush, and in that stone did he hide his clothing.

“After two nights,” Agapito said, “before sunset, when I can feel that my transformation is receding, I return to the chapel, and reclaim my clothes, and, with them, my shape.”

At last, Sir Agapito asked his wife, “Are you content? Have I satisfied your questions at last?”

And the lady told him that he had.
“And,” Sir Agapito asked, “do you still love me?”

And the lady told him that she did.

Relieved, Sir Agapito kissed his wife’s hand, and then the tired knight fell deeply asleep.

But the lady Genoveffa could not sleep that night.

All night she lay awake and stared into the darkness, listening to the breathing of her sleeping husband, imagining his face and form twisting into that of a thick-furred, heavy-pawed, great-toothed, slavering beast. What if he should transform at home, one day? If he could not control his transformations but was obliged to leave so that they were not observed by others, what would happen if he could not leave? If some sickness or injury compelled him to remain at home — what then?

How could she ever feel safe whilst she was married to a werewolf?

 

~*~*~

 

Now there was another knight who had known the lady Genoveffa since they were young, and had loved her for years before she chose Sir Agapito for her husband. Twice had he begged her to marry him, but she had denied him. His name was Baldovino, and the moment that Genoveffa was sure in her heart that she could not be happy married to a werewolf, she wrote to him.

Dear friend, she wrote, rejoice: for I suffer in my marriage to Agapito, and regret a thousand times that I did not choose you, sweet Baldovino; you who have loved me so patiently for so long. Only aid me in escaping Agapito, and I will pledge myself to you forever. Please come; please help me; please be mine.  

Baldovino sent his reply at once, eagerly accepting her offer, and Genoveffa told him the date to arrive: one when Agapito would be yet again in the woods.

This time, when Sir Agapito left, his wife shuddered as he closed the door behind him, for now she knew where he was going; and where, in her innocence, she had wished for his return, in her new knowledge she wished he would never come back.

When Sir Baldovino arrived, the day after Agapito left, Genoveffa confided all to him, and told him of her next intentions.

Baldovino hesitated when the lady explained her plan, but he agreed that it was not right that she should be married to a beast, and when she begged for his help and promised him her love, he could not resist.

It was a fine midsummer day with a light breeze; pleasant for riding. Together, in broad daylight, they rode to the chapel in the forest.

 

~*~*~

 

The next day, in the early evening, a great grey wolf trotted past the chapel and to a large stone half-hidden in the bushes. With practised effort, he set his powerful furry shoulder to the stone and overturned it.

It was chiselled hollow. And it contained nothing. Not even the waxed linen bag that kept Agapito’s clothes, purse, dagger, and other effects safe from the damp.

In anguish, the wolf circled the spot three times, his whimpers growing more and more piteous, until at last he put his nose to the hollow stone, and smelt the scent he had dreaded to perceive, and another. He followed them to the other end of the chapel, and found the hoofprints of two horses. Swiftly he traced the prints and the horses’ scents to the edge of the forest, and thence to the edge of his own property.

Then, he could no longer cling to any doubt that he had been betrayed.

At once the wolf turned back to the forest, for he dared not linger in the farmland and fields, and as he fled into the dusk, his grey coat blurring into the greys and greens of the forest that would now be his home forever, his heart seemed to shatter within him.

In the manor house, the one whom he had married swiftly dismantled his clothing so that it would burn more readily on the fire in their bedchamber.

All that night, and the next, the forest echoed with a dreadful howling.

Few folk heard it, but those who did shivered, and pulled their loved ones closer.

 

~*~*~

 

The lady Genoveffa was slow to announce to her servants and tenants that her husband had disappeared. As she explained to them, and as they had reasoned themselves, he was so frequently away on business that she had not worried, at first, when he was gone for a little longer than usual. But once a whole week had passed without his return, it became clear that something was amiss, and though the grounds and the nearby forest were searched and many inquiries made, no trace of Sir Agapito could be found.

Lady Genoveffa did not weep, but sent to her old friend Sir Baldovino for aid. The knight brought three of his own servants to assist in the search, and still Sir Agapito, be he alive or dead, remained missing.

During this time, two weeks after Sir Agapito had left, a messenger from King Damiano arrived at Lady Genoveffa’s house to ask if Sir Agapito would care to visit the king for a hunting trip, and returned to the king’s castle with the news that Agapito was missing. Immediately, the king himself postponed all his business and rode with his best trackers and hunters to the area, and for nearly two weeks they searched and made inquiries until they were exhausted; but any trail that Agapito might have left had long disappeared, and no one could tell anything of the man.

At last, almost one month after Sir Agapito was last seen, even the king concluded that he would be seen no more, and all searching ceased.

King Damiano returned to his castle, and his tears fell on his horse’s saddle all the way.

 

~*~*~

 

A few weeks afterwards, the king’s friend and counsellor, Sir Tancredi, found King Damiano on the battlements, regarding the rolling farmland that surrounded his castle, about an hour before sunset.

“My lord,” Tancredi said, “did you hear that Lady Genoveffa has married Sir Baldovino?”

The king looked at him sharply in surprise, and, after a moment, he asked, “When?”

“Five days ago, I believe,” said the knight.  

Murmured the king, “So soon …”

Sir Tancredi shrugged his shoulders and said, “I suppose it is hard, for someone who has been married, to be alone.”

“We had but recently called off the search,” said the king lowly.

“Lady Genoveffa and Sir Baldovino have been friends for many years,” said Sir Tancredi. “Perhaps it was Agapito’s wish.”

The king gazed over the late Summer fields, full of the sounds of birds and insects and the contented lowing of cattle, and was silent for a time.

At last he said, “Is it strange that she, his wife, should remarry so soon, while I, his friend, grieve him still? Tell me, Tancredi, is it strange?”

“No, my lord. A husband is a role to fill; it is a duty, a position, like knight or king or page or parent. But a friend is a person. A person whom we may love for who they are, not what they are. She lost a husband; the role can be filled by another. But you lost a friend. As did I.”

The king hung his head, then shook it. “I thought Agapito loved her. And she him.”

Sir Tancredi shrugged again. “I suppose they did love each other. Perhaps she also loved Sir Baldovino. Who knows? In the end, if she is happy, what does it matter?”

The king sighed deeply, and leaned on the battlements.

“I suppose it does not,” he said.

 

~*~*~

 

A year passed.

King Damiano often went hunting, and one day in early Autumn he chanced to hunt in the forest that lay to the North of Sir Agapito’s old manor, now given to another knight to run, after Lady Genoveffa chose to leave it and live with her new husband. He did not often hunt there, but the hounds quickly found a scent which excited them greatly, and the hunt began to pursue it.

Eventually, they caught sight of their quarry: an enormous grey wolf.

The wolf ran cleverly, doubling back and leading them over difficult terrain, so that their horses quickly tired, and every time they caught a glimpse of him every hunter was astonished by his size.

As the hunt continued, they began to marvel at his intelligence, for he ran as though he understood how they would attempt to follow him, and where they could not go.

They despaired of ever catching him, and the king was about to call off the hunt and let all turn their weary horses toward home, when, even as the hounds sought him ahead, the wolf himself appeared out of the trees on a hillside to the king’s left. The king’s breath hitched, and he opened his mouth to call to his fellow hunters, but the wolf, panting from his exertions, walked calmly toward him. As the king tried to control his frightened horse, the wolf halted a few paces before the king, and stretched out his forelegs, lowering his chest almost to the ground and laying his jaw on his forelegs, as though bowing deeply to the king.

At this extraordinary behaviour, the king hesitated. The wolf arose, took another step forward, and bowed again, repeating the gesture until he reached the king’s stirrup, upon which he laid his head and began to fawn upon the king’s boot. The king’s horse would not tolerate this, and danced away, but the king was astounded by the wolf’s behaviour, and immediately called off the hunt, giving orders for the hounds and most of the hunters to return home ahead, while he and Sir Tancredi and two others lagged far behind, for the king wished to see what the strange wolf would do.

And indeed, the wolf continued to be extraordinary, for it kept pace with the four riders, just far enough away to keep their horses from panicking at its presence.

When the party stopped to lodge for the night, reuniting with the rest of the hunting party, the wolf slipped away into the night, and the king and his companions had little expectation of seeing the creature again; but when, the next morning, they mounted their horses to return to the castle, the wolf reappeared, standing aloof until the king once again ordered the hounds and most of the party to progress ahead; whereupon the wolf, once again, kept pace with the king and his three companions.

They reached the castle safely, and, to the astonishment of all, the wolf followed the king calmly into the courtyard, and sat down within the castle walls.

Many remarked that it was a strange hunt indeed, that had yielded nothing but a live wolf!

 

~*~*~

 

That night, King Damiano would have let the wolf sleep in the kennels or stables, but the other animals fretted and barked and growled at the presence of the beast, and would not calm down in the least until he had left their sight and scent; so the wolf was called into the courtyard, and slept amongst some lavender bushes at the foot of the castle wall.

The wolf made no attempt to leave the castle courtyard, nor to cause any trouble therein. In the morning, when the king went to see if the wolf remained within the walls, the wolf greeted him by nuzzling his hand, and followed him like a dog.

The king questioned his own wisdom in treating a wild animal thus, but fed the great beast because he was so charming.

From that day on, the wolf scarcely left King Damiano’s side; the creature lay at the king’s feet while the king worked at his desk or sat reading, accompanied him when he walked, and lay behind the king’s chair at meetings.

The people of the castle soon found that the wolf would come when called to, and they addressed him simply as ‘lupo’: ‘wolf’.

In fact, the wolf’s behaviour to all was so gentle, even polite, that within a month almost every human in the castle viewed him as a guest, the king’s special pet. After the first week, as the wolf’s behaviour continued to be flawless and mild, and the weather became more chill and the animals in the stables still loathed the wolf’s presence, King Damiano called the wolf to sleep indoors, in the fire-warmed great hall. Two weeks after that, he invited the wolf to sleep on a rug in the king’s own bedchamber; and though the servants were a little nervous at the prospect, in the end, those who cared for the king were pleased, for who would dare to venture harm upon the king when a full-grown wolf lay on the floor beside his bed?

Gradually, Lupo even befriended the horses of the castle, for he kept his distance and behaved meekly, gradually drawing closer as the horses became more accustomed to his presence, until at last, after many weeks, he was able to move among them and greet them gently, and loped beside the king’s horse when he rode.

The king placed a richly carved leather collar on the wolf, covered in crowns and the king’s arms, so that all would know that Lupo was no wild beast to be shot but was the king’s pet. Indeed, the king, a lover of dogs, found himself giving the wolf tidbits from his own plate, though the wolf never begged for them, and fondling the thick ruff, and even kissing the great furry muzzle, as though the wolf were his childhood companion and not an enigmatic wild creature.

 

~*~*~

 

It was the king’s custom to host a great feast in the midst of Winter, lighting candles and drinking wine to spite the snow and mud and darkness. Among the guests who were always invited were Lady Genoveffa and Sir Baldovino, but this year the lady was ill and remained at home.

The great hall was filled with light and warmth, and the happy chatter and greetings of the entering guests, as the servants filled the tables with gleaming, steaming dishes. News of the king’s pet wolf and his extraordinary conduct had spread, and many of the guests were eager to see him for themselves, though others were nervous, for a wild wolf is still a wild wolf even when it wears a collar and sits elegantly beside its chosen master.

“I have never trained him,” King Damiano said, to those who asked. “He is free to leave and free to stay. He has the run of the castle; though the dogs dislike him, so we try to keep them apart.”

The meal had not yet begun, and all was well, until the moment after the knight Baldovino entered. The most hideous snarling and raving filled the room, as the wolf bounded between the clusters of guests and hurled himself at Baldovino’s throat. It was all the guards could do to keep him off the knight without harming him. The king seized the wolf’s collar, and, with great effort and the assistance of several others, managed to haul him away.

The wolf’s face was contorted with rage, every fearsome tooth showing, black-lipped jaws slavering, his golden eyes filled with baleful ire. Never before had he behaved thus, and the king was shocked more than any other.

For the sake of his guests, King Damiano reluctantly ordered that the wolf be taken outside and restrained in the stables. The guards obeyed, handling him roughly in their fear of the great beast who could turn so savage so unpredictably.

The king apologised profusely to Sir Baldovino, and to the rest of his guests, and the evening was not entirely spoiled, though the king was mortified that his famous pet had betrayed its charming reputation in so hideous and terrifying a fashion.

In the morning, King Damiano visited Lupo in his cage in the stables, but he would not allow him to be released until a few days later, when all the guests had returned to their homes. During this time the wolf displayed only his mildest, most humble behaviour, and the king decided to allow him his freedom once more; but he eyed the wolf sternly before he unlatched the cage door.

“You must never,” he said to the enormous grey creature, “attack anyone again.”

The wolf bowed low.

And the king was happier to release him than he cared to admit to anyone.

Only Sir Tancredi realised, after the feast was over, that Baldovino had been wearing a beautiful doublet, embroidered all over in blue and silver and green, that had previously belonged to Sir Agapito.

 

~*~*~

 

When Spring came, King Damiano desired to tour part of his lands and visit with some of his subjects. His travels took him to a manor next to that of Baldovino and Genoveffa, and, as the lady Genoveffa had missed the traditional midwinter feast, she desired to see the king and visit him. She dressed beautifully, and rode with her handmaiden to the neighbouring manor where the king and his retinue were lodged.

As ever, Lupo lay at the side of his chosen master’s chair, but the moment Lady Genoveffa was shown into the room his hackles rose, and he leapt at her with a hateful roar, his great teeth bared and aimed at her throat. But a guard standing in the room beside the door had seen the wolf’s hackles rising and had anticipated his attack, and threw his shoulder into the wolf’s chest at the same time as the lady recoiled, so that the huge beast barely touched the woman. Every guard and knight in the room seized the wolf and held him, forcing him to the floor, though he thrashed and snarled.

Even so, Genoveffa howled in pain and held her hands to her face. When she pulled them away, her palms and fingers were bloody, and her mouth and chin ran scarlet: the wolf’s teeth had torn her lower lip.

The king was beside himself. Once again, his beloved Lupo had turned brutal and untrustworthy without warning.

The lady’s maid guided her out of the room, and a servant was sent to summon the nearest healer. King Damiano stared down at his precious wolf, his hand on his dagger and his brow darkly furrowed. Lupo, still held down by half a dozen people, began to whine softly, as though in apology, and all his struggling ceased.

“I told you never to do that again,” the king cried, as though the wolf could understand him, though he was less sure than ever that this was so.

“My lord, he is too dangerous!” exclaimed one of the guards, and others in the room agreed with him. All knew how the king loved his wolf, and all who knew the wolf were charmed by him, but a creature of such size and power with a violence so unpredictable must be a danger to all.

King Damiano’s hand tightened on his dagger’s hilt.

He remembered the meek bow that Lupo had given him in the stables, when the king told him never to attack again.

He also remembered the utter suddenness, and the sheer fury, of the two times the beast had attacked.

Rulers may love many things, but their greatest love must be their subjects, or they are unworthy to rule. A sovereign must always value the safety of his people above any person or creature he personally loves.

Tears came to the king’s eyes, and he drew his dagger.

“Wait,” urged Sir Tancredi, and rose from helping to restrain the now-still wolf. He approached the king and drew him aside, speaking lowly. “My lord, the wolf has lived with us for more than half a year. Only twice has he ever shown savagery, and only to two people: the lady Genoveffa and her second husband. Why those two? … My lord, surely you have realised from the start that Lupo is not a normal wolf. And you know that he was found in the forest to the North of the manor that belonged to Agapito, the forest in which Agapito went missing, not two months before Lady Genoveffa married Sir Baldovino.”

The king stared at his friend. Of course he knew all these things, but any connection between them seemed far-fetched indeed.

“I suggest,” murmured Sir Tancredi, “that you ask the lady, and Sir Baldovino, if they know anything they are not telling. Anything that the wolf, perchance, also knows.”

 

~*~*~

 

So it was that the wolf was kept in kennels, and not permitted into any other of the manor houses that the king visited in the following weeks, until the king’s travels ended and he returned to his own castle. The lady Genoveffa and the knight Baldovino had been ordered to report to the king the morning after he returned to his residence, and so they did. Genoveffa’s face was still bandaged, and her countenance was wan and haunted; with the help of her husband, and with sparse, lisping speech, she told the king that she had recently endured a fever as a result of the wound in her lip, and begged to be allowed to return to her home as soon as possible. Sir Baldovino looked anxious and weary, like one who carries fearful secrets and is afraid of more trouble.

The king wasted no time, but, with Sir Tancredi, bluntly questioned the pair as to why Lupo should attack them and no one else. They pleaded utter ignorance, but when Tancredi mentioned that Lupo had followed the king home from the forest in which Genoveffa’s first husband had gone missing, and remarked that the wolf’s conduct and bearing were astonishingly different from what one would expect from a wild animal, and observed that Sir Baldovino had been wearing the missing man’s clothing when Lupo attacked him, the fear on their faces showed that they knew some terrible truth.

As pallid as she could be, the lady sank to her knees, nearly fainting; and when she could speak she stuttered out what she and Baldovino had done.

Sir Baldovino knelt also, with hanging head, and confirmed the lady’s story, speaking for her when she could not continue.

When he had heard the full story, the king slapped each of them across the face with all his force, not caring for Genoveffa’s torn mouth. Then he demanded that any remaining clothes of Sir Agapito’s be brought to him immediately.

Two riders on swift horses were sent with the king’s orders to the manor of Sir Baldovino, and the perplexed servants hastened to bring every item in Baldovino’s personal wardrobe to the messengers, who bundled it all up — every undergarment, hat, and shoe — and returned with it that very evening.

Meanwhile, the king paced uneasily, and sought to distract himself with work. Several times he desired to address Lupo, to question the wolf, but he knew not what to ask nor to say, so strange did the whole affair seem; and he thought, moreover, that if the wolf really were Agapito, the transformed knight had made no attempt to reveal himself to the king or anyone else, and perhaps he had his reasons for it; yet this silence on Agapito’s part did not mean that the king would not attempt to offer the wolf the chance to change his form.

The guilty pair were held under guard in one chamber of the castle, while Lupo was kept well away from them, and all guards were warned not to let him anywhere near the prisoners; and though the wolf made no effort to approach his hated enemies, King Damiano could tell by the wolf’s glances and the rising of his hackles that Lupo knew that they were in the castle.

The clothes were presented to Baldovino and Genoveffa, who singled out several garments that had belonged to Sir Agapito. These were taken to a different room, and there laid before the wolf.

But Lupo looked at the clothes, then turned his gaze on King Damiano, long and steady, as though trying to convey something to him; and after a moment the king realised that the wolf could not bring himself to transform in front of others.

“My lord,” Sir Tancredi began, but the king interjected.

“I know. Come with us, Tancredi.”

The king himself gathered up the clothes, and, calling Lupo to follow him, led the way to his own bedchamber, with Sir Tancredi following behind. He and Tancredi laid out the garments on the floor of the room, as the wolf watched gravely. Then, glancing at the wolf’s face but not daring to speak, they left, locking the door behind them.

Said the king, “Tancredi, let no one enter this room for half an hour.”

The knight nodded his approval and assent, and took the key that King Damiano handed to him. Then he asked lowly, “My lord, what will you do to punish Baldovino and Genoveffa?”

“If Lupo is indeed Agapito,” the king murmured, “I will let him choose what punishment best suits the ones who hurt him. I doubt that there is any precedent in law for a case like this.”

 

~*~*~

 

At last, Agapito was left alone with his clothes. He had not seen these garments in more than a year and a half, and they retained not his own scent but reeked of Baldovino, yet he had recognised them at once.

Overjoyed, he lay on his belly and nudged his snout between the lower hems of a linen undershirt, working his head and forepaws through the body of the shirt toward the collar, as he had done so many times in the past. As his muzzle emerged from the collar of the shirt, he felt his head and neck warp and reshape themselves, his fur dissolving, snout receding, teeth and tongue shrinking, his ears travelling down to the sides of his head, his hearing dulling, while his almighty sense of smell seemed nearly to vanish. He blinked, and his eyes ached as they once again beheld the colours of the world in a way he had almost forgotten. His neck shrank, leaving the king’s leather collar hanging loose against his chest, under the shirt. He could hear his own breathing, and it was human breathing; his heartbeat was a human’s heartbeat.

Agapito could have wept for joy; instead, he concentrated on pushing his right forepaw through the nearest sleeve of the shirt. He felt his fingers split and lengthen, his thumb regrow, and his claws flatten and shrink into fingernails. He did the same with his left forepaw on the other side, and gasped and winced as his chest and shoulders shifted their positions and his spine and ribs changed shape. Now his upper half was a man, while from the waist down he was wolf, his hindlegs couched while he lay on his chest with his cheek on the floor. With unsteady hands, he tugged the skirt of the undershirt down toward his hips, and his belly changed shape and became hairless, the rearranging of his guts making him queasy, as it ever had.

He realised that he had his shirt on backwards, for the king and Tancredi had laid out the clothes so that they faced the wolf, but it did not matter. Agapito reached clumsily for a pair of braes and took hold of them, then rolled onto his side, and, after several attempts, managed to get his hindpaws through the leg-holes. This act was always ticklish, for he could feel his paw pads becoming the soles of his feet, the sudden shift of hocks into knees, the sensation of his fur being rubbed the wrong way as he pulled the braes up to his waist, and, at last, his tail disappearing from the tip to the root as it shrank back into a man’s tailbone.

Sir Agapito lay panting for a moment, dressed in only his under-layers, shivering in his sudden lack of fur, for strangely he now felt more naked while wearing clothes than he did when covered only in thick fur. He pulled a hand up to his face and stared at it, for it had been so long since he had seen his own hands.

Agapito touched his own face, and almost wept. Eyebrows, nose, forehead, cheeks, eyelids, jaw — all were there and as they should be.

After some minutes, he dragged himself into a sitting position, with some difficulty, for it was much more awkward to sit on his buttocks as a man than it was as a wolf; and thence to his feet; but he staggered with a groan, and clutched at the bedpost to keep himself from falling, while his other hand kept his untied braes from slipping to the floor. The transformation had always wearied him, but this one seemed worse even than his first. Unsteady and feeble, Agapito felt unsure if he remembered how to be a human, and his entire body — every muscle and bone and inch of skin — held a vague, dull ache. As the bed was before him, he dropped himself onto it, intending to rest for a few moments before attempting to stand again.

So Agapito lay unmoving on his side, feeling a little faint. Fabric, not fur, lay against his skin once more. Slowly he tied a crude knot in the drawstring of his braes. The carved leather collar still hung, fastened but loose, around his neck, beneath his shirt; it was uncomfortable, so he exerted himself to pull it out of the neck of the shirt and over his head.

Then, supremely weary, he lay still, and so exhausted was he from the ordeal — for he had remained in his wolf form not for three days but more than a year and a half — that he passed rapidly into a deep sleep.

 

~*~*~

 

After half an hour of anxious waiting, the king asked Tancredi and another trusted knight to accompany him into his bedchamber.

Sir Tancredi unlocked the door, and knocked quietly upon it, but there was no sound from within the chamber. He grasped the door handle, glanced at the king, and, at the king’s nod, quietly opened the door, uncertain as to what they would find.

On the king’s carved and tapestried bed, wearing only linen undershirt and braes, lay, half-curled on his side, and very still, a man with curly dark-brown hair. The wolf’s carved leather collar lay above his head on the pillow, still fastened in a circle, while the other garments remained on the floor as they had been laid.

King Damiano froze, then rushed to the bedside and halted there, tentative, followed by his knights. “Agapito?” he whispered.

The man on the bed did not stir, though his slow breathing was apparent. But the longer he stared at the man’s face, the more certain the king was that this was his old friend whom he had grieved as dead. He was sure that he even recognised the hands, the hair, the throat.

The man did not seem to be injured or diseased, just very soundly asleep.

But was he still right in his own mind, the king wondered.  

“Agapito?” the king murmured, and reached out to nudge the man’s shoulder.

Still the man did not move, so deeply asleep was he.

King Damiano laid his hand on the man’s upper arm and shook it gently, calling, “Agapito!”

And then the man’s eyes opened, and he saw the king, and smiled through his weariness, recognising him, and they were Agapito’s brown eyes and Agapito’s smile; and the king seized him in an embrace and kissed his now-human face over and over, weeping for joy. And Sir Tancredi, who was customarily a man of sober countenance, beamed as he had not done in years.

“Why did you not try to tell us who you were?” the king asked, once he had made sure that Agapito was well. “Could you not do it?”

“I was … afraid,” Agapito admitted huskily, with unflowing speech. “I knew you thought me dead, and I feared you would not believe me.

“Besides, this way … I could stay near you. I was safe and cared-for. … While I was with you, as a wolf, I need never confront what my wife did to me. I need never think of how … how the woman I loved betrayed me and took my life so easily, so swiftly. I could pretend … that all was well. That I was naught but a wolf, a tame creature, loved and petted and enjoyed.

“It was only when I saw them in person … her and Baldovino … that I lost control of myself.”

Agapito’s voice was rough and rasping from lack of use, and his body shivering and clumsy as after a long illness, and so, after only a little conversation, the king helped the exhausted man into his bed and laid the covers over him, and he and his knights left him to sleep.

King Damiano and Sir Tancredi went to the room where the lady Genoveffa and knight Baldovino were being held under guard, and told them that their victim had returned to his human form and would be given the right to decide their punishments.

“If I were to choose,” said the king, “I would execute you both. You stole Agapito’s life from him, betraying him as if to a living death.”

“My lord,” begged Genoveffa, kneeling, and mumbling through her bandaged and painful mouth, “please do not keep me here. Please let me return home under guard.”

The king vehemently denied her request, and the lady began to weep most piteously, and to plead like one condemned to death. At last, Sir Baldovino could hold his tongue no longer, and confessed that Lady Genoveffa was now a werewolf. Her transformation was expected tomorrow.

When the king had recovered from his surprise, Sir Tancredi suggested that on the following morning the lady Genoveffa be removed to the stables for her transformation; and the king agreed, ordering her to be kept as far away from the animals as could be managed, and guarded at all times.

The king and Sir Tancredi left the room, and King Damiano began to order that preparations be made to return all of Sir Agapito’s lands and possessions to him, but Tancredi said, “My lord, I ask you to reconsider. It may be that Agapito would prefer not to return to his old estate.”

“Then I shall give him a new and better one,” the king declared; but again his friend stopped him, and regarded him with meaningful expression.

“My lord, perhaps Agapito would prefer to remain in your court indefinitely, as I do.”

King Damiano seized him in an embrace, kissed his forehead and cheek, and exclaimed, “Tancredi, you are the best of men. It is you who have saved Agapito, despite my stupidity; and for this I owe you more than I can repay.”

For the second time that day, Tancredi smiled most joyfully, as he returned the embrace of his friend the king.

That night, Agapito’s favourite dishes were served, at the king’s order; — though when he sent his message to the cooks, he found that Sir Tancredi had already given them the same instruction.

The king bade Agapito sit at his right hand, and all the court noticed how he could not stop embracing and kissing him. And Sir Agapito’s tired but euphoric smile illuminated the whole room.

 

 

~*~*~*~*~

 

 

The End.

 

 

G. Wulfing.  

August 2022 to March 2023.

Fake book cover for 'The Tale Of Agapito The Werewolf'

 

Coming soon!

This is a fake book cover made with the Penguin Classics Cover Generator (https://penguin.jos.ht/), featuring a photograph by Christian Houge (https://cargocollective.com/christianhouge/Shadow-Within-2010-2013).

The story is almost complete, and will be posted here and on my Tumblr blog.

Fake book cover for 'Malachi's Family'

 

This is a fake book cover (made with the Penguin Classics Cover Generator) for my short story ‘Malachi’s Family’. The Penguin Classics Cover Generator is fun, and very easy to use.

The photograph of cherries is my modification of a free image by Quaritsch Photography on Unsplash.

Short story: Malachi's Family

Malachi's Family 

 

G. Wulfing. 

January, 2016. 

 

————

Content warnings: attempted kidnapping, blood, violence, death. 

———— 

 

On a warm, early Summer afternoon, four dirty, scruffy but well-equipped men trudged along a path through farmland, not far from a village. Their skins were deeply tanned under the dirt, and they wore daggers and curved, short swords. Jewellery glinted on their work-hardened bodies and in their hair, inexpert tattoos stained their skins in multiple places, and their hair was either braided, dreadlocked, or shaven completely.  
One of them noticed a few children playing in a long-grassed field, on the other side of a bank that ran alongside the path. After a moment, he quietly pointed them out to the others, and the four men became stealthy as they approached the field, using the bank as cover.
There were three children, all blonde, and none looked over seven years old, dressed in simple tunics and trousers. There was a grove in the field, a short distance from the bank, and in the shade of the trees a man lay half-curled on his side, partially obscured by the stalky grass, apparently dozing or asleep; perhaps thirty or forty years old, tall and lean, with black hair and pale skin. He appeared unarmed, wearing trousers and a tunic in washed-out dark blue linen, with a black sash.
The four dirty men looked at each other, and with a few whispered words and some gestures, made their plan.
The children looked up as the men appeared swiftly at the top of the bank. They would have gazed in curiosity, but the men were already swooping upon them, booted feet crushing the long, half-dry grass, seizing the children around their waists, while a shaven-headed man, his curved sword drawn, ran straight for the dark-haired adult lying under the trees.
Terrified and bewildered, the children screamed. One of them shrieked, “Malachiii!”
The shaven-headed man was upon the dark-haired one in only a handful of strides, but suddenly his quarry had leapt to its feet and was standing upright, facing him, half a head taller than he, snarling and glowering straight into his eyes. A low, loud rumble or growl seemed to reverberate in the air: less a sound and more a vibration: an inhuman noise.
The dark-haired man’s clear grey eyes suddenly glowed red, and slim but very pointed fangs had appeared behind his bared upper lateral incisors.
No — not human at all. It was a vampire.

————

A moment later, the last corpse fell from the hands of the vampire, its neck having been emphatically broken. The vampire cast a look around himself, to ensure that all four of the twitching corpses around him were indeed corpses, their heartbeats gone. He rearranged his tongue in his mouth, feeling his fangs withdraw, tasting the slavers’ blood on his teeth. Then he looked for the children.
They were cowering among the trees. He could see their clothing protruding, and hear their frightened breathing. It seemed as though they hadn’t watched the end of the violence, which was good.
The vampire took a few steps toward them, sandals rustling the stalky grass.
“It’s over,” the vampire called calmly. “You’re safe now. They’re all gone.”
‘Gone’ was perhaps a euphemism — the broken, bloody bodies were certainly not gone — but the children would know what he meant. The slavers themselves, with their evil intent and greedy hearts, were gone.
The children hesitated. One of them peeked fearfully around the trunk of a tree. The vampire held out his hand.
Brown eyes wide and tearful, the child stared at him. “It’s fine,” the vampire said reassuringly, hand still extended. His voice was deep and modulated.
The child did not look reassured, edging back behind the trunk, her gaze flicking briefly down to the vampire’s chest. The vampire glanced down at himself and realised that he had blood spatters on his linen tunic, smears of blood on his hands, and probably more spatters on his face. This would not be helping to alleviate the children’s fear.
The vampire strode back to the bodies and picked up the nearest reasonably clean-looking garment: a red cloth cap. He wiped his mouth and lower face on it unsatisfactorily before dropping it. Realising that he would still have blood on his teeth, he snatched up a canteen from the belt of one of the dead slavers, unstoppered it and took a large mouthful, not caring what the fluid was. He swished the tepid water around his teeth and tongue, washing out his mouth, before spitting it out onto whatever grass or human body lay beneath him. He used more water to wash his face and hands. Then he stoppered the canteen, more to be tidy than for any other reason, and dropped it back beside its erstwhile owner’s body. He wiped water off his face with his hands, rather than using his blood-spattered sleeves. Then he approached the grove again.
“Children. You’re safe. It’s all over.”
He knelt in the grass, several paces from the trees, and waited.
“Malachi?” a small voice wavered timorously, after a moment.
“Yes?” the vampire responded calmly.
A different pair of brown eyes peeped at him.
Still Malachi waited. The sun and breeze began to dry the remaining moisture from his hands and face.
At last, the youngest of the children sprinted toward him, and even as Malachi opened his mouth to warn her that she might get blood on her if she touched him, her arms were wrapped tightly around his neck and she was half-sitting in his lap, snivelling her confusion and fright. The other two children followed immediately, clustering around him like chicks around their mother hen.
“M-M-Malachiii!”
“W-Why did they try to grab us?!”
“M-Malachi, I’m scared!”
He hushed them, soothed them, hugged and reassured. The older two glanced toward the bodies, found that their horror overcame their curiosity, and buried their faces in Malachi’s shoulders, blood spattered tunic forgotten or ignored.
The vampire would have let them inspect the bodies if they had so desired — he would have told them that this was what happened to bad people who tried to hurt the friends of vampires — but they clearly did not want to, and that simplified things.
“Shall we go home?” he asked, when the majority of the tears and panic seemed to be over.
The children nodded fervently, and Malachi shepherded them home. He would have walked in the rear as usual while the children skipped and scampered ahead or wandered alongside his long legs; except that this time they clung to him, gripping his fingers uncomfortably tight, casting nervous glances in all directions across the countryside. They no longer felt safe here, Malachi realised. Their wide playground of fields and hedges, in which the most dangerous thing that lurked was a poisonous toadstool or a stinging insect, was now a theatre of threat. The slavers had barely touched the children’s bodies, but they had done permanent harm to their minds.
Malachi wished he could have killed the slavers before they had ever set eyes on the children.
And while the children clung to Malachi as their ‘safe place’, even he was not truly safe to them now. He had killed in front of their eyes. The blood of humans was on his clothes. Their guardian was a killer, and though they held his hands, Malachi could see in the eyes of the older two children that they now feared him a little, too.
They would never be able to trust him quite the way they had before.
He hoped that the slavers would know no peace in the afterlife. People who robbed children of their peace of mind deserved to never feel peace again.
When the children’s home on the outskirts of the village came into view, the children let go of Malachi’s hands and sprinted for it as though they were being chased.

————

“Slavers?! Here?!”
The parents’ eyes were wide and their faces pale. They stood in the kitchen, the two older children clinging to their mother, while their father held and hugged the youngest, who was whimpering on his shoulder. Sawdust and wood-shavings dusted the man’s clothing: he had come straight from his workshop at the side of the house upon hearing his wife’s troubled summons.
“There were only four of them. Merely a roving band of villains. Opportunists. Not organised.”
“Did you — did you kill all of them?” the father asked.
The vampire frowned slightly and lifted his nose a little, his pride offended. “Of course. I said there were four of them, didn’t I? If there had been more, I would have killed more. There were four slavers, and now there are four corpses.”
“Thank you,” the mother said fervidly. “Thank you. Oh, Malachi … I can’t … oh, Malachi …” Her voice became choked, and she knelt and hugged the two elder children close.
The father’s eyes had filled with tears, and he clutched his youngest child tightly. He nodded his agreement with his wife. “Thank you,” he whispered, clearly unable to say more.
Malachi inclined his head in acceptance. He was glad of what he had done, and it had not been difficult; but he would always regret that it had been required.
He glanced again at the children, and again he execrated the slavers in his mind.
Then he turned to leave the family to their emotions for a while.

————

An hour later, the children’s father found Malachi in the small orchard at the back of the house, picking cherries and placing them into a basket on his arm. Malachi, now wearing a clean outfit, acknowledged him with a look, and the human man cleared his throat and spoke, a little huskily.
“We can’t thank you enough for saving our children, Malachi. We can never repay you for that.”
“You don’t have to. We have a pact, do we not?”
The father nodded.
“… We didn’t expect … I suppose we didn’t expect that you would have to kill to maintain it,” he said, after a brief pause.
“My part of the bargain is to protect your family, and that is what I did,” Malachi reasoned simply.
He added, “If I could have killed the slavers before they even touched the children, I would have done so.”
The carpenter nodded. There was a pause.
The vampire continued to select and pluck cherries.
The father was massaging the inside of his left elbow slightly. He took a deep breath and lifted his gaze to Malachi’s face. “This was a good bargain.
“I know there are some who think it strange that we associate with you, but if all it takes to keep my family safe is a few mouthfuls of blood, I would give it a hundred times over. I would give all of it to secure for them a guardian like you.” He held the vampire’s gaze. “They may have nightmares for weeks; they may never feel completely safe ever again; but because of you, my wife and I will be there to comfort them. If it weren’t for you, Malachi — If it weren’t for you —” the man’s voice cracked — “we wouldn’t have them at all. And I would never sleep again.”
The vampire gave a slow, gracious nod of acknowledgement.
There was another, longer, pause, during which Malachi resumed his picking.
Then the human man fidgeted slightly. “What — What shall we — Do you … Erm, have you any need for the bodies?”
The vampire looked at the carpenter, a little superciliously. “Do I want their blood, do you mean?” The human nodded, and the vampire made a noise of scorn. “Tchah. As if I would drink from scum like that.
“Besides, I already have everything I need.”
As he reached upwards for the next cluster of cherries, he looked over his shoulder at the human man, and though his lips were not exactly smiling, his clear grey eyes were shining.

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End. 

 

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