19. Beast
The night is stifling, the heat of the summer day still thick in the air. As the moon rises higher, its uncanny glow gives a reddish undertone to the darkness. I run cautiously, mindful of stones and protruding clumps of grass in my way. I can barely see. The smoky light of torches flashing between cottages guides my steps.
The shouts don’t sound terrified yet, only alarmed. Maybe it’s not the werewolf, after all. I slow down, my heart slamming at a dizzying pace as hope crawls up my spine.
Maybe the beast gorged itself on the lambs last night. Maybe it will strike tomorrow, on the last night of the full moon. Or maybe it will sleep through the full moon and come back next month. Maybe I can prepare.
All my flimsy hopes are blown to smithereens when I hear a new sound reverberating underneath the men’s shouting.
A low, blood-curdling growl.
“There he is,” Woland whispers right in my ear. I flinch, feeling a brush of something warm against my cheek. Like a touch of a finger even though I see no one. “He’s magnificent, poppy girl. And I made him just for you.”
He laughs, low and pleased, but the sound is drowned out by a male scream of terror. I brace myself, pushing down the nausea roiling in my stomach, and run. Not away, but toward the sounds.
With every step, I get closer to the chaos. There is a cacophony of screams, some from the men, some from women and children, probably watching through open doors of the nearby cottages. Foolish, curious people.
The clang of weapons runs through the din, underscored by the patter of running feet and barked orders.
A sudden loud snarl makes me stumble. It’s followed by a sharp shout. I’m almost there.
When I turn a bend in the road at full speed, I almost fall over in an effort to stop before I barge into the men. They block the way, their tense backs to me. Through a break between two hunched men, I glimpse movement.
The space is lit with torches on tall poles, stuck into the ground on either side of the dirt road. A sheep carcass lies on the ground, clearly bait. But why here?
We’re practically in the center of the village, on the main road where all travelers pass. Cottages line the road densely, each surrounded by a small yard. I look left and right, connecting the houses to names and faces.
In a flash, it becomes clear why the bait was placed here. All the surrounding lots are protected with my pouches. If my protections work, this is the safest place in the village.
If they work, the werewolf is cornered. He can’t cross the boundaries of the protected lots. I have to admit it’s rather clever. Also, whoever figured out this plan really trusts my whispering.
Another snarl tears the air. It’s so loud, I flinch.
The men step back on cautious feet, shifting positions, and I finally see it. All my thoughts scatter. My knees threaten to buckle.
From that bit of fur in Waclaw’s barn, I inferred the werewolf was as tall as a man. I was wrong. It towers over everyone, bigger than Przemyslaw ever hoped to be when he was still human. And yet, its size is the least troubling difference between the man and the werewolf.
I used to think of the beast as he, just Przemyslaw shifted into a monster. But now it is clear it’s an it. There is no sentience left in its nightmarish form. No humanity.
The ugly, hunching body is misshapen and lopsided. As if its bones broke in too many places and grew back wrong, making its right shoulder roll in toward its chest, its protruding hipbones uneven. Its head juts forward, deeply sunken eyes peering at the gathered men.
There is not a trace of the human left. Fur grows on its body in mangled, bloody clumps, naked, wet flesh shining through. I swallow to keep down nausea as the stench hits me, rotting corpse and guts spilled open. It stinks like death.
The werewolf takes one skulking step toward the men—toward me. I jerk back on instinct, just in time to make room for their retreating steps.
The men form a half-circle, almost as wide as the cottage fences allow them, but it doesn’t feel like the beast is cornered. No, it’s the other way round. They fall back with its every lurching step. They are the prey.
The werewolf’s furry, pointy ears twitch and it releases a low, bloodthirsty growl. The black lips of its muzzle pull back from its sharp, misaligned teeth. Its gums are black, like it’s rotting from within.
“No closer,” Darobor says in a strong voice. “It’s safe. It’s good. See? We’re all friends here.”
The blade of his scythe flashes gold in the light of a torch, making a lie of his words. And yet, his sure, calm voice seems to work. The werewolf pauses, cocking its horrible, elongated head to the side. Its eyes, shockingly human in that beastly face, blink in confusion.
“That’s right,” Darobor continues, motioning with his hand for the men to fan out wider. “Only friends here. It’s a good night for a feast.”
The half-circle widens and curls, the two men on either end standing the closest to the beast. One of them is Swietko, his white-knuckled grip slipping on his spear. I step slowly to the side, watching through a wide gap between two sweating men. Ida’s Janek is right in front of me, tense and ready. His eyes are clear, his posture alert.
“We have drink and meat,” Darobor continues, his voice gaining a rhythmic, easy cadence. “It’s too late for work now, is it? Too late for effort. Night is the time to relax, old friend. No need to hunt. Here is an easy meal.”
Everyone flinches when the werewolf snarls, throwing its head. It lurches to the side, its clawed fingers grazing the ground. It’s so hunched over, its arms seem to hang uselessly at its sides, hands long past its misshapen knees.
Yet even though the beast seems subdued, I know it’s deceptive. My blood races in my veins, my terrified heart urging it faster.
“Run, you stupid girl,”Wiosna barks in my ear, but I don’t even listen.
The werewolf snarls and sits back on its haunches like a dog, its body trembling with gathering tension. Like it’s preparing to jump.
And I want to run, but I can’t. I have the only silver weapon here, and I know for a fact silver is lethal to werewolves. I have a chance to turn the tide of this fight, even though the thought fills me with dread.
It would be so much easier to hand the knife to someone more experienced, but I can’t risk it. Being accused of witchcraft and banished is what I am afraid of the most.
It’s so ironic. I am the most powerless person here, and I cannot fight. In a one-on-one battle, I’d never stand a chance against the rabid beast. And yet, I stay put, my resolve steeled by sheer stubbornness. I do not stay out of duty, to protect the people who scorned me for years.
I’m here to show the devil he can’t rule me.
“Now,” Darobor says in a calm, easy voice.
The werewolf growls, shuffling its feet to get its mangled body into a better position. Swietko thrusts his spear at the beast with a reckless cry while the man opposite him, Alojzy, takes aim with his scythe.
Tolimir lets an arrow fly with a snap of his bow string. It misses, disappearing in the darkness behind the werewolf.
The beast explodes out of its hunched position, swiping with its claws. It roars, the sound terrible, and rolls out of the way of Swietko’s spear. It’s too fast, too agile. The lurching, halting gait from before was just a deception.
Alojzy catches its side with the tip of his scythe, and the werewolf snarls, twisting. It rises to all fours and bares its teeth at the man. Alojzy drops the scythe, his lips pale, eyes wide.
“Attack! All as one!” Darobor bellows, no longer bothering with his soothing voice.
The werewolf lunges at Alojzy, who screams and runs, the long, sharp claws barely missing his back. The werewolf makes to chase him, but Swietko pokes it with his spear, his face grave, lips pursed. The spear goes into the werewolf’s lean thigh and pulls back, leaving behind a shallow wound oozing rotten blood.
The beast turns with a chuff and swipes at Swietko with its long arms, but Darobor’s scythe is in the way. The other men move closer, forming two tight rings around the monster, and for a moment, I think they might win.
They surround it. Surely, one of them is strong enough to cut off the beast’s head. One clean strike of an ax is all it will take.
A clawed hand settles heavily on my waist, and I jerk, looking up. Woland stands by my side, half-swathed in his shadows, his golden eyes aglitter.
“You mortals are so easy to play,” he says, dark amusement ringing in his voice. “It’s almost disappointing.”
I open my mouth to scream for the men to flee, but it’s too late.
The beast roars and swipes with its long arms, left and right, scattering the men. Some fall to the ground with cries of pain, deep claw gashes in their skin. Others drop out of the sheer power of the werewolf’s hits. Unwounded, they struggle to get up with jerky movements.
Darobor is one of the few left standing. He slices down with his scythe in a wide, powerful arc. The werewolf growls and rolls out of the way.
It lands on top of Swietko, who’s trying to crawl away, blood seeping from his torn arm.
The monster snarls, its muzzle twisting. Its teeth sink into Swietko’s arm. The powerful jaws close with a crunch of bones.
An inhuman, horrible scream tears out of Swietko’s throat. By my side, Woland laughs with glee, and I stand there, numb and petrified. His grip tightens around me for a brief moment and then he’s gone. I stagger, suddenly cold and alone, barely able to stand on my own.
And even though my mind screams for me to close my eyes, I can’t tear them away from the gore. I see every movement of the werewolf’s jaws as they chew Swietko’s flesh and bones. I see the ragged, gaping wound, shattered bone poking out of the red mess.
Everything slows down, my vision blackening as I sway. The sounds turn into a buzzing chaos, the scene blurring, and still I see the werewolf hunched over its prey, its throat moving as it swallows, shaggy head leaning in for another bite…
Darobor yells for the men to clear out of his way and thrusts his scythe like a spear, his eyes ferocious, muscles bunching. The blade sinks into the werewolf’s back. So deep it goes, I’m sure it must push clean through its trunk. The beast freezes, letting out a pitiful, dog-like whimper.
Swietko sobs, begging for mercy in barely comprehensible words.
The werewolf makes to rise, but its leg rolls out, making it fall to all fours. Darobor presses his foot into its lower back and grunts with effort. The scythe tears free with a wet crunch, and he staggers back.
Before he has time to aim again, the werewolf yelps in pain and flees, its gait uneven and staggering, half-animal, half-human. It disappears in the dark.
The night air rustles with the heavy, shaky breathing of everyone gathered. A baby cries somewhere in the distance, and Swietko’s sobs grow quiet. He’s losing blood, his eyes growing glassy.
If nobody tends to him, he’ll die.
“What are you waiting for?”Wiosna barks in my ear, jostling me out of my numb terror.
“A shirt,” I say, my voice barely a croak. I clear my throat, taking an unsteady step toward Swietko. From the corner of my eye, I see other wounds to tend, but his is the worst.
“Give me a shirt!” I say, too loud this time. The men flinch and jump, shooting me spooked looks. Most of them don’t even notice me throughout the ordeal. “Quickly! I have to staunch the bleeding!”
They just stand there, watching me. Annoyance pushes through the remnants of my fear, and I growl in frustration, hurrying to Swietko’s side. I’m wearing a linen dress and barely anything underneath. There’s no way I’ll strip naked. But maybe I can cut off my hem. I make to reach for my knife, careless in my haste as blood gushes out of Swietko’s wound in steady pulses, when Darobor touches my shoulder.
“Here.”
I take his shirt and rip it in half. Falling to my knees by Swietko’s mangled side, I wind the shirt well above the wound and cinch it tight. There’s no saving that arm, anyway. All that matters is saving his life.
“Good,”Wiosna murmurs. “But you don’t have a saw.”
I swallow convulsively at the implication. All I think about is stopping the bleeding, but she’s right. The arm will have to be removed. With so much muscle and bone missing, it will be useless, anyway. Bile rises in my throat, and I swallow time after time, pressing my hand to Swietko’s forehead to distract myself. His skin is clammy and cold. Bad sign.
“I need you…” I try to say, but my voice has crawled down into my gut. I swallow again and take a shuddering breath.
“Yes?” Darobor is at my side, crouching on the bloody dirt. “What do you need?”
I look up. His eyes are lucid and clear, his presence reassuring. I nod once and speak.
“A saw. The best you can find. But he’ll have to be moved inside first. We also need a flat piece of iron.” I swallow and breathe, swallow and breathe. “Heated in the fire. To close the wound.”
He nods and gets up. I fret that he’ll go to fetch the saw himself, but Darobor waves Janek closer. Ida’s husband is unharmed, only badly shaken.
“Go to my house. The shed is unlocked. There is a saw on my worktable, and a big wood ax. Bring both. Now hurry!”
I should be self-sufficient, I know. It’s unseemly for a whisperer to balk at treating a wound, even the grisliest kind. And yet, I can’t help but feel grateful for Darobor’s steady presence. Even with Wiosna prompting my every next move, I am nauseous and unsure of myself.
Never before did I have to cut off a limb. I didn’t even see it done. When Wiosna had to take off one woman’s crushed foot, I was barely six, and she didn’t let me assist.
She did tell me what to do in such cases, though. Yet knowledge is a poor substitute for experience. My hands shake when I think about what taking off an arm will entail. And that will be just the first step in ensuring Swietko’s survival.
I’m in for another sleepless night.
I look down at him. He’s unconscious, his skin pale, but the blood stopped flowing. Darobor crouches by my side. I glance over his shoulder to see Waclaw directing the wounded men to sit at the side of the road. Another man is sent into the dark, most likely to fetch more help.
Terrified, high pitched voices drift over from the closest cottage, asking if it’s safe to come out.
“Stay inside!” I shout. “It can come back. The moon’s still up!”
“What else?” Darobor asks. Sweat drips down his lined forehead, but his eyes are focused, lips tight.
“I need him on a clean table,” I say, looking around. “He’ll need strong spirits to dull the pain. And… Strong people to hold him.”
Swietko’s house is far on the other side of the village. Mine is closer, but my table is not big enough to support him properly. The best place for him would be the whisperer’s cottage, the one where Wiosna lived that now belongs to Czeslawa. There is a large table for patients.
“The whisperer’s here,” Darobor says.
I look up in time to see Czeslawa. Her face is pale and unsure, looking between Swietko and me with growing alarm.
“What are you doing, stupid girl?” she asks, her voice shrill enough to carry. The murmurs and pained whimpers around us stop. In the aftermath of the bloodshed, everyone’s itching for a diversion.
“Saving his life,” I growl, too winded to care about staying polite. “What does it look like to you?”
She takes a step back, clutching her chest. I narrow my eyes, trying to discern if she’s truly afraid or pretending. When she shakes her head frantically, raising her arms in apparent despair, I know it’s the latter.
“Don’t let her win,”Wiosna hisses in my ear, vicious and unforgiving.
“He was bitten!” Czeslawa cries out. “Bitten by a werewolf! He cannot be saved!”
I glance at Swietko. He is stable for now and doesn’t lose any more blood. A short rest might even do him good before we move him and start sawing. I rise to my feet and face Czeslawa, reveling in my height advantage.
I won’t, I silently promise Wiosna, even though she can’t hear me.
“A bite does not make a werewolf,” I say calmly. “You should know that. Only gods decide who will become a foul beast.”
Czeslawa’s face turns splotchy with anger. She hates being contradicted. Darobor looks between her and me, his brow furrowed. The men are quiet, watching.
“Are you really willing to risk it?” she asks in a menacing voice. “Look what one of those beasts did to us! And you want to risk having another one slaughtering us all in our beds? You are mad!”
A ripple goes through the crowd, murmurs of worry and agreement. I clench my fists and jut my chin forward, refusing to cower.
“There is no risk, because unlike Przemyslaw, Swietko didn’t slaughter his wife in gods’ sight,” I say loudly.
Czeslawa’s eyes widen and people around me gasp, clearly unprepared for my revelation. Maybe it’s not wise to flaunt my knowledge that the werewolf is Przemyslaw, though, really, that’s obvious. But it’s not something Jarota announced.
Well, at least now, I have everyone’s attention and a slight advantage. I continue in a raised voice, looking at the men while Czeslawa gathers her wits. My eyes fall on the five wounded ones sitting at the side of the road, which gives me an idea.
I want them on my side, hoping avidly werewolf wounds don’t doom anyone to become a beast.
“A werewolf’s bite isn’t contagious. Nor is a werewolf’s scratch. No one who was wounded tonight was infected with anything other than filth from its claws. So will you tend to the wounded, whisperer, to make sure they can heal properly? If you’re so afraid of Swietko’s ugly wound, I will treat it myself. And I will not ask for payment. They risked their lives for us. This is reason enough to treat them for free.”
I look back just in time to see Czeslawa’s expression turn venomous. That’s right, she cares about her wealth the most, so my little speech struck her where it hurts. And I care about payment, too, but I’m petty enough to forego mine if she’s forced to give up hers.
“Scratches don’t get infected,” she says stiffly while men watch her, the wounded ones wide-eyed with a new fear. “And of course. Go to my cottage. I will bandage the wounds.”
I am ready to smile in triumph when she turns to me, her eyes filled with hate. With the wounded men gone and some standing farther to watch out for the monster’s return, our audience is much smaller. And yet, it’s big enough that whatever she says will make an impact.
And so it does.
“Why should anyone trust you with Swietko’s treatment?” she spits, her voice cold. “When everyone knows he hates you, and you, him. Maybe you want him to turn into a beast or die in agony. Maybe that’s why you’re lying. I suppose we’ll see what happens with this poor soul, hm?”
She leaves with a huff, and I am left standing over unconscious, barely alive Swietko who will likely die even if I do my best, thereby confirming her words.
His death will damn me.
Somewhere in the distance, a pair of yellow eyes flashes tauntingly, the devil’s gleeful laugh carrying on the wind.