Lycanthrope

(previously published in Bloody Muse October 1999)

The night awoke and sighed with a sultry, summer's breath. Darkness shimmered with silver silence as the fertile moon grew heavy and round with encumbrance. Phoebe yawned and stretched her silent moon beams to awaken her child, the lone wolf. She drew him from his dreams of love, arousing deep, instinctual yearnings in the pit of his soul. He would do as she wished, for he was hers to command.

***

Somewhere in the darkness of night, the man known as Lucien stirred. A feverish sweat clung to him in his dreams and drew him from sleep. The bed sheets were twisted and encumbered about his naked body and he felt caged like an animal in a snare—mad, foaming at the mouth and ready to chew off his own ankle to free himself—as he kicked the sheets from him. He was soaked. Angelique lay beside him, her breaths deep and even, the silver light from the full moon illuminating her pale blond hair like newly fallen snow, her moonskin, as cool and pale as milk. Her soft lashes lay still against her cheeks like dandelion fuzz suspended before the breath of a breeze on a summer day. She looked to him like a beautiful angel; pure, sweet and innocent. Her mother had named her well.

He thought that she, if anyone could save him from his madness. He'd been sure from the first time he'd seen her more than a year and a half ago selling her pottery in the town market, that she was the ‘one'; the ‘one' that who would save his soul from eternal damnation. His grandmere had told him the legends of the ‘one' who would come and cleanse the evil that rushed his veins, crawled his spine and reworked his DNA and that of his families for generations. The ‘one' who would finally break the curse and set him free. But he'd been so young then, merely a lad as he stood at his grandmere's deathbed, her eyes wild with visions of dying and madness, grasping his sleeve in her pale parchment bird-claws and pulling him close enough to smell the decay upon her lips as she rasped, "Listen to me boy. . . Only love will set you free." But, those were not her words exactly and he could not remember if these memories were actually ‘his' own or ones that had been created for him from the numerous retellings of it.

He frowned now looking at Angelique wondering if he had been foolish to believe such fantasies, wondering if his grandmere had already been mad and driven to demented illusions even then as was the burden of his lineage, before they'd ever locked her away in the institution. He could remember his mother dragging him there to the ‘looney-bin' as she called it, kicking and screaming to visit poor Grandmere—the wraiths with zombie-eyes walking the halls, the screams of the damned that slithered under his skin and filled him with unspeakable dread—and he knew full well that there were things far worse than death.

Lucien turned over and quietly got up from bed. The familiar itch had begun to irritate his body and he scratched his flesh drawing blood. His nails had already grown a full half-inch, or so he imagined. He went to the water-closet and relieved himself, then splashed cool water over his head, neck and chest. It did nothing to quench the heat within him. He stared at himself in mirror trying to detect the minute changes that had perhaps already begun. He rubbed his finger along his teeth and lifted his upper lip to expose his gums. They were blood red and his canines seemed somewhat longer, sharper certainly, but he couldn't be sure. His eyes were bloodshot and the whites looked sallow and weepy like fried eggs gone bad. The patch of thick hair on his chest seemed even thinker and the hair on his forearms longer, more coarse.

He laughed then, thinking himself mad. He ought to be locked away for such paranoid delusions. At least one part of his grandmere's premonitions were coming true. He was fucking crazy. Lately he'd been unable to sleep, up all night til dawn, prowling the four corners of the little cottage, hearing murmurs in his head, struck but mad delusions as he painted bloody pictures like a person possessed. Then he'd collapse on the bed at daybreak and sleep all day, the sleep of the dearly departed. And the dreams, they were both horribly beautiful and strangely real. He dreamt of running wild, naked through the undergrowth, the full moon bathing him in silvery light. He dreamt of blood and the taste of human flesh, so tender and sweet and marbled with rich fats. And in these dreams he was a beast who walked on all four legs, a mad dog foaming at the mouth with savage eyes and a mouth of incisors for ripping flesh. He'd steal chickens and eat them feathers and all, and sometimes a barn cat or the sweet tender throat of a newly birthed calf. It was laughable really, him being a vegetarian and all. But there was nothing amusing about these dreams. They scared the shit out of him.

Each night he'd set up his easel and paint such horrible nightmarish creations. Smearing red ocher, crimson, titanium black and sable across the pale white canvas, marring its perfection. He would become obsessed, his brush-strokes wild and passionate, his hands working the paint into the canvas, often smearing his naked flesh with the paints as well, so he looked as demoniac as his creations.

The paintings were terrible. At first glance they appeared to be only a chaotic splotching of colors. But after staring at them for a few moments the grisly images would crawl out of the canvas. Torsos ripped wide and spilling forth their inner organs, nightbeasts hidden within the folds of dark nebulous shadows, nudes bent and broken like toy dolls, their heads and bodies all askew, their beauty forever maimed. He didn't know from where these visions came—from his dreams most definitely, dreams that held the key to the mysteries that were buried deep within his subconscious—but certainly his mind could not have created such savage abominations. Or perhaps his grandmere had not been crazy and she was right after all. Perhaps he was becoming. But, becoming what?

The paintings had upset Angelique, so he'd taken them to his studio in Paris at the urging of his friend Gilles. He been both surprised and elated when Gilles had found him a showing at a prestigious gallery. Now his paintings were selling like hotcakes. And to think that his past works—the virginal landscapes and delicate nudes done in pastels and feathery strokes—had interested no-one. No. It was his madness that the public desired; these twisted nightmarish landscapes of his inner mind.

Lucien pulled on a pair of worn-out jeans and opened the cottage to get some air. Outside, the night was humid and clung to him like the bloody wet entrails of a dying body. The thought sickened him and he shivered in the heat. He decided a walk would clear his head and help to cool his madness. The garden smelled fragrant and lush with fruit ripening on the branches. Grapes where growing plump and soon would be time to harvest. To the east the land gently undulated like the curves of a woman, with fields of grain. He fondly remembered sketching that scene a thousand times, at least. Further, the dark woods were barely visible on the horizon, a black shadow against the blackness.

The moon was full and bloated and shone down at him through the tangle of tree branches. The scene looked oddly familiar as he stared up at it and after a moment he realized it was a scene he had painted. Yes, just so. They way the moon seemed to stalk him through the leafy foliage; the way it seemed to be watching him, possessing him as it had in his mad visions while he'd painted. An eery sensation fingered up his spine. He felt incredibly drawn to the moon's power, as if she pulled at him, like an umbilical cord stretching the infinite distance between them. Her voice was the song of the wild, of the wind, of the blood, and delivered him unto the primaeval stirrings of his birth.

A soft breeze blew against his skin. But rather than cool him it blanketed him in a sticky sweet warmth. Sweat poured down his face and chest. He struggled out of his cumbersome jeans, leaving them hanging on a branch. The heat pressed in on his flesh. Worse though, was the heat inside of him that boiled and bubbled in his stomach, through his intestines and roasted his muscles like steak on a barbecue. The itch plagued him, crawling through his extremities and under his skin like maggots eating him from the inside out. The itch was deep—cell deep—and attached him on a molecular level. He clawed as his skin desperately, gouged hunks of flesh from his body in a futile attempt to cure it. Rivulets of warm wet blood flowed from his legs, arms, chest. He rubbed his back against the rough bark of an old oak, fell to the ground and rolled in the moss and mud moaning. The itch only became more insistent, like a mosquito bite that becomes inflamed and painful when scratched, like a wound that refuses to heal.

His own blood filled his nostrils, warm rich fragrant, the smell of raw fresh meat made liquid. He brought his bloody fingers to his lips, tasting the sweet essence of his own body. The flavor was like rare veil, or calve's liver, tender young succulent sacrifices. He savored the sweet essence on his tongue. It was ambrosia.

The slow agony spread through him and cramped in his stomach. He could feel each muscle move beneath his flesh, beginning to bulge and stretch. His tendons stretched tight as piano wires. His spine shifted, each vertebrae popping like twigs. Each bone and muscle and cell began to transform within his flesh. He was ripped apart, bones separating from flesh, tendons screaming, piece by piece by piece. . . Becoming. . . Remaking his flesh in ‘her' vision. Through his tear-filled agony he saw ‘her', the moon gazing down through mottled branches, smiling a moon's bloated dead smile, the pocked-flesh as cool and pale as milk. He cursed her then and swore his vengeance upon her. Then blackness blanketed him in sweet unconscious night.

The dream again—or was it only a dream?—lying still on the mossy ground, fur slicked with sweat, panting hot ragged breaths, his heart beating slow and steady to her lunar rhythm. The smell of humus and dead things filled his nostrils. Memories lay distant, and raced through his blood—memories of the ancient tribes of wolf-men who chased the clouds and devoured the moon. The nocturnal hunt as he ran wild with the pack. The hunger stalked from his bowels to his stomach to his throat, the lunacy swallowing him with a single gulp.

The hairs on the back of his neck ruffled as he listened to the forest sounds, the sounds of the night. His nostrils grew wide as he devoured the air, tasting every leaf, every fiber. He smelled the blood of the flesh far away and pulled himself from the ground, stretching his limbs, strong limbs made for speed.

Racing now through the trees on all fours, branches snapping, the pads of his toes tearing through the moist, dark soil. His heart hammered inside his chest, strong and fast, his lungs stretching with the wind. His eyes saw forever, the shadows and the fleeting trees, the dim glow of her luminescence in stark, patchy contrast, shades of blue shadow and pale silver light. He was conscious only of the feel of his own powerful body pumping, as if he could run forever. . .

He came to the edge of the woods, stalking through tall grains. The stems rustled and whispered against his sleek hair and polished him with night-dew. Somewhere off in the distance a dog began to bark incessantly and he smiled with a mouthful of canines. A deep growl began in his groin and moved up his belly, howling from his throat. The sound was deep, angry, like an tremor rupturing the soil. In it he heard the song of his ancestors, mournful and primeval as it moved through time and united their pain.

That scent again, closer now, the smell of fresh blood and virginal flesh. He panted hotly, ropes of saliva hanging from his jaw. Ahead, a distance light beckoned to him. He moved quietly—the scent of blood pumping through flesh, beating through the delicious muscle of a heart. He felt its rhythm move through him, the steady warm beat of flesh and blood pumping through his veins, burning through his ears.

Outside the small cottage he saw the woman sleeping, her hair splayed over the pillows as she slept, shining like a silvery halo in the moonlight. Her skin was kissed by moondust, oddly glowing and smooth as porcelain. He leap through the open window on silent paws. His eyes played with shadows—fleeting movements, patches of darkness that breathed and swelled—quickly adjusting to the dark room. He could smell her distinctly now, he could almost taste her on the back of his tongue; the musky aroma of her sex, the warm rich flavor of her blood slowly moving through her heart.

He moved closer, nuzzling between her legs with his wet nose, breathing in her scent. The woman moaned and woke with a start.

"Lucien? Mon chere, is it you?" her voice sang into the night. She stared at him blindly, trying to make out the dark shadow before her. Slowly her eyes widened in terror and her features opened. The scream froze in her throat.

Lucien gazed at her for a long time, studying her. There was something vaguely familiar about her, something that tugged at him deep inside. A voice pleaded with him to turn away, to flee into the night. But the smell of her flesh was overpowering, the hunger burning. The madness swelled inside of him like a flood, his lust to taste her, to drink her essence and consume her heart as it pumped full of her blood. He growled fiercely baring his teeth. The woman screamed—had been screaming all along but he'd not heard it over the thudding of the blood beating through her heart. The sound pierced the night.

Lucien fell onto the floor writhing in torment. The sound moved through him like a sliver lodging under his flesh, probing his awareness. His mind shattered and the image of the moon, of the blood lust died with it. He felt the overpowering need to protect Angelique from the beast inside of him.

"Angelique?" his voice was strangely foreign to him, low and guttural.

He pushed himself from the ground and rose before her, hoping to comfort her and stop the terrible scream. The door burst open behind him and a stream of warm light fell upon the bed. Angelique lay in the darkness of his huge shadow. Her eyes were wide and horrified, and deep within their silver gleam he saw the reflection of himself. A huge hairy beast with claws and a mouthful of teeth smiling terribly.

A blast sounded and a terrible heat burst though his back and exploded from his chest. He looked down bewildered as a hole opened within the furred torso, blood spurting from his heart. His clawed hands went to cover the hole as he fell to his knees.

Angelique cried out: "Lucien? Dear God! What have you done?"

Lucien lay on his back staring at the faces of those he barely recognized. Angelique, her pale cheeks raw from weeping. Pierre, his neighbor held a smoking shotgun in his white-knuckled grip. A look of complete horror on his face. Quickly, how these faces faded and how memories one holds in life dims with death.

The sun was now bleeding through the open window and painted his world in rich textures and shades the color of red mingled with darkness, like the beastly canvases he'd once created. He could no longer see the faces or hear the words. The room and the cottage deteriorated around him, until he ran through the dark forest his feet tearing the soil, the silver moon gazing down at him. In her swollen encumbrance he saw the face of his grandmere, chuckling, her words whispering like the wind.

"Poor, silly boy. I didn't say ‘love', I said ‘death'. Only ‘death' will set you free."

© 1999 duana r anderson