Man And Beast

Man and Beast

Introduction: This tale is about 33 000 words. Some years ago a volunteer editor, searchingforperfection, suggested to me that a story about a female werewolf could be interesting. It was some time later that I came up with this plot, and I have only found time to write this in the last few months. The story is set during World War I and begins in the trenches, in Europe, near the border between France and Belgium. As with almost all my stories there is a Canadian connection.

Chapter 1

"Attention!" shouted the sergeant in a tone that was intended to coerce the most primitive part of a person's mind.

The men rolled their eyes and stood at attention as best they could in the muddy dugout, shouldering rifles and donning helmets as they did so. When he wasn't within earshot the Canadian soldiers enjoyed mimicking his  to their ears  comical British accent, often creating elaborate and imaginary situations in which the sergeant's accent would cause him embarrassment. The dugout, a small, mud-walled chamber, was carved out of the trench wall to afford some protection during artillery attacks, but the ceiling was not sufficiently high for any one of the six mentally and physically exhausted men to stand upright.

The sergeant breathed in a deep breath of air, turning red in the face. "I said..." he bellowed. He was stopped by a flick of an officer's baton upon his arm. The gruff man, angered at having been interrupted in dressing down his subordinates, glared at the lieutenant.

"That'll be enough, Sergeant. We don't want the enemy hearing too much of what's going on in our trenches, do we?" His accent and beardless face made it clear he was a young member of the British aristocracy, and the Canucks had long ago learned to trust none of that persuasion. Too many of their countrymen had died in futile charges uphill and directly into machine gun nests.

The officer glanced at each of the men, as if deciding on who he might invite to play cards that afternoon. "They look to be a good bunch of chaps. Fit and ready to serve the king. Who are you?" he asked, pointing at a man with his baton.

"MacMillan, sir."

The officer waited a few seconds for further biographical information, then nodded as if he'd received the answer he'd wanted and turned to the next man. "And you?"

"Murphy, sir."

"An Irishman," observed the officer, nodding sagely.

"No, sir. A Canadian."

The officer appeared to be slightly confused by this. "I meant that your parents were from Ireland, or perhaps you were born there yourself."

"No, sir. Neither, sir."

"Very well, then..." The young officer rubbed his chin in thought, wondering if perhaps all the men were going to be so reticent. How bad was morale here?

"This one's Archie, sir," offered the sergeant as the officer pointed at the next man.

"Private Archie. What an unusual last name."

"It's my first name, sir." Archie did not like being singled out; it was hard enough for an Indian to survive on the front without being singled out by his superiors.

"He's a red Indian, sir," added the sergeant helpfully.

The officer's eyes went wide. "A red Indian? Really? He must be very useful. His people are born warriors, though they didn't do so well against the Yanks as I recall."

The sergeant stared at Archie, daring him to say something out of line.

"Private Assiwiyin, sir." The officer arched an eyebrow. "It's Private Assiwiyin, sir. Everyone calls me Archie though."

"Ah," replied the officer with a nod, although it was clear that he had lost interest.

"If the Lieutenant will excuse my boldness, sir. Perhaps you came here to give us orders?"

"Ah. Ah, yes! Thank you, Sergeant Whitaker." The officer gripped his baton in both hands behind his back and stood tall, hitting his head on the wood supports that held up the mud ceiling. He grunted then stooped. "Ah, yes. At dusk, in two days' time, we will engage in something called a creeping barrage. Our artillery will be fired and we will follow the impacts of the shells right up to the demolished German lines. We shall catch the enemy entirely by surprise, or at least that's what General Currie believes. However, he is from the North American colonies so what does he know?" The lieutenant looked perturbed for a second or two as if recalling something. "Well men, you are here to follow orders and the sergeant and I will see to it you follow the falling shells as closely as is humanly possible." His eyes flickered on Archie for a small fraction of a second. "I know you might have hoped for a Canadian officer to march beside, but there are so damned few of them that strategic command has placed you in my hands. I will be advancing with you. Any questions?"

The men remained silent, having already engaged in a creeping barrage attack only three weeks earlier. They suspected it would be just as successful as it was then, and it was just as unlikely that the officer would actually be marching alongside them. Glances were exchanged.

"Ah, very good. Brave group of men, Sergeant. Glad to see the colonies were able to muster up some decent British soldiers." He took a step toward the exit, then paused. "Oh, and a red Indian," he added with a friendly nod toward Archie. Then, he and the sergeant left.

"No wonder my dad and mum left jolly old England to come to Canada!" laughed MacMillan. The others shared the laugh, all except Archie who sat back and frowned.

"Why so dour?" asked Corson, nudging Archie. He was a big, simple lad, who had been one of the few to actually befriend the squad's Indian.

Archie gave him a long look, shook his head sadly, then stood and walked out into the trench. He heard Murphy's loud voice behind him.

"Lieutenant Johnny Bull, there, was treating our friend Archie like dirt, Corson, my boy. And Archie has to take it 'cause he's an Indian. If one of us were to mouth back to that pipsqueak we'd get a dressing down from the Sergeant and maybe some hard duty digging a new latrine or something, but an Indian would get whipped."

"So that's why he never says a cross word..." Corson thought aloud.

Archie did not want to hear any more; it was too close to the truth. He took a deep breath then walked along the trench, ignored by the white soldiers that were not part of his squad. He was used to the lack of camaraderie that his friends would have been surprised by.

"Archie!" called out Sergeant Whitaker.

He stopped and waited for the noncommissioned officer to catch up to him. He removed his helmet and ran his hands through his black hair, then quickly put his helmet back on.

"I've got special duty for you, boy. You're scouting no man's land until the barrage begins. We can't have the Bosche sneaking up on us while we're making preparations, can we?" he added with a friendly punch to Archie's shoulder.

There was no response or reaction from the soldier.

"Well...report to supply and get your scouting kit. On the double!"

"Yes, sir."

"And...I don't have to remind you that you aren't to scalp any..."

"No, sir."

Archie turned on his heel, concealing his scowl from the Sergeant, and then hurried on his way. Scouting missions were always assigned to him, as Sergeant Whittaker had read some dime-store novels about western adventures and, consequently, had become convinced every Indian was a natural-born scout and warrior. Archie had volunteered for the military at the start of the Great War, hoping that esprit de corps would overwhelm mankind's natural racist nature but he had found most men still lost in their delusional prejudices. Still, he considered, he had found some friends in the trenches. The threat of death resulting from insane orders by incompetent officers made almost every soldier a brother.

Chapter 2

Delphine carefully closed her book and set it down on the end table, then rose to stand, her feet bare, gathering the fur cloak about her. Her brother, strong and confident, reclined upon his bed a short distance away, one arm across his face and still, though she sensed he was wide awake. He wore only a silken bathrobe - imported from the Far East almost twenty years earlier - and the bed was unmade. The hanging light bulbs about the chamber made the siblings' skin appear paler than it was, almost ghost-like.

"Vincent?" she asked quietly.

He ignored her, preferring to dwell upon what to him were pleasant thoughts.

"Vincent!"

He rolled over with a sigh, raised himself up on one arm and cast a contemptuous stare upon his younger sister. "And what is it now, Delphine? Would you have me find you something new to read? Or perhaps a fresh flower?"

"I..." She bit her lip, fearing the explosion that was to come. "I know...I know you protect me from the dangers of the outside world, Vincent." She kept her eyes steady upon him. He'd been the stronger of the two ever since they'd found themselves alone. "However, I believe it is time to...it is time for me to go out into the world. I must see things for myself, Vincent."

He raised an eyebrow. "And? What of the danger? The Great War still drags on over our heads, little sister. There are soldiers both to the east and west of us ready to shoot at the slightest sign of movement between their lines. They have flames and bombs, too. Even their flying machines are used as weapons of war..."

"I know this!" she interrupted him. He had told her tales of what he'd seen on the surface, where the mansion had once stood as grand as any other along the border between France and Belgium, though she had been hesitant to believe much of what he'd said. Even as a child he had never felt himself to be bound to the truth, though she supposed his current protectiveness toward her was a godsend.

He very slowly shifted until he was sitting up, cross-legged, upon his bed. "You interrupted me," he accused, his voice even.

"I apologize for my rudeness, brother, but I feel it is time for me to breathe fresh air once again."

"And what will you do when the men, with their multitude of deadly weapons, ready themselves to kill you?"

"Surely we are immune to such things," she argued, though she knew it was not entirely true. "Only silver..."

"They have silver." His eyes flashed. "And fire. And, a bullet still hurts. And they have guns that shoot hundreds of bullets in but a second! You would not last an hour before they cornered you and ended your life, Delphine."

"I can shift and run fast, past their lines and beyond the war. I could go in search of..."

"Of our uncle?" he asked. "Do you not think I've sought him out? There is no word, and it has been many years since we last saw him. He is dead, just as Mother and Father are, just as everyone in the family is. There are only you and I left. We must be smart. We must be decisive. We must beware these sheep that cower in their trenches above us, sister, for these sheep bite back!"

"They are not sheep, Vincent. They are humans, like us."

He threw his head back and laughed deeply. She cringed to hear it. After an uncomfortable interval he suddenly stopped and stared at her, incredulous.

"How can you say they are like us? Do you have any idea how easily they die? How frail their shells are?"

"You should not..."

"I should not what, little sister?"

She set her shoulders back and lifted her chin. "You should not hunt them and...and devour them. They think and feel as we do."

He considered her carefully for a few seconds, looking her up and down. "You have grown, Delphine. No more the young girl reading fairy tales of knights and princesses and waiting for Mother and Father to someday return from wherever they went off to. However, without our sire present I am lord of this manor and these lands, and you will obey me. I bring you the food you desire, though why you should eat canned goods when there is perfectly fresh meat above us I will never understand."

She clenched her fists and persisted. "It is time for me to..."

"...go above! Yes! I heard you the first time!" He rolled his eyes. "These soldiers will eventually disappear and the Great War will end. All we have to do is wait these sheep out, and then you and I will rule what remains. Think of it, Delphine! No fear! Going where we will and doing as we please, as the humans that survive this conflict cower and serve us! We'll rebuild the mansion," he waved his hands at the stone walls that surrounded them, "and have many servants once more. You shall have all the books your heart could desire! There shall be balls, and we shall host the greatest families of Europe...dining on princes and princesses!" He paused then, realizing his words were not what she wanted to hear. "The world above is being unmade and we shall craft a new one from its ashes."

"It is time for me to go out into the world, Vincent." Her sudden stubbornness was new, and had been building for some time within her.

"I forbid it." His voice was calm, and that sent a shiver down her spine.

"I..."

"Quiet!" He gracefully uncrossed his legs, then rose from the bed. Taking her hands in his, he looked into her eyes in an almost tender way that reminded her of the boy he had once been.

"Vincent..." she pleaded, afraid to pull her hands from his. She looked away, trying to break the hypnotic stare that was locked upon her and pierced her soul.

"I will make you a deal, Delphine. I will bring a man - a soldier - down to our home, again. You will once more see how they all are fearful and ignorant creatures. They are violent and so little above the animals that they, themselves, kill and eat freely, and without pangs of guilt. And, when I kill him...perhaps then you will taste the man's flesh and learn what you have been missing? I dearly hope that one day you and I may run through the fields of Belgium together, Lord and Lady of our domain, perhaps rulers of all Belgium and France...of all Europe!"

"Please don't, Vincent. Please don't bring another one of your victims back..."

"It is so wrong to think of them as victims, Delphine. They are sheep." He lifted her chin until their eyes met. "Do they feel grief when they slaughter another animal and devour its flesh? No. This is the way of nature. The strong survive by feeding on the weak. There is no evil in this, Delphine."

She finally tore her hands away from his. "I won't help you kill him! And...I won't eat him!"

He shook his head, sadly, though she knew such emotions were beyond him and she'd seen him practice emoting in a mirror many times. She often thought there was something wrong with her that she should feel so much when others, or at least her brother, seemed immune to the ideas of compassion and doubt.

"One of these days, Delphine, you are going to have to grow up. When that time comes you'll learn of the joys our ancestors knew, the joy of the hunt, the kill and the feast, the blood running down your face and warm meat sliding down to your stomach. Our people are still out there, somewhere. We survive and we will thrive once the sheep have run out of bullets and bombs."

Chapter 3

Though innocent civilians back home would likely have thought him a hero for the deeds he did on the European front, Archie perceived himself merely as a hunter much as he had been in the forests of his homeland. In truth, his comrades in arms did not think themselves heroes, either. They were here to do a job, one for which they each had volunteered. Their naive promises on Canadian soil had led to this quagmire of muddy hills and trenches that littered the front. There were horrors here that the mind could scarcely fathom, horrors that made nightmares seem welcome relief, when there was time for safe slumber.

Archie - as he was known to his white comrades - was Cree, and so all of the British officers had naturally assumed he was a savage killer, adept at stalking his prey in the cloak of night and plunging a knife into their flesh whether they were human or animal. It was he they sent out into the darkness of no man's land, prior to an attack, to ensure the Germans and their allies had not sent out spies to gather intelligence on allied forces.

It was the coming attack planned two nights hence that had Archie out past the barbed wire, wandering the craters of that devastated landscape, searching for his foe. General Currie had something special planned, and Archie had been strongly urged to return prior to the commencement of the attack that would begin just as darkness fell in two days.

The odour of rotting flesh had been lifted away by a slight breeze, at least for the moment, though the zephyr had done nothing to blow away the mist and smoke. Rot was everywhere; the plants and animals that decayed also sank into the mud which disguised it and held it fast, just as it did to the dead and dying soldiers. Mud covered Archie from head to foot, much of it due to deliberate application. The officers never approved, yet they did not give too many orders to him before he left the relative safety of the trenches. He stifled a chuckle at the thought that the officers who sent him forth likely believed he scalped all of the Kaiser's men he caught out here, regardless of the orders he'd been issued. Looking up to the sky, he spied a few familiar stars and constellations. The glow from behind the trenches made sky gazing a fruitless pursuit here and he missed the peaceful night skies of northern Ontario.

A noise, possibly innocent, had him suddenly crouching and searching with eyes and ears for a possible assassin. He glanced up at the full moon and shook his head. Only a fool would be traversing these few hundred yards between opposing armies under such a light. The only trees to be seen were shattered husks, long ago stripped of leaves, branches and bark. They offered little in the way of shelter or shadow. The craters were useful, as were the hillocks of mud and filth. One could cower there, relatively safe from prying eyes...at least for a few minutes.

A shot rang out. He could not tell from which side the bullet had come, nor did it pass anywhere near him. He knew to respond was to fall into a trap that only those new to the front were ignorant enough to do. He wisely remained where he was and listened. German voices carried on the air, coming from ahead. They were distant but clearly upset about something. Archie snickered.

Then, he went silent. Something was watching him, he was sure of it! A pair of eyes had fallen upon his still, dark form nestled in the cold mud, and had picked him out, somehow. He was being scrutinized. His mouth went dry. His eyes shifted left and right, however he could not make out anyone near him. Even the silvery reflection of the moon on the small puddles of black water revealed nothing.

Shaking off the discomforting sensation, he shouldered his rifle and crawled forward until he crested a slick hill of mud. While doing so he remained perfectly quiet, a trick that his squad mates attributed to his race, though he knew it was but a skill learned from the last fellow who the officers used to send out into no man's land, a white man named Gruber. It was a very useful trick, and often allowed him to hear an enemy approaching before the German sensed him. Though, in the end, a sniper had picked off Gruber while he smoked a cigarette back near the trenches.

Still, there was something interesting going on in those German fortifications. Archie prayed it wasn't preparations for a gas attack. Those bastards had no second thoughts about releasing noxious and acidic clouds upon allied trenches the moment the weather was favourable. Of course, his own forces had used poison gas, as well, but only in retaliation or when there was no other choice, or so the officers claimed. Archie knew the German officers probably told their own soldiers they very same lies. Still, poison gas was perhaps the most feared of attacks for those in the trenches.