WOLFWEIR Read online

  Prologue:

  I, Alphonse Didier-Stein, suffering from congested lungs at the outset of this bone-cracking winter of 18___, have set out today to tell a fantastic and, some will say, crazed story.

  Of the wolf girl, Lucia, and the King of the Man Wolves, Gar Fith, and of a war against a coven of Vampyres in which I played a more than minor role.

  Out of modesty or mere shyness, I choose to recount the bizarre events as an objective narrator, writing "he" rather than "I."

  Perhaps through this distancing tactic I will not only be able to gain a sweeping eagle's eye view, but will at last be able to put some of my more violent nightmares to rest.

  May it be so!

  This story begins on a calm and glorious spring morning in Paris.

  In those days my father –- excuse me, Alphonse's father -- Professor Rudolphe Didier-Stein, a distinguished doctor and researcher, spent his days writing in a book-lined office at his home, a big 5th floor apartment on the corner of the Rue du Cheval and the Avenue Dupin in the 8th Arrondisement.

  Besides his career writing for professional journals, Professor Didier-Stein also commuted twice a week to the Paris Asylum for the Mentally Disturbed to consult with the staff on especially perplexing cases.

  It was calm, happy, well-ordered life

  The Professor was much sought after in cultured intellectual circles for his perspicacity and wit. His observations and apercus were always delivered with an air of humble, quiet elegance. He was a handsome man, somewhat vain perhaps, promenading every afternoon in the Bois in his green velvet jacket and top hat.

  His wife Mireille was sensual, cheerful, and neat. Their only son was spoiled by his mother’s tenderness, and looked up to his father as a demigod.

  (Our Alphonse was a weak infant but he developed into a strong and agile boy; he took music lessons, and displayed a flair for the viola, penning and performing his own compositions. He also studied fencing at the renowned school of Mr. Darbeneu. By the age of fifteen his fearsome attack with the rapier was renowned throughout Paris, though he had of course never fought a real duel.)

  On the spring day this story of evil, demonic possession, shape-shifting and violent revenge begins, Professor Stein arrived at the Asylum only to be greeted by the most bizarre news. A young girl had been found wandering dazed in the forests north of Paris, naked.

  This girl spoke French with a heavy Italian accent, saying that her name was Lucia di Fermonti, and that she had been abducted by gypsies from her home, a kingdom strangely called Wolf-Weir.

  This poor vagabond further claimed that gypsies had planned to sacrifice her, a virgin, in a magical ceremony in the forest. But as the full moon rose earlier than the gypsies had predicted, she transformed into a wolf and broken free of the gypsy cage, where she had been held in a barred cell strewn with straw, adjacent to a dancing bear that moaned in his sleep.

  Lucia di Fermonti’s tale Rudolphe Stein found weirdly beautiful, much like an old storybook fable -- in fact, hearing it excited him so that the scratching of his fountain pen nib sometimes nearly drowned out the thin voice of the little blonde girl. He knew Italian, of course, and it was in this musical language that he conducted his interview with the damaged sprite.

  At last he shut his leatherbound book with a thump, told the girl that she was extremely remarkable, as well as beautiful – look at those blonde curls, Botticelli-like – and, after apologizing once more for having to lock the door behind him, bowed like the gentleman he was and took his leave.

  Of course the fine and gentle Professor did not believe a word of it. He was a modern man, a man of this Enlightened era, amused by superstitions and gently dismissive of all religious fervor.

  Clearly hers was a case of delusional hysteria. The saddest and most complete he had ever seen! Incurable, no doubt!

  The Boy Alphonse

  How shall I describe the boy Alphonse to you, readers? Well, like all boys, he is a frenzied dreamer. He dreams of his future life, of the adventures he will have and the worlds he will conquer. Voila. Here is a loose page I recently found in the musty depths of an old steamer trunk that has been thrice around the world with these aged bones. Who knows when it was penned? Idealized, no doubt, yet the raw poetry contains a core of truth.

  He rides horses, the boy named Alphonse Didier Stein, along the beaches of Normandy, in the long summers when the grasses whisper. He rides out from the stables of the grand hotel as the sun brims the horizon spilling red light and he returns in the late afternoon at a slow trot along the glassy tideline, the horse's hoof prints filling up with foam. What does he do all day, along the beaches, in the forests and open fields? He eats orchard-stolen apples, wild grapes, maybe a hunk of bread and cheese he's packed in his saddlebag. Sometimes, Alphonse rides up to a farm to beg a glass of milk. He dismounts under a tree in some stark meadow and lies in his shirtsleeves on the golden grass looking up at the clouds, chewing on a dry grass-blade, his ears alive with birdsong, while his hobbled mount grazes nearby.

  When a sudden squall drives in from the Channel he takes shelter from the rumbling thunder and lightning and hailstones in some dark pine grove, patting and soothing his horse with whispers. Then, on the glassy beach in the last golden light at low tide, he suddenly whoops like an Indian and slaps the broad-muscled shoulders with the reins and is off at a raging gallop, land and sea jumping, all his heart and mind intent on staying in the saddle as the mane whips at his face and the salt wind stings his eyes, packed sand exploding into clumps under his horse's slashing hooves. At these wild, heart-in-mouth moments he is an Apache, Geronimo Jones, just as when he takes out the dinghy he is Pirate Jack Fury, with a talking black cat perched on his shoulder instead of a parrot.

  The Salle d'Armes

  So. We were describing young Alphonse Didier Stein -- or A.D.S., as the engraved initials on the silver knob of his sword-cane has it.

  This sword cane is the very antique bequeathed to him by his grandfather, its blade wrought of fine tempered and gleaming Toledo steel -- a cruel blade and a practiced one, for not only was A.D.S's grandfather a noted swordsman and a fatal quantity to his half-dozen dueling opponents, but he, the boy Alphonse, often takes this sword-cane with him to the Bois and lets it taste air and sunlight in some leaf-shadowed grove where he practices cutting up fantasized pirates, brigands, highwaymen, vampyres, and the like until shaky-limbed, sweat-drenched, and blurry-eyed. But happy.

  The boy Alphonse studies the keen, absorbing science of fencing three afternoons a week at the famous Paris school of M. Darbeneu -- a former prodigy of the great one-eyed Viennese fencer Maestro Rudolf Von Gorith.

  Picture now Alphonse in fencing whites, the high silk collar buttoned to his chin, the oval black-meshed face mask shrouding his sharp features, assuming an elegant stance of readiness and saluting his opponent; picture a whirling blur of speed and subtle control, steel foils whipping and clashing and gliding together, slippered feet hopping lunging gliding and stamping, and then -- a hit, a palpable hit. but you cannot picture it clearly unless your own eyes have beheld a great swordsman at practice in the Salle d'Armes.

  **

  Our Alphonse is not only a quick intuitive learner but also a genius, native to the sword (says M. Darbeneu) as if born with a foil in his right hand.

  M. Darbeneu himself sometimes enters the fray to engage students, trying to work them fully, to bring them up to peak performance. Only Alphonse affords the maestro moments of panic, the buttoned steel swordtip whirling around his face mask like St. Elmo's fire and darting at various vital points on his tightly sheathed body like a cloud of enraged hornets. Some days, it is all he can do to keep Alphonse’s sword tip from kissing him; others, drawing upon all of his skills and practice, he still successfully masters, controls,
and finally disarms or scores on the upstart boy, an effort of many passes that leaves his heart hammering and his fencing whites dark with sweat.

  **

  M. Darbeneu claps sharply to end the day's efforts and the fencers, all boys, step back saluting each other with an elegant downward sweep of their weapons, leave the gym-floor to return their glittering foils to the sword rack, then divest themselves of those ant-like helmets and unbutton the choking collars and tear off the epee gloves, and soon they are strolling and jumping and lolling about like actual schoolboys -- all still in a fine sweat, their cheeks flushed red from exertion.

  Do you see it?

  Fencing is like dancing, but it is a deadly dance, for your aim is not to amuse and soften and become intimately known to your partner and even loved and admired by him or her, but to force him or her up against the nearest wall and pierce his or her beating heart clean through with a whip-thin length of sharpened steel.

  **

  Done fencing, Alphonse puts away the rapier -- buttoned, it is an epee -- into its handsome rosewood sword-case, alongside his Russian cavalry saber. He then tucks the polished, oblong object under his arm and, tipping his hat to this or that classmate, exits onto the Rue des Pyramides.

  It is raining a clean, April rain. He inhales the freshness deeply with quivering nostrils and, turning up his collar, dashes to a cab stand. This evening is his parents' twentieth anniversary of contented matrimony. He is meeting his mother and father for a twilight dinner in a glass-walled restaurant near the Victory fountain, followed by a sedate walk in the leafy Bois.

  Yet is on this perfect evening, after a lingering supper, as Alphonse and his papa and mama are strolling along the paths of the Bois (Rudolphe twirling his elegant cane and doffing his top hat to the smiles of strolling ladies under rain-bright parasols; the small cheerful and neat Mireille at his elbow wearing a pretty blue wide-brimmed hat trimmed with lace, and Alphonse bringing up the rear in his nervous little jump-steps holding the polished swordcase under a skinny elbow; the smart black hansom cabs drawn by big, tired old clopping draft horses flicked by the whips of smartly liveried coachmen rattling past them into the Paris dusk toward the beaming Eiffel tower --ah the Paris dusk and the lit-up and sky-beaming Eiffel Tower!) – I say it is on this carefree, imperturbable, typically lighthearted Paris evening that everything explodes, that everyday life turns a crazed and malicious somersault and the sedate, clean well-lighted world of the young Alphonse Didier Stein wobbles out of orbit and goes dangerously topsy-turvy, if not in fact stark raving mad.

  For it is while strolling the wide, well-illuminated paths of the Bois on this fateful evening that Alphonse and his parents first behold the pale, vicious, elegantly attired LORD AND LADY EDWARD AND EDWARDA BLACKGORE.

  A Challenge

  It is dusk, the rain has ended and a three quarter-full moon is soaring over the black leafy treetops. The Eiffel Tower beams an effulgent ray of light into the spring sky.

  Alphonse, prancing a few steps behind the laughing Mireille, careful not to tread on her swishing blue skirts, beholds a tall, pale dandy in a wide black cape lined with crimson silk suddenly swerve -- stepping right into his father's path.

  Rudolphe, still gazing ecstatically into the moonbrilliant sky, bumps into this tall figure with a lurch and jumps back uttering a profuse and sincere apology.

  But the sneering dandy lets go his grinning lady companion's arm and swats Rudolphe with his glove, knocking the Professor's top hat onto the grass. Rudolphe goes pale, almost as pale as the leering gentleman who swatted him.

  "Watch your step, scoundrel! Drunkard!"

  Alphonse, shocked and indignant, is already opening the sword case for his saber, but Rudolphe lays a calming hand on his arm and the boy relents, instead bending to pick up his father's hat.

  Rudolphe, turning to the still-screeching dandy with the top hat in his hands, merely says: "I perceive that you are upset. It was neither my fault nor my intention to startle you and your wife so grievously. Please accept my renewed and deeply sincere apology."

  "Fool! Blackguard!" screams the woman, who is as pale and tall and regally attired as the man.

  "I am heartily sorry that you think so," says Rudolphe Didier-Stein.

  The tall gentleman now raises his walking stick as if to strike Rudolphe. Alphonse can bear no more of this mad scene. Rushing forward, he snatches away the descending stick and hurls it into a nearby clipped hedge. Whirling to face his father's assailant, he opens his case and takes hold of the Russian saber.

  "You will pay, wretched pup!" shrieks the woman.

  Rudolphe now steps between his infuriated son and the raving couple.

  "Calm, calm now," he says. "This shouting is bad for the nerves. You will cut your lives short this way."

  "No, Monsieur drunken wretch, it is YOUR life which shall suffer a bloody and premature conclusion -- cut short tomorrow at dawn when you cross swords with me in that glade near where we presently stand. I am Lord Edward Blackgore of Scotland, and this lady you have wronged with your clochard-like tomfoolery is my gracious and brilliant wife, Lady Edwarda. We shall both be here to enjoy your demise promptly at 5 AM. Settle your affairs tonight, for you die choking on your own ignoble blood at sunrise."

  Rudolphe, taken by suprise at the gentleman's raw vehemence, steps back.

  "But dear sir, I beg you -- "

  "Ha! So you are also a beggar," sneers Lord Blackgore.

  "And a coward to boot," the lady chimes in with a spiteful snort.

  Alphonse, shuddering with rage, cries:

  "You will be sorry, malign wretch. My father was a champion fencer at University -- "

  "Silence!" thunders Rudolphe. This is not a suggestion. Alphonse shuts his mouth. Mireille steps close and pulls him to her body, tight.

  Coldly, Rudolphe says to the tall figure looming in the Paris dusk:

  "You shall have your duel, Monsieur. At dawn. I now bid you goodnight."

  "I wish you sweet dreams on the last night of your mortal life," sneers the woman.

  But Rudolphe makes no reply. He has already turned on his heel and, taking Alphonse and Mireille by the arms with stony grip, leads them swiftly off. Homeward.

  **

  As they walk, Rudolphe takes out his handkerchief and gives it to his wife. She dabs her eyes with it, then crumples it in her fist, but says nothing.

  They are now crossing a bridge over the Seine.

  "Papa," says Alphonse into the clear, ringing silence.

  "What, my boy?"

  "Are you going to keep that appointment tomorrow?"

  "Yes, Alphonse. I must go. I gave Lord Blackgore my sacred word as a gentleman."

  "He's a disgusting wretch. Probably a madman. You heard him ranting. Mother?"

  Mireille doesn't speak. Rudolphe merely touches his son's head, tenderly.

  "No more talk, good and noble Alphonse. Done is done. Let us enjoy ourselves for the rest of this peaceful evening."

  The Attack

  Night. The lamp burns in Rudolphe's study. There is a strong smell of pipe tobacco, and sometimes the soft sound of pages of a book turning.

  Mireille has kissed her husband and gone to the bedroom, shutting the door.

  From his own bedroom, where he sits awake in the darkness, Alphonse can hear his mother's stifled sobs.

  **

  He falls asleep with his head on the desk where he does school work, though he has promised himself not to sleep. He has vowed that he will accompany his father to the Bois.

  He wakes groggily in the cold blue tinged light. Almost morning. His muscles are tight. His teeth are chattering.

  Why is the apartment so cold? His breath actually fogs when he yawns.

  **

  Walking barefoot, he makes his way down the hall to his father's study.

  The lamp is still on. He can see it blazing underneath the door.

  He knocks.

  "Papa."

  Silence.

&nb
sp; Again: "Papa!"

  Nothing.

  He puts his eye to the keyhole and sees:

  Rudolphe's polished shoes sticking out from behind the big mahogany desk.

  He opens the door as if entranced. Walks forward across the thick carpet.

  His father is stretched out on his back. His eyes are open.

  Dead?

  Dropping to his knees, Alphonse puts his ear to Rudolphe's heart. A faint beat. He can barely hear it over the ticking of the grandfather clock.

  "Papa!" Alphonse shakes his father gently. "Papa!"

  Tick toc tick toc.

  Then he sees them: the two small drops of drying blood on his father's neck.

  Bite marks, such as a bat might make.