The Werewolf Megapack. Александр Дюма
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She wondered how many things she had hated all her life that she didn’t hate. This was the worst of it, not knowing who she really was and which parts of her were manufactured.
She lay back on the couch with Rubio on her chest. “Say the magic word,” she whispered.
“Rrrff!” he barked, and licked at her tears.
He was so little. She could turn him into things because he didn’t even know who he was. Whatever she did, she was turning him into something. That was what people did to each other.
She felt suddenly tired.
After a while of Iying with Rubio’s warmth perched above her heart, she sat up, catching him in her cupped hands as he slid down her.
“Paper training,” she said. She set the puppy on the floor. She tore pages from her husband’s diary. She was going to set them on the floor and let Rubio use them as puppy diapers, but before she could, he ran up and gripped the corners between his teeth. Growling, he jerked at the pages. She laughed and pulled back.
Between them they tore the pages to shreds. Not ready to visit the dumpster again, Claire collected the paper scraps in a steel bowl and set fire to them under the stove’s fan. Rubio danced around her feet and barked softly as the flames rose, fed, flickered out, leaving the pleasant scent of burnt paper, but only for a moment.
Claire sat on the kitchen floor. Rubio came and jumped into her lap, and she stared at him, hard. “Well, one thing I know. You can change yourself, and it’s not even my fault.”
His eyes were so bright, looking up at her. She gathered him to her and rocked back and forth on the cold linoleum floor, thinking of dumpster diving. That was what her husband had been doing when he found her. Look how that turned out. He had switched her around so much inside she had had to make him stop.
Maybe Rubio would feel that way about her, later, when he was bigger and stronger. Or maybe not. She rocked and hoped not.
At least he could change.
THE WEREWOLF, by Eugene Field
In the reign of Egbert the Saxon there dwelt in Britain a maiden named Yseult, who was beloved of all, both for her goodness and for her beauty. But, though many a youth came wooing her, she loved Harold only, and to him she plighted her troth.
Among the other youth of whom Yseult was beloved was Alfred, and he was sore angered that Yseult showed favor to Harold, so that one day Alfred said to Harold: “Is it right that old Siegfried should come from his grave and have Yseult to wife?” Then added he, “Prithee, good sir, why do you turn so white when I speak your grandsire’s name?”
Then Harold asked, “What know you of Siegfried that you taunt me? What memory of him should vex me now?”
“We know and we know,” retorted Alfred. “There are some tales told us by our grandmas we have not forgot.”
So ever after that Alfred’s words and Alfred’s bitter smile haunted Harold by day and night.
Harold’s grandsire, Siegfried the Teuton, had been a man of cruel violence. The legend said that a curse rested upon him, and that at certain times he was possessed of an evil spirit that wreaked its fury on mankind. But Siegfried had been dead full many years, and there was naught to mind the world of him save the legend and a cunning-wrought spear which he had from Brunehilde, the witch. This spear was such a weapon that it never lost its brightness, nor had its point been blunted. It hung in Harold’s chamber, and it was the marvel among weapons of that time.
Yseult knew that Alfred loved her, but she did not know of the bitter words which Alfred had spoken to Harold. Her love for Harold was perfect in its trust and gentleness. But Alfred had hit the truth: the curse of old Siegfried was upon Harold—slumbering a century, it had awakened in the blood of the grandson, and Harold knew the curse that was upon him, and it was this that seemed to stand between him and Yseult. But love is stronger than all else, and Harold loved.
Harold did not tell Yseult of the curse that was upon him, for he feared that she would not love him if she knew. Whensoever he felt the fire of the curse burning in his veins he would say to her, “To-morrow I hunt the wild boar in the uttermost forest,” or, “Next week I go stag-stalking among the distant northern hills.” Even so it was that he ever made good excuse for his absence, and Yseult thought no evil things, for she was trustful; ay, though he went many times away and was long gone, Yseult suspected no wrong. So none beheld Harold when the curse was upon him in its violence.
Alfred alone bethought himself of evil things. “’Tis passing strange,” quoth he, “that ever and anon this gallant lover should quit our company and betake himself whither none knoweth. In sooth ’twill be well to have an eye on old Siegfried’s grandson.”
Harold knew that Alfred watched him zealously, and he was tormented by a constant fear that Alfred would discover the curse that was on him; but what gave him greater anguish was the fear that mayhap at some moment when he was in Yseult’s presence, the curse would seize upon him and cause him to do great evil unto her, whereby she would be destroyed or her love for him would be undone forever. So Harold lived in terror, feeling that his love was hopeless, yet knowing not how to combat it.
Now, it befell in those times that the country round about was ravaged of a werewolf, a creature that was feared by all men howe’er so valorous. This werewolf was by day a man, but by night a wolf given to ravage and to slaughter, and having a charmed life against which no human agency availed aught. Wheresoever he went he attacked and devoured mankind, spreading terror and desolation round about, and the dream-readers said that the earth would not be freed from the werewolf until some man offered himself a voluntary sacrifice to the monster’s rage.
Now, although Harold was known far and wide as a mighty huntsman, he had never set forth to hunt the werewolf, and, strange enow, the werewolf never ravaged the domain while Harold was therein. Whereat Alfred marvelled much, and oftentimes he said: “Our Harold is a wondrous huntsman. Who is like unto him in stalking the timid doe and in crippling the fleeing boar? But how passing well doth he time his absence from the haunts of the werewolf. Such valor beseemeth our young Siegfried.”
Which being brought to Harold his heart flamed with anger, but he made no answer, lest he should betray the truth he feared.
It happened so about that time that Yseult said to Harold, “Wilt thou go with me to-morrow even to the feast in the sacred grove?”
“That can I not do,” answered Harold. “I am privily summoned hence to Normandy upon a mission of which I shall some time tell thee. And I pray thee, on thy love for me, go not to the feast in the sacred grove without me.”
“What say’st thou?” cried Yseult. “Shall I not go to the feast of Ste. Aelfreda? My father would be sore displeased were I not there with the other maidens. ’Twere greatest pity that I should despite his love thus.”
“But do not, I beseech thee,” Harold implored. “Go not to the feast of Ste. Aelfreda in the sacred grove! And thou would thus love me, go not—see, thou my life, on my two knees I ask it!”
“How pale thou art,” said Yseult, “and trembling.”
“Go