Shadow of the Werewolf

by Magnus Hansen

  Old Mats straightened in his chair and gave him a puzzled look. “Werewolf?”

  Cathal leaned in and said in a hushed tone, “There's something in those woods other than the wolves. It's something that walks amongst the wolves, upright – on two legs!”

  The fisherman's puzzled look turned to one of concern, as he took the pipe out of his mouth and said, “Men who suffer through horrific experiences sometimes see things that aren't there. Their minds play tricks on them, trying to make sense of what happened. It's nothing to be ashamed of.”

  Leaning back in his chair, Cathal let out a long sigh and said, “Perhaps.” He then looked around the pub and asked, “Are there any barmaids around here?”

  “They're about, but they're slower to attend the migrants.”

  “Figures,” lamented Cathal. “I need to get back to work, anyway. Do you know who I could ask to send a message back to Ireland?”

  “I supposed I could forward your message to the right people.”

  Nodding his head, Cathal took a folded piece of parchment out of one of his pouches and handed it to the fisherman. “I appreciate it. There's a Viking presence in Dublin, and longboats regularly come from abroad to trade with the city. Make sure this message gets to the Abbot of Finglas Monastery in Dublin. It's very important. The fate of Birka may depend on it.”

  “The fate of Birka?” The old fisherman looked dubious. “Surely it's a tragedy that all those men died last night, but Birka has over five-hundred residents, most of them hardened men. I think we'll be just fine.”

  Cathal pushed away from the table and stood up. “Just between you and me – nine people died last night. The foreman of the lumber camp had the injured men put to death. There are circumstances occurring here that are far graver than mere wolf attacks. Make sure that note gets into the right hands.”

  As Cathal approached the lumber camp, he scowled and lamented his luck. He doubted the note would reach the monastery in time. It would take weeks for the message to reach Dublin. And then what? He had a nagging suspicion that whatever transpired here on Birka, would be long over before the abbot of Finglas Monastery could do anything about it.

  He stopped by the campfire, knelt down, and untied the pouches of herbs from his belt. He then grabbed a jug of water and poured it into a pan, took out a few pinches of the various herbs he just purchased, and mixed it into the water. He kept a careful eye on the measurements. After the mixture had dissolved enough, he placed a few rags into the liquid, letting it soak thoroughly. He then squeezed the excess water out of the rags and put the pan away. The herbs now infused the rags and would act as a disinfectant and healing agent.

  Cathal could hear the sound of chopping wood far in the distance. With an agitated sigh, he wrapped his hands with the rags and grabbed an ax from the tool shed. If Domyan found him dawdling around the campfire while the others were working, he'd never hear the end of it. He slowly walked to the northern edge of the lumber camp with the ax slung over his shoulder, exhausted. Judging by the position of the sun, he had another four hours of chopping wood before the end of the workday.

  He wondered how the other men were holding up. The survivors had just narrowly escaped a brutal wolf attack. They saw their fellow workers being ripped apart. The Slavs seemed like hardened men, but that type of traumatic event would affect anyone. How much further could they be pushed until they reached their breaking point? Not long, Cathal surmised, if the wolf attacks continued.

  But where else could the workers go? Most of the loggers were Slavs – they couldn't find jobs anywhere else. It 's the only reason Domyan could get away with paying them so little.

  Cathal shook his head in disgust. The upper class always took advantage of the lower class; it was the way of the world. It didn't even matter that the workers were of the same nationality – the elite of Norse and Irish societies exploited their own workers in the same way.

  When he finally reached his work area at the north end of camp, Cathal tightened the bindings on his hands and hefted his ax. He winced as he gripped his hands around the haft of the weapon. With the first few swings of the ax, the blisters on his hands reopened. He cursed under his breath; it was going to be a long afternoon.

  Heavily perspiring under the summer sun, Cathal stopped and set his ax against the old birch tree. The rags on his hands were thoroughly soaked with blood. As he peeled back the fabric from his skin, he clenched his jaw and drew air between his teeth. Pain pulsed in his hands with each heartbeat, as blood freely streamed down his forearms and onto the ground.

  “Ready to call it a day?” asked a voice behind him. It was Faolan.

  Cathal turned around and waved. “Just a moment.” As he knelt down to grab the bloody rags off the ground, Biter loped up and started to lick his hands. He laughed and winced at the same time; the dog's rough tongue tugged at his blisters and raw skin.

  “Better watch it. They don't call her Biter for nothing,” laughed Faolan.

  “Ah, maybe you're right. What good is a woodcutter with no hands?” said Cathal. Grabbing his ax, he fell instep with Faolan as they walked back to camp. “Have you seen the new workers?”

  “Me? No. It's just been me and Biter working alone. Why, have you seen them?”

  Cathal shook his head. “Not yet. All I know, is that Domyan spoke to the chieftain this morning and acquired three Norse slaves. Brothers, from what I hear.”

  “Well, we could sure use the help. I hope they're hard workers. Domyan doesn't put up with slackers.”

  With a snort, Cathal said, “So I hear.”

  As the two men entered the clearing of the logging camp, they could see most of the woodcutters sitting around the campfire. Three men with blond hair were also sitting by the fire, with their backs facing them. The Norse slaves, perhaps?

  Domyan was standing at the other side of the campfire and was madly waving his arms around and pointing at the three blond men. What was going on? As Cathal walked within hearing range, he was puzzled as to why the foreman was shouting obscenities at the slaves.

  “Does the chieftain think I'm some kind of idiot?” shouted Domyan. “I have quotas to fill, and he gives me the oldest, most decrepit workers on the island. This is outrageous!”

  “We can work just as hard as any of you,” said one of the slaves.

  “Don't kid yourself, brother. A Norseman can work twice as hard as any foreigner,” said another slave.

  Cathal and Faolan walked around the perimeter of the campfire to get a look at the new arrivals. What they saw was almost comical – the three Norse brothers were ancient; they were well into their seventies. They didn't have blond hair, but grayish-white hair. And one of the old men seemed to shake and quiver, for no reason at all.

  Domyan brought his fingers to the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. “I swear to the gods, if you senile old fools don't pull your weight tomorrow, I'm going to put a whip to you.”

  “You'll be putting the whip to your other workers, when you see that we chop twice as much wood as they do!” said one of the slaves.

  The foreman slowly opened his eyes and said, “You know what bothers me about you Vikings? You borrow everything from other cultures and call it your own. Even your weak gods are mere imitations of the true Slavic gods.”

  “If our gods are so weak, then why is it that the Slavs work for us, and not the other way around? Are Norsemen not the dominant power in this world? That is a true measure of the power of the gods – the gods simply reflect the strength of their people!”

  “Your gods are ridiculous,” laughed Domyan. “Why, you even have a squirrel god. What was his name? Ratatat-something?”

  “Ratatoskr,” said one of the slaves, while chewing on his gums.

  “Yes! Ratatoskr, the mighty god of acorns! Veles flees in terror from the god of tree-rats!” Domyan threw his head back and laughed, as did most of the loggers around the campfire.

  The old slave looked dejected. “At least we have a sense of h
umor about things.”

  Domyan grew serious and spoke in a low, measured tone. “Yes...sense of humor. You Norsemen seem to think everything is amusing, don't you? You think foreigners being torn apart by wolves is hilarious, and you think the way you exploit migrants is simply delightful.”

  “You would speak to a slave of exploitation? I've lived my entire life as a slave, and you don't hear me complaining about it. That's the problem with you foreigners. You think we owe you something, and then you're bitter because we just don't give you what you want on a silver platter.”

  Cathal could see the foreman's eye start to twitch.

  With a clenched jaw, Domyan shifted his leg back and kicked a flaming log from the campfire towards the startled slave. The log arced through the air, narrowly missing the Norseman's head.

  “I hope your back is as strong as your words,” said Domyan, as he stomped off to his cabin and slammed the door shut behind him.

  The woodcutters exchanged worried glances. They had never seen anyone stick up to the foreman before; certainly not some decrepit old slaves! A few quiet moments passed. All that could be heard was the crackling of the campfire.

  Worried that Domyan might storm back out of his cabin, the loggers stood up and walked back to their living quarters. As they strolled past the campfire, one of the woodcutters stopped and pointed his finger at one of the slaves. “Watch yourselves,” said Mirko in his raspy voice. “I've seen the foreman beat a man to death for less.”

  Chapter 7

  The next morning the loggers were awoken in the usual manner – with Domyan kicking on the door and yelling various insults about their laziness and ineptitude.

  After the foreman stopped kicking the door, the loggers groaned and rolled out of their cots. Most of the workers were uttering curses in Slavic, a few were uttering curses in Norse, and one or two were uttering curses in English.

  “At least it's the last day of the work week,” muttered Faolan as he pulled on his boots.

  “It is?” asked Cathal. “We get tomorrow off?”

  “Of course. Tomorrow is Sunday. Half of Birka is Christian, at least the Norse half.” He then walked to the other end of the cabin and asked one of the slaves, “Are you Christian?”

  “The name's Gustav, and no, we're not Christian. We're too old to switch faiths. You'll find that most of the younger men and women in Birka converted to Christianity, if only to spite their parents. The older folk can't be bothered with such nonsense.”

  Faolan shrugged his shoulders and walked out the door, followed by Cathal. One by one, the woodcutters finished dressing and filed out of the cabin and sat around the campfire, waiting on their assignments. As they waited on the foremen, they took turns scooping out reindeer stew from a kettle by the fire.

  As he waited his turn in line, Cathal could see Danika carrying a jug of mead. She dropped it off by the campfire, then walked back towards her cabin. He nudged Faolan and asked in a low voice, “Is it Danika's job to prepare the food?”

  Faolan nodded as he grabbed a cup and filled it with mead. “That's one of the things she does.”

  “What else does she do around here?” he asked.

  Faolan was about to answer when Domyan kicked open the door to his cabin and stomped towards the campfire. “Alright, everyone sit down and shut up. After I hand out the assignments, you can go back to eating all my food. Cathal!”

  “Yes?”

  “I want you in the same location, up north.” The foreman then pointed towards the slaves. “I want you and you to help Cathal with the birch trees today. And you,” he said, pointing at the third slave. “You're to work with Faolan today. The rest of you will be working at your usual assignments.” He then spun around and marched back to his cabin.

  “What a surprise,” muttered Faolan under his breath. “The foreigners and slaves are always stationed up north.” He shook his head and muttered a few more Irish curses.

  Cathal sat down and started to sip at his bowl of reindeer stew. He was surprised at how tasty the food was. He figured Domyan was a man who would cut costs anywhere possible.

  “Breakfast is the best part about this job,” said Faolan, as he greedily slurped at his stew. “Danika's cooking is the only thing that pulls me out of bed in the morning. Well, that and Domyan's yelling.”

  This engendered a few laughs from the loggers.

  As Cathal grudgingly finished up his breakfast, one of the slaves sat next to him and said, “Looks like we'll be working together today. Have any advice for an old man?”

  Setting his bowl down on the ground, Cathal held up his blistered hands and said, “My advice? Wear wraps on you hands.”

  “Hell, son. I could have told you that!” the old slave laughed. He slapped Cathal on the shoulder. “My name's Gustav. That's my brother Gottfrid, and that's my other brother Greger,” he said, pointing to each in turn.

  Cathal leaned forward and curtly waved to each man. As he waved at Greger, he furrowed his brow and asked, “Is he going to be okay?” The old slave was standing there, blankly staring forward and incessantly shaking, as if he were freezing.

  “Who, Greger?” said Gustav. “Don't worry about Greger. It just takes him a bit to get warmed up. Put an ax in his hand and he'll chop down more trees than any three woodcutters combined!”

  “I suppose,” said Cathal, with a dubious look. He didn't see how any of the three old slaves could last more than an hour chopping wood, and Greger looked like he was about ready to fall over where he stood.

  Instead of Domyan storming out of his cabin and shouting at them, it was Mirko who stood up and said, “Alright men, it's that time. Pick up your axes from the tool shed and let's get to work.”

  The men hurriedly finished their bowls of stew, then set them on the ground. One by one, they grabbed their axes and strolled off in different directions to their assigned locations. Gustav fell instep beside Cathal, with Greger soon falling far behind.

  “Is he going-”

  “He'll be just fine,” Gustav quickly interrupted. “As I said, he just needs a while to get warmed up.”

  Cathal pursed the corner of his mouth as he looked back at the quickly fading slave. He supposed it wasn't his problem, but if Domyan found out, there would be trouble. After walking for a few minutes in silence, Cathal finally said, “I don't often see slaves your age.”

  “Ha! I suppose not,” said Gustav. “Usually, after a number of years, a slave can earn enough money to pay for his freedom, but my brothers and I have a gambling problem. Every time we have more than a few coins in our pocket, we squander it all away on dice. Hell, we've been slaves for so long that we wouldn't know what to do with ourselves if we ever got our freedom.”

  “Dice, eh? Tell me, do you know of a fisherman that goes by the name of Old Mats?”

  “Of course we've heard of Mats. Hell, my brothers and I would be free men if it wasn't for that old fisherman. That man makes more from dice than he does from fishing!”

  After they arrived at the northern logging site, Cathal and the two slaves wrapped their hands with rags and got to work. On the first few swings, Cathal's hands pulsed with pain every time his ax bit into the tree. He gritted his teeth and continued on. Such was the life of a woodcutter.

  It was hard work; his sore muscles ached and complained. After a half hour, he started to perspire. He leaned his ax against the tree and wiped the sweat from his brow. Looking to his right, he could see Gustav chopping away at his tree. Not bad for an old man, he considered. Turning to his left, he saw Greger just standing there, shaking. The jittery old man was staring into the woods, looking at nothing in particular.

  With a brief sigh, Cathal adjusted the straps on his hands and picked up his ax. After a few swings, he turned to Gustav and asked, “What are your thoughts on the wolf attacks?”

  Gustav stopped and clenched his teeth. “Damned wolves. Damnable creatures,” he spat.

  He had already asked Old Mats about the wolves, but he wanted
to see if other Norsemen shared the old fisherman's thoughts. “Rumor has it, the Norsemen are training wolves to kill off foreigners. Once the migrants are all gone, the Norse can reclaim their logging and herding industries.”

  The slave furrowed his brow. “But there's not enough Norsemen to fill those positions! I may not understand politics, but I'm old enough to see what's going on; it's simple economics. There's not enough workers to fill jobs, so the Norse gladly accept help from migrants. Why would the chieftain want to kill off migrants when there aren't enough workers in the first place? It doesn't make any sense.”

  Cathal nodded his head; he figured as much. The chieftain had no motive for killing foreigners, and the Slavs had no motive for killing their own workers in the logging camp. That left one of two possibilities. Either the Turks from the reindeer camp were culpable, or the attacks were simply coming from an unusually aggressive wolf pack. But that didn't explain the creature that walked among them. “Have you seen anything strange, other than wolves, out there in the woods?” asked Cathal.

  Gustav hefted his ax and said, “No, can't say that I have. I've heard rumors, though.”

  “What kind of rumors?”

  The old slave pursed his lips and started to chop away at the birch tree. “You shouldn't concern yourself with superstitious rumors. Wolves are bad enough.”

  “Well put,” said a voice from behind the two woodcutters.

  Startled, Cathal jerked his head around to find Danika staring at him. She was wearing a simple brown apron-dress and was carrying a jug of water.

  “I thought you could use something to drink,” she said, lifting up the bottle. She then shifted her gaze to Greger, who continued to look forward, staring at nothing. The old slave was still shaking, as if he were a thin tree in a strong storm.

  “He's just taking a break. Nothing to get worked up about,” said Gustav.

  Danika raised an eyebrow and offered a half-smile. The jittery old man amused her. She passed the jug to Cathal, who took a deep drink, then handed it to Gustav. With a thoughtful expression, Danika then turned back to Cathal and said, “Walk with me.”