As Silver Is to the Moon

by R A Watt

  “Ne discute pas, c'est le seul moyen . . . ” she whispered as her long, wet tongue slithered from inside her filthy maw onto my face. It pushed its way into my defenseless open mouth, and I fought futilely to bite and push it out. I was unable to breathe and started to choke and heave as her tongue went down my throat, filling up my insides with something that burned.

  Before my eyes closed, I noticed a necklace hanging down below her chin. The pendant was small, but its shape jarred a memory. Before I could place it, I began to lose consciousness, barely able to make out her shrieks of delight.

  Her sounds slowly faded into the distance, and things went dark.

  And then it was over.

  Once again, I woke in a cold sweat from the nightmare, back in my bed. Only this time Honey was nowhere to be seen.

  Chapter 29

  With Thursday morning came an overwhelming dread of the events ahead. I turned over and pushed my face into the pillow, and wished more than anything that I could fast forward my life precisely twenty-four hours. I had no desire to plow through this day.

  I was so tired; my sleep had been restless, short, and troubled.

  “Knock, knock,” I heard a voice say from the door. Suzanne was standing there with a half smile. “Dad said I could have his car today. I figured maybe I should drive you?”

  I squinted at her with one eye, nodding my head. “Good idea.”

  “Hurry up; you slept in,” she said as she gently closed my door.

  If only I could crawl under the covers, skip school, then skip the country.

  The update from Sybil was that Rachel was unchanged. Her parents still wouldn’t let me near her hospital room, even though Sybil assured them I was not on drugs. They elected to wait until they spoke to Rachel first.

  The gang was quiet all day and through lunch, everyone lost in thought. I wasn’t sure they were taking this seriously, but their quietness led me to believe they might be. Or maybe they were just nervous about going to Bruno’s to take pictures, regardless of whether or not he was a werewolf. I didn’t blame them.

  For me, I was scared. Scared that this was real, that he really was a werewolf. What if one of them got hurt? And I was distressed at the thought of a full moon bringing on a transformation in me—again. It had been the most painful experience of my life. I figured I should take a few ibuprofens before letting Mrs. Leclair and Suzanne lock me up for the night.

  Should I bring a sleeping bag?

  Since my phone was gone, Suzanne had everyone’s numbers in hers. The group of them had agreed to recharge phones after school and meet with Mrs. Leclair for the “sleepover” at seven o’clock.

  Sybil was going to video record, Kevin would take pictures, and Jermaine would keep watch. Mrs. Leclair figured the transformation would happen after eleven, since it used to for my grandfather. Sybil, Jermaine, and Kevin would bike over to the Vincent house at nine to wait, prepare, and observe.

  “Will you guys be able to hear me through this?” I asked Mrs. Leclair as she opened the big door to her safe room. I had a book, a pillow, and a sleeping bag with me.

  “We can sort of hear you, Teavan. Are you really going to bring that sleeping gear in there?” she asked.

  “Well,” I mumbled, “I had to make the sleepover look real to my dad, so I might as well use it.”

  “Suit yourself,” she answered. “I hope it wasn’t expensive.”

  The implication made me shiver, and we were quiet as we headed back upstairs. Mrs. Leclair showed Sybil how to load the pistol and where the safety was.

  The clock on the wall showed eight thirty. The gang was quiet, and Suzanne was on her phone. Mrs. Leclair was puttering in the kitchen, preparing some snacks for them to bring.

  “Remember,” she said to Sybil. “As soon as you have anything on video, just leave. Be quick about it. And if he comes after you . . . don’t hesitate.”

  Sybil sighed. “I know.”

  As they got ready to leave, I stood. “You guys?”

  The three of them looked back as they put their shoes on.

  “I, uh,” I mumbled. “I just wanted to thank you for everything. Thank you for helping me, for believing me. I know this all sounds crazy, but I’m really lucky to have friends like you here.”

  Kevin joke-punched me on the shoulder. “Anytime, bro. We may not be a big city, but small-town peeps have big hearts.”

  Jermaine flashed me a smile with his perfect white teeth against his dark lips. “You owe us big time for this, you know that, right?”

  Sybil was last. “This isn’t just for you. This is for Rachel,” she said as she put on her sweater. “We’ll see you guys in a few hours.”

  “Be careful!” Mrs. Leclair shouted as she dried her hands with a tea towel. They got on their bikes and quietly rode off. Mrs. Leclair closed the door and sat back down at the kitchen table.

  She looked at Suzanne and me. “So? Thoughts? Concerns?”

  Concerns? I put my head face down on the table and rubbed my head. “Well, how many hours do you have?”

  Mrs. Leclair laughed. “Yes, I suppose you probably have a great many questions and concerns, don’t you. Well, we have some time before you should go downstairs.”

  We were both quiet, thinking.

  “Suzanne, why didn’t you go with them? To . . . help?” she asked.

  Suzanne raised her eyebrows. “Well, they’re not really my friends. But if this is all legit, I think I should be here with my brother.” She looked at me and winked. It was weird how this whole bad situation had actually brought out the best in her. She’d finally put her angry guard down and seemed to care a little.

  “I see,” said Mrs. Leclair.

  “What else can you tell us about Grandpa?” I asked.

  Mrs. Leclair leaned back. “Hubert and Camille came to America before your father was born. Both had the lycan gene but were committed to its eventual extinction and keeping others in line, as Luc and I were. They moved from France to give their future child—your father—a better life; a life shielded from their kind. The less exposure, the less chance the mutation had to resurrect itself. Lycanthropes generally form a tight-knit community and bonds, inexplicably drawn together. And as more congregate, the likelihood of continued mutation increases. So if they're further from their kind . . . well, you get the picture.

  “Camille and Hubert were very much in control when in their wolf forms, but the need for a safe room remained. It was like charging a battery on a slow charger. It could stay on for many moons, but eventually that energy had to be released— they needed to transform all the way. Neither of them wanted to be on the loose if they could help it. Eating a deer seemed harmless at the time, but the next morning it tended to revolt them in their human forms.”

  “What do you mean, all the way?” I asked.

  Mrs. Leclair left the room momentarily and returned with a sizeable binder full of papers. The leather binding was faded and weathered, and the corners of some pages stuck out. “You can look through here if you like. This is a scrapbook Luc and Hubert put together years ago, though much of it is in French, Latin, and Italian.”

  She set the scrapbook on the table and I anxiously opened it, flipping pages of mostly foreign text, clippings, and pencil-style sketches of people being attacked by werewolves.

  Mrs. Leclair got up to grab the teapot and filled her cup again as I scanned for entries in English. She sat down and flipped to a marked page for me. It was handwritten, and I read it out loud:

  “Lukánthrōpos split from the werwulf species circa 1150 a.d., with the latter unable to attain humanoid wolf incarnation, limited to canid form. Unlike the werwulf, the lukánthrōpos was not bound by lunar cycles, though it was strongly influenced, and once experienced could at-will change to its humanoid wolf form, or to the full canid figure. This humanoid wolf possessed superior cognitive abilities to its further-transformed canid cousin, thus representing an intellectual evolution of the species.”

  “I d
on’t get it,” said Suzanne.

  “Me neither.”

  Mrs. Leclair scratched the back of her head. “It means the modern lycan can either run on all fours like a wolf or change less to a two-legged half-human, half-wolf state that retains more of the person’s thoughts.”

  “So which one is all the way?” I asked.

  “On all fours, canid . . . it’s more primal,” she answered.

  I flipped closer to the beginning, looking for English, and found some more entries:

  Lycaon, in Greek mythology, a legendary king of Arcadia. Traditionally, he was an impious and cruel king who tried to trick Zeus, the king of the gods, into eating human flesh. The god was not deceived and in wrath devastated the earth with Deucalian’s flood, according to Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Book I. Lycaon himself was turned into a wolf.

  The story of Lycaon was apparently told in order to explain an extraordinary ceremony, the Lycaea, held in honour of Zeus Lycaeus at Mount Lycaeus. According to Plato (Republic, Book VIII), this ceremony was believed to involve human sacrifice and lycanthropy (assuming the form of a wolf). The Greek traveler Pausanias implied that the rite was still practiced in the 2nd century AD. Lycanthropy comes from the Greek lykoi, “wolf” and anthropos, “man”.

  “The story goes back two thousand years?” I asked.

  “So it seems,” Mrs. Leclair answered.

  Another clipping read:

  The lycans were believed to have moved north over the centuries, eventually settling in France, Germany, and Italy. In France, they were known as loup garous; the word loup means “wolf” whilst garoul means a “man who can turn into a wolf” – a werewolf in English, werwulf in German.

  A pack of loup garou went astray in 1764 and began to openly hunt and kill villagers in the Gévaudan region of southern France. Before they could be internally controlled, they mauled over eighty French citizens. Hunters were summoned by the locals and government; everyone was under suspicion for years. This prompted another wave of migration, but this time west. As the loup garous moved further from Europe in the last few centuries, they settled in Eastern French Canada and Cajun Louisiana and became known as rougarou.

  “Was that the Sabine girl you mentioned, that moved to America?” I asked, pointing to the clipping.

  “We think so. She left France so many years ago and became one of the founders of the rougarou faction for two reasons. One, she was pregnant with a human’s genes. However, she also left because of this incident. There was widespread suspicion of their kind in that particular time in history where they were hunted so fiercely; everyone was suspect. The Gévaudan killings set them back hundreds of years, reigniting the fears and energy of the French people. Understandably, it was difficult for them for decades.”

  “So, Bruno is a rougarou? What's the difference?” interrupted Suzanne.

  Mrs. Leclair pursed her lips. “I suppose he is. It’s really just the name they give it in the bayou, but by definition, they are more of a mutt than a pureblood French loup garou. His ancestors come from half lycan and half human, so, in theory—weaker. Your grandfather and father have pure blood, but you are only half because of your mother. It is interesting it never manifested in your father, but has in you. Maybe because of necessity at the right time in life.”

  “Wow,” I said, trying to picture it. “So the French lycans are more pure? Stronger than their western counterparts? Does that mean I’m stronger than Bruno? I have better blood?”

  She shrugged. “Most likely. His genes are more watered down than yours, but at best you are only fifty percent pure. Who knows how much inbreeding that child has in his family. You have better blood, but he has more experience.

  “Anyway, all of this led to the need for extreme secrecy, rules, and protocol. Rebels were dispensed with, no questions or exceptions. There was no room for error, too much at stake for all. And now, well, imagine if it was made public. Someone would undoubtedly find a genetic marker, and for the public’s so-called safety, testing would be mandatory. That is why it is still so secret, spoken of only in folklore.”

  The thought of mandatory testing and putting Bruno in jail, or a zoo, brought a smile to my face. But at the same time . . . it meant they would come for me, too.

  “Is there any way to stop it? To—cure it?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “No.”

  This was something I would be stuck with forever. And possibly my children. How could I ever live a normal life? Live in a big city? Put my future family at risk? The weight of it all hit me on a whole different level now.

  Suzanne held up her hand. “Mrs. Leclair. I know it’s not related, but, do you know anything about our mother? Did her leaving or disappearance have anything to do with all this?”

  Her question took me by surprise. She rarely talked about Mom. She’d been gone for so many years now, and it always dredged up anger or sadness in Suzanne.

  Mrs. Leclair tilted her head quizzically. “Your mother, was it—Allison? No, not that I know of. But I know very little. Hubert seldom spoke of her, other than his overall disapproval of your father’s choice in marrying her. From what I understand, your father and Allison met, fell in love, and got married rather quickly—against the family’s advice. I gathered she and Hubert never got along very well. He said she was ‘flighty and irresponsible’. Sorry, those are his words, not mine. And then when she up and left, he said ‘I told you so’ to your father, and that just drove the wedge further in their relationship. Which was already shaky at best. I don’t know much beyond that, I’m afraid.”

  Suzanne’s phone beeped. “They are at Bruno’s. He is in the summer cabin watching something on his phone. His parents are in the house. All quiet so far, according to Jermaine’s text.”

  Mrs. Leclair looked up at the clock, then to me. “It might be best if you head downstairs soon. It’s almost time, dear.”

  Reluctantly, I made my way to the basement, placing the sleeping bag and pillow in the middle of the safe-room floor. Suzanne and Mrs. Leclair stood in the doorway, smiling awkwardly.

  “Any further advice?” I asked, trembling a little.

  Mrs. Leclair came over with a knowing smile and gave me a motherly hug, holding me tight. Her warmth and perfume felt good. As I pulled away, she held tighter, almost knowing that I needed it more than I knew.

  “I will have a big breakfast ready for you in the morning; you will be starving,” she said, finally letting me go. “But remember this: You will be okay. It will become less painful and quicker each time you change. Just let it happen, don’t fight it; this room is safe. Your grandfather always said he practiced a form of mindfulness when in his altered state. Instead of letting the wolf instincts and needs utterly take over, he would do his best to hold on, hold the line that bound his morals and humanity to his thoughts. He was quite adept at retaining his thoughts and consciousness when he walked on all fours, though much better on two legs, of course. Keep this at the forefront of your mind; let go physically but not mentally. Keep a grip on who you are. Seek the light.”

  I nodded but didn’t really understand. “I’ll try.”

  Suzanne stood there, shuffling her feet and looking at her phone. “See you in the morning?”

  “Let’s hope,” I answered. It felt like we should have hugged, too, but neither of us was very touchy-feely. Maybe it was growing up without a mom. I was tempted to initiate . . . but didn’t.

  Mrs. Leclair closed the big door, and I could hear the latching process on the other side as she bound it in place.

  The room was so quiet. A small light was built into the ceiling, flush with the stone and with what looked like an inch of plexiglass covering the bulb.

  I laid out the sleeping bag and pillow and lay on top, pulling out my book. Before even getting it open, I realized there was no way to concentrate on reading right now.

  The feeling of complete loneliness crept over me. I longed to be on the sofa, listening to my dad babbling about his latest story
but still feeling the warmth and security of him beside me as we mindlessly streamed some show. Instead, I was sitting alone in this dimly-lit cellar, locked inside a cage and waiting for the pain to come.

  Chapter 30

  The wait was over an hour.

  Then a small cramp started in the pit of my stomach. It grew into a solid pain that expanded. Pacing around the room, I tried to suppress it, terrified of it overtaking me again despite Mrs. Leclair’s warnings to let it be. Easier said than done. Like knowing you need to throw up but trying your hardest to keep it down so as not to suffer through it.

  The black throb spread, despite my mental protests, and I bent over in agony. My teeth clenched and my eyes closed to weather the waves of internal acidic cramps. My hand—the skin was bubbling, rippling; coarse, brown hair sprouted from my fingers as the nails turned an opaque gray color and grew longer. Involuntarily, I yelped, then doubled over again onto the floor, flopping about as each limb grew, cracked, and reformed itself. Though this was much worse, it reminded me of having the flu: debilitating cramps, fever, and sweating, but feeling utterly alone in your state. Like nobody could help you; it was something you just had to go through.

  Writhing about on the cement floor, I could feel it coming for me—the blackness, the pangs of hunger. The spasms slowly began to wither. An apparition of the old woman in her wheelchair stood out in the darkness when my eyes were closed.

  I shook the vision off and opened my eyes, springing up to my feet. Everything was different; I was taller. Holding my hands out, I saw the hairy claws that were not human or canine, and I clasped them into fists with a roar.

  Bruno. It was coming back to me now. I wanted him. And he wanted me; we were drawn toward each other. I loped to the door, growled, and pounded on it, yelling to be let out as it shook in its frame.