Beneath a Winter Moon

by Shawson M Hebert

Camran sighed deeply. “Then we best go back inside to sit down, so’s I can tell you proper.”

  The thought of going back inside the stinking hovel made Alastair shiver. “You will tell me on the way to the Inn, by Christ! I will not wait another moment.”

  Camran shuddered, then bowed. “Aye, then. It’s not a long walk, but there’ll be time enough. It is this way.” He pointed North, down a muddy road.

  After telling his wife they were leaving, Camran and Alastair began walking toward the Inn. “I best tell you straight away why the keep will not allow you back in,” Camran began, “You’ve heard some of the old Highland legends, then, being a Scot and all?”

  “Of course, of course,” Alastair lied.

  “Well, then, you might have heard the legends about the man-beasts?”

  “Hmmmm, well, of course it depends on the beast. I’ve heard tales of the wee folk and of centaurs and of half-ram, half-man…”

  “Och, aye. Well, then, this is a half-man, half-wolf.”

  Alastair stopped, looked at Camran, and laughed. “Surely, not! Surely, you are not saying that the people of your village think the attacker was a wolf man of some sort?”

  Camran stopped and for the first time, looked Alastair in his eyes. “It’s not just that, sir. You were bitten…indeed, you were mangled up more than a just a bit. Do you know what that means—or at least what a lot of folk believe it means?”

  “It means you are all out of your minds!” Alastair exclaimed. “Good Christ! Here I stand, right in front of you—unharmed and in perfect health, and you want me to believe I was bitten by some mythical man-beast two days ago?” He stomped a foot. “It’s preposterous man!” He wagged a finger at Camran. “I don’t know what you and your Godforsaken people are about, but I assure you I will not accept it, nor will I play along. If I find foul play, I promise you that those involved will lose their very heads!”

  “Aye, sir, I understand,” Camran stammered, “and that is why I took you in. We would all be punished if you did not return the King. You do not understand, sir…you are still in grave danger so long as you remain here.”

  That caught Alastair’s attention.

  “Danger?”

  “Most assuredly, sir. Why, James McDonald wanted to cut off your head and burn you in a pyre. William McGregor agreed and I assure you that a McGregor hasn’t agreed with a McDonald about anything for a hundred years, sir. And then Duncan Roberts said that the only proper death for you was that you burned at the stake…whilst still alive.”

  Alastair felt faint again. The green grass on the sides of the muddy road began to swirl and he staggered. Camran caught him. “Aye. There, now.” He righted Alastair. “Now you can see why I helped you. They’d have killed you, for sure. It was only your station, being a king’s man and all, and my oath to watch you night and day until you leave the highlands—well it was the only reason they let you live. If you had been of lesser station, they would not have hesitated long enough for me to protest. Aye, you’d be ash and dust right now.”

  “But…but why, man? Why? What offense have I committed that would have them put their lives, and the lives of their families at risk by doing murder upon me?”

  “They say you will become that which has bitten you.”

  “Good God, but you are all insane.” He threw up his hands. “You’ve all been overcome and lost your wits to old superstition and nonsense. It’s like a disease that has spread out among you.”

  “Sir,” Camran began, “I agree with you. I do not believe the superstition. But I cannot let them know that…and you cannot speak that way to any of the others. They will kill you. You have no officer, and you have no man to help you, save me, and they will sweep me aside easily enough.” He took Alastair by the shoulders, and then quickly released him, realizing his offense. “You must get your things, man your horse, and leave here in haste and without saying anything.” He paused. “Do your worst later. Come back if you want, with your king’s men, but please, I beg of you to remember my kindness and that of my family.”

  Alastair saw that Camran was completely serious and he now believed every word the young man said. This peasant was not crazy—though the others obviously were. A sudden fear washed over Alastair. A fear unlike anything he had ever felt before. He would indeed leave this place as swiftly as he could. He would not aggravate the senses of these backwards, uneducated, superstitious peasants. He would say nothing. He would load his horse and ride out without so much as a word.

  They were both silent the rest of the way to the Inn. Camran helped Alastair load the horses, which had been hobbled outside the Inn, with his property and that of his two dead companions. A few men and women came out of the Inn and the small shops surrounding it to glare across the street at Alastair.

  Camran held up his hands, a pistol in each. “These belonged to your officers, sir. The Keep has seen to it that they have been reloaded.”

  Alastair took the pistols, cramming one into his sash and the other beneath a strap on the saddle. He mounted his horse and then opened a small leather slot, hidden in the saddle. He pulled out a gold coin and tossed it to Camran. “Bury my men, proper,” he said in a low voice. “It may be that someone will want to retrieve them, however—and that must not be refused. Is that clear?”

  Camran rolled the coin over in his hand, and tossed it slightly, as if judging its weight. He tried to hand the coin back up to Alastair. Puzzled by this, Alastair wanted to ask why, but his inquiry was cut off by Camran. “They burned them, sir. Their bodies have returned to the dust of the Earth.”

  “Sweet Jesus Christ,” Alastair moaned. Then, not wanting to stay another moment, he straightened himself up, and pushed Camran’s hand away. “You keep that, and tell your wife she has my thanks for the hospitality.” He paused, “And you do, as well, Camran Shaw.” It was the kindest thing that Alastair McLeod had ever said to a man of Camran’s station.

  Alastair led his band of horses away, and as he reached the end of the village, he heard a man shout, “Beware tonight’s moon, man! For your family’s sake, beware the full moon!”

  Alastair shuddered. Damned fools, he thought. Soon enough, however, he would return to the backward village, this time with a platoon of English soldiers to deal with each one of these backwards people. Theirs were the ways of the devil—Alastair was sure.

  As Alastair rode away, Camran laughed aloud and tossed the coin into the air. “Bloody fool,” he said, as he watched. “King’s man, tax man...cursed man.” He saw the look of disgust coming from a shopkeeper. In return, Camran bared his teeth and then spit, staring into the man’s eyes all the while.

  Alastair worried that he might not make it to Edinburgh by nightfall, and the thought was especially alarming to him because, being a man alone with three horses and property, he would be an easy target for thieves. He decided that if necessary, as dusk neared, he would stop at the first decent home he could find, and was relieved when he saw the buildings and lamps of Edinburgh just as the sun began to wane on the horizon.

  He collected his thoughts as he rode into the town. He decided to wait until morning to report the terrible events of the past few days. Tonight he would reunite with his wife and son, clean himself up, and perhaps start on a written account of his days at the village.

  His wife and son greeted him with the same great affection that they had always shown, a reassuring love that Alastair savored and kept close. He was convinced that he and his family were happy and that he was indeed, a good and honest man. The adoration bestowed upon him by his wife and son, even by his own servants on occasion, was what Alastair lived for. He knew he would never rise above the station he currently held, which was a high enough rank, to be sure. Alastair was a tax collector for His Majesty, the only true Scot to hold such a rank in Edinburgh. His specialty was the law, for which he held a degree from Oxford. The position of Tax Collector was the culmination of years of ridicule and hard work, and Alastair was proud of the achievement. Though
he hated his father, who had been dead for many years, Alastair had to credit the man. Aonghasan McLeod had forced his family to live as Englishmen, forsaking all things Scot and adapting to every English mannerism and belief, and had he not, Alastair would likely have become a tradesman or artisan, laboring for years to accomplish nothing. Alastair’s mother died when he was young, and there were whispers that she had killed herself after her family disowned her for her marriage to Alastair’s father.

  Aonghasan McLeod was a known thief before he reached the age of ten. He lived alone in the dilapidated hovel that had been left to him by his father, a traitor to England. Aonghasan had adored his father in life, but hated him in death. His father, named Aonghas, had died with so many other great men in an uprising against the king. Aonghasan had been left alone with the cattle and chickens while his father had ridden off to battle—never to return. Aonghasan never knew his mother, who died giving birth to him, and, after the death of his father in that great battle where so many of his clan died, there was no family willing or able to take another mouth to feed. Aonghasan, a mere boy of eight, was left to survive…or to die…on his own.

  One afternoon, a lucky day for young Aonghasan as he was actually at his father’s old, run-down hovel instead of thieving, a procession of the King’s men arrived on horseback. There were perhaps twenty men, followed by two large wagons carrying several young boys. Alastair thought they came to arrest him and take him to the courts for his deeds, which would surely lead to a hangman’s noose, so he had ran. One of the horsemen promptly caught up with him, hitting him hard on the back of the head with the flat of his sword. He was dragged before the leader of these men, who explained that the King, in his infinite wisdom and mercy, had decided to take in twelve Scottish orphans from the Highlands. They would be brought to Edinburgh, given a home and schooled so that one day they could serve His Majesty and the great country of Scotland.

  Of the twelve, five ran away and never were found, four died from various illnesses, and three lived long enough to make it through the tough schooling and the torturous life as a bastard Scot learning how to be English. Aonghasan was successful and became a lawyer, given the lowest possible station and salary of course, but even so, the man was a far cry from the starving thief he had been as a boy.

  He married a young girl whom he had met during a clan gathering. He was not there as a clansman, of course, but he had ignored the jeers of his fellow Scots while he wooed the young Alice Camran with his station and his money. Alice’s parents had been more than willing to marry their youngest daughter to Aonghasan, who would take the girl to Edinburgh and give her a decent home.

  Within three years, Alice began running away from Aonghasan and back to her family. Each time, she was promptly retrieved, always with the blessing of Alice’s parents. Young Alastair was born, and soon afterward, Alice was found dead, the circumstances mysterious. Thus, young Alastair was raised by his father, Aonghasan, who focused every moment of his free time forcing his young son to act like an Englishman, and forever sever the ties—save his name, which he could not hide—with his Scottish past.

  After a long, hot bath—made all the better because his wife attended him, Alastair moved to his small stateroom where he settled into the rocking chair at his desk. He preferred a good, sturdy rocking chair, even while sitting at his desk. He dipped a feathered quill into the expensive ink—true ink, not the cheap, soot filled mess, and began writing a lengthy and detailed report of the past week’s events, focusing, of course, on the past three days.

  When he finished, he retired to his bed, where he found he was too exhausted for anything more than sleep. He awoke in the night, unable to return to sleep. He felt strange and feverish, but did not want to wake his wife, so he took great effort to be quiet as he slipped from the bed and made his way downstairs to the kitchen. The robe he wore, though made of the finest imported cotton, felt rough and heavy to his suddenly sensitive skin. He thought of shedding the thing, but realized that he might encounter one of his servants. He grinned at that thought, but resisted the urge, deciding to leave the robe open, instead.

  His thirst was incredible, and drank glass after glass of water, standing in the kitchen looking out into the moonlit night. He felt a twinge of fear, as he could not quench the sudden thirst and now even more troubling was his itchy and extremely sensitive skin. He took a pitcher of water, poured it into a small wash-pan, and doused his hands. The itch had suddenly turned to a burning sensation, almost as if his hands were aflame. He resisted the urge to cry out.

  Unable to stand the burning pain that overcame his body, Alastair ripped off his robe and threw it to the floor. He looked down at his hands and doubted his sanity when he saw that they were shifting, muscles bulging and fingers seeming to stretch. Then, with a sudden fear unlike any he had felt before, Alastair McLeod realized what was happening to him. The peasants had not been crazy, nor had they been wrong to want him dead. He was changing—into God knows what—but he was changing.

  Alastair’s thoughts were now all about protecting his family, from both harm and the knowledge that he was cursed. He knew he would have to run in order to protect them and he didn’t even consider reaching down for the robe as he bolted for the back door. Each stride left him wracked with agony as his body shifted and pulsed with the change. He burst through the door and into the small courtyard, which was brightly lit by the light of the full moon. He tried to reach the gate leading out into the street, but failed, collapsing in misery. Alastair’s last coherent thoughts before darkness overtook him were of his wife and son…and perhaps those very thoughts were their very undoing.

  He woke to sunlight shining through a window to his dog, Gerdonny, licking his hands. When he finally managed to open his eyes, he realized he was on the floor in the living area, next to the fireplace. His senses slowly returned and he rubbed at his eyes. He rolled onto his left side, facing the fireplace, and slowly tried to get up.

  He realized he was naked and tried to remember why. Had he drank so much last night? Then, as he turned slowly around to view the room, everything came rushing back to him. For what he saw forced the memories to come and he was forced by those memories to understand. The living room was pure carnage. Every tile of the expensive, white marble was covered with thick, drying blood. Amidst the blood were the mangled and partially eaten remains of his wife, his precious son, and their three servants.

  Of them all, his wife was the worst. Her body had been hollowed out—her twisted corpse lay on its back with dead eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling, her mouth set forever in a scream. Alastair tried to shout with all his might, collapsing to his knees, but no sound came forth. Instead, he convulsed, his mouth open—leaving silence as he tried to cry out in an agony that touched his very soul. He lurched forward and vomited a mass of blood and gore. Something lodged in his throat and he reached for it, pulling and tugging until a long cord-like mass of tissue came free. Gerdonny yelped and ran for the kitchen as Alastair finally stood. Shaking, but determined, Alastair stepped through the blood to reach above the fireplace and take down his father’s sword. He took the arm of his mangled son and dragged him through the blood so that he lay next to his mother’s side. Alastair knelt beside them and wedged the hilt of the sword against the protruding marble frame of the fireplace, then set the tip of the sword against his skin just under the rib below his left breast. He took a deep breath, and then leaned his body forward with all his might. The sword passed under the ribs and pierced his heart perfectly.

  When Alastair awoke a few hours later, still amidst the bloody carnage, sword lying beside him, he almost went mad. He ran a bloody hand across his chest. There was the slightest scar where the sword had pierced him, ensuring that he had not imagined the success of the deed. Nevertheless, his body had somehow pushed the sword out and healed itself. The irony was almost too much to bear. Camran Shaw’s words of dismemberment and burning came to him and now he understood. He assumed that, to stay dead,
his body would have to be burned. Alastair imagined being caught, hanged, and then buried, only to wake in his casket, forever entombed…perhaps to wake and die over and over through time.

  He fled the living room and ran up the stairs and into his master bath. He stood in the Eagle Claw tub and washed the dried, sticky blood from his body. Afterwards, he stood at his closet, looking at his fine clothes. He realized that his rank and popularity would be a hindrance to any plans of escape. After all, his was a well-known face. He went back to the sink, forcing himself to look into the mirror as he shaved off his beard and mustache.

  Alastair knew it was a minor miracle that soldiers were not in his house now and if he were to escape Edinburgh, he would need a disguise that left him unremarkable and inconsequential. He used his own underclothes, but left the rest in his wardrobe. He grabbed his leather travel sack from the closet and ran around the bedroom gathering up his wife’s jewelry and any small valuables he could find. He felt a heavy guilt but he was in a panic to preserve his life. He had pushed the powerful wave of suicidal guilt and sorrow away and into a dark corner of his mind. In its place thrived a more powerful instinct—survival.

  He took clothes from his servants’ quarters and thumbed through them until he found something he could wear. He felt a pang of disgust as he gazed in a mirror but felt sure that no one would recognize him from a distance…and who would want to come close to or speak to a simple peasant? Men of rank would never bother to speak to a commoner without good reason.

  He gathered up all the coin in his home, even those hidden within the servants’ quarters and decided that the small bounty now in his travel sack would get him anywhere he needed to go and still allow him enough comfort and time to establish himself in a lawyer’s trade. Things would be difficult, to be sure, but he would adapt. He would learn what he could about this damned affliction and do what he could to control it. All that he knew now was from childhood stories and would have to do for the moment.