I had strapped my spectacles on with a fine strip of leather and could see very clearly. The last time I had visited the village, in late Spring, it had been a thriving community of little gingerbread houses, surrounded by greenery, and covered in a fine yellow pollen from the many flowers that were its pride and joy. Now I was arriving a year later, at the height of Summer, and expected more of the same. I blamed the precipitous angle, and the presence of so many clouds, for what must be a mistaken impression of Kaninsburg on a dismal Winter day of washed out browns and grays, a bleak landscape awaiting the next snowfall. But it was when I climbed below the clouds, and had my first unobstructed view, that I realized the place really did look dead—a wasteland punctuated by trees almost leprous with black bark.
And yet only a few miles beyond the village was a verdant testament to the season of life. It was Summer everywhere but the village. There was only one explanation: monster trouble! I had warned my friend. Baron Averal Tahlbot, that whenever British nobility is transplanted to small European villages, the risk of monster infestation goes up. The Baron had won this village in a game of whist on a Walpurgis Night, when there was a full moon, and he had a toothache. He was in too splendid a mood to believe in ill omens; and I wasn't about to turn down his invitation to see him enjoying the bucolic life (he had been land-poor back home, despite his title). When I arrived, I was to discover that Kaninsburg had no barber—as Baron Tahlbot had driven away the previous practitioner for the crime of sorcery, and for indifferent hair styling. I had been very busy during that stay, and had expected renewed opportunity this time.
Upon reaching the bottom of the mountain, I set to work, extracting clues from the unyielding cavity of life. What blight had come to this fair village? Was it vampires? Poltergeists? Ghouls? Frenchmen? What could it possibly be?
First, I found some wolfbane. Then I noticed a pentagram painted awkwardly on the side of a fence. These clues, combined with a huge sign reading BEWARE OF WEREWOLF suggested the very strong possibility that the problem was lycanthropy.
"Von Booten, you old fraud!" It was the distinctive voice of the Baron, whose smoky vocal chords had entertained the Queen herself (of which country I fail to recall). Unsurprisingly, he was walking his dogs whose snarling ferocity made me feel as much at home as I had been when facing the zombie legions of the Lost Jackal.
"Hello, Baron. Where are your villagers?"
"Quaking behind closed doors, I expect. We have a bit of bother at the moment."
"It wouldn't be werewolves, by any chance?"
"Astounding, dear fellow. How ever did you deduce that?"
"Elementary," I said, with a sweeping hand gesture, "it's all this damned evidence."
"Secondarily," he replied, "if it's evidence you're after, then my village is full of it. But I say, what brings you here?"
Opportunities such as this should not be wasted. Today's business reputation is only as good as yesterday's coincidence. Clearing my throat, I began in stentorian tones: "Through strange powers that defy human explanation, I felt your call for help vibrating through the ether. . . ."
"Just passing through, eh?" was his villainous reply. "Well, I'm glad you're here. Come to think of it, you're still owed money from your last visit. I'm certain that had nothing to do with your returning here. Come with me to the castle and we'll settle accounts."
We shook hands and I couldn't help noticing how he had let himself go to seed. The tweed jacket was frayed at the cuffs and it was missing buttons. This wasn't like him. Although he'd been a widower for some years, one would never know it sartorially. I also noticed that the jacket had about a dozen long, coarse animal hairs on it. Could it be...?
"I can see by your expression that you're displeased over my appearance," he said.
"Oh no, it's only . . ."
"No need for dissembling, old friend. I admit it. I need a haircut badly."
As a matter of fact, he did. A shaggy mop of unkempt hair was inappropriate to his station in life. But I would no more think of interrogating him about those hairs on his jacket than I would shave off my mutton-chop whiskers. The finest tact was called for when dealing with a Tahlbot.
"By the way," I began, as the melancholy tower of the castle loomed over the gnarled trees to mark our desultory progress, "have you been petting any werewolves lately?"
"Shiver me timbers," he said, recalling his days as a seafaring man, "you see right through me, Alfred. I can't hide a thing from your dogged ratiocination. My son is the village werewolf, and I don't know what to do."
No sooner had these words passed his lips than fog began pouring into the forest as if someone had turned on a steam-powered fog making machine. We walked in silence through the roiling mist. We walked over the moat, through the gigantic door (at which point the dogs went running off in the direction of the kitchen), past the mute English butler, by the dumbwaiter, into the den and up to the ornate fireplace.
Suddenly a beautiful woman, with hair as golden as a doubloon, came gliding down the staircase, in flowing gowns, and fell smack into the arms of the Baron. He introduced her as his niece. It occurred to me that I'd yet to see a villager.
"Oh darling," she said in an American accent, "who is this darling man with you?"
More introductions were made. More greetings were exchanged. The exchange rates for various European currencies were discussed. She served drinks. She passed out cigars. She gave me a back massage and played the piano, although not in that order. Her laughter was like the tinkling of a chandelier submerged in a vat of ambrosia. She sang. She told my fortune.
This last diversion proved to be a mistake. Seeing the sign of the pentagram in my palm, she tried to change the subject, laughing nervously, but it was to no avail. Somewhere in the night, a wolf howled. She swooned. A maid came bustling down the stairs. The maid wasn't a villager either, but some kind of humorous Swedish person. Together, the two women sort of flowed back up the stairs, as if a tide could ebb upwards to greet the stars. Or something.
"Er, where were we?" I asked, "before, uh, what's her name again?"
"Evelyn from Idaho," answered the Baron, with a shrug. "Don't worry about it, Von Booten, she sees the sign of the pentagram in everyone's hand."
"Thank you. But what were we talking about before your niece came in?"
"My son, the werewolf,"
"He's English?"
"Born in England, of course, but raised in the great American West where two fists and a full head of hair are all that's needed to wrestle life to the ground as Davy Crockett once did with a big old grizzly bar."
"Yes, Colonials like to drink in ugly pubs . . . but please tell me more about your son."
"His name is Lonnie but the villagers have a nickname for him."
"Larry?"
"No, they call him the Horrible Beast, and since being bitten by a werewolf, they've been much harder on him."
We drank some more. At length, I popped the question: "Is he in the castle?"
"That he is."
"He's unhappy about being a monster, I take it."
"He is that."
"You know there's no cure."
"That I do."
"You've tried to put him out of his misery?"
"Yes, but none of the traditional remedies work! That's why I'm so glad you're here."
"One silver bullet ought to be effective."
"We've run out of silver bullets! He's so full of them that he sounds like a Spaniard when he walks."
I had never heard of such a phenomenon. Just what kind of werewolf was this? He could see my consternation, or else he was peering at the small mole on my left cheek. Taking me by the arm, he led me, gently but firmly, in the direction of the family dungeon.
"It will be the full moon tonight," he said, "as it has been for the last two weeks."
"Wait a moment," I said, "astronomy is not my subject, but the full moon couldn't possibly . . ."
"No time for that now," was his terse reply. "Yo
u must see for yourself what has slaughtered half the inhabitants of my village and torn Evelyn's favorite dress."
"Down into the lower depths?"
"More like the upper depths," was his curious answer. While pondering the Baron's epistemology, we descended—I had been doing a lot of that lately—past wall torches that had already been lit along the passageway. I would have preferred taking a kerosene lantern but the Baron insisted that only torches were reliable in the dungeon. The most peculiar sight was that there was a veritable curtain of spiderwebs we had to push out of the way . . . and yet not a spider in sight.
Lonnie was waiting for us, locked in the dungeon's only functional cell. He was a big, beefy man; and every bit as American as a brass band on the Fourth of July. "Dad!" he cried out. "I want to die. Please let me die. Will this man with you help me to die? I can't go through another night of eternal torment! I won't, do you hear, I won't!"
"Evelyn and Lonnie both tend to carry on," the Baron whispered in my ear. Then, in a louder voice, he announced: "This man is going to help you, my son, but first he must witness the transformation."
"Not that, anything but that!" the young man blubbered. Fortunately, the full moon put an end to his monologue.
"Now prepare yourself for a surprise," warned the Baron. I'd seen people turn into wolves before, as well as a horse (a poor peasant named Ed), a pig, several breeds of cat, snakes, and even a baboon once. But I'd never seen anything like this. Young Tahlbot retained the shape of a human being—while accumulating additional features. To see a human face take on a lupine aspect ... to see wolfish fangs protrude from human lips ... to see hands become—not paws, but claws, still able to grasp as well as rend ... to see a hybrid horror that was neither wolf nor man struck me as a professional challenge, and an unparalleled opportunity to receive a larger fee.
The Baron had been speaking for some time, but I hadn't listened. There was something numb in his voice, and I heard him say: ". . . seems to die when we use silver weapons, but come the next full moon, which seems to happen awful frequently 'round here, he's alive again."
"Lycanthropy is only part of your problem," I heard myself say, "because this whole region is under a curse. When did it all begin?"
"There was an old gypsy woman who . . ."
"Say no more!" Any unprejudiced observer must admit that lycanthropy and gypsies go together like money and a Scotsman. "We must put an end to this damnable business tonight! Er . . . those bars are strong enough to hold your son, aren't they?"
I had good cause to ask such a question as the dirty son of a wolf was throwing himself against the bars of his cage with such vigor that drops of his saliva left spots on my spectacles.
The Baron answered: "We keep putting in new restraints ... as he destroys the previous ones."
It was time for action! I removed my best scissors from my satchel, along with a variety of combs. The dental tools would be used later.
"We will need the assistance of several strong men," I told him, "and it would be a great help if they are stupid. If we cannot free your son through death, then we must strike at the root, no matter how painful."
It was a grim sight, watching all the young men in the Baron's household fearlessly risk dismemberment, infection and worse, as they overpowered their wolfish subject and bound him with chains. It also helped that Lonnie had exhausted himself attempting to escape.
In all the years of my trade, I'd never faced more of a challenge. Bracing myself, I laid on with scissor and comb. No amount of snarling or of staring eyes made my hand tremble. The customer deserves nothing but the best, especially when it's involuntarily. Using the razor was more difficult than the scissors, but by the time all his body hair lay a foot thick around my ankles, and my arms were numb, I felt a sense of accomplishment. But the most dangerous task remained.
He must have sensed what was next. His howling might have deterred a lesser barber from moving on to necessary surgery, but my implements were sharp and purpose clear. First, the teeth had to go—at least the nasty ones. They were more of a threat than the talons. (The incisors and cuspids remain in my possession to this day—a souvenir, one might say, sort of fangs for the memories.) Extracting the fangs was a bloody business, and it put Lonnie into such a state of shock that I encountered no resistance when it was time to give him his "manicure."
When I was finished, there was a smattering of applause. Turning around, I saw that the entire household had gathered to witness the shearing of the locks. Foremost among the assemblage was Evelyn, who was embracing an unfamiliar young man. I didn't need to ask the Baron to know that here was another foreigner, and probably an American to boot. This village was suffering from an identity crisis beyond anything encompassed by mere monsters.
"Well done," said the Baron.
"Simply darling," said Evelyn.
"Rrrrrrrrrrr," was Lonnie's comment in his sleep.
The young men patted me on the back. The English butler raised an approving eyebrow. A French chambermaid whom I'd somehow missed before licked her lips provocatively.
"Inform the villagers that their days of woe are over," I announced. "These stout fellows can take the glad tidings to their homes."
"Sorry governor," replied one of the lads, "but Baron Tahlbot brought us over with him." The cockney accent shouldn't have taken me by surprise. Not really. But this meant I hadn't seen a single villager! I was certain, if only because of my previous visit, that the village had villagers in it.
As if reading my thoughts, the Baron whispered, "Easy on, Alfred. There are sufficient villagers to bring the population back up to par, if they haven't been wasting all this time behind closed doors. But the decrease in numbers will play havoc come harvest time."
I neglected to inquire what crops could possibly grow in the desolation I had witnessed. We carried the young Tahlbot upstairs. No one awaited the rising of the sun with more eager anticipation than your immodest narrator. To tell the truth, I had not the slightest idea what the next transformation would bring.
Curiosity was stronger than exhaustion. Despite a sleepless and strenuous night, I felt invigorated when, looking through a window, I saw the fog beginning to dissipate in the first light of day. Now there would be at least some answers.
Would Lonnie's natural teeth be restored, or gaps remain in his smile, putting one in mind of a village idiot? And would the small ivory substances in my hand revert to normal teeth or remain fangs? And would his natural head of hair grow back, or would he still be bald? And just how big a tip could I expect?
Then it was morning. Lonnie's face began to change. Gradually he regained all his natural features. This was good news for him now; but did this mean the missing features would be as easily restored when next the full moon shone? There was enough mystery here to justify a full report to the A.M.A. (Austrian Monster Association).
Only the next full moon could answer the final questions. Concerning which, I hesitated to bring up to my host the issue of his peculiar lunar problems. There is only one night of the true full moon every month, although it looks to the naked eye as if there are three consecutive nights of the full moon. That the curse of this transplanted British family could have altered all the laws of nature in this place did not occur to me at the time.
I didn't wait around to find out. After assuring the good Baron that there was nothing else I could do, I received my payment and returned to my travels. The news of Lonnie's salvation must have been transmitted by some supernatural means, for now the village square was full of singing and dancing survivors. It struck me that these people did not behave as if anything unusual or tragic had befallen them.
The story might have ended there had it not been for my damnable curiosity. I fully expected to hear news from the village eventually, but I failed to reckon on the degree of isolation involved. By late Fall, curiosity got the better of me and I decided to return before the weather made travel inconvenient.
The night I arrived, all that
could be seen of the moon was a thin crescent in the sky. But as the village came into view, my vision blurred. After rubbing my eyes and putting my spectacles back on, I beheld the impossible: all 2,160 miles of lunar diameter were plainly visible as I stared at the round, silver orb. I had returned to Kaninsburg.
At least the increased luminescence made it easier to traverse the mountain path leading back to the village . . . where the werewolf was waiting for me. It was Lonnie, all right. There was hair all over his body, but it wasn't his. I recognized horse hairs, dyed all sorts of colors, and stuck at random about his body. He had fangs, too. The moonlight glinted off a full set of steel dentures. In addition, he had claws. Tied to each finger was a minature dagger in place of his talons.
With a low growl, he came for me; but a barber should always be prepared. I beat him to death with a striped pole I had used to keep my footing when negotiating the mountain pass. There was a silver knob on top.
"This is ridiculous!" I cried to the night sky. "Will I never be rid of this monster?"
"Never," came a man's voice. I turned to see an old gypsy woman emerging from the fog—there was, of course, lots of fog—but beneath the bangles and brightly colored rags, I recognized the face of a man. "You don't know me," he continued, "but the name's Basil Davies." Good God, it sounded like another transplanted Englishman. "I was the village barber before Tahlbot banished me."
I felt another deduction coming on and said: "You've been behind this all along."
"Yes, after old Tahlbot bored everyone with his stories of your splendid barbering, nobody wanted me any longer. Even the damned peasants preferred waiting for you to visit, or tried their hands at home barbering—no matter how horrid the results—or just let their hair grow rather than give me any business. I used black magic to try and get my business back on its legs, but nothing did any good. How I hated them. How I hated you!"
"So you found a way to transform Lonnie into a monster," I concluded helpfully. "Well, he's destroyed now and I'll turn you over to the Baron."
The Ultimate Werewolf Page 24
