Terovolas

by Edward M. Erdelac

  In folklore of course, it is the name given to the werewolf—the man or woman who assumes the shape of a wolf, usually by night. The means by which this is achieved are numerous, and include everything from wolf-hide belts and imaginatively composed unguents, to the ubiquitous pact with Satan.

  In psychiatric terms, lycanthropy refers to the belief of the patient that he or she assumes the form and characteristics of a wolf or other beast. This belief often translates itself into violent and in the extreme, even cannibalistic acts. While it was never in my mind (I do not think) that I should become a beast and eat the flesh of the living (or the dead), I do believe that the acts which I was contemplating were of a potentially bestial nature.

  When John first brought his theory to me, I was reminded of the case of the soldier Bertrand, who in 1849 in France began his horrific career by strolling through cemeteries at night just as I had. Bertrand took to digging up and mutilating the bodies of young women and girls. It took a spring gun trap set into a freshly buried coffin to end his diabolical career at last. I did not want my ailment to progress so far as had Bertrand’s.

  But these things are behind me now. The nightmares have ceased, and once barely controlled instincts have abated.

  It is most ironic however, to have written this and now to have to tell that I am on a passenger steamer with only the remains of poor Quincey Morris for company.

  But I must explain.

  Having born the body of our dear Mr. Morris back to London after the end of our travails, it was mutually agreed that as our American friend had made no preparations for his sudden and regrettable departure from this earth, we should let Arthur Holmwood also known as Lord Godalming, who was his eldest and closest friend, decide what should be done with him.

  “He was a man at home in so many places, and yet...it seems to me that he should want to rest at home, in Texas. He spoke very fondly of his family’s ranch there. Yes. Texas, I should think.”

  This was the proclamation I heard Lord Godalming give prior to my illness, and so far as I knew, it was carried out when I entered John’s care.

  Yet when I emerged again, Mr. Morris was still in London, reposing in an urn on Lord Godalming’s mantle.

  During my recuperation much had occurred in the life of Arthur Holmwood that did not allow sufficient time for a voyage to America. There were many decisions to be made regarding his late father’s estate. Not only were there a good deal of unforeseen settlements to be arranged with his father’s creditors, but there was also the managing of the will and the mediation of rival inheritors who were not at all disposed in their shameful avarice to allot to the executor and chief heir time enough to mourn for both a fiancé and a best friend. A miser’s patience is as short as his compassion.

  With John’s encouragement (he seemed to see in the hiatus some therapeutic value), I offered and was then granted the task of bearing the remains and worldly remembrances of Quincey P. Morris home to his native land, which lay in the Callahan County of Texas, United States American.

  CHAPTER 2

  Dead Man Found at the Q and M, by A.N. Crooker (all articles reproduced with the permission of The Sorefoot Picayune)

  August 15th, 1891 edition

  Sheriff G.B. Turlough and Deputy Rufus Shetland rode into town yesterday with several men of the Q&M ranch in tow. Among them was Mr. Coleman R. Morris himself, who inherited the Q&M spread from his late father, Captain Quentin Morris some years back. It seems that the lifeless body of an unidentified Mexican was found in the immediate vicinity of Mr. Morris’ house. Sources advise that the deceased was discovered by Mr. Early Searls, foreman at the Q&M, sometime early yesterday morning upon the return of Mr. Morris and his hands from pursuing the mountain lion which has been making a nuisance of itself among most of the local ranches of late. The unidentified Mexican had been shot four times, and is reported to have been found in a state of undress. There is no word as to the fate of the mountain lion, but reportedly it has added two of Mr. Morris’ new hounds to its growing roll of victims.

  * * *

  Early Searls Arrested, by A.N. Crooker (Sorefoot Picayune, August 19th, 1891)

  Early Searls, foreman of the Q&M Ranch, checked into Sorefoot Jail today following an altercation in the street with Mr. Ivar Vulmere, attorney at law. The disagreement came about over the unidentified body erroneously reported to have been Mexican, which was discovered not by Searls, who had accompanied Mr. Morris on the hunt, but by Moises ‘Pepperbelly’ Vargas, the Mexican housekeeper on Morris’ property last Monday the 15th. The corpse turned out to be one ‘Thorsen,’ an employee of Sig Skoll, the gentleman of Nordic descent who assumed the management of the Judson spread following the passing of old B.D. Judson one month ago. Our more oblivious readers will take note that the Q&M outfit has had several boundary disputes in the time since Skoll took over. Lawyer Vulmere, who is on retainer to S. Skoll, identified the body of ‘Thorsen’ at Undertaker Cashman’s parlor this morning, after having come into town to report his disappearance. Mr. Vulmere then proceeded to publicly accuse Mr. Morris of having murdered and robbed Thorsen. Mr. Searls gave a manly and most appropriate answer to the wild slander against the character of his employer, which left the boisterous red haired foreigner sprawling with a broken nose. Mr. Searls surrendered himself to Sheriff Turlough in the manner of a forthright and dutiful citizen, and now sits in his cell awaiting arbitration from Judge Maximillian Krumholtz, who as of yet has not returned from the hearings in Bastrop in the case of Red Bill Beck. Sheriff Turlough has assured this reporter that his confinement of Mr. Searls is in no way related to the baseless charge of murder put forth by Mr. Vulmere. No representative of the Skoll faction was available for comment.

  * * *

  Telegram from Professor Arminius Vambry, University of Budapest, to Professor Abraham Van Helsing, Adelphi Hotel, Liverpool, Merseyside, England

  31 JULY

  HAVE FORWARDED THE VOLUME YOU REQUESTED TO NEW YORK CITY IN ANTICIPATION OF YOUR STEAMER’S ARRIVAL THERE. STOP. SEE MR. PROCHNOW AT THE PUBLIC LIBRARY. STOP. SEND ME AUTHENTIC INDIAN ARTIFACT FROM TEXAS. STOP. REGARDS, ARMINIUS.

  * * *

  Telegraph from Professor Van Helsing to Professor Vambry

  8 AUGUST

  MANY THANKS FOR THE BOOK. STOP. WILL ARRIVE IN TEXAS THE 19th AUGUST. STOP. WILL BRING BACK SOMETHING WORTHY OF YOUR KINDNESS. STOP. DEFERENTIALLY, VAN HELSING.

  * * *

  Recovered from the Journal of Madame Callisto Terovolas (translated from Greek)

  21st August

  I am at last unpacked and ready for sleep in what is to be my new home...our new home. These Texas plains are lonely and too open. There are no trees in sight of the house. The wind blows hard, and the smell of the cattle is noisome. Yet Sigmund assures me that I will grow to love this land. I am sure that I must.

  The conclusion of the train journey from St. Louis was ridiculously uncomfortable, and only made bearable by the company of a peculiar old gentleman whom I came to know as Abraham Van Helsing.

  My first impression of him as I saw him clamber aboard was that of a doddering old fool, jostling people in the aisles with his arms full of luggage, and pausing at each one to tip his hat and excuse himself in a thick, broken accent. His large American hat seemed to be some effort on his part to assimilate, but when taken in consideration with his other attire looked positively ludicrous. The cut of his suit suggested it had been bought long ago, with the intent that it would last. He wore a great cloak typical of the English gentleman of several years ago, yet by his speech and incessant grinning he was no Englishman. This habit of constant smiling, considered rude in certain circles, is an eccentricity commonplace among foreigners in any alien land. It seems those without command of the native tongue think that if they show their teeth they will be given the same sort of social pardon reserved for simpletons. Among beasts of course, it has quite the opposite effect.

  I was already put out by the prolonged stopover in St. Louis
, and was not inclined to spend the remainder of my tedious journey with a leering and stuttering old man beside me. I took the bag of the sleeping passenger across from me and placed it on the seat beside mine, thinking to ward him off. He would not be denied.

  I pretended I did not notice him standing over me, until the force of his gaze made it impossible to ignore him further. I looked up, and saw his eyes flutter. They were very blue. Very dark. He tipped his hat and, smiling as always, requested my pardon and gestured to the bag.

  I made as if I didn’t understand him, and when he repeated himself, I purposefully made my excuses in Greek, thinking that would be the end of it.

  To my surprise, he answered fluently in my mother tongue;

  “Ah...I ask your pardon again madame, the car is quite full up. May I?”

  I suppose the sound of my own language, so long absent in my ears, moved me to take pity on him. I put aside the bag, and he bowed in a courtly manner and settled into the seat.

  “The Moerae, they smile upon me for the first time since this trip began,” he said in Greek, as he stowed the greater of his baggage. “That I should be able to share the remainder of my trip with a lady whose courtesy is matched only by her charms.”

  I allowed him a thin smile. I had thus far found manners decidedly lacking in America.

  “You will pardon me again, I hope,” he said, as he straightened from his labors, one brown paper parcel and a single book still clutched in his lap. “But your accent seems familiar to me. Are you Arcadian?”

  I was delighted.

  “I am indeed. But you do not sound Arcadian...”

  “I am Dutch, Madame. But my wife is from Patrai. I am Abraham Van Helsing.”

  I was thankful that he did not seize my hand and try to slobber on it. I told him my name and asked him his business in Texas.

  “A gloomy errand, I am afraid,” he said, drumming the parcel in his lap with his fingers lightly as he watched me. “And not the sort of business I should bother you with.”

  Ironically, I found I wanted to know, and persisted.

  “If you insist, Madame. But please stop me if I should offend your sensibilities. You see, I am returning the remains of a close friend to his ancestral lands.”

  I think he must have seen my eyes fall to the parcel in his lap, because he shifted it to the side of the seat farthest from me. I giggled in spite of myself, and assured him that he need not worry. I had no superstitious fear of his late friend. He grinned in reply, but his eyes were not smiling. They were staring at me with some intensity. I do not know if it was lust I detected there. I have seen that sort of look in the eyes of many men since my journey began, and should think that I would recognize it straight off. But there was something else in Abraham’s eyes. A kind of...furtive distress. Perhaps sadness.

  I let my attention fall to the book in his lap - not out of my own discomfort, but out of respect for whatever lay behind his gaze. The title of the book elicited a chuckle from me before I could restrain it. It was Reverend Sabine Baring-Gould’s nefarious The Book of Werewolves.

  “Pardon me, madame,” Abraham said, tucking the book beside his friend’s remains, his cheeks reddening almost to match the fading rusty tint of his hair.

  I asked him not to apologize, and then, out of curiosity, what he thought about the book and its subject matter.

  He proceeded to give a fascinating and knowledgeable critique, speaking rapidly and fondly, as though he were a misfit with but one talent, who had been asked at last to give discourse on his favorite subject. He acknowledged the folkloric value of the work, and explained to me the ways in which social and regional beliefs of the past affected modern psychological perceptions. He was obviously a learned man. When he began to speak of mental aberrations, I interrupted him, asking him pointedly;

  “Yes, but do you believe that a human being may become a wolf?”

  “Madame,” he said. “I do not discount anything I have not disproved myself.”

  “That is a laudable attitude for a man of science,” I said. “I’ve always thought such men to be rather limited in their perceptions.”

  “On the contrary. The most important trait of a scientist is a mind open to infinite possibility. Well, but I am no scientist. Not in the proper sense of the word. I am just a schoolteacher.”

  Our conversation made the rest of the trip seem short. We spoke well into the night, our talk touching on science and faith and finally marriage. I learned that his wife had let slip her reason long ago and was cared for in an asylum in Holland. They had lost their young son to some calamity many years ago and the poor woman had never overcome her grief. I suppose this was the source of the deep sadness which I perceived in him. Perhaps I am being romantic, but I am quite sure that I reminded him of someone - perhaps the wife he spoke of.

  I told him at last of my own reason for coming to Texas, and I invited him to visit Sigmund’s ranch when he had concluded his errand, and to stay for the wedding celebration if it was within in his power. I do not know for certain why I did this. Whatever the reason, it was a happy coincidence that Sigmund’s ranch and the ranch of Abraham’s late friend both lay in the vicinity of Sorefoot.

  When we arrived at the last stop, Abraham very gallantly carried my meager luggage to the platform before going back for his own.

  Sigmund’s man, Helgi, was there waiting, as promised in his last letter. He spoke but a few words of English, and I had a difficult time asking him to wait for my newfound friend. At last Abraham (being fluent in Norwegian too) translated my desire to have him ride with us, at least to town. Helgi was hesitant, but acquiesced.

  There was some trouble with the horse team. I have never been fond of horses. At last Helgi managed to calm them, and we rode for the better part of the morning, speaking very little. Abraham had grown distant somehow. Perhaps our rapport lasted only as long as our mutual journey.

  Helgi stopped the buggy at the edge of the miserable little town and we parted ways, each promising to see the other again before Abraham returned to Amsterdam. Whether or not these were just words I cannot now say.

  I spoke not a word with Helgi on the ride to the ranch. As I have said, it is quite a desolate place, in the midst of a great expanse of brown, empty grazing land. I find the lack of trees disconcerting, but Sigmund’s letter spoke true. It will be a fine place for children to run. I can see fat cows from my window.

  The ranch house is large but not palatial, and decorated with many remembrances of Sigmund’s. There is an impressive assemblage of antiquities and Nordic art. One of the effigies I find striking. It is a fanciful woodcut of a bearded fellow holding his hand in the maw of a wolf. I do not know the story behind it. I must remember to ask Sigmund about it when he returns. There is precious little that I do know about the culture into which I am marrying.

  My betrothed was not there to welcome me. He left a note saying that there had been some sort of trouble in town with his attorney, which he must see about, and that he would return tomorrow.

  In the great foyer Helgi presented me to the other men. I was embarrassed by what happened next. They all prostrated themselves before me and touched their foreheads to the hardwood floor. It was foolish, these huge blonde men making such a fuss. But I decided, rather than offend their strange customs by spurning their flattery, to wait for Sigmund and speak to him about it.

  So I am left alone with silent Helgi and Sigmund’s other men, a dozen or so, I should say (though they are hard to count. With their beards they tend to resemble one another and they are always going in and out.) I have no fear, but the boredom is nearly unbearable. There is an oppressive feeling to this room that I do not like. Perhaps it is only this damnable girdle.

  I wonder how Abraham is faring.

  * * *

  From the Journal of Prof. Van Helsing

  21st August

  I think that I am not well. John’s craft has not saved me from infection of the mind as it once did the infection of the
flesh I developed from that Zulu spear in Natal so many years ago. The psychic wound I was given by Dracula’s wives I think has been laced with a more cunning poison. I am sure that like a cancer, my lycanthropia has returned.

  On the train from St. Louis I became acquainted with a young Greek lady called Madame Callisto Terovolas - a charming woman of Arcadian descent traveling by curious chance very near to my own destination of Sorefoot, Texas, to be wed to a Danish cattleman.

  At first our conversation was of the most benign sort, but when she took notice of my copy of Baring-Gould , my thoughts began to take once more a sinister turn. The book had been presented to me by the late Madame Blavatsky on a brief trip I had taken to New York City some years ago. I’d had it sent to me on a whim by Arminius. The Bertrand story was related in one of the later chapters, and I had wanted to reconsider it.

  Maybe it is the subject matter of the book that has somehow rekindled my delusions, but there was something in this woman which fanned the flames.

  Her singular features were of the handsome Mediterranean type; her long neck traced with slight hairs, and the dark eyebrows arched over her deep eyes faded to wisps as they nearly met over the bridge of her sensuous nose in a faint ‘v’ that lent her whole appearance an imperious air. Her lustrous hair, thick and dark as black wool was not entirely contained by her lady’s hat and green silk ribbon. Indeed, there was some element of constraint about her whole person—something which made me feel as if I were looking at a bottled sprite barely contained in a delicate crystal prison.