“What the hell’s that?” Ranny asked.
Van Helsing said nothing. It turned out he wasn’t even looking at the bracer. He was fishing something else out of the bundle, and when he pulled it loose, it fit in his palm. It was a set of false teeth, but not like any I’d ever seen. Whatever orthodontist had whipped up these teeth must’ve been signed on by Lucifer. The teeth weren’t meant to be human. They were like an animal’s, sharp and carnivorous, with protruding canines.
Van Helsing put the fang he said he’d taken from Early Searls next to the wicked dentures for comparison. They may as well have come from the same wolf.
Absently, he handed the rest of the weird paraphernalia to me while he turned the false teeth over in his hands, inspecting them, and then stooped to regard the rest of the clutter.
The odd bracer was made from tough boiled leather. It was made to fit over a man’s arm. The fan spread out over the back of his hand, the claws stretched over his knuckles. I could smell the sweat soaked deep into the leather, feel it.
“Lord what is this thing?” I mumbled.
“I seen ‘em in a dream,” Plenty Skins said.
Van Helsing looked at him.
“They pretend to the Power of the Wolf People,” said Plenty Skins. “They imitate the Wolf People with tools. They gain Power, but not wisdom. They are warriors. Yellow-haired wolves.”
I had to laugh. I threw down the thing Van Helsing had given me. Something about it, holding it, made me sick and thirsty for brandy. Ranny picked it up and wrinkled his nose, handing it to Alkali.
“Yellow-haired wolves, did you say?” Van Helsing repeated, rising to his feet with a bundle of fur in his arms.
The Indian nodded.
“How do you know these are Picker’s bones?” Cole said.
“You ain’t buyin’ into this, are you Cole?” I exclaimed.
But he sure enough was. He waved me off again and repeated the question.
“They staked him out there on that big rock,” the Indian said, gesturing to the scorched flat rock. “They danced around a big fire. They cut out his heart there and they put it in a bowl.”
“What?”
“There were animal hearts too. A coyote, a rabbit, maybe a bull or a cow. I found ‘em all lyin’ in a heap back of them rocks over there. They didn’t eat the meat, just took out the hearts. Somebody ate or drank from the bowl. The blood splashed over on the ground. The big bowl I found over there. Whoever drank from it was wasteful, or they didn’t want it. They dropped it on the ground. It broke into pieces. Then they stripped the meat offa my nephew. They ate him. Not the animals, just him. They threw his bones on the fire.”
Van Helsing finished unraveling the tangle of hide. Another of those wicked looking bracers fell to the stones. It wasn’t just one wolf hide, but a couple stitched together in the unmistakable form of a shirt.
Van Helsing mumbled something. Some word that didn’t sound a thing like English. It was like oolf-hey-oh something.
“Professor?” Cole said.
“The carvings in the house, the strange talk...all the signs,” the Dutchman mumbled. His lips were quivering with excitement. “Who had a motive to kill Early Searls?”
“What do you mean? If the Injun didn’t do it, then it was Harley, right?” I said.
“No, no, no, Alvin. Harley Crenshaw is incidental,” he spat, and for a minute I felt like I was in a schoolhouse again, and I didn’t know two and two. “His escape was but a ploy. I said I thought that someone else must have aided him. The one who helped him was there to enact his vendetta upon Mr. Searls. Sheriff Turlough, he was killed outright, but Early Searls was slaughtered, as though in a frenzy. As though...by an animal. Whom had he angered to such a degree only recently by your own reporting, Alvin?”
I was dumbfounded. Cole answered for me, and his voice was cold as the snow.
“Vulmere.”
“Precisely. Lawyer Ivar Vulmere.”
I was skeptical.
“You’re sayin’ Vulmere busted Crenshaw loose just to kill Early for mashin’ his nose?”
“And direct attention to an escaped fugitive. A proven killer to whom anyone would by force of habit assign blame,” Van Helsing said.
“But listen,” I began, “Skoll killed Crenshaw himself. He...”
Then Van Helsing smiled, the wily old bastard, for as I trailed off he knew I could see it too. For a man who never went to town, Skoll had been in just the right place to meet us on the road and take command of the posse. He had led us right to Crenshaw, even if it seemed to us at the time like he hadn’t. And Skoll had killed Crenshaw himself. Not because Crenshaw threw down on him, but because Crenshaw had seen Vulmere and he would have talked. It all looked like a cover for Vulmere. And now Buckner was dead, because maybe he’d seen something too.
“What I can’t rightly get is all this,” Alkali said, flinging the weird ‘claws’ down. “Professor, what in blue hell’s this all about?”
“Skoll and all his men...” Van Helsing began, still looking at the fanged dentures in his hands. He looked at the Injun, as though for approval.
“You know. Say,” said Plenty Skins. “They will not believe if it comes from me.”
Van Helsing stared in wonder at the Injun, then looked at all of us. A minute ago he had accused the old savage of murder. Now he was standing next to him. To my disgust, he began idly snapping the fang-dentures open and closed like a hand puppet’s mouth as he spoke.
“Yes. They are a murder cult, gentlemen. For all intents and purposes, they worship the wolf in its incarnation as a vehicle of Satan. And Sigmund Skoll....” he actually tilted back his head and laughed. He took off his glasses and wiped at his eyes. “Forgive me, forgive me. Skoll, if that is his real name, he is their leader. Their chief and high priest.”
When he had his glasses back on his face, the fire seemed to double and dance in his eyes, and his tone was mean. “And they are keeping Madame Terovolas, Madame Skoll, as their hostage.”
CHAPTER 11
From the Journal of Abraham Van Helsing
August 26th (Night)
In the Vatnsdoela Saga, they were called the Ulfheonir—the ‘wolf coated.’ And in Hrafnsmal, the poet writes:
Ulfheonir are they
called,
Those who bear
swords
stained with blood in
the battle,
They redden spears
when they come to
the slaughter,
Acting together as one.
Well known is the phenomenon of the old Norse berserker, those fierce solitary warriors who rushed into battle garbed only in bear skins, biting their shields and ignoring their wounds. Such men were eigi einhamir (not of one skin), and in their transfigured form, they took on the strength and ferocity of the bear.
But Baring-Gould writes of a subgroup of the berserkir, who traveled in the company of King Harald Hrafagr, and who wore wolf skins and howled in battle. Whereas the great berserkir fought individually, the ulfeheonir mimicked the pack, and fought each in cooperation with the other.
If Skoll (this cannot be his real name — Skoll is the wolf in the Northern myths who nips at the heels of the sun, seeking to devour it) and his men believe themselves to be modern day ulfheonir, which by the wealth of evidence we have amassed both physically and in observation of the artifacts of their home, I must beyond all rationality accept as truth, then the danger lies in striking against them. We will not face one, but all twelve, each with the supposed strength and assurance of his fellows. For, if their faith is total, as the faith of the fanatic most often is, they will fight like pack animals.
They are spoken of in the sagas as having the skill to behead men with a single blow, to dismember them and cleave through their helms. When I remember the sword I observed hanging on the wall during the party, that razor sharp ‘heirloom’ which Vulmere was so averse to me examining, and I connect that to the strange cut Dr. Ravell and I
observed on the body of Sheriff Turlough which notched his vertebrae, then I am assured in my deduction that it was Vulmere who freed Crenshaw from his cell, after slaying Turlough with the very same blade. The cut he made was one that would have been celebrated in the sagas.
I assume that he then freed Crenshaw, instructing him to flee to a predetermined place. Buckner’s shack, or someplace thereabouts, where Skoll would later lead the posse and silence him. It was probable that Vulmere waited for Crenshaw to make his escape before he unlocked Early Searl’s cell and murdered him. I think that he did this act in the ecstatic mindset (and perhaps in the peculiar garb) of an ulfheonir. This explains the fang found in Early Searls’ wound, which matches the curious apparatus Plenty Skins’ nephew took from the body of the Scandinavian he killed on Cole’s land. The very existence of the nightmarish costume proves everything. If the tooth matches the dentures from this man, than it must have come from another set. An identical set. Probably each of Skoll’s men owns a matching pair.
I have no further need for speculation, but I can here recount the other warning signs, which I was loathe to relate before.
Besides the strange talk of the legend of Fenris and Tyr at the party, there was the mention of The Sleipnir. I think that Skoll and his men believe themselves to be a kind of Viking band or crew. All his talk of being descended from ancient seafarers explains the tight-knit bond that they seem to share. I should like to have an opportunity to further examine the wealth of artifacts in Skoll’s house. What if The Sleipnir is the name of the ship whose oar hangs on his wall? What if he and his men believe themselves spiritual (or actual) descendants of the crew of The Sleipnir, much as the Rosecruitians trace themselves metaphysically back to the priests of Egypt? Of course these are only speculations.
The wolf is sacred to the Allfather Odin (or Ooin), whose name in and of itself means furious, raging, and intoxicated. Odin had at his side two companion wolves and two ravens. The historical ulfheonir then, were probably champions dedicated to Odin. Sleipnir was Odin’s eight-legged mount. Thus the crew of a ship christened Sleipnir might consider themselves the horsemen of Odin, and thereby, bearers of their God; as the practitioners of Vodoun believe themselves ‘horses’ who, in their religious ecstasy, are ‘mounted’ by their deities.
The possibilities are fascinating to ponder. But we do not deal with the supernatural here. There is no otherworldly evil to fear. These are but addled men. As a doctor I would treat them (or ship them to Purfleet for Jack to treat). But they are also criminals, and more, they have an innocent girl in their sway and are intent on indoctrinating her into their diabolic rites. There will be time for study when they have been defeated.
It is certain to me that Callisto knew nothing of her husband’s alter ego, but she must know now, or she suspects. I have thought so since I first heard her speak with a hint of trepidation about her fiancé and his men, and I am confirmed in it after having seen the way in which Skoll dominates her. Skoll’s madness knows no boundaries. I am certain he has deliberately conceived with Callisto to pull her further under his influence. She has admitted to her early pregnancy. Skoll must have beguiled her as a way to assure their wedlock.
As for the strange rites which Plenty Skins described, based solely on empirical evidence already three days cold, I am not certain as to their meaning. Precious little in the way of records exists to describe the rites of these ancient pagan cults. What the Romans did not flay from their subjects, the Christians burned away with fire.
I pray that Callisto was not exposed to the unholy practices that transpired here.
I am galvanized in my desire to save her from this barbaric fate. I do not think the others are entirely convinced. Of them all, only Coleman said nothing. Firebaugh shakes his head, while Ranny and Alvin call me an old fool to my face. Whether Coleman thinks me mad as the others do but is too polite to say, I do not know. That no longer matters. They will be convinced soon enough. For now I at least, am sure.
Of Plenty Skins, he only seeks revenge for his dead nephew. As the fire began to die and the snores of Mr. Firebaugh went on, only he and I were awake, staring into the fire.
From an anthropological viewpoint, this Red Indian is himself quite unique. As the others bedded down for sleep (for night is falling and though we are determined to return to Coleman’s ranch and gather his men, we cannot get there in time to be of much use now), I interviewed this marvelous fellow. I have tried for posterity to record some of our talk. He claims he is the last of his tribe, and I feel much of what he has to say is of note.
I asked him first about his reference to Wolf People.
He claims his tribe was dug from the earth by wolves, and that it was they who taught his people to hunt and survive. It is a fascinating affirmation of a study I had been doing at the time I was called upon by John Seward to participate in the events in Transylvania, which have already been recounted elsewhere.
I was then studying archaeological artifacts left by primordial cultures. In the dawn of man, humans were naked, helpless things, quite unsuited to the harsh environs of the earth, where predators such as the wolf thrived. Surely men saw the natural abilities of the creatures around them — the strength of the bear, the cunning of the wolf, the speed of the rabbit. So it was that they came to observe and learn from the beasts how best to make their own way in the world. This began probably with the simple wearing of animal skins to insulate against the cold of night and winter. Man is not inherently savage, but primitive man had to subsist, and in the cold seasons there were no growing things to be had. He had to quench his vegetarian nature and learn to kill.
Even today, do not criminals go masked to hide their identity from the law and to disassociate themselves from their crimes? So too did early man don other disguises, to hide himself like guilty Cain from his Creator. Men could not kill, but animals did. So men became animals. This is most probably where the werewolf myth originated.
But I digress.
Plenty Skins claimed that all his tribe is dead but him, now that his nephew is gone.
It seems unbelievable to me that whole race of men with their own culture could be wiped away, and I said as much.
“It’s not so hard,” he said. “When the whites came, the Tonkawa worked for them against our old enemies. I was a scout, and I killed Horse People and Mexicans. When the fighting was done, soldiers could take off their blue coats like snakes. But a wolf can’t shed his skin. We had lost our independence. We were infected by the white man’s comforts. We begged for them: we drank, we forgot how to hunt. I moved away from the others. Once they respected me. I was a holy man. But they forgot their lessons, and all their ways. They went crazy and married Lipans. Those that were left got put on a train and went to Indian Land, where they put all the Goddamned Good Indians. I stayed. I’m not a Good Indian.”
“We will avenge your nephew,” I assured him, seeking to offer some sort of solace.
“Yes. My dream told me so.”
When I asked him about his dream, which I assume he purports to be of a prophetic nature, he would say no more. My years in Africa taught me a deep dislike of a certain sort of witch doctor; the confidence-mediums and false ‘spiritualists’ who fleece the gullible in London are their civilized equivalent. In my experience I have seen shamanism at its worst, in the politicking and rabble rousing of a lot of charlatans who play with the deepest beliefs of their followers. I have also encountered men whose power could not be explained by prestidigitation and mere hypnotism. Still, I am wary when talk of dreams and visions is introduced. I know next to nothing of the Red Indian variety, so I will do my utmost to reserve judgment.
It is dark now, and very cool. I have not slept under the stars in some time. It reminds me of Natal, to hear the animals stirring nearby in the dark, and hear the wind, and feel the naked sky on my face. One almost expects to hear the roar of a lion out in the brush. It is quite refreshing.
Although this canyon seems to quiver from th
e memory of dark deeds, I am not afraid, for I am at last certain that despite the incredible truth of the diabolic society we have uncovered, at least my secret fears have been validated. I am unburdened.
Thank God I am sane.
CHAPTER 12
Aurelius Firebaugh’s Diary
Aug 27th
Woke up before the others and fed the horses. Slept bad. Nightmares. Something about the canyon all wrong today. Lay here this morning thinking last night was part of a dream, but this morning them burn marks and the bones and the carcasses are still here. Don’t know that I trust that crazy Tonk. Lot of Indian bullshit if you ask me. Nobody asking though. Thought the Professor was alright, but now I ain’t so sure. His story don’t make sense. Cole worries me too. Does he believe this hash? I asked him, and he was the same as always, ‘Don’t know that I do or don’t.’ Well, that’s genius. Feel like I should get back to my place, but don’t want to break off alone. Old fool. Will ride with them as far as Cole’s to get together the Q&M boys. Don’t know what’ll happen after that. Horses need looking to. Wonder how the new colt is doing?
Later
The Morris place has been burned out. We seen the smoke a few miles off. Nothing to do about it. Found that ragged hound Useless about a half mile up the road, hiding in a ditch. Some watchdog. It wasn’t no accident either. Horse tracks all over the place and you could smell the oil. Whole house lost. Cole and Ranny picking through the rubble while the rest of us try to figure out what happened to all the boys. Want to get back to my place to see that it’s alright. Indian says the Yellow Haired Wolves done it. Skoll and his boys? Hoof prints are deep and big around—like the kind them heavy Norgie horses might make. One thing’s for sure. There’s going to be a damn war
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