by Mary Stewart
"It was certainly no easy task." Their host regarded his hands rather ruefully. They were long and fine, but showed the marks of recent scratches. "It was deep among the thorns and nettles, and took me quite a time, even though I saw where it fell. It was the first thing I did when I got back here, to go and look for it. I knew that I would not be able to sleep until I had it safely once again."
"But–"
"Yes, but how did you know?"
Both children spoke at once, then were silent.
Margaret had not meant her question to sound so abrupt, and found herself flushing. The man's eyes came to her, quickly.
"Yes?" he prompted gently.
Margaret swallowed. "I'm sorry, but I don't understand. How did you know the medallion–the amulet, I mean–fell in the brambles? You lost it up in the forest at the fallen tree. But you went and looked for it before we told you about the wolf, or anything. And you just said you saw where it fell. How?"
"Do you mean," asked John, "that you were here when the wolf came?"
"Yes." He regarded them as he spoke with a grave, sad look that held a touch of shame. Then he looked down at his hands again. There was a pause. Neither of the children could have spoken. Somehow, they no longer felt any surprise. But what he said next was the strangest of all the strange things that had happened:
"I was here, and you saw me. You see, I am the wolf."
A dream, thought Margaret, it is a dream. And of course, if I am dreaming, it's quite obvious that the weeping man is the same creature as the wolf of the wood. That could even be why he was weeping, because he knew the day was almost over and he must go back to his lair–his cottage–and take off his man's clothes, and run out, like a slavering beast, into the darkness to hunt and to kill. She shivered. They had come to that lair, she and John, at twilight, just as the strange and awful transformation had taken place. The man-wolf–"werewolf" was the word, she remembered–must have still been lurking nearby, and had heard them. Perhaps he had thought they were thieves. He had come snarling to the cottage door, but seen only a couple of children; seen, too, that the precious amulet (which he must have missed when he undressed) had been returned to him, and checked himself on the very verge of springing at them.
Even with the darkness falling, even through the hooting of the owl, he had managed to control the savagery of his wolfs nature, and to force himself to run from the children before he harmed them.
When they saw him again, at daybreak, he was fleeing in desperation from the hunt to get back to his cottage before the daylight change overtook him. Once there, and a man again, he had plunged into bed, and the sleep of exhaustion. If she had not sent the hunt the wrong way, they might well have caught and killed him while he was still a wolf. They would not, as she had done without realizing it, have seen something human and familiar in the creature's wild, yellow eyes.
They were certainly the same eyes. She could see it now, quite clearly, though the man's eyes were not quite the same clear yellow as the wolfs, but a light, golden brown with hazel lights in them: good eyes. His hair was dark and long and carefully dressed, his skin smooth and well barbered, and his hands, though roughened with peasant's work, were smooth, and finely shaped, not hairy a bit, and the nails were short...
She glanced up, saw him watching her, and went scarlet.
He laughed. "And my teeth are not wolves' teeth, either," he said.
"I didn't–I wasn't–" she stammered.
"Little maid," he said, "it would amaze me not at all were you to run screaming from my cottage! But you are brave, and you have noble manners, and indeed, it would ill become me to hurt you, wolf or man, when I owe my life to you, and hope to owe you how much more."
He leaned forward and put another log on the fire. "You are dry now, and you have eaten and drunk enough? Then be comfortable, because it is time I told you my story."
CHAPTER SEVEN
My name [said the werewolf] is Mardian, and once I was the servant and friend of the Duke whose men you saw hunting me today. He is Duke Otho, the ruler of this country, who holds the castle that lies beyond the forest's edge. My father was chief counsellor to Otho's father, Duke Hildebrand, and fought at his right hand in time of war. Otho and I were brought up together, and grew up as companions and close friends, sharing everything, pleasure and punishments alike. When the old Duke died, my father followed him within the week; and so Otho and I hoped to do also when our time came.
You would smile were I to tell you of the vows we took as boys, of the blood-mingling and the long midnight talks... and how the amulet that you have seen became the symbol of the faith and trust we had vowed to one another.
I shall tell you [he went on] how this came about.
When Otho and I were first come to manhood at fifteen, we exchanged tokens. There was a goldsmith at the castle–he is dead now–whose work was famous. We had him make us two amulets of gold, as like as two peas, save that on one was the portrait of Otho, and on the other my own. Then we exchanged them, with vows I shall not tell you of, boys' vows and men's. It is enough now to say that the trust between us was kept unbroken, and that when Otho became Duke of the realm, I was at his right hand, and of all who surrounded him at his court, there was no man he would sooner trust with his life and all his secrets than me, Mardian.
Then, after a few years, a terrible thing happened. One day a raiding party, led by a certain count who was no friend of my master's, came riding straight across the Duke's land, and fell in with Otho himself, who was out hunting.
There was a skirmish, well-armed troopers against lordlings attired for the hunt and lightly armed, and in the fighting Duke Otho was wounded. The raiders drew off at that, the affair having gone further than the Count, even in his malice, intended. But the Duke, in falling from his horse, caught his spur in the stirrup, and, the charger being hurt and bolting, was dragged some way before I could stop his horse and raise him. He recovered, but from that day to this he has been lame, and sits in his chair, or in a chair carried here and there by his servants.
That was five years ago. It followed that in matters of war–such as the expedition to punish Count Sigismund–I had to lead the soldiers; and in every other matter that needed a sound body. And you may guess what happened. The Duke's young son, Crispin, who was not yet ten years old at the time of the accident, grew towards manhood hardly remembering his father's prowess as a soldier and man of action, but looking more and more to me, Mardian, as a hero to follow and admire. To a young boy, the Duke to whom men turned for wisdom and judgement was of small account beside a fighting man. I had to train him, because men must fight and dukes must lead them, but always I strove to keep Duke Otho first in his love.
For a time all went well enough. Then came another tragedy. The Duchess, Otho's lady wife, fell sick and died. This happened when Prince Crispin was twelve years old. After this it could be seen that the Duke grew paler and more silent, and sometimes–when he was most in pain–short-tempered, and angry at small frets.
He spoke harshly on occasions even to me, and showed scant patience with the prince. When I talked with the boy and tried to make him understand, Duke Otho grew angry again, and charged me with stealing his son's love.
Then one day, when in his pain and bitterness he accused me of this, and even of wanting to usurp his dukedom, he was overheard by a courtier who himself nursed that very ambition.
This was a man called Almeric, whom I had already suspected of plotting against the Duke's life and against the right of the young prince to succeed him.
At first Almeric, believing that I must have begun to hate the master who spoke so harshly to me, tried to tempt me from my allegiance with the prospect of power and gain. When he saw that I was faithful, he grew afraid that I would report to the Duke what had passed. So he tried to have me killed, first by poison, and when that failed, by the dagger in the dark.
When that, too, failed, Almeric turned to sorcery.
I do not want to w
eary you, or to frighten you, with the tale of how the spell was cast, but for a year and more I have been as I am now. By day I am still Mardian, but the night, as you have seen, forces the wolf-shape on me, and with it the wolfs appetite and lust for blood. With sunrise the bloodlust goes, and my man's shape and mind return, but the memories and the shame remain.
Each night I, the wolf, go to the castle, to watch there for my enemy, but he is too wary to venture out. I wait till dawn–sometimes dangerously overlong–in the frail hope that my lord the Duke will come out to see the hunt.
Each day, in the grey hours between dawn and sunrise, while I still loiter in wolfs form, they come as you saw them, in winter and summer alike, and they try to kill me. Almeric has offered a rich reward for the head of the "great wolf," but he himself dare not ride out with the hunt. He knows that, if I were to see him, I would drag him from his horse and kill him, though the hounds tore me to pieces the next moment.
When I first suffered enchantment I fled to this cottage. Here, years ago, an old woman lived who had been nurse to some of the children of the castle, among them Otho and myself. She was a good soul, a wise-woman, and a healer; but simple folk are ignorant, and took her for a witch. She died years back, but even so no villager would venture here, or even into this part of the forest. So no one sees the working of the dreadful spell that binds me. Here I am safe.
But here, too, I have been trapped, waiting through all these long months for a chance to break the spell. A chance that may have come, at last, through you.
Here Mardian fell silent, sitting with bowed head, staring at the fire. The flames were dying down now, but the room grew warm as the morning sun rose higher.
He sat for so long that the children ventured at length to speak. His last sentence had startled them considerably, and excited them, too.
Questions were buzzing in their minds.
"But why can't you just go to him yourself?" asked Margaret. "In daylight, I mean, when you aren't a wolf? You could tell him everything, just as you're telling us–"
"And he'd believe you," put in John eagerly.
"If he saw the spell working, he'd have to, wouldn't he?" He hesitated. "Hasn't he sent search parties out? I'd have thought that soldiers would have to go anywhere, even into a witch's wood, if they were told to! Or–" He stopped.
"Or?" prompted Mardian gently.
"Or does he think you left him of your own accord? Do you mean he hasn't even tried to get you back?"
"But even if you quarrelled," began Margaret hotly, "he ought to know–"
"There was no quarrel," said Mardian quickly.
"You must not blame Duke Otho. He has not searched for me because he has not even missed me." He paused, nodding. "Yes, you may well look amazed. But my story is not yet done. I have not yet told you of the strangest and most terrible enchantment of all. The wicked Almeric has taken my form and appearance, and lives at the castle as 'Lord Mardian.'"
They stared. "People think he's you?" This was Margaret.
And from John: "You mean he looks just like you?"
"Exactly like. To all appearances 'Mardian' has never left the castle. I know all this, because sometimes I travel, in disguise, to a village beyond the forest's edge to get food, and I listen in the marketplace for news. Almeric has no amulet, of course, but he has told Duke Otho that it is lost, and the Duke accepts this. Why should he not? He does not suspect a spell."
"But if you did go to him and showed him the amulet?" insisted Margaret.
"If he saw both of you together, he'd know it was a spell, and that you were the right one!" cried John.
Mardian smiled at the eager way in which they took his part, but it was a rueful smile.
"Alas, I cannot hope even to enter the castle. I am told that all comers are stopped in the outer barbican by "Mardian's' soldiers and put to question. I would be recognized, and killed, and the amulet taken from me. Or I would be shut in the dungeon and shown only after dusk–and then you know what they would do to the wild grey wolf who was locked in their trap! The Duke himself, were he to see me then, would raise no finger to stop them."
"Then how do you think–?" John cleared his throat and tried again. "You said that perhaps the time had come for the spell to be broken?"
"It is more than time," said Mardian strongly. "For the Duke's sake, and for the sake of the realm, the attempt must be made very soon."
He straightened in his chair, his strange eyes fixed on the children, and glowing almost like a wolfs eyes. "I have heard other things in the marketplace. The Duke never leaves the castle now, and men fear that his health is failing, though his physicians can find no cause. It is said, too, that Mardian's power grows, and that he keeps Prince Crispin with him constantly, as if he is indeed winning him away from his father. I believe that if the Duke dies soon–by enchantment or through some other means–then Crispin himself would only be allowed to live long enough to bequeath the dukedom to Almeric. After that he, too, would die."
"And the Duke really thinks that it's you doing all this?" cried Margaret. "What else is he to think? He believes his eyes. Is it any wonder that, as I heard, he has torn his own amulet from his neck, and locked it away out of sight?"
John found that his heart was thumping hard. It all came back to the amulet, the golden token that had brought them to the cottage and into this strange and disturbing dream. He moistened his lips. "And since you can't get near the Duke, someone else has to try? With the amulet? Did you mean that it is magical?"
Mardian looked from one to the other of them.
His look was so sad and worn that Margaret drew breath, impulsively, to say that they would do anything, anything...but John touched her arm, and she was silent. They waited, the only sound the rustle of the dying fire.
Mardian did not answer John's question directly. He glanced round him at the humble cottage room, then spoke, slowly, to the fire.
"When Otho and I were children, no older than you are now, the wisewoman told us, in this very room, that for every evil spell there is a remedy, and that for all evil there is good in the other arm of the balance. I have come to believe through these dark days that these two amulets, cast in love and faith and vows of honour, may hold some power that may be the answer to Almeric's wickedness. Power there certainly must be. When the enchanter drugged me, ready to cast his spell, he stripped my body of all my clothing. Yet when he drove me out into the forest to suffer the life of a werewolf, I found that the amulet was still round my neck."
He paused. Through the open door of the cottage came, startlingly beautiful in the silence, the rich fluting of a blackbird's song. As if it had been a signal, the werewolf raised his head and spoke to them straightly.
"You ask if there is magic to help you against magic. I do not know. I only know that in one short month Prince Crispin will be fifteen, and that his father the Duke will be dead. And in this time of need you have come to me. You are young, no more than children, but you had the courage to face the great wolf, and later you saved him from his killers, for no other reason than that you saw his frightened eyes. And you were brought to my door by the amulet. This is why I, Mardian, am content to put my fate, and so much more, into your hands."
John and Margaret looked at one another, not quite knowing what to say, but Mardian lifted a hand, and got to his feet. "No, say nothing yet. I am going out now, to walk in the forest, and leave you to talk between yourselves. What I have asked you to do will not be easy and may indeed prove perilous. But I will not use persuasion. You must decide freely, and for that I will leave you alone." He stopped in the sunlit doorway, looking back. "I shall come back at midday, when the sun stands over the clearing. If you decide to help me you will still be here. If not, go with my blessing, but be sure to get clear of the forest before dusk, or I may not be able to answer for myself again."
Go? Where to? The children did not say it aloud, but the werewolf smiled.
"Don't be afraid that you will not find yo
ur way home. I believe that, if you do not vow yourselves to me, you will come safely out of the spell before morning. For spell it is," he added with a look of pity, "and no dream, my dears, as you had hoped. This is real, as your own time is real, and there is suffering to be won or to be escaped from. It is for you to choose. Choice is man's right, and for that I leave you free."
He turned and went out into the sunlight, leaving the children to themselves.
You may imagine the discussion that followed. I do not think that John and Margaret were any braver or better than most children.
Besides, in spite of what Mardian had said, they tended still to think that such a strange experience could only be a dream, and so there could be no real danger to them, whatever they undertook to do. It was a storybook adventure, no more, and they would waken from it the moment danger threatened, to find themselves safely back in their own familiar world. And, like any other children who read a lot of stories, they believed that this one must end happily, that with faith and courage and the right actions, everything would come out right in the end. Besides this, the glimpse they had had of the courtiers, and the prospect of actually seeing and living in a court such as they had read of many times, was very exciting. Danger was hardly to be believed in; the adventure was the thing.
So they spent hardly any time at all in arguing whether or not they should help the werewolf. It did not occur to them to refuse. They knew that if you find some person or creature in desperate need of help which you can supply, you have a human duty to supply it, even if it could inconvenience or even hurt you to do so.
This, after all, is how the greatest and best deeds in the world have been done, and though the children did not say this aloud, they knew it inside themselves without even thinking about it.
What they really argued about, and were still arguing about when the werewolf came back at noon, was exactly what he would want them to do.
It sounded simple enough. "Almeric cannot suspect two children of anything, least of all of plotting with me," said Mardian. "Though he himself is an enchanter, he will not be expecting another spell to be working against him. He cannot know that you would dare to walk into Wolf Wood, so he will not think you dangerous.
