Werewolf

Hello and welcome back to Fab Figmentals!

I’m Lindsey Morse, your guide through the realm of curious creatures, magical monsters, and beautiful beasts. Each episode, we dive into the folklore and history of a different legendary creature and share a story about it. And, this week, we’re continuing our spook-tactic look at some of Halloween’s most famous monsters. 

Today, we’re going to talk about a shape-shifter whose widespread legend has captivated minds for centuries, the werewolf. 

It’s a story we all know well: an unlucky someone is bitten or cursed and becomes a slave to the lunar cycle. Every full moon, he transforms into a wolf and roams the night, hunting. Try as he might to avoid the inevitable transformation— perhaps by hiding from the moon’s bright glow, maybe locking himself away in an isolated place— there is only one true escape, a silver bullet to the heart. 

Depending on where you are in the world, the legend may vary slightly. In France— and in places with a strong French influence like Quebec and Louisiana— you might hear whispers of loup-garous, half men- half wolf creatures cursed to stalk nearby forests or swamps. In Belarus, you might find some locals who still believe the rumors about prince Vseslav of Polotsk, an 11th century ruler who was a suspected werewolf, said to be able to move at inhuman speeds. The ancient Greek historian, Herodotus, even wrote of the Neuri, a Scythian tribe— located near modern-day Ukraine— whose members would all transform into wolves once a year for several days. 

But regardless of the details— whether the legend incorporates the moon or silver bullets or not— and whether the werewolf is born, cursed, or bitten— we humans seem to be captivated by the idea that a man can turn into a wolf. There’s something tragic about it… something romantic, even. It’s not much of a surprise that modern supernatural fiction writers have re-envisioned the archetype of the rough-and-ready bad boy as a rugged-but-tortured werewolf— a la Twilight and True Blood.

Our story for today isn’t quite as sexy as some of the offerings you might find on the new release shelves of the bookstore’s paranormal romance section, but it is about a pair of tragic, star-crossed lovers. And it has a certain romantic melancholy that’s shared by many of these tales. 

It’s adapted from a short story by Eugene Field called “The Werewolf,” which was published in 1911 in a collection called the Second Book of Tales. I’ve edited Field’s story for length, and I’ve modernized some of the language, but I’ve kept the bones the same. The tale is set in the Anglo-Saxon period of Britain in the Early Middle Ages, in an area that’s being harassed by a vicious wolf.

Just a quick reminder before we get started: the stories we share are often more Brothers Grimm than Mother Goose, and today’s episode includes some descriptions of real-world violence that may not be appropriate for little ears. 

Now, here’s our adaptation of Eugene Field’s “The Werewolf.”

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In the reign of Egbert the Saxon there lived in Britain a maiden named Yseult, who was beloved by all, both for her goodness and for her beauty. But, though many a youth came wooing her, she loved Harold only.

Now, in those times the country was tormented by a wolf, given to ravage and slaughter. Wherever the wolf went, he attacked and devoured, spreading terror and desolation.

But the people were brave and refused to live their lives huddled away in fear.

The feast of Saint Alfred approached, and a celebration was planned to take place in a sacred outdoor grove. Yseult wanted Harold to accompany her. “Will you come with me to the feast tomorrow?” she asked.

“I can not," answered Harold. "I have plans to leave tonight for Normandy. And I pray, Yseult, on your love for me, do not go to the feast without me.”

“Why wouldn’t I go?" cried Yseult. “My father would be very unhappy if I did not attend. Why should I upset him?”

"I beseech you," Harold implored, dropping to his knees. “Do not go to the feast! If you love me, do not go.”

"How pale you are," said Yseult, "and trembling.”

“Do not go to the sacred grove tomorrow night, promise me,” he begged.

"Ah," she said, when she saw a look of pain come on his face—“you’re afraid of the wolf?”

Harold fixed his eyes on hers. “You have said it; it is the wolf that I fear.”

"Why do you look at me so strangely, Harold?" cried Yseult.

"Come here, sit beside me," said Harold tremblingly, "and I will tell you why I want you to avoid the feast tomorrow evening. Hear what I dreamed last night.

I dreamed that a grizzled old man stood at my bedside and wanted to pluck my soul from my chest.

'Your soul is mine,' he said, ‘and you will live out my curse. Give me your soul.’

I cried out in fear, ‘your curse will not be mine!’ 'What have I done that your curse should pass to me? You can not have my soul.’

But the old man prevailed against me, and he clutched onto my soul and pulled it free, and he said, ‘Go. Search. Kill.’—and—just like that, I was a wolf upon the moor. The dry grass crackled beneath my tread. The darkness of the night was heavy and it oppressed me. Strange horrors tortured my soul, and it groaned and groaned, jailed in that wolfish body. The wind whispered to me, ‘Go. Search. Kill.' And above the voice sounded the hideous laughter of the old man. I fled the moor—unsure where I was going or what motive pushed me on. I came to a river and I plunged in. A burning thirst consumed me, and I lapped at the waters—but they were waves of flame, and they flashed around me and hissed, ‘Go. Search. Kill.’ and I heard the old man's laughter again. A forest lay before me with its gloomy thickets and its sombre shadows—with its ravens, its vampires, its serpents, its reptiles, and all its hideous brood of night. I darted among its thorns and crouched amid the leaves, the nettles, and the brambles. The owls hooted at me and the thorns pierced my flesh. ‘Go. Search. Kill.’ said everything. The hares sprang from my pathway; the other beasts ran bellowing away; every form of life shrieked in my ears—the curse was on me and it filled me with a hunger and a thirst for blood—I was the wolf. At last I came to the sacred grove. Sombre loomed the poplars, the oaks frowned upon me. Before me stood the old man—grizzled and taunting. He feared me not, and a maiden stood beside him. 

"Kill, kill,' cried the old man, and he pointed at the girl.

"Hell raged within me—the curse impelled me—I sprang at her throat. I heard the old man's laughter once more, and then—then I awoke, trembling, cold, horrified. I dreamed I was the wolf.”

Yseult smiled. ”These fears are childish," she reassured. “It was only a dream.”

She laughed merrily, and Harold could see that she would not heed his warning. So he fetched his spear, and he placed it in her hands. “If you must go tomorrow night,” he said, “take this weapon with you.”

At this, Harold took Yseult into his arms and embraced her. He kissed her upon her brow and upon her lips, saying, "Farewell, my beloved.”

The next night came and Yseult donned her favorite dress, and, thinking of Harold, she tucked his spear into her belt before making her way to the sacred grove, where the feast was spread. 

The feast was extravagant, and the revelers were merry. There was singing and dancing, and the people played games to celebrate the feast of Saint Alfred. 

Then suddenly a mighty tumult arose, and someone cried out, “THE WOLF!"

Terror seized them all—stout hearts were frozen with fear. 

Out from the forest rushed the great beast, bellowing hoarsely, gnashing his fangs and spewing yellow foam from his snapping jaws. He spotted Yseult, and ran straight for her, as if an evil power drew him to the spot where she stood.

The wolf skulked for a moment in the shadow of the yews, and Yseult thought then of Harold's dream. She plucked the spear from her side,  raised it on high, and sent it hurtling through the air.

The wolf saw the shining weapon, and a cry burst from his gaping throat—a cry of human agony. And Yseult saw in the wolf's eyes the eyes of someone she had seen and known, but it was for an instant only, and then the eyes were no longer human, but wolfish in their ferocity. A supernatural force seemed to speed the spear in its flight. With fearful precision the weapon found the shaggy beast and buried itself just above its heart, and then, with a monstrous sigh—as if he yielded up his life without regret—the wolf fell dead in the shadow of the yews.

Then the people let out a collective cheer. There was great joy, and loud were the acclaims, while, beautiful in her trembling pallor, Yseult was carried home. There people wished to celebrate here great victory— for the wolf was dead!— but Yseult cried out: "Go, search for Harold—please, bring him to me. I will not eat or sleep until he is found.”

"My good lady," said one of the men, "how are we to summon him when he is away in Normandy?”

"Surely he’s not in Normandy," said another. "This very evening I saw him at home.”

“I don’t care where he is," she cried. “I need him by my side.”

The mob hurried to Harold’s home, but his door was barred.

"Harold, Harold, come forth!" they cried, as they beat upon the door, but their calls and knockings received no reply. They battered down the door, and when it fell they saw that Harold lay upon his bed.

"He sleeps," said one. "See, he holds a portrait in his hand—and it is her portrait. He looks so peaceful.”

But no, Harold was not asleep. His face was calm and beautiful, as if he dreamed of his beloved, but his bedding was red with the blood that streamed from a wound in his chest—a gaping, ghastly spear wound just above his heart.

——————

Frequently, I like to use this part of the show to talk more about how our featured figmental is depicted in folklore and legend, but today we’re going to take a different approach. I want to venture out into the real world, and I want to look at a case that’s made many people wonder if the werewolves of fiction might not be so fictional after all. 

In the summer of 1764, a young woman named Marie Jeanne Valet was tending her cattle near the southern French town of Langogne in the region of Gévaudan, when she saw a creature approach the herd. It looked like a wolf— it had a large, dog-like head, small straight ears, a wide chest, and a large mouth filled with sharp teeth— and it came at her, snarling. Marie’s bulls charged at it, keeping her safe, but the beast did not give up easily. The wolf attacked again, and after another face-off with the herd it was successfully driven away.

Marie was lucky. 

Soon after Marie’s escape, the wolf re-emerged to claim its first victim, a14 year old girl named Janne Boulet, who was out alone watching her sheep. 

More attacks followed. And the predator was soon given a name: The Beast of Gévaudan. 

Over the course of the next 6 months, the creature stalked an area spanning 90 kilometers, striking an estimated 210 times, and claiming an estimated 113 victims. Of these victims, most were found with their throats ripped out or their heads gnawed off, and 98 were at least partially consumed. Survivors reported that they had been attacked by a creature that looked like a typical wolf, but many swore it was much larger than average— and some whispered that it might, in fact, be a werewolf.

The people of Gévaudan were gripped with terror, and residents were hesitant to venture out alone, as the beast often targeted solo travelers. Going out in a group seemed to be the only way to avoid an attack, but before long, even this wasn’t enough to ensure safety. 

On January 12, 1765, Jacques Portefaix, a 12 year old boy, was out in a meadow with his seven young friends when the beast emerged and attacked the group. Thinking quickly, they were able to work together to ward it off, but the story of their escape made it all the way to Versailles and the throne of Louis XV, who became determined to find and kill the The Beast of Gévaudan.

Official hunts were organized, and 300,000 volunteers came forward to offer assistance, but these attempts to catch or kill the beast were all unsuccessful. 

In February 1765, a father and son hunting duo from Normandy announced they would come and do the job— boasting that they’d already killed over 1,200 wolves, so it should be a cake walk for them. It wasn’t. They, too, were unsuccessful, and their reports only spawned new rumors about the beast. They claimed that they’d come face to face with it, and that it was huge and unlike any wolf they’d ever seen. 

Other hunters around this time corroborated these claims, and some even took things further— reporting that the beast was bulletproof and able to walk upright on two legs. 

Eventually, the locals of Gévaudan decided to take matters into their own hands, and this is where the story gets really good.

On June 19, 1767, Jean Chastel, a farmer and inn-keeper from Gévaudan, set out with his two sons and tracked the beast to the forests of Mont Mouchet. The creature emerged from the woods and walked onto the track where the men stood, facing off with them. Jean slowly lifted his musket, steadied his aim, and shot the beast dead.

How, you might wonder, did Jean Chastel succeed where so many other men had failed? 

Well, according to his own claims, before setting out that morning, he’d loaded his gun with bullets he’d forged himself…  from silver. 

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Thank you so much for listening to this episode of Fab Figmentals!

Research, writing, and sound editing are done by me, Lindsey Morse. Niall Cooper assists with writing and editing. Our theme music was created by Graeme Ronald. 

If you’d like to support the show and hear more stories from me, please consider supporting the show on Patreon. This week, I’ll be posting an additional werewolf story on Patreon for our supporters. I found it when I was researching for this episode, and even though it wasn’t quite right for the show, it’s a really great tale. I’ve never seen anything like it, actually; it’s kind of a cinderella tale but with werewolves— charming and wonderfully weird. If you’d like to check it out, visit patreon.com/fabfigmentals.

Thanks again for listening, and I hope you’ll join me next week. We’re going to keep our themed festivities a-rolling by looking at a story that’s become a Halloween classic. It’s set in an 18th century village in New York’s Hudson Valley, and it features a superstitious smarty-pants schoolmaster named Ichabod Crane who’s destined to come face-to-face with the Galloping Hessian of the Hollow, a specter better known as the Headless Horseman.

We’ll see you next time.