his family. Some of them are perfectly normal, and some of them fall victim to this disorder or curse, I hardly know which to call it. On the main, they live as normal men, but once a month, they will take to the mountains to hunt and to howl when the moon rises.”
I started to laugh. Cosmina had told her tales of peasant superstition, but surely this educated gentleman did not profess to believe in werewolves. “Now you are making sport of me.”
But he leaned forward still further, his face deadly earnest. “I assure you, I am not. I am not. This is the way of these men. Many of them make good enough husbands save for the nights of the full moon when they must run with their own kind. But sometimes the lure of the moon is too strong, and they leave their wives and children forever, content to roam the mountains in the shape of wolves.”
I gaped at him. “You are a man of science, Dr. Frankopan. Surely you do not really believe such things.”
He shook his head sorrowfully. “Child, child, do not let your imagination fail you, for this is a place like no other. Perhaps I would not have believed in such things were I not brought up in the shadow of these mountains. The rest of my family live in Vienna, and they have all forgot the old ways, or they pretend to. They say it is nonsense and they will not speak of such things in Vienna lest they be mocked and ridiculed. But I, who have come back to this place and lived here for so long, I know the truth. The first time I was brought to this house I was five years old. My father wanted to hunt the bear and the lynx and the wolf. He gathered a great group of his friends and they went out together in a hunting party. The first night, they hunted by moonlight, knowing the great full moon would light their way. My father was the first to see the wolf, a tremendous, solid creature, high as a man’s waist and with two red eyes glowing in the darkness. He fired, but the shot was a poor one, and it only took off the animal’s paw. He ran off into the night, streaming blood from his wound and howling. The next day, my father saw the village blacksmith, his arm swathed in bandages, his left hand completely missing. It was no accident, my dear. My father had shot the blacksmith, for he too was a Popa, one of these men who ran wolf when the moon was full.”
I strove for kindliness towards the old man and his fanciful tale. “Dr. Frankopan, I am certain your father did hunt a wolf, and that the blacksmith lost his hand. Who is more likely to lose a hand in the course of his work than a smith? But is it not possible that you imagined the link between these two events? You were a small child, such things would have impressed you. And doubtless your nursemaid told you stories of wolves to keep you safe within the house.”
He smiled at me, then rose and took a box from the mantelpiece. It was a pretty thing, a fine example of the Roumanian carver’s art, painted with bright colours. He opened it and withdrew something almost as large as his own hand, but covered in grey-black fur and crusted on end with what looked horribly like dried blood. The other end was spiked with nails, long and curved and black as night.
“A wolf’s paw,” I whispered.
He put it into my hand and I felt then the weight and the gruesomeness of this place.
“My father brought home the wolf’s paw as a trophy. It has stayed in that box ever since, a reminder to us that in Transylvania, that which is impossible becomes possible,” he finished in a darkling voice.
“But this might have been only a coincidence,” I protested, even as I held the paw in my hand. It was heavy and real, but was it real enough to persuade?
Dr. Frankopan’s expression was one of pity. “My dear child, you are a writer, a teller of tales. In this land, that is a sacred thing, for it is the storyteller who passes the legends, the storyteller who makes certain we do not forget. But to tell the tales, the storyteller must
I started to laugh. Cosmina had told her tales of peasant superstition, but surely this educated gentleman did not profess to believe in werewolves. “Now you are making sport of me.”
But he leaned forward still further, his face deadly earnest. “I assure you, I am not. I am not. This is the way of these men. Many of them make good enough husbands save for the nights of the full moon when they must run with their own kind. But sometimes the lure of the moon is too strong, and they leave their wives and children forever, content to roam the mountains in the shape of wolves.”
I gaped at him. “You are a man of science, Dr. Frankopan. Surely you do not really believe such things.”
He shook his head sorrowfully. “Child, child, do not let your imagination fail you, for this is a place like no other. Perhaps I would not have believed in such things were I not brought up in the shadow of these mountains. The rest of my family live in Vienna, and they have all forgot the old ways, or they pretend to. They say it is nonsense and they will not speak of such things in Vienna lest they be mocked and ridiculed. But I, who have come back to this place and lived here for so long, I know the truth. The first time I was brought to this house I was five years old. My father wanted to hunt the bear and the lynx and the wolf. He gathered a great group of his friends and they went out together in a hunting party. The first night, they hunted by moonlight, knowing the great full moon would light their way. My father was the first to see the wolf, a tremendous, solid creature, high as a man’s waist and with two red eyes glowing in the darkness. He fired, but the shot was a poor one, and it only took off the animal’s paw. He ran off into the night, streaming blood from his wound and howling. The next day, my father saw the village blacksmith, his arm swathed in bandages, his left hand completely missing. It was no accident, my dear. My father had shot the blacksmith, for he too was a Popa, one of these men who ran wolf when the moon was full.”
I strove for kindliness towards the old man and his fanciful tale. “Dr. Frankopan, I am certain your father did hunt a wolf, and that the blacksmith lost his hand. Who is more likely to lose a hand in the course of his work than a smith? But is it not possible that you imagined the link between these two events? You were a small child, such things would have impressed you. And doubtless your nursemaid told you stories of wolves to keep you safe within the house.”
He smiled at me, then rose and took a box from the mantelpiece. It was a pretty thing, a fine example of the Roumanian carver’s art, painted with bright colours. He opened it and withdrew something almost as large as his own hand, but covered in grey-black fur and crusted on end with what looked horribly like dried blood. The other end was spiked with nails, long and curved and black as night.
“A wolf’s paw,” I whispered.
He put it into my hand and I felt then the weight and the gruesomeness of this place.
“My father brought home the wolf’s paw as a trophy. It has stayed in that box ever since, a reminder to us that in Transylvania, that which is impossible becomes possible,” he finished in a darkling voice.
“But this might have been only a coincidence,” I protested, even as I held the paw in my hand. It was heavy and real, but was it real enough to persuade?
Dr. Frankopan’s expression was one of pity. “My dear child, you are a writer, a teller of tales. In this land, that is a sacred thing, for it is the storyteller who passes the legends, the storyteller who makes certain we do not forget. But to tell the tales, the storyteller must
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