Symphony From The Past (A Tale of Werewolves)

In the eyes of the couple, the slate-paved street of the village revealed a cornucopia of crafts, sweets and jubilant peasants. Along the noisy main street, colourful festoons hung from the balconies of typical mountain houses, made of solid stone and original woodwork. The buildings themselves, due to the abundance of decorations, seemed to curve over the long snake of stalls.

There had been an imperceptible moment of silence when the two had laid their feet on the dark pavement of the village, nothing but a quick counterpoint to underline the next wave of noise of the festival in its full becoming.

It had been enough to turn left on the path between the conifers marked by the navigator and their journey had moulted with grey scales now transformed into coloured harlequin’s diamonds.

"Fasnachat". That bizarre writing on a shaky sign had tickled their imagination.

"If Google had reported this village party we could have left two hours earlier." At her voice’s sound, Ben instinctively thought of two Dolce & Gabbana sneakers on the 100 meters starting blocks.
"A break cannot hurt us, but let's not forget about our timetable," he replied, not without a trail of scepticism in his voice.

Ben's senses captured fragrances, widened eyes and inebriated laughter. That joy was as disruptive as it was contagious.

"We do not need to remind ourselves of what it means being late for Grandma Maude's birthday dinner," he said, turning to his wife, whose hand was already wriggling from his, ready to compulsively stuff the car with the many bits and bobs offered by the fair.

Debated between the growing curiosity and the thought of his father-in-law blaming him for the delay, Ben had not even noticed that he had already lost sight of Joelle.

Like a pebble escaping the river’s current, the flow of the crowd had carried him in the middle of a small square dominated by a soaring wooden stage. An acute, strangely cacophonous, chant of stringed instruments enlivened a typical traditional group dance, where couples slapped each other’s feet and bodies.

Under the ever more pounding rhythm of the dance, among almost hypnotized and swaying villagers, his eyes increasingly focused on the show.

For a moment, he thought he saw Joelle surrounded by villagers who invited her to eat something viscidly black. The substance seemed to smear the white aprons and faces of the women, perhaps even that of Joelle who had joined them in a wild chortle. She seemed so lighthearted and it felt good. There was one thing Ben could not remember and squatted in the back of his head, but maybe it wasn’t that important.

He returned to plunge into the dance: it was simply wonderful. He felt he could not miss a movement, not even a note. He smiled at the villagers as a strange heat flared up inside him. An empty and collective smile painted back on the villagers’ gaunt faces.
In a frayed embryo of thought, Ben recorded the distant verses of Joelle, who, strangely, had fused together in a long animal bleating.

Image source: Max Pixel

The crowd undulated in its slow procession, dragging Ben along in its movement. Within the din of the chaotic cacophony of music, dancing and haggling, he heard strings seek their keys in a long soulful drag. Like a wolf drawn to the howls of its pack, Ben felt his feet walk in the direction of the music.

Ben pushed blindly though the crowd, possessed by the music. He could make out the soft melody in the air, the lone violin trying to crest above the rest of the orchestra. It was the only thing he heard. It was the only thing he wanted to hear. He felt someone step on his right foot. He apologized, his heart eager to be united with the symphony that flittered into his heart.

There was a crowd gathered, horde of tourists and locals whose hearts were attuned to the waves of the orchestra, oblivious of the rancorous rabble the festival bellowed with each second. They were united in heart and mind, each one following the leading of the lead violinist as she enraptured their souls into a mesh of living sacrifice offered to the god of music.

It was then he saw it again; the sight that had registered in his subconscious. It was the figure of a man, a large man. He had long dark hair that draped over his broad shoulders. Ben held his breath and waited as the figure slowly turned his head to avoid a blue powder.

His heart beat synced with the soft thudding of the drummer at the back, who double tapped on his drums, providing the bass as the orchestra drew large drags at their strings. His breath steadied as the light flickered for a moment on the side of the figure’s neck. The line was faint, a shadow of the gnash he had made a few years ago but Ben never forgets and neither did Drazen.

He saw Drazen make his way like a tiger on a scent, his eyes transfixed on a being in the center of a human circle, lost in the rhythm of the strings. Joelle! The orchestra increased their pace, the music obscuring the loud thumping of Ben’s heart. He pushed through the crowd eager to reach Joelle before Drzen.

He burst through the human chain and pulled Joelle out of her trance. Joelle was squirming like a worm on steroid, her hands fluttering like lifeless clothes on the line, tossed to and fro by the wind. Her face was smeared with a black paint that was sticky to his touch, her fiery red hair turned blue by the powder the locals sprinkled.

He hurried her to the car park as the band began a cheerful music that liven the crowd. There were shouts and jostling, everyone trying to shake off the doleful hold the orchestra had cast on them. They met him waiting besides their car.

“Hello Ben. I’ve been expecting you.”

Ben left Joelle and felt his claws emerge.