The Legend of the Loup Garou

Bisclavret was weary. Weary of living, weary of endless time. Most men counted a lifetime in decades, his was counted in centuries, endless centuries.

In earlier times he was known as Lycaon. A King of Arcadia. Unfortunately, he had tested Zeus's omniscience and the old guy had cursed him with the affliction that now carries his name, Lycanthropy. Since that day he had walked the Earth as an immortal.
When he found himself in France, centuries later, he decided to change his moniker to Bisclavret and that is the name he goes by today.

"I tell you, it was the Loup Garou has got em, mon ami! I've seen him myself!

"Quiet, Bastian, this gentleman doesn't want to hear your drunken fairy tales," said the Inn keeper.

"If you had seen the Loup Garou you wouldn't be spreading your lies, you would be dead, now wouldn't you?"

"Don't mind him," said the proprietor refilling Bisclavret flagon of wine. "The whole town is in an uproar, seems a young couple has gone missing. Probably upset their pirogue while out doing what young couples do. If you know what I mean," he said with a suggestive wink.

"Drowned no doubt, if you ask me. They say the girl couldn't swim and the water probably dragged them both down. My money is on drowning."

"It was the Loup Garou, I tell ya," insisted the inebriated Bastian.

"Arrrrg, off with you now," said the Inn Keeper, "enough off your nonsense, go home to Lucile, sleep it off." He escorted the protesting patron roughly toward the door.

Bisclavret drained his cup of wine and tossed a five dollar gold piece on the counter.

"For the meal, and the room," he said.

"Are you sure I can't convince you to stay until morning, said the Inn Keeper. "The roads are treacherous after sundown, and lonely too, not many will brave them after dark."

"No, I must be in New Orleans by daylight. Thanks for your hospitality."

In the muddy street Bisclavet unhitched the mount that the stableboy had readied for him. He slipped his foot into the stirrup and swung into the saddle.

Turning his horse toward the dirt road, he rode out of the small village.

At the edge of town the trees grew close to the road and their limbs met overhead, forming a long arch, that disappeared into the distance.. Spanish moss hung in long flowing drapes and swayed gracefully in the light breeze. It was just before dusk but the tree frogs and crickets had already begun their nightly chorus in the gloomy shadows.

Several miles into the journey Bisclavret caught a familiar sent on the air, one that he hadn't smelled for over 300 years. He tethered his horse by the side of the road, loosened the girth and stepped into the deep woods.

At the edge of the bayou he discovered the site of a recent kill. Unless you had the nose of a wolf you wouldn't have known, but the signs were there. The smell of fear from a young male and the sweet blood of a female. The killer had marked the area by pissing in a circle around the kill site.

It wasn't hard for Bisclavret to pick up the trail where the bodies had been dragged through the swamp.

After a time, Bisclavret smelled smoke on the breeze and came to the base of a huge cypress tree. Moss grew green on the huge base and after a close examination he found the well hidden door cut into the wavy stump.

Behind the opening he found a short flight of earthen steps leading down into the darkness. At the bottom was a heavy wooden door studded with iron.

Bisclavret pounded his fist upon the structure and it was opened by a bearded man with a severe frown upon his face.

"Well, aren't you going to let me in, Pierre?"

The man stepped aside and bowed the older man in with an exaggerated flourish .

"Welcome Bisclavret, I haven't seen you since that bitch of a wife stole your clothes and trapped you in wolf form. How have you been my friend?"

"I have been well, as I see you are. Quite a legend you've become here."

"Not my doing, I assure you," said Pierre.

"Ah, I hear you are known as the Loup Garou in these parts. So much for not drawing attention to yourself!"

"I don't hunt humans, as a rule, Bisclavret. That couple happened upon me while I was in my rage, what is a wolf to do?" he said spreading his hands.

"Are you hungry?" he asked stirring a large cauldron over the central fireplace.

Bisclavret, noticed the smoke was piped into the hollow trunk of the great cypress above them to be exhausted invisibly into the night sky.

"No thank you, I ate at the Inn not two hours ago."

"Suit yourself," said Pierre as he fished a severed hand from the large kettle.

He scooped some rice from another pot and arranged it over this gruesome morsel then ladled some stock over it all.

"What brings you to the New World my friend?"

"I've heard from Hermes, Zeus has agreed to grant us death under one condition."

"That lying bastard, Hermes? Do you believe him?"

"I do," said Bisclavret. It seems the old gods are disappointed in humans and have decided it is past time to move on. They found a budding community of intelligent bipeds in another galaxy. They are moving there to torment them into worshiping them."

"Ha! Well, how do we fit into this scheme?"

"It seems we are a loose end. Zeus doesn't want to forgive and grant us death, he's still sore about the time I fed him my child. But he doesn't want to leave any immortals behind. This race is clever, they might reverse engineer one of us and become gods themselves. So, if we refrain from pissing the old fella off for the next 500 years, he will give us mortality."

Pierre spit a fingernail into the fire then crunched on a phalanges.

"Are you sure I can't offer you anything? I salted down a hind quarter of the female, very sweet meat on that one. I have plenty. I can cut a sliver off for you."

"The stew will be fine," said Bisclavret giving in to his naturally ravenous impulses.

"Perhaps just a small bowl, it does smell wonderful."

The two werewolves ate their grisly meal and talked of the old days in France.

"I was going out for a run in a bit, care to join me?' asked Pierre.

"I'd love to," said Bisclavret, "I haven't transformed in weeks. I need to stretch my legs a bit!"

At the end of the meal, the two lycanthropes stripped naked, and placing their clothes safely inside the lair, stepped into the moonlight.

Owwwwwhooooooooo!

I hope you enjoyed this short little tale
Thanks for Reading
Carry ON!

This story was inspired by a french poem by Marie de France called Bisclavret and from the story of Lycaon King of Arcadia, said to have been turned into a wolf by Zeus for feeding the god his own child as a test of his divinity.

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