Serpents and Werewolves (4 page)

As the witches tidied their hair and put on their dancing shoes, they whispered and giggled. “When we're tired of dancing with that foolish rabbi and his boys, let's turn them into beetles!”

“Or toads!”

“Or fleas!”

Still laughing, the witches stepped out into the rain.

The
moment the falling water hit them, they lost all their magic.

As the rabbi and his students watched, each witch was transformed.

Those who had set spells to make fires die became flames, to be blown away as ash on the wind.

Those who had set spells to make the cows run dry became blades of grass, to be eaten by the animals of the hill.

And those who had set spells to turn the family into winged creatures became worms on the ground, to be pecked up by the early birds of the morning.

When the rabbi and his students returned, soaking wet, to Ashkelon, they discovered that the transformed family had changed from birds and butterflies back into people.

But the baby was screaming angrily, because she'd enjoyed being a wriggly caterpillar!

Turnskin

Breton folktale

This story starts where most stories end:
and they lived happily ever after
...

Because this story starts with a tall, dark, handsome young lord, meeting and marrying a delicate, golden, city girl, then taking her home to his castle in Brittany, where they both hoped to live happily ever after.

But what happens
after
happily ever after?

The Lord and his Lady were happy for a month. Then the Lord, Bisclavret, went
missing
for three days. He simply vanished, into the thick forest around his castle.

When he came back, he refused to tell his new wife where he'd been, and he expected their happy ever after to continue. But she was confused and worried.

The same thing happened the next month, and the month after. Every month, Bisclavret was absent for a few days.

She demanded answers. “Where do you go? What do you do? Who are you
with
?”

But every time she asked, he changed the subject or made a joke.

He continued to disappear every month, for three or four days. Leaving his new young wife in charge of the castle, the lands, the staff and the guards, and refusing to answer her questions when he returned.

Eventually she said, “Bisclavret, we can't have a happy ever after, unless you share your secrets with me. Tell me where you go and what you do. If you don't, I'll know you don't love me after all.”

Bisclavret stopped joking and evading. He
sighed
and said he was afraid that if he told her, she would no longer love him. His new wife smiled and held his hand, and promised that whatever he said she would still love him.

So he told her his secret.

“I am a turnskin,” he said. “My skin is human on the outside but on the inside, my skin is covered with dark grey hair. On the inside, I wear wolfskin. When I feel the itch start and the turn approach I leave my castle and my people, and I go into the forest so I can't hurt anyone.”

His wife let go of his hand and wrapped her arms around her chest. “You become a wolf?”

“Yes. I become a wolf. I knew you would be shocked. I knew you would stop loving me.”

“But I don't understand. How do you eat, where do you sleep...? If I can understand, if you tell me everything, I'm sure I will still love you.” She took his hand again, her fingers trembling.

Bisclavret
told her almost everything. How he lived in the forest, what he hunted, how it felt to run and howl. There was only one thing he didn't tell her.

“I can't tell you where I hide my clothes,” he said, when she asked. “That's the one thing a turnskin has to keep secret, because we need to find and wear our own clothes to turn human again.”

Bisclavret's wife smiled and said she understood. And they seemed to live happily ever after, for a few more weeks.

But she didn't like her husband having even one secret, so when he left the castle the next month, she followed him. He wasn't hard to follow in his bright red cloak.

She followed him from the castle to the edge of the forest, and through the forest to a small clearing. She hid behind a bush and watched as he took off his red cloak, his white shirt, his long brown leather boots and his grey breeches. She watched as he folded his clothes, then lifted a stone and hid the clothes in a hole underneath.

Then
she watched as he changed. He crouched to the ground, and his spine arched. His arms stretched and his legs shrank to become four limbs the same length. His fingers clenched into paws and his nails curved into claws. His nose and chin melted together, then jutted out into a long snout with yellow fangs.

She watched as his skin rippled then turned, so he was covered in dark grey fur.

She watched as he became a wolf.

Then she watched as the wolf lifted his snout, sniffed the air, and slowly turned his head towards the bush she was hiding behind.

She felt her own skin ripple, a tiny cold shiver of fear across her neck and shoulders. Then the wolf turned away and trotted off into the forest.

The new wife couldn't move. She had understood the idea of her husband becoming a wolf, when they'd talked. But she'd not expected the reality of watching her handsome husband become a beast, and of fearing that the beast would attack her.

She didn't want to be married to him any
more.
She couldn't have a happy ever after with an animal. She never wanted to see him again.

So she stood up, she walked to the stone, she kicked it over, she picked up the clothes and she walked away.

Carrying the red cloak wrapped around the rest of the clothes, she walked through the forest towards the castle, up the wide steps and through the arched doorway. She washed the clothes and dried them. She hung the cloak behind the door. She folded the shirt and breeches, and put them in a drawer. She polished the boots.

Then she took control of the castle, just as she had every time her husband was absent. But this time, she had a plan.

She ordered the men to cut down the trees for quarter of a mile round the castle, so the land was bare and anything crossing the land could be easily seen. She gave each man a bow and a quiver full of arrows, then sent them to the top of the towers and battlements, and ordered them to shoot any animal that left the forest.

Then she relaxed, sure she would never see Lord Bisclavret again, as a wolf or a man.

In the forest, the turnskin spent three days as a wolf, hunting and running and sleeping under the trees. Then when his skin itched and he knew it was time to turn back to a man, he returned to the clearing. But the stone was on its side, the hole was empty and his clothes were gone.

Bisclavret knew that to become a man again, he must find clothes. He had plenty of clothes in his castle, so he went towards the edge of the forest, which was much nearer than he expected. He stepped out into the bare land between the trees and the castle, and suddenly – THUMP – an arrow hit the earth beside him.

He ran back into the forest, turned to look at the castle and saw men, his own men, aiming arrows at him.

So he waited until night, and tried again. But the guards had put burning torches into
the
ground round the castle, and though the wolf got a little nearer, the arrows still flew out of the dark at him, and he had to run back to the safety of the trees.

Bisclavret realised he couldn't reach the castle and find his own clothes. So he ran in the other direction, until he found a woodsman's cottage on the other side of the forest. He stole a shirt from the washing line and struggled his front legs into the sleeves. But he didn't turn into a man, because these weren't his own clothes and they had no power to turn him back.

The turnskin gave up.

He stayed a wolf, because he had no choice, and anyway he enjoyed being a wolf. He enjoyed the chase when he hunted deer, he enjoyed the hot bloody meat, he enjoyed the strength and speed of his muscles, he enjoyed the weight and warmth of his soft fur, and he enjoyed the world of scents around him.

But after weeks of living as a lone wolf, he began to miss the things that made him a man. He missed bread and cheese and baths.
He
missed music and stories and friendship. He missed his wife and his happy ever after.

So he tried to reach his own clothes again. But the land around the castle was still bare (“who ordered the trees cut down?” he wondered). The archers were still on the battlements (“who put them there?” he wondered). And there was still no way to get to his own clothes (“who took my clothes from the forest?” he wondered).

As he prowled alone through the forest, he heard a horn. A shrill hunting horn, echoing through the trees. All wild animals are afraid of the hunt, but the turnskin ran towards the sound of the horn, towards the baying dogs, drumming hooves and shouting men.

Then he leapt out, right in front of the hunt.

The lead huntsman called, “Halloo! A wolf! A wolfskin cloak for the man who brings it down!”

So the wolf ran.

But not at top speed. He ran just fast enough to keep ahead of the dogs, the horses, and
the
huntsmen's spears. He ran through the trees, but not into the darkest and thickest parts of the forest. He let the hunt keep him in sight.

He led the hunt right to the edge of the forest.

Then the wolf ran out across the bare land. The archers on the castle walls raised their bows and aimed their arrows.

The hunt crashed out of the trees and the lead huntsman yelled, “NO! Don't shoot! The wolf is ours. Don't shoot our prey.”

The archers lowered their bows and watched the chase. They watched the wolf dash across the cleared land, followed by the dogs, the horses and the men with spears.

Now the wolf
was
running as fast as possible. He sprinted towards the castle with the dogs at his heels.

Chased by the hunt, and protected by the hunt.

At the bottom of the steps, where a wild animal would turn and face its foe, the wolf ran up the steps like a man late for a feast.
He
pushed through the arched wooden doors and into the castle.

The wolf slid and clattered on the stone floor. He saw his cloaks, hanging behind the door. Including his red cloak, which he'd hidden in the forest.

Then he heard a gasp, and turned round to see his wife, her face pale and her hands trembling.

Suddenly Bisclavret knew who had taken his clothes, who had cleared the land and who had ordered the archers to shoot him.

He leapt up at his wife, snarling.

He snapped his teeth, just grazing the very tip of her nose.

Then he heard the huntsmen running up the steps. He turned his back on his wife and used his teeth to haul down the cloak.

The huntsmen shoved the door wide open. And they saw...

...the Lord, Bisclavret, tall and dark and handsome, wrapped from throat to heels in a rich red cloak.