Werebeast

© 2004 Michael Hanson
All rights reserved.

The sun's last embers concede to the horizon, and the grey falling of darkness unfolds. With this moment I light the final candle, open the pages of the worn book. Its smell is musty, old. In the dim light I can make out the symbols, and I begin to read them aloud, barely comprehending the sounds I create.

The hunt for the abomination commenced at sunrise.

We decided to break up into groups of six, each led by the strongest and wisest among us. Some of the younger ones poorly hid their fear but managed to keep from whining out loud. My brothers and I were given the assignment of combing the lower end of the haunted rock forest. I took point.

Keeping my senses on alert for any and all surprises, I reviewed everything I could remember about the history of the werecreatures. Once thought to be fables to frighten young pups, several daytime attacks in recent years had finally convinced even the most closed-minded of conservatives to keep to the company of at least two others at all times.

Rogue behavior, once considered a sign of power and strength among us, was now more than a little suspect, and for good reason. A consensus among attack survivors was that the beasts showed a clear inclination for targeting the individual: the smaller and weaker, the better. I couldn't agree more.

The main myth, which I had only recently come to comprehend, was that the monstrosities are shapeshifters by day. And, amazingly, they had, each and every one, originally been a normal, productive, stable member of a community.

Although several competitive theories about the true underlying nature of this aberrant manifestation continued circulating among our frequent gatherings, one thing was universally agreed upon. Some as-yet-unidentified form of physical contact during an attack by the werecreature eventually induced the dark magic in the innocent, inevitably transforming victim into beast.

I signaled to my brethren with a quick nod and we split up, increasing our intervals to a full dozen yards. I'd found in the past that a skirmish line was one of the better maneuvers for flushing prey from the rock forest.

Rock forest? Yes, for such is the legend of this region that many years ago these strange-looking collapsed caves had not existed; instead, they had started from the earth and raised themselves upward, sometimes in relatively short amounts of time.

Dangerous rockslides were common in this wasteland, so the community was regularly warned to never approach. Today was the rare exception. After comparing attack records with two nearby communities, our elders decided that this valley provided our best hope of apprehending and stopping the feral incursions into our lands.

Scar stopped at the outer perimeter for a moment to rest a leg. This gave me pause. He'd cut his shoulder a couple of days ago, and it hadn't completely healed yet. Twice already I'd given his wound a thorough examination, but I could find no taint of the weird. I have a nose for these things.

I gave him a brief snarl to remind him of his duty. My boys were on edge this close to so-called "haunted dirt." I'd tried to explain to them earlier that it was no doubt the proximity of the werebeasts that had elicited those ghost stories in the first place. Bad idea on my part. Werebeast or ghost: it was all the same to a young warrior.

That blasted hot orb rose higher into the sky. It would strain our sightlines but had to be endured. Worse yet, it was firmly believed that the hated day-fire marked the creatures' transmutation from normal to werebeast.

We crept into the maze. Our natural instinct was to dive into any and all shadows to both maintain a cool body temperature and improve our sight by cutting back on light-glare. But here such actions would be suicidal, as the werebeasts were known to stay well hidden in the patches of dark.

I remembered the first time I'd found the body of a slain cousin. Her wounds had been unlike any I had seen before. Her head had been smashed open, as if struck by a limb made of hard rock instead of flesh and bone. In time-honored tradition I had tasted her blood. I will never, ever, forget that taint of the weird.

Later I heard tales that in other lands the werebeasts skinned their victims, or removed their hearts and livers for food. Our consensus was that these terrible things had to be stopped.

The fire globe reached the peak of its arch.

And then it started.

The six of us reached a large clearing in the center of the stone forest and dropped to the ground for a few minutes of rest. It would take us another five hours to move the skirmish line circuitously back out to the perimeter where we'd started.

Without notice, Scar jumped up and glared at me accusingly.

The other four leaped to their feet and warily circled my writhing form.

My mouth foamed and my eyes rolled.

"Now!" I thought in shock. "It is time!"

Yes, it was.

Before their eyes my thick pelt receded back into my hide, leaving me nearly hairless, with the exception of a large patch of fur on my head and smaller patches under my front limbs and genitals.

Scar, horrified by my betrayal, howled aloud his rage.

Next, my fangs receded into my ever-dwindling muzzle, and my four legs radically changed their shape. My rear paws stretched out long and wide, while my front ones flattened and grew thin, branchlike appendages. My claws all but disappeared.

I, the werebeast, lifted myself upright upon my two lower limbs to stare down at the five of them.

The hair stood up on all their backs.

One dozen of my new brothers crept out of hidden niches dug in the dirt. Each held a large rock or wooden club in their hands.

"Four months." I gloated to myself. "Four months and none detected my taint."

And why? Well it was so simple. A daily roll in the dirt. A daily swim in a stream. A thorough roll in dung. Oh, my four-legged brethren were so gullible.

As if sensing my thoughts, Scar snarled at me.

My teeth, small and very white, broke into a smile. I reached down with my mutated front paws and picked up two large stones.

That was the signal.

My pack of werebeasts and I fell upon the wolves with club and rock.

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