Running With the Pack (8 page)

By the time an appropriate quantity of material had been shipped to the investigator, a number of possible subjects had suggested themselves, all in the vicinity of Trials 4 and 5. Hunter F was a nineteen-year-old male, and the leader of one half of the surviving gang of which Hunter D had been a member. When provided with a book on survival techniques, including the crafting of pit traps, he and his companions
[8]
arranged twelve fire-hardened spikes of
S. aucuparia
inside a street-level delivery hatch to the basement of a nearby building. They then covered the opening with a tarp and sent their fastest runner, a fourteen-year-old male (henceforth called Assistant F), to lure a target toward the field site.

Hunter F declined to allow the investigator to place a stationary camera, or to equip any of the participants with head-mounted devices. It proved possible, however, for the investigator to slip one on in the moments preceding the commencement of the trial. The following data is based upon that recording.

The lure returned mixed results. Sounds issuing from outside the camera’s field of view indicated that Assistant F was caught and dispatched just beyond the mouth of the alley. Another individual (Assistant F2, male, age unknown) ran to his aid, but reversed course almost immediately, pursued by Lycanthrope F at a range of approximately two meters. Assistant F2, a heavily-built young man, appears to have lacked the dexterity of the late Assistant F; he missed his footing on the plank bridging the pit trap and fell in. Lycanthrope F immediately attempted to change course, but skidded on wet pavement and slid over the edge. Hunter F, along with Assistants F3-F7 (all male, ages unknown) ran to the pit trap, where they began throwing objects at Lycanthrope F and stamping on its hands
[9]
in an attempt to make it fall. This succeeded after approximately seven seconds, but the target missed the spikes; it only cracked one, and subsequently
[10]
ran off into the basement.

The efficacy of
S. aucuparia
against lycanthropes therefore remains dubious. Against human beings, however, the spikes proved quite fatal.

Trial 7: Aconitum napellus

The role of the final antipathetic is suggested by its common name,
[11]
wolfsbane. The most suitable delivery mechanism would seem to be a tranquilizer dart, but the unsatisfactory results of Trial 5 ruled out this approach. The investigator considered stuffing lumps of meat with leaves of
A. napellus
, before concluding that the likelihood of persuading a lycanthrope to consume the meat was low. An infusion of the whole plant therefore seemed the most reliable means.

Hunter G is a twenty-four-year-old female graduate student in biology. No recording was made of the seventh trial, except for notes transcribed by the subject after the event. An infusion of
A. napellus
was prepared by the subject upon the arrival of Lycanthrope G
[12]
during daylight hours, in the period of the waning moon. When served to Lycanthrope G in a teacup and consumed by the target, it proved fatal within nine minutes. The efficacy of
A. napellus
against lycanthropes in their lupine or hybrid forms is still undocumented, but the howls and snarls of Lycanthrope G suggest that it operated upon more than simply the normal human cardiac function of the target.

Conclusion and further study

All the tested antipathetics and delivery mechanisms showed flaws that mar their efficacy. (Those which failed to produce any result may be deemed inefficacious by their general unreliability.) The most harm was inflicted by the modern argent projectile, the argent blade, and
A. napellus
, but the former suffers from difficulty of manufacture and unreliable performance, the second requires hazardous proximity to a lycanthrope, and the latter, thus far, has only proved its use against lycanthropes in human form.

Nevertheless, it is the opinion of Hunter G, in her role as investigator, that
A. napellus
offers the most promising avenue for further inquiry. Another course of field trials is intended, these testing the efficacy of an infusion of
A. napellus
applied externally, as delivered by a high-powered water gun. Trials 4, 5, and 6 have produced an abundance of suitable research targets, many of whom have demonstrated a tendency to approach the investigator of their own accord.

It is hoped that the documentation provided by this study will encourage others to pursue the topic of lycanthropic biology. There is an urgent need for a greater understanding of the subject, particularly in the vicinity of Philadelphia.

THE BEAUTIFUL GELREESH

JEFFREY FORD

His facial fur was a swirling wonder of blond and blue with highlights the orange of a November sun. It covered every inch of his brow and cheeks, the blunt ridge of his nose, even his eyelids. When beset by a bout of overwhelming sympathy, he would twirl the thicket of longer strands that sprouted from the center of his forehead. His bright silver eyes emitted invisible beams that penetrated the most guarded demeanors of his patients and shed light upon the condition of their souls. Discovering the essence of an individual, the Gelreesh would sit quietly, staring, tapping the black enamel nails of his hirsute hands together in an incantatory rhythm that would regulate the heartbeat of his visitor to that of his own blood muscle.

“And when, may I ask, did you perceive the first inklings of your despair?” he would say with a sudden whimper.

Once his question was posed, the subject was no longer distracted by the charm of his prominent incisors. He would lick his lips once, twice, three times, with diminishing speed, adjusting the initiate’s respiration and brain pulse. Then the loveliness of his pointed ears, the grace of his silk fashions would melt away, and his lucky interlocutor would have no choice but to tell the truth even if in her heart of hearts she believed herself to be lying.

“When my father left us,” might be the answer.

“Let us walk, my dear,” the Gelreesh would suggest.

The woman or man or child, as the case might be, would put a hand into the warm hand of the heart’s physician. He would lead them through his antechamber into the hallway and out through a back entrance of his house. To walk with the Gelreesh, matching his languorous stride, was to partake in a slow, stately procession. His gentle direction would guide one down the garden path to the hole in the crumbling brick and mortar wall netted with ivy. Before leaving the confines of the wild garden, he might pluck a lily to be handed to his troubled charge.

The path through the woods snaked in great loops around stands of oak and maple. Although the garden should appear to be at the height of summer life, this adjacent stretch of forest, leading toward the sea, was forever trapped in autumn. Here, just above the murmur of the wind and just below the rustle of red and yellow leaves, the Gelreesh would methodically pose his questions designed to fan the flames of his companion’s anguish. With each troubled answer, he would respond with phrases he was certain would keep that melancholic heart drenched in a black sweat. “Horrible,” he would say in the whine of a dog dreaming. “My dear, that’s ghastly.” “How can you go on?” “If I were you I would be weeping,” was one that never failed to turn the trick.

When the tears would begin to flow, he’d reach into the pocket of his loose fitting jacket of paisley design for a handkerchief stitched in vermillion, bearing the symbol of a broken heart. Handing it to his patient, he would again continue walking and the gentle interrogation would resume.

An hour might pass, even two, but there was no rush. There were so many questions to be asked and answered. Upon finally reaching the edge of the cliff that gave a view outward of the boundless ocean, the Gelreesh would release the hand of his subject and say with tender conviction, “And so, you see, this ocean must be for you a representation of the overwhelming, intractable dilemma that gnaws at your heart. You know without my telling you that there is really only one solution. You must move toward peace, to a better place.”

“Yes, yes, thank you,” would come the response followed by a fresh torrent of tears. The handkerchief would be employed, and then the Gelreesh would kindly ask for it back.

“The future lies ahead of you and the troubled past bites at your heels, my child.”

Three steps forward and the prescription would be filled. A short flight of freedom, a moment of calm for the tortured soul and then endless rest on the rocks below surrounded by the rib cages and skulls of fellow travelers once pursued by grief and now cured.

The marvelous creature would pause and dab a tear or two from the corners of his own eyes before undressing. Then naked but for the spiral pattern of his body’s fur, he would walk ten paces to the east where he kept a long rope tied at one end to the base of a mighty oak, growing at the very edge of the cliff. His descent could only be described as acrobatic, pointing to a history with the circus. When finally down among the rocks, he would find the corpse of the new immigrant to the country without care and tidily devour every trace of flesh.

Later, in the confines of his office, he would compose a letter in turquoise ink on yellow paper, assuring the loved ones of his most recent patient that she or he, seeking the solace of a warm sun and crystal sea, had booked passage for a two-year vacation on the island of Valshavar—a paradisiacal atoll strung like a bead on the necklace of the equator.
Let not the price of this journey trouble your minds, for I, understanding the exemplary nature of the individual in question have decided to pay all expenses for their escape from torment. In a year or two, when next you meet them, they will appear younger, and in their laughter you will feel the warmth of the tropical sun. With their touch, your own problems will vanish as if conjured away by island magic.
This missive would then be rolled like a scroll, tied fast with a length of green ribbon and given into the talons of a great horned owl to be delivered.

And so it was that the Gelreesh operated, from continent to continent, dispensing his exquisite pity and relieving his patients of their unnecessary mortal coils. When suspicion arose to the point where doubt began to negate his beauty in the eyes of the populace, then, by dark of night, he would flee on all fours, accompanied by the owl, deep into the deepest forest, never to be seen again in that locale. The pile of bones he’d leave behind were undeniable proof of his treachery, but the victims’ families preferred to think of their loved ones stretched out beneath a palm frond canopy on the pink beach of Valshavar, being fed peeled grapes by a monkey valet. This daydream in the face of horror would deflate all attempts at organizing a search party to hunt him down.

Although he would invariably move on, setting up a practice in a new locale rich in heavy hearts and haunted minds, something of him would remain behind in the form of a question, namely, “What was The Beautiful Gelreesh?” Granted, there were no end of accounts of his illusory form—everything from that of a dashing cavalry officer with waxed mustache to the refined blond impertinence of a symphony conductor. He reminded one young woman whom he had danced with at a certain town soiree as being a blend of her father, her boss and her older brother. In fact, when notes were later compared, no two could agree on the precise details of his splendor.

He was finally captured during one of his escapes, found with his leg in a fox trap only a mile from the village he had last bestowed his pity upon. This beast in pain could not fully concentrate on creating the illusion of loveliness, and the incredulous chicken farmer who discovered him writhing in the bite of the steel jaws witnessed him shifting back and forth between suave charm and gnashing horror. The poor man was certain he had snared the devil. A special investigator was sent to handle the case. Blind and somewhat autistic, the famous detective, Gal de Gui, methodically put the entire legacy together as if it was a child’s jigsaw puzzle. Of course, in the moments of interrogation by De Gui, the Gelreesh tried to catch him up with a glamorous illusion. The detective responded to this deception with a yawn. The creature later told his prison guards that De Gui’s soul was blank as a white wall and perfect. De Gui’s final comment on the Gelreesh was, “Put down some newspaper and give him a bone. Here is the classic case of man’s best friend.”

It was when the Gelreesh related his own life story to the court, eliciting pity from a people who previously desired his, that he allowed himself to appear as the hominid-canine entity that had always lurked behind his illusion. As the tears filled the eyes of the jury, his handsome visage wavered like a desert mirage and then lifted away to reveal fur and fangs. No longer were his words the mellifluous susurrations of the sympathetic therapist, but now came through as growling dog talk in a spray of spittle. Even the huge owl that sat on his shoulder in the witness stand shrank and darkened to become a grackle.

As he told it, he had been born to an aristocratic family, the name of which everyone present would have known, but he would not mention it for fear of bringing reprisals down upon them for his actions. Because of his frightening aspect at birth, his father accused his mother of bestiality. The venerable patriarch made plans to do away with his wife, but she saved him the trouble by poisoning herself with small sips of opium and an arsenic pastry of her own recipe. The strange child was named Rameau after a distant relation on the mother’s side and sent to live in a newly constructed barn on the outskirts of the family estate. At the same time that the father ordered the local clergy to try to exorcise the beast out of him, there was a standing order for the caretaker to feed him nothing but raw meat. As the Gelreesh had said on the witness stand, “My father spent little time thinking about me, but when he did, the fact of my existence twisted his thinking so that it labored pointlessly at cross-purposes.”

The family priest taught the young Rameau how to speak and read, so that the strange child could learn the Bible. Through this knowledge of language he was soon able to understand the holy man’s philosophy, which, in brief, was that the world was a ball of shit adrift in a sea of sin and the sooner one passed to heaven the better. As the Gelreesh confessed, he took these lessons to heart, and so later in life when he helped free his patients’ souls from excremental bondage, he felt he was actually doing them a great favor. It was from that bald and jowly man of God that the creature became acquainted with the power of pity.

On the other hand, the caretaker who daily brought the beef was a man of the world. He was very old and had traveled far and wide. This kindly aged vagabond would tell the young Rameau stories of far off places—islands at the equator and tundra crowded with migrating elk. One day, he told the boy about a fellow he had met in a far-off kingdom that sat along the old Silk Road to China. This remarkable fellow, Ibn Sadi was his name, had the power of persuasion. With subtle movements of his body, certain tricks of respiration in accordance with that of his audience, he could make himself invisible or appear as a beautiful woman. It was an illusion, of course, but to the viewer it seemed as real as the day. “What was his secret?” asked Rameau. The old man leaned in close to the boy’s cage and whispered, “Listen to the rhythm of life and when you look, do not accept but project. Feel what the other is feeling and make what they have felt what you feel. Speak only their own desire to them in a calm, soft voice, and they will see you as beautiful as they wish themselves to be.”

The Gelreesh had time, days on end, to mull over his formula for control. He worked at it and tried different variations until one day he was able to look into the soul of the priest and discover what it was—a mouse nibbling a wedge of wooden cheese. Soon after, he devised the technique of clicking together his fingernails in order to send out a hypnotic pulse, and with this welded the power of pity to the devices of the adept from the kingdom along the old Silk Road. Imagine the innate intelligence of this boy they considered a beast. A week following, he had escaped. For some reason, the priest had opened the cage and for his trouble was found by the caretaker to have been ushered into the next and better world minus the baggage of his flesh.

The jury heard the story of the Gelreesh’s wanderings and the perfection of his art, how he changed his name to that of a certain brand of Mediterranean cigarettes he had enjoyed. “I wanted to help the emotionally wounded,” he had said to his accusers, and all grew sympathetic, but when they vented their grief for his solitary life and saw his true form, they unanimously voted for his execution. Just prior to accepting, against his will, the thirty bullets from the rifles of the firing squad marksmen, the Gelreesh performed a spectacular display of metamorphosis, becoming, in turn, each of his executioners. Before the captain of the guard could shout the order for the deadly volley, the beautiful one became, again, himself, shouted, “I feel your pain,” and begged for all in attendance to participate in devouring him completely once he was dead. This final plea went unheeded. His corpse was left to the dogs and carrion birds. His bones were later gathered and sent to the Museum of Natural Science in the city of Nethit. The grackle was released into the wild.

Once he had been disposed of and the truth had been circulated, it seemed that everyone on all continents wanted to claim some attachment to the Gelreesh. For a five year period there was no international figure more popular. My God, the stories told about him—women claimed to have had his children, men claimed they were him or his brother or at least the son of the caretaker who gave him his first clues to the protocol of persuasion. Children played Gelreesh, and the lucky tike who got to be his namesake retained for the day ultimate power in the game. An entire branch of psychotherapy had sprung up called Non-Consumptive Gelreeshia, meaning that the therapists swamped their patients with pity but had designs not on the consumption of their flesh, merely their bank accounts. There were studies written about him, novels and plays and an epic poem entitled
Monster of Pity
. The phenomenon of his popularity had given rise to a philosophical reevaluation of
Beauty.