The Beast's Slave

iii

Happy New Year

“He watches you,” the girl whispers, soft lips brushing the shell of River’s ear. River blinks feigning disinterest whilst her heart slams against her sternum within.

“Who?” Her voice leaves in wistful indifference. Amusedly, her friend leans against her forearm, dropping her temple on her shoulder with a hum; “Do not act so nonchalance, River, your face says otherwise.”

A rose shakes in her blood and shadows her cheeks. River sucks a mouthful of the cool night air and spares a glance upwards.

Past the red, orange and yellow ball of rage that roars upwards eating its way through the wooden pyramid at its base. Plumes of grey are buffeted into the night sky, carried aimlessly by the chill October wind.

Ashen debris glides silently away from the smoke onto the throng of excited children and talkative adults that all sit around the great bonfire beast, their eyes transformed into orbs of light each flickering orange flame playing a light show on their pupils.

A slight shift in wind parts the flames in time, allowing her a glance at the boy who sits opposite, between his friends, watching her. As their gazes close an intimate circuit, River feels a sliver of confidence evade her. The corner of his mouth pinches into a smirk and she mirrors the action, perhaps even more daring.

The flames close and his face dissolves.

Her blood grows hot at the contact, despite the distance. She licks at her lips as the crowd grows hush when the priest arrives.

The wizened village priest is small, roundish, and moves with ungainly restlessness, like several elderly squirrels trying to escape from a sack. His own age is on the older side of completely indeterminate.

His face is heavily lined, and the small amount of hair that escapes from under his red woollen hat is thin, white, and has very much its own ideas about how it wished to arrange itself. He too is muffled inside a heavy coat, but over it, he wears a billowing gown with very faded purple trimmings.

The silence that drifts is broken by his voice, raspy and cool as the night air;  “Few people are aware that even the legend of the werewolf can be traced back to ancient Greek mythology. Werewolves are also often referred to as lycanthropes. Perhaps because the very first werewolf was a human by the name of Lycaon.

As the story goes, a lot of humans believed that they owed their lives to Prometheus rather than to the gods and goddesses of Mount Olympus. For that reason, many refused to worship them according to Zeus's rules.

A few chose to do more than refuse to worship the gods, however. They went so far as to challenge them outright. The worst of the bunch was a man named Lycaon. He constantly spoke out against the Olympians, cursing their names and uttering blasphemies.

Zeus grew tired of Lycaon's attitude and decided to teach him a lesson. He took mortal form and went into Lycaon's village, sharing his identity with many of the humans that he met along the way. Most humans, once they knew who he really was, began to worship the king of the gods according to his will.

Of course, Lycaon wasn't about to do that. Still, he gave the appearance that he was going to listen to what Zeus had to say. He invited him to dinner to discuss what he needed to do to gain favour with the gods.

However, Lycaon never intended to keep his end of the bargain. Quite the opposite, in fact, he intended to commit the most grievous act of desecration of which he could conceive.

In his dungeon, Lycaon had many prisoners because he was a wealthy man who could get away with almost any activity imaginable. His prisoners were all people that he had decided had dishonoured him in some way or who had dared to try and take a morsel of bread from his table.

He took one of his prisoners and slit his throat. He then dismembered the poor soul, to use his body as meat for the stew that he planned to serve for dinner.

Once the meal was prepared and set on the table, Lycaon invited Zeus and his entourage into the dining area. But Zeus immediately smelled the meat and knew what Lycaon had done. Using his thunderbolts, he struck the table, sending the food flying and finally capturing the attention of his so-called host.

Suddenly Lycaon realized he had made a grave error and he began running for his life, with Zeus in hot pursuit. But as he ran, he realized that something was happening to him. His cries became snarls and growls. His body dropped to all fours and began to alter painfully. His nose became a snout and his ears became pointed. Hair sprung up all over his body and his teeth became sharp and pointed.

Zeus laughed, thinking that he had taught the human a valuable lesson; but the joke was on him. Lycaon discovered that he liked his new condition because it allowed him to continue his bloodthirsty ways. He killed sheep, goats, and humans with reckless abandon until the villagers grew tired of his reign of terror and dispatched him to Tartarus.

Over the years, the concept behind the lycanthrope changed to that of someone who was human during the day and a wolf only at night, when the moon was full. How and why that change came about remains a mystery, although there are several theories espoused.

The first lycanthrope, it would seem, may have come to be because of his disrespect of the Greek gods. He wasn't the first to dishonour them and would not be the last. He may, however, have been the one to pay the heaviest price of all."

Once the fire dies and people retire to their homes, River remains by the ashes, watching their retreating figures listlessly. Adriel, much to her dismay, leaves with his group of friends. Rubbing her palms vigorously for heat, River blows into them before rising and finding her way into the woods.

The need to relieve herself is far too great, and thoughts of sleeping with a full bladder are discomforting. Absolute darkness drifts across the forest, and a certain feel slivers across River's skin.

She cannot place a finger on the feeling; Dread? Almost as tangible and weighted as the cloak on her back. She steps through the slight ensnare of low wicked branches and circles the spot, stomping her feet to flatten the earth. Satisfied with the spot, she hikes her skirt up to her waist, dropping her knickers and squatting low.

The silence is low, it draws itself through the fog that spreads around her ankles. It is unnerving, up until a shrill scream tears through the night air.

The sound startles River who jerks upright, cursing low as her urine sprays around her feet and pants. “Gods above-” struggling to get her bladder in control, River squats back low, heart leaping up against her throat. She waits in bated breath, eyes fearfully flickering across the numerous bushes.

Another screams cuts through the brittle air followed by two more. Incongruous bloody cries painting the dark red. Seconds later, the village gong goes off, three heavy poundings signalling an attack.

River begins to rise, hastily pulling her soaked knickers up and skirt down. Her head snaps in the direction of screams, the thick heady scent of smoke follows suite as silhouetted figures run about like headless chickens.

For a moment, standing in the shadows of the forest, River stares at the women rushing past whilst clutching wailing toddlers, men reaching for spears and heading in the opposite direction - the chaos disrupts all common thought. River stills, disoriented.

Not until a voice finally confirms her cold suspicions.

“Wolves!”

Wolves?

A movement in the shadows has her freezing; it is no more than a rustle but in the failing light her heart is on a hair-trigger. More noise comes. River takes a step back and pats her pocket for the flick knife, but everyone is flat. She crouches low, her lungs rapidly inflating and deflating with sweet rain-scented air. Minutes pass as the darkness grows twilight.

Pinching her fingers white, River’s eyes flicker to the blooming yarrow not far off. A good enough hiding place. She inhales a shallow measured breath, hyper-aware of the uncanny silent environment around.

She shifts to a slight rise. Go, now.

River takes off in the direction of the yarrow just as the darkness by her side stirs to life, the large beast that lurked patiently now rearing its vicious head. River hardly catches sight of it when large paws press up against her shoulder blades, violently throwing her forward.

She falls with a cry of surprise, her head slams against the sharp edge of a rock.

Darkness falls swiftly.