Part 11
[5] The frolicsomeness of a panther suggests intoxication. In this it surpasses all other animals. Therefore the car of Bacchus is drawn by panthers.
FLAXIUS AND THE WERE-WOLF
THE WONDERFUL STORY TELLING HOW RANDOLPH OF UPSALA ATE THE SHEEP, AND HOW MR. RANDOLPH OF WALL STREET DEVOURED THE LAMBS.
‘Now there are some people who think that those who believe they are Were-wolves only suffer from what is called by doctors _Lycanthropia_. But others hold that they are indeed changed to brutes, and this cannot be denied, and those who deny it are all infamous liars.’--_Peter Goldschmied_, _Hexen Advocat._ 1705.
IT happened once in the days of sword-songs and sagas, runic sorcery and sea-dragons, that Flaxius found himself in Sweden on a summer eve, gazing at the town of Upsala. He sat upon the little hill before it, where, as tradition tells, Odin was buried. Ye may see his bones, to-day, in a paste-board box in a case in the Stockholm Museum, where I who write these lines was allowed to reverently touch them, which is indeed a favour only accorded to a pious few who still worship the gods, disguised as folk-lorists and archæologists--_quorum pars sum_.
Now as Flaxius looked upon the strange city, and the old tower, with its eight arches typifying the eight rings or armlets of the All-Father, he observed here and there on the walls, swinging in the wind, the corpses of the strangers who were caught straying about the country, and were then sentenced to _sus per coll_, or be hanged, slung up, or hitched to swing, dangle, swaggle, and go bibbety-bob in the breezes, as a sacrifice to Odin.
‘A somewhat severe custom,’ mused Flaxius gently, ‘yet doubtless not without its peculiar advantages. The stranger within our gates often seems to us well worthy of being gated, when he gets the entire government of cities into his hands, and runs the taxes--into his own pocket; as I with eye prophetic do foresee will be the case one day in Western lands, but late discovered by these valiant Norse.
‘But for the Sacrificed on yonder walls. I remember how upon a time in Rome when Nero made full oft grim martyrdoms, that a disciple of Paulus asked--hearing me declare that there was humour in all things--if it could be found in the awful conception of a God dying as a criminal to show his humility and love for the world? And I can recall how Odin once coming as stranger, or in some disguise, into this very town, he being their god, was seized at once and hung on yonder wall, as a due sacrifice unto himself. Over which thing he merrily exults as if it were a wondrous racy joke, as we may read in the Edda:
‘“For nine nights, I hung on the wind-rocked tree A sacrifice unto myself.”
‘Truly the idea was too much for me, but not for the All-Father of the Northern gods, who found a grotesque humour in the conception of a Creator baffled by his own work. So he carried out the jest by being hung. Ah well! he lost the game after all, which shows that the Scandinavians were not good myth-makers. We managed these things much better in Etruria, Greece, and Rome. “There’s nothing sacred to a pioneer,” says a French proverb, and Odin was the _Sapeur_ and leader, and discoverer for all the North. The Norseman and Norman were his children. Od or Hud was his name as “the traveller,” and Henry Hudson was of the blood. Like an old traveller, Odin would have his joke.
‘But as to this custom of stringing up, or scragging strangers, and making them dance upon nothing in honour of the Lord Odin, it behoves me to look to myself with care unless I too would wear a tight cravat, and I care not for such worldly vanities.’
Saying this he wandered on and away, till he came to a lonely place amid rocks and trees by a headlong stream, where he paused. Suddenly his attention was caught by a cry, which he found came from a pit hard by. It was a deep and powerful voice. And to it Flaxius replied:
‘Who calls?’
The voice answered:
‘I am one who has fallen into this pit, and have not the power to come forth.’ Then he sang in staff-rhyme:
‘“To catch the Band-olf, To take the Adelolf, Bertolf, Eginolf, Frekulf, Aistolf, Hedenolf, Ingolf, Kelolf and Kunolf, Orkulf, Ordulf, Ludolf and Rachulf, Ralf and Ranulf, Wolfram and Tackolf, Theodolf, Unolf, Wolfart and many a wolf, Men with the sword, Bearers of Lances, Go forth to battle. To catch the Were-wolf, They dig the pit-fall, With runes and sorcery, Witch-rhyme and magic, So well they guard it That the wild wolf-man Falling into it, There must remain, Starving, a prisoner, Until a sorcerer, Pitying, comes to him, Breaking the witch-spell.”’
‘Which means in prose,’ said Flaxius, ‘that a poor devil of a sheep-stealer, _alias_ a were-wolf, is here in the pit--more’s the pity! There is to my mind indeed--I know not why--something less of crime in stealing mutton and venison than some other things; in fact I remember that a great Etruscan dramatist, now forgotten, once made deer-poaching almost sacred. And I recall how a bold, brave man said to a judge in my hearing: “Jedge, I’m glad you punished that mizzable creeter so severely for stealing hens. Being naterally strong in the back, it _hes_ befel at times when the country was thinly settled, that I myself have now and then inadvertently stolen a sheep, but I allays had the moral grandeur to refrain from Hens. _Hens!_ O the low, poor, ornery, medium-minded cuss!--he orter to be _ashamed_ of himself!”’
The man in the pit uttered an exclamation not over-pious.
‘It would serve these Swedes right, for their hanging strangers at Upsala,’ pursued Flaxius, ‘if I were to pull this poor devil up into the light of day. Let us see how they have laid their hocus-pocus of runes and witch-knots! Why rubbish and trash!’ he exclaimed with a scornful laugh, ‘an old Roman witch who tells fortunes for a penny would undo this sorcery with a pin! Ahem, let me try:
‘Aldebarantiphoscophornio! Bombochidescluninstaridé sarchides! Tarchun, Hinthial, Tara!
There--the charm is broken! Were-wolf, my son, come forth!’
And sure enough the pittite came forth. His appearance was _not_, to draw it mildly, as Flaxius observed unto himself, ‘absolutely prepossessing.’ _Punchius_, a celebrated Roman jester of the Lower Empire, once remarked of such an appearance, ‘that he would not be a nice customer to meet of a dark night in a lonely lane, on the loose.’ For he was red all over, as if with excessive health, and awful in muscle, an over-done Hercules, like to the Cacus of Baccio or Bandinell in the Signoria of Florence. His arms hung out from his sides like a turtle’s fins, because the bulging biceps were so great. His hair was red and dishevelled, and his eyes glared from under it with unmitigated ferocity, like those of a wild cat staring from a pig-pen. He bore on his left arm a wolf’s skin.
But suddenly, ere Flaxius could speak a word, the two found themselves surrounded by a crowd of furious rustics, who had evidently been ambushed on the watch, in the forest, about the pit. They rushed upon the pair with angry cries, accusing Flaxius of having delivered the Were-wolf, also of being a stranger, and ere they were aware, cast over them a net in which they were helpless.
‘_Flagrante delicto_,’ thought Flaxius. ‘Misplaced humanity oft leads to woe. He who lets a rat out of a trap loses his cheese. What next?’
The next was that the culprits found themselves imprisoned in the witch-tower. Its walls were about twenty-five feet in thickness; there was just room in it for two to sit on a bench, and there was one grated window to admit air.
They looked at one another. Flaxius began to sing a song written some time after by the Trouvère, Marie de France:
‘“When lays abound, ’twould ill beseem Bisclaveret were not a theme; Such is the name by Bretons sung, And Gar-wal in the Norman tongue.”’
‘_Gar-wal!_’ exclaimed the other prisoner. ‘That means me--a were-wolf. ’Tis not our tongue, and yet I know the word.’
‘So I suppose, my son, therefore I sang,’ rejoined Flaxius. ‘So now while we are resting a space, from our romantic adventure, ere we get out of this somewhat limited apartment, I pray you tell me all your story clearly ... in simple words, and few.’
‘By Fenris!’ exclaimed the Were-wolf, ‘I will tell you the truth. Loki and Hela take me if I lie! I was a free, simple _bonde_, a plain small farmer, and I lived from a flock of sheep. It was my all, and hard was my life withal. Now I had a rich neighbour, and one year my pasture was ruined by flood and storm, and this man being crafty, and I as simple as a child, he persuaded me to pasture my sheep on his farm for half the lambs to come. But he so managed by head-craft and law-craft, as to take from me all I had; and when I followed my claim at the Thing or court, it went even worse with me, and I was cast into debt, and made a thrall or slave.
‘Then I was mad with rage. Short words, master--I met a witch who gave me a spell, and I made myself a were-wolf. Then I slew all that man’s sheep ... one by one ... I set fire to his home--his family all perished in the flame--he escaped, lame and a beggar. And I was made a Wolf’s Head.’
‘Truly a pretty tale!’ remarked Flaxius. ‘Apuleius might have made something of it. _Entre chien et loup_ in this twilight, my son--or _entre nous_--hast thou more to narrate?’
‘Yes. I had taken from my foe’s house a goodly treasure of gold rings and coin, which I have concealed. Now, if any sorcerer would take the wolf-spell from me and change my face, I would buy me a ship and go a-pirating as a Viking, and so reform and lead an honest life.’
‘Truly men’s ideas as to _honesty_,’ reflected Flaxius, ‘are indeed somewhat involved--or as we may say--conventional. But what dost thou think, my son,’ he said aloud, ‘as to our present prospects?’
‘Simply, my lord, that we shall be burned alive to-morrow in honour of Odin.’
‘All lost--except honour,’ quoth Flaxius. ‘But, my son, I have no fancy to figure as a _rôti_, albeit I propose to be a _pièce de résistance_. Let us for once in our harmless and innocent lives vary the monotony of moral goodness by evading the law. All novelty is pleasing.’
‘And how shall we do it?’ asked the man amazed.
‘Thou art a strong carl,’ replied Flaxius, ‘and I warrant me that thou couldst tear yon window grating out of its place. And I--’tis a mere trick, my son--can increase thy strength ten-fold. Only drink now and then from this flask. So, so! bully boy, to work! Work while I sing to thee a magic spell taught by the great Ir-Ving.
‘“Hinculus dinculus trinculus! Holy boly bum! The Latin for chain is _Vinculus Nunc inspiratus sum_!”’
It was with intense awe that the Were-wolf listened to these words, and in full faith that he attacked the grating, which he pulled away as if it were straw.
‘Now try a stone, my son!’ exclaimed Flaxius. ‘Nay--take a pull first from the flask. There is a spirit therein, unknown to thee--_spiritus vini Gallici, duæ unciæ, fiat potatio_!’
Crash came a stone weighing a ton, then another, then a third. The Berserker rage was on the giant. Soon he had made a hole through which one could have driven a coach, but he kept on.
‘Softly, softly, my dear boy!’ interposed Flaxius. ‘Thou art too good an actor, and wilt bring down the whole house about our ears. Now, if thou art ready, I see the new moon rising o’er yon trees. Ha! Hesperus! I give thee greeting fond! Come to the green wood; let us haste away!’
It was a drop of twenty feet from the window, but the red man took it like a mountain goat, and then caught Flaxius in his arms, like a ball, albeit the latter was none of your light-weights, neither was he small. Now, as the Wolf was still _berserk-wode_, or half-mad with the tremendous magic potion, he gave a fearful yell, turning townwards,
‘And shook his gauntlet at the towers,’
when catching up Flaxius on his back, he ran with him, ‘as a fox might run with a goose,’ thought the passenger, at headlong speed, along the road and into the woods, crashing through boughs and thickets, over rocks leaping, through torrents splashing; a-down a force or waterfall here, up a hill there, while Flaxius sang:
‘“Va petit postillon! Va en avant, vite, vite! Tu vas comme l’aquilon Sur ta jument favorite?
Go on, my postillion! Before thee lies the way! And thou art like an eagle fleet Upon thy gallant grey!”’
Truly the similes were all a little mixed, but they were in a devil of a shaking, jumbling hurry, and there was no pause till they found themselves far away in a lonely land, where it seemed as if the cock never crew, the sun never shone, and the wind never blew. There the Berserker threw himself matt and flat on the ground, out of wind, and dead broke. And then Flaxius noticed that he had in his right hand a sheep, which he had caught up on the way as he ran.
‘Truly there is a good soldier lost in this man,’ said Flaxius. ‘He can forage even during a retreat.’ So there was resting, cooking, and camping _au clair de la lune_; and the next day they went on, and so to the North for many days more. The wolf-man seemed to be bound for a certain place, and Flaxius followed to see what would come thereout.
When on a time as they sat in a sunset on a headland overlooking a fiord, and far away from Upsala, the Wolf-man said:
‘Master, wilt thou take from me the spell which forces me when the moon is full to don this skin and raven as a wolf? For, anon, I shall begin to feel fierce convulsions throbbing, and wild commotion in all my blood, and raging madness for murder in my whole soul, the time for it being nearly come, and then I spare neither beast nor human being. Now, if thou dost not care to work the charm, there lives near this place, a-down in yonder dale, a Finn who is a famed sorcerer, and to him will I go for relief.’
Flaxius replied musingly, more to himself than to his follower:
‘Yes, it is true. Long, long ago in Greece, I made research into the _Lycanthropia_, which is one of the oldest mysteries of mad humanity. And it was in happy, sunny Arcady--_et in Arcadia ego_--where all was like a proverb of sweet peace, that it first showed itself to the world.
‘In that land, my son, was a wicked king named _Lycaon_. Once it happened that the great god, who was as the Odin and Frey of your faith in one, whose name was Zeus or Jupiter, and in Etruscan, Tinia, came in disguise to this Lycaon, who, to test the divinity or magic of his visitor, set before him human flesh cooked as mutton.’
‘But that was a _great_ sin!’ exclaimed the Wolf-man, who was listening with round eyes and full belief. ‘To treat a _guest_, who should be sacred to the vilest of the vile, in such wise was _nidering_.’
‘It was _très_ low-flung, my son,’ said Flaxius, who had a habit of prophetically borrowing phrases from vocabularies of the future. ‘Yes, _niederträchtig_, scandalous, ribald, scrubby, pitiful, vile, infamous conduct--_infra dignitatem regis_. And it was promptly punished, for Zeus, on the spot, turned the king and his sons, who had had a hand in the little game, all into wolves--the first wolves ever seen--and they ran howling away through the door into the darkness, like mad.’
‘’Tis a fine tale,’ said the Wolf-man. ‘And so the first of us was a _king_, and if he was wicked, he was bold to dare such a deed.’
‘But whence came this _mania_,’ continued Flaxius, talking to himself, ‘since there is a scientific cause for all things? _H’m-h’m!_ the Arcadians were of the primæval race of the Pelasgi, who dwelt secluded from the mob of Asiatics, Egyptians, Levantines, and God knows what all, who fused into Greeks in time. In lonely valleys, deep in mountain dales, they pastured flocks, fought with the beasts of prey, and kept unchanged a mass of the wildest tales of sorcery and witchcraft in freshest faith. So they knew _fear_ in its strangest form--the _panicus terror_--which seizes on mobs of men or beasts, and the _deliria_ of spectres, as no other Greeks knew them. Out of such fear grew the bewildering _insania zoanthropica_, and the awful _insania metamorphosis_ of which Nebuchadnezzar was the prototype. Finally we get to the _dementia lycanthropia_, so interestingly exemplified in thee--O my son!’ he exclaimed, turning to the other, who had sat open-mouthed with wonder and admiration at the speech, of which he had not understood one word. ‘By the way, what is thy name, my son?’ he continued.
‘Ranulf, the mad wolf, is what men call me,’ said the other proudly.
‘_Mon fils, ce n’est pas l’instant pour la vanité humaine_,’ rejoined Flaxius mildly; ‘but as regards removing this disorder of thine, I would fain see how thy Finn will work it. I promise thee a cure in any case.’
They went down and on, till they came to a large, low cottage, buried amid birch-trees and willows. At the door sat an old man weaving baskets, droning to himself an ancient lay, while by him crouched an immense cat of some wild kind. The Finn was dressed in furs and woven bast, or softened willow wood in strips; his face was withered, but his eye was keen as an eagle’s, and as his glance met Flaxius, the two understood one another,
‘The curse of Ilmarin, or of Fenris, lies heavily on him,’ said the Finn, indicating Ranulf.
‘He hath a double curse,’ replied Flaxius, ‘with him it is _at leysa or laedingi eda at drepa or droma_,--the wolf hath two fetters to break--for he is firstly mad, and secondly outlawed, so that he must be mentally cured, and then disguised so as to escape the law. And I would fain see, my brother, how thou workest thy spell.’
‘By the Great Oak!’ exclaimed the sorcerer with a shrewd twinkle of his eye, ‘I doubt not that our methods are much alike. But if it please you, O wise lord from the far Out-gard, to see my simple work, I will most willingly do my best.’
Saying this he took them into a room which was closed and windowless, but in which burned a large, rude Lapland lamp; and having made Ranulf drink of a certain potion, he rubbed him over with an ointment, in the smell of which Flaxius detected certain ingredients which were to him far from being unknown.
‘Ahem!’ he reflected, ‘extract of mandragora, opium, henbane (order _solanaceæ_), sulphur, bitumen, verbena, _amico mio, dove diavolo avete pigliato tutte queste coglionerie_--where the devil didst rake up all this stuff? Yea, from the very ends of the earth do these Voodoos and conjurors correspond, and the Shaman of Kamtschatka sends the _Ammanita muscaria_ unto Timbuctoo for sorceries. Proceed, O friend, I pray thee with thy work!’
The Finn laid the patient on a bed, lighted a pan, in which were strange fumigants, and bade the Were-wolf look him long and steadily in the eyes; which he did with ten owl-power till he began to blink like a judge after luncheon, and finally went into a deep sleep. Then the shaman, taking a kind of large, oval-shaped tambourine, covered with reindeer skin, on which were drawn many mysterious, rude figures, began to beat it gently, while he sang in strange and evidently carefully measured and elaborately trained tones, the following:
‘By the soul of him the father! By the mighty Wainamoinen! By the sun and moon and planets, And their light upon the water! And the water all surrounding, And the forest by the seashore, And the bear within the forest! And the runic mystery written On his paw, and by the letters, Which the lightning writes in darkness, Only read by Ilmarinen! By the One, Three, Five and Seven, And the Four which causes growing, Ever giving, life-begetting: Wolf, I charge thee leave this mortal!
Fly along the running river, Fly across the ferny mountains, Fly into the pine-tree forest! Flee across the birch-edged meadows! Hasten to the oak-bound valley, Or where slopes are dense with beeches, Wade in haste through shallow water, Where the fishes dart in terror! By the rock on which the warriors Cut of yore their strongest record, With the mesh of interlaces, Which avert the witches’ glances: Wolf, I charge thee, leave this mortal! Leave him so that when awaking, He shall never more remember, That he ever wore the wolf hide!’
Thereupon was heard near by the sound of a wolf howling, and, as one would think, praying and expostulating with the shaman, who was, however, very firm, and when the Wolf was over bold, began to sing again:
‘Fly along the running river!’
Till at last the Wolf was heard at some distance, and then still further away; his voice ever less audible, until it seem to disappear amid rustling leaves, and mingle with the wind.
‘Admirably played, my brother,’ exclaimed Flaxius; ‘Apollo never did the trick better. Hypnotized to perfection and cured--like a ham! Yes, the wolf will be no longer at his door. And, my dear doctor, I like your _mise en scène_, your drum and your poetry and perfumery. By the way I can give you a hint or two as to improving the narcotics in your ointment, and yet, who knows? perhaps for your rough folk you have the best _fiat lotio Cras mane sumendus_.’
‘And if Ranulf would like to go a-Viking,’ said the shaman, ‘there is a rich man hard by who has a fine ship to sell cheap, with forty men all armed, and well.’
‘Just like your provident kindness,’ responded Flaxius. ‘Always the same thoughtful old chap. And now for your fee--you won’t take it--ah yes, _inter doctores_, among us members of the Faculty, of course. But permit me,’ he said, producing from his pocket a second flask of the mystic alchemical, spagirical essence, ‘to present to you a medicine which is as yet unknown in the North. Taste it and try its virtue on yourself! _Jameson, Dublin._’
Saying this he uncorked the bottle, presented it, and the Finnic sorcerer, as the saying is, ‘took a sight’; that is to say, the bottle ascended at an angle of forty-five degrees from his mouth, so that his vision glanced exactly in a line with the side, as if it were a pistol. He took very deliberate aim, was in no hurry, being evidently determined to make a line-shot, hit the bull’s eye and bring down the game, and then _clucked_. The shot had been fired. Then turning to Flaxius he spoke no word, but uttered a _wink_, and such a wink as Flaxius had never seen before in all his mighty experience. The charge had gone home, and he had brought down his racoon, killing him dead at a shot.[6]