Posts Tagged ‘Werewolf’


There were, in fact, some establishments open in Monastier at dawn. Surprisingly, Surrel had Louis meet him in a quiet billiard room off le Place du Vallat. Still bristling from the old man’s treatment of his beloved Modestine the day before, Louis sat with his shoulder to the man and refrained from joining him after he’d ordered his glass of brandy. Surrel nipped daintily at his payment, smiling at Louis, who fidgeted with the cigarette pinched between his fingers. They spoke French.

“So, what brings a gangly-looking thing like you to my country?” Surrel asked.

Louis stared at the man.

“I said I would make payment of one glass of brandy, but there was nothing in our agreement that said I should sit here and drink it with you.” Louis made to stand. “Good day.”

“Oh, come,” the old man said, reaching a hand out to Louis’s velveteen jacket and tugging it down. “You are too sensitive. Like a woman.”

Again, Louis’s hackles stirred as he sat back down.

“I’ve things to do, you know,” he said to the old man. “Certainly better things than sit here and—”

“You are heading down into Gévaudan, I hear,” said Surrel. He sipped his brandy. His hands were covered with paper cuts in various states of mend, a hazard of his trade.

“Yes, south by way of Lozère,” Louis said, interested to know why the man had acted as if he didn’t know Louis’s business and more interested to know how he did. “It hasn’t been called Gévaudan since the Revolution. Surely, you’re not that old.”

“Some days, I feel it,” Surrel said. “And sometimes, I think, when a place has been soaked with so much blood, you can never change its name.” He looked at Louis from the corner of his eye, seeing if his words had the desired effect.

Louis stared at the old man for a moment.

“Don’t tell me,” he began. “Robbers, probably murderers. And wolves.”

“Wolves are murderers,” Surrel answered.

“They are animals.”

“Not always.” Surrel took another drink. “Just like not all men are men.”

“You would think that after centuries of dealing with wolves, your people would have mastered the art by now,” Louis said. “I’ve got a pistol and if there’s trouble, man or beast, I will let fly the bullet. Simple.”

Surrel shook his head and Louis could no longer control himself.

“Stop it. Stop shaking your head. French necks are full of ball bearings,” he said, exasperated. “They cannot keep them straight.”

“The English don’t know how to deal with beasts,” the old man shot back.

“Says the man who beats his donkey, one smaller than a dog,” Louis parried.

Surrel laughed.

“Your Modestine will break your heart, Monsieur,” he said, and then leveled Louis with a look hot enough to melt the ice between them if only enough to get the message through. “But your heart, Steams, is the least of your worries.”

Louis thought of Fanny and doubted that very much. He lit another cigarette.

“And what should I be worried about?” Louis asked, falling back into his chair and flopping one leg over the other, extending them both long out in front of him.

Surrel leaned over the café table between them, close so as to not rouse the alarm of the whole village.

“The men here will not tell you because they are as afraid as the women, and the women, let me tell you, are like the children that flew off the back of your ass in the courtyard.”

Louis leaned a little closer, but still looked away, watching a solitary man knock billiard balls around a green felt field and exclaiming “a-ya!” each time he sank one.

“Gévaudan is Gévaudan and will always be Gévaudan, so long as the blood of the children and the women push its vegetables up from the soil and the citizens eat of the terror that once roamed its hills,” Surrel continued. “This I believe. And not only that, I do believe that the terror still roams. It still hunts. It kills.”

Louis was now looking at the old man, tracing the lines on his face that ran down his throat and into the collar of his shirt. Although he was old, his eyes pinned Louis.

“What,” Louis said, “on earth are you talking about?”

Surrel leaned so far over as to almost touch noses with Louis and hissed.

“The beast!”

Louis shut his eyes to the man’s flying spittle and used the tablecloth to wipe it from his lids.

“Sit back, man,” he demanded, but Surrel was animated now.

“If you can’t stomach a little bit of saliva, you will no doubt faint away from the spit of loup-garou.”

Louis’s eyes fixed on the old man and refused to budge.

“Wait just a moment,” he said and then he slapped his hand on the table. “I am a fool.”

Surrel nodded, but Louis shook it away.

“No, not in the way you think. You are the fool in that way. You and everyone else in Monastier. I should have put it together right away. The Beast, or Beasts, of Gévaudan!”

Surrel’s face lit up and he threw his hands into the air.


“No!” Louis shook his head and then it was his turn to lean to Surrel. “Look here, this journey will be difficult enough without you and your countrymen needlessly frightening the breeches off me with your silly tales of werewolves.”

Surrel crossed himself. Louis rolled his eyes.

“First, how long ago was that? If memory serves, it was the 1760s, even before your bloody Revolution, which, by the way, proved your countrymen to be as vicious as any wolf on the country side.”

“But we are not talking wolves, monsieur,” Surrel growled and glared.

You aren’t. I am. I am talking about the tragic deaths of poor villagers,” Louis argued.

“Two hundred!” Surrel yelled.

“Who were nothing more than the unlucky victims of a couple of particularly large wolves.”

“One hundred of whom were eaten!”

“When the men your king hired to hunt them down found them—”

“Jean Charles Marc Antoine Vaumesle d’Enneval and his brave son Jean-François, on September twenty-first, 1765, killed Le Loup de Chazes. Sixty kilos, two meters in length, and when they dragged its wicked carcass back to the village and stored it overnight in a citizen’s grain room, the next day it was gone.” Surrel snapped his fingers. “And in its place—”

“A man,” Louis finished. “Who?”

“They did not know his name, nor where he came from. It was what it was.”

“This is ridiculous,” Louis leaned back into his chair.

The old man emptied his glass.

“You cannot say, monsieur, that you have not been warned.”

Louis had been warned of a lot of things. He’d been warned by his father not to lose his faith in God; he’d been warned by his friends not to put faith in Fanny; and now he was being warned by these crazy Frenchmen to not embark on this journey, for fear of . . . werewolves.

“I have been warned,” he said to Surrel. “Merci.”

“Merci to you.” Surrel tipped his empty glass to Louis. “And may God have mercy on you.”

Louis thought of his father—both of his parents. He’d never seen two more broken people in his life since the day he’d admitted—after a particularly deadly episode of ill health—that he’d given up on the possibility of God. The sun, he’d thought, would never shine on the Stevenson household again, nor did he think still to this day that, if there were a God, he would smile mercifully on RLS. With his current predicament, with his heart strewn over an ocean and a continent, surely God hadn’t been merciful so far.

Louis looked at Surrel for one more moment, taking in the details of his face and hair, his garments and his smell, for his nightly notes.

“Without Modestine, how will you move your cart around?” Louis asked.

“The children!” Surrel answered and laughed.

And with that, Louis left the billiard room for his own quarters to take inventory of his pack and assemble everything for departure.

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Louis was up at six the following morning. He dressed, walked out into the street, and saw no one—not Antoine, not a single street vender, not a clucking chicken. No cafés were open, it seemed, so Louis plodded back up to his room, smoked a cigarette, and returned to bed.

At ten o’clock, a boot sailed through his open window and landed on his coverlet. Outside, the world was now awake—people yammered to one another, horses snorted, and wagon wheels cracked over stones. Louis started when the boot hit the bed, one lanky leg free from his bedclothes hung over the side, his sock dangled limp over his toes. His hair stuck to his forehead.

Il est temps de se réveiller!” Antoine’s voice floated up from the street.

Sortir du lit!” shouted another.

Louis listened, rubbed his eyes and flattened his mustache, then pushed the blankets out of the way and swung his feet to the floor. Grabbing the boot, he went to the window. Below, Antoine and Henri stood waving and laughing. Henri was missing a boot. He wiggled his stocking toes toward Louis who lobbed the boot back at him. It overshot and Henri jumped, but missed and ran after it.

“I thought you said you would be up early this morning, Monsieur Steams!” Antoine shook his finger up at Louis.

“I was!”

Antoine nodded his head, but crossed his arms.

“I was!” Louis repeated.

Antoine waved both hands in front of his face to dismiss the silliness and Henri rejoined him, pulling on his boot.

“Enough. Come,” Antoine said. “We haven’t got all day.”

Louis heaved a deep sigh then turned from the window. He re-dressed, combed his hair, threw water on his face, grabbed his bag, and headed down to join the Frenchmen.

Bonjour,” he said to them brushing his moustache down with his hand. They nodded, turned, and started walking. Louis ran to catch up, then equaled their tempo. It seemed that no matter how much time he spent amongst the French, he would never quite match their pace—not just their stride, but their pace of life. He could happily be either productive or lazy, but he could, apparently, never be both at the same time as they were. But no matter—he would be free and clear of most people in just a day or so, if this transaction went as he hoped. Then he would have his donkey, he would have his provisions, he would be ready to start off, and he could be left alone to wallow in his self-pity and tobacco, surviving on his wits.

The three men made their way down the main thoroughfare, turned right, then left. From la Rue de L’Abbaye, Louis absently heard a clanking bell, and as they wound their way, they seemed to be getting closer to it. It became louder and more annoying to him. Finally, they came upon a compact courtyard, and the source of the clanking. There stood an old man next to a small cart pulled by an almost smaller donkey.

Louis recognized the son of the old woman he’d been sketching the previous day.

The cart was piled with what looked like pamphlets, but upon closer examination there were also calendars, maps, tablets of paper, and so on. The man was surrounded by children. All sorts of children, from every class—thin and fat children, clean and dirty children, all of them yowling about one thing or another.

“He is, like, how do you say?” Henri turned to Louis. “Pied Piper.”

“Except with a cow bell,” Louis said. “And he doesn’t much seem to want these children following him.”

“Oh non,” joined Antoine “He hates it. Hates children. And beats his ass.”

“That ass?” Louis asked, incredulous.

The donkey was tiny, mouse colored and sweet looking, but with a jaw as resolute as Jeanne d’Arc’s as the flames touched her nose.

“She is small, but I’ve seen her pull much more than this,” Antoine continued.

“She?” Louis’s heart broke for the animal—to be beaten while one toiled was one thing, but to be beaten by such a brute who would strike a woman; that was too much.

Oui, she could run both you and your sack up and down the mountains,” Henri added.

“I’ll take her,” said Louis. He didn’t know if she could. She didn’t look like she could. But chivalry sometimes took precedence over practicality.

Antoine jerked his head toward the spectacle in the courtyard, signaling their movement into the fray.

The sea of children parted with Antoine in the lead, Henri second, and Louis last. Dirty faces looked up, some nonplussed, some annoyed, a few scared. The one that had been ringing the donkey’s bell all this time finally stopped, having found something more interesting—these three adults who dared breach their ranks.

The old man looked upon them with relief.

Comment puis-je vous servir, messieurs?

Antoine addressed the man. They spoke quietly and Louis couldn’t hear the conversation above the din of children, one of whom kept slapping him across the rear and then looking away as if innocent.

“Is he willing to part with her?” Louis asked Henri, who was closer to the discussion.

“I believe so,” Henri replied. “He wants to demonstrate her worthiness.”

“Not necessary; I’ll take her,” said Louis, turning for the fifth time hoping to catch the slapping culprit in the act. “How much?”

“He insists,” Henri said.

“Really, I’ll take her,” Louis argued, then abruptly spun to the nearest, shortest fellow. “Arrêter maintenant ou je vais vous couper la main!

The crowd became quiet and stared at Louis, even the three men. He turned his palms up to them.

“Obviously, I wouldn’t really cut off his hands, but this one, you see—”

“That is one way to get their attention,” Henri said approvingly. The old man had started unhooking the donkey from his cart and Antoine whispered into the ears of the children closest to him, who, in turn, whispered to their neighbor until word spread throughout the crowd. Most smiled and nodded, some laughed and cheered, a few—just a few—shyly sneaked away.

What happened next Louis might have paid money to see back in his Edinburgh college days. Surrel brought the little donkey around through the mass of children, who moved accordingly and lined up.

“Now,” Antoine said to Louis. “Surrel will demonstrate her strength and endurance.”

Louis made to protest, momentarily afraid of what he was about to witness, but it was too late. The old man lifted the first child in line and sat him on the donkey’s back. She responded accordingly and kicked the child off. The boy flew over the head of the animal and rolled in the dust. The children cheered, Henri laughed out loud, and Antoine smirked. Louis looked on, stunned. For no sooner was the first child stoically dusting himself off, Surrel was loading the donkey’s back with another, who soon went the way of the first. Louis noticed the first boy had actually rejoined the end of the line.

“Won’t someone get hurt?” Louis asked Antoine.

Probablement,” he replied, his eyes trailing up, then down, to watch another child fly through the air.

Surrel loaded one after another, sitting forwards, backwards, laid over sideways, boys and girls, and even a small dog, who aborted his flight mid-launch by flinging himself off to the side. The old man turned and smiled at Louis, as if to say, See? See how many she can go through?

After about ten minutes of this demonstration, the children began to grow weary and lose courage, until they had all cleared the courtyard with the exception of those poor souls who lived there, and they just disappeared into their abodes.

Surrel clapped his hands together.

Ah oui!” he exclaimed.

“You see?” said Henri. “There is no better ass for your journey.”

“What?” Louis answered. “She threw every child in the village. What do you think she will do to my gear?”

His two French friends frowned and then sauntered over to the old man, who stood holding the donkey’s bridle and petting her. They spoke to him, and as they did his face grew firm, his mouth pulling taut into an angry line that threatened to wrap around his head. Suddenly, he flattened his hand and began hitting the poor animal across the nose, yelling obscenities.

Antoine and Henri backed away, but Louis flew forward and grabbed the old man’s arm to keep him from administering one more knock.

“Stop it!” he yelled. “Stop it now, or I’ll cut off your hands!”

The old man stopped, without understanding what Louis had said. Antoine and Henri looked to the Scot, eyebrows raised, seeing that this threat, unlike the one to the children, he may have meant.

The donkey stood, her head raised and eyes closed, expecting another blow. Louis reached over and laid his hand on her brow, drawing his slender fingers down to her snout. She flinched at first, then opened her eyes and looked at him.

Combien?” Louis asked.

Soixante-cinq,” the old man replied, bemused at Louis’s sentiment for such a lowly beast.

“Sixty-five francs?”

Surrel looked at him, and added, “et un verre du brandy.”

Louis sighed. She actually cost less than what he paid for his specially made sleeping sack: eighty francs and two glasses of beer. The monetary cost was a steal, and the glass of brandy he would undoubtedly make up later down the road.

Oui,” Louis agreed and nodded his head to Surrel. He paid the old man the money, and then agreed to pay him his brandy the following morning, before Louis started out on his excursion.

After the old man removed her bell, Henri took the donkey’s reigns and started to lead her away.

“I will take her to Jacque’s and stable her there. He will make you a pad to saddle her with,” he said. “Lots of straps.”

“Wait,” Louis said and walked over to the animal, whose eyes moved about her, knowing something was happening, but not what. Louis stood in front of her and took her bridle with a hand on each side. He straightened out her head and looked at her intently.

“What is her name?” he called out to Surrel, who was counting his payment for a fourth time. “Quel est son nom?

The old man shook his head and waved the question away.

“No name,” Henri confirmed.

Louis looked at the donkey, his donkey. Her deep-chestnut eyes glimmered from her soft grey-brown fur, her eyelashes long and dark. He took her ears in his hands and ran them through his palms, soft like rabbit’s fur. She closed her eyes and lowered her head.

Modestine,” he finally said.

Henri laughed, but Louis ignored him. It was the perfect appellation for this donkey—he was embarrassed now to call this feminine equestrian spirit an “ass”—as here she was, after such a debasing, modest and without conceit. He caressed her ears once more before letting Henri lead her away and thought he felt one small fraction of his heart free itself from Fanny’s grip and fasten to that lovely little being.

Smiling, Louis shook Antoine’s hand, thanked him ten times, and then the men retired to an early lunch at le café du loup.

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Earlier, Louis had agreed to spend this evening with four men—Antoine, Henri, Lucien, and Claude—who, during the day, like many of the town’s citizens, looked upon Louis with contempt, but come evening, as he grew closer to the start of his trek, drank copious amounts of wine with him, to his health, which was precarious, and to his plight, whatever that was. They hadn’t asked, and Louis was grateful.

Earlier that morning he’d returned from Le Puy, about fifteen miles northwest, with a specially constructed sleeping sack. It had taken his whole stay so far to have it made, but now that it was in his possession, he felt optimistic. His success in finally procuring the first of two major components of his trip was all over town by evening and when he entered the café, the patrons greeted him with a roar of congratulations and cheer.

“Monsieur Steams!” some of them shouted. Since he’d arrived, what began mistakenly as “Monsieur Steamson” had deteriorated into “Monsieur Steams,” and in a sense, became a friendly term of endearment, although the affection of the people of Monastier was fickle and fleeting.

The four Frenchmen hugged and kissed him as they directed him bodily to a seat in a comfortable corner behind a small, clothed table. He fell onto the hard, wooden bench, hair flopping over wide-spread eyes, which darted from one companion to the next and back again, volleying between agitation and joviality. The almost violent, jostling proximity of these men—who were in many ways still strangers—made his blood race and his palms sweat, but he attempted to project an air of calm, of good humor, even.

He produced his tobacco pouch and began rolling cigarettes, which he lined up on the table after lighting the first. They called for wine, but the serving maid had already set a few bottles down before the cry for drink ended, followed by a small basket of bread.

Louis pulled at his mustache. If he had been amongst his friends, he would waste no time making himself comfortable. At home, his customary arrangement was half-slumped, half-draped in and across a chair, or more often than not, perched upon the arm, should it be weight bearing. More frequently even than that, his position would matter not, as his mind, more importantly, would be engaged as such to render him blue in the face. Not to mention his listeners exhausted. But he was not at home, and though his limbs ached to animate and his brain bubbled with any number of exhilarating topics, his role as foreigner kept him quiet, or otherwise occupied with the mundane but distracting tasks of cigarette rolling and mustache pulling.

The men re-introduced themselves, but Louis knew each of them from the street. In the last week, he’d overheard all of these men, at all times of the day, with myriad people and at various stages of drunkenness, argue politics. And with three bottles of Bordeaux with which to wet their lips and brains, he feared the four of them together.

Antoine was a Legitimist and longed for the return of the Bourbon kings; Henri was an Orléanist, another monarchist also for the House of Bourbon, but a different branch; Lucien was a staunch Imperialist and wept at the mention of Bonaparte I; and Republican Claude’s mouth watered with words of The Revolution. Being a Scot, Louis understood the passion of bloody political travails but he had little desire, tonight, to engage a discussion on the matter of French rule, particularly if his companions’ sense and sobriety drained with the bottle and so too their grasp on English. Louis loved la langue française, but it was true that the more he drank, the quicker he forgot word order and gender, and it was inevitable that he would inadvertently insult someone before the night was through.

He reached for a boule of bread from the basket, tore it in half, then anxiously pulled small bites from it, popping them into his mouth while the four men settled around him. The café was cozy and lighted by lamps ensconced on the walls. The tables and chairs were rustic, but covered and upholstered, with a crisp, red and white checked cloth. The walls displayed a range of décor, from Royal memorial plates to framed family portraits, from embroideries to antlers, culminating in a massive wolf’s head mounted above the entrance. Its eyes were glassy, its lips curled into a threatening snarl, made tragically comic by the inexpertise of the taxidermist. A quality mount would have looked you in the eye wherever about the room you roamed; you should have felt the breath of the thing on you. This however looked exactly like what it was—a dead animal manipulated grossly with wire and stuffing, collecting dust.

Louis chewed, smiling and nodding at the men around him. Now that their immediate needs were met, they turned to Louis.

Finalement! You have got your sack!” Henri roared and slapped Louis on the back several times causing him to almost choke on a piece of bread. The men laughed.

Oui,” said Louis feebly, crushing out his first cigarette and lighting the next. He mustered a breath to match the men in their zeal and volume. “Finalement, I have got my sack.”   The long vowels and rhotic accent of Louis’s Scotch-English tongue played amusedly on the faces of his companions, though it was his accomplishment that truly stirred their affable response.

They cheered and raised their mugs, Louis snatching his up—nearly spilling it—and joining in their toast to his success. And it was a success. Louis could now enter into the French autumnal wilderness fairly sure of staying warm and dry. He’d opted away from actually packing a tent, for fear that his more unscrupulous fellow travelers would take him for what he was—a relatively inexperienced tourist out camping—and take him unawares as he slept. So, he’d set his mind to devise a piece of green canvas, measuring six by six feet, stuffed with blue sheep’s wool and designed to convert into a sack with which to carry his things.

“This will keep you dry, eh?” asked Claude. “But, eh, la tête . . . your head. It will stick out.” The Frenchman illustrated by tapping his own head and the others laughed.

Louis reached into the knapsack at his side and pulled out what initially looked like a handful of fur. The men fell silent and watched him stretch the thing over his head. It was a cap, with earflaps and some apparatus that covered his nose and mouth like a respirator. Louis pulled the flaps down and tied them under his chin, then pulled the face muff down as well.

“Ha!” he said, his voice muted in the mass of fur. The men stared—he appeared a massive vole wearing a thin mask of flesh and eerily human eyes that blinked. Louis looked from man to man until they burst into another bout of uncontrollable laughter. He squinted approvingly under the fur, then pulled the muff and flaps back up, tying them now over the top of his tête.

“You are very dignified,” laughed Claude and poured more wine into Louis’s now-empty cup. “Like a king.”

Antoine and Henri’s smiles faded and they both simultaneously drank to cover their annoyance. Claude snickered.

“Dignified like an ass,” Henri coughed. “Like a Republican pack mule.”

Claude half-stood, eyes blazing, but settled back, glancing at Lucien, who looked into his cup.

“Better a pack mule peasant than a flatulent Corsican.”

Louis’s face fell and he watched as Antoine and Henri held Lucien from jumping over the table at Claude who chuckled and drank. A flurry of angry French filled the air like black smoke and Louis flew to his feet, waving his hands to clear it.

“Gentlemen! Messieurs!” he pleaded, “S’il vous plait, j’ai d’autres affaires! I am in need of an ass!”

The men quit fighting and looked at Louis. His fur cap had slid down to the tops of his eyes and the string keeping his earflaps up had come loose, allowing them to flop down like a set of donkey’s ears.

Someone on the opposite side of the café brayed, and the anger was dispelled. The four political rivals laughed and slapped each other on their backs. Louis, too, his slight frame shaking beneath each palm of goodwill. He pushed his cap back and retied the flaps as he sat down with his friends.

“So, you are an ass,” said Lucien, and the other three snickered.

Non, I am in need of an ass,” Louis corrected. “L’âne. A donkey.”

The man across the café brayed again and Henri threw a piece of bread in his direction.

Louis was a cup and a half in and feeling the influence—he knew if he’d had to get up quickly, he might fall down just as fast. But on he drank. When men of violently opposing beliefs can sit without strangling each other, it was a cause for celebration, as if Louis needed another reason to celebrate.

“I can help you,” said Antoine, patting his chest.

“Yes?” Louis said and held up his cup to the man, who tapped it with his own.

“Yes.” Antoine drained his mug and pushed the empty bottle out of his way, wrapped his fingers around the neck of a half-full bottle, and poured. Before Louis could lower his own cup, it was being topped off once more.

“There is a man in town, Surrel,” Antoine continued. “A peddler. He moves from village to village; he sells . . . eh, calendrier. Almanach.”

Louis listened, but replied. “I don’t need a calendar. A map, maybe.”

Antoine waved his hand in front of his face, “Non, non. He beats his ass.”

Henri suppressed a giggle and Claude slapped his arm.

Pardon?” Louis asked.

Antoine thought for a moment.

“I think he would be willing to sell his donkey.”

“Oh!” Louis exclaimed. “Really?”

“He hates it,” Antoine continued. “Always beating it.”

“That’s terrible,” Louis said.

The other men nodded and drank.

“Tomorrow,” said Antoine. “I will take you to him.”

I would be most grateful,” Louis said and reached across the table, grabbing Antoine by the hand and shaking it vigorously; it flopped like a fish.

“And a map,” Antoine finished.

“Yes, that certainly couldn’t hurt.”

“Where are you going?” Henri asked.

“Well,” Louis began. He’d been plotting his route in his head for weeks. “I am planning on making my way south through the Cévennes all the way down to St-Jean-du-Gard, where I will take a cab into Alès and pick up my mail.”

His destination was less the town, or even the end of his journey, as it was his mail. He had several letters prepared to put to post before he started—one to each of his friends, one to his mother, and one to Fanny. More than any of them, he hoped most to have received a reply from her.

Since she left, her letters back to him contained just enough interest and affection to keep Louis heart bound, and yet, they never satisfactorily answered his repeated and heartfelt query: Could they be together?

Louis understood the difficulties of divorce and how it might look, but in the end, he didn’t much care how it looked, only that they were together, which he impressed upon her as the most important thing. Because it was, was it not? The slow growing of time and distance between them did nothing to cool his feelings for her. And so, he asked yet again, could they be together? And he hoped desperately that, come the end of his march, he would stumble half-dead into town, fall upon the post waiting for him at the hotel he’d reserved, and his prayers would finally be answered.

Thinking of this, Louis failed to notice that the café had grown quiet. Suddenly, he felt hot and he slowly pulled the fur cap from his head. Everyone was looking at him, even the serving maid who’d come to drop off another basket of bread.

Sud?” Lucien asked.

Oui, south,” replied Louis. “Down to St-Jean-du-Gard. Then to Alès. I have, or will have, post awaiting me there.”

“You will take an eastern route, no?” Claude asked. “To Saint-Agrève?”

“Of course not. That would be almost forty kilometers out of my way,” Louis said. “No, I will go to Le Bouchet St Nicholas, then on to Pradelles, and then to Langogne—”

Mon Dieu!” shouted the brayer from the back. This time no one threw anything at him.

Non, non, non,” Claude shook his head emphatically. “Non. Non, non, non . . .

“What?” Louis asked.

The other three men also shook their heads. The serving maid shook her head as she walked away from their table. Louis thought he heard a woman gasp and his eyes darted in that direction, but Henri brought him back.

“You.” he said, tapping the table in front of him with his forefinger. “You do not want to take this journey.”

“I do,” Louis countered. “I must.”

More shaking heads. The café filled slowly with the low rumble of quiet conversations, out of which Louis pulled a few words: l’agneau, massacre, le loup. He looked at the big, grey head above the door, its pointed yellow teeth.

“What? Him?”

“Worse,” Claude muttered.

“I should think I would have more concern of being robbed.”

“That as well, perhaps.” Henri shrugged.

“No matter,” Louis said. “I carry a pistol. I’m not afraid.”

But now Louis’s head was full of wolves and thieves, and worse. What could be worse?

He drained his cup and stopped Claude from pouring more into it.

Non, s’il vous plait.” Louis smiled an apology. “Up early tomorrow.” He turned to Antoine. “To get an ass.”

Antoine’s stony face broke into a crooked smile.

Oui, Monsieur Steams,” he said. “We will certainly find you your ass.”

The four Frenchmen laughed, though not as boisterously as before. Louis felt the shift in the café was irreversible, or perhaps he would have stayed another round. He left wondering if they were laughing more with him, or at him, but it didn’t matter. He would be leaving this place soon.

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Monastier, Goudet,

Ussel, Bouchet St. Nicolas


At Grez-sur-Loing, Louis didn’t make it easy for her, partly because he fought it and partly because he could not stop coughing long enough for the spoon to be in and out without clacking against his teeth. And it wasn’t that he resented being fed like a child, although that didn’t help.

            “It is what it is,” she said, and wiped spilled soup roughly from his nightshirt with an already-filthy towel. His chest shook, the coughing explosive now, and Fanny looked at him flatly until it subsided. “My husband is coming, two weeks from today. You must leave.”

            He felt he might be leaving through Death’s door, if his breaking heart didn’t kill him first.


Louis woke.

His journey began here. Le Monastier-sur-Gazeille nestled snug in a green valley below an irregular ridge that separated it from a troubled sky. It was a collection of plain-looking buildings with orange clay-tiled rooves that stood stark from the surrounding backdrop still verdurous from the summer sun, now heading into September.

Lovelorn and worried, Robert Louis Stevenson had flung himself upon the town. Presently, he had just finished entertaining a group of lace makers with the English language. Due to its liberal sprinkling of French, the artisans considered it merely a comical patois of their native tongue. He left some easily-amused ladies with the word “bread”—which they rolled around their lips and the concaves of their mouths until they doubled over with laughter—in search of a less excitable group of people. The rustic streets were created for wandering, in which he now indulged.

He’d arrived in France weeks ago, just after the love of his life, Mrs. Fanny Osbourne, departed London for the United States. He’d written to his parents and friends—Sidney Colvin, his editor and occasional benefactor when funds sank truly low; Charles Baxter, an old, dear college chum; and William Henley, one-legged poet and boisterous pal. All but his parents were aware of Fanny. So far as Louis had mentioned, he was here to write another travel book. But, his relations excluded, all knew of Fanny and knew what had happened.

They knew the two had met, had fallen in love, and had spent nearly two years on an emotional carousel that all too often left Louis too dizzy to stand. They also knew she was much Louis’s senior, married to another man with two children, and that she’d returned abruptly to America, so many miles away.

In all his young years, Louis had never been so in love. And had never felt so irreversibly rejected. Except for that one other time. But this was different.

He’d sent letters to his friends from Le Puy within the week of her departure, going on about the new book, Travels with a Donkey in the French Highlands. They knew Louis hurt and that she had given him only enough reason to hope, but no more. They discouraged it—the entire enterprise, beginning and ending with Fanny—and so he said little, except to declare how enthusiastic he was to embark on such an excursion.

In reality, within him was a tempest, calmed only by the act of getting from one point to another. He meant to adventure so hardily and so thoroughly as to punish the heart straight out of him, literally or figuratively; he didn’t care much which. He could arrive at the end of his journey a man without sentiment or dead. It was all the same to him.

Moreover, when he arrived dead, or dead inside, he must arrive after having conquered the worst circumstances; he must have subjugated, if not his aching soul, then certainly the petit-bourgeois sense of impropriety this sort of plan stoked in peoples’ thoughts during this sad and delicately decadent era. People of a time that at once praised the adventure, hero-worshipped the adventurer, but disdained the thought that anyone they knew should attempt such a thing. Louis scoffed at society’s polite system of tethers and drastically cut them when Fanny had left.

Drawn by the wagging tail of a small mutt, Louis seated himself on a low stone wall that stuck out like a peninsula from the corner of a boulangerie, and proceeded to scratch the animal under the chin. His wavy reflection looked back at him from the shop’s multi-paned window. At twenty-seven years old, he struck a strange and curious figure amongst the French inhabitants. As tall as the average Scotsman, his slender frame and lanky limbs gave the impression of height; his sandy-russet hair brushed the base of his neck, uncut and parted in the center. The mustache he’d long been cultivating was finally gaining respectable coverage and drooping down over the lip enough so that he had developed a nervous habit of pulling at it. Lastly, he wore a deep emerald-green velveteen jacket.

Outside the boulangerie, he sat amongst a pleasant group of women and children of all ages. Little girls in lace-trimmed pinafores skipped rope and harassed their mothers as the women took their mending to the cool, shady street. One girl approached Louis, ran her grubby hands over the sleeve of his soft jacket, then tripped away giggling. The dog went with her.

One very old woman lured him into a conversation that lasted the better part of an hour. She demonstrated her sharp wit and tongue on every subject imaginable, and every opinion Louis expressed. Had she not been so pleasant, it might have been exasperating. It continued after he’d brought out his sketchbook and began to render her as faithfully as his skill would allow. With each attempt, she passed judgment and Louis wished the world were full of more like her, for honesty seemed to be in such short supply these days.

“No, no,” she said. “That is not it. I am old, to be sure, but I’m better looking than that. We must try again.”

Louis smiled, tore the page from the book, and began once more.

Behind her, the women sewed and the children played. Men throughout the street argued and laughed over a thousand topics. Buyers of bread came and went. Louis relaxed.

As he sketched, an old man—old to Louis, but younger than the woman who sat before him—wandered up to her, bent to whisper in her ear, and then, upon her pinched face and shooing hand, left.

Mon fils,” she said, shaking her head.

Her son, Louis thought, must be as big a disappointment to her as he was to his own parents. And again, his heart sank back into the dark depths this light afternoon had brightened for a short time.

The old woman bowed to pick up a potato, signaling that, although she would love to be rendered all day, there was still work to be done. She winked at him and began to peel the vegetable with a paring knife.

Louis continued to scribble away at his work, but allowed his mind to drift over his most immediate plans. Though his boyish spirit was more than up to the journey, his adult frame, weakened by a lifetime of undiagnosable illness, was less enthusiastic. It came and went; his strength ebbed like the swells of a departing sloop against the dock. He was energized when he’d left London and it waned only now in that he could not be off soon enough.

This was not the first time he’d endeavored to make his way through tough and rugged conditions. Two years previous, at about this time of year, Louis and a friend had embarked on a canoe trip through Belgium and northern France, the product of which, An Inland Voyage, had been published just this past April. After so many essays and histories, his first real book had seen print, and now he could call himself a writer, an ink slinger for profit.

In those rare moments of emotional clarity, Louis’s thoughts still inclined to writing, to finding the next conceptual path worth treading, and based on experience, to actually tread a path—to go on an adventure, much to the horror of his parents—was the best way to plot one’s way forward on the page. For now, better than writing fiction—why wrack one’s brains thinking what’s to come next when one can just do and make notes?

But that outing had been before he’d met Fanny.

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Robert Louis Stevenson had started awake in William Henley’s drawing room with such violence he’d almost toppled from the chair in which he practically lay. To his initial surprise, he found himself at Henley’s writing desk, Fanny’s letter in his hand, a fire burning in the hearth. Everything right.

In his waking hours, Louis worked hard to deny all that had happened. But when sleep came—as indeed it must—he wrestled helplessly against the facts of his subconscious, the quarter of his being self-delusion could not penetrate. Flashing yellow eyes obscured suddenly by a fallen hood; claws that swiped, transforming from keratin to steel before sinking into soft flesh; the brays of a donkey punctuated by the click-clack of her tiny hooves retreating into the deeper recesses of Louis’s brain where he feared she could not be safe. To say nothing of the blood.

Louis straightened a little, pushing himself up in the chair, feeling the stationary of the letter between his fingers, the warmth of the fire on his legs. He could use a drink. It was only after one of these terrible dreams that he would willfully allow himself to think of everything that had occurred, and now, his tired reason fell languidly into that state, thinking, remembering, witnessing all over again . . . .

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This is actually Jeff Shank working on a striking puppet for The Howling, which I absolutely yanked from this fabulous collectionof behind-the-scenes pics.

So, what’s up with Wattpad? It’s a hellscape. It really is just awful. Imagine a place with potentially millions of readers, with no way to promote your story to those readers outside the Wattpad People choosing your story and putting it on the main page (which doesn’t seem to change for months at a time). This wouldn’t me too terrible if they didn’t use an algorithm to choose what they promote, and if they weren’t deliberately catering to teenagers (who love “Werewolf Romance,” among other problematic things, which loosely translates to “Sadistic Beastiality” — not kidding, teenagers nowadays are fucking weird and I don’t think they understand how this looks). The only promotional resource they had that you could control was posting once a week (per story) on their forums. The problem with that is that readers rarely went to the forums — it’s full of writers. If you’re serious about your writing, you have two choices — you can do everything you can to get readers to read your writing, or you can content yourself with other writers reading your writing, which means you have to read their writing, and you can tell each other how great it is, and maybe even exchange ideas about how to promote your writing, but let’s face it, with all your reading and writing and backslapping, who’s got time to do much of anything else? That’s what’s called a Circle Jerk. Minus the super jacuzzi (and if there’s no super jacuzzi, I’m out).

And, no offense, other writers: I have a lot of books. A lot. I read them. I have at least three books going at all times, and I will never run out of books I want to read because something about them made me want to read them (including doing research for my own writing). I literally haven’t two minutes to read books I am obligated to read because someone said they’d read my book. In that case, I don’t want you to read my book — I want you to write and promote your book. I will do the same.

Anyway, it doesn’t matter now because they actually shut down the forums because — and I can’t stop laughing at this — a number of ultra-woke teens kept politicizing every other conversation on there, generally polluting and creating a toxic environment for everyone (which, was really a blessing, because being forced to spend any time on an Internet forum with teenagers at this point in my life, is just so very bad). But since the Great Forum Cataclysm (the kids were really upset), there’s been zero place to just throw up anything that simply says, “Hey, I got a thing. It’s about this. Come take a look.”

So, screw it. I’m going to be transferring stuff over from there to here. I’ve been hiesitant to so it because, well, it was a bunch of work to get drafts up to post there, and it’ll be a bunch of work to do that here (but at least here I can actually schedule posts, so I don’t need to do it manually). I’ll make a separate page tab for each book, and put up a clickable Table of Contents. It was totally my bad putting it up there in the first place — it just seemed like a convenient publishing platform when, at the time, I didn’t have this blog up and running again. But, now this is here, why bother over there?

Starting Monday, I will be posting “chapters” (they’re not chapters — the book is in four parts, but that’s too long to post) of my Robert Louis Stevenson werewolf book, The Beast of Gévaudan. Here’s the blurb…

Robert Louis Stevenson treks through the French highlands hoping to heal his recently broken heart — prompted by the loss of one Mrs. Fanny Osbourne — and to gather notes for a new travelogue, “Travels with a Donkey in the Cévennes.” Along with the fickle Modestine, his pack donkey, Stevenson journeys 120 miles through villages and valleys, encountering innkeepers and fellow travelers, a monk-filled monastery, a violent, angry mob, and more superstitious locals than one could adequately poke with a donkey goad. These things he’d expected, but not the mysterious figure trailing him, the murder, nor, above all, a confrontation with the notorious Beast of Gévaudan of 18th-century legend. Hunted, heart-sick, questioning his own sanity and senses, Stevenson forms unlikely alliances as he is forced to face an entire region of werewolves — and possibly worse — in order to reach his destination and desire, Alès and a long-for letter from his estranged love.

I’ll post new bits every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. And, once I get a few things ironed out here, I will move ‘Florida Man’ and ‘Dread Confluence’ over here as well.

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Again, it’s Wednesday and I’ve got nothing in particular to blog about, but also a thousand things to get done.

So, starting August 18th — after I’ve finished publishing Dread Confluence — I will start publishing The Beast of Gévaudan, for which I used RLS’s Travels with a Donkey in the Cèvennes as a template. This morning I cam across this swell list of his reading during the time he spent in Bournemouth (Skerryvore, 1884-1887) — this is where he wrote and published Jekyll & Hyde, this is where Sargent painted his Stevenson (and Fanny) portraits, and this is where the above picture was taken (which is my favorite). This was among the books listed:

Joseph Pennell and Elizabeth Robins Pennell, A Canterbury Pilgrimage, Ridden, Written, and Ilustrated by J. and E. R. P. (1885)
a tandem tricycle journey from London to Canterbury; volume dedication to Stevenson: ‘To Mr. Robert Louis Stevenson, We, who are unknown to him, dedicate this record of one of our short journeys on a Tricycle, in gratitude for the happy hours we have spent travelling with him and his Donkey’; RLS replied with thanks in July 1885: ‘when I received the Pilgrimage, I was in a state (not at all common with me) of depression, and the pleasant testimony that my work had not all been in vain did much to set me up again.’ (L5, p.121).

I just thought this dedication was cute, his response sweet, and I wondered what he’d think about his (clearly) non-fiction travelogue being turned into a murder mystery with werewolves. I like to think he’d be okay with it, and hopefully, he’d at least think the writing was passable.

BoG - LHO Cover

The shame about this book is that, because it’s a “werewolf book,” folks who know anything about Stevenson might be less inclined to check it out, and thus very few people might eventually read it and really appreciate the source material. Such is life.


For the record, this is also my favorite picture of Stevenson:


RLS on the bowsprit of the Equator.

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