A LOOK INTO LYCANTHROPY

by
John Tansey
1984
All rights reserved by the author

I had heard from my friend of his cousin. Our correspondence had

gone on for some years after our days together at the university. His last
letter arrived in late winter when snow lay in the foothills of his countryside.
By the coast where I lived we seldom saw snow, though crisp frost is a
winter friend and wet chill an intruder of the warmest chamber. Spring was
well advanced by the time I was ready to leave home in response to his
summons.

I found passage on a small trader bound up the coast and debarked at

Tevii where I purchased a place on a canal tow packet. It was a passenger
barge as well and was crowded with the common souls and their belongings.

And so it was that in the warming spring of 1748 I sat on a bench atop
the vessel length cabin of the packet, enchanted by the beautiful day and
sun drenched countryside. With my portfolio resting on my lap as a desk I
penned a missive to my mother and sister about my adventure and of my
fellow passengers. There was a tall thin man, no longer young, his fat wife,
and their fat daughter. Inside a round wicker cage at their feet sat a goose.
Their other parcels were packed beneath and around them. Next to me sat
a merchant nattily dressed in waist and overcoat and tri-cornered hat. We
occasionally spoke and shared my beer and his cognac. The other passengers
were not notable – mainly country folk going to the first fair of the season.

It was a restful and restorative voyage after the long winter months
in stacks and files in my capacity as a law firm clerk. That I was able to be
free from responsibilities was due to the liberal nature of my uncle who
owned the practice. He believed employment had its place, but that life’s
purpose was family and honor.
 While penning my third letter to home (the first two were in my
portfolio waiting to the posted on the first packet or coach going south) I
thought over the last letter from my friend, Gregory D’Forte. It was not
clear if he was hoping for legal service or friendly support. The matter he
had written of involved inheritance of family property and to whom in the
family it would devolve.

It was as though the family members were crystal bells rung by the
clapper of the passing patriarch, and that one which rang clearest and truest
would become the new patriarch of the family. It was Gregory’s cousin
(whose father, Signor Rufo D’Forte, had become deceased) who rang truest
– until of late. For some reason the tone of that chosen bell had become
atonal, and the remainder of the crystalline chorus clamored for a new
harmony to be established.

I supposed Gregory sought my advice on the question of whether a

new inheritor could be chosen, and to devise a legal strategy to accomplish
this. Or perhaps I was going there just to provide comfort and friendship in
the face of a fait accompli. After all I was still just a law clerk, though I
was soon to advance to the bar.

A provincial girl took passage on our packet and its slow progress
allowed us to engage in conversation. She knew the gossip of the district,
and, too, her fresh pretty face and swelling bodice drew my attention.

“Oh, yes, Signor. The north district is so beautiful. How lucky you
are to have a friend who lives there, and such an important gentleman he is.”

“His relations are the Rufo D’Fortes. Do you know of them?”

“Oh, yes. The families of the two brothers both live on the same
estate, though both brothers are dead, the one recently. And sad, so sad,
they are touched by tragedy. “

“Yes, Rufo D’Forte is gone, though he was hardly young.”

 “And a good man he was,” she assured me. “So brave in the Balkan
wars. But it was not his death I meant, but his, uh, granddaughter, Angela
D’Lucca.”

As she mentioned the name she made the sign of the cross and the
sign against evil. I wondered at the different family name and what it could
mean.

“I was not aware. I am not so familiar with my friend Gregory’s

uncle’s family. By what circumstance did she die?”

“A boy, the child of a field hand saw it. He said it was a great wolf.
It chased her over a footbridge and across a meadow. He said it reared up,
caught her as she ran trying to reach safety. Her screams were cut off as
its huge jaws crushed her throat.”

Again she made the sign against evil.

“Why do you do that?” I asked, curious at her superstition.

“Ah, you know, Signor, tales about strange creatures.”

“Strange creatures? What strange creatures?”

“Ah… Some things are better left unknown.

“Tell me,” I prodded. “I am going there.”

“Aye. The boy said the wolf that chased and caught up that girl ran
on its hind legs, not like people do, but not like an animal either!”

“And what does that mean to you?” I ask her.

Her breath was a shallow pant, and her lips parted so I could just see
her teeth.

“The boy was crazed. The terror of that horrible moment will be with
him forever.”
 “What else, though?”

“Well, old country tales. Not that we down her pay any attention to
them, but of supernatural things, Signor.”

“Supernatural?”

“Yes, werewolves and vampires and all the walking evil.”

“Vampires?”

“Not that I believe in such, Signor, but there are tales you know. My
own uncle claims to have seen werewolves. At least one. He says that if you
prick one with a pin it changes back to human form, and next day seeks you
out to beg your silence. It’s a humiliation to be found out a werewolf. The
church excommunicates you! People want to kill you!”

“Does this bear on the trouble in my friend’s family?”

“I don’t know. They say the children of the one uncle want the
property of the children of the other. They even say that Emmanual, the
elder uncle’s son, is a werewolf. I couldn’t tell you, Signor. All know that
they are a wonderful family. But that is the story. The cousins of one
family want what the other cousin has, and the other cousin is a werewolf
bent on destroying the others to preserve his fortune, though condemning
himself to eternity in Hell!”

With her expression reflecting sincerity and conviction, she made

again the sign against evil.

I made the sign of the cross and wondered anew how Gregory hoped I
could be of service to him.

Dust rose from the clopping hooves of the oxen that drew our barge.
The long tow line dipped down from the barge’s beak to below the canal’s
murky surface then rose again beyond stretching to the oxen’s yoke where it
pulled on the tow path.
 The nib of my short quill was cut at a shallow angle. I dipped it into a
small ink well that resided on the bench beside me and continued scratching
away at my adventures to my mother and sister.

The wealth of the northern district became more apparent the

further we progressed. Along the way cottages gave way to farmhouses and
then to villas, stately structures reflecting the character of their
inhabitants.

At the base of a small stone bridge our packet bumped against a

landing, deposited myself and the mail, then slipped loose and quietly
continued on its way.

II

I saw some folk threshing winter grain under an arbor not far away.
They could direct me to my friend and tell me what to do with the mail pouch
left in my custody. I picked up my satchel and stepped up to the bridge
when I heard my name called.

“Gianni!”

It was Gregory, over on the opposite bank.

“Gregory! It’s been too long.”

“It has. And here I am afoot. Come, it’s not far to the villa. It’s
fortunate I was out in the south fields today. Our work you can see there –
the smoke.”

He pointed to a place where a column of gray smoke rose .

“My horse is over there,” he said. “Give me the mail bag. I’ll have a
man take care of it. There’s no hurry with what’s not important.”

He smiled.
 “It’s so good to see you,” I said. “We haven’t needed a reason to
reunite, but tell me, since your letters don’t make it clear to me, what is the
urgent business I am to apply myself to?”

“Later, Gianni. It’s been a long trip and you need time to refresh
yourself before employing your skills.”

How good it was to see him. Any explanation would have been
sufficient, but now I knew he needed me for legal counsel. His quiet manner
and sophistication were not constrained by the less than fine cloths and
boots he wore for the field. He was still a person of quiet potency.

Through the warm spring afternoon and over gently rolling meadows
we walked slowly in quiet conversation, our feet stirring clouds of pollen that
tickled my nose and made me sneeze. Flights of doves and songbirds flew
overhead, and Gregory alluded to the good fowling we could expect and the
delicate morsels we could anticipate on our supper plates.

The elms that bordered the grounds began to close in at the villa’s
patio, their fragrance laying heavy in the still air. The branches of one great
old tree overhung the entrance in the balustrade and made a leafy canopy
over the patio. The great glass doors to the villa were open, and a matronly
woman waited, watching our approach. It was Gregory’s mother.

“Is this the Gianni you’ve mentioned so often?”

“Yes, Momma.”

“Please come in,” she said, taking my arm and guiding me to a place in
the sitting room overlooking the patio. We were seated in delicate chairs at
a kind of side table. A servant brought a tall carafe of a sweetened liquid
fragrant of citron and crystal goblets. I sipped at the liquid discovering an
unexpected treat. Gregory’s mother smiled.

“I hope you are not disappointed.”

“Certainly not. Now that I’ve experience this nectar I doubt I’ll ever
be satisfied by wine again.”
 “Rosa will bring some cold fowl from the pantry so you may eat. I
must attend to your accommodations.”

“Please don’t trouble yourself on my account, Signora. You see before

you a bohemian ready to sleep beneath the stars in the fields.”

“Madam D’Forte smiled, but her eyes became sad and she turned to
her son.

“Gregory will show you to your bed. I must leave now to see it made
up. You two must have much to talk over.”

We rose as she got up from her chair and left. Rosa, a servant girl,
brought a serving tray with cold chicken and fruit, and we settled down to a
quiet meal.

“I hope I didn’t upset your mother.”

“Don’t worry. Like most mothers a conversation begins a silent train

of recollection unrelated to the present. As for your accommodations,
although you couldn’t have noticed, behind the elms at the western side of
the house is a small cottage. That is where you’ll be staying. It is cool
during the day, and at night a small fire will keep it comfortably warm if
needed. It’s only a single room. The servants will see to your needs, and of
course you’ll take your meals with us. We’ll have time to talk and enjoy the
pleasures afforded by the countryside.”

“And to attend to the matter for which I accepted your invitation

here?”

Gregory delicately stripped every morsel of flesh from a slender

chicken bone.

“Yes, I will tell you of that, but after you’re in your cottage and
comfortable with your surroundings.”

I felt my enthusiasm dampen with his merely polite response to my

question. Having never visited the gentry of this district before I could not
say that this was not the manner of these folk, but casting back in my mind
to those earlier years of my acquaintance with Gregory, I remembered him
to be less than gregarious, though warm in his way. That warmth seemed
absent now. Perhaps it was the problem he had yet to reveal that
constrained him.

A man come in from the fields entered the room and whispered
something to Gregory, and Gregory apologetically took his leave. I was alone
with only distant footsteps in the villa to keep my company. Then one set of
footsteps became louder, and I brightened expectantly hoping for Gregory’s
return. Instead a casually dressed man, one of the household staff,
entered.

“Signor, Master D’Forte requests that I show you to the cottage and
to assure you that he will come for you there before supper.”

III

The cottage stood directly adjacent to the villa beneath several

widely-spaced but very large elms. The servant informed me that an
identical cottage was situated at the east end of the villa. It was finely
made if none too large. A newly-made-up bed and an out of place wardrobe
took up most of the interior space. The windows were small and the
shutters strong.

The man requested that at dark I close and latch the door and windows.
Coming from the city I thought nothing of this. He then struck a flame and
lit the lamp.

In a corner beneath a window was a small writing table. There I

placed the lamp and set some paper, pen and ink from my satchel. I sat and
began letters to my mother and sister. The light falling on the paper
became more yellow as the sun went down. A faint breeze came in through
the door and windward facing window.

I was lost in a portrayal of all that had impressed me since my arrival,

and my eyes never rose once from the page beneath my pen for well past an
hour. Just after having dipped my pen the point fractured on a rough spot
on the sheet of paper and splotched ink on the middle of the page.

Passing a shirt sleeve over the bridge of my nose and brow I noticed
my fingers were stained with ink and the shirt beneath my arms wet with
perspiration. It was dark outside and the rolling grounds from the villa to
beyond the stream could just be made out in the glow of the rising moon. At
that moment came a sound that gripped my stomach – a piercing howl that
seemed far away yet uncannily near.

The wailing howl that seemed everywhere and nowhere rose in

intensity. Then across the stream, running so swiftly it seemed to keep
ahead of my ability to see it, moved some form on the meadow. I think it
crossed the bridge I had crossed that same day.

I remembered the servant’s instruction to secure the door and await

Gregory’s return. The howl rose in intensity again. With a start I leapt
from the writing table, sending the pages of my letters scattering to the
floor, and rushed to the door shutting it with a thump and setting the latch.
I pressed my cheek against it, breathing hard, my heart beating in my neck
and brain. As the pounding in my head slowed I managed to smile. A
bohemian should be more at ease at the baying of a… wolf? I managed
another smile and gave vent to a sigh.

A knock at the door strangled my sigh into a squeak.

“Gianni! Let me in! Please!”

It was Gregory, his voice urgent.

I unlatched the door. It swung open upon me, and I had to take a
rearward step to keep from being knocked over. Gregory stepped in, closed
the door fast and latched it. The howl came again, rattling the windows,
rattling within my breast. Gregory went to each of the cottage’s windows
drawing the shutters closed and latched. There was an odor I could discern
– a strong herb.

“Are there brigands afoot – Gypsies perhaps?”

 “No,” said Gregory, but then his eyebrows arched on a thought. “Well,
footpads, yes. We’re on our guard. I’ll explain later. For now, for safety’s
sake, let’s keep the windows and door latched. Supper is about to be served.
I’m sorry that I found it necessary to leave you for the balance of the day,
but there was a problem in the fields that required my attention.”

“Certainly. I used the time to rest from my journey and write my

impressions.”

Apprehension crossed his face. The howling seemed to have moved

some distance off. Gregory lean forward listening in its retreating direction
as though gauging it. As his waistcoat drew against his side I noticed there
an unnatural bulge. Was he armed against these footpads?

“I had hoped the matter for which I asked you here would remain in
confidence,” he said at last.

“As should all professional consultations.”

“This matter I think you will find outside the realm of your usual
experience.”

“All the better for a man whose experience have been all too usual.”

“And a secret no matter how unusual will remain a secret?”

“Of course.”

“Then let us enjoy supper, and the secret I will share over a cordial
afterward.”

The howling seemed to intensify again. Gregory turned to me, a quick

smile flicking the corner of his lips.

“Come.”
 “Quite a noise that creature makes,” I observed. “I think I saw it a
while ago – gave me quite a start.”

“Oh, did you see it? We hear it all the time. Quite a nuisance, you
know. We’ve set out against it on occasion with pike and musket, but without
luck. Yes, a great wolf it is. Did you see it, really?”

“I believe so. It moved so swiftly like a fleeting shadow. I could

hardly follow it.”

“So you didn’t see it closely?”

“No, nor would I want to. It’s voice is fierce enough. I might not
survive witnessing its countenance up close.”

“So it is in the country where folk tails erode the intellect of the
urbane.”

I did not understand what he meant by that, or to whom he meant it if

not myself, but I joined him at the door and placed my hand upon the latch.
Gregory’s hand lay heavy upon it already, however, and prevented my opening
the door. His eyes held me silent and I could feel the intensity of his senses
reaching out.

From the distance came the noise of a crash and the air was pierced
by yowling. It was unearthly and crazily other-human-like, but I took
courage from very earthly sounds – human voices, cries and shouts. Gregory
smiled and opened the door. Across the stream and moving west was a band
of torches, and on this side of the stream heading for the bridge several
men ran. I could see they carried pikes and guns.

“Wolf hunters?”

With confidence of old Gregory strode toward the villa.

“Yes, and good luck to them and to you, Gianni. May your long journey
here have as its reward an enjoyable holiday.”
 His festive mood was contagious and his enigmatic reply passed me by.
All at table were festive: Gregory’s mother, his younger and pretty sister
Roberta, and another visitor, a Signor Felloni.

I ate slowly and by late evening I had eaten more than my fill. I
leaned back in my chair, accepted gratefully a long thin cigar and a small
glass of potent spirits. I blew opaque smoke toward the candelabrum.

Two musicians appeared at the far end of the dining room and played
nocturnes on mandolin and viola. Signora Bartolli picked from a platter of
fruit. Gregory and Signor Felloni were engaged in conversation, and I found
myself paired with Gregory’s shy sister, Roberta. She must have been 15 or
16 years of age, had long colorful brown hair, and her face was heart shaped.
Her brown eyes were deep, and when she looked at me I felt she was looking
inside me.

“I hope you enjoy your stay with us,” she said.

“It has been wonderful so far. This is the best table I have ever sat
at.”

“You’re kind. I hope I can have an adventure like yours some day.”

“If it is an adventure you expect, I’m afraid you’ll be enchanted but

perhaps a trifle disappointed. The journey was wonderful, but the only
overtone of adventure I’ve experienced is this marvelous wolf your people
hunt.”

Something clouded her eyes, but it was not fear or apprehension.

“Wolf hunts are not so unusual, and the wolf you speak of met its end
tonight, God willing.”

“Would the deity need intervene to insure its destruction?”

“Has my brother spoken to you of the wolf?”

“It couldn’t be ignored. Its voice seemed to be in company with us.”

 “Sometimes in the night it seems so. You can tell if not by its screams
then by our red-rimmed eyes next morning.”

Her eyes swiveled away from me, and I saw by her breasts that she
held her breath. I followed her gaze. The table became silent. A field hand
whose face was glistened by sweat and framed by matted hair, hat in hand,
stood just inside the dining room doors. Gregroy was there talking to him.
With hurried steps, Signor Folloni followed.

“Now we know how long the night lasts,” Roberta pronounced beneath
her breath.

The field hand seemed grim. He half bowed to Gregory and left the
room replacing hat to head. Gregory and Signor Felloni exchanged a few
words. Felloni made an apologetic gesture with his hands and then the two
returned to the table quietly. The others seemed to know the news without
being told. Signor Bartolli made the sign of the cross. A faint whisper
escaped Roberta’s lips.

The evening ended, the musicians left, the table was cleared. Signora
Bartolli and Roberta retired for the evening, though not before I extracted
a promise from Roberta to continue our conversation on the morrow.
Gregory and two men with torches escorted me out of the villa. On looking
back to catch one more glimpse of Roberta I noticed servants going from
window to window hanging garlands of small white objects. I said nothing.

When we arrived at the cottage Gregory took a torch from one of the
men, and I waited while he and they walked around the structure.

“Gianni, whatever you do don’t open the door or a window until the sun
rises, not unless you hear a knock three times. By that sign you will know it
is I.”

“It’s a warm evening… “

“Heed my advice! You are my guest and I am responsible for you. Do

not open window or door.”
 “May I assume this the manner of your hospitality?”

I was immediately ashamed. I had been petulant, no doubt from the

long day without rest, the mystery of my summons here, and the lack of
explanation for my every inquiry.

“I’ll explain all tomorrow. Rest well tonight.” Then my friend’s face
broke into a smile. “It’s good to have you here. Please forgive us our foibles
and excuse our whims. Tomorrow you will know all. For now, good night.”

IV

As I lay beneath the sheet in the comfortable bed trying not to let
the mystery of events trespass on my thoughts of Roberta, I couldn’t help
but wonder about the evening’s abrupt end and Roberta’s silent words. My
mind drifted back to the rich cream color of her shoulders and arms and the
low cut of her bodice. I wondered what she felt about me, her brother’s
friend.

And then as though in the very room with me came a jarring howl that
scraped every thought from my mind and stole the breath from my lips. The
wolf was prowling the grounds of the villa, his screams rattling doors and
windows. A new noise drove terror into my limbs – a dry rasping scratch at
the shutters.

My fingers quivered. What could it be? How long I lay in fright I do

not know, but it was some time before I associated the scratching with the
blowing of a light breeze. I lay easier. My eyes closed on nightmares but a
new howl pried them open again. Eventually the howling ended and I was left
with the disturbing rattling at the window over my head.

I thought over Gregory’s admonition not to open doors or windows

until sunrise. Exhaustion eventually drove away caution, and I got up on the
bed, unlatched the shutter, and looked for the cause of the noise. At first I
saw nothing. I reached outside groping for an offending tree limb. Nothing.
 Annoyed, I swung the shutter closed, and there again came the dry
rasping noise. I opened it and felt around the outside of the shutter.
Something light and hard brushed against my knuckles. I grasped and pulled
it inside. It was a garland of garlic hung from a nail on the outside of the
shutter, placed there no doubt by the servants who had walked about the
cottage the evening before.

Cool air blew on my face. The eastern sky lightened with the pre-
dawn. I closed and latched the shutter. Sleep came quickly, but not before
I began regretting my being here and not before a lone mournful howl came
distantly like a warning.

It was close to noon before I slipped off the edge of the bed to stand
before a wash basin. From a large heavy pitcher that shook in my hands I
poured water and, for lack of anything else soaked my neck cloth and wiped
off my body. I felt refreshed and dressed myself in a fresh change of
clothes. I arranged my hair with an ivory comb and then went to the villa.

Only the house staff were there. Madam Bartolli and Roberta were
out of the house and Gregory had gone to the fields. Hard sweet rolls and
fruit had been left for my breakfast, along with a citrus beverage.

A horse had been left for my use, a large gentle beast suitable for
myself who had little experience as a horseman, and after inquiry I learned
the nearest village was only two kilometers away.

It was a warm sunny day and the road was wide, lined by trees and
interrupted frequently by streams. I rounded a bend in the road and there,
in a suddenly deep valley, lay the village. I slowly walked my horse down its
single street of two and three story structures – shops, warehouses,
residences and a public house. It was a busy place and people hurried up and
down and across its street. A man hailed me and several others stopped to
watch and listen.

“Signor! Scuzzi! You come from far?”

“From the coast! I’m here on business.”

 “What news is there?”

“No news but that the trouble in the east is a boon for some and a
bane to others.”

“If I might ask, what business brings a man from the coast here?”

I hesitated a moment, enjoying the game. Let him think me a tax

collector, I thought, and smiled and cast a calculating eye upon the
questioner.

“I’m a law clerk,” I finally admitted and saw relieved smiles respond to
my answer. “I stay at the manor of my good friend, Signor Gregory Bartolli.”

“Aye!” the man cried twisting away, a repellant look on his face.

Like a school of fish with a single mind all turned and fled away from
me, some making the sign against evil.

I stopped at a shop of general merchandise. Its redolent atmosphere

bore fragrances of spices, cloth, oils and incense. A small well-fed man in
shirtsleeves was at the back of the store arranging boxes and crates. He
smiled congenially and raised the spectacles on his nose to above his brow.

“Signor, may I help you?”

“Yes. I need a firearm,” I said.

“Yes, Signor. I can help you. If you plan to hunt in the foothills and
woods hereabout, I recommend a fowler. It will throw a ball of good weight
a short distance, just what you need for deer and wild goat. As for fowl, it
will throw a cloud of small shot.”

“I want a pistol.”

“Yes, yes. Much recommended for anyone who must travel the roads
often. This way, Signor.”
 From beneath a glass case he brought out several long flat boxes and
opened them.

“These are made in Madlenna,” he said tipping up the box containing

three short pistols of rude fabrication. The locks were ill fitting and the
metal parts blemished.

“Show me something else.”

He tipped up another box.

“I think you will agree, Signor, these pistols are fine examples of the
gun maker’s craft.” The box contained a short barrel and a long barrel
pistol. He lifted out the shorter. “I purchased these from travelers in
greater need of money than protection. This one will fit well in the pocket
of a coat. The barrel is extra heavy. The gun, once discharged, also serves
are a cudgel. It’s best to discharge it with the muzzle pressed against the
stomach or back of your assailant.”

“So it is necessary to be close to your target for this pistol to be

effective.”

“It is better.”

“Show me the long barrel gun.”

“Yes. This one is an antique – a cavalry pistol from the time when
mounted men fought in armor. A later owner decided to rejuvenate it by
replacing the old wheel lock mechanism with a flintlock. The conversion was
excellent as you can see. It’s a heavy pistol, designed to be hung from a
saddle pommel. The barrel at the breech is thicker than at the muzzle,
allowing it to take an larger charge of powder. Back then it was necessary to
shoot through the enemy’s cuirass to pierce his breast. It is made of brass.
It takes some strength to hold it steady on target, but it will shoot straight
over a good distance.”

“How distant?”
 “Twenty-five meters, maybe more.”

I held it. It was heavy and I tried to keep it steady in my

outstretched arm, but I could not do it for more than a moment. But with
chiseled designs and carvings in its metal and wood parts, it was more
elegant than the other pistols and also seemed more potent.

“I’ll take it. Show me its use,” I said.

He showed me the articles I would need for its operation, then

charged the barrel with powder and a large ball and primed the priming pan
from a small flask of fine gun powder.

“Just pull the cock full back when you need to discharge the pistol.
Until then leave it at half cock so you do not accidentally pull the trigger.”

He put all in a wooden box, along with extra flints, accepted my money
and bid me good day.

I crossed the fields back to the villa. The day had warmed even more.
I passed farmers and field hands, young women and children, working the
fields and gathering flowers and herbs for dyes and cooking.

My mount’s hooves stirred clouds of yellow pollen. The fragrance of

its neck and mane warmed by the sun rose up pleasantly to me. It occurred
to me the letters I had wanted to post home lay forgotten on the writing
table in my cottage.

“Signor!”

The cry came from a man running across the field, one of Gregory’s
field hands. I reined the horse toward him.

“This way!” he beckoned and led the way on the run.

 We rounded a clump of trees and came into view of the stream. On
our right was the villa. We crossed the stream, rounded another small wood,
and came up a group of field hands under the supervision of Gregory and
Signor Felloni. Signor Felloni did not appear in good humor.

“Gianni, good day,” greeted Gregory. “I hope you slept well.”

“Yes I did.”

“A wolf trap,” Gregory said smiling, gesturing to a large pit on the

ground concealed under a partially rolled away section of matting. “An
invention of my ingenious guest, Signor Felloni.”

Felloni appeared ill pleased by the compliment. I peered into the pit.

“What manner of trap is this? What wolf do you hope to destroy?

Why the stakes?” I asked. The floor of the deep pit was studded with
sharpened stakes. “Any wolf falling into this deep a trap would never get
out. It could only await your coming next day to destroy it. What kind of a
wolf would need to be impaled as well as trapped?”

“The kind that can get out!” Felloni said acidly.

“Yes,” said Gregory. “Still, it was a failure.”

“And was your trap sprung, cousin?” asked a lithe well dressed young
man with a wide slit of a mouth and a rounded stub of a nose.

“The smart fellow uncovered the trap. Gianni, this is my cousin,

Emmanual.”

A tension came over the scene. Emmanual and I nodded to each other.
Felloni left us. A worker climbed out of the pit and raised a hand to be
helped up.

“You hope for much, cousin,” Emmanual said. “Your traps, your hunts.
Face it, your quarry is smarter than you. You can’t take from it what belongs
to it.” He turned to me. “I’ll address you later, Signor. I’m acquainted with
your purpose here.”

Emmanual’s smile was a leer that spread hungrily from ear to ear.

“Perhaps,” I said quietly to Gregory, “you will acquaint me with my

purpose here.”

“You will join us tonight for super, cousin?” Gregory addressed

Emmanual.

“You can never tell when I will dine amongst you,” said Emmanual.
“YOU!” he shouted at the man coming out of the pit who started and fell
back.

The man cried pitifully, a stake piercing his upper arm. Others rushed
to help him out. Emmanual quietly left.

“Take him to the house and bind his arm!” Gregory ordered. “Come
this way, Gianni.”

He mounted his horse and led the way along the path Emmanual had
taken, over the stream and toward the villa. The color was high in his cheeks
and he seemed much disturbed. We came to the patio and handlers took our
mounts. Gregory had a table and chairs brought out to the patio, and a cold
dinner was brought to us. We were quiet, the sun well down from its zenith.
Gregory looked to it repeatedly. He had not achieved much outward calm,
but became comfortable enough to talk.

“I must tell you why I invited you here. This is not an easy thing for
me to do, for what I must tell you has brought great shame on my family,” he
began.

“My cousin Emmanual is the inheritor of these estates. His father

died leaving the management to my mother, since my father had earlier
passed away. Upon coming of age my cousin would assume his place as head
of the family and the family legacy. Gianni, my mother and I seek to
abrogate the terms of the will and gain possession of the estates for
ourselves.”

I was stunned. This sort of thing was not uncommon and sometimes
the conflict became one of arms – what lawyers cannot contrive to effect
steel sometimes does. It was that Gregory wanted me to be part of a
conspiracy to take what rightfully belonged to another that shocked me.

“I don’t know how this can be contested.”

“Gianni, my cousin is a werewolf.”

“What?”

“That thing you saw running across the fields last night – that thing
that howled and robbed you of your sleep – that was my cousin as the wolf.”

“I don’t understand.”

“A werewolf. All hereabout know it – know it to be my cousin. Only

the revered reputation of my family keeps the peasants and villagers from
burning us out. My cousin destroys cattle… and sometimes those who travel
through these parts and never seen again.”

“The people who discovered your home to be my destination – their

attitude toward me changed. Some made the sign against evil.”

“All know. Now tell me, Gianni, can a werewolf legally inherit property
and wealth? Perhaps it is not actually necessary to change the terms of the
will, just lengthen the term of our guardianship into perpetuity. What do
you think?”

“The wolf trap? You seek to destroy Emmanual?”

“I seek to destroy the wolf.”

“But that would be Emmanual.”

 “It would be the wolf, and since Emmanual would, ah, be among the
missing, things would be considerably simplified, no?”

“And he knows you are trying to kill him.”

“He seeks to prevent us from keeping him from assuming what he

regards as rightfully his. He is already of age, but none honor that knowing
what he is. He needs us to manage the estates. As he matures none will be
able to deny him, wolf that he is or not, and mother, Roberta and myself will
be at his mercy. Even now we never travel at night without a company of
armed men. We place garlic on all the doors and windows – he finds that
repellant. For whatever the reason, a secret of the night, only at night does
he affect his transformation at will. At those times he possesses uncanny
senses and strength.”

“Why not destroy him during the day before he affects his
transformation?”

Gregory laughed.

“Gianni! You call yourself a practitioner of the law? You prescribe

murder! I doubt the magistrates will give over to his murderers my cousin’s
possessions. That would be too dangerous a precedent to so openly permit.
No, Gianni, the body must be that of the wolf, but try as we might we have
not been successful in destroying him. I ask you to build a legal case for
what we desire. Certianly the magistrates will agree Emmanual is
incompetent and will extend our guardianship and, perhaps, if you prepare a
good case, change the articles of the will in our favor.”

“Perhaps.”

Gregory smiled and was himself again.

“Your cousin knows my purpose here?”

“He seems to know much, and you are in danger. Leave the garlic on
your shutters and doors where it belongs. After hours don’t open you door
unless you hear me knock three times and call your name. Be on your guard
and trust no one after dark.”

Gregory made the sign against evil. I returned to my letters, unable

to continue writing as much for personal fear as preoccupation in pondering
whether a person’s rights of inheritance change in article according to their
physical change in form.

Werewolves? Folk stories, witches, vampires – not too many years ago
such an accusation could have led one to hanging or burning. The church’s
excommunication was merely prelude to seizure of property and wealth.
Many were the fat clerics who fed off the roasted bodies of people so
accused.

Frightened though I was I had trouble believing it. However after

having met Emmanual and experiencing his cruel thin mouth and sanguine
humor I had little doubt he could be made to seem incompetent and that the
magistrates would likely extend Signora Bartolli’s guardianship. Though I
was sure the werewolf was an animation of the ill feelings felt towards
Emmanual, I would please Gregory and observe his wishes in regard to my
personal safety. And now I had more than garlands of garlic to protect me.
The wooden box containing my firearm lay within easy reach of the bed.

Supper that night was a tense affair. Emmanual deigned to dine with
us, and his conversation seemed so much non-sensical chatter issuing from
his blood thin lips. He did not eat, saying he would dine later, but sipped
from a goblet of red wine. I sat uncomfortably beneath his gaze. Whenever
I looked up, his eyes were on me. Before long he grew agitated, upset his
wine, and left the table.

“Gianni, mother, Roberta,” Gregory addressed us. “Signore Felloni

must leave tomorrow morning and there is business I must conduct with him.
It is unpardonable that we must disrupt the evening, but it cannot be
helped.”
 The two left the table.

“Gregory is such a bad boy, Gianni. He often leaves the table to

conduct business, but that is only because he works so hard. He works too
hard. The burden of this place is too much for the little Gregory will see
from it. Such dedication deserves greater reward. I tell him, ‘Go, take your
meager inheritance and begin somewhere else!’ But he is too good. He does
all this to see his uncle’s honor does not come into disrepute. That uncle’s
own son would not do this, but my good Gregory, his nephew, does.” She
sighed deeply. “I will have Michael and Alphonse come in to play for you. I
am retiring to my rooms. Roberta, come say goodnight later. Gianni, I hope
your evening goes undisturbed.”

She was a stately woman, and although she affected weariness in her
slow rise for the table, I could see that a quiet strength inhabited her
frame. Roberta’s dark eyes followed her mother out of the dining room.

Servants then cleaned the table, brought us coffee, and, for myself,
cigars. Michael and Alphonse played light strains on viol and mandolin. I
exhaled thick clouds of smoke. Roberta smiled at me. We left the table for
two upholstered chairs by the glass doors to the patio.

“So, Roberta, “ I said paternally. “What does a young woman do once

summer arrives?”

“A young woman of means lacks for nothing, Signor D’talia.”

The corners of her mouth drew back impatiently. I had been sitting
well back in the chair, drawing on my cigar. I sat up and took the cigar from
my lips.

“Pardon me for using my age to patronize you. I am not so old and you
are not a little girl.”

“For a man of the city the manure is thick beneath your heels.”

“I’m sorry.”
 “You worry too much, Signor D’talia.”

“My profession is one of attention to detail.”

“Forget details for a while. Pay attention to me. The summer will take
care of itself. I look to you to make this evening interesting.”

I quickly inhaled and expelled smoke, hoping to interrupt her view of

my face. I was not a man of great experience so I sat in disquiet uncertain
as to what she meant.

“And so I rely on you,” I mumbled, uncertain what I meant myself.

Our hands brushed together as I moved her coffee cup closer to her.
I felt my blood rising. Gently I took her fingertips in my hand. Her eyes
rose to hold me, yet she did not smile.

“I don’t know what you think of me, Roberta, but I like you very much.”

I watched her breasts rise, also the color in her cheeks. I took more
of her hand into mine, but then she pulled away, startled. A servant had
come to within paces of us and was hanging garlands of garlic on the now
fastened patio doors. He left and Roberta allowed me to again take her
hand. The space between us narrowed. Next our shoulders touched, then
our cheeks. As I began to taste her lips her mouth became frigid. In the
distance a piercing yowl rattled the panes in the patio doors. She pulled
away, her brown eyes chilled.

“This is what you are here for! Can you not put an end to it?”

“I’m asked only to see to legal matters, things which have to do with
wills and estates.”

“If you prove my cousin a lunatic he can be secured during the day
when he is easier to lay hands on, and a place found for him nights where
he’ll disturb no one. Can you not do this?”

“Yes, I can. Let’s not let Emmanual disrupt our evening.”

 She rose.

“I hope you can do it, Signor D’talia. I’ll see you tomorrow.
Goodnight.”

My heart seemed to rest on a precipice as I watched her leave the

dining room. The music stopped and a maid went round the room
extinguishing candles, all except the one nearest myself. My cigar had
burned short and drew harsh. I inhaled the smoke anyway and look out the
patio doors. The moon and stars were out. I could see clearly through the
night. Once more I caught sight of the fleeting shape far away. I shivered
uncontrollably.

“Gianni, I didn’t know you were still here.”

I jumped, and the cigar stub fell out of my hand.

“Gregory, you startled me!”

“Rest well tonight. Tomorrow we’ll go over the will and begin work on
our petition. “We’ll walk you to the cottage – Michael, Alphonse and myself.
Remember, while it is dark out don’t unbolt your door unless you hear a knock
three times. Remember!”

I entered the cottage and bolted the door and shutters as bidden by
Gregory. The dry rattle of the garlic garlands came from each one. I drew
the chair up to the writing desk and sat to a fresh sheet of paper, uncorked
my small ink tin and selected a quill. With a penknife I squared the point and
deepened the slit, then shaved the squared point narrow. The line it drew
narrowed and thickened with each stroke.

It was then that the scratching at the door became distinct. I was
about to call out to whoever was there. Then came a bump, three times.

“Is someone there?”

 “Signor D’talia, let me in,” came the strangest voice I had ever heard.

“Who’s there?”

Again came the bump three times.

It had to be Gregory playing a prank on me, or better still, a message

from Roberta. I unlatched the door.

“Come in, please.”

But no one came in. I waited, annoyed, and then opened the door wide.
A hurried dark form rushed inside. I stepped back. My heart stopped,
frozen in disbelief.

Before me on hind legs stood a misshapen creature, a wolfish thing of

coarse fur, short snarling muzzle, and black pointed ears on the sides of its
head. Yellow eyes fastened on mine and hissing wheezing breath issued from
a ragged mouth, a stink roiling across its curling tongue.

“Take my life quickly!” I pleaded.

It reached out a claw and plucked at my neck cloth. I believe it

wanted to tug me closer to its hideous face. I stepped backward and the
edge of the bed cut into the back of my knees sending me tumbling over to
the other side. My hand knocked against the box which held my long pistol.
I picked it up, drew the cock all the way back, and pointed it at the creature.

“Do you think with the muggy weather your priming will ignite?”

The voice was a high-pitched rasping that seemed to contort between

the teeth of the short, thick muzzle. The total illogic of this creature
addressing me, remarking on the weather, would have struck me speechless
except that a response was being elicited, so I gave it.

“I don’t know much about firearms.”

 “During the humid season it is good to change the priming every day.”

“I’ll remember that.”

Within me arose a cry for something to happen. I needed to scream –

flee. The room seemed to grow distorted and small. My head ached.

The creature took a step forward. My focus sharpened, the pistol

rose again to the center of the creature’s breast. It stopped.

“Signor D’talia, let us sit and talk.”

It fumbled clumsily with the writing desk chair, and, in incongruous

fashion, it sat.

“What are you? Fiend or devil or freakish horror of nature?”

“Don’t you recognize me, Giannni?” asked the creature. “Emmanual!”

I made the sign against evil.

“My God, what manner of evil are you? What fiendish bargain did you
strike with hell to affect this unholy transformation?”

“None. I strike no bargain except the one I seek you out for now.”

He stopped talking and began contorting his hideous snout as though

attempting to chew through something with the back of his teeth.

“Excuse me,” he finally said in a voice more difficult to understand

than before. “We don’t have much time to talk.”

His snout seemed longer and narrower, the ears longer and higher on
the head.

“What do you want if not to kill me?”

 “That would achieve the same result as persuading you not to carry
through in your purpose in coming here. I want that you not assist my cousin
and aunt in their attempt to strip my inheritance away from me.”

“Even should I not assist them, they will likely prove successful. And
why not? How can you hope to inherit valuable properties and wealth when
you are… like this?”

“Why should I be denied my rights? Am I so unusual?”

“Can you deny it? Werewolf myths are the fodder of folk tales, but in
the flesh? As your real self you are cruel and find pleasure in another’s pain,
but as this monster your cruelty is amplified.”

“And don’t other’s look forward to my downfall with pleasure? Don’t

you think my cousin and aunt are gleeful at my predicament? My cousin is a
good man, but my aunt, his mother, covets that which is not hers and already
tally’s the revenues of my estates amongst her treasures. With Signor
Felloni, a hunter and trapper of some repute, she also hoped to tally the
coins on my dead eyes. I cheat her of what is mine by remaining alive and
aware of her plans. They believe that as a wolf I am oblivious to there
intent.”

“What is it you want?”

“I want nothing! I have it all. I only wish to keep it and be left alone.”

Again his muzzle worked in contortions, chewing and snapping. His

back arched, his black nose pointed to the ceiling and a houndish moan
escaped him. His voice became hardly recognizable. More awkward than
before he leaned forward off the chair and clattered to the floor.

“Why this heinous transformation? How did it come about?”

“I can’t tell you. I don’t know.” His now lower pitched voice rattled
and barked spasmodically. “It’s in my family. My father was the wolf, but he
feared it and chose not to emerge except for the rarest occasion – times of
stress or celebration. I welcome it. You might, too, if it were possible for
you to experience it. How bright I see, how far I hear, and how free my
mind is to race with wind and moon. How can I explain to you what it is like
to be without limits?”

“You kill and terrify.”

“A few chickens, a goat, rabbits – nothing more.”

“Travelers disappear.”

“Where? Show me. They disappear down the road, not from life. My
aunt terrifies the servants who chance to see me on the grounds – I seldom
go further afield. Our estate is large. The servants in turn spread tales in
the village. Can you blame me for hating those who encourage others to hate
me? What right have they? By what privilege other than that which they
hope to gain from me?

“I must leave. I cannot talk any longer.”

He became agitated and glared at me, baring his teeth and growling. I
had relaxed during our conversation, but now I raised the pistol to his
breast once more. He attempted to talk, huffing and constricting his chest,
blowing out horribly garbled words.

“What can – a pistol ball – end?”

I was not certain what he meant by that. He left by the still open
door, the transformation complete, the piercing howl beginning at once. It
rattled the shutters. I had not doubt it rattled the windows at the villa. It
rattled even my senses. How illogical. I had discussed legal matters with a
werewolf, the prospective defendant of a lawsuit I had been requested to
prepare.

VI
 Howling filled the night from all directions as Emmanual crisscrossed
the estate more rapidly than a sparrow could have covered the distance in
flight. I kept the shutters and door latched fast and sat at the writing desk
as tingling chills ascended and descended my spine. The howling became an
almost human scream. No wonder all hated him.

When I was young an elderly uncle contracted a disease that

consumed his face with ulcers. None would approach him but his wife. Even
his children shied away from his presence, yet he was a kind man who
exhibited always a Christian demeanor. Why God chose him that way, who
knew? All said it was unfair that he suffered so. How horrible that this
good man who suffered so much should be denied even the company of his
children. Even though I was young I knew his affliction was more a test of
those about him.

So the case here. Emmanual was young and afflicted. It took a

special grace to accept with equanimity such a mortal outrage as Emmanual’s
affliction, so repulsive to those about him. And unlike my uncle, Emmanual
was merely human in embracing it warmly.

A rap at the door came three times. I took the pistol, opened the
frizzen and blew out the priming. With a wire I made certain the touch hole
to the main charge was clear, then I poured a fresh charge of priming in the
flash pan and closed the frizzen. I noted that my hands were steady.

The knocking became spasmodic, a rapid series of three pounding jolts

to the doorframe. I knew it wasn’t Emmanual; I could hear him far away,
but his howl was drawing closer again. I cocked the pistol and unlatched the
door. Gregory pressed in and latched the door behind him.

“Not even the hunters will go afield tonight. His cacophony has never
been more horrible! I was in the west wing when it started. It seemed right
here. Did he try to get at you?”

“No, however I did see him. He was here in this very room.”

“As Emmanual?”
 “Mostly as the wolf. I watched the transformation. In all honesty, I
wish I hadn’t come here.”

“You saw?” Gregory seemed struck. He picked up a quill and twirled it

in his fingers. “You understand, then, how we feel, but then, maybe not,”
said Gregory. “If he stood before you, you could have shot him and saved us
from the horror of the coming days.”

“So I might have done had he not spoken to me.”

“The wolf spoke to you?” He paused in thought. “You presence here

has shown me how to end this nightmare. I’ll occupy this cottage and await
his entrance with musket and pistol. That has never occurred to me before –
to hunt the creature here alone, with myself as bait.”

“Before the transformation was complete he spoke to me. I found him

intelligent and sensitive and injured by the actions of those about him. Did
you know that his father was a werewolf?”

“Many did, but he didn’t haunt the countryside as the wolf. I suspect
strongly that my father was the wolf as well. Before he died, when I was
young, in the predawn when I awoke from a nightmare I heard hurried
footsteps in the hallway outside my door, my mother was crying
imprecations, and a distant tapping noise – the noise a dog makes when
walking across a wooden floor – but there was no dog.

“But it was hidden. I never asked, and my mother never spoke of it.
To this day she can’t speak directly of Emmanual’s affliction, and when I look
into her eyes she looks away ashamed, frightened that I might ask about my
father – that I might ask about myself. Am I one too? Will I awake some
night to find myself a beast? Are the anxious urgings I sometimes feel this
thing impatient for me to give it release?”

“Is it a disease passed down the generations?”

“Perhaps. It seems so. My uncle, my father, my cousin – maybe

myself. I know the servants and villagers talk of my grandfather, and even
further back.”
 He became quiet and eyed the pistol I had lain on the bed. The
howling, which had become quite close, retreated again. It was maniacal
music, fitting for the mood in that cottage.

“Gianni, while you’re here, keep that pistol ready. When you leave,
leave it with me.”

“Another boat comes tomorrow. I’ll take passage on it. I’d like very
much to see your mother and Roberta before I go.”

When I awoke the next morning, I didn’t know if I should join the
family for breakfast and act as though nothing had happened, or be honest,
bid my farewell, and hope the boatman would spare me some bread and fruit
until I could purchase my own victuals. I was hungry, however, and the
thought of sweet rolls and chocolate made my mouth water and, if it wasn’t
too gauche, a long dark cigar would finish the morning’s parting just right.

I had already guarded against the likelihood that cigars would not be
offered at breakfast’s end. At dinner the previous night I had sauntered by
the open chest of drawers where the silver tray that held the cigars was
replaced after making the rounds at table. When none looked my way, and
none of the many polished surfaces in that room reflected my deed, I took
half a dozen of the delicious cigars and hid them in my coat pocket.

I hoped the servants didn’t suffer much for my indiscretion once the
theft was noticed. I could picture myself reclining on the boat on that long
journey back home, enjoying the passing view and blowing smoke onto the
breeze.

The hard sweet rolls were deliciously sweet, the chocolate hot and
slightly bitter. There was no conversation, and the longer the silence
endured the more difficult it became for me to inform signora Bartolli and
Roberta that I planned to leave that very morning. It had been my hope
Gregory would break the news, but he remained morosely silent.
 “Signora, Roberta. It is my difficult duty to inform you that I will be
leaving here for my home today.”

Roberta gave no indication that I had even spoken.

“Yes, Gianni,” said Signora Bartolli. “Gregory told us already. We will

be sad to see you leave.”

She got up from the table and left. Gregory turned baleful eyes on
me.

“Yes, it will be hard to see you leave, especially when we have asked
for your help… But I understand. This is not an ordinary problem. I can
understand your apprehension.”

“Apprehension? I have done what you haven’t – conducted an

interview with your cousin Emmanual while he was in his altered form, and
although there was no doubt that altered his form was, his spirit was not so
greatly affected. What he said made sense. His ‘malady’, as he put it, isn’t
reason enough for you to attempt to deprive him of what is his.

“How many people have actually seen your cousin as the wolf? No one
outside your family, I’m sure. No one has witnessed the actual
transformation. Few have even seen him as more than a fleeting shadow
amongst shadows. But he knew you pursued him, baited traps for him. He
knew you waited until he was vulnerable – that you could never face him man
to man. He knew that strangers laughed, scorned, and feared him at your
instigation.

“Gradually his human behavior reflected the strain that was burdened
on him. All saw that, and none would question your attempt to preempt
Emmanual from his inheritance. I do, however, and I question it not so much
for the reasons I’ve just stated, but from what you yourself told me
yesterday – that there’s little difference between you and Emmanual.
Perhaps the difference is that some have the courage to be what they are --
and some do not. YOU!” I shouted to a servant. “Bring me a cigar!”
 Gregory’s face was deep red. Roberta had sat motionless throughout
my tirade. The tray of cigars was brought to me. I took two, lit one from
the proffered taper, and placed the other in my vest pocket. I then left the
villa.

Just before I reached the cottage I heard hurried steps behind me.

“Gianni, wait!” cried Roberta. “I’m sorry for the behavior of my

brother and mother. Forgive them. I’ve never understood any of this, but
now I do and now I am terribly confused.”

“It’s not so hard to understand. Gregory hoped to convince the

magistrates that Emmanual is a lunatic.”

“Not that! Don’t you understand? I disdained Emmanual and his

growing anger and cruelty, and I supported my mother and brother in doing
what seemed right, but by that I helped to drive Emmanual mad.”

She leaned on my shoulder. Her face was pale, her lips intensely red.
I lifted her chin and our eyes engaged warmly. She pressed into me.

“Over here!” came a cry from beside the stream.

Was I so unlucky? Had the boat arrived already?

“Over here!”

I could see the man waving to the villa from the stream. Gregory and
some servants were on the run there. Roberta and I pressed close together
once more, but the man’s insistent crying started us on the run for the
stream as well.

By the time we arrived there a small group of people had gathered

about some unseen object. I knew by the happiness lighting Gregory’s face
that I would not like what we found.

There, lying prone on the ground, was Emmanual in altered form, his
wolfish mouth gaping horribly.
 “The wolf is dead!” cried a field hand joyously.

“It seems, Gianni, that your leaving does not matter,” Gregory said.
“It seems that God has decided the matter. Look! The glutton choked to
death on a bone. Our object is accomplished. Ha!”

I could see the human in the crooked malformed wolf. It was sad.
The fur seemed matted and sparse, as though the creature had mange.
Deep in its mouth I could just glimpse the knobby end of a large bone, the
object on which Emmanual had choked. Perhaps it was all that remained of
the unfortunate Angela D’lucca, the only person in these parts known to be
missing in years. Had Emmanual stumbled upon her dead body, or had he, as
related by the peasant boy, chased her down, killed her, and feasted upon
her? Whichever, he was no longer part of creation. Now at last he was at
peace.

Post Script

I look back on the events of those days and smile. I left the home of
my friend feeling justice had become a contrived thing. I later learned
though that in the case of the cousins justice served well the side of
righteousness.

The magistrates decreed that the inheritance would not devolve to

Gregory and his family as Emmanual was never proved dead. The
misshapened form of the wolf was found to be just that – the uncommon but
not unknown occurrence freakish animal birth. Emmanual was deemed merely
missing, not dead, and since his body could not be produced, alive or dead,
the Damacle’s sword of foul play hung long and precariously over Gregory’s
head. After all, all knew he sought Emmanual’s demise.

The family was named caretakers of the estate, unable to inherit or

sell the property. Other interested parties waited in the wings should their
stewardship prove false.
 So, more than by walls or chains, Gregory and his family were held in
check by the very thing they could not possess and yet would never yield to
another’s possession.

Emmanual’s inheritance, along with his honor, had been upheld.

The End