Barefoot Poetry

SS Matthews


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A Season of Wolves (Ch 3, Pt 1) A Mysterious Death

With the last rays of sunset fading from the flowering hillsides of June, as she did many evenings, Jeanne Boulet sat keeping watch over her family’s flock. Like most girls of fourteen years, Jeanne spent her idle hours considering what future the fates might have planned for her and what prospects for marriage might present themselves. On this particular evening however, fanciful imaginings were put aside as she debated whether or not to return home. It was not uncommon for the young shepherdess to spend the night in the company of her sheep; although her vigil was due in large part to a summer night’s solitude being preferable to the combative atmosphere of her household.

Vain and selfish, Jeanne’s mother, Claudette, believed she’d been forced to marry well below her anticipated station in life. Expressing disappointment with an ever-present scowl, even as a woman grown to maturity she continued to fantasize of life as an ingénue. Garbed in the latest fashions Paris might offer, in her daydreams she would wander the grand hallways of the royal court always the focus of a passionate intrigue. In these moments, when so distantly drawn from her farm-life fate, Claudette was almost bearable company.

Of late however, the matron’s mood turned toward the darkly morose with escalating outbursts of uncontrolled violence. Striking out with her hands and throwing about tableware, Claudette’s behavior was becoming ever more erratic. So bad had it become that for all of the past week Jeanne feared to share a roof with her, considering herself better off far removed from her mother’s presence.

Jeanne’s father however, was of completely opposite temperament. Lacking any formal education, Françoise was a simple man. Good of heart and honest, he did not share his wife’s disposition for violence. Only when earnestly threatened or provoked would he place his hands upon another. What he did want was for his family to have those comforts they desired, but unfortunately could only provide those resulting from his endless hours of labor.

Loving his daughter dearly for her vibrant personality and ability to find charm in the common things life might offer; in Françoise’s eyes Jeanne could do no wrong. Yet being forever on the receiving end of his wife’s saber edged tongue, he lived in dread of provoking her and coming to his daughter’s defense, which seemed almost daily of late, inevitably resulted in another of Claudette’s hysterical episodes. So as to avoid engaging her mother’s brawling temperament, and likely a beating for abandoning her charges in exchange for mere comforts of the hearth, Jeanne elected to remain another night among her flock.

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A Season of Wolves Ch. 2 / Pt. 5 The Witches of Malzieu

Set upon by a trio of female assailants, the maid was attacked and knocked to the ground. Beaten until she could not stand, she was assisted to her feet, falling twice before being bodily dragged. Lashed to a sapling for the purpose of burning, it was at that point Antoinette’s true torture began. As if no more than a diseased animal they cut at her. In testament to this, lying on the ground like a symbol of their hatred was the abandoned reavening sickle used to abuse her.

Furthermore, her assailants had been free from any sense of haste. Rather, upon discovering a wicked enjoyment in carving at the defenseless girl, they had taken their time. All of this was made clear by the clues left behind. The puzzling part of the grotesquery however, the part that called for an intuitive explanation, was that not all of the prints in the area belonged to the women. In light of this discovery, why the fire was never lit and their departure so sudden seemed quite understandable.

By shape, I would have thought the prints belonging to a wolf of incredible size and most unusual design. Counting six toes upon each paw, with four forward and a pair facing rear, I knew of no creature in the animal kingdom that could account for them. Standing on four feet, it may have equaled the height of the tallest of the women. Its sudden appearance would certainly have given them the fright of their lives.

Leading both towards and then away from the tree to which the unfortunate girl was bound, the tracks indicated that upon reaching her position, the animal had risen up onto its rearmost legs. Resting his forepaws on the girl’s shoulders or chest, he had taken the time to kick away much of the kindling from around her. Balanced directly before the trussed and helpless maid, the beast had then performed a diabolical mating.

Abused and bleeding her life away, anyone might deduce that the unfortunate Antoinette became the first victim of the monstrous wolf of Gévaudan. But what I witnessed advised me differently. Upon reaching her, the beast had stood on his rearmost legs so that he might ravish her. The evidence, though of a delicate nature, was clearly presented and hardly mistakable. Due to the girl’s already wounded state however, I could not determine if intercourse was forced or solicited.

Impossible as it might seem to imagine, for some unknown reason the idea came to me that while delirious from the loss of blood and distraught from the hurt of jealous harm, Antoinette might actually have invited the beast to partake of her. Recognizing him as a creature not of this world, perhaps she even implored him even to drink of her blood and afterwards render his bite, so she might herself arise and walk at his side as a wolf of the night!

Shaking the unbidden and unwelcome image from my mind, as unlikely a mystery as this was to reconcile, I could find no evidence that Antoinette had at any point been dragged or carried from that place. After all she’d been through, certainly she had not walked unaided, that is to say, I could find no evidence that she’d managed to walk away on her own two feet.

What I did find indicated the unreal possibility that she had walked away on four. Otherwise, how should I explain a mysteriously appearing second set of wolf-tracks? Beginning abruptly at the base of the sapling, they led but in one direction. Undeniably they were the prints of a she-wolf and departed the tragic scene by leading away into the forest.

*A Pagan song of midsummer; Eliza Cook’s Journal

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A Season of Wolves Ch. 2 / Pt. 4 The Witches of Malzieu

Perhaps it was a howl, a growl, or just the sound of paws approaching that distracted them. Regardless of which, the sudden appearance of a large and menacing wolf-like animal put a halt to the proceedings. Enormous in size and of imposing feature, it was now the turn of the three women to tremble in fear. With crimson colored fur and eyes looking like lanterns of fiery death, it emerged from the veil of dusk putting the trio to immediate flight.

So unearthly and savage was it in appearance, that I’m sure the beast had no need of showing further aggression toward the women. Certainly they believed the devil was upon them and like the stroke of a saber, fear readily severed their tether to hatred. Stricken with such panic that two of the three fouled themselves, Claudette and her companions fled the site of desecration in want of their lives.

Although unable to complete the act of witch-burning, I’ve no reason to believe that any of the three involved ever spoke a word of what they had seen. Certainly they never told another of abandoning the young witch to the mercy of the beast. Only by chance was it that I came upon the scene two days in the aftermath. So excepting myself and one other, the fate of Antoinette Debaraz was likely never mentioned or even speculated upon.

Having been successful in hunting a stag of reasonable measure, I set out to deliver a fresh packet of venison to Antoinette’s cottage. Finding her away from home, I chanced upon her footprints and decided to follow them through the wood. Leading to a clearing that seemed an obvious witch-hold, at first exposure I could hardly comprehend what it was I beheld.

Discovering Antoinette’s clothing upon the ground appearing purposely trampled, I came to realize that no ritual of worship had last taken place there. Stunned by the horror of what lay before me, with unhurried and careful action, I made a thorough study of the area. Isolating and retracing the movements of each actor involved, the brutal nature of the performance became clear.

Arriving at the sapling still tangled with twine and piled round with wood, my wretched heart was taken by grief and gnawed by anger. The purpose of the wood pile was apparent, but splashed with many droplets of blood, it also bespoke of despicable torture. The details of a dire play told a story of foulest conception.

By this time in my life, I had long ago deduced that where the passions of men and their female counterparts are involved reason will hold uncertain reign, but even so, there was something more here than could be sanely reconciled. Even should I be able to correctly interpret, and in some way accept, the nightmarish treatment of an innocent maid, the tale as I could read it was as yet without conclusion. Sad a scene as it was, the resolution should be obvious. The girl Antoinette, though dead, should lie somewhere about. But what I saw stood in defiance of rational explanation. Strange as it may sound, after considering the evidence, this is what my deductions led me to consider.

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A Season of Wolves Ch. 2 / Pt. 3 The Witches of Malzieu

Mesmerized by her work, with long, almost caressing strokes of her sickle, Claudette began to cut at her victim. Her intent being murderous, she wanted more than anything to flay the hide from the girl’s still breathing body. Reveling in the blood as it flowed onto her hands, she gave no more heed to the horrified protests of her companions than she did to the agonized screams of the young witch as they rolled echoing through the forest.

It may be that those torturous cries were heard by Antoinette’s coven sisters approaching through the wood and upon hearing such terrible screams, who could fault them for fleeing? I can only imagine that such wailing was enough to convince them that they too were at risk and with darkness falling around the tragic tableau, there seemed no one else who might aid the girl in her desperate distress.

Not long thereafter, the pitch of her anguished cries faded to whimpers and then ceased altogether. The respite was not because the blood-thirsty Claudette had tired of her work, or even heeded the reservations of her friends. Mercifully, Antoinette fainted from the pain and could no longer feel the awful brush of the breeze blowing across her raw flesh.

Standing in awe at the handiwork of their friend, Renee and Elizabeth were appalled, but also spellbound by the gruesome brutality of the scene. Unlike Claudette who was accustomed to the baser elements of a life involving animal husbandry, being of the city neither of the two women had been exposed to the horrors of this sort of bloodshed. Both found it to be terrifying, but were none the less drawn to its awful fascination.

Being a sometimes hunter of wolves, I know it to be aberrant for the beasts to covet the blood of humans. Normally, they will only consider humans as prey when all other sources of sustenance are exhausted. If the animals on which they predate become scarce, they will either move away, or creep closer to the livestock that men keep. Although this second will sometimes bring the two into contact, wolves will target animals long before risking a confrontation with man.

In spite of this knowledge, it might be that the combination of Antoinette’s blood scenting through the forest and her pitiful cries were what first attracted the beast to the scene. It might also be argued that Antoinette was a sorceress of such potency, that in her terrible anguish she conjured forth a dark and horrible savior. Still, knowing her as my own savoir, I believe it impossible for her to wish such harm upon another, even while being tortured by them.

Perhaps, it was that already in route to the meeting place of the witches, Satan himself happened upon the scene and finding Antoinette in a decidedly helpless state, formed a plan to use her to his advantage. Although certainly the deeds of the three women were sufficient to have opened a doorway of blood by which he arrived; a route by which evil could invade Gévaudan and see it drenched in crimson fear. Quite possibly it was their jealous actions that ushered into our province the awful plague of tragedies that followed. It is my belief however, that the beast appeared as part of a different plan, one set in motion long before that fateful night.

Meanwhile, believing the girl already near death, the three women were not yet willing to be robbed the witnessing of her burning. Being inexperienced at woodcraft, for several moments they struggled in the attempt to set fire to the damp tinder of their makeshift pyre. So it was that before succeeding in igniting an irreversible spark, they were interrupted by an unexpected visitor.

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A Season of Wolves Ch.2/Pt. 2 The Witches of Malzieu

Witch Burning by Granat Olga
witch-burning-by-granat-olga

Devising a plan by which they might rid themselves of the girl’s distracting influence, at her next opportunity Renee secretly followed Antoinette through the woods to her home. Hiding near the cottage and taking note of the girl’s predilection for witchcraft, a conspiracy was born. At her next meeting with Claudette and Elizabeth, between the three women they formed a plan that would rid them of their concerns. Choosing both the moment and course of action, they conspired in secret to kill the imagined contender for their husbands’ affections. Once ready to implement their plan of vengeance, the night they chose to engineer the girl’s undoing was Midsummer’s Eve.

Assigned the task of gathering wood for the balefire, this duty was part of ‘setting the watch’ for the celebration of Saint John’s Eve. As part of her initiation ritual, another might have found the work a drudgery, but for Antoinette the activity gave her pleasure and she went joyfully about it.

With the evening being warm and her skin dampened with sweat, she removed her clothing and lay them aside as not to soil the fabric. Upon returning to the task, with arms fully loaded she was set upon by the vindictive Claudette and her fellow conspirators. Outnumbered and surprised, Antoinette was readily overpowered and pushed to the ground. Before she could again rise, she was subdued by the three vexed women, suffering repeated blows from the hands and feet of her tormentors.

Having made her scratched and bruised, after initially venting their anger by striking at the girl, the trio was not yet finished with their plan. Lifting the girl up from the ground by her arms, they drug her half-conscious body to a sapling where they bound her with twine. Fueled by envy, the wives of Malzieu were determined to carry out a ritual of their own.

It was known to them that the burning of a witch had been banned by the court of King Louis, even so, the fire scorching their jealous hearts could only be quenched with flames. Afterwards, without the fair girl to dote over, surely the straying attention of their husbands would return where they belonged. At the same time they would be ridding themselves of a sorceress. To the reasoning of the three women it seemed a just and fitting solution to their problems.

Fully aware that if their actions should be found out, they would be punished, perhaps even hanged, the women knew this secret must be eternally keep between them. But such was the awful passion that drove them, that the danger incurred was not enough to dissuade them. So powerful was their unreasoning hate that each in turn agreed to a solemn pact.

While Renee and Elizabeth set about repositioning the wood Antoine had gathered around the bound girl’s feet, Claudette produced a tool of reaping from the pocket of her apron. Brandishing the steel with spiteful taunts, she began to nick at the skin of the naked girl with its sharp and cutting point. Upon seeing the blood well and trickle in response to her aggression, a dark and insidious passion took hold of the woman’s mind.


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A Season of Wolves Ch.2/Pt. 1 The Witches of Malzieu

hedge witch 1

*The young maid stole through the cottage door,
And blushed as she sought the Plant of Power;
“Thou silver glow-worm, O lend me thy light,
I must gather the mystic St. John’s Wort tonight,
The wonderful herb, whose leaf will decide,
If the coming year shall make me a bride.”
*A Pagan song of midsummer; Eliza Cook’s Journal

Emerging through the door to her own cottage, in sweet tones Antoinette Debaraz gaily voiced her own song of Midsummer celebration. Now a maiden of eighteen years, her heart was light and filled with the promise of dreams to be fulfilled. Taking to a pathway, she felt no urgency as she made her way along the familiar trail. Often she would pause to gather herbs of interest, or to simply visit with the creatures of the forest.

As this was to be a special night in her young life, a night of marvelous events, there was a skipping spring to her stride as she made her way to the appointed meeting place. With her novice year of service complete, the advent of dusk would see her initiated into the coven of sisters. Upon commencement of the ceremony, the reigning priestess of the Sisters of Melusine would scourge, purify and then welcome her with the sacred kisses. At the conclusion of which she would be fully vested in the practice of forest witchcraft and privy to every secret enchantment the group had to share.

As for the coven, they were overjoyed to receive the maiden into their company. It was not a secret to them that more so than any other, including the matron crone herself, Antoinette was of a talent born. Familiar with a great many herbs and how to combine them, even without benefit of formal training the girl had already possessed remarkable instincts and a reputation as an accomplished healer. Upon introduction to the finer points of the art, she’d rapidly proven herself masterful in synthesizing the details of every art. Readily she memorized the words and motions required in divination, the gestures and intensity of focus needed in the performance of rituals. So adept was she at the craft, that already the others held hope she would one day ascend to the station of high priestess.

Her understanding of the web of dependence between living things and their relationship with the unseen world was certainly precocious. This was made manifest by her creativity in the design of incantation. Her talent exceeded the efforts of most artificers who’d labored before her and it was believed by her mentor, that if there was one among them who could unite the scattered and frightened witches of France into an organized coalition, it would be Antoinette.

Much like me, it was by choice that the girl remained a recluse of the wilderness and since the time of our first meeting, it had became a practice of mine to pay occasional visits to the girl. Being ever in her debt and gifted with her friendship, I would leave her with packages of venison and useful items that resulted from my hunts. Sometimes we would talk and she would tell me of the power and properties of certain plants. Thus her youthful mastery of many crafts was already plain even unto me, a man mostly ignorant of magical byways.

With those things that I brought to her and the bounty of her gardens, it was none the less necessary at times for her to make her way into the city. Being a girl of exceeding beauty and intelligence, it might surprise some that Antoinette would prefer to live alone. She was however, a being of such bright spirit that she did not suffer from loneliness and only at need did she brave the congested streets of Malzieu. When the necessity did arise she was not prone to tarry, for all too often she would encounter vulgar men avid to lust after her.

Falling under the spell of her natural allure and bountiful charms, without pity these men would press her for her favor. Without pause they would badger the girl in hopes of winning the coveted prize of her virginity. Being a maiden of chastity and innocent in the ways of carnality, Antoinette would spurn their unsolicited advances. Too often her rejection of them resulted in rousing not only the anger of would-be suitors, but an insidious spitefulness. Unrelenting, their bold persistence would sometimes escalate to ruder forms of attention.

Though earnestly alarmed by the attention, she was never seen to use spells in her defense against them, even those times when it became necessary for her to physically fight her way free. So it happened that upon one such occasion, Françoise Boulet, a farmer and keeper of sheep, came also to the marketplace in the company of his wife, Claudette. As Françoise was a man of simple education and poor at conversation, his wife would relish these opportunities to visit with her friends in the city and share in their gossip. While going about his business however, Françoise happened to spy the girl in distress. Cornered on the street by a pair of uncouth men, she was struggling to break free of them as they went about tugging at her clothing.

To Françoise it appeared the men were daring enough to assault her on the open street in the broad light of day. Feeling their actions an insult to common decency, Boulet approached the scene, took up one of the men by the collar and seat of his pants then tossed the ruffian rudely onto his face in the dirt. The second offender was so taken aback by the action that he decided to flee before receiving a similar scolding.

In gratitude, Antoinette gave to Françoise a brief and innocent embrace before hurrying away. Observing the incident however, Claudette became instantly furious. Sharing her dismay with friends Renee and Elizabeth, these same two women reported to have witnessed their own husbands fawning after the girl. Feeding upon one another’s resentment of masculine betrayal and distrust of Antoinette’s youthful glow, all three expressed extreme displeasure at their men being bewitched by the maiden’s comely appearance. Born of a common jealousy, in secret they united in a liaison of intent.


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A Season of Wolves

CH 1 pt 5 Scars of Flesh and Soul

By grace of moonlight I made my way down into the lower hills. Utterly exhausted, it was just after dawn when I happened upon an unexpected cottage deep in the forest. Hoping someone might yet make use of the place, I remember stumbling towards the door. I am not given to prayer in hopes of divine intervention, but if I were the adolescent angel appearing before me would have certainly given cause for belief in such things. On the verge of collapsing from fatigue and fever, I was simply grateful and leaned heavily upon her small shoulders for support.

Looking to her face, I thought she could be no more than twelve and marveled that she should be left alone in the wild. As I believed the end of my life was at hand, I wanted to thank her for her kindness, but with fever setting fire to my brain, all I could manage was a senseless jumble of words.

I do not know how long I remained under her watchful eye, for I could not keep track of the days. Neither did she seem concerned with the passage of time, but her treatment of my wounds proved effective in extending my duration on this earth. The herbal poultices she applied to my face and arm drew out poisons and allowed my injuries to heal. Sipping her broths and teas caused my fever to eventually give way. All the while, in the gentlest of voices, she soothed my worries with songs of the forest that never before had I heard.

She said her name was Antoinette and for as far back as she could remember she’d lived alone in the cottage. When I pressed her on the subject, she said the forest looked after and provided for her. As my gratitude to the girl was beyond anything I could express, or ever hope to repay, when well enough to leave her keeping, I asked if she would accompany me away from her lonely life. She refused, of course, saying that this was her home and it suited her to stay. Thinking I well understood the desire for solitude, I departed in her debt saying that if she should ever have need of me, I would come at her call. Though it was not much, as a token of my thanks I left with her the wolf hides so when the need came, she might stich them into a warm winter coat.

In spite of her kindness and gifted ministrations, my face remained bitterly scarred by my encounter with the she-wolf. Upon returning to the city without pelts or other proof that I had killed the offending wolf, even as I explained the circumstances of my injuries, I found no sympathy and was left in forfeit of my reward. As for my scars, those children who saw me on the street did snicker when I passed and those who were adults found me hard to look upon. Shunned by most as a pariah, I was also deemed unfit to continue as watchman.

Being relieved of my duties seemed an unfitting reward for my service and I will confess some resentment. Dissatisfied with their treatment of me, I resolved to return to my cabin and a life alone. Again with only the mastiff for company, I divorced myself from the affairs of other men. For this, and other reasons I will soon reveal, I did not hasten to involve myself in the events that were to follow.

End Chapter one

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A Season of Wolves

Ch 1 Scars of Flesh and Soul pt 4

As things stood, after a few days in the field, the wolf continued undiscouraged by my presence with his harassment of the flocks. Coming upon the remains of a ewe on an April morning, it was made clear to me that he would persist until stopped. Therefore, the longer I delayed his pursuit, the greater would be the cost to those who looked to me to protect their livestock. Fearing the hunt might lead me onto treacherous ground; I left the mastiff in the care of a shepherdess and set out alone.

Following faint traces of the wolf’s passage, the trail led me ever upwards. Eventually climbing into the high slopes of the Margeride, I arrived at a particularly steep incline and lost his trail entirely. Searching about for a means to ascend, a change in wind direction brought an unexpected odor to my attention. As the scent of a wolf is unlike that of most other beasts, that being generally less foul and unwashed, there was something about this smell that caused me to think I might be close upon an active den.

Continuing to work my way among the rocks, I also began to realize the perilous situation in which I had placed myself. I had not brought the mastiff. I was alone and it struck me that the wolf was not. Somewhere among these rocks he had a mate and it occurred to me that the clever animal might have purposely lured me into an ambush. Thinking it wise that I retreat and continue the hunt some other day, the sound of a rock tumbling at my back was the signal alerting me to the distressing fact that such opportunity had already passed.

Unwittingly, I’d walked directly into their trap and one or the other was already behind me. Left without recourse, even as I turned I saw it was the male. Emerging from around the cover of a boulder, Already in the first steps of making a charge, he was gray as dusk and swift in closing. Equally magnificent in appearance as he was fearful in aspect, raising the rifle to my shoulder, I fired point blank into the shadow of death.

Discharging straight away into the wolf’s charging face, my aim proved instantly fatal. Falling at my feet I felt certain he was dead, but could ill afford to waste precious seconds congratulating myself. Immediately I set about reloading, for if my fears were correct, his mate was still very much alive and nearby. Though accurate in my assessment, I was too slow at my task. Even as I hastened, the she-wolf leaped from cover striking me furiously in the back.

Sent flying from my hands, the rifle tumbled out of reach. Put at a serious disadvantage, I did at least manage to roll onto my back so I was facing her and able to offer what resistance I could. Even as I looked into her pale eyes, she moved to place her bite upon my throat. Throwing forward my arms to fend her off, she clamped down with her fangs upon my left forearm and her right forepaw fell upon my face. As we struggled, the sharp nails of her foot raked gouges in my brow and cheek, but by some miracle of luck did not pierce me in the eyes. Even so the pain was torturous and believing I was but seconds from death, I realized the need to react with extreme violence before my strength failed me.

With my hand that was free, I reached for the one weapon available. Yet even as I searched for the hunting knife I keep at my waist, the she-wolf began to shake me like a vicious and petulant child would a puppet or doll. Feeling her fangs sink against the bones of my arm, I knew they would not long tolerate that crushing force.

Amidst the fray, it was by act of providence that I managed to find the hilt of my skinning knife. Yanking it free, desperately I stabbed with the point at her underside. With a surprised yelp the bitch released her terrible grip on my arm and before she could leap clear, I struck again with a slash across her ribs. With both combatants crippled and bleeding, rather than press the attack, the she-wolf broke off. As she attempted to flee, with the excited pulse one is prone to experience in such dire moments, I put pain my mind and reached for the fallen rifle. Approaching a cleft between two boulders through which she might escape, even wounded she could outrun the wind. But not so the ball of lead I sent screaming after her.

When it was done, I could not in the aftermath readily tell the extent of my wounds. Knowing the damage to my arm alone would seriously hamper descending from the cliffs, in surviving the attack I still felt a powerful sense of triumph. I had come for a hide and now with two waiting, I unwisely decided I would not leave without them both. All that was needed was to skin the pair and make my way below before my wounds left me helpless on the mountain.

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A Season of Wolves (cont.)

Scars of the Flesh and Soul pt. 3

Finding myself sorely in need of supplies; with my store of salt, sugar, gunpowder and lead all severely depleted; carrying the few coins that remained to me I decided one day to travel to the city of Malzieu. Making my way to the marketplace and conversing with a seller of goods, he informed me the city council was actively seeking a watchman to protect the flocks of the ranchers and herdsmen outlying the city. The post was as yet unfilled and if I should present myself to them, I might put my hunting skills to use for wages.

Although a post such as this was not generally maintained, during what had become a difficult winter, a wolf had wandered down from the mountains. Descending from the Margeride in search of prey, it had taken to the killing of sheep. With the arrival of spring, rather than retreat into the highlands, the wolf remained, stalking the herds of the lower pastures. As it seemed a good fit for my disposition, I did present myself to a councilman of the city and in short order we agreed that for the modest sum of five livres each week, I would walk those areas where the sheep were pastured. As part of attending to the safety of livestock, in the event I should draw sights on a wolf, I would be rewarded an additional bounty for its hide.

It might be thought strange for a hunter to have misgivings regarding the killing of animals, but to my surprise I did feel a reluctance. In the past I possessed few reservations in that regard, for more than once I had hunted wolves. During my winter of solitude however, more changes must have been wrought within me than were first realized; some of which were not to become obvious until challenged.

The bounty offered was not so large that I would profit from actively hunting the wolf and without personal grievance concerning their kind, I felt no need to seek their destruction. Still, reconciling the matter as being one of territory, I could justify ending this loner’s predation as necessary to the survival of those who keep sheep. With this in mind, if I should happen upon the wolf in the act of predation, without regret my rifle would speak the language of death.

Since our earliest days, the stalking and confronting of such a beast in the wild has been a sacred and mystical mission. For many ancient cultures it was a rite of passage into manhood. Much time and care was taken in preparation of the hunt and the experience was more than a test of one’s skill, it was a sojourn of the spirit; one that demanded a hunter’s complete attention and dedication to successfully achieve. Although for me the hunt bore a similar importance, I did not consider it a mystical journey. Aside from the opportunity to remove myself from the confusing affairs of other men for the promise of pay; at times such as these I could escape the boundaries of faith and belief. Alone in the wilds and focused on the hunt, I could push all else from my mind and concentrate solely on what existed around me.

Albeit my purpose in the present was not quite the same, I was able to convince myself it was equally as venerable. Throughout our history, man has suffered a primordial fear when confronting the fangs of this superior predator and with good reason. His wiles and cunning are without equal. With intelligence beyond question, there is no creature in the natural world more a mirror reflection of a man’s own soul. So similar are they to men that inevitably the two must find themselves in competition. Both are predators and for both, survival is always of the first order.

The discovery of gun-powder and development of firearms certainly unbalanced the scales in the favor of men and when hunted, a wolf will most often retreat into exile. Where much rock is present, prints are difficult to follow and a careless move can well result in a disabling fall for the ill balanced hunter. In addition, if he should corner the animal, a falsely aimed shot will leave him at the mercy of his intended quarry. As mercy is not an emotion readily available to either adversary, it is rarely requested or employed.

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A Season of Wolves (cont.)

Ch. 1 Scars of Flesh and Soul pt. 2

With only my loyal red mastiff and rifle for company, I wandered many weeks without thought of so much as shelter or direction. On through the summer we hunted and survived by living off the land. Much as possible I avoided the townships and hamlets of men, for my mind yet floundered in a well of self-pity. Knowing the guilt I endured would be apparent in my gaze, I could find no desire for the companionship of others.

Still, as the days rolled on, the loneliness suffered by Anne’s loss did finally begin to change. Slowly transforming into a sense of utter isolation, this state, of being alone and responsible for no other than myself, was something I could endure. As it will sometimes happen when a man is bereft of what he adores, he will struggle to find something to replace that which he has lost. But for me, all that once brought pleasure was receding into memory and starting to fade. By suppressing those memories of family life, they eventually became nothing more than swirling motes of dust seeking a ray of sunlight in the dark void of my heart.

It is nature’s way that when a man thirsts he will drink and when he is cold, he will seek to find warmth. Perhaps it is also true that time is a healer, for when the first cooling breath of autumn found the mastiff and I in the foothills of the Margeride, not far from the banks of the River Truyere, I undertook the construction of a cabin in the woods. The dwelling we built was a simple abode with a single room, but for two destitute wanderers it was home.

Unlike most men I have known, the benefits of having a wife were more for me than just the obvious. The presence of a mate helps to insure we are not made to delve too deeply into those solitary places where the soul resides. For it is there that is hung a dark and sinister veil across that inner realm. It is a drapery of fear, but a drapery a man must face and penetrate before he can discover what truly lies inside him.

Throughout that first winter our existence was harsh and spare. Without Anne to guide and distract me, I spent much of my time confronting that inner darkness and my sanity became a tenuous thing. Realizing in a moment of clarity that I could not continue in my current state, I remembered Anne often proposed that salvation lay in forgiveness. Attempting this, I did discover a means by which I could tolerate myself. It was not from the church however, nor even from my blessed Anne that I sought this absolution. Believing their blessing useless and knowing forgiveness was nothing Anne would ever withhold, I realized it was a forgiveness of self that was needed. By accepting possession of those frailties that defined me as a man, I could continue without the burden of guilt.

In many ways during that cold entombment, I did reconcile the man I once was with the person I was becoming. And so it was that when spring arrived in the Gévaudan, I emerged from hibernation lighter of spirit and willing to reenter the world. After a season of brooding in the silence of inner realms, I was determined to salvage what I could of my existence.

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