The Ylem (20 page)

She eyed me, lost deep into thought, and
after a few long seconds, the words came to her mouth with shock,
as if she'd just discovered something, “The Ylem is in you.”

“Excuse me?” I tilted my head.

She stepped forward and reached for my hand.
But when her wrinkled skin made contact with mine, a tiny electric
shock made her step back. “I'm sorry. It must be the dryness here,”
I told her, embarrassed.

Instead of looking bothered by the
uncomfortable discharge, she was in awe. “No, no, it’s fine,” she
said, looking at her hand and then at mine.

“I have static issues, so…”

She raised her eyes and stared at me, still
with that thoughtful look. “I have a French book dating to
Villeuneuve’s time. Perhaps a bit older. I think it’ll be of great
interest to you.”

“Really?” I asked amazed. A book from the
eighteenth century wasn’t something I got to see every day.

She beckoned me to follow. We passed several
aisles stuffed with old musty books piled up in verticals and
horizontals, colors ranging from washed-out browns to greens, some
with their hard covers gone. She stopped at the end of the hall
before a small table with a pile of books and an antique brass
finished banker's desk lamp.

“This is the book.” She pointed to the one in
the middle of the table. It was an old leather bound book with a
warped cover. The tattered pages inside a yellowish color.

“It must cost a lot,” I said, arching my
eyebrows.

“It’s not for sale, dear,” she said. I looked
at her intrigued. “A book like this doesn’t have a price. But if
you would like, you can take a look at it.”

Curiosity blossomed inside of me. “Could
I?”

She smiled. “The book is inviting you.”

I opened the book, carefully. The first
tattered page showed a title in French. “Loup-Garou: Un monde qui
change.” I frowned and looked back at her. “Werewolf: A shifting
world?” I translated, surprised. “This is about…werewolves?”

She nodded. “And much, much more.”

I looked down again, noticing the author
initials. “Who’s W. de C?”

“An anonymous writer.”

“Is this his only work?”

“The only one mankind knows. And the only
book the world knows.”

I wrinkled my nose. “I'm not very keen on
fictional werewolves’ stories. But thank you anyway.” I smiled.

The lines between her eyebrows deepened. “Who
said it’s fictional?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard what I said.”

I paused, staring into her brown eyes. “Are
you saying…werewolves are real?” I questioned, an amused smile
playing around my voice.

“As real as the book you have in front of
you,” she said without a grain of doubt.

I chuckled under my breath. Poor lady, she
was clearly mental. Being surrounded by books and stories the whole
day made her delusional. “I don’t think they are,” I said politely,
not wanting to hurt her feelings.

She smiled. “Don’t think. Your mind is going
to fool your eyes. Instead, listen to your heart and you’ll see the
truth.” She turned to leave.

I looked down at the book once more and
stared, trying to grasp what she’d just said. I pulled the bench
underneath me and sat next to the table. I slid my fingers across
the page, feeling its dry, raspy texture, and turned it over. The
next page had a message from the author, written with a fancy
calligraphy. And to my biggest surprise, it was in English, not in
French.

To whom these pages have been fated, do not
fear, for all the veils covering

your eyes shall disappear. Accept this
knowledge with your heart and

change the course of your lasting days. Be
prepared for the turning

point of a mundane life and the prelude of a
new one.

To you my brother, traveling in the depths of
the black forest, do not

bargain, for this book shall be your gain.
Past this page, you will find

information of great consequence. Use it well
and embrace it. You

won’t perish twice.

To both, this world is our secret hold.
Respect it. Cherish it. And

the reward will go above.

I turned the page and began swimming through
the mysterious depths of the book. It seemed to be some type of
encyclopedia, a very rare encyclopedia, on a very rare topic:
werewolves.

It began with historical facts, showing
several cases dating from ancient Greece to the eighteenth century.
The most striking ones involved a certain being, known in those
times as an evil spirit called the Lord of the Forest, the Dark
Lord, or the Black One. His presence was constant throughout the
centuries and after reading some more, the point was made clear:
there was somebody or something dangerous lingering around those
times.

France in particular seemed to have been
infested with werewolves during the sixteenth century and even
enacted edicts which banned the practice of lycanthropy (the
transformation of a human being into a wolf). Numerous cases
brought to the courts involved murder and cannibalism—killing
children and eating parts of their bodies. Many of them underwent
traumatic interrogation and torture, suffering a vile death at the
stake.

Among other described cases, there was the
one of a man called Peter Stubb in 1573, near Cologne. He claimed a
Black Lord—the infamous Black One—gave him the power to change into
a robust wolf, and while transformed, he killed thirteen children
and two pregnant women, tearing the fetuses from the wombs and
eating them. Atrocious and revolting, but his death was brutal as
well. He was sentenced to have the flesh pulled off his bones with
red-hot pincers, to have his legs and arms broken with a wooden
axe, and finally, to be beheaded and burned.

And he wasn’t the only one with that dreadful
destiny. After finding several half-eaten children, the authorities
of the town Dôle in Frenche-Comté province put a price on
werewolves’ head in 1573. Two months after that, an alleged
werewolf named Gillas Garner was arrested. Most of his victims were
nine to twelve-year-old children who’d been slain and eaten—thighs,
legs and belly.
Eww. This is why I don’t like
werewolves
.

But the most striking case had to be that of
Pierre Burgot and Michel Verdung in 1521. It seemed that Burgot was
desperately trying to gather his storm-frightened sheep when he
came across three horsemen dressed in black. One of them gave him
money and assured him the future protection of his sheep, if, in
return Burgot obeyed him as his Master. Burgot accepted the offer
and agreed to meet them again.

In the second meeting, in a forest near
Chastel Chamon, the so-called Master came along with Michel Verdung
and others Burgot didn’t know. Each one had in his hand a blue
taper with a blue flame flickering on the end. The Master
approached Burgot and took his wrist to bite, breaking his skin
with his teeth. Burgot fell to the ground and after what he
described as everlasting atrocious minutes, the pain stopped. He
said he was at first horrified at the wolf's feet he’d grown and
the fur covering his body, but he found that he could now travel at
the speed of the wind.

He committed awful crimes along with Verdung,
tearing to pieces a seven-year-old boy, abducting a four-year-old
girl—who was eaten by the two of them—and raping several women, to
kill them afterwards. When they were caught, they were duly put to
death.

I was getting goose bumps all over my body.
Nasty creatures
.

However, before dying, Burgot said there’d
been a powerful entity during his ritual, which he did not see. The
one which his master, Moyset, called in the void darkness
‘Lord’.

The author gave this case a great deal of
importance. For some reason, the name of Moyset was underlined,
standing out among the others. And I found myself staring at it for
more than a couple heartbeats, trying to figure out its weight.
Perhaps he was telling something to the comrade he was talking to
in the first page, the one who traveled in the black forest at the
speed of the wind maybe? Could it be? Was he talking about
werewolves? Actual werewolves? Was he giving them some
information—disguised information?

I decided to find something else—a hint, a
clue, more underlined words, something. And what I found was far
more worthy of note.

The Benandanti, or Good Walkers as they
called themselves, were humans who battled evil witches and
werewolves—known as the Malandanti— and who worshiped the goddess
of the moon, Diana. The calling to become a Benandanti happened at
birth. Women and men born with a caul—an inner fetal membrane still
covering the head—were believed to have mysterious healing powers
and the ability to see witches. And much like the “shaman” of other
cultures, the Benandanti claimed they left their bodies at night,
and while out, they healed people and protected them.
Unfortunately, they came under persecution by the Roman Inquisition
and were tried as heretics, leading to the extinction of the
cult.

Still, a few intriguing lines amid the
graceful block of words seemed to tell the opposite.

If you seek guidance my brother, wait for

the Ember Days. The depths of the forest
shall be the place.

Open your eyes and heart, and a good
walker you will find
.

So…maybe there was a small group of them,
like a secret society, still helping people and offering guidance
to any "brother" who needed it. And the words Benandanti and
Malandanti were underlined as well.

What sort of guidance, though?

It all sounded fascinating and odd. Not to
mention puzzling. But I wasn’t convinced. The dates, the numbers,
the names and the facts seemed pretty trustworthy, but Europe had
been under the shadow of ignorance and superstition during the
middle ages. Towns were small and people lived near woods. The fear
of wolves could have been the reason behind all the werewolf
phenomena. Our imagination could be really cruel sometimes.

I should know.

I skimmed through the next pages, examining
some of the sketches. The body of a fierce, robust werewolf, like
the ones in the movies, caught my eyes. And next to it, an
exceptionally human-like creature. Light fur covered the arms and
chest, he had feet instead of paws, and a wolfish nose and short,
pointed nails.

Interesting
.

I was running out of time, so I turned the
pages and closed the book with a snap. Electric tingling sensations
began dotting the fingertips of my right hand while the back of the
book rested on it. They were getting sharper every second. The
yellow light overhead started flickering, like the ones in the
auditorium, and as the tingling sensation increased, the blinking
rhythm of the lights grew stronger.

My heart’s rhythm seemed to notice as
well.

I removed my hand, unable to bear the
intensity anymore, and pushed the book away from me.

That’s when everything stopped.

What the hell is wrong with me?
I
looked at my hand. My static issues had definitely jumped up to
another level. I couldn’t keep avoiding it. I had to use that
static spray from now on. I stood up and hurried down the narrow
hall, flanked by the books and the musty shelves that threatened to
make a sandwich out of me. The floorboards groaned under my weight,
making sharp sounds as if about to break. The old lady was seated
on the leather chair, reading a book as aged as the hands that were
holding it.

I stopped in front of the old desk and said,
“Thank you for letting me read the book. I have to go.”

“Oh dear,” she said surprised. “Are you done
so quickly?”She set her book on the desk. “I thought you’d barely
started.”

“My dad is waiting for me.”

She nodded and smiled in understanding. “Did
you like the garnish at least?” She asked.

“The garnish?” I said with a frown. What a
weird lady.

“Yes, the garnish. You still haven’t come to
the main dish—to the core of the book.”

What was she talking about? “Oh, well, the
garnish
was pretty interesting.” I smiled, and then paused,
looking at the small wooden chest. “Are those stories real?”

“What do you think?”

I shook my head. “I'm not sure. They seem
real, but they sound somewhat unreal. There were a lot of crazy
people back then and—”

She laughed, cutting me off. “The incessant
battle between our heart and mind,” she said amused, as if she was
talking to herself. “I told you to not listen to your mind.”

I sighed. How not to listen to my mind? I
didn’t quite understand what she meant.

“Dear,” she said. “I’d never show that book
to anyone else. Since you came in, I perceived the doubt fluttering
around you. I knew you were seeking an answer, perhaps not
consciously, but your soul was.” She pointed her finger at my
chest. “Haven’t you been having odd dreams lately?”

Dreams?

The creatures in the dark, the waterfall, the
luminous orb, Tristan...

“Your soul is speaking to you through your
slumber,” she continued. “And that book is your answer dear. I took
it out for you.”

I frowned again, baffled by her words. “I
think you have the wrong person. That book has nothing to do with
me.”

She lowered her eyes to look at my hands.
“Yes, it does. But you are unaware. Not completely, though.” She
looked at me again. “You wonder about you. And you wonder about
him.”

My stomach lurched. “Him? What do you
mean?”

She folded her hands in her lap. “They live
amongst us, passing as human beings, feeding during the day and
hunting animals during the hours of darkness. They mean no harm to
us—most of them anyway. And some live here, in this town.” She
stared at me. “You…you already met some of them.”