THE WOUNDED SEAL
Scotland
There once dwelt on the northern coast, not far from John o’ Groat’s House, a man who gained his living by fishing. He was particularly devoted to the killing of the seals, in which he had great success.
One evening just as he had returned home from his usual occupation, he was called upon by a man on horseback who was an utter stranger to him, but who said that he was to come on the part of a person who wished to make a large purchase of sealskins from him, and wanted to see him for that purpose that very evening. He therefore desired him to get up behind him and come away without any delay.
Urged by the hope of profit he consented, and away they went with such speed that the wind which was in their backs seemed to be in their faces. At length they reached the verge of a stupendous precipice overhanging the sea, where his guide bade him alight, as they were now at the end of their journey,
“But where,” says he, “is the person you spoke of?”
“You’ll see him presently,” said the guide, and, catching hold of him, he plunged with him into the sea.
They went down and down, till at last they came to a door which led into a range of apartments inhabited by seals, and the man to his amazement now saw that he himself was become one of these animals. They seemed all in low spirits, but they spoke kindly to him, and assured him of his safety. His guide now produced a huge gully or joctaleg, at sight of which, thinking his life was to be taken away, he began to cry for mercy.
“Did you ever see this knife before?” said the guide. He looked at it and saw it was his own, which he had that very day stuck into a seal who had made his escape with it sticking in him. He did not, therefore, attempt to deny that it had been his property.
“Well,” said the guide, “that seal was my father. He now lies dangerously ill, and as it is only you that can cure him, I have brought you hither.” He then led him into an inner room, where the old seal lay suffering grievously from a cut in his hind quarters. The man was then desired to lay his hand on the wound, at which it instantly healed, and the patient arose hale and sound.
All now was joy and festivity in the abode of the seals, and the guide, turning to the seal hunter, said, “I will now take you back to your family, but you must first take a solemn oath never again to kill a seal as long as you live.”
Hard as the condition was, he cheerfully accepted it. His guide then laid hold on him, and they rose up, up, till they reached the surface of the sea, and landed at the cliff. The guide breathed on him and they resumed the human form. They then mounted the horse and sped away like lightning till they reached the fisherman’s house. At parting his companion left with him such a present as made him think light of giving over his seal hunting.
THE CAT-WOMAN
France
One winter eve some villagers of Des Haies had gathered to tell and listen to stories about sorcerers, ghosts and loups-garous. When it came to Père Pichard’s turn to spin a yarn, he knocked out his pipe against the knucklebone of his thumb and asked, “Which story do you want?”
“The tale of the cat-woman,” came from all sides.
“Very well,” he said. “But it isn’t a tale but a true story, and I shall tell it to you just as it happened, without keeping back or changing anything.” And this is what he told:
When I was courting my wife I went to and fro on the Croix-des-Haies road, which got its name from the calvary standing at the crossroads midway between her house and mine. One night I stayed at my sweetheart’s house later than usual. In those days there was a great happiness in my heart, and I sang as I walked toward home. When I came to the crossroads, I was surprised to see a great white cat at the foot of the calvary. The beast walked right up to me, rubbed her back against my legs, and meowed tenderly. Then she accompanied me as far as the edge of the village, where she jumped into a ditch and disappeared.
From that night on the cat met me at the crossroads and followed me home. I became so used to her that I paid her very little attention. And I forgot all about the animal after I married and had no further occasion for walking at night on the Croix-des-Haies road.
After five or six months of marriage I awoke one night towards midnight and found that my wife was not beside me. I was greatly astonished and called out, “Nanon! Nanon!” There was no response. I lit the candle and searched through the house. Nanon was not there. I found this very strange. Finally I returned to my bed and went back to sleep. When I awoke in the morning, Nanon was there in bed beside me.
“Where did you go last night?” I asked.
“Me?” said she, and her face turned red. But she would say no more.
I did not press her further then. That night, however, I was on the alert, and when she got out of bed about midnight I was aware of it. I glanced toward the door, and although the room was dark I was able to make out something that looked like a hugh white cat, and it went out the door. At dawn Nanon returned to bed.
One morning as she was doing her housework, a spider fell down her neck. She ran to a closet to take off her clothing. I was curious, put my eye to the keyhole, and saw a very odd thing. On her neck just above her left shoulder there was a red mark shaped like a cat’s paw. I had heard it said that people who run as garous have a mark somewhere upon their bodies. Now that mark and Nanon’s leaving the house at night convinced me that she was a cat-woman.
The realization that this was a fact had a terrible effect upon me. For many days I could hardly eat a thing, and for a long time I wandered about the fields like a man who had lost his mind. One day, I remember, I mustered up enough courage to ask her what that mark on her neck was. She refused to answer me, and as she walked away I saw that there was fury in her great glittering green eyes.
Now the cathole in the door was not large enough to admit a cat-woman of her size. As I always took care to bolt the door before going to bed, I wondered how she got back into the house after her nocturnal prowlings. Late one night when Nanon was away, I lit the candle and awaited her return. An hour or two after midnight I heard scratching at the door. Then I observed a paw come in the hole, reach up, and pull back the bolt, and the door opened. I snuffed out the candle immediately, crept into bed, and feigned sleep.
The next day I put a sharp edge on my short-handled axe. An hour before dawn I heard scratching at the door. In an instant I was there with my axe in my hand. When the paw appeared, I struck with all my might. I heard a piercing scream, a scream that still makes me shudder every time I think of it, although all this happened forty years ago. Nanon did not come near the house for three days. On the fourth day she came home. One of her hands was missing. After this she never went out at night. The cat-woman of Croix-des-Haies never prowled again.
THE SERPENT-WOMAN
Spain
There lived in the twelfth century a certain Don Juan de Amarillo, who dwelt not far from Cordova. Although not very young himself, he had a handsome young wife, whom he adored. He introduced her to all his friends; but though she made great sensation by her beauty wherever she appeared, yet, in some way or other, she contrived to make enemies and no friends among either sex.
No one knew where she came from, nor what her name was before she was married. All that was certain was that Don Juan had been absent from home for many years, that he had never been heard of by either friend or foe in all that time, and that he had returned as suddenly as he had departed, but bringing with him a wife.
There were many stories afloat of her origin and character. Some said that she was a strolling player, whom Don Juan had rescued from ill-treatment and persuaded to marry him for his name and position. Others said that she was a witch, and had bewitched the old Don Juan by means of love-philters and noxious herbs.
These stories were none of them true. But people repeated them to each other, and were quite satisfied to believe them. Meanwhile, Doña Pepa want about and enjoyed herself, unconscious of the tales that were told of her, but not unconscious of the terror she insp
ired. She was quite aware that prople shunned her, and avoided her whenever they could. She was a wonderfully handsome woman, with regular features, dark eyes, and a head like that of a beautiful statue. Her figure was singularly flexible and lithe. But in spite of her beauty, people looked askance at her and felt, without being able to say why, that there was something wrong about her. She had some curious tricks of manner which were startling. When she was pleased, she would raise her head so that it seemed really to lengthen two or three inches, and she would sway her body to and fro with delight. Whereas, if anything displeased her, or she disliked anyone, her head seemed to flatten out, and the touch of her hand was like a bite. She delighted in hearing and repeating all the ill-natured stories that she could about her neighbors, and, in short, seemed as spiteful as a woman could possibly be.
To all outward appearances, she and Don Juan got on excellently well together. But the servants of the household told a different tale. They said that at home they wrangled from morning till night, and that sometimes Don Juan was positively afraid of his wife, especially when her head flattened, for then she looked, and really was, dangerous. People said that they also had seen a look of alarm creep over the old man’s face, even in company, when she showed any signs of anger.
Things went on like this for many years, but still Don Juan and his wife seemed to live in peace and harmony. To be sure, the servants, who had been in the family for years, left one after another, and when questioned as to their leaving, answered that the señora was a witch and that the angel Gabriel himself could not live with her. How their master managed, they could not imagine, unless she had bewitched him.
Then it was rumored about that a favorite nephew of Don Juan was coming from Aragon to pay him a visit and to be formally acknowledged as his heir. As he and his wife had no children, he wished to leave his wealth to this nephew, the son of an only sister who was dead; and in course of time the friends and neighbors of Don Juan were invited to meet the stranger.
He was a frank, open-faced, and open-hearted young man, about twenty-seven years old, who at once won the hearts of all who saw him. He was not at all jubilant or overweening at the honors thrust upon him as his uncle’s heir, but spoke quite ingenuously of his former poverty and the disadvantages as well as the pleasures of his boyhood, to his aunt’s intense disgust.
Doña Pepa could not bear to hear of poor relations, much less to let the world know that Don Juan de Amarillo had any such belongings. And she gave young Don Luis such a look of mingled scorn, hatred, and disgust as made him shudder and kept his tongue quiet for the rest of the evening. The guests tried in vain to draw him into conversation; he had received such a rebuff in Doña Pepa’s glance that he became utterly silenced and wondered what sort of woman she could be. He had seen what the guests had not observed (for nobody else had at that moment noticed her), that her head had flattened and that her eyes had grown long and narrow, that she had moistened her lips (which were white with rage) with a hissing sound, and that her tongue was forked. He had heard queer stories about his aunt, but had hitherto never paid much attention to them. Now everything he had ever heard in his life came back to his memory, and it was with the utmost effort that he forced himself to sit through the evening, and tried to appear interested in all that went on.
The more Don Luis was known, the more popular he became. Everyone liked him. His uncle worshipped him and could hardly bear him out of his sight, for he reminded him of his dearly loved lost sister and of his own past youth, before he became entangled in the world’s wickedness and folly.
Even Doña Pepa could not withstand the freshness and charm of her innocent young nephew, and although she was continually angry with him for his careful avoidance of her, she could not retaliate upon him as she had often retaliated on others—for as time went on she had learned to love him.
He lived in constant fear of her, and tried to keep out of her way by every courteous means in his power. But she would not let him escape from her. She dogged his footsteps everywhere. If he went out for a walk, she was sure to come and meet him, and he felt certain that he was watched—not for his good, but with a jealous eye.
One evening he went to see a friend who was having a sort of reception, and stayed out rather later than usual. When he got to his uncle’s house he lit his little taper and proceeded to his room. As he did so, he stumbled over what he supposed to be a coil of rope. To his horror the rope unwound itself, and proved to be a large black snake, whick glided upstairs before him and disappeared under his uncle’s door. The thought instantly flashed across his mind that his uncle was in danger of his life, and without hesitation he pounded and knocked and shouted at the door for at least five minutes. They seemed to him five hours. But his uncle was old and sleepy, and it took him some time to wake up. However, at last he came to the door and demanded crossly what his nephew meant by disturbing his rest at that time of night.
“I saw a large black snake creep under this door, my dear uncle, and I was afraid that you might suffer from it before I could help you,” replied his nephew.
“Nonsense!” said Don Juan, turning pale, “there is no serpent here,” and he tried to shut the door again. But Don Luis was determined to search the room. Doña Pepa was apparently asleep.
The room was carefully searched, but nothing could be found. His uncle was very angry; but as Don Luis was leaving the room, crestfallen at his failure and wondering whether he was losing his mind, Doña Pepa opened her eyes and gave him one of her evil glances; her head flattened, and her eyes grew long and narrow. He left the room with an undefined sensation of terror. He could not sleep, and when he dozed for a few minutes, his dreams were of snakes and of loathsome reptiles.
The next morning he found only his aunt when he went down. His uncle had gone out, Doña Pepa said. Don Luis had taken such an aversion to her that he could hardly bring himself to speak to her, and she took intense delight in plying him with questions, which he felt himself obliged to answer as became a Spanish gentleman.
But at last he could bear it no longer. Doña Pepa was giving very evident signs of rage, and he was hastily beating a retreat, when she strode across the room, seized him by the arm, and said, “You shall not treat me with such disdain. You shall learn to fear me if you cannot learn to love me.”
At the same moment that her hand touched his wrist, he felt a sharp sensation as if something had stung him. He threw her hand off and hurried out, thinking for the time no more about his pain. But in the course of the day his arm began to swell rapidly and to throb painfully, until at last the hand and fingers were swollen to such a degree that he could neither close them nor hold anything with them. He then became rather alarmed, and decided to go to a hermit who lived not far off, and who was renowned for his skill in the treatment of poisons as well as for his piety.
After examining the arm the old man said, “It is a serpent bite.”
“No, it is not,” interrupted Don Luis. “My aunt grasped my arm, in a frenzy of rage, and this is the result.”
“Worse still,” answered the hermit. “A serpent-woman’s bite is sometimes deadly.”
“Can you do nothing for me?” cried Don Luis, in despair. “I hate her, and I have been persecuted by her for weeks.”
“Yes, and you will be persecuted by her still more. She will take refuge in your room instead of on the landing. Put these leaves upon your arm, and keep wetting them when they become dry, and your arm will probably get better. As to conquering her, that will be a more difficult matter. If you can keep awake you will get the better of her. But if you sleep one minute, you will be at her mercy.”
“What shall I do to her? I would do anything short of murdering her,” said Don Luis excitedly.
“Take your sword, when you find her a little way from the door, and hack off a piece of the snake, and see the effect. Then come to me again.”
With this advice Don Luis was obliged to be content. His arm was so much soothed by the hermit’s tr
eatment that he determined to try the rest of his advice.
That night, when he went to his room, he undressed and was just getting into bed when he espied the snake coiled in a high mass at the foot of it. Without a sound he drew his sword, gave a stroke at the snake, and cut off a piece of the tail. The snake reared its head and showed its fangs, preparing apparently for a spring, but Don Luis gave another blow, and another piece of the tail came off. With a hiss the snake uncoiled, dragged itself to the door, disappeared down the stairs, and crept under Don Juan’s door.
The next morning Doña Pepa did not appear. His uncle said that she had a habit of sleepwalking, and had run something sharp into her foot.
“I can guess what ails her,” thought Don Luis to himself, as he condoled with his uncle, who seemed really troubled.
Don Luis had carefully preserved in a drawer the pieces of the tail which he had cut off, and on looking at them the next morning had found that they were the toes and instep of a human foot.
For some days he neither saw nor heard anything more of his aunt in any shape. But at last she appeared and greeted him most cordially. He noticed, however, that she halted decidedly in her gait, and reported everything to the hermit.
“Have no pity for her, my son,” replied the hermit, “for she intends your destruction. If you have any mercy upon her, she will have none for you. The next time strike about a foot from the head, where she cannot hide her disfigurement.”
A few evenings after this conversation with the hermit, he found the snake awaiting him in the courtyard, and as usual it went upstairs before him, and coiled itself on a chest in the farthest corner of the room. All the doors in the house seemed to be constructed for harboring and helping snakes, for they were scooped away underneath for two inches.
Don Luis drew his sword and struck as nearly a foot from the head as he could. The snake made a bound to the door and disappeared, the head first and the body following and joining it outside, and it then disappeared under his uncle’s door.