In the abrupt silence, a strange noise came from the back room, a violent thumping and rattling and a half-human voice that moaned and keened. The wolf-man was agitated. From the door, our men could see the whole cage shake and quiver beneath its canvas.
Deacon Skinner recovered himself and with Krauss went to the cage. They pulled away the canvas and saw the wolf-man in his terror, bounding at the bars, baring his teeth, and making every fearsome display. Though he was clearly ill and damaged, fear had filled him with a raw frenzy. The sound he made chilled their blood, so like a man or a woman, so much an animal's senseless cry.
Deacon Skinner spoke in reassuring murmurs, and sidled closer to the cage. The wolf-man bristled and retreated, putting himself in the farthest corner and posturing himself in the way that an animal or man will when he is signaling he will fight to the death.
Our men had planned poorly for his response; they had thought he would be too weak to resist by now, or would respond to words of reassurance; or might welcome them when they made it clear they were his rescuers. But there had been too much commotion, the air was full of the scent of anger, gunpowder, and blood; his instincts told him it was a moment of fatal danger. Though they might have violently subdued him, as Singer and his men had, that was anything but our intent and would have begotten his mistrust forever. And it was not possible in any case: As it turned out, not one of Hans's men would dare try to compel him by force. They were afraid of the effects of a werewolf's bite.
They were discussing the problem when a group of Singer's men made a sudden break. Dietch and Winston brought them up short, but not before one had made it to the front door and out it. In an instant, he sped down the street and disappeared.
Our men feared he would go rouse reinforcements and there would be a bloodbath. Yet there seemed no way to bring the wolf-man out. It was a very uneasy situation for them as the wolf-man shook his cage and Singer's men grew more restless. Hans had started to feel weak, and had sat himself in a chair, still gripping the hair of Silas Singer and forcing him to sit on the floor in front of him. Blood was pouring into his eyes so that he could hardly see. Without his leadership, the other raiders became indecisive and dispirited.
Deacon Skinner and Dr. Mahoney took it upon themselves to make a decision. They pulled Winston aside and sent him to get me.
I cannot forget the moment when Winston dashed up on his lathered horse. My heart quailed, for I feared he brought unbearable news. In that moment I drained empty of myself, no faith or hope or anything at all. But Winston seemed quite gay, as if the battle had pleased him greatly, and said only that they needed me in a hurry, to calm the wolf-man. I ran to put on my gray cloak, and then he helped me mount behind him and we were off through the streets. It was another ride that turned heads and caused consternation among pedestrians. As we went, Winston described what had happened, so I had some sense of what to expect.
The front room of The Red Man was a motionless tableau, just as Winston had described it. Already a wretched, seedy place, the resort was now a wreck of tipped tables, broken chairs, shattered glass, wounded men. The tension among our men was palpable; Labinski's leg was already bandaged and he had positioned himself at the window, ready to give the warning if more enemies should appear. Dr. Mahoney had tended to Hans in the interim, and washed his face enough that he could see, but though he had recovered considerably the sight of him nearly stopped my heart. I went straight to him, and he was clearly very angry at me for coming there and at the others for conspiring to bring me. He accepted my kisses but did not return them. Silas Singer looked like a snake, ready to strike, on the floor at Hans's feet.
Hans lurched upright and gave Singer's hair to Winston, who took it gladly. "Now we go see what you can do," Hans said. "If he won't come willingly, and fast, we will have to leave him."
Hans and Dr. Mahoney and I went together to the back room. The wolf-man had calmed somewhat, but when we approached he hunched himself and crouched at the ready. His limbs were trembling with weakness, the exertion almost more than he could muster.
His appearance was awful to see. When I had seen him at the docks, though he was fearsome and deformed, he was also healthy and comfortable, his hair tangled but glossy and full, skin unmarked and of a good color, eyes brilliantly clear: whether man or wolf, a fit and free creature. Now he was corpse-pale, and not one inch of skin was without a scratch or festering wound. His impressive muscularity was gone, replaced by a sallow slackness, and his hair was crusted stiff. Worst of all were his eyes, from which the light seemed to have fled. They were the eyes of a creature which knows absolutely that the world, God's creation, is a cruel and hopeless thing, and that only. And I thought: It is up to me to show him otherwise.
"Do you know me?" I said softly. "Do you know me?"
His look changed and he focused on my face, scenting thoroughly.
"Lydia, for the love of God, not so close," Dr. Mahoney whispered urgently.
But I felt no fear, and in any case would display no fear. I had resolved to act with the trust that begets trust. I would not only stay the wheel but turn it the other way. I went to the stage and sat on it, turning to put my face directly to the bars, though I could hardly bear to see him.
"I know you are not a werewolf," I said gently. "I know you are a person. I know you will not hurt me. And I will never hurt you. We are here to free you and care for you."
His posture eased, ever so slightly. Encouraged, I put my arm between the bars and extended my hand to him, as one does with an unfamiliar dog, to let him scent it. Behind me, Hans made a warning sound in his throat. The wolf-man moved slightly from his corner, tentatively, then made one wobbly, four-legged lope toward me.
"You may come to me," I said. "You may come closer. Please come closer."
The men held themselves tensely, ready to spring to my aid, as the wolf-man made another lope and came near my outstretched hand. I thought he would scent it, but he did not. His legs weakened and he sat awkwardly, off balance, a confused look in his eyes, then toppled to his side on the floor. Still, he made a last gesture. He raised his hand and with his short, crude fingers, so rough and filthy, nails thickened like claws, he gave my hand a gentle swat or caress. Then his arm fell slack and he was unconscious.
Overcome, Dr. Mahoney whispered hoarsely, "Ough, God, what this poor man has been through!"
57
THURSDAY, JULY 25, 1889
IT IS NIGHT again and my house is quiet. I am weary but would record these events and thoughts now, lest I forget them.
It was I who went into the cage. The wolf-man was only partly awake as I wrapped him in my cloak and put the hood up over his head. Then Hans carried him out of that room forever.
But leaving The Red Man was not easy. Winston had still worn his rascal's smile when we'd left him with Singer, but when we returned it had been replaced by a dangerous line of mouth and narrowed eyes. While we had been with the wolf-man, Silas Singer had heaped the most horrible insults and threats upon young Winston. From his accent, Singer rightly placed Winston as a Mainer, and told the boy that when he'd worn the gray uniform during the War Between the States, he had killed many Mainers and found it pleasurable, "like potting rabbits as they run." It was a poor choice of jibe, for in fact Winston's father had returned from his service with one leg gone and other miseries. Singer had also bitten the young man's arm, and in pulling him away Winston had tugged out a big hank of hair. When we came out with the wolf-man, Winston had him on his back on the floor, a boot on his throat, and their eyes were locked in mutual hatred. Singer choked out a continuous string of curses, which he turned upon Hans the moment we emerged.
"You are a dead man, Dutchie! Silas Singer doesn't forget! You think you'll ever sleep a night in peace again? Think your wife is safe on the streets?" He would have gone on, but Winston increased the pressure of his boot.
Hans gently laid the wolf-man on the bar and walked to Singer. Towering over him, Hans looked like a creat
ure from Hell, with his suit front black-red with blood, blue eyes peering from a red-dyed face. I feared he would do something terrible, but he simply tossed the money, six hundred dollars, onto Singer's face, saying "You have been paid in full."
Then Hans went to Singer's men and looked them one by one full in his face, taking all the time in the world as if he were memorizing their every feature. Some looked away, some stared back defiantly, but none made a move against him. When Hans had inspected each one, he stepped back two paces and asked Krauss to unlock the front door and open it wide.
"I will never see any of your faces ever again," he said. "Not anywhere near me, or my house, my business, or my men. Not even by chance on the street. Never. If you understand this, you are free to go. If you do not understand, I will explain more clearly, right now."
The man he had thrown earlier bolted on the instant. The others hesitated until Hans took a step toward them. Seven men, and they shied at his approach. Another sidled and ran and then they were all at the door, out it and gone.
We left in a tight group that would keep the wolf-man from the view of passers-by. From the floor, Singer spat oaths of vengeance, swore he'd have me himself while Hans watched and then he would cut out Hans's heart and eat it raw.
We were able to get our charge into the van without being seen by passers-by and, along with Dr. Mahoney and Hans, who would not leave my side, I rode in the stifling box to Dr. Mahoney's office. We installed the wolf-man in the room the doctor had prepared, stripped of furnishings and with boarded windows, and I stood near as Dr. Mahoney applied antiseptic to his worst wounds. His patient was exhausted and half-drowsing. Not knowing what he preferred, we provided him with different foods and water, and left him to sleep.
Then I acted as nurse while Dr. Mahoney stitched Hans's scalp and closed the wounds in Labinski's leg. The other raiders waited in the outer room, looking in, trading their tales in great detail. There had been abundant heroism to go around.
The raid was on Tuesday morning. This afternoon, though a Thursday, I did not go to the mission but helped Dr. Mahoney tend the wolf-man at his office. He was drowsy with paregoric the doctor had administered, and we were able to wash him thoroughly and tend to every wound. The doctor and I discussed his future disposition, where he should live and under what circumstances, but could make no conclusion as we did not yet know how his health would rebound or what nature or character he might demonstrate when recovered.
I was at home when Hans returned from his office; he was early, he said, because his head was hurting again.
He let out a big sigh and said, "Too bad. I lost a good man today."
"Oh? Who? How?" I was frightened that Singer's vengeance had begun.
"Winston. He called in for his wages a day early and was gone. Too bad. He was a good worker. Though he could make trouble sometimes."
Without another word, Hans tossed his newspaper onto the table and went upstairs to change his clothes. The paper had been folded to the second page, where the headline read, A FIRE AT THE RED MAN RESORT. A fire had started in the dark of morning and had destroyed the whole building and part of a stable behind it. The article stated that The Red Man was widely reputed to be the headquarters of a crime syndicate run by Silas Singer; the report further opined that the city would not miss this nest of vipers.
I do not think Hans was behind it. I believe it was Winston, all on his own, an impulsive boy and too ready for adventure. Singer had erred in making an enemy of him in such a way.
I do not know whether this will make Singer less or more dangerous as our sworn enemy. I planned to ask Hans about it tonight as we lay in bed, in the close sweet shelter of our shared secret place. But he had questions of me.
"How did the wolf-man know you?"
"I saw him once, weeks ago, by chance. He did not attack me. I felt pity for him. I thought he would know my scent."
"But you did not think to tell me? Such an unusual creature, and you did not tell your husband? There must be more to the story."
I was quiet for a long time. Again I felt the yearning to tell him of Margaret, and everything, but could not bring myself straight to it.
"I had gone to care for a woman who was in dire trouble. I could not tell you about the wolf-man without revealing that I had gone alone to a dangerous part of the district. I knew you would be angry with me."
"As I am!"
"I promise I will not do it again. Put your hand on my heart, feel it beating there. It beats entirely for you. And I swear on it I will not go there again."
He did put his hand beneath my breast, and after a time seemed grudgingly mollified. We were quiet for long enough that I assumed he'd fallen asleep, but he startled me: "What became of the woman? Were you able to help her?"
"No. I could do nothing for her. I no longer even know where she is."
I was already just barely holding my feelings in check, coming so close to the subject. But, on hearing it so plainly admitted, out loud for the first time, my heart split like a lightning-cleaved tree. I began to cry, most wrackingly. My husband put a consoling hand on my shoulder, thinking my sorrow was for a stranger. When at last I stilled, he said commiseratingly, "Sometimes even the best we can do is not enough. Then we can only accept."
I am not wise enough to know when to accept or yield, or when to struggle on. I have certainly not at all accepted the loss of Margaret, have not abandoned hope for her, and refuse to.
But I consider myself fortunate beyond measure. By degrees, Hans is coming to know how strange I am, how foreign, and though at each juncture I fear his love will fail, it has shown no sign of doing so. On the contrary, our love seems to grow greater, as each strand of our bond is tested and found taut and strong.
After my storm of crying, Hans reassured me at length, like a parent calming a frightened child. Singer may hate us, but he has lost the main source of revenue that kept his crew in his service; and Singer, too, has competitors in his world, who have seized his problems as an opportunity to strike at him. Already, Hans has heard that a rival gang has taken over an illicit distillery Singer ran, killing one of his men. Hans is confident he will be too preoccupied with other enemies, closer to hand, to bother with us.
His sore head is just fine, he said, itching more than hurting. Labinski is strong as an ox and is already at work, limping about and smiling mysteriously when asked how he acquired his injury. I should not worry about Winston, who is a resourceful boy and easily makes fast friends wherever he goes; he had been talking with enthusiasm of opportunities in Seattle. There is a great contract coming up for a new municipal building, and Schweitzer Superior is sure to win some part of it. The electricity will be a great pleasure and convenience for us and for old Cook.
I laughed a little at his long catalogue of boons and blessings that should cheer me. But I had to ask him, "Was it foolish to rescue the wolfman? To do something so dangerous?"
"It was perhaps foolish, yes. We can't know the worth of the effort until we know what he is."
In that I knew he was right. "You are angry with me for going there."
"Yes, I am very angry. I would have preferred Silas Singer had never put his eyes on my wife. I am angry I will not pretend otherwise. In the future, you must be more candid with me." His voice confirmed that he was, indeed, very angry. "I will be stern with you, Lydia. You must know I will be very stern with you."
"I understand," I told him. "I promise." We lay in the darkness for some time, thinking our separate thoughts. I felt very much chastened and deserving of it, yet I had just promised candor and could not withhold my true thoughts from him.
"But, oh, you were a good pirate!" I burst out, for I had been yearning to tell him how gorgeously formidable he had been. "Such a lovely, terrible bandit! I was never so proud in my life, Hans! Your men are in such awe of you. It was a splendid adventure!"
He was indignant that I had brought any levity to a chiding. "It was not a game, Lydia! You are incorrigible!"
I said nothing. He was right. Men's lives had been put at risk. He stirred uncomfortably for a long time and I held myself to my side of the bed, afraid he would chasten me further. But then he surprised me utterly by exclaiming, "But, heaven help me, yes, it was. Yes, a good adventure. If my father had seen me, what he would think! Worth a crack in the head, forgive me God. Worth every bit, God help us all!"
And we laughed together, for there we were, caught in the photographer's flash again, just as we are and nothing more nor less.
* * *
But I have been preoccupied with a thought that I must put down and will be considering carefully, one that seems important to me.
Dr. Mahoney and I have talked at length about the wolf-man, comparing our limited observations of him. He confounds the doctor more than me, I think, for Dr. Mahoney is a student of the body and is astonished at the profound strangeness of his anatomy. I cannot help myself but am more concerned with what is in his mind than the shape of his muzzle.
We know he is not "tame" or civilized. We know he is capable of violence and capable of gentleness. We know that when he is healthy and free he is physically vigorous, and we know he has the intelligence to fend for himself, to recognize a familiar person, and to distinguish a friend from an enemy. But that is the sum of our certainties.
Dr. Mahoney spends a great deal of time wondering at his origins: his parentage, his place of birth, how he lived, whether he was born just as he is or has changed as he has aged. And of course I am also very curious about these things.
But it troubles me less that we cannot know, and may never know, where he came from. Most important to me, and most reassuring to me, is that we can know, because it is in our hands to decide, where he goes henceforth, what becomes of him hereafter. He shall know a kinder part of the world, and wrhatever his nature, its best aspects shall have every chance to flourish.
Yes, what becomes of him hereafter: This is all that matters or should matter.