15 May The Lycanthrope, by Zoe Compson
INTERROGATION OF MRS. JOHN GRAVES AS TO THE DEATH OF ANGELA TIMONY OCTOBER 29, 1644
“Mrs. Graves,” Moncton said. “Three nights ago, you turned yourself in to my fellow investigator, Mr. Clarkson, claiming yourself to be a werewolf. Do you deny this?”
“I do not.”
“You then confessed to the murder of young Angela Timony—”
At this Mrs. Graves sat up straight, thudding her hands—which had, until now, been folded in her lap—onto the table. “I did not kill the Timony child!” She cried. “No. No. No. I did not, I could not bring myself to, I could not bear it… No,” she repeated, frantic now. “No, no, no.”
When she spoke again, her words tangled together most dreadfully. “When I was but a wee, wee—I mean little—girl, in Ireland, a man came by. An English actor. He came to my mam’s house for room and board, but she turned him away and shook for fear, because he had cursed us. He had one eye. I looked at it, and looked, and looked, and I couldn’t see the end, and Mam told me to stop staring.
The actor was performing in the square, he said he came from afar. I did not know to be afraid. I sat and talked with them, ‘till Mam jerked me away. And he told me that on the continent he met men with fur on their insides, which turned them raging mad. ‘Lycanthropy,’ he said, ‘our most deadly disease. Because it doesn’t poison your body, but your mind, and that is the saddest poison of all.’ He told me they were plagued by visions of destruction, so I decided that must be me.”
“The eye–was it made of glass? Did it orchestrate the compulsions? I’ve heard tell, in a journal of medicine, of men whose glass eyes can control—”
“Oh no, oh no, only a socket. The truth is, Sergeant, that I am twice accursed. They never know it of me because I look just like a good wife, and that’s the horrid part of it all, because when I turn fully they will never know. I will have them in me, I will eat them. I imagine their flesh in my hands and inside myself I howl, just as the wolves do at the moon.”
“When did these visions first occur?”
“First I can recall was before the actor. Three years old, I was. Perhaps four. That was only the first. Got it once or twice a month until I… well. I’m sure you know, I won’t bother to–”
“I don’t know, Mrs. Graves.”
“It got worse once I bled.”
“Mrs. Graves, you need not speak so vulgarly.”
“I was nearly fifteen. I felt something in me, the week before. Something bright-feeling in my chest, bright but harsh. It flowed through me, and it swirled, like the waves off the island when there’s a storm coming, and the tips are white. Frothing white, whooshing together, clamouring. I was outside then, picking herbs in the garden, and I looked out at the world all around me, and it was the same as it always was. The same sky, house, ocean, all grey and weary, like they always were in the rainiest months. The sweat gathered on my brow, Sergeant, and I knew it was not the land that had changed. I became hot then, so hot that I imagined taking off my dress and… and going out to the pub and… Well you know.”
“You’d become a woman.”
“But I didn’t want to go to the pub. That was the wolf.”
“You knew then, that it was the wolf?”
“I don’t know what else it could be. Even then, it was hidden, coming and going. Each month, it would be fully in control. When I was married to Mr. Graves, and I came over, it quickened. After my first birth, it did not stop.”
“You accuse your husband of worsening these urges? Oftentimes, you know, one believes that marriage brings out the worst in oneself. Perhaps you ought to have another child–”
“Oh, he did not worsen them. He did not cure them either, he is only a man. It was the place that did it.” She looked at him, her face growing redder still. “Oh don’t think I’m talking horribly about dear old Burham now, I’m not. It’s not so much different from my village, only the folks talk different, and talk to me less. But of course, I did not know that when I arrived, on the ship across the Irish Sea. I couldn’t speak to anyone, you remember? You all thought me a simpleton, but that’s a lie. I simply couldn’t tell your dialect. My father knew; he’d been in England, but he’d never taught me, because–forgive me for saying so Sergeant–he could not imagine me marrying an Englishman, even one who’s father he’d worked with years before. But with the drought, we had little other possibilities, you know. So I just sat in the ship’s hold, and tried to remember what promises from the Graveses had led me there, and tried to imagine what it would be like as a married woman. My elder sister had been married but a year before and I did not know her since. I knew I would not see my father for many years at least, and Mam didn’t answer questions about that. And when I docked in the harbour, I saw seven crows, and I knew that the curse had made it here.”
“You mentioned crows before.”
“One for sorrow, two for mirth, three for a funeral and four for a birth…” The syllables slued together like those of a drunk. “Five for Heaven, six for hell, seven for the devil, his own self.”
Mrs. Graves stopped and stared at Moncton. “Don’t you see? The Devil was waiting for me. It was the crows, the crows, they were all around me. Mam called me the crow-child, because one flew overhead when I was born, and I heard the women in the village when they said one for sorrow. But there were seven when I arrived in England, and that means the Devil–it was the Devil’s doing, as I myself was. I have to count the crows when they fly around the village, so I know what our fate is. I count them each time I see them. Roosting or flying, I count them. I count past seven sometimes, because some I think I have to count twice, and I go back and back until I feel dizzy. And sometimes they come up in a swarm. I rush out to look at them and I am surrounded by black wings, feathers darkening the sky, and I know that I must count them all. My eldest daughter, Aífe, I call her, after me. John calls her Agnes, as he calls me. She was born with the three crows. They flew overhead while I was labouring, the neighbour says, and as I held her in my arms I saw them, staring at me with their big black eyes–two on each this time, I thought so. Three, three for a funeral. That’s why I thought at first that Aífe was not long for this world.”
“But surely you do not think so anymore? I have seen little Agnes in the village, running now. She’s small, it’s true, but red and hardy.”
“When she was born, I could not get out of bed. I felt pain, and even after it went away, I could not move. I did not have the will to hold her, nor the desire. John was at the harvest again, and I watched him out the window, and wished I could be with him, without Aífe always in my arms. I did not call her Aífe yet, only at her naming, when John said she would be called Agnes instead. The wolf has not let up since.”
“Is it–the wolf I mean–is it the same as before? Does it tell you to do the same things? To feed, to indulge? I’ve heard tell of a man who, once he started eating, he never could stop, until he ate up–”
“The wolf told me to kill her.” At this the tears came back, without the sobs this time, shifting and fracturing with the silent quaking of her face.
“I looked at her,” Mrs. Graves said. “I looked at her, sleeping in her cradle, and I imagined myself taking her to the washbasin and holding her under until… until she went blue and still. I imagined it, and I saw it so clear, as if it were happening right in front of me; I saw myself biting her, ripping her neck, and eating her sweet little baby head. Every day. And I grew so afraid of the washbasin that Aífe began to cry and wail because she had dirt on her. I called on Elizabeth from next door, asking her to wash her up, and I tended to the sheep.”
For the first time, Moncton’s face revealed some degree of shock. “Mrs. Graves, do you…” he paused, the thoughts that had long haunted her now hovering between them.
“Mrs. Graves, do you still wish to harm your child?”
“Not Aífe. The midwife saw me, once I’d left her with Elizabeth too many times, she said it happens to some mothers, and that made it better somehow, just saying that. It still happened sometimes, so I’d get Elizabeth or her older girls to wash her. It happened less for the later babies.”
“You regained your womanhood. The wolf was set aside by the bond with your offspring. I’ve heard of women, whose ailments were cured by the maternal–”
“She was too big. I knew if I tried to drown her in the washbasin now, she wouldn’t fit. And she would know to fight me. That’s why, and that’s the shameful truth.”
“It got bad again,” she said, “after I lost little Robbie last winter, because I knew then what they would look like dead. But it was worst for Aífe, because she’s a living funeral. Perhaps Angela was a living funeral too.”
“Mrs. Graves, if you were a werewolf, would you not have heard of others by now? I’ve heard tell of secret networks of such things, witches out in the north country who make plans to poison the town’s children as they sleep.”
“So it’s true, then. You know I am a werewolf.”
“I did not say that. I only said what I heard.”
“Does it matter? What you heard, does it matter?”
“I want you to answer me. What occurred on the day of the Timony child’s murder?
“T’was not a murder, Sergeant, at least I hope it was not. I rode out with Molly, taking her to the river to drink, and as I stood there holding her reins, I saw the girl ambling along. Picking flowers, she was, and I thought how her hair looked as dark as a crow. She neared me, Angela did, and I saw myself reaching out my arm and pushing her into the river. It would be so easy, that’s what I kept telling myself. So easy, so quick, no one would know. She kept on coming forward, and I kept seeing it, ‘till my palms had sweat right through. I didn’t look at her but stared straight ahead. Then I brought Molly away, and I kept looking at Angela, watching and watching, making sure I had not done it. Walk three steps, then look back at Angela, that’s what I told myself to do. Walk three steps, see she’s alright, then flick Molly’s bridle, and all would be well. I did not kill the child! I told you! I told you! But what does my telling mean to you, Sergeant?
“If you did not kill the Timony child, why then did you tell me you did?”
“Because I wanted someone to know. I wanted to reveal it all, so someone else could see what I do deep inside. I wanted to tell you.”
“I shall send the leech tomorrow.”
“Perform a bloodletting. Perform an exorcism. Strip me naked in the marketplace, hang me, hang me, I do not care. Whatever the punishment you will, I shall accept it, because I know I am a base creature. I’ve always known.”
For the first time, Moncton’s voice softened. “Mrs. Graves, you have hurt no one. You are not a criminal. It is only an imbalance of humours, you shall see.”
“It must be me,” she said. “It is something with me, indeed, because it cannot be the fault of anyone else. I have all that can be asked for in life. I’ve had no true hardships. I have a good life. I am happy. I am happy. I am happy.”
And she repeated it, over and over, this strange refrain. Her face stayed still, with no attempt at a smile, or even a contortion of pain. She repeated it, and Moncton saw she was no longer telling this statement, not even to herself, but simply repeating the words. Picking them apart, trying different combinations, making sure she said them just right.
“I am happy. I am happy. I am happy.”