Beneath a Winter Moon (36 page)

“Strange, wouldn’t you agree? I mean…that this whole area is under some sort of mysterious
no one allowed
order? I mean, we’ve wrecked a helicopter and there are casualties, but that wouldn’t be a reason to evacuate a thousand square miles of territory, would it?” Delmar studied Jeremiah’s face, looking for a reaction.

“Are all of your questions rhetorical, Mr. Forsythe?” Jeremiah smiled.

Thomas interrupted, returning the smile, “Most of the time. He’s like that a lot when he’s angry. Of course, I’m angry, myself. Pretty pissed…but, we’ve explained why, already. So, while we’re sorry that we had to trespass and that we surprised you here in your own home,
and
while we appreciate your kindness…we have to ask that you show us your hospitality for
just a little longer
.” He paused. “And since we’re all here, together…stuck…well, we really do need to talk about what’s out there, waiting for us.”

Jeremiah did not answer. He simply stood in front of the fireplace, rubbing his hands together. Thomas tried another tack. “Why don’t we, if it’s okay with you, sit at your table and have some coffee? Maybe, once we’re all settled down, we can talk about everything that has led us,” he gestured to himself, Delmar and Jenny, “here to your home…and why it is that
you
are being forced to leave.”

He’s good
, Jeremiah said silently to himself. “Okay, Mr.
Devereaux
. Although I don’t like coffee so much. I prefer tea. I’m sure my accent probably already gave that away, though.” He smiled. “Since the
jinny
is still running, I’ll boil us a pot. Usually I take the time to build a nice fire in the wood stove, but seeing that we might be leaving soon there’s no need. Well, I’m sure you’ll take to my tea. It’s really very good.”

“Thank you.” Thomas smiled at Jeremiah and turned to Delmar, who glared at him, thoroughly disgusted with the whole situation. “There’s a
noodley
mess at the table, Hero.”

Delmar grunted.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Hell has opened up the gates and loosed these demons on me
, Jeremiah thought.
Only Hades himself could torture me this way. Not by killing me…no. Not by letting me fall and break my neck out there, frozen alive for a thousand years…no. The evil bastard points these simpletons toward MY land and MY cabin on the very fucking day that my escape would be the easiest.

Jeremiah worried that things might not go so well if he were arrested…especially if he were held in a jail cell long enough for the moon to rise again. If that happened, unless he managed to kill every living human in the place, (he found that he rather relished that possibility) he would be discovered. Even then, video cameras mounted on walls would likely catch everything…the transformation, the killings, the escape. That is what he feared the most. He must not be discovered.

Soon, his nifty, steel framework would be revealed.
There is no telling what the bastards will think of that, at first. They will think I’m a serial killer who bound poor teenage runaways on the wrack while opening their guts…only after having my nasty way with them.
They would quickly find that it was not the case, and they would simply be puzzled. After hearing these buffoons’ stories about a wolf man in shackles, some would begin to believe. Later, the lair would be found, with its gory, rotting history there for all to see. The tracks found there would bring every crazy myth-head in the world down on these mountains, and the publicity would be unimaginable. There would be documentaries, books, television movies…all about the beast of the mountains. The few whose minds were open might even truly begin to believe in the werewolf of the mountain.

He had always wondered about, and feared, what might happen if the government (of any country) caught him and held conclusive proof in their hands as to what he was. Would they dissect him while he still lived? Would they torture him in all possible manners to see what he could withstand? Would they want to try to tame the werewolf? Use the beast as a tool? Would they try to duplicate his alter-ego by way of genetics or spread his curse by using his blood, with the idea of developing a macabre army of werewolf soldiers, loosed to wreak havoc in the enemy trenches on dark, moonlit nights? Would they wipe all traces of Alastair McLeod, Jeremiah Roberts, Alastair Shaw, and Jeremiah Johnson off the map of human history?

Would they, perhaps, in the name of protecting private citizens around the globe, publicize his existence, creating a panic and new legions of werewolf hunters that would inevitably commit their own horrific murders all in the name of delivering the world from the evil man-wolf? The cavalry
was
coming for him. What happened next would be left up to him and the actions that he took now. He knew the only reason a search party was not landing outside at this very moment was the storm. As soon as it subsided, they would come.

Although Jeremiah had long ago accepted his condition, embraced it even, and wanted very much to survive, he was beginning to feel so tired and so very old. Only during the change did he carry a feeling of joy and strength…and that was no longer enough. Jeremiah had spent years learning all he could about his curse, once even spending time with another like himself. He learned that there was mystical power involved as well as physical. There was the disease…but there were mystical ties as well, such as the overpowering pull to have Daniel. The moon was a part of it, of course, but there was the hint of something more…something magical and ancient. He found that, with the exception of tales that provided instructions for the killing of werewolves …silver, burning, and beheading…the legends were usually wrong…especially the medieval folklore. There was no salve that would change a man into a werewolf. There was no girdle or belt made of wolf skin with the power to transform men into animals. He had found hundreds of legends of shape shifting, specifically with regard to man into wolf form, in countries all over the world. Many involved the change of a man into a four-legged, honest to goodness wolf…but some of the most compelling legends involved beasts like him…half man, half wolf.

The amount of lore on the subject was staggering. During his time in college in the 1950’s (Jeremiah had gone to college because his nineteenth century education in the field of law was sometimes lacking) he had worried some of his friends as they began to notice that he studied werewolf lore as much as he did the law.

He most enjoyed a supposedly confirmed story from the Eastern block. The tale was known from
Romania
all the way into
Siberia
. A lowly peasant named Micheolev Duman had been suspected of murder and was finally caught early one morning, completely naked, sleeping in a cave. Within the cave were the remains of several children and adults alike. The villagers who found him had noted huge wolf tracks all about the cave and the surrounding area, and more than one eyewitness to the attacks had insisted that the culprit had been a werewolf.

First, Micheolev was convicted of many murders, but then confessed to lycanthropy and begged for death. He pleaded with the authorities to burn his body after his execution. The authorities and townspeople had no problem with either, but in the end, they failed to grant both of his wishes.

They hanged Micheolev at dusk on the outskirts of the village, and only then began to prepare a funeral pyre, which took a few hours. They built the pyre in the center of the village, as apparently it was fine to burn the body in the town square, but not to hang him there.

The six men who went back to get Micheolev’s body found that the rope dangled free, frayed and with much of it missing. Micheolev’s body could not be found.

People in that area of
Romania
still believe that Micheolev is roaming the woods, waiting for innocent victims to wander by.

He managed to spend those college years without bringing investigation or trouble for himself. It had been a great time in his long life and provided him with a new perspective…life among the young. He was a century old and yet to live and work beside the young men and women made him know youth once more...if only for a time. Jeremiah, reinvigorated and inspired to live a normal life, redoubled his efforts to tame the wolf inside him. For many years, he did keep the beast tame and did manage to completely hide his alter ego. He set up a lucrative law practice, greased the right palms, made the right investments, and then reaped their rewards as decades passed. He became a rich man…and he had a great many friends. Time worked against Jeremiah, however, as he watched his friends grow old. Their faces wrinkled and their bodies slowed while Jeremiah remained unchanged. Inevitably, their remarks changed from teasing rhetoric to obvious resentment…and eventually to suspicion.

Jeremiah ultimately grew weary of changing homes, changing lives, and changing identities. That is what drove him to the mountains. There, Jeremiah could sometimes let the wolf run free without the fear that he would lead destruction down upon himself. If necessary, he could reign in the monster on the few nights each month when he could not prevent the change. But in truth, his time here was far less that of his other homes. He had been such a fool, he knew, to believe he could take in Jeff Parker and that everything would be alright. At first, Jeremiah believed it would be a difficult task to convince the man of the second chance on life that now lay before him, and the possibility of immortality. But Jeff Parker had taken to the wolf from the very first change, allowing the beast to consume his very soul. With each transformation, Parker became more reckless, more violent, and more…inhuman. Finally, near the end, Parker left the cabin altogether and lived in the forest, transforming into the wolf every night. Jeremiah had hunted the man while he was in human form, failing to track him down, and had wanted his alter ego to take care of Parker while he was in wolf form, but Jeremiah could not control the wolf inside him. The beast that was Jeremiah had apparently wanted only to push Parker away from what he regarded as his own territory, but when Parker failed to heed the warnings, the beast sensed the danger. Parker had to die. Unfortunately, the damage had been done long before Parker’s death…and Jeremiah’s easy getaway was in question.
No, it’s worse. I’ll be damned lucky to get out of this at all
, he thought.

Jeremiah stopped at the hallway’s entrance. “I’m going to change shirts. This one is quite drenched from the snow.” He had placed a kettle of water on the portable stove and Thomas and Delmar sat at the table. “That kettle will whistle when it’s ready,” Jeremiah said. He had just finished lighting the oil lamps throughout the cabin, and the men were now surrounded by the warm, campfire like glow that the old-fashioned lamps provided. He quickly entered the room and lit the two oil lamps on the wall, and then opened the only closet. He knelt inside and moved file boxes and shoes, trying to keep as quiet as possible. “Ah,” he whispered. “There she is.” At his fingertips was a small
Fusebox
, for the few electrical appliances that he owned, save a few light fixtures here and there, were in the kitchen…and the radio cabinet along with the small electric burner was directly on the other side of the wall. He silently cursed when he found he was unable to read the markings beside the fuses. Finding a way to disconnect the radio without affecting the small electric stove was paramount. He moved the table beside the antique rope bed and found his flashlight.

Lighting, water heater, stove
. He could have disabled the generator, he knew, but he needed some time for things to settle. He couldn’t go running back outside without spending a few minutes time with them. He’d disable it soon enough. The fuse that Jeremiah searched for was not among the three on the left side of the box. The top right fuse read
Pfaff
, indicating the sewing machine in the corner of his bedroom. The machine was operable by foot pump or by electric motor. “There you are, my darling,” Jeremiah said, smiling, finally seeing what he was looking for. He placed the flashlight on the floor and quickly unscrewed the small fuse whose markings read
Radio, Stereo, Turntable.
He stood up and pulled his knife from the sheath on his belt, using the tip of it to pry away the heavy copper connections on the sides of the fuse, then he knelt down and screwed it back into place. “Perfect,” he whispered.

Jeremiah slipped on a cotton t-shirt and then began to slide an arm through the sleeve of a red and blue flannel shirt when he changed his mind.
Let’s give them the complete package
, he thought. He threw the flannel shirt on his bed and grabbed the long-sleeve buckskin shit. He finished buttoning up, then turned to the mirror on the back of the door. “Something is missing,” he said to himself. He looked at himself and then realized what it was. He reached into the closet, opened a small chest of drawers a pulled out a new leather thong for his hair. The ponytail topped off the look he was going for.
Why not have some fun with them while they are here
, he mused.

Thomas and Delmar were keeping their voices low, and both ceased when Jeremiah came back into the room. Jeremiah noticed, and knew it was not because of the complete buckskin ensemble.
They could not hide their suspicions if it meant their very lives…and it just might.
He saw that neither of the men had noticed the glow had faded from the green light on the radio.
It will just be a matter of time before they figure it out. In the mean time, I’ve got to figure out a reason to get the hell out of here.
If the storm held until nightfall, all would be well, but of course, he could not count on that. The weather was unpredictable, more so with the convergence of the three winter storms than at anytime Jeremiah could remember. The skies were just as apt to clear at a moments notice, as they were to continue with the near whiteout conditions that currently swept through the mountains. His thoughts were broken up by the whistle of the kettle.

“Very nice duds,” Delmar said. “Are those real leather?”

“Buckskin, actually,” Jeremiah said as he stepped around the table to reach for the kettle. “Proud to say that I make them myself. Used to do it all by hand…but that was a bit much, even for me, so I learned to sew them with a machine. Still, they are very much like the deerskin clothing of the old frontiersmen, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Absolutely.” It was Thomas who answered.

“And I bet you will also agree that I have an abundance of time on my hands as well as an abundance of…game.” He waived a hand in the air to dismiss any forthcoming reply. “It’s a hobby of mine. I hunt, trap, and make the buckskins when I have the opportunity. Ah, there we go.” He took three cups down from a cabinet, set them on the table, and poured the steaming hot contents of the kettle. “I read a lot, as well. I have a pile of books, floor to ceiling, in my room. Louis
L’amour
, Larry
McMurtry
, Bernard Cornwell…mostly historical fiction. I’m forever fascinated how men who have never lived the old life can nevertheless put it down to paper with only a modicum of error.” He sat down next to Thomas, across from Delmar, and lifted the cup to his lips, gently blowing on the steaming liquid, then taking a sip. “Indeed,” he sighed, closing his eyes. “I needed that.”