The Werewolf Megapack. Александр Дюма
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freeze the beating of hearts. Sweyn stepped back to snatch up a great bearskin cloak.
“Sweyn, where are you going?”
“No farther than the porch, mother,” and he stepped out and closed the door.
He wrapped himself in the heavy fur, and leaning against the most sheltered wall of the porch, steeled his nerves to face the devil and all his works. No sound of voices came from within; the most distinct sound was the crackle and roar of the fire.
It was bitterly cold. His feet grew numb, but he forbore stamping them into warmth lest the sound should strike panic within; nor would he leave the porch, nor print a foot-mark on the untrodden white that declared so absolutely how no human voices and hands could have approached the door since snow fell two hours or more ago. “When the wind drops there will be more snow,” thought Sweyn.
For the best part of an hour he kept his watch, and saw no living thing—heard no unwonted sound. “I will freeze here no longer,” he muttered, and re-entered.
One woman gave a half-suppressed scream as his hand was laid on the latch, and then a gasp of relief as he came in. No one questioned him, only his mother said, in a tone of forced unconcern, “Could you not see Christian coming?” as though she were made anxious only by the absence of her younger son. Hardly had Sweyn stamped near to the fire than clear knocking was heard at the door. Tyr leapt from the hearth, his eyes red as the fire, his fangs showing white in the black jowl, his neck ridged and bristling; and overleaping Rol, ramped at the door, barking furiously.
Outside the door a clear mellow voice was calling. Tyr’s bark made the words undistinguishable. No one offered to stir towards the door before Sweyn.
He stalked down the room resolutely, lifted the latch, and swung back the door.
A white-robed woman glided in.
No wraith! Living—beautiful—young.
Tyr leapt upon her.
Lithely she baulked the sharp fangs with folds of her long fur robe, and snatching from her girdle a small two-edged axe, whirled it up for a blow of defence.
Sweyn caught the dog by the collar, and dragged him off yelling and struggling.
The stranger stood in the doorway motionless, one foot set forward, one arm flung up, till the house-mistress hurried down the room; and Sweyn, relinquishing to others the furious Tyr, turned again to close the door, and offer excuse for so fierce a greeting. Then she lowered her arm, slung the axe in its place at her waist, loosened the furs about her face, and shook over her shoulders the long white robe—all as it were with the sway of one movement.
She was a maiden, tall and very fair. The fashion of her dress was strange, half masculine, yet not unwomanly. A fine fur tunic, reaching but little below the knee, was all the skirt she wore; below were the cross-bound shoes and leggings that a hunter wears. A white fur cap was set low upon the brows, and from its edge strips of fur fell lappet-wise about her shoulders; two of these at her entrance had been drawn forward and crossed about her throat, but now, loosened and thrust back, left unhidden long plaits of fair hair that lay forward on shoulder and breast, down to the ivory-studded girdle where the axe gleamed.
Sweyn and his mother led the stranger to the hearth without question or sign of curiosity, till she voluntarily told her tale of a long journey to distant kindred, a promised guide unmet, and signals and landmarks mistaken.
“Alone!” exclaimed Sweyn in astonishment. “Have you journeyed thus far, a hundred leagues, alone?”
She answered “Yes” with a little smile.
“Over the hills and the wastes! Why, the folk there are savage and wild as beasts.”
She dropped her hand upon her axe with a laugh of some scorn.
“I fear neither man nor beast; some few fear me.” And then she told strange tales of fierce attack and defence, and of the bold free huntress life she had led.
Her words came a little slowly and deliberately, as though she spoke in a scarce familiar tongue; now and then she hesitated, and stopped in a phrase, as though for lack of some word.
She became the centre of a group of listeners. The interest she excited dissipated, in some degree, the dread inspired by the mysterious voices. There was nothing ominous about this young, bright, fair reality, though her aspect was strange.
Little Rol crept near, staring at the stranger with all his might. Unnoticed, he softly stroked and patted a corner of her soft white robe that reached to the floor in ample folds. He laid his cheek against it caressingly, and then edged up close to her knees.
“What is your name?” he asked.
The stranger’s smile and ready answer, as she looked down, saved Rol from the rebuke merited by his unmannerly question.
“My real name,” she said, “would be uncouth to your ears and tongue. The folk of this country have given me another name, and from this” (she laid her hand on the fur robe) “they call me ‘White Fell.’”
Little Rol repeated it to himself, stroking and patting as before. “White Fell, White Fell.”
The fair face, and soft, beautiful dress pleased Rol. He knelt up, with his eyes on her face and an air of uncertain determination, like a robin’s on a doorstep, and plumped his elbows into her lap with a little gasp at his own audacity.
“Rol!” exclaimed his aunt; but, “Oh, let him!” said White Fell, smiling and stroking his head; and Rol stayed.
He advanced farther, and panting at his own adventurousness in the face of his aunt’s authority, climbed up on to her knees. Her welcoming arms hindered any protest. He nestled happily, fingering the axe head, the ivory studs in her girdle, the ivory clasp at her throat, the plaits of fair hair; rubbing his head against the softness of her fur-clad shoulder, with a child’s full confidence in the kindness of beauty.
White Fell had not uncovered her head, only knotted the pendant fur loosely behind her neck. Rol reached up his hand towards it, whispering her name to himself, “White Fell, White Fell,” then slid his arms round her neck, and kissed her—once—twice. She laughed delightedly, and kissed him again.
“The child plagues you?” said Sweyn.
“No, indeed,” she answered, with an earnestness so intense as to seem disproportionate to the occasion.
Rol settled himself again on her lap, and began to unwind the bandage bound round his hand. He paused a little when he saw where the blood had soaked through; then went on till his hand was bare and the cut displayed, gaping and long, though only skin deep. He held it up towards White Fell, desirous of her pity and sympathy.
At sight of it, and the blood-stained linen, she drew in her breath suddenly, clasped Rol to her—hard, hard—till he began to struggle. Her face was hidden behind the boy, so that none could see its expression. It had lighted up with a most awful glee.
Afar, beyond the fir-grove, beyond the low hill behind, the absent Christian was hastening his return. From daybreak he had been afoot, carrying notice of a bear hunt to all the best hunters of the farms and hamlets that lay within a radius of twelve miles. Nevertheless, having been detained till a late hour, he now broke into a run, going with a long smooth stride of apparent ease that fast made the miles diminish.
He entered the midnight blackness of the fir-grove with scarcely slackened pace, though the path was invisible; and passing through into the open again, sighted the farm lying a furlong off down the slope. Then he sprang out freely, and almost on the instant gave one great sideways leap, and stood still. There in the snow was the track of a great wolf.
His hand went to his knife, his only weapon. He stooped, knelt down, to bring his eyes to the level of a beast, and peered about; his teeth set, his heart beat a little harder than the pace of his running insisted on. A solitary wolf, nearly always savage and of large size, is a formidable beast that will not hesitate to attack a single man. This wolf-track was the largest Christian