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He struggled as they pushed him back into the cage, punching, kicking, and biting at anyone within reach, but it was too dark and there were too many of them and he was too drunk. He probably didn’t need that last round at Baba Horvat’s tavern, or the one after that with Milos. Or the one after that. He had been “over-served,” as his Dedo used to say. He made one last attempt to avoid imprisonment, flinging himself at the bars of the heavy door as it closed, bounced off it, staggered to the corner, then threw up. The other villagers, wielding sooty torches, gathered around the cage, jeering and yelling for him to be hanged.
In his drunken haze, he saw Anton Radov standing smugly just outside the cage, just outside his reach, hands on his hips, taking it all in. Such an esteemed visitor for such a miserable village, he thought, wiping the vomit from his mouth. Stefan Petrov, the local Bailiff, stood next to Radov, a handful of his men flanking them both. Standing next to them was Stefan’s older sister, Irina, her long, dark hair elegantly braided. She seemed somewhere between concerned and irritated—no different than any other evening. The onion dome of the village church silhouetted them all from behind.
Radov stood taller than most and was impeccably groomed, as always. His hair was long for someone his age, an affectation only the rich could afford without having to worry about lice. He wore his robes and livery collar of office. Goran knew he was here for one purpose only: to gloat. Radov and his men had been after him for weeks, tracking him, staking out his favorite inns, interrogating his friends, harassing his female companions. One drink too many and suddenly he was right where Radov wanted him: a step or two away from the noose.
“Goran Markovic,” announced Radov to the growing crowd in the cobblestone village square, “we have been watching you since you first arrived in our village, many months ago. You stand accused of being a were-creature—a Volkodlak—who prowls our countryside by light of moon, devouring our livestock, terrorizing our women and children! You are a foul, pitiless fiend who has preyed on the inhabitants of this entire province for far too long. How do you plead, monster?”
Goran thought about it, approached the bars, then belched—loudly. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve then looked at his captors. “I do not know about devouring livestock, but admit I have weakness for lamb. The bograch stew Irina served last night was delicious,” he said, sheepishly. “I am no terrorizer of women and children. I maybe would not mind being terrorized by Marta sometime, though.” On the other side of the bars, a young woman smiled demurely then, amidst some raised brows by the other villagers, quickly caught herself and stifled it.
“We have witnesses of your demonic nature!” Radov yelled proudly, turning back to the crowd. “Baba Horvat has seen you howl at the moon just this past week! Do you deny this?” A wiry, stern-looking woman with crepey skin stepped out slowly from the crowd. She wore a very old traditional dress, frayed at the edges from too much use and too little money to replace it, and an even older headscarf. She held up a fist to the crowd, her gnarled hand trembling with age. She turned and glared at Goran, who returned her gaze with a smile.
“This I witnessed with my own eyes, just outside my tavern,” she said, pointing at him.
“I admit I howled at moon,” said Goran to the crowd. A hushed silence fell over them.
“You see—he freely admits it!” yelled Radov.
Goran gestured that he wasn’t finished speaking. “Not first time,” he said. “Luka and I do this sometimes when maybe have too much drink. Viktor,” he said, motioning to a younger man behind Irina, “you joined us last time. You howl too, yes?” The younger man looked around hesitantly then nodded. “We love dear Baba Horvat,” Goran continued. “We love her tavern. I howl at moon. Will probably do so again.” He nodded to the old woman. Baba Horvat made a dismissive gesture at him then farted and stepped back into the crowd.
Radov sighed, staring at where she used to be then proceeded with his denouncement. “You all have seen how Goran attempted to escape! I ask you this: Why did he run if he was not guilty, if he was not a Volkodlak? You saw him strike and kick Bailiff Petrov and his men,” he said, motioning to Stefan, whose left eye appeared increasingly swollen. “You saw him attack me.”
Goran shrugged, stepped away from the cage door, and sat down on the filthy straw floor. “You try to put me in cage. I fight back. Who would not do this?” He scratched his head, seemingly disinterested in the crowd, then picked out a bug from his hair and nonchalantly flicked it away.
The villagers gathered closer to Radov and the others, vying for a better look at them and at Goran in the cage. Radov was about to speak again, then Stefan noticed something. He stepped forward, pointing at his sleeve. “Excuse me, Council Leader?”
“What is it, Bailiff?”
“Your arm is bleeding.”
“Is it?” Radov said. He rolled up his left sleeve, exposing a clear bite mark on his forearm. A small trickle of blood dripped from it. Radov stared at it, almost as if the wound was on someone else’s arm. Then he slowly smiled. “So it is. So it is. In all the excitement, I hadn’t noticed until just now.”
“My men will get some bandages to dress it.”
“No need.” He then turned to the crowd, holding his bare forearm up high for all to see. “This man—this creature—is a savage, primitive fiend! Look what he has done to me, your humble Municipal Council Leader. Bear witness to his depravity! I, Anton Radov, at great personal risk and with no thought to my own personal safety, heroically led the charge to subdue him!” The villagers packed more closely together now, some holding torches, trying to see his arm. “Without my courageous efforts, and the efforts of some others,” he said, quickly motioning to Stefan and his men, “we would never have been able to apprehend him. Why, I—”
“He bit you? On your arm?” asked Irina, stepping forward from the crowd.
“Your arm is bleeding,” said Stefan, again, pointing to his arm.
“Yes, he is a monster! He—”
“He… bit you?” asked another villager, behind Irina.
“He is a vile, loathsome fiend. You all saw how I fought valiantly against—”
“He bit you!” cried Baba Horvat, reemerging from the crowd. She stepped forward and grabbed Radov’s arm, examining the wound.
“What, what are you doing, old woman?”
She shook her head, let go of his arm, then stood behind Stefan. He looked very much uncertain as to how to proceed. Irina joined them, exchanging worried glances. All eyes were now on Radov’s forearm. “Apologies, Council Leader,” said Stefan, removing his hat while addressing him. “But if he bit you, and he is a Volkodlak, then…”
“Volkodlak,” whispered Baba Horvat. The word spread in a wave across the other villagers then grew louder. And louder. Wooden shutters could be heard closing from different cottages in the square.
“What? No, you misunderstand,” he said, forcing a smile. “No. No, no, no. He… he wasn’t in… wolf form when he bit me. He… has to be in wolf form for it to work!” The crowd fell silent.
“Really?” asked Irina, her brow furrowed.
“Yes, really?” asked Goran from inside the cage, bemused.
“I… do not agree, Council Leader Radov,” said Baba Horvat. “If you are bit by a Volkodlak, then you become…”
“No, no,” said Radov, quickly correcting her, “You see, that’s just if you are bit by Upyr—by the undead!”
“Upyr? Are you certain?” asked Irina.
“What if you are bitten by a Nachzehrer, or a Grobnik?” asked one of Stefan’s men.
“Or a Lesovik!” cried a villager.
“Not a Grobnik—those only hunt in packs,” replied another villager.
“What about a Vodnik, or maybe a Vědmák? They are nasty!” yelled another.
“Not a Vědmák, either. They only dwell in graveyards” said another.
Radov waved his finger, trying to regain control of the situation. “No, no, my friends. This only applies to Volkodlaks. If you are bitten by an Upyr, a Nachzehrer, a Vargash, a Vodnik, or even a Vědmák, you would of course turn.” Several heads nodded in the crowd as he spoke. “The same would apply if you were bit by Drakmir, Strigovars, Krvopijacs, or scratched by Choronzons…”
“Morozkos, too?” yelled another villager.
“Definitely Morozkos,” nodded Radov, “and Zhmats—both the male and female versions—and of course Krkavecs, greater and lesser Navs, and Likhos. Just not Volkodlaks. Never Volkodlaks.”
Stefan, Irina, and the others stared intently at Radov. He took an almost imperceptibly small, half step back. Then, one of the villagers thrust out a finger, pointing at his forearm, and yelled “Volkodlak!” with a mix of fear, hatred, and far too much spittle. More fingers pointed. Several men of different ages rushed out, grabbing at Radov, knocking his hat off in the process. One burly man had his arm around Radov’s neck while others grabbed his wrists.
“Get your hands off me, you fools! Unhand me at once!” yelled Radov as he was hoisted up by the group and thrown into the cage with Goran. He landed with a thud and cloud of dust.
Stefan slammed the cage door shut and locked it. He then stood frozen in front of Radov, Baba Horvat on one side, Irina on the other, as the crowd circled around. Goran smirked.
“We… we must summon the Provincial Administrator. He will know what to do,” said Stefan, to no one in particular.
“Hello, friend,” said Goran, smiling at Radov, who backed as far away from him as possible—not very far at all, given the size of the cage.
“I-I should not be in here!” Radov yelled, rubbing his backside while pointing to Goran. “Not with him! The moon will rise soon, and he will turn into a wolf. He will devour me!”
“The air is thick with dampness and the sky has been heavy for days,” said Irina, gesturing upward. “If there is a moon, we cannot see it.”
“True. What do we do?” said Stefan, scratching his head.
“Can they still turn if the moon cannot be seen? Is there a way to test them somehow?” she asked.
“I-I do not know. What if… what if we force them both to eat garlic? Garlic will surely kill any Volkodlak in seconds, won’t it?”
“That is for Nosferatus—not Volkodlak,” said Baba Horvat, shaking her head.
“Irina, just feed us some of your cooking—you use too much garlic as it is!” said Goran, laughing. The villagers also laughed, pointing at Irina. She was not amused.
“What about… sunlight? If we leave them in the cage until dawn, the rays of the sun should burn them to death immediately, shouldn’t they?” asked Stefan.
“Also Nosferatu,” replied Baba Horvat. Others murmured the same.
“What if we drive stakes through their hearts?” asked one of Stefan’s men from behind them. “That is the only way to kill a Volkodlak for certain. My Baba told me this when I was a child. If we drive stakes through their hearts and they die, we will know we were correct.”
“Again: Nosferatu,” said Baba Horvat, waving dismissively.
“Would not any of us die if we had stakes driven into our hearts? How would doing so to them prove they are Volkodlaks?” asked Irina. The man pondered it then seemed to agree with her.
Another one of Stefan’s men stepped up, shaking his head. “No, no. You’ve all got it backwards. We must drive stakes through their hearts. If they live, then we know they are unholy Volkodlaks. Only creatures of the night could survive something like that. If they die, then we know they are both men.” Some of the other villagers nodded in agreement.
“We would know they were both men,” said Irina, correcting him.
“I-I’ve really got to get out of here…” said Radov, pressing his forehead against the bars.
“Wasn’t there something about silver?” asked one of the villagers.
“No—that is for Vilkacis, and maybe Strigoi,” said another.
“Whatever,” said the first one, walking away.
“Neither one of us is a Volkodlak—especially me! Now get me out of this cell!” screamed Radov, shaking the bars.
“I am done listening to him,” said one of Stefan’s men, pointing at Radov. “He spent the last four days telling us Goran was a Volkodlak, but now he is not?”
“I was… mistaken,” said Radov, forcing another smile. “This man is a kind, decent person. He is a strong worker. Devout. We should leave him be. And me as well.”
Scoffs and guffaws erupted from the crowd.
“So…” said Goran, holding the bars and speaking to the crowd, “if moon comes out and we are Volkodlak, we turn to wolf creatures then you hang us in morning, yes? Or, since bite on arm was from me as man—not me as wolf—and he not turn, but I do, then I devour him and you only hang me in morning?”
Stefan nodded apprehensively.
“What if neither of us turn? What happen in morning then?”
“I suppose… you both go free?”
“If neither turns, then he falsely denounced Goran and is a fool,” said Irina, staring at Radov.
“Interesting! Well,” said Goran, grinning and looking back at Radov, “which way you like—being dead, a dead fool, or just fool? If just fool, be prepared for whole province to know. Irina will tell her cousins. Word will travel like greased pig, from Drustova River all the way to Sorochin Forest.” She shot him a glare while a nervous chuckle rippled through the crowd.
“We will leave them both here overnight,” announced Stefan in as much of an authoritative tone as he could muster.
“How can we be sure they will not escape?” asked one villager, nodding to the crowd. “If they turn to unholy were-creatures, surely they can bend steel bars? They will kill us in our sleep, now that we know their secret.” Several others nodded back.
“I have no secret—I am a man!” pleaded Radov, exasperated.
“For now…” said Goran.
“We should encircle the cage in a ring of salt!” proclaimed another villager. “Evil spirits cannot cross salt.”
“They are not evil spirits—they are Volkodlaks,” said another.
“Does salt work against Volkodlaks? Does anyone know?” asked another.
The crowd conferred, then seemingly reached a consensus as to the effectiveness of salt.
“I have salt, but only a little. It is expensive,” said one.
“Anyone else?”
“I have sugar,” said another.
“Wheat!” yelled another.
“It will have to do,” said Irina, sighing.
The villagers formed a thin ring of baking ingredients around the cage, surveyed their work, then looked at Stefan. “Now what?” one of them asked.
“Good question,” said Stefan, scratching his head. He looked around for some sort of guidance then saw Goran staring at him knowingly from inside the cage. He looked for someone, anyone else who might have an idea, but the villagers looked just as confused. “Um, now what?” he asked Goran.
“Now, we see what happens. Maybe clouds break tonight. Keep guard or two here. Rest can leave. Get good night sleep,” he responded, almost cheerfully.
Stefan nodded to Goran then motioned for guards to be stationed on either side of the cage. He waved off the villagers, who grudgingly dispersed. Then he and his remaining men, along with Irina and Baba Horvat, walked away. Irina looked back one last time at Goran then left.
Radov and Goran slumped down on opposite sides of the cage, their heads resting on the cold iron bars. Radov looked around, tense, nervous, and scared. Goran watched him for a moment then shook his head, determined to sleep off his pending hangover.
“Are… are you a Volkodlak?” whispered Radov.
“Possibly,” said Goran, attempting to get comfortable. “I black out sometimes. Do not know why. I drink to keep from thinking of it.”
“I knew it. I knew I was right,” he said, rubbing his temples. He turned and stared at Goran. “Will I be a Volkodlak?”
“Possibly.”
“What… what do we do now?”
“We wait.”
“For what?”
“To see if you are my brother, or my supper.”
Goran rolled onto his side and rested. The two men sat there in silence, interrupted only by the soft crackles from the guards’ torches. Darkness filled the town square as they waited for the clouds to part.
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AUTHOR BIO:
Originally from the Boston area, Paul Cesarini is a Professor & Dean at Loyola University New Orleans. His fiction appears in 365 Tomorrows, Aphelion, Andromeda, Antipodean SF, Apocalypse Confidential, Bewildering Stories, Black Sheep, the Creepy Podcast, Freedom Fiction Journal, Intangience, InterNova, Mystic Minds, Pulp Lit, Savage Planets, Sci-Fi Shorts, and Tall Tale TV, with additional stories in-press. In his spare time, he serves as the editor / curator of Mobile Tech Weekly, at: https://flipboard.com/@pcesari/mobile-tech-weekly-lh2560e4y.
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WHY WE CHOSE TO PUBLISH “By Light of Moon”:
Whether you want your werewolves to be scary, romantic, or humorous, the subgenre allows for many variations on all of these. Author Paul Cesarini has chosen the latter, although we don’t find out if it was really about werewolves.
Aside from the humor, what makes this piece successful for us is the dialogue about the proper course of action for dealing with a Volkodlak, the perceived creature here (an actual name for a werewolf in Slavic folklore). It all makes for a fun piece.
We loved the line near the end: “To see if you are my brother, or my supper.”
NOTE: The author supplied the picture in black and white that accompanies the story. We took the liberty of adding some color to it.