 |
The Book of Were-Wolves
by Sabine Baring-Gould, 1865
This full length classic werewolf reference
book is presented courtesy of MythologyWeb.
|
CHAPTER XIV
A GALICIAN WERE-WOLF
The inhabitants of Austrian Galicia are quiet, inoffensive people,
take them as a whole. The Jews, who number a twelfth of the population,
are the most intelligent, energetic, and certainly the most money-making
individuals in the province, though the Poles proper, or Mazurs,
are not devoid of natural parts.
Perhaps as remarkable a phenomenon as any other in that kingdom
-- for kingdom of Waldimir it was -- is the enormous numerical
preponderance of the nobility over the untitled. In 1837 the
proportions stood thus: 32,190 nobles to 2,076 tradesmen.
The average of execution for crime is nine a year, out of
a population of four and a half millions -- by no means a high
figure, considering the peremptory way in which justice is dealt
forth in that province. Yet, in the most quiet and well-disposed
neighbourhoods, occasionally the most startling atrocities are
committed, occurring when least expected, and sometimes perpetrated
by the very person who is least suspected.
Just sixteen years ago there happened in the circle of Tornow,
in Western Galicia -- the province is divided into nine circles
-- a circumstance which will probably furnish the grandames with
a story for their firesides, during their bitter Galician winters,
for many a long year.
In the circle of Tornow, in the lordship of Parkost, is a
little hamlet called Polomyja, consisting of eight hovels and
a Jewish tavern. The inhabitants are mostly woodcutters, hewing
down the firs of the dense forest in which their village is situated,
and conveying them to the nearest water, down which they are
floated to the Vistula. Each tenant pays no rent for his cottage
and pitch of field, but is bound to work a fixed number of days
for his landlord: a practice universal in Galicia, and often
productive of much discontent and injustice, as the proprietor
exacts labour from his tenant on those days when the harvest
has to be got in, or the land is m best condition for tillage,
and just when the peasant would gladly be engaged upon his own
small plot. Money is scarce in the province, and this is accordingly
the only way in which the landlord can be sure of his dues.
Most of the villagers of Polomyja are miserably poor; but
by cultivating a little maize, and keeping a few fowls or a pig,
they scrape together sufficient to sustain life. During the summer
the men collect resin from the pines, from each of which, once
in twelve Years, they strip a slip of bark, leaving the resin
to exude and trickle into a small earthenware jar at its roots;
and, during the winter, as already stated, they fell the trees
and roll them down to the river.
Polomyja is not a cheerful spot -- nested among dense masses
of pine, which shed a gloom over the little hamlet; yet, on a
fine day, it is pleasant enough for the old women to sit at their
cottage doors, scenting that matchless pine fragrance, sweeter
than the balm of the Spice Islands, for there is nothing cloying
in that exquisite and exhilarating odour; listening to the harp-like
thrill of the breeze in the old grey tree-tops, and knitting
quietly at long stockings, whilst their little grandchildren
romp in the heather and tufted fern.
Towards evening, too, there is something indescribably beautiful
in the firwood. The sun dives among the trees, and paints their
boles with patches of luminous saffron, or falling over a level
clearing, glorifies it with its orange dye, so visibly contrasting
with the blue-purple shadow on the western rim of unreclaimed
forest, deep and luscious as the bloom on a plum. The birds then
are hastening to their nests, a ger-falcon, high overhead, is
kindled with sunlight; capering and gambolling among the branches,
the merry squirrel skips home for the night.
The sun goes down, but the sky is still shining with twilight.
The wild cat begins to hiss and squall in the forest, the heron
to flap hastily by, the stork on the top of the tavern chimney
to poise itself on one leg for sleep. To-whoo! An owl begins
to wake up. Hark! The woodcutters are coming home with a song.
Such is Polomyja in summer time, and much resembling it are
the hamlets scattered about the forest, at intervals of a few
miles; in each, the public-house being the most commodious and
best-built edifice, the church, whenever there is one, not remarkable
for anything but its bulbous steeple.
You would hardly believe that amidst all this poverty a beggar
could have picked up any subsistence, and yet, a few years ago,
Sunday after Sunday, there sat a white-bearded venerable man
at the church door, asking alms.
Poor people are proverbially compassionate and liberal, so
that the old man generally got a few coppers, and often some
good woman bade him come into her cottage, and let him have some
food.
Occasionally Swiatek -- that was the beggar's name, went his
rounds selling small pinchbeck ornaments and beads; generally,
however, only appealing to charity.
One Sunday, after church, a Mazur and his wife invited the
old man into their hut and gave him a crust of pie and some meat.
There were several children about, but a little girl, of nine
or ten, attracted the old man's attention by her artless tricks.
Swiatek felt in his pocket and produced a ring, enclosing
a piece of coloured glass set over foil. This he presented to
the child, who ran off delighted to show her acquisition to her
companions.
"Is that little maid your daughter?" asked the beggar.
"No," answered the house-wife, "she is an orphan;
there was a widow in this place who died, leaving the child,
and I have taken charge of her; one mouth more will not matter
much, and the good God will bless us."
"Ay, ay! To be sure He will; the orphans and fatherless
are under His own peculiar care."
"She's a good little thing, and gives no trouble,"
observed the woman. "You go back to Polomyja tonight, I
reckon."
"I do -- ah!" exclaimed Swiatek, as the little girl
ran up to him. You like the ring, is it not beautiful? I found
it under a big fir to the left of the churchyard -- there may
be dozens there. You must turn round three times, bow to the
moon, and say, 'Zaboï!' then look among the tree-roots till
you find one."
"Come along!" screamed the child to its comrades;
"we will go and look for rings."
"You must seek separately," said Swiatek.
The children scampered off into the wood.
"I have done one good thing for you," laughed the
beggar, "in ridding you, for a time, of the noise of those
children."
"I am glad of a little quiet now and then," said
the woman; "the children will not let the baby sleep at
times with their clatter. Are you going?"
"Yes; I must reach Polomyja to-night. I am old and very
feeble, and poor" -- he began to fall into his customary
whine -- very poor, but I thank and pray to God for you."
Swiatek left the cottage.
That little orphan was never seen again.
The Austrian Government has, of late years, been vigorously
advancing education among the lower orders, and establishing
schools throughout the province.
The children were returning from class one day, and were scattered
among the trees, some pursuing a field-mouse, others collecting
juniper-berries, and some sauntering with their hands in their
pockets, whistling.
"Where's Peter?" asked one little boy of another
who was beside him. "We three go home the same way, let
us go together."
"Peter!" shouted the lad.
"Here I am!" was the answer from among the trees;
"I'll be with you directly."
"Oh, I see him!" said the elder boy. "There
is some one talking to him."
"Where?"
"Yonder, among the pines. Ah! they have gone further
into the shadow, and I cannot see them any more. I wonder who
was with him; a man, I think."
The boys waited till they were tired, and then they sauntered
home, determined to thrash Peter for having kept them waiting.
But Peter was never seen again.
Some time after this a servant-girl, belonging to a small
store kept by a Russian, disappeared from a village five miles
from Polomyja. She had been sent with a parcel of grocery to
a cottage at no very great distance, but lying apart from the
main cluster of hovels, and surrounded by trees.
The day closed in, and her master waited her return anxiously,
but as several hours elapsed without any sign of her, he -- assisted
by the neighbours -- went in search of her.
A slight powdering of snow covered the ground, and her footsteps
could be traced at intervals where she had diverged from the
beaten track. In that part of the road where the trees were thickest,
there were marks of two pair of feet leaving the path; but owing
to the density of the trees at that spot and to the slightness
of the fall of snow, which did not reach the soil, where shaded
by the pines, the footprints were immediately lost. By the following
morning a heavy fall had obliterated any further traces which
day-light might have discovered.
The servant-girl also was never seen again.
During the winter of 1849 the wolves were supposed to have
been particularly ravenous, for thus alone did people account
for the mysterious disappearances of children.
A little boy had been sent to a fountain to fetch water; the
pitcher was found standing by the well, but the boy had vanished.
The villagers turned out, and those wolves which could be found
were despatched.
We have already introduced our readers to Polomyja, although
the occurrences above related did not take place among those
eight hovels, but in neighbouring villages. The reason for our
having given a more detailed account of this cluster of houses--rude
cabins they were -- will now become apparent.
In May, 1849, the innkeeper of Polomyja missed a couple of
ducks, and his suspicions fell upon the beggar who lived there,
and whom he held in no esteem, as he himself was a hard-working
industrious man, whilst Swiatek maintained himself, his wife,
and children by mendicity, although possessed of sufficient arable
land to yield an excellent crop of maize, and produce vegetables,
if tilled with ordinary care.
As the publican approached the cottage a fragrant whiff of
roast greeted his nostrils.
"I'll catch the fellow in the act," said the innkeeper
to himself, stealing up to the door, and taking good care not
to be observed.
As he threw open the door, he saw the mendicant hurriedly
shuffle something under his feet, and conceal it beneath his
long clothes. The publican was on him in an instant, had him
by the throat, charged him with theft, and dragged him from his
seat. Judge of his sickening horror when from beneath the pauper's
clothes rolled forth the head of a girl about the age of fourteen
or fifteen years, carefully separated from the trunk.
In a short while the neighbours came up. The venerable Swiatek
was locked up, along with his wife, his daughter -- a girl of
sixteen -- and a son, aged five.
The hut was thoroughly examined, and the mutilated remains
of the poor girl discovered. In a vat were found the legs and
thighs, partly raw, partly stewed or roasted. In a chest were
the heart, liver, and entrails, all prepared and cleaned, as
neatly as though done by a skilful butcher; and, finally, under
the oven was a bowl full of fresh blood. On his way to the magistrate
of the district, the wretched man flung himself repeatedly on
the ground, struggled with his guards, and endeavoured to suffocate
himself by gulping clown clods of earth and stones, but was prevented
by his conductors.
When taken before the Protokoll at Dabkow, he stated that
he had already killed and -- assisted by his family -- eaten
six persons: his children, however, asserted most positively
that the number was much greater than he had represented, and
their testimony is borne out by the fact, that the remains of
fourteen different caps and suits of clothes, male as
well as female, were found in his house.
The origin of this horrible and depraved taste was as follows,
according to Swiatek's own confession:
In 1846, three years previous, a Jewish tavern in the neighbourhood
had been burned down, and the host had himself perished in the
flames. Swiatek, whilst examining the ruins, had found the half-roasted
corpse of the publican among the charred rafters of the house.
At that time the old man was craving with hunger, having been
destitute of food for some time. The scent and the sight of the
roasted flesh inspired him with an uncontrollable desire to taste
of it. He tore off a portion of the carcase and satiated his
hunger upon it, and at the same time he conceived such a liking
for it, that he could feel no rest till he had tasted again.
His second victim was the orphan above alluded to; since then
-- that is, during the period of no less than three years --
he had frequently subsisted in the same manner, and had actually
grown sleek and fat upon his frightful meals.
The excitement roused by the discovery of these atrocities
was intense; several poor mothers who had bewailed the loss of
their little ones, felt their wounds reopened agonisingly. Popular
indignation rose to the highest pitch: there was some fear lest
the criminal should be torn in pieces himself by the enraged
people, as soon as he was brought to trial: but he saved the
necessity of precautions being taken to ensure his safety, for,
on the first night of his confinement, he hanged himself from
the bars of the prison-window.
Related products:
The Book of Were-Wolves by Sabine Baring-Gould.
Buy it new at Amazon.com or search for used copies at Abebooks
Werewolf
masks, makeup kits and prosthetics for Halloween and
other uses at Clownin'
Around.
Wolf and werewolf art prints
and posters in affiliation with AllPosters.com.
|
