They crept through an autum­nal wood. Two men in green coats and stalk­er’s caps tugged over black hair. One young, the oth­er old, beard­ed. They car­ried lever guns in the crooks of their sleeves, stepped light­ly round dry stands of elder­ber­ry and the musty detri­tus of fall­en leaves. 

A hound walked before them, nose whuf­fling eager­ly at the earth. A flop-eared cock­er with a blotchy coat and thick col­lar. It held close and obe­di­ent to the younger man’s leg.

“I’ve been think­ing about the wed­ding,” said the man, soft­ly, kept his eyes low, scan­ning the brush.

“Ai?” said the elder. “What about?”

“Whether it should be, well, post­poned.”

That earned him a side­ways glance. “Hm? Why, Alphons? I do hope the two of you are get­ting on.”

“Lasuli is… fine Papa,” saidAlphons. “It’s just, well.” He pursed his lips. “The dis­ap­pear­ances. In the vil­lage. The folk say some­thing’s been tak­ing peo­ple all year, espe­cial­ly after fes­ti­vals. It’s killed five, now. The recep­tion is at risk.”

“Ai, Alphons,” bemoaned Papa.

“Please. I know you don’t truck much with North­ern super­sti­tion, but, well–” He qui­et­ed, for Papa had raised a fin­ger to his lips, ges­tured to the sur­round­ing wood.

“Sor­ry.” He whis­pered. “For­give me, but it’s as Mama says: You mar­ried a North­ern­er. You must know how many of their super­sti­tions have more than a lit­tle tru–” *

At that moment, they both qui­et­ed, for the cock­er had frozen, set its nose in a def­i­nite point. Its brown, wide-set eyes fixed on a bram­ble some fifty meters ahead. Alphons pro­duced a hunter’s glass, dialed its focus on the brush. With­in, near obscured, milled a flight of fat, long-billed wood­cocks. They poked at the earth, draw­ing up pink worms and sour elder­ber­ry seeds. He passed the glass to Papa, who squint­ed through, nod­ded, read­ied his lev­erette. **

Both men crouched low, lev­eled their guns, set a bird each in their sights. “Uno, dos,” whis­pered Papa. On “tres,” the birds dropped in a puff of feath­ers. The remain­ing wood­cocks flushed in a flut­ter and a pan­ic, dis­persed with the fad­ing ring of shots.

They grinned at their suc­cess­ful kills. “Go on, Blot­to. Find them up,” said Papa, pat­ting the dog. It shot off, tongue lolling, under the low thorns of the bram­ble.

“You were say­ing?” said Papa. He recocked the lev­erette, stowed it back in his elbow, raised his eye­brows to Alphons.

“There are many of their myths which are true.”

“I am cer­tain many are.” Papa knelt to pat the hound as it returned, a bird clasped gen­tly in its jaws. He turned the feath­ered lump in his hands. “But this tale, I do not believe as one of them.”

Alphons frowned. “You are hus­band to the Earl. † I can’t under­stand how, after all these years, you’ve nev­er come to trust her, your, peo­ple.”

“Because, hijo, for every myth that is true, there is anoth­er that is a lie.” He smiled encour­ag­ing­ly at the hound as it returned again, trot­ting hap­pi­ly with a limp bird in tow. “Will­ful­ly or not, they are a mask for crime, or dis­ease.” He took the bird, rubbed the cock­er’s ear. “Or sin.” The dog yipped once, scam­pered away.

The beard­ed man rose, both birds in hand. “The killings were com­mit­ted by that mad her­mit they hung last sea­son, if you recall. I am cer­tain.” He turned to go, whis­tled for Blot­to. “Come.” Alphons fol­lowed, dif­fi­dent.

A wind came up. Brown leaves tum­bled around them. “I want to see you with­out wor­ry, Alphons. You are soon to be wed.” Papa turned to him; eyes crin­kled. “Ai?”

“I try, Papa. I hope you are right.”

“Good.” He looked ahead, idly strung the birds onto a cord on his belt. “Shall we try the back range, now? I am sure they are roost­ing, there.”

“Let’s.” 

“Bien.” He clicked his tongue for the dog. “Come, Blot­to. Vamos.”

The dog’s trot­ting foot­steps gained behind. It bumped his leg, whined. “Eh?” said Papa. Both men looked down, froze.

In Blot­to’s mouth, limp like a bird, there were bit the skele­tal rem­nants of a human hand. Red stings of flesh join­ing white, wet bones. Blot­to prof­fered it obe­di­ent­ly. The men recoiled. 

“Dios mio.”

Alphons met his father’s wide eyes, spoke. 

“It would seem that lie has killed again.”

“Let me get this straight, Mas­ter Sad­dle­back,” said Alphons, over­look­ing a long table of beer glass­es, breads, and linkwurst. “To do this, you real­ly need­ed two crowns of…” He waved a hand at the spread, set up in a flower-strewn field beside the loom­ing wood. “Cel­e­bra­tion?”

“Pre­cise­ly,” said the cut­ter beside him, a hard-bit­ten, scruffy man with bushy eye­brows. He tugged the col­lar of his jerkin, scratched his rough neck. “If’n the beast is what we think, it’ll hate a cel­e­bra­tion. Song, laugh­ter, fire­light. It’ll hate ’em all. Best way to draw it out. It’ll come after we bed down te sleep, but we shan’t sleep. We’ll be wait­ing. ”

“I see.” He watched a pair of cut­ters, both long-haired and strapped with blades, car­ry a keg to the table. “My father is dubi­ous, but I’ve faith of your record. And I’ve con­vinced the Earl.”

“Ta. They’ll see.”

“And, ” said Alphons, run­ning a hand through his hair. “What did you call the mon­ster?”

“A bargh­est,” nod­ded Sad­dle­back. He sniffed, spat on the grass. “ ‘Bear-geist,’ so goes the old Awnish. When they believed such things as spir­its.”

Alphons nod­ded, too, but still he frowned. He turned to behold the near­by wood. A shrub-choked reach of wav­ing trees, just turn­ing to brown, with an evening shad­ow with­in. They rus­tled in unceas­ing move­ment. He gulped. A hand twitched at his side. “H…how did it come to prey here?”

Sad­dle­back raised his eye­brows, shrugged. “Well, me more aca­d­e­m­ic com­pa­tri­ots sus­pect it’s the fault of that log­ging camp upriv­er.” He turned a point­ed gaze to Alphons.

“Ah,” said the noble­man’s son, low­ly. “The one owned by my fam­i­ly.”

“Indeed,” Sad­dle­back said, wry. “Your wood­cut­ter­s’ve gone and deplet­ed the ter­ri­to­ry, and all manor of ill shite’s come wan­derin’ down to these parts instead.” He raised his eye­brows at Alphons. “Can’t give ye fam­i­ly too much sass, though. Been makin’ fine coin. Banks n’ gov­er­nors’ve had us cleanin’ up the result for the past month. It’s a rich life, for a cut­ter.”

“A rich life,” trailed Alphons. He watched a one-eared mouse hop by with a fid­dle, fol­lowed by a bald woman with a bun­dle of pikes. The orange of leaves and declin­ing sun glowed in their bur­nished points. Both of them car­ried about with glee­ful step, and not a glance to the gloam­ing wood.

Some dour ten­sion grew between Alphons’ eyes. “What an inter­est­ing life you and yours lead, Sad­dle­back.” 

Sad­dle­back focused on him, fur­rowed his brows. “Got some­thing on ye mind, mate?”

Alphons’ jaw worked, unde­cid­ed­ly. “You know, I am arranged to be mar­ried, soon.”

“Ye?”

“Mar­ry, make a fam­i­ly, groom the land, pre­pare to pass this world on to my heir. Like my moth­er to me.”

Sad­dle­back remained impas­sive. “Woss wrong with tha’? S’ a bet­ter life than mos’ get.”

 “For me, it has been, cer­tain­ly.” He tilt­ed his head. “Only, I’ve been think­ing. About Parou­sia, in the South. And awful things I’ve learned at the Acad­e­my. And bargh­est at our door.” He stopped a moment, beheld the loom­ing wood. “I feel we’re fight­ing against oth­er worlds, and we’re los­ing. I fear there won’t be any­thing left of my world to pass on, soon enough, and it’ll be my kind’s fault, to boot. 

He looked to the cut­ter, all scars and scruff and leather. “It’s a world for your kind, now, Sad­dle­back. And I’m almost jeal­ous.” He turned away. “Sup­pose that’s what’s on my mind.”

Sad­dle­back scoffed. “Ye only just real­ize tha’?” He raised his eye­brows.

“What?” said Alphons. Sur­prise widened his eyes.

“Din­nae take no acad­e­my te tell ye the world’s split in pieces, Lordlin’.” He raised his chin, sneered. “I’ll beg ye for­give me, but ye’re playin’ catch-up. We cut­ter­s’ve known it a long time. Been plen­ty of us cleanin’ up for decades, all so the rest o’ ye can pre­tend things is alright.” He gave a snort, poked a fin­ger at Alphons. “And don’ say yer jeal­ous of us, for there ain’t a cut­ter among my posse who’d not trade lives with you.”

Alphons blinked a moment. “My apolo­gies, Mas­ter Sad­dle­back. I am embar­rassed for my blind­ness.”

“Och, well,” said the cut­ter, sim­mer­ing down. “At least ye’ve got one eye out of the sand.” He nar­rowed his eyes. “Jus’ remem­ber: Ain’t no one’s known the dam­age done this world who’s not worn a cut­ter’s boots.”

“I sus­pect you’re right,” said the heir, dourly, squint­ed at the set­ting sun. “It grows late.” He turned for the road, which wound towards a great, crenelat­ed coun­try house atop a near­by hill. 

“Thank you, Sad­dle­back. Good luck”

“Ta. We’ll need it.”

Alphons watched from the safe­ty ofa dis­tant bal­cony. He leaned, hunt­ing glass set to eye, elbows on a rail midst planters filled with dead bego­nia pix­ies. Autumn wind brought the dry petals to shiv­er, car­ried the saw­ing of a fid­dle and the hum of a solemn tune: the cel­e­bra­tion of the cut­ters, feast­ing and recit­ing myth­ic lays down and a dark­ened hill­rise away.

O’er the hills,

Across the plain,

Ride cheva­liers from Even Fane.

Crim­son ban­ners,

Raised high and plain,

All to war, to war in vain

They had sung with ener­gy, before the sun set. Jigs and reels, trot­ted out on the tram­pled, sweet grass. Alphons had watched them all the while, watched them feast and pour beer, a flask of whiskey at his own side. But as the night grew, and the shad­ow of the wood over­came their fire­lit camp, and the flask emp­tied, the cut­ters grew qui­et. They sang airs of solemn antiq­ui­ty, instead. Tales of älves, and ser­pents, and dead heroes. 

Now, Alphons watched them turn to sleep. The smoke of their short­en­ing fire reached him even there, min­gled with the ashen dregs of whiskey. He watched the fire fade, nod­ding many a time. Even­tu­al­ly, the hunter’s glass rolled into a bego­nia planter, and the heir slumped, hunched under a quilt, quite asleep.

He awoke to dis­tant cries.

Alphons star­tled. The quilt rolled away. In the dis­tance, screams and flash­es of fire emanat­ed from the hill. He scram­bled for his hunt­ing glass, looked.

On that hill, the cut­ters bat­tled a giant. A raw­boned, four-meter bear stood up like a great, stoop­ing man. A gaunt behe­moth with nubs of deformed bones burst from its taut and mangy hide. With arms thick and twist­ed as branch­es, it swiped cut­ters like pins, whipped weapons from hands and limbs from tor­sos with equal ease. With every swipe, it pulled, mani­a­cal­ly, fresh meat to the lip­less gawp of its gnash­ing jaws.

The cut­ter’s efforts were fruit­less. Pike points were swat­ted, flash­ing, away. Fire­bombs missed or broke with lit­tle effect, for the thing ignored all flame con­sum­ing its fur, its flesh, so enthralled was it by the act of killing and eat­ing.

A stench of burn­ing hide reached the bal­cony, strong even on the dis­tant wind. Alphons blanched. He gagged, hung on the rail. There, he clung for some time. Until the ring of slaugh­ter died. Until the bargh­est, fat­tened with the meats of men, rose, fad­ed, smol­der­ing, back into the black of the wood.

He slunk from the rail, dis­ap­peared into the manor. By can­dle­light, silent, to avoid wak­ing the house, Alphons gath­ered a pack, pro­vi­sions, gear for trav­el. A knife, a leather duster, his gun­spring, and a pair of heavy boots. He sad­dled a mus­cled roan, and, laden with the goods of a cut­ter, rode for the estate’s end.

At the road, he turned the roan about, beheld the still-smol­der­ing hill where the cut­ters had died. Smoke streamed in wisps against the black, cloud­less sky

“I’m sor­ry, Sad­dle­back.” 

Alphons spurred the roan, rode hard the oppo­site way.

Maneater

The word bear comes from old Awnish. It means “beast.”

Ancient folk­lore says is a name giv­en in fear, out of a belief held by myth­ic Man. Out of their con­cern that the ani­mal’s true name, if uttered, would cause the beast itself to appear.

And though the great brown bear of the North is no small vil­lain of the wood, apt to chase, and maul, and threat­en, it yet remains a timid beast, and its name is one giv­en wrong­ly. For in their mis­tak­en fear, myth­ic human­i­ty con­fused the low­ly bear for the real and mon­strous object of their fear: The bargh­est. The maneater.

The barghest

When a bear, dri­ven by rage, or scarci­ty, or ter­ri­to­r­i­al decline, is forced to prey not on its harm­less fare of nuts, and berries, and scav­enged meat, but on humans, it becomes a bargh­est. A crea­ture of unceas­ing hunger and rage, its exis­tence reduced only to the insane pur­suit of those two dri­ves.

For­ev­er hun­gry, for every pound of human flesh it con­sumes does not sat­is­fy.  Rather, it com­pounds awful, bur­geon­ing bipedal­ism and ever-expand­ing gigan­tism. Mon­strous gifts to the bargh­est’s effi­cien­cy as a killer, but unre­lent­ing blows to its starv­ing mind.

For­ev­er enraged, for the mad­ness of a bargh­est’s undy­ing famine begins and con­tin­ues eter­nal by human con­tact. No bear is born with the will to eat a man, but it can be giv­en one. By plight and hard­ship dri­ven by Man’s depre­da­tion of its envi­ron­ment and kin, a bear will come to test that adver­sary’s easy met­tle. Most often, it will win, become a bargh­est, and, bes­tial­ly aware of the cause of its mad hunger, be for­ev­er con­sumed by hate for the race that unwit­ting­ly forced its unnat­ur­al depen­dance on their own flesh.

It shan’t appear because you said its cursed name, but it will come and eat you all the same.

The truth

For mil­len­nia, Lit­torans have known the bargh­est. ††

Exam­ples of the mon­ster exist as the chief neme­ses in unend­ing recount­ings of North­ern lore; the arche­typ­al devour­ing giant, har­rowed and dri­ven to night­ly hunts, attract­ed by the song and rev­el­ry of myth­ic human­i­ty. A beast moti­vat­ed by a dyad of dri­ves so sim­ple, so bes­tial, it could only rep­re­sent the epit­o­me of nature’s black and oth­er­some wiles. Of the always-encroach­ing gloom of dark forests and the queer crea­tures of the Oth­er bred with­in; the ser­vants of an awful and preda­to­ry ecol­o­gy. ‡

And still, in mod­ern times, few have come to hold any grasp of the bargh­est’s true nature. Few know it is no ser­vant of the Oth­er. Nor is it, like wicked trollen, a bale­ful com­bi­na­tion of Oth­er and nat­ur­al world. Not at all.

Rather, by deplet­ing the forests they fear so dear­ly as homes of the Oth­er, humans acti­vate the ire­ful defens­es of their very world. They cre­ate the bargh­est: A destroy­er sum­moned to reap mankind just as they do the woods. The bargh­est is no Oth­er­some mon­ster, no prod­uct of war­ring worlds. 

It is mere­ly nature.

note

Here’s a sim­ple mon­ster arti­cle blown up into some­thing much more bloat­ed with the­mat­ic cog­i­ta­tion. A glut­ted com­bi­na­tion of wendi­gos, the trans­for­ma­tive maneater con­cept I’ve used before, and the old euphemism of the bear.

⁂