So it happened to me. I was bitten, and it's made my life hard. But no harder than living with the Sight, and much easier than vampirism. Anyway, werewolves are much better prophets than Seers -- all we need is a lunar calendar.
But the point is, it happened, and the only thing I can do is not let it dominate my life. When I was well enough to speak to my mother after that first night, she said to me, "You know what this means, Remus? It means you must never give them a reason to use it against you." I've always tried to follow that. I think the root of what horrifies people about werewolves is they see us as masquerading as humans. Well, my job is to show them that I am a man too.
* * *
Sabine was glad to see the Cliffs of Dover from the ferry. There was too much lurking behind her in Bretagne, too many creatures of her own making to remain there. She disembarked from the boat and headed out into England on foot, sometimes sleeping in abandoned road stops or empty farmhouses. Her halting English improved the more she had to ask people for food, or spare change. After three weeks in the country, she felt herself warm a little to her situation. This is a place where I can start anew, she concluded happily as she watched the sun set over Cambridge. That next morning she ventured eastward towards The Fens, which were wild enough places to keep her alone come the full moon.
The night passed, and Sabine was fiercely proud of herself. She had taken no one. She was determined to start another streak like her last one -- twenty-three moons between bites, and the one that had broken that had been a silly neo-pagan type dancing in the stones outside of Morbihan. She had really been asking for it.
Sabine! No one asks for such a fate! You must stop yourself from thinking these things.
Sabine shook her head forcefully, then picked herself up and began heading for those famous Yorkshire moors.
The month after that found her in the Lake Country, which was very beautiful, but difficult to find an isolated range in. She chided herself -- something in her had been tempting her. I must resist it.
Next month she was in Wales, and found the mountains quite to her liking. The local wolves did not bother her once one tribe spread word of her presence, and there were enough sheep so that she could keep herself satisfied. She remained there until a close miss with a shepherd boy, when all that saved him was the devotion of his collie. She could not afford another like that, and so moved on through Wales into Cornwall.
It had been thirteen months since Morbihan when Sabine made her way through the Mendips Hills onto the Salisbury Plain. She had always had a strong attraction to the work of the ancients, of the towering menhirs and monolithic dolmens, and the great shapes carved into la Terre herself. Someday I must go to Ireland, she promised herself as she walked into the square of a small town near Winchester. Welcome to Longwhite! a friendly sign proclaimed. Home of Britain's Largest Native Butterfly Farm! Museum open 9:30-12, 1:30-4 weekdays; 9-5 Saturdays; closed Sundays. Admission free. Bring the whole family!
Sabine could not help but smile. She wondered what the day was, and hoped for a short walk around the farm. She had always enjoyed butterflies. She kept too much company with moths to much appreciate them.
* * *
Roberta Lupin had noticed the thin, ragged woman reading the advert in the square, and properly stunned by the state of her clothes had hurried out of her husband's grocery and chemist to invite her in for tea, for goodness sakes. The girl was French, and was not a very confident speaker, but Roberta struggled to bring up some of the language from her schooling days and converse with the poor dear. Sabine Sylvain her name was, just come out of university and backpacking about England before she went to work.
Sabine thanked her gratefully as she sat in borrowed clothes and sipped some Earl Gray, while Roberta ran her rags through the wash. A young boy, about five or six years old, bounded down the stairs carrying a bright red ball. He ran over to his mother's side and told her with bright eyes that he was going out to play with Charlie and Milo at the park. Roberta hugged him to her side and, smiling, introduced Sabine.
"Quel poupet," Sabine smiled. "What is his name?"
"Remus," said Roberta proudly, hugging him a little tighter as the boy stared at her with large, dark eyes. "Say hello, dearie," she prompted.
"Hello," he responded automatically, and then slipped out from under her grasp and left the store, the bell tied to the door ringing for several seconds after his departure.
Sabine continued to converse with Roberta, well after her clothes were washed and ironed ("I won't have you going about like you was, dear! Least a person can do, think nothing of it.") Roberta offered to give her a room upstairs for a spell, but Sabine had been watching the moon and shook her head violently. "I cannot, but I thank you," she said. After changing and thanking Roberta once more, she left the store and headed out towards the butterfly farm, which Roberta had given her directions to.
It was 5:30 when she arrived, but the keeper saw few enough visitors that he gladly let her in, and she wandered the greenhouse for an hour. She thanked him as she left.
She came to a sufficiently empty area around sunset. She made her way to a cluster of trees, removed her clothes, folded them neatly (not wishing to undo Mrs. Lupin's kind work), and waited, naked, for the moon to rise.
The change came as painful as ever. But once it was complete she felt the old vitality coursing through her. The world just seemed so much more real when she ran on four legs. The smell of a rabbit warren was the first that reached her, and she amused herself for a good while scattering the dumb creatures about the plain.
But then a higher, sweeter scent reached her nose, and her mouth began to water as soon as her sharp nose picked it up. She knew exactly what it was, and she knew there was a part of her that was screaming S'arrête! S'arrête! but the animal was too strong, and the wolf broke free and began tracking it down.
She thought she had seen the boy somewhere before: he had great dark eyes and was carrying a ball that might be red. He had been playing on the plain with his friends too late tonight, and was just making the trek back into town, bracing himself for the furious scolding his mother would give. He did not see her for a good many mile, and she delighted in stalking him in the cover of brush, keeping the excitement at bay and letting it mount until the joy and the hunger would be uncontainable.
He was within sight of the spires of Longwhite when she could hold back no more. She charged at him from the front, an unnamable glee dashing in her mouth, and heard his piercing, terrified shriek as she bowled him over. She watched almost lazily as he picked himself up, gaping at her, and began to run. She might have laughed had she had the ability. But her mouth was good for only one thing. She chased him down again and cornered him. As he stood, petrified, in front of her -- like the rabbits she had been fiddling around with before -- a few thoughts crossed her head, as they sometimes did in these situations.
You cannot do this, Sabine. His mother gave you food. She ironed your clothes. She told you his name.
The wolf in her snorted contemptuously. His name! Remus. Remus. With a name like that --
She did not finish. She lunged forward and sank her teeth in his right thigh. A triumphant howl escaped from her throat while he screamed and screamed and screamed.
* * *
Sabine awoke the next evening with great dolor in her heart. Something was wrong, she'd done something wrong in the night. Thirteen months, she repeated, trying to discern the sin, treize mois. Surely I have not. I have been so good!
She slipped her washed and ironed clothes onto a mud- and sweat-streaked body and walked into town. The waning moon lit her way very easily. The town square was empty, but there were many people in the Lupins's store. She looked up, sadly, at the lit window shining out over the square. The silhouettes of a bedpost, and of many people leaning over the frame, moved across the shade like a puppet play. She knew the scene that was occurring within. The little boy would be sweating and moaning, and shaking with great tremors every hour or so. He would cry out often in his delirium, and would sleep for close to three days. When he awoke, he would be very thirsty, and would wonder about his bandaged leg. His parents might be wizards, or find someone who was, and they might recognize the symptoms, and they would find someone to tell him, solemn-faced, the fate that awaited him come the next full moon while his parents sobbed quietly beside him.
This was the first one she had known the name of. That made things very bad for a moment. Remus Lupin. Remus. She shook her head, as if trying to rid herself of some pest. With a name like that he's practically begging for a bite, she told herself coldly, and turned and headed north out of the square.