Chapter 2

Sam paused to wet his throat with a drink, and Dean returned to the bed to finish cleaning the weapons as his brother read. "Roland Léglise was a hard man. He was gruff, rude, and at first seemed uncaring of my plight. He did, however, offer me a place to sleep that night. The next morning I rose early. My nights have been troubled and plagued by dreams since the night of your mother's death, and sleep has not been my friend. Léglise was still abed, so, to thank him for the meal and place to sleep I went out into the yard and began to chop wood. I found the exercise calming, and it gave me a chance to clear my mind and decide what I should do next. If Léglise would not help me I was at a loss for where to go next. But he surprised me."

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Jacob's brow ran with sweat despite the chill of the autumn morning. His thin cotton shirt clung to the skin of his back, and his sandy hair scattered wildly around his face with each swing of the axe. He was absorbed in his task, the rhythmic rise and fall of the axe, the effort to spilt each log cleanly, knock it aside, replace it, swing again with a grunt of effort. It was easier to concentrate on the simple, ordinary job. The burn in his muscled shoulders was kinder than the deep ache in his heart and the stab of uncertainty about his future and the small pang of being let down by his hope of help.

The dark Frenchman watched him from the shadowed doorway of the cabin. He had heard the boy crying out in his sleep. It had stirred the memories of his own past, his own pain. The life he had lived, the job he had been doing for as long as he could remember, they had hardened his heart, made him cynical. But somewhere beneath the layers of leather and stone that he had grown to armor himself from the cruelties and nightmares he was still a kind man. He regretted his harsh words, and his uncaring dismissal of the young man's pleas.

His first instinct had been to turn Jacob away, to make him return to what was left of his family, to protect him from the truth. He had growled at him and told him to go home. Roland liked his solitary life, or so he told himself. He didn't need a young pup barking at his heels and getting underfoot. The boy would just get hurt. He would end up as just as hard and lonely, and with more nightmares to add to the ones he already had. If he even survived. He should go home to his daughter, mourn his wife, and move on with his life.

But Roland also recognized the glint of steel in the boy's gaze, he had had the same determination in his own, once. He knew that Jacob would not be content to go home, would not be content ever again. The young man was a fighter. It was time to pass on what he knew, the knowledge he had gained through a lifetime of pain and struggle. He was getting old, and someone would have to carry on the fight.

He crossed the yard and leaned his arms on the low rail fence near where Jacob was chopping. He waited for the young man to notice him. When the sounds of the axe hitting wood ceased he began to speak without looking over. "When I was a boy, younger than you are now, a terrible thing happened in my little village in Gévaudan." Roland looked out over the low hills as he spoke, but in his mind he saw the mountains around the little village in the French countryside where he had been born. Jacob leaned on the axe and listened. "It started with the disappearance of a young girl. She had been playing with her friends, but as dusk fell she left them to hurry home before dark. That was the last time anyone saw her. All that was found was a torn ribbon and a stain of blood on the path. The villagers feared bandits, and the woods were searched, but no trace of her was found.

"The next night a young woman was taken. She had been in sight of the village, and we heard her screams. Her body was found in a shallow ravine half a mile from the town. She had been torn to shreds, and her heart was missing. We were poor farmers, simple people, but we armed ourselves as best we could with pitchforks and rusted swords and stout clubs and went out to find the beast that had done this horrible thing. But we did not find it, and the third night another young woman was taken. This time from her own yard on the edge of the village.

"There were no more attacks for a month, then we heard of another attack nearby, in the village of Langogne. This time the girl survived. She told of a large wolf-like beast that leapt from the woods. It was driven off by a bull. There were more attacks, and many were killed, mostly women and children. We were terrorized by this creature for nearly three years. The King even sent his huntsman to kill the thing, but he was a fool. He killed a wolf, and had it stuffed and sent to King Louis. It was an unnaturally large wolf, but it was not the beast, and the killing went on.

"But there was one man who knew what was going on. He had come to our village soon after the first attacks. He was armed with a sword, and a musket, a Bible, and a pistol loaded with silver shot. He fascinated me as he searched methodically through our village and through the woods and mountainsides nearby, and I started to follow him. I stayed quiet, and only watched what he was doing, but he noticed my determination and he began to talk to me as he worked, telling me about what he was doing, and about what he was hunting. I never spoke a word. I only absorbed what he did, burned it into my heart. The first girl who was killed had been my baby sister. I wanted to learn to hunt the beast so that I could kill it and avenge her.

"When the next attacks happened at Langogne he went there, and I followed him. When he saw that I was not going to return home, he took me as his apprentice. His name was Jean Chastel. It took him three years to find the loup-garou, but eventually he did, and he killed it. During that time I learned to hunt and to kill a number of other things as well. I learned to exorcise demons, to lay unquiet spirits to rest, to kill vampires and many other things that prey upon us in the darkness.

"When my soul grew weary of the nightmares I came here to this country to escape them, but there is no escape. We brought our monsters with us, and the people who were here before had monsters of their own. Once you know what is in the dark, once you know how to kill it, you have no choice. You cannot turn a blind eye to it. You already know the pain that these monsters can cause, and you will never be able to stand aside and watch as they cause pain to others if you know you can do something to stop it. For forty years, and over two continents I have hunted these beasts, and there is no rest."

Roland fell quiet. His chest was tight with emotion. It was the most he had said to anyone in a very long time. Jacob did not speak, he only watched the older man. After a very long moment Roland turned to the boy. He looked into his eyes and saw the pain and determination there. He nodded. "Think hard on it. Decide. If you are still here in the morning, I will train you." And he swung himself over the rail he had been leaning on and walked away across the field and into the woods, his long legs carrying him swiftly.

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"Holy cow! This guy hunted the Beast of Gévaudan!" Sam looked up from the journal, his eyes wide with awe.

"The beast of who?" Dean paused in his cleaning to look up at his brother with a puzzled lift of his eyebrow.

"Famous werewolf attack in France in… I think it was the 1760's." Sam explained.

"Oh yeah, didn't they make a movie about that? It was in French wasn't it?"

"Yeah, that's about the only time I remember you ever watching a movie with subtitles."

Dean shrugged, "Hey, it was a good flick." He clicked the pieces of his pistol back together and tested the action. "Skip ahead a little, we don't need to know about his training. We got that first hand. Didn't Dad say that Colt made his gun in the 1830's?"

Sam nodded, "Yeah, but there may be more in here that's important." He caught the look Dean gave him and nodded, a little disappointed. He sighed, "You're right, though. I'll have to ask Tom if I can make a copy of this so I can read all of it, I guess." He flipped ahead several pages, skimming as he went, until something caught his eye.

"August 23, 1814. This week has been one of the darkest in my life, and I am sorry to report to you that your beloved Uncle Roland has been taken away from us. For seven years he had been my teacher, mentor, and steadfast friend. He told me once that you reminded him of the sister he lost so many years ago, and I know that he loved you almost as much as I do. When he joined me for visits it was the only time I would ever see him smile. You gave him a chance to be a normal man, a doting uncle. You are a spot of light in the darkness for me, and I believe you were for him as well.

"He was killed as he lived, stubbornly fighting against the beasts. We had traveled south to the port city of Mobile in Spanish West Florida. Though I suppose it is American West Florida now. Roland had heard tales of mysterious deaths there, and we went to investigate them. The city was still in a state of chaos because of the recent Creek Indian War, and the troubles with the British. There are many creatures that would find the battles and bloodshed of war an irresistible beacon, a feast to be taken advantage of."

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The docks were a confusion of sights and sounds. The smell of salt water, tar, and fish filled the air, and Jacob could make out at least four different languages being spoken. The snap of canvas in the wind, bells and waves and the rumble of cart wheels on the wooden planks of the docks joined with the cries of hawkers and fishmongers. There were people everywhere. This was his first experience of a seaport, and he strained to see far out into Mobile Bay through the forest of ship's masts and rigging, to take in all of the bustle and diversity. His excitement was cut short by a sharp smack to the back of his head.

"Get your head back in the game, boy. We've no time for sightseeing." Roland's affectionately gruff reminder brought Jacob back to the business at hand. They needed to hire a river guide to take them up into the swamps at the north end of the bay. Whatever it was that was killing people had most likely come from there, if the mud and reeds found with the bodies was any indication.

They had already spoken with two rivermen who, they had been told, had experience with the swamps, and both had adamantly refused to take them. The swamps were deadly, they said, there was a monster there, or an Indian curse. The stories were jumbled, but the result was the same. No one wanted to venture into the estuaries where the Mobile and Tensaw rivers emptied into the bay. No one sane, anyway. So now they were on the docks to find a man who was crazy enough to take them where they needed to go.