IV. Children of the Night
During the long winter, I had studied my Grandmother's book on plants and herbs. It was a heavy ancient tome bound in leather, with pictures of the plants and descriptions of their properties. But she had encrypted the text; and therefore, it took me considerable time to decode the writing. I took the most familiar plant—garlic—with the most recognizable illustration, and worked at decoding that entry. When I had figured out the code in the entry for garlic, I was able to read the others. Each entry gave the ailments and diseases that could be treated with the herb, and there were recipes for various brews, menstruums, potions, admixtures, tonics, and poultices. With the arrival of spring, I wandered in the forest searching for the medicinal plants described in my Grandmother's book. Comfrey, with its pink bell-shaped flowers, was one of the plants that I often gathered. It was used to treat colds and to heal wounds. Roxanne helped me collect the plants. She became my apprentice, and I assumed my Grandmother's role as an herbalist and apothecary for the neighborhood.
During the summer, I made a routine of going outside on the nights of the full moon to listen for Peter's call, which I could identify from hearing it during our first encounter. In this way, I knew that he was still alive. Although I wondered what the isolation and the transformations were doing to his mind.
One night, Roxanne joined me outside on the porch. The wolves were very boisterous that night. A plethora of howls sounded through the forest. I listened for the one that was manna for my heart.
"Don't the wolves frighten you?" Roxanne asked.
Peter's distinctive howl rang out.
"No," I said, and I smiled sadly.
"That sounds like the werewolf, Valerie," Roxanne observed anxiously.
In the yellow light cast from the window, I could see Roxanne shudder.
"It's all right," I said, touching her arm reassuringly.
Peter's howl sounded again. I took Roxanne into my arms. She was trembling like the rabbit I killed when I was six years old.
"You don't have to be afraid, it's Peter."
"What! Peter's the werewolf!"
"No, no," I said. "Peter helped me kill the werewolf—my father; but Peter was bitten."
"Then he is a werewolf!"
"But there's nothing to fear," I said.
"Then why doesn't he live here with you?"
"He said he was afraid that he'd hurt me, but he would never do that."
"How do you know?"
"He won't hurt me because he loves me. He has always loved me, and he always will."
"And," Roxanne moaned, pushing herself away from me, "you have always loved Peter, and you always will."
I regretted my words, but could not undo the wounds inflicted by them.
"Roxanne," I said, reaching for her. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."
"I deserve it for denouncing you to Father Solomon," she said, twisting away again and turning her face into the darkness. "Someday I'll make it up to you. I'll earn your love, even if I'm not first in your heart."
"But I do love you, Roxanne," I declared.
She looked at me with a sorrowful expression; but yet, there was a glimmer of longing in her blue eyes.
"When you're finished listening to Peter's lament," she said, "I'll be waiting for you in bed."
"I'll join you shortly."
[contd]