Keeping my distance,
sitting calmly outside
in the dark
on the porch
alone,
picking at my nails
running fingers through my hair
fighting an urge to eat
when I heard again
through the window
the story,
our old myth
told in the small, stuffy kitchen
a few sitting around the wobbly table
others leaning against the dated wallpaper
Teta, wrinkled, small,
with a slight five-o-clock shadow
commanded the room
breathed the legend out
in wispy stutters
...Her voice merges with my thoughts,
there is no difference
but for my perspective
having lived and heard the myth
since my birth...
Our people, descended from the
Kingdom of Illyria
crossed the waters and their fears
not for freedom from oppression
- no war so great the the world was invited
to attend, had spewed its curse yet -
but to flee the small village
our own had named
as home for untold time,
myths being persuasive in
our culture
Volkodlak had returned
Immortal
our ancient wolf-skinned man
left tufts of bristling hair in the pew
the vivid corpse eviscerated
in the ancient chapel
where crusaders
said their final prayers
before never coming back
from the land of Saracens...
Legend does not leave so much evidence
eh, Teta croaked
...wagons were loaded
deep rutted roads
led down the Adriatic coast
to harbors
departures
with haste arranged
Mati was young, single
and scandalous
swollen with child
a pretty peasant
on a slow
undulating voyage
barely into her adventure
Cries in muffled echoes of steerage
...I hear them
This world brought my life and
took hers -
a perverse exchange...
Uniforms slid her sheet-less body
over the side
in the dark
her prayers
making the bigger splash
as the void
swallowed them whole
...Teta and Stric wrapped me,
fitted a bonnet of sorts over my
unusual thick bristled hair, and
I came to this land as
their own...
(I dozed through this portion, having a violent, vivid dream)
Teta wound her words to an end as
she shook the last of the slivovice from
the bottle on to her tongue.
It is late and there is no need for a full moon
...I stir,
chuckling at the irony
of my people bringing more than their culture
to these shores.
Unknowing and eager
they brought the myth
that never dies...
©Eusebeia Philos 2013
Slovenes tell the tale of Volkodlak, a wolf-man who transforms to hunt at night. So, go ahead, take your chance. Even if you manage to kill one, it will resurrect as a vampire, this time with the ability to transform to a wolf-man at will. They don't die easily by natural causes, and live as immortals unless killed in the usual, special ways. It was said the wearing of a wolf skin could turn one into a Volkodlak. Sometimes one was born as a Volkodlak, with the evidence being a baby with a head of wolf hair.
Slovene Translations:
Teta = Aunt
Stric = Uncle
Mati = Mother
Slivovice = a strong plum brandy
See Mythical Creatures List: Volkodlak
The dVerse Poets Pub doors swing open, myths and legends walk in with Fred, and another Poetics session begins.
Sunset was hours ago,
the moon made no mention
of itself.
I stood in the middle of the plowed field,
taking in the black sea of space around me
spreading from tree line to creek,
how it pressed in my chest,
short calibrated breaths,
the odor of soil and
its freshly sprayed cologne
made its way to my senses -
not chemical,
organic, yes, manure
from dairy cows
reserved for the day
when it returned to feed the ground.
The D-cell Maglite in my left hand
and the Smith & Wesson Airweight 38-special
in my right back pocket gave
some reserve of confidence to
continue to the end of the property,
back a half-mile from the house
that already looked small, distant.
Why didn't I turn on the back porch lights?
I stood before the depth of forest,
my appointment complete,
feet settled slightly in a grip of
greeting from whatever had called
me each of these nights.
I knocked on the door,
shining my light on to the first
row of trees standing sentinel to
the gathering beyond.
A slight breeze produced more sound
than thought possible,
branches scratching their itches,
trunks twisting to get a better look,
leaves falling, hitting the damp forest floor,
sounding like footsteps approaching.
I twisted the lens to narrow the beam,
a flash of darknes as the bulb went cold and
x-ray images lingered on my retinas for
a brief moment before
real-time video returned and
I saw two yellow lights
beyond the edge of swaying trees,
focusing on me,
unblinking.
I turned the Maglite around so the head
now snuggled in the meaty base of my palm
and the six D-size battery tube became
a hefty club held slightly away as a
warning not to come near.
I heard a snickering laugh in my head and
ignored the impulse to process it.
My boots felt as if they would slide off my feet,
sticking slightly in the ground as I
stepped to the right,
following the furrow of tilled earth
conveniently lined parallel to the
primordial theater before me.
The yellow orbs,
eyes, I surmised,
moved with me,
cautious step by cautious step,
never relieving me of their focus but
for the briefness when they passed
behind the scaly bark of a tree trunk to
reappear on the other side.
It knew I was here.
The 38-special came up in my right hand,
my elbow tight against my hip,
carrying like a Prohibition gangster.
Ludicrous. Who keeps laughing at me?
The length of the field I walked and
the eyes came with me,
extending an invitation to enter the wood.
To the left I returned,
never unlocking the gaze between us,
peripherally other pairs of eyes appeared in
the ensuing hours to join the standoff.
This game wearied me for
I was not going in and
the eyes were not coming out.
I stood at the back door of the house,
flipped to lie on my other side,
fumbling for the keys until I realized
it was not locked,
pulled the sheets up to my chin,
before stepping through to
wakefulness,
I wondered would I return again
tomorrow night to the forest edge as
I had every night since coming off
the medication.
©Eusebeia Philos 2013
Written for dVerse Poets Poetics ~ Monster
Brian Miller has us writing about monsters over at dVerse Poets. I let my imagination go and wrote the first thoughts that came to mind and followed them through to some kind of strange conclusion, a monstrosity of creation, if you will.
