The Legacy of Gévaudan

June 19, 1767 - Mont Mouchet, Gévaudan, France

"Rassemblez-vous! Suivez-moi! Trouvez l'autre bête!"

"La vengeance est à nous! Avancez, chers amis! Avancez!"

The wolf ran hard and fast through the woods. She was a large beast, larger than most, a proud and mighty wolf. She had subdued many a quarry in her day and seen many a summer. She had been frolicking with her pack this summer's day, her mate aside her as they lead their pack along. That was until the first shot rang and he was felled. Now, the horde of men behind her were loud and angry, as were the baying dogs loosed upon her and her pack.

"Tirez! Tirez-vous! Ils nous échappent!"

A crack like thunder split the afternoon, sending birds in every direction. Wooden splinters showered the she-wolf's vision as a ball of lead embedded itself in a nearby tree. The wolf did not deign to pause. Her paws beat the earth with an adrenaline-fueled fervor as she blinked through the debris and wove among the trees and brush. She called for her pack with intermittent desperate howls. There were no answers.

"Bon Dieu! Où est Monsieur Chastel?"

"Je ne sais pas. Ben, cherchez le loup! Allez! Vite, vite!"

"À vos ordres, seigneur."

As the chase continued, the cries of men and dogs became fainter, and the she-wolf felt more alone. Her lungs were on fire and her paws were sore; her heart threatened to burst from her chest. She needed to hide.

By some fortunate coincidence, she found a hollow in the underbrush that could conceal her long enough to catch her breath, or so she thought.

"Je le vois, Bertran!"

"Excellent, ça! Charges ton mousquet!"

The she-wolf escaped one group of hunters only to be found by two more from the same expedition. All too late did she see two men loading their muskets. Her ears flattened back against her skull and she skulked forward into the clearing. Her back rippled with muscle as an exhausted growl rattled from her throat.

"Depêche-toi! Depêche-toi! Il va nous tuer!"

Suddenly a deeper, louder growl emanated from behind the she-wolf. She instantly cowered to see a hulking figure with a calf clutched by the throat in its right claw. It looked passingly like a wolf with a thick, ruddy coat run through with streaks of black, though the she-wolf could tell instantly that he was not one of her kind. For one, it leaned on his hind legs like a man, but it leaned on its muscular clawed arms for support. Its wolven head was contorted in pure, purposeful malice like it knew what it was doing; like it wanted to do what it was doing. To the she-wolf, this unnatural beast smelled almost like a man.

The beast opened its claw and the calf crumpled to the earth with a careless thud, its bovine features contorted and mangled. The beast wholly ignored the she-wolf as it lumbered forward, its eyes locked on the hunters with palpable zealous rage that caused everything in the clearing to become deathly silent. The hunters ahead shook with fear as the tension hung tighter than a thread upon a knife's edge.

A heartbeat later, one of the hunters who had managed to load his musket fired at the beast. The bullet collided with its shoulder, but the beast did not move. If a wolfen face could smile, it did.

Within moments, the beast had chased the hunters back into the wood, and the sylvan tranquility of the clearing slowly returned. The she-wolf straightened her limbs and took deep careful breaths. She had not the time nor energy to understand what just happened to her, but she was thankful that it had. Just for a moment, she had escaped. She could feel the deep ache in her muscles receed. She felt the warmth of the sun.

Then there was a sudden clack of flint on steel and a roar like thunder, and her world faded to the sounds of men cheering.

-----

March 13th, 2025 - University of Ottawa, Ottawa, Ontario, Canada

Professor Beaumont clicked to the next slide. "Thus, after three years of terror and intrigue, the Beast of Gévaudan was brought low by Jean Chastel, a member of the hunting party of the Marquis d’Apcher. After, the killings among the local paysans of Gévaudan stopped abruptly. After multiple attempts and intense media coverage that even reached gazettes in the Americas -a feat for the time- king and country could confidently say that the Beast was no more. Yes, question in the back, there?"

A student cleared her throat. "Yes, how could a single wolf kill over a hundred people and all those animals over a three year period?"

Professor Beaumont adjusted his glasses. "Good question. There were numerous wolf hunts organized in Gévaudan over that time. Many people claimed to have killed the beast during their hunt, but the attacks only stopped after Chastel, or so they say."

A student shouted from the back. "Well, if it ain't a wolf, what do you think did it?"

The room quieted at the sudden interruption, but Beaumont only smiled. "Well, if you all remember the reading for today-"

Suddenly, Beaumont felt nauseous.

He continued, "-you'll see that many historians and hobbyists have tried to come up with their own baseless theories: from miraculously-surviving Pleistocene mammals to things more esoteric or unnatural."

Beaumont began to feel a tightness in his chest as he switched the slide. The projector cast a woodcut illustration of a grotesque lupine creature onto the wall over the professor's head. Beaumont checked his watch with a quick glance: 5:01 PM. His knuckles whitened against the podium as his voice carried a quickened tone.

"Some think that the story of the Beast of Gévaudan is entangled with that of the loup-garou, or quite simply some species of lycanthrope."

The class began to split between those chuckling and smiling and those still paying attention and writing notes.

"The myth of the loup-garou is common in many francophone regions, particularly France, Québec, and Louisiana. French legends are often tied to real life wolf hunts that took place within that last few centuries, though descriptions of the beasts are usually vague and varied at best. In French Canadian tradition-"

The professor's throat began to feel raw and dry. His nails began to scratch at the podium; they were leaving shallow furrows in the wood.

"- the loup-garou was often tied to violations of Catholic tradition, such as disbelief in Heaven or Hell or missing confession after Easter Mass, taking the form of some sort of curse in which the afflicted was completely aware and in control. More details can be found in your reading - yes Miss Flannagan?" Sweat was forming on his brow now.

The same student from before spoke, "Theories and all are nice, but do you really believe in legends, Professor?"

Beaumont was beginning to feel like his skin was about to combust, but he managed a response. "Our job as historians and folklorists is not to believe or disbelieve in anything. What is paramount is examining the crossroads of story and fact. Legends don't need to be believed, for their stories continue to impact ours and vice-versa. I am sorry, no more questions, you're all dismissed."

Beaumont ripped the projector's HDMI cable from his laptop and shoved the device into his bag. As his students began to protest, he sprinted out of the lecture hall, letting the door slam shut behind him. Some of the students swore the professor looked more hairy as he left, his ruddy hair looking more ragged than it had.

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Submitted for both the Legends Rewritten Contest and the Wolfy Tales Unofficial Challenge by Raymond G. Taylor.