Myths on magic: The Prince’s Folly, or, How The Werewolves Came To Be from Myths of Magical Eu

Myths on magic: The Prince’s Folly, or, How The Werewolves Came To Be fromMyths of Magical Europe ed. Quaxo Coricopat, Author Unknown, Year Unknown.  

Once upon a time, in a land where the trees grew twisted and far too close together and the wolves howled long and hungrily at night, there lived a young prince in a tall castle made of marble and stone. That alone elevated him far above the heads of the common folk, but in those days, princes were a galleon apiece for there were many kings and even more sons of kings, each with a castle and lands they called their own. No, a prince in himself was not extraordinary unless he was blessed with some extraordinary virtue to raise him far above his noble brethren and make him singular – a memorable young prince, among all the princes of the various petty realms of the time.

This prince was just such a prince. For one, he was handsome and that in itself was a rarity in a time where it was a miracle to have teeth that were white and perfect, a back which was straight and skin that was unblemished by the plagues which so regularly ravaged the world. For another, he was uncommonly rich. There were stories, many stories, about the gilt and gold rooms in his palace – the rooms filled with gold coin, stacked from the floor to the ceiling, and jewels, they claimed, which seemed to burn as though they lived.

But last of all and most importantly, the young prince was a wizard and he knew the full scope of his magic and might.

In themselves, these three gifts ought not to have tainted the young man. Perhaps his heart had already been blackened, his soul corrupted by the arrogance of rank, wealth and power – all of which he had been blessed with at birth, not won through any extraordinary feats of his. Perhaps he was not tainted at all and in time he might have grown older and wise, shedding the arrogance of youth as he aged. In another time, he might even have grown up to be loved as a prince, wifed and reigned happily until he died of old age. That tale, alas, is a tale which must now remain untold – nought but idle speculation for those who derive entertainment from asking themselves “what if”.

For the prince was by all accounts a proud and unpleasant young man and for that he was loathed by all and sundry.

Then one night, as the wolves howled wildly through the trees and a wild storm raged outside, an ugly old lady came knocking on the prince’s door.

“Let me spend the night,” she begged, “For the night is dark and cold and I am old and weary and weak.”

She held out a single Lotos bloom when the prince’s servants made to cast her out.

“Take me to your prince,” she said, “Cast me out and you will regret it forever.”

His steward would have cast her out then and there, but the prince’s wet-nurse – an old and superstitious lady with some skill in magic – looked upon the single Lotos flower the old hag held out and stayed the steward’s hand.

“Take her to the prince,” she told the steward, “I fear she is not to be scorned for that is a rare flower and even among its rare brothers and sisters, I fear it is extraordinary.”

When the prince’s servants bore her plea to him, he cast his head back and laughed heartily.

“Send her to me,” he said, “For I am bored and this shall make good sport tonight.”

“Be wise, my prince and do not trifle with her,” his old nurse begged him.

The prince laughed yet again and promised that he would be wise – wise,he thought, but wisdom need not stay my sport.

“Your highness,” said the old lady when she was ushered in, “Let me stay the night, for the night is dark and cold and I am old, weary and weak.”

“Dost insult me?” cried the prince, “Or do you not bow for me, your prince?”

“Mercy, my prince, mercy and compassion on a poorly old lady,”she begged, “For I am old–”

“Weary and weak, indeed,” he answered, “And ugly as a hag’s foot.”

“Ugly and old am I,”she said, “But I can offer you riches beyond your imagination if you would only show me some little kindness,” she held the flower out, “I offer you all of my worldly possessions, prince, if you will give me shelter for the night.”

He scoffed at the flower and silenced his wet-nurse with a single gesture when she made to warn him.

“A flower?” he laughed, “What use is a flower when I have rooms overflowing with gold? If you had promised strength unlimited, or life eternal then perhaps I might have reconsidered but a flower is poor payment for me to bestir myself. Begone!  I’ll not lend my rooms to an old and ugly hag –”

“Is that your final word?” she asked him, “Cruelty to a lady seeking shelter from the night – old, weary and weak?”

“Old you are indeed, but you are no lady,” he answered and summoned his guards, commanding them to flog her and cast her out.

“Fool,”cried the old lady, casting off her tattered old cloak and standing straight. The glamours faded away to reveal a tall and pale lady, with wild hair, and she laughed at his terror, “I thought Tugarin lied when he said you were spoilt beyond reason, but I see now that he did not have your full measure.”

“Mercy,” cried the prince, “ I will take the flower in payment. Stay the night, stay as many nights as you wish – my castle, it is yours.  –”

The sorceress laughed.

“Will you beg mercy now that you have my full measure? Will you take my flower too, now that you have learnt fear?”

“Mercy please, forgive me, I beg you, I did not mean to offend,”cried the prince.

“Ah but you beg prettily for a prince,” she said, “and that is rare. Come closer, prince and perhaps I will forgive you and leave you a blessing.”

“My lady,” he whimpered and bowed, taking the bloom she held out to him, “My lady is most merciful, most benevolent, most beneficient -”

“Oh I am not done, my prince,” she said, and the bloom began to grow roots and pierced the prince’s hands, “You would have life, I give you life. You would have strength, that too, I give you freely. Wealth you have in abundance and wealth alone will slay you. Your magic, I multiply and magic alone will sustain you. But for your pretty face, my prince, I must show the world your heart as a warning to the weak and the old and the weary who seek refuge in the storms of this world for they must know that here is a house whose doors are shut to them, for its ruler is a man with a blackened heart – its ruler is a monster –”

And with that she drew herself up to her full height and uttered a curse so terrible that all those who heard it covered their ears and shrieked in pain. The prince screamed in pain as the flower turned black and then dropped from his hands on to the floor.

“So,” she said, “When the moon hangs heavy in the sky on nights such as this, they will know that only a monster lives within and come to friendlier, warmer homes.”

Fur sprouted from the back of his neck. Then his legs cracked and bent backwards and he dropped to the floor, screaming in anguish as his fingers turned into claws and his hands turned into the ugly paws of a wolf.

“Mercy!” he cried again.

“Come now,” she said, amused, “It is not all bad. It is a gift, my gift – for who else will teach you to change your heart? Your sniveling wet-nurse? Your scraping-bowing steward? Never let it be said that Likhovitsa does not return favours measure for measure. You have shown me unkindness and I will now teach you kindness. When your heart is transformed and cleansed, so too will you be transformed and cleansed and the curse will be lifted – but you must do so before this bloom dies fully else your curse will pass down, through the centuries to all those whose hearts are tainted. Is that not a fair bargain, my prince? Is’t not to your liking?”

“It is to my liking,” he sobbed unhappily, “It is to my liking.”

“Good,” she said and with a swirl of her robes she was gone, just like that, and where the prince once stood, there now stood a wolf of hideous height and ugliness, its teeth bared and hunger flashing in its eyes.

In some versions of this tale, the prince learns his lesson and falls in love with a beautiful young girl. His heart is transformed and so too is he and they live happily ever after. In some he is cast down by a man more handsome than he and he is brought back from the dead by her gentle love. In others, he kills himself for love and it is she who brings him back again.

But the muggles – what do they know?

“Did I not tell you?” Tugarin would tell Likhovitsa,  many years later.

“No my love,” she would answer as she tended to her cursed tree, “It was I who had his full measure and not you.”

The prince’s temper only worsened as the days went by, until he discovered that the curse made him stronger. For now he could chase his horse and he would not grow tired, he could hunt with the keen sense of his falcons and determine with precision, where the fox hid when he rode with his hounds. In battle he could wield both a sword and a battle-axe and soon he came to be the most fearsome man on the battlefield. He was all but undefeatable, save for the touch of silver which burnt him most painfully – and save for the days leading in and out of the full moon, when his body was no longer his own, but the wolf’s.

So he chose. He cast the flower into his fire and watched it burn.

“Let my children be as broken and blackened as me,” he whispered to the flames, “Strong and wild and unyielding.”

Let them hunger. Let them eat the whole world.

(The Lotos Tree is a mythological tree, in this particular instance I’m drawing on the creation of themonsterblogofmonsters.)