Still on your knees, you bury your face in your hands and try not to weep in front of the messengers.
The wolf, who has seen you cry more times than you care to recall, nuzzles close to you, as though trying to wipe away the tears. He curls himself into your side, a warm and comforting bulk familiar from a dozen nights spent murmuring your sorrows.
You thought – you believed – you allowed yourself, for a moment, to hope that this would work, and now you’ve been proved a fool. ‘Fetch the woman,’ you manage, voice hoarse. ‘The cousin too, if you can find him.’ You’ll demand answers from them, demand that they fix this.
One of the servants makes for the door, but your knight in green steps forward. You don’t want to look at him. He startedthis, dared to tell you that Bisclavret lived, and now you’ve made a fool of yourself in front of half the court.
‘Sire,’ he begins.
‘Stop.’ You’ve no stomach for his advice. If this wolf is Bisclavret, thenwhy is he not yet a man?Perhaps it’s merely a wild beast after all. Perhaps the lady’s first story was true.
The knight ignores you. ‘Sire, with respect, if the beast really has a man’s rationality, do you think he’ll shift here, in front of so many people?’
‘And you’re an expert on such things, are you?’ you snap, your grief making you sharp.
‘You are not alone in your love for old stories,’ he responds, almost as sharply, ‘nor the only one who knew Bisclavret as a man.’ His tone softens. ‘He kept his secret close-hidden, my lord; how can you think he would endure the shame of an audience when he changed? Better to take him to some place quiet and leave him there with his clothes, so that he might assume his own form again in private and not face his human nakedness in front of the court.’
It’s impossible to believe that the wolf beside you could have such human sensibilities, but you’ll try anything. You gather the clothing into your arms and stand. There’s no place truly private in the castle other than your own chamber, but that will do well enough: the wolf knows it, knows that it is safe, will not feel uncomfortable there.
You place the clothing on the bed, and find yourself at a loss for what to do next. You have gained an audience – the messengers and servants and knights grow in number, catching the scent of a story – but they have the courtesy to wait outside. You suppose you should join them, and give Bisclavret this space apart. But it feels absurd, shutting a wolf in with a pile of garments and expecting to return to find a man in his place.
You wish you had some promise to make him.Whatever form you wear when I return, I will not flee from you.If only you could keep such oaths – but you cannot let a wolf remain in the castle after so vicious an attack on one of your subjects, on a lady. Your people would not stand for it. So if he doesn’t change—
He’ll change. He has to change. You’ll not lose him a second time.
You say to him, ‘Bisclavret.’ It’s not enough, but it’s all you can give him: his name. ‘You are Bisclavret.’
And then you leave the room, and close the door.
43
Other/Him
my clothes
here in the place where I have been wolf
a place where I’ve never been human
here they are my clothes
and here in the king’s mouth my name
‘bisclavret’
as though it has always been my name
as though I’ve not been nameless through these winters
and I am remembering myself
I am feeling the pieces of myself drag themselves
back together loose stitches torn thread unravelling
‘you are bisclavret’
he says and some part of me hears the words
