Joe had spent a sleepless night across town assisting a gang of Brutal Hunters. They had kept their weapons in poor repair, and had required Joe’s services throughout the entire Hunt. When Joe returned home the next morning at five minutes before seven, he found Mrs. Joe on the floor, and promptly called in assistance. As modesty dictated, the surgeon asked that Joe inspect the body of his wife for bite marks.
Had she been bitten and survived, the Howl Beast’s curse would have spread to her. It was, long ago, mandated that those who were bitten could not simply be executed, for they had yet committed no crime. Yet, since the public called for protection, those pitiable souls were carried away to the Hulks. They spent the remainder of their lives aboard those great floating cages, and once each month, the full moon transformed these innocents into the monsters that made them. Still, as I had learned at such a young age, they did not always remain bound, and sometimes escaped to terrorize the country.
As it happened, Joe reported no fang marks on Mrs. Joe. Her injuries were great indeed, but it seemed she had escaped the dreadful prospect of a cursed life. Seeing as this revelation extinguished any interest the community may have had in Mrs. Joe’s condition, and as Joe had not the money to pay the surgeon’s fees, the surgeon and onlookers were politely shuffled out. Joe tended to my sister’s wounds as best he could, while I commenced to put house into order.
It was not long before we heard the familiar clank outside our door. Two Brutal Hunters had appeared to interrogate us regarding the attack. Such “detective” work was the other facet of the Hunters’ trade. No one, to my knowledge, had ever requested that they adopt this role, and it seemed to come about as a result of their boredom alone, for their Hunts could only be carried out one night a month. They did not appear to regard highly the deductive aspect of this investigating, but did relish openly harassing townspeople and accusing them of being Howl Beasts.
Accordingly, there was a good deal of shoving, prodding, and finger-pointing; I suspect there would have been a great deal more had Joe not been present. At first it was not even clear why they were questioning me.
“You look like you’s got plenny ‘xperience with Howlers, boy. Too much.”
“And what could you mean by that?” I stammered.
“Mister Orlick says you’s gone all last night. You best tell us where you was.”
Mister! I almost laughed - that despicable rake! “I spent the evening up-town,” said I, “And why don’t you question Mister Orlick on his whereabouts as well?”
“Blaming the accuser,” one of them sneered, “oldest trick I seen. Well, just so’s you know, Mr. Orlick spent the night at the Jolly Hunter. Barkeep says he was there past closing and got hisself a room. An’ we know Joe here was ‘elping with the Hunt. Only one we don’t know about’s you.”
I could see that the matter would not be settled until my alibi received verification. So, the Hunters marched me through the town to Pumblechook’s, where I had the displeasure of having to ask for that imbecile’s saving grace a second time. How he enjoyed tormenting me:
“How should I know if the boy was here all of last night?” he asked with mock concern. “Did he appear at my door like a beggar? Yes. Did I grant him lodging out of the kindness of my heart? Yes again. And was he here in the morning? I seem to recall that it was so.”
One of Hunters scratched his oversized head and began to plod through a sentence: “But what if,” he said as if struggling to solve puzzle with but one piece, “he done snucked out at night, turned Howler, an’ then he come back.”
“Absurd!” I exclaimed and shot Pumblechook a hot look.
“Hm. An interesting theory Master Hunter,” said Pumblechook with a wide grin. I feared he would persist with this game, but thankfully he had enough anguish from me to repay his previous generosity, so he slapped me on the back, and told the Hunters that I had in fact been at his home the entire night, as evidenced by my possibly drunken snoring. As the word of an honorable corn-chandler was worth more than that of a blacksmith’s apprentice, the two Hunters let me go, with but a stiff grunt for my trouble.
