[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
Lila vanished out of Farrell's life before sunset. She did not go uptown with her mother, but packed
her things and went to stay with friends in the village. Later he heard that she was living on Christopher
Street, and later still, that she had moved to Berkeley and gone back to school. He never saw her again.
"It had to be like that," he told Ben once. "We got to know too much about each other. See, there's
another side to knowing. She couldn't look at me."
"You mean because you saw her with all those dogs? Or because she knew you'd have let that little
nut shoot her?" Farrell shook his head.
"It was that, I guess, but it was more something else, something I know. When she sprang, just as he
shot at her that last time, she wasn't leaping at him. She was going straight for her mother. She'd have got
her too, if it hadn't been sunrise."
Ben whistled softly. "I wonder if her old lady knows."
"Bernice knows everything about Lila," Farrell said.
"Mrs. Braun called him nearly two years later to tell him that Lila was getting married. It must have
cost her a good deal of money and ingenuity to find him (where Farrell was living then, the telephone line
was open for four hours a day), but he knew by the spitefulness in the static that she considered it money
well spent.
"He's at Stanford," she crackled. "A research psychologist. They're going to Japan for their
honeymoon."
"That's fine," Farrell said. "I'm really happy for her, Bernice." He hesitated before he asked, "Does
he know about Lila? I mean, about what happens? "
"Does he know?" she cried. "He's proud of it he thinks it's wonderful! It's his field!"
"That's great. That's fine. Good-bye, Bernice. I really am glad."
And he was glad, and a little wistful, thinking about it. The girl he was living with here had a really
strange hang-up.
afterword by peter s. beagle: "This story was written very long ago, in another world, by a young
man to whom the idea of equating womanhood with lycanthropy, sexual desire with blood and death and
humiliation, seemed no more at the time than a casual grisly joke. I would write 'Lila the Werewolf today,
but not for that reason, and not in that way." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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Lila vanished out of Farrell's life before sunset. She did not go uptown with her mother, but packed
her things and went to stay with friends in the village. Later he heard that she was living on Christopher
Street, and later still, that she had moved to Berkeley and gone back to school. He never saw her again.
"It had to be like that," he told Ben once. "We got to know too much about each other. See, there's
another side to knowing. She couldn't look at me."
"You mean because you saw her with all those dogs? Or because she knew you'd have let that little
nut shoot her?" Farrell shook his head.
"It was that, I guess, but it was more something else, something I know. When she sprang, just as he
shot at her that last time, she wasn't leaping at him. She was going straight for her mother. She'd have got
her too, if it hadn't been sunrise."
Ben whistled softly. "I wonder if her old lady knows."
"Bernice knows everything about Lila," Farrell said.
"Mrs. Braun called him nearly two years later to tell him that Lila was getting married. It must have
cost her a good deal of money and ingenuity to find him (where Farrell was living then, the telephone line
was open for four hours a day), but he knew by the spitefulness in the static that she considered it money
well spent.
"He's at Stanford," she crackled. "A research psychologist. They're going to Japan for their
honeymoon."
"That's fine," Farrell said. "I'm really happy for her, Bernice." He hesitated before he asked, "Does
he know about Lila? I mean, about what happens? "
"Does he know?" she cried. "He's proud of it he thinks it's wonderful! It's his field!"
"That's great. That's fine. Good-bye, Bernice. I really am glad."
And he was glad, and a little wistful, thinking about it. The girl he was living with here had a really
strange hang-up.
afterword by peter s. beagle: "This story was written very long ago, in another world, by a young
man to whom the idea of equating womanhood with lycanthropy, sexual desire with blood and death and
humiliation, seemed no more at the time than a casual grisly joke. I would write 'Lila the Werewolf today,
but not for that reason, and not in that way." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]