Wagner, the Wehr-Wolf

by George W. M. Reynolds

Overjoyed at the idea of finding a human being in a spot which he had at first deemed totally uninhabited, and filled with the hope that the stranger might be able to give him some information relative to the geographical position of the isle, and even perhaps aid him in forming a raft by which they might together escape from the oasis of the Mediterranean, Wagner proceeded toward the mountains. By degrees the wondrous beauty of the scene became wilder, more imposing, but less bewitching, and when he reached the acclivities of the hill, the groves of fruits and copses of myrtles and citrons, of vines and almond shrubs, were succeeded by woods of mighty trees.

Further on still the forests ceased and Fernand entered on a wild region of almost universal desolation, yet forming one of the sublimest spectacles that nature can afford. The sounds of torrents, as yet concealed from his view, and resembling the murmur of ocean’s waves, inspired feelings of awe; and it was now for the first time since he entered on the region of desolation, having left the clime of loveliness nearly a mile behind, that his attention was drawn to the nature of the soil, which was hard and bituminous in appearance.

The truth almost immediately struck him: there was a volcano amongst those mountains up which he was ascending; and it was the lava which had produced that desolation, and which, cold and hardened, formed the soil whereon he walked. It was now past midday; and he seated himself once more to repose his limbs, wearied with the fatigues of the ascent and overcome by the heat that was there intolerable. At the distance of about two hundred yards on his right was a solitary tree, standing like a sign to mark the tomb of nature’s vegetation. Upon this tree his eyes were fixed listlessly, and he was marveling within himself how that single scion of the forest could have been spared, when the burning lava, whenever the eruption might have taken place, had hurled down and reduced to cinders its verdant brethren.

Suddenly his attention was more earnestly riveted upon the dense and wide-spreading foliage of that tree; for the boughs were shaken in an extraordinary manner, and something appeared to be moving about amongst the canopy of leaves. In another minute a long, unmistakable, appalling object darted forth—a monstrous snake—suspending itself by the tail to one of the lower boughs, and disporting playfully with its hideous head toward the ground. Then, with a sudden coil, it drew itself back into the tree, the entire foliage of which was shaken with the horrible gambolings of the reptile.

Wagner remembered the frightful spectacle which he had beholden in Ceylon, and an awful shudder crept through his frame; for, although he knew that he bore a charmed life, yet he shrank with a loathing from the idea of having to battle with such a horrible serpent. Starting from the ground, he rushed—flew, rather than ran, higher up the acclivity, and speedily entered on a wild scene of rugged and barren rocks: but he cared not whither the windings of the natural path which he now pursued might lead him, since he had escaped from the view of the hideous boa-constrictor gamboling in the solitary tree.

Wearied with his wanderings, and sinking beneath the oppressive heat of the sun, Wagner was rejoiced to find a cavern in the side of a rock, where he might shelter and repose himself. He entered, and lay down upon the hard soil; the sounds of the torrents, which rolled still unseen amidst the chasms toward which he had approached full near, produced a lulling influence upon him, and in a few minutes his eyes were sealed in slumber. When he awoke he found himself in total darkness. He started up, collected his scattered ideas, and advanced to the mouth of the cavern.

The sun had set: but outside the cave an azure twilight prevailed, and the adjacent peaks of the mountains stood darkly out from the partially though faintly illuminated sky.

While Wagner was gazing long and intently upon the sublime grandeur of the scene, a strange phenomenon took place. First a small cloud appeared on the summit of an adjacent hill; then gradually this cloud became more dense and assumed a human shape. Oh! with what interest—what deep, enthusiastic interest, did Fernand contemplate the spectacle; for his well-stored mind at once suggested to him that he was now the witness of that wondrous optical delusion, called the mirage.

Some human being in the plain on the other side of that range of mountains was the subject of that sublime scene; might it not be the individual of whom he was in search, the owner of the doublet? But, ah! wherefore does Wagner start with surprise?

The shadow of that human being, as it gradually assumed greater density and a more defined shape—in a word, as it was now properly developed by the reflection of twilight—wore the form of a female! Were there, then, many inhabitants on the opposite side of the mountains? or was there only one female, she whose reflected image he now beheld? He knew not; but at all events the pleasure of human companionship seemed within his reach; the presence of the doublet had convinced him that there was another man upon the island, and now the mirage showed him the semblance of a woman!