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JUST FUR TONIGHT
ZORA BLACK
 JUST FUR TONIGHT

By Zora Black
Copyright © 2023 by Zora Black
All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or

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 1

GABRIELLA

T he sun is already threatening the mid-morning clouds with its

crisp glare, throwing my new surroundings into stark contrast.
As I drive through into the main square, I take in all the neo-
classical and federal inspired architecture; complete with iron
wrought fixtures and lampposts that dot disheveled sidewalks.
‘Here lies Curiosity,’ is what the welcome sign reads at the edge
of the town’s limits.
“Well Gabriella, you are not in Kansas anymore,” I murmur to
myself, looking out through the moving truck window. “Even if it kind
of looks like it.”
Curiosity seems like a quiet, unassuming kind of place, where all
the neighbors know each other, and everyone gets involved. The
research I turned up between packing boxes showed as much,
complete with a few shots from Google Earth, with a brief history
and population stats. It was the kind of slower-paced change I was
looking for, away from the bustling metropolis.
But there is something in the air here, something that I’ve felt
since I entered the townscape. An aura of mystique accompanies the
village, like the clouds that rolled in as soon as I entered the area.
There are a few citizens I pass driving through the main street, and
some of them look positively ghoulish.
“Uh, strange place,” I absently note, as I take in a couple who
look positively ashen; one dressed in a long trench coat, and the
other covered in bandages. Another mottled woman in joggers is
chaining up an absolutely feral pack of dogs, and feeding them what
looks like rotten cake pops from the bakery she just stepped out of.
Suddenly, there is a briskness in the wind that makes the hairs
on the back of my neck stand like a cold shiver. Not in a fearful way
though, more like the thrill of anticipation. Curiosity appears to be a
quaint little hamlet, as if the air almost sings of adventure.
Then again, this is a whole new adventure for me. Great-aunt
Maria’s reading was only a few weeks ago, and now my entire world
consists of two things: all the belongings in the back of my rented
moving van and the destination in front of me. The gray structure,
marked by the stark ‘Closed’ sign, is like the rest of Main Street, part
of the original architecture, and it shows.
This dilapidated structure is my newest adventure. “Alright,” my
absent muttering continues. “Let’s see what you’ve got in store for
me, Auntie M.”
Fumbling through my sequined travel tote unearths the master
key to the building, as well as a copy of the deed she bequeathed
me. Great-Aunt Maria hardly believed in locks, much less alarms, so
it’s only the creak of floorboards, and a swirl of dust to greet me as I
step over the threshold of the desolate cafe. My new property. I
move throughout, taking in the darkened and derelict space.
“Oh Auntie M, what kind of mess have you left me with?” I ask
into the firmament.
It’s only been a short time since Aunt Maria’s passing, but the
cobwebs look as if they took root years ago, along with several other
natural elements. Dirt and moss are caked along the corners and
cracks of walls and tables, the rugs and chair cushions look as if they
were donated with the inception of the town, and the curtains are as
blackened and stained as the counters.
I step through the place carefully, as if it were a condemned
museum and not a small business my great-aunt ran daily, for over
forty years. How? I wonder, as my shoes crunch on something that
sounds like broken glass. Please let that be all it is, I silently pray as
I spot something that looks suspiciously like bones.
 The power is off, so the only light is coming out in shattered,
colored fragments from a set of stained glass paneling above the
door. It depicts a strange scene of animals gathering under a framed
moon that clashes with the sun’s rays.
“Ugh, how could anyone stand to eat in such a rank place?” I
wonder aloud.
“I dunno, it has a kind of earthy charm, if you ask me,” a strong
voice answers from behind.
Heart leaping into my throat, I spin around quickly to confront
whatever apparition has decided to confront me. My movements are
too quick and uncoordinated, but even as I stumble, the stranger
with the deep voice propels forward to my aide.
“Whoa, sorry about that,” he offers, reaching out to me to steady
me as I lose balance. I blink, momentarily surprised by how quickly
he was able to move across the room. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“No, it’s okay,” I reply, slightly breathless from being startled. It
has nothing to do with the crystal blue of this stranger’s eyes, or the
sharp cut of his jawline. I feel a fissure of energy lance through my
body at his gentle touch before he steps back, and I take in the
handsome stranger who just walked into my life.
Growing up in the city, I’ve always been wary of strange men,
but this man’s woodsy scent and deep voice settle over me like a
warm blanket. “Uh, can I ask who you are though?”
“Ah, I was actually going to ask you the same thing?” He words it
like a question, awkwardly scratching at the back of his neck, a
gesture that draws my attention to the powerful flex of his forearms.
“We don’t exactly get many new faces here in Curiosity, and the
bank asked me to look after Ms. Maria’s place, until her affairs were
put in order.”
“Oh! Sorry, I was able to get packed up faster than I originally
anticipated. I’m Gabriella Perez, Maria’s niece, well great-niece,
actually,” I explain by way of introduction. I offer out a hand, and he
shakes it, and the strength and warmth of his grip match his smile.
“We’ll be neighbors then,” he returns, in an easy-going manner.
“I’m Chet Wilson. I run the local general store, just over in the next
building.” For reference, he points to a window adjacent to the
opposite wall.
“Aunt Maria never had any children of her own, and although we
lived in different cities, she always treated me like a daughter. When
she passed, she named me the inheritor of her estate, so now here I
am,” I finish, with a simple shrug.
The stranger seems to shift even closer to me, thinning the space
between us. “My condolences on your loss. Everyone in town loved
Ms. Maria.” His bright aqua eyes pierce right through me, and I feel
a sliver of expectancy climb up my spine.
Moving over to the window, I push aside the curtain. Glancing
out, my gaze falls on a brick extension that wraps around the block
corner. A matching window reflects a glimpse of the interior. Shelves
of assortments and pallets are revealed through the glare, and from
what I can tell, it is a homey, organized space.
“You see?” His voice is soft and penetrating, almost right beside
my ear. He’s closed the gap between us again, only this time he is
just pressed beside me. “As your neighbor, I’d be happy to help you
get settled in.”
I sense heat and densely packed muscle at my shoulder, and the
feeling is delightfully distracting. In jeans and a rolled-up flannel,
this healthy, chiseled specimen is a far cry from the shallow tech-
bros I was used to seeing on the train back in the city. I find myself
swallowing down my body’s reaction to the unfiltered presence of
such raw masculinity.
“That’s very neighborly of you,” I reply softly, turning from the
window to look back at him. Our eyes lock again, and something
seems to spark between us; a primal, unconscious ignition that I’ve
never felt from anyone before.
The shadows seem to embrace us, and I realize I am standing in
a darkened cafe with a sexy stranger in the middle of the day. A cafe
that looks like it’s better suited for a house of horrors, rather than off
the town square. As if he realizes the same thing, Chet steps back
and coughs out some dust and I’m lucky the shadows hide my blush
of embarrassment.
 “Sorry about the mess,” I apologize automatically, knowing he
has probably seen the cafe in better condition than this. “I’ll
probably get started on renovations right away.”
“Renovations, huh?” Chet seems to grow thoughtful at my
statement. “Well you’re the boss now, Ms. Perez. If you need any
help with any supplies or anything at all, feel free to ask or even
come by. Like I said, I’m happy to help.”
“Thanks, I’ll keep it in mind.”
I did keep it in mind, over the next few days. I mulled Chet
Wilson’s offer over in my head, when I wasn’t busy throwing myself
into cleaning and repairs. Okay, so maybe I thought less about the
offer, and more about the man who made the gracious offer himself.
But the work kept me busy enough. I needed to see space
cleared, and get a list of all the damage I would need to fix, so I got
started with that right away. I set about cleaning all the dust and
mold my great-aunt had been too old to get to herself, and set about
turning the weathered cafe into a modern, updated place that was
whimsical and beautiful.
A few days into my ‘deconstruction,’ Chet returns. A rap on the
door alerts me, and remembering the coughing fit last time someone
had stepped across this threshold, I only hold the door open a crack.
Chet’s wide smile glances through, and sunlight glints off the
cellophane wrap of the freshly-made sandwiches he holds.
My mouth is salivating, for more than one reason. “Good
afternoon, Mr. Wilson. What brings you by?”
“Oh, just checking on my neighbor,” he says breezily, his playful
smile making his eyes twinkle. “Call me Chet anyways, Mr. Wilson
just sounds too formal, don’t you think?”
“Only if you call me Gabriella – or Gabriella if you want,” I return
playfully, then blush deeply when I realize how flirty I sound. Dios
mio, I sound like one of those girls that giggle excessively. “So, uh,
how are things at the store?”
“Slow enough for me to stop by and see how you were getting
on,” he replies, waving a wrapped sandwich. “I’ve also brought
refreshment, of sorts. It’s not much, just a sandwich or two, if you’re
into that sort of thing.”
 “Please and thank you. I’m not the kind of girl to turn down a
good sandwich. Or free food, for that matter.” He laughs at my
comment, a throaty, full sound, and passes the food in question into
my outstretched hand.
My hand disappears back into the darkness of the interior, and
Chet raises an eyebrow, although he’s still smiling. “So as the
friendly neighbor who has now plied you with food, do I get a sneak
preview before re-opening?”
“Aah, I’m not so sure just yet,” I respond nervously, anxiety
ratcheting up. “I’m still doing a lot of repair work, so a bunch of the
area is ripped up and mangled.” I also wouldn’t want him getting a
cotton lung from all the dust and whatever else I’ve managed to stir
into the air since I started this project.
A flash of disappointment almost seems to cross over his
features, but it’s gone as quickly as it appeared. “Alright then, I get
it. Safety first. My offer to help still stands though, even if it’s just for
an extra set of hands.”
“I appreciate it, and if it starts to be too much, I’ll let you know,
Chet. Really. But for now, I’m enjoying the challenge.”
“Well I won’t keep you from it, just wanted to make sure you
were doing okay,” he answers, before leaning close. “Maybe I also
wanted another excuse to talk to you, Gabriella.”
Before I can respond, he’s already pulled back, and is turning to
slip back to his general store. The way he says my name sounds like
purring in my ears.
“Whew.” I huff out a breath as I watch Chet jog back to his store,
jeans stretching delightfully. “Maybe they were on to something
when they said, ‘Love thy neighbor.’”
 2

CHET

V eronica barely spares me a glance upon my return, from her

perch at the front counter, more focused on her latest issue of
the Science Journal. What sunlight there is glances off her
wheat-colored locks, as she absently flicks another page.
“So it looks like I don’t need to call in the cavalry, after all.
Although the odds of a burglar trying to actually get away in a
moving van were slim,” she offers unhelpfully. Brushing her off, I
stride back to the office, where the weekly numbers await.
They’re the same numbers from ten minutes ago, and I need to
turn my focus back on my business. I definitely don’t need to be
thinking about the new neighbor with the violet-scented shampoo,
and delectable innocence.
“Who was it then? Someone from the bank?” For all the
nonchalance my shopkeeper affects, Veronica is just as interested as
anyone else in this town. My assistant has already set down her
magazine, getting ready to follow me into the office.
The last thing I need is for Veronica Moore, with her pointed
observances, to see exactly how affected I am by our latest arrival. I
was over there for less than ten minutes and I could barely keep my
hands off of Gabriella Perez. Meanwhile, a broom over by the front
door falls over, as if on its own accord.
“She’s Maria’s younger niece from her family in the city. Maria left
the place to her, so now she’s here,” I explain. The bell tinkles
musically as the front door opens, with Mr. and Mrs. Murphy arriving
for their weekly order.
Veronica’s blonde head pops into view a moment later, complete
with an arched eyebrow. “New blood? The town’s gonna be all over
that. And what’s the new girl’s name anyway?”
“Oh? Has someone new come to our humble village?” Mrs.
Murphy chirps happily, already fluttering down the aisle. I withhold a
groan, and Veronica moves to assist by actually gathering Mrs.
Murphy’s order, while Mr. Murphy leans against one of the support
beams and glares at me openly.
His glare might still intimidate some of Curiosity’s younger
residents, but I had outgrown Mr. Murphy several times over by
senior year. “Why is there someone new coming around?” Mr.
Murphy grumbles through his infamous scowl. “The last thing this
town needs is more riffraff.”
“Her name is Gabriella Perez, and I doubt she’s here to cause
trouble,” I say easily, grabbing a few leftover crates for the Murphys’
supplies. “It looks like she’s going to take over Ms. Maria’s place.”
“Chet thinks she’s nice,” Veronica sing-songs, while she and Mrs.
Murphy exchange puckish glances. Before I can protest, she turns to
tap a box, which then seems to fall into the basket, like an invisible
hand putting it there.
Hiring Veronica a few years ago was an easy choice for me. She
needed a job, and her unseen companion can be pretty helpful,
when he isn’t being moody. Billy doesn’t care to be seen too often,
but he has ways of making himself known that can lead to trouble.
As helpful as they both are, I hardly need them scheming on my
behalf, feeding rumors to the town’s leading gossip and her grumpy
husband.
Over the next week, there is more of the same. The unofficial
game of small-town telephone is in full swing. Gabriella is
unknowingly a participant, with the loud sounds of small
construction, but otherwise no appearance, which only adds to her
mystique. It also sends the rumors skyrocketing.
We see an unsurprising uptick in business, as a sudden influx of
orders has most of the town passing through the shop at some
point. Veronica suspects it has very little to do with actual need,
however, and more to do with the people’s interest over the
newcomer. It’s an observation I’m inclined to agree with, especially
after the fifth, “Oh, I just thought I’d swing by,” in as many days.
“At any rate, you’re the local bloodhound, Mr. Wilson, and you
can sniff out trouble better than most. So tell us, what kind of read
do you get from the new girl?” Lilah asked, dropping off scones in
exchange for a new set of bolts for her bakery’s glass display, and
the latest news.
What is Gabriella Perez like? The question runs through my head,
as I remember how she smelled like a field of wildflowers. I also
haven’t forgotten how her oversized sweater did nothing to hide how
inviting her curves looked.
Cute, my mind supplies, complete with images of curtain dark
hair and doe eyes. Gabriella Perez is cute. Tasty, a more primal side
of my mind replaces and I shake my head, unwilling to address that
part right now. Not during work hours at any rate.
“She seems nice actually,” I answer, almost distractedly. “I don’t
think she knows what she’s getting into. I’m doubtful that Ms. Maria
told her much about the town, to be honest.”
The baker snorts affectionately. “That seems just like the sort of
trick Maria would pull. But if this Gabriella doesn’t know anything
about Curiosity, oh, then she’s in for a real treat.”
“So, what is she like, then?” my best friend Fred asks, coming in
through the back, on his way from lunch. “Is she like one of those
big-city, influenza types?”
“I think the word you’re looking for is ‘influencer,’ Fred,” Veronica
answers, restocking one of the nearby shelves. “She seems to be
becoming a small-town celebrity here though.”
“She doesn’t strike me as the influencer type, Fred,” I reply
automatically, passing him some bags to help me organize. Fred isn’t
the type that’s big on complexity, but he’s always willing to help with
the easier, menial tasks. “If anything, she just seems a little shy to
me.”
“Well she’s hardly stuck a foot outside that cafe, so I would have
to agree with that. You don’t think she’s avoiding us, do you?”
 “I simply think she’s busy,” I respond, when Mr. Osborne, the
local vet, asks something similar. Osborne only raises a skeptical
eyebrow at my response though.
“One would think that with being a newcomer, she would make
more of an effort to get to know the people around here, especially
before making changes to a town landmark,” he replies disdainfully.
“Unless she’s the kind that has something to hide.”
“Naturally, I did a thoroughly extensive background check on
her,” Sergeant Adams explains calmly one day, when the drilling and
banging next door is especially loud. “No priors, which is a point in
her favor, but not validation. Plenty of criminal masterminds hide in
plain sight.”
“What? Dylan, she’s five-six and grieving for her deceased aunt,”
I respond, looking at him incredulously while it’s my turn to stock
the shelves. “She’s not about to be the next capo for the Cosa
Nostra.”
“One can never be too careful with neighbors,” one half of our
local law enforcement replies evenly.
“Nope, not how the expression goes at all,” Officer Kelly interjects
cheerily, chewing on a chocolate-glazed donut. “As for my two cents,
I’m just happy there’s another ‘normie’ around to help put up with
everyone’s antics.”
“Yeah, about that,” I hedge, scratching the back of my neck
awkwardly. “We might want to give her some breathing room, when
she does start coming out. I don’t think Maria told her about all of
us.”
“Ms. Maria never said anything about Curiosity’s curiosities?
Yeesh,” Carolyn Kelly answers, casting a glance over at her partner,
whose permanent stitches are difficult to conceal. “That’s not
something that’s going to be easy to hide. For some of us especially
over others.”
That was the crux of everything, summed up by the town’s most
recently promoted deputy. Because the reality is that Gabriella Perez
is an outsider, which means that she doesn’t know the real truth
about our cozy, little town. About how different most of us really are,
myself included.
 This opinion is shared by others, whose comments start to grow
more barbed. Just who is this city princess, who moved here to
judge us? Why is she suddenly wanting a life here, away from her
big plans elsewhere?
Gossip and speculation is one thing, but these rumors were
starting to get out of hand, especially if it was enough to prompt
local law enforcement to run a background check on her. Although
my interactions with her have been limited and brief, her bashful
sweetness left me smiling for hours. At the very least, she doesn’t
deserve to be the subject of a witch-hunt.
“Alright everyone, let’s get a few things cleared up here!” I bark
out to the general store. Everyone stops and looks up at me, which
includes the two cops I’ve been conversing with, and a few other of
the town’s more inconspicuous residents.
I cough awkwardly, never enjoying being the center of attention,
but I want to get this addressed. “Ms. Gabriella Perez is a newcomer
to our little town of Curiosity, this is true. We know as little about her
as she knows about us, so I imagine there will be a few kinks to
work out, as we all learn about one another.”
A few of them I eye pointedly, for while many of us can pass as
human enough in the day, most of Curiosity’s residents are in fact,
pretty monstrous. “Our town has a history of tolerance and
compassion towards others, given many of our unusual histories. Ms.
Perez is a young woman who has experienced a loss. She doesn’t
pose a danger to anyone.”
Grabbing a few sandwiches from the snack counter, I button my
flannel and stalk out the door, determined to brighten my mood, but
not before I turn back to them, admonishment lacing my tone. “I
hope you all keep that in mind when you extend a neighborly hand
of friendship to her.”
“Looks like someone has a crush,” Veronica whispers as I leave,
but luckily, I am ignoring her.
The fact of the matter is, since her arrival, Gabriella Perez hasn’t
been far from my thoughts at all. The girl-next-door is an enchanting
mystery, one I’d like to explore by peeling away each layer at a time,
preferably with teeth and… other parts. I want to get to know her
more, find out what it is about her that fascinates me, and I want
her to get to know me, hopefully without being afraid.
Which is why I’ve slowly begun taking steps to get to know her,
and get her comfortable around me. Every few days I visit her at the
cafe. Not like before, but through a crack in the door.
We only ever spend a few minutes speaking, but I always come
away with a little more each time. Whether it’s a new tidbit or a
sunny smile, our little clandestine endeavors have become
something of a game and the best part of my week. Knocking on her
cafe’s front door, I lean casually against the worn frame and wait for
a minute.
As usual, she is prompt to answer. My sensitive ears pick up
sounds of boxes shuffling, and then the distinct slide of the chain
bolt. A moment later, the door creaks open a few inches. Not by
much, but enough to spot a flushed smile in the sliver of sun.
“Hi Chet,” she answers a little breathlessly. Dust and sunlight
swirl around the smooth jawline that my fingers itch to reach out
and caress. “What brings you by?”
“Hey Gabriella,” I return easily, matching her smile. “Was in the
neighborhood. Thought I’d swing by. How are things?”
“Ugh,” she replies, her grin at my joke transforming into a
grimace. “I had no idea renovations were so tough, especially for a
small business. I hired some contractors that are doing the heavy
lifting luckily, but there’s still so much on my end that I still need to
organize.”
“Are you sure there’s nothing I can do to help? I’m pretty
capable, I promise.” The offer is always voiced, even if she always
politely declines. She accepts the sandwich I’ve procured though, so
at least she appreciates my food.
“Ah, I don’t want to upset your workload, you’ve got your own
business to run after all,” she explains, hesitant but sure all at once.
“Thanks for the offer though. Although, if I were a betting woman,
I’d say all you really want is a peek inside, to see all the renovations
and get the inside scoop.”
I laugh heartily, making a show of opening my hands in mock
surrender. Sure, I may look like an idiot, standing on the sidewalk
and waving my arms while talking to what looks like a door, but I’m
making a beautiful, hard-working woman smile, which is absolutely
the highlight of my day.
“Guilty as charged it seems. I admit it was a desperate ploy to
gain popularity, by making the townspeople jealous with all my
insider information,” I joke easily. “Would you believe me if I say I
actually came by for a favor?”
“A favor? What do you need?” she asks, suddenly earnest. I
blink, caught off-balance by the brightness of her eyes, before I give
her a gentle smile as I step close.
The apple of her chin has been tempting me since she opened
the door. With sure reflexes, I reach out and brush a light finger on
the underside of her jaw. “Come outside once in a while, and see
what Curiosity has to offer.”
It’s her turn to blink, startled by my actions, and I’m surprised by
myself, to be honest. But I don’t withdraw, nor does she pull away,
and it occurs to me that all it would take is a bit of applied strength
to rip the door off its hinges, and there would be nothing to block
me from kissing her.
“You want me to come out?”
“Only if you want to. The residents of Curiosity are curious about
you, and if I don’t do something to prove you exist, they may start
to think I’ve made you up,” I add, whispering conspiratorially, and
she giggles at my poorly-attempted humor.
“Well then, maybe I will make an appearance somewhere, if for
nothing else than to assure everyone of your mental health,” she
replies evenly.
“Thanks for staying in my corner,” I return wryly.
“It’s the least I can do for a neighbor.” Then without warning,
Gabriella jumps back and slams the door in my face, while I stand
there stupidly with my finger caressing air. “Then again, I only said
maybe!” she calls, drifting further back in.
I give a low growl under my breath. The temptation to charge
after her is very real, to give chase and catch her in my arms,
peppering her with kisses. I look again at the door, knowing how
easy it would be to break down, and fulfill my rampant fantasies.
 Instead, I turn away laughing, delighted by our interaction for
the rest of the afternoon. Gabriella will be a challenge indeed, one I
intend on spending as much time with as possible.
 3

GABRIELLA

I inhale the fresh scents deeply, no longer worried about the risk
of dangerous spores infecting my lungs. “Thanks guys!” I call out
to the last of the handymen, as they load the last of their
supplies up. They had stayed a little later to help me set up some
colorful, kitschy furniture I had delivered, but at long last it seems,
the work is finally done.
Over these last few weeks, I’ve been putting my nose to the
grindstone since moving to Curiosity, and it’s finally starting to show.
The cafe that once belonged to my great-aunt Maria is now starting
to feel like my own, especially with all the changes I’ve
implemented.
Gone are the mold patches, the strange ecosystems that had
taken root—because really, how did she manage to house an entire
family of bats inside!—the peeling wallpaper, and the crusted
countertops. In their places are whitewashed bistro tables, fresh and
bright paint, along with shining floors that are scented with lemon
wax. Where there was once a gloomy, cluttered space, now stands a
modern spot that looks like it could hit the cover of Culinary Review.
Gone are the dingy, stained glass windows, and all dark, dirty
paneling. I replaced the large, wooden counter with a small, white
marble one, and used some of the old stonework to create a
beautiful trellis wall adorned with large roses that serves as a natural
partition instead. There have been so many changes that I’ve made,
and now all that’s left is to make sure the pantries and fridges are
stocked, and hope that all the new changes will be well-received.
As I watch the workers drive off, their work done, I smile and
wave, looking out at the town square as the sun sets. Curiosity really
is a lovely place, and although restoring the cafe was a greater
challenge than I had anticipated, I’m excited to leave my mark on
the town. I’m also a little nervous to meet the rest of the townsfolk,
but having already met Chet, I have a good feeling about the rest.
“What the…” My voice trails off as I notice a small family turning
the corner. Just a mother and daughter, but they are so
extraordinary that they catch my eye immediately.
The mother is dressed in long, dark robes that billow and flow
around her feet, and the dress seems to flow over her body like
stormy waters. She moves gracefully in comparison to her daughter,
who is crawling alongside her in a horribly contorted position, crab-
walking as her body twists into terrible angles.
Suddenly, the little girl’s head twists sickeningly, and she’s looking
right at me with jaundiced eyes. They are across the street, but my
gasp is audible, yet as I go to see if they need help, the mother
turns and taps at her daughter’s nose.
“Now now Lina, it’s rude to stare,” she gently admonishes. The
girl cracks her neck back into place, and the two disappear from my
sight as they round the corner.
The woman’s chastisement reminds me that I am also staring
and I turn away, but it’s hard to forget what I just saw. I remember
the characters I witnessed when I first drove into town, and recall
their strangeness as well. Maybe Curiosity has its own theater
company or something like that, perhaps?
Over the next few days, I take more opportunities to observe the
townspeople from behind my cafe windows, while I wait for last
minute orders to arrive. The interior is now a series of bright, spring
colors in combinations of pink, blue, and yellow with only the
tattered, black curtains remaining to keep the work I’ve done
hidden, for now. It’s through these windows that I view the town’s
residents, and what I’ve observed tends to leave me more
perplexed, with more questions than answers.
 Deciding to seek out some advice on the matter, I head next
door in the direction of the general goods store. Chet Wilson is the
only person I actually know in this town, and he’s offered help a few
times now. It really has been neglectful of me to not visit his shop.
So it’s only out of polite civility that I find myself fixing my hair and
smoothing out my dress, in order to pay a visit to my ruggedly
handsome neighbor.
Luckily, I only need to convince myself of that fact, something I
am quite masterful at. Unfortunately, my extra efforts at my
appearance are unnecessary after all, as I walk through the front
door and see no Chet in sight. Instead, I am casually greeted by a
rather attractive, honey-haired woman who is browsing through a
small magazine.
“Welcome to Wilson’s Wares,” she greets monotonously, as if
reading from a prompter. “Just holler if you need anything,” she
adds, without looking up.
“Uh, thank you?” I return the greeting as a question,
awkwardness quickly setting in. Chet never said anything about
being married, but then again, I never actually asked. “Um, I was
actually wondering if Mr. Wilson was around? He said I could stop
by.”
A small, squishy ball seems to roll out from nowhere, and lightly
taps into my shoe. I glance down at it distractedly, as the woman
behind the counter looks up at the sound of my voice. Her eyes
widen in exclamation, and she quickly swings from her perch to
come around to me directly.
“Aha, you must be that Perez girl. Gabriella, right? I’m Veronica
Moore, Chet’s shopkeeper.” The blonde comes right up to introduce
herself this time, and she’s even prettier up close. I feel short and
plain standing next to such a willowy creature, but her voice has
taken on a warmer, more enthusiastic tone from a few seconds ago.
“Chet’s not in right now. He had to go handle a delivery towards
the city limits, but he’ll probably be back this afternoon,” she
explains, oblivious to my nervous fiddling. “Feel free to take a look
around though if you’d like, or you can come by later, if you’d be
more comfortable then.”
 Okay, so maybe she isn’t quite oblivious to my anxiety. “No that’s
alright, it wasn’t a big deal. Just a question I wanted to ask. Besides,
I wanted to get a look at the store anyway.”
“Feel free,” she replies, waving a hand around. “Although I will
forewarn you, if you’ve seen one general goods store, you’ve
probably seen them all. Trust me, even Chet gets bored with his
place. I think that’s why he hired me more than anything else.”
“Oh, so you two aren’t married?” The question is out of my
mouth before I can filter it, and I silently pray that I’m not so
transparent.
Veronica only throws her head back and laughs. She has a rich
laugh, but it also carries notes of a child’s twinkle, and I find myself
smiling, despite my embarrassment. “No, we’re not married, just
partners-in-crime. I have other obligations in my life right now, so no
romance in my cards.” She shrugs casually. “You said you had a
question though. Is there anything I can help with, or is it more
personal?”
“Ah, it’s a little strange, actually. I—” A bell rings, cutting me off.
The front door swings open, and Chet walks through breezily, the
sunshine outside seems to form a halo around his physique, and
casts natural highlights in his hair. He’s wearing one of his rolled,
trademark flannels, and I find myself grinning stupidly at the now-
familiar sight.
“Look, I managed to make it back with the delivery truck still in
one piece, so it looks like you owe me twenty bucks. Either that, or
—oh, hey Gabriella!” Chet teases Veronica until he spots me, then
his attention is fully on me.
“Hi Chet,” I reply, remembering that it’s harder to hide my blush
in full daylight. “How are you?”
“I’m great, especially seeing you out and about. What brings you
by?”
“Workers’ rights,” Veronica deadpans between us. “She doesn’t
believe you should exploit your employees by making stupid bets
about antique trucks.”
“I actually had a question about the town,” I interject softly.
“Well, about the townspeople, more specifically. That is to say, well,
ah, have either of you noticed something different about the people
here?”
“Different in what way?” Chet asks easily enough, but he’s more
tense than he was a moment ago, and Veronica is looking at me
quizzically.
“I dunno, just different. Off,” I suggest, shrugging my shoulders.
Honestly, I can’t really explain it, other than strange.
“Hard to say. I’ve lived here my whole life, after all. Is there
something in particular that's bothering you?” he asks gently.
“Some of us are pretty weird,” Veronica offers helpfully. “I like to
keep Archie comics tucked in my copy of Science Journal, for
example.”
I laugh in spite of myself. “That’s not the kind of ‘weird’ I’m
talking about. No, this is more like… a guy covered in bandages,
skipping down the street. Or a feral dog-walker, or a little girl who
walks around like she’s on the set of a horror movie.”
They stare at me with wide eyes, so I continue.
“Sometimes I look out at the townspeople, and I feel like I’m
looking into the Uncanny Valley,” I offer by way of explanation. “Like
the kids say, ‘the vibes are off.’ I just don’t get what I’m looking at
sometimes, even though it feels like I should.”
“Perhaps it has more to do with you being the new kid on the
block,” Chet answers, scratching the back of his neck. “Like Veronica
said, some residents of Curiosity really live up to the town’s name,
but no one here will hurt you,” he reassures me.
“Besides, you’ll have plenty of opportunities to meet the folks,
when you have your grand opening,” Veronica offers helpfully.

I t ’ s a complete nightmare , a total disaster, to say the least. In the

history of grand openings, mine has probably managed to make
history with how terribly everything went. As I turn the lock, closing
up after my first day, it’s all I can do to bite back the tears.
 Never could I have predicted that things would go downhill so
quickly. Looking around, I take in the whitewashed tables, the
brightly colored furniture, and the pristine floors. All largely unused.
Most of the food behind the counter has sat untouched, and the
cash register is disturbingly empty.
Nobody liked a single thing. Finally I opened the doors to the
restored cafe, but everyone who passed through seemed to
immediately find something to complain about. They missed Ms.
Maria’s old recipes, her old counter space, and the old decorations.
Someone even asked me what happened to the bats! For the
thousandth time, I’m left wondering what exactly Auntie M did to
run this place. Most people sneezed past the flowers, and someone
even complained that it was too bright, even though it was the
middle of the day!
By lunchtime, visitors had stopped coming by. People on the
street glanced over the decorations, but if anything, my choice of
decor drew more disappointing stares than interested ones. It was
my first official day as a small business owner and I was a complete
and utter failure.
Chet had come by some time after lunch, but couldn’t stay long,
as his store was actually busy today, so I was mostly left to my own
devices. I managed to keep up a brave face throughout the
afternoon, but now that everything is closed up, I can drive home,
and wallow in my misery with a pint of ice cream.
Tears have already tracked down my cheeks by the time I pull
out of the alley. The moon is brighter than the street lights, and I’m
so distracted by my failure and misery that I almost miss the animal
in the road. I swerve at the last second, almost slamming into a fire
hydrant as I try to prevent an accident.
A large dog sits in the road, right at the intersection where my
car was going to idle. No, not a dog, I realize after a second, but a
wolf. Right there in the middle of the road, one of the biggest wolves
I have ever seen is sitting and staring right back at me. His head is
twice the size of mine, and his mouth is open enough to showcase
gleaming teeth, while brindled fur gives off a majestic coat, accented
by sharp, elongated claws.
 Fear pierces me, and has me momentarily frozen. My junker of a
car hardly seems like protection against this primal beast, and I’m
practically quaking in my seat as the animal regards me. He seems
to be watching me, with sharp, intelligent eyes, unlike anything I’ve
ever seen before.
No wait, that’s not true. Shock momentarily floods my system,
replacing the terror, and kicking my senses back into gear. Guided by
instincts, I throw my car into gear, peeling out and flooring it past
the beast, as I tear down the roads at high speeds in order to
escape.
I don’t stop until I reach my home, then I’m flying up the steps
and slamming my door shut, closed with lock and bolt. Although I
didn’t stick around to see if the beast actually followed me, not that
he would’ve needed to.
My astonishment stems from recognition because the wolf’s
piercing blue eyes, in fact, are familiar to me. I’ve seen those same
eyes every week for a while now, but those crystal irises were set
into a human face. One with clean but rugged features, that I have
found myself daydreaming about, more than once.
“Holy shit,” I breathe, speaking to myself once I know I’m safe.
“Chet Wilson, I can’t believe it.”
Breathing heavily, and panting against my door that is now safely
chained from the inside, my mind is a jumble of panic and
realization. Between legends, folktales, and the strangeness I’ve
seen since moving here, I’m starting to figure out what makes the
town of Curiosity just so curious.
It is because at least one of its citizens is a werewolf.
 4

CHET

I should have told her. But who would believe, ‘Hey, I become the
best canine friend you’ll ever have?’ I could tell last night that
Gabriella was terrified. I’m sure seeing me didn’t help things.
Coming out of a full-moon night is a lot like being drunk. I
remember what it’s like when the wolf’s out, but I don’t have much
say in what he does. I make my way to the cafe for a cup of coffee.
I always need a little pick me up after a night of howling at the
moon. Of course, that’s only if Gabriella agrees to serve me.
Mrs. Murphy smiles with her signature denture smile.
“Good morning, Mrs. Murphy.”
“Oh good morning, dear!”
“Are you going over to the cafe?”
“Yes I am, I need to recharge from my wild night.”
The adorable chubby lady giggles. She has a great laugh. I know
it anywhere. I always appreciate her scent. She smells like cocoa
powder and allspice. Her treats may not always turn out right, but
her smell is a hallmark of wholesome intentions. How a grump like
Mr. Murphy got so lucky, I’ll never know.
“Well dear it appears to be closed today,” she tells me.
Disappointment dashes any hope of relaxing in my favorite
booth. “Oh that’s a real shame,” I reply.
“I hope the new girl is feeling alright. Do you think I should come
back with some soup later?” she suggests.
 “I wouldn’t Mrs. Murphy, what if she is really sick and you bring it
back home to Mr. Murphy?” I counter. I watch a shiver shake her
little body.
She cringes. “You’re right dear, when Mr. Murphy is under the
weather, it is almost impossible to get him to see reason,” she
admits. I bite my tongue. In my experience, Mr. Murphy is rarely
reasonable. We part ways with a polite ‘well guess I’ll be going’ type
comment.
I alter my path to Ms. Maria’s living quarters. Gabriella must be
really shaken up if she didn’t even open the cafe today. Gabriella’s
red Impala is still sitting in the driveway in the back. Well, at least
she didn’t abandon the ship last night. Hopefully, I can give her
some perspective here.
Ms. Maria was such a kind soul. Irreverent and feisty, but it
served her well here. Gabriella obviously doesn’t have the same
chutzpah, but she can find her own way here. If I’m honest with
myself I would very much like to help her do that. I never get tired
of seeing beautiful women.
Ms. Maria’s home is a lovely Victorian. It peaks in fascinating
directions up top. It displays rod iron embellishments under the
peaks. A few grateful birds have made nests between the spokes.
The back porch is huge and looks freshly swept. Gabriella takes
pride in her space. That’s a good sign.
The porch stairs creak a little as I make my way to the back door.
I open the screen door to knock on the white metal interior door.
“Who is it?” a nervous voice calls.
“It’s Chet!” I answer.
“Oh, umm I’m sorry, Chet but I’m not really up for company right
now,” Gabriella explains. I prop myself against the door jam.
“Look I know this place can be really shocking at first, but the
people here really are good and decent people,” I pitch.
“I would love to have this conversation with you, but right now
I’m not sure I feel safe with someone… like you,” she apologizes.
Her tone is an apology, she obviously doesn’t want to hurt my
feelings. Little does she know I’ve been called everything in the book
and sometimes in several languages. It’s very hard to hurt my
feelings anymore. Still, I was looking forward to at least a friendship.
“I probably should have told you about me at least. After all, I
can’t out everyone else that wouldn’t be fair. But be honest—” I lean
into the door so she gets my question clearer. “Would you have
believed me?”
There is a long pause. I begin to wonder if she has wandered
away from the door. “No,” she answers. I relax again knowing I’ve
made my point.
“I really would like to chat, Chet, but I’m packing right now,” she
explains.
Packing? Was seeing my other form really that upsetting? Most of
the others tell me I’m the calmest werewolf they’ve seen in shift
form. I know I didn't do anything inappropriate last night. I couldn't
show my face around here if I did.
“Why would you be packing? You just got here.” I manage not to
raise my voice. I’ve had enough experience with timid creatures to
know when my growl is too much. Gabriella might as well be a
rabbit right now.
“I just, I just don’t think I can stay here, knowing there are those
— things— those monsters are out there,” she moans.
Things.
I suppose there are worse words she could choose. I place my
hand on the door. If she was within reach I would try to hold her
hand.
“Gabriella, this town is the safest place you could be. Your Aunt
was a staple in this community. Everyone loved her. Her cafe was the
best place in town to grab a bite to eat and catch up on local gossip.
We aren’t the scary murderers you read about in fairytales. Heck, my
buddy Fred is a vegan!”
“What kind of monster is he?” Gabriella asks gently.
“You’ll figure it out if you ever meet him. My point is you should
try to get to know us before you run off screaming,” I answer.
Another long pause. This time I hear breathing on the other side.
“You know, I may start to take it personally if we keep having
conversations like this. I like looking at pretty girls when I talk to
them. This talking through a deadbolt is going to give me a
complex,” I tease.
She laughs. An honest comfortable laugh. It’s beautiful, like bells
ringing. I hope I can hear it again sometime. “I know you are right,”
she admits.
A small pang of victory strikes my chest. “Damn right I’m right.
You care enough to want to make the cafe nice for people. You’ve
got to realize what's ‘nice’ to us may not be something you are used
to.”
“I just wanted to put my best foot forward,” she sighs.
“Let me help you. I promise everybody wants you to do well
here. Well, maybe not Mr. Murphy, but he’s a special kind of special,”
I assure her. I am rewarded with another giggle. I wish I could
bottle it.
“I gathered that,” she agrees.
I feel like the door isn’t as thick as it used to be. I’m getting
through to her. Which is great because I don’t know if I can stand a
cup of coffee I brew. And I’m sure I couldn't handle a mug full of the
sludge Chris calls coffee.
Vampires have no understanding of flavor or subtleties. I push
my need for a coffee away. My main concern is the young woman on
the other side. “So will you give us a chance, Gabriella? I promise if
you meet us halfway we’ll go the rest of the way for you,” I insist.
“I need to think things over. I just— this is a lot. I mean Auntie
M. was a character, but this place is something out of a movie. I
don’t know if I can be the owner-manager-chief bottlewasher of a
place where monsters just hang around and talk politics,” she finally
says.
“Who talks about politics? That’s the fastest way to get Mayor
Wendell’s vipers up. Trust me, politics are the last thing anybody in
this town wants to hear. Ms. Maria’s place was the one place in town
where we could all come together.”
“Yeah.” I hear Gabriella lean against the door. “She always said
her place was open to all and if you couldn’t play nice, she wouldn’t
put up with it. She was a tough lady,” Gabriella replies.
 “Nobody’s asking you to be Ms. Maria two-point zero. We just
hate to see such an important establishment in our community
close,” I assure her.
More silence. I check my watch. Holy crap! “Look, I have to get
to work. Just promise you aren’t going to run off into the night.
Okay?” I plead.
“Yeah I can at least say I won’t do that to you,” she promises.
I forfeit any idea of coffee. I need to get to my shift. I leave the
massive porch behind and hope the Impala stays parked for a little
longer.
 5

GABRIELLA

I go back to my bed to continue packing my suitcase. I meant it

when I told Chet I wouldn’t skip town without telling him. But
my hands keep reaching for the shirts I so carefully color-coded
about a week ago.
Maybe I can find an apartment a few towns over. I could just
leave Chet the keys and leave this bizarre place behind me. The
huge elephant in the room practically steps on my toes. A huge
dusty rose-colored elephant. I spent so much money remodeling the
cafe, there is no way I can move.
I confirm the situation by looking up my bank account. I barely
have enough money to get a hotel for a week, let alone rent an
apartment. For better or for worse, this town and I are stuck
together.
I think about what Chet said about being more open to new
people. At least these new people. I know calling them monsters is
wrong. I tried not to unload all my shameful thoughts on Chet. I
mean did I really see stitches on Carloyn’s partner? Not the normal
medical stitches. Actual cross stitches that look like his head would
fall off without it.
I am ashamed of myself as I imagine the officer's head snapping
off and rolling across my brand-new vinyl floor. I would probably be
too frightened to listen to the Miranda rights. I shiver at the idea,
would he still be able to arrest someone without a head?
 I put so much work into the cafe. How can they prefer those
God-awful stained glass windows over that bright window seat? I
suppose the critics had a point about the pink paint. Maybe I should
have kept things subtle. But the silk roses tucked into the trellis wall
above the reupholstered booths just pop against that pink! That
whole section looked like a fairy tale garden. Why wouldn't they
want to sit by that vibe and enjoy a great cup of tea?
I just don't understand why anyone would want to stay in the
dingy and dark space I saw when I arrived.
Chet says that Auntie M’s cafe is an institution around here. I
agreed with him just to get him to leave. But, those customers
seemed really upset. There seems to be a real connection between
this place and the town.
Maybe I need to give a little here. I mean there is plenty of space
for some awesome murals. Maybe I could reach out to the local art
scene? There are ways to work around this. And since I don't really
have a choice I need to figure out how to meet these people
halfway. I just called them people, I’m off to a good start already!
The evening passes with no issues. I suppose Chet is out dealing
with his—problem. If that is the case, then I’ll happily see him
tomorrow. When he’s normal.
The next day I begin to make my breakfast as usual. Peanut
butter toast, good strong tea, and a banana. I get a few bites in
when I hear a knock on the back door. I open the door to Chet
lugging a huge toolbox.
He really is quite cute. The short brown hair tucks in behind his
ear. Which draws my attention to the number two pencil poking out.
I like the look.
He smells like cedar trees as he brushes past me. I sneak a peek
at the seat of his jeans. Hopefully he doesn’t see me. If he does, he
is playing dumb. “What’s going on?” I ask.
“If you’re going to get back into the Murphys’ good graces you
need to reinstall those windows,” Chet answers.
I look at the handsome handyman. “Are you serious? Those
things are cloudy, hideous, chunks of glass,” I protest.
 “Yes, but they modulate the correct amount of light into the cafe
for creatures like gnomes, which is what Mr. Murphy is, so their eyes
don’t hurt. Mrs. Murphy is an elf, so she is a little more tolerant of
brightness. But if Mr. Murphy ain’t happy Mrs. Murphy ain’t happy.
Understand?”
I never thought about it that way. I always thought the more
light the better. “Is that why he ran out of my place with his eyes
covered?” I ask mortified.
Chet nods. “Yup, your window seats may look nice but they are
totally impractical around here. Chris doesn’t go out much out during
the day, but every once in a while he comes in on an overcast day
and those window seats let in entirely too much light for him. Not to
mention if Veronica brings her kid in—as it is now she isn’t able to
see him with all that light.”
“Veronica has a kid!” I interject. I had spoken to her at least a
handful of times now and I never saw a kid around.
“You haven’t met Billy yet?” Chet asks. I shake my head. “Well,
you see, we fix the window problem, you get to meet Billy,” he adds.
Veronica has a kid, and she never mentioned it? What else am I
missing around here? My fear of this place is turning more towards
curiosity. But curiosity killed the cat. However, this place seems like
the kind of place a dead cat could get a saucer of cream.
“Alright, alright, we can reinstall the stained glass. I put them
away in the shed,” I relent.
Chet wrestles the huge heavy glass monstrosities one by one out
of what I thought would be their forever home. It never occurred to
me that Auntie M. was designing the place for comfort and not
aesthetics.
I watch him work on top of the ladder crowbarring my beautiful
bay windows out of the wall. So much time, so much money laying
in a heap at my feet. On the positive side, I now have a gorgeous
bay window for the sitting room in Auntie M.’s side of the house.
Chet will be putting in more work around here if he’s not careful.
“You’ll see, the reinstallation of these windows is a huge sign of
good faith with the community. They’ll warm up to you before you
know it,” he assures me.
 “What else should I consider?” I ask.
Chet carries the window panes into my shed. Some two at a
time, I try not to stare. He stops after carrying an arm load and
thinks for a minute.
“Take out the trellis and fake flowers. Also, I know you put in that
recess lighting above the booths. I wouldn’t tear that out, but you
need to add a dimmer switch so the place doesn’t get too bright at
night.”
“Night time? I close at eight!” I insist.
Chet smiles. “And that’s something Chris and Ms. Maria worked
out. She’d serve’em dinner and then everyone would go over to
Chris’s for drinks and hang out there the rest of the night. Your aunt
was a hell of a darts player.”
Wow, this place sounds so close knit. More so than I am used to,
how can I ever think I’ll be able to fit into this town of — unusual
characters?
Chet lifts another arm load. He smirks when his eyes meet mine.
“That’s quite impressive,” I coo. I’m flirting like a teenager, but
Chet doesn’t seem to mind.
“Yeah it’s one of the perks of the — the other guy. It comes in
handy when he has to drag off a deer carcass,” he replies.
I wince at the imagery of a dead deer. Chet notices my
discomfort. He hurriedly shoves the rest of the bay windows into the
shed.
“You’ve got me for the full day. I’ll help you make the changes I
mentioned,” he offers.
I droop a little with sadness, but I follow him to the wall outlets
to help him install the dimmers. It’s nice to have a friend here.
Although, if I’m honest, things could go a little differently very easily.

C het is right , as soon as the windows reappear, so do my

customers. Carolyn and Dylan begin coming in for coffee breaks. Mr.
and Mrs. Murphy have a standing Tuesday night dinner reservation.
Although she says she has some suggestions for my meatloaf recipe.
I fall into the town’s rhythm. I can see why Auntie M. liked it here so
much.
When word was put out that the school needed to make
fundraising plans, I volunteered my cafe as a meeting spot. The first
meeting, I meet the famous Billy. The boy is still transparent, but he
is so polite when I take his order. I’m not sure how he will eat a
triple fudge sundae, but I make it anyway.
I sit the dish down in front of the boy. Veronica looks over at it.
“Why in the world did you order that?” she scolds.
“I thought it sounded good,” Billy answers.
“You don’t even have a stomach to digest that,” she presses.
Billy tries to pick up the spoon, but misses. “I thought we could
enjoy it together,” he pouts.
“We need to decide what we’re going to do for the school
fundraiser,” Veronica says.
Seeing a chance to contribute, I make a suggestion. “What about
a bake sale?”
Veronica and Carolyn turn to me as if I asked them if my second
head needed a root touch-up. Then again, that’s a simple yes or no
question around here. Heck, Carolyn probably has ‘a girl’ that could
help me with that.
Slowly as Veronica and Carolyn continue to spit ball ideas. I
watch Veronica inch by inch reaching for the sundae. Billy smiles and
I understand their relationship a bit better. I try not to giggle when
she sees I am watching her shovel the chocolate into her face.
“What? We can’t let it go to waste,” she insists.
“Of course not,” I reply, holding back my chuckle.
 6

GABRIELLA

I take another long lick from my ice cream cone and wonder how I
could have missed the obvious signs all around me. I mean, how
else could you explain the existence of a lime green colored eye-
of-newt ice cream flavor? It’s not even October!
I really must have put blinders up to be so oblivious to the
abundance of weirdness all around me. But I suppose that’s who
I’ve always been. I make a goal and I meet it, no matter what
stands in my way. Even if no one else can appreciate the hard work I
put into the cafe.
I chose to skip the red artificial blood or bright pink dream cloud
selection and went with a nice orange pumpkin pie flavor. It was the
most normal one available. Maybe someday I’ll be brave enough to
taste the black and glittery space goop flavor, but today is not that
day.
“So,” Chet says after devouring an entire scoop in one gulp.
“How’s business?”
If he wanted me in a good mood, he sure has a funny way of
showing it. “Miserable,” I answer.
“That bad?” He sounds genuinely concerned. I brighten up a
little, thinking he isn’t just trying to push my buttons.
“People like the food. They really like the coffee.” I think about
the mayor who ordered seven cups; one for him, and six tiny ones
for his snakes. Watching them lap up the drink with their pointed
tongues was somehow equally adorable and horrifying. “But no one
wants to stay inside and linger. That’s the whole point of a cafe,
right? You sit down with a cup of coffee and a croissant and, I don’t
know, write or chat or take in the ambiance.”
Chet smiles knowingly. “Well, the vibe here is kind of… different
from what you’re going for.”
Oh, I certainly understand that now. There go my dreams of a
pastel pink paradise. The thought of bringing back the gloomy dark
curtains and spiderweb crochet doilies makes my heart sink. God,
would they want the actual spider webs back too?
I shiver.
My internal dread is interrupted when Chet makes a sound of
excitement, followed by a screeching guitar riff. I look up towards
the gazebo in the middle of the park where a group of black clad
teenagers are getting ready to play what I assume is music. The
drummer is enormous, with green skin, and the singer has pointed
ears.
“We are the Red Banshees and we’re here to rock!” The vocalist
lets out a high-pitched screech before jumping into fast paced lyrics
about haunting the foggy countryside.
I cringe at the off key singing, but Chet seems to be enjoying
himself. “You like this?” I ask, pulling my shoulders up to my ears.
Chet shakes his head with a wide grin. “Not at all. But it’s
important to support local music.”
I snort out a laugh that immediately makes me blush. Chet
doesn’t seem to notice, still wrapped up in how awfully sincere the
kids are in their screeching performance. We casually make our way
to a part of the park that’s a bit quieter, and I realize I’m able to
make some casual conversation again.
Good. As terrifying as Chet’s whole deal is, I have to admit he
really intrigues me. I want to get to know him better. How exactly
does a werewolf live, anyway? I notice his ice cream has chocolate
sprinkles and hope his kind don’t have the same food allergies as
regular canines.
“So,” I say, trying to start some kind of deep and romantic
conversation. Something that really brings out our true selves.
“What’s your favorite food?” is all I can seem to think of.
Chet brightens up, and I swear if he had dog ears they’d be
perked up. “I love pizza,” he says.
I almost snort a laugh again but catch myself. “Really?”
“Yeah! Pepperoni and cheese with a good beer. Perfect dinner.”
I’m so caught off guard by how banal his answer is. What was I
expecting him to say? The three little pigs?
“Chris serves a pretty good pizza at his bar. You wouldn’t think it,
but the man knows how to put together a fantastic marinara. Just
don’t expect any garlic,” he laughs. “What about you? What’s your
favorite pizza flavor?”
He’s looking at me so expectantly that I almost forget how
controversial my honest answer is. “I love pizza, but it has to be
Island style.”
Chet raises an eyebrow, then a look of understanding washes
over his face before he scrunches it in disgust. “Pineapple!”
I sigh in exasperation. “They wouldn’t serve it if it wasn’t good!”
“Still.” He shakes his head. “Come on, fruit on pizza? That’s so
weird!”
My mouth falls open at the audacity. “First of all, it’s a fantastic
marriage of sweet, savory, and salty that makes for a perfect bite
every time. And second… you literally turn into a giant dog every
night!” I scream. I’m sure there’s no need for discretion here. “You
shapeshift but I’m the weirdo for liking a very normal topping?”
Chet laughs so hard he doubles over, almost dropping his ice
cream. “Pineapple on pizza is way weirder here than lycanthropy,” he
says between gasps.
“Well maybe my cafe should start selling Island style pizza
flatbreads.” I take a good bite of my pumpkin ice cream, finally
reaching the top of the cone. His blue eyes are fixed on me,
obviously taking in how my tongue swirls the confection into subtle
shapes.
I admit I’m pretty pleased with gaining his attention like this.
He’s handsome, that’s a given, but seemingly pretty gentle for a guy
who turns into a giant wolf. I let my tongue linger against the
orange cream, and I’m sure we’re both picturing the same thing in
place of the cone.
I bet he’s bigger, though. God, he better be all things considered.
My brain is now stuck on the thought. What is he like down
there, anyway? Everything I can see is pretty normal, admittedly. If I
didn’t know any better, and for a while I didn’t, I’d think he was just
some guy. My eyes are drifting down to his denim wrapped package.
His bulge is certainly bigger than what I’m used to seeing in
magazine model photo shoots. Is he holding back, though?
I’m dizzy with the thought of what might be.
Chet clears his throat, and that’s when I realize I’ve not been
subtle in my staring. His eyes are up there, after all, and when I
avert my gaze, I see him lick ice cream from his lips. There’s a look
of expectancy there, like he’s waiting for me to make him an offer.
I am so ready to do exactly that.
“Do you want to come back to my house?” I ask, as the band
begins a new song involving much louder shrieking. “Someplace a
little more… quiet.”
Chet nods quickly. “Quiet and private.”
I smile. “Very private.”

M y clothes are gone before I even know what happened. I’ve had
my fair share of casual encounters, but this one is truly taking the
cake. My lips are swollen from all of his attention, and the blood is
rushing to all the right places.
Chet has to put a little effort into pulling his jeans down over his
bulge and the sight is doing some incredible things to my stomach. I
decide to help, and in no time his erection is free from his tight
boxer briefs. It springs up, practically smacking my face, and he
mutters an apology.
I assume my wide smile is enough to let him know no apologies
are needed here. He’s big. Like, bigger than any guy I’ve ever seen,
even in porn. Other than that, everything seems pretty normal. But
I’m certainly not complaining!
I won’t waste any time, I’m simply too motivated to be shy right
now. I enjoy a good challenge, and fitting him into my mouth will
certainly be just that.
Chet groans while I try, starting with the head of his cock and
working my way down his shaft. It’s a lot, my jaw is getting one hell
of a workout. His fingers run through my hair, nails scraping my
scalp. It feels so nice, and only works to push me further. I grasp my
hand around the base, making a goal I can reach. My lips finally
graze against my own finger and tears dot my eyes. I hold back a
choke. It feels so good.
He must notice my thighs squirming. Chet pulls me back, a line
of glistening drool leading between my lips and the tip of his cock.
He bites his lower lip at the sight. His hand in my hair gathers at the
back of my head and gently pulls. I let my head rest backwards into
his grasp and moan.
I start moving back on the bed until my head finally hits a giant,
feather filled pillow. He’s on top of me quickly, not quick enough. I
want him now.
I wonder if werewolves can read minds as he quickly slips a
finger into my slit, his thumb massaging my clit. “Patience,” he
whispers with a laugh into my ear. I want none of that. “You’re so
wet,” he breathes into my ear.
“I want you,” I say. My eagerness makes me blush.
“So needy,” he teases.
I’m too worked up to retort. A second finger joins the first inside
and I whine in response. He balances on his free hand while his
tongue plays with my nipple. He flicks the tip, making them
unbearably hard. He’s fingering me hard, and I’m getting so close.
Too close.
“Please.” I’m reduced to a whimpering mess beneath him. His
fingers aren’t enough, not after what I’ve seen.
“As you wish,” Chet laughs. It isn't long before I feel like I’m
being split in half. He slides into me quite easily, thanks to all of our
aggressive foreplay. The feeling of fullness, of being completely
taken is driving me wild.
Chet starts a rhythm and I easily find myself following it, even
directing it. I can’t help myself, I’m intoxicated. I want more!
His mouth collides with mine while he pumps into me. I’m so
close already. My hand flies down to my clit instinctively, but Chet
moves it away and places his own hand there instead. He rubs
perfectly and methodically in time with our rhythm, and it drives me
over the edge in mere moments.
I scream louder than I ever have before while cumming. He
grunts while my walls tighten around him and it isn’t long before he
pulls out, his seed dropping in warm lines across my belly.
We lay there for a while, foreheads touching, breathing shallow.
Finally, he pulls back some and looks me in the eye. He’s covered in
sweat and practically glowing. “Good?” he asks.
I take a deep breath and nod. “Yeah.”
 7

CHET

“F riend zone,” Fred says while shaking his head. Dangerous

move with a zombie considering it could pop right off.
“Anyone with half a brain can see that’s exactly where you’re
headed.” His head starts to fall to the side, and instinctively I reach
out and set it back in place. I don’t know why I bother. It’s not like
it’s doing anything for him.
“Interesting choice of words,” I reply with a hint of frustration.
Fred’s lucky he’s my best friend. Anyone else would get a real piece
of my mind if they spoke to me that way.
Actually, he’d probably like that.
“I’m just saying!” Fred throws his arms in the air with enough
momentum to send the left one flying right into my chest. “You're
bending over backwards for this woman who obviously doesn’t like
being here,” he continues, like nothing happened. I pop his arm back
into his socket and take a step back.
“You’ve barely spoken to her. What makes you think you know
her better than me?”
“Listen to me,” Fred says while pointing at his ear. “You always do
this. Pretty girl strolls into town, you do everything you can to charm
her enough to get her into bed, but the moment there’s even a hint
of attachment she flies out of here.”
“Hey, that was one time. And Alyssa made it clear she was only
visiting on her way to her new coven.”
 “Fine. Flies, runs, swims, whatever. They leave you heartbroken,
and I’m the one who has to help you pick up the pieces,” Fred says
as his nose falls off his face.
I roll my eyes before picking it up for him.
“Point being, what makes Gabriella different from all the others?”
Fred asks while fixing his nose back in place. “There’s nothing wrong
with being friends with her, but if you want something serious to
start, you need to be more assertive. Have you tried biting her? That
usually works for me.”
“No offense, Fred, but the day I start taking romantic advice from
a dead guy is the day I’ve completely given up.” Still, I have to admit
Fred’s words have gotten into my head. Gabriella and I are getting
to be pretty good friends. There’s no denying she trusts me and
relies on me more than anyone else in town. And the physical
intimacy between us has been stellar.
But when it comes to emotional intimacy, I still feel like we’re
talking on different sides of a cracked open door.
“You’re over the moon for her,” Fred says. “But does she feel the
same way for you?”
Fred is the town idiot, literally lacking any brains, but sometimes
he accidentally says exactly the right thing to get my own gears
spinning. I do like Gabriella. I like her a lot. I find myself looking
forward to her calling me up, asking for help with installing a light
fixture or repairing a wobbly table.
Even if the rest of the town isn’t too keen on the way she’s
‘improved’ the cafe. Even I’m not exactly thrilled with just how much
pink dominates the dining room walls. It’s bright enough to burn
your retinas.
Still, I’m happy to put up with it if it means spending more time
with her. But would she do the same for me? I decide it’s time to
find out. I wave goodbye to Fred as she shambles off to his shift.
Gabriella’s place isn’t far from here, so getting this over with is a no-
brainer.
Walking into Gabriella’s cafe is an assault on the senses, both
good and bad. I’m immediately greeted by the warm scent of
blueberry scones and fresh coffee. There’s notes of chocolate,
hazelnut, cinnamon, and nutmeg too. Somewhere in there is a little
vanilla, and the vaguest hint of lemon zest. I idly wonder if other
folks can really take in the lovely aroma as strongly as I do.
Sometimes I forget just how strong my sense of smell is compared
to everyone else.
But while the place excels in delicious aromas, it loses in visual
appeal. Gabriella has really done a number on this place. A shame,
too. Her grandmother really had her finger on the pulse of this town.
The woman got us, even if she wasn’t exactly like us. Maybe
Gabriella will stick around long enough to feel the same way.
She looks up from behind the counter where she’s been wiping
down menus adorned with pastel floral patterns printed on the back.
“Hey,” I say with a wave. The place is empty, which isn’t unusual for
this time of the day. Still, the baked goods display case and coffee
pots all look full. Must be a slow day in general. I need to approach
this carefully, then, if she’s not in the best mood.
“What can I do for you today?” Gabriella asks brightly.
“Just thought I’d swing by, see if there’s any new disasters you
could use a hand with.”
Gabriella’s mouth quickly opens, like she has something she
wants to say. But she closes it, then taps her finger on the counter a
few times before shaking her head. “Nope,” she says with the fakest
smile I’ve ever seen. “All good here.”
“Really?” I ask, not believing her or the subtle scent of old smoke
I’m picking up from the kitchen. Seems something broke down
earlier.
Gabriella nods again. “I’ve got it all under control.”
“Right.” I frown slightly. There goes that excuse to connect. Time
to go for the big guns. “In that case, how would you like to have
dinner with me tonight? Uh, an early dinner, of course.” The last time
I tried to enjoy a meal after sunset, the owner got more than a little
heated about a dog sitting in the dining room.
Gabriella’s eyes flicker down to her menus. Her expression is
hard. “No, sorry,” she sighs. “Finances aren’t looking so great right
now. I can’t really afford to eat more than my own leftover muffins.”
 I cringe at the thought of living exclusively off stale pastries.
Even more so that she doesn’t seem to understand what I’m
implying with my invitation. “I was thinking it could be my treat,
actually.”
“Oh.” Gabriella’s cheeks go red, and I take that as a sign that
Fred was completely off-base. Unfortunately, she follows it up with
the worst letdown possible. “I appreciate it, really, but I uh… have
to... wash my laundry tonight. And my hair. And all these dishes.”
She gestures at a completely empty sink. Gabriella scrunches her
eyes closed and shakes her head. “I mean, I have a lot of chores to
catch up on. But thank you.”
I stand there a moment, stunned at how terribly I was just
turned down. A polite ‘no’ would’ve been better than that. “Okay,” I
say anyway, and point at a pastry at random. “I’ll take one of those,
then.”
The air lightens as Gabriella lets out a breath she seemed to be
holding in unknowingly. “Great,” she says. “I found this recipe in my
grandma’s collection. I’m not sure where I’m supposed to get
culinary grade frog warts, though, so I used raisins instead.”
I pay for the snack that I’ll probably just give to Veronica. She
likes weird stuff like raisins. Gabriella places the pastry in a crisp
white paper bag with a bright pink ribbon tying it off. She slides the
bag over the counter towards me, and I can’t help but notice she is
careful not to touch my hands.
Fred’s warnings are now alarm bells in my head. I guess she’s
done with me. The realization stings like a silver bullet through the
heart. “See you around, Gabriella,” I say, showing myself out of the
cafe.
“Have a nice day,” she replies in a sing-song customer service
style voice.
So that’s it then? Even the friend zone would be warmer than
that entire interaction. I wonder what’s gotten into her. Is she just
sick of me? Is she planning to leave soon? She did say the cafe’s
finances weren’t doing so great. Maybe she’s planning to cut her
losses and go back where she came from.
Maybe this place, maybe even I’m not worth it to her.
Another Random Scribd Document
with Unrelated Content
 Bear my heart to my mistress dear,

There is a strength given to bear, and mistress, which makes them

metrically balance carry and conqueror in this verse,
Carry my heart to my conqueror dear.

It must be observed, however, that the proportion between

heavy and light, or strong and weak, in syllables, is not always the
same. When a dissyllable foot occurs in the place of a trissyllable
one, in a metre of a generally trissyllabic character, the light syllable
may be conceived as standing in the place of two, and is therefore
more weighty than the light syllables of the trissyllabic feet. Thus, if
we say—
“Tell her it lived upon smiles and wine,”

the and is more weighty than it would be, if we were to say—

“Tell her it lived upon smiles and on wine.”

And if again we say—

“Tell her it liv’d on smiles and on wine,”

the on is more weighty than the same syllable in upon. Hence, in

these cases, smiles and, lived on, approach to spondees. But still
there is a decided preponderance in the first syllables of each of
these feet respectively.
I have hitherto considered dactylics with rhyme; of course the
measure may be preserved, though the rhyme be omitted, either at
the end of the alternate lines; as
When in my tomb I am calmly lying,
O bear my heart to my mistress dear:
Tell her it liv’d upon smiles and nectar
Of brightest hue, while it lingered here:
 Or altogether; as
Bid her not shed one tear of sorrow
To sully a heart so brilliant and bright;
But drops from fond remembrance gather,
And bathe for ever the relic in these.

In the absence of rhyme, each distich is detached, and the

number of such distiches, or long lines, may be either odd or even.
I shall now take a shorter dactylic measure; and first, with
alternate rhymes.
Tityrus, you laid along,
In the shade of umbrageous beeches,
Practise your pastoral song,
As your muse in your solitude teaches.
We from the land that we love
From all that we value and treasure,
We must as exiles remove:
While, Tityrus, you at your leisure
Make all the woods to resound
Amaryllis’s name at your pleasure.

We see, in this example that the rhyme is a fetter to the

construction. In this case, it is necessary to have three distichs
which rhyme, in order to close the metre with the sentence.
We detach these distichs, or long lines, from each other, by
rejecting the use of rhyme between successive distichs. We might
make the two parts of the same long line rhyme thus:—
Tityrus, you in the shadow Of chestnuts stretcht in the meadow,
Practise your pastoral verses In strains which your oat-pipe
rehearses.
We, poor exiles, are leaving All our saving and having;
Leaving the land that we treasure: You in the woods at your
pleasure
Make them resound, when your will is, The name of the fair
Amaryllis.

But these rhymes, even if written in one long line, are really two
short lines with a double rhyme; and this measure, besides its
difficulty, is destitute of dignity and grace.
If we take the same measure, rejecting rhyme, and keep the
dactylics pure, we have such distichs as these:—
Tityrus, you in the shade
Of a mulberry idly reclining,
Practise your pastoral muse
In the strains that your flageolet utters.

But these may be written in long lines, thus:—

Tityrus, you in the shade of a mulberry idly reclining,
Practise your pastoral muse, in the strains that your flageolet utters;
We from the land that we love, from our property sever’d and
banish’d,
We go as exiles away; and yet, Tityrus, you at your leisure
Tutor the forests to ring with the name of the fair Amaryllis.

These verses are of a rhythm as familiar and distinct to the

English ear as any which our poets use. Now these are hexameters
consisting each of five dactyls and a trochee,—the trochee
approaching to a spondee, as I have seen; yet still, not being a
spondee, but having its first syllable decidedly strong in comparison
with the second.
 The above hexameters are perfectly regular, both in being purely
dactylic, and in having the regular cæsura, namely the end of a word
at the beginning of the third dactyl, as—
We from the land that we love
We go as exiles away.

But these hexameters admit of irregularities in the same manner

as the common English measures of which we have spoken. We may
have dissyllable feet instead of trissyllable in any place in the line;
thus in the fourth—
Tityrus, you in the shade of a chestnut idly reclining.

In the third—
Tityrus, you in the shade of mulberries idly reclining.

In the second—
Tityrus, you in shadows of mulberries idly reclining.

In the first—
Damon, you in the shade of a mulberry idly reclining.

We may also have a dissyllable for the fifth foot—

Tityrus, you in the shade of a beech at your ease reclining.

But this irregularity disturbs the dactylic character of the verse

more than the like substitution in any other place. So long as we
have a dactyl in the fifth place, the dactylic character remains. Thus,
even if we make all the rest dissyllables—
“Damon, you in shades of beech-trees idly reclining.”

But if the fifth foot also be a dissyllable, the measure becomes

trochaic.
 “Damon, you in shades of beech at ease reclining,
Play your oaten pipe, your rural strains combining.”

Supposing the dactylic character to be retained, we may have

dissyllables not in one place only, but in several, as we have seen is
the case in the more common English dactylics. Now, the metre thus
produced corresponds with the heroic verse hexameters of the
Greek and Latin languages; except in this, that the English
dissyllable feet are not exactly spondees. The Greek and Latin
hexameters admit of dactyls and spondees indiscriminately, except
that the fifth foot is regularly a dactyl, and the sixth a spondee or
trochee. Also, the regular cæsura of the Greek and Latin hexameters
occurs in the beginning of the third foot, as in the English
hexameters above given.
I think I have now shown that, without at all deviating from the
common forms of English metre, and their customary liberties, we
arrive at a metre which represents the classical hexameters, with
this difference only, that the spondees are replaced by trochees. And
this substitution is a necessary change; it results from the
alternation of strong and weak syllables, which is a condition of all
English versification.
And thus I have, I conceive, established my second point; that
hexameters, exactly representing those of Greek and Latin verse,
may grow out of purely English habits of versification.
But at the same time, I allow that classical scholars do read and
write English hexameters with a recollection of those which they are
familiar with in Greek and Latin; and that they have a disposition to
identify the rhythm of the ancient and the modern examples, which
leads them to treat English hexameters differently from other forms
of English verse. This gives rise to some particularities of English
hexameters, of which I may have a few words to say hereafter. In
the mean time, I subscribe myself, your obedient
M. L.
 FROM SCHILLER.

Columbus

Still steer on, brave heart! Though witlings laugh at thy emprise,
And though the helmsmen drop, weary and nerveless, their hands.
Westward and westward still! There land must emerge from the
ocean;
There it lies in its light, clear to the eye of thy mind.
Trust in the power that guides: press on o’er the convex of ocean:
What thou seek’st, were it not, yet it should rise from the waves.
Nature with Genius holds a pact that is fixt and eternal—
All which is promised by this, that never fails to perform.

Odysseus

O’er all seas, in his search of home, lay the path of Odysseus,
Scilla he past and her yell, skirted Charybdis’s whirl.
Through the perils of land, through the perils of waves in their fury—
Yea even Hades’ self scap’t not his devious course.
Fortune lays him at last asleep on Ithaca’s margin,
And he awakes, nor knows, grieving, the land that he sought.

M. L.
 ALGERIA
[Algeria and Tunis in 1845. By Captain J. C. Kennedy, 18th Royal Irish.
London: 1846.]
[Algeria in 1845. By Count St Marie, formerly in the French Military
Service. London: 1846.]

We have always felt a strong interest in the welfare and progress

of the French colonies in Africa. Our reasons for the same are
manifold, and must be manifest to the readers of Maga; that is to
say, to all judicious and reflecting persons conversant with the
English language. There is, indeed, much to excite sympathy and
admiration in the conduct of our neighbours to their infant
settlement in the land of the Moor and the Arab. Their treatment of
the natives has been uniformly considerate, their anxiety to avoid
bloodshed painfully intense, their military operations have been
invariably successful, and in their countless triumphs, modestly
recorded in the veracious bulletins of a Bugeaud, they have ever
shown themselves generous and magnanimous conquerors. The
result of their humane and judicious colonial administration, and of a
little occasional wholesome severity on the part of Colonel Pelissier,
or some other intrepid officer, is most satisfactory and evident. A
hundred thousand men are now sufficient to keep the ill-armed and
scattered Arab tribes in a state of perfect tranquillity. Twice or thrice
in the year, it is true, they rise up, like ill-bred savages as they are,
and fiercely assault the Europeans who have kindly volunteered, to
govern their country, and, whenever it may be possible, to civilize
themselves. A few unfortunate French detachments, outposts and
colonists, are plundered and slaughtered; but then up comes a
Lamoricière or a Changarnier, perchance the Duke of Isly himself, or
a prince of the blood in person, with thousands of bayonets and
sabres; and forthwith the turbulent Bedouins scamper across the
desert in tumultuous flight, their dingy bournouses waving in the
wind, shouts of fury and exultation upon their lips, and Frenchmen’s
heads upon the points of their scimeters. As to Abd-el-Kader, the
grand instigator of these unjustifiable outbreaks, he is a troublesome
and discontented barbarian, always kicking up a devil of a hubbub,
usually appearing where least desired, but, when wanted, never to
be found. The gallant and reverend gentleman—for, besides being
an emir and a general, he is a marabout or saint of the very first
chop—has caused the aforesaid Bugeaud a deal of annoyance; and
the marshal has long been desirous of a personal interview, which
hitherto has been obstinately declined. Altogether the emir is a
vexatious fellow; and it is another strong proof of French kindness
and conciliatory spirit, that although he has frequently wandered
about in very reduced circumstances, sans army or friends, with a
horse and a half, and a brace of barefooted followers, (vide the Paris
newspapers of any date for the last dozen years,) the French,
instead of laying hold of him and hanging him up, which of course
they might easily have done, have preferred to leave him at large.
Some say that it would be as unreasonable to expect an enthusiastic
fox-hunter to waylay and shoot the animal that affords him sport, as
to look for the capture of Abd-el-Kader at the hands of men who find
pleasure and profit in the chase, but would derive little of either
from its termination. To cut his throat would be to cut their own, and
to slay the bird that lays the golden epaulets. It is related, in a book
now before us, that M. Bugeaud, when applied to by a colonel for a
column of troops to pursue and capture the emir, replied in these
terms:—“Do not forget, sir, that to Abd-el-Kader most of your
brother officers are indebted for their chances of promotion.” Others
have asserted, that if the Arab chief is still a free denizen of the
desert, it must be attributed to his own skill, courage, and conduct;
to the bravery of his troops, and the fidelity of his adherents; and
not to any merciful or prudential scruples of his opponents. We
reject this notion as absurd and groundless. We are persuaded that
French forbearance is the sole reason that the head of Abd-el-Kader,
duly embalmed by the procédé Gannal, does not at this moment
grace the sideboard of the victorious Duke of Isly, or frown grimly
from the apex of the Luxor obelisk.
Having thus avowed our strong interest in the prosperity of
Algeria, we need hardly say that we read every book calculated to
throw light upon the progress and prospects of that country. The
volumes referred to at foot of the first page, had scarcely issued
from the sanctuaries of their respective publishers, when our paper-
knife was busy with their contents, and as we cut we eagerly read.
We confess to have been disappointed. Captain Kennedy’s narrative
is tame, and rather pedantic; its author appears more anxious to
display his classical and historical lore, and to indulge in long
descriptions of scenery and Arab encampments, than to give us the
sort of information we should most have appreciated and relished.
As a book of travels, it is respectable, and not unamusing; but from
travellers in a country whose state is exceptional, one has a right to
expect more. We had hoped for more copious details of the present
condition and probable result of French colonization, for more
numerous indications of the state of feeling and intercourse between
the Arab tribes and their European conquerors. These matters are
but slightly touched upon. It is true that Captain Kennedy, in his
preface, avows his intention of not entering into political discussions,
and of abstaining from theories as to the future condition of the
southern coast of the Mediterranean. We can only regret, therefore,
that he has not thought proper to be more comprehensive. His
opportunities were excellent, his pen is fluent, and he evidently
possesses some powers of observation. Received with open arms
and cordial hospitality by the numerous officers to whom he had
introductions, or with whom he casually became acquainted, he has
perhaps felt a natural unwillingness to probe and lay bare the weak
points of the French in Africa. Such, at least, is the general
impression conveyed to us by his book. He seems hampered by fear
of requiting kindness by censure; and, to escape the peril, has
abstained from criticism, forgetting the possible construction that
may be put upon his silence. There is certainly scope for a work on
Algeria of a less superficial character, and such a one we wish he
had applied himself to produce. From no one could it better proceed
than from a British officer of intelligence and education. We are not
disposed, however, because Captain Kennedy has not fulfilled all our
expectations, to judge with severity the printed results of his tour.
His tone is easy and gentlemanly, and we are far from crying down
what we presume to be his first literary attempt.
From the English officer we turn to the French one, whose book
is of a much more ambiguous character. Who is this Count St Marie?
Whence does he derive his countship and his melodramatic or
vaudevilleish name? Does he write in English, or is his book
translated? Is he a Frenchman as well as a French officer, a bonâ
fide human being, or a publisher’s myth; a flesh and blood author, or
a cloak for a compilation? From sundry little discrepancies, we
suspect the latter; and that he is indebted for name, title, and rank,
to the ingenious benevolence of his editor. Sometimes he talks as if
he were a Frenchman; at others, in a manner to make us suppose
him English. Whatever his nation, it is strange, if he has been an
officer in the French service, that he should request information from
a certain mysterious Mr R——, whom he constantly puts forward as
an authority, on the subject of promotion in the French army, and
respecting French military decorations. The commanders of the
Legion of Honour, he tells us, wear the gold cross en sautoir, like the
cross of St Andrew. Odd enough that Count St Marie should be more
conversant with Scottish decorations than with French ones. Talking
of Bougia, at page 203, he remarks that “the blindness and
imbecility of the French in Africa is (he might have said are) more
perceptible there than any where else;” and adverts to “the ruined
débarcadère, the fragments of which seem left only to put French
negligence to shame.” We doubt if any Frenchman would have
written in this tone, especially in a book intended for publication in
England. There are many similar passages in the volume. Yet the
gallant count talks of the French consul as “our consul,” and of the
French troops as “our columns,” the latter in the very same
paragraph in which he sneers at their victories. His style is free from
foreign idioms, but here and there occurs a peculiarity seeming to
denote a translation. A town is said to be garrisoned by veteran
troops, when the meaning evidently is, that the garrison was a
detachment of the French corps known as “the Veterans.” Although
cent sous is a common term in France to express a five-franc piece,
in English we do not talk of a payment of one hundred sous. But it is
unnecessary to multiply instances. We have probably said enough to
make our readers coincide in our suspicion, that “Algeria in 1845,” by
Count St Marie, is neither fish, flesh, nor red herring, but altogether
of the composite order. It is, nevertheless, amusing and full of
anecdote, with only here and there a blunder or dash of
exaggeration; and although, as we believe, a compilation, it is
tolerably correct in its statistics and inferences. We must protest,
however, against the humbug of the system. A book that has merit
may be launched under its true colours, and kept afloat without a
titled name upon the title-page.
The motives that induce the French to cling, with a tenacity
which an immense annual outlay of treasure and human life has
hitherto failed to weaken, to their African conquest, are, we believe,
pretty well appreciated, at least in this country, where colonies and
colonization are understood, and where French policy is studied by
many. Algeria is the safety-valve by which the superfluous steam of
the national character is in some measure let off; it affords a point
de mire for the people, occupation for the army, a subject of
discussion for the newspapers. Doubtless a large section of the
French nation, or at least of its more sensible and thinking classes,
would gladly witness the abandonment of a colony which has
already cost more than there is any probability of its yielding for
years to come—more, perhaps, than it ever will yield, either in direct
or indirect advantages. But were it proposed to give it up, the
general cry would be loudly against the measure. Not that there is a
probability of the proposal being made. The present shrewd and
wary ruler of France well knows that a little blood-letting is as
essential to keep down the feverish temperament of his people as a
plaything is to occupy their thoughts and preserve them from
mischief. Algeria is at once the leech and the toy. Restless and
enterprising spirits there find the field of action they require; those
who might otherwise be busy with home politics, have their
attention diverted by battles and bulletins. The evils of protracted
and unprofitable warfare do not, in this instance, come home to the
nation in a very direct and palpable form, and therefore disgust at
the resultless strife has not yet replaced the interest and excitement
it creates. Now and then a tent or an umbrella is captured and stuck
up in the gardens of the Tuileries to be gaped and wondered at by
the Parisians. This gives a fillip to popular enthusiasm, and well-fed
national guardsmen, as they take their turn of duty at the palace
gates, look with increased respect and envy upon the Algerine
schako and bronzed visage of their fellow sentry of the line. Captain
Kennedy gives an amusing instance of the extent to which the
martial ardour of sober French citizens is sometimes carried by that
stir of arms and din of battle whose echoes are wafted to their ears
from the distant shores of the Mediterranean.
“Among the various costumes and styles of dress seen in the
streets of Algiers, none are so ridiculous as that of the European
civilian, dressed à l’Arabe, some fine specimens of which we saw to-
day. One of this genus, a wealthy shopkeeper from the Rue
Chaussée d’Antin, had, by his adventures a short time since, created
some little amusement. Enthusiastic on the subject of the new
colony, his thoughts by day had been for months of Algiers, and his
dreams by night of bournoused warriors, fiery steeds, and bloody
yataghans. At last, determined to see with his own eyes, he left his
beloved Paris, and arrived safely in Algiers.
“His first care was to procure a complete Arab dress, in which he
sallied forth the morning after his arrival. He came in search of
adventures, and he was soon gratified. Stalking along, he
accidentally hustled a couple of French soldiers, was sworn at,
thrashed, and rolled in the mud as a ‘Sacré cochon d’Arabe,’ lost his
purse from having no pockets in his new garments, and was nearly
kicked down stairs by the garçon of his hotel for venturing to enter
his own room.
“Undismayed by these misadventures, he set out the following
day, armed to the teeth, to ride to Blidah. When, half-way there, he
was seized as a suspicious character by two Arab gendarmes, for
being armed without having a permit, and pretending not to
understand Arabic; he was disarmed and dismounted, his hands tied
behind his back, and fastened to his captor’s stirrup. He spent the
night on the ground in a wretched hut, with a handful of cuscusoo
for supper, and next morning was dragged into Algiers in broad
daylight, half dead with fear and fatigue. On being carried before the
police he was instantly liberated; and, taking advantage of the first
packet, returned to France, having seen more of life in Algeria in a
few days, than many who had spent the same number of years in
the colony.”
Great must have been the discomfiture of the worthy burgher,
although he had much reason to rejoice at having encountered Arab
gendarnes and French troopers, instead of Bedouins or Kabyles, who
would hardly have let him off with a beating, a night’s imprisonment,
and a cuscusoo supper. We can imagine his delight at again finding
the asphalte of the Boulevards under his boot-soles, and the respect
with which his coffee-house gossips regarded him, as he related,
over his post-prandial demi-tasse, or in the intervals of his game at
dominos, the adventures of his amateur campaign, and the perils
that beset the pilgrim to Algeria. A slight traveller’s license would
convert the pair of gendarmes into a troop of hostile cavalry, and his
brief detention in the hut into a visit to the dungeons of Abd-el-
Kader. His friends would look up to him as a military authority, his
wife exclaim at the injustice that left his button-hole undecorated;
and when next his company of the national guard elected their
officers, he would have but to present himself to be instantly
chosen. The laurels he had failed to achieve in Africa would be
bestowed upon him by acclamation in the guard-room of his
arrondissement.
 In relating the well-known incident that gave rise to hostilities
between France and the Dey of Algiers, Count St Marie goes back to
the remote cause, which, by his account, was a lady. In the time of
Napoleon the Bey of Tunis had a favourite female slave, for whom
he ordered, of an Algerine Jew, a costly and magnificent head-dress.
The Jew, unable to get it manufactured in the country, wrote to
Paris; the head-dress was made, at an expense of twelve thousand
francs, and the modest Israelite charged it thirty thousand to the
Bey. The latter was too much pleased with the bauble to demur at
the price, but, not being in cash, he paid for it in corn. There
chanced just then to be a scarcity in France; the Jew sold his grain
to the army contractors, and managed so well that he became a
creditor of the French government for upwards of a million of francs.
Napoleon fell, and the Bourbons declined to pay; but the Jew
contrived to interest the Dey of Algiers in his cause, and
remonstrances were addressed to the French government. The affair
dragged on for years, and at last, in 1829, on the eve of a festival
when the diplomatic corps were admitted to pay their respects to
the Dey, the latter expostulated with the French consul on the
subject of the long delay. The answer was unsatisfactory, and the
consequence was the celebrated rap with a fan or fly-flap, which
sent its giver into exile, and converted Algeria into a French
province. On visiting the Kasbah, or citadel, at Algiers, Captain
Kennedy was shown the little room in which the insult was offered to
the representative of France. It is now used as a poultry-yard.
“Singularly enough,” says the captain, “as we entered, a cock,
strutting on the deserted divan, proclaimed his victory over some
feebler rival by triumphant crow—an appropriate emblem of the real
state of affairs.” But the conquered cock is game; and although
sorely punished by his adversary’s spurs, he returns again and again
to the charge.
Within the fortress of the Kasbah were comprised the Dey’s
palace, harem, and treasury. The buildings are now greatly altered,
at least as regards their application. The private residence of the Dey
has been converted into officers’ quarters, the harem is occupied by
artillerymen, a kiosk has been arranged as an hospital, and a
mosque has become a Catholic chapel. The treasury was said to
contain an immense sum at the time of its capture by the French;
but the exact amount was never known, and various accounts have
been given of the probable disposal of the money. Captain Kennedy
believes there is little doubt that the sum of forty-three millions of
francs, officially acknowledged to have been shipped to France, was
employed by the ministers of Charles the Tenth in their vain
endeavours to suppress the revolution of 1830. Certain general
officers of the invading army have been charged with acts of
appropriation; but nothing was ever proved, and the whole rests on
rumour and unsupported assertion. However the money was got rid
of, there is no doubt that a vast deal was found. The Dey, a careless
extravagant old dog, worthy of his piratical ancestors, was any thing
but minute in his record of receipts and expenditure. He was not the
man to ring his sovereign or mark his bank-notes; he knew as much
about double entry as about the Greek mythology or the Waverley
novels, and kept his accounts with a shovel and a corn-bin. Wooden
partitions divided his treasury into compartments—one for gold, one
for silver, and separating foreign and native coin; when money was
received, it was thrown in uncounted; when wanted, it was taken
out without form or ceremony of writing. “Such also was the
carelessness shown,” adds Captain Kennedy, “that, in one part, the
walls still bear the impressions of coins cast in at random, before the
inner coating of plaster had had time to dry,”—quite a realisation of
fairy tale accounts, and popular ideas of Oriental profusion and
lavish prodigality. The manner in which these heads of gold and
silver were guarded is equally curious, and completes a picture
worthy of the Arabian Nights’ Entertainments. “Prior to the French
occupation,” says M. St Marie, “any attempt to penetrate into these
caves was impracticable, the approach to them being guarded by
lions, tigers and hyenas, chained up at short distances from each
other.” Besides these formidable brute body-guards, whose
melodious voices must have greatly soothed the slumbers of the fair
inmates of the seraglio, the Dey had barracks within the Kasbah for
his household troops, on whose fidelity he relied for protection from
the soldiery of the regency, frequently in a state of mutiny.
Military hospitals are of course a primary necessity in a country
where half a million of soldiers have perished during the last fifteen
years, either by disease or the sword. At Algiers there are several
establishments of the kind, one of which, situated in the gardens of
the Dey, and capable of containing five thousand sick, is particularly
worthy of notice. Large as the building is, it is insufficient in summer
and autumn to accommodate all who seek admission. The gardens
have been left as much as possible uninjured, and their orange-trees
and fountains afford cool shade and delightful freshness to the
convalescent soldiers. On the other hand, the Jardin Marengo,
belonging to Colonel Marengo, the commandant of the citadel of
Algiers, contributes its quota to the sick wards. It is cultivated, Count
St Marie informs us, by condemned soldiers, who suffer dreadfully
from the heat and from exposure to the burning sun. Scarcely a day
passes without some of the unfortunate men being conveyed to
hospital, and in many instances they never recover. The real name of
Colonel Marengo is Capon. His father distinguished himself at the
battle of Marengo, and Napoleon jestingly bestowed on him the
name retained by his son, instead of the ignoble appellation that he
previously bore. Apropos of the hospital—or it might just as well be
said, àpropos de bottes—the Count, who certainly never loses an
opportunity of bringing in a good story, relates one of a M. St
Vincent, president of a French learned society, who went to Africa to
prosecute researches in natural history. Eager for specimens, he was
liberal in his payments; and one day a great curiosity was brought to
him in the shape of two rats, each with a long excrescence, like the
trunk of an elephant, issuing from the top of the nose. He caught at
the prize, and immediately forwarded to the Jardin des Plantes at
Paris a scientific description of the rat trompé. But his letter had
scarcely gone when the excrescence became dry and dropped off;
and on examination it was found that incisions had been made
above the noses of the animals, and the tails of two other rats
inserted The rat trompé dwindled into a rat trompeur.
 After a short stay in the city of Algiers, and contemplating a
return thither, Captain Kennedy and his companion, Viscount
Fielding, started for Blidah by diligence. At about half a mile from the
Kasbah, the road—an excellent one, constructed by the troops—
passes under the walls of Fort l’Empereur, built in commemoration of
a victory obtained by the Moors in the year 1541 over the troops of
Charles V. Some of the cannon abandoned on this occasion by the
Spaniards were originally French, having been taken by the imperial
army at the battle of Pavia. The Algerines mounted them on the
Kasbah, where they remained until in 1830, after an interval of three
hundred and five years, they again fell into the hands of their first
possessors. The fort, which owes its existence to a signal triumph of
Algerine power, was not destined to survive the downfall of the
Crescent. Invested by the French, a few hours’ cannonade
dismounted its guns, breached its walls, and ruined its defences. The
garrison were compelled to abandon it, and retreat into the city, with
the exception of a few desperadoes, who had sworn to perish, but
never to fly before the Christians. Whilst the French troops
impatiently awaited orders for an assault, a tremendous explosion
took place; and when the dust and smoke cleared away, the whole
western face of the fort was a heap of ruins. The surrender of the
city shortly followed.
Previously to an earthquake that occurred in 1825, the town of
Blidah, situated in a fertile valley at the foot of the lesser Atlas,
numbered fifteen thousand inhabitants. Many of these perished in
the ruins of their dwellings, and the place never recovered itself; for,
at the period of the French invasion, the population was only five
thousand. Placed in the very heart of the scene of war, the
diminution continued, and the native inhabitants are now an
insignificant handful. The European population is on the increase,
and the situation of the town on the line of communication between
the port of Algiers and the country beyond the Atlas, as well as its
good climate and abundance of water, seems to mark it out as a
place of future importance. In former times it was a favourite
residence of the Moors and Arabs, who called it the New Damascus.
There has been hard fighting there during the present war, and it
has thrice changed masters. It is surrounded by luxuriant gardens
and groves of orange-trees, whose fruit is said to be the finest in the
world. The plantations formerly extended quite up to the town; but
the Arabs took advantage of this to come down and pick off the
sentries, and it was found necessary to clear a large number of
acres. This impoverished many of the inhabitants, whose wealth
consisted in plantations of oranges, lemons, and olives. The town is
usually garrisoned by the Zouaves, troops originally raised amongst
the natives in imitation of our Sepoys. Soon after the formation of
the corps, however, Frenchmen were allowed and encouraged to
enlist, and of these the three battalions now principally consist. As
fighting men they enjoy the highest possible character, but in
quarters they are terrible scamps. Its gallant reputation and
picturesque uniform, and the numerous opportunities of distinction
afforded to it, cause this corps to be generally preferred by
volunteers, and non-commissioned officers often leave the line to
serve as privates in the Zouaves.
At Blidah, Captain Kennedy and his friend procured horses, and
with their party strengthened by two Prussian officers, they set out
for Medeah. West of the river Chiffa they came upon another military
road, at which a battalion was then working. Men and officers were
encamped in tents, and in huts constructed of boughs. “The men
employed on this duty receive seventy-five centimes (about
sevenpence) additional pay per diem; and during the winter and
spring, as the work is not hard, it is rather preferred by the troops to
garrison duty.” The system of providing employment for the soldier,
when he is not actually opposed to the enemy, is very generally
carried out by the French in their African colony, and also in France
when it is possible to be done. Captain Kennedy evidently approves
of it. At Medeah, a few minutes’ walk from the gate, are the gardens
of the garrison. Each regiment or battalion has its piece of ground,
divided into lots for the different companies, and supplying the
troops with vegetables. “Here, as at other places I have since
visited, the ground in the occupation of the troops was in a high
state of culture, and superior both in produce and neatness of
arrangement to the gardens of the civilians. * * * In many of our
own colonies, and even at home, this system might be followed with
beneficial results to our troops; for, putting aside the addition the
produce would make to the comforts of the men, any employment
or amusement that would tend to keep the soldier out of the
canteen or public-house during his leisure hours, and there are many
on whom it would have that effect, must be advantageous.”
Medeah is the capital of the province of Tittery, and the head-
quarters of a subdivision of the French army, commanded by General
Marey, to whom Captain Kennedy had introductions. To these the
general did all honour, and sketched out for his guests the plan of an
expedition to the Little Sahara. A French traveller, recording his visit
to Medeah, has given the following ludicrous and melancholy
account of the caravanserais of the town. “On a déjà plusieurs cafés
avec l’inévitable billard, et deux hôtels où le travail est divisé, car l’un
loge and l’autre nourrit; les chambres n’y sont pas encore tout à-fait
meublées, et le charpentier n’a pas encore achevé l’escalier qui y
monte. On y a oublié une certaine faience très utile, mais il y a déjà
des miroirs.” This description, doubtless as true as it is characteristic,
now no longer applies. Things have improved in the last year or two;
and at the time of Captain Kennedy’s journey, the Medeah hotels
were very tolerable. But he was eager for the desert, and tarried
little in the town. Accompanied by an aide-de-camp of General
Marey, who had volunteered to do the honours of the colony, and
show to the English visitors life amongst the Bedouins, escorted also
by a score of light infantry, a party of Spahis or native cavalry, by
half a dozen officers of the garrison, several servants, and a vast
number of dogs, our travellers struck into the Arab country. The
district they were about to traverse being peopled by friendly tribes,
this large attendance was less for purposes of protection to the
Englishmen than of mischief to the wild-boars, which it was
proposed to hunt. After a night passed in an Arab tent, the battue
began; and although not very successful, only one boar being killed,
the sportsmen deemed themselves well repaid for eight hours’ walk
in a broiling sun, by magnificent scenery, and the excitement of the
chase.
There is interest, although no very great novelty, in Captain
Kennedy’s narrative of his wanderings amongst the dasheras and
douars of the Bedouins. The douars are Arab camps, the dasheras
villages, or rather collections of huts, built of stone and mud, and
roofed with branches of trees. The walls of these miserable
habitations are low; the door does duty as sole window; for a
fireplace a hole is made in the earthen door; the furniture consists of
a few mats, a corn-mill, some pots, and a lamp. These are the
dwellings of the agricultural tribes, who live near the mountains. The
pastoral tribes roam over the desert; their tents, corn-mills, and
mats, packed upon camels; and driving with them flocks and herds
of sheep, goats, and cattle. When they halt, the tents are pitched in
a circle, the opening towards the east; and at night the animals are
driven into the inclosure, for safety from robbers, and to prevent
straying. A family of Arabs will frequently wander several days’
march from their usual abiding-place to some French garrison or
settlement, there to barter their stock for corn and European
produce. They travel by easy journeys, and halt whenever
convenient, only taking care to keep out of the way of hostile tribes.
“A short time serves to unload the camel, spread the mats, and pitch
the tent. A few handfuls of corn, ground in the mill, kneaded into a
paste with water, and baked in thin cakes on the fire, with a drink of
water, or, if they have it, milk, forms their simple meal.” Such is the
abstemious life of these sons of the desert. In the autumn, when the
great fair is held at Boghar, the advanced post of the French on the
side of the Little Sahara, several thousand people repair thither,
bringing hides, cheese, butter, and wool; also dates, skins of beasts,
ostrich feathers, and the woollen manufactures of the Arab women,
received from the interior of the country. These various products are
exchanged for honey, oil, corn, cutlery, and cotton cloths. Arms and
ammunition used to be greatly in request, but the French have
prohibited that traffic. The imports of European goods are on the
increase, and Captain Kennedy considers French trade in the north
of Africa in a highly improving state, favoured as it is by numerous
roads, made or making, through the Atlas, by the pacification of the
country, and submission of the tribes between Blidah and Boghar.
How long this submission may last must be considered doubtful. It
has been induced neither by love nor fear, but by self-interest. The
more prosperous tribes, and those located in the plain, finding Abd-
el-Kader unable to protect them, took the only means left to secure
themselves from the fierce razzias of the French, and from the ruin
that these entailed. So long as they deem it advantageous, they will
doubtless be staunch to their compact; but let then see or imagine a
probable change in the fortune of the war, and they will be found
eager, as some of them have already shown themselves, to rally
once more round the standard of the Emir.
Amongst the tribes whose hospitality was shared by Captain
Kennedy, the most powerful was that of Ouled-Macktar, whose chief,
Ben Douda, is considered by the captain to afford a good type of the
Arab chiefs in the pay of France. For a long period he acted as one
of Abd-el-Kader’s lieutenants, but at a critical moment transferred his
services to the French. His people had their possessions secured to
them, and he himself received the appointment of Aga over the
Arabs of the Little Desert, with an allowance of ten per cent on the
tribute paid by the tribes under his jurisdiction. He is described as
about fifty years of age, with handsome though harsh features of
the true Arab cast. “What struck me most in his appearance, was the
expression of deep cunning strongly marked in the lines that crossed
his forehead, and in the downcast and furtive glances of the eye,
observing every thing, yet seemingly inattentive.” The Aga is very
wealthy, and lives in great luxury, comparatively to most of the
Arabs. Captain Kennedy’s party reached his camp at a fortunate
moment. The douar was in an unusual state of excitement, and
great rejoicings were on foot in honour of the marriage of the Aga’s
son. The wedding-feast, consisting of sheep roasted whole, stewed
gazelle, cuscusoo, and other Bedouin delicacies, was succeeded by
some very graceless dances. Whilst the latter proceeded, the men
kept up an irregular fire of guns, pistols, and blunderbusses,
presenting their weapons at each others’ breasts, and suddenly
dropping the muzzle at the moment of pulling the trigger, so that the
charge struck the ground. As might be anticipated, this dangerous
sport did not terminate without an accident. One young savage
omitted to sink his muzzle, and sent a blank cartridge into the hip of
a comrade, knocking him over, burning his bournous, and causing an
ugly, although not a dangerous wound. “The rest of the party did not
seem to care much about it, and the wounded man’s wife, instead of
looking after her husband, rushed up to the man who had shot him,
and, assisted by some female friends, opened upon him a torrent of
abuse, with such fluency of tongue and command of language, that,
after endeavouring in vain to get in a word or two, he fairly turned
tail and walked off.”
In the douar of the Abides tribe, Captain Kennedy fell in with a
scorpion-eater. This was a disgusting-looking boy, who, being an
idiot, was looked upon by the Arabs as a saint—deprivation of
intellect constituting in their opinion a high claim to holiness. This
urchin bolted, sting and all, a fine lively scorpion upwards of two
inches long—the reptile writhing between his teeth as he deliberately
crunched it. Our traveller had heard of such exploits, but had
naturally been rather incredulous concerning the non-removal of the
sting. In this case, however, he was perfectly satisfied that no
deception was practised. The boy afterwards devoured another of
the same dangerous species of vermin. He belonged to the religious
sect of the Aisaoua, who claim the privilege of being proof against
the venom of reptiles and the effects of fire. A most extraordinary
account of a festival of this sect has been given by a French officer,
of whose narrative Captain Kennedy supplies a translation.
Fortunately he does not vouch for its veracity; so we may be
permitted to disbelieve one half and doubt the rest. M. St Marie
relates some marvels of a similar description, collected from an
interpreter who had been a prisoner of Abd-el-Kader.
The general impression made on us by Captain Kennedy’s
account of his visit to the Arab tribes, is, that the French have as yet
done little or nothing towards securing the affections and improving
the condition of the people they have subjugated. It must be
acknowledged that they have had to do with an intractable race, and
one difficult to conciliate. The old hatred and contempt of
Mussulmans towards Christians has been preserved in full force in
the deserts and mountains of Northern Africa. Centuries have done
nothing to weaken it, or to cause the followers of Mahomet to look
with liking, or even tolerance, upon the children of the Cross. The
Christian is still a dog, and the son of a dog; and even when
crouching before his power and intelligence, the Arab nurtures hopes
of revenge, long deferred but never abandoned. The French regard
their conquest as secure; and doubtless it may be rendered so by
the maintenance of a powerful military establishment; but who can
foretell the time when they will be enabled to withdraw even a
portion of their present African army? Their doing so would be a
signal for revolt amongst the chiefs now in their pay, amongst the
tribes apparently most effectually humbled and subdued. Patience
and vindictiveness are distinguishing traits of the Arab. He bides his
time, but never loses sight of his object and of his revenge. “They do
not forget,” says Count St Marie, speaking of the Arabs of the
province of Oran, “that the Spaniards, weary of occupying a territory
which cost them great sacrifices, and yielded them no advantages,
abandoned their conquest after two centuries of possession. They
foresee that, one day or other, they will be rid of the French, who
have made as great a mistake as the Spaniards. The Arabs are
animated by an innate spirit of pride and independence which
nothing can subdue.” We venture no prophecies in this sense, but
neither can we predict the day when Algeria, as a colony, will
become other than an unproductive burden to its present
possessors, or when it will repay them for the blood and treasure
they so liberally expend upon it. They should beware of arguing too
favourably from apparent calm and submission on the part of the
natives. The ocean is often smoothest before a storm; the Arab most
dangerous when apparently most tranquil. Like other Orientals, he
starts in an instant from torpor and indolence into the fiercest
activity. “The Arab,” says a German officer, whose narrative of
adventure in Africa has recently been rendered into English, “lies
whole days before his tent, wrapped in his bournous, and leaning his
head on his hand. His horse stands ready saddled, listlessly hanging
his head almost to the ground, and occasionally casting
sympathising glances at his master. The African might then be
supposed phlegmatic and passionless, but for the occasional flash of
his wild dark eye, which gleams from under his bushy brows. His
rest is like that of the Numidian lion, which, when satisfied, stretches
itself beneath a shady palm-tree—but beware of waking him! Like
the beasts of the desert and the forest, and like all nature in his own
land, the Arab is hurried from one extreme to the other, from the
deepest repose to the most restless activity. At the first sound of the
tam-tam, his foot is in the stirrup, his hand on his rifle, and he is no
longer the same man. He rides day and night, bears every privation,
and braves every danger, in order to make prize of a sheep or ass,
or of some enemy’s head. Such men as these are hard to conquer,
and harder still to govern: were they united into one people, they
would form a nation which would not only repulse the French, but
bid defiance to the whole world. Unhappily for them, every tribe is at
enmity with the rest; and this must ultimately lead to their
destruction, for the French have already learned to match African
against African.”
The constant hostilities amongst the tribes have doubtless
facilitated their conquest; and the French still act upon the maxim of
“divide et impera,” as the best means to retain what they have won.
As yet little attention has been paid to more humane means of
strengthening themselves in their new possessions, and to the
civilisation of the natives. The chief plan proposed for the attainment
of the latter object, has been to subject to the conscription all Arabs
born since the occupation of the country by the French. It is very
doubtful what may be the effect of this measure should it be carried
out. Will it Frenchify the natives, and induce kindly feelings towards
their conquerors, or render them more dogged and dangerous than
before? They will, at any rate, acquire military knowledge, and an
acquaintance with the European system of warfare, which, combined
with the skill in arms and horsemanship they already possess, will
render them doubly dangerous in case of a revolt. After their seven
years’ service, they may perhaps think fit to join Abd-el-Kader, or
any other leader then warring against the French. It is want of
proper discipline that has rendered the Arab cavalry unable to
compete successfully with that of France. They charge tumultuously
and with little order, each man relying much upon himself
individually, but doing little to aid the combined effect of the mass.
Might not conversion to Christianity be made a powerful lever for
the civilisation of the tribes? They entertain a degree of respect for
the Catholic priests scarcely inferior to that shown to their own
marabouts. Abd-el-Kader has more than once released a prisoner,
without ransom, at the prayer of the Bishop of Algiers. Near the last-
named city, some French Jesuits have formed an establishment for
the education, in the Christian faith, of young Arabs and Moors.
There, as the author of “Algeria in 1845” informs us, a certain
number of youths, after being baptized, are fed, clothed, lodged,
and instructed in some trade. The French government pays little
attention to this establishment, which is supported chiefly by
charitable contributions. “It is, however, a great work of civilisation.
The young pupils are hostages in the hands of the French. It is
pretty certain that their fathers, brothers, and relations, will not join
the rebels. When they leave this establishment, they will carry with
them indelible feelings of gratitude. They will have an occupation,
they will speak the French language, and will be of the same religion
as their masters.”
Exclusive of the army, Frenchmen form less than half of the
European population of Algeria. After them come Spaniards, who are
very numerous; then Maltese and Italians; and finally, a small
number of Germans, barely five per cent of the whole. The Spaniard,
although often taxed with idleness and dislike to labour, here proves
himself an industrious and valuable colonist; the Maltese travels from
village to village with his little stock of merchandise; the German tills
the ground. In the neighbourhood of Algiers, things have a very
European aspect; and the Arabs themselves, from constant
intercourse with the city, have lost much of their nationality. The
appearance of a flourishing colony is, however, confined to this
district. Little progress has as yet been made in rebuilding the other
towns, although in most of them the work of improvement is begun,
and the narrow dirty streets are being pulled down to make room for
wider avenues and more commodious houses. In some of them the
only buildings as yet erected are barracks and hospitals. The seaport
town of Bona, bordering on the regency of Tunis, is an exception. In
1832 it was reduced to ruins by the troops of the Bey of
Constantina, under command of Ben Aïssa. It is now rebuilding on
the European plan. A large square, with a fountain, has been laid out
in its centre, and several well-built streets are completed. The town
already boasts of an opera, with an Italian company, who are
assisted by amateurs, chiefly Germans, from the ranks of the foreign
legion.
The Algerine Jews attribute their first arrival in Africa to a
miracle, of which we find the following version in Count St Marie’s
book. In the year 1390, Simon-ben-Sinia, chief rabbi of Seville, and
sixty of his co-religionists were imprisoned, and condemned to die,
the object being to get possession of their wealth. On the eve of the
day fixed for their execution, Simon drew the image of a ship on his
prison wall. The drawing was miraculously changed into a real
vessel, on board of which the prisoners embarked for Algiers, where
they were kindly received by the Marabout Sidi Ben Yusef. This
tradition is still an article of faith, even with the most enlightened of
the Jews. In whatever manner they came, they have increased and
multiplied, and now abound in all the towns of Algeria. Preserving
the characteristics of their race, they differ little from their European
brethren; or, if there be any difference, it is not much in their favour.
Their moral condition is low; and although some honourable and
honest men are found amongst them, the majority are of a very
different stamp. They are charitable to their poor, and hospitable to
their own people, and are generally well conducted; but their
insatiable and inherent greed leads them into all sorts of disgraceful
transactions. They have been immense gainers by the expulsion of
the Deys, under whose rule they were subjected to much oppression
and ill usage. “Their condition is now vastly ameliorated, and I have
even heard complaints of their insolence; a very extraordinary
charge against a race so tamed and broken in spirit. The French, I
fear, can place but little reliance on their courage in occasions of
danger.” The Jewish women, when young, are for the most part
strikingly handsome; and the boys are models of beauty until the
age of ten or eleven years, when their features grow coarse.
Education is confined to the males.
The taming of savage animals is no uncommon amusement
amongst the French in Algeria; and the most extraordinary and
alarming pets are encountered not only in officers’ quarters but in
ladies’ drawing-rooms. At Medeah, Captain Kennedy was introduced
to a magnificent lion, the property of General Marey, Sultan by
name, two years old, and of a most amiable and docile disposition.
Sultan allowed himself to be examined and pulled about, and did not
even exhibit anger, but some annoyance when an aide-de-camp
puffed a cigar in his nostrils—a pleasantry which we are disposed to
consider fool-hardy. The only thing that excited his ire was a Scotch
plaid worn by Captain Kennedy. It was supposed that the hanging
ends reminded him of an Arab bournous, to which he had shown
great aversion, having probably been ill-treated in his infancy by the
Arabs who caught him. Notwithstanding his good temper, the
general intended to get rid of him, fearing that in the long run
instinct might prove stronger than education. Besides the lion,
General Marey had an unhappy-looking eagle, and a pair of beautiful
gazelles. Count St Marie abounds in anecdotes of ferocious beasts in
a state of civilisation. One of the first acquaintances he made in
Algiers was a tame hyena, of most unamiable aspect, but who lived
in touching amity with a little dog, and did the civil for lumps of
sugar. At Bona, the count went to call upon some ladies, and, on
opening the door, beheld a brace of lions walking about the room.
He shut himself out with great precipitation, but was presently
reassured by the fair proprietresses of these singular favourites.
When he ventured into the saloon, and sat down, the lion laid his
head upon his knee, and the lioness jumped on the divan beside her
mistress. These brutes were seven years old. Lions are not very
common in Algeria. Now and then they approach the douars, greatly
to the alarm of the Arabs, who hasten to inform the French
authorities, and a battue takes place. Accidents generally happen at
these lion-hunts: Count St Marie affirms that there are always three
or four lives lost, to say nothing of wounds and other serious
injuries. Whilst passing the night in an Arab encampment at the
entrance of the Bibans or Iron Gates—the scene of much hard
fighting, and of a gallant exploit of the late Duke of Orleans—the
count was roused, he informs us, in the dead of the night, “by a
noise which appeared to me like a distant peal of thunder, repeated
and prolonged by the mountain echoes. Gradually the noise became
louder. The animals sprang from their resting-places, and the men,
armed with muskets, rushed out of the tents. The oxen, grouped
themselves together, and turned their horns to the enemy; the dogs
were afraid even to bark. Presently the roaring became less frequent
and more distant; and we found that we had been saved from the
unwelcome visit of a lion, by the light of the burning brushwood on
the neighbouring hills.” The boar and the jackal are more common
and less dangerous objects of chase than the lion. Some of the rich
colonists and many of the officers are ardent sportsmen. Two of the
former have regular packs of hounds and studs of horses. Hares,
rabbits, and red partridges are very common.
The horse has greatly degenerated in Algeria, owing chiefly to
the neglect of the Arabs, who consider the choice of the dam to be
alone important, and pay no attention to the qualities of the sire.
The French government has recently established stables near Bona,
with a view to the improvement of the breed; the stud is to consist
of stallions only. There are to be similar establishments in the other
two provinces. So great is the demand for the better class of horses,
that the Arabs obtain very high prices for their stallions, which they
willingly sell, but they will not part with the mares. Every year,
therefore, it becomes more difficult to propagate a good breed.
Officers have now been sent to Tunis to make purchases, at a limit
of eighty ponds sterling for each horse. This price, Captain Kennedy
says, ought to buy the best horses in the country. Although less
numerous than formerly, splendid specimens of the Barbary Arab are
still to be met with in Algeria. Captain Kennedy describes, in glowing
terms, a magnificent charger belonging to General Marey, purchased
by that officer at a high price, and after a long negotiation, from a
wealthy chief in the south-west. M. St Marie says, that he knew a
Morocco horse to perform fifty leagues in eleven hours, without
turning a hair or showing a trace of the spur. Assuming him to speak
of the common three-mile league, or even of the old French posting
league, which was something less, this statement appears incredible.
Thirteen miles and a half an hour! Dick Turpin himself, upon his
fabulous mare, would have recoiled before such a pace sustained for
such a time. The rate of marching of the Arabs, however, from
Captain Kennedy’s evidence, is very rapid. The infantry do their
fifteen or twenty leagues in the twenty-four hours—the cavalry from
thirty to forty-five—the meharies (so say the Arabs) from fifty to
eighty. This is when the tribes are on the war-path, making razzias
upon each other’s flocks and camps, when it may be supposed that
they put on a little extra steam. The mehary is an inferior race of
camel, with a small hump, and possessed of considerable strength
and spirit, carrying a couple of men. It keeps up for the whole day at
about the same speed as the ordinary trot of a horse. Its diet is
herbs and date kernels. The horses of the Sahara thrive best upon
dates and milk; few of them get barley; and they are sometimes
reduced, when no other food is obtainable, to eat cooked meat.
Amongst the most determined enemies of the French in Africa,
are to be enumerated the Kabyles, tribes dwelling in the ranges of
the Lesser Atlas, from Tunis to Morocco. Of different race from the
Arabs, they are believed to be the aboriginal inhabitants of Northern
Africa. Secure in their wild valleys, they have ever preserved their
independence. Carthaginians, Romans, Vandals, Arabs, all failed to
subdue them; and, although some of the tribes, whose territory is
the least inaccessible, are now partially under the rule of the French,
the maritime range, from the east of the Metidjah to Philippeville,
remains unconquered. Their numbers are inconsiderable, roughly