Little Red Cap, Groovy Gran and The Wolf

Grant Grievan worked with Year 7 students when he came to LaTrobe as a part of his student teaching rounds. He engaged and was sufficiently captivated by the Werewolf, Little Red Riding Hood Project that he waxed lyrical. This is his story.

Little Red Cap, Groovy Gran and The Wolf by Grant Grievan

One day there was a girl who was a mad Sydney Swan’s supporter, and therefore she always wore a red Sydney cap. Everyone thought she was so cute and called her Little Red Cap.
One day Little Red Cap’s Groovy Gran sent her an SMS. “Hey LRC Im sik, can u bring chickn soup,” it said.
Little Red Cap loved her Groovy Gran so much that she immediately grabbed a can of soup. “Hey Joan” – for Little Red Cap was going through a teen rebellion stage that involved calling her Mum by the first name – “I’m going to see my Groovy Gran.”
“Ok, as long I don’t need to go,” Joan replied.
Little Red Cap’s Groovy Gran was Little Red Cap’s father’s mother, and Joan and her had never really got along. So Little Red Cap headed off alone, walking down the street to the train station.
After validating her ticket Little Red Cap wandered on the platform where there was a wolf. Little Red Cap liked dogs so she said: “Hi doggy.”
“Woof, woof,” said the Wolf, which clearly meant: “Hello, Little Red Cap, how are you on this fine Autumn morning?”
Little Red Cap was surprised that a Wolf could talk, so she told it her plans for the day. “I’m taking chicken soup to my Groovy Gran.”
“Woof, woof, woof, woof, woof, woof, woof, woof, woof,” said the Wolf, which clearly meant: “Aha.”
Then the train came so Little Red Cap and the Wolf got on. Little Red Cap thought it was funny to see a Wolf on the train, so she laughed.
“Do you have a problem?” a voice said.
Little Red Cap looked up and saw a boy wearing a West Coast Eagles cap. She glared at him.
He glared back.
They glared at each other. And everyone around them were silent, afraid to say anything…
That was except the Wolf, he noticed that Little Red Cap was far too busy glaring and did not notice her stop. He said: “Woof,” which Little Red Cap thoughts meant: “Go the Swans!” but actually meant “If you don’t get off I will and I’ll eat your Groovy Gran.”
Little Red Cap nodded, so the Wolf shrugged, got off and went to find the Groovy Gran. When he got to her house he knocked with his head and almost concussed himself.
“Who is there?” Groovy Gran said.
“Woof.”
“Pardon?”
“Woof.”
“Is that you Little Red Cap?”
“Woof.”
“That wasn’t no, must be yes.” So she opened the door.
He ate her.

Meanwhile Little Red Cap stopped glaring and realized she had gone too far. So she got off the train and caught one going back the other way.
When she arrived at her Groovy Gran’s house she knocked.
“Woof.”
“My, Groovy Gran, you sound like you’re dying. I’m coming in.”
She went in. The Wolf was wearing a sun hat.
“That is the worst attempt at Groovy Gran impersonating I have ever seen.”
“Woof,” said the Wolf, which meant: “****.” But Little Red Cap thought meant: “I ate your Groovy Gran,” which by sheer coincidence was true.
“You ate my Groovy Gran!” Little Red Cap said.
“Woof,” the Wolf said. Which meant: “You gave me permission if you dob me in, I’ll have you up on conspiracy to murder charges.”
“****,” said Little Red Cap. Which meant: “Oops.”
So they decided to cover up the murder, go their own ways and try to live happily ever after.

Shewolf Stories from Latrobe University Diploma of Education Students

In the mountains of Auvergne, a story dating back to 1588 was told of a royal female werewolf. In the story the nobleman was gazing out of his window and upon seeing a hunter he knew asked the hunter to check with details of the hunt. While in the forest, the hunter stumbled upon a wolf. In the ensuing struggle, he severed one of the wolf's paws and placed it in his pouch.

Upon returning to the chateau with his gruesome prize, he opened the pouch to show the nobleman evidence of his encounter. What they discovered was not a paw at all, in fact, the pouch contained what looked to be a feminine hand bearing an elegant gold ring. The nobleman recognised the ring and sent the hunter away. The nobleman then went looking for his wife. When he came upon her in the kitchen, he found her nursing a wounded arm. He removed the bandage only to find that her hand had been cut off.

Finish this story

Students at LaTrobe University School of Education were presented with the same Shewolf material that had been presented to students ranging in age from Grade1/2 to Year 12. These are some of their stories.

Werewolf by Joanna Seidel

The nobleman goes to the kitchen and sees his wife nursing a wounded arm.....

Her arm is wrapped in a whit cloth and blood is seeping through the layers. She looks at her husband with fear in her eyes, rises slowly and moves to the hearth to lie in front of the fire and keep warm. The nobleman stares at his wife in horror and disbelief. But he loves her. He cannot help but sense how hard it has been for his beloved to live such a double life. He leaves her alone by the kitchen fire and heads for the quiet of his study to devise a plan.

The nobleman waits for the next full moon. An hour before midnight he leaves his bed-chamber and prepares for his sojourn to the deep, dark forest. He carries no weapons, not wanting to appear as a hunter, and meanders slowly with the heart of an old man. He finds a tall tree and leans against its sturdy trunk, waiting for the werewolf to appear. Shortly before midnight he hears the sound of a snapping twig and looks around him. A shadowy figure creeps stealthily across the forest floor, unaware it is being watched. The nobleman opens the package he brought with him from the castle, hoping that the smell of food will bring the creature nearer to his hiding place. His plan works and the animal, its snout in the air and ears alert, pads soflty toward the smell of sustenance. It seems unafraid. It smell no fear from the nobleman. It eats the morsels laid at the nobleman's feet. When sated, it lays down on the forest floor and rests its head near the nobleman's outstretched hand.

The nobleman lays down with the wolf and falls asleep, not stirring until dawn shines its light on the trees above. He sits up, turns his head to look for the wolf but finds he is alone. He feels stiff and sore from his night in the forest, but his neck seems to have suffered the most. He reaches his hand up to rub his sore muscles and touches a recent wound, crusted with dried blood.

The nobleman has no memory of receiving the wound but he finds upon his return to the castle that he feels no fear or horror at the sight of his wife. Tenderness overwhelms him. They never speak of how his beloved lost her hand. There is no need. They are together again now and will sleep indoors no more. Their lives have come together not only in this world, but in another world that will hold their secret forever.

Another Werewolf Story by Mink Schapper

Sir Bob and Lady Madge: a story of love and loss

Once upon a time, not so long ago, there lived a nobleman in a big castle in the countryside. Beyond the castle were deep dark woods, and the villagers said that in the woods there was a werewolf.

The nobleman, (whose name was Sir Bob) sent his hunter out to kill the werewolf. The hunter went into the deep woods, and came across the werewolf. There was a battle, he cut off the werewolf’s right paw, and the werewolf escaped.

The hunter said to himself, “I don’t want to go further into the woods, to find the bleeding, enraged werewolf. He will surely trick me and kill me. I can tell milord that I have, indeed killed the werewolf, showing him the paw as proof.” So he went home to bed, well pleased with himself.

At dawn he rose from his bed, prepared himself to speak to Sir Bob, had a hearty breakfast of porridge with a good dash of salt, and was up at the castle as the people began their day. He presented himself to Sir Bob, telling a story of courage and daring, finishing with a flourish and presenting the paw, wrapped in a bloody kerchief. He quickly left the room, as he’d never been good around blood.

His quick exit was fortuitous. When Sir Bob unwrapped the kerchief, he discovered, not the paw of a wolf, but the fair ringed hand of his wife, Lady Madge. He blanched, then bravely decided to confront Lady Madge with this ghastly evidence of her other life.

Breakfast smells issued from the kitchen, and he could hear his wife’s gentle voice, singing a soothing lullaby, amongst the other busy kitchen noises. He entered the kitchen, and saw, to his dismay, that she was, indeed nursing a wounded arm.
“My darling, dearest. What has happened to you?” he exclaimed.
She cried pitifully, “I was making your favourite meal, wolf-soup, and when I was chopping through the sinews, the hatchet slipped and cut clean through my wrist. My hand fell into the soup, see?”

With trepidation, he peered into the large cauldron, and sure enough, there was a sinewy, gristly hand-looking object, bubbling noisily away, along with the rest of the meat, onions, turnips, herbs and spices. It smelt good.
“Please, my darling!” she pleaded. “To show me how much you love me, please let us eat this meal together, so that we will have taken back into our bodies, that which has been taken away from me?”

Poor Sir Bob was torn. He loved his dear wife, and very much wanted to reassure her of his attachment to her. They would indeed partake of this meal together, but first he needed to have Lady Madge’s dreadful wound attended to. He called the local healer to pay a visit, and she made a draught of healing herbs for Lady Madge to drink, and a poultice to wrap around her stump. After which they ate, and a delicious meal it was indeed.

Sir Bob had many important nobleman duties, so he sent Lady Madge off to bed and recovery. He saddled his horse and rode the countryside, visiting here and there, until night began to fall, and he headed home to his safe castle.

He was quite exhausted, so after a quick bite to eat, he fell into bed, and sleep overcame him as his wife snored close by.

At midnight, he woke with a start, realising that in his shock and haste the morning before he had left the werewolf’s paw/hand in his audience-chamber. He crept out of bed, out into the cold stone hall, and along to the grand room, with his grand chair and the kneeling cushion at its foot, for supplicants to be comfortable. As he walked closer to the chair, he could discern a faint glow, and the bloodied kerchief was opened. The hand had turned again into a wolf’s paw.

Full of fear he sprinted back to find an empty bed, the wedding ring, and tears on his wife’s pillow.

Sir Bob never saw Lady Madge again.

The moral of this story is: if you love your love, (were) warts ‘n all, show them you love all of them, or they might disappear!


More Werewolf Shenanigans by Liz Packett

With a look of disgust on his face, the nobleman asked his wife, "What happened to your hand?" With a confused look on her face, the wife said, "I don't know. I just woke up this morning and it was gone."
Without wasting another moment, the nobleman called for the finest surgeon in the kingdom to reattach his wife's hand.

The surgeon put the nobleman's wife under anaesthetic and sewed the hand back into place. But as he did so a strange thing began to happen. The nobleman's wife started to grow hair, then more hair, then even more hair, until her whole body was covered. There was no denying it now. The nobleman's wife was a werewolf!

So horrified was the nobleman that he ordered the surgeon to pump up the levels of anaesthetic until his wife/werewolf was dead.

After a hasty but tasteful funeral, the nobleman went on a holiday to the neighbouring kingdom. Here, he a wealthy and attractive young woman with no werewolf tendencies. They were promptly married and the nobleman couldn't be happier. However, there were a few things about his new wife that did seem a little strange. Like the fact that she didn't like the sun, had a fondness for bats and tended to shrivel up when garlic was served in her pasta...

The Hand That Feeds You by Rebecca Reggars

Once upon a time, not so long ago, there was a nobleman who lived in a big castle. Beyond the castle were the deep dark woods and the villagers used to say that a werewolf lived in the woods. The nobleman, displeased with the thought of a ware wolf living so near to the castle, sent a hunter into the deep dark woods to kill the werewolf. The hunter bravely entered the deep dark woods and stumbled across the ware wolf. They fought. The werewolf, trying to defend itself, was strong but the hunter prevailed and cut off the poor werewolf’s paw. The unjustly injured werewolf limped away favouring his injured leg now devoid of its paw. The hunter hadn’t done his job – he hadn’t killed the werewolf, but he knew that the werewolf didn’t deserve to be killed. It was causing no pains to anyone … it was just trying to exist. The hunter decided to deceive the nobleman and to take the werewolf’s paw in a pouch to the castle to prove that he had “killed” the “wicked beast”.

Back at the castle, the nobleman opened the pouch presented to him by the hunter with a triumphant smirk. But when he looked inside the pouch, the smirk was replaced by a look of pure horror. There was no paw inside the pouch. There was a hand. A feminine hand with a beautiful ring on its ring finger. The nobleman recognised the ring immediately as the engagement ring he had given to his wife. Praising the hunter for having done a “good job” the nobleman walked down the stairs to the kitchen holding on to the railing to keep him steady for his heart was pounding and his head was spinning. Could she, his beautiful wife, be a filthy beast? In the kitchen his wife stood by the fire nursing her arm with a steady stream of tears cascading down her peach-coloured cheeks.

He approached her slowly, gingerly. “My love?” he began in a tremor, barely able to hear his voice over the sound of his own heart thumping so rapidly and forcefully that he feared it would escape from his chest. “What has happened to your … hand?” he managed to ask. His wife looked up at him. The tears had stopped streaming down her face but had stained her peach-coloured cheeks a crimson red. He stepped back. There was something in her eyes that frightened him. Sensing his fear, she looked away and moved from the fire to the kitchen bench where she began to chop carrots. He couldn’t help but notice that she only used one hand and that the other, seemingly injured, hand that she had been previously nursing was hidden behind her back. Anger now replacing his fear the nobleman asked again: “What happened to your hand?”. She said nothing but smiled wryly. “I asked you a question!” screamed the nobleman as he walked over to her and again repeated “what happened to your hand?”. The woman stopped chopping carrots and looked into his eyes. “What hand?” she asked innocently. Fed up, the nobleman grabbed the arm that was concealed behind her and screamed when he saw that there was nothing but a bloody stump where her beautiful, fragile wrist should have been. “What hand?” repeated the wife then in a deafeningly loud, high pitched voice screamed: “I HAVE NO HAND!”. The nobleman stumbled backwards and fell to the ground. Regaining her composure the woman said: “Your hunter failed” she then picked up the knife she had been using to chop carrots with and slit his throat. She then washed the blood from the knife, and took it upstairs with her where she opened the safe, took the jewels and money and some of her favorite personal effects, placed them neatly in a suitcase, and left the castle, explaining to one of the (female) servants on the way out that a burglar had come into the castle, killed her husband, cut off one of her hands and forced her to open the safe from which he stole all of their money and jewels. The servant smiled knowingly and said: “I rather thought he would have taken you with him as a hostage” to which the woman replied: “He did”. The servant winked, and waited a good two hours before calling the authorities.

It is said that the “burglar” killed the woman as soon as they were clear of the village and that her ghost reappeared exactly one year later and cut off one of the hunter’s hands. This of course can not be proven though, for who would believe such a story?

The moral of this story: don’t cut off the hand that feeds you.

Label Your Wolfbane Clearly by Grant Grievan

In the mountains of Auvergne, a story dating back to 1588 was told of a royal female werewolf. In the story the nobleman was gazing out of his window and upon seeing a hunter he knew asked the hunter to check with details of the hunt.

While in the forest, the hunter stumbled upon a wolf. In the ensuing struggle, he severed one of the wolf's paws and placed it in his pouch. Upon returning to the chateau with his gruesome prize, he opened the pouch to show the nobleman evidence of his encounter. What they discovered was not a paw at all, in fact, the pouch contained what looked to be a feminine hand bearing an elegant gold ring.

The nobleman recognised the ring and sent the hunter away. The nobleman then went looking for his wife. When he came upon her in the kitchen, he found her nursing a wounded arm. He removed the bandage only to find that her hand had been cut off. Upon questioning his wife she finally admitted to being the wolf the hunter had encountered in the forest.

"How did this happen?" the nobleman asked his wife.
"Well", his wife answered "I was making some soup last Tuesday and the cook mislabelled the herbs. I was trying to add parsley and instead I added Wolfbane. Now I am a Werewolf."

The Nobleman got scared and he ran away screaming like a little girl. It was only when he passed the window and saw the full moon that he felt himself change.

Fear filled him for he had eaten the soup too.

Just then the Hunter came around the corner, saw the Nobleman and threw a silver dagger into him.

He died.

The moral of this story is to always label your wolfbane clearly.

To Grandmother's House

Her name is Radu and she lives down the street from my Grandmother's house.

Radu and my Grandmother are friends and have been friends for over 50 years. They've traveled together, gone shopping together, done all those old lady things together like drink tea and take in the odd bingo game together.

And while my Grandmother has aged gracefully her friend Radu has not. In fact, Radu has not aged at all.

Recently her hair has turned gray, and there are traces of wrinkles around her eyes and near her mouth, across her forehead. Laugh lines I think they're called. I'm pretty sure that like the streaks of gray the lines are cosmetic.

Convincing but cosmetic.

Radu is patient and kind and sometimes when she thinks no one is looking her eyes flame orange. It's enough to give you a heart attack, but once you get use to it, it's not so bad. Because freaky eyes or not, she's Radu.

She's Radu who can do magic tricks, can guess what the faces on cards are before you turn them over, who sings loudest of all even though she has an awful voice and is tone deaf as well.

My Grandmother's best friend Radu who I've known for all my life.

Last Halloween though, I met the real Radu.

I was walking to my Grandmother's house instead of driving because it was a pretty Autumn evening, there were wonderful Halloween decorations in almost every yard and the children in their costumes racing around the streets was magical, fun.

It made me wish I was young enough to Trick or Treat again.

It was about a block away from my Grandmother's house that I noticed the figure in the black coat. The coat was long and had silver buttons down the front. The person wearing it had long black hair and was powerfully built with wide shoulders and because the jacket was form fitting I could see the arms were muscular too.

Was it a light from a passing car or maybe the light of the bright Harvest Moon when the clouds moved away from it’s face that cast enough light for me to see a set of flaming orange golden eyes from across the road? I don't know.

But I saw them.

They were Radu’ s eyes, but the figure, it was all wrong. Radu was an average sized woman with shoulder length hair. The person I saw looked like they worked out, that they were built as the saying goes, to inflict some serious hurt.

It wasn't her, I told myself because those eyes I took for Radu’ s lacked her humor.

I turned away and started to walk. From across the road the figure dropped back but I could hear it walk across dried fallen leaves.

Then the air turned cold and I could hear what I thought was something from behind me taking a long deep breath. Then my head was pulled back and the sky disappeared behind a terrible face. It was a blank pale face, its eyes were black and empty and it had far to many teeth.

Horrible pointed teeth.

And before I could cry out, strike out something knocked me aside and it was on my attacker. There was a growl, tearing sounds and both figures seemed to be embracing. Then one stood and the other fell to the ground.

When I stood I was looking at the figure in the black coat with the silver buttons.

Its face was heavy, the jaw was heavy, the brow bone was heavy and close up the figure was even more imposing then it was from across the road.

It was Radu of course and if I were to say what her now changed face reminded me of it was animal like...wolf like almost.

She couldn't speak well; it was as if she weren't use to talking. " You have to watch out for those Vampires Sarah. They're nasty things. "

Then she reached down for the dead man and nodded up towards my Grandmother's house. " Time for you to go, time for me to eat. Yes? "

All I could think to say was, " Happy Halloween Radu. "

She tossed the figure over her should and walked away from me, towards the cemetery.

Singing... off key of course.

The Shewolf's Real Story!

In the mountains of Auvergne, a story dating back to 1588 was told of a royal female werewolf. In the story the nobleman was gazing out of his window and upon seeing a hunter he knew asked the hunter to check with details of the hunt.

( So far, that sounds about right. That's about all my husband the Nobleman did in those days...he believed one of our station should never do anything, that's what the help was for. Fetch this fetch that turn your head and cough for me, ask about a hunt instead of riding out and taking a look for himself. )

While in the forest, the hunter stumbled upon a wolf.

(That was me, only at the time I wasn't a wolf. I mean, think about it, daylight no full moon. I was out for a ride alone and the hunter? He had Roman Fingers and Russian Hands...if you get my drift.)

In the ensuing struggle, he severed one of the wolf's paws and placed it in his pouch.

(Sicko, when he couldn't get me to submit he cut off my hand and tried to take my head. But even in human form I'm not exactly without defenses. In fact, had I not lost my hand I could've snapped his neck.)

Upon returning to the chateau with his gruesome prize, he opened the pouch to show the nobleman evidence of his encounter. What they discovered was not a paw at all, in fact, the pouch contained what looked to be a feminine hand bearing an elegant gold ring.

(He never had my 'paw' but he had to explain what he thought were my poor hacked up remains...and remember there was always the chance someone say us talking in the Woods that day. I always rode on well traveled paths. Safety first you know.)

The nobleman recognized the ring and sent the hunter away. The nobleman then went looking for his wife. When he came upon her in the kitchen, he found her nursing a wounded arm. He removed the bandage only to find that her hand had been cut off. Upon questioning his wife she finally admitted to being the wolf the hunter had encountered in the forest and...

( By the time he found me in the kitchen the sun was starting to set and I was going to change...it was a full moon that night. So I told him, indeed I was a Werewolf but I wasn't a wolf that afternoon and that I hadn't attacked the Hunter. He attacked me first.Now my husband was a spoiled rich pampered Nobleman. But he wasn't a bad spoiled rich pampered Nobleman. As far as they go, he was an upright guy.

He asked me, after seeing my stump and cut neck, would I remember the Hunter? Could I find him if I wanted to?

Oh yes, I told him, after all, we Werewolves travel in packs. If I couldn't find him one of the others could. But all the same, the Hunter and I would meet again. My husband smiled...smirked really and kissed my cheek. Then he told me to have a pleasant evening and that he would see me in the morning. )

That's my story...the real story of the Shewolf of Auvergne

Little Red Riding Hood - Crime Revealed

Warning: Some readers may be disturbed by some of the images in this news report. Don't ever tell this tale to your kids.

Breaking News: Little Red Riding Hood Crime Revealed
Reporter: Heather Blakey

The thylacine, or Tasmanian Tiger looked like a large, long dog, with stripes, a heavy stiff tail and a big head. Its scientific name, Thylacinus cynocephalus, means pouched dog with a wolf's head. Fully grown it measured about 180 cm (6 ft) from nose to tail tip, stood about 58 cm (2 ft) high at the shoulder and weighed up to 30 kg. The short, soft fur was brown except for 13 - 20 dark brown-black stripes that extended from the base of the tail to almost the shoulders. The stiff tail became thicker towards the base and appeared to merge with the body.

Tasmanian Tigers were said to be usually mute, but when anxious or excited made a series of husky, coughing barks. When hunting, they gave a distinctive terrier-like, double yap, repeated every few seconds.

The tiger was shy and secretive and always avoided contact with humans. Despite its common name, 'tiger' it had a quiet, nervous temperament compared to its little cousin, the Tasmanian devil. Captured animals generally gave up without a struggle, and many died suddenly, apparently from shock. When hunting, the tiger relied on a good sense of smell, and stamina. It was said to pursue its prey relentlessly, until the prey was exhausted. The tiger was rarely seen to move fast, but when it did it appeared awkward. It trotted stiffly, and when pursued, broke into a kind of shambling canter.

Since 1936, no conclusive evidence of a tiger has been found. However, the incidence of reported tiger sightings has continued. There have been hundreds of sightings since 1936, many of which may have been clear cases of misidentification.

During the nineteen eighties Parks and Wildlife Officer, Richard Malrooney, was said to have undertaken an extensive but unsuccessful search to confirm a 1982 sighting reported near the Arthur River in the State's northwest.

Now twenty three years later startling information has emerged which has shocked Tasmanian residents and left a cloud, darker than the crimes committed against the native aboriginal population and the wretched inhabitants of the Port Arthur Penal Colony. It appears that Parks and Wildlife were compelled to suppress Richard Malrooney’s startling report that rare DNA, extracted from skeletal remains was found in bottled jars of ethanol on the dusty shelf of a house in a remote part of Northern Tasmania. Only last year more Frankenstein style remains were found there. Amongst these was a well-preserved, one hundred and thirty six year old Tasmanian tiger pup.

It has now emerged that a young girl and her grandmother conspired to undertake horrific experiments on these innocent creatures in a cottage in the wilds of Tasmania during the late eighteen nineties and the first part of the nineteenth century. It appears that they relentlessly pursued the Tasmanian tiger, trapped them and committed heinous crimes against them. They covered their actions by spreading the story that these carnivorous animals were a threat to both humans and livestock. Bounties were put on the head of tigers and hundreds of the animals were trapped, snared, shot and poisoned near their property. No one had guessed that these well respected women kept a terrible secret.

They were sadists.

Little Red Riding Hood, as the young woman was known throughout the small town of Keltro, was in the habit of going to work with her grandmother each weekend. She always wore a red cape and spent time in what was then known as the Asbestos Range National Park.

Narawntapu National Park, as it is now called, stretches from the low coastal ranges to the long Bass Strait beaches, and includes an historic farm, a complex of inlets, small islands, headlands, wetlands, dunes and lagoons, all with an amazing variety of plants and animals.

Red Riding Hood and her grandmother were well respected in the small community of Keltro. The Westwards had farmed the region for years. Red Riding Hood’s grandmother had come to Tasmania in 1835 on the Resource with other free settlers from England. Lucinda Westward had a Licence in Midwifery and was a Fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons. From about 1815 the colony began to grow rapidly as free settlers arrived and lands were opened up for farming. Lucinda Westward was the eldest daughter of Isaiah Spencer Westward an English farmer who claimed land in the Keltro region.

The beautiful, incredibly talented Westward became a prominent colonial medical "specialist", a surgeon. In the early days, she was mainly called upon to restore or amputate damaged limbs. Great advances in anatomical knowledge during the early colonial period, derived from the dissection of human bodies, greatly increased the range of feasible operations. After the advent of anaesthetics and later of disinfectants in the middle of the nineteenth century she is said to have ventured into the abdominal cavity, the neck, and the chest. These operations were mainly performed under chloroform.

Westward had some experience in obstetrics and gynaecology and in latter years strayed into the doubtful provenances of mesmerism and electrotherapy. She was highly successful and became very wealthy. Upon her retirement she chose to become reclusive and live in the cottage, adjacent to the Asbestos Ranges and despite the humble appearance of her home lived in luxury. What no one knew was that although she maintained the appearance of a congenial, aging doctor, Lucinda Westward was dabbling in evil arts and she had found creatures to experiment upon. Isaiah Westward had always complained that a wolf like creature was eating his stock and Lucinda decided to take her revenge and experiment on this ancient species.

To capture these shy and secretive creatures, which generally avoided any human contact, Lucinda sent her granddaughter into the park with her basket to play among the butterflies and flowers that littered them. The girl had a special skill. She was able to communicate with all creatures and she enchanted even the hesitant Tasmanian tiger. When Red Riding took off her hooded red cape to reveal terrible bruises and scars the tiger went willingly to Grandmother’s house to protect her from the torture so cruelly inflicted upon her. Once there the beast was locked in a barren steel cage and subjected to unspeakable torture.

Malrooney, now retired, told reporters that the ghastly scene of mangled bodies parts in bottles found at the long abandoned Westward property left him permanently traumatised. He reported that these animals were routinely cut open, subjected to surgical operations, poisoned and forced to live in dark, barren steel cages for years. Many were left to suffer and die in these cages without any pain relief.

Today the Narawntapu National Park is a place of peace. However, many visitors to the park have reported sighting creatures that look like Tasmanian Tigers and have said that they have smelled their distinctive odour and heard husky coughing barks late at night. If you are out walking this park late at night you might hear the spine chilling, high pitched screeches of a Tasmanian Devil or smell the distinctive odour of the Tasmanian Tiger. If you do, get away from there as fast as you can - you are in grave danger. The legacy of Lucinda Westward and her granddaughter lives on in the forest where followers, generations removed, continue the practice of evil she began so long ago. Watch your step carefully! The ghostly spirits of tortured creatures regularly avenge the dead.

"What I think about vivisection is that if people admit that they have the right to take or endanger the life of living beings for the benefit of many, there will be no limit to their cruelty." Leo Tolstoy

Shewolf

In the mountains of Auvergne, a story dating back to 1588 was told of a royal female werewolf. In the story the nobleman was gazing out of his window and upon seeing a hunter he knew asked the hunter to check with details of the hunt. While in the forest, the hunter stumbled upon a wolf. In the ensuing struggle, he severed one of the wolf's paws and placed it in his pouch.

Upon returning to the chateau with his gruesome prize, he opened the pouch to show the nobleman evidence of his encounter. What they discovered was not a paw at all, in fact, the pouch contained what looked to be a feminine hand bearing an elegant gold ring. The nobleman recognised the ring and sent the hunter away. The nobleman then went looking for his wife. When he came upon her in the kitchen, he found her nursing a wounded arm. He removed the bandage only to find that her hand had been cut off.

Finish this story

Big Bad Werewolf Project

I have been working on a Werewolf Project with the students at school and they are loving the horror and gore.

If you all check this Project you will find the artwork of the Girlie Werewolf Project. Now being a thinker I thought that the next bunch of mini stashes I could send out to artists would include a glove - when I can source some lovely old gloves - and we could have another challenge going.

The challenge would be to depict the noblewoman's hand or the hand of some other victim of the werewolf. Alternatively people can make wolf masks or depict some other element of the story.

Alternatively you could join a colouring competition and post your responses here on the Art Blogger.

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Any takers? If so let me know and I will begin sourcing gloves and sending mini stashes to people. As with the Footprint they will come back to provide inspiration for students ranging in age from five to eighteen.

image courtesy of Timberwolf