The Uncontrollable Beast Within
I blame Robert Louis Stevenson.
Let me back up a bit. In discussing shapeshifters, I could go on for a long time about liminality, the space between states of being that has long been both feared and imbued with power. About fascination with nature, with the perceived abilities of and persistent human affinity to certain animals, especially charismatic predators like wolves. In science fiction, where advanced technology can turn bodies into anything at all, or remove them entirely, can a sense of self even be tied to a body? And even what it is about anthropomorphic animal characters that attracts some people (i.e. furries. There, I said it.). As long as there’s been literature, there’ve been shapeshifters, and as a metaphor, it’s stood in for just about anything you can think of.
Then there’s shapeshifters as specifically explored in the modern werewolf story.
The depiction of werewolves has changed, much like the depiction of vampires has changed, and for a lot of the same reasons. The two creatures seem to go hand in hand, like Fred and Ginger, or something. They’re both beings of superhuman power—in many stories vampires themselves are shapeshifters. At the same time, vampires and werewolves are inverses of each other. I want to make an argument that while vampires have risen in status, werewolves have fallen. Over time, and especially over the last thirty years or so, vampires have become less monstrous, more attractive, more powerful, more sympathetic—more human, even. They’re tortured heroes and figures of romance, not bloated corpses drooling blood. Enough ink and pixels have been spent on that evolution.
The modern shapeshifter has undergone the opposite evolution. In Greek myth, gods and goddess had the power to transform themselves and others into animals. Transformation could be used as a punishment, a reward, or a memorial. In fables, talking animals dispensed wisdom and taught lessons. In shamanistic spiritual traditions, certain people have the ability to draw on animal guardians, or even mystically transform into powerful animals. In Marie de France’s twelfth century story “Bisclavret,” the hero is a werewolf—a knight under a curse that transforms him into a wolf—who is wronged by his wife and seeks justice. In many story traditions, human-like animals were gods and tricksters, and people were their equals, fellow players on the same stage. It wasn’t all sunshine and light of course. In Europe, witches were identified by their too close association with creatures like cats and toads. In Navajo lore, skinwalkers are evil magicians who gain the power to transform into animals by murdering their relatives. In all these cases, transformation and association with the animal world is connected to power, strength, control.
These days, the shapeshifter story that has the most prominence is the werewolf story. There’s mostly just the one: a person is cursed to transform into a hideous, uncontrollable, bloodthirsty monster; struggles mightily against the beast within; loses; dies horribly. For this, I blame Robert Louis Stevenson.
The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
In the dichotomy between nature and civilization, violence and control, wild and tame that characterizes a lot of rhetoric about modern life and culture, the werewolf has served as a metaphor for the incompatibility between the two. For self-destructive behavior, for conflict between a free and wild, or a civilized and constrained life. Crossing the line between the two leads to death. In this vein, the shapeshifter story is a tragedy. (Susan Palwick’s horrifying werewolf story “Gestella” seared itself into my brain for all time.) It’s a rigid, simplistic dichotomy. Turning into something else is akin to being trapped.
But it doesn’t have to be that way. What I seek out as rare treasures are modern shapeshifter and were-beast stories that don’t engage in the standard dichotomy.
For one brief example, I give you Ranma 1/2
Ranma 1/2 is a Japanese manga/anime series by Rumiko Takahashi that began in the late 1980s and ran through the 1990s. It’s about a martial arts family, several members of whom get dunked in cursed springs that subsequently cause them to change form if they get wet. For example, if Ranma gets splashed with cold water, he turns into a girl. Hot water changes him back. His father changes into a giant panda. There are hundreds of cursed springs, and possible transformations. The transformations usually don’t happen at convenient moments. It gets kind of confusing. That’s the fun of it.
Traditionally, shapeshifters are often tricksters, and the keyword is fun. Holding a mirror up to human behavior. Shapeshifting is a way to explore, to teach, to learn. (Think of Wart in The Once and Future King.)
What Jekyll and Hyde did (inadvertently, I think—part of the point Stevenson makes is that Hyde was always a part of Jekyll, however unacknowledged) was make the idea of “the beast within” an either/or proposition. That the self is something one can lose to base instinct, and isn’t that horrible? That dichotomy again. When maybe shapeshifting--including the modern werewolf story—would be better examined as a scale, or a matter of degree. These metaphoric aspects are with us all the time, and can be a source of power rather than something to fear—and isn’t that where most of these stories started?
CARRIE VAUGHN survived her Air Force brat childhood and managed to put down roots in Colorado. She lives in Boulder with her dog, Lily, and too many hobbies. A graduate of the Odyssey Writing Workshop, she’s had short stories published in such magazines as Realms of Fantasy and Weird Tales. Most of her work over the last couple of years has gone into her series of novels about a werewolf named Kitty
