Geiger Counter

The Beast I was at the grocery store Sunday, trying to make my way peacefully through throngs of people who looked like they were buying supplies for a trans-continental expedition during which everyone would live solely on junk food. When I made it to the conveyor belt, I said to the teenaged cashier, “Is it always like this on Sundays?” “Sometimes,” she replied, passing my items across the scanner. “Oh,” I said. “I see.” These are the types of adventures I usually have in the year 2019. My excitement is generally of the linguistic variety. But I know that hasn’t always been the case. Over the course of three years in the middle of the 18th century, a terrifying, mysterious, seemingly immortal beast attacked an estimated 200 people, killing about 113 of them. Around 98 percent of the victims were “at least partially” eaten. The killings occurred in Gevaudan, France, and the victims were poor farmers, primarily women and children, but also fully-grown men. Local newspapers, not unlike this one, chronicled the beast and its killing spree, reporting on each tragic death and the measures taken to end the crisis. Even the king got involved, sending his own wolf hunters to Gevaudan. One man who claimed to shoot the beast used silver bullets, according to some contemporaries, which is where we get the idea that silver bullets are the only way to stop werewolves. Even today, we still don’t really know what “The Beast of Gevaudan” was. Some people believe it was a very large wolf, and wolves in France did prey on people back then. Others believe it was a wolf/mastiff hybrid that had been trained to attack people. Others suggested it was a lion that had escaped from a traveling circus, which is the coolest explanation and is therefore the one I like to believe. Descriptions by those who survived the attacks actually support the third theory. Horrified, bleeding victims described “Le Bete” as being larger than any wolf, having red hair, spots, a stripe down its back and a long, thin tail. They said it could leap vast distances and used its claws to rend the flesh of its victims. Today, we live in a world of inflated numbers. We see our 1,000 Facebook “friends” (they aren’t actually your friends), read a news story about something that happened to millions of people 6,000 miles away, and generally assume our worlds are very large. They are not. The truth is, we actually know about the same number of people that those French peasants did in the 1700s. The number is, well, about the same as the number of people The Beast killed. It’s called Dunbar’s Number, actually. Robin Dunbar was a British anthropologist who posited the theory that human brains can only really know a limited number of people, around 150. Above that number, and you can’t remember vital information about people you know, or their relationship to other people you know. That’s why early hunter/gatherer groups always splinter off at around 150 people, choosing to exist in two sperate groups in which everyone can know and trust everyone else, rather than one large group in which some people remain strangers. This is why very small societies rarely struggle with things like theft and murder. Dunbar’s number sort of puts the Beast of Gevaudan’s spree into perspective, because it makes me ask the classic philosophical question: “What would it be like if everyone I know were eaten by a French lion?” Very sad, obviously. But I think a small part of me, if that happened, would inevitably think: “I certainly do live in exciting times!” I think I would think that even as The Beast ate me. I’m not sure why I get so fascinated by these “man-eaters” (a term that is certainly a relic of more patriarchal times, since most of them primarily dine on women and kids). But I am. You may recall I recently read two books about tigers (one in Siberia, the other in India and Tibet) that ate quite a lot of people. One is believed to be the most lethal animal in all of history and was eventually killed by a man who went on to become a tiger conservationist. The other, while it only ate a couple people, was probably the most intriguing animal ever, since its attacks were clearly based on an idea we humans used to think we were the only species we could lay claim to: revenge. (Among other things, the tiger tracked and killed a poacher who had stolen meat from him.) I like to think I’m a pacifist, but these beasts that roam the earth do something to my mind. I’ve written so many times in this column about how important it is to feel small. How liberating it is to know that we humans are not deities, but rather only small people with the capacity to think enormous thoughts that transcend space and time. I guess that’s what I like about these beasts and monsters. Because so often, people–usually some of my 1,000 “friends” on social media–like to talk about how we people are the true monsters. It’s an old trope, at this point. Because the monster, whoever you are, is merely the thing you fear. And everything and everyone fears something or someone else. But we also respect that which we fear; after all, devils are gods too, and I sometimes think when people lament that humans are “the real monster,” it’s the equivalent of a humble brag. “We people are the worst,” they say. “Look how badly we use our mighty and vast powers.” I’m still not sure. I think we might not be as powerful as we imagine. But I do know beasts will always roam the earth, as long as we are here to huddle together at night and tell stories about whatever howls and cries are carried on the wind. After all, why do you think that whenever we eradicate a man-eating creature–tigers or wolves or lions–people immediately pop up and speak with passion about how we need to bring it back? I grew up near, and once lived at, a beautiful place dedicated to wolves that could clearly snap my spine in a single bite. There, we tried to explain to people that it’s important to have wolves in your ecosystem. In parts of India where tigers still regularly prey on people, you don’t hear native people talk a lot about that type of conservation. But the moment tigers are gone, we all know deep within our hearts that something vital is missing; that something’s roar is missing from the night wind. I was talking to my wife about The Beast of Gevaudan the other night (whether she was listening, I won’t venture to say) when my five-year-old daughter popped her head into the room. “Wait, dad, is this Beast real?” she said. “Yes,” I replied. “People don’t know exactly what it was, but they do know that it was.” “So, beasts are real, in this world?” “Oh, yeah,” I said. “Cool!” And off she went to play, safe from the beasts, for the moment, but happy to know they prowl the earth. To enjoy her time here, and to occasionally stop and listen for roars and howls on the nighttime wind.