Werepanther Lore
Recovered excerpt from the General Archive and the National Library of Puerto Rico.
Translated from the original Spanish manuscript, archived following the American occupation of Puerto Rico in 1898. Rendered into English for academic study and historical clarity.
Observations on the Heresies of the Mountain Peoples
Fray Alonso de Zamora, of the Order of Saint Benedict
Given at the Mission of San Miguel de la Montaña on the fifteenth day of October, in the Year of Our Lord 1587.
I write this not as a confession, but as a warning—to those who may one day walk the forests where I once walked, and feel the eyes that watched me there.
During my time among the heathens of this island—called Borikén by its native inhabitants—I bore witness to strange and troubling occurrences in the remote mountainous regions beyond our missions. There, hidden among the ceibas and mists, the fugitive Africans—escaped from rightful bondage—have allied themselves with the native Taíno bohíques. Together they perform rites that defy both God and reason.
These are not idle superstitions, but infernal workings empowered by forces I dare not name.
The Africans, particularly their women—called Mwezi among themselves—speak to the moon and the dead. They carry charms of bone and stone, and their songs stir the wind. The Taíno, for their part, commune with forest spirits they call cemí, and offer sacrifices in caves older than any scripture.
Though it is a sin to dwell on the workings of sorcery, I observed what I must, that the Church may one day know how to root it out.
From this unholy communion emerged creatures not fully man nor beast—creatures wrapped in the skins of black panthers, gliding between worlds as if born of night itself. I was told, through trembling lips and tongues corrupted by ignorance and fear, that these beings were born from a pact. The Mwezi and the bohíques joined their bloodlines and summoned a guardian spirit to protect their people from conquest—ours—and from something far older that dwells in the island’s darkness.
These werepanthers, as I have come to call them, are said to be impervious to enchantments and to serve no master. They live by moonlight, answer only to their kind, and are markedfrom birth with the very shape of Borikén upon their flesh.
They are feared by the savages. Revered. Protected. And, I believe, dangerous.
Some claim not all among the witches agreed with the pact. Whispers tell of divisions, of those who sought to enslave these creatures for power, of rituals soaked in blood and forbidden fire. But such accounts are incomplete—obscured by fear or perhaps deliberate silence.
I dared not pursue them deeper into their sanctuaries. I dared not speak further of the night I saw eyes— gleaming emeralds and knowing—staring at me from the treeline. The forest does not forget trespass.
Let it be recorded for the Holy Church and for any who may take up the work where I have left it: the mountains of Borikén hide more than rebels and pagans. They hide something ancient. Something sacred to them. Something they will kill to protect.
The werepanthers are not myth.
They are real.
And I fear they still keep vigil, hidden in the shadows of their cursed domain.
In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.
—Fray Alonso de Zamora, Order of St. Benedict
