The Grosse Biesse of Marche

No one knew precisely when the Grosse Biesse was first sighted. Some said it had emerged from a dark lake, from deep beneath the water’s surface where sunlight could never reach. Others whispered that it had been born from the evil of a cursed man, whose soul had transformed into a beast. Whatever it was — it was terrible.

How it looked, no one could say with certainty. Those who had seen it and escaped had different stories: a giant dragon with green scales and fire in its eyes; a serpent as thick as a tree trunk with many heads; a creature without clear form, hiding in the mist until it struck. But all agreed it was large — terrifyingly large — and that it hungered for flesh.

The Grosse Biesse’s first attacks were directed at livestock. Sheep disappeared from meadows, entire herds scattered wildly. Cattle were found with deep furrows in their flanks, as if attacked by countless sharp claws at once. The farmers of Famenne began lying awake at night, rifles at their sides, listening for every sound.

But soon the monster turned its attention to the people themselves. A hunter vanished from his hut. A shepherd was attacked in the field and could only save himself by climbing a tree. A whole family — father, mother, two children — abandoned their home in fear after a night when they felt the monster circling outside their door, sniffing, growling, claws scraping against wooden walls.

In those days of despair, a man appeared from the south. His name was Rémi, though some said this was not his true name — that he was a knight from a distant land, or perhaps a monk who had renounced his vows. Whatever he was, he was unafraid. He gathered the strongest men from Marche and surrounding villages, and told them: "The Grosse Biesse is only a beast. Beasts can be defeated."

They prepared their assault. They forged heavy swords, sharpened spears, loaded crossbows with thick bolts. They called themselves the Hunters of Marche. And on a cold morning, when the mist was so thick one could not see beyond an arm’s length, they entered the marsh.

What happened in the mist that morning was never entirely clear. Witnesses heard giant roars, the sound of falling trees, the clang of weapons against scales. Some saw flashes of fire in the fog. Others swore they heard the screams of the dying — both of the monster and of men.

When the mist finally cleared, it was over. Of the twenty hunters, five were dead, ten wounded, and only five unharmed. And the Grosse Biesse? They found great slime trails in the earth, pools of blood, gouges in the trees where the monster had fled. And farther on, deep in the forest, they thought they saw an enormous shadow disappear between the trees and never return.

Rémi himself was never seen again. Some said he was wounded and returned south. Others whispered that he was enchanted, destined to wander the forest until the end of time. But whatever his fate — the Grosse Biesse was never found again. The sheep could graze safely. Families could sleep again. The marshy valleys of Famenne were finally freed.

And to this day, people in Marche say, on cold misty mornings, one sometimes hears the echo of that ancient battle — a distant roar, deep in the woods, that spreads across the fields. But no one dares seek it out. For who knows? Perhaps the Grosse Biesse merely sleeps. Perhaps it waits for the day it awakens.