Tuesday, 22 February 2011
'NAM
Monday, 21 February 2011
VAMPYRE: HUNTING THE MOON, Chapter 8 (Continued from 15/02/11)
CHAPTER 8.
Lloyd wandered the countryside on the outskirts of Paris. Clouds covered the stars and it rained gently.
Driven mad with pain and frustration and rage, he had lost all sense of time and self. His life and his past lives merged into one.
He was fleeing the bells of Paris. At the same time he was lost in the French countryside after the foraging party he lead had been ambushed by Napoleon’s Dragoons. He was the only survivor, starved and wounded and the enemy were all around him. At the same time he was marching behind Henry the Fifth on the way to Agincourt. His eye had been gouged from his face during the siege of Harflaur, and they had marched for seventeen days with little food and the most dreadful dysentery.
Half marching, half stumbling across a field, he believed that he heard the blast of a French bugle. He broke into a run towards a patch of woodland at the far end of the field. He body felt far too light as he ran- where was the sword at his belt, where were his pistols or his armour? Why was John Harvey not there to help him?
At the edge of the woods he tripped on a tree stump and fell heavily on his face. The shock brought a small measure of sanity back to him. He stood and looked into the darkness. He could not see the blue uniforms and tall hats of Dragoons or the shine of French Knights in armour, but he could see that the sky was lightening.
Dawn was coming.
He decided that his enemies were still around him, but that his greatest enemy of all- worse even than the cursed bells- was the sun.
He had to seek shelter.
He walked deeper into the wood, thinking that they might just suffice if nothing else could be found. After a few minutes he reached the other side and saw, to his relief, that there was a derelict barn in the corner of the next field. An old structure of crumbling stone with a flat, corrugated iron roof.
Reaching it, he forced open a rotten wooden door and went inside. It smelled of damp and dung, but the one cracked window was too dusty to let in much light. In one corner old barrels, crates, rope, sacks and pallets were stacked. He made a bed out of wooden pallets and old sacks in the other corner and lay down on it.
Exhaustion and relief flowed through him.
He liked it in the barn- there were no bells.
Back in Britain on the evening of the next day, Alice returned to her home. After a couple of lectures in which he had nearly fallen asleep, she had gone for a coffee with Tracy and spent a long time hearing about how great Andy was and how terrible all other men were. All she had to look forward to was a walk with Sam.
She made herself a cup of tea, then sat down at her computer. She wrote three words on her next essay then gave up and looked at her emails. Vlad the Impaler was writing about his pet wolves and ‘what sweet music they make’. Andy had felt the need to email her and tell her how great it was that they were friends again. She didn’t reply to either. Then she read John’s email and felt silly. She had been too short with him last time. He was clearly insane, enough to make her feel sorry for him, but he was also very interesting and quite nice. And helpful. If she really had been writing about people who thought they were vampires for her degree, he would have been writing her dissertation for her. In reality she was studying literature and just really interested in vampires, maybe she would try to write an article about it sometime.
She wrote back,
“Dear John,
Sorry about my last email, had a bad day. Having another bad day today too, but it’s not your fault.
How are you?
That is interesting about Napoleon and stuff. Was Napoleon really very small? Who was The Duke? Do you mean the Duke was Wellington? Did you meet him? Do you remember much from any other time? What was the 15th century like? Have also found that period interesting, Agincourt and stuff.
Am glad that you haven’t killed anyone. What is it like to drink blood? Do you eat food and drink like a normal person?
Thanks for continuing to write to me, it’s very useful.
Take care,
Alice. X”
When Alice woke the next day her first thought was that John would be going to bed. She found it odd that he was always awake when she was asleep, and wondered what it was like to live in the night.
If he really was nocturnal, that was. He might be lying about that, she thought. He might not even really think he is a vampire.
How ridiculous would that be: a girl pretending to a psychology student writing to man pretending to be a vampire.
She turned on her computer immediately and looked at her emails. There was one from her tutor telling her that she had missed a dead line, and one from John, which read;
“Dear Alice.
Am well, thank you. Hope you are feeling better. May I ask what was wrong?
Yes, I knew the Duke of Wellington, he was a great man. Napoleon was indeed very small. When I saw him, he looked like a child dressed up as a soldier and riding his father’s horse.
Was indeed alive in the 15th centery. It was an interesting time, very hard. Was at Agincourt, and yes, I meet Henry V. We went hunting together once. He was a good man, endless energy and confidence, but he was a boy compared to The Duke.
Those are the only lives which I remember well.
Drinking blood is the finest thing on earth. Better than the best wine in the world, and I know, because I have plundered some fine wine in France. I once captured a baggage train with wine for Napoleon himself, he had stolen it from Marie Antoinette’s own cellar and it was three hundred years old. Blood is better than that. And then there is the satisfaction. We crave it constantly, like cigarettes or drugs (so I am told).
Yes, I eat and drink like a ‘normal’ person. But I am unreasonably found of rare steak and red wine.
Yours faithfully,
John. X”
She giggled when she read about Napoleon, but found the paragraph about the blood distasteful.
She made herself a cup of coffee, then wrote back;
“Dear John,
I’m feeling better thanks. Nothing was wrong, just people.
Can’t believe that you were in Agincourt! You must tell me more about it. Have always loved that time, with the knights in shining armour and the amazing dresses for the ladies and the jousting and courtly love and stuff. And Henry the Fifth. You knew Henry V! Was he like in Shakespeare?
I like rare steak too!
Take care,
Alice. X”
John and Molly worked together in the Black Boar that night. Charlotte sat alone near the bar, enthroned like some Nordic Princess, sipping from a bottle of mead and gazing out across the room. Three bikers stood outside smoking. The pub was empty apart from that. The man who Lloyd had been in confrontation with had not returned since that night.
“I’m going with Charlotte on her next dig,” Molly said as she cleaned the bar. “Up to The Boarders, an excavation near Hadrian’s Wall. We wondered if you would like to join us.”
“Thanks,” he replied. “Not sure if I can make it though. Would be hard to find people to cover for us both.”
“Charlotte thinks you need a holiday.”
John liked the way Molly was always blunt with him. It was true, he hadn’t had a holiday for over a year, and he was getting a bit worn out.
“Okay, thanks,” he said. “But only for a few days.”
“We’re only going for a long weekend. Off on Friday?”
“Sure.”
One of the bikers came in and bought a round, then went back outside. Seeing that the pub was quiet, Molly finished cleaning and was about to go over to Charlotte’s table when Dave walked in.
“Evening Molly,” he greeted her.
“Evening Dave,” she replied. “What are you drinking?”
“You didn’t reply to my text last night.”
“Sorry, I’ve been busy.”
“Can I see you tonight?”
“No, sorry, Charlotte’s here. I told you last week…”
“How about at the weekend?”
“We’re going away at the weekend. I’ll see you next week.”
“Okay. But we need to talk.”
She leaned over the bar and kissed him on the check. He managed a weak smile, then walked out.
“I wish he wouldn’t come into work like that,” she said.
“He just wanted to talk to you,” John replied.
“He’s like a puppy.”
“He’s in love with you.”
“No, he just thinks he is.”
John got home from work, poured a glass of wine and read his emails.
He wanted to ask Alice if they could meet. He didn’t know where she lived, but he was willing to travel anywhere.
But he decided against it. Maybe Molly and Charlotte were right. Maybe he was getting too obsessed and really needed a holiday and a vampyre girlfriend.
And what would he do if they met? Would they be friends, would he try to seduce her, would he bite her throat and drink her blood. He didn’t trust himself.
Instead, he wrote;
“Dear Alice,
Sometimes I miss the reign of King Henry the Fifth. It was a far simpler time. There was God and the King, and one’s Lord, and everyone knew their place. Things were as they ought to be, and if something happened it was because God made it happen and so it was right. They were hard times too. It was the lot of a rich man to fight and of a poor man to work. Violence and death was our world, and endless toil and utter poverty was the world of the masses.
King Harry was a lot like in Shakespeare. Every inch the King.
Served as a Man At Arms under the Duke of Cumberland at Agincourt. My friend and I had both been wounded weeks earlier, and all of us, English and Welsh, were wounded or sick. Stood with a few hundred Men at Arms and a few thousand archers against five times our number of French knights. It was said that every knight and every aristocrat it France had come to fight us. But we stood against them, and Harry said that God was on our side so we would win, and we believed him.
Before the battle, Harry ordered us all to kneel and kiss the ground. Then we all took up a piece of earth and put it in our mouths. It seems like madness when I write of it now, but it seemed natural at the time. It was like some strange Mass, with the land instead of the body of Christ. Really, it was a way of showing that it was our land. Not France, but Harry’s Land. England’s Land. It showed we loved it, and we owned it.
We advanced half way across the field, trampling through the mud in our rusting plate armour. Then our archers fired at the enemy, literally turning the sky dark with arrows. Then the French charged. It is all a blur after that. We fought them for three hours, and killed them in their thousands.
It was the archers who won the day for us, them and King Harry, but we said that it was God.
Take care,
John. X”
He turned off his computer and poured himself another glass of wine.
There were other things that he remembered from that day; but he did not want to tell her of how they had massacred the French prisoners, or how their baggage train was robbed, or how Lloyd had saved his life.
Alice read his email after breakfast the next day.
It fascinated her. She loved that period in history. She had read before about the massed archers winning the battle, but she had not heard about the strange soil eating ritual. The idea of reincarnation and past lives interested her too, even though she knew it was illogical.
She found it interesting how people were willing to believe impossible things. People believed in God, even though the world was cruel and random. People believed in magic and miracles, despite science. But there was more to it than that, people believed ridiculous things every day of their lives. People could see the homeless on the streets every day on the way to a job they hated, and still believe that Capitalism was a fair system. They could watch TV every night and believe that anyone could be famous, and that the people who were rich and famous deserved to be. Every one had to forget, for most of the time, that they were going to die, because life would be unbearable otherwise. Maybe, she thought, that was why people believed in God, or that they were vampires, or that they reincarnated.
Fear of Death.
Tracy had once said to her that life in the capitalist world was like in Alice in Wonderland; you had to ‘believe in seven impossible things before breakfast’.
There was an essay in that somewhere.
But on the other hand, a little part of her wanted to believe it all. To believe that she really was writing to a vampire who had been in Agincourt. To believe that everyone lived forever.
She considered writing back, but she had an essay to finish, and then she had to meet Sam.
Baron sat in his smoky office. Outside his shuttered windows the sun set over a misty night in Paris. His gun, freshly cleaned and polished, sat on top of a pile of unfinished paperwork on his desk.
He was far from happy that Lloyd and the girl had disappeared without paying their bill. The cut on the wall and the note in her room, and the discarded dagger which he found in the street, told him that something was amiss. He had trusted his old friend, or at least trusted him as much as anyone in the world- which wasn’t very much. He was quite sure that Lloyd would return soon with his money.
However, he was even more sure that if Lloyd did not return with the money in the next three days, then certain people would receive certain anonymous tip offs regarding the string of brutal murders which had recent occurred in France.
He looked once again at his paperwork, sighed, and lit another cigarette.
Tuesday, 15 February 2011
VAMPYRE: HUNTING THE MOON (Chapter 7, continued from 07/02/11)
CHAPTER 7.
THE UNITED KINGDOM OF THE NEATHERLANDS.1815.
The Belgian Baroness held a fine party for her British allies on that warm, June night.
Hundreds of British Officers danced and drank with the most beautiful Ladies of the Kingdom of the Netherlands, confident of their impending victory over The French.
It was to be a second victory. Only a year earlier, the Napoleonic Wars had ended, and Napoleon had been exiled to the Isle of Elba. But he had returned, and taken back his throne, and led the French once more against the civilised world. And again he would be defeated; because The Duke of Wellington had taken up his command once again, and the Duke was certain that he had out manoeuvred his old enemy and would bring him to battle within the week.
Captain Harvey sipped wine from a crystal glass at a fine table, contented as he watched the younger Officers dance with their Ladies. And fine Ladies they were too; aristocrats from the southern lands which would one day be called Belgium with their big, dark eyes, and tall, blonde ladies from the north.
His friend Captain Lloyd strode over, a bottle of champagne in one hand and a cigar in the other.
“What ho sir!” Lloyd exclaimed.
“Evening sir,” Harvey replied mildly.
“A fine evening indeed! I have been sent on a mission by… I forget her name- that Nordic Princess over there. She wishes to dance with you, and, indeed, to make an intimate acquaintance!”
Harvey did not even glance in the direction in which his friend pointed.
“My compliments to the lady, sir,” Harvey said. “Please inform her that I respectfully decline. As you well know, I was but recently married to the lovely Lady Molly.”
“Tosh, sir! You would struggle to find a fellow on that dance floor, or indeed in the bedrooms upstairs, or indeed out in the garden, who is not married to a lady quite different to the one whom he is currently with. Further more…”
A petit Countess with a fair, slender neck encircled by golden ringlets under a diamond tiara caught Lloyd eye before he could finish. He instantly put down his bottle, finished his cigar, and strode towards her.
At that moment, a young staff officer- stained with sweat and dust- burst into the hall. He cut across the dance floor, to the table where The Duke sat. There he stopped abruptly and whispered into The Duke’s ear.
Wellington stood abruptly, along with several of his Senior Officers, and followed the Staff Officer to a small, quiet room upstairs.
Quickly, and in no uncertain turns, the Staff Officer explained how The French had manoeuvred rapidly and secretly to attack The Prussian Allies at Thuin and Lobez that dawn. The British were cut off from their allies, and faced annihilation from a French force which greatly outnumbered them.
Wellington received this news gracefully, but his face darkened. Sitting with an old soldier’s perfect posture, he stared thoughtfully at his fellow Officers. King Arthur himself could not have showed such charisma as did those dark eyes, or as much responsibility as those deep brows.
“They have humbugged us,” Wellington said gravely.
Maps and charts were gathered, and a plan was rapidly formed. The French had to be brought to battle as soon as possible, before The Prussian could be wiped out or separated from The British by two great a distance. Wellington’s army would march for the town of Waterloo at dawn.
News quickly spread to the Officers, and to the army which camped nearby. Captain Harvey, along with most of the Officers returned immediately to their billets to prepare and snatch what little sleep they could. Others, like Captain Lloyd, choose to stay, and drink and dance until dawn.
“You are drunk, Captain Lloyd,” The Duke of Wellington said as he inspected the artillery division which Lloyd commanded the next day.
“Quite so, sir,” said Lloyd, who was not the only Officer on that field to be wearing a sword belt hastily strapped on over exquisite evening dress. “I made my choice between this and a hangover, and I stand by it. Sir.”
“Understood,” replied The Duke, who would not himself have wished to stand by thundering cannons all day with a hangover; then he rode on.
Captain Harvey stood at the head of his Company. His most trusted Officer, Lieutenant Marks, stood at his side. At either side of them stretched the long thin line of infantry men which he commanded. Like all of his men, he was exhausted from the rapid dawn march, on which they had been harassed by French scouts, but like the rest, he was pleased. They were at Waterloo- to fight the old enemy.
Many more Companies of infantry stretched across the field, like red, bayonet tipped walls. Behind them the cavalry and artillery waited. Ahead of them stood the vast horde of the French army.
“Ready Captain Harvey?” Wellington called as he rode over.
“Ready sir.”
Wellington nodded respectfully then looked at his pocket watch. The Prussian reinforcements were late, but the battle would have to begin without them. He rode on.
“Vive la Empereur! Vive la Empereur! Vive la Empereur!“ came the shout, interrupted only by harsh drum beats, as the French advanced in massive blue columns.
“Steady men! Steady!” Harvey called out, his pistol pointed at the advancing host and his sword held high.
The men waited, fingers tense on their triggers.
The French drew closer, advancing all along the line.
“Fire!” he commanded, slashing his sabre down and firing his own pistol.
The wave of lead hit the French.
“Second rank fire!” the sergeants yelled. “Third rank fire!... First rank fire! Second rank fire!...”
Every British infantryman had been trained to fire and reload his musket four times a minute. In long lines, three ranks deep, where two ranks crouched and reloaded as a third fired, they were able to keep up a steady volley of fire and death.
The cries of “Vive la Empereur!” were cut short. As was the drumming. The front ranks of the columns crumbled. The French fired a few wild shots and then turned to flee.
“Cease fire!” Lloyd yelled at the artillery men under his command.
His thirty guns, which had torn bloody swaths into the French columns, sat silent, with smoking, red hot barrels.
He stared across the battlefield with grim satisfaction. The battle went well, but there was much work left to do. Then out of the corner of his eye he saw what ever artilleryman feared the most. A band of cavalry who had outflanked the main army and were galloping towards him.
“Load grapeshot!” he commanded.
He took a swig from his hipflask- the last of his brandy- and rubbed the gun powder smoke from his face. His best evening suit was ruined, his long, powdered hair was black with soot, and his throat was parched. His men worked and would fire without any further commands. They worked for their lives, knowing how easily the French would ride them down if they came amongst them.
The French galloped closer, less than a hundred yards away. A hundred of them, all fine blue coats and shining steel. Some waving sabres, others had carbines ready to fire.
The first cannon fired. The grape shot- hundreds of musket balls stuffed down the barrel in a sack- turned the cannons into giant shotguns. Another cannon fired, then another, blasting the cavalry into bloody ruin.
By the time the cannons were silent only two of the French horsemen remained.
The first cavalry man cut down a gunner with his sword, before being dragged from his horse and stamped to death.
Lloyd casually shot the other with his flintlock pistol at a range of only five yards. But the horse- mad with fear- charged on, and the rider still held his sword and glared furiously at the face of death.
Lloyd dodged the horse and the sword, then leap up to grab the
rider. Englishman and Frenchman landed together in the mud with a bone rocking impact. Lloyd landed, sprawled, on top of his enemy, his weapons discarded in the struggle. The Frenchman clawed at him, with the determination of a man who knew he was going to die.
Ignoring his own pain, Lloyd bit deep into the man’s throat, quenching his thirst on his blood.
Harvey leaned heavily on his sword. It was mid afternoon. All day long the French had charged with infantry and cavalry, and all day long the British infantry had held their ground. His left hand was scorched from firing his flintlock pistol. His right arm was cut from the glancing blow of a bayonet. His skin was burnt by the fierce sun. His eyes and nose and mouth stung from the foul musket smoke which filled the air.
A quarter of his men were dead or wounded. Lieutenant Marks fought on despite wounds to his face and arms. Another Lieutenant had been slain.
For the first time in his life he was tired of war.
He wanted to be home, in his land, with his Molly.
But there was little time for reflection or weariness, because the French were charging again.
Monday, 14 February 2011
Forgotten Women of the Post Romantic Period.
Today I honour the (almost) forgotten heroins of the Post Romantic Period, ladies who are found in few history books, but who had an enormous impact on the history of the world.
Eleanor Marx, 1855-1898.This lady is best known as the daughter of Karl Marx, but she was a great socialist leader in her own right. Eleanor Marx was high influentual in establishing the Union and Labour movement in Britain during a period of expreme oppression and exploitation. She was murdered by her husband after discovering that he had been unfaithfull to her.
Rosa Luxemburg, 1871-1919.During the Great War, Rosa Luxemburg set up Soviets in Germany. She organised workers, sailors and soldiers into Unions, establishing a small Socialist State on the coast of German. The disruption which this caused to German inports was one of the largest factors in their surrender. Having brought peace to her country, she countnued to lead the German Communists untill she was murdered by Nazis. Trotsky was in awe of her, and if Lenin had followed her advise the oppression of Stalinist Russia could have been avoided.
Lyudmila Pavichenkov, Hero of the Soviet Union, 1916-1974.
Thursday, 10 February 2011
CALEDONIA (A Vampyre Story, continued from 27th of January)
Merkorius Decius, Centurion of the 34th Legion, paced the top of the great wall. That wall, built decades ago in the far north of the land called Britannia, in the far north of the Roman Empire, was far- too far- from the villa in Rome where he had been born. He shivered under his cloak. Cold and bored, he paced where he had paced as a night sentinel a hundred times before.
Stopping for a moment, he rubbed his numb hands together and looked over the moon lit battlements to the savage, barren land where Rome had drawn Her boundary. Let the barbarian’s keep it, he thought bitterly.
He renewed his pace, increasing it to a heavy, rapid march which he hoped would warm his frozen bones. His foot steps hid the sound of a grappling hook striking the wall by the furthest tower.
Merkorius marched on, his mind clouded by boredom and frustration. There was another hour before another man took his place. Another hour of marching alone, back and forth, in the biting wind, under the dark sky, with nothing but-
A monster.
A monster leapt towards him. A thing of human shape, as tall as he but more slender, long dreadlocks flowing from its head like snakes, its body naked but covered in mad spirals and symbols.
He struck out with his sword, but the thing took his hand- held it- twisted it. The gladius- his sword- fell clattering on the stones. It held him close. He felt its hot breath against him, saw its icy green eyes pierce his soul.
For a moment he thought that this naked, painted, tattooed, long haired thing was a woman, not a monster. With the calm and clarity of one who know that he will die, he saw flashes of unmistakable feminine lips, pert breasts, slender legs.
But then it had to be a monster, because it bit into his neck like a wolf.
Caledonia woke the next evening. Rising from her bed, she lit a candelabra, then lit a cigar from one of the three burning candles, inhaled deeply from it and let the smoke clear her mind.
A Pre Raphaelite artist would have given his left hand to have been able to paint the scene. Her hair was molten gold mixed with lava in the candle light. The impeccable white skin, radiating inner strength, which- like the darkness around her eyes- needed no make up to enhance it. The intricate knot work of the blue tattoo which encircled her right thigh- which few men ever saw and lived. The cigar smoking on the brass ashtray on its slender dark wood stand. The layers and layers of black velvet which covered the massive bed and the black out curtains of her window. The white lilies in the vase and the decomposing red roses on the carpet.
She returned her attention to the cigar. (A long, thin Cuban cigar which she far preferred to the Mexican cigarillos which she smoked on nights out.) Caledonia was tired after an eventful night and a day of unquiet dreams, and it helped. She blew a smoke ring out into a gloriously gothic scene, which was ruined by the ringing of her phone.
‘Hello,’ she answered, her voice dry.
‘Hello lady,’ Molly replied.
‘How are you?’
‘Quite Well. What about you? What happened with that lad last night?’
‘Guess.’
‘Oh, Caledonia… I don’t know why you bother.’
‘You know exactly why.’
On the other side of the city, Molly paused to think. Caledonia took a long drag of her cigar.
‘Lady, we need to talk. Come to my house tonight, please.’
‘Aye, alright. I shall be there in an hour.’
‘What did he taste like?’ Molly asked her friend, who sat opposite her on a faded black leather sofa.
‘Like beer and sweat and man.’
Caledonia inspected her friend. She like the coils of smoke that danced from the end of her cigarette. She liked the way her long, wavy black hair glistened in the lamp light. But she did not like the look on her friends face, the neutral expression on her full lips and the pity in her eyes.
‘And was it worth it, Caledonia? Was he worth it, lady?’ Molly asked.
‘I desired to drink.’
‘Why not find a decent man to drink?’
‘You know as well as I do how rare a decent man is… And if I found one, what if I broke him? What if I killed him?’
‘What if you did not?’
‘Aye, what then? What if I kept him forever and nothing ever changed- what then?’
‘You still miss him, don’t you?’
Silence fell on the room like a blanket of snow.
‘Are you okay, Caledonia? You seemed tired,’ Molly eventually said.
‘I’m alright, thank you Molly, but I have not been sleeping well.’
‘Nightmares?’
‘Aye.’
‘We all have them.’
‘No, not just the memories. I dreamt that something was following me, stalking me.’
‘Do not be afraid, lady. We are the ones who stalk; we are not the ones who know fear.’
‘Aye’.
She lit another cigar.
‘Would you come hunting with me tonight?’ Molly asked.
‘Again? When did you last drink?’
‘There was that girl last month, and then that man last year…’
‘Your donor?’
‘Yes, him.’
‘You must be thirsty… I am not, but I’ll join you if you like.’
Molly stubbed out her cigarette, and looked thoughtful, then angry.
‘I don’t want an audience,’ she said.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to be patronising.’
‘I know, its okay. But I am thirsty, I should go out soon.’
‘Okay Molly. Good luck.’
‘Thank you lady. Good night.’
They stood and hugged each other.
‘Good night,’ Caledonia said as they went their separate ways.
It was a cool night, but the wind blew from the south and was warm. A few stars shone amid the red glow of the light pollution. A few Sunday night drinkers crossed Caledonia’s path as she strode through the middle of the city, then she was alone on the streets.
Then she heard the foot steps behind her. Or at least ‘footsteps’ was the closest thing which she could associate with that noise. It might have been a bone drum stick on a stone drum, or repeated thunder that was very, very far away, but it had the rhythm of footsteps.
She glanced over her shoulder.
The street was deserted. Nothing could hide from her in the dark.
She walked on, but the ‘footsteps’ became louder, closer.
‘Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,’ she said a chant she had learnt long ago, ’I shall fear no evil; for I am the shadow, and I am the death, and I am the evil, and it is my valley’.
It calmed her mind, but it did not stop the footsteps.
She was on her street now, a minute from her house. She fought the temptation to increase her pace. She could not be afraid, she was the stalker.
Still the footsteps came, like hooves on frozen ground or Captain Ahab’s peg-leg.
When she reached her front door she spun round, fangs bared, eyes blazing.
Nothing, silence, an empty street.
She went inside, slamming the door behind her. She needed a cigar.
Had there been some LSD or something in Damien’s blood? No. She would have known sooner. Something was wrong.
She lit a small fire in her front room and snuggled up in front of it like a cat.
She needed a cigar, and a nice book, and a good day’s sleep.
Then everything would be fine.
The ambers barely glowed in the fireplace when she woke the next evening. Her book, a romance by Sir Walter Scott lay open and half read beside her. Her long, black dress was creased and her hair slightly tangled. She yawned and stretched, her movement feline.
She had slept peacefully, the invisible stalker seemed a distant memory, but she was thirsty. Very thirsty.
She drank a glass of water, but that did little to help. All the water in the world would not quench her thirst. She needed to hunt.
After a quick shower, she dressed in comfortable jeans, a black vest and light weight boots. Practical hunting gear. She tucked her dirk- the razor sharp one with the ivory handle that he had given her so long ago- into her left boot. She had not used it for decades, she did like to use it- she did not need weapons, she was a weapon- but she did not like taking unnecessary risks.
And the dirk reminded her of him, and comforted her- but she did not feel like admitting that to herself.
Then she was on the street. The wind had changed, it blew from the north and was chill, but that did not bother her. Patchy clouds raced across the sky.
She reached the modern metal foot bridge which spanned the muddy river with its ridiculous arches. It looked like a sensible bridge had been built, then a giant had picked it up and twisted it and slammed down again.
She waited in the middle of the bridge, smoking a cigar.
The city glowed with street light and car headlights. Distant music could be heard from pubs and homes.
Two young men walked past. One of them smiled at her, the other just stared.
She ignored them. The road was busy and a woman and her child were about to cross the bridge.
Caledonia cursed her own inpatients. It was too early, she would have to wait awhile for a clean kill. The thirst ached like lust.
For almost half an hour no one came.
Then she smiled.
A middle aged man walked towards her. He wore a suit jacket over a shirt and blue jeans. He smelled faintly of alcohol and strongly of aftershave. He wore brown shoes. Caledonia remembered the days when gentlemen did not wear brown shoes, except on Sundays and at the market. From the way he looked at her, he was probably not a gentlemen.
When he was a yard away, she pounced.
Her left arm restrained his right arm. Her right arm went over his mouth and twisted his head to one side. He struggled, but she was stronger. She bit into his exposed neck, tearing the skin, ripping through veins and arteries, slashing his jugular.
He died and she drank.
That was how the world worked.
When she had drained him, she threw his body into the river and set off home.
The adrenalin faded before she had even left the bridge. Her thirst was satisfied, but she was not. He had tasted of aftershave, it was foul in her mouth.
Molly had been right. It was not worth it.
She started to think about him.
He had tasted good, so good that she had let him live, and then made him live forever.
Lost in thought, she wondered blindly. In a few minutes she found herself in a small graveyard. It was built on a hill with a church at the top, the castle- a great looming monster which still served as a prison- stood beside the church. She sat on the edge of a vandalised monolith amongst the graves and trees and remembered.
His name had been Thorfast Grimlinson. Back when she still lived amongst the heather, he had sailed to her land from a land even further north. He and his ship mates had come to trade, back in the years before the great raiding had begun, before the war between Odin and Christ. He was the tallest man she had ever seen, with blonde hair down to his waist and eyes like the sea. He had told her that he was a bard, but the calluses on his right hand and the broken fingers on his left told of another trade.
He had before her lover hours after they had met. Then her food, then her immortal lover.
He called her ‘Caledonia’, after the land where she lived, because- he had said- she represented everything that was beautiful about that place.
For years he lived with her amongst the rocks and the heather. Then, when more of his people came, they had sailed together to his home, where the ice never melted and the sun shone at midnight in the summer and not at all in winter. They had raided together, feeding on the soft, rich lands of the south.
After centuries, they tired of the sea, and went back to the heather. Then they travelled across all of Britain, but Britain had changed and no one place was good enough to stay.
They travelled Europe.
French blood. German blood. Italian blood. Greek blood.
The New World was discovered, even though Thorfast’s people had been there long ago. America entertained them for years, then that too grew old.
They returned to the north of Britain. They saw the world tear itself apart in war. Twice. They saw The British Empire fade.
The world had changed beyond understanding. But when, every few years, they returned to Caledonia, the heather and the rocks were the same.
Then he had left. She was not sure why. They had argued. They had argued every few decades, and this one was no worse than before, but when she woke in the morning he was gone.
That had been two years ago.
Close to tears, she lit a cigar and walked home.
There were no dull, deep footsteps behind her, but she felt as though she was been followed.
She did not care.
On the following evening she woke to find a singularly sinister figure sat on the side of her bed.
Sitting bolt upright, her first thought was to bare her fangs at the intruder, to terrify him before she killed him.
A better look at him told her that this would not work.
The figure sat on her bed wore a tailored black suit, black shirt and a black tie, with black leather gloves and pointy black shoes. Its head was a skull with endlessly deep, dark eye sockets. She knew that there would be nothing but bones under its finery.
‘Good evening Caledonia,’ the thing said with a voice as deep as a well.
‘Good evening Death,’ she replied calmly as she got out of bed, adjusted her silk nightdress, and stood to face it. ‘What do you want?’
‘Your time has come.’
‘My time came and went a long time ago.’
‘You must die one day, now is as good a time as any other.’
‘Go to Hell,’ she said, taking a cigar from her bedside table and lighting it.
‘That is one place I can’t go. The same may not be said of you,’ Death looked like it was grinning, but skulls always look like they are grinning.
‘I don’t believe in Hell.’
‘For some there is a Hell, for some there is a Heaven, for some there is another life, for some there is oblivion,’ Death said sagely. ‘All must pass on to some place. You must pass on.’
‘Why?’
‘It is part of the harmony and justice and balance of this world. Things must die. There must be a judgement. Things must ascend or descend.’
‘I’ve been on this world for about two thousand years, and I’ve not seen much harmony or justice or balance. Things happen, or we make things happen. That’s about it.’
‘You are wrong, Caledonia, there are forces in this world that you cannot begin to-‘
Caledonia punched Death in the face. The skull cracked a little. For a second the deepest-pit eyes looked shocked, then the lipless mouth looked sad, then it just stared at her.
‘I don’t give a shit!’ she told Death. ‘Get out of my house.’
Death faded.
The rest of the night passed uneventfully. Caledonia could not face going out. She could not even face seeing Molly. She told herself that she would see Molly and Charlotte the next day. She just needed to rest.
She sat by the fire and read, and smoked, and drank a little whiskey.
Her doorbell rang as she dressed the next evening.
Cursing, she pulled on her dress and ran a brush through her hair, then went to answer it.
Her barbarian stood at the door. For a moment she wanted to slap him. Then she wanted to embrace him. She did nothing.
Two years apart. Thirteen hundred years together.
It had been too long. She was too shocked to know how to feel or what to do.
They stared at each other.
‘Caledonia…’ he said, his face like stone and his eyes shining. ‘Death came for me. It came for you first, didn’t It?’
‘Aye.’
‘I knew it, knew it when I saw the crack on Its skull.’
She smiled.
‘When it came for me, I knew I could not die without you,’ Thorfast Grimlinson said. ‘Don’t much like living without you either.’
‘Come inside,’ she led him by the arm. ‘We need to talk.’
THE END.
Monday, 7 February 2011
VAMPYRE HUNTING THE MOON (Chapter 6, continued from 31/01/11) )
CHAPTER 6.
Lloyd ripped her dagger from the wall and ran down to his room. The door was opened and a quick glance told him that his suitcase, and with it his clothes, his passport and the valuables which he had stolen, were gone.
He ran down the next set of stairs and out of the hotel into the street. Looking around him, he saw no one.
She was gone.
At that moment, in England, Molly woke up.
She rolled over in her bed and her eyes adjusted to the darkness.
Charlotte lay beside her. Flaxen hair plaited behind her back. Bronze shoulders and neck revealed above the sheets, chest gently heaving beneath them. A serene smile on her sleeping face.
Charlotte: Who had been Molly’s girlfriend for two years and friend for almost two hundred years.
Charlotte: The only vampyre with a tan that Molly had ever met, and the oldest vampyre she had ever known. A vampyre who had not drunk blood in over a life time, and whose soul belonged so utterly to the Heathen Gods that the wrath of God could not harm her. A lady who remembered when Britain was covered in forests filled with wolves and bears and wild boar, a Britain ruled by the Norsemen, a Britain where Odin was God.
Molly remembered the first time she had ever met her. She was dancing in John’s arms back when he was a Captain in Wellington’s army and her husband. John had returned in triumph from Waterloo and held a party in his country manor. Lloyd was drinking himself to death in a corner, John was in her arms and Charlotte was stood amongst a crowd of Officers and ladies, drinking blood from a crystal glass, illuminating the room with her radiant grace. When the dance was over she had been introduced and they had become the best of friends.
She remembered the first time she had met Charlotte in this world. She had been working behind the bar and Charlotte strode into the room. Appearing again in her life from nowhere and heading straight for her.
“I’ve been looking for you,” Charlotte had said.
Then Charlotte had leaned over the bar and they had kissed, and in that moment Molly knew that she had been waiting all her life for that kiss.
Molly ran a hand lovingly through Charlotte’s soft hair. Then, unable to restrain her self, nibbled gently on her neck, and delighted in the soft murmurs of pleasure which that caused.
Charlotte’s steely blue eyes opened and they kissed.
“Good evening darling,” Charlotte said, her voice soft and refined.
“Good evening Charlotte.”
As they enjoyed that joyful moment, Lloyd experienced a far from joyous moment in France.
He felt a terrible pain in his ears for a few seconds, like red hot scalpels stabbing through his ears in his brain.
A hasty look at his pocket watch confirmed his fears.
Somewhere on the edge of his hearing a bell tower had chimed the hour.
He had fallen further from grace with God. His plot of betrayal and murder had pushed him further into darkness. Now, like some demon, he would be harmed by the pure ringing of a bell.
He had heard of it happening before to vampyres who had fallen too far into debauchery. The great vampires of the past who had revelled in orgies of blood and killed thousands, but who could be slain by a little priest with a bell, a book and a candle. It would be Hell. Every city, town and village had bells which would ring every quarter of the hour, churches bells would ring for ages before services, bells in shops, and the last orders in pubs: all would pain him.
Would silver burn him now? Would the sight of the cross blind him?
He had to get out of Paris. He needed get out of France. He wanted to go home. He needed a passport. There was no home to go to, not in a town full of bells. He had to be away from everyone, everything.
Trapped in France- the land of his enemies- and everything hurt- and the girl!
He could not think. He panicked.
He ran blindly down the street.
Far away the bells of Notre Dame rang out for evening service.
John Harvey sat alone in the park, waiting for Molly and Charlotte. They were five minutes late, they were usually late, but he did not mind.
He sat under an oak tree facing a small obelisk surrounded by flower beds. There were firs and elms scattered around the meadow, and dry leaves on the ground. A group of teenagers sat on a bench at the far end of the park, quietly enjoying their drugs.
John remembered when the park had first been opened; how much smaller the trees had been, and how immaculate the flower beds were, and how children would never have come there at night. There had been a bandstand once, and peacocks had roamed freely. And he remembered when the park was all woodland with a rich canopy of trees and wildflowers growing amongst boulders. But he did not remember how the park had looked in the daylight.
His mind drifted.
He thought about Lloyd and Molly and Alice.
He remembered the times over the centuries when he and Lloyd had served their country together, when Lloyd was not such a bad man, and always drunk and jolly. He remembered when they had fought in France for King George, and long before when they had fought for ‘Harry, England and Saint George’. He remembered Lloyd when he was still human, with a wife and a child and a missing eye to prove his valour, and he wondered how his old friend was doing.
He remembered when Molly was his wife and Charlotte was her friend, and how he had always suspected that she loved her, but it was fine because she loved him too. He remembered how beautiful she had been on her wedding night, and how much more beautiful she seemed when he returned to her from Waterloo after being away too long and being so close to death. He was glad that he knew her still.
There were so many whom had not seen again. The men who had served under him in the wars; the girls from the French taverns from before he had met Molly; and Wellington. He missed Wellington, but was proud to have known him once.
He thought of how Charlotte, who worked as an archaeologist and still worshiped Heathen Gods, managed to live in the past, but also live happily in the present. He wondered how it most be for Charlotte; to have lived so many more times, to remember so much more; to have known and loved and lost so many more people…
He was brought back to the present when Charlotte and Molly appeared beside him. He stood and hugged them both, then they sat on the grass together.
“A fine night,” Charlotte said as she opened her bag and took out a bottle of mead and three glasses.
“Indeed, it is,” John said. “How are you ladies doing?”
“Good,” Molly replied.
“Very well, but tired,” Charlotte said as she poured the mead. “How are you?”
“Well. How was your dig?”
“Excellent. Have been down in Norfolk, working on a ruined abbey. Was delightful. There are few finer sights than a ruined abbey.”
“Did you find anything interesting?” he asked.
“Just the usual. Sheep bones, bits of pot, new foundation stones.”
“No Saxon gold?”
“No Saxon gold.”
“Never any Saxon gold,” Molly said wistfully as she lit a cigarette..
“Not for a very long time,” said Charlotte. “Is Lloyd not joining us?”
“No, he is in France,” he said.
“Best place for him,” Molly said.
They finished their glasses, then Molly produced a small glass bottle of red liquid and took a swig, then offered it to John.
“Dave?” John asked.
Molly grinned and nodded.
“No thanks.”
“Given up?” Charlotte asked him.
“No, not really. Just don’t like the taste of Dave.”
“He’s thirsting after his strange-email-girl,” Molly said. “No one else will do.”
“Am not thirsting after her,” he said defensively.
“Who is this?” Charlotte asked.
“A girl who is interested in vampyres. She emails me questions, and some times I answer.”
“He is obsessed,” said Molly
“Am curious,” he replied.
“Do not tell her too much,” Charlotte said. “We cannot ever really trust them.”
They were used to her referring to non vampyres a little bitterly as ‘them’. They knew that she remembered the days of burning torches and stakes and witch hunts far too well, and knew better than to comment.
“You should find yourself a nice vampyre girl,” Charlotte continued, pouring another two glasses of mead. “Until then, drink this.”
They sat and talked for another hour, then went their separate ways. Charlotte and Molly to a lover’s bed, and John to his home.
John walked the long path behind the park which led to his street. High stone walls stood on both sides of a pebbled track, and oaks and holly grew behind them. At the far end of the path he saw two young men, one short and stocky, the other very tall.
As they drew closer he saw that both were wearing tracksuits with baseball caps under hoods. The smaller one was staggering slightly as he walked. They walked purposefully towards him, side by side, blocking the path.
They stopped a yard ahead of him.
“Fuckin’ goth!” the small one shouted.
John stopped a foot in front of them. It was clear that they did not intend to let him pass. He stared at them and they snarled back.
“Give us your wallet, dickhead!” the small one demanded.
“Go home lads,” John replied calmly.
“Give us your fuckin’ wallet or we’ll beat shit out o’ you,” the little one said.
“Go home,” John said again.
“Don’t mess with us goth, my mate’s joining the Marines.”
“Don’t mess with me,” John was loosing his patients. “I’ve got two lifetimes experience of military service.”
“Fuck you,” the little one snarled, reaching into his pocket.
John identified the real threat and punched the tall man in the jaw; in just such a way that sent him sprawling before knocking him out cold.
The little man had drawn his pen knife.
John hit his wrist, sending the knife flying. Then he grabbed the man, with one hand on his shoulder and one on his head, and pulled his head sideways to expose his neck.
He bit into the man’s neck, but then, just before he broke the skin, he restrained himself and cast the man aside in disgust.
Leaving them on the ground, one lying unconscious and the other a shacking, gibbering wreck, he walked home.
A pen knife! He remembered when robbers had flintlocks and sabres.
He needed another drink.
Charlotte lay naked on the bed. A dozen candles burnt around the room. She waited for Molly.
For a moment she remembered another night of naked flesh and fire long ago. She and her sisters danced around a huge fire, they were full of mead and covered in boar’s blood and they danced to invoke Freya. They danced to summon the Goddess of love and war and poetry and death to aid them against the threat of the false God of the south.
That memory was quickly dispelled when Molly came into the room.
Molly, pale as the moon in the candle light, wearing stockings and a corset and nothing else.
“I hope the sun never rises,” Charlotte said.
The room was dark and the radio played. The music was irrelevant.
John sat at home, drinking the last of the wine from the bottle.
Suddenly he remembered another night, from many years ago.
Another night, on a different narrow path, under a different moon
He and Lloyd stood over the corpses of two men who looked a lot like those who he had fought on the path. Or at least they had done, when they still had faces.
A flintlock pistol smoked in Lloyd’s hand.
“We can’t keep doing this forever,” John had said.
“We have forever,” Lloyd had replied. “We can do what we want.”
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