by Tim ORourke
Page 8
“What then?” I pushed.
“I let the monster out because of…” he said, his eyes flashing yellow in the glass.
“Because of what?” I asked.
He smiled back at his own reflection.
I could tell that it wasn’t a smile of happiness, but more of regret. “What turned you from that little boy into what you are now, Jack?”
Then turning to look at me, he said, “Love.
That’s what truly let my monster out. ”
“But to love is good, isn’t it?” I asked.
“Is it?” he said, coming back towards his chair. “You’re going to die – turn to stone very soon because of love, Kiera. You only came to this house today because of love. How can that possibly be a good thing? If you didn’t love, you wouldn’t be here now. You would be free. ”
“And what about hate?” I asked him.
“What about it?” he shot back.
“Has that set you free?”
“Yes. ”
“How?”
“You wouldn’t understand. ”
“Try me. ”
Silence fell between us. Neither of us able to break the other’s stare.
“I will explain,” he said as the silence in the room became almost deafening. “As the paper chains were finally pulled down, we entered a new year, not only in a new home but with new names, as well…
Chapter Ten
Jack
…My mother decided in early January we should no longer use our names, but adopt new ones. Despite her recent assurances that our father had forgotten about us all, she now believed he may well be hunting for us.
“Anything we could do to throw him off our scent will be to our advantage and safety,” she told us.
Confusingly, we could still use our birth names at school, but when at home and mixing with people living around us, we should be known under aliases. She painted a picture of our father frantically searching for us, so he could silence us and prevent us from giving up his dark secrets.
According to our mother, he was furious with us and if he ever discovered our secret location, he would murder us in our beds. She would often tell me if she hadn’t have taken us away when she had, she believed my father would have murdered us one by one.
I had nightmares for weeks after hearing that. I dreamt my father was climbing the wall beneath my bedroom window, his claws scratching against the brickwork, his bright yellow eyes watching me through the glass. Silently, he would climb through the open window, coming towards me on all fours, teeth gleaming in the moonlight. Then, with his fur bristling with excitement and drool swinging from his jaws, he would lunge at me. I would wake, sitting bolt upright, gasping and clawing at my chest.
During this time, I became evermore terrified of seeing my father and was finally becoming grateful to my mother for rescuing me from the caves and him. So I was first to accept the notion of changing our names. As Mother sat among us, she explained it would only take our father to come onto the estate where we lived and ask the other children that hung around, if they knew of a Lorre, Kara, Jack, or Rik. Apart from my name, none of them were commonly used by humans. The other children might then unwittingly lead him to us. So we all agreed, for our own safety, we would change our names at home and in front of our neighbours.
Mother decided that Lorre should be known as Teresa, Kara would be called Mary, Rik would be known as Nikolaou, and I was to be known as Paul – named after Father Paul, who it seemed had done so much to help us. At first it seemed odd, but as one day melted into the next, we just became accustomed to being known by our birth names at school and our aliases at home.
Rik had the hardest time trying to comprehend what was taking place, so he gave up his name and adopted Nik permanently.
During this time, there was one other change of name that we all had to get accustomed to. By spring, we were no longer calling the Blackcoat, Father Paul, but in the sanctuary of our home he would let us call him ‘Dad. ’
Father Paul had become a constant visitor to our new home, visiting us at every opportunity he had. He would often bring with him sacks of food and odd bits and pieces for the house.
Everything we had was due to Father Paul in one way or another. I believe that as much as he had become a surrogate father to us, we had become a surrogate family to him. He had his own slippers at our house which he would slip into while visiting. He would often change out of his flowing black robes like any father coming home and changing out of his work clothes. Father Paul would often eat an evening meal with us, and after we would all gather around him as he read. My favourite book was ‘ The Wind in the Willows. ’
I loved the water colour illustrations, and wanted to be able to draw and paint those characters he read about in the book. Then one night, he arrived at home with a small set of water colour paints, some paper, and paint brushes.
“Who are these for?” I gasped as he handed them to me.
“For you,” he smiled down at me, his bright grey eyes staring out of his pale face.
“Why?” I breathed, looking down at them.
The last present I had been given was the racing car.
“I thought that perhaps you could paint some pictures of Toad, Ratty, Mole, and Badger for me,” he said, taking a seat at the table.
“Really?” I asked, excitement bubbling away inside of me.
“Will you help me?” I asked, sitting up at the table next to him. I had done plenty of drawings before, sitting in his house on a Saturday afternoon while he and my mother were someplace else praying, but I had never used water colour paints before. I didn’t want to disappoint him. More importantly, I didn’t want to make myself look stupid in front of him.
Sensing my reluctance, Father Paul picked up a paint brush, then placing my hand over the top of his, he slowly showed me how to paint. So we sat at the table, Father Paul watching over my shoulder, as I slowly dragged the paintbrush over the paper as I started to paint pictures of the characters from the book he had read to me. By the time I had finished, it was bedtime and Father Paul had to go home. With his encouragement, I had painted several pictures, which I was really proud of. Without saying a word, my mother had sat watching from the corner of the room with my brother and sisters.
When Father Paul left in the evening, Mother had developed the habit of always walking him to his beat-up old truck, which he parked at the end of our garden path. She would return minutes later, always in a good mood. That night my mother walked him the short distance to his truck, but on her return to the house, she was furious. She slammed the front door with such force that it rattled in its frame. I looked up at her as she stormed towards me, and again I saw that spark of yellow in her eyes which I had seen when she was fighting with the woman at the safe house.
“You selfish child!” she roared. “He doesn’t just come here to see you!”
I remember giving my usual meek reply by apologising to her. I always fucking hated myself for doing that. She ignored my apology and continued to scream.
“What do you think you were doing?
Hogging him to yourself like that all evening!”
I apologised again, although I still wasn’t sure what for. I tried to explain I had only wanted to do some painting with Father Paul. She shouted over my explanation as she continued to seethe at me.
“Paint! You can’t paint! Even Father Paul was getting sick of you! He kept looking over at me and shaking his head in despair! ”
That fucking hurt. Was Father Paul really doing that? Was he really making fun of me as I sat and painted with him? I couldn’t believe he would do that. I wouldn’t believe it. Father Paul had bought me the water colour paints. He had helped me to paint, and that had meant so much to me.
In an instant, my mother had thrown my beliefs into doubt. I looked up into her burning eyes as she glared at me. Without even thinking, I said, “S
orry. ” I know that sounds fucking pitiful, right? But that’s what I said.
Turning away from me, she replied, “You ruined Father Paul's evening and everybody else’s. Now get to bed!” Then taking the pictures I had painted of Toad, Ratty, Badger, and Mole, she tore them to shreds with her claws.
With my heart racing in my chest, I looked at my sisters and brother. Were they coming up with me? I hated going upstairs by myself. I still wasn’t used to sleeping on my own. At least Nik would come up with me. I looked at them, but they all seemed to have found other objects far more interesting than me to look at.
“I said, get to bed! ” Mother barked.
On my way up to my bedroom, I made the loudest stomping sounds that I could. Not in defiance, but to hide the sound of my sobs. I wouldn’t let her hear me cry. Something inside of me wouldn’t let me.
Chapter Eleven
Jack
During that springtime, Father Paul took us on several more days out. Some of these were to the country, and others, to the city. It was on these occasions that we felt like a family, and I liked that. Although we had started to call Father Paul, ‘Dad’ in the privacy of our little home, on these days out, we referred to him as Father Paul.
Mother explained it would make sense if me, my brother and sisters, when away from our home and out of earshot of other Vampyrus and Lycanthrope, we called him ‘Dad’, as we already did at home. Nik and me jumped at the chance.
My sisters didn't appear to object either. Father Paul agreed that this was a good idea, but emphasised we were only to refer to him as ‘Dad’ in our home or on trips away.
He explained to us, although I already understood, that as a Vampyrus and a Blackcoat, he wasn’t allowed to get close to the Lycanthrope that he was there to help integrate into the human world. Relationships between humans and Vampyrus were deeply frowned upon because such unions could lead to the birth of half-breeds, but relationships between Vampyrus and the Lycanthrope were forbidden. He went on to tell us that if such a relationship were ever to be discovered, he would be punished by the Elders.
He didn’t, at that time explain, what that punishment might be. Both my mother and Father Paul also instructed us not to mention to anyone the days away that we shared together.
