The Vampyre Quartet

by G. P. Taylor

  ‘Jago is the one and now is the time,’ Strackan said as he pointed heavenwards. High above, crossing the path of the moon, a burning meteor slashed across the atmosphere. It shook the air and the ground trembled. Sparks cascaded from the tail as the first shockwave trembled the hedges of the maze. Then it roared out to sea and. just as it reached the horizon, crashed into the water. ‘There, I told you that a sign would come.’

  ‘Then do it and do it now – we cannot wait,’ Sibilia answered as she pressed Strackan to take the blood.

  Jago saw Strackan swallow hard as he stepped towards him, reaching with a gnarled hand. Long brown nails curled over his dead fingertips.

  Stackan saw the boy look at him. ‘Once I have drunk your blood then you will see me as I really am,’ he said.

  ‘I know what you are like,’ Jago answered. ‘I can see it in your eyes. That’s what my mother said. Truth is found in the eyes.’

  ‘And what of mine?’ Strackan asked.

  ‘You are a liar and you care for no one but yourself,’ Jago answered.

  The gathered crowd muttered their discontent. Jago turned. The woman near to him looked just like Mrs Macarty. Her hair trailed over the mask of a badger just like it had done over her face on the first night they had met.

  Strackan stood and gloated over him. He quivered with excitement.

  ‘I care not what you say, Jago. From tonight we shall set out from this place and day by day we shall take this world. We will be the bringers of peace and stop this war. No one will know who is in control, but Vampyres will take their places as heads of state, ministers and prime ministers. We shall be the people of power.’ Strackan waved a hand through the air as if he were laying waste to all before him.

  ‘And it starts with me?’ Jago asked.

  ‘Morgan’s blood. A descendent of the first blood taken at the hermit’s cave,’ Sibilia interrupted, still gripping Staxley.

  ‘Then so be it,’ Jago said as he undid the collar of his shirt and offered Strackan his smooth, tender white skin.

  The Vampyre salivated at the sight. His hand juddered and shook uncontrollably as he leant forward to steady himself against the chair.

  ‘I am glad you understand,’ he whispered to Jago with stenching breath.

  Jago waited as Strackan came closer. He could feel the warm panting on his face like a kiss.

  ‘Make it quick,’ he said as he waited for the Vampyre to bite.

  The crowd was silent. From far away came the rumbling of the sea. Strackan leant nearer. He nervously hesitated, as he looked Jago in the eye. Then quickly he slipped his gaze to the neck as he opened his mouth.

  ‘Do it!’ Sibilia insisted, but Strackan was not listening.

  In his mind he was back in the cave of Sagacious the hermit eight hundred years before. As he smelt the scent of Jago’s skin he thought of every wonder in his life and what it would be again.

  ‘Deus Tantum Iudicabit,’ he said to himself, the words spoken like a prayer as the sky thundered and lightning cracked to the sea.

  The wind came quickly from the moor and shook the hedges, brushing the tiny shells across the pathways of the labyrinth. The squalling gale howled from Hawks Moor to Whitby. It ripped at the trees that lined the lanes and grabbed tufts of grass from the cliffs. Seabirds swirled and fell and dived above them as if they twisted and turned within the meteors and shooting stars. In the bay below, the sea was pulled back. Rocks unseen for millennia were exposed once more. Fish as big as shovel handles were left on dry ground.

  Far out to the horizon, unseen by those within the maze, the sea boiled where the comet had struck. To the north, the bells of the church rang out in calamitous applause as the wind got stronger and stronger.

  ‘What is it?’ Ezra Morgan asked.

  ‘The Lyrid of Saturn. Do you not remember that first night?’ Strackan laughed as he took hold of Jago by the shoulders to hold him tight. ‘The whole of creation is angered by what we do and yet cannot stop us.’

  ‘But I can,’ Jago whispered as suddenly he stabbed the silver dagger into Strackan’s neck, kicking him back at the same time.

  Strackan gasped for breath, clutching his throat with his hands, unable to pull the dagger from within his neck. Ezra Morgan lunged for Jago just as Bia lashed out at him with her fist and Jago pushed Rathbone out of the way. Lumps of the thick hedge were being pulled from the ground by the second.

  ‘Run, Bia! Run!’ Jago shouted as he grabbed her hand and battled against the piercing gale that shook everything around them, growing louder by the second.

  ‘Stop him!’ shouted Sibilia Trevellas, her voice faint against the wind, as Jago and Bia ran into the darkness of the engulfing storm.

  Staxley and Griffin gave chase. Their masks were torn from them by the storm and their cloaks were discarded in the pursuit. Through the labyrinth they ran like sniffing dogs chasing their prey.

  Far ahead, Jago had found the entrance to the maze. He looked down across the moonlit bay. The final shards of stardust crashed to earth. Far out to sea, a wall of water gathered speed, turning and twisting as it came closer. The shape of the coast appeared to shield the town from its impact, but still the wave crashed and roared, tumbling over rocks as it sped towards the cliff.

  ‘There’s not much time,’ he shouted to Bia as they ran to the house. ‘I have to find Jack Henson and my father …’

  They were soon inside Hawks Moor. The large oak doors gave way to the wind and slammed back and forth like rags on a line. Bia ran ahead as Jago forced the doors to close and slammed the iron keeper to hold them shut. The house fell silent. All he could hear was the whistling of the wind down the chimney pots and the crackling of the fire in the grate. Taking the iron key, he turned the lock. The burnt ashes of Julius Cresco covered the stone floor.

  ‘They’re coming,’ Bia shouted from an upstairs window. ‘Griffin, Staxley and Trevellas.’

  ‘Henson and my father are in the tower room – get them!’ Jago shouted as he ran to the kitchen to secure the door. He crossed the hall, entered the passageway and turned into the kitchen. Across the room he could see the door. Cast darkly by the moon, two shadows crossed the window. Jago raced as fast as he could, knowing he had to be there before them. He reached for the handle to turn the lock but the door flew open as Staxley pushed against it.

  ‘Get out!’ Jago shouted. ‘This is my house.’

  A wooden panel was smashed and splintered. Outside, Griffin hammered at the wood with an old axe from the woodpile.

  ‘You have business to finish, Jago,’ Staxley shouted as Jago slammed the door and pushed the bolt.

  Griffin hacked and hacked with the axe. The door splintered, sending jags of wood into the air. Jago knew they would soon be inside. He turned and ran back to the hallway. The door to the room hidden behind the panel was open. Jago looked inside. The face of Julius Cresco was in the painting. It was the first time he had seen him that way. Cresco looked not much older than Jago. He wondered how his life would have been, had Cresco not cared for him like an uncle. In his mind he heard the man’s soft, warm voice telling him stories.

  The words in his head were suddenly interrupted.

  ‘You shouldn’t have run away,’ Sibilia said as she stepped from the shadows. ‘Strackan is injured. That will never be allowed to go unpunished. Vampyres from all over the world have gathered tonight and you, Jago Harker, have destroyed everything.’

  ‘Do you think I would just let him rip out my neck and drink my blood?’ he asked as he stepped from the room and kicked a brittle piece of ash towards the fire. ‘You have used me all my life and I would rather die.’

  ‘And I shall grant you your wish,’ said Trevellas as she turned and took an ornamental sword from the wall. ‘Nothing will give me greater pleasure …’

  As she spoke the ground began to shudder. The sea roared louder and louder until nothing else could be heard. Hawks Moor trembled upon the rocks on which it was built. The gigantic wave broke agains
t the cliff. Outside, the tidal wave engulfed the labyrinth. A spout of water blew high in to the air and crashed to the ground, shattering the windows of the house. Shards of glass flew like jagged knives and showered down into the hallway.

  Jago dived to the cover of the fireplace. Trevellas ran across the room and lifted the sword high above her head. Jago looked up – he could not escape.

  ‘I should have done this the first time I saw you, Jago Harker. I was there when you were born. It was into my hands that you fell. I should have killed you then,’ she screamed as she plunged the sword toward him.

  There was a splintering of wood as the front doors were smashed from their hinges. The tidal wave rushed in and the house was flooded with seawater. Before she could strike the blow, Sibilia Trevellas was engulfed in the deluge and swept from her feet. The twisted iron doorkeeper scraped across the stone floor as the doors were pushed back. The blistering wind ripped the curtains from the rails and shot them across the room as fanned flames leapt from the fire.

  Then there was darkness. The wind plucked the candles from their holders as the wave killed the fire. Smoke filled the room as the water hissed.

  Jago closed his eyes and gripped the stone pillar as hard as he could, holding tight for his dear life. The water beat against him as it came higher and higher. It was as if a hand of nature had reached inside Hawks Moor to rid it of all evil. The water that filled the hallway bubbled and swirled as the wave began to ebb back to the sea. It dragged from the house the ashes of Julius Cresco, which floated away amongst the broken furniture.

  ‘Jago! Jago!’ Bia shouted as she ran down the stairs as the harsh wind gave way to a gentle breeze. She turned the corner of the carved stairs. Jago lay motionless. His hair was soaked and fell across his face, lit by the lantern carried by Jack Henson.

  In the long shadows, amongst pools of seawater, Bia stroked his face.

  ‘Is he …?’ Henson asked as Hugh Morgan lifted Jago from the pool.

  ‘Breathing – but only just,’ Hugh answered.

  ‘The others?’ Bia asked.

  ‘Gone,’ Henson answered as he looked to the night out side. ‘Lucky the house stood against the sea. I saw the meteor strike the water. The tidal wave was higher than the cliff.’

  ‘Trevellas …’ Jago muttered as he opened his eyes.

  ‘Gone. Gone for good,’ replied Hugh Morgan.

  ‘Father?’ Jago asked as he looked into his eyes.

  ‘Son,’ Hugh Morgan replied as he brushed the hair from his brow.

  RedEye

  Shortly before Jago Harker Arrived in Whitby

  IT WAS SEPTEMBER, and the night sky glowed blood red. In the east, above the far hills away from the town, gnarled fingers of cloud gripped the horizon. It had been that way since the last full moon. Every alleyway and ginnel, every yard and street glistened with sky-silver. It followed the contours of the houses like a gossamer thread, a spider’s web of moonlight.

  At the very height of the sky, at its darkest place, was a slither of light. Some thought it was a comet, an unexpected return of a travelling star. Others, who were wise and could remember what they had been taught when they were small children, knew differently. It had appeared before, exactly one hundred years ago on the same date and at the same time – on 3 September 1840, at 7.30 p. m. Those now old had heard the story of its appearance time and again. Many thought it was a bad omen. An eye, cut into the fabric of heaven at the zenith of the sky. An eye, blood red and edged in gold, that could be seen even on the brightest autumn day at the time of the harvest moon.

  In the churchyard, high on the clifftop above the harbour and the estuary beyond, an iron spade dug into gravelled earth. It echoed through the gathering of tombstones with each sharp cut. An old man in a black gabardine with leather patched elbows worked on. He dug in the grave, twisting each sod of brown dirt and throwing it high above his head just as he had done every night that week. It was only when he heard the strange sound coming in from the sea that he stopped. He climbed the steps of his wooden ladder and looked out across the town. There was not a single light to be seen, not a flicker or flame or burning candle. Every window was daubed with paint, every glass covered with the blacking of curtains. Even the infrequent cars that sped across the river bridge that linked the two sides of the town had no lights. The gravedigger could hear their engines, just as he could hear the low, vibrating hum … hum … hum … that seemed to come from the depths of the rolling sea.

  ‘This is what war does for you,’ he said to himself as he stepped back down to his work. ‘Dig a grave every night only to be filled by morning, seven this week and not a word of thanks.’

  He spoke to himself and for his own benefit. It was to reassure his own mind that he was alone.

  Since the coming of the scarlet star, no one who knew Whitby would enter the churchyard after dark. Only Jack Henson, the gravedigger, would venture to that place. He knew it well, too well to be frightened by idle talk. He had an understanding with the unseen whisperers that would hide behind the gravestones and watch him from their world. Henson knew their ways; he studied them and some say even talked to the unseen guests at every graveside. As the church clock chimed, he turned the spade again and again as he edged the grave and scraped the top of the coffin under his feet.

  Far below and across the river, the door of the Glory Hand opened quickly. A brief bright light shone into the street. There was a shout and the pub door slammed shut. The air raid warden nodded to the man who staggered from the alehouse and down the street. She looked at her watch and calculated the hours until dawn. Then, instinctively, the woman looked up between the old stone buildings to the sky and listened. All she could hear was the sound of the sea. With each surge of the tide the waves broke on the harbour piers as if they laughed sarcastically.

  Taking the photograph from the pocket of her khaki overall, the woman pressed the button of her torch. For the shortest moment, she allowed the light to be cast across the sepia face of her husband. He was dressed in his beret and jacket, his arms folded and lips smiling.

  She sighed and turned off the torch, quickly putting the portrait of Corporal Eddie Barnes, 1st Battalion of the Green Howards, back in her pocket for safekeeping. The woman looked to the door of the pub once more and then carried on her patrol. All was well. The bombing had not come this far north. London had been hit many times, but Whitby had been forgotten.

  Each night she would put on her overalls, helmet and fire boots, leave her solitary house and walk the streets of the town. Like Willie Winkie, she looked for lights in windows, any break in the blackout, anything that could be seen from the sky. Not that it seemed to matter. The sky didn’t darken as it used to, the red-eyed comet and harvest moon had seen to that. Now, in the half-light, she heard the clock of the town hall strike the hour before midnight.

  The streets were empty and silent, nothing stirred but the wind at the eaves. Warden Barnes turned into the narrow street that led down the hill to the harbour.

  On every side ran the dark alleyways that led to the backs of the shops. They were impregnable black hollows, each wide enough for a man to walk carrying a keg of beer. Barnes kept her eyes to the street ahead. Above the roofs she could see the church and the ruins of the old abbey on the far side of the river.

  It was then that something far away caught her eye. A lamp moved along the high cliff path on the other side of the town. Steadily it went towards the church, yard by yard weaving through the night. The light skirted the old monk’s house as it journeyed along the donkey path. Then, in a shaft of moonlight, she saw the figure that carried it. The man was tall and wrapped in a dark cloak with a fedora hat. From the great distance this was all she could make out. He was too far away for her to shout, too far to be told to extinguish the flame. She looked again and he and the light had vanished.

  ‘Stupid,’ she muttered under her breath.

  Mary Barnes shivered as she suddenly became aware of something or someone
close by. It was the feeling most pure in childhood – that simple understanding of when all is not well. She edged slowly back towards the window of the apothecary’s shop and leant against the glass. It was instinctive, the frightened action of a woman alone.

  Then she heard the sound. First it came to her as a low, rumbling growl. It was like the moaning of an injured animal, a beast woken from painful sleep. The street was empty. She looked to the entrance of the yard before her. It was murder black, dark beyond dark. There, in the midst of the blackness, were what she thought were two staring red eyes. She could not be sure or see them clearly. But for that moment they were cold, sterile and without compassion. The eyes didn’t move or stir or come closer. When she looked again, they were gone.

  ‘Stupid,’ she muttered again under her breath as she took the torch from her pocket and held it like a short staff. ‘You’ll be believing them, Mary …’

  She knew the stories all too well. They had been told and retold for the last week. It was the conversation in every pub and on every street corner. They were spoken quietly, as if careless talk cost lives. There had been no mention in the Gazette. It reported the sinking of enemy ships, which family was digging for victory and the birth of Eric Strickland’s two-headed chicken. What the newspaper said nothing about was the white, bloodless body that had been found in the river. The illicit rumour was that seven more blood-drained cadavers had been discovered – one every night that week. If it were true, they were all discovered below the high cliff, near to the churchyard. Each had a fearful look upon their face and a bloody puncture wound to their necks. But, that was something that Mary Barnes didn’t believe or, more truthfully, didn’t want to believe.

  She had heard nothing. There had been no cries in the night, nor had she seen anyone. Her fire watch had kept her to the west side of the river by the railway station, goods yard and hospital. Beyond the bridge were just the old houses. The fishermen’s dwellings were stacked precariously one above the other, medieval cottages that climbed the hill in a myriad of narrow ginnels to the ruined abbey.