by Lara Parker
“Come now, you mustn’t cry,” he said. His voice seemed very far away. His shoulders hunched, and his body felt sluggish. He could barely lift his head. Shame flooded him, but he felt he must free himself of her presence, even if it required a lie. “How could you think otherwise? We will marry. And we will try to be happy.” A wistful smile broke across her face. Quickly, he took her hand. “Let me rest,” he said. “We will speak of these things in the morning.”
She looked at him, her faced bathed in melancholy, and after a long moment she said, “No, you are right, Barnabas. I have been manipulative and controlling. I will not pester you any more. From now on, I will respect your wishes. That was the last injection I will give you.”
He was stunned.
She rose and moved to the table. “Whatever will come, will come.”
Numbly he watched as she replaced the needle in her medical case and snapped it shut. She walked to the door and left his room without looking back, just as he felt the heat rise in his core and the pain begin.
SIXTEEN
THE NEXT MORNING Barnabas rose before dawn and let himself out the back kitchen door. Dire dreams had plagued his sleep, and his skin itched as if he had been chewed all through the night by lice. The air was cold and clear, and a quarter moon lay on its back just above the trees.
He had with him a hammer and a stake. He had decided he would track the vampire, even in his mortal state. His plan was to wait until daylight was near, and try to catch a glimpse of it on its way to its lair. He knew what its habits would be: stealth, wariness, gnawing hollowness if it had gone hungry, a throbbing in its veins if it had fed. It must hunt the woods behind Collinwood, or the docks at Collinsport, just as he had done. And somewhere it must sleep. He thought perhaps a cave deep in the woods.
Longing for Antoinette had now reached a crescendo of torture. Her spell had wrapped itself around his heart, and he floundered in a miasma of self-doubt and feelings of worthlessness. His first worry was the difference in their ages. She must be, he had decided, thirty-five or so, in the bloom of womanly beauty, and he—now that his aging had begun, and tormented him more every day—was much older. He remembered her in the drawing room of the Old House, standing on the carpet he had bought for her, surrounded by autumn colors, the glittering birds and vines, the branches of the tree of life. She was there in her apple green dress, the most vivid color in the room, dazzling, incandescent, with her ferny odor, her turquoise eyes, her flirtatious smile, her golden hair lit by the sun streaming in the window. A few days earlier he had only one desire, to destroy her by any means possible; and now he could only wonder at his abandonment to the ache in his breast.
He lifted his hands and stared at the veins, the horrid brown freckles, the crepy skin. As a severed limb still aches with phantom pain, a face grown haggard still holds a shadow of that once bright visage of youth. This morning he had searched for his own vanished beauty hidden in the mirror. Should he go to her? Would she come to him? What joy it would be if he were to wake to find her in his arms, or even standing by his window, looking over at him, the curtains softly flowing at her back, the moon over one shoulder.
He was in the woods again, incapable of staying away, trudging through what he now thought of as Antoinette’s forest, drinking in the beauty surrounding him with a ravenous hunger for all things alive. He looked up at the trees, their arms aloft like giant dancers, black branches exposing pieces of the gray sky. He stumbled over roots clutching the earth with gnarled fingers. He drew in delights that had eluded him until now, newly revealed to the eyes of a lover, to a soul so filled with wonder it gave him pain. It was as though every tree, every leaf, were perfectly created. He stared at the carpet of fallen leaves at his feet and he was amazed, as he had been by her body, by the colors: rose, chartreuse, vermilion, chocolate, and ruby red, and by the infinite shapes: oval, jagged, knife blade, star, arrowhead, and heart.
He heard for the first time all the bird calls: harsh chirps and whistles, insistent repetitive kissing sounds, little chirrups, clicks, and smacks. He saw creepers crawling over smaller trees, their tendrils woven into branches, merging and clinging, living in symbiotic union. And he gazed up at the white trunks of birches with dappled canopies of glittering coins lit by the sun. Such wealth! As though from some palace in the sky, Olympia’s treasure had spilled forth.
He was consumed with an exuberant passion of such intensity he thought his body would break in half. He had a vision of their life together, a fantasy he wanted more than anything: he, entirely human, strong, and filled with a man’s desires, his body sprung with the brash optimism of his lost youth, raw with bravado and recklessness, savoring the riotous sense of conquest. Why had she come so easily? So brimming with eagerness. He had never expected that. Perhaps—could it be? He dared to hope he still retained some of his former charm, the allure and mystery that had sustained him through the centuries. And another, more desperate hope lay deeper in his consciousness. If she should be his old enemy, even though she had no memory of it, she loved him still. If she could be nudged into remembering—through gentle and persuasive affection, rather than malevolence or suspicion then—of all miracles this would be the most magical—perhaps she could lift the curse—the insidious curse that had made him a vampire—and set him free.
He was renewed with reckless determination, and to his surprise, he was filled with tenderness for the flower children and their camp. A demon threatened them all: the peaceful clearing called Paradise; the young lovers, David and Jacqueline, with all the world before them; and, most of all, his Antoinette. None lived more sufficient to this particular task than he. He who had lived almost two hundred years in this guise could not allow himself to be dismayed or frightened by a fledgling monster, afraid to show its face, and—Barnabas suddenly thought—new to the breed.
After some time he reached the Old House, and he decided, before he went further, to make another visit to the basement. The deserted halls of his old mansion whispered a welcome. Odors of aging varnish, musty velvets, and charred candlewicks assailed his nostrils. It could easily have been a hundred years ago. Once again he was astonished by the restoration, eerie and familiar in its perfection. The stairs to the secret room creaked from his step in the same complaining manner.
He was surprised to see that his coffin was open. It had been pushed to one corner of the room, and the top propped back by a fire tong. The satin lining was ripped out and only the bare boards remained. Someone was refurbishing his casket. He laughed out loud—a hollow, bitter laugh that echoed to the back walls of his old sanctuary. Who would do such a thing? The padding had been serviceable enough, the delicate quilting even comfortable. He was dumfounded by the absurdity, but he knew his feelings were ridiculous. It was a sign from the world of mankind. Julia had been wise when she said that he had no other alternative but to remain as he was. Even the trappings of his immortality had been destroyed.
The blue lining, he noticed, had not been discarded, but had been used as a wrap cloth. It encased an object on the floor, something large and flat. He walked over and tugged at the fabric. The familiar texture, so sheer, so easily snagged, sent shivers across his skin. Underneath was a painting of an ancient man with a visage so demonic Barnabas pulled back in disgust. The technique was astonishing. The hair was matted gray fur that grew from the temples and sprouted wild above pointed ears. The mouth was elongated, and the nose canine. It was less a man than a wolf-like creature, but dressed as a man in a threadbare morning coat, with an ascot that was torn and flecked with saliva. The eyes were bloodshot, and so keen they could have been alive and staring, and the slather that dripped from the teeth glistened as though, if one were to touch it, it would respond with moisture. Although he had never seen it, Barnabas realized with a jolt what it must be. It was Quentin’s hidden portrait, the one object he could not live without, the painting that held the werewolf’s dark secret in check.
They never spoke of it, but he and Quentin b
oth knew the other’s fate was cursed. Both immortals, they had always maintained the pretense that everything was normal, respecting one another’s secret. Quentin had been away for years. His return was something of a mystery. Until now. This portrait in Antoinette’s basement, in her possession, was even more of an enigma. In spite of his new feelings, once again suspicion of her flooded through him, leaving him feeling ill. How could she have come by it, and did Quentin know it was here? Was she storing it for him, or had she stolen it? Perhaps this was why Quentin was pursuing her. Had Barnabas still been a vampire, he would have been tempted to whisk the portrait away to some hiding place of his own. Imagine what power it would afford him over his old rival! Such control would allow him to manipulate the entire Collins family.
Long he stood staring at the painting, weighing his options. If he took it, he would have to find some place to hide it, and his car was back at Collinwood. Perhaps if he could reach the graveyard under cover of dawn, he might secrete it away in the family mausoleum. Seizing the cloth, he wrapped the picture as it had been, and lifted it with both bands. Cumbersome as it was, he was able to climb the stair and move towards the door. His fingers cramped with the weight, and pausing in the drawing room to rest them, he turned to look at the carpet.
Early morning sunlight pierced a single pane of the front casement and cast a golden shaft across the floor. The carpet was exquisite, more beautiful than he had remembered. It seemed less faded, the colors richer and exceedingly vibrant. The vines and tendrils curled among flowers opening to the morning dew, and the birds appeared poised to lift into the air. Unable to resist, Barnabas leaned the painting against the back of a chair and approached the rug. More than anything, the crimson color of the background delighted him. Kneeling, he smoothed the rich velvet, but, to his surprise, the texture of the wool was slick and warm, and exhaled a bitter metallic odor. Puzzled, Barnabas looked at his hand. His palm was coated with red dye. Had Antoinette painted the rug? Now the moisture was seeping into his trousers where he knelt. Bewildered, he felt the rug again, fingering the damp fibers and the soggy nap. He drew back in disgust. The carpet was saturated with blood.
At that moment he heard muffled sounds from the second floor, a dry shuffling, a creak, a resounding thump, and then a heavy, heaving sigh as though the house was despondent, settling on its melancholy bones. He walked hesitantly to the bottom of the stair, dismayed to see his shoes tracking blood on the floor, but when he placed his foot on the first tread, he was struck with a blast of air so cold it chilled him through and through. He seized the painting and fled.
Once in the woods again, he trudged towards the cemetery, dragging the painting through the leaves. Shuddering he considered abandoning his quest and returning to the hippie camp. His mind was a blur. His night with Antoinette had awakened unfamiliar desires, and he hungered for her in a manner he found disturbing. Not only had she offered him happiness, she had given comfort, escape from torment. This was the human joy he had missed for so long. He tried to ease his anxiety by reliving every moment: the silk of her skin, the lushness of her form, her gentle movements. Even though he had been delirious with joy, he could remember vivid instants when she had touched him, and a pleasure so intense he throbbed again to think of it. And her gifts had been bestowed without guile, as though she savored his happiness. She required nothing more from him than acquiescence. The Angelique of his past, whose desperate jealousy drove her passions, whose insatiable greed entangled him with guilt, seemed to be no more. He visualized crawling into Toni’s tent. She would be warm with sleep, merging, welcoming.
This time he would not let her go.
They would live together. He imagined them in the dining room of the Old House, reminiscing over a glass of wine, after a delicious meal of venison, perhaps pâté, succulent pork, spiced apples, or pheasant with roasted potatoes and tiny peas. He was suddenly aware of other needs stirring, and he laughed out loud at his new human hungers. What a fool he had been not to realize that this was his one great love, the love of his life. He had been blind with Angelique, but now with Antoinette he would make amends. He would give her all he had denied her, and devote his life to making her happy. Immortality seemed a fair price for bliss such as this.
A white rectangle flickered on a trunk ahead, and Barnabas stopped to look at it. NOTICE TO VACATE was barely legible in the predawn light. Roger had made good his threat to call the Sheriff, convincing him to force the hippies to move. There were code numbers of violations and Barnabas was able to read “fires in non-designated areas” and “inadequate toilet facilities.” His body sagged with regret, but he was relieved the campers would have to move. They were such vulnerable prey.
He turned away from the camp and, still lugging his heavy load, followed the leaf-strewn path towards Widows’ Hill, curious to see where the monster had fallen. When he reached the cliff, he stood for a long moment looking down at the waves crashing on the rocks, the white foam in the glint of dawn. He thought of his beloved Josette. Her last moments had been here. A tortured mind, frantic with grief, had sought its peace on those boulders. He, or what he had become, drove her to it.
Barnabas shivered, holding fast to the painting which swayed against the wind from the sea. Icy blasts cut through his jacket, and he gathered his cape around him. He seemed to see, as if in a mirage, an island or mirroring cliff that rose from the great deep on the other side of a chasm. The opposite shore beckoned, a distant dream where he could join his Josette, hold her startling body in his arms and gaze into the eyes he had loved, eyes like dark pools, full of wonder. Even his new love for Antoinette could not dim the force of her memory.
The path led under the great hundred-year-old oaks to the graveyard where the tombstones floated like small rafts in a sea of leaves. For the first time since his cure he could sense the ghosts, restless spirits wandering about, longing for contact. The fallen leaves were so thick, they came to his knees and clung to his clothes, but this time he was determined to ignore them. After searching for a mausoleum to serve as a hiding place for the painting, he finally found a low vault with a rotted door. He managed to slip the square frame inside. It would do until he could find a more suitable spot.
Then at the far end of the cemetery he saw a whirlwind of leaves rise into a body and flail about like a dancing idiot, arms and legs akimbo; and he thought it was a living creature before it dissolved and fell back to earth. His imagination was plaguing him again. He began his hunt for some sign of the vampire. He felt certain he would smell its odor, hear the velvet silence of its breathing. In the next few days he intended to follow every whim, however irrational or impulsive, in pursuit of his new nemesis. In this cemetery alone were several structures that would be ideal lairs for a living corpse to go undetected during the day. Each of these that allowed entrance he searched but found them empty. Slogging between the tombstones, through hidden briars, his shoes sucking up mud, he shivered with the sensation that, were he to fall, the leaves would bury him. Some fiend governed their piles; some insidious scheme lay in their drifts. He shook off such absurd conjectures, concentrating on his hunt, until he heard the wind moan like something trapped and, under a scarlet maple, the dancing fiend rose up again.
This time it drew nearer and assumed the form of a corporeal mass, thick and fluttering. Barnabas stepped backwards, his hand on a tombstone, and feeling panicky turned to move away, but tripped, and fell into the sunken rectangle of an ancient grave. A gust of wind blasted the bundle on top of him, filled his mouth and nostrils, and blinded his eyes. He floundered like a helpless swimmer in an avalanche, terrified and choking, and unable to breathe. Like stinging furies with vicious beaks and claws, the leaves descended, forcing him down into the grave. He batted and heaved against the smothering heap as it wrestled him. Sharp stems prodded his ears and dug at his tongue, but when he grappled with the dark cloud, his hands only found tumbling debris. Afraid to open his eyes, his throat clogged with ash, he thought, what a ridiculou
s way to die. Pinwheeling both arms, he jabbed the pile over and over, until the reeling air dissolved in an explosion of rubbish, and he lurched to his feet. Dry leaves fell from his body as he shook and panted with terror, certain he had been marked for death.
He turned to flee, but when he reached the gate to the cemetery, he heard footsteps on the path, and he stopped, peering into the gloom, anticipating another attacking flurry. Someone, or something, was moving through the trees. He tried to still his trembling. Perhaps the hippies were awake at this hour, pursuing some mischief around the graves.
But the forest was deathly still. Rays of misty sunlight streamed through branches and small patches of sky shimmered, but morning birdsong had stopped, and he could hear not even the scurrying of woodland creatures, nor the whisper of a breeze. And yet, someone was walking through the dry leaves and coming his way.
He grit his teeth and moved towards the sound. Far down the path he saw the figure of a girl. She wore a long cape that trailed the ground, and dark hair fell over her shoulders. She seemed oblivious to his presence, and continued towards him deep in thought. As she drew closer he noticed her small hands clasped together below her waist and a white cap of ruffled cotton on her head. Her lips moved as though she spoke to herself, or prayed, and only when she drew very near did she look up and allow her eyes to meet his. He had never seen such eyes. They were of an icy blue, almost white, and the pupils were very dark. Her wild hair, which was in masses of black curls, tumbled about her face, and the force of her gaze so startled him he could not breathe. Pale blue eyes she had, and cold as ice. As she drew close to him, she nodded her head slightly and said in a low voice, “Good morning, Reverend.” Then she passed him by. He caught a whiff of pine and hemlock.
