For The Sake of Revenge: An Alaskan Vampire Novel

by Atha, DL

  Light snowflakes had begun to drift down from heavy gray clouds that stood out in the dark sky. I pulled my knees to my chin, balancing carefully on the rough bark beneath me, but grateful for the warmth of my own skin. Oblivious to the weather he was creating around us, Adrik stared silently ahead.

  If I could have thought of any words of comfort, I would have said them, but I had nothing but questions.

  “Why didn’t the duke whip you until you were dead? Why stop?”

  “There were two reasons, I think, looking back on it,” Adrik resumed. “The foremost being that he wanted my confession so that there could be no reproach of Irena. Being with child, she could not marry into the royal family, but with my confession, she, at least, would not be a harlot. Her family would have borne great shame if she had simply been a woman of loose standards.

  “Secondly, Russian executions were unusually brutal. If the convicted became unable to bear the sentence, he would be cared for meticulously, and all efforts made to save him so that the sentence could be finished. So the duke hoped to save me so that he could whip me again. That was the way of things.”

  I nodded at his answers, and he continued with his story.

  “The shivering of my bones is what woke me a few hours later; my teeth were clattering together from fever, and I awoke to find myself slung across a thin, miserable cot in a cell within the blockhouse used to house the occasional prisoner.

  “My back had been dressed with plaster-coated rags in an attempt to staunch the bleeding and control infection, but it was clear the surgeon’s efforts were failing. My skin was hot and damp to the touch, and blood soaked through the plaster such that it leaked onto the dirt floor. The sheets were sullied from a combination of blood and sweat.

  “Fifty lashes and above was nearly always fatal. I had suffered forty I was told, and although I might have survived back in Russia, my chances were not good here in Alaska. The fort was lacking in bandages, nursemaids or even a clean, dry room in which to house me. I was grateful, for I so badly wanted to die.

  “Against odds, however, I managed to survive the night, and I awoke the next morning while the surgeon changed the plastered rags on my back. The strips had dried into my wounds, pulling out dead tissue when the strips were yanked from my lacerations. The treatment was harrowing, and luckily I was in and out of consciousness while the surgeon worked on me. He slipped me whiskey to drink, to help cut the pain, but my bowels were so constricted, I could not keep it down.

  “I awoke once more that afternoon at the insistence of a native woman who helped me drink a few sips of broth. She would not make eye contact with me as I begged to speak to one of the fathers. I know now that the lack of a father’s visit should have been my first signal that things were not right, but I suppose I was too delirious to realize the oddness of the situation.

  “I was allowed no visitors in those first two days, save the surgeon and the native who changed my bandages. Loneliness set in such that I began to look forward to the torture of clean bandages. At least I was able to see a human face.

  “Each day was the same. The surgeon came in the morning, followed by a few sips of broth when my screams had died enough that I could swallow. The broth came again just before sunset, after which I spent a cold and miserable night with only myself and my thoughts to keep me company.

  “And I thought a lot. Of my parents back at home, my brothers and sisters who remained in serfdom. I thought of Ivan often and, surprisingly, very little of the woman who had done this to me. I was dying after all; it was obvious to everyone, and I had no room in my heart for hatred and anger.

  “My body convulsed with fever. My urine was little more than blood. My bowels had turned to water, and despite the surgeon’s skilled hands, fresh blood still oozed from my wounds. I had survived the beating to die slowly by infection and blood loss.

  “But I was concerned only for making my goodbyes. I missed Ivan. There were many things I needed to tell him. I wanted to pray with a father and hear my favorite scriptures once more.

  “It was late in the afternoon; I had finished my broth and snow was falling thickly outside. I watched it through the one small window on the far wall of the blockhouse and only enough light filtered in that I could trace the largest cracks in the wooden walls with my eyes. Expecting a long and lonely night, I was surprised when the door to the blockhouse swung open.

  “The wide form of the archimandrite, the highest ranking church official of the fort, teetered on the threshold. He hesitated for a moment as his eyes adjusted to the darkness before committing to the first step through the doorway. He lifted the hem of his garment in both hands, screwing his mouth up, as he looked distastefully around the room. I did not know the man personally, but I knew of him, and he was not renowned for visiting the poor and afflicted. How he came to Alaska remains a mystery to me.

  “From my cot in the corner of the cell, I watched him as his eyes searched the darkness for me and chills lifted gooseflesh on my arms. Not so much from the cold air but from the visitor himself. Something was wrong. Very wrong if the highest-ranking father at the fort was here to see me.

  “Finally locating me in the darkness, he settled himself down in a chair positioned in front of my cell. I could have reached out and touched the rich fabric of his cloak if I had dared. Instead, I tugged the cotton blanket I had been given higher on my shoulders and struggled to sit up in deference to his position.

  “The archimandrite, Father Solinov, folded his soft white hands gently in his lap and watched me momentarily before he began to speak. The full weight of his authority had settled across the room so that even the dust motes no longer danced in the thin ribbon of light bending through the window. I was terrified.

  “‘Child, I have come to check on your well-being,’ he said. His voice was thin and reedy like his arms and legs. He was too soft and too cultured for a father in this wild frontier.

  “‘I cannot lie, Father. Neither body nor soul is well. Have you come to pray with me and give me comfort in my last hours?’ I asked hopefully. My voice was barely audible even in the hushed silence of the room.

  “‘And I cannot lie, child. I am not here for your comfort. I come for your confession. Give voice to your sins for as the scriptures say ‘by the mouth, confession is made unto salvation.’ You are not long for this world. Death waits either from the knout or from the sickness that rages in your body. God’s justice will not be denied. Confess so that He may forgive you. So that the young Irena can have justice and that your conscious may be clean as you cross the veil.’

  “‘Father,’ I said, ‘if confession were possible, it would be given. But how does one confess what one has not done? How does one admit to a crime that one has not committed? Is that not a lie and yet another sin? And then how does one ask forgiveness for the second sin without making bad the prior confession?’

  “Exhaustion was taking its toll on my mental and physical strength, and I dropped my head in my hands, fighting a wave of dizziness that threatened to make the world go dark. It had happened several times in the last few hours, but each time, I had been unmercifully brought back to consciousness by the pain in my back.

  “‘Son, there is a witness. The native woman who serves Irena bears witness to your vile rape of the future Duchess. Why would she lie against you? What logic is there in this charade that you continue?’ His face lifted in a convincing smile.

  “I stared back at him, unconvinced. During my imprisonment, I had considered this from nearly angle, and I knew the Archimandrite would gain from my confessing to this sin. The stripes on my back had washed part of my innocence away. I had begun to see the world and the players in it in a less loving light. If the Archimandrite could obtain an admission of guilt, the duke would no doubt be in his gratitude. He might even be brought home to Russia; at the very least, his standing for the next highest ranking in the Church would be enhanced.

  “The surgeon had been urging me to confess for days, a
rguing that the sentence would be lighter, and there was a chance I might live through the rest of the knouting. I had spent many hours comparing the few choices I had, and I knew there was only one correct path, to simply hold to the truth.

  “The matter was very straightforward to me. How could a man admit to such a heinous crime as rape simply to save his life? Admitting to such evil was surely evil in its own right. Could God forgive me the sin of lying done simply to save myself? Was it not possible that what had occurred and what was still to occur was merely a tribulation that I must endure even if it cost me what most men held so dear? My life was not so valuable to me. A better place waited.

  “I suppose the father could see the resolve in my face when I answered him. ‘What appears a charade to you, Father, is simply my burden to bear. I will not admit to such a deed despite these women who bear false witness against me. Innocence is mine and will remain so in death.’

  “The passion of my words could be heard in the small confines of the quarters, despite my weakness, and I raised my eyes briefly from their place of deference to the archimandrite to look him in the eye for one moment. There was no mercy in the face that stared back at me. Not a hint of kindness or understanding.

  “‘No, my child,’ the archimandrite said, ‘you will not die an innocent man. You will die a condemned one. For since you cannot find the conviction to atone for your sins and are determined to persist in your disobedience, I have no recourse but to excommunicate you from the Church which you claimed many times in the past to hold in the highest esteem. I feel our trust in you these past months has been misplaced. We have welcomed you with open arms. We have loved you as a brother. We have prayed for you, and yet you have revealed your true nature—a lion in a den of innocents. Until you have recognized your crimes and confessed, you cannot enter the church or take sacraments. You will die soon, and it will be a final parting as they lay your bones on unhallowed ground. For there on that dismal ground, your remains will never rot, and in that unnatural state, you will lie until the Judgment Day, unreconciled to God. May He tug at the strings of your heart and bring you to your senses before death carries you beyond His mercy forever.’

  “Hearing the words as the man spoke them, I, at first, did not react. It was surprising to hear them pour forth from the mouth of the archimandrite so easily, as if it bothered him not at all to speak them. He cast my soul aside like one casts out the garbage, without a second thought. I could see in his expression that he enjoyed stripping away the one thing that mattered to me. Surely I had misunderstood him.

  “I cast a questioning look in the direction of the man. ‘Father, did you just…’

  “‘Yes, child. I did.’ Twisting the corners of his mouth down, the father feigned sadness but laced in his voice was a coldness that gripped an icy hand around my heart.

  “A great void opened in the pit of my belly and, the pain forgotten in my back, I lunged to my feet. I gripped one of the cold metal bars of my prison in one hand and forced my face as far as it would go between two others. With my other arm, I reached desperately towards the archimandrite. He took a step back as I did so, watching me surreptitiously for a moment before turning to leave.

  “‘Father. Father! Please, I beg of you. Do not do this. The Church is all I have.’ My hands twisted towards the priest in midair as if mentally willing the man to be touched by my destitution.

  “‘Yes? Is there something you wish to say?’ He smiled eagerly at me, waiting for words that would never come.

  “‘Father. Oh, God, please, Father. I beg you. I cannot confess something I have not done. It would just be another sin. It would be wrong. You are condemning me. Please, have mercy on me.’

  “‘I turn deaf ears to your lies. When you are ready to confess, call for me and I will come. Remember, you have so little time left.’

  “His words died on the wind as he turned and stepped out into the fading light of a winter day but not before I caught a small smile of satisfaction on the face of the man who should have been there to bring me comfort.

  “With the loss of my soul came the loss of muscle control, and I slid down the bars to land on the dirt floor of my cell. I watched the door that the father left through battle with a wind gust. Fluttering for a matter of moments, the heavy door finally ceased its struggle and banged closed with a finality that matched the words of the priest, leaving me truly alone without even my religion to comfort me.

  “In all of my years, I had never experienced such devastation. It raced across my every fiber, and I cried aloud, hard sobs wracking my body as I pleaded to the heavens. I grasped the bars in front of me, shoving violently against their uneven surfaces. As I did so, my wounds split asunder, blood soaking through the bandages so rapidly that my trousers could not contain it. But still I continued to push and pull against the bars, my loud cries no doubt heard by the passersby outside. But no one would come to the aid of an excommunicated rapist.

  “It was the first time in my existence that my mind had been unfettered by the Church. Hate was a foreign emotion to me, but I embraced it as it began to breed in the wounded remnants of my soul. Devastation morphed into rage, and an idea began to take hold as I sought out a method of revenge on the woman who had orchestrated my downfall. No doubt, she knew of what had been done to me and still she had not retracted her lies.

  “Glancing down at the floor as rivulets of blood coursed down my back, I noticed a small pool of it at my feet. I let go of the bars and slid down the cold walls of the blockhouse as I studied the red fluid. My shaking hand paused in midair, my fingers curling into the palm of my hand before I found the resolve to draw one finger through the bloody puddle.

  “How badly I craved Irena’s blood. I wanted to see it on my fingertips and dip my hands into it. I wanted her cursed eternally as I had been. And yet I could not reach her for she was far removed from me.

  “I studied my blood closely, watching as it began to congeal on my fingertip. It had a pungent odor, and I gagged thinking of how it had dripped from the deep wounds of my back. Then I thought the unimaginable. I was already excommunicated. Why not go the next mile?

  “Suicide would ensure that I rose from my grave in such a form that I could pass my curse on to Irena. She would suffer as I did; I would make sure of it. My mind was no longer held in check by thoughts of purity, and so I made my plans.

  “The ceiling rose above me, forming a peak in the center of the cell. Thick logs made up the supports, two of which ran the length of my cellblock. The blockhouse had been constructed out of strong Sitka spruce in the shape of an octagon. Only the one small window served to provide any light. No one outside would notice my activities. If they did, they would likely be too late to stop my plans.

  “My hands were accustomed to hard work, and the blanket from my bed came apart easily in them. My anger bred strength for my arms and legs, and a few moments later, I had a serviceable noose.

  “I used the bed turned on its end for a scaffold to stand upon as I tied the noose to the supporting beams. I held onto it while I rested and considered my plans. Did I really want to do this? I thought of my options one last time.

  “Confession was not a possibility. I had not raped Irena, and confession of the crime would bring no resolution to my soul, for I could only be re-instated to the Church if my heart was truly repentant.

  “My excommunication was complete, and despite how I felt about the priest, I believed the man had the power to do it. He was the archimandrite after all. Had he not been vested with the right?

  “I was terrified, but my terror was not as deep as the hatred and rage brewing in me. Never had I allowed such violent emotions to take hold of my heart, and I could only interpret this as proof that I truly was cut off from everything good and pure.

  “As I hovered at the edge of my human life, I did not question that I deserved my fate, for I most certainly did. Tonight, I would finally pay for my sins. The native child would be avenged. Perhaps the archiman
drite in his priestly heart had recognized me for what I was. He simply had discerned the wrong sin.

  “I could forgive him but there was no room in my heart for Irena. She had to pay for her sins as well. Interested only in securing Irena’s fate, I pushed all hopes of reconciliation from my mind and focused on the noose, using both hands to cinch the knot tightly around my neck.

  “I trembled with my exertions and the bed frame shook underneath my feet. My heart beat wildly in my chest. My breaths came quick and shallow, and although I would be beyond death in mere moments, I felt more alive than I ever had.

  “Looking death in the eyes gave me sudden clarity of vision. I realized for the first time how young I was and how many regrets I had now that I had no remaining years to live. In my too-short life, I had never even considered looking for love nor had I bothered to make many friends. Other than my mother, there would be no woman to mourn me. My existence would end with me, without children to prolong my life with their remembrances of me, no grandchildren with whom to boast grand tales of my youth.

  “And for the first time, I could feel the inkling of caring about such things now that it was too late. But even as I craved these things, my heart hardened when I thought of all I had lost.

  “I lifted my arms out to my sides, inhaling my last lungful of air, and leaped with all my remaining strength, bringing my feet down on the shaky surface on which I stood.

  “The bed frame splintered under my weight, and with nothing to stop my fall, my body whiplashed against the strongly braided rope that hung me. My body gyrated wildly in the air. I grasped at the rope out of sheer instinct, but as I had expected and relied on, my upper body strength was not enough to pull the weight of my body up and allow me to suck in a breath. Even if I could have, it would have been futile, as my strength would eventually wear out, and I would strangle once more.

  “I clawed desperately at the rope but soon lost the ability to hold my arms above my head and both limbs, not quite in unison, dropped heavily to my sides. I sucked hopelessly for air, my belly caving in with the effort. Long after my vision tunneled, I could still feel myself spinning on the axis of the rope that held me.