Origins

by L. J. Smith

  The next morning, I awoke to beams of sunlight scattered on the cherrywood floorboards of my bedroom.

  “Good morning, brother.” Damon was sitting in the corner in the rocking chair, the one that used to belong to Great-grandfather. Our mother had rocked us in it when we were infants, singing songs to us as we went to sleep. Damon’s eyes were red and bloodshot, and I wondered if he’d been sitting like that, watching me, all night.

  “Rosalyn’s dead?” I voiced it as a question, even though the answer was obvious.

  “Yes.” Damon stood up, turning to the crystal pitcher on the walnut dresser. He poured water into a tumbler and held it toward me. I struggled to sit upright.

  “No, stay,” Damon commanded with the authority of an army officer. I’d never heard him speak like that before. I fell back against the goose-down pillows and allowed Damon to bring the glass to my lips as if I were an infant. The cool, clear liquid slipped down my throat, and once again, I thought back to last night.

  “Did she suffer?” I asked, a painful series of images marching through my brain. While I’d been reciting Shakespeare, Rosalyn must have been planning her grand entrance. She must have been so excited to show off her dress, to have the younger girls gape at her ring, to have the older women take her off to a corner to discuss the particulars of her wedding night. I imagined her dashing across the lawn, then hearing footsteps behind her, only to turn and see flashing white teeth glistening in the moonlight. I shuddered.

  Damon crossed over to the bed and put his hand on my shoulder. Suddenly the rush of terrifying images stopped. “Death usually happens in less than a second. That was the case in the war, and I’m sure it was the same for your Rosalyn.” He settled back in his chair and rubbed his temple. “They think it was a coyote. The war is bringing people east for battle, and they think the animals are following the blood trail.”

  “Coyotes,” I said, my voice tripping on the second syllable. I hadn’t heard the word before. It was just one more example of new phrases like killed and a widower that were about to be added to my vocabulary.

  “Of course, there are those people, including Father, who think it was the work of demons.” Damon rolled his dark eyes. “Just what our town needs. An epidemic of mass hysteria. And what kills me about that little rumor is that when people are convinced their town is under siege by some demonic force, they’re not focusing on the fact that war is ripping apart our country. It’s this head-in-the-sand mentality that I simply cannot understand.”

  I nodded, not really listening, not able to view Rosalyn’s death as part of some sort of argument against the war. As Damon continued to ramble, I lay back and closed my eyes. I visualized Rosalyn’s face at the moment I found her. There, in the darkness, she’d looked different. Her eyes had been large and luminescent. As though she’d seen something terrible. As though she’d suffered horribly.

  10

  September 4, 1864

  Midnight. Too late to fall asleep, too early to be awake. A candle burns on my nightstand, the flickering shadows foreboding.

  I am haunted already. Will I ever forgive myself for not finding Rosalyn until it was too late? And why is she—the one I vowed to forget—still on my mind?

  My head is pounding. Cordelia is always at the door, offering drinks, lozenges, powdered herbs. I take them, like a recuperating child. Father and Damon glance at me when they think I’m asleep. Do they know of the nightmares?

  I thought marriage was a fate worse than death. I was wrong. I was wrong about so many things, too many things, and all I can do is pray for forgiveness and hope that somehow, somewhere, I can summon strength from the depths of my existence to step firmly onto the path of the right again. I will do it. I must. For Rosalyn.

  And for her.

  Now I will blow out the candle and hope for sleep—like that of the dead—to engulf me quickly….

  “Stefan! Time to get up!” my father called, slamming my bedroom door.

  “What?” I struggled to sit, not sure what hour it was, or what day it was, or how much time had passed since Rosalyn’s death. Day faded into night, and I could never really sleep, only doze into terrifying dreams. I wouldn’t have eaten anything, except that Cordelia continued to come into my room with her concoctions, spoon-feeding them to me to ensure that they were eaten. She’d make fried chicken and okra and a thick mash of what she called sufferer stew, which she said would make me feel better.

  She’d left another one, a drink this time, on my nightstand. I drank it quickly.

  “Get ready. Alfred will help you prepare,” my father said.

  “Get ready for what?” I asked, swinging my legs onto the floor. I hobbled to the mirror. I had stubble over my chin, and my tawny hair stood up on all ends. My eyes were red, and my nightshirt was hanging off my shoulders. I looked awful.

  Father stood behind me, appraising my reflection. “You’ll pull yourself together. Today is Rosalyn’s funeral, and it’s important to me and the Cartwrights that we are there. We want to show everyone that we must band together against the evil that’s scourging our town.”

  While Father prattled on about demons, I thought about facing the Cartwrights for the first time. I still felt horribly guilty. I couldn’t help thinking that the attack wouldn’t have happened if I’d been waiting for Rosalyn on the porch, instead of lingering in the study with Katherine. If I’d been outside, waiting for Rosalyn, I would have seen her walking from the fields in her pink dress. Maybe I could have faced death with her, too, and she wouldn’t have had to confront that nightmarish animal alone. I may not have loved Rosalyn, but I couldn’t forgive myself for not being there to save her.

  “Well, come on,” Father said impatiently as Alfred walked in, holding a white linen shirt and a double-breasted black suit. I blanched. It was the suit I’d have worn at my wedding—and the church where we were mourning Rosalyn was to have been the site of the ceremony establishing our union. Still, I managed to change into the suit, allowed Alfred to help me shave, since my hands were so shaky, and emerged an hour later ready to do what I had to do.

  I kept my eyes down as I followed Father and Damon to the carriage. Father sat up front, next to Alfred, while Damon sat in the back with me.

  “How are you, brother?” Damon asked above the familiar clip-clop of Duke’s and Jake’s hooves down Willow Creek Road.

  “Not very well,” I said formally, a stiff lump in my throat.

  Damon put a hand on my shoulder. The magpies chattered, the bees buzzed, and the sun cast a golden glow on the trees. The entire coach smelled like ginger, and I felt my stomach heave. It was the smell of guilt over lusting after a woman who was never to be—could never be—my wife.

  “Your first death, the first one you witness, changes you,” Damon said finally, as the coach pulled up to the white clapboard church. The church bells were ringing, and every business in town was closed for the day. “But perhaps it can change you for the better.”

  “Maybe,” I said as I descended from the coach. But I didn’t see how.

  We reached the door as Dr. Janes hobbled into the church, his cane in one hand and a flask of whiskey in another. Pearl and Anna were sitting together, and Jonathan Gilbert sat behind them, his elbows perched on the edge of Pearl’s pew, just inches from her shoulder.

  Sheriff Forbes was in his usual place in the second pew, glaring at the cluster of rouged women from the tavern who had come to pay their respects. At the edge of their circle was Alice, the barmaid, cooling herself with a silk fan.

  Calvin Bailey, the organist, was playing an adaptation of Mozart’s Requiem, but he seemed to hit a sour note every few chords. In the front pew, Mr. Cartwright stared straight ahead, while Mrs. Cartwright sobbed and occasionally blew her nose into a lace handkerchief. At the front of the church, a closed oak casket was covered with flowers. Wordlessly, I walked to the casket and knelt down in front of it.

  “I’m so sorry,” I whispered, touching the casket, which felt cold an
d hard. Unbidden, images of my betrothed popped up in my mind: Rosalyn giggling over her new puppy, giddily discussing flower combinations for our wedding, risking the wrath of her maid by planting a covert kiss on my cheek at the end of one visit. I moved my hands off the casket and put them together, as if in prayer. “I hope that you and Penny have found each other in Heaven.” I leaned down, letting my lips graze the casket. I wanted her to know, wherever she was, that I would have learned to love her. “Good-bye.”

  I turned to take my seat and stopped short. Right behind me was Katherine. She was wearing a dark-blue cotton dress that stood out in the sea of black crepe that filled the pews.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” Katherine said, touching my arm. I flinched and drew my arm back. How dare she touch me so familiarly in public? Didn’t she realize that if we hadn’t been carrying on at the barbecue in the first place, the tragedy might never have happened?

  Concern registered in her dark eyes. “I know how hard this must be for you,” she said. “Please let me know if you need anything.”

  I immediately felt a wave of guilt for assuming she was doing anything other than showing sympathy. After all, her parents had died. She was just a young girl, reaching out to offer her support. She looked so sad that for one wild second, I was tempted to cross the aisle and comfort her.

  “Thank you,” I said instead, sucking in my stale breath and walking back to the pew. I slid next to Damon, who had his hands crossed piously over a Bible. I noticed his eyes flick up as Katherine briefly knelt down by the coffin. I followed his gaze, noticing the way several curls had escaped from beneath her hat and were curling around the ornate clasp on her blue necklace.

  A few minutes later, the Requiem ended, and Pastor Collins strode up to the pulpit. “We’re here to celebrate a life cut far too short. There is evil among us, and we will mourn this death, but we will also draw strength from this death …,” he intoned.

  I covertly glanced across the aisle at Katherine. Her servant, Emily, was sitting next to her on one side and Pearl on the other. Katherine’s hands were folded as if in prayer. She turned slightly, as if to look at me. I forced myself to look away before our eyes could meet. I would not dishonor Rosalyn by thinking of Katherine.

  I gazed up at the unfinished, steepled beams of the church. I’m sorry, I thought, sending the message upward and hoping that Rosalyn, wherever she was, heard it.

  11

  The mist rose up around my feet as I walked toward the willow tree. The sun was quickly setting, but I could still make out a shadowy figure nestled between the roots.

  I glanced again. It was Rosalyn, her party dress shimmering in the weak light. Bile rose in my throat. How could she be here? She was buried, her body six feet underground at the Mystic Falls cemetery.

  As I walked closer, steeling my courage and grasping the knife in my pocket, I noticed her lifeless eyes reflecting the verdant leaves above. Her dark curls stuck to her clammy forehead. And her neck wasn’t torn out at all. Instead, her neck displayed only two neat little holes, the size of shodding nails. As if guided by an unseen hand, I fell to my knees next to her body.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered, staring at the cracked earth below. Then I raised my eyes and froze in horror. Because it wasn’t Rosalyn’s body at all.

  It was Katherine’s.

  A small smile curved her rosebud lips, as if she were simply dreaming.

  I fought the urge to scream. I would not let Katherine die! But as I reached toward her wounds, she sat straight up. Her visage morphed, her dark curls faded to blond, and her eyes glowed red.

  I started backward.

  “It’s your fault!” The words cut through the still night, the tone hollow and otherworldly. The voice belonged neither to Katherine nor Rosalyn—but to a demon.

  I screamed, gripping my penknife and slicing it into the night air. The demon lunged forward and clutched my neck. It lowered its sharpened canines to my skin, and everything faded to black….

  I woke up in a cold sweat, sitting upright. A crow cawed outside; in the distance, I could hear children playing. Sunbeams were dappled along my white bedspread, and a dinner tray was sitting on my desk. It was daylight. I was in my own bed.

  A dream. I remembered the funeral, the ride from the church, my exhaustion as I climbed the stairs to my bedroom. It had just been a dream, a product of too much emotion and stimulation today. A dream, I reminded myself again, willing my heart to stop pounding. I took a long gulp of water straight from the pitcher on the nightstand. My brain slowly stilled, but my heart continued to race and my hands still felt clammy. Because it wasn’t a dream, or at least not like any dream I’d ever had before. It was as if demons were invading my mind, and I was no longer sure what was real or what thoughts to trust.

  I stood up, trying to shake off the nightmare, and wandered downstairs. I took the back steps so as not to cross paths with Cordelia in the kitchen. She’d been taking good care of me, just as when I had been a child in mourning for my mother, but something about her watchful gaze made me nervous. I knew she’d heard me call out for Katherine, and I fervently hoped she wasn’t telling tales to the servants.

  I walked into Father’s study and glanced at his shelves, finding myself drawn yet again to the Shakespeare section. Saturday seemed like a lifetime ago. Still, the candle in the silver candlestick holder was exactly where Katherine and I had left it, and The Mysteries of Mystic Falls was still on the chair. If I closed my eyes, I could almost smell lemon.

  I shook that thought away and hastily picked out a volume of Macbeth, a play about jealousy and love and betrayal and death, which suited my mood perfectly.

  I forced myself to sit on the leather club chair and glance at the words, forced myself to turn the pages. Maybe that’s what I needed in order to proceed with the rest of my life. If I just kept forcing myself to take action, maybe I’d finally get over the guilt and sadness and fear I’d been carrying with me since Rosalyn’s death.

  Just then, I heard a knock on the door.

  “Father’s not here,” I called, hoping whoever it was would go away.

  “Sir Stefan?” Alfred’s voice called. “It’s a visitor.”

  “No, thank you,” I replied. It was probably Sheriff Forbes again. He’d already come by four or five times, speaking to Damon and Father. So far I’d managed to beg off the visits. I couldn’t stand the thought of telling him—telling anyone—where I’d been at the time of the attack.

  “The visitor is quite insistent,” Alfred called.

  “So are you,” I muttered under my breath as I strode to the door and opened it.

  “She’s in the sitting room,” Alfred said, turning on his heel.

  “Wait!” I said. She. Could it be … Katherine? My heart quickened despite itself.

  “Sir?” Alfred asked, mid-step.

  “I’ll be there.”

  Frantically, I splashed water from the basin in the corner on my face and used my hands to smooth my hair back from my forehead. My eyes still looked hooded, and tiny vessels had broken, reddening the whites, but there was nothing more I could do to make me look, let alone feel, more like myself.

  I strode purposefully into the parlor. For an instant, my heart fell with disappointment. Instead of Katherine, sitting on the red velvet wingback chair in the corner was her maid, Emily. She had a basket of flowers on her lap and held a daisy to her nose, as if she didn’t have a care in the world.

  “Hello,” I said formally, already trying to come up with a way to politely excuse myself.

  “Mr. Salvatore.” Emily stood up and half-curtseyed. She wore a simple white eyelet dress and bonnet, and her dark skin was smooth and unlined. “My mistress and I join you in your sorrows. She asked that I give you this,” she said, proffering the basket toward me.

  “Thank you,” I said, taking the basket. I absentmindedly put a sprig of lilac to my nose and inhaled.

  “I’d use these in your healing, rather than Cordelia’
s concoctions,” Emily said.

  “How did you know about that?” I wondered.

  “Servants talk. But I fear that whatever Cordelia’s feeding you may be doing you more harm than good.” She plucked a few blossoms from the basket, twining them into a bouquet. “Daisies, magnolias, and bleeding heart will help you heal.”

  “And pansies for thoughts?” I asked, remembering a quote from Shakespeare’s Hamlet. As soon as I said it, I realized it was a foolish statement. How would an uneducated servant girl possibly know what I was speaking of?

  But Emily simply smiled. “No pansies, although my mistress did mention your love of Shakespeare.” She reached into the basket and broke off a sprig of lilac, which she then pushed gently into my buttonhole.

  I held the basket up and inhaled. It smelled like flowers, but there was something else: the intoxicating aroma that I’d only experienced when I was near Katherine. I inhaled again, feeling the confusion and darkness of the past few days slowly fade.

  “I know everything’s very strange right now,” Emily said, breaking my reverie. “But my mistress only wishes the best for you.” She nodded toward the couch, as if inviting me to sit down. Obediently, I sat and stared at her. She was remarkably beautiful and carried herself with a type of grace I’d never seen before. Her movements and manners were so deliberate that watching her was like watching a painting come to life.