by Nancy Morse
At the house in Clapham Pru gave several raps with the pewter knocker, recognizing the mark on the underside as Edmund’s. A severe-looking housekeeper answered the door and spoke not a word to her as she showed her inside and pointed a boney finger toward a door that led to a back staircase.
The heavy oak door creaked eerily on its hinges when Pru grasped the knob and pulled it slowly open. Before her was a great dark empty space. A sliver of light fell upon the top step and she realized that rather than going up, she was meant to descend to the depths of the house. She swallowed down the lump of apprehension in her throat and slowly proceeded down the narrow, winding stairs. With no light to guide her, she braced her hands against the walls on either side and felt her way along, stepping carefully as she wound her way downward.
Gradually there appeared a faint bluish light tinting the narrow staircase. As she descended the last curve it grew brighter, bathing the walls in an unearthly light. When she reached the bottom of the staircase, she found herself standing in a small dark antechamber. At its far end was another door that stood partly ajar. From its scant opening spilled the strange blue light.
Pru approached cautiously, eyes sweeping the darkness for any sign of treachery. Licking the dryness from her lips she placed her fingers ever so lightly on the door and pushed it open, just enough for her to pass through.
At first, it appeared that she was standing in a dungeon. It filled her with dread and the impulse to run. Choking back her fear, she looked around. The walls were built with shelves from the floor to the low-hung, rough-beamed ceiling, each shelf crammed with books, more books than she’d seen at the lending library. Vats of pulsating liquid bubbled and boiled in the corner. On a table before the bookshelves strange glowing vials stood erect in a receptacle. Others lay carelessly about. The smell of sulfur hung in the air, stinging her nostrils. Beneath it, like an undercurrent of hope, the sweet smell of holy water.
Into her mind sprang the vision of a wizened, white-haired wizard, cackling over the bubbling pots, chanting secret formulas, a demented, obsessed charlatan. She began to back away slowly, regretting the foolish impulse that had brought her here, when a voice from the shadows froze her in mid-step.
“Some men conceive of wisdom only when it comes in the form of a clergyman delivering a sermon in a church pulpit. To others, if a man does not conform to the laws of society, he cannot be taken seriously.”
A figure emerged from a shadowy corner. “I, on the other hand, subscribe to neither precept. I am free from the solemnity to which men of religion and philosophy are burdened.”
He approached her and gestured around them. “What you see here is the product of my free thinking. I have long suspected that human life may have a duration longer than ordinarily attributed to it. It is the negative activity placed upon our nerves and the acid of our fears that consume the body. If we were able to rise above our emotions, suppress the anger, control the fear, we might be capable of living far longer than we do. Of course, it’s all just a theory, but if I were able to stop the workings of the human clock during sleep, I could prevent the wasting of the energy it takes for our hearts to beat and our lungs to breathe and thus prolong life. Do you see that?” He pointed to a jar in which was suspended in liquid the head of a rat.
Pru’s stomach heaved.
“I was able to stretch that creature’s life tenfold. It died a ripe old age. I have preserved its brain in a salt and vinegar solution for further study.” He looked away from the bodyless rat to scrutinize Pru. “But you did not call on me to learn about prolonging life. Or did you?”
Her first rational thought was that anyone contemplating a life in alchemy instead of a steady trade had only to glance at Simon Cavendish to be disuaded from the notion. “Mr. Cavendish,” she began, her voice scratchy with fear. “My name is Prudence Hightower. My father is the music master in Folgate Street. I did not mean to disturb your…work…here.”
His face registered neither interest nor disinterest. The only thing that moved was his mouth that puckered, as if he were indeed sucking on a lemon.
“My father is quite ill. The doctors are all mystified by what ails him. Each day he grows weaker for no apparent reason. I thought—”
“You thought,” he interjected, “that I might whip up a magic elixir that would restore your father to good health.”
“I don’t believe in magic,” she said.
“You’re rather young to be so cynical.”
“What you call cynicism I call reality. It’s not magic that will cure my father. As I started to say, I thought you might know of something, a remedy perhaps, that the doctors are unaware of.”
In the phosphorous blue light his face looked swollen, his eyes like small round objects.
“To the doctors, anything not learned in university is black magic,” he said. “Perhaps they would not be entirely wrong.” He gave a little chuckle, but when she failed to respond in kind, he shrugged, and said, “Yes, well, without knowing precisely what ails your father I am at a loss, you understand, to offer you anything of importance, but I suppose I could concoct something.” He crooked his finger, beckoning her closer to the table.
She approached cautiously, careful to stand out of reach, in case he meant to bludgeon her to death, dismember her and preserve her brain in a salt and vinegar solution.
From a cauldron that sat beneath a plume of glassy smoke, he carefully decanted some liquid into a vial, then extracted several vials of glowing liquid from their slots in the receptacle and poured a drop of this and a drop of that into it. “This should do it” He pressed it into her hands. “Give him two drops a day, one in the morning, one at bedtime, no more than that, and see what happens.”
She realized that she ought to be reasonably afraid for herself, but instead, her fear was beginning to recede. He was nothing more than an eccentric old man, she realized, somewhere between a scientist and a mystic, and perhaps a little bit of both. The liquid in the vial gleamed dully in the smoky light. She slipped it into her pocket. “Thank you,” she said. She glanced around, trying to hide her nervousness.
He tilted his head at her. “Was there something else you wanted?”
“Well, yes, I…that is…” She had no idea how to begin. “I was wondering…” She ran her tongue nervously over her lips. “If you could tell me…about the soul.”
“The soul?” he repeated in slow surprise. Very carefully he replaced the vials in the receptable, saying, “Theology would suggest that the soul is the part of a person that remains after the body dies. Clever of the theologians, don’t you agree, to invent such a thing rather than face the possibility that nothing exists after death? But you did not have to come to me for a definition of the soul. You could have gone to any priest.”
“That is true, but I don’t think a priest could give me the information I seek. I was thinking more along the line of reclaiming the soul.”
His puckered mouth stretched into a grin. “Now, that is much more interesting, isn’t it? And whose soul would you like to reclaim? Not your own, I would hope.”
“No, my soul is perfectly intact,” she said. “Let us just say, hypothetically, of course, that a person thought himself to be evil…and was…dead.” She bit her lip and waited for his reaction.
Those marble-shaped eyes scrutinized her with intense interest. “Well, let me see. I seem to recall something about that.” He went to the bookshelf and ran his finger down the line of age-old tomes. “This one, I believe.” He pulled one from the shelf, blew off the dust and flipped through the pages. “It’s the account of a Russian prince known as Upir Lichy dating back to the eleventh century. There is a minor passage somewhere. Ah yes, here it is. It says the soul of the undead can be reclaimed through a Reclamation Chant.” He looked up at her. “But, of course, the chant must be spoken in a combination of Gypsy-Romani Romanian and you would need a witch for that. Unfortunately, my area of study does not include witchcraft.”
“Wha
t is your opinion?” Pru asked. “Do you think it is possible to relcaim the soul?”
He tapped his fingers against the book’s worn leather, and conjectured, “What is the soul? It is the principle of life, feeling and thought, is it not? It is the essential element of a human being, the emotional part. It is assumed to be a distinct spiritual entity separate from the physical body. But is it? I have done some thinking on this subject and have concluded that the soul consists of one’s intellect and personality. I do not consider it to be a separate, ghostly occupant of the body. Is it possible to lose the soul through wickedness? Oh my, yes. But I do not believe that it is ever truly and irrevocably lost. It dwells within, sometimes so deeply that it is only presumed to be lost. Misplaced, you might say.”
So, it is possible,” she said.
He looked at her askance, his beady eyes narrowing, and said carefully, “Perhaps. If the evil-doer were to repent. We are talking hypothetically, are we not?”
“Of course.”
“Because you will note that the passage I read refers to the undead. If such a being were to actually exist—”
“No, no,” she said, affecting what she hoped was a convincing air. “I was discussing folklore with a pupil of my father’s who is of Slavic descent. He was telling me that in his country there are legends about the dead coming back to life. I found it intriguing and thought to learn more about it.”
“For what purpose?” he asked.
“I am writing a novel. I hadn’t meant to tell anyone about it until it was completed and I could present it to a publisher, but I feel I can trust you with my little secret.” It had never been in her nature to lie, but then, she had become adept at many things that had heretofore been out of character to her. She could tell by his expression that he believed her and felt a pang of guilt in the knowledge that she had perfected the act of dishonesty.
“And what, may I ask, is your novel about?”
“It’s a love story about a mortal woman and an immortal man. It’s a bit unusual, I will admit, and highly improbable, but owing to the popularity of Mr. Defoe’s The Fortunes and Misfortunes of the Famous Moll Flanders, I thought to try my hand at being a novelist.”
She had indeed read the scandalous book, squinting against the candlelight after Papa and Aunt Vivienne had gone to bed. Although she took frequent offense at the heroine’s escapades, she found herself regarding the unfortunate girl with compassion even when taking advantage of the kindness of others. Was committing an immoral deed out of necessity really immoral at all? Surely, such behavior could be excused by dire circumstances. Just as circumstance might excuse Nicolae’s behavior, as well as the lie she told the alchemist.
“I see,” he said in a measured tone. “Well, if you are in need of research materials, I would be happy to put my library at your disposal.” He swept his hand toward the leather-bound books lining the shelves. “You will find a wealth of information in these.”
None of which are quite so informative as a first-hand account, Pru thought wryly.
“If I may ask, what does the character of your novel look like?”
She answered hesitantly, “His hair is dark and his eyes are shockingly green. And I imagine him to have very pale skin.”
“I cannot speak to the hair and eyes,” he said, “but the pale skin aptly describes it. There is a word for the creature you are referring to. It is vampire.”
Pru felt the breath smack at the back of her throat. That’s what Nicolae had called himself.
“The vampire myth goes back thousands of years and occurs in virtually every culture around the world, but it has yet to appear in any current writings. Perhaps you will be the first to introduce it into the English language in your novel. The superstitions of the Slavic countries, Romania in particular, are unusually vivid.”
“Then the stories my friend told me are accurate?”
“More than accurate, my dear.”
“But the soul,” she said, “Do you think it is possible to only think you have lost your soul?”
“Quite possible, I should think. Eastern Orthodox Christianity has very specific teachings about the relationship of the soul to the body after death and its connection to the physical body. It could be that the religion is so deeply ingrained that one would truly believe himself to be soulless.”
“Thank you so much for your time,” Pru said. “The information you have provided will make my novel so much more real.”
He walked her to the door. “If it is reality you want, consider that the creature you write about is, indeed, very real. The undead preys upon the living, severing the juguar and draining the blood from its victims, leaving the cold, lifeless corpses to rot. It is a nasty, vile creature, but one I would give anything to meet.”
Pru struggled to banish from her mind the gruesome vision of Nicolae severing jugulars and draining blood. “What would you do if you could meet such a…” She could not bring herself to utter the word creature. “…person?”
His face brightened and his eyes widened into round orbs. “Oh, the questions I would ask.”
“You would ask questions of him? That’s all?”
“If you mean would his head wind up in a jar of salt and vinegar, no, no, not at all. The information such a creature could provide would unlock the mystery of immortality. It would serve me no purpose at all to kill the thing.”
For one perilous instant Pru was tempted to take him to task. Nicolae was no thing. He was flesh and bone, and if not alive in the truest sense of the word, he was more emotionally alive than any man she had ever met. But she quashed the impulse. She wished to be polite despite the anger simmering just beneath her calm façade. Favoring him with a smile, she said, “Thank you for your time.”
“You are quite welcome, Miss…?”
“Hightower,” she prompted.
“Ah yes. You must forgive me. I am not very good when it comes to remembering names.”
Outside, Pru squinted against the daylight, shook herself and filled her lungs with the spring air. She was not offended that he didn’t remember her name, just relieved to be away from that terrible, smelly dungeon and that peculiar man. The rein she’d held on her emotions deserted her as she hurried from down the street. She could not wait to tell Nicolae the news that his soul was not lost.
CHAPTER 13
“Not coming back?” Pru’s voice sounded hollow and unbelieving.
“Yes, dear. His manservant brought this note by this morning.”
Disappointment radiated throughout Pru’s being as she read Nicolae’s note. The handwriting penned on the ivory parchment was neat and impersonal, with nary a curlicue or flourish to indicate it was written by the same hand that played the violoncello with such emotion. The words were spare and to the point and offered no explanation of why he was not returning.
She’d been hoping to tell him what she learned from the alchemist when he came for his final music lesson. She looked at her father with a bleak expression. “I don’t understand.” He was the one brilliant spot in her dreary, otherwise uneventful life, she wanted to say.
“It’s likely he feels there is nothing more to be gained from his lessons,” her papa said weakly. “And he would be right.”
A frown marred Pru’s features. That was the logical reason, but she could not help but wonder if she was the cause of it. Did Nicolae regret confiding his dreadful secret to her? Was he angry that she had rejected his offer of immortality? Or maybe, she thought with a start, he’d met someone else, a woman more accommodating and experienced. It made awful sense. After all, she had scarcely known what to do. He’d had to guide her every step of the way. She straightened indignantly. What did he expect? He knew she was unpracticed in the art of lovemaking. It must have pleased him immensely to know she was a virgin. And now that he’d taken from her the only thing of value she possessed, was he done with her?
She balled up the note and hurled it across the room. It bounced off the fireplace grate a
nd landed on the carpet. “I’m not going to the concert,” she announced.
“Pruddy, you must.”
“How can I, Papa?” she said in horror. “After everything we have done for him, this is how he repays us? With a note and no explanation?”
“I suppose,” he uttered reluctantly. “But perhaps you are too quick to judge him.”
“I wouldn’t be the first. Aunt Vivienne absolutely abhors the man.”
“Your aunt has not heard him play. You have, and so you know there is more to him than what his note conveys.” He lifted his head a little higher on the pillow and looked at his daughter. “Are you in love with our young friend, Pruddy?”
“Certainly not!”
“Then has he done anything that would cause this uncharacteristic display of irritation?” His gaze strayed tellingly to the crumpled note on the floor.
Pru closed here eyes, trying hard to block out all the ways in which Nicolae had tricked her. Had it been all a ruse just to take Papa’s place at the concert? Was the story he told her even true, any of it? She had believed it, but was that because she wanted to or because he wanted her to? What a fool she was for trusting him, for believing everything he said, even the part about her being beautiful.
He was a lying dog. Son of a prince, indeed! Undead. What utter nonsense. But then she recalled his face the night he’d told his fantastic story. The anguished look in his eyes and the tremble in his silky voice had been too real to be concocted. And the alchemist had confirmed that creatures such as he really do exist. Pru’s head swam with uncertainty. The strength seeped from her legs. She reached out her hand and felt behind her for the chair and sank into it.
“No, Papa,” she said, choking back the lie.
“Then it’s settled. You will attend the concert.”
“Very well,” she said with a sigh of resignation. “I’ll ask Aunt Vivienne not to go out that evening so she can stay with you.”
“No,” he said. “Take your aunt with you. Gladys has agreed to stay with me until you return. Oh come now, Pruddy. Why the long face? I do so long to hear him play, but as I cannot, you must act as my ears.”
