For a moment, I inhaled the burning incense, wondering if it were possible that the reality I had been existing in these years had been nothing but a nightmare. For a second, I pondered the possibility that I was truly there in the convent with my sisters. Time had not passed me by; I had never taken a life; Wesley had never come to me that night.
All of this seemed possible as I beheld their faces - their serene, ethereal faces. They appeared before me as mirages in a desert; wavering and fading yet so real that I could almost reach out, grasp onto their thick habits, and pull them to me into an embrace.
Yet then a hand touched my shoulder and the figments from my past, their faces once so vivid before me, became like sand in a windstorm, blowing again to the recesses of my mind. Old blood had risen into my throat when I realized this reality, this vicious, damning nightmare, was my reality.
"If you have come for confession," an older feminine voice spoke to me from behind, "they are hearing them now."
"Thank you," I replied.
She made expert use of a cheaply made spruce cane as she hobbled by, favoring her left hip. Her grey kirtle - with its white sleeves, skirted the floor, the hem already soiled from excessive wear; her head covered in a white cloth, grey hair peeking through. Her face reflected years spent under the harsh Norwegian sun, toiling in a garden. Her nose was bulbous; her cheeks rough and thickened with patches; her chin sporting hairs and a single black wart on its right outer curvature.
Her kirtle - patched here and there with brown fabric - shown extensive wear, as did her stained fingertips, tinted a purplish hue. My kirtle was sage green with an elaborate pattern made from imported fabric from England. Dying and embroidery was reserved for the wealthy.
The old hag hobbled down a row of pews and slipped into a confessional. I waited until she emerged a few minutes later, and then watched as she slipped away from the church.
I traced her footsteps toward the confessional, unsure of what compelled me to that box and to the man behind that curtain. I had not given confession since three days before Wesley took me from the convent; my largest transgressions back then had been falling asleep during vespers and talking when not allowed.
Since then, I had murdered and been forced from my God. I had committed unspeakable crimes against man, against the promises I had made to God, and could not face myself, let alone him. The fact that I could not be absolved through mere confession and “go and sin no more” stung me like a poisonous whip lashing at me by a hidden tormentor.
I entered the confessional, the thick burgundy curtain swaying around me as I pushed past it into the darkened box. The smell of lanolin and cod permeated from the other side, and I could make out the faint outline of the priest sitting vigilantly behind the screen.
"Good Evening, Father," I said as I sat down on the small bench.
"It is customary to begin with 'Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,'" he said, politely correcting me.
"Yes," I replied, remembering the numerous confessions of my youth and the many confessions I gave in the convent. "I know, and I have sinned but you cannot possibly bless me, for I will sin again."
"Why will you sin again? If you are aware of your transgressions, can you not change?"
"No, sadly I cannot," I said, remorsefully.
"What is the nature of your sins, my child?"
"I have murdered, Father; murdered to survive, and though I do not wish to, there will be a time when I must kill again. I will hate myself for doing so; I detest what I have become. But I will kill again. For my survival, I will take a life before God determines its time on earth is done; I will be forced to sin. For this, I will never be forgiven. Not by you, not by myself, and I do not believe even by our maker."
I could sense his pause on the other side of the screen. He breathed in and exhaled, heavily and with much conviction before he spoke.
"What you or I cannot forgive our Holy Father can forgive, my child. You must come to Him and ask for his forgiveness, and then commit yourself to sin no more. If you speak the truth and your intent just, the Lord shall be forgiving. God forgives even those who slaughter on the battlefield if they are penitent. Even St. Olav was forgiven for all those he killed in the battle of Stiklestad."
"That is true, Father," I replied. "But I am not in battle."
“Perhaps, my child,” he whispered as I stood, “you are.”
I reached for the heavy curtain, opened it and left. When it came to religion, I knew not where I belonged. If God accepted the vile acts this curse forced upon me for survival, then perhaps one day he would absolve me. But from that moment, I no longer felt that a man sitting in a booth had the power to bestow upon me absolution. And for the first time, I felt God had deserted me.
Yet, there were nights when I would still find myself at the cathedral, sitting in St. John's chapel. I would go to admire the stained glass and the aroma of incense, staying hidden away in the shadows like a ghost.
It was from these shadows in Trondheim I broke from my lonely cocoon. I emerged from the Cathedral one balmy summer evening and decided to spend the remaining hours of moonlight lying on the beach, my toes dipping in the tide.
Even with my eyes to the stars, to the constellations, that clear night, I could see him approaching. His feet dragged along the sand, making a grating scuffle as they shuffled toward me. The moonlight bounced off his hard frame, but it was not until he was closer that I could see his features— his wavy, luscious locks, his legs of chiseled marble, and his chin - prominent and proud.
I sat up as he approached, my palms sinking into the cool sand. He was a Greek god in the moonlight; Apollo himself descended from the heavens to make me his Daphne. Despite my immense power, the capability to crush his fragile humanity with one pierce from my fang, his presence left me weak and speechless.
I arose and brushed the sand from my kirtle. He introduced himself as Aksel Hansen, a local boat maker. We talked of the weather – it had been surprisingly brisk for this time of year, he had remarked. We talked of his boat making— an asinine trade he had made for himself. The conversation continued throughout the evening at a mild and temperate tempo, until I felt dawn creeping from the recesses of the night's silky void. Yet when I went to leave, he urged me to wait.
"I walk this coastline every night; my house is right there off the shore." He pointed to the east toward a quaint cabin nestled a few meters from the water. "I have watched you from my window."
"You have watched me?" I asked. It was not often that a mortal noticed me before I noticed them.
"Yes," he shamefully replied. "Will you be coming tomorrow night?"
"I do not yet know..."
"I urge you; come. I will find you."
With this, he walked toward his cabin. I watched as he went through the door and was out of sight. When I was safely out of view, I took to the skies, landing safely in front of my Lofoten cabin.
There was something about this Aksel… his image haunted my mind.
The next evening came and went. Three more followed and I did not return to Trondheim as he had requested. On the fourth night, I began to feel the pains of loneliness pulling me toward the city. I struggled against it, but after another week, I craved for interaction. No longer could I stand to be alone with nothing but the stars and my thoughts for company.
Perhaps it had been loneliness, perhaps curiosity, perhaps self-preservation, but I had to return to the man by the shore.
The rain was relentless that night, forcing my feet to slop their way toward Aksel’s door. The storm was violent, with its dagger-sharp drops piercing my face. Lightning lit the sky in brief bursts of pale violets and shocking whites, its brilliance illuminating the Heavens. The wind howled and smacked the waves onto the shore, thrashing them into the rocks.
His house was inland— far enough to be safe from the rising tide. Light flickered from within one of the rooms; a haunting glow played on his walls from a fireplace, a raging fire swelling within it.
I could see him inside, standing near the flames, stirring a pot that hung over the embers while the red flames licked eagerly at its bottom.
He moved to the table, grasped a knife, and started dicing root vegetables: a rutabaga and a carrot. He carried them to the pot, tossed them in, and stirred it once more. I watched as he hung the spoon on a rusty hook near the fireplace, and then settled down hearthside, rubbing his worn hands over the fire. His legs stretched in front of him, a reprieve from the day’s labor. The slender, shoeless legs were but gangly tree roots emerging from the rustic floor.
He intrigued me the way he appeared, so effortless, so relaxed. I should have left him alone to linger in his reflections, but my hand moved to meet the oak door and gently tapped upon its roughly carved surface.
I should have let him be, left him to linger, to age, but I could not. I was lonely – just as Wesley had been the night he came for me.
SIX
Aksel bolted from the chair, the sound of my knocking startling him. He hurried to the hearth and slipped on his shoes. They had been resting on the slab, drying from his labors at the docks. That morning he had launched his newest boat, and as he held a tentative breath, it was determined that the vessel was sea worthy.
The wooden masterpiece, with its intricately carved relief of Aegir, God of the Sea, had been a labor in progress for months. With it finished, Aksel could relax before beginning his next project – two small passenger boats for a monastery in the south. They wanted the saints depicted in a carved relief along the outer edge and for it to be adorned with a crucifix at the stern. This was not the monastery’s first commission and the monks were easy to please if you fulfilled their wishes.
His shadow engulfed the door as he moved closer, opening it slowly, and peeking out into the dark. He had retrieved a candle from the door-side holder and held it out and up to my face.
"I am surprised to see you here," he said. "Will you come in?"
He offered me a tart wine, imported from Italy, said he carried it from there himself; but I politely refused, then settled near the fire as he stirred the odorous stew of root vegetable and lamb broth. His cottage was quaint, decorated in rich browns – rough, tweed braids and animal hides - and accents of green and burnt reds. His furniture was sparse – two chairs near the fire, a larger one I was seated in and a smaller one for his feet to rest; a bed adorned the far right wall with furs covering it in piles, and a table sat off to the left sectioning off what served as the kitchen. The fireplace served as both a source of warmth and a stove. And the light it cast created shadows that taunted my imagination.
As I sat, watching him stir his stew, the fire flickered and shadows wavered, making the furs on the bed dance with life. With each flame came a new flicker, and a new chance for a shadow to pop into existence in one of the cabin’s darkened corners. The bright embers licking the far corners, struggling to stay lit as they flew into the night, looked like eyes; eyes staring back at me. Eyes, that’s what I saw in those cabin corners; staring into my soul, those eyes were.
As the night ebbed, and our conversation deepened, I wondered how Aksel could live in this cottage, haunted by these ghastly shadows and flickering flames. The secrets they must contain.
"Does the lack of lighting bother you?" I asked. "The shadows?"
My hand gestured toward the furs covering Aksel’s bed. There was a bear fur lying on the top, its hide glistening, appearing to respire. The beast could have been hibernating on the straw mat, its rib cage moving in rhythm with its slumbering breath.
"The shadows?"
"Can you not see what I see?" I inquired. I motioned toward the fireplace; the embers were dying and he rose to stoke them. Tiny sparks of red and orange licked the air as they danced, fading the higher they sailed. “The firelight in your cabin is playing tricks with my eyesight. I think I am seeing things in the shadows."
"The darkness is comforting," he explained. "I spend most of my day in sunlight working. At night, the last thing I wish to do is recreate the dawn with a splendor of candles adorning my windowsills and tabletops. It's true that most homes are alight at this time of evening, but I prefer a quiet solitude in front of the glow of my fire with just enough candlelight to get by."
He sat back and stretched his limbs in the small chair as I had watched him do earlier that night. He spread his hands into the air, joining them in a clasp before returning them gently to rest behind his head.
"In the darkness there is little to distract me from the beautiful sound the waves make as they crash against the rocks, or the gentle purr of the tide as it rolls in."
"Then how did you ever see me as I walked the shores. If it is dark in this cabin, then its pitch black out there with nothing but the stars to light my way; how did you ever see me?"
"I happened upon you one night, purely by accident. You were just lying there in the sand, your feet in the water letting the tide crash into them. Had you seen me before I slipped away, I am not sure what I would have said to you," he admitted.
"I sensed you near," I replied, caught unguarded and exposed.
"You never turned around."
"I was reflecting on the stars that night; lost in a memory from my youth."
"Was it a troublesome memory?"
"No, it was a lovely memory," I said. “I knew someone was near. They left, though, before I could get up and turn around."
"I saw you again a few nights later. You walked past my window," he motioned toward the side window near his bed. "I was preparing for bed and had the candle near the window when I saw you walk past and sit on the rocks outside. I watched for a while. Why do you walk alone at night?"
"I enjoy the night," I answered.
"You came again two nights later; did the same thing, then walked out into the water ‘till it reached your waist. You lingered there for a long while, and then disappeared in the swelling waves. I waited for you to reemerge but you never did. In a panic, I ran into the icy water in search of you." Aksel rose from the chair, moved to the window, and peered out onto the now calm waters.
"A storm brewed that night. I should have warned you, but I did not. I let you enter the water. Then you were gone! And I thought the tide had swept you under, but there you were, to my amazement, three days later walking along the shore. I would think you a figment of my imagination had you not spoken to me that night, and then returned this evening."
"I swam out a ways and then down the coast. It was dark; you could not have seen me. The waves were choppy. I emerged down near where the rocks brake by the cove."
His head cocked my way; his brows flinched.
"The water was icy. I shivered and could not stop, even after I came in and shed my clothes, wrapped myself in fur, and lumped myself directly in front of the fire. How were you able to stand in the water that long, so still and calm, let alone swim to the cove?" he asked. His inquisitive stare bearing into me.
"I have conditioned my body to withstand the icy, Northern waters," I responded, standing, a thread of unease coursing through me. I moved cautiously toward the window and stood by his side, placing my hand on his. "I have a man who works for me; he swims in the cold waters as well," he said as he looked into my eyes. "But at night, it is risky. It is far too cold."
My hand slid up his arm, groping at his bicep. My fingers, a pearly medusa, slithered until my hand reached his cheek. I rubbed his chin, relishing the roughness of his facial hair. Beneath my touch, the red bristles emerged from their hidden homes in his skin; and when I reached his mouth, it stood open to me. I took my fingers, stroking them over his lips. They were soft, but marred like worn Italian leather, scattered with rough patches from the harsh sun.
His arms gripped my waist and pulled me closer, tighter to him. Gently, I leaned in and caressed his lips, feeling the weight of his body surge next to me. With an unknown passion, he held me in an embrace and moved his lips down my neck; his hot breath was fire against my skin.
In rapture, I grasped for th
e tuft of strawberry hair at the nape, and swiftly angled his neck. His jugular popped; its blueness a shadow against his tanned skin. With my left hand, I scratched it, licking my finger. My lips grazed his neck, striking it with the tip of my tongue. He moaned, biting my shoulder, his arm tightly seizing against my body. His will, in that moment, was mine.
My tongue felt at my teeth, where the evidence of my horrific fate grew, threatening to protrude and sink into his tender, innocent neck.
His heart raced, straining to break from his sternum. Its siren call was deafening; its rhythm reverberated in my ears, tempting me. I smelled the richly aroma of his blood; I could taste it through his salty skin.
My lips met his neck once more, as my vampiric teeth nudged the top of my tongue.
A tiny drink, my intention was for nothing more than to satisfy my carnal need for blood – to appease this unrelenting thirst. Yet, his mind was strong; his thoughts, his wants and desires assaulted me. And the shred of humanity that heard this yearning betrayed the monster within me. It listened, it yearned for the same basic wants and desires, as well. I could not drink from him.
I withdrew from his neck and stepped away. He stared at me, his flat eyes reflecting my weakness. I edged closer to the door, close enough to feel the wood frame beneath my fingertips; the grainy texture a sharp contrast to his downy skin, the coursing flow of blood beneath a rhythmic symphonic tapping of a tympani drum.
"Do not leave," he spoke, as he lunged forward to stop me.
"I must."
"Stay!"
"I must go," I reached for the latch, pulling it forcefully. The door opened revealing the serene blackness of night awaiting me. "Do not follow. I will return. I promise"
A week later, I upheld my word.
Aksel had been in town one evening; I hunted the crowd for his thoughts, and upon hearing them, was near him in a blink of time.
Drummers kept beat next to the raging fire light, while others gathered and took turns rolling a flaming wheel down a hill. The drummers, the fires, the wheel rollers – all would welcome the dawn. They would stay to greet Sunna, the sun goddess, and mark the Summer Solstice.
Descent Into Madness Page 4
