Descent Into Madness

by Catherine Woods-Field

  By the fire is where I found him. He was dancing with a local girl when he spied me working my way through the crowd. She was a portly thing, the girl, and fourteen and covered in red splotches that she scratched incessantly. For two years now, her father had been unsuccessfully trying to marry her off; tonight was no exception. With her dowry once again increased, the man, a wealthy butcher, traversed the crowd.

  Patiently, I watched the pair twirl as I waited for the next dance. Yet, while his hands remained fixed on the girl, and his feet never missing a step, Aksel’s eyes fixed their gaze upon me. Three men tried engaging me, but I politely refused. My dance was his and his alone.

  When it was our turn, we coupled with the other dancers, taking our turns as the citizens watched.

  Five months, that is how long it took. From that dance, that night, and each night thereafter, we remained inseparable. He did not question why I only came at night. He did not question my shyness, my paleness. He never questioned the need for our clandestine meetings.

  Storm clouds were oblivious to us as we twirled under the stars that night, and each subsequent night. In time, my influence over him decreased in effectiveness, though. Tight embraces loosened. Kisses turned sour. Love turned into rejection. A dark storm rolled in.

  It was during those lulls in our relationship when I feared losing my connection to humanity more; and it gnawed at my sanity like an ulcer.

  But dark days came later. Much later.

  Shortly after that first dance, I told him where my apartment was in Bergen. The apartment served as an occasional living space, nothing more; I only stayed there on stormy nights; after all, those were the only nights worth staying in Bergen. When the weather was temperate, I flew back to my Lofoten Island cabin, to my moonlit solitude.

  How was I to know the night would come when Aksel would fail to be waiting. The storm swelling the sea, eating at the beach, my feet drenched and mud soaked as I landed on the coastline. His heartbeat was long gone from this spot, and his hearth as cold as a mid-winters night. I had lost him.

  Then I found him, in my apartment, in Bergen. He was waiting for me.

  Through the curtains, I saw the outline of his splenetic figure poised in my ash-white chair. His fingernails snarled the fabric as he raked them with impatience. I never used that chair and kept it pushed away in the corner. It collected dust and was now an antique, a relic out of time, and displaced, like myself.

  That chair. It was from the convent. It was my confessor, my consolation when madness crept by, taunting me with its vicious poison. When I left Wesley, I sought, with every means possible, to find it. The white chair, the place I would spend daydreaming of life outside the convent walls. Where Sister Veronica and I would sneak private chats and imagine our lives at court once again.

  He was sitting in my chair now, though. He appeared out of place and I felt violated. That chair was a sacred relic from my past and Aksel was a fixture from the present. It was unnatural for the two to fuse.

  "What are you?" he asked, for a moment his words rendering me speechless. I entered the room slowly, lighting the candles on the dresser and the chandelier with a blink, simultaneously. He vaulted from the chair, gasping as the wicks quivered with fiery life. In that moment, the tides had turned - there was no return to blissful ignorance. "It will terrify you to find out what I am, Aksel." I sat down in the chair next to him.

  He edged closer, his torso bending toward me, but I cautioned him – my hand poised in the air, stiff and unyielding. The odor of his blood was intoxicating. I had not fed that evening and his blood was too tempting. Its scent permeated the surrounding air with a fragrant perfume, reminiscent of Chardonnay and bitter chocolate. My craving for his blood – to devour him – made my fangs peek.

  "Bree, I have the ancient gods on my side, not yours.” He reached for me, but I thrust my hand in the air again. “Nothing can frighten me, especially the rumors.”

  "You must not believe them.”

  “And why not?” he asked, attempting to edge closer. As his feet stepped nearer, I inched further away. “If you are truly favored by the gods, then why not believe it?”

  “Aksel, you know not of what you speak,” I spat. “Your old gods, they have nothing to do with this.”

  “The couple you rent this room from, they say you have the strength of ten men. The men in the tavern,” he pointed, he extended his slender finger toward the window, “say your beauty is of the gods.”

  "Aksel," I began, but he stopped me.

  "Then yesterday, I went to the tavern for a meal and the lady who lives above the tavern," he said, his voice dimming with disbelief, "She said she saw you coming to your apartment here. Bree, at first none believed her. But then her tale captured every ear around the hearth.”

  “Stop,” I begged.

  “She said you flew through the air, your golden locks catching the wind. You were the vision of Verdandi herself, she said. Then you landed on this balcony.” He gestured to the balcony as a breeze caught the linen curtains. A storm was sweeping in and droplets began falling on the balcony’s floor.

  “I did not believe her – none of us did – and we told her so. Now I have seen it for myself, though. And the trick with the candles!"

  Tears assaulted my eyes, but I resisted them. They were blood tears, crimson droplets that would have terrified him.

  “Stop, Aksel. Leave this place, leave me,” I urged.

  “I do not think you’re Verdandi come to the realm of man,” he said. “The men below, many of them, have long abandoned our gods. They believed her story a fanciful tale.”

  “Aksel, I offer you mercy,” I told him. “Do not make me regret doing so.”

  I left the chair and moved to the window, turning my back on him. A symphony of rain fell over Bergen as the city dimmed; candles everywhere extinguished, people retired to their beds, and even the yowling alley cats gave their voices a rest. The city was soon to be fast asleep, but inside my apartment, I was already mourning a relationship. This could only end one way, I thought. And it would leave me heartbroken.

  “Odin has returned to his people,” he said as he kneeled. “And I am ashamed that I did not recognize his maiden when she first appeared on my shore.”

  “Stand fool,” I whispered. “Æsir’s cupbearers died with their religion.” I walked to him and, as he stood, took his hand. I placed it on my chest. “Valkyries may be Odin’s maiden’s Aksel, but they have a heartbeat.” The air grew quiet and stale, not even the rain could be heard.

  He dropped his hand. His body tensed, his carotid artery pulsed and swelled and my bloodlust quickened. “Gjengangar!”

  This term was popular among the hunters of Trondheim, where I had first heard it while feeding in a tavern. A mythical werewolf-vampire hybrid, the gjengangar stalked the forests of Norway.

  He darted for the opposite side of the room, and cowered into a corner.

  I eased toward him, my steps cautious, as if approaching a startled doe. "Aksel, I am not a Gjengangar,” I whispered, reaching him. My hand rested near his temple, and my fingers slinked slowly down his cheek.

  “Do not worry, my love, I would never dream of harming you. You are why I wake to greet the moon, why I hunt to maintain my strength. It is all for another night spent with you; so I can hold you, look into your eyes." I leant in, close enough to caress his cheek, but he pulled away from me.

  He pointed to my teeth, his finger touching one on the elongated canines. His lips quivered. "Gronnskjegg,” he whispered in a raspy, shaken voice. The Gronnskjegg were vampire-like creatures of Norwegian folklore. The name means "ghoul."

  His finger retreated, its parent hand quaking as it fell.

  "Yes," I resigned. "But I am no monster."

  "You are!" He pulled his knees to his chest. “You murder; you feed off living flesh. You are dammed – a monster!”

  "Aksel! I can do many things, but you should not fear me. You are not prey, my love. You never were my prey
... and you never will be."

  "You spoke of mercy, please let me leave," he begged.

  "I feel just as you feel; I love just as deeply, just as passionately, if not more than you do," I said. “You must not fear me.”

  "But I do," he said to me. “Show mercy now, please. If you do love me, let me leave.”

  I tried to reach out for him, but he hid his head between trembling knees and covered his neck. I walked out onto the balcony and peered into the night sky. The same constellations graced the ebony blanket as did the night I was turned. The irony— it now marked the anniversary of both my turning and the first time I revealed my true nature to a mortal.

  "Aksel," I told him, "I am going away now. It is best this way."

  "Will you ever return for me?"

  “You are safe,” I said, glancing back. “Your old gods must still be with you after all.”

  I retreated, as a wounded soldier retreats from the battlefield, to lick their wounds and heal from the battle of their lives. In a brief moment, I had descended into the clouds and could sense his jumbled thoughts. He feared me, but my face haunted his heart. He was simply bewitched, and though, in time, this may overpower his fear for me, I would eventually kill him. I knew what I had to do to keep him safe - stay away.

  For six weeks I remained a hermit in my Lofoten cabin with only the puffins and sea lions my companions. This was after the time of the polar night and the region was drenched in a forgiving blanket of darkness during the day. I could ascend to a mountain peak and sit where the snow-capped rock met the wisps of clouds and admire the Aurora Borealis, and recall the nights I lingered on the beaches below with Aksel.

  My belongings from Bergen were to be shipped discretely, so I would not have to reenter the city. I thought I had planned carefully; concealed my traces well, but I had been wrong.

  Sometime after my belongings found me, I found him standing at my door; just standing there, as if I had been expecting him. His audacity bewildered and intrigued me. It had been six weeks since I had left him in Bergen startled by the revelation that I was a vampire, and now he stood before me tempting his fate.

  How had he found me? I had been cautious in extracting my belongings from Bergen. The parcels passed through several carriers along the way, and the names to whom they were addressed, even, changed three times. I had been meticulous in my instruction. I had not returned to Bergen, or even Trondheim, since that dreadful night. Yet he found me here on this isolated portion of the island - at what had become my self-imposed prison of a cabin under the majestic twilight canvas.

  My feet froze at the shoreline, where I had landed. When I saw him standing near the door it was all I could do not to rise back into the clouds, but I no longer had anywhere else to run. His being here could have been out of hatred, anger; his mind swam still, confused and hurt, drowning in a sea of pain. He stood there, though, apathetically, waiting for me to come to him. He knew what I was, what I could do to him.

  "Aksel," I shouted, "Why are you here?"

  "I fear you,” he shouted, “and I know you are evil," he began walking toward me. "And I have tried forgetting you. It is no use."

  "I am a monster, Aksel. I am a monster who has bewitched you," I hollered. “I will kill you! Even I see that now."

  "I tried, Bree," he said, panting as he walked. "I tried so hard to convince myself that you were gone - gone forever, I told myself - but I just could not live with that. Even if you are a gronnskjegg, I could not lose you."

  "You would die to be with me?" I asked. "Die for me, Aksel? Could you die to live with me?” Reaching me, I could see the pain - the agony, the longing, the misery – in his eyes. The conflict seized within him, and for a brief second I feared I would lose him again. Reaching out, I grabbed his hands. I clutched them so tightly he flinched.

  "Could you, Aksel? Would you become a monster like me? Because that’s what it takes to be with me.” I asked him, fearing the answer either way. “Would you give up the morning, the golden sunlight, and the pleasure of its tender rays on your face? For eternity? All you will ever know is the darkness of night. The nighttime, Aksel; it never ends."

  "A lifetime of sunshine could never compare to an eternity spent in midnight with you," he replied. A tear rolled down my cheek, the moonlight masking its ruby color. He lifted his finger to wipe it from my face.

  "When you weep, I will be there to wipe away the tears, now and for eternity. Nothing else matters. You are all I want and need, and if I cannot have you, then I want nothing, not even this life. And you are free to take it, one way or another – my life is yours." He knelt down and caressed my quivering lips.

  “You will watch friends, loved ones, empires fade into history, and you will remain unchanged,” I whispered. “It is not easy.”

  “I will have you by my side, my love. Together, we can weather the storm.”

  “I have bewitched you, my love; your mind is not your own,” I said, turning my face from his.

  “If you have bewitched me, then I do not want to wake from the spell,” he said as he pulled at my chin.

  "Then we will be together for eternity. I will not lie to you, Aksel, there is going to be pain – pains like you have never felt in your life," I explained to him. "It will be temporary. I can promise you that. But when it is over, you will never feel earthly pain again."

  He let me embrace him, his arms wrapping tightly around my waist. I slid my finger down his neck and pierced the tender flesh. His blood - the long-held object of my desire, finally touched my tongue and erupted in a fountain of pleasure. It seared my tongue and tickled my throat, warming my chest. Its cosmic magic snaked through my dormant veins and rushed into my dead heart. I pulled away as his heartbeat dulled. His eyelids fluttered and his face paled – the life drained from his cheeks. I bit the tip of my tongue and covered his open mouth with my own. My lips twisted around his as I thrust my tongue deeper. He gasped for breath as my blood trickled down his throat.

  “It hurts.” He pulled his mouth away as his head rolled back.

  “The pain will end soon,” I whispered. “I promise.”

  “Help me,” he said through half-closed eyes.

  I brought his head to mine and caressed his lips. They parted, allowing the blood to flow into his hungry mouth. Once his body began trembling, I took to the air and waited for the howling to cease.

  The transference process had weakened me and left me vulnerable.

  Our life together was more interesting than his brief mortal death. It was tantamount to a path of thorns sprinkled with rose petals. When it was good, it was great. When it was bad, it was horrible. Eternity affects everyone differently, and it affected Aksel in a most peculiar way.

  SEVEN

  Sixty-one years we lived together, co-existing in a turbulent love affair.

  Months would pass in silence, his words slipping through cold lips only out of necessity. Then out of nowhere, he would blast through the doors, erupting with endless chatter or scathing demands and poisonous condemnations. We would argue over the most trivial of things— the way the servants spread rumors (which they never did), or how he wanted to feed alone and I wanted to feed together (a demand I had never made).

  Not every one of those 22,265 days we co-habited was miserable, though.

  There were silver-lined clouds in our storm. Days filled with laughter that could turn into weeks and months, and, rarely, years. Sometimes he would become genteel, softening his hardened nature. The old Aksel – the Aksel I remembered, the human- would show in brief sparkling glimmers. When this happened, we were happy. We existed then in an ethereal bubble that floated high above reality, and not even the outside world with its growth, its prosperity, its ever-evolving nature, could permeate it.

  It is hard to say when I truly lost my Aksel. I know it all began in 1458 – a common year—starting on a quiet Sunday.

  For centuries, we had a peaceful relationship with the Norwegian anglers. We kept to ourselves and t
raveled in shadow. Yet slowly rumors surfaced from Europe of vampires – hideous, ashen-skinned creatures with fangs and blood dribbling from their mouths, robbing gentle virgins of life and stealing their eternal souls. Images of vile monsters stalking the night, feeding on tender babes, spread like the plague that had once wiped out whole villages.

  Other accounts claimed these creatures were stunning visions of femininity that prowled the streets luring unsuspecting fools with magical kisses, ending their lives with deadly embraces.

  How correct some of their assumptions had been, but when they began eyeing Aksel and I suspiciously, I feared for our safety.

  Desperately, I wanted to leave Norway; Aksel was vehemently against it. "I will never leave my people," he screamed and took to the sky. He was gone for a week and I thought this time he would stay away for good.

  He returned, though, carrying a charred scrap of door; what remained of our estate in Trondheim. It was fall, 1458. We packed our belongings and fled the land that constantly enveloped me in its magical allure. Survival left us no choice. Yet Aksel remained resentful, blaming me. And by turning him, I knew it was my fault.

  Aksel believed his love for me was stronger than his love for his country. At least he tried, so diligently, to convince himself of this. However, I feared his love – faced with the insurmountable pressures of immortality - would be fleeting. His love, as true as his intentions had been, did fade. And when it did, what remained were two estranged beings and a gaping maw of guilt that became my cilice.

  For twelve years, we traveled together; as we traversed Europe, his mind began its subtle decline. I absorbed myself in the culture - the art, the architecture, and literature of Paris, of Madrid, of Berlin, of Moscow. I relished in the nightlife, in the festivals, and the balls. At times life seemed bearable for Aksel; then he would slip into a fit of hysterics or sulk into a room surrounded by darkness, and sit this way the entire night. Leaving him alone was the only thing one could do. He became irrational and sentimental, and spoke of nothing but the "old country," as if his lamenting would erase time. His sanity was slipping with the years, and I was powerless to help him.