A Cautionary Tale for Young Vampires

by G. D. Falksen

“Mmm, yes?” Varanus asked, looking at her.

  “What are we to do about Anne?” Ekaterine asked.

  What a peculiar question.

  “What about Anne?”

  “You know what,” Ekaterine said, sighing. “Her husband tyrannizes her day after day. It is plain enough to see, and there can be no mistaking it.”

  “I know,” Varanus said. “She cowers from him. Even for a nervous creature, she is fearful beyond any other reasonable cause.”

  “Do you think he beats her?” Ekaterine asked.

  “I have seen no signs, but that means little,” Varanus said. She frowned at the thought. “At least he is clever enough not to touch her face, but I have seen her walk as if in pain sometimes. I suspect Richard to be the cause.”

  “Hence my question,” Ekaterine said. “What are we to do? It is abhorrent! We must intervene.”

  Varanus nodded. She took a breath and stared ahead into the blackness of the tunnel.

  “The problem,” she said, “is that there is little we can do. We cannot tell him to do otherwise. Or rather, we can but I doubt that he will listen. If his own conscience is insufficient, what good will our words do? And while we could offer Anne some comfort—indeed, we do already when we are able—what should we tell her to do? Flee? He is her husband; he would run her down and bring her back, and no one would doubt his authority to do so. Should we tell her to fight back? To resist him? Were she to challenge him, he would beat her, if he does not already. He might even kill her.”

  “Will the authorities do nothing?” Ekaterine asked, horrified at the very idea. “This is a civilized land. Surely such a thing must be illegal!”

  Varanus shook her head and said, “I cannot speak to whether it is illegal or not, but even were the law in principle to offer the poor woman protection, I doubt very much that anything would be done. Richard is the son and heir of an earl, and a very influential earl to hear Cousin Robert speak of it. I fear the authorities would pay little attention to any complaint we might raise.”

  Ekaterine took a deep breath, her mouth clenched tightly.

  “Can we not force him?” she asked. “Through threats of violence or violence itself?”

  “Render violence unto him who does violence?” Varanus asked. “We could. But I fear that we should be the ones punished for it, though we might be sheltered from the law by his great shame at being beaten by women. But whatever violence we meted out against him, he would surely pass on to her. For that is how weak men are: they find those weaker still and abuse them to feel strong.”

  “There must be some recourse,” Ekaterine insisted. “Some means of forcing him to stop. Among the Shashavani such a thing is not allowed!”

  “There are a great many terrible things forbidden among the Shashavani that are permitted in the world,” Varanus said, her voice touched with more than a little regret at the fact. “But you are right, there must be something to be done. I shall speak to Cousin Robert about it. God willing, he can rein in his son.”

  “There is another possibility,” Ekaterine said.

  “And what is that?”

  Ekaterine smiled brightly.

  “We could always kill him,” she said.

  “Is that your solution for everything?” Varanus asked.

  “No,” Ekaterine replied. “That is Luka’s solution for everything. It is my solution for some things, like this.”

  “I suspect that someone might complain if we killed a member of the family,” Varanus said. “It is generally held to be in bad form.”

  “We could make it look like an accident,” Ekaterine suggested. “A broken neck and then a fall down the stairs. No one would think twice.”

  Varanus looked at Ekaterine, who smiled back, her expression bright with hope and enthusiasm. It was almost unnerving to see such an angelic face so lit up at the prospect of murder, though in truth Varanus herself felt that under the circumstances murdering her cousin was not an altogether unreasonable proposal. Surely a man who did violence to his own family could not be trusted to live.…

  “Let me speak to Cousin Robert first,” she said. “But if nothing useful comes of it, we shall plan for Cousin Richard to meet a just and unfortunate end. Agreed?”

  Ekaterine took her hand and shook it firmly.

  “Agreed!” There was something of a pause and then Ekaterine said, “You know, I think we have just entered into our first conspiracy.”

  “Surely not our first,” Varanus said.

  “Well, our first to commit murder, then,” Ekaterine said. “It’s all rather exciting, isn’t it?”

  Varanus looked at Ekaterine, one corner of her mouth tugging up into a smile.

  “You are certainly Luka’s cousin,” she said. “The family resemblance is especially strong when you are plotting murder.”

  Ekaterine took Varanus by the arm and gave her a small but enthusiastic hug, saying, “I know.”

  * * * *

  Though they kept to the straight line of the tunnel—a line from which it seldom deviated, almost eerily so—they passed many side passages that appeared out of the darkness, all old and bare and weathered brick. Varanus could scarcely imagine where they led, and sadly there was no possibility of exploring them. Not today, at least. Such an undertaking would be dangerous. They could easily become lost, especially if the intersecting tunnels themselves intersected with more tunnels, which intersected with more tunnels—

  And on and on it might go.

  No, Varanus concluded, such an undertaking could only take place on another day, with far more preparation. More lamps and oil, chalk and string to mark the path, perhaps paper and pencil to chart the way. It was an intriguing idea, certainly. Varanus could scarcely imagine where they might lead. Likely nothing as exciting or elaborate as her caution imagined. Old cellars, perhaps. Rooms for hiding priests or forgotten smugglers’ holds.

  Presently, the tunnel reached its conclusion, ending in a small arched portal that led further into darkness. It seemed that wherever the tunnels went, those conveyed by them were expected to bring their own lights.

  The chamber beyond the threshold was built of stone rather than brick, suggesting a much older construction than the tunnel. Indeed, upon closer observation Varanus noted that a hole had been broken through the existing wall and a new doorway made in its place to grant access to the passage.

  “Ugh, the smell…” Ekaterine said, waving her hand in front of her face.

  “It is rather foul, isn’t it?” Varanus mused. She took a step forward into the chamber and looked down. “Water must be seeping in.”

  She shone her lantern around, and what she saw confirmed her suspicions. The stone blocks were darkly stained by mildew, and water trickled in through the cracks in places, pooling on the floor. Indeed, as she looked at her feet, she realized that she was standing in a shallow puddle.

  “Water from the moor,” she said. “It seems the rain has chased us even in here.”

  “We’re very popular,” Ekaterine said. “A pity umbrellas do not protect from below.”

  “A pity indeed,” Varanus answered. She raised her lantern again and began to cross the room, saying, “Come, let us see where we are.”

  “In the crypts of the priory, I should think,” Ekaterine said, following.

  Indeed it was so. The chamber they first entered revealed itself to be a cellar of sorts. It had probably once held barrels, shelves, or wine racks—perhaps even some concealing the entrance to the tunnel—but the wood had all long since decayed.

  Varanus continued into the next room with Ekaterine at her side. The ceilings were low, supported by heavy arches, but they were still more than ample in height for Varanus. They found more rooms of uncertain purpose and holes in the ceiling in places leading up to the ground floor. In some places the stairs—stone, of course—were still intact, though weathered and cracked and slippery from the rain. In others, the method of ascent, whether stairs or ladders, was gone, likely wood that had vani
shed into corruption.

  In a room below the kitchens, they encountered a curious sight: two rows of small chambers running parallel to each other. But though curious, they were far from a mystery.

  “By God…” Ekaterine whispered. “Can this be a prison?”

  “Those are cells, yes,” Varanus agreed.

  And directly below the kitchens.…

  Varanus was immediately reminded of Robert’s story about the monks holding pilgrims prisoner. Holding them prisoner so that they might be killed, cooked, and then eaten by her ancestors.…

  She clenched her eyes shut and shook her head.

  No, no, do not think of such things. They are lies.

  “I wonder why there are cells here,” Ekaterine said. “What would monks need of such things?”

  Varanus took her by the arm and led her into another room, saying, “Perhaps for the punishment of unruly novices. Come, there must be something more interesting to see.”

  “But—” Ekaterine began in protest. Then she saw Varanus’s expression and quickly smiled. Taking Varanus’s arm in turn, she said, “Yes! Let us find something more exciting. My dead abbot, perhaps! He must be around here somewhere.”

  They found more storerooms and also some empty chambers of no discernable purpose. The entire set of crypts was vast beyond reason, perhaps twice as large in area as the priory above. And to Varanus’s astonishment, she found a flight of steps leading to a deeper level and to even more chambers.

  How vast a basement for a simple country priory, Varanus thought.

  But the lower chambers were far clearer in their purpose, for there Varanus discovered the priory’s tombs. A series of crypts spread out to both the left and the right, with the dead laid to rest in niches set in the walls.

  “Here is where we shall find your dead abbot,” Varanus said to Ekaterine, hiding a smirk.

  Ekaterine grinned in reply and poked at the stone slab covering one of the burial niches.

  “I had expected him to be rather more lively than this,” she said.

  “You cannot have everything, I suppose,” Varanus replied, laughing softly.

  Beyond the crypts of the monks, at the end of a corridor extending from the stairs, Varanus found a final tomb. It was a great, broad chamber, wider and longer than any other part of the crypt. The ceiling was arched, supported by a series of walls and pillars, which created a maze of passages and sub-chambers that spiraled off into the darkness, leaving the true vastness of the tomb hidden and unknown. The stench of rot and decay was in the air, as strong as in the chambers above, perhaps even stronger. And it was tinged with another odor that Varanus could not identify, though it was so very familiar.

  Along each wall and in each chamber, Varanus saw great sarcophagi, carved from heavy stone and sculpted in an opulent manner for the glory of their recipients. The sarcophagi were old, some showing cracks in their lids. One or two had broken in half and nearly collapsed. But as Varanus approached one of these to examine it, she saw to her astonishment that it was empty.

  How could such a thing be possible?

  Varanus took a portion of the lid in her hands and hauled it off the sarcophagus. It struck the ground with a great noise that echoed through the tomb, reverberating into the darkness.

  Ekaterine, who stood a few paces away, jumped in shock and turned toward her.

  “Goodness, that was loud!” she exclaimed. Approaching, she asked, “What have you found?”

  “It’s empty,” Varanus said, staring into the sarcophagus. “Empty!”

  She looked at Ekaterine, who looked back at her and shrugged.

  “Why is it empty?”

  Ekaterine peered into the sarcophagus.

  “Made but never needed?” she suggested.

  She looked at a stone plate on the wall and read:

  HENRY VARANUS

  Son of William, Son of Reynald, Son of Roger

  Taken Beneath the Earth, 1267

  Aged 73 Years

  “May He Watch Over Us with Mercy”

  Varanus blinked.

  “’Taken beneath the earth,’” she said. “I wonder what that means.”

  “Perhaps he was lost in a mine,” Ekaterine suggested.

  Varanus gave her a look and said, “I hardly think that likely, Ekaterine. I doubt very much that any of my ancestors have ever seen a mine, much less been inside of one.”

  “Perhaps it’s a euphemism for burial,” Ekaterine said.

  “For burial?” Varanus asked. She looked at the sarcophagus, then back at Ekaterine. “There is no body.”

  “For not-burial then?”

  Varanus sighed and shook her head. She felt Korbinian step out of the darkness from behind her.

  “It is very peculiar, liebchen,” he said. “Tell me, was dear Henry the only of your relations to be ‘taken beneath the earth,’ or were there others?”

  A fair question, Varanus thought.

  “Let’s see if more bear the same epitaph,” she said to Ekaterine.

  They parted ways and began examining sarcophagi on opposite sides of the main hall, staying close in an effort to avoid becoming separated. It would be easy to become lost in the catacombs, even with their lamps.

  “Another taken beneath the earth,” Varanus said, inspecting the next sarcophagus.

  “And here!” Ekaterine called. She moved to another one. “This one died of a fever.”

  Varanus moved to the next one on her side:

  “This one died in battle.”

  Indeed, it soon proved that a great many of the Blackmoors had died in battle, and a great many more were among those ‘taken beneath the earth’ as the tombs so uselessly informed her. Only a few seemed to have died of disease, which surprised Varanus given the poor state of medicine and the great threat of illness when the priory had still been in use. She was also surprised to see how few had died of old age. There were plenty, but the number proved small in relation to other causes.

  It seemed that the Varanuses did not like going quietly into death but rather preferred it bloody and brutal.

  Hardly a surprise, she thought.

  “Another ‘beneath the earth,’” Ekaterine announced, after they had searched for a few minutes more. “Perhaps it means they were buried in a grave rather than interred down here.”

  “Of course,” Varanus said. She almost felt like hitting herself for not having thought of it. “That’s what it means. How stupid of me!”

  “Stupid of both of us,” Ekaterine corrected. “Such an easy thing to overlook.”

  Varanus laughed a little and said, “Evidently my ancestors put great stock in spending their eternal rest in a priory basement.”

  “Perhaps it was good for their souls,” Ekaterine said.

  “A pity so many of them ended up in the ground,” Varanus replied.

  “Nonsense,” Ekaterine told her. “Earth is good for the soul. And for the flowers. Which are also good for the soul, come to think of it.”

  “Gardening is redemptive?” Varanus asked, amused at the notion.

  Ekaterine nodded and replied, “I have always thought so. I often find my soul at peace when tending roses. And indeed, whenever I feel a great yearning to make confession for my sins, I always feed the birds. In due course, my soul is at peace.”

  “Ekaterine, only a priest can give you absolution,” Varanus said.

  “I have always found my birds to be far more effective,” Ekaterine replied. “I suppose, to each her own.”

  Varanus shook her head, chuckling softly. For a devout Christian, Ekaterine could be so very irreverent at times. Of course, Varanus had learned years ago that faith among the Shashavani was a thing far removed from the faith of mortals. While a great many were devout in their own way—and in their own faiths, for there were many of them—they always seemed drawn to esotericism and often to mysticism. In other lands, the most devout of the Shashavani would doubtless be regarded as heretics, and the older and more devout they were, the mor
e heretical their ideas became. It was really quite astounding.

  She turned toward the next sarcophagus near her and read the inscription:

  JOHN VARANUS

  Son of Edmund, Son of Edward, Son of Richard

  Killed in Battle at Towton, 1461

  Aged 68 years

  Varanus raised an eyebrow in astonishment. “Aged 68 years”, yet killed in battle? What business did a man of that age have riding off to war, even in service to…well, to whichever side the Varanuses had served. No doubt the Lancastrians, since otherwise they would probably have been stripped of their lands.

  Or perhaps not, if Cousin Robert was to be believed. And if the Blackmoor Varanuses had possessed anything resembling Grandfather’s forceful personality, calculating mind, and capacity for sheer audacity, it would not surprise her to learn that the family had been Yorkists to the end, only to turn around and coerce Henry Tudor into reinstating their holdings and thanking them for the privilege. Perhaps Henry VII had been one of the “foolish monarchs” who mistakenly believed they could strip the Blackmoors of their lands and get away with it. She would have to inquire about that when she next saw Robert.

  But the matter of dead John’s age still tickled her curiosity, and on a whim she pushed the lid to one side to inspect the remains of her long-dead ancestor. Holding out her lantern for better illumination, Varanus stood on tiptoes and leaned over the sarcophagus.

  At first she did not understand what her eyes told her. She saw that the body within had been reduced to a bare skeleton, which was of no great surprise given its age and the poor preservation of its environment. The bones were long, thick, and solid in structure, clad in rags that must have once been rich finery, for these were the remains of a wealthy man. Rings were on its fingers, a jeweled bracelet rested on its arm, and a heavy medallion hung about its neck, having partly fallen between the exposed ribs.

  But as Varanus looked, she came to recognize certain fine details that should not—indeed could not—be true. One was the size of the body, for the skeleton of poor departed John might well have measured to almost seven feet tall. But this length was distorted by a curious curvature of the spine that left the broad shoulders hunched forward in a most unhealthy manner. The legs, similarly, seemed to have been warped by age or disease, for though strong and sturdy, their length was quite clearly shorter than that of the arms.