by Amy Rachiele
Chapter 4
Elijah:
My senses tighten as my body prepares to fall into the immortal sleep. My eyes have been closed as I sit here alone in my cabin by the small wooden table listening to her voice. The tale of the great white whale upon her lips is like consuming a sweet wine. It must be savored and cherished then devoured. Many times I have wondered what the taste of her would be, a sugary honey or candied strawberries.
This life has a blandness to it. The richness of the senses and the maturity that comes with humanity’s aging is lost. Vampires don’t have the luxury of change. Sophocles’ sphinx challenged and ate the townsmen who could not solve his riddle on the stages of man. Growing from child, to adult, to old age is a gift that completes a perfect circle—with each chapter, experiencing life through changing eyes. An infant’s senses are vivid putting everything in their mouth and watching the most mundane thing with fascination. A child has the pleasure of viewing the world with newness and awe. Adults have the wisdom to combine all of their knowledge and experiences into finding worth among the earth. The elders sit back and watch all that has transpired with a renewed outlook and remembrance. Placing a value on humanity and all its riches.
We are finding our stages of life and our own worth in this existence. Like the struggles of mankind, we make our own mistakes. Longevity does not make us infallible or omniscient. Many vampires search for purpose or find mischief to fill the long years. The truly unlucky wretches find madness, like Vadim.
Sarah’s death brought on the madness. A vampiric condition I have only heard about on the whispers of the tempests that blow my way from time to time. I should have been more wary of his propensity for such a thing. The signs were visible, but I only realized them as an afterthought, stretching and reaching for puzzle pieces that eventually spelled out dementia. A fate that, if I had a choice, to me would be considered worse than that of a Revenant. Humans brought back to life as the undead. A minion or servant heeding commands and living off of the baser human instincts. Destruction, killing, and bloodlust—with no conscience or sense. The vampiric madness is a most foul disease. I pity all those who suffer from it and the humans that cross their paths.
Me, on the other hand; he was almost successful in ending me. Stopping my plight to undo the wrongs others have suffered at his immortal hands. My situation is more unfortunate because the creature’s life he chooses to change the destiny of is a goddess of goodness and knowledge. Her breath alone can change the scope of the universe. It is enticing and sinful to someone like me who once walked as a man...
Her likeness to that of Vadim’s love, Sarah, is not lost on me. I see the connectedness. Vadim is showering his wrath and frustration in a delusional fixation to cause destruction and pain on this pure being. A girl in boy’s clothes that sleeps restlessly against a worn balustrade. My keen hearing listens to her light breathing, preparing myself for when the unconsciousness comes. The bouts are fewer and farther between as my eternal body heals itself in an immortal respite.
It is time. My body grows heavy and the urge to repose is great. I stand and mentally prepare myself for oblivion. I cast off my jacket and roll up my sleeves from habit. The bed is made up of fine sheets. I lay upon them and slip away.
Sybrina:
Ishmael and Queequeg’s first meeting initiates a strong guttural laugh from my audience. It pleases me to see them so highly amused, but my eyes are heavy, tired. The night is waning and I am feeling the exhaustion that accompanies a full day. An hour passes and at a natural break in the reading, Mr. Tinker speaks.
“It’s time for the crew to get back to their stations. The boy is tired,” he announces. He rises and takes the tome from my hands. He places a wayward piece of straw in it, marking my last spoken page. “Let’s get you to bed, son.” Everyone stands and stretches, as a murmur of discussion about the reading runs through the sailors.
I scrabble down from my perch and walk side by side with Mr. Tinker. The crew scatters, going to their duties or bunking down for the night. The stars are crisp and high in a shimmering and awe-inspiring vision. I gaze up to absorb their beauty and trip over my own feet. Mr. Tinker steadies me, sending me a perplexing look. He doesn’t voice anything, but there is definitely something knowing in his eyes. At the door in the floor, Mr. Tinker stops and hesitates, thinking.
“If you need anything, Paul, call on me.”
“Thank you. I will.”
I begin to lower myself down the ladder. Out of the corner of my eye I see a shadow lurking. My breath catches from being jittery from all of the mayhem that has taken place in the few short days of my trip. Stepping out from the blackness of cover is Mouse. A reverent guise passes across his face.
“Thank ye,” he tells me shyly. “I ain’t never heard a book before... well, besides the Good Book,” he adds slowly. His eyes dance with merriment. “The morrow too? Will ya read again?”
“You’re welcome and, of course. I would be happy to,” I respond and shake my head in disgust at the illiteracy amongst the men in charge of our safekeeping as we make our way to England. I stop my descent. “By the way,” I say with concern, looking up at Mr. Tinker, “how is the minister?”
“The minister?” he questions. “Oh. Still ill.”
“How unfortunate,” I state, thinking that maybe I should request to see him. There might be something I can do for him. My lethargy renders me speechless, and I continue to my waterborne home.
Beneath the freedom of the deck above, I submerge myself below. I receive odd glances and a murmuring runs along the walls of the ship through the families and travelers like myself. I toss my body down and lean up against the pillar that has been a constant from the beginning of the journey. My eyes close and I let out a sigh.
The exhale has many meanings: exhaustion, fear, loneliness, and despair. Small creaks in the floor boards alert me that a person is approaching. My eyes snap open and Michael with his arm carefully immobile sits beside me. I rest my eyes again. It is a rude gesture, but I am completely spent.
“Thank you,” he says. “My arm is feeling much better.”
“That’s good,” I respond wearily. “Sleeping will be difficult,” I add.
He is at close proximity; I can feel him nod. We are abutting each other facing the emptiness and captivity in front of us. His body emits an indecisiveness that he wishes to say something, but can’t find the proper words. A few moments pass between us.
Softly he asks, “What is your given name?”
My eyes flip open, catching his implication.
Defeat escapes my lips. “Is it so transparent?”
Michael chuckles lightly. “It’s your mannerisms that give you away... Feminine.” He shifts his legs. I can see them out of the corner of my eye, muscular and well worked. “What brings you on this voyage? Have you no family?” Sincerity entwines within his words.
“They died,” I say through the lump in my throat that has never fully dissipated since their passing.
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I.”
I pause and let the sorrow run through me. The most difficult thing to think about is their deaths. It is heavy in my heart, making my chest tight. The fear I have of the one who follows me cannot trump the despair I feel at their loss.
“Sybrina,” I whisper.
My eyes fill with tears and my nose prickles as I fight back the desperate sobbing that wishes to burst forth.
“Sybrina,” Michael repeats. “It suits you.”
We sit silently. The unseen clock ticks by and my body succumbs to my fatigue. Even in my uncomfortable mental and physical state, I slip away into sleep.
Slivers of moonlight shine through the window casing; my family’s house is always beautiful day or night. I walk through the great hallways peering into each room. Ahead is Paul’s room, a pair of shoes lying haphazardly by his doorway. My brother, so typical. Mother constantly refers to him as a sweeping tempest leaving a shambles where ever he goes. I
nside his room, a book lies on the floor, binding bent open to save the page. My nocturnal gaze lands on the bed and I shriek...
An eerily light scratching sound wakes me. I must have slept late because the passengers are milling around cleaning up after breakfast. I let out a sigh of relief at the normal goings-on, afraid of hostile men or rats. The tall form of Michael approaches me with a tin plate in his hand. He appears enormous from my reposed position.
“How about breakfast in bed?” he comments jovially.
“Thank you. I could have retrieved this myself.” A knot of bread and a hunk of cheese lie on the well-used dish. I sit up and lightheadedness travels across the back of my eyes. I must be hungry.
“How did you sleep?” he asks, making conversation.
“As well as any night here, I suppose.” I break off a piece of bread and gnaw on it, watching the young girl I clasped against me during the raging storm use tailor’s chalk to draw a hopscotch grid onto the wood planks—the scratching that woke me. She is only a few feet from me. She smiles at me when I catch her gaze. I have definitely made a friend.
“Will you play with me?”
Her mother, apparently hearing the request, scolds gently, “Leave the boy alone, Helen.” Putting my plate down, I rise from my seat on the floor and smile back at Helen.
“I would love to.” I direct my words at Helen’s mother. “It’s no bother.” Helen’s mother gleams at my willingness to offer her daughter a distraction. Michael stands to observe the game with mirth.
Helen holds a tiny rock in her hand that she must’ve carried aboard from Boston where we cast off from a week ago. Helen becomes all business and seriousness as she explains to me the rules in her childish voice. Unruly brown curls bounce as she goes into a great deal of detail in explaining hopscotch. Just listening to her is a welcome reprieve and amusing.
“I’ll go first to show you.” Helen drops the rock on the square marked one and effortlessly jumps over it and completes the grid landing gracefully on each square. “Now, I have to put the rock on number two.” Helen tosses the rock and it lands perfectly and she proceeds to hop onto one, skip two and finish up to number eight. “You try.”
Her tiny hand places the rock in mine. I let it go to land on number one and proceed to hop and complete jumping up to number eight and back.
“Well done,” Helen compliments me.
She is such an adorable child that for a brief moment I think how wonderful it would be to have my own. But such a musing brings back the devastation that has plagued me over the past month. Playing with a child is such a trifling event but rallies my spirit into remembering a simpler time.
We continue the game, and I converse with her regarding the uncomplicated notions—fashionable dolls, school, and her situation. Her family has left Boston with only a meager means in their pockets to go back to their homeland of Ireland. Her mother’s family has a farm. They have to take over due to a sickness that has consumed her family. A tale told too often. Health and vigor the two most important essentials for the difficult work farming offers.
My eye catches movement at the hatch in the floor. A head peeks in and leans down. Mouse! Our eyes lock and he beckons me with a motion of his hand.
“Excuse me,” I say to Helen.
Mouse is upside down making a silly face, as he leans down through the hatch. He waves his arm for me to follow him to the top deck. Grinning, I ascend the ladder one rung at a time, slowly. Mouse is clearly excited about something; he is practically bouncing out of his worn-out shoes.
“What is it?” I ask, his merriment contagious. He has my curiosity piqued.
“Follow me,” he whispers. We cross the deck and sailors are hard at work fixing a broken mast. A light mist of sawdust fills the air around them, hovering in a light brown fog. I am transfixed at their diligence and quick agility. They work together as one making the task less arduous. The air has a tropical cast to it today, unseasonably warm. Pleasurable appeal is what today offers, starting off with Michael’s generosity, Helen’s exuberance, and Mouse’s curious appearance. In this moment, despair is swept away.
Quick strides by Mouse cause me to have to pick up my pace. “Wait up,” I call out.
The captain is engrossed in a conversation with his first mate on a small elevated deck that has a short stack of stairs. My next step is in hesitation; I am not supposed to be on the topside. His uniform is sharply pressed. The captain is perplexing, attentive to detail and acutely conscious of his dress, but wallows in the ocean of illiteracy. His eyes narrow to slits, and I know that he sees me out of his peripheral vision. I continue to follow Mouse, my two strides equaling his one.
Mouse slips behind a large crate marked “cannonballs.” Carefully squeezing behind the splintered wooden box, I find Mouse squatting beside a litter of tiny, precious kittens. The small creatures mewing, jostle each other for a turn at their mother’s milk.
“I did not know there was a cat aboard,” I comment, surprised and delighted.
“Captain Stokes likes to keep one. The mice eat our food. Jolly is my charge. I get to feed her.” He gently picks up a gray striped kitten and coddles it under his neck.
“Well, she is very lucky to have you for a master.” I reach over and pet the meowing little bundle in his hand.
“Jolly disappeared a few days ago. I was afraid the storm got her. But Tinker told me lady cats like to hide and have their young by themselves.”
“She picked an excellent hiding place,” I praise. “Only someone spry like you could find her.” I wink at him, taking the kitten. A light thrumming sound echoes in the chest of the tiny ball of fur in my hands.
“Aren’t they pretty?” he asks proudly.
“They are the most beautiful I’ve ever seen.”
“They ain’t ready to leave their mother... but when thee are, you can keep one.” The gesture is so sweet, a heart of gold, like my mother used to say.
“Thank you. But I couldn’t. Right now, I am between living arrangements and couldn’t offer a home.”
Mouse’s expression drops from proud-happiness to hurt. It pains me to see him disappointed, but what awaits me is unclear. “They should be with their mother for at least a month. We will be in England well before that.”
Mouse considers this. “I could bring one to ya when they’re ready,” he offers.
“Let’s see how things go,” I suggest, giving him partial hope. I place the tiny kitten back with her mother. I scratch Jolly’s head in greeting and she leans into my hand, enjoying the attention.
“She’s a good cat. Isn’t she?” Mouse offers. I nod in agreement.
“Jolly has a very sweet disposition.” Mouse is elated with my compliment and he gives Jolly a good scratch good-bye.
Slipping past the enormous crate to leave the mother to tend to her kittens, Mouse leads me back across the deck. My heart crawls up into my throat with a nervous gulp. I scan the area nonchalantly looking for the captain. I don’t see him. My tense shoulders relax a bit, and I attempt to enjoy my time out in the sunshine walking with Mouse.
Chapter 5
Sybrina:
I open my eyes to see only darkness; it is midway through the night. I vaguely make out a rough wool blanket covering me. I stretch my arms over my head and feel a body beside me.
Squinting against blackness, I spy the form of Michael stretched out next to me. A sudden cough creeps its way to my throat, forcing me to a sitting position. I bark it out with my hand steadying my chest. The racking leaves behind stings of soreness in my throat.
“Are you all right, Sybrina?” Michael whispers.
“Yes,” I respond and lie back down. I pull the blanket tighter around myself. A cough chokes me again. When it settles down, I whisper back to Michael. “Is this blanket from you?”
“I saw you shivering. I thought you would benefit from it.”
“It is appreciated. Thank you.”
I don’t want sleep. I can’t dislodge the vision
s the dream left behind, but I have not a choice in the matter; my will and my need fight—need wins.
*****
It is difficult to rouse myself the next morning. My body is leaden with aches. Michael is there beside me, sitting up. His eyes are on me.
“You were restless,” he comments quietly.
“Was I?” I push myself to a raised position, leaning on my elbows. “I hope I did not disturb you.” He shakes his head no and smiles. I lean over to examine his broken arm. “How does it feel this morning? Is it stiff?”
“I believe it is better than it would have been had you not reset it.”
The noise in our cavity below deck grows louder as more people awaken to another dreary day at sea. I stand up with difficulty to leave Michael and use the chamber pot. Lightheadedness overcomes me, and I stumble, almost falling to the damp wooden floor that was my bed last evening.
Michael is quite quick. He is beside me the second before I fall and rights me with his good arm. I clutch my temple as a searing pain runs through my skull. Mr. Overton’s voice sounds from behind me.
“Are you all right, Paul?” He is extremely concerned. Michael speaks for me.
