by Amy Rachiele
In an ironic display, I feel the strong pull of the unconsciousness as night falls across the sky in shimmering pinks and oranges, reminding me cruelly of the soft feminine garb that has graced Sybrina’s curves over the few years I have watched her. My want grew with each passing day of my self-imposed guardianship.
I step over the crushed pieces of the splintered old wood scattered across the small space of my room. Not only was my restraint lost with Sybrina but also my temper at my own foolishness scraped forth like a caged animal, and I pulverized my trunk of possessions. The cross and quilt, given to me by mother, the only survivors.
Looking at the bed reminds me of her still, dainty form reposed and ill upon my sheets. A brief moment of unadulterated passion has sullied and marred my relationship with Sybrina—one speck of time, like Vadim’s Sarah. It is infuriating! Tearing the skin off my face would be a relief; obliterating the countenance that has caused such grief to the woman I love. Every day it would be a reminder of my own vanity—a disfigured Captain Ahab.
As if in the room with me, I hear her screams. In haste that rivals a lightning bolt, I fly through the ship to her cabin. The instant I am there, I fling the door open and a chair sails across the room, splintering into rough pieces.
Sybrina is sitting up, gathering her wits, her face haunted. I sit beside her on the bed. My movements are so quick, she does not have an opportunity to register my presence. I wrap my hand around the back of her neck and focus her attention on me.
“There is nothing amiss,” I soothe. “You are fine. Go into a peaceful sleep,” I command her, using my persuasion. Her delicate eyes close, her body goes slack, and I lower her down to the bed slowly. Sybrina slips back into sleep with a much more contented countenance. I stand and watch over her, the compulsion to kiss her so strong that I lean over and place a soft kiss upon her lips. I leave to return to my cabin not trusting myself and feeling the deathless sleep coming now. I lie upon my own bed and slip off into oblivion.
Sybrina:
I wake rested but weak. I see my chair shattered across the floor. I blink a few times, perplexed at the mess. How? This furthers my resolve to join the others below. My rested state is now muddied with anxiety. The security provided to me all these years by a loving family increases my fear in the unknowns that come at me over and over again. They challenge me in a way that no studies or problem ever has before. I rise and pick up the fragments that were just hours ago a chair. I pile them against the wall out of the way. My breathing is heavy, and I am finding it difficult in these close quarters. A walk along the open-air deck is needed. Others will be about their duties and hopefully lessen the sense of loneliness plaguing me.
The fog is thick and heavy in the air as if the composition has transformed into an all-encompassing phantom, white and misty. I search through the murkiness, concentrating on my steps as I cross the deck. Narrowing my eyes has no effect on my ability to see into the distance. The fog is a maddening blindness, an uncontrollable act of nature. Step. Step. Step…
“Miss Sybrina!” I turn toward the voice. Through a small break in the congested mist, I see Mouse shimmying down the ship’s main mast, calling to me. “I have something for you!” His eagerness and kindness are contagious, especially after all I’ve endured these past few days. Still frightfully weak from my illness, two of my sluggish steps equal six of Mouse’s. We meet in the middle of the white hazy mist. Mouse reaches into his pocket and pulls out an orange, its color practically a shining beacon against the dense air. He hands it to me, grinning excitedly. “It’s an orange,” he tells me as if I wouldn’t know.
“Thank you.” I raise the orange orb to my nose and sniff the citrusy aroma, and it reminds me of home when my father would ship crates of perfect round orange fruits from the plantations in the South. The gesture is so sweet my eyes fill with teary emotion.
“Tinker says this will help you get stronger... and... I thought it might cheer you.”
“Yes, Mr. Mouse. Citrus fruits are most beneficial during an ailment. But it’s your kind face that always cheers me.” His thought and generosity move me to lean in and kiss his rough cheek. An intimate gesture but one I felt the instinct to do. His constant affection and thoughts ease my troubled ones.
As my lips meet his unshaven cheek, a vessel appears out of the fog, startling me. “Another ship.” My eyes widen at the immense sight and a clamoring of sailors begins to fire up as others notice the neighboring craft. It’s huge and a sister ship to the Water Witch, its makeup the same as ours—sky-high masts, ornate carvings on the hull. The fog has risen and morphed into a peculiar bubble around us. A tickle of alarm claws at the back of my neck.
A statute-like figure stands tall on the bow of the unwelcome ship. His long blond hair billows behind him, whipping in the ocean’s wind. One of his legs is high and bent, resting on the balustrade as if ready to fearlessly plunge into the cold swirling sea below. There is something familiar about this foreign man. As the monstrous ship gathers closer, I notice his regal dress. Slick polished attire fitting for his demeanor. My body is telling my mind to run, but I am frozen in place, unable to remove myself.
Mouse disappeared at my declaration of the encroaching vessel. I glance heavenward to see him moving lithely up amongst the sails, ropes, and mast.
Captain Stokes materializes on deck. “Hard to port!” he shouts, and his normally hard face is stony with anger. Flanked by his first officer and some of the crew members, the captain emits a firm and commanding aura but it can’t compete with our unwanted visitor.
The typical deckhands run about completing their duties as required when another ship should pass by. Rope is reeled in or a sail is moved here or there. Mr. Tinker shouts some seafaring orders that only the other seamen would understand. Agilely, the gentleman on the other ship jumps onto the deck of The Water Witch.
“Move below, Miss Sybrina,” Mr. Tinker barks in a tone much like he used upon our first meeting as the clamoring around us congests the top deck. My feet find their purchase and act. I scurry as quickly as my ill body can carry me. Obviously, it is not fast enough for Mr. Tinker because he calls a deckhand to hasten my exit. I am roughly pulled by the arm by Rufus, tripping over my own feet to keep up with him.
“You need not shut the pretty lady away.” A voice neither angry nor volatile resonates over the din and each person stops... even the wind halts to listen. Rufus flinches and pushes me behind him in an attempt at blocking me from the intruder’s view.
“State your business!” Captain Stokes yells, having not the same magical voice as our mysterious interloper, and he juts forward with purpose.
Ignoring the captain’s request, the man approaches me. Steps come closer and closer fastening the gap between us into a sliver—his regality even more evident with his proximity. Glass blue orbs like cobalt stare down at me from his immense height, his handsome boyish face framed by his mane of blond hair.
The gentleman speaks to the captain. “I expected more civility, Captain Stokes.” He raises my hand to his lips to kiss it, keeping his attention on me and not who he is speaking with. “I am merely returning something you have lost on your voyage.” He smiles down at me with an all too practiced charm. I remove my hand from his. The stranger cocks a haughty grin at my feistiness. “Hmmm...” slips past his lips.
Rufus backs away to let Mr. Tinker come to stand behind me. He places his hands on my shoulders in a possessive gesture; I make contact with his broad chest. I feel as insignificant as a fly standing between these two large, tall men.
“And who is this? It cannot be your father.” The intruder laughs as if in a private joke. “You are a much too delicate creature for the likes of this sailor.” Mr. Tinker stiffens in anger and I feel a deep breath swallowed into the chest against my back.
“I am the quartermaster...” he starts but is powerfully interrupted.
“State your purpose!” Captain Stokes demands, forcing the notice off of Mr. Tinker and myself. The st
ranger’s eyes narrow ruthlessly and he trains them maliciously on the captain. Every being within the radius of this man is wary and fearful. His presence would reduce the cruelest to their deepest vulnerable infancy.
“I am Vadim. As I’ve already stated, dear Captain”—his words hit the sea air as a ruthless sneer—“I am returning something of yours.” A shuffling scratching noise emanates from the other ship. Someone is scrabbling over the side. It looks like a person but moves in an unearthly way—animal-like. Its fingers and hands are curved claws, its face elongated and white. Its speed extraordinary. The thing lets out a malevolent yowling screech. I train my eyes on it and follow its progression to make sense of what it is. My heartbeat figures it out before my mind does because it beats furiously in my ears, thumping in warning.
The old man...
My attacker...
He’s... alive...
Moving with lightning speed, the deranged old man propels himself forward. He’s dead repeats as a mantra over and over. But I am watching him advance forward as though very much alive.
He grabs a deckhand by the neck and twists grotesquely, snapping it, and a malformed smile spreads across his face as he turns toward me. A scream lodges itself in my throat and icy sweat coats my back as he moves on to the next poor wretch beside him. All those around me burst into confused flailing. I watch in horror as the entire ship’s humble monotony crumbles.
Gunshots are fired and ring out long after they leave the barrel—piercing and painful. Rough hands come around my waist caving in my stomach; an involuntary squeak escapes and my legs lift from the floor. I am traveling through the air over the shoulder of Mr. Tinker. We are bumped several times by the sheer panic that has consumed the crew. I cover my face with my hands to avoid getting smacked by a passerby, and the shouts and mayhem are magnified.
At the door in the floor, Mr. Tinker shoves me below. I am barely able to grab the rungs of the ladder and I clumsily clutch at them. The hatch is slammed shut, and I hear the metal lock slip into place. I descend as carefully as I can with my hands shaking. A few of the passengers are below waiting for me.
“What is happening?”
“What is going on?”
I register the questions slowly but have not the ability to truly answer them. I am in awe at what transpired and what I have seen. My own eyes are lying to my soul. No one can come back from the dead. The body was drained and lifeless. I saw that with my own eyes. I know the facts. The human body cannot survive without its blood. He wasn’t breathing. His eyes were lifeless orbs staring into an abyss…
“Are you all right, Sybrina?” It is Michael.
“I do not know,” I respond in a weakened state of mind and body.
“Come and sit,” he orders gently, leading me to my familiar column.
Above is a harsh cacophony of banging, running feet, and yelling. I can’t even dream about what is occurring.
Michael kneels down in front of me concerned. “Sybrina?” He pauses. “Are you well?”
I nod, jutting my eyes around looking at everyone and nothing.
“What is going on?”
“Another ship,” I say, taking in a sharp inhalation. Michael’s soft fingers reverently brush up and down my arm in an attempt to comfort me. I look at his eyes, warm and glowing with life.
Mr. Overton is hovering over us, worry marring his face. “What kind of ship?” he asks.
“I am not sure... A pirate ship... I think...”
Shrieks and gasps echo around the chamber. I did not know so many of my fellow travelers were close by listening.
“Pirates?” Michael questions. “They are a lot of a dying age. You must be mistaken. They are most likely of a privateer voyage—an acquaintance or friend of the captain.” A hopeful guess.
“The invaders called the captain by name but there was nothing civil about it. There is ruinous havoc afoot above us. Unless those we charge with our safekeeping can subdue the ruffians, I fear what is to come.”
“How can they do this? Aren’t there laws that govern the sea?” A woman that I have not spoken to before asks the questions with panic rising in her voice.
“We are at open sea. They can cause as much trouble as they wish.” Mr. Overton sighs. “And take whatever they wish.”
A loud crash sounds above all the other noise and guns and stomping. In a communal reaction, we all look up in fear.
Long seconds pass. In helpless frustration, we all stare at the ceiling praying to ourselves that the unwanteds go away. An image of the one who calls himself Vadim crosses my mind. His outward demeanor appeared courteous and righteous but underneath I sensed a malevolent being.
Heavy booted footsteps crossing the deck are the only sounds we can hear now. Things have grown quiet. The crowd of us watches the ceiling as the boots make their way to our only escape route, the hatch above us. Gloomy haze fills our space as the doors open. A sharp voice call down, “Send the lady up!” Everyone turns to me, fixated. There is no question that the person he is referring to is me. My heart that has been racing wondering about the goings-on above stops short. I suck in a deep breath and walk slowly toward the ladder. Michael grabs a hold of my arm.
“No. Don’t go,” he pleads.
“I have to.”
Dread has replaced the weakness of my illness, and I command my feet to take deliberate steps and climb. What more can be done to me? If they want to take my life, they can have it.
As I reach the top rung, a hand appears from above me. I take it, attempting to maintain a lady’s decorum. A familiar man, one of the sailors, greets me, but his face is a mask of alarm. I glance around wanting to know my surroundings and what is waiting for me, especially fearful of meeting the animated corpse.
There is an ominous stillness encasing the foggy haze—everyone is stopped. They are in one place, not moving. Even the sailor who helped me above is now immobile. The only being that is willfully moving is Vadim.
“Here she is... Here is the beauty,” he says with shining eyes.
The fiend reaches his hand out to me in a courteous manner, and I take it. It kills me to do so but this type of creature needs its ego stroked. I have spent copious amounts of time learning what types of men respond to feminine and meek, and have encountered ones that respect my independence and knowledge. I don’t know what kind of man he is or how he has the power to do what he’s doing, so I am taking the safe route and a part I’ve played many a days growing up. I smile at him but it is entirely forced. He leads me across the deck and my skin prickles in defiance of his nearness.
“It is such a shame that you left school so quickly,” he says, speaking as though we are walking along a beach on a blissful afternoon with no cares. He does not speak as though sailors lie dead, their bloody bodies strewn about the floor, and that those that lived are restlessly paralyzed.
A few steps forward and a crewman is in our way, stupefied, frozen, his will stripped from him. Vadim sends me an evil grin, mocking without words this poor man’s condition. Vadim strides a pace closer and holds his arm out and simply says, “Jump.” Freed of the invisible bond that holds him, the sailor turns, walks toward the balustrade, and throws himself into the cold sea.
No! Boils up from my stomach and bursts forth in a scream. This twisted, evil man before me with powers I do not understand smiles down at me vainly, making sure I know his abilities.
I nod sweetly, regaining my composure, knowing full well that this man can take control of my sensibilities in an instant. I don’t respond to his cryptic school reference and take a substantial look at the mayhem around me. Some of the corpses of the crew are in that bizarre repose—jaw stretched, arms contorted, and eyes wide. Flashing images of my parents and brother shoot around in my mind.
Then it happens; I change myself in that moment. I rally my resolve and go from scared female and demure aristocratic daughter to medical student. I point toward the closest body that has been exsanguinated.
“How does
this happen?” I question, stopping our walk.
“Always so thirsty for knowledge,” he comments, bright and eager to be the teacher.
He leads me gently toward the crewman that used to be Simon. We stand over him looking down at death. Vadim stretches out his fingers and points to Simon’s neck. “See the puncture wounds? They are made with teeth.”
I study these wounds and the small amount of blood that has pooled in a minuscule knot on the skin of the corpse. I reflect back to my notes and findings. “So they are bit by an animal?” I think hard. “A bat?”
He laughs heartily. “You have been reading too much fantasy.”
My eyebrows scrunch up, puzzled. “It is the only animal I can think of with long incisors that would be that tiny. A bat could fly onto the ship.” My reason is trying to find a legitimate cause for the deaths. I know in some deep recess of my mind I want to be able to rationalize away the horror.
“I think you know better... I believe you wish to think it some type of anomaly or disease spread by animals.”
“What can do this? Tell me,” I request.
“Vampires.”
I shrink back from him in revulsion.
“Your scientific mind knows this. You were on the cusp of the discovery when you fled England.” He speaks as though triumphant.
I take more steps back as little bits and pieces start falling into place—exsanguination... being followed... a reanimated corpse. The examinations of the bodies in England… the impossibilities… and hypotheses of my instructors... my research.
“It is stories and folklore,” I challenge.
“Everything starts from something,” he retorts as his eyes change, defying me. The blue becomes white glass. He puts his index finger to his lips, stifling a devious chuckle laced with mockery. “...Oh, and remember, Miss Sybrina, everything comes back from the sea.”
I shudder at his words, then am startled by something that lands behind me. I whirl around and see... the old man. He is spry and is looking straight at me in his deformity... “Whore in a lad’s clothes!” He repeats what he said that fateful night. I flinch back and clasp my chest, ready to scream, when he jumps up onto the ropes that control the sails.
