Time & Space (Short Fiction Collection Vol. 2)

by Gord Rollo

  “Yes… Vampires! Men and woman who drank human blood! It was crazy talk, sir. De Muur went from being a brilliant scientist and caring physician to a raving lunatic almost overnight. And remember the grail? De Muur even thought these imagined vampires were in possession of the Holy Grail. He had a plan ready to seek each vampire’s master out until the head vampire was revealed. Find him, and we’d find the Grail he told me! He stood in full ceremonial dress in this very room and tried to convince the council that these vampires were spreading all over Europe and Britain and that we needed to track down and eliminate them before it was too late? He wanted to restart the bloody crusades, for God’s sake!”

  “I remember all those things, William. How could I not? Despite our age difference, he was my best friend… the son I never had. His descent into madness hurt me more than you know.”

  “Of course, sir. My apologies. I don’t mean to sound judgmental… he was my friend too. It’s just hard to imagine him back in the brotherhood. The Templar Order is at a pivotal crossroads, sir, and if we ever want reinstated into our rightful position of guardians of the faith, we can’t afford to have a loose cannon like De Muur around.”

  “Agreed. But what if he has returned to his senses? Think about it, William. What if he’s the Arthur De Muur we both remember from better days? Would he not be the perfect brother to spearhead our legitimacy plans to the Pontiff?”

  “Of course he would be. No question. I think the council would all agree with that, but how can we trust him again? I mean… he was caught trying to drive a sharpened stake through the heart of the Spanish ambassador. He’d have been hung for murder if you hadn’t stepped in!”

  “But I did step in, and the ambassador was fine. If Arthur hadn’t agreed to voluntarily live in exile at Mont St. Michel Abbey, I’d have had him locked up on the spot. Arthur was sick though, William. Overworked on the job and heartbroken from his wife’s ailment, he simply lost the ability to think rationally and cope with the pressures of the world.”

  “And now you think he can?”

  “Yes. Something in my gut tells me he’s ready.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t pretend to understand the strange workings of the human brain but to me, once a man is feeble minded, he’ll always be feeble minded. If you’re convinced he’s better I’ll go along with your judgment, of course, but we’re taking a hell of a risk. If we’re wrong it could be a monumental disaster! You understand that, right?”

  “I know… and that’s why I’ve decided to see him with my own eyes.”

  “You’re traveling to France? Now?”

  “Yes. There’s no other way. These monthly letters he sends and the reports from the clerics at the abbey are outstanding news indeed, but until I can meet him face to face, there’s just no way I can trust him again. I’ll leave you in charge here until my return… with or without our estranged brother.”

  June 18, 1870,

  Wittem Castle,

  Maastricht, Netherlands.

  The flames are already licking at the suspended man’s bare feet, the heat severe enough to cause De Muur and Hendrik to take a step away from the growing pyre. Midnight in the castle gardens and everything is quiet other than the occasional snapping and crackling of the timber. The usual nocturnal chatter of birds, bugs, and animals from the nearby fields, conspicuously absent. Even the trees are quiet tonight, no breeze to coax them out of their silence reverie. Everything in the garden seems to be holding its breath, waiting, watching to see what will happen next.

  The body on the cross makes no effort to avoid the flames. His clothing starts to ignite. Still wet from the laboratory tank, steam rises into the dark sky like a thick fog from a marshy bog, making it difficult for De Muur to clearly see his captive’s face. He backs up several steps to get a better angle, and is momentarily shocked to see the vampire’s face. Gone are the rich man’s smug, indifferent attitude and handsome aristocratic features. His face is contorted into a beastly grin now, a mouthful of razor sharp teeth and eyes full of pure hatred glowing a faint shade of crimson.

  “You’re not looking so well, Baron Larouche. Starting to show your true colors, no?”

  De Muur smiles, seeing that the Baron almost screams something at him, some insult or empty threat, but manages to control his anger and remain silent.

  “Not talking to me tonight, Baron? Oh, I think you will. In fact, I guarantee it! You’ll tell me the name of your master and where I can find him or I’ll make your suffering go on forever. After what your filthy brethren did to my beloved wife, be assured I’m looking forward to it.”

  The fire begins to consume the chained man, starting with his lower extremities then working steadily up. It isn’t until his long dark hair ignites that the demon starts to scream. No human makes a noise like this. It’s an awful sound, loud and guttural like a wounded animal in exquisite pain. Within minutes the growing pyre becomes an inferno, the Baron disappearing within the unmerciful cocoon of orange flame, but still he continues to scream. Young Hendrik claps his hands over his ears and turns away, having seen and heard enough, but De Muur watches it all, savoring every second.

  The bonfire rages for another hour before devouring the supply of wood and burning itself out. Hendrik and De Muur draw bucket after bucket of water from the stream to cool the glowing embers at the base of the cross but still the oils and fluids from the Baron’s charred body continue to hiss and pop like pork fat as they drip onto the hot cinders. The smell of cooked meat is sickening this close to the ruined body, but De Muur refuses to wait any longer to speak to his captive. He leans a ladder against the center beam of the smoldering cross and quickly climbs up so he is face to face with Baron Larouche – what’s left of his face, anyway.

  A human body would be completely ravaged by the blaze, leaving nothing behind but ashes and bones. This demon is no longer human, obviously, but has still suffered grievous damage. His clothes and hair are gone and his blackened skin is cracked and blistered and burnt so badly that his lips and eyelids have fused to his face. De Muur stares into this nightmare visage and feels no pity or remorse whatsoever.

  Removing a carving knife from his trouser pocket, De Muur starts to cut away the charred flesh from around the Baron’s eyes. The dead skin flakes away easily as the Baron struggles against his silver chains to keep his eyelids closed. De Muur is in no mood for games and uses the point of the blade to carve the eyelids completely off the Baron’s face, leaving him seething with rage and staring wide-eyed into his tormentor’s satisfied smile.

  “Ah… there you are. Are you ready to talk yet?”

  The Baron mumbles something behind his lips but his mouth is sealed shut from the kiss of the flames. De Muur is happy to help him out, slowly drawing his sharp blade across the vampire’s cheeks, opening up a raw, ragged wound hiding a set of long white teeth and a lungful of acrid smoke. The Baron savagely snaps at De Muur’s fingers, trying to extract a small measure of revenge, but De Muur is too fast for him and easily moves out of range.

  “Tell me who your master is, Larouche?”

  The Baron is breathing hard, straining at his chains, but remains silent.

  “You can’t escape me, Baron. I know how powerful you can be, but the cross and the silver will keep you in line. I’m learning all about your kind… your strengths and your weaknesses, as I hunt more and more of you down. I know you were once human, like me, but some demon bit you, probably on the neck, and transformed you into the vile creature you are today. I want the name of that creature and you’re going to tell me where I can find him.”

  “Never!”

  Baron Larouche’s voice is an icy hiss, high-pitched and full of venom.

  “Oh, but you will. You see that mountain range straight in front of you. You’re facing east. The sun will be rising above that ridge in about five hours and I recently learned from a Turkish priest how much you demons love to watch the sunrise. Should be quite a show. I’m looking forward to it.”

&
nbsp; “Your silly threats mean nothing to me, fool. I know you’ll never let me go, whether I tell you or not, so why would I talk knowing the sun will destroy me regardless?”

  “The Sun? Oh no, you have it all wrong. The sun isn’t your punishment, Baron… it’s your reward. You tell me the name of your master and I’ll let you hang in peace here for a few more hours until the glorious sun comes to put you out of your misery and send you to Hell where you belong. If you refuse, Hendrik and I take you down and back into the castle so we can play with you again tonight. And tomorrow night. And the night after that, if necessary. The choice is yours, demon. Relax. Think on it for a while.”

  De Muur climbs back down the ladder and casually walks away without another glance back. Hendrik, not wanting to be left alone with the hideously burned man, quickly follows.

  September 20, 1869,

  Mont St. Michel Abbey,

  North Coast, France.

  Commander Duncan Fenton’s journey to the abbey has been rather uneventful. Long and tedious, but as with any trip across the English Channel, arriving in one piece is as good as can be expected. Mont St. Michel Abbey is built on a small rocky island off the North coast of France. The most difficult part of the whole trip is the three-quarters of a mile that separates the island from the mainland. At night, a boat can get there quickly, but navigating the rough coastal waters in the dark is near suicidal. By day, the tide goes out and drops the water level in the narrows to mere inches, making sailing impossible.

  Fortunately, there is a naturally forming sandbar providing the only viable option for getting to and from the island. When the tide goes out, a person can walk from shore to shore without ever getting their feet wet, just as long as they are safely onto the island before sunset and the tide returns.

  Fenton successfully bridges the sandbar and is soon greeted by Father Pierre Aldonna, the senior cleric of the ten catholic clergymen that live and study here at the abbey. Father Aldonna is a wrinkled old man with thinning white hair and a short scruffy beard. He is thrilled to finally meet Commander Fenton after years of corresponding solely through letters and shows him to his room so Duncan can get some much-needed rest.

  Several hours later, after Commander Fenton rests, washes up, and is fed a grand meal thrown in honor of his visit, he finally feels comfortable broaching the subject of meeting De Muur. He’s wanted to see Arthur since the moment of his arrival, but didn’t want to seem too anxious or in any way not grateful for the clerics hospitality. Father Aldonna understands and is happy to oblige.

  “You’ll be pleased to know, Duncan, your friend has been feeling wonderful as of late. So much better than when he first arrived here.”

  “That’s great news, Father. I’ve prayed for him everyday and it does my heart good to know he’s feeling himself again. I can’t wait to see him!”

  “I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to see you too. He’s always studying in the library at this time of the day. Shall we?”

  Together, they head out of the banquet hall and make their way along a long stone walled corridor that eventually opens out into a massive room filled with thousands of leather bound books. Ordinarily, Duncan would have rejoiced spending time in this magnificent library, with it’s breathtaking high-domed ceiling and row after row of solid oak bookcases filled to capacity with the world’s finest literary and academic treasures. Today, though, his attention is riveted on the dark-haired, clean-shaven man seated at a roll top desk on the far side of the room – the only other man present. The man looks up from his studies, sees who has entered the room and gives a brief, tentative wave of his hand in greeting.

  Duncan Fenton stops dead in his tracks, unable to move another step closer.

  “What’s the matter, commander? I thought you wanted to talk with your friend?”

  “I do, father. Very much so… only this man isn’t Arthur De Muur.”

  “What? You must be mistaken. This is the man who showed up at our door three years ago with your letter of introduction. The gentleman with him assured me that…”

  “Gentleman? What Gentleman?”

  “Tall man, with thick wavy salt and pepper hair. European accent. Nice fellow, now that I think of it. We had tea together before he set off for home. He was accompanying De Muur on your orders, was he not?”

  Fenton pieces it all together in an instant, naturally, too heartbroken at the moment to be angry with the man De Muur has hired to live in exile here in his place. Father Aldonna is catching on quickly, but still confused.

  “If this man’s an imposter… then where in blazes is the real Arthur De Muur?”

  “Hunting, I’d imagine.”

  “Hunting? Hunting what?”

  “Trust me, father… you don’t want to know.”

  June 18, 1870,

  Wittem Castle,

  Maastricht, Netherlands.

  Dawn approaches, an orange glow creeping steadily westward, an avenging angel to drive the cowardly darkness into hiding for yet another day. It’s still dark in the garden, but won’t be for long.

  De Muur climbs the ladder to visit Baron Larouche again. He has let the demon hang for four and a half hours, alone, save for his thoughts. Time enough for the vampire to have made up his mind to talk or not. Either way, De Muur doesn’t care.

  Larouche’s body is already starting to repair itself, shedding the black destroyed outer flesh on his face, arms, and legs and in the process of growing new sticky pink skin. Remarkably, half of the Baron’s severed left eyelid has grown back, but De Muur makes no comment on his captive’s appearance. He has more important things to talk about.

  “My wife was the picture of health until about five years ago. She was a kind, beautiful woman… much better than a man like me deserved. She waited here while I was running all over Europe, caught up in the futile business of trying to bring the Knights Templar back into prominence. I was such a fool.

  “I came as fast as I could once I heard she’d taken ill but there was nothing I could find that was wrong with her. She was anemic and ranting about creatures attacking her in the night. I thought she’d taken leave of her senses and consulted a local doctor I knew in Maastricht named Johan Zubrus. He couldn’t find a reason for her poor health either, but he convinced me she needed to stay with him at an asylum he helped run. I hated the idea, but she was obviously delusional and was getting violent whenever I tried to take her outside during the day for a walk or for a breath of fresh air.

  “At the asylum, she kept getting worse. I was shattered at the thought I might lose her. One night, when I couldn’t stand to be away from her any longer, I rode into the city determined to bring her back home where she belonged. When I walked into her room, I found my good friend Dr. Zubrus bent over my wife with his fangs buried in her neck. She looked up at me from the bed and smiled, and as soon as I saw her pointed teeth I knew she was no longer the woman I loved. My wife was dead to me and all that bastard Zubrus had left me was a monster.

  “I ran from the room shaking with anger, fear, and disbelief. I ran away and hid from the world for a whole month, trying to get my mind around what I’d seen that night and what, if anything, I could do about it. Eventually I went back and killed Zubrus but it wasn’t easy. I didn’t know any of the things I know now. I just got lucky and found him during the day. I chopped his head off with the fire axe hanging on his office wall.”

  Baron Larouche is somewhat confused as to why De Muur wants to tell him this story but something in his tormentor’s eyes has him tasting real fear for the first time in nearly eighty years, since he was turned. Swallowing hard under De Muur’s intense gaze, Larouche feels he should say something.

  “And your wife?”

  “No. She was gone. I’m in the habit of telling people I meet that she’s still ill and institutionalized for her own good, but the truth is I have no idea where she is or what horrible things she is doing.”

  “You can’t possibly blame me for this!”

  “Ye
s I can. You… and the rest of the demons like you. You’ve made me what I am and there’s no going back. Now tell me who turned you and where I can find the bastard. Do it now or I promise you’ll regret it!”

  Baron Larouche is silent, weighing his limited options. The sun is rising higher in the sky, the mountain range to the East fully illuminated now, and the wall of light creeping steadily towards them at the far end of the valley.

  De Muur can wait no longer.

  “Hand me the axe, Hendrik. We’ll take off his arms and legs… make it easier to carry him inside that way.”

  “No! I’ll… I’ll tell you.”

  “Speak then, demon. My patience is gone.”

  Baron Larouche whispers the name of a man and a city. De Muur nods once, contented, then climbs back down the ladder. He is barely to the ground when the first rays of sunlight reach the garden and find their way to the man chained to the cross. For the second time this day, Larouche bursts into flames. His face registers agony, but he is determined not to give De Muur the satisfaction of hearing him scream again. Instead he summons his last strength to shout down to his executioner below.

  “May my master rip your lungs out and feast on your heart. I promise there will be no mercy for you.”

  “Just as there will be none for you… from my God!”

  March 09, 1870,

  Letter, Simon Hesler to Arthur De Muur,

  London, England.

  I’m afraid I have grave news, my friend. Commander Fenton made a surprise appearance at the abbey last September and our little ruse has been exposed. He was furious with you and angered enough with me that I was thrown into a London prison for impersonating a member of the Templar Order. Former member, I tried to reason, but he was having none of it. Since I hadn’t really committed a crime, he eventually had me released and I thought it best to contact you straight away. I have no idea of the commander’s plans, or what he may or may not decide to do with regard to you, but I felt I owed you this letter of warning. Bad days may be ahead, Arthur. I hope I’m not already too late.