The Midnight Guardian

by Sarah-Jane Stratford

  The Jewish community of twelfth-century York was not large, but it was happy and thriving. To be sure, there were some incidents, and people had heard tell of some unpleasantness throughout England, but they had their faith in God, in the king, and in their overall good relations with their Gentile neighbors. They minded their business, obeyed all strictures, and took care not to give anyone much reason to notice them. Most of them worked at the dull and distasteful, if necessary, job of moneylending, having little other recourse. And they were not all wealthy, no matter what some of their neighbors might suspect.

  Jacob of Emmanuel and his little family were certainly not wealthy, although things were improving, thanks to Jacob’s talent at baking. The family had always baked the bread for their community, but even as a small boy, Jacob showed a deftness and feel for dough that made a bread so delicious, he could never make enough for everyone. It was noticed that even a few Gentile girls ventured into the Jewish quarter to buy bread from Jacob. In very quiet corners it was whispered that this might have less to do with the goodness of the bread than with the remarkable handsomeness of Jacob, and the shocking bravery of the girls’ admiration of a Jew was given due respect.

  Jacob’s looks were a startling thing to the entire community. He was taller than any other man, for a start, and broad-shouldered, muscular from swinging sacks of flour since he was ten years old. His fingers were long and nimble and never seemed to tire, even after shaping a hundred loaves. He had silky brown hair that tumbled around his head and magnetic, twinkling eyes that were sometimes brown, sometimes green, depending on the light. His ready smile was mischievous, and made those eyes snap in a manner that was highly unsettling to every marriageable girl in the community. Then, too, he had a way with words that made him seem far more learned than he was. Those men whose business kept them from household errands like buying bread found reasons to call at the bakery anyway, simply to exchange a few words with the fascinating baker.

  Now nearly eighteen, it was expected that he should marry soon. He knew this, and was prepared to do his duty, but he was hesitant. Perhaps he could solicit a girl with some money, but whatever anyone else thought of him, he did not think so well of himself that to reach above his station seemed appropriate. But how could he take proper care of a wife and children when there was his uncle and small brother and sister to care for already, and the money he earned only just kept them?

  He would never have dared express his other reason for hesitating. He knew what it would sound like. It was not as though there weren’t pretty, spirited girls around, but that he had an idea of something he wanted that he couldn’t articulate even when he lay awake and stared out at the stars. More education, that was part of his dream. He was clever, he knew it, and the rabbi was prepared to help him, but the early deaths of his parents made him feel his position as man of the family. His uncle tried hard, but was ailing and found standing for long hours too grueling. So who but Jacob could manage the business and care for them? Still, he would like to learn more. More even than what the rabbi could teach, but he quashed that thought. It sounded disrespectful.

  Then there was music. The unspoken obsession. His dreams were always in melody. His thoughts had a singsong rhythm. Music flowed through him when he made bread. Every sound he heard, wherever he went, he wanted to capture and re-create as a song. It was everywhere but tantalizingly out of reach. He often sang out loud, but there was a strength, passion, and uniquely enticing beauty in his clear tenor that others found disconcerting, so he tried not to sing unless he was alone, or in the synagogue. The singing at Sabbath was never enough. He had to sneak outside the nearest church on Sundays and hide, so he could hear more music. It shamed him, this furtive enjoyment of Gentile music, but there was no helping it. He needed the sound more than liquid. He was a man driven, and didn’t know what else he could do.

  Once, some traveling players had come to town. The Jews were not allowed to attend performances, but when he knew they would be giving an evening concert for a magistrate, he crept to the house, climbed a tree, and listened. Bliss. This was life. He could just see the musicians and feel the pleasure on their faces. The joy in making music. One of them played a rebec. Jacob stared at it. All his life, he’d known things … sensed them. He’d known with horrible certainty at the beginnings of their illnesses that his parents would die. He’d known from the day she could toddle that Alma, his sister, would be the sort of child to play pranks and laugh easily and be a beloved friend. He knew now, with absolute certainty, that were he to hold a rebec, set it on his thigh, and touch the bow to the strings, it would obey him. It would spill out every song that had ever spun around in his tireless brain. Longing choked him. The complete impossibility mocking his dreams. The man played, and Jacob wept.

  Perhaps there was a woman who could understand all this, perhaps there was a way to have something else, perhaps … but these were not good days for contemplating happiness. News was bad. Jews were being persecuted in England, burned out of homes, or sometimes inside them. Or they were put to the sword. Jacob wanted them to be ready. He knew there was a fight coming, and he wished he had a weapon. Fight back, that’s what he wanted to do. Die on his feet fighting, if he was going to die. He knew he was strong, but with only bread knives, he had no chance. Still, he was ready to show those who would hound them what real honor was, if it was the last thing he ever did.

  But the children, God in heaven, what about the children?

  As it happened, on the evening the trouble closed in, York’s Jews decided to flee to the castle for protection. There was little choice—houses had been burned and some were killed. But the king’s men were coming; they would settle the growing mob and reestablish order. Their lives would go on. So the logic went. Jacob did not really believe that, but what choice was there? There was his uncle and the children, and no way to escape. He hated the idea of running, but these three souls were entrusted to his care. He was outnumbered, and as good as unarmed. There was nothing else to do.

  They walked quickly, quietly, eyes firmly on the path and the parapet. A sweet, coaxing voice hissed in Jacob’s ear and his head jerked around, but no one was there. Alma and Abram were quiet, Uncle was breathing too hard with the labor of walking to speak. And this was a voice—perhaps he was going mad, along with the rest of the world—but this voice sounded like some of the songs he’d conjured in his head. Music that came from a dream, but nothing human. There it was again. He shook his head to clear it, and to concentrate on prayer. Shma Yisrael, adonai eloheinu … where was God, anyway?

  As they climbed the steps to the tower’s great door, it was Jacob, not his uncle, who found each step more arduous, as though a great force were pushing him back. He had the strongest sensation of trying to walk into an ice-brick wall. He paused, only to feel bonds encircling him, pulling him down, away. He pushed his fists into his suddenly hot, throbbing eyes. The world and he were certainly going mad.

  “Jacob? Are you all right?” Alma’s hand plucked worriedly at his elbow.

  “Come away. Come. Come, let me help you.”

  This time he saw it. Her. But she couldn’t be real. It was a ghost, a mirage, standing there on the hill opposite the tower, long, loose hair billowing around her, a hand extended, a promise in her deep blue eyes. Why could he see her eyes? She was too far away. But he could. And he had to go to her.

  “Where are you going?”

  Oh, God. He looked at them, the two tiny, trusting faces, the older, bewildered one. What was he doing? He shook his head violently, fighting against the rising nausea and bursting veins in his temples. They had to get inside. But the closer he got to the door, the more his feet burned. He felt shot through with freezing needles. He stopped again, desperate to catch a breath.

  “You must, you must come. There is no other chance,” the voice was urgent, even frightened.

  “There is no other chance.”

  “What?” His uncle and Alma stared, perplexed and concerned. A
bram was too sleepy to notice that Jacob was swaying and his voice was rough and strange.

  The musical voice had wrapped itself around Jacob and he found he didn’t want to break its hold. He knew, too, that he couldn’t enter the castle. The ice was impenetrable. He wished he could breathe properly, could think, could determine what they all should do. He swayed precipitously and his uncle put a steadying hand on his arm.

  “Stay outside a moment and catch your breath. I’ll get the children inside.” His uncle couldn’t hear the voice, or feel the ice, but even in the poor light he could see Jacob’s eyes were wild and his skin flashing white and then red. If he was going to be sick, better to do it outside.

  Jacob bent quickly to his brother and sister and kissed each face.

  “Forgive me. Oh, God, forgive me.”

  Alma clutched at his hand but said nothing. He cupped her face, looked in her eyes. Her brown eyes were darker than his, wider, and wiser. They smiled, though her face stayed solemn. She nodded, whether in understanding or farewell, he didn’t know. Beloved sister. Best friend. Blood. No! He wouldn’t leave them. He would collect himself, and come inside.

  His uncle patted him on the shoulder. “You will be all right in a minute. We’ll be waiting for you.”

  And they went in. Even though others followed, Jacob was sure he saw that icy door close hard behind them, sucking them deep inside. He reached for them, but the singing whisper came again. He had to go.

  He almost floated toward the extraordinary girl, sure he was walking the walk of a dreaming man.

  “No, this is real,” she whispered, though he’d said nothing. “Tell them one last good-bye. The children will hear you.”

  She cupped her hand around his mouth. And as if in a dream, he did as she bid.

  “Alma. Abram. I love you. God be with you, always.”

  He wanted to say more, or perhaps just the same words again, but the sound died in his throat. The girl dropped her cool hand from his mouth and wrapped it gently around his fingers.

  “They’re not afraid.”

  Her eyes were honest, and he believed her.

  She applied a tiny bit of pressure on his hand, just enough to pull him away from that miserable spot. He didn’t know where they were going, but neither did he care.

  They were past the city walls, in a moonlit clearing. He looked into her eyes and forgot that barely an hour ago, he’d guided his family out of their home, fighting the urge to wonder if he’d ever enter that door again. Who could think of anything else, looking into these eyes? And though it was insanity to think so, it seemed to him she was the loneliest woman he’d ever seen, and yet lost in love. Despite the chill and the strangeness, he’d never felt so complete in his skin and right in his place as that moment. And not since he was a tiny boy, falling asleep under his mother’s hand stroking his hair, had he felt so loved and protected. It was incomprehensible, but he didn’t mind. He’d always had an affinity for that which couldn’t be immediately understood.

  The girl smiled suddenly, a brilliant flash that took his breath away. The energy she radiated glowed hot around her, a beacon of light in the darkness. There was intelligence in those large, lonely eyes, and a lost world, and a world to be discovered. He’d never wanted to touch anyone so desperately. His heart was pounding, he almost felt like it was expanding, pulsing against his ribs. So slowly, he might have been standing aside and watching himself, he raised his fingers to her cheek. The feel of her skin sent a shot like lightning through him—at once cold and hot. Her eyes sparked and he bit back a gasp. He had no idea what the love between a man and a woman was like, but the powerful energy that was now swirling around him, tickling his skin, told him he was on his way home.

  Brigantia was terrified. She had smelled him before she saw him, and the scent had made the back of her neck tingle and her fingers ache. His intelligence, his pride, his courage. His hunger for all there was in the world, and more. And music, music that made her think of sunlight dappling the river, the feel of lying on a hill and staring up through the trees and into a bright blue sky. Two hundred and seventy-four years since her humanity, and the few happy memories of that life were flowing through her useless veins. She pressed her hands to her head, summoning all her concentration. But then she looked up, and saw those eyes.

  She buried her face in a tree, trying to think. This is love. This is the love I thought was just the stuff of ancient poetry and idle dreams. She peeked at him again. I can hear his heart beating. I want to crawl inside that heart. I want to be the only one for whom it beats. She would have to turn him, there was no other option, as a human he was already the walking dead, but turning him meant that heart wouldn’t beat, and would she deserve him, deserve this possibility of love? She knew only too well that to turn someone did not mean they rose and loved you.

  The Jews were heading to the castle to wait in safety for help. But there were so few of them, and the hatred in the air was so high. If he went in there, he would not come out. She told herself this was his only chance, even knowing she meant it was hers. So with guilt overwhelmed by longing and hope, she sent out the whispering call.

  And so here they were. She knew what she had to do. Otonia had explained it. With infinite care, with infinite tenderness, and yet with control.

  “What is your name?”

  “Jacob. Of the family Emmanuel. What is yours?”

  “Brigantia.”

  “An ancient name.”

  “Yes. Mine is an ancient family.”

  She willed herself to stop talking, fearing it would dissipate the spell. She laid a hand on his chest, memorizing the feel of his heartbeat. He laid a hand over hers and her stomach contracted. Otonia had never even suggested it might be anything like this. “And yet with control.” Easier said than done.

  She was aching to kiss him. It was taking most of her control to fight that urge. It would be wrong, it would be kissing him under the blind canopy, embracing from across a divide. It wouldn’t be real, and it wouldn’t be love. However long it took, she was going to wait for that kiss, till he was in this place with her.

  She reached up to his ear, whispering again. A formula that slipped back to the beginning of their time, and nobody knew when that was. But it was a sweet hiss that hung like a mist around them. His breath was hot on her neck, his arms tight around her, his pulse racing. The demon strangely unwilling to rise—all she wanted was to lie down with him. At last, however, the fierce pounding of his heart against her breast and the feel of his blood coursing under her touch roused the demon, and her fangs slid out from under her gums. More gently than she knew possible, she bit.

  Of course, Jacob had dreamed of holding a woman close, and wondered what it must feel like. He wanted to kiss a woman, properly, and no woman had ever made his mouth tingle like Brigantia. But she shied from his lips, her mouth was hot on his neck, and he wondered why he wanted so much from a stranger, or why she felt like someone he’d known even before he was born.

  His mind was whirling. He was floating; no, sinking. Was he supporting her, or she him? His blood was pounding so hard, he had no sense of it draining, and was fast becoming a freak of nature as his heart simultaneously raced and slowed.

  His one certainty was that his mouth needed to be on some part of her flesh. As though she read his mind, or, happier, shared his need, she slid her hand up his back and around to his face. He pressed her palm against his slightly open lips, drowning in the salty sweetness of her taste and the pressure of her fingertips against his cheek. There was warmth in this small hand. Warmth and wetness, although he didn’t notice that, and if he had registered the blood dripping from the swift slash, the injury would have horrified him even more than that same blood dripping down his dry throat.

  But he was now far past noticing anything.

  For years afterward, it was a small point of pride with him that, although far from the manner in which he’d imagined or even intended, he did, indeed, die on his feet.
>
  There is no consciousness in the dig, any more than there is in a bird’s pecking of its shell, or indeed, a baby sliding out of its mother. The dig is just determined, the arduous and painful task of vampire birth. It was not until his head burst through and he shook particles of dirt from his eyes that his brain clicked in and began to work again. She was there, watching, her lovely face bathed in moonlight. He pulled himself out of the grave and knelt on the edge, feeling the need to pant from the exhaustion, but, of course, there was no panting.

  He wished she wasn’t there, wasn’t watching. He didn’t want her to see him struggle, gasp for a breath he didn’t need. The chill clawing at his back wasn’t the night or his own self, but her. Her, and the cold stillness she’d planted inside him. He blinked down into the empty grave, expecting to see a shadow of himself inside all that churned-up dirt. He studied his hands—dirty, but familiar, and wondered where this tingle came from, this sense that each was enclosed in something immense, overwhelming, something that tugged and was determined to possess him. His hands were not his, not anymore.

  Food. He needed food. Simple sustenance to fill the hollowness, to settle the mind. A warm meal, a good meal, the essence of life. The bowl of lamb stew that flitted through his mind danced tauntingly before him, its sweet smells dissipating with each imagined sniff, chunks of meat and vegetables evaporating and then the gravy swirled and snaked its way into the ether. Blood bubbled from the bottom of the bowl, blood that had been so carefully drained away and buried, now swelled up to the brim. Blood. An unkosher thing, forbidden, even if it was what some Gentiles alleged the Jews stole to make their Passover matzo. But as the bowl expanded into a tub and invited him to bathe, he knew this was his staff of life now, and he would not shy from it.

  Infuriating certainty told him exactly where he must go. Steps retraced, moving backward through space even as he’d leaped forward into a vortex. Pushing against a heavy wall that chafed deep under his skin, all the way back to what had been his home.