Shadow Over Sea And Sky

by K H Middlemass

  Emily nodded in agreement. “They want to protect me.”

  “As all good parents do,” Abrahms finished on her behalf.

  Emily gave a thin smile. “Yes.”

  Abrahms leant back in his chair with a gentle sigh. “Shall we talk, then? As I said before, you may not like what you hear.”

  Emily didn’t reply, only stared fixedly at Abrahms until he spoke again.

  “Emily, do you want to hear it?”

  “Yes,” said Emily. “Please.”

  “I have not been in Caldmar for long, but I have done my best to get to know everyone and make my presence felt,” Abrahms began, taking a quick sip of his coffee. “I was interested in Hugo from the start, and I learned very quickly that he was a man of faith but that he had shut himself away up in that house on the hill and had not been seen for months. So, I decided that I would pay him a visit. The first few times he didn’t even come to the door, but I am a persistent man and have never been known to deny a challenge. I went there every day and waited, knocking on the door over and over until the day came when he finally let me in.

  “Once he realised that I truly wanted to help him, I think that he was thankful to be in the presence of a man of God. He asked me to pray with him, which I did gladly, but I couldn’t help but notice how his voice shook when he uttered the words and how skittish and nervous he appeared in my company. He was thin and frail and unerringly gentle in his speech and mannerisms, but he couldn’t hide the fear in his eyes. I sensed then that he was a man in trouble, even though I didn’t know what kind of trouble that might be.”

  Abrahms stopped to take another gulp of coffee and Emily leant forward to rest her head on her laced fingers. He had a way of commanding an audience, even when that audience was just one person, and she enjoyed listening to his voice even though the words he spoke caused her pain.

  “After a time, I asked him if he would confide in me and that he could trust me, but he was resilient. I remember we were sitting in the library surrounded by all those books, and Hugo took one in his hands and stroked it, and he had the most extraordinary look on his face. He looked haunted and far away as he said ‘I cannot read any more, Jonathan. The words no longer give me pleasure.” Then he looked at me with eyes full of pain and said ‘I thought that I would always have my books, but my books have betrayed me too. It is all that the master allows me, and yet I feel nothing.’”

  Abrahms said all of this in a calm, cool voice that betrayed no emotion, but Emily felt tears slipping down her cheeks anyway. Her poor Hugo, kind and lovely Hugo, who introduced her to poetry and paintings and beauty and believed in her no matter what, trapped in the prison that was once his family home. He had suffered more than she could understand. Her tears were tears of shame and embarrassment, and she furiously brushed them away.

  “Who is this ‘master’?” she asked in a thick voice.

  Abrahms plucked a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Emily without a word. She took it gratefully and dabbed her eyes carefully, thankful that he made no show of her tears.

  “I wondered that myself,” Abrahms said. “When I asked him to tell me about the master, Hugo became defensive and would speak no more of it. For a time after that, though, he would slip and I would sometimes catch him muttering about shadows and promises, things that seemingly had no connection. All I know is that just before he died, he had signed away his home to a stranger, a man that he had never mentioned to me or anyone else. It struck me as suspicious, though of course there was no way for me to confirm it. Until now, perhaps.”

  Abrahms gazed levelly at Emily.

  “I know that you’re working for this Mister Volkov,” he remarked, prompting her to nod in agreement. “Painting him.”

  “Yes,” Emily replied. “I suppose I wanted to talk to you about that too. Have you met him?”

  “No, though not for want of trying,” said Abrahms. “I understand that he is rarely about during the day. It seems you are the only one he would deign to see.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Emily replied softly. “My mother and father met him when he first arrived, but never since. I do know that there’s something strange about him, something I can’t put my finger on.”

  Abrahms nodded as if he understood. “Tell me about him.”

  Emily tried to find the right words. “When I first met him I just thought he was a little eccentric, a bit peculiar, but then I started to have these dreams and things were suddenly going wrong everywhere. I kept going when he called for me because it felt like I couldn’t do anything else. And drawing him, trying to capture his face in the stroke of the pencil, it’s obsessing me like nothing’s ever done before. I don’t know what it is or how he does it, but he makes me forget things and he has this power over me that frightens and thrills me at the same time. It’s like he’s changed everything by coming here, but one person couldn’t do something like that could they?”

  It all came out in a tumble and she immediately felt her cheeks growing hot, aware of how disturbed she sounded. But Abrahms continued to regard her with that same, cool stare. She realised then that he believed her, or at least didn’t doubt her mind the way she had been lately. Though his expression was placid, his eyes were gleaming brightly under the weak vestry lights.

  “Emily,” Abrahms began in a voice that was clearly meant to ease her into something she did not want to be eased into. “Have you seen the wolf?”

  Emily felt her insides clench and her hands, still curled around the cup, began to shake instantaneously. She suddenly felt very sick, her stomach churning and turning over like the raging of the sea outside. Abrahms gently put his hands over hers and lowered them so that she put the cup back onto the table. Everything he did was with an air of gentleness. Emily cast her eyes down, not wanting to look at him.

  “I’ve never seen anyone go so pale so quickly,” Abrahms said.

  Emily would have laughed if there was anything about this conversation that was funny, but she had taken an unexpected step into the fantastic and could barely even raise a smile. Instead, she stuttered out the words: “I saw it.”

  Abrahms nodded, a sad expression crossing his face. “So have I.”

  They looked at each other for a moment, with Abrahms attempting to gauge Emily’s reaction and Emily trying to make a conclusion about how this information made her feel. On the one hand, she felt reassured to know that she wasn’t alone in all of this, whatever it was, but another part of her said that she was simply going insane and that she and Abrahms merely shared the same delusions.

  “A white wolf.” Abrahms continued in that same, measured tone.

  Emily nodded. “A white wolf.”

  “And have you noticed anything else unusual?”

  Emily was silent, failing to really hear Abrahms’ words. She was thinking of something else. “Did you hear about Sarah Wilson? How they found her at the bottom of the cliffs? Her face was all torn up.”

  “Yes.”

  She remembered the piece of paper folded up in her jeans pocket. “Do you think it was the wolf that killed her?”

  “I do. But then I have my own thoughts about the wolf.”

  “And what are those thoughts, Reverend?”

  “In a moment, Emily,” Abrahms persisted. “I asked you a question. Have you noticed anything else unusual recently?”

  Emily stared at him in silence. Abrahms reached over the table and pulled the plastic bag towards him. He took a quick glance inside and raised an eyebrow. When he looked back at Emily, his expression was one of concern.

  “I heard that your mother is unwell,” he said gently. “Wouldn’t you say that was something unusual?”

  Emily held her hand out and Abrahms returned the bag to her. She placed it in her lap, angry at this small invasion of her privacy.

  “She rarely gets ill, that’s true,” she replied in a sharp voice. “But I don’t see what that has to do with the wolf, or anything really.”

  “I
haven’t seen your mother since the funeral, but I have seen your father,” Abrahms continued. “He’s worried about her. I’m sure you are too.”

  “Of course I am! What kind of daughter would I be if I wasn’t?”

  “Then please, listen to me,” Abrahms implored. “I need you to trust me.”

  Emily carefully sipped her coffee and tried to calm the mounting panicky feeling rising inside her. Taking a deep breath, she said, “All right.”

  Abrahms leant back in his chair, looking weary. “Has your mother seen a doctor yet?”

  “Just before I came to meet you,” Emily confirmed.

  “Would I be right in assuming that he had little to offer you in terms of a diagnosis?”

  Emily’s skin prickled. Her hands clutched at the plastic bag in her lap. “I suppose.”

  “Can you tell me more about it?”

  Emily folded the handles over the body of the bag nervously. “I don’t know how serious it is. All I know is that she’s tired all the time and can barely get out of bed. She’s not eating either; she doesn’t have the appetite for it. Doctor Sewell said it was probably anaemia.”

  Abrahms nodded and idly ran a finger around the rim of his mug. “And how long has she been like this?”

  Emily was quiet t for a moment, running her hand through her hair. “A few days, nearly a week I think. So much has happened that it feels longer.”

  “That’s true,” Abrahms agreed. He sighed. “I fear that tragedy has come to Caldmar Bay, Emily.”

  “Tragedy?” Emily flinched at the hyperbole. It was terrible that someone had died and under such strange circumstances, but Abrahms made it sound as if the town were suddenly cursed. Maybe it was.

  “In more ways than one,” Abrahms sighed. “I have some advice for you, to help your mother. If you want it.”

  Emily thought of her mother wasting away in her bed without her and knew that she would take anything he could offer, even if it didn’t work. “What can I do?”

  Abrahms leant forward, staring levelly at Emily. “Keep the windows closed at all times. Lock them if you can. On your way home, buy some incense and keep it lit during the night, either inside your mother’s room or close to her door. Strong smells can be helpful.”

  Emily shook her head in confusion, her brow furrowing. “Reverend, I don’t-”

  “While she’s sleeping, slip a silver knife underneath her pillow or the mattress,” Abrahms spoke over her. “And I will pray for her as often as I can.”

  “Reverend!” Emily couldn’t stop herself from raising her voice. “Stop for a moment, please! I can’t make any sense of what you’re saying.”

  She rose from her seat and took some steps across the room, the flats of her hands resting on the small of her back. “It just sounds like a bunch of old wives’ tales to me.”

  “Humour me, then. It might help you.”

  Emily fixed her eyes upon another picture on the wall. There was silence for a few, awkward moments, but to Emily there was nothing but noise as she tried to make sense of her jumbled thoughts. She pulled the piece of paper from her pocket and handed it to Abrahms without a word. Abrahms carefully unfolded it and scanned his eyes over the list.

  “You’re right, Reverend. Something’s wrong in Caldmar. I’ve been forgetting things and my mother is sick and now Sarah is dead and I don’t know why any of it is happening.”

  The words tumbled out of her mouth with no control. “What you’re saying about my mother scares me.”

  “I’m sorry,” Abrahms said softly. He stood up and came around to her side of the table. “I know that none of this makes sense.”

  “And what does this have to do with Hugo?”

  “Everything.”

  The chill in the room had become more pronounced. The tip of Emily’s nose was frozen and her ears had begun to ache beneath the curls of her hair.

  “You haven’t been wearing the crucifix that Hugo gave you,” Abrahms observed, but thankfully his tone was not accusatory.

  “I put it in my memory box at home,” Emily replied, voice shaking.

  “Then when you go back there, you must take it out and put it around your neck.” Abrahms was speaking gently to her in a way that she found paternal, but authoritative. Emily’s hands went instinctively to her unadorned throat.

  “Why?” she whispered.

  Abrahms regarded for a moment, as if he was deliberating with himself. “For your protection.”

  Emily couldn’t help but let a gasp of a desperate laugh escape her lips. “Protect me from what, Reverend?”

  Abrahms’ eyes were grave, and for the first time Emily noticed their colour. They were a steely blue-grey, like the ocean.

  “I think you know,” he said.

  Emily shook her head. “No, Reverend, I’m afraid I don’t.”

  But she did. She just wanted to hear him say it first, to convince herself that she wasn’t mad, or that he at least shared into her madness.

  “A vampire,” Abrahms said.

  It felt like a hole had been punched in her stomach. Emily laid her hands flat on the table to support herself when her legs suddenly threatened to buckle beneath her.

  “Reverend,” she said thickly. “You know I can’t believe that.”

  “But I think you do, Emily,” Abrahms responded calmly. “Why shouldn’t you?”

  “Because… because it’s ridiculous! Vampires… there’s no such thing!”

  “I understand your cynicism,” Abrahms sat down in the chair beside her, shoulders slumping a little. “It is how we make sense of the world when we can’t understand something.”

  “It’s not cynicism. It’s a fact,” Emily muttered petulantly, though not with as much conviction as she would have liked. She pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger and squeezed her eyes shut, holding back a groan of frustration.

  “Not everything in this world can be so simply explained away as fact or fiction.”

  Emily opened her eyes and turned to the reverend, eyes wide. “Like God, Reverend?”

  She hadn’t meant to say it, and to his credit Abrahms showed no sign of offence. His face remained placid, though he looked a little more worn and tired than he had before.

  “I admit, Emily, that my faith has not always been strong. All I do know is that we won’t know the truth until we’ve passed on. The idea of God gives me hope and eases my fear of death. Not much, but enough for me to accept the things I cannot change. Sometimes, something happens that we can’t explain; our history is littered with mysteries that we can’t figure out despite our best endeavours.”

  “But Reverend,” Emily said gently, “Vampires? You must realise how that sounds.”

  “Yes, I realise it,” Abrahms replied. “I am speaking to you because I believe that for all your protestations, you know deep inside of yourself that there might be some truth to it.”

  Emily shook her head furiously, cheeks hot with agitation. She didn’t feel right at all; everything about this seemed wrong. Abrahms sighed, a small concession of his defeat. When Emily looked at him, his face was grim.

  “I didn’t want to do this, but there’s something that you should see,” Abrahms said, standing up. “Wait here.”

  He disappeared, leaving Emily to sit and concentrate of steadying her breathing. Her eyes drifted to the door and for a moment she considered leaving, but she didn’t. Instead, she remained in her seat and listened to the sound of each breath as it entered and exited her body. When Abrahms returned a few minutes later, he was holding a large, dark wooden box in both hands.

  “I keep this in the chapel,” he said as he set it down in front of her. “It feels… safer.”

  He sat back down, watching Emily carefully as she reached out and stroked the edges of the box. The wood felt cool and smooth and it shone in the light. She knew that he wanted her to open it and couldn’t begin to know what to expect. Absurdly, she wondered if it would all turn out to be some horrible, practical j
oke, a Jack in the Box or something else designed for a cheap fright.

  As she lifted the lid, she was instantly struck by an odour that set her heart and stomach lurching. It was that musty, earthy, oppressive smell that she had come to know too well, and it poured from the box like a mist pours over the hills. She almost dropped the lid shut but managed to keep her hands steady, and when she looked upon the contents she felt a sinking sensation in the pit of her gut.

  Inside the box lay what looked like a small, shrivelled piece of meat. It was wrapped in dried up, brittle sprigs of a plant she didn’t recognise. But Emily knew what it was: she was looking at the withered remains of a heart. She looked back at the reverend; his eyes flickered quickly over her face.

  “Do you know what this is?”

  Emily nodded.

  “You’re disgusted.”

  Emily said nothing, but she knew that her face betrayed her. Abrahms nodded once as if he understood, before pulling a small, sharp knife from his pocket. Without a word, he pushed the point of the knife into the tip of his finger and gave it a few flexes until a drop of ruby blood beaded on the surface. Emily went to protest, to stop him before the blade could penetrate his skin, but he lifted his other hand in a way that told her not to push any further.

  “I carved this heart from one of their kind when I was a young man,” Abrahms said in that same calm, unaffected voice, eyes fixed on the blood beading at his finger. “Twenty years ago…or perhaps it was thirty, I forget…”

  Emily watched in mute horror as he moved his finger over the box and allowed a drop of blood to fall. It landed on the meat, spread across its surface before disappearing into it. Not even a mark remained. For a moment, all was quiet.

  Then it happened. The heart gave a single pulse, a sick wet sound echoing off the stone walls of the small room. Emily remained rooted to her seat, though her mind was screaming at her to run away and never look back, to flee all of this. She couldn’t take her eyes off the heart, the shrivelled, dead, somehow still beating heart. How had it moved? How could such a husk of a thing still show signs of life?

  “Shall I do it again?” Abrahms asked, voice taking a strangely mocking tone. “Shall I give it what it craves?”