‘You’ve the strongest will I’ve ever known.’
‘And for that reason I cannot join you. You will ask me to be like you, I will refuse and you will resent it. Then you will leave me.’
Back at the house, as she packed bread and fish into a small roll, he watched her work. ‘I don’t need these things. The tribute I give sustains me; I eat food out of habit.’
She didn’t look up. ‘People expect you to eat. Vampyres are known as evil and people will fear you should they learn the truth. Take this food and keep up the ruse as long as you can.’
When she handed over the bundle her fingers brushed against his. They were warm and soft, trembling.
I want to do more for you. I want to give you even a fraction of the kindness you’ve shown me. How can I thank you for showing me the truth?’
‘That is a simple thing.’ Her smile brought out tiny dimples in her cheeks. ‘Take my kindness and show it to others. Spread it. That is thanks enough.’ She gave him a gentle push towards the door.
Before passing through Saar whirled round and kissed her lips. They were soft and slightly salty, with a hint of fish. He left before she could speak again.
#
Within a week Saar left the old kingdom of the Netherlands behind him. He travelled south into France with a small band of travelling entertainers and sold himself as a strong man, lifting everything they could find from old cannons, to carts, to horses, all amid cries of delight from the watching crowds.
After each show, he would return to his tent and sit outside it, gazing at the stars. So different to the formations of his youth, and yet so familiar. He picked out oddly formed shapes and patterns while dreaming of what once was, imagining happier times with his mother and later with Kiya. Occasionally his mind slipped to Mosi, but he pushed those thoughts away, unwilling to dwell on the man he loved so dearly.
He resigned himself to a life of wandering, drifting from village to town with no clear direction. Part of him revelled in the peace. For the first time in 2,000 years he had no calls upon his time, no wars to plan or people to kill.
Peace, at last.
One night, after a heavily attended show on the outskirts of Paris, he left the small blue tent and walked a short way across the field they had procured. The wet grass rustled beneath his feet, begging for sun that seemed unlikely to arrive for many months. November had faded into December and goosebumps prickled his arms and chest as he stopped, watching the mist of his breath float on the air.
Such freedom. Such openness. Such acceptance.
He counted the stars as he often did and smiled at one of nature’s most beautiful displays.
The sense of a presence at his shoulder came gradually, such that he couldn’t tell exactly when it began. He turned, skimming the land to the left and right, then the rear. But for the soft hooting of a hunting owl and the rustle of tiny field mice, he was alone. And yet he felt it. A pulling sensation. A prodding. A nudge.
Understanding dawned just as the name did and Saar stiffened when he recognised Kallisto in his mind. Far away. Hundreds, if not thousands of miles, but there. He froze, head cocked, listening as though he might hear her with his ears. Of course he didn’t, but her presence touched on him just as ever it had.
A moment later he felt Yameen and Cerdic, separate but clear.
Warmth filled Saar’s chest and he ran his fingers through his closely cropped hair. Lively, nervous energy flooded his limbs and he paced back and forth across the grass as, one by one, his children returned to him.
Saar tilted back his head and bellowed at the stars, a single joyous note of pleasure and wonder.
Then, still grinning, still beside himself and skipping with glee, he rushed back to his tent to gather his meagre belongings. There was someone he needed to see.
#
Three months later, Saar stopped on the banks of a familiar river two miles outside Waterloo, drinking in the scent of fish, pine and recently turned earth.
At the small, run down hut that made Celeste’s home, he found a pair of drunken men stinking of wine and piss. He woke one with a foot to the stomach. ‘What happened to the woman who lived here?’
The flea-infested man frowned. He continued to frown as Saar switched from Dutch, to French, to Flemish, then back again.
His companion woke with a belch. ‘Not here,’ he said in broken French. ‘Left months ago. Brussels.’
Saar vented his frustrations by biting them both, sharing his rage between them until their hearts beat slow and sluggish in their chests. He listened to their breathing and stepped back, licking his lips, wiping his mouth.
The first of the pair grunted and slid sideways on to a pile of old smelly clothing. The second moaned, whispered something about cheese and began to snore.
He left them behind and started north east.
Brussels, when he reached it, seemed unaffected by the war such a short time before. The press of the crowd matched that of any other European city and the goods for sale in shop windows were as fine as ever he had seen them. Tall houses with pale bricks and clear glass stretched up towards the sky, such a difference to the buildings of his youth. While height and comfort once signified wealth and importance, now every building had glass windows, fine fitted doors and roofs. Outer faces were decorated with pillars, carvings, whorls and statues while the interiors boasted panelled walls, chandeliers bristling with candles and soft carpets.
Such opulence required that he dress the part, but even that was easy.
It took no effort at all to convince a man of suitable build to give up his clothing, shoes and money. He left the man in a gap between a tailors and a jewellery store, wearing his own rough trousers, a plain cotton shirt, and a small bite mark on his neck beneath his left ear.
Though Saar’s lips tingled with the taste of fresh blood and his limbs became infused with his latest offering to Set, the human man walked away in a daze, stopping frequently to talk to trees.
Saar made a point to remember his new aversion to killing.
He spent hours walking in and out of shops. Days walking the streets, the public paths and parks. He even stole a horse and trotted through the crowds searching for a head of dark curly hair. Since being touched by Set, Saar had never needed to search for someone he couldn’t locate by the touch of his mind. This mundane way of searching left him gnashing his teeth at night.
Two weeks after entering Brussels he sat on the steps of a small church devoted to the Catholic god. With the shadow of the imposing building falling upon him, he felt weary, foolish and resentful. Until he heard laughter. Soft, sweet, girlish laughter that rang like bells in his ears.
He ran up the steps to the church, leaving his horse behind. Straight into the cool interior, he followed the melodious sound.
At the front of the church, before a small crowd of people, stood Celeste.
She wore a simple dress of green and a band of gold and pearl about her forehead. In her arms, squalling and flailing, lay a tiny baby, dressed in white.
The priest presiding raised his hands and addressed the crowd. ‘May the Lord bless this child in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy spirit and grant Nathaniel and Celeste the strength they need to guide this child on the path of light and goodness.’
Saar looked to Celeste’s right and saw the man beside her. He was fat, like a barrel, with wild dark hair and a beard to match. A faint dusting of white across his hair and shoulders told the story of his profession, an epilogue to the scent of yeast and bread filling the air around him.
Celeste stared at him as though he were the only man left in the world. Her smile lit the church and her laughter rang off the walls high and clear. When the stranger looked down at her, the expression was reflected ten-fold.
She was still laughing when Saar trudged down the steps and mounted his horse.
He left without looking back.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Cambridge, 13 April 1976
Saar looked u
p, startled to hear laughter so close to the Mob Quad. Tucking his finger between the pages of his textbook, he left his seat in the shade of the old library and followed it.
To his left and right, students rushed for lectures or loitered on the grass to discuss assignments. The drab collage of browns, greys and blacks formed a forest through which he peered, searching for the voice that didn’t belong.
Again. Laughter, from the right this time, near the entrance to the archives.
First, a splash of red, bright and vibrant against the uniform drabness of his fellow students. Then soft pink and dazzling white alongside a shadow of black. It all belonged to a woman, tall, willowy and dark skinned. She stood with a pile of books clutched against her chest, one leg twisting coquettishly on its toe. Further inspection revealed that much of her height belonged to the shiny white boots she wore. The rest came from her afro which formed a thick, almost perfectly round halo about her head, tied off with a fluttering red scarf.
A white-haired, stoop-backed old man with leather patches on his elbows gave her a sharp look. His voice scratched like a needle on seven inch vinyl. ‘You’ll not be distracted? I know it’s hard—’
‘Being the only woman on the course?’ She cocked an eyebrow. ‘Don’t worry about me. I’m here to learn and that’s what I plan to do.’ She walked away, taking her laughter and her confidence with her.
Saar watched, transfixed, as she crossed the Quad, left the grounds and struck off into the city.
Cambridge’s bustle had always fascinated Saar, as had its beauty and history. He spent plenty of time roaming the streets, looking at the old buildings and mulling on how little had changed. Their ground breaking architecture, beauty and grandeur never changed, even as the people morphed almost before his eyes. But he saw none of it as he followed the woman through the crowds. Instead, he watched her back and the gentle bob of her hair, certain, in a distant way, that he knew her.
She marched without pause, turning right at the entrance to Merlon’s College and losing herself in the crowd.
Dropping his books, Saar hurried to keep her in sight, reaching out through the press of bodies to touch her mind as he went. His attempts failed, every one of them, sliding off the sides of her natural defences the same way water slides down an umbrella.
It cannot be . . .
Again and again he tried until dizziness slowed his steps.
She barely paused, crossing one road at a set of traffic lights, rushing around a corner, then darting across another. Her stride was long and purposeful, gaze focused as she weaved her slender body through the press of cars. The curious looks shot in her direction passed unnoticed. She certainly hadn’t noticed him, dogging her steps like a shadow.
Two cars jerked to a stop as he sped into the road, horns blaring while he crossed the tarmac. Saar raised a hand to them, ignoring their indignant cries. The stench of slightly singed tyres stung his nose as he crossed the next road, this time using the zebra crossing.
The woman’s destination proved to be a tea shop, wedged between a butchers and a bookshop.
As she entered, a bell clanged, calling the attention of a bearded, fair haired man sat behind the counter. He grinned as she entered and pointed to something on the menu.
Saar glimpsed the woman nod before the angle of the building cut her off from view.
He stopped opposite, watching from the side of the road. His chest ached. For a moment he feared it might be the old wound troubling him again but he’d fought no wars or even small skirmishes for almost one hundred years.
The woman took a seat in the window, dumping her books on the table and tapping one finger to the side of her mouth as she considered some interesting piece of information. He took the time to study her face, to take in the shape of her jaw, her mouth, her eyes.
It is. It is her.
The similarity was subtle but undeniably present.
Before he could change his mind, Saar darted across the road and entered the tea house.
He made his order at the counter and carried the tea to a seat just shy of the window, trying to decide how best to approach. As he neared, he sighed, unable to think of anything more sophisticated that the most basic of ruses.
Two thousand years and I’m reduced to foolish tricks.
Saar faked a trip, flicking his mug through the air with measured force. A quick pulse of Tzuza guided its landing. It hit the floor and smashed, sending ceramic chunks and tea in all directions. Most soaked the floor and a nearby threadbare sofa, but a few drops splashed up the sides of a pair of white, knee-high boots.
The woman started and leapt to her feet, already offering apologies. ‘Was it my bag? I’m so sorry, are you okay? Did you fall? Are you hurt?’
Saar shook his head, shaking tea off his fingers. ‘No, no. I’m fine.’ He spoke softly, measuring his tone and accent to match that of the personality he had decided to adopt on this particular stay in England. His words dipped and peaked with a faint island twang he copied from the poor unfortunates who once cut sugar cane on a tiny island north of Venezuela. Such a pretty place, but his time in Barbados had been uncomfortable to say the least.
The woman looked sharply at his face, then relaxed. ‘I’m so sorry. My bag—I shouldn’t have left it in the aisle.’
‘No harm done. I’m clumsy—I should have seen it.’ He looked her over again, paying particular attention to her eyes.
‘Would you like another?’ She touched his wrist. ‘I’ll buy it.’
In that moment he knew for sure.
The last time Saar saw this woman, she had been nine years old. She clung to her mother’s hand in the front pew of a congregation gathered to say their final farewells to Marcie Margaret Bennett. Saar sat at the back of the church, away from the family and friends, unwilling to count himself among them. He couldn’t, for he had never spoken to Marcie, merely watched from afar, as he had done with her mother and her mother before her, back through the years to Celeste Emile de Boer from a small village near Brussels.
This woman resembled Celeste more closely than any of her other descendants. The same slender build, the same mouth and nose. And those eyes. . .
Kiya’s eyes.
Saar made one last attempt to touch her mind. Without ever knowing why or how, she clamped down and shut him out.
He smiled. ‘Shouldn’t it be the other way around, I buy you the drink?’
‘I’m more than capable of buying my own.’ Her eyes narrowed briefly, voice taking on a hard, no-nonsense edge. ‘But my bags made you spill yours, so I’ll buy another. It’s the least I can do.’
Her sharp response widened his smile, but he hid it for fear she might think he mocked her. ‘Fine. Thank you.’ He watched her approach the counter and pay for a second mug.
On the way back, she moved slowly, winding her way through the closely packed tables while watching her feet. ‘Sugar?’ She passed it over. ‘Milk? I didn’t want to add it without asking.’
‘As is. Much better this way, wouldn’t you say?’ A glance at her mug gave him the answer.
She cleared her throat and smoothed the scarf hanging from her hair. Her confidence wavered when she caught him staring. ‘Well there you go. And, again, sorry. I’ll keep my things out the way in future.’ She sat and swivelled her chair as if to put her back to him.
‘Do you mind if I join you?’ The words were out before he could stop them, tumbling from his mouth like tins from a split shopping bag. ‘It would be nice to talk to a fellow scholar.’ He waited, hardly daring to breathe.
Foolishness. Why am I doing this? This is not what I do with this family.
Though Saar watched Celeste’s children, he never spoke to them. He never drank coffee with them. Saar preferred to watch from afar, protecting them as a means to thank Celeste for her influence in his life. He gave guidance when they needed it, money when funds were low, even a home when one of the women, a fiery specimen by the name of Elizabeth, had been turned out of her house b
y an abusive spouse. Each time he intervened he did so indirectly, using a stranger or relative. Someone he could easily manipulate.
Until now.
The woman lowered her head. ‘I’d wonder if you were stalking me but I suppose I do stand out.’ She touched her short red skirt.
‘You’re one of the first women I’ve seen at the college. I wondered if you were visiting another student but from your books,’ he pointed to the table, ‘you must be studying.’
‘Psychology.’ She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. Whatever she saw there loosened her shoulders and she smiled, flashing straight white teeth. ‘Not a proper degree like you might get, but it’s a start.’ She gave the other chair a kick to send it skidding towards his feet. ‘Help yourself.’
Saar sat down, put the mug on the table. ‘Thank you. Will you tell me your name?’
‘Grace Riley. Nice to meet you.’
Saar held out his hand and gave the name written on all of his university paperwork. ‘Nice to meet you. I’m Raymond Miller.’
AFTER SAAR
Chapter Twenty-Six
The Saar in Lenina’s head screeched and pulled free with a sound she heard not with her ears but between them. Like Jason’s death, the hole he left behind was raw and bloodied, throbbing like an open wound.
She cried out, clutching her head, pulling her hair, squeezing her eyes tightly shut. Spots of blue and purple danced across the insides of her eyelids and when she opened them again, the spots remained as fuzzy after glows in her vision.
Ray stood exactly where he had a moment ago, though he looked different now. Some of the wrinkles in his forehead and around his eyes had plumped up and smoothed out. His bald head looked stronger, smoother, and a hard light flashed in his dark eyes. Shoulders lifting, spine straightening, he blew a long breath through pursed lips.
‘Lenina?’
And with that, she knew.
In all her visions and dreams, Lenina saw the world through Saar’s eyes, but now she knew the detail. Borrowed memories gave her Saar’s ancient reflection in a pool of water or the shiny surface of a polished blade. A reflection with hard eyes, dark skin and a head of dark, shaggy hair.
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