The Silver Kiss

by Annette Curtis Klause

  “He killed my mother,” Simon was saying. “She was overjoyed to have him again, but he killed his own mother in the filthiest way. And he knew who she was. I have followed him for a long time, and now I have found him. But I failed, Zoë. I tried to kill him, and I failed. What am I to do?”

  Let me go, she wanted to scream.

  His grip softened. His hand moved up her arm. She tried to move back but found herself leaning forward instead. She saw a crackling of summer lightning in his eyes—the heat lightning she had felt the night he walked her home. He needed her. After weeks of not feeling needed by others, it seemed welcome. His lips touched hers, cool, soft, almost chaste. I can’t believe I’m doing this, she thought. He moaned slightly, as if it were his first kiss, long denied, and she gently folded into him while he put his arms around her. Her mouth parted. He nibbled her lip.

  “Ouch!” She pushed him away.

  His eyes were large, dark, and compelling. He blinked, and suddenly she felt like she was waking from a dream. He looked ashamed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I made you kiss me. I wasn’t going to. I wanted you to come to me of your own free will. But the chance was slipping away. I was afraid I was losing any chance with you.”

  “That’s absurd,” she said indignantly. “You didn’t make me kiss you.” Her heart beat fast, and her lip tingled where he had bitten her. “What makes you think you could do that?”

  “I am not like you,” he said. “I am not human anymore, I think.”

  She frowned. She didn’t want to be reminded of his strangeness; she wanted to be held, and to forget it. She had never enjoyed a kiss like that before. She climbed up beside him on the couch, but embarrassed by her desire to be kissed, she found she couldn’t look at him directly. She absently brushed her mouth, and it left a smear of blood on her hand. He leaned to her and gently licked her lip. She felt like she was melting, but he shivered as if he were cold. She pulled back, afraid of her response.

  “I will tell you a story,” he said, with a slight tremble to his voice, “and then you will believe me.”

  10

  Simon

  Simon turned off the radio. No distractions now, he thought, no matter how much I like the music. Motorhead was abruptly silenced. He settled back on the couch next to Zoë and began his tale.

  “I was born in a village outside Bristol—that’s in the west of England. My father owned a fair amount of land, upon which he raised sheep, and he sold cloth locally. But he was ambitious.” Simon saw Zoë sink into the cushions, relaxing into the tale.

  “In those days Parliament ruled. The old king was dead, and the king-to-be still in exile. They were grim times, when the slightest hint of pleasure was condemned as sin. The maypole was cut down, and Christmas was forbidden except as a fast. This made life difficult for my mother, because she had a happy nature, and was fond of dance and song, but was forced to wear dark colors and keep a solemn look on her face in public. Yet in her own home she sang to her children at night, and the neighbors be damned. She had a merry laugh, and all who knew her said it was hard not to join her in a prank.” Simon reached over the arm of the couch and stroked the picture frame gently as he talked. It was all he had left of her.

  “My father’s business was just starting to do well when I was an infant, so he commissioned this portrait to record his good fortune. It was shortly after this portrait was painted that Wulfram von Grab came into our lives.” Simon’s spine stiffened. He saw Zoë look at him curiously, and tried to relax.

  “My father would always say that, whatever else the faults of puritan rule, the Lord Protector had opened up more chance of trade in Europe than any of the Stuart kings. Businessmen with political good sense were offered a golden opportunity to succeed, and my father took more and more trips to the city. On one of those trips he met von Grab. Von Grab said he could help my father take advantage of the thriving market for British broadcloth on the Continent, in return for a percentage, of course. Since he had contacts my father could benefit from, my father brought him home to discuss it further.”

  Simon saw the question on Zoë’s face before she voiced it. How would he know all this? “Of course, I only heard of this when I was older, and in dribs and drabs, but I gathered enough to put the story together.

  “Von Grab was a tall, pale man, with a mane of dark hair—rumored to be a frivolous wig—and darker eyes. He moved gracefully and punctuated his animated conversation with quick gestures of his long, elegant hands. He made himself a pleasant guest and won my mother over quickly with jokes and songs. He was, in turn, quite taken with my brother, Christopher.

  “No matter how charming my parents found von Grab, the servants thought him odd. Whether this was because he was European, or because he was truly eccentric, they couldn’t say, but at a time when people rose at dawn, he slept past noon, and while the family went to bed not much after dusk, they knew that he was awake well into the night. He hardly ate at all, claiming a weak digestion, although he liked a good red wine; and he never attended chapel. But he had plenty of money, and was likely to make my father rich, so his strangeness was overlooked.

  “Von Grab rarely ventured outside, but he did enjoy sitting by the fire after supper, spinning a tale or two, and even the few servants would creep into the shadowed drawing-room to hear his fanciful stories.

  “They say Christopher was spellbound. He would sit at the visitor’s feet, or on his knee, and beg for one more tale. While Mother looked on amused, von Grab would laugh and tousle Christopher’s light brown hair—the hair that is now white—and call him his sweet angel, his little Fledermaus. Christopher spent as much time as possible with him. My mother judged von Grab to be an affectionate man and chided him gently for not having a wife.”

  Zoë shifted restlessly, and Simon motioned for her to be still. “I’m getting to the point.

  “One night my father’s manservant was slipping secretly through the hall to visit the scullery maid, when he heard soft voices on the upstairs landing. Creeping partway up the stairs, he saw von Grab at his door, talking to Christopher, who stood there in his nightshirt, looking small and hollow-eyed in the candlelight. The servant assumed the boy had had a nightmare and gone for reassurance to his friend, so he withdrew. He was not eager for anyone to know he was up and about at this hour.

  “Perhaps von Grab knew he had been seen and thought the seeds of suspicion had been sown, or perhaps he couldn’t wait any longer. I can only imagine. But the next night he left after all were sleeping, taking only a few belongings on his black mare, and nobody knew until the morning after, when the whole household was searching for Christopher.

  “That morning the child’s bed had been discovered empty by the housemaid, and he couldn’t be found anywhere. Finally, when my mother was thoroughly panicked and the house was in an uproar, my father’s manservant had to put aside his embarrassment and tell what he had seen. My father knocked on von Grab’s door, but no one responded, and the door opened easily onto an empty room. The bed had not been slept in. Wulfram von Grab had gone, and Christopher with him.”

  Zoë leaned toward Simon. Her expression was serious and intent. He had her within his tale now.

  “My father wrote letters frantically to the men von Grab had always mentioned as his associates, and sent them off by servant to the nearest posthouse. Messengers were dispatched to the ports. Then he left for Bristol, to visit the inn where he had met von Grab. But no one had seen the foreigner, and a search of Bristol proved useless. My father had to come back, lackluster, to his business, and trust in God and his letters.

  “One by one his messengers returned with nothing to report, and when the replies to his letters came back, they plunged him into despair. None of those men even knew who von Grab was. ‘How can this be?’ my father asked all around him. He was too godly and innocent to see harm in a man’s attentions to a young boy. He could never have conceived of what came later.

  “With nothing more to do, gradually the h
ousehold fell back into its normal routine. But really, it would never be the same. My father announced that we should put the tragedy behind us, and flung himself mindlessly into his work. His business flourished, and even one of von Grab’s supposed contacts offered to sponsor my father’s ventures on the Continent, when he heard the painful tale. My father grew richer, but always, anyone who traveled for him had strict orders—to look for Christopher.

  “My mother never ceased mourning. Her smiles were fewer, and she became nervous, jumping if even a branch scraped a window.” Simon tried hard to visualize the mother who had loved him so long ago, but he couldn’t see her face anymore, except by looking at the picture, although he remembered her softness and warmth. He sighed. “And she loved me with a desperate fierceness that even a small child found binding at times. She had not protected her firstborn, so she seldom let me out of her sight. Perhaps God was punishing her; she didn’t know. When the villagers whispered it must be our family’s sin that had led to this tragedy, she stopped going to chapel on Sundays. She would punish God.

  “Then, when I was four years old, she started seeing Christopher—peering in the window at night, hiding in the shadows of a darkened room, or standing outside in the moonlight. ‘There he is,’ she’d cry. At first my father would jump to look, or a servant would rush outdoors, but there was never anyone there. Soon they just shook their heads. My father would stroke her hair sadly and try to comfort her, but she would get more and more hysterical as people refused to believe her.

  “One of my few, and most vivid, memories of my mother is of her sitting me in my father’s wooden chair one night. ‘Be a good boy,’ I can still hear her say. ‘Stay right there. I will not be long.’ She was smiling, I think. I remember because it was so unusual. She opened a window and called to someone outside; then she left the room, left me in the cold night breeze coming through the casement. I never saw her again.” Simon realized he was holding himself against that remembered cold. But that cold is always with me now, he thought.

  “They found her later, in the garden, with her throat slashed.”

  Zoë drew in her breath sharply and held her hand to her own throat. The movement caught Simon’s eye. He reached over and lowered her hand. Her eyes were large, and he found compassion there. How strange, and wonderful, and sad to tell this story to someone after so long a time, and have her care, he thought. He wanted to touch her face, but he kept his hands to himself. He wouldn’t distract from his tale.

  “I was cuddled and cosseted by all, and didn’t understand the tears, but I had enough of my own for many nights after, when my mother never answered my calls. She was a sweet and gentle woman with a happy spirit; she’d never deserved her lot in life.

  “Soon after that my father moved our household to the city of Bristol. He couldn’t bear to live in that house any longer. He made a good profit from the land he sold and added several imports to his business. I was under the care of servants mostly—we had more now—and I hardly ever saw my father. I remember being angry at him for not making my mama stay, but maybe I was more frightened that he himself wouldn’t come back. Who’s to say? But we were never close after that time.

  “We didn’t stay in Bristol for long. In my eighth year, the same year Cromwell died, my father decided it would be better for his business if we moved to London. We were settling into our new house on Eweskin Lane at the same time that the new king was settling back into Whitehall.

  “As I grew up, wrestling with the classics under the rule of a strict tutor, London was changing drastically from the city it had been under the Commonwealth. A springtime came to the city, and the people shed their blacks and whites and bloomed with bright colors. When plague and the Great Fire left us unscathed, my father decided that perhaps now God would allow us some measure of peace.

  “But as I became a young man, I wasn’t much to my father’s liking. The clothes he wore were still understated grays and browns, although of the finest cloth. I, however, fell in tune with the times and spent my ample allowance on the bright silks and laces that were again the fashion. I was always ready to buy a garter to set off my shapely calf.” Zoë smiled. “But I ignored my father’s pleas to continue my studies, or even to join him in the business. ‘You have made the money,’ I would say, ‘what need you of me?’

  “I took to parading at Covent Garden and the Royal Exchange with the gallants and fops, and hoped to become friends with some titled gentleman. I expect they called me an upstart tradesman’s son behind my back, but I was witty and had the money to buy them drink, so I was hailed heartily whenever I showed up.

  “There was a tavern where my friends liked to while away the evening. It was called the Boar and Charter, but for a joke we called it the Whore and Garter, because there were willing young ladies there who would share our supper, and more. I would dawdle there long past decent hours and would come home late, often the worse for drink. This upset my father, and we had many fights over it, which only encouraged me to stay away more. But he never had the heart to take away my funds, although he threatened to disinherit me more than once. I was spoiled and didn’t know it. It seemed to me that he always had more time for his business than for me. I suppose it was his way of blocking out his pain, but I thought he didn’t love me. If my mother had been alive, it would have been different.

  “In those days there were few lamps lit on the street, and it wasn’t safe to walk alone at night; but for a few pennies you could hire a linkboy to light you home. Some of them loitered outside the tavern, waiting for customers. I often used them. There was one, though, a pale waif, younger than the rest and new to the trade, who had a habit of staring at me. I had no idea why, but it made me shudder, and I avoided him.”

  Simon stopped for a moment, wrinkling his brow. He wanted to remember everything. It had happened so long ago, sometimes it seemed more like a dream. Zoë sipped her drink that had sat untouched for a while. “Go on,” she said. He picked up a small ashtray from the table and shifted it from hand to hand as he searched for the words.

  “One night, when I left the tavern, drunk as usual, there was a scuffle at the corner. Two linkboys were fighting. The larger one yelped and ran off, and the small, pale boy approached me with a lamp. ‘Want a light, yer lordship?’ I laughed at his nerve, too drunk to be particular, and waved him on in front of me, mumbling my destination. I stumbled along after him and had to stop more than once to piss against a wall. Once I fell heavily into a post at the street edge and swore like a Wapping waterman, a skill I was proud of.

  “There was a fog rolling in, but I was too numb to feel the chill. ‘You’re awful young for this game, nipper,’ I called. ‘I’m older than I look, yer lordship,’ he said. Soon the fog was so thick that the boy’s lamp barely fought back the darkness. A sudden squall of rain spattered me, and I must have groaned, for the boy turned to look at me. ‘Feelin’ all right, sir?’ he asked, and suddenly I wasn’t.”

  Simon smacked the ashtray down on the tabletop. Zoë flinched and moved the ashtray away from him. “Sorry,” he muttered. “But I know it wasn’t just the drink that made me sick. He was doing something to me. My stomach felt queer and my head hot. The boy’s eyes were swirling orbs that seemed to bulge hugely while his body receded. I tore my gaze from him and looked about me. I wasn’t sure where we were.

  “ ‘You’re ill, sir,’ he said, taking my hand in his cold little fist. ‘There’s a gentleman I know lives near here. He’ll take ‘ee in.’ He began to lead me, and I followed, wishing more than anything to lie down.

  “ ‘Where are we?’ I asked, but then we were at a door, and the waif was knocking. He stared at me intently while we waited for an answer, and I began to sway. I remember vaguely the door opening, the boy whispering to a nightcapped maid, then burly arms around me. Someone must have put me to bed, for all I remember then is the nightmare.

  “I was spinning. There was something buzzing around my head—a giant fly. I kept on hitting at it, but
it wouldn’t go away. It kept on brushing at my face with black whiskers, biting at me, and it smelled like carrion.

  “I woke several times to find myself in a bedchamber, with a terrible itching about my neck and shoulders, but I felt so weak, I could never keep my eyes open. One time there was a man beside my bed. He was dark and handsome, like our king, with a black mustache and a long curling wig, yet he had the palest face. I was a little more aware this time and tried to talk, but all that came out was a croak.

  “ ‘Calm, calm,’ he said in a voice strangely soothing, despite its guttural tone. He stroked my head with long fingers. ‘You have a fever.’ He made a motion, and the linkboy came into my line of vision. ‘My imp here will feed you broth for your strength.’

  “I was confused. Was the child a street boy, or this man’s servant? But my eagerness for the broth wiped away my questions, and I slobbered like an infant. The soup loosened my throat. ‘My father?’ I was finally able to ask.

  “ ‘We have sent a message,’ the man said. ‘You gave the boy your address, remember? He will come when he can.’ I didn’t remember, but neither did I think my father would rush to be by my side. They must have seen the look of derision on my face. ‘A man’s business can’t always wait,’ the man said, and left the room as if taking his own advice.

  “I noticed blood on the sheet. ‘You were scratching yourself in your delirium,’ the boy said, following my eyes. ‘I almost bound your hands.’

  “I would have asked for my clothes, but I was suddenly overcome with drowsiness again, and fell into another fitful sleep.

  “I don’t know how long I was there, but it must have been days. The dreams plagued me, but the boy was always there when I woke. One time I saw the man come in and curse, as if taken by surprise. He cuffed the boy and sent broth splattering across the room. Before I lost consciousness, I heard him say, ‘No more soup.’ But I took that for a dream also, because the boy came often to feed me, and when he did I felt stronger.” Simon took Zoë’s hands, and held them as if belief were something he could send her through his fingertips.