Rising to darkness

by Lucia Guglielminetti

  LUCIA GUGLIELMINETTI

  RVH

  RISING TO DARKNESS

  BOOK I

  Copyright – 2015 Lucia Guglielminetti

  All rights reserved

  To Enrico, sweet little warrior, always in my mind

  PROLOGUE

  Paris, April 20

  My name is Raistan Van Hoeck.

  I am a vampire.

  Maybe some of you have already heard about me given that the account of the night that almost cost me my life appeared as a fantasy tale in an anthology. Just one theme: the supernatural.

  You should know then that three months ago a kind human family and my Clan's unexpected intervention saved me from the attack of my eternal adversaries, the werewolves.

  I really mean it when I say that this event had cast doubt on my whole existence and its meaning. During the days that I faced a slow and painful convalescence, I tried to reconstruct in my memory these past three hundred and ten years of my life, but often with disappointing results. While I was with the humans, I realized how rarely I had allowed myself to think about these past three centuries, be it the time before my turning or after. I found that decades of my life had almost disappeared from my memory along with the emotions that came with them. I could no longer remember my parents’ faces, nor that of my brother's; I couldn't even tell whether I had a brother or not; all that had involved my human life, together with my first two hundred years as a vampire, had been swallowed by a black hole of apocalyptic dimensions.

  I decided that I could not accept this plight, this one-dimensional life I was living. So, in the long weeks when I could only just drain blood bags and writhe in pain, I commanded my memory to get deeper and deeper inside myself to find what I had lost, flushing out flashes of actual cruelty and total madness. I then forced myself to analyze the feelings that these events had caused me - remorse for the most part is not in my vocabulary and this should give you an idea of my state of being – but then I was also reminded of good things, those sentiments from the Andrews’ that I wasn’t able to recall. I have loved and I have been loved, and this knowledge alone gives the meaning to my whole existence. But which one will carry me through? Judge for yourselves if you dare have the will and the patience to follow me though this long journey that I am about to take.

  Sit down, the sun has set. Here is a vampire eager to tell his story.

  Part I

  Human

  1677-1705

  1

  The Netherlands, end of 1600

  If my memory serves me, my life as a human began in 1677 in a village just a few miles from Amsterdam. I remember a beautiful house and decent furniture in a time when having furniture was a luxury. My house overlooked the village with its small houses and, from the window of my room, I could see, on clear days, the roofs of Amsterdam and the lake.

  I do not remember my father’s job, but I do remember his appearance. Hans Van Hoeck had an imposing stature that intimidated me tremendously when I was a child. I was not a strong child: I took after my mother, with her light blond hair, blue eyes and delicate body. I was small and pale too, almost feminine. I think my father felt uncomfortable within my presence, as if he had feared that, caressing me, he could send me into a thousand pieces like a porcelain doll. His displays of affection were limited to a few pats on my head, given absently and more rarely than I had desired.

  I had a brother, at least ten years older than me, I think, named Lars; I don’t remember much about him because he was often traveling with my father. I envied him for the time they had spent together. When he was home, he devoted to me the same time and attention you would give a pet. He, too, was tall and strong with flaming red hair and the same green eyes of my father’s; the two of them were like two peas in a pod, comrades, and I couldn’t stand the adoration in my father’s eyes when he looked at him because, in comparison, he only threw frowning glances at me. They didn’t treat me badly; I was just invisible for most part.

  If my father had spent a bit more of his time with me, he would have noticed that I had compensated my frail constitution with extraordinary speed and agility. We had a giant oak in the garden and my favorite game was climbing it and reaching its top. I knew every branch, every grain on its bark, and every tiny crevice where to put a foot or a hand in order to climb up, up, higher and higher. At the top, I often sat among the branches to covetously peer, invisible to all, at the lives beyond the wall.

  At that time, rich children were educated at home with private tutors; we did the same, so the chances to go out and play with my peers were nil. I was a very lonely child and I felt it too. I envied the peasant children who ran all day in the fields. I would have given anything I had to be in their shoes. One day, I decided to cross the wall and look for someone to play with. Using the lower branches of the oak tree, I crawled until I found myself suspended just a few feet above the path bordering our property and let myself go. I landed like a cat on the street, looking anxiously over my shoulder, as I feared that someone from the house had seen me. Before me were fields and then some houses a few miles further away.

  I remember that I looked around for a while, intimidated by all the space that surrounded me: my vista had always been restricted. I had a father and a brother who traveled around the world, while I had only gone out just in a carriage for explicit reasons such as visiting our relatives in Amsterdam during the holidays.

  I walked in the fields with bold steps, looking for someone to make friends. Nowadays children, rich or poor, dress more or less in the same way, but not back then. My clothes were much better than the rags the farmers’ children wore but I envied them. I’d soon learn though that I would be the object of envy as well, and this was often dangerous. In the distance, I saw some kids gathered by a tree and my heart started to pound intensely. I sped up and joined them, putting on my best smile. I was about nine, I guess, while the kids in front of me looked a little bit older. Their eyes were old, and they stood there staring at me as if I was the seven-headed dragon.

  "Hello, my name is Raistan, can I play with you?" I asked, my heart beating faster and faster. At first, I did not notice their dirt, the rags they wore, their tangled hair. I did not care as long as they played with me and relieved me from my solitude. No one answered, but a child older than the others, very thin and with eyes of two different colors, came up to me and stretched his lips in a grimace that could almost resemble a smile.

  “Where did you pop up from?”

  I turned and pointed to the white house behind me, realizing how far I had gone.

  "Ahhh, you're a Van Hoeck... What about it, guys, can he play?"

  "Yeah, come on, the more the merrier!" added another boy behind the first and everybody laughed. I was bursting with happiness. If I had dared, I would have jumped for joy right there.

  "Thank you! What are we going to play?" I asked enthusiastically.

  "Fox hunt. Do you all agree?"

  The other kids nodded their heads and their leader looked at me: "Do you know how to play?"

  "No, but I can learn. How do you play it?"

  "It's easy. One is the fox, the others are the hounds. When the hounds catch the fox, they tear him to pieces. And you... are going to be the fox. Am I right, guys?"

  I should have guessed that there was something ominous in their proposal, but I was too happy, too eager to join the group to protest. Besides, I knew I was very fast. It would certainly not be easy to catch me, and I would then gain their admiration.

  "Right!" they yelled.

  "Fine. What did you say you're called?"

  "Raistan!"

  "Well, Raistan. Are you ready?"

  I nodded and took my position, then l whisked away like a bull
et across the fields. I looked back and saw that I had already outran them, so I decided to slow down a bit. The leader was faster than the others, but he was running at a heavy and uncoordinated pace with an expression of anger plastered on his dirty face. I turned around twice to try to bring him closer, but when I read on his face the self-assurance of capturing me, I sprinted forward again, laughing. I remember everything: the warm sun on my face and back, the smell of grass, the chirping of crickets, and the feeling of freedom like never before. Then I fell, and everything changed.

  I tripped over a dip in the ground and I flew forward bruising the palms of my hands and my knees. When I turned, I saw the older boy pounce on me first with a flurry of kicks and punches, and then the entire gang who overwhelmed me joined him.

  "Kill the fox," they shouted. Deaf to my protests and cries, they continued to beat, beat and beat. I felt my lips splitting on my teeth, and then a particularly strong fist detonated a white flash in my sight. For a while, I neither saw nor heard anything.

  My dream had turned into a nightmare and I was in a field with seven or eight boys slaughtering me. Before losing consciousness, I remembered that I had asked myself the reason this was happening, but it would only be after a very long time that I was able to give myself the answer.

  When I woke up, hours had passed for the sun was very low on the horizon. My mother was out of her mind with worry and my father ... I did not dare to imagine what his state was. I cried with anger, pain and disappointment and when I lowered my eyes and realized that, apart from my underwear, my clothes had been stolen, I burst into heavier tears. I hurt all over, felt an annoying ringing in my ears, and was bleeding from my nose and from a cleft lip. The way back home was painful.

  I heard them calling my name when I got to a few yards from the gate of our property; everyone from relatives to the servants were out looking for me. My heart sank a little. When they finally saw me... the apocalypse, in comparison, was only a simple thunderstorm.

  My mother cried and almost fainted. My father swore and became purple; my brother rolled his eyes and went into the house; the servants rushed en masse towards the gate, including Annika, my nurse, 220 pounds and 5 feet tall, who screamed and trundled towards me as she tore the cap from her head in despair. I would have laughed, as I do now, if I had not felt so badly and so humiliated. The gate was opened widely and my father took me in his arms, carrying me home and laying me down on the bed. It was the only good thing about that terrible day. Then, the third degree began. Everyone wanted to know what had happened, where I had been, who had beaten me that way, but I did not want to answer any questions. I actually couldn't: when I thought about it, a huge lump went up in my throat and I didn't want to cry in front of them. My pride had suffered a serious injury when I was forced to come home in just my underwear.

  My mother, usually shy and submissive, took over the reins of the situation and sent them all out of the room, including my father who was still bombarding me with questions. She told him to call the doctor. When we were alone, she wiped away the dried blood and dirt with a wet cloth, helped me put on a clean nightgown, and tucked the covers under my chin. During this entire time, she didn't say a word, nor did she look into my eyes; but her gestures, although sometimes abrupt, reflected her interior effort to try to reassure me without further exterior pressure. I spoke out first; I could cry in her presence without shame.

  "I'm sorry I made you worry, Mother. I just wanted to find a friend to play with."

  She stroked my hair, which was so similar to her own: "Did the children of the village do this to you?"

  I nodded, feeling tears streaming down from my eyes again.

  "You feel alone, don't you, mijn Engel?" She used to call me "my angel", I can remember that now. From her lips, even that harsh word sounded sweet.

  I nodded again and this time I threw myself into her arms, crying all the tears that I had held back in order not to look like a child. Nevertheless, I actually was a child, and I needed her embrace more than anything else. She was always there when the world was collapsing around me, and only now, do I realize my fortune. At that time, children from wealthy families were raised by nannies; contact with their actual mothers were cut to the bone, often because these women, who were forced to marry only for their family’s interests, had no desire to raise these racehorse offspring. I do not know the real reasons why my parents married, but she never behaved coldly towards my brother nor me. I remember her presence, very sweet, though not very talkative. Seven years later, I had to leave, never to see her again, not as a human at least ... But this is another story, which I will tell all in good time.

  The doctor came but certainly was not crucial to my recovery. At that time, physicians were a little more than sorcerers and often aggravated the conditions of their patients with, to say the least, imaginative remedies. My physical wounds healed quickly enough, but the same can’t be said of those of my spirit. My father confined me to my room for two weeks and my mother didn't dare contradict him, but they did me a favor. I swore to myself that I would never come out of my room, not even to eat, considering what the outside world has in store for me. I spent my time with my tutor, a boring little man of English origin who could not help himself from extolling the virtues of his native land, or alone, reading or peeping through the window at the world that had disappointed me so much.

  At night, I often woke up screaming with terror from nightmares in which a pack of red-eyed wolves were chasing me, causing the nurse or my mother to rush by my side. They had to stay with me until I fell back asleep again and often sneaked into my bed to fight the cold of the night, something my father never found out about, as he would have surely disapproved. I did not want him to consider me a pussy more than he already did.

  Then, one day, Zwart arrived and everything changed.

  The two weeks of punishment were now finished, but my lifestyle had not changed much; sometimes I went into the garden and took refuge on my oak, just to think. It was raining that day; I was lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling and pitying myself for my condition; the door opened, creaking, and a little black dog made its enthusiastic way into my life. I jumped up on my bed, startled; for a moment, I was not aware of its small size and feared that one of those terrible wolves from my nightmares had managed to cross the border between reality and fantasy. I soon realized, though, that there was no need to worry: it was just a puppy, some kind of wolf, with thick legs and huge ears, completely black and very, very exuberant.

  My mother glanced from behind the door to see my reaction. I looked at her and then at the dog; I knelt on the floor and called him "Zwart," "black" in my native language (it was the first word that came to mind and Zwart would remain his name forever). The dog rushed towards me, overwhelming me with outbursts of joy and, for the first time in weeks, I smiled. Even my mother smiled. I ran to her and hugged her, and she made me promise that I would always take care of him in every possible way.

  Zwart and I became inseparable.

  We used to play for hours, running throughout the garden, often with fatal consequences for my mother's flowers, and we slept together, him at the foot of the bed, me towards the top. He was a very clever dog and seemed to understand the house rules. When we sat at the table, he would lie by my feet and would not move until we had finished. He did not bark nor soil indoors nor ever break anything. The only person he really could not stand was Mr. Winston, my English tutor. Every day, upon his arrival, I had to lock Zwart in another room in order to avoid unpleasant consequences. Winston was terrified and refused to come inside if he wasn’t sure that the dog, who was growing stronger and looking rather threatening, was locked up somewhere. One day, however, Zwart somehow managed to open the door of the room where he had been confined and poor Mr. Winston found himself struggling with a fifty-pound growling dog on top of his stomach. It was too much for the little man. He proclaimed that he would no longer show up if we did not get rid of our monster. It wasn’t dif
ficult for my parents, who had seen me reanimated with Zwart’s existence, to make a decision: Mr. Winston was fired and was replaced by a lovely lady named Aagath who never had any problems with my very discriminating Zwart. She actually greeted the dog first every time she arrived.

  To her credit, the lessons became more interesting and I was becoming quite happy at the changes that my life was taking. Even my body seemed to have taken advantage of the transformation: I rapidly grew in a very short period of time, which lead me to compete in height with my father and my brother. I increased several inches each year, causing my mother to despair about my clothes. The growth in height, however, did not correspond with strength. At thirteen, I resembled a stork with long legs, which often I had no idea where to place. My father and my brother continued to look at me as if I was an alien but now only taller.

  Nevertheless, it was a good period, maybe the best one of my childhood, thanks mainly to my mother’s sensitivity and to a huge black dog.

  In 1691, my brother Lars died during one of his travels, killed by some bandits who attempted to rob him; it was the end of my childhood and of my quiet family life.

  My father changed, devastated by the worst misfortune that could have ever happened to him. He stopped to take care of his business and himself, never went out, and became evil both towards me and my mother, often under the influence of alcohol he had quaffed to endure the pain that devoured him. I felt his anguish and I wished I could have been able to comfort him; but, he rejected me and he didn’t allow my grieving mother to find neither consolation nor comfort in him. She, too, had lost a son, but he seemed to have forgotten this fact as he insulted or, in the best scenario, ignored her. My memories of that time are mostly made up of the darkness that enveloped the house, for my father could no longer stand the light and of the silence, broken only by his ravings as he wandered from room to room, crying out the name of his lost son.