Descent Into Madness (7 page)

              I quietly rejoiced that he did not question me, that he did not prod me. We had left the city three nights later for Italy.

              He kept secrets now, since leaving Paris; and left for weeks at a time. But even if Aksel was intent on changing, I could always rely on the sky to be an unchanging force in my life. The moon and the stars always remained steady in the sky, the same as they were that night as I sat on the tree branch in Buda waiting for him to awaken. Yet, I did not know what it was I was waiting for. Would he remain with me, travel with me, continue to be my companion; or would we part as friends? Or as two who had been lovers but are no more?

              If he left, would I ever again behold his face? Did I have time to memorize every line, every imperfection? A week without him, I could endure. But eternity… I was not so sure.

              Then a whisper came forth from the mouth of the cave and it startled me from my silent musing. "Bree?" he whispered into the night air. I was apprehensive, hesitating on my branch. "Bree!" he called louder. I slowly glided down from the branch, landing softly in front of him. He stood not two feet in front of me, yet his mind was miles away.

              "Let us talk." He took my hand and guided me toward a rock slab, but I refused to sit with him.

              "What is it, Aksel?" I asked, snatching my hand from his grasp and stepping away from him. I turned to glance out over the brook, not wanting to see his face.

              "I...I am returning to Norway."

              "Without me?"

              "With or without you; I am going home." He slumped forward; his elbows pressed firmly against his knees and his heels digging furiously into the dirt. "I am done with this life: city-to-city, living a farce! I cannot do it anymore."

              "Then you will be going without me."

              "Is there no way I can convince you to come with me?" he asked as he rose from the slab and walked toward me.

              "No." I turned to him. "Is there no way I can convince you to stay?” I struggled to form the words, to shout, “Nothing but danger greets you there. Nothing but death!”

              I wanted to tell him that if he left my heart would break into a million pieces and would never mend, but I knew this was not true. I knew it was in our nature, a natural progression that forever did not exist with our kind.               Mortal marriage has its natural expiration and so did ours. With time, we gravitate away from each other, both having morphed into completely different creatures than which we were when we were human. With Aksel, he had changed completely from when I turned him. He was full of melancholy - prone to fits, and would go off on his own. Just not the man I had known sixty-one years ago. 

              "Bree, if I do not go now, I will only grow to resent you more." His voice pulled me out of the fog of my own thoughts.

              "Then you do resent me?" Facing him, I could see the turmoil in his blood-shot eyes.

              "I resent leaving… not you," he stammered.

              "But it was my decision to leave, Aksel! You followed. Have you held it against me all these years?"

              He tried embracing me, but I pushed him away. He tried to grab my arm, but I jerked back.

              "You do resent me, admit it. At least be a man and admit it!" He turned and began walking away.

              "Do not walk away from me, Aksel!" I shouted, but he continued to walk and then he looked back at me and took to the air in flight. In a panic, I followed him.

              The higher he flew, the higher I flew. The faster he flew, the faster I pushed through the clouds. I followed him until he realized I would not relent in my pursuit; then he landed in a meadow. He had his back to me when we landed, but I quickly seized upon him.

              "I will ask you one more time, Aksel; one more time. Do you resent
me
?"

              He faced me and, for the first time in our sixty-one years together, he looked terrified of me. His eyes searched mine before answering in a whisper, "Yes. Yes, I do."

              My hands reached up and secured his vest in my fisted palms. He remained fixed on my eyes and did not struggle against my strength as I picked him up into the air, flinging him into a nearby tree. He smacked into it, the impact ratting the top branches. Birds flew into the darkness, their wings beating noisily against the wind.              

              "Go," I said to him, as he lay there at the foot of the tree unfazed. "I am done with you." I walked away, not glancing over my shoulder to see if he wept for me.

.

EIGHT

B
uda became my home, my solace, for the next thirty years. Rumors of vampires and werewolf-like creatures were spreading, and I found I could not escape them. It did not matter where I was— these tales, these folklores existed. I learned to conceal myself behind people’s ignorance. From these fictitious legends, I had nothing to fear, for not even one was true. Yet they gave nations a false confidence, while I strolled merrily among them.              

              Through the tradesman, I heard the folklore of many lands. The people of Moravia claimed a vampire could only attack while naked. Bavarian vampires slept with one eye open and thumbs crossed. I wondered how these legends took shape and grew roots.

              Then I heard of the atrocities these people were committing against their own dead in fear that they had become vampires. They defiled newly buried graves, staking corpses or removing the newly deceased’s hands and feet. Other cultures removed the head, or they would remove the heart and burn it to ash, making the supposed victims drink of a concoction containing the ashes to break the "vampire's curse."

              These rumors followed me everywhere, but no one ever suspected that I was a
vampir
. That is what they called my kind in Buda – vampir. I first heard the term from a man during a Gypsy celebration held in the summer season. Hearing it for the first time sent had chills down my neck.

              "It appears that Miklos Tomas was a victim of a vampir," he had whispered to me, as he twirled me around the bonfire. “Stay inside and bolt your door tonight, for a group of us strong men will be slaying the demon at midnight.” His pálinka-laden breath was warm against my cheek. The liquor’s sweet scent – from Hungarian fruit – wafted violently past my nose.

              “Why midnight,” I asked as his grubby hands gripped my waist. Against

              “That’s before the creature rises from its grave. We need to strike between midnight and the witching hour to send it to the nether world, my beauty.” He leaned toward my cheek, desperately pressing his filth covered lips against me as I pulled away.

              Miklos Tomas had not been a victim of a vampir, though. Men from the village and church had exhumed the poor man's corpse as I watched. The corpse displayed the usual signs of decomposition - the long grown fingernails, hair growth, peeling skin, bloated body, the presence of blood at one corner of his mouth. And the men were convinced these natural signs were evidence of a vampiric curse.

              They had burned his remains and scattered the ashes. How could his soul find rest now? It would have taken considerable restraint not to leave a scrap of evidence when I descended on the huddle of soot-covered men. It would have been easy to conceal the fang marks in their fattened necks after I ripped into their jugulars – the smug looks of self-importance wiped clean from their faces. But the marks were there, though, for those with a head intact. Some corpses I left with their heads lying next to the feet, or with a stake jammed snuggly into their lifeless heart.

              In that moment of anger, I had broken my vow not to kill.

              I fled the villages; their nescience showed me the depths that humanity can sink. Instead, I enjoyed my time among the elite of Buda, disguised as a widowed Countess.               My marital status and lack of familial connection in Hungary was often a topic of courtly gossip. There was much speculation as to why I had not remarried- when I would marry and to whom I should be married. Suitors played the game nightly, making my hand – and the supposed purse it contained – a prize to be won.

              I fed off these men, each one. I stole their essence while luring them in with the promise of riches and the ability continue their lineage. How short and insignificant their lives really were. They wanted nothing more than for someone to be theirs, to have something to possess, to devour completely. It was such a shame, a real pity that I could not return their devotion.

              But my heart hardened after Aksel. I was resolved not to fall in love. Nor would I ever again plague those I loved with this curse.

              I spent years fending off suitors, attending balls, and enjoying what I could of a solitary, restful life in Buda. Existence carried on smoothly without Aksel, and I was at peace with myself. I came and went as I wished, kept a modest house, and answered to no one. I was not missing his sulking for a minute.

              A majority of my time while alone, though, was not spent in fancy balls. Elaborate gowns – Italian silks, French ribbons and Persian lace - I laid aside for simple cotton garments, while biding my time in the Royal Library of Buda's Royal Palace. My candle and I submerged in the stacks, lost in the library’s vast literary treasures until the birds began to wake.

              I devoured the codices - of which there must have been over 2000 – and savored the incunabula they kept there, safe and preserved. Histories, plays, literature, I perused them all. I experienced the words - absorbing each syllable in my mind, holding them there as one holds their breath, until my head ached with abundance. My candles would burn out, forcing me to light another. Dawn would threaten to approach, forcing my retreat, only to return the next night and the night after, and the night after that.               Those were the merriest times I spent in Hungary, there in that library, amongst ratty tomes of forgotten lore and newly, blocked volumes. The smell of the ink, the crispness of the paper, the smooth feel of the leather binding between my fingers… it was all very intoxicating.               Change comes with all things in life, seasons, people… relationships. Eventually, it happened with Buda, once more spoiling the city.

              My fondness for the city, and even the country of Hungary, had grown over time. I walked its streets during the age of early absolutism, as the Renaissance King, Mathias Corvinus, ruled. His reign experienced great expansion, both southward and northwesterly. King Corvinus was a ruler of the people, and the common folk adored him immensely.

              His legacy, the Bibliotheca Corviniana, was like none other. The Bibliotheca was an expansive collection of historical chronicles, scientific and philosophic works - Europe's premiere collection. The Vatican's own collection was the only one that could hold a candle to it, but those were mostly religious volumes.

              By then, though, I had seen all the Royal Library had to show me – the Bibliotheca Corviniana included. I was ready to bid adieu to the paprika-laden peoples of Buda in order to create new beginnings – to reinvent myself, as my kind must always do. Always running, and never staying still for long.

              Wanderlust had pierced my disinterested heart with its visions of splendid new places and exotic locales. So one night, after my belongings were packed and my preparations made, I once more ventured into the city, to the blind beggar, whom I had used as a host.

              I slipped into his hand enough coin to buy clothing, an estate, land, and perchance a title,  if the King willed it. My directions were clear. The names of my court contacts, the location of my residence and its deed – now left to him. He fell prostrate thanking me, but I had moved on.

              I bid farewell to the crowd at Heedstead Tavern, and bought a round for the mass of patrons - most of whom I had fed from over the years. I slipped into the Royal Library and walked amongst the volumes in their primitive bindings. Dust collected on my fingertips, a grey veil that had a stagnantly clean odor – an essence of history - that I savored, before rubbing it away with my thumb.

              A single candle glowed in the drawing room when I returned to my estate. A messenger waited for me on his steed near the door and, upon seeing me, quickly disembarked. The letter, which I read once inside, had Aksel's seal.

              The fire licked to life as I entered the drawing room, boxes littering the corners, furniture already dressed for preservation. I tossed the letter on a writing desk, deciding not to open it. Then the envelope’s sleek crispness teased me, curiosity finally winning. Beyond the crimson seal, an aura of white with hastily scrawled writing unfolded before me. He was coming tonight, the third night of the New Year, with urgent news – dire, he claimed.

              I searched a nearby box of dusty miscellaneous items: small trinkets from desk drawers, candlesticks and silver pieces tossed in to ruminate until they reached their new home. Just as I had selected a palm-sized stack of paper, sat down at the desk, quill in hand, I sensed a presence behind me. Then I felt his hand rest on my shoulder. He was standing there as I turned around: as a figure in a gray suit and dust colored coat. His ruggedness, the features that had once defined him, had strangely softened.

              "Who do you have with you, Aksel?" I demanded.

              I could sense her, a young one, lingering near the porch, just within earshot. Her feet gnashed the grass and clacked loudly as she stepped on the cobblestone walkway. Her mind was a cyclonic whirlwind of pointless images that she assaulted me with, thrusting them at me as I pushed them away. She willed those thoughts through the door, through the thick, burnt-sienna wall. The agony she felt was a cumulonimbus, but the pain was self-contained.

              This young one had felt her heart bleed, break in two, and die, and all this before he had turned her. She had seen things, incomprehensible images of torture, of unspeakable horrors; harmed and scarred and now existing eternally to live the nightmare within her mind as if it were a constant record – stuck in a loop. Now it wept, yet her visage was serene.

              "You act surprised," I said as I moved to a linen-covered chair, sitting down without removing the cover. "You must teach her to guard her thoughts; if you expect her to survive around others, that is."

              He asked if she could come in. After I had given my permission, Aksel sat down on the chartreuse sofa, glanced toward the candelabra nearest to him – silver with gilded gold leafing and ornate twisted leaves aspersed on its arms, an item considered antique even then- and lit the candles in its cups. Twelve golden flames fluttered to life across the room as she entered.

              Her face was simplistic, child-like in quality, but she was no child. Her round emerald eyes glimmered against the starkness of the rigid ebony bangs clinging to her forehead. She cowered near the door, afraid to enter further. She was nearly five feet in height and appeared waifish standing alone on the outskirt of the room, shrouded in darkness, buttoned to the neck in her floor length wool coat.

              "Come and sit with us," I said, taking pity on the poor creature.

              "Why have you come here, Aksel?" The female sat next to him, glancing at him coyly. He quickly jerked his head from her glance to meet mine. "What is so urgent?"

              "I need your aide," he admitted nervously.

              "Thirty years have passed," I said, glancing at the female. "And now you come to me under mysterious pretenses, under urgent conditions? You have sought help! Does this pertain to Evelyn?"

              "She knows my name!" the female screeched. "Aksel, she knows my name! I have not even told her!"

              "You need to teach her to guard her thoughts, Aksel," I said. "I heard you outside, walking up my front steps, munching your feet in the grass; your thoughts were a jumbled river and you need to learn to control them. Control them before someone controls you with them."                "Can they do that, Aksel?" she gasped.

              "Yes." He glared at me from his side of the couch as she drew her legs up and sat on her half.

              "I need a favor from an old friend, Bree."

              "I have not seen you in thirty years, and under the circumstances of our parting,” I glared, “do we honestly hold each other in friendship?”

              “Bree, I have nowhere else to go,” he sighed as his fledgling threw up her arms.

              "I told you this would not work!" she stammered. He glared at her. Evelyn’s lips twisted as she rose from the couch and left the house, slamming the door as she did.

              "What would not work?" I asked him. "I want the truth. Now, before I remove you from this house."               "The story is long," he began, "long and unforgivable."

              "I am not your confessor, Aksel; I cannot absolve your sins. Explain yourself, please.”

              He rose from the couch and walked to the window, pulling back the drapes. His fingernail scratched at a square of unwashed glass, the grime collecting at his cuticle. He struggled through the layers of filth to peer into the darkness. He scratched some more, ignoring me, until he managed to remove enough muck to let a few meager twinkles of twilight shine through.

              "I am not seeking absolution," he stated, finally. "I just need pity, and assistance."

              “You do not deserve either,” I snapped. "Get on with it, then. Dawn is soon upon us and my patience is teetering."

              "You were once a woman of great patience, Bree," he said, turning toward me, his hand covered in the filth from the window. He brushed it against his pant leg, marring the elaborate gray fabric, as he once again sat upon the couch.