| Part Four : Wilder Deeper Magic I stood upon the mountain the words of civilization of culture all the dreams of man fallen from my skin naked in the icy stillness the utter absence of mind, surfacing into infinity is this the moment of birth a barren room timeless this gift of knowing that all is a choice of which door to close not which door to open may these hands refrain from the fearful grasp to wander gently and choose with wisdom |
| * * * * * He sat on the edge of the concrete breakwater watching the waves roll into shore. He was trying very hard to think of nothing…to think of nothing but the waves and their endless, phosphorescent dance under the moonlight. “Three weeks, he said to himself. “No, no it’s been twenty-three days. Don’t think, don’t think. Bugger!” he shouted and jumped off the breakwater down onto the sand. He walked down to the water’s edge and, finding a firmer foothold, started to run, dodging the waves, and while he ran, he tried to remember what it was like to breathe. “I was alive once. I was a man.” He chanted the words over and over with each footfall. He stopped before the last set of steps up to the esplanade, ran up them quickly and sat down on the top stair. “Not out of breath,” he sighed, rubbing his chest. “If I’m not alive, then why do I hurt so much?” “Stupid Git. Don’t think, don’t think.” He tried desperately to stop the chaotic thoughts and feelings that threatened to overwhelm him. “Need a bloody bottle of tequila. No, make that three.” He started jogging slowly. He ran past the windmills, up past lakes, and groves of pine and eucalyptus trees until he stood before the entrance of the garden. It was locked. He jumped the fence and walked down toward the small lake. The snow geese were sleeping in their nests: snuggled together, thoughtless, and dreamless. “Mated for life,” he thought sadly while staring at the water and remembering her—remembering as she stood in the lake in moonlight, naked and so beautiful, and loving him. He turned away from the water and walked toward the small valley that lay at the southern edge of the garden. He loved the garden at night. The high fence and the lock assured him that he would be alone. He felt master of the silver dewed world which stretched before him. He never wanted to see another human being again. He avoided all contact and kept his vampire hours. He didn’t want to see the look of fear or disgust or curiosity that marked him as other, as apart. “You’re not a man,” he thought, “Never be alive again in this world.” He had to hold the desire—the desire to be something different than he was, away from him, else, like a burning ray of sunlight, it would destroy him. He could not be anything different or anyone else in this bitter existence, and thus could never have his heart’s desire. He hated his heart for betraying him by driving him to desperate acts, foolish plans, and futile dreams. He hated that his heart had brought her pain and sorrow. He longed for the stake. “Make it oak, or better yet, ash. Ashes to ashes, make me dust.” He wondered what he had done in his short miserable human life to end up a vampire...end up here, pacing alone beneath the winter moon, and desperately regretting his immortality. He found the small bench beneath the buckeye tree in his valley. The tree was barren and beautiful with its branches weaving in spiraling, asymmetric waves from the solid silvery trunk. Only now, gazing at the tree, could he let his mind and thoughts return to her. He thought of the gift he’d left her, hoped she’d find it and forgive him. She was his love forever. She’d wait for him to return, and her final realization would be that this time he would never be back. He hoped she believed that...hoped that her love for him would turn to anger and hate and then finally fade away. She’d be free then. Free of him, free of the curse of him and his love, the danger of his love. She’d be bitter for a while, but someday would find another, truer love, a daylight love. She’d be safe, would live and perhaps find some small happiness. Not so for him. The moment he’d read the letter from Giles he knew that he was doomed. Yet something inside of him still protested his fate, still wondered if perhaps if he kept looking he’d find a way back to her beloved arms. He groaned softly as he thought of her arms around him in the night, her hands stroking his skin so tenderly, never knowing that her love for him would be her curse. Giles had written one phrase that had given him a small sliver of hope. Some nonsense about magic—about something “wild or deep.” So every night, he’d run on the beach trying to feel the depth of the ocean and then he’d sit on the bench in his lonely garden, keeping his watch among the wild things of the darkness, hoping for a little magic. One night, he sensed he was not alone in the garden. A tall, elderly man walked slowly down the path which wove across the meadow before him. A shot of fear ran through him as he sensed the presence of another vampire. The elderly vampire crossed the meadow and came to a stop before Spike’s bench. “Good evening young man.” He said politely. “He looks like a hundred year old bank clerk,” Spike thought to himself, “So frail. Looks as if a strong wind could pick him right up and toss him across the sky.” Spike nodded and the glanced down at the vampire’s feet. He noticed with a slight shock that the man’s feet were not touching the ground. “I don’t believe we’ve met. My name is Bertram.” He held out his hand for a handshake. Spike found himself rising, and reaching out his hand to return the polite gesture. “Name is Spike,” he replied gruffly. “You’re out a little late,” Bertram said. Spike gave Bertram a sharp look, “Late doesn’t bother me, ah, being undead and all that, if you know what I mean.” The other vampire smiled wistfully, “Ah yes, undead and ‘all that’. It’s so cold out here perhaps you would like to come back to my house for a little nightcap and a little chat?” Spike looked at him suspiciously. He didn’t exactly trust vampires offering drinks and conversation. “Why would I do that?” “Because I think I might have something you’re looking for.” * * * * * “I’m a stupid, bloody fool,” Spike thought to himself as he followed Bertram back to entrance to the Garden. Bertram took a bouncing step and flew over the fence. “Very, very light on his feet,” Spike thought, as he climbed clumsily over the fence and found Bertram holding open the door of a very ancient, silver Mercedes sedan. They rode in silence back to Bertram’s house. Spike’s mind was racing full of wonder, hope, despair and fear all tangled up inside his chest. They stood outside the door of an old, unpainted, mansion in Pacific Heights. Spike noticed the doorframe was laced with carvings with gargoyles and vines. The door knocker was made of a small silver horseshoe turned upside down—the wrong way for good luck. Bertram noticed Spike’s puzzled gaze at the doorknocker. He smiled, “I believe we can make our own luck in this world. It’s a kind of deeper magic, young man. So you tell me, Spike, tell me what you really want.” “Not …sure,” Spike felt faint. “Don’t you want to know who you are?” “Who I am…?” Spike shivered uncontrollably as a wave of energy moved through his body and he collapsed to the ground. (continued in “Water Lily”) Back to Dragonfly Series Home Back to Dark Dreams |