.
He crouched, huddled against the door under the awning. The rain was coming down hard and fast; it was almost sleet because of the cold. The chill wind blew it under the awning and coated him with moisture. He had been sitting there for a long time; he had long since been soaked to the skin.
He was still shivering, but had stopped the great shuddering gasps for breath that marked his early minutes there. His thick coat gaped open,, but his shivering was not a result of the cold. He had long ago ceased to feel that, except as a minor annoyance. His tremors were in reaction and fear, and his eyes still stared wide. His mind played out the scene he had witnessed again and again.
Not only witnessed, but been a part of, his mind whispered. Unwillingly, true, but a part of nonetheless. But he still saw it, as if it had really happened to another, as if the man had only looked like him, not been him . . . .
Miriel was an enchanting woman. She said she was visiting from France, yet she spoke English without a trace of an accent. She must have originally been from England, he reasoned. Michael had met her a few months ago at a great party given by the Governor for all the "upper crust" of Dublin. His family was of good standing, and fairly well off. The O'Bournes had clawed their way up, over the lives of their countrymen to their position of financial comfort. Michael's father and grandfather had worked long and hard; they even went so far as to change religion. His father paid lip service to the Church of Ireland in a bid to keep the family from starvation. Michael, the eldest son, had followed suit. His father had died two years ago, but both David and Patrick, Michael's younger brothers were still alive. They helped him with his father's business. His mother had wanted nothing to do with that; she still said her rosary faithfully, and went to confession and Mass when she could. Her husband had become a Protestant, and damned himself, in her eyes, for their children. She knew his new religion didn't come from the heart, but she condemned him for not being of stronger Catholic faith.
Now, it seems that I am suffering hell for that choice . . . my choice as well as Da's, Michael thought. But his mind soon drifted back to Miriel, and then to the terror.
Ah, but she was fair! yet not fair. She was beautiful, with pale skin like thick cream. Her hair was as dark as midnight. Her eyes slanted in a sensuous manner in her face, and were of a most striking blue. Her nose was pert, a bit retrousse, and her lips were so red they appeared painted. She spoke but seldom at first, but when she did, what musical tones! Michael was smitten at once, as was almost everyone else who saw her that evening. He had never been in love before, but he thought this could be nothing less. His heart ached when he saw her, even as it pounded in his chest.
But something drew her to him, although she had other suitors as well. He courted her with as much grace and courtesy as he could muster. He left his brothers to run the business while he did so. They said nothing, but he knew they hoped he would marry her; she was quite rich. He knew he was handsome; his mirror couldn't lie that much. His hair was black as jet, and just brushed his shoulders. His eyes were amber, like a cat's eye, his mother said. He was tall, and still had the strength and muscle of youth. He had not yet developed the paunch of the man who sat behind a desk all day. But somehow, despite his many attempts, she took control of their courtship. "I am a widow," she said with a slight smile. "I've been through this before, and I know what to do." And she laughed, a sound that, for the first time, struck a chord almost like fear in his heart.
But it was only once, and it was quickly forgotten in the light of his love. He was completely smitten with her. She would give him just enough hope that he would begin to think she'd marry him the next day if he asked it. Then, suddenly, without warning, she would pull away, and show great disapproval of his forwardness in what he considered the next step towards eventual marriage. He was dazed and confused, but completely in love, and although he would sometimes get angry, he never let it appear in his attitude toward her. Nightly, he tried to win her affection, and eventually, the other men courting her surrendered to his perseverance. He had won her from the other men; now he had to try to win her from herself. He tried even harder, and she finally agreed to marry him. He set the wedding for April, when the weather turned warmer, and she simply smiled.
She was interested in many of the same things as Michael himself. Of course, she often had the opposite position, so they frequently had long debates of an evening, for she showed herself to be of a most argumentative nature. He was surprised in reading along her groaning bookshelves, to find several different collections of Shakespeare, one of his favorite authors. There was even a Folio of Troilus and Cressida, pressed lovingly in the leaves of one of the newer editions. There were also some slim volumes of other poetry, from several different eras and authors; there were even a few from different countries. Some were written in Italian, a number in French.
When they sat together in her parlor, she often sewed as they talked. Occasionally, she pricked herself with her needle, hard enough to draw a small drop of blood. The first time, she gasped, "Oh! What a silly thing I've done!" and pulled out the injured hand from under her embroidery. A drop of ruby red blood welled up at the tip of her finger. She turned to him, holding out her finger and pouting prettily. She said artfully, almost coquettishly, "Would you kiss it and make it better? Please, Mickey?" He did as she had asked, and licked the blood from his lips, having smeared it. He also stroked the back of her hand lightly before she pulled it back, and admonished him with a frown for his forwardness.
Not long after he set the wedding date, Miriel said to him, "Mickey, I have a wonderful idea. I'm tired of staying in here. Let's go out somewhere." It was late in the evening, nearly nine, for Miriel was one of those women who stayed out until dawn, slept until late in the afternoon and thought nothing of it.
Michael was taken aback. "But . . . it's so late! And the weather is atrocious!" He yawned, on the verge of exhaustion. "And I'm so tired." But something made him agree. "All right," he said around another yawn. "Where would you like to go?"
She laughed, and it wasn't the pleasant one. "No, Mickey, it's early yet. We don't really have to go anywhere. We can just go for a ride. But I need to change. I don't want to wear this dress out into this kind of weather, no matter how bored I am. If you'll excuse me for a moment, I'll be right back." She withdrew to her chamber, and, as promised, within a few minutes, she returned. She was clothed in a dress that had seen better days, and those better days had been at least ten years ago, judging by the outdated style.
"What are you wearing?" Michael asked in shock. He had never seen this dress before. In fact, he couldn't even remember seeing this style before.
"Well," she answered, twirling around so the skirts belled out around her. "It's old, and I don't really care if it gets ruined by the downpour. And I've managed to think of a place where you can have a little fun for a while . . . if you still want to go," she concluded, noticing his reluctance.
"And just where are we going for our ride?" He agreed because he had no will to resist, even though her garments had brought him slightly out of his stupor. He had become physically and emotionally drained over the course of their courtship. This living at night, he thought, is really not good for the health, especially seeing as I have to work during the day at my father's shop. He shivered slightly. He felt warm and cold by turns, and he was certain that he was catching the grippe. However, he said nothing of that, not wanting to spoil her delight in the diversion.
But Miriel didn't answer him then. She smiled, and he noticed again how white her teeth were in the lamplight. "You'll see when we get there, Mickey, dear. I'll call for the carriage." She rang and notified her servant that she and Mr. O'Bourne would be using the carriage. Then she critically inspected his clothing. "You have such excellent taste," she said, brushing invisible bits of lint off his shirt and waistcoat, the one, stark white and the other, midnight black. "Simple, yet elegant. But you shan't stand out too much if we do end up going to the place I've remembered."
He found he was not reassured by her words.
Michael got into the carriage as she gave the driver his orders, so he got no clue from an address. He wanted to be a part of every aspect of her life, even to this singular oddity of riding in the rain, he loved her so. Otherwise, he might have had the will to refuse. His thoughts ran in muddy circles as the rain drummed against the roof of the coach.
Does she love me? What kind of place are we going to, that it requires such secrecy on her part? I wonder, now that she has agreed to become my wife, will she object if I kiss her on the lips, instead of on the hand? But I can't display even that small token of affection; she won't let me. Why am I so obsessed with her? I think of her in almost every waking moment, and in most of my dreaming ones as well. Not that there have been many of those lately, because of her incredibly bizarre sleeping habits. Why does she sleep the day away? Why only awake at night? What kind of an existence is that? I hope she won't continue it after we are married. Because neither of them said anything, he leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes in weariness.
When Miriel said, "We're here, Mickey," he was startled out of his doze. On looking out the window, he saw that they were in what was definitely the poorer section of Dublin. In fact, they were under a street lamp not far from a house of ill repute he had visited when younger. Michael recognized the pub nearby as being just a block away from his old haunt.
"We're going back at once," he said firmly, and refused to open the door. "I don't know why we're here, but the driver must have gotten lost. This is simply not somewhere to be found in after dark, and the later it is, the worse it gets. You especially, a chuid, should not be here atall. This is the worst part o' toon." His refinement gave way, and his natural way of speaking came to the fore. His lower crust roots showed as he spoke.
"But, Mickey!" she pouted. "This is the most amusing part of town! The parties and balls I usually get invited to can't hold a candle to this place here! I do so long to have some fun. Be a dear, and let me get out. Please?"
"Nay. I'll have nary a bit o' it. I know this part o' town, cailin, and I know the manner o' peepul we'll be meetin'. They'd no sooner see ye thin they'd want to be tippin' ye on yer back and havin' their way wi' ye 'cause yer so pretty. Nay."
A storm started to brew in her face, but she quickly covered it, and spoke sweetly. "Oh, Mickey. You know this section of town. Don't be such a stick in the mud. I was so hoping to enjoy myself. Do let me get out." She wriggled closer on the seat, turning her head so she was breathing lightly in his ear as she spoke. One long, slim finger stroked his jawline. He thought, this is much more forward than I have ever been . . . .
He felt a haze lower over his mind and vision, and without knowing he had said anything, he agreed. When his head cleared again, they were on the street, walking arm in arm toward the pub he recalled. The carriage clattered away over the cobblestones, perhaps to find shelter for the horses and driver. Her face openly displayed her enjoyment, and having no idea how he'd acquiesced, he had no wit or heart to gainsay her now. They entered Finnegan's Pub.
It was as bad a place as he remembered. The stench of spoiled ale hung in the air, mingling with the smoke from the lanterns. Many of the latter were unlit, giving the room a rather dark and gloomy aspect. The fire roaring in the hearth did little to dispel the mood; in fact, it was enhanced by it, because rain dripping down the chimney made it sizzle and smoke. The patrons were, for the most part, the trash of the city, a step or three below the one from which Michael's family had pulled themselves up. They were the poor, unskilled workers, factory laborers, ditch diggers and the like. Few indeed were the men or women with no holes in their clothing. Those few were dressed much like Michael himself, and seemed to come from his station. He felt a little less self-conscious on seeing them.
Miriel blended right in. He almost lost sight of her as she sauntered up to the barkeep, in a walk that seemed much more free and swaying than her usual one. Or perhaps it was just the provocative way the dress clung to her legs and hips. He realized that she wore just the dress, and none of the underskirts that should have been beneath it. After bantering with the barkeep, she smiled and actually bounced her bosom as she received her drink. Her accent lost its refinement as well, as she became one of those she moved among. He felt himself losing control of the whole situation. He realized with a start that he'd never had control of it, that he was so infatuated with her that he did whatever she told him to do, whether he wanted to or not.
Then, for a while, he did lose her in the crowd. He too made his way to the bar and got a drink- a good, stiff one, because he needed a bracer. When he turned to face the room again, he didn't see her anywhere. She had blended in so well she disappeared. Thus, for a long while, Michael was alone. It occurred to him to look for her, but manly pride wouldn't let him admit that he couldn't keep hold of the woman with whom he'd come. He visited the bar for drinks to keep him company, although there were wenches enough willing to crawl into his lap anytime he chose to invite them. He didn't, however; he wanted Miriel there or no one. What was this sudden change that had come over her? What had happened to the sweet, modest young widow he knew? It was a long, lonesome evening. Drinkin' doesnae disagree wi' ye, he thought, but then it doesnae talk wi' ye, either.
It was well past midnight when he finally caught sight of her again. The pub had cleared out considerably, because it was getting near to last call. Well, and a good thing, too, he thought. I'm so pissin' drunk I don' think I kin stand. Been a long time sin' I pinned 'un on like this. She was curled up in the lap of a drunken young man, who would have been rather handsome had not pox scars marked his cheeks. Her lips were at his ear, and her hand was rather obviously making its way inside his shirt. He nodded to whatever it was she said, and they got up. Michael blinked blearily, seeing two of each of them. The double vision soon resolved itself, and he watched them stagger toward the door. He was a little unsteady on his feet, and she supported him with her shoulder. It looked almost funny, because she was so much shorter than the man. The young man's arm was around her shoulders, but it slowly drifted downward until it caressed her behind through the worn material of her dress. Michael heard her giggle distinctly over the much quieter hum of the pub.
The sound crystallized the situation for him, and anger flowed through him. He felt less drunk as he surged to his feet, nearly tipping the table over in his haste. He weaved his way to the door, remembering to grab his coat about him as he left, for it was still raining.
Drops splattering in his eyes blinded him as he entered the street. Wiping them and blinking wildly, he looked around desperately for Miriel. The carriage had long since left. A flash of lightning made the street as bright as day. He saw them just turning the corner, heading down the street toward Peggy's brothel. While it was unlikely they were going there, the association enraged him even more, and he started to follow them, pounding after them through the puddles. Soon the rain was so fierce that he had to slow his pace and pay more attention to where he put his feet, or the potholes in the street would break his leg for him. As a result of this, he almost missed it when Miriel and her companion turned into a deserted alleyway. He saw the flash of her battered green coat out of the corner of his eye. Turning, he trailed them down the alley.
The wind wasn't quite so fierce here, but the rain was just as heavy. The alley wasn't their final destination, but merely a passage. They walked on, and above the storm, Michael could hear Miriel's laughter as she bantered with the young man.
The street the alley gave out on was, if such were possible, in an even worse section of Dublin than they had just been. She drew her young man close to her, and pulled him under a beaten awning that flapped in the gale. From behind them, Michael saw her climb up on the first step of the entryway, so now, she was the same height as the pox marked man. She put her arms around him, but so there was a little distance between them. His back suggested to Michael that he was reaching up to cup her breasts. Then the rain obscured everything for a moment, and he stood frozen in shock. Why was she doing this? What had happened to her? Was she brain sick, that she did these things?
Suddenly, he heard a piercing scream over the storm. It chilled his heart. When the lightning flickered again, he saw the young man laying in a heap in front of the stoop, with Miriel- Miriel!- crouched over him, fastened to his neck like a leech. As if she felt his horrified eyes on her, she lifted her head . . . and he saw her bloody teeth and lips. He gaped at her, paralyzed by what his eyes told him had happened, and his mind couldn't believe. Negligently, she brushed her hand across her mouth as she stood, for all the world like a peasant brushing away crumbs, and beckoned Michael to come closer. Like a fool, stunned by what he had just witnessed, he obeyed; he could do nothing else. At least, under the awning, the thought popped into his head, I'll be out of the rain some.
It was surprising how pragmatic one can be when one is frightened out of one's wits. But he was caught by her eyes, lost in them. Terror made his mind gibber, but her control was stronger than his fear. Her long fingered hands grasped his arms with surprising strength. "What did you see, Mickey?" she whispered. Her breath was not sweet; it smelt of carrion now, and he was repulsed by it. He could do nothing. "Did you see what you wanted to see? Were you happy with what you saw?" She pulled his face down to hers, the better to look into his eyes. "I knew I should have just left you at home." Her voice had lost its dulcet tones, had become rough, and her accent betrayed that she was but pretending to be a wealthy lady. "But, then, it is always so much fun to outwit two men at once. But you outsmarted me, didn't you, Mickey?" She slapped his face hard enough to spin him around. He crashed to the ground next to the stoop. He felt a burning sensation on his cheek, and when he reached up to touch it, his fingers came away bloody; she had raked him with her nails.
At the sight and smell of fresh blood, her tongue flickered over her lips. He could do nothing but stare at her in horrified amazement. In a mere flicker of movement, so quick that his eye couldn't follow it, she was over him, almost kneeling on his chest. "Well, Mickey," she purred. "What are we going to do with you?" Her fingers traced his cheek, the scratches where her nails had left their mark. "Will you tell, Mickey? Will you tell anyone what you saw me do tonight?"
He shook his head vigorously, and somehow managed to find his voice. "N-nn-no, I w-won't."
She smiled, and for the first time, he clearly saw her eyeteeth. They were longer than the rest of her teeth, long and pointed, and now, stained with crimson. "Ah, but Mickey, love, how can I trust you?" Her voice became sugary sweet, wheedling. "How do I know you wouldn't call a hunt down on me? You know me and my lair, and what I look like. Do you want to throw all of Ireland into a panic over poor, little harmless me?"
"Harmless? Ye're daft! Ye're not harmless, no' by a long shot! Ye're a . . . ."
His indignation paled beneath the red fire in her eyes. It occurred to him that it wouldn't be wise to anger her.
"What, Mickey?" she hissed. "What am I?"
"Ye . . . ye're a . . . a deamhan fola!"
"Why, how observant of you, dearest!" Venom dripped from her words. "And how quaint of you to use your old tongue to describe me. But I'm afraid the proper term is vampire. And so I am. I've survived a long, long time as one, too," she continued, caressing his cheek, undoing the collar of his shirt. He stared into her eyes, mesmerized. "I can't really say I've lived, because it's not living at all." She smiled at him again, as if a sudden thought had struck her. "I know, my love! You can't tell if you're not alive, can you?"
His terror made him rip his eyes away from her face. His heart thudded violently in his chest. He struggled to throw her off, but to no avail; she was at least as strong as he, if not even stronger. "Please! Don't kill me!" he begged, thrashing madly on the wet ground.
"Hush!" she ordered. "It may be the very devil of a night, but there might be people out all the same, and I don't want to be overheard." She locked her eyes with his again, and he slowed, stopped. He was suddenly very conscious of the rain drumming on the ground, the booming of the thunder and the crash and sizzle of the lightning. "Please," he whispered. "Dinnae kill me. I beg of ye . . . ."
"Now, Mickey, it's far to late for this now," she said in a tone of admonishment. "You should have thought of this before you followed me and my . . . friend." She nudged the stiffening corpse with her toe as she stood. She dragged Michael up by main force, and braced him against the door. "And I can't really say you'll be dead, either." Her face drew closer to his own, and her voice lowered to a whisper. "Because, you see," and he could feel her hot breath on his neck, "you really won't be . . . ."
All he remembered after those words was agony, fire running along his veins, the tortures of the damned.
Suddenly, he heard another voice, associated with pleasant, loving memories. The pain receded as the voice spoke to him. "Michael? Michael?" the voice whispered against his ear. "Do you want to live forever, Michael? You will never grow old, and you will never die . . . . Do you?"
Feebly, he nodded with as much strength as he could muster from his scattered and drained resources. "Yes . . . forever . . . ." he croaked. Forever in the glory of the Lord, he thought, for surely I am dying . . . . Forgive me, Lord, for I was always a Catholic at heart . . . .
"Then drink, Michael. Drink and be forever as you are now; sound in mind and beautiful of body." In his mind, he could see a shining goblet, filled with the light of God. He reached for it with both hands. The voice became demanding. "Drink!"
I will drink from the cup of the Lord and be embraced in His love . . . . He lifted the cup to his lips and drank.
But . . . what was wrong with this cup? It wasn't round, but rather long, and lacking a stem. And the liquid! Not the sweetness of ambrosia at all, but something bitter and almost coppery tasting . . . . Why would most bitter cup of all."
His eyes shot open, and stared into Miriel's face. He wasn't dead, and she was bending over him still, taking her bleeding wrist away from his mouth. She smiled, and licked her lips again. Michael tried feebly to move, to touch his neck, to feel the blood, but could not. He started to shiver uncontrollably, and pull in great shuddering gasps of night air. "What . . . what . . . have . . . ye done . . . to me?" he stuttered breathlessly.
She rose gracefully and lifted her face to the rain. "I have done what I had to do. I have assured my safety. I have created a Childe, and you are he. You are now part of the world of darkness, Michael. You are a vampire, and shall be forevermore." Her eyes seemed to glow as she turned to face him again.
His palsy got even worse as she spoke; he simply could not control his shivering. He managed to stammer out, "H-how d-did ye know what I w-was th-thinkin'?" He was shaking in fear like a leaf.
She smiled again; she seemed to have no qualms about doing that, now that he knew who and what she was. It was very different from what he was accustomed to, for when he courted her, she never really smiled. Her teeth were prominent. "At that moment, Mickey, when you were at the door of death, and you began to drink my blood, our minds were locked. I knew your every thought. Some of them were rather amusing, dearest. You still believe in a God? At your age?" Her laughter rung out above the storm. "After all the tragedy and anguish you have seen in your life?"
Anger rose hot in him, despite the cold he felt. "Ye read my mind! Ye knew I thought I was dyin'! Ye did it anyway!" Suddenly, his anger was gone, unable to be sustained by the weakness in his body. "Why didn't ye just let me die?"
She appeared surprised. "Because, Mickey, this is a much more suitable way to get even with your prying into my affairs."
"I, p-prying? I b-beg to d-differ!" His shuddering had increased to an almost frantic rate; he began to suspect that more than fear was working on him here. "I, dear lady, was courtin' ye! I felt I had the right to know just what the bloody hell ye were doin', sneaking off from a pub wi' another man!" Sarcasm dripped freely from his tone. "Pardon me fer me concern!"
Suddenly, he froze. Within a moment of time, everything he knew shattered. He could hear the blood rushing through his veins, could hear the steady "lub-dub" of his heart pumping. Strangely, though, he could hear something like a beating drum afar off, yet it seemed very close to him. Slowly, with horror, he realized that is was Miriel's heart he heard beating, as if it were in his own chest. He realized he was no longer breathing in great sobs of air, that he did not hear air flowing in and out of Miriel's chest. He could see as clearly as in daylight; he could determine the exact color of her dress, although it had faded nearly beyond recognition when he had seen it earlier. Even in the weak light of the guttering street lamp, he could see all the way up and down the street, even into the dark alleyway. He felt the cold drops of rain, the chill bite of the wind, but they didn't bother him. They could not affect him; it was as if he were impervious to the damp.
But the smells! The squalor and stench of the street made him gag in reflex. Horse droppings, human excrement, the odor of old vomit . . . he smelled them all, even when a few moments earlier, he would have sworn that the rain had washed it all away. But most of all, he smelt the blood. Fresh blood, spilled on the cold cobblestones, the stoop. The scent of it was strong, emanating as it did from his soaked shirt collar. And Miriel's breath reeked of it. He closed his eyes, hoping the odor and his keen sense of it would go away, knowing they never would.
"Ah . . . now you know." The earnestness of her voice brought him out of the stupor of the senses he had entered. "Now you see the power of being undead." Quickly she kneeled beside him on the stoop. "You will live forever with this power . . . or you will be found. Unless I teach you about our world, you will be found. If not by humans, you will be caught in the sunlight some fine morning, and then where would you be? You'd be a smoking heap of ash in the street. If you're not careful, that is your fate."
"Get ye away from me, ye devil!" he hissed. "I don't want to be near ye! Ye sicken me!" He pulled away from her, her breath, as far as he could in his supine position against the stoop. He felt the steps digging into his back in a way that should have been painful, but wasn't. It frightened him, as everything else had frightened him this evening.
Her face whitened even further in rage, if that were possible. She pulled back and bared her fangs at him. "I made you," she grated. "I will leave you here to face the sunrise. And then, Mickey dear," her fingernails tickled his cheek, then sharply raked it. "You will die!" She jumped to her feet and stalked away into the slashing rain. He didn't even watch her go. As intensely as he had loved her before, that was how great his hatred of her was now, for condemning him to what he could only see as a living hell.
Well, now, ye've sealed yer fate, Michael thought. And for hours, he lay there, at first unable, then unwilling to move. After many hours, his shaking stopped. He knew if he stayed there, the sun would indeed find him. He felt that was his destiny, that it was as it should be. I've done evil things; I've renounced the Holy Mother Church for the Church of Ireland; I am damned.
Finally, his newly sharpened sight could make out the first vestige of dawn, rosy pink fingers that the human eye would never see. A new chord of fear was struck in his heart, one that he hadn't felt all through his long and terrifying night, and he managed to lever himself to his feet. A sixth sense, newly discovered or newly given, whispered to him, You must find a place with no light. He stumbled down the street, moving faster and faster. Soon he was running so fast the buildings on either side of him were but a blur. He stopped, amazed, and found he wasn't even winded. He didn't even need to breathe.
Here. He turned around, and found he was near his old neighborhood. This was an area he knew well. If he remembered correctly, there was an empty old building . . . Ah! The building used to be a shop, but had long since died. The timbers were not sturdy, had been that way even when he was a child. But the below-stairs should still be intact. He made his way through the trash and fallen beams, broken glass and broken shelves, guided by his faded childhood explorations and that sixth sense. He found the door to the cellars, and it was solid. There was still a rusty key in the lock, but it turned and opened, as he applied some pressure. He pocketed the key and made his way down, needing no torch.
It was dark. The floor was of dank stone, the walls of even more damp earth. There was no chink for light to enter, and no windows to surprise him with unexpected sunlight. His new instinct had taken over, and curled him up in a corner on the floor, never mind the damp and chill. He couldn't feel it any longer anyway. Before he entered the sleep of the waking dead, the thought crossed his mind, Well. Whether I will or nay, it appears I shall survive.
Back to the Writing Page.
.