By Blood We Live (18 page)

Lincoln broke out of his trance. "No!" he screamed, and rushed at the vampire. She changed into a bat this time, and Lincoln stopped short. The transformation was too frightening.

"Lincoln!" shouted the cantor. "Grab her!"

Lincoln broke out of his trance of fear and lunged at the bat, which flew away from him to the other side of the room.

"Now!" the cantor shouted, and jumped to Joseph's side. "Joseph, you must sing. You must sing the ancient melodies that will protect you from this evil creature, or you will become like her. You must sing of your faith, your belief, in the Lord.

"Sing, Joseph. Sing with me."

The cantor began to sing, in sepulchral tones. "
Mizmor l'David
. Repeat it, Joseph!"

"No, I—"

He grabbed Joseph by the shoulders and shook him. "Come to your senses! Her world offers you nothing but corruption! You shall lose everything that defines who you are, Joseph. Your background, your ancestors—you will never see your father again."

"My father," he said weakly. "I love my father."

"Then sing!
Mizmor l'David
."

"
Mizmor l'David
," Joseph sang, in a faint imitation of the cantor's voice.

"Louder, Joseph! Listen to the tune.
Hashem ro'i lo echsar. Bin'ot Desheh yarbitzaini al me minuchos yinahalayni.
"

Joseph repeated the song, more strongly this time.

The bat turned back into a woman. "No," she whispered. "Stop!"

Lincoln blinked his eyes in surprise. As Joseph and the cantor sang, the room started to glow with a faint, yellow light. It was a soft, comforting glow, like that of the afternoon sun in a perfect blue sky.

"No," said the vampire, much more weakly. "Stop, Joseph. If I ever meant anything to you, stop." She crouched down and covered her eyes with her arm.

Noticing this, Lincoln realized that the light had distracted him. He turned his attention back to the song, and discovered with surprise that he now understood the Hebrew words. He knew what they meant, translating them instantly as they were sung.

"
Gam ki aylech b'gai tsalmavet lo eir'eh ra ki atah imadi
," Joseph sang.

Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil, for You are with me.

"
Shivt'cha umishantecha haymah y'nachamuni.
"

Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me.

The glow became brighter, emanating from all around, but as they finished singing it started to gather around the forms of Joseph and the cantor. The light became so bright and hot that Lincoln followed the vampire's lead and shielded his eyes.

Then Lincoln heard the song change. Without any prompting from the cantor, Joseph began singing another psalm. He listened carefully.

"
Omar ladoshem machsee umtsudati, elokai evtach bo, kee hu yahtseel'cha meepach yakoosh, midever havot.
"

I say of the Lord, my refuge and stronghold, my God in whom I trust, that He will save you from the fowler's trap, from the destructive plague.

Lincoln opened his eyes and looked over his arm. Was the light starting to move towards the vampire?

"
Lo teera meepachad lailah. . .
" You need not fear the terror by night. . .

The light began to coalesce around the vampire. She screamed. "Joseph! No!"

"
. . .meedever ba'ofel yahaloch.
" The plague that stalks in the darkness.

The light surrounded her completely, so brightly that her form was completely covered. Her screams became softer, muffled.

Joseph stopped singing. "Begone," the cantor and he said in unison.

Lincoln heard one more loud scream, and the light flared up, forcing him to cover his eyes again. When the light faded from beyond his arm, he looked up again, and noticed three things in succession. First, he saw Joseph, lying on his bed asleep, with all the normal color back in his face. Second, he saw the cantor holding up in front of him a silver
Magen David
, a Star of David.

Finally, he looked to where the vampire had last stood. All that was left of her was a pile of black dust, and a pair of sunglasses.

"Perhaps she was sent to test you, Mr. Kliman, perhaps not. I would not even guess."

It was Monday afternoon, two days later, and Lincoln had stopped by the synagogue to thank the cantor once again.

"At any rate, Cantor, it was your music that saved my son. And your Star of David. I owe you my eternal gratitude."

Cantor Gross shook his head slightly and smiled. "It was not merely my music, Mr. Kliman, but what my music represented, where it came from. As for the star of David, it has absolutely no religious significance at all. But I counted on the vampire not knowing that, and I was right. In short, I think your gratitude is well meant, but misplaced."

"Yes. Well. Cantor, I need to get back home now. I want to check on Joseph."

Lincoln turned to go, but the cantor gripped him by the arm. "Mr. Kliman, remember what we went through a few nights ago. What Joseph went through. Do not take his pseudo-conversion lightly and assume that he is now safe. The vampirism may still return."

"What do you suggest?" Lincoln asked softly.

The cantor looked him directly in the eye. "Start bringing the boy to synagogue. If you are not comfortable with this place, then bring him to one easier for you to accept. But do bring him to one. Let him build up an understanding, an appreciation of his background, his culture, his religion."

Lincoln pulled his arm away. "I'll consider it," he said, and to his surprise realized that he was speaking sincerely.

The cantor nodded. "It would be best for the boy to develop his own beliefs, his own defenses. Remember, Mr. Kliman, religion protects us from the many vampires of the world."

Lincoln nodded and walked out. It was a cold day, and he sneezed when he got outside. He reached into his coat pocket and found the
yarmulka
that he had been told to wear when he first entered the synagogue. He had forgotten to return it.

He looked back at the synagogue for a moment, then returned the
yarmulka
to his pocket and walked home. Perhaps he would find use for it soon.

Barbara Roden, along with her husband Christopher Roden, is the proprietor of Ash-Tree Press. Together, they are also the editors of several anthologies, including
Acquainted with the Night
, which won the World Fantasy Award. Barbara is also the editor of
All Hallows
, the journal of the Ghost Story Society. Her first collection of short stories,
Northwest Passages
, will be published by Prime Books in October.

This story, which first appeared in
Exotic Gothic 2
, is about an expedition to Antarctica in the Golden Age of South Polar exploration: the days of Shackleton, Amundsen, Scott, and Mawson. However, when the expedition has to replace a crew member at the last moment, it becomes apparent his replacement has his own reasons for wanting to go to a continent where there's no daylight for months on end.

The story asks: How would you feel in such an isolated setting, if you became convinced there was someone present who wasn't supposed to be there? And how would you feel if, in order to ensure the survival of yourself and everyone else, you had to do something which goes against all your values and beliefs?

"Thank you so much for speaking with me. And for these journals, which have never seen the light of day. I'm honoured that you'd entrust them to me."

"That's quite all right." Emily Edwards smiled; a delighted smile, like a child surveying an unexpected and particularly wonderful present. "I don't receive very many visitors; and old people do like speaking about the past. No"—she held up a hand to stop him—"I
am
old; not elderly, not 'getting on,' nor any of the other euphemisms people use these days. When one has passed one's centenary, 'old' is the only word which applies."

"Well, your stories were fascinating, Miss Edwards. As I said, there are so few people alive now who remember these men."

Another smile, gentle this time. "One of the unfortunate things about living to my age is that all the people one knew in any meaningful or intimate way have died; there is no one left with whom I can share these things. Perhaps that is why I have so enjoyed this talk. It brings them all back to me. Sir Ernest; such a charismatic man, even when he was obviously in ill-health and worried about money. I used to thrill to his stories; to hear him talk of that desperate crossing of South Georgia Island to Stromness, of how they heard the whistle at the whaling station and knew that they were so very close to being saved, and then deciding to take a treacherous route down the slope to save themselves a five-mile hike when they were near exhaustion. He would drop his voice then, and say to me 'Miss Emily'—he always called me Miss Emily, which was the name of his wife, as you know; it made me feel very grown-up, even though I was only eleven—'Miss Emily, I do not know how we did it. Yet afterwards we all said the same thing, those three of us who made that crossing: that there had been another with us, a secret one, who guided our steps and brought us to safety.' I used to think it a very comforting story, when I was a child, but now—I am not as sure."

"Why not?"

For a moment he thought that she had not heard. Her eyes, which until that moment had been sharp and blue as Antarctic ice, dimmed, reflecting each of her hundred-and-one years as she gazed at her father's photograph on the wall opposite. He had an idea that she was not even with him in her comfortable room, that she was instead back in the parlour of her parents' home in north London, ninety years earlier, listening to Ernest Shackleton talk of his miraculous escape after the sinking of the
Endurance
, or her father's no less amazing tales of his own Antarctic travels. He was about to get up and start putting away his recording equipment when she spoke.

"As I told you, my father would gladly speak about his time in Antarctica with the Mawson and Shackleton expeditions, but of the James Wentworth expedition aboard the
Fortitude
in 1910 he rarely talked. He used to become quite angry with me if I mentioned it, and I learned not to raise the subject. I will always remember one thing he
did
say of it: 'It was hard to know how many people were there. I sometimes felt that there were too many of us.' And it would be frightening to think, in that place where so few people are, that there was another with you who should not be."

The statement did not appear to require an answer, for which the thin man in jeans and rumpled sweater was glad. Instead he said, "If you remember anything else, or if, by chance, you should come across those journals from the 1910 expedition, please do contact me, Miss Edwards."

"Yes, I have your card." Emily nodded towards the small table beside her, where a crisp white card lay beside a small ceramic tabby cat, crouched as if eyeing a mouse in its hole. Her gaze rested on it for a moment before she picked it up.

"I had this when I was a child; I carried it with me everywhere. It's really a wonder that it has survived this long." She gazed at it for a moment, a half-smile on her lips. "Sir Ernest said that it put him in mind of Mrs. Chippy, the ship's cat." Her smile faded. "He was always very sorry, you know, about what he had to do, and sorry that it caused an estrangement between him and Mr. McNish; he felt that the carpenter never forgave him for having Mrs. Chippy and the pups shot before they embarked on their journey in the boats."

"It was rather cruel, though, wasn't it? A cat, after all; what harm could there have been in taking it with them?"

"Ah, well." Emily set it carefully back down on the table. "I thought that, too, when I was young; but now I see that Sir Ernest was quite right. There was no room for sentimentality, or personal feeling; his task was to ensure that his men survived. Sometimes, to achieve that, hard decisions must be made. One must put one's own feelings and inclinations aside, and act for the greater good."

He sensed a closing, as of something else she might have said but had decided against. No matter; it had been a most productive afternoon. At the door Emily smiled as she shook his hand.

"I look forward to reading your book when it comes out."

"Well"—he paused, somewhat embarrassed—"it won't be out for a couple of years yet. These things take time, and I'm still at an early stage in my researches."

Emily laughed; a lovely sound, like bells chiming. "Oh, I do not plan on going anywhere just yet. You must bring me a copy when it is published, and let me read again about those long ago days. The past, where everything has already happened and there can be no surprises, can be a very comforting place when one is old."

It was past six o'clock when the writer left, but Emily was not hungry. She made a pot of tea, then took her cup and saucer into the main room and placed it on the table by her chair, beside the ceramic cat. She looked at it for a moment, and ran a finger down its back as if stroking it; then she picked up the card and considered it for a few moments.

"I think that I was right not to show him," she said, as if speaking to someone else present in the room. "I doubt that he would have understood. It is for the best."

Thus reminded, however, she could not easily forget. She crossed the room to a small rosewood writing desk in one corner, unlocked it, and pulled down the front panel, revealing tidily arranged cubbyholes and drawers of various sizes. With another key she unlocked the largest of the drawers, and withdrew from it a notebook bound in leather, much battered and weathered, as with long use in difficult conditions. She returned with it to her armchair, but it was some minutes before she opened it, and when she did it was with an air almost of sadness. She ran her fingers over the faded ink of the words on the first page.

 
Robert James Edwards
Science Officer
H.M.S.
Fortitude
1910–11