Authors: Mick Farren
More Than Mortal (5 page)
The property had passed to the church, and simple Ravenkeep had become Ravenkeep Priory when the Baron Roger’s childless, garishly degenerate, and poxridden great-grandson, Jerome le Corbeau, had, in a deathbed panic, bequeathed his estates to the church in the hope of escaping hellfire for a life of creatively abominable deviance. The Priory had remained in the hands of the clergy until the Priors were violently evicted by Henry VIII as part of his harshly hilarious Reformation and the inadvertently intelligent severance with Rome. Henry had awarded the estate, and the title that went with it, to a nondescript earl with few talents save butter-smooth flattery. Even that skill was depleted from the gene pool in a couple of more generations, and by the time of the Industrial Revolution, accumulated debts made sale to a nouveau upstart inevitable. The first plutocrat had been a Liverpool shipping baron in emotional need of a stately home, but when the Manchester Ship Canal bankrupted him, Ravenkeep passed briefly to a textile czar and finally to Jarman, the arms mogul.
Columbine would have been happy to boast how the Priory had been in her family for mortal generations, but in reality, the estate was a comparatively recent acquisition. It had fallen into her hands in the early 1920s, after she had come back from the human horror of the World War I trenches, where she had been known to British, French, and Germans alike as the Black Angel. Pausing only for an excursion to Moscow and a sanguine flirtation with early bolshevism, she had decided to return
to England. Disappointed that man and nosferatu had not seemingly been created equal and that the Workers of the World were unlikely to thank her for her unorthodox assistance in freeing them from their chains, she switched sides and became an undead capitalist, resolving to surround herself with as much material security as she could. In addition to her political turnabout, she had also decided that a nosferatu who remained a rootless nomad for too long ran cumulative risks.
to England. Disappointed that man and nosferatu had not seemingly been created equal and that the Workers of the World were unlikely to thank her for her unorthodox assistance in freeing them from their chains, she switched sides and became an undead capitalist, resolving to surround herself with as much material security as she could. In addition to her political turnabout, she had also decided that a nosferatu who remained a rootless nomad for too long ran cumulative risks.
Columbine had contracted a mortal marriage to the arms mogul’s grandson, the unfortunate Peregrin Jarman, who had been shell-shocked to the point of dementia on the Somme. By a certain synchronous irony, her brief husband had lost his reason on the same section of the Western Front where she had practiced her depredations. After leading him through a highly sedated wedding, she had maintained him in a state of blissful illusion while she slowly killed him. His death surprised no one, since he wasn’t expected to survive his madness for very long. What did surprise the friends of the deceased was the rapidity with which the widow severed all ties, dropped the name of Jarman, returned to her maiden Dashwood, and surrounded herself with a set of the most unacceptable friends including the Aleister Crowley crowd, Tallulah Bankhead, Ezra Pound, Ayn Rand, and the ever-unpredictable Pauline Réage. Oswald Mosley had attempted to crash one of her parties, but she had turned the Blackshirt leader away. She had no time for human fascists and their petty bourgeois bullying. To the outside observer, Columbine appeared to be concealing herself behind a social smoke screen of scandal and depravity. And indeed she was.
The outbreak of World War II had changed everything at the Priory. The parties were killed off by blitz, shortage, and rationing, and the gilded boys went off to die, not in her arms, but in the Spitfires and Hurricanes of the RAF, and in tanks in the Libyan Desert. Although
she knew it was irrational, she still harbored a certain vestigial patriotism for Old England, and she had arranged a private meeting with Churchill, at which she had offered the prime minister use of Ravenkeep by any research or planning group from a suitably outré sector of the war effort. Winston, unshockable, already familiar with the dossier on Nazi occult warfare, and willing to try anything, agreed with minimal persuasion. By way of a metaphysical bonus, Columbine had offered Churchill immortality, but he’d declined, pouring himself yet another serial brandy and rumbling that one life would probably prove more than enough. Very swiftly, she found herself playing hostess to a small and exceptionally strange task force commanded by Colonel the Duke de Richleau, who launched remorseless metaphysical attacks on the Nazis in general and Heinrich Himmler and Inner Order of the Black SS in particular. De Richleau and his people were tacitly aware of what Columbine really was, although, in a very English way; no one ever actually mentioned her being nosferatu. Her vampirism didn’t bother them in the slightest, though. They and their endeavors were so deeply and ambiguously twisted, she hardly qualified as anything remarkable. In addition, de Richleau’s team was special, and thus safe from her potential depredations. Had she victimized any of them, Churchill’s personal goon squad, homicidal Old Etonians with old school ties and dead eyes, would have arrived immediately in large, unmarked cars and efficiently terminated her immortality with stake and mallet.
she knew it was irrational, she still harbored a certain vestigial patriotism for Old England, and she had arranged a private meeting with Churchill, at which she had offered the prime minister use of Ravenkeep by any research or planning group from a suitably outré sector of the war effort. Winston, unshockable, already familiar with the dossier on Nazi occult warfare, and willing to try anything, agreed with minimal persuasion. By way of a metaphysical bonus, Columbine had offered Churchill immortality, but he’d declined, pouring himself yet another serial brandy and rumbling that one life would probably prove more than enough. Very swiftly, she found herself playing hostess to a small and exceptionally strange task force commanded by Colonel the Duke de Richleau, who launched remorseless metaphysical attacks on the Nazis in general and Heinrich Himmler and Inner Order of the Black SS in particular. De Richleau and his people were tacitly aware of what Columbine really was, although, in a very English way; no one ever actually mentioned her being nosferatu. Her vampirism didn’t bother them in the slightest, though. They and their endeavors were so deeply and ambiguously twisted, she hardly qualified as anything remarkable. In addition, de Richleau’s team was special, and thus safe from her potential depredations. Had she victimized any of them, Churchill’s personal goon squad, homicidal Old Etonians with old school ties and dead eyes, would have arrived immediately in large, unmarked cars and efficiently terminated her immortality with stake and mallet.
The cessation of hostilities found Columbine alone at the Priory. The ultra-secrecy of the de Richleau operation had endowed the house with a formidable unapproachability that lingered long after he and his people departed. This legacy suited her extremely well; she was able to hunt with a high level of impunity. Less than a year after the end of the War in the Pacific, Marieko had arrived, a nosferatu fugitive seeking a sister’s right to
sanctuary with one of her own. Marieko had been fleeing a deep and paranormal unpleasantness in the Far East. Columbine had never fully intruded into Marieko’s secret past, but she had gleaned the general and somewhat intriguing impression of how the two American atomic detonations, in addition to vaporizing the city centers of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, had also spawned destructive manifestations in spheres far beyond the most sophisticated human awareness. Extradimensional nastiness had leaked, and somehow Marieko had been caught in the backwash and was forced to flee for her very existence by DC-3 and China Sea freighter, Greek tramp steamer and Orient-Express, and finally Channel ferry to the comparative and eventual safety of rural England.
sanctuary with one of her own. Marieko had been fleeing a deep and paranormal unpleasantness in the Far East. Columbine had never fully intruded into Marieko’s secret past, but she had gleaned the general and somewhat intriguing impression of how the two American atomic detonations, in addition to vaporizing the city centers of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, had also spawned destructive manifestations in spheres far beyond the most sophisticated human awareness. Extradimensional nastiness had leaked, and somehow Marieko had been caught in the backwash and was forced to flee for her very existence by DC-3 and China Sea freighter, Greek tramp steamer and Orient-Express, and finally Channel ferry to the comparative and eventual safety of rural England.
For the remainder of the forties and most of the fifties, Columbine and Marieko had lived as hunting companions—as far as the local humans were concerned, an upper-class eccentric lesbian and her exotic Oriental companion, all very Sax Rohmer, and best kept at a safe distance. Destry had appeared in the early sixties, an undead Amazon adventuress who had grown tired of third-world voodoo colonels, CIA-backed warlords, the fall of empires, and all those postcolonial, machine-gun dictatorships with their one international hotel filled with spooks, KGB, arms profiteers, and adrenaline-addicted mercenaries. Columbine, Marieko, and Destry had decided to attempt a properly constituted nosferatu troika. At first, Columbine had been doubtful about the arrangement of three bonded females. Although she had known threesomes who had made the orchestration work, in too many cases it had been little more than a template for bickering and backbiting, with two picking on the remaining one in a cruelly rotating pecking order. They were lucky in that the early days of bonding had been fully occupied by their inadvertently becoming demigoddesses to a desperate Kali-worshiping human blood cult. For a while the role-playing had been both a fascinating anthropological study and a constant source of
nourishment and amusement, but the existence of the cult had unavoidably come, story by story and rumor by rumor, to the notice of the local chief constable, and they had been forced to kill or disperse their devotees and then maintain a much lower profile, particularly with regard to their hunting.
nourishment and amusement, but the existence of the cult had unavoidably come, story by story and rumor by rumor, to the notice of the local chief constable, and they had been forced to kill or disperse their devotees and then maintain a much lower profile, particularly with regard to their hunting.
Columbine, however, was not at that moment thinking of either her own past or the past of the house that was her longtime lair. The dreams dominated her thoughts. Over and over she had taken the logically deductive approach. She was certain the dreams that plagued her came from an external source. The content of the dreams seemed to indicate that whatever was routing, projecting, or otherwise broadcasting them had a fixation about a particular period in the human past. In the beginning, they were innocent enough, even a novelty; brief flashes of archaically dressed humans clustered in dark and candlelit ancient buildings or moving in green-day rural countryside. A harper by the fireplace, children on the greensward, lovers in cornfields or the fallen forest leaves beneath translucent sun-dappled trees. Slightly mawkish but definitely coherent glimpses of an unmistakably English locality, somewhere quite near to Ravenkeep, sometime in the fifth or sixth century of the Christian calendar. History had never been of immense interest to Columbine, but she guessed, by the seemingly Romanized clothing and artifacts, these humans existed sometime after the Romans had pulled their legions out of the British Isles, withdrawing to defend Rome itself against the encroaching barbarians.
At first the only puzzlement was why she was being granted such pointless camera-obscura vignettes of fifteen hundred years ago. At other times she had experienced dreams that could only be part of a common nosferatu memory, and she was a definite believer in the undead sharing some manner of universal mind, although others of her kind might argue with her. If that was the case, though, how could she account for the fact
that so many of the short vignettes took place in broad daylight, a sight no nosferatu, no matter how ancient, could ever have seen? The only sunshine dreams Columbine Dashwood ever experienced had their roots in her own short life as a human, and as the years passed, they had become increasingly few and far between. A second problem was, when the characters in these dreams spoke to each other, which they did quite regularly, she was completely unable to understand them or even so much as recognize the language they were speaking.
that so many of the short vignettes took place in broad daylight, a sight no nosferatu, no matter how ancient, could ever have seen? The only sunshine dreams Columbine Dashwood ever experienced had their roots in her own short life as a human, and as the years passed, they had become increasingly few and far between. A second problem was, when the characters in these dreams spoke to each other, which they did quite regularly, she was completely unable to understand them or even so much as recognize the language they were speaking.
Columbine would never claim any facility for language. With their infinitely extended life span, some nosferatu became almost obsessive about becoming as widely fluent as possible. Marieko was one of these, although primarily knowledgeable in the inexplicable babbling of Southeast Asia. Destry also had a smattering of various Asian languages, as well as a basic Central African pidgin, and, of course, there was always the almost obscene command of tongues on which Victor-bloody-Renquist so prided himself. She almost believed Renquist, dropped into the middle of the Amazon jungle, would be conversant in the unique dialect of the very first tribe he encountered. Columbine took the exact reverse approach, the traditional Anglo-Saxon view that only some massive and primal error had rendered the entire world unable to speak English. Despite her resistance to foreign verbs, nouns, and adjectives, she had, over her two hundred years, motivated by both self-protection and self-interest, picked up a smattering of schoolgirl Latin, a reasonable command of German, some bad French, and worse Italian. She could, however, converse articulately in basic Russian. It had been a matter of survival in 1919 and 1920, before she returned to England to wed the twitching and dysfunctional Peregrin.
Back in the early days when the dreams had been pastoral, insignificant, and at times even pleasant, their
inhabitants had embraced, as far as she could tell, two forms of speech. One, exclusive to the ruling and the beautiful, seemed to Columbine an odd mixture of Spanish and Latin, while the rank and file yammered in a dialect akin to Welsh. The inexplicable and endless song of the harper in the one dream certainly sounded Druidic to her untrained ear, but she was so shamelessly ill educated that she found it hard to be precise, even with herself. Educated or not, though, she had been in no doubt that the unintelligibility of the languages was another indication that the source of the dreams was both external and other than nosferatu. Previously, when a dream she’d dreamed could only have emanated from another of her kind, she had always known what everyone was talking about. In these dreams participants either conversed in the Old Speech, which all of the newly undead seemed to receive with all the other alterations to their DNA, or an instant and seamless translation, consciously or unconsciously provided by the mind from which the vision originated.
inhabitants had embraced, as far as she could tell, two forms of speech. One, exclusive to the ruling and the beautiful, seemed to Columbine an odd mixture of Spanish and Latin, while the rank and file yammered in a dialect akin to Welsh. The inexplicable and endless song of the harper in the one dream certainly sounded Druidic to her untrained ear, but she was so shamelessly ill educated that she found it hard to be precise, even with herself. Educated or not, though, she had been in no doubt that the unintelligibility of the languages was another indication that the source of the dreams was both external and other than nosferatu. Previously, when a dream she’d dreamed could only have emanated from another of her kind, she had always known what everyone was talking about. In these dreams participants either conversed in the Old Speech, which all of the newly undead seemed to receive with all the other alterations to their DNA, or an instant and seamless translation, consciously or unconsciously provided by the mind from which the vision originated.
Columbine had many times experienced dreams that could only have been an inadvertent print-through from Marieko in which Columbine found herself observing agonizing rituals in the black-vault dungeons of pitiless and inhuman shoguns, or hunting with the moon in the flawless pine forests at the foot of the symmetry of Mount Fuji. Such unavoidable intrusions on each other’s dreamstates were quite natural when two females lived in such intimate proximity. In the same way, after Destry had joined them, she found herself riding on the side of a captured Sherman tank through cheering crowds in the subtropical midnight as Che Guevara liberated Santa Clara, or scrambling for the last DC-3 out of Léopoldville as the city fell to fire and small-arms slaughter. In every case, Columbine had been able to understand every word.
The next logical explanation was that the dreams were coming from a location rather than any individual. Columbine
knew such things were possible. In her waking life, she had more than once observed the palest of psychic fires that remained, imprinted perhaps by either agony or ecstasy, or by the sheer weight of history, long after the individuals who had made that history had perished or fled. If such was the case, Ravenkeep itself had to be the prime suspect. The Devil only knew it had more than enough history. A settlement had almost certainly existed on the site in the fifth century, but that didn’t explain why the dreams should so suddenly appear out of nowhere. She could think of no pivotal event or radical alteration to the structure that might have triggered a ceaseless stream of such powerful emanations.
knew such things were possible. In her waking life, she had more than once observed the palest of psychic fires that remained, imprinted perhaps by either agony or ecstasy, or by the sheer weight of history, long after the individuals who had made that history had perished or fled. If such was the case, Ravenkeep itself had to be the prime suspect. The Devil only knew it had more than enough history. A settlement had almost certainly existed on the site in the fifth century, but that didn’t explain why the dreams should so suddenly appear out of nowhere. She could think of no pivotal event or radical alteration to the structure that might have triggered a ceaseless stream of such powerful emanations.
When the dreams became increasingly grim and violent, the puzzle was less a game and more a problem that required a solution. She began to find herself in the middle of mercilessly bloody battles in which warriors afoot, armed with axes and spears and carrying bossed wooden shields, were ridden down by well-organized Roman-style cavalry. Murderous weapons designed to cut and pierce carved hideous wounds in human flesh, slicing bodies and severing limbs. The slaughter was relentless, with neither side willing to give ground in a madness of death-or-glory. The unswerving and formidable infantry made its appearance even more fearsome by the universal adoption of ridged helmets with metal faceplates, masked and anonymous, mouthless and with blank slits for eyes. Some were of plain hammered metal, but others were iron dominoes, fashioned into fantasy faces of incongruously blank and idealized beauty, or the ugly contortions of howling demons from the mythology of the Rhine river cliffs and the Germanic forests. Anyone facing these warriors was presented with a terrible illusion that they might be something other than men. Not that the opposing cavalry seemed to entertain many illusions. They performed and dressed in emulated memory of the cruel professionalism of their recently departed imperial masters. Helms were crested
with stiff horsehair, and red battle cloaks flowed behind them over chain mail and bronze breastplates, and while the enemy rushed in a haphazard, hacking and slaying mob, they moved on command with the drilled precision of turn and counterturn, tactics planned first to contain and then to massacre from horseback.
with stiff horsehair, and red battle cloaks flowed behind them over chain mail and bronze breastplates, and while the enemy rushed in a haphazard, hacking and slaying mob, they moved on command with the drilled precision of turn and counterturn, tactics planned first to contain and then to massacre from horseback.
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