The Vampyre (18 page)

‘Yet how could I blame Haidée for reserving herself in this way, until that moment when she could know herself to be truly free?' Lord Byron paused; his eyes widened; he stared into the darkness as though it were the vanished past. ‘Her purity . . .' He paused, looking back into Rebecca's eyes. ‘Her purity,' he whispered, ‘had been as fierce and untamed as the passion in her soul - a flame of hope tended through the long years of bondage, and if I loved her then as I have loved nothing else since - well - it was because this flame had illuminated her - touched her wild beauty with immortal fire. I had no wish to steal what would scorch me - for all that my own blood seemed like lava in the veins - and so I waited. We pressed on to Missolonghi, and I knew, for as long as Haidée kept herself from me, that she could still not be certain that the Pasha was in his grave.

‘On the third afternoon of our journey, we reached the shores of Lake Trihonida. We paused here, for the lake was near Viscillie's native village, and he suggested adding to our bodyguard with his own countrymen. He had to ride into the mountains; so in his absence, we sheltered in a cave, where the air was heavy with the scent of wild roses, and the lake's blue crystal could just be seen through the trees. I held Haidée in my arms, pulling away her pageboy's cap so that her long hair spilled free. I stroked it, and she ran her fingers through mine, and we lay in loving solitude, as though there were no other life beneath the heavens but our own.

‘I stared out at the mountains across the lake, and felt my spirits blaze with hope and joy. I turned to Haidée. “He can't reach us,” I said. “Not here. He is dead.”

‘Haidée stared at me, her eyes large, languishingly dark. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, she nodded her head.

‘“He told me once that he loved you. Was that true, do you think?”

‘Haidée said nothing, but laid her cheek against my heart. “I don't know,” she said at last. “It may be.” She paused. “Love, though? - no, it couldn't have been love.”

‘“What, then?”

‘Haidée lay still on my chest. She could hear my heart, I knew, beating for her. “Blood,” she said at last. “Yes. The taste of my blood.”

‘“Blood?”

‘“You saw - saw what it did to him. He was intoxicated by it. I don't know why. It never happened when he drank from other people.” She sat up suddenly, clasping her knees. “Only when he drank from me.” She shivered. “Only from me.”

‘She reached for me again. She kissed me. I could feel her body shaking. “Byron,” she whispered, “is it true? Am I really no longer a slave?” She kissed me a second time, and I felt her tears on my skin. “Tell me I am free,” she said, stroking her cheeks against mine. “Show me I am free.” She rose to her feet; her cloak fell away; she tugged at her sash, so that her breasts were no longer concealed by her shirt. One after another, her clothes fell, and lay scattered at her feet. She bent low and her eyes gleamed dark - our lips drew near - they clung into a kiss. Haidée's arm clasped my shoulders, while mine, arcing round her head, was half-buried in the tresses it held. We were all in all to each other now - I had no feeling, no thought, but of Haidée - of her tongue's velvet touch - of the soft warmth of her nakedness against my own. We loved - and were beloved - drinking the other's sighs - until they ended in broken gasps, and I thought that if souls could die of joy, then ours would surely perish now, and yet it was not death, no, not death at all - not as we shuddered and melted in the other's arms - it was not death. At last, by degrees, our senses were restored, only to be overcome and dashed on again, so that sounding against my chest, Haidée's heart felt as though it would never beat apart from mine again.

‘Outside now, the afternoon was darkening. Haidée slept. So beautiful she was - so fierce in love before, now stirless, trusting, gentle. The solitude of love and of the night was filled with the same tranquil power; in the distance, the shadows of the rocks were advancing across the lake; in my arms, Haidée stirred and whispered my name, but she did not wake, and her breathing was as soft as the twilight breeze. I watched her, pillowed on my chest. Again, in that silent place, I felt how utterly alone we were, alone with the plenitude and richness of life. I gazed at Haidée, and knew Adam's wonder at the gift of Eve, with the whole world mine, a paradise I believed would never be lost.

‘I looked up. It was almost night now. The sun must have set, and the mountains were blue silhouettes against the stars. Above one peak gleamed the moon, waxing again - and then, just for a moment, I thought I saw a dark form pass in front of it. “Who's that?” I whispered softly. No answer broke the stillness of the night. I stirred, and Haidée looked up at me, her eyes suddenly wide and bright. “What have you seen?” she asked. I said nothing, but pulled on a cloak and reached for a sword. Haidée followed me. We walked outside. No sound, no movement, broke the calm.

‘And then Haidée pointed. “There,” she whispered, clutching my arm. I looked - and saw a body lying amongst the flowers. I bent down and rolled it over. The wide eyes of one of the guards stared up at me. He was dead. He seemed drained of blood, and a look of unbearable terror disfigured his face. I looked up at Haidée, then rose to my feet to hold her in my arms. At that moment, ahead of us, there was the spurting of a torch, and then another, until there was an arc of flames ringing us, and I saw, behind each one, a Tartar face. None of them spoke. I raised my sword. Slowly, the line parted. A figure, cloaked in black, stepped out from the dark.

‘“Put up your sword,” said the Pasha.

‘Dumbly, I stared at him. Then I laughed, and shook my head.

‘“Very well.” The Pasha pulled aside his cloak. His wounds, where I had shot him, were still damp with blood. He drew a pistol from his belt. “I thank you for the opportunity,” he said. “I owe you this.”

‘He cocked the pistol. The stillness, in that brief instance, was like ice. Then Haidée threw herself in front of me, and I pushed her aside, and as I heard the pistol shot explode in my ears, so also I felt a pain that knocked me to the ground. I clutched at my side - it was wet. Haidée called out my name, but as she ran to me, she was held by two of the Tartar guards, and at once she froze, not sobbing, but pale and stern, so that her face seemed chilled by the kiss of death.

‘The Pasha stared at her. Then he gestured, and a third guard stepped forwards. He held what looked like sacking in his hand. The Pasha lifted his slave girl's chin. I watched his lip quiver, and then it was fixed again, as though sorrow or disdain forbade him to smile. “Take her,” he said.

‘Haidée glanced at me. “Byron,” she whispered. “Goodbye.” Then she went with the guards, and I saw her no more.

‘“How touching,” hissed the Pasha, close to my face. “So it was for her - for
her, milord
- that you spurned all I had to offer you?”

‘“Yes,” I said softly. I twisted my neck, so that I could stare into his eyes. “It was not her fault. I took her. She never wanted to come with me.”

‘The Pasha laughed. “Such nobility!”

‘“It's the truth.”

‘“No.” The Pasha's smile faded. “No,
milord
, it is not. She is as guilty of treachery as you. For both of you, then - punishment.”

‘“Punishment? What will you do to her?”

‘“ We have a penalty in this part of the world, an amusing one, for faithlessness. It will do quite well enough for a slave. But I would forget about her,
milord
- it is your own fate that should be disturbing you.” He reached over to my side, and dabbled his fingers in my blood. Then he licked them, and smiled. “You are dying,” he said. “Would you welcome that - death?” I said nothing. The Pasha frowned, and suddenly his eyes gleamed as though lit by red fire, and his face was darkened by rage and despair. “I would have given you immortality,” he whispered. “I would have had you share eternity with me.” He kissed me, brutally, his teeth cutting my lips. “And instead - betrayal!” He kissed me again, and his tongue licked at the blood in my mouth. “So pale you are already,
milord
- so pale and beautiful.” He stretched across me, so that his wound touched and blended with mine. “Shall I let it rot, your beauty? - drink out your mind? - set you to scrubbing my castle floors?” He laughed, and tore away my cloak, so that I lay naked beneath him. He kissed me again and again, pressing himself tight against me, and then I felt his fingernail stroke across my throat. Blood, in a thin line, welled up from the scratch. The Pasha lapped at it, while with his nails he tore delicate ribbons from my chest. My heart was beating loudly in my ears; I looked up at the stars, and the sky seemed to be pulsing like some tortured living thing. I felt the Pasha's lips, drinking from my wounds, and when he looked up at me again, his moustache and beard were matted with gore, my gore, and he smiled at me. He bent down close, to whisper in my ear. “I give you knowledge,” he said. “Knowledge and eternity. I curse you with them.”

‘Then there was nothing in my ears but the pulsing of my blood. I screamed: my chest was being ripped apart, but even as the pain seared my every nerve, I felt the quickening I had known with Haidée, the shiver of passion. The delight and the pain both rose until I thought they could rise no more, and yet still they rose, up and up, like twin themes of music soaring into the night - and then, somehow, I was above them both. Feelings remained - and yet it wasn't I who was feeling them. The blood beat on - and the Pasha's tongue now was against my living heart. A great calm descended on me, as the blood slipped thick and barely felt from my veins. I looked at the trees, the lake, the mountain peaks - all were dyed red. I looked up at the sky; my blood seemed splashed across it. As the Pasha drank on, I felt myself drawn into him, and then beyond him, and I felt myself become the world. The beating thickened and slowed. My blood across the sky was growing dark. A final pulse - and then stillness. There was nothing. All was dead - the lake, the breeze, the moon, the stars. Darkness was the universe.

‘And then - then - from that motionless silence - a pulse again - a single beat. I opened my eyes - I could see. I looked down at myself. I seemed stripped of all my skin, so naked that there was nothing but flesh, and organs, and arteries and veins, shimmering in the moon, viscous and ripe. And yet, although I was flayed like an anatomist's corpse - I could move. As I stirred and rose, I felt a terrible strength start to flow through my limbs. My heart was quickening. I looked around - the night seemed touched with silver, and the shadows were blue and deep with life. I moved towards them; my feet touched the ground; each blade of grass, each tiny flower, filled me with pleasure, as though my nerves were harp strings to be brushed against, and as I moved, the rhythms of life hung rich in the air, and I felt a great hunger for them. I began to run. I didn't know what I hunted, but I moved like the breath of the wind, through woods and over mountain passes, and all the time, the hunger inside me grew more and more desperate. I bounded up a cliff of rocks, and smelled something golden and warm ahead of me. I had to have it. I would have it. I shouted my need to the sky. But no human voice came out from my throat. I listened to my cry - the howling of a wolf.

‘A flock of goats looked up, startled. I pressed myself flat against the rock. One of the goats stood just below me. I could smell it - the blood in its veins and muscles, animating it, giving it life. The tiniest corpuscle would seem like a fleck of gold. I leaped. With my jaws, I ripped at the goat's neck. Blood, in a thick warm spray, washed my face. I drank it, and it was as though I had never understood what taste could be before. Speed I had too, and eyesight, and understanding. I would observe the wide eyes of a terrified kid, and almost pause with delight that such a thing could exist - how delicate it was, how intricate! When I held the creature, the beat of its life beneath my claws filled me with an exquisite joy. And then I would drink - and feel the joy quickening through my own veins. How many of the flock did I kill? I couldn't tell. I was drunk on them - the pleasure of killing left me with no time for thought. There was only sensation, pure and distilled. There was only life, all around and inside me again.'

 

Rebecca, who had been staring at the vampire, her eyes wide with horror, slowly shook her head. ‘Life?' she asked softly. ‘Life? But it wasn't yours. No. You had passed beyond life now . . . hadn't you?'

Lord Byron looked at her, and his eyes were like glass. ‘The pleasure, though . . .' he whispered. ‘The pleasure of that hour . . .' Slowly, he hooded his eyes, and laced his fingers together in remembrance.

Rebecca watched him, afraid to speak. ‘Even for that hour, though,' she said quietly at last, ‘for all the life you had drunk - you were not alive.'

Lord Byron opened his eyes. ‘I slept until the rising of the sun,' he said abruptly, ignoring Rebecca's words.

‘The touch of its rays filled me with dizziness. I tried to climb to my feet - I couldn't. I looked at my hand - it was my own again. It was sticky with slime. I stared down over my naked body. I was lying in a pool of effluent, of foul waste, and then, as I stirred again and felt the unaccustomed lightness in myself, I knew what the stuff was - my living matter - excreted by my body as something alien to itself. The filth was already starting to bubble and rot in the heat.

‘I crawled to my hands and knees. Carcasses were scattered all over the rocks - a mess of goat hair, and bone, and drying blood. I felt disgust, yes, and revulsion - but no nausea - instead, looking at the black blood on the rocks and on myself, I felt a glowing strength that rose up through my body and limbs. I stared at my side; there was no sign of my wound, not even a scar. I noticed a stream - I crossed over to it and washed. Then I began to walk. Out of the water, the sun hurt my skin. Soon, it was unbearable. I looked around for shelter. Ahead, over the brow of the hill, was an olive tree. I hurried towards it. I crossed the brow, and there, below me, stretching away, lay the blue stillness of Lake Trihonida. I stared at it from under the tree. I remembered the last time I had seen it - when I had been alive. And now?' Lord Byron stared at Rebecca, and nodded. ‘Yes, now - this was when I understood -
fully
understood - that I had passed beyond life - that I had been transformed into a quite different order of being. I began to shake. What was I? What had happened? What was this thing the Pasha had made me into? - a drinker of blood - a tearer of throats . . .' He paused. ‘A
vardoulacha
. . .' He smiled faintly, and clasped his hands. Silence, for a few moments, shrouded him.