Vigil (25 page)

Chapter Fifty-Seven

1844

We lived alone for one blissful year. We lived off the land. I would hunt for her. We never wanted for meat. Even in the lean winters I could hear the heartbeats of the beasts in the forests that surrounded the roads we took.

             
In my short time with the people I had learned enough to keep our home on the road. Once, when we threw a wheel we had to run on wood until we could find a town and a metal worker. We just did not have the tools or the skills to fix the iron rim that covered the wooden wheel.

             
The horses threw shoes, too, but then I had a way with beasts. I think even an animal as large as a horse necessarily thinks twice about bucking in my hands.

             
Rather than fading during those quiet months my strength became prodigious. I could lift the caravan easily. I could run for hours, chasing down meat for our meals. Carrying a full grown stag across my shoulders did not tire me at all. It seemed strange to me that although I had denied myself human blood for such a long time I was still stronger than any mortal alive. I am not a big person. I stand a shade under six feet. My shoulders are not particularly broad, nor am I thick across the chest. My strength had nothing to do with my size. It was entirely a product of my blood.

             
When I think of other vampires I have met, their power is often a product of size and gluttony. Over the years I have lived I have grown stronger with age. I think if all vampires could have the life I have lived my kind would be different.

             
In no way am I suggesting that my life has made me benign, some kind of vampire saint intent on saving my kind. I am under no illusions.

             
My wife came to me one day while I was sitting under the moonlight, my legs crossed and my head thrown back. I was relaxed and even content with my lot. I had learned to appreciate the beauty of the world. The moon was pocked and scarred, like my face and limbs. I did not know then that its glow was light from the sun. At such a remove and with the benefit of time I had become able to stand its glare, even stare at it for minutes on end without the stabbing pain that the bright sunlight gave me.

             
‘Michas,’ she said as she approached. I smiled and patted the grass beside me. She hitched up her skirts and sat on the ground, facing me.

             
‘It is beautiful, is it not?’ I said, of the moon and the night.

             
‘It is.’

             
She turned and laid her head in my lap, so she could see the moon over head and my face at the same time. I had never doubted that she loved me completely, but in that motion any man would have been sure of his wife’s affections.

             
I stroked her hair back from her face. She seemed sad and thoughtful. Normally she was given to fits of laughter and full of energy, but lately she had been quiet and careful.

             
I should have noticed that there was something amiss before now, but I was in the cradle of love, and love is blind in all things.

             
‘What is wrong, my love?’ I asked.

             
She turned her face away from mine and I saw that there were tears in her eyes. I did not know what was wrong. I would have done anything to make her smile. Over the past year I had discovered a sense of humour within myself that was only for her. I could make her smile and laugh and I did so whenever I could just to hear her giggles and see her shake with glee at my capering.

             
I knew I could not make her laugh, not this night. My heart felt heavy with dread. She was not prone to meaningless drama. She lived and loved a vampire. That was drama enough for anyone.

             
‘Tell me. I will not be angry.’

             
‘You will,’ she said, still staring off into the distance. I wished she would meet my eyes, so that I could read there what was wrong. I am not perceptive though. If I had been I would have noticed sooner that she had not been herself for some time.

             
‘I can help, if only I know what is wrong. Do not make me guess. You know I am not subtle enough for such games.’

             
‘I know, Michas. I know all too well. You are my husband, after all. I understand you well enough.’

             
‘Then…?’

             
She wiped the tears from her eyes and looked at me at last.

             
‘I am sickening, Michas.’

             
‘With what?’

             
‘I do not know. But I think it is serious.’

             
She must have read my face easily, because she said, ‘There, you are angry.’

             
Trust her to make a success out of this moment.

             
I laid my hands on her belly. ‘Is it here? I have seen you holding your stomach.’

             
‘I think that is where it started. That is where it is at its worst.’

             
‘What is it?’

             
‘Something eating me from inside. A sickness. My belly aches with pain and…there is blood…when I…’

             
I understood what she meant, though I had not smelled fresh blood. But then she covered her leavings with dirt. When she came on with her month I could smell her blood all too well. Sometimes it drove me wild with desire, but I always hid that from her. I controlled my urges because I loved her and I did not want her to know what I was, even though in the way of many marriages it was there, a secret that was perhaps covered with many layers of dirt, but that both partners knew full well lurked in the earth, waiting to be uncovered.

             
‘A cancer?’

             
‘I think…yes. I think I am dying, Michas.’

             
I felt heavy all of a sudden, like a weight had suddenly taken hold of my heart and dragged it from the moonlit heights of the sky to the bottom of a cold lake. I struggled to find my breath. My hands slid from her face and fell with a thump to the grass.

             
She saw my anguish and took my hand in hers.

             
‘I think we have some time left.’ She forced a smile and laid my hand on her face again. I just held her then and stared. Already I was trying to memorise her face, burn it onto my eyes so that I would see nothing else for the rest of my years.

             
But I knew all too well how my life would go. The years would pass and the memory would fade. I could no longer picture Radu’s face, or Brother Jonas, or any of the other bit players in my never ending drama. Her face, too, would fade from memory.

             
We sat that way for perhaps an hour, in silence. We each had our thoughts and in the unwritten language of a marriage we understood the need to take time for ourselves.

             
The moon had moved toward the horizon, signalling that dawn would not be far away. I kissed the top of her head, the closest I ever came to physical shows of affection.

             
‘I could heal you.’

             
It seemed she had not heard me for she made no response to my offer for a long time. I was about to repeat myself when she finally spoke.

             
‘But then I would not be me anymore, would I?’

             
‘You would be different…’ I allowed.

             
‘And would you still love me, for eternity, if I became as you?’

             
Now we had my nature in the open I felt as though a small weight had lifted. I had not realised how hard it had been to keep such things separate during our marriage.

             
‘I would. You know I would.’

             
She shook her head. ‘You would not. Love is not a life. It is not a mountain, or the seas. Love is beautiful because it cannot last.’

             
‘Do not be foolish. I can make you whole. Just one kiss…’

             
She looked at me, sadness in her eyes. ‘What we have would become something else, over time. It would change, and become nothing. Perhaps we could be friends. Perhaps I would one day become as you are. But for the years it would take for me to slow…’

             
‘I could wait for the hunger to slow.’

             
‘And would I be uncaring of all the people that I killed while I was young? I know all too well the cycle of your kind. My people have met many of your kind before.’

             
I wanted to ask just how much she did know. How much the people had known when they had allowed me to join the dance, and for a short time, join them in their travels. I wondered, but I did not ask. It did not seem relevant then.

             
I knew that she could not knowingly turn into a vampire, to feed on the innocent. I considered forcing her to the change. But then, that too would end what we had, would it not? After a year of chaste marriage it would be the same as rape. It would mean a betrayal. I knew I could not do it.

             
Some small dark part of me wished that the pain would become so great that she would beg me to change her. I was not so changed in nature, after all.

             
‘No, Michas,’ she said, stroking the back of my hand. ‘We will live out our lives and man and woman, the way we began, and we will be thankful of the time we have had together. It was always a miracle that we met, and what we have is a gift. We will not destroy it with longing. I will die, and you will live on. You will remember me. That will be my eternity.’

             
The night took on a reddish hue. I was crying. I thought I had forgotten how.

*

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Romanian

1845

The cancer, for that was what it was, came on quickly. It was a wildfire, burning through her body, destroying her will and her laughter. Her beauty was the last to go, but then that faded, too, until she became drawn, her eyes began to sink into her head.

              I was beside myself. I knew I could heal her, but even as the pain ravaged her she would not let me. Out of respect for her I stopped asking.

             
One day, when she was in delirium, I took one of the horses and rode out for the nearest town. I knew it was but a few hours ride to the north. I had been there before, many years ago.

             
I hoped I would be able to find what I needed.

             
I rode through the dark. It was a moonless night, the stars covered by thick, roiling cloud. A storm was brewing. The wind was picking up. There were no people on the road. No one would be foolish enough to be out in the open on a night like this, but I was not worried. The weather holds no sway over me, but for the cold, which I still abhor.

             
I wore a heavy cloak, pulled tightly about me against the wind. I guided the heavy horse along the road, watchful of the many potholes along the paved road. I could see well enough, but my horse would be nearly blind in the pitch darkness. He rode well enough, but was shy of the darkness. It took a firm hand to guide him but I have a way with horses.

             
A light rain began to fall as I reached the outskirts of the town. It was a quiet night, even though the town was moderately large. There were very few people on the streets and even the taverns were quiet. I rode unmolested or bothered for ten minutes or so, going from paved streets to a cobbled road.

             
The town had changed beyond all recognition in the many years since I had passed through this way. The last time I had come this way there had been a plague, and many of the house had stood empty. Now there were many lights behind the shuttered windows. The business district was silent. There were no taverns for noisy drunks, and few homes. I was beginning to think I was on a fool’s errand. The last time I had passed through there had been an apothecary, but it was not where I remembered it.

             
I rode the full length of the street, my horse’s hooves loud despite the growing wind and rain clattering on the tiled roofs. I could not spend hours searching the city. I did not like leaving my wife sick and delirious with nobody there to give her water or sooth her brow. If she came too and found me gone she would panic. I did not wish to be the cause of any anguish if it could be avoided.

             
There were many streets leading from the main street. I rode down a few of these, until I found something else that caught my eye.

             
It was a shop unlike any other I had seen. There were pictures in the windows. I had never seen their like before. I dismounted and walked over to the shop window and peered through.

             
It was remarkable. The mountains were there, and the lakes, and the rivers. There were people, and flowers, and horses. I was transfixed for minutes, staring at the pictures. I had, of course, seen paintings before. I was not such a heathen as that. But these paintings were more realistic than anything I had seen previously. It was art of a kind that I could understand. The portraits gave their subjects life, and the landscapes captured the feel of the land, hinted at the weather. I could almost feel the temperature change as I stared at a simple painting of the crops in summertime.

             
I wanted to see more. I pushed hard on the front door of the shop and broke the lock. There was one picture of a woman, regal in her bearing, on an easel. I studied it for a long time.

             
This could be a way to remember her by, I thought. Even in the dark I could see the way that the painter had used light and shade. I could make out each brush stroke, the way the subject seemed to stand out in the dark of the night.

             
I toyed with the idea of asking the proprietor who had painted these pictures. I only needed one artist of such skill, and the skill of all the art here was remarkable. But I could not wait for daybreak and leave her alone to the pain of her disease.

             
Instead, I prowled through the shop, searching for something with which I could capture her fading beauty myself. In the back of the shop I found what I was looking for. I took a set of paints – I did not know enough of art to know which colours I would need, but I determined to find out. I had but a short time in which to learn, but I was skilled enough, my hand was steady…how hard could it be?

             
I took the paints, and three canvases stretched taut over wooden backs. I found an oilcloth in the back of the shop covering a half finished painting. Beside in, on a palette, were three brushes of varying thicknesses. I saw from the palette that the paints were mixed to create different colours.

             
There was so much to learn, but I did not have the luxury of time. It seems strange, how my life, although preternaturally long, is measured in moments of such urgency. Perhaps, I mused to myself, if I did not spend such a long time sleeping and reading I could have learned how to paint.

             
But I did not have time even to berate myself for all the years of my life that I had wasted on other pursuits. Who knows what skills they will lack until the need arises?

             
With my cache of materials wrapped in a large cloth I went back out into the pounding rain. The rain was so heavy that as much splashed up from the ground as fell from the sky. My boots were drenched before I even reached the horse.

             
I was glad that the artist that lived above the shop had not woken. It would have been a shame to kill someone with such talent.

             
I forgot all about my original purpose, which I suppose is fairly shameful. I am a selfish creature, though. I did not rationalise my decision, but I suppose in my head and my heart I made a choice that it was more important that I remember my wife for all my years in paint than I take away her pain.

             
When I returned from my trip the sky was lightening and the rain had tapered off into a steady drizzle.

             
I came into the caravan and set the paints and canvases on the floor. I felt her head as she slept. She was calmer now. Her head was sweaty, the sheets of the narrow cot we shared were crumpled from her tossing and turning.

             
I did not wake her. I began to paint.

             
I am a tireless creature. When I sleep, I sleep with all my energy, as I had done for more than a hundred years. When I am awake, I am more awake than any human could understand.

             
She slept for nearly thirty hours straight. I painted all that time. At first with tentative strokes, with no idea of technique at all. I failed to get the colour right, even with such perfect vision as mine. My lines were blocky and gave no hint at the subtle curves of her face. I failed, time and time again, to get even a hint of her personality into the picture. My first canvas became thick and heavy with paint. I painted over and over my failures, even before the paint was dry. It became a muddy mess of a painting, slurred and drunken.

             
In a way, I should have kept that first attempt. It showed perfectly what was happening to my wife.

             
At dawn the following day she came around.

             
She managed a smile.

             
‘Are you hungry?’

             
‘I could eat something small, perhaps,’ she said. Her voice was cracked. I passed her a drink.

             
‘Could you get me outside?’ she said after she had recovered enough energy to sit up.

             
I took her outside, carrying her. She had no more weight than a bundle of sticks.

             
‘Are you painting me?’ she asked, eventually. She did not ask where I had come by the paints. I sometimes got things for her that I knew would please her. A new dress, some fresh fruit, a pot for tea…small things, that people would not miss. I did not want to risk trouble while we were together. That year I had been very careful to drawn no attention to myself or us.

             
‘I am trying,’ I admitted. ‘But I do not have the skill.’

             
‘Learn well, then. I would like to see myself in a portrait. I would be like a lady in some fine castle, having my own painting. I am glad. It will be good for you to have something to do while I sleep. You must get bored watching me sleep all the time.’

             
‘I like to watch you sleep,’ I said. I was glad. It made her smile.

             
‘Learn well, my love,’ she said. I held her in the morning sun and kept my eyes open to watch her face as she fell into sleep again. The pain was intense but I did not wish to waste one more moment.

*