Their innocent laughter filled my spirit with hope and longing. It struck endless echoes in the vacuum of my soul. And in that instant, I cherished the happiness of my former years. I had known that bliss once, long ago.
“Jamie!” the boy wailed as he held onto both sides of the wobbling bark. “The boat, Jamie! It's sinking!”
“Stop moving, Danny!”
“Jamie, I can't swim!” The boy panicked. “Help me!”
Danny became restless. He stood on the tilting boat, not knowing what to do. Submersion of the vessel was imminent. Its wooden planks yielded to the water, inch by inch, in a slow steady motion.
My racing heartbeat throbbed in my ears, and whatever drowsiness the wine had fixed upon me vanished in that instant. Instigated by the child's cries, I ran to the shoreline but it was too late. The boat turned to one side and the boy splashed into the water; his body disappeared, swallowed by the unforgiving river in less than a minute.
Tears filled my eyes. My sweaty hands quivered as I reached for my open mouth and stared at the water, struck with horror. Fear took over every muscle in my body and pinned me to that shore with no hopes of ever setting me free from its powerful hold.
I could not move, and I hated myself for it!
“Danny!” the boy screamed. And as utter stillness returned to the river, he removed his shirt and took the plunge into the water.
He swam fast and soon reached the spot where his brother had fallen, but no sign of him did he find.
A minute passed.
Danny's head emerged, coughing water between gasping breaths.
He lived.
“I'm coming, Danny!” Jamie swam towards the child and grabbed him. He then glided through the water with his brother's arm wrapped around his shoulder and reached the shoreline.
The boys' small bodies stretched out onto the muddy ground as exhaustion took hold of them.
They were safe.
A sudden sense of lightness overwhelmed me. I fell on my knees. The frantic chant of seagulls swirled around me and the world gave one quick turn.
Everything went black.
I was out.
A cold gust of humid wind brought me back to my senses.
I opened my eyes to find myself alone, laying a few steps away from the shoreline.
The promising day had died long ago.
The sounds of sails brushing against the wind appealed to me like a soft pressing melody. But more than that, its call reminded me of childhood dreams; it rekindled my boyish desire to travel and see the New World.
Growing up, I had read many stories of pirates and treasures; I had learned of conquistadors and adventurous men who had plunged themselves into adversity no matter how precarious or dangerous the conditions of their journeys. Fate had led them to discovery, and the courage of their convictions had forever paid their rewards as their names were engraved in the annals of History.
Fantasies of such nature flourished in my young mind, but never once had the actual thought of leaving home crossed the threshold of my determination. Never had I imagined that choice. Not until she had opened my eyes to the endless path of possibilities lying beyond our house's front gates.
The first time I ventured out of the small world of comfort that wrapped its gentle arms around me, that was the time I foresaw I was capable enough—or at least willing enough—to move past the realm of fantasy, and embed myself in the many adventures of my mind's creation.
Then again, the revival of such youthful dreams didn’t just answer to the sound of soaring sails. The overbearing load of guilt and misery my life had become fueled such illusions with much ease. A journey to the New World meant certain death in most cases, whether by misfortune leading to shipwreck, sickness at sea, or illness acquired in the new lands.
Whichever the case, this was my way out.
I got on my feet and moved towards the dock.
Flooded in torchlight, taverns and brothels came to life, saturating the air with merry laughter and boasts of camaraderie at this late hour. The promise of ale and a woman's company lured my footsteps, but I resisted its appeal and followed the path to the ships instead.
Men were gathered on the docks. Stories of the colonies charmed my ears as I moved past them.
“…their skin as soft as silk and brown like cinnamon, with long black hair that's shining bright!”
“Pay no attention to him, boys. Tabby here fancies he's Mr. John Cabot himself!”
Roaring laughter spread amongst the crowd.
Beyond the small groups of sailors, a man dressed in slops and a Monmouth cap kept to himself while carving a smoking pipe out of a piece of dark wood.
“Good evening,” I said as I approached him. “Are you off soon?”
“What see your eyes, lad?”
“A man who cannot wait to finish that pipe and have a smoke,” I mused.
The man turned his squinting eyes at me and laughed. “All right, laddie. You've got my attention.”
“Tell me, do you know of any vessels sailing to the New World?”
The man turned to the group of sailors, then gave me a smug look.
“Aye,” he said. “This one you see here, the Black Maiden, she sails soon.”
The sight of the majestic Brigantine floating behind him filled my eyes. The square-rigged two-master was at least a hundred feet long. Its figurehead, unlike any other I had seen, bore a woman's full body dressed in black garments. A black veil covered her face, but I caught a flash of blue eyes underneath it.
This is it. The Black Maiden.
“What say you to taking on another crew member?” I said.
The sailor tilted his head and stroked his beard. “Are ye any good at sailing, lad?”
I smirked. “No. Not really. But I can learn...”
By the scowl on his face, it became clear my words displeased him.
“I can pay my way too.”
With this last remark, I recaptured his interest. He drew half a smile as soon as I showed him a handful of gold coins.
“I only need a one-way passage to the New World,” I said. “I have no intention of ever coming back.”
“What do I care, laddie? Get in!” He reached for the money.
“I'm sure payment upon our arrival will not aggravate you,” I said, retrieving my hand. “After all, what need is there for money at sea?”
“All right, lad. You seem like a true gent,” he said.
The sailor welcomed me with a simple wave of his hand, signaling the walk to the boat's boarding plank.
Bliss. It rushed through my veins as I stepped onto that platform and embarked on the Black Maiden. I could not wait for it to set sail and leave Bristol behind, to look back and see it turn into a brown dot in the distance.
After years of whimsical living, I had reached a point where I ran out of excuses to set my mind at ease from its latent state of weariness. I dreaded the times of quiet and solitude because in them I listened to the vicious voice in my head that claimed, “You are a killer, Ivan!”
But this torment would soon reach its end. There was no other way. I lacked the courage to end it myself, but Mother Nature's steady hand never failed to jab the knife deep. I had eluded death all my life, who would have thought now it would be me who ran to its perilous embrace?
“An’ where do ye think yoo’re going?” a raspy voice spoke behind me.
I turned back. The man standing before me was concealing his identity under a dark hooded cloak.
“Who are you?” I said with a self-entitled tone.
The man moved closer to the pool of light fixed between us and removed his hood. A large scar covered his left cheek; it was deep and x-shaped and spread across half of his face. I shuddered at the sight of it.
“Ye may not remember me, lad. But I remember ye!”
Oh, I remembered him.
“You're that sailor I met years ago...,” I mumbled, “Gallagher!”
“Aye, a sailur I be back 'en... but
th' Black Maiden's keptin is whit yer eyes see now!” He laughed and the crew laughed with him.
“I travel to the New World...”
“Still chasin’ that dream, ur ye?” Gallagher folded his arms across his chest and gave me a flash of his hideous black teeth as he grinned. “The sea calls fur ye, laddie, 'at much is true.”
The sea, the Black Maiden, Death... I did not care. Just take me to the other side, the sooner the better.
“So, you will take me?”
Gallagher sighed. “That, I will not do, lad.”
How dare he refuse my passage? “I am prepared to pay—”
“No money in tha warld can make me, ur any other sailur, take ye aboard, lad,” he said.
His hand landed on my shoulder; he pressed enough for it to mean more than reassurance. The condescending gesture irritated me. I clenched my teeth and freed from his presumptuous grasp, keeping all manner of curse words locked within my tongue.
The sailors stirred. Murmuring voices raised questions as to the reasons for their Captain's words. I wanted an answer as well.
Gallagher raised his hands and called for his crew's attention once more. “Tha thing is, yoo're bad luck, laddie.”
“What makes you say this, Captain Gallagher?” I scorned. “I demand to know!”
He turned and addressed the men. “This bairn ye see haur is nane other than Stephen Lockhart's son... his only livin’ son!”
Within seconds of the Captain's plain speech, the crew fixed their prying eyes on me as if I were a demon. Gallagher turned once more and faced me closer. The stench of his breath alone would have been enough to make me faint.
“Yer cursed. No one in their reit minds would take ye aboard, lad,” he whispered. “Prepare to disembark... ma Laird.”
I had enough.
After that pitiful night at the harbor, with no means to make my way to the New World, I decided to return home, to Winterbourne.
For days, I remained locked in my room, neglecting all food or hygiene. My boyish face hid under a heavy black beard and I had nothing but wine for company.
Terrorizing dreams followed my precious hours of drunkenness. Of most nightmares, I recalled little, but it was the shuddering and weeping that ensued that haunted my spirit. One dream, in particular, I did recall.
I pull myself out of the lake's freezing water, the wind lashes at my face. With painful shallow breaths, my body contorts itself as it crawls away from the shoreline. I lay on the snow and turn my head towards the lake. The frozen scenery, soundless. My blurred vision sees it, but my brain fails to understand. Small shadows move near the lake's embankment. Hands.
A figure stretches in the distance. With dragging feet, it moves towards me. It is not human. I see its face. And though I know this monster plots to claim his rightful vengeance over me, I do not move. And then, it speaks.
“You are a killer, Ivan. It should have been you... You should have died years ago!”
Every time the nightmare came, I woke up crying. I had just opened my eyes from it this very morning.
The bottle of wine rested close to me. I grabbed it and drank its remnants. And once emptied, I tossed it into the fire.
“You cannot go on like this, Ivan,” she said as she knelt before me.
I had not sensed her presence.
Under her arm, she carried a water pitcher and basin with blue floral motifs. She placed them on the floor and drew a folded gully knife from her apron.
“Why did I live?” I whispered with a vacant stare.
“You lived because you were strong,” Alisa said.
Ah, the comforting echoes of Father's wisdom!
She raised her skirt. Alisa revealed her legs and knees without any demure, and my eyes ran across them as if they were the road to both bliss and perdition. She sat on the floor and soaked a cloth in warm water before covering my face with it.
“Strong?” I said. I was weak. Everyone had told me so for the last twenty-four years of my life!
No matter how many years had passed, I still could not come to terms with Viktor's death. It was not in me to outlive my brother. I was not destined to live beyond the age of ten, for that matter. I was the weakling, Viktor was not.
“I've never been strong...”
“But you are,” she whispered. Alisa removed the cloth from my face and soaked my beard in scented oils. “Stay still.”
She slid behind me and locked my chest between her knees. With one hand on my brow, she tilted my head back enough to cast the sharpened blade's first dreaded strike over my neck, just above the jugular vein.
Maybe she'll make a deep cut, and all of this will finally be over.
But she did not.
Her gentle hand maneuvered the keen knife with nothing but dexterous care. Every strike infused with so much tenderness that it compelled me to the point of tears. Not a shred of her concern did my rotten soul deserve. And yet, here she was. And just when I thought I had run out of tears, another one rolled down my cheek. But this one was for her.
For eight years, she had cared for me. She had seen me fall to the pits of despair, again and again, and never once lost hope. With devoted patience, she had picked me up from the depths of hell more than once.
Beautiful as she was, Alisa did not lack suitors. Men had pursued her from a tender age. Father had offered her strategic matches over the past years, perhaps three or four times since Viktor's death. But as surely as she had declined Mr. Fatchett, Alisa had refused them all, claiming that marriage was not in her nature, and driving Father mad every single time.
Deep inside, in all selfishness, I wanted to believe she rejected her suitors because of me. I wanted to believe that I meant the world to her, so much so, that she would decline all offers of marriage because they would only take her away from me.
She was twenty-six years old, and even when reaching this age meant the loss of a maiden’s opportunity for marriage, Alisa looked as fresh and young as if she were nineteen years of age.
With a clean cloth, she washed my cheeks and chin. The minute she finished, her delicate hands framed my face and her large blue eyes locked into mine.
“You have to get better,” she whispered and her eyes filled with tears. “My heart cannot bear this any longer.”
Her words grasped my soul. The boldness of my hands preceded my thinking, and before I knew it, my fingertips touched her soft delicate hand.
Time stopped. The air thickened.
A rare shift stirred between us—a sudden spark, an invisible force pulling us closer.
Her widened eyes, the halting of her breath, the way her lips parted... she felt it too.
Within seconds, her hand withdrew, but I seized her wrist and pulled her closer, unwilling to let go—not until I unraveled the meaning of such a powerful electrical surge in our midst.
She glanced at me once more with pleading eyes; her heaving chest and blushing cheeks gave me enough warning—I frightened her.
The second I realized it, I released her from my grasp, wanting to blame the wine for my visceral reaction, but knowing full well it was not true.
She gathered her things and went to the door. But before she left me to wonder about this tiny incident between us, she stopped at the room's threshold and stood there quite still for a while.
A few minutes passed. She drew something from her apron. A crumpled piece of parchment. Alisa turned back and handed it to me.
“What is it?”
“I've kept it for years,” she mused, her mind elsewhere.
The page had been torn from a book; its exquisite drawings depicted an island, and below, a vast square with an extensive colonnade leading to a central basilica.
I had seen this before. It belonged to a travel guide.
“Venetia, cittá nobilissima é singolare,” I read.
“I hear its carnival encourages licentious pleasure,” she mused as she headed to the doorway.
Thank God she had already turned her back to m
e; otherwise, the shock in my face would have reached her eyes. I was certain my jaw had dropped by the end of her sentence. Scandalous me; from time to time, I forgot she surpassed me both in age and life experience.
“Maybe we should go,” she added, and then closed the door behind her with her foot.
I ran my hand over my closely shaven beard and sat there, stupefied, in silent awe at Alisa's surprising forwardness.
“Venice...” I mused as I stared at the sketched page.
5
The Grand Tour
The winged lion fixed its eternal eyes on me from the other side of the page. Its imposing figure held me spellbound. For centuries, il Leone di San Marco's watchful eyes had steered to the Venetian sea—a silent witness to the myriad upcoming vessels and the hordes of visitors they carried into the city year after year.
The fashionable città wrapped its guests in silken drapes, powdered wigs, and luxurious masks embedded in pearls. Venice welcomed all with casinos and theaters, and the promise of endless hours of enthralling conversations within the comfort of a coffee house's damask-dressed walls.
“Easy does it! Careful, now!”
“Don’t worry, Da! I can manage.”
The voices filtered through my bedroom's window. A loud thud struck and lured me closer. I peered outside, where both men fixed the traveling trunks onto the carriage.
“Good job, son!” The older man patted the youngest on the back.
I fastened my shirt and slipped on the vest.
“Ivan, are you ready?”
“In a minute!” I picked up my burgundy velvet coat from the chair and put it on quick before running to the door.
Her footsteps resounded on the staircase as she hurried downstairs.
The day had arrived.
I wanted it more now than I had ever imagined. My first impulse had been to agree to Alisa's offer since I could think of nothing better to reciprocate her endless hours of care for me. As soon as I gave her the news, happiness radiated from her like I had never seen before. And Father reluctantly agreed to the plan, which exceeded by far my expectations.
Written in Blood: A New Adult Vampire Romance Novella, Part One. (The Unnatural Brethren Book 1) Page 5