Burns Night

by Amy Hoff

  “There’s no such thing as monsters.”

  Leah sighed, irritated. She narrowed her eyes, and yet the memories were getting slippery inside her head, like minnows she was trying to catch in her hands.

  “It happened,” she insisted.

  “If you say so,” her mum said. “Look, Leah, you’ve always had a wonderful imagination.”

  “Fine, mum.”

  Her mum changed the subject.

  “Now, then. You got into the University of Edinburgh?”

  “Yes,” Leah said. “They have a great folklore programme and are historically one of the best universities in the world for the subject.”

  “Congratulations!” her mum said warmly. “I knew you could do it. You’re very smart and you’ll go far if you just put your mind to it. Work hard, and you’ll find a good job afterwards.”

  “Thanks, mum,” said Leah.

  “Anytime, dear,” said her mum. “Now, do you want another cuppa?”

  Leah watched her mum walk over to the kettle. She hummed while she worked.

  The room was a strange muted grey-blue colour.

  Leah’s smile began to fade, as she glanced outside. The sun was shining.

  Her black Lab, Dileas, came up and put his chin on her knee, raising his eyebrows at her. She scratched his ears absentmindedly.

  The sun is a myth, Leah, said Dorian’s voice in her head. Never forget it.

  “Mum?” said Leah.

  “Yes?” asked her mum, still busy at the sink.

  “You know it was raining when we had this conversation, right?” asked Leah, going completely off-script from the memory.

  Her mum stared at her as if she hadn’t spoken.

  “Well, you know your father,” she said. “Did you get biscuits when you went to the shop?”

  Tears filled Leah’s eyes as she shifted away from her dog, gently pushing his head off her knee.

  She took a deep breath.

  “Bye, Mum,” she said, and walked to the door.

  “And remember if you can’t find a job after you graduate, there’s always the police academy,” her mum was saying, as Leah turned the handle. “Did you take Dileas for a walk this morning?”

  Taking a deep breath, Leah walked through the door and shut it behind her.

  ***

  “Robert?” Leah called, as her eyes adjusted to the sudden darkness.

  She was standing in an alley she didn’t recognise.

  The alleyway was dark and smelled of the remnants of booze and piss. Nearby, a closed door vibrated with the low booming bass of a rock song.

  Leah turned when she sensed someone behind her.

  Her mouth dropped open.

  “Robert?” she gasped.

  It was Robert, but now he wore a white pirate shirt with tight leather pants, his hair puffed up and out in a wild bouffant, his face pale against dark mascara and the kohl around his eyes. He looked strange and dangerous. Leah was gobsmacked by the change.

  “I remember this,” murmured Robert’s voice behind her, and she turned to see the gentle, unassuming poet she had come to know.

  What, now there are two of them? Things are getting out of hand!

  “Is. Is that you?” she asked, as the gaudier version of Robert walked to the door in the alleyway.

  Robert’s lips tightened, and he nodded.

  “We should follow him,” he said, and they did.

  The Blitz Club, London.

  The music washed over them, loud and electronic, sad mournful sounds and hollow emotion, giving Leah a pang of nostalgia for an era she had herself missed.

  The Robert dressed as a New Romantic threw himself into a black booth in the corner. The tables were red and the walls were black, covered with posters signed by the bands who had come and gone. The place was filthy and absolutely crammed full of people. Robert took out a cigarette and breathed it in, the chains on his coat jangling.

  “Since when did you smoke?!” asked Leah.

  “Since–” he muttered, but his voice died away when he was joined by a blonde girl with very frizzy hair and red lipstick. And a brunette. And a few others.

  Leah lost count. She stared at Robert, who averted his eyes.

  “How exactly is this a nightmare?” she asked.

  The New Romantic version of Robert drank from each of them until they were drained. She noticed the drawn and haggard look on his face, the wild grief in his eyes.

  “I tried,” he whispered, “Again, and again, I tried to lose myself in women, in death, in drink.”

  The women sat collapsed around him as if they were drunk.

  “They always had green eyes,” he said, “but never as green as hers.”

  “You only fed on women with green eyes?” asked Leah, with a look of distaste.

  “I –” Robert began. “I suppose I did. Later, I chose to feed on men who preyed on women.”

  “Oh?” asked Leah. “I hear Aoife’s boyfriend wasn’t very nice.”

  She watched him for any sign of guilt, but there was nothing in his expression she recognised.

  “But for a while, that was you,” said Leah. “A man who preyed on women. And not just as a vampire.”

  Robert nodded, miserable.

  “I suppose that’s true,” he said.

  The other Robert pushed his way out of the booth, and out of the bar. In the cool damp of a 3 am London alleyway, he lit up another cigarette and blew out the smoke, watching it rise into the sky.

  He put his hand inside his jacket and pulled out a locket, beaten and worn. He slid his thumbnail into the crack and pried it open.

  Inside it was a miniature portrait painted centuries ago, of a pale woman with bright red hair. His features softened, a smile on his lips, and a tender look on his face that Leah had never seen, even on the Robert she knew.

  “I miss you,” he said quietly, and grasped the tiny frame in his hand. He swallowed something like a sob and pocketed the picture again.

  “Robert,” Leah said, and he turned to look at her.

  “Why are all your nightmares like this?” she asked. “Mine were monsters and bad memories.”

  Robert’s smile did not resemble the one he had while looking at the portrait.

  “From the day I lost her,” he said, “until the day that Dorian told me she still lived, I have been living in a nightmare. When I found her again on Kelvin Bridge, I woke from the longest bad dream I’ve ever had.”

  Robert touched the outside wall of the club, still playing loud 80s new wave, and smiled softly at nothing. Leah knew then that his smile would never be hers.

  “She never loved you,” Leah said.

  “It never mattered,” he replied.

  He touched Leah’s shoulder.

  “We should go,” he said.

  “Are you sure?” she said.

  “Yes,” he said, more urgent.

  “Well? Why aren’t you moving?” asked Leah.

  “I can’t,” he whispered.

  “It’s a nightmare,” she whispered back, and the version of Robert from the Blitz Club suddenly beat his fists against the wall.

  “Where are you?” he shouted. People in the alley edged away, and then ran, from the man drawing blood at the knuckles, tears streaming down his face.

  “I can’t find you,” he whispered, collapsing onto the ground.

  “Anything. Anything but this. Anything but this pain.”

  And like an avenging angel, someone answered the call.

  They watched as Robert was attacked, cut and mutilated. It wasn’t just a stabbing, it was complete and grisly; a murder rather than a mugging. And Robert just lay there, staring up with dark sad eyes.

  “Robert,” said Leah, nauseated, “you’re a vampire. You could have done anything. Why did you just lay there?”

  “I wanted the pain,” he barely said, “and I wanted death. All I wanted was to not feel the lack of her anymore. I couldn’t bear it. I would have welcomed death as salvation.”

/>   The man finished the job, and left Robert there. After a certain number of minutes, the wounds began to heal.

  The Robert of the past looked down at his flawless skin and sighed more deeply than Leah had ever heard. There were paragraphs in that sigh.

  He pushed himself to standing, and, hanging his head, walked off down the alleyway.

  To Leah’s consternation, he walked right into her Robert and vanished, memory becoming a part of the whole once again.

  “Don’t worry,” said Robert grimly. “I caught him. He never did that to anyone else.”

  “Bet he was surprised,” said Leah.

  “You can’t imagine,” said Robert, who found he could move again, now that he was no longer split in two.

  “All right, let’s go,” he said. “We have to find Dorian, and soon.”

  The anguish in his voice was clear.

  “I don’t know how,” he said, “but it keeps dragging me deeper, away from shore. I’m afraid I’m going to drown in it, I’m afraid I’m going to split off into thousands, Leah, I’m afraid.”

  Leah grabbed his arm, hard.

  “I won’t let that happen,” she said. “We’ll find a way out of it, but you’ve got to stay with me. Don’t let the past draw you down anymore.”

  Robert nodded, gripping her arm like a lifeline.

  “I don’t understand how you could have ever been happy,” Leah murmured, as they walked down the alley. She wasn’t certain how she’d lead them back to Glasgow, but she was going to try her best.

  “The quiet joy of just being near her was enough,” Robert told her, “it was all I needed.”

  “Why is it these dreams seem to end when I’m around?” asked Leah.

  Robert stared at her with mournful eyes.

  “Don’t you know yet?” he asked. She shook her head.

  “Because, Leah. You’re the only one of us that’s real.”

  ***

  And just like that, they weren’t in the alley anymore, but in a bright kitchen filled with –

  sunlight?

  Leah stared. And swallowed.

  There before them, Robert and Desdemona sat laughing together. The rapt look on his face was no surprise to anyone familiar with him, but the love shining in her eyes, that was new. Leah hardly recognised her. While Desdemona could look fierce and tired, or porcelain-perfect, the one thing she had never looked was happy. The sunlight filled the warm kitchen and he was making something on the stove, she was teasing him, it was very domestic and the sunlight was everywhere. Their stunning eyes, bright-faceted, their faces joyful, they were together and happy and mortal and Leah felt images and thoughts of children and for a lifetime, only a mortal lifetime, but enough coast breezily past her. There was such love there – not obsession or passion but the sort of easy, wonderful feeling of joining friends at the dinner table with great food and a bottle of wine.

  Belonging. She to me, and I to her. Together.

  Leah side-eyed Robert hard.

  “Okay from where I am standing this does not look anything like a nightmare to me,” Leah said.

  Robert didn’t respond. His dark whisky-coloured eyes just stared, round and open, his pretty lashes blinking from time to time as an afterthought.

  His mouth worked. He shut his eyes tightly and opened them again.

  “It’s–” he began, “It’s not – it’s–”

  Leah waited.

  “It’s worse,” he finally managed. She was startled to see tears in his eyes.

  “How is this worse?” said Leah.

  “Because you recognise nightmares for what they are,” he said, “Monsters. Strange foreboding. Eerie feelings about empty chairs.”

  “Sounds par for the course for what we’ve seen so far,” Leah said.

  “Yes,” said Robert, “but this – this is a dream. My dream. The–”

  And Robert Burns, the national bard of his country, sweet-talker, ladies’ man, was entirely lost for words.

  “But why is it worse?” whispered Leah.

  “Because nightmares are only bad while you’re sleeping,” Robert said, “Dreams are still there when you wake up.”

  The sunlight was warm and golden and everywhere. Robert – Leah’s Robert – stood silently beside her, staring at the ground.

  “I can’t watch,” he murmured, “I already know it by heart. I know this dream so well. The venue has changed with the centuries, but it was always some version of this.”

  “Robert,” Leah said gently, “You’ll never be her someday.”

  “But one day she might need me,” he said, “and when she does, I’ll be there.”

  “Desdemona doesn’t need anybody,” Leah said. “She’s older than most other beings and incredibly powerful. I know that you are cursed to love her but –”

  Robert looked up so quickly she stepped back. The danger in his eyes was clear.

  “Never call it that,” he whispered hoarsely, “Never again.”

  He turned on his heel. She followed him.

  “Robert,” said Leah gently. “This isn’t real. That isn’t her.”

  “I know,” he said, his voice watery. “This is no good. Nightmares taking over Glasgow is one thing, but convincing people to wake up from lost dreams is a danger we’ve never known. And there’s nothing more desperate than someone waking up from everything they ever wanted only to find out it wasn’t real.”

  They suddenly found themselves in an alley again. This time, the red sandstone walls made Leah certain that it was Glasgow, and the chill night made her reasonably certain it was still January 25th.

  They trudged down the street, their feet echoing on the cobblestones. After a while, Leah spoke.

  “How many times have you woken up from that dream, Robert?” she asked.

  He stared at her grimly.

  “Never,” he replied.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  SEAL-HAME

  The snow was white and crisp.

  The sky was almost as white as the snow, endless, sparkling, blinding.

  The hunter approached slowly, from behind. The grey bellies of the seals warmed and melted the ice beneath, hollowing out a home for themselves. They breathed, warm puffs of steam above the snow. Some made contented little grunting noises, some squeaked. Some rare seals even sang, a strange and light lament across the water.

  The hunter drew closer and raised his club.

  There was a sound, horrific and wet, and a tall, impossibly beautiful man with long black hair caught the club in its downward trajectory.

  “The fuck d’ye think ye’re daein!” shouted the man in the thickest Scottish accent the hunter had ever heard, before he passed out from the shock of it.

  ***

  The great halls of Seal-Hame rose majestic and dark beneath the sea, where the selkies in their human forms delighted in the delicacies of mankind.

  Dorian and Magnus were sipping whisky together near one of the many portraits of the brothers that hung in the halls. They may not have been royalty, as Iain was, but they were reasonably well-off. Any selkie family wise enough to store up human treasures from shipwrecks at sea found themselves very comfortable indeed.

  “And the arrangements are all made?” asked Dorian.

  “Aye,” Magnus agreed. “Your wedding to Dahlia will be one of the most splendid of our time. The day a selkie is Taken is the most important of their life. Or so I’ve heard.”

  Magnus blushed and ducked his head.

  “It will happen for you, too, brother,” said Dorian.

  And yet.

  “You must be overjoyed,” said Magnus, smiling.

  If only he could remember why –

  “Yes,” Dorian agreed. Magnus favoured him with a wistful look and set down his glass.

  “Well, I must be getting along,” he said. “I still have much to do before the ceremony. Dahlia will be so pleased.”

  “Thank you, brother,” said Dorian, and nodded as Magnus took his leave.

&
nbsp; Magnus was right. The day a selkie was Taken was meant to be the happiest of his life; a marriage to the person who had cried the seven tears into the sea so a selkie lover would come calling was considered the pinnacle of achievement for their race, only outdone by the rare seal who achieved Last Breath. A human could easily choose to leave their seal; a selkie was bound to love the human for eternity regardless of human choice. If Last Breath was achieved, when a human stayed with their seal until the end of their natural life, this was considered the seal’s greatest boon and they would live out the rest of eternity a joyful, happy creature. Not so for the seals whose humans left them behind.

  Dorian should be happy. After all, he loved Dahlia. That wasn’t the problem.

  He wished he could remember.

  ***

  Desdemona stood on the grey rocks as the sea lapped around them in the gloaming. The purple twilight was the closest she had ever been to seeing the sunlight; she was an old monster, and the light at the end or the beginning of the day did not harm her.

  She packed tobacco into her pipe and lit it, breathing in the soothing smoke. She enjoyed standing here, contemplating nature, while the war raged on behind her. Here, she had found a kind of peace.

  She noticed something lying on the rocks. At first she thought it was a mess of seaweed, and then she realised it was hair. She recognised it as a body, washed up from the sea.

  Sighing, she went to check on the person, certain they were dead.

  She rolled the body over and was struck instantly by the beauty of the young man whose eyelashes rested softly against his cheeks.

  The eyes blinked open, dark and rich.

  The young man looked up at her, where she stood above him, smoking calmly as if this happened to her every day.

  “Selkie?” she asked. The young man nodded.

  “Well, let’s get you inside.”

  ***

  The young man was swathed in a tartan blanket, sitting at a table in the pub. The peat-fire crackled merrily. Desdemona watched him as she smoked.

  “You got a name?” she asked.

  “Iain,” he said. “Iain Grey.”