Dead Seth

by Tim O'Rourke

  As if reading my mind, Jack looked back at me and said, “Ready to choose yet, Kiera?”

  “You won’t make me choose,” I whispered.

  Jack released my father’s hair from his fist, dropping his head back into place. He came across the room. Instead of sitting back on his chair, he stood before me and said, “I’d make your choice soon, you look as if you are cracking up.”

  “I’d rather be a dead statue than choose between my father and Potter,” I said.

  “We’ll see,” he sighed, reaching out and dragging a finger down my cheek. His broken nail made a scratching sound against my hardening flesh. He held his finger up in the light of the lamp and blew the dust away that had gathered there. It seesawed in the shaft of lamplight, like a cloud of dust moats.

  “Time is running out,” he said, heading towards the window. “Before long, you won’t be able to open that pretty little mouth of yours to make a choice.”

  With his back to me, I twisted my hardening wrists against the chains, that little pile of dust growing ever bigger on the floor beneath my chair. “You know, you don’t always have to be a monster,” I said.

  As he stared thoughtfully out of the window at the falling snow, he said, “My curse will never be lifted now, you chose that for me down in The Hollows.”

  “Did I?” I asked him.

  “What’s that s’posed to mean?” he said without looking back at me.

  “Did you let the monster out to protect your mother, brother, and sisters from your father?” I said softly.

  “No,” he whispered, his breath clouding over the dirty windowpane.

  “What then?” I pushed.

  “I let the monster out because of…” he said, his eyes flashing yellow in the glass.

  “Because of what?” I asked.

  He smiled back at his own reflection.

  I could tell that it wasn’t a smile of happiness, but more of regret. “What turned you from that little boy into what you are now, Jack?”

  Then turning to look at me, he said, “Love.

  That’s what truly let my monster out.”

  “But to love is good, isn’t it?” I asked.

  “Is it?” he said, coming back towards his chair. “You’re going to die – turn to stone very soon because of love, Kiera. You only came to this house today because of love. How can that possibly be a good thing? If you didn’t love, you wouldn’t be here now. You would be free.”

  “And what about hate?” I asked him.

  “What about it?” he shot back.

  “Has that set you free?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Try me.”

  Silence fell between us. Neither of us able to break the other’s stare.

  “I will explain,” he said as the silence in the room became almost deafening. “As the paper chains were finally pulled down, we entered a new year, not only in a new home but with new names, as well…

  Chapter Ten

  Jack

  …My mother decided in early January we should no longer use our names, but adopt new ones. Despite her recent assurances that our father had forgotten about us all, she now believed he may well be hunting for us.

  “Anything we could do to throw him off our scent will be to our advantage and safety,” she told us.

  Confusingly, we could still use our birth names at school, but when at home and mixing with people living around us, we should be known under aliases. She painted a picture of our father frantically searching for us, so he could silence us and prevent us from giving up his dark secrets.

  According to our mother, he was furious with us and if he ever discovered our secret location, he would murder us in our beds. She would often tell me if she hadn’t have taken us away when she had, she believed my father would have murdered us one by one.

  I had nightmares for weeks after hearing that. I dreamt my father was climbing the wall beneath my bedroom window, his claws scratching against the brickwork, his bright yellow eyes watching me through the glass. Silently, he would climb through the open window, coming towards me on all fours, teeth gleaming in the moonlight. Then, with his fur bristling with excitement and drool swinging from his jaws, he would lunge at me. I would wake, sitting bolt upright, gasping and clawing at my chest.

  During this time, I became evermore terrified of seeing my father and was finally becoming grateful to my mother for rescuing me from the caves and him. So I was first to accept the notion of changing our names. As Mother sat among us, she explained it would only take our father to come onto the estate where we lived and ask the other children that hung around, if they knew of a Lorre, Kara, Jack, or Rik. Apart from my name, none of them were commonly used by humans. The other children might then unwittingly lead him to us. So we all agreed, for our own safety, we would change our names at home and in front of our neighbours.

  Mother decided that Lorre should be known as Teresa, Kara would be called Mary, Rik would be known as Nikolaou, and I was to be known as Paul – named after Father Paul, who it seemed had done so much to help us. At first it seemed odd, but as one day melted into the next, we just became accustomed to being known by our birth names at school and our aliases at home.

  Rik had the hardest time trying to comprehend what was taking place, so he gave up his name and adopted Nik permanently.

  During this time, there was one other change of name that we all had to get accustomed to. By spring, we were no longer calling the Blackcoat, Father Paul, but in the sanctuary of our home he would let us call him ‘Dad.’

  Father Paul had become a constant visitor to our new home, visiting us at every opportunity he had. He would often bring with him sacks of food and odd bits and pieces for the house.

  Everything we had was due to Father Paul in one way or another. I believe that as much as he had become a surrogate father to us, we had become a surrogate family to him. He had his own slippers at our house which he would slip into while visiting. He would often change out of his flowing black robes like any father coming home and changing out of his work clothes. Father Paul would often eat an evening meal with us, and after we would all gather around him as he read. My favourite book was ‘ The Wind in the Willows. ’

  I loved the water colour illustrations, and wanted to be able to draw and paint those characters he read about in the book. Then one night, he arrived at home with a small set of water colour paints, some paper, and paint brushes.

  “Who are these for?” I gasped as he handed them to me.

  “For you,” he smiled down at me, his bright grey eyes staring out of his pale face.

  “Why?” I breathed, looking down at them.

  The last present I had been given was the racing car.

  “I thought that perhaps you could paint some pictures of Toad, Ratty, Mole, and Badger for me,” he said, taking a seat at the table.

  “Really?” I asked, excitement bubbling away inside of me.

  “Will you help me?” I asked, sitting up at the table next to him. I had done plenty of drawings before, sitting in his house on a Saturday afternoon while he and my mother were someplace else praying, but I had never used water colour paints before. I didn’t want to disappoint him. More importantly, I didn’t want to make myself look stupid in front of him.

  Sensing my reluctance, Father Paul picked up a paint brush, then placing my hand over the top of his, he slowly showed me how to paint. So we sat at the table, Father Paul watching over my shoulder, as I slowly dragged the paintbrush over the paper as I started to paint pictures of the characters from the book he had read to me. By the time I had finished, it was bedtime and Father Paul had to go home. With his encouragement, I had painted several pictures, which I was really proud of. Without saying a word, my mother had sat watching from the corner of the room with my brother and sisters.

  When Father Paul left in the evening, Mother had developed the habit of always walking him to his
beat-up old truck, which he parked at the end of our garden path. She would return minutes later, always in a good mood. That night my mother walked him the short distance to his truck, but on her return to the house, she was furious. She slammed the front door with such force that it rattled in its frame. I looked up at her as she stormed towards me, and again I saw that spark of yellow in her eyes which I had seen when she was fighting with the woman at the safe house.

  “You selfish child!” she roared. “He doesn’t just come here to see you!”

  I remember giving my usual meek reply by apologising to her. I always fucking hated myself for doing that. She ignored my apology and continued to scream.

  “What do you think you were doing?

  Hogging him to yourself like that all evening!”

  I apologised again, although I still wasn’t sure what for. I tried to explain I had only wanted to do some painting with Father Paul. She shouted over my explanation as she continued to seethe at me.

  “Paint! You can’t paint! Even Father Paul was getting sick of you! He kept looking over at me and shaking his head in despair! ”

  That fucking hurt. Was Father Paul really doing that? Was he really making fun of me as I sat and painted with him? I couldn’t believe he would do that. I wouldn’t believe it. Father Paul had bought me the water colour paints. He had helped me to paint, and that had meant so much to me.

  In an instant, my mother had thrown my beliefs into doubt. I looked up into her burning eyes as she glared at me. Without even thinking, I said, “Sorry.” I know that sounds fucking pitiful, right? But that’s what I said.

  Turning away from me, she replied, “You ruined Father Paul's evening and everybody else’s. Now get to bed!” Then taking the pictures I had painted of Toad, Ratty, Badger, and Mole, she tore them to shreds with her claws.

  With my heart racing in my chest, I looked at my sisters and brother. Were they coming up with me? I hated going upstairs by myself. I still wasn’t used to sleeping on my own. At least Nik would come up with me. I looked at them, but they all seemed to have found other objects far more interesting than me to look at.

  “I said, get to bed! ” Mother barked.

  On my way up to my bedroom, I made the loudest stomping sounds that I could. Not in defiance, but to hide the sound of my sobs. I wouldn’t let her hear me cry. Something inside of me wouldn’t let me.

  Chapter Eleven

  Jack

  During that springtime, Father Paul took us on several more days out. Some of these were to the country, and others, to the city. It was on these occasions that we felt like a family, and I liked that. Although we had started to call Father Paul, ‘Dad’ in the privacy of our little home, on these days out, we referred to him as Father Paul.

  Mother explained it would make sense if me, my brother and sisters, when away from our home and out of earshot of other Vampyrus and Lycanthrope, we called him ‘Dad’, as we already did at home. Nik and me jumped at the chance.

  My sisters didn't appear to object either. Father Paul agreed that this was a good idea, but emphasised we were only to refer to him as ‘Dad’ in our home or on trips away.

  He explained to us, although I already understood, that as a Vampyrus and a Blackcoat, he wasn’t allowed to get close to the Lycanthrope that he was there to help integrate into the human world. Relationships between humans and Vampyrus were deeply frowned upon because such unions could lead to the birth of half-breeds, but relationships between Vampyrus and the Lycanthrope were forbidden. He went on to tell us that if such a relationship were ever to be discovered, he would be punished by the Elders.

  He didn’t, at that time explain, what that punishment might be. Both my mother and Father Paul also instructed us not to mention to anyone the days away that we shared together.

  So, day by day, my life over that year had grown ever more complex. At home I was known as Paul, at school and at the church where I cleaned the candlesticks, I was called Jack. In the privacy of our home, and on our secret trips away, I called Father Paul, ‘Dad.’ This was essential if we were to keep our secret family life together concealed. What a mind-fuck, right? But I thought the lying and the sneaking around was a small price to pay to fill an emptiness that had opened within me since the night we left our father.

  It had almost been two years since I had last seen my real dad. I had adapted to my new life, and by now I considered Father Paul, despite the fact he was a Vampyrus and the fucked-up set of circumstances that came with him, to be my dad. I could see this pleased my mother, and in turn, this pleased me. I had also come to believe my mother’s happiness was, in some way, partly my responsibility.

  With Father Paul taking an increasing role in my life, my mother would continue to fill my head with a regular diet of tales about my real father. She retold the stories so graphically that I hated the very thought of him. I therefore turned more and more to Father Paul, in an attempt to cleanse myself of my real father. Over the following year, I spent much of my time in my mother’s company. While she had me to herself, she would tell me about my father and her own childhood. I do not know if she sought out similar opportunities with my brother and sisters, but she rarely spoke openly and so graphically about her past when we were all together.

  She depicted her own childhood as harsh and severe, living amongst the wolves behind the Fountain of Souls. She told me she had an older brother. I couldn’t remember ever meeting him.

  Mother explained how, as she grew up, her brother would often be cruel to her. On occasions he had poured pepper into her eyes, and had tried to make her ill by feeding her poisonous berries that he had found around the lake on the other side of the fountain.

  “This was the start of him changing,” she told me. “He was giving into his hatred and letting the Lycanthrope curse take hold of him.

  “Where is he now?” I asked, shocked by her story.

  “I heard rumours that he had gone to live in the human world. But the curse was upon him.

  In the human world he became a killer of children and women. A team of Vampyrus trackers disguised as police officers hunted him down.

  They put him on trial in The Hollows before the Elders. His crimes were considered so despicable, that he was sentenced to death by the Elders and Vampyrus.”

  As a young boy, I felt it strange to discover that someone in my own family had been hunted down and sentenced to death. It made me think of my father. Would the same happen to him? I wondered. I didn’t know if that would be a good or a bad thing. How would it make me feel?

  I had never seen a Lycanthrope, other than my mother in the safe house, attack or harm anyone.

  Maybe these Lycanthrope only committed their crimes in the human world and slunk back to the caves to wash away their sins in the Fountains of Souls. Years later, I would discover that this was the case. The red waters of the fountains run upwards towards heaven, as the Elders are believed to be taking back the blood shed by the Lycanthrope, as if absorbing the pain of their victims.

  “How did you meet my father?” I asked.

  Mother looked back at me, and then brushing my hair from my brow, she said, “I first saw your father as he left the market carrying a sack of meat and vegetables. He was struggling with it, and the bottom of the sack gave way, spilling the food onto the ground. He bent over to gather it up, and in doing so, his trousers ripped up the back, exposing his bottom for all to see.”

  I noticed a faint smile on her lips as she remembered this. “I hurried over to help him gather up the raw meat and vegetables. We walked home together and he had introduced himself as Joshua Seth. I was only seventeen at the time and he was fifteen years older. He seemed very nice – pleasant. We saw each other a few times more and he asked me to marry him.

  I wasn’t sure that I wanted to, because he seemed so much older than me, so I spoke to my mother about how I felt.”

  “What did she say?” I asked.

  “She thought a mature man would’ve been ideal
for me,” Mother explained, looking into the distance as if remembering that conversation.

  “She said that he would be able to support me, and that in time I would grow to love him.”

  After the ceremony, my father had taken her to the fountains at the entrance of the caves.

  Here, he asked her to wait, while he went into the human world. Mother told me she waited for hours but my father never returned.

  “I didn’t see or hear from your father for about six weeks,” she explained. “Then, one afternoon, he showed up again. He explained that he had had difficulties in sorting out accommodation. I wasn’t sure what to think, but he was my husband so I felt duty-bound to go with him. Part of me also felt curious – excited – about living on the other side of the fountain. But that excitement was short-lived,” she said.

  “Why, mother?” I asked her.

  “Your father moved us into some poky and rather unpleasant human district,” she explained with a grimace. “The flat consisted of two small rooms. I wanted to leave, but just weeks after arriving there, I discovered I was pregnant with Lorre. It was during this time that I saw the first signs that perhaps the curse was taking hold of your father.”

  She told me my father’s behaviour became increasingly peculiar and she witnessed the first signs of his violent temper. He had worked shifts in a nearby factory and earnt little money. Life on the other side of the fountain hadn’t been as easy as perhaps my father had hoped. Mother explained that she was left on her own most evenings as my father worked the night shift. She told me the area they lived in was disgusting and so, too, was their landlord.

  “One night, just before going to bed, I heard a tapping at the door,” mother said. “I opened the door to discover the landlord looming there, his huge frame filling the opening. He was a repulsive man, with great big flabby breasts and an enormous gut that hung over the top of his trousers. He was bald, and as always, short of breath.”