THE VAMPIRE MEMOIRS
By
Mara Mccuniff & Traci Briery
* * *
BOOK I
Prologue
My friends and family advise me not to write this, or, if I do, not to publish it. I can understand their concern, as I realize what a book like this could do to all our lives, and especially mine. As I write, however, I am undecided about publishing my "memoirs." Hopefully I'll reach a decision by the time I finish, but I am certain the final decision will be mine alone.
My friends and family have good reason to worry about this little diary of mine. I am a vampire, you see, and so are most of my friends. But now that I've made my decision to write this, I don't think I can, or should, go back.
I hope you brought all of your preconceptions about vampires with you, because my intention is to confront many of those notions and to set them straight, if necessary. The most important misconception concerns the average vampire's temperament. Let's just say most of us are tired of being portrayed as despicably evil creatures of darkness—the vast, vast majority, mind you—though I'd be dishonest to say there aren't bad apples among any group.
And for myself, writing this has helped me to remember a lot of things, and to understand them. But bear in mind that it was some sixteen hundred years ago. A lot of things have certainly become embellished and exaggerated by now, but I honestly couldn't say what. Perhaps it's simply that the people I knew weren't really as wonderful or as awful as I make them out to be. I could not say; all I can say is that I hope you enjoy this book, not to mention, learn something from it. But until then, good reading and STAY HUMAN.
—Mara McCuniff, 1990
Chapter 1
I was born in the year 362, give or take a few years, in a small village named Keston in the British Isles. Keston was near a small lake that ran into the North Sea; nearby were several fields where cattle could be raised. There was little farming, if any. Most of our food came from the lake and the cattle, as well as from the occasional raid on smaller and weaker villages.
My father was a warrior, a rather typical occupation for the men of Keston. I never knew my mother. She died at my birth, as there were complications that forced me to be cut from the womb. My father—I cannot say whether or not his wits were ever completely about him before my ill-fated birth. But the untimely death of his wife—my mother, that is—made him bitter beyond normal measures of bitterness.
As far as he was concerned, I was a double disappointment. I had killed my own mother, and I was not a boy. There have been very few times in history when girls were favored over boys, and this was definitely not one of those times. My father was obsessed with the idea of raising his son as a warrior, and my birth should have shattered that idea. Not so. My father rejected me. Not rejected me as his offspring, but rejected me as his daughter.
"I don't have a daughter," he often told me. "She killed her mother and she isn't here anymore." You can imagine how little I wanted to hear him say that. He often used the verbal reproach before resorting to physical punishment.
So I was raised as a warrior. I was forbidden to show any signs of weakness, that is, femininity in his presence, but I was still expected to perform all "female" chores, such as cooking and looking after his cattle.
He was not very popular amongst the other villagers. They usually avoided him and his foul temper, and most of them tended to avoid me as well. After all, I was the unfortunate daughter/son of the mad warrior, and many villagers were probably afraid that I would end up just like him. Sometimes I wondered that myself. I also wondered why he didn't just kill me at birth if I was such a curse to him?
The latter question I couldn't answer. Maybe underneath the insane exterior was some pity for me. Or, since he was so obsessed with raising a son, and the death of my mother took away that opportunity for "another try," then zap, I might as well be a son!
As the years passed, certain signs inevitably began appearing that threatened my father's illusion of having a son. When I turned twelve, besides granting me the day off from chores, which was my only gift from him on birthdays, my father took me aside and warned me about certain things that might happen to me. He muttered things about blood, and lumps, and other things that I didn't understand at all at the time. But he made me swear to come to him immediately and tell him the first time I ever bled without being cut. I was thoroughly confused but didn't dare refuse him, so I swore to it. Then he made me swear never to let a man touch me. I was a warrior, not some harlot, as he put it, and I swore to this command, as well.
I was about fourteen when I first bled "without being cut." I was milking my father's only cow when I was horrified to see blood dripping down both legs. I almost screamed but thought of what he might do if he found out I'd been behaving "like a girl." I stood up and pressed my legs together quickly and felt the milking stool for some splinter, or a nail, or anything that could have cut me like that and not have me feel it.
Leaving the milking undone, I lumbered back to our hut, still trying to keep my legs pressed together, and found my father. At first he was angry that I had returned without the milk, until he saw the blood. Immediately he tore up some cloth and made me lie on my back; then he spread my legs apart and bandaged me right up to the crotch. I asked if I was bleeding there, and he said yes, and that I was to wear a bandage there every day from now on. I didn't understand his reasoning at all, but he told me to keep silent and double swear that no man would ever touch me. I swore to it.
Life in Keston came to an end before I turned seventeen. A roaming tribe made its way to the village and decided to sack it. They swarmed in on horses with no warning whatsoever, and in broad daylight no less. I was carrying wood to our hut when they struck, and I remember seeing my father's head poke out of the hut, duck back in; and then he came barreling out toward the attackers, sword in hand. I was right in his path, and he slammed into me, knocking me back several feet and strewing my wood everywhere. Picking me up roughly, he screamed at me to hide in the hut before shoving me away again. I ran, terrified more of him than of the attackers, and dove underneath piles of fur.
Several minutes passed before I dared to move, and I slowly lifted my head, hoping to see what was happening. My ears were flooded with sounds of horses, screams, clashes of steel, and fire, and I caught glimpses of villagers rushing by our hut, carrying food, animals, women, and children. I thought of what might be happening to my father in the chaos, and almost burst into tears again, but I clenched my teeth and fought them off. I am a warrior, I thought. I AM A WARRIOR! Why does he make me lie here when I can help? He could be dead now and I won't have avenged him because I lie here like a coward! Does he think I'm afraid, like a woman? No, I'm not afraid I'm not afraid I'm a warrior I'm not afraid!
Such were the thoughts racing through my head, and I grasped for my sword and rose up from under the furs.
Outside was chaos. For each sound I heard under the furs there was a sight that was much worse. Blood and fire were everywhere. Villagers and attackers alike lay dead or dying, but there were more villagers on the ground by far. Then I found my father. He was not dead, but fighting some fifty feet from me, roaring with rage. He was not a terribly skilled fighter, but he was an exceedingly brutal one, and most of the attackers were giving him a wide berth.
Clenching my sword, I ran to his side through the smoke and blood and began swinging. One of the attackers thought to rush me, but his throat met my sword before his axe could come down on me. He stopped dead in his tracks and dropped his weapon. I stared wide-eyed at the blood gushing from his mouth and neck, and he made a gurgling sound before falling over dead. My sword froze in my hand. Bodies lay all about me, blood all
over; until that -angle moment I had never actually been the cause of any death. But that was what I had been trained for; this was the life my father intended for me.
My thoughts were halted by a rough hand whirling me around. I stared wide-eyed at the enraged face of my father. He was screaming something at me, but I heard none of it. My mind was locked on to the memory of the blood from the man that I had killed, and my father's ravings were only gibberish to me.
My last memory of that day was of myself, tumbling backward down a hill. My father had shoved me away again as several attackers started for him, and I was still in too much of a daze to keep my balance. Dirt and rocks scraped my face, arms, and knees as I flipped over and over myself toward the trees and bushes below.
That was the last I saw of Keston. Or at least, the last I saw of Keston as a village. A rock to the back of my head ended my plunge down the hill as well as my consciousness, for how long I do not know.
It took me some time before a rational thought came into my mind, but I realized soon enough that things were not right. The disturbing silence didn't register until after I had crawled back up the hill and gazed at the remains of my village.
There weren't many remains left. The raiders had done a thorough job of burning and looting the place; not even a cow was left.
I searched dazedly among the bodies for my father. I recognized each villager who I found: the other warriors, their wives, their children, even the village tanner, who was one of the few who ever spoke to me, all lay dead. But my father was nowhere in sight. I had no idea if he was dead, captured, or otherwise. I tried to grieve for him, for all the villagers, but no tears earner! was too numb to feel anything at the time and still dizzy from the blow to my head.
One consequence of my father's failure at logic was the fact that, while he chose not to accept me as a female, the rest of mankind was not about to accept me as a male, either. For myself, I didn't know which I was supposed to be. I was raised as a warrior, and that's all I knew at the time. Still, finding employment as a mercenary was not the easiest of tasks; most of the time I was laughed at or told to "go home to my husband."
I had to make up for my lack of upper body strength with ferocity and brutality in combat. Often when I was hired, then, it was for my berserker furies and boldness rather than my actual skill.
The shock I felt when I first killed became just a memory; I killed again and I killed often. The lives of others no longer mattered to me, as long as I was paid enough after the battle. I started to enjoy killing. I liked the smell of blood and the sound of dying men, especially if I was the cause of it.
My father would have been proud of me; I was just like him. People feared me now; men gave the "she-wolf" wide berth, and even other warriors avoided quarreling with me. And yet I was still a woman, much as I wished to deny it, and women were not warriors. Combat for me was rare, and so were the times I had money. Most of the time I was without funds, but only occasionally did I resort to thievery to get something to eat; otherwise I simply went hungry.
My life continued like this for several years: kill, eat, sleep, and steal, if I had to. And no man would touch me. I remembered I had promised that.
Chapter 2
It was during my twenty-third year that my life changed forever. There were two reasons why I was passing through a forest one day rather than the usual, and safer, path: one, it seemed like a good short cut, and two, I didn't want to have to deal with other travelers along the way. I was not interested in people and I wanted to be alone.
I was a good distance into the forest when I had the unnerving feeling that I was being followed, even tracked. Several backward glances revealed nothing at first, until sometime later I heard the definite cracking of leaves and twigs behind. I whirled around, sword in hand, expecting some animal, but was face-to-face with a man instead. He was still some fifty feet from me, but even from there I could see that he was a large man—perhaps even taller than I, which few men were.
I held my sword threateningly, and he stopped in his tracks. He made no threatening moves against me, but slowly started toward me again.
"That's far enough," I said. "Who are you? Why have you been following me?" He stopped and adopted a friendly countenance. His sword remained sheathed as he called to me.
'I am Gaarius Latticus," he said. "But 'Gaar' will do. And I was about to ask you a similar question."
"What do you mean?" I asked quickly.
"Do you live in this forest?" he asked.
"No. This is a short cut to the next town. And why do you follow me?"
"Am I following you? I thought I was taking a short cut, too. I assume you must know this place or you wouldn't be going this way?" During our conversation, Gaar had been taking cautious steps toward me. He was now about thirty feet away.
'I don't know this place. It just seems faster and quieter."
"Oh," he said. "Then we both could be lost. Perhaps I shouldn't have followed you—"
"Then you were!" I broke in quickly. "And you still won't answer me why."
"Very well," he said calmly. "The truth, then. I was following you. But not to do you harm. I saw you last night—"
"Where?"
"At the inn—last night. You were assaulted by that barbarian?"
I thought back to the night before. I'd been eating some ribs at the inn (meat—a very rare treat for me), when an overly amorous barbarian wanted me to join him at his table. I refused, of course, and when he grabbed my wrist in an attempt to drag me there, I twisted my hand to grab his and pulled him face-forward onto the table. Then I stood and clubbed him once on the head with a large rib. He slumped off the table and then lumbered back to his chums, confused more than hurt, no doubt. I hadn't noticed Gaar that night, but he was there and apparently had seen all.
By now he was about ten feet from me, and I held my sword out menacingly.
"That's far enough," I said. He stopped. "Yes, I remember last night," I continued. "But why follow me because of that?"
"I was intrigued," he answered. "That is, I like women who can take care of themselves. And you had no trouble with him last night. That, and—I cannot say that I've ever seen a female warrior before."
"Well, I am," I said, "much as I hate being that way."
"Then why be a warrior?"
"No, not that. Female."
"What?"
"I hate being a woman. It's weak. And I hate being weak."
"You don't look weak to me."
"I didn't say I'm weak! I'm strong; I'm a warrior, like my father. And I want you to leave me alone."
"What if I don't?" he asked.
"I'll just kill you, then."
"You will? You'll just kill me? I don't even have my sword out."
"That's your problem. Now just stop following me and leave me alone."
"I can't go back to the path. It's too far," he protested. "And I told you I come in peace. I only wanted to meet this female warrior who hates being a female, it seems."
"Well, you've met me. Now go."
"You could at least be kind enough to give me your name."
"Mara. Now go."
(By the way, that's pronounced MARE-a, not MARR-a. Just being picky, that's all. Mara.)
"I think you should stop pointing that sword at me, instead. I don't want to go back—not after walking this far," Gaar said.
"Have it your way, then." I brought my sword back, making ready to slice him and rid myself of this pest. But before I could finish my stroke, Gaar whipped out his own blade in a blur and struck my sword straight from my hand. It landed some fifteen feet to my right, and I made to retrieve it, but Gaar stopped me with a feint to my throat. I stopped dead and could only stare at him. He continued holding the blade at me for some time, and then, suddenly and surprisingly, sheathed it. I stared at him for some seconds more before he gestured to my right with his head.
"Well?" he said. "Aren't you going to retrieve your sword?"
I wandered over
cautiously, still keeping my eye on Gaar, and picked up the sword. I looked back at him again, and he smiled at me and continued walking!
My initial fear and surprise were soon replaced by anger and humiliation, and I set after Gaar again, hoping to avenge my honor. He stopped and whirled about before I reached him; his sword was redrawn and we stood face-to-face, each taking in the other's measure.
"I have no quarrel with you, girl, though you think me an enemy," he said calmly.
"You humiliated me," I growled. "How could you not be an enemy?"
"If you think that, then so be it. But you'd better think before you take up a quarrel with me. What if I win again?"
"You 'won' nothing," I said. 'I just didn't expect that last time."
"So now you're ready for me. But I'm ready for you, too. And I want no blood on my sword today—but there will be, if you don't put that away."
He was so calm, so sure of himself. If he was afraid, I certainly couldn't tell. I was terrified myself, but I was hardly going to let him see that. Nevertheless, my sword was slowly becoming heavier to me, and I found myself occasionally having to grip it tighter.
We faced each other for an uncomfortably long time. And for the first time in my life, I was the first to break off from an attack. I let my sword arm drop ever so slowly, and I stood up straighter. Gaar, meanwhile, kept his intense gaze on me and wouldn't relax a bit until after I had sheathed my sword somewhat defiantly. Gaar nodded grimly and sheathed his own sword. "I'm glad," he said. "I wished for no killing this day." I said nothing, but passed him briskly into the forest and tried to stay ahead of him the rest of the way.
Our first meeting, then, was not exactly love at first sight. It never occurred to me at the time, but Gaar held an enormous amount of respect for me. In those days a fight was not left unfinished, whether between men or women.
One morning in the forest, we were both awakened by a bear that was ripping through Gaar's pack, searching for the food within. Gaar was alert and up long before me, and, sword in hand, attempted to frighten the bear away. The bear was enraged instead and swiped at him several times. By this time I had my own sword drawn and moved behind the beast and jabbed. The bear roared and turned toward me, where Gaar was then able to stab it several times. I managed to stab it once in the back, but as far as I was concerned, Gaar had done the most damage. We were both shaken by the encounter, but Gaar was also scratched in the arm. He was more concerned with my well-being, however, and only asked to be bandaged after he found I was unharmed.
The Vampire Memoirs Page 1