The Vampire Memoirs

by Mara Mccuniff

  "Ahhh, what a brave lad!" he said. "It was just an old man in an oxcart!"

  "And how d'ye know it wasn't she, eh?"

  The others waved him off and laughed heartily. I was called back to work by my impatient boss, so I politely took my leave of the men and got ready for closing time.

  Well, I didn't own any long white gowns. Neither was I looking for bodies. But obviously I had not been so discreet as I'd thought while looking for places to live. I'd also thought putting a blanket over the coffin would conceal it, but people are more perceptive than I thought. At least no one in any of the pubs recognized me as their "Wagon Woman." Nevertheless in the years to come I was always horribly nervous and self-conscious when it came time to "walk the streets, pullin' my death box behind me." The Wagon Woman needed a new wagon and death box, too; her old ones were antiques now.

  About fifty years later I was able to push in another version of the story, which was that the Wagon Woman was looking for a home, not a body. She had died hundreds of years ago prematurely after being forced from her home, so she was doomed to spend eternity trying to find a place to live. I thought that was more accurate, anyway. After a time I started to enjoy the story myself, and even told it to travelers every now and then if they were going outside especially late. And only once did anyone ever confront me when I was in the streets myself. Not directly, but from his window. I heard someone shout, "Wagon Womaaaan!" I started to look up, and made myself slowly fade into mist all the while, until it seemed as though I'd disappeared into the fog. His window slammed shut tight. Just a good scare for him, nothing more.

  A consequence of the new version was that people started putting up crosses all over their doors and windows on foggy nights. Well, I didn't go into occupied houses, anyway, so it never affected me. Neither did the crosses anymore. I've never taken my chances with holy water, though. No one's ever thrown any at me to my memory.

  Chapter 27

  My, how time flies. The fourteenth century already. London had survived fires, wars, plagues, and feudalism. Now it was time for Crusades, more feudalism, knights and lords in castles, and renewed Christian vigor. And it was always time for more plagues, as in bubonic ones.

  Rats were still my usual meals, and they were hardly low in stock here; they're the ones who carried the disease, after all. My best hunting was in the alleys, where it was exceedingly dark, so I could summon them to me without anyone seeing me. I ducked into an alley where I'd been having the most success, and after looking about for onlookers, moved toward the back and stopped at a nice open area. I smelled death here, but then I was smelling death just about everywhere in London, and I assumed whoever was in the alley with me was far beyond seeing or hearing anything.

  I concentrated on the rats, and soon I was surrounded by hundreds of the squealing, crawling little beasts, and I got busy feeding right away. I only needed about ten of the creatures, and after taking my share, I sent them away again. I took out an old rag and wiped my mouth and turned to leave, when I heard the distinct sound of somebody trying to hold his breath but was no doubt too nervous to do so. I stopped and listened for more, and the breathing continued, and I wasn't quite sure how old the person was. It sounded a bit high-pitched for a full-grown adult (which status few people were reaching in those plague-riddled years).

  I was able to pinpoint where the breathing was coming from, only I could see no one, and I bent over to listen again for the sound. It was coming from under old rags and papers, and I reached out to touch them gently, and a quiet gasp came from them.

  I got a good hold of a big rag and yanked it away, and the girl beneath them yelped and covered her face. I was startled, too, but I soon calmed myself and let the rag drop behind me. I looked at the girl again and reached out to touch her, but then thought better of it.

  "Here, here," I said in my softest voice, "Don't be afraid; I'll not harm thee…" The girl peeked out from between her fingers, and then suddenly tried to bolt away from me. She plowed right into me, however, and I caught her and held her down gently but firmly.

  "Here, here, child!" I cried. "Stay thyself! I'll not harm thee! I'll not harm thee…" I said over and over, until she became tired and let me place her back against the wall.

  "I'll not harm thee," I said again, and sat down before her.

  "Did I disturb thy sleep, child?" I asked, smiling. No answer.

  "Surely thou dost not live here, with the rats and the filth?" I asked. Again, no answer.

  "Where is thy home?" I continued. "Thy parents? Thy mother and father?" No words from the girl, and I was going to ask her the same questions again, when I was interrupted.

  She mumbled something, and I leaned forward to listen better.

  "What was that?" I asked as cheerfully as I could.

  "God took 'em," she mumbled again. Hmm; enough with the smiles, then. I let it fade and put my hand on her knee.

  "Thy parents have been taken from thee," I whispered. "Fallen from the plague?" She only nodded.

  "Poor thing," I whispered, "Living out here in the streets, sleeping under rags taken from the dead. How long hast thou been alone like this?"

  She made an effort to look me in the eyes, but then hesitated and looked down again. I fidgeted with my hands while thinking of my next words.

  "Hast thou a name?" I asked, and she nodded but did not speak it.

  "I am Mara," I said, and held my hands out in greeting. She took them, but it was a feeble hold before she let go again.

  "May I have thy name, child? I would call thee by it."

  "Elizabeth," she muttered. I smiled to her.

  "Elizabeth," I repeated, letting my hand rest on her knee. "Well, Elizabeth, thou shouldst not be out here, in the dark, cold alleys where the rats can get thee. Dost thou want the rats to get thee?" She shook her head, and I laughed once.

  "I can take thee where there are no rats, and there is no cold," I said. "Wouldst thou like that?" Again, she would not speak, but she nodded. I smiled and held my hand out to her.

  "I can take thee there, Elizabeth. Wilt thou have my hand? Away from this place of death and darkness."

  She looked up at my hand, and then up at me, and I gave her my gentlest smile, and she slowly brought her little hand out to take mine, but then hesitated.

  "I'll not harm thee, child," I said, and she attempted a smile herself. Then she reached out again and touched my fingers, and I wrapped them about her wrist and began standing up.

  Soon she was standing and looking up at me with anxious eyes, eyes that mirrored the anguish of the dead and dying she'd seen. She stood placidly while I brushed her off, and she yawned when I knelt down to speak to her again.

  "Sleepy, child?" I asked, and she nodded. Then I wrapped my arms about her and stood up, hefting her off her feet. She gripped my collar in fright and yelped once, but I shushed her gently.

  "It's a long walk, and thou art tired, child," I said. "Just relax… rest in my arms…"

  She soon calmed down and quieted herself, and I carried her out of the alley and into the city.

  "Where are we going?" she said sleepily.

  "To my home," I said. "It's not far from here. It's no castle, but it serves me."

  She did not speak, but looked back at the alley where we'd been and then let her head rest against my arms.

  "Just rest in my arms, Elizabeth," I whispered, "And we'll be home soon…"

  I gave her some water I had gotten from the Thames that night. She drank deeply and handed back the cup silently and yawned. I stood up and fetched my warmest blanket and wrapped it around her. Again, she said nothing, but looked up at me with her big, bright blue eyes. I smiled and sat beside her.

  "Well, Elizabeth," I said. "It's no castle for a lord, but I call it my home. You may rest here tonight, if you wish. I'll be here to make certain no harm comes to thee."

  "You say little, child," I said after a long silence. "Was it harsh, living as I found thee?

  "Well, you can slee
p now," I said after she nodded. "You have a warm blanket, and soft bedding, and a pillow there. Sleep now, Elizabeth; go on…"

  Again, no words from her, but she watched me for many moments before yawning again. She looked down at the bedding I'd made for her, then back at me, then back to the bedding, and she closed her eyes and lay down. I took the blanket and pulled it up to her head, and tucked her in at the sides a little. Then I crawled over to sit near her head, and sat down to start thinking. I looked at Elizabeth again, who seemed to already be asleep and touched her head gently, and soon found myself scratching it a little.

  There is a child with me now, I thought to myself. She ought to sleep through the night, if nothing happens. But nothing will happen, for I swore no harm would come to her. But why did I swear that? The child might have the plague already, and could die in a few days. Then for what purpose have I done this? She was only one of thousands of children who live in the streets, eating scraps when they can find them and sleeping on the cold ground with the rats and the dead.

  What on earth were you thinking when you took her here, girl? Do you really believe that you can take care of anyone, least of all a child such as this? You can barely take care of yourself, let alone a child! She cannot feed on rats and weasels as you do; she must have bread and milk and meat! You have none of those things, nor do you have the money to buy them! Stupid woman! So desperate for someone to talk to, anyone, that you would take away a girl's chance to live by bringing her here?

  But she will die of the plague there!

  Who can say it isn't here, also?

  I only want someone to talk to, just for a little while—

  Selfish woman!

  Just for a little while, and if she doesn't like me then she can leave anytime—

  And she certainly will once she learns what you are!

  She doesn't have to!

  Oh, and I suppose you'll be able to keep it from her?

  I can always try… Yes, girl, you do that! You try!

  I buried my head in my hands and shut my eyes tight. Selfish woman! Stupid, selfish woman!!

  I didn't hear Elizabeth lifting the lid or peering inside the next morning, but I was awakened by her quick yelp before she let the lid slam shut again. My eyes sprang open, and I furrowed my brow in curiosity. Then I opened the lid myself and sat up cautiously, at first peeking out over the side before sitting up all the way.

  Elizabeth stood to the side of me and watched me wide-eyed. I couldn't tell if she was afraid men; she seemed to be more… just confused and curious, really. We stared at each other for a while before I smiled nervously and pushed the lid back all the way.

  "Good morning, Elizabeth," I said. "I'm glad you decided to wait for me."

  "'S not morning anymore," she said. I looked at the window, which was covered by a rag; but sunlight was fighting to shine through. The sun was up all the way, all right.

  "Oh," I said. "Well… I have slept late, it seems."

  "Why do you sleep in that box?" she said.

  "Box?" I said in mock confusion.

  "The box you're sitting in now," she said. "It's a coffin, isn't it?"

  I laughed nervously. "Um… well, some people might use it for that. But really, 'tis only a bed, Elizabeth."

  "Isn't it hard to breathe in that?" she asked. "How do you breathe?"

  "I—it is not so difficult to breathe," I said, not wanting to tell her that I don't even breathe while asleep. "It's comfortable."

  "Oh," she said, and looked about the room some more.

  "Won't you be waking now?" she said suddenly, just as I was about to shut the lid again, as a matter of fact

  "Uh—no, child," I said. "I must rest still. I—I was up all night, keeping thee safe, you see."

  "You were?" she said.

  I nodded and smiled. "Aye, child, I was," I said, and couldn't help yawning again. "I'll be up no later than sundown. I am so very tired, I fear I may sleep the day through, you see. But will you still be here, when I am awake? I would like to speak to thee, still…"

  She shrugged. "I have nowhere to go," she said quietly. "I'll have to be here."

  "I am sorry for thee, child," I said. "But I am also glad that you will be here, still. But now I must rest, Elizabeth. Do not hesitate to make my home thine in the meantime; explore every drawer and shelf and pouch, if it will occupy thee."

  "If you want me to," she murmured, and I smiled again and began to close the lid, but she began waving her arms all of a sudden.

  "Uh—uh—" she said, and I stopped and gave her my full attention.

  "I don't remember your name," she said.

  "Mara."

  "I'm hungry, Mara," she said.

  Oh, gods, I'd forgotten all about that! What was I to do now? Ahh, I remember now…

  "Oh, yes," I said. "I am sorry, child. I'd forgotten thou must—Over there," I said. "In that black chest there. Open it, and look for a small leather sack. Yes, that one. Dost thou hear the coins? Take them out. Good, child. I give them to thee; take those coins and buy whatever food you can find in London."

  "Money?" she said. "For… me?"

  "Yes, Elizabeth. Take all of it, don't worry about my food, just buy whatever you need. Will you do this? Will you buy what you need, and return here?"

  "Um… yes," she said. "Yes… um—thanks to thee, Mara."

  I smiled and shook my head. "Please… only get what food you need, child. That will be thanks enough," I said, and closed the lid until nightfall.

  Chapter 28

  "Do you understand what I am now, and why I must live as I do?"

  Elizabeth and I sat side by side on her bedding. I had my arm around her and was doing my best to be as gentle, as trustworthy, as I possibly could. She looked up at me expressionlessly and said nothing.

  "No matter what others may say about me or my kind," I continued, "no matter what horrible tales you may hear of me, I wish for thee to understand that I would never, ever deliberately harm thee, for any reason. Do you believe me, Elizabeth?" And to my relief, she nodded. I smiled and rubbed her arm gently.

  "I thank thee, child," I said. "It means much to me, that you would trust me so."

  After a long pause, she asked suddenly: "Do you believe in God, Mara?"

  "Uh…" I summered, a little taken aback, "Wh—yes, I do, Elizabeth. I do believe that there is a God."

  "But do you believe in Him?" she asked calmly.

  "Um…" I said, shifting a little, "Urn… no, child. I cannot—I am not allowed to worship Him."

  "Not allowed?" she said.

  "Well… it's more like—Well, let us only say that I don't think He likes me."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Ohhh, simply—well, I have had not much fortune in trying to worship Him. That is all."

  "Ohhh," she said, and we were silent for a time. Then: "Who do you worship, then?"

  "Um—no one, really," I said. "I don't think I have any gods."

  "My papa said, that if you don't worship God, then you worship the devil instead. Do you do that?"

  "No. I don't."

  "Then who do you worship?"

  "I have told thee, child, I worship nobody."

  "But everyone has to worship somebody," she insisted. "And if you don't worship God, my papa said you burn forever."

  "Many others besides thy father say that also," I said quietly.

  "Then it must be true, if many say that. And priests say that especially, and they talk directly to God."

  "Do they," I said in a dead tone.

  She nodded. "That's what everyone says," she said. I reached over with my other arm and lifted her onto my knee.

  "They do say that, child,". I murmured. "But do you believe them?"

  She thought about it for a while and then said: "I guess I should, if I'm to go to heaven."

  "I'll not try to lead thee from thy beliefs, Elizabeth," I whispered, and rocked her back and forth a little. "I only ask thee to judge others as you see them,
not as others do. Do you understand?"

  "I don't know…"

  "Do you think I am from hell, child?" I whispered.

  "No," she said. "But people would say you will go there, when you die."

  "I make no predictions," I said, and held her close to me. "I make no claims to tell others what will happen when they die. For some, they will enter a new world, perhaps a new life. And for others—for others their existence may just be a hell…"

  I shut my eyes as I held her, and we were silent for a long time. I wanted to do something with her, play with her, perhaps, but could think of no good games. Or maybe not games…

  "Would you like me to tell thee a story, Elizabeth?" I asked.

  She shrugged. "If you like," she said.

  "May I ask you something?"

  "What?"

  "I was only wondering if perhaps your parents ever told you stories."

  "Um…" she said, shrugging again, "Sometimes. When I was smaller, mostly."

  "Oh," I said. "Do you have any favorite ones, then?"

  "Um… I don't remember most of them," she said. "A lot of them were about Mary, and Jesus."

  "Oh. Well… I fear I don't know any about them. But I know some other ones. Perhaps you'll like them just as well."

  "Any story would be good, Mara…"

  "All right, then; I'll try. Ummmm…" I had to hesitate when I realized that I hadn't really prepared a story yet. The Wagon Woman? The thought almost made me laugh; I couldn't tell her that one. I might as well try and make one up, then. Perhaps she wouldn't know the difference.

  "I know one about a mother wolf and a… hunter," I announced.

  "A wolf?" she said. "But the hunter kills it, yes?"

  "Well, I haven't even told the story yet, child!" I laughed. "And as for the killing part: you will have to listen well…"

  Making it up as I went along, I told her a story about a mother wolf who had lost her mate to a hunter and had to find her cub's food herself. She would go out into the freezing snow, and the bone-chilling wind, and the rain, and fog, and all sorts of dreadful weather to feed her cubs. Then one day she and her cubs are discovered by the hunter, who succeeds in wounding her with his arrow. She then feigns death and waits until the hunter makes ready to shoot her cubs. Then she leaps up suddenly and bites his leg, making his shot go wild. She leads the angry hunter away from her cubs, who then escape to their den. Both the wolf and hunter limp after each other in the snow until she can run no more, and she collapses by a tree. The hunter is about to deliver the killing arrow shot, when he is distracted by a great light, and he looks up to see an angel (I thought I might as well keep Christian figures in, just to please Elizabeth) hovering above the tree. She points at him and chastises him for killing one of God's creatures and then trying to kill its mate, thus leaving the young ones orphans. He begs forgiveness but is told that forgiveness will be granted when he has redeemed himself, and that means he is changed into a wolf himself and commanded to become the she-wolf's mate. It then falls on the hunter to feed the cubs himself, and this wolf is distinguished from the others by a slight limp, where the she-wolf had wounded him before.