Lifeforce

by Colin Wilson

  Selma came out of the bathroom, now fully dressed; he thought she looked as beautiful and immaculate as if she had just dressed for dinner. She leaned over and kissed him. “Would you mind looking outside the door to see if anyone is there?”

  He did as she asked; the corridor was empty. She pressed against him for a moment, then hurried out; he closed the door quietly behind her. There was a strange relief in being alone.

  He had just finished dressing when there was a knock on the door; he called: ” Stig in!” It was Fallada.

  “Good morning. What time did you get to bed?”

  “About half past two. You know, I was mistaken about the Count. He’s certainly no crank.”

  Carlsen said: “I never thought he was.”

  Fallada stood staring out of the window. He said: “We talked about you. He thinks your encounter with that woman might have affected you more than you realise.”

  Carlsen started to speak, and experienced again the deep reluctance he had felt before. As Fallada stood, silent, he overruled it with an effort of will. “I’ve got something to tell you.”

  The sound of the gong vibrated up the stairs. Fallada asked: “Can it wait until after breakfast?”

  “I expect so. In fact, I’d like Geijerstam to be present too.”

  Fallada looked at him curiously but said nothing.

  The others, including Selma, were already seated. The breakfast room faced east, and the sunlight was dazzling. Geijerstam stood up. “Good morning. I hope you slept well?”

  “Heavily.” Carlsen felt that satisfied the interests of both honesty and accurary.

  He sat between Selma and Louise. Geijerstam said: “We are all hoping to persuade you to stay another day at least.”

  Carlsen looked across at Fallada. “It’s up to Hans. I’m free, but he has work to do.”

  Annaleise Freytag said: “Oh, please stay a little longer.”

  Reaching out for the toast, Carlsen’s hand brushed that of the French girl. Instantly and without any doubt, he knew she knew about Selma Bengtsson. The knowledge startled him. At the same time, he found himself desiring her. It was not the usual masculine desire to undress an attractive girl. It was connected to the life and warmth that vibrated from her young body. He wanted to press his nakedness against hers and gently suck life from her. A moment later he realised he felt the same about Annaleise, and that his desire endowed him with the power of reading her mind. Both girls knew that Selma had spent the night in his room. He even knew how they knew; Selma had left her door slightly ajar, with the light still on. Louise had passed the door at seven-fifteen, looked inside, and seen that the bed was undisturbed.

  He ate his breakfast abstractedly, replying in monosyllables to questions, fascinated by this new power. He had occasionally experienced something of the sort with Jelka, when they were very intimate: a sense of being connected, so their emotions were experienced simultanously by both. He had felt it as he held his children when they were babies. And now, he remembered, he had experienced it as a child as he stood in a garden one summer morning, leaning against a tree. In all these cases, it had been a deep, subconscious feeling that never reached the realm of conscious knowledge. Now it was more conscious and more detailed. With very little effort he could feel that Louise Curel’s brassiere was tight, and the left strap was cutting into her skin. He knew Annaleise had kicked off her shoes because she liked the feeling of the deep carpet against her bare feet. Both of them were envious of Selma Bengtsson. Annaleise wanted him to stay because she wanted to remain close to him; Louise believed that he was physically attracted to her and would sleep with her if he got the opportunity. Selma’s feelings disturbed him. She was in a state of almost feverish infatuation, and it was costing her an effort not to reach out and touch him under the table. She had seen the photograph of Jelka and the children, but it made no difference. She was thinking about coming to live in London, and was wondering whether Fallada could offer her a job. She believed she would be contented to be his mistress, without demanding anything more; in fact, she hoped to supplant Jelka. There was a hard-headed, determined element about her that troubled him.

  He tried to read Geijerstam’s thoughts, but it was impossible. He felt no desire for Geijerstam; consequently, his mind remained closed. The same was true of Fallada. In Fallada, he could dimly sense an uneasiness; but when he tried to learn more, the contact seemed to break.

  He tried to decide whether the vampire was still inside him, sucking energy through him. His experience last night had taught him how to observe her presence. As far as he could determine, she was not there. In that case, why did he desire the women who were seated at the table? The answer made his heart contract: because he wanted them. For himself, not for her. For a moment he struggled with a sense of panic that verged on nausea. Then he remembered that he meant to tell Geijerstam about it; the thought brought a sense of relief.

  He was glad when breakfast was over; his appetite had vanished. Geijerstam said: “I usually take a walk along the shores of the lake, or a row to the landing stage on the other side. Would you both care to join me?”

  Fallada said: “Of course.”

  Selma Bengtsson asked: “May we come too?”

  “I think not, my dear. We have things to discuss. And you have your studies.”

  The disappointment that streamed from her was so intense that Carlsen was tempted to intercede. As he left the room, he was aware of her eyes staring at his back, willing him to turn and smile at her; at the same time, he was aware that the other girls were observing him closely. He went out without looking back.

  The air was mild and full of the smell of spring. Now the life field of the girls was no longer disturbing his equilibrium, he felt better. With relief, his senses turned outward to the sunlight, and the delight was so intense that it was almost painful.

  As soon as they were among the trees, walking towards the south end of the island, he said: “Is there somewhere we could sit down? I want to tell you something.”

  Geijerstam pointed. “There is a bench by the inlet.”

  A few hundred yards away, a small stream ran into the lake. Geijerstam said: “This flows from a spring at the top of the hill. We call it the Well of Saint Eric. According to the legend, Saint Eric spent the night praying near the hilltop, in a hermit’s hut. The next day, he was leading his men into battle against the Finns. The next morning, the spring had burst from the ground — a sign that his prayer had been heard.”

  A rough wooden bench, carved from a section of tree trunk, had been erected where the stream joined the lake. Geijerstam sat down; the trunk of an immense elm provided support for their backs.

  Carlsen began speaking immediately, as if afraid of interruption. “Something strange happened in the night. Miss Bengtsson came to my room.”

  Geijerstam smiled, raising his eyebrows. “And what is strange about that, my dear Commander?” From his response, Carlsen sensed that he knew already.

  “Please let me finish…” Suddenly, as he had feared, the reluctance was there; it was so strong that he felt as though a hand were gripping his windpipe. His face flushed; his heart began to pound with the effort. When he spoke, his voice sounded tight and breathless. The others looked at him in surprise. He stammered out the words, determined to say them at all costs. “I don’t believe she intended to stay the night — in fact, I know she didn’t, because she left her door open with the light on. All she wanted to tell me was that I’d been stealing her energy… What’s more, I didn’t intend to sleep with her. I’ve been married for five years and in all that time I’ve never even kissed another woman.”

  Fallada said: “Are you all right?”

  In spite of the sunlight, his teeth had begun to chatter, and his body had become icy cold. He clenched his fists and pressed them against his thighs. It was not unlike the sensation he used to experience when taking off from earth during his training as an astronaut. He continued to speak, although his voice was cho
ked: “Just let me finish. You see, she was right. I am a vampire. I realised that when she touched me. That damn woman’s still there. But she’s inside me. I’m not mad. I know that… I know this sounds strange, but even now, something’s trying to stop me from telling you this.” He leaned back against the tree trunk, and the pressure brought a feeling of comfort. He breathed deeply. “Let me alone for a moment. I’ll be all right.” It took more than a minute for him to master the trembling. The knowledge that he had already told them the most important part made it easier. He wiped the sweat from his face with a handkerchief.

  Geijerstam said gently: “Don’t distress yourself. Let me tell you something now. I already knew most of what you were going to tell me. I knew about it last night, when Selma said you had taken more energy than she expected. And when you told me about your encounter with the vampire woman, I knew what had happened.” He placed his hand on Carlsen’s. “I can tell you this: it is not as serious as you think.”

  Carlsen said heavily: “I hope you’re right.”

  Fallada said: “Can you describe what happened?”

  “I’ll try.” As soon as he began to speak, he felt calmer. As he described it, he concentrated on accuracy in the detail, and this made it easier. He ended by speaking of his insights at breakfast.

  After a silence, Geijerstam said: “And so now you are convinced you are a vampire too?”

  “Don’t you think so?”

  “No. I believe you have become aware of the vampirism that exists in all human beings. That is all.”

  Carlsen had to control rising irritation. “I could have drained away her vitality until she died of exhaustion. Is that the vampirism that exists in all human beings?”

  “No. But I believe it is a possibility that exists at this point in human evolution. This creature has not turned you into a vampire. She has only awakened the seed of a new development. And it is a development that has possibilities of good as well as evil.”

  Carlsen asked quickly: “In what way?”

  “To begin with, it has given you a deeper power of sympathy and insight. You didn’t destroy Selma, did you? In fact, you gave her energy. You have an instinctive sense that lovemaking should involve give and take.”

  There was a silence, broken only by the whistling of birds and the water breaking on the pebbles. Carlsen said finally: “The fact remains that she’s turned me into a vampire. She’s given me abnormal desires that I didn’t possess before — and the power to carry them out.”

  Fallada and Geijerstam began to speak at once. Fallada said: “Pardon me.”

  Geijerstam said: “You do not understand. Every man is capable of every kind of desire. Have you ever read my account of the first vampire case I encountered?”

  “The young painter?”

  “Yes. In fact, he was not a painter but a sculptor. His name was Torsten Vetterlund. Well, he was a man of very powerful physique and his natural inclinations were sadistic — not very much so, but slightly. This girl, Nina von Gerstein, succeeded in turning him into a neurotic masochist. You understand why?”

  Carlsen nodded. Fallada said with surprise: “You do?”

  Carlsen said: “She couldn’t suck energy from a sadist.”

  “Quite. The sadist wants to absorb, not to be absorbed. So she had to change his sexual orientation. And she did this by satisfying all his desires — all his sadistic fantasies — until he had become dependent on her. Finally, he was her slave, and then she could begin to steal his energy.”

  Fallada asked: “How did you cure him?”

  “Ah, that was interesting. I noticed immediately that there was something contradictory about his symptoms. After this girl left him, he became an exhibitionist, exposing himself to women in the street. That was clearly masochism — he was enjoying the self-humiliation. But he also told me he had developed the desire to undress children and bite them. That was obviously sadism. Of course, many sadists have an element of masochism, and vice versa. But I became convinced that he was trying to overcome his masochism by developing his sadism. He told me about his sexual fantasies before he met Nina; they were all mildly sadistic. He told me about a prostitute he used to visit — a girl who allowed him to tie her up before they had intercourse. And the solution became obvious. I had to encourage him to develop the sadistic tendency again. He began going back to the prostitute. Then he met an assistant in a shoe shop who liked to be whipped before she made love. He married her, and they lived perfectly happily.”

  “And the vampirism stopped?”

  “Yes, it stopped. I cannot claim any credit for the cure. He had already started to cure himself before he came to see me.”

  Carlsen smiled wryly. “By the same logic, I should try to turn myself into a masochist.”

  Geijerstam snapped his fingers; he said with sudden excitement: “No, but you have reminded me of something. Something I had forgotten for a long time.” He stared out over the water, frowning, as they waited for him to go on. Suddenly, he stood up. “I want to introduce you to one of my tenants.”

  Fallada said: “I didn’t know you had any.”

  “Come.” He began to stride away up the hill. Fallada glanced at Carlsen and shrugged. They followed him up a path that ran beside the stream. Geijerstam said over his shoulder: “You remember I told you about the Well of Saint Eric? There is an old Lett woman — she lives in my cottage. She has second sight.”

  The path became steep, and the thick carpet of pine needles made it treacherous. The trees were so close together that hardly any sunlight was able to penetrate. After five minutes, Carlsen and Fallada were breathing heavily. Geijerstam, hurrying in front, seemed unaffected. He turned to wait for them. “I am glad I thought of bringing you to see her. She is a remarkable woman. She used to live near Skarvsjo, but the villagers were afraid of her. Her appearance is a little —” The rest of his words were drowned by the noisy barking of a dog. An enormous animal with fur the colour of yellow clay bounded towards them. When Geijerstam held out his hand, it sniffed him, then trotted beside him as he walked on.

  Geijerstam paused on the edge of a clearing. The ground was strewn with granite boulders. A small wooden cottage stood on the far side. The stream ran past it, cascading over a waterfall. Geijerstam called: ” Labrďt, mate.” There was no reply. He said to Carlsen: “Why don’t you look at the well, while I see if she is awake?” He pointed up the hill, to a small granite erection. “That is the Well of Saint Eric. If you have arthritis, gout or leprosy, you should bathe in it.”

  They climbed the steps to the well, the dog running ahead. The kiosk was built of slabs or roughly hewn granite on which the lichen looked like green velvet. The water flowed from under an immense slab that lay across the entrance. Carlsen knelt on this and looked inside. The water was perfectly clear, but so deep that it was impossible to see the bottom. He was reminded for a moment of the port glass of the Hermes ; at the same time, with hallucinatory clarity, he seemed to see the hulk of the derelict, as if reflected in the depths of the water. The illusion lasted only for a moment. He put his hand into the water; it was freezing cold, and after a moment, it made his bones ache.

  He stood up, leaning on the wall. Fallada said: “Are you all right?”

  Carlsen smiled. “Oh, yes. I think perhaps I am going mad. But otherwise I’m all right.”

  The Count appeared at the bottom of the slope. Beside him stood a woman dressed in brown. As they moved closer, Carlsen saw that she had no nose and that one eye was larger than the other. Yet the effect was not repellent. Her cheeks were as red as apples.

  Geijerstam said: “This is Moa.” He spoke to her in Lettish, introducing Fallada and Carlsen. She smiled and dropped them a curtsy. Then she gestured for them to enter the house. It struck Carlsen that in spite of her deformity, she produced an impression of youth and sweetness.

  The room was large and curiously bare; it was heated by a big iron stove in the centre. A coarse woven mat covered the floor. The only items o
f furniture were a low bed, a table, a cupboard and an old-fashioned spinning wheel. Carlsen was intrigued by a flight of steps that ran up the wall to a railed platform; it appeared to lead nowhere.

  She spoke to them in Lettish, pointing to the floor. Geijerstam said: “She is apologising for the lack of chairs and explaining that she always sits on the floor. It is a kind of… mystical discipline.”

  She gestured to the cushions near the wall. Carlsen and Fallada sat down. She leaned over Carlsen, looked into his face and placed a hand on his forehead. Geijerstam translated her words: “She wants to know if you are ill.”

  “Tell her I don’t know. That’s what I’d like to know.”

  She opened the cupboard and took out a length of string. One end was wound around a spindle; the other end was weighted with a wooden bead, about an inch in diameter. Geijerstam said: “She is going to test you with a pendulum.”

  “What does it do?”

  “You could say it is a kind of lambda meter. It measures your field.”

  Fallada said: “For some odd reason, it works. We used to have an old servant who could do it.”

  “What is she doing now?”

  “Measuring the correct length for a man — about two feet.” The old woman was carefully measuring the string against a meter rule, unwinding it from the spindle. She spoke to Carlsen. Geijerstam said: “She wants you to lie down on the floor.”

  Carlsen stretched himself out on his back, looking up at her as she stood over him. The pendulum, held out at arm’s length, began to swing backwards and forwards. After a few moments, it began to swing with a circular motion. From the movements of her lips, he could see that she was counting. About a minute later, the pendulum returned to a backward and forward motion. She smiled and spoke to Geijerstam. He said: “She says there is nothing wrong with you. Your health field is exceptionally strong.”

  “Good. What is she going to do now?”

  The old woman was lengthening the string.

  “More tests.”

  Again she held the pendulum over him. This time he could sense Geijerstam’s tension. He watched curiously as the motion of the pendulum changed from its normal back-and-forward oscillations into a circular swing. Her lips moved, counting. She said something in a low voice to Geijerstam. When the pendulum returned to its oscillations, she lowered it onto the floor, shaking her head. She stood looking down at Carlsen, frowning thoughtfully, Geijerstam said: “All right, you can sit up.”