"I have dreamt of you. I thought you were a ghost of my insanity. And now you are here, holding me. The sailors think you are a spirit. They keep me alive only out of fear of you. Do not leave me, ghost angel," Servaes whispered in a plea. "I cannot survive this if you are not with me."
"I will try," she answered softly. She began to cry, wanting to draw him from the obvious pain he felt. His cheeks were skeletal from starvation, his flesh casting to an unhealthy gray. Still, he was beautiful to her. His eyes made her heart leap and race. Pursing her lips, she asked, "How long have you been here, Servaes?"
At that he began to chuckle, a wild chuckle of a man believing himself to be deranged. As though every thought he had of her must be spoken in an instant lest she disappear again, he said a raspy voice, "Now I know you are a dream. A noblewoman would never utter my name as you just have. Not with that look of pleasure on your face as you stare into my pitiful and broken eyes. No one would wish to be trapped in this hell with me. So I know you are not real."
"I am real," she broke in. Her words only produced another smile to his lips. His eyes glimmered with a tired sparkle.
"I knew from that first moment I saw you," he whispered. "You were by the statue at the king’s palace. I knew that you were more than those other women of court were. I wanted you then. I wanted it to be me you meant when you whispered my name with such searching, such longing. I wanted to stay with you forever."
"I was looking for you," she broke in with a murmur. She could tell he didn’t believe her to be real. How could she blame him? To him months passed by in the gut of a ship as they sailed endlessly over the expanse of water, heading towards an unknown destination.
"Said just as I would have it, my angel of dreams," Servaes smiled. He was content to take her however he could. He had no money and no proof of his title. Only the darkness could comfort him. The darkness and his dream of the woman above him, her face fresh and clean, and her hair pulled back as if she were a lad snuck onto a ship to rescue him. "You disappeared. I sent word to you before being shipped away. I did not want you to think I abandoned you."
"I knew you didn’t," she interjected, pushing back his hair. Her hand moved down the sides of his face over his whiskered jaw. As her caress met with his neck, she paused. Beneath her fingers she felt the hot stickiness of drying blood. Gently as she could, she took his jaw and pushed his face to the side. He tried to resist, but was too weak to fight her.
Hidden beneath whiskers were two very distinct punctures. Hathor froze, knowing exactly what they were. They were the bite marks of a vampire. Jirí!
"Do not look at that, chéri," Servaes murmured in a desperate plea. "It is from my other ghost. He is my tormentor, my dark shadow, always speaking of death and rebirth. He comes to feed me, to keep me alive, and then he drains me of my energy. With him I slowly die. But, with you … you are my redeemer! With you I am happy and can think of naught but your beauty. I know you are not real…."
Hathor could see him fading. His eyes drooped wearily, his lids falling leadenly to hide the mournful depths of his brown gaze. She lifted his head up and moved it over her lap. The stark darkness of his hair fell against the peachy color of her hand. Brushing the dirty locks from his face, she leaned over to place a tender kiss on his forehead. A light moan of pleasure came from his throat.
The gentle caress revived him, and he looked up into her face. "Where did you go, petite? My man looked all over Versailles for you. He said you disappeared completely."
"I had to leave very suddenly," she whispered, thinking of Madame de Maintenon’s bedchamber. She had been there only a half-hour before. "What happened to you that night? Why are you here?"
"I’ve asked myself the same thing. I do not know. Madame La Fontaine gave me a missive saying I was to meet the king. Instead I was delivered into the chamber of his favorite mistress. From there I was arrested. The king in his jealousy banished me from French soil. He cast me out as a prisoner onto this Dutch ship." Servaes sighed, unable to continue for he didn’t have the answers.
Servaes began to fade from consciousness again. Hathor moved to lie beside him. She lifted his head onto her arm and nestled her body next to his side, wrapping her arm about his slender waist. She pulled him to her, close, so that her body pressed firmly to his. With all his strength, he rolled on his side. He stared at her face, almost afraid to touch it.
"I have thought of you just so. Only we’re in my favorite chateau outside Paris or in one of my many houses," Servaes paused with a sheepish smile. The light returned to his eyes to stare merrily at her. "I thought of you as my wife. I imagined every detail of the long life we would live. Those images have kept me sane -- or perhaps they have not. Perhaps I am insane, and that is why you visit me. If it is so, I pray that sanity never claims me."
Hathor gasped at his meaningful look. Servaes leaned forward to press his lips to hers. His kiss was gentle and warm, his cracked lips unable to move as much as he urged them. Hathor used all her strength to pull him to her mouth. Her lips parted desperately wanting him, scared of what was happening. She tried not to breathe, ignoring his breath as it wafted into her face. She didn’t care that his body was unwashed. He was a prisoner and couldn’t help it. Besides, none of it mattered. All that mattered was him.
The world no longer made sense. She knew what he was to become -- one of the undead preying upon humans for centuries of a lonely life. She knew how much that existence would pain the man next to her -- the human man with a softly spoken respect for all things. She knew that his kiss couldn’t be real. Her heart broke, desperately wanting the life that he laid out.
Within his kiss she could imagine their children, happy and playful, with their father’s ornery charm and easy ways. She saw her husband, astride a horse in the country, riding hard over fields to come to her. She felt him make love to her on the grass, in the hay of the stables. She saw him come to her in the night, in the middle of the day. She saw his understanding look when their daughter became a bride and as he held her gently while tears fell from her aging eyes. She could see their grandchildren, growing up in a time where new inventions were coming about in a new world full of promise and dreams. She could see it all, feel it as real as if they lived inside the dream.
Servaes weakly drew away. His eyes were soft as he gazed at her. "I know it sounds foolishly absurd. But I fell in love with you that first moment. I never expected love to come so swiftly. Would you have said yes to me, chéri, had I asked you to be my wife that night by the fountain? I was going to. Would you have regretted such a life with me?"
As Hathor looked at him, she saw that he imagined it, too. The countryside life was his gift to her, the only thing he could give her as they traveled through the waters of hell. Her heart thud dully within her, agonized with a longing of what could never be. Tears overwhelmed her eyes. Nodding her head, she knew it to be the truth. If she was a noblewoman of his time and they had met as they did, she would have married him.
"Oui, my love. I would marry you if you were to ask me now, Servaes, in this boat with no hope in it, and I wouldn’t have regretted the pretty life you just gave me. My only regret is that it can never be such as that."
Servaes nodded. He was content in her words. "Thank you, chéri. Thank you for staying with me. Without you I would have died. Mayhap someday I will find you again, if I live through this. Mayhap I can redeem you as you have me."
"Oui, Servaes. You will find me again," whispered Hathor, heartbroken and lost. But you will not be the same. You will be something else -- something that keeps you from me even more than the curse of this dream.
"Stay with me, chéri," he pleaded, his shallow breath falling against her temple. "Stay with me as I sleep."
"I will try."
She sniffed from the heartache of her tears, trying to be strong for the man she loved. Her hands stroked lovingly over his body. Her fingers twined in the silken locks of his dirty hair. Pulling him closer, she willed the world not t
o jerk and spin. Her body was tired from her day of traveling -- the strolling and laughing in the king’s garden, the brief night under the stars that was too shortly lived, and then the bedchamber of a king’s mistress. Until finally now, traveling through the long hour on a ship that stretched over time and distance.
She forced her eyes to stay open, watching the fall of his chest as he slept. The boat rocked them in its lullaby, drifting further out to sea. Hathor knew she loved him, would gladly stay in this torturous moment forever with him, if time would only let her.
* * * *
Hathor’s eyes flew open with a jolt. She was still in the ship. Sighing with a morose sense of relief, she turned over to look at Servaes’ sleeping face. He was so handsome, even sick and pale as he was. She touched him delicately in the dimming light of the lantern. Her hand glided lovingly over his whiskered jaw. His flesh smelled of sweat and musk. She didn’t care. His lips parted, drawing breath. She smiled, despite everything around them.
She didn’t know how long she slept with him, only that her body was stiff from the boards. Resting her hand against his heart, she felt it beating in soft soothing thumps. His lips parted, murmuring almost contentedly. His hand weakly moved over hers in a soft caress. Hathor’s eyes drifted closed, content to sleep.
But, before she could once more find her rest, the boat lurched and banged to a halt. Above her she heard the stomping of feet and then shouts as those on board ran to the side. Nervously, she sat up, protectively holding her arm to Servaes.
"What?" Servaes mumbled, coming awake. His color looked better, but he was still weak from his wound. He tried to push himself up next to her. Again the boat crashed. He drew her to his chest, trying to protect her from whatever would come. Hathor let him hold her.
The hatch was thrown opened. A burly man stuck his head beneath the deck. His eyes narrowed as he looked about in the dimness. Servaes shoved Hathor behind him, crouching to his feet to block her from view. She placed her hand on his back as she nervously hovered next to him. She felt his back tense, waiting.
"There you are, laddie," the man spat in broken English. "Welcome to your new home."
Servaes swallowed, he felt Hathor grip at his waist. Her nervous hand gave him small comfort. His eyes squinted. Roughly, he grunted, "Where?"
"The New World, laddie! America!" the man shouted almost gleefully. A hard sailor’s chuckle escaped his lips. "Come out of there and see your new home."
The man disappeared from the hatch. Servaes fell back to sit on his feet. He looked at Hathor in stunned horror. "They have shipped me off to the colonies without money or proof of title. I have no way of proving myself and going back home. The passage aboard a ship is too expensive, lest I am able to find work on one. But that is not possible. I know nothing of the sea. I am exiled. All I have is the memory of you before me. I will never make it back to you, Hathor. I’m sorry."
Hathor saw his tortured fear. He was stuck in a strange land, feeling alone. She reminded herself that she was only a dream to him, perhaps as he was to her. None of this was real. But the longer she stayed in the dream, the more real it felt and the more she fell in love with the human Servaes. Her heart beat solemnly for him. How alone he must have felt! She reached up to touch his face. She could tell by the marks on his neck that his time of changing was soon. The purpling wounds hadn’t healed.
"You will find me again, Servaes," she whispered. "This I do know."
He leaned forward, wanting to believe her but not. His hand reached up to caress her face. She smiled at him sadly. Tears welled in her eyes. They brimmed over her lashes with moisture. He looked at her warm pink skin, so clean and pure. He looked at her lips, parted in heavy breath, drawn tight with worry.
Slowly the world began to pitch and swirl. Hathor cried out, knowing what was to come. She was again leaving him, moving forward in time as he was left behind. She was going to see the end of his story, and the end of the only man she could love. She damned the vampire for showing her this world, for tormenting her with what could never be. The images of their life together whirled in her head like memories -- distinct and unfettered.
"I am afraid I will be leaving you soon," Hathor whispered. She glanced up at the opened hatch before looking him in the eyes. Stroking his cheek, she said, "Now, do not be frightened. Go meet with your destiny."
Servaes drew a small comfort from her reassuring words. Her eyes looked so earnest and true. Leaning forward, he pressed his lips to hers to stifle what she would further say to him. Words didn’t matter. She moaned, feeling him against her mouth, his hands moving to touch her cheek. She opened her eyes. His were closed.
By small degrees, she started to fade. Servaes lurched forward trying to stop her. She gave him a sad smile and disappeared completely. The last sound of his voice echoing like a whisper in her head, "Hathor…."
Chapter Twelve
American Colonies, 1682 AD
The crisp cold air of the morning floated over the wharves, swirling the fog in misty patterns to obscure the distance. The coast was lined with rocks and sand, as the docked ships floated just beyond the shores. Not far from the edge was the dense setting of trees, surrounding a small settlement of wooden houses and undistinguished storefronts.
Below the deck of the newly arrived cargo ship, Servaes cursed bitterly. He could taste Hathor’s kiss on his lips as if it had been real. Swearing himself as insane, he stumbled to his feet. His legs wobbled unsteadily, as he crossed over to grab his boots. He slid on his yellowed stockings before pulling his boots over them. Reaching into the corner, behind an empty barrel, he pulled out his waistcoat and cravat. Slipping them over his head, he then did the same with his overcoat.
The clothing was a gift from his manservant, smuggled to him while he awaited his punishment. His prison had been a small room in the palace. He hadn’t been there long before the king had him drugged and carted aboard a seagoing vessel. Now he knew to where he was exiled. He was abandoned in America, and all for allegedly making unseemly advances towards the king’s mistress. In those first days, as he lay battered and bruised from the king’s guard, he tried to remember any slight that he might have made to cause such action against him. He could think of nothing. He had no known enemies.
Servaes forced his weakened limbs to pull his body up the ladder. His fingers shook, gripping through their stiffness at the rungs, as he climbed out of his prison. The day that greeted him was dank and misty. The diffused light blinded his eyes, and he fell weakly to the deck, crawling from the hole onto the solid boards of the vessel. Around him was silence. The ship rocked gently, bumping into the dock with an even clunk, clunk.
Servaes stood, stumbling his way to the side of the boat. His head whirled with nausea. He stared blankly over the edge of the cargo ship, and he fell to his knees. The dark ocean churned restlessly beneath his head. The salty air rose with mist to coat his face in a damp blessing. Servaes breathed deeply of the fresh air, closing his eyes to the briny waters. A bell rang in the distance, its sound as lonely as the morning seagull’s call.
When no one came to rouse him from his place on the deck, he struggled to his feet. Frowning, he saw only a handful of men working on the ship. For all that they traveled above him, they looked as if they fared little better than he. Their drawn faces were pale, without the light of merriment that usually met them as they docked in a new port full of promise and the varied choice of women of loose-morale.
Servaes hugged his overcoat around his arms, ignoring the stares the sailors gave him. Wretchedly, he stumbled down the ramp. He turned his eyes to the ground as he passed by them on the dock.
None of them spoke to the man they carted across the world. A few of them turned away, afraid of the traveler. They believed he was the one who brought such death and sickness to the boat as to kill over half of the crew. All knew the whispers of the ghosts that traveled with him, believing them to be evil spirits. Servaes ignored them and didn’t turn back as he ventured in
to the small colonial town.
The road was of dust, the buildings of planked, whitewashed wood. Occasionally a wagon carting goods would pass the hunched solitary figure wandering in the early morning. The drivers ignored him as they urged their horses faster.
Servaes stopped, eyeing the distance. The road stretched out before him, curling down an unfamiliar path. Looking above the roofs of buildings, he saw only the tops of trees. The air was fresh, cleansed by sea, but even that didn’t comfort him. For with the freshness came a foreign smell he didn’t recognize as home.
"Master Keys?!"
Servaes turned dully at the sound. His feet shuffled in small movements, the effort almost not worth making. He tried to make out the English words in his head, not knowing what they could mean. His brain was numb, his stomach hungry, and his body so weary he felt as if he might drop to his death at any moment. If death came for him at the moment, he would welcome it.
Servaes’ sunken, haggard eyes found a lone boy running up the street. The lad’s thin shoulders bounced as he jogged easily to the gaunt man. His pocked face eyed the gentleman’s tattered clothing doubtfully.
"Be ye Master Keys?" the young boy asked.
"Be I what?" Servaes croaked. His English was heavily accented with the language of his birth. He narrowed his eyes at the young lad, noting the wind-tousled blonde hair curling about his ears. He was young, maybe in his early teens, but not likely.
"Be ye Master Mark Keys?" the boy asked, stressing his words slowly as if the man were daft.
"I am the Marquis de Norm --" Servaes began weakly. His chapped lips stung and bled with the words.
"It’s what I said, isn’t it? Mark Keys," the boy huffed with a shake of his head. "Yer to come with me, Mark." When Servaes looked at him questioningly, he sighed, "Come on then, it’s too cold to be standin’ about waitin’ fer the sun to shine. I don’t get paid if yeh don’t come on."
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