My Peculiar Family

by Les Rosenthal

  “No…” Josiah whimpered. His body went limp, and he crumpled to the ground. “I followed the rules... not fair... not….”

  The wolf that once was Pavel Belinsky sat before Josiah, its piercing eyes penetrating Josiah’s quivering and groveling form. Then the creature pounced, flinging itself onto Josiah and smashing him to the ground. Josiah trembled as he felt the stinking steaming breath of Pavel the wolf upon his face, reeking of garlic. The wolf opened its mouth, growling, ready to tear Josiah’s throat open, but then Josiah was faced with insanity as the creature in a low, guttural voice began to speak.

  “No Josiah, this is not fair… not fair at all,” Pavel snarled, pointing with his left forepaw towards the stake stuck in his body. “But like you, I too have a tale to tell, and you’re going to listen,” here the wolf exposed his fangs and threatened, “or I’ll have my pack remove your limbs, devour your flesh, and scatter your bones.”

  Josiah was too stunned and terrified at Pavel, now the talking wolf on his chest, to issue a response beyond a slow nod of his head.

  “It was in Dalmatia,” the wolf began, “in the city of Split

  where my mate and I found a home. We had left the old country of Transylvania where everyone knew the legends and would hunt us, hurt us. We weren’t after human flesh, often it stunk of nicotine and drink, infected with worms or tumors. We always preferred the taste of deer, bear, chamois, and boar. It was a good life. We worked a shop in the city, my wife a seamstress, and me, a carpenter. Then one day, a young sailor came to port. He brought with him a torn suit that needed mending. I think it was our blood that attracted him, poor Ana’s scent. Those with the death blood, something about them, they can hex women, control them as if they were marionettes. At the time I sensed something odd about the boy, his eyes a sparkling gray, looked like polished tin, but I had never dealt with their kind before. Wasn’t long before he had infected my Ana.”

  “How?” Josiah whimpered. “I followed the rules…”

  “SILENCE!” Pavel raged. Josiah stopped his blubbering but couldn’t bring himself to look the wolf in its eyes. “This is important!” Pavel continued. “This blood feaster didn’t know what she was ‘til he tasted her. I believe it scared him. He bit her just once then fled, but once is enough. The legends may say three times. Nay, one bite if the venom spreads deep enough throughout the body. I was away on a hunt when it happened, had left the city, shed my clothes and human form, prepared to bring home a venison feast. Ana was wise enough to know, by the next day, what was in her body, and to not wait until my return to do what needed to be done. She left me a note. She explained what the sailor truly was and what he had done to her. She then found a cliff, high above the crashing waves of the Adriatic. She also made sure to get silver. Something about that element, once it pierces our flesh, our wounds never heal. She made sure to stab herself with a silver dagger first.”

  Josiah opened his eyes at this news, faced the wolf whose eyes were filled with rage, but Josiah felt didn’t mean him harm. “Silver?” Josiah whimpered. “But I didn’t…”

  “Yes, the silver does work. It is my kind’s one weakness. It’s how you kept me on the floor. It wasn’t the cross; could care less about that. It was the silver chain that was holding your cross, placed around my neck. That and the disorienting smell of the garlic which overwhelmed my senses. I had to call for my pack to break in the door and drag me out into the open air. Yes, Josiah, you hurt me.” Here Pavel let out a twist of a snarl and chuckle. “You were far from killing me!”

  Josiah thought Pavel was going to finish him with his fangs exposed and a deep, menacing growl escaping from the creature. But again, the wolf held back and continued its tale.

  “Ana was smart. She stabbed herself first with the silver blade, a blow straight to the gut, then dove into the crashing waves. She knew the locals would assume her injuries came from the rocks below as her body was dashed against them, if it was ever recovered. It was. I made sure of it. Then I started my pursuit.”

  The wolf shook its body for a second and Josiah saw that the stake he had hammered in was slowly working its way outside of the wolf’s body. It was probably three quarters out and moving on its own ever so slowly.

  “I chased the sailor to Sicily, Sardinia,” Pavel continued, “then across the Atlantic and on to the New World. With my senses it wasn’t long to find the man, just had to catch up. I think he expected me when I tore him apart; he even seemed thankful, like he wanted his miserable existence to end as much as I did. But I was too late in that the sailor had infected another, a young governess. She was another single bite victim. Had the blood feaster returned, he would have drained her and killed her. But I interrupted that process. By destroying one blood feaster, I created another.”

  The blood ran from Josiah’s face at the realization. “No, never... never…”

  “Yes!” Pavel sneered and using his right paw, slashed across Josiah’s chest. The man gave a scream, feeling his shirt slices, his flesh torn. The wolf came up with the picture of Rosalee, now bloody, clutched between the toes of its paw.

  “Your Rosalee was a strong woman. She had fled from the estate, had held off as long as she could. I believe if she had known what she was becoming, she would have followed in the path of my Ana. But she didn’t, and her heart stopped, turned hard, and the sickness consumed her flesh.

  “Then, she was drawn to the children, had called out to them, but the old woman, the one who told you about me, she suspected something was amiss. Whether it was Rosalee’s disappearance or the shining metallic look of the sailor’s eyes, I know not. I’m still surprised she didn’t know Rosalee was infected. I wonder if she was just telling you a story to get you to hunt me down. That caretaker’s old world beliefs of holy water, garlic, and crosses kept the creature, which had been your Rosalee, at bay. She wandered the grounds at night trying to get at the children, but she could never get too close. The crosses and garlic made it impossible.

  “I had already left the coast when this occurred, had decided to move inland and see what the new world had to offer. As fortune would have it, I had not traveled far when I detected the vampire’s scent. I made a speedy return, and found the governess on the estate. She was singing a haunting melody to the children, hypnotizing them with her voice, a lovely enchanting voice. I can still hear the tune...”

  “Bidh Clann a' Righ, bidh Clann a' Righ,” sang out Josiah in whisper, “Bidh Clann a' Righ air do bhanais.”

  “Mmmm…” Pavel nodded approvingly. “That’s the tune. I see music runs in your family’s veins.”

  Josiah stopped his tune, ran out of breath, and did not react to Pavel’s compliment.

  “When I arrived,” Pavel continued, “Sarah had left the house, was slowly walking towards the creature, in some kind of trance.

  “Come to me, dear child,’ she said, pausing from her tune. ‘Come to your dear governess, your Rosalee.’

  “The girl, pale and white, stood before the creature, and Rosalee gestured for Sarah to remove the cross from her body. The child had begun lifting the chained cross over her head when I made my presence known.”

  A melancholic expression spread across Josiah’s face. With a dawning acceptance of the truth, Josiah let his body slump below the wolf, knowing the story’s end yet not wanting to know it.

  “She almost had me with her eyes. Even in full wolf form, at the height of my powers, something about those eyes and their effect on the opposite sex. She had me in a trance, but when she went to bite me, when her incisors extended, and her eyes broke contact for just a moment, I came to my senses and tore her head right from her shoulders. I made a mess of her, my bites counteracting the poison and assuring her demise. I am sorry. I truly am. It was the only way of making certain her second death was permanent.

  “After it was done, my pursuit was over. I had my revenge. Now what? While killing the sailor did bring some sense of satisfaction, it was hollow at best. Now there was a second bloodsucker
killed. I had done more than my fair share of work in this life. Should I go back? No, I had decided to explore this new world, I was going to stick to my plan. Quickly learning the local tongue of man and the local tongue of wolf, I headed out West, away, enjoying my time in the wilderness. Exploring this great new expansive world. Sometimes I would travel more into the southern parts of the country, others I’d head north into Canadian territory, but I was always zig-zagging away from the East Coast.

  “That is my story, Josiah the wealthy. I am leaving now. Your life is yours. Go. Your chase is over. If I see you again, you won’t live to tell of it.”

  At his final word, the stake finally dropped from his body and harmlessly landed on the top of Josiah’s bloody chest. Josiah shuddered, and the stake fell to the side, rolling away into the short mountain grasses. Pavel placed the photograph of Rosalee beside Josiah’s head, then made a few quick piercing yips, and leaped off towards the forest. His pack followed their leader, and they disappeared into the darkness of the woods.

  Josiah lay out in the open air all through the night, even well into the morning, the sun baking his face. His brain was reeling with this new knowledge, not knowing what to make of it nor of where to go.

  Finally, at noon, Josiah forced himself up on his legs. He looked to the South, then to the East, and even turned back towards the North. Josiah didn’t know which path to follow, which direction to take. The only thing he knew for certain was that his pursuit had come to an end.

  Eggsettential Circumstances

  The Story of Isabella the Painter

  Karen Gosselin

  One last brush stroke was all the portrait needed.

  A flick and flourish of camel hair bristles and the finishing touch graced the canvas. Isabelle stood back with no small amount of pride. It was another masterpiece. Cobalt blue tinting raven hair, striking features, eyes so blue a summer sky would weep in envy.

  It was the personality that was important however. One could paint an exact likeness and the painting would be as lifeless as the canvass and paint used to create it. Capturing the personality, that was what mattered. And Mr. Robin Godfell’s personality was one of the most unique. An unreserved mischief danced through him. Not just his eyes; all of him. There were sittings where Isabelle swore the impish tendencies were the building blocks that made up the man.

  Mr. Godfell was the richest man in New York if not the country. Getting a commission from him was, to date, the pinnacle of her art career. In he sauntered, a spring breeze full of laughing sunlight, declaring that he wanted a portrait, and that she was the only one who could paint it. He was every girl’s dream, cultured, good-looking…wealthy beyond reason. Never once was he clad in anything less than silk waistcoats and the finest trousers. And here he had been, in her modest studio.

  Mother would be thrilled if she saw this.

  Paint portraits, her mother advised. If Isabelle had to paint then that was the respectable route. Leave fantasies and childish things behind. Find a husband. Live a proper life and have children.

  Perhaps someday that was in her future. For now, Isabelle painted. It chafed. Though she dearly loved painting, creating, this was all propriety allowed her. A constant reminder was the photo of herself on Isabelle’s work bench. It stared back in sepia candor, a proper picture for a proper lady. Artificial curls pulled away from her face, back straight as Christendom. It all gave off a stiff formality. The only measure of casual freedom allowed her was to rest an arm on the nearby table. Isabelle’s one small protest that made mother dearest roll her eyes. It was the closest Isabelle felt to being herself, and yet as far from who she was as the sun was from New York.

  Someday she’d thumb her nose at propriety. For now it was portraits.

  Isabelle put her supplies away and wiped her hands on a smock with rainbow scars of paint. With utmost care she untied her smock. Her dress was cotton and not silk, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t love and respect it. The smock settled on a peg pounded into a nearby wall. Isabelle’s studio and small, upstairs apartment were all she needed. Pine scrubbed with love and linseed oil. A Victorian paned window watched people pass on the street.

  Isabelle imagined every piece of equipment as a part of her artistic army. Her French easel stood stalwart as a General on her right. Next to it was the sturdy counter and stone sink spattered with thousands of dried paint smears. Jars of pigment and oil paints lined the work bench, her stolid little soldiers. Egg tempera squatting in mason jars were her sentries. And then her training ground to the left, a small divan where Mr. Godfell slouched.

  “Well, Mr. Godfell,” Isabelle prompted. Her delicate chin lifted with pride. Why shouldn’t she? Her portrait work was some of the best, even if there were other things she’d rather be painting. “What do you think of your portrait?”

  White teeth brightened the room with his smile.

  “Brilliant! I say, my dear, your ability is second to none. You are both lovely and talented.”

  A slow furnace warmed her cheeks. In spite of the blush, Isabelle kept her composure. She was a lady and a professional first and foremost. To cover for the awkwardness, Isabelle readjusted her layered skirts and the bustle underneath more comfortably. Men like Mr. Godfell didn’t flirt with her. She wasn’t ugly, or plain, but she didn’t dare boast of any great beauty. If one asked, she’d say she was simply herself; oval face, brown eyes and mahogany hair that, if she admitted it, was her favorite feature. Isabelle was content with herself and life… mostly.

  “The paint must dry for a week or two before the varnish can be applied, sir. After the varnish dries, you’re free to take it home.”

  “Of course. And, please, call me Robin. No need to be so formal.”

  The furnace’s temperature turned up in her cheeks. This time she smiled. What was it about this man that made you want to do that? It was more than his appearance. There was sin in his eyes, for sure. Gleaming within was a kind of merry twinkle harkening back to the pagan wild and dancing naked in forests. But that was impossible. Such thoughts were a flight of an over active imagination, just as mother always told her.

  “There’s a smile a man would pine for.” Without missing a beat Mr. Godfell produced his wallet. A thick wad of Demand Notes belched from the item, even though the wallet looked like it could barely hold a bill or two. The entire bulk fell into her hands.

  Shock drained the blush from her cheeks. “Mr. Godfell, um, Robin, this is too much!”

  “Nonsense!” A grand gesture waved away her concern. Mr. Godfell stared at his mirror reflection on her canvas. “Besides I have one more project for you.”

  An egg shaped amethyst materialized in his hand. Where he was keeping it, Isabelle couldn’t guess. The amethyst was the size of an ostrich egg she saw in a museum, and deep purple. It lacked the glassy polish and transparency of most gems. Cloudy as a stormy day, she could only see about a centimeter in. And the size! It was the largest gemstone she’d ever seen! Her fingers twitched. The nerves in her arms jumped and pulled her fingers closer. She didn’t get more than half way when shadows, suggestions of movement, shifted just beneath the surface. Alarmed, Isabelle put her hands behind her back.

  Overactive imagination. Mother said so.

  Still, to paint a thing this rare and beautiful would be a delight. This was as close to deviating from her dignified profession as society might allow.

  “You want me to paint a picture of that?”

  “No, no. I want you paint it. Cover it in one of your master pieces. A landscape I think.”

  The amethyst lay in his palm, passive. Its cloudy surface reflected the grey light from the window. Again, every muscle in her arms flexed in a desire to hold it. She clenched her hands tightly together, feeling a slick film of sweat cause her fingers to slide over her skin. Demand Notes crinkled, folded edges nipping at her palms. If she focused enough, shapes would start to form. Vague images of lands far away, full of mystery and air scented with incense. Smoke from a fire lic
ked at the imaginary landscape.

  Damn me, and my imagination. Mother was right. I should stick to portraits.

  “But, sir, why would you want to cover it up with paint? It’s beautiful! Is it from India?” She’d heard of emeralds and rubies the size of a person’s head being found in India.

  “It’s alright,” Mr. Godfell assured. “It’s not a real amethyst.”

  The wealthy had odd tastes, that was certain. Give a person enough money and they’d ask for the most bizarre things. This was one of them. Paint a gem stone. Cover an item so priceless with oil, minerals and tempera.

  “I will pay you very well for this piece. You’ll have enough to live comfortably for several lifetimes.”

  Those eyes! Staring into them was as bad as staring into the amethyst. Isabelle didn’t remember asking for the price but she heard it clear and crisp as a January freeze. Goose prickles chased her nerves under layers of cotton. If she ever had grandchildren they wouldn’t work a day in their lives.

  “What kind of landscape would you like?” It was a perfectly professional question for an artist to ask.

  “Whatever pops into your head, my dear. Let your imagination paint whatever you desire.” Mr. Godfell pushed the amethyst closer.

  You devil, to tempt me so... Whatever I imagine...

  The freedom was daunting. Money had nothing to do with it. Though, her mother would have disagreed on that account. If someone as wealthy as Mr. Godfell wanted to pay for an odd commission, so be it. It smacked of prosperity and status. All Isabelle could think of was having the liberty to be creative.