by Lara Parker
“Indeed they are all well mastered, sir. Would you think otherwise?” The hint of defiance in her response was not lost on him; she could tell by the cast of his eye, but he spoke to her in another tone, more intimate, that made her throat tighten and her teeth go numb.
“This is rude toil for such a tender girl. Need you not a man to help you?”
“Nay, Judah Zachery.” And then she added, if only to spite him, “And my days at the schoolhouse are numbered. I have learned all I care to know from you.”
“But have you mastered your commandments, Miranda?” The Reverend spoke. “And the Lord’s Prayer. Can you recite it by heart?”
“Of course. I am not a child. And many verses of scripture have I set to my memory.”
He paused. “Then you must know it bodes evil to speak with a sharp tongue.”
“I did not mean to do so, sir. I only meant that I have learned all Judah Zachery has to teach me.”
The men looked down on her as she stood in the water, her dress clinging to her body, her hair loose from her cap. Judah Zachery looked the longest. Then they turned to one another and muttered among themselves. She felt the fool, shivering beside a beaver dam with her apron floating on the still water, and so she gathered her skirts and moved back up the bank as though to take her leave of them. But even as she climbed she heard a splashing sound. She turned to see the water bubble through the place she had cleared of debris, and the stream tumbled out, silver and murmuring. They all were amazed that she had managed it alone, and stared a long time at the clearing ripples, thinking their evil, suspicious thoughts.
Then Deodat Larson called to her. “Take care how you conduct yourself, my child. There is witchcraft afoot and many are suspect.”
“I have naught to do with witchcraft, sir.”
Once more they looked at the stream she had released, and they turned their horses to go.
Miranda stood on the bank and watched the water flow, as the shallow pond sank slowly, and the tips of reeds and wilted grasses began to emerge into the air. When she saw the disgruntled beaver waddle into the trees, she wondered whether she had been wrong to destroy his home. Walking back through the forest, she began her search for roots and herbs; and she thought again of her time as a child with the Wampanoags when enchanted mists hung among the dark trunks, and mysterious winds whispered in the branches of trees as friendly to her as the bear, the raccoon, and the skunk.
Metacomet, who was called King Phillip by the English, had kept her in the wigwam with his other children. When she asked what had happened to her family, he told her that her father left a dead cow, bloated and reeking with larvae, across the stream above the Wampanoag camp, and it poisoned the water. Many took sick and died. Later he admitted the deaths might have come from blankets the settlers brought and traded for beaver pelts. He never spoke of the two years of war, of the land stolen from his people, and the Puritan attacks that killed his own sons. He should have known she had not been too young to remember.
She woke one morning when she still lived in Salem Village, and she was barely three years of age. Hearing loud cries, she looked from her attic window and saw several barns ablaze. When she first saw the Indians, she did not think they were people at all but animals without fur. She saw her uncle run from the house only to be shot down by a group of redskins lying on a hill behind Willard’s barn. Her mother fled up the stairs, gathered her up in her quilt and, running, thrust her into the hayloft and told her to bury herself and lie still. But the screams and moans drew her to the dovecote, and from her hiding place she saw her mother’s brother struck on the head, then dragged out into the yard where the howling savages stripped him of his clothes and split open his belly. She saw a leaping red beast with only her aunt’s long golden hair in one hand, a bloody knife in the other. The naked men danced around with torches, set fire to the buildings, and she heard bullets spray against the door like stones. She crept to the top of the ladder and looked down into the barn where the Indians were stealing the family cows, and saw her father trying to stop them with a great hay fork. An Indian shouted gibberish and stove him through with a spear. Then they set fire to the barn, and the flames came up through the floor and caught the hay on fire, and her quilt began to burn. She jumped, and tumbled into the manure pile, where she was scooped up by her mother just as another wailing Indian covered with feathers and paint grabbed them both and pulled them on his horse. Her mother held on to her so tightly she could not breathe. And that way they were carried off, but not before she had time to look back and see her father stagger out the door, the spear still in his breast. Another Indian knocked him down with a club, lifted his head by the hair, and cracked his skull against a rock.
Miranda shook the memory from her mind. The visit from the townsmen had disturbed her, and she knew the time had come to bind Andrew to her forever. She had only to make him lie with her, and his goodness was such that he would never forsake her. She tried not to think of his silent ways, how he would go dumb when spoken to, and remember only his strong arms and solid back.
She looked over at the forest trees, flowering now in the season before the heat, magnificent clouds of pale green and emerald and gold. Metacomet once told her that in the time before the snow, when the trees turned scarlet, the Great Bear in the sky was wounded by the Hunter, and his blood dripped down on the leaves. But another time he told her the trees drew the blood from some other kingdom beneath the earth. As she tugged on the snowapple root, she smiled as she thought of the great sachem. Metacomet was wise because he could admit he did not know all things. He made long talks at council and all others were silent when he spoke. Often he said one thing as it pleased him, and then at another time another, but he was greatly respected. He once told her that he regretted the killing of her family, but that the Wampanoags suffered much because of the settlers. He said that he had stolen her for ransom, or to make her a slave, but when he saw that she could fly, he let her stay, and kept her as one of his own. His hope was that she would become a great Medicine Woman one day.
She pictured him now, with his russet skin and deeply lined face, telling the children the story of the beaver. The largest beaver pond he had ever seen lay across the great valley, and he had journeyed three days there to set traps. He spoke of a lake that could swallow the moon, a great water that stretched from rock outcropping to marsh meadow, and the dam as long as a morning’s walk and taller than two men.
The little beaver pond she knew from her childhood was near the Wampanoag camp, and always held the sky in its surface; fleecy clouds flew across it like flocks of white birds. Metacomet told the children who sat with him by the fire and listened to his tale that many things came to them because of the beaver’s work: the moose and her calf to feed, the duck with the bright green head, the darting fish, and all the reeds and berries. Then he laughed because he said the beaver made a home for all these things not because it was generous, but because it could not bear the sound of rushing water.
Miranda searched through rotted mulch and new green sprouts for what she needed, nightshade for virility and lavender for courage, yarrow to banish negativity and wild rose to bind the spell. Soon she would have Andrew in her power. She remembered it had been sport for the children to swim the underwater tunnel to the beaver’s home. Those who reached the hidden sanctuary had dancing eyes when they spoke of it. The first time Miranda dove into the murky water, down through leafy branches at the surface, she saw roots imbedded in an underwater forest floor, and the trunks of saplings stored for food; but she came up, sputtering and laughing, and certain she would never find the secret passage. The beavers hid their tunnels deeper than she could dive.
Then one bright morning a young beaver splashed, and she followed his paddling feet and the flag of his tail waving in the gloom. She was sucked into a burrow of branches that slid their long fingers along her body and scraped. her arms and legs, but urged her on with tender nudges. When the beaver disappeared, and she saw the ruby light glow
ing in the distance, she doubled her efforts. She pushed through the tangled sticks and slime, poked her head through the narrow hole, and gasped for air.
She was inside the hut. A dome of twisted limbs and twigs above her head was woven like a huge basket, and the floor was dry and strewn with shavings made by the never-ceasing teeth. All was glowing with the rosy light of sun slivers piercing the canopy, and the odor was fresh as cut bark. She saw the beaver children huddled in the corner, five of them, with twitching noses, rounded ears, and dark and frightened eyes. She waited, still as the water, until the small rodents forgot she was there and began to groom themselves, dragging their long claws over their heads and through their fur. Miranda thought that finding the beaver’s den was like being born.
It was growing dark and she still had a long walk home. It was too risky to fly, even in the night, and Miranda trudged through the woods. How to make Andrew long for her? Several times when they had been alone together, she had laid her hand on his, or moved her body close to his warmth, but he had always gone mute and pulled away and shyly returned to his work. It must happen soon, for she needed a champion.
THREE
Collinsport—1971
THE NEXT MORNING Barnabas rose, dressed hurriedly, and stole down into the kitchen before the rest of house awoke. The keys to the Bentley were on a hook within a key safe by the door, along with keys to locked rooms in the basement, outdoor sheds, Rose Cottage, even keys to the Old House, useless now, and gathering dust. She would have her own locks soon. His hands were trembling, and he hesitated, remembering Julia’s admonition to eat more often. But after decades of dining on blood alone, his craving for food was minimal. He drew a sweet roll out of the bread box and forced himself to take a bite of the sugary icing. His stomach heaved, and he threw the rest in the trash.
He paused at the front door and glanced to the wall on his right at a magnificent portrait in a gilded frame. Everyone in the present family assumed it to be the likeness of his ancestor, the first Barnabas Collins, said to have left Collinwood for England in 1795. Often Elizabeth or David would comment on its uncanny resemblance to the Barnabas who now resided with them. The high cheekbones and deep hollows enhanced a face handsome as a Roman emperor’s, with dark eyes gazing out from beneath a curling fringe. The ringed hand rested on the silver wolfhead of the cane he no longer carried, for he had put it away when he ceased to walk the night. The sight of his likeness gave him a sense of bemused reassurance; it always comforted him to know that his years as an immortal had left him unaltered and, since as a vampire he could not see his own reflection, it had served as his looking glass. Abruptly curious, he turned back for the first time to the small mirror beside the tall torchiere at the foot of the stairs.
He was shocked at the change. It was as though a stranger looked back at him. The youthful vigor and arrogance he had come to expect had vanished. Instead the skin was drawn, the hair dull, and the dark circles under his eyes had swollen into bags. His ivory complexion was soiled by a blotched ruddiness. As he stared at his image, he had a fleeting thought that this was the type of victim he would have opce pursued. In only a few months, years had taken their toll.
He hurried to the garage. He was obliged to meet with a traveling rug dealer that morning, and he was not looking forward to the appointment, this particular breed of human being the one he despised the most. It was lamentable that they dealt in the most beautiful handmade objects on earth. As he backed the sedan out of the driveway and headed down the road, he felt his pulse quicken. He was determined to see the Old House again in the daylight and reexamine what he was certain was a factory-made carpet. He realized he was risking an encounter with the new owner of his old estate, but he was willing, eager even, to chance it. It was ludicrous that the woman now called herself Antoinette Harpignies, since, aside from the style of her hair and wardrobe, she resembled Angelique in every way.
His fingers clenched as he imagined them digging into her shoulders, grasping her neck, and he shuddered to think how strong was his desire to destroy her. If she threatened him, he might lose his temper, his feelings being so close to the surface. Consequently, he had decided it would be judicious for their first meeting to be early in the day, with no one else about, perhaps in the drawing room of the Old House where he would feel in control, and where he could demand from her an explanation of why she had returned.
As he drew near the Old House, Barnabas noticed several battered pickup trucks parked in the drive. The workmen had arrived, and Barnabas, who had expected to see no one, stopped the Bentley and watched the activity for some moments: the unloading of tools and lumber, light fixtures, and cabinets for the upper rooms. Two young men greeted a third with good-natured banter, hooting at some rude remark, and their raucous voices and harsh laughter floated over the lawn. He wondered whether they had missed their murdered coworker, since they gave no outward signs of alarm.
As Barnabas watched them tussle with a large box of wallpaper and heard their sounds of jovial camaraderie, a wave of despondency weakened his resolve. This energetic scene only served to deepen his sense of loneliness. His life, in comparison, was without purpose—buying and selling Oriental rugs being a shabby substitute for his past adventures. He thought of the dead man who only a day earlier had worked with these tradesmen, exchanging a joke over the ladders and paints, sharing a beer after work, returning in the evening to his family. Now, for the first time in over a hundred years, he, Barnabas, was facing death, inevitable, and all the more terrifying in the wake of a fruitless life, a life without accomplishment or merit of any kind. He felt unable to meet the workers, but instantly rejected this attitude as cowardly. He got out of the car and strode across the lawn towards the steps, nodding to the crew in a businesslike manner, as though he had every right to be there.
Once inside the foyer, Barnabas experienced the same eerie sense of the past metamorphosed. Beams of sunlight sliced the somber interior of the drawing room, sun motes spinning lazily in the air. Once more he was struck by the perfection of the restoration, the precise selection of furnishings: a Baroque statue of a rearing horse, a decanter of sherry and crystal glasses on a tray, a crocheted antimacassar with a small tear few would have noticed on the back of a chair. But he had not been mistaken about the rug. The garish colors of metallic dyes betrayed its cheap pretense. It was stiff and thick in pile, and he turned back a corner to see the weave, which was, as he expected it to be, tight and uniform, woven on a factory loom. Nothing about the fold of the carpet characterized the supple artistry of a handmade rug.
Back again in the Bentley, he remembered that he had forgotten to go to Julia’s room for his injection. His early departure had swept it from his mind. Lately he had begun to muse on the small and irritating changes which being human had brought. Forgetfulness was not the least of his annoyances. While a vampire, his mind had resembled a set of surgeon’s tools in a case, precise, finely tuned, and designed for the task. Over the years he had become accustomed to clarity of forethought, a photographic memory, and absolute confidence in his perceptions. Now, with his brain addled by conflicting sensations, he found that stern focus eluded him and the simplest tasks required a supreme effort at concentration. He drove the road with care. The Bentley glided over a carpet of autumn leaves which formed a tapestry on the pavement. The bright colors glittered in shades of ruby, emerald, amber, citrine, and bronze, like a thousand jeweled eyes.
WHEN DR. JULIA HOFFMAN opened the door to her room back at Collinwood, Barnabas could see she was upset. She had been waiting for him. She was dressed for the office in a rust-colored suit, one that he admired since it complemented her fine brown eyes. But she was paler these days, thin and drawn. The gloss had leaked out of her copper hair, and her bright eyes, the most attractive thing about her, had grown muddy. She must have forgotten her makeup this morning, for her skin was sallow.
“Barnabas, where were you? I have missed my first appointments.”
He hesitat
ed to tell her about his discovery the night before. “Please forgive me, Julia. It was thoughtless. I rose early and went for a drive.” He resented her impatience, which was more evident these days, the result of bruised feelings from what she must assume was disdain for all her efforts.
“Yes, I came to your room.” She opened her valise and removed the hypodermic needle and the serum. The nausea that proceeded the injections flared in his gut. “Must I remind you again . . . the cure is still uncertain. Without the injections—”
“Please, Julia, don’t. I’m quite aware.” He found her halting manner of speaking more irritating than usual this morning and silently chastised himself for such ungenerous feelings. “I returned to Collinwood the moment I remembered, before going to town. I’m grateful to you for waiting.”
“If we were sleeping in the same room, this would not be a problem,” she said, and lifted the vial. He watched sun from the window catch fire in the claret-colored liquid as it drained into the tube.
“Of course, my dear. And I assure you that will be soon.” His mouth felt dry. She had expected him to marry her by now. It was autumn, and he had proposed to her in the spring when the cure first took effect. She was a brilliant physician, and his admiration for her was unbounded. The formula she had invented, and administered every morning, kept him human. He knew her expertise had given him a new life, the life he fervently desired, and only her vigilance sustained him. But he was so completely dependent on her—not that she would ever abandon him. He decided that it was her vaguely critical air that annoyed him.
“I was thinking,” she said as she approached him with the needle and rolled his sleeve, “perhaps we might reveal our intentions to the family this weekend.”
He tensed. “It’s not too soon?” Searching for a means of escaping further discussion, he thought of the mangled body of the worker. A killer on the prowl would force them both to reconsider their plans. Words were forming themselves in his mind but he faltered, wary of her mood, and only said, “You yourself just warned me you are not certain that the change is permanent.”