by Lara Parker
“Lost again. I just need to get back to the main road.”
David stretched, and looked out the window. “I guess that’s why Father didn’t want me to go on this trip. He wasn’t sure you were up to it.” He chuckled and Barnabas knew he was teasing. “Hey, why don’t you let me drive for a while?”
“You want to?”
“Sure. I’ve got my learner’s permit.”
A lonely stretch of road seemed a safe spot, and soon David was grinning with excitement behind the wheel. Barnabas felt a rush of pride to have been the one to give him this opportunity, and to be both his instructor and protector. But David exuded confidence. “Father would bust a gut if he saw me,” he said laughing.
“Probably, but you seem to be doing fine.”
“Why does he always act like such a jerk?”
“Oh, Roger’s not a jerk. He worries about you, that’s all.”
“He doesn’t trust me. He thinks I’m still a little kid.”
“But he does love you.” Barnabas was surprised to hear himself say this, and to suddenly realize, with acute awareness, that his own love of this family had been the one constant in his long and ageless life. More than anything else, even his immortality, it defined him. Being a Collins was a source of enduring pride, and the history of his ancestors, even from long before the curse, had always fascinated him.
“You do realize, don’t you David, that your family boasts an impressive genealogy which can be traced all the way back to the founding of the New England colonies?”
“I know, I’ve been told that about a hundred times.”
“Sir Isaac Collins founded Collinsport in 1660. The main reason I wanted to bring you to Salem is that another branch of the family settled there. Isaac’s brother, Benajah Collins—”
“Benajah! Oh wow. What a cool name.”
“Benajah Collins—who was a Reverend, by the way—purchased a small farm outside Danvers. He died mysteriously, probably at the hands of the Indians, but Isaac sold the land for a good price and with that capital he was able to finance his first schooner. That was the beginning of the family business.”
“You mean shipping,”
Barnabas nodded. “The Collinses have always been in shipbuilding and trading back and forth across the Atlantic.” Barnabas decided to omit the facts about dealing in slavery, but he added, “They amassed a fortune in those days, the fortune you stand to inherit.”
“And I’m the only surviving male of my generation. Everything depends on me, right?”
“You should be proud of your heritage. Very few of your schoolmates could boast such a lineage. Think about it when you are in Salem. In some ways the Salem Branch was the beginning of the Collinses wealth. I’m sure you’ve heard about Benajah’s father, Amadeus Collins, who was a judge. You come from a long line of lawyers and thinkers as well as shrewd businessmen and merchants. There may have been disagreements in the beliefs and opinions of Collinses down through time, but there is one thing we all have in common. We are a special family. We are all leaves on the same tree. And we know and accept that. Our ancestors are always with us, watching over us.”
David was silent for a while, and then he said, “You can drive now, Barnabas, I’ve had enough for one night.”
STILL IN A WEAKENED CONDITION from the attack in the woods, Barnabas hit upon a trick to keep himself awake while he drove the final hours to Salem. He decided to compose a list of all the ways he found becoming human despicable. First, there was the physical weakness, and the inability to lift or leap. He was living as a prisoner in a cramped body. Each day his shoulders were more slumped, hands more veined, neck more slack. He was plagued by emotional malaise as well, the tendency toward self-deprecation and an unexpected timidity in public. Humans, he realized, were irrational, and often reversed perfectly reasonable decisions on a whim. They were unstable, and quick to anger or place blame. He now possessed all of these contemptible qualities. As a vampire he had known guilt and obsession, but he had never been in the throes of embarrassment, and he had never been intimidated by the supercilious attitudes of others. It had a great deal to do with his physical appearance.
Vanity had been his inclination, and unable to inspect his image in a mirror, he had seen himself reflected in the admiration he found in others’ gazes. He imagined a magnificent countenance: clear, pale skin, aquiline features, black hair which glistened in the firelight, and dark, luminous eyes that shone with the intensity of a two-hundred-year-old soul. As with anyone who cannot truly see themselves, in his mind’s eye his likeness was rendered in the great paintings of kings, in the busts of Roman emperors, in the youthful charioteers from the Parthenon frieze. Captured forever in art, their beauty was immortal, as, he believed, was his.
He was always impeccably turned out, with the best tailors to manufacture his wardrobe, since any exclusive haberdashery was available to him in the night. He often chose the finest gabardine for his suits, a brocaded vest of scarlet silk, a loose charmeuse shirt with lace cuffs, and a wide voluminous velvet cape of midnight blue with a scarlet lining—a cape that brushed the ground. He carried a cane that bore the silver head of a wolf, and his leather shoes gleamed, even on the soles.
Now, since shopping had become impossible, he often wore the same suit for days at a time. The clerks were lazy and treated him with indifference, as though he were just another insignificant member of their bossy and overbearing clientele. He avoided mirrors, as the shock of his appearance offended him. A haggard visage with skin grown rough from shaving—another new and tedious necessity—bluish bags beneath his watery eyes, and a dingy gray in his hair and eyebrows—these were not the only signs of a loss of vitality. He was astonished to discover how easily he bruised. He worried about decay in his teeth, cracked nails, odd rashes that bloomed in peculiar spots.
He was, quite naturally, disgusted by his bodily functions, and food was repellent. His taste buds had yet to regain their keenness, and even when the crisp piquancy of a fresh apple or the rush of rare meat juices charmed his mouth, the ensuing digestive process was agony. At one time his body had been lean and tensile, like a tuning fork that vibrated to one pure tone. Now he felt the food he consumed left him contaminated.
But his problems were more than physical. He found that sometimes in conversation he became distracted, or seemed to recall something that had no connection to the topic at hand; and he would blurt out some awkward remark, resulting in embarrassment. Inadvertent mental leaps into the past would leave him confused and he would forget what he had meant to say, only to be left staring into the baffled face of his listener. Consequently, he avoided social contact as often as he had when he had been a vampire, and that old pervasive loneliness had its grip on him still.
Never in his former state, however, would he have mused on the lack of love in his life. He had always only to fix his gaze upon a woman to draw her to him. Young girls had been eager for his company, desirous of his embrace. They had loved him too much, to their own detriment, of course; but he had rarely spent a day without some tender and attentive female companion at his disposal. Now the thought of approaching a woman excited him, but it also left him feeling panicky.
So at last he had arrived in Salem, and the final mortification was that, driving lethargically in ever-widening circles, he was baffled by a city that seemed to have no grid but only streets that crossed one another like the tangled scrawl of a child. His mind refused to focus; the synapses were sluggish. Then the heat began.
His fingertips tingled, as though they had been asleep, and his hands gripping the wheel contorted as if worms were crawling under his skin. Almost at once he felt fatigue in his limbs and nausea in the pit of his stomach. It was heat from the blood made by his own marrow, thick and raw, flowing through his veins like rising lava, and it played havoc with his temperature. Most of all he hated his sweat, which reeked of rotten leaves, and he could not help but wonder whether anyone near him would be able to bear his odor—lik
e the inside of a vase where flowers have wilted and died. Breathing heavily, he slowed the car, rolled down the window, and drank in the night air. David woke again to his sighs, stretched, and lifted up to look out the window.
“Are we there?”
“Yes, finally. This is Salem.”
At that moment they passed a huge Gothic mansion of purplish granite. An enormous triple-arched leaded window of great intricacy was lit from within with a crimson glow, and a signpost displayed a swinging placard that read SALEM WITCH MUSEUM, 1692. Carved deeply into the wood was the silhouette of a witch holding a broom and wearing a tall conical hat. In her arms she held a black cat with yellow eyes.
“Cool,” said David. “Look at that. Can we go there?”
“Tomorrow, perhaps,” Barnabas answered with difficulty. “But first we must find Winter Street. Our lodgings are at the Inn at Winter Street, and I have circled the town and seen nothing by that name.”
“I’m hungry. Let’s stop and eat, and we can ask somebody.”
“That’s a grand idea.” The thought of food was detestable to Barnabas, but he was determined to be a cheerful companion.
“How about that?” David said, pointing to the lights of the Derby Fish & Lobster just ahead. Barnabas found an empty parking space and, still feeling dizzy, sat for a moment and rested his head against the steering wheel. But David clambered out of the car and made for the door, forcing him to follow.
The restaurant was noisy and crowded with young people, smoking, drinking wine, talking in shrill voices, and the glare of the lights was a shock after the long dark hours in the car. There were no tables available, but the waiter told them they could order food at the bar. So they found themselves seated on stools and staring past gleaming bottles of wines and liquors into the kitchen.
While David buried himself in the menu, Barnabas made an effort to calm his nerves. Paranoia gripped him, and he had the sudden impulse to flee. With some effort he listened to bits of conversation around him mingled with the sounds coming from the cooking area. He was always sad in public places. Under the clatter of dishes in the sink, he heard, “I have no limits in my life,” from a dark-haired girl leaning over her cigarette. “You’re a guy I could have a relationship with,” she said, a gold bracelet glinting on her arm, “but I don’t like the baggage you come with.”
Then came a burst of laughter from across the room. “It’s simple!” someone shouted. “He has to be garroted!” A serious young man at a table close by stared mournfully into his partner’s eyes. “I finally read your story, and it really upset me,” he said. As Barnabas gazed around the restaurant, he became painfully aware that everyone seemed to be part of a couple, intensely involved in the grip of some intimate problem.
Two pretty boys worked behind the bar, and they were in the process of assessing their lives as well. “Do you want to end up like our parents?” said one. Barnabas wondered if they were gay, as both were very good-looking in a thin, fragile sort of way, especially the blond boy with well-shaped arms and delicate hands.
After reading the entire menu, David ordered a hamburger, and Barnabas felt obligated to choose the house special, clam chowder, although the name and the thought of its ingredients repulsed him. The odors of fish, garlic, and butter filled his nostrils, and he pushed the leaden nausea back into the pit of his stomach. David wandered off to the bathroom and Barnabas glanced over the crush of people. The tables were bright with food, silver, and glittering goblets, and each displayed a Halloween centerpiece, a black witch perched on a pumpkin. Copper chandeliers festooned with spider-filled cobwebs cast a honeyed glow over the room.
Then his heart jumped. He saw, at a far table on the other side of the room, what he thought was a familiar silhouette. Her back was to him and her blond hair fell in loose tendrils over the collar of a white lace blouse: There was something about the shape of her head, the lift of her shoulders, and the way she leaned in when she spoke to her companion that he was certain he recognized. Then he remembered the carpenter, Jason Shaw, had mentioned that Antoinette often came to Salem.
David returned with a fistful of brochures and slammed the stool when he climbed on, scraping the tile floor.
“Guess what? It’s a weekend of thrills and chills—Ghosts from the Gallows!”
“Really? Whatever is that?”
“Right now, in Witch City. Salem has this huge Halloween celebration. There’s all kinds of stuff we can do.”
“Well, I suppose that explains the crowds.” Barnabas said, glancing at the woman’s back again while making an attempt to sip his wine. David read from the flyer.
“Listen to this! ‘Salem’s Haunted House! Salem’s oldest and largest! A trail of ghoulish chambers filled with vampires and other creatures of the night.’ Wow! Vampires! Let’s go there! ‘Nosferatu rise from their graves looking for victims to feed their insatiable hunger. If we don’t scare you, you must be dead!’ ” David laughed and pressed the flyer on Barnabas, who scanned it in dismay. “See, it says, ‘Innocent victims of the diabolical Witch Trials come down from Gallows Hill to walk the streets of Salem.’ ”
His eyes sparkling from the bar lights, David teased, “I need to see it all, Barnabas, for my educational experience.”
“But then, of course you must,” said Barnabas.
“Listen to this,” he went on, “this is so cool. ‘Haunted Footsteps Ghost Tour.’ Whoa! ‘Eerie, lantern-light walk resurrects Salem’s frightful past. Hear true tales of documented hauntings, chilling murders, and colonial witchcraft.’ Far out! Oh, and get this. ‘We offer a spirited,’ duh-h-h, ‘perspective on Salem’s bewitching history!’ ” David was giggling like a little kid. “ ‘Group rates available. Visit our unique, gift boo-tique.’ Oh, man, this is great. I can’t wait.”
“I knew a witch once,” said Barnabas lightly, still watching the woman whose back was to him.
“Oh, yeah?”
“As a matter of fact, I knew her quite well.”
“A real witch?”
“Absolutely.”
“Could she cast spells?”
“She cast one on me,” said Barnabas, and to his amazement, he caught himself smiling as though it had all been a great joke.
David gave him a wise look. “Oh, I get you. You fell for her, right?”
Before Barnabas could answer, the boy with the well-shaped arms brought their food. He looked at David with some interest. “You folks from around here, or are you tourists?”
“Actually, we just came to see the town,” said David.
“At Halloween?”
“Did we pick a bad time?” Barnabas asked.
“Well, there’ll be hundreds of people here this weekend. The witch dungeons and pirate museums will be bursting at the seams. But you will be able to buy a vampire cape for about a hundred dollars, a twenty-five-dollar love potion, or a ten-dollar T-shirt that reads, ‘Born-again Pagan.’ ” He smiled at David. “It’s Hysteria Time in Witch City.”
“Isn’t anything real?” asked David.
“Hm-m-m-m . . . that’s a good question.”
“What about the cemetery?” Barnabas added.
“Oh, the Old Burying Place? Sure, that’s the real thing. The problem is it’s surrounded by second-rate wax museums with decaying exhibits. But, you know what? There’s a local Circle Ceremony tomorrow night. You can dance with some real live witches.” David laughed, and the young man drank him in with his eyes.
“Maybe the one you used to know will be there, Barnabas,” David said slyly.
“And every Sunday there’s a seance. Attend that only if you are not afraid of going back in time.”
“Oh, wow! I’m not!” David’s excitement was contagious, but the young man turned his head and looked for the briefest instant into Barnabas’s eyes. It was a look of contempt, and Barnabas shuddered.
DIRECTIONS TO WINTER STREET took them along the harbor, where they could see the lights on the water, and then into the darkest part of tow
n, past the Common. This would be the place to hunt, thought Barnabas. The “French Victorian B&B” was not what he had expected; it was rundown and dismal. The house was locked, with only a porch light, and they knocked for some time before an old woman, looking out of place without a nightcap and candle, opened the door to a tiny entrance hall decorated with a floral carpet. She led them, carrying their own luggage, up three sets of steep and narrow stairs, to a disappointing suite which was small and dark and bitterly cold. It boasted a fake leather couch that consumed the whole of the sitting room. A cramped bathroom built of particleboard had been forced into one corner of the eighteenth-century bedroom, where no bathroom was ever intended to be. It contained a plastic shower unit, and Barnabas was annoyed to find it had one of those noisy fans that came on, and stayed on, with the light.
But this was, nevertheless, their home, and David was soon to bed and covered up with an orange polyester quilt. He was asleep in no time, but not before he had exacted a promise from Barnabas, who was also looking forward to the experience, that they could go to the Witch Trial Exhibit first thing in the morning.
Barnabas stared for a moment out the grimy window at shingled dormers silvered in the moonlight, then glanced back into the bedroom at David sleeping peacefully. The boy’s charm and good looks moved him, and he thought again of taking him to Europe or Asia, showing him the world. What a treat that would be, Barnabas mused, sharing his wisdom with one so young and impressionable. How much David reminded him of himself at that age, brash and enthusiastic, full of humor and curiosity, at the threshold of life. He was beginning to notice that David admired his knowledge of history and, more than anything, he was struck by the comfort the boy’s companionship brought him.
But his mind drifted back to the restaurant and the woman at the table across the room. Why did she come to Salem, and who was the girl she had secreted out of Windcliff? What, if anything, had Antoinette to do with his recent difficulties? And what of the vampire on the loose in Collinsport now threatening those he loved? Who knew the ways of a monster so intimately, could catch its metallic scent, or hear the velvet silence when it was near? Everyone in the town was vulnerable: his family, the hippies sleeping in the woods. And how could he, in his weakened state, find the cunning and the courage to drive a stake through its heart? He trembled at the thought. How many mornings had he closed the lid of his own casket, wondering whether this dawning day was to be his last? And how many years had he lived in fear of the vengeance that was now his calling to seek?