The mood there was subdued also. Castleton assisted, this morning, in harnessing the dogs to the sledges, but a task of which he would have made short work only a month ago seemed almost beyond him; and the look in his eyes as he watched us leave, on a mission of which he was to have been a part, tore at the soul. De Vere’s health contrasted starkly with the wan face of the man beside him, yet the cook had looked almost as stricken as the dog master as we left the camp.
1 February: I did not think that I would find myself writing these words, but the Fortitude cannot return too quickly. It is not only Castleton’s health that is worrisome; it is the growing conviction that there is something wrong with me. The fancy that someone else abides here grows stronger by the day and, despite my best efforts, I cannot rid myself of it. I have tried, as delicately as possible, to raise the question with some of the others, but their laughter indicates that no one else is suffering. “Get better snow goggles, old man,” was Richards’s response. The only person who did not laugh was De Vere, whose look of concern told me that he, too, senses my anxiety.
6 February: The end has come, and while it is difficult to write this, I feel I must; as if setting it down on paper will go some way to exorcising it from my mind. I know, however, that the scenes of the last two days will be with me until the grave.
Two nights ago I saw Walker again, as plainly as could be. It was shortly before dark, and I was returning from the hut which shelters my scientific equipment. The wind, which howls down from the icy plateau above us, had ceased for a time, and I took advantage of the relative calm to light my pipe.
All was quiet, save for a subdued noise from the men in the hut, and the growling of one or two of the dogs. I stood for a moment, gazing about me, marvelling at the sheer immensity of where I was. Save for the Fortitude and her crew, and Scott’s party—wherever they may be—there are no people within 1200 miles of us, and we are as isolated from the rest of the world and her bustle as if we were on the moon. Once again the notion of our own insignificance in this uninhabited land struck me, and I shivered, knocked the ashes out of my pipe, and prepared to go to the main hut.
A movement caught my eye, behind the shed containing my equipment; it appeared to be the figure of a man, thrown into relief against the backdrop of ice. I called out sharply “Who’s there?” and, not receiving an answer, took a few steps in the direction of the movement; but moments later stopped short when the other figure in turn took a step towards me, and I saw that it was Walker.
And yet that does not convey the extra horror of what I saw. It was not Walker as I remembered him, either from the early part of the voyage or in the period just before his death; then he had looked ghastly enough, but it was nothing as to how he appeared before me now. He was painfully thin, the colour of the ice and snow behind him, and in his eyes was a terrible light; they seemed to glow like twin lucifers. His nose was eaten away, and his lips, purple and swollen, were drawn back from his gleaming teeth in a terrible parody of a smile; yet there was nothing of mirth in the look which was directed towards me. I felt that I was frozen where I stood, unable to move, and I wondered what I would do if the figure advanced any further towards me.
It was De Vere who saved me. A cry must have escaped my lips, and the cook heard it, for I was aware that he was standing beside me. He said something in a low voice, words that I was unable to distinguish, and then he was helping me—not towards the main hut, thank God, for I was in no state to present myself before the others, but to the science hut. He pulled open the door and we stumbled inside, and De Vere lit the lantern which was hanging from the ceiling. For a moment, as the match flared, his own eyes seemed to glow; then the lamp was sending its comforting light, and all was as it should be.
He was obviously concerned; I could see that in his drawn brow, in the anxious expression of his eyes. I found myself telling him what I had seen, but if I thought that he would immediately laugh and tell me that I was imagining things I was much mistaken. He again said some words in a low voice; guttural and harsh, in a language I did not understand. When he looked at me his grey eyes were filled with such pain that I recoiled slightly. He shook his head.
“I am sorry,” he said in a quiet voice. “Sorry that you have seen what you did, and . . . for other things. I had hoped . . . ”
His voice trailed off. When he spoke again it was more to himself than to me; he seemed almost to have forgotten my presence.
“I have lived a long time, Mr. Edwards, and travelled a great deal; all my years, in fact, from place to place, never staying long in one location. At length I arrived in Australia, travelling ever further south, away from civilisation, until I found myself in Hobart, and believed it was the end. Then the Fortitude arrived, bound on its mission even further south, to a land where for several months of the year it is always night. Paradise indeed, I thought.” His smile was twisted. “I should have remembered the words of Blake: ‘Some are born to sweet delight / Some are born to endless night.’ It is not a Paradise at all.”
I tried to speak, but he silenced me with a gesture of his hand and a look from those haunted eyes. “If I needed something from you, would you help me?” he asked abruptly. I nodded, and he thought for a moment. “There are no sledge trips tomorrow; am I correct?”
“Yes,” I replied, somewhat bewildered by the sudden change in the direction of the conversation. “The Guvnor feels that the men need a day of rest, so no trips are planned. Why?”
“Can you arrange that a single trip should be made, and that it shall be only you and I who travel?”
“It would be highly irregular; usually there are three men to a sledge, because of the difficulty of . . . ”
“Yes, yes, I understand that. But it is important that it should be just the two of us. Can it be managed?”
“If it is important enough, then yes, I should think so.”
“It is more important than you know.” He gave a small smile, and some of the pain seemed gone from his eyes. “Far more important. Tomorrow night this will be over. I promise you.”
I had little sleep that night, and next day was up far earlier than necessary, preparing the sled and ensuring that all was in order. There had been some surprise when I announced that De Vere and I would be off, taking one of the sledges ourselves, but I explained it by saying that the cook merely wanted an opportunity to obtain a glimpse of that vast land for himself, and that we would not be travelling far. When De Vere came out to the sledge he was carrying a small bag. It was surprisingly heavy, but I found a place for it, and moments later the dogs strained into their harnesses, and we were away.
The journey up to the plateau passed uneventfully under the leaden sun, and we made good time on the trail, which was by now well established. When we topped the final rise I stopped the sledge, so that we could both look out across that vast wasteland of ice and snow, stretching away to the South Pole hundreds and hundreds of miles distant. De Vere meditated upon it for some minutes, then turned to me.
“Thank you for bringing me here,” he said in his quiet voice. “We are about four miles from camp, I think you said?” When I concurred, he continued, “That is a distance which you can travel by yourself, is it not?”
“Yes, of course,” I replied, somewhat puzzled.
“I thought as much, or I would not have brought you all this way. And I did want to see this”—he gestured at the silent heart of the continent behind us—”just once. Such a terrible beauty on the surface, and underneath, treachery. You say here there are crevasses?”
“Yes,” I said. “We must be careful when breaking new trails, lest a snow bridge collapse under us. Three days ago a large crevasse opened up to our right”—I pointed—”and there was a very real fear that one of the sledges was going to be carried down into it. It was only some quick work on the part of McAllister that kept it from plunging through.”
“Could you find the spot again?”
“Easily. We are not far.”
&
nbsp; “Good.” He turned to the sledge, ignoring the movement and barking of the dogs; they had not been much trouble when there had been work to do, but now, stopped, they appeared restless, even nervous. De Vere rustled around among the items stowed on the sledge, and pulled out the bag he had given me. He hesitated for a moment; then he walked to where I stood waiting and passed it to me.
“I would like you to open that,” he said, and when I did so I found a small, ornate box made of mahogany, secured with a stout brass hasp. “Open the box, and remove what is inside.”
I had no idea what to expect; but any words I might have said failed me when I undid the hasp, opened the lid, and found inside the box a revolver. I looked up at De Vere, who wore a mirthless smile.
“It belonged to a man who thought to use it on me, some years ago,” he said simply. “That man died. I think you will find, if you look, that it is loaded.”
I opened the chamber, and saw that it was so. I am by no means an expert with firearms, but the bullets seemed to be almost tarnished, as with great age. I closed the chamber, and glanced at De Vere.
“Now we are going to go over to the edge of the crevasse, and you are going to shoot me.” The words were said matter-of-factly, and what followed was in the same dispassionate tone, as if he were speaking of the weather, or what he planned to serve for dinner that evening. “Stand close, so as not to miss. When you return to camp you will tell them that we came too near to the edge of the crevasse, that a mass of snow collapsed under me, and that there was nothing you could do. I doubt that any blame or stigma will attach to you—not with your reputation—and while it may be difficult for you for a time, you will perhaps take solace in the fact that you will not see Walker again, and that Castleton’s health will soon improve.” He paused. “I am sorry about them both; more than I can say.” Then he added some words in an undertone, which I did not quite catch; one word sounded like “hungry,” and another like “tired,” but in truth I was so overwhelmed that I was barely in a position to make sense of anything. One monstrous fact alone stood out hard and clear, and I struggled to accept it.
“Are you . . . are you ill, then?” I asked at last, trying to find some explanation at which my mind did not rebel. “Some disease that will claim you?”
“If you want to put it that way, yes; a disease. If that makes it easier for you.” He reached out and put a hand on my arm. “You have been friendly, and I have not had many that I could call a friend. I thank you, and ask you to do this one thing for me; and, in the end, for all of you.”
I looked into his eyes, dark as thunderclouds, and recalled our conversation on board the ship following Walker’s death, and for a moment had a vision of something dark and terrible. I thought of the look on Walker’s face—or the thing that I had thought was Walker—when I had seen it the night before. “Will you end up like him?” I asked suddenly, and De Vere seemed to know to what I referred, for he shook his head.
“No, but if you do not do this then others will,” he said simply. I knew then how I must act. He obviously saw the look of resolution in my face, for he said again, quietly, “Thank you,” then turned and began walking towards the crevasse in the ice.
I cannot write in detail of what followed in the next few minutes. I remained beside the crevasse, staring blankly down into the depths which now held him, and it was only with considerable effort that I finally roused myself enough to stumble back to the dogs, which had at last quietened. The trip back to camp was a blur of white, and I have no doubt that, when I stumbled down the final stretch of the path, I appeared sufficiently wild-eyed and distraught that my story was accepted without question.
The Guvnor had a long talk with me this morning when I woke, unrefreshed, from a troubled sleep. He appears satisfied with my answers, and while he did upbraid me slightly for failing to take a third person with us—as that might have helped avert the tragedy—he agreed that the presence of another would probably have done nothing to help save De Vere.
Pray God he never finds out the truth.
15 February: More than a week since De Vere’s death, and I have not seen Walker in that time. Castleton, too, is much improved, and appears well on the way to regaining his full health.
Subsequent sledge parties have inspected the crevasse, and agree that it was a terrible accident, but one that could not have been avoided. I have not been up on the plateau since my trip with De Vere. My thoughts continually turn to the man whom I left there, and I recall what Cook wrote more than one hundred years ago. He was speaking of this place; but the words could, I think, equally be applied to De Vere: “Doomed by nature never once to feel the warmth of the sun’s rays, but to be buried in everlasting snow and ice.”
A soft flutter of leaves whispered like a sigh as Emily finished reading. The last traces of day had vanished, leaving behind shadows which pooled at the corners of the room. She sat in silence for some time, her eyes far away; then she closed the journal gently, almost with reverence, and placed it on the table beside her. The writer’s card stared up at her, and she considered it.
“He would not understand,” she said at last. “And they are all dead; they can neither explain nor defend themselves or their actions.” She looked at her father’s photograph, now blurred in the gathering darkness. “Yet you did not destroy this.” She touched the journal with fingers delicate as a snowflake. “You left it for me to decide, keeping this a secret even from my mother. You must have thought that I would know what to do.”
Pray God he never finds out the truth.
She remained in her chair for some moments longer. Then, with some effort, Emily rose from her chair and, picking up the journal, crossed once more to the rosewood desk and its shadows. She placed the journal in its drawer, where it rested beside a pipe which had lain unsmoked for decades. The ceramic cat watched with blank eyes as she turned out the light. In so doing she knocked the card to the floor, where it lay undisturbed.
Dahlia Underground
Charlaine Harris
Charlaine Harris is a New York Times best-selling author who has been writing for thirty years. After publishing two stand-alone mysteries, she published eight books featuring Aurora Teagarden, a mystery-solving Georgia librarian. In 1996, she released the first in the much darker Shakespeare mysteries that featured amateur sleuth Lily Bard. The fifth (and last) of the series was published in 2001. Harris, had, by then, created the Southern Vampire Mystery series about a telepathic waitress named Sookie Stackhouse who works in a bar in the fictional Northern Louisiana town of Bon Temps. The first book, Dead Until Dark, won the Anthony Award for Best Paperback Mystery in 2001. The twelfth novel, Dead Reckoning, will be released May 2011. There’s also a collection of Sookie short stories and The Sookie Stackhouse Companion will be published in 2011. Harris has co-edited four anthologies with Toni L.P. Kelner; a fifth is slated for 2011. Alan Ball produced the HBO series based on the Sookie books, True Blood, which premiered in September of 2008. It was an instant success and is now filming its fourth season. Personally, Harris is married and the mother of three. She lives in a small town in Southern Arkansas and when she is not writing her own books, she reads omnivorously. Her house is full of rescue dogs.
“Dahlia Underground” features Dahlia Lynley-Chivers, who was introduced in Sookieverse short story “Tacky” in anthology My Big, Fat Supernatural Wedding (2006). She appears in the seventh novel All Together Dead and “Dahlia Underground” takes place during the period of that book. Dahlia made a recent appearance in “A Very Vampires Christmas,” a short story published in the December 2010 issue of Glamour and Harris has mentioned there are other Dahlia stories to come. Dahlia’s also “starring” soon in an interactive PC game.
Dahlia Lynley-Chivers woke up as soon as the sun went down. But this awakening was like none she’d experienced in her long second life: on her back, pinned down, and injured.
Badly injured.
Dahlia cursed in a language that had not been spoken for ce
nturies. She’d lost a lot of blood. Though the air was filled with smoke and dust, she could smell a body close to her. The blood of the dead person was repellent, but it would help.
She carefully extended her right arm to discover it was free and unbroken, unlike her left. Her left leg was immovable, though her right leg wasn’t, because the beam trapping her lay at a slant.
While she was evaluating her situation, Dahlia wondered what the hell had happened when she was in her day sleep. She heard distant screams and sirens, while around and above her lay destruction. A huge pane of glass, intact, had landed upright on a vampire, shearing him in half. Though he was beginning to flake away, he looked familiar.
Her memory began filling in the blanks.
The Pyramid. She’d suddenly decided to spend the day at the Pyramid, the vampire hotel in Rhodes. The disintegrating vampire had been a handsome male in the service of the Queen of Indiana, and she’d accepted an invitation to dally with him rather than return to her room in the mansion of the Sheriff of Rhodes.
Though the night had been notable, the day must have been more so.
High above her, Dahlia could see a bit of night sky lit by flashes of artificial light. Every now and then there was an ominous creak or groan from the heap of twisted metal, shattered glass, and concrete. Dahlia wondered how long it would be before it shifted. She might yet end up in the same condition as her bedmate. Dahlia had not been afraid in a long time, but she was almost afraid now. She wasn’t so afraid she was going to yell for human help, though.
A smaller beam was lying crossways on the one that pinned her, very close to her right hand. Dahlia figured if she could grip the smaller beam, she’d get enough purchase to drag herself out. Then she could work her way over to the dead human, feed, and begin the perilous climb upward.
She had a plan.
Dahlia’s right hand gripped the crossbeam, and she pulled. But she realized instantly that her left leg would rip off unless the heavier beam was lifted at least another inch.
Vampires: The Recent Undead Page 36