by J A Campbell
"How radical it must be," he goes–and you said don't interfere, so mum's the word from me, Mom–"to be able to feel the breeze on your neck like that."
"Good sir, kind sir," she tells him, and I've gotta say, it's just weird watching a head talk when it's detached and tucked under one arm, "I am called Anne. For too brief a time I was queen of this fair land. I did not bear the good king a son but rather a daughter, my darling Elizabeth. Yet Henry wanted a son to sit the throne, and he professed to love me every bit as much as he had when he courted me. Every time I was with child he seemed filled with glee, but excepting Elizabeth, my three other children were lost before birth. Enraged, Henry accused me of three offenses, all false: adultery, incest, and witchcraft. The trial was naught but a farce, yet Henry was king of all the land, obstinate and all-powerful, and had me beheaded at this same spot on which we now stand." Or at least where me and Hans are standing. Anne, she's more floating, if you catch my drift. "I was never anything but the most devout and faithful wife, yet I find myself cursed to roam these grounds forever more as a shadow, a spirit, a ghost. What I would not give to have a taste of the divine rather than to spend eternity as the falsely accused."
I'm thinking the whole the lady doth protest too much thing applies but Hans, he just unfolds his wings and goes, "Dude, I'm on like this trek to go home to my mom, and these wings weigh a ton. I'll never get there at this rate. That jerk over there won't even lend me his skateboard to make the journey faster, you know?" He tilts his head my way, and I kind of want to crawl under a rock and tell him I'm just the impartial observer, but before I can, Anne the Innocent and Pious goes on.
"Would that I had your wings, weighty though they might be, good kind and noble sir. With them I could ascend to the heavens and plead my case before the ears of the Divine."
I don't cough or anything right then, Boss, I promise. Hans just looks at her, nods, and says "Sounds good to me, Queen Lady. If I weighed less, like you do, then the breeze could carry me home and I wouldn't have to do all this dumb walking."
Before I can say boo, it's done: Anne's got the wings and halo and divine glow, and Hans is pale to the point of see-through. Like a toddler, he zips around going zoom, zoom and laughing. Anne, serene and happy, sticks her head back on her neck, adjusts that first, then her halo like it's a crown, and nods to us. On the first try her head pops off again but she catches it, blushes about as gracefully as anyone can, and fixes it on there better. Then she blasts off to the skies. So Boss, if you have a new member of the ranks and you're not sure how she got there, you can blame that moron, Hans.
* * *
The boss looks up from her reading, shoots me another one of those looks. All I can do is raise my hands in that age-old gesture of innocence and protest feebly. "Hey, you said not to get involved. I didn't." When her gaze softens enough so I know she's not about to smite me, I relax just a little. "How's she doing, by the way? Anne, I mean."
Boss laughs, waving a dismissive but well-manicured hand. "She's delightful. I set her up helping with the daycare operations. She loves it, and she's very good with our little angels. Now hush and let me keep reading."
"Yes, sir. I mean, ma'am."
* * *
Hour Two:
It takes that long for old Hans to figure out that being a ghost pretty much sucks. It's that whole incorporeal and insubstantial thing combined with the fact that no one can see him or hear him when he talks. Yeah, he's lighter and we make good time, go past Bath to the rolling hills near The Big Special Monument, you know the one. Lines of tour buses are already heading out there for their allotted hour of sightseeing, and Hans is bored, floating above a dandelion moaning about how it won't do to go home like this, his mom will never even know he's there. Nothing I can do about it, though, because you told me not to.
You know what's radical about Stonehenge? I mean, you know everything, but I'll tell you anyhow. There's so much more there than people ever see. Sure, they go on special solstice days and all that, but the place, dude, it's brimming with history and leftovers. And a lot of sh–stuff lurks there. I mean, ancient sacrificial sites all around, right? That's when this one tourist starts shivering and runs off, and me and Hans are all what the effin' eff, bro, when this revenant comes screaming over toward us. They're weird, aren't they? All half-seen and scary and like that. Hans, that dipshit, perks right up.
"Greetings, my good spectral brother," the revenant says, "you could be happier. Were I you, 'twould be so."
"I don't know." Idly, Hans scratches his good spectral butt. "No one can see me. That sucks."
The revenant, who's got a frickin' glaive sticking out of his chest, commiserates. "What I would not give to be unseen. Mine life, mine livelihood, mine very essence. The centuries take their toll. I be not a bad man, but everyone is frightened of me. I cannot seem to make them understand. The one I came back to terrorize is long since departed, yet here I remain."
"What happened, dude?" It's a scene, I tell you, Hans floating there with his legs crossed scratching his head, and the revenant doing his best to ignore the horror on the faces of people getting too close. I guess after a while they start to think he's part of the tour or whatever, because a crowd gathers to listen.
"'Twas a night fraught with peril. The Normans were like unto beasts themselves, cruel and remorseless. The King were felled by an arrow to the eye; blood runneth like a river. I was unhorsed by this." His partially-gloved hand wraps around the glaive and he gives it a completely useless tug. "Before I knew it, my mouth filled with the coppery tang of blood and I expired. As it happened, my foe laughed his glee at that same moment, and inside me something stirred. I shan't call it a life-force; nay, call it a death-force. Dead, I struggled to my feet, and dead, I screamed my displeasure to his face and in that moment vowed to chase him and his accursed seed to the gates of Hell and beyond." The revenant stops and nods, like telling that much story in his raspy-assed voice takes all the effort he's got. Maybe it does. In my line of work I don't run across many guys like him.
Hans is casual as eff, though. "Did you do it, bro? I mean, chase the dude and his family and whatnot to Lucifer's place and back?" His voice is all thin and wispy, like he's almost but not quite really there.
"Oh, aye." Mr. Revenant nods. "The foul Norman's lineage expired a century past, yet I cannot seem to shuffle off this mortal coil."
Someone's been reading his Shakespeare, and me, I can't just sit here all quiet. Maybe sending me to observe's just a test, but the dude's story seems fishy to me. "Hang on. You're talking about King Harold, right? With the arrow through the eyeball business?" When the guy nods again, I go on. "That, my dead dude, was the Battle of Hastings. Nowhere near this place. How did you end up way over here at Stonehenge?"
At least the revenant has the grace to adopt a mournful stance, but I could swear there's a gleam in his eye when he shrugs out his answer. "The place has a draw. I cannot explain it otherwise. Perhaps I thought to find solace, but that has proved elusive."
Before I know it things are all same old, same old all over again. "I still think you have it way better than me," Hans says, all glum morose charm. "I want people to be able to see me. I miss that."
"Would that they could see not this frightful visage. If we could simply barter..." The revenant looks hopeful. I'm all oh no you don't, idiot, but Hans nods and grins like the fool he is, and before I can stop it, whoosh! the revenant is giddy as anything, soaring back and forth, and Hans is getting used to having to balance with a poleaxe cleaving him nearly in two.
"Much better." Hans pats himself, waves to the ex-revenant who's probably halfway to France already. The crowd, impressed like they've just watched someone pull a rabbit out of a hat, applauds. A couple of people even press coins into what's left of Hans' hand. "A tip, just for being seen." Grinning with half a mouth, Hans starts walking again. I think he'd whistle if he could, but me, all I can do is follow and marvel at how effin' easy it is to impress the snot out of
mankind.
* * *
"Really, Gabriel? You really allowed this to happen?" She's starting to look a little pissed off now, but in my defense, I didn't do anything wrong.
"I think your words were do not interfere, ma'am."
The boss sighs. She hates being wrong. She hates it more than anything, especially when one of us has the nuts to call her on it, but dude, I'm in the right here. Divine justice and all, it's one of those completely unbendable laws, "Do I even want to know what happened next?" There's a marked sag to her shoulders but hey, this is definitely not my problem.
"Don't shoot the messenger, okay?"
Grumpy, Mom lets out a deep sigh and looks back at the parchment. At least it's pretty. I've always had kind of an artistic flair, or at least that's what my bros always tell me.
* * *
Hour Three:
Once Hans regains his sea-legs, haha, we set off again. All the guy does is bitch the whole time. I thought it would be better if people could see me. I'm covered in old gore. This pole is heavy. It hurts to breathe. On and on, I have to listen to the guy wonder why people scream when they see his ugly mug. Plus, his chain mail is noisy, clanks all over the place.
"Dude, you're a regulation badass revenant. It's what you wanted."
"Yeah," Hans admits. "I can be seen. There's that, so it's not all bad."
At least he's super good at looking mournful. How sick is that, Boss-lady? After a long time of skating along by his side as he tries to figure out what shuffling off this mortal coil means (he's really no Hamlet, no offense, ma'am), we find ourselves in the heart of the Transylvanian Alps. It's gorgeous, you know that, but the people there are a superstitious lot even these days, and shun the revenant on general principle. Hans is looking pretty miserable, can't get a seat at the inn, nothing. By now it's getting dark out. For shelter I pick this dilapidated barn and we settle in for a little bit. That's when this bat flutters by. Then it flutters by again, and on the third pass it stops in mid-air, and transforms itself into a dude. Or kind of a dude, I guess. Impeccably dressed, nice cloak, black hair, pale skin. He gives us a deep bow, but it's one of those world-weary ones, you know the kind I mean?
"Good evening." The guy's got a deep accent, but his voice is smoother than silk.
"Whoa, dude." Hans backs up a little. "I didn't hear you come in. Good evening, yourself. Are we, like, in your barn or something?"
"No, my friend, no. Let me introduce myself. My name is Vlad." (Just a note to myself: how come they're all named Vlad?) "I am but a lowly country vampire. It has been some time since I was in the company of peers." Then he cocks an eyebrow and nods to me. "Typically your sort and mine do not share a table, da, my friend?"
"I don't, like, drink blood, if that's what you're asking."
"Alas." His eyes, red as eff, fixate on me first and then on Hans. "And you, my friend, are you a blood-drinker?"
Hans shakes his head, tugging futilely on the pole sticking out of his chest. "Revenant, bro," he says like that explains everything.
Inexplicably, the well-dressed bat-man bursts into tears. They roll down his cheeks in blood-red droplets, but manage to vanish before they have a chance to stain his impeccable tuxedo shirt. Good thing, 'cause I'm not responsible for the cleaning bills. Me, I just watch the guy cry–I'm still running on the non-interference clause–but Hans is all sentimental and sloppy and starts to cry too, except he really doesn't have tears. He does manage to ask the Transylvanian dude why he's crying.
The guy points to the pole sticking out of Hans' chest. "You are so lucky! What do you know of my type, my friend?"
Hans musters up the decency to look a little uncomfortable. Or maybe it's just the glaive buried in his heart, I don't know and it doesn't even matter. Once he opens his mouth, he's just normal douchey Hans anyway. "You're like, a vampire, right? Creature of the night? People give you their blood in exchange for immortality. And you can fly and stuff, and get to sleep all day and play all night."
Vlad alternates between weeping and nodding. "What a noble description! If the good local people could only see me through your eyes! I say you are lucky because you have this stake in your chest, yet you survive! The people of this village have been trying to put a similar stake through my heart for years. I cannot persuade them enough to cease this attempt. If they succeed, it will surely be the end of me. What I would not give to be able to withstand such a thing! I would give all that I am, just to be rid of the fear of dying for one night!"
Hans goes, "Whoa, little bloodsucker, slow down. Sounds like you have something you need to get off your chest." His eyes totally light up at his own brilliance. He gives the pole a healthy tug but it doesn't budge. "Get off your chest, get it?"
Vlad sniffles, but regains his smooth composure. "Very nice, the little joke. Back before all this happened, I would have laughed heartily. Ha-ha-ha. When I dwelt in the city, I had a thriving career as a stand-up comedian."
"No way." What's left of Hans' mouth drops open.
"Da way," Vlad insists. "I was the toast of the town. Bucharest loved me. I was popular, da, with a wide following. But I ask you: what is the quest of every performer?" Before either of us can answer, the dude waves us off and I know right then that these days, this is his one and only stand-up routine. So me and Hans just chill, sit back and listen.
"It is to be widely appreciated, of course, but to gain a measure of notoriety and with that, also a taste of immortality. We wish to hear our names on everyone's lips, our jokes and stories passed along. We see ourselves on the marquee. Most of all, we want to be remembered. Any true artist's worst fear is to be forgotten. To be relegated to the harsh dustbin of time."
To be honest, the speech is a little on the over-rehearsed side, but that doesn't stop Vlad from going on. "One night, the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on is at my show. She calls herself a talent scout, and has the entourage to prove this. When she tells me she likes my style, I say I like hers. That flaming red hair! That perfect complexion! The unblinking eyes that never once stray from my face! I am hypnotized, unable to look away. She gives me a single red rose, the symbol of eternal love, and what is there to do when she asks if I would like her to represent me? She says she can guarantee me immortality! Such a temptress! How can I possibly say no? Alas, I cannot, and the rest of the story is, as they say, history." He starts with the weeping again. "Would that I had respite from this curse!"
Vampires. Such frickin' drama queens. I'm there shaking my head, but you can guess what Hans is up to. He staggers to his feet, offers the vamp dude a handshake, and says done! And just like that, the deal's cast in stone.
"Thank you, my friend!" The suddenly-ex-vampire goes to give Hans a hug, but the glaive gets in his way.
"You'll get used to it," Hans promises.
Vlad sure looks like he got the best out of that deal, and before anyone can change their mind, he lumbers off into the night, crashing into a few things on the way. Path of destruction, man. Hans, suddenly all dapper, smooths down the front of his tux and makes a few delighted snaps of his cloak. "Dude," he tells me, licking his lips, "I'm like, suddenly starving."
* * *
The boss shakes her head, glares at me, and calls for a cup of coffee. A cute little cherub brings it in, along with a pitcher of cream and some of those all-natural brown sugar cubes Mom likes best. I know there's a lecture on the way. "Gabriel," she admonishes between mouthfuls of hot fresh Jamaican Blue Mountain brew–and people down on Earth wonder where it all goes, "tell me you did not let Hans drink human blood. That would be an unforgivable sin. I might have to cast you out for that."
I take on an expression that's all mock offense. We've known each other for centuries, me and the boss. "Chill, Brosephine. Would I let you down? No way. Keep reading, you'll see. Chapter Four, in which old Gabe saves the day." I mean, if I had been that stupid, I wouldn't be standing here in front of her waiting on salvation or punishment or whatever. I'd be in a whole dif
ferent galaxy by now, hoping like eff she'd never find me.
Fortunately, I'm way smarter than Hans, working his way down the corporate ladder there. My superior officer turns back to my report.
* * *
Hours Four through Ten:
"Dude, just get used to flying around instead," I tell him. "It'll help take your mind off food." Simple, direct. Those things work with Hans. So does messing with him and telling lies, but a bro's gotta maintain at least a little integrity. Once he goes all batty on me and gets used to fluttering and echolocation, we spend most of the dark hours racing each other. Me on my skateboard, him flying beside me. This serves a whole bunch of purposes, the way I see it. First, it keeps Hans from nibbling on any local necks. Second, it tires the dude out. And third, it keeps the locals from attacking us, which I kind of appreciate even if Hans doesn't. It means I don't have to blow my cover, and we can survive the night despite Hans' increasing hunger.
Once he takes on human form again, we take up refuge in an abandoned church. There's lots of those around. I'm looking for a spot for Hans to hang out during daylight hours, feverishly triangulating a route we can take to get him and his sorry vampire ass back to his mom, when we hear a wailing sound from the graveyard outside. On the way to investigate, Hans turns to me, all sad. "You know what the worst thing is about being a vampire?"
"What, my main man?"
"The mortal anguish. I mean, I know it's wrong to like, lust for blood, but I can't help it. I get what you're doing, bro, and I appreciate it most mightily. Trying to keep me from bodily harm and all. So let me put the question to you, since you're pretty effin' smart and you've been around for like a gazillion years. What's worse: doing wrong 'cause it's in your nature, or feeling bad about doing wrong 'cause you know just how bad the badness of it actually is?"