Sybrina

by Amy Rachiele

  and a time to be far from embraces.

  A time to seek, and a time to lose;

  a time to keep, and a time to cast away.

  A time to rend, and a time to sew;

  a time to be silent, and a time to speak.

  A time to love, and a time to hate;

  a time of war, and a time of peace.

  What profit have workers from their toil?

  I have seen the business

  that God has given to mortals to be busied about.

  God has made everything appropriate to its time,

  but has put the timeless into their hearts

  so they cannot find out,

  from beginning to end,

  the work which God has done.

  I recognized that there is nothing better

  than to rejoice and to do well during life.

  Moreover, that all can eat and drink

  and enjoy the good of all their toil—

  this is a gift of God.

  Where it seems like a good spot, I stop reading. The men holding the body lift it and toss it over the side of the ship. The wife howls with grief as her two boys cling to her skirts. I empathize with the woman, having just lost my own family. I am moved to do more, and I call out loudly, reciting the Our Father.

  Miraculously, those around me join in my additional prayer for the passenger we have just lost on the first day of our journey. Our combined voices are noisy and intoning. The absent captain reveals himself, yet again, watching from his post above.

  A crew member sweeps by me to collect the Bible. I hand it over and follow the others back down into the belly of the ship. The darkness blinds me momentarily, and I move carefully down the ladder. Everyone shuffles back to their spots, their new home for the next two weeks if the wind is good to us, more if not.

  Night falls much more quickly than I would’ve thought with nothing to do but sit and wait for it. I take my turn at the chamber pot and lay back down. I choose to recline fully instead of being propped up by the pillar. My nausea is back, and I believe that it is due to the rancid dinner I consumed, and not the bobbing of the ship.

  It has only been a day and already my mind does not know what to do with itself. The fear and despair of my situation sits secluded in the back, but the rest of it needs some sort of occupation. Normally, I would have many books to fill my days, but in my haste to leave America, I have but only the clothes on my back.

  I force my eyes to close. I try to play a game with myself in my mind; it forces me to remember an exceptionally exciting game of chess I had with a classmate not too long ago.

  “Sybrina, darling, if you wish to win, you must be more controlled. The squirming in your seat is a tell that you have your next move. So I, a famed chess player, must forge two more steps ahead in my own mind.”

  “Really, Joshua, your ego interferes with your game. I shall be the one to win since I remain humble whether it be a friendly game of chess or at the science of medicine in Professor Crownby’s classroom,” I comment, continuing our endless spirited bantering. Even in childhood, I didn’t have a friend and confidant like Joshua. The girls in my circle wanted only one thing and continuously jabbered on about clothes, balls, and suitors with the most money. Joshua was a welcomed escape.

  A lump grows unwanted in my throat thinking of my dear friend. The image of his head tilted and grinning with his finger tapping his temple sits loving in the forefront of my mind. Joshua, one of the few who accepted me and my femininity at the very beginning: non-judgmental and sincere. My thoughts finally slow and his kind face sends me into a restless sleep.

  Little pinpricks start at my ankles. I am in the in-between. The state in which you are sleeping, but vaguely aware of your surroundings. I shift in my semi-sleep, not wanting to be bothered, but the prickling slowly makes its way up my legs and to my hips. I kick limply and yawn.

  A tugging along my midsection and the movement of my belt and trousers causes me to swat whatever it is away. Something scratches my belly, and I flick it away again. I twist over to my side and something heavy flips me back. Panic sears my blood, and I try to scream but a foul-smelling hand envelops my mouth. My eyes snap open but it is pitch-black with no lanterns lit. I flail without any clue to what I’m fighting against. A large hand rubs down between my legs, and I scream. It is muffled by the grimy hand.

  “Ye ain’t no boy,” is whispered into my ear. I kick and fight, knowing full well the intention of this intruder. I try desperately to see into the nothingness and shove violently to no avail. “I ain’t picky,” he grumbles, his voice raspy.

  I use my hand and punch uselessly at the face I can’t see. All too quickly he secures it. I don’t give up, but my struggling is fruitless. His weight and strength is no match for me. This is it! I am to be ravaged! I don’t stop my plight. I push, hit, and shove only to be rendered immobile over and over again.

  “Stop fightin’, whore in a lad’s clothes,” the assailant slurs maniacally in my ear.

  A wind echoes through the cavity of the hull. It smells sweet, like honey and spring flowers. The scent is thick over the putrid essence of the hands and body that have locked me against the hard floor.

  It blows again. The weight is lifted from me. I sputter and spit the repulsiveness left behind on my mouth. I sit up, frantic. I prepare to be attacked again by putting my back against the column and holding my fists in front of me.

  But it doesn’t happen. I am left alone. My eyes begin to hurt from the stress of trying to see in the blackness. They flicker around, searching. My head shifts from side to side and my lids blink rapidly.

  There is just nothingness. I can’t even see the shadows of the others sleeping. A strangled cry comes from behind me. I hear a deep thump.

  In a corner, rummaging sounds as if someone is trying to light lantern. The breeze flies by me again, just as sugary, and a small glow is cast in the room. I catch a shadow ascending the ladder, its movement faster than that of a wild animal.

  A man from one of the families that hovers against the wall in an adjacent corner comes over to me. He carries his lantern and holds it in front of my face.

  “Are you all right, lad?” he asks me, sounding thoroughly concerned. I stare at the light. I do my own internal check to see if I’ve been harmed.

  “Yes,” I tell him. I am sore in a few spots so I utilize the light to look at my stomach. Scratches run up and down my skin.

  “You have some on your face too,” the man says. I carefully touch my face with my fingers. “What is your name, son?” I take a good look now that I can see this man. He was one of the ones with his hand raised when asked if anyone could read. His face is kind and full of sincerity.

  “Paul,” I say automatically. My intention since this venture began was to use my brother’s identity. It hurts my heart to even say his name, knowing that he is not of this earth anymore.

  “I need alcohol,” I say to him.

  He looks at me quizzically and smiles. “What do you need that for?”

  “I need to disinfect the scratches.”

  The man smiles more broadly and taps my shoulder reassuringly. “We’ll try to find you some. There must be whiskey or something aboard. I am George Overton.” I nod in response, but my heart is not in it.

  More people are awake now. The talking is getting louder and there seems to be some kind of commotion on the other side of the room. My curiosity steals my reasoning, and I get up and walk with the kind man over there.

  Slumped on the floor is an old man, one of the sailors. White-haired with clothes soiled and unkempt. I fall to my hands and knees, examining him. The first thing that catches my eye is his long dirty fingernails. I motion for someone to hand me a light. As soon as it meets my hand, I focus it into the man’s face. His skin is pale white and there are two thin lines of blood along his neck. His jaw is limp, which leaves his mouth hanging open as if in a silent scream. He is dead. His eyes and lips are colorless. His arms are petrified
in a familiar shape and his eyes are wide like a saucer for a teacup.

  Shooting pangs of panic race up and down my chest. My heart’s erratic thumping fights with the flashes of my family’s bodies laid out in a state of perverted decomposition.

  It is here!

  I need air desperately. My stomach heaves, and I pass the lantern off quickly, trying not to drop it. I rush to the ladder in the semi-darkness and scale it as hastily as I can. I make it topside into the night and suck in air as if moments ago I was drowning. I hurry to the railing in the moonlight and lean over. The nausea I have been suppressing for two days finds its way to my throat and out into the sea.

  I face the deck in the blackness and lean with jellied legs against the spindles that separate all aboard from plunging into the cold ocean. The salty air feels wonderful on my flushed face. I sit and cry, hopelessness my only friend.

  It has found me. I will suffer the same fate as my dear parents and my beloved brother. The red liquid that flows through my veins will be taken from me until my body slackens and reveals a pasty white corpse, jaw hanging and tiny pinholes in my neck. It is here and I am trapped. My body shakes as fear overcomes me.

  Chapter 2

  Elijah:

  Fire is burning in my chest as I recall her defilement at the hands of the dreg. A ship-hand soured by the sea, age, and derangement.

  My scathing wrath is magnified by my loss of energy. Injuries have prohibited me from being more watchful. I listen but every now and again my immortal body shuts itself down into a sleepless unconsciousness. The only comfort is that the bouts are becoming fewer and farther between. Just as humans must sleep, the infinite creature, the vampire, must be rejuvenated when afflicted. Even immortals have the untimely issue of damage. None of my wounds can be incurred by a mere human, but from others of my kind.

  My last meeting with Vadim turned more violent and disturbing, that had I not known him for a hundred years I would not have recognized him. Vadim is now a creature devoid of sensitivity, humanity, and common courtesy.

  My injuries are a crushed chest and a shattered rib cage. A human would never survive such wounds due to failing organs, blood loss, and fever. To a vampire, they are an annoyance. The infliction by Vadim was to slow me down. When your enemy knows your weaknesses, it is difficult to outwit them. He knew how my body would respond, and I his when I snapped his neck. The two of us, once brothers in this form, met on the battlefield, are now foes, racing to stay one step ahead of the other.

  I have been contented in this subsistence. Not a man and not a monster but something unnatural in between. A being on an existence plane separate from the countless humans, but the same. Just as a salamander that can regenerate a missing limb, or a chameleon that can change color to disappear amongst its backdrop, lives amongst the uncharted numbers of other animals that have not those qualities.

  It is a curse to me now, to have to watch over the only one I have ever wanted. Want can be an ugly, vicious thing. A book I have occasioned myself to read on this voyage during my seclusion is A Christmas Carol. The prose calls to me. Want... beware this boy for on his brow I see that written which is Doom, unless the writing be erased.

  Want—it snarls and goads in the guise of rational thought. I have to reconcile my mind’s reflections to remember that want camouflages itself so easily as need. My sensibilities plague me with believing I need her when my logic suggests I want her.

  I want to breathe her in.

  I want to feel the softness of her skin.

  I want to catch a glimpse in her eyes of her wanting me, and only me.

  Myself, being the creature of folklore, should be the mystifying one but Sybrina’s beauty is otherworldly. She soars high above any species of angel, nymph, or fairy. Those fabled beings can not hold a pence to her.

  Passion fires in my deathless system from first sight. A shower of glowing embers from an ignited firework courses through me. A passion that frightens me as a vampire, one used to facing infinity, and inextinguishable.

  Some humans carry an aura with them, an unexplainable magnetism. An attraction that is rooted in adoration and esteem. Those around her flock with an unnamed enchantment. Possessing this quality has caused great pain and the destruction of her family.

  The peers of her former life as an aristocrat rejected and envied this state of her being. Charisma coupled with her independence outcast Sybrina from others of her station. Another, without her disposition, would struggle to find acceptance; she cared for none of it and was a vision to behold from afar.

  Joshua, a fellow student, saw these qualities and played his game well. Befriending her as an equal, instead of wooing her as a typical female conquest, showed his intelligence and cunning. I don’t doubt his affection for Sybrina but if not for the brutal slaying of her family by Vadim, a different scenario may have played out; his untimely death at the hand of my jealousy—demise was on the forefront of many a day.

  My composure had reached its limit at watching a fruitful relationship between Sybrina and Joshua blossom. The way she laughed heartily and sincerely at his humorous remarks and he, shrewd, always worked a touch into the time spent with her—a pat on the shoulder or a brush against her arm.

  My jaw tenses with a steel clench as I recall wrestling with the facts to keep myself at a distance. Joshua is and always will be a good match for Sybrina. Besides the affinity for medicine and healing, they are of the same class and rearing. He can provide stability, children, and notoriety for her status as a woman surgeon.

  I can only offer her blood, my own selfishness, and eternity.

  Chapter 3

  Sybrina:

  I must have fallen asleep because a rough foot kicks me, and I open my eyes to find myself on the deck, curled up in a ball. My hands are cushioning my cheek.

  “Get up!” an enormous man barks hostilely.

  I raise myself up on my elbow, thoroughly exhausted, my mouth feeling like something took up residence in it and sucked up all of the moisture. I receive another swift kick to my leg.

  “Ouch!” I yell and rub it.

  “You know ya ain’t supposed to be here, boy! Get yerself below with the other damned ones!” He swings his leg back to kick me a third time, and I roll away.

  “I heard you!” I croak back, colliding with a wooden cask.

  I shuffle to my feet and sway with the ship. The sea seems choppier than the day before. The sky is filled with thick gloomy clouds.

  The giant man grabs me by the scruff of my collar and hauls me toward the trap door that leads to the black hull of the ship. The tips of my shoes scrape across the floor.

  Emerging is a man shorter than this one with another sail-wrapped body across his shoulder. I flinch, knowing what dreadful thing lies beneath its concealment. The sailor that clutches me looks down at my face, and I perceive a hint of pity in his brown eyes. As if a seer, he peers straight through me and lets go of his coarse hold.

  “What is your name?”

  “Paul, sir,” I say.

  “Paul, I think we need a minister again today.”

  “Yes, sir.” The corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles. I cannot venture to guess what he is smiling about when the ship is preparing for another funeral at sea.

  He walks away and leaves me standing on the deck with only the corpse of the man who attacked me and the small deckhand. I turn around, not wanting to continue to stare at it. I move to the railing and watch as the rough wake of the sea bounces and crashes against the bow. A loud voice calls down into the abyss of the ship.

  “Everyone topside!”

  After a minute or two, passengers file out and make their way across the deck. I squirm, not wanting to do this again. I unfortunately do not have the soft heart I had yesterday. I feel no remorse for the loss of someone who would do the contemptible things the dead man wanted to do to me.

  “’Ere you go, Paul.” The large man who kicked me only a few moments ago hands me a Bible and leans down, wh
ispering with secrecy. “Maybe you could read a tale to us sailors tonight.”

  How odd. He wants me to read to them. Is the entire crew illiterate? I find it quite hard to believe. Education is available to everyone.

  The area is quickly crowding. “I’m Tinker,” he says, introducing himself.

  “Hello,” I say cordially then open the Bible to the marked page once again.

  Two men stand facing each other at the railing holding the corpse at knee height, waiting for me to perform another crude funeral mass. Around me, everyone is quiet. It is much easier to read today without the blast of the sun’s rays blinding me. The dark gray sky is cooling.

  A Reading from the Book of Ecclesiastes

  There is an appointed time for everything,

  and a time for every affair under the heavens.

  A time to give birth, and a time to die;

  a time to plant, and a time to uproot the plant.

  A time to kill, and a time to heal;

  a time to tear down, and a time to build.

  A time to weep, and a time to laugh;

  a time to mourn, and a time to dance.

  A time to scatter stones, and a time to gather them;

  a time to embrace,

  and a time to be far from embraces.

  A time to seek, and a time to lose;

  a time to keep, and a time to cast away.

  A time to rend, and a time to sew;

  a time to be silent, and a time to speak.

  A time to love, and a time to hate;

  a time of war, and a time of peace.

  What profit have workers from their toil?

  I have seen the business

  that God has given to mortals to be busied about.

  God has made everything appropriate to its time,

  but has put the timeless into their hearts

  so they cannot find out,

  from beginning to end,

  the work which God has done.

  I recognized that there is nothing better

  than to rejoice and to do well during life.

  Moreover, that all can eat and drink