by Amy Rachiele
Scrooge said that he would see him—yes, indeed he did. He went the whole length of the expression, and said that he would see him in that extremity first.
“But why?” cried Scrooge’s nephew. “Why?”
“Why did you get married?” said Scrooge.
“Because I fell in love.”
“Because you fell in love!” growled Scrooge, as if that were the only one thing in the world more ridiculous than a merry Christmas. “Good afternoon!”
“Nay, uncle, but you never came to see me before that happened. Why give it as a reason for not coming now?”
“Good afternoon,” said Scrooge.
“I want nothing from you; I ask nothing of you; why cannot we be friends?”
“Good afternoon,” said Scrooge.
“I am sorry, with all my heart, to find you so resolute. We have never had any quarrel, to which I have been a party. But I have made the trial in homage to Christmas, and I’ll keep my Christmas humour to the last. So A Merry Christmas, uncle!”
“Good afternoon,” said Scrooge.
“And A Happy New Year!”
“Good afternoon!” said Scrooge.
His nephew left the room without an angry word, notwithstanding. He stopped at the outer door to bestow the greetings of the season on the clerk, who cold as he was, was warmer than Scrooge; for he returned them cordially.
I break with this initial introduction of the unmoving, cantankerous Scrooge. “A surly old man, isn’t he?” I comment aloud.
“A very apt description, I would say,” the minister remarks sardonically. “What about you, Captain?”
The sour face of the captain nods in agreement. And the whole situation reveals itself. The minister is mocking the captain by comparing him to Scrooge’s character. It is wicked, but I must say a funny exploit. I hid a laugh behind my hand—a truly deep and honest laugh that I have not felt in a long time.
“It is a fine thing to see you smile, Miss Sybrina.” A full blush sweeps my cheeks at the minister’s compliment. “It gives your constitution a healthy glow after such a nasty bout of fever.”
“I wish to thank you again for being so attentive to me during my sickness.”
“I wanted to do it,” he asserts with a very serious air. His eyes are piercing through me as if he is trying to read my soul. There is more I want to say. I want to tell the captain how wonderful the crew has been and to thank him personally for my dress, but without warning the minister stands. “You must rest.” He reaches his hand out for me to take it. His cool flesh melts into mine and a yearning sparks in me—a dizziness unrelated to illness. My knees are weak when he helps me to stand. He towers over me as he places my hand in the crook of his elbow and guides me to the doorway.
The minister announces, “Thank you for the dinner, Captain.” He moves, taking me with him, and I feel wanted and appreciated in that moment.
“Thank you,” I manage to squeak and walk down the hallway with Elijah.
Elijah:
Being away from her is more challenging than I thought after spending days mending her. Keeping a distance was difficult, now the meeting has commenced, there is no going backward. The ramifications are that I cannot get enough of her presence. I wanted her out of the company of the odious captain. He served his purpose by giving me an opportunity to provide a civilized meal at a proper table. With her hand securely fastened in the crook of my arm, I escort the lady to her chambers with marked obedience to propriety.
“I’m not sure how to digest such a wicked joke. I actually felt a pang for the captain.” Sybrina giggles gently.
“It was far less than he deserved,” I respond, agitated at the captain.
“I would think a man of the clergy would be forgiving.”
“I am trying to be.”
“I wasn’t actually forthright on this voyage.”
“We all aren’t who we appear to be.” A cryptic response that maybe I should have repressed. Covering my folly, I add, “I noticed your mirth; do not attempt to fool me.” My face quirks up and I grin down at her. “Besides, no one should be imprisoned for a deed such as reading. It is preposterous.”
“I agree.” I notice reluctance in her steps and voice as we approach her chamber. “Might we take a walk? Moving my legs feels good. I have been reclined for much too long.”
“Of course.” I appreciate the request because I truly do not want to let her go. I would be content to spend the rest of eternity with her by my side, hand snug and close to me. “Such a choice the crew has provided for their reading... Moby Dick,” I start, choosing an innocuous conversation for a walk.
“Yes, you would think that they would find something that would give them an escape from the sea,” Sybrina notes as we step out of the confines of the cabin area and out into the brisk night air.
“The tale is aptly fitting,” I remark. “An obsessed captain intent on the demise of the whale who took his leg. The man shortsighted and blind—devoid of the sensibilities that make rationale an essential quality of one ‘in charge.’”
“The human condition can taint sensibilities… with greed, malice... and selfishness.” I see only the profile of her face as she muses with me, discussing flaws and weaknesses in the persona of man. “Regardless,” she continues with earnest, “I find the tale one of vanity.”
“Vanity, you say?” I cannot suppress my humor at hearing her speculation. Her contemplations are riveting and I cannot get enough of them.
“A man’s vanity.” She breathes deeply, gathering her conclusions. “Captain Ahab’s disfigurement is his ruinous undoing and he puts all those around him at death’s door. He cannot see past his disabled body. He must prove something to himself at the cost of others.”
“Hmmm...” I consider this. “I perceived it as revenge that smothers the captain and claims his soul. Two soulless creatures fighting to the death, a whale and a man chewed upon and swallowed by vengeance,” I convey, thinking how fittingly accurate her reflections of the tale are told from her feminine perspective. This beautiful woman never ceases to amaze me.
“Tales are typically founded in the root of human folly. I’ve known many men who follow only one road and never truly see the ideologies of anything else. My father was a stubborn man but could, with the proper influence and information, see past his doggedness. He was challenging, but had depth.”
“He was most difficult,” I concur, turning her to face me. I reach my hand up in a forward gesture, cupping her cheek. A lust boils in me, not for blood, but to kiss her lips. Those plump, pink lips should be kissed often. “But the sun rose and set with you,” I whisper, my thoughts slipping from my own lips unguarded.
She pauses for a moment, drinking in my declaration with an unmistakable blink of query, making her eyes even more radiant. A blunder in my relaxed, lustful state—carrying on a fruitful conversation with the beauty that haunts me day and night.
“You were acquainted with my father?” she asks incredulously.
“I was,” I respond lightly but have erred once more. Knowing her as I do, this will require her to delve deeper into my response.
“At what time? Did you intern at a church near Boston?”
True light shines from her eyes at the idea that I knew her father. Grief makes loved ones starved for a connection to the dead. More lies to tell. The more I tell feeds the guilt that swells and plagues me, building an incorruptible wall between us. She is inferring that I knew him personally but my knowledge is only in observance of her and in their family home.
I take a moment as we approach the balustrade of the ship that provides a remarkable view of the ocean in its dark enigmatic depths, illuminated only by specks of light from the sky and translucent moonbeams. The glow of the lanterns behind us is lost.
“Business,” I disclose. “I happened to need a solicitor for a time.”
A lady of her caliber would not ask a personal question regarding the nature of our dealings. I inwardly congratulate my
self for a swift response. This satisfies her and Sybrina takes a more beneficial position, gazing across the black-soaked ocean. Her tiny hands resting across the rail ignite my desire. What would it be like to have her trace those fingers down my back in the throes of passion?
“What a serene evening,” Sybrina observes, surveying the scene before us. Solemnness encroaches on her demeanor from the mention of her beloved father.
“There is something harmonious about the sea and the sky,” I declare, attempting a redirection to retrieve the mood. “In the distance they are married, blending together, opposites that find a common meeting place.”
“But it is a mirage. Never the two shall meet,” Sybrina surmises, eyes shed into the fathomless ebony vista.
“I have hope that on some other ethereal plain, they have each other,” I defend.
“You have very romantic notions.” Sybrina turns to me, a sassy smile churning her cheeks to perfect orbs, brightening her countenance.
“Only when inspired by the company I keep.”
“You are very charming, Minister,” she expresses with a hint of sarcastic slyness.
A breeze kicks up, dislodging locks of her hair from the pins that have it secured upon her head. Those delicate fingers move, swiping the stray strands away; her gaze does not deviate from mine—an opportune moment. My instinct is to trap her beneath me and lavish heat-filled kisses upon her lips—our bodies locked closely. I summon my restraint in a cleansing flash, and reach into the humanity I still possess.
“May I kiss you, Miss Sybrina?”
Darkening irises show me the fire that burns under her skin. She wants me, just as much as I want her. Her entire body stiffens except her head, which nods very subtly yes. I reach out my arm to caress her around the waist, hauling her close to me. I stare into her eyes that are distinctly thirsty with need, using my hand to tip her head up and lean down, pressing my lips to hers. My need is triumphant, reveling in the sensation, kicking away the blandness that tortures my spirit and replaced by sweet berries in springtime. A flood of core memories stabs at the vibrancy awakened in me. The touching and kissing become ravenous, stronger than bloodlust. Sybrina is wild with passion... for me. My hold tightens and my hands roam, wanting more. It is a feverish awareness that in all my long years I have never experienced.
An alarm whirrs in the deep recess of my mind. Sybrina is fighting against me. The cloud of passion pops like a boil. Audible now is her struggle to be free of me.
“Stop!” she shrieks when her breath is her own again. “Please!” She forces her hands into my embrace and shoves fiercely. I register it all—rejection and fear. I release her immediately and she steps back with caution.
“Miss Sybrina!” Mouse has come from whatever hole he has occasioned to occupy. His stance is wary and defensive. “Miss Sybrina?” His call to her is transformed into a question. She moves closer to him without turning her back to me, a wary action. “Miss? Are you ready to return to your cabin?” Mouse asks, his inflection deliberate and telling.
Sybrina’s voice is shaky when she responds, “Yes, please.” She turns to him. I stare at her, her back facing me as she walks away with the boy.
Repudiation thick and foul settles into my immortal heart; shame is bound with shackles tightening my chest. I will not be able to think of this moment without self-loathing for the next one thousand years.
Chapter 9
Sybrina:
I did not see the minister for the entire next day. I shoved a chair against my door knowing full well that his strength is powerful and a meager chair would not stop him if he wished to get me, but it made me feel more secure nonetheless. Mouse and Mr. Tinker have stopped by to see me a few times today; even Rufus took a turn to check on me. Mouse told me that Michael has inquired after my health. He is a nice man; I wonder idly how his arm fares.
Mouse noticed my barricade and questioned me as to my safety. I assured him that it was just a precaution. His face showed a sincere concern for my well-being.
It has been a few days and it is unfair. I paid the same amount and have the same ticket for my voyage as the other passengers that are below. It is time to leave behind the comforts and traverse back to where I belong. Mr. Overton, Michael, Helen... I look forward to seeing them.
My body is in a continued state of healing since my ailment and I feel better physically every day—until last night. Bruises line my arms and I am sure that if I had a Cheval mirror, I would see marks on my back as well.
I tidy the room and fold the blankets, although nothing gives my mind any occupation. The puzzling ordeal of the night before tangles my thoughts into a turmoil I cannot reason. I have no doubt that I truly have a fond affection and desire for the minister. His eyes haunt me and I want his company, but this other side, the demeanor displayed when in a clinch, was alarming and painful. My current state of mind, grief over the loss of my family, despair, imprisonment, and the fear of my demise by the same fate as my family—being stalked and hunted like an animal—is too much to bear. Solace and comfort were welcomed when offered by the minister. I have never felt such a consuming passion for anyone. The dolts that have pursued me in the past had not the minister’s confidence without arrogance or deftness.
The minister, a tall, commanding, and incredibly strong man, does not follow the ideal I hold regarding a man of the Bible or cloth. He is clearly wise and educated, but I never discern any biblical discussions or addresses. In conversation, he has corrected me numerous times when I address him as minister to call him Elijah.
The confusion that is nailed to my foggy thoughts keeps me at odds with my logic. At some point, how much is too much? Can a person’s mind implode with the weight of circumstance? I have been at my lowest point, and the minister’s bizarre behavior drops it to a range level with the deepest part of the ocean—cold and fathomless.
My cabin provides all of the comforts that I have been accustomed to in the past. Sunlight streams through the window slivered with the panes of glass my window affords. Even the scent of the wood in my small room is pleasant—unlike the stench of mold and feces below in the cavity of the ship. One more night, since most of the day has waned, and I will remove myself and return to the hull below. The more hours that pass the more I long to be below with the others. A sense of comfort in an uncomfortable place.
A short rap on my door causes me to snap a stare at it in fear; my heart stutters. Who is visiting?
“Miss Sybrina?” My breath lets out. Mouse! I am surprised because he visited just a short time ago. I move the chair and lift the latch on my door. Mouse is standing with an adoring mien and has one of the kittens cuddled in his arm, sleeping. “I brought you a visitor.” He steps inside and hands me the tiny creature. “I thought she might cheer you up.”
“She?” I comment.
“Two girls and a boy,” he informs me.
“A fine litter.”
“Would you like to name her?” Precious and vulnerable, the little cat arranges her delicate body into a cozy position in my arms.
“I would love to. Let’s see...” I say, thinking of something catchy as her tiny breath rises and falls with sleep. “She’s little,” I remark. “Black and white.” I think for a minute. “Chess!” I exclaim. He frowns in thought.
“Chess? Wouldn’t that be a boy’s name?” I feign disappointment that he is not impressed with the name.
“Did you name the boy yet?”
“Yes. Roger.”
“Roger? That is an odd name for a cat.”
“His mum’s name is Jolly. Jolly Roger. You know, for pirates.”
“Oh!” Yes, now that is clever.
Mouse takes the kitten from me and holds her up face to face. “Little girl,” he addresses her, “your name is Chess.” The kitten yawns as he speaks to her; it’s charming. Mouse addresses me. “I will let you get some sleep. Good Night, miss.”
“Good night, Mouse.” I close the door and place the chair back in its place, my m
eager attempt at fortifying my room.
I decide now is as good a time as any to try to fall asleep. I lie down and let out a deep sigh. Keeping thoughts of Elijah at bay is hard. The green glass of passion that made up his eyes as he asked, like a gentleman, to kiss me, dashes across my closed eyelids, seemingly branded there. He is a mystery, handsome and smart. No one has ever made me feel the way he does.
Bright English gardens surround an opulent and grandiose home. Joshua’s family home. Weatherby Manor reminds me of my own childhood home. Thick graceful columns stand as sentinels beside the double entrance front door. Inside, ornate settees line the main hallway.
I’m standing outside repeatedly banging the doorknocker over and over. No one comes. Sadness overwhelms me and I bang again. I wait and wait. I want to yell, “Let me in!” But doing so is blasphemous to decorum. I bang the knocker one last time before deciding to leave, feeling a pierce of abandonment.
A creak of the massive door makes me turn back around; standing just how I remember him is Joshua. My heart swells to see him. I reach out to hug him and notice his startled face. I turn around to what he is staring at behind me.
It’s Elijah, Mouse, and a bunch of kittens. I laugh because Joshua’s face is amusing. I am happy they are with me. Joshua doesn’t laugh and his face changes into disgust. Then, with crude deformity, he morphs into one of the horrible, pasty-white, slack-jawed creations of Vampires.
I am screaming. My throat is raw when I realize I am on the ship wrapped in a tangle of blankets, sweaty and breathing rapidly. I sit up and try to shake away the dream.
Chapter 10
Elijah:
I confine myself to my cabin once more. It is coming again. I must come under the power of death’s sleep. I welcome it if only to forget these past few days that have been the happiest of the long years I’ve spent among humans and on this Earth. My own illusions of what time would be like spent with Sybrina could not measure up to reality. No one could ever come close to the dearness I hold in my heart for this woman. My reckless display of passion rattles me. I’ve pushed her away, fear and aversion evident on her face.