Astrid entered the cathedral, and using her knowledge of medieval Catholicism and its rituals, she lit candles and gave thanks to several saints depicted in their own shrines lining the outer walls of the cathedral. She didn't mean anything by the prayers, nor was she seeking any degree of atonement; she was merely trying to remain inconspicuous. She quickly eyed the old craftsman who stood alone in the choir measuring and assessing the progress of the unfinished church altar. It was akin to the Aarhus altar in style, yet it far surpassed it in both execution and elaboration. Even at a distance, it was clear to Astrid that a small army of craftsmen was carrying out the work on the choir and altar, but only one man had stayed behind for the night to correct the mistakes of others and plan for the rest of the fateful eternity awaiting. As Astrid walked through the cathedral, she kept quiet and kept an eye on the man. She wanted to be sure that it was him, and if it was, she wanted to see him work without him knowing she was there. After a few minutes, the man picked up a wooden mallet and a gouge and began carving the layout of the altar’s main scene. Suddenly, Astrid heard the distant grind of heavy hinges as someone opened the door in the south wing antechamber. In a matter of moments, she scaled the stairs to the pulpit and hid, safely out of sight but with a view of Notke through a small crack in the pulpit. A Franciscan monk entered the nave from the side entrance. The monk appeared to float across the floor with nothing but the barely audible sound of his robe dragging across the marble slabs to give away his presence. Her eyes followed the monk up the aisle into the choir. The monk tossed back the hood of his robe and as his voice filled the cathedral, the craftsman finally looked up.
“Notke?” the monk asked, his voice somehow familiar to Astrid. She recognized characteristics of the voice and she realized that she had, at some point, shared one of the most intimate and significant moments of her life with this monk. As her mind peeled away different parts of the voice, leaving only a sickening feeling in her stomach, she knew. Astrid knew that somehow, as impossible as it seemed to her, this man was the woman who had killed her in the graveyard just days ago. Her heart gasped, and she felt like the body she no longer had was struggling to breathe.
Notke steadied his mallet and laid down the gouge. Shaking slightly as his old knees struggled, he frowned as he rose slowly, clutching his mallet firmly in one hand.
“How come a lowly monk feels entitled to break the bishop's promise that I would not be disturbed in my work?” he snarled in an aged voice.
“My friend, I am no monk, and not even a promise from your false God would have kept me at bay.”
“How dare you speak those words of our Lord . . . and even in his house! Blasphemer!” Notke raised his mallet and – though it was a feeble attempt – lunged his old body forwards. Vincenzo grabbed the old man by the wrist, revealing to the sole spectator hiding in the pulpit that this would be an uneven struggle. Holding the old man dangling by the wrist, Vincenzo moved his head in close to Notke.
“I dare speak these words because I – like you – have long since been abandoned by the gods. Like you, I have been left to fend for myself in Limbo. Left to rot. Left to pain. Left to pine for absolution. Left longing for peace. That is why I am allowed to speak such words – because your God has abandoned you to be consumed by the flames of your own conscience.” He let the old man fall hard on his back among the boards and tools scattered on the floor, and Vincenzo took a step to stand over him. “But where you keep praying for mercy that will never come, attempting to atone your deeds in life by building a house already forsaken before the first stone was laid, I have chosen differently.” Looking into the eyes of the old man, it was clear to Vincenzo that he was quickly quenching every last morsel of resolve, and pain and despair began spilling into the old man’s gaze, narrowing his eyes.
“You are one of them?” Notke asked, his voice near the point of breaking.
“Yes, but you need not be afraid. You shouldn't be.” Vincenzo's voice became friendly as he extended his hand to the old man, offering him an easy way to his feet.
“What do you want from me?” Notke took Vincenzo's hand and got up.
“I want knowledge, and in return my master offers you a last chance for the peace and absolution that you so deeply desire.” Notke looked around, searching for a savior, but finding none. “My friend, you should not worry. We will not be disturbed. The bishop has made a promise, I hear.” Vincenzo smiled.
“What knowledge does an old craftsman possess that could be of any interest to a child of Lucifer – let alone to Lucifer himself?”
“You know very well why I am here. Offer me the final verse of the Danse Macabre and I will grant you both peace and absolution.” The old man started laughing. At first, it was a rough, staccato laugh that sounded more like choking. It quickly shifted to a full, rolling laugh that took his old, coarse voice by surprise, making him cough and sputter and hold his chest to keep his composure. Then Notke smiled sadly and looked Vincenzo straight in the eyes.
“You . . . You have no way to offer atonement for what I have done, and I will lose my life and soul before I ever relinquish what little knowledge I have to the depraved bastard children of the dark one. I have been doomed before, but will not find myself doomed again. The only way you can offer atonement to me is by offering me a last chance to keep my secrets from you.” As Vincenzo's face morphed in anger, the old man lowered his head and relinquished his smile as he surrendered his soul to the mercy of the vampire.
“I come here offering you that which you desire most, and you dare spit in my face, citing your precious uncompromising morals and holding yourself as my better. Well, old man, where was this backbone in life when temptation so easily led you astray, dooming you to an eternity in this hole? Here those morals will offer you no satisfaction nor salvation, but rather earn you a measure of pain and suffering that you could never have imagined.” Vincenzo took the old man by the neck and raised him off the ground, catching Notke's lowered gaze with his eyes. “And I promise you that I will have your secrets. In the end you will break to your own desire to rest in peace – a gift that you know very well is mine to offer!”
CHAPTER 8
- BY THE RIVERS DARK -
I
Most of the household had retired to their own quarters, save for the lady of the mansion. Marie sat in silence resting on a black ebony bench at the grand piano in the drawing room. Her long black hair was fashioned in a tight bun revealing her pale neck. She felt a lonely bead of sweat run down the back of her neck until it was absorbed by the white lace collar of her shirt. She shuddered as if to cast off her shackles of lace before carelessly unbuttoning her dress. Having unhooked her corset, she drew a deep breath and placed her hands on the piano keys. Then she started to play, softly drawing out the minor chords, letting the piano lament what she herself could not. She played long and sorrowful tunes, feeling like she could go on forever and thinking that perhaps she should. She didn't notice her husband walking up behind her, his shirt missing its jacket and his silk vest unbuttoned.
“I always enjoy this time of the night when the house sleeps and there is no longer a need for pretense.” As Dæth spoke, he placed his hand on Marie's shoulder. She stopped playing.
“There is not?” she asked.
“No. I would think that, for better or worse, a husband and wife should be able to leave pretense behind in the night.” Solely for his own enjoyment, he caressed her neck and traced a finger along the lace of her shirt, running it halfway down her chest. “I understand that you met with Mr. Beck again.”
“Yes, and what of it? Am I not allowed to meet whom I desire?” she said as calmly as possible, looking straight ahead.
“My dear,” Dæth said, bending over covering her with his body as he held her shoulders and whispered in her ear. “You may meet with whom you wish, as long as you never cross me. But I am certain that you will not, for without Mr. Beck to tempt you, you no longer have any reason to. Now you have finally earned
my trust, my dear.”
“You mean to tell me, that . . .?”
“Of course, my love.”
“Blake is here because of me?”
“Naturally. What better way to prove your loyalty and faithfulness?” As his words sank in, tears formed in her eyes and poured silently down her cheeks. “I appreciate how you might feel offended by this gesture, perhaps even feel betrayed, but you are a bright woman. In fact, you are as bright as they come, which is one of the reasons why I chose you. Therefore, I am certain that you will be able to understand and perhaps even forgive me one day.” Her shoulders shuddered at his touch. “After all, time is on our side, and from here on I shall promise you that I will treat you with the respect that you deserve.” He stroked her shoulders. “I should not keep you from playing, my love. I will retire to our bed for the night and you may join me when you please.”
II
Late at night, Blake entered Kaizerheim Cathedral, which lay silent as the grave. The heavy wooden door creaked as it closed behind him with a low groan. He walked into the nave, removing his soft, rounded hat and placing it underneath the belt that held his embroidered silk doublet in place. When he had first put on the attire befitting a medieval nobleman, he had felt like he was going to a carnival, but now he felt comfortable. As he walked up the aisle, he could see the unfinished altar in the choir and it was unmistakably the work of Notke. Blake rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. He stopped and looked around, knowing and hoping that he might run into Vincenzo. In the distance, he heard someone crying. He walked toward the choir searching for the distressed soul. He eventually found himself walking up the small wooden staircase to the pulpit halfway up the nave where he found a girl hiding. She was curled up with her legs drawn to her chest, rocking herself slowly back and forth and quietly sobbing with her face hidden in the palms of her hands.
“Miss?” Blake inquired, reaching out to calm her. Taken aback by the fact that she was suddenly no longer alone, Astrid shot away from him, cowering and screaming.
“Don't touch me!” Her voice bounded between the cathedral walls. “Get away from me!”
“I'm not here to hurt you,” Blake said to calm her down, taking a few steps down the stairs. Then the girl slowly removed her hands. “Astrid?”
“Blake?” Astrid sniffled.
“Yes. What are you . . . How did you get here?” Blake asked in disbelief. Astrid sat up, her back to the wooden wall of the pulpit.
“Well, I walked most of the way.” She dried her eyes on her sleeve, trying to muster a smile.
“But you can't!”
“Well, I did, but I wish I hadn't,” she said, tears filling her eyes.
“Why did you?”
“I wanted to see Bernt Notke. Victoria, the lady who welcomed me here, told me about this land and I decided to come here. It's not like I have anything else to do.” She made it onto her knees and scooted towards Blake. “I'm so glad to see you!” She hugged him like she had never hugged anyone before. “I'm so glad it's you.” Her voice quivered. “That it's you and not that monster.” Blake put his arms around her.
“Don't worry, I'm here,” he said, hoping that this would stop her most recent spell of crying. “Now calm down and tell me - what are you talking about?” As he spoke, he gently urged Astrid to sit down on the pulpit floor to allow them to talk face to face.
“I was hiding here to watch Notke work when this thing came in through the door over there,” she said, pointing towards the south entrance. “I'm sure it was the girl who killed me, even though it couldn’t be because it was a man.”
“And?”
“Then he, or whatever it was, walked up to Notke and they quarreled.”
“Did you hear what they were talking about?”
“Only some of it,” she said. “I remember Notke calling him the child of Lucifer, and I remember the man wanting to know about a last verse of Notke's Danse Macabre.”
“His name is Vincenzo – the one who killed you,” Blake said. “What happened afterwards?”
“Notke laughed at this Vincenzo thing and told him that nothing he could offer would be worth his secret. Then he – Vincenzo, I mean – raged and told Notke that he would have his secret and that when he was finished with him, peace would be the only thing he needed to offer.”
“Then?”
“I saw Vincenzo hold Notke, and it looked like he began to eat him, but not with his mouth. Well, I mean it was not like he bit him or anything. With his head distorted like a snake swallowing a whole goat, he seemed to inhale Notke. It looked like Notke began tearing apart and he screamed. It was like no scream I have ever heard.” Astrid covered her face as she started crying again. “His scream filled the whole world, echoing between the walls. No matter how hard I pressed my palms to my ears, I could not escape it. And it didn't go away. He screamed and screamed, and even now I can still hear it.”
“But they're not still here?”
“No. In the end, a few words made it through the screams. I think Notke cried, ‘It's in the empty tomb – the Emperors' Tomb.’”
“The Emperors' Tomb. Are you sure?”
“Yes.” She moved towards Blake for comfort and he couldn't help but put his arms around her.
“Listen, Astrid. This is very important. I have to go.”
“No, you can't,” she muttered.
“I have to, but I will be back to get you.”
“NO! You can't leave me here alone!” she cried, holding him even tighter.
“Astrid.” He tried to calm her.
“I won't stay behind. You have to take me with you.” She sat up and looked him in the eyes. “I won't stay here!”
“You do know where I'm going?”
“Yes.”
“And I can't promise that I can protect you.”
“I'm not asking you to. I'm only asking you to take me with you.”
III
Riding a black Frisian steed stolen from a stable in Kaizerheim, Vincenzo sped across the Kaizer Marshes following the trail leading to the Emperors' Tomb in the heart of the marshland. An empty tomb, it was built as the final resting place for emperors that would never find rest or peace in death. The horse panted heavily, unable to find relief in death after an hour-long gallop that Vincenzo had ceaselessly spurred on with the tip of his sword. As he rode on, Vincenzo looked to the reddening sky and eyed the dark silhouette of a lone raven against the backdrop of the setting sun. He could see the straight shapes and sharp contours of the tomb rising from the flat marsh horizon in the distance, which told him that there was not far to go. Looking back, he saw nothing but marshlands. It took but a few more minutes before he reached the majestic granite mausoleum that could easily have been mistaken for a Gothic cathedral long bereft of a parish and presiding over nothing but defiant blades of grass. The horse reared as Vincenzo pulled back the reins and jumped down where the trail ended. He left the horse behind and made his way across dry patches of land to the entrance. He lifted the heavy iron bar from the oaken double doors that kept the peace of the tomb. As he pushed open the doors, the light of the setting sun passed through the opening, carving a wedge into the darkness. Vincenzo looked around and found a small brazier that had been carved out of the stone wall. Using a cigarette lighter, he set the remaining oil alight and watched as the fire spread through the oiled channels in the walls to the countless braziers lining the tomb. First, one sprang alight, and then another and another until the tomb was flooded with light and the smell of burning oil filled the dusty air. As Vincenzo headed further into the tomb, the raven flew through the door and landed on his shoulder, shaking and shifting its feathers back in order. The sound of Vincenzo’s steps echoed through the empty hall. Arching pillars held the Gothic ceiling aloft, and the raised foundations for heavy stone coffins remained vacant, forever waiting to receive dead emperors that would never arrive. The tomb lay as a silent hope for peace that would never come, and it was a stark contrast to the tombs built b
y the same emperors in life, which were meant to ensure their eternal death. But there was no hope for them, and they would find neither peace nor rest. Instead, like all other souls in Shades, these emperors would decay and end their time in the catacombs, for in death all are equal. On the far wall, Vincenzo recognized the Danse Macabre running the length of the wall. It eerily resembled real people dancing. Vincenzo picked up his pace and he soon stood before the people dancing in the painting. They were as tall as he was, each painted in such detail and color that it seemed they could step out of the wall at any time. Vincenzo recalled how he had spent a whole day in life pondering Notke's original in the Marienkirche on a visit to Lübeck. He had been there with his father, who was doing business with one of the wealthy Hanseatic merchants in the area. Vincenzo walked along the wall until he stood before the preacher who was addressing the dancers from the pulpit. As Vincenzo read the verse of the preacher, he noticed that this work was different from the original that Notke had created in life. “See, raven?” he said, to which the raven turned its head. “The piper. In life, Notke painted this figure not as a man, but as death playing his own tune.” Vincenzo looked at the raven, and it cawed and twitched before leaning its head sideways. Vincenzo walked slowly along the painting, examining each of the dancers and reading their verses, until he came to the end. “Now raven, look at the minstrel playing his pipe again here at the end. This is what Khaleel is concerned with.” The raven cawed again. “Listen carefully as I read, for it will be your doom should you forget the words.” The bird nodded. Vincenzo sat down on one knee and began to read, the raven sitting on his shoulder.
Shades - The Demise of Blake Beck Page 21