Vigil

by Saunders, Craig

  Then I walked back to the camp.

  They were dancing again, and I didn’t want to disturb them, but men react badly when they are shocked, and sometimes they do rash things, like try to kill me, even if I have a full belly and no intention of feeding.

  I did not want to take the chance of being put to sleep again, so soon after waking up. And I certainly did not want to kill these people. I wanted only to dance and bathe in the glorious notes of their music.

  I called out to the camp, in Romanian.

  ‘Good evening,’ I called. The music stopped and they turned to see what a stranger was doing out in the field of trees, so far from other people.

  The women saw my state of undress and began to giggle. The older children (I assumed that the younger children had gone to bed) joined in. It was fortunate, I suppose, that in laughing at me their guard was lowered.

  ‘Please excuse my indisposition, but I was robbed on the road of all my belongings. I heard your beautiful song and saw your dancing. I hoped you would allow me to dance with you. If someone would be kind enough to lend me some clothes, that is.’

  One of the men came forward and motioned me to follow him.

  I could hear their hearts beating in their chests. Their humour relaxed them. If they had run or fought perhaps it would have been a different story. Perhaps I would have chased them down. As it was the man, roughly my height, took me into one of their bright caravans and took some clothes from a cupboard over a bed.

  ‘Strange for a man to be out this far. Were you lost?’

  ‘Yes, I was journeying to the north. Three men of ill-aspect robbed me of my gold and my clothes. I gave them a few licks of my own, but one hit me on the head and I passed out.’

  ‘You were lucky,’ he said, passing me a gaudy shirt of red and a pair of trousers. I put them on and smiled at him.

  ‘Thank you. They are very comfortable.’

  ‘Come,’ he said. ‘Come and join us for the night.’

  I followed him to the fire. They were dancing again.

  I stood by the side, watching them dancing around the fire. The man whose clothes I wore motioned me to join, but I was suddenly shy. Unsure of the steps I watched and tried to learn by watching their feet move.

  Then a woman walked from the other side of the fire and took my hand. ‘Come, I will show you,’ she said.

  For the first time in centuries I was speechless. Not because I was especially shy of women, or any mortal, but because she was the woman of my dreams.

  I took her hand like a man in a dream, staring at her face. I danced then, all night, but I did not watch her feet. I trod on her sometimes, and sometimes I bumped into her, clumsy all of a sudden, against my nature. She danced circles around me and laughed, the hollow of her throat flickering with the pulse of life and her earrings glinting in the light of the fire.

  The music mesmerised me. The woman from my dreams hypnotised me with her swirling, swaying dance and I was a fool for a woman for the first time in my life. I remembered her, but I remembered her forwards. It was as though the future and the past were somehow meshed together to form one perfect moment. In that moment I was wholly a creature of the now. Our natures did not matter. That we were of a different species, as different as dark and light, made no difference to the dance.

  On and on we danced while my eyes never left her face.

  In the morning the dance stopped. She bid me a good night, and went to her caravan alone, I noticed. I longed to follow her. I was not a man given to understanding the subtleties of human behaviour, but I thought she wanted me to follow her. I could not. I knew it, even then, in my lust to own her and hold her through the ages. I could not, because I knew that if I lay with her she would be like me and then things could never be the same. We could never have a night of dancing again, just years and years of feeding.

  I loved her instantly. I would not curse her with this life. She owned her own life, I could see that in every movement she made, every smile she gave so freely. To change her would be to destroy her.

  I wanted to own her, but I also wanted her to be free.

  I lay down underneath a wagon to get out of the light of the sun and slept until they woke at noon.

  *

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  1843

  Romani Camp

  In the morning the woman from my dreams brought me a cup of some hot brew. I had not been sleeping, just laying underneath the caravan out of the bitter morning light. The people had been up and about for about an hour now. Children were running and playing. I noticed that there were dogs about, which perhaps had been sleeping the night before. The horse that drew their bright wagons were free from harness to graze on the lush grassland, free to wander a little way through the trees and drink from the stream.

  I took the cup with a smile. She did not seem disconcerted by my bright teeth. Her own were healthy and white, too. I noticed that some of the older people’s teeth had fallen from their heads. It was not like the world of my dreams, where everyone’s teeth were the same as mine and their smiles just as dazzling.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. I didn’t want to drink the tea. I was afraid it might make me sick and I didn’t want to offend my hosts. I knew precious little about the customs of people. Perhaps I should have made more of an effort to learn over the years, but I usually shunned the world of men apart from when I ate. I remembered how people had eaten in the monastery and tried to emulate them. I took a tiny sip of the tea to show my thanks. It was sweet and disgustingly bitter at the same time, but I smiled again just to show that there were no hard feelings.

  ‘Where do you come from?’ she asked. ‘You have a strange accent. You are not Romanian, yet you speak their language perfectly.’

  Her face was so open that I was disarmed. I found the lie on my lips and realised that for her it would be an insult, even though she would never know it was not the truth. I decided to be as honest with her as I could. Obviously, there were some things that I could not tell her. I was a fool to believe that I could keep my nature a secret from her. But I didn’t trouble myself about the big lies, not then.

  ‘I do not know where I come from originally. The first language I learned was Romanian. That, I suppose, is my mother tongue. I have travelled widely, though. I can speak many languages and read and write some ten or so more. But your language – you speak like Romanian yet there are some words that I do not understand.’

  ‘We are the Romani. We are not Romanian. We travel widely, too. I speak three languages.’ She said this last without a trace of pride. It was just something that the people did. They spoke the languages where they travelled.

  ‘Do you always carry your homes with you?’

  ‘Some do. Some don’t. Some of us marry and settle.’

  There seemed to be a hint of question in this last statement. I could not fathom what it was. I did not realise then just how direct she could be.

  ‘I would know more of your people. Do you think I could travel with you a while?’ I felt like a fool asking, like I was asking more than I had spoken aloud. I was scared, I suppose, that she might say no and that I might not be able to stay. I wanted to stay with her more than I had ever wanted anything. She had captivated me more totally than even the blood. She was a new addiction and I hungered for her above all else.

  It was strange that such a chance meeting with a human woman could have such a profound effect on me, but she was a remarkable woman. In all my years I have never met a human with such power, such poise and composure. I have met powerful men throughout my years, and none could hold a candle to her. She was an inferno.

  I waited, staring at her soft face, waiting for a smile or a shake of the head.

  She smiled and my heart leapt.

  ‘We leave in a few days. We are heading south of the mountains for winter. You are welcome to stay with us. Would you share with me?’

  She blushed a little. I did not know if there was some breach of etiquette among
her people, but I knew enough to understand that among other people such an invitation would have been brazen.

  I think I may have blushed a little myself.

  ‘I would like that very much.’

  I thought the rest of our conversations could wait for a while. Such as why we could never be as man and wife. I did not want to spoil the day though, because she was laughing and clapping her hands in delight and it was a wonderful sight and the sound of her joy was infectious. I took her hand.

  ‘Come, we must tell the others!’

  ‘Very well,’ I said, and followed her. I assumed that they were probably some kind of elder or leader who needed to know that the people had a travelling companion.

  When she beamed and called all the people around and told them that we were engaged. I nearly dropped dead from a heart attack. Believe me when I say it takes a lot to stop my heart.

  *

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Romani Camp

  I pulled her to one side, smiling at the gathered people. I almost dragged her into the woods, out of the sun and into the shade where I was more comfortable.

  ‘What?’ she asked, seemingly surprised at my sudden aggressiveness.

  ‘What do you mean, we’re engaged? You don’t even know my name!’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We are to be married?’

  ‘Of course. I don’t understand. We danced.’

  I didn’t want to go back, but she just did not get it. How could I be married to a woman, a human woman? How could I explain to her that as much as I wanted to, I could not.

  ‘I cannot marry you.’

  Her face set stubbornly. I came to love that look, as I came to love all the other expressions that took on such a beautiful hue in the light of her face.

  ‘You accepted my proposal. We are to be married. You cannot deny me now. To do so would dishonour me. We danced all night. We are betrothed.’

  I sighed and shook my head. I paced around her. She tapped her foot against the dirt and crossed her arms.

  ‘I am not like you. I am…I have…my kind…I mean my people…’

  She was frowning now. There was anger on her face. I did not want to be the focus of her anger. I wanted her to smile again. God, how I wanted to see her smile.

  ‘I am different. I have what you would call a disease.’

  ‘You don’t look ill,’ she said. ‘You don’t dance like a sick man. You don’t smell sick.’

  ‘It’s a strange disease. It does not make me sick.’

  ‘Then it’s not a disease. Stop trying to make excuses. We are going to be married and that is that.’

  ‘You don’t understand. I’m not making excuses. This disease, it is catching. You can catch it from my blood. From a kiss from me. It would make you terribly sick. It affects the mind, and the body. It changes you so that you become something else. You would not be yourself. I would not risk your life because I love you.’

  She smiled triumphantly. ‘There. Then we will be married.’

  I growled in frustration. Was she even listening to me?

  ‘We can never be as man and wife!’

  ‘There is more to being married than kissing. Stop being such a baby. Unless this disease,’ she invested the word with venom at what she thought right until the end was just a lie, ‘means you are going to die tomorrow you will not dishonour me. This is settled. We will have the ceremony tomorrow.’

  I shouted in frustration then. Perhaps those of you that have had stubborn wives will understand how easily such a woman can unman you with just a few words.

  We would never lie together as man or wife, but I believe I know why men and women get married and want to spend their lives together. It is because the world is a lonely place. It is a wide world, full of empty places and cold realities. A wife or a husband can be like a fire on a cold night.

  Like a fire, sometimes we long to get so close to it that it can burn out the chill. It is fascinating, it has a rhythm and a song. We are all drawn to the fire, in the end.

  We were married the following morning.

  *

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Romania

  A marriage is made of moments. Seen from the outside it is a construction of successes and failures. To an observer it can be quantified in years, children, milestones reached.

  On the inside a marriage can last for forty years and be a barren wasteland devoid of life and utterly featureless. Or it can be filled by the most beautiful vistas, surrounded by rugged coastline and crashing breakers, storm-filled skies broken by shafts of sunlight like arrows loosed from the heavens. Our marriage was like that. It was a storm, full of sullen beauty and thunderous passions. We fought. We shouted.

  We also made love. We did not make love with our bodies, but with our apologies, with a glance or a chaste touch.

  Our marriage was short, blissful, painful, enraging, confusing, calming…all these things and more. It was never barren. It could not be measured in children, or years passed, but in moments shared. It was full of love, more than the rest of my life despite the years I have existed on this earth. No passion has ever come close, not even blood. When I think of her now my heart soars and sobs in equal measure.

  All men should know such love. Men need a woman to own their soul. A man cannot be trusted to be the shepherd of his own heart.

  I was a creature before I met her. I was in love with destruction. I had never built anything. Never created anything but bastard children, abominations like me that would rape the world. Every time we fought, we made up, and although we could not create pure children, we made something. We made a husband and wife, more powerful than the sum of our parts.

  Does all this turn your stomach? Make you queasy because it seems somehow sickly sweet or just plain sick, that a harvester of souls could fall so swiftly and so completely for a woman?

  Women are sometimes drawn to bad men. Sometimes they can fix them, make them better men more caring and careful as they pass through the world.

  She could not fix what was wrong with me. I was not bad. I was not misguided or uncaring. I am a reaper.

  But no longer without thought. If nothing else, she taught me to show respect for my flock. It was a lesson Radu had taught me long ago. Sometimes the simplest lessons are the hardest.

  We made love in words and with our eyes and by the lightest of touches. We could not kiss. I could not lay with her as a man. It did not matter.

  But as always, I was a fool. I entertained no hope that we could live out our lives as man and woman, but I wanted to experience the thing that drew men and women together through the ages. I wanted to share and become something more than just myself. I think I succeeded.

  But in a way, I failed because of what I am.

  A vampire cannot love. Not because a vampire is incapable of love, but because of man’s fear of the unknown. Love, by its nature, needs sunlight to flourish, and I am a creature of the dark.

  *

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Romania

  We travelled with the others of her clan for nearly six months. There would be no repeat of my sojourn with the white monks, however. These people were wise to my kind in a way that the monks had not been.

  For the first six months, through spring and summer and into the first auburn flush of autumn, we travelled long and wide across the vast expanses of the Romanian heartlands. We shunned large conurbations, stuck to the back roads, rolling along dirt tracks and the occasional paved road, the iron shod wheels of our homes grating on the hard roads. We lived among our own people, trading for what little could no be grubbed from the land. I learned to make traps for rabbits and hares, learned to fish the streams and rivers that ran cold from the mountains and crisscrossed the flat lands.

  My life among the people was one of contentment. I wanted for nothing much…save blood. I hungered all the time, but I was healed and I did not need to feed. It was just the addiction. I could survive very well
on raw meat and entrails. Unfortunately the dogs that accompanied our little caravan most often got the entrails, but I made sure I took the meat and fish from the fire before the lingering stink of wood smoke could get into the meat.

  Was that what gave me away? I do not think it was so simple. But the difference between the people and myself was stark and obvious for anyone with eyes to see. Hell, even a blind man could have told the difference. My wife knew I was different. The people, I think, gave me longer because she was one of them and that had weight. We were married, and even though I was not one of them and never could be, they took me as their own because we had taken our vows.

  But she could not protect me forever.

  They did not burn me, though. They were much more civilised than the men of God who had tied me down and watched me burn.

  One day, having been out in the dusk picking armfuls of deadfall for the evening fire, I returned to find the camp assembled. My shoulders bunched, my legs tensed. I was ready to fight, or flee, as the situation demanded. They were waiting for me, although they were not armed.

  She sat on a fallen log that some of the men had dragged from the side of the road. Our camp was simple and modest. My wife and I had set up maybe fifty meters back from the road. I saw that we had a clear run to the road but the horses were not tethered. I would not be able to ride clear of trouble. She was watching me as I approached. I caught her eye and she shook her head.

  I read the meaning in her simple glance. Do not fight.

  She knew my strength. She also knew that this was not a fight in the making. I need not fear what was to come.

  But she looked so sad.

  Of course, there had been talk among the people. Talk about me and my wife. Mainly me.

  Silas, who often spoke for the others when we met other clans of travellers, the only one who could be considered a leader, took me by the shoulder and led me to a spot beside my wife.