by Tom Holland
‘Outside now, the afternoon was darkening. Haidée slept. So beautiful she was - so fierce in love before, now stirless, trusting, gentle. The solitude of love and of the night was filled with the same tranquil power; in the distance, the shadows of the rocks were advancing across the lake; in my arms, Haidée stirred and whispered my name, but she did not wake, and her breathing was as soft as the twilight breeze. I watched her, pillowed on my chest. Again, in that silent place, I felt how utterly alone we were, alone with the plenitude and richness of life. I gazed at Haidée, and knew Adam’s wonder at the gift of Eve, with the whole world mine, a paradise I believed would never be lost.
‘I looked up. It was almost night now. The sun must have set, and the mountains were blue silhouettes against the stars. Above one peak gleamed the moon, waxing again - and then, just for a moment, I thought I saw a dark form pass in front of it. “Who’s that?” I whispered softly. No answer broke the stillness of the night. I stirred, and Haidée looked up at me, her eyes suddenly wide and bright. “What have you seen?” she asked. I said nothing, but pulled on a cloak and reached for a sword. Haidée followed me. We walked outside. No sound, no movement, broke the calm.
‘And then Haidée pointed. “There,” she whispered, clutching my arm. I looked - and saw a body lying amongst the flowers. I bent down and rolled it over. The wide eyes of one of the guards stared up at me. He was dead. He seemed drained of blood, and a look of unbearable terror disfigured his face. I looked up at Haidée, then rose to my feet to hold her in my arms. At that moment, ahead of us, there was the spurting of a torch, and then another, until there was an arc of flames ringing us, and I saw, behind each one, a Tartar face. None of them spoke. I raised my sword. Slowly, the line parted. A figure, cloaked in black, stepped out from the dark.
‘“Put up your sword,” said the Pasha.
‘Dumbly, I stared at him. Then I laughed, and shook my head.
‘“Very well.” The Pasha pulled aside his cloak. His wounds, where I had shot him, were still damp with blood. He drew a pistol from his belt. “I thank you for the opportunity,” he said. “I owe you this.”
‘He cocked the pistol. The stillness, in that brief instance, was like ice. Then Haidée threw herself in front of me, and I pushed her aside, and as I heard the pistol shot explode in my ears, so also I felt a pain that knocked me to the ground. I clutched at my side - it was wet. Haidée called out my name, but as she ran to me, she was held by two of the Tartar guards, and at once she froze, not sobbing, but pale and stern, so that her face seemed chilled by the kiss of death.
‘The Pasha stared at her. Then he gestured, and a third guard stepped forwards. He held what looked like sacking in his hand. The Pasha lifted his slave girl’s chin. I watched his lip quiver, and then it was fixed again, as though sorrow or disdain forbade him to smile. “Take her,” he said.
‘Haidée glanced at me. “Byron,” she whispered. “Goodbye.” Then she went with the guards, and I saw her no more.
‘“How touching,” hissed the Pasha, close to my face. “So it was for her - for her, milord - that you spurned all I had to offer you?”
‘“Yes,” I said softly. I twisted my neck, so that I could stare into his eyes. “It was not her fault. I took her. She never wanted to come with me.”
‘The Pasha laughed. “Such nobility!”
‘“It’s the truth.”
‘“No.” The Pasha’s smile faded. “No, milord, it is not. She is as guilty of treachery as you. For both of you, then - punishment.”
‘“Punishment? What will you do to her?”
‘“ We have a penalty in this part of the world, an amusing one, for faithlessness. It will do quite well enough for a slave. But I would forget about her, milord - it is your own fate that should be disturbing you.” He reached over to my side, and dabbled his fingers in my blood. Then he licked them, and smiled. “You are dying,” he said. “Would you welcome that - death?” I said nothing. The Pasha frowned, and suddenly his eyes gleamed as though lit by red fire, and his face was darkened by rage and despair. “I would have given you immortality,” he whispered. “I would have had you share eternity with me.” He kissed me, brutally, his teeth cutting my lips. “And instead - betrayal!” He kissed me again, and his tongue licked at the blood in my mouth. “So pale you are already, milord - so pale and beautiful.” He stretched across me, so that his wound touched and blended with mine. “Shall I let it rot, your beauty? - drink out your mind? - set you to scrubbing my castle floors?” He laughed, and tore away my cloak, so that I lay naked beneath him. He kissed me again and again, pressing himself tight against me, and then I felt his fingernail stroke across my throat. Blood, in a thin line, welled up from the scratch. The Pasha lapped at it, while with his nails he tore delicate ribbons from my chest. My heart was beating loudly in my ears; I looked up at the stars, and the sky seemed to be pulsing like some tortured living thing. I felt the Pasha’s lips, drinking from my wounds, and when he looked up at me again, his moustache and beard were matted with gore, my gore, and he smiled at me. He bent down close, to whisper in my ear. “I give you knowledge,” he said. “Knowledge and eternity. I curse you with them.”
‘Then there was nothing in my ears but the pulsing of my blood. I screamed: my chest was being ripped apart, but even as the pain seared my every nerve, I felt the quickening I had known with Haidée, the shiver of passion. The delight and the pain both rose until I thought they could rise no more, and yet still they rose, up and up, like twin themes of music soaring into the night - and then, somehow, I was above them both. Feelings remained - and yet it wasn’t I who was feeling them. The blood beat on - and the Pasha’s tongue now was against my living heart. A great calm descended on me, as the blood slipped thick and barely felt from my veins. I looked at the trees, the lake, the mountain peaks - all were dyed red. I looked up at the sky; my blood seemed splashed across it. As the Pasha drank on, I felt myself drawn into him, and then beyond him, and I felt myself become the world. The beating thickened and slowed. My blood across the sky was growing dark. A final pulse - and then stillness. There was nothing. All was dead - the lake, the breeze, the moon, the stars. Darkness was the universe.
‘And then - then - from that motionless silence - a pulse again - a single beat. I opened my eyes - I could see. I looked down at myself. I seemed stripped of all my skin, so naked that there was nothing but flesh, and organs, and arteries and veins, shimmering in the moon, viscous and ripe. And yet, although I was flayed like an anatomist’s corpse - I could move. As I stirred and rose, I felt a terrible strength start to flow through my limbs. My heart was quickening. I looked around - the night seemed touched with silver, and the shadows were blue and deep with life. I moved towards them; my feet touched the ground; each blade of grass, each tiny flower, filled me with pleasure, as though my nerves were harp strings to be brushed against, and as I moved, the rhythms of life hung rich in the air, and I felt a great hunger for them. I began to run. I didn’t know what I hunted, but I moved like the breath of the wind, through woods and over mountain passes, and all the time, the hunger inside me grew more and more desperate. I bounded up a cliff of rocks, and smelled something golden and warm ahead of me. I had to have it. I would have it. I shouted my need to the sky. But no human voice came out from my throat. I listened to my cry - the howling of a wolf.
‘A flock of goats looked up, startled. I pressed myself flat against the rock. One of the goats stood just below me. I could smell it - the blood in its veins and muscles, animating it, giving it life. The tiniest corpuscle would seem like a fleck of gold. I leaped. With my jaws, I ripped at the goat’s neck. Blood, in a thick warm spray, washed my face. I drank it, and it was as though I had never understood what taste could be before. Speed I had too, and eyesight, and understanding. I would observe the wide eyes of a terrified kid, and almost pause with delight that such a thing could exist - how delicate it was, how intricate! When I held the creature, the beat of its life beneath my claws fi
lled me with an exquisite joy. And then I would drink - and feel the joy quickening through my own veins. How many of the flock did I kill? I couldn’t tell. I was drunk on them - the pleasure of killing left me with no time for thought. There was only sensation, pure and distilled. There was only life, all around and inside me again.’
Rebecca, who had been staring at the vampire, her eyes wide with horror, slowly shook her head. ‘Life?’ she asked softly. ‘Life? But it wasn’t yours. No. You had passed beyond life now . . . hadn’t you?’
Lord Byron looked at her, and his eyes were like glass. ‘The pleasure, though . . .’ he whispered. ‘The pleasure of that hour . . .’ Slowly, he hooded his eyes, and laced his fingers together in remembrance.
Rebecca watched him, afraid to speak. ‘Even for that hour, though,’ she said quietly at last, ‘for all the life you had drunk - you were not alive.’
Lord Byron opened his eyes. ‘I slept until the rising of the sun,’ he said abruptly, ignoring Rebecca’s words.
‘The touch of its rays filled me with dizziness. I tried to climb to my feet - I couldn’t. I looked at my hand - it was my own again. It was sticky with slime. I stared down over my naked body. I was lying in a pool of effluent, of foul waste, and then, as I stirred again and felt the unaccustomed lightness in myself, I knew what the stuff was - my living matter - excreted by my body as something alien to itself. The filth was already starting to bubble and rot in the heat.
‘I crawled to my hands and knees. Carcasses were scattered all over the rocks - a mess of goat hair, and bone, and drying blood. I felt disgust, yes, and revulsion - but no nausea - instead, looking at the black blood on the rocks and on myself, I felt a glowing strength that rose up through my body and limbs. I stared at my side; there was no sign of my wound, not even a scar. I noticed a stream - I crossed over to it and washed. Then I began to walk. Out of the water, the sun hurt my skin. Soon, it was unbearable. I looked around for shelter. Ahead, over the brow of the hill, was an olive tree. I hurried towards it. I crossed the brow, and there, below me, stretching away, lay the blue stillness of Lake Trihonida. I stared at it from under the tree. I remembered the last time I had seen it - when I had been alive. And now?’ Lord Byron stared at Rebecca, and nodded. ‘Yes, now - this was when I understood - fully understood - that I had passed beyond life - that I had been transformed into a quite different order of being. I began to shake. What was I? What had happened? What was this thing the Pasha had made me into? - a drinker of blood - a tearer of throats . . .’ He paused. ‘A vardoulacha . . .’ He smiled faintly, and clasped his hands. Silence, for a few moments, shrouded him.
‘I stayed beneath the olive tree all day,’ he said at last. ‘The strange powers I remembered from the night seemed dulled in the sun - only hatred for my creator blazed as undimmed as before, while noon, and then afternoon, slowly passed. The Pasha had escaped me before, but now, a creature like him, I understood what would have to be done. I laid my hand across my chest. My heart, beating slowly, felt heavy with blood. I longed to feel the Pasha’s own heart between my fingers, to pinch it slowly until it burst. I wondered about Haidée, and the punishment that her master had whispered about. Would it leave her alive? - leave her for me? And then I remembered again what I had been made into, and I felt a sick despair, and my loathing for the Pasha redoubled itself. Oh, how I welcomed my hatred, how I cherished it - my only pleasure that whole long first day.
‘The sun began to set, and the western peaks seemed touched with blood. I found my senses returning to me. Once again, the air grew rich with the scents of life. The twilight gathered - and the darker it became, the more I could see. Out on the lake, I noticed fishing boats. One of them in particular caught my eye. It was being rowed out into the centre of the lake; it anchored there; two men raised a weight in a sack, and threw it overboard. I watched as the ripples spread out and died, and then the lake was as glassy as before. The waters were crimson now, and staring at them, I felt my longing for blood reborn. I left the shelter of the olive tree. The darkness was like skin against my own. It filled me with strange desires, and feelings of power.
‘I reached the cave where the Pasha had taken me. There was no sign of him, nor of anyone else. I found my clothes scattered as I had left them - I pulled them on. Only my cloak was ruined - torn and stiff with blood - so I searched for Haidée’s instead, and found it discarded at the back of the cave. I remembered how she had dropped it the night before. I wrapped myself in it, and sat in the cave’s mouth. I stared at its black folds, falling around me, and buried my head in my hands with despair.
‘“My Lord!”
‘I looked up. It was Viscillie. He was running through the olive grove up towards me. “My Lord!” he called out again. “My Lord, I had thought you were dead!” Then he looked into my face. He stammered something; he froze where he was. Slowly, he looked up again. “My Lord,” he whispered, “tonight . . .”
‘I raised an eyebrow in inquiry.
‘“Tonight, My Lord - you can have your revenge.” He paused. I nodded. Viscillie fell to his knees. “It is our one chance,” he explained in a hurried voice. “The Pasha is journeying through the mountains. If you don’t delay, we can capture him.” He swallowed and fell silent again. How curiously delicate he smelled - I had never noticed it before. I studied him, and watched how his brown face turned pale.
‘I rose to my feet. “Haidée - where is she?”
‘Viscillie bowed his head. Then he turned and beckoned someone, and I smelled another man’s blood. “This is Elmas,” said Viscillie, gesturing at a ruffian as massive as himself. “Elmas - tell the Lord Byron what you saw.”
‘Elmas looked up into my face, and I saw him frown, then blanch just as Viscillie had done.
‘“Tell me,” I whispered.
‘“My Lord, I was by the lake . . .” He looked up at me again, and his voice trailed away.
‘“Yes?” I said softly.
‘“My Lord, I saw a boat. In it were two men. They had a sack. Inside the sack was . . .”
‘I lifted my hand. Elmas fell silent. Blankness passed before my eyes. I had known already, of course, when I saw the boat myself, but I hadn’t then been willing to acknowledge it, not the hidden meaning of that scene. I fingered the edge of Haidée’s cloak. When I spoke, my voice was like the splintering of ice in my ears. “Viscillie,” I asked, “where does the Pasha ride tonight?”
‘“Through the mountain passes, My Lord.”
‘“We have men?”
‘Viscillie bowed his head. “From my village, My Lord.”
‘“I need a horse.”
‘Viscillie smiled. “You will be given one, My Lord.”
‘“We ride at once.”
‘“At once, My Lord.”
‘And so we did. The crags and ravines echoed to our speed. Iron hooves clattered over the rocks; foam streaked the sides of my raven horse. We reached the pass. In a gully above it, I wheeled and paused, standing in my stirrups to gaze into the distance, trying to smell my foes drawing near. I looked up at the sky - still red, blood-red, but deepening into black. Winters of memory rolled over me; in that drop of time, I seemed to glimpse my own eternity. I felt a dread, and then hatred settled in its place. “They are coming,” I said. Viscillie looked. He could see nothing, but he nodded and gave the words of command. “Kill them all,” I said. “All.” I grasped my sword and drew it, so that its steel flushed red with the light of the sky. “The Pasha, though,” I whispered, “he is mine.”
‘We heard the clash of men on horseback coming down the ravine. Viscillie grinned; he nodded to me and raised his arquebus. Then I saw them - the squadron of Tartar cavalry, and at their head, his pale face gleaming amongst the shadows of the rocks, the monster, my creator. I tightened my grip round the hilt of my sword. Viscillie glanced at me; I held my sword poised; I lowered it. Viscillie fired, and the foremost Tartar bit the ground. Vakhel Pasha looked up - no expression of fear or surprise crossed his face. B
ut all around him, as gunfire crackled out, there was chaos; some men sheltered behind their horses and tried to answer back; others fled into the rocks, where they were finished off by the knife. I felt the lust for blood on me. I spurred my horse forwards, so that I stood silhouetted against the western sky. All across the ravine, there was a sudden fall into silence. I stared at the Pasha; he met my look impassively. But from one of his horsemen there was a sudden wail. “It’s him, it’s him! See how pale he is, it’s him!” I smiled; I spurred my horse down; with the shrieks of Viscillie’s men in my ears, I rode into the pass.
‘It was littered with corpses now, as men fought hand to hand. Alone amongst the carnage, the Pasha sat and waited on his horse untouched. I rode to face him. Only then, slowly, did he smile. “Welcome to eternity, milord,” he whispered.
‘I shook my head. “Haidée - where is she?”
‘The Pasha stared at me, startled, then he threw back his head and laughed. “You can truly be bothered with her?” he asked. He reached out to touch me. I flinched back. “You have so much to learn,” said the Pasha softly. “But I will teach you. We shall be together, for all time, and I will teach you.” He held out his hand. “Come with me, milord.” He smiled. He beckoned with his hand. “Come with me.”
‘For a moment, I sat frozen. Then my sword swung down. I felt it bite through the bone of the Pasha’s wrist. The hand, still seeming to beckon, arced upwards, then dropped into the dust. The Pasha stared at me in horror, but he seemed to feel no physical pain, and this infuriated me all the more. I swung at him blindly. My sword rose and fell, cutting deep, until the Pasha slumped from his horse’s back. He stared up at me. “You are going to kill me,” he said. A look of puzzlement and disbelief crossed his face. “So soon. You are truly going to do it.” I stepped down from my horse, and placed the sword’s point above his heart.