by Alan Jansen
My friendship with Cheroot prolonged my life an additional twenty years, but all along my decision to end my life was strong inside me. I told Cheroot many things, educated him in the art of surviving better as an immortal, and shared many secrets of this world with him that I had picked up over the centuries. I even confided in him that I was determined to take my own life, as I wanted to live no more. Cheroot protested wildly, of course, begging me to reconsider my plans for suicide, but I remained true to my resolve.
Exactly twenty years to the day after I had met Cheroot, I told him in our last ever chat that today was the day I would walk into a fire and destroy myself. I stopped talking amidst his howling protests and took him to a special room in my castle where I disclosed to him my vast horde of gold and silver treasure. Cheroot was wealthy in his own right, but even he gasped at the sight of such wealth.
‘Behold this treasure, Cheroot,’ I said to him. ‘I am leaving it, and all my other possessions, to you in a new testament my lawyer has drawn up for me. He will not cheat. I have taken measures that will prevent any cheating on his part. I know you will use my wealth wisely. Tonight after I put you into a hypnotic trance, I shall destroy myself. The trance is necessary, as I do not want you to witness my demise, for I’m sure you will try to drag me out of the fire that I shall leap into. I have collected a great pile of lumber and other inflammables for this purpose. They are on the grounds of my castle this very moment, ready to be lit and to consume me.’
My friend Cheroot protested wildly at my statement, imploring me – nay, begging me – not to take my life. He shouted out in a deeply lamenting voice that I was the only true friend he had and it would be unbearable for him should I die and we not see each other again. Cheroot’s pleas, though, fell on deaf ears, for my mind was clearly made up. My friendship with him notwithstanding, I was determined to die – end this futile life …
‘Do not grieve, dear lovable Cheroot, my true friend. I go to my real rest now. I died once when an ancient vampire made me, but my soul is suspended in time. Once the fire destroys me completely, my soul will be free at last. Immortality comes with a price, my dear Cheroot. Mine proved too high to bear. Your own immortality you may be able to bear, I truly don’t know, but a true vampire will always want to end his or her life at one stage or another. You are in a way blessed that you can walk in the daylight and can live with humans without problems. I myself can’t, and I want out now. I am also leaving you my most precious gift – a sacred bloodstone. You will no longer need to drink from humans or animals. The blood from the stone is as rich and exquisite as it is holy. Take good care of it. My maker gave me this sacred stone, and I know for sure that other bloodstones exist too. Where, I don’t know, but I have searched on the eve of St George’s Day when the blue fires of the guardians allow mortals and others to find great treasures if they dare. I say dare because most mortals in Europe will never go out on the eve of St George’s Day – the only day all evil things are allowed to hold sway. Small blue flames emit from the ground on the night of this day showing the spots where treasure is buried and can be dug out. It’s only we vampires who dare to seek them out.’
Thus saying, I, Akawander, soon to be no more, removed the bloodstone that I always hung on a gold chain around my neck and hung it upon Cheroot’s own. I then used my great hypnotic powers, gesturing in a way that only I knew how, and put my hybrid immortal friend into a deep hypnotic trance before leaving to the garden of my castle. I could only envisage what my friend Cheroot would find when he awoke the next morning …
When he awoke, he would find it daylight, for my hypnotic spell was strong. No birds would sing that fateful day, although the sun would shine brightly as though a new dawn had come to be. Near the castle, the remains of a great fire would be still smouldering, although the flames would have long since gone out. There would be no trace of me, Akawander. There wouldn’t even be bones, although here and there, if the wind wasn’t strong, I suspect a faint outline of my body might be visible in the form of ash. Even this would gradually disintegrate as the wind blew …
Thus would end my friendship with the Druid and half-human Cheroot. My former friend always told me that I was the noblest being he had ever met. I didn’t know about that. I did know, however, that I had never harmed a single being in my whole life, either as a human or as a vampire. Cheroot I knew to be a noble being too, but I also sensed and knew that that there was a mischievous streak in him that could become unpleasant at times. Still, he was a true and great friend to me. The twenty years I knew him were probably the happiest I’d experienced during my life as a vampire. He would find the bloodstone I left him invaluable, for he would never have the desire to drink from a human again, unless absolutely necessary or for some special purpose of his own making. He would inherit my castle and my treasure, although I strongly suspected he would sell my grand dwelling after removing my horde of treasure to his own chateau in France. If ever I wished a fellow being well, I wished my Druid friend Cheroot a happy life, although I suspected that his end would be not unlike my own. … As I said before, immortality comes with a heavy price. … Even immortals find that in time they would long for true death and release.
Chapter 8
Bittersweet Rest
We have a secret, you and I
for who but I can see you lie
each night in fire glow?
And who but I can reach my hand
before we go to bed
and feel the living warmth of you
and touch your silken head?
Author unknown
I, Turtle, was in my early twenties the year when my beloved Inky went to his rest, followed by our unique Gobble shortly afterwards. Inky’s long life was pretty amazing, really. I got him as a pup when I was little, and he had been my trusted and loving companion – my four-footed darling brother. It was only two summers earlier that we had celebrated Inky’s twenty-first birthday – a mind-boggling milestone for any dog – and I was more than convinced then that he would go on forever, a sort of ageless Uncle Cheroot in the guise of a dog. Gobble, our very special turkey cock, was also quite old at the time of his passing. Turkeys of the Phasianidae line can live up to a maximum of fourteen years, but Gobble had passed that age a long time ago …
From my one-bedroomed flat at Half-Moon Street in Central London, I made it routine to travel back to the farm at weekends only because I wanted to enjoy Inky’s company. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to meet up with Pop and Ben, but Inky was very special – a kind of younger brother, the complete opposite of my human brother, Ben, besides being my absolute soulmate. Ben had married a local girl named Belinda, the daughter of a wealthy farmer who had his own property close to Rothwell – a good distance away from Pop’s farm. Ben’s union with his wife had produced two lovely children – both girls, with one on the way. Pop was getting on now, and it was Ben who more or less ran the affairs of the farm. I was happy for Ben and even happier for Pop, who wasn’t lonely in any way because of all these new additions in the family. The two little girls thrilled their grandfather, Pop being more than delighted to be with them all day long. Of course, I would have loved to keep Inky in my flat in London, but my abode was too small and crowded and he did need regular physical activity, which was nigh on impossible in the cramped-up confinements of my flat and the small garden space outside. Of course I could take him for walks, and to nearby Green Park, but he would be left alone when I was away at work – I knew he wouldn’t like that at all. Down at the farm, Inky was in his element despite his very old age. He still chased rabbits with fervent zeal, had rollicking wandering sessions with Gobble, and took an active interest in all the farm chores Pop and Ben carried out during the day. At night he would always slip into my unlocked bedroom to sleep on my bed, comforted by my scent, which was still detectable by his superior canine nose. He knew I would be returning at the weekends and maybe was just counting the d
ays and hours until I would be back.
My flat was situated on the top end of Half-Moon Street, and although it was small, I had a clear view of Green Park and the main road running up to Piccadilly Circus and the West End area from my living room window and little French balcony. It was a fashionable and expensive area to live in London, the small flat costing me a minor fortune to buy. Just a few minutes’ walk would take me to Mom’s artist-studio-cum-residence at Knightsbridge which she had bought several years ago. I usually met up with Mom almost every day either at her flat or in some nearby restaurant or café. Mom had a wonderful cook and dogsbody called Bunter who looked after all the domestic chores that needed attending to in her private quarters and in the studio section of her abode. Mom also employed a full-time secretary and an elderly handyman, the latter doing all sorts of odd jobs that needed attending to, including lifting, hanging up, or packing the various pictures that came in and went out. Mom didn’t cook at all these days, her trusted Bunter doing all the cooking, even making huge pots of tea, which Mom would drink at all times of the day. Mom still loved champagne – the drink that Uncle Cheroot had first introduced her to – but kept her consumption only to weekends, or on some special occasion or other. Outside in the garden, a man came twice a week to mow the lawn and attend to the flower beds. A few times each year, I brought Inky along with me to London, where he stayed with Mom, behaving most decorously, but I could sense that he missed the farm, the animals, and his special friend Gobble. I gradually settled down to a routine where I would stay in London from Monday to Friday morning and then take an afternoon train back to the Cotswolds and home, only because I wanted to be with my special dog. Of course, as I mentioned before, I loved to see Pop and Ben’s family too, but Inky and even Gobble were my key reason to travel back and forth.
Mom was at the zenith of her fame at this time, having cemented a reputation as England’s finest contemporary still-life painter, an achievement she had secured many decades ago. Her fame had even spread to the United States and the Continent, her pictures fetching astronomical prices. Mom didn’t visit the farm much at first after she moved over to London, but after Ben’s daughters were born, she visited regularly, although not always at the weekends like I did. Mom had a busy schedule; in her week, there were just seven days, as Saturdays and Sundays didn’t mean as much to her as they did to us others. Pop wasn’t ideal company whenever I visited the farm, and neither was Ben, who was fast growing to be a carbon copy of Pop – the proverbial apple definitely not falling too far from the tree. I was very fond of both Pop and Ben, but they were both firm inheritors of the dour side of the family – Pop’s side. Ben’s young daughters, though, showed definite signs of possessing Mom’s sharp intellect, and I was much consoled about that. My conversation with Pop after he had hugged me upon my arrival that ominous and sad visit when Inky died was routine, his words a mantra, almost déjà vu.
‘Ah, Turtle, my dear, back from London again, I see. You’re looking good, girl! How was the train journey, dear?’
I looked up at Pop with love and respect before answering with a standard riposte, also quite déjà vu. ‘It was fine, Pop. A bit crowded the train was, though. You know how part-time Londoners rush to get back home for the weekend.’
‘Ah! Londoners, Londoners,’ said Pop, as though he knew all about them. ‘Special people, Londoners, always bustling and in a hurry. Anyway, dear, I’ll get Cook [Pop and Ben had employed a permanent cook for many years now] to rustle up a pot roast for dinner, just the way you like it. I suppose you would want to shower and change and then rush off to the orchard with Inky and Gobble. You do that then. … I’ve got to give the children their bath in a few minutes, and after that I will be taking them to the barn to see Bessie’s new calf that Ben and Cecilia helped deliver yesterday. The little ones do love the farm animals to bits and will be thrilled to see the new arrival. Perhaps you can come along later, too, dear? Bring Inky along, but keep Gobble outside. That old bird just tears the barn apart looking for insects and things, as if we don’t feed him enough.’ Saying thus, he ambled away in the direction of the children’s nursery, leaving me pretty much to my own devices.
Ben was the same too. He greeted me eagerly enough, but we hadn’t any common ground for a decent conversation – never really had, not even when we were children. Ben’s wife, Belinda, was different. She was a big girl, very rural and simple, and an ideal wife for Ben, I thought. Unlike Ben, she was a chatterbox, always eager to jabber on about anything under the sun, especially loving to discuss the antics of her two little girls, whom she loved and adored above anything else.
After dinner that night, we sat by the tele watching the news or anything else Ben, Belinda, or Pop fancied. I never imposed on their choices of TV programs, just sitting there in semi-silence, interested only if something spectacular was broadcasted on the news. Inky always sat by my feet, lost in thoughts of his own, while I scratched his furry head with my stockinged feet now and then …
I had passed out with good results from Oxford with an impressive arts degree in my baggage. I spent a few ‘free’ months on the farm undecided as to what I should do, but then I suddenly received a letter from a London firm of land and property developers offering me a billet as secretary to the owner – a Mr Alistair Smythe. I had never thought of secretarial work as a first job, and wasn’t too keen at first, but the salary offered was handsome and I was expected to work only four days a week, which suited my travel arrangements to the farm to perfection. Through the influence and good offices of Mr Smythe, I was able to purchase outright the small flat on Half-Moon Street, a short distance away from Mom’s fabulous house at Knightsbridge. It was the eighties and apartments in Central London cost a great deal of money even then, but Mom put up the large initial deposit, and then my bank arranged for the balance payments through a monthly payment scheme. My secretarial work for Mr Smythe wasn’t strenuous in the least bit, and I often felt that the handsome salary he paid me was unwarranted. But who was I to complain? I always suspected, as I do even to this day, that some mysterious benefactor had something to do with my appointment and its generous emoluments à la the convict who left a fortune to young Pip in Dickens’s Great Expectations. I first thought it was Mom, but when I confronted her with my theory one day, she burst out laughing.
‘My dear, darling Turtle. I really had nothing to do with it! True, I put up most of the money that you needed to buy your flat, but beyond that I’ve done nothing. I’ve never even met this Smythe fellow in my life! I always intended for you to make your own way in life, my dear daughter, and decided long ago not to interfere in your choice of career. Of course you will inherit most of my money when I am gone, and I would be more than glad to give you any sum of money for any purpose you want, but I solemnly swear that I had nothing to do with your billet, darling.’
‘It’s OK, Mom. I believe you. … But how on earth did Mr Smythe headhunt just me? I mean, I have never worked before and have no references! Someone must have put him up to it!’
‘Well, it wasn’t me, dear. Maybe my beloved Cheroot is helping you from beyond the grave. I wouldn’t put it past him, God rest his dear soul!’
The mention of Uncle Cheroot set my mind wandering. Mom’s present fame was largely due to Uncle’s efforts. He had planned and engineered Mom’s situation and had promoted her as a leading artist, and he was largely responsible for obtaining the thriving reputation she enjoyed. Not that Mom was mediocre. Regarding talent, composition, and accomplishment, I had never seen more brilliant still-life and country scenes than the ones she painted year after year. Her studio was an Aladdin’s cove of impressive, awesome paintings.
Whenever I arrived home, I would find Inky seated by the farm gate awaiting my arrival. He would start to sit on that spot on Friday morning and, if weather permitted, would sit there until I arrived at mid-afternoon, not even taking a break to eat the food that Pop put out for him inside the farmhouse
. He didn’t sit there alone, though, for at teatime, Gobble would join him by the gate, taking a break from his customary fussing and dancing around the young turkey flock in his charge. I would arrive in Mr Large’s taxi. I had a standing agreement with Large to pick me up at the station, as I didn’t want to bother either Pop or Ben to come and fetch me. Inky would fly into my arms as soon as I had stepped inside the gate with my suitcase, causing me to bend down low on my haunches to half-gather him, since he was far too heavy for me to carry while in a standing position. He would smother my face with several doggie kisses, whimpering in joy in between, his tail whirling around and around like a ceiling fan. Gobble would stand by respectfully and allow Inky to complete his rituals before joining the welcoming party, with huge shouts of turkey gobbles that only he could manage. The greetings over, I would saunter over to the house and into my room for a refreshing shower and a change of clothes. Gobble didn’t come in but stayed outside the house. Pop still disliked having Gobble inside the house, so the old bird stayed away, coming in only if either Mom or I was there, or both of us were present at the same time, and signalled him to come in. Inky always followed me into the bathroom, where he would sit in a corner watching me obliquely as I soaped myself thoroughly. From that moment onwards, my dog never left my side until it was Sunday evening and time for me to go back to London.