Descent Into Madness (16 page)

              "She was already dying. You merely helped her, ended her suffering."

              "Why should it matter that she was already dying? I am not God. I should not have that power; It's unnatural!" I screamed.

              "I've stayed too long amongst humanity. Way too long and now I've gone too far. I am a monster. A monster! Not God."

              One of the twins began to cry, and as his attention diverted to the whimpering babe, I slipped into the cold night.

              It was Christmas night, 1543, and two children were born: their destinies yet to be seen. Their mother had joined the stars twinkling in the frigid, Russian sky, and I could no longer bear it.

THIRTEEN

W
esley was in the garden as I approached the property. His muted brown clothing blended with the moonlight; he appeared to be part of the garden, a fixture weathering with time. Then he moved in my direction, breaking the spell the dancing moonlight weaved.

              “You’re home,” he remarked as his footsteps closed the distance between us.

              “I’m not staying,” I whispered as I walked toward the house, the only light emanating coming from the sitting room fireplace. The house staff had long since retired but the fire raged on, awaiting my return.

              “You’ve been crying,” he remarked as I strolled past, my feet maintaining a slow, almost human pace.

              “Bree, what troubles you?” He followed me now, but I declined to answer him.

              As we entered the sitting room, the fire cast a warming orange glow and he walked past me, sitting down in his usual chair. Its cracking mahogany leather crunched as his body melted into it while the firelight warmed his profile. I glanced at him and then my fingers found the hidden box, the one covered in a thick layer of dust in my desk drawer.

              “Talk to me, Bree.” His gangly legs stretched out from the chair, reaching towards the warm flames. My silence frustrated him, but I could not form the words that matched the thoughts swimming in my head. How could I explain what I had done that night? How could I explain that I had to flee from the nightmare in which I had found myself?

              My fingertips glided over the box’s contents: the jewels were cold beneath my touch, but somehow still living with the memories they held in their hard, sparkling forms. I pulled the emerald and diamond necklace from its home and held it to the dim light. The firelight reflected off the diamonds and made the emeralds shimmer.

              “You have not touched those in years,” he commented, watching me.

              From my cape, I pulled a velvet pouch and gently placed the necklace into it. He watched carefully now, eyeing me suspiciously. I found the rings, gold and silver with ornate carvings. They were as old as I was, and fragile. They, too, went into the pouch clanging sweetly against the necklace. Then, as I fingered the locket lying at the bottom of the box, the tears returned, cascading down my left cheek. The locket’s hinges had broken centuries ago, but the painted picture remained – faded with age but intact. Too many memories invaded my mind as I looked at the image. That was a lifetime ago – not mine, but someone else’s.

              After wiping away my tears, I placed it in the pouch, as well.

              “I am leaving,” I told him, breaking the silence engulfing us.

              “Where are you going?” he asked, moving to my side.

              “I am not sure, but I have to go. I can no longer be here.”

              “What happened tonight?”

              My eyes roamed the room, centering on the fireplace. The flames fondled the stone and I gravitated toward their effulgent orange and red fingers – their fiery tendrils hypnotizing me. An aura surrounded the elaborate marble mantel and extended to the sitting area, casting shadows on my chair’s clawed feet.

              The nights I had spent in front of those flames, comforted and tempted by the warmth, played before me. I remembered the times I had wanted, more than anything, to enter the hearth, to set myself ablaze, to end this existence. But, in the end, the courage to do so escaped me and dawn would approach, and Wesley would secure the room from the coming sun. And I would be safe. The perfect older brother, he was a constant at my side.               “Wesley, I think it is a season for change.” My fingers grazed the marble mantel, the thought of change, of leaving this place, turned my stomach.

              “Why?” he asked. He came to me, resting his hand on my shoulder. My stare remained fixed on the flames averting his questioning glare. “Why now?”

              “I have gone to the edge and fallen off, Wesley. I can no longer be around these humans with their mortality, and their rich blood tempting me, and… their love.” My eyes met his, tears forming in the creases. “We are monsters parading around as if we are as they are! We use make-up to look mortal, clothing to appear complete! But, we are not so. We are not human. How can we pretend to be and not lose our minds doing so?”

              “We do not have a choice. You know this. We are not monsters, Bree, we are just… creatures of habit.”               “Monsters lurk in the dark, Wesley. Monsters haunt the dreams of little children. Monsters kill. My brother, we
are
monsters.”

              “Where is this coming from?” He tried to embrace me but I yanked away. Dejectedly, he moved to the chair, the leather creaking as he sat down. “What has happened to you?”

              “She is dead, Wesley,” I told him. “I murdered her.”

              I walked to my chair that angled his. Its velvet felt soft as my hands firmly grasped the arms. Viktor was right; she was already dying. Still, I should have left the moment her heartbeat beckoned me. I should have flown away until the beating stopped, but I had not. I interfered.

              Wesley’s eyes met my own and he reached for my hand, taking it into his. My hands quivered as I recalled how I ended Mavra’s life. When I was finished, he embraced me and let my tears stain his tan shirt.

              “If you must leave, then I will go with you.” He ran his fingers through my hair, reassuringly and protective. “You are my sister and my responsibility.”

              “No. I need to be alone,” I told him. “Stay here and wait for me.”

              “Are you sure I cannot go with you?” He asked as I stood and moved toward the French doors; a heavy gray cloak hung on a hook near the door and I grabbed it. “If I must wait then, I will.”

              “Stay here so I have somewhere to return to,” I whispered toward him as I walked into the darkness. There was no sound of following footsteps as I took to the sky. Only the dotted darkness followed me now. I was alone. Inside, I was lost and that frightened me.

              I stopped first in Moscow and there I remained for several months. This was years since the city was liberated from Tartar control, and centuries before the city had replaced my beloved Tver as Russia’s political hub. My nights were plagued with  wandering – roaming the streets, listening to the thoughts of the city’s inhabitants, and slipping further and further into despair.

              These people, this place, it was too familiar. Russia was too familiar. These people, their blood, reminded me of Mavra. Her blood haunted me.

              I eventually left, and I did not dream I would ever go back. In twenty-eight years, the Crimean Tartars would assault Moscow. They would sack the city and watch it burn. When the embers lay dying, only the Kremlin would

be left standing. I am relieved I was not there to witness such needless destruction.

              I have lived long enough to see war and pillage repeat itself. I have seen humankind unwilling or unable to learn from their ancestor’s mistakes. However, to see destruction and greed erase history – buildings, peoples, gone forever— this is almost insufferable. It serves to remind me just how removed I am from the living, from time itself.

              I spent my last night in Moscow near the waterside, watching the ships come to port. The Moskva River was abuzz that evening with traffic. Candlelight from the ships reflected softly on the water, the moonlight casting a silver aura on the ships, on the people, on the bustling city that surrounded me. I watched as one of the ships came to port and waited while the passengers disembarked.

              I followed one of them, a gauntly fellow with sunken eyes and a cough that echoed as he walked through an alley. The bloodstained handkerchief clung to his mouth. The darkness disoriented him, and I watched as he stopped halfway through the long alleyway and took a map from his pocket. I approached him, offering directions in his native German. Feeding from him was effortless and I left him sleeping on the floor, the map scrunched in his aging palm.              

              I should have shown him mercy and relieved his suffering, as I had done for Mavra. But I couldn’t. I abhorred murder, even though it was in my nature. Something in this man’s blood had whispered to me, though. It had been faint, a warning perhaps, but I heeded its call. I gathered my belongings and took off for Germany not sure what awaited me.

              The air was still that night – a comforting blanket surrounding me as I traveled. Just before dawn, I could see the Mainz Cathedral with its Romanesque triple nave. The cathedral’s muted titian and gold sandstone facade, most of which is now covered with bland plaster, was inviting in the pre-dawn moonlight. The stones shimmered and danced with vigor, welcoming pilgrims, beckoning them in. The inside had to wait, the sun had begun to creep over the horizon and my body required rest.

              The next evening after dusk, before the city slept, I crept into the bustling streets. Traffic weaved along. Merchants packed up their wares, taverns grew with chatter, and children ran home for their supper. The night was mine, as it had been for centuries; and yet the dullness of reality could not shake me from the newness of that place.

              It offered fresh discoveries and adventure. Alone, I was left to do as I pleased – to go wherever and whenever my mind took me. And, that night, the cathedral weaved a welcoming spell into my heart. The sandstone drank the moonlight and spilled the excess onto the streets, and the Benedictine chants, a welcome specter, beckoned my feet to enter.

              Two chancels were built into the church, one for ceremonial processions and the other for bishops and pontiffs. Priests and a bishop had gathered in the second chancel and I discreetly wandered to the other side of the cathedral.

              There was a sense of solitude in the abandoned chancel. I spied a wooden pew, worn with centuries of use, and I rested there, staring at the altar. A parishioner joined me, but remained near the back of the nave. Her thoughts were troubled and she came for guidance. The stones, though, offered her no solace, and she left as quickly as she had come.

              The candelabras, ablaze with their minute fires all along the stretched nave, cast somber shadows on the plastered walls. Their light had a limited reach leaving the pews darkened, remaining in the shadow. My feet grew weary of sitting, so I ventured through the cathedral.

              I could scarcely see the ceiling, its ribbed vaulting concealed by the night. I ached to see the square quadripartite vaults in the daylight, and the sun filtering through the cathedral’s expansive stained glass windows. The vaulted ceiling allowed for more windows, windows that depicted ancient stories, and for the angels and saints who visited to intercede in parishioners’ prayers. And, I was cursed to see this splendor in drab candlelight, concealing the cathedral’s true beauty.

              The spectacular cathedral with its antiquated pews and marble statues would never be the same as when my eyes explored its niches in the pale moonlight, though. The year 1792 would see the advancement of French troops, which led to its misuse and ruin. Large portions were destroyed in 1803, the war erasing history. The holy place was robbed of many artifacts while serving as a bunker for troops.

              Yet, by 1831, restorations were nearly complete. The history was lost, though, as it always is.

              Three years after I arrived, I left Mainz for Rottweil. Under the control of the Swiss Confederation, but originally a prominent Roman settlement, I found a city in transition. It struggled to hold onto the fragments from its past while Swiss progress urged it forward.

              The ancient Rottweil Roman baths are just now being unearthed, discovered buried in a cemetery, along with the dead who time has forgotten. I was not there for the Roman baths or for cemeteries, though. There was a newly constructed triple nave basilica in the parish church of St. Cross, and I wanted eagerly to witness its splendor first hand.

              The architecture dwarfed me as I hung, like a vapor, in the shadows. Something was different here; I could taste it in the air.

              I hid from it.