Descent Into Madness (4 page)

              I had missed the luxury of sleeping in a bed, though. It was comforting, feeling the gold satin slipping against my skin as I climbed into the bed right before dawn. I used silk fabric, cobalt, and even crimson velvets, to adorn the cushions beneath my head. I had carried them with me from England to remind me from where I had come.

              I was in exile on that island – the island of my father’s fairy tales. I was with the rune casters of old – the witches – as my mother once taught. But to my father, I was home.

FIVE

T
en years I ventured only into the surrounding villages, feeding at night. Back then, I still kept to the small drink, leaving my victim alive. I could go three, maybe four months like this, taking just enough to survive. Humanity was still precious and unspoiled, and I took no pleasure in sacrificing the occasional fattened lamb.  

              Murder was never pleasant. I never grew accustomed to it as Wesley promised. I never liked it, either. 

              There were times, though – times when my survival demanded that I kill. Even then, the vile act of taking someone’s life turned my stomach. Their blood left a sour taste on my tongue, and I would sometimes feel as if my gut would wrench its contents onto the floor. The thought of killing is unnatural to me, even to this day. Even though I am a monster, I cannot revel in stopping a man’s heart and listening to the soul whisper its last mercy plea. I am not God.

              It was during these ten years in Norway that I discovered I could take to the skies in flight as Wesley had. Vampires are faster than humans, and we must be conscious of this. We must always slow our movements to a mortal pace, blending in amongst the masquerade of mortals pretending to be what they are not. It was atop a peak, overlooking a barren valley; my speed was limitless that evening, when I learned of my flight ability. Crystal flecked stars lit the sky, their luminescent carpet unrolling, as I looked skyward.

              A seemingly endless meadow of dulled green grass stretched before me, tickling my toes as I ran into the unknown, not releasing my eyes off the stars’ shimmering presence on the blackened carpet overhead. My feet quickened until the stars blurred in my view. The wind caught my hair, twirling and twisting it, blowing it into my face. Then I looked about me— the tree line was below me, my feet were no longer on the ground. My body soared within a cloud, its puffiness enveloping me, the nighttime birds and brisk air current were my companions.               It took a few nights to harness this power - to master the art of flying. Once I did, though, the world became an endless conquest of places to visit.

              I ventured first to Bergen, for this was the first time since coming to Norway that I had not needed the ferry to travel to the mainland. What would normally have taken a few hours now took minutes. The newly found ease of travel allowed me to stay there longer, and so I acquired an apartment in the heart of the city.

              I cherished those evenings lingering on my wrought-iron balcony, savoring the rain as a mist accumulated on my cheeks. The hustle of city life moved below in sharp contrast to my peaceful solitude on the island. It was comforting, at times, to be amongst humanity, to hear the sound of a hundred hearts beating simultaneously. I felt less alone in the universe, and slightly more human.

              When one watches society evolve around them, babies born, growing, and later dying, trends spawning and fading, one looks at themselves – an unchanging fixture in the world – and realizes they are different than the masses they have watched over. They become isolated, drawn to the familiarity of the past. As much as they crave humanity, the more they are amongst that which breathes and ages and dies, they realize how far removed from it they are. Because of this, eternity can be extremely lonely.

              Isolation on my island home often drew me to Bergen. However, one month when my gloom refused to abate, I ventured further until I discovered the hidden gem that is Trondheim. From the clouds, I spotted a looming gothic cathedral. Its spires tugged my memories with vivid flashes of my First Communion in such a church. I descended onto the stone steps of Nidaros Cathedral, its doors closed.

              I pulled at the heavy doors. The aroma of incense bombarded me with memories. The smells, while familiar and comforting, caused me quiet unease. The last time I had smelled such a pungent aroma, I had been human. Now, it was different to me. The aroma of incense, of myrrh and altar wine was stronger now, and sour. A sickening acridness stung my tongue when I tasted the air. I missed the wine’s delicate bouquet, and the nuttiness of myrrh. 

              I stood on the steps, frozen with the gentle flood of emotion, admiring the untainted images adorning the West Front. The sculptures of Adam and Eve, of the prophets Daniel, Zachariah, and next to them the patriarch Jacob; there was King David and even King Olav, the founder of Trondheim; and in the center fixed for eternity in stone – the Crucifixion group, Jesus surrounded by Mary Magdalene and John the Baptist.

              The cathedral candles burned, casting mystical shadows on the cobblestone, beckoning me to enter. I attempted to resist, but the ghost of my former self urged me onward, calling me home. She urged me to enter, to sit in the pew, to sit through evening prayers. She urged me to remember my past, to take solace in it, and to find comfort in a religion I had once adored.

              I took to a pew in the back and watched as the priest began his ascent to the altar. His chanting became rhythmic; the candlelight flickered in the corner of my eye and ignited a lost memory of nights spent in contemplation and reflection in a pew much like the one in which I now sat. The priest, his thick accent muttering the delicate Latin, "Te Deum laudamus: Te Dominum confitemur."               There I was in the convent, clothed in the protective habit, hidden from the world. I was safe then; the world was safe from the creature I was to become, and I was oblivious to what lurked for me in the night.

              They were next to me – Sr. Catherine with her knotted cane, Sr. Angelica Marie, and Sr. Veronica knelt beside me in the pew, their eyes closed in solemn reflection.

              For a moment, I inhaled the burning incense, wondering if it were possible that the reality I had been existing in these years had been nothing but a nightmare. For a second, I pondered the possibility that I was truly there in the convent with my sisters. Time had not passed me by; I had never taken a life; Wesley had never come to me that night.

              All of this seemed possible as I beheld their faces - their serene, ethereal faces. They appeared before me as mirages in a desert; wavering and fading yet so real that I could almost reach out, grasp onto their thick habits, and pull them to me into an embrace.

              Yet then a hand touched my shoulder and the figments from my past, their faces once so vivid before me, became like sand in a windstorm, blowing again to the recesses of my mind. Old blood had risen into my throat when I realized this reality, this vicious, damning nightmare, was my reality. 

              "If you have come for confession," an older feminine voice spoke to me from behind, "they are hearing them now."

              "Thank you," I replied.

              She made expert use of a cheaply made spruce cane as she hobbled by, favoring her left hip. Her grey kirtle - with its white sleeves, skirted the floor, the hem already soiled from excessive wear; her head covered in a white cloth, grey hair peeking through. Her face reflected years spent under the harsh Norwegian sun, toiling in a garden. Her nose was bulbous; her cheeks rough and thickened with patches; her chin sporting hairs and a single black wart on its right outer curvature.

              Her kirtle - patched here and there with brown fabric - shown extensive wear, as did her stained fingertips, tinted a purplish hue. My kirtle was sage green with an elaborate pattern made from imported fabric from England. Dying and embroidery was reserved for the wealthy.

              The old hag hobbled down a row of pews and slipped into a confessional. I waited until she emerged a few minutes later, and then watched as she slipped away from the church.

              I traced her footsteps toward the confessional, unsure of what compelled me to that box and to the man behind that curtain. I had not given confession since three days before Wesley took me from the convent; my largest transgressions back then had been falling asleep during vespers and talking when not allowed.

              Since then, I had murdered and been forced from my God. I had committed unspeakable crimes against man, against the promises I had made to God, and could not face myself, let alone him. The fact that I could not be absolved through mere confession and “go and sin no more” stung me like a poisonous whip lashing at me by a hidden tormentor.

              I entered the confessional, the thick burgundy curtain swaying around me as I pushed past it into the darkened box. The smell of lanolin and cod permeated from the other side, and I could make out the faint outline of the priest sitting vigilantly behind the screen.

              "Good Evening, Father," I said as I sat down on the small bench.

              "It is customary to begin with 'Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,'" he said, politely correcting me.

              "Yes," I replied, remembering the numerous confessions of my youth and the many confessions I gave in the convent. "I know, and I have sinned but you cannot possibly bless me, for I will sin again."

              "Why will you sin again? If you are aware of your transgressions, can you not change?"

              "No, sadly I cannot," I said, remorsefully.

              "What is the nature of your sins, my child?"

              "I have murdered, Father; murdered to survive, and though I do not wish to, there will be a time when I must kill again. I will hate myself for doing so; I  detest what I have become. But I will kill again. For my survival, I will take a life before God determines its time on earth is done; I will be forced to sin. For this, I will never be forgiven. Not by you, not by myself, and I do not believe even by our maker."

              I could sense his pause on the other side of the screen. He breathed in and exhaled, heavily and with much conviction before he spoke.

              "What you or I cannot forgive our Holy Father can forgive, my child. You must come to Him and ask for his forgiveness, and then commit yourself to sin no more. If you speak the truth and your intent just, the Lord shall be forgiving. God forgives even those who slaughter on the battlefield if they are penitent. Even St. Olav was forgiven for all those he killed in the battle of
Stiklestad."

              "That is true, Father," I replied. "But I am not in battle."

              “Perhaps, my child,” he whispered as I stood, “you are.”

              I reached for the heavy curtain, opened it and left. When it came to religion, I knew not where I belonged. If God accepted the vile acts this curse forced upon me for survival, then perhaps one day he would absolve me. But from that moment, I no longer felt that a man sitting in a booth had the power to bestow upon me absolution. And for the first time, I felt God had deserted me. 

              Yet, there were nights when I would still find myself at the cathedral, sitting in St. John's chapel. I would go to admire the stained glass and the aroma of incense, staying hidden away in the shadows like a ghost. 

              It was from these shadows in Trondheim I broke from my lonely cocoon. I emerged from the Cathedral one balmy summer evening and decided to spend the remaining hours of moonlight lying on the beach, my toes dipping in the tide.

              Even with my eyes to the stars, to the constellations, that clear night, I could see him approaching. His feet dragged along the sand, making a grating scuffle as they shuffled toward me. The moonlight bounced off his hard frame, but it was not until he was closer that I could see his features— his wavy, luscious locks, his legs of chiseled marble, and his chin - prominent and proud.

              I sat up as he approached, my palms sinking into the cool sand. He was a Greek god in the moonlight; Apollo himself descended from the heavens to make me his Daphne. Despite my immense power, the capability to crush his fragile humanity with one pierce from my fang, his presence left me weak and speechless. 

             
I arose and brushed the sand from my kirtle. He introduced himself as Aksel Hansen, a local boat maker. We talked of the weather – it had been surprisingly brisk for this time of year, he had remarked. We talked of his boat making— an asinine trade he had made for himself. The conversation continued throughout the evening at a mild and temperate tempo, until I felt dawn creeping from the recesses of the night's silky void. Yet when I went to leave, he urged me to wait.

              "I walk this coastline every night; my house is right there off the shore." He pointed to the east toward a quaint cabin nestled a few meters from the water. "I have watched you from my window."

              "You have watched me?" I asked. It was not often that a mortal noticed me before I noticed them.

              "Yes," he shamefully replied. "Will you be coming tomorrow night?"

              "I do not yet know..."

              "I urge you; come. I will find you."

              With this, he walked toward his cabin. I watched as he went through the door and was out of sight. When I was safely out of view, I took to the skies, landing safely in front of my Lofoten cabin.

              There was something about this Aksel… his image haunted my mind.