Descent Into Madness (5 page)

              The next evening came and went. Three more followed and I did not return to Trondheim as he had requested. On the fourth night, I began to feel the pains of loneliness pulling me toward the city. I struggled against it, but after another week, I craved for interaction. No longer could I stand to be alone with nothing but the stars and my thoughts for company.

              Perhaps it had been loneliness, perhaps curiosity, perhaps self-preservation, but I had to return to the man by the shore.

              The rain was relentless that night, forcing my feet to slop their way toward Aksel’s door. The storm was violent, with its dagger-sharp drops piercing my face. Lightning lit the sky in brief bursts of pale violets and shocking whites, its brilliance illuminating the Heavens. The wind howled and smacked the waves onto the shore, thrashing them into the rocks.

              His house was inland— far enough to be safe from the rising tide. Light flickered from within one of the rooms; a haunting glow played on his walls from a fireplace, a raging fire swelling within it. I could see him inside, standing near the flames, stirring a pot that hung over the embers while the red flames licked eagerly at its bottom.

              He moved to the table, grasped a knife, and started dicing root vegetables: a rutabaga and a carrot. He carried them to the pot, tossed them in, and stirred it once more. I watched as he hung the spoon on a rusty hook near the fireplace, and then settled down hearthside, rubbing his worn hands over the fire. His legs stretched in front of him, a reprieve from the day’s labor. The slender, shoeless legs were but gangly tree roots emerging from the rustic floor.

              He intrigued me the way he appeared, so effortless, so relaxed. I should have left him alone to linger in his reflections, but my hand moved to meet the oak door and gently tapped upon its roughly carved surface.

              I should have let him be, left him to linger, to age, but I could not. I was lonely – just as Wesley had been the night he came for me.

SIX

A
ksel bolted from the chair, the sound of my knocking startling him. He hurried to the hearth and slipped on his shoes. They had been resting on the slab, drying from his labors at the docks. That morning he had launched his newest boat, and as he held a tentative breath, it was determined that the vessel was sea worthy.

              The wooden masterpiece, with its intricately carved relief of Aegir, God of the Sea, had been a labor in progress for months. With it finished, Aksel could relax before beginning his next project – two small passenger boats for a monastery in the south. They wanted the saints depicted in a carved relief along the outer edge and for it to be adorned with a crucifix at the stern. This was not the monastery’s first commission and the monks were easy to please if you fulfilled their wishes. 

              His shadow engulfed the door as he moved closer, opening it slowly, and peeking out into the dark. He had retrieved a candle from the door-side holder and held it out and up to my face.

              "I am surprised to see you here," he said. "Will you come in?"

              He offered me a tart wine, imported from Italy, said he carried it from there himself; but I politely refused, then settled near the fire as he stirred the odorous stew of root vegetable and lamb broth. His cottage was quaint, decorated in rich browns – rough, tweed braids and animal hides - and accents of green and burnt reds. His furniture was sparse – two chairs near the fire, a larger one I was seated in and a smaller one for his feet to rest; a bed adorned the far right wall with furs covering it in piles, and a table sat off to the left sectioning off what served as the kitchen. The fireplace served as both a source of warmth and a stove. And the light it cast created shadows that taunted my imagination.

              As I sat, watching him stir his stew, the fire flickered and shadows wavered, making the furs on the bed dance with life. With each flame came a new flicker, and a new chance for a shadow to pop into existence in one of the cabin’s darkened corners. The bright embers licking the far corners, struggling to stay lit as they flew into the night, looked like eyes; eyes staring back at me. Eyes, that’s what I saw in those cabin corners; staring into my soul, those eyes were.

              As the night ebbed, and our conversation deepened, I wondered how Aksel could live in this cottage, haunted by these ghastly shadows and flickering flames. The secrets they must contain.

              "Does the lack of lighting bother you?" I asked. "The shadows?"

              My hand gestured toward the furs covering Aksel’s bed. There was a bear fur lying on the top, its hide glistening, appearing to respire. The beast could have been hibernating on the straw mat, its rib cage moving in rhythm with its slumbering breath.

              "The shadows?"

              "Can you not see what I see?" I inquired. I motioned toward the fireplace; the embers were dying and he rose to stoke them. Tiny sparks of red and orange licked the air as they danced, fading the higher they sailed. “The firelight in your cabin is playing tricks with my eyesight. I think I am seeing things in the shadows."

              "The darkness is comforting," he explained. "I spend most of my day in sunlight working. At night, the last thing I wish to do is recreate the dawn with a splendor of candles adorning my windowsills and tabletops. It's true that most homes are alight at this time of evening, but I prefer a quiet solitude in front of the glow of my fire with just enough candlelight to get by."

              He sat back and stretched his limbs in the small chair as I had watched him do earlier that night. He spread his hands into the air, joining them in a clasp before returning them gently to rest behind his head.

              "In the darkness there is little to distract me from the beautiful sound the waves make as they crash against the rocks, or the gentle purr of the tide as it rolls in."

              "Then how did you ever see me as I walked the shores. If it is dark in this cabin, then its pitch black out there with nothing but the stars to light my way; how did you ever see me?"

              "I happened upon you one night, purely by accident. You were just lying there in the sand, your feet in the water letting the tide crash into them. Had you seen me before I slipped away, I am not sure what I would have said to you," he admitted.

              "I sensed you near," I replied, caught unguarded and exposed.

              "You never turned around."

              "I was reflecting on the stars that night; lost in a memory from my youth."

              "Was it a troublesome memory?"

              "No, it was a lovely memory," I said. “I knew someone was near. They left, though, before I could get up and turn around."

              "I saw you again a few nights later. You walked past my window," he motioned toward the side window near his bed. "I was preparing for bed and had the candle near the window when I saw you walk past and sit on the rocks outside. I watched for a while. Why do you walk alone at night?"

              "I enjoy the night," I answered.

              "You came again two nights later; did the same thing, then walked out into the water ‘till it reached your waist. You lingered there for a long while, and then disappeared in the swelling waves. I waited for you to reemerge but you never did. In a panic, I ran into the icy water in search of you." Aksel rose from the chair, moved to the window, and peered out onto the now calm waters.

              "A storm brewed that night. I should have warned you, but I did not. I let you enter the water. Then you were gone! And I thought the tide had swept you under, but there you were, to my amazement, three days later walking along the shore. I would think you a figment of my imagination had you not spoken to me that night, and then returned this evening."

              "I swam out a ways and then down the coast. It was dark; you could not have seen me. The waves were choppy. I emerged down near where the rocks brake by the cove."

              His head cocked my way; his brows flinched.

              "The water was icy. I shivered and could not stop, even after I came in and shed my clothes, wrapped myself in fur, and lumped myself directly in front of the fire. How were you able to stand in the water that long, so still and calm, let alone swim to the cove?" he asked. His inquisitive stare bearing into me.

              "I have conditioned my body to withstand the icy, Northern waters," I responded, standing, a thread of unease coursing through me. I moved cautiously toward the window and stood by his side, placing my hand on his.               "I have a man who works for me; he swims in the cold waters as well," he said as he looked into my eyes.               "But at night, it is risky. It is far too cold."

              My hand slid up his arm, groping at his bicep. My fingers, a pearly medusa, slithered until my hand reached his cheek. I rubbed his chin, relishing the roughness of his facial hair. Beneath my touch, the red bristles emerged from their hidden homes in his skin; and when I reached his mouth, it stood open to me. I took my fingers, stroking them over his lips. They were soft, but marred like worn Italian leather, scattered with rough patches from the harsh sun.

              His arms gripped my waist and pulled me closer, tighter to him. Gently, I leaned in and caressed his lips, feeling the weight of his body surge next to me. With an unknown passion, he held me in an embrace and moved his lips down my neck; his hot breath was fire against my skin.

              In rapture, I grasped for the tuft of strawberry hair at the nape, and swiftly angled his neck. His jugular popped; its blueness a shadow against his tanned skin. With my left hand, I scratched it, licking my finger. My lips grazed his neck, striking it with the tip of my tongue. He moaned, biting my shoulder, his arm tightly seizing against my body. His will, in that moment, was mine. 

              My tongue felt at my teeth, where the evidence of my horrific fate grew, threatening to protrude and sink into his tender, innocent neck.

            
 
His heart raced, straining to break from his sternum. Its siren call was deafening; its rhythm reverberated in my ears, tempting me. I smelled the richly aroma of his blood; I could taste it through his salty skin.

              My lips met his neck once more, as my vampiric teeth nudged the top of my tongue.

              A tiny drink, my intention was for nothing more than to satisfy my carnal need for blood – to appease this unrelenting thirst. Yet, his mind was strong; his thoughts, his wants and desires assaulted me. And the shred of humanity that heard this yearning betrayed the monster within me. It listened, it yearned for the same basic wants and desires, as well. I could not drink from him.

              I withdrew from his neck and stepped away. He stared at me, his flat eyes reflecting my weakness. I edged closer to the door, close enough to feel the wood frame beneath my fingertips; the grainy texture a sharp contrast to his downy skin, the coursing flow of blood beneath a rhythmic symphonic tapping of a tympani drum.

              "Do not leave," he spoke, as he lunged forward to stop me.

              "I must."

              "Stay!" 

              "I must go," I reached for the latch, pulling it forcefully. The door opened revealing the serene blackness of night awaiting me. "Do not follow. I will return. I promise"

              A week later, I upheld my word.

            
 
Aksel had been in town one evening; I hunted the crowd for his thoughts, and upon hearing them, was near him in a blink of time.

              Drummers kept beat next to the raging fire light, while others gathered and took turns rolling a flaming wheel down a hill. The drummers, the fires, the wheel rollers – all would welcome the dawn. They would stay to greet Sunna, the sun goddess, and mark the Summer Solstice.

              By the fire is where I found him. He was dancing with a local girl when he spied me working my way through the crowd. She was a portly thing, the girl, and fourteen and covered in red splotches that she scratched incessantly. For two years now, her father had been unsuccessfully trying to marry her off; tonight was no exception. With her dowry once again increased, the man, a wealthy butcher, traversed the crowd.

              Patiently, I watched the pair twirl as I waited for the next dance. Yet, while his hands remained fixed on the girl, and his feet never missing a step, Aksel’s eyes fixed their gaze upon me. Three men tried engaging me, but I politely refused. My dance was his and his alone.

              When it was our turn, we coupled with the other dancers, taking our turns as the citizens watched.

              Five months, that is how long it took. From that dance, that night, and each night thereafter, we remained inseparable. He did not question why I only came at night. He did not question my shyness, my paleness. He never questioned the need for our clandestine meetings. 

              Storm clouds were oblivious to us as we twirled under the stars that night, and each subsequent night. In time, my influence over him decreased in effectiveness, though. Tight embraces loosened. Kisses turned sour. Love turned into rejection. A dark storm rolled in.

              It was during those lulls in our relationship when I feared losing my connection to humanity more; and it gnawed at my sanity like an ulcer.

              But dark days came later. Much later.

              Shortly after that first dance, I told him where my apartment was in Bergen. The apartment served as an occasional living space, nothing more; I only stayed there on stormy nights; after all, those were the only nights worth staying in Bergen. When the weather was temperate, I flew back to my Lofoten Island cabin, to my moonlit solitude.

              How was I to know the night would come when Aksel would fail to be waiting. The storm swelling the sea, eating at the beach, my feet drenched and mud soaked as I landed on the coastline. His heartbeat was long gone from this spot, and his hearth as cold as a mid-winters night. I had lost him.

              Then I found him, in my apartment, in Bergen. He was waiting for me.

              Through the curtains, I saw the outline of his splenetic figure poised in my ash-white chair. His fingernails snarled the fabric as he raked them with impatience. I never used that chair and kept it pushed away in the corner. It collected dust and was now an antique, a relic out of time, and displaced, like myself.

              That chair. It was from the convent. It was my confessor, my consolation when madness crept by, taunting me with its vicious poison. When I left Wesley, I sought, with every means possible, to find it. The white chair, the place I would spend daydreaming of life outside the convent walls. Where Sister Veronica and I would sneak private chats and imagine our lives at court once again. 

              He was sitting in my chair now, though. He appeared out of place and I felt violated. That chair was a sacred relic from my past and Aksel was a fixture from the present. It was unnatural for the two to fuse.