Descent Into Madness (9 page)

              She could not understand my reasoning for leaving – or Aksel’s unwillingness to stay, though. She was naïve and still in need of guidance. So was Aksel.

              “He is in no hurry, my dear. Once you find one, he can return to his beloved Norway until they run him into the ground,” I growled.  

              He stood motionless until I released my grip on his shoulder. Despite his pleas of change, he still feared me. He would not go against my demand.

              He walked away, a queer look in his eyes as he glanced in my direction. He now understood that I would not forgive him. Evelyn rushed to his side and embraced him. He softened there, as he tenderly held her. He appeared fatherly, and it fit him.

              "I am going to leave then, tonight. I will send for my belongings," I told them.

              "Do not go!" she urged. "I want to know you. I have heard so much about you and I would love to spend just one evening in your company, please?"

              Aksel interceded, "She has to leave. It is her nature." He faced me, a remorseful glimmer reflecting in his eye with the firelight. "She is a bird, Evelyn, a bird that must stretch her wings and fly. You cannot cage her, for then her wings would break, and her voice would be stifled. No, every once in a while, Bree must shake the dust of the centuries from her wings, and then fly off to somewhere new."

              "Like a Phoenix – be reborn," Evelyn said, a tinge of reverence in her voice.

              "Like a Phoenix," I replied.

              “A Phoenix who flies alone,” he whispered.

              “Only because no one will fly with her, and she refuses to sit still and die.”

              He reached for my hand, but I pulled it away.

              "I thought I hated you, Bree; hated you for spoiling my homeland. But I learned that it was not you I hated; I was angry at myself."

              "Why?"

              "I was frustrated because I could not surrender my humanity, at least not enough to be with you. And because of this, I lost you."

              "It was just a matter of time, Aksel. Our kind, we do not do forever because forever is too long."

              "Can you stay here and we try again?"

              His eyes smiled and wept, lost in emotion. The painful memory of thirty years ago further soured an already unpleasant evening. 

              "No, no we cannot. There is no restarting. As you said, Aksel, it is time for me to fly. And, you need to be here with Evelyn. Do not seek me out again. It is best that we part now, for there is nothing left between us but animosity."

            
 
I left the house and took to the sky, flying toward a new adventure. I started the next chapter of my existence just as he said I would – a Phoenix reborn from the ashes of her past.

NINE

M
y past is filled with ghosts. They fly about, cruising on the cusp of the wind. History, secrets: they bring nothing but sadness and pain. Guilt and remembrance of time wasted.

              Now, I was the phoenix – reborn, anew. This could be my chance to silence the ghosts. For how long, I did not know. But perhaps, for a little while, they would leave me be. I felt unsafe in my own skin, awkward.  Restless and unsure, I roamed, tugged in directions by an invisible force I called Fate.

              I searched the people around me, searched in their faces for clues as to who I should become. I was a bringer of destruction, of pain, of misery… the marker of death, my purposes clear as a full moon. 

              I had developed into nothing more than a monster. Even after I had struggled to retain my humanity, I had evolved into the creature that plagued children’s dreams. Not long ago, I had sat on a hardened pew, rubbed to a shine with linseed oil that glistened in the softened candlelight, and sung my Benedictions with the rest of the choir. Not long ago, I was clothed in the black veil of piety, the brown scapula that grounded me to the earth... dust to dust.

              That veil would cover me, my face, my eyes, my shoulders; envelop me in a radiating blanket of warmth. Before Wesley revealed the truths behind life's mysteries, that veil was my comfort. I was prepared to spend my days peacefully cocooned inside its ignorance.

              Peace - that is what I had then. I believe. Now, though, I am not sure if I have ever known peace. I know I will never have it again. The blood robs you of peace… among other things. 

              I long for naivety, to return to a time when I was not intimate with the true evils lurking in this world. When I was not this vile creature watching eternity unravel before my eyes.

              I long for that veil to slip over my eyes in a splendid blanket of warmth. I long to retreat into ignorance and pretend there is still some mystery in life. This is a foolish fantasy, though; one that I know can never be. I ache for that mystery, though. I ache because I remember feeling that peace, having had it, having held it in my hands and embracing it securely to me.

              In a desperate search for what I had lost, I traveled.

              Initially, I was unsure of my destination. I packed a bag and left behind everything else in the house for Aksel and Evelyn. With only a small satchel of clothing and jewelry, I took to the stars and let my heart guide me.

              I clenched my eyes tightly and tuned my ears in to the cadence of humanity. Only then did I notice the smooth scratching of a painter's brush stroking against plaster. In the distance, I could hear the painter sigh, pausing to curse the night air in his rich Italian tongue. Michelangelo’s work on the Sistine Chapel had just begun; his artistry barely conceptualized. He was finishing his nightly work, applying the wash to newly dried plaster. Right next to him was a fresh plot of plaster drying, awaiting the master's brush in the morning.

              He was finishing work on the Creation panel; the iconic image of God and Adam, their naked forms stretched on downy clouds, their fingertips nearly touching. The words from long forgotten sermons played in my mind as I beheld Michelangelo's God, his outstretched fingertip. “Let us make man in our own image... God blessed them.”

              Bathed in incandescent candlelight, Michelangelo’s images – on the walls, the ceilings - danced with life. They howled, “Remember us? Remember your oath?” I did not want to listen to the angelic beauties wavering overhead and beside me, swathing me in splendor.              

              Despite the brilliant wash of color, these surreal forms cast shadows that encircled me in an almost comforting nightmare; sadness grew in the pit of my stomach. Cherubs, heavenly scenes - this represented a life lost to me forever – a life stolen. Gazing at those painted scenes, at half-finished sections with visible stroke marks from the maestro’s brush, I wept.

              Then I heard a voice trail in the distance, and the pungency of frankincense fluttering on the stale breeze. I left the master to his work and drifted toward the lingering wisps, the tendrils snaking through the marbled halls to seek solace in the cool Mediterranean air. The phantom vines wrapped about me, luring me from building to building under a splendid canopy of fading starlight. The moon, full in the sky, an ever-present orb – an unchanging brilliance – lit my way.

              I saw him then, Pope Julius II, knelt at an altar of golden opulence, his head bowed. I remained near the archway, watching him. He wore an undyed cassock, the rough browns matching his blemished stockings. His nightcap slipped with the breeze, allowing a patch of straggling white hair to escape. They matched his beard, stained red from dinner wine.

              My eyes beheld the aged man clutching a rosary, reciting Latin. Oh, what would I have not given to be in this situation in my former life? Now, though, I was taking chances I should not. And drudging up feelings – and memories – that are better left buried.

              Prayers. Incantations. They were of no benefit to me, so I turned my back to him. I slipped between two buildings – outside of the candlelight’s reach – and slumped against the smooth brick. My feet emerged first, then my head, as I looked back at the altar. He remained, his knees creaking as he stood. He turned as I began to ascend, my body moving higher. I was above the altar before the summoned guards arrived.

              The three men stared into the sky, shouting vehemently, and rapidly diminished as I rose.

              I could have let them catch me – for a second, I had pondered the thought. What if I had let them end the pain and anguish, the isolation. Yet, instinct prevailed. Instinct was not ready for eternity to end.

              From a distance, I watched them scurry in a panic, my vampiric existence hanging as a heavy shroud around my body. Leaving Rome was a priority.

              I spent twenty years in Italy, but not once did I again venture near St. Peter’s city.

            
 
The Renaissance, the rebirth of thought and art, of life and discovery: this was the moment to be in Italy! Artistry saturated Florentine society, and became the hub of Renaissance life. Nightly, I flocked to the city, as did anyone else who desired beauty. 

              Painters sprinkled their magnificence on the city’s landscape, dripping magnetic lapis blue and earthy ochre with every brush stroke. Soon after, a sea of color consumed Italy. The Renaissance had spread and the country could not contain the beauty within an artist’s soul, or the deepness of the philosopher’s mind. The masters left trails of paint drops, like breadcrumbs, weaving throughout the country. While their bodies now wither to dust, their works live eternal in a country of stone and paint.

              Titian’s
Assumption of the Virgin
. Botticelli
The Birth of Venus
. Leonardo da Vinci immortal
Mona Lisa
.              

              These mortal men with celestial talents left their imprints on Italy.

              On the world.

              On time.

              My eyes witnessed sculptors working by candlelight, painters scrutinizing masterpieces, wealthy patrons squelching creativity. These artists were men I spoke and danced with at court, and befriended. Their works – hanging now in pretentious museums, guarded by laser grids and rental cops – are snapshots and reminders.

              History is rich with the blood of great men and women, many of whom I have known. Napoleon, Beethoven, and Mozart - their genius blood swims in my veins. Their thoughts, feelings, love - these I carry with me, for eternity. The price for this gift is unforgivable. The weight alone is so cumbersome that a mere mortal would turn to dust from its weight. 

              Twenty years to a mortal may feel like a lifetime, but it was a blip to me. And even though I adored Italian discovery, it was necessary to keep moving. I had exhausted Italy’s libraries, not a volume or scroll left unread. Its scholars and philosophers, I had befriended. I could learn no more.

              More brilliant minds and elaborate works would come. After all, this was only the beginning. What began in the Renaissance – the innovations, the art— has never slowed. Science, literature, man’s quest for immortality, has evolved on a miraculous and splendid path. As a witness, I have been here for the journey. Each century has been a movie playing live before my eyes, in a wash of crimson-tinted Technicolor.

              I enjoyed the movie that played in live motion before my eyes.

              I left the temperate Mediterranean villas for the frozen north of Russia. Fate lured me as it had attracted me to Italy twenty years before. In Russia, there was a sense of peace, of home. This was a nearly foreign feeling, as it had been ages since I truly felt I belonged – even in Budapest. 

              I was a vagabond at first, roaming for three years. I hopped cities searching for permanency, but finding no comfort. Then, in 1528, I found Tver.

              The city, itself, was of no particular importance— its buildings were superb, and its people fair. However, what captivated me was the resonance of a solitary heartbeat. It was strong and pure. It was righteous, yet not prideful. It reverberated off the buildings during my nightly walks through the city.

              It called to me. Those heartbeats lead me to its source, just as those smoky vines led me to the Pope in Rome.

              My first sights of him were glimpses: wisps of his jet-black hair swinging past his dancing partner, or the glistening of the garnets from an ornate dragon clip that held a chunk of fine hair in a bundle, tightly bound behind his head. His smile appeared playful behind a noble and stately chin, squarely set against his jaw. But, one could tell, nevertheless, that his words – when spoken, were gentle and yielding as they slipped perfectly into their mistresses’ waiting ears. I watched, half the evening, from the outskirts of the ballroom, as I circulated through the crowd.

              It was a Grand Ball in honor of the Prince's birthday.

              I do not know what enticed me, what possessed my eyes to stalk his every move no matter where he danced or walked. I was under a spell and had no choice but to watch.

              Then the hunter became prey as his ebony eyes met mine from across the crowded hall. As he bowed his head, a curious smile crept on lips. My feet were fixed to the floor, my arms frozen to my side, until he walked from my sight. 

              His heartbeat pulsed within my skull, pushing aside the suffocating conversations and music. The room dizzied as it grew louder, faces blurred, lights dimmed. I lowered my head and turned to leave, trying to conceal myself in the crowd. Bodies pushed against me as the music swelled and the mead flowed, the smell of human sweat and blood surrounding me.

              I had not gotten far when a black boot stepped into my path. That black boot belonged to an ash gray, satin pant; and that satin pant belonged to a dusky uniform dress coat with rich Russian embroidery gracing the lapel. That lapel, that richly Russian, embroidered lapel of such noble distinction, belonged to him and his smoky eyes. The heartbeat was in front of me now, not three inches away; and for the first time in centuries, someone had managed to surprise
me
.