Sybrina (9 page)

“
At what time? Did you intern at a church near Boston?”

True light shines from her eyes at the idea
that I knew her father. Grief makes loved ones starved for a connection to the dead. More lies to tell.  The more I tell feeds the guilt that swells and plagues me, building an incorruptible wall between us. She is inferring that I knew him personally but my knowledge is only in observance of her and in their family home.

I take a moment as we approach the balustrade of the ship that provides a remarkable view of the ocean in its dark
enigmatic depths, illuminated only by specks of light from the sky and translucent moonbeams.  The glow of the lanterns behind us is lost.

“
Business,” I disclose. “I happened to need a solicitor for a time.”

A lady of her caliber would not ask a personal question regarding the nature of our dealings.  I inwardly congratulate myself for a swift response.
  This satisfies her and Sybrina takes a more beneficial position, gazing across the black-soaked ocean.  Her tiny hands resting across the rail ignite my desire.  What would it be like to have her trace those fingers down my back in the throes of passion?

“
What a serene evening,” Sybrina observes, surveying the scene before us.  Solemnness encroaches on her demeanor from the mention of her beloved father.

“
There is something harmonious about the sea and the sky,” I declare, attempting a redirection to retrieve the mood. “In the distance they are married, blending together, opposites that find a common meeting place.”

“
But it is a mirage.  Never the two shall meet,” Sybrina surmises, eyes shed into the fathomless ebony vista.

“
I have hope that on some other ethereal plain, they have each other,” I defend.

“
You have very romantic notions.” Sybrina turns to me, a sassy smile churning her cheeks to perfect orbs, brightening her countenance.

“
Only when inspired by the company I keep.”

“
You are very charming, Minister,” she expresses with a hint of sarcastic slyness.

A breeze kicks up
, dislodging locks of her hair from the pins that have it secured upon her head.  Those delicate fingers move, swiping the stray strands away; her gaze does not deviate from mine—an opportune moment.  My instinct is to trap her beneath me and lavish heat-filled kisses upon her lips—our bodies locked closely.  I summon my restraint in a cleansing flash, and reach into the humanity I still possess.

“
May I kiss you, Miss Sybrina?”

Darkening irises show me the fire that burns under her skin.  She wants me, just as much as I want her.  Her entire body stiffens except her
head, which nods very subtly
yes
.  I reach out my arm to caress her around the waist, hauling her close to me.  I stare into her eyes that are distinctly thirsty with need, using my hand to tip her head up and lean down, pressing my lips to hers.  My
need
is triumphant, reveling in the sensation, kicking away the blandness that tortures my spirit and replaced by sweet berries in springtime.  A flood of core memories stabs at the vibrancy awakened in me.  The touching and kissing become ravenous, stronger than bloodlust. Sybrina is wild with passion... for me.  My hold tightens and my hands roam, wanting more.  It is a feverish awareness that in all my long years I have never experienced.

An alarm whirrs in the deep recess of my mind.
Sybrina is fighting against me.  The cloud of passion pops like a boil.  Audible now is her struggle to be free of me.

“
Stop!” she shrieks when her breath is her own again.  “Please!”  She forces her hands into my embrace and shoves fiercely.  I register it all—rejection and fear.  I release her immediately and she steps back with caution.

“
Miss Sybrina!”  Mouse has come from whatever hole he has occasioned to occupy.  His stance is wary and defensive.  “Miss Sybrina?”  His call to her is transformed into a question.  She moves closer to him without turning her back to me, a wary action.  “Miss?  Are you ready to return to your cabin?” Mouse asks, his inflection deliberate and telling.

Sybrina
’s voice is shaky when she responds, “Yes, please.”  She turns to him. I stare at her, her back facing me as she walks away with the boy.

Repudiation thick and foul settles into my immortal heart; shame is bound with shackles
tightening my chest.  I will not be able to think of this moment without self-loathing for the next one thousand years.

Sybrina:

I did not see the minister for the entire next day.  I shoved a chair against my door knowing full well that his strength is powerful and a meager chair would not stop him if he wished to get me, but it made me feel more secure nonetheless.  Mouse and Mr. Tinker have stopped by to see me a few times today; even Rufus took a turn to check on me.  Mouse told me that Michael has inquired after my health.  He is a nice man; I wonder idly how his arm fares. 

Mouse noticed my barricade and questioned me as to my safety.  I assured him that it
was just a precaution. His face showed a sincere concern for my well-being.

It has been a few days and it is unfair. I paid the same amount and have the same ticket for my voyage as the other passengers that are below.  It is time to leave behind the comforts and traverse back to where I belong.  Mr. Overton, Michael, Helen...  I look forward to seeing them.

My body is in a continued state of healing since my ailment and I feel better physically every day—until last night. Bruises line my arms and I am sure that if I had a Cheval mirror, I would see marks on my back as well.

I tidy the room and fold the blankets, although nothing gives my mind any occupation.  The puzzling ordeal of the night before tangles my thoughts into a turmoil I cannot reason.  I have no doubt that I truly have a fond affection and desire for the minister.  His eyes haunt me and I want his company, but this other side, the demeanor displayed when in a clinch
, was alarming and painful.  My current state of mind, grief over the loss of my family, despair, imprisonment, and the fear of my demise by the same fate as my family—being stalked and hunted like an animal—is too much to bear.  Solace and comfort were welcomed when offered by the minister.  I have never felt such a consuming passion for anyone.  The dolts that have pursued me in the past had not the minister’s confidence without arrogance or deftness.

The minister, a
tall, commanding, and incredibly strong man, does not follow the ideal I hold regarding a man of the Bible or cloth. He is clearly wise and educated, but I never discern any biblical discussions or addresses. In conversation, he has corrected me numerous times when I address him as minister to call him Elijah.

The confusion that is nailed to my foggy thoughts keeps me at odds with my logic.  At some point, how much is too much
?  Can a person’s mind implode with the weight of circumstance?  I have been at my lowest point, and the minister’s bizarre behavior drops it to a range level with the deepest part of the ocean—cold and fathomless. 

My cabin provides all of the comforts that I have been accustomed to in the past.
Sunlight streams through the window slivered with the panes of glass my window affords.  Even the scent of the wood in my small room is pleasant—unlike the stench of mold and feces below in the cavity of the ship. One more night, since most of the day has waned, and I will remove myself and return to the hull below.  The more hours that pass the more I long to be below with the others.  A sense of comfort in an uncomfortable place.

A short rap on my door
causes me to snap a stare at it in fear; my heart stutters. 
Who is visiting? 

“
Miss Sybrina?”  My breath lets out.
Mouse!
  I am surprised because he visited just a short time ago. I move the chair and lift the latch on my door.  Mouse is standing with an adoring mien and has one of the kittens cuddled in his arm, sleeping.  “I brought you a visitor.” He steps inside and hands me the tiny creature.  “I thought she might cheer you up.”

“
She?” I comment.

“
Two girls and a boy,” he informs me.

“
A fine litter.”

“
Would you like to name her?”  Precious and vulnerable, the little cat arranges her delicate body into a cozy position in my arms.

“
I would love to.  Let’s see...” I say, thinking of something catchy as her tiny breath rises and falls with sleep.  “She’s little,” I remark.  “Black and white.”  I think for a minute.  “Chess!”  I exclaim.  He frowns in thought. 

“
Chess?  Wouldn’t that be a boy’s name?” I feign disappointment that he is not impressed with the name.

“
Did you name the boy yet?”

“Yes.  Roger.”

“
Roger?  That is an odd name for a cat.”

“
His mum’s name is Jolly.  Jolly Roger.  You know, for pirates.” 

“
Oh!” Yes, now that is clever.

Mouse takes the kitten from me and holds her up face to face.
“Little girl,” he addresses her, “your name is Chess.”  The kitten yawns as he speaks to her; it’s charming.  Mouse addresses me. “I will let you get some sleep.  Good Night, miss.”

“
Good night, Mouse.”  I close the door and place the chair back in its place, my meager attempt at fortifying my room.

I decide now is as good a time as any to try to fall asleep. 
I lie down and let out a deep sigh.  Keeping thoughts of Elijah at bay is hard.  The green glass of passion that made up his eyes as he asked, like a gentleman, to kiss me, dashes across my closed eyelids, seemingly branded there. He is a mystery, handsome and smart.  No one has ever made me feel the way he does.

Bright English gardens surround
an opulent and grandiose home. Joshua’s family home. Weatherby Manor reminds me of my own childhood home. Thick graceful columns stand as sentinels beside the double entrance front door. Inside, ornate settees line the main hallway.

I
’m standing outside repeatedly banging the doorknocker over and over.  No one comes.  Sadness overwhelms me and I bang again.   I wait and wait.  I want to yell, “Let me in!”  But doing so is blasphemous to decorum. I bang the knocker one last time before deciding to leave, feeling a pierce of abandonment.

A creak of the massive door makes me turn back
around; standing just how I remember him is Joshua. My heart swells to see him.  I reach out to hug him and notice his startled face.  I turn around to what he is staring at behind me.

It
’s Elijah, Mouse, and a bunch of kittens.  I laugh because Joshua’s face is amusing.  I am happy they are with me.  Joshua doesn’t laugh and his face changes into disgust. Then, with crude deformity, he morphs into one of the horrible, pasty-white, slack-jawed creations of Vampires.

I am screaming.
My throat is raw when I realize I am on the ship wrapped in a tangle of blankets, sweaty and breathing rapidly.  I sit up and try to shake away the dream.

Elijah:

I confine myself to my cabin once more.  It is coming again. I must come under the power of death’s sleep. I welcome it if only to forget these past few days that have been the happiest of the long years I’ve spent among humans and on this Earth. My own illusions of what time would be like spent with Sybrina could not measure up to reality.  No one could ever come close to the dearness I hold in my heart for this woman.  My reckless display of passion rattles me.  I’ve pushed her away, fear and aversion evident on her face.

In an ironic display, I feel the strong pull of the unconsciousness as night falls across the sky in shimmering pinks and oranges
, reminding me cruelly of the soft feminine garb that has graced Sybrina’s curves over the few years I have watched her.  My want grew with each passing day of my self-imposed guardianship.

I step over the crushed pieces of the splintered old wood scattered across the small space of my room.  Not only was my restraint lost with Sybrina
but also my temper at my own foolishness scraped forth like a caged animal, and I pulverized my trunk of possessions.  The cross and quilt, given to me by mother, the only survivors.

Looking at the bed reminds me of her still, dainty form reposed and ill upon my sheets.  A brief moment of unadulterated passion has sullied and marred my relationship with Sybrina
—
one speck of time, like Vadim’s Sarah.
It is infuriating!  Tearing the skin off my face would be a relief; obliterating the countenance that has caused such grief to the woman I love.  Every day it would be a reminder of my own vanity—a disfigured Captain Ahab.

As if in the room with me
, I hear her screams. In haste that rivals a lightning bolt, I fly through the ship to her cabin. The instant I am there, I fling the door open and a chair sails across the room, splintering into rough pieces.

Sybrina is sitting up, gathering her wits, her face haunted.  I sit beside her on the bed. My movements are so
quick, she does not have an opportunity to register my presence. I wrap my hand around the back of her neck and focus her attention on me.

“
There is nothing amiss,” I soothe.  “You are fine.  Go into a peaceful sleep,” I command her, using my persuasion.  Her delicate eyes close, her body goes slack, and I lower her down to the bed slowly.  Sybrina slips back into sleep with a much more contented countenance. I stand and watch over her, the compulsion to kiss her so strong that I lean over and place a soft kiss upon her lips.  I leave to return to my cabin not trusting myself and feeling the deathless sleep coming now.  I lie upon my own bed and slip off into oblivion.

Sybrina:

I wake rested but weak.  I see my chair shattered across the floor.  I blink a few times, perplexed at the mess.  How?  This furthers my resolve to join the others below.  My rested state is now muddied with anxiety.  The security provided to me all these years by a loving family increases my fear in the unknowns that come at me over and over again.  They challenge me in a way that no studies or problem ever has before.  I rise and pick up the fragments that were just hours ago a chair.  I pile them against the wall out of the way.  My breathing is heavy, and I am finding it difficult in these close quarters.  A walk along the open-air deck is needed.  Others will be about their duties and hopefully lessen the sense of loneliness plaguing me.

The fog is thick and heavy in the air as if the composition has transformed into an
all-encompassing phantom, white and misty.  I search through the murkiness, concentrating on my steps as I cross the deck. Narrowing my eyes has no effect on my ability to see into the distance. The fog is a maddening blindness, an uncontrollable act of nature.  Step. Step. Step…

“
Miss Sybrina!” I turn toward the voice. Through a small break in the congested mist, I see Mouse shimmying down the ship’s main mast, calling to me. “I have something for you!” His eagerness and kindness are contagious, especially after all I’ve endured these past few days.  Still frightfully weak from my illness, two of my sluggish steps equal six of Mouse’s. We meet in the middle of the white hazy mist. Mouse reaches into his pocket and pulls out an orange, its color practically a shining beacon against the dense air. He hands it to me, grinning excitedly. “It’s an orange,” he tells me as if I wouldn’t know.

“
Thank you.” I raise the orange orb to my nose and sniff the citrusy aroma, and it reminds me of home when my father would ship crates of perfect round orange fruits from the plantations in the South.  The gesture is so sweet my eyes fill with teary emotion.

“
Tinker says this will help you get stronger... and... I thought it might cheer you.”

“
Yes, Mr. Mouse. Citrus fruits are most beneficial during an ailment.  But it’s your kind face that always cheers me.”  His thought and generosity move me to lean in and kiss his rough cheek.  An intimate gesture but one I felt the instinct to do.  His constant affection and thoughts ease my troubled ones.

As my lips meet his unshaven cheek, a vessel appears out of the fog
, startling me.  “Another ship.”  My eyes widen at the immense sight and a clamoring of sailors begins to fire up as others notice the neighboring craft.  It’s huge and a sister ship to
the Water Witch
, its makeup the same as ours—sky-high masts, ornate carvings on the hull.  The fog has risen and morphed into a peculiar bubble around us.  A tickle of alarm claws at the back of my neck.

A statute-like figure stands tall on the bow of the unwelcome ship.
His long blond hair billows behind him, whipping in the ocean’s wind. One of his legs is high and bent, resting on the balustrade as if ready to fearlessly plunge into the cold swirling sea below.  There is something familiar about this foreign man.  As the monstrous ship gathers closer, I notice his regal dress. Slick polished attire fitting for his demeanor.  My body is telling my mind to run, but I am frozen in place, unable to remove myself.

Mouse disappeared at my declaration of the encroaching vessel.  I glance heavenward to see him moving lithely up amongst the sails, ropes, and mast.

Captain Stokes materializes on deck.  “Hard to port!” he shouts, and his normally hard face is stony with anger.  Flanked by his first officer and some of the crew members, the captain emits a firm and commanding aura but it can’t compete with our unwanted visitor.

The typical deckhands run about completing their duties as required when another ship should pass by.  Rope is reeled in or a sail is moved here or there.  Mr. Tinker shouts some seafaring orders that only the other seam
en would understand.  Agilely, the gentleman on the other ship jumps onto the deck of
The Water Witch.

“
Move below, Miss Sybrina,” Mr. Tinker barks in a tone much like he used upon our first meeting as the clamoring around us congests the top deck.  My feet find their purchase and act. I scurry as quickly as my ill body can carry me.  Obviously, it is not fast enough for Mr. Tinker because he calls a deckhand to hasten my exit. I am roughly pulled by the arm by Rufus, tripping over my own feet to keep up with him. 

“
You need not shut the pretty lady away.
”
A voice neither angry nor volatile resonates over the din and each person stops... even the wind halts to listen.  Rufus flinches and pushes me behind him in an attempt at blocking me from the intruder’s view.

“
State your business!”  Captain Stokes yells, having not the same magical voice as our mysterious interloper, and he juts forward with purpose.

Ignoring the
captain’s request, the man approaches me. Steps come closer and closer fastening the gap between us into a sliver—his regality even more evident with his proximity. Glass blue orbs like cobalt stare down at me from his immense height, his handsome boyish face framed by his mane of blond hair. 

The gentleman speaks to the c
aptain. “I expected more civility, Captain Stokes.”  He raises my hand to his lips to kiss it, keeping his attention on me and not who he is speaking with. “I am merely returning something you have lost on your voyage.”  He smiles down at me with an all too practiced charm.  I remove my hand from his. The stranger cocks a haughty grin at my feistiness.  “Hmmm...” slips past his lips.

Rufus backs away to let
Mr. Tinker come to stand behind me. He places his hands on my shoulders in a possessive gesture; I make contact with his broad chest. I feel as insignificant as a fly standing between these two large, tall men.

“
And who is this? It cannot be your father.” The intruder laughs as if in a private joke.  “You are a much too delicate creature for the likes of this sailor.”  Mr. Tinker stiffens in anger and I feel a deep breath swallowed into the chest against my back. 

“
I am the quartermaster...” he starts but is powerfully interrupted.

“
State your purpose!” Captain Stokes demands, forcing the notice off of Mr. Tinker and myself. The stranger’s eyes narrow ruthlessly and he trains them maliciously on the captain. Every being within the radius of this man is wary and fearful. His presence would reduce the cruelest to their deepest vulnerable infancy.

“
I am Vadim. As I’ve already stated, dear Captain”—his words hit the sea air as a ruthless sneer—“I am returning something of yours.” A shuffling scratching noise emanates from the other ship. Someone is scrabbling over the side. It looks like a person but moves in an unearthly way—animal-like. Its fingers and hands are curved claws, its face elongated and white. Its speed extraordinary.  The thing lets out a malevolent yowling screech. I train my eyes on it and follow its progression to make sense of what it is.  My heartbeat figures it out before my mind does because it beats furiously in my ears, thumping in warning.

The old man...

My attacker...

He
’s... alive...

Moving with lightning speed, the deranged old man propels himself forward. 
He’s dead
repeats as a mantra over and over.  But I am watching him advance forward as though very much alive.

He grabs a deckhand by the neck and twists grotesquely, snapping it
, and a malformed smile spreads across his face as he turns toward me. A scream lodges itself in my throat and icy sweat coats my back as he moves on to the next poor wretch beside him. All those around me burst into confused flailing. I watch in horror as the entire ship’s humble monotony crumbles.

Gunshots are fired and ring out long after t
hey leave the barrel—piercing and painful. Rough hands come around my waist caving in my stomach; an involuntary squeak escapes and my legs lift from the floor. I am traveling through the air over the shoulder of Mr. Tinker. We are bumped several times by the sheer panic that has consumed the crew. I cover my face with my hands to avoid getting smacked by a passerby, and the shouts and mayhem are magnified.

At the door in the flo
or, Mr. Tinker shoves me below. I am barely able to grab the rungs of the ladder and I clumsily clutch at them.  The hatch is slammed shut, and I hear the metal lock slip into place. I descend as carefully as I can with my hands shaking. A few of the passengers are below waiting for me.

“
What is happening?”

“
What is going on?”

I register the questions slowly but have not th
e ability to truly answer them. I am in awe at what transpired and what I have seen.  My own eyes are lying to my soul.  No one can come back from the dead. The body was drained and lifeless.  I saw that with my own eyes. I know the facts. The human body cannot survive without its blood.  He wasn’t breathing.  His eyes were lifeless orbs staring into an abyss…

“
Are you all right, Sybrina?”  It is Michael.

“
I do not know,” I respond in a weakened state of mind and body.

“
Come and sit,” he orders gently, leading me to my familiar column.

Above is a harsh cacophony of banging, running feet, and yelling.  I can
’t even dream about what is occurring.

Michael kneels down in front of me concerned. 
“Sybrina?” He pauses. “Are you well?”

I nod, jutting my eyes around looking at everyone and nothing.

“What is going on?”

“
Another ship,” I say, taking in a sharp inhalation.  Michael’s soft fingers reverently brush up and down my arm in an attempt to comfort me. I look at his eyes, warm and glowing with life.

Mr. Overton is hovering over us, worry marring his face. 
“What kind of ship?” he asks.

“
I am not sure... A pirate ship... I think...”

Shrieks and gasps echo around the chamber.  I did not know so many of my fellow travelers were close by listening.

“Pirates?” Michael questions.  “They are a lot of a dying age. You must be mistaken. They are most likely of a privateer voyage—an acquaintance or friend of the captain.”  A hopeful guess.

“
The invaders called the captain by name but there was nothing civil about it. There is ruinous havoc afoot above us. Unless those we charge with our safekeeping can subdue the ruffians, I fear what is to come.”