The Celestial Kiss (13 page)

Alone again, I sat on the window seat and pulled back the curtains.  A cold chill pushed against the glass where I rested my cheek. I sighed, comforted by the solidity that glass pane offered, and for the first time in a long time, that sigh was not entirely of discontent.  The moon was just a pale sliver in an otherwise unmarred sky, and it made me think of the times I’d looked out the window of my father’s house, at the drying gardens with flowers that had been choked out by weeds.  Vines had broken away from the ground and began snaking up the walls, taking refuge in the cracks caused from the chips of old stone.  It was an image I’d seen so many times, I could etch it even with my eyes closed. 

              Below me now, there was a vastly different scene.  It was ironic, really, that my father’s home had been meant as a salvation for those who would no longer be bound to human constraints, and yet it became a prison of its own making.  Here, where I had been brought as a prisoner, beauty and life seemed to bloom in even the darkest corners.  It was evident in the gardens below, with roses of such vivid colors I wasn’t entirely convinced from up there that they were indeed real.

              I hated James for what he was putting me through… or at least I thought I did…but there was no way of denying that I
liked
it there.  Even my brief stint in the city had been so rapid, so disappointing, that it paled in comparison to this.  Foolishly I had believed that the city would turn me in the right direction…that it would solve all of my problems and lead me right to Samuel.  Of course, where I went from there hadn’t really been a well-laid plan, but I’d be lying if I said I was the kind of person who made plans.  I was angry, and I held fast to that anger because it was still a relief to feel emotion, anything, so long as I didn’t have to be numb anymore.  My refusal to let it go, however, meant that where James was concerned, the anger was close to follow.  And even though I couldn’t be in the same room with him for more than a few minutes without contemplating murder-suicide, I didn’t actually want him to die.  I especially didn’t want to be responsible for his death. I didn’t want to leave, for him or for me, who could say?  And at the same time, I had unfinished business.  I’d promised Gabrielle I would find her son...never mind that she’d been dead when I made that promise, and so I spoke the words to nothing more than her corpse.

              I blinked, chasing away the traitorous thoughts, and decided that an unoccupied mind was a dangerous thing.  The room was large, but sparse with little to explore other than a bookshelf nestled in the wall.  Heavy philosophical pieces were at home on the top shelf, but I’d had enough practical philosophy in the past few days to last me a lifetime.  Below that were the classics—books I’d already read several times through.  The bottom two rows were jammed with books of varying sizes and subjects, even a few textbooks.  The lack of intrigue the bookcase offered led me to the assumption that the books were most likely all of the common garden variety, until as I was turning away something caught my eye.  Sandwiched into one of the lower shelves, a nondescript book was turned backwards, with the spine in, as if it had been set there in haste. 

              It was this book in a most ordinary navy binding that I took with me to the window seat, only to find that the first several pages were blank.  Mystified, I ran the pages through my fingers, stopping at the first sign of words and the realization that this book was handwritten.  In fact, it did not seem to be a book at all.  It was a journal. 

Certainly another person’s trivial life dramas would pale in comparrison to my own.  I was hoping for catty gossip, scathing inner thoughts, anything.  The prospect for escapism excited me; it offered a tempting refuge from all the nonsense that comprised my life, no matter how brief.

              The first written page seemed as though it should have come later, for there was no prelude.  Rather it jumped right into a mess of twisting purple letters that looked like they’d been written in haste. 

             
It seems as though pressure is all that exists any more, as though I am on a plane of my own and there is only duty.  Gone are the days of freedom, the evenings I could spend with a book in some far off world, and even the days where there was nothing binding other than the schedule to which we adhere.  In a sea of uncertainty, the only guarantee is that the problems never stop.  Not that I expected them to, but it does feel as though I’m drowning in them, as though the problems of other people are weighing me down.

              I’m afraid I sound petulant, but to whom should I justify myself?  This is not a duty that I’d ever dreamed of having, nor something I asked for, but rather something that I inherited, like a mess of dark curls and a wild spirit.  And really, I suppose nobody asks for the tasks that are handed to them in this life.  Certainly, Jesus didn’t ask to be persecuted and yet, it was a responsibility he accepted humbly. 

              Did I really just compare myself to Jesus?

              Shit, I’ve finally gone mad. 

              If I’m being honest, what scares me is failure.  It seems as though everyone around me is perfect, and I, the one with a lofty cross to bear, am flawed beyond repair.  I cannot expect others to instill in me their faith when I don’t have any in myself, and so I will feign that confidence, if that is what my people need from me.  But here, in the darkest corners of my mind, in the deepest admissions of my soul, I will speak nothing but the truth.  And that truth is that I am a slave of my own creation, tethered to this life by mere circumstance. 

The entry was all that existed on the page, without so much as an initial to seal it or a date to mark the emotions of the author, both of which served as catalyst to my curiosity.  It was almost as if I’d written this myself.  How many times had I feared failure, feared the knowledge that I would never be able to live up to the expectations of my father, of my siblings, of myself?  This person, who’d spilled upon a delicate page even more delicate secrets, had felt as much a prisoner as I.  The knowledge shook me to the core, and in spite of myself, I felt a glimmer of something like hope...

It was a long shot, but perhaps there were others out there like me.  Clearly, I wasn’t the only one who’d felt this pressure to exist beyond the limits I’d supposed.  What if the reason that I identified so eerily well with the mysterious author was because we were the same?  It was an exciting prospect; I nearly tore the page from its binding in my eagerness for more.

Unfortunately I was interrupted by a knock on the door.  I don’t know why I felt the need to conceal it, but I slipped the journal behind a pillow just before the door opened.  I fixed James a surly look, unhappy with his interruption.  He challenged it with just a small, tentative smile.

“I didn’t mean to intrude.”  He said by way of a peace offering.

“Because there is so much for you to intrude upon.”  My voice came across huffy even to my own ears, and I made it a point to swallow some of my irritation.  You’re here by your own choice now…play nice.

“That’s why I’m here,” James answered, looking out the window behind me.  “I thought maybe you might want to take a walk in the gardens…get some fresh air?”

It was probably one of the last things I had expected him to say, yet it both excited and confused me.  I hadn’t done something as quaint as take a walk in what felt like ages.

My suspicion must have been obvious because James laughed.  From that one little sound, I learned more about him than he’d told me since I’d been here—I made him nervous.  “It’s beautiful out,” He appealed.

I appraised him, tall and muscular, dark and intriguing, and made uncomfortable by me—a girl half his size. I’m sure this was not exactly a daily occurrence for him.  He wasn’t my captor anymore.  He didn’t control me.  I didn’t want to be his friend, but I wanted him to realize that he didn’t have power over me.  I wasn’t scared of him.  That’s why we walked together through the massive home in awkward silence.  Our footprints sounded like claps of thunder echoing through the empty halls…or maybe I was still scared of him. 

I felt lighter immediately after we crossed into the twilight, as though the wind that brushed the hair from my shoulders was also lifting my troubles away.  I closed my eyes there on the top step, drinking in this unhampered freedom, and when at last I reopened them it was to see James watching me.  He looked away almost immediately, leaving whatever thoughts he’d had unspoken.  It would have been an opportune moment to ask what he’d been thinking, but I was distracted by the glimpse of smile I caught before he could turn away. 

His pace was casual enough that I was able to fall in stride with him, and we walked towards the fountain, lost in our respective thoughts.  The absence of words was not at all as prominent as I had feared it would be, despite the never ending stream of questions that had become consciousness.  A fringe of trees outlining the property seemed to sway along to the music of the wind whistling through the branches. It carried with it the promise of rain, an earthy scent with a note of something sweet that I couldn’t place, until I realized where James had led me. 

When I looked out from my window, it was at the north end of the property, at a perfectly manicured garden, and those dancing trees in perfect lines.  Now, however, we were facing the opposite direction, and it was even more beautiful than the view I’d become accustomed to.  Here, hedges lined the property, tall and dark with wild white roses spilling out from the spaces between.  The roses owned the hedges and they had for a while, their splendor taking over the vast expanse of greenery.  Only darkness seemed to exist past the overgrown walls, but here everything was bathed in moonlight.  Suddenly, I felt very small.

“Wow,” I breathed, in spite of myself. 

“I’ve grown up with it,” James said, as if that made it any less special.  “I would look out here just about every day, dreaming of what I could do for the people that exist outside the protection of these walls.  With time, I guess it started to look more like a prison than a haven.”

“A haven.”  I don’t know why I repeated it, but I liked the way the word felt on my tongue, light and full of promise.  James stared out at it too, leaving me a moment to contemplate his words.  Even surrounded by love and family, given the finer things in life and space to run, James had felt trapped.  He’d grown up so different from me, and yet we had wound up essentially in the same place.  “You don’t like it here?”  I ventured.

“It’s my home.”  He spoke the words like they were an explanation in themselves, but my confusion must have been obvious.  A little sigh escaped him, and he turned to me.  Up until then, I’d only been sneaking glances at him.  But now he had captured my attention.  “I love the people here, but I don’t like the walls.  I don’t like being separated from the people I’m supposed to be protecting.”  His face was an accurate portrayal of the dismay in his voice.

“It’s exquisite, though.”  I leaned forward, enticed by the perfect white of one of the roses, and brushed my fingertips over the velveteen petals.  James’ warning came a moment too late, telling me to stop after I’d already touched it, and I recoiled.  My face burned, and I was fairly certain that even in the dark, he could tell.  I considered apologizing, but my embarrassment was a quick segue into anger.

“Are you hurt?”  James stepped closer with a hand outstretched, all business.

“No.  Why would I be hurt?”  I demanded.  My pride was wounded, but I didn’t think that was what he meant.

“The roses.  They didn’t burn you?”

“Of course not,” I snapped, because it was a stupid question.  I turned my eyes back to the offending rose and glared at it as though it were to blame for my scorn.

“Not even a little?”  James prodded.

“What do you care?” 

He laughed, and I thought it was because I was wearing him thin with this negativity, but I caught the glint of amusement in his eyes as they appraised me.  “You’re very intriguing.”

I held his gaze until it became uncomfortable and I had to look away.  James shook his head, as if he had come to his senses, and stepped forward, cupping one of the roses between his fingers.  “Wild moon rose.  It’s the most potent to vampires.  Although, I suppose you’re not really a vampire.”  His eyes flitted over me, like he was still trying to figure out what I was.  That made two of us.  “It grows on the graves of the most devout, and it springs right from their ashes.  It’s a sacred flower.”  He pulled the rose just gently enough to remove the bud and after a moment’s admiration, he offered it to me and let it fall into my hand, careful to avoid my touch.  He watched me, almost expectantly, and then turned away.  “They were planted around the wall for our protection.  But like I said, sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference between what we’re keeping in and out.”

I wasn’t convinced. “This whole place…it’s amazing.”

“It’s an illusion,” James explained.  “We remove ourselves from the humans and the vampires, and then get upset when some become so comfortable behind these walls that they forget their role in life.”

“Which is what?”  I ventured.  He’d told me that they were the protectors of human, but in the modern world, what did that mean? Surely at one time the role had been literal, when the wolves had stood guard outside the family’s quarters like in the painting I’d seen the other day.  Now, with the abundance of technology and the supposed superiority of the human race, what did it mean to them?