Authortrek short stories
Who will be the Authortrek Writer of the Month?
Destiny by Peter Pogany
Dec 19th
(In memory of a handsome Parisian couple)
– My poor, dear, unhappy baby. I lied and cheated, trampled on your good name.
– I could say, Holy Mother, awaken the remorse in the heart of my adulterous wife! But I’m not a hypocrite. I had affairs myself and underhanded dealings serious enough to be locked up, as you well know . . .
– Stop! Enough! Don’t say any more, snapped Madeleine, combatant and teary.
The Thai bar girl, who understood French, averted her eyes but observed the couple in a side mirror as she continued to wipe the endless row of glasses in the hotel’s deserted cocktail lounge.
Irritated by the transparent curiosity, Gerard paid and the couple walked out into the night, down to the edge of the Indian Ocean.
Khao Lak, Thailand, December 20, 2004.
They strolled on the beach, stopping for an occasional kiss, until dawn began to whiten the skies; then returned to their bungalow to the right side of the main building.
No one knew why they had left Paris for the holidays, why “Indochine,” and most of all, why together. Their marriage was on the rocks, divorce was taken for granted by family, friends, and colleagues.
Gerard worked for a private hedge fund as a stock market analyst and Madeleine was the supervisor of archives at a well-known international banking giant. Although there had been no formal charges or accusations, many suspected they were accessories to insider trading by violating conflict of interest laws and rules of confidentiality.
Their offices were fairly close on the Right Bank and the two of them were frequently seen together at lunch time. That would be “normal” as the French like to say, but why the serious, clipped exchanges? What else if not time-sensitive information could have been the subject between an estranged husband and wife, given that they still lived together?
Thailand was the last and longest stop of their tour. They water-skied and learned to scuba dive around the neighboring Similan Islands; they enthusiastically embraced the spirit of bonding among fellow vacationers of all nationalities.
Was Rousseau right to believe that human nature is congenitally good but civilization makes us corrupt, greedy, deceptive, envious, and excessively rational? As soon as we return to nature in a bathing suit, with the need to look out for each other while playing in deep waters, we become engulfed by the magic of tribal oneness and feel ourselves again.
The “Parisian couple” was the talk of the resort.
Madeleine, tall and lanky, without being athletic, had pale blue, laughing eyes; her short brownish-blond hair was parted in the middle, smoothened back. No one had ever seen her without a heavily beaded necklace. Gerard reminded everyone of a younger version of the French movie star Alain Delon. They were in their late 20s or early 30s.
Eye-catching as they were, their notoriety had another reason — scenes.
They simply could not keep their arguments and acid repartees out of the earshot of others; they were unable to hide that they had brought heavy-duty marital discord to paradise. Most hotel guests along the strip and many locals in the small, close-knit vacation town saw what was going on.
A middle-aged businessman from L.A. generated merriment when he remarked to a small crowd of guests observing Madeleine and Gerard from the terrace bar: “Looks like the marriage of Heaven and Hell without knowing which is which.”
It was both sad and funny to see them stagger on the beach, drunk. That happened once and the occasion proved to be the turning point. From then on, to everybody’s delight, the relationship began to mend, gradually turning into a wild romance.
On Christmas Eve, a Belgian tourist, sitting on a sand dune in the dark, witnessed the following memorable scene:
Madeleine kneels down before Gerard:
– I will forever be faithful to you. I want to bear your children.
– How many? – asks Gerard playfully.
– Four, in five years.
Gerard gently lifts her to her feet and goes down on his knees:
– Allow me to consecrate my life to you.
After a short pause she says:
– I failed you before. Aren’t you afraid that I’ll fail you again?
– My father always said “only those who are not afraid to lose have any chance to win.”
– But will you love me even after four children when my breasts will dangle over my belly and my belly will flop against my thighs?
Laughter again and long silence. The listener discreetly moved away.
Christmas Day fell on Saturday and the couple joined other guests for a festive dinner in the hotel’s banquet room. A former minister from Ohio offered comforting words and blessings.
The sun was already high on Sunday, December 26, when Madeleine and Gerard heard strange, excited noises. They came out of their bungalow, sensing that something unusual was happening. Something unusual, indeed; the water was gone.
Hundreds were running toward inland, yelling to others to do the same, but many remained motionless, staring awe-struck at the fuzzy horizon and at strange fish convulsing on dry land or in miniature pools.
Astonished silence, punctuated by frightened bird cries.
Then the ocean came back, roaring like a vengeful ogre, 33-feet high, washing people away along with beach chairs and umbrellas.
The couple vanished, officially declared victims of the tsunami.
The memorial service in Paris attracted a huge crowd. The in-laws, reunited in their anguish, asked the eulogizing priest to underscore the happiness and harmony of Madeleine’s and Gerard’s marriage despite the occasional frictions their dynamic life style caused.
“Beyond lights and shadows, sunsets and dreams, Madeleine and Gerard are now walking hand in hand — as they should — in a luminous ocean of heavenly harmony,” the priest said.
Of course, things would have been different if they had left before Christmas. Gerard’s cell kept chirping — his office asking him to return before the end of his leave. “Urgent developments, requiring immediate attention!” He didn’t even answer. They decided to quit their jobs and leave the “financial industry” altogether. They had come to regard it as both corrupt and corrupting.
Anyway, why bother now with things that cannot be changed?
Fate makes no mistakes.
People looking from the hotel’s rooftop with binoculars later reported that they saw the couple in a tight embrace as the wave approached. Gerard said something and Madeleine answered with a smile that went so well with her surfer necklace.
What could they have possibly told each other in a moment like that?
When the infallible prescience of demise, already void of fear, made it clear to them that everything in our brief, rushed lives except our destiny is a lie — knowing that certain Gallic flair — those words must have been:
Merci ma petite!
Merci monpti!
Heartbreak by Peter Pogany
Dec 6th
The sun turned humid and bleary in the afternoon. Later rain clouds coming from the southeast made it vanish along with those delectable citrus-infused crab cakes from the caterer’s tray on a perfume-and-flower-scented Sunday afternoon garden party.
A fellow slightly lit from champagne, white dinner jacket, bow tie — Fred Astaire 1930s’ style — carries on amidst a small group of guests:
“Legionnaire, tu es un volontaire servant la France avec honneur et fidelite. That’s French for legionnaire, you are a volunteer serving France with honor and fidelity.”
“You can’t be serious,” implores a young girl.
“You bet. They like experienced skydivers. I am flying to Marseilles on Tuesday. That’s where the recruitment office is. Then in two days, departure: Destination Djibouti.”
“Yeah,” sighs a disbelieving gentleman, “I can hear the siren of the steamer leaving harbor.”
“The French Foreign Legion is an army of mercenaries. It’s full of criminals,” another voice protests.
“I know that. When the drill sergeant yells at me among the palm trees ‘you wretched, lousy, miserable, filthy, worthless, maggot,’ I will agree with him.”
“What will you say when they ask why you want to join?”
Bitter melancholy resonates in the answer:
“Love. The French understand that. I am escaping from someone who is beautiful and heartless. En avant! Marche!”
A woman in her glowing thirties, standing in an adjacent circle of chatters — large bow on the left shoulder of her exquisite, color-whispering white cocktail dress — turns around and rewards him with a little laugh of appreciation.
Her name is Zelda, a flight instructor, and the fellow who pretends to sound and look free of all cares, exclusively for her benefit, is Aaron, six years her junior. He has an incurable, despairingly virulent crush on her that he tries to hide — doing a miserable job.
But let’s begin at the beginning.
“In the beginning was the deed,” concurred Dr. Freud with the fallible Dr. Faust. Of course, we don’t have to believe everything the great Viennese savant said. The song of the nightingale does not come from under the ground. But with regard to the chain of events I am about to summarize, this crassly materialistic adage happens to be true.
Zelda was a married woman. Her husband John — not present on that memorable Sunday afternoon — was part-owner, general manger, and chief pilot of a fixed-based operation near a historic city in the heart of Virginia. A veteran fighter pilot who saw action during the first Persian Gulf War, he has just turned 60 without losing an iota of his powerful masculine demeanor — always cheerful, always well dressed. “Business casual” — that was the limit he allowed in conforming to the trend of conspicuously neglectful appearance.
The marriage was that certain let-us-pretend-we-barely-know-each-other kind that elicits admiration — sometimes even envy — because it is believed to be as strong as cast iron, alloyed with deep trust, unshakeable self-confidence, and generosity.
The “cast iron” simile comes to mind for a reason. The impulse for tying the knot was born after an episode that could have easily ended up in a white-hot, blast furnace-resembling spectacle.
Some flying friends of John’s had hauled a biplane from Pennsylvania to the aviation history museum in Kitty Hawk, North Carolina. They parked the craft — still airworthy — at our airfield and disappeared for a few days. Zelda and John, who had dated discretely for at least a year, “took her up for a spin.” Did they engage in acrobatics that because of their inexperience with the special lift/drag conditions of biplanes went beyond their ken? Or was there indeed some mechanical problem as they later claimed? We never found out. But something surely went almost fatally wrong. After landing without any visible glitch, they came into the building completely drenched in sweat. They must have endured a life or death struggle to survive.
Eyeballs were bulging with question marks. They both stuck to “systems malfunctions.” Anyway, the whole affair was forgotten by the time they were married a few weeks later. No publicity, no invitations, just an announcement and a modest nonalcoholic punch and cake party in the conference/class room. Zelda went on using her maiden name; John talked to her in public as if she were just another employee.
John had two grown children from his previous marriage. His son Ted, an artillery officer, was in Iraq. His daughter and ex-wife lived in Buffalo, New York.
I did not know much about Zelda, except that she had a bachelor’s degree in mechanical engineering, was in real estate for a while, and had never been married before.
They made a handsome, easy-going couple. I liked them both, especially John, who hired me as the outfit’s accountant — a part-time job that I needed badly to complement my modest salary earned as accounting instructor at the local community college. (I am not a pilot and all I know about aviation, single engine or otherwise, is what my work with the books required and what I may have absorbed through osmosis.)
Our business included a flight school for “single engine” private pilots and a sky-diving club. We also had contracts for crop dusting and electrical transmission wire surveillance, offered air taxi service and gave sight-seeing tours.
This airport-ancillary facility was owned by two or three Southwest Virginia families. They made a fortune in building contracts and ran a number of local newspapers, TV and radio stations across the Blue Ridge Region, from Southern Pennsylvania to Northern Georgia. They were known as good, generous people who gave to local colleges and supported the arts.
The big gossip among students, flight instructors, and contract pilots — who hung around our one-story office building (sometimes bored to tears) — was Aaron’s pathetic sorrows over Zelda. Not the blushing, husky-voiced kind. That might have been amusing. No, his love sickness found expression in erratic, bizarre behavior. Sometimes he stopped frozen on his path, eyes closed. She was probably always on his mind, conversing with him or just silently watching his comings and goings.
As you might expect, both Zelda and John ignored the whole phenomenon, although according to John’s busybody secretary, nicknamed “The Windbag” behind her back, Aaron kept making stupid overtures that fell silently on the ground without the slightest echo.
The heir of a wealthy Nebraskan clan, Aaron was a licensed architect, employed in town by a firm that specialized in historical preservation. We happened to live in the same apartment development and exchanged words on occasion.
He started taking flying lessons with Zelda but did not go beyond the first cross-country flight. The presumption was that he simply could not handle being instructed by a woman with whom he was insanely in love. Everybody could understand that. It was less flattering to his reputation that — unable to match Zelda’s achievements in flying — he decided somewhat childishly to take to the skies in a different way in order to impress her. He became a skydiver.
The number of his jumps approached the magic 100 and it was generally acknowledged that he could have a brilliant future in this sport if he would just stick to it. But that was not his motive. All he wanted was to have news about his growing skill and raw courage trickle back to Zelda. (Gracefully, he knew better than to engage in direct, personal boasting.)
Obviously, the whole parachute gang knew about his affliction and that gave rise to some serious tensions. The jumpmaster, a quiet man with a good sense of humor and sympathy for human foibles, told Aaron in a loud voice, so that everybody could hear it:
“Look my friend; you can’t put us through chewing aspirin every time you go up.”
This was on a Saturday morning, soon after I heard nervous shouts outside “Come on Aaron, come on…” Everyone was looking up — some with field glasses — at a point that was falling way below a bunch of orange ribbon canopies. Aaron violated the agreed- upon altitude for opening.
Before takeoff, members of the jumping party heard and later reported his remonstrations while boarding our twin engine “de Havilland.” He said something to the effect: “De Havilland, de devil’s hand, de heavy land will drive Belzebub out of me.”
It was feared that he became reckless — even “suicidal.” To avoid being temporarily grounded, he voluntarily stopped asking to be scheduled for jumps, but kept hanging around the club as if nothing had happened. And that was all right. Everybody liked him. I guess there was an element of “let’s not lose a good source of entertainment” in his enduring popularity. He was, of course, as welcome as any other club member to celebrate “the new beginning” in grand style.
The need for this “new beginning” came slowly but mercilessly. The cost of fuel and everything else kept rising and the flight school sank deeper and deeper into the red, threatening to wipe out profits earned from other operations. One year earlier, Zelda, the most sought-after instructor, was scheduled for several hours a day and worked through most weekends. By late spring, she looked like a part-timer, reading novels on the bench in front of the building.
John was under severe pressure. We pored over numbers and possibilities; talked to the owners or their representatives who visited our office at least once a week.
If our net income remained slightly above water it was thanks to the director of the nearby regional airport (a friend of John’s) who subcontracted certain homeland security-financed services to us.
Finally, the decision was made. They let John go with a settlement that included the repurchase of his share in the business. An unsalaried family member, a guy called Joe — well into his 70s — took over as manager. My position was eliminated with a surprisingly large severance pay. I was satisfied. John said he was too, but that was not true.
He accepted the invitation to the party but then sent his regrets. He had to travel to Buffalo, he said, because his son was back from Iraq “unexpectedly” on a “brief” home leave.
Zelda piloted a Piper Cherokee from our facility to the airstrip of the Southwest Virginia country club. I sat next to her. Joe and Marty Sloan, CEO of a New York-based hedge fund, occupied the backseats. (Zelda flew by herself to pick him up somewhere in Kentucky, and then landed at our field where Joe and I got on board.)
We took a detour because Joe wanted to show some construction project to Marty Sloan from the air.
At the country club airstrip, Mr. Leopold, one of the principals of the business group that owned us, was waiting with a golf cart.
“Welcome to Arcadia, Mr. Sloan,” he shouted through the dying engine noise, “I hope you are feeling better.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Leopold. I had a serious anxiety attack a few days ago. Not a good sign considering that everybody thinks I’m on vacation.”
“In our era of cell phones and blackberries,” Mr. Leopold replied, “we can’t escape being informed. Vacation is out of fashion, I’m afraid.”
“Thanks for sending the plane for me. It was very kind of you. Zelda is a superb pilot.”
Everybody smiled.
The four of them got into the golf cart. It was understood that I would walk up to the clubhouse terrace. I heard patches of conversation before they moved out of earshot:
“It was somewhat selfish on my part. I wanted to give you an opportunity to look at our project. How do you find the landscape?”
“I am very impressed, particularly with the layout of the hotel at the intersection of the main highway . . .”
“Route 27 . . .”
“And the winding, tree-lined country road.”
“Oh yes, Valley Drive. . . .”
It was a gracious and comforting day among scenic ridges and green valleys. It was also the turning point of our story. And now please fasten your seatbelt to avoid being floored.
Ready?
John still out of town, Zelda accepted to spend a weekend with Aaron in Washington, DC.
They stayed in their Georgetown hotel room most of the time, but no one can escape fate.
They were spotted in the Air and Space Museum by none other than a curator and member of John’s extended circle of friends. The couple was touring the premises with arms around each other’s waists. The former Navy pilot met Zelda once and immediately recognized her.
As if this had not been enough, the wife of a high school principal, who knew practically everybody in the county, saw Aaron buying flowers for a sobbing Zelda in the late Sunday afternoon hub of Georgetown. No wonder she was upset. The seemingly endless weekend had suddenly become a loudly ticking alarm clock.
Our guess was that she accepted Aaron’s invitation in order to take revenge on her husband for an insult, real or imagined, or some affront or discourtesy, and then got carried away by amorous exploits and the plans the two of them began to hatch. Did she encourage him “below the radar” of our little community for some time?
Your sixth sense is as good as anyone else’s.
Whatever Zelda and Aaron had planned, it never became airborne.
Shaken to his core and devastated beyond description, John informed Zelda that he found out about her illicit liaison. And soon everybody knew that it was not the failing business that gave John that terrible, pale, drawn look. Now he seemed much older than his age. “The Windbag” always claimed that our fixed-based operation was a Peyton Place. She was right, after all.
This painful story would have slowly resolved itself, as all untenable situations eventually do, had it not been for the intrusion of another, totally unforeseen event. One week after Ted returned to Iraq, he was involved in a non-combat-related automobile accident. He had to be airlifted to a U.S. military hospital in Germany. How ironic. “Ted is in a fortified artillery base, probably as safe as anyone can be in that star-crossed Fertile Crescent,” John liked to repeat with a smile.
Dropping shattered marriage, wrecked business — and all — he flew to Germany to be with his son.
Here was the great opportunity for Zelda and Aaron to cement their relationship. But instead, bad conscience pushed them apart.
It must have happened in a way familiar to most of us: A seemingly innocuous bad taste in the mouth gradually transforms itself into self-accusation and torment.
Desire undervalues moral power. Where does it come from even in those who neither know nor seek God? Is there a CPA in everybody’s inner ear, exacting some kind of demurrage in the form of dizziness and nausea should the “what can I expect in life” on the asset side increase more than “what I must do to deserve it” on the liability side of our individual balance sheets?
It was high summer, my last day in the office. As I was emptying my desk, I learned that Zelda beat me to the exit. She sent a postcard to “The Windbag” announcing that she had accepted a flight-instructor’s job in Hawaii and whished safe landing to everyone.
The rest of the story is based entirely on a letter that I received from Aaron a few months after he vanished. It was postmarked in Japan.
Apparently, he joined a skydiving club about 50 miles from our airfield and made another attempt to end his life.
I believe that the following words were intended for all those who knew him:
“I fell through scattered clouds in a regular arch position (we called it “the frog” in our old club). The drone of the drop plane faded. Houses, parking lots, cars and trucks on the roads — not a sound. That’s the best thing about skydiving. You discover silence. The ground began to accelerate toward me. I could see the circle drawn for target jumpers. I was below 2500 feet. My thoughts raced at the speed of light: I’ll die and they will be guessing for years whether it was suicide or accident. Good bye! She will remember even 20 years from now that the month was September. But would she remember that it was the 12th? — Damn! And she is in Hawaii. She might not even know that I ceased to exist. Damn! Lassitude, emptiness, parched throat. In total panic I pulled the chord. Everything was in order — true, only in the nick of time. Before being engulfed by the curiosity and reproaches of the people running toward me, I looked up at the sky. The sun came back, pure and unobstructed — like a Shinto goddess of rebirth and homecoming.”
“That was the moment when I decided to become a student of Buddhism in the Zen tradition.”
“You all would hardly recognize me in my colorless mendicant garb as I wheel a hand cart in the outskirts of Kyoto. My masters are teaching me patience and discipline; I am learning that a day without work is a day without food; that those of us who choose the path of Dharma and want to cast off the fetters of mundane life and shut the door to chaos forever must make their egos lie as low as bags of rice in our pagoda’s cellar.”
“I suffer a lot — I must admit — but remain hopeful. If there is righteous condemnation for faults committed without bad intention or ill will, there must also be clemency without good cause.”
Curious coincidence. One went to Hawaii and the other to Japan. I can recall one famous aviation-related incident that involved these two islands. One beautiful December morning out of the clear blue Pacific skies . . .
I’ll let you and “The Windbag” know if I hear anything.
The Secrets of Shadows
Dec 6th
Kyoto City
Keicho Year Nineteen, ‘The Month of Letters‘, Twelfth Day
(15th August 1614 in the modern calendar)
Today the weavers are absent from Asamura’s modest workshop and so – for once - this particular part of the Nishijin district is spared the rattle and clatter of hand looms. He has only the sounds of the streets to tell him what hour of the day it is. The young apprentices have long since tramped from the nearby guild-lodgings to wherever their masters are currently working. Even the yelled inquiries from porters as to the whereabouts of so-and-so’s place have momentarily subsided. He is on his own and although busy with his samples and lodgements, he is enjoying the quiet.
The shuffle of feet. A visitor? Looking up from his abacus and ledgers he peers out of his little room, down into the street-level hallway. He is curious as to who the quiet caller might be. It is customary to announce oneself with a greeting when passing a threshold, something this particular visitor has omitted to do. A few more steps forward reveal a dusty priest in brown travelling robes. He stands in the entranceway, wide brimmed straw hat still in place despite the shade offered by the hallway of the tradesman’s abode. Wrong place, most likely. Often happens. Asamura notes he has neither begging bowl nor staff and no rosary depends either from his wrist or neck. He can just see also the lack of split-toed leather socks. They are a luxury that has to be earned, so their absence is usually the sign of a novice. His sandals are poor and tattered and his darkened feet display the red colour of sores from under the hemp rope straps and the accumulation of grime from many a dusty road.
“Welcome.” Asamura says gently. He is of course surprised, though not unpleasantly, at the visit. The applicant turns and takes in his host in at a glance, who is comfortably seated on the floor behind his small table.
“Good morning.” he tries again.
Still, the newcomer says nothing. But he moves a step closer to the doorway of the draper’s little room and begins to examine inside. He is most curious about the room indeed and his impassive face scans the untidy interior. The small table where the host sits is barely visible on account of scrolls, paperweights, spikes with dockets of various kinds impaled on them and a well used ink-stone, replete with several other accoutrements of note making. Beside that is a long tobacco pipe with a bamboo ashtray which has been removed from the tobacco tray on the floor. Further off to his left a tea kettle sits upon its robust wooden stand, a circular off-cut from a plum tree felled many years ago in the little garden at the rear. With his small writing brush tucked behind his ear, Asamura sits like a monkey discovered in a bush, not sure whether he should be startled or mildly curious about the reason for the intrusion. Oddly he feels as if he may as well be one of the swatches or bolts of striped cotton samples that litter the floor for all the attention the newcomer pays him as his eyes survey the entire contents of the room. To him, it seems, it might as well have been the tea kettle that spoke the words of welcome.
The stocky cleric reaches to the rope chin-strap of his hat and gently pulls it up and over his head. As he removes the item, he bends down and turns his back with a heavy sigh, removing his sandals. He turns once more and mounts the landing step that runs the full length of the hallway. Asamura’s eyebrows rise. As the visitor comes up, his face momentarily enters the darkness. Taking the massive straw dome of the sun-hat with him, he enters the little room, his bulk managing to briefly obscure the light from the hallway behind him.
“Oh, yes, do come up Reverend.” the host blurts out after the fact, perturbed at the unannounced intrusion, yet determined not to be impolite. “Of course, yes… rude of me not to invite you.”
It occurs to him briefly that perhaps the poor visitor is incapable of speech.
“What a poor host I am sometimes.” he offers modestly. It is an instinctive effort to save his guest’s face, though unintentionally the words sound hollow.
The newcomer’s bulky frame clears the doorway and the chamber returns to its former half-brightness. He steps forward into the comb of shadows that the opened window slats have cast, their dark teeth drawing across the entire contents of the place, slicing the sun-lit cloud of blue tobacco smoke. It leaves the host’s perplexed face illuminated in bands as stark as those on some of the cotton swatches that surround him.
Still sitting cross legged Asamura bows inadequately several times and affects an uncomfortable grin.
“What can I do for you, Reverend?” he asks doubtfully.
Still, the man makes no reply and instead wearily makes to sit down on the floor opposite his host. He sets his hat down first and finally seats himself heavily with an ungraceful thud that sends the dust of many a Kyoto street puffing up into the air around him. It mingles with the tobacco smoke as he settles himself.
It seems to Asamura a long time before he speaks.
“Is it here?” he drawls. “Is it?”
Asamura is dumbstruck.
Then again, quietly, “Is it here?”
Clean shaven cheeks frame his flat nose and scant, dark eyebrows sit beneath a recently razored head. So recent that there are even still two or three nicks which have barely begun the process of healing. It looks like he’s done it himself. Strong cheek bones announce steady eyes that seem to be actually looking at Asamura properly for the first time.
“Now what exactly do you mean, Reverend?”
The stranger heaves a slow and steady sigh. His voice, too, is slow and deep and as steady as his eyes but Asamura can’t yet place the accent. He has an air of imperturbability about him. He is drawn, hungry looking and deeply tired.
“The cotton finisher.” he drawls.
“Ah.”
Then, slow and patient, “She has something. Is it here?”
“Uh, I don’t know. She’s not here just now. Is anything the matter? Can I help you, Reverend?”
The guest takes a deep breath. Then, lowering his tone just a little, asks:
“Where can I find her?”
It is more than instinct which now prompts Asamura to be vague.
“Well, I’m not quite sure now. I suppose she may return before nightfall.” He is careful not to mention her name. “But then again, perhaps not. She has so many errands to do, you see. She’s out looking after several different customers at the moment.”
He isn’t being convincing and he knows it. It isn’t even the middle of the day, so even if he were being believable the guest would probably be just as disappointed. Not that he shows it in his face. He begins to examine his host more carefully now, much as he has just done to the room itself.
“She may visit Takahiro.” he says and instantly regrets it. Still, it’s a common enough name. Could be anyone.
Unsettled, Asamura remains outwardly calm and senses that he must draw upon all his considerable skills of persuasion. He doesn’t know what he should do exactly, but that’s fine. That’s often the way with chat. You can’t always predict it, set out a course for it.
“Would you care for some tea?” he asks, hoping to at least draw the man into some semblance of a normal conversation. “You must be thirsty, no?”
The guest looks at the tea kettle, thoughtful for a moment. Yes, that’s it, Asamura thinks. He’s surely coming round now. But no. Just as he thinks the man is about to assent, the large head starts to hang low and he gazes down at the floor. His mind seems to be absent entirely. He makes no reply.
Confused now, the host wonders if he shouldn’t show some concern. Perhaps he should offer help. Softly, he asks.
“Are you all right, Reverend? Is something the matter?”
The visitor seems surprised by the question. Perplexed even. He lifts his head.
“Am I all right?” It’s as though he’s checking he’s heard it properly, or perhaps puzzled at having been asked something he finds most bizarre. It’s as though he’s just been asked ‘Are you a dog?’ or some such nonsense.
Quietly he shifts his broad frame, putting his right hand on the floor and changes his seating position. He raises himself slightly and settles down again, this time on his knees. He’s peering at Asamura intently now. His slouch is entirely gone and his gaze falls down to the draper from its new, slightly elevated height. For some reason it locks Asamura in a frozen panic. Without warning, the stranger’s hand darts out at great speed. It is withdrawn almost as quickly. Between thumb and forefinger he dangles the little writing brush, lately tucked behind the draper’s left ear. Asamura is astonished. But the deed is complete before he has time to effect any physical response. Apart from his jaw dropping open, that is.
Grinning, the stranger now twirls the brush in his thick fingers looking at it as curiously as he had done Asamura himself only a few moments ago. Panic receding and allowing himself some relief, the host even considers whether he should comment on the brush, another attempt to draw the man into a conversation. But the visitor’s face becomes serious once more and his gaze returns smartly to Asamura.
It’s here that the priest lets loose a quiet, cheerless laugh. Then another. At first it is entirely bereft of either smile or jubilation. But quick upon its heels comes another. Then another, and before long the chortles join together in an amplifying cascade of what is surely genuine mirth. Asamura catches it too, and begins to chuckle also. His great tension, until now steadily rising, at last collapses into relieved laughter. And for a while the two strangers just sit there, giggling away like idiots, staring alternately at each other, then at the little paint brush.
Of course, it’s not long before Asamura realises that he doesn’t quite understand the joke and his gentle guffaws slowly run out of energy. Just as he is beginning to inwardly chide himself at having been alarmed at the crazy old priest, who has evidently spent far too many hours chanting himself into trances in the sun, there is a sudden silence as the visitor’s giggles come to an abrupt halt. It’s as though Asamura has accidentally run into a wall. The visitor is still grinning. But the grin is utterly without mirth.
Swift, the hand reaches out again. This time he clutches Asamura’s hair behind the head. At once it is pulled swiftly downwards, the cranium connecting firmly with the solid table. The skull cracks like an egg on a kitchen cutting board and he loses consciousness at once. Which is a mercy considering what is going to happen next.
On occasion, Kano has had cause to perform calligraphy in public not with a large brush but with a donkey’s tail. This can be a most messy endeavour and one he is about to be reminded of. Having spent most of the early hours of the morning assisting in neighbourhood fire prevention duties around his home, he is currently making his bleary-eyed way to Asamura san’s residence. On a morning like this they may, he hopes, share a smoke and perhaps some late breakfast.
Inside, he will soon find that everything is just as chaotic as it normally is in Asamura’s little office room. Kano always remarks how odd it is that Asamura is meticulously tidy in the workshop but messy in there. Today the chaos and mess have never reached such depths. Asamura is, of course, no longer at work, being deceased. As Kano approaches the building, the draper lies inside. Slouched across the table, his smashed head leaking, visionless eyes directed vaguely in the direction of the little tobacco pipe near his nose. In the corner is a Kimono box. It is open, having been searched, the Kimono itself spilled out onto the floor. Miraculously, it is free of either blood or ink. This is a most unlikely occurrence since most other things in the room have a trace of both on account of the mess created when Asamura’s favourite little paintbrush was hammered full length into his ear with the ink-stone.
Unaware of what he is about to find, Kano calls out a cheery greeting as he crosses the threshold.
Using a handful of rice which he purloins from one of his work colleague’s secret hiding places, Takahiro persuades a bath house nearby to allow him entry. It is frequented by some of the lower jobbing craftsmen who trade without a workshop. It is, therefore, marginally above his station. He receives a cordial if uninterested welcome.
It is quite dark inside for reasons of modesty, and men sit or squat together amid billows of steam around a central pile of charcoal-heated rocks. Takahiro is more than weary and he eyes the bath-house girl entirely absentmindedly as she splashes some more water on them from a little wooden tub at the request of one of the clients. One of them grins at Takahiro, seeing him stare at her and mistaking it for a leer. No, she’s not much to look at, he thinks to himself as she comes round behind him and sets about her work. She takes a straight stick of hardwood with a thin, flattened edge and begins to scrape and swipe at his back, periodically wiping the stick clean with a small cloth. Takahiro always feels like a pack-horse when this is done to him, as it is just the way the ostlers off-load sweat from tired ponies in the evening, especially when the nights get cool. Tonight, however, he does not dwell on the sensation for it is not only the grime of the streets but a deep weariness that gently oozes out from his pores.
Shortly, the cleaning is finished and all the men are seated outside on the little terrace, listening to the sound of the cicadas and letting the last of the moisture evaporate into the warm evening air. Tobacco pipes are produced. He doesn’t feel like talking to them and so gazes out onto the dark street, listening to an especially vocal cicada somewhere on a roof nearby. Out of a shadow a lone cat gently slides onto the dusty road and casts a cautious glance in his direction, before pouring itself back into the dark again.
Not much caring for the tobacco habit, Takahiro soon excuses himself, replaces his jacket and wearily tramps on home, not at all aware of the unhurried figure that emerges from around a nearby corner and casually follows him right into the entranceway of the labourer’s quarters.
Shock. Takahiro is trying to make sense of what is happening, but some part of his mind seems to be moving a blind spot over the issue at hand. An unanswered question. What was it now? “Is she here?” someone has asked. Yes, that was it. And then it’s not important. Not at all. Takahiro has a feeling that perhaps he’s suffered a massive and sudden blow to the head. Which of course he hasn’t. He is sure. Next, sensation of falling. But he isn’t. Something badly amiss.
The face in front of him. Stranger. Is it? Badly shaved head. Some beggar-priest or thug ronin. Don’t know. Didn’t know. A metallic taste in his mouth – copper? – is the next impression, one he vaguely recognises. A reminder of childhood, of grazed knees, and that time he’d nearly cut off his own finger by accident when he’d taken a knife of his father’s he wasn’t supposed to. Ah, yes. That’s it. Blood. His own of course. Although he doesn’t yet feel any pain, he is becoming aware of the sword lodged in his torso.
Evidently it has entered just below his left rib and is now embedded somewhere near his right hip bone. Not that he dares to look. There is no movement from either man. His own hands are raised high, he sees now, palms together in a gesture of supplication. He remembers. He’d been asked where Ai the cotton finisher lives. And Takahiro had been happy to tell. Then the silent plea for mercy. Just as he is debating whether he should lower his hands from this entreaty in an attempt to hold his guts in, the weapon is withdrawn in an abrupt pull further down to his right. It exits just over his hip bone. Splatter against the wall. Like some dog pissing. As gravity finally lowers his arms a brief desolation flits across his face. He loses consciousness just as the pain lightning-bolts into him, never having realised that the sword has split his spinal column on its way through his body. He is therefore mercifully unaware, as his legs begin to buckle, of the slow turn and slide of his torso as it starts to separate itself from his crumpling lower body or of the sluice of dark gore which makes a considerable impact on the ceiling saturating the assailant in the process.
Home. The glow from the little oil lamp on the shelf behind her has softly banished the shadows to the corners, there to wait until she is ready for sleep. Since the scant light may attract a stray mosquito or two, she has lit some incense, specially made to dispel them. And yet although she is exhausted the time for sleep may be a while distant as her mind is still running fast.
Barefoot, Ai the cotton-finisher sits quietly on a floor mat beside the hearth, now covered up with its summer boards. She has removed her head scarf and hair-pin and set them down beside her. She is beginning to relax, carefully considering the new curiosity in her lap. Spread across her simple pale blue smock and brown work trousers, the rather exceptional piece of cloth would normally draw her full attention – she is aware it must be an off-cut from a Chinese Kimono of great expense and antiquity – but even this has been pushed beyond the reach of her consideration by what lies in her hands. Unwrapped, a flaking, pale ivory-white face peers back at her from its background of red and green silk wrapping.
Delicate and remarkably light, it is the face of a woman. Ai wonders for a moment if it is from a Noh play. Yet it seems somehow just a little too crude – inexpert, almost – for that. Although such performances are hardly occasions for those of low birth like her, she knows a little of them from her uncle Kano’s conversations on such matters. On reflection, this item may be a little too antique to be one of those. Yes, definitely too old. It could well be the face of a goddess of some kind – from some simple country shrine or other. And despite it’s crudity it has a quality that captivates her. A certain stillness. Atop the tall, wise forehead, impossibly high eyebrows vaguely suggest themselves in darkened, aged paint. Above them, hair has also been painted so that a clear parting is visible directly in the centre. Thick, cracked lips – barely open at all – refuse a smile. Expressionless, the whole face seems to beckon her to its hidden interior. And yet the leisured eye slots strongly resist any such intention on Ai’s part.
She is uncertain whether the lips are meant to be open or closed. Perhaps the Goddess is just about to speak. Or perhaps has uttered some unknown word and it would be no sound of this earth either, Ai thinks. The eyes are narrow – cut slots the shape of almonds, not quite fully open. Yet neither could she say they are closed. Somehow they appear to be looking down on her. They see and understand Ai. Yet whatever wisdom may drift within remains in abeyance, locked behind that simple layer of cypress wood and crumbling gesso. It is a face which all at once promises hidden fire yet remains stubbornly aloof.
The scratching of sandals on the dried mud outside in the street rudely rouses Ai from her near trance. From the sound she can easily tell that it’s not her uncle. It is someone heavier. She waits either for whoever it is to move on or for the infuriating sound of urinating against the wall, a common enough occurrence at night. She waits long enough to wonder if the person is actually still there. Even long enough for the first suggestion of sleep to lay an impish hand upon her.
The next interruption, however, is not one of annoyance but extreme alarm as a clunking attempt is made to slide the front door open. The effort fails, since the door is secured by a simple wooden latch. At once, Ai stands. Within her, fear strikes sharply at the sound of a heavy object being inserted into the slight gap beside the latch. As she hastily extinguishes the oil lamp the darkness floods back towards her from its brief exile in the corners and she accepts the enveloping shadows with the scant relief of a hunted fox. As the wooden door-pin begins to creak under the strain, her already racing heart accelerates further. By the time the inevitable sound of the snapping wood assaults her she has hurriedly wrapped the mask back in its covering. She places it inside the front fold of her smock beneath her left breast – where her heart promptly takes a leap as the heavy door slowly begins to grind open on its dusty runners. The faint glow of a lantern enters the threshold. It renders the paper sliding-door between Ai and the intruder a golden yellow. Upon it now, the plane of his shadow. Flat, ridiculous. A shadow puppet, no less. She watches in compelled terror as a hand separates from it and pulls the outer door closed. Behind the screen, a breath away, he stands. Stock still. Waiting. Listening.
Ai knows she cannot move. Even the slightest adjustment in her balance may cause the floorboards to sing out. She hears him move one step closer, signalling his intention to enter the room. She holds her breath and tries to think. A weapon. Her only hope. What is there? The bamboo tube bellow? It’s shut up in the hearth under the boards. Some other heavy object? As her racing mind clutches at desperate options the intruder’s feet shift again. Not to the entrance directly in front of Ai, as she’s expected, but on down the corridor. Directly towards the rear of the house. Slowly. But what relief is there in this? It will only gain her a few moments. Two steps, then three. Now, upon the paper that shields her, an extension to the shadow. A drawn sword. The shadow moves on.
She resolves that stealth is her best option. She has a breathing space at least. But he will come in. This much is certain. Could she just run, she wonders? Use his increasing distance from her to get a head start and bolt out the door like a deer? Perhaps. Now four steps. But the door is shut and it’s heavy. Five. She decides he’s still too close for that to succeed and determines to wait instead. Six steps. If he gets as far as the kitchen, then it might work. Seven.
It’s here that he seems to change his mind, for he stops again. After a pause Ai hears the gentle grind of sandals turning on the earth floor and the glow of the lantern begins to make its way back up to where it’s just come from. She must move. She has to match his steps and move in the opposite direction, towards the back of the house. Maximising the distance between them is her only chance. Perhaps she could conceal herself in uncle’s studio – yes, the door is open. And so is the one to the scullery… Just as she is about to make a move, timed at the same moment as his footsteps, she notices a tiny glow at her feet – the mosquito incense. Sacrificing a precious moment, she bends down and silently extinguishes it between finger and thumb. If he sees it lit, he will know for sure he has company.
At the next footfall she shifts her weight and sends a swift foot across to where she believes a solid floorboard lies. The one she has stepped away from emits the faintest of creaks. The intruder pauses and Ai is frozen, straddling the unsound boards between them. Is he asking himself whether he just heard that or not? Her heart is pounding but she keeps her breath slow and steady. Her stance is broad, with one foot still on the place where she had stood a moment ago and the other further into the room. Both hands clasp at the mask under her clothes, for fear it may drop. Her eyes have begun to adjust to the gloom now. She judges the floor ahead. Every day of her life, she’s walked it. She waits. Waits for his next step. When it comes, she is ready.
She makes her judgement. As he moves she takes three large steps in time with him. One – two – three. The intruder and her stop together. Success? Perhaps. Yes. So far, anyway. She is at the open threshold of the studio and the intruder is behind her, almost at the sliding paper screen door where she had sat. In front of her now are the noisiest floorboards of all. But this time she doesn’t wait for him. She knows her ground well. Three long strides across the rickety floor, trusting her full weight to a known strong-spot with each long pace and she is at the scullery threshold. Behind her the sliding door is drawn slowly back and the glow of the intruder’s lantern bleeds inside.
Ai needs just two more steps. As he places first one foot then the other up onto the narrow outer platform that runs the whole length of the earthen corridor, she is on the little scullery landing. She places a trembling foot down onto the mighty stepping stone, thanking the Gods for it’s solidity, and drops silently down on hands and knees onto the earth of the lower kitchen floor just as the lantern swings in by the hearth and long fingers of probing shadows reach the full length of the house touching her disappearing back.
He pauses. Crouching as low as she can bear, she can only imagine what he is doing. He is certainly very still. He waits a long time. It’s only now that the wave of realisation sweeps over her. The danger she is in is extreme. Mortal in fact. For the past few moments the urgency of sudden fear has compelled body, breathing and judgement just as she might have wished. But now she has to try hard to regularise her breathing as the impulse that has just saved her life – so far – threatens to slump into a paralysing fear.
Behind her, determined footfalls recommence, heavily pressing the boards. They travel first from the hearth then directly into the studio, sending out wooden creaks and groans that seem to search for her chilled heart just as the long shadows have done. Halfway across the studio, they stop. He must surely be looking into the kitchen. If her back is visible she is surely done for. If he comes farther? She waits, her hard won breath now held like some oyster diver. Just one more step towards her, and she will scramble up in a determined, desperate dash down the hallway. Or is he thinking, might he just be considering, the great noise he’s just made walking across those boards? If they’re that noisy, could there really be anyone else here? Is that what he’s thinking?
Nothing. No movement from him. She cannot hold her breath much longer. But then he turns, solidly, and walks back into the hearth room, leaving Ai to inhale the very returning shadows in relief. She hears him approach the drawer unit that doubles as a staircase and noisily make his way up it.
Taking advantage of this distance between them, she crawls urgently out into the corridor itself. A dash to the door. She could reach it. Certainly get through it. But what then? She would have given herself away and he would be in pursuit. As she hears him begin to search cupboards and storage boxes upstairs she considers that behind her in the kitchen are weapons. A great many knives, some quite large. It might be worth getting one. She considers the wisdom of this as he continues his search. But for now, she just breathes. For the moment she can do nothing else.
All of a sudden, he is finished upstairs. The sound of his steps precede the light of his lantern as he makes his way back down the rickety staircase which he proceeds to inspect roughly, pulling out each drawer and casting it to the floor. Once, he stops and seems to be listening. Then goes on as before.
Ai realises the weakness of her position. When he is done, he can do one of two things. He could simply leave the way he has come in. Which of course is what she prays for. Or, he can proceed via the studio to the scullery and continue his search there. At which point he will most likely find her as soon as steps into the corridor again to leave. She faces the fact that this is the more likely option. Many houses maintain a fireproof safe for valuables and he might well visit there to check for one. That would necessitate coming into the hallway.
He is finished with the stair unit and starts on the hearth, noisily taking up its covering boards to inspect inside. It doesn’t take him long to finish there. Confident strides take him across the floorboards towards the scullery once more. Ai has no option. She raises herself to her hands and knees. Dog-like she scurries. Nearly falls. Only upon reaching the main door to the street is she upright. The sliding screen door to the hearth room is still open. Behind her, at the rear of the house, comes the rattle and crash of the scullery being searched. He hasn’t heard her. Not a thing.
The main door to the street is merely an arms length away. It may be a last chance. But opening the heavy door will certainly alert him to her presence. She could run. But would she escape him? She can hear him throwing the dampers off the mud plaster oven. He’s checking inside and it won’t take him long. His next move is imminent. Or she could prepare to return to the hearth room – if he proceeds down the corridor, that is. He may not notice her in there if he simply leaves the premises the way he came in. Neither option contains any certainty whatsoever. She feels she has been here – in this very situation – before. And in a sense she has. This is the point at which she stops thinking. Without any further deliberation she raises one foot up to the high threshold of the room. One hand steadies her on the raised wooden step, the other is on the runners of the sliding screen. She is primed. Ready.
The rummaging stops. He’s finished looking in there. The pause in his fuss and efforts alarms her. But where he hesitates, she does not. If his next move is into the corridor she will be seen. With a deep breath Ai thrusts herself silently up across the threshold and into the darkness of the room. She is crouched now, both feet on the high floor and hands on the boards also, ready to stand if need be. Not a sound has come from her.
The lantern swings into the corridor. Towards the front door, the steps begin again. Ai moves on hands and feet further into the room, daring to hope he will simply leave. She considers that the further back into the house she can recede, the less chance she will have of being spotted should he look in to the room once more on his way out. But something inside her prefers not to do this. Some quieter part of her reveals itself instead. She disdains another flit across the boards and slowly stands to face the doorway instead. If he sees her, he sees her. She can do no more.
In the corridor the lantern is held high once more, casting it’s silent eye into the room, across the hearth and the onto the blasted staircase unit. Utterly certain he is alone, he throws a final frustrated glance inside. If he’s going to see her, it will be now. His eyes behold the scene he is about to leave behind. The scattered, upended hearth covers; the drawers from the stair unit scattered by his frantic searching: and their contents, strewn and hopeless. Turning his back, he passes on. Ai hears the heavy outside door slide open then bang shut behind him. Together with the light of his lantern, his tramping footsteps enter the street and before long begin to fade.
Had he seen her, he would have found a quiet enemy; solitary beyond comprehension and utterly resolved as only someone faced with the certainty of their death could be. Wouldn’t it have been such a surprise to him, she considers now, to have found her there in the light of his paper lantern? Might she even have seemed ghostly to him, she wonders, with her hair untied and wild? And would he have grinned – or dog-like, snarled – as he directed his weapon toward her? Would he have expected her to run, to cower, to beg? If so, she would have utterly defied such expectations. He would have encountered Ai’s acceptance of her fate, her willingness to abandon her life into a wholehearted attempt to render it his fate also. Upon her face the mask is held most steady, the silence of the night swaddled around her. The tick and clink and of ancient timbers cooling somewhere above. The secrets of shadows. A life that nearly ended. Concealed down by her side, the long hair pin. The faint flint-spark prick of it potent there in her gentle grip; alive, vital, in a hand that does not tremble.
The Three Ladies and the Bus-ride
Dec 2nd
I remember the 1st day and the bus ride back to college from the Centre-ville of the town, i encountered three old ladies in the bus. they were Grandmothers to be precise and major part of their lives must have gone in taking care of their husbands and their children but now they had the time to enjoy their life and go to swanky restaurants and dine their hearts out with the delicious food not being concerned about the curfew time.
They entered the bus with an air of elegance and one could say that they were from an aristocratic lineage and it was their necessity to travel with the common man that they had an air about. well-tailored dresses, manicured hands and painted nails and the ring finger still adorned with the marriage ring that their husbands must have given to them at least 50years back as a token of their love towards them. the rings glittering in their hands in the rays of the sun that were filtering through the windows of the bus.
though the day was warm they had adorned their necks with scarves and their dresses with overcoats of expensive wool and it was matching with the stereotypical Madam:) there was a lady who had a dog and was holding it to her heart as if she would lose her life if she would leave it. they saw all the commoners in the bus but occupied the last seat though the bus was empty. they wanted to be seated in a much higher position than the commoners.the aristocracy of the French ladies is very well seen in the way they talk, the poise that are seated in and even the way they swear about or bitch about their husbands, their daughter-in-law and the younger generation. but they never commented about their children or grand-children and that was quite surprising to know.
The general topics of discussion were their previous doctor’s appointment, the way the bus-driver was driving the bus and the weather and it was insightful to know about the way they were predicting the weather for the next few days. old ladies are like kids and they really do not care about what the world thinks about them, they just talk and talk and talk not concerned about whether the people might be listening or the bus driver may also be listening, they just chatter away to glory and it was a non-stop entertainment for the fellow passengers or commoners to be more precise.the group was a very jovial one and were cracking jokes on all of us and it was funny enough to laugh at them.the dog was also the part of the whole group. in the time that the ladies were talking, the dog jumped out of the owner’s hand was roaming about in the bus thinking about that he was free from the clutches of his mistress, one old man tried to catch old of the dog and give it back to the owner but she silenced him saying that she had well-trained the dog to come back to its right owner and the old man was really offended and started shouting rudely to everyone who entered the bus and it was a very welcoming sight indeed of an old man shouting on all the passengers who wanted to entered the bus.
one of the ladies was of the silent type and the checker of the minute details of the travel namely the time, the destination and she had written everything down on a piece of paper about their alighting stop. since these ladies were engrossed in talking that they had forgotten about their destination and they hurried to the exit door and requested the bus-driver to stop the bus and he did so without taking into the bad things that they had said about him sitting in the back.
I noticed one thing about the ladies that they all went in different directions the moment they got down the bus. at the end of the journey as i was getting down at the last stop, i decided to inquire about the ladies to the bus driver and he had a great story to confess into me. he said that these ladies always travel in the same bus at the same time and have been doing so for the past 15years and they do it every single day and all the drivers know them very well as they have been very regular but they do not remember any bus-drivers but they remember to meet each other at the same time because they were sisters and they have an invisible bond with each other and that bond makes them meet everyday irrespective of the weather.i inquired about the parting of directions to the driver and he said that the husbands of the three ladies were arch enemies of each other and they would not like them to meet each other irrespective of them being sisters.
this confession actually appalled me but the admirable quality of sisterhood and the bond that ladies share was truly worth cherishing and really hats-off to the ladies, they have taught me the true essence of blood relations and as the thought goes that “Blood is thicker than water” has proven the statement clearly in the relation of these three Madams who meet everyday and forget about their daily schedules to spend time with each other and talk their life happenings was truly an experience to cherish for me!
The Visitor
Dec 1st
He leaned back on the squishy armchair, holding the paper cutter at eye-level with both hands.
“Nice details,” he chuckled, admiring the dragon engraved on the handle, “but pretty much worthless,” he ran his index finger along the arrow-shaped bronze blade, “where’s the edge?”
I was beginning to feel impatient. Where the hell was Rimi? And why hadn’t she told her friends to visit her when she would be home? It was perhaps a mistake to come here- I knew her flat was tiny, after all, with space for only one table. It doubled as the dining and study table in the only proper sized room, all dining, living and study rolled into one. But the place was perfect otherwise, with her internship and the subject of my next project fitting in so wonderfully. She had said that she hardly ever got visitors. Well, here I was, dealing with it. Trust my sister to invite me to work in peace and quiet, and then leave me alone to entertain her guests! Of course, it could be just her idea of a perfect prank- inviting someone when she knew she wouldn’t be home, and watching me shout at her afterwards. Angry people were her special favourites, well I liked them watching too- but in third person. Rimi loved it most when the anger was directed against her.
Perhaps psychiatry students were all a little nutty.
But what guests really? I eyed the man sitting before me with the air that he owned the place. He was badly in need of a shave and a haircut, and he was wearing carpet slippers. Of his clothes, I had no idea, because he wouldn’t take off his waterproof. It looked classy enough, but that could hardly make up for the pool of water on the floor. More work for me later, and more of my time wasted.
“Too much trouble,” he told me as he settled his wet self in my sister’s favorite chair. “It’ll spray water over your furniture if I try to take it off. Anyway, I can’t stay too long. I’ll have a quick word with Rimi as soon as she comes and then I’ll be gone.”
He had been chewing my head off for the past half an hour.
For some reason, every single object on my study table excited his critical attention. First it was the Chinese fountain pen. Yes, I am a little old-fashioned with my tastes and preferences. I’m still part of the pen-and-paper brigade, and I love fountain pens, despite the incredulous stares I get everywhere. Fountain pens, inkpot and rolls of foolscap sheets are my essential writer’s props. But of course, my highly opinionated guest could rest at that simple explanation. So he pronounced the pen an antique, then the unorganized state of my pages were the source of comment, and now it was the paper knife’s turn.
The knife was a gift from a reader in Gangtok, the first of such gifts. That made it special. I like to carry it around with me, the sight of those fierce red dragon eyes beside the white pages on my table give me the impetus to write. Besides, it is psychological help to have something weapon-like around when you’re writing murder mysteries. And in fact, I had used a paper cutter as the murder tool in two of my books. The designs were inspired by mine. But of course, the fictional blades were more lethal than the reality.
The man sat up so fast that I almost jumped. What is he playing at- holding the knife like that?
“It does have a pointed tip, though.” He said, tapping his index finger upon it, “I suppose one may kill with this if it were pushed hard enough.” He jabbed and then slashed through the air.
I felt my back hitting the hard wooden chair as my fingers snapped around the armrest, my nails digging into my flesh.
Was he trying to be funny? It was time to put an end to this game.
“It serves well enough as a paper cutter. Shall I give you some magazines to read until Rimi returns?”
He was still contemplating the blade.
“Depends on where you stab, and on how strong you are as well.” he announced, and returned it back to the table.
Thank God!
I grabbed the knife as soon as he moved his hand away, pulled open the over-stuffed drawer and threw it in, slamming it shut again.
My rudeness had no effect whatsoever on him. Instead he stretched out his legs, his white trousers peeping out from beneath the hem of the grey waterproof, and began whistling at the ceiling with a dreamy expression on his face.
Wait, trousers? Was he wearing pajamas under the raincoat? God, this guy was weird for sure!
“That’s a nice scarf you’re wearing.” He remarked, still reading the dingy white tiles. Oh good, had my table finally run out of novelties, then? “Is it woolen?”
“Yes.” The sudden depression and rain had made the air cold, and while my characters thrived in such weather, I tended to catch a chill during these times.
“I thought so.” He nodded like he was a textile dealer or something, “Now that scarf would make a good murder weapon.”
“Are you mad or what?” I shouted, jumping up from my chair.
“What?” he said, sounding surprised, “You must agree it’s a good weapon, you use it yourself in The Case of the Jigsaw Puzzle –awesome story, by the way.”
The Case of the Jigsaw Puzzle – an early book of mine, one of the very few where I let the murderer get away. It wasn’t among my own favourites, though. But I had no problem if somebody disagreed.
He was a fan. Rimi must have gone to town announcing that her thriller writer sister was coming to stay. The chatterbox! When did I say I wanted to do book-signing sessions?
“The Jigsaw Puzzle is one of your few good books, you know. In most of the rest, your plot’s a bit too contrived, too simple.”
Excuse me? All my books were best sellers, and I got letters from readers after every release telling me how they found it impossible to put the book down before getting to the end. Who did this smart aleck think he was?
“You’re welcome to your own opinions, of course.” My voice revealed a little more heat than I had intended, “But what’s your reason for saying that?”
He picked up the crystal paperweight from my table. That one had served as the weapon in The Missing Clue, my most recent book, out last year.
“If I throw this at you, do you thing it’ll crack your skull?” He asked. His tone was casual, friendly. But I felt a tingle of discomfort. “I’ve excellent aim, you know. Used to be a fielder in the school cricket team.”
“Do you mind keeping my things where they are?” I said. “I don’t like my papers blowing away.” There was a time and place for stupidity. If he would ask for an autograph and then go away, I wouldn’t mind at all. But this was testing my tolerance.
He replaced the paperweight and stood up.
Was he leaving?
No, he merely walked up to the window and looked outside. What exactly was he expecting to see through the rain?
“I’ve done the calculations, you know. About thirty percent of the murders in your books take place in this kind of weather.” He said, still looking outside the window with his back towards me. “I suppose it’s sort of logical –the neighbours are unlikely to hear the sound of a struggle when it’s pouring like this.” He turned around and faced me, smiling. “So, where were we? Ah yes, you wanted to know why I think your plots are artificial.” He came back to his chair, and crossed his legs, making the waterproof part from the bottom along the button line. Yes, he was wearing white pajamas. He folded his arms across his chest and breathed deeply.
“See, the problem with most of your novels is that you focus only on making your detective character look good.” He explained, “The culprit, who’s the actual person moving the plot comes off as sort of forced. Just a device to enable the detective to play the hero. It seems like you really don’t know your murderers.”
How dare he- of course I knew my murderers, I knew all my characters! And in fact, the editor of The Happy Hour had just complimented me last month on just that point.
“You know them so well that it seems sometimes that you live with murderers.” He had joked, “Why don’t you try something else, for a challenge? Romance from you for our magazine would be a sort of novelty.”
I refused though. While it was true I didn’t live with murderers, I would still rather be writing what I enjoyed. And here was this nobody from nowhere lecturing me on characters.
“You’re mistaken. I do know my characters. I make detailed history charts for every character in a book before I even start writing.”
He scoffed, “If you ask me, I’d say you’ve got only two character charts for all your novels – one is for the detective who always saves the day by catching the hero, and the other for the villain prototype who ends up getting caught by the detective.”
“What is it you want?” I asked, exasperated, “Would you rather the murderer go scot-free in every book?”
“Don’t you think he gets caught a bit too easily every time?” he countered, “Most of your culprits are serial killers- they’ve committed several murders without anybody getting a whiff of them, and then along comes your detective – some inexperienced bank clerk or someone nondescript, or even worse- a school-going teenager, and bingo- he’s off to jail.” He punched the table, making the ink-pot and the paperweight rattle. “Take the paperweight killer, for example. Why would someone so clever leave the weapon behind for your hero to find it? It’s unbelievable, down to absurd! Come to think of it, do you know how many serial killers have been caught in real life?” He was shouting now.
“Well, lot’s of them.” I said. I could see he was crazed up. Read too many thrillers, perhaps. No matter, he could make excellent character afterwards.
“Was Jack the Ripper ever arrested?” he argued, “No. Was the identity of the Zodiac Killer ever known? No. Did anybody ever find out who the Stone Man was? No. And here you’re, pretending that serial killers can be caught by an over smart kid.”
“A number of serial killers have been caught.” I reiterated. “Ed Gein, Charles Manson, Mary Ann Cotton. There were many others. The few you named are famous only because they haven’t. They form the minority.”
“And because they’re minorities you’ll pretend through your novels that they don’t exist at all?”
“What are you talking about?” I asked. This was getting weirder and weirder.
“Minorities have rights in a democracy.” He said, “You can’t insult serial killers by suggesting that they’re all foolish enough to be tricked by anybody who fancies himself or herself as a detective.”
“Look, this is insane.” I said, my patience fast wearing out, “Who do you think you are- a spokesperson for serial killers?”
“That is exactly who I am. You’ve got it at last.”
I snorted.
“And who appointed you to this post?”
“Oh no one. I appointed me myself.” He said, “You see, I’m a murderer.” He slipped his hand into the raincoat’s pocket and brought out a shiny kitchen knife.
“That’s not funny at all.” I said.
“No, it’s not. You think I’m joking? You don’t even know a murderer when he’s sitting right under your bloody nose, and you call yourself a crime novelist? How dare you?” He stood up, knife in hand.
I stood up too, shaking.
“Look, I’ve had enough of your nonsense. If you don’t leave right now, I’m going to call the police now.”
“Oh but you won’t,” He said, “because I’m going to kill you before you do anything.”
He pounced before I could react. Next thing I knew- I was pinned to the wall with the knife inches away from my throat.
“I’ve taken upon myself the mission to restore the dignity of all murderers, and especially of serial-killers. And I’m going to prove to you that a murderer can get away with serial murders without any two-penny detective being any wiser about it.” His voice was pleasant again but there was a hard edge underneath the friendliness.
The roof of my mouth felt parched. The tip of the knife almost touched my throat, and I knew it wasn’t useless like the paper cutter.
“Look, please-” I began, without knowing what to say. I could hardly speak at all. I could hear my heart hammering against my ribs.
“No, but the real problem is if I kill you today, you won’t know when I do it again.” He scratched his head with his free hand, “Perhaps I should go today, and come back after killing some other people. But today was such a good chance to kill you- you were all alone too. To kill or not to kill? That is the question.”
As he continued to mutter to himself, something clicked in my head. White pajamas! Of course, that was the uniform of the inmates of the asylum- I had seen them myself when I had visited this morning. That was it- this guy had escaped somehow. Perhaps he had heard Rimi telling her seniors that I wanted to write a mystery about a murderer in a mental asylum, and wanted permission to visit.
But what was I going to do now? I was alone with an escaped lunatic and Rimi was God-knows-where and this guy was holding me at knife-point. My detectives would get out of it with a well-aimed kick, but I had never learned any form of martial arts.
“Please, please calm down.” I stammered, “I promise to make my murderer very clever in my next book and he won’t be caught by anybody.”
“You won’t be writing a next book.” He hissed, his eyes glinting.
“But you won’t get away either- there are security guards outside- and I-I’m going to scream!” I was drenched in sweat, but my palms were ice-cold. I couldn’t breathe any more.
“Will you?” he said thoughtfully, “Yes, perhaps you will. No, I need a more foolproof method.” God, please, let this work. Let this work! And he pulled away the knife, put it back in his pocket, and went back to his chair. I stood there, dazed, not knowing what to do. I didn’t have strength left to do anything.
The bell rang, the noise jolting me. I rushed to the door and pulled it open with all my might, nearly falling into Rimi who was standing outside.
“Rimi, thank God you’re here,” I cried out, almost weeping in relief, “that man there- he’s dangerous!” I pointed wildly. He was still sitting there in that chair, smiling as if nothing had happened, “We’ve got to call for help, Rimi!”
“Relax, big sister. Nothing’s gonna happen.” She tried to hug me.
I broke free.
“You don’t understand- he tried to kill me!” I spluttered.
“Did he?” she looked into my face curiously, and then stepped inside. “Hello, Viv. Fancy seeing you here.”
I watched as he advanced to greet her, grinning broadly. Was he going to hurt her too? How could she be careless? No, but she didn’t understand. She had no idea. I was going to shout another warning, I couldn’t let him harm my sister, but then my voice suddenly died. The two of them had just high-fived.
“This is Vivek, sis, my fellow intern.”
It took me a minute or two to find my voice again.
“This wasn’t funny at all, Rimi. This was a sick, lousy joke!”
“It wasn’t a joke at all.” Said the guy called Vivek. “It was a case-study.”
“A case-study?” I repeated.
“Yes- studying people and their reactions in dire situations.” Rimi informed me, “Case-study for us, plot material for you. Cool eh?” She grinned that idiotic grin of hers.
“What?”
“Yes, you see, Vivek here is big fan of your books.” She placed an arm round his shoulder, “When I told him you were coming here to research on your next novel, he wanted to contribute to it.”
“I hope you didn’t mind all those horrible things I said about your books.” Vivek spoke, “They’re all brilliant, actually. I can never stop once I start reading one.”
I stared at the pair of them for several more minutes while they tried to put up guilty and ashamed demeanours. Then I quietly walked past them into the bedroom I was sharing with Rimi.
“Hey, where are you going?” My sister called from behind.
“To make a call to the editor of The Happy Hour.” I replied.
With Dusk comes Dawn
Nov 23rd
Years passes fast after the arduous training handed down to Raiken from her vampire master, Evangeline McGetter. One year after the other, he strived to be better at every technique he was taught by his master. He did not want history to repeat itself and befall on his childhood friend, Hitomi Nagisa. She was the one he loved the most after his family members’ tragic death and thus isolated himself from her so as to obtain power to protect her from all harms and avenge his fallen family. Both of them have never communicated for so long and Raiken had never, for a moment, thought that Hitomi shared the very same emotion towards him. As the year passes one by one, the distance between the two of them grew farther apart, but Hitomi still desired for the two of them to be together, like how they were in the past, along with their feelings growing stronger. But Raiken had no use for his past, for the past had left a terrible scar in his heart which time can never heal. He believed that only through the mentally and physically arduous training set for him by Evangeline, he would then momentarily forget all his sadness and emotions. With that, five years have flown past, and now the lone ranger was training in his master’s dome.
“Ha… Ha… Ha……” Raiken panted, while cold droplets of sweat fell down his cheeks
“What is that all you got, Boy? Is THAT ALL YOU CAN ONLY DO, YOU PATHETIC EXCUSE OF A HUMAN!” Evangeline shouted at her disciple for not lasting more than ten minutes of continuous bombardment of her freezing ice spells that could claim Raiken’s life if intended to. She was holding back, while he was at full force. If not, Raiken would not have lasted for even ten seconds. This clearly reflected the magnificent gap between him and her aged master.
“Venez l’obscurité, se rassemblent dans mes mains et effacer mes ennemis! FIRE, THOUSAND SPEARS OF DARKNESS!” A black orb gathered on top of his palm that was directed towards Evangeline, thousands magical spears shot out from the orb. Being a master in the dark arts, Evangeline evaded effortlessly. It was as simple as playing dodge ball with an infant. But despite being magically inclined, Raiken was no doubt physically strong and agile. After dodging the thousand arrows, Raiken vanished in the exact same moment the spell was casted and appeared behind his master’s back for his counterattack.
“Too slow…” Evangeline countered her disciple’s right elbow attack. Although she was indeed one of the best masters in darkness magic, Evangeline, cursed with a child’s body, was physically weak and she toned her body muscles with magic in order to block Raiken’s melee attack. She simply could not afford to let Raiken hit her for his right arm was cursed with the double-edged ability, ‘MAGIC DISPELLER’, which allows any magical illusion or whatnot to lose its magical purpose, at the expense of his weak ability to learn and perform powerful magic. She countered him with a makeshift ice sword, almost slashing his chest as he somersault away. Panting, he was out of tactics to deal against his seemingly invincible master.
At the final moment, the chiming of bells ringed through their ears.
“Master, Mr Rai, time for school has arrived!” The voice of a humanoid echoed through the dome.
“ Well, aren’t you lucky. With your current abilities, you can’t even hold a candle towards the Magic World. Master your basics; only with fundamentals can you strive to be better in your skills… Just for your information, your beloved is still waiting for you after so long and despite of your cold shoulder. Faithful partners don’t come often, my dear. Seize it before you lose it.” Evangeline slandered him after realizing that all these efforts were for his beloved and he was still weak compared to before.
“…” He was speechless as he knew the painful truth but simply refused to accept it. His stubbornness was something that might claim his life and definitely not worth admiration.
They got out of the magical dome as fast as they could and Raiken hastily dress himself in his school uniform in his room, while Evangeline was peeping openly at his well-trained abs.
“Come on, slow down. Take it easy, your ‘Ki Shigen’ can get you into school within seconds.”
“I don’t want to cause any unwanted attention on my first day of school and would you please get out, I am changing …”
“Fine, do what you like. I am just your guardian, nothing else. Won’t want you to cause shame to…” Before she could finish, Raiken pointed his own makeshift sword at her face, his eyes sharpening with anger. Moving his sword away from her face, she disappeared, apparently escaping because she had stepped on his taboo. His taboo was not to be mentioned in front of him as it was a form of shame and disgrace. He just hated that word, a lot. So much that the word became taboo in his ears. The word would just remind him of the demon who came and turned his peaceful life upside.
“Shameful. Too shameful. You can’t even save your parents. You shamed the name of the legendary martial arts skill ‘Ki Shougen’. Just wait, your doomsday will arrive, sooner and later. Both yours and hers. HAHAHAHAHA!” Screamed the chilling voice of the demon that obliterated his family members one by one. This voice would always echoed through his head, no matter how much he tried to forget the voice. It was no use, it would just come back to haunt him again.
Ignoring it, he picked up his schoolbag and left the mansion with the farewell of Chachamaru behind, the female maid android living with Evangeline and Raiken. Looking at his watch, as he suspected, it was a waste of time fighting against the voice. The only way to reach on the time was what Evangeline mentioned early on, the usage of Raiken’s Ki Shigen. It allows the user to break the limiter set by the human body mental and physical control, and greatly boosts the user’s thinking speed and physical abilities. It was the only option he had if he did not want to be late for school.
“Ki Shigen, Level 1, activate!” He then sped off to school, breaking the sound barrier.
Hitomi was then walking graciously to school, greeted by many who admired and respected her. Her looks was not exactly glamorous, but dawn with black long hair, alluring eyes and a smile which will melt even the most cold-blooded being in this world, how could no boys fall for her? The girls were also charmed by her grace and abilities to handle the school management with the confidence that everyone gets a wonderful moment at Mazora High School. Thinking back, the only person who had not received such a time was Raiken’s. Ever since Year One, he isolated himself from his classmates and stubbornly refused to interact with them. Despite that, many females fall for him for his cold coolness and intelligent. He was ranked top for the school examinations all the time. Because of that, he became the target of many agonizing and envious males in the school. Yet, some males still hoped to talk to Raiken and tried countless of fruitless attempt to talk to him. Hitomi had done all this in hope to catch his attention. Apparently, he was not interested in such time consuming event and he even evaded authorities and kind-hearted people who tried to force him into such event. Sighing, she walked to the entrance of the school. A gust of wind blow the entrance bay so strong that girls had to use both hands to prevent the exposure of what underneath their skirts is.
“Kyah!! What is with this ridiculous strong wind?”
“Stop! Don’t look, PERVERTS!”
With a loud bang, he reached the school on time by landing in front of a startled crowd. He noticed that his beloved was looking at her and many curious eyes were staring outside the class windows. In reality, what matters most was always first impressions. He just cursed himself for not exiting the mansion early and receiving embarrassment…
“What? When did you arrive, Rai?”
“Great… So much for first impressions…” He sighed and cursed himself for exposing his skill. It was the starting of his second year in Mazora High and thousands of eyes were looking at his direction. Raiken hated to be the center of attention. Not wanting to be constantly stared at, especially by ‘her’, he sprinted off to the shoes locker. A gust of wind always seems to accompany him wherever he goes, causing many skirts to expose what was underneath and the eyes of boys turning perverted. But as his dashing figure flew past her, she was speechless. She did not know what to talk about. There he was so close to her but she wasn’t able to stop him for even the most simple ‘Good Morning’ greeting. He would and will probably ignore her. The distance between the two of them are so close, yet so far. This blatant fact pierced her heart countless times and no doubt it did too this time as well. But her heart remained persistent and strong. She did not want to abandon all hope in recovering Raiken’s cheerful self. Although it was true that his older personality before the unspeakable incident needs serious amendments, but she loved it that he was always there for her. He was her pillar of strength and still is after his sudden change of attitude. This was what kept Hitomi going after so long. Even if the distance between the two hearts is so far, they will eventually connect. She believes in that. As the gust of wind flows along his fleeing figure, she turned and looked at his back as her hair and skirt flew freely with the wind.
“Wait for me…” She mumbled to herself while covering what was underneath her skirt.
As soon as the lockers were in sight, he braked and brisk steadily to his locker. He did not turn back to look when he fled past her. He could sense that she was looking at him. He did not bother to say ‘Morning’ for he knew that it was a waste of time. Although it was a deception, he would just ignore this. Solitude was now his strength and gaining power as fast as possible was his current goal. Nothing else matters, not even her can stop his revengeful soul. Without knowing that she was actually his true pillar of strength, he continued to change his shoes to school shoes and shut his locker tight.
“Humph…” As he took a quick glance at Hitomi running and turned his back away.
The classroom was rowdy in his ears as usual. He hated to be in school. Why would education be more important than getting his revenge and attaining new skills and magic art? He rather be stuck in Evangeline’s freezing tube than this… this plain place. Many eyes turned to him when the doors to the classroom slides open. He moved to his seat, eyes closed to keep himself shut for others and opened them to find his seat vandalized, the third time. On his table written,
“WISH YOU EARLY DEATH, YOU PIECE OF SHIT!”
“Who did this?” Hitomi exclaimed, projecting her voice to the class. Feeling nothing but anger, he flunked the table aside and replaced it with another from the cleaner’s room. He, apparently, temporarily erase her existence once again as he ignored her offer to help him get another clean table. As he returned, all the classmates stared at him with disgusted eyes and even the quietest gossips reached his ears. He didn’t care, as long as he gets back home in time for training. That was all that matters to him. As the commotion resided, some of the girls were talking about a transfer student from a far eastern side of Japan. Unable to stand the voices of the class, he shut the voices ringing in his mind and took his seat before the homeroom teacher, Miss Nadeshiko, came in. Looking at in the direction behind him, she heaved a sigh.
“All right, get to your seats! Rai, this is the third time your table has being replaced with a new one. Please don’t make your teacher have more unnecessary things to report, ok? “
He just stared outside the windows, enjoying the scenery outside school.
“Teacher, ignore him. He is always like that.”
“Yeah, the boys do have a point… for once.”
“Hey, what does that mean?”
“ALL RIGHT, settle down! Now, the moment you all have been waiting for! Come on in, new kid!”
A young boy with brown milky hair emerged from the door and stood besides Miss Nadeshiko. Compared to him, she looked rather short even though she was in her mid-twenties. He had his sleeves rolled up and wore the school shirt unbuttoned and tucked out. As he spoke for an introduction, everyone gasped to hear such an enchanting voice coming out from him. Raiken froze immediately. Though familiar, he was not able to exactly remember where he had heard this voice. However, this voice had indeed leaving a terrifying mark in his memories.
“Good morning, classmates. My name is Shanki Deswales. I hope my time here at Mazora will be enriching under your guidance.” Immediately the class went into an uproar after his introduction. Girls started shrieking on how seductive his voice was and the boys shouted and cheered on his looks. Some even desperately confess to that new guy immediately. Apparently the boys here don’t differentiate girls and boys as long as you look like a girl. Compared to Raiken, he emitted a total different aura compared to his first time in school and his seat was over-crowded with students from different class coming to see the famous girlish-looking boy during lunch break. The class early uproar seems to carry on throughout the school as the crowd seems to have a never-ending chain. In a sense or another, Raiken felt irritated, a lot. This mysterious boy was able to clinch with everyone in the class within such short notice and became so popular in his first day in school. Even ‘her’ joined in the crowd. Was he jealous? He never realized that such feeble emotions still lingered within his steeled heart. But he could notice something suspicious that others normally couldn’t. Maybe hanging around with his guardian made him too self-conscious with his surroundings. The boy, Shanki, was too perfect. His hair, nose, eye, body posture, everything! Too perfect! Something was seriously not right here and Raiken raised his alert level high like how a cat will do when it notice something weird approaching. Indeed, Shanki glanced back at Raiken and bared his fangs beneath his sinister mouth.
“Guys, stay away from him! He is a vampire!” Raiken shouted, hoping that his message will get across the crowd’s head. But the crowd’s noise overpowered his and suddenly, he was alone with Shanki in a dark area which was once the classroom.
“I will eliminate you. Just you wait. Anything for our mistress!”
His warning message failed to get across and his beloved threatened, Raiken had no other solutions. What could he do to prevent this? He didn’t know. The only suitable course of action now was to protect Hitomi. Twenty hours of surveillance after school. Hopefully this allows him to discover Shanki’s weakness by then.
Time fly fast and the bells mark the end of school. Not wanting to waste one precious second, Raiken dashed out of the classroom. As he open his locker, a letter dropped out. He opened and looked at its content.
Tonight the mistress will have her rest,
Your Beloved,
Shanki Deswales
He crushed the letter at his hand. When did he place the letter? Was he too late? No, he was sure that Shanki have not kidnapped her yet. He stayed focus on his objective and followed his original plan. He can only wish that the letter was only a threat, no strings attached. Immediately after his foot stepped out of the school gate, a scream resounded within the school. Raiken took flight as fast as his legs could carry him, praying that the worst had not come. At the roof, she was there, fainting alongside on Shanki’s arms.
“Release her immediately, you filth!”
“Don’t you even have manners? The mistress is taking her long-deserved rest. I believe that the filth here… is you, human!”
“The mistress is now in danger because of your irresponsible actions and we, the Knights of the Night, have been ordered to protect her and eliminate anyone causing her sufferings. And that will be you, human!”Shanki taunted him, displaying his anger at Raiken for his faults. What exactly does this vampire have in relation with Hitomi? What hogwash! All he knew was that Hitomi was in danger and without thinking twice; he took his fighting posture like a leopard ready to pounce on his opponent until a familiar voice and shadow cast over the ready-to-be battlefield.
“Oh, look what I found here.” The familiar voice exclaimed.
It was obvious to Raiken that the familiar voice was Evangeline’s. True enough, she was levitating on mid-air again as though she was trying to show the entire world that she was inhuman. She raised her hand to let her motives be known to her disciple. Hoping that Evangeline will solve the problem, the naïve kid stood aside. Raiken had not been informed that his master was actually an impurity among the vampire race and was greatly ostracized. But long years living with her tells him that she will definitely solve the problem as he was not yet capable of fighting a true blooded vampire.
“Well, well. Look what we have here. Kidnapping a girl in the middle of broad daylight, how daring of you, Shanki Deswales, Knight of the Azure Moon. Have Espier gone insane in his teachings?” She grinned as she knew that her insult towards the founder of the Knights of the Night would rub her reputation in the vampire world in the wrong way, and to tick Shanki off.
However, Shanki failed to take the bait. He was well aware that his magical prowess, in comparison with Evangeline’s, was too great a difference. As to ensure the safety of himself and his mistress, he retreated silently and his voice echoed within the fall of the sun, asking Raiken to appear in the agreed destination. Feeling disgusted and irritated at Shanki’s cowardly retreat, Raiken’s desire to save his beloved took control of his nerves while he leapt off the fence to give chase. That fool had not realized that he was at the fourth floor, which falling off such a height might only led to fatal consequences. Such recklessness almost claimed his life as Evangeline’s quick reflexes saved his hide. Despite having zero human reaction time, Evangeline’s strength did not last with a heavy weight.
“Boi-ya, you are too heavy… Sorry…” Evangeline apologized after noticing that her strength could not last with Raiken holding firmly to her. As a result, her unfortunate disciple fell face first on the floor but with the distance greatly lessened. Nevertheless, that took some vitality away and he let out a silent moan. Having her disciple to fall on the floor served a humiliation to Evangeline’s pride in view of the fact that it was partly her fault that he fell. As he stood up, it came into his realization that Raiken fell into the secluded backyard. He heaved a sign of relief as seeing a child girl in divulging clothing levitating in mid-air was not a usual sight. He wiped off the sands clustering in his pants and was reminded by his alertness that the threat yet remained. Just before he hurdled off to search Shanki, Evangeline froze his movements with her ice magic, freezing her disciple in a huge block of ice.
“Chachamaru, bring him home.” Evangeline commanded her maid android.
“I will do as you command, Master.” Chachamaru responded to her master’s command and immediately took the iceberg in her shoulders and rocketed home. It was within seconds that they reach home and Chachamaru threw the young master into the hot water bath. The iceberg surrounding his body melted under the hot degree of the water and he yelled as the hot waters burned on the surface of his tanned skin and in protest of what Evangeline had done to him.
“Relax! You are not his match yet.” Evangeline cried out, knowing well that her disciple would not shut his trap unless she fully explains what she meant.
“Shanki Deswales is the Knight of the Azure Moon. He is one of the vampire knights that serve loyally towards a circle of prideful vampires famously known among the vampire race. This group is highly regarded as the Holy Knights that will seek a path for coexistence with humans and vampires. This group was founded by Espier L Sousanis two hundreds years ago and surprisingly, that old geezer has not retired yet.” Evangeline informed his adolescent disciple of the current group that was targeting Hitomi. He at least needed the basic knowledge of his opponent before he races off to brawl with someone unheard of. And she also wanted to test whether he had the courage to take on a real vampire without actually needing a handicap.
As what she had expected, he didn’t care about the little bits of details and only wanted to know the exact details of his skills and the tactical formation that Shanki would often take. He would then work out his own way to defeat him, and save her within the clutches of the perfective bastard. Besides, that was what he trained so many years for, to defeat the evil and avenge his fallen family. Within him, there was a tingling sense of excitement for knowing this was his very first fight. Although inexperienced in comparison to the immortal Shanki, Evangeline knew that her disciple would definitely come back for her freezing and torturous training schedule. Deciding that he was at least confident enough to fight Shanki, she then passed down all her information about him and sent him off when the appointed time has strike the clock.
“Oh yeah, Boi-ya, before you go………” She added before Raiken left the villa.
—————————————————————-
As the azure moon rises from the slumber to shine its glorious light, Shanki was staring up the sky. This moon always appeared the most striking to him. Words could not describe how euphoric he was when he had killed two birds with one stone. He had successfully achieved his main objective and he got to enjoy the thrill of the blue moon and a duel. He pondered back on his past decades in the human world. He mixes with the crowd easily, but as the hands of time move each day, he was eternally seventeen. Love comes and goes like tides crashing to the shore one moment and leaving it the next. He had countless lovers, so many that he could no longer bear the pain or feel the pain of a broken heart. He hated himself, he hated being a vampire. He sought for a cure, or a way, or anything, for decades, centuries to revert him back, trying to make time move for him again, but that was no cure for a vampire. He was forever seventeen and eternally dead. Rather sulking on his current state that would never even change even if the world did, he decided to focus on the Order’s goals and missions. Though the world had changed, the moon was eternal. That was why Shanki was knighted the Knight of the Azure Moon. As the still moment with his only companion came to an erupted end by the crashing of the door, Shanki left his viewing spot and greeted the guest.
“Well, you kept your promise, didn’t you? You have indeed changed my mind about the nowadays humans. But still, you all are filths in my eyes. Filths that change every single moment of their tiny lifespan…”
“Enough talk. Where is she?” Raiken demanded for Hitomi’s whereabouts.
“The mistress is safe. Her safety is my first priority.” Shanki responded to his demand, ensuring him that she is unhurt.
“I see. Then I need not hold back anymore… Installation!” As he finishes his speech, he took his DOC (Diminished Operative Compactor), which transforms into a katana most suitable for his Ki Shigen skills and took his stance.
“Hmm… Technology sure has improved the past few decades. Either way, get ready to perish under my prowess as tonight is the night I excel in!” He vanished into the shrouds of the dark night and his sinister laughter echoes through Raiken’s ears drum. Raiken closes his eyes, removing the senses connecting to his eyes and channeling all of the energy into his inner eye. Though the enemy may appear to be invisible to the naked eye, it will be exposed if the inner eye is used to its full potential. Not wanting to get killed before his very first battle, Raiken’s sixth sense sharpened even more. He sensed Shanki approaching in his right, targeting the arm that was equipped with the DOC. As immediate as Shanki reveals himself from the shrouds, Raiken fade out to the shadows. Dazed by his sudden response and quick reflexes, Shanki lost his footing, leaving an opening for Raiken to strike.
“Ki Shigen #02, Hippogen!” He strikes at Shanki’s exposed stomach and sent him flying to a distance away, following with a chain of magical bombardments.
“Deus Nerone Thes Dara! Let the spirits of the wind and lightning come forth as thou pleases, and gather in my hand to destroy the evil. FIRE, THOUSAND LIGHTNING VOLTS, WIND ARROWS!!!” Thousand of magical arrows discharged out from Raiken’s palm and landed a resounding hit on the target. ‘It will not kill him, but it will surely damage him at the very least.’ His thought cycled around his mind, judging from his intuition that such puny skills would never kill him, which beads of sweat dripped down his forehead. True enough, Shanki darted out of the smoke unharmed and took his blocked slash at Raiken. As their swords crashed into one another, Shanki commented on his early performance.
“Well done. It seems that I have underestimated your abilities greatly, thought that you weren’t capable of such advanced skills. Now get ready for my counterattack!”
The impact gave him enough force to repel himself back into the air and he hid himself once again within the shrouds of the night. Raiken repeated the same tactics and swing his sword in a defensive position to his left. But as he emerges from the shrouds, Shanki multiplied. His replicas came from all the exposed areas of Raiken’s defenses and made multiples slashes on his body, targeting his vital organs. Having being stunned by the sudden change of tactics, Raiken was unable to protect himself in time. Fortunately, Shanki’s slashes were not forceful enough to pierce through his magically toned muscles. Raiken kneel down, clutching his injuries all over his body, letting out a soft moan. Realizing that what Evangeline said was true and that the next would probably take his life, he believed it was time for plan B, which was to use the weapon Evangeline gave him earlier on. Dents and cracks were spotted in his sword. It appeared that Shanki was serious about the whole affair and he was going out at full force.
“DESTALLATION!” Raiken’s DOC reverted to its original form and in replacement he unwrapped the hidden weapon that was stripped behind his back. As he tore the wrapper apart, a katana revealed itself from amidst the trash. The blade was tinted black and the miasma it holds was so great that Shanki shivered at the aura the blade was releasing.
“Oh yeah, Boi-ya, before you go, take this with you. If the situation seems to life-threatening, use this. But remember, if you use this in battle, you may fall deeper into the darkness. She will be the only one to save you. Decide wisely before using this.” The advice repeated inside Raiken’s mind as the blade came revealed from its shealth. But he had no other choice. It was either he fall deeper into the darkness to save Hitomi or die failing. As he grips on the katana, the miasma that was scattered throughout the surrounding environment gathered around the katana, trapping him within an impenetrable cocoon of darkness.
Inside the cocoon, a girl dressed in black kimono leapt into Raiken’s arms. The girl had long black hair similar to Hitomi, but the differences were that her eyes were bloody red and the unparallel amount of miasma surrounding her. Yet, she was as elegant as Hitomi and her beauty was the exact same in comparison to her’s. Unfamiliar to her, Raiken demanded her to release him and identify herself, knowing fully that she was inhuman. As told, she released him from her grasp and identified herself to Raiken.
“I have no name. I am the soul residing in this katana, Himeji Joryuu. Pleased to meet you, my new master!” Shocked as anyone would be in this unbelievable situation, he however remained his cool and searched for an exit in the endless abyss of darkness, ignoring her. Sensing that her new master was leaving, the spirit floats in front of Raiken and blocks him from moving.
“Don’t go, master. Please don’t go. I have waited for centuries for a new master and this is how you treat me? “
“I am going back. Don’t stop me.” Raiken replied coldly, refusing to sidetrack for a mere poor soul. In his mind, saving Hitomi was first priority. Upon hearing his response, the soul collapsed on her knees and beads of sadness dripped down her beautiful eyes.
“Why? Why are you so cruel to me? Can’t you feel the agony of waiting for centuries for someone to save me from the abyss only to be refused in the end?” She wept as the thought of be lonely again for many centuries crossed her mind if Raiken managed to break free from the cocoon. If that happens, both of them will never meet again. The soul did not want that to happen. She wanted to be free. She wanted love.
“Then tell me how I am supposed to get out of here and I will do you the favor in return.” Raiken gave a response, empathizing with the soul as he himself knew the pain one goes through a long period of loneliness. Although she was unnecessary in his life, the lingering kindness in his heart sets him into helping the pool soul.
“Then give me a name and a kiss in my lips!”
Raiken was hesitant at first, but it was inevitable. His meeting with the spirit was no coincidence; it was the hands of fate that brought these two similar beings together. As he approaches steadily towards the shaking spirit, he gave her a name and stole her first kiss.
“Yami…” He said under his hot breath while their lips came in contact.
As their lips came into contact, the cocoon then bursts, revealing a changed person. His eyes turned crimson red similar to Yami, hair turned silvery white, his skin burns into a darker tone and magical runes were imprinted into his body. Above all else, nearby souls of darkness gathered around his right arm. As Shanki fall aside at such astonishing transformation, exclaiming how impossible it was for such human to possess such terrifying darkness within him, Raiken opened his mouth to speak.
“Time for round two, bastard…”
“Impossible! How can a mere human being possess such miasma?” Shanki exclaimed with horror on how Raiken’s new transformation.
With each footstep filled with profound confidence, the literal distance grew closer, but the strength gap between the demi-devil and the vampire grew wider. Shanki calmed his doubtful heart and conceded in the shrouds of the night again with the futile attempt to search for an opening. It was as though Raiken became a whole different being from their previous encounter. This served to panic Shanki even more that Raiken was actually more than his fragile humane appearance seemed to be. At an instance where cold sweat clouded his sight, Raiken vaporized into the thin air and materialized in front of Shanki.
“Don’t ever think the same trick is going to work on me twice…” With just a single slash, Shanki’s illusion was sliced. Left with only one option, the stunned Shanki took his chance at Raiken’s vital spots. He multiplied and all of them went charging head-on at Raiken at the exact moment. As they were but mere shadow replicas, none of their attacks actually hurts nor hits. It was but a fruitless effort. Raiken was already familiarized all of his tricks and clearly predicted which pinpoint Shanki was going to strike. As the original was about to make his cut, Raiken grabbed his sword with his right and slammed him on the floor while grabbing his uniform with the left. He then threw Shanki up into the air while drawing and pointing Himeji Joryuu at him,
“Pierce, Spears of Despair!” The shadow behind Raiken transfigured into trident spears which further branched itself out and pierce through Shanki’s vital spots. Shanki screamed in agony and blood begins spurring out of his injuries like a overflowing well. Yet it was a perfect opportunity for him. His spell range was at point blank and accuracy was at hundred percent. Despite the tremendous pain to move a muscle, let alone incant a spell, Shanki ignored his screaming mind and began casting his most powerful spell. Yet, Raiken grinned maliciously. Everything was going according to plan. He already predicted what Shanki was going to do next and was fearless in Shanki’s tactic. Pointing his right hand at Shanki’s face, he said,
“ You were gonna do this, right?” Raiken’s right hand then shot out a black ray and blasted Shanki off Raiken’s grip. He slammed hard at the metal wall and turned half-conscious in a river of blood that was still flowing from his wounds. Shanki lay silent on the floor and became terrified of Raiken. No human, or at least humanlike being, had ever defeated him in a duel. This was indeed his virgin defeat. He never knew that a being was far more powerful than him and he looked at Raiken with emotionless eyes. But, it was no human; it was a demon consumed in darkness, a demon so dark, so evil and so lonely that everything stood in terror of this demon. As Raiken stood in front of Shanki and pointed Himeji Joryuu at him, Raiken sensed Shanki’s surrender. But he was not willing to let him go; he wanted to inflict more pain, more suffering, more torment into Shanki’s immortal body. He wanted to enact the same pain he felt ten years ago, he wanted to make him feel the same emotions he did when he witness his family getting murdered. Raiken wanted nothing but to repeatedly torment Shanki’s immorality. At that moment when Raiken’s humane senses were cut off from him, his body grew more demonic. His flowing hair grew longer with threads of miasma circling around it. His body upsized into the form of a Taurus and his teeth grew sharper. Soon, his physical appearance was covered in his own darkness and all he became was an embodiment of darkness, with no humane appearance, only the demon that had grew within him. He started laughing senselessly and shrieked in a terrifying voice,
“ Feel my anger and hatred towards anyone who steals my love!” As Raiken was about to deal the finishing blow, a familiar voice caught his attention,
“ Rai-chan, stop! Don’t kill him!”
Raiken momentarily regained both his humane senses and form and looked up. The levitating Evangeline was holding Hitomi in her hands while struggling to stay levitating due to her small composure. It would appear that Evangeline successfully rescued Hitomi within a short period of time, as though she was clearly aware of the location where Hitomi was held captive. As Hitomi ran towards Shanki to heal his wounds, the demon within Raiken reawakened. His bottled hatred, wrath, sadness exploded and took on his demonic form. As and like an otherworldly being, he was unable to differentiate friends or foes. All but he knew was that he had to stop himself somehow before losing himself within the darkness in his heart. But his darkness overcame his control and as the demon took full control of his body and severed his mind, he aimed his attacks at the already defeated vampire. Shanki accepted his fate and his salvation neared him. But before he was about to hit, Evangeline fended off Raiken’s attacks and blocked his second. As she started crumbling at Raiken’s demonic strike, she spoke in a pissed voice,
“ That bastard! I told him to be careful while meddling with the darkness in his heart! What the hell is wrong with… ARGH! Hey, you retarded vampire! Are you gonna sit there and watch him obliterate you off the face of the Earth? Where the hell is your pride as an honorable vampire? I guess the Order really sucks in instilling prides into low life like you!”
At the speech of mere disgrace of the Order, Shanki found back his strength. His strength was the inseparable bonds he had formed within the Order. To him, the Order was his home, and his Alma Mater.
“ Shut your barbaric mouth, you worthless vermin! I will display my purest powers as the Order’s Knight of the Azure Moon!”
Shanki took his casting stance and from his palms fired a huge bolt of thunder. Raiken pushes off Evangeline and blocked the bolt with Himeji Joryuu. His arm got repelled off the ten millions voltage within the magical bolt and exposed an opening towards Evangeline. As Evangeline made a beam sword with her fingernails, she slashed at Raiken’s sword arm. With demonic reflexes and strength, he evaded with ease and grabbed Evangeline’s slash with his right arm and punched her in the gut, sending her flying towards Shanki, with the end result of both slamming hard onto the metal wall, denting it. Raiken was no longer human; his humane conscious was slowly consumed by his own hatred and sadness, with both becoming his power. No doubt, Raiken’s past was sewed on the threads of sadness. He had no one he could call a friend. His only kin was murdered right in front of his eyes. His personality took a three hundred and sixty degree turn and isolated him from his fellow peers. While the children in his grade school went home with their parents smiling and laughing happily, he went home himself while holding back his tears and asking himself why. He was jealous of those who were granted this small happiness. Yet, such a simple happiness was lost to him forever ever since that demon took away his only place he can call home. At the mere remembrance of such thoughts, his sadness grew deeper and his hatred became stronger. It was a double-edged sword; at one moment it gave him strength while the other corrupts his pure mind. But eventually this darkness would be his collapsing weakness that would gobble up his pure wish; the simple wish to protect his loved ones… But at this moment, he feared the loss. He feared the history that was repeating itself. He feared… himself.
“ I am here! I am always here for you! No matter who you are, no matter what you become, I am always here for you… So please, Rai-chan, wake up from your nightmare… I promise to be your goddess that protects from all harm like before. So please, don’t go to that side… Come back to us. Come back… to me… ” As Hitomi says, she hugged Raiken, with pure and clear beads of tears that represents her sadness rolling down her blushed cheeks.
With her soothing words of hope and her ever-noble love for him, Raiken regained his humane senses without losing it again. His enraged eyes reverted, possessing once again the gentleness it had. There was still lingering hatred and anger in his heart, but now it was no longer directed towards Shanki. As he dropped Himeji Joryuu to the ground, he returns her love by doing the same action. Was this the warmth that he wanted to felt for so long? Was she the place where he felt belonged? At the very least, he has now found back the warmth that he had once lost. He was so dumb, so naïve. That sense of warmth and belonging was always there to warm his cold heart, and yet he would always turn a blind eye away. Now he would never ever let it go again, not even if death was approaching. As his burning darkness slowly cool down, Raiken reverted back to his human form. It would seem that they would be in arms lock for eternity until Evangeline decided to interrupt them. As the two of them blushed at the mere sight of each of their face, they turned their back towards each other. Both of them were at the loss of words after having reconciled with one another. It would probably seem appropriate and the best not to speak at this moment of time as the two of them basked into the silent joy of having their wish fulfilled. As Evangeline sighed, she pulled Raiken’s ears, to his dismay, and shouted at both of them with a displeased tone,
“ I can’t stand the two of you! One moment being lovey-dovey and the next being embarrassed! And you stupid disciple! I swear that I am gonna torture you upside down when we get back home!”
“ Wait, we are just gonna leave like that? What about that bastard over there?” Raiken broke free of Evangeline’s grip and stood in front of Hitomi while pointing Himeji Joryuu at Shanki, clearly reflecting his unswerving resolve to shield Hitomi despite knowing that their strength gap had reverted. As Shanki stood surprised, yet holding an expected response at Raiken’s actions, he grinned and spoke,
“ Thee two of you hath really shook thou heart… Despite thee two of you being so different from one another, thee two of you still showered unwavering love towards one another. Thee two of you are truly magnificent! Yes, thee two of you now proved to me that love is not impossible. Even a vampire like thou, can still find true love…” Shanki said as he looks at the locket tied to his neck, with obvious gestures that it holds a picture of Shanki’s ex-lover. Despite that, Raiken still held Himeji Joryuu at his neck point, preparing to cut Shanki down at any moment and only by Hitomi’s slender fingers which clinched tightly to his arms that Raiken’s aggressiveness was lay down.
“ Fret not, my human friend. My mission has been accomplished. I will now report back to the Order. Like I have said, the Order is and always will be an ally of the Dawn Princess. With you around, I will be pleased to leave the princess in your hands! Thou shalt meet again, Princess and her Dusk Knight.” As Shanki stopped speaking, he then jumped into the remaining shrouds of the night and vanished in the blink of an eye.
“ Wait, Grandfather! Are you just going to leave without saying goodbye to Grandma?” Hitomi shouted in anxiety while her speech caught the attention of Raiken’s ears. Yet despite wanting to ask a lot of questions, dawn rose and as the sun shone ever so brightly and brilliantly in the morning sky, it showed how everyday’s life could shine as brightly as the morning light as well. In his dusk comes her dawn and the lovers stood in front of the glorious and beautiful dawn sunlight.
The White Falcon
Nov 18th
THE WHITE FALCON
By Dennis J. D’Amato
Andy Cosmo is an old geezer now. You can usually find him at the music store downtown where I work. The place is different from the way he remembers it. The hangers on the pegboard walls that once held saxophones and violins and clarinets for display now carry Les Pauls and Fender Jazz Bass guitars. He always complains about the floor and all of the drum kits and newfangled amplifiers that get in his way when he tries to walk around the place. It is a running joke that he can’t wait to get to the back to the bathroom to take a piss. Seems like he is always taking one or telling somebody he needs to. If you really want to hear him go off, all you have to do is mention somebody like Eric Clapton to him. He can’t stand anybody who started playing guitar after he was born. He tells me that rock and roll really screwed up music and put “real” musicians out of work.
“How the fuck can you listen to that crap?” he asks. “You know how many guys can’t get a fucking job because of that crap? That Clapton guy can kiss my ass!”
I pretend not to hear him. Besides, when I don’t answer him, it just pisses him off more. The rest of the guys in the store always get a kick out of that. Instead I usually choose to engage Andy in some meaningless banter.
“Hey Andy, how’s it hangin’?”
He responds with the predictable expletive. Like I said, the guys at the store just get a kick out of the old bastard when he’s mad, and I know how to get to him madder than anyone else. He stops by the music store from time to time. I guess it gives him the chance to re-live his career, which, if you ask him, is quite impressive. You see Andy is what is known as a “cat.” A jazzman. You’ve seen guys like him in those old movies about big band leaders. You know, the guy sitting down holding an old Gibson or Gretsch wide body jazz guitar, strumming away and holding the rhythm section in check. Of course, you never realize how important that guitar guy is. He’s usually just window dressing for the band leader or the sort of fictional Frank Sinatra character in Pal Joey. Those days are long gone though. Now he’s a cantankerous old son of a bitch who seems to be mad at everything and everybody. Today he has a particular problem with Tommy Dorsey.
“Dorsey? Yeah, I played with him. He was a real prick”
This is news to me. Everybody I know who knew Tommy Dorsey can’t stop telling me what a great guy he was to work for.
“Why do you say that?”
“He wouldn’t let my wife go on the road with me and the band, so I had to make a decision.”
“And?”
“I chose my wife of course.”
“But you got to stay with the love of your life, right?”
“Nah, the bitch left me a month later. Fucking Tommy Dorsey was a prick!”
He’s not exactly the most attractive person you ever saw either. He’s bald with those red things that old guys get on their heads sometimes and he tries to hide them with a comb over of about ten long hairs. He’s got stubbly grey beard hairs that struggle to the surface but don’t seem to make it. He walks like somebody hit him with a baseball bat across his knees. All bent over rickety. He moves as if he’s using one of those walkers, but he doesn’t have one. He probably should get one I guess. His fingers are all bent out of shape from arthritis and he can hardly use them anymore. The only thing I ever see him use his hands for is to light up one of those el squillos stinky little cigars you see mafia guys smoke in the movies. That, or to flip somebody a feeble finger when he’s mad enough. Which is pretty much all the time.
I sometimes see him getting off of the Chapel Street bus around the corner from the store. Takes him about ten minutes to climb down the three steps to the sidewalk. He’s usually screaming at the bus driver about not taking his transfer or some such. If he’s not getting off the bus and screaming at the bus driver, he’s hobbling down State Street screaming at anyone who is passing by about whatever he thinks is the issue of the day. Usually at the top of his lungs. He always wears this green plaid woolen CPO jacket over a black t-shirt and a pair of stained dungarees. The holes in the jeans seem to move around from day to day, so I think he might have a few of them. But I’m not really sure. Anyway, no matter how he gets here, I can usually tell he’s around by the sound of his screaming voice. Or from the smell of those stinky cigars when he opens the door and enters the store.
In spite of all that, I have to say that I kind of like the old bastard. I kind of think he likes me too. Or at least he likes me as much as somebody as miserable as he is could possibly like anyone. He always seems to find his way over to me when he comes in. Maybe it’s because he knows I won’t put up with his attitude. Or maybe it’s because he knows I can give back anything he can dish out. Whatever the reason, I’m usually the guy he bothers when he’s here. The other guys at the music think he’s full of shit. I can see why. After all, we are talking about a guy who once told us that he knew Les Paul before he invented the famous guitar.
“That Les Paul son-of-a-bitch! I taught him every fucking thing he ever knew. I shuldda married Mary Ford before she got hooked up with that bastard.”
We all looked at him with predictable disbelief.
“You taught Les Paul how to play guitar?”
“Yeah, I showed him. That prick couldn’t hold a candle to Django. Django. He’s the best you ever wanna see. All these Les Paul bastards are just little pricks!”
He loves to call people pricks for some reason. And if they are really pricks, he loves to call them little pricks. I can’t disagree much with him about Django though. Django Reinhardt is the best I ever heard. He invented a style of guitar playing called “Gypsy” music. He lost fingers on his left hand in a fire or something, but he played stuff that people with twenty fingers haven’t been able to play the way he did. Andy always says that “Tiger Rag,” a song Django did with legendary violinist Stephan Grapelli, is the best music ever played. I can’t really disagree with him on that either. Anyway, the only time Andy smiles is when he’s talking about Django. If you listen to Andy, Django is the only guitar player he didn’t teach how to play.
Andy’s dissertation on Tommy Dorsey ends abruptly when he notices the Gretsch White Falcon on one of the guitar racks. His distraction is somewhat understandable. After all, a White Falcon is a thing of beauty. It’s a pure white lacquered semi-solid classic jazz guitar with all gold appointments. I think it was one of the first stereo guitars too. They say the new ones are not as good as the first ones made in the early fifties. I’ve never played one of the old ones so I can’t really say. The new ones are just fine for me though. I promised myself a couple of years ago that I would save up enough to buy one of those things. Maybe someday I will. Most guitar players kind of smile when they see a White Falcon. Of course, Andy is not like most people. His response is something different.
He pulls out one of his stinky cigars and starts to light up. Chucky the drum guy protestd before Andy could get a match to the stinker.
“Oh, come on Andy. Give us a fucking break with that, huh? It’s bad enough we have to smell you in here.”
Andy blows the match out and leaves the box of cigars on the glass display cabinet and returns his gaze to the White Falcon.
“I had one of those fucking things. They gave me the first one they made because I was the best guitar player around.”
This is just too much. The first one they made? Andy explains that back in 1954, Gretsch wanted him to promote the guitar. He said that because he taught Les Paul everything he knows and that he taught every guitar player in the world beside Django how to play that he was the only man who could get their new guitar off the ground. Total bullshit of course. Even by Andy’s standards. Doesn’t matter though. It’s still quite a story.
“Andy, you still got that thing or what?”
“Piece of shit! I gave it to some bum about thirty years ago. I think he used it for firewood.”
He waives his hand as if to brush the memory of the thing away. Obviously, he doesn’t want to talk about it. Andy notices that the others are not interested in his tall tales and figures it’s time to end the bullshit session until next time.
“Fucking bus is coming. You little pricks don’t know jack shit about jack shit. “
Andy stumbles his way to the glass door onto Chapel street, to the corner to wait for the bus. As he walks out the door, Chuck the drum guy yells to Andy as the door closes behind him.
“I forgot to tell you, Clapton called and he wants to take lessons.” Everyone laughs.
As the bus pulls up, I notice that there is something on the glass display case.
“Hey, Chuck, what’s that?”
“It’s the old man’s pack of el squillos. I guess the maestro forgot them.”
I try to get out to the bus so I can give the old guy his stinkers, but it’s too late. The bus pulls away before I could get the driver’s attention. I know where he lives though. I could drop by later and bring the things to him. I’m pretty sure nobody wants them polluting the air in the store for the next couple of days. And I sure as hell don’t’ want to hear him if he comes in looking for them if somebody throws them out.
Like most weekdays, business is a little slow at the music store. Rock star wannabees can’t get their parents to spend money until the weekend, so on nights like this we get to spend most of the time jamming. We like to call it quality control. Somebody has to make sure our customers are getting the best product possible. Some of the regulars come in and join us. It’s really a pretty cool place to work when you are a musician. In honor of Andy, I choose to check out the White Falcon hanging on the wall. I don’t know how nice the older ones are, but I can’t imagine them being any better than the one I’m playing. Plugged into a Fender Twin Reverb and cranked up to eleven, it sure works for me. It’s particularly fine for fat blues rhythm stuff. Not exactly the kind of thing you would use to shred, but perfect for the blues. Unfortunately when we are busy jamming, closing time comes around like a flash. We have strict orders to make sure the place is shut down on time. We don’t’ want to cut into the owner’s ongoing poker game downstairs. So we make sure we follow this one rule to the letter. Register counted, money in the safe, lights out, alarm set and me and the rest of the guys are ready to boogie. We’re halfway out the door when Chuckie points to the counter.
“Hey, don’t forget Cosmo’s stogies.”
“Oh yeah, thanks for reminding me.”
I am able to grab them just before the alarm is set, and we all get out before it goes off. We say our usual good-byes and make plans to maybe hook up later to slug some brews and see who is playing around town. Bands love to let us sit in. They figure they can snag a bigger discount if they do. We let them think that. It’s just one of the perks of working at the place. I’m kind of looking forward to playing later. Sometimes no matter how much you play, it just isn’t enough. I had just enough time to stop at Burger King for a Whopper and a Coke and to take a quick shower before meeting the guys downtown. Oh, and I had to drop off Andy’s stinkers on the way. That would only take a minute. I’m sure Andy isn’t the kind of guy who is going to invite me in for a glass of wine or anything.
Andy lives in this apartment building on Elm Street. You know the kind. The entry is finished in old art deco tile that probably hasn’t been washed in about fifty years. It reminds me of Grand Central Station’s bathrooms. It sort of smells likes that too. Andy’s apartment is on the first floor and has windows looking out over the busy street. I wonder how he gets any sleep in there. It’s hotter than hell out, and his windows are wide open. The rusted old air conditioner is not on. Probably because it doesn’t work or Andy can’t afford to run it. I have to admit that I’m curious about what he does in there all day by himself, so I sneak up to one of his windows and hear a familiar tune playing on his radio or record player or something. Of course, it’s Django’s “Tiger Rag” playing. It’s kind of strange though. I don’t hear Stephan Grapelli playing along. I never heard of a version with just Django. Now I’m really curious. I move closer to the window and poke my head in. I’m amazed at what I see.
Andy Cosmo is sitting with his back to me in one of those old tapestry covered over- stuffed chairs you see in funeral homes and old black and white Scrooge movies. And he’s holding it in his hands. Its white lacquer has yellowed with age, and the gold appointments are worn and faded. But that’s it for sure. There can be no mistake. He’s playing the White Falcon. The reason there was no Stephan Grapelli on the record is because it wasn’t a record at all. It was Andy Cosmo playing “Tiger Rag” on the White Falcon. No, he’s not playing it. He’s making love to it. His disfigured fingers are flying over the ebony neck with great ease, as if it were that day in 1954 when he first got it. He’s playing the most beautiful music I’ve ever heard. Every note true to Django’s original rendition. But with the kind of heart and soul that can only be captured by the greatest of masters. Suddenly, I reach into my pocket and I remember why I came here. The el squillos. Of course. I came to give them to him.
The melodies and chords continue, though, and I find that I do not want them to stop. No. The stogies can wait. I think I’ll give them to him tomorrow. I’m too busy listening to Andy playing “Tiger Rag.” Maybe he’ll do “Sweet Georgia Brown” or “Honeysuckle Rose” or some other Django classic. The Whopper and the guys downtown can wait a few minutes. Right now, I just want to listen to Andy Cosmo play that White Falcon. And you know, I think maybe he actually did teach Les Paul everything he knows. Maybe Tommy Dorsey really was a prick. I’m not so sure anymore. I’ll wait until I see him next time to ask. For now, I’ll just listen. And I realize that I can’t wait to hear his next story.
Unfinished Business by Peter Pogany
Nov 11th
Although we are way into our thirties, a couple of us, former college buddies still get together once a year to tell each other how things are going. The same five, six, sometimes seven guys show up in the private banquet room of a downtown pub. There are pictures of new babies, a new car or a boat or a home; sometimes there is talk about jobs, on occasion there is report of illness or death in the family, but we all make an effort to keep the occasion as cheerful as possible.
Only one of us has remained a bachelor. His name is Oscar, a newspaper editor by profession. In a way he carries the torch of carefree frolicking (endless parties, dating, and rock concerts); the way we all used to be during our college years. By smuggling a little dream of romance and adventure back into the lives of serious family men, his story of the year represents the highpoint of the reunion.
With dinner over and small talk died down, this is what Oscar told us this year:
“I spent two weeks in Spain during the summer. I flew to Barcelona, rented a car and drove down the Mediterranean freeway to the long stretch they call Costa Del Sol. I reserved a room for a week in a villa-like, small hotel called ‘Paraiso’ that had been recommended by one of our reporters. He said the place was very clean and the service perfect. Across the street there is the ‘Jolly Pirate,’ a combination restaurant-pub frequented by British and American tourists — so ‘you have instant companionship,’ he assured me.”
“Since Paraiso is behind the row of traditional hotels with a shore view, it takes 20 minutes to walk to the beach, but the walk is very pleasant. The winding street skirts a beautiful golf course and is dotted with neat shops.”
“The villa has an elegant terrace with a small swimming pool. The establishment is run by Pablo and Juan, both of whom are about our age. The recommendation included the promise of some unintended entertainment provided by the never-ending, sometimes viscerally hostile arguments between the Dons. Angry oaths in Spanish can be heard in every room, on the terrace, even on the street near the building. It seems that two-person business partnerships are plagued with the same problems on both sides of the Atlantic.”
“Golden clouds drifted over the sky when I woke up the first morning. I stepped out into a tiny balcony overlooking the terrace and saw a young woman sitting on a beach chair, working away on her laptop.”
“She had Creole skin, strong, well-shaped legs and a solid upper body. She wore an unbuttoned white blouse over the upper part of a red, two-piece bathing suit. There was a small table next to her, covered with sheets of paper, books placed over them so that they would not fly away in the soft, warm breeze.”
“I was curious, I must admit. Stepped back, drew the curtain, leaving only a crack through which I could observe her with my binoculars. I noticed a hooked nose and a large birthmark on her left cheek. But she still looked very attractive. The more I stared at her — and she attracted my attention like a magnet — the more she appeared to me as a delicate, exotic flower of sunny Andalusia, haloed by the innocence of youth. What a break from the usual mascara-laden, super-glossed, competitive butterflies our global civilization has produced.”
“I went downstairs and walked by her. She returned my smile and I think she appreciated that I didn’t interrupt her with some stupid pretext. I was wondering what she was laboring over with such dedication. Was it a master’s thesis, a novel? She looked a bit like a writer.”
“I plunged into the pool, careful not to splash water on her. She noticed that too and smiled at me again as if we had known each other for some time and lived by a secret pact.”
“I vowed not to fall in love with this anonymous goddess.”
“On the morning of the third day while watching her from my room through the binoculars, Juan walked up to her. She told him something and he suddenly looked up at my window, catching me in the act of being a peeping Tom. I was embarrassed and quickly got my stuff together to walk to the beach. I wanted to sneak by the front desk, but Juan was there.”
“He addressed me in a low, confidential tone:”
“So you like Inez, the senorita who sits on the terrace with her laptop? She likes you too. You can have her for 200 euros.”
“’What?’ I asked, totally taken aback.”
“’Yes,’ he said nodding knowingly, talk to Pablo this afternoon but please don’t tell him that I informed you. The thing is very discreet — hush-hush. Understood? OK?”
“Indeed, I did talk to Pablo in the afternoon.”
A current of cold reservation pulsed through our small audience as if questioning the need either to pay an iota more attention to an undercover prostitute or bother us with the sordidness of a meaningless encounter. But disapproval quickly vanished. This was, after all, Oscar’s story, not ours. Let him go with it wherever he wants!
“I waited until mid-afternoon when Pablo was usually alone at the front desk,” Oscar continued. “He knew I wanted to tell him something; he seemed almost waiting for me.”
“’Do you know the young lady with the laptop on the terrace?’ I opened up.”
“You mean Inez?”
“Yes.”
“What about her?”
“Do you think that she is the type of woman with whom one can have a date?”
“’ I hope not,’ said Pablo indignantly, his cheek bones moving in an apparent effort to control his anger.”
“’How come?’ I asked suspecting the worst.”
“Because we are engaged to be married. She is my fiancée.”
“I couldn’t hide my embarrassment. Mumbling apologies in Spanish and English, I went back to my room and looked out of the window. The thick, steam-like vapor that had suddenly descended on the world told me that this place wanted me to be somewhere else, even if early departure meant losing two days in the villa, paid in advance — no refunds.”
“I took a deep breath and began to pack.”
“The next morning as I rolled my suitcase and carried my garment bag through the lobby, I ran into Inez. ‘Leaving already?’ she said in English with a childish disappointment on her face.”
“I explained to her that I had to catch a flight from Barcelona to New York. My vacation was over. Her eyes said more eloquently than words possibly could that she was neither the woman Juan described nor anyone’s fiancée.”
“Whoever said that only men can actively initiate deeper relationships? A woman, and this is particularly true of Latin women, can look at you in a way that is beyond flirtation; in a way that expresses a just demand on you in return for total trust and confidence in your honesty and good judgment, a trust not just tentatively offered but already delivered. This kind of libido, combined with an already established attraction, is especially lethal for us, Saxon men, blessed or cursed with a Nordic longing for sun-filled lust while never losing our susceptibility to duty-awakening reverie and empathy.”
“She looked at me in that certain Mediterranean femino-imperialist fashion for only three seconds, and then pouted; her long eyelashes trembled like an over-sensitive flower wishing to fold up as punishment for lack of proper appreciation. She went toward the terrace door and, without looking back, disappeared – ‘good-bye, forever, you fool!’ Did I hurt her feelings?”
“As I drove by the familiar stores, the sight of a flower shop gave me the idea. I parked, went inside and asked for a dozen red roses to be delivered immediately to one senorita Inez on the terrace of Paraiso. I enclosed my name card.”
“And . . .,” the audience roared, “Did she respond?”
“Yes,” said Oscar, “we have developed quite a correspondence. She was a journalism major studying in Madrid and spent two weeks in the villa that was half-owned by her cousin, Pablo.”
At this point, Oscar pulled out a piece of paper from his jacket’s inner pocket and unfolded it.
“This is from her first email,” he said and read:
“Thanks for the lovely roses. It was good that you sent them in a vase, so I could take them with me next day when I moved out. I had to when Pablo told me the vicious rumors Juan perpetrated about me. Juan was angry that I occupied a room that Paraiso could have let out to paying guests for 150 euros per day.”
“Are you going to see her again?” we all asked with unabashed curiosity.
“I don’t know,” answered Oscar, sadness and hope mingling in his voice.
“I keep asking myself the same question. True, I’m captivated and cannot get her out of my mind but it all hangs from such a tiny thread. As we all know by now, the jaws of time are red with the blood of romantic surges. But let me tell you also that, in the meantime, Inez became employed by ABC, which is the largest daily newspaper in Spain. My boss wants to expand professional relations with its staff.”
“I guess we’ll have to wait until next year to find out if I have a chance to embrace my elusive Del Sole sunshine — that’s all!”
Working Relationships
Nov 2nd
Mal chewed the last mouthful of his tuna mayo and cucumber sandwich. He looked at his watch. Almost 2 o’clock. The ’phone could start ringing any minute now. As Group Treasurer for Europe, Middle-East and Africa operations he was always at his desk at this time in case he might receive a call from his opposite number in the US on his arrival at work, 9 a.m. Eastern Standard Time. All was in order today, Mal could advise him; the large Euro receivables balance was satisfactorily hedged by the forward contract taken out this morning. Oh yes, there was life in the old dog yet. Mal might have cut his Treasurer’s teeth in the days of currency control and the Bretton Woods Agreement but he was a match for today’s young whippersnappers when it came to working the futures, options and derivatives markets.
At 2p.m. a ’phone rang. Not Mal’s, but Toby’s. Mal did not pick it up. How he hated having to share an office. At his level of seniority, to be obliged to share with that joker, Toby! But only main board directors, like Olivia, the CFO, had their own offices. He could see her in her office now. It was on the same floor but on the opposite side of the atrium. She sat there in front of her PC, looking as diligent as ever, back at work after a short period of compassionate leave. What a wonderful woman; so capable, so intelligent, so motivating.
Toby’s ’phone rang again at 2.15, then at 2.30. Mal ignored it both times. At 2.40, Olivia burst into the office.
“Mal, where is Toby?”
“I believe he is escorting your P.A. to the local hostelry to celebrate something or other. They went out just before noon. Is it anything I can help with?”
“Not really, it’s Toby I need for this, all hell has broken out in Chicago – they want to release the quarterly results early to pre-empt a take-over bid. I’m not sure if what Toby’s put up on the system are the final figures or not.”
“Well all I can tell you is that the cash-flow statement that I put up there two days ago is the final version.”
“Oh yeah, thanks for that, Mal, I have seen it. All looks fine. Do you have Toby’s mobile number by any chance?”
“I’m afraid not. Not the sort of thing I would have. Oh look, here he comes, and he’s got Maria with him.”
The two staggered into the office, somewhat taken aback on noticing that Olivia was there.
“Oh, hi boss” said Toby “everything OK?”
“Not really, I need you back in my office – now. You too Maria, he could do with a cup of your strong coffee, I think.”
With that, Olivia hastened out of the office followed at a brisk pace by Toby and Maria.
Mal polished his bifocals, clicked the ‘cash-flow’ icon on his PC and picked up his ’phone to call Chicago. He would find out what was going on and see if he could be of some assistance.
Half an hour later Toby reappeared.
“Well thanks a lot, mate. Did you really have to land me in it like that?”
“Land you in it indeed! Do you have any idea of the pressure that lady is under? You go out carousing when you’re needed here, to do the job for which you are paid rather more that you deserve! Call yourself the ‘Financial Controller’? You don’t know the meaning of ‘control’.”
“Oh, shut up you pompous prat!” was all Toby could manage as a repost as he slumped into his chair.
Moments later, Maria slipped into the office and sat down on the seat next to Toby. Mal pretended to ignore them. Partially hidden behind the monitor of Toby’s PC, the two of them sat whispering and sniggering. Mal cleared his throat in an obvious fashion causing Maria to raise her eyebrows.
“Must be going” she said, lifting her diminutive body from the chair, “Olivia’s expecting her board report to be finished by five. Come and see me later, Tobes.”
“Will do, bye gorgeous.”
The remainder of the afternoon passed in silence, interspersed by the occasional snore from Toby’s end of the office.
Mal finally raised his tired eyes from the thick wodge of paper that was the latest draft of the new leasing contract. He ought to clear the fine details of the payment schedule with Olivia. He looked across the atrium to see if she were at her desk right now but saw that her office was vacant. She must have gone already. Time I went home too; Mother will be putting dinner on the table.
*****
The next morning Mal strode along the corridor of the, as yet, deserted finance department. He unlocked the door to his office and on entering it heard the low level hum of the fan in Toby’s PC. The waster’s left the thing on all night again. Mal sat at his desk and turned on his own PC to check any e-mails that may have arrived. There was only the one:
From: Olivia Contessa
To: Mal Steward
Mal,
How pleased I am to have someone on whom I can truly rely in difficult times. Over the years we have worked together you have come to mean a great deal to me. I know there are matters that we need to discuss. Please come to my office at (say) 1.
Much love,
Olivia
P.S. Why don’t you smile more often?
Mal could scarcely take all this in. Did he dare to believe that Olivia was in love with him? It was too good to be true surely? But, then again, she did often compliment him on his appearance and manners. She’d even remarked only the other day on his smart yellow jacquard socks. How fortunate he was wearing that very pair today. Perhaps she was only just realising now what she had long felt but had left unacknowledged. Well, well. Could he wait until one o’clock?
Mal had difficulty concentrating on his cash flow spreadsheet that morning. He was not usually a man given to daydreaming but found himself conjuring up the most incredible images of a naked Olivia lying satiated and exhausted on a silk covered bed, smiling contentedly at her beloved. He was trying to picture her breasts which he had only ever glimpsed under at least two layers of fabric when his reverie was interrupted as the real life Olivia entered the office.
“Just passing and thought I’d pick up your copy of the lease draft and have a quick look at the comments you’ve made on it so I’ll be prepared for our meeting, Mal.”
“It’s here on my desk” and Mal pointed to it knowing that it was ungallant not to jump up and take it over to her, however his earlier state of excitement had not yet quite subsided.
“See you at one then.”
Did he detect a certain mischievous tone in her voice?
At one o’clock Mal knocked on Olivia’s office door.
“Come in.”
Mal entered, remembering to put on his best smile. Olivia was sitting behind her desk. Maria was there too but Mal was relieved to see that she was just unpacking the contents of an M&S carrier bag. Out came two covered trays of sushi, a large punnet of strawberries, a box of luxury chocolate truffles and a bottle of chilled Chablis.
“Really Maria! You have gone a bit overboard, I’m sure sandwiches would have done us!”
Just out of Olivia’s view, but observed by Mal, Maria raised her eyebrows. “I’ll be off for lunch now” Maria said. “I’ll just close those blinds – that sun’s very bright.”
“I don’t want you disappearing off with Toby for most of this afternoon, Maria.”
“No I won’t, not today, promise, I’ll be nearby”. And she left the office shutting the door behind her.
“Well, Mal, I suppose we’d better eat some of this before getting down to business. Here, would you like a glass of this wine? I know you’re not much of a drinker.”
“Oh, I’m sure I can make an exception on such an occasion” replied Mal, relieved that by talking he was now able to relax his facial muscles. He took the glass and downed it in one.
“Goodness Mal, I’d better refill that glass for you.”
“Thank you, Olivia, so good of you” said Mal.
Olivia leaned over the desk to pour more of the wine from the bottle into the glass. As she did so, Mal put a steadying hand under the bottle, now slippery with condensation. A sudden surge of nervous energy caused Mal’s hand to jerk and the bottle was pushed upwards spilling the remaining contents all over Olivia’s face and silk blouse.
“Oh, I’m soaked!” Cried Olivia as she unbuttoned the top two fasteners on her shirt and began waft the silk away from her wet skin.
Mal stood transfixed at the sight of her fine cleavage and soft, lace clad breasts glistening with droplets of spilt white wine. He could bear this no longer. He raced round to her side of the desk and placed his hands firmly over her bosom while crying out “OLIVIA”. And then pushed his lips over her sweet small mouth.
The next thing Mal felt was an excruciating pain in his scrotum where Olivia had kneed him while she screeched “HELP”. The help arrived in the form of Maria and Toby who appeared instantaneously at the door of her office.
****
Mal sat in the waiting room turning over the pages of an old copy of ‘Prospect’ magazine. Too many words. He couldn’t concentrate. He looked around him at the pale blue walls, recently painted. Opposite him hung a large print of Dali’s ‘Metamorphosis of Narcissus’. Mal thought Dali was overrated. He looked to his right, at the only other person in the waiting room; a young man with a strange nervous tic reminding him of Derek Jacobi’s portrayal of the Emperor Claudius. So this was what he, Mal Steward, had come to; included in that stratum of society which encompassed the mad and mentally unstable. Why had he ever agreed to come to this place? Maybe he should leave now, while he still could.
Just then his name was called. A man in early middle-age was looking at him through a pair of what Mal took to be ‘trendy’ spectacles.
“Mr. Steward?” He asked as he moved towards Mal, holding out his hand for Mal to shake. “Hi, I’m Jim, Please, come into my room.”
Mal entered and Jim shut the door behind them, indicating to Mal that he should sit in one of the two matching ecru armchairs which took up the right-hand side of the room. Mal found his chair was too comfortable, he would have preferred something harder with a straighter back. Jim walked over to his desk on the left-hand side of the room and picked up a clipboard and pen. Returning, he settled himself in the chair opposite.
“So, Mr. Steward… or may I call you by your forename?”
“If you wish… it’s Mal”
“Great, Mal then. Well, your G.P. has referred you to me as she thinks you could be helped by the particular type of therapy we practise here. It’s called ‘Cognitive Behavioural Therapy’ and has proved useful in cases of depression, obsession, panic, insomnia and so on….”
“To be honest, I’m not sure that I suffer from any of those. I only went to the doctor to get some sleeping tablets, but she appeared strangely reluctant to prescribe any and seemed to think I should see one of you lot instead. Can’t imagine this can be helping her fund-holding budget. A few pills would have been a lot cheaper. No wonder the NHS is in such a state.”
“Well now, if you went to your GP looking for sleeping tablets, you must have been suffering from insomnia, maybe we could start off by talking about that.”
“I’ve just been having a little difficulty getting to sleep of late, that’s all. There’s a lot on my mind. I lie there thinking about it all, constantly.”
“O.K., so do you want to tell me about what’s playing on your mind?”
“Well if I must, though I’m not sure what good it will do. It all started a couple of months ago. I was sacked from my job for, of all things, sexual harassment! You don’t appear to be shocked. Maybe that’s because you get to see a lot of perverts in your line of work, but I can assure you that I am most definitely not one of them. It all happened because I was tricked, duped, by a conniving, vindictive bitch….Oh, but I’ll get my revenge someday, I’m just waiting for the right opportunity to present itself.”
“It might help if you talked a bit more about how it all happened then we can look at your reaction to it. You see it could be your reaction and this obsession with revenge, rather than the event itself, which shows up the true nature of your problem.”
“But I don’t have a problem. I’m a victim. I had a job I loved and at which I excelled and now I spend my days, at home with Mother, unable to get another position because of this slur against my name. There was this wonderful woman I worked for. I believed she held me in great estimation. She frequently commented as much to me. Then a couple of people in the office decided to trick me into believing that she was in love with me..”
“And you didn’t see this as a trick?”
“Well no, I could see why she might have reason to love me. I had always been so loyal and supportive. I was her rock. I think she may still have feelings for me, it’s just unfortunate that I chose the wrong time to declare my affections for her!”
“So you see yourself as the aggrieved party in all of this. Why do you think your colleagues played this trick on you?”
“Out of sheer vindictiveness. I disapproved of their behaviour. One was a slacker and a drunk who, for some inexplicable reason, the other, my boss’s P.A. (the bitch) seemed to find attractive. It was disgusting. Do you know, I once actually saw them having sexual intercourse on the board room table. They don’t know I saw them. I had been working late and I saw the light go on in the boardroom at about 11p.m. after they’d been in the wine bar all evening. Must have thought they had the place to themselves. Yet I’m the one whose conduct was considered improper.”
“Did you ever try to communicate your feelings to them?”
“Not really, I was there to work, not to get all ‘touchy feely’ with colleagues. They were doing quite enough touching and feeling for the whole office.”
“O.K. well, I’m starting to get a bit of a picture of the problem here. Now, the way we try to tackle things using C.B.T. is to set you some…er… ‘homework’, if you will. I’d like you to spend some time over the next week, trying to see the situation you described at work from the perspective of the others. There’s also a booklet I would like you read – I’ll just see if there’s already a copy of it on my desk.”
As Jim got up out of the chair, a sceptical Mal decided to follow him, feeling he would be more comfortable upright. Approaching the large untidy desk, Mal spotted a framed photograph.
“Who’s the lady in the photo’?”
“That’s my wife, Maria. Yes, she is quite a bit younger than me isn’t she? But she’s an angel. Happily puts up with my long hours and bird-spotting jaunts.”
Mal began to feel a smile spreading over his face, this time quite spontaneously.
“Well thank you, Jim. You know I feel that this session really has been very productive for me. I believe you may well be seeing more of me in the future.”
An Altogether Satisfying Night
Oct 24th
An Altogether Satisfying Night
Or Fangs for the Memory
From the Vampire Archives
Colin G West
15 Elizabeth Street
Eastwood
South Australia 5063
Email:colingwest@primusonline.com.au
I STOOD on the footpath of a certain street in Sydney among a group of street urchins – street kids as they call them now.
I was dressed like them, in jeans, T-shirt, denim jacket and scruffy sports shoes all taken from my victims and still redolent of the once living. This attire, and my college boy appearance – I was barely eighteen years old when the Master made me so long ago – coupled with a chameleon-like ability to blend with my background, allowed me to be unnoticed. We can stand in plain sight and not be seen. We are the invisible people.
It was a pleasant autumn evening with a soft breeze blowing languidly first this way, then that, now warm, now cool. From high overhead, an almost full moon in a cloudless sky with a few pale stars, smiled down on mortal and immortal alike. A fine night for romance – or a leisurely hunt and kill.
It was still early and I had not yet fed, but I thrust the blood hunger down deep. Although I needed the red stuff, hunting and feeding would have to wait until later. I had work to do first.
The boys were there to sell their bodies – especially the part that lurked in their jeans – for the night. It was the only way they knew to make money for food and the drugs for which they burned. Those who got lucky would eat the next day or know the brief peace of a fix.
Paedophiles and lonely gays, whose taste ran to sweaty youths, would drive up to the pavement, select a street kid and then drive him away.
Meanwhile I remained well back, concealed in the doorways of the darkened shops so as not to attract customers away from the other boys. I was part of this sordid scene because of something I had read in the papers, heard on radio and seen on the television.
Somebody, the mortal experts said it was a psychopathic paedophile, was picking up street kids for sex and then strangling them. The pathology report suggested that the boys had been strangled using fishing line. Five bodies had been found so far, each killed in the same way and then barely concealed in shallow graves in the National Park, where hikers and picnickers came across them. The police suspected there were other graves yet undiscovered. The experts were expecting the murderer to strike again soon.
The police had nothing to go on, and the street kids, who had the most to lose, couldn’t help them. The boys were being forced from their haunts for their own safety but, as soon as the police left, were back again.
I had set myself the task of trapping this low-life mortal, so I stationed myself where he would most likely be found – where the boys were. Make no mistake, there was nothing altruistic about what I was doing. What mortals do is no concern of mine. No, I was there because the blood of the evildoer is so much richer and more satisfying than the watery blood of innocents, which is like the thin juice that oozes out of thawing meat. This seemed a particularly choice specimen, well worth any amount of trouble to track down.
It was the fifth night of my vigil, but I was not bored. Time means very little to an immortal – this had just been a moment in eternity. I am outside of time; it ceased to matter nearly five centuries ago.
Besides, I had something else to occupy my mind.
Almost as soon as I turned up on the first evening I knew I had found a new Mortal Companion to replace the recently deceased Yiannis whose melancholy tale has been told elsewhere in The Archives.
Like all sensate beings we need the company of others, a friend to know our innermost secrets, our most private thoughts. There is a loneliness to immortality as the present becomes ever more incomprehensible and everything we have come to rely on recedes into the past. We find ourselves alone in a world of strangers.
As our kind cannot stand each other’s company for long, we take a Mortal Companion to fill this void. Without our Companions there would be a terrible aloneness that stretches to the end of time. We live in perpetual night and this makes it impossible to keep up with the increasingly bewildering rate of change. We are adrift in a world that is shifting too fast for us.
With a contemporary Mortal Companion to guide us, the present becomes an exciting time of discovery.
The boy stood, as he always did, apart from the others. He had a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth and the world’s largest chip on his shoulder. This was a small, slender, green-eyed mortal with a great deal of unruly ash-blond hair, full of light and shade. He was a year or two younger than I appear to be.
Under an assumed toughness there was a softness about him and, although he was sixteen or seventeen, there still lingered a trace of the underlying feminine found in the pre-adolescent boy. His development seemed to have been arrested and it might be a couple of years before he began hardening into a man. His face was that of a surly angel – a face without flaw that would mature to wonderful mortal beauty. Inside he was a frightened little boy, and in his eyes there was a heart-rending vulnerability.
It was love at first sight.
His name was Davy and, from the moment I saw him, his life was changed forever.
About his slender neck he wore a tiny silver cross on a silver chain. It had done him no good at all as far as I could see, and it meant nothing to me. A fictional vampire would have been repelled by the cross and burned by the silver, but they held no power over me, for I am real. I do not fear crucifixes, the Rosary, holy water, the consecrated host or any other religious artefact. You can invoke the name of God in my presence and I will not bare my fangs and retreat like Dracula in a B-grade movie. I can even enter holy places in search of prey and find nothing therein to stop me.
I am a church all to myself – The First Church of the Eternal Vampire. I own the secret of eternal life and I can grant it to those who believe in me – and I can prove it! Is any other church able to prove what they claim? I think not. When I hold Vampire communion with my Chosen Ones my Blood is not transubstantiated wine but the real thing, The Divine Elixir, straight from the source. O res mirabilis!
I am as I was in the beginning, am now, and ever shall be, Vampire without end, and whoso drinketh my Blood, hath eternal life. Hallelujah! Let us prey.
FOR the first few nights I kept apart and just studied Davy and scanned his mind. Even I, a vampire detached from the human condition, was sickened by the ill treatment and betrayal from which he had escaped to a life on the streets. Those who should have seen to his wellbeing had physically, emotionally, and sexually abused him. The mortals who had betrayed his trust were now on borrowed time – they were assured of a fatal visit from me right soon.
Forcing my way through the dense layers of self-doubt and self-loathing in his mind, I found, deeply submerged, a captivating personality and, lying latent, a luminous intelligence – a heavily repressed potential. It’s a dark paradox that this rich promise was to be realised under the love and protection of a legendary monster.
Every night I had to use the power of my mind to turn customers away from him. So that he could live, I used my preternatural speed and dexterity to place, unnoticed, a fifty-dollar note under his shoe and mind control to draw his attention to it. With vampiric skill I secreted smaller amounts in his pockets, and then caused him to think it had always been there. He ate well.
On this fifth night I stood in a shadowed doorway observing my traumatised Davy. I was aching to carry him off to his new home, his new life as my chosen Mortal Companion and apprentice, with the promise of change and better things to come.
I must have unwittingly let my emotions spill over into his mind because he suddenly spun round, his eyes blazing. ‘Stop lookin’ at me all the time,’ he snarled. ‘You some kinda fuckin’ prevert?’
Ah, if only you knew.
‘It’s pervert,’ I assured him. ‘I am some kinda fuckin’ pervert.’
‘I thought so.’
He peered into the dark doorway trying to see me with his dim mortal vision. ‘Anyway,’ he said nastily, ‘you’re so pale. If you spent more time in the sun you might even attract a customer now and then.’
If I spent any time at all in the sun there wouldn’t be enough left of me to attract an undertaker.
Despite the funereal gleam of my white, bloodless face, and hands like living marble, my youthful beauty and glittering iridescent eyes, my overwhelming aura of authority and dangerous power, I can pass unobserved through the mortal world unless I wish it otherwise. You may have noticed me, but not seen me. And I can be gone so quickly that you are not sure I was ever there at all. I was about to show Davy that I am not what I seem as I stepped out into the light of the street lamps.
With a sudden change of perception I allowed my Davy to see me as I really am – a merciless blood-drinking predator, a fiend with the face of a schoolboy. Pallid and poisonous as a toadstool raised in a dark cellar. Not human for five centuries. The illusion that I am still alive a clever pretence.
His eyes widened in confusion. He gasped and stepped back clumsily. But the moment of revelation passed as quickly as it had come. A dark car had crawled up to the pavement causing the boys to perk up and display themselves in their take it or leave it manner. The one who was chosen would at least eat tomorrow – or not in this case – because I knew that lurking in that car was my eagerly awaited victim, the ruthless degenerate who preyed on these street kids. Whoever was in the car was projecting wave after wave of evil intent. The boy who entered that car would take his last ride.
It was the nondescript sort of car no one really notices. The interior was dim, and he remained mostly concealed – it was no wonder that nobody had been able to give the police a description of him. But my vampire vision penetrated the gloom in a way no mortal eye ever could, and I saw every detail.
His pale spongy hands rested on his knees, hands that seemed all flesh and no bones, and which had recently been expertly manicured. They now began fluttering about like wounded birds, activated, I suppose, by anticipation and inner turmoil.
He wore a superbly tailored dark suit, a pink silk shirt and one of those rainbow-coloured ties that were briefly fashionable. A tight corset flattened his gut and made it difficult for him to lean forward. His feet were clad in mirror-shined black shoes and black silk socks. His plump face was strangely immature for a mortal of at least fifty. Thick grey hair had been so skilfully blackened that it looked almost natural. This was a vain, self-important, neurotic dandy with too much time and money to spend on himself. A villain out of Central Casting.
All this I saw in an instant as he looked about with little greedy eyes.
I entered his mind and wished I hadn’t. There was a slobbering need to kill, to put his hands around a tender young neck and squeeze the life away. And there were glimpses of previous victims and the sexual climax he had experienced as they died. And they say vampires are evil. Like the lion, we kill for food because we must. He killed for pleasure. This abominable creature was obviously demented – several bats short of a belfry. He was my eagerly sought victim, no doubt about it.
Mingled with these jumbled monstrosities was the image of a small stern-faced, black-garbed woman encircled by an incessant: Mummy. Mummy. I’ll be good Mummy. I’m sorry, sorry, sorry. I’m bad, bad, bad.
Horrified, I found myself caught up in his fixation, so strong was it. I managed to wrench myself away only to find more horror – while I was submerged in his nightmare he had beckoned to my new Companion. Davy shrugged his shoulders and walked towards the car. With no time to lose I slipped back into the villain’s sick mind and made him see me and desire me. He looked puzzled for a moment then signalled for me to come to him.
Little Davy had already moved into the back seat and, as I joined him, sliding across the soft leather, my shoulder touched his warm mortal body sending an electric thrill through me – my first contact with my new Mortal Companion. His human blood smell, fresh and salty, entranced me. I heaved a sigh of contentment.
Saying nothing, the monster drove off at speed just missing a pedestrian in his mad haste.
Davy moved as far from me as he could and stared at the floor, his beautiful face a sullen mask. He seemed to have forgotten our brief encounter or had rationalised it away. After a while he directed a hostile glare at me. ‘Who the hell do you think you are? And what the fuck are you doin’ here anyway?’
I smiled beatifically. ‘I’m your guardian angel.’
‘You don’t look like no goddam angel to me,’ he said scathingly.
I laughed. ‘You just used a naughty double negative,’ I said helpfully. ‘They cancel each other out, you know.’
‘What?’
Ignoring my well-meaning attempt to improve his English he spiralled in on himself again and resumed staring at the floor, slipping deeply into his troubled thoughts.
I tried to make myself comfortable for the journey, but the villain’s rich blood scent, thick and powerful and choking, filled the closed car and seared my lungs until I could scarcely breathe.
Ah, I could feel my fangs aching in their sockets. How I wanted to sink them into his neck right there and then and draw his intoxicating blood into myself. My need to kill was almost beyond my control – but Davy was there! Forcing my rising hunger into a dark corner of my mind and shutting it away was about the hardest thing I ever had to do. I opened a window and leaned out. The cold slipstream carried the blood smell away and I slowly regained control. Davy showed no sign of being aware of my struggle. He was too preoccupied with his inner thoughts to even notice that the monster had adjusted his rear-view mirror so that he could feast his eyes on his intended victim.
We drove out of Sydney over the bridge, the headlights first sweeping over a decaying commercial district, then a suburb of cheap houses. The length of the journey was no worry to me – dawn was still a comfortable way off – and what I had to do when we arrived would not take long.
Eventually we came to a seedy motel of the type frequented by couples of all sexes for furtive encounters. A sad-looking sign emitting an electric buzz spelt out MOTEL SPLENDIDE in fuzzy red letters that flashed on and off uncertainly. He braked in front of a cabin and, ignoring me, motioned for Davy to get out. He produced a key and opened the door.
As he walked through the door he sealed his doom. He was about to discover that the world is a darker and scarier place than even he could imagine. Many victims before him had discovered this to their cost and many more would in the future. His evil had attracted something beyond his comprehension – and it followed close behind. The prey was on the loose, the predator on the prowl.
I am the ultimate serial killer – compared to me he was the rawest beginner.
ALL these places are much the same – a double bed on a worn carpet, a small screen TV with rabbit ears, and little else. Through an open door I could see a cramped alcove containing a toilet and shower.
Wasting no time the dandy turned to Davy. ‘What’s your name, boy?’
‘Davy.’
‘Well Davy, take off your clothes and let me see what I’m paying for.’
Casting him a look of caustic hatred the poor boy reluctantly stripped off his clothes and I made a quick appraisal of his small body. It showed sad signs of neglect and malnourishment, but there was definite potential. Like everything else about him it would need much work to fulfil its promise. The best instructors and tutors would be hired to accomplish this and to repair his wounded mind and soul, and provide him with a fine education to bring out his latent potential, to make him fit to be my guide through the coming years. The beast, however, was only interested in assuring himself that Davy was anatomically correct. He seemed satisfied with what he saw. As well he might. Davy’s angelic beauty made a dramatic contrast with the potent earthiness of his well-developed manhood.
At this point his monstrous plans for Davy had gone as far as I could allow, so I entered Davy’s mind and commanded him to sleep until I awakened him. He collapsed in a graceless heap on the carpet, and lay still.
The degenerate leapt up from the bed. ‘What’s the matter with him?’ he demanded, his panic forcing him at last to recognise that I was present. Now it was time to have a bit of fun playing with my food.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I’m sure you’ve seen that film, My Own Private Idaho, in which River Phoenix collapses whenever he’s under stress.’ He nodded. Yes, of course he had. ‘Well, Davy has the same trouble. He’s a narcoleptic.’
‘Some hustler; he’s in the wrong line of business,’ he said annoyed, but obviously relieved.
A superficial scan of his mind showed that he was not altogether unhappy at this unexpected turn of events. How was he going to cope with two boys? He didn’t know – it seemed he had been cheated of his prey and would have to call the whole thing off. Now, by a stroke of good fortune, the problem had been solved. I saw images of him disposing of me, and then fondling Davy’s helpless body before strangling him also. He savoured the thought. His fingers curled as though already tightening around the tender young necks. Two for the price of one!
He directed his full attention to me. ‘Now it’s your turn to undress and show me what you’re selling.’
Quickly I stripped and displayed myself, a pale magnificent youth – he must have thought all his Christmases had come at once.
His greedy eyes opened wide. ‘God, you’re so white, dear boy, like an ivory statue. Are you one of those albinos?’
He looked into my eyes to see if they were pink and was stunned by what he saw in their depths. Deep in those eyes lurked an ancient monstrosity and he felt himself falling helplessly to meet it. Something appalling had hold of him. It was only by a supreme effort that he was able to force his consciousness back into the room. ‘Uh no, I guess not,’ he mumbled, shaken, not sure what had just happened to him. ‘Very nice, though.’
I was indignant. Very nice, indeed! A Master Vampire chose me from among millions to receive his Blood Gift. I am more than “very nice”. Much more.
He gestured for me to sit beside him on the bed and, when I did so, laid a plump manicured hand on mine. His eyes widened with surprise and he quickly pulled it away again. Unless I have recently fed, my hand – my whole body, in fact – is as cold as death.
‘What do they call you, boy?’
‘Abraham Stoker,’ I said with a straight face. Not a flicker. I knew the name would mean nothing to him. Under his assumed air of sophistication he was an ignorant fool.
He looked me up and down, mostly down. ‘Abraham?’ he said, puzzled. ‘How come? I can see that you aren’t Jewish.’
‘My parents were ignorant Irish Catholics,’ I explained. ‘They thought Abraham was a good Catholic name.’ I wondered why the hell I was bothering to talk to him at all. He was as good as dead and I don’t talk to dead mortals.
‘Well Abe…’ he began, but I cut him off. ‘My friends call me Bram,’ I said.
‘Well, Bram Stoker, you may call me Mr Valentine.’
‘Sounds like a hairdresser,’ I mumbled.
He raised his arms. ‘Come help me undress, you beautiful work of art.’
But they were there with us in that room, the vampire’s friends, Blood and Death, and I’d had enough of playing with my food. Suddenly his overwhelming blood smell filled the universe. He was food for an immortal, and nothing else mattered as I was overcome beyond reason by a thirst for his blood, a need more urgent than any I had ever known.
My hollow fangs extended and locked in place. Moaning with hunger and with the lust for his evil blood an agony, I leapt on him and pinned him in an unbreakable grip. To struggle was useless. He screamed as his ribs cracked. Leaning close to his contorted face I unmasked the full horror of my being – my dagger-sharp fangs, my fire-filled vampire eyes a glimpse of the flames that would soon engulf him as he roasted in Hell.
‘Oh God,’ he gasped, his eyes glazed in terror. ‘Mummy, help me Mummy.’
But there was no longer any help for him.
His blood, already full of delicious sex hormones, was now invaded by a surge of adrenaline. The mingled flavours of the sweet and sour hormones rising from him flooded my senses and set my heart pounding in anticipation of a true gourmet repast.
With casual skill honed over the centuries I sank my eager fangs into his disgusting damp neck, deep into his shrivelled soul. Locked to him like a giant leech I hungrily drew into myself draft after draft of the hot, salty, honey-thick nectar. My body writhed against his as the unparalleled richness poured into my parched veins quenching the desperate hunger, exploding through me like an orgasm.
For those few precious moments there were only two in all of time and space – my victim and me. Briefly we were one being. He was with me and in me.
This is my Body, this is my Blood.
And then came the tingling that starts in my chest and builds to a great climax – an almost unbearable high – the ecstatic feeling of rebirth that fresh blood always brings.
Ah, the pleasure of the kill! All this for ever and ever! Tomorrow and tomorrow, and tomorrow, To the last syllable of recorded time. Let it be this good forever.
I drank long and deep as he gave and gave. When I withdrew he was barely alive and fading fast.
The motel sign outside the window flashed on and off, off and on, filling the room with pulsing blood-red pools. Moving with vampire speed, I ripped a sheet from the bed and covered Davy and our clothes to keep blood splashes off them. I was a blur as I went through the victim’s pockets finding the car keys and a thick wallet containing a substantial wad of large denomination notes. These I placed under the sheet with Davy.
I zoomed back to the bed and tore off his clothes and then the corset. His flabby gut flopped out, crisscrossed with pale dents from the tight corset. I diverted my gaze from his tiny, pathetic cock.
I located the fifty-pound-test multibraid fishing line that he used to choke the life out of the boys. I looped it around his neck and, concentrating all my strength into my arms and shoulders, I pulled it tight. The tough line sliced easily through flesh and bone, and the head fell loose. The still feebly beating heart sent two thin streams of his remaining blood jetting across the pillow, then stopped.
I put down the head and arranged the body neatly on its back with one hand grasping its privates and the other arm angled at its side. I placed the head in the crooked arm, and with the words: Goodnight sweet prince, And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest, gently closed the eyes.
Stepping back I took an overview of my handiwork; I wanted to fix this moment in my mind. ‘Darling,’ I murmured, ‘I will always remember you just as you are now. And fangs for the memory.’ I was talking to a dead mortal again. Oh well.
I was just about to break the most important vampire rule – Always hide your kill – but to coin a cliché, rules were made to be broken. One little infringement wouldn’t hurt, the mortals would find reason to rationalize it away, they always do. Mortals live uneasily with the inexplicable. Besides, for what he had intended to do to Davy, the lethal bastard deserved the utmost indignity in death.
I couldn’t help laughing; the fresh blood had set my skin tingling and given me abounding energy. I felt like dancing a jig. And there was the adventure of my new mortal companion ahead of me. Singing quietly in my melodious baritone, With his head tucked underneath his arm, he walked the Bloody Tower, I showered away the blood and dried myself.
I whisked the sheet off Davy and sent it fluttering across the room. How small and fragile he looked lying there asleep, this wounded, frightened boy. And now I had rescued him.
Quickly I dressed myself and then Davy. Despite my vampire strength and dexterity it is always awkward to dress an unconscious body. When I had finished I leaned over him and entered his mind. I am your friend, I assured him. You will forget what happened here. You will be perfectly at ease with me and want to be with me. Nothing else will be so important.
I carried him out to the car and sat there for a while feeling great happiness as I studied my new Mortal Companion. With the tension gone from his sweet face he looked even more like a young angel. I was sure I had chosen well and that we had great times ahead of us. Reluctantly I tore myself away and started the car moving rapidly into the predawn darkness. I could have picked Davy up and flown him to our destination but I quite enjoy a drive now and then even though I have no driving licence, and no way to get one.
Turning to him I said, ‘You can wake up now, Davy.’
He smiled sleepily. ‘Boy, this is a long drive. Are we nearly there? Where are we going, anyway?’
‘Home,’ I said.
I PARKED the car in a dark side street some blocks from my penthouse and we alighted. I took Davy by the hand and hastened him away. I was concentrating, mustering my powers, only vaguely aware that he was demanding to know what was happening.
I turned and directed my pent-up will at the car. The petrol tank exploded with a great whoosh and a blinding glare and instantly the whole car was a ball of flame.
‘Shit,’ Davy said awestruck. ‘Did you see that? It just fuckin’ blew up. Good thing we weren’t in it.’
Now he was laughing with surprise and delight, my guileless Davy. How radiant he was when he laughed and his green eyes shone. I found myself laughing with him. His newfound happiness was happiness for me also. How different this child-like exuberance from his misery as a street kid. It produced an almost unbearable ache in my cold unbeating vampire heart. Despite all he had been through he was still an innocent.
Lights came on in nearby houses. There were running footsteps and excited voices. Above us the sky was lightening, and the stars were blinking out one by one.
Mortals coming; dawn approaching; sudden urgency.
‘Come,’ I said. ‘We can’t afford to be found here. We must leave now.’ I grasped him with one arm about his slender waist and lifted off into the predawn sky.
I ignored his terrified struggling as I enjoyed the weight of his small body against me and the warm, sweet, inviting scent of the young blood that arose from it. He, of all mortals, had nothing to fear from me.
As I rose rapidly towards the safety of my penthouse, my aerie high above the awakening city, I could see the almost full moon that had been high overhead when the night began, now swollen and orange, sinking below the western horizon.
I was indeed fortunate in my choice of Davy. When his problems were resolved and his full potential realised he proved to be one of my most rewarding and most loved Mortal Companions. And when the time comes to reward him with my Blood Gift for years of impeccable service, he will make a great vampire and do me proud.
Now, I left him in stasis to sleep until the next sunset in what had been his predecessor’s bed, and then sank gratefully into the welcoming satin lined, swansdown padded depths of my hidden coffin and waited while the world turned towards day. Soon the sun would rise unseen and the DeathSleep overcome me.
It had been an altogether satisfying night and nothing, nothing, could make me want to be other than what I am.
I am vampire. I am invincible.
The End
