Escape and refuge
Escaping from the abbey was easier than you might think. While I looked like any six year old, I was already as strong as any adult man; They had proven this by chaining me to a weight greater than my own, and used holy water to flog me into lifting it. I was also fast, again they proved this by caging me with a hungry panther and telling me to run or be slaughtered.
But they would still look at me, and see the child, not what I really was. So I pretended to give up, to go along with their 'testing' willingly. After about a week, they stopped sending four or five to escort me. I waited until there was only one, a nun.
When she came to escort me, I was ready. I had nothing but the rough robe they had used to replace my finer clothing, and no shoes. But I had to escape before they finished their tests. My usefulness to them would be over when that happened.
The nuns had taken a vow of silence, so she merely motioned. I stood, and walked out, turning the way she directed. Ahead of me was a stairway leading to more torments, and a window, the beautiful sky of freedom beyond it. I didn't think that freedom could be another word for death. I did not know how tall the building was, or where it was located. There might be a fall of hundreds of feet.
I didn't care.
I broke into a run. Behind me the nun must have pulled out a hand bell, because a moment after I did, I heard the clangor of it. I leaped, the window shattering as I went through it. Then I slammed into a tree branch. I bounced from branch to branch until finally I hit the ground. I looked up dazed at the missing fourth floor window I had escaped through. I was cut by glass, bruised by the impacts, and wished I could just stay where I was. But if I did they would capture me again easily, and after this they would never give me a chance again.
I staggered to my feet in the snow, then ran downhill, the easiest path. I dodged around trees, using every bit of my speed to make it as far as possible before they could mount a pursuit. I found a deer path, ducking onto it without slowing. A small herd of red deer leaped away at my approach, and were gone as I pounded on.
Ahead of me, I could see a road, and as I reached it, I looked both directions. No one in sight, though I could hear the sound of hooves to my right. I ran a dozen steps down it away from that sound, then leaped, catching a tree branch about ten feet up. With skill I didn't even know I had I flipped up to stand on top of it, then ran down to the trunk of the tree, using it to shield me from view.
A dozen men in the livery of the Church Militant rode below, slowing when my footprints disappeared. I curled up against the tree, hand clamped over my own mouth to stop me from making too much noise. I could hear not only my heart, but the hearts of every man and animal below. I was sure they could hear them as well. They argued, some wanting to go back to the trail; obviously I must have laid a false trail, and had gone on it through the woods. Others thought they should wait until the handler for the hounds arrived.
I just wished they would go away. Finally, they did. I was alone, ten feet up a tree, and terrified into stillness. It was perhaps three hours to sunset, and I decided to wait until then to continue my escape. I was freezing, hungry, as they only fed me once a day, and my wounds, though closed, hurt. I did not expect to live out the night, but that did not bother me. Even if they found me in the spring thaw frozen and lifeless, I would still have died free.
There was the rattle of harness, and down the road from the direction I had fled before my leap, I saw an odd wagon, looking as if someone had made a huge barrel into a home on wheels. A small chimney stuck up, and I could see what looked like heat coming from it. The first wagon was followed by five more, and I decided that just a few minutes of warmth would be worth it, even if they threw me back into the snow. As the driver passed from view, I moved around the tree, back onto the branch, then hung down. It was low enough that I merely dropped a few inches onto it.
I huddled near the clay pipe, grateful for the warmth, though I had to lay flat to avoid rolling off. Suddenly the wagon stopped. I thought I had been seen, and raised up a little. No, the armed men on horseback had stopped the wagons, and were arguing with the driver of the first one. I slid to the back on the rounded structure. There was a set of folded steps before what looked like a normal door, and I held onto the roof as I rolled forward, and lowered myself to stand on them.
I opened the door enough to slide inside, and closed it. Hopefully, they would not search them. I turned and froze. An ancient woman sat at a table, grinding something with a mortar and pestle. She was looking straight at me, and my heart also froze. She cocked her head, listening to the shouting that now included several people, and I knew they were going to search the wagons for the 'demon'.
The woman motioned for me to come closer. I slid forward, ready to strike out if she tried to grab me. She put out her hand questing, and I saw that a white film covered her eyes. She was blind. She touched the edge of my robe, rubbing it between her fingers, then the hand moved down to take my own. But she did not clasp me firmly, more like the same motion she had used to examine the cloth. She rolled my hand around, rubbing the back of my fist until I opened it. She slide a gentle finger along my palm, head cocked as if with her finger she could read the lines on it.
There was the sound of tramping toward us, and she touched her lips to signal me to be silent, then reached down to pull up the long cloth that covered the table. I understood she was offering me a place to hide, and I dived beneath it as she dropped it back. I found myself with my back against her knees as the steps were dropped, and the door was slammed open.
"As I said, no one but our family." A man complained as someone climbed in. He had a sweet voice, with an edge a amusement in it. "Now you disturb miri púridaia, my grandmother."
"She is alone?" Someone else with a harsh voice asked.
"She is the one who makes our medicines. She is good enough to support her own vurdon, and is respected by us all."
"If you see this red headed monster, you must inform us immediately." The harsh man ordered. "She will kill any who befriend her. Only mother church can protect us from such things."
"As you have said countless times, Kooli." The laughing voice replied. "If she is seen, it will be done."
There was silence, then the men went back out, and the door closed. I started to move, but the woman held me. "Be still, Sedre." She whispered. "We must be sure they do not decide to tear apart our homes in their search."
I waited for a long time, until the shouting died down, and the wagons were once again moving. She pushed me out gently. "You are shivering as if you had been in the snow for hours." She motioned toward a kettle that sat on the stove that warmed the interior. "Pour both of us some tea. Talk to me as I work."
I did as she bid. The tea was hot and sweet. I clutched the cup to try to warm my hands. I spoke of my life, of my mother's death. Of the men and women of the church tormenting me.
"Ah, you are Dhampir." She said after a moment. She asked me to hand her a bottle full of clear liquid, and she opened it, pouring two small glasses about the size of a thimble, then filled a jar with the mixture she had been crushing, and poured it full as well before stoppering it. She handed one of the glasses to me, and took it in a neat shot. I followed suit, gasping as the harsh liquid seemed to burn it's way to my stomach. She smiled gently. "To warm you inside as well.
"While they see you as a demon, they could not be more wrong. What do you know about vampires?"
"Only the stories any child would know." I admitted. The fiery liquid had settled in my stomach, and warmth spread from it.
She nodded. "Among some people, they speak of vampires as if they have not left all of humanity behind them. This I know to be truth in part. Making a person into a vampire does not change them; make them good is they were evil before for example. I have met vampires on this continent that have taken the guardianship of a village or people as their mission in this new life. There are villages where they sleep safe in their beds from bandits because their guardian spirit keeps them safe.
"There are others where a vampire uses them as we do animals we hunt to eat. Where they fear not only bandits or their own government, but also the thing that comes to slay by night; where they sleep huddled together with crosses on every window."
"So they are just people that drink blood instead of eating food?" I asked. She held out her cup and I poured. She sipped, nodding.
"But it goes deeper. Among the people to the south of your homeland, they believe other appetites still exist. If they were sexual beings in their life, they retain that. Both male and female vampires still feel the desire of naked flesh against their own. That deny their own death by reenacting the one thing people always do, trying to bring new life into the world." She directed me to a shelf full of bottles of dried herbs, spelling out names so I chose the right ones. She took the two items I had gotten, and without my help measured then began to grind them.
"For the women, it is in vain. Death can not bring forth life, no matter how hard they try, even if they have become vampire within days or weeks. But the men sometimes succeed. They father a child on the unsuspecting human woman. That is what a Dhampir is, a child of both vampire and human."
"Then I am a monster." I whispered sadly.
"No more than a mule, the cross breeding of a horse and a donkey is." She replied reproving me. "A mule is stronger than a horse, larger than a donkey, and smarter than either. While a donkey or horse will kick you if you are behind them, a mule can and will kick you where ever you stand. You lose little by having a father that is vampire. You also gain things he can and cannot do.
"Sunlight bothers you little; little more than it does me. You can eat and drink what is normal, so you do not need to feed as he would. The cross has no effect on you, and while holy water will burn you, it is the difference between having hot water in contact with your flesh instead of a hot iron pressed into it. You can feed as he does, though only when your life is in danger, or you need the strength to heal wounds.
"You are as fast and almost as strong as they. You can also do what they cannot; you can sense them with practice. I believe God allowed such as you for only one purpose; to make the natural enemy of vampires."
"Natural enemy?"
"There are animals that by nature are enemies. Far to the East, in a land called India there is a poisonous snake called the cobra. Some breeds of it have venom so deadly it can kill an animal called the elephant." She waved at the roof above us. "Picture an animal as large as this vurdon or larger, felled by a snake barely as long as you are tall. Yet in that same land is an animal slightly larger than a ferret called a mongoose. It is mostly immune to that deadly venom. When they confront each other, there is no quarter asked nor given.
"The snake will strike and strike, trying to kill his enemy, and the mongoose will fight with the tenacity of a wolf desperate to eat. You are like the mongoose; immune to your enemy, and deadly to him. But normal men fear you because they do not understand this." She looked up. "We prepare to camp." She poured hot water into the mixture in her mortar.
I could hear people moving outside, and wanted to leap back into hiding, but she stopped me. I heard the steps drop, then the door opened. A tall man with dark hair and skin climbed in, looking at me curiously. He spoke, but stopped when the old woman raised her hand. "It is not fair to speak a language she does not understand, Ataman."
He sighed. "Grandmother, what have you done? You know they search for her."
"She is not the monster they claim, grandson. She is Dhampir. She is under my protection." I could tell he wished he could disagree. Finally he merely nodded. She sensed it. "Send Ludmilla to me." She ran her fingers through my bright red hair. "For a time, her hair will be black."
He went away grumbling. A short time later a girl with the same deep complexion of the man, and hair as black as an raven's wing entered.
"Ludmilla, this is..." The old woman turned to me. "I am sorry, chid, I did not ask your name."
"Rayna." I replied.
"Well we cannot call you that. In a land to the south, and another far to the west that means Queen, and they would be upset that you use it. Besides the church here would know it" She considered. "We will call you Rayne. They do not care to understand our names anyway. I am Dagmar Belescu, and this is my great grand daughter, Ludmilla." We nodded hesitantly to each other. "Ludmilla, we are going to dye her hair black for a time. You will need the fine brush."
Ludmilla unbound, then washed my hair. As I lay back with my head over the bowl, she patiently used the brush to apply the mixture I now know of Indigo dye and Henna to my hair. Once it was dry, they then washed my hair again. What remained of the herbs rinsed out, leaving my hair black with some red highlights of my own hair color. Then she went and came back with some clothing like hers.
I don't know when it happened, but I was patiently watching Ludmilla cleaning the last of the mixed dye when she sighed. "What are you looking at?"
"A pretty girl."
She shook her head as she blushed. "No, if you are to live with us, you must learn our tongue. I am a tawnie juve, as are you."
"Good." Dagmar said. "Now, both of you go help with dinner."
"Yes, púridaia Baro Dagmar." She set the mortar on a shelf near Dagmar's hand. "I think I will call you miri kushti pen." Ludmilla took my hand.
"I thought I was to be Rayne?"
"That means my dear sister. I always wanted a sister."
"So have I."
We ran, two girls giggling together toward the communal fire.
And so the best nine years of my life began.
Life and Death
If you ever want to understand everything about life and death, go to the jungle. Every part of life and death is there. The smell of decay smells like rising bread dough. Yeast making something that one day will be edible and delicious, but not yet. Everything is being born, living what life they are given, dying in their time. It's a balance between life and death that is never ending.
To a jungle man is no more important than a microbe. A tribe slashes and burns out a clearing, and plants crops until the soil gives no more, and they move on. Less than six months later there is no sign that they were ever there. There are farms or plantations that the French spent almost two centuries turning into working propositions that are now nothing but trees growing through ruins. Of it all only concrete and steel survives, but even that is eroded.
Where an Army unit would expect to travel between ten and fifteen miles a day, I could travel almost thirty. Where they tire, I am still able to move. That is why I anticipated only five days from the Mekong to my target.
And I alone live here without problems. I do not worry about the diseases and parasites humans do. To a mosquito I am something they cannot gain nourishment from, so they do not bite me. The same with the biting fly and leeches. Larger animals, such as tigers are still a problem, but I can teach them lessons in evasion and stealth. I am a shadow moving almost silently through the trees. But there is also man to deal with.
Most of course want nothing to do with the three wars being fought in this region. There is a saying from when the Viet Minh were fighting the French; tất cả các chế độ đều giống nhau, All Regimes are the same. To a farmer or merchant, it doesn't matter who is in charge, those who live under them still do the same thing, which is try to survive.
I came upon the carnage of a small caravan, drovers and merchants scattered like dolls. Bandits? Khmer Rouge? Government troops? There is no way to know who has killed them all, no trace of their goods remain. I left their bodies where they lay; the jungle would take them back into it's bosom and go on.
I went a few miles further, and could hear the noise of people. A village or another caravan perhaps. I inched forward. There was a shot, and I froze. Then shouting to my right. I moved slowly toward the left, and found the edge of a clearing. There were a dozen small huts, and perhaps thirty people. I watched as four men walked into the village. Two carried a pig slung across a pole, the others carried rifles, old Berthier fusil Mle 1902; rifle, model of 1902 in 8mm Lebel. One of the men was angrily working the action of his rifle.
They were old weapons; the French had issued them to their units assigned here because they were easier to maintain than the Lebel itself, and they had been replaced with more modern weapons just before the second World War. No doubt with the round no longer in production, they had resorted to black powder, meaning they fouled and jammed more often. They would also have problems getting the correct bullets, meaning they had what were now single shot rifles.
I had run out of food; when I exerted myself to maintain my pace, I of course had to eat more. I could not take the time to hunt, so I was limited to what I could carry. I considered what I carried, and decided to do some quick trading. I stepped from the jungle on the edge of the clearing. They did not notice me, so I carried the Dragunov as if I were just a hunter strolling by, and padded toward the huts.
A woman saw me, and shouted, pointing. I paused, watching as every eye went to me. The armed men frantically tried to reload their weapons. The jammed one was thrown down, and the man drew a wicked machete. I merely stood there, watching them. Then I raised my right hand from the rifle I carried, and raised it open palm toward them. The two armed men moved toward me, the rifleman stopping about thirty yards away, the other closing to about five.
"I would like to trade." I said in French. The man looked at my clothing, then at my weapons.
"What do you need."
"Fruit, ten kilos or rice, some smoked meat if you have it."
"What will you trade?"
"Gold." I pulled a coin out, flashing it.
"We need a new rifle." He motioned toward the Dragunov. "We will give you three kilos of rice, two of dried fruit and half a kilo of smoked meat for that."
I motioned toward the coin. "Fifteen kilos of rice, five of fruit, six of meat, and you will get this rifle and one gold Louis."
"I would rather have the other rifle as well." He motioned toward the AK47.
"And you would give?"
"Twelve kilos of rice, four of fruit, and three of meat for both rifles and ammunition."
I shrugged. "Not good enough. The meat and fruit are not negotiable."
"We will make it fifteen kilos of rice and all else as you ask if you add one gold Louis."
"Seventeen."
He sighed. "Done." He turned, shouting at the rifleman, who ran back toward the camp. Women came out carrying the food, and I inspected it carefully. It wasn't that I feared poison or spoilage; at need I could eat rotten food. But if I acted as my nature would suggest, they would wonder why I didn't bother. I measured the weight by picking the sacks up, and it was close enough. I took the Dragunov, cleared the action before handing it to him.
I walked him through how to load and field strip it, and did the same for the AK. We were surrounded by the children who watched silently. He caressed the Dragunov as if it were a woman. He looked at the magazine, only one.
"If you wish, you may stay for our evening meal." He told me grudgingly. I considered his expression. There was no threat in him. Either he was an honest man, or he was a better poker player than any I had met. I pulled out another gold coin, dropping it in his hand. He looked at it suspiciously. "What is this for?"
"Your kindness. It has been a long time since people were kind to me for no reason."