Chapter 4
Thirteen
I started to decline again. I wasn't going to make it on my own. I needed help, so I beat a path to Father Pawel. I thought that if I could reach him soon enough, before the cravings became too overwhelming, he could feed me and stave them off. I hoped that would buy me the time I needed to figure out what to do, a way to satisfy my cravings before they overwhelmed me. As I stumbled along, I realized that I also wanted – needed - to hear more about this forgiveness.
I struggled back to the tiny church house in the Polish countryside. Father Pawel took me in again. Without question, he welcomed me into his sparse cottage and I was filled with the sense of returning home. Little ever changed in the simplicity of Father Pawel's home, that's why I immediately noticed the unfamiliar stack of dusty books on his tiny, wooden desk. He quickly swept the books aside and into a bin, but my sharp eyes had already made out a couple of details: capital letters down the binding of one of the books spelled out WAMPIR; another volume appeared to be a Polish translation of a story written by Bram Stoker.
My little friend had been doing some unfortunate research.
I looked carefully back at him, wondering how he'd react to what he'd learned. He wasn't grasping at wooden stakes or anything. That was good. He merely stood sheepishly and motioned for me to sit and rest while he went out for a few moments. I complied, and he went nervously out his door. Was he going out to fetch reinforcements? The suspicion died as soon as I'd thought it. My trust in him was beyond such silliness. I waited patiently, hoping only that he wouldn't be too frightened of me.
I smelled his return before I heard it. He smelled like blood. Pure blood. Thick, rich, delectable, irresistible blood. Blood that sang out beyond muscle and flesh. Blood that I had to have. Blood that nothing, nothing, nothing was going to stop me from having this time. My cravings had reached their breaking point. This was it.
I stood rigidly, staring at the door with every stony muscle tensed. My lips curled back from my teeth as a low snarl rumbled from the base of my throat. My burning, flaming throat. The door swung open, and Father Pawel stood there with a shaking hand extended out in front of him as far as his stubby arm could reach. He held a thick glass filled and dripping with unadulterated blood. In a fraction of a second I leapt to him, whipping the glass out of his hand and to my throat. I gulped down the oozing liquid. It was exquisite.
It wasn't enough.
My coal black eyes burned on Father Pawel, whose entire body was now trembling. It was the terrified look on my kind, gentle Pawel's fair face that caused me to pause. The pause gave him the seconds he needed to shift slightly and reveal a small wagon behind him. The wagon was filled with rich, red jars. I shoved the little priest to the ground, out of my way, and pounced on the wagon, ripping the glass top off one of the jars with my teeth and pouring the contents down my throat, not caring that I was spilling half of it down my chin. I wanted it in me as fast as possible. I went through three jars before my senses came back to me.
Poor Father Pawel was lying on the ground in a heap. I rushed to him and sat him up. He was conscious and a little shaken, but he was going to be fine. Apparently his research hadn't been so unfortunate, after all. He'd found the solution I'd been looking for. My precious, precious friend had been tapping the local farm animals and storing their blood for me! I couldn't believe it.
I knew the blood in the jars was from farm animals because of the grainy bouquet and essences of hay that I'd noted once my consumption had slowed to a civilized pace. Other than that, I had no idea how he had procured my beverages. For once, the language barrier between us proved convenient; it allowed us to avoid embarrassing conversations about how he got the blood and why I drank it. Over time, however, my quick mind picked up his language, and we began to have real conversations. Even then, we avoided any discussion of my meals, although he continued to furnish them regularly.
I knew that he must have a pretty good idea of what I was, even if those books he'd read didn't completely match up with reality. The blood was a fairly damning clue. Father Pawel was also privy to another solid clue that most likely hadn't shown up in any of his books. He witnessed this clue every time we went for our long, solitary walks on his sunny hillsides. In the direct sunlight, my vampiric skin shimmered and sparkled like drops of morning sunlight scattered across a lightly rippling lake. Like the Eiffel Tower at night after the millennium celebration.
Father Pawel adored my sparkly skin. No matter how many times he saw it, he always gave an initial gasp of delight. Then he'd usually chuckle and grab my icy hand to spin me around so he could get a good look at it. I'd have to crouch down to make it under his stocky arm. But he never, ever questioned the temperature or the appearance of my skin. And he never commented on my unusual culinary preferences.
One day I started to talk about it, tried to give him more background about what I was, but he shushed me with an unusual show of severity. That round, jolly face could be quite fierce when it wanted to be, and the words stuck in my throat. Father Pawel made me understand that under no circumstances were we ever to explicitly discuss my heritage, my legacy, my what ever it was. I was surprised by his insistence on this point. After a while, I guessed that he must have taken a vow somewhere along the way that would prevent him from befriending someone like me. Maybe not saying it out loud was some kind of a loophole.
So, we talked about it without talking about it. We avoided certain words, certain details. Even so, he came to understand the agonized guilt and misery that I carried with me, would probably always carry with me. He understood this without the necessity of details.
He also understood that I'd separated myself from the vast majority of my kind (he refers to my kind as if it were nothing more than ethnicity) by abstaining from human blood. Of course, for me this lifestyle was not exactly a choice. It's not as if I avoided killing humans out of a sense of right or wrong. Rather, the decision was forced on me out of sheer terror. Still, Father Pawel helped me see that my abstinence was good, regardless of the motivation. He encouraged me to continue on this path no matter how my appetite might change in the future.
Often times our discussions were accompanied by a picnic of grapes and cheese and wine and blood. When we were satiated, we would often lie back on our blanket or the grass and read to each other. He knew my need to have my psalm repeated. For some reason, he seemed to linger even more intently on verse thirteen.
Then I will teach your way to other sinners, and they –
guilty like me – will repent and return to you.
Why did he do that?
I knew it wasn't a good idea for me to stay continually with Father Pawel. People would begin to wonder about the company he kept. I also felt the pull of my natural need to wander. I was a nomad by nature. That's why I'd left the stifling elements in my homeland of Romania so long ago. I periodically left the Polish countryside for brief stints, but could only get so far before I had to return to Father Pawel for nourishment. The tight radius of my travels left me restless, a fact I couldn't hide from my friend. He tried teaching me his methods for extracting blood from animals, taking only enough so that no real damage had been done, but the beasts still shrieked in pain, and I had a difficult time with it. I was hopelessly tied to Eastern and Western Europe. I longed to roam further, but how could I?
One day, Pawel and I amused ourselves by tossing pebbles into a rushing brook. He was amazed at my precision and the charming designs I created at the surface of the water by skipping several stones at once. A stray, yellow tabby sat a little ways down the brook on the opposite bank. The cat had learned not to be afraid of me after our first encounter when my throat burned for his blood, but I didn't bother doing anything about it. We became playmates of sorts. I called him Gato.
We'd crouch and hiss at each other. He'd inevitably pounce on me with splayed claws, futilely scratching at my stone flesh. I enjoyed watching his frustration mount as he bit and clawed at my arm, always seeming sure that this time he was going to get me. Then I'd get bored and pull my arm back and see how far I could fling him across the field. Sometimes it was so far that he became nothing more than a tiny, howling spec in the distance. Father Pawel would shake his head and cluck his tongue disapprovingly, but I would laugh and laugh at the cat's flailing limbs and yowling protests as he disappeared. Hey - he landed on his feet every time, and he must have enjoyed it, because he always came back for more.
On that day by the brook, funny Gato curiously watched the fish swimming below him. His ears pricked and his furry head snapped back and forth as his bright, keen eyes followed their movement. He curled one of his front paws, his claws fully extended. In a flash, the paw dipped in the water and Gato pulled out a wriggling fish. He clamped his sharp teeth into it and ran away with the spoils of his hunt.
I stood gaping at the scene of the attack. There had been no screams, no cries of pain. Just a very peaceful attack and capture……fish had blood, right?
And so, Gato had taught me how to fish. This new skill literally opened up the world to me. I would be able to travel far distances as long as I was close to water, which carried my new food source. Father Pawel and I hugged tightly before I left on that next journey. I squeezed him until he let out a muffled, 'Umph.' We knew I'd be gone very long this time.
I cut to the Mediterranean and traveled to the Atlantic. I followed Africa's western coast south and swept around the tip to the Indian Ocean. Once there, I swam to Madagascar. As I circled the large island, hunting, I found that I had competition in the water, and I'm not talking about sharks. I'm talking about a small coven of fish-eating, narly-wave-riding, long haired, weed-burning vampires. They were totally radical, dude. And remarkably enlightened.
There were three of them, two males and a female, who had all arrived at the island's south west beach separately, drawn to the seclusion and the stories of incredible surf swells for the patient. They'd given up attacking humans long before I met them because of the 'bad karma,' and lived mostly on fish. They occasionally hunted mammals, but only those that were neither of an endangered species nor endemic to the island.
Although my instinct was to keep moving and get away from these other vampires, they intrigued me with their calming, no-questions-asked aura. Without even seeming to try, they convinced me to stay and hang out for a while. While I was there, the group willingly taught me invaluable skills for hunting in the open sea. Team hunting was most effective, but since I preferred to work alone, they gave me a few hints for solo hunting. Soon I was taking down bigger prey, like tuna and marlin, on my own.
One afternoon as we trolled the deep waters, Pippa, the female, raced over to us in great agitation. She'd spotted a Great White. I turned to head immediately to shore, but saw that Kevin and Plainsong stayed to twirl summersaults in the water. They were excited. They'd never been able to go after such a big target with just the three of them. With four of us, they told me, it just might be possible.
We split up and took various posts in the water around the enormous shark. Kevin, Plainsong and I stayed just out of the shark's vision, but where we could still see each other. Pippa was the distraction. She was close enough for the shark to see but not so close that he'd guess what she was right away. He took the bait and swam cautiously toward her white, thrashing form, probably more out of curiosity than anything. As the majestic beast approached, it caught a whiff of her and reared its giant head in distaste. It turned and swam swiftly away in the opposite direction. Kevin and Plainsong were waiting for it.
The male vampires shot to either side of its enormous head, each blinding an eye and then sinking their teeth into its body, just behind its massive gills. The monster thrashed dangerously, threatening to fling the boys miles away. I swooped down from above to grab onto its dorsal to try and steady its movement, while Pippa struggled to control its powerful tail. The great beast eventually grew tired – something we would never do. It slowed and eventually stopped moving entirely as he succumbed to the fatal loss of blood. The whole thing had been accomplished with surprising fluidity, like a well orchestrated ballet.
We whooped silently under the water and then Pippa and I joined in on the feast. We sunk our teeth into the smooth, milky flesh and sucked. There was no tearing of skin, no sense of frenzy, no taste of violence whatsoever as we fed. The five of us, the four vampires and the deceased shark, floated gracefully through the water as one being. Escaped blood spread out in the water, creating a soft, red cloud around us. After we'd had our fill, the shark's carcass drifted downward into darkness, while the rest of us slowly glided to the surface and flipped onto our backs, letting the gentle ripples of the ocean rock us into a kind of blood coma under the darkening sky.
The Madagascar coven was the happiest, most peaceful, fun-loving group of vampires I'd ever met. They'd surf all night when conditions were right, and when they weren't surfing, they'd light a big bonfire on the beach and burn dried leaves they'd harvested from their own, personal crop hidden on the lush island. The weeds sent a puff of smoke wafting in the air toward us. After inhaling the smoke for a while, we'd fall into a different kind of giggling coma.
It wasn't long before the serenity became too much for me, too uncomfortable, and I unceremoniously got the hell out of there.
Father Pawel was my next destination. I'd been away from him for too long. On my long journey back to Poland, up the east coast of Africa and via the Red Sea this time, I realized that my struggles with the bigger fish in Madagascar had reignited my urge to hunt. I sidetracked into the hills of east Africa and went after an Ibex. He was agile on the rocky terrain, but I was deadly silent as I crept to a ledge above him and leapt with pinpoint accuracy to grasp his great horns, yanking his bearded head back. I sunk my teeth into his throat and drank and drank and drank. The goat's agonized bleating hadn't stopped me. The thrill of the hunt once again coursed through my empty veins. I was cured.
This would have been wonderful news if it hadn't been so horribly tragic - what did this mean for my thirst for human blood? What did this mean for Father Pawel? My trek to Poland slowed and nearly stopped while I struggled with this question. Now that I could hunt again, I was completely autonomous and independent, just the way I liked it. There was no need for me to return to him. Ever. The thought of never seeing him again ripped through me. I might not need him to feed me anymore, but I did need him. I needed his smiling face and his soft admonishments. I needed our walks and our conversations. I needed him to spin me in the sunlight. He'd become everything to me, and I needed him more than I needed anything else in this world. I was going back to him. But first…
I walked into the center of an African village at dusk. The villagers watched me warily, and mothers stood protectively in front of their children, as well they should. I sucked air in through my nose and smelled the tempting, human blood. I listened to the rapidly beating hearts furiously pumping as they dispersed the rich redness. I inhaled the scent again. Then I turned and left the village with a dull throbbing in my throat. My instinct to hunt humans hadn't returned as strongly as the urge to hunt animals. Human cries would be different. Still, walking away that day felt like a choice. A choice backed by the memory of unbearable misery.
When I finally returned to Father Pawel, I explained my new developments as explicitly as I dared. He beamed at me. I told him about Pippa and Kevin and Plainsong, how they were my kind, how they'd freely chosen a violence-free lifestyle. I tried to describe their inner peace. His eyes grew as big as saucers on his elated, round face.
"I knew it could be done," he murmured in Polish, more to himself than to me.
Then his gaze was on my face and he knelt in front of me on our picnic blanket.
"Elisa," he said, holding out the palms of both of his hands up to me. He was practically glowing. Something big was going on inside that little man. I grasped onto his hands and knelt to face him.
"Yes, Father, what is it?" I asked as gently as I could. I didn't want to pop his bubble with any sharpness.
"Then I will teach your way to other sinners, and they – guilty like me – will repent and return to you,"he said joyously, looking straight at me.
I examined his eyes. They appeared to be very clear, remarkably clear, so I discarded the idea that he'd somehow gotten a hold of the Madagascar weed. He repeated the statement and continued staring at me with great hope. I could only scrunch my face up at him in confusion.
"It's possible Elisa. It can be done. Some of your kind are already doing it. You can help spread the word – teach your way to other sinners."
I looked at him incredulously. During my lengthy absence, my precious Pawel had gone barking mad.
He read my expression and chuckled, releasing my hands and relaxing back down on the blanket. He patted a spot next to him, indicating that I should sit down next to him, and backed up several hundred pages. He explained that while my personal lifestyle was to be commended, perhaps I had a higher purpose. Perhaps the circumstances of my life had been arranged to direct me to this higher purpose. Perhaps I was meant to lead my kind toward a more peaceful, less murderous culture. I was doubtful and resistant. I mean, seriously, could someone who got her kicks by flinging helpless kittens honestly expect to have a higher purpose?
Father Pawel cultivated the seeds he had planted, and over the course of several weeks, I became wholly convinced that I could no longer continue in my selfish existence. It was well and good that I had chosen not to kill, but I could no longer ignore the fact that murder was an accepted way of life for most of my species. Not when I knew that change was possible. The Madigascar vampires had done it. Carlisle had done it. It was possible. Would I finally be able to forgive myself if I could accomplish something so good?
The flame of hope that Father Pawel had ignited in me started to flicker, and soon I burned with a higher purpose. Now I just needed a plan.
After much thought and internal debate, it became clear to me that step one of the grand plan would require me to return to Romania. Return to B.I.T.E., return to the organization that had nearly smothered me centuries ago. Only two ancient Romanian vampires still remained in this world, and they were mostly harmless, but the New Romanians, the ones created after the fall of the Romanian Empire, were as regimented and unforgiving as any world power I'd ever witnessed. My non-existent heart skipped a beat when I wondered what kind of reception I could expect upon my return. I had no reason to expect it to be warm. Then again, like I've said before, when is anything ever warm when it comes to vampires?