“Into the Dark”

see May 27, 2013

     When Julian opened his eyes, he was dead. He knew because the woman sitting in the garden through the door at the end of the corridor was his mother. Her back was turned, but he recognized the rose-gold gown and thick honey blonde hair. He had brushed that hair as a child, standing on a chair behind her while she sat still as a statue no matter how hard he had tugged. His own hair was brown, thick like hers but dark like his father’s.

Sunlight blazed on the crown of her head, nearly blinding in its brilliance. The corridor was shadowed and cool, like the interior of a great old house. He could smell the sun, smell the flowers. The closer he came to the doorway, the more he could smell: lilacs and wisteria, the summer scents of grass and new leaves. His mother was reading, something she had loved but had little time to do in life. It was different, here. Time was endless. He did not wonder where his father was. He did not expect to see him. But Rob should have been nearby. Did a soldier killed in battle not earn a rightful place in Heaven?

A voice stopped his progress toward the light. “Drink,” it said.

He shook his head, refusing. His eyes were fixed on his mother’s back. He wanted her to turn around, but he could not speak.

“Drink, my love.”

Was it his mother’s voice? Her wish, perhaps, heard unspoken in this magical place? If speech was unnecessary, why did she not hear him asking her to turn? See me, Mam; turn and see me.

He swallowed. The air stirred behind him, pulling him back a step. He tried to fight it, tried to brace himself with a hand on either wall, but the shadow had no substance. There was no wall to touch. His fingers clawed at nothing. The wind gusted, threatening to spin him on his heel. He fought that, too, locking his gaze on the garden through the door. Panic rose within him the way the wind had risen at his back. Mam, see me! Turn and see me!

She lifted her head as if she sensed his fear, then she turned to look over her shoulder. The same dark eyes she had passed to him went wide and he knew he was unexpected. That really frightened him. He tried again to call out, but his voice was dead in his throat. The wind howled, buffeting his ears, whipping his hair across his face. He saw but did not hear her call his name. He forced a scream that made no sound. The last thing he saw was his mother running toward him, hands outstretched, her face taut with terror as the wind sucked him beyond her reach.

Then he was falling fast, tumbling head over heels through a whistling void. Every nerve in his body, every vein, every vessel was scorched as if by lightning. He screamed his throat raw and heard nothing but the rush of speed. The pain spread beneath him, caught him and embraced him, closed over him like a blistering sheet of flame. His lungs burned with every breath. An impossible truth dawned. He was dead and he was going to Hell.

He drew a last, desperate gasp and drove the scalding air from his chest in a crying plea for mercy. Please, God, don’t let me die!

His body gave a violent jerk and all was suddenly still. There was no sound, no pain, no motion. He lay in opaque blackness, detached from flesh and fear. Lost. Waiting. Someone would come for him, surely. But who? Not his mother; he had seen her for the last time. He would carry the memory of her face for the rest of his—life? Death? Where was he?

Somebody help me. Rob. Father. Somebody. Help.

A kiss roused him; the pressure of lips soft on his, a tentative lick from the tip of a tongue. His mouth opened on a sob of relief. It was Génie.

 

copyright 2013 Ruth R. Greig

* * *

Today is Julian’s “other” birthday – the immortal one. This scene was the beginning of his transformation, so it seemed appropriate to post for the occasion though it’s not something he enjoys remembering. It would be foolish to ask him why. Birth is a traumatic experience and vampires have the luxury – or the curse – of remembering theirs in minute detail. Still, I cannot let the day pass without a nod to it; Julian is, after all, my immortal beloved, and if Génie hadn’t taken it on herself to turn him, my life would have been less … how do I put it … creative? Dramatic? Frustrating? Pleasurable? All of the above?

 

He was reborn on September 3, 1666. Google the date and you may find the historic occurrence that coincided with his transformation. Or don’t Google it and wait for the continuation of this piece because I may put it up here when “Four Legs and a Tale” is done.

 

In the meantime, May 27 may have been a champagne salute to him, but this date definitely requires something red in the goblet.

Happy immortal birthday, Jules. I love you.