Indigo Vamporium (11 page)

Jowendrhan stands with me, his touch warm and reassuring, “This place is cursed. There are secrets here no one should investigate.”

I nod, shutting down the heat of my glare, my breath stagnating when I think again of the disfigured soul which gripped my flesh in meathook hands.

Closing my eyes, I let Jowendrhan move us back to the house hidden in the forest covering the slope behind Chapman's Peak.

Ignoring Jo, I walk straight to the bathroom we share, stepping into the shower and turning the water on full blast, needling my chilled soul with hot comfort.

“So are we going surfing in the morning?” calls to me from the other side of the steam shroud.

“If you want,” I grumble tiredly, leaning on my arms and staring at the mosaic beneath my feet.

Blistering water runs a salve down my body, freeing me of the lingering tentacles of the macabre.

“Seithe...” comes much closer, right outside the steamy glass of the shower.

“What?” My courage is dissolving with the hot water. Tears are flooding up and running out of my eyes.

I'm so exhausted I feel liquescent, melting into the falling spray.

“Your hair is white.”

What!?

Chapter 14

Jowendrhan:

Seithe bolts out of the shower, halting in front of the mirror which he wipes a clear path through with his wet hand. His nose is bleeding, but he doesn't even seem to be aware of it.

His irises flare hot chrome when he sees his hair, rubbing the palm of his right hand over it.

It sticks up in wet piques and he looks like an old man gone silver overnight.

“Will it change back?” I ask him.

He shrugs, glowering at his image.

The two of us share mom's warm honeyed skin, and it just makes the chalky shade of his hair stand out in stark relief.

“Tell me what happened. Did you see them?” I ask, while he tilts his head back to staunch the bleed, wiping at his nose.

Staring at his bizarre image again, he mumbles, “I can tell you this much, if you ever want to teach someone the value of their life just hold them underwater until their organs start to spasm. They'll quickly appreciate a simple thing like breathing.”

“But we only need to breathe every five minutes. How long were you down for?”

“Too long,” is all he can manage before his voice cracks.

He looks like he's about to throw up.

“Jowendrhan, leave us,” orders from the door, and my pulse plummets as I peg to face our uncle.

Uh oh!

Nodding, I appirate into my bedroom, sitting nervously on the end of my bed, fearing for the trouble Seithe's about to get into, straining to listen.

*

Seithe:

“You can't deprive yourself of air for that long without suffering consequences,” he says in a flat deep voice, indicating my face.

“I have white hair because of oxygen deprivation?”

“Your nose is bleeding,” he says, strolling into the bathroom, waving his hand and shutting the shower off. “Internal hemorrhaging is painful, I'm surprised you're managing to talk and walk right now.”

My legs become wobbly again and I stagger to the edge of the bath, sinking onto the lip and supporting my weight, automatically reaching for toilet paper to staunch the blood spewing out of my nose. I'm a little dizzy but wasn't aware I was bleeding this badly.

He covers the narrow distance, placing a hot hand on my forehead, blasting light into me.

Dabbing at my nostrils, looking down to avoid the accusation in his eyes, I breathe in hard, trying to regain my equilibrium.

The blood flow has ceased; the paper barely blots with crimson.

“What were you thinking going there at midnight on a full moon?”

His glare jangles my nerves like rusty spurs on saloon stairs.

Listless, I stare at my feet, wishing he'd just leave me alone. “You gave me a task, I achieved it,” I grumble in a careful monotone.

“Yes, you did.” Leaning against the doorframe with his gargantuan arms folded, he nudges his head, “White hair is a status symbol. It's a badge of honor worn only by true vampyre elders who have met the ningen and lived to tell the tale. She put the yoke of angelic responsibility on you and that turned your hair into a symbolic halo. You are half angel but now you have the capacity of an Almighty. Wield it with restraint, humble gratitude, and wisdom.”

“That was a ningen?” I ask, peeking at him.

“Yes. The name means
human
in Japanese. They are the first, the ones who still dwell in the oceans.”

“But they don't have hands. I thought they would.”

“Their claws are their only defense, and far more practical than hands.”

He points at my arm, “Heal that wound. You can now.”

Looking at the gash from her claw, I know we can heal ourselves, even of fatal injury, so him telling me to heal it is moot.

“No Seithe, you can now heal instantly, much faster than your kin. Put your hand over it and simply manifest healing.”

Quelling the desire to arch a sarcastic eyebrow, I do as he instructs, amazed when heat blasts into my arm and the mark and muscle are both instantly reconstructed into angelic perfection.

That's so damn cool.

Giving me his deathly smile, he says, “Your hair will go back to brown in a fortnight. Let me know when you can fly,” and with that he vanishes from the bathroom, leaving in his stead a new rising dread.

Fly?

Is that what the feather was for?
Fly?

Snot! That's a legend, a fallacy, a myth and a fable. Vampyres can't fly.

But angels can
... speaks into my head.

Jo arrives back in the doorway, looking at me with worry. “Are you okay?”

“Would it kill him to care? Would it kill him to tell me I've done well? Would it kill him to have enough compassion for my pain to heal the internal damage I suffered tonight? Instead he makes me do it when I'm weaker than a foal just born.”

“In a sense you are reborn,” booms behind Jowendrhan, and Jo looks like he's about to pass out when he hinges to face Arelstin.

“You again,” I mumble through clenched teeth.

Why the hell can't they just leave me alone? Do they have to rub salt into every wound?

If Dad was still around none of it would be this way. I'd have been given warning, help, assistance. I wouldn't have snuck off to face the prehistoric humanoids. I wouldn't have left my younger brother helpless on a narrow stretch of sand in the dead of night during a raging storm, when I might never return. Mom would have been here with a hug and a warmed cup of sustenance for me. She would have been proud. Instead I'm treated like a fugitive. Their barely concealed derision irks me, and I hate them.

We'd be better off alone, without
them
.

When I grow up I'll never help Venix because he sure as hell hasn't helped me.

Jowendrhan is my witness. He knows the only person who seems honestly concerned at all is my sister's guardian, Arelstin.

*

Venix:

Turning to smile at Arelstin when he leaves the boys and rejoins me in the den, we do the brotherly embrace, making the sign of first-cast angels.

“He did brilliantly,” smiles Arelstin.

Offering him a goblet of hormone enriched blood, he takes it, and we toast, “To Seithe.”

Clanging the metal, we down our victory drink.

Strolling to the wall length fish tank, I stare at sea horses bobbing with the speed of infinity. They look like they're standing still because of it.

Speaking with my back to him, pride swells in my chest, “He faced the death of himself. Reborn as one of us, he has our hair.”

“Why are you so hard on him? He's a sterling young man, he never backs down from a challenge, his instincts are impeccable.”

Pivoting, I look at my brethren splayed on the white settee, relaxed and tranquil, “We have the most powerful vampyres born to this world as our charges. You have Ellindt, I have Seithe. We can't be easy on them because the weight of our fate is on their young shoulders.”

“He's lost. He's in mourning. Grief clings to him like dark mist, that's why this landscape is currently covered in it. He's projecting into the atmosphere and saturating this place with the past, with the sadness and gloom inside him. Show him some compassion, Venix. Give him some sign that you're proud of him. He's so much stronger than he realizes. He's manifesting his emotions into a physical phenomenon and this country can't cope with the pain he will unearth onto its shores.”

Sitting opposite him, I nod, “We are alone in this world. Approval mustn't be searched for outside of himself. He must come to peace with himself on the inside. He must be confident enough that he fears no one and never needs outside approval. Only then will this world leave him unscarred. People who look for accolades and praise are more often left drifting and disappointed. They have no strong foundation on which to build a future because they themselves are not their own anchor. No one will treasure your life or happiness more than you will. When they grow up they'll need that sturdy inner confidence.”

Arelstin leans forward, supporting his elbows on his knees, “You're wrong. The complete lack of love you show them now makes them bitter and brittle. I can see disaster headed our way unless you step up and be his mentor. You need to be his rock because he's not yet mature enough to weather these storms without your strength to guide him.”

Changing the subject, avoiding the issue, I smile my pleasure again, “Seithe did it. He's the first in a very long time to get a halo from the ningen.”

Arelstin narrows his eyelids, giving me a heated glare, “Yes. He has the white hair of the resurrected. He went down there because he was angry. Anger makes quick and foolhardy choices. He should have done it when he was at peace, instead he called up a storm vicious enough to realign the tectonic plates. You have to stop Venix, or I will have you replaced.”

Reminded who is the superior here, I nod acquiescence to my kin, “Alright. I'll try.”

“Try isn't good enough, if this doesn't change we'll have a mutiny on our hands. You offer comfort and support, or someone else will.” He stands, making the symbol of peace and rank, vanishing from my brother's home.

I'm the Jowendrhan of my generation. The youngest brother, the one without the strength of character or might of his powerful siblings. My oldest brother gave the planet his children, and it's my duty to care for them. The only one I wish to help is Jowendrhan, I have an affinity for him. I understand how hard it is to be the youngest of the Almighty and never quite managing to fill their shoes.

Chapter 15

Seithe:

Stepping outside, we look at each other. It's another edge to edge gray day, complete with drizzle. The cloud on our side of the mountain is so low it billows specters between us and the trees surrounding the secluded garden.

The ghostly breath mutilates our usual view of the ocean, and I sigh despondently.

“If we're going to blend we're going to have to suit up in neoprene,” I say to Jo. “It's too cold for us to be seen wandering around in just our baggies.”

He nods agreement, and instantly we're both wearing black wetsuits. Clutching our boards we vanish from the doorstep, right next to the ship carcass on Noordhoek beach. It's apparently been lying here since 1900, rusting and rotting in the abrasive salt air.

Back then they made things to last because the boiler is still intact after the ship ran aground here in a North Westerly gale, driving it into the beach on Armageddonish swells, concealing the danger of land in a downpour of biblical proportions.

A large crowd of people warmly dressed in big coats and knitted hats blindside me with their presence. Our deserted stretch of sand is overpopulated with spans of strangers brandishing cell phones and cameras.

What's going on? Did someone see us and tell the media?

Resting my board up against the wreck, I unearth the sex wax from the inner pocket, almost jumping out of my skin when Kevin appears from the other side of the rusted wreck.

“Dudes! Legend man, make out hey...”

“Yo Kev!” grins Jowendrhan, stepping forward and shaking Kevin's hand in the gangster shake, which I've never mastered.

“Did you okes check out the Dutchman?”

I frown at Kevin. Sometimes I feel like a complete alien. “Say what?”

“The ghost ship bru, it's out there.” His spaced out stare becomes animated and he grabs my elbow, yanking me around our shield of rust and forcing me to face the ocean scrolling out into mist, the waves are nothing more than fading lines on an ancient script.

It's barely visible but there's a mammoth galleon cloaked in the veil of vapor, lurching lazily on swells, the crucifix shape of masts and a crow's nest partially discernible.

“I saw that ship last night,” I tell him, without going into detail.

“What is it?” asks Jo, standing on Kevin's right.

The fog is so thick is licks all the way inshore, dancing with our breath when we speak. It's gloomy, instilling an eerie and unnatural quiet across the beach.

It dulls the planet in a wide womb of isolation. It's thick with despair, doom, sadness.... grief. The dearth of sound is like my ears blocking after I've bawled my eyes out, when my head is too heavy and thick to lift; that's how this feels. Muted, far away and dreamy, separating us into a web of solitude where no harm can penetrate from the outside world, swathing us like fragile babies in an ethereal shawl of low dense cloud.

Kevin breaks my reverie with his chillaxed tone, “It's destined to sail around Cape Point for all of time. The
Cabo das Tormentas
grabbed them in a lashing hurricane back in 1681, and the story gets messed up from there. When Cape Point was first spotted by the Portuguese in 1487 they called it
Cabo das Tormentas
, which means Cape of Storms, but his King renamed it. All we know bru, is we aren't the only china's to check this boat out. The Prince of Wales and King George also spotted it, like lank long ago. This boat comes to harbor both sides of the peninsula, and us locals see it every now and again, but it has to be like today. Make out?”