The Vampyre (32 page)

‘No.' He stared through her, into the darkness beyond. Again, there seemed defiance and pain on his brow. ‘Not now,' he said faintly.

‘But . . .'

His look seemed to stab her. ‘I said, not now!'

Rebecca swallowed, but though she tried, she couldn't conceal her frown. It was not his sudden anger that had shocked her - rather, the way he seemed disturbed by it himself. After so long, she thought - so long to grow accustomed to the thing he had become - his loneliness still seemed to take him by surprise. And she felt pity for him, and Lord Byron, as though reading her thoughts, stared suddenly at her and started to laugh.

‘Do not insult me,' he said.

Rebecca frowned, pretending not to understand.

‘There is a great freedom in despair,' said Lord Byron.

‘Freedom?'

‘Yes.' Lord Byron smiled. ‘Once reached, even despair can be a paradise.'

‘I don't understand.'

‘Of course not. You are mortal. How can you know what it is to be damned? I knew, that morning of my flight from England's shores - and yet, somehow, hopelessness seemed sweeter by far than hope had ever done. I stood below the fluttering sail, and watched the white cliffs of Dover disappear behind the waves. I was an exile. I had been driven, a damned thing, from my native land. I had lost my family, my friends, and all I had loved. I would never be otherwise than what I was - the wandering outlaw of my own dark mind. And yet my despair, like my face, wore a guarded smile.' Lord Byron paused. He stared deep into Rebecca's eyes, as though willing her to try to understand. He sighed at last, and looked away, yet his smile remained, touched with mockery, and proud.

‘I kept to the deck. Again and again, the white cliffs would rise, then disappear. “I am a vampire,” I said to myself. The wind shrieked, the mast quivered, and my words seemed lost on the breath of the storm. And yet they were not. For they, like me, belonged on the tempest's roar. I clung to the sides of the ship, as the waves heaved and bounded like a horse that knows his rider. I had a bottle in my hand. It was uncorked. I breathed in the scent of mingled wine and blood. I longed to hurl the bottle out into the sea. The blood would arc and be scattered on the winds; I would rise with it, then soar, as free and wild as the storm itself. I felt a laughing exhilaration fill my blood. Yes, I thought, I would keep my promise, I would search out the secrets of my own vampire nature - I would become a pilgrim of eternity. All I had to do was ride the storm.

‘I drank from my bottle, then I lifted it, ready to hurl it at the winds. Blood from the rim was splashed across my hand. I tensed - and then I felt a touch on my arm. “My Lord.” I looked round. “My Lord . . .” It was Polidori. He scrabbled with a folder he held under his arm. “My Lord - I was wondering if you would look at my tragedy?”

‘I stared at him in cold disbelief. “Tragedy?” I said at last.

‘“Yes, My Lord,” nodded Polidori. He held out a sheaf of papers. “
Cajetan
, a tragedy in five acts, being the Tragical History of Cajetan.” He fumbled with his folder. “I'm particularly stuck with this line. ‘So, groaning, did the mighty Cajetan—”'

‘I waited. “Well,” I asked, “what did the mighty Cajetan do?”

‘“That's the problem,” said Polidori. “I'm not sure.” He handed me the sheet of paper. The wind snatched it from his grasp. I watched it as it fluttered above the ship, then out across the waves.

‘I turned round. “I am not interested in your tragedy,” I said.

‘Polidori's eyes, which bulged at the best of times, seemed ready to burst from his skull. “My Lord,” he spluttered, “I really think . . .”

‘“No.”

‘His eyes popped again with indignation. “You're a poet,” he complained. “Why can't I be one?”

‘“Because I pay you to carry out medical research, not to waste your time on scribbling trash.” I turned back to stare out at the waves. Polidori spluttered something else, then I heard him turn and leave. I wondered if it was too late to send him back. Yes, I thought, and sighed - it probably was.

‘And so I tried hard, in the days that followed, to improve our relationship. Polidori was vain and ridiculous - but he was brilliant as well, with a searching mind, and his knowledge of the frontiers of science was profound. As we travelled south, I would ask him about theories of the nature of life, of creation, of immortality. To these topics at least, Polidori brought a wealth of expertise. He knew about all the latest experiments, of the search for cells that would endlessly reproduce, of the
potential
- he would use no stronger word - for the spontaneous electrical generation of life. Often, he mentioned texts I had seen in the Pasha's laboratory. I began to wonder about these. Why had the Pasha been so interested in galvanism and chemistry? Had he too been seeking a scientific explanation of his immortality? Had he too been searching for a principle of life? - a principle which, once found, might obviate the need to survive on blood? If such had indeed been the case, then perhaps Lady Melbourne had been right after all - I shared more with the Pasha than I had ever thought.

‘Once or twice, as I had done in London, I imagined I saw him. It was always only the faintest glimpse, and his face, as before, had a hectic yellow gleam. Yet I never had the sense, which I knew I possessed, of being close to another creature of my kind - and the Pasha, anyway, I knew was dead. I began to ask Polidori about the workings of the mind, of hallucinations, and the nature of dreams. Again, Polidori's theories were daring and profound. He had written a thesis, he told me, on somnambulism. He offered to mesmerise me. I laughed, and agreed, but Polidori's mortal eyes could gain no hold on mine. Instead, it was I who invaded Polidori's brain. Appearing in his dreams, I whispered to him to give up poetry, and show the due respect which his employer was owed. When he woke, Polidori's response was a lengthy sulk. “Damn you,” he muttered, “even in my subconscious you insist on lording it.” For the whole day, he scarcely spoke a further word. Instead - pointedly - he sat working on his tragedy.

‘By now we were in Brussels. I was keen to see the fields of Waterloo, where the great battle had been fought a year before. The morning after he had begun his sulk, Polidori was sufficiently recovered to accompany me. “Is it true, My Lord,” he asked, as we rode out, “that you like to be known as the Napoleon of rhyme?”

‘“It is what other people have called me.” I glanced at him. “Why, Polidori? Is that why you're coming with me now? - to see me at Waterloo?”

‘Polidori nodded stiffly. “Certainly, My Lord, I believe you have been unchallenged as a poet for far too long. I think” - he coughed - “no, I believe that my tragedy may prove to be your Wellington.”

‘Again, I laughed, but I made no further reply, for by now I was starting to smell stale blood. I cantered forwards. Ahead of me, the gently rolling hills seemed deserted and calm. But yes - I breathed it in again - the scent of death was heavy on the air. “This is the site of the battle?” I called back to our guide. He nodded. I stared around, then galloped on. Mud sucked at my horse's hooves, and as it was churned, so it seemed to ooze with blood. I rode to where Napoleon had camped on the day of his fatal defeat. I sat in my saddle, and stared out at that plain of skulls.

‘The fields of corn swayed in a gentle breeze. I could almost imagine they were whispering my name. I felt a strange lightness filling me, and I rode forwards, to try to shake it off. As I did so, the mud I was passing through seemed to suck more and more. I cantered across to a stretch of grass. Still the mud oozed. I looked down. It was then I saw that the grass was staining red. Wherever my horse trod, bubbles of blood welled up from the earth.

‘I looked around. I was alone. There was no trace of my riding companions, and the sky seemed suddenly purple and dark. All sounds had fallen and faded away - the birds, the insects, the rustling of the corn. The silence, like the sky, was cold and dead. Across the whole wide plain, not a living thing moved.

‘And then, from beyond the crest of a distant ridge, very faint, I heard a sound. It was the beating of a drum. It paused - and then, louder than before, it began again. I rode my horse forwards. The drum beat quickened. As I rode up to the ridge, it seemed to echo through the skies. I reached the ridge. I reined in my horse. I sat and stared at the scene below.

‘Blood was seeping up from the fields, as though the soil were a bandage laid across an unstaunchable wound. The earth began to melt, and blend with the pools of gore, so that across the battlefield, clots of dirt and blood began to form. Soon, I could recognise human forms, staggering free from the hold of their graves. Lines of them began to form, and I could see the rotting shreds of their uniforms. I was staring at regiments - battalions - armies of the dead. They met my gaze with idiot eyes. Their skins were putrid, their noses collapsed, their bodies rank with blood and slime. For a second, all was still. Then, as though swayed by a single mind, the soldiers took a pace forward. They took off their hats. With a terrible slowness, they waved them in the air, saluting me. “
Vive l'Empereur!
” they shouted; “Long live our Emperor! - the Emperor of the Dead!”

‘I turned in the saddle. I remembered my last night in Piccadilly. I was certain that this was another such vision, conjured up for me. I searched for the creature that bore the Pasha's form. I saw him, on horseback, silhouetted against the purple sky. He was watching me. “Vakhel Pasha?” I whispered. I narrowed my eyes. “Can it really be you?” He raised his hat, mimicking the salute of the dead soldiery. He began to gallop away, but I followed him, to destroy him, and wrest back control of my dream. The creature turned. There was a frown of surprise on his face. Suddenly, before I had seen him move, I felt his fingers about my throat. I was taken aback by his strength. It was a long time since I had confronted a being with powers like my own. I fought back. Again, I saw surprise and doubt cross the Pasha's face. I felt him weakening. I slashed across his face. He stumbled back, rolling on the ground. I stepped forwards. At that same moment, I heard a scream.

‘I glanced round. Polidori was watching me. He stared into my eyes, then screamed again. I looked back at where the Pasha lay - he was gone. I swore under my breath. I could hear birds again now, and looking out at the battlefield, there was only grass, and untrampled crops.

‘I glanced back at Polidori. He was still asleep, moaning and writhing on the ground. Our attendants were crossing to him. Good, I thought. They were welcome to him. I wheeled my horse round and crossed the battlefield. Peasants tried to offer me broken swords and skulls. I bought a few. Otherwise, I rode alone, meditating on Napoleon's fall and the fatal transience of mortality.

‘As we journeyed back to Brussels, Polidori continued to watch me silently. His eyes were suspicious and full of fear. I ignored him. Only later that night, once I had killed and fed, and was warm with blood, did I deal with him. He was asleep. I woke him roughly. I gripped him round the throat. I warned him never to read my dreams again.

‘“But I saw you in a trance,” Polidori choked. “I thought it might be interesting to read your thoughts. Indeed” - he puffed out his chest - “as your physician, I believed it was my duty to.”

‘I stroked my finger down the side of his cheek. “Do not try it again,” I whispered.

‘Polidori stared at me aggressively. “Why not, My Lord?” he asked. “Do you think my mind is not the equal of yours?”

‘I smiled. “No,” I whispered very softly. Polidori opened his mouth, but when he saw my eyes, his face turned white, and he could only make a gabbling sound. At last, he bowed his head. He turned and left me. I hoped - I thought - he had understood.

‘But there was no restraining his vanity. Polidori continued to brood. “Why,” he asked me suddenly, a few days later, “did the soldiers salute you as the Emperor?”

‘I stared at him in surprise, then I smiled coldly. “It was only a dream, Polidori.”

‘“Was it?” His eyes bulged, and he nodded his head excitedly. “Was it?”

‘I looked away, staring out through my carriage window, admiring the beauty of the passing Rhine. I advised Polidori to do the same. For a few miles, he did. We rode in silence. Then Polidori began to jab his finger at me.

‘“Why you?” he exploded again. “
Why?
” He patted at his chest. “Why not
me
?”

‘I looked at him, and laughed.

‘Polidori choked, he was so furious, then he swallowed, and tried to compose himself. “And pray tell me, My Lord, what you can do that I can't do better?”

‘I smiled faintly. “Apart from write poetry that sells?” I leaned forwards. “Three things.” I reached for my pistol and cocked it. Polidori shrunk back. “I can hit a keyhole at thirty paces.” I gestured out at the Rhine. “I can swim across that river. And thirdly . . .” I placed the barrel of my pistol under Polidori's chin. I captured his eyes and invaded his mind. I conjured up an image for him, of himself pinned out and flayed on his own dissecting table. I watched as the colour drained from Polidori's face. I laughed and sat back. “Thirdly,” I repeated, “as you see - I can fill you with a terror that would drive you insane. So, Doctor . . . do not tempt me.”

‘Polidori sat shivering and gulping for air. We relapsed into silence again. He said nothing further until the carriage stopped for the night. Then, as we climbed out, he looked at me. “Why
should
you be an emperor?” he asked. “Why should the dead have appeared to you?” Resentment and envy darkened his face. Then he turned and ran from me into the inn.