ASHES TO ASHES

CHAPTER ONE:
Freudians and others who deal with the mind say your memory never truly fades away, that all thought and recollection of the past stays in the mind forever. That all experience remains even when the emotions have been forgotten and the events that birthed those feelings are far in the past.

I remember so much from my past. I remember the sun at noon on a spring day when life crept back from the dead of winter and heralded the birth of radiant summers. I remember the desire and lust of artistic youth and the gallant game of romance. The joy of adventurous camaraderie and the softness of a maiden's bosom against my cheek on a starry night. I remember all these things and curse them. I curse the memory that reminds me of what it was once like to be alive.

Oh for sure I move about, talk and even eat and breath after a fashion but it has been over twenty-five years since I ever truly felt alive. Over twenty-five years since I had the passion in my breast, the beauty in my heart. Twenty-five years since I could call forth from my soul the desire of creation, wave my paint brush like God's baton before the primal abyss and bring life to the emptiness of a stretched parchment.

I was young and full of passion before that damnable night when I turned into the empty, animated husk I am now. It was in France before the Great War. I was a young rogue artist, a painter, and like so many artistic youths of that age sought my muse in Paris.

Her name was Isabella, a woman only slightly older than I, one part Spanish and three parts French. A mix of blood that guaranteed beauty, strength and a will of fire. Though many men wooed her, most even bed her, I was the one who never paid.

Even now I won't call her a whore, though she assuredly was. For though what-ever love I felt is long gone from my heart, I would like to show some respect for the first to sate my bestial need.

Isabella was also my doorway to the inner world of the Paris art scene. She introduced me to writers and poets, actors, musicians, and other painters for whom she would model. She would say to me things like " Now don't get jealous Henrie, when I pose you know I can buy paints and wine for tomorrow.", as if it was her sole source of income. I would try to believe her but when I saw her unaware, approaching a drunken rich fop or wealthy grizzled gentleman and then disappear on their arm into the darkness, I knew the truth.

Of course I never let on. Thankfully I now realize, did my friends, even those that had bedded her. Let them have her physical form and expend their lust. In the deep of night her erotic dances could be forgiven if not overlooked entirely. I could swallow her lies for she would return to me and in the morning and with her gifts of fresh paint and canvas, I could capture her beauty and conquer her soul.

If I had known that my acceptance of her life would lead her to her worldly end from the deceit I fell too, I doubt now I would have tried to change her. I tried to feel guilt, remorse and endless pathos but by the time I felt life ebb from her I was already dead.

It was an early fall evening when she and I were at a side-walk cafe along the Seine that I met my second creator after God. A powerfully built man of extra ordinary girth and puissance named Oliver Haddo. A Scotsman who owned a vast estate in his northern homeland and who had just completed one of the highest ascents of K2 with-out oxygen. An unconquerable will and brilliant mind that housed the knowledge of sorcery.

I was at our usual table with a young writer from England named Will Maughm, a novice Spanish painter who none of us guessed had greatness in his small frame and an unabashed American writer of adventure stories named Edgar when I noticed his dark eyes boring into our table. At first I thought it was Isabella who had garnered his attention. Perhaps he was one of her paying paramours feeling betrayed or some such but when she rose, kissed my cheek and left into the crowd in search of wine and fresh paint, his gaze remained.

None of us motioned him over or beckoned him in any way, it was as if Isabella's departure was suddenly his greeting and he plopped his great bulk, cloaked in black, at our table, uninvited. His eyes, demeanour and presence were so immediately arresting that none of us had the will or desire to ask him to leave.Silently he sat there, listening.

It was during Edgar's speculations on one of his absurd theories that he finally spoke. Dear Ed was trying to convince us that the Earth as we believed it to be was something slightly different. He was half-heartedly trying to convince us that the centre of the earth was hollow and that due to it's rotation an empty space might be formed, with the molten core becoming it's own internal sun. "Think of it, a land inside our planet that no surface dweller has ever seen. The laws of physics as I know them say it's possible. Why could not life exist there."

"Why not indeed." His voice shook from his barreled chest with such authority that all of us paid rapt attention. "Perhaps this is where those fossil lizards that they dig up in your American West retreated to when the world and the gods grew tired of their sight."

It was Will who first asked his name. " And you are sir, since you seem so inclined to join our discussion, what is your name?"

"Oliver Haddo" he boomed. "Adventurer, scholar and practitioner of the black arts."

"Do you mean to say your a witch?" said Will with a lilt to his voice that brought smiles to us all. "Witch or warlock, I prefer to think of myself as a master of my own will. Every man and woman is a star, on their own path." He smiled, a great grin designed only to please himself. "Love may be the law but only when love is under will is power truly reached." His gaze ripped through me. "Is that not how you control your Isabella?"

I was taken aback. It was true. I contributed little to our existence. It was only my feigned ignorance that kept roof over our heads and paint and canvas in our stores. "What of my Isabella?" I demanded. "What do you know of her?"

"Only that through the rumors of friends. Come let us have more wine." and with out a beckoning motion or a hail for his service, the steward appeared and took Oliver's order.

It was after several bottles of wine when our minds became more foggy that he began to lead the conversation into the realms of the arcane. Oliver Haddo talked of mystic rites, the creation of life forms he kept in jars on a shelf, the control of the elements and other things that seemed too fantastic to be true.

Will at first tried to mock him, guffawing this and shuffling off his statements to the realm of imagination, Haddo bore his eyes through him and surprised us all.

"If all you say is true," his voice low but reverberating through his sorcerer's chest " then is not your lust for one of these men here not a sin but merely the will of the Christian myth imposed on your will. From what you say that myth can have no substance in your view. Yet still you profess a belief in the Roman Triad- the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Tell me, how can you not believe in magik? "

Will kept quiet there after but from the look on his face we knew that Haddo had spoke true.

Edgar attempted to diffuse the uneasiness we all felt by attempting a dialogue on the supernatural. He smiled, nodded and drew forth stories of the mystic rites of the Appalachian mountain families and the legends of Indian tribes that still roamed his country and mine. Oliver Haddo as any good guest, paid close attention, adding comments when asked and all the while sharing the wine.

The young Spaniard left as soon as his presence would not be missed by all but Will. And I?

I listened to it all saying nary a word. Enraptured I was with this talk of spells and forgotten powers. So when Haddo proposed a deal amongst us, it was neither Will or Edgar that felt that perhaps this great rude beast could uphold his promise. It was I, or at least the part of me that was an artist and dreamer.

"It is really quite simple," he spoke, while filling his loose jowls with wine and then swallowing. "I have come across an ancient Egyptian text, a spell book if you will. Help me perform one of it's rituals, participate in the incantation and I will offer that one of you eternal life." He finished his glass and set it down heavy on the table, his eyes turning upon me. "Which one of you is brave enough to take such a reward."

Eternal life, an eternity to paint and create. An endless existence that could be dedicated to beauty and truth. It was the thought of timeless passion and creation that found me agreeing to his bold plan.

"I knew it would be you Henry." and once more flashed that self serving grin and icy stare. "Meet me tomorrow at nine in the evening, here, after your Isabella departs in search of game."Haddo rose, flourishing his arms while wrapping his black cloak around him. "Good evening gentleman." and then he departed.

As we finished off Haddo's wine, I became the object of gentle mockery from both Edgar and Will. "Be careful dear friend, remember that tomorrow is the first night of the full moon. A night when the spirits loose them selves from the bonds of death." said Will, trying to make his voice spectral and disembodied.

I rose, gave my leave, and returned to the flat that I shared with my love. It was the last time I saw them.

Isabella returned later than usual and very drunk. She made no attempt to be quiet and I awoke to the sound of her clattering about. Upon seeing me stir awake she leapt on the bed, wrapping her arms around me and pressing lips heavy with hard spirits against mine.

"Oh Henrie, amour," she cooed, slurring her awkward English delightfully, "It is so wonderful. I met an artiste tonight, not as good as you of course, but he is so rich. He wants to paint me and with the money we make, why we will not have to leave the bed for a week. Sorry I can not make our celebration tomorrow night."

I had forgotten. Once a month, on the date of our first night together, we would go forth into the city of romance and adventure it's streets.

"No problem my sweet.". I drew her close and pinched her small knobby chin. "I can make other plans." I gazed into her eyes and drank full of her lips, the scent and taste of her over-coming that of her earlier downed libations. That night we made love for the last time.

Oliver Haddo met with me at nine, wearing his great black cloak, the following night. With minimal greeting he grasped my arm and led me away from the cafe crowd. Ushering me towards his spacious flat above a bakery he began to discuss our endeavour.

"Young man, have you ever heard of the vampyre?" I had read a penny dreadful, stolen from my grandfather, called 'The Feast Of Blood' when I was a young boy. It had given me nightmares as a child and I had been chastised for my literary excursion when my father found out the focal point for my newest night time terror.

I replied, "Is not the Vampyre an evil creature?"

"Evil?" Haddo waved his large porcine hand in front of him dismissively. "Are not good and evil concepts of will; not man's perceptions of morality. It is through our will that we create these illusory concepts. Good invariably manifests from ones desire to feel just. Evil is the wills desire to feel guilt for the injustice of one's actions. This being said, would not even a vampyre only be evil if it willed itself to be so? Either way such a creature would have eternity to ponder these thoughts."

"But why did you mention vampyres?" Sweat formed on my brow and in my palms. I felt I already knew his answer and I was right.

"Because my intrepid fellow, a vampyre has eternal life."

"And I am to become one of these creatures?" I sought solace in Will's cynicism of the other night. This whole affair was a joke. The delusions of a charlatan and mad man.

"Don't worry Henry. I have no plans to bleed you or allow you to be bit by some supernatural being." He giggled, a great hand before his face and for the first time since I had laid eyes on him, a warm look escaped his eyes. "It will be with incantation and ritual that you will become undead."

Our walk took us to his rented flat above a bakery. There, window curtains parted to bathe the room with the light of the full moon, we began our dark mission.

Stripped of my clothes Haddo began anointing my flesh with special ointments and oils. Reciting strange words and, for me, meaningless phrases he led me into the centre of a circle chalked on the floor. He pushed me down in it's centre and lighting the candles and incense began his magik in earnest.

I don't remember much of the ritual after that. I felt groggy and drugged. My mind was muddled and my fear seemed checked by a weight that pressed itself on me, holding down all rational thought. I think there were lights.

The pain though, the pain I remember. It was like having your very bones torn from your body. The very core of your being ripped from your flesh. White hot needles piercing your skull into the centre of your brain. Your very soul pulled into a vacuum leaving an emptiness that was replaced with, well, nothing.

When it ended, when the pain subsided, I arose in the middle of the circle and saw the world again for the first time.

I looked around the loft that Haddo had brought me to. The chalk on the floor forming the circle and unholy symbols glowed with a life of it's own. My eye-sight seemed too focus and grow sharper as the shadows receded and the darkness no longer hid things from my vision. I felt a strength, an unnatural power to my form. I looked down on hands, my hands, pale and bloodless and surmised that in them was power to grind flesh and crush bones. It was then that I first realized I had not yet drawn a breathe.

I panicked and began to swallow vast gulps of air, filling lungs that responded more from memory than need. That was when I first felt the "longing".

Authors and writers describe a Vampyre's curse as a "thirst". Undoubtedly this is because they drink blood, but it is not the blood that I feed on. I do not "thirst", I "long" for what people have and I have lost and it is very, very painful. You see, when I took in those portions of the air around me I not only smelled the incense in the room, the once delightful scents of bread and pastries from the bakery below, I could smell Oliver Haddo.

Worse I could "taste" him. His flesh and sweat, his breathe itself and then even more, so much horribly more. It was a dark thing inside him that I could taste. Arrogance, triumph and his much vaunted will filled my mouth and breast and yes in a small corner he kept apart from all else, even his fear. I "longed" for it. The only true passion, the only part of being I can now call mine came forth for the first time.

I sensed the emptiness inside me. It was like being alone in a sea of people. It was frightening and maddening. An emptiness so strong that one could not help but being swallowed up by it. As if the comfort and safety of childhood had never existed. It was painful in both body and mind and I longed to replace it, even with the dark thing that I tasted in Oliver Haddo.

I lunged for him. A desire of both fear and need overcoming my senses. I would rip into Haddo with ferocity, tearing him apart, drinking his blood down my throat, violating his corpse until it gave to me that which I craved. Till his bloated porcine being released into me his that I had tasted.

I hit the edge of the circle in a blast of dark white light. I was repulsed into the centre of the circle and saw the chalk runes glowing ferociously. I rose, I hissed and I think I may even have spat, the pain of the longing becoming unbearable as Oliver Haddo strode the edge of my prison laughing.

"Well my young friend, it appears you are hungry?" and Haddo grinned a sick smile. I remembered to take in a breath, as my first efforts to talk had resulted in hissing and spitting with no air to caress the workings of my throat.

"What have you done to me?" It came out soft and weak despite the rage that burned from being denied an end to the emptiness and longing.

Oliver Haddo laughed again, deep and booming. "Precisely what I said I would do, though I did have my doubts on my success. Still, I have need of you and it would be in my best interest to insure your cooperation."

He wheeled about, gracefully despite his girth and left the room. I curled up in the centre of the magik circle, holding myself tightly as if by force alone I could replace the emptiness. When I sensed his return I took in a deep ingestion of air to resume my verbal tirade. With that fresh "taste" of my environment I knew both that my longing would be sated and how truly demonic my host was.

As they entered the room she stood before him. Her dark long hair bound in the back falling to just above her waist. Her small pert breasts showing ripeness through her gown. Isabella, my lovely courtesan. Her hands had been tied behind her back, her mouth had been gagged. Not only could I see the fear in her eyes, I could "taste" it.

It was wonderful.

"See my dear," Haddo's voice whispered at her back, far to low for any human ear to hear, "I have brought you to your young man as promised. Though I doubt we can call him a man any longer."

I knew I wouldn't resist it, even before he cast her across the circle and into my arms. I thought about it, how much I may have cared and even loved her but the loneliness, the emptiness, the longing was too strong!

Even when the relief rose from her in the sweetest of tastes, then turned bitter with disbelief as I bared my fangs and forced her head back I knew. Nothing was more important than sating the longing, destroying the fear.

Then, as I drank her blood, feasted on her essence I no longer thought at all. Instead I engaged in her being. An act more intimate than anything we had experienced before.

I encountered her childhood, the joy from her mothers arms and the abuse from her father's hands. I saw her adventures with men, her meeting with me. Her enjoyment from the size of my manhood. How she would use the memory of our love-making to transform the degradation she sometimes felt at her "work", especially if they couldn't touch her as I had, to make it bearable. As they had used her she would use me. It may never have been love at all but for Isabella and myself at that moment in time it was enough. And then it ended.

I glanced down at her lifeless form before me. Her neck torn open, no two small puncture marks but a gaping hole, the flesh licked aside by the strength of my tongue. As she had died I had been sated. The longing was gone and the emptiness was a small corner in my now dead heart. I felt no guilt, no remorse, nothing at all.

I think I will change my earlier statement, I will call her a whore.

I picked up her corpse, it was surprisingly light, but then I had changed. Filling my lungs to speak I tossed her limp form at my jailer. "Oliver Haddo!" he went down beneath the loose lifeless body.

"What! What is it!" His small measure of fear was beginning to rise. I could taste it.

"Bring me more." I turned from him to the centre of the circle, my new womb. I lay down and closed my eyes for a sleep that has no dreams, not ever