Immortal Memories Page 3

  Ives exited the boat quickly to come to my aid as Gabryal attempted to regain control of his now misshapen vessel, trying to turn the head back, but it only lolled to the side, blood streaming from his lips.

  “You’ve only prolonged the inevitable, Deakin,” he said, slumping down, using the cane as a crutch. “I know it’s here, and I will find it. Mark my words.”

  I ignored him and turned to Ives. “My king,” he shouted as I began to lose control of Ludwig’s body; The Charnel One was hovering in the Spaces Between, always waiting. His heart stopped with the bullet lodged deep within. I summoned all of the Weirdness I could, and as I made eye contact with Ives, the fog of death closing in like an eclipse, I leapt into Ives and seized control of his form before Gabryal could.

  I could sense that Gabryal retreated to the Spaces Between, most likely looking for a suitable construct nearby. I had to be quick.

  I pulled the others with me, my many personas that served me well, giving them their only taste of Immortality, always keeping me company, a small, yet feeble reward for their service. I stood as Ives and used my strength to toss both the body of Ludwig and Von Gudden into the lake. They would be found quickly, but I would be gone.

  I made haste in the boat, rowing as I had never rowed before to the other side and running into the woods, like the animal I am – the animal I have always been. One day when all is said and done, I will run with the wolves once more in a vast forest of pines, snow laden and glorious in the northern lands.

  I have chosen to convey this memory, because I believe I may not remember where I hid the Black Heart when the time comes. Even now, as these words drip from my quill, the memories are fading into the mists of my mind, lost in the din of the sadness of the others. There are so many now, wandering the labyrinth of my memories, trying to find their way to the surface. Sometimes I allow them to see through my eyes; sometimes I berate them for bothering me with their idiotic ravings. Even though Sleepers are empty, they have their own false memories which in their fear they revisit, grasping on to existence that will never be theirs again. They are like words spoken into a violent wind.

  Gabryal will resurface, and deep in my heart I know his insidiousness will visit great pain and suffering on the world, for sleepers, dreamers and immortals alike. Our salvation lays within the mysteries of the Black Heart, crafted from the very same magic that wrought the universe, a product of the first sentient thought.

  My tasks in Bavaria are over, for now. It is up to Laertes, the hidden one, to ensure that it will not be found until the timing is right. I can smell war on the horizon, like the smell of pine carried on the cold winds of the north, filling my lungs with crisp burning. It is time to get lost in the woods, to silence the voices, and run the hunt where I am unconstrained by the rules and hypocrisy of men. It is time for my beast to run with its brethren, through the misty, cold forests of the north.

  The Fairy in Red

  New Orleans, Louisiana, 1921

  “Absinthe,” he said in a low voice, hidden in the shadows of the corner table, ordering the forbidden liqueur, reserved for well-known patrons. Same place, same table, and same drink, the roost from which he watched the room unhindered, hoping she would come through those doors once more.

  The room was enshrouded in smoke and melancholy beats -- bodies swaying languidly, tousled, moist and swathed in false glamour. The crooner on the stage wiped glistening jewels of sweat from his dark brow, fighting the August heat under the blistering lights. Backup singers were murmuring dismal chords into their silvery microphones, hips undulating disjointedly to a furtive rhythm. But he ignored it all. His attention focused on the door of the small pub as drunken couples stumbled past the windows arm in arm, faces contorted in laughter with alabaster skin lustrously tacky in the golden glow of the gas lamps.

  It was 11 p.m., the same time he always came to the tiny pub off St. Anne’s street in the French Quarter of New Orleans. The pub beckoned him, as if under its spell for months, hoping to catch a glimpse of her, his dark muse. That night many months before left him obsessed, scarcely able to continue work on his novel, hoping to observe her once more as she performed her dark art on unsuspecting men eager to love her, yet ignorant to her true nature, a radiant beauty, blinding anyone who looked at her for too long. She was a nymph, a dryad, a black widow spinning a web by the pale gas lamps to trap the bedazzled moths. He allowed himself to be captured by her joie de vivre, but the others remained blissfully unaware that they had been fooled and surrendered their manhood like fare to a carriage driver.

  He had seen her once years before while he was in Paris -- hopelessly orbiting one another, entwined, yet beyond reach. It was impossible and fantastic to have found her once more, a fate beyond belief, and coincidence without cause. However, that night, seeing her again, he wrote until the sun kissed the Mississippi and the morning breeze carried the bellow of bugles, the echo of mule hooves on cobblestone and the wails of the pie lady selling her wares. But none of this drowned out the steady clack of his typewriter or the ding of the return as he vomited phantasmagorical thoughts onto the beige paper, smudged with sweat and ash. He wrote about her, tenebrous thoughts seeping from the pit of his soul like ichor. She was emblazoned on his mind, her visage floating forever in his periphery as if he looked at the sun too long. She was mesmerizing, beautiful as goddesses are with auburn curls falling just above milky white shoulders, drawing the gaze down over hourglass curves and sinewy legs. She was an unexpected inspiration, amidst years of failed attempts at prose and lyric. Yet the inspiration was short-lived, for as the morning surrendered to the afternoon, the sounds of the city transforming to a cacophony, he stopped typing mid-sentence. The inspiration was gone.

  Desperate to rekindle the creative fire, he returned to the pub that night, haggard from the lack of sleep, still wearing the suit he wore the night before, his face sunken and drawn from too much liquor. Smoking one hand-rolled cigarette after another, a collection of empty glasses staring back judgingly from the table, he watched the door intently, unerringly. But, she did not return. He continued for months returning to that pub, remaining haunted and inwardly destructive, neglecting everything for just one more glimpse, one single moment.

  He sat there that steamy August night, as always, sipping from a tall glass, with the Green Fairy his only companion. Dark specters of the mind taunted him with hopes that one day she would return, forcing him to return for fear of missing her. He drained his resources to the point where he now flirted with destitution and homelessness. But, he reasoned, if that inspiration returned, he could finish the novel, and make his mark on a decadent and unforgiving world. Though he managed to formulate the skeletal structure of a story around her, the words fell flat onto the paper, dull, soundless and unremarkable. Pulp unworthy of burning. He watched the men fawn over her, as she coerced drinks from them, all the while each of them lining up for a chance to dance with her, their hands wandered unabashedly over her petite form, as she pressed against them wantonly. When each song ended, she discarded them, like so many empty glasses of wine, only to order a new one to entertain and dote on her as she pleased. Each man, entranced by her beauty, took dismissal with odd acceptance and shuffled off from her presence as if a slave to her will. He suspected, when the spell of her presence and the alcohol wore off, they would find that they their wallets and watches purloined, with only the faint scent of her jasmine perfume left in its place.

  She was the most elegant thief one could imagine, devilishly deft and deviously demure. He would not mourn the loss of his personal items, as the others most certainly would, if only he had a single dance with her, their bodies pressed tight amidst a sea of self-absorbed spectators. He would not need to say a word; his thoughts would crisscross his face like a kaleidoscope, his hands memorizing her curves, timing the beat of her heart. One song, one dance, one moment.

  As the clock rounded midnight, his tenacity was rewarded, for the door opened to the pub as it had hundred
s of times before fruitlessly, and there she stood, replacing the ghost in his mind with a fresh memory. She wore a scarlet dress, stopping just below her knee, scandalously. A long string of pearls spilled from the low cut bosom, swaying captivatingly as she walked inside and looked around the room, like a tiger before the hunt. He could not take his eyes off her, and the rest of the room melted away, thrusting him into a trance where his fantasies danced around the bonfire of his soul. He did not expect her to notice him. He felt as if he had faded from reality in the months since they last shared the same space, a ghost of what he once was. His heart leapt into his throat as she spied him across the room, and sashayed over towards his table, a smile curling her blood red lips as they locked gazes.

  He pretended to be disinterested, even put off by her presence as she approached. He did not know if he could find the words to speak, his years of literary training fled with his dignity as she motioned to the chair across from him.

  “May I?” she asked in a velvety voice, just above a whisper, but unmistakable against the din of the room.

  “Of course,” he said, mustering a small amount of stoicism in his voice. “Please do.”

  He motioned to the waitress, busy flirting with a patron, who tore herself away reluctantly to his beckoning.

  “What can I get you, toots?” The waitress asked in a high, nasal voice.

  “A glass of Bourgelais,” she responded, not looking at the waitress, still regarding him beneath thick eyelashes.

  He looked back to the waitress with a nod, motioning to his own glass for a refill. He feared the pounding of his heart in his chest would soon be audible. All those months waiting, watching, wanting, and she was finally there. Though he did not want to entertain the thought, he wondered if she was merely a trick of the Green Fairy – which was well within the realm of possibility due to the effects of wormwood on the mind. However, he resigned himself to enjoying the moment regardless of its validity.

  “Paris,” she said abruptly, a smile curling her lips once more, causing one of his brows to arch quizzically over his left eye. “I knew I’d seen you before.”

  “I was in Paris,” he said with reserve. “It has been sometime since I was there.”

  She continued to smile like a cat, almost as if flicking her tail languidly from side to side, as she toyed with him. “Well, I remember you,” she replied. “It was Champs-Elysees, if I am not mistaken. Le Maison Rouge?”

  He hid his shock at her memory, even he had forgotten the name of the pub, but said aloud, all the details of the night flooded his senses, almost making him dizzy.

  “Ah,” he nodded with that same stoicism in his voice. “I do remember. But I must say I’ve forgotten your name.”

  The waitress interrupted, delivering the drinks to the table. “That’ll be one twenty five, Mr. Butter and Eggs.”

  He paid the waitress as the woman took a long, provocative sip of the wine, then set the glass down on the table, twirling the stem between her fingers.

  “Are you from Paris?” He asked, returning his attention to her, before taking another sip of his own drink.

  She shook her head slowly, “No. I don’t like to limit myself to any one place.” She glanced over her shoulder at the stage then back to him, closing her eyes dreamily as she moved her head slowly from side to side in time with the music.

  “An adventurous spirit, then?” He said, faltering over his own choice of words, unsure what to say. He dreamed of seeing her again, yet never thought he would ever capture her attention, even for a brief moment to exchange even a disingenuous greeting.

  “I know who you are, you know,” She said with a Cheshire cat smile. “And you do remember me. In Paris, and in this place. And…” She paused torturously to take a sip of her wine once more.

  “And?” He said, failing to mask his mounting curiosity and desperation.

  “I’m sorry, but you’ll just have to figure the rest out on your own,” She said with finality as his heart crashed into his stomach like a lead weight.

  His brow furrowed at this, feeling as if he missed something. He wondered if he had been prey all along, a puppet to her.

  “I’m sure I don’t understand what you mean, Miss…?”

  “You will eventually,” She said, dodging his attempt at a name exchange once more. “But that’s not what you really care about right now, is it?”

  “No,” He replied once more, confusion still contorting his face. “I suppose not.”

  “Dance with me?” She asked, her emerald eyes glistening in the candle light, her lips quivering with each breathe, drawing him in.

  “I would like to, but...” His words fell off. All the fantasizing he had done, the restless nights remembering, the fruitless nights trying to trap her in the pages of his novel, none of it prepared him. He was afraid, and he sensed she knew it. His mind whirled, wondering if everything he had dreamed would be fulfilled, or would it forever destroy his image of her. Would he stumble with his nervousness? Would she dismiss him as casually as she had all the others? He wondered if the reality could compare to the fantasy he had built up in his head all those years.

  “But?” She raised a brow at him this time. He was sure no one had ever hesitated before, other men always eager to sweep her off her feet, full of lurid gestures and drunken promises.

  He half glanced at his watch, the Absinthe burning in his belly, fogging his vision. He could feel that he might faint. It was foolish of him to flirt with someone so clearly out of his league, someone who could have any man she wanted. How could she possibly find satisfaction in a mediocre writer, bordering on alcoholism, and living in a one room flat in an unsavory section of town? It was enough to have seen her, to hear her voice. However, he needed to stop dreaming and start facing the reality of his lot. He was no one.

  “I should be going,” He said abruptly and standing, almost knocking over his drink. “I’m sorry. But, I’ve been here too long this evening. And,” he fumbled with a lie, “I’m a very poor dancer.”

  She sat looking at him, her lips parted in disbelief, but then curled ever so slightly into an almost mocking smile. “I understand. Perhaps another time?”

  “Perhaps so,” he said, trying not to allow fear and self-doubt to slur his speech, mixed with the potent spell of the Green Fairy. “I am always here.”

  He nodded curtly to her, his heart pounding to burst from his chest. “Good evening, Madam. It was a pleasure to see you again.” And, with a tip of his fedora, he exited the pub quickly, pushing past the throngs of people dancing, into the humid night. He moved swiftly, rounding the corner a block away into a deserted alley.

  Gasping for breath, his heart still pounding, he leaned back against the alley wall, steadying himself as if he were on a ledge of a tall building about to fall. The experience had reinvigorated his inspiration, but damaged his self-image and drained his confidence. Despite his dark fantasies and obsessions, he had never been able to act out any of them, forever suppressing them in his mind, only to regurgitate them in his pulp stories. None of them had been enacted, though he described them in excruciating detail. Faced with an opportunity to experience just one moment, he cowered like a child.

  In that dark alley, his eyes closed, chest heaving as he slowly calmed himself, he smelled that familiar scent of jasmine, banishing the oppressive stench of urine and vomit, which wafted through the Quarter every night. He opened his eyes, and there she stood before him, but before he could protest or say a word, she closed her eyes and pressed her full red lips to his, wet and sweet with wine. He relaxed into her as she pressed herself fully against him, wrapping her delicate arms around his body in a gentle embrace. He could feel her heart beating against his chest, his own heart thumping like an upright bass to a bugle march.

  Unwilling to let the moment slip away, he wrapped his own arms around her, one hand slowly moving up to the base of her head, fingers entwined in her silken curls. The moment had come, and the rest of the world fell away fro
m the two of them, a single bubble floating unnoticed on the winds of time. He had no idea how long it had lasted, ineffably tender, passionate, erotic, romantic and innocent all at once. Everything a kiss should be, but seldom becomes. Though he knew what her true aim was, he did not care. He would have gladly paid for this moment, but he also knew that would demean the experience for them both. He allowed himself to believe that she was genuinely tangled in the moment as much as he was.

  The steamboat whistle brought him back to the alley, and to reality. She did not stop, and he was unwilling to let her go, the feel of her body against his, their hearts resonating together and the world silent to them.

  It continued until the second whistle blew, and reluctantly she pulled away from him, slowly, her green eyes catching the light, and she looked at him in a familiar way.

  “Every time,” she said, closing her eyes with a smile. “It’s always just like the first time,” She placed a hand on his cheek before pulling away at the sound of the third whistle blow. He did not, could not speak, not at all understanding what she had said, or that she had even spoken. Was he dreaming?

  “I hope you remember me next time,” She said with a hint of sadness in her voice as she stepped around the corner into the crowds on Bourbon Street and was gone.

  As the moon sank between the spires of St. Louis Cathedral, his reverie dissipated, leaving him alone in the dark alley. A sudden panic gripped his chest, and he stepped around the corner as if to shout “Wait!” at her retreating form, but she was nowhere in sight. He strained to see if she was further down the choked street, and then looked in the window of the pub. But, there was no trace of her, save the lingering scent of jasmine on his jacket.

  He stood there, disheartened for only a few moments, and then began walking towards his flat. He knew that he would not find her, “Not tonight,” he murmured to himself. He could not shake the feeling that the kiss was familiar, something he had done before. But, he knew he had not – it could not have happened before. He was scarcely sure that any of the events that night had happened. Perhaps a simple gift of the green fairy, to ease the suffering he imposed upon himself all those lonely years.