Rising to darkness Read online

  "Sorry, I didn't think about that. Will you show them to me someday?"

  Even my dead heart skipped a beat: she’d already decided to see me again, then!

  "I promise."

  I suddenly realized that it was very late, the darkness of the night retreating to make way for the milky whiteness that precedes the dawn. I got upset because it is not wise for people like me to be caught outdoors with the sun’s rays. I was still weak from the outcome of my last mishap; I did not know how long I would be able to withstand the light without protection. We do not catch fire simultaneously, as legends say, you see. That only happens after some time. Yet, direct sunlight weakens us and causes sickness that increases exponentially as the hours pass, as if we were exposed to a massive dose of lethal radiation. The youngest of us will die within a few hours; a vampire of my age can resist for a few days, only to die in agony, vomiting blood while the skin boils and then lacerates.

  I couldn't flee and leave Sophie alone in the middle of the street, though. Courtesy obliged me to take her home. But then again, where did she live? What, if she lived on the opposite side of town? (Stupid, you're getting more and more foolish! You're going to be caught by dawn away from your shelter! Come on, wake up!)

  "I... I realized that it’s very late, I must hurry home. Can I take you back to your home, please?"

  I couldn't even look at her; I kept staring at the horizon, inspecting the alterations in the light as the new day was dawning with increasing concern.

  "You already did. This is where I live. Are you fine?"

  "Yes, I'm fine. I've an important appointment tomorrow and I need to sleep for at least a few hours or I'd be ruined."

  "Don't say that. I have surgery in... Two hours’ time!"

  Sophie is a doctor, a heart surgeon. She's just thirty-two, but she's already a team leader. Not bad for someone who looks like a teenager!

  "Thank you, I had a good time," I said.

  I could not even stand put; the anxiety devouring me was too great. The thing is, I've been really sick in the last few months. I wished for death many times in order to escape the suffering caused by the werewolves’ venom that had spread inside my body. The memory of the torture was still too fresh to deal with another one, even lightly. I felt sweat dripping down my cheek and quickly dried it. What could the girl possibly think, seeing me sweating blood? I then sensed disappointment in her thoughts because I hadn’t asked to see her again or for her phone number, and I cursed for the umpteenth time while the light grew more and more intense.

  "Sophie, I promise that you will see me again, but now I must go, I'm sorry. Goodnight!"

  "Goodnight, Raistan."

  On impulse, she got up on her tiptoes and gave me a kiss on the cheek. Again that thought (cold!) crossed her mind, but then she smiled at me, took the keys from her bag, and went into the house, gently closing the door.

  Finally I could run! I think I broke all the speed records that night, including the high standards of my race. I nearly broke down the door of my apartment to find shelter from the sunlight, which was surging on the horizon. I was red with sweat and also realized that the heavy curtains I use to shield the windows were wide open. The maid’s fault for sure. I always find it funny thinking about her vacuuming while a 3-century-old vampire sleeps in the chest at the foot of the bed. There was no time left but to find refuge in the first dark place that I could find: the built-in wardrobe in the hall. I was starting to feel really bad. Nausea was tormenting me in waves and a horrible weakness was taking possession of my limbs, making them numb and heavy, as if death originated from there. I closed the door and started to feel much better in the dark. I sat on the floor among the shoes, umbrellas and knick-knacks of my past and fell asleep instantly.

  2- RUNNING AWAY

  The night I ran away from home was by far the most terrifying of my childhood, but also one of the most exciting: the sense of freedom I had always yearned for consumed me like a drug. I could do whatever I wanted, go wherever I liked, and I was the only master of my own life. On the contrary, the doubt, indeed almost the certainty, of not being able to handle such freedom filled me with dismay. I did not know anything about the world and its dangers; I had never wandered the streets alone, indeed, not even with anyone; I had no idea about the price of things and what stuff I could buy with the money my mother gave me. I knew that there were dangerous people around and that it would have been better to hide so not to attract any unwanted attention; but I did not know what my next step was going to be.

  I stood not very far from home, a black shape obscured by darkness, and was tempted to go back, nestled in my room and safe under the covers as I let fate take its course. Even the thought of the monastery no longer seemed so horrible, especially compared to the unknown awaiting me.

  Zwart, instead, seemed exhilarated by all the new space in which he was able to roam, filled with all those new smells to track: he ran back and forth, which seemed to be his invite for me to carry on. His presence was the only reason I didn’t already run like hell away from all that darkness. I could not even see a few inches from my nose. The clouds covered the moon and nothing lit up my path. I only knew I was in the same field where I was beaten years earlier, and that somewhere along its border was a tree. My first decision as a free man, then, was to find that tree and seek shelter under its foliage until dawn, and then reach Amsterdam and its port. Heartened by this newfound confidence, I crossed the field while recalling and retracing the image that I had kept back in my memory. Just as I began to fear that I had gotten lost, its shape silhouetted against the black sky just like an apparition. I sat down with my back against its trunk, wrapped myself in my mantle and, with the comforting warmth of Zwart's body next to my legs, fell asleep.

  An icy and foggy dawn welcomed me; I sat with all my muscles groaning about the uncomfortable night I had just spent and looked around. Fog had made it difficult to see the shapes of things surrounding me, but it was daytime and the landscape seemed less eerie than the night before. Zwart was jumping around, enthusiastic as usual, as if he was encouraging me to go on.

  I took some bread from the bag I had prepared and shared it with him, then I gathered my nerves and set out to uncover what fate had in store for me, either good or bad.

  3- AMSTERDAMNED

  Back to my story: after four hours of walking, I reached the southern border of Amsterdam.

  The thing that struck me most, as previously, was the terrible smell hovering all around, a revolting stench of garbage, rot, excrements and who knows what, like a shroud suffocating the city and its surroundings. Zwart seemed even more nervous and whined softly, as if he wanted to articulate the fact that this was not a nice place to stay. Having always lived in the country, I wasn’t accustomed to what, I would soon learn, was one of the main features of any metropolis at that time. I hesitated, my stomach in turmoil, already full of nostalgia for the fragrant scents and the silence of my home village when a threatening rattling of a coach behind me put an end to my doubts.

  Today there is no trace of it, but massive walls that protected it from external attacks had surrounded the southern perimeter of the city; you could enter only by crossing the big gates, guarded day and night by armed guards. I passed through without drawing their attention: I was just a boy with a dog, not very threatening to the security of the capital. Inside the city, the confusion was incredible, especially for a country bumpkin like me. It also seemed that everyone knew where to go, while I didn’t. I just knew that it was past noon and that I was hungry.

  I soon discovered where much of the stench that had disgusted me so much came from: the water of the channels was filthy. It makes me laugh when I hear people mourning for the beauty and the wholesomeness of the “good old days.” I was there and I assure you that a visitor from our time, transported to the past, would feel like screaming. There was nothing beautiful or healthy. Strata, several inches thick of filthy sludge formed from residues of garbage, human and a
nimal wastes, and whatnot covered the roads, unpaved roads. You could not help but be tinged up to your ankles by the muck and, often, carriage wheels would splatter it all over you. People used to empty their chamber pots from their windows and throw their garbage directly on the street; it was quite common to come across carcasses of dogs, cats, mice and even horses left to rot along the streets, Amsterdam and its canals included. It was shuddering to think that this water, where tons of sewage and poisons from the manufacturing firms, such as tanneries, dyeing, or factories producing alcoholic beverages were discarded, was used by people for their domestic needs, even as drinking water. Therefore, it was no wonder that the mortality rate, especially among children, was so high.

  With the conviction of having being thrown into this circle of hell, I proceeded into the chaos without knowing what to do or where to go. People bumped into me because I was walking in a daze in the middle of the street, constantly checking to see that Zwart was still at my side. Without him, I would have definitely run all the way back home and begged my father to immediately send me to the monastery, which had started to look, as the hours passed, more and more an oasis of peace, serenity and cleanliness in the middle of this horrible and corrupted world.

  All of a sudden, I spotted a tavern; I was starving, so I slipped inside to warm up and eat something. I feared, though, that they would not let Zwart enter, but with the turmoil inside, no one seemed to notice him. I found an empty table near the huge fireplace and sat on the bench, trying to draw the host’s attention or one of the girls wandering among the tables taking orders. When I was about to give up hope, one of those fat and sloppy girls, mirroring the place she worked in, asked me if I was able to pay; and, it was only after I gave her an affirmative answer that she consented to listen to what I wanted. I ordered a soup, bread, and beer, as well as a bone for Zwart, something that the waitress found quite amusing. She burst out laughing, threw her head back, and showed a row of rotten teeth with countless holes in several places. She was still laughing when she brought me my order, claimed payment, and informed me, with a wink, that the bone was on the house. I thanked her, gave Zwart his much-appreciated lunch, and ate my soup and my bread as if they were true delicacies. When I finished, I was able to relax a bit. Sipping my beer, I began to observe the other customers. They all seemed to belong to a lower social class level. I was grateful to have worn my nondescript black cloak, effectively camouflaging my clothes: nothing glitzy since I opted for comfortable and warm clothing, but the quality compared to the stinking rags of the people around was undeniable. I had been robbed once and it was enough for a lifetime, thank you.

  Stench reigned inside that facility too. Sweat from bodies unwashed for months, if not years, smoke, and various stinks: there was really an abundance of choices as to the source of the smell, but I was tired and wanted to rest a bit before continuing my way to nowhere.

  The warmth of the fireplace and the food in my stomach was inducing sleep; Zwart was snoring under the table and I struggled to keep my eyes open. The beer I had been drinking was much stronger than the one I was used to. In short, I fell asleep with my head resting on my forearms, snoring and dreaming about home; when the maid shook me and woke me up, I dragged myself out of the tavern and realized with horror that most of my money - the bag my mother gave me - was gone. Luckily, before I left, I had hidden a part of it inside my boots, but, unfortunately, it was only a very small amount. I sat down with a thud on the curb and buried my head inside the palms of my hands, almost in tears. What a blow, and only less than twenty-four hours from leaving! Even Zwart seemed mortified at not having been able to protect me properly: he leaned his head on top of my knees and looked at me with his sad eyes, whimpering. Once again, I yearned to go back home, but the idea of looking so foolish in front of my mother, who had risked so much so I could have a better future, seemed totally intolerable to me.

  Nevertheless, that experience taught me a lesson. I became extremely suspicious, almost paranoid; I feared that behind every face masked a criminal, eager to strip me of my remaining belongings. I continually looked over my shoulders, walking closely against the walls and looking down so not to attract other people’s attention.

  Meanwhile, evening was falling.

  It was getting colder and, after wandering aimlessly all day, I began to feel exhausted. I, then, found myself in a quieter and cleaner area of the town: the facades of the houses were orderly and people were dressed a little better.

  I spotted an inn and prayed with all my heart that I had enough money to get a bed and a hot meal. The next day I meant to go to the port in search of a ship for England. I was determined to follow my mother's advice and leave Amsterdam as soon as possible; also, I wanted to see if Mr. Winston's homeland was as nice as he had always praised it to be.

  I felt that, in the Netherlands, I wouldn't have been able to start the new life which was thrown upon me by force, and that I needed to have a purpose in order to not die of nostalgia.

  In the inn, Zwart and I were welcomed with reasonable kindness. I ordered the cheapest meal available, soup and bread again, and then was led into a Spartan room, furnished only with a straw mattress and a chair. The straw seemed clean and, tired as I was, I could have even slept on the floor. I hid what little money I had left in my underwear and collapsed on the bed with Zwart at my feet, sinking into deep sleep just after a few minutes.

  4 - EN ROUTE

  The next morning, refreshed by a quiet night's sleep, I headed towards the harbor to find a ship bound for London. It was no small feat. The confusion on the docks was something incredible: there were goods, animals and people running in every direction, porters, carts, crates, etc.

  Amsterdam was already one of the largest commercial ports in Europe and huge sailing ships were anchored just a few meters from one another, making it harder for me to find those departing for England. Moreover, as it often happens, no one paid any attention to a boy and his dog, and it took me hours to locate the ship that I needed. Finally, thanks to a sailor who had taken mercy on me, I was led towards the right direction along with the name of the ship leaving for London: it was called "Meester," which in my native language means "teacher."

  I ran to the dock, dreading the thought that the ship had already departed, leaving me to spend another day in that hell; I was also worried about the price of the trip, fearing that the money I had left was not enough. I didn't even have breakfast so that I wouldn’t waste a penny. Zwart wolfed down a dozen fish heads that he found in a box on a pier.

  My concerns, however, were short-lived: I found the ship and learned that the cost of the trip was not so prohibitive. In fact, I was spared some money to use when I reached my destination.

  The ship, a 131 foot galleon with three masts that towered into the leaden sky and its bow decorated by the huge statue of a mermaid reaching out to the waters, seemed magnificent to me. It was the first time I had set foot in a port and everything looked gargantuan and amazing. Going aboard, however, made me change my mind quickly. Soon I found out that the rolling of the ship made me sick beyond all measures; in the first half hour of the journey, I vomited twice. The sea was calm but the overcrowding in the local pool, the unpleasant smell of the people who pressed against me from every side, and the natural pitch of the boat proved fatal to me. Therefore, I went up on deck to get some fresh air and saw the shores of my homeland receding into the morning mist. I felt a pang of nostalgia for my mother and I promised myself that I would return for her as soon as I had made a fortune. Then I turned and concentrated on my survival.

  The distance between Amsterdam and London is 220 miles. At that time, with good wind and sea conditions, a ship like Meester would have taken the journey just one day.

  Those were the most frightening twenty-four hours of my life as a human. I had never even imagined that I could have been so sick. After vomiting countless times, eventually shaken by useless spasms, I lied sprawled on the deck, drenched in cold sweat, praying to
die or get to the port, not caring which one happened first. The sailors were even too tired to drive me away and decided to ignore me instead, teasing me less and less as the hours passed. They probably thought I would have collapsed from the violent seizures of vomiting, or perhaps they just felt a little bit sorry for the unlucky boy, green in the face, guarded faithfully by his huge black dog. When evening came, as I was huddled in a corner shivering, wrapped in my cloak with my abdominal muscles in pieces and a horrible taste in the mouth, one of them gave me a blanket and winked at me. "I've been doing this job for forty years boy, I've seen it all, but I'm sure I've never seen anyone with seasickness like you before. You, definitely, can never be a sailor! "

  "I don’t care at all, thank you..." I stammered.

  He burst into laughter and walked away, legs apart.

  Somehow, I survived the night and the last hours of travel. I found out that if I stayed motionless, nausea was tolerable. When we landed, I was like a ghost; my legs were jelly-like and flabby and I was so weak, I could hardly stand on my feet. I would have kissed the ground if only I had the certainty of being able to get up again. I spent the last of my money on a room in a shack overlooking the harbor; I had to sleep at all costs, or else I would not have been able to survive my first day in London. Seasickness left me only after several hours, and I swore to myself that never, ever again in my life would I get on one of those floating traps.

  It was October 30. I was sixteen, had a dog, and started my new life sleeping.

  5 - LONDON

  I spent the first week in my new country miserably. Being penniless, I had to adapt to sleeping on the streets and eating whatever I had found, rummaging in the garbage for scraps of fruit, vegetables, and sometimes even raw and smelly offal. In the area close to the Tower, there was a high concentration of butcher shops; here I could sometimes pick up some scraps and shared it with Zwart. Many people did the same, but the threatening presence of my dog always discouraged them from picking a fight with me.