Marek (Buried Lore Book 1) (28 page)

‘Perhaps,
but first let me tell you something of our kind so you can understand me
better. Originally, witches were the result of the coupling of humans and
strigoi
. This weaker race, which still carried the
bloodline, was spurned by humans and living without the protection of a circle.
Lewis tried to change that. He could see what was happening; they were
outcasts, burned for their craft yet committing no real threat. He began
rounding them up, travelling across countries. He initiated your mother into
the fold. It is something of a mystery why she was not converted. Instead, he
let her go. I too was one of those witches sought out by Lewis.

‘I
had been working as a servant in a wealthy household. I was crippled, my legs
bent and twisted. For my affliction I was whipped and beaten and ridiculed by
others. I was considered an abomination. Abandoned by my parents at birth I was
given over to this household to spend the rest of my life looking after their
every need. When the ageing mother died, her daughter took over where she left
off
;
a vicious young mistress who paid me nothing.

‘I
knew there was something strange about me but I did not know it as a gift or
where it came from. Sometimes I could hear things when others could not, and
other times I could find things that humans couldn’t. Once, when my mistress
lost her earring, I pictured it in a gap beneath the floorboards. I fished it
out with a long stick and when I brought it to her she thought I had stolen it
and had me beaten. Of course, it was not something one admitted to and if I had
told her the truth I would be dead now.

‘Then
one day Oleander called on me as she had called on others, tracking us down to
join her coven. She was only a young girl, barely twelve. I believed her to be
a beggar so I took her into the kitchen and fed her. She was in her firstborn
form then and so much like you. She would call on me often, always knowing when
the mistress was out. We became friends and soon she began to tell me about the
castle that was her home and I
realised
this girl was
special, and certainly no beggar.

‘She
told me about myself, my craft, and encouraged me to move objects with my mind.
I can say I did not do it well at first but it was the beginning of many
teachings. One day she picked up a dead rose from the kitchen waste. She cupped
the lifeless form in her hands and when she opened them the rose was in full
bloom. It was more brilliant than before, with layers of red petals, and a
heavenly bouquet that lingered for days. Oleander said she would teach me
everything and one day I too would be perfect like the rose. The next day she
came back with Lewis to take me away and I was made part of the circle.

‘Later,
after Lewis had left us, she told me a secret. She said she could give me a new
body to replace the one that had failed me. She asked me, if there was anyone I
wanted to look like who would it be?

‘I
was eventually cured of my frailties when becoming the new Zola, and for the
first time, when I looked in the mirror, I no longer wanted to look away. It
felt so good to have no pain in my legs and to run and ride horses.’

‘And
what of the real Zola, the one whose body you stole? Was there no remorse at
all?’

‘At
first it bothered my conscience but those feelings have long passed,
Marek
. I wanted so much to live a normal life. Crippled and
bound to an intolerant mistress. Is that what you would want for me? What choice
did I have?’
Marek
unfortunately would never
understand why I had no regrets. Zola was who I chose to be. She was
who
I dreamed about for years.

‘And
all those people at the nightly festivals, they are all
strigoi
?
They all did the same?’

‘Yes,
most of those were converted and given a new life by Oleander.’

‘You
sound disappointed.’

‘There
is something you need to know.
Something that I personally am
not proud of.
Those others, the ‘grotesque ones’ in the basement, did
not approve of Oleander’s body
transferral
instead of
the one hundred year rest, nor her coven war prophesy, and nor her decadent
festivals that replaced the serious gatherings. They particularly did not like
Jean who Oleander declared as her second with nearly as much authority as herself.
The grotesque ones are those who rejected her new leadership. They are being
punished down there. They are never to be given a tomb for rest. Oleander says
that anyone who disobeys is committing treachery and therefore she will not
offer
them
protection. Without someone to watch over
their graves they cannot rest for fear of being exposed. If Lewis could see
what was happening to his circle… I do not think he’d approve.’

Marek
shook his head. ‘And what happens to you? How do you know that Oleander won’t
leave you down there waiting in darkness?’

It
was something I had been considering myself lately now that I was somewhat out
of
favour
. It weighed on me. Before
Marek
came there had been no fear. But there had been no
reason to question Oleander either.

‘You
are a demon spirit now, Zola.’

It
was odd how any such talk from
Marek
stabbed at
me
as I had never considered myself evil. ‘Yes, it is said
we are demons from hell and that perhaps our true form is what you see in the
basement. But tell me,
Marek
– 
if
I am such a demon, without conscience or soul, why do I care what
happens to you?’

Even
in the dark I saw
Marek’s
features soften. ‘What am
I?’
Marek
said with despair, running his hands
through his hair.

‘Lewis
once showed me a book that said we descend from angels; angels who chose to
live on earth in human bodies. It said that when the angels
realised
their human bodies were ageing, they changed their minds and asked to be
accepted back into heaven. They were refused. They then had to wander the earth
forever, as punishment, living as creatures of the night to survive.’

‘It
sounds like a good story,’ said
Marek
sceptically
. ‘Zola, you can leave this too!’

‘Never
again can we live as witches, not after we have taken human blood. If we do not
continue to drink blood we eventually become grotesque and turn to bones picked
apart by birds and wolves.’

‘Is
a
strigoi
really immortal? Can they never die?’

‘A
strigoi
is capable of destroying another if they have
superior strength, or they can forcibly separate a
strigoi
soul from its material form. Humans have captured many of us to burn on the
pyre when we have been too weakened without blood to resist.
The
strigoi
soul can die by fire, but kill and bury them
any other way, leaving their body intact
,
they can recover
.
I am not sure about witches though. Some say they die like humans, and some
have suggested that, like
strigoi
, a witch might rise
again from the grave, if someone was to place a drop of blood on their remains.
It was thought to be where the first body stealing came from. For those witches
who had accidentally risen from their graves needed quickly to find a more
palatable host as a disguise than their maggot-ridden form.

‘I
have witnessed the death of another
strigoi
by
Oleander’s hand. I watched him catch alight until there was nothing left of him
but ash. Only a few of us have that amount of power. We can also feed on other
strigoi
but there is a code amongst us that this does not
happen.

‘The
bodies of the grotesque ones will eventually shut down and they will be nothing
but bones to be disposed of. If they were buried in their whole perfect form in
a stone coffin and watched over, it would be different. They could rest
peacefully until their awakening.

‘It
will be years of torment and hunger for those in the dungeon and if they still
won’t conform then their bones will be buried in different graves across the
land. Scattering their remains is the
cruellest
fate
of all; their souls will never truly be dead whilst they cling on to what
remains of their bodies, waiting desperately for replenishment and living in
darkness in a non-physical world.’

‘That
sounds worse than hell.’

‘You
did not take a human soul,
Marek
.  I do not know
what will happen to you if you do not continue to drink.’ I did not know if his
ending might be worse.

‘I
will take my chances away from here.’

I
felt cold air at the base of my neck. Oleander was looking for me. She was
calling me back.

‘Have
courage,
Marek
. You are stronger than you think.
Believe in the power of your mind for it will still be there when your body has
failed. It might help me to find you again one day. Oleander says that you are
free; though, I suspect now, her loyalties lie once again solely with Jean, and
he despises you. I feel that you must leave here as fast as you can.’

‘Zola.
I do not believe you are like the others. I find it impossible to hate you yet
I should.’

‘There
is one more thing I should tell you. Oleander did really care about you once. I
believe originally it was sisterly love more than anything as the reason to
summon you. Even the
strigoi
want love.
Unfortunately, power can change a person and not always for the better.’

I
touched his face and kissed his cheek. There was something more he wanted to
say but it was time to go before he tested my conscience any further.

‘Take
care of Zeke.’

Zeke.
Yes I would look after Zeke. I cannot lie and say that there weren’t moments
when I thought that he would one day be useful as a transfer. But it was
fleeting and I had grown attached to him, especially knowing I would never be
able to bear children of my own. Until I had encountered Zeke I’d had no desire
to take care of another human. Zeke had softened half my heart.
Marek
, the other
half.

His
words stayed with me as I returned to the castle. I was sure I would be in
trouble with Oleander for following
Marek
and talking
to him without her permission. I knocked on the library door but Oleander did
not call to me. Lately I had been
ostracised
for my
support of
Marek
. It had been days since I was
included in their private discussions.
Celestina
was
now in their private fold.

Chapter 12

Marek

I ran till I was out of breath. My
body was weak. The newly converted required blood regularly but I was resolute
that all that was behind me. All I could think of was seeing my father again.

There
were signs that winter was leaving early. Much of the ice was turning to slush.
Trees began to quiver, patiently anticipating new leaves.

I
travelled through streams. I cooked hare but ate the dried out meat only,
burning every trace of blood, yet I was hungry all the time. I ate more but it
did not satisfy the burning feeling in my stomach and the thumping in my head.

It
was early afternoon and over a day gone when I saw another of my kind. My
sickness had so dulled my sensibility that I did not sense her before she
appeared. She stood among a group of trees watching me without expression.

‘What
do you want?’

She
said nothing and wore a thin sheath of clothing, her eyes sunken and her skin
ashen. It was at that point it struck me that many of the
strigoi
weren’t beautiful at all without their faces painted and
fine
clothing. And probably this fact was clearer to me now that I knew what was on
the inside.

‘Go
away,’ I shouted.

As I
spoke I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. Another stood there. He too
said nothing but his chin was close to his chest as if he might charge at any
moment.

I
was in danger. Several more stepped out from behind trees, surrounding me. Then
they laughed one by one, the hysteria catching on like a disease. The noise
escalating to such a high level that it pierced my ears and threatened to burst
apart my hearing.

Then
the laughter stopped and they rushed at me, one by one. I tried to push them
away but I was weak and soon they covered me like ants, biting and tearing at
my clothes. Perhaps this was for the best. I was an aberration. If I returned
to my island I might endanger my father and others. It was fitting that I die
the death I gave to others.

The
biting continued. I could feel the blood rising up to meet their noisy sucking
at my arms and neck. I lost count of how many covered me. And then I was
thinking of my father and how much I desperately wanted to see him, if for
nothing else, to say goodbye, to feel his strong arms encircle me once more.

You
are stronger than you think ...
I did not want to die like this. I did not want to die at the hands and
teeth of something I despised. Something rose in my throat. It was the first
stages of anger and my own blood started to boil.

The
creatures noticed the resistance and bit deeper, drawing harder. But the blood
pulsated at my temples and there was a storm in my head: a build-up of energy
that burst into fragments of light. Several of the creatures were forced back,
falling on the forest floor. They scrambled to return, crawling towards me on
all fours like wild dogs.

My
mind raced. My thoughts were wild and uncontrollable. I rose so that I was
suspended inches from the ground. With my mind I concentrated on those still
hanging on to me like maggots. Again, there was carnage in my head and more
fell away. Most were frenzied and rushed at me again. Several disappeared back
into the forest.

The
power in my head was unstoppable,
colours
and shapes
jumbled. I was a wild beast shrieking so loud that the winter birds scattered
from their nests.

Then
I
focussed
on those creatures surrounding me and with
the final violent outburst in my head, many of them started to scream, fissures
in their skin forming, like cracks in ice, their skin breaking apart. Tongues
of fire flicked from between the cracks, and one by one they burst into flames.
I turned to the ones who had tried to escape and they merged into fireballs,
screaming at the air around them in an attempt to cease the infernos, the fire
so powerful that their bodies crumbled into ash.

I
surveyed the destruction, my mind still racing, the
colours
still vivid, and slowly I felt the blood inside me cooling. And I was
Marek
once more, calm and in control. I walked with
nothing, the clothes torn and hanging from my body.

And
then, just on the outskirts of a village the pain gripped me hard. I doubled
over for my stomach felt cut to pieces, as if I had swallowed sharp knives. I
lay there afraid to move; every time I did, my body shook with spasms and the
knives twisted further. Soon the dizziness turned to blackness.

*

I woke to voices and a shred of
sunlight on my face.

‘Look
Mama!’ said a child. ‘A dead man.’

‘Hush, child.
Do not go too close. He could have the fevers that took your poor
father.’

I
saw two small children hovering near me, curiosity across their small round
faces, stretching wide their eyes. Their mother stepped forward beside them
protectively.

‘Sir,’
she said. ‘What has befallen you?’

‘I must
have been unconscious.’ My throat was dry and lips cracked. I was thirsty but
it was not for water.

‘I
am journeying home…
Now
hungry and tired.’ I tried to
stand but staggered near to toppling over.

‘It
looks like something worse.
You lying out here in the chills
and your brow sweating so.
There are scratches all over you. Have you
been attacked?’

‘Yes.
I was mugged by a gang of thieves, and now I have caught an illness.’

She
was worried about the sickness but she did not want to leave me.

‘If
you can walk a short way, I will give you a drink and a meal at my house.’

I
hobbled behind her some yards, my vision blurred. The children looked back to
me from time to time. The bright blue pinafore was too long for the little girl
and she tripped on her skirts. I wanted to leave for fear of what I was but the
kindness of this lady overwhelmed me, along with the need for the company of
humans to make me feel as I once was.

The
woman’s house was small and sparsely furnished. It was far from other small
farms. There was a pen with pigs, chickens and a goat.

She
pointed in the direction of a cot near the fireplace. I lay down, grateful for
its duck feather softness. The children whispered in the corner but it was loud
in my ears. They were discussing where I was from. The boy said that I was as
pale as fresh snowdrops. The girl looked at me constantly as if I was a strange
new being.

The
mother hushed them and scolded for not leaving their wet boots at the front
door. I
realised
I was still wearing mine where I
lay. I hugged my arms for the cold had seeped into my
bones
as it had never done before, my teeth chattering.

The
woman bent to feel my forehead. Her hands were warm and she smelled like milk
and oatmeal. Her head was swimming with memories of sickness. She was torn as
to whether she had done the right thing letting a stranger into her home.

I
touched her arm as she turned to go away. ‘This is no infection and I promise…
you will come to no harm. I appreciate your kindness.’

The
effort of speaking was exhausting.

Whether
it was the touch of my hand that had assured her, or my words I could sense her
relax slightly. For this sickness was something that may not be cured, and if
at any time I felt myself waver into the
strigoi
ways
I would wander back out in the wilderness where I would bury myself in the
snow.

The
woman directed the boy to bring me water. I gulped it greedily but it burned as
it slid down my throat. She stirred up the fire, placing another log,
then
ladled some watery soup into a bowl.

She
spooned the hot liquid into my mouth. I did not have the heart to tell her that
this would not help, that this would not satisfy my craving. I was aware she
had endured much hardship in her short years and wore the strain in her face.
Her hands were wrinkled and her brow was furrowed. The clean, earnest faces of
her children suggested this was a woman of substance.

I
knew my
strigoi
body was dying and possibly taking my
soul to a limbo world. I did not believe I would get better. Stopping the
conversion was something I knew nothing about but this pain would be worth it
if I never again killed. I would
honour
my mother a
different way to Oleander, and not give into evil. As I believed my mother did
many years ago, I had walked away from immortality at the expense of my own
life.

The
woman pressed my brow with a damp cloth and gasped when she pulled it away. It
was covered in blood. I was sweating the blood I stole; the same blood that now
caused me much regret.

‘What
is wrong with you?’ There was a mixture of horror and compassion in her face.

‘I
believe I am dying.’ And I faded into nothingness as the first dark day of my
dying began.

For
several nights I was occasionally woken to take sips of water. I struggled to
read the thoughts of the woman and children after a while, until they were just
a humming sound and a few whispers in my head. I was delirious, tossing and
turning, my body rejecting me.

I
dreamed again of my mother, a lace scarf draped around her head so that her
face was hidden. She whispered in my ear. I caught some of the words. Marissa
told me I was her son, that she loved
me and
Ricco
. She also said she would see me again. It was
all dreams but it kept me at peace in between the ache in my bones and the
pounding pain in my head. If I died now, it would be a good thing: there was a
chance I would be with Mama.

Then
one morning the aches of my affliction vanished and there was no more blood.
Several cloths the woman had washed while tending me hung to dry over the
fireplace.

The
young girl sat on my bed. She twisted the stem of a lilac flower in her
fingers. When she
realised
that I was awake and
looking at her she stopped, instantly alert.

‘I
found this,’ she said proudly.

My
lips were stuck together. She thought of something else.

‘Do
you eat children when you’re well?’

‘No.
They’re too bony.’

‘My
brother says you eat children, especially girls.’

‘Well,
your brother is a good story teller and he likes to frighten you.’

The
girl skipped outside to return with her mother.

‘You
are better?

‘I
think so.’

‘You
have eaten nothing for days. You must be starving.’

I
sat up too quickly and felt dizzy. There were pangs in my body that I had not
felt for a long time. It was the hunger for human food and the smell of her
cooking moistened my mouth.

‘You
look so weak and skinny. You must rest a little longer.’ The children told me I
talked in my sleep, that I kept calling out to my mother and father. I queried
them
as I was worried that I might have said things to shock
them.

‘You
did talk of wolves.’

That
evening I sat with the family at their table. The woman had cooked some barley
and cabbage broth. For the first time in months, food tasted like it should,
not bland and unappealing.

After
dinner, my belly full, I played a game with the children. They threw
knucklebones from their palms onto the backs of their hand. They were amazed at
first that I never dropped one. Then I did, so that the game would be fair.

The
next day I chopped some wood for the fire and felt strong enough to fix the
woman’s broken fence. I calculated how many weeks it would take before I saw my
father again.

It
was my last night with them and while we sat near the hearth, the children told
me things, their bare toes close to the warmth. The boy talked about stories he
had heard, tales about demons who stole children and boiled their bones.

I
laughed but it was forced as I hoped these children never experienced the
terrifying realities. ‘You have a great imagination but you frighten your
sister.’ I squeezed the littlest one’s nose and she squealed delightedly.

This
was the most peaceful I had felt in ages. But try as I would, the past refused
to leave me. I was remembering poor Celeste who I had let down. And I was not
sure if I could have done more to take Zeke with me. Oleander would surely have
tried to kill us both for her motivation for possession was strong.

That
night I dreamed the same dream I had for many nights, only this time it was
clearer, more in focus and not distracted by my sickness. Zeke was in the
dungeon. He was screaming for me and the beasts were chasing him. Oleander was
watching on and did nothing to intercept.

I
woke suddenly before the sun was
risen
. My head was
filled with images of drawings I had seen in Oleander’s library. Pictures of
children cowering in terror, displayed like wares in front of the grotesque,
the soul takers.