The Vampyre (6 page)

Lord Byron smiled at her. ‘As you can imagine, I asked the guard the very same question. But he was too crazed with fear to make any sense. He just kept repeating the same word over again, “
Vardoulacha, vardoulacha, vardoulacha
.” Suddenly, he screamed at me. “My Lord, we must turn, go back!” He stared wildly at his companions, then began to gallop back up the road.

‘“What the devil's the matter with them?” asked Hobhouse, as the other two Albanians followed the first round the outcrop of rock. “I thought the beggars were meant to be brave.”

‘There was a distant rumble of thunder, and then, over the jagged silhouette of Mount Suli, we saw the first fissure of lightning stab. Fletcher started to cry. “Damn it,” I muttered. “If we wanted to be tourists, I knew we should have gone to Rome.” I wheeled my horse. “You,” I said, pointing at the guide, “don't move from here.” Hobhouse was already riding hard back up the path. I followed him, then galloped on ahead. For almost ten minutes we rode through the rain.

‘The darkness now was virtually impenetrable. “Byron,” shouted Hobhouse, “those other three . . .”

‘“Which other three?”

‘“Those other three guards - where are they gone, do you think? Can you make them out?”

‘I peered into the rain, but could scarcely see as far as my horse's ears.

‘“Damnedest thing,” muttered Hobhouse. He wiped at his nose. “Still - something to tell the fellows back home, I suppose.” He paused, and glanced at me. “If we manage to get home to tell them, that is.”

‘At that moment, my horse stumbled, then reared up, whinnying in fear. Lightning lit the path ahead. I pointed. “Look,” I said.

‘We trotted slowly up to where the three bodies lay. Their throats had all been cut. There was no other mark on them. I reached for the cliff and took a handful of earth. I leaned from my saddle and scattered the soil over the corpses, then watched as the soil was washed away.

‘Dimly, through the thudding of the downpour, we heard a scream. It rose and pitched, then faded into the rain. We pressed our horses forwards. I almost trampled a fourth corpse, and then, down the path, we found the final two members of our bodyguard. As with their companions, their throats had been cut. I dismounted, and kneeled beside one to touch the wound. Thick purple blood slipped over my fingertips. I looked up at Hobhouse. “They must be out there,” he said, gesturing vaguely with a sweep of his hand, “somewhere.” We both stood and listened. We could hear nothing but the beating of the rain upon the rocks. “Quite a scrape,” said Hobhouse. “Yes,” I said.

‘We rode back to where we had left Fletcher and the guide. The guide had vanished, of course; Fletcher was offering bribes up to his god. Hobhouse and myself, already quite convinced enough of the Almighty's hostility to us, were agreed that we had no choice but to ride on through the storm, and hope to find shelter before a knife found us. We headed towards Aheron, while angry clouds poured the vengeance of the skies upon us, and lightning gilded the torrents and spray. Once, a shepherd's hut seemed to loom out from the dark, but when we cantered forwards, we saw that it was only a Turkish tomb, with the Greek word for freedom,
eleutheria
, chiselled across its face. “Perhaps it's lucky we still have our foreskins,” I shouted out to Hobhouse. “Perhaps,” he nodded back. “But I feel now they are all savages, the people of this hellish land. I wish we were in England.”' Lord Byron paused and smiled at the memory. ‘Of course, Hobby never was a good traveller.'

‘While you were?' Rebecca asked.

‘Yes. I never sought out strange lands, and then complained because they weren't like Regent's Park.'

‘But that night . . .'

‘No.' Lord Byron shook his head. ‘Maybe it was odd, but agitation of any kind always gave a rebound to my spirits and set me up. Dullness, that was what I feared. But up on the mountains, peering through the storm for the bandit's dagger - yes - the excitement of that took a long time to fade.'

‘But it did fade?'

‘Yes.' Lord Byron creased his brow. ‘Yes, it did at last. The fear remained, but it was no longer an agitation, merely a dullness, and Hobhouse was affected by it in just the same way. The further we rode, the more physical it seemed to become, as though it were something like the rain, through which we had to force ourselves to go. It was ahead of us, an emanation of something, whatever it was, draining away our spirited-ness. Fletcher began muttering his prayers again.

‘Then Hobhouse reined in his horse. “There's someone up ahead,” he said. He pointed into the drizzle of the dying storm. “See?” I looked. I could just make out figures, but nothing more. “Where are you going?” Hobhouse called, as I spurred my horse down the track.

‘“What choice have we got?” I shouted back. I cantered through the rain. “Hello!” I shouted. “Is anyone there? We need help! Hello!” There was no answer, except for the drizzle pattering on the rocks. I stared around. The figures, whatever they were, had disappeared. “Hello!” I called again. “Please, hello!” I reined in my horse. Ahead of me now, just faintly, I could hear a rumbling sound, but nothing else. I slumped in my saddle, and felt fear, like paralysis, numbing every limb.

‘Suddenly, someone seized my horse's reins. I looked down, startled, and reached for my gun, but before I could cock it, the man by my stirrups had raised up both his hands and called out the Greek words of welcome. I answered him, then sat back in my saddle and laughed with relief. The man watched me patiently. He was old, with silver moustaches and a straight back, and his name, he told me, was Gorgiou. Hobhouse joined us - I explained to the old man who we were and what had happened to us. He seemed unsurprised at the news, and when I had finished talking, said nothing at all at first. Instead he whistled and two other figures stepped forwards from behind the rocks. Gorgiou introduced them as his sons, Petro and Nikos. Petro I liked at once; he was a large, weather-beaten man, with strong arms and an honest face. Nikos was clearly much younger, and seemed slight and frail beside his brother. He wore a cloak over his head, so that it was impossible for us to see his face.

‘Gorgiou told us that he and his sons were shepherds - we asked him if he had a shelter nearby. He shook his head. Then we asked if Aheron was far. He made no reply to this, but looked startled, then took Petro to one side. They began to whisper urgently. Several times we overheard the word our bodyguard had spoken, “v
ardoulacha, vardoulacha
”. At last Gorgiou turned back to us. He explained that Aheron was dangerous; they were travelling there because Nikos was sick, but that we, if we could, should find somewhere else. We asked if there were any other villages nearby. Gorgiou shook his head. Then we asked why Aheron was dangerous. Gorgiou shrugged. Were there bandits, we asked, robbers? No, there were no bandits. Then what was the danger? Just danger, Gorgiou said with a second shrug.

‘Behind us, Fletcher sneezed. “I don't care how dangerous it is,” he muttered, “just so long as there's a roof over our heads.”

‘“Your valet is a philosopher,” said Hobhouse. “I absolutely agree.”

‘We told Gorgiou that we would accompany him. The old man, seeing that we were determined, did not protest. He began to head on down the path, but Petro, instead of walking with him, reached out for Nikos. Would I carry the boy on my horse? he asked. I said that I would be happy to, but Nikos, when his brother tried to lift him, flinched away. “You are ill,” Petro told him, as though reminding him, and Nikos, reluctantly, allowed himself to be lifted up onto the horse. I caught the gleam of dark girlish eyes from beneath the shadow of his hood. He wrapped his arms around me; his body against mine felt slim and soft.

‘The path began to descend. As it did so, the roaring I had heard earlier became more thunderous, and Gorgiou reached up to touch my arm. “Aheron,” he said, pointing towards a bridge ahead of us. I cantered gently down towards it. The bridge was stone and clearly centuries old. Just beneath its span, waters boiled and hissed as they spilled from a wave-worn precipice into the river far below, and then slipped black and silent between two barren cliffs. The storm had almost died, and a pale twilight was staining the sky, but no light caught the Aheron as it flowed through the gorge. All was dark, deep and dark. “In old times,” said Gorgiou, standing by my side, “it is said a ferryman carried the dead to Hell from here.”

‘I looked at him sharply. “What, this very place?”

‘Gorgiou pointed towards the gorge. “Through there.” He glanced up at me. “But now, of course, we have the Holy Church, to guard us from evil spirits.” He turned hurriedly, and walked on. I glanced again at the dead waters of the Aheron, then followed him.

‘The ground now was flattening out. The rocks were starting to be replaced by scrubby grass, and looking ahead I could see faint lights. “The village?” I asked Gorgiou. He nodded. But it was no village, our destination, scarcely even a hamlet, just a mean straggle of shacks and a tiny inn. I saw a crossroads beyond the inn.

‘“Yanina,” said Petro, pointing down the second road. There was no sign by the crossroads, but I could see a forest of stakes, very like the one our soldiers had found by the mountain road. I trotted past the inn to look at them, but Nikos, seeing the stakes, held my arms. “No,” he whispered fiercely, “no, turn back.” His voice was enchanting, musical and soft like a girl's, and it acted on me like a charm. But before I wheeled my horse round, I was relieved to see that the stakes were unadorned.

‘Inside the inn, our rooms were wretched, but after our ordeal on the mountainside and the grim spectacle of the Aheron, I welcomed them as though they were paradise. Hobhouse grumbled, as he always did, about hard beds and rough sheets, but agreed reluctantly that it was better than a grave, and tucked in well enough when supper came. Afterwards, we went to find Gorgiou. He was sitting by the fire, sharpening his knife. It was a long, cruel blade, and at once I remembered the sight of our soldiers dead in the mud. Gorgiou, however, I liked, and Petro too, for being as stern and upright as the mountains themselves. Yet both men seemed nervous; they stayed by the fire, their knives by their sides, and though everything between us soon seemed hiccups and friendliness, their eyes kept straying to the windows. I asked them once what they were looking for; Gorgiou said nothing; Petro laughed and muttered about the Turks. I didn't believe him - he didn't seem the man to be scared of other men. But of what else, if not the Turks, was there to be afraid?

‘Outside in the yard, a dog began to howl. The innkeeper hurried to the door and unslid the bolts. He peered out. We could hear hooves approaching us through the mud. I left Gorgiou and walked across to the door. I watched the landlord as he hurried out into the road. Thin wisps of mist, stained in the twilight a watery green, had risen from the earth and obscured all but the outline of the mountain peaks, so that I might almost have been staring out at the dead waters of Hell, and it would not have been a surprise to see the ferryman, old Charon, piloting his bark of spectres through the descending night.

‘“You must be careful here,” said a girl's voice from beside me.

‘I turned round. It was not a girl at all, but Nikos.' Lord Byron paused. Again, he stared past Rebecca into the dark. He bowed his head, and then, when he looked up again, he gazed deep into Rebecca's eyes.

‘What is it?' she asked, disconcerted by his look.

Lord Byron shook his head.

‘Tell me.'

Lord Byron's smile was twisted and strange. ‘I was thinking, as poets do, how beauty must always pass away.'

Rebecca stared at him. ‘Not your own, though.'

‘No.' His smile faded. ‘But Nikos was lovelier by far than me. Looking at you just now, I remembered him, as he stood by me in that inn, with a sudden utter clarity. His hood had been thrown back, not so far that it revealed his hair, but sufficient to display the beauty of his face. His eyes, I saw, were black as death, his lashes the same hue. He lowered them, and I stared into their silk shadow, until Nikos blushed and looked away. But he stayed by my side, and when I walked out into the mist, he followed me. I could sense that he wanted to take my arm.

‘Two travellers had arrived. One was a woman, one a priest; both were dressed in black. The woman was escorted past us into the inn; her face was pale and I could see that she had been crying. The priest stayed outside, and when the innkeeper re-emerged back into the road, he shouted some orders and walked towards the crossroads. The innkeeper followed, but before he joined the priest, he untethered a goat from the side of the inn, and then carried it with him as he walked down the road towards the forest of stakes.

‘“What are they doing?” I asked.

‘“They are trying to lure the
vardoulacha
with the smell of fresh blood,” Nikos said.

‘“
Vardoulacha
- I keep hearing this word,
vardoulacha
. What is it?”

‘“It is a dead spirit that will not die.” Nikos glanced up at me, and for the first time since I had made him blush, our eyes met. “The
vardoulacha
drinks blood. It is an evil thing. You must beware of it, for it prefers to drink from a living man.”

‘Hobhouse had joined us. “Come and see this, Hobby,” I told him. “It might give you something to scribble in your journal.” Together, the three of us walked down the road. The priest, I saw, was standing by a trench; the innkeeper held the goat over it. The animal was bleating with fear; the innkeeper, with a sudden movement of his arm, silenced the goat's screams, and blood began to pump into the trench. “Fascinating,” said Hobhouse, “quite fascinating.” He turned to me. “Byron - the
Odyssey
- you remember it - Odysseus does the same thing when he wants to summon up the dead. The ghosts of the underworld can only feed on blood.”