THE ASSASSIN APRENTICE

“It was a dark and stormy night...” Do not fool yourselves. That line has a venerable history. First scripted by my good friend, Sir Edwin Bulwer-Lytton in his 1830 novel, Paul Clifford. I was good friends with him from the time he was a lad. In fact, he got the line from me. I gave it to him freely, with my blessing. I had often spoken of that other “dark and stormy night.”

The rain did indeed fall in torrents. But there were no “occasional intervals when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets...” Indeed, there were no streets by Lake Geneva, and we were all sequestered in the Villa Diodati on that fateful evening in 1816.

I was fond of the boy. He was but thirteen years of age when these events transpired. Some of the occult events Mary hinted at in her novel enflamed his youthful imagination. I doubt he could have written Vril: The Power of the Coming Race without it.

Now I had met George Gordon (you'd know him best as Lord Byron) in 1813, when he was but a young man of twenty-five. The both of us being of a poetic bent, there began a staunch friendship between us, and so it was that I was one of those few who were there for the birth (or rather, the conception) of a literary classic.

The story is often told of that June evening—it truly was horrendous! And the thunderbolts lanced around the villa and the earth shook terribly. It was George's perverse sense of humor that led him to open a book of ghoulish stories entitled Fantasmagoriana. Admittedly, I may have had something to do with that. Earlier I'd been sharing some of my reminisces. I have been a great traveler in my time and I have acquainted myself with many of the strangest and most obscure corners of the world.

You may wonder that I should attribute the reading of a book of ghost stories, to George's sense of humor (which was indeed, after a certain fashion, perverse). But earlier that evening I had told him the particularly disturbing history of the lost city of Remuria. You, who are to any degree familiar with the history of Rome will know that it was founded in in the year 753, before the birth of the Saviour, by the two brothers Romulus and Remus. Feral children, raised by a she-wolf, they carried some of that unrelenting savagery with them, and it was that, in company of their natural craft and cleverness, that would raise their empire to heights never before, or afterwards, achieved.

It is said the two brothers quarreled, and as a result of this quarrel, Romulus slew his brother Remus. Thus, the city they founded, was named after the conqueror—Rome. What the legends do not tell you is that Remus did not die—not as men die. But he found his way to a city buried thousands of feet beneath the earth—a city in which the dead yet dwelled, undying. Never entering into the light, their skins bleached white as worms and pale slugs they emerged only during the hours of darkness. They were the Lemures, the Larvae. And they had slept for ages before Remus came to them and awoke them.

I really had no intention to upset George as I did. Though no stranger to drink, he was also quite circumspect in his habits. This time he had to drink. It was suspected that Lord Byron crank wine from a skull. I can vouch for the truth of this. He had returned, after I'd told my tale, and visibly shaken, had brought his cup down from his rooms. Filled it. Drank and then recited a poem he had scribed when but nineteen:

“Start not—nor deem my spirit fled:

In me behold the only skull

From which, unlike a living head,

Whatever flows is never dull.”

He drank again, and then recited the second verse. He went on to recite the full six of the verses, and between, and after each verse, filled the skull again and quaffed. Seven drinks in all.

“Do not wonder that you tale so unsettles me. I was there! And I had no idea what that hillside even held. Had I known I think I'd have ventured down below. Still—it would be shame to lose the sunlight and have naught but corpses—albeit living ones to pass the time with.”

It was certain, however, that he had not completely conquered his unrest. At that point Polidori joined us, and reported that George looked to him as if he might be ailing, or had had some fright.

“Nonsense—we are here to enjoy ourselves, not to lie abed (well, not to lie abed because we are ailing, in any case). A few good laughs and chuckles are exacty what we need and will dispel this foul mood of gloom. What care we if the storm clouds rowl and roar! Here we are warm and cozy!”

Did I not say that his sense of humor was perverse, after a fashion? What he chose to give him cheer was his Fantasmagoriana. Who but Lord Byron would be cheered by such tales as La Tête deMort (The Death's Head); La Morte Fiancée (The Death Bride) and Le Revenant (The Revenant), all by Friedrich August Schulze (or Friederich Laun, as he was better known as). A bit of a pompous ass. I knew him well.

On the contrary, I might have been wrong in thinking Byron's sense of humor, perverse. It was not that he cured an undeniable horror by, by exposing himself to a horror less caustic, by the sole virtue that it was but fictional. Now it was because, even in those early days, it was said that “the unelaborate narratives of Laun are mines of what is called Fun.”

I suppose that is just. In any case, a printed story of an undead wraith may send chills down your spine and give you goosebumps. But encountering something like that in reality, will make you soil your drawers. So yes—I give my approval to George's form of self-medication.

Of course, now, we arrive at that central point in the evening. George, looking feverish from his quite (and even overly) dramatic reading. He has successfully buried the memories of that time in Rome. Aghast at the possibility of how close to (un) death he might have come, I can tell he is also thrilled by the experience. I full believe, had he known of what truly lurked below, he might have ventured there. Never closest to Life, then when in the midst of the snares of Death.

Yes—now he is flushed with the wine of inspiration. He has recovered from his fright. He is nearly drunk on the wine of these safer (but still quite chilling) tales. And a look of demonic glee, and an ever-widening grin conquers his visage. I am marvelously impressed. He evokes the Dæmon, tapping into some of the deepest depths of eldritch fear (I wonder now if he did indeed venture too far down that cave and tunnel).

We are all listening, enrapt. I, Shelly, Mary, Claire, Polidori. Byron pauses for a moment to tighten the E-strings of our nerves, almost to breaking. I don't think a single breath was taken in that too long moment.

“We shall each write a ghost story!”

I think the nerves of all those there suddenly snapped with anticipation. What was George going to say? Knowing George there were any hundreds of possibilities he might have spread out on the table. The narrowing of them down to the single challenge—writing a ghost story! The relief on our faces was palpable.

Percy began his tale almost immediately (though he was to run out of steam after a time). A Fragment of a Ghost Story. Byron began a promising tale which he soon abandoned: The Burial A Fragment.; the gist of it was taken up by Polidori who three years later completed his The Vampyre. His Lord Ruthven, originally created by Byron, was narcissistically based upon his own self.

But of course it was Mary who outshone us all. There were depths in that girl that not even those closest to her suspected. She suffered so much. Perhaps the essence of creation must come from destruction. Perhaps what we create can alone give us comfort in the darkest of our hours. Was this not true for Egil Skallagrimson, who created the Sonnatorrek (Lament for my sons) during perhaps the darkest time of his life? It is by taking the ruins of ones life, and the life of others that it is possible to create that which outlasts it and rises to undreamed of heights.

But I have not told of my own contribution in this matter. Byron, I think, had been leery of even suggesting the contest. He had, after all had to marinate himself with many cups of wine to sufficiently insulate himself from the tale I'd told. Perhaps he thought he might not survive another.

Indeed what I produced was simply called, DaiKazu. It was a tale I had learned in my travels in Japan, a land which is abundantly furnished with Yurei, Yokai, Borei, Shiryo and Obake—all names for the borderland dwellers of the Beyond. Mine was but the tale of an ancient Norse warrior whom the Japanese gave the name, Arashi Okami—the Storm Wolf. It would have read like one of the Norse Sagas, like Egil's Saga, Hrafnekel's Saga, or Njal's Saga. But that was not to be. Instead I offered no tale for the contest. In that, I was not alone for Claire Claremont also did not partake in the competition.

It was not with my eyes that I saw him. In truth I first caught a glimpse of him in a mirror. Now he and I, in appearance, are not unlike. We are both tall, but are thin and wiry. The both of us favor hair that reaches to our waist. Admittedly, I adopted this tradition from the courts of France.

But he that appeared in the mirror had hair the color of bone. Was he an albino? That I could not tell until he approached closely enough that I might see his eyes. They were silver, and not the pink seen in the eyes of white rabbits. Those eyes were grim and hard. They were, perhaps, even more the shade of unalloyed iron.

Do not imagine that he had simply wandered into the room while I had gazed into the mirror. Indeed, I saw him first in the mirror—but when I turned I saw no one. Yet, his face remained visible in the glass.

It is said by some (but not all) that a vampire casts no reflection. What was I to say then? Who, and whatever this was did indeed cast a reflection, but could not be seen in any other place.

“Do not fear. But come walk with me.”

As God is my witness I cannot account for any of that which was to follow. It is as if I passed into the mirror. And there I saw this strange man, fully as solid as was myself. No longer did the reflection show the rooms of the Villa Diodati. It was as if I had stepped into the mirrored halls of the Palace of Versaii, which I was not unfamiliar with.

“You have lived long. Longer than it is granted to the many. It is time that you know the reason why. I have kept you from death. My hand has not touched you—nor will it. I have a proposition for you.”

I knew then who I was dealing with. The fault was his. How often had I had to leave the places I had become familiar with, so that those with ordinary lives might not curse me for being blessed with what was forbidden them?

“I've long suspected something of the sort. But why?”

“Two are the reasons. I am tired, worn with pain. It is not an easy thing to bring death to all as I have done. I am not without human feeling. I grow fond of those whom I must eventually take. I would be done with this—at least for a time. Thus, I offer to you the position of my apprentice.”

“You are sick to death—if I may say it that way. You want to shed the yoke of your thankless task. Why give it to me?”

“Because I have seen the great skill you wield. I have seen what dwells deep within you. Do you not know a God gestates within you. You are of the Old Breed. I know you are not yet tired of life. If I touch you not and brand you with the Mark, you shall die—and you know your destiny is not yet fulfilled.

“But accept my charge. Become my apprentice. Let the Seed gestate and come to full flower.”

“I cannot do this—thousands die every hour—how can I take them all?”

“Thjat is not expected of you. You are but the Apprentice, not the Master.”

I wanted to refuse. When the Lord of Death appears it is perilous to trust him. But I knew him of old. He had taken away so many of those I knew. Not even knowing fully why, I bowed my head and felt his touch.

The dream, vision or hallucination faded. I was on the right side of the mirror. I was about to look at my reflection when I felt a soft touch on my arm. It was Mary. She looked at me and was astonished—almost aghast at what she saw.”

“Daegne—what's happened to you?”

I didn't know what she was talking about—until I turned and caught a sight of myself in the glass.

My hair had turned bone white. My face hard and gaunt. I was now at least several inches taller than I was.

“I can't account for it, Mary. I am sorry to have frightened you. Such was not my intention—believe me.”

She shook her head. “I wasn't frightened. Just very surprised. But it's so very strange. You know how I have wrestled for months to come up with my ghost story, and I've had nothing. The last night I had the strangest dream. I have my story! What I do not have is the frightening figure who is the...the ghost. I truly beg your pardon, but I know now that what I saw in that dream, the frightful shape of the creature. I could not recall it, but looking at you, you are in some strange way the very image of what I dreamed.”

I chuckled, and then began to laugh. The more I laughed, the more I wanted to laugh.

“I'm not offended, Mary. I think I have just met with the king of all spooks, and I daresay, it had something of an effect on me. But what I'm most glad of is that now you can begin your tale—and perhaps my misfortune shall end as your fortune. Think kindly of Daegne Carçis for he has been called to a greater service than he ever would have guessed.”