Lilah Read online

  Over time, the healing of the sick caused another problem. Word was spreading that such events were taking place. It drew attention to our establishment and a steady flow of people came bringing poorly loved ones; believing that the air within the monastery was so pure it would restore their good health. Once, we discovered a simple-minded boy inside the chapel who knew neither his name nor address. He had been left behind in the hopes that he could be healed. Try as I did afflictions of the mind could not be cured. Eventually though, a whole wing would be dedicated to such cases and a local surgeon, recently retired from his royal duties, volunteered his time.

  The place was full and sometimes people were turned away. And many who were healed had to be put back on the streets immediately. It was difficult to see people leave and know that some may not be heading into happy futures even though their bellies were temporarily full.

  As I have suggested, it was indeed an obsession. As well as the children, we sometimes cured beggars on the street. Arianne always made excuses why I was to travel with her on errands. Those lying in the cold – some nearly frozen to death – were moved to warmer places and we placed healing into their bodies so that they would last the winter. I say ‘we’ when I refer to healing as it was a team effort and without Arianne I would not have been so bold.

  There was a downside to our cause as I began to dread curing during the day, especially visiting those on the street. Arianne would not want to leave anyone untouched by this magic and in her determination to cure she failed to consider the effects on me. Though she knew I was physically weakened by such healing, I would not let her know the worst of it. Some diseases made me incredibly ill and she did not witness the severe stomach cramps and night sweats in the privacy of my room, which left me sleeping late into the morning to replenish my strength.

  It was this affliction that would later fuel suspicion and, ultimately, be my undoing.

  Gabriel

  Sometimes I liked to watch from the tops of the trees and peer into the grounds of the monastery. No-one could see me. They might think it was a trick of the light, the sight of a man silhouetted against the sun framed in fringes of conifer leaves, but if they stepped forward for a closer look I would have vanished in a blink of an eye. It was a popular perch for me to contemplate the insignificant lives of the peasants who sold their paltry means at stalls in the town, the visiting arrogant merchants wrapped in their furs, and the superfluous visits by royals to the monastery to pray for an end to their current round of bloodshed, but only if they were the victors themselves.

  I had watched the place of prayer rise from the dirt where men bent for hours crushing lime with sand and water to seal between the large squares of white granite carried on their shoulders and those of their sons, and sometimes daughters barely half their height. Piece by piece from pale coloured stone, the building was born, full of light with high arched windows. Inside were wooden structures of Jesus on the Cross and Mary, and the polished oak benches and floors shone even on a dull day. The plaster was gilded in places, and stone columns reaching the two storey high ceilings of the entry were etched with crosses. Squares of framed wood panels lined the arched ceiling, each with a representation of Christian worship depicted in intricate detail such as the coloured irises of the angels, the ethereal faces of the apostles, and the baby Jesus in his crib of straw. Several times I had crept inside long after the bell for sleep had tolled so I could get a closer look, to remind myself what humans were capable of and how fruitless was their devotion since their souls could be extinguished at any moment by the likes of myself.

  The whole structure was a modern marvel, a rare exercise of teamwork for a common goal and, I should add, a small amount of cheap coin deposited in the calloused hands of the workers. Though it was more a token for desperate job seekers than a wage or a labour of love. This place, the first I had seen completely run by women, was originally commissioned to be a castle for the last remaining son of a wealthy nobleman. When the son passed away before it was completed, the nobleman then offered the building to the Papacy in what he hoped would return him the promise of riches in heaven – an afterlife swimming in jewels and continuous wealth to squander rather than eternal hellfire as he, like many of his kind, probably feared, and deserved.

  Most of the royals and nobles I can safely say would not have made it to heaven with any amount of coin, so barbaric were their vain quests for dominance over their own family members and dominions. But the building, a gift to the holy orders, became a haven to those children who would grow to be nuns or brothers or leave at least with skin on their bones and memories of charity. And, for the more cynical but perhaps realistic: those who would leave to work tirelessly in trades, continuing the tradition of being too poor to feed their own children.

  Then there were others who would undoubtedly grow and turn to thuggery; some performing only minor misdemeanours. These were untainted as far as I was concerned, and not cut from the same cloth of those who were just given to sinfulness. It was the blood, and sometimes souls of the latter, that satisfied my cravings.

  It was a peaceful pastime to doze in this tree. The sight of the nuns going about their dreary chores gave me moments of tranquility to reflect on those other women I had seduced in times gone by. However these peaceful reflections ended the day something new caught my eye.

  For several years I had travelled across land in search of new company and adventures. Lewis, my elder, did not like my leaving, and though I expressed some loyalty to our circle, I belonged to no-one. Our coven was nice to come back to, to be among family, but it was just a question of time before I felt the burning desire for more exploring.

  Once again, I found myself back at my favourite haunts and hiding places watching the locals go about their pointless deeds.

  It was on one such day from my spot in the tree that my eyes rested on a girl who immediately took my interest. Though humans might look at me as an abomination, compassion was something I felt towards particular earthly creatures. And I had on occasion enjoyed the company of a human girl often more pleasurable than my own kind; more eager to please.

  I cannot say that I sought the companionship of male humans as a general rule but I had met many over the centuries who I had grown particularly fond of in one way or another. Some of my best workers and scouts were humans and like any working relationship it was not hard to form a bond.

  Many years ago, one man in my employ was Frederik. I had raised him from birth into a hulk of a man and he had repaid me with loyalty. He knew that I had special powers and had become accustomed to the darker practices needed to sustain me. He would often go into town and come home with much gossip so that it was easier for me to rid the streets of violent filth. When Frederik died years ago, I had felt a loss but this was not something I admitted to others of my kind. Any such feelings towards humans were meant to be a sign of weakness. It was my belief that humans were put here for many reasons and not just to sustain the life force of the strigoi.

  This particular day I had ventured a little closer to the monastery to examine the girl. She was not so meticulous with her garments as the other, and wisps of her fair hair escaped her loosened habit. It was her unpretentious beauty that initially attracted me. Her profile showed a small, straight nose and pointed chin, and her eyes were large and pale, ringed in a darker blue, like the glass eyes of a doll I had seen in a shop window in Venice.

  She was surrounded by children, something I much admired about women; their protection of the young. Her darting eyes and her quick, deliberate movements told me she was more streetwise than many of her kind. It made me think that perhaps she had seen more of life than her habit suggested. There was a confidence about her and a strength that few humans carried successfully. I have always been keenly attracted to the more daring and charismatic of the female order; those with a will of their own.

  This was someone who appeared dissatisfied with dull duties, indicating that perhaps this occupation was on
ly temporary. Her abandonment of propriety in the way she played with the children like a child herself was intriguing, giving me the desire to meet her. Oh, you might say that she was of the holy orders and why would she want anything to do with me? Again, women found me somewhat of a find; many had stowed me away secretively into their journals knowing that perhaps I was not good for them, their hearts eventually breaking when I failed to turn up without a fond farewell.

  There was another girl too, a few years younger. I did not notice her at first; her movements were steady and focused. Tall and graceful with narrow brown eyes and high angular cheeks reminding me of a sculptured Roman queen. Her movements were fluid and gentle, even to reach for the wrist of a restless child. Every so often the light would catch the gold in her eyes. At one point she seemed to look toward me and tilt her head and then I thought my leafy guise discovered. But a slight frown and she was back to her rapt attendance of the children. She was genuine; her mind clear of inconsistencies and contradictions.

  These two young women did not yet realise they were so unalike: one, driven from something deep within, carried by her will and not her conscience, and the other with purity and measuring each purposeful step.

  While studying the younger, my chest suddenly tightened as if crushed, so strong was the connection we shared. Of course, it was her, the one I had promised to watch. The one whose name I had whispered into the wind that travelled up the drafty hallways of the monastery and into the ear of the abbess, the day the child appeared on the steps. Lilah: the name secretly given by her grandmother, who had foreseen it written far into the future.

  A few years ago I had checked on her briefly but now grown and with nun’s garb I failed at first to recognise her.

  The pair sat closely like rushes: swaying together with the breeze so that I could not separate their thoughts. I waited for them to part but their heads remained bent, whispering; the older not yet realising that she was ripe for an exciting adventure. I imagined her in my room with the moonlight streaming in – the blue of her eyes would surely turn to violet in such light. My reverie was interrupted by the loud clanging of a bell to summon them inside.

  I made a point to visit the monastery more often to keep a closer eye on the younger of the two. As for the older one, I had found a new conquest to coax from the confines of fake Christian conformity to journey with me into a bewitching world; something unfathomable by ordinary persons.

  Chapter 3

  Lilah

  For almost a year I had been curing. Our secret was kept between us. I became the keeper of the children. I was born for such a mission and prayed that what I did would not be punishable in the afterlife.

  I had no map for the future and could not imagine how my life would have been were I not left there. There were moments at night when I yearned for a homely farm life with parents and siblings, but for the most part any other life seemed less than perfect.

  I had already decided that should my parents arrive one day to reclaim me – though at no time was I given any such hope – I would not go. It would be some kind of punishment.

  Punishments did still come. Just not in this way. Someone would die, my secret practice would be revealed, and I would be betrayed. All this was to happen without warning and providence would steal me from my childhood, throwing me headlong into the arms of a life meant only for those with hearts of steel.

  One of the sisters, Nora, spent much of her day inspecting the children with disdain. She contributed very little to the trials of the poor, sniffing out those to berate or those who appeared to have too much happiness in their heart. Nora took this to be a sign of ungratefulness. She did not see her own self-indulgence as a sin rather as a right, taking more rest periods than most; and her supervising duty at evening meal gave her such opportunities to steal extra portions of bread and bacon to fill her pockets to later feast on in secret.

  Nora was annoyed at the sounds of the children, expressing horror at the diseases they brought with them. I did not believe for one moment that the monastery was her calling. Handed to the church from wealthy parents who felt that sacrificing one of their own to God had given them their place in heaven. She had been watching me for some time, always curious that I would sleep so long into the morning and angry that I was given such a privilege by Sister Arianne. More than once she had complained to Sister Gertrude who dismissed her concerns as trivial compared with the real problems of the homeless.

  Arianne had convinced me that my healing gift was a calling and I accepted her words as always. She had been like an older sister; enlightening me with knowledge from her own early tutoring and experiences, and ensuring that my basic needs did not fall short. But in return, she had sometimes asked too much. There were times she had dragged me to a healing before I had sufficiently recovered. These were the hardest times so I was glad when summer arrived bringing with it less disease and loss, and I could enjoy caring for our charges without the use of magic.

  For three months we had been enjoying the sunshine that fed our spirits and swallowed our worries. Those dreamlike moments in the beautiful monastery gardens were some of my happiest. But on the day of the drowning, they were taken from me forever, smashed and stamped upon until every fragment became grains of earth.

  Arianne and I had enjoyed playing with the children, marvelling at the colours of the calendulas growing wild in the large central garden beds, with mixtures of pinks, blues, and gold. A sudden shower had surprised us and we were giggling at our rain-soaked shoes that made us slip and stumble, and so distracted in our games that I would later consider this a selfish act. Though, later still, a kind man would console me by saying that I was only a girl myself at the time.

  We had just set down under a tree to escape the raindrops when we heard a scream. With her robe hitched up to her thighs Arianne sped towards the sound. I too followed with the other group of children in front of me

  One of the sisters held what looked like wet sheets. Arianne seemed to know immediately what had happened and rushed to the bundle, placing it on the grass. As I neared I saw that it was a small girl, her complexion blue. The distraught sister who had discovered the child said that she had found her face down in a pond. With the distraction of rain, which set the children to run in excited mayhem, none of the sisters had seen her wander away from the group.

  I knelt down beside the child and with my hand felt no hint of a heartbeat. Tears flowed for death had been less common in our little world since the use my skill.

  ‘You have to try something,’ Arianne whispered so that none but me could hear.

  ‘It is not possible,’ I said, understanding her suggestion immediately.

  ‘You must!’ Her dry eyes bore into my conscience. As far as she was concerned this child was not dead. She turned away angrily and it was the first time I had seen her so displeased with me. Curing the sick was one thing but the dead was quite another. Could she not see that?

  Arianne carried the lifeless form to the main hall as several of the other nuns lit candles and crossed themselves. Sister Gertrude lectured us both on keeping a better eye on the younger ones and I knew that Arianne was taking this reprimand badly. The abbess organised for the child to be kept in the church until a mass was performed the next day to send her spirit onward.

  I returned to my room and prayed for the soul of the child and it did not take long for Arianne to seek me out. Her face had a look not unlike the deranged. I did not like her visit this time. I knew why she had come.

  ‘No, Arianne,’ I said. ‘I have never done such an act before. Healing is one thing but to bring back the dead? … It is crossing a line.’

  ‘But surely not. Jesus performed as such.’

  ‘Arianne, I am not the Holy Son. I was born with these skills but something tells me that tampering with death is going beyond my calling to make a pact with Lucifer himself.’

  ‘Rubbish, child!’ she scolded. She only ever addressed someone as child when she was angry.
‘You cannot really believe as such.’

  I did not know what to believe. So often I would swing between feelings of guilt and euphoria when I would see a child whose illness I had cured.

  We argued for an hour before she left. When I went to sleep that night I dreamt of the child crawling out of the water wet and sodden, laughing, but when I looked closer the child was a disguise for a far more sinister creature. Its eyes were yellow and its mouth had the fangs of a dog. The creature fixed on me. Who are you? it asked without opening its mouth. I woke with a start, shivering from the sweat on my body that had cooled. I could not sleep and it was some time after midnight when Arianne returned begging.

  ‘Please! I will never ask you this again. I promise.’ For the first time I thought her voice sounded hollow and insincere. She squeezed my hand. ‘I love you. Please do this for me.’ You have to understand that she made it impossible to refuse her anything.

  Later that night we would steal into the chapel and I would put my healing hands on the child. I wondered whether this act was a way of absolving Arianne from her failure to prevent the child from drowning, and I tried not to believe that this could be her motivation. Living with being the indirect cause of death went against everything Arianne had set out to do in her life as a Cistercian nun. She had high hopes for herself to replace Sister Gertrude one day.

  As we entered the chapel that night I thought my heart would leap from my chest. Everything felt wrong. Even the summer air felt heavier that evening as though smothering me. The child lay in an open coffin. She would later be buried without the wood for such items were in heavy demand. Her fine silk wrap would be removed, her body incinerated, and ashes scattered across the gardens in the monastery courtyard. Burning was a common form of burial to prevent the spread of disease and people who died there were often the last of their line. There would be no etched nameplate for this child but evidence of her existence would at least be entered into the church records.