Anxiety

Sophie managed to get some shut-eye on our first night back at the estate, but it would be a stretch to call whatever she did sleep. I was not as fortunate. I sat in silence feeling like a stranger in my own house listening to Thomas talk in an excited whisper to his blood brother. This was different than before, when all I felt was regret and guilt. From all appearances Thomas was doing far better than I could hope and perhaps Phillip was as well. Still, I was anxious.

Sophie’s emotionless tone broke my reverie. “Come to bed.” She said. “Phillip will be here soon enough.” 

The Divide

Thomas and Phillip were plenty busy in my absence. Thomas had split the property into two parts to focus on poultry farming and aqua farming. The land was, once more, generating significant income and providing jobs, but as walked past happy workers I could sense that Phillip was not close.

Thomas approached Sophie and I and removed his cap, ceremoniously wiping away non-existent perspiration. He smiled broadly and a few familiar faces just beyond him stopped their work and nodded smiling in our direction. He hugged me and Sophie in turn and I could sense a comfort in him that was enviable.

“Welcome back.” He said, standing back with a slight bow.

“Thank you.” I said, feeling a bit uneasy.

“Things seem well!” Sophie said with some cynicism.

“They are.” Thomas said humbly. “Come, let me show you what we have done.”

It was fascinating seeing how they had transformed the land and how many were employed to look after the Tilapia and shrimp farming as well as the chickens. More remarkable was the absence of fear.

One of their own who I had turned, had done right by them and I no longer felt that the estate belonged to me.

“You’ve done a remarkable job.” I said with some pride and regret.

“I’m happy that you are pleased.” He said eagerly as Sophie looked off into the distance.

“Where is Philip?” She asked devoid of emotion.

“I’m surprise you don’t know.” He said with a little smile. “Phillip moved into the city. He was appointed Minister of National Security by the government.”

Sophie smiled and I knew there was no coincidence that one of us now responsible for stopping the blood that flowed in this nation’s streets…

Return

I have been away with Sophie and we have done things that I prefer not to record. I left Thomas and Phillip in charge of our order and I have stayed away longer than I had planned. It was invigorating being away, initially. Walking among those I did not know as well as those on the island. They had their own stories of course, hopes, dreams, desire for a better life. But I was not invested in them the way that I was with those that I felt a kinship with in Trinidad.

Sophie was very adept at pointing out their weaknesses, the evil they were capable of and so I fed and she reveled in my embrace of my dark nature and hers. But I could only ignore what I felt was my ultimate responsibility for so long.

           We returned without any fore warning and perhaps should not have been surprised that the place which I considered, more than any, to be home seemed a more cynical place now. Newspaper headlines seemed focused on senseless crimes and corruption and I became gravely concerned with what my apprentices were doing in my absence…

Too Easy

The more I indulged the fantasy of an ideal life the easier it was to slip into darkness. My fake Sophie suggested that we would have more time together and I could do more good if I made more like myself, strong and principled, willing to defend those who could not defend themselves. Like a junkie who tells everyone that drugs is bad and that he doesn’t have a problem because he can stop anytime he wants to, I wanted so much to believe what she said.

I made two more at first being, what I thought was, careful at first. They were not to act without my implicit instruction, but they were allowed to feed on those who attacked women and children. The slope was becoming slick. Louis cautioned against my approach and Sophie never spoke an ill word against him, she only continued to speak of the good we could do and how good it could be for us.

Thomas and Phillip were the first in my new order. Sophie had seen something in them. They seemed a bit sad and lost but loyal and they never left her side. I had not yet figured that they were also receiving private instruction from Sophie. I was beginning to lose myself in the frenzy of feeding and look forward to the cover of darkness. The supposed good that was an expected result had not yet increased because of our enhanced numbers. I was too preoccupied with crafting my own narrative to notice initially what was happening. Perhaps I was just tired, but all I knew was that I wanted to feel something and it felt empowering to give in to what I was, to be selfish…it was becoming all too easy… 

Clot - No More Secrets...

It was as if we had found the long lost key to communication between my mother and me. We talked for a while about how much life was going to change and how excited we were about our full time role as parents. The levy broke and I tried to manage the flood of words that poured from me, before my mother’s mood changed. I had seen the swing many times before.

           Sure enough, she seemed slowly consumed by a creeping depression. She had something to share as well, she confessed. She seemed apologetic as she began, saying that she still struggled with knowing and keeping this thing from me all these years. My wife held my hand and nodded. This was it, the one thing I wanted. There would be no more secrets between us. It would be a conversation I would never forget and my last moment of blissful ignorance.

Clot - Mother

“Welcome.” She says hugging me tightly, and then my wife.

“Come in, come in. I made some lime juice, it’s been so hot and on a day like this its great with ice.” Like most houses on the island my mother’s house has two porches so you can sit away from direct sunlight at anytime of the day. We followed her into the front porch, which is elevated about four feet.  It is bordered by a white, waist high, decorative, wrought iron rail. As we climbed the steps I admired the care and detail of the craftsmanship as she ushered us to chairs, whose design matched the rail with seats and backs covered by a pale green cushion. She poured us some lime juice over ice, before reaching for a glass she had been drinking from.

“You look good.” She said, locking eyes with me before looking at Nayasha. “You both do.”

I looked into her eyes and saw only part of the woman I knew. She looked tired and defeated. My heart sank. I focused on our news and smiled.

“How are you Mother?”

“I fear that the spirit is far more willing than the flesh.” She said with another strong willed smile. It was the manner of speech adopted by elders on the island, when they had made peace with their mortality and their God. “But I’m sure that you two have far happier news of your own.”

My wife shot me a side glance as a smile teased the corners of her mouth.

“Don’t look at me.” I said with my hands to the heavens. “I haven’t said a word.”

“I’m sorry dear.” My mother said reaching for Nayasha’s hand. “I didn’t mean to spoil your news, but I have delivered my share of children. I am familiar with the glow of a first time mother. Congratulations.” Nayasha was touched and squeezed my mother’s hand before kissing both her cheeks.

“Thank you Mom.” Nayasha said. I sat back and smiled, feeling the corners of my eyes moisten. I have rarely seen my mother as open or emotional. She looked at me and smiled with considerably less effort.

“Thank you. This is a beautiful gift for us all and I love you both…that is to say the three of you.” Still holding one of Nayasha’s hands she reached for my hand. As we held hands and wept and laughed I felt like we were making amends for the past. Our unborn child had already given us so much and I gained a deeper appreciation for the wisdom of my wife.

Clot - Home

I have not been back since but as we drive to the house now I am surprised by the sense of familiarity and my own calm. My wife reaches over and gently squeezes my thigh.  

“What are your thinking?” She asks as our rental idles in traffic.

“She sounded calm…almost happy.” I say with a grimace.

“Shouldn’t she be happy to see her son?”

“I suppose.” I say shrugging. “She’s probably going to be happier to see you. You’re a lot easier on the eyes.”

“Oh, you’re not so bad.” She says smiling as the traffic eases.

The traffic alternates between standstill and free flowing and it is clear, at least to us, that there might be entirely too many cars on these narrow roads. I guess this is not different to many places around the world but the disparity between the haves and the havenots is more visible when a country is just short of 2000sq miles.

Large houses are alternatively adjacent to or opposite shantys and this is always a recipe for social anxiety and invariably crime. As we near my mother’s house what I remembered as a mostly rural area has become a more densely populated middle to upper class neighborhood.

The street was now paved and wider than I recalled. More than a fresh coat of lime green paint gave the house a different look. It was the presence of life that made the real difference.

The sun was high in the sky and as we rolled to a stop in front the house a gentle breeze seemed to be welcoming us. The house built by my mother’s father is also warm, modest and comfortable. The modifications made by my mother over the years though, have hidden most of the house’s beauty in favor of privacy. 

She has always been so private, isolated from me. The emotions come rushing back, suddenly I’m eight again and I am filled with anxiety. Often I have felt more than history and circumstance between us, preventing communication and now the feeling is overwhelming. For a moment we sit silently as I try to find a sense of clam. My hairs stand on end.

“Richard, are you okay?” My wife asks.

“I’m fine.” I say reaching over to kiss her.

“You look pale darling.”

“You’re the pregnant one.” I say smiling. “Lets go in.”

As we approach the wrought iron gate my mother emerges from the house. Her dark brown eyes are alert and she looks younger than her years, still I can tell that her illness has taken a toll. Her steps are more deliberate and the simple act of smiling now seems to require a considerable effort. Her hair, which was a streaky gray when last I saw her, is now completely gray and neatly pinned up in a bun.

 She opens the gate and reveals a long white dress, adorned by deep red roses. Even struggling with illness, she is a beautiful sight. 

Clot - Past

My mother is one of the great mysteries of my life. Beautiful, determined and distant and I am my mother’s son. I suppose, in ways I am yet to understand, I share some of my father’s traits as well.

I have always felt my mother’s reluctance to take me to her birthplace. She moved to New York, before I was born, and I was raised as an American.  It would be some time before I discovered my Caribbean roots.

She was a hard working doctor who never pursued the more glamorous positions that were within reach. I knew she was good at her job. She often received flowers and cards from patients and their families, but she kept everyone at a professional distance. She rarely invited anyone to our apartment. I had been to the clinic where she worked only a handful of times. I was kept busy with school, sports and martial arts and told very little of her history until, it seems, she felt I was old enough to understand. But what was there to understand I thought? Our conversations were often strained and I struggled with the belief that her near perpetual depression was somehow my doing.

On the occasions that she did share stories about her home I would learn cursory tidbits about family and of the rich culture, beautiful people, diverse cusine and beautiful beaches. It sounded like an island paradise full of potential, one that would benefit from the services of a willing, educated patriot. Still, I concede that a boy of almost eight is ill equipped to understand the challenges of being a single mother and immigrant, all he knows is the sound resentment he has for the things he doesn’t understand and the instinct to protect his protector.

There is much I remember about my first trip to Trinidad, not least of which was the picture my mother kept at the house on the island of a friend she called Nicholas. He was a tall white man whose skin appeared unaffected by the warm climate. I felt strangely close to him and I could tell that he and my mother shared a deep bond. 

Clot - Morning

After I return from a jog and shower, she is awake, rubbing her stomach and smiling at me in a way that reminds me of promises made.

“Did you get any sleep my darling?” She asks.

“Some.” I say toweling my still damp hair. She makes room on the bed and continues.

“I think this trip will be good for all of us. There is alot unsaid between you and your mother, perhaps you will find time to clear things between you.”

“Perhaps.” I say stroking her hair.

Nayasha is a professor of History at Brooklyn College. She comes from a Jamaican, Irish background and is always working on improving relations between my mother and I. Blood, she always says, is important.

“Does she know how soon we’ll be there?”

“She knows we’re coming, but I thought it would be better to give her our news in person.” I say smiling.

“I know I’m not showing, but I do feel different.” She says rubbing her still flat stomach.

“As do I.” I say looking into her eyes.

“You’ll be a great father Richard, even if you never find out any more about your own.” She says touching my face. “Now get dressed, or not, and I’ll make us some breakfast.” She kisses me softly and disappears into the bathroom, taking my smile with her. I understand that I will lose her if I don’t face my demons. She was right, this trip would be good for us. It could no longer be avoided.

Author's Note

Beginning today and continuing for the next few Friday's fans of this Journal will be treated to excerpts from the 1st chapter of the novel Clot - the story of one tainted by Nicholas' blood...

           Blood. My life has always been marked by it. I have tried to avoid it, but in much the same way you are unable to shake your own shadow, I have had no success.

The beautiful, pregnant, woman asleep at my side has helped me face my demons and has given me more patient support than I have ever felt entitled too.  Still, most times I am confused and angered by my past. I have not made it easy for her. I have managed to find some distraction, if not the professional achievement we all feel driven to before we enter our thirties. This demonstrative sense of purpose and responsibility puts family and society more at ease I suppose. And if you’re one of the fortunate ones, you are left enough time to figure out what you are truly called to be. I just wish I knew what that was.

Nighttime is particularly bothersome for me. Its four thirty and I have been staring at the ceiling for at least an hour. Laying perfectly still, trying not to disturb my wife. I am not preoccupied with thoughts surrounding the birth of our first child or with being a father, though there are concerns. I have just always been restless at night. Lately though, I feel embraced by a faceless darkness. It is the same way I feel every time I return to the islands. The dreams are different now. Sometimes I’m not even asleep when I see the foreboding, faceless figure, beckoning me. My mother is another recent addition, standing at his side, silent and unmoving.

At my side, she stirs and opens her eyes for a moment. She is used to my restlessness. She kisses me on the lips and turns, falling again into a deep sleep. A smooth caramel colored shoulder is exposed and appears lighter against her dark mid-length dreadlocks. 

I want to be happier, to cherish her and this life more. I should. I have become a rather successful sports journalist and occasional broadcaster and I am starting a family with an amazing woman. But, the dreams and strange emotions persist.

Working my body and my mind in these hours is cathartic. At least that’s what I convince myself. The distraction and solitude helps me maintain pretenses and break the near fever I often wake with.

Slide

I would let this fever run its course, I had said to Louis and so I had immersed myself in the dream that was a life with Sophie. Early on in my existence as a vampire I had resented the seemingly divine presence of Eli for the judgment I felt was implied. Now he was a silent, non-judging presence once more and I tried to ignore what I had suspected for some time. Eli was a spirit apparition of my very own construct, a sense of morality held over from my mortal days.

Having this increased sense of power in no way diminishes your desire at times to do as you would like. What I wanted to do was live this fantasy without comment or consequence. Neither of course would be possible.

I cannot confess to knowing any more than you suspect in the ways of demonic beings only that their powers of persuasion and seduction are exceptional. Usually I am aware when such beings are attempting to gain an advantage, but I dropped my guard with this being that would be Sophie.

Because she could feel Sophie’s love for me she wanted me to be happy she said. That’s how it started.

“You are using what you have become to help others.” She would say encouragingly. “You must preserve your strength if you are to continue to protect them.”

She chose her words carefully. The ‘them’ she spoke of with concern was mortals of course, and had she said mortals or humans I might have cringed and perhaps even shaken myself out of my reverie.

I started hunting more frequently to ‘preserve’ my strength and spending less time with my brothers in the resistance to the thirst. She helped me chose appropriate victims, those who were themselves causing harm and distress to their fellow mortals. She taught how to easier identify those whose blood was tainted and convinced me it was still better if they did not continue to draw breath. It was becoming too easy to kill and tonight I killed a man who didn’t appreciate how much attention I was getting from his date. I guess the devil is always whispering in your ear and of late I was listening all too intently…

If It Makes You Happy…

Have you ever made a decision at first thought best for your own personal well-being but then upon further consideration perhaps more damaging than ever considered. Something in you warns of the error being made. This is where I found myself. At night I rested beside something that looked, smelled and acted like my Sophie. We embraced this dream even though we both knew Sophie was long gone.

There was concern among the coven, but only Louis gave voice to the misgivings.

 “Neither of us have the moral latitude to judge anyone.” He began on a cool night two weeks into our new arrangement. “But this thing that you do is of no benefit to either of you.”

“I appreciate your honesty dear friend.” I said with a sad smile. “But I did not get the opportunity to bid her a proper farewell in my previous life so I will let this fever run its course.”

He flashed me a knowing smile and squeezed my shoulder.

“Hold this in your thoughts my friend. We are well aware of our dark nature, yet we hold unto what is left of our humanity and work every day to master our impulses. As much as this entity reminds you of Sophie, it is nothing more than a reflection of your memory. It only mimics Nicholas. It was never human.” He turned to leave. “I wish for you this was true but I ask you not to confuse familiar feelings and want with happiness.”

He had given voice to my own discomfort and feelings that I tried to bury. Still, I wasn’t sure if I was prepared to say goodbye again. My life seemed filled with goodbyes and this time Sophie could stay with me. So what if she was just a reflection, what was I?

Dead Wife, Undead Husband

I spent a month in the wilderness with its protector among his small group of followers, natural and otherwise, and Sophie. The more time spent with this entity, the more of Sophie I saw in her.


Another strange thing was happening to me. I was experiencing long stretches of what I can only describe as peace and soon I found myself thinking of the unthinkable. It was time for me to get back to the society I very much wanted to be part of and protect. I would leave with my own demons under control and ask another demon to join me…

A light in the Dark

I followed this old, mystical, protector of the forest deep into his territory until I felt the presence of more than just the creatures of the forest. He stopped at a dry clearing and looking around I realized that it had the feel of a large room sheltered by leaves and bordered by trees. The air was cool and comfortable when he turned to me and spoke.


“Your body still functions like that of a mortal. More efficiently, but still…” He smiled. “Have you noticed that if you respect the natural law how much easier things become?” He asked.

I smiled, because I had found that things were easier for me when I fought my dark nature to do what was right…what was humane.

A look of concern crossed his face as seemed to be considering what he was about to say very carefully.

“There is someone you should meet.” He paused. “Trust your instincts and your senses.” He said.

It always made me uncomfortable when I felt I was being told what I should do and how I should feel, even if it was genuinely sound advice. There was movement behind him, and while the figure was still in shadow there was a familiar scent and sense in the air. I tensed up remembering when last I had this sense and how badly things had gone.

As the filtered moonlight illuminated her delicate features something deep within me ached. I tried to tell myself, as I had before, that she was not who she seemed to be. Maybe Papa Bois was not a friend.

He stepped aside as she approached me cautiously. She did not smile and I could feel myself relax a little.

I put a hand up and she stopped.

“You are not Sophie.” I said evenly.

She looked genuinely sad, or was it hurt?

“I am more Sophie than anyone or anything else.” She began. “I was given something of her. Told to become her to distract you, to trap you…but her love for you is strong and I guess her will to be her is stronger than my conviction for mischief and evil. I know I’m not Sophie, but she now lives in me and she wants to help you. I want to help you.”

She even sounded like Sophie. If this was a trick, then this would be how it ends with me on my knees being cradled by a demon more comfortable existing as my dead wife…

Papa Bois

As it turned out, ours wasn’t the only fascinating story of the supernatural entering into the folklore consciousness of the island and as I knew only too well there was more truth to these stories than anyone would care to know.

There were many beings that possessed varying degrees of mysticism and mischief, but few the rare combination of power and human disregard most of my kind owned.

I, of course, had heard the stories of the old man with hooves for feet and leaves growing from his beard that lived in the forest. That he appeared in different forms, sometimes a deer other times an old man in tattered clothes warning hunters and others to be kind to the land and animals sometimes with quite dire consequences. These whispers were not just from campers and drunken hunters but from other soucouyants as well.

I was on a long walk, alone, into the lush forest along the northern range of the country when I had my first encounter with the old man of the forest. That he felt comfortable enough to present himself to me in his natural form put me at ease. I wish I could say that I heard hooved approach, but that would be a lie. I did sense his presence though and when he revealed himself I simply stood and studied him for a long time.

“You are different from the others.” He said with a smile that made me feel welcome in his presence. “I have studied you from afar for some time.”

“And I have heard much about you.” I said smiling myself.

“You are sad.” He said growing serious. “You have lost much, suffered much. I can help you. Your life, your efforts are valuable.” He paused and smiled again and now there was compassion in his eyes. “Come, walk with me Nicholas. We have much to discuss.”

“What should I call you?” I asked walking towards him.

“Call me Papa.” He said as he turned and I followed him into the dark forest.

Absence & Longing

Since Ngozi’s death and Richards departure I have experienced a deep sense of loss, one might even call it depression. What makes life so meaningful is its finite quality. Death is supposed to be an end for all of us but there is always new life to carry our traditions and improve on our own legacies, ideally.

This is the natural order that my kind ignores and the result is often time spent in the company of those you are loathe to call friends or moments with dear companions that pass too soon.

My existence is cursed and yet I am either too vein or respectful of my life, if I can call it that, to put a deliberate end to my circumstance. Still, I find myself focused on my existence and its benefit to others. But at the core even that is a selfish consideration born of my longing for companionship.

Louis moved into Richard’s house as a caretaker, which also gave me the space he sensed I needed. Things were also changing on the island and there was evil deeds being perpetrated by others besides our kind. It was fast becoming a complicated time in need of balance. I tried to use the time to pull myself and my thoughts together because I sensed that a fresh test was not far off…

Beginnings

When death comes so easily to those you come into contact with too many circumstances present an opportunity for beginnings. I struggle against my own nature to make the most of these opportunities to avoid this familiar path.

For a long time after Ngozi passed it was difficult to feel anything beyond loss. Our relationship was far from perfect but it was a wonderful constant to know that she was there and I felt a deep sense of purpose ensuring that she was as well as she could be. For as long as I knew her I tried to look out for her and in many ways I felt like I had failed her.

Still, on that final night when it seems she knew better than we did how close to the end she was she thanked me for all that I had done. Her life she had said had not been without consequence, but that she had a life to work on and make something of would not have been were it not for my intervention and she was grateful.

She had made peace with Richard and had managed to mend the broken fences between all of us in one final act of compassion and this wonderful gift was not lost on me. While it would be sometime before I felt comfortable around my own kind once more, her actions had only strengthened my resolve. I felt an even deeper sense of responsibility to look out for those who were ill prepared to protect themselves from my kind. With her dying breath she guaranteed that I would do the same for others.

Louis saw my need for distance and took command of the coven eventually finding a new base of operations. He was always better suited and prepared to lead our kind and I was grateful that he was ready. It would only be for a time he said and we all consider you our leader, they always would.

Richard had found his wife’s final tormentor before he left the island and so had experienced a deep sense of accomplishment that did little to balance his profound sense of loss. But I thought that in time he had a good chance at a life, although I suspected that he too felt a deeper obligation to the memories of those he lost…