Dead Men Walking

Dead.

What does that word mean?

No one ever explains it to you – not really. I sat in a church service where the priest told his flock that death was merely trading in the mortal world for God’s paradise. But you see, I have been dead through nearly two centuries, yet I still walk the earth, I can still cry, bleed, curse. But I am dead. I am dead, but not gone. I am as here and as real as you can imagine. More so than so many of the living I see. Maybe I am more real than even you.

The word is so short, and yet all of your kind, who were once my kind, fear it. To you, it is vulgar, a threatening cloud stretching its fingers into your life, day after day. And as the clock ticks, as the time fades away into the immense past, the dark grip smothers you, subduing you. That is how you see it, and I have always supposed that this is what God wanted you to see. So you would value your lives, and not work to undo them. You could hardly rebel against time and law and nature while the whole time God and Nature itself wields such a power over you. It was once the ultimate destiny of the universe and all who dwelt within it. No wonder God wanted it to be so. My kind are what happens when the natural order is corrupted.

I should very much like to tell you that no human broke God’s power until me, but I was not the first. I could never have broken free on my own. I had not the conviction.

The man who broke me free was not the first. Nor either the one who freed him. I know not how far back the line can be traced, but not far. Centuries certainly, but not millennia.

The misshapen branches caught the moonlight, casting equally twisted shadows on my face that flickered as I surged on blindly into the dark void of the forest. Burning, unyielding pain ached in my legs every time they hit the ground, my ankles twisting and writhing with the strange angles they were bent to as I ran on and on.

I could hear my pursuer bound across the forest floor, graceful, glib, easy. She was born to this landscape, she was nature’s own child, and she moved here as easy and free as the wind, no matter were I ran.

The knot of a trees root caught me, I plummeted downwards. I had not hit the floor yet, but the claws were digging into my back already, her speed like lightning. My chest was pushed hard into the ground and there was mud on my face. I listened to the distinct sound my shirt made as the hems were pulled apart by strong jaws, and then felt the sharp points of the wolf’s teeth piercing the flesh of my back, tearing, shredding, ripping.

With a jerk and a shout, I broke quickly out of my slumber, sitting bolt upright. I was trembling, drenched in my own sweat. I looked down at the girl in my bed. She had not woken up. Perhaps she was used to sleeping through my noise. Sighing and ran a hand through my hair.

Still shaking, I climbed out of bed and snatched up my trousers. My clothes and hers lay strewn across the room from the night before, a tangle of denim and dark cotton. I smiled to myself as I pulled on my jeans. Sitting down at my desk and gazing out the window at the grey sky, I flicked on my stereo. One of her CDs started playing mid-track, some angry girl, indie-rock group. I would usually have changed it to one of my own albums, but that morning I didn’t. Lifting a coffee mug, I pressed the “on” button on my laptop and stared at the screen as it flickered on.

It was the fourth time I had had the dream this month. It was getting more frequent. What did it mean, though? I looked over at my girlfriend, curled up in the bed. She wasn’t much like the other partners I’d had. She seemed so much less independent, more easily hurt.

I had always thought she looked out of place in my bedroom, like a daisy growing in the middle of a road. My bedroom, my whole flat, in fact, was modern. I liked the clean coldness of steel and chrome, the blankness of plastic were wood might be. My bed sheets were plain black, the duvet a huge mass of dark material that engulfed her like a dark cloud. She had hazel coloured hair that fell down over her face. I loved her for her quick laugh and sunny smile. She had small freckles on her nose that I couldn’t get enough of.

“Ryan?” she said, drowsily.

“Good morning.”

She smiled and rolled onto her back. “What time is it?”

I glanced down at the little clock at the bottom of the laptop’s screen. “9.13.” That early? I had known her to sleep until noon and past, if undisturbed. “Did I wake you, honey?”

She shook her head, but she was just being polite. Turing over again, she stretched her arm out for my tee-shirt, still lying disregarded on the floor. She pulled it over her head and then fell back on the pillows After a few moments of silence; “Do you want some tea?”

I smiled. “Tea would be great.”

“Right.” I listened to her soft footsteps padding down the hall. Looking back at my laptop, I typed in the address for my e-mail. There was one new message.

Dear Ryan – the e-mail read – Francis’ gone back to London and we’re all dying for something to do. Hope you’re not tiring out my poor Amy. Any time you two feel like descending to converse with us mere mortals, would much appreciated by said rabble. Take care of yourself. Sammy. Xxx

“Huh.” I clicked on the reply icon.

Dear Sammy – I typed – Amy’s fine. Sure she’ll appreciate your concern. By the usual standards, quite dull here too. Can’t wait to see you all again. We’ll drive up on Friday. I hope you didn’t drive poor Francis away!!! See you soon, Ryan x

I hit send. She came back in. She put one mug down on the desk and took hers over to the window sill and stood, staring out of the window.

“Amy.” I said suddenly.

“Yes?” she turned back to me. I pushed the laptop aside onto my desk and held out my hand to her. She crossed the room and settle herself down on my lap. I kissed her, and then I said something quite stupid.

“I had that dream again.” I told her, nonchalantly, as if it meant nothing.

“Oh.” She said, quietly. She flattened a strand of hair between her fingers, smoothing it against the side of her face. That was her ‘tell’; the nervous little fidget she did when she was stressed out but trying not to show it. I used to think it was cute. She took a deep breath and then didn’t say anything for a while. “And?” she said at last.

“And nothing, same as always, nothing new.”

“Okay.” She was nodding. Her eyes had become fixed on the floor, so she looked as if she had slipped into some sort of catatonia. “It’s okay.” She repeated, then stood and opened my desk drawer.

“What are you looking for?” I asked as she rummaged through the papers.

“The moon calendar, of course.”

She was snappy. I should have anticipated that. I sighed. I wished I didn’t have to feel so guilty every time I told her. I wished she’d just be there for me. But then I felt guilty for thinking that. She found the moon calendar and flipped it to the day’s date. Half way through, she flinched back. “What? What is it?”

“Paper cut” she said, putting her finger in her mouth.

She went and sat on the bed. I picked up the calendar. July, August, September, the summer drifted across the pages, and then finally October. The page for today was covered in absent minded scribbles. A rose, a chalice, a heart, arrows that spanned from one end of the page to another, inked across in blurring black ink. The little square at the top of the page that held the date and moon time was bordered with a delicate running vine of ivy. 21st October, it said. 2nd quarter. Pisces.

“The full moon is just over a week away.” I told her.

She nodded. “Then we should go up to York, now.”

“I just told Sammy we’d be up on Friday.”

She shook her head. “That’s too long to wait. Please, Ryan.” I was about to say no, but she looked so forlorn and frightened, I just nodded. I had work, but I’d just have to call in sick.

“Okay. You ring Dave and tell him I can’t make it in. I’ll pack some stuff and we can swing by yours on our way. We’ll just have to ring Sammy later, she won’t be up yet.” I pressed the button on my lap-top and watched the screen flick off. Closing it, I slid it onto my bookcase and then stood up.

I watched her disappear back into my living room, to make the call. Opening my wardrobe, I pulled out a large sports bag. I threw it onto the bed and began the slow and too familiar task off packing up my life. Clothes went first, but then I crossed to the bookshelves. My finger ran across the row of titles. I had brought back allot from York, for light reading more than anything else. I hadn’t expected to need them, not really. I sighed, and began unloading the volumes, one by one, into the bag.

“You’ll make the shirts crease.” Came a soft voice behind me.

I turned. Amy was stood in the doorway, still only half-dressed. She looked tired and troubled. I wanted to hug her, but I didn’t quite dare. She swallowed, looking out of the window. “I’m sorry. It’s just…I get…you know.”

“I do know.” I said, trying to keep my voice even. “And I don’t blame you for being scared after what happened before.” I should have left it at that. I slotted the last book into place and pulled the zip around. “I don’t blame you for being scared of me.”

“I’m not! I…” she pulled a face. “That’s not fair. You were just as cut up as I was.”

I flinched at her poor choice of words. “Yes,” I said, beginning to feel spiteful. I didn’t want a fight, but I couldn’t seem to hold back. “But I was cut up metaphorically.”

“Don’t. That’s over. I don’t want it to happen again and neither do you. Do you?”

“No!”

“Well then.” she said haughtily, closing the argument.

Two hours later we were sat in a dirty roadside café. The stench of grease and oil hung in the air, and Amy was attracting stares from fat old truckers. But it was the only place to stop for miles, so we did. I looked over my shoulder and watched Amy pouring through one of the books I’d packed earlier, absentmindedly feeding herself a slice of toast.

I dialled in Sammy’s home phone and listened to the ringing. No reply. I tried her mobile. Hi, this is Sammy’s mobile, leave a message after the beep and I’ll get back to you…I sighed and returned to the table.

“She’s not answering.” I told her, pulling my chair next to hers and putting a possessive arm around her shoulders. I felt the need to let the others know she was with me, their barely disguised gawking had irked me since the minute we stepped inside.

“She’s not up yet. Try the library, Tom will be there.” She murmured a rehearsed sentence. She was immersed in the book, carefully lifting and turning the fragile pages slowly, lovingly.

I tapped the library’s number in. It rang for a long time. Finally, a bright female voice said; Hello, you’ve reached York City Library. No one is available to answer your call at the moment, please call during our opening hours, which are…I hung up. “No answer.”

“Tom’s mobile, then” she said, still not looking up.

Tom sounded tired when he answered. “Ryan?”

“Yeah. You sound rough. What’s the matter?”

He laughed. “Well, you know me. Parties, gigs…the usual.” It occurred to me that this answer wasn’t like him. Tom was one of the most forthright people I knew, usually. A sarcastic cover-up was the last thing I expected him to come out with when asked a direct question. And he couldn’t possibly have meant it in earnest; Tom was about as likely to attend one of the student raves as the moon to turn green.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m in excellent health. And you?” The gravel in his voice was still heavy. Something was wrong.

“We’re on our way up to you, actually. Sorry it’s short notice…”

“Come on, you know you’re always welcome.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Right. Okay, so come up to the library.”

“Are you there then? Because I rang earlier and there was no answer.”

There was a pause. “I’m just a bit busy. See you in a few hours, then?”

“About two. See you then.”

“Bye.”

I frowned. Something was up, that much was clear. But what? I didn’t know and didn’t dare guess. I decided not to tell Amy. She was already worried enough. She hadn’t looked up yet. She was reading an old almanac...1931. She had turned to a page illustrated with a magnificent stag, spanning both pages.

Suddenly she snapped the covers shut. “Aren’t you going to eat anything?” she asked, waving her second slice of toast under my nose.

I pushed it away. “I’ll eat later.” I promised.

“You’d better.” She mumbled. She pushed the book inside her back and left the toast on it’s little polystyrene plate. “Shall we go, then?”

“Yeah.” I pulled my jacket on and we headed off for the car. We drove away in an uneasy silence. I re-ran the conversation with Tom in my head, trying to pinpoint exactly what it was that sounded so odd. Was it the complete silence in the background? Not likely – he was in a library. He had sounded anxious, or had I imagined it? I couldn’t remember.

Just as I had predicted, we got to the library at two. I stopped the car in a lay-by just outside, and looked over at Amy. “Do you want to drive up to Sammy’s flat and I’ll meet you there later?”

“No.” She said, looking confused. “You know I hate driving in town. Anyway, I want to see Tom too. Why would I want to go to Sammy’s now? She isn’t even expecting us.”

She had caught me out. I didn’t want her to come in with me; I still felt apprehensive and I wanted to check things out before she came in. But I couldn’t see a way of convincing her not to without revealing my worries. I sighed. “Sorry. It was just an idea.”

“Come on then.” she undid her seatbelt and stepped out of the car. With a sigh, I followed.

The library smelt exactly the way I remembered it. I had been there so many time before, and no matter how the world progressed and changed around us, the library always seemed to be the same. New books came and went, but the principle remained; knowledge. I always wondered, as I stepped across the threshold of the library which was the more potent – faith or knowledge. Thousands have died for their faith. Would you die for what you knew?

Tom was sitting at his desk cross referencing between a score of huge, dusty volumes and maps that sprawled across the table. The bookcases around him stretched way up into the roof, towering at least three times my own height, reaching up to the ceiling until they met the glass sky-light where light spilled through the lead patterns onto his papers. His desk was hidden in a pokey, circular alcove, and he seemed almost completely encased by books except for the grudging opening left for him to enter and exit by, and the tall, lean fireplace. There was a small gap of stone between the fire’s mantle and where the bookshelves resumed, and that space was filled with Tom’s pride. It was a woodcut, depicting one of Bloody Mary’s condemned heretics burning at the stake. It was original, and it had belonged to Tom since I knew him.

“Tom!” Amy grinned and hurried ahead to meet him. Tom looked up, smiled and stood, pushing his books back. He stepped slightly backwards as she threw her arms around his neck in a wholehearted hug. He pulled off his glasses, laughing. She laughed too.

“Ryan.” He offered me his hand. “How was your journey?”

“Fine, fine.” I felt less nervous now. In fact, I was beginning to wonder why I had in the first place.

“You’ve brought the books back, I hope?” he asked, smiling coyly.

“Of course.” I said, smiling back. “Why, have you all been in agonies without them?”

“Complete agonies. Please, do sit down. Poor Francis was driven to distraction with references to Malleus Maleficarum.”

“I can imagine. I shan’t deprive you of it again, I promise.” I said, pulling up a chair. Amy perched herself on the edge of the desk. “Will he be coming back up soon, do you expect?”

“Well,” Tom replaced his glasses and pinched the end of his nose. He then set about re-arranging his work. “The reason he gave for leaving was that he was bored, of all things! I expect he’ll be back once he knows you’re here.” He laughed to himself. “An absurd suggestion that he might find more excitement with a bunch of trashed Camden warlocks that up here! Do you want anything to drink, either of you?”

Amy smiled and shook her head.

“We’d better be getting over to Sammy’s, actually. But she’s not expecting us.” I told him.

“Ah. Well, it would be nice to surprise her.” He had gone back to reading the books in front of him. It was hard to engage his attention for long in this building. “I’m going over this evening anyway. We could start on the rites…I presume that is why you’re here. You had the dream, yes?” he spoke with his usual mildness. I heard Amy suck in her breath. Tom was perceptive beyond imagination, but even he would usually skirt around such things with at least a little delicacy.

“Yes.” I said, trying to keep my voice even.

“Well then, we can make a start tonight. I know what we need, I’ll pick it up.”

“So we’ll see you tonight then.” Amy said quietly, her voice trembling slightly. She slid off the desk and walked slowly out of the alcove.

“Tom…” I said reprovingly.

“She does surprise me.” He still did not look up. “I wouldn’t have thought a girl who’s sleeping with you would be thrown by a little-“

“Do you have to be so bloody crass?” I interrupted, furious. “You may have forgotten this, but she’s had some nasty experiences with this stuff.”

“Yes, and if I remember rightly it was our magic that saved her! So she really needn’t carry on as if it’s dark and dangerous and wrong, because she’d be dead by now if not for it, and she’d have taken a fair few others with her.” He seemed just as irritated as I was.

The angry retort was already forming on my lips, but I bit it back. I looked over my shoulder into the library and saw she was waiting. As much as I disliked hearing Tom affirm it so virulently, I recognised the truth in what he’d said, recognised the truth in what he said, recognised my own feelings in the ones he had just expressed.

“Just give her some time. She’ll settle in. We won’t be going back for a while, just…give her some time.” I sighed. I was more trying to convince myself. Tom nodded. “I’ll see you this evening, then. Bye, Tom.”

She was quiet in the car, sulky. I put my arm around her shoulders, but she barely said a word to me. When we reached Sammy’s bungalow, she virtually bounded across the front garden as I pulled our bags out of the boot. I watched as the two girls embraced and disappeared into the house, and with a heavier heart I followed up the garden path.

I shut the door carefully behind me. There was a heavy scent of patchouli in the air. I left the bags in the hallway and went into the living room. I could hear them both in the kitchen. This was much more Amy’s natural habitat – this snug, small hole full of plants and unpolished wood. Sammy’s ink drawings of fairies, unicorns, mermaids, princesses and enchantresses were pinned on every wall. Every surface was crowded with candlesticks, carved nymphs and colourful pottery. An oil burner stood in the centre of the mantelpiece – there was not a clock in sight. The dull carpet was adorned with two huge rugs, over lapping each other, and the low sofa merged with the floor, beaded cushions and heavily embroidered throws spilling over onto the floor, mingled with disregarded books, magazines and sketch-pads. The house had barely changed since the first time I had seen it, fifteen years ago.

I stepped into the kitchen. Sammy grinned at me from over her coffee mug. I smiled back, amused to see how quickly Amy seemed to have settled in. She was perched on a high stool with a mug in her hand, flicking through one of Sammy’s sketch books, as if she had been there for days.

“You made me think I’d have to wait all week, you bad man.” Sammy was saying as she poured another coffee.

“Yes, we…had a change of plans.” I said, sheepishly.

“Have you seen Tom?”

“Yes. We were just there.”

“Right-o. Did you bring-“

“Malleus Maleficarum back, yes. I’ve already had the brow beating, thanks.”

She smiled and pushed the mug over towards me. “Actually, I was going to say the Anne Rice’s-“

“Sammy!”

“Kidding, kidding.”

I drank. The kitchen was much like the living room, all wood, clay and beads, irregular and free. It made me feel uneasy, as if I was not in control. Amy’s flat was much like this, but we didn’t spend much time there because it was so small. When we first started living together, she used to beg me to let her put a throw over the sofa or one of her carved imps on my shelves. I wouldn’t let her. She once brought home a tiny, framed painting of a Faye King and Queen dancing in a glade and propped it against the wall on the kitchen side. When she went into the bathroom, I hid it. She didn’t even bother to ask what I’d done with it, and she stopped asking to put her own things in my flat after that. I felt so cruel that evening after she had gone home I cried myself to sleep. But I didn’t let her have it back. I don’t really remember what I did with it after that; I probably threw it away.

It was only through Sammy’s influence that Amy was so drawn to these fairish things. She was attracted to the dreamy, vague side. But our work, the part of magicks she was bound to by her curse, chilled her. Perhaps it was merely the notion of manipulating the forces of the world that scared her. It scared me at first. But I had been drawn into it, slowly seduced into the life I had chosen for myself. Just over one year ago, Amy had been thrown into my world, head first.

Amy, my darling girl, lived under the curse of the werewolf.

If it hadn’t have been for Sammy, she would be have died. Sammy knew the man who bit her, the one who set the curse running, and Sammy and I had rescued Amy from his stinking flat were he’d left her to bleed to death. It was Sammy who looked after her, kept her alive and happy and stopped her from losing her wits.

But it takes more than a simple bite, you see, to bring another werewolf into being. Usually, the victim simply dies, and those that survive usually go back to their lives in one piece, if usually in heavy denial. It had been months until we realised that the man who bit her was still wielding his powers over her. Finally, we realised he was trying to possess her.

A further month after that took it’s toll with nightly transformations and wild, savage attacks. Living under a werewolf’s curse is very different to being possessed by another werewolf. When another werewolf tries to possess a human, the transformations take place every night, and eventually become permanent – the victim becomes a wolf and can never be returned to his or her original state. Death only can free them then.

I have lived for nearing two hundred years, and I remember no passage of time as vividly as I do that month. We kept her at Tom’s house, locked in the attic for her own safety. We had to keep her in chains to keep her from harming us or herself. As the month dragged on, the metal bit into her skin, the flesh reddening and peeling.

Every night as the moon rose, she would undergo the hideously arduous and gruesomely painful transformation into the wolf. At first, only parts of her anatomy could change, so she would be half human, half beast. I remember with such clarity the screams and cries that tore forth from her throat as her body was pulled into mutations by magical forces. She made such sounds it seemed the sheer volume of them could tear her small frame in two.

Each night this would happen, growing worse and worse as more of her body was subjected to this unnatural torture. As the transformations worked downwards through her body, she started to vomit as her stomach was twisted into it’s new shape. Each time as the sun dawned she would fall into fits that did not cease until noon, when she would lie, broken and limp, on the bare wood floor, tears streaking her face, sweat drenching her shredded clothes. Mid afternoon, one of us would bring her food, which she would have to be spoon-fed since she was too weak even to sit. Then we would await nightfall and for the screaming to start again.

It had seemed we would loose her, but the most powerful magic we could muster managed to pull her back from the jaws of oblivion. Since then, she had been in our care. She still suffered the monthly transformations, but it was only a small inconvenience. As the year passed, they became less and less painful, and so it was that Amy became one of my world, one of my kind.

Not exactly my kind. The word for my kind is “necromancer.” I, and Tom, and Sammy, all can hold and control death itself.

It was Tom who taught me. He taught Sammy too. Sammy and I were his apprentices, and now we are three adepts who break Nature’s power and control the world around us. We dabble in the powers that God only ever meant to be his. We can command and direct space and time. But it takes work. And sacrifice.

All magic requires some kind of sacrifice. Blood, usually. Blood is life, it’s family and essence. It’s yourself. Any spell that’s worth the casting demands something priceless in return, and blood is it. The sensation never seems to dull, each time I take the blade to my arm.

The magic that brought Amy back from her possession required blood. Her own. The evening I had to bleed her I replay in my dreams at least once every week – the ghastly memory of it branded into my mind and ever-enduring.

“Are you okay?” Amy said, looking up.

I smiled. “Fine.”

She went back to the sketchbook. Sammy began telling her about a book she’d read on Irish Mythologies. I tried to listen, not wanting to drift off into my own thoughts again. She was talking about a legendary War-Lord who had triumphed over a race of ghouls that stalked the Emerald Isle, centuries before Adam and Eve. She pointed to one of the drawings. It showed a man on a huge horse, wielding a bright sword, holding it high to catch the sun’s rays.

“I wanted to draw some ghouls prostrate at his feet, but I just couldn’t get the proportions to look right,” she told Amy. “I’ll try it again some time.”

Amy was nodding. She seemed entranced by the picture, and it unsettled me.

“So, how was Tom?” Sammy asked after a moment. “I haven’t seen him since we saw Francis off at the station.”

“Fine.” Amy said, brusquely.

“Curt.” I said, answering the question in the puzzled look on Sammy’s face.

“Ah. Well, you know Tom.”

“Yes. I know him well.” There was a sort of anger in Amy’s voice.

“It’s just his way, you know.” Sammy said, soothingly. “He’s coming over this evening, for a meal. I expect I’ll have to go and get some more to eat if there’ll be the four of us.”

“Five, if Francis comes back.” Amy put in.

“Which I expect he will, once he knows you two are here.” She said, tartly. “You’re obviously much more exciting than we are.”

I laughed, and put down my mug. “I’m going to take our stuff through to Amy’s old room, is that okay?”

“Sure thing. It’s nice and tidy.”

I dragged the two bags through the low door and pushed them into a corner. The bed took up most of the room. It was speckled with shadows and rainbows cast by mobiles and crystals hanging were curtains should have been. Yet more pictures plastered the walls, prancing pixies and leering goblins, flowers and trees that transmuted into little dancing people.

I laid back on the bed. It seemed Amy was upset and Tom unsettled. My senses had been over run with the overpowering smell of jasmine. I was in a room full of fairies.

But I was back with my friends.