All walks of not-quite-life
Our newly captured vampire gave us a statement before our interrogation began. We allowed him, under careful controls, to write this. He refused he be more helpful and transparent.
“I’ve been around the world a couple of times, or maybe more/
I’ve seen the sights/
I’ve had delights/
On every foreign shore.” Give me a home among the gum trees (Wally Johnson and Bob Brown, lines 1 – 4)
As I walked into the lecture hall, I wondered about the many friends I’d lost over the years. When you’ve lived as long as I have, you tend to lose quite a few. Still, here I was a professor, and I had a lecture to give. On vampires in literature, a topic which always makes me laugh quietly to myself. There are just so many different ideas, as if authors couldn’t make up their minds…
“Welcome students. At the moment you’re studying trends in literature and how the subject matter has changed, and been changed by, the style of the time. Content by the Dadaists will be a little bit different to content by Dickens.”
A few students chuckled quietly (you don’t get it? Ah, if only we hadn’t been forced to leave England all those years ago. The English live inside of their cultural heritage so much better than Australians so they understand these references).
“The best way to understand these differences is through examples,” I continued. “So, I think I’ll have to give a couple. Gather ‘round, students, it’s story time.”
* * *
“Long ago,” I began, “Before your birth, and even before mine, this was a small village. Life was simple, every man worked to support himself and his family, and all the families would band together in times of need. In those days people had to be watchful, for they lived on the edge of the forest, which was dangerous and untamed. However, once a year at the celebration of spring, everyone could relax and be joyful. Families would come into town from all the outlying farms and a fair would be held on the village green.
“One year, a stranger came to the fair. He was tall and elegant and appeared to be a rich merchant, but to one girl, Eveline, he seemed odd and out of place. He came towards her and the group of friends she was with and began to charm them, but something caused her to have deep misgivings about the man. Having always been told to be courteous to guests in the town, she pushed it down and tried to seem friendly. Once courtesies had been exchanged he left the girls, too long in their company would have seemed improper, and began to negotiate trade with the men. He seemed so like any other trader that Eveline promptly forgot about him.
“Late in the day, Eveline’s friends told her that they were planning to sneak away from the watchful eyes of their mothers. Eveline agreed to go with them, just as long as they could do so without getting caught. Suddenly, one of the horses that had been tethered to one side broke his rope and tried to get away. The commotion was the perfect distraction and the girls used it well. Her friends headed off towards the forest, and Eveline followed. Then she saw the stranger from earlier in the day and realised that her friends were meeting him. She also realised what it was that made her uncomfortable around the stranger: he had no shadow. She pretended to stumble and fall to the ground. Lightning quick, the stranger was helping her to her feet. As he helped her, Eveline noticed that the stranger lacked feet of his own. Instead, he had a pair of cloven hooves, like a goat’s. Now she knew that the stranger was a vampire, for the elders had told her the signs of the monster. Her dirty dress gave her an excuse to go back to town and she did so while her friends continued on with the vampire. As soon as she was out of sight, she ran as fast as she could. When she reached the town she confessed everything to the elders and they roused the menfolk. Grim-faced and determined, they headed after the girls as quickly as they could. However, they were too late. When they found the girls, the vampire had already killed his victims, leaving their heads on stakes with the lips torn off.
* * *
“It’s not a happy story. Most peasant tales aren’t. When your life is fairly unpleasant, your stories tend to be as well,” I explained, somewhat grimly. The vampire in that story has always reminded me of someone I once knew; Mikhael, his name was. My nostalgia was interrupted, though.
“Sir, the peasants wouldn’t have known any life that would be better than their own, so they wouldn’t think of their lives as harsh. Why would they make bleak stories if they didn’t think of their lives as bleak?” So went the question from the back. There’s one in every lecture group, and it’s almost always a Law student. Still, as the decades roll on the questions tend to repeat themselves.
“It’s true that they thought of their lives as normal, yes, but they also thought of their stories as normal,” the voice I used is one I’ve worked to cultivate. It has enough patience that they student feels moderately valued, and enough exasperation that he knows his question was stupid and he shouldn’t ask another.
“A gruesome death wasn’t particularly shocking because they only got meat by inflicting gruesome death on some animal or other. It’s when the stories reach us, sitting in our modern day, pre-packaged world that the stories seem quite abrupt. Understand? Good. We have to move on, because there are several more examples to get through before we begin to analyse them.”
* * *
“ ‘Who’s that man by the door, Louise? I haven’t seen him here before,’ said Kate.
‘I’m not sure. He’s handsome, though,’ replied Louise. The two girls were in a dance hall, looking for partners. There always seemed to be too few partners for the girls, and this one looked like a good catch. He was dressed well, and when he moved he did so with an effortless grace. What had attracted the girls’ attention, though, was that he hadn’t danced yet that night.
‘Well, I’m going to ask him for a dance,’ Kate stated, and began to move towards him.
‘Kate, what are you doing?’ Louise asked, shocked by the boldness of her usually timid friend.
‘He’s not dancing with anyone, and there’s no-one else for me to dance with. I may as well.’ This was so out of character for her friend that Louise could do nothing more than watch with disbelieving eyes as Kate walked up to the stranger, and started to talk.”
* * *
“Sir, isn’t that style too modern for the pre-World War I and II era vampires stories?” It was the same kid as before. I was going to have to stop breathing temporarily. I don’t normally because people tend to notice the little things much more than the big, but since this student was going to take every opportunity to try and catch me out, I wouldn’t give him one.
“Yes it is. Well done for noticing,” the dryness of my tone could well explain the drought that started that year. “The difference between the two styles is length. Pre-World War I books were expensive, and so they had to be good value for money and last for quite a while. This makes the style very long winded. Lectures are short, so we don’t have time for that style. If there are no further questions, I would like to continue the lecture, especially given that time is short.” I pointedly ignored his raised hand, and went back to the story.
* * *
“The stranger had been talking to Kate for several dances when Louise’s curiosity overcame her sense of propriety. She walked around the edge of the hall so she could hear what they were saying without being intrusive. She couldn’t hear anything beyond a quiet murmur. She moved closer. Suddenly, Kate laughed as stranger spoke.
‘Now, my dear, I think it’s time for me to go. I wouldn’t want your friend to think I was monopolising you.’ He walked out the door and vanished into the night. Kate looked crestfallen. Slowly, she returned to her normal state. Louise came up to her and asked her about the stranger.
‘So who is this strange man, and what were you discussing for half the evening?’ Lucy demanded.
‘I was, wasn’t I?’ Kate replied, giggling. Never, in all her time with Kate, had Lucy heard her giggle. Laugh, certainly, but not giggle. That wasn’t Kate. ‘His name’s Domovoi, and, and, I don’t remember what else we talked of. Time sort of vanished,’ Kate lapsed into a puzzled silence.
Later that evening, after the girls had gone to bed, Louise awoke to see Kate pulling the door of their room closed behind her. She wore only her nightdress and carried no candle, but she moved with purpose as if the way were lit by brightest day. Quickly pulling on a heavy robe, Louise snatched up a light and followed after Kate. Louise followed her out of the house, and watched as she walked into the nearby park. Walking behind, and being careful to make no noise (she had been warned not to wake a sleepwalking person, lest the walking harm them), Louise watched as her friend entered the cemetery at the centre of the park, and sit down on one of the benches. Then, out of the darkness, coalesced the form of the stranger. Domovoi (that was what Kate had called him) smiled, revealing long, pointed teeth that gleamed in the moonlight. He walked up to Kate and she stood, delighted at his presence. He embraced her, and began to stroke her luxurious black hair. Gently, he grasped her unresisting head and tilted it back, exposing her milk-white neck. Slowly, almost tenderly, he lowered his mouth to her neck, and bit.”
* * *
“Of course,” I continued, eager to prevent further annoying and irrelevant queries about apparent errors. “That wouldn’t be a complete story for the turn of the century audience. They would have wanted resolution that ended the vampiric threat through the power of the church. Also, to get the ideas across to a modern audience, the descriptions have to be a bit more graphic because we don’t think of ankles as overt displays of flesh.
“The ideas behind the vampire in this era were lust and the abandonment of traditional values. The perceptions of such things changed over time, and so have the depictions of vampires. This brings us to the next phase of vampirism: the horror story.” I’ve never liked this section as much; it’s a little too far fetched. Particularly when it gets to swords. Why swords? Surely vampire can advance to modern technology just as easily as the next villain, so why does no-one ever think of doing so? And my friend Yan claimed that he was influencing Hollywood for the better… In the end he influenced them, that much is true.
“The secret to horror stories, in film or in literature, is suspense and suspense takes time. Without suspense, horror is merely an exceptionally violent form of action. Alas, we do not have time to run through a suspense filled story in our short lectures. Instead, find a copy (if nothing else, I’m sure the internet can furnish you with one) of Hammer Horror’s Dracula, released in 1958. That will be the topic of next week’s lecture.” While I largely dislike vampire horror (Hollywood never manages to capture vampirism correctly), I make an exception for Christopher Lee.
“Today’s final example is an excerpt from Neil Gaiman’s Smoke and Mirrors. It doesn’t define what a modern vampire is, but that doesn’t matter because modern vampires are yet to be defined. Sometimes they are modernised versions of previous ideas (the Blade trilogy modernises the idea of vampires in horror and action, while Twilight brings vampires as a symbol of lust into the modern world), while others try to use it to examine society. This is one of the latter.”
* * *
“I wait here at the boundaries of dream,
all shadow wrapped. The dark air tastes of night,
so cold and crisp, and I wait for my love.
The moon has bleached the colour from her stone.
She’ll come, and then we’ll stalk this pretty world
alive to darkness and the tang of blood.
It is a lonely game, the quest for blood,
but still, a body’s got the right to dream
and I’d not give it up for all the world.
The moon has leeched the darkness from the night.
I stand in shadows, staring at her stone:
Undead, my lover… O, undead my love?
I dreamt you while I slept today and love
meant more to me than life – meant more than blood.
The sunlight sought me, deep beneath my stone,
more dead than any corpse but still a-dream
until I woke as vapour into night
and sunset forced me out into the world.
For many centuries I’ve walked the world
dispensing something that resembled love –
a stolen kiss, then back into the night
contented by the life and by the blood.
And come the morning I was just a dream,
cold body chilling underneath a stone.
I said I would not hurt you. Am I stone
to leave you prey to time and to the world?
I offered you a truth beyond your dreams
while all you had to offer was your love.
I told you not to worry and that blood
tastes sweeter on the wing and late at night.
Sometimes my lovers rise to walk the night…
Sometimes they lie, corpse beneath a stone,
and never know the joys of bed and blood,
of walking through the shadows of the world;
instead they rot to maggots. O my love
they whispered you had risen, in my dream.
I’ve waited by your stone for half the night
but you won’t leave your dream to hunt for blood.
Good night, my love. I offered you the world.” Smoke and Mirrors (Neil Gaiman, pp291-292)
The students filed out, and with their leaving went my cheer. So often after these lectures I ponder the course of my life. So many of us killed, some were friends I lost, others I had to destroy. The years became too much for Mikhael, and he went mad. While he slept we quickly and quietly removed his head and built a pyre for him. After that we left Romania for the first time; the reaction to his madness gave us no other choice. We wound up in England, where a misunderstanding over a girl saw Domovoi dead. Again we had to leave. When we arrived in America, Yan decided that he’d never flee again, and that the death of gentle Domovoi demanded justice. His ‘justice’ was worse than Mikhael’s madness, and again we were forced to act. Finally, we found refuge in Australia, a land so flooded by various mythologies that none of them are believed. It’s a paradise of mythological ignorance. You know, not once has someone remarked on the irony of my teeth, given my favourite part of literature. Ignorance is bliss, especially when it’s someone else’s.
