Chandi, 1995
Why he didn’t let me watch I’ll never know. I would’ve reveled in watching Bronwyn burn, cloaked in her wavy hair and flimsy gown. Satisfied more to hear the haunting screams of doom than I was in sensing the deep sorrow of loss as she watched me nurse her newborn child, I secretly smiled, enjoying her anguish. My senses were never as sharp as the child’s but it was impossible not to feel Bronwyn’s weeping sorrow as her ashes scattered themselves to the wind.
I always hated her, Malcolm treated her differently; he loved her, never giving into the temptation of her blood. He didn’t even let the child nurse lest she pierce that smooth, creamy skin. He also kept the other children from feeding from the veins so visible beneath that translucent skin.
He needed me; not only could I weave magic charms, heal the sick and assist in birthing the babies, I could also nurse those children until they turned chubby with good health. Abundant was my milk, it never dried, and tasty was the tangy blood that pooled around their budding, needlelike teeth. My flesh was but practice ground to help awaken the natural hunger that lived inside of their desires. He allowed me to live after I birthed Gunther, it must be that he sensed what a help I could be to him. I did my best to be indispensable. I was so in love with him.
I begged him to allow Gunther to live until at least twenty before he made him a vampire in his own right. My son became a dashing young man before he died into immortality.
I always hated Bronwyn. The image of her lying, great with child, on those pristine, white sheets, hair splayed across the pillow burned an inferno in my mind. I had been glad when one of her twin girls died. He allowed Bronwyn’s precious Leila, the one who lived, to turn into a stunning eighteen year old woman before he made her a vampire. I always suspected that he had greater plans for Gunther and Leila.
I grew older, yet my breasts stayed full, our children remained frozen in their youthful beauty.
Malcolm fathered an army of children, most of whom he made immortal as soon as they came of age; for the girls it was around thirteen, the boys, a bit older. Each of them came close to death as he drained them to the point of mercy. Each child taking to bed for several days until he slit his wrist and allowed the ruby elixir to dribble over their tounges.They were then frozen in a state of perpetual adolescence. Most of their mothers burned above the lake, floating on their own funeral pyre, so drained of blood that they burned quicker than Leila’s mother had. Bronwyn had been full of the precious substance that sustained most of the vampires but Malcolm wouldn’t let them touch her, he almost let her live but reluctantly allowed me to provide him with the potion that would render her body so close to death that she couldn’t move as she burned. It was through tears that he watched her drink the clear, tasteless liquid. He knew what must be done. I helped him to see that.
I begged him to transform me into one of the undead but he refused. Why he didn’t make Bronwyn into a worthy mate for himself I’ll never know, my only guess is that his love for her kept him from causing her the misery he felt every day. Love proved to be his greatest downfall.
Leila looked just like her mother; she stayed close to her father’s side except when she joined the other children, taking turns draining the blood from the women, who were still weary from giving birth. It was often that Malcolm would row back across the lake with yet another woman who had no idea of the fate in store for her, the sleeping snake would lie, until the baby was birthed and the mother was fed on and then burned. The lake was cloudy from the ashes of so many of his victims. I had escaped that grim fate because of my abilities and Bronwyn almost did because of his love for her. Some of the others tried to flee, but there was nowhere to go, this was an island after all.
Malcolm told me that the last word she screamed was “Lilly” the name of the twin that had passed on.
I ached every time I heard Leila whimper in those early days. The front of my gown stayed crusty from dried milk. As I held her, I used to fantasize that I was her mother. Once Bronwyn was gone, I became the moon and stars to baby Leila. Her alert, cobalt eyes would fixate on me intensely each time she wished to nurse. I had the feeling before she was one year old that speech was not far away. I had been there when she uttered her first word, “Lilly”, she said it clearly. We were readying for bed when it came. Malcolm came running as soon as he caught word. I could tell that the other children waited outside of the door as he pivoted towards me.
“Leave us” He lowered himself to his knees, arms encircling his beloved child. I gently closed the door behind me, the latch caught audibly as I tried with great effort to stifle the sobs that stopped short in my throat.
I found myself surrounded by the children I had been wet nurse to; they seemed to clearly make out what was being said. I, however was only mortal, my senses not as developed as they. All I could hear was a faint murmuring.
They all followed as Malcolm brushed past carrying baby Leila, he left a void in his wake.
Leila, 1995
Why she hated my mother so much I’ll never know. As painful as it was to marinate in her hatred, I also loved her; Chandi was my nurse.
I always knew they had unspoken plans for my life, intentions they thought I would have no control over. They told me I looked just like my mother, perhaps that was why I was father’s favorite. Mother watched through my eyes as Gunther and I were married.
Cursed with the gift of clear memory. I recall the feeling of slipping into her womb as they made love on his bearskin carpet. Lilly was with me as we transformed ourselves from vast entities into seeds so small that the only way we could be detected was through mother’s smile. I wrapped myself around her back as we floated, submerged in the warm liquid nirvana. Mother’s heart beating above was like the moon, comforting us with its constancy. Soon there was a tightness containing us in the womb that contracted, then relaxed. We heard moans as she endured the challenge of opening to us.
I knew Lilly would go first. The last I saw of her were her feet as they disappeared from view. I was next. Unlike most babies waiting to be born, we were completely lucid, confined, yet safe beneath the soft thrumming above.
I heard a strange skirt rustling as someone entered the room.
“Push” I heard her say. I slipped out on a river of blood. When I was free, the other woman, Chandi, cut our cords with a warmed knife. We were then wrenched from mother’s yearning arms.
My aspirations were deep and strong while Lilly had yet to take that first breath. The woman with the strange sounds and smells rubbed her still body. She was pallid and I was pink and glowing with the mottled tones of a newborn child.
We lay cold and uncovered on a table as the woman hurriedly left the room. My eyesight was beginning to clear. I could see Lilly laying there, blue like a sacred goddess. Her eyes were closed. Chandi reentered the room just as mother was reaching for us,
“Bronwyn, lay back down, do you want to bleed to death?” she scolded.
Mother obeyed and watched helplessly as one of her children was carried away in a drab grey receiving blanket. I knew she was dead. For the first time I cried.
I felt a cool breeze as Chandi slipped back into the chamber. Mother’s grunts sounded again as a dark, crimson mass slid from between her legs into a waiting towel. Chandi carried it away.
My cries sounded like alarms as I longed for my sisters round back. Mother was now weeping, reaching her arms towards me as the interloper diapered my bottom, wrapped my chilled body in a blanket and whisked me out of the room. We rocked in a chair. I could see her round, full breasts and the nipples that were extended from the abundance of milk. Just the sight beckoned me to suck, my sobs needed to be silenced and milk was my only comfort. I coughed as the sweet, white liquid dribbled down my chin. I submitted to my hunger, though the deep thirst was never satisfied. Drowsy as the chair rocked forward, then back, I allowed my head to rest in the crook of her arm. She softly crooned to me.
Why she hated mother so much, I’ll never know. Why I was paired up with her Gunther was a mystery to me. We shared the same father, yet made love with the same intensity father and mother had shared. I loved Gunther, yet maybe love was the downfall of us all.
“Chandi” it was a deep, male voice, “where is Bronwyn?”
“Go and see for yourself, she’s in the back bedchamber. We lost one of the babies, she’s on my bed awaiting the fire”
I heard him leave the room, my eyes were still closed.
My senses grew sharper. When my eyes opened I looked up to see her face clearly. She was an ample and squishy woman with a round face and eyes as squinty as a rat’s. I could hear mother’s sobs clearly, though she was at least two rooms over.
The door latch sounded again, I looked up to see his red, glowing eyes peering down at me. There was a strange tenderness in his gaze. The round woman handed me over, I heard her leave the room. If I could talk, I would’ve demanded my mother. Her sobs had lowered themselves to whimpers, but I could still hear them. I cried as he bounced me gently while walking around the room. I knew he was my father.
By the time I saw mother, she was doubled over in exhaustion, sprawled sideways on the bed as if she’d been shot in the stomach. He laid me in her arms and left the room. We slept.
“Has she stirred?” Chandi’s voice reverberated through my slumber, awakening me to the solemn room. She pulled up a rocker, I could tell she was watching us. When I grew hungry, my head instinctively turned toward mother’s silken skin. Chandi roused, plucking me from mother’s arms to place me at her own breast. Once done, I was passed through the air back to mother whose eyes were red rimmed from crying. Resting my head on her hardening breasts, she moved me to the side. I sensed her pain, in more ways than one. Nurse, as I began to call her settled back in the rocker and fought sleep. Mother dozed as I indulged my newborn impressions.
Many days blurred into one as I was shifted back and forth from mother to Chandi. I grew used to mother’s salty tears, as abundant as my nurse’s milk. They all grew to accept the death of Lilly except me. She would remain fused to me with the blue flame that was her spirit.
March 1958
Chandi sat at her desk bent over the black bound notebook, furiously writing. The sun had yet to peek over the horizon. Every now and then she would lean back to stretch, look around the room and stroke her swollen belly. Across the room, the portrait in its gilded frame was slightly crooked. She left the journal to reposition the painting. Gazing up at the immortalized face Chandi took in all of the details. The woman in the painting wore a pearl necklace with a gigantic diamond dripping down to meet her cleavage, raven hair pulled into a loose chignon. Those piercing eyes followed Chandi around the room. The only respite she had was when she lay atop the lush, burgundy comforter. The painting wasn’t visible from that location but she often wondered if after she was asleep those sky blue eyes looked down upon her unwary form. Never mind, the picture was straight now. She went back to her writing.
Eventually the usual, high pitched creaking sounded out from the bedroom next to hers. There was soon the familiar banging against the wall behind her bed. She supposed Malcolm was enjoying himself. The damned picture was knocked askew again. Chandi slammed her book shut and slipped it between her mattress and box springs. That was the sign for her to pull her flannel plaid bathrobe over the high- necked nightgown she wore every night. The stairs were steep and slippery as they often are in old Victorian houses, she carefully held the handrail while making the familiar trek to the kitchen. Breakfast was to be a hearty bacon and eggs, with toast and blackberry jam, Malcolm’s favorite..
She sighed while picturing him pulling on his black slacks and white tee-shirt, leaving the spent woman to dress in privacy. He descended the stairs to greet Chandi.
By the time the woman found the dining room, the table would already be full, with the morning feast that was slowly getting cold. Malcolm was ambling around, chatting lightheartedly with Chandi as she brought the softened butter to the formally dressed table.
This woman took longer than the others to find them. Chandi pictured her wandering the halls, disoriented.
What Malcolm had with these other women was miniscule compared with the connection the two of them shared. He even allowed her the bedroom beside his own, the one with his mothers likeness hanging on the wall. The only downfall was that she could clearly hear his escapades with each new woman.
“Morning” the woman’s words startled Chandi as Malcolm stood politely to receive her. It was a blonde this time. There was a ring of smudged, black around her eyes, she kept wiping at it with the back of her hand.
“Breakfast is served my dear” Malcolm waved his hand over the table and then looked back at Chandi with a wink; she looked down at the kicking baby inside of her barely suppressing tears. She bowed to both of them while backing out of the room.
“Who was that?” the woman, whose name was Patrice asked,
“That was Chandi ‘”
“She looks like she is ready to go any minute, where is her husband…does he work for you too?”
“Never mind about her, how are you feeling this morning?”
“I’m a little queasy, food will help”
“Will they miss you on the mainland?” he worried,
“I’m sure not, I disappear all the time”
Malcolm had picked up Patrice about two months ago on the docks; she had solicited his business as he tied the boat to the pier. He had been slightly repulsed by her audacity; usually he chose his own prey…that was the sport of it. He scanned her, from the fake blonde hair that was teased to make it look thicker, to her feet, which were stuffed in black, patent leather stilettos. She walked awkwardly, looking down to dodge the grooves between the cobblestones. Luckily he was alone this time.
Her breath smelled of liquor. Underneath that makeup that looked as if it could be chiseled off, she had an attractive face. Her eyes were as blue as his mother’s had been. He took her up on her offer; they ducked into a dark alley.
He brought her back to the island with him that night.
“If you gather up some of your belongings, you are welcome to stay on in my home for a time”
He rowed back to the land, waiting for her return. She found herself smitten by this mysterious man, there were few things to gather; only a few outfits and her makeup case.
Why he didn’t let me watch I’ll never know. I would’ve reveled in watching Bronwyn burn, cloaked in her wavy hair and flimsy gown. Satisfied more to hear the haunting screams of doom than I was in sensing the deep sorrow of loss as she watched me nurse her newborn child, I secretly smiled, enjoying her anguish. My senses were never as sharp as the child’s but it was impossible not to feel Bronwyn’s weeping sorrow as her ashes scattered themselves to the wind.
I always hated her, Malcolm treated her differently; he loved her, never giving into the temptation of her blood. He didn’t even let the child nurse lest she pierce that smooth, creamy skin. He also kept the other children from feeding from the veins so visible beneath that translucent skin.
He needed me; not only could I weave magic charms, heal the sick and assist in birthing the babies, I could also nurse those children until they turned chubby with good health. Abundant was my milk, it never dried, and tasty was the tangy blood that pooled around their budding, needlelike teeth. My flesh was but practice ground to help awaken the natural hunger that lived inside of their desires. He allowed me to live after I birthed Gunther, it must be that he sensed what a help I could be to him. I did my best to be indispensable. I was so in love with him.
I begged him to allow Gunther to live until at least twenty before he made him a vampire in his own right. My son became a dashing young man before he died into immortality.
I always hated Bronwyn. The image of her lying, great with child, on those pristine, white sheets, hair splayed across the pillow burned an inferno in my mind. I had been glad when one of her twin girls died. He allowed Bronwyn’s precious Leila, the one who lived, to turn into a stunning eighteen year old woman before he made her a vampire. I always suspected that he had greater plans for Gunther and Leila.
I grew older, yet my breasts stayed full, our children remained frozen in their youthful beauty.
Malcolm fathered an army of children, most of whom he made immortal as soon as they came of age; for the girls it was around thirteen, the boys, a bit older. Each of them came close to death as he drained them to the point of mercy. Each child taking to bed for several days until he slit his wrist and allowed the ruby elixir to dribble over their tounges.They were then frozen in a state of perpetual adolescence. Most of their mothers burned above the lake, floating on their own funeral pyre, so drained of blood that they burned quicker than Leila’s mother had. Bronwyn had been full of the precious substance that sustained most of the vampires but Malcolm wouldn’t let them touch her, he almost let her live but reluctantly allowed me to provide him with the potion that would render her body so close to death that she couldn’t move as she burned. It was through tears that he watched her drink the clear, tasteless liquid. He knew what must be done. I helped him to see that.
I begged him to transform me into one of the undead but he refused. Why he didn’t make Bronwyn into a worthy mate for himself I’ll never know, my only guess is that his love for her kept him from causing her the misery he felt every day. Love proved to be his greatest downfall.
Leila looked just like her mother; she stayed close to her father’s side except when she joined the other children, taking turns draining the blood from the women, who were still weary from giving birth. It was often that Malcolm would row back across the lake with yet another woman who had no idea of the fate in store for her, the sleeping snake would lie, until the baby was birthed and the mother was fed on and then burned. The lake was cloudy from the ashes of so many of his victims. I had escaped that grim fate because of my abilities and Bronwyn almost did because of his love for her. Some of the others tried to flee, but there was nowhere to go, this was an island after all.
Malcolm told me that the last word she screamed was “Lilly” the name of the twin that had passed on.
I ached every time I heard Leila whimper in those early days. The front of my gown stayed crusty from dried milk. As I held her, I used to fantasize that I was her mother. Once Bronwyn was gone, I became the moon and stars to baby Leila. Her alert, cobalt eyes would fixate on me intensely each time she wished to nurse. I had the feeling before she was one year old that speech was not far away. I had been there when she uttered her first word, “Lilly”, she said it clearly. We were readying for bed when it came. Malcolm came running as soon as he caught word. I could tell that the other children waited outside of the door as he pivoted towards me.
“Leave us” He lowered himself to his knees, arms encircling his beloved child. I gently closed the door behind me, the latch caught audibly as I tried with great effort to stifle the sobs that stopped short in my throat.
I found myself surrounded by the children I had been wet nurse to; they seemed to clearly make out what was being said. I, however was only mortal, my senses not as developed as they. All I could hear was a faint murmuring.
They all followed as Malcolm brushed past carrying baby Leila, he left a void in his wake.
Leila, 1995
Why she hated my mother so much I’ll never know. As painful as it was to marinate in her hatred, I also loved her; Chandi was my nurse.
I always knew they had unspoken plans for my life, intentions they thought I would have no control over. They told me I looked just like my mother, perhaps that was why I was father’s favorite. Mother watched through my eyes as Gunther and I were married.
Cursed with the gift of clear memory. I recall the feeling of slipping into her womb as they made love on his bearskin carpet. Lilly was with me as we transformed ourselves from vast entities into seeds so small that the only way we could be detected was through mother’s smile. I wrapped myself around her back as we floated, submerged in the warm liquid nirvana. Mother’s heart beating above was like the moon, comforting us with its constancy. Soon there was a tightness containing us in the womb that contracted, then relaxed. We heard moans as she endured the challenge of opening to us.
I knew Lilly would go first. The last I saw of her were her feet as they disappeared from view. I was next. Unlike most babies waiting to be born, we were completely lucid, confined, yet safe beneath the soft thrumming above.
I heard a strange skirt rustling as someone entered the room.
“Push” I heard her say. I slipped out on a river of blood. When I was free, the other woman, Chandi, cut our cords with a warmed knife. We were then wrenched from mother’s yearning arms.
My aspirations were deep and strong while Lilly had yet to take that first breath. The woman with the strange sounds and smells rubbed her still body. She was pallid and I was pink and glowing with the mottled tones of a newborn child.
We lay cold and uncovered on a table as the woman hurriedly left the room. My eyesight was beginning to clear. I could see Lilly laying there, blue like a sacred goddess. Her eyes were closed. Chandi reentered the room just as mother was reaching for us,
“Bronwyn, lay back down, do you want to bleed to death?” she scolded.
Mother obeyed and watched helplessly as one of her children was carried away in a drab grey receiving blanket. I knew she was dead. For the first time I cried.
I felt a cool breeze as Chandi slipped back into the chamber. Mother’s grunts sounded again as a dark, crimson mass slid from between her legs into a waiting towel. Chandi carried it away.
My cries sounded like alarms as I longed for my sisters round back. Mother was now weeping, reaching her arms towards me as the interloper diapered my bottom, wrapped my chilled body in a blanket and whisked me out of the room. We rocked in a chair. I could see her round, full breasts and the nipples that were extended from the abundance of milk. Just the sight beckoned me to suck, my sobs needed to be silenced and milk was my only comfort. I coughed as the sweet, white liquid dribbled down my chin. I submitted to my hunger, though the deep thirst was never satisfied. Drowsy as the chair rocked forward, then back, I allowed my head to rest in the crook of her arm. She softly crooned to me.
Why she hated mother so much, I’ll never know. Why I was paired up with her Gunther was a mystery to me. We shared the same father, yet made love with the same intensity father and mother had shared. I loved Gunther, yet maybe love was the downfall of us all.
“Chandi” it was a deep, male voice, “where is Bronwyn?”
“Go and see for yourself, she’s in the back bedchamber. We lost one of the babies, she’s on my bed awaiting the fire”
I heard him leave the room, my eyes were still closed.
My senses grew sharper. When my eyes opened I looked up to see her face clearly. She was an ample and squishy woman with a round face and eyes as squinty as a rat’s. I could hear mother’s sobs clearly, though she was at least two rooms over.
The door latch sounded again, I looked up to see his red, glowing eyes peering down at me. There was a strange tenderness in his gaze. The round woman handed me over, I heard her leave the room. If I could talk, I would’ve demanded my mother. Her sobs had lowered themselves to whimpers, but I could still hear them. I cried as he bounced me gently while walking around the room. I knew he was my father.
By the time I saw mother, she was doubled over in exhaustion, sprawled sideways on the bed as if she’d been shot in the stomach. He laid me in her arms and left the room. We slept.
“Has she stirred?” Chandi’s voice reverberated through my slumber, awakening me to the solemn room. She pulled up a rocker, I could tell she was watching us. When I grew hungry, my head instinctively turned toward mother’s silken skin. Chandi roused, plucking me from mother’s arms to place me at her own breast. Once done, I was passed through the air back to mother whose eyes were red rimmed from crying. Resting my head on her hardening breasts, she moved me to the side. I sensed her pain, in more ways than one. Nurse, as I began to call her settled back in the rocker and fought sleep. Mother dozed as I indulged my newborn impressions.
Many days blurred into one as I was shifted back and forth from mother to Chandi. I grew used to mother’s salty tears, as abundant as my nurse’s milk. They all grew to accept the death of Lilly except me. She would remain fused to me with the blue flame that was her spirit.
March 1958
Chandi sat at her desk bent over the black bound notebook, furiously writing. The sun had yet to peek over the horizon. Every now and then she would lean back to stretch, look around the room and stroke her swollen belly. Across the room, the portrait in its gilded frame was slightly crooked. She left the journal to reposition the painting. Gazing up at the immortalized face Chandi took in all of the details. The woman in the painting wore a pearl necklace with a gigantic diamond dripping down to meet her cleavage, raven hair pulled into a loose chignon. Those piercing eyes followed Chandi around the room. The only respite she had was when she lay atop the lush, burgundy comforter. The painting wasn’t visible from that location but she often wondered if after she was asleep those sky blue eyes looked down upon her unwary form. Never mind, the picture was straight now. She went back to her writing.
Eventually the usual, high pitched creaking sounded out from the bedroom next to hers. There was soon the familiar banging against the wall behind her bed. She supposed Malcolm was enjoying himself. The damned picture was knocked askew again. Chandi slammed her book shut and slipped it between her mattress and box springs. That was the sign for her to pull her flannel plaid bathrobe over the high- necked nightgown she wore every night. The stairs were steep and slippery as they often are in old Victorian houses, she carefully held the handrail while making the familiar trek to the kitchen. Breakfast was to be a hearty bacon and eggs, with toast and blackberry jam, Malcolm’s favorite..
She sighed while picturing him pulling on his black slacks and white tee-shirt, leaving the spent woman to dress in privacy. He descended the stairs to greet Chandi.
By the time the woman found the dining room, the table would already be full, with the morning feast that was slowly getting cold. Malcolm was ambling around, chatting lightheartedly with Chandi as she brought the softened butter to the formally dressed table.
This woman took longer than the others to find them. Chandi pictured her wandering the halls, disoriented.
What Malcolm had with these other women was miniscule compared with the connection the two of them shared. He even allowed her the bedroom beside his own, the one with his mothers likeness hanging on the wall. The only downfall was that she could clearly hear his escapades with each new woman.
“Morning” the woman’s words startled Chandi as Malcolm stood politely to receive her. It was a blonde this time. There was a ring of smudged, black around her eyes, she kept wiping at it with the back of her hand.
“Breakfast is served my dear” Malcolm waved his hand over the table and then looked back at Chandi with a wink; she looked down at the kicking baby inside of her barely suppressing tears. She bowed to both of them while backing out of the room.
“Who was that?” the woman, whose name was Patrice asked,
“That was Chandi ‘”
“She looks like she is ready to go any minute, where is her husband…does he work for you too?”
“Never mind about her, how are you feeling this morning?”
“I’m a little queasy, food will help”
“Will they miss you on the mainland?” he worried,
“I’m sure not, I disappear all the time”
Malcolm had picked up Patrice about two months ago on the docks; she had solicited his business as he tied the boat to the pier. He had been slightly repulsed by her audacity; usually he chose his own prey…that was the sport of it. He scanned her, from the fake blonde hair that was teased to make it look thicker, to her feet, which were stuffed in black, patent leather stilettos. She walked awkwardly, looking down to dodge the grooves between the cobblestones. Luckily he was alone this time.
Her breath smelled of liquor. Underneath that makeup that looked as if it could be chiseled off, she had an attractive face. Her eyes were as blue as his mother’s had been. He took her up on her offer; they ducked into a dark alley.
He brought her back to the island with him that night.
“If you gather up some of your belongings, you are welcome to stay on in my home for a time”
He rowed back to the land, waiting for her return. She found herself smitten by this mysterious man, there were few things to gather; only a few outfits and her makeup case.
) This seems to be working well so far. Maybe I will use my index cards for the plot
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