Anne Brontë Nightwalker

Chapter 17

Long after he has gone, I stay curled before the slow-burning fire. Ivanhoe is a ball of sunlight in my lap. William has brought warmth and life into my quiet home. I had forgotten what it is to feel gentle heat upon my skin and I vow to build more fires.

Only not here.

My heart clenches with fear. I should be planning my escape, readying myself to leave, but I am paralyzed with indecision and doubt. Running will only draw more attention I tell myself, and I am weak with hunger. I must play it cool and careful. The last thing I need is an angry Ranger and an Oxford historian tracking me. Better for them to think I have chosen to move than to mysteriously vanish. But how can I stay any longer?

I stroke Ivanhoe's soft, velvety fur and try to imagine where I would like to go, but nothing comforting comes to mind. Vancouver perhaps? Milwaukee? Only the New World is accessible to me now. It is not so easy as one thinks to travel in darkness. The sunlight is always waiting to trap me with its relentless punitive reliability. Transatlantic flight has made matters easier, but airports today abound with glass and windows. Delays are deadly. I cannot lock myself in a bathroom forever. I get tired too.

The older we Night Walkers become, the more sensitive to light we grow. Fortunately, my wisdom and wealth increases, giving me an edge, but it's getting harder and harder for me to do my job. I could not bear endless nights of idleness and I would rather die in service to humanity than walk eternally without purpose. But it hurts. It drains me. As my UV intolerance has grown, my shifts have shrunk from twelve hours to ten and soon eight may be too long. If I can no longer preserve life, what purpose shall I have? How can I redeem myself if not through service? Saving lives is the only way I know to justify my existence, for I still believe,

That even the wicked shall at last be fitted for the skies;

And when their dreadful doom is past, to life and light arise.

Before the turning I knew only drawing, music, literature, and a few tentative languages. My gifts were not practical earthly skills geared toward survival. The humanities aided me little in the early years of my rebirth, though I now see they shielded the lit flame of humanity within me. My love of civilization was so great, the well of collective wisdom to draw upon so deep, it guarded me from the beast within.

But it was nursing that inserted me back into the living. In a century ravaged by war, the preservation of the injured was a skill desperately sought. Never before had I been so needed. It was a blessing to contribute, to serve, and I thought if I could hold on to it, I might regain God's grace once again.

There is a rest beyond the grave, a lasting rest from pain and sin,

Where dwell the faithful and the brave; but they must strive who seek to win.

I would strive harder in death than I ever had in life. With courage and faith, I would endure!

Years passed, then decades. The 19th century came and went followed by the 20th. Wars erupted and bodies piled beneath my hands like discarded treasure. With every revolution of the moon, the anvil of darkness grew harder. As my nights grow shorter and the sun more brutal, what will become of me? Shall I end up groveling in a crypt, feeding upon rats? Can hell be worse than that?

Night, the holy time of peace, is killing me.

William has conjured up the past as surely as a sorcerer summons a spell. There is no room in my crypt for him. He curses me with memories. My words rise like fragments from the deep, crawling out of the grave, shaking off the dust before slouching toward consciousness.

How can my spirit soar away confined by such a chain as this?

Why has God forsaken me?

After years of endless darkness, I'm still uncertain of my mortal sins. Why was I denied entrance to God's kingdom? I died an innocent virgin. I never stole a single thing in my life and I did not lie. I didn't worship other gods. At times, I questioned the Lord's existence, it's true, yet dutifully I said my prayers every night like an obedient girl. My sins, I think, must have been the self-righteous arrogance of the just. Pride. I took too much pride in my discipline and honor. Yet eternal darkness seems a harsh price to pay for one so young.

One thing is certain: this tentative friendship with the professor must end. It was stupid for me to allow him to stay and talk. He, more than anyone, is capable of divining my identity and discovering how not right I truly am. This makes him more dangerous than Sergeant Santos or Dr. Webb. They may distrust me but they can't possibly know I'm almost two centuries old.

The longer I stay, the harder it becomes to leave. I'd forgotten the intoxication of conversation; the simple joy of drinking tea before the fire with a friend. The spark of energy that flares when two people come into intellectual contact. Companionship is a pleasure to which I've grown unaccustomed, but with William's strong, tall form fresh in my mind, the way he looks at me, the sound of his voice turned to me, the need flies back sharp as hunger.

When the fire collapses to ash, I silently descend to bed and lock myself into sleep.