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Urs pulled the white faux-fur collar of her coat closer about her neck. She wasn't cold -- she could barely discern the chill against her already cold skin -- but she liked the feeling of it, the play acting. She was just another busy shopper to any who might happen to gaze upon her. Just another face in the crowd. And she liked that feeling, too -- sometimes. Passing a brightly lit storefront, she paused to take in the decorations: the twinkling white lights, practical presents -- slippers, toasters, tool kits -- sticking up out of boxes wrapped in green and gold and red. It was almost like Mardi Gras in December! And, as such, it reminded her of home. That didn't happen very often. She didn't think much of the past, of the family she had left behind the first time and of the mortality she had given up the second time. Those memories hurt too much and she was so tired of hurting. Wandering further down Queen Street West, she cast her eyes on the other shoppers -- the real shoppers, who carried bags filled with their Christmas purchases. She always wondered why these people waited until the last minute to shop, until the night before Christmas. It wasn't like every billboard, television, and radio advertisement didn't remind you of the event weeks and weeks in advance. How could this many people forget to go shopping for their friends and family? Were they really too busy to make the time? Urs looked around then and shook her head. The city was so beautiful this time of year; how could anyone be too busy to get out and see it! The colored lights, the decorations ... even the traffic lights made red, gold, and green pools in the snow covering the streets. There was something about this season, something about the way even the busiest shoppers in the crowds seemed to find time to smile at one another, open a door, pass a pleasant greeting. Hope. It was the one thing this time of year seemed to bring to all people -- hope for a joyous holiday, hope for a better new year. It was the one thing which had keep her going all these years. Hope that Vachon was right and things would be better. Hope that she could find more than just a passing joy in life. Hope that what he had given her was something she could someday appreciate. Hope. That God-damned, four-letter word. People would be better off without it, Urs thought. Hope is what kept people going when they would be better off giving up. It was the start of bloody revolts, rebellions, revolutions. Hope for something better, hope for change. It was the reason she could never leave all those miserable relationships -- hope that things would improve, that this beating would be the last, that the men who possessed her might someday love her. Suddenly, the snow didn't seem quite so white as the stream of cars plowed through it, the lights not so bright under the evening's dull-gray cloud cover. The people, frantic to get that last gift before the shops close, not so forgiving and polite. A chill spilled down her spine, causing Urs to bury her hands inside the deep pockets of her tan-colored coat. She remembered her first Christmas with Vachon and the boys. She'd gotten them all presents. She still remembered: a sweater for Screed, a box of cigars for Bourbon, and a silver flask for Vachon. They had stared at her, bewildered. "Wot's this fer?" Screed had finally asked. They hadn't gotten her anything. Of course. Urs's mortal life had included presents -- sometimes meager ones, hand-made ones, simple ones, other times extravagant ones, glittery ones, gaudy ones -- but theirs had not. Centuries older than herself, Christmas was a religious observance to them and nothing more. And certainly not even that since their falls from grace. "It's for you." She remembered smiling at Screed and how he just frowned at the wrappings. She smiled again now as she continued to walk further away from the shops of Queen Street West. "Well, if yer givin', then I'm takin'," he had said, clutching onto the box as if someone were waiting around the corner to snatch it away. "Tout à fait inutile, je vous assure," Bourbon had said -- Quite unnecessary, I assure you -- and with the mere nod of his head, he wandered off, the box of cigars tucked under his arm. Vachon just looked at her with those eyes -- those brown eyes, those eyes which held her world -- before he finally spoke: "You didn't need to do this, Urs." "I know," she had said. Even as she repeated it aloud now, it still sounded hollow. Urs was always being given things and she knew how to thank the giver. Even when Vachon gave her what he considered a gift -- this immortality, this unwanted eternity -- she had thanked him and he had smiled. But they had not thanked her for the Christmas gifts -- the sweater got bartered for something, the cigars were forgotten, the flask remained empty. How could she be so good at receiving gifts and so bad at giving them? A distant clanging caught her attention then, pulling her momentarily out of her reverie. She stepped over the small brick wall bordering the park as she listened. It was a church bell: eight, nine, ten rings. Ten o'clock, Christmas Eve, 1995. There was no one to give presents to this year. No one to receive them from. Bourbon was still in Montreal. Screed was dead. And Vachon was simply gone. Somewhere. Anywhere but here. Urs had tried to talk to him. Comfort him. But she found she wasn't very good at that either. "He's at peace now, Javier," she'd told him. "He's not like you, Urs! He didn't want to die!" Vachon had said through gritted teeth. She'd tried to just hold him then, but Vachon pushed her away, inadvertently shoving her to the floor. With his back to her he didn't even notice what he'd done. "Don't you think I wished it was me? Don't you think I'd trade places with him if I could?" she cried to his marble-still form. "I know what you thought of him," she continued, almost in a whisper. "I know what he means to you." "No, you don't," he finally said, his voice low, gravelly. "I've tasted it in your blood, Vachon." "You know that's only a shadow. This -- this is reality," he insisted, stabbing a finger toward the hardwood of the floor. "And it's the only one we get. Our heaven. Our hell." He was quiet again, moving only a step to fall into a nearby chair. From her place on the floor, Urs studied her maker. There was no guile in him. No false emotions. No hidden agendas. No duplicity. He was exactly what he felt at any given moment. She never saw it before, because she was the one who always kept things inside. "All those years, Vachon. Why did you keep leaving?" She suddenly had the feeling that it had nothing to do with irresponsibility. He shrugged, then was still for a few very long minutes. She waited. "Sometimes you just have to leave. Things get too complicated. Or I got restless. There's a world out there, Urs. A huge, complex, fascinating world. I tried to show it to you. I hoped...." Again he fell silent. "You hoped I'd appreciate it," she finally finished for him. But he neither confirmed nor denied her accuracy. "I tried. I tried to please you." "You don't get it!" he nearly shouted at her. "I don't want you to please me!" Urs was shocked at the outburst. How could he not want her to please him? Didn't every man want that? What else did she have to offer them? Vachon sank back into the overstuffing of his chair as he sank back into his silence. Urs stood up from the floor, absently brushing the gray dust off her dark pants. She didn't know what else to say to him, to do for him. She obviously wasn't helping. She took her time climbing the stairs. Hoping with each step that he would say something, call her back, need her, anything, but he remained quiet. At the door of the church, she paused. She hated to leave him like this, but what else could she do? She only seemed to be making it harder for him. But just as she turned the knob, she thought she heard something. His voice: "Please yourself." She'd thought about that ever since. First she wondered if she had imagined it. Then she realized that it didn't matter if she had. It was what Vachon had never been able to tell her, and what Screed couldn't stop from showing her. The realization pecked at her mind like a chick trying to hatch, until, slowly, piece by bit, the shell began to fall away. Screed embodied the sentiment, living it for all those around him. No wonder none of them could see it for themselves. Was this why Bourbon had not yet returned from his now four-month-long weekend in Montreal? Was this why Vachon had finally abandoned Toronto? Had their destinies lay in separate directions this entire time? If so, what was she to do now -- stay here, alone, or go somewhere else? "Alone." Urs shivered; she didn't like the sound of the word as the fog-formed letters echoed through the leafless branches of the frost-covered trees. "Please..." came a small voice, though, in the crisp air, Urs could not tell from where. She looked around, her eyes finally falling on a distant bench in front of the cold metal of the empty playground equipment. But the bench itself was not empty. There was something on it, laid out across it. Slowly, she approached, and was finally able to discern a heart beat. The rumpled pile of newspaper and cloth contained a person. "Please," she heard again, though no more clearly than when she'd been halfway across the park. Urs placed herself directly in front of the person before she replied, "Are you all right?" There was no answer right away, but eventually she heard, "Please," again. "It's so cold." Urs decided the weak voice belonged to a man of some advanced years. She bent down, to better hear him. "Can I help you get to a shelter?" Again the response was slow in coming. "No. I don't want to go...." "But, it's warm there. They have beds and food." "No. I don't want to go on." "But they will help you." "No one can help me. I'm done with this life, but no one can understand that. I'm tired. I'm alone. All I have left is the suffering." Tears welled up in Urs's eyes as these words wrapped themselves around her mind. She knew them well. They were her thoughts put into words -- had been her thoughts, a hundred years ago, on the very night she met Vachon. What had been her words to Vachon? "I want you to do something for me. I want you to feed and then let me die." She wanted then what this man wanted now. But there was a difference. Fear. The misery of the life she knew could not overshadow her fear of the unknown. She had blamed Vachon for bringing her across, but Urs now knew that he had given her a path; she herself chose to walk down it. When she had closed her eyes, she was in the secure, possessive embrace of Vachon, but when she opened them, she was alone. The well-lit apartment above the saloon was gone, replaced by the dank darkness of the Louisiana bayou. Her confusion turned almost immediately to fear. As a child, she'd gotten lost in the bayou and memories of the snakes, alligators, and quicksand quickly filled her head. In the distance Urs saw the door of a run-down shack, but with no shack to support it. Instinctively, she moved toward it, but when she saw the cloaked figure beside it, she hesitated. That was when she heard it, the voice, Vachon's voice: "Urs. Come back to me. Let me give you everything." Unlike her surroundings, his voice was soft and comforting. The hooded specter in the distance beckoned silently to her, causing fear to constrict around her heart. "Urs," Vachon called warmly again as the formless hand reached out for her. Fear drove her feet as far away from the cloaked figure and whatever lay beyond the unopened door. It drove her toward Vachon's voice, back into his arms, back to life. But she knew that this homeless man before her on the bench possessed no such fears. Life had beat them out of him. He would gladly heed the silent call of the specter, no matter where it led him, as long as it did not lead him back here. After a hundred years she realized she was still not brave enough to walk through that doorway, to discover what lay beyond it. But this man was, and she was capable of helping him. "I don't take death as lightly as you do," Urs had once told Vachon. And she meant it. The Raven conveniently supplied her daily needs and any anger she felt towards others quickly turned to self-blame not thoughts of revenge. So, to stand here and ponder the death of this man was significant. Even more so than when she had stood back and allowed Jacqueline to throw herself off that high-rise balcony. It was easy to not move to stop another's actions, but it was difficult to step in and do the deed yourself. But her conscious reminded her that she had asked this very thing of Vachon, and he had barely hesitated. If he could be that brave, that compassionate, surely she could as well. She sat down on the bench beside the man. It was only then that she noticed his close-cropped hair -- not quite bald like Screed, but close to it. And his clothes -- a worn pullover sweater, trousers, workman's boots -- again, like Screed's. For a brief moment she wondered if they could have belonged to Screed; Vachon had cleaned out his place, and he certainly wouldn't have kept any of the clothes for himself. If he donated them, it was possible that this man had ended up with some of them. Urs sniffed the air, but she caught no scent of her former companion. She did, however, smell the odor of humanity upon this man -- though it was nothing compared to some of the men she had been with in years past. She reached down to push aside some of the newspapers loosely blanketing the man. Then she helped him sit up. Light eyes beneath reddish brows met hers, reminding her again of Screed. Was it a sign? Did she even believe in such things anymore? Was some higher power giving her the opportunity she never had with Screed, to save his life? Or was it simply reminding her that Screed's end was his fate, no matter the means? Unsure herself, she asked the man, "Are you certain? Do you really want to die?" "I am already dead. A few more nights of this cold is all it will take." Oh, what suffering, Urs thought. To bear for one more minute that which is unbearable is a suffering she knew all too well, and it was something she would not allow to happen to someone else. "I can end your suffering tonight, if you want." "Tonight? Now?" A sparkle gleamed in his eye, a tear not quite shed. She had given him hope. "Who are you that you can offer me this?" "I am death." He nodded, and, Urs thought, almost smiled. Urs sat unmoving for a few moments, silent, steeling her nerves, then she placed her hands on the man's head and shoulder, gently exposing his neck. She moved slowly, the embodiment of grace, until her mouth touched his skin; instantly her fangs descended, piercing the vein. The blood rushed into her open mouth and trickled down her throat. It was thick, and not as warm as she had remembered; this man was slowly freezing to death. As she continued to suck at the wound, she received flashes of this man's life -- but more feelings than images, all more than familiar to her. Was it too much to want to be wanted, needed, appreciated? To judge by this man's mortal life and her own, the answer was yes. But as the blood continued to flow into her, she began to feel that she was needed, that this one act of mercy was appreciated. She could taste it in his blood. Then, as the flow slacked, as his heartbeat faded, a feeling of loss came over her. Again she was reminded of how alone she was in this city, in this world. Propping the dead man upright on the bench, she stood and moved behind him. Urs then gently placed her hands on the man's shoulders, smoothing out the man's rumbled sweater and thin coat. Urs took her own scarf and wrapped it warmly about his neck. Then, with her hands on either side of his head, she gave them a quick jerk, cleanly snapping the man's neck. Unlike Vachon, she would not give fear, or even idle chance, the opportunity to undo her good deed. Then she laid the body gently down upon the bench, redistributing the sheets of newsprint over him, just as she had found him. She wandered several feet away, before stopping and staring up at the sky -- the clouds had started to thin, but somehow, Urs knew it wouldn't continue. There would be fresh snow for Christmas, she could sense it in the air. As she took to the sky, she remembered reading about such Christmases when she was a child in Louisiana. The happy families, mounds of presents and food, and the snow seemed like a package deal back then -- a glorious fantasy she indulged herself in once a year. But she quickly learned that snow did not bring any of those things; there was unhappiness and poverty everywhere, snow or not. It reminded her of a movie she and Vachon had once seen about a family pulled apart by an uncertain future. A beautiful, snowy white Christmas had only made it more poignant. And there was a song, so full of hope, with sentiments of good will, faith, and love -- "Have yourself a merry little Christmas. Let your heart be light...." -- but sung through tears tinged with the fear of their unknown destiny. Urs touched down with the song still on her lips -- "Faithful friends who are dear to us, gather near to us once more" -- and tears welling up in her own eyes. She tried to continue to sing -- "Through the years, we all will be together, if the Fates allow" -- but her voice faded in and out like the water lapping at the nearby shore. "And have yourself a merry little Christmas ... now." Sobs over came her as she reached the unmarked site of Screed's grave. She knew there would be no gathering of friends this year, nor any years hence. Screed was gone. And Vachon's words had been prophetic -- "We're not running as a crew anymore" -- and they now rang through her mind like a death knell. Urs stood there, at the edge of his grave, looking out over the cold, dark water of Lake Ontario toward the distant lights of the city. Tens of vampires, tens of thousands of people. And not a single one of them to care about her -- not now, not with the boys gone. She dropped her gaze to Screed's grave, the patch of snow-covered dirt so like its surroundings, and Urs realized that even in death she would be alone. "Screed, I wish you were here. You always knew what to tell Vachon; I need you to tell me now. What should I do? I need someone to tell me what to do. You're gone and Vachon ... he's left again. He didn't even say good-bye this time. I don't think he's coming back." Urs took a deep breath as the words and tears threatened to stick in her throat. "I don't want this life, Screed, but at least I wasn't alone before." She waited for a response, even knowing that none would come. She waited as the bitter wind pulled at her pale curls and rustled through the nearby cottonwoods, as the cold water lapped at the nearby shore. But there was no voice. No words. She was alone. Urs looked down at Screed's grave one last time, giving him one last chance, then launched herself into the gray December sky. As she flew out over the dark water, Urs thought about returning to Vachon's church, but one more night alone in that abandoned building was too much for her to bear thinking about for long. Instead, she circled the parameter of the city, glancing down at the lights below -- strings of street lights, even stop lights, blinking red and green. In the distance she heard church bells chime. Then, almost as if someone had told her to, she lightly dropped down onto the sidewalk, the icy snow crunching beneath her feet. She did not recognize the area, the street, the old warehouse, but somehow it felt familiar. And, from somewhere, she continued to hear the bells sing -- ten, eleven, twelve -- ringing in Christmas. |
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Inspired by the Jay Livingston and Ray Evans song "Silver Bells" from the Bob Hope movie The Lemon Drop Kid. "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" written by Hugh Martin and Ralph Blane for the film Meet Me In St. Louis starring Judy Garland.
Thanks go to Nancy Warlocke for her most valuable comments. And thanks to James Parriott not only for creating these characters but for letting us use them in this profitless forum. Snippets of dialogue borrowed from the Forever Knight episodes "Black Buddha," "Hearts Of Darkness," and "Fever." Finally, I'd like to take a moment to let a certain someone know, if the Fates allow, I hope we will be together next year. |
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(December 2000)