The Evil Seed by Joanne Harris
‘Daniel.’
My eyes snapped open, my hands raised automatically to steady my glasses. For a moment I thought the voice came from the water, and I felt a stab of superstitious dread; it was her, the dead lady, her ribcage torn open like a sack of laundry and her eyes staring accusingly at me. Maybe there was worse; maybe the wreckage of her face would show a wide, desperate smile, and her arms would be open to receive me …
‘Danny.’
I turned so suddenly that I nearly fell off the ledge.
‘I’m so glad I found you, Danny.’
It was Rafe.
For a moment, the essential meaning of his presence eluded me and I simply stared at him. He was crouching on the ledge, barely two or three feet away from me, and a ray of light, freakishly reflected from the water, fell on to his face. I had thought him beautiful before when I had seen him in Rosemary’s apartment; beautiful in a disturbing way; now he was spectral, ethereally fair, his pale eyes at the same time innocent and corrupt. I was beyond fear; my terror of what I had already begun to discover within myself was enough to eclipse any fear a normal man might have had at being alone with a vicious murderer.
‘My God,’ I whispered, ‘what have you done to me? What did you give me?’
Rafe smiled.
‘Don’t worry, Danny. Everybody’s like that at first. You’ll get over it soon enough.’
‘Over what?’ I began to raise my voice. ‘What have I become?’ I reached over and grabbed him by the front of his coat; shook him. Rafe just smiled.
‘Soon you’ll be one of us,’ he said. ‘That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? To be one of us?’
I shook my head.
‘Yes, you did,’ chided Rafe. ‘Isn’t that what everybody wants? To belong to someone? You belong to us now; you don’t like it now, because you are not used to the idea yet, but you will. You’ll live for ever, Danny. You’ll be more than a man; and Danny, the things you’ll know! Everybody wants that, believe me.’
‘What did you give me?’
‘You know.’
The fact that I did know, and more than I wanted, made me see red. I pulled the boy towards me and hit him hard across the mouth.
‘You bastard! I don’t know anything! All I know is that you’re murderers, all of you … God help me, and you’re poisoning me. You’re poisoning me and I feel. I want.’ My voice soared above its normal register, shrill with panic; hearing myself so badly out of control frightened me even more, and I loosened my grip on the boy, pushed him away. ‘I don’t know anything.’
There was a thin trickle of blood running out of the left side of Rafe’s mouth; still smiling, he wiped the blood with the ball of his thumb, then, very delicately, licked it away.
‘You know.’
I slumped against the side of the bridge. His pale eyes pinned me to the stone, his smile was more than I could bear. I began to weep quietly into my hands, the tears falling through my fingers like lost worlds. I wanted to die.
Rafe watched me for a long time, then he stood up. His head was ringed with light from the reflections on the water; he looked like an angel. I was panic-stricken at the thought that he was about to go away, and I clutched, convulsively, at the skirt of his coat.
‘Don’t leave me.’
‘Then come with me. If you dare.’
‘Stay with me. Help me.’
Rafe nodded.
‘That’s why I’m here. That’s why they sent me.’
‘Who sent you?’
‘The others. Rosemary. You belong to all of us now, Danny. You have nothing to be afraid of now, I promise you. From now on, you will be feared, as we are feared. You’re one of us.’
‘But what are you?’ I asked, still clutching at him like a lost child.
Rafe flung up his head and laughed – and suddenly my heart was filled with admiration and love for him, for the savage freedom of that gesture. For an instant, I wanted nothing more than to be like that, free and beautiful and cruel and young – unchained from the shackles of the sordid world. I wanted to be a law unto myself; yes, I wanted to belong to him and to his kind for ever, to run with them, feed with them, to be for ever blessed.
God forgive me, I wanted that.
He smiled at me, and I basked in reflected glory.
‘We’re the masters, Danny,’ he said softly. ‘The chosen ones. The lords of creation. The predators.’
I shuddered with a cold joy. I was a child again, eagerly waiting on the brink of the longest and most exhilarating fairground ride of my life; I could smell popcorn and candy-floss and the dull, hot under-smell of the animal-house.
‘Oh, yes,’ I murmured, hardly even aware that I had spoken.
‘Oh, yes.’
One
BLACK NIGHT HAD fallen, and I ran with the night. In the shadows we ran, Rafe and I, and as we went through the town, following secret channels through which he led me, the others joined us silently, Java and Rosemary and others whose names I knew without having to ask them: Elaine with her long matted hair and huge eyes; Anton, seven years old, his hand tucked trustingly into hers in a parody of real childhood; Zach with red hair like Rosemary’s and a bird tattoo on his face. My people, I thought with a whirling pride, my people, and, God help me, I loved them that night, loved the feel and the scent of them and the throb of the hunger which was our friend and only ally. Most of all I loved Rosemary, loved the ripple of her hair on her shoulders, the turn of her head, the whiteness of her bare legs beneath the black raincoat. I walked in dreams, and, forgive me, I felt ecstasy, I felt joy, and that’s what I miss most, now she is gone, and the joy buried in the earth of Grantchester churchyard, never to blossom again.
Try to understand: I was born a lonely child among adults with their own problems to live with; I grew into a lonely man. I immersed myself in study in the hope of bringing order to my life. I surrounded myself with art to satisfy my need for sensuality.
What child has never craved the company of others, the wild thrill of the pack, that feeling of running for ever? I saw myself as we ran: the lonely boy constantly left out and teased, the clever boy seeking in books the friendships he failed to find elsewhere. I am sorry, but believe me when I say that despite everything, I felt joy. I think I would have felt it even without the substance Rafe had injected into my arm before we set off; no drugs could entirely explain the euphoria, the fulfilment I experienced. The train inside the bubble of my spinning-top had broken free at last, and I rode it in one glorious night, bearing down upon my destiny with cries of triumph.
I no longer questioned anything; the glamour of the night was enough for me, and I followed the pack down alleys, under dark archways, across bridges and back across the river until we came to the poorer part of town. Once or twice a passer-by caught sight of us; we answered his stares with cat-calls and whoops. Java was carrying a knife. Light from the street-lamps slickered off its blade like mercury, but I was not afraid; the hunger was like the most powerful of drugs in my system, a strong, compelling music in the soundbox of my skull. Tribal rhythms drove me on. How long we travelled I do not know; I suspect it was not long, but it might have been for ever. Like Peter Pan, I felt as if I were walking on magic dust, effortlessly; and I know the others felt the same. Elaine was singing softly, her voice a thin lost warble in the shadows. Only Rosemary was untouched; utterly serene, she led the way towards the place she had chosen, and the hunger pushed us from behind like a strong wind.
It was a place I knew slightly: a run-down public house with a reputation for cheap drink and illicit hours. Even then, I thought that it must surely be closing, for it seemed deserted, and the light from the windows was yellow and drab. But the others looked so sure of themselves that I followed, afraid to hesitate, fumbling in my pockets for money. Even then, you see, I had not really understood. Maybe I still suspected that I might be dreaming; whatever the reason, I fumbled for money in my pockets, as if I were planning nothing more serious than an evening out drinkin
Rosemary led the way in; the door was open, and I found myself standing in a grimy tap-room, where two people, a man and a woman, were clearing glasses and bottles from the bar. There was sawdust on the floor of the room, a pall of greasy smoke in the air; mingled under-smells of mould, wine and vomit.
The man was wiping the bar with a damp cloth; he did not even look up when we came in.
‘We’re shut,’ he said brusquely. ‘Eve! Lock that door before anyone else turns up.’ The woman he had addressed as Eve stood up from mopping the floor, a cigarette hanging from her mouth. I had a moment to notice that she was young, and might even have been pretty in different circumstances; as it was, she looked sullen and drab, a dirty cloth tying back hair of a cheap, metallic blonde.
‘You heard,’ she said, without removing the cigarette. ‘We’re shut. Sorry.’
There was a short silence; I saw Java glance at Rafe, saw Anton take a step forwards, pulling away from Elaine.
The young woman stared at him.
‘An’ what’s more, that kid ought to be home in bed,’ she said. ‘Don’t you know what time it is?’
I shifted uneasily, remembering, perhaps, my own words, rather too similar for comfort, when I had spoken to Rafe and Java a short twenty-four hours previously.
No one moved for a moment or two, then Rosemary stepped forwards.
‘We won’t be very long,’ she said.
Eve ignored her. ‘I’m locking up.’ She began to move towards the door.
Java stepped to one side to bar her way.
‘What’re you doing?’ she said, an edge of fear lending animation to the flat voice.
Java ignored her.
‘Tony!’ This time the edge of fear was unmistakable, and the man who was mopping the bar looked up for the first time. His eyes met Java’s.
What happened then I could never quite recall; the unreality of it all washed over me like a breaker, tipping the world sideways, and when it stabilized a few moments later it was over. I think that it was then that Java drew out his knife; no, the knife sprang from the palm of his hand like an animal, and with one liquid movement it touched the woman’s throat. A touch was all it took; she gave a cry of surprise, then the blood flowered down the front of her blouse. She clutched at the wound, eyes getting rounder and rounder; the blood sprayed. Java had never ceased to look into the eyes of the man at the bar. I don’t remember who went for the man first. I think it might have been Zach and Elaine. Anton was groping for the body of the woman; blood sprayed his face, and I saw the look of hunger there, the bright gleam of greed in his eyes, older and more corrupt than any child’s eyes have a right to be; but the hunger was on me then, terrifying and uncontrollable, and before I knew what I was doing, I had pushed the child out of the way and was feeding myself. Blood starred the lenses of my glasses; the world swam in shades of red. I fed messily, without any other thought than appeasing the blood-god within me, biting at the flesh of the woman’s throat, feeling her shudder beneath me. Anton whimpered like a puppy, trying to push past me again, clawing at the body with his little hands; somehow we both fed. As I rolled over, drugged and sated, I saw the man at the bar – at least, what they had left of him. They had ripped him apart, from belly to throat. Elaine had found the till and was stuffing coins and banknotes into her pockets. Java had found the bottles of oil for the stove and was splashing the floor and furniture with it. Rosemary was cleaning the blood from Rafe’s face with her tongue, a mist of tiny droplets sprayed across her eyes like a mask. She looked up and smiled at me.
‘We are the chosen ones,’ she said. ‘That’s what we are. And I chose you. Remember that, and be loyal to me. Be mine, Daniel.’
Two
ALICE MANAGED TO get to sleep at about six that morning. Ginny knocked on the door at half past five and went straight to her room without a word; Alice let her go with a guilty quickening of the heart as she thought of the box she had stolen. Her vision was scrambled from too long trying to decipher Daniel Holmes’s crabbed, neurotic handwriting, and her head felt terribly heavy. Perhaps after a couple of hours’ sleep she might be able to see things in a better perspective. Perhaps she might wake up and find that all the events of that night had been a dream.
She awoke at eight o’clock, pulled on her robe and tiptoed down to her workroom. For a long time she looked calmly at the box and the picture she had painted. She knew that it was a false calm, but she welcomed it all the same, allowing her perception of the situation to shift again, like sand, into a new pattern.
She would have to confront Ginny, she decided; maybe the girl would admit everything as soon as Alice told her what she already knew. Perhaps Ginny needed help.
She looked at her watch: twenty past eight. Joe would be coming round soon, she imagined. She would have to talk to Ginny before he arrived.
‘Tea, Ginny?’ That was better. Her voice was steady now, her smile confident.
Ginny was sitting by the fire, still barefoot, but wearing jeans and a dark jumper which highlighted her bright hair. She shook her head.
‘You look ill.’
‘I didn’t sleep much. I was too busy thinking about last night.’
Ginny looked at her blankly.
‘You can tell me,’ Alice went on. ‘I know more about it than you think. I know you’re in trouble, and I don’t think you know how to handle it.’
Ginny just looked at her silently, giving no indication she even understood.
‘Rafe and Java,’ said Alice, coming closer. ‘Do they live in that old house?’
Ginny shrugged.
‘Don’t you know?’
She shook her head.
‘But they are your friends.’
‘Sometimes.’ Ginny had begun to rock gently in her chair, her eyes distant, like those of a child. Alice took her hand.
‘Ginny. Look at me.’ The lavender-grey eyes fixed on hers, sweet and empty, as if the soul behind them were simply a blank, with no more life in it than a mirror.
‘I found the syringes in your cupboard. I saw you go out with Java. Is he selling dope? And what else is he doing? At the church … what was he doing there’
Ginny simply stared at her.
‘Ginny. You have to tell someone. You have to get help before you become too involved. If it was only drugs they were involved with it might be OK to keep quiet, but I was there in Grantchester that night. I saw you digging in the churchyard. And what about the box in your suitcase? I know where that came from. It was in the wall of the church, marked with a brass plaque. Why did they take it, Ginny? What are they doing it all for?’
But Ginny had withdrawn again. And half an hour later, when Joe knocked on the door, Ginny was still sitting there, looking into the fire and rocking gently to herself, like a cursed princess in a fairy tale.
One
I SUPPOSE THEY think I’m safe here; safe from myself and my delusions. I have a nurse to bring me a soothing drink of camomile tea when I go to sleep; I much prefer whisky, but they tell me it excites me. On sunny days I am allowed to go for a walk around the grounds, but I prefer to stay in the library. Sometimes my doctor comes to keep me company; I beat him at chess. I like him, inasmuch as I like anyone here, and I talk to him, though I am certain he does not believe me. My proof, the books and the pictures, mean nothing to him. His concern is with my mind, though I tell him that only my soul is worth saving now. A young man, Doctor Pryce, young and strong and filled with laughter, like Robert before he met Rosemary.
He tries to help. He even brings me books, all the ones I ask for; he shakes his head and grins and says: ‘They’d have my neck for this if they knew I was encouraging you.’ But he brings them: Frazer and Crowley and Ahikar from the Apocrypha, even the writers of fiction, Lovecraft and Poe and the modern ones, whose names I forget, book titles emblazoned in red foil on cheap black paperback covers. All those whom I thought might have met Ros
My research is fruitless, I know; there is no way to stop her. I tried once; maybe she was careless. It took her thirty years to return; by now she will have been reborn. Maybe by the time you read these pages, she will be full-grown. All I know is that I will be dead; maybe by my own hands, maybe by hers. She will never allow me to interfere again.
The young man is logical; he tries to use my research to prove me wrong. How can she be a vampire, he says, when the medieval accounts of vampirism in Romania do not correspond in the least with what you believe you know of her?
No factual or folkloric source describes a creature such as you have described.
No name fits her, I tell him; in the same way, all names do. All I know is that she is old, as old as the corruption from which she came, though at the same time monstrously young. She is something which transcends legend, as God transcends childish superstitions of loaves and fishes. I suppose that Jung would have called her an evil anima; you see, I can speak in your language too, I can use your arguments better than you yourself, but that cannot exorcise the demoness who rides my dreams. The image of blood which transcends all my visions of her sickens and excites me, as I suppose you would say my conception of my own sexuality appalls me.