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Day 77 944: January 14th 2014
This, my friends, is a story quite different from many others.
Whilst we live in a world of superheroes and super-villains, and all heinous and absurd creations in between, this tale is not about that. This tale, of brothers in arms, compatriots and companions, is rather unique.
For all the wonders of our new modern world, there is still one secret that remains hidden from the general populaces’ prying eyes. This world, nay realm, is the backdrop to your darkest nightmares. The realm of which every villain origins, every murderer lurks and every scream muffled. This realm, this cold, murderous, lonely realm exists within yours and you ignore it everyday.
But I’m getting ahead of myself; let me start this tale at the beginning. My name is Clinton Francis Barton, born November 15th 1775, died August 21st 1801.
You now, I do not doubt, have a piqued interest. How can a dead man converse to the living? All in due time.
Day 0: August 21st 1801
I remember the evening somewhat blurrily, human memories never are quite define. I was a young man of 25, having just seen the turn of the century, I had spent that years New Year Festivities working with the circus. (1) I hadn’t done much in those last few years prior, I had been to many places with the travelling circus of which I did work and live but I had not ventured out on my own.
Nonetheless, the evening of August 21st, I was searching for my mentor and friend, Trickshot. (2) I had been practising at the range if my memory serves me correct and he, being Trickshot that is, had failed to turn up at his usual time.
I had abandoned my favourite bow in my tent for the evening and was meandering my way through the labyrinth of canopies, carriages and cages. It was of a late hour, closely approaching midnight as I recall, and the circus was sparse and quite of most inhabitants… except for the clattering of coins and the rustling of swag. This is what drew me to Trickshot’s location.
Standing with his arm submerged deeply into a hole in the side of the ringmaster’s carriage was Trickshot. He was stealing gold coins from the Circus’ loot like a common miscreant, a thief. And, to a sadness that still brings me slight sorrow, his accomplice of his treacherous act… my brother, Barney Barton. (3)
Barney, was in fact, the first to notice my presence. “Ah, Clinton.” He said in way not of guilt but of adrenaline fuelled glee. “Help us with this little brother. I wager it will take three of us to carry it out of here.” Barney continued.
I do not remember what thoughts lurked in my human mind at that moment, whether it was out of foolishness, courage or pure stupidity that I ended up behaving in such a manner. But, although I had left my favoured bow in my tent it did not mean I was unarmed. With little than a flick of my wrist, my first throwing knife flew through the swag bag, ripping and pinning it to the carriage wall.
In shock, Barney let go of the bag and the coins went cluttering to the ground, filling the air with their distinct chatter. Trickshot stopped his loot when he caught sight of the bag and he then turned to me. “I always knew you would be a hindrance, too damn much of a wimp.” Trickshot spat, I remember the pain that came with those words. For a boy, for that was all I was, that never had a father, Trickshot had come close to fulfilling that role. To hear him say that, the foundations, as it were, of the wall people would have to climb to gain my trust were laid.
“Grab ‘im.” Trickshot stated and someone grabbed me from behind. (4)
Trickshot’s and Barney’s blows were hard and relentless. My captor’s hands failed to waver and it was not long before I started to swim in my own blood.
I have no recollection of what took place from therein, nor do I know when the three brutes left, leaving me for dead on the floor. I do remember though, another beings approach. I did not know at the time who or what this being was, but I knew that every fibre, every inch of my body wanted to run. Run away from my apparent saviour.
“I can save you.” They said, I remember that quite clearly yet I could never distinguish whether it was male or female.
Of course though, I replied a rasped “Please” to the being. I remember a smile after that and their lips drawing ever so close, but passing my lips completely. I recall a sharp piecing pain on my shoulder blade and the fire that spread through my veins from there. I passed out after that.
When I next awoke, I was no longer in the dry sandy grass of the Carson Carnival of Travelling Wonders. The surface had been much too soft, much too luxurious for that. When I opened my much too sharp, to defined eyes and took in my surroundings, it became quickly apparent that I was in a bedroom. And judging by the paintings on the wall and the crest emblazed upon the wallpaper, this was the bedroom of a Stark.
Day 01: August 22nd 1801
I did not know it at the moment, but this was the first day of many, yet it would be my last awakening. Never again would I know the sweet slumber of sleep, or the refreshment of unconsciousness, but enough of my procrastinating.
With my gaze still set on the emblazed emblem on the wallpaper, I threw back the soft duvet and stepped out of the large bed. It took me but a moment to realise the speed of my actions and with a swayed step I fell back onto the bed, releasing a breath, I realised, I had been holding for too long.
“I am sorry.” A voice said from the door, the vocal ranges of the simple words changing so inhumanely. I was drawn to it like a moth to flame. The man was none other than George Stark, older brother of the gun manufacturer Howard Stark. (5)
“What are you sorry for?” I remember inquiring, for at this time this man had saved me from death, given me a bed and nursed me to health. The man’s expression did not change and I recall comparing his expression to that parent who had wronged their child. (6)
“I would not have wished this fate upon anyone else, but I could not leave you to die.” George explained, walking towards me and sitting at my side upon the bed. He moved with such grace, such fluidity, he resembled a lion’s prowl, all lithe and skinny but hiding such power.
“Fate?” I queried.
“You would have noticed that you have a sensory advancement, you have great speed and any and all injuries are fully healed… Clinton, you are no longer human.”
I remember being speechless at the man’s announcement. How could I not be human? I lived, I breathed. Did that not make me human?
“You died last night Clinton. Even now your heart no longer beats. It is by an evil power, the curse of the devil that you are here. A curse of which I carry and I burdened to you.” George stopped for a beat and I remember that particular silence so well. As for the first time it was truly silent. There was no sound of breath, no pumping of blood in my ears, no thud of my own heart.
“It is said; when God formed man, the Devil formed greed and no greed could better that of man’s want to conquer mortality. So the devil gave man, a chosen few that is, the gift of immortality. It was not until the bargain was struck that man learnt of the devils conditions. They craved blood, its taste, its scent. It was their sustenance and if they reputed, if they refused to feed, then they lost their sanities and killed man anyway, devouring their blood in hoards. They were named Vampires.”
I remained a still for several hours. The sun had long set in the sky and the sky was now a light with the bright white glow of the moon and winking stars. George had departed from the room many hours ago, shortly after his speech. I had not moved since then. I had to recall if I had even breathed. But the matter of the fact was that I was not human, not any longer.
Adapting and getting over change is something in the life of a circus performer you have to excel at and by being an orphan who spent the beginnings of their youth being carted from one orphanage to another, you had to adapt to survive. But no amount of adaptation in a mortal life could prepare you for the true prospect of immortality. (7) I was to be ageless, forever 25, forever stuck in the body of an archer, with his cropped blonde hair (8), his scars, his calloused...
But that was when a thought struck. George said I was healed, how healed? Moving for the first time in days, I inspected the tips of my fingers.
Smooth. They were as smooth as a child's, the only indent that of the swirling print. The indents of over a decades archery, gone. The rough and uneven callouses that had plagued my fingers since youth (9), gone.
I was a new man.
But I wasn't was I. I was a man no longer, a monster, a heathen. A child of the devil, man's greed personified. I was everything wrong about this world, but I was no man.
Overcome with anger, I swiftly exited the room. With so many questions and no answers to bare, I planned to interrogate my captor on his apparent rescue.
Yet when I reached George. His brown eyes soft with understanding, his posture relaxed at my coiled muscles and poise, his face unmarred and an expression of acceptance on his face. I broke.
All the horrors of my life replayed themselves. My death, my brothers betrayal, my father's abuse, my mother's murder, the factories, the orphanages, even the circus; all of them rushing before my eyes, memories playing through my skull with the same heavy beat of a funeral march. With stuttered breath, I fell to my knees and wept and George, my saviour not captor, comforted me. His arm holding me close, the comfort of my face in the crook of his neck, I felt safe. A feeling I do not recall having ever felt.
"It was my selfishness that brought you into this life, but I know what horror's you had faced Clinton. I know what it is to be a child with no home. You deserve more than that Clinton, and I, if you choose to stay, hope to give you everything you deserve. Someone to truly care for you as a start." George said softly. As he spoke he pulled my head away from neck and cupped my face, with his thumbs he wiped away my tears.
"Why? What clemencies would you gain with me here? I would be nothing but a nuisance." I replied, my voice small and quiet, yet my tears overcome.
"Why, you ask. It is true I would gain very little to your continued presence in my house, not of a material sense. What I would gain is a confidant, a friend and perhaps a son." (10) George replied, now stroking my cheeks fondly. An usual uncomfortable gesture by two mere acquaintances, but from his hands it felt right.
"A son?" I asked with confusion.
"Yes. The meaning of a vampires creation is of a creator and child. The creator takes blood from the child and sacrifices some of its own for the transformation. It creates a bond Clinton, a bond between creator and child, akin to father or mother and child. It seemed even the devil knew the value of family." George explained, chuckling the last line.
"So I am your son?" I asked, the idea that I could call someone else father was unreal. To finally rid my self of the man whom killed his own wife, whom threatened many a time to kill my brother and I and who killed himself in his own drunken stupor. (11)
"If you so wish. If not you are free to go, I will not hold you back." George replied with such honesty.
"I would like to stay." I said softly, blushing if I were still able.
"Good." George said happily, a smile blooming his face. A smile that was full of love and acceptance; a smile aimed at me.
Standing up and brushing down his knees, George offered me a hand to get up. "Come, you must be thirsty. Its time I taught you how to hunt." George said, his voice still warm and I followed him into the unknown.
Footnotes
(1) {Extract- A scrap of paper written October 1800}: The circus was an enthralling place; visited once or twice I can understand why people may find enjoyment in the beating of such beautiful animals or the lifting of fake dung bells. Yet after living with and on this establishment for most of my youth since running away from the orphanage, it has lost it splendour.
I cannot dispute that the circus and its masters have not taught me a lot about the facts of life, the shooting of a bow of which I am highly skilled at being one of them, but it is not future I would want for myself. I do not want to live out the remainder of my days as a simple performer, an act for children, parents and grandparents alike to laugh at. I want to be somebody, live a life as a gentleman. Maybe visit England and dine at the Ritz, dote upon a pretty lady and start a family, or just to live rather than survive, that is a future I would like.
(2) Although a pseudonym, I knew the man by no other name.
(3) At this juncture I would like to make known, that Barney did seek redemption for the acts he committed that night. On September 6th 1802, he enlisted into the Army, helping in many a battle throughout the South and Europe. Whilst on leave in the year 1803, he met and married one Catherine Ellen Barton (nee King). They had 2 children, an eldest girl and young boy whom he named Clinton. Due to my own circumstances at the time, I never saw my namesake until he was a father himself. But I have long absolved my brother of his sins to me, hoping he will gain a place among God that I will never see.
(4) It was not until much later that I found out this man turned out to be Bullseye, another man whom I know no real name. He had been Barney’s own mentor and had been set to stand guard as the other two looted the circus safe for all its worth. He died of a reported unknown cause 5 years later, although his carcass was dry of blood and expression frozen in that of fright. I can be very creative with my food.
(5) The Howard of which I speak if not the Stark of WW2 America, nor Howard Stark’s father. This man is in fact Anthony’s Great-great grandfather, a man, although several centuries in the past, that is incredibly alike to the Tony Stark of today.
(6) It was not till later that I realised the irony of my metaphor.
(7) For how does one prepare for the mortality of their mortality.
(8) Not strictly true for I could have my hair shaved, or a wig made but there was no guarantee it would grow back and wigs of that age were made of far worser things than horse hair.
(9) The workhouse's work. A child is no good if they cry at every blistered finger or pin prick.
(10) And now you understand the meaning of my previous statement.
(11) This is not a matter or topic I embark upon lightly. If I were a child at my death, then I was a mere babe at the sightings of these horrors. My mother was a kind woman who fell in love with the wrong man and she paid the cost of it with her life. My father, of course, was never convicted for her murder. His word was law and with threat of our own demise if we breathed a word to our neighbours, our mother's corpse was left to rot near a week before the drunkard killed himself. My brother and I left that night, and even to this day I have never returned.