Incarnation (2 page)

Buried alive! Condemned! With only the voice and the
luminescent memory of the being to awaken me to my terrible peril and compel me to save myself. I curled my hands into fists and punched the plank directly overhead. Again. Again. Shards of wood cut into my flesh, drawing blood that trickled down my raised arms and splattered onto my face. I licked the coppery taste from my lips and redoubled my efforts, fueled by urgency that flared against the all-encompassing darkness. Again. Again. The skin of my knees tore as I hammered with them, mixing blood and dirt into a sanguinary mud. I bent my legs and pushed with my feet against the lid of the coffin that confined me, straining with all my strength. Abruptly, a section of the wood gave way. Cold, dank earth caved in. I clawed upward, choking, retching, until at the limits of my endurance, I at last broke free into air glittering with diamondlike shards of frost.

Even then the grave was reluctant to give me up. I had to drag myself from it inch by inch, torn and bleeding until finally I hunched, exhausted on the ground. Nearby, a copse of trees rattled skeletal fingers against the cloud-swept sky. A road wound nearby, vanishing across a moor rippled by low hills and sluggishly stirring marshes. Scattered knuckles of stone glowed whitely in the darkness, slashed by shadowed clefts wherein something roosted fitfully. The wind carried a cascade of scents—the sweet rot of loamy earth, the dry perfume of moor grass and bracken, the salt tang of the sea not far distant. And more . . . raw, hot, pulsating life that stripped away the last of my strange lethargy even as the voice of the being from the opera house of my dreams soared on a final, triumphant note—

Opens the sky on a glorious tomorrow
That in its brightness eternal shall glow!

A thousand razor-sharp teeth bit deep inside me, as though an unborn monster was suddenly intent on gnawing its path into the world. I moaned and bent over, my arms wrapped around myself in a desperate effort to ease the pain. A faint rustle in the nearby bushes jerked me upright. I stiffened, listening intently, and heard the sound again. From beneath a gorse bush, darkly purple in the silvered light, a hare darted.
Feed,
my mind said.
Feed,
my body yearned, and I obeyed. Without hesitation, I seized the animal and sank my teeth into its throat.

Hot, salty blood filled my mouth. I groaned in relief but did not pause until the last exquisite drop was drained. Tossing the husk of the hare aside, I savored the sense of well-being flowing through me. It would not last; that much I knew already. But for the moment, it was enough.

With my most immediate need seen to, I was able at last to take account of myself. Looking down, I saw that I wore a silk bed gown that might once have been white but was now so begrimed with dirt and blood as to render its hue indiscernible. The neckline was beaded with small pearls, as were the sleeves, and finished with lace. My hair, strewn with clots of dirt, tumbled loose below my shoulders. I was shoeless, my feet much battered by my struggle to escape. Just as I had foreseen, a wooden stake protruded from between my breasts.

At sight of it a memory stirred more strongly—two men bending over me, talking between themselves.
Terrible business, but the old man wants it done,
one said.
Right enough, guv’ner,
the other replied,
and sooner the better.

The shock of pain stunning me, the scream bubbling in my throat. The falling away, spiraling into darkness in which I floated unaware until the singer invaded my memory to call me forth.

I examined the stake cautiously. It had been hammered in with such force that the wood where the blows had fallen was softened to pulp. Grasping the wood, I found it thick and smooth between my hands. Slowly, I attempted to ease it out. A strange, dark anguish rippled through me. I tried again, with the same result. Again. My body became rigid, my back arching. I pulled harder and gasped as the stake came free. I cast it onto the ground where it burst into flames briefly before burning out and vanishing. Nothing was left but a small pile of ashes that blew away quickly on the wind.

In the distance, hounds bayed.

I ran for I know not how long, plunging through bracken and gorse, through pools of stagnant water and across rocky stream beds, running without thought or plan, heedless of the winter chill, driven only by the most primal need to escape. The moon was low in the sky before the baying faded behind me and I found a cave familiar to me in the life I dimly remembered before my present, calamitous existence. It was close to the shore, within sight of the dark water stretching away endlessly to an unseen horizon. I crawled inside and lay against a lichen-covered rock, my knees drawn up to my chin. So I remained, staring out through the narrow opening until night faded and the first gray herald of day began to wake the world. Only then did I sleep, drawn well back from the entrance where the darkness was eternal and nothing save myself stirred.

Sleeping, I drifted through splintered dreams and memories. Faces flitted before me and were gone—my parents, Amanda, others I knew though just then I could not name them. The companions of my former life, what had once been all of life to me. But more than all the others, the singer came
to me, his presence at once a torment and a comfort. He was there in the darkness, in my terror, refusing me any respite yet also, I sensed, refusing to abandon me.

Who are you? What do you want? Tell me!

The only reply was the echo of my desperation across the dark water. My mind reeled away in confusion only to recall suddenly that moment of incandescent pleasure, the flowering of it all . . . that instant when he had eased away the collar of my gown and bared my throat . . .

I woke again screaming. I must have flailed on the ground of the cave, for the skirt of my gown was twisted tight around me. For a moment, I thought that I was trapped and reacted with rage, tearing myself loose. Only when I finally stood did I realize that I was alone and that it was no longer day.

With the coming of darkness, I instinctively ventured out to hunt. So keen were my senses that I found prey readily, then and in the nights to come. The first time I brought down a deer, I gorged so greatly that afterward I was ill, but the discomfort passed quickly. What was left of the gown fell away in tatters before disintegrating entirely. Neither modesty nor cold troubled me for I did not feel either. From time to time, I heard the baying of hounds but they never came close enough to concern me. I existed in a perfect state of nature and in so doing, I grew greatly in strength. Soon nothing could withstand me.

Yet that is not to say that my existence was idyllic. I was haunted by the dreams that grew steadily in vividness and power. Some were tormented recollections of the life I had known in a house I saw clearly in memory, but others had an entirely different quality. They resonated with the sense of
him,
the singer from the opera house. The conviction began to
grow in me that I had been summoned from the grave for some great purpose, but I had no idea what it could be.

In my confusion, I hesitated. The cave had become a refuge, but I could not remain within it forever. The dreams intensified. In their grip, I began to venture outside during daylight. The sensation of the sun on my skin never failed to wake me. I found it startling at first but ultimately not unpleasant. Before long, I relished it, even though it provoked unsettling thoughts.

Sitting in the sun, watching the plovers dart along the foam-tipped waves at the water’s edge, I wondered, Who was he? Why had he come to me? What did he want?

I tasted salt and discovered that I could still weep. My tears carried the flavor of the sea, as blood does in its essence.

T
he next night, after feeding, I did not return to the cave. Instead, I ventured farther, following the silver ribbon of the road that wound across the moors. When I spied the cottage, hewn of stone with a thatched roof, I stopped and hid behind a hedge. Wisps of smoke curled from the chimney. Through a window, I glimpsed the banked embers of a fire. I crept closer, catching the coppery scent of blood.

Hunger stirred, yet I was drawn not so much to feed on the family that lived there as simply to see them. Standing there in the dark, I felt for the first time a hollow sense of loneliness. A little closer and a dog began to bark. I could have killed it easily, but I lacked the will to do so. Instead, I withdrew and resumed my journey, unsure of where I was going but determined to get there all the same.

A few miles on, I came upon the house of my memories.
It rose above the surrounding landscape, a pile of stone dark against the moon-bright sky. Not a single light shone in any of the tall windows. Staying in the shadows of the trees that lined the drive, I approached slowly but with undeniable eagerness. When my gaze fell on the broad double doors of polished oak, I imagined them open, light and sound pouring out, people coming and going up the wide stone steps, and I among them. A girl, laughing.

I climbed the steps and laid my hands against the doors, securely shut against intruders. They did not yield, nor did I try to force them, but a smaller door around the back, close to the wild tangle of an abandoned herb garden, gave readily enough.

Entering, I paused and looked around. I was in a kitchen with a high, vaulted ceiling from which copper pots hung. A wood and coal stove with three ovens held pride of place near a long worktable topped with a zinc counter. Wood and brass ice closets taller than myself were built into one wall. Opposite it was a door that when opened revealed an ingenious contraption fitted out with multiple shelves and suspended by ropes: a dumbwaiter intended to ease the delivery of dishes to the dining room above.

All this I knew when I knew so little else. From the depths of my memory even more tantalizing fragments of a lost life arose unfolding as though before me—

Lucy, we can’t! If we’re caught—

Don’t be such a ninny, Amanda. It’s just for a lark. No one will know.

What are you children doing? Come away from there! Miss Weston, you know better!

Feet slapping against a slate walkway, gangly legs pounding, hurtling ourselves behind bales of straw in a stable where
horses whinny softly and motes of dust dance in beams of light. Giggling so hard that we fall across each other, tangling like puppies until at last we lie, side by side, gazing up at the beams where swallows nest.

Lucy, I could never be as daring as you—

Slowly, I turned, and without pause, mounted the stairs I knew were there, climbing step by step until I emerged into a narrow passage, straight and dark, without decoration of any sort. I continued along it unhesitantly until I came to a door. Opening it, I stepped out into a columned entrance hall rising three stories to the domed roof of the house. To either side were vast rooms filled with shrouded furniture. At the far end, a marble staircase curved upward. I followed it to the top where I stepped out onto a landing.

Lucy, where are you? Lucy . . . ?

So clear was the voice in my mind that I felt compelled to answer it. “Amanda—? Amanda, are you here?”

My voice, so long unused, cracked. My throat was parched, my tongue thick. I was trembling. No one answered me.

The house lay wrapped in silence. Even the mice had fled at my coming. I was entirely alone, yet I was not. Memories crowded in, fragments flying together to form the bare outlines of understanding.

I passed one room, then another, until at the far end of the hall, I came to a door that I felt compelled to open. Standing on the threshold, I stared inside. As with all the other rooms, the furniture was shrouded, but I could make out a large, canopied bed, a dressing table, an armoire, and several other pieces. The high windows overlooking the garden had been stripped of their curtains, wooden shutters were drawn across them. The Persian rug with its intertwining pattern of vines
and flowers where I saw myself suddenly—a child, dreaming of faraway places—was covered with a muslin drop cloth. But I remembered—

I . . . Before
he
claimed me. Before the stake and the grave.

In the days of sunlight when I had a heart that beat and lungs that drew breath.

When I was human.

Furiously, I moved about the room, yanking off the concealing shrouds.

When I came to the armoire, I jerked it open and plunged my hands inside, encountering a sea of silks and fine wools, linens and lace. I gathered them to my face and smelled . . .

Her. Her perfume, the scent of her skin, the lingering trace of her energy, her vitality . . . her life.

Her. Me.

Lucy, where are you?

Here! Oh, God, I am here! Let me out!

T
he next few hours passed in a blur. I ran frantically from the room in an effort to escape the hideous creature who had invaded it, only to recognize at last that there could be no escape from myself. She and I were one, Lucy and the being who had clawed her way from the grave.

We inhabited the same body, shared the same mind, had the same memories.