In my sequel to my vampire novel, The Vampire Henry, I have introduced a new character named Geyer, a French vampire who was turned in the trenches of World War 1, by Henry's nemesis, Charles Robinson Serling. In this excerpt, he is relating his story to Henry. Just looking for members to critique this. Is it convincing? Does it hold your interest? Is it too much like Anne Rice or somebody? (Not that I dislike Anne Rice. Just want my voice to come through.)
“I was born…sounds so funny to say that now…” Geyer begins, “In the French commune of Narbonne, near the Mediterranean. In the year of Our Lord, 1885.”
We are seated, in metal folding chairs, at that pine desk with its odd vampire skull paper weight. (Almost feels like I am being interviewed for a job.) The desk is also littered with back issues of various journals: Scientific American; National Geographic; Smithsonian Magazine. One lurid headline blazes up at me as Geyer starts his story. It reads:
CLIMATE CHANGE APOCALYPSE?
Don’t know why the question mark, really. In the words of a poet I think I may have quoted earlier (wow I seem to be throwing out other people’s verses right and left these days) “Everybody knows that the Plague is coming/ Everybody knows that it’s moving fast…”
Several months ago, my vampire birthplace, California, lost almost two-million acres to wildfires.
Two MILLION.
So something screwy is going on. Certainement.
Hey, more French I know.
You don’t need a vampire to tell which way the blood flows.
Still, strange reading matter maybe for a French bloodsucker who is…how old? I was always pretty terrible at math…
Pretty.Damn.Old. Not as old as Serling, assuredly. (All bets are still out on that one.)
But pretty damn old…
“Narbonne…” Geyer repeats. As if it were some sweetheart’s name that he was whispering back in her ear. Foreplay to lovemaking. “It’s funny. The place where I was born. Where I was happy and lived as a human …And I have not been back there in over one-hundred years.”
He pauses for a few seconds, and I see that look come over his black eyes one more time. That look of almost painful reflection. He rubs at a cheekbone with one long, pale finger. As if he were marking his place in some book. And then, he clears his throat and starts again.
“So…yes. I was born in Narbonne. Before the last century even began. And when I came of age, I became a cooper like my father. AND his father before him. Do you know what a cooper is?”
Indeed, I do. Indeed I do. Our mutual nemesis, Serling, spared Sara, turned her, because she reminded him of the only girl he ever loved: some cooper’s daughter in an 18th-century village.
Of course, in light of recent developments, that story could be utter bullshit.
“And so, I spent my time in my father’s little shop, with a backing knife and an adaze, making casks and tubs. Shovels and rakes. A thousand things. And I married, as was expected. A young girl named Lucie who…”
Again, he pauses. This time, it looks as if he were listening for something. As if, by saying his lost wife’s name out loud, she might suddenly appear before us.
She doesn’t, of course…
“Who knows how the fates would have sang back then, Henry Lovell? Maybe I would have spent my whole life in Narbonne. With Lucie. Had children. Grandchildren. Died an old contented man. I don’t know. Even if I had not become a vampire, that sweet fate would have been unlikely. VERY unlikely. Because at the beginning of August, 1914…”
I have a pretty good idea where he is going with all of this.
“August 2, 1914. It seems as if there were two events in my long existence that are more real than all of the rest. Events where it seemed as if I were being roused from a long sleep. Becoming a vampire, certainement. An event I will relate, soon. And August 2, 1914. The day I found out I was to be a soldier and not a cooper.”
“World War I” I mutter.
“Of course,” he replies. “Although, we did not call it that. Nor do I think my former countrymen call it that even today. The War. The Great War. The 14-18 War. Although, when I first became a soldier, we thought it would be child’s play really. Driving the Germans, the dirty Boche, out of France. All over by Christmas as the bald-faced liars, the generaux, the vampires who always start these things like to enthuse to the young who go off to die in them. All over by Christmas. And they never are…
So, I was in my shop on that hot August day, slaving away. I had a huge order of casks to fill for a local winery. Quite an aubaine…er windfall for my trade. But I was so far behind on completing it. It was maddening. My father and mother had died of influenza only eight months before and so…the shop, the good name of Geyer was now my sole responsibility to uphold. And I felt, in my heart, that I was failing miserably. That I was only a boy still, making a botch of everything.
That was when I heard the roll of a drum coming from the streets, from the direction of the cathedral, the Cathedral Saint-Just-et-Saint-Pasteur, one of the great landmarks in our town. Nothing unusual. You would hear things like that from time to time. Probably some merchant announcing his arrival in town. Or some traveling show or circus presenting some kind of teaser, enticements for an evening’s performance. There had been several such circuses in Narbonne, the year my parents died.
‘Keep working’ I told my apprentice, a young lad of seventeen named Michel. ‘I am going to see what all the ruckus is about out there.’ I knew that as soon as I was out the door, Michel would put down his tools and go grab his most prized possession, his violin, from the little knapsack he brought to work every morning. It was no matter. I needed an excuse to get away from my mind-numbing work.
The sky above our commune—that eventful day—was a brilliant blue. Not a single cloud anywhere. I caught a hint of sea air as I hurried to the cathedral, where the drum (or drums) were still blazing. It was maddening. Promising, as it always did, adventure. Freedom. But no. I still had wine casks to build.
‘Any idea what that is all about?” I asked a man who was walking in the same direction. His name was Paul Marnival, a local farmer. But known more in our town for his drinking bouts than for his fields and herds.
He shrugged. It already looked like he was well into his cups (as we used to say.) And it was only a little after noon.
‘Probably some new edict about keeping the streets clean,’ he muttered.
When I got to the cathedral, there were quite a lot of people already assembled. I saw two of my friends there: Gabriel Boulet, who made his living as a mason. And my best friend, Andre Cochin, one of the town’s gendarmes. He had been a great comfort to me and Lucie, after my parents died. We used to spend evenings together, just playing manille (umm that’s a card game) and discussing politics. And believe me, in those angry days, there was a lot to discuss. Beaucoup.
‘Any idea what this is all about?’ I asked them, as well.
Gabriel also shrugged his shoulders, shook his head. ‘Maybe something about rabies?’ he suggested. We had had such a forum here in May, because a number of rabid wolves had been spotted near Narbonne, and had infected livestock. One girl had even been stricken and died.
Andre just beamed a smile at both of us. As if he had just had some kind of epiphany on this hot August day. As if the two martyred children the old cathedral was named after—Saint Justus and Saint Paster—had climbed down from the cloudless sky to tell him something.
‘I know what this is all about,” he said. ‘And it is glorious. Glorious.’
And then he did something totally out of character because Andre, I knew, was averse to being touched. He embraced me, warmly.
That was when I knew something really momentous was about to be announced here. Something life-changing.