He’d set the tube for approximately one thousand years, yet he noted nothing had changed in the immediate area as he went along the coast. It was the perfect place for him to rest undisturbed, but because of its ruggedness, a hard one in which to find people to feed on.
He saw no ships sailing along the coast. Finally, the land began to turn green and he encountered his first village. He took two that night, a couple who had escaped into the jungle to copulate. Refreshed he moved more quickly and soon reached the point where an enormous river cut the coast, pouring a wide swath of brown, muddy water into the ocean. Nosferatu could barely see to the other side in the moonlight and wasn’t certain whether what he saw was the riverbank or the shore of an island in the river’s mouth.
The Congo made the Nile’s flow look like a trickle. Still, Nosferatu felt a pang of longing for the blue water of the river in Egypt. He had a sudden vision of a dark-haired woman holding him, looking down at him, smiling. He was small, tiny, a baby. But he knew she loved him. But that, like so much of his life, was just a memory now.
Even animals had others like them. Nosferatu was perhaps the most isolated being on the planet. Nekhbet was in the deep sleep in the cave on the mountaintop. Vampyr might be out there somewhere, but Nosferatu didn’t know where the other Undead was.
Nosferatu growled. A bird fluttered out of a nearby tree in fright. All had been stolen from him. His nostrils flared as he sniffed the air. Blood. Human blood. To his right, upriver. He turned in that direction, moving through the jungle like a ghost, able to see clearly even under the thickest canopy that blocked out all starlight and moonlight.
He came upon a village. A thicket of thorn bushes surrounded the perimeter; a single entrance with only one branch and a youth with a spear barred the way. Nosferatu ran forward, leapt the thicket, and was on the young warrior in a flash. His teeth ripped through the tender flesh, bringing forth a gush of blood. Even as the artery continued to spurt red sustenance, he lifted his face and glared about. Another warrior was coming, spear leveled. Nosferatu jumped up, knocked aside the warrior’s thrust, and jumped on the man’s back, teeth sinking into the throat, ripping and tearing. The warrior screamed, then the sound died as Nosferatu tore in farther, his teeth cutting through the man’s windpipe.
He threw the warrior from him and bellowed out a challenge, his face and chest covered in blood. He could see faces appear in the doorways of huts. Men staring with wide eyes. Women fluttering behind them, yelling at their children to hide from the demon that had invaded their village.
“Come,” he screamed, throwing his arms wide, exposing his chest. “Come and get me.” He didn’t even realize he was speaking in the language of the Gods and that none could understand his words, although his intent was clear.
None rose to the challenge. All remained indoors, weapons at the ready, watching Nosferatu’s rage spill out in screams and curses.
Sanity slowly returned as his throat knotted up in pain from the yelling. Backing up, Nosferatu left the village and disappeared into the darkness. He found a small cave along the riverbank and slid into it, covering himself with leaves and bushes for the coming day.
He lay there as the sun made its way overhead, occasionally slipping into an uneasy sleep. Each time he woke, he was shaking and sweating. As darkness fell, he left the hasty lair and searched for a way to cross the river. When he approached the village he’d attacked the previous evening, he could see numerous warriors manning the perimeter and a large fire stoked up just inside the thorn barrier. He circumambulated the village and came upon several dugout canoes pulled up on the riverbank. He took one and shoved it into the dark brown water. Snatching up the paddle, he began to stroke, blinking sweat out of his eyes.
After several minutes he realized that while he was indeed making it across the river, the strong current was also carrying him from left to right. Nosferatu tried to pull harder but was seized by muscle spasms that almost caused him to drop the paddle. Every muscle and joint in his body ached and his forehead felt as if it were on fire. He feared that one of those he had fed upon had been ill and he had drawn in the sickness. He wiped a shaking hand across his face, trying to clear the sweat pouring into his eyes.
When he could see again, he realized the current would win. He would be swept into the ocean long before he reached the far bank. He looked over his shoulder and realized the bank he had left from was also out of reach. He was too sick to care. He put the paddle down and curled up in a tight ball on the rough wood bottom of the canoe.
Nosferatu woke in greater pain and discomfort than when he’d passed out. The first rays of the sun were slashing across the edge of the canoe just above him and he couldn’t open his eyes to their brightness. He heard no sound of land — no winds in trees, no cries of bird or animal, just the sound of water against the outside of the canoe.
Nosferatu could feel the heat of the sun closing on him, edging down the inside of the canoe. He knew he had no choice. He grabbed one side of the canoe and rolled, bringing it down over him as he fell into the water.
He popped his head up under the security of the canoe and slowly treaded water.
It was a very long day. Several times, Nosferatu felt something brush by his legs and feet; but he kept his eyes shut, for even the sun reflected through the ocean water was too much for his delicate pupils. As soon as the sun set, he righted the canoe and collapsed inside it, his legs quivering from the day. Sitting up, he peered about but saw only ocean in all directions. He had no clue which way to head to try to get back to land.
Nosferatu lay on his back and watched the stars wheel by overhead, conserving his energy. He realized it was the first time he had ever really looked at the stars — strange, given he was a creature of the night. But then he had spent the time of darkness either hunting or traveling, not contemplating the little points of light overhead. When he had been a child it was whispered the stars were where the Gods came from. And then Donnchadh had told him the same thing. How could that be? he wondered. How could they come from such small places? Of course, if the points of light were far away, then he imagined they might be very large.
Nosferatu cursed both the Gods and the stars as the sky above him began to brighten, indicating another day’s beginning. He waited until the last moment before rolling the canoe over and entering the water.
As the day progressed, he contemplated simply letting go and sinking into the dark depths. All that kept his grip on the edge of the canoe and his legs slowly moving to keep his head above water was the image of Nekhbet.
By the eighth day even that image had faded. He was only aware of exhaustion, wetness, and despair. That night he sat in the canoe and looked about. Stars and sea were the only things visible.
The Gods had given him life for their own selfish purposes. For over three hundred years, they had consumed his life for their pleasure. Since then he had been hiding, running, like a frightened child, for thousands of years.
Why?
What was the overall purpose of life? The goal of the Gods? Why did they treat other living beings as they did?
Nosferatu blinked. There was a glow on the horizon behind him. He stared at it for almost a minute, then picked up the paddle and began to stroke. For a little while he thought his eyes were fooling him as the glow faded, but then it became brighter. Soon he could see flames shooting into the sky, then the shoreline. A fire was raging in the tall grass, coming closer to the shore. Nosferatu could see herds of animals running, trying to escape the flames. And on the shoreline, bands of humans waiting for the kill. Nosferatu felt the pull of the hunger.