The Flight of Gabrielle

PROLOGUE

~CHALICE~

Enigma

He didn’t ask for this, this so called life. He knew nothing of it’s meaning. When Chalice sat back and contemplated his existence, he found nothing more than frustration. Shards of the past life came into mind, but escaped quickly. His eyes squeezed shut, trying to conjure those thoughts again, but with no avail. Only, tiny pieces of what, may have been, or once was. Chalice could not demand his mind to remember, to show him what he yearned to know. The frustration wheeled his anger and stretched his patience, rendering him intolerant. Those living with-in his realm knew, or at least wished to be away from Chalice when he became enveloped with anger. No one was safe from his wrath.

His past was a secret he could not unlock. There was no one who shared in this mystery and anguish. Only one could console him, and she was gone. Before her sudden departure, Oreanna, held Chalice close, preparing him, teaching him how to be the master Vampire she had chose him to be. At the time Chalice didn’t realize who she was, not that he truly understood the importance of her existence. Time had no meaning for his yearnings. One day melted into the next. He could only avail her teachings. With that knowledge he created a dynasty, like no other.

Nothing could penetrate Chalice’s regime, or his hardened heart. Chalice had no remembrance of love or what it meant. It was merely a hollow emotion. Until one day he happened upon a woman at the market place. It was then he felt a strange sensation deep with-in.

The radiant creature sparked a curiosity. Her gentle mannerisms and softness drew Chalice to yearn for her. That was the moment he felt the void with-in his regime.

Gabrielle became Chalice’s possession. Taking her from the life she knew. Stealing her from the man she loved, and loving children. Locked away in Chalice’s domain, he kept her, in a state between life and death, by taking just enough blood.

Chalice’s plan to mold, Gabrielle as Head Mistress by becoming his bride, does not go as planned.

As time passed, things became complicated. Gabrielle became cold. Her actions irritated Chalice, stirring the embers of the Hell that possessed him.

Chalice fought to maintain control of Gabrielle, but to no avail.

Years pass as an endless day, bringing more drudgery and pain. The actions of the Vampire brought the dreadful effects to Gabrielle’s decedents, but at the same time, it brought answers to many questions that haunted the family.

PART ONE

DARK WATER

I inherited this quaint cottage on Echo Lake, tucked away high in lush majestic mountains, just a few months ago. The cottage belonged to my late grandmother Angela. I was named after her however I prefer to be called Angie.

My grandmother and I had a special bond. I believe it was because we were so much alike and yet our differences were understood. She taught me so much about life. She taught me to respect myself and to judgment and awareness of nature were but a few lessons to appreciate all of my blessings. Gratitude, regard for others, a good sense of humor, to mention a few.

Cooking and gardening were her favorite passtimes. I remember her wearing her wide brim hat and her stained gardening gloves, digging in the dirt. I enjoyed helping her dig and plant, but the most fun was when we jumped in the lake, with a bar of soap, to wash off the days’ dirt and sweat.

Her garden flowers were her source of peace and contentment. She adored every bud, and took pride in watching them bloom. In the sunniest part of the yard, she planted heirloom tomatoes, and other vegetables. Even though there was more than plenty of room to plant herbs in the garden, she chose to plant them in window boxes and rain barrels.

I remember the sensational aromas of her house. Whether she was cooking a delicious meal, jarring tomatoes, or pickles, or melting wax to make candles during the fall. The kitchen was the heart of the cabin.

Her candle making intrigued me, but it was what she did with a special white candle she made that I found curious. She mixed a large batch of freshly picked lavender and sage then blended the herbs into her mixture of waxes. She poured the wax into a large copper cylinder with two cotton wicks inserted. After the candle cooled and was taken out of the cylinder, she went to the lake, alone. It was the only time she insisted I stay inside the cabin until she returned. I stood in the porch quietly and watched her walk to the edge of the lake and light the candle.

Leaning on my elbows, nose pressed against the screen I wondered why and what was the reason I wasn’t allowed to go with her. Strange, I thought and at the same time spooky. I never questioned her when she returned. The expression on her face was solemn but she managed a sliver of a smile for me.

I wondered why my grandfather showed no interest in what she was doing. He kept busy inside stacking the wood next to the fireplace or finding something to fix.

I remember pretending to be asleep when my grandparents sat by the fire and talked softly. I thought I could find out why my grandmother went to the lake to light a candle. I never did find out however it made sense to me many years later.

The kitchen was small, however she managed to find plenty of room for her needs. Her most used pots and pans hung from beams over the kitchen butcher block. An array of old crockery kegs was jammed with cooking utensils. Her dinner plates and platters stacked on shelves. Every plate, every water glass, was easily reached.

A good sense of humor was awarded me through her genes or a family trait or perhaps it was humor that gave her strength. Laughter would over shadow the pain of life losses and hardships. God only knew the difficulties she endured loosing her mother, father and younger sister.

Our bond as a family was much deeper than I had ever imagined. I had only learned of it after the death of my grandmother, purely by curious accident. This was one trait my grandmother neglected to tell me about, that sixth sense, however, now looking back on it perhaps she wasn’t ignoring the happenings. Gratefully I am happy for her insensibility to the events I had to face later in my life. My mother too inherited such traits but her vision was unseeing perhaps for the best.

My grandmother always told me things happen for a reason and I truly believe that statement since I know that neither my mother nor my grandmother could have lived threw the horror I would soon witness. It was I who was chosen to end the pain, the sorrow, and the hell that thrived on the edge of this family. If I had any indication of the past truths, I don’t know if I would have chosen to stay at the cabin alone, after my grandmother’s death.

It was shortly after my grandparents married my grandfather built the cabin. It was built small but strong. He loved the lake as much as he loved fishing and hiking. My grandmother used to tell the story of how my grandfather told her he would make the cabin a ‘castle’ in the wilderness. In fact, when the cabin was completed, he carved a sign and hung it on the front of the cabin. It simply read, SEARS CASTLE.

When my father came into the family, he contributed in the maintenance of the cabin and helped my grandfather build an addition so my parents could have their privacy in comfort.

My father loved the cabin almost as much as my grandfather did. In the family photo album there are dozens of snapshots of my father and grandfather both with a hammer in one hand, their sleeves rolled above their elbows, and unmistakable happiness gleaming across their faces.

My mother was in many of the pictures. I noticed while combing through the album that my mom was always dressed as if she were going out shopping or going to church. Her hair was always neat and her clothes forever coordinated. She preferred being home in the suburbs where it was ‘civilized’ as she would say. My grandmother used to shake her head wondering if it was the influence of the Cosmo magazines my mother bought as a teenager.

My grandmother got a kick out of seeing her son-in-law Charles getting dirt under his nails and being totally disheveled. A contrast to the way he looked when they arrived for their weekend get-away.

My father loved fishing as much as my grandfather did. They often made friendly wagers on who would catch the first fish when they went out on the lake. At suppertime we would listen and watch them have their, usual friendly, debate over where the best fishing spots were or who hooked the big one that got away.

My dad felt the bass was most likely to be found at the far side of the tiny island in the middle of the lake. My grand father knew the best places, to hide for fish, was in the Lilly pads. The Lily pads were a taboo topic to my grandmother. He knew it bothered her but that evening my father and grandfather were having a few more beers, than they normally drank, and my grandfather mentioned the Lily pads. The Lilly pads, the one place my grandmother feared.

I heard the story once or twice of how my grandmother almost drowned in the Lilly pads. She dove off the rowboat her and my grandfather had taken out across the lake. It was hot that day but the lake was higher than normal because of a high rainfall. The Lily pads were below the dark water because of the fast rise. She hadn’t seen the Lily pads until she leapt from the boat. It was too late then. She said she felt as though everything slowed down as she entered the water. With eyes opened she saw the web of vines and roots. The pads were furling and unfurling from the splash she had created. She could not avoid the dark shadows beneath the pads. Thoughts raced through her mind of what was lurking within the darkness. Panic took hold. She needed to surface, and get out of the water, but as she arched her body upward, the vines wrapped around her legs. The harder she kicked the tighter the vines became. Beneath the water she could see thousands of bubbles passing her vision. The muffled sounds she heard were her own screams of panic. My grandfather reached over the side and grabbed her by her wrist and pulled her above the water. Gasping for air my grandfather gave her a tug and pulled her into the boat. She never went near the Lily pads after that day.

A few weeks had passed since that day. My grandmother insisted I knew how to swim, and to know where the danger lurked. A raft would keep me occupied and hopefully away from the Lilly Pads. While my grandmother took me to the lake each day to swim, my mother kept busy with her many magazines and limited cooking. I believe she took comfort in knowing her mother would teach me well.

My father and grandfather worked hard all summer on a new raft. They would anchor it close enough to the shore so I could reach it by swimming. They planned on moving it out further each year, as I became a stronger swimmer. I was still very young and even though the raft was barely in the deep water I thought it was a mile to reach.

It was that year on a hot 4th of July week-end, my father moved the raft out another twenty five feet. To me it looked to be nearly in the center of the lake. I stood on the shore watching my father. He climbed onto the raft, gave a shrieking whistle, too, as he beckoned me to swim out. I hesitated, thinking it was so far out. Would I make it? I thought to myself. Then I heard my father whistle again. This time I knew if I struggled my father was right there to help me. I swam hard. Never before did I ever see the raft so far away. With each stroke I dug at the water. My arms became heavy. When I thought I couldn’t go on any longer, I heard my father shouting.

COME ON BABY! YOU CAN DO IT! YOU’RE ALMOST HERE! I took a few more strokes, when I felt the wet timber of the raft. I made it. I was so proud of myself but even more proud when I saw my father’s hand reach down to help me on board. We swam to shore together. He swam on his back so he could talk to me. He told me how proud he was of me and how important it was to stay close to the family. I felt I had reached a milestone in my life that day. It was one of those ‘moments’.

It had been a long day for my father and grandfather. After raking; gathering fallen dried tree limbs for kindling and repairing the porch screens, my father and grandfather decided to go fishing to relax. It turned out to be the worst day anyone could have imagined.

My father and grandfather packed a few beers in a cooler and set out on the lake to fish. Sometimes they brought back trout for the evening meal. Sometimes they brought back an empty creel. On that July day, they didn’t come back before the sunset. My mother began to worry around suppertime when they hadn’t returned. It just wasn’t like them. We all stood on the shore gazing out at the lake for any sign. Each of us hoping one of us would see something. The sun was going down soon making it near impossible to navigate their way home. My grandmother started worrying hours before my mother. She didn’t say anything, hoping she was being silly, but the feeling never left her.

My grandmother could not contain her worry any longer. She went inside and made a call to Sid, a neighbor and friend and asked if he and his son would look for Michael and Charley. Sid didn’t even hesitate. Before long Sid and his son set their canoe in the water and searched as long as the light would allow, but found no sign of them.

At sunrise, the next day, Sid and his son set out in search again. My mother and grandmother had been awake all night. They stayed up, each taking turns going to the lake keeping a bonfire lit and yelling out, hoping, if they were lost, they would have an indication of which way to go.

It was just before noon when Sid and his son made the grizzly discovery. The canoe, that carried my father and grandfather, was found floating just inches below the surface of the lake in the Lilly pads. Their bodies were barely visible beneath the Lilly pads, entangled in the grip of the unforgiving weeds. It was the first time in my life I experienced such horror. There were no words, not enough tears, no one to answer why. I could not fathom what death meant, I could not fathom, not ever seeing my father or hearing him whistle to me, or hearing him telling me how proud he was of me. My grandfather’s death was just as difficult for me.

I was young then, but I remember overhearing my grandmother saying that she would not allow pink and white flowers at the funeral because that was the color of the Trojan flowers that took her husband and son, as she referred to my father. Her love for him was unmistakable, a son she never had. If she had a son she said she would have hoped he was exactly like my father, Charley, as she liked to call him. My mother and Grandmother grieved together and yet amid their grieving they never forgot about me. With arms, out stretched, they held me close in the circle of grief. I never felt alone or secondary. We were one.

PART TWO

THE LETTER

The eighty-two acres of lush forest and pristine lake was passed down to my grandmother, a gift from her father Bill.