Blood and Chrysanthemums
Blood and
Chrysanthemums
Nancy Baker
A ChiZine Publications eBook
Epigraph
You say the word
and lips are chilled
by autumn winds
—Matsuo Basho
Dedication
For Richard
Contents
Dedication
Epigraph
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Other CZP eBook titles by Nancy Baker
Copyright
Introduction
It’s my pleasure to introduce the republication of two novels by Nancy Baker, The Night Inside and its sequel, Blood and Chrysanthemums. Both were printed originally in the early nineties. As I recall, that was when editors and other knowledgeable people in publishing were saying, “The vampire vein is played out, it’s been saturated, it’s done.”
Just as they’re always saying, about horror fiction in general and vampire stories in particular. So far, they have always been wrong. Vampires going extinct? They’re not even slowing down! As of this writing, we’ve got pop culture sports vampires in high school all over TV and YA fiction, a Dracula TV series about the count’s efforts to become a steampunk entrepreneur in 19th century London, a boy band called “Vampire Weekend,” vampire “romance” novels coming out of our ears, and many other fangish manifestations.
For those with a streak of dark romanticism—with or without the other side of that coin, a streak of savagery that never sees the light of day except on the printed page or the movie screen—there is nothing as delicious as a dip in the warm and apparently boundless sea of fictional blood and those who take it for their sustenance.
However, that doesn’t mean that readers are such bloody wantons that all it takes to get our pulses pounding is a flash of fang.
For this reader, the particular sub-vein of vampire tales that I don’t read any more is the fictional power struggle within large, complicated vampire societies, secret or open. These societies are modelled on modern notions of feudal authoritarianism, or Freud’s primal horde (both of which tend to produce the brutish structures of the criminal gang), or the nasty-minded hierarchies of Gothicky pop celebs and their worlds of sex, drugs, and drearily unoriginal music (yes, there is good Gothic music, but it’s hard to find; personally, I’m partial to any group with the guts to include a skilled theremin player—at least they make an effort).
None of this sort of world-building takes any imagination. The author can just parcel out titles and territories and oaths of loyalty and hierarchical ambitions among more or less interchangeable vampire characters, and off you go.
Why, they’re just like us at our most childish, but older, more suave, and numbingly dull. Vampire Lineages, Houses, chapters, lodges, battalions, parties, clans, etc. find their plots in a constant jostling for advantage, which to me wears pretty thin pretty fast. I’ve had enough of vampire politics (mostly ruthless infighting with no thought for the population at large) just by living through the past three decades of American history.
So for me, at any rate, the pleasure of vampire stories isn’t politics but evocations of intimacy—the close-in, deeply imagined, mindfully emotional relationships that a writer must stretch herself to create for her semi-supernatural protagonists. I enjoy good stories about individual monsters caught up in and absorbed by their own murkily undead state. What’s the point of being a vampire in a world full of the creatures that you used to be like but upon whom you now prey, if you never give serious thought to what that means—to the staggering psychological displacement from the short, warm, busy life of a human being to a vampiric existence of sharply narrowed concerns but infinitely extended time horizons.
In these two books of Nancy Baker’s you will find just such a story, in the form of a very close study of individual vampires fighting for balance in a chaotic existence that cycles erratically between bestial appetite, coupled with augmented strength, and the tenuous connection to what remains of their original humanity. There is no “vampire society” here. The author places her characters in a situation where vampires are extremely few and far between; the only social structures that matter are human ones, within which they must somehow lead their outsider lives.
The tight focus on character is complemented by a firm grounding of the narratives in Canadian geography—Toronto and Banff, grittily realized to ground the fantastic doings of vampire protagonists in a fresh, realistically evoked setting of Canadian town and city life.
The Night Inside presents us with a young teacher ripped from her ordinary life and thrown into the ongoing battle between a captured vampire and a gang that uses him for exploitative purposes, with even more nefarious ends in mind. The complex relationship that grows between Ardeth and the vampire Rozokov, their dangerous escape and counterattack, is set against Ardeth’s continued entanglement with humans—like her sister, whose closeness with Ardeth is troubled by the normal frictions of sibling-hood.
It’s worth noting that one of the pleasures of these books is the inclusion of significant female characters who are not the dimensionless evil brides of Dracula but persons in their own right: the Nisei medical tech Lisa Takara, Eleanor the librarian, Sara who sings with a band, and others.
There are active supporting male characters as well, with goals and anxieties of their own, so that the central couple doesn’t breathe up all the oxygen in the book. The sense of ordinary life going on around them, life that must be engaged with on more levels than simply securing a meal, is solid and satisfying.
Ardeth, killed and risen as a vampire herself, is a changed person. A rush of power comes with her newfound state, and a joy in shedding her human identity’s constrictions, assumptions, and hesitations. She savours the excitement of the hunt, of a stealthy outlaw existence, and of the erotic enigma of Rozokov, who made her a vampire.
But she’s also still a person. She doesn’t just walk away from the human network that has both bound and nourished her all her life: it’s not that simple, not for most real, functional people, no matter how peculiar they’ve become. Ardeth joins Rozokov in the quest for freedom from their persecutors, but she pursues another, more complex quest too, for intimacy beyond transitory closeness to a person whose blood you want to drink.
In Blood and Chrysanthemums the story is built out from a loose end from the first book—Lisa Takara and what she knows or imagines she knows about these two strange and dangerous beings.
> The sequel begins with a reconnection of the undead lovers to the natural world: Ardeth rock-climbs, Rozokov studies the stars. The couple are living in Banff, a destination for admirers of the majestic outdoors, where self-absorption is challenged by the beauty of vibrant, living nature.
On a more intimate scale, domestic discord inevitably intrudes: jealousy, possessiveness, and disagreement over where and how to live in the human world, together as a couple or alone, as solitary predators. Rozokov has long since been separated from the familiarities of the environment he was born into. Ardeth’s freshly minted shock and confusion is a vivid complement to his more world-weary familiarity with their dilemma: Can you maintain the ruthless pragmatism that ensures the survival of a predator, and also maintain the passionate and vulnerable emotional life that is the essence of the human self? How do you avoid becoming all-monster, all the time, devoted to the stratagems of the hunt and satisfied with them as your central, eternal theme-and-variations—that and nothing more, forever?
Rozokov broods. Well, he is Russian, and he’s had centuries to ruminate over the problem. Ardeth isn’t ready for brooding. She’s young, she’s full of new energy and perceptions, and she wants to find not just answers but solutions. She even tries to return to her old lives—human and vampire—in Toronto, where it all began for her. But nothing is a comfortable fit any more.
So, for company—for the intimacy that any social animal craves—they have each other, in closeness and understanding, but also in anger and mistrust: What can “faithfulness” mean to lovers who live for centuries?
This is a meditative take on vampirism, more exploratory than the first novel. The big questions aren’t scanted while the action of escape, flight, and retribution are foreground.
Big questions like: What am I supposed to do with my long, long life? What gives significance to my isolated existence, running in lonely, secretive parallel to the myriad of brief human lives around me? Do I still have a soul (and so what if I do)? Can I ever find lasting love, peace, and freedom as a bloodsucker chained by necessity to its prey; and is that what I really want?
Becoming a vampire clearly doesn’t let them off the existential hook—far from it.
The plot structure is unusual; a dreamlike quality develops as a new vampire character closes in on the central pair, with their fitful quarrels, joys, and bafflements. Fujiwara, once a Japanese lordling and now a yakuza boss, is much older than even Rozokov, and formed by a very different culture. Does he have some answers?
In Baker’s vampire tale, the melancholy found in so many supernatural protagonists isn’t, really, all that different from the underlying melancholy felt by ordinary humans who think and feel beyond the standard, socially acceptable mores of their day. That’s why it’s so rewarding for a reader to spend time with these characters while they search, through doubt and confusion, for better answers—just like the rest of us.
Finally, the biggest question must be faced: How do I deal with an endless lifetime? What Baker’s vampires come up with in answer is both moving and satisfying.
Suzy McKee Charnas
Albuquerque, New Mexico
January 6, 2014
Chapter 1
Ardeth Alexander hung on the wall, right knee bent to keep her toe balanced on a thin ledge, left toe pressed against the rock. Three fingers of her left hand kept a precarious grip on a tiny ridge, while her right stretched upward in a futile attempt to reach the next hold.
Not quite like the movies, is it? something snickered in the back of her mind. Can’t make like Lee or Langella and crawl face first down the castle wall, can we?
She shifted a little, lifting her right foot along the rock, hunting for some small outcropping that would give her the base she needed for another try. She looked up, but could not see past the point where the wall bent outwards in a sharp overhang.
She could not reach the handhold from the relatively stable position she had assumed. To gain it, she had to get her feet up where her hands were now and use the thrust in her legs to get enough momentum to reach the hold. She’d made it—once. The other times had ended with an undignified dangle from the end of the rope tethered to the harness around her hips.
Ardeth tried not to remember those times as she eased her feet up into the holds. It’s easy, it’s easy, she told herself. Just lunge and grab. You can do it. This body could do it, she knew that. All that was required was that her mind catch up to it, that it forget all the fumbles and failures her old flesh had been heir to.
She sucked in a long breath, felt her muscles bunch and gather. Think about the next hold, up to the right, beyond the curve of the overhang, think about what you can do now, think about the blood and the strength and the night and then GO!
She flung herself up and around, right hand finding the hold, right toe scrabbling on the curve for a shelter that eluded it. Her left hand slapped the rock just below the next hold and began to slip. She felt herself falling, legs tumbling away from the rock and flailing clumsily. The fingers of her right hand clutched at the knob of the rock, spasming with all the strength she had been controlling and she felt the hold shatter.
As it broke, her clawing left hand caught a small hold and she gasped as the weight of her falling body jarred up through her shoulder and wrist.
“Don’t panic,” a voice said from beside her and suddenly everything she had been ignoring swept back into her senses: the voices of the other climbers on the artificial wall, the creak of shoes on the gymnasium floor, the anxious call from her partner on the ground.
Ardeth opened the eyes she hadn’t realized she’d closed and looked to her right. A man rested on his top rope above her, braced against the wall. “Let go. The rope will hold you. You’ll be OK,” he advised. It was true, she knew. The rope from her harness was securely anchored by the weight of the woman who was belaying her. But she shook her head.
“Where’s the next hold?”
“About a foot up, three inches to the right,” he answered automatically. “But . . .”
Let it go, Ardeth told herself. Let it go and fall. But somehow she couldn’t move, not when she was this close, not when she could make it. Even if it took strength she was not supposed to have, strength her unchanging slender arms should not have been able to support. Gritting her teeth, she began to pull herself upward by her left arm. Distantly, she heard the climber’s muttered expletive of disbelief but ignored it, concentrating on bending her elbow. She lifted her right hand and spidered it up the wall, hunting for the promised hold. At last, her fingers found it and curved over the artificial knob of rock set into the wood. Relaxing, the muscles of her left arm screamed in delayed protest.
With her hands secure, she found control of her legs again and lifted her feet to brace them against the holds on the curving wall. Another surge upward and she had cleared the overhang and balanced herself on more secure holds again. As she rested in her harness, she realized that the other climber was still hovering to her right.
“Didn’t think you’d make that last one.” Too elated to be cautious, Ardeth flashed a smile.
“I’m stronger than I look,” she acknowledged. “And I was getting tired of always falling in the same damned place.”
“You’re fighting the curve too much. Let your body go with it and you’ll be fine,” he suggested and she laughed. Like most climbing advice she’d been given on the wall, it was appallingly nebulous, seeming to relate more to some mysterious Zen understanding of the rock than the physics of muscle and gravity.
“I’d have been fine if the bottom hold hadn’t broken.” He twisted to look down and whistled softly.
“First time I’ve ever seen that happen. Peter . . . the manager . . . will have a fit.”
“That isn’t supposed to happen, then? I thought it was just another way of simulating the real world,” Ardeth lied and he shook his head, smiling. “Well, now that I know what it looks
like up here, I suppose I’d better head back down. Thanks for the advice.”
“Any time.” He looked as if he wanted to say more but Ardeth returned to studied concentration of her route down and when she glanced to her right again, he was moving towards the ceiling above her.
Fifteen minutes later she was on the floor, thanking the woman who had taken the time to belay her, stowing her harness and gear into her pack and shrugging her black jacket over her T-shirt and leggings. It was the end of September and the nights in Alberta were chilly and edged with the promise of winter. We’ll be gone before the snow comes, she told herself, but wasn’t sure she believed it.
After changing her shoes, she headed down the halls of the high school towards the exit. It was nearly nine-thirty, closing time for the Thursday evening open climb, and she heard the departing climbers discussing where to meet for coffee or beer and sharing plans for rock climbs in California or alpine treks in the Rockies.
For a moment, she felt isolation wrap around her, chilling her the way the night air no longer could. The fragile sense of kinship she sometimes felt in the gym, the promise that her climbing could become something other than amusing therapy always shattered when it ran into the wall of reality. There was a border here that could not be crossed: the line between day and night, the chasm between what she was and what they were. She could not climb out of the shadows of the truth.
Ardeth shrugged angrily, trying to push away those thoughts. She had taken up climbing in part because it was simple, because there was just you and the goal and only one way up. She needed that clarity, that directness—because nothing had been simple for her since her world had changed forever six months ago. She had to take what she could from it—the physical joy of her new body’s power, the pleasure of the illusion of risk without the reality. Wanting more would just complicate things again.
She pushed through the front doors and took a deep breath of the cool night air, blinked up at the scattering of stars. No need to guess where he would be tonight; clear nights seemed rare enough that he didn’t waste them.