If Morning Never Comes - Episode Fourteen
In Which: Charles Begins a Training Regimen
Welcome back to “If Morning Never Comes,” a serial adventure of gothic peril from and proudly published by .
If this is your first time with this serial story of adventure and peril, start at the beginning! - Episode One | In Which: We Meet the Ashley Family
If you got lost, visit the Table of Contents! - If Morning Never Comes
There are days when the skies above the English moorlands are as constant and turbulent and prismed with as many shades of blue as the sea. It was on such a day as this, with alternately dark and bright clouds roiling overhead and tumbling down to the horizon, that Charles Ashley mounted his freshly-saddled horse and trotted off to meet Herr Stryker at his cottage.
Some days had passed since the perilous evening when Stryker had saved his life and Charles sworn himself to the hunt. He had been eager to begin the next morning, but Stryker sent him home to wait for word from the Raines estate, for any sign that might reveal how Edgar and Amelia would react to the new development.
But despite Eleanor’s daily correspondence with Mr. Raines, there was no indication that anything had changed. So after more than a week of anxious pacing and nervous sleep, Charles finally received a letter from Herr Stryker informing him that he should come on the first sunny day following the letter’s receipt. Charles did not have to wait long. Two days later, the perpetual summer haze gave way to the mottled cloud cover under which he now rode.
Not long into his journey, Charles forsook the main road for a more direct route. He urged his horse to a canter and felt a rush of excitement as his speed increased.
He laughed as he reached to take off his hat. He held it in his hand as he rode. It had been cleaned and repaired (how John had scolded!), and Charles felt new as well. The wind carried him over hills and past bunches of grass and sudden rocks. The sun was invisible behind a gown of clouds, but the day was bright, the moor a summery green. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he felt free from worry.
Of course, he understood that this sentiment might not be entirely warranted. Rather than improving, things around him had become notably worse. His relationship with Amelia had – well, hit a rough patch. It was unlikely her brother was very happy with that. He only hoped Mr. Raines was unaware of how closely involved he was. His mother and sisters remained enthralled to the tall, dark Edgar. Especially Eleanor, who still had not forgiven him for spoiling their last visit. And of course, more to the point, there were vampires stalking the moor. Everyone he knew was in danger, not only of death but of becoming a walking corpse, enslaved to the whims of a heartless demon.
Yet all of this only stirred Charles’ blood and brought a smile to his face. He was no spectator in this game, he was in the arena. Just over the rise he saw the home of Georg Stryker, the man who would teach him to hunt these creatures and save those he loved. At last he had a purpose, a direction in which to aim his fire and aggression. He would save them. He would drive the wicked from his home and restore peace to the countryside.
And despite the warnings, despite his promise to Stryker, he would save Amelia as well. She may have come for his blood, but she had won his heart. He would save her from her horrid brother, as she had called him. He dismounted his horse, boots quietly thudding on the tough grass. He replaced his hat on his head and strode to the door, patting his horse’s neck as he did so.
He knocked and turned for another look at the lovely sky. Even the heavens were excited, active, ready. No, all was not well. Only his friendship with Miss Tarrant remained relatively unscathed, but Charles was up to the challenge. He knocked again on Stryker’s door. Whatever his life would become, it began with this. He took another deep breath and sighed, grateful for the beautiful morning.
Herr Stryker opened the door and grunted, “Good.” He stepped outside and shut the door behind him. “Come with me.”
He strode quickly and Charles was obliged to walk his horse. Stryker was dressed in only trousers and a shirt, black suspenders showing. His hair was mussed and erect. He looked as though he had not slept much the night before. Charles assumed he had been strategizing. He was eager to join the process.
But Stryker said nothing as they walked behind the cottage onto the open moor. Behind Stryker’s house the ground was flat, extending for hundreds of yards. There was a single twisted tree far in the distance, Charles did not know what kind. He had never been interested that sort of thing.
The old man’s silence made him anxious. He had so many questions. But if he had learned anything about Georg Stryker it was that forthrightness was the only attitude the man respected.
“Is it true that vampires can read minds?” he asked.
Stryker scoffed his characteristic, “Heh!” and spat to one side, “That sounds like the kind of rumor they’d begin.”
“Can they fly?”
Stryker looked sideways at him as he walked, “No.”
Charles laughed, “Do you not think that a little information about our enemy might be helpful?”
Stryker slowed to a stop and started examining the ground. “I am sure that it would, but there is plenty of time for that.”
Charles moved the reins from one hand to the other as his horse moved past him on one side. “What’s wrong with right now?”
Stryker sighed and continued to examine the turf behind his house, “What do you want to know?”
Charles thought, then spoke, “Can vampires really turn into bats?”
Stryker paused and cocked his head, then shook it, “I’ve never met one that could.”
“But you’ve heard of one?”
Stryker shrugged, “When certain legends are as persistent as that one, it’s unlikely that there is not a grain of truth at the bottom of it.”
“Really?” asked Charles, intrigued.
“Vampires have many tendencies that can only be explained by supernatural abilities. Their ability to slip through any space, however small or appear suddenly in locked upper rooms.”
“No one bothered us the other night,” observed Charles.
Stryker only said, “Garlic.”
Charles nodded, but he still had not drawn the German fully into the conversation. “Anything else I should know?”
Stryker sighed with a rasp in his throat, exasperated. He was more grumpy than usual this morning, “They have no reflection in a mirror, they cannot pass over running water and they cannot abide the sign of the cross. And they cannot enter any dwelling unless they are invited.”
Charles’ cheerful smile lost a bit of its energy, “My mother invited both Edgar and Amelia into our home.”
Stryker gave a wry chuckle, “More is the pity.”
“Could we rescind the invitation?” asked Charles.
“Heh!” laughed Stryker, “If it were only that easy. Now!” He held out a hand for the reins to Charles’ horse. Charles obliged. The German indicated the long flat open ground behind the cottage. “Run to that tree.”
Charles frowned, “I beg your pardon?”
“And back.”
Charles gauged the distance. It was far. Farther than he had run at a single go since he was a boy. He turned to the German. He was not joking.
“Herr Stryker, what–“
Stryker turned on him with fire in his bloodshot eyes, “Run, boy!”
Charles tried to take off like a shot, but he grew tired long before any projectile would have. He ran, but as he felt his breath grow short he knew that he was not making very good time. The tree just bounced up and down as he put one foot in front of the other. It did not seem to get any closer.
About two thirds of the way there he felt a pain in his side like a bee sting or three. He held it but kept going. He approached the tree, but his heart sank as he realized he was only halfway there – he would have to run back. He leaned on the crooked tree and heaved for a moment. He could see Stryker waiting in the distance for him. Why did it look so much farther going back? But in a moment of inspiration he realized that he was going to have to work hard in order to take the hunt seriously and so he lurched forward and began his stuttered sprint back to the house.
He stumbled the last few steps and then bent over, hands on his knees. He was blown, but he had made it. Charles was proud of himself. He looked up and saw Stryker shaking his head and eyeing him like a stable that needed mucking. Charles had a bad premonition.
“What?” he asked in between gasps.
“Nothing,” said Stryker. He leaned forward and slapped Charles on the shoulder. “Come on, stand up.”
Charles stood and put his hands on his hips. He coughed once and then swallowed, taking a big breath through his nose. Stryker watched.
After a minute he asked, “Are you ready?”
“For what?” asked Charles.
“To do it again,” said Stryker, who looked surprised that Charles had to ask.
“What?” gasped Charles, “Why?”
“And take your shoes off, you can’t run in those clogs. And give me your hat and jacket. You’re here to work, not parade yourself.”
Charles was mortified. He had tried to impress Stryker with his wardrobe for his first day. He felt his face grow hot, and he lashed out to cover his embarrassment.
“Here now, what is this? I thought we were on a hunt.”
“We are,” said Stryker, his hand extended to take Charles’ hat.
Charles persisted, “You want me to run? If they’re so much faster than we are, why bother?”
“Because I told you to.”
“Oh, that’s fine!” snorted Charles, “As long as you said so, Herr Stryker.”
Stryker’s hand clenched with a single finger pointing in Charles’ face. “Did you not swear to do everything that I asked?”
“Well yes,” said Charles, “but that was for – something else, I don’t know. Something serious.”
“So if I had asked you to storm Raines manor you would have done it?”
“I...“ Charles was cut off.
“If you cannot follow simple orders, how do you expect to follow the difficult ones?”
Charles had no answer for that. He eyed the distance he had just run. Stryker opened his hand again, palm up. Charles kicked off his shoes and handed Stryker his hat and other formal wear until he was comfortable in shirt and trousers.
He balled up his stockings into his shoes, which Stryker placed against the wall.
“I thought we’d be practicing with swords or something.”
“Heh!” laughed Stryker, “Never let your reliance on tools keep you from mastering your body.”
“What does that mean?” asked Charles, exasperated.
Stryker squared to face him, “It means, go!”
Again Charles began the run, slower than the last time. His optimism was fading fast. He tried to focus on getting enough air in his lungs to keep moving. The tree was coming up and he looked forward to the moment’s break he would get. But this time when he leaned on the crooked trunk he heard a loud, “Keep going!” carried over the wind. With a wheeze he started back.
He made it back to Stryker and walked the last few steps. Stryker did not like that either.
“Come on boy, finish it!”
Charles skipped the last step or two then collapsed onto the ground on his back. He took a breath and thought he might stay there forever.
Then he received a boot in his side, not gentle.
“Get up! For heaven’s sake, Charles, who’s the old man here, anyway?”
Charles’ words came in spurts, “You couldn’t do any better.”
Stryker laughed through his magnificent mustache. Apparently watching Charles suffer had brightened his mood. “Come on boy, at least sit up.”
Charles sat up and clasped his hands around his knees to support himself. He stared up at the cranky German. He was beginning to have second thoughts about this whole thing. Stryker stepped in front of him. He had released the horse, who was calmly grazing nearby.
“Speed,” Stryker began, “will save your life in this business.”
The younger man spat out a sticky string of saliva that didn’t quite make it out of his mouth. He wiped it with a sleeve.
Stryker continued, “When I said that they were fast, I was not just being facetious.” He squatted and looked Charles in the eye, gesticulating with his hands as he spoke. “Our goal is to never directly engage one of these creatures. We work in shadows and silence – stalking, not fighting. The disadvantage we face in combat with a vampire is too great.”
Charles almost forgot his fatigue as he grew absorbed into Stryker’s lesson.
“However,” said Stryker, “combat is often unavoidable. In that case, speed is our greatest disadvantage. They dash and jump and slash faster than the eye can follow. All we can hope to do in such cases is react quickly. We will never be as fast as they are, but we can learn to mitigate our shortcomings.”
Stryker stood and held out a hand to Charles. He grabbed the weather-beaten palm and rose. He stood taller than Stryker, but felt decidedly younger.
“I know you want to practice with swords and pistols,” Charles nodded, but Stryker shook his head. “But even a master swordsman would be out of his league against a vampire. I will teach you to use those things – every self-respecting man should be able to handle a gun – but if you do not have the agility and endurance to keep clear until your opportunity presents itself, weapons will not help you.”
Charles understood. But that gave him no comfort. He looked at the distant tree, growing farther away every second. Stryker saw his glance and bunched up his mustache in a sly smile.
“So! To build speed and gain fortitude, you will run today. To the tree and back.” He walked to the horse.
Charles closed his eyes slowly then opened them, “How many times?”
Stryker retrieved the reins, “Until you throw up.”
Charles whirled around, “What?”
Stryker began to lead his horse to the stables. He sputtered and tried to protest but the German kept walking. Charles turned to the tree and whimpered. The clouds had slowed to gentle ripples. He exhaled and bounced, starting off for the tree again.
Not quite an hour later, Charles leaned against the wall of the house, gasping out ragged breaths. He lifted his head and stared at that infernal tree. It was tall enough that the branches did not knock against his head, and from this distance he could see that it grew at an angle, deformed and windblown after surviving many stormy nights.
Charles wheezed and coughed, trying to catch his breath. Gone was any appreciation of the morning’s glory or excitement at his new apprenticeship. All that remained was exhaustion. He was tired, and there was a terrible taste in his mouth. And he wasn’t done.
It was clear to him now that Georg Stryker was well and truly insane. What kind of teacher put their student through such agony? Perhaps it was a German trait, left over from his bitter marriage and childhood. He realized these thoughts were uncharitable, but he had never been one to censor his own musings.
The wind blew in his hair, chilling the sweat that soaked his skin. He was grateful. The moor stretched out beyond sight or imagination. No one was around. He was alone. He thought of how easy it would be to sneak to Stryker’s small stable and mount his horse. He could be home before anyone even noticed that he’d been gone.
He wanted to leave, there was no doubt about that. But at the same time, he wanted to stay; to continue the hunt with Herr Stryker. But that meant running until he vomited, and he most certainly did not want to do that. And if he did what he wanted and went home, he would be left to muddle through with his awful family – who more and more were tied to the monstrous Edgar Raines. He certainly did not want that. When he thought about it that way, it was clear what he needed to do. But in order to do that, he needed to run. To the tree and back. Again.
He stood up and put his hands on the small of his back. The pressure relaxed him. His legs were sore, but recovered after the short break. He exhaled through loose lips. He groaned inwardly because he knew what was coming. He had made no conscious decision but he knew he was going to do it. He was not going home, he was not going to quit. He had no choice, too much was at stake. And besides, what sort of fop deserts after the first day?
Charles began to mutter to himself as he shifted from one leg to the other, “I don’t want to do this, I don’t want to do this.” He coughed and continued his mantra, starting to bounce on his toes.
“I really don’t want to do this.”
Then, determined to run himself sick, he lit out for the distant tree.
Shortly after, he opened the heavy wooden front door and made his way inside. His legs were wobbly and his chest burned from all his rasping and gasping. He staggered towards the kitchen.
He came in and saw Stryker setting the table for lunch. He smiled.
“Already?”
Charles grunted and sat down on the bench. Stryker placed a tall glass of water in front of him.
“Drink.”
Charles needed no further encouragement. He downed the whole thing. He felt light-headed. He needed to eat. Stryker placed a sandwich in front of him and went to refill the cup. Charles tucked in. As Stryker walked back he tsked and hit Charles on the back of the head.
“Thank the Lord for your food, Charles.”
Charles glowered at the old man then prayed a silent prayer that may or may not have included an imprecation against the old man and his mustache.
Stryker sat down, “This is spiritual work, boy. We must look after our souls as well as our bodies and minds.”
Again Charles looked up and glared at the man. The German caught his glance and smiled wide, laughing in his throat. Charles broke eye contact and returned to his food.
After a few minutes he began to feel better. The food was settling, and he was no longer breathing heavily. His throat still burned but the water helped. Stryker was cleaning up the dishes.
He had determined never to speak to Georg Stryker again, but now that his belly was full he felt more magnanimous.
“Was that really necessary, Herr Stryker?”
Without turning, Stryker said, “Hand to hand with a vampire is exhausting, my boy. You’ll run out of energy, and quickly. When you find yourself having to jump, roll, sprint, dive to the ground and get back up over and over and over again to avoid the attacks of a hellish creature of the night,” he turned his head and winked, “you’ll thank me for this morning.”
“Did you really need to make me throw up?”
Stryker laughed and turned around, drying his hands with a towel. “Why, did you not enjoy it?”
“That was the hardest thing I’ve ever done,” Charles complained.
“Oh, I hardly think so,” chuckled Stryker. “The difficulty was not physical.”
“Was it not?” Charles spat out the sarcasm.
“The task,” explained Stryker, “was mental. A test of will. To see if you were able to push yourself past what you thought you were capable of. You were. I hope you learned something about yourself.”
Charles thought for a moment. He had come so close to quitting today, yet here he was. When he thought about it, he was surprised at how long he had been able to run. A mad part of him wondered if he was faster now than he had been before and how long it would take him to run to that tree and back if he were rested. He still was not happy with Stryker, but he supposed this day hadn’t been a total loss.
“Well,” he said, “it still wasn’t enjoyable.”
“Most things that are worthwhile are not,” said Stryker. “At least at first.”
Charles nodded and hummed in agreement, then rose. “Well, I suppose I’d better be getting home, then. I’ll need my rest for tomorrow.”
Stryker did not even let him finish the sentence before bursting out laughing. He beckoned with a hand and led Charles into the workshop. For a moment Charles grew excited at what he might see, but then Stryker pointed to the wooden stool in the corner. It was surrounded by wood shavings, and a tall stack of crudely carved poles sat on the ground next to it.
Stryker pointed to the stool, “Sit.”
Charles sat. Whatever it was, at least he would not be running.
Stryker handed Charles a short knife, handle first, “Do you know how to use this?”
Charles took it and nodded slowly, afraid of what he was agreeing to. Stryker reached to the pile of staves and handed one to Charles. It was about a yard long, maybe less. Charles took it.
Stryker walked to the door and called out before he closed it, “Make sure the points are sharp enough to prick your finger. We’ll need at least a hundred.”
