Adult-FanFiction.org : Books

Sound of the Fiddle	By : Gwyndolyn Category: Twilight Series > General Views: 4517 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight or make any money from this story.

Chapter List
- 5
- 6
Grandmother sat chewing tobacco before the bonfire, twitching her fingers on her knees in time to the guitar strumming quickly across the small circle of gypsies gathered in communion round the flames. Dulal was sitting hunched over beside grandmother, his chest resting on a log topped with two thick pillows as he watched with sparkling eyes the forms of two girls rising from the grass to dance in circles around each other and the fire. Drums padded away an alluring rhythm, one man singing with chirping, moaning, throaty noises atop the melody strummed by the guitar.

I smiled as the singing man looked my way and nodded his head toward the fiddle lying across my lap. I lifted it to my chin and ran the bow across the strings as the first note streamed out and changed. I let the bow drag smoothly across the tired strings; the sound reaching the night was more of a moaning sound than a melody. But I loved it with all of my heart and as the guitar quickened its pace, I hastened the pulling of the bow across the neck of my instrument until we joined together in a simultaneous harmony. I rose to my feet, letting my body sway with the rhythm of the fiddle bow. The singing man continued his song, the drum beat grew heavier and louder, and another drum sounded up—it was higher and quicker. I laughed, twirling where I stood as I established a set melody and let my own song ring out into the night. It was beautiful, as were all my songs to my own ears. Tonight, however, I felt that this song was more special than others in the past, though I could not think why. I flicked the bow across the fiddle strings in one last refrain, trying to spit the melody out as fast as I could, laughing as I eventually tripped over the edge of the neck and could not regain my rhythm.

“Sing!” Grandmother called, but I shook my head, handing over my bow and fiddle to her gently. She laughed and took them, whispering for me to sing, for my voice would not trip as my bow had done. But I shook my head once more and rose, joining the dancing girls as they frolicked around the fire. I was wearing my most favored pale blue petticoat and beaded slippers I had brought with me from a journey to Egypt. I was happy as I raised my arms over my head and twirled round and round to the beat of the drums pounding in the night, the warmth of the fire cascading over my body, the cool night air catching my black hair.

It had been nearly a month since Dulal and I had been attacked by the creatures in the dark alley ways of London and since then, neither of us had returned. We were too worried that they would see us again or would… sense us. We knew stories of their kind from various countries across the world to which we had traveled, and we knew of what they could be capable. We felt safer with our own kind, so that was where we stayed. Besides, it was comforting not to worry about the speculation and accusing glares of the citizens of the city when they looked upon us with disdain.

On clear, cool summer nights like this, the caravan would build a fire and play music and dance to enjoy the beauty of the night. We were far enough out of the city that no one could hear us play our music and sing, or not well enough to be bothered by us, at least. I wove my hands over my head as the music lulled on and gradually the guitar slowed down immensely to a strumming hum. The drums patted slower and slower, quieter and quieter. I turned to Dulal who was standing with his arms crossed before his chest. He was smiling and I laughed, walking closer to him.

Dulal reached out his hand and I took it, swinging it back and forth absent mindedly as the music continued to play behind me. “Do you like what you see?” I grinned. Dulal snickered, casting my hand away and I laughed. His twinkling eyes always made me smile. “Come walk with me. The music is too loud.”

“You looked as if you were enjoying it well enough.” Dulal replied, narrowing his eyes.

“Yes, but it is a beautiful night.” I said. “And I am your best friend. You do as I say.” Dulal laughed and shoved me away with a mocking hand on my shoulder.

“Is that so?” He asked, amused. I nodded, shrugging my shoulders. He leaned in and kissed my cheek, wrapping his arms tight around my shoulders, but his breath smelled a little of very strong ale. “Your grandmother might get the wrong idea, Rabhya…” I crinkled my nose. Thinking of anything so intimate with Dulal was awkward, and he would not say anything so suggestive for fear of feeling awkward, so I knew then that he was indeed a little drunk.

“You’re drunk.” I said; my nose was still crinkled. He blew into my face and I nearly gagged, but laughed and cast myself away from him. “Ugh, never you mind!” I chuckled. “I shall go alone.” But I wouldn’t go far I told myself.

With grandmother distracted by the music and dancing, and Dulal too merry to think of any reason to object to my wandering off alone, I made a quick and easy retreat—after snatching up my fiddle—from the smothering, watchful eyes of my clan. They were all worried since the attack Dulal and I had faced in London, but in the countryside away from the dark alleys and streets, where my eye could see for miles, I did not feel as if there was any threat. I tied my skirts between my legs and tied them into make-shift trousers so that I could walk easier. Nearby, there was an ancient mausoleum that had been weathered down to nothing more than a massive pile of boulders and stones. Beyond it, there was the shore of the river Thames with cat tails that grew on the shore. It was quiet there, with the sounds of music quietly humming in the background, but I could still see the distinct shapes of the dancers and even of grandmother sitting at the head of the circle of merrymakers.

The rocks of the ancient mausoleum were slippery with moss and moisture from the nearby river, and I slipped once, nicking my knee on the edge of one sharp rock. It was not terribly painful, but I hissed and licked my thumb, pressing it against the scrape on the cap of my knee. Taking very little mind to the abrasion, I continued climbing up the rocks. When I reached the top, I pulled my fiddle out of my knotted up apron and lifted it to my chin.

I dragged the bow across it slowly as I had done earlier that night. The sound that came from it was low and melancholy and I wiggled my finger across the string so that the sound vibrated slowly and sounded very much like weeping. I smiled to myself. There was nothing in my heart but happiness for the beauty of that night, and yet the only song that could come forth from the strings of my instrument was mournful.

The wind began to blow and it became increasingly cooler as I sat atop the ruins of the old mausoleum playing my fiddle. I did not usually mind the cold, but my skin began to crawl with shivers, so I stopped playing my fiddle and reached around to pull my shawl out of the folds of my skirt where it had been safely tucked away. But as I pulled the warm wool fabric around my shoulders, it caught the wind and flew out of my hands.

I cursed, rising carefully to my feet. I watched the blue cloth soar over the wind into the nearby trees of the outstretched wood and within the dark shadows of these trees I saw if alight on the ground, safe from the cold claws of the wind. The wood was very dark, however, and I was hesitant to retrieve my shawl for I the dark made my heart beat fast and made my skin crawl. Since I was small, I was afraid to go into dark places for I was more vulnerable, I suppose was the reason, and did not know what might be lurking where I could not see. Out in the moonlight there was dark, but the moon shed enough light for me to see and so I was not ever afraid. The trees of the forest, however, were thick and menacing at night and there were too many shadows moving in the darkness to provide me with any solace. The wind blew once more and I shivered. I looked over my shoulder to the bonfire behind me where my friends and companions were drunk with revelry. I wondered briefly if they were too drunk to realize how cold it had gotten, but, as another cold wind struck me, I looked back to the dark forest with some resolve. I did not think it would be as enjoyable of a time if my night was spent in a drunken stupor like the rest of the caravan, so I reasoned with myself a little—if anything wanted to harm me, I had been out in the open long enough for it to do so, so surely there was not anything to be frightened of.

I swallowed, and wrapped my arms around myself as I hung my head and stiffened my body as if I were forming a shell of protection against anything I was unaware of. I hopped down the massive pile of stones—easier going down than going up—and trotted toward the forest in a brisk walk, keeping my eyes locked on my blue shawl lying on the forest floor.

When I came to the edge of the trees, I sighed in relief and sank to my knees, reaching forward with my pale hand to retrieve my shawl. As I did so a sudden rush of cold wind caught the light wool fabric and tossed the shawl into the air once more, carrying it farther into the trees. I let my jaw drop slightly in the exasperation I felt and my heart sank. I was nervous enough at the edge of the dark trees; I did not want to go farther into their depths.

I rose to my feet. Clutching my skirt, I walked stiffly into the trees, lowering my eyes to the ground so I would not spook myself seeing the shadows of the trees dancing g around as if of their own accord by the light of the moon. What if there were spirits in those shadows, I thought, feeling myself grow cold. What if they were waiting for me to come to them? Was my pretty blue shawl really worth my life? Ridiculous, I was being ridiculous. I quickened my pace and lifted my eyes enough to see where my shawl had landed exactly, for I did not think it had been carried this far into the wood. I saw it hanging on a low branch some twenty yards before me and grumbled to myself with agitation. I was frightening myself and I was causing myself unneeded stress.

The shadows danced around me, spindly arms and fingers reaching out in exaggerated lengths as if to pull me closer to them. I stayed as well exposed to moonlight as I could, skipping from where it shone through in wide patches through the boughs of the wood high over my head. I kept my eyes as focused as possible on my shawl hanging in the distance, determination set on my brow, though I could feel my heart beat faster and faster the farther into the trees I walked. I knew something was there for me to be frightened of, though I tried to reason with my fears and disprove them. The noise I heard before me was just a branch creaking in the wind, or the glint of reflected light that flashed in the distance after I had gone at least ten feet deeper into the trees was just a firefly or the eye of some small animal reflecting the moon’s light. Something deep within was urging me to forget my shawl. This feeling made my skin crawl and grow deathly cold, sweat beading on my shoulders and neck. I felt a lump in my throat that I had to swallow, and tears began to well in my eyes.

Then, to add to the terror that was slowly growing my chest, as I looked upon my blue shawl blowing in the wind while it hung on the low branch of an oak tree not twenty feet before me, The cloth was tugged—not blown—off of the branch and suspended In midair beneath a flood of moonlight pouring through the thick canopy of branches, directly in my path. Something was then looking upon me; I could feel eyes watching me and I felt my body tingle with fear. I was planted to the ground where I stood. Even though I wanted to, I could not move my feet from my own patch of moonlight I stood veiled in. It was then I longed to retreat into the shadows, out of viewing range of the creature staring at me when I could see nothing of it. The groping shadows of the blowing boughs and branches seemed to be calling me to safety now that I was faced with a danger in the light I had considered my safety in this terrible, dark wood.

The shawl bobbled up and down in the air as its fabric blew in the wind. As the cloth parted and swayed to and fro, I could see a shape standing behind it, out of the moonlight. From what my eyes could make out in the darkness it was a human form holding my shawl, or something of human form. My mind began to wander. The darkness and shadows reminded me of something that had happened not long ago. The danger which I knew I was in was a familiar feeling as well, different from a normal feeling of flight and fear: this was a crippling, life draining terror that entranced my terrified mind. I lifted my eyes and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. My fingers were trembling and had gone numb.

“H-hello…” I called, and to my dismay my voice ripped through my lips with a trembling whimper that made me ashamed to call myself a gypsy. I should know how to get myself out of danger, or at least to stay out of it in the first place. I cleared my throat. “Who is there?” I sounded stronger this time and lifted my chin, squaring off my shoulders.

There was a long silence.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~~*~*~*~*

The first attempt he failed to kill himself—great heights could not tear apart his body of cold, hard stone.

The second time he tried to kill himself he failed as well. There was no ocean deep enough to crush his lungs if he had no need of breath.

How could something be killed that was nothing but a soulless corpse? He could try to find another of his kind and beg to be killed, for that was the only thing he knew could kill him, save for starvation.

Starvation would provide the most painful, agonizing death—the only death that Carlisle knew he could bring upon himself. Therefore, the miserable young vampire swore that he would starve before he drank the blood of any human, for he was so revolted by what he had unwillingly become: a monster. He himself did not wish to die, but he knew that he must do what was right for the humans which he had once been part of and for whom he still held a dear spot in his stagnant heart. Disgust and anguish compelled him to decide that he would starve to death, thus ridding London and its people of his monstrous existence.

It had been nearly a month’s time since Carlisle’s change when he decided upon his fate. And to keep himself true to his word, he decided also that he would leave London and go to the country to keep temptation from him. He knew of a place where there were no humans for miles and the river was wide and deep. If he died in the country, no one would ever find him and all would be well, for then his father could continue to believe that his son had perished long before with his hunting troop and had gone to Heaven there to dwell eternally for doing God’s work of ridding England of evil. How ironic that Carlisle now saw himself as a demon.

Late in the month of June, when the wind was foreign and blowing out of the north, Carlisle left London in the dark of night and fled to the countryside miles from the city walls. He ran swiftly and the landscape passed in moments until he came to a dark wood that stretched to the shore of the Thames and for miles the opposite way. In this forest Carlisle retreated, his heart heavy that he should have to exile himself. There was nothing that could bring him solace now, nothing that could make his heart happy.

There came a sound over the wind that he recognized from what seemed like a long ago forgotten distant past: music—violin and fiddle.

Carlisle hid between two trees and sought out the source of the music. It was a gypsy camp not far from where he stood, close enough that he could smell the alcohol they had consumed in great quantities, and the scent of it mingling with the blood in their veins.

Damn. Humans.

Carlisle sighed and leaned his head back against the tree, closing his eyes, willing himself not to breathe or intake the scent of their drunken revelry. But he could hear the music still and the sound of the fiddle rang particularly clear to him, more beautiful than the sound of the other instruments, which seemed to beat away unconsciously. The fiddle mourned and chirped, changing moods like a woman or the sea.

Suddenly, Carlisle was struck with a memory from his human past: He remembered a girl with hair as black as night and eyes green and mournful who once sat on the steps of a great church and played her fiddle. Her eyes seared his mind and once he remembered their stare, he could not put them from his mind.

“Damn it all to Hell!” Carlisle cursed, pounding his fist into the tree upon which he leaned. He could not escape the smell of human blood, and now he had the image of that beautiful, helpless human girl whom he had saved, and for whom his thirst now longed, as if it, too, remembered her vulnerability.

He was about to turn and leave when he heard the sound of footsteps apart from those of the dancing gypsies. Apart from that, he had not realized the fiddle ceasing to play. The vampire turned. Then, in the moonlight out in the open field, he saw the figure of a young woman walking slowly through the grass to a pile of crumbled rocks and boulders. She climbed atop the debris and lifted a fiddle to her chin.

Carlisle started and looked more intently. He saw a round face framed with thick, black hair, and slender arms dragging the bow across her instrument, but he could not see her fully, for she turned and closed her eyes, so intent was she in playing her song. Carlisle smiled grimly. He wanted to meet her, to approach her, but as he thought about the helpless girl sitting out in the open, his mind dwelt on her vulnerability more than it should have and soon his thirst began to rise in his throat. The venom seared his throat and his stomach turned over in hunger. He had not fed in a month and his eyes were black, he knew, heavy with his distress.

He shook his head, turning away, telling himself to break free of his hunger. “None of this…” He said over and over, running his fingers nervously through his hair. “No more… leave her be.” He glanced over his shoulder as the north wind began to blow once more and her scent was carried along with it past Carlisle as he stood amid the trees, crumpled slightly in distress and immense, painful hunger. Her scent was intoxicating, the same heady, thick smell as every other human’s blood, but she wore scented oils and perfumes from exotic places which enhanced her smell to a higher degree. Carlisle breathed deep when he should not have and the weak defense of the sane part of his mind was to quickly overridden by the new, starving, maniacal part which longed for that girl’s blood.

His pale fingers dug into the bark of the tree against which he leaned as his mind battled with his desire for blood. The young vampire coughed as venom bubbled in the back of his throat, trickling into his dry, hot mouth, burning his parched tongue. He had never felt such a terrible hunger nor thirst in all his life, and he had never imagined the agonies they brought until he was forced—by his own will, even—to endure them. He told himself he would not drink of human blood, that he would go unnoticed to human kind, but this girl’s blood scent was strong enough to pull his vampire senses to the forefront of his battling mind and they were victorious over the little bit of sanity that was trying desperately to stay alive.

“Just one small taste…” Carlisle heard himself growl to no one, and the hissing sound that issued from his throat shocked him. But the smell of the girl playing her fiddle was enough to repress his shock.

Another gust of cold north wind brought her scent floating past Carlisle once more, only this time with her scent was blown her blue shawl. The light fabric floated over the wind until it alighted on the forest floor not a stone’s throw from where Carlisle stood. He jumped quickly into the shadows as he saw the girl’s gaze follow where her scarf had landed, though she seemed hesitant to retrieve it. She felt the danger that was waiting for her should she venture into the forest, no doubt, Carlisle smirked. He was another creature now, and he was going to wait for the girl to walk into the trees far enough for him to catch her without allowing anyone else to hear her moan or cry out or see what he would do to her. All he wanted was her blood, to touch her intoxicating flesh, to run his fingers through her thick black hair. Had it been any of the other gypsy girls wearing perfume s they tromped past him alone and in the dark of night, he would have wanted them just as bad as this girl.

Eventually, the girl summoned up enough nerve to hop lightly down from her perch on the pile of boulders and with her arms wrapped around her round shoulders and her black head bowed she walked stiffly to the trees, looking only high enough to keep an eye on where her pretty blue scarf was lying.

Carlisle stood far enough from her that she would not see him with her dull human eyes, though he was watching her every move intently. She bent down and reached for her prize, but another gust of wind caught it up in the air and blew it farther into the trees, far enough that she would be out of sight to anyone who might be keeping an eye on her from the gypsy camp. She paused at the edge of the trees, thinking.

Carlisle growled deep and low in his throat in agitation, his fingers ripping the fabric of his doublet in anticipation as he watched the girl ponder whether or not it was safe to ignore the tugging feeling she was no doubt feeling as it begged her to return to the safety of her campfire. How he longed to lose control and leap out and take her by force, pulling her limb from limb, feeling her warm blood on his fingers, on his dry lips. HE had to clench his fingers into the bark of a tree to keep himself from ambushing her.

She walked into the trees, obviously trying to be careful that she stayed in the light. The little thing was frightened of the shadows! Carlisle grinned darkly, knowing that the shadows were the least she should be afraid of. He walked back as she continued forward, staying always out of sight but watching her closely. When she drew near to where her scarf was snagged on a low hanging branch, Carlisle saw his opportunity and with shadowy stealth approached her possession and lifted it from the branch carefully so as not to expose himself. He nearly burst out in laughter at the look of absolute terror that replaced her nervous, downturned brow. She lifted her face to look closer at her shawl. The wind blew hair from before her face and she tucked it behind her ear.

His breath hitched, and he staggered forward a bit out of shock. Carlisle tried not to gasp, but the girl’s face was the face of the girl he remembered from the steps of the church where she had been persecuted for playing her pagan tunes. The piercing green eyes stared upon him, wide and frightened like they had been that day when he saved her, and even now they tore at his heartstrings.

“H-hello…” She said meekly, and Carlisle’s heart nearly broke as he heard her little voice tremble and break. The monster within him began to retreat as the memory of the day he saved the girl returned to him and grew stronger. “Who is there?”

Carlisle opened his mouth to speak, but he stopped, lowering his eyes. The only reason he had lured her far into the forest was to kill her. He had not known who this girl was, and now there was no way in heaven that he would be able to slay her, not when the memory of rescuing her from danger was so poignant in his mind. For a half a moment he faltered. He felt icy cold walls of stone melt away and when she unknowingly caught his gaze, her eyes caused him such a thrilling rush that his stagnant heart might have started beating once more. What would he do? She could not see him like this!

“You there.” Her voice was stronger, and in Carlisle’s distraction he had actually been unaware that she had come a few steps closer. Terrified that she would see him, he dropped the cloth and retreated into the shadows.

“No, wait!” She called, chasing after him. “Who are you?”

“Leave this wood!” Carlisle said back, his voice barely over a whisper, but the girl did not move back. Instead, she leaned forward and let the shadows engulf her as she peered into Carlisle’s black eyes. Then, her eyes grew wider—if that was possible—as she seemed to recognize who she was staring at.

“Before I kill you… “

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~**~*~*~**~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

My heart was beating so fast that I thought it might explode, the sanity within me telling me not to go any closer to the strange, shadowy man who had lured me into the forest. After all, what good would come of getting to close to a stranger who lures young girls into dark forests at night as he hides in the shadows? Something inside would not let me turn around and run—something told me that was pointless. I could not help but be drawn into whatever force that was emanating from him, even though I somehow knew I was going to die.

Fight or flight? Fight was not an option. Flight… something warned me against that as well.

What else was there to do? Stare and that was all. So I stared into those pitch black eyes staring right back at me, set against pale, colorless skin as my heart pounded against my rib cage.

I heard him threaten my life, but I still couldn’t turn and run. I already knew he was going to kill me, that I had no chance of survival, so what point was there in running?

The man was familiar, but he was not the same person as I remembered, and I could not remember who he was—or reminded me of—in the beginning. His black eyes tore into my soul—they were heavy and deep and sad—with such an intense ferocity that as I saw him stand before me, he changed into an animal and I knew he was prepared to attack. His deathly pale skin and shaded black eyes bore the likeness of one young man whom I had met in most fateful events, but his predatory stare made me think of another creature whom had met me: the vampire from the dark alley in London on that haunting night nearly a month in the past.

“I pray thee…!” I managed to whisper, my voice barely audible to my own ears. Too frightened to curse myself for my weakness, I continued to plead with the man: “You are…” I stopped myself as I began to ask if he was a vampire. I thought I knew the answer already.

The man looked at me, his intense gaze softening with each passing second as he seemed to be pondering something silently. Then, with a quick, soft sigh he replied: “Yes.” And his entire form seemed to recoil into the shadows.

I nodded. “Your name… Carlisle?”

“You remember me.” He stated, stepping closer to me with a slightly outstretched hand, but he was quick as the wind that blew over the trees and his sudden advance caught me by surprise and I screamed, caught myself nearly through the scream and covered my mouth, stumbling backward against a tree. He seemed to recoil again, but instead came closer with another quick movement and became totally immersed in moonlight streaming down from a patch of thin leaves over our heads.

It was Carlisle, the young man who had saved me from the justice craving attendants of the holy building I had visited with my fiddle. His golden hair was much the same, only softer and brighter, his face as fair as I remembered it, though I had forgotten until now and his beauty took me by surprise. Until now he had been completely hidden in shadows and I had only faintly been able to recognize him, captured by his frightening black eyes.

His arms braced on either side of me against the tree, keeping me there as he pulled himself as close to me as he could, breathing softly, his long, thick lashes hooding his black eyes as he looked down upon me with a sultry undertone. His breath was sweet, alluring, and cold. As his eyes held mine I found that I could not look away, that his breath and the feel of his body pressed against mine was intoxicating and suddenly any fear I had had was gone. I sighed, my voice still shaky as I blinked and found myself smiling a very small smile on the corners of my mouth while he studied me with his black eyes.

“I will kill you…” He whispered, and the sound of his voice—low and agonizingly beautiful—sent shivers through my body, somehow intensifying the strange feelings coursing through my veins at his closeness.

“Will you?” I whispered in reply.
- 5
- 6
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Sound of the Fiddle