Reflection

By Aaron T. Brownell

Beginning on the dark and gloomy seventeenth century London harbor docks, Lady Sara Anne Grey sets out to tell her tale of existence as a vampire. Her story turns out to be not only one of a transition to the undead, but also from only daughter to self made business mogul. Constantly under siege from her darker nature, Sara's light hearted youthfulness slowly gives way to pragmatism. In telling her story of years gone by comes a realization that dealing with both the undead and the human realms has led her to view worldly events not merely as good versus evil but more situations of cause and effect. A view that seems to slowly separate her from both the humans and vampires.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 25, 2007
• ISBN: 9780595908622

Aaron T. Brownell

Aaron Brownell is the internationally award winning author of five previous novels Reflection, Contention, The Long Path, Progression, and Shadow of the Fall. When not traveling the globe for work, he resides in Texas. Visit his website at www.litiwrit.com.

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Copyright © 2007 by Aaron T. Brownell

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN: 978-0-595-46566-8 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-0-595-90862-2 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

This journal chronicles

the life of

Lady Sara Anne Grey

Born: London, England

June 21, 1633

Died: London, England

July 2, 1651

Current Age: 350 years

Written in the City of New York

2005

Contents

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1 

It is my observation that people always consider themselves to be something. Some are thought to be philosophers and some politicians. Some are leaders and some are deemed warriors. Individuals tend to lean towards a moniker that defines what people think their nature to be, so they are perceived in a certain way or as being a certain type of person.

In the vast amount of years that I have wondered about the planet Earth I have been defined with all of these labels. It’s true that my qualities do include leadership ability, insight and vaguely controllable ruthlessness; not to mention being a beautiful woman and numerous other things. All these things are of course true, but I do not think that they address what I think of myself. At the end of the day, I would like to think of myself as an observer of and participant in history. However, unlike historians who look in the texts of old to glean some sense of the past (which I have done as well), I have stood in the shadows and walked the paths of the world as history has written itself on the fabric of time.

Oddly enough it already seems a good time to state the obvious. History is not history when it is happening. It is merely the act of people passing their lives by. Most of the things that later on become historic are truly mundane when they are taking place. The times that people do seem to grasp the idea that a particular thing is a historic moment, they are almost without exception wrong.

It was walking down this path called time that I chanced upon an anomaly of sorts. When I was a young human girl I inhaled knowledge as quickly as it came to me. I studied books and listened to stories told to me by adventurers and the scholars of the time. I even inquired of the various religious leaders, as was customary during that age. It was an attempt to become more knowledgeable and as a result more self assure.

Once half a century or so of being deceased had passed by, I once again began to quest for knowledge. The second time I did so my desire was to learn more about my kind. At the start of this sojourn of understanding I had naturally assumed that what I sot would be available somewhere. Just as the Human race had managed, the history of my kind must be preserved in some form. It was most likely hidden away from the world at large and would probably be recorded in a language that I would not understand, but nevertheless it existed.

The human race had all its relevant history and its great works recorded in encyclopedic volumes of large bound text which filled the countless library racks. It had its religion in numerous manuscripts and engraved into countless works of art. From pictures, to paintings, to sculpture and from papyrus, to paper, to parchment and digitally encoded text the human race has managed to put down a somewhat linear, if not one sided, record of their time spent here.

Upon a true search for the cumulative knowledge, or a record of the relevant events, as determined by the vampire nation; I was lost. (I picked up that one from the Blade movies. I’m a big fan of Wesley Snipes.) I searched the world and found a large series of individual pieces, but no collective repository of information. Individual accounts of individual lives recount the journeys of singular members of my kind. I have also come across several pieces of parchment and some scrollwork with what could be considered a small glimpse of history, however as hard as I searched, there seemed to be no vampire encyclopedia as it were.

Interestingly enough it seems that for some reason the human historians wanted the acts of the ancient occult and religions of old to be locked away in the same places as were hidden the works on the creatures such as myself. I guess they assumed that in times of transition one was as dangerous as the other. In the same places I found pieces of my own past I also found the foundations of every sect and group since the development of what could be considered language. From pieces of cave paintings to animal skins with hand scroll ruins of blood to the written words of European history and from the simplest burial acts of the cave dwellers to the modern ideas of Catholicism. In the same repositories I have rediscovered the works of numerous authors who spent their vast energies to pen thoughts about the essence of evil as well. The devil, the olden deities, and the pagan gods of the dead all have managed to garner some thoughtful press. This is all in contrast to the lack to information about the vampire.

During the current age, access to information is easy to garner but mostly fiction. If you subscribe to the modern thought that all information you come across is accurate, then all you really need to do is enter any reputable history book store. If they happen to have anything regarding the history of the vampire, it will be some sort of new age fictional rhetoric about absolutely evil creatures endowed with all manner of magical powers. The misguided, absolutely crap filled books will be stuffed on a shelf along with the reputable knowledge about astrology, tarot card reading and the lore of the werewolves. I can assure you that the books regarding ghost stories and haunted houses have space in a better section of the buildings.

As a side note „.I am not automatically discounting the existence of werewolves. I can say that I have never met such a beast and the idea of a shape shifting man/beast whose transformation is somehow magically connected to the drawing down of the moon does sound somewhat like lunacy, even to me.

The search for the fantastic was never my goal. The search for fact and truth was, even though they can be opposite things. The real historical account of the evolution and subsequent timeless run of the vampire is still my goal to this day. I have scoured the Earth’s hidden places and quietly guarded repositories in an effort to amass such a cache of knowledge as the humans have.

Somewhere In the middle of this journey an epiphany came to me. It struck me that at the end of the day human history was actually a collection of thoughts from various singular points of view. If this was true, then I could really collect a history of my kind. All I really needed to do was to gather every relevant piece of information I could possess until I had so many that all obvious angles of thought were covered. Then I would have my long sot after collective history of the vampire.

With this new approach in hand, I started to search and collect and even steal a few until my contacts had come up with what I considered to amount to full coverage of the vampire’s history on the planet. This account managed to go back to pretty much the earliest of recorded times.

I say the earliest recorded times because it has been speculated by several reputable twenty first century vampires that Vampirism actually has always existed. The advent of genetic research has led to the speculation that vampirism is simply a parasitically invasive genetic anomaly which kills off the living in favor of its new and more stable life patterning. Theory says that there were even vampire dinosaurs and it goes a long way to explaining strange animal activity as a whole. The genetic variant just moved and adapted to whatever new life form it encountered until it came to humans. Once in the human form it did what humans do so well, it killed off all the inferior forms in existence until only human vampires remained. Like every other scientific theory that has yet to be substantiated I am leaving it be.

As I continued to consume all the information I could accumulate I came to realize that even with all of the chronicles I possessed I did not have a single one that reflected my own views of the world. So, with just over a third of a millennium of existence under my belt I decided that my own saga could somehow serve to educate future generations of my kind in some informative way. My tale is not some recitation of historical events. It is simply the story of my own life and the myriad of twists and turns I have taken with it. Hopefully, it will be of use to someone later on. So in centuries to come if you find this and enjoy the story it tells, then maybe you can use it to your advantage. If you happen to be Human, you will no doubt assume it is some grand work of fiction. If you are a vampire then you already know better.

Ok then. Let us start at the end of my life, or the beginning of my new life. It all seems so long ago that it almost could have happened to someone else. Like in a movie about someone that you can relate to.

I was born and raised in the city of London, England. It was the Year of Our Lord 1651 and I was eighteen years of age. My height was, or is, 5feet 9 inches and I weigh a modest 130 pounds. At later times this would prove to not be a good fighting weight. Blond hair, greenish blue eyes, a bedazzling smile, a smart figure by twentieth century standards with long legs and high full, breasts and a razor quick wit. I have been told on numerous occasions that I am quite a lovely creature, whatever that means.

The city of London was an interesting place to grow up. In Europe, the thirty years war had ended with the signing of the Peace of the Pyrenees, by France and Spain. I know that most historians would say that the sighing of the Peace of Westphalia ended the war, but France and Spain fought long after that ink was dry. England was just coming out of its own civil war. The King and the Presbyterian leadership were fighting against Oliver Cromwell. Oddly, the King and other leaders of the House of Commons used Scottish Presbyterian soldiers to do it. In the end, Cromwell prevailed and the King, Charles I, was executed in 1649 (I think). Cromwell and his military machine ran the country and Scotland and Ireland as well.

I spent the majority of those days inhabiting the London harbor. At that point you could call the docks my second home. It would seem a dismal place for a proper young lady to spend her childhood. Looking back on it, in some ways it almost seemed like an omen. I suppose it would have been a wonderful place for a young man to entertain himself with folly, but not a young lady. The reason for my harbor upbringing was my father. My father, Master John Grey, was a well-established man who owned a company that handled shipping. The name of his company was unimaginatively enough, Grey’s Shipping and Cargo. It did a good business around northern Europe and the British Isles. Because of father’s business interests, and the fact that my mother had died at an early age, I spent large amounts of time loitering in his office.

I vaguely remember it being entertaining as a young girl. The docks and the ships and the busy people always seemed in motion, which was entertaining. In that way it was good I guess, since young girls are usually granted much more in terms of setting for their curiosity. As I became older however, I realized that it really was not the place for a young lady.

Father meant well enough. He just didn’t understand that it was not the healthiest of environments for raising a good future lady. You know them, the kind that would marry a Duke and reside in the country estate. Father was always so busy. So, I would sit in a little room off the hallway in his office and read or knit. At times I would get to converse with other ladies that by some misfortune had been escorted there by their husbands who had business with my father.

At times when I just could not take my little room anymore, I would go walk along the piers. Father did not approve of such things from me. He said that it was not proper for a young lady to walk unescorted through such an area, especially considering the type of men that are drawn to the docks to make a living. At any moment I could be accosted, kidnapped, or worse. He was right, and he always meant well, but at times that room I sat in was enough torture to make the gamble seem very low risk. Besides, I had been walking up and down the pier for many years by the point which he really started to complain. The men that handled the ships all knew me, and who my father was. They would tell me if it was safe to pass, or if a ship was unloading cargo. All the ships captains that regularly moved cargo through London also knew me. They would stop and say hello. Sometimes when they had a moment, they would tell me stories about far off places that they had been, or high sea adventures that they had experienced. I knew that half were true and half were not, but it was always so exciting to hear them. The majority of the time the docks provided an excellent escape from the otherwise monochrome styles of my world. They were safe enough, except for nighttime. Nighttime could be rough, even for fairly sturdy men. I made sure that I stayed inside the offices at nighttime.

On the occasions when Captain Smithers came to port, I would run out to meet the ship. Father didn’t say much about these instances. He knew too well that the London port could be tricky for the best sea captain at times. The ships would anchor just off shore and enter down the Thames in the morning, which made a young girl’s running around safer. When Captain Smithers made it off the ship, he would always stop and talk. The captain would sit with me on the freight boxes and tell me stories of his adventures at sea. He would tell of trips to the different European countries that they had visited, all of them full of mischief and intrigue. I heard all about the renaissance that took place in Italy. He also told me about men like Galileo and Michelangelo and stories about the Jesuit missionaries and of Calvinism. On some trips he would sail down into the Mediterranean Sea, and visit the ports of the African countries. The ship would stop at the Egyptian City of Alexandria and the port cities of Morocco. These adventures were always the best to listen to. I am sure that a fair amount of fiction was added for effect, but to a young girl, they were the things that dreams were made of.

It was rumored around the port that Captain Smithers always stopped to talk to me because I reminded him of his own family. It was told to me that the Smithers family died of influenza while the Captain was away at sea. He troubled with his grief for many years after. I guess that being at sea helped him to forget about his empty house. Empty and full of memories. Apparently the stories he would tell me helped him feel better. He always seemed happy when he would depart for the city.

As a side note, sorrow is an interesting thing. For a long time after I turned, it seemed to me that sorrow was a silly emotion, which was wasted on the living. It didn’t appear to be a useful cross on which to bear ones self. I thought that way for a long time. But, we’ll get to that later, for now back to the port.

Every week, Captain Johnston ran a cargo cutter to the port in Normandy. When he returned, he would come in to father’s office and tell me how everyone in the port was doing, along with what was new and fashionable in France. Interestingly enough I had never met these people, but it seemed like we were all old friends. Once he had sketches of some of them done and brought them back to me. For me, this made their lives even more real. I also had a sketch made of myself to send to them. Thinking about it now, it does seem somewhat mysterious. Even to this day, the only images of me are pictures that were drawn or painted long ago. Modern photography doesn’t work very well with the whole no reflection thing going on (but for some reason I can not explain video cameras work fine). That must be why I am always drawn to good paintings and sculptures.

Captain Johnston said that they all thought of me as family too, for they would hear about the other port regulars and me, when he landed there. In an odd way, it seemed comforting to know that other people were interested in my life. I would wonder if what I perceived to be tedious and boring was intriguing to them as their lives always seemed intriguing to me. The captain would stop to see me every time he came back to port. Sometimes he would bring along his first mate. The first mate was young and handsome, but very quiet. I think I remember the captain saying his name was Michael Shannon, though I seem to remember him being more English than Irish. Once I asked Captain Johnston if they had any young Princes in Normandy, or maybe a Duke or Earl that needed to marry. He laughed and said that he would find one for me. Although, it seemed, he never managed to have one when he landed.

Looking back on it now, it seemed that the port docks were a place where the everyday people of the world went about their lives. At the same time, it also seemed to me to be a place that could provide all the adventure that one’s life would require if you went looking for it, and if you were not a young lady.

And speaking of looking for adventure, sometimes when father was not paying attention, and the ships were out to sea, I would walk over-town. There was an area north and several blocks inland from the north port docks in the direction of Mile End that the locals referred to as Drunken Alley. This was the area where the sailor went to drink and frolic when they came into port. I would make my way up to that area and walk carefully through the streets to see the goings on. I never went in any of the establishment mind you. They were not a respectable place to be caught. At times I would stop and talk to the women that worked the streets. They were mostly barmaids or other women of low station, but they had stories to tell, about travels and mysterious liaisons partaken in. The funny thing is it all seemed so illicit to me back then. I had been there enough so that they knew who I was, and that I was no threat to them, so they looked out to make sure that I really wasn’t in any danger. Although, it was another place I made sure not to be around when night fell.

All in all, I would say that as far as upbringings go it would be great fun to be a young man in this setting. I had thought several times back then that if I had been born a man, a ship captain I would have become. Unfortunately, captain was not a position that young women aspired to, even if that was what was shown to me in the city.

The remainder of my youth was spent at the family estate outside the city. Father’s family owned an estate on the outskirts of London. It was a wonderful and magical place. The manor was enormous and slightly mid evil in design. It was large and made from stone. The manor house could have been a castle if placed on different terrain. It had a large metal fence surrounding two sides of which I always assumed replaced a castle moat. There were large open grass lawns around the main house. The edges of the lawns faded into large woods, where there were many streams to ride by. Father had stables erected behind the estate, just a short walk from the house. Also behind the house was a maze. Father said that it was the biggest one in the surrounding area. In the fall, father and the head caretaker, err … sorry House Master; would hunt game in the woods. It was a lovely place to spend time.

While at the estate, I was schooled by my nanny in the ways to be a proper lady. She refused to go to the Harbor, and mentioned to my father on several occasions that it was not good for me as well. Then it seemed that schooling was required of me, if a future was to be gained.

She would instruct me, saying things like Sit up straight, a Lady does not slouch. Or, your pinky should remain out while sipping your tea.

She always seemed focused on my action and manner. This was good, I guess, because all the time spent at the docks seemed to erode my ladylike habits. Another thing that my nanny seemed very fixed upon was the manner in which I spoke.

SARA! A proper lady does not say such things! That was one of her favorite statements. Once again, she was probably correct. She seemed to take it as her personnel responsibility to maintain my social dignity.

Seeing how father had no knack for it, she was also the one that purchased my wardrobe. Needless to say it was at the least, modest. Fashion and knowledge picked and taught to make me look attractive, NOT desirable. This was obviously so I could marry the right sort of gentleman. You know, looking back at the whole affair, it would seem that people worry about the strangest things.

My Nanny’s name was Ms. Palmer. I will always remember her, for she is the one person above all others that basically shaped my original personality. That shaping contributed much to the individual that I have become after these many years. Much of what she taught me I still use to this day. Even in the new millennium, the useful art of acting like a lady will gain entrance into the social and political circles that normal people can not enter. You will notice that I said acting. Interestingly enough, most people can’t tell the difference.

It would seem that the docks also had a large part to play in shaping my basic personality. Over time, it took my natural constant curiosity and fashioned it into razor sharp instinct. Make that predatory instinct. Internally, the predatory side of my personality usually wins out on a day to day basis. But that is me, not the person that other people have handed to them in social settings. Other people’s perceptions of you can be a beautiful thing for they are seldom accurate.

When at the family estate, father would spend his time entertaining. There were several large social events held each year to celebrate different occasions. Most of these occasions were business related. In those years, the shipping business was a perilous undertaking to operate and to finance. Many of the ships that left the port were lost at sea, or to pirates. When a ship would return to port after having successfully completed its travels, it was a reason to celebrate. When the ships came back, the debts were paid, and the investors made money.

The celebrations also helped to solidify my father’s political and social connections. The people would oft time remark on these occasions how they valued his opinions on business or political topics. The conversations always seemed to center around Puritan, or Presbyterian issues, depending on which one was winning any particular skirmish.

The solidification of social connections helped father procure business connections. These new business interests were the main reason for his celebrations. Interestingly enough, new business contacts also seemed to bring along new suitors. Knowing my fathers concern, since I was the only child of a single parent, I am sure that he viewed the gatherings as a forum for observing and evaluating my potential suitors. There always seemed to be someone at every party that seemed to inquire about my status. I found those moments to be quite entertaining. It was easy for me to tell when he spoke to them if they had what he thought they needed to purchase my virtue. At the beginning the vast majority did not. As time passed however, most of the other girls my age had become married and were having children. This was a situation not lost to father’s attention. I think this is why he did not play with them as much toward the end of my mortal years.

It became evident in the year before my transition, that father was no longer interested in toying with my would-be suitors. His interests were fixed on finding one which I would wed. Of course, while all of this was happening, I was putting my Nannies skills to use. And they were formidable skills indeed. I did not realize it at that time, but there were few women of my age and station that could read and write. These two skills were ones that Ms. Palmer spent great amounts of time making sure that I learned aptly. The first skill allowed me to gain information. So I read, to others what must have seemed obsessively. I read all the current writers of the day, the works of Giordano Bruno, the Metaphysics of Rene" Descartes, the texts of Francis Bacon and the philosophy of Spinoza. This information allowed me to converse on topics that other women, and some men, found at arm’s length to say the least. The second skill allowed me converse at distance. This became very useful in maintaining contact in the right circles. I was quickly and discretely working my way into the influential social circles. In those days I was working, like my father, at finding a place to secure my future. Later in life I would find them to be the best of business weapons as well. After that it was horseback riding in the fields, taking walks along the streams, wondering in the maze, and then more reading and writing. Oh yes, and parties. These were the things that happened at the estate. The remainder of my time I would spend with my father, at his business, sitting in my little room. Sitting, reading, knitting and acting so much like the obedient daughter was what I did. This was my life in the year 1651, right up till the end of June.

As a general note, it should already be obvious that I learned my writing skills so well; I can’t seem to break them. Even after several hundred years, I can’t seem to add all the punctuation that modern writing demands. In the sixteen hundreds, no one used much more than a period at the end of sentences. I have a lot of trouble with paragraph length as well. If I did not have a secretarial staff myself, these days, I would be in trouble. Sorry.

2 

I have always loved the start of summer. It’s that special time when the weather turns warm and the whole world seems to become fully alive. As it progressed, the