The Vampyre by Tom Holland Page A

distance, I could hear the tolling of a bell. “I am intrigued,” I said, “to know what truth does lie in the tales of blood-drinkers we hear.”
    â€˜â€œYou have heard other tales?”
    â€˜â€œYes. We stayed in a village. We were told there of a creature named the vardoulacha .”
    â€˜â€œ Where was this?”
    â€˜â€œNear the River Aheron.”
    â€˜â€œYou know, perhaps, that I am the Lord of Aheron?”
    â€˜I glanced at Athanasius. He was glistening like moist lard. I turned back to Vakhel Pasha and shook my head. “No, I didn’t know that.”
    â€˜The Pasha stared at me. “There are many tales told of Aheron,” he said softly. “For the ancients, too, the dead were drinkers of blood.” He glanced down at his book, and held it close to his chest. He seemed on the verge of telling me something, a look of fierce desire suddenly flaming across his face, but then it froze, and the death-mask returned, and when Vakhel Pasha did speak, there was only a sullen contempt in his voice. “You must ignore anything a peasant tells you, milord . The vampire - that is the word in French, I believe? - yes, the vampire, it is man’s oldest myth. And yet in the hands of my peasants, what is it become, this vampire? - just an idiot, shuffling, a devourer of flesh. A beast, dreamed up by beasts.” He sneered, and his perfect teeth gleamed white. “You need have no fear of this peasants’ vampire, milord .”
    â€˜I remembered Gorgiou and his sons, their friendliness. Wishing to defend them, I described our experiences at the Aheron inn. I noticed, as I told my story, that Athanasius had virtually melted into sweat.
    â€˜The Pasha too was watching our guide, his nostrils twitching as though he could smell the fear. I finished, and the Pasha smiled mockingly. “I am glad you were so well looked after, milord . But if I am cruel, then it is only to prevent them being cruel to me.” He glanced at Athanasius. “I am not only here in Yanina, you see, to consult the manuscripts. I am also hunting a runaway. A young serf I brought up, cared for - loved - as my own. Have no worries, milord - I hunt this serf more in sorrow than in rage, no harm will befall the serf.” Again, he glanced at Athanasius. “No harm will befall the serf.”
    â€˜â€œI think, My Lord,” whispered our guide, almost tugging at my sleeve, “I think perhaps that it is time to leave.”
    â€˜â€œYes, leave,” said the Pasha with sudden rudeness. He sat down again, and opened up his book. “I still have much to read. Go, please go.”
    â€˜Hobhouse and I bowed with studied formality. “Will we see you again in Yanina, Your Excellency?” I asked.
    â€˜The Pasha looked up. “No. I have almost achieved what I came here to do.” He stared at Athanasius. “I leave tonight.” Then he turned to me. “Perhaps, milord , we shall meet again - but in some other place.” He nodded, then returned to his book, and Hobhouse and myself, almost pushed by our guide, walked back out into the afternoon sun.
    â€˜We turned down a narrow road. The bell was still tolling, and from a small church at the end of the track, we could hear the sound of chanting.
    â€˜â€œNo, My Lord,” said Athanasius when he saw that we intended to enter the church.
    â€˜â€œWhy not?” I asked.
    â€˜â€œNo, please, please,” was all that Athanasius could wail.
    â€˜I shrugged him off, tired of his perpetual cowardice, and followed Hobhouse into the church. Through clouds of incense, I could make out a bier. A corpse lay on it, garbed in the black of a priest, but the robes drew attention, not to the dead man’s office, but to the ghastly pallor of his face and hands. I stepped forward, and saw, over the mourners’ heads, how flowers had been arranged around the dead monk’s