Vintage Vampire Stories (2 page)

William Henry Giles Kingston (1814-1880) was born in London but spent much of his youth in Oporto, Portugal, where his father was a merchant.

His first book for boys,
Peter the Whaler,
was published in 1851. It was such a success that he retired from his father's business to devote himself to writing. He travelled widely, and described many of his adventures for young readers.

“TheVampire; or, Pedro Pacheco and the Bruxa” is taken from his collection
Tales for All Ages
which was published by Rickers & Bush in 1863. As collectors of juvenilia who have hunted down this
rara avis
have discovered, the following story is
not
intended for children.

T
he most terrific of all the supernatural beings in whose existence the peasants of Portugal believe, is the
Bruxa
(pronounced Broocha). She is similar in her propensities to the Eastern Ghoul or Vampire. Indeed there can be no doubt that she was introduced into Portugal by the Moors during the time that they held sway in the country. The Bruxa is to all appearance a woman, but a woman possessed of an evil spirit. She may be the daughter of honest good parents; she may marry and have children, and she is often very beautiful, though there is a certain fierce expression in her eye and an ominous wrinkle in her otherwise smooth brow.

Nobody can tell who are Bruxas and who are not.They never allow any mortal to discover their dreadful secret, and woe betide the mortal who shall attempt to pry into it. Sometimes their own daughters become Bruxas, or else they keep up their numbers by inveigling some hapless maiden whose heart has been turned from the right path, and who has deserted her whole religion to join their association. She knows not whither she is to be led or what is to be her fate till it is too late to retract, when the fatal compact is signed with her blood; then, miserable girl! Her shrieks, he cries are of no avail. Truly there is a deep moral—an awful warning in the legend. From sunset to sunrise the demoniacal power possesses the Bruxas. During the day they return to their families, no one suspecting the dreadful truth. When darkness overspreads the world and the rest of the household are wrapped in slumber, they noiselessly rise from their couches, and after joining the orgies or their sisters in crime, are transformed into the shape of some noxious creatures of night—owls or gigantic bats. Away they fly at a prodigious rate, far from their homes, over hill and dale, but especially across marshes, stagnant pools and lakes; unwillingly they skim along the surface, gazing on their hideous forms reflected in the water and perfectly conscious of their fate.

They occasionally, on these nocturnal rambles, encounter some friend or relation, and either by allurements or by force will lead him far away from the point towards which he was proceeding. Many a poor wretch has thus been led across the country, over rough rocks and through brambles and briars, which have scratched his face torn his clothes till, almost worn to death, wet, weary, and bloody, he has at length returned home, complaining that the horrible Bruxas have thus led him astray and maltreated him, and that the wine shops are in no way to blame.

But this is not the only harm the Bruxas do. After their orgies and these long wanderings on the wing, they, with vampirish hunger, fly back to their peaceful homes, where, in calm repose, sleep their innocent offspring. Though feeling a human loathing for this terrific task, their horrible propensities overcome their maternal love, and seizing on their babes, their black wings fanning them to repose, they suck the life-blood from their veins—dreadful fate!—conscious all the time that they are destroying the only ones they love on earth. When they have thus murdered their own children, they enter the cottages of their neighbours and friends whose sleeping infants they in like manner deprive of life, and often when a child is found dead, livid, and marked with punctures, the sage women whisper to each other with fear and trembling, “a Bruxa has done this,” casting eyes of suspicion on each other, for no one knows who the Bruxa may be.

As the first streaks of the grey dawn appear, the miserable females return to their mortal forms, awaiting the time when they must perform their dreadful orgies, never for an instant forgetful of the fate to which they are doomed.Truly it would be difficult for the most poetical and fertile imagination to conceive a more horrible lot than that of the hapless Bruxan.

But to commence our tale.

Portugal has on several occasions been placed under the ban of the Pope, and on these occasions, so the monks affirmed the spirits of evil bad peculiar power. On one occasion the thunders of the Vatican were launched against the whole nation in consequence of the marriage of the Princess Theresa with her cousin Alfonso, King of Leon. At that time there lived near the town of Aveiro, situated on the shores of the Atlantic, a sturdy farmer, Pedro Pacheco by name. It must be known that close to the town there is a long shallow lake, which in those days was a wide extending marsh, fell of tall reeds and surrounded by a thick underwood.

Pedro Pacheco lived in a cottage of his own, with his wife and several children, whom he looked upon as paragons of perfection, in which sentiment Senhora Gertrudes, his better half, evidently joined him, as is not unusual in married couples with respect to their own handy work; though greater, according to the importance of the subject—that is to say, the more trifling the matter the louder they talked and the more they wrangled, as if their whole existence depended on the result; indeed the neighbours whispered that Senhora Gertrudes, whose voice was none of the sweetest, invariably had the best of the argument, if she was not in truth the better horse of the two. Notwithstanding their slight disagreements, Pedro loved his wife. He was a jovial fellow, of an excellent disposition, rather short and very fat, with well-filled cheeks and black rolling eyes. He was a welcome guest at every Romaria, or merry-making, when his ringing laugh was sure to be heard above all the others, or the sound of his voice as he touched his tinkling viola.

One day it happened that, leaving his wife at home to take care of the children, he joined a fiesta which took place in honour of the marriage of one of his friends, who lived on the opposite side of the marsh to where his cottage was situated. Pedro enjoyed himself to the utmost. He laughed and talked, and ate and drank enough for everybody; he cracked his best jokes, he told his best story, and sang his best song. There was nothing to damp his spirits; when the dance began he snapped his fingers, nodded his head, and toed and heeled it with the youngest of them, every now and then taking a pull at the wine-skin just to prevent his mouth from getting dry. At last, the shades of evening coming on, the guests began to separate, and at the same time it struck Pedro that if he did not make haste to return home, he would receive rather a warmer reception than might agree with his ears when he got there. For some part of the way a considerable number of the revelers accompanied him, he walking at their head as proud as a peacock with open tail, with his guitar in hand, improvising songs in honour of the newly-made bride, the rest of the party taking up the chorus. One by one, however, dropped off on the road as they proceeded, till at last he was left to find his way home by himself as best he could. But that mattered little to friend Pedro; he knew the way perfectly, as well he might, for he had traversed it frequently, both day and night; his heart was stout, and he had a tough bow at his back, with plenty of arrows, and a sword by his side, for those were not times when a man could walk abroad without arms. On he went for some time, caring little for the stones and puddle in his way, singing at the top of his voice, though there was nobody to hear him except the frogs, who kept up a not very melodious concert in the neighbouring marsh. At last he remembered that there as, for his sins it might be said, such a person as the Senhora Gertrudes, his wife, who, it was more than probable, would make his ears tingle if he were not at home at the time she desired him to return. In those good old days, watches, steam-engines, political economy, and most other of the wicked inventions of the free-masons, were unknown, so he could only guess that he had no time to spare, and just as he arrived at this conclusion, he came to a path which made a short cut across the marsh, by which he should save a quarter of a league at the least. That there were several very soft places in it he knew, but he felt so light, airy, and active, that he fancied he could easily skip over them as he had often seen a daddy-long-legs do over a stagnant pond. The sky was clear, the moon was bright, so that he could not by any possibility, miss the path. One thing, though, he did not take into consideration, the differences of his own figure and that of a daddy-longlegs; indeed, honest Pedro was not the only person in the world who had not a true perception of himself, whatever may be the case at present—times have changed since then. Well, he boldly turned off from the broad well-beaten path, and took the narrow footway across the marsh, over which he had not proceeded far, singing louder than ever, for the cool air of the evening put him in spirits, when, on a sudden, up got before him a large bird, flying slowly along, as if perfectly heedless of his presence.

“A wild duck, as I live!” exclaimed Pedro to himself; “if I can manage to send an arrow into that gentleman's neck, to stop his flight, I will take it home to my wife for supper, and thus save my own ears.”

Whereupon, throwing his viola over his shoulder, he seized his bow, and let fly a bolt directly at the bird. The creature uttered a cry just like a wild duck, and continued its course as slowly as before. Pedro felt certain he had hit it; indeed, he fancied that he could hear the arrow strike, it was so near; he probably had broken one of its legs and another bolt would bring it down. Again he let fly, but with equal want of success; the bird turned off a little on one side, and Pedro followed. He was not a man to be deterred by disappointments, particularly in his present humour; arrow after arrow he shot away ineffectually; the bird kept the same distance before him; and so eager was he in the pursuit that he quite forgot the direction he had taken. The ground beneath his feet became every instant more wet and swampy, but on he splashed through the water, his ears already tingling at the thoughts of returning home without a peace offering to his dear Gertrudes. What a blessing it is to have a wife to keep one in order!

“The next shot must bring the beast down, to a certainty,” he cried, as he let fly his seventh arrow; but the bird only uttered a loud, derisive, “quack, quack, quack!” and flew on at an increased speed.

It now appeared to honest Pedro to be a larger bird than he had at first thought it; but this only made him the more anxious to have it for his supper. On he ran, almost out of breath, not quite so lightly as he expected, for he was frequently up to his knees in mud and water, now and then he sank still deeper, and more than once came down on his face; but he was a true sportsman, not to be thrown out by such trifling accidents. Again he shot, and he was certain that he saw some feathers fly off from the bird, which went “quack, quack, quack,” louder than ever.

“Ah! Senhor Goose, I'll have you now,” exclaimed Pedro; “clever as you think yourself, you are no match for Pedro Pacheco, let me tell you.”

“Quack, quack, quack!” went the goose, and flew on, Pedro pursuing.

In a few minutes more, poor Pedro was thoroughly wet through, now up to his middle in water, now sprawling like a tortoise, on his back with his legs in the air, now with his face in the mud, but he somehow or other always contrived to get on his feet again. Have the goose he would, if he went on all night, he was determined. Pedro now lost his temper, as well he might, for it was provoking to run such a chase when he wanted to get home. To add to his difficulties, the sky, which had hitherto been clear, was now obscured by clouds: and when, while once on his back, he looked up to see what had become of the moon, he could no where behold her. There was, however, just light enough to see the strange creature which he still persisted in considering a goose or a duck, for he was, as may have been seen, in rather an obstinate humour. Whatever it was, it had now grown larger than ever, and every arrow Pedro shot stuck it, but it cared no more for them than if they had been so many toothpicks, only giving vent to more unearthly quack, quack, quacks. A man in his calm senses would have been suspicious of evil, but poor Pedro only thought of getting a goose for supper.

There was, indeed, little use in thinking of going home, for when he looked north, south, east, or west, he had not the remotest idea which way to take. The highest object he could see was a line of bulrushes, and the gigantic bird just above them.