night flight

The vampire found the master of the underground kingdom engrossed in an old leather-bound book.  He must have heard the uninvited guest's arrival, for no happenings within the Opera Populaire went unnoticed by its resident ghost.  But Erik refused to look up until after finishing the chapter he was reading and asked abruptly.  "Have you been to Zipangu?"

"Zipangu?" the vampire blinked, slightly taken aback.  "No, I am afraid not.  Though I do find the orient intriguing, the fact that it is an island country makes me a bit hesitant, to be honest."  With a slight lilt to his voice he added:  "And good evening to you, too, Erik."

"What does it being an island nation have to do with...," Erik began, ignoring the greeting, only to stop himself.  When he first met the vampire, Erik went through a phase of devouring any books that had a slight mention of the supernatural in an attempt to solve the mystery who still stood before him to this day, unchanged.  One of some obscure references he recalled, among other limitations, was thus:  It was said that vampires cannot cross running water, which was considered pure and warded off evil.

"This endless night is not a gift, nor is it a blessing," the vampire spoke with ghost of a smile upon his pale features some moons ago.   "It is a curse, nothing more."

"...Forget I asked," Erik muttered, averting his gaze awkwardly.

The vampire, in turn, admitted casually.  "I get seasick rather easily."

"......What?"

"I find it a bit unnerving, not having my feet planted on earth," said the vampire with a shrug.

"So, you can cross the ocean?"

"I was just in London this past spring."

That was fresh in Erik's memory, for he had demanded some books from there.  "...England is an island nation, too," he grumbled, going back to the pages to hide his hasty conclusion.

"A long sea crossing can be difficult," the vampire said flatly, "for there is very limited space to hide from the sun."

Erik's eyes stopped following the words on the page, catching something suppressed in the measured neutrality of the vampire's voice.  Whatever it was, however, went as quickly as it came, giving way to a mild amusement as the vampire continued.  "The Channel at least is narrow enough to swim across."

"Like that crazy Brit?" Erik decided against pressing on the subject any further and returned his attention back to the book.

"So, what of Zipangu?" asked the vampire, seating himself across from Erik.

"Never mind," Erik waved him off without even a glance.

Spying Erik's sullen demeanor, the vampire bit back a stifled laughter.  He smiled softly upon noticing the title of the book.  "Did you know that there are some interesting speculations about that book?"

"About the credibility?" Erik did look up then, his interest piqued despite himself.  "There are some exaggerations, but said to corroborate mostly."

"There is a mystery about the book itself.  There are many copies, but the original, the one Polo dictated to Rustichello in the Genoa prison, is missing."

"That is not surprising, considering it was well before the invention of the printing press."

"There are, in fact, over one hundred copies written in various languages in existence, and they can be roughly divided into six different archetypes.  But even the one that is considered to be the closest to the original is incomplete."

The paused hand in the middle of page turning and the intent gaze upon the vampire indicated Erik's divided attention.  "So the true original remains in the dark."

"Some say there were several different sources, or perhaps it was all a creation of Rustichello."

"Either way, a discredit to Polo's name."

"Some even doubt that the man ever existed."

"But there are portraits and family records left."

"True, there was a man by the name of Marco Polo.  But there is no solid evidence to confirm that he was the one who dictated Livres des merveilles du monde.  Besides, there is no mention of Polo in the official Mongolian records, where he was supposedly so well favored by the Emperor himself."

"...My name is not mentioned anywhere in the official Persian records," Erik uttered low, his tone growing cold as steel.

It was not fame or fortune he was after.  What he sought was somewhere he could belong.  But all the rosy hours of Mazandaran offered him were death and madness.  Tightening the lid on his dark memories with a small shudder, Erik spat venomously.  "No matter the place or the time, the world is full of fools who shun what their limited minds cannot comprehend."

"Polo, too, was ridiculed and labeled a liar for what seemed like exaggerated descriptions.  Do you know what he told a concerned friend who suggested some revisions?"

"What?"

"I did not even tell half of what I saw," the vampire breathed quietly with that far-away look of his.

"You speak as if you were actually there...," Erik tried to dismiss it, yet he knew his curiosity was getting the better of him as he stared at the vampire suspiciously.  "...You weren't really, were you?"

The vampire simply smiled, neither denying nor confirming.  "History is shaped by perspectives and interpretations, and those who can leave their marks are only a handful.  The rest live and die anonymously.  But even if the world had forgotten, I remember them.  Painfully so."

How many deaths has the vampire counted, Erik wondered.  Would he be remembered as a distant memory as well, some countless nights hence?  It was a strange prospect, for all Erik knew was to be feared, never recalled fondly.

"What is eternity like?" Erik surprised himself by the question that slipped out.

They were ever aware of the threshold that separated them.  Still, every now and then Erik found it hard to resist the powerful draw of the darkness the vampire harbored within.  Merely an intellectual interest, he told himself, cursing his inquiring mind silently.

"How would you describe it?" the vampire countered with a question, making Erik frown again.  "The definition of it is to each his own, n'est-ce pas?"

"What is your definition, then?"

"Je ne sais quoi."

A serene yet forlorn smile did not yield any satisfying answer.  Erik closed the book with a resigning sigh and set it aside.

The vampire's delicate hand caressed the old tome tenderly.  Gold leafed letters on the cover passed down the name of a man long gone.  "Even after all these years, the public is still intrigued by his accounts and continue to whisper his name.  Perhaps that, too, is an eternity."

"...I see."

Deciding that he at least owed the vampire a cup of tea for an interesting story, Erik left his throne to put the kettle on fire.  A thought occurred to him while taking out a tin canister marked Earl Grey.  "If the Dover is narrow enough for a human to swim across, can you not change into a bat and fly across it?"

"That is a mere folklore," came the reply from the parlor, the rich baritone carrying easily, "not as easy as a witch's broom, I am afraid."

"And that isn't?"

"To me, locomotives and automobiles are just as magical," the vampire laughed gently, his scarlet eyes seeing something that cannot be seen.  "If only we could shed the shackles that keep us earthbound.  You should be able to reach Zipangu if you keep on eastward.  Perhaps it is called the Land of Gold from the way it shimmers in the rising sun."