I recall being filled with so much excitement upon touching down upon English soil, my genealogical destination, that the butterflies creating havoc in my stomach made me nauseated . And the nausea wasn’t from the mere fact that I had taken so many medications to render me nearly unconscious for the long flight as I have always been deathly afraid of flying, although that didn’t hurt. But instead, it had been my life-long quest to visit the lands of my forefathers. Most other people would consider such a visit nice but not wholly necessary for their mere existence. So many members of later generations cannot name their grandparents much less their great-grand parents. Nor do they care.
It was necessary for me as it is most adoptees because we have the thirst f for the knowledge of our “blood”, the birthright that was hidden from us by the system and even by some of our parents as they were complicit with the state thinking they were doing the right thing by hiding that knowledge. Ancestry is something that many non-adoptees could care less about, or if they do care in the slightest, their genealogy quest occurs much later in life as a means of passing on a legacy of bragging rights to their grandchildren. I didn’t have to contend with passing this information along to grandchildren necessarily, as not only did I bear the scarlet B on my chest for being a “bastard”, but also a Q for being “queer”. This trip was solely for me.
My visit was to encompass England and nearby European block countries for any documentation concerning several blood lines that I had discovered while researching my ancestry. And getting here was half the battle, as I had been adopted past 12 months after my birth. No biggie right? Since I was adopted past this time, I had to jump through more hoops in proving who I was in order to obtain a passport, thanks to post 9/11 regulations. How can anyone prove who they are if the state holds all the keys to those documents and knowledge that we aren’t allowed to posses by law? This is why I held such information so dear to me.
I became lost many times following the English maps on my travels of the countryside which included trying to remember to drive on the other side of the road. I was told not to arrive at the Harewell Manor after dark, but with the many cemeteries to visit, difficulties in locating some gravestones, and now my vehicle broken down, it became difficult to meet my objective. With the sun setting in the distance, I thought it safer to go ahead and walk to the manor before dark. But as I walked along the lonely road, with the last grain hopper and farmhouse no longer visible, the sounds or rather lack of sounds became unnerving. It was as though the earth was holding its breath in anticipation of something inexplicable.
As the skies began to darken more than anticipated, my pace quickened to nearly an outright jog. The back pack carrying computer, camera and some books thumped heavily upon my aching lower back. Strangest sounds I’d ever heard in the night paired with a rapid heartbeat thumped inside my head to the point I could barely see the manor in the distance. Finally, the drive came in sight and I knew I was in the home stretch. My lower back, blood vessels and muscles in my legs were screaming vehemently in unison as they closed the last few yards to the front door, weaving back and forth across the drive as a drunkard.
After reaching the door, the written words of the elderly female keeper rang inside my head, “Don’t come at dark. It’s not safe in these parts.” Nearly collapsing at the door and quite winded, I attempted to regain some semblance of composure so the keepers would not think me to be a madman foaming at the mouth. I knocked on the large hand-hewn wooden door it must’ve been at least a dozen times, evidenced by my knuckles becoming red from the pounding. Then the realization set in that perhaps they had already left. But it wasn’t that dark yet. The sun was just now barely behind the hill in the westward sky, I told myself. How could I have missed them on the road leading from the manor?Surely, they wouldn’t have left this early knowing that I was on my way? But they had no phone, so I couldn’t advise them of my vehicle breaking down. Maybe they will see it and return, I reassured myself.
While darkness set upon the lonely estate grounds, the lovely scented hawthorns, stately elms lining the drive, pruned green hedges with new growth, dry fountain in the front, even the statues of hares sitting at the entrance all took on a menacing personality at this time of evening. With a renewed urgency beckoning inside of me, I arose from sitting on the steps, turned around and loudly pleaded, “Is anyone home? Please answer!” I lifted my hand to knock once again. Tired and very disgusted at my plight, I plopped down in defeat, my head in my hands and began talking to myself, “Shit.. What am I going to do? I can’t sleep out here all night until morning, and I can’t walk back to my jeep. Damn rental cars.”
That’s when I heard a protracted high pitched screeching behind me. As I tenuously turn around, the door was mysteriously opening as with an invisible hand apparently behind it. I murmur to myself, “Oh this ain’t good.”
YOU ARE READING
Birthright ~ (LGBT-Fantasy-Vampire)
VampireDaniel finds himself embroiled not only in discovering his ancestral roots, but surviving them in an old manor, cemeteries, and the streets of England against formidable enemies with a long history of their own, spanning centuries.
