“And this young man is…”
“Not my son, assuredly!”
“My name is Hareton Earnshaw,” growled the young man.
“I meant no disrespect,” I said, noting the dignity with which he announced himself. Perhaps he was a vampire slayer, a good one, and thus the conceit.
Earnshaw fixed his eye on me longer than I cared to return the stare for fear I might be tempted to box his ear, and then he would be tempted to run me through with a sword meant to impale blacker hearts than mine.
The business of eating being concluded, and no one uttering another word of sociable conversation, I glanced out a window to examine the weather and take in the sights, worldly or otherwise.
I saw before me the dark night coming in prematurely, sky and hills mingled in bitter wind and suffocating snow. It was a perfect haven for vampires in search of heat and nourishment of human blood!
“I don’t think it possible for me to get home now, with or without a guard,” I exclaimed. “The roads are buried already, and I could scarcely distinguish a foot in front of me. I could walk right into the arms of one of those beasts and not know it until their hellish fangs pierced my throat.”
“Hareton, drive the sheep into the barn porch. They’ll be fed upon if left in the fold all night,” Heathcliff said. “I don’t care to go out again tonight and we’ve lost two this week, already.”
“And what must I do?” I rose with irritation. How was it that my host was so protective of the blood of sheep and not a paying tenant? “How am I to get home safely?”
There was no reply to my question as Mrs. Heathcliff leaned over the fireplace, restoring the tea canisters to their place, and Joseph entered with a pail of porridge of sheep bones and hooves to feed the dogs.
“I wonder how ye can stand there in idleness, when all of them gone out!” Joseph cried. “But you’ll never mend yer ill ways, but go right to the devil, like yer mother before ye!”
For a moment, I thought this piece of eloquence was addressed to me, and enraged, I stepped toward the aged rascal, my hand upon my tiny dagger with the intention of piercing him.
Mrs. Heathcliff, however, checked me by her answer.
“You scandalous old hypocrite!” she replied. “Are you not afraid of being tossed among the bloodsuckers? I warn you not to provoke me, or I’ll turn you out of this house myself and then we will see how far you get.”
“Wicked! Wicked!” Joseph declared. “May the Lord deliver me from evil.”
“Too late for that.” She pointed to the window. “Be off, or I’ll hang you by your thumbs from the outer wall and let them feed on you until you are fully drained. They will do it if he lets them, and let them he might. You know I speak the truth!”
The woman put a malignity into her beautiful eyes, and Joseph drew back in sincere horror and hurried out.
I didn’t know quite what she meant by all of that, but wanting to be on my way, I pleaded, “Mrs. Heathcliff, could you point out some landmarks to guide me home?”
“Take the road you came,” she answered, dropping into her chair. “It is as sound advice as I can give.”
“Then if you hear of me being discovered dead in a bog or pit of snow, sucked dry of my fluids, your conscience won’t whisper that it is partly your fault?”
“Certainly not. Do you expect me to provide you safe passage, wielding my sword?” she mocked.
As if women carried swords!
“Surely there are men here in training who can fend off if not kill, should the necessity arise,” I questioned.
“Who are these men in training? There is himself, Earnshaw, Zillah, Joseph, and I, and I guarantee you the master of this abode would not step across the lane to save your neck.”
“Are there no trained boys at the farm? Living in such an isolated place, surely—”
“No trained boys. Just us.”
“What of Joseph? He knows the way.”
“Not Joseph!” Her head snapped up. “Not after dark. Nay, you do not want Joseph after dark. Trust me, good sir.”
Her remark was odd, but I was entirely too vexed to consider her meaning. “Then, welcome or not, I am compelled to stay.”
“That you must settle with your host. I have nothing to do with it.”
“I hope it will be a lesson to you, to make no more rash journeys on these hills, without first finding your own guard,” cried Heathcliff’s stern voice from the kitchen entrance. “As to staying here, I don’t keep accommodations for visitors; you must share a bed with Hareton.”
“I can sleep on a chair in this room,” I replied.
“No, no. A stranger is a stranger, be he rich or poor. It will not suit me to permit anyone to roam my home in the middle of the night!”
My patience was at end. In disgust, I pushed past him into the yard, running against Earnshaw in my haste. It was so dark I could not see the means of exit, but I smelled the blood upon his coat, thick and cloying.
At first, the young man appeared about to befriend me.
“I’ll go with him as far as the park,” Hareton said. “Past the worst of them.”
“And you’ll go with him to hell!” Heathcliff flung back. “You are not up to the fight of such numbers. You never will be! And who is to look after the horses, then, eh?”
I drew myself up indignantly. “A man’s life is of more consequence than those of horses.”
Heathcliff did not seem to hear me, for he was still upon the boy. “They will not kill you, you know; they will make you one of them!”
“Well, somebody must go,” murmured Mrs. Heathcliff, more kindly than I expected. “For this is poor hospitality to a neighbor and tenant.”
“Not at your command!” retorted Hareton.
“Then I hope his pale ghost will haunt you; and I hope Mr. Heathcliff will never get another human tenant, till the Grange is a ruin and swarming with the devils!” she answered sharply.
Joseph, toward whom I had been steering, muttered something under his breath. He sat within earshot, milking the cows by the light of a lantern, which I seized unceremoniously. Calling out that I would send it back on the morrow, I rushed to the nearest door.
“Master, he’s thieving the lantern!” shouted the ancient.
On opening the little door, two cloaked vampires flew at my throat, bearing me down and extinguishing the light. As I flailed on the ground, trying to protect my neck, I heard a mingled guffaw from Heathcliff and Hareton.
Fortunately, the creatures seemed more bent on taunting me and tearing at my clothing than devouring me alive. Well-fed vampires at Wuthering Heights?
But, oh, the stench of the creatures! When recounting a tale of attack and escape, victims fail to mention the foul scent of rotting flesh, putrid blood, and black, wet humus that wafts from them. “Help me!” I managed. Tucking in a ball to further protect my jugular, I was forced to lie till the malignant master of the abode pleased to deliver me. One bark of Heathcliff’s voice and the beasts leapt off me and disappeared into the snow-driven swirl of darkness, curls of smoke, gone as fast as they had come. Then, hatless and trembling with a mixture of fear and wrath, I ordered the miscreants to let me out—on their peril to keep me one minute longer.
The vehemence of my agitation brought on copious bleeding at the nose, and still Heathcliff laughed, and still I scolded, made bold by my first true escape from death. I don’t know what would have