Field of Blood

by Wilson, Eric

“By Collectors?”

  “Enough with your questions. We’re here, and the earth is open.”

  He saw no reason to elucidate what his contingent already knew about the site. This soil was a stew of malevolent possibilities. While many of their number had lost patience and moved on centuries ago to different clusters—as permitted by the Principles of Cluster Survival—these eighteen had staked claim to this spot and settled in for a long vigil, joined together by a moribund hope.

  Hope for access to indestructible hosts. To immortal habitations.

  Jerusalem’s undead.

  “What’re we waiting for, then? It’s time to begin.”

  Another cheer.

  “These tombs have been anointed for our purposes. I want each of you to taste and see so that you can judge the memories in the bones, but do your best to leave things undisturbed. Are you ready to proceed?”

  “We’re ready,” came the joint reply. “Facilis descensus Averno.”

  Beaming, the leader translated: “The descent to hell is easy.”

  He released his shadowy grasp on a tree and let a gust of wind herd him through the square opening. He was in.

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  Cuvin

  Gina ran a finger over the split skin beneath her ear, felt a flare of heat where the dagger had left its mark. It wasn’t so bad. She could handle the pain, and she would wear high-collared blouses until a scab formed and fell away.

  Was it normal to feel so lightheaded, though?

  She wanted to pull the drape across her doorway and curl up on her bed, but that would only invite her mother’s curiosity. It was best to do something productive. Not only would it placate Nicoleta, it would dis-tract Gina from the dizzying emptiness in her mind.

  More than the physical discomfort of the cuts, she disliked their effect on her thinking patterns. In the past, the tip of the knife had seemed to stab at the mirror of her self-awareness, leaving only jagged bits. With each incision, with each drop bled from her, she’d felt thoughts tumble and shatter. If only she could gather and fit those shards together, she had the sense they would create a tableau of mysterious beauty.

  But that was one chore her calloused hands could not accomplish.

  So, had Teo really kissed her this morning? He lived with his uncle Vasile, the village prefect, and they owned no goats. Maybe she’d imagined the whole thing.

  And why would she have touched lips with him in the first place?

  She eased through the screen door, past snoozing Treia, and reached for the laundry on the line between the house and the wooden gate. One by one, she removed clothespins and draped dry garments over her arm.

  Clip-snap. Clip-snap.

  She found comfort in the routine.

  Once she had cleared the first of three lines, she hooked the plastic basket with her foot and dropped the load into it. Her arm brushed against her pocket. She reached inside, found a bundle of blackberries, and touched the juice on her fingers to her tongue.

  Teodor . . . cut grass . . . an early birthday gift.

  The kiss, then, had been real. She smiled as she moved to the second clothesline.

  Clip-snap.

  The visitor arrived unidentified and unannounced. Was the man here as an early birthday guest? His eyes were green, sprinkled with gold, and his hair was the color of wheat. In the afternoon heat that simmered over Cuvin’s fields and bumped against the Carpathian foothills, he bore not one drop of sweat.

  “Buna seara,” Gina greeted from behind the screen door.

  “Good evening,” he said.

  Nicoleta stepped into view. “Go to your room, Gina.”

  “Can’t I just—”

  “Go.”

  “Da.”

  Gina left her mother with the handsome man on the front step, and flopped onto her bed. She kicked at the blankets. Pulled a pillow over her head. Then sat back up and stared at the wall.

  She wasn’t a girl anymore. Time to grow up.

  With eyelids lowered and pulse slowing, she reined in her frustration and perked up her ears. She began to pick up their conversation through the window, along with the man’s conspicious gum chomping. He was young, maybe ten years Nicoleta’s junior.

  The words had nothing to do with Gina or her birthday. He was discussing politics, of all things, and she decided he was a provocateur. At least that was the name the communist schoolteachers would give him.

  A rabble-rouser. Up to no good.

  Yet the things he was saying made sense . . .

  “I’m worried about the people of Romania. About you and your girl. That was your daughter, wasn’t it? I’m telling you, President Ceausescu’s a vampire, sucking the life from this country.”

  “Keep it down,” Nicoleta cautioned.

  “Look around you, Nikki . . . ”

  How did he know her mother? What gave him the right to use a nickname?

  “. . . I mean, orphanages are overflowing while he builds monuments to his own immortality. Tell me that’s not a man possessed?”

  “Shush.”

  “Things’re about to get crazy,” the Provocateur said. “You’ll see.”

  There was unrest in this land of theirs, it was true. A few days ago, Gina had seen a slogan spray-painted on a city bus from Arad: Jos dictatorul! “Down with the dictator!”

  Nicoleta said to him, “I dearly hope that you’re wrong.”

  “Well, you heard about Tianamen Square, right? Students protesting and getting gunned down? The whole world’s been watching, and revolution is in the air. There are forces in motion, evil forces—which you should understand better than most—and we can’t just sit by. You think you’re safe here in this village? Holding on to superstitions? Wrong, Nikki. Wrong. For centuries, Romania’s been a battlefield, and that’s not about to change. It’s time to get outta here.”

  “Lower your voice, won’t you? Gina might hear.”

  “Yeah, there’s the answer. Close your eyes and it’ll all go away.”

  In her room, Gina already had her eyes closed, and she visualized the Provocateur’s face to go along with his smooth tones. Her father had died when she was a baby, and she wondered if this was what a dad was supposed to sound like—confident and strong. Was this how a dad looked—wide shoulders and dreamy eyes? American movie-star looks? Her cheeks warmed at such imagery.

  “I want you to leave,” she heard Nicoleta tell him.

  “Come with me. You and your daughter. Before things get—”

  “Enough.”

  The Provocateur’s volume dropped so that Gina questioned if she was hearing him correctly. “At least let me stay till midnight.”

  Midnight? Gina’s heart jumped. Maybe he had come to mark her birthday after all.

  “You know you shouldn’t be here,” Nicoleta said.

  “Please don’t be this way.”

  “It’s my house. I’m asking that you leave.”

  “Can’t I just see her for—”

  “No.”

  “Well then, maybe she’d like these. Could you give them to her for me?”

  “What is this nonsense?”

  “One little present’s not gonna hurt anyone.”

  “Hmmph.”

  “Take them, at least.”

  “Very well,” Nicoleta conceded, and for a moment Gina thought her mother’s voice cracked with emotion. “Now leave.”

  “Nikki.”

  “Go.”

  Don’t listen to her, Gina thought. She’s scared to trust anyone, that’s all.

  But the Provocateur complied by vanishing down their rutted street.

  Jerusalem

  “Come on. Don’t tell me you’re losing your nerve.”

  “I’m not sure it’s a good idea,” Lars Marka said.

  “You told me you’d go in there, don’t you remember? Or maybe”— Thiago rapped large knuckles against Lars’s head—“maybe the beer’s wiped your memory clean.”

  The hard thummp ca
used Lars to sway. The return trek from the local bar to the Valley of Hinnom had required his full attention, one foot in front of the other, arms swinging to keep him vertical.

  Ahead, a pile of rubble marked the grave site. The moon hovered low and blotchy now, a translucent amber sac ready to burst with some vile creature’s offspring. The notion was ludicrous, of course, like a tale Lars might’ve concocted to scare his childhood schoolmates, yet he couldn’t deny the mood of this place.

  Jerusalem. The Holy City—for Muslims, Christians, and Jews.

  These days, exiles came from around the globe to reclaim Israel as their home, and how many over the ages had given their lives attacking and defending her ramparts? Surely ghosts of the past inhabited every cranny and nook.

  “Listen,” Thiago said, “you’re the one who broke into the tombs. You, Lars. Even had yourself a peek already. Don’t you think you deserve a souvenir?”

  “Well, maybe. Just a little something.”

  “That’s right, that’s right. And I know you’ll share a trinket or two with your drinking buddy, won’t you? The way we talked about.”

  Thiago had kept the drinks sliding to Lars along the polished counter. The Norwegian tried to remember how many he’d downed. Three? Four? He’d lost count, entranced by the bar’s neon colors and the attention of his coworker.

  “I . . .” Lars planted his feet. “The ground’s spinning.”

  Thiago winked a gray eye. “Maccabee beer. Told you it was good stuff. They’re the ones who freed the Jews from oppression and put a stop to foreign slave drivers, back in the second century. Well, look at us now. Ha-ha. After a long day’s work, we’ve still got them looking after us.”

  Lars meant to join in the laughter, but the sound stuck in his throat the moment he spotted the specter in the trees. What was that he’d just seen?

  He rocked back. Perhaps it was Gronnskjegg, a ghoul from the lore of his native land. But no, that particular beast was solid and sported a green beard.

  Whatever this was, it was less tangible than even the shadows pinned to the dirt. It floated over bristly vegetation. Writhed through twisted tree limbs. He sensed that if he grasped hold of it, the shape would squeeze like sludge between his fingers, then pool at his feet and rise again with malicious intent.

  Okay. Definitely one too many beers.

  He took a step back as a brackish breeze wafted over him.

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  The lead Collector felt enlivened. Passing through a narrow breach, he willed himself into the darkness of the third family’s cave. Earlier he had selected the box he wanted, a limestone fixture in the back reaches.

  There, between the gaps of a pivoting stone door . . .

  There, past burial troughs and skeletons and a spatulated oil lamp . . .

  He entered the final chamber and found the medium-sized ossuary. It bore Greek and Hebrew inscriptions—which he discerned with great effort—and was surrounded by other boxes, some chipped, even broken, but all of them subordinate to their patriarch.

  Carved into stone: Ariston of Apamea.

  This was to be his identity. As Lord Ariston, he would guide his horde as they ranged the earth once again in physical form. Their goal: to feed, breed, persuade, and possess.

  Feed upon wayward cravings.

  Breed despair.

  Persuade weak wills.

  And possess this world, into which they’d been banished.

  It was theirs anyway, was it not? Only measly humans stood between them and ultimate domination, and resistance could not be tolerated.

  Like fog settling over a meadow, the Collector descended upon Ariston’s remains, a time-consuming process. He was inhabiting a dead man, after all, and this presented a new challenge, drawing vitality from the defilement of old blood.

  Soon his host was regaining sight. Over the course of a few minutes, the eye sockets filled with ocular fluids and he began to imagine what it would be like to see again. His muscles and cartilage were also at work, connecting joints and bones, layer by layer.

  The process was laborious, even painful, yet he knew it would be rewarded. Plus, didn’t pain indicate life?

  Ah, the irony of mortal existence.

  The Collector wished he’d had more say regarding this human’s bodily condition, but other factors had weighed in the being’s favor. Personality and temperament, natural talents, the general state of the soul—these were key. They would serve as a foundation, a template, without which the Collector would be nothing.

  I am a merchant, he told himself. A man of means.

  He drew up more details, siphoning memory from the very marrow in the bones. He was Syrian. Relocated from Apamea. He was shrewd in worldly matters and generous in religious dealings, when there was something to be gained—and who didn’t have something to gain in such contrivances? A father who demanded obedience from his sons. A husband who expected the same from his wives, in household dealings as well as matters of intimacy.

  Shelamzion, his first wife. She was at rest in this tomb.

  Would she, too, be chosen? Collected? Did Lord Ariston . . . did the Collector . . . even wish for that?

  The answers were here within, predilections woven into the human fabric. He was alive again. Or undead. Either way, he’d found a vessel by which to maneuver this earth.

  The Collector, the cluster leader, was now Ariston of Apamea.

  The gamble, as with any habitation, was that he was subject to Ariston’s physical and psychological makeup. Beyond energy-sapping bursts of activity, a Collector was at the mercy of his host. If Ariston was short and fat—which he was—then the Collector within would be unable to force him into an act of Herculean strength. If Ariston was prone to parental impatience, then the Collector, too, would be a candidate for fatherly vents of rage. While some gained more control than others over their hosts, this internal struggle was a never-ending one.

  Ariston let out a groan. By the sails of Sicily, he had only moments before he would outgrow these stone confines.

  He coughed, causing dust to swirl into his eyes. He winced. With lips stretched as tightly as dried animal hides over his jaws, he felt grit crumble onto his teeth.

  He had to get out of here. Determined to escape, he lifted his head.

  Thu-whackkk.

  The lid proved a formidable barrier, and the force of impact dis-lodged his left arm, still under construction. The limb dropped, making a soft splat that reminded him of market day and vigorous bartering for sustenance.

  Speaking of which, this corporeal shell was famished.

  He wiggled downward, teasing the appendage to return. Come, my estranged arm. Your father welcomes you home. Sinews popped and twanged. Layers of skin stretched over sharp elbows and hipbones.

  Assured that things had pieced together in proper order, he made another attempt to free himself. His palms thrust upward, and he kicked out against these cramped quarters.

  Brittle with age, the ossuary fragmented, and its lid tumbled to the ground.

  Through Ariston, the Collector was now free to roam.

  He sat up, peeking through functioning eyes for the first time in ages. He’d dwelt so long in shadow that even the nocturnal light seeping into the chamber seemed to blind him. He squinted. Picked out angles and shapes and shades of color.

  He also noted that his corpulence seemed to be swelling with a mind all its own. He would soon be a round-bellied temple of flesh.

  Bah. It was better than the Separation.

  Or a stint in the Restless Desert, that place of unending torment and barren heat. He knew of Collectors who had been sent there never to return.

  At his feet, an inscribed fragment of red stone reassured him of his new identity. He found comfort in that. He, Ariston, had arranged for his family’s burial here. And he had amassed riches. Soon, he and his brood would be walking with heads held high and fingers once again studded with jewels.

  He stood. Swayed as his equili
brium adjusted. Whereas his hosts of long ago had always been alive, warming him with their beating hearts, this time he was occupying the dead. It was . . . different. He felt chilled, even empty.

  He needed blood.

  Lars Marka took another step back from the opening in the earth. How old were these graves? Should they even be scavenging through these bones? The whole thing felt wrong, very wrong.

  “Retreating already?” Thiago’s eyes narrowed. “You can’t do this to me now, not when we have potential riches right at our fingertips. You think I’d fit through that hole? Ha-ha. Not a chance.”

  “What if we get caught?”

  “I’ll keep an eye out,” Thiago said. “Get going. I’m counting on you. In and out of there, a sixty-second man.”

  “I can’t do it. I . . . I won’t.”

  “Hmmm.” The Brazilian coworker pressed his lips together, nodding as though he had expected this. He lowered his chin and moseyed forward. In a flash, one hand clapped around the back of Lars’s neck and yanked him off balance. “You think you’re a big man now, do you? Making your own decisions?”

  Lars breathed in short bursts.

  “You come to Israel,” said Thiago, “to play in the sand. And then you have the nerve to turn your back on this country’s history.”

  “I’m . . . trying to protect it.”

  “Of course, of course. Because you think you know what’s best, don’t you? Just like the Americans and the bloody Brits.”

  Lars’s thin plea for mercy only fed Thiago’s viciousness. Steel-hinged fingers pressed him down till both knees hit the ground. As the sound of a loosening belt buckle reached his ears, he began to shake. He had run away from home to prove himself, to become a man on his own terms, and now that was about to be taken from him.

  His father had been right all along. He was nothing.

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  Cuvin

  Gina scanned the night from behind the safety of the window mesh. Heat still simmered over the fields, and from high in the sky the moon white-washed the cottage and its blue flower boxes.

  She could stand it no longer. “Mamica, did you know that man?”