What Blood Leaves Behind (The Poison Rose)

by Beaumont, Delany

  I’m dragged over to another sculpture that’s shaped like the base of a toppled column. I can see the silhouettes of other columns, father back, full size. It’s like we’re in the ruins of an ancient temple. On the smooth surface of the column in front of me, about four feet high, lies a body. One of the Black Riders appears out of nowhere on the column’s far side and illuminates the body with a torch.

  The boys clutching my arms loosen their grip. They prod me, trying to get me to use my own strength to balance myself. When they let go, I wobble a bit, my feet spread apart, swaying forward and back, but I manage to stand on my own.

  Try. To. Run. Now.

  But they’re all around me. I could never outrun these normal kids who have eaten regular meals, who have been treated well. Numbness seeps back into my limbs.

  And I am starting to be hypnotized by the face of the man I killed.

  Gideon. This is Gideon. The one I shot by firing blindly into the dark beyond the glare of the motorcycles’ headlights. I couldn’t bring myself to shoot a rabbit that day long ago when we were picking blackberries. But I killed a human being.

  Human. The word fits this creature uneasily.

  The pasty, bloodless hand of another black rider holds a torch close to Gideon’s face. The face repulses me, fascinates me. I keep wanting to turn away but I continue to stare.

  Gideon is dressed in black, like the others. His eyes are open. They are dark pools, black smears of pitch across which the flickering torchlight dances. They look like wells that could suck me in to some strange netherworld, twin gateways to another dimension. His skin is waxy, with an ashen gray base over which there’s a white powdery dusting, like newly fallen snow.

  But what fascinates me most of all…the left side of his forehead, where there is a deep jagged hole but no blood. The bullet wound. His chest doesn’t rise or fall but I imagine that if I could somehow wave that wound away, he would sit up, swing his legs from the top of the column, get to his feet and stand facing me. And if he did sit up, if he was facing me, watching me, I have no idea if that would prove that he really was alive.

  Like I am alive. Like the normals are alive.

  I think, This is what someone who survives the fever looks like. This is how they change. These, the Black Riders, are the survivors.

  Moira steps into the small pool of torchlight. I had no idea she was this close. She, too, stares at Gideon’s face. Then she looks up at me abruptly. I stare at the black of the jacket she wears, the gleam of the silver buckle on the belt looped across the top of her cargo pants. I can’t look into her eyes.

  “We were together, you see. He was the first. I was the second. We shared this entire city together. We welcomed all the others.” She sounds emotional, a tremor in her voice. But then she snarls, “Why do I waste words on you?”

  For a few moments I can hear nothing but the crackle of the flames. Then she says, “Do you see how this works, Gillian? You murdered one of us so it’s only just that we kill you. I honestly didn’t think we could die. None of us has ever died. I thought maybe we’d all live forever.”

  She reaches over to take the torch from the one holding it on the other side of the column and sweeps it in a wide arc in front of her, directing the flame at all assembled. “Well now, are we ready to burn her? Is it time?”

  At the sound of these words, I try to turn and run—I really do try—but my body betrays me. I lift my legs and pump my arms but nothing happens. My feet hit the ground like they’re made of lead and I can’t lift them again. My legs sag. I sink down to the hard brick paving stones of the square, gasping for breath as if I just ran a mile.

  I hear Moira laugh, a deep, dark, heartless laugh. “Pick her up. Drag her if you have to,” she says.

  But instead of the normals, instead of the ones like me, it’s another wraith who steps in from the outer shadows. There’s the smell again, that moldering, metallic odor. It feels uncanny to have so many of the Black Riders this close to me. I draw into myself again, pulling my knees up, putting my head down.

  This Black Rider sweeps past me and takes a place on the other side of the column, the light of its torch adding to that of the other, widening the glow that flickers over Gideon’s body.

  “I don’t think we should kill her, Moira.”

  I glance up and see that it’s another woman standing there, about the same shape and size as Moira but with tousled wisps of hair that look scarlet under the torchlight. She speaks in a voice as sure of itself, as commanding as Moira’s. The voice immediately takes me back to the van—the female, the one who had wondered if I had a concussion. I thought I had detected a hint of compassion in that voice.

  Moira watches and waits silently. I catch a glimpse of her dark eyes in the pulsating light.

  “I’m Gideon now,” she says at last. “He wanted me calling the shots if anything ever happened to him. You know that.” She raises her voice. “You all know that.”

  “We don’t know that,” the other says. “Did he ever say that?” She raises her voice as well to include everyone assembled. “Did any of you ever hear him say that?”

  “We were the first,” Moira says.

  The other sighs, as if listening to the words of a child. “I think we need to cut a bargain. Gideon was the first. He took us into the city. He showed us how to live. And you were closer to him than anyone, Moira. We know that. But there’s no reason why you should be above us now.”

  Moira takes a step toward this other female, thrusts the torch in her face. I see the other shut her eyes, raise a hand to protect them from the light and turn away. There’s muttering from the larger group of Black Riders. They’re closer now. I can see their shadowy forms pressing in, paying close attention.

  “There is a reason, Aisa,” Moira says. Her voice cracks a bit, betrays her. “I am smarter than any of you. I know more about this city than any of you. You’d all be dead in a month without me. Everything would just fall apart.”

  “You’re full of shit, Moira. Gideon didn’t choose you because you were smarter. He chose you because you were the first one who came along.”

  Another shape steps forward, barely discernable in the torchlight. “Talk to her with respect,” a male’s voice says.

  “You talk to her with respect, Doon,” the one called Aisa says. “I think the obvious solution is that we split, go our own way. Those who worship Moira can stay with Moira. But anyone who wants to can tag along with me.”

  Someone else says, “Maybe we shouldn’t be talking like this in front of the children.”

  Another says, “Why not kill her?”

  “We’re running short,” Aisa says. “These older kids, these elders, will go through the change soon. Some will die, some will live. We don’t know how many others are out there anymore, how many will find their way here. We need all we have to work, to feed and take care of the younger ones.”

  “But she killed Gideon!” Moira splutters, incredulous. “That’s the whole point of this ceremony. It’s a ceremony of death.”

  “We can dispose of her later,” Aisa says. “If she can’t behave. What can she do? Where can she go? We have the ones she was taking care of. She’s just a rat caught by a whole lot of cats. We can play with her for a while.”

  The one called Doon stands close to Moira, murmurs urgently in her ear.

  Aisa, still speaking to everyone around her, says, “You can’t force us, Moira. What are you going to do, put us in cages, like her? Don’t any of you want to come with me? Be brave. Step forward. I promise she won’t hurt you.”

  Suddenly, as if he’d been listening to every word that’s been said, Gideon’s body sucks in a deep, shuddering breath. Just one breath, no more. His chest rises and falls.

  All movement stops. Everything is hushed. Moira takes a torch and holds it over him, slowly inspecting the entire length of his body.

  “Maybe we can’t be killed,” someone whispers.

  Moira calls out, “Needle, come here.
”

  Another specter in black rustles forward and bends low over Gideon’s body while Moira holds her torch aloft. Like before, her face is averted from the torch’s glare. Their eyes must be sensitive, I think. Can’t stand bright light.

  The hands of the one called Needle are plainly visible in the torchlight. They have long tapered fingers that move like the thin waving tubes of a sea anemone. Each finger ends with a nail like a purple half-moon.

  Needle uses these fingers to unzip Gideon’s jacket and unbutton the top of a black shirt he wears underneath. Needle lowers his head, a dark oval concealed by the hood he wears, to Gideon’s chest. He presses an ear against the milky skin and listens. He pulls back, turns to the others and says, “I don’t hear anything. His heart isn’t—”

  Then I see Gideon’s lower jaw draw back like someone is tugging it loose and he takes another deep, ragged breath. I look away, start to scramble back. It’s a corpse coming to life, something that should not be happening, that I should not be seeing. Against nature. Beyond understanding.

  Gideon takes one more breath and stops. His mouth snaps shut. Teeth click.

  Moira says, gasping, astounded, “He’s not dead. We can revive him.” Her voice is trembling with expectation. “We need to take him home with us. You stay with him, Needle. Don’t leave him for a second.”

  Needle holds up his right hand, the long fingers quivering in the torchlight. He turns back to the body. I see him take one slim, pale finger and press it against the hole in Gideon’s skull. Then I see him let his finger worm its way inside the wound.

  Seconds later, Needle’s head rockets back and his back stiffens as if he’s just been electrocuted. He shakes and twitches, like the dancers did earlier. Moira stares at him, fascinated. Needle’s shoulders finally slump and he jerks his hand away. He steps back from the body and turns to the others. His face is shrouded in darkness. “Well?” Moira says softly.

  “Dreams,” he says, stunned. His voice is a hoarse whisper, like that of a heavy smoker trying to tell a secret. “Unbelievable dreams. They flooded into me. From him.”

  He paces back and forth in front of the column bearing Gideon’s body.

  “Maybe he’s changed again. Yes, that’s it. I think he’s evolving into something else, a higher form.”

  “How could a bullet to the head do that?”

  Needle shakes his head. “We should take him home. He’s stuck somewhere, halfway. Maybe he will come back, maybe he won’t. But we can share his dreams.”

  The Black Riders watching the spectacle begin chattering, moving among each other.

  Moira holds her torch up once more, raises her voice. “I think we should save the bickering for another day. Let’s take Gideon home now.” She stares at Aisa across the space above Gideon’s body. “Agreed?” she says, not commanding but asking.

  Aisa says, “What about her?” She points in my direction.

  Moira answers quickly, “I don’t care about her right now. If you want to keep her around for a while, fine. Let’s have them chain her in the cellar of the Orphanage for now.” She passes her torch to Needle and claps her hands again. “Children, come get her. Hurry up. Take her back with you, over the bridge and back home.”

  The wraiths, the Black Riders, turn from us and pay no more attention to me or to the other normal ones. They hover around Gideon’s body murmuring, jostling for the space closest to it. They look like a swarm of black crows in the darkness, pecking away at something.

  Someone grabs me from behind, yanks one of my arms back, then someone snatches my other arm and pulls me away. The heels of my feet bounce across the bricks. Soon I can’t see anything beyond the glow of the bonfire as it collapses in on itself.

  Part Four

  The Orphanage

  One

  In a dream, Larkin is talking to me. Something about us going swimming tomorrow.

  In my worst moments, I dream about Larkin.

  There’s a swimming hole, placid and deep, behind a rocky shelf in a creek near Oxbow Ferry. It’s close to the fields where we’ve been picking blackberries. The water there is cold and clear. We’ve started to bathe there.

  It’s only during the summer that we can really wash ourselves clean. I’ve been bringing the girls down there almost every afternoon. We bring soap and shampoo. We lather up, then rinse ourselves off by splashing and diving as far down as we can. Under the cold water, I imagine trout nudging up against us, crayfish skittering through the mud our toes can touch.

  The hot afternoon sun always dries us off before we make it back to the house we’ve taken as our own. Once inside, we change into newfound clothes and comb each other’s tangled hair while Larkin takes CJ and Terry with him so they, too, can clean up a little and cool off.

  “We should all go swimming for fun,” Larkin says before leaving with the boys, while I’m drawing a big-toothed comb carefully through Stace’s flame-colored hair. “All of us together.”

  I snort sarcastically. “I don’t think that’s going to work.”

  He gives me a gentle punch on the shoulder. “We’ll all wear suits, don’t worry. I’m sure we can find some.”

  “I don’t know… How are they going to do a good job of washing themselves?”

  “You’re always so practical.” He mimics me. “The swimming hole is only for getting clean, not for fun.”

  “I never said that. I like to have fun like everybody else.”

  “But it’s hard for you to let your guard down.”

  I know he’s right. I should relax a little.

  Then I’m looking at Larkin lying in bed. It’s that last room he occupied, in that last house we shared. His breathing is shallow, his face is pale. I bend down to kiss his feverish forehead. I close my eyes for a moment and when I open them—

  Gideon’s face is where Larkin’s should be. My lips have brushed against Gideon’s gray-white skin, cool and dry, tissue paper thin and flaky like an old hornet’s nest. His black eyes are open, staring out at nothing. I pull back in horror, as if I’ve just kissed a snake or a spider.

  Gideon’s face blurs into Larkin’s and then back again. Both faces have a hole in the forehead where the bullet from my rifle struck. I stare at the hole, a deep purple intrusion, sunk into the skin. How far does it go? I wonder. To the center of his brain?

  I hold my hand up before my eyes and study my fingers. I think of the one they called Needle, using one of his long white fingers to probe the wound, to explore the hole I had made in Gideon’s skull.

  I reach down and touch the wound myself. The flesh of Gideon, of Larkin—the face keeps transposing, switching from one to another—is now as cold as clay, lifeless. I watch my own index finger, moving beyond my control, as if it’s no longer a part of me, start to work its way inside the hole. I’m both disgusted and fascinated. A second later, I’m awake.

  Two

  When I open my eyes I see a bottle of water. It’s not an unopened bottle but a battered plastic one liter container with the original label missing. I snatch it, unscrew the top and let the water slosh into my mouth, not caring if it’s poison or what it tastes like. It’s warm, flat, with a strong metallic taste but I drink deep, letting it trickle luxuriously down my throat. Then I start choking and have to slow down.

  Past the water bottle is a plate. On the plate is a hunk of bread and an apple. I snatch at the bread, tear at it with my teeth. The crust is hard, the soft flesh of the inner loaf stale and bland but it feels like a miracle to hold this thing in my hand, to be able to chew and chew. To be able to take another sip of water.

  Soon the bottle is empty, the apple entirely consumed save for the seeds and the stem, every crumb of the bread devoured.

  I lie back down, close my eyes, take deep even breaths. A few minutes pass before the full effect of the food hits me. I’m still hungry, still thirsty but I begin to feel a sense of wellbeing. That terrible gnawing hunger I’ve felt for so long recedes a little. It’s easy to swallow again.
I know the hunger will begin nipping at me soon enough but maybe by then someone will have brought more food.

  I finally sit up and take some time to look around. I see that I’m in a small basement room, dim shafts of light wavering through the broken glass of sooty window panes near the ceiling. It’s completely still, totally silent. I’m beside an enormous, ancient furnace, a rusting hulk that looms over me. There are mops and brooms and dusty tools scattered around, everything broken and rusted.

  I’m lying on a dirty mattress. The plate and the bottle were set on the cold cement floor next to me. The floor is grimy and littered with scraps of paper, clumps of dust, hair, broom straw and mop yarn.

  I notice mouse droppings in the dim light and wonder if part of the bread had been nibbled at while I was sleeping. The thought makes me nauseated for a moment but that might be because I ate so fast. The nausea passes and I promise myself I will be awake the next time food is delivered and keep it from touching the floor.

  Finally, I push myself up from the mattress. When on my feet again, I feel wobbly, lightheaded. I hurt all over. It feels like I’ve run a marathon with a heavy pack on my back. My head starts to ache.

  I begin walking around this cellar, this basement I’m in.

  It’s a large space, the lower level of a large building. There are double metal doors at one end painted gunpowder gray. I make my way haltingly across the room toward them. The muscles in my legs and back and shoulders fight me every step of the way.

  When I reach the doors, I push and pull on the handles but they won’t budge. I flip a row of light switches by the doors, looking up at the florescent light fixtures above me but none of them work, not even a flicker.

  That’s ridiculous, Gillian. Where would the electricity come from?

  It gets easier to walk and stand the farther I go. Slowly, I make my way all around the outer wall of the room, in no hurry, feeling my way in the gloom. I’m convinced that whoever put me here made sure that there was no easy way to escape. And where would I go if I did get out? Someone might be waiting right outside the door.