The Blood Decanter (The Tales of Tartarus)

by A. L. Mengel

  He shuddered and set his wine down on the coffee table. He closed his eyes and lay his head back on the edge of the sofa. “Who is this man with this decanter?”

  His question reverberated against the silence of the room. Giovanni had traveled to Paris last week to meet with a team of Doctors interested in repairing his eyesight, and Antoine had the Chateau all to himself, for several more days at a minimum. He got up and went to a large, full-length mirror and looked at himself.

  He was not the same Antoine he had always been.

  Once dressed in clean, neatly pressed dark suits, he now wore a tattered and stained white t-shirt and dusty jeans. His eyes looked puffy and tired. He leaned closer to the mirror, and opened his bloodshot eyes.

  “Who is this man with the decanter? Who is the hooded man?”

  He turned around and wandered across to the kitchen and started opening random cabinets, examining the dishes. And then he paused and looked around the kitchen, up at the hanging copper pots hanging from the soaring ceiling. The Chateau felt so big and lonely when he was there alone. And tonight, shrouded in darkness, and with Darius buried across the property on the other side of the forest, there were far too many ghosts.

  THE HOODED MAN

  The deeds of faithless men I hate; they will not cling to me.

  Men of perverse heart shall be far from me;

  I will have nothing to do with evil.

  - PSALM 101:3

  ONE

  In the beginning there was a great war between the angels and the demons.

  It was a war that had waged and continued since before time had existed, and before man had walked the earth. But this war, this unholy and unearthly battle, this war during which beasts would draw flaming swords, and angels would chorus through the skies surrounded by legions of light and dive downwards to cast the demons away, was taking place through space and history and time, in a dimension that was very little known to those who did not live in it; this enduring battle would cause earthquakes and fires and explosions, but essentially was undetected by those whose perception did not create an awareness of the spiritual beings.

  But the war did, at a certain time in a certain city on the earth, make its presence known with humanity. For the war was not always just that of the beasts, or the angels.

  Others would join the battle.

  There had been a point when the humans would come. They would stand on the edge of the angry sea, standing pale, naked, and staring straight ahead, with expressionless, blank stares, as if stripped of their life force.

  And, in a sense they had been.

  For the war was taking place in the place – or, as many have argued, in the space, or dimension outside of the reality that these humans had once been accustomed to.

  There eventually were these humans which would involve themselves – the souls of the formerly living that would be cast into a dark, burning sea; in an ocean of sorrow, burning with flames of despair and torment.

  There was much turmoil and a constant veil of sadness; there was an eternal fire that burned in the sea of souls; the flames covered the water and burned, seemingly without a source, but strong and commanding, a leash of insanity, pulling on the crying, filled with despair, sadness and loss.

  In a sea filled with faces, desperate souls looking upwards with unseeing eyes, limbs reached upwards from icy waters in search of air, but finding none. Wide eyes saw nothing, bleeding ears heard nothing, and skin, which was pasty white and covered with ulcers, felt nothing.

  The bodies did not feel the frigidness, nor the chill of the waters.

  Their numbness was benign.

  Their black fingertips, rotted with gangrene, some to the point where fingernails had fallen off and skin cracked and bled, did not feel the cold, nor the pain that would have normally been associated with failing skin.

  The waters of the sea were always frigid, always writhing with bodies, always agitated and screaming.

  And the war waged on, for what seemed like years, but there was no sense of time. There was no timekeeper in eternity; no hourglass with sand tipping from one globe to the other; no sun, no clocks or anything indicating that the war should stop.

  Just a red sky painted with black clouds.

  And on the shores of the sea, the rocks were assaulting, rising through the sands like pointed mountains, which dug into the unprotected feet of those who stood on the sand, waiting to be banished into the sea.

  And it was the monstrous demon who stood on the edge of the shoreline that cast the evil sinners into the sea, to be swallowed by thrashing limbs and screaming. He held a pointed spire, shooting flames into the sky, a sky from which only drops of blood would fall.

  “Do not pass here!” The demon raised a muscular arm, pointing his spire towards the sky. A small group of people huddled together on the beach, not far from the demon; they all looked in horror over towards the waterline, saw the angry sea and the white foam crests of the waves, revealing the thrashing limbs and arms climbing and grabbing and pulling.

  But despite the order of Hades, despite the new arrivals at the shore of the sea that was very consistent and steady, the war waged on. And during that war, there was a focus, and that was on one particular demon.

  It was a demon who looked that of a man who knelt on the shore, his head hung low, his arms in shackles. He was not monstrous, muscular nor did he have wings or horns.

  He was a man who had long, dark hair, twisted locks that hung down from his shoulders. He was dragged from a group of towering rocks towards an altar in the center of the sea, which stood in the center of the waters upon giant boulders that rose upwards towards the swirling, angry clouds.

  He was dragged along the sand by two muscular men, his feet bloodied, broken and limp. Upon his shoulders was the heavy, wooden top of the cross; about five feet long, tied to his arms – wrapped around the massive wooden tree with chains wrapped around his neck.

  The beasts dragged him to the altar.

  They walked on water as the man was not privy to floating on the surface; he could feel the limbs reaching for him, grabbing his legs, fighting to drag him under the water.

  And then the largest of the beasts spoke.

  He looked down at the man, watched as the two men strapped him to the altar, covered him with stones, and paused for a moment. “Do you have anything to say to me? Do you seek atonement?”

  He opened his eyes and looked up at the demon. “You have forsaken me. I brought you into this world. I gave you the immortal gift. You would one cry on my shoulder, your face awash with tears. Why have you betrayed me?”

  The beast leaned down, closer to the man’s head, his face twisted. Can you hear me? Can you hear my thoughts?

  The man looked up at the demon. “I know you are still in there, Roberto. You may be a shell of who you once were, but you are still in there. You still exist.”

  The demon looked at the man straight in his eyes. Yes, Antoine, I am still here.

  I still exist.

  Antoine struggled against the weight of the stones that the two worker demons were piling on top of him. But he did not break his gaze upwards towards the demon. “Why have you betrayed me, dear Roberto? Do you remember how we met? Do you remember?”

  The demon did not respond – but instead was forced to remember.

  There were thoughts that had originally permeated Antoine’s mind. And Antoine, using his gift, was able to project his thoughts to the demon. The demon looked down at Antoine, as his gaze shifted, noticing the telepathic delivery to his mind.

  And then, after a moment of convoluted noise, the demon closed his eyes and started to gain clarity. Images of a busy street at night, a street lined with pastel and stucco buildings that rose from sidewalks crowded with people, walking back and forth.

  And then more images came to his mind.

  There was the sweet smell of car exhaust; the squeak of car brakes. Occasional spotty laughter, doors opening, the chill of cooled air as it pa
ssed outwards in the stifling tropical heat.

  It was summertime in Miami, one of the hottest times of the year, in the middle of the night, at which time the humidity became stifling, and the sweat would continue and worsen against his skin.

  And then, he looked downwards at his hands, dirty, brown, the skin hardened calloused from work.

  He opened his eyes.

  And there was Antoine, who had been standing at the corner on the other side of the block. His gaze was fixated upon Antoine’s tall, dark stature; his long, dark locks, and alluring eyes.

  “Do you remember me, demon?”

  But the demon did not answer. His eyes were shut and closed tight. There was not much that he remembered after that.

  There were bits and pieces, tiny fragments that flowed into his mind like pieces of a puzzle. But the puzzle remained apart, and the bits did not fit together. Much darkness. Nor did they make any sense.

  My mind is swimming in particles that don’t make sense, Antoine. Why are you sending me this?

  Antoine struggled with the weight of the stones around him. “Continue, keep your mind open.”

  The demon continued his vision.

  It was after that night, after Roberto and Antoine had met for the first time and forged a relationship, that Roberto had any type of recollection.

  Later on the same night after they had met, they had sat together in Antoine’s front living room suite. Antoine had stoked the fire as Roberto sat back on the couch, and stared at the small stemmed glass. He studied the green liquid, his face grimaced. Antoine returned to the sofa and sat down. “Have you ever drank that before, Roberto?

  The look on Roberto’s face softened and he raised his head and looked up and over at Antoine. “What is this? Some sort of potion? Are you trying to put me under a spell?”

  Antoine laughed, shook his head, stood, and walked over to the bar. “No, Roberto, no.”

  “You practice witchcraft?”

  Antoine smiled and brought a small decanter over to the couch, containing what appeared to be more of the same cloudy, green liquid. “No, Roberto. I am not a witch.”

  Antoine placed the decanter on the coffee table and continued. “This is absinthe. It’s not a potion, but a very potent liqueur. It is distilled from the wormwood tree.”

  Roberto picked up the glass and held it close to his eyes, examining the green, cloudy substance. “Wormwood you say? Never heard of the stuff.”

  “A taste similar to anise, to black licorice. Take a sip. Feel it on your lips. On your tongue. Let La Fée Verte grasp your soul and caress your heart…”

  Roberto set the glass down. He looked up at Antoine, who had now sat down. “La what?”

  “The legend of the Green Fairy,” Antoine explained. “It goes back many years in the history of absinthe. The Green Fairy is said to live in the absinthe. She wants you. To possess you. But I will not let her…” He leaned over and put his arm around Roberto’s shoulders. Roberto snapped his head over to find Antoine sitting right next to him. “You were just over on the other chair, right?”

  Antoine smiled, and tugged at the side of Roberto’s hair. He took a deep breath and held it for a moment, and then exhaled.

  Roberto looked down at the small glass with the green liqueur. It sat directly in the center of the coffee table. “Do you remember why I spoke to you that night on Washington Avenue?”

  Antoine looked over at Roberto and paused for a moment. He smiled as the fire popped. “Yes, I remember.” Antoine stood, and walked over to the fire, grabbing the stoker. He poked at the logs as the embers brightened and tiny orange specks rose upwards into the chimney. “From what I recall,” he continued, as he focused on the fire, “is that you were looking for drugs. A high, I would imagine. A trip? A journey without going anywhere?”

  Roberto scoffed and shifted on the sofa. He shook his head and exhaled through pursed lips. “You really think it was that?”

  Antoine nodded as he returned to the sofa. “Yes, Roberto, I do. Don’t you think that I haven’t completed my research?”

  Roberto picked up the tiny, stemmed glass that was still sitting in the center of the coffee table. He held it up towards his nose and sniffed the glass, and recognized the harsh scent of alcohol. And then it brought him back. To the mornings when he would lie still in bed, waiting for the house to quiet.

  For it was on those mornings that his father would wake early and make himself a morning cocktail. And many times, it was those mornings that his mother would lie in bed, crying softly, drawing the covers up over her head. He remembers those mornings, standing outside the master bedroom door, watching her sleep. Listening to him downstairs. Waiting for the sound of the garage door. And then, he would knock on the door.

  That much he remembered.

  Roberto sat forward on the couch, his eyes glazed over and staring straight ahead. Antoine sat opposite him, his elbows on his knees, looking over at Roberto, as he broke his trance and looked up at Antoine. “No, I don’t remember. You didn’t want to pick me up?”

  Antoine shook his head.

  “No,” he said. He picked up his glass of absinthe, and lay the slotted spoon down on the table. “The sugar should be dissolved now. Take a sip.”

  Roberto brought the small glass to his lips, and could smell the heat of the alcohol as he brought it closer. He looked over at Antoine as he brought the edge to his lips, and tipped the green liquid towards his mouth…

  …and then he doesn’t remember if he fell asleep or passed out, but he remembered waking up.

  And he remembered waking up in a long, earthen hallway, and he didn’t remember emerging from the labyrinth.

  And it was such the same sweet horror.

  A ride down a dark highway with no destination. No vision. Just a vision of darkness, madness and regret.

  For Roberto would always remember the little demons that would pry his mind open. The little monsters that lived inside his closet, preyed on the grey matter and caused his torment.

  He remembered the silver coffin.

  He remembered standing in a stone room, in a room with nothing else save a coffin on a stone slab in the center.

  There were the flames, which burned underneath the floor…

  …The demon opened his eyes and looked down at Antoine.

  Yes, he remembered the orange glow around the perimeter of the room, emanating up from the floor. The flames. He still could see their reflection against the silver exterior of the casket. I am remembering everything, Antoine.

  “Do you remember, Roberto? Do you remember what you did? What your life had become?”

  And then the demon saw himself as Roberto, he saw himself opening his eyes, still sitting on Antoine’s sofa. The green liquid had been drunk; a clock ticked in the background. His eyelids drooped, almost completely closed.

  Antoine glided over to the couch and sat next to Roberto. He brought his hand to Roberto’s cheek, touching it with the back of his hand with such softness and precision it would appear that he loved the young man; but it was still the first evening that he had known him. And then, he saw that Roberto’s eyes had closed completely.

  The effects of the absinthe had taken over completely, and Antoine then sat back, watched the young man, examining his eyelids, watching his eye movement underneath the thin layers of skin.

  Antoine opened his eyes and looked up at the demon. “I remember the night with the absinthe.”

  Antoine stopped his projection, closed his eyes and pictured the night for himself. He traveled through the memory of his mind, and looked closely at Roberto, who lay back on the sofa, and was sleeping soundly. The fire crackled in the background, along with the dull, fleeting sound of thunder moving farther away. And the pelting of a soft falling rain on the windowpanes.

  Antoine stood, but continued to fixate on Roberto. The handsome young man. So youthful; vibrant, muscular, tanned and athletic.

  But Antoine’s mind had been racing.

  R
acing with questions that could not be answered until the effects of the wormwood wore off, until Roberto awoke from his slumber. Until the demon interjected and tore him out of his memory.

  What are you dreaming about?

  And then Antoine closed his eyes. “I am remembering, demon. Remembering. That is what I am doing. Do you remember the night that I transformed you?”

  The demon did not answer.

  And Antoine saw himself standing in a long, dark earthen hallway. He looked down at his hands, and at close examination, he could tell they were not his.

  He could feel the rough skin on the palms of his hands. Had his skin been that rough when he had been a mortal? He tried to remember. But he could not.

  And then he saw the same moss-covered walls, and the same doors that Roberto had entered; the same silver casket and orange flames. For he knew that Roberto would be scouring a sullen past, dreaming the nightmare that he was always destined to experience.

  But it had been for the wrong reasons.

  And Antoine looked down at Roberto, sleeping on the couch. He picked up the glasses and brought them back to the bar, and placed the decanter of Absinthe in a cabinet and locked it, placing the key in his pocket.

  “Sleep now, my dear Roberto. Sleep and relinquish your demons.”

  *****

  And then Antoine opened his eyes, he saw Roberto – the vision of the masculinity that he had remembered so fondly; the image of the man hovered above him, surrounded by an angry, red sky.

  Roberto stood above him, looking down on him, the same olive complexion, the same muscular arms, the same smile and the familiar feeling swept over him as he leaned down, closer to where Antoine lay.

  As Roberto got closer to Antoine’s face, there was a veil of uncertainty, where the vision became blurred Roberto seemed to fade away, and transform back into the demon.

  And then the demon drew his arm down, after the cairn of stones had been built over Antoine’s body, and the demon’s hand caressed Antoine’s face. Antoine could smell the noxious gas emanating from his mouth as the demon drew his lips close. You didn’t ever really love me.