The Blood Decanter (The Tales of Tartarus)

by A. L. Mengel

  “What do you mean?” Darius said.

  “I mean there will be an imposter. And he will behave as though he has the key to our redemption. Our salvation. But he won’t be one to be trusted. None of it will be true. All lies. There will be many stories that you will learn in your days and years as an immortal, Darius. You are remembering this night. The night I transformed you. But since you were transformed, so much has happened. And now, our kind is being wiped off the face of the earth.”

  Darius looked down at his wine again and opened his hands. “I am just someone who has been watching you from the other end of the bar. Didn’t we just get past first names?”

  Tramos shook his head and adjusted his sitting position, looking Darius straight in the eyes once again. “Darius, please understand. Right now, yes, in your mind, you are still an uncertain human, but I am here, everything here has frozen, because I needed to break into this memory of yours and let you know that things have changed. You will accept my gift that I will offer you later after you and I leave the café. You will become an immortal. And there will be others. You will find a son of your own. The ‘Blood Lineage’ will continue. But my warning will come just but once…”

  “Why did you choose now? Why now?”

  “Because you will always remember this event. Your transformation into darkness. It’s a transition that you will never forget.”

  “…And your warning…”

  “Yes. My warning. I am coming into this memory to give you a piece of knowledge. You see, when the café around us returns to normal, and you are transported back to the moment you were in with me, on the night that we first met you will be somewhat changed.”

  “Changed how?”

  “You will still be exactly who you were on the night that we sat here, in this café, and enjoyed our wine together. And all of the events that happened after that night, will still happen, in the same order and in the same fashion. The only thing that will be different is that you will know that a man in a hood is exterminating our kind. And it will not happen for many, many years after this night that I transformed you. But you will know of it. I am inserting this memory into your mind. I pray you never forget it, dear Darius.”

  And then the bar erupted in laughter, Darius looked up from his wine, and Tramos was gone. Darius stood and looked onwards, through the boisterous bar patrons, across towards the door. It was slightly ajar.

  Darius made his way through the crowd, pushing people aside and excusing himself, but never taking his eyes off the door.

  And then, when he exited the bar, he felt the cold sting in the air; he could see his hot breath emit tiny clouds of vapor under the stars, and he scanned the area. A forest to the left. Rolling terrain to the right, fields, with an occasional tree dotting the landscape. It was a bright, moonlit night, and the gravel in front of him reflected a light, blue hue.

  He was startled for a moment when two drunk patrons spilled out of the bar door. But he returned his gaze to the field.

  Where are you Tramos?

  The walk home took a bit, and when he crossed the river and towards his small modest cottage, he paused at the front door. He looked around his shoulder. There was a forest on the opposite side of the small, dirt road that ran in front of his cottage. “Tramos? Are you there?”

  But there was no answer.

  *****

  The room remained silent as the lights were turned back on. Darius, and others, squinted as their eyes adjusted to the assault of the bright fluorescents. Monsignor Harrison took his seat back at the head of the conference table, and rubbed his eyes. Darius looked around the room, and then focused on Delia. Her face was shifted with concern and looked like she was about to cry.

  The Monsignor shook his head and sighed. He closed the file and looked back up at Darius. “You were given a warning, Darius. A warning. You knew this was going to happen. And you did nothing.”

  Darius looked down and his hands. They were clasped in his lap. He twitched his fingers. “I did not remember. Not until tonight.”

  The Monsignor slammed his fist on the table. “Darius, he told you! Tramos came to you! He warned you! We could have known about this years ago had you shared this with us. Now we are being exterminated!”

  Delia closed her eyes and lowered her head. “Darius, why did you block this? Why did you repress this memory?”

  Darius stood and pleaded with the group. He reached his hands outwards. “I didn’t even know I had this memory to repress!”

  The Monsignor stood and shook his head. “Darius Sauvage. You have lost your dark gift of immortality as you drank from the blood decanter. The hooded man has found you, and sentenced you to a life of eternal damnation. You are now mortal again, and shunned from this group. You will have a short life, and after, an eternity of darkness and punishment. Now, you will leave these quarters, never to return again. May God have mercy on your soul.”

  MIAMI

  There was a time when Darius remembered the moment of his death, and could still remember the words that Antoine spoke to him, as he lay in the cusp of the astral dimension, his soul barely clinging to life: “The dark ones didn’t come, my friend. They didn’t come.”

  And then he remembered slipping way.

  And rising from the bed. He remembered looking back down at the bed – his body still lay on the mattress, and he noticed that Antoine had pulled up the sheets so they covered his chest, and his arms were clasped over his torso. He remembered walking around the room, the same room in the same Chateau that he had lived in for so many years; the same light curtains hung on the windows, the curtains that had caught the summertime breeze so many times when he lived there, and their blowing served as one of the last memories that he ever had while living.

  But now, as his body lay in the bed next to him, the room felt different.

  Things felt different. They looked different.

  He looked down at his feet. Barefoot, the same small hairs on the top of his foot, the same few freckles…but he could not feel the floor. He raised his hands. They didn’t appear as aged as they had before; perhaps some renewal was taking place.

  Despite the different sensations, he still could remember his first few moments in the afterlife, and it wasn’t what he had expected, not in the least.

  Darius could feel the sting in the air; the winter chill had been significant that year, and as he walked closer to the river’s edge, he could see each breath leave his body like a cloud of smoke against the glassy air. He pulled his jacket close to his body, and rubbed his arms as he walked, his footsteps, each crunching through the frozen grass, and, as he left the glowing café lights behind him, the warmth of their small booth, and Tramos sitting in the chair, he picked up his pace, as each step in the gravel quickened up the point of a jog.

  He looked over his shoulder.

  The café lights, as warm as they seemed, grew distant, but despite his speed, Darius continued to look behind him.

  You will return, my Darius, my dear, sweet, Darius. You will return.

  Darius flung the front door open and did not bother to light his way through the house. He found his door, made every effort of silence, and found the warmth of his bed. But, even in the safety and solitude of his bedroom, the lights of the café far behind him, sleep did not come to him that night. While the early morning hour was already at hand, it was still several hours before sunrise.

  Darius lay under the covers, pulled up and over his head, still in his clothing from the night before, smelling of wine and of Tramos.

  Darius shut his eyes as tight as he could and covered his ears with his hands. “No, no, no.” He shook his head back and forth, realizing what was outside, just on the other side of the wall behind him, standing in the moonlight, a beast as tall as his house, with clenched fists and roping arm muscle.

  There was a light, methodic tap on the window. A fingernail rapping on glass.

  I hear you, Tramos.

  But there was only silence.
No answer.

  I remember you when you visited me each night, when you stayed with me until the sun would rise over the eastern sky. And when you were with me, drinking wine and breaking bread.

  Darius kept his eyes closed, and envisioned Tramos in front of him. His long, golden hair, warm, inviting smile, the beaming bright teeth which caught the light. He remembered that much.

  And who was the monster outside his window? Who was the demon in the passing breeze, walking back and forth through the puddles that caught the moonlight in their tiny little worlds?

  A giant webbed foot stomped in one of the puddles, setting the reflected moon into chaos. Darius could see that much, for there was one reason why he was lying in that bed, with the covers pulled towards his head. “Tramos I am here! Have you come for me again tonight?” He flung the covers down to his waist, and felt some relief as the cool air hit his face and torso.

  There was a connection.

  Darius could see the monster, pressed up against his window, just outside. Hovering, breathing deep, grating and raspy. Darius knew what he would see if he drew the curtains apart.

  But the monster was coming.

  There was a crash of thunder and a bright flash of light. Darius shielded his eyes, and as the thunder subsided, he kept his eyes closed, and heard a light rain patter against the windowpane. But it wasn’t the rain that Darius had been concerned with. For he could not open his eyes. He dared not. For in the room, he could hear what he was trying so hard not to hear, the deep breaths and the shuffling of heavy footsteps around his bedside.

  He squeezed his eyes closed until they hurt. Until the dull ache behind his temples forced him to ease the tension. But he kept his eyes closed, and easing the force did nothing. For the monster was still there, hovering over his bed. He could smell the hot, putrid breath above him. And then the monster spoke, with a deep precision, from well within its throat.

  “Open your eyes.”

  Darius did as he was commanded.

  And when he saw the monster looking down upon him, his tension eased. It was Tramos. The familiar demon of his dreams and nightmares. It was the same monster, the long, pointed fingers, the musclebound chest, powerful arms and torso. And then the demon looked directly down at him with glowing eyes shaped liked prisms.

  “Open…your…eyes!”

  “They are open…”

  Darius hugged himself. And looked into the glowing prisms. “Tramos? Is that you? Are you the light?”

  The demon moved his head downwards, closer to where Darius lay. “It is I. Now will you rise from that bed and come with me? Will you pledge the same promise you did when we were speaking earlier?”

  Darius raised himself up on his elbows. “Why did you tell me again? Why didn’t you remind me about your warning?”

  Tramos sat on the edge of the bed and looked down at Darius. “My dear Darius,” he said. “I’m afraid it is too late. These are all thoughts…just merely thoughts…that are permeating your mind as you lay in your bed, in your Chateau, just after death. Antoine is there. He is watching over you. Your mind is decompressing. It is downloading your life. You must not think that these things are happening to you again.”

  Darius sat up and let the covers fall. He stared at the wall, and closed his eyes after a few moments of silence. “I cannot understand this, Tramos. I feel so lost.”

  Tramos put a muscular arm around Darius and hugged him close to his chest. “You will find your way, Darius. Just like you did when you first transformed into immortality. You will find your way through the spirit world. It takes time. And now you have so much of it.”

  Darius shook his head and looked up into Tramos’ eyes. “Will I ever return?”

  Tramos nodded. “Yes. Death is never final, Darius. It’s merely a change. Think of yourself as the butterfly.”

  DELIA ARNETTE

  PARIS

  Mother was crying.

  She knew that much.

  As she looked on, watching her mama cry, she stood behind the door and could almost feel the warmth of the tears running down her cheeks, and hear the quiver in her voice as she spoke in broken sentences. The voices were muffled and low, but could see the feet scuffle across the floor. She cupped the sides of her face and peeked through the crack. She had the door open, just a crack, just so much that the darkness of the bedroom was pierced by a finger of light. But she did not dare open the door.

  She leapt back and fell on her bum as heavy footsteps barreled down the wooden floor, just outside her bedroom door. She crawled under the bed covers and drew them up and over her head. She knew that Mother was crying. She could hear her sobbing in the other room.

  She remembered that much. She could hear the muffled tears emanating through the door as she peered through the crack. Had mother come to check on her? It was late in the evening, perhaps very early in the morning. Delia had gone to bed for what seemed like hours earlier, and then she heard a thump in the house.

  “Delia, come here!”

  She skittered back into the bed and yanked the sheets up towards her neck.

  And then the door opened with a creak, and light spilled into the room.

  She lay still with her eyes closed, but could still sense the presence. Footsteps walked slowly towards her bedside and stopped. The scent of alcohol wafted into the room, and she sensed him standing over her bedside.

  Father.

  There was a time when she loved her father. There was a time, which seemed so far away and unreachable, that the man who was standing over her bed was loving; one that cared for her and mother and had been the protector.

  But times were different.

  She remembered when doors slammed and china plates were hurled across the room. But then the drinking got worse; and the nights post binge drinking became increasingly difficult for her to endure. She would lock herself into her room, retire early, and lay in bed in a cocoon of blankets, trying to ignore the muffled scuffling in the next room.

  But it was always impossible.

  And sleep would rarely come without a fitful fight of adjusting the covers; turning from one side the other; holding the pillow over her head to block the raised voices that would be just out in the hallway outside her bedroom door, traveling through the living room and kitchen.

  Mother and Father were fighting again.

  She could still remember the wetness on her cheeks as she lay in bed with the covers pulled tightly over her head; lying helpless on the hot nights, her legs sweating, her hair matted to her forehead as she dared not lift the covers for cool air.

  This night, in particular, it had been worse than usual. She remembered that much. For when she stood at the door, looking outwards through the thin crack of light, she could see, from the corner of her eye, her mother.

  Lying on the living room floor in a pool of blood.

  Her heart thumped in her chest, but she continued to look through the slit. And she dared not run out to her mother. For he would find her.

  And that was when she ran back into her bed and slid under the covers. And shortly after, he was there.

  “I saw you get out of bed, Delia.”

  She lie frozen still, listening to him speak, wishing he could go away. She shivered despite the heat.

  “Your mother had it comin’.”

  And then Delia opened her eyes, and she was no longer in the warm bed. She saw the gravestones, standing in the middle of the cemetery in the late fall, in a cold, falling rain, in a barren, brown and dead landscape. She could feel the sting of the cold air against her cheeks; she could hear the tinny sound of the frozen rain against the dry, cracked leaves and blades of grass.

  And then she closed her eyes, as the warmth of the tears cut into the chill on her cheeks, and she listened to the casket being lowered into the ground.

  Oh, Mother.

  And then she saw the flap of a dark coat blowing in the wind behind a gravestone several rows from the burial service. And she could not stop staring at
it.

  Oh, Mother, I can still hear your sweet lullaby…

  I can still feel the warm touch of your skin…

  “But she is going to be down there rotting.”

  There was a light passing breeze, and a brief clearing, as the clouds increased and tiny droplets of rain started to fall again. She felt a drop on her cheek as she closed her eyes, standing over the casket, letting the wave of emotions pass. She opened her eyes again after hearing the phantom female voice. “Who?” All she could see were the same gravestones and the same rain, dried up and dead grass. She looked to her left, and saw the mourners leaving. The casket was now lowered into the ground, but not buried yet. A mound of dirt still was at the side.

  But mother was gone. And the voice, she could not find the source of the voice.

  As she stood, she closed her eyes again. She remembered her days when Mother was alive, as footsteps crunched in the leaves behind her, approaching. She opened her eyes and turned around. The woman smiled and removed her large, dark sunglasses. Tiny tufts of red hair wisped out from underneath her beret. “I am very sorry for your loss,” she said.

  Delia nodded. “Do I know you?”

  The woman looked down and moved closer to Delia.

  “No, you do not,” she said. She took Delia’s hands and looked into her eyes. “My name is Claret Atarah.”

  Claret put her arms around Delia. She looked over at her. “I am here because I have been watching you. I have seen what you have endured. I have selected you because of it.”

  She looked at Claret. Her eyes were warm and reassuring. There was a slight smile on her face. Delia looked down. “You have been watching me? Do you know me?”

  “I do not know you personally, no. But I assure you, I am a friend, and you can trust me.”

  Delia stopped walking and turned to face Claret. “My mother just died, ma’am. I am sorry, but now is not the time to – ”