by A. L. Mengel
As she drifted back to sleep, she could see the door in front of her – the old wood, the musty odor, the tapestry hanging over the window which caught a light breeze.
The door banged with a thud.
She sat up in bed.
She could still feel the grit in her eyes, as she had only retired a few hours previously. She still wore her bedclothes; a white, plain dress, and her hair, dirty, mussed and caked together with twisted locks.
And the knock came again, and she woke.
I have come for you, Delia.
She paused and crossed her arms over her breasts. “Who are you?”
I am coming for you and I will give you the dark gift.
The door splintered open, as the wood crumbled and a piece of the door broke off and crashed to floor. Delia sat up, looked forwards, and saw the figure standing in the doorway. There was a certain statuesque presence; a dark figure against the brilliance of the sun, dust clouds billowing around, billowing into her room. But there was a certain feel to the visitor. For the shape of the silhouette was distinctly feminine; Delia could see the outline of something that looked like a veil. “My name is Claret Atarah. I come to you in peace.”
She sat up in bed and watched the woman walk into her room, as the dust settled. Delia swung her legs around the bed and felt the cold, hard wood. She turned and looked at her visitor. “Your name…is so exceptional. Where do you come from?”
Claret sat next to Delia on the bed. She looked Delia directly in the eyes. “I come with a warning. There is great turmoil in your country. Talks of heresy. They are burning the accused at the stake.”
Delia closed her eyes and nodded. “How do you know all of this?”
“I come from a different time,” she said. “A different place. I have a special power – a gift, if you will – that was given to me by a man many, many years ago. I want to give you that gift as well.”
“What gift is this?”
Claret stood and walked over to the window. “It’s a gift that will let you live, dear Delia. It’s a gift that I must give you, and it must only be me. And for this gift, you will become my child.” She pulled the tapestry to the side and looked outside. “They are coming, dear Delia. They will be here today. If you do not accept my gift, you will burn and die. I travel through time, across dimensions, and I have found you. I know of the power you hold within. The gift will unlock that power.”
“The power I hold within? What power is that?”
Claret turned around. Delia dropped her dress to the floor, standing nude in front of Claret, and walked over to the washbasin. She splashed some water on her face.
“Do you want the gift I speak of?”
Delia stood and washed herself. “Tell me more about it, Claret. I do not know you. Nor do I know of you. Why do they believe me to be a witch?”
Claret stepped forward and sat on the edge of the bed. “You have gotten fairly well known in your town, have you not?”
Delia nodded as she pulled on a clean dress. She joined Claret, and sat next to her on the bed. “No time for sitting,” Claret said, grabbing her arm as they both stood. “Come with me,” she said. “Let me take you away from here, and I will explain everything.”
*****
Delia watched Claret as the world changed around her. The blue skies grew dark, as the landscape shifted and turned, as if they were entering a tunnel without moving. She still held Claret’s hand, although she was traveling behind her. As the tiny beams of light flew past them, and the darkness held steadfast, she closed her eyes.
She remembered visiting Domrémy-la-Pucelle, very close to her domicile. She saw the same soaring roof, the roof with one side reaching upwards towards the left as she faced the small, wooden door. The roof reached towards a point, and dominated her view. But now, the villa was gone, and they were traveling in darkness.
“I am taking you to a different time,” Claret said. “And a different place. I am taking you on this journey with me to show you where the story truly begins.”
Delia felt a cool wind against her face, as if they were moving a great speeds, covering vast distances, but when she looked down at her feet, it appeared as if they were standing still. As she looked around her, she saw wisps of brilliant white light flash past them, so it did appear that they were moving quite fast. She called out to Claret. “Where are we going?”
Claret turned and smiled. “Come with me and see…”
The darkness started to lift. And as the haziness cleared enough to gauge a sense of atmosphere, she saw desert sands. Small, clay square huts lining the streets, and as they walked forward, she could feel her feet in the hot, stony sand. A hot, dry wind blew against her face. The temperature was stifling. She looked up at the sky at the piercing sun.
“We are in Jerusalem, Delia. Come follow me. Through the market. Don’t speak to anyone. Just follow me and I will lead you to a safe place.”
“Is this not safe?”
She followed Claret, who did not answer. Delia watched her robe, her flowing red hair blow in the hot desert wind. And Delia looked around. All of the new images, those of which she had never seen before, except in books. She looked around the market, at the dusty tables, teeming with activity. She saw the tapestries hanging on the sides of the small, stone one-story buildings, attached to the walls with wooden sticks, reaching outwards over the windows. There were vendors sitting on small wooden tables, in front of fruit and fish; others led camels through the dusty passageways. And then they sought the shade and waited behind a merchant. Claret leaned against a small stone house, and Delia sat in the sand next to her. “We will wait until the shroud of darkness,” she said.
Delia hung her head down and looked at the sand, and the small pebbles, when she felt her head getting heavier and her eyes closed.
When she opened her eyes, it felt like it was well into the evening; the sky was dark and starless, and when she looked up at the clouds, they were floating by, fingering their way across the sky, like dark, fluffy cotton against a pale blue light.
“How long have I been sleeping?” Delia asked, getting to her feet.
“Not as long as you think,” she said, and walked out in to the center of the market. “It is safe now. Let us go.”
“Where are you taking me, Claret?”
Claret stopped walking, turned around and took Delia’s hand. “Follow me this way.” She led Delia past the market, into an alleyway, and onwards down the alley to a small, wooden, windowless door. She opened it and stepped into a small room. There was a small, wooden table and three plain wooden side chairs.
“Sit,” Claret said. “There is wine in the corner. I will get you some.”
Delia looked around the room. It was plain. Claret was a pauper. There were no other rooms to the house. A small stone bed in the corner with a tattered blanket. Two windows through which the hot breeze would blow. And a small table and chairs. Nothing else.
Claret dragged a stone urn and tipped some red wine into a simple stone goblet. “No matter how the clouds part, nor the skies clear, I open my eyes to blood rain; wash the tears away, and weep again for a different purpose.”
Claret pushed one of the goblets of wine in front of Delia. She looked up at her and nodded. “Drink.”
Delia looked directly at the goblet, and then up at Claret.
Claret nodded. “Drink and you will live forever. You will not have to worry about those back in Lyon burning you at the stake. Drink this and you will always live. You will never die. And I will give you the gift of immortality. You will always live, you will always be young.”
“But what if I don’t drink?”
Claret stood and walked around the table. She knelt next to Delia, and pulled her chin up gently. Their eyes locked. “Because if you don’t drink,” Claret said, “then you will certainly have a great misfortune befall upon you.”
Delia looked at the cup, and then shook her head. “I don’t understand. Claret, I don’t understand. Pl
ease make me understand. What is coming?”
Claret sat in the chair opposite Delia, reached across the table and took her hands. She looked into Delia’s eyes. “Many years from now, Delia, you will be a great leader. You will be one of the founding members of an organization that advocates for our kind. But there will be a significant misfortune – a misguided warrior who will be a false prophet. He will convince all of our kind that he is the salvation. The light. But he not, Delia. He is not.”
Delia looked down at their clasped hands. And then back over at the cup, and back into Claret’s eyes. “And so you are warning me?”
Claret nodded and smiled. “I have been watching you Delia. Watching you from afar. In different times, different places. That is why I selected you. You are destined to be a mother figure, one who will lead and become a Matriarch of our kind.” Claret stood and walked to the window. She pulled the tapestry aside and craned her head around the wall, looking outside. “My warning is simple. You drink from the cup, you will have no worry. I will give you the gift. But there will be someone, thousands of years from now, who will seek to destroy our kind. You will be my child because it is written. It is your destiny to be so. And so it will be. But this cup – this sacred cup – will be the key to your eternal salvation.”
“How will it be that?”
Claret turned around and walked back to the table. She took the chair opposite Delia again. “Because this cup was used by Christ himself. This is the cup which He bled into. The cup which He shared His blood with his disciples. This is the cup. And you must drink from it. And you will live forever.”
Delia looked down at the cup and her eyes widened. She looked back up at Claret. Her face shifted and she glared at Claret with stony eyes. “You lie. This is not the cup. Where are we? What are we doing here? Take me back!”
Claret sat back and laughed. “You silly, stupid little bitch. You think I am lying to you? You chose to follow me. You made the choice. Free will. Have you read your Bible lately or do I need to take you back to Paris to go get it? Free will. We all have it. You chose to follow me. We are in the year 33 A.D. It was a pretty significant year, from what I recall. Do you remember?”
Delia stood and looked down at Claret. “Yes. I have read the Bible. I know that Christ was crucified in that year.”
Claret nodded and stood. She looked into Delia’s eyes. “Then you should also be aware that Christ is now gone. Went back to Heaven. He has left the earth. And now I am here. I have the cup. So if you’ve read your Bible, He rose from the dead.”
Delia nodded, not taking her eyes off of Claret. “Yes, I have studied the Gospels.”
Claret moved a few steps closer, and Delia took a step back. “So are you are refusing to drink from my cup? You will not take my wine?”
Delia scowled. “You are using it for blasphemy! I will not be a part of that evil!”
Claret took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She took a hand and smoothed her hair back. “Suit yourself,” she said. She lunged forward and pinned Delia against the wall, opening her mouth wide, and then plunging long, pointed fangs into Delia’s neck.
The piercing was a type of pain that she had not felt before; and as she felt the hot blood run down her neck, she closed her eyes as tears streamed down her face. “My God, why have you abandoned me?”
*****
Delia waited in the vestibule for Antoine to return from speaking with Father Bauman. She touched her neck for a few moments, remembering the time that Claret had taken her back in time to Jerusalem when she was still a young woman. She walked over to the doors to the worshipping area, and looked through the slit between the doors. She could see Antoine sitting in the front pew. Father Bauman was next to him. She recognized his salt and pepper hair. She opened the door, feeling the fresh, cool air against her face. She called out. “I think I know who is responsible for this!”
Antoine and Father Bauman stopped talking and looked back at Claret. Antoine stood. “What are you talking about?” His voice echoed against the empty church and the high ceilings.
She rushed as fast as she could towards the front of the church, her cane creaking on the floor. “It’s Claret, Antoine. It’s her. I think maybe I had blocked this memory. I was so upset with her for so many years. I didn’t want to accept that she was my mother. I just couldn’t accept it. But she transformed me against my will.” She looked at the priest. “I was once a good, Christian woman, Father.”
Father Bauman got up and walked over to where Delia stood. He placed his arm around her as she told them how Claret had transformed her and tried to make her drink from the Christ cup. “Antoine. Father. I believe she is trying to dominate our kind. I believe she has convinced the ‘Hooded Man’ to sell his soul to evil and carry out this horrid task. Our kind is dying, Father. They are drinking from this decanter. This imposter.”
Antoine shook his head. “That doesn’t make any sense, Delia. Why would she want to wipe out her own kind?”
Delia raised her arms and then let them flop back down by her sides. She tossed her cane onto a pew with a bang.
“Why wouldn’t she? Antoine, she has been hell bent on dominating our kind for as long as I can remember. If she wipes us out, then she can start to repopulate the immortals with all of her own creation. They would all be her minions, loyal to her – and only her – for all of eternity. She is trying to be a goddess.”
Father Bauman tugged at his chin and looked down at the floor. “Well, then the only way to save your kind is to drink from the true Christ cup. That is the true salvation. The Blood of Christ.”
Antoine and Delia looked at each other, both wide-eyed and bewildered. “Father,” Antoine said. “How can we get immortals to drink? The ‘Hooded Man’ has been traveling through cities and the immortals are flocking to him. They are heading to their deaths!”
“What does he do?” Father Bauman asked.
Antoine picked up Delia’s cane and handed it to her. “Rumor has it that he arrives on a cloud of white mist. It’s always when his victim is alone. He is a faceless man in a hood, he carries the decanter – and inside it is a swirling red potion. He claims its blood that brings salvation. But it brings death.”
“Imposters,” Father Bauman said. “There will be many.”
“Let’s go, Delia,” Antoine said. “It’s time to go find the cup.”
Father Bauman nodded. “I hope you both make the right decision,” he said. “You both have been coming to me for guidance, like Darius did. I am always willing to help, both of you. You are not damned like you think you are. Just follow the right path. Make the right choices. The blood – the true blood – saves all.”
Antoine looked back as they started to leave the worshipping area. “How will I know what the right path is?”
Father Bauman smiled. “You will know, Antoine. Open you mind, open your heart. And you will know.”
*****
Antoine opened the door to his small, silver Mercedes for Delia and she climbed in. He tossed her cane in the back seat and sat in the driver’s seat, as the engine roared to life.
“So we need to figure out how to convince our kind that this man is an imposter, right?” Delia fidgeted with her bag as Antoine weaved in and out of traffic.
Antoine focused on the road. “Darius told me, a while back, that once he has a hold on you – this ‘Hooded Man – that there is nothing else. It’s like he controls your mind.” He shook his head. “I don’t know if there is a way to convince everyone that he is an imposter. How will we do that? Once he appears, he controls your mind…looks what happened to the Monsignor.”
“How is he doing, Delia? Since we arrived back in Miami, I mean.”
“From what I have heard, he has returned to Rome and Ramiel is nursing him back to health. The unfortunate thing is, he won’t be around for much longer. At least if things progress the same way they did for Darius.”
Delia looked out the window and shook her head. “I don’t even
know if this is something we can prevent.”
As the Mercedes proceeded towards the Miracle Mile, the clouds covered and blocked the sun, and it looked like it was about to pour down rain. Antoine flipped the wipers on. And after a moment, a red smear fleshed across the windshield.
“What the?” Antoine instinctively pressed on the brakes.
Delia looked up from her lap, and watched the red smear increase in size.
“It’s the blood rain,” she said. “The decanter has overflowed.”
Antoine looked over at Delia and shook his head.
Delia continued. “Claret told me about this when she took me back to her time. To Jerusalem. She said the blood would rain when the blood decanter spilled over.”
“What does this all mean, Delia?”
She sighed as Antoine pulled into the parking lot of his rented condominium. “It means we need to get inside. We need to get below. I mean below the earth. It means the earth is about to be cleansed. And the dead will rise. We have to hurry, Antoine. We don’t have much time.”
*****
There was a light rainfall over Jerusalem, a rarity in the midst of the brilliant afternoon sun. It had come rather suddenly, the cloud formed in a bright blue and cloudless sky, just over a certain sector of huts towards the east of the marketplace. “It’s the blood rain, I know it! The blood rain is coming!” Claret said, walking over the window, pulling the tapestry aside, looking out at the activity a few blocks away, down the alley, as townsfolk carried rolled tapestries over their shoulders, carried small satchels of peppers, and led camels with long leads. Some looked upwards towards the sky after a deep, rolling thunder clapped above the tiny buildings.
Claret handed Delia a small, white cloth. She held it up to her pierced neck.