The Blood Decanter (The Tales of Tartarus)

by A. L. Mengel

  “Look outside the window,” Claret said, ushering towards the opening.

  “What is blood rain?”

  Claret paused for a moment, and turned around, looking back at her and the bed that they had shared so recently. “Blood rain. It comes when the demons awaken. When the dead rise from their graves. It’s when the decanter spills over, falls from the sky. The blood rains on the ground and awakens the dead.”

  Her visitor nodded.

  Claret sighed and looked back out the window, watching the activity on the dusty streets. The market was closing up as the clouds blocked the sun. People were scurrying to cover their wares; some were close to an interior door and tossed fruit and fish in boxes, placing them inside doorways. Others simply ran. “It will come,” she said. “No time soon. Not in this time. Thousands of years from now. But it will come.”

  “How do you know this?”

  She turned around and faced Delia. “I know it because that is what I see. And the blood will rain in every city in the world. Every country. And in every time.”

  Delia’s face shifted.

  “Every time,” Claret said. “I took you here to transform you. Show you my heritage. But when the blood rains from the sky – it will rain in Paris, it will rain on your Vaudeville stage; it will rain on my descendant Antoine in Miami in the early twenty-first century as well. Time will not be a protector.”

  *****

  When the group had been back in France, there was a knock on the door of the Chateau as the sun faded. Antoine, sitting on the sofa, sighed as he heard the knocking.

  “Had you been expecting someone?” Ramiel asked.

  “No,” Antoine sighed. His weariness was evident on his face. “I was getting ready to relax.” He got up and padded over to the door, peered through the side window, and gasped – “What the – ”

  He flicked the deadlock and swung the door open. The man standing on the front porch looked older, yet quite familiar. “Ethan?”

  The small Hispanic man extended his hand. “Hector, actually. I am Hector now. I have not been Ethan for a long, long time.”

  Antoine’s mouth fell open as he noticed the salt and pepper hair, the lines around his face. “You’ve grown old!”

  Hector nodded. “Yes, I have aged significantly, Antoine. I was near death. Lying on Ponce de Leon. But a man saved me. The Astral took me in and saved me.”

  Hector stepped inside as Antoine stepped aside. He looked around and whistled. “Wow, I thought your Miami estate was something. This Chateau is otherworldly.” And then he nodded and looked at Antoine.

  Antoine questioned the man as he took his coat and laid it on the center table. “What are you doing here? We haven’t seen you since Darius had passed.”

  Hector nodded as Antoine showed him into the living room. Giovanni gathered some snifters from the bar and brought a decanter of cognac to the coffee table on a small, silver tray.

  Hector sat back in a large, upholstered armchair and crossed his legs as Giovanni offered him some cognac, which he refused with the wave of his hand. “I was compelled to see you, Antoine. I grew old because I too, like Darius, drank from the decanter. I have been researching the ‘Hooded Man’ for years now, and may have discovered a way to stop him.”

  Antoine and Ramiel both looked up and over at Hector at the same time. Antoine spoke as Ramiel reached for his bag. “You are not serious?”

  “The theory is that he is the spirit of a man who lived once – a George Nathan Foley. Do you remember him Antoine? He lived in Miami.”

  “Name doesn’t ring a bell.”

  Hector nodded fished a small spiral notepad from his bag. He flipped a few pages in and grabbed a pen from the coffee table. “Do you mind Antoine?”

  Antoine nodded.

  Hector sat back in the plush chair, crossed his legs, and rested the small notepad on his thigh. “Do you remember when you were speaking with Cristoph in Rome?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay then. You have to see – those at The Inspiriti ­used Cristoph to gather information about you, your sector and your closest followers. To protect you.”

  Antoine nodded and looked at Ramiel. “Are you saying they knew this was going to happen?”

  Hector placed his notebook on the coffee table slowly, and looked back and forth at Antoine and Ramiel. “No…but I am saying that they have a member who has known for thousands of years.”

  “Who?” Antoine asked.

  Hector sighed. “The one who had knowledge about this is the one who is directly tied to Claret.”

  Antoine downed his entire snifter of cognac. He shook his head and threw the glass against the wall. “Giovanni! Wake Delia up please! We need to speak to her right away.” Antoine sat back in the sofa and closed his eyes. “So she has known.” He shook his head.

  “Yes, she has,” Hector said. Ramiel rushed to Antoine’s side and put his arm around Antoine. He leaned in close to Antoine’s ear. “Don’t, Antoine. Don’t let your temper get the best of you. She is a well-respected member of our society. Let’s calm down and listen to what she has to say.”

  *****

  Claret waited in darkness, sitting in the sand and staring at the stars. But it was also the night so many years later, that she sat, sitting cross legged in the sparse grass across the stone path, feeling the cool dirt under her skin, when she waited for Delia. Now Claret was in a different time, and waited for the Hooded Man to come out – the one who they said carried the decanter.

  *****

  Giovanni opened the sliding doors between the front sitting room and the back hall and Delia stepped in. She looked at Antoine. He looked back at her, and the room was silent for a few minutes. “I know why you called for me,” she said, sitting in a small side chair not far from the others. She looked up, as if searching for something to say, and then back at Antoine and Ramiel. They leaned forward on the sofa, looking back at Delia.

  “It’s true,” she said. “Back when I was much younger, Claret visited me at Domrémy-la-Pucelle. So many years ago now, it seems. It was before the days when I had started in Vaudeville over in Paris. But these were the days when witches were hunted. Women burned at the stake for heresy, and one morning, I woke to Claret at my door. This was the first time in memory that I saw her.”

  “And what did she do?” Hector asked. “Tell them what she did.”

  Delia nodded, looked down at her fidgeting hands. “She took me back in time. I didn’t know then that she could time travel. But she took me to Jerusalem – just after the Crucifixion of Christ. And she told me then about the ‘Hooded Man’.”

  Antoine slammed his fist on the coffee table. “So you have known all along!” He got up and started to pace around the room.

  Delia stood. Her face shifted and her eyes widened. “No Antoine! I had not remembered about this until just recently. The memory was blocked!”

  Antoine stopped pacing and glared at Delia. “Then why would you suddenly remember it now?”

  “I don’t know, Antoine. I don’t know.”

  Ramiel leaned back on the sofa and looked up at Antoine and then over at Delia. He then gestured for Antoine to sit. “I have seen this before,” he said. “Did Darius ever tell you about Tramos?”

  Antoine shook his head and sat down. Delia took her seat as well. “No, he didn’t speak much of Tramos to me,” Antoine said. “I know the guy exists, that’s about the extent of it.”

  Ramiel continued. “Well, I think this could be a similar situation. Darius came to Rome as well, when he was mortal and dying. When he spoke to us, we had agreed to full confidentiality, but given the circumstances, I must divulge this.” He took Antoine’s hand and looked directly in his eyes. “Darius had a similar memory – where Tramos inserted himself into Darius’ thoughts, on the night he was transformed, and told him about the ‘Hooded Man’.”

  Delia’s mouth dropped open. “So you are saying Claret did the same thing with me?”

  Ramiel raised his
eyebrows and looked at Delia. “It’s possible. The older immortals have that power. They have for centuries. But both Tramos and Claret are even older. They may very well have the same power to change your memories like that.”

  Antoine looked at Delia. “What else did she tell you?”

  “That was really all she said. She told me about the ‘Hooded Man’. She wanted me to drink from a cup that she claimed held Christ’s blood.

  Ramiel stopped. “Wait a minute. She had the cup?”

  Delia shrugged.

  Antoine looked up. “She had the cup once. That goes deep into her genealogy.”

  *****

  There was a ray of sunlight that filtered through the trees. It was strong yet gentle, like a hand caressing his shoulders.

  He could feel his muscles relax.

  He looked down and saw the blades of grass reaching upwards from the earth, as the sun sank deeper into the sky.

  He reached for the shovel. “Where does he lay now? Is there a certain depth?”

  Giovanni sat, hunched over, his hands running over the grass, back and forth. He finally spoke. “I think he was placed at the normal level. Six feet, give or take. No need to bury him deeper, since he was human.”

  Hector nodded, stood, and drove the shovel into the grass. The dirt still felt stony. He shifted the shovel back and forth, as he felt the rocks start to loosen.

  It was now much closer to dusk. The daylight was fading, as the sky transitioned and developed an auburn tint. Hector looked up towards the sky. “It won’t be much longer now. Why do we always have to do these things at night?”

  Giovanni stopped digging and looked over at Hector. “Do I need to explain this to you again?” And then Giovanni stopped speaking. “Did you hear that?”

  The two men stopped and listened, as Giovanni scanned the cemetery. The daylight was almost gone, and a mist was rolling in like a blanket.

  There was a faint squeaking, like a rusted gate being opened, coming from the other side of the cemetery. Then a scratching, like a nail being dragged over a piece of wood.

  “I heard it that time,” Hector said, as both men looked towards the direction. Giovanni took a step forward.

  “I can’t see anything,” Hector said. “The mist is too thick.” And it was. The rolling clouds, the light, white mist, which came every evening to Les Enfantes, was quite different that particular evening. It was no longer a layer covering the earth and stones, but it expanded, a giant cloud which crept closer to the tree, as the two men dropped their shovels.

  Giovanni turned towards at Hector. “He’s coming. I can sense it.”

  Hector craned his neck forward. “How can you be sure?”

  The scratching continued.

  “What is that noise?” Hector asked. “Like a scratching sound?”

  Giovanni looked over at the trees as the wind picked up. The sky had darkened, but the clouds parted enough to let some moonlight in. It reflected against the mist, which appeared as a cloud, billowing and expanding, moving towards them, inch by inch, across the cemetery, swallowing gravestones, the path, foliage, and small benches.

  “That mist is getting closer,” Giovanni said. “I know about that mist. It’s time to get back to the Chateau. Leave the shovels. We’ll continue this tomorrow.”

  Giovanni grabbed Hector’s arm and they turned in the direction of the Chateau, walking away from the mist, moving quickly, determined, and looking back at the ominous cloud, following them with continuity, reaching through the forest, billowing upwards over the tree tops. “The mist is what carries him here.” His eyes widened. “We must go! He carries the decanter!”

  And Giovanni was right.

  Hector looked towards the forest, watched the mist roll its way towards them, like a blanket of snow against black darkness, and then turned around. Giovanni was tugging at his arm. “Hector please! We must leave now! Before his arrival. If he comes here while we are still here, he will convince us to drink. And that is what is happening now.”

  They ran back to the Chateau.

  *****

  Hector slammed the door behind them as the mist swallowed the front of the chateau. Giovanni looked through the curtains and all he could see was the white, swirling vapor. “Antoine! Come over here!”

  Antoine looked over at Hector. “I’m sorry for making you go back out there. I know we initially wanted to get a sample of his blood, but clearly, that mist is standing guard. And I just wanted to check again. To make sure.”

  Hector nodded. “I can understand your need to check again. But he was too far gone, I’m afraid. Nothing has changed, unfortunately.”

  Antoine’s footsteps clacked against the woodwork as Hector removed his jacket and draped it over a side chair in the front living room. Antoine joined Hector at the window.

  Antoine shook his head. “It’s him. Darius told me he came in a white mist. He rides the clouds.”

  “He is coming for us,” Delia said, after she looked up from her knitting and joined the others.

  Giovanni locked the door. “Keep it locked.”

  As Giovanni went into the living room and sat at the desk at the wall, Antoine clicked on a small lamp, and returned his gaze to the window. The mist moved continuously, swirling just outside the window. Antoine moved his hand towards the window pane, as his finger-tips stopped just short of the glass. The mist swirled, rotating in a circle around his finger-tip, separated only by a thin layer of glass. Antoine sighed. “You found me, didn’t you?”

  Antoine heard the familiar footsteps against the hardwood in the foyer. He saw Giovanni, holding a stack of papers. Antoine tried to smile. “Locking the doors won’t stop him. He’s out there. In that mist. Look at the movement.”

  Antoine touched the windowpane with his fingers, and the mist swirled, in a clockwise motion, spinning around his finger, as the motion spread, so did the cloud, which had swallowed the house.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance. Antoine looked upwards. “He’s getting closer.”

  Hector joined the two. “Can we hide you in your coffin? Let you sleep? Will this pass?”

  Antoine shook his head. “I cannot hide. He has found me.” Antoine looked at Giovanni, and then Hector, and then back at the window. “The only way out is farther in.”

  A tree snapped outside as thunder crashed, a loud, deafening boom directly above the chateau. “To the basement,” Antoine said. “I know where we can go.”

  Giovanni grabbed Antoine’s arm and stopped him just as he was about to move. “You seriously aren’t thinking about going there, are you?”

  Antoine pulled free and looked at Giovanni directly. Giovanni instinctively adjusted his white cloth that was tied around his head. Antoine looked away. “We have no choice. Come on.”

  All of the immortals moved through the house, turning off all of the lights, and shutting all of the drapes. Hector went to each window and checked all of the locks, as Antoine poured a large basin of water over the fire. Smoke poured into the living room. Giovanni started coughing.

  “Damper’s already shut,” Antoine said, and then looked over to Hector. “All locked?”

  Hector nodded as Delia took a deep breath and looked at Antoine.

  “Not that it will make much of a difference anyway,” Antoine said. “But maybe it will hold him for a bit.”

  The crash was deafening; the windows shook, and all three of them could feel a rumbling in the floor. They each looked at each other.

  The front door crashed inwards, as they made their way to the basement.

  Antoine foraged through the darkness. He waved his free hand out in front of him, feeling nothing, seeing nothing. He looked behind him, and when he couldn’t see Giovanni or Hector, he paused. “Guys, are you there?” His voice reverberated against the silence. For a few moments earlier, the three men had been walking down the creaky, wooden stairs, and Antoine had pulled the string to a dingy, incandescent lightbulb on the landing, and once it was lit, it revealed a dusty
, earthy basement, with more dirt than cement.

  But that was before the three of them walked into the dark corner. And then, when Antoine turned around, he was alone. “Giovanni? Where did you go?”

  Looking towards the other side of the basement, expecting to see a set of wooden stairs, he saw only darkness. But Antoine had been alone before. Aside from Roberto, he had been able to forage through life by himself. But Giovanni. Where had he gone?

  The silence was so profound. He called out several times, both for Giovanni and Hector, and there was no answer. Had he been abandoned?

  *****

  Claret paused. Her red hair caught the wind, and she stood, feet spread apart, and looked onwards at the man. His hood was still drawn closed. He stood like a statue, holding the decanter in his right hand.

  “You carry the blood decanter! You have been a murderous torture to our kind for years!”

  The clouds parted.

  He raised his arms towards the sky. “There is no decanter!”

  She looked down at her feet. Some gravel fell down the side of the mountain, but she held her place. And, as she looked at him closely, standing on the other mountain peak, she remembered.

  “It was you!” she said. “You were the one!”

  And then she saw him.

  Thousands of years before, she saw his hand draw the tapestry back, on the side of the door, as she slept, still just a child, under the night Jerusalem sky.

  “It was always you!”

  She remembered holding his hand through the streets, through the dusty markets, under the knitted tapestries. “Take down your hood! Show your face!”

  But the man did not.

  He raised the decanter towards the sky, as the clouds above him swirled and turned red, and droplets of blood rained from the sky. The decanter filled with blood, until it reached the crest. The man tipped the decanter downwards, as the blood rained to the ground below. Tiny droplets of crimson rained against the night sky, coating the cars in blood, the puddles in the streets and on the sidewalk corners were red and bright, hot and boiling.