For Love of the Dead

by Hal Bodner

  The boy’s back arched and Jake held his shoulders to prevent him from flinging himself off the altar and onto the floor, wincing every time Mario’s head slammed against the stone. He wondered if he might put the embedded restraints to good use by securing his lover against the shaking but he’d have to let go of him in order to fasten them and he feared what damage the boy might do to himself. Instead, he simply threw himself on top of him, using his greater weight to try to lessen the thrashing, but Mario, in the throes of his torment, was stronger than he looked, and Jake was almost tossed off.

  Just when he was certain the youth’s slim frame could withstand no more, he heard a rattle at the far end of the room as if a chain were sliding against metal. Looking up, he remembered the cage-like construct and he narrowed his eyes to try to see it more clearly through the gloom. For an instant, he had the impression of some hulking monster emerging from its barred prison, slavering jaws agape to swallow Mario and him, but the shadows resolved into Tyler’s tall, leanly muscled form.

  The voodoo priest was naked but for what looked like a thong, his skin gleaming like polished unmarred ebony, and his face had been painted with stark, garish color. At first, Jake thought it strange that Tyler had done himself up like Bozo the Clown, but at second glance he realized the makeup was actually a crude approximation of a brightly hued skull. A frisson of fear darted up and down his spine. There was something disturbing about Tyler’s painted face, something that gave the distinct impression of dead things rotting underground, impatiently awaiting a time when they could emerge and drag the living back into their graves with them and doom them to an existence consumed with nothing but screaming eternally for release.

  “It is done, then?” Tyler’s voice boomed out, strong and confident.

  Jake could only nod and plead mutely for the priest’s help in calming Mario’s seizures. Tyler surveyed the scene before him with dispassionate eyes, taking in Jake’s blood-streaked and dirt-grimed torso, watching the bare-chested Greek boy spasm and twitch on the alter. The expression on his face was obscured by the hideous paint, but for an instant, Jake thought he saw a flicker of compassion in the black man’s eyes and it gave him strength.

  Tyler held out one hand, palm up. Jake immediately realized what he wanted and bristled. Mario seemed to be dying before his eyes and, rather than saving the boy—and Jake was convinced some miraculous cure was well within Tyler’s capabilities—the priest’s priority seemed to be getting his hands on the heart. With half a mind to throw the battered cereal box at the taller man, he instead thought better of it and contented himself with merely slamming it into the open palm. He expected some sort of reaction but Tyler’s eyes merely glittered with amusement.

  Jake clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. “What about him?” he demanded, stepping aside so as to give Deauxfines an unobstructed view of Mario’s torment. “You caused this.”

  “Yes. And I shall pay dearly for it,” Tyler assured him. He spoke as if he were casually confiding some point of minor interest and not as if he paid any heed to the import of his words. “He will be made whole, Jake Marshall. I promise you this. You will make him so.”

  “I’m not a doctor,” Jake shot back sarcastically. “I usually do my work on people after the doctors have failed.”

  Tyler chuckled. “You misunderstood me. I will heal him. But you will make him whole.”

  Tyler strode across the room to a large ceremonial niche in the wall with more of the fancy strange script carved into the stone around it. Jake could not think how he’d missed seeing it before and could have sworn it was not there the first time he’d been in the basement. He should have had a clear view of it when he’d been strapped to the altar.

  Carefully, the priest tilted the battered cardboard box and the heart slid out to land with a faint plop in a large stone bowl. Without taking his eyes from the heart, Tyler reached out and plucked a bottle from the shelf above the niche, using his teeth to remove the cork before spitting it onto the floor. With no ceremony, no words of invocation, with nothing to indicate the significance of revenge assuaged, he poured the contents into the bowl, submerging the disembodied organ in a stream of golden fluid.

  The brew bubbled and steamed for a moment before subsiding. Jake saw shimmers of what looked like heat rising and disturbing the air above it. Tyler waited and finally grunted with satisfaction. Then, to Jake’s horror and disgust, he took up the bowl with both hands, brought it to his lips and, with a series of slow swallows, drank it.

  When he had finished the last drop, Tyler smiled lazily and replaced the bowl. Whatever concoction he had poured over the heart had dissolved it entirely; the stone bottom of the bowl was empty except for the dregs of gold liquid. The priest shuddered and for an instant, he grimaced with pain. When he approached the altar where Mario lay, Jake could see a feverish sweat breaking out on his chest and back and beading on his forehead.

  “We have little time. Bring me the knife on the mantel. The one with the feathers wrapped around the handle.”

  “Get your own goddamned knife,” Jake growled. “I’m not doing anything else until you help Mario.”

  Tyler’s glance was fraught with annoyance. “That is exactly what I intend to do. If you wish to save your lover...”

  “All right, all right.” Jake grabbed the knife. “Here.” He held it out and was surprised when Tyler whipped his hands back.

  “No, I cannot touch it. Yet. Remove the boy’s clothing.”

  Not knowing what else to do, and realizing that given what he knew of the voodoo priest, any remedy was likely to be as unorthodox as it was effective, Jake tugged the towel from around Mario’s shoulders and gently eased the sweatpants past his hips and down his legs. Mario lay naked and exposed, his swollen and infected balls the focal point of his beautifully slim body. Jake winced anew at the sight of the cuts on his wrists and arms left by the bindings and the small but spreading pool of blood that had accumulated beneath him.

  Tyler began to make a strange sound very much like keening, and Jake thought he could almost, but not quite, make out a word here and there. With grave dignity, Tyler stepped onto the rim of stone surrounding the altar, and from there it was not difficult for him to mount the stone slab itself. He stood above Mario, legs spread to either side of the boy’s body, praying to his strange gods. Sweat ran down his chiseled torso and dripped onto the creamy dark skin of the boy lying between his feet. The moisture sizzled when it made contact with Mario’s flesh and, at first alarmed that Tyler was somehow burning him, Jake relaxed when he saw the more minor of the cuts and bruises on his chest and stomach seal themselves, turn purple, then color with a greenish cast before finally healing.

  Tyler knelt and took up one of Mario’s hands. Still uttering his bizarre invocations, he pressed the torn and abraded wrist to his chest, jerking it around in a circular motion, smearing it with his sweat. When he was done, he repeated the odd ritual with the Greek’s other arm, and with amazement, Jake saw the flesh was once more smooth and unmarked. He did the same with the young man’s feet and, transfixed with wonder, Jake saw the bleeding cease. The splinters of wood popped out – Jake had not realized how many, nor how big they were -- and the skin healed. Deauxfines kept up his ministrations, now perspiring profusely, massaging every drop into Mario’s various cuts and bruises. Jake moved closer, fascinated by the process and the odor of the priest’s sweat tickled his nostrils.

  It was not rank or sour as Jake had expected, not even musky given the heat in the room. Instead, Tyler smelled warm and natural, a masculine scent of health and vigor, tinged with something else—a hint of cinnamon, a dash of cumin, a smidgeon of fiery pepper, as if the priest was exuding the smell of a recently eaten spicy meal from his pores. Next came floral overtones, pungent wafts of hibiscus and the clean, sharp tang of palm leaves overlying something sickening and sweet which, at first, Jake did not recognize. He inhaled deeply, the unidentifiable smell stirred his memory and he felt compe
lled to place it.

  With a shock, and a wash of mild revulsion, he recognized it. It was the stench of dead flesh, of meat which had reached the heady height of ripeness , already off but still bearable, just on the brink of turning to rot. On his knees, still astride Mario, Tyler gasped, drawing Jake’s attention. The black man’s skin had gone grey with an overcast of olive. Jake’s jaw dropped; it looked almost as if Tyler was in the very early stages of decomposition!

  “The gods must have their due.” The words were husky, as if forced past vocal chords which no longer worked smoothly. “Use the knife,” Tyler croaked. “Here.” He touched his own huge staff, erect and throbbing, the veins along the sides standing out in dark purple bas relief, and cupped his heavy balls, engorged now like oranges bursting with juice, in his other hand. “Make sure...the blood...” He choked and, clearing his throat, managed to continue. “My blood...must fall upon him...on his injuries.” He bit back a cry of agony and his body shuddered.

  “You have got to be kidding,” Jake muttered. His eyes darted back and forth from the wickedly sharp knife he held to the priest’s throbbing organ. “I’m not...”

  Tyler cut off his protest. “You have done worse this day.” His eyes flicked to Mario’s groin. “Already, Hartner’s poison spreads within him. It is more than a mere mundane infection. If you wish to save him...” Again, he gasped. “To keep him with you to love...you must do this thing.”

  A ghostly hand settled on Jake’s bare shoulder, lending him a new strength and determination, calming his fear and banishing his disgust at doing what had been asked of him. For a moment, a veil of shimmering emerald green washed across his vision and Jake knew, even though he could not physically see him, that Daniel’s spirit had returned to help him.

  “Yes.” Tyler nodded. “When the time is right, they will be with you. They promised.”

  Jake felt the love and support of the Dead fill him, relieving his fatigue, easing his hurts, bolstering his spirit. He was ready. He closed his eyes and thrust forward, slashing and twisting, ignoring Tyler’s muffled grunts of pain. Through it all, the priest offered no resistance.

  The splash of blood was hot on his wrist and forearm. Spurting from Tyler’s ravaged dick and balls, the ghastly fluid spattered across Mario’s prone body. Incredibly, Tyler seemed to have hidden reserves of strength, even though he was obviously bleeding to death. In an undulating dance, he moved himself up and down the length of the altar, making sure his life’s blood splashed over Mario from head to toe. Tiny sparks leapt up from the Greek boy’s skin with every fallen drop and at his groin and midsection, a maelstrom of dancing light appeared, soothing and healing. In but a few moments, the boy’s breathing had steadied into the peaceful rhythm of a relaxed but natural sleep. His body glistened with sweat—Jake could not tell if it was his or the priest’s—but it was whole, unhurt and unblemished.

  Tyler screamed—a wail of agony, yet still a cry of triumphant satisfaction. It was the sound a warrior makes when he knows death is upon him but he knows that by his death, he can cross to the other side with glee and pride at having won the battle for his companions’ sake. The skin on the handsome black man’s face tightened, grew sallow, the painted skull was supplanted as the true skull underneath was brought into sharp focus. The wiry slabs of muscle on his chest and sheathing his shoulders became ropey, then sagged and withered. His bulging thighs transformed into emaciated twigs.

  Tyler Deauxfines swayed and toppled to the side, crashing to the floor with a sickening sound of snapping bones, brittle and dry. Jake took a step forward to help him. He might dislike what the priest had put him through, but he could not bear to watch any human being undergo such horrific agony. But the invisible hand on his shoulder held him back.

  Moments later, the skin began flaking from Tyler’s body in broad patches, drifting upwards as it was borne by the currents of heat in the room. The muscle and sinew underneath was stringy and started to collapse into dust under its own weight. Soon, all the soft tissue had disintegrated and only crumbled bone remained. The horror, the true horror of the process was Tyler’s eyes. They remained conscious, moist and glittering in his skull, filled with the knowledge of what was happening to him until finally the skull itself cracked into pieces and the light of intelligence faded, leaving behind only a small pile of musty refuse where the handsome, proud servant of the gods had so recently stood.

  Dumbfounded, Jake could not think what to do next. But a soft moan from Mario commanded his attention. Quickly, Jake moved to his side, lifting his head to cradle it, covering his face with kisses as the younger man’s eyelids fluttered open.

  “Jake?” he asked wonderingly through parched lips. “What happened? Where am I? I don’t remember much but, there was an angel...a dark angel...”

  “Shhh...” Jake told him and cut off any further comments with a kiss. As their mouths touched, he felt Mario’s lips moisten and grow full where only an instant ago, they had been dry, cracked and fevered.

  “I’m glad...” Mario murmured, still not more than half awake. “I’m glad it was you who saved me.”

  Jake held the boy to his chest, tears of relief brimming in his eyes, and Mario lapsed back into contented slumber.

  A voice whispered in the stillness of the room, a voice Jake recognized.

  “Though you did not expect any reward, we give you one just the same. We give you what you have wanted, have prayed for over the years but did not know how to find.”

  Daniel’s ghostly form took translucent shape. He smiled.

  “You already know how the Dead love you, Jake Marshall,” he said with real fondness. “But from now on, you will not love the Dead quite so much, will you?” His grin was impish, almost playful. “From now on, you will save your love for the living. And the living, one of them in particular, will love you in return.”

  Jake watched Daniel fade from view. He looked down at Mario’s sleeping face, his brow smooth and unlined, bearing not a trace of the ordeal he’d been through other than a slight flush. As he bent to kiss him once more, he knew something with a certainty he had never known before.

  In his heart, in his very soul, Daniel’s words lingered like the clear, pure tones of a silver bell that had just been rung. All the magic he had witnessed, all the wonder and horror, all the love and pain and sacrifice, and especially the way he felt with Mario’s head rested peacefully in his lap, all of it made him finally realize one thing with absolute certainty.

  Daniel was right.