Little Deaths

by John F. D. Taff

  … nothing.

  But what he brought… oh, what he brought was the fear of being reduced to what he was… of being lost to the light, lost to life, but forced to continue within it, to be abandoned inside it… that was fear.

  That was the fear that the others had brought, too, each in their own way. But with their passing, this fear had passed, too.

  Musing, he lifted the box, stroked its smooth skin of wood.

  Perhaps this fear died because humanity no longer could wrap its collective mind around the larger fears: loss of soul, being cast out of the light, set on a path outside that of mortal man, yet desiring it, yearning for it, for release.

  Perhaps the world had changed, moved past them.

  Perhaps mankind could only perceive the smaller fears these days: the fear of bloodshed, of split skulls and open abdomens and slashing knives.

  If that were the case—and he was tired enough now to concede this point—then he had reached the end, just as surely as the other three had.

  Yet, they were gone now, and he was still here.

  He shook his head, laughed, but the laugh was arid and grating.

  Still here, after his wife had died, and his children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren and… he didn’t even bother to continue. He’d lost interest in hovering around those of his own bloodline and watching their lives long ago.

  For all he knew, there were others of his blood now walking the same path he was on, turned by another of his kind.

  He felt nothing for them, for their fates. That particular blood tie meant so little to him now. After centuries of drinking from the well of humanity, the blood in his veins was no longer merely the sum of his ancestors co-mingling their blood.

  He sighed again, stirred, examined the box.

  Ahhh, he thought to himself. Best just to get on with it.

  His sharp-nailed fingers found the seam of the box, cunningly hidden by its maker (so long dead now), and slipped in to slide it open.

  The door behind him opened again, and a wedge of incandescent light oozed into the room, fell over his hand, the box.

  “Wait.”

  The Count froze, not something he typically did.

  But there was something about the voice, something sure and commanding and…

  Free from fear.

  He turned slowly, his fingers tightening their grip on the box.

  Three shadows stood in the doorway, and Mr. Gerund hung behind.

  “Who are you and why should I wait?”

  The three figures stepped into the pool of firelight, and he stood to face them.

  Mr. Gerund drew the door closed softly.

  “There is no need to partake of your tontine just yet,” said the first man. The candles shimmered on his dark, bare skin, bald head. “There are yet worlds of fear to explore.”

  “Really?” the Count asked, his tone bland. “Do tell.”

  “I bring the fear of that which is beyond death… the mindless shuffling, the hollow hunger, the compulsion that draws a man from out his grave to feed on those still living.”

  This figure stepped forward, bared his white teeth in a rictus that might have been a malefic grin. “I am Papa Loa, Father of Zombies.”

  The vampire narrowed his eyes, betrayed the smallest hint of a smile.

  The second figure stepped forward, thin and smaller by far than Papa Loa, gracile and insect like, with delicate limbs and a triangular head. Its large, slanted eyes were pitch black, reflecting nothing of its surroundings.

  In a voice that was a reedy whisper, the thing said, “I bring the fear of dreams and nightmares… the loss of self, the theft of memory, of time… of children replaced by changelings. I bring the fear that turns men into cattle.”

  Stepping fluidly into the light, the being bowed slightly, its smooth, grey skin wrinkling at its waist, at its joints, like rubber. “I am Ebe, the Keeper of Missing Time.”

  A possibility sprang into the mind of the vampire, a suggestion…

  … perhaps… just perhaps.

  Then the next figure stepped forward.

  The wan light revealed a man, a simple, straightforward man with slicked back hair. He was dressed in a dark suit, neat and well tailored. A collared shirt, a tie of red silk. His pants were crisply pressed, his dark shoes shone. A thick gold watch clutched his wrist. In his left hand, he held a briefcase, and the vampire noted that the man’s nails were perfectly manicured.

  “I bring the fear of ruin, of relentless pursuit, of overwhelming retribution. I bring the fear of mysterious language and occult workings. I bring the fear of powerlessness, of sleepless nights and endless days.”

  Still the vampire waited for this final figure to reveal its true nature.

  The man smiled, revealing perfectly formed, perfectly white teeth, straight and even.

  “I am Stanley Zurich, attorney-at-law.”

  The vampire felt his hand lift from the smooth, cool wood of the tontine box.

  He surveyed this new group, so similar and yet so unlike his previous associates.

  But it could work, he thought.

  It would serve for a time… and that’s all he needed.

  “Mr. Gerund,” the vampire called, tapping the wineglass on the table with the nail of one of his long, thin fingers.

  At the crystalline ring, the door opened.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Drinks, Mr. Gerund, for us all.”

  The servant pushed the door open further, walked into the room carrying a tray.

  “I took the liberty, sir, thinking that you and your guests might wish something.”

  Gerund passed the tray before the four men, each lifting a thin glass of champagne. When each had a glass in hand, Gerund inclined his head to the vampire.

  “Oh, and Mr. Gerund,” the vampire said, nodding toward the wooden box on the side table. “You can place the tontine back in the tabernacle… for a later date. A much later date, I think.”

  “Yes, sir,” Gerund said, carefully taking the box, backing from the room, drawing the door shut behind him.

  The vampire held his champagne flute aloft, let its bubbles capture the light.

  The three others likewise lifted their flutes together in a toast.

  “To us, gentlemen,” said the vampire. “To the monsters of the new world… and to the fear we bring.

  “Cheers.”

  THE MELLIFIED MAN

  What is the sweetest thing you’ve ever eaten?

  I won’t tell you that, but I’ll tell you the sweetest thing that I ever made… the most dreadful thing…

  It was Bobby’s sweet tooth that did him in.

  A common lament, the mumbled apology of every diabetic, every cavity sufferer, every overweight, bad-complexioned kid who stashed candy at the back of his underwear drawer.

  Sweets were his bread, his staff of life. It wasn’t unusual for him to have an ice cream at lunch… instead of lunch, or a piece of cake for dinner.

  But he wasn’t fat, wasn’t even pleasantly plump or husky, as his mother called his brother. He wasn’t diabetic, and his teeth were in fantastic shape for a 31-year-old. Bobby Jenkins was, in fact, as close to a perfect specimen as possible for a man of his age. Except, of course, for his sweet tooth… and the fact that he liked guys instead of girls; that—at least, according to his mother—was a mark against him.

  He swam, he lifted, he played competitive handball and racquetball at the club, he walked on a treadmill. He neither smoked nor drank, didn’t even imbibe red meat or carbs of most varieties.

  Ahh, but refined, white sugar was his heroin, his crack, his meth, all rolled into one.

  And, like any addict of any substance, he was loath to give it up.

  And, like any addict of any substance, his life was dominated by it.

  And, like any addict of any substance, his life would be ended by it…

  * * *

  Bobby was at lunch, poring over papers for a business merger he was s
hepherding, when he heard of The Alhambra, a new candy store in town. As he was nearby, he decided to swing over and have a look.

  The Alhambra was a massive red brick structure, three stories tall and encompassing an entire city block. The front of its first floor was lined with tall plate glass windows that showed the displays inside. A simple, tasteful awning jutted from the entrance, ‘The Alhambra’ stenciled in flowing, Moorish-looking letters.

  Bobby parked his car, fed the meter, walked through the door. Outside, the air was hot, St. Louis summer hot; inside, the air was cool, bursting from an overhead vent directly above the inside of the door.

  Two steps inside the door, he stopped, stunned.

  He had found his heaven, his paradise, his nirvana…

  The inside of the store was done in dark, wainscoted paneling, which covered the walls to about waist height. Textured wallpaper with Moorish designs in reds and golds went from there to the ceiling. Displays and cases were discreetly lit by hanging lamps. Silk bunting covered the ceiling—reds and golds again, but also rich blues and vibrant greens and dark violets.

  But the candy… the candy was what caught his eye…

  On one side of the long, narrow room were jawbreakers and gumballs of all kinds; licorice whips and lollipops, gummies and stick candy in tall apothecary jars; popcorn balls and candy apples, jelly beans and penny candy of every variety, from root beer barrels to lemon drops. There was even a section with the kind of candy you’d find at any convenience store or gas station.

  In the middle of the room, where Bobby stood agog, there were chocolates of all kinds and shapes and colors. Here were chocolate bars, unwrapped, bare and stacked like bullion. Here were ribbons of chocolate so dark it seemed as if they were curled from the very stuff of night. Bon-bons and truffles, chocolate-covered fruit and nuts of every kind, white chocolate, dark chocolate, milk chocolate. The smell of the chocolate alone was intoxicating, heady.

  On the other side of the store were items that were less common. Here were pastilles from France, Botan rice candy from Japan, marzipan in a host of shapes, maple candies from Canada, even a case with chocolate-covered mealworms and crickets, sugared ant eggs from Mexico, some kind of candied, dried fish from Norway.

  “Ahhh, overwhelmed, are you, sir?” came a voice, rich and baritone, with a blur of an accent. “I am overwhelmed, myself… and I own the place.”

  Bobby turned and saw a man who was perhaps Spanish, perhaps Arabic. He was a bit shorter than Bobby, spare and lean, with a swarthy, attractive face that looked as though it been carved from the room’s dark wood. He was perhaps 45, perhaps 55; it was hard to tell. A magnificent black mustache draped his upper lip and his hair was a dense mop of the same stuff, with a few stray streaks of gray here and there.

  “You’re like… the luckiest kid in town,” Bobby said, still somewhat dazed.

  At that, the man laughed, a booming sound that echoed through the store, drawing looks from other patrons.

  “I knew we were of a kind when you walked in,” he chuckled. Those words and his polite, interested laughter sent a tingle up Bobby’s back.

  “My name is Afaz Aziz. The Alhambra is mine. Come, what can I show you?” he asked. “More importantly, what can I get you?”

  Mr. Aziz said this with all of the tremulous avidity of any drug dealer; and, like any drug taker, Bobby followed him.

  * * *

  The bag of sweets he’d bought at The Alhambra that afternoon didn’t last long. Within four days, Bobby was visiting again, leaving with another bag filled with candy. He didn’t want to admit it, but it was as much to see Mr. Aziz as it was to satisfy his sweet tooth.

  Week after week, Bobby visited The Alhambra: sometimes twice, sometimes three times a week. Each time, Aziz greeted him warmly, effusively, as if he had been waiting specifically for him.

  But Bobby couldn’t tell… couldn’t confirm that Aziz was interested in him… at least, not like that. The man was handsy, always touching him, his arm, his shoulder, patting his face, sometimes even taking his hand like a child.

  Nothing came from any of this, though, unless one counted the pounds that Bobby was putting on from the rich, exotic sweets he left with. And he always left with something.

  * * *

  “So, what are you looking for today, eh?” Aziz asked, on a visit a few weeks later. “Chocolate truffles from Madagascar? Hmmm, macadamia brittle from Hawaii? No, hmmm… let me see…”

  “I want something different,” Bobby blurted, trying hard not to make it sign sound like a pick-up line.

  Aziz narrowed his eyes, and for a moment, Bobby felt as if he had blundered, misread the situation, the man.

  But Aziz nodded, pursed his lips. “Yes, perhaps we have just the thing for you.”

  Then, taking his hand, he led him through a thick, velvet curtain the color of a dark sea. Behind the curtain, down a short hallway cluttered with empty boxes and cartons, they came to a door. Aziz, still gripping Bobby’s hand (which he was beginning to worry was a little too sweaty), produced an ornate brass skeleton key from a vest pocket, slid it into the lock, turned it.

  Aziz pulled him through a bewildering maze of dark corridors. The air had a close, humid feel to it, like warm breath exhaled from a mouth that had been too long closed.

  Just as Bobby was about to ask where they were going, they came to an iron staircase that zigzagged up the rear wall. They mounted the rickety thing, which squeaked and swayed under their feet, ascended one flight.

  At the top, Aziz opened a door onto blinding sunlight.

  Bobby shielded his eyes with his free hand as Aziz drew him through the doorway…

  He had nearly gasped the first time he’d walked into The Alhambra; he did gasp now.

  They were on the roof of the building, but it was hard to tell.

  A magnificent garden spread before them, trees large enough to block the skyline and provide shade from the sun. And even though it was in the high 90s, here, within this lush garden, with its shaded paths and its air filled with mist, it was at least 15 degrees cooler.

  Aziz crossed to a path made from paving stones set in the springy grass to a table set near the fountain. The table was under a small structure made of alternating tan and red stone blocks forming Moorish arches, with a dome overhead.

  “Drinks!” announced Aziz, clapping his hands as they sat. A young man, dark skinned and wearing white robes, appeared from some hidden door, stopped at Aziz’s side. “Haran, we require something to drink as we discuss business. Coffee perhaps? A soda?”

  Bobby answered slowly, still a little overwhelmed. “Do you have Coke?”

  Aziz laughed. “Do we have Coke? Hah! Coke for Mr. Jenkins and coffee for me.”

  The young man disappeared, and Aziz watched Bobby gape at his surroundings.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “I’ve heard of rooftop gardens, but this is like a rooftop park. How’d you get all this up here?”

  Aziz waved a hand negligently. “Isn’t it enough that it’s here, that you’re here?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then relish it, Mr. Jenkins. Relish the opportunities that life brings you, as I do.”

  * * *

  Haran returned with a silver tray bearing a complete coffee service and a glass filled with ice between two bottles. The boy set everything onto the table, hovered for a moment until Aziz waved him away with a negligent flip of his hand.

  “Coke,” said Aziz, as Bobby studied the bottles. “Imported from Mexico, where they still make it with real cane sugar, not corn syrup.”

  Bobby decanted half of one bottle into the glass, where it fizzed and foamed familiarly. One swallow and Bobby knew that he’d never drink another Coke that wasn’t made in Mexico. The taste was crisp and glassy, with a sparkling, deep sweetness.

  “It’s delicious.”

  Aziz smiled as he put teaspoon after teaspoon of sugar into his small cup of dark, frothy coffee. “I’ll have a case waitin
g at the door. My gift to you.”

  Bobby sipped at the soda.

  “So, what kinds of sweets are you looking for today?” Aziz asked him, his look again becoming serious, measuring.

  “Something different, unique… that you can’t find anywhere.”

  Aziz wiped foam from his mustache with a linen napkin.

  “What would you recommend? What is the sweetest thing you’ve ever eaten?”

  The Alhambra’s owner considered this, poured another cup of coffee. “I won’t tell you that, but I’ll tell you the sweetest thing that I ever made… the most dreadful thing…”

  “The most dreadful?”

  “Yes. Have you heard of… a mellified man?” Aziz asked, finishing the sugaring of his second cup of coffee.

  “No.”

  “Ahh,” breathed Aziz. “It is the body of a dead man macerated in honey. Arab, Chinese, even Egyptian physicians have used them for centuries to treat certain illnesses, depending on what part is ingested, of course.”

  “A dead man?” Bobby frowned. “People… eat it?”

  “Yes, but only the purest of men can be mellified, only those who have lived clean, healthy lives. It is the rarest, the purest, the most spiritual of sweets. And valuable, incalculably valuable.”

  “Have you… ever…?”

  Aziz’s eyebrows rose and his face became somber. “If I say no, you’ll think I am… pulling your leg. If I say yes, you’ll recoil in horror.”

  “But you said… you said the story was about the sweetest thing you’d ever made.”

  Aziz poured more coffee, shoveled more sugar into it. He stirred the resulting slurry, downed it in one swallow. “When I was younger, I helped my father and uncles make a mellified man. It was a… unique experience, one that has stayed with me.”

  “What did you do with it… him?”

  “Why, what we made it for, of course,” Aziz said. “For doctors to prescribe to their patients… well, the wealthy ones at least. And to allow epicures like yourself the opportunity to taste a most sublime sweet.”