Son of Blood

by Craig Jones

  ‘I am naked!’

  ‘Father, I—’

  ‘I am naked!’

  Martin stalked out of the tower and snatched his jeans from the rock, hastily pulling them on. He next found his shirt and tugged it over his head. It snagged on the ring around his neck for a moment and then settled on his giant frame. His actions were so messy, so human, Christian would have been amused under different circumstances. Instead, he brought the boots and jacket to the man.

  ‘I am sorry, Father.’

  ‘I know, my son, but I worry for you. I saw where you were, with the girl, but you must not be foolish.’ He turned and walked inside the tower, beckoning Christian to follow. The boy did, with bowed head. Martin closed the door and slid the bolts across before he spoke again.

  ‘You must not get close to her, Christian. Love with a human, it cannot work. It will only cause you pain.’

  ‘How can you say that, father?’ Christian snapped, finally engaging Martin in eye contact. ‘What about my mother?’

  ‘Son, that was different.’

  He replied with scorn, ‘Yes, different. Like me. I can’t be like them, but you won’t let me be like you either! I’m nothing, Father, stuck in the middle. Let me become a vampire like you.’

  ‘You know why I will not let you do that. I swore to your mother’s memory that you would never take a life. It is the only way that you will see her again.’

  ‘How can you be so certain? Why do you know these things and yet I do not?’

  ‘You must trust me,’ Martin said, trying to place his arm around his son. Christian shook him off and walked through to the kitchen.

  ‘I do trust you, but my life is a continuous limbo. I am not like you. I have some skills, but I am not all-powerful.’

  ‘None of us are all-powerful, Christian. You have skills I do not possess.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like being able to go outside in the daylight. If you become like me, then you shall lose that.’

  ‘But I’m not even allowed to take full advantage of that. I could go to school, I could carry out our duty for the town during the day, I could—’

  ‘If they know you are different, they may see it as a weakness. We have a safe existence here. We must do nothing that will cause imbalance.’

  Christian sat down at the table and let his forehead rest on the wood as he battled with his emotions. He hated disagreeing with his father, but the yearning to see Sinead made his body ache. He lifted his head.

  ‘I’m sorry, Father, but being nothing…it hurts sometimes.’

  Martin took the seat opposite his son. ‘I will not belittle your emotions by trying to solve something when I do not know if a solution exists. All I know is that I promised your mother that I would protect your soul, that you would not have to suffer the fate that, in time, awaits me.’

  ‘But how can you be so sure?’ Christian slapped his palms down on the table. ‘What makes you so sure that becoming a proper vampire will damn me?’

  Martin took a deep breath, held it, and shook his head.

  ‘If I let you take a life, yes, you will become like me. In every way. Your skills will grow beyond your comprehension. But you will be governed by the night, and your soul will be claimed by the Devil himself.’

  ‘And you know this to be true?’

  ‘Yes, my son. I know this to be true.’

  ‘How?’

  10

  ‘I was a farmer. Not of my own farm, but I worked as hard as I would have done, had it been mine. I like to think that maybe I could have done better for myself, had I been given the opportunity, but my size and strength certainly decided for me what I would be good for.

  The important aspect was that, yes, I was good at my work. I could toil for longer, carry more, dig deeper, do any task better than the rest of the hands. The landowner, he was a good man. A proud man he was, too, who respected the effort that we made for him, especially the effort I made.

  I was young when I joined him, fifteen perhaps, and by the time I turned twenty he had made me his farm manager. There were sheep and cows, but mainly it was arable land that I supervised. He lived in the big house halfway up the hill that overlooked the ever-growing village, but I had a small place—it would I think be called a cottage today—out on its own. The other hands, well they shared a place closer to the village. I had my own home and a little plot of land where whatever I grew was for me and I could decide its use. This was the sixteen hundreds. You either worked hard or you did not survive.

  The village was a close-knit community not far from the Welsh border with England, on the Wales side of course. Monmouth was the closest town proper, about fifteen miles away. We all knew each other and each other’s business. We helped each other. If the doctor had to treat you and you didn’t have the money to pay him, then you traded, you bartered with something that you did have. The village thrived in that way. It welcomed people in, as it had me after my parents had died.

  The town elders would also not hesitate in getting rid of—expelling—undesirables either, and so the town kept its ethos. There were rules, of course there were, but they were rules that safeguarded the people and although the landowner could have chosen to rule with an iron fist, there was no need to.

  There were reasons to be careful, however. This was a time when the whole world still believed wholeheartedly in their God, and if they believed in their God, then they feared the Devil. And the Devil showed his form as people like us. Vampires. There were more of our kind back then, so people still believed in us. Fairy tales and folk stories were the essential entertainment and many were dark and filled with such evil that confirmed the beliefs that supernatural beings were hidden in every wood, waiting in every dark place for the morally destitute.

  It was simple. They feared us. If strange things began to occur, they would be taken in the stride by the village, as it was when the earliest attacks, the initial deaths, happened. The first was one of my men, his body found in one of the largest trees in the nearby territory, but we never found his head. The next was a maid from the big house, taken while hanging out washing. It seemed there was no pattern; the killer had not yet displayed a particular preference. We were all potential victims.

  So did we panic? Did we flee? No. We locked ourselves in at night. We posted sentinels. We lit perimeter fires. As sunset approached, the call would go out and everyone would withdraw into the safety of their homes and each other’s company. I moved out of my cottage and in with my men, but more often than not we found ourselves on watch or patrolling, armed with flame and weapon. The attacks eventually stopped, but we knew it had not moved on. It was just out of sight, always, it was the shadow that moved, the dog that howled. It was the taker of life waiting just around the corner for all of us.

  I was the next victim. It must have been starving to have tried something so close to sunset. I was at my cottage, harvesting my private garden’s last bounty to share with my workmates, when the call went out. It had been a glorious spring day and the sun had burned low in the sky from dawn right through to the onset of dusk. The fields swayed in the breeze but my thin tunic was enough to keep me warm. Even as my men walked through the village, making sure everyone heard them signal the arrival of night, most of the sun’s rays still showed over the distant horizon.

  I dug my pitchfork into the ground and turned it over once more, churning up the earth and uncovering more potatoes. I bent over to throw the vegetables into my basket when something black crashed through the rickety fence and hit me in the midriff without slowing down. It was only when its hand clawed at my face, trying to blind me, that I realized what it was; human, yes, but the creature that had been exerting a diabolical hold over my village. My initial fear turned to anger and I fought back, my fist connecting with the side of its head, casting it backwards and away from me.

  I should have yelled for help, but my exertions had left me short of breath. It sprung back to its feet. It wore black, its hair
was long and dark, halfway down its back, and it was only when it swept the hair from its face that I could see it was a man. He opened his mouth and hissed, huge teeth exposed and pointed in my direction. I took a step backwards and bumped into the pitchfork, still impaled in the ground.

  He leapt at me as I grabbed the fork and brandished the three sharp metal prongs in his direction. He slammed into me, and we fell. I thought I felt water running down my neck until I realized it was not water—unless I did something quickly, I was going to die, and then I saw one of the prongs speared into his chest, just below his collar bone. With all my remaining strength I twisted the fork and he instantly released me, staggering backwards, howling, whimpering, screaming, then turning and running back towards the dark canopy of trees. Men from the village, my men, streamed past me with fiery torches and pickaxes before they saw that I was hurt. And then they stopped and they saved my life, for what it was going to be worth.

  They took me to the doctor’s house and he treated me to the best of his abilities. I woke up some time later on the bed in his private treatment room. The curtains were drawn but the daylight that did slip into the room made my skull ache and my skin feel like it was going to split open. I squeezed my eyes closed and forced myself to sleep, and when I next opened them it was dark and I felt much better.

  I was aware of the bandage around my neck, so I kept still so as not to dislodge the dressing. I tried to call out but my throat burned, so I rapped my knuckles on the bed frame. The doctor’s wife came in with broth, and later the doctor himself examined me without a word, shaking his head before leaving. The following evening, the doctor removed the bandages and cursed. I felt a moment of panic that the wound was simply not healing, but the doctor prodded at my flesh with clean gauze and I could see that there was no fresh blood.

  I continued to sleep during the day, feeling exhausted and sick, and then each evening I felt stronger and more capable. It took me a few days to realize that no one else had been to see me, that I had not been able to express my thanks to my men who had protected my life. It was my first question to the doctor when my voice returned, but he chose to ignore me and told me that I could go back to my own cottage, that he could do no more for me. That evening, he discharged me from his care. As I left I glanced over my shoulder and saw him, still in the doorway to his home, saw him cross himself and close the door as quickly as possible. With some confusion, I made my way home.

  The fence had been repaired. It was only as I built a small fire inside my home that I realized I had not passed anyone on the way. I would see them tomorrow, thank them for my life. As the flames started to climb up the chimney, I was struck with cold and with hunger. I tried to warm myself first but could gain no benefit from the fire. Before I could even pour some water into a pan, I was writhing around on the floor, my stomach gripped in cramps, my head awash with sweat and indescribable images flowing through my brain. I saw myself tearing my friends limb from limb, feasting upon their flesh, and I knew I needed the doctor to treat me further, to give me a tonic to fight off this fresh ailment. I crashed out of the door of my home and found all the men of the village on the road waiting for me.

  The doctor and the landowner stood at the front, looking fearful, but behind them were my men, my friends who could no longer look me in the eye. I was a brave man, they told me, for fighting the beast. But now I was the beast and I was to be cast out of the village; I was to go far away and never come back. They told me I had done much good for them, and for that they would spare my life, but they would not stand by and let me make their village my hunting ground. I pleaded and I begged and I implored them that I was not like the leech that had been preying upon us, but all I could see were the red tracks of blood pumping through their bodies. I wanted nothing more than to tear out their organs and chew my way through to their brains. With bowed head I asked if I could gather a few things, and they allowed me back into my home.

  I ran my hand along the wall as I left that place for the final time, and as I walked away from my village, a rotten heart lay crumpled inside my chest. No one said another word to me, although as the village disappeared out of sight I believed I heard one voice shout good-bye,but maybe that was only my hope. I cried for the first time when a fire behind me cast an orange glow onto the clouds that spoilt the night sky. I knew that there was no going back; they had burned my house to the ground.

  I travelled by night and hid by day, finding shelter in caves, under fallen trees, anything that would block out the sun. One morning I dug a hole in the earth, crawled in and pulled the mud back in on top of me before my skin started to itch and crack. I avoided people, in turn avoiding temptation. I felt my gums split and repair, split and repair as my teeth grew and become stronger. I had seen first-hand what those teeth were meant for, but even as my body weakened and my spirit began to perish, I refused to give in to the most basic of instincts within me. I caught a rabbit, but its flesh made me sick. A pig, a chicken, even a fox, while they took away the hunger, made me equally as ill, and afterwards the hunger would only come back stronger, more uncontrollable. I tried all kinds of vegetables, and whilst I was able to keep them down, they provided no sustenance to my soul. A cow, a bull, a horse, when I looked at them I saw meat; I saw, smelt the blood, but they were not what I required. The blood dowsed my thirst until my body rejected it, ejected it, and I would lie rolling on the ground, vomit spilling from my lips, and my muscles worked against me and twisted my hands, my face into angry and malicious contortions.

  I was dying that day when I stumbled down the embankment and the man was holding the knife to the lady’s neck. Her clothing gave her away as wealthy, as did the horses and carriage. The driver lay dead on the floor at the highwayman’s feet. The lady clung to a pendant around her neck, would not give it up despite the threats the man uttered, that her would kill her as he had her manservant, that he would gut her, and as I approached them I wished he would do just that, and then he could take her gold and I her blood. But they paid me no heed as I approached, for I made no noise despite the leaves strewn across the carriage path.

  I floated off the ground towards them and she screamed when I appeared at his shoulder and sank my exaggerated teeth into his throat, my arms snapping his neck and letting his body fall to the ground. I raised a hand to her, to tell her she was safe, but she fell to her knees, rifling in the pockets of her coat. Her shrieks for help continued but I knew there was no one else close by—I would have felt it if there were—and I continued to try to calm her. Her cries softened but her body continued to shake as I stepped over my victim to offer her solace, and then she turned to me, a pistol in her hand. There was a puff of smoke, a damp pop, and the pressure in my stomach, my shirt stained with a circle of blood. But I felt no pain and only anger, and I advanced upon her. And then I did gut her, and then I did feed, and then I knew what I was, and then I knew there was no turning back.

  After I fed, the lump of lead she had fired into me fell out and the hole in my abdomen healed over. Then the cramps attacked my stomach more than ever before, my head swam and I fell to the floor, my legs and arms in spasms. My head swam and the world melted away to blackness.

  From a distance I could see myself at the end of a long black tunnel, and then I was rushing towards me and I could see I was stood in a pool of steaming lava, up to my waist, and I knew it was me because I could see a white scar from my bullet wound. Behind me flames roared and I knew that I was in Hell, that this was my fate. I had taken a life as an agent of the Devil, and I was now to spend my eternity as his slave. The Martin that stood in the lava, his body suddenly a mass of burns and open sores, looked me in the eye and screamed. I was sent racing backwards to my physical body, rolling around in the leaves in the darkness, three corpses strewn about me.’

  11

  Martin returned to the table with a plastic container. He had finished telling his story over fifteen minutes ago and two of the smaller stubs of candles had burned themselves out
in the silence that had followed. He had not attempted to engage Christian in conversation; the boy had not tried to hide his tears, and Martin felt he had no reason to draw attention to them now. He gave his son time to regroup, an opportunity to digest the words that he had asked to hear. He hated to see the boy in pain, but Martin felt assured that the longer-term benefits that Christian would reap through knowing his tale would help the boy come to terms with the life that had been thrust upon him. Martin opened the container and pushed it across the table to Christian.

  ‘Drink now, boy. Please.’

  Christian’s eyes met Martin’s and it pained Martin deeply to see the turmoil boiling inside his son.

  ‘Please?’

  He was unsure whether he should reach across and take Christian’s hand. He did not know if he should keep letting words spill out of his mouth. Both his hands half-reached over the table in a gesture that reeked of confusion, even to Martin himself.

  ‘I will drink, Father’, the boy said, nodding softly. ‘As you said earlier, I trust you above all others.’

  Martin let himself smile.

  ‘I never realized…about your village, your home. I have been sel—’

  Martin cut him off. ‘No, son. You have never been selfish. Maybe it is I who has been selfish. But we cannot change the past, or the decisions I made for you when you were younger. We must move forward. Together.’

  ‘Yes, Father,’ Christian whispered.

  As if to emphasize his belief in the words they both had spoken, Christian lifted the container to his lips and, despite the revulsion and nausea running through him, emptied the vessel of its contents. He gulped and gagged and he stretched his lips as wide as possible to minimize spillage. As soon as he finished he let the container fall to the table and rushed to the water bucket, spooning handfuls of the pure liquid into his mouth, flushing the sticky red from between his teeth, from the back of his throat, off his gums, spitting the water onto the floor. The taste of copper coated his tongue as the crimson residue clung to the stone at his feet.