A Whisper of Blood

by Ellen Datlow

  May 3, 1976

  I have found the remains of an infant! Thank God Pottifer was not with me at the time, for it would have shaken him badly. There is a reference in the passage from Gilgamesh: “and when the child was born, Utnapishtim gave it at once to Old Man Who Would Be Young, and the first berry appeared on the branches.” William Alexander planted this particular shoot or cutting of the tree and would have needed a similar offering. The thought horrifies me, that some mother in a nearby village, or some passing gypsy family, lost their newborn child one Victorian night.

  May 10, 1976

  Pottifer has made the breakthrough. He came scuttling out of the hole, his face black with earth, his fingers bloody from his encounters with sharp slate and wild thorns.

  “Bones!” he cried. “Bones, Professor. I’ve found bones. Dear God in heaven, I touched one.”

  He stared at his hand as if it might have been tainted. I crawled into the passage and edged along to the place where he had found my great-uncle. The earth here was looser. The cage of roots was behind me and I could feel into what seemed to be a soft soil. It was possible to work my hands through and touch the dismembered bones and the ribs of the man who lay there. Every bone was wrapped around with the fibrous wormlike rootlets of the tree.

  I became very disturbed. I was invading a place that should have been inviolate, and felt that I was an unwelcome intruder into this earthy domain.

  My great-uncle had failed to attain resurrection. He had done something wrong and now, I swear, the tree has his soul. It had sucked his spirit from his body to strengthen itself, perhaps to extend its root system, its power over the surrounding landscape? Was this the price of failure, to become the spiritual slave of the tree? Or am I just full of wild imaginings?

  Whatever, the embrace of those roots is not a loving one, but one of possession. It is a cruel grip. The tree had hung on to the ash urn of Patroclus because the bones must not be burned. It had not released the flesh of Hamlet’s father because there was metal on the body. But I am determined to triumph.

  When I touched my ancestor’s skull, I drew back sharply, then probed again. There were no teeth in the jaws. The skeleton was also oriented correctly, north, south, east, and west.

  It was as I withdrew my probing hand from the soft-filled earth chamber that my fingers touched something cold and hard. I noted where it lay, that it was at the top of the leg, close to the spine, and clutched it and drew it out.

  Edward Pottifer stared at the iron ball in my hand. “That’s from an old gun,” he said, and at once I remembered the story of my great-uncle’s skirmish in the Middle East. Yes. He had been shot and close to death. They had operated on him in the field, but then transported him, delirious, to a hospital in Cyprus, where he recovered. He must have been under the impression that the bullet was removed from his body at that first operation. Of course, his back would have pained him at times, but old wounds do that, without iron in them. That must have been it, for he surely wouldn’t have taken the chance, not after finding the method in Hamlet.

  I did not mean to laugh. It was not disrespect, but relief. He had carried that iron ball into the grave with him. He had removed his teeth, perhaps gold-filled, but not the bullet.

  I spoke carefully and succinctly to Edward Pottifer. I told him my teeth were to be removed at death. That my body was to be stripped and no metal, not even a cross around my neck, was to be buried with me. My body would be a cross. I marked clearly where my head was to be placed, and how my arms should be raised to the sides. “I will give you a compass. There must not be the slightest deviation.”

  He stared at me for a long time, his young face showing the anguish he felt. “When do you expect that might be, sir?” he asked me. I assured him that it would not be immediately, but that I was in my fifties now, and a very ill man. I told him to come every day to the house, to make sure I was still alive, and to become familiar with me, and less afraid of me. And of course, I would pay him well for his services. Work was not easy to find in the dale, and the temptations of this offer were too strong for him: I have my grave-digger, and I know he can be trusted.

  December 24, 1976

  As I write this I am experiencing a sense of profound awe. Young Wilkins is here, and he is frightened and shocked. He arrived at the cottage last night, an hour or so before I was ready to retire. I had not expected him. He had travelled from London that afternoon, and had decided not to telephone me from the station. I understand his reasons for coming without forewarning.

  I wonder what it must have felt like for him to be picking through the decaying fragments of several old parchments—brought to Cambridge by Abdullah Rashid, who subsequently vanished!—separating by tweezers and pallet knife those shards of some ancient writer’s records that showed any legible writing at all; how it must have felt to be sorting and searching, eyes feasting upon the forgotten words … and then to find John the Divine himself.

  The writing is fragmentary. The state of ruination of the scrolls is appalling. The Arab traders had already cut each precious document into forty pieces, thinking that by so doing they would increase forty-fold the value of their find. And they were struck by the Hand of Calamity as surely, as certainly, as if Jehovah himself had taken control of their fate. All of them are now imprisoned. Abdullah Rashid is now an exile (perhaps even dead?). Yet he was compelled to come to England, to seek me out … to bring his last “gift” (he asked for nothing in return) before disappearing into the night.

  I was fated to discover these parchments.

  It is the last reference of the ragthorn that I shall discover. No more is needed. It is a fragment that has given me courage.

  At last I understand my great-uncle’s reference to REVELATION! He had heard of the lost passage from Revelations of St. John the Divine. Perhaps he saw them? It was enough for him too. Revelation! Triumph!

  Oddly, the references to resurrection are not what has frightened Wilkins. If he is afraid it is because he feels that too many of his beliefs are being threatened. He has been sobered by the encounter. But he saw the words “thorn” and “rag” and has brought to me my final, most conclusive proof that there is indeed a lost and forgotten mechanism for the resurrection of the dead, nature’s alchemy, nature’s embrace, a technique that defies science. No scientist will accept the revivification of the flesh under the influence of thorn, and root, and cold clammy earth. Why should they? But it happened! It has been recorded throughout history; it had begun, perhaps, in ancient Sumeria. There have been deliberate attempts to lose, to deny the fact… folios have been scratched out, poems obliterated, classics rewritten … the words of the ancients have been edited dutifully, perhaps by frightened servants not of God, but of dogma that preaches only the resurrection of the soul…

  Oh, the irony! Oh, the pleasure at what St. John the Divine has told me.

  It was all there for us to see, all the symbols, all the truths. The wooden cross, which He himself fashioned in His carpenter’s shop, ready for the moment of His thricefold death, drowned, stabbed, and hanged on the tree.

  The Crown of Thorns, His mastery over the forest.

  The immortal wood, the tree of life, the regenerating forest—of course it can shelter and protect the mortal flesh. There is in the tree a symbol, a reality too powerful for monks with quill pens to dare to fight, to challenge. So they cut it out, they excised it. In this way cutting out the soul of John, they cut out the heart from the past.

  “He that dies by the wood shall live by the wood.”

  Perhaps I have the original copy of the parchment, the only copy remaining? It was found in a jar, in the hills of Turkestan, and had come into the possession of Abdullah … and had done so because it was meant to find its way into my hands.

  For now I shall record in the journal only part of what St. John said. It is from Chapter 10 of the Revelations. It might have preceded verse 3. It is my great hope. It has confirmed my faith in the rightness of what I shall achieve
. A miracle occurred in the house of Lazarus.

  And I looked into the Light, and Lo, I saw Him command a thorn tree to spring from the roof of the house of Lazarus. And the tree had seven branches and on each branch there were seven times seven thorns. And below the house seven roots formed a cradle around the dead man, and raised him up so that again his face was in the light.

  So cometh the power of the Lord into all living things.

  And again He cried: That ye might rise anew and laugh in the face of Death, and blow the dust from thy lungs in the eyes of Death, so that ye can look on Hell’s face and scorn the fires and rage upon the flames and rise thee up.

  And Lo, I saw how the thorn withered and died and the Angel of the Lord flew from its dust.

  And He cried out in the voice of the Immortal King:

  The Lord is in all things and He is in the One Tree.

  He that dies by the wood shall live by the wood.

  He that dies by the thorn shall live again by the thorn.

  April 15, 1978

  Pottifer was here. I sent him to the tree, to begin to clear the chamber. The pain in my chest is greater than I can bear sometimes. I must refuse the sensible remedy of moving to London, to be closer to the hospital that can relieve such things, and extend my life, even though they cannot cure me.

  Pottifer is very calm. We have kept the secret from the village and not even his family knows. He has managed to clear the root chamber whilst keeping the failed bones of my ancestor undisturbed below a thin layer of soil. As long as I am within that quivering cage of thorns I shall succeed. I shall live again.

  There is a great danger, however. I believe now that the tree took William Alexander, body and soul, for its own. Perhaps that is its exacted compensation for the failure of its disciples, to possess all that remains, not just the flesh, but the spirit also?

  I know I have it right, and I can depend on Pottifer, completely, just as my great-uncle must have depended on such a man. Pottifer is devoted to me, and obeys me implicitly.

  September 11, 1978 (extract)

  The moment is very close. I have now acquired a set of dental pincers with which to perform the final part of the ritual. Pottifer has seen into my mouth and knows which teeth to pull.

  September 20, 1978

  Pottifer is with me. I am certainly going. How vigorously the body clings to life, even when the mind is urging it to relax in peace. There is no longer any pain. Perhaps the closeness of death banishes such mortal agonies. I can hardly move, and writing is now an effort of will. This will be the final entry in my journal. Pottifer is very sad. I admire him. I have come to like him very much. His great concern is to get my body into the chamber before the rigor of death stiffens my limbs. I have told him to relax. He has plenty of time. Even so, he need wait only a few hours for the rigor to pass. I have though of everything. I have missed no point, no subtlety. When I am gone, Pottifer will end this journal and wait for one year and one day before returning to Scarfell Cottage. These papers, I am sure, will not be there. They will be in my own hands. If they are still in evidence, Pottifer is to send them to young Wilkins, but I am absolutely certain that I will be here to decide their fate, just as I have decided my own.

  Adieu, or rather au revoir.

  September 21

  This is Pottifer. The docter told me to rite this when he was gone. I berried him as he told me to, and no dificulties. He said there must be no mistakes and spoke on the tree saying it sucked men dry of there souls who make mistakes. His last words to me were Pottifer I must face Hell and look on its face like Saint John tells. He seemed very fearfull. I give him a kiss and said a prayre. He shouted out in pain. You do not understand I must first look on Hells face he shouted you must berry me face down.

  I said to him, you are a good man docter, and you shall not face Hell. You shall face Heaven as you diserve. Saint John does not need your penance. Do not be fearful of Hell. You are to good and if you come back I shall be your good friend and welcome you straight.

  Then he died. His fists were clenched

  He is in the earth now and all that I have is his teeth, God bless him. I wanted to put a cross but the thorns have grown to much and there is green on tree and I do not like to medle to much since there is more growth and very fast. No one has seen the tree so green and florished for a long wile not since that time in the last centry so the tales go.

  P.S.

  This is Pottifer agen. I have got some thing more to say. Some thing odd has hapened. It is more that one year and one day. The docter is still in the ground. I was in the pub and a man came in and asked for a drink. He said he was the royal poet. I think he said his name was John Betcherman. He had been walking near Scarfell and had seen the tree. He had felt some thing very strange about the place he said. A strong vision of death. Someone screaming. He was upset. He asked about the cottage but I said nothing. He wrote a poem down and left it on the table. He said there I have exercised this terrible place and you have this and be done with it. Then he left. Here is the poem. It makes me feel sad to read it.

  On a hill in highland regions

  Stands an aged, thorny tree

  Roots that riot, run in legions

  Through the scattered scrub and scree:

  Boughs that lap and lock and lace

  Choke the sunlight from that place.

  Deep below its tangled traces

  Rots the corpse of one unknown

  Gripped by roots whose gnarled embraces

  Crush the skull and crack the bone.

  Needled fingers clutch the crown

  Late, too late to turn facedown.

  There were these two British writers, one lived in the country, the other in the city. The country writer loved to visit the city and partake of brandy and Greek kebabs in the local hostelry. The city writer liked to visit the country and guzzle ale and barbecued steak under the apple trees. The two writers needed an excuse for these indulgences, and so they invented one, and this excuse was called “collaborating on a story” … It soon emerged that the story was to be about a legendary tree, which they both vaguely recalled from the tales their grandfathers used to tell them of mystery and myth. Soon they were delving with suppressed excitement into old documents at the British Museum and began to come up with some frightening discoveries.

  The first of these finds was in studying the original text, in Anglo- Saxon, of the Old English poem “The Dream of the Rood.” The marrying of the “tree” (crucifixion cross) and the “thorn” (a runic character) was too elaborately regular to be an accident of metre or alliterative language. Other discoveries followed, and the story gradually surfaced, like a dark secret from its burial mound.

  The tall, hairy-faced writer, his eyes shining in the near darkness of the British Museum at five o’clock on a winter’s evening, said, “We’ve got something here, mate.” The short, clean-shaven writer, his hands full of trembling documents, answered with true English understatement, “You’re not wrong, mate.” So between them they began writing the history of the terrible “ragthorn tree.”

  Then again, they could have invented the whole thing, like these bloody storytellers do. As their old grandfathers used to say, “Why spoil a good story by sticking to the truth?”

  Robert Holdstock

  Garry Kilworth

  CONTRIBUTORS’ NOTES

  PAT CADIGAN

  Pat Cadigan was born in New York, grew up in Massachusetts, spent most of her adult life in the Kansas City area, and now lives in London, in the UK. She has won the Arthur C. Clarke Award twice for her novels, Synners and Fools, as well as the Locus Award for best short story—“Angel”—and best collection—Patterns. Although her novel-length work to date is exclusively science fiction, a good percentage of her shorter fiction has been fantasy and horror. Now that she lives in London, she expects to write a lot more in those genres as she wanders through some of the older and more shadowy places, particularly in North London where she lives with her so
n Rob and her husband, the Original Chris Fowler (not to be confused with the author of Roofworld).

  JONATHAN CARROLL

  Jonathan Carroll is the author of several acclaimed novels, including Voice of Our Shadow, Bones of the Moon, From the Teeth of Angels, After Silence, Black Cocktail, Outside the Dog Museum, A Child Across the Sky, Kissing the Beehive, The Marriage of Sticks, The Wooden Sea, Glass Soup, and The Ghost in Love. He has won the World Fantasy Award for his story “Friend’s Best Man” and his short fiction as been collected in The Panic Hand.

  From the publication of his first novel Land of Laughs, Carroll has been delighting readers with his memorable characters and his overflowing imagination. He has the ability to swerve unerringly between science fiction, fantasy, and horror—often.

  SUZY MCKEE CHARNAS

  Suzy McKee Charnas is a born-and-raised New Yorker. After two years in Nigeria with the Peace Corps, she taught in private school in New York and then worked with a high school drug-abuse treatment program. In 1969 she married, and moved to New Mexico, where she began writing fiction full-time.

  Her first novel, Walk to the End of the World (1974), was a Campbell award finalist. The cycle of four books that sprang from Walk ended in 1999 with The Conqueror’s Child, which won the James P.Tiptree Award. Her SF and fantasy books and stories have also won the Hugo award, the Nebula award, and the Mythopoeic award for young-adult fantasy. Her play Vampire Dreams has been staged several times, and a collection of her stories and essays, Stagestruck Vampires, was published in 2004.

  She lectures and teaches about SF, fantasy, and vampires whenever she gets the chance to, most recently in a writing workshop at the University of New Mexico. Her website is at www.suzymckeecharnas.com.

  MELISSA MIA HALL

  Melissa Mia Hall’s short fiction’s been published in various format and languages for over twenty years, most recently in The Mammoth Book of Extreme Fantasy, Front Lines, Baen’s Universe website (a collaboration with Joe R. Lansdale), Retro Pulp Tales ed. by Joe R. Lansdale, and Cross Plains Universe. She edited and contributed to the anthology Wild Women. Her story, “Psychofemmes” was reprinted in The Year’s 25 Finest Crime and Mystery Stories in 1998.