Blood Cursed

by Alex Archer

  “Pink slime?”

  “It’s a U.S. thing,” she said. “Consumer panic. Put a few companies out of business a few years ago. Do we ever really know what we are eating? So many chemicals in our foods nowadays. Although Britain is way ahead of us on GMO labeling. Anyway, you were going to tell me how you managed to land this dig?”

  “Right.” He sipped his coffee, murdered with cream to a deathly beige, then prodded his overeasy eggs with a fork while he spoke in that quiet Welsh accent that would have put a smile on Annja’s face even without the fulfilling repast. “You know I’ve got Romani blood in me?”

  “No. Welsh Romani?”

  “Yes. My great-grandfather’s side. My mother made sure we grew up with little knowledge of that, though. Only learned about it a few years ago, and that sparked my interest in the Gypsy culture. Last year I spent time in Chrastava studying the Romanis and their beliefs. There’s a housing development east of the city that welcomed me and my questions, for the most part.”

  “That’s right. You did the paper on bullying in the schools.”

  “It’s such a shame. And the bullying is widespread across the world, even in my homeland of Wales. Many Roma children drop out or are homeschooled. Yet they are homeschooled by parents who dropped out of school themselves. I wasn’t able to complete my research, which included the rich vein of beliefs that runs through the Romani, because my father took ill only a month after I’d been here.”

  “I’m sorry about that.” Annja paused from sipping her Diet Coke. “Is he better?”

  “He’s got pancreatic cancer.” Luke stopped prodding his eggs and looked out the window, clearly not seeing the house special in bright pink letters.

  “That’s awful. If...you need anything, Luke...” Annja always felt awkward about offering sympathy. It didn’t come easily to her. She hadn’t known a lot of compassion when she was growing up in the orphanage, although the nuns tried their best to compensate for the children’s lack of parental figures. “Sorry. I don’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t need to say anything. It’s a vicious cancer. The survival rate is abysmal. I spent a lot of time with him after returning from Chrastava last year. He knows I love him, and I also came to understand that he doesn’t wish to suffer. When he’s ready to go, I won’t hang on to him and ask him to stay. And with that, let’s change the subject, okay?”

  “Right. Sorry.” She inwardly chastised herself for saying sorry so much. Sometimes listening was the best kindness a person could offer. “So you were familiar with the area...?”

  “Oh, yes, that’s why I was called here. I got to know the authorities last year. Made a friend of one of the deputies. And after the flood, and the initial discovery of bones in the mud, the first person they thought to contact was me.”

  He tilted a grin at her.

  “I managed to finagle a grant from the university for the trip here because of the article I’d written. Further research, don’t you know.” Now the twinkle returned to his eye, and Annja felt some relief that he’d put thoughts of his father aside. “Gypsies and vampires. So much history and storytelling in those two words.”

  “And yet we’re not even close to Dracula’s castle.”

  “No, Transylvania is a good trek east from here. But that doesn’t mean the dead don’t travel fast.”

  “Ah, a Dracula quote. Luke, I sense a fascination for horror movies and fanged ones in that glitter in your eyes.”

  “I do love Bela Lugosi’s silver-screen rendition of the prince of darkness. And I confess, I once dressed up as Dracula for a Halloween party. Had the red satin lined cape and ruby pendant. Wore some pointed fingernails and even pointier fangs. You wouldn’t believe the women hanging on me that night.”

  “I can imagine it wasn’t entirely because of the fangs.”

  “You think?” He stabbed the eggs with his fork.

  There was nothing whatsoever wrong with making nice with a handsome, smart man who shared her interests. Though vampires weren’t one of them.

  “So talk to me about the beliefs the Romani have about the dead rising,” she said. “Though I know it’s possible, I still have a hard time believing people in this day and age can be so secluded as to still buy into outrageous mythology.”

  “The Romanis have unique burial rites and beliefs. You need to understand those first.”

  Luke offered her the coffeepot the waitress had left at their table, and Annja pushed her empty mug across the table to receive more of the slap-you-awake brew. She refused the cream, and cringed when his coffee again turned beige.

  “Belief in the supernatural is fundamental to the various Roma tribes,” he explained, “and varies from tribe to tribe.”

  “What tribe lives in this area?”

  “West Slavics that originally hailed from Germany. The town name was once called Kratzau in German before the Slavs migrated here after World War II and it was changed to Chrastava. Though the Romas are traditionally Germanic, the Slavs have interbred, and nowadays it’s quite a mix. Anyway, to the Romani, death is unnatural, and it may anger those who die.”

  “I knew that, but why the bad attitude?”

  “The living fear the vengeful return of their dead.”

  “A complete one-eighty from most beliefs,” Annja commented. “Most believe death a natural end or new beginning.”

  “It is fascinating, isn’t it? But the Romas do believe death is a continuation of life instead of a final death,” Luke agreed. “That’s why the newly buried dead person can even be―supposedly―angry that he is now gone from this mortal plane. And before death, when a family member senses death is near, he contacts everyone. Family arrives to sit vigil by the dying, and seek forgiveness for any misdeeds they believe the person might hold against them after death. They want the dying to go to the afterworld without a score to settle against them.”

  “Sneaky. Gives a person good reason to be kind while alive. What if the death was unexpected?”

  Luke shrugged. “Then I guess if I were Roma, and had committed a crime or sin against the deceased, I’d pack my bags.”

  “And stay away from skulls with bricks in them.”

  “Exactly. I’d expected the Roma would be more concerned about the recent dead. Apparently, though, the deceased can hold a grudge for centuries—judging by the locals’ fear of our discovery at the dig site. I haven’t come across any research that concludes one way or another.”

  “I’ll take a look online when I get a chance.”

  “Please do. You’ll find the whole thing fascinating. Another ritual observed following death is to burn or destroy all the deceased’s worldly goods. The Roma must never sell an item and be seen to make a profit, and other Roma are particular not to buy or accept articles that may have belonged to the dead. Usually they will try to sell the goods to those who are unrelated or gorja.”

  “Non-Gypsy?”

  “You know a little Romani?”

  “Less than a dozen words. So the Gypsies must not believe in a hell or an afterlife?”

  “Oh, yes, with death they move on to a supernatural existence, sometimes reincarnating as an animal or person. That’s where the belief in the mullo comes in. The living or chewing dead. Though chewing dead is more a Germanic term than Roma, since the tribes in the city are German in descent I’m using the terms interchangeably. The mullo will walk the earth in search of vengeance against those who wronged them, which is why all their belongings are destroyed and, well, why those who can will make reparations with the person while still alive. Once they sense oncoming death, they turn real nice toward the one headed toward death. Can you imagine?”

  “Good time to take advantage of those who pissed you off, but if you’re on your deathbed, not so good for enjoying it all. So the person dies and, if he’s mad at someone, lege
nd says he comes back as a mullo. I think that’s slightly different from the legend of the chewing dead.”

  “Yes, well, they start as chewing dead, gnawing through their funeral shrouds, and once risen, I then assume the mullo part becomes effective. They say the mullo can appear as an animal such as an owl, goat or even a chicken, but most often a wolf. And seeing a wolf immediately after a death brings sure bad luck.”

  “Didn’t Dracula have the capability to shift into wolf form?”

  “He did. I suspect Stoker used a lot of the Romani belief system in constructing his protagonist.”

  “Protagonist or antagonist?” Annja challenged over a sip of her coffee. “Wasn’t Jonathon Harker the hero of that story?”

  “Was he? I’m not so sure, Annja. Dracula may have been one of the first romantic paranormal heroes to come along, if you don’t include Polidori’s Byronic Lord Ruthven. Or at least, that’s the way modern society labels them—heroes—what with all the vampires running rampant in media of late. I wonder if Dracula sparkled?”

  “Oh, don’t tell me...?”

  Luke laughed and downed the last of his coffee. “No, never. I’ll stick with the black-and-white films. I’m not much for the teen Twilight movie craze that pairs mythological dead heroes with wide-eyed innocent heroines. If those heroines gave it some thought, they wouldn’t in their right minds go on a date with a man so old, or with such hematophagic eating habits.”

  “There are worse diets,” Annja said. “Such as anthropophagy. The leopard men in South Africa used to cannibalize their victims, and the African Maasai include blood as a dietary mainstay. And the Cajuns do make a fine boudin rouge. The pork sausage is rather tasty if you don’t think about it too much. Still, some eating habits are stranger yet.”

  “Exactly. You eat processed sugar and shortening under the guise of pink smear.”

  Annja looked over the breakfast roll smeared with raspberry frosting she’d dug into while Luke had explained the Roma’s death rituals. “Yeah, it’ll kill me faster than a string of blood sausage might, but I’ll enjoy the slow death.” She tipped her can of diet soda to him. “I’ll follow my death meal with that orange on your plate, if you don’t mind.”

  He tossed her the unpeeled orange, and pulled out his wallet to leave a koruna banknote on the table as they rose and headed out. Stopping by the tin waste can outside the restaurant to peel the orange, Annja inspected the gray sky. The air didn’t smell electric with the warning of rain, nor did she see any clouds.

  “No rain,” Luke offered, reading her thoughts. “But the sun likes to play hide-and-seek a lot in this area nestled between the mountains. It’ll be another overcast day for sure. Let’s head out.”

  “We can take my car,” Annja suggested.

  Across the street from where she had parked, the hawker of garlic and stakes had set up his red-and-green cart. Today he wore a white T-shirt that featured the design of a cape and a red cross down the front, as if he were an elegant vampire. He waved to Annja, and Luke cast her a wondering look.

  “He may sell me a stake before my visit here is through,” she commented, sliding into the driver’s side of the Jeep. “You have to give him credit for industry and knowing what the market wants.”

  “If Daisy didn’t have such a big mouth, no one in town would be the wiser to what we are working on. I don’t want another repeat of what happened yesterday with the Gypsies staring at us all day. And then that man—your friend—I can’t believe they thought he was mullo. But where did he come from and why?”

  “Sorry about that. Garin was looking for me. He won’t return.”

  “I hope not. But if he does, let’s hope it’s unarmed and in a much calmer disposition.”

  “Yes, well, the villagers are packing bats now so don’t be too hasty to embrace nonviolence.”

  “You would defend yourself against women and children?”

  “If I had to.”

  She caught his nodding agreement out of the corner of her eye, and studied his growing grin. She’d said something that tickled him. More and more, Luke Spencer appealed to her.

  They passed through a valley paralleled by the mountains that Luke explained had been working coal mines a few centuries earlier. She chose not to let him know she’d already studied up on this. She enjoyed hearing him explain how the area had been rife with precious metals, and mining had briefly reemerged during the twentieth century. Yet with the recent flooding and shifting of the soil and some small hills, Liberec officials had put a ban on mining as a safety measure.

  “Lots of Roma deaths in those mines, I suspect,” he said as she turned onto the gravel road that wove its way to the dig site. “There have got to be vengeful mullos loping all around this area for sure.”

  “The Romani people don’t get a very fair shake.”

  “Not a lot of places they’re welcome,” he agreed. “They’re a consistently persecuted people, the Gypsies. Unfortunate. They’re not all uneducated and not all thieves. It’s a terrible stigma. Their skills in the healing arts alone are reason enough to stop ostracizing them and start paying attention and try to learn from them.”

  “What about the fortune tellers?”

  “Really, Annja? That’s a little judgmental.”

  “Sorry, but—”

  “All right, I’ll give you that. They can spot naivety a mile off, that’s for sure. I had my fortune told to me when I visited previously.”

  “And? You going to fall in love, get married and have kids?”

  “Actually, the fortune teller was upset that she couldn’t see a future for me.”

  “That sounds ominous.”

  “Sure, but if I would have forked over another hundred korunas she would have cleared the block.”

  “Clever. Here we are,” Annja said as she navigated beside the parked rental Addison and Mueller shared. “I see our welcoming committee has made themselves at home.”

  What appeared to be a family of Gypsies—a baby, three children, parents and grandparents―lifted their heads to look them over as Annja and Luke unpacked a few supplies from the back of the Jeep and headed to work. But there were many more Romani than just this one family already gathered.

  “Is it like this every day?” she asked. “The audience?”

  “Yes. But today is different. Annja, those men aren’t the usual locals. And they have guns.”

  Now she noticed the four men—dark-haired and olive-complexioned—who walked around from behind the family and toward them, their boots crunching over the loose gravel. One had a rifle slung over his shoulder on a leather strap. The other two brandished pistols that looked as if the weapons had seen better days or needed a good cleaning. And yet another, the one standing in front of them, had what looked like a katana slung across his back.

  A sword? Ninja Gypsies?

  Anything was possible, and she was usually front and center to learn that hard fact firsthand.

  “You stay here,” Luke said, crossing around in front of the Jeep.

  “Yeah, I don’t think so,” she muttered.

  Leaving the supplies beside the vehicle’s front tire, Annja followed Luke toward the men. Instinct made her want to summon the sword, but she didn’t. Not yet.

  Her colleague cast a glance over his shoulder, and winced when he saw she hadn’t followed his order to stay put.

  “I’m a big girl,” she offered, shrugging.

  It was always romantic when a man offered to protect a woman. And this man was physically fit and muscled, but rather lean and rangy. Luke could go a few rounds, she felt sure, but he wasn’t armed.

  On the other hand, the men wielding the weapons didn’t appear as though they lifted weights, so perhaps Luke would fare well enough in a knockout. Digging in the dirt did exert a lot of muscle power and endurance levels
were challenged after days and weeks under a hot sun. Whoever thought archaeologists were pansies was dead wrong.

  Acknowledging the apparent lack of real firepower among the Gypsies, Annja took in the rest of the scene. About a dozen men and women were gathered around the tarp-covered dig pit; they seemed to be the usuals from yesterday. She hoped no one had contaminated the dig, but she didn’t see the overnight guard Luke had hired. No baseball bats to be seen, but she could feel the angry vibe rising from the people like a tsunami hitting the mainland.

  “You’re trespassing on property the University of London has been granted permission to dig on,” Luke stated calmly, raising his hands to indicate he meant no harm. The Welshman’s normally soft, melodious voice was now surprisingly strong and steady. “We’re here to do a job. We’re not hurting the land and will return it to its original state when we leave. Now if you’ll give us some room?”

  One of the men holding a pistol said, “You have disturbed the mullo! It must be reburied!”

  “It’s not a mullo,” Luke said quietly. “We plan to lift the skeleton from the ground for further study. It’s long dead. It won’t bring harm to you or your families.”

  One of the men spat on the ground. “Another sign we have angered the undead.”

  “It’s definitely dead, not undead,” Annja said, then asked, “Another sign? What was the first sign?”

  “One of our children has gone missing!” someone called.

  “What has that got to do with this skeleton?” Annja replied. “It couldn’t have hurt anyone. Surely the authorities are exploring the kidnapping of your child....”

  The man with the sword, still sheathed at his back, stepped forward. He was tallest and broader, making Annja suspicious he could hold his own even without the weapon. “They are frightened and unsure. And now you are uncovering the dead to rise again because their sacrifices have been too few.”

  “Wait a minute.” Annja stared the man down. “What sacrifice? Sacrificing what? You don’t mean your chil—”