The Parchment (The Memory of Blood)

by Sylvie Brisset

  "The daughter of Lady Tower will be conducted to the convent to work as a domestic. Thus she will earn her bread and she will be educated in the precepts of our Lord. The Tower's property will be seized by the Church, to pay for the trial, compensate her misdeeds and for having spoiled the peace of the village."

  So saying, he arose, blessed the knelt crowd.

  "Go in peace my dear Children!"

  He left the room without paying the slightest attention to the tub where the body of the tortured victim layed. The crowd left disappointed and slowly dispersed, commenting on recent events. Some people wanted to approach the tub to see the dead, but the presence of the monk who was pursuing his meticulous paperwork dissuaded them.

  Brother Childeric wrote for a long time and with care. When he looked up he was alone with the dead still in the water. He had to give instructions for her body to be burnt.

  He took his leather wallet to store parchment scrolls and a medallion snatched from Lady Tower’s neck, containing portraits of her children.

  Two hours later, after having prayed, the monk was preparing to hit the road again. He had other fiends to expose and destroy. Lady Tower had not floated, but it was only due to her chains or she had used this ploy in the hope of deceiving him. She was a witch, he was fully convinced of it, and the testimonials attested to it. But justice had been rendered. He regretted that her daughter had benefited from the leniency of judges. But he would come back. Satan would soon manifest itself. It should not be pleased by the loss of his servant. This file was not complete.

  He charged his donkey with his valuable bag, which contained the minutes of the trial that he directed, and left the village taking the road north.

  CHAPTER - 3 -

  Almost a year passed. Brother Childeric had again brought the righteousness of the Lord, of whom he was the arm, by destroying two fiends, appeared in the guise of a man with skin darker than the bottom of a cauldron, and a girl who talked with the dead. The more he made this priesthood, the more he felt the divine responsibility with which he was invested. He would carry this burden with devotion and conviction as long as the Lord would give it him.

  His path took him back to the same village where he had unmasked the witch Tower. The place seemed deserted. The houses were empty and fields abandoned. He also discovered traces of fire. Obviously a pyre had been ignited on the market square. But there remained only a charred pole. Too close to homes, he thought. Without doubt it was the reason for the burnt houses nearby. But this did not explain the uncultivated fields. Nature had died in this territory that became overrun with the vilest creatures of creation. The place was covered with puddles of a substance almost black-red mingled with the dust. Blood, recognized the monk. He smelled hints of the stench of rancid fat, thin but perfectly identifiable. He did not have to advance further to discover the first skeletons, some of which still retained some shrivelled shreds of flesh, prey of swarming insects.

  The place was cursed, he felt it and did not linger. Only the total destruction of the village by fire could bring a semblance of purity.

  Questioning the causes of this malediction, he went to the archdiocese. He did not doubt to find there the answers to his questions, and he needed a shelter for the night. The Devil was lurking in this region.

  But he was clearly not welcome. The porter keep him waiting in the yard without even providing him water for drinking or washing the dust of travel from his feet. The place was deserted, and Childeric had no other choice but to wait.

  It was only much later that the porter returned to tell him that he had allowed access to the kitchen and the barn, but he would not meet the Archbishop too busy to receive him. Brother Childeric did not protest, but it was an insult he would not forget.

  The stableman, to whom he entrusted his donkey, had attended the trial of Lady Tower and recognized Childeric. Uncomfortable under his inquisiting glance, he confirmed that the village was cursed, most villagers dead, God bless them! He himself could escape the evil only because he had to leave immediately after the trial. His work was waiting for him and he could not neglect it any longer.

  The monk doubted the reason for his departure and his look expressed his entire disbelief. Wanting to deflect Brother Childeric’s attention from his person, the stableman described the latest events while fiddling nervously with his cap in his hands.

  Childeric learned that a few hours after his departure, the son of Lady Tower appeared.

  "He had arrived at full speed, riding his horse to death, probably in the hope of saving his mother. He had looked everywhere, and no one dared tell him she was still in the tub. No villager had wanted to take the risk to touch her body. About his sister, nobody really cared about what she had become. The villagers of the nearby villages were still there, and all avoided him like the plague."

  The stableman did not know who told him that his mother had died, but for sure someone had told him, unless he had found the water mill himself.

  "The Baron had taken his mother out of the water, and wrapped her in his cloak. We heard him howling like a wolf. Sure, he had to be shocked to learn that his mother was a witch. But his cry! It was not human!

  He had remained there for a long time, until Vespers rung, without anyone knowing exactly what he was doing. People had gathered outside, afraid to go in and talk to him. He was perhaps transformed. Wizards can do weird things! Better perhaps to seize him before things went nasty. But it was too late.

  Anyway, he was crazy. When he was out, sword in hand, the villagers had watched him, curious, and without giving them time to react, he started killing everyone. A real carnage. With his sword, he killed everyone he met and seemed unstoppable. He jumped on the roof, set fire to houses, even the chapel had been burnt. And when the peasants had wanted to stop the fire, he had left them no chance. A real demon. Some had believed in Judgment Day and ran away screaming. Blood had flowed like water in the village, men, women, children, even the ecclesiastics had been part of the victims. The Baron had shown incredible savagery, and only Satan could give him such power of destruction, one against all.

  His misdeeds were so great that the villagers had stepped in to stop the demon that possessed him. They ambushed him outside the village on the road leading to the Tower manor. They stoned him to death and impaled his body with their pitchforks. He was dead. His body was riddled with gaping holes, worse than when the miller had fallen into the wheel of his mill."

  The stableman had repeatedly made the sign of the cross during his speech. He did not like to speak of these troubles for fear of attracting the evil eye on him. But between a possible future threat and the inquisitive eyes of the monk who wanted hear the whole story, he had no trouble making his choice. He swallowed hard, and painfully resumed his explanation.

  "They had prepared a large fire, so that nothing remained of the cursed family, planning to burn, mother, daughter and son on the same pyre. But when they tried to seize the boy's body, it had disappeared. But the blood was still there, the pitchfork that had pierced him too! He could not escape, not without using witchcraft.

  As for the girl, she threw herself from the belfry of the convent church. Unless it was God Himself who punished her, for having entered in His home, while she worshiped Satan. The body of the mother and daughter had been burnt, but the son had never been found. Satan probably recalled to him his servant. But for fear of his return, the village was deserted."

  The stableman had not seen him. But the few survivors who had wanted to give a Christian burial to the massacred villagers, they have seen the Baron lying in the village, his body covered in blood, looking for his mother and sister and cursing the villagers.

  The monk Childeric was not surprised by this fatal issue, which strengthened his convictions. He had always known that this family was in the service of Satan. He released the guy who, relieved, let the monk alone.

  Childeric opened his precious wallet, and found the scrolls relating to the Tower trial. Enjoying t
he last rays of sun of the afternoon, he recorded what had been reported. Now the case was really closed.

  He put it away in his precious leather bag, which contained the minutes of all investigations, all the trials he had conducted successfully. He would have to return to his diocese to unload the precious parchments that would complement his already voluminous archives.

  CHAPTER - 4 -

  Nowadays.

  Charles entered his hotel room after having spent the night at the opera. He loved this century that offered more entertainment than that of his birth. Charles was a vampire, but in many aspects he differed from his congeners. In fact nothing from his birth to his current life was standards compliant and he took care to cultivate this singularity.

  He had long been a blood vampire, feeding on humans, and had not completely given up this diet. At birth, his survival depended on it. Vampires did not know at that time, nor did humans, how their bodies functioned. The blood helped to keep in good state the envelopes of flesh that had invested their souls for not being sucked into limbo. But it was not only a matter of blood. It had to be used wisely. The condition of the body chosen to house the soul was equally decisive.

  Many vampires of his time had finally disappeared into the underworld, unable to maintain the condition of their mortal coil. Mortality at the time was higher than today among his fellows as among human beings.

  Experience had shown Charles that the blood of children, of women in childbirth, were particularly rich. So he had learned to choose his prey. The bodies of those who died from starvation were the easiest to invest, as they required few repairs. He then remained near the areas affected by famine, and at that time he was spoilt for choice.

  Today, he exercised almost total control over his body, hunting was no longer necessary. But he did not get rid of old habits so easily, and he considered humans only as livestock. The fact that he had been too, in the distant past, a mortal did not change his assessment.

  The other vampires did not find favour with him either. Most lived as human beings, trying to merge in the mass, so that their existence was not revealed. Stupid! Charles was neither proud of what he was, nor ashamed of it. He simply assumed what he had become.

  Vampires usually lived in a given territory that they left only when they began to raise attention with their imperceptible aging. They then disappeared for a while and came back, justifying their astonishing resemblance by pretending to belong to the same family. Some vampires have even created a flourishing business, offering their congeners a slight appearance modification through cosmetic surgery.

  Charles had a borrowed body. It was nothing more for him than a vehicle for his soul. He had nothing in common with these vampires who had returned to their own body after their physical death and took jealous care of it.

  He did not underestimate, however, the impact of the image that he was reflecting to humans. He also chose his flesh envelopes carefully. His physique was that of a man in his forties, brown eyes, short hair. His refined clothes were tailor made. Classic and distinguished. All that was needed to inspire confidence.

  The vampires were living in a feudal structure, the oldest protecting, guiding their vassals. Charles did not care about the hierarchical structures of his congeners. He travelled where his interest or desires led him, and felt responsible to no one. He was a black soul, and had no taste for baby-sitting. When visiting a new territory, he declared his presence as the unwritten code required it, but had sworn allegiance to no one. Sometimes he dragged vampires in his wake, never for long, apart from his servant who remained faithful to him since he was a vampire.

  He had had the intelligence over the centuries to keep records of the past. He sold them from time to time to finance his expenditure. But he had old documents, parchments, he would never get rid of, ever, under any circumstances.

  He had sometimes moment of weakness, felt alone and regretted this loneliness. Sometimes the temptation to live as a human seized him, the words family, affection became sweet words. Thinking about his "former" life had a bitter aftertaste.

  He had then only to read the parchments of the monk Childeric, these condensed horrors, to become himself again. They reminded him of the abjection, ignominy, savagery of which humans are capable, under a packaging of devotion. If vampires were abominations, what about humans? He did not want to be like those weaklings, cowards, monstrous humans. No qualifier was strong enough to express his revulsion.

  The monk had been the cause of his ruin. Him, and the ideas he had conveyed. Charles had killed the monk, but his death had not sated his need for vengeance or appeased his torments. He chastised the man, but he wanted revenge on his abominable beliefs, his certainties and his fanaticism.

  And this feud would last as long as the soul of Charles would be in this dimension.

  The victims of the religious could not stand up to grant a pardon. The expiation of the faults of the monk and his Order was impossible.

  The parchments were there to remind Charles of his resolutions. His servant, everything that surrounded the vampire, was there to remind him of his goal. Similia similibus curantur, that like be treated by like, treat evil by evil, every day. It was also his own punishment for his first murder, to never forget…

  This quest had aroused in him a hobby that became a passion over the years. He liked, when he identified a vampire, rebuilding his career, following him from a distance. He had made records of a large number of vampires, and had no doubt that these records would be useful one day. Power lay in the knowledge, and psychic force. He cultivated both.

  He never talked about himself, his past. Nobody had to know. It was also the reason why he changed on a regular basis of body, name, place. But he liked to follow the path of those who crossed his, for various reasons depending on the individuals concerned.

  The most valuable documents in his eyes never left him, he was afraid of losing them too. The feel of the fragile papers against him did him good. He preferred not to analyze the reasons, for fear of having to conclude to a weakness to suppress.

  He put his coat on a chair, took off his shoes and walked on the thick carpet. The suite was comfortable. He loved luxury and always wanted the best room. He particularly enjoyed the simple and modern interiors. His head was always filled with the past. He did not want to live in imitation of earlier centuries.

  His servant knew his demands and took care to meet them. With a long habit, he anticipated his needs.

  The discrete sound of a bubbling told him that his bath was waiting. He drank the brandy left to his attention and began to undress. The large windows formed puddles and attracted light. He looked at the sprawling city that lay before him. All those lights, those people, he guessed more than he saw, running toward their destiny. He felt alone, excluded. A nameless sadness came over him. With one angry hand he drew the curtains, for no longer seeing the city, his reflection in the glass.

  The opera had awakened in him emotions that he considered dangerous. He would have to once again use the scrolls of Childeric. It was a perverse pleasure, a drug and disgust. But what? He was a vampire.

  He laughed derisively at his own emotional weakness. The bath would have to wait. He felt vulnerable, depressed. The blood would not help, he suffered in his soul. As an addict, who knows that however he destroys himself, he needed his drug.

  He sat at the desk, and reached into the inside pocket of his coat looking for the file that he judged, of all, the most important. The document he patiently completed over the centuries, which he always kept with him on a few pages.

  But his hands met only emptiness. He fumbled again, jumped, and feverishly searched, turning the silk pockets.

  The black leather book containing the file had disappeared!

  His eyes narrowed, his pupils obscured by concentration and anger. His fists clenched, his knuckles turned white. He had nothing more of the rich and highly civilized man he gave daily image. He had become a predator in search of his prey. Violence n
ow filled his whole being, begging to break free.

  He repeated mentally his way since he had left his suite to go to the opera. He saw the faces, attitudes, emotions felt. Who had been close enough from him to steal his property without his noticing? He was as angry with himself than with the unscrupulous thief, who would pay for it with his life.

  He still had it when he left the opera. He had felt it against his breast when he had put on his coat. Suddenly he knew when the theft had been committed. Someone had pushed him slightly, into the hotel lift, when he returned. This could only be there. He forced his memories, to fill himself with the face and the smell of the man who had robbed his wallet. Without relaxing, his lips stretched themselves on a carnivorous smile.

  He regretted that Diego did not go with him to the opera. Diego was a young vampire who, for the time being, was following Charles around. He was a dangerous psychopath, but Charles preferred those who did not hide their true nature behind seductive images. Diego was a real hunting dog. When he set his sights on a prey, nothing could dissuade him.

  Their cooperation could stop at any time and probably would last a few weeks. The time for Diego to learn the rules of power following Charles's example, or for Charles to get tired of his presence.

  Charles summoned him by telepathy. Minutes later, Diego presented himself at the door of the suite. The same way he had called him, Charles transferred the images and smell of the thief he had in mind.

  Diego looked up, seeming to sniff at the air. He couldn't have already noted the trail of the thief. It was his way to prepare, to focus on his target. Without exchanging a word, the two vampires began to walk toward the elevator.