The Blood Decanter (The Tales of Tartarus)

by A. L. Mengel

  But there was a time, not long ago, when I had a visitor. I only remember it because it was the same day that the man I described above moved through my chambers –

  There was a day when I was not in Miami, but across the ocean, thousands of miles away, in a small preparation room in a similar chamber, for the body that I was called to prepare was a close friend. And I was asked to fly to Frankfurt – and so I called upon my fellow Mortician; the one family member who understood me so well. And I was able to use his quarters.

  The sun shined through the small, square window in the little preparation room. It was small and boxy, the walls a stark and pale green, the overhead florescent light was harsh that morning as it had been every other morning. I would pick at the grit in my eyes that was usually there every morning. But that particular morning, there was a knocking on the door, it broke the silence.

  It wasn’t the door to the long, barren hallway covered in the noxious green tiles.

  It was on the door to the outside.

  And the only one who would come knocking on that door was either the coroner – or better have a pretty damn good reason. I set my coffee on the table.

  I lay my clipboard down on the black body bag before me, and looked towards the door. I didn’t see anyone in the small, square window. But then, I usually don’t. There aren’t too many people who will peek inside the lower levels of a funeral home.

  I placed my hands on the cold, steel handle, looked out the window, and saw a small man standing in the frigid air; his clothing devoid of color and dressed in black and grey, with a black hat, and dark sunglasses. He looked up towards the window, and smiled. “Can you open for me?” His voice sounded muffled through the glass, like he was speaking into a pillow.

  “We do not accept outside solicitations, sir.”

  The man took a few steps back.

  He didn’t seem very tall or imposing in the slightest, standing there in his black coat and grey pants. He shoved his hands in his pockets, then looked down at the pavement, and then back up. “You will want to let me in, Mr. McCracken. I have spoken intimately with Monsignor Harrison. I just returned from Rome.”

  I stepped back and swung the door open. The cold air was striking. The man took a step towards the threshold and looked up at me. He had wisps of grey hair under his hat. But I could not see his eyes through his dark lenses. “Are you going to let me in?”

  I stepped aside and he entered the preparation room. He stopped just short of the stainless steel table in the center of the room, and looked around. His mouth dropped open slightly, but he did not make a sound. I closed the door and moved towards him, and he spoke. “I have never been inside a room like this before.”

  “Understandable. Most haven’t, until the one time at the end of their lives when they come into this room.”

  The small man stopped and looked directly towards me. He removed his dark glasses, and his eyes pierced me. Dark brown, against an olive complexion. Much more noticeable under the florescent lighting, without the sun shining in my eyes. “Oh, Mr. McCracken, I have heard many things about you.”

  “What kind of things? And from whom?”

  The man folded his sunglasses and placed them in his coat pocket. “Rome sent me. Antoine sent me. Because I have a warning. A warning of the greatest importance for the immortal kind.”

  I grabbed the clipboard from on top of the body bag and flung it on the counter. “Do you have identification?”

  The visitor looked at the clipboard as he fished through his pockets. “Who is in that body bag?”

  “That isn’t any of your business until you have shown me identification that proves that it is.”

  I waited. And watched for him to fish his ID out. And then I remembered. It was such a distant memory, but it stuck out in my mind nonetheless. It was of Stephen. My, brother, who died on the side of Telegraph in Michigan. “I have had a lot of experience with Funeral Homes,” I said, accepting his ID. “And it says here you are a Mortician as well?”

  The man nodded and removed his coat and placed it on the counter. “Yes, Ned. Yes I am.”

  I nodded and handed him back his ID.

  “I’m Hector Tabares.” He started walking around the preparation table as he talked to me. “Rome sent me, as I said, with a warning.” He looked down at the body bag on the table. “You see, this man here, I know who is in there. That is why Rome sent me.”

  I took a step back. “Okay. So Rome sent you. The Monsignor? Can you tell me a little more about the purpose of your visit here today?”

  “I come with a warning.”

  I nodded. “Okay…would you care to elaborate?”

  But I didn’t mind the silence that followed. For I already knew the answer. He stood next to the preparation table, and reached towards the counter for the clipboard and death certificate. He picked it up and looked down, examining the document, as he adjusted his glasses. “Darius Sauvage,” he said, studying the paperwork. And then he looked over at me, removing his glasses. “Why am I not surprised?”

  “What is your warning?”

  The man set the clipboard down, sighed, and walked closer towards me. He walked right up towards me, and I looked down at him. I noticed his snow white hair. He looked up at me. “My warning concerns Darius here. For he was an immortal. And he was attacked – and there is someone out there who is set to end the reign of the immortals.”

  It took me a few moments. I had to process what he was telling me. Somehow, this tiny little man knew who was in the body bag (aside from his reading the death certificate on the clipboard). And it seemed he really knew who was in the body bag and how he got there.

  And the little man stepped forward. “Do you know who I am? What purpose I serve?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “I know you are here about the body on the table. I had a pretty good inkling that you knew who was here when you came inside.”

  The man closed his eyes and nodded. “And do you know why I am here? Why I am visiting you?”

  I shook my head.

  “Yes, I know who you are. And I know that you don’t usually operate out of this funeral home. One in Miami, right?”

  I nodded. “You knew him?”

  The man looked down at the black plastic body bag, and his eyes fell. “Yes. Yes I did.” And then he looked up and over at me. “There is something you are keeping from me.”

  “Absolutely not,” I said.

  He took a few steps closer towards me. “Yes. Yes there is. You are somehow connected to this body. Am I right?” He looked downwards and removed his jacket, and then back up to me. “Are you going to tell me the truth?”

  I paused.

  Was there something going on here that I was not aware of? There was only one more individual who was aware of this body. I was certain of that. I checked, and rechecked countless times before accepting it here, in my brother’s establishment. Oh, dear.

  “As I said, I come with a warning.”

  I ushered him past the body and towards the door. “Come with me,” I said. I led him down the hallway towards a set of stairs that rose upstairs. I shuddered at the mosquito carcasses on the pale green paint over cinder blocks – but that was a common occurrence. The heels of his shoes clicked on the cement floor. As we reached the stairs, he turned around and looked me in the eyes. “I don’t need to go upstairs to give you a warning,”

  “So why don’t you just tell me?”

  He took a step closer towards me. “I know who you are preparing that body for.”

  I took a step back, looked down at the man as he looked back up towards me, smiling.

  “I had a feeling.”

  And then I could feel the dread filling the room. Hector looked at me directly. “A man did this, Nathan. There is a legend of sorts. Of a man in a hood. Who appears on a cloud of white mist. They say he carries a crystal decanter. Convinces immortals to drink from it. Says it’s their salvation.”

  I looked down at the body bag. An
d then I focused on the zipper. There goes that damn zipper again. “So…what are you saying, Hector?” But I had a feeling. I had spoken with Antoine at great length about the body in that body bag. Hector really didn’t need to answer the question – but he came close to my side anyway. “My warning is this. You must warn Antoine. And Delia. The entire ‘Inspiriti’ group. Their days are numbered. But the man who visits them – the immortals, the victims – is a man of evil. He is not bringing salvation.”

  “How do you know all of this, Hector?” I looked up at him. His eyes were still wide and mysterious. Like white orbs when I shut the lights out, and started to climb the stairs. I felt that I could still see his eyes. And then he followed me, upwards towards the light and a small, wooden door. I fished the key from my pocket.

  “I know because this man in the hood pursued me as well.”

  I looked down at him. He stood a few steps below me, and looked up towards me with raised eyebrows. His skin looked a bit orange in the dim light. “Yet you stand here before me.”

  Hector looked down and nodded. “Yes, yes. I stand here before you.” He spoke quickly, high pitched. “I cannot tell you the entire story here, Nathan.” I fumbled with the lock and the door swung open. The smell of incense wafted down the stairs. Cool air. Hector followed me into the West Viewing Room. The one in the horrid pink pastel with the flower print curtains. I turned to face him as he stepped aside so I could close the door. “Okay, so you still didn’t answer my question. How are you standing here before me? Giving me a warning? How is that possible if this man visited you? Didn’t you explain to me that it was certain death?”

  Hector grabbed a small, white folding chair and sat down as I arranged some programs on the lectern at the front of the room. He sat, legs spread wide, and rested his elbows on his knees. He looked up at me. “I am here because this is my calling. Just as this is what you are called to do. I am called to protect.”

  I looked up and down at Hector. His face was solemn. “So I can sit here and try to explain to you how I am sitting here. Or you can listen to me. It’s your choice, Nathan.” He sat back in the chair and crossed his arms.

  I stopped arranging the programs and shrugged my shoulders, walked over to the casket and adjusted some of the flowers. I turned back around to see Hector following my every move. “So this warning you are giving me…”

  “Yes?”

  I stopped busying myself and walked over to where Hector was sitting. I sat down next to him and looked him in the eyes. “Why are you giving it to me?”

  “Because you have the connections to make a difference.”

  “I see.”

  Hector sighed and shook his head. “So have I done my duty? Are you going to take my warning seriously? Or do I need to show you first hand?”

  “How could you show me first hand?”

  Hector did not answer, but merely looked up towards the ceiling, towards a hanging cross across the room. “There are ways. And there are gifts, Ned. There is so much to be explained. But for now, just heed my warning. Please.”

  I paused for a moment, looked down, and then back up and over at Hector. He looked pained. Worried. His eyes were wide and he kept smoothing his hair. “Who shall I tell about this?” I asked.

  “You must tell Antoine, first and foremost. And he will take it from there.”

  *****

  The meeting did not last much longer.

  We exited the viewing room, and he walked out the front door of the Funeral Parlor, into the cold, wintry mist. As I watched him navigate the icy, wet stairs, I thought, again, of Antoine. And then of Darius. And then I thought of the body lying downstairs on the preparation table. And I thought of how Darius might have died, and I made a mental note to call Antoine, and shut the door.

  I walked back to the door at the other end of the foyer and grabbed the handle. I stopped for a moment, and closed my eyes. I saw the street, the dark street lined with trees, just south of Telegraph, where I had left my bike. Such a far cry from Frankfurt.

  I remembered the night in Southern Michigan, when Stephen was transformed, and later when he died, and then, I shuddered. Had this Hooded Man visited Stephen? Had he come to him on that cool night when I watched him through the trees? Could my brother be suffering an eternal damnation?

  Of course, I didn’t think those thoughts back on the street south of Telegraph. When I was just a child. But that was then, this is now, and that was another story…

  *****

  But then, do you remember me now?

  I am the one mortician who enamored you once before, am I not? I was in a similar room with another body – across the ocean and in a different time – but the situation was the same. Then it was a macerated drag queen. Now it’s Darius. And it just feels so much more personal.

  I was also the one who ushered Sheldon’s body into the afterlife. I was the one who boxed him up, slid him into the crematorium, and turned the bitch on. I am the one who walks the hallways, day and night, with a clipboard in my hand, ignoring the insect carcasses on the pale green tiles. And the flickering florescent light above my head doesn’t phase me. I am the one who bared his soul to you, and told the story of how my brother was selected for this seemingly dark “gift”.

  And there are others, perhaps many of you, who do not know my story. Who do not know about what I do, or what I have done. There will be those of you who are reading this, and which are the first words of mine that are read. Those who do not know the entire story.

  For those people, I have probably not appeared to them. But rather, they appeared to me. Rolling in on gurneys, loaded out of hearses or coroners vans; all with different origins – but all with the same destination.

  My preparation room.

  And in that room, that single little, solitary room, I would work my magic…

  *****

  If you’ve read to this point, you probably might have thought you had gotten rid of me. But honestly, have you really? You may find ways to elude me throughout your life.

  But in the end, I always win.

  *****

  Did you read the last story?

  The story that told the tale of how Darius got on my preparation table in the first place? Did you see how I demystified death? If you haven’t, I urge you to. There was a certain point, in that story at least, that I really wondered why – if anything – that we were there.

  Any reason.

  But my purpose is to demystify death. Or at least make it somewhat tolerable. And that is really, my friend, why I exist.

  Now at last, permit me to introduce myself to you.

  I am Ned McCracken.

  Truly and formally.

  As I mentioned earlier, I stand about six feet tall. I’m a Mortician. Some of you may know me as a Funeral Director. But I like Mortician. Seems more I typically always wear a black suit. Although sometimes blue. And if I feel daring – I might put on a light grey. Always with a conservative tie. And a button down shirt with a traditionally cut collar.

  My hair is dark brown, and always slicked back (I like the wet look). A little wavy on the sides, near where it curls up around my ears.

  But enough about me.

  I decided to pop in and let you in on a little secret. Now look around your shoulder. Anyone standing behind you? If so, tell them to go get their own copy of this book. And if you are on a Kindle, you can always darken your screen for a moment.

  Great.

  Now lean in forward. Closer.

  Closer!

  So here’s the deal.

  This story is quite different from all the rest. So different. But it’s still related. You’ll see your beloved Antoine, and Darius, and all the rest.

  And you might even see me here and there.

  I can’t tell you where I might poke in and show my face, but be assured that I won’t interrupt. I never interrupt. I am standing off to the side, my hands clasped at my waist, my head bowed down, and eyes closed as I listen.

&n
bsp; I would listen to sliding doors opening, to people arriving, with light chatter, and then silence. The silence usually befalls the room when the family members have seen the display. The casket. Their loved one, who I always would care for so tenderly.

  I would hear the tears falling, the whispers, the stories and the remembering.

  So I’m used to standing off to the side.

  And here, I will do the same for you. Experience the Blood Ancestry. Take the journey through the eyes of someone new, but don’t forget, I never miss the opportunity to pop in and say hello to an old friend.

  – The Morticians Mortician

  ACTUS CONTRITIONIS

  Oh my God,

  I am sorry for having offended you.

  I detest all my sins because of your just punishment, but most of all because they offend you;

  For I fear the loss of Heaven,

  And I dread the pains of hell…

  ONE

  There was a certain time, and in a certain place, that they knew when they were being hunted. The rumors had, in fact, been true. They had been circulating for decades, but were never taken seriously.

  Until the one precise moment when the revelation came.

  But the knowledge of their potential demise did not come so easily; for it was months, if not years, of research, relationship building, and foraging trust missions where the truth had been revealed: the immortals were, undoubtedly, being extinguished.

  And a small, bulbous crystal decanter was the culprit.

  The decanter was thought, for a great while, to be the key to eternal salvation. There were many who had talked about it, and about the mysterious one who carried the decanter, who would visit the immortals in time of need; and the one who carried the decanter visited those immortals who were stripped of their gift, who lay dying and aging, heading towards a quick and final death. The decanter was viewed as the ultimate salvation; a catalyst to continue the gift, to add to the dark destiny for which they had been chosen.