The Blood Decanter (The Tales of Tartarus)

by A. L. Mengel

  Darius shook his head and closed his eyes. “That’s another story, for another time.”

  Delia interrupted. “We are talking about this Hooded Man, Antoine. Not shadow demons.”

  Darius opened his eyes and looked over to Delia. “I know who you are talking about. I saw him last night.”

  Delia’s eyes widened. “You saw him?!”

  Antoine craned his head around to look Darius in the eyes. “What is it Darius? You saw this man?” Ethan bit his lip and looked on.

  Delia sighed and then looked over at Darius. “So you know what he is capable of, then, right?”

  Darius returned her glance, and he looked at her straight in the eyes; they held their stare for moments, if not minutes and then, finally, he answered. “I do.”

  Antoine slammed his palms down on the table and looked over at Darius. “What are you talking about? She is saying that someone is out there looking to exterminate us and you say nothing? You tell me nothing? What happened with this man?”

  Darius paused and there was a silence that permeated the table once again. Ethan looked down at his lap.

  Darius finally answered. “Yes, I encountered the man, and yes, I drank from the decanter.”

  Delia pursed her lips and look off to the left. Antoine sat back in his chair, leaned his chin on his hand, his elbow on the arm of the chair. He kept shaking his head back and forth. “Of course you did,” Antoine said, taking a sip of his beer.

  “He promised eternal life. The blood is the life…is it not?”

  All at the table fell silent, until Darius spoke, looking directly at Delia. “Are you to tell me that these are merely rumors? For I can, for certain, tell you that the rumors are true.”

  *****

  And it was Darius who had closed his eyes, later, after the lunch out with Delia and Antoine, at home alone, after he had made love to Ethan. He couldn’t get the previous night out of his mind. He looked next to him, and Ethan was sleeping soundly. And when Darius closed his eyes, he saw that night. The same night, which would replay in his mind, over and over.

  Come with me and drink from the blood decanter.

  It was after, much later, that Darius saw the ‘Hooded Man’.

  After the cloud of mist came.

  After the streets were silent and the streetlamps hummed, in the wee hours of the morning, after the nightclubs closed and just before the tiny fingerlings of light started to emanate across the eastern sky.

  I have been waiting for you, Darius. I have been watching you…and following you.

  Darius dropped his keys in the grass.

  The two dead cops lay at his feet in a pool of blood; a flashlight lay, shining its light on the bright lake of red stained blades of grass. He could still make out the powder blue shirts, he noticed the shimmer of a steel wedding band, and several partially healed scratches on the officer’s left hand.

  But as he was kneeling in the grass, searching for his keys, he noticed the mist. He saw the fingers of white vapor reach inwards from the street outside the park; he saw the cloud roll across the turf and through the rising hedges and reach its way for him.

  He looked over towards the park entrance.

  “Is anyone there?” His voice sounded small and uncertain against the quiet of the night.

  Oh yes, Darius, I am here. I am here with my decanter. I am here. Come and drink from me.

  My blood is the life.

  Darius watched the mist cloud billow and grow, and saw it reach upwards towards the sky. The air was still, yet the vaporous cloud moved as if the winds were powerful and intense; a certain feeling overcame him, as he watched, motionless and circumspect; the drawn out period was not one of awe or reverence, but rather an episode of hypnosis. For when he watched the cloud, all he could feel, at that very precise moment, was a sense of doom.

  And then it was certain.

  The mist carried the one who wore the hood; the one who carried the decanter, the one who stood before him, holding the decanter in his right hand; his hands extended downwards, almost overly so, as if disproportionate.

  I bring you my decanter. My sweet blood decanter. Drink from me and salvation will be yours forever.

  Darius did not take his eyes from him.

  He knew his keys still lay in the grass; he could still feel the cool, damp earth; he knew the mist was still enveloping him; but his awe of the man before him was overpowering. The intensity was increasing, and he felt a tingling coming from deep within his body when he saw the decanter.

  He did not need to move his eyes to notice the neck soaring upwards from the bulbous vase, reaching upwards towards the man’s hand; it looked like the same type decanter one might use for whiskey or wine.

  But inside the decanter, the glowing potion, the crimson liquid, reached its way up the neck, and churned. Boiled. Watched. Waited.

  And spoke to him.

  Drink from me.

  Darius felt a pressure release from his neck. “I…” he croaked. “I can speak…”

  But you try to speak. Don’t you see that you must listen?

  The man removed his hood with a swift tug from his free hand, and Darius fell backwards on the officer’s body. He felt the warmth of the blood, which now was wet and somewhat cooler that it had been before. As he lay back, he saw the silhouette against the swirling vapor; the man who was a beast, the monster that stood before him. But he could not see a face; the man was concealed by darkness and the swirling mist.

  “You have come for me?”

  The man did not answer.

  Darius squinted. “You wear a hood…you have no face…but I can hear your breathing. So I know you’re alive…”

  But Darius could see, his vision became so much clearer, so much more perceptive, when he simply closed his eyes and listened.

  It felt like he was floating; like he was ripped from his body, not unlike those who have a near death experience. He was floating, he was certain of that, and looking down at the park. He did not see the ‘Hooded Man’, but saw the cops splayed in a pool of blood.

  And then the vision changed.

  It felt like he was flying; leaping through clouds in a dark, starless sky, as the clouds raced past him, he looked downwards, seeing lights pass beneath him at such a ferocious speed that he couldn’t tell their origin; they flashed in a blur, in an instant, his eyes unable to focus on them.

  And then he stopped. He recognized the cape from the man’s arm, which extended, and he saw the same river near which that he met Antoine. He floated to the ground, and it was the same, blue moonlit night that he had remembered so long ago.

  Looking towards the north, he saw the small café, its tiny windows reflecting warm light into the chill of the dark night. “Why did you take me back to this night? Of all nights, why this one?”

  He raised his right arm, holding the decanter up in plain sight. Darius look directly at the decanter. The mist swirled around it, rounding the base, reaching upwards around the neck, and circling the mouth. And the angry crimson potion swirled inside.

  Drink from my decanter. Drink from me. Live eternally. Take my potion, and find your salvation.

  And then Darius paused for a moment.

  “Am I to believe you are showing me the night that I transformed Antoine to show me that I have salvation? That I will not burn in Hell for all of eternity?”

  The Hooded Man moved closer towards Darius, and blocked the vision, as the decanter seemed to come into a much more clear focus than anything else Darius saw. The white mist swirled around the approaching man.

  His trance was broken, and he looked down at the bodies of the policemen. He looked over, several feet away in the bushes, and saw the body of the young Hispanic man who he was originally waiting in the park for in the first place.

  And then he felt a twinge of regret.

  Darius looked at the man, and searched for his face, but beneath the hood was only darkness. Darius closed his eyes. “I cannot be saved.”

&n
bsp; Oh, but you can, my son. Darius. Drink from my decanter, and all will be forgiven.

  “I am too evil,” he said, drawing his legs up to his chest, and hugging his knees inwards. “I am not like Antoine. I have always been like this. I have this innate need inside me to kill. I always have. I don’t know when it started. Probably when I was still mortal. I don’t know where it came from. But it’s there.”

  The man moved closer, as the mist swirled around the bodies. Darius looked down, and saw the vapor at his ankles. Darius looked at the man and saw that the mist moved inwards, catching his robe, drawing it apart.

  Drink from the decanter, Darius.

  Darius looked at the Hooded Man – levitating towards him, coming closer, as the mist parted and revealed darkness…but no face.

  “You have no face…” Darius said, leaning back and starting to crawl away. “You have no face…”

  And it will not matter that you kill. Drink from me, and your pain will wash away.

  “No…no!” He crawled backwards, facing forward; his hands led the way behind his back, his legs following. But he could not take his eyes off of the decanter. The crystal decanter; it’s bulbous base, the lines cut in glass, appearing so much more in focus that everything else he saw on that dark night. He stopped and stared at the decanter, as the red hot potion inside swirled, as if speaking to him.

  Drink and feel the hot blood course its way down your throat. And treasure the sweetness of the blood.

  “And what of me? Why have you chosen me to drink from the decanter? How am I worthy of this salvation?”

  We are all worthy, Darius. Every immortal. Every one of you.

  Darius looked at the decanter. There was an unusual elegance to the neck, the crystal bulb. And the man’s hand. His hand grasped the basin as with long, slender fingers, flawless skin.

  Darius paused for a moment.

  The mist held back, swirling around the man, and the decanter, as if taunting him.

  Beckoning him.

  And there was a certain point where he didn’t think that it was something real. But he looked at the man, he saw the flowing robe, the dark silhouette of his head, and then he caught himself at a point where he could not look away.

  The ‘Hooded Man’ stood tall, towering over Darius, and remained motionless.

  Darius raised his head and looked upwards, deep into his faceless hood; further into the darkness. “Come to me, give me your salvation…”

  Yes, he was there.

  He was there to bring him the blood life.

  This man carried a decanter, so stunning and beautiful that it was like a crystal vase, and then, the blood inside was supposed to bring him life eternal, and banish his sinful life. “Why have you chosen me?”

  The man lowered the decanter closer to where Darius sat, holding it close to his face.

  I bring it to you because you have been chosen. You have been chosen to live.

  Darius looked up. “Chosen to live? Will I die?”

  The man brought the decanter closer to his face, and then Darius could smell a sweet, intoxicating aroma coming from the neck. A vapor in and of itself, rising upwards from the swan neck, reaching out for him, as if coaxing.

  You will if you do not drink. Drink from me. Live forever, Darius.

  And then it happened.

  Darius did not know if it were something that his mind willed himself to do, or if he was acting under the man’s spell. But at that point, nothing else really mattered. Darius looked at the red, swirling potion, treasured its sweet, floral scent, and then nothing else did really matter.

  For there was a moment, if only a fleeting moment, where the darkness lifted. There was no longer a veil over his face – just a simple walk through a field of roses, underneath the bright, shining sun, walking under bright blue skies and puffy, cotton-white clouds.

  There were no dark, angry clouds painted on a fiery red sky. That had been the difference; and when the potion hit his lips there was a sense of familiarity. He felt as though he had tasted it before.

  My sweet, hot blood.

  It slithered down his throat, hot and sweet, delicious and luscious.

  Blood.

  He sensed the taste. He remembered the same sweetness, the same viscosity, the warmth. He drank, swallowing it all down, tipping the decanter to get every last drop, as a drip of blood traveled down his chin.

  “Yes!” Darius exclaimed, jumping to his feet. “This is blood! This is the blood!”

  Come with me and drink from the blood decanter…

  Darius closed his eyes and saw a river of blood, flowing fast and with purpose, and he saw himself standing on the edge of the river, filled with blood, amidst the same stones he once dreamt of.

  He looked down.

  His feet were bare; his toes were surrounded by the smallest stones. The thick blood lapped at the stones, and he knelt down on one knee. And then he felt a rising in the pit of his stomach. A stirring, a fluttering, and he felt his throat tighten. He fell forward and caught himself with his palms. The blood river quickly filled the holes in the sand and Darius felt the heat. His stomach heaved, and he vomited bright red blood onto the stones.

  The ‘Hooded Man’ threw his head back in laughter.

  The man pulled his hood back over his head as Darius closed his eyes and moaned. “Yesssss…..”

  And he sat down, slowly, and laid back on the grass, and that was when he realized the softness of the lawn; how he could once again feel every blade; he could hear the blood draining from the police officers’ wounds; every drop that dripped from their dying bodies. As he opened his eyes, he could see the ‘Hooded Man’, still standing at the park entrance. He bent over and picked up the decanter from where Darius had left it on the ground, and turned, as the mist started to retreat.

  And after Darius thought that he had closed his eyes – just for a fleeting moment –

  The man was gone, the mist was gone, and he was left again, in Flamingo Park, as the eastern sky lightened. He looked around at the mess he left.

  Had he really been there all night? And where were the rest of the police officers? They did not search for the fallen two? But Darius knew something had changed in the fabric of time, the instant the mist came, and something changed again when he drank from the decanter.

  He looked at his hands.

  They were clean, almost glowing against the darkness of the night.

  His arms were fit and muscular; skin smooth and supple. He got up to his feet, and relished the fact that he did not feel any pain; despite his immortality, there was always a sense of pain at times. This time, there was a feeling of no sensation; of benign numbness. His body felt stronger, far more muscular and powerful than he had ever been; he stood and smiled.

  “Perhaps this truly can be my salvation…”

  TWO

  During the days after Darius had died, Antoine moped around the chateau; even his loyal servant Giovanni could not get Antoine to retreat outside and enjoy the fresh air and scent of the lavender. The days were bright, sunny, warm and inviting, but Antoine chose to view it from a window, until the doorbell rang on the morning that Darius would be buried.

  Antoine sat on the sofa, his arm draped over the side, staring out the window. He sighed as Giovanni walked in, using his cane to feel his way through the room. “Who is at the door?”

  Antoine shook his head as Giovanni turned around and felt his way through the foyer step by careful step.

  *****

  Delia entered Antoine’s Chateau after she had knocked for several minutes. She had tried the doorbell but it appeared to be broken. Giovanni opened the door, dressed in a long, white t-shirt and black pants. He had a white handkerchief folded and covering his eyes. She placed her hand on his shoulder for a moment and walked inside.

  Her heels clicked and clacked on the stone floors. Antoine walked over to the front parlor, sat on a sofa, and stared out the window. “Oh, hello Delia.” He sighed and looked out the window
. Delia sat in the chair opposite Antoine, and looked over at him. She looked well beyond her years today. Despite that, she had decided to wash the grey hairs out with a hair coloring kit. She normally embraced her age, but this particular morning, she felt the need to appear younger. In theory, it seemed appropriate to her. But in actuality, she appeared older, for her face was awash with worry. The lines in her skin appeared darker and deeper, and her forehead was wrinkled as her mind was cluttered with concern. She watched Antoine as he leaned forward and looked into the fire.

  “You cannot sit around all day and stare at things, Antoine. It’s time to bury Darius. You need to bury your thought of him, everything. It’s time to let him go. Time to move on.”

  Antoine looked over at her, and into her eyes, and then back at the dying fire. He got up and stoked the embers. “Delia, what I am about to do today is…”

  She got up and walked over to Antoine, and placed her arms around him. “I know. I know it’s hard. But it’s something that we must do. We must experience it.”

  Antoine looked over at Delia. “I don’t think you understand what I am about to do.”

  She nodded and hugged him tighter. “Oh yes, I know what you are about to do, Antoine. Oh yes, I know. It’s something you have done before, right? But do you think you can call Asmodai this time around? I don’t think so. Darius died as a mortal. That’s a different death. How can you resurrect him this time around?”

  Antoine closed his eyes as a tear streamed down his cheek. “But we are supposed to be immortals. We are not supposed to experience death!” Antoine threw the stoker on the floor with a crash and flopped down on the sofa. Delia followed and sat down next to him. She placed her hand on his knee. “Darius tried, so very hard, to live.”

  Antoine looked over at Delia, shook his head, and turned away, and closed his eyes. He was fighting back tears. His voice quivered with emotion. “I don’t think he did. I don’t think he fought hard enough.”

  Delia looked down. “I know he was, Antoine. You were gone, remember. Please don’t forget that. I saw Darius through his entire decline. And he tried so desperately to live. He searched for Claret. Far and wide. He knew he had to drink from that cup. But he was not able to find it in time.”