Only my soldier stopped as he marched past. The first time I missed it, but this time I was ready and I caught his whisper. As soon as he bent over the young soldier, he entered his cloak of anonymity. Even though others had to squeeze by in the narrow defile, they ignored both the man dying and the man resurrected. I crept up to a perch above them, else I would not have heard his benediction. “Will you follow me, even unto the gates of Hell?”
If at some point, a laugh can only be communicated through a froth of foamy blood, then the wounded man laughed. “Will you join me then? I am already here.” More froth. The re-animated man then leaned over and bit the dying man on the neck. It was almost tender. I could not see that he took any pleasure from it, not even the pleasure of slaking a great hunger. It was simple and done and he moved on.
Do not condemn, it was a kindness, however inflicted. You cannot say we are not all guilty of stealing a little life when we need it. The titillation of schadenfreude reveling in others’ misfortunes and pain. This too is humanity. Wasting what you have; stealing what you need. All of these tiny deals with tiny demons, you don’t think they add up to the sting of a bite in the neck? You fool yourself, vampire, you also live on others’ blood, you just aren’t so good at it because you are conflicted about who you are and who you think you should be. Your gods did this to you.
Me, I’m not conflicted. I am my own god. I’m a cat, the epitome of loveless narcissism. You think my purring and kneading are affection? No, just a slow draining of your gigantic, oafish life force. A scraping of the metaphysical surface of my subject. Sure, I’ve laid on the occasional sleeping bosom and sipped at the night breath of the people who dared to call themselves my “owners.” Little slurps of your soul you hardly miss. A kindness, like milking a cow. Does the cow think they own the farmer?
Finally, a human I understood. I was purring. Giddy. I blame this for why l stood up and arched my back, too close to the surface. When the grenade went off, a piece of the shrapnel took me in the shoulder, crushing it, before ripping through my lungs and lodging against my heart. I tumbled into the ditch. I was not going to land this one on my feet.
The biting man looked up with preternatural speed as I crashed down. In my frenzy, I caught him across the face with all of my claws. In self-defense, he bit. A black cat dropping onto your face in the middle of a black night, what would you do? Then, he tossed my crumpled body aside to die, and I lay there, feeling my blood seep into the mud. Did you expect a moment of introspection? I am primal. I live. I kill. I sleep. I die. I have not invented a pantheon of gods to invent me. Only humans waste even their last moments wishing everything were something else.
Or, so I thought. Because in morning’s wan light, I slowly opened one eye. I took stock. Would I have to slink away to finish in some hole? I flexed one claw. But nothing hurt. I opened the other eye. I yawned. I stretched. I was whole. I survived. I was hungry. So hungry. Hungrier than when I found the trenches. I hunted and I slew. I killed rat after rat, long after I was engorged. And then, I went to find the vampire.
But that was eight long lives ago.
Of course, I didn’t know his name then. Only after I found him and started tagging along with him, when I heard it called out. Lionel. So cat-like, don’t you think? Lion-el. What drew me to him? Perhaps it was simply curiosity. Frankly, he was the most interesting thing going on. And, he’d given me something. Perhaps there was more to this new existence. Clearly, he was a hunter, and I was still hungry, always hungry. Hungry in ways I’d never known before. That must be it, food.
When I found him, I rubbed up against his leg. He jumped. Inured to all the death raining constantly down from above, he could still be surprised from below. Perhaps he expected to see the hand of an enemy soldier snaking out of the ground to drag him from this inferno to the next. When he saw me, his eyebrows went up in recognition. The claw marks on his face were already the faintest pink lines.
“Well, me boyo. All’s well that ends well, eh? I hope past indiscretions may be forgiven.” I mewed. I’m not sure I’ve ever mewed before. I purred. I rubbed up against him. He leaned down and scratched behind my ear. From then on, we were inseparable.
Lionel had a small crew of men. A hodge-podge brigade of all ranks. And the strangest thing: everybody ignored them. They just acted as if they didn’t exist. Nobody gave them orders. Nobody fed or supplied them. If they came upon them, they walked around them. Together, they referred to themselves as the “Ghost Squad.” But they fought, oh did they fight. Like demons. Like men who can’t be killed and whose death-thirst cannot be quenched. No matter what was going on, they were always the first over the brim. The first to engage. They went out every single night. They were relentless. And, I went with them.
I learned there are two kinds of bites. The first, I already knew well, the killing bite. The bite to eat. The bite for enemies. When we went over the wall it wasn’t for crown and country, it was to eat, plain and simple. We drifted like the fog across the wasteland, dropping silently into trenches, sneaking up on them unawares. They killed more than they could eat and I feasted with them. Every night the Ghosts would leave pallid as cadavers, and return fat and sleek as private-school boys.
The second, the healing bite, that seemed to belong to Lionel alone. He would walk the trenches helping those he could, releasing those he couldn’t. Men began to talk of a creature in the night, an angel of death. And to some an angel I suppose he was, although to others I think a money-lender might be more apt. Taking from some, giving to others at usury rates. I remember the second time I saw him bite a man in the trenches, he looked up at me, wiping blood from his mouth.
“Cat, I won’t say I’m a good man. Here, we are either all good or all bad and there is no way to tell the difference. We are all right or we are all wrong. I cannot say I am better or worse. I’m just trying to make my survival about more than just me. Don’t judge.”
Me judge? I kiss you after licking my own ass and you are happy for it. I did not judge. So much life and what do humans do with it? You build hovels to chain yourselves to the land, tend fields, and pay taxes to pay for it. You relax by ingesting poisons; all the time life is seeping away. You tell yourselves you do it so your children can have better lives, then send them to wars to keep your oppressors in place. Cats, are pure. We only do what we do for ourselves. We do not debase ourselves with self-delusion and hypocrisy. What do you have that we covet? Nothing. We pity you. Well, nothing but life, which now that I had been dead once I coveted very much.
So no, I don’t think he was a bad man—any more than me killing a songbird makes me a bad cat. A vampire has to eat, and technically, these men were dying anyway, as are we all slowly fading. I comfort myself in that I cannot steal what you throw away.
I’ve never needed a human until I feasted on one. Then, I could not do without. Killing men, it turns out, is easier than killing mice. They are not afraid of you. You do not need to stalk them. Even in the height of battle they are oblivious. If they see you, they even invite you in, to save you. As if that single moment of humanity could redeem them. I weaned myself on the weak and the wounded on nightly raids, but soon they did not satiate me, any more than the rats had. I learned to jump and land and bite, the soft spot, just below the mask. Not a piercing bite, but a tearing bite; a bite to create gouts of blood and not dribbles. An indefensible bite. A quick death and a full meal. You cannot scream without a throat. Dropping them soundlessly, I would move on to the next.
After every raid, no matter what happened, I would find Lionel. If he died I would seek him out in his new flesh. Like him, I don’t know if there is such a thing as good people or bad people; if war is the cure it’s promised to be, or the disease it’s supposed to cure. I only know Lionel tried to be better than he was, better than nature had intended. I don’t even know if he picked a side or if it picked him, but I do know he gave me a gift. Fang for fang. And for that, I always came back to him. For the love. For the blood.
When the bomb hit outside the trench, it blew the wall apart and drove a jagged three-foot board straight through his sternum. I bounded over quick as a bullet, and began biting him in the neck, over and over again. He smiled. He petted my head. “Is good?” he said, and spoke no more.
All good things must come to an end, though, even war. My banquet board may not be so full, but it is never bare. What is it you humans say? “Here kitty, kitty?” Well, kitty is here and he’s coming for you. It’s what Lionel taught me: the true nature of the beast.
Jon Tobey was born in New England and grew up on the NH Seacoast. After graduating from Cornell he moved to Seattle and has been homesick for over 30 years. He has published numerous fly fishing short stories spanning the genres of true life, pulp, humor, romance, humor, sci-fi, and horror.
Find out more at gointothelight.wordpress.com.
28
The Path to Kahinae
by R.R. Virdi
A wandering swordsman, on the run, investigates what prowls the jungle dark.
There are only two ways to leave the Crimson Company and both end in death: you can die in service, or you can try to leave and have your brothers cut you down.
I chose to walk away.
And I lived.
History will determine if that was for good or not.
I walked through the dense brush unaware if members of my family in arms had decided to stalk me. The likelihood of swords at my back didn’t bother me as I eased a low-hanging branch out of my path. I kept my mind and eyes fixed only on what lay ahead, knowing the jungle could hold just as many dangers as those I’d parted ways with.
Soft earth provided little in the way of solid footing, threatening to swallow my feet in places. The cotton of my shirt clung to my chest, the red fabric darkening from the moisture, sticking it to my skin. The braided bands of hemp along my exposed arms hadn’t changed as much from the humidity, still holding to their color—a shade of red that would have reminded anyone of blood.
I had no idea where the path ahead of me could possibly lead. All I knew was it would take me farther from the oaths I’d chosen to break and some of those who’d wish to see them upheld.
Or punished.
I reached down to one of my wrists, undoing one of the many fastened strips of red. A few twists were enough to fold into a thick wad to press against my brow. It did little to cool me, but removed enough of the beaded sweat to keep it from dripping into my eyes.
A harsh bray pulled my attention from rewrapping the length of cloth to my forearm. I looked ahead to see the leaves and branches part as a man walked out.
He shouldn’t have been out in the jungle alone as he could have easily been someone’s grandfather or great grandfather. His face had more lines and cracks than the bark of the trees around him. His skin had been brought to a shade of brown so dark he may have spent all of his life under the sun and on worldly paths. The clothes he wore hung loose on his frame, yet nothing about his thin body indicated frailness. He could have been carved from knotted wood.
My hand went behind my neck, unconsciously closing around the hilt of the sword that stories by now had come to know as Seeth.
“Oi, sahib.” The elderly man waved a hand before running it against the bright blue and white patterned cloth wound tight against his scalp. A few wisps of white hair managed to slip free from the covering, plastering to his temple in the jungle heat. A leather lead hung from one of his hands.
I kept my hold on the blade but didn’t draw it. “I’m no sir.” The men that held onto titles and claims like that only ever saw men like me as a sword to cut down problems. I didn’t get rank and honor. I got handed a world of blood, and bone, and sinew. Then told to cut through them all.
A donkey emerged seconds later, following behind the man until it came to rest by his side. Countless packs and rolls hung from the beast, fastened tight to its body with knotted ropes, fraying in places with no signs of breaking soon. The creature nudged one of the man’s shoulders with its snout as if making a silent request. The man patted the beast twice before rubbing the spot. “Yes-yes, Charandass.”
Something in the way he’d spoken had placed particular emphasis on ass.
The elderly man nudged the creature’s face away from his own. “Where are you heading, swordsman?” He looked me over in the manner of a trader appraising a horse for sale—weighing me.
“Forward.” I pointed ahead, still not letting go of my weapon. Everything about the stranger said traveling trader. He’d pass through jungle paths, both known and those far out of the mind of folks, moving village to village to sell his goods and pick new ones up. Occasionally, these men peddled stories and gossip. And who knew if crossing a wandering swordsman, dressed in red-stained clothing, would warrant interest.
My presence could easily end up the talk of the nearest town along his way. All it would take was a few chatty mouths to pass the story along in the ways rumors are, soon enough reaching my brothers’ ears.
If any had decided to set after me, they would have a good enough idea where to look.
My fingers tightened against the sword’s hilt.
The old man mumbled something too low to be heard before clearing his throat. “Forward?” He looked back over his shoulder. “Not much that way. You’re on the path to Kahinae, sahib. Better places than that. It’s nothing really—nowhere. I barely made enough to move on from that place”—he placed a hand over the hollow of his throat—“honest.”
I grunted. “The more a man talks of his honesty, the more I’ve found them to be generally dishonest.”
The old man blew out a breath, trading a look with his donkey. “Just a simple trader, sahib. Don’t judge me harshly.” He reached toward one of the packs over his mule, slipping his thin fingers under one of the leather flaps. “Do you have need of anything, sahib?” He waved me off with another hand before I could even reply. “Of course you do. Everyone always needs something, hm? And doubly so I’d say if you’re out here with one direction as the only plan for where to go.” He pulled free a piece of folded parchment, giving it a gentle shake before my face. “Map?”
I shook my head. “You’ve already given me enough. I know there’s somewhere ahead to rest and find food. That’ll do, paaree-wallah.”
The old man sniffed in indignation, stowing the map back in the pack. “I have a name, sahib. More than just a trader.”
“So do I.” But I didn’t give it.
The old man waited for several heartbeats as if expecting me to elaborate. When I didn’t, he finally pressed me again. “There must be something you want—need, sahib?” His hand slipped into another pack, fishing around. “Stone for your sword—a fine sword if I say so myself, and I do-I do. I can tell. No? Carrots? Very sweet. Sometimes I find myself wondering if I should treat Charandass to them. Then I decide they’re better for me. But then I realize better to sell something so sweet, no? Compass? Better to know north from south, sahib. Better than just forward? Books? I’ve—”
I turned his jabbering from my mind. Books had been a luxury I rarely got to enjoy in the mercenary’s life, but I always found them to be one of the few reliable pleasures in the world. The offer tempted me and I’d have taken it had I left the Crimson Company with a coin to my name. But maybe I could get something more useful for something just as valuable in trade. “What rumors of the way ahead, paaree-wallah? Any dangers—any work?”
The old man’s mouth pulled into a thin line going lopsided at one corner. His eyes twinkled, reminding me of the color of bright rum in the sun. “Sahib, I like you—I do.” He smiled wide. The kind of expression that was well-practiced and fit a liar’s face. “But I cannot give even rumors and tales
for free.” He rubbed the fingers and thumb of one hand together in a gesture that translated to one thing alone: Money.
“I’ll trade you something you can sell, should you choose to. And its value will be more than what goods and gossip you hold to now.”
The man’s eyebrows rose and he shot his donkey a sideways glance. “Big claim, sahib.” He scratched the underside of his chin. “I’m not doubting you, but my packs are packed with many goods—some pricey ones, sahib. What are you trading me for rumors of the way ahead?”
“A truth. One worth gold.”
His eyes widened. A sliver of pink stood out against the flesh of his lips as he ran his tongue along them. “Tell-tell, sahib. If what you have to say is good, then Baneet will give you just as good in gossip, hm?” He placed a hand to his chest just above where his heart lay.
I gave him a fearsome smile. The kind found on a tiger just before it’d take its prey. “And if you don’t, Baneet…” I trailed off and looked over my shoulder to my weapon’s hilt.
The trader swallowed but bowed his head in understanding. “Tell. Tell.”
Hellcats: Anthology Page 46
