by A. L. Mengel
She stamped her foot and looked up at him. “I told you I went in and got it. There is nothing else to tell.”
And then, there probably wasn’t anything else to tell. The priests concluded their day, and children left for their families. The big mystery, however, that shrouded the day, was that of Claret: she managed to get the Cup from the Christ, and then, afterwards, she managed to lose it. Or give it away. Either way, it had to be found.
Claret stamped her feet once again, and then, the man disappeared. There were brilliant, bright and purple lights flowing around her, but she did not falter nor did she long for her bed. The deed was done. The chosen one had spoken. The cup had been delivered.
For there was a time when Claret did not know of anything other than pain and turmoil.
And when she had the cup in her hand, it all washed away. She knew that in her hands, the presence that surrounded the cup was angelic, if not biblical, and that, despite her doubts, it was ever powerful; eternal life.
The immortality that she desired was what she had given to the boy-king, her friend of her dreams, he who she visited when she closed her eyes each night, and escaped the dust and the yelling, the heat and the sweat.
The man helped her back to bed. “So, then, do you understand why I came for you?”
Claret got back into bed and drew the blanket up towards her neck. The silence of the night permeated the room, and, as she settled into where she lay, and as sleep started to grip her body, she realized, at that particular moment, that she was no longer a child.
*~*~*
The phone rang and cut into the silence of the early morning.
The sun was peeking over the eastern sky, and the city of Miami was just starting to wake up. Darius grabbed his ringing cell phone and held it to his ear for a few moments. After some time passed, he spoke. “Would you be willing to meet us again? It’s really for your benefit.
Stephen agreed to another meeting, and then, later that night, after his performance, he again saw Darius.
“So…you said you could help me…” Stephen slung his backpack across his shoulder and picked up several wigs. He tossed them in a box in the corner of the stage. “Go on.”
Darius leaned against the makeup table. He reached down, placed some of the concealers and boxes closer to the mirror, and found a spot on the table to lean on. “I know others have heard about your condition.”
Stephen dropped his backpack on a small folding chair with a thump. His mouth dropped open. “My condition?” He shook his head and walked to the other side of backstage. He stopped at a small water cooler and grabbed a small white cone. “No one needs to know about my condition! It doesn’t matter, anyway. I have been dealing with this for years and I don’t need you announcing what it really is to the rest of the gay world!” He dropped his head down and sat for a minute in silence. He shook his head back and forth.
Darius found a chair. “Why would you not want them to know about your real situation? Wouldn’t others embrace you if they realized that you don’t have AIDS?”
Stephen let a long breath out.
Darius sighed. “It’s been a long time since Jonathan, hasn’t it?”
Stephen looked up. “I try not to think about him.”
“But you must. He is why you are in this predicament, Stephen.”
Stephen sighed and filled another paper cone full of water. “It wasn’t his fault. He didn’t know.”
“But now you are much worse off than you were a decade ago.”
Worse off…
A decade ago…
…Stephen remembered it like it was yesterday.
Tan and muscular.
At the beach every day. Fit and formed, sunglasses and tanning oil, the dull roar of the surf. The piercing heat of the sun.
And then there was Jonathan.
All six feet of him.
Walking towards him in a square cut diesel, muscles cut and glistening in the sunlight.
He chose to remember Jonathan this way.
“Jonathan died two years ago,” Stephen said. “It ate him alive. He dropped so much weight, he was skin and bones towards the end.”
Darius moved closer, found an empty folding chair, and sat next to Stephen. “That doesn’t have to happen to you.”
Stephen stared at the floor. “It’s already happening. I couldn’t save him. With him, we told the same lie. It worked. Especially in the gay community. But, I mean, it was his destiny. And looks to be mine too. I’ve been headed to this for years. A decade really.”
“I know what you have,” Darius said. “I have seen it. But why I came here was not to trade war stories on who is getting sicker faster and who is going to be dying first. I came to offer a chance to save you.”
Stephen chuckled. He smiled and looked Darius directly in the eyes. “You think you can save me? I thought I was invincible. Look where it got me.”
“We’re both mortal, Stephen. We’re the fallen. We’re both dying. And at a faster rate than most.”
*~*~*
Hi there.
Ned the Mortician here.
Figured I would let you know that Stephen was finally embalmed. I finally finished the job.
Finally got it done.
Took Pat a trip to the bathroom – to do who knows God what – and me, well, I am used to these things. I hope Pat was just staring in the mirror trying to gather his senses. But, yes, the job was done. It was finally time to say goodbye to our friend Stephen…
“…Stephen lay in his silver Eternal Slumber casket, surrounded by a cascading wall of magnolias on either side. He was dressed in his typical plaid shirt (as it was requested in his last will that he would be buried as he normally looked – not in the boring black or blue suit that so many were) and jeans.
“There were few in attendance at his viewing. His brother and sister were not there.
“But there were some people there. Some came to pay their last respects to a coworker, others to a drifting acquaintance. Never the less, the mood in the room was typical for a pre-funeral viewing – somber and quiet. Very few people spoke to one another, and if they did the conversation was quiet and hushed.
“And then I arrived.
“I walked through the doors and saw him in his casket for the first time. From across the room, it looked like it could be a mannequin spread out in the coffin, but I knew better. I stood next to a pair of wooden and glass French style doors. I was still a good twenty feet from Stephen. I glanced at the doors in an attempt to discern what was beyond the curtains, but was unable to tell. I simply saw my reflection staring back at me. Or maybe I was just avoiding looking at Stephen.
“And then, when I saw myself, I looked at the man staring back at me. No matter how much I tried, I could not come to accept the wrinkles that were starting to develop on my face, in small determined lines running from the corners of my mouth, or the small wisps of grey on the edges of my hair.
“Or maybe I really was just avoiding Stephen.
“So I turned around, and looked at him. I couldn’t bring myself to move any closer, at least not yet. I knew him since childhood.
“And that’s when I was interrupted from my reminiscing.
“ ‘Hello, Darius,’ the voice said softly, to my left. And when I looked She smiled at me, and then glanced over at Earl’s casket and continued: ‘Such a shock, to see him like this. He seemed fine just a few days ago!’
“I nodded, smiling back at her, and decided that now would be the best time as any to move closer to Stephen. I did not want to get involved in a conversation with that woman. It was time to see Stephen up close.
“I excused myself and moved closer to the casket, until I was standing right above Stephen looking down on him. He looked so peaceful. There were no traces of the trauma, all of the blood was gone. He looked like the Stephen I knew – but then, he didn’t look like Stephen.
“But then I suppose that anyone that you knew during life will look different when seei
ng their dead corpse in a casket for the first time.
“And then his eyes opened.
“I stared down at him, and the eyes just looked right back at me. I turned around to scan the room, and the room was empty. The fading sunlight shone through the sheared windows, illuminating the floating dust particles, and the room was eerily silent.
“I closed my eyes, and turned back around, thinking that my mind was playing a trick on me. I didn’t want to open my eyes again, for fear that maybe my mind wasn’t playing a trick on me. But I did.
“And it wasn’t. There was Stephen, and his eyes were open. And they were staring right back at me.
“ ‘Where were you?!?’ he sat up and screamed.
“I fell backwards, spilling over several arrangements of magnolias. Surely the staff would come running momentarily. They would come running and see the corpse sitting up in the casket and talking.
“ ‘Where have you been?!’ Stephen asked in a shrill voice. He now started to climb out of his casket. ‘Darius! Look at me in this box! How the hell did it get to this?!’
“I was at a loss for words. All I could do was attempt to move backwards, on the backs of my hands and feet like I was crawling upside down, and Stephen continued to move closer.
“I cringed and cowered backwards, bumping into the front row of small white folding chairs. They crashed to the floor.
“ ‘Come on Darius…’ he said, crawling closer and closer to my face, so close I could smell the formaldehyde that now coursed his veins, ‘don’t make me get back in there!’. He pointed to the casket. ‘I am not getting back in there!
“I cocked my head back and scanned the room behind me. No staff. Stephen and I were alone. Surely they had heard the crashing of the chairs?
“ ‘Stephen…’ I said quietly, holding out my hand in an effort of defense, ‘I didn’t want things to end up this way! I didn’t want you to die! But you are dead!’”.
Delia pressed stop on the tape recorder.
“Thank you,” she said. “We need to have a record of that for when you regain your immortality. You did your ultimate best, Darius. You were a friend to him. You tried to save him.”
Darius pouted. “Yes, yes, I tried. I was very upset when he didn’t listen to me. He was so stubborn!”
“So what does this remind you of? Visiting this point of your life?”
Darius sat and thought for a few moments. His eyes lit up after a few minutes. “It reminds me of when I saw the sunrise when I buried Antoine. I will never forget that.”
*~*~*
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Not since Darius had first seen his first sunset his second time around as a mortal did he notice something so beautiful. The sky was just beginning to lighten; the blacks gave way to the blues which led to the lighter blues to pink – and soon he felt the warmth of the sun, and the cemetery he sat in took on an entire different persona.
He sat back, covered in dirt and mud and grime, and leaned against the tree that stood over Antoine’s grave, catching his breath and mopping his brow. His hair was sweaty and mussed, and it plastered against the side of his face as he wiped the mornings sweat off his face.
Burying Antoine was hard work.
It was work that he had not been accustomed to in his previous human life, and he certainly was not accustomed to it now. He was tired and hot and thirsty and he felt the pangs of hunger course through his rumbling stomach.
Oh to be a mortal again, how I had forgotten all of these things. You’re lucky you’re down there Antoine. Pray that this doesn’t ever happen to you.
Darius looked down at the mound of dirt marking where Antoine’s ashes lay. Just below the surface of the earth, there he was.
Resting and waiting.
Darius had selected one of his best coffins that had been down in the cellar, one he had bought for Giovanni, many years previous, but it would be very fitting for Antoine. He had navigated the creaky wooden basement steps the previous night, somewhat tipsy from the bratwurst and beer he had imbibed at the pub. Another part about being mortal that he had forgotten.
The coffin was large, imposing and dark wood and it sat beneath layers of brown cardboard boxes and cobwebs, revealing it’s age and it’s place in the chateau – Darius may have stocked it away when Giovanni was impaled, but he still kept it and treasured it.
What would Antoine think? Would he sulk at the idea of using someone else’s coffin? Or would he be grateful for being committed to a truly magnificent mahogany masterpiece?
Darius wiped years worth of dust off the lid in a single swipe with his hand amidst a chorus of sneezes and coughing. It took nearly twenty minutes to move all of the boxes from on top of the casket, but there it was. Waiting. Down in the cellar, for all of these years.
The perfect casket for Antoine, he had thought, wiping the lid off with a dustrag. He had already drug the piece, with great effort and strain, to the center of the cellar. How would he get this out of the door and into the cemetery and into the grave in the dead of night?
He opened the lid, and the hinges creaked noisily.
White satin interior.
Perfect for Antoine.
And it was.
The ashes spread so nice, contrasting to the light interior, and he spread the ashes throughout the length of the casket, and gingerly placed the heart in the center, right where the heart would have been had Antoine’s body been lying there.
And now, the casket was buried, after much effort and strain, in the earth. Darius continued to stare at the mound of dirt, and, for a moment, he had forgotten that he was mortal. He had forgotten about the aches and pains that he now felt in his arms, the pain that certainly would be more pronounced in his joints later on after he had slept. Yes, Darius had forgotten that he was human.
For that moment, as he lay down on the cool grass next to Antoine’s mound of dirt, he lay there and did not feel any pain.
And then, all of a sudden, there he was, in the library, with Antoine.
It was the same dark stormy night that it had been so long ago. Darius stood in front of the window, staring out into the darkness, seeing nothing except the pale face and long brown hair in the reflection.
Some thunder rumbled in the distance.
“You must become true to your own identity, Antoine,” Darius said, turning his head towards the sofa that Antoine had been sitting on. “You will find your way, but the only way that you can find it is by eliminating me.”
Antoine turned around to face Darius. He was kneeling on the sofa like a child. “I cannot kill you,” he said. “I cannot place you into the ground…”
“But you do kill, all the time. You kill.”
Antoine sat back down in the sofa. He looked defeated. Darius was right.
“But you are different,” Antoine said. “You made me. I cannot kill you.”
“You must.”
There was a loud crash of thunder.
Darius awoke.
Now he remembered. And now he was feeling very mortal and very alone. He looked at Antoine’s grave, feeling a sense of desperation, wishing that Antoine were there. He needed Antoine there. For the first time that he could remember, he truly needed him. Before he would not admit it, but now as a weak mortal nearing death, he wanted to cry it out. He wanted to shout from a mountain, and cry and ask why Antoine had to go.
He struggled to his feet, wincing in pain as he did so, feeling stiff and achy. And he walked slowly and surely, to the graveyard entrance through the sun that was now high and blazing, being careful not to trip on any small markers that might be concealed by overgrown grass, and he left the shovel and bag right at Antoine’s grave.
He didn’t have the energy to take it back with him. And that was right where he left the bag, the tools, and everything else. Right on top of Antoine’s grave.
*~*~*
Darius sighed.
Antoine was right.
The flaws were too many.
Every ti
me that Darius passed a mirror hanging on the wall in his house, he would look the other way. He chose not to go as far as Delia had done, when she was wasting quickly. She had all of the mirrors removed from her estate until she could drink from The Cup. But Darius, he chose to keep his house as it had been before he lost all that he thought was keeping him going at the time. His life force; yet is was full of darkness. Now, he shuddered when he saw his reflection.
And then he remembered the same, rainy night, when he was speaking with Antoine. And when Antoine had sat down in front of him, and stared him right in the eyes. “You are the killer, Darius. You are the one wearing a dark cloak, who is shuddering from the sun and covering your eyes.”
But that conversation was so many years ago.
And Darius was the one who was alive, and Antoine was the one was lying in the coffin below. Darius sat back in the cool grass and treasured the cooling dusk. The sky had turned to a fiery orange. He looked over towards the edge of the woods, and scanned the treetops, which looked black against the auburn sky. Oh, how he missed Antoine. How he longed to raise him again.
And then he heard a crunch of stones, footsteps on gravel, coming towards him slowly.
He turned his head and saw Claret.
And then he froze.
She moved closer, and stooped down next to where Darius was sitting. Her red hair caught a light breeze. “I know you miss him, Darius. But you will never see him as you are. You know that, and I know that.”
Darius leaned forward. “And what am I supposed to do?”
Claret removed her long, black leather jacket and fished a cigarette from the pocket. She drew it to her lips and flicked a lighter. Darius stared at the flame with glassy eyes.
“What you have to do,” Claret said, exhaling a cloud of smoke, “is find The Cup. You have to find what is mine. And then you have to give it back to me.” She looked right into his eyes.
