by Casey Lane
“See? A monster. Whatever he is, I’m like him now. I desire the blood too.” I dropped my head. My lip started to quiver as I felt her looking at me. I wanted her to love me still. Zella looked around the room for a few moments in deep thought as I awaited the verdict.
“You’re no monster, Acula. You’re sick. He’s the real monster…Okay, the first thing you must do is keep this away from everyone here, especially Icar. Bless him, but he’ll see this as a bad omen. I’m assuming your father knows about your skin, right?”
“Oh yes, believe me, he knows everything…okay, then what shall I do?” I asked.
“What did your father say? What are his plans to remedy this?”
“He said there is an old mystic north of here that might be able to help. We’re going to see him.”
“Good. Very good. I should have known Preturias would be on top of this. You will return remade, the way you were, I’m sure of it,” she said, sternly looking into my eyes.
“I hope so,” I said.
“Arrrrrghhh-hhhh!” she called out, holding her hip.
“Aunt Zella?!”
“Ah…” She sounded breathless. “It’s okay for now. Ugh, but unfortunately my prognosis isn’t well from the healers that Icar has sent for,” she said, panting.
“We all must pray to the gods, then. We will go to the sanctuary and ask Apollo for mercy,” I said. Deep down, I was fearful of praying to Apollo, as he might strike me down for such blasphemy.
“Acula, you know I believe in the gods, but my time is coming. Well, soon enough, anyway. I’ve broken my hip, and there is no recovery for it. I’ll be bedridden for weeks or months, then I’ll pass,” she said.
“No. This cannot be,” I said. I thought to myself that those months would be agonizing, torturous.
“Yes. I will fight it the best I can, but I remember this same injury when Spartans would return from the old wars; they would never recover. The problem is Icar; he’s convinced I will improve because of his prayers,” she said. “Think of all the misery you saw in the slave camps. Some of those people were someone’s father, son, daughter, even a loving aunt. Someone was praying for them, I’m sure.” She smiled sadly. “The gods cannot please us all.”
“Indeed. You’re more than an aunt to me, Zella, much more,” I said.
She nodded her head. “Thank you. I love you, I loved you as if you were mine,” she said.
“I know. I love you too, Aunt Zella,” I said softly, wiping her forehead with a wet rag beside the bed. Zella seemed to drift into deep thought for a moment.
“Would you consider helping me?” Zella said, squeezing my hand.
“I will go and fetch some willow bark for the pain—”
“No, no. The bark is not what I want. You said you felt no pain when the monster tried to kill you?” She raised one eyebrow. I didn’t want to believe where this was going.
“Y-yes, but Aunt Zella, please don’t ask…”
“Hey. That’s fine if you don’t want to do it, I understand. I do. I wouldn’t want to burden you, but realize that by doing this, you would be helping me,” she said grinning.
“That’s much to ask of me, I just—”
“Acula. Forget I asked. I was just thinking since you will only have this power for a brief time before Preturias finds a cure, we could try. He can figure out just about anything,” she said. I began to realize maybe the pain was causing her to think irrationally. She did not fear death, but putting me in that position was unlike her.
I suddenly felt the rush of desire, the longing to feed. “No!” I said aloud, standing up.
“What?” Zella asked, leaning towards me.
“Oh nothing…I’m sorry,” I said.
“Have you…killed yet?” she asked.
“No. Almost, but I stopped myself,” I replied.
“Are you hungry now for it?” she asked.
“…yes, but I try not to think about it.”
“Ah, Acula, soon it will be over, soon enough,” she said.
Suddenly I heard footsteps. “Acula!” Icar called out. His voice had changed; he seemed frustrated. He peeked in the room with me sitting at Zella’s bedside.
“Hey, we need you outside,” Icar said, lowering his voice, pointing in the direction of the door. I glanced back and Zella, putting my hand on hers.
“Go on,” she said softly. “A man has his responsibilities.”
I hurried through the house. I could see Father and a few other men from the village standing in the yard just outside the door. Something was wrong.
Father had his hands on hips, looking at the ground as if he was in trouble. Two other men were outside that I didn’t recognize; one of them was holding a sword.
“What is it?” I asked, walking towards the open door. Father was pointing at the light on the ground, cutting his eyes at me. Then I saw the morning light. I had to prop up in the doorway, away from it.
Icar turned towards me, fire spewing from his eyes. “…Acula, outside!”
“Uncle, my back, I hurt it on our travels. Let me stand here against the brick,” I said.
“Brother, he fell; his back is weakened,” Father explained, bolstering my story.
“Oh, yes, very well, then…Listen, last night, before you and your father arrived, someone stole our goats. The entire stock is gone!” he yelled. His beard shook as he rattled off his words. His voice echoed off the village walls. Father stood there looking away from us, silent.
“I-I don’t know, maybe they just ran off? Wolves?” I asked. Even though he was my uncle and he loved me, he was intimidating. He reminded me of a smoldering volcano, waiting to explode in a fit of rage. He was fair, but when he did erupt, it was catastrophic to those in his path.
“No. You remember those goats, Acula, many of them were here before you left. Never, not once, have I ever seen this! I know what it is, I told your father—it’s those Athenian migrants to the east. Two of their boys stole sickles from us last harvest. I bet their father put them up to this!” he said, pacing, pulling at his hair.
“Maybe there’s another explanation, Uncle?” I asked.
“I don’t think so…by the gods! Can’t men live in peace? No! They have to steal from their own. Here we are just days after running off the Persian horde, and Greek brothers are already stealing from one another.”
“Brother, let me go and talk to the Athenians. I’m sure I can get to the bottom of this before it must reach any bloodshed,” Father said. He glanced over at me, then back Icar.
“Seventeen goats, Preturias. Ah! Listen, you’ve just returned from a horrible situation, my brother. I cannot ask this of you or Acula. Please, just get some rest,” Icar said.
“Let me help. Give me two days to find out what happened. You stay and take care of Zella. I’m sure this will work itself out,” Father assured him, patting Icar on his meaty back.
“Ha, you’ve grown into a diplomat in captivity. A year ago, you would have charged in and put their heads on a spike,” Icar chuckled.
Father shrugged. “With proper evidence, maybe.”
I thought back to that day in the market, when Father hadn’t hesitated to kill the merchant whose guilt he could only have suspected. After all, I’d since learned that Father’s name was known to many who venerated King Leonidas and his men. A Spartan of such renown as my father, one who crafted the finest bronze in the land, could have had his name spread by anyone. And now he showed such restraint.
I knew it was for my benefit, as I was surely responsible for the goats’ disappearance, but all the same, he was a changed man.
“The thing that bothers me…I would have given that family a goat if they would have asked me, if they really needed it. But no, they needed to take. Steal. Ugh. Vile creatures. Even after they stole those sickles, I still would have helped them! The gods will punish them!” Icar vowed, storming back into his house.
I sidestepped out of his way, somehow managing to stay in a small shadow on the
side of the house. There was barely enough room for my feet. I leaned against the wall as the sunlight crept closer. I could already feel the heat; it felt like I was putting my body directly over a flame.
“Give me time. We’ll figure it out,” Father said, hurrying my uncle inside. He could tell I was in danger. “Go be with Zella now, we’ll handle it, Icar.”
“Well, then…alright…get some rest, men. You two, let me know if you need anything,” Icar said.
“Yes, brother, thank you.”
“Thank you, Uncle,” I said. Icar began to shut the door, but before he did, he peered around at me leaning against the wall awkwardly. He stared at me for a moment.
“Hey!” Icar yelled at me.
“Y-yes?” I asked.
“…Good to have you back home,” he said, smiling, glancing at Father. Father nodded at him as he shut the door.
“Blanket,” I whispered. Father darted into our house. Smoke began to issue from my face as the heat increased. I tried to keep quiet, but couldn’t quash a hiss of discomfort brought forth by my burning skin. Father rushed back out and tossed the blanket over me before ushering me inside our house.
“I didn’t think he’d ever stop,” Father joked. I laughed under the blanket. The thought of me igniting in flames, while horrific, seemed humorous while Icar was venting his frustrations.
“Now what?” I whispered.
Father scratched at his chin. “We have two days to clean up our mess. For now, though, we need to get you to bed.”
Father woke me some number of hours later, snatching a thick blanket off me and causing dust to fill the air. “The sun is going down,” he said.
“Oh, a little warning next time?” I said, looking at the dark yellow light shining through the window. I was on the other side of the room, away from the sun’s deadly gaze.
“I’ve been looking for those damn goats half the day,” Father said.
“Nothing?”
“Not a trace. I wanted to see if I could find them before we tried other options. Icar is already growing impatient,” Father said.
“Why didn’t you tell him we scared off the goats?” I said.
“I tried. I told him we might have scared them off, but he knows those goats don’t scare. The problem is if I told him we did scare them off, he might become suspicious and see our return as a bad omen. I don’t want him even thinking in that direction. Everything is related to the gods with Icar,” Father said.
“…I’m worse than a bad omen,” I said. Father cut his eyes at me, pausing for a moment.
“I don’t want to hear another negative thing out of your mouth until we see the mystic about it. For now, I have an important job for you,” Father said.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I want you to use that power of yours to comb the western edge of the hills. If you find the goats, don’t startle them further, just come wake me up,” he said.
“Okay. I can do that…and what if we can’t find them even then?” I asked, standing up.
“I’ll think of something…just find them if you can. I’m tired, Acula…allow me a few hours’ rest before disturbing me.”
“It’s always something to deal with since I’ve had this curse,” I said, shaking my head.
“It’s always something anyway,” he said. “If it wasn’t this, it’d be something else. Remember the mixture of the sword; negativity is something that will corrupt your durability—”
“—which makes me breakable, I know,” I finished. The line of his mouth softened into a smile. Then he turned over on his side away from me.
“Wake me if you need me, Acula. I love you.”
“Sleep well, Father,” I said, shutting the door. Just before I closed it completely, I looked at him for a moment. He had lost weight, and he was looking older. I could remember him going all day and night without getting tired; now he could barely last the day. Perhaps the slave camps and my curse had worn him down? I quickly dropped that thought, reflecting back on what he’d just said about negativity. I remembered back in the slave camps when he would always give me part of his rations, claiming he wasn’t hungry. I knew better, but it was useless to object. I never went hungry.
How was he so strong? It seemed he was able to conquer most any dilemma. I thought about his life experiences, some of which I didn’t know about. Perhaps those gaps in my understanding were what formed his resolve. His composition seemed unbreakable, of true bronze.
I wondered if I’d ever be that strong. That focused. More than anything, he put the ones he loved before himself. It seemed as if every thought, every action, was about improving my life. In some ways, this made him stronger than he would have ever been alone I thought.
I left the house, walking through the front yard I used to play in as a child. I remembered watching Father and Icar teach some of the locals in Spartan combat. They would always start them off with the Spartan shield, a weapon that was equal parts defensive and offensive in its capabilities. The shield was the cornerstone of Spartan warfare. Most of the locals were clumsy; they hadn’t trained in such athletics, whereas I had trained from the time I could walk.
They practiced the notorious Spartan phalanx, a formation based around the shield that created a wall of bronze out in front. Spartans in the second row would thrust their spears over the top of the front row as they progressed forward.
The key to the first row, the frontlines, was trust, built upon a bond within the line of warriors. Each man’s shield protected the man to his left, not himself. A man had to trust the man to his right with his life. This trust strengthened the formation. Unlike the singular sword, the phalanx shield formation was a symbol of selflessness.
I zoned off thinking about it, but then, the thoughts were interrupted by the opposite. Aunt Zella was calling out in pain from her room. I could hear her clearly even through the walls and empty space that divided our houses. I wanted to get away from it. Terrible thoughts began to enter my mind as I rationalized about ending her pain. I felt my teeth growing inside my mouth, and my lip snarled up in anticipation.
I had to leave.
Under cover of night, I fled the village, running through a patch of forest, then up the hills on the western edge. I paused, overlooking the vista of plains that seemed to roll forever. I pushed forward, running until I found a lone tree in the middle of a field. I jumped up unto a branch, breathing in the night air.
The air was cool and moist, and a slight breeze kissed my skin from the south. Above me, I could see every star; there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. I could still hear Zella’s distant cries for help, so I moved even further away. After an hour, I stopped on a dime. The goats—I could now see them in distance.
“I must get Father…” I said, then suddenly, I collapsed.
Pain dropped me to my knees as I held my stomach. I rolled over on my back, looking into the stars. “Please…t-tell me what do,” I whispered. I didn’t know who I speaking to, but I felt helpless.
“You must feed…” a haunting voice called out. It sounded like the wind, howling through the trees. “You have fought it long enough,” it said.
I turned over, looking up at the goats. They were unaware of my presence. I tore at the dirt beneath my hands, but not with dull fingernails. No, true claws began to grow from my fingers. The red glow from my eyes illuminated the ground beneath me.
Dirt flung into the air as I exploded towards the goats, the motion so fast that they barely had time to react. I cinched a young white goat around the throat with my fangs, slinging my weight around behind it and breaking its neck instantly. The motion felt natural, instinctive.
The voice began to chant as I stabbed through fur and flesh with my teeth. Warm blood gushed into my mouth. I closed my eyes, relishing the sweet taste. It was like honey, but addictive. With every drop I pulled from its neck, I wanted more. I drained it dry, watching the skin around the goat’s eyes sink in until there was nothing left but bones and fur. I panned ar
ound for the others, lurking through the brush like a stalking panther.
I could see them up ahead, but now they had scattered into groups of three or four. They appeared cautious; their ears twitched as their heads swiveled back and forth. Maybe they hadn’t seen me, but blood was in the air. I kept behind a black one hiding in a bush, and at the right moment, I sprung into the air to land on top of it. My lunge missed, though, and they all scattered across the plains.
“Uh, why…what have I done?” I muttered, feeling as if I was coming out of a trance. “Not only have I disobeyed Father’s wishes, but I killed one of our livestock.” I looked down. My chest was covered with blood.
I sulked back to the village, barely making it before the dawn. I thought about how I would explain this to Father. There was no energy left in me, not even enough to change out of my soiled clothing. When I found my bed far from the window, I lay down and fell asleep almost instantly.
“Acula!!” Father said, shaking me.
“Wha…What?”
“Wake up!”
“Why? What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Where have you been all night?” Father asked, squeezing my shoulders together tightly. He looked me up and down, drawing my attention back to the blood all over me.
“Acula, tell me.”
“Yes…Father, I killed—”
“Oh gods! Don’t even say it, please,” Father interrupted, putting his finger over my mouth and looking around suspiciously. I could hear someone crying.
“I’ll pay for the goat, Father. I didn’t want to, but—”
“Goat?! Acula, your Aunt Zella has been murdered, drained dry. She’s nothing but bones!” Father said with wide eyes. He relinquished his grip on me and went to put on his helmet. He was furious—that much I could tell from the view of his eyes afforded to me through the slits in his helmet—but he moved with measured steps, still in control of himself.
“Please don’t tell me that! No, no, no!” I yelled out.
