The Sweet Flag

by Jeanne Barrack

  I laughed. “It was either that or the lousy instant you have. Not much of a choice.”

  “You’re right, and sometimes there is no choice, or only a choice between two terrible options.” He cleared the table, placing the dishes in the sink, and picked up his cup and mine, leading me into the parlor. I sank down onto what had become my accustomed place on the couch and waited until Ron set my cup on the hassock, took a sip from his, and put it next to mine before I said anything. I didn’t plan what came out of my mouth.

  “You don’t have to tell me anything more. DeMonde brought Hardesty’s body back north and buried him. I guess since Hardesty’s the only Civil War battle casualty buried there, rumors popped up around the grave.” Once those words came out, I couldn’t stop the next ones that rushed from me. “I don’t want to leave. I want to stay with you.”

  His reaction wasn’t what I expected. With a snarled curse, he swept the cups onto the floor, ignoring the china that smashed into smithereens. He gripped my shoulders and slammed me inches near his face. His eyes glowed with an unearthly fire that I couldn’t blame on the light. He ground out his words, his accent so thick I could barely understand him.

  “You will leave this place today. I cannot have you here.” He barked out a laugh. “What am I saying? If I tell you everything, you will not wish to stay. You will run screaming from me.”

  Still breathing hard, he pushed me back against the arm of the couch. His lips twisted into a grimace and he sneered. “And you’re lying anyway. You are dying to know what happened. You know there is more than that to their story.” He breathed deeply, gritted his teeth and uttered insane words. “I am deMonde.”

  I laughed. “And I’m the Pope.”

  He dipped his head. “Your Eminence.”

  I grinned. “Ah, I knew you were kidding.” I leaned forward, placing my hand on his knee. “I’ll stay if you want me to.” I faltered. “You do want me to, right?” He shrugged, but left my hand where it lay. “You do not believe me. Listen to what I say, and if you wish to leave after I tell you my story, I promise, I will not prevent you. And if you please, try not to ask questions.” He smiled, his expression so full of longing I almost came.

  I made to take my hand away, but he clasped it tightly and brought it to his lips, rubbing his shadowed jaw against my palm before releasing it.

  * * * * * “My name is Aaron deMonde. My meregave me the name deMonde to encourage me to treat the world as mine. She told me stories of my birth and of her family, though I have no idea if everything she told me was true about her background. The only things I believed of her were that I am a Jew and the grandson of a slave. From where?” He shrugged. “I am not certain. That part of her story often changed. I also kept the promise I made her not to reveal my father’s identity” -- he grimaced -- “though he did not deserve this courtesy, the

  trou de cul .” He stared at me. “Everything I have told you happened as it did to Matthew and me. Me!” He drew his body up proudly. “Matthew was as good and sweet and brave… When I found out he had died without me by his side…” Ron closed his eyes, pain etched in every line.

  I stared at him, unable to believe his insane story, but I remained silent, unwilling to stem the flow of his words. He opened his eyes, and a sad smile crossed his face. “I see you have finally, truly learned the art of listening.” He looked at the debris cluttering the floor around the couch and rose. “Let me take care of this while you try to convince yourself to stay with a madman.”

  Picking his way carefully around the china shards, he went into the kitchen, and I tried to come to grips to the fact that all my investigation of paranormal phenomena hadn’t prepared me for irrefutable proof of its existence.

  I needed proof. What exactly was Ron? A vampire? He had a reflection. Wouldn’t he be bothered by religious objects? He most likely had a mezuzah, a small case on his doorframe that contained a rolled parchment with Hebrew writing and the name of God. Maybe that brief pause at the doorway that first night was when he stopped to kiss the mezuzah. Shouldn’t it have burned him when he touched it? Or was that just a myth?

  I laughed. This entire scenario was a myth. The reason why vampires were so popular in fiction was that each author could create their own rules, and as long as they were consistent, who was to say they were wrong? I never did go for the ones that said they became soulless monsters as soon as they were turned. Some said vampires were born that way. Some said they grew fangs only when they fed. What were the constants?

  Long lives. Greater strength. More acute senses. Faster. Draining energy -- sexual energy or life force -- and usually blood from their victims. Sunlight could hurt them and, in some stories, kill them. But not always. Garlic, holy water, crosses, silver? Or was that werewolves?

  Christ, I was losing it!

  I closed my eyes and leaned forward, my hands clutching my head.

  A laugh brought me back to the here and now.

  “I leave you alone for a moment, and you drive yourself crazy. Bon. We will be two madmen fucking each other senseless, yes?”

  I raised my head. Ron stood with a broom in one hand and a dustpan in the other, so commonplace, so…normal.

  “What are you?” He looked away, dropped the dustpan, and started sweeping. I knelt to help him gather up the pieces in the pan, and in silence, we disposed of the remnants of the cups. I followed him back into the parlor and listened quietly while Ron answered my question.

  “You ask me what I am, and I tell you I am not sure. I am not the hideous nosferatu you see in films, nor am I the soulless bastard portrayed in so many books.” He smiled. “As Popeye said, ‘I am what I am.’ I am Aaron deMonde, and I almost died on the battlefield on July twenty-third, eighteen hundred sixty-three.”

  “What happened?” A smile broke across his face. “Ah, I thought you would never ask. It was so hot and dusty that day. We choked on the dust stirred by the feet of the men in our unit. As usual, I was by Matthew’s side. We had become something of a good luck charm. When the men saw us together on the field, they knew that all would go well. This time they were wrong.

  “As the day went on, Major General French grew impatient. He knew the men needed something more aggressive than this steady marching, and so around four o’clock, he communicated to the officers to ready the men for an all-out attack.

  “The fighting was intense. The blood mingled with the dust like some mud pie made by an evil child. The metallic smell filled my nostrils. Small, isolated groups of soldiers fought with each other, and somehow amidst the confusion, Matthew and I became separated.” Ron’s voice dropped to a whisper. “How? How could this happen? One minute we fought back to back, the next he was gone. I wanted to search for him, but I was fighting for my life. I remember the satisfaction I felt when I pulled my sword from the soldier’s belly, and the blood spurted from his body. I bent to scoop his bayonet lying by his hand, determined to start off in the last direction I saw Matthew, and then a cry made me turn my head.

  “‘Mama!’ The flag bearer called for his mother. I could see him fighting an older soldier who taunted him, dancing out of the way of the pole young Tom used as a weapon. I looked away for a second from the fallen man. Just a second, but that was all the time it took.” He licked his lips and shook his head as if even now he couldn’t believe it. “The fils de puterebel shot me! The bullet tore through my thigh, and I fell. For one brief moment, I saw his satisfied smile. Then all was blackness.”

  “You didn’t die.” “Obviously. But I thought I had. I awoke hours later. Night had already fallen, and I could hear the cries of the wounded. The corpse of the Confederate still lay next to me, his eyes wide open in death. My pants were soaked, and I thought I had pissed them, but it was blood. So much blood. The night was warm, but I felt chilled. I knew I was still in shock. I knew I was dying. I couldn’t speak. I tried to wet my lips, but I couldn’t. I croaked out Matthew’s name, closed my eyes, and waited for either him or death to find me.


  “And then I felt a gentle touch on my forehead. I opened my eyes, and I knew I had died. An angel knelt by my side. A small lantern cast a glow around features too perfect to be anything other than heavenly. How could I have known how unholy he was?” He shook his head. “Non, I must be fair. He was not unholy, only human.

  “His first words to me made no sense. He said, ‘Choose. Life or death. Eternity or finality.’ What a ridiculous question. Of course I chose life. Only God can offer eternity. “After I made my choice, he raised me in his arms, easing me up against the fallen soldier’s knapsack, and offered me a cup filled with a concoction that soothed my throat and revitalized me.”

  Ron took a deep breath, but before he could speak, I moved forward and grabbed him by the collar. “That stuff I’ve been drinking! Son of a bitch! What the fuck have you done to me?”

  Ron grabbed my hands, but didn’t remove them from his shirt. He inched closer to my face until my eyes unfocused. I felt his breath as he spoke. “Nothing. Only increased your energy. I have done nothing harmful to you. Yet.” He pulled my hands off him and brought them to his lap, holding them against his thighs. “But what he did to me that night…” He shuddered. “The first sip went down easily. While I drank, he told me his name was Kazvan.” He chuckled. “I finally realized that the man supporting me had an eastern European accent, not French or German. Slavik, perhaps? His English was perfect, just not his first language. When I was able to speak, I thanked him.

  “‘Oh, don’t thank me now. I haven’t given you eternity yet.’ “Then he took a knife, slit his palm, and let his blood combine with the brew. I tried to turn my mouth away, tried to rise from the ground, and almost passed out as the pain from my wound sliced through me. He pressed me back against the knapsack, easily overcoming me, then pried my mouth open, and poured the liquid down my throat. Although it gagged me as it went down, I swallowed it. He licked the liquid that had dribbled from my mouth, moaning as if he tasted ambrosia. Finally, he bound my wound, and then, without any effort, he lifted me in his arms and carried me away from the field. Away from Matthew.”

  Chapter Seven

  “I don’t fucking believe it,” I said, but Ron did, and the more I assimilated everything he’d told me earlier, the more I started to believe him, too. Ron laughed. “I didn’t fucking believe it either. Not at first. I didn’t want to believe it, but how could I refute the fact that this unearthly being carried me far into the night without straining…and without any light to guide him? I went in and out of consciousness, the blood from my wound soaking the makeshift bandage. While he ran, he kept up a murmured monologue, not expecting me to answer, but as if it were a customary thing to talk to himself. He spoke in a mixture of several languages, some words I understood. French, German, Italian, Spanish, English, and others I couldn’t identify. None of what he said made sense to me at the time. But later…

  “I had no idea how far we traveled, but at last, when the sky began to brighten, we came to a stony outcrop and an opening several feet above us. For the last while, I had been awake. My wound finally stopped bleeding, and the nausea had subsided. I felt far better than I should have for one who had received such a terrible injury. For the first time since the start of his marathon, the madman spoke directly to me. He chose to communicate in French to make sure I understood him.

  “He said, ‘I’ll have to leap with you in my arms to reach our home. Hold on tightly to me.’ “I didn’t argue. I clung to him like a barnacle, and he sprang upward, with a deep bend of his knees. We landed on a narrow ledge and then entered the cave.” Ron paused. “Would you unclench your fingers, Brandon? You are hurting me.”

  I looked down at my right hand that held his thigh in a white-knuckled grip. My fingers sprang apart like a trap, and I stroked him. Lifting my hand to his mouth, he kissed my palm and drew me into a comfortable embrace. Fuck it, he wasn’t crazy.

  He took a deep breath, let it out, and continued. “For the next few days, I drifted in and out of consciousness. Every time I awakened, Kazvan was there with his bloody brew, compelling me to drink it. Several days passed before I awoke more clearheaded than I had felt since the battle. Kazvan sat cross-legged by a campfire, his back to me, a kettle full of some aromatic brew bubbling noisily on the fire. The first words from my mouth were those inane questions you read of so frequently in novels.

  “‘Where am I?’

  “He spoke without turning to me. He said, ‘In our home, Aaron, my love. Once you are strong enough to travel, we shall find more…comfortable lodgings.’

  “Idiotically, the next question I asked was the least important. ‘How do you know my name?’ “Kazvan turned, and I was struck again by his uncanny beauty. I hadn’t imagined it. He smiled and rose with a loose-limbed grace to his full height, the top of his auburn curls brushing the roof of the cave. He glided to my side as I lay on top of a cushion of blankets at his feet. He dropped to his knees and smoothed my hair from my forehead without responding. For one long moment, he said nothing, just looked at me his blue eyes filled with desire.” Ron trembled. “God help me. I felt my cock stir! My breath hitched, and I gasped, taking in a lungful of air.

  “His hand drifted to my bearded jaw, rubbing the several days’ growth, and I pressed my face against his caressing fingers. Why was this happening to me? I clenched my eyes, and he finally spoke in a voice now hypnotic and strangely seductive.

  “‘I found your name on the frontispiece of a book of poetry in one of your pockets.’ “His voice changed and so did his eyes. They glowed as brightly as the campfire flames, and he snarled, ‘Who is ‘M’? Your lover, perhaps?’ He leaned toward the right and then held aloft a book of poems Matthew had given to me. His lips drew back in a feral smile, and I caught a glimpse of what appeared to be exceedingly sharp teeth. He scuttled backward like a crab to the fire and held the book near the flames and, with an awful grin, dropped it into the smoldering embers.

  “I cried out, but could do nothing. Tears seeped from my eyes and ran unheeded down my face. It was the only thing of Matthew’s I had with me, and this vile creature had destroyed it.

  “‘Do not weep, beloved. You could never return to this person. You are mine now. You are as I am -- a blood drinker.’

  “I gagged at his words, unable to refute his vile accusation. He chuckled, his laughter on the brink of madness and his next words taunted me. “‘Is your mouth dry? Your throat parched? Here, let me give you something to refresh you.’” He dipped a ladle into the pot and held the heated liquid to my lips. I struck the noxious stuff from his hand and found my voice.

  “‘Your words are lies. I’ve heard old wives tales of creatures who drink blood. They’re grotesque beings who skulk during the night and burst into flames when they set foot into the daylight. They bite their victims to make them into one of them.’ And then I played my trump card. ‘And I could never become one such as you. They’re all Christians. My mother was Jewish. I have never heard of a Hebrew vampire.’

  “Kazvan threw back his head and roared with laughter. ‘You are so young and ignorant! There are many ways to become a blood drinker. Do you think only Gentiles are susceptible?’ The humor left his voice as he shared his story with me.

  “‘If you were a scholar, you would know that my name means ‘liar.’ When I learned that most of what I had heard about vampires were lies, I took that name for my own. I became a liar to exist among humans.’ He sighed. ‘There are many ways to become a blood drinker. A bite on the neck, a draining of your blood is the cruelest of ways for that binds you to your maker.’ He closed his eyes, and his voice rumbled in his chest. He rocked back and forth and his hands found their way to his crotch. As he spoke, he fondled his penis. ‘When you are bitten, the connection is sexual. As you grow weaker, as your maker feeds on you, if they will it, you share their lust. It becomes an addiction. If your maker wishes to reward you, they engage you in the actual sexual act.’ He moaned as his cock hardened. ‘The glory of fucki
ng your maker while she feeds from you cannot be described.’ His hand moved faster while he became lost in a seductive vision.

  “I couldn’t drag my eyes away from him. He ceased speaking, oblivious to me, completely absorbed with one goal -- reaching fulfillment. He fumbled at the buttons covering the placket of his fly, and drew out his cock, stroking the veined rod. He grunted as he sped up the tempo until he came with a shout, his cum spattering the cave’s dirt floor. He opened his eyes, smiled, and wiped his flaccid penis with a small cloth. Relieved of his need, he covered himself. And smiled again.

  “Of course, the fils de chienneknew I watched. He expected it. He continued, and his voice filled with satisfaction that he could control me. “‘Drinking the alukahpotion is a more benign way to turn your target and is what I have done to you. This concoction is made from many different components. The roots of the calamus plant are blended with other, shall we say, exotic ingredients. Even without blood, it is a potent tonic and aphrodisiac that speeds up healing and can bestow upon a blood drinker some immunity from the rays of the sun.’ Kazvan paused. ‘Some parts of the tales about vampires are true, but not all. Sunlight can burn us, but drinking this will shield you. The more often you imbibe it, the stronger the protection, especially when laced with blood. Human blood, of course, but animal blood will do, though you will need more of it.’ Kazvan sighed. ‘I shouldn’t taunt you, for at one time, I, too, believed that the vampire was a myth. You see me now, and you cannot believe from what heights I have fallen. A hundred years ago, I was a scholar. I studied the ancient books of our people and explored the works of the Gentiles. I learned as many different languages as I could to satisfy my hunger for knowledge. My reputation spread beyond the confines of our village, and I was asked to visit the home of a noble whose thirst for learning overcame his hatred of our people. My father and my rabbi begged me not to go. They thought the lure of expanding my education would be too strong, and I would fall from the ways of our people.’