Our Destiny Is Blood

by Clare Daly

  So taken was she by their antics, that she had followed two boys that very morning. She watched as they handed over their loot to an old beggar in the lane behind the Park Theatre. His hair was lank and greasy beneath a crumpled hat that sat back on his ears. He wore a pair of fingerless gloves, his dirty fingers protruding, as he wrapped his treasures in a scruffy old cloth, sending the boys on their way. As they turned to go, he grabbed one of them by the shoulder, thrusting his hand into the pocket of his jacket. He withdrew a coin and gave him a hard slap to the head for his impertinence. With that the other boy fished out his own and handed it over, thankful not to receive a thick ear for his trouble. They ran off back into the throng, as the man wandered down the lane, glancing around before removing two bricks from the end wall, securing the stash safely inside.

  He was so absorbed in his task, that he never heard her approach, and he jumped when he turned around and saw her standing there. Did he think her a threat? Not likely, but she had seen his hiding place and with a click, he drew out his switchblade. He swiped it at her, hoping to frighten her but she didn’t move. When he came at her again, she caught his hand, crushing his fingers as he dropped the knife. She welcomed the surprise on his face, the disbelief that a woman could best him – that she was strong enough and smart enough to do so. She sent him backwards with a shove. His hat sailed away as his body hit the wall and he fell, gasping for breath. Oh, he knew now. He was no match for her. He tried to crawl away, but she pulled him upwards by his ankle and turned him mid-air, sending him crashing down on his back. He didn’t move and she suspected he’d broken several bones.

  The desire to feed overwhelmed her and she took his hand, biting hard into his wrist. She could enjoy this moment away from Sasha’s glare, allow herself the satisfaction the blood brought, without any criticism. She did it her way and she felt no remorse for it. At least she agreed with Sasha on that. If she chose well, there would be no remorse. Only a feeling of rapturous pleasure.

  When she was done, she felt an urge within her, a familiar feeling reborn. She cradled his head in her hands, the strength of his blood flowing through her veins, and she felt it grow stronger and stronger, until her fingers tingled at the prospect. Strands of his hair began to singe beneath her fingers, catching fire, the flames spreading quickly down his body. They made light work of him, his clothes disintegrating, the smell of his roasting flesh but for a second before a final surge of heat and then they vanished. All that remained was a charred corpse of black and grey speckled ash.

  Evelyn sat back on her knees in wonder. The fire was still part of her, now stronger than before. And she was so glad of its return. For the first time since her transformation, she felt like her old self. Her energy, her passion and she realised that she was now very powerful indeed. As she stood, she shook the soot from her cloak, small fragments of ash lifting into the air, before his remains collapsed, sending black snowflakes cascading around her.

  35

  Jeramiah Foster had taught Harley Kramer all he knew about rope making and the art of tying knots. His own father had shown him when he was just a boy, and it was a skill he felt his privilege to pass on to those around him. As Michael arrived at the overseer’s cottage that night to introduce himself, Foster was on the front porch demonstrating the fine art of noose making to his willing pupil.

  ‘Aw, I almost got it that time,’ Harley said, as he pulled tightly on the rope, the noose unravelling.

  ‘You tie a noose like that, you’re gonna be chasing that negro for a mile before you catch him again. You make a noose, you gotta make sure it’s nice and tight.’

  Foster only then looked up at the intrusion and saw Michael standing there.

  ‘You the new boy?’ he said, his eyes squinting at him.

  ‘Yes, Sir,’ Michael said, looking at the perfect noose dangling from Foster’s hand.

  ‘Mr. Boudreaux said you’d be coming down. I hope you got the dedication – them slaves is hard work. Harley, take the boy on over to the cabin and show him the slave quarters too, let him get his bearings. It’s a five am start. You miss it, you’re out.’

  Michael said nothing as Harley, himself only a year or two older than Michael, led him through the cypress trees. He was slight of build, with hair like straw, shoved back behind his ears. As he grinned proudly, rows of brownish yellow teeth urged themselves from his mouth, twisted and buckled at the front, as if in a rush to escape their host. He has stopped walking, pointing to a small grove containing two small but well-built cabins.

  ‘That there’s your one, on the right. The small one. Not been occupied for a while, needs cleaning but I’ll get a slave on it. You worked with them before?’

  ‘No,’ Michael said. ‘But I’ve got the drift of it.’

  ‘You ain’t never seen nothing like them. You have to watch yourself. They are wily creatures. You gotta keep them in line.’

  ‘How long have you been here?’ Michael asked.

  ‘Since I was fifteen. After my daddy died, Mr. Foster offered me a job and my Mama said it was too good an opportunity to turn down. He’s a great man.’

  Michael doubted it, going by his rope making class and as he followed him, their path darkened, the trees more closely set, their trunks majestic columns rising from the earth. Set behind them in a clearing were a row of six wooden shacks resting on each other for support with loose planks and gaping holes apparent in each. If these people were such an asset to the running of the plantation, it didn’t show in their housing.

  Outside one, a campfire smouldered, the last wisps of black smoke curling in the air. Harley stomped his foot through it, spreading the ash and half-burnt sticks with his boot.

  ‘What did I say about fires out here!’ he shouted. ‘Come on out here, y’all. Come on now.’

  Slowly people started to emerge, the young men first, their eyes tired, their expression weary, followed by the older slaves, including Bailey. He was carried under the arms by two others, one of which was Salome, her short hair without its turban. Forty slaves lined the front of the shacks and Harley surveyed them all, counting them. Michael hadn’t noticed the whip on Harley’s belt until he unleashed it, the leather flying out with a crack.

  ‘Listen up. This is Mr. Michael. He is working for Mr. Foster now and for me,’ he said with pride. ‘He’ll be keeping a close eye, so you watch yourselves now and behave. I’ll be getting you a whip tomorrow,’ he said to Michael. ‘So, who here lit that fire? Come on, own up. I don’t want to have to punish all of ya.’

  Salome stood out from the rest of them without hesitation.

  ‘I did Mr. Harley,’ she said.

  Immediately he gravitated towards her, his eyes delighted that the prize was such a pretty one.

  ‘You know the rules Salome, don’t you? You’ll burn this forest to the ground and the rest of us with it. One stove not enough for ya?’ he said sweeping his hand from the start of the line to the end.

  ‘Sir, the stove top is full. I only lit the fire to boil up some mullein leaves for Bailey’s wounds,’ she said, her eyes never leaving Harley as he moved closer.

  ‘Well Bailey got what he deserved, didn’t he now?’ he said turning towards Michael. ‘Show him Bailey,’ he said. ‘Show Mr. Michael the punishment that is dealt when you do things wrong.’

  Bailey winced as he moved and Salome went to help him.

  ‘You stay where you are,’ said Harley. ‘Leave him be.’

  Bailey removed his shirt with difficulty, the fabric clinging to the sores on his back and turned to show them. The rest of the slaves remained very still, no emotion on their faces. Michael fought to contain himself when he saw the state of the man’s back, layers of skin torn away, weeping red furrows criss-crossed all over his skin. Every inch of his back was covered not only in this punishment, but the raised scars of years of abuse, etched like a hellish map down the poor man’s spine.


  Harley watched Michael’s reaction closely. ‘What do ya think a’ that?’

  Michael took his eyes off Bailey. ‘Did you do that?’

  ‘I sure did,’ he said proudly, ‘though Mr. Foster likes to add a few himself too. Just to make sure the message hits home, ya know.’

  ‘It’s going take a lot of practice, to be as good as you two,’ Michael said.

  Harley laughed. ‘Well there’s a whole line of practice right there in front of you, whenever ya want.’

  ‘What about that one to clean my cabin?’ Michael said pointing to Salome who was still out in front of them.

  Harley shook his head. ‘No, that one deserves a good whooping for the fire.’

  ‘I’ll give it to her,’ Michael said, ‘right after she cleans my cabin.’

  Harley wagged a finger at him. ‘Don’t you go getting no ideas here, Michael. Salome is Mr. Foster’s, to do with as he will. So, have her clean only your cabin,’ he said guffawing. Michael wanted to punch him right in that bedraggled mouth of his.

  ‘Alright get back inside,’ he shouted as they left the clearing, dragging Salome by the hand.

  When they reached his cabin, he let go of her, shoving her towards Michael.

  ‘Put your shoulder into each crack of the whip. It’ll strike harder,’ he said. ‘You’ll pick it up. Here you can use mine tonight. I’m going back to the boss’s house, see if I can’t make me the perfect noose.’

  He threw the curled-up whip to Michael, who caught it in one hand and walked off through the trees, whistling happily through his buckled teeth. Michael tried the rusted door handle expecting some resistance but it opened easily. He stepped back for her to enter, and she stood still, as if to go inside would somehow give her permission for what might happen within its walls.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he said softly. ‘I won’t hurt you.’

  She raised her eyes for the first time to look at his face, seeking the sincerity of his words.

  ‘Harley uses this place sometimes,’ she said as he stepped inside lighting a lantern. He was about to ask her what she meant but he caught the look of repulsion on her face.

  ‘I see,’ said Michael, a knot of disgust tying itself in his stomach. ‘Did he take you here?’

  ‘Oh me, no,’ she said. ‘I’m Mister Foster’s. He won’t let Harley touch me.’ Her words stung him as he imagined the life she and the other women had there.

  ‘You have nothing to fear from me. I promise you that,’ he said.

  She followed him inside, the room dimly lit by the lantern, the corners still dark. There was only a bed and a small stove but the floor was full of dried mud and leaves as if they had flown in to escape the season and dried there on the floor, now brittle under their feet.

  ‘Harley never closes the door much. No other folks come down here.’

  Michael grabbed an old broom and began to sweep them, first into a pile in the middle of the room and then towards the door, expelling them furiously back out into the open, them and the business that brought them in. Salome joined him, filling her apron and shaking them outside where they flew away into the breeze.

  ‘You’re not going to whip me, are you?’ she said, coming back inside.

  ‘No, no I’m not.’

  He expected her to thank him then realised that she didn’t owe him that. Instead she continued her work, her step a little lighter than before.

  ‘Can I ask, do you like Miss Ashleigh?’ she said.

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Well she wanted you to stay. I heard her tell her Mama so.’

  ‘Do you think that’s why I stayed?’

  ‘I don’t know. You’re not like Harley or the others and she’s pretty,” she said crushing the leaves as she carried them outside. He joined her on the porch, the broom catching the last of them.

  ‘I don’t see it,’ he said pausing to look at her, awaiting her reaction. If she was pleased she didn’t show it.

  ‘You need the money, maybe for your family?’ she suggested.

  ‘Nope,’ he said. He caught the look of relief this time before she could hide it, and realising her mistake, she smiled at him.

  ‘I stayed because I saw how they treated you and it’s not right.’

  ‘So, you’re a crusader, here to save us all, is that it?’ she said shaking her head.

  ‘Maybe,’ he said defiantly, ‘maybe all of you, maybe just one of you. I stayed because here, I have something to fight against, and I need a good reason to keep fighting because the world’s gone to hell and there are still some good people in it, fighting back.’

  ‘Is this fighting?’ she said.

  ‘You’re staying alive and you’re helping your people,’ he said. ‘You fight every day.’

  ‘You don’t belong here.’

  ‘Neither do you,’ he said.

  ‘You’re going to get yourself killed. They may hate us but Mister Foster hates your kind even more. Them that don’t understand the order of things in the south.’

  ‘Not everyone agrees with him. Mr. Yates at Oak Hill doesn’t keep slaves. He’s a good man.’

  ‘Oh, you think he’ll give me a job if I asked...maybe walk on outa here with a nice reference from Mrs. Boudreaux. Sure.’

  Michael realised his naivety.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to offend you. I only want to help.’

  ‘You need to help yourself outa this mess,’ she said, ‘You’re gonna get yourself in trouble.’

  ‘I’m already in trouble,’ he said. He knew it. He wanted to right any wrong ever done to her. Help her, save her, love her. Everything. Now.

  ‘You’re dangerous,’ she said. ‘Not like the others. Danger in a whole other way.’

  She put her hand to his arm. A stray leaf sat on his shirt sleeve and she removed it, letting it flutter to the floor.

  ‘When you live…no survive, as we do, you learn that each day could be your last. Nothing is planned but no good minute is taken for granted.’

  She edged closer and he didn’t dare move, leaning up to kiss his cheek, her breath warm on his skin. He wanted to put his arms around her but he was afraid of ruining it. It was her choice to make.

  ‘I never kissed a dead man before,’ she whispered.

  She drew back and he didn’t know whether to smile at her or not.

  ‘Will Harley check if I punished you?’ he said.

  ‘No, I don’t think so but you should pretend to crack that whip just in case.’

  As Harley sat on the porch of Foster’s house putting the finishing touches to his latest noose, Salome’s tortuous cries carried to his ears. The new boy was doing good on his practice, Harley thought, pulling tightly on the noose as it held its knot. Perfection at last.

  36

  Evelyn found the descent into Gabriel’s underground labyrinth so much easier to navigate this time. Her vision in the darkness was impeccable and she could make out every skull and with it every fracture, chip and concave bone that went into its construction. She wondered at the cause of such damage. Were they made while flesh or simply in the building of this strange haven beneath the city?

  Sasha walked in front of her, taking her hand as the path forked. He led her to the right, as it sloped downwards deeper into the earth and the cavern opened before them. This time it was empty – no revellers or curiosity seekers. Only Gabriel lying on his back among the stone slabs, his eyes closed, his hands resting casually on his bare chest, the sides of his long morning coat draping over the edge. As they approached, he sat up, drawing his boots up underneath him to sit cross-legged, like a wicked pixie sitting on a toadstool. He had painted his eyes with kohl from corner to corner, dark smears trailing down to his jawline – a warrior ready for battle.

  ‘Come, come, my friends. Please sit,’ he said po
inting to a stone opposite him. ‘We have so much to discuss, but firstly Evelyn you must tell us of your discovery. There can be no secrets now.’

  Evelyn pulled herself up to sit on the tomb opposite him. She prepared herself, straightening her back, readying herself for their reaction.

  ‘I am immune to the sun,’ she said. ‘I have tested it many mornings and it does not seek to change me in any way. If anything, it strengths me,’ she said, smirking at Sasha who looked dumbfounded beside her.

  ‘That’s not possible. I have seen the ashes of vampires left in the sun to perish,’ he said.

  ‘Go on, Evelyn,’ said Gabriel, raising his hand to silence him.

  ‘My fire gift has returned to me.’

  Gabriel smiled, beaming from ear to ear.

  ‘That is very good news indeed. Have you tested it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘On a human?’

  Evelyn looked confused. ‘Yes, of course.’

  She told them about the inferno she had brought to the man and they listened intently. The more she spoke, the more hurt Sasha’s expression and she felt only the slightest tinge of guilt. Gabriel though, was delighted, a headmaster pleased with his prized pupil.

  ‘Then you are ready my dear for what is to come, and not a moment too soon. You are a vampire Evelyn, but also a weapon against your own kind. You are a walking sun to your night time enemies, capable of destroying them with your power. A secret weapon to assist us and mankind against the foe that is making its way here. Sasha, your maker Woltacht has gathered an army and sends them now to lay waste to this city. It is our task to stop them.’

  ‘Woltacht is dead,’ Sasha said.

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘How else would I have escaped him? He kept me like an animal in a cell, weakened and hungry for blood. The night I left I awoke to find my cell and so many others open and I was the only one left. I walked outside to the courtyard and a rain of ashes from the hundred or so bodies disintegrated from the daylight. He was among them, his cloak resting among his remains. I left that night and thanked the heavens that I had been spared this mass suicide and been given a chance.’