center
It's different now.
Things have changed.
I hate it when that happens.
I know, I know, all the old cliches...change is inevitable, change is gonna come, the only thing that doesn't change is change...I've heard 'em all and more. But you know, it's not true. Things don't change, only the circumstances surrounding them. Romeo and Juliet were old long before West Side Story, the stones of Sinai had oozed blood ages before the statue of Mary wept, and nations became decadent and diseased, rotting from the core, sin-swept before Sodom blew to ancient dust. Foolish love doesn't change, the transient imaginings of mortals don't change...vengeance doesn't change.
Yet things were different, things had...changed.
I needed time to think.
Sweeping off the prairie, into the glorious sunrise, on translucent wings of crystal and mother of pearl, I rose into the waiting sun. Some saw a brief glimpse of a pillar of flame, slanting off my fiery back, others, more sensitive, saw a hint of malodorous green curling around the base of the mist, burning off in the morning's heat. I flew, every sinew stretched taut, drawing within and without, to the source of flight, to flying itself, until I was the whisper of crow's wings, the heavy beat of the buzzard, the hardly seen buzz of the fly. I reached to a place that I like to go to think.
I've always needed time to think things through, to strategize. Some call me a leader, and it's with the great wars of old that I'm most comfortable. There was always time then, a ritual to be observed, before the battle a calm swept the field, darkened after dusk. In the morning would be furious cleansing, a spirit of revenge and justice would walk the blood-soaked grounds. But the night before, the tents would be closed and I would stalk the campfires, alone with my thoughts, wrapped in my cloak, wings drawn within. Sometimes, even then, I would withdraw.
It is an ancient place, next to the water. The people there know me, and my ways. They have lived in this harbor in front of a swamp, in the humid, rain soaked delta for millennia. They have welcomed waves of marauders, lived under the cold hand of the conqueror, seen empires rise and fall, and their ways have remained unchanged. They live on the water, in strangely shaped boats, tied together and bobbing in the shallow, oily sea. One of the old ones offered me a hand, as I climbed up the ladder, black silk already soaked to my back in the oppressive heat. As I stepped lightly onto the deck, I could hear the sounds from within, laughing, drinking. Light, yellow and cancerous poured from the entrance as I stepped through, and to my table, always empty...waiting.
The servant, long black hair swept back into a loose bun, ran to bring me a drink, made from the seaweed that grows like snakes, tangled throughout the harbor. As she set it up in front of me, green liquid fire in a curious yellow glass, I could see the tattoos, twining across her sweat-shined biceps, over her shoulder, down her back, across the inside of her thigh, and onto her slim, muscled calf. The talk in the bar turned to vengeance, and assassination. Yet even here, things have changed. How could I not have noticed? The youths are more languid, dripping with desire, not upright with the flame of justice. The old ones are wise not only in the ways of death, but in the ways of the deal, and how to make a profit. Even here, the atmosphere, the ambiance, is different. This must be thought of as well. Taking a sip, I closed my eyes and let my thoughts wash over me.
blood (bl&revv.d), sb. Forms: 1 blod, 2-5 blod (o:), 4-6 blode,
4- blood. Also 4 blodde, 5 bloode, 6-7 bloude, 6-8 bloud, 6 bludde, blud;
Sc. 4-6 blud, 5-8 blude, 8-9 bluid, Sc. n.e. dial. bleid, bleed. I Literally.
1 a prop. The red liquid circulating in the arteries and veins of man and
the higher animals, by which the tissues are constantly nourished and renewed;
also (by later extension) the corresponding liquid, coloured or colourless,
in animals of lower organization. b flesh and blood: the distinctive characteristics
of the animal body; hence = `humanity' as opposed to `deity or disembodied
spirit'. See FLESH.
--Old English Dictionary
It was the blood that did it, of that much I was certain. That's what was different about the ceremony of desecration, the ritual of repetition, the mass of heavenly fire and pain that I visited upon my Jewel. Never before had it involved blood, yet this time...this time I drank from her, like from a well. I drank, but it wasn't enough, I wanted to suck her in, to taste her pain and suffering, so sweet, so sweaty and musty, so vital and tinged with the screams of the damned, the music of the angels, the horror of the human. I wanted to run my tongue over her soul and bite it, savoring the liquid pulse of pain.
This had never happened before, and somehow, it has changed me. I am of the Kingdom, the work that I do, is necessary, vital. I am an aspect of war, of justice, of the strong right hand upon the sword, terrible and swift. The terror that I visit is deserved, the horror of my existence is visited upon those who have transgressed. Jewel had transgressed, and I was witness and judge upon the tearing of her essential soul, the wings that she held so dear. I was appointed the task to visit her, and our ritual visits have always been glorious, the pain and suffering, so well deserved, so exquisite, so...tasty.
But never before the blood, I have never before taken the blood. As an aspect of the Kingdom, I cannot lie, I cannot even construct a falsehood, in a certain way, I am the Kingdom. But the blood is forbidden to such as I. It is the essential element, the carrier of the soul, the binder of mortal sinew to earth, to water, to fire, to wind. I am wind, and fire, and earth, and water, and cannot be bound. But I have sipped from the binding spring, partaken of the hidden water of mortal tears; I have tasted the blood of Jewel. But I am yet of the kingdom, I feel it. My wings will not be shorn from my soul, my powers remain intact.
Or do they? As I look back, every sip seemed a step away, every swallow a stride. I was weaker. My sight not so clear, my way, not carved in lines of liquid diamond fire in front of me. As I lay luxuriant upon the shores of Jewel's soul, drinking deep from the waves that washed over my naked body, bloody and innocent, I withdrew from the Kingdom, some part of me could no longer draw upon the whole, as I was not whole any longer. I was bound, and by being bound, I was less strong.
But it was allowed. It was given unto me to do this thing, and I did it. I partook of the earthly blood, and flew away exultant. How could this be? The Kingdom had changed, it had allowed this to occur. If the Kingdom had changed, was I then changed? It must be. I am changed. For what destiny I do not know, but I am changed, this much is true.
What would this mean, then? Where would it take me, this change? Where would it take Jewel? Now that I had supped on her essence, licked her spirit, tasted her bloody, child-like tears, what now? I must find her, again, although I have never visited so soon after leaving her. Would she surprised? Hmmmm....that would be delicious. Absolutely, delicious. And...why...I was hungry!
As I looked up from my thoughts, I caught sight of the servant, fingers nimbly flying over the keyboard of a small computer, hooked to a satellite dish, pointed to the sky. Her brow was furrowed, and the tattoos along her forearms writhed, as she pounded line after line of destruction into the night. I felt her soul take flight along those mysterious, twisting, compressed waves of air, yellow and purple to my vision. She looked strangely beautiful, as a single bead of sweat dripped down the side of her partially shaved head. The bead paused, fixed, translucent and murky, caught between the blue glow from her computer and the nacreous, yellow light from the butter lamp.
Maybe change wasn't such a bad thing after all.
End: Storm
copyright 1995 by David Micko
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