ten
The Story of He,
Once Called Eleazar
With Lisbet using my lap as a pillow, my mind began to piece together the story she needed to know. Although she closed her eyes, the wariness in her frame belied the peaceful expression upon her lovely face. Each breath she drew seemed to make the stream of candlefire dance in her veins.
I feared this day the moment I chose her. But it was time she knew just whom she wed.
Had she not seen the encounter earlier with the Ben’Zamorah, she would not believe a word. But she saw and invited the answers. Would it beggar belief when I finished? Clearing my throat I began surrendering my sense of self preservation. “You will not believe me, not right away. But before I give you this holy gift, I will tell you how it came to be.” Lisbet didn’t stiffen in shock as I anticipated. An auspicious beginning, I hope.
“I am older than I look, much older. I have seen the rise and decimation of great civilizations. Even now, the Byzantines wobble on a broken ankle, and as soon it falls, another will take its place, for that is the nature of the world and such is the fate of nations that grow so much they collapse upon their own weight. I say it not in jest, but to make a point. Though you see the visage of a man of thirty-two, I have breathed the air and walked the earth for over a thousand years.” Now she stiffened, but said nothing.
“Rowan is not the name given to me by my mother. Eleazar is. In your tongue, the name is Lazarus. I am the man our lord Christ bestowed a second life upon, as is recalled in the Holy Bible. My sisters Marta and Mariamne, whom you'd recognize with the names Martha and Mary, sent for the Christ when I fell ill with a fever and runny bowels. I could consume no broth or wine. Even boiled water could not stay down. Denied the liquid nourishment my body craved, I died. My shrouded body was placed in my family's tomb. In that cave, a shelf awaited for bodies to lie upon and turn to dust, so that the bones could be placed in an ossuary and laid next to kin. Four days my body lay there, while my soul traveled. When I died, an angel had taken me by the hand. Man, woman, neither. Bright of skin, looking at an angel is like looking at the sun and to touch one is like touching sunlight. First, I was shown Heaven. Its beauty I cannot describe.
“The angel then took me to the bowels of Hell. Never had I seen so many souls burning and writhing. The smell of charring flesh and the sound of skin sloughing off, even when there was no skin, there was still muscle. And beneath that, bone, which burns the longest. A bone deep agony that never ceases until all is rendered to ash. I wept with the terrible sight, sound and smell. I wept for mankind.
“I was then taken to Purgatory, a grim place of purification, of cleansing the spirit so it can proceed to God's Garden. More sparsely populated than Hell, there was still no shortage of souls. At least they would one day surmount the pain they were in to gain Glory at the throne of God. The angel showed me it all, so I could understand how my devotion to Christ saved me from pain and purification.
“On the second day, the angel took me back to Heaven, and there I waited shortly until I heard Jesus of Nazareth calling my name. I followed the sound of his voice as I passed from one realm to another. Out of Heaven, into Purgatory and then through Hell. The flames did not touch me, the immense heat did not burn my flesh. Souls in agony wailed and moaned and the stench of burned skin... it was so much to take in, but I followed His voice as he prayed for me. And his voice led me back to my family's tomb in Bethany, where I could hear the Christ much louder. 'Eleazar, come to me. Come back.' And so I did as I was bid.
“I had not the strength to return, for the journey through Hell ate at my soul, to see such misery. And the thirst chokes. Hell is much hotter than Judea. I craved a drink, anything to slake the thirst. I had no drink for over a week, since I consumed nothing during my illness. I needed a liquid, anything, to give me strength to continue. If I had thought that sand would quench my want, I would have drunk my fill. I told Jesus such. His reply shocked me.
“I could see the Christ's soul, as it waited with mine in the dark limestone tomb. His soul held out an open hand, palm up, from which the wrist was bleeding. I went to staunch the wound with my hand, but he stopped me. 'No, Eleazar. If you thirst, quench it with this. God's blood will flow through you, and the strength will be yours again. Drink, my friend and see your sisters. Marta shamed me for not coming sooner and Mariamne has wept inconsolably since your death. How could I deny my love her brother? Drink and join us, for we miss you dearly.'
“And so I drank. Being Jewish, blood is an unclean thing. But when one's thirst is so much that licking sand sounds appealing, then consuming the spiritual blood of the divine isn't such a far-fetched thought, most especially when one's master had instructed his followers about his blood and body to consume. It tasted like coppery wine, of water, of fruit juice mixed with snow from a mountain top. It quenched my thirst as he promised and gave me the strength I needed. I could return to my body, and the divine blood healed the rotting flesh and made it anew. The shroud was still wrapped around me when I left my tomb and found my family awaiting outside. My sisters thanked Jesus, who then walked off with Mariamne as Marta unwrapped the shroud from my face. I felt blessed that was I alive again.
“I could see much better than I could before. My ears caught all manner of sounds from across Bethany as word spread like wildfire of my exit from the grave. Skin tingled in the sunlight and still on my tongue was the taste of the Divine Wine. My ears caught the sound of Roman authorities hearing of Jesus' miracle and the anger they throbbed into the air. I could feel it all. When I looked into faces of people I could see their true self, a ghosted veil over their face. Those of a mean spirit had withered souls, and those of generous dispositions were pleasant to look upon.
“But like sand in a windstorm, word flew of my resurrection, and the disbelief of those not present at the miracle was numbed by the excitement of those who did witness it and by the anger of the temple priests. What Jesus did for his most ardent follower was blasphemy. Jewish authorities liked not that Jesus played the rebel at the temple mount. They looked for a way to condemn him, to stop him from challenging authority and the Romans.
“Resurrecting me guaranteed his death. The ruling class could not stomach someone who raised the dead and professed to be the son of God. Blasphemy!
“Jesus was crucified, fulfilling prophesies mentioned in the Book of Daniel, and I fled the holy land for Cyprus. Before long, Paul and Barnabas decreed I was a bishop. For thirty years, I stayed on that island. It was there, I discovered what made me different from man.
“I could eat food, but it had no taste. Nothing could compare to the blood of Christ. The finest wines from Rome nor melted snow could sate my thirst. For years I existed, a shell of my former self. I could not smile for my observation of doomed humanity in the darkest pits of Hell and to know that a man I loved like a father and brother sacrificed himself for me wore all humor from my soul. I withered away and died. My body buried.
There I lay asleep for a very long time, until the thirst became so pervasive, that I needed to fulfill the urge to drink not wine nor water.
“I craved blood.
“I do not believe in murder. I could not kill one to drink their blood, nor could I easily find someone to allow me to feed upon them. I could not ask someone to give up their life for mine.
“It was during a siege, when the Turks came a-raiding, when I discovered to both my horror and delight the cure to my affliction, for although I was thought dead, I yet lived. The smell of blood wafting through the streets called to me, bade me to escape my tomb and feed for the first time in decades. So I did.
“The weight of a tomb of stone seemed that of a feather. When I made my way from the catacomb beneath the cathedral, dusk fell upon the island of Cyprus. The smell of blood, the smell of fire, the stink of death, screams of the raped and little boys being castrated before they were sold into a lifetime of slavery... It all wrapped around me. While I stood in the doorway of the cathedral, the sound of heartbeats filled my ears by the thousands. I listened for the weak and failing hearts. I sought out those who were going to die momentarily.
“I hid in the shadows, clad in a burial shroud. Clothing of the times, that is what I needed. What I sought was found in an alley way behind the cathedral. Bodies, some with heads, some without, waited dumping in the sea. Murmurs from the guards high on the wall, filled my ears. Near the shadows, I found a body roughly my size, and relieved it of its clothing, sans armor. I wrapped the man's body in my shroud and placed it in my crypt. He, a nameless soldier, would lie in a bishop's tomb.
“After dressing, I sought a meal. From the top of Larnaca's cathedral, I closed my eyes and focused my thoughts. Across the city, a hospital. And only down the road, a man lay dying. It's difficult to block out the constant drumming of healthy hearts, to hear only the feeble. But it can be done.
“I discovered a power I didn't know I possessed. Those blessed with the Gift have strength, agility, and determination when their hunger is fierce. I could jump from rooftop to rooftop. Halfway to the man I could now see, passed out in a puddle of blood, and things changed for me.
“How can I explain it? The pull to sate my thirst directed me with a speed I never knew, forced me to the dying man's side. There was no choice on my part. Feed or die, and as this man lay in a pool of his viscera, mindless with pain, I could see every vein, lit up as though sunshine ran through his body. Intense and beckoning, I did as my new nature demand.
“Before I could do the deed, I prayed over the man, apologized for taking his soon-to-be ended life to feed my own.
“I fed for the first time on human blood. It is like wine. Potent wine that seeps into the bones and makes one feel delightfully warm and alive, yet completely languorous. But that is before the Truth hits. Took me by surprise, to know the man intimately, to remember his thoughts and know his fears, even when he could not give them voice.
“The soldier had a daughter, soon to be wed and sent to Constantinople. That was his last thought.
“He died in my arms. I wept when his heart stopped beating, and I can admit, my tears fell because his heart beat no more, that the beauty of his love for his child now gone. I could feed no more on his heady wine of life.
“I learned an important lesson. The first few hours after feeding, its much like stumbling around drunk. One cannot think straight, although the power one has is immense. But it fades and reason takes over. One still has great strength, but it becomes tempered with coherent thought.
“Before I left Cyprus, I fed twice more on mortally wounded men. But none touched me more than the first and the love he had for his daughter. I knew where he lived, for the memory of his blood branded it to my mind. I wanted to find her.
“Why? To this day I am not sure. It may have been the fact that I had nothing now. Who I was, dead, gone, naught but a dusty memory. When I tasted the Truth of the first soldier, I discovered how much time had passed. Not decades, as I thought. But centuries.
“Six hundred years, I lay in my tomb. One night of glutting myself on blood, and I had the strength of a dozen men. I could run faster than the wind, lift a siege machine and toss it like a rag. I felt amazing, alive, and now I had a mission to fulfill.
“I was still too drunk from the blood to think of taking a ship. In that inebriated moment, I jumped as high as I could-- higher than I thought I could. I kept rising into the nighttime sky, until the city beneath me became smaller. I could fly! Such an exhilarating feeling, to have the same freedom as a bird. As long as I concentrated, I stayed aloft. An Icarus without wax and feathers.”
“Northeast I flew, high in the clouds where moonlight bathed me for the first time in hundreds of years. Never did I feel so alive. In my mind I had my quest set; I would find the soldier's daughter and inform her that he perished in battle, and not mention the mercy I gave. I felt no guilt about drinking his blood, as death awaited him regardless of my actions. I did not inflict the mortal blow. While he and I shared not the same name for God, we both worshiped the same deity. It was my duty to give comfort where I could. So I did.
“It was his life force which provided the fuel for my mission. I got as far as Edessa before reason settled back into my mind. Why was I on the way to foist myself into a stranger's life? I knew not her name, nor the name of her father, as they were forgotten in my blood intoxication. My guiding star ceased to exist, and I found myself wandering the land aimlessly. When I came upon a city, I felt renewed. It was Edessa where caravans of goods pass through on their way from west to east, south to north. The crossroads of the known world, it was also a Christian stronghold.
“Zamora stood on a platform in the slave market. Hair the color of a raven, eyes as blue as the sea and skin as white as milk. Her master wanted her sold for daring to strike his wife. Not all captives adapt to slavery, and she was a Grecian girl. A large group of men bid on her, seeking a beautiful concubine.
“Other girls would have trembled if they heard the words of the men as the auctioneer stripped her of the clothes she wore to increase the fever-pitched bidding. Zamora was like a statue.
“I had no money to purchase her, or any idea what I would do with her should I gain her freedom somehow. I walked off, intent on finding direction in my life. Night crept, and still, I wandered the streets, giddy from the notion that so much time had passed, yet the teachings of my rabboni were still taught. Some twisted and unrecognizable, the leavings of others dogma, yet still, I could hear my master’s voice in the words spoken by others.
It was in a dark alley that I saw the girl from the slave market, surrounded by men as what I assume was a brothel keeper, pushed her fully into the alley. The anger from them all seethed, and their ghosted faces were ghastly to look upon. They had malice in their hearts for the girl fighting them.
The fat man holding her wrist said, “I can’t have a whore who attacks men. For silver, each of these men gets you. When done, you are no longer my problem. Gutter or whorehouse, none will want you.” She was flung to the men. At her scream, I interceded. The men knew naught what happened, other than one moment, they were ripping the clothes from the poor girl’s back, and the next moment she was gone.
Terrified, she clung to me, and began to claw and bite me in her fear. By breaking my skin with her mouth, she consumed my blood, and that of Jesus. I misspoke when I said I gave her the Gift. Truth is, she took it in her ignorance. Had I known the sort of heart she possessed, I would have rescued her and left her to her own devices rather than carry her off. For my noble, if thoughtless actions, have taught me anything, it is that making decisions after feeding tends to fail.
“I created her, as she is now. And she in turn has created a legion of followers, the Ben’Zamorah. They hunt the woods for people to feed upon, acting a plague upon the land. Zamora killed a merchant prince in Naples, took his wealth. That funds her life, helps to buy her a place among those who would otherwise hand her over to church officials. She has a court, and as long as she remains in her castle and her followers leave the populace alone, I leave her be. It’s an uneasy truce at best and one day, I have no doubt, it will end with fire.”
Lovely Lisbet turned her head to look upon me. I felt the curiosity from her gaze bore into my soul. “She is a monster, then?”
Slowly, I nodded. “When villages get wiped out by disease, one can almost guarantee the Ben’Zamorah are behind it. And then I go hunting. I have put off culling Zamora and her horde, for murder is not the answer—but the evil they do cannot be ignored. I would give you the Gift, Lisbet, to help protect you from her followers. She seeks to harm me, I know she does. Since the night I rescued her, she has hated me.”
“Why? You saved her from being raped.”
Innocent child, I thought. “After she received the Gift, she began to thirst. When I stopped her from hunting healthy folk, she resented and rebelled. She tried ripping my head from my shoulders.”
“So she despises you for trying to restrain her?”
“Yes.” And for more, but that I could not tell my wife.
“Do you hunt her followers often?”
“Only when I know for sure that they are harming innocents. That I cannot abide. If they feed on the sick and dying, so be it. But to harm those who are hearty and hale cannot be tolerated. Her follower will tell her of you, and you must be protected. Once we reach Lonbec, you will be guarded. Although I dislike the idea of calling on a certain being’s help, I know he will answer my request.”
“And if he does not?”
“Then you, my bride, will need your knife by your side whilst you sleep.”