Chapter Four: The Birth of Evil Two months before Branna’s death… Michael hated going into the village. He was a child of the forest. He hated the crowds; he hated the smells; he hated how the people were always in a false hurry. Most of all, he hated talking to the people of the village. They were good people, for the most part. They were sincere, on the surface. They were sympathetic towards Michael and his brothers. It was their sympathy that brought on a mild rage, but he always managed to keep that rage hidden. Michael’s mother died during the birth of his youngest brother, Ardan, and his father had been killed during the final war against the new faith. His father’s sacrifice in that war was then turned into a betrayal when the defenders of the old faith changed sides and embraced Christianity through an undignified surrender. What Michael hated the most was the awkward mixture of sympathy and guilt that those he met in the village greeted him with. Michael didn’t blame the people of the settlement for what had happened to his father; at least he did not blame all of them for what happened. His father remained resolutely opposed to surrender and he paid for that defiance with his life. The men who were directly responsible for handing his father over for a quick death never troubled Michael or his brothers with conversation. They were powerful men within the community and Michael felt that it would have suited them if he and his brothers were in their graves—he would do nothing to provide them with an excuse to kill them. Michael and his brothers being alive would serve as a daily reminder to them of the betrayal and shame that had elevated them to positions of power within the community. Michael and his younger brothers were surviving under the heavy weight of their tragic circumstances rather than coping admirably. They worked a tiny acreage; growing potatoes, leeks and turnips. They had one cow that provided them with milk, once her yearly calf had been weaned. When their parents were alive they had raised the calves the cow bore into their second year before slaughtering and butchering the beasts, to provide meat for their own table, and a little to sell in the village. The hard winter just past had meant that the previous spring’s calf had to be sold early for a pittance to pay for clothes for the boys and fodder for the cow. They turned to rabbits for meat and when rabbits grew scarce at the low point of the winter, Michael had trapped some rats which he transformed into a passable stew—his brothers were none the wiser as to what was really in the pot, because with slow cooking, wild garlic, and over salting, it would be hard for any man to tell the difference between the two types of vermin. The pelts from the rabbits and rats could be sold to desperate villagers, and it was that prospect that brought Michael and his brothers into the village on that fateful day. Everything about the brothers as they trekked into town was pitiful. They were too thin, too dirty, too hungry, and too desperate. The single-axle, wooden cart, on which they travelled, was over sixty years old. Infested with woodworm and weakened by dry-rot, and patched to within an inch of its life; the cart had not been introduced to a fresh coat of paint for many summers. The solid wooden wheels were a new addition to the cart; the old wheels were so badly chipped and cracked that each trip on the cart had turned into an unnecessarily dangerous adventure. Spoked wheels with a hardened-iron edge were the latest leap in cart technology to hit Mourne, but to the brothers they were an expensive innovation that they could only dream about, or look on with jealous eyes as those families more fortunate than themselves tooled along the pocked trails in relative comfort and safety. Their long suffering cow, malnourished and frozen to her core, pulled the cart as best she could. The animal came to an abrupt stop as Michael pulled hard on the reins. The left wheel had dropped sharply into a deep pothole a short distance from the town. A sickening crack indicated that damage had been done. Michael swore under his breath. He had not observed the pothole. To his embarrassment his attention had been focused on the near-distance forms of two young women as they made their way out of the village towards the brothers. His brothers did not notice Michael’s concentration shift from the road to the raven haired beauties ahead. Had they noticed then a tirade of cutting rebukes would have surely passed between the kinsmen. Branna looked directly at Michael and she smiled. The smile was not returned for a number of reasons. Chief amongst those reasons was embarrassment. Michael resented the fact that his family had nothing. He was self-conscious of the fact that true forest dwellers such as Branna and her fatherless family had more than he could ever provide for his family. His feelings of despair with respect to his own circumstances did not translate to hatred for Branna and her family. Michael’s father had fought alongside Branna’s father in the futile battles against the invaders. Both men had died for that cause, on the same day. The betrayal of that sacrifice by those who survived created a strong common bond between Branna and Michael, but it was a bond that had never transformed into anything more social than a passing hello. At times words were not exchanged, just a quiet nod of heads and a subdued smile that told of how they understood each other’s loss. The girls passed and Michael climbed back up onto the cart. He was in a rush to be on his way. The weary cow issued a disgruntled sigh before grudgingly moving forwards. Michael’s flushed cheeks quickly returned to the unhealthy pallor that was true to his meager diet and unforgiving workload. He glanced back at the two sisters. They were moving towards the forest in a hurry. Turning to the road ahead, he urged the cow onwards. It was a full five minutes before they arrived at the settlement. Michael brought the cart to a stop outside the church. "Really Michael?" questioned Ciaran, the middle brother, with mild annoyance. "We have to. It is expected," said Michael. “I will go in alone. You two take the cart to the smith. Get him to check it for damage, but do not agree to any repairs until I get there." A shiver ran the length of Michael’s spine as the door closed behind him on entering the church. His eyes stung from the scorched incense that permeated the atmosphere of the building. A large beeswax candle sat aflame on an exquisitely carved wooded stand next to the confessional. It was the only source of illumination in the chamber and it was barely up to the task. The black woollen cloth on the priest’s side of the confessional box was drawn, indicating that the holy man was already in place to hear the hollow confessions of the unbeliever. Michael walked over to the confessional. He sighed quietly and then he stepped inside. He drew the cloth across the opening behind him and he sat down. He sighed as he tried to recall the words that he was expected to regurgitate in order to initiate the ceremony. The use of the words “bless me” were too much for him—his hypocrisy had limits. "I have sinned, Father," Michael began. He waited patiently for the familiar invitation from the priest for him to continue. "Good," said a voice. "I’m sorry, Father?" Michael returned, with confusion. "It is good that you have sinned," said the voice. “When I have finished, you will have sinned a lot more." Instinctively Michael knew that there was something wrong. Someone on the other side of the tight lattice partition was playing a trick on him. Michael jumped to his feet; he whipped back the cloth on his side of the confessional before pulling hard on the cloth on the other side to reveal the trickster. The space reserved for the Holy Father was empty. The room began filling with light as if someone was opening the doors to the outside world slowly. He turned to face the entrance of the church. The doors were firmly closed. The light continued to grow in intensity. He gasped when he realised the reason why. All around the inside of the church candles had been set alight. And more than that; they were still being lit, though he could not work out who was lighting them. The room appeared empty. As he began to move towards the entrance of the church his progress was instantly arrested by the sound of a statue crashing to the floor. Then another and another until all but the statue of the crucified Lord at the front of the church lay in ruins. The newly created saints of stone and plaster now lay in basal pieces. Michael choked slightly on the dust created by the ruined effigies. The dust hung in the air like an early morning mist. As the light scattered through the thick atmosphere Michael could see a figure cloaked in black standing by the door at the back of the church. "Who are you?" Michael called, with a slight tremble in his voice. “What do you want?" There was a short pause before the chilling reply was issued. "I am your redeemer. I want you," said the creature. Michael’s eyes watered as he fought to keep them open against the stinging irritation of the dust-laden atmosphere. As he drew in his final human breath, the cloaked figure vanished. As his lungs reacted to cough out that terminal breath, the cloaked figure reappeared out of the gloom with the speed of a shooting star. Michael exhaled his last breath with a muted scream as the vampire bit into his neck. Chapter Five: Turning Point Branna struggled against the weight of Michael pressing down on her body. Her efforts were futile. He was simply too strong. Her strength could not free her and so in utter desperation she turned to the only option left open to her—she begged for her freedom. As she looked into his face she recoiled instantly. The ridges of his forehead and around the eye sockets were not as pronounced as those of the old vampire, but they were prominent enough for any observer to instantly tell that Michael was no longer human. His eyes were black. Not a trace of human-white remained. His teeth were larger than those of the human Michael, with the pointed canines taking on particular prominence. "Michael, please. You don’t have to do this," she begged. “Let me go. You can do that for me?" Her voice was clear but shaken by fear. The demon-man ginned at her. Her pitiful pleas served only to drive on his evil intent. "I know," he replied. He spoke with his own voice, yet it was subtly different. It contained more base, and little trace of emotion. "But I want to keep you as my captive," he continued. “So very much." Before she had time to mount a second appeal to whatever humanity remained hidden behind the demonic facade, he moved. In an instant she was free from his grip. The freedom was momentary. He had merely repositioned. By the time Branna realised why he had shifted position it was too late. His bite was emphatic. The pain was intense, but she was powerless to respond. Her inability to scream was confounding and terrifying. Some of her blood escaped his hungry mouth and it trickled down her neck. She expected the blood to feel warm as it meandered along her skin. It was instead as cold as winter rain. Although the bite appeared to last an eternity, in reality the demonic Michael only had her in the death-bite for less than a few seconds. Eventually Michael released her. As he stood up and then looked down at Branna, he smiled. His unnaturally contorted face was still recognisable to her, but the fact that his humanity was still there through his demonic features somehow made him all the more frightening. “Why?” she asked, in a weakened voice. The demon looked confused for a moment before replying with mild annoyance at what he considered a stupid question. “Look at my face,” he said. “Why? Because this is who I am.” Branna closed her eyes. He had missed the true intention behind her question. She did not mean to ask how he could do such a terrible thing, but rather, she meant to ask why he could he do such a terrible thing to her. Michael knelt down beside her. Taking her firmly but gently by both arms he spoke once again. “Look at me, Branna.” After a short pause Branna opened her eyes. “I am not here to kill you,” he continued, in a calm voice. “I am here to give you a great gift. I am going to make you immortal. I am going to give you the kind of strength that few humans will ever experience. You will run faster than the wind. You will have the power of life and death at your control. You will fight alongside me to rid our land of those men who murdered our fathers. We will drive the invaders into the sea, or into their graves. I chose you because you understand what needs to be done. Together we will take back our land and rule over our people like a god and goddess from the old faith.” As she continued to weaken through loss of blood, Branna struggled to take hold of his words and squeeze meaning out of them. The only thing that she could be certain of was that what he was saying did not sound right. Whatever he was proposing was not something that she wanted any part of. Michael raised his right arm up in front of her face. He pulled back the sleeve of his grey shirt to expose the wrist. He ran the long nail of his index finger across his wrist and blood so dark that it almost appeared black began to flow from the self-inflicted wound. He pressed his bleeding wrist to her lips. “Drink,” he commanded. Branna turned her head away from the unholy blood. “Drink!” he said, with more force. When she did not respond he grabbed her head and then forced her mouth onto the wound. “Drink, or you will die!” “Michael!” a voice called from the open doorway. Michael instantly let go of Branna and he jumped to his feet to face the voice. “Asmodeus,” Michael said, with respect and alarm. “The girl has not yet taken my blood.” The cloaked demon looked at Michael with a stern expression. “It is my blood,” said the demon. Michael bowed his head. “Yes, my Lord. Your blood, in my veins,” Michael said, submissively. “But if she does not drink from me then she will not know your power and love. Or do you want me to compel her to invite you in, my Lord? You can gift her eternal life from your own body.” “It is already too late for that. She is too far gone. It is time for us to leave,” said Asmodeus. “But Lord…” Michael began to protest. The demon cut him off. “My blood already flows through her veins,” said the demon. At those words the dying Branna forced her eyes open. She glared at the demon. “When your mother returns, she will explain my words,” said the old demon. “That is assuming you don’t rip her throat out before she gets the chance.” Asmodeus turned and walked away. Michael looked confused. He paused for a moment before walking towards the doorway. He looked directly at Branna and then he spoke. “We will return when you have been reborn,” he said. Michael and the old demon left. Branna could feel her life slipping from her body. She closed her eyes and waited. The pain had gone. All that remained was confusion and betrayal. You can read more chapters at: https://facebook/writerjchanna writerjchanna.tumblr/
Posted on: Sun, 28 Jul 2013 10:36:41 +0000
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