A Taste of Blood and Roses Page 3
11 Peter, attempting to hide his betrayal, drew his sword and struck the High Priest's servant, severing his ear. (The servant's name was Malchus.) 12 Jesus said, "Put that sword away. Shall I deny the cup my father pours me?"
13 Turning to the Pharisees and soldiers, Jesus said, "Am I leading a rebellion, then, that you need come upon me by stealth, with swords and clubs? 14 I sat teaching in your courtyards every day, yet you did not arrest me. 15 This has come about that the prophecies may be fulfilled."
16 Then all his disciples deserted him and fled.
* * *
In great anger, Judas followed Peter in his flight. When they reached a point far enough away from the soldiers for safety, he grabbed his fellow disciple's shoulder, spinning him roughly.
"What have you done, Peter?" He demanded. Peter's eyes were haunted, distant, and Judas recoiled from them in horror.
"He looked well in chains, do you not think so?" The voice was cold, like brittle ice, cracking through the air. It was not Peter's voice, nor was it any human expression that rode the familiar features.
"Who are you?" Judas asked, backing away, "You are not Peter!"
"I am more than your mind can grasp, fool," the demon voice chuckled, "more than even your master imagines. Perhaps he is coming to some knowledge of this, even now!"
Lowering his gaze to avoid the eyes, which glittered with unnatural light and gripped at his heart, Judas began to pray. The demon, jeering and dark, ranted at him, giving no reprise. Steeling himself, Judas ignored the voice, falling to his knees in the sand.
"Our father, who art in heaven," he began, "be with your servant in his hour of need. Free my brother from this evil, return to us Simon, called Peter, for our Lord needs us now, your son, unworthy as we are, and I have not the strength alone."
As his courage grew, he rose, raising his eyes to those of his tormentor, searching for his brother.
"You are too weak." the demon's voice seemed to waver. "I leave of my own will, not that of your accursed father, or his six-mothered bastard. And I leave you a gift. Your brethren will believe you the cause of your master's death. Your kiss will become the symbol of his betrayal!"
"Get thee hence!" Judas staggered forward, as if his physical presence alone could intimidate the evil confronting him. Peter's features contorted, rippled between despairing, imploring humanity, and gripping, snarling darkness. As Judas's fingers touched Peter's shoulders, there was a sound like the rushing of a great wind, and they were both struck to the ground. When the demon had passed, leaving swirling pillars of sand in its wake, they rose slowly, blinking their eyes and checking their bones.
"We must follow our Lord, for they have taken him," Judas said, turning away. Peter watched him, a glare in his eye. His expression, accusing and dark, was more painful than even the demon's gaze had been, for it shone through the disciple's own features, and rose from his own mind. Judas trembled, remembering the words, "Your kiss will become the symbol of his betrayal."
Peter followed, but did not speak. The ominous weight of his silence bore down upon Judas like a smothering fog, but still he walked on. It was a small price, he told himself, for his brother's soul... Tears burned with the swirling sand down his cheeks, and dried instantly, wisping into the eye of the sun.
* * *
Judas 25:17
17 The soldiers took Jesus into their charge. Carrying upon his shoulder his own cross, he went out to Golgotha (called the place of the skull.) 18 Here they crucified him, along with two others--one to each side, with Jesus in the middle. 19 Pilate had a notice prepared and fastened to the cross. It read:
JESUS OF NAZARETH, THE KING OF THE JEWS.
20 It was lettered in Aramaic, Latin, and Greek, and many Jews read the sign, for the place of the crucifixion was near the city. 21 The Chief Priests of the Jews protested, saying, "Do not write, 'The King of the Jews,' but instead that this man claimed to be the King of the Jews."
22 Pilate answered, "I have written what I have written."[ ]23 When the soldiers had crucified Jesus, they took his clothes, dividing them into four equal shares, one for each of them, with the undergarment remaining. 24 This remaining garment was without seams, woven in one piece. 25 "Let's not tear it," they said to one another. "Let's decide by lot who will get it."
26 This happened that the Scripture might be fulfilled which said,
'They divided my garments among them
And cast lots for my clothing.'
29 So this is what the soldiers did.
30 Near the cross of Jesus stood his mother, his mother's sister, Mary, wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene. 31 When Jesus saw his mother there, and the disciple whom he loved, (Peter), and she for whom he wept, he said to his mother, "Dear woman, here is your son," and to the disciple, "Here is your mother." 32 To Mary Magdalene he said, "You are one with my heart. Though my father calls, I will be with you. Do not forget." 33 From that time on, the disciple took Jesus' mother into his home. 34 Mary Magdalene, hearing the Lord's words, wept bitterly, unable to stand his pain.
* * *
Darkness fell upon the threefold wooden frames, trailing shadowy tendrils among the rivulets of blood that clotted and grew sticky on his skin. Jesus regarded those below in the weaving, half-coalesced vision of his pain. Tears dried, unwilling to remoisten his cheeks. He remained conscious only through continuous, jumbled prayer, chasing the tumbling words and thoughts through his heart and pressing them outward to his father with all the strength of his will. None answered. It was done. He'd dared to presume himself above his father's disfavor, reached out to one beyond his power, and he'd given of the greatest gift he'd received to one beyond redemption--desecrating himself in the eyes of his own father.
He could feel his strength ebbing. The pain was beyond anything he'd experienced before, beyond even the pain of his father's disapproval. The human body he wore neared death, and it spoke of this eloquently. So hard, he thought, such a weight to bear. How do they retain faith? And what have I done, taking my gift of salvation and flinging it aside as if it were mine alone?
"I...I am thirsty," he croaked at last, beseeching those below.
A plant stem was raised, topped by a sponge, and he greedily sucked on the moistness, feeling the bitter sting as the wine-vinegar trickled down his parched throat.
Pulling his face from the sponge weakly, he raised his eyes to the sky and cried out, hurling the words from deep inside his breast, calling out loudly.
"My father, why have you forsaken me?"
And life slipped from his body at that moment, leaving him limp and unmoving on the skeletal framework of the cross.
Mary, seeing that it was truly death that was upon him, screamed a terrible scream, an impotent, nerve-grinding wail to a God she could not reach. Those around her fled from her fury, crying out in fear and racing for homes and fires. She paid them no heed.
He had risked it all, all that he was, for her, for her soul, and the risk had been in vain--he was dead! He had walked the Earth as the Son of God, but, having given to her of his gift, having fed her a part of himself, he had died as a man, and all he had lived was wiped away as if it had never been. In that instant, prophecy was cast to the winds without thought. Still screaming, she ran to the desert, pulling at her almost human hair and cursing the sky with raging torrents of unchecked emotion. Deep within her, sparked by her loss of control, a dark voice reached out to her, laughing the mocking laughter of the victor.
Unable to go on, she dropped to her knees, and, fighting back the encroaching darkness in her soul, she began--for the first time since her feet touched the earth -- to pray, loudly and blindly. He had given himself for her, for her salvation, though it cost the world. She prayed for only the chance to return his love, to replace his gift. She continued to pray, unaware of her surroundings, while a glowing figure appeared at her side. She did not notice that she was not alone until his fingers brushed her shoulder.
Stifling a cry, she backed away, half-risi
ng to her feet. Elijah stood before her, resplendent, but with sorrow beyond comprehension on his features--sadness beyond measure.
"Woman, now called Mary," he spoke, "would you truly return the light?"
"I...," she lowered her eyes, bowing in supplication, "I would release to you my soul to return him--to fulfill his prophecy. I would do anything."
"Go you then" the voice instructed, "and find Judas, who they name betrayer. Tell him all. In his lifeblood, and in his love, you will find the strength. If you willingly replace the gift of the Son of Man with Judas' mortal blood, your curse will return. In that hour shall all be righted...go and may we all be judged on a standard such as your love."
The light was gone, the darkness remained, and Mary rose, returning through the sifting shadows to the cross. Tears streamed steadily down her cheeks, dampening the locks of her hair, and her steps were uneven. It was too great a cost. She had been granted that which no other could give a second time, and now it was demanded of her to return it...she clutched her arms tightly to her stomach to ease the churning and the pain. In her mind, echoing voices mocked her feeble will, laughed at her lack of courage. Already Lucifer and his minions counted the victory won. She was lost to them, but The Christ was lost to mankind. Wailing her despair, she ran on, finding Judas just before the dawning sun rose to the horizon. He knelt alone, lost in prayer of his own. He did not see her coming, and she watched him for a long moment before speaking.
* * *
Judas 28:1
1 And Judas Iscariot, blamed of the betrayal, prayed in the darkness. 2 The temptress, she called Mary Magdalene, came upon him, wild of eye, and cheeks damp with tears, crying out, "Judas, beloved of our Lord, a great evil has come upon us."
3 "Lady," Judas replied, "in three days our Lord shall rise from his grave, redemption is at hand."
4 "He is dead," she told him, seating herself, "of love for me, he sacrificed all. We bear the weight, you and I, for I have spoken with Elijah, and he has sent me to you."
5 And she spoke to him of Lucifer, and of her curse, and of Jesus' gift of life, with its terrible price. 6 They wept, clinging to one another, and Judas cried out, "The weight is too great on you, Mary, for he would not wish you to pay this price!"
7 "That," she replied, "is why I must pay it."
8 "Then take me," Judas lay back, baring his throat, tears in his own eyes, "for truly your love rivals even his, and his gift is too precious to lose."
9 Seeing the love in Judas's eyes, feeling the wrench of Satan's very claws as he leapt to prevent her, the woman, Mary, fell upon the body of Judas and fed, the curse taking her even as she swept forward. Weeping, she cast herself willingly to the darkness from which she'd been raised, feeling the icy claws of the hunger that would once again consume her.
10 Sated, she rose, and Judas also, now pale and alight with hunger of his own, and they fled as Lucifer hunted them, possessed of a great and futile rage. 11 As darkness engulfed them, they shared one last glance--a last time they smiled. 12 Then it was black, and they were smitten with the fire of Lucifer, losing all thought.
* * *
When Mary and Judas regained consciousness, they both awoke to hunger. Fighting it back, screaming inwardly with the fire of their need, they walked, side by side, through twilight three days beyond Jesus' death. Silence filled the night. All those who lived nearby either slept, or were sitting home. They reached the place where Jesus' tomb lay without meeting a soul, coming to stand by the huge stone that had blocked his return to the world. A fear gnawed at the depth their breasts, nearly smothered, but burning still.
Standing within, gazing at them through haloed prisms, formed of the brilliance of his glory, seen through the mirrors of his tears, the Son of Man regarded them with great sadness, and endless love.
Their own eyes, devoid of natural light, flickered with the pain of loss, and the wonder of the intensity of his love. No word did they speak, only awaited their fate and drank in the sight of their Lord.
"Though I suffer not your curse, I will be with you," Jesus spoke. "A time will come when I walk these roads again--you will be there, and I will remember."
Turning, Mary Magdalene and Judas Iscariot, called traitor, fled into the darkness, overcome with hunger and pain, tethered in the cutting bonds of evil. Alone once more, Jesus stood, weeping tears of glittering sadness to wet the sand at his feet. They blurred his sight. Time was so short. He could not follow them, could do nothing but accept their sacrifice. It should have been his alone. He turned, walking forth to embrace the world.
* * *
Judas: 30
1 Running from the tomb, where Jesus stood, resurrected, Judas stole a length of rope from a nearby home. 2 Coming upon a tall tree, he cast it upon a sturdy branch. 3 Putting to the end of the rope a noose, he climbed to a branch high above the ground, fixed the rope to his neck, and leapt, hanging himself. 4 Finding him thus, the people spoke against him, led by Simon, called Peter, saying, "He has taken his life from shame, for he betrayed his Lord."5 Mary Magdalene, running to where the disciples were gathered, said, "I have seen the Lord, and he is risen."
6 And Jesus appeared other times to his disciples, speaking words of comfort and salvation, and was raised once more to his throne in Heaven. 7 We, who hunger, remain. 8 The rope has failed to relieve me of my burden. 9 In the bark of the tree where we left the rope, Mary inscribed the words, "Here hung one who loves beyond life."
10 May God forgive us."
Flash Fiction
Sebastian read the final words and snapped the book shut. Sweat coated his thin brow and trickled down to burn the corners of his eyes. He stared at the glossy cover of the novel in his hand, at the gleaming fangs and too-wide feline eyes of the ridiculous image chosen to hide this...
This mistake. He didn’t know who the author was, but he knew this book should not have been written. He tossed it aside and strode furiously to his computer, running a hand back through his hair and wishing he hadn’t run out of smokes before nightfall. He couldn’t go out for at least another hour.
He sat down and logged on to the net. He typed in www - the author’s name - dot com and smiled thinly as the obvious first guess proved correct. Animated blood dripped around the edges of a black page done in dark gloomy colors. At the bottom was what he wanted. E-mail. He clicked the link.
As the e-mail window opened, he ran his fingers back through his hair again and cursed. The words to say what needed to be said would need careful choosing. There was no security on the net, and he knew he was probably being monitored. They hadn’t caught up with him, but he knew he’d had the same e-mail address for too long this time. It wouldn’t take them long. It never did.
He glanced around the apartment, clothes scattered over the furniture, empty wine bottles standing and lying about on tables and furniture, the detritus of life. He didn’t want to move again. He didn’t want to clean it up, wash it away, and slip into another layer of anonymity. He also didn’t want to die. Ever.
“Bitch,” he spat, and began to hit the keys.
“You know what you have done,” he began. “I know what you have done. I don’t know how you know what you know, but I know that you should not be writing it down. I know that you should not make a mockery of things so dark and beautiful by cheapening them as fiction. I know that you do not need me to explain why what you are doing is wrong, and yet you do not stop.
“I have been very patient. I have read three of your books in a row, and each time I have seen hints that you would mislead the masses, and so I let them pass. I think to myself, if she tells them partial truths, but sprinkles in just the right amount of the “sooooo wrong” then it will be a good thing. More face-paint for the masquerade. This time you forgot your brushes. This time you might as well have painted a big freaking blood-red X on my door and captioned it 'pound stake here.'
“Enough! If I don’t hear back from you that you will put an end to it, that you will write a final book t
o lead them astray and then turn your talents in another direction, I will be forced to take action for my own safety. I know you understand what I mean. I know, that you know, that I am serious.”
Sebastian stared at the e-mail for a long moment, re-reading it and nodding along with his words. Then, with a quick flourish of his wrist, he signed it simply “S” and clicked on the SEND button. The e-mail flickered, and then disappeared from the screen and into the intricate network of wires and fiber, strands and data that would take it to her. If she were writing, or her computer was live, she would already have it.
Turning away, he stepped to the window, not pulling aside the heavy, velvet curtains, even though they were draped across Venetian blinds backed with rattan blinds and a good thick coat of duct tape over the glass. No reason to take chances – when the sun had died, he would know.
“God,” he muttered, “do I need a smoke.”
* * *
She frowned at the unfamiliar e-mail address in her inbox and fingered her mouse. She let the small arrow hover over the delete button for a moment, and then shrugged. There were no attachments. It probably wasn’t a virus, no reason not to at least see who had written her, and why. She opened the e-mail, and began to read.
A moment later, the good mood she’d carried through the day and had expected to last her through the nights writing was shot. How did the idiots find her every time, she wondered. Why her? There must have been a hundred other authors who wrote about vampires and creatures of the night, but it always seemed to be her phone number, or address – or e-mail – that they picked up on. Again the cursor hovered over the delete button, and again, she stopped.
Then, with a quick click she hit REPLY and in a quick, furious flurry, began to type.
“Dear Sebastian,
You may have missed the word fiction associated with my work, but then, I’m not surprised, seeing as how you also missed the words “make believe” beside vampire. I didn’t sneak into your lair and steal your secrets, and I didn’t write the books for or about you. I don’t “know” things, I just write them. I make them up. It may come as a blow to you, but there are no vampires. Sunlight kills no one, unless you stay in it long enough to contract skin cancer, and if you drink blood the odds are you will get sick and throw up. Don’t bother to respond to this, as I’ve already blocked incoming mail from you. Contact me again, and I’ll forward it to the authorities.