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Blood Among the Vines Kelantha
It
was all quite innocent, the evening fading into night and the last of the
light diminishing among the draperies. It was customary for me to emerge
before my husband, to join our son and his governess in the parlor. They
were playing a board game on the floor, Mirielle in her gown of white, our
son in his demure shade of black, eyes focused intently on the sequence of
the carved wooden playing pieces. Neither looked up as I approached, so
focused were they on the task. Mihail was intent on his turn, but the
governess was watching him keenly, with that expectant, childish
fascination that I had so often perceived was the basis for her meek
understanding. She was not an intelligent girl, much to her good fortune,
for a more religious and knowledgeable sort would have long ago begun to
speculate on the dark methods at work within our humble estate. My
knowledge of the game was not profound, yet I knew instinctively that my
son was winning, for the gleam in his eye as he perceived the board
encompassed his boyish glee at divining a secret ploy beyond his
partner�s comprehension. It was a mind as rapt as his father�s, as
keen as any oracle of ancient times. I knew there was more to the child
than first divined, that the baby borne into the world with no piercing
cry to awaken the deep, nurturing instincts of mankind was not wholly
human, but nor was he vampire. He was a strange creature in-between, with
no common sense of right or wrong but as feeble a mortal body as any could
derive. The
object was sharp as her hand fell upon it, the drop of blood round and
plump as it blossomed on her finger, to be lifted to her lips and sucked
away. I watched it, captivated, and my son comprehended. In his rapidly
maturing mind, he drew a comparison between my interest in that feeble
moment of weakness and the affection that I so readily bestowed upon him.
It was not long before he came into my lap, drawing plump arms around my
neck and resting his sweetly scented head against my shoulder. He was
content to remain there, saying nothing, merely indulging in my motherly
instinct. He savored it, drunk it in, lived for that moment each evening
when I would grant him this pleasure; he craved my attentions as much as I
had begun to hunger for the darkness, and sensed that it was this that
kept us apart. Autumn
was again upon us, and with it the traditions of old, the painted, carved
wooden masks hung on lampposts in a pagan display. It made the clerics
shake their heads, and the townspeople emboldened in the darkness, and
filled me with an uncertainty I could not dispel as I went forth into the
darkness. This night, above all others, was different. I had sensed it
from the moment my nimble hands let down my son, and he had gone meekly
down the hall. Mirielle was ill. I would have thought it irregular were it
not for her pale constitution. I believed it was the mountain air that
threatened her fragile form, but then was not aware of the precious vials
that my husband would search through come the morning, and discern that
one was missing. It was clever of him, so small a child, to have
manipulated the lock open and stolen one of the glass bottles on the long
shelf. He was untended that night, but I was profoundly restless and
risking my husband�s rage that I should leave our son alone, I ventured
into the darkness. It
welcomed me with open arms, intoxicating me with its bleak promise of
eternal night. Moonlight rippled through the trees and along the path I
walked, folding my cloak about me and indulging in the many scents that
came to me. I do not know what drew me to the pool, glistening and
tranquil beneath the silence. But as I passed through the wood, I noticed
a distinct difference in the air, as though it had grown colder. Though I
felt no change in temperature with my current form, it was a sense that I
could not escape, an invisible lure that seemed to pull me to the
water�s edge. There was an outcropping of rocks and it was here that I
knelt and gazed into the bottomless shroud. Not
in many years had I seen my reflection, and it did not come as a surprise
to me that it did not appear now in the ripples originating from the
shore. But the longer that I stared, it seemed the more possible my
reflection became, until I saw as though through a vision my own face,
surrounded in wild, dark curls, eyes piercing and black, reflecting the
moonlight that bathed me in an eerie glow, glistening down the hand that
reached out to the water as if to stir it. But I could not bear to destroy
this mirage, this glimpse of what I was, a pristine beauty that all of
nature remained cowed before. The hand of the woman beneath the waves
moved as I did, turning her head to discern reality from fantasy, and
finding that the two were intertwined. It
seemed as though a voice spoke, softly from beneath the waves, that a hand
fell on my shoulder that was not there; I felt a Presence behind me, a
power that flooded through my form and left me trembling with fear.
Nothing divine could approach my bleak form, and this was far from Divine.
It was ruthless and cold, full of ambition and desire; it prompted the
very darkness of my soul. I sensed it passing through me in a whirling
rush that brought up the wind. Dead leaves swirled from the trees, passing
over the surface of the lake as I lifted my head, shivering as it
surrounded me. The voice was speaking again, in a language I could not
comprehend and yet understood: the things it said to me were dire, a
volume of such torrential, assuming evil that my own crimes paled in
comparison. It meant for me to be awed and reverent, but instead I was
reviled. Whatever
dwelled in the wood that night brought such profound unease into my form
that it was some time before I could return my eyes to my reflection �
and to my horror, instead of my own face looking back at me, it was
something far more terrifying, a face twisted and deformed, demonic in all
its hideous glory. I drew back in alarm and when I stood, the spell was
broken. Blue mist swirled around me, originating from deep within the wood
where the treasure fires gleamed. My hand went to my breast, feeling for
the necklace that I eternally wore, the insignia of my husband�s family.
For an instant, I thought that I felt my heart beating; and then I
remembered that there was no heart to beat, that I was not a human
awakening from some provincial dream. It
was eerie, this changing of circumstances, that blinded me to reality just
long enough to make me disoriented. I was not myself in returning to the
house, nor did I completely comprehend when I entered the courtyard where
my son�s little garden remained. It was there that I stopped short,
aghast at the scene before me. In the moonlight stood a little figure,
staring calmly at the Thing at his feet. It was spread out among the
deadening vines, a pale face upturned in the nightly light, eyes forever
closed and hand outstretched as though in a final plea for heavenly
intervention. My lips trembled, bringing fourth his name in dismay. �Mihail,�
I whispered; and he heard me, for he turned, the knife still clutched in
his fingers. �You
see, Mama,� he said coldly, indicating the dead child at his feet, �I
have brought you a present.� I do not know what happened that night. I do not know what Thing visited me in the wood, nor if it was He who prompted my human son to commit a dreadful, bloody deed. I know nothing, except the strong arms of my husband as he caught me when I fainted, and the far-away disappointment in my son�s voice as he cried out, �Mama�� This fan fiction is for enjoyment purposes only. You may not reproduce, duplicate, or otherwise quote the written text without written permission.
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