Fingering the feathery petals, Orlando lifts the flower and allows the sweet scent to invade. Memory hangs in the air and he breathes it in.
It is the end of Summer and the air is heavy with the long withheld promise of rain. It hangs in the spaces between, coating Orlando with dusk. Dark eyes surround him, glowing like embers in the wet heat.
Catherine has yet to lose her taste for travel, reveling in showing her childe the secret whispers of the world. Soon after Orlando gains proficiency in his gifts, they leave on a chartered ship, course set to the coasts of Mexico. Once there, they travel inland, sometimes by mule but mostly by foot. Catherine has a desire, something she's heard tales of, she says. Orlando suspects she's had another dream and has set off with the intent to wake that sleeping world. One morning, shortly before dawn they find themselves in an area lacking the caves and hovels they'd taken shelter from the day in. Orlando can feel the dull throb pulling against him, the coming of dawn, and might have been afraid had the covenant of blazing heat not been followed by a vow of black silence. Catherine presses a hard kiss to his lips and he wonders if she will join him in his lethargy.
"My darling... so new." She says quietly before dropping to her knees to dig in the dirt with her bare hands.
Orlando, too, falls to his knees, though not by his own design. Catherine's pace quickens and he catches her gaze, his mouth turning up in a slow, hopeless smile. He watches her and thinks perhaps his time has stopped, the blur of her arms glowing softly in the dark like the wings of a fallen moth. Within moments she digs a shallow trench and pulls him to her, carefully laying him in it, arranging his limbs and gently pressing his eyes closed with her fingertips.
The words brush against his ear as she speaks, "We must be rabbits now, my Cereus. And in the twilight, we will wake as the Dead."
She presses a kiss to a tender curve and leans up, wrapping her arms around the mound of dirt beside their temporary grave, pulling it over him. Orlando, limbs unresponsive to his commands, lays beneath the violet sky and knows he will never forget the scent of black soil.
He wakes to a penetrating cry, heavy and floating in empty space. There is a lenient pressure across his entire body and he feels a blunt tug as it pulls him down from his Morphean flight. The cry comes again, shrill and somewhat familiar. Orlando focuses as he has been taught, the sound of shifting brush scraping against his senses. Small creatures, scavengers, uneasy in their holes, hide from the source of the shriek. Brow furrowed under the shifting damp, Orlando waits for it... and there. The tiniest of sounds, a slow inhalation before the silence is again pierced by a song of grief. Catherine.
Orlando fights against the darkness that holds him, with his hands curved to claws he rips through the earth and enters the world in a low crouch, wary and ready. The cry trails off into quiet sobs and Orlando stares at his Sire, her dress filthy, one sleeve torn off. She dabs at her eyes with the tattered material and continues her lament. They are alone in the woods, no danger at the ready. Orlando relaxes and rocks back on this heels, arms wrapping around his knees.
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Softly, he asks, "Why do you weep?"
Catherine sniffs and says, "Because my love dances with la Huesuda."
Orlando is unsure of her meaning, not yet inured to her moods. Cautiously, but with care, he says simply, "I'm sorry." And forces himself not to twitch as another wail splits the night.
Her cry withers and Catherine continues, "He was to return this night, to dance with me, but he has not." Innocent suffering plays across her features, "Have you seen my love?"
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Orlando now understands and inches towards her, gentle in the quiet. He places his hands to her face and lifts tenderly, until her eyes look into his. "I am he."
Triumph and mirth fill her frame and Orlando stands, taking a step back and bowing formally, extending his hand in invitation, "Lady, will you do me the honour?"
Catherine accepts and lets him pull her to her feet, she dips low and walks into his hold. One hand clasped in his, the other on his shoulder, her long fingers barely brush against his neck. A strange thrill runs through him and they begin a slow waltz, moving to a music inaudible to mortal ear. Orlando does not ask after the source.
They give a final turn over the packed earth and pull apart with a parting bob. As Orlando stretches out of his bow, he meets with empty space, Catherine's body lightly presses against his back. She speaks with a feral humor, grieving lover long gone, "Now, rabbit, who shall dance with Death?"
She takes hold of Orlando's hand and together they travel through the night, closer to a village. Drumbeats reverberate all around them, the air seeming to pulse with life. When the first lights become visible, Catherine leads them to the road, covered in a sparse layer of petals.
"Let the cempasúchil lead you, my dear. For tonight, we are invited." Catherine picks up one of the yellow petals and places it against Orlando's moist lips, where it clings.
"Tonight, my Cereus, we feast." She leans in and sighs, unseating the petal. Orlando watches it flutter to the ground, spinning in its descent. Just before it touches down, he realizes he is alone.
Orlando follows the marigold strippings down the rutted road, as the first casas appear, he slows his pace. Their open doors surrounded by stelae embedded into the plaster, are a welcoming sight, the scent of burning copal and candle light emanate from within.
It is there Orlando's memories begin to stutter. Glimpses of faces, glowing eyes... all tied to the scent and taste of blood. He remembers each open door, a smile welcoming him, a hand beckoning him to enter. Images of three-tiered altars adorned with crosses, flowers, candles and food surrounded by garlands of papel picado. He recalls one host leading him to an altar and bidding him eat his fill... remembers the anima, its dark crust cracking in his hands. He had not cared to taste the remnants of a human life, but he ate the man of bread and understood what it meant. |
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In one home, a young woman, with dark skin and scented oil in her hair pulls aside the dark tresses and gives her ofrenda to Death. Orlando accepts and in turn, dances with her until her knees buckle. He swings her up in his arms and lays her at the base of her altar. With a bit of barro de obispo tucked behind her ear, he kisses the lids of her closed eyes and feels her warmth color his cheeks. When he straightens, cheers ring out from the crowd that had assembled to watch them. It was strange and exhilarating... this celebration. He has not taken the last drink, but the girl is quiet in her rest. The people draw around him, fingers ghosting over his shoulders, his face... hesitant at first. But when he meets their curiosity with his own, their touches grow fervent, almost frenzied. They each want to offer and trade.
One by one, he celebrates with the villagers. As he visits each home he thinks perhaps he is leaving more than he is taking. Though he has drank more than his fill, the Beast still hungers and Orlando feels the edges of frenzy surround him. It is a slow build, this rhythm, and he is wary, unsure of its end. |
Orlando weaves through the crowd, towards the very center of the village. A low fountain, fed by an underground stream is surrounded by the faithful. Acknowledgement and acceptance shine in their faces, unsettling Orlando, urging him onward, urging the Beast within. Amidst the sea of red and black, his eyes catch on a tangle of gold. Catherine stands in a circle of dancers, a skull held high, balanced on her palm. At first, Orlando thinks it to have belonged to a child, the delicate arc and shadow lacking size. It glitters dully in the flickering light, the off-color of unbleached bone. Catherine, devilment in her eyes, lowers it slowly, the music calling Orlando to its sway. Drums beat louder, the tempo quickens and he watches, enrapt as Catherine runs her tongue over the curve of bone. He draws closer as she licks her lips into a gleam of red. He catches the scent of cane and sweet spices, holds it in his mouth like syrup. Catherine meets his gaze and again raises the skull to her mouth. The drums beat furiously and her lips turn up in a cruel smile, delight burning in her eyes. Biting down, the fragile crystals crack into pieces, slivering the shades of grey around her. The people chant and cheer, and Orlando moves towards her. The crowd pulls apart, opening the path to his Sire. He doesn't know if he can do it, if he can keep hold of the Beast. But he knows he must try.
With careful, measured steps, he approaches her. His face a mask of gold hovering over a fire of fury. His eyes on hers, he bows and holds out his hand. He hopes she doesn't accept, so that he might grab her, dig his fingers into the soft skin of her arms and steal her from this place. From these people who would seek to take her... them, and bake them into little loaves with secret ingredients.
Catherine's eyes are steel, serious and solemn. Orlando thinks she looks possessed. She moves forward and raps her heel swiftly against the stone floor of the plaza. His body responds and he takes her outstretched hand, pulling her to him, his hips nestled tightly against the juncture of her thighs. The drummers' pace changes, melody makes itself known and this time Orlando is aware of the source of the music, but the dance comes of its own accord. Taking steps his feet do not know, Orlando guides Catherine around the fountain, through the people. Their movements leave an invisible web, binding all who witness the lovers' return. Orlando swiftly, viciously spins Catherine away from him and she answers by twirling back, her leg wrapping around his thigh. Borrowed heat opens against him. He tightens his grip on her hips and slowly grinds against her. She smiles and lays her hand against his face. He returns the gesture and she turns her head to kiss his palm. Then bites hard enough to draw blood. The people's shouts are almost growls now, their energy wild with passion. Catherine licks the shallow wound closed and reaches up, behind her, tugging a white flower from its place in the chaos of her hair. Gently, she places the stem against Orlando's lips, and he obeys the silent request, taking it into his mouth, holding it between the points of his teeth. They move again around the village square, inhumanly swift in their steps. The beat rises to an impossible speed and Catherine kisses Orlando, taking the flower from him and holding the slender green stalk between her own vermillion lips. With a final spin, the drumming ends and Orlando dips Catherine back, baring the long line of her throat, he sinks his fangs into the flesh before him. The crowd is silent until he pulls back, his eyes glowing crimson with the Sire's blood. A low whisper runs through the watchers and Orlando pulls Catherine upright, where she again hooks her leg over his thigh. Slowly, she takes the flower from her lips and brushes it against his face, his eyes, over the strong line of his nose and finally his mouth before speaking.
"This, my Cereus, my nightbloom, is you. Once a year, under the light of the full moon the deadscape of the desert comes to life. For one night it blooms, then drops its petals to feed its fruit. Living things must die to create anew. But Kindred... perhaps now you see why I waited until you were open, petals stretched to the dark sky? Our night is eternal... and you, my dark soul, are an eternal bloom." Catherine tucks the flower behind Orlando's ear and kisses him, nipping lightly at his lips.
"Now that Death has had her dance, shall the Devil have his?" Catherine spins away, her sultry chuckle ringing in Orlando's ears. He glances at the moon and touches the soft petals that lay against his face. He looks to the fountain, and knows Catherine is already gone, waiting for him to find his place. He turns back and retraces his steps, past doors that are now closed. The people have ended their vigil and survived this night of parted veils. The return seems longer, and so very lonely. Orlando carefully tries not to think of why a flower might only bloom once, under the cover of night. He does not wish to remember his own hidden awakening. These are things that cannot be changed and eternity is far too long for regret. But he can't help to wonder, what of the fruit? An endless night with which to feed and ripen an infinite number... the idea of embracing another is too new for him to find it anything but grotesque. Orlando is sure there is something else he is meant for, something else waiting to be found.
With the walls of their makeshift grave crumbling around them, Orlando slides into Catherine in one long, smooth stroke and it's then that he thinks he might know what to do.
The next evening, Catherine hurries Orlando from his place of rest. Though they were welcomed the night before, today is a day of souls and Death has no place at dinner. None were lost during their feasting and Orlando sees the danger in the irony. They slip through the hills, to the woods where a gorge is spanned by a pulley bridge. The platform is pulled across by deceptively simple rigging, a small house, a shack really, stands on the village's side. In it, a man stands guard, though no threat has entered the valley since the last of the tribes vanished. Now he serves to maintain the ropes and assist those who would brave the crossing. Tonight the low window of the shack glows softly with candlelight. Within, the man is seen weaving together the fibers of a rope. He is the last of his kind, a keeper of the old ways and is more at home amongst the rough rock of the gorge than the smooth stone of the village. Catherine stands within view of the shack and wavers slightly on her feet. Orlando waits beside her, wondering if whatever unspoken rule forbidding them from killing has passed with the previous night.
"Tick tock, rabbit. It's time for tea." She says in a low voice, hunger glosses her pupils, making her eyes seem black. Orlando knows Catherine has sensed something here, something beyond the physical yen for food. She steps forwards and begins her approach, Orlando waits and watches, knowing there is a lesson here to be learned.
When Catherine finishes wooing her prey, she beckons Orlando forward, offering him the final drink. Afterwards, she cradles the old man in her arms, smoothes back the hair from his wizened, leather face.
A delicate look of sadness passes over her and she peers up at Orlando, "His journey is not yet complete."
Orlando nods in agreement, though not certain of how to assist.
Catherine hugs the lifeless body to her bosom, then straightens with a bright smile. "Help me, Orlando." She points the newly woven ropes out to him and instructs him to tie them to those connected to the pulley.
Orlando obeys and climbs out over the steep drop, he completes his task and returns, carrying the rope-ends with him, slipping them over two craggy trees with rusted wheels and over the low roof of the shack. Catherine awaits and arranges things to her liking. As she finishes the final touches, she asks Orlando to tug on one of the ropes. The platform begins to move slowly across and the ropes thread around the trees smoothly. Catherine is pleased and beaming, Orlando basks in her glee.
It isn't until the next day, the sun high in the clouds that the bridge is put into use. A young couple, returning with traded goods from the port, settle half their burden on the platform. The husband helps his wife gain her seat and checks that she is secure in her hold. Together they pull the ropes that send the wooden form over the gorge. Once on the other side, she unloads her parcels and her husband begins to pull the platform back to him, urging her to go find the bridge keeper, who is unusually absent from his post. The young woman piles the packages, making sure the bolt of calico is on top, away from the dust and dirt. While her husband loads his goods, she takes another look at the tiny yellow flowers on the cobalt cotton and smiles, happy with such a simple thing. She waves at her mate and walks over to the low shack, expecting the keeper to be taking a late siesta, or perhaps unfortunately ill. Her brow wrinkles slightly with the worry and she rounds the side wall.
The husband is almost finished loading the platform when his wife's scream empties the birds from the trees. He drops the package and leaps onto the wood, pulling himself across as swiftly as possible. As the platform begins to move, his wife's screaming grows louder, hysterical sobs echoing throughout the canyon. He yells for her and pulls harder on the ropes, upsetting the balance of the platform and sending a small barrel of salt plunging into the gorge. It falls unnoticed as he gets close enough to leap the small gap to the edge. The motion carries him into a run and he speeds to the shack, the safety of his wife the only thing on his mind.
As he rounds the corner, he notices two things. First, his wife appears healthy and whole, and is no longer screaming. And secondly, she is taking great, gulping sobs of air with both fists pressed against her mouth, staring at the front of the bridge keeper's shack. The young husband moves to his wife and turns to put himself between her and whatever danger is lurking there. He is not quite prepared for what it is he sees. He jumps a little when his wife wraps her hand in his shirt and pulls. She is near hysterical and when he turns to wrap his arm around her, she clings to him, burying her face in his chest. The husband is far too shocked to do much other than rub her back and murmur words of comfort. He takes a half-step forward and his wife tightens her hold on him. Making sure her eyes are closed, he reaches out and tugs one of the ropes. It flows through a pulley attached to a tree, and he hears the platform shift. He pulls harder and the rope slides fully around, tugging at the leads looped over it, those tied to the wrists and ankles of the old man. His body bobs slowly in the air, moving as if to a music only the dead can hear. The husband lets go of the rope and the keeper's body slumps forward. He hears a muted crash and realizes the platform has run aground. The thought freezes him and he looks down at the shaking form of his wife and back up, into the sightless gaze of the old man.
When the twilight fades and Orlando awakes, Catherine asks him, "Do you know what that was?"
Orlando thinks for a moment and answers quietly, "Due sacrifice?"
Catherine clicks her tongue. "Foolish boy! It was the Danse Macabre." She parrots the man's movements and laughs. She ceases the parody, though keeps one arm fluttering in midair. "Come now, my love... I've something for you. A surprise that I am sure you'll adore. But if we're to catch our liner, we must make haste."
Orlando lengthens his steps to keep up, after some time he asks, "What is our next destination?"
Catherine looks at him skeptically, "Why.. India, of course. Sometimes you ask the silliest questions." She softens the rebuke with a smile and grabs his hand, pulling him into his swiftest pace.
Orlando blinks his eyes a few times to clear the scarlet haze. Lifting one delicate petal with a long finger, he tilts his head and presses his lips to the silk of it. He thinks of Siegrid and does not believe she would understand. 'Far too long...' He will not dwell on it. Then another comes to mind, one who has visited his thoughts often of late.
Perhaps...
Death is about separating the sacred from the profane.
The sacred is a serious matter,
but Muertos is also a festival.
So this is a festival in a sacred space,
and this means everything is allowed without censure.
~José del Val
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eternal_bloom) wrote,
