Sacred Blood

Dreadful rows. Endless, dreadful rows of gloomy, blood-soaked trees, humbled before the tapestry of an ashen sky forged by cruelty and rage. Unforgettable of course, the exact moment they were seen. Unforgettable of course, the smell of the smoke, and the taste of the blood. Sulfur. Smoke. Bloody oak and embers; they all suffered from the agony of memory. She could feel her heart rumble and thrash, the echoes of someone scorned from the depths. Forever shackled by a manner of torment she could never fathom, she could hear the murmurs.

She could hear the sound.

“What becomes of a heart that has been bled completely dry of love?”

Those words. They haunted her deeply. For as long as she could remember, those very words echoed to her from her deepest slumber. Those embers crackled from the vast recesses of her beleaguered memory. The sound burned from her soul to a tune of such melancholy and menace that her heart nearly bled from the terror. Her knees quaked and trembled as she ventured forward. The ground reeked of contempt and fury. Sorrow and hatred howled through the breeze. Those forces of bleak darkness lurked amongst the trees and threatened to tear them apart root by root.

She dreaded the place.

Bloody oak and embers, they crackled and raged as a partner to the breeze that screamed a lullaby of tortuous agony.

What manner of dreadful torture was before her?

What manner of dark agony had created the place, a realm of rage and mystery? Was what she saw the result of the man's sorrow and all the madness that dragged the poor soul to the farthest depths of the abyss? How could one once so strong be so corrupted by the forces of love and betrayal? Maybe love was the abyss that would one day become both the man's captor and tormentor. Maybe love was truly what had taken the lost soul all too soon on a long, beleaguered journey to that endless torment.

But that was all of course just a story.

A story spoken from the mouths of those who knew the poor soul best, and those for whom he was now only rumor and theory. And as for the name of the man…that name was never to be spoken.

Ever.

He never roamed the land. As for those who were to be damned, for the man to only be a product of rumor and theory was much better.

Unfortunately for them, he was more than a mere rumor, and she was the proof. As the sweet lullaby of death flowed through the locks of her red mane, she pressed forward to the endless rows of trees. Dreadful trees of sorrow and hatred, they surrendered beneath a sullen atmosphere of horrors she could not bear to look at. She knew they were up there, aware of her every step. The scorched earth beneath the soles of her bare feet stung from the venom of a barrage of serpents.

So much blood everywhere…

So much torment everywhere…

“Help us O thou, great Jehovah, we are travelers through a barren land. We are weak but thou art strong; use your powerful hands to hold us.”

Thunder rolled through the ashen sky. Heaven was ready to explode upon the Earth. She'd heard the song many years before…ages ago. An old gospel song that called forth thoughts she could not bear to stand.

Suddenly, they all appeared before her. Almost out of nowhere, she could sense they were gathered just for her. They’d been starved for the exact moment of her judgment for ages.

“Bread of Heaven, bread of Heaven, feed us so that we want no more. Feed us so that we want no more. Open now the crystal chamber, whence the powerful stream doth flow; let the blaze and cloudy tower lead us on our journey through. Strong redeemer, strong redeemer, be thou forever our strength and guard. Be thou forever our strength and guard.”

A row of anonymous women stood cloaked by darkness; faces covered by creepy masks. They refused to move. They refused to speak. They stood there as a mute force; eyes of hollow darkness permanently focused on her. There were an exact number of them. Each possessed an exact number of golden lamps. Each possessed an exact number of orbs ablaze. She knew not what the plans of these women were. She knew not the journey to the apparent abyss that ached for her soul. Compelled by a force beyond her knowledge, she ventured forward.

The exact number was 33, the exact age of the Redeemer when He left to meet the Father.

“Abandon all hope,” one of them commanded.

At that very moment, the ground began to shake and burn. Venomous serpents emerged from the dust below. Even covered by the masks, she could feel when they began to speak. The language spoken was a tongue the world abandoned ages ago. As she ventured forward, the sullen banter grew to a crescendo. The robes of the women, black as soot and coarse as sackcloth, were blown to and fro by a gusty force. She could soon see snakes appear from beneath them. Shackled by profound fear, she moved closer.

“Remember the name!” one of them shouted.

Regardless of the command, she knew better. The man's name was never to be spoken.

Ever.

“He returns soon!” bellowed another.

She resumed her journey forward, eager to learn of the madness that would not destroy the man…only nurture the tormented soul that was left.

He returns soon.

Somehow, she always knew the day would come. Sulfur. Smoke. Bloody oak and embers. She knew exactly what the place was. How could she forget? That sacred and sorrowful land was now the very essence of what he’d become.

The land was The Forest of Self-Surrender, a tortuous chamber for those whose end came about all too soon, due to forces of darkness and sabotage.

The masked women all broke rank for her to pass, as even the trees themselves seemed to follow along. At that moment, a boy emerged from the darkness of the abyss. He could have been no more than seven years old. He wore tattered garments and a head wrap; almost as though he were prepared for a ceremony of some sort. As he proceeded forward, she began to surrender to the black oceans that were the boy’s eyes. Consumed by sorrow and hatred, they were as black and vengeful as the eyes of the fallen angel. The boy held a large, blood-soaked book.

Thunder crackled and raged across the sky.

What manner of madness had she wrought? Mecca Forlorn ventured forward.

The boy suddenly leaned forward and spoke. The women were now gone, almost as though they were never there.

“Come and see.”

***

“Are you ready to accept Jesus as your redeemer?”

The tremors through the young man’s body were a vengeful storm. The bed now became just a chamber of agony. Scenes of the past, those wretched, racked, gnarled weeds as they were, all came back to haunt the poor soul. The pale and tattered flesh brought forth no hope of renewal, only regret, and the fact that Death would come to collect the tab.

The young man's breath labored, and the future looked bleak. He felt as though he was already amongst ghosts; as though he could already see the jangle of the dry bones. Forever feasted on by the scavengers of that deep, dark abyss below, he could feel the already feeble heart grow weaker.

“Are you ready to accept Jesus as your redeemer?”

Perhaps he couldn't hear her. Those thunderous echoes through an ashen sky caused tremors throughout the old, ramshackle house on Esplanade Ave. Battered, weathered wood creaked and groaned. Dreary streaks of the atmosphere's blood fought through the ragged structures of a house that could tell a thousand tales. Worn, rotten beds, tables, and stools decorated the abode that poorly passed as a home. The place now only served as a sanctuary to the roaches and rats.

Those eyes, once a gorgeous brown no longer held any resemblance of youth. He longed for some measure of hope from the eyes of the beloved nun by the bed. A near angel present for the hour of need, she gave so much joy wherever she was needed. He stared at the cross around her neck, desperate for hope that the Redeemer truly was real, and that He would come to help. The young man's sweaty and cold outstretched hands reached for hers. Almost the end, he pondered. The desolate energy throughout the old house tortured the young man constantly. The moment felt as though broken shards of glass targeted the young man's head. Soon, the end would be a much deserved release.

“Surrender your soul to Jesus,” she pleaded.

That old, tumultuous sound returned. Somewhere, the house was desperate for a bloody splendor. The cold hand of the boy clasped onto hers. She knew the end was upon them, and gave the young man a pleasant glance.

“Jesus loves the people. All the people of the world…”

The raspy, mangled echo came from out of nowhere, as a shock to them both. They were the only ones there, or at least she thought they were. That old murmur began to crescendo…back and forth, back and forth. The dreadful symphony resembled the sound of an old rocker. The loud clap of thunder startled her. She looked back at the man, only to see a sudden change. The cold and pale face that once bore the mask of death now fevered from a sense of purpose. Those eyes once dead, were now blazes of fury. She was suddenly bound by fear.

“Jesus loves the people. All the people of the world…”

The dreadful pronouncement shook her to her very core. Any chance for rescue would be too late. She never saw the flash. She never saw the rusty dagger stab her throat. The blood spurt all over the bed, and splashed onto the man. He was now consumed by a force of venomous hatred. The blood was the essence of course, and he loved the gorgeous tapestry he'd just created.

Thunder crackled.

Somewhere amongst the decay of the old house, a man applauded. Extremely pleased by what had taken place, the blood truly was the essence. A poor old woman corrupted and bamboozled by the fallacy of her so-called 'redeemer', she'd marched to the beat of a drum for many years that harbored no true reward for her. The 'Heaven' she so desperately longed for would not reward her many works.

Laughter echoed throughout the house as the man resumed the melody.

“Jesus loves the people…all the people of the world. Tell me; what ‘love’ do you desperately speak of people? Where can one have such a pleasant, boundless love that you so desperately clamor to?

Prone amongst the blood-soaked bed, the young man savored the sacred jewels of her essence from both hands.

“Where can one locate your beloved Jesus, my people?” the man asked as he sauntered through the house. Although unseen, the sound grew louder as the heavy presence of mystery marched upward, step by step.

“Where can one locate your Jesus? Where can we see the so-called ‘Redeemer’ born of an untouched woman who walked on water and awakened those who were dead?”

The mere echo of the name of Jesus rattled the young man. Bullets of sweat decorated the flesh, and the young man's near-naked body stretched and contorted suddenly. He began to cry out because he could not bear to hear that name.

The heavy footsteps grew closer…and closer…

“And whosoever follows me shall not surrender, but endure eternally. What do you truly seek, my people? To endure eternally? Well as the adage goes…be careful what you ask for.”

Dark rage and madness suddenly took over the boy.

“PLEASE DON’T SAY THAT NAME!!!”

The footsteps of the man ventured forward.

“The world can be a a cruel place…and my brothers of blood and shadows are expected any day now. Follow me and you shall endure the true death…and the re-emergence thereafter.”

The young man could feel the end was near. He scanned the room for some sense of escape, but found none. An awful deed he'd done…an awful deed surely. The blood of a pure and lovely soul lay before those now darkened eyes. He began to grow more desperate and scared. He could now feel the presence of the man even more.

“DO NOT SAY THAT NAME!!!”

Laughter followed. “Jesus loves the people…all the people of the world.”

And then he saw the man.

Full of fear, the young man’s eyes nearly exploded when he saw those of the dark presence. The presence was enough to make anyone who’d heard the name quake. For ages, he was spoken of only as rumor or theory. And as for the name of the man…that name was never to be spoken.

Ever.

The blood-soaked dagger now lay before the young man. As the nun's dead eyes ventured off to the hereafter, tears soon emerged from the man. An awful deed had been done…an awful deed surely. Full of sorrow, he snatched the blade from the floor. The dark presence watched the young lad's movements carefully. The face many never saw now oozed menace. The boy's fear was not just of the man who was known only as a myth.

That fear came from the fact that he knew the man. He knew exactly who he was. He’d seen up close the abject hatred and venom the man's black heart possessed. He knew what had been planned. He’d been possessed long ago by knowledge of the storm that was to come.

The man loved the splendor of the young boy's self-surrender to the dark lust of the blade.

A dagger to one's own throat now made the awful deed even.

There was no last show of fear…only the acceptance of what was to come. Such a senseless waste, the young man's eyes grew cold and empty. The lost soul would now pass on to some other form of torment that was far greater. Such a waste of blood, the man thought.

And the blood truly was the essence…

The man knelt before the boy, eyes locked on what was left.

“You who sulk and wallow beneath the sun, what do you know of the darkness? You have no real knowledge, but don't worry. The darkness soon comes for all."

Thunder crackled and raged across the sky.

"Wake up!"

THE END