Friday, January 20, 2006
“The Resurrectionist”
by
William Blake Vogel III
Even in death, the shadows of immortality shine. Beneath
blood-red stars, Blake Tuttle dug the earth away from the
sepulcher. Each shovel-swing removed away a portion of the
grave like the dim repose that held the soul entombed
within its tenebrous embrace. Soon the awakening would
inhale into cold flesh, lifting new life from the depths of
abysmal sleep.
Blake brushed away the loose soil from the top of the
concrete mausoleum. "I'm busting you out," he said as he
grabbed a sledgehammer from the edge of the grave. It took
several blows with the hammer before the facing finally
cracked away. He lifted out the large chunks of shattered
cement, throwing them haphazardly out into the graveyard.
This was the dirty work, the mind-numbing, back-breaking
grunt duty that had to be done. No one was going to
leave the body waiting there for his convenient
acquisition.
Cold steel slammed against the metal casket lid. Blake's
muscles strained. He leaned into the action, trying to get
as much leverage as he could get to pry the coffin open.
The force of the crowbar soon snapped the hinges loose and
the lid fell away.
There she lay silently, her shining radiance set aglow in
the pale moonlight. She was beautiful, a resplendent angel
trapped in a still frame moment between a last breath and
forever.
Gone, she was almost beyond Tuttle's reach from the pale
confines of the living. Resurrection had to occur soon
after death, otherwise the soul would be irretrievable.
The body would rise, but would be an empty vessel.
"Mr. Tuttle, have you ever been in love?" Gandyer asked as
he paced the floor of his palatial apartment in a nervous
repetition. The old, hardwood tile creaked under the
steady plod of his every step. His face was covered in
stale tears, the drought trails streaking downward from
angry eyes. John Gandyer was adrift in the expanses of his
brand new sorrow. "Have you ever lost that love, forever?"
"No," Blake replied, "I have never been in love. No one
has ever loved me. Some of us were never meant to be
loved. So, what's your point?"
"Bring her back to me. I can't live without her for another
single moment. She is my heart. No matter what the cost,
I must have her back." Gandyer's demeanor dramatically
changed, from a pathetic wreck to a cold mechanism, in the
span of a heartbeat. This didn't bode well to Blake's thinking,
but a job was a job. Who was he to question someone else's
psychosis?
"Price is no object," Gandyer said, throwing a large
envelope full of cash into Blake's lap. "Here's some seed
money. Make my angel rise."
Blake paused, the evolution of his concerns dredging the
depths of his dark soul for some reason or virtue to
justify this course. The moment of reluctance passed,
leaving only the skeletal ruins of clarity. There would be
a price to pay for this action. And he would be the one to
cut the dues of it, in flesh and spiritual agonies to come.
Still, he wondered at Gandyer's torment and it found a
small fissure in which to grow.
What perdition would he suffer yet for this?
Tuttle threw the money down at Gandyer's feet, the dull
crack of it striking the floor made his patron's nerves
twitch. "Keep your money," he followed dourly. "I'll do
it for free...call it the romantic in me."
Gandyer smiled.
Pulling away the lid, he revealed the object of his desire.
In cold beauty she slept, pristine and eternal as the
stars. Long strands of silky, blonde hair cradled her
angelic face. Her form was flawless, a shapely, nubile
goddess enshrouded beneath the pall of pale silence. And
she slept in perfect death.
Blake knelt at her head, whispering the words of some long
dead tongue over her body. With a dagger he cut his hand,
the blood dripping freely on her beautiful visage. Taking
his index finger, he painted a small cross on her forehead
with his freshly spilled blood. Rhythmic and softly he
murmured those words over and over again. Then he took in
a deep breath.
In a wrenching suspiration, he exhaled life into her. The
glowing essence passed from his lips, like an escaping
specter, and flowed utterly within her reposed vessel.
Soon an aura shined all around her. Burning away the flaws
and impurities, her body quickly regenerated beneath the
funereal light of the midnight sun.
"Rise."
Her lips parted; the first breath of rebirth dredged the
bottom of once cold, dead flesh. With the flush of warm,
red blood the lividity slowly fled. The grey haze waned
from newly opened eyes. Mortician's clay escaped from
rapidly healing wounds that mended at a supramundane speed.
"Awake."
The cold chill of death bled from the cascading
illumination of rebirth that now drenched her nubile form
in eloquent silence. Soon her fingers began to twitch, as
crawling life reached into the extremities of its blooming
universe. Hands shaking, her body began to tremble
slightly as the progression continued towards resurrection.
Her breathing was shallow, but steady. The aura that
surrounded her slowly evanesced into the darkness.
"Breathe."
She stirred slightly; the radiant night seemed to echo her
very rebirth. The winds began to gather strength. Leaves
lit the cool nocturnal air, swirling and sailing about the
building tumult. Black clouds charged the chthonic,
glowing sky to break like the raging sea on the distant
horizon. It was an otherworldly scene, beautiful and
serene in its wonder.
"Be still," Blake said softly as he gently lifted her up
and out of the grave. Pulling himself up, he exited the
hole. In his arms, he carried her to the center of a large
black circle painted on the ground. The Resurrection
Wheel, as he called it, was seven feet in diameter, an
ecliptic drawn in blood. It was in the crude semblance of
the Ouroboros, the snake eating its own tail,
a symbol of both infinity and life eternal. Within the
great coil he laid her down.
Kneeling beside her, he pressed the play button on his
MP3 player. The dull cadence of chanting rang faintly
throughout the cemetery from a small set of speakers
attached to the recorder. He stood beside her. The
first words he spoke were in an ancient form of Gaelic, a
whispered call to renewed life. Then he began to speak
more loudly in English, "Arise, as the first did. Like
Lazarus, awake and live again. By the power of God, by the
power of Christ, I command you to rise."
Her body stirred, as what once was, became once more. Then
her hands clenched tightly, the rush of energy charging the
substances of her once dead flesh. A severe tremor started
to take her pallid vessel, as she shook off the final
thralls of morbidity. Soon her body was calm; the
resurrection was over.
He wrapped her in a blanket. "What is your name?" Blake
asked her as he tenderly brushed her hair away from her
face. Lifting her up from the ground, he carried her to
his Jeep. He asked her again, "What is your name?"
In a soft whisper, her crackling voice escaped its bleak
chamber. "Nia, my name is..."
"Silence," he responded, "You need your rest. There will
be time enough later. Now, rest."
"Mr. Gandyer, you realize that when your beloved returns
she will not be the same woman? In some ways she will
be more than human: stronger, faster, have a higher
threshold for pain, and rapid healing will all be a part of
her new abilities.
"She won't age, or get sick. Her new blessed existence
will also be a curse. It will make her different. She
will be immortal, but not invincible."
"But..." he paused momentarily. His concern was blindingly
clear to Gandyer. "But there will be a price."
"I don't care," Gandyer interrupted. His patience was
wearing very thin. He was the type of man who always got
what he desired, no matter what. Why should this occasion
be any different?
"There will be a price, nonetheless. She will crave raw
flesh and blood," Blake continued, "She will not just want
it, she must have it to survive. Sunlight will hurt her,
quite literally burn her. Fire is a hazard as well. There
are..."
"Again, I don't care," Gandyer snidely interrupted. "Just
bring her back to me."
"The magic I use is imperfect. The results can be
messy...flawed. I am not God," Tuttle replied. The
situation was making him more and more uneasy by the
minute. He knew instantly that he disliked Gandyer, but
now he was starting to hate the man. Sympathy only
purchases so much quarter.
"Today you are," Gandyer said coldly. "Today you are God."
Three days later, Tuttle was idling away the small hours
watching the news. Shepard Smith on Fox News was running
down the day's events with a bit of dry, murderous wit.
Blake laughed loudly as he took a deep gulp of flat Coke,
the cool dribble of it ran down his face as he spewed in
hilarity. He almost choked; a wet trickle shot out of his
nose.
The sarcastic comments and analysis tickled him greatly,
but the subject angered him. He grabbed the remote
control. "Michael Moore...what a nescient dirtbag," he
said to himself.
"Better hit the local," he mumbled, switching the channel
to check the weather. Early events rolled by in a numbing
blur of slithering facts. But then something caught his eye,
transfixing his attention in horrid wonder.
Headline: Three Slain in Cannibalistic Massacre. The
details were sketchy, but a photo of the two killers was
all that he needed to solidly strike his heart and shatter
it like fine glass. "What have I done?"
Before he could finish the train of that worrisome thought
there was a knock at his front door. His focus immediately
shifted away from his problems as a sick feeling filled
his stomach like bitter bile as heavy as lead. "This is a
bad sign," he said to himself.
The door began to shake violently, the small fragments
of its frame sluffing-off like an old skin. The motion
then intensified, as the paint started to crack away from
the door's facing. Soon after, the wood writhed and
twisted furiously under the strain of this tremendous
force.
"What the hell?"
As the door finally exploded, Blake fell backwards in his
chair and rolled onto the floor. He regained his footing
quickly and took a defensive position behind his couch.
There was no chance for retreat. It was either do or
die.
Nia stepped through the broken doorway; a cloud of plaster
dust enveloped the entrance like some surreal mist aglow in
incandescent light. She was pale and beautiful, her
shapely body sublimely clad in a crimson silk dress.
"Where is my shaman, where is my miracle man?" she
screamed, throwing over a table and a chair as she stormed
through the wrecked house. "I need your magic. I want
another miracle, show me God again. I want more from you,
druid."
There was nothing else he could do but make a stand. Blake
rose to his feet, "Here I am. I am not a druid, whore."
"Whore?" she asked softly as she meandered slowly towards
him. "Aren't you afraid? Why aren't you bowing to me in
awe, in wonderment? After all, I am an angel and you are
an insect," she roared, smashing a table that blocked her path
into splinters with a single strike of her delicate
right hand.
"I could break you so easily," she whispered, gently
caressing his face with the back of that same hand, "Or I
could give you pleasure like you have never known. Don't
you find me beautiful?"
Blake knew better than to lie to her. "Yes," he replied.
His heart raced, and her ghost-like touch stimulated him
even more. Every breath felt like warm lead slithering out
of his straining, strangling lungs. The more he fought it,
the more he wanted her to take him.
She pinned him against the wall. "Don't you want me?" she
whispered to him again. He was wedged against an oak
bureau, the top of which was covered with knives and other
weapons. Nia's eyes locked onto the blades momentarily and
then returned to Blake. She knew no fear. At this
instant, there was one concern on her torrid mind. "Please,
make me hurt you."
Their bodies shifted. She kissed him deeply, the ecstatic
warmth of her embrace swallowing him whole. The glorious
chill of her desire rippled through him like a wave on a
starlit sea. The sensation was utter bliss.
"I am a devil, and you are my savior. You are my saint,"
she groaned. "You saved me." Her hands continued to
caress him softly. Every touch was an escalating event, a
shuddering glimmer of epic longing.
"A demon saint," he replied. "I am just a Magi, God's dark
believer. I am..."
"You are mine. You belong to me," she proclaimed. Nia's
grip tightened, almost crushing his chest. She was lost in
her passion now.
Blake's hand moved slowly, sliding along the wall, creeping
ever so slightly. His fingers crawled the wood surface;
the paint flaked off the area of impact where their fevered
bodies struggled for each other. Their hunger was an
all-consuming desire to feel their beating hearts as one.
He pushed her away. His breathing was heavy as he
strained to tear away from her euphoric touch. "And what
of Gandyer?" he asked. "What of the great, eternal love
you shared? He couldn't live without you. What about
him?"
She stepped back, her eyes filling with cold tears. "He
was the one who killed me, he was obsessed. Gandyer swore
no one else would ever have me," Nia cried. "And when I
refused him, he stabbed me to death."
Nia wiped away the tears. "He couldn't have me in life,
so he decided to have me in death. Bastard. He got what
he deserved."
"What did he deserve, Nia?"
Nia's voice softened as she spoke. "He killed me. Gandyer
was a selfish, abusive pig. He deserved to die."
"Nia?"
But then she smiled. "When I opened my eyes, and first saw
you, I loved you completely. I was reborn, you saved me.
And I knew then that there could be no other for me. You
are my destiny," she said as she wrapped her arms around
him.
"I felt the same way," he said, brushing the hair back from
her face. Blake laid her head against his shoulder, and
held her tenderly. Rocking back and forth, he kissed her
tenderly.
"How much do you love me?"
"More than life, more than my own happiness." Blake
pulled her snugly against him. "Close your eyes, my love."
Nia smiled once more, and closed her eyes. Her heart beat
slowly, the steady cadence pounding in a calm progression.
The stillness, the rapture of this moment formed a dead
bubble around Blake's chaotic existence for the first time
in his life. This memory would have to last.
With a quick, unrelenting upward thrust he pushed a dagger
into Nia's chest. The cold Damascus steel blade impaled
her yearning heart. She cried out as her strength failed
and her body went limp. Nia slid down in Blake's arms.
Together they eased their way slowly to floor, united in
the fading warmth of their last embrace.
"Why?" she asked, the blood oozing from her mouth in a
steady stream of tenebrous putridity. Her muscles trembled
faintly...the cold, creeping kiss of Death possessing her very
substance in ponderous decay. The shadows were taking her
back.
"It's my fault, you're not to blame," he susurrated. The
tears poured from him like blood from an exit wound. "It
is my sin alone, all of it." Blake caressed her lips with
his fingers, smearing the weeping crimson liquid away from
her mouth. He then used the bottom of his shirt to soak up
as much of the eruption as he could, but it was soon
replaced by more. "I love you."
She gurgled, and choked. "I love you," she told him.
"Soon, she said, "I'll see you, soon." Nia's coughing
became more pronounced.
"I'll see you after." Blake paused, then said, "I'll love
you forever." He pulled her tightly into his arms,
holding her close. Knowing what was next, he couldn't
stand the notion of watching her die. It was too much for
him to bear.
Nia choked again, her body seizing violently. The blood
and vomit spewed from her mouth in a horrendous, forceful
spray. Then she spoke to him one last time, in a freakish
growling tone she said, "I'll see you, soon."
Several days had passed since Blake had lost Nia. How
could someone love another so hopelessly, even though they
hardly knew each other? He couldn't answer this question to
adequately satisfy himself. But he did know that he loved her.
There was no questioning that truth, he was sure of that.
When dusk came, he returned to the cemetery to visit Nia's
grave. Blake laid a bundle of daisies in front of her
stone. There he waited until darkness had fallen,
illuminating the pristine sky in the light of ancient
stars.
In that radiant twilight he dreamed of her, and what they
never had a chance to have together. She haunted the ruins
of his heart. "I love you, Nia," he said as he tenderly
placed his hand on the cool, grey granite of her marker.
After sundown, he left the graveyard. The wind whistled
and whispered around him, it seemed that there was a voice
carried on its black, ethereal wings that called obliquely
to him from the abysmal darkness. Coldy, the voice said,
"I'll see you soon."
Copyright 2004.
posted by W.B. Vogel III at 7:09 AM
Thursday, January 19, 2006
"Theories In Chaos:
Blood Roses For Poe"
by
William Blake Vogel III
January 19, 2006 A.D.
Never to forget: today is the anniversary of Edgar Allan Poe's
birth. It is a good time to remember a true Horror master. Like
a giant Redwood, he casts a long shadow in which the current crop
of writers strangle for a single glimmering breath.
A true artistic paragon, Poe's style was darkness sublime. Poetic
and powerful, his work is an apex model of great writing.
"Alone," "The Tell Tale Heart," and "The Raven" are a few examples
of his dark brilliance. And he created the Mystery genre with the
tale "Murders In The Rue Morgue."
While Poe never sold like Stephen King, his mark on the genre is
immutable.
Copyright 2006.
posted by W.B. Vogel III at 1:02 PM
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