Not By The Blood of Beasts

Not By The Blood of Beasts

By

Nathanael Gassett


It was only the nineteenth year, but already the world had gone to rot.
It was a quick decay; one man’s sin spreading like rust on iron. Things could have been different, would have been different were the sinner not the King. As any land’s history will tell, debauchery and power are a dangerous mix.
The King was obsessed with the cleansing of his own body, and driven mad by the thought of his soul in danger. Having knowledge of his sin, he was plagued by guilt and tried to cleanse himself with sacrifices. He attempted atonement; beginning with the beasts.
He shed their blood every hour; a continuous slaughter, staining every garment red with the fluid of life, showing the sacrifice for all to behold. All turned from white to red.
Every lamb, every ox, all birds and all beasts were drained on the altar. And though not a sparrow was spared from the slaughter, his guilt did not depart with their death. His hand could not destroy it.
So he slaughtered his people next. Their price was more valuable. He hoped to ransom his life in fair trade.
He killed them all on the once white altar and the earth drank up their blood till her stomach was full. Then she shut her mouth to the cutting block, pooling their blood on her lips, flooding the kingdom.
The King waded ankle high in the bloody wake, hatchet in hand, guilt at heart.

The narrative begins here, a discussion between two of the last living men in the region: the Serf and the King.
Evening was coming to the hall, the sun setting orange colors in the clouds. The guards brought him forth, hands shackled with heavy iron and thick links of chain. The Serf walked forward without prodding, head straight and not bowed. He looked as a messenger, not a sacrifice.
"Are you aware of your purpose?" asked the King from his wooden throne, it's timbers soaked with the blood of all.
"Are you aware of yours?" replied the Serf with unnatural boldness. "Do you think you can save yourself?"
The King mirrored the Serf's counter, "Do you?"
"My life is not the one in question here, it is yours."
The King tensed, "Need I remind you who holds the hatchet?" His right arm bulged with muscles made at the slaughter.
It was becoming dark and the torches were lit. One by one the flames spread, igniting the humid air. Blood sweated from the King's throne.
The Serf replied, "It is not by the blood of beasts that you will be saved, nor by the last screams of your thirty-seven wives. Your salvation is held in one man."
The King's pulse quickened, "Tell me who he is that I may spill his blood on my account, that I may be rid of this burdensome guilt."
"You cannot kill him," said the Serf. "He has already been sacrificed."
The King hurled the hatchet with a shout, embedding it in the gashed altar ten feet away.
The Serf did not so much as blink.
"Have you come to taunt me, to tell me of salvation only to rip it away? I have tried everything! I have given oceans of blood for my sake, but still this burden weighs on my heart! Still it claws at me with iron talons, dragging me ever further to the ground, ever deeper into the Valley of Slaughter! And you, " -the King rose from his throne- "You have the boldness to tease me with your stories of salvation?" He stepped down, descending the stairs into the evaporating pool of blood, the air thick with its stench and heat. Sloshing through the enormous vein, his hand reached out for the axe. "Let us see if your blood is any better for atonement!" Grabbing the Serf by the collar he slammed the man on the altar's surface, raising the hatchet above his head.
The Serf spoke, calm and unafraid, "He was sacrificed for you."
The King brought the crisp blade close to the Serf's neck, "I will not play this game much longer. I will kill all if I have to, I will sacrifice every living being on this earth for my sanctification." Torchlight reflected wildly in his eyes.
"Our blood won't work. It cannot cleanse you; it will only add a layer of filth to your skin. You need a different kind of blood. God's blood."
The King stepped back, surprised.
"God's blood? Could one obtain such a thing?"
"Many have tried. Towers built, wings constructed, ways to the Gate contrived; but all have failed. It must be given to you."
The King dropped the axe. Ripples of blood circled above the sunken hatchet.
"Then all is lost. For who is worthy of such a gift? Who can earn it?"
The Serf sat up, blood staining the back of his white tunic, "None can. There is no ritual or sacrifice than can equal the price. There is no fair bargain."
"So there is no hope for me."
"No. Not in that way. But remember that God's blood is a gift, and he may give it to any that he wishes. To all that He loves."
"So there is salvation for some, for you... but not for myself."
"Why do you say that?"
"Could you love someone who has killed so many of your children?"
"No, I could not."
The King turned from the altar, "Neither could I. And I do not expect that much of God."
"But you should expect it, that and much more. God is incomprehensible; his ways are not our ways. He is still committed to you. He still loves you."
The King was filled with grief and tore his bloodstained robe. Weeping, he cried out in his loudest voice, his throat cracking with his heart.
The faces of those whom he had killed were brought to mind, the sound of their pleas echoed in his ears. The blood cried out from the ground, shouting for justice.
The King sank to his knees, the juice of his fruitless sacrifices rising to his waist.
The Serf took a wine skin from his side; his clinking shackles were mute against the wailing king.
"Drink this," said the Serf, placing the skin on the altar.
"There is no use," the King replied. "The blood of beasts could not save me, nor the blood of man; why then should the blood of grapes be any better?"
"This isn't wine. This is the blood of God."
The King hushed himself, "You acquire it? But how?"
"I didn't. Weren't you listening? It was given to me; and now it is given to you."The Serf removed a scrap of bread from the fold of his cloak and broke it, giving thanks to God. And the Serf and the King ate and drank, the bread melding with their flesh, and the wine with their blood, cleansing them. The King cried out in repentance, and the Serf replied, "Go now in peace. You are forgiven."

Nameless Vidmo Challenge

The neighbors stepped out of their houses, bathrobes and pajamas being prevalent, and beheld the horror.
“Good God,” a man, Herald, surveyed the scene, his wife hiding her face. The cul-de-sac has covered in blood.
“Who could have done this?” asked another, grimacing at the smell. It was drying, but still wet, still shining in the morning’s sun.
A new figure stepped out, picking up his paper, paying little attention to the others.
“Marcus, do you know anything about this?” asked Herald, from across the street.
“Why would I?”
“Just asking.”
“Better count heads,” he said, walking back to his home.
“Why’s that?”
He spoke over his shoulder, “The blood had to have come from somewhere.”
Herald’s wife looked up at her husband, no longer comforted by the darkness of her closed eyelids.
“Don’t worry, it’s just a prank by some punk kids, no one’s hurt.”
She starred at the blood, her eyes distant.
“Someone should clean it, it will stain.”
“Come on, let’s go inside.”
Herald guided his wife back into the house, others were doing the same; he glanced back once more at the blood and smiled.

* * *

“Sweetie,” called Amanda, Herald’s wife, walking into his office, “Have you seen Mittens? Her bowl is still full from last night.”
Herald looked up from his computer, “No, sorry baby, I haven’t seen her all day.”
Amanda looked puzzled.
“Don’t worry, I’m sure she’s just out wondering around the neighborhood, cats do that.”
“But Mittens never—“
“Look, I’m sure she’s fine, okay? I’ve got to get this chapter down before tonight.”
“Okay,” she wasn’t happy with the answer, but had nothing else to take.
She left the room.
Herald continued typing, fingers flying fast across the keyboard.
The phone rang.
“Honey, will you get that!” shouted Herald into the next room.
The phone next to him stopped ringing, the small red light on the receiver glowed.
Amanda’s conversation was faintly heard. He did not stop typing, but appeared to be listening.
“Oh, yours too? What’s about the Clarks? They’re all missing? Every one of them?”
Herald took his cue, clicking the laptop shut he exited out the back door, calling behind him, “I’ll be back later to bake the pies!”
“Herald, wait!” Amanda put the receiver to her shoulder, but he was already gone.
She stopped. This behavior was so strange for him.
The voice on the phone squawked unintelligibly, she put the speaker back to her ear, “What? Oh, yes, yes I’m sorry. I just don’t know what happened to all the cats.”

* * *

Herald set his computer down in the front seat of the car. The keys were not in the ignition. He wasn’t going anywhere.
Checking over his shoulder he walked to the back of the house and opened the basement door.

* * *

Amanda was still on the phone, “No, Herald just left, but I’ll be sure to ask him when he gets back.” She noticed his car keys still on the desk. “Listen, I have to go, I’ll call you if I find out anything.”
She hung up the phone and grabbed the keys. Looking out the back window she saw the basement door close.
What is he doing there?
Amanda walked out the back door, nearly frightened, feeling stupid for allowing fear to attack her in her own backyard; but still the nagging emotion stalked her.
Creeping back around the house, she opened the heavy shed door a crack; a horrible smell befell her. She put a hand over her mouth, coughing. What is that?
Grunting, she managed to open the door further, dragging the edge across the concrete. She slipped in, and started down the dark stairway. There was a light in the inner room.
“Herald?” she called. The sticky, hot air carried no sound in answer.
She stepped down, no guard rail to hold on to, each step absorbing the sound of her footfall, masking her presence with hard concrete.
The smell worsened.
She tried to call again, but the smell choked her, slaying her voice.
She descended the last step, the inner room to the left. She looked in and nearly vomited. The cats where everywhere, their dead bodies drained of all blood; skins hung stretched on the walls.
Herald stood at a desk, a gas mask over his face and dead cat in his hands: Mittens.
She tasted bile in her mouth, burning her throat.
He turned around, removing the mask. “Help me Amanda, help me rid the world of these horrid things.”
She couldn’t speak.
"Help me send them to Topheth where they belong!”
His eyes were crazed, his voice quaked with rage.
“Herald, I—“
“Try it. I think you’ll find it most enjoyable.”
A cat nuzzled against my leg. Maybe I would like it. I grabbed a knife.