Keep Them Dry 1

First section in my story of vampires and other such nonsense.

Dark purple spikes of hair gleamed in the torchlight. The eggplant hues faded into black where the spikes protruded from his head. His eyes were a light violet and curved up at the outer ends like malicious smiles. A dark line curved neatly under either eye, creating two thin shadows that accentuated his thin lips. Some say that eyes are windows to the soul.

“Bring me a black man today, Farren. I crave the salty taste of dark skin,” said the man, pointed teeth peeking from under his smile.

This man had no soul.

 

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Ella watched Rosie stir breakfast in a large black pot hanging over the kitchen fire. Her linen skirts swished as she turned to the sink and grabbed the tiny measuring cups from the hooks above the small clay basin.

“Ella, get me the water jug, love,” Rosie requested.

Ella stood from her seat at the kitchen table next to the window and sighed heavily, not wanting to leave the sunny patch of comfort. She made her way down to the cellar, listening to Rosie sing the sacred water call, practicing for her part in the upcoming ceremony. The cellar was cool and dry, as always, and the dirt floor felt marvelous on Ella’s bare feet. When she was younger, she considered this her special place. She would play here, wrapped in the musty cool blanket of dark, reveling in the echo of her girlish voice and scraping pictures into the earthen floor with her small fingers and toes. She would think of her mother there sometimes, trying desperately to remember her face or her smell. She never could recall either and would run to Rosie, begging for stories about how Rosie had come to care for her, and what her mother was like. Rosie would patiently relate the little she had known of the girl’s mother and then carry her to the basin in the washroom for a bath. After recounting the story of a mother gone, Rosie would chastise Ella gently for her dirty feet, not wanting to waste the precious water on cleaning gritty dirt from tiny toes. She had long ago ceased playing in her cellar haven, but there were still times, when sent to fetch the water jug, that she would dig a toe or two into the lovely dusty dirt and send a prayer to Tinali for peaceful rest for her mother’s soul.

Ella returned to the kitchen to find Rosie scooping thick porridge into clay bowls and clucking at her two young children.

“For rain’s sake, Mindi, sit down and eat your breakfast. And stop pulling at your brother’s hair!” Rosie banged a bowl on to the table with the last word, successfully distracting the young girl enough to cease the hair pulling.

“Rosie, our jug is almost empty and I’m sure you’ll use the rest up for the twins bathing this morning. I can run to the delic and get more, if you’d like. I know you’re busy preparing for the ritual tonight, and I want to help if I can.” Ella offered. She never minded running errands for Rosie, enjoying the thought that she was in some small way making herself a useful member of the family and not just a taken in child. Still, she had other motives behind the offer as well. She loved to visit the water priestess, hoping one day to have the title herself, and fetching the family’s ration of water once a week was a perfect excuse to see the delic. She loved the twins, but it was also a gentle way to leave behind their noisy child-like chatter for a little while.

“Of course, Ella. That would be wonderful,” Rosie winked and smiled at the tall girl, knowing she was more so doing a favor for Ella than the other way around. Rosie loved Ella like her own and took great pride that she could one day say a delic came from her family; that she had taken in an orphaned child and raised her to be a water priestess.

“Ella…,” Rosie paused as the girl turned towards her, putting on the strong linen back strap that would carry the jug once full of water. Ella raised her eyebrows in question.

“I know your mother is proud, watching you and telling the moon goddess, Tinali, that you are her daughter, beautiful and strong.” Rosie bowed her head slightly, realizing it was the first time the girl’s mother had been mentioned in several years. A lot had changed from the days of Ella’s childhood as she no longer prodded Rosie for stories of her mother. Still, it felt like the right thing to say. Ella’s eyes sparkled then, and her tanned cheeks took on a pinkish glow. She left the hut with head held high and shoulder’s back. It had been the right thing to say indeed.

 

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“Tell me, Farren, what do you think of this quaint little village? Does it make you miss your home at all?” Malice hissed the words out, sneering.

Farren didn’t bother to answer his master. Malice could care less what Farren thought about anything and Farren knew it. He continued to take the long wooden boards from the horse drawn cart and laid them on the sand. Malice sat cross-legged on an ornately decorated chaise lounge. If Farren had been able to laugh, he might have chuckled at the sight of Malice, vampire extraordinaire, lounging on one of his finest pieces of furniture perched lopsided in a pile of desert sand, the jewels encrusted in the lonely arm of the chaise twinkling innocently in the moonlight. But there was no laughter in Farren. Sixteen years in the service of a monster had starved his humor. He remembered up until a couple years ago feeling the pangs of hunger in his heart, longing for a smile or some resemblance of joy, but that had evaporated when Farren decided there was no way to ease the hunger, no way to find happiness of any kind with Malice there to suck it out as quickly as it had been found.

“I have a good feeling about this one, Farren. Yes, indeedy, Petey,” Malice sneered again.

Farren felt agitation rising in his gut, despising the phrase so often uttered by this evil man. Yes indeedy, Petey. It was ridiculous for a soulless monster to enjoy such a light rhyme, one that should be uttered by youth or perhaps a parent to their children. He focused intently on the wood, one plank after another, dropped on to the sand with the clack of board hitting board, or with the soft shushing sound of board hitting sand. The night had just begun, and there would be several more cartfuls before his task would be complete. He worked quickly, wanting to be done with the moving aspect so he could begin the actual building. It would be a small house, as always, but filled to the brim with the ostentatious crap that Malice loved so much. Fine furniture, shiny knick-knacks, crude paintings created by Malice himself, who thought himself something of an artist.

“You know, boy, this has got to be the most easily manipulated village we have landed yet. Do you remember yours? Tendril, little town of worshipped idols, yes, what a place. Those people were as dumb as a box of hair, eh Farren? All I needed was one golden statue, snatched up like a lost child, and they gave up whatever I asked for. At least the people here actually need what I will steal from them. Quite a trade, huh, boy? Blood for water. Quite a trade.” Malice stared up at the blackened sky, talking just to hear himself. “What is this place called again, boy? It’s a dull name for such a delicious little town. Chairplay, Charsting, something like that.”

“Charstey, sir. The town is called Charstey,” Farren muttered, not bothering to look at Malice when he spoke.

“Yes! That is it. I knew I kept you around for a reason, my boy. Excellent recall skills you have in that filthy human head of yours. Charstey, the water worshipping desert town. What a find!” Malice giggled and clapped his hands once and loudly.

Farren rolled his eyes.

“Farren, boy, tell me about that sweet-meat wife of yours. I always ask and you never tell. I let her live didn’t I? Don’t you think I deserve something for that? Hah, if you hadn’t come along, I probably would have let her live anyways, kept her locked up in my bedroom or something. She had some delightful features, for a human.” Malice flicked his tongue around his sharp teeth.

Farren felt his agitation icing over into pure rage. The intensity of the emotion surprised him, as he had grown accustomed to not feeling much of anything at all, except a dull, throbbing sorrow. He turned in the sand quickly, dropping the few boards he had been carrying and pointed his shaking finger at Malice.

“You keep your mouth shut about her. I may be your slave, but I am also still her husband. You’ve taken enough from me already. Give me some peace regarding Mae, at least. Let me keep a little dignity in those silent memories,” Farren’s voice trembled on the last words, his icy fury melting into a pool of despair.

“Are we done with our tantrums now, boy? I recommend you watch your tone when you speak to me. I am not in the least bit interested in the pathetic little “silent memories” of your w***e wife and I’m certainly not interested in your emotional outbursts. And don’t forget that I took nothing you didn’t offer. Would you rather I had kept your lovely Mae, instead of trading her life for yours? Would you rather I had rejected your little offer? Keep it to yourself, Farren. You are here to serve and entertain me. If you would like to keep up the childish nonsense, I can go find Mae and trade back. Yes indeed, Petey.” Malice’s voice had become a sharp whisper, like a knife piercing the air as he hissed and spit out his words. There were so many ways to control a human, and Malice could find them all and use them for his profit.

“No, master, no. I don’t expect you to understand my pain, but I will keep it to myself. I have for this long and I’ll continue until you’re done with me. It was foolish of me to say anything at all. Just please leave Mae be, where ever she is. I’m sorry, Malice,” Farren apologized, hanging his head low. His voice was dull as the sand and his eyes became cold glass marbles. He succumbed to defeat. He remembered a time when his faith in the gods had been strong and his spirit was unbreakable. Now there were no gods and no spirit. There was only Malice.

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