Custom
He and Lorena disembarked from the train at a dry, adobe-walled town by the name of Santa Fe. She was entranced by its sleepy timelessness, the black eyes of the natives and the spicy hot taste of their blood, which was both familiar and unusual. Bill was drawn by the vastness of the desert and how the heavens appeared close enough to touch, the stars so bright and sharp they pierced his heart, made him believe it might yet beat.
It is simple enough to feed here; he no longer needs her assistance. He waits in the shadows outside of any drinking establishment or brothel and opens his mind, searches for that oozing bilous pattern of thought he has come to savor. Come, I am here, come to me, come, and they do. The more degrading, the more filthy they are, the easier it is. It is only when he is too angry and can stand no more, when he needs the strength, that he kills and takes them away and buries them. Their wicked blood is powerful.
Perhaps he had saved someone from further misdeeds.
Other times he tries to take with more finesse. The warm elixir surges down his throat through his chest and limbs, pumps warm and fast, faster than he can swallow from such strong hears.
He licks then, kindly, caressingly, to close the wounds. To heal. He always thanks them. The last he learned here in Santa Fe, in the desert.
On the seventh night there had been a red glow on the horizon of the dark sky, and he went to investigate. A man sat on the ground before a small fire, smoking a pipe. His back was toward Bill and made a long, slithering shadow pointing toward him. The stars wavered. No wind blew, no coyotes howled, not even an owl. Only the fire crackled and snapped.
"Will you sit?" the man said. Bill had made no sound - he could do that, being what he was.
He took three steps and settled next to the mortal, and the smoke smelled sweet and earthy. The man offered the pipe to him. Feathers, shells and tiny bones dangled from the long stem.
"I offer this in peace between us this night," the man said. He was old, Bill noticed, yet his hands were steady.
Bill didn't expect to enjoy the smoke, yet he did. He tasted a sea of flowing wild grasses and smelled pungent sage and cedar on high deserts in morning sun. He heard wind sighing in high mountain pines.
The man up-ended the pipe and threw the remaining ash into the fire. Bill would have liked to ask him . . . no, it didn't matter. He didn't know why, but it was good to sit here like this, with someone, and do nothing. Perhaps he was waiting for something - Bill was waiting, but he didn't know for what. He had all night, at least.
"We have a - custom - among us," said the man. He stirred the fire with a stick, throwing sparks into the sky. "We believe everything on Mother Earth contains its own spark, its own soul - the people, the animals, the plants, the mountains and rocks." He turned his deep-shadowed face toward Bill, "Even you." He leaned, arms on his knees, gazing into the fire. "When our people kill, we are aware of the gift of life that the deer gives us, and we thank him. This I say to you, for you have come here to our place, and I believe you will listen, for your heart is heavy. This is our gift to you and those you take, which in some small way may lighten your burden and theirs."
Ever after this is what Bill does, in his mind. Thank you, thank you for this gift of life. Does it help? He is not sure. Maybe. Sometimes it seems hypocritical - he didn't ask the giver, after all. But he does it anyway. It makes him consider what he has done. It makes him think of this mortal whose blood he has taken as something more than mere food.
It gives him hope that even he might have a soul.