The Killing Fields

I am from the ground. I know what it is to rot, but I do not rot.

I drink the blood of the land, I consume it for myself.

The castle of her father has become a nightmare world for my dear Christine. She often wanders about the dark and empty halls remembering the night of blood that christened her *birth* to me. Her eyes seem distant as she recalls the screams and sees again the horrors that she performed for me.

I allow her to do so freely...I am not so evil as to rob from others their dreams. I sit upon a bloodstained throne and hold in my clawed grasp the cold metal circlet of her father's crown. I watch her live her dreams and think of a poem.

Yet if hope has flown away,

In a night or in a day.

In a vision or in none.

Is it therefore the less gone?

All that we see or seem,

Is but a dream within a dream.

My poor dear Christine takes little comfort in my words. She stares at herself in a mirror. Riviluts of crimson flowing down her pallid and hollow cheeks. Her clawed and gnarled hands pulling at once flaxen, now bedraggled golden tresses.

The villagers now make small symbols of warding when they walk past the castle. They avert their eyes and seek not to ask what strange pall has fallen over their lord. I take his face now, it pleases me to do as I please in his name. His good name. His just name.

A name he used to justify hunting and destroying my brood. A name that justified his actions as he dragged them through the streets and to the pyres built by the villagers. They too had felt just as they had prodded and abused my poor children. He had issued a heroic speech as their bodies burst into flames and their crys echoed into the heavens, carried aloft by the smoke and embers.

Their cries had awakened me from my slumber.

He had seen the alter in their lair when his brave knights had assaulted my sleeping children. He had seen my face carved in the stone. He had known that reprisal would come for him due to his dark deeds. He thought his faith would protect him. He thought God would stand with him. He thought himself safe behind his ivory walls of stone! Was he safe? Was his daughter safe? Was his legacy safe?

I think not.

Now his family is mine. His house is mine. His name and legacy are mine! I shall destroy that legacy, as I shall destroy all memory of him. That is my verdict upon his house. That is the price of my children's blood.

Thus when the new one comes I smile. It is but a flicker of my will and Christine comes too. Her face goes from sad to cold deadness as I watch her. Her mind has retreated into herself, trying to escape the reality she knows I shall make her live. Dream within a dream, it is still yours to live Christine.

We move through the dark night unhindered. I am lord of this land, and all creatures great and small now it within their heart of hearts. The barred shutters and locked doors of the small villages nestled in the shadow of the castle pass in a blur. Tonight I seek not their blood. Their is another.

The wind blows through the trees as he awakens. His name is Christian. It means Christ's son. The name makes me laugh.

He is a Crusader, a valiant knight in the service of God. He has returned from the Crusades a rich man. Rich on his rightly won spoils from the hethens that he butchered and murdered as he raped and pillaged their land. He slept well tonight. Some would call it the sleep of the just.

But he is awake now, woken by a silent whisper I send to his mind. His eyes flicker open, his body grows tense as he feels the danger about him.

He had come home with a band of friends and fellow warriors. They had been celebrated wherever they went as heroes. But Christian was not interested in that. He was interested in returning again to his home. He was interested in meeting again his bride.

He had held her image close to his heart these many long years in the field. He would draw forth a small painting around the campfires and regale his friends with tales of her beauty and kindness.

But dark tidings had come to him as he traveled through unfamilier lands he had once called home. Hushed tales of dread happenings in the castle of his lord. Muttered words about the mysterious deaths that plauged the land.

But he had pushed on, he would not be filled with fear of his own home. He swore he would return to his lord and help vanquish the darkness that gripped the heart of the land.

He swore he would again clasp his beloved and beautiful Christine to his bosom.

He was warned the lord had grown dread, that Christine had lost her joy of life. That they had withdrawn into their castle. That they saw no one, that they cared for nothing.

The young knight did not listen. The Christ's son pushed on, he and his men riding hard for the castle.

They might have made it before night. They might have disturbed our rest. But I willed it to not be so. Thick mists rose from the ground to blind their vision. Wild dogs and wolves harried and attacked their horses. The men grew tired, they agreed to make camp in an apple orchard for the night.

Christian and Christine had played within the orchard as children. They had run amongst the falling blossoms. He had climbed a tree and plucked the apple of her choosing from the highest branch. She had laughed and bit into it. The sweet juices flowing over her lips and dribbling down her beautiful chin. He had grinned as he watched her, the sun dappling in his wavy golden hair.

How wonderful a moment that must have been. How they must have loved this field. It is thus perfect for what I do plan.

Christian slides open his tent and steps into the chill and misty night. He holds his sword in one hand, the heavy blade resting easily in his confident grasp. He looks at the bedrolls of his men.

They are empty.

Christian's bright eyes narrow. His once bronzed skin grows paler as he looks for his men. But oh how pale it shall be soon enough. I reach out and lightly push one of the men, then I allow myself to again fade into the shadows.

A dull low creak echos eerily through the misty field. Christian grabs up one of the watch lanterns. He walks through the camp. He calls out for his men.

"Hark! Whereart thou soldiers of God?"

Where indeed. Soldiers of God indeed. The poor wretch has yet to realize...

"Men! Can anybody hear me?"

I can hear him. But I doubt that knowledge would please him overmuch. There is a distant cawing and fluttering of wings. Christian ducks slightly as the crows flap through the trees over his head.

He walks slower now. Away from his camp and into the tall rows of apple trees. He hears the creaking sound and moves towards it, lantern held high in one hand, sword ready in the other.

Then he finds them.

How like fruit they are. Rich and full of red sweetness to fill my belly. How like fruit I made them. Hanging them upon the trees to decorate my garden.

Christian's eyes are wide as he looks about him. His men and friends hang from the trees, their hands bound behind them, their necks wrapped tightly in nooses. Their dead and vacant eyes look at him as they shift slightly in the stale wind that rustles the dead leaves. Their pallid faces and sightless gazes hold him transfixed.

He likes not my garden...I think that I shall never see, a poem lovely as a tree...it is a poem. No poem is as lovely as these trees. They are my trees. They are my victims.

Christian's head moves back and forth numbly, his mouth hangs agape, his arms slump to his sides. Twenty men, twenty fruits. Who would have thought it could be done so silently?

"No."

His voice is weak, he shakes his head.

"No!

He grits his teeth, glowers at the shapes.

"NO!"

Now it is time. He is ready and I let her know.

Christian spots the pale flash of white in the distant fog. He moves towards it with purpose, his sword held tight and ready. The pale figure appears again to his right. Then behind him. He can hear it rustle the grass. It always beckons to him as he rushes towards it.

Then it is gone again.

He pushes and shoves aside the hanging bodies as he rushes past the trees. The bodies sway, the ropes creak. His feet pound across the damp dirt and grass. The dead and dry leaves of the trees rain around him as he rushes back and forth through the mist.

It swirls around him as he falls to his knees. His eyes are mad. His lantern dropped during his wild chase. Long flickering shadows cast through the dead branches of the trees. Around him the slowly swinging bodies glare down at him. The soft creak of the ropes fills his mind.

Then she is there, walking towards him slowly. Her white dress blowing lightly around her young and beautiful frame.

It is Christine, it is his love.

He looks at her pale face, at her gleaming eyes. Somewhere within him he knows the fear of the unnatural. But I hold him quiet with my mind. She reaches down and pulls him to his feet. Her delicately thin arms encircle him. Her soft billowing dress caresses his skin as she holds him.

He wished to hold her, it was his desire. Do not think me cruel, I shall grant him his final wish.

He looks down as her face seems to melt. He screams as he looks at the graying rotting monster beneath! Her grip is like iron, he struggles to use his sword but it is too late, he is trapped!

She laughs and bites into his throat. His sweet juices flowing over her lips and dribbling down her deformed chin. His golden hair fails to dance in the sunlight, it simply clings to his dying face as he gasps for air.

He sinks to the mist covered ground. He lies there in the field, around him his men share the same look he now has on his own face.

I step forward and clutch her to me. She thinks of resisting only for a moment, and then my lips press to hers as we share the remains of his blood.

Yes Christine, I am your father now. And tonight, tonight you became my daughter.

THE END