The Transformation

1.

Somewhere, invisible to her in the fog, an ocean still roared with last night’s storm. The air about her was impenetrable – cold, clammy, and so thick she couldn’t see the ground. Her morning walk had become a labor, for she had to test each step before taking it – across hillocks and divots, past unseen foxholes, through tangles of beach grass.

Then, at last, her feet sank into sand – blessed sand. She smelled the pungent decay of seaweed, and her next step burst the watery sack of a bladder wrack. There, too, was the scent of salt, the salt of the sea, this life blood of the world that concealed many mysteries.

A shape loomed ahead – the barest outline – of edges, partly curved, partly angular. She drew closer until they resolved – a small boat – a rowboat perhaps? No, along this far-flung stretch of coast, it had to be a lifeboat. Nestled at its center between the plank seats lay a large, dark shape. She dropped to one knee and beheld a man – eyes closed and curled up like some nascent fetus. He wore dark clothing, his black hair plastered wet to skin as pale as whitewash. Her heart raced as she reached out and placed one hand upon his shoulder. So cold…

She shook him gently – no response – then reached further until her fingers found the edge of his collar, and beneath that, icy skin. Then something twitched, and she recoiled. She returned her fingers and felt again – yes, the faintest hint of a slow, rhythmic pulse…

2.

Dragging him home, feet-first, exhausted her. Her knees were sore from tripping and falling. Her ribs ached from the savage fits of coughing that marked her disease, and spatters of her own blood stained her dress.

Now, beside the hearth, the stains dried from red to brown. Above the flames, chunks of black, fat-glazed sausage sizzled in a skillet, while she ground cloves into a powder and added them to a steaming tea.

The stranger lay silent upon her bed, his stiff, near-frozen body buried under several blankets, a pan of hot coals slid beneath the mattress frame. She hadn’t removed his sodden clothes – a mistake, she knew.

Would he ever awaken? Was he still alive? She was too afraid to check…

Then he began to choke, and she moved quickly to kneel at his side. Water welled from his mouth and spilled down his face, and she used her remaining strength to roll him onto his side, facing her. The coughing continued, but soon the flow of water ceased, and his breathing grew stronger, more regular. Had he drowned? If so, how could he still be alive?

She brought a candle flame near his face, and his eyelids fluttered, then struggled open. To her surprise, his whole body began to shift about, and she helped him into a sitting position. She offered him the hot tea, and he took it immediately and began to drink.

“Where am I?” he said at last. His voice was deep and croaky, and, for the first time, his eyes focused on hers. She explained where they were and how she had found him – how it was a miracle he was still alive.

“You must eat. I’ve fried some sausage, to help you regain your strength.”

She slid the bits of meat into a bowl and handed it to him. He lifted the bowl to his face and sniffed. Then a sudden vigor coursed through him.

“Blood?” he asked, his voice smoothing into a soft, silky resonance.

“Blood sausage. My family recipe, good on cold days and to renew one’s strength during sickness. Just some boiled grains, herbs, and cooked pig’s blood.”

He placed one piece into his mouth and began to chew. His eyes brightened further, and he began to wolf down the chunks, soon emptying the bowl.

“Delicious. Thank you,” he said, and despite the subdued light of the fire and candle, she could see warmth and color returning to his face, his hands. All at once, he leaned back, and his eyes widened. “Are you hurt? Your dress – the blood…”

“It’s the consumption,” she said. “I don’t know how long I have – a year, maybe two.” His expression grew grave, and sorrow filled his eyes. Not just the appearance of sorrow – but something that radiated from him and reached inside her. Her sensation of it was physical, and a warmth stirred inside her – something she hadn’t felt since before her husband’s untimely death, a scant two years into their childless marriage.

He reached out and rested a hand on her shoulder. She drew closer, drawn by this strange, deepening attraction. Then he jerked back in fear.

“The cross!” His face darkened and his eyes narrowed, their sockets seeming to enlarge as his face changed structure before her eyes. He dropped the mug to the floor and covered his face with his hands.

“Remove that cursed amulet from my sight! Now!” His voice was deep and guttural.

She turned from him, still kneeling, and removed it hastily before dropping it into her pocket. “It’s just the Lord’s cross,” she said. “Given to me by my Ma. Blessed by Father McMurray – years ago. It’s… It’s gone now…”

He removed his trembling hands, and his face was calm. She wondered if she had imagined his transformation – the enlarged eyes, rasping voice... Then her fear melted away, as she saw, for the first time, his striking beauty. So handsome, and yet so vulnerable. She guessed him to be in his twenties – like her – with black hair, high cheekbones, a strong brow, and deeply set dark eyes that glistened wetly in the candlelight.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his breath calming. “But the Cross is a cursed thing to me. Who I am, my very nature, is a sacrilege, a blasphemy. Please, I’m sorry. Now, I must rest again.”

3.

He lay down and slept soundly all night. She, meanwhile, lay awake on a rug and pillow, wondering at his mysterious intrusion – no – his arrival, in her life. She usually dealt only with the distant villagers, her land tenants, and the priest – all of them people she had known since childhood. What had he meant – that his very nature was a sacrilege? Was he an escaped criminal? No – he was good and kind – she knew it instinctively.

At last, she drifted off to sleep, near the fire’s dying embers, while the wind rose and the sea’s rhythmic roar pushed and pulled.

She dreamt all night – of him. He told her about his life – of his many losses and struggles. Throughout it all, his deep, liquid eyes filled her vision, and his story played out as reflections within them.

He was born in the mountain wilds of Romania, as the first child of a peasant family. He spoke of dreadful hardships, and of how, with six young children, his parents had no recourse but to sell him off as a manservant to the lord’s castle. And how, soon after his arrival there, he was horribly ravaged, changed forever, by an evil he would not, could not, describe.

Then her dream changed, and they were entwined on her bed – writhing, sweating, heaving, his lips engorged, his flesh swollen, his limbs long and strong and perfect.

When she finally awoke, her flesh was aching, trembling, and sweat cooled on her skin. She sat up and looked about in the dim light of dawn. There he was, sitting at the edge of the bed, free of his clothing, his eyes fixed upon her.

“I can help you,” he said, his voice drawing her to rise from beneath the blanket. “We can help each other.”

“How? What do you mean?”

“I have the power to heal you – to banish the foul consumption from your body. But to do so, we must reach an agreement. We must sign and consummate a blood contract.”

And then he repeated the same words he had spoken in her dreams – about his childhood, the ravaging, and how he had fled and become an outcast from everyone and everything he had ever known. How he had wandered the world for centuries.

She sat and listened in stunned silence, the urgings of her own flesh increasing, not diminishing, through his telling. His voice wove threads, as smooth as silk, throughout her mind. His very nature suffused her with longing.

When he finished, he said simply “Come to me,” and she acted immediately, shedding her clothing and approaching him on the bed. He held up a ragged piece of parchment – blank and no larger than his hand.

“We must mingle our blood upon this page. And as our bloods and bodies mingle, we will slake our thirst for each other. And you will be healed.”

She stood before him, his face level with her breasts, as he reached down and took her hand in his. He raised her thumb to his lips, kissed it softly, and then pricked the skin with his teeth. It was ecstasy, that sting, and he dripped blood from her wound across the level parchment. He released her hand, and she traced her still-bleeding thumb about the page to smear the blood further. Then he pricked his own thumb, and, as their bloods mingled on the parchment, they darkened from red, to brown, and finally to a black as dark as pitch…

4.

She awoke with a start. The room was chilled, and light filtering through the curtains spoke of dusk. Winds howled, the house creaked, and thunder grumbled from the sea. Sitting up, she saw neither him nor his clothing and shoes. Yet the tatter of parchment still lay on the small table beside her. Its surface was stained in the dried, crusted black of their bloods.

When she stood, there was a brief wave of dizziness, then an ache from the side of her neck. She reached up and felt two small, hard scabs on her skin, perhaps two inches apart. Then exhaustion assailed her, and she gasped when she saw the stark paleness of her flesh.

Still, she managed to dress and venture outside – to the beach, where the boat still lay on the sand – its planks weatherworn, its interior empty. A black wall of clouds swept in from the sea, and tongues of lightning licked the horizon. She called out for him, but only wind, waves, and thunder sounded in reply…

5.

Later, she found some of her dead husband’s clothing and provisions missing, along with two sacks – the onions that had once filled them scattered on the floor. Otherwise, he had left no trace of himself, except for the contract, which she placed into a small box and buried behind the house the following morning.

Her strength and color returned the next day, and, soon after, a renewed will to live. Months later, the blood-soaked cough had never returned, and her lungs were clear and vital. She realized, at last, that she was healed.

But on the first night of Samhain, she awoke to a fiercely burning spot on her breast. She reached for it, then felt fire on her fingertips when they touched the cross, so she tore it free on its chain and flung it across the room. Lighting a candle, she went to the mirror and saw a red blister on her flesh.

Then, fear suddenly gripped her – she could see flames from the hearth shining through her body. She stared for hours, transfixed with horror, as, overnight, she faded from sight in the silvered glass. When dawn arrived, she shed her shift to the floor and wept. Nothing of her reflection remained…