Bleeding Heart

Ben went about his other daily obsession, which was buying up and selling real estate in New York and Maine. He had staked his claims in the early 1950s. He did hgave intimate knowledge of his buyers and kept close tabs on them. He presented himself as a successful business man and rarely had any problems in making acquisitions of bare land or real estate homes or businesses.

In 1963, he had a tenant that was moving from Maine to California and he had recommended a fellow college professor, along with his family, to him as new tenants. The name he was given was Bela Collinson. He was struck by the Romanian first name. He had been searching for centuries for Bela Cojocaru, his brother. He sent one of his business partners, the owner of the local mortuary, Bill Loomis, to meet with Collinson and show him the property.

“Hello… Mr. Collinson?”

“Yes, I am. You’re Mr. Loomis, then.”

“Aaahh… eee… yes, yes, Mr. Collinson, I am.” Loomis was struck by the strong resemblance to Ben.

“My wife, Angela and my daughters, Victoria and Daphne.”

“Charming, Mr. Collinson, charming!”

“Shall we go in, Mr. Loomis?”

“Oh! Yes! Yes, I have the key right here!”

It was an older house but the hardwood floors were in good shape. The girls were intrigued by the upstairs and what it would have to offer.

“Can we go up and look at the upstairs, daddy?”

Ben glanced at Bill, who stood gaping open mouthed looking at him.

“Oh, yes! Indeed! Let them go up and explore! Look out for spiders, though.”

Victoria and Daphne laughed and stampeded up the stairs.

“Now, I brought my camera… just to show anything that needs fixin’. Hope you folks don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” said Bela.

Loomis started in the living room and took photos of the couple while they were examining the outlets. He also took pictures of them in the kitchen and the dining room. When he led them upstairs, he took pictures of the girls, too.

“Are you folks interested then?”

“Yes, we are. The place needs a little tending to, nothing major to replace or repair. And it is so close to the university.”

“Alright then! I’ve got the paperwork right here.” He produced the agreement for their signatures and a notary stamp.

Loomis took the photos and the signed agreement back to Ben, as instructed. “If that man, Collinson don’t look just like you, Ben! You sure you haven’t got a long, lost brother? I swear, it was uncanny, and you know…”

“Thank you for your services, Bill. I have what I need.”

This was more than he could have hoped for. He had found his brother and he had spawned two half mortal daughters. He would proceed cautiously in approaching Bela “Collinson.” After all, he had been alluding him for ages. Their bond was inescapable… a battle and only one could be the victor.

Ben had always been resentful of his brother’s propensity for knowledge and the ability to apply it. As a child, Bela could name all the plants in and around the garden of their home and would perform experiments on plants and insects. He had produced several cross-bred insects, plants and insect/plant combinations that not only survived but produced viable offspring.

Their parents marveled at Bela and he reveled in the attentions he received from them for noticing his abilities. “Bela is my second born and Bela is my child of wonder” his mother would say.

Ben pushed himself to outshine his brother. He had an aptitude for making money and later controlled the finances and the family banking business. He knew he would one day take over his father’s business.

Everything was going to plan in 1580; it was the eve of Ben’s 25th birthday. His birthday was one of the few times he could garner his parents’ attentions. A celebration was planned to take place in the garden of their home, it was to be a village event. His father hired musicians and made sure there was plenty of wine on hand, his mother bought bread and cakes from the bakery and made sure to invite all the single maidens who would don their finest, Carpathian mountain village costumes.

Bela took the festivities in stride, he helped his mother with the decorations and gave his brother a congratulatory pat on the back.

“Brother, are you, all right?”

Ben’s skin was colorless, his eyes resembled those of a mad dog.

“I’m tired, Bela, very tired.”

“Here, sit; I’ll get mother.”

“No, don’t….”

Bela returned with both of his parents. His mother was gasped and covered her mouth with her hands at the sight of him.

“No, no, not my son! It is the ciumă! (plague).”

“Then we must take him to the doctor. He will know if it is ciumă.”

“Let me be! All of you!” Bela stood, kicked his chair over and stumbled off to his room.

His birthday celebration was canceled. Many of the young women who were hoping to catch Ben’s eye came around to see him in the days that followed, bearing homemade goods of soups and a variety of cures such as the ends of cucumbers, cabbage and garlic. They were all met by his mother.

“You go away from this house and away from my son. My son is sick because of the likes of you!”

She would reach for the talisman, an ornate cross which hung on a chain around her neck, kiss it and hold it out to their faces as she would exclaim, “Diavolul, diavolul, du-te înapoi în iad! (Devil, devil, go back to hell!)”

Ben’s father would run to the door to bring her back into the house as she continued proclaiming.

“I think some of those women are not good, I think maybe Beniamin has shared more than glances with those women. I think what is wrong with our Beniamin is the urgiei curvelet (plague of whores.)”

“Wife, do not speak of our son in this way. Beniamin is an honorable man. He would not do these things, he will take a bride when the time suits him.”

Ben viewed women as a necessary evil; to procreate with and to raise the children. His room became his refuge by day and the twilight hours he spent in the vaporous, mystifying Carpathian Mountains. His parents pretended not to notice him stirring in the darkness and leaving the warmth and safety of home.

One morning, after months of Ben’s perplexing behavior, his mother did as she always did; went to his room to bring him a bowl of broth but found that she could not wake him. He lay there, icy to the touch and motionless.

“Ben is so cold,” she whispered to her husband through her tears.

Ben’s father came into the room and put his hand to his face. His hand jerked back. He bent down to put his head on his chest and told his wife, “He is still breathing. Barely breathing…and his heart still beats.”

“What do we do?” she sobbed.

“What can we do? We wait.”

His parents entered a period of deep mourning in preparation for the loss of their first born. Everything they tried to do for Bela was hopeless; they could not break the curse he appeared to be under. They feared their son was under the enchantment of a witch.

One morning, in late spring, Ben appeared revived, the spell was broken! He emerged from his room and greeted his parents and his brother at the breakfast table. He took bread and soup and engaged in conversation with his astonished mother. He was bearded, his hair nearly waist length and his fingernails were the length of tiger’s claws, but his parents could not suppress their joy.

His father wept and kissed both of his cheeks. Excitedly, he told him about the events that had passed in their lives all those dreadful months of his sickness, how they thought they had lost him… and about a new accomplishment of Bela’s; he had cross-bred a mouse with a rabbit. Ben sat there, frozen, watching his brother in guarded disbelief. Ben’s washed out face, flushed briefly with color before lunging across the table at Bela. Bela bolted from the table in time to avoid his brother’s grip. Ben lay across the spilled soup and smashed bread, reaching for his brother. He began gagging and writhing. His mother cried out, shrieking ‘Ben! Ben!’ and his father leapt to hold him down. Bela edged away from the scene.

“I… am your son! I… I…,” Ben screamed out before choking his last breath.

The family had to pay a priest from another village quite a large sum of money to perform the last rites and burial of their son. He insisted a lock, crafted in silver, be placed on the door of his burial chamber in the family mausoleum.

As his oldest son, Ben’s father buried him with his black opal ring and his favorite walking stick. “When he is resurrected on the day of judgment, he will have my ring to remember me and my walking stick to guide him through the gates of heaven.”

The priest performed elaborate rituals at the mausoleum and their home to ward off the evil spirits. “Protect these grounds and this house from the evil of this tortured soul so that he may remain imprisoned behind the walls of his chamber; forever and ever,” he would repeat as he swung his incense burners until the air was permeated.

Bela began spending time in his brother’s tomb… alone; to light a candle and reflect and mourn in private. He felt partly responsible for his death and wondered, had their rivalry go too far? And what was this strange affliction that had caused his death?

The priests said it was the devil and his demon followers that had claimed his brother’s soul. Bela did not care for religion; religion was akin to superstition. His illness could be explained, he thought. He was a man of science and it angered the priests that he did not attend church or take the sacraments.

He started to consider his brother a subject for research. He clipped some of his nails, pulled some hair and sliced bits of skin from the area of his neck that bore puncture wounds and placed them carefully in his kerchief. He would examine these samples and come back for more, if necessary.

One evening, he found the lid of Ben’s coffin ajar. Upon closer inspection, he found the vessel empty. He was horrified thinking that grave robbers had taken his brother’s body. But the tomb was bolted and there was only one key. He would not have left it unlocked. He looked for signs of forced entry but could find none.

He waited until morning to tell his mother what he had found.

“How could it be?! He died in front of me!”

“What are you saying, mother?”

“He is not dead! We must find him and bring him home!”

“Mother, he is dead, I can assure you.”

“No! He is alive! I have heard of this in the village. People have been buried but they are not dead!”

“It had to be grave robbers… I must have left it unlocked the night before… I was careless, mother, yes, that’s it! I left it unbolted.”

She rushed out of the kitchen and returned wearing a black veil. “I must go now to the church to beg for forgiveness.”

“Forgiveness? For what?”

“We locked our son, your brother, away in a tomb and he was not dead. The priests will know what to do.”

“Those… those… scoundrels?!”

“You should come with me now. Only the priests can help us now. They are the voice of God himself!”

Bela grabbed hold of the wooden chair in front of him with one hand and held onto it so tightly that it shook. His mother mumbled something that sounded like an incantation to him, made the sign of the cross flung the door open.

When she returned, it was early afternoon and she brought with her the priests, bishops and deacons with her. There were a plumes of choking smoke from the swinging thuribles they carried. As the smoke filled the kitchen, Bela’s mother scurried about, trying to find food and drink for everyone.

“Where is he? Where is your heathen of a son, Bela?” they demanded.

“He is right here. What do you want, priest?” Bela held a kerchief to his face upon entering the kitchen.

“Your mother says you hold the only key to the tomb of Beniamin Cojocaru. It is you who disturbs his eternal rest at night. You allowed the undead to walk free, to roam the earth. You are cursed, Bela Cojocaru!”

More smoke, more raucous incantations and gestures from the church officials only stood to infuriate Bela.

“I forgive my mother!”

“You forgive?! What can you… forgive?!”

“Yes, my mother has grown up in this village and lived all of her life under your… oppressive ignorance. She has known no other life. I forgive her for she knows nothing of the world, of science and reason. I forgive her that. But you… all of you… are a mockery of mankind, of what man can and should become. All your chanting and humming, all your symbols and relics could not save my brother. My brother was sick and no doctor in this village could or would cure him.”

Ben’s father sat in a corner, wailing. “What are you saying, my son? You are doomed! You are damning this family!”

“Nor can any of you save the anyone in this village from succumbing to the same malady. It has a name; the plague of the mind, the plague of the undead… You say I am cursed? Well, I curse YOU! Yes, Ben is now… the undead and he will walk amongst you and take you, shrieking in torment… one… by one… to an existence of eternal damnation, to the nether world!”

Now, the voices and the incantations were calamitous, frantic, there was no unity, only chaotic, desperate howling’s of ‘Blaspheme! Sacrilege! Desecration!’ There was so much smoke in the room that no one saw Bela leave.

Bela packed up his belongings and his laboratory and moved into an abandoned cabin in the mountains. He was truly alone for the first time in his life. He had held onto the samples he collected from Ben for further analysis.