With the sun bright on his face, Anselm stood in the wide, green
pasture. He found it strange that the sheep weren’t out. Perhaps they were
grazing other fields.
Anselm closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath of the clean air through his nostrils, indulged in the sound of the lapping lake’s shore, then exhaled as he opened his eyes again. It was bright out, despite the dozen or so clouds sweeping across the otherwise blue sky.
In all directions the horizon was ringed with a wall of mountains. Across the green expanse of grass and clover, Anselm could see a small church. It was a rectangular building with a single bell tower steeple over the entrance. Almost as soon as he’d noticed the church, Anselm could make out the faint sound of the bell tolling in the distance, the sound ringing clearly over the pastureland.
A gentle breeze swept over the pasture, the white-purple heads of the clover flowers bobbing in the wind. Anselm looked at his feet and saw one such clover flower. He plucked it and brought it to his nose. Anselm inhaled deeply, fully taking in the subtle sweet smell of nectar.
Still holding the little flower at eye level, Anselm gazed at it appraisingly. His gaze wandered back to the distant church, which now somehow appeared more sinister than before. Menacing came to mind.
Anselm glanced back to the flower. Right before his eyes the white-purple petals turned black and the flower wilted, the little life extinguished. The wilted flower slipped Anselm’s grasp as it turned to ash and floated away on the wind.
The land darkened, as though a thick cloud blotted out the sun. The grass and clover around Anselm’s feet blackened and died in an ever widening circle. The blackness and death quickly radiated out from where Anselm stood, until there was nothing green between him and the mountains. The white and scattered skeletons of sheep and shepherds littered ground. The grass now replaced with gravel.
Anselm saw that the lapping lake was red and had become thick with blood. The sky just above the mountains was a blazing orange and red, as though there was some massive and unseen forest fire raging in the distance. The rest of the sky was black, no sun, no moon and no twinkling stars.
The church’s bell was tolling loudly. The previously pleasant sound was now harsh and unwelcome. The clanging was clear and shrill and shocked Anselm’s soul.
The gravel ground before him parted, making a shallow ditch about two or three feet deep. There was an iron banded trap door at the bottom of the ditch, gravel scattered loosely about the wooden planks of the door. The ringing of the bell grew louder as Anselm took a step toward the trap door in the ground.
Anselm knelt and wiped the gravel off the face of the door, indifferent to whatever Hell may be beneath. His slender fingers found the handle, an iron ring that hung from a hinge. Anselm opened the door and all was forgotten as Bishop Absalon sliced open the vein beneath Anselm’s bicep with a lancet. Absalon wiped the blood off of the small blade and put it back into its carrying case. Anselm sat in the Bema at the front of the sanctuary, the morning sun streaming into the abbey and warming his face. The sleeve of Anselm’s black cassock was rolled up to avoid being stained by the blood.
Bishop Absalon was speaking to a handful of Cistercian monks about the rite of bloodletting. Anselm tuned out his Bishop’s speaking and instead focused on the sound of his blood trickling into the silver bowl that rested on a platform beneath his arm. The echoing sound of yet more monks could be heard outside the sanctuary, singing an Alleluia.
Anselm gazed up at the gigantic wood-carved crucifix and the 20 foot tall Christ hanging high above the alter. The wooden Christ’s body was still yet in writhing pose, His eyes turned high and His gaping mouth turned down in horror. Anselm’s gaze darted from Christ’s head to the nail pierced hands, then to the nail pierced feet.
Anselm considered the trickling of his own blood filling the silver bowl, and some small part of him commiserated with the Christ on the wall. Anselm looked at the runnel of blood streaming down the inside of his elbow filling the bowl in front of him, then back to the nail-pierced Christ. There ought to be more blood on Him, he thought.
“There ought to be more blood on him,” said an American voice.
Ansel began to wake up, his dreams and memories fleeing from his waking and damned mind. The left side of his face stung. His body ached. He was sitting in a chair, his wrists were bound behind his back.
“He ought to be dead,” another American voice said.
Ansel opened his eyes, only his left eye wouldn’t open fully. A table stood directly in front of him. Two men in tan, camouflage uniforms stood on the other side of the table.
“Rise and shine, Buttercup,” the younger man said.
Ansel took stock of the two men before him. The younger one was bearded. Ansel noticed the Velcro patches on his collar, both had the image of two parallel bars, what seemed to him like the Roman numeral II. His blood carried the heady smell of testosterone. His mind was sharp, calculating. Paradoxically, Ansel saw that the man’s sense of self-restraint was equaled only by a capacity for nearly unbridled aggression. Lieutenant Grant Colding, United States Navy Sailor, 28 years old. Currently grumpy. These men undoubtedly had to do with the surveillance in Istanbul.
“Is it morning?” Ansel asked, his Danish accent was heavier than usual.
“Oh good, you speak English,” the older man said. He had no rank insignia on his uniform. Ansel peered into his mind. Agent Eric Fichtner, Central Intelligence Agency. Ansel realized that there were at least two or three other men watching him. Their minds were close, but their bodies were unseen. Ansel then realized that he was being watched through the large mirror on the wall to his left.
“It’s o’ three hundred,” Lt Colding said.
“Your accent…,” Agent Fichtner said, his brow furrowed, “Danish?”
“Yes,” Ansel replied.
“I could tell it was Scandinavian, but I couldn’t pin down which country,” Agent Fichtner added.
“I speak a very old dialect,” Ansel said.
Lt. Colding folded his arms and watched Ansel intently, saying nothing. Ansel could tell that Lt. Colding had done this sort of thing countless times before, and always expected to hear lies.
“Do you have a name?” Agent Fichtner asked.
“Ansel.”
“ Ansel. You’re from Denmark. You speak English. You carry no form of identification. Why were you trying to cross the Syrian border in the middle of the night?”
“I’m a vampire,” Ansel replied, mumbling and trying to hide his smile.
“Excuse me?” Agent Fichtner asked.
Lt. Colding unfolded his arms, putting his hands on his hips.
These men expect lies. Ansel smiled.
“Pardon. My English,” Ansel began, “I am here on business.”
“Business? What is your profession?” Fichtner asked.
Ansel paused and pondered his best response.
“Human. Resources,” Ansel replied, his smile disappeared as if to convey seriousness.
He’s fucking with us, Ansel heard the Lieutenant think.
“You men are hunting someone. So am I,” Ansel said.
Ansel felt the edges of both minds sharpen upon hearing his words. He heard their pulses quicken.
“I had attained information from Mehmed al-Shehhi in Istanbul. That was when you started following me,” Ansel said.
“You killed al-Shehhi,” Lt. Colding said.
“Yes,” Ansel replied, “he was a courier for a very dangerous group of individuals.”
“We know who Mehmed al-Shehhi is,” Agent Fichtner said.
“Do you?” Ansel asked, unconvinced.
He’s fishing for information, Fichtner thought. Both men said nothing.
Ansel quickly glanced into the eyes of both men and reflexively cocked his head three degrees to the left, as if trying to hear something very quiet. Ansel was listening to their thoughts.
“You are hunting somebody,” Ansel said, “but you were merely following me.”
“Perhaps we could be of mutual benefit to each other,” Ansel added.
“What do you have in mind?” Agent Fichtner asked.
“You help me flush out my prey…” Ansel began, still searching their thoughts for bait.
“And what? You’ll help us do what?” Lt. Colding asked.
“I will help you flush out the man you are hunting,” Ansel said, and then heard the name that flashed through the minds of the men behind the mirror, and the minds of both men in front of him.
“I can help you find bin Laden,” Ansel said.
Anselm closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath of the clean air through his nostrils, indulged in the sound of the lapping lake’s shore, then exhaled as he opened his eyes again. It was bright out, despite the dozen or so clouds sweeping across the otherwise blue sky.
In all directions the horizon was ringed with a wall of mountains. Across the green expanse of grass and clover, Anselm could see a small church. It was a rectangular building with a single bell tower steeple over the entrance. Almost as soon as he’d noticed the church, Anselm could make out the faint sound of the bell tolling in the distance, the sound ringing clearly over the pastureland.
A gentle breeze swept over the pasture, the white-purple heads of the clover flowers bobbing in the wind. Anselm looked at his feet and saw one such clover flower. He plucked it and brought it to his nose. Anselm inhaled deeply, fully taking in the subtle sweet smell of nectar.
Still holding the little flower at eye level, Anselm gazed at it appraisingly. His gaze wandered back to the distant church, which now somehow appeared more sinister than before. Menacing came to mind.
Anselm glanced back to the flower. Right before his eyes the white-purple petals turned black and the flower wilted, the little life extinguished. The wilted flower slipped Anselm’s grasp as it turned to ash and floated away on the wind.
The land darkened, as though a thick cloud blotted out the sun. The grass and clover around Anselm’s feet blackened and died in an ever widening circle. The blackness and death quickly radiated out from where Anselm stood, until there was nothing green between him and the mountains. The white and scattered skeletons of sheep and shepherds littered ground. The grass now replaced with gravel.
Anselm saw that the lapping lake was red and had become thick with blood. The sky just above the mountains was a blazing orange and red, as though there was some massive and unseen forest fire raging in the distance. The rest of the sky was black, no sun, no moon and no twinkling stars.
The church’s bell was tolling loudly. The previously pleasant sound was now harsh and unwelcome. The clanging was clear and shrill and shocked Anselm’s soul.
The gravel ground before him parted, making a shallow ditch about two or three feet deep. There was an iron banded trap door at the bottom of the ditch, gravel scattered loosely about the wooden planks of the door. The ringing of the bell grew louder as Anselm took a step toward the trap door in the ground.
Anselm knelt and wiped the gravel off the face of the door, indifferent to whatever Hell may be beneath. His slender fingers found the handle, an iron ring that hung from a hinge. Anselm opened the door and all was forgotten as Bishop Absalon sliced open the vein beneath Anselm’s bicep with a lancet. Absalon wiped the blood off of the small blade and put it back into its carrying case. Anselm sat in the Bema at the front of the sanctuary, the morning sun streaming into the abbey and warming his face. The sleeve of Anselm’s black cassock was rolled up to avoid being stained by the blood.
Bishop Absalon was speaking to a handful of Cistercian monks about the rite of bloodletting. Anselm tuned out his Bishop’s speaking and instead focused on the sound of his blood trickling into the silver bowl that rested on a platform beneath his arm. The echoing sound of yet more monks could be heard outside the sanctuary, singing an Alleluia.
Anselm gazed up at the gigantic wood-carved crucifix and the 20 foot tall Christ hanging high above the alter. The wooden Christ’s body was still yet in writhing pose, His eyes turned high and His gaping mouth turned down in horror. Anselm’s gaze darted from Christ’s head to the nail pierced hands, then to the nail pierced feet.
Anselm considered the trickling of his own blood filling the silver bowl, and some small part of him commiserated with the Christ on the wall. Anselm looked at the runnel of blood streaming down the inside of his elbow filling the bowl in front of him, then back to the nail-pierced Christ. There ought to be more blood on Him, he thought.
“There ought to be more blood on him,” said an American voice.
Ansel began to wake up, his dreams and memories fleeing from his waking and damned mind. The left side of his face stung. His body ached. He was sitting in a chair, his wrists were bound behind his back.
“He ought to be dead,” another American voice said.
Ansel opened his eyes, only his left eye wouldn’t open fully. A table stood directly in front of him. Two men in tan, camouflage uniforms stood on the other side of the table.
“Rise and shine, Buttercup,” the younger man said.
Ansel took stock of the two men before him. The younger one was bearded. Ansel noticed the Velcro patches on his collar, both had the image of two parallel bars, what seemed to him like the Roman numeral II. His blood carried the heady smell of testosterone. His mind was sharp, calculating. Paradoxically, Ansel saw that the man’s sense of self-restraint was equaled only by a capacity for nearly unbridled aggression. Lieutenant Grant Colding, United States Navy Sailor, 28 years old. Currently grumpy. These men undoubtedly had to do with the surveillance in Istanbul.
“Is it morning?” Ansel asked, his Danish accent was heavier than usual.
“Oh good, you speak English,” the older man said. He had no rank insignia on his uniform. Ansel peered into his mind. Agent Eric Fichtner, Central Intelligence Agency. Ansel realized that there were at least two or three other men watching him. Their minds were close, but their bodies were unseen. Ansel then realized that he was being watched through the large mirror on the wall to his left.
“It’s o’ three hundred,” Lt Colding said.
“Your accent…,” Agent Fichtner said, his brow furrowed, “Danish?”
“Yes,” Ansel replied.
“I could tell it was Scandinavian, but I couldn’t pin down which country,” Agent Fichtner added.
“I speak a very old dialect,” Ansel said.
Lt. Colding folded his arms and watched Ansel intently, saying nothing. Ansel could tell that Lt. Colding had done this sort of thing countless times before, and always expected to hear lies.
“Do you have a name?” Agent Fichtner asked.
“Ansel.”
“ Ansel. You’re from Denmark. You speak English. You carry no form of identification. Why were you trying to cross the Syrian border in the middle of the night?”
“I’m a vampire,” Ansel replied, mumbling and trying to hide his smile.
“Excuse me?” Agent Fichtner asked.
Lt. Colding unfolded his arms, putting his hands on his hips.
These men expect lies. Ansel smiled.
“Pardon. My English,” Ansel began, “I am here on business.”
“Business? What is your profession?” Fichtner asked.
Ansel paused and pondered his best response.
“Human. Resources,” Ansel replied, his smile disappeared as if to convey seriousness.
He’s fucking with us, Ansel heard the Lieutenant think.
“You men are hunting someone. So am I,” Ansel said.
Ansel felt the edges of both minds sharpen upon hearing his words. He heard their pulses quicken.
“I had attained information from Mehmed al-Shehhi in Istanbul. That was when you started following me,” Ansel said.
“You killed al-Shehhi,” Lt. Colding said.
“Yes,” Ansel replied, “he was a courier for a very dangerous group of individuals.”
“We know who Mehmed al-Shehhi is,” Agent Fichtner said.
“Do you?” Ansel asked, unconvinced.
He’s fishing for information, Fichtner thought. Both men said nothing.
Ansel quickly glanced into the eyes of both men and reflexively cocked his head three degrees to the left, as if trying to hear something very quiet. Ansel was listening to their thoughts.
“You are hunting somebody,” Ansel said, “but you were merely following me.”
“Perhaps we could be of mutual benefit to each other,” Ansel added.
“What do you have in mind?” Agent Fichtner asked.
“You help me flush out my prey…” Ansel began, still searching their thoughts for bait.
“And what? You’ll help us do what?” Lt. Colding asked.
“I will help you flush out the man you are hunting,” Ansel said, and then heard the name that flashed through the minds of the men behind the mirror, and the minds of both men in front of him.
“I can help you find bin Laden,” Ansel said.
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