There was little comfort in the silence that enveloped the cottage that night. It managed to dig its way in through every crevice, every crack in the walls. To Leander, there wasn’t a sound loud enough to make it stop—there was nothing that could overpower the silence; or drown it out; or defend against the attacks it brought upon him and his once beloved home. He could no longer take it. He gathered what few belongings he cared about, barely able to breathe, and left his home for good. He would find somewhere else. Somewhere he could forget the truths the silence had screamed at him to accept.
He sat inside the tavern at the bar, listening to the expected cacophony as glasses clinked and clashed with the sounds of the boisterous, hearty laughter. It was just after midnight and people were slowly dwindling out. They stumbled as they went, causing a ruckus as they paid their bills and made their way to wherever their paths would lead.
No one had bothered talking to him. They ignored him as if he were only a ghost—a remnant of a man who had lost himself in the pale amber liquid like a dead bug in tree sap. This was fine by him. By the fifth refill his breathing had slowed, and he could no longer feel the edge of his heart thrusting itself against his chest.
He sat there for a while like that, until he realized the barkeep was speaking to someone seated near him. Leander hadn’t even realised someone had entered the tavern at such a late hour, let alone sat down a few seats away. He did his best to focus and listened to the hushed tones of their conversation.
“Tell me, barkeep…” the traveller started as he was handed his second round, “Are there any stories from this part of Aubured? A nomad such as myself finds the folklore of the places I see to be very interesting; it tells quite a bit about the natives, and I do love a good story.” The barkeep paused, pensive as he dried off some of the glasses he had been washing. The man had a strange way about him. His inquiry was odd, but the barkeep obliged anyway, taking only a moment before responding.
“Well, there’s one that tends to spark interest ’round a campfire…”
“Aye?”
“Aye. The tale of the Blood Tree.”
“Sounds intriguing enough. Well, let’s hear it then.”
The barkeep put the glasses down. He eyed the traveler, curious as to what his true intentions were but ultimately decided that he simply didn’t care. It hardly mattered anyway; it was just a tale. He lowered his gaze and the pitch of his voice sunk—an actor settling into character—as he began his story:
“In the northern part of Aubured, there is an untouched valley called Sangrina. There is but a single tree at the centre, surrounded by a dark moat . It is pure white, and it glows so that the entire valley is filled with its radiance. The tree, unlike the valley, changes as the year progresses. At first, the changes are subtle and by summer, the tree is merely a dull white. Some of its brilliance singed off by the strong summer sun. In Autumn, instead of losing its leaves—for it has none—it turns red and little droplets of blood start trickling into the empty lake surrounding it. If ye didn’t know better it would look like some kind of sap, but its copper scent traveling on the breeze brings with it the truth. It continues on like that until in the dead of winter, it glows ruby red and the blood pours its deluge, filling its empty lake with it. There are several stories that different folks tell about what happens when one drinks the blood from the Blood Tree, but most say that you become a god if you drink it—and nothing else—for seven days straight. No one has dared to drink the blood to reach the ultimate dream of Godhood…
“And if they have, they haven’t been back to tell the tale.”
“Very interesting…The griots here must be loads of fun at parties.” The traveller joked as he yawned. He sat back and pondered over his last round. They made some lighter conversation, brushing off the ominosity of the story. He finished off his last bit of ale and thanked the barkeep, bidding him farewell.
Having ordered another two shots in that time, Leander fully in his drunken stupor, addressed the barkeep.
“I’d forgotten that story…” he gulped, keeping the stomach acids from churning up into his esophagus. “It’s spring; the tree should be white, aye?”
“Aye.” the barkeep responded, bored now that he was done with his storytelling and out of character.
“Then that’s where I’ll go…”
“To? Sangrina Valley?” The barkeep looked at him in the typical manner when watching someone who has gone past their limits. He narrowed his eyes and smiled in disbelief.
“O’course that’s where I’ll be going, foolish barkeeper.”
The barkeep scoffed and chuckled to himself, amused. “Ye’re the one who’s goin’a chase a fairy tale, and I’m the fool?”
“Ye’ll see when I’m a god who the fool is!” Leander slurred, just coherent enough to get his point across.
“Well, ye’d have to stomach seven days of drinking blood according to legend. So, good luck wit’ tha’.”
“I’ll do whatever it takes…” Leander was no longer addressing the barkeep and mumbled to himself. “Surely…”
“Yeah, yeah” the barkeep overheard. “Should probably go before I kick ye out for being a nuisance. Yer lucky I still have a room left; yer room six.”
Leander rose, nearly toppling over. He caught himself on the bar and helped himself up.
“I’ll prove it… Stupid barkeeper.” he slurred again, drooling all over himself as he used the walls to guide him to room six down the long hallway in the back of the tavern. The rest of the building was quiet, so he did his best—drunk as he was —not to stir anyone.
#
In the morning, he left the tavern now drunk with insomnia instead of alcohol, but that didn’t matter; he was headed for Sangrina Valley where—he believed—he could kill this living, breathing nightmare. The journey was difficult, for his sleeplessness brought him visions he could not control of what could have been and what should have been. The grief was nearly paralyzing but he pushed himself onward, drilling into his head it would all be worth it in the end.
After several days riding north, he let his tired horse sleep while he hunted. He eventually caught a rabbit and prepared it to eat. While he ate, he stared at the puddle of blood the murdered rabbit left. He watched as it was absorbed by the earth who, he imagined, was enjoying the fruits of his labour as it took back a portion of the life it had given in the first place. He looked at the blood and wondered if it was animal or human blood he would be drinking…
He finished his meal and led his horse to a river he had come across during his hunt and bade it to drink before continuing on their way to the valley. He kept his mind as blank as possible for several hours as they followed the stream north until they reached the opening of a gorge, and tried to cross its threshold.
His horse bucked and whinnied, nearly throwing him. The beast put up a fight to continue on to the valley and it could not be coerced forward. Leander was given no choice: he dismounted and set it free.
“Off with ye, then!” He yelled after it. “Be that way.” He mumbled as he said goodbye, and turned to make his way through the gorge alone.
The stream that had lead Leander to the gorge started drying, droplets turning to stones, after an hour of walking, so he assumed the valley was nearby. At the start of twilight, when the sun nestled itself behind the mountains at the other side of the valley, he was proven right.
He almost couldn’t contain himself as he first eyed the tree. It was as described: white. Pure white. Though no description could capture its elegance nor its pulchritude. Its branches were plentiful though its boughs were leafless. They drooped down like vines; majestically waving in the airy breeze, bestowing light on the ground they hovered over. Leander continued towards it, dusk slowly blanketing the valley as he made his way down. He marveled at the tree for some time and was careful not to be so captivated so as to fall into the empty circular well that hugged its foundation. It was no lake; a nearly perfect circle of darkness surrounded the small plot of land where the tree stood, guarding it from being touched. It almost didn’t look real, but Leander did not wish to find out by falling into it. He threw a stone and listened. It took nearly a minute to hear the faint sound of rock hitting earth at the bottom.
He made camp before nightfall, far enough from the tree so as to not have any accidents. Once complete, he realized how truly exhausted he was and as soon as he lay down, he slept.
#
He dreamt of the valley as it appeared when he first arrived—a paradisaical wonder to the likes of a low-born man such as he. The grass was a vibrant green; blades bending back and forth in the wind as the sun-drenched vanilla clouds melted into the blue sky. The mountain range reached for the heavens, desperate to move like its elemental counterpart. Then there was the tree… The tree stood magnificent in its ethereal beauty, towering over Leander as he looked at the tableau before him. He went closer to it and listened: a voice was calling to him, but upon further investigation, there was nothing. However, as he neared the tree, he did smell something delicious. An ambrosial scent cascaded over him and made his mouth water. He looked for the source, but before he could locate it, a scream pierced his ears as darkened clouds began to throng the sky. His surroundings trembled as the scream was joined by others, disorienting Leander as he tried to stay upright. The earth shook hard, and he felt it opening up from underneath him. Then, he was falling. He desperately clutched onto the edge of the opening, but an indistinct figure grabbed his hand and pried it away, leaving Leander to spiral into obsidian nothing.
#
He awoke with a gasp for air. The dream had occurred countless times over and Leander grew tired of it. He had already spent many months in the valley, keeping busy during the day focusing on sound rather than silence, yet each night had been the same: either boredom or exhaustion drove him to fall asleep, and in his sleep he would have the dream. He would wake terrified of what awaited him in the abysmal well. In a way, he was grateful being in the valley kept his mind away from thoughts of them, but in the same simultaneous thought he wished he could dream of something else even if it was them, so long as silence was kept at bay.
He began to think of them often, trying his hardest not to focus on the darkest of times. He recalled their giggles and their smiles and the way they would greet him when he returned home. He tried to keep his thoughts in the lighter—more carefree—side of the spectrum, but dark flashes of the night he buried his daughter tormented him still. Then thoughts of his crying wife and how he had been unable to comfort her enough, or to cure the pain invaded his headspace. Oh, how his soul had wrenched when he entered their small cottage to find her delicate figure hanging there from the rafters, like a misguided angel desperate to escape the confines of the cottage walls and go home.
Leander tried his best not to think of it because he planned to remedy everything. He would bring them back, and they would spend forever in this beautiful valley. That’s all he had to keep telling himself and he could get through the year.
#
He did. The grief eventually subsided, and ambition took its place. The dream no longer frightened him; instead, he embraced it, daring the spirits to try and foil his plan to become a god. No nightmare was worse than his reality. He had lost everything, and now godhood would be his.
Ambitious Leander grew even more so as he watched the off-white tree of the summer transform to the sanguine sight beheld in the fall. The drops of blood entranced him and made him aware of how badly he wanted to become a god. As blood dripped into the empty space around the tree, the air was impregnated with the metallic odor of iron, but it was different than blood he had encountered before. The smell left a taste in the back of his mouth. It was as if he had already swallowed it and the saccharine aftertaste invaded his taste buds and his nostrils. The scent was heavenly, and it made Leander’s stomach growl. As he began to salivate, it occurred to him that this smell was the very same that haunted his dreams. The scent, he knew, came from the tree.
The momentary worry this epiphany had brought him dissipated quickly when one night as he watched the tree, its glow grew stronger. It had been glowing dimly before—the same ruby colour as the bark and branches of the tree—but now light filled the valley. So much so, that Leander shielded his eyes trying to see what was happening with the tree. Through the red glow, he couldn’t see anything. He stood there in the intense hue until finally, the tree’s glow reduced to where Leander could see. He watched as the blood streamed freely down the branches. He stood back admiring, in awe as he watched the blood reach for the ground as though the tree were weeping. The blood cascaded all around the tree—some falling on the ground, some falling into the well. The roar of it echoed back and signaled the well’s desire for more of the sweet liquid to travel the depths of its throat. This marked the start of winter and the start of the end of this life for Leander, for soon the well would be full, and soon he would drink to become a god.
#
The Valley was a near perfect place, but soon Leander realized why it was uninhabited. Now that it was winter, the screams could be heard. They weren’t constant nor were they ever the same scream, but they were horrific. The gruesome sounds would ripple through the air and echo throughout the entire valley. Sometimes Leander could tell what kind of pain caused the scream—which screams were of pain, or anger, or fear as if they were songs telling different tragic stories.
One day, he was looking down the well trying to determine how much longer it would be before he could begin his journey to divinity, and a mournful yell resonated through the valley and shook him to his bones. He realized at once it was his yell—his cry—the very same one he had released when he lowered his wife’s body down from the rafters and held her cold corpse against him. He remembered yelling towards the heavens, and cursing the gods and goddesses responsible for allowing this to happen. The sound of his own cry cut him, reminding him of why he was there. Pain turned into impatience as the random wailing continued until at last, one blessed day, the tree poured the hardest thus far in the long months of winter. It poured and poured, filling the empty space around the tree completely with blood within a matter of hours.
Leander watched, awaiting the blood flow to cease: it didn’t. The well’s thirst went unquenched; its gullet always open and yearning for more. The tree willingly obliged. He waited a few more days before finally, one morning, he grabbed the goblet he brought for the occasion and knelt at the edge of the well. He decided he would drink three full goblets every day to ensure he was drinking enough. He filled his goblet for the first time. As he did, tendrils of the ‘leaves’ whipped past him, flinging droplets of blood onto the side of his face. He took his hand and wiped the dripping liquid off. The smell enticed him so much that he licked his fingers, pleased to get a taste after all this time. It tasted of vanilla and honey and warmth, and though his tongue was invigorated and astute to all its flavours, Leander could not name them all. The only indication that this nectar was blood was the mild hint of iron at the back of his throat.
Once he realized how good the blood tasted, he engulfed the contents of the goblet, leaving nothing behind. He couldn’t wait for the sun to reach its zenith so he could have another glass. Sure enough when the time came he filled his cup again, this time savouring the taste more slowly. For several days he drank the blood like clockwork, and every day he seemed to grow stronger—the blood seemed to be working. Elated with the knowledge of how close he was to triumph, Leander celebrated by feasting on the fruits and nuts he had collected for the week. He ate under the moonlight, occasionally dancing around the fire to music only he could hear.
It became apparent to him in this time that he should test himself to make sure the ritual had been working. He was amazed with his findings. He was able to run faster than he knew possible. He was able to lift boulders near the surrounding mountains, and climb those with an ease he hadn’t even had when he was a boy. With these newfound physical phenomena, Leander could feel the promise of godhood throbbing throughout his revitalized body.
The screams at night continued to worsen, but in the last few days of the ritual that was the least of his concern. Four days had passed and he was no longer getting stronger. He could feel his strength deteriorating—his speed fleeting—already. “What’s happening?” He questioned. He continued drinking and even drank more than three goblets full.
On the night of the fifth day, Leander counted aloud to himself how many cups exactly he was drinking; to him, it was impossible for it not to work. He kept counting, repeating himself as he nodded off: “1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10,11,12…1,2,3,4,5,6…” until he fell asleep.
#
Leander woke on the sixth day to the sound of a bag clattering to the ground. He rushed outside to find a man there dipping his own goblet into the well. Anger boiled in Leander as he ran to confront the man.
“What do ye think ye’re doing?!” He grabbed the man from behind, spilling the blood in the man’s cup onto the grass. “What are ye doing?!” He asked again. The man stood back after getting up from where Leander had practically thrown him, and started laughing.
“How long have ye been here?!?!” Leander was growing livid.
“All year.” The man smiled as he answered coolly.
“Do not mock me!” Leander approached him and grabbed him by his collar, looking at him in the eyes and noting the familiar darkness there…
“I mock thee not — “
“And how long have ye been drinking the blood!?”
“For the past six days. Tomorrow will be my last.”
“So, ye’re the one making me weaker!!” Leander punched him, no longer able to control his rage. He knocked him back to the ground, but the man simply laughed.
“I’m not taking anything from you. But the tree is…”
“What do ye mean?” Leander’s curiosity peaked; his anger temporarily subsided.
“I’ve seen you—all you have done is drink—and—and you have given nothing back.”
“Then what do I have to do?”
“Give some back.”
Before Leander could question the man more, he was gone. His belongings left no trace either. Leander stood there in confusion. Had the man been right? The fight had left Leander surprisingly fatigued and unable to stand for very long. His mind was the mirror on which steam clung relentlessly; he could find no clarity. Instead of fighting the fog that would not lift, he slept.
In his mid-morning slumber nightmares visited him, vivid and abhorrent, making him long for his previous recurring dream. In such a short time, Leander saw horrors he only heard of from far off lands. He could not make them stop. He saw atrocity after atrocity after atrocity until finally he awoke, the last thing he dreamt being the worst of all the things he had seen: a child being born from the belly of a woman only to be drowned immediately by its father as the would-be-mother screamed and pleaded until she too, met her end at the point of his dagger. He woke up crying, but realized a familiar touch across his face. Leander blinked tears away to view his wife, her arm reaching to grace his cheek, as she smiled.
“Morana…” He reached out for her but grabbed at nothing. Hurt and angry, Leander crawled out of bed thrashing everything within his little camp.
“I. Will. Be. A. God.” He yelled, the low bass reverberating through every bone in his body and every stone in the valley. Spastic, he looked for his goblet; every action was a burst of desperate, frantic anger. His eyes came across a shadow moving near the tree. It was the man. Leander rushed him, grabbed him by his arms, and shook as hard as he could.
“What must I do?!” He demanded, but the man, unfazed, looked at him and grinned.
“Even if I told you, you’re not strong enough to do it. You couldn’t save your wife or your little girl. Why would you be able to do this?”
“What must I do?! What must I give back to the tree?!?! I’ll do anything!”
“It doesn’t matter, Leander.” The smiled melted from his face. “You’ve failed.”
A low growl vibrated through Leander’s chest. It grew, feeding on his lividity, until Leander was yelling at the top of his lungs. He began pelting the man. Fist after fist, crashed down on the man’s skull. Leander wouldn’t stop—couldn’t stop—until he grew tired. Panting, he stood over the man. The man lay there on the ground, his chest rose and fell, sporadic with laughter. Blood seeped through every orifice on his head. He crawled closer to the edge of the well, his blood cells joining their brethren. Leander understood at once, as he watched the man—now fully healed. Leander went back to camp as fast as he could and returned to stand at the end of edge of the well.
“Not man enough?!” He rolled up his sleeve, presenting his pale forearm to the man. “Why be a man, when I can be a god!?” He began cutting, tracing the knife along his veins. The man watched, silent as Leander continued cutting his arm. Cut after cut, Leander’s blood mingled with the blood of the Blood Tree. He cut until he could no longer see his pallid skin through the scarlet mess he made. He moved onto his legs, cutting through his trousers and digging his knife into his thighs and then his chest and then his face. He heard the man give out a hearty laugh, enraging Leander more. He didn’t care that it sounded just like his own…
Dizzy with anger and frustration, he made one last desperate cut into his stomach, eviscerating himself. He felt the knife slip through his fingers, finally able to feel the pain he had brought down upon himself—finally able to hear the millions of screams sounding in the valley all at once. His ears began bleeding. As he looked down, barely able to see, he felt his hot insides slide out of him and into his hands. He leaned forward in agony, and tried to drink some of the blood from the tree, but it was too late. He heard brutal laughter before his vision went black and he fell forward into the well, letting the cool embrace of blood and silence engulf him.
