🚀 go-pugleaf

     The small blue world is fragmented and divided.  It has been so from the
rise of sentient life on its land, and will continue to be for centuries hence.
The water that covers over two thirds of the surface of the world enforces that
isolation.  It can only be overcome with much hardship and sacrafice, which
only the hardiest -- or greediest -- souls will suffer.
     In Rajasthan, in northwestern India, the Rajput clan that rules the
region marks the anniversary of the disappearance of an eleven-year old
princess who vanished without a trace.  She was to be married into the
neighboring Sisodiya Rajput clan, to stabilize the local politics.  She had
been given a medallion by her future brother-in-law, shortly before vanishing.
     Yolngu breathes in the sharp air of the desert, as he enters the Dreaming,
following the blueprint that his people live by.  Time ceases to exist, and
he sees beyond the fabric of reality.  He does not, however, see that, a quarter
millenium from now, his world will be invaded by refuse cast away by England,
and that his people will be brought close to extinction.  Today, they thrive,
isolated, on what will come to be known as Australia.
     Cheng-te, the Chinese emperor, carouses freely, encouraged by his eunuchs,
ever seeking greater influence.  It is a time of peace in China, in the midst
of the Ming Dynasty.
     In Antarctica, a group of shoggoths stage an Ice Follies show.  Don't ask.
     A Mayan boy, Tenochti, is lying on his back against a small hill on the
Yucatan peninsula, quietly enjoying the attentions of a slave boy.  When he is
grown, he will marry and have children, but for now, he is to be distracted
from attempting to seduce any Mayan girls, who must remain virginal until
marriage.  Neither boy realizes that, half a world away and twenty years prior,
Pope Alexander VI claimed most of the New World for Spain, and when the
conquistadors arrive, neither they nor the disease they bring will make any
distinction between the old, disintegrating, peaceful Mayan culture and the
young, authoritarian cultures of the Incas and the Aztecs.
     Pope Julius II, in Europe, enters the last year of his reign.  In southern
and middle Europe, the Inquisition thrives.  Louis XII reigns in France, if
that means anything to you.
     In Saxony, the man who occupies the Chair of Biblical Theology at the
University of Wittenberg is packing, as he is going to travel to England.  He is
bothered at the prospect of leaving the monastery at which he preaches, though
not by half as much as he is bothered by the practices of the Church.
     It is the eighteenth year in which the Tudor House occupies the throne of
England.  Henry VIII is continuing the work his father has done to restructure
the administration of law and to campaign against the medieval Church, all the
while singing a song about him that won't be written for another four hundred
and fifty five years.  The Black Death is in the past, and agrarian England is
giving way.
     The city is London.
     The year is 1513.
     This summer, a woman will die.

     Kinda grabs you by the po-pos, doesn't it?


                               ^v^v^v^v^v^v^


                               BLOOD SEASON
                     The Origin of Chalandra Harkness

                            Chapter One of Five
                                 "Meeting"
                                    by
                               Gary W. Olson


                               ^v^v^v^v^v^v^

     "I don't think she'll listen, mother," Cassandra Harkness said.  "We've
tried to talk to her, but..."
     "She's stubborn, I know," May Harkness answered.  "She gets it from your
father."
     "Should I try again?"
     "No," May said.  "I will."
     Chalandra sighed, hearing those words.  Her mother and her sister were
just in the hallway, talking as though she couldn't hear a word they were
saying.  She could picture it in her mind: her mother, small and thin, and
yet possessed of a presence that could silence virtually anyone.  Cassandra,
her sister, shared her mother's diminutive physique and long, elegant black
hair, but not her fierce, powerful eyes or stern, commanding voice.  Rather,
she seemed almost dreamlike at times, such as when she would gaze from her
balcony, or as she descended the steps of their house.
     Her mother had her talk to Chalandra because she was the only one in
the family Chalandra would listen to.  That was because Cassandra was the only
one who would side with her, though never in front of her mother.
     Chalandra moved towards the balcony, away from where she had been
listening in.  Her mother entered the suite a few moments later.  If she knew
that Chalandra had been listening in, she gave no sign.  Instead, she cut
straight to the point, as she always did.
     "You will see him this evening," she said.  "It's already been arranged."
     "As my marriage to him has," Chalandra replied.  "You didn't so much as
ask my opinion of either, so why do I even need to show up?"
     "Impudent child," May said.  "This is the Baron Joseph Phoot we are
talking about.  He has at last returned from his trip to Italy, and he wishes
to see his bride-to-be tonight.  The Duke and Duchess of Cromwell are holding
a celebration to welcome him back, and the King himself will be there."
     "So he'll hardly notice I'm gone," Chalandra said, looking out from the
balcony at the streets of London.  The mist was rising from them, the precious
evening's rain evaporating.  For a moment, she thought she saw one of the street
urchins look up at her.  But her mother was talking, distracting her--
     "Do you know how hard your father and I have worked, to attain our
present position?" May asked.  "The Harkness name is known throughout London
as belonging to the most prominent of the Merchant Adventurers.  Our business
in the woolen cloth trade is strong, strong enough to court royalty.  And the
Baron has the favor of the Crown."
     "He is a cruel man," Chalandra said.  "I know what happened to his
previous Baroness."
     "Rumors, nothing more," May told her.  She turned Chalandra to face her.
Her face attempted to soften, almost succeeding.  "My dear daughter, you're
almost twenty-three.  You should have been married years ago, yet you
rejected all your suitors.  Most girls marry by Cassandra's age."
     "But the Baron wants me," Chalandra said.
     "Yes, and you should feel lucky he does," May said.  "Eight p.m.  Wear
your best gown."
     Chalandra looked into her mother's eyes.  They were hard, and would brook
no argument.  Chalandra never could argue with those eyes.
     "Yes, mother," she said, hating the taste of the words as they emerged.
     "That's better, dear," May said, already turning towards the door.  "Are
you still planning on going into town today?"
     "Yes," Chalandra said.  "As soon as Mary Ellen gets here."  Her mother
nodded, and exited into the hallway.  When she was sure she was gone,
Chalandra pounded against the wall in frustration.
     "Now, Chalandra," a firm, yet warm voice said.  "You'll only hurt your
hand if you do that."
     Chalandra looked up to see Belim in the doorway, looking at her with
concern.  She was a mulatto, the daughter of the captain of one of the
earliest expeditions to the dark continent of Africa, brought back only to
be abandoned to the streets when her father died at the hand of his first
mate, in a seedy sailor's tavern.  Chalandra's father encountered Belim
almost three decades ago, when she attempted to pick his pocket, and
instead of having her arrested, employed her as his servant.  The only
servant he could afford, at the time.
     Belim had raised her, Cassandra, and her older brother Mandrake as though
they were her own children.  In a way, they were - May was never entirely
comfortable with motherhood, and her father, Bertrand, was always too busy
with his increasingly successful business.
     May didn't like Belim, either.  But she would never tell Bertrand to get
rid of her, as she typically did with servants she didn't like.  And Belim
was the only one in the household who showed no overt deference to May, though
Belim would never contradict her or disobey her.
     Chalandra knew enough about her mother to know why: her mother knew that
Chalandra loved Belim dearly, and that if she got rid of Belim, she would never
get Chalandra to do her bidding.
     And once Chalandra was safely married away...
     She felt herself breaking down, despite her resolve not to.  Belim was
there, her heavy arms around Chalandra's shoulders, as Chalandra began crying
against her blouse.
     "It's not *fair!*" Chalandra gasped, in between sobs.  "He's an awful
man, simply awful!"
     "I know, dear, I know," Belim said, comforting Chalandra as best she
could, as the tough facade crumbled.  Chalandra felt safe with her, like she
felt with no one else.  But even this wasn't enough, now.
     "I wish I was dead," Chalandra said, as the last of the tears subsided.
     "I can't believe that," Belim said, lifting up Chalandra's head and
drying her eyes with a kerchief.  "You enjoy living too much, like your father."
Belim stroked Chalandra's dirtwater blonde hair, which hung in soft, clean
curls down past her shoulders.  The hair was one of the features she had
inherited from her father.  That and her lips, soft and expressive.
     Chalandra sighed.  Belim was on her side, as much as she could be, but
she couldn't understand how Chalandra felt just now.
     It was true that she loved life...
     ...but she would rather be dead, than married to Baron Phoot.

                               ^v^v^v^v^v^v^

     "Chal, are you in there?" Mary Ellen Hatchetnose asked, peering at her.
     "Mmmm, what?" Chalandra asked, as she realized she had let her attention
wander.
     "I was asking what you thought of this cloth," Mary told her, indicating
a bolt of deep blue woolen cloth.
     "Oh, it's nice," Chalandra said.  "But I doubt it would go very well with
your habit."
     "I'm not a Sister yet," Mary answered, laughing a bit.  Such a sweet
laugh, Chalandra thought.  "I don't enter the convent until the fall."
     "I wish I'd decided to be a Nun," Chalandra said.
     "Oh, will you stop being so gloomy?" Mary asked.  "Keep it up and you'll
turn into a bitter old woman, and who would want to be one of those, besides
your mother?"
     Chalandra giggled a bit, despite herself.  Mary always found a way to
cheer her up, no matter how bad things seemed.  Though she was a couple years
older than Chalandra, her smile made her seem younger, almost childlike.
Chalandra wondered why someone as pretty as her would enter the Church,
rather than marry a handsome, rich suitor.  But her father had been a very
religious man, as her mother had been, and they were both happy with Mary
Ellen's choice.  They had a son, Nathan, to carry on the family name and line,
after all.
     "You're right," Chalandra said.  "It's just that the Baron Phoot will
be at the celebration tonight, and I'm not looking forward to him."
     "There's probably nothing wrong with him that a good kick between his
legs couldn't fix," Mary said.  "The Mother Superior told me that's how she
keeps the Bishop in line."
     Chalandra mentally pictured the sight of Mother Prescott kicking the
pompous old lech of a Bishop, and nearly burst out laughing.  Mary guided
Chalandra away from the seller's booth, into the strong afternoon sunlight
that beat down on the market square, before she could.
     "The Bishop's going to be at the celebration tonight," Mary went on.  "He
invited me too, in fact.  Says there's going to be a number of important
religious officiaries there, including some from Saxony and Spain, that he
wants me to meet."
     "Are you going?" Chalandra asked.
     "Of course!" Mary told her.  "After I enter the convent, I won't have
a chance like this.  Mother Prescott wouldn't allow it."
     "Does she know you're going?"
     "Probably," Mary said.  "You just can't keep secrets from her."
     "Well..." Chalandra started.  Her voice trailed off, as she saw a
street urchin look up, directly into her eyes.  It was the same one who had
looked up at her that morning, she was certain.
     "Well, what?" Mary asked.  "I...hey!  Where are you going?"
     Chalandra ignored the question, instead walking briskly towards the
child, who looked like she couldn't be more than twelve years old.  She was
wearing dusty, tattered clothing, and her black hair was wild, long, and
unkempt.  She was from India, Chalandra guessed.  Her father had been seeking
to open trade routes there for the past year, and was even planning a trip,
once Chalandra was safely married off.
     A ten-year old boy was standing next to her, tight-lipped.  He seemed
frightened, and if it hadn't been for the fact that the twelve-year old was
holding his hand, keeping him firmly there, Chalandra was sure he would have
bolted.  His hair was shorter, and black like the girl's, but his face was
pale and white.
     Almost bone white, Chalandra realized.  She would have thought him an
albino, except that his hair wasn't white, nor were his eyes.
     "The Dark One says hello," the girl said, without preliminary.
     "Who?" Mary Ellen asked, having just arrived.
     "Shyam, my lord and my lover," she said.  "He has looked forward to meeting
you."  She was looking directly at Chalandra, even as she answered Mary's
question.  Mary looked at the child and quickly crossed herself.
     "And is this Shyam?" Chalandra asked, indicating the bone white child.
     "You cannot see the Dark One," the girl said.  "But he can see you."  She
fingered a medallion that hung around her neck, the only trinket she appeared
to possess.
     "What is your name, girl?" Chalandra inquired.
     "I am Mirabai," the girl said.  Chalandra glanced at the bone white child,
who seemed almost to be panicking.  "I don't know his name - he won't tell me.
I call him Vrik."
     "Well, I have to say this is original, at least," Chalandra said, as she
began to pull out a couple coins.  "Usually I just get the hard sell and
puppy dog eyes routine..."
     "I do not seek your money," Mirabai responded.  "My Dark Beloved brought
me here, far from my home, to watch you."
     "Watch me?" Chalandra asked, confused.  The white-skinned boy looked at
the coins in her hand.
     "Something will happen to you this season, Chalandra Harkness," Mirabai
said.  "My Lord wants me to witness it."
     Chalandra held out the coins to the boy.  Shyly, he reached out and
took them from her palm.  Mirabai took no notice as she walked away, pulling
Vrik with her.  Chalandra and Mary watched them, Mary with almost palpable
revulsion, Chalandra with abject confusion.
     "May the Lord forgive them," Mary finally said, crossing herself again.

                               ^v^v^v^v^v^v^

     The outdoor gardens were crowded, as the celebration had sauntered in that
general direction after the dinner.  The sky was clear, and the starlight
stabbed down from the sky like diamond lances.  Much of the crowd was hovering
in the general vicinity of Henry VIII, the King of England, who was, at the
moment, somewhat inebriated, and singing a song that was eliciting a rather
annoyed reaction from the Queen.
     "I'm Henry the Eighth I am," Henry VIII sang, "Henry the Eighth I am I
am...I got married to the widow next door..."
     "I am not a widow!" the Queen told him.
     "...she's been married seven times before..."
     "Henry, you drunken fop!"
     "...and every one was an 'enry..."
     "'enry!" some courtiers exclaimed, spontaneously.
     "...she wouldn't take a Willie or a Sam..."
     "No Sam!"
     "Stop it!" the Queen commanded.
     "I'm her eighth old man, I'm 'enry...'enry the Eighth I am!"
     The crowd applauded.
     "Second verse, same as the first!" Henry VIII exclaimed.
     "(small, strangulated noise)" said the Queen.
     Chalandra, it comes as no surprise, was staying as far away from this as
possible.  She was watching the moon, which hung low on the horizon, just above
the garden wall, when Mary joined her.
     "So, there you are," she said.  "Met the Baron yet?"
     "Not yet," Chalandra said.  "He hasn't arrived, has he?"
     "The Bishop said he usually tends to be late," Mary told her.
     "Where is the Bishop now, anyway?"
     "Sleeping under the dining table," Mary said.  "Your suggestion about
encouraging his drinking paid off."
     "Best to...uh oh," Chalandra said.  "Here she comes."
     "Who--oh."
     "Ah, there you are, daughter," May Harkness said, walking arm in arm with
her father, Bertrand.  His dirtwater blond hair was neatly coiffed, and he
looked as elegant as Chalandra had ever seen him, in his best suit.  On May's
other side, a serious-faced man in monk's robes walked, his mind apparently on
other matters, as he literally walked into Mary before seeing her.
     "Oh!" he said.  "I'm sorry, madam.  I wasn't watching my path."
     "It's quite all right," Mary said, looking up at the man.  "I'm Mary
Ellen.  Mary Ellen Hatchetnose."
     "This is Martin Luther," May said, before Martin came to speak.  "He came
all the way from the University of Wittenberg in Saxony to be here this summer.
He's holds the Chair of Biblical Theology there.  Martin, this is my daughter
Chalandra, who's going to be marrying the Baron."
     "Ah," Martin said.  "My condol-er-ratulations, Miss Harkness."  He looked
back at Mary Ellen, and smiled.
     "This is Mary Ellen," Chalandra said, despite the fact that Mary had
already introduced herself.  "She's entering the Sisterhood in the fall."  Mary
glared at her, but Martin didn't blink.
     "Chalandra, the Baron's finally arrived," May said.  "Come on, I want you
to meet him before he goes off to talk with Henry."
     Chalandra sighed, and followed her mother.  It was best to simply get it
over with.
     She saw him right away, as he emerged into the gardens.  It had to be him -
no one else could combine such a regal stride with such an ignoble demeanor.
His coat was mis-buttoned, his boots were ill-fitting, and he had small red
splotches in his unevenly trimmed beard.  He smiled a non-heart-warming smile
as May approached with Chalandra in tow.
     "It is a pleasure to meet with you again, madam," the Baron Phoot said.
He looked at Chalandra, and Chalandra felt her neck growing red, as she
realized just what parts of her he was looking at.  "And you must be my bride
to be, Chalandra."
     Chalandra forced her hand to not tremble as he took it and kissed it.
He continued to hold it as he looked into her face, which she forced to smile.
     "You don't know how long it has been," he said.  He proceeded to laugh, as
though he had made some sort of joke.  "Since your mother first told he about
you, I mean.  When she described you, I fell in love instantly."
     "You'll have to teach me that trick sometime," Chalandra replied.  Her
mother glared at her, but the Baron Phoot only smiled.
     "As fiery as you said," Phoot spoke.  "Just as I like them...at first."
He paused, and let go of Chalandra's hand, almost sheepishly.  "I would like
to stay and get to know you better, my bride-to-be, but I have a gift to give
to his magesty, Henry VIII, straight from Italy."
     "What is it?" Chalandra asked, not all that interested.
     Phoot snapped his fingers, a servant brought him an odd, circular pie on
a wooden block.  "A unique Italian delicacy -- pizza!"
     "Are those dead toads there?" Chalandra asked.
     "Ummmm...no, that looks like sausage," the Baron said, examining the
pizza.  "I discovered this pizza on my most recent trip to Italy.  Seems like
they eat it all the time.  Magnifique!  After we get married, we must have our
honeymoon down there."  Chalandra noticed that the red blotches in his beard
matched the red blotches on the pizza, and involuntarily shuddered.
     The Baron kissed her hand, and was off again, heading through the crowd
toward the soveriegn of all England, modernizer of the English legal system
and enemy of the medieval Church, who was at the moment singing to his
courtiers that he was a little teacup.
     "There," her mother said.  "That wasn't so bad, wasn't it?"
     "I'm going to have to wash this hand," Chalandra told her.
     "That's nice, dear," May said, already moving away.  "Now, enjoy the
rest of the party, okay?  Do try to mingle a bit."  She was already moving to
rejoin her husband, who was chatting up the Duchess.
     Chalandra looked around, and wiped her hand on the leaf of a nearby
hanging plant.  Her eyes searched for Mary, and found her, still talking to
the monk who had run into her earlier.  Martin...that was his name, wasn't
it?...seemed to be explaining something to her in great detail, something
that Mary Ellen was totally ignoring as she gazed at him.
     So much for her one ally this evening.  Chalandra wandered towards the
edge of the gardens again, and refocused on the moon.  Somehow, at its low
angle, it seemed almost red, and forboding...
     "A blood moon," a rich, deep voice said.  "A harbinger of things to come."
     Chalandra whirled - she could have sworn no one had been behind her only
a few seconds ago.  Now, someone was.
     He was tall, and broad-shouldered, as elegantly dressed as any of the
royalty in the garden.  But the way he looked at her, the way his eyes
pierced hers like wet needles, belied his status as just another member of the
aristocracy.  There was something primal about him, something immediate.
     Chalandra felt warm, underneath her dress.
     "I am a friend of the Baron's," he said, without preamble.  "I was the
reason he was late - I ask your pardon for delaying his meeting with you."
     "Pardon gratefully given," Chalandra said.  "If only you'd delayed him
more."
     The man raised an eyebrow.
     "Never mind," Chalandra said.  "You seem to know who I am."
     "The Baron has spoken often of your loveliness," the man said.  "It
would seem to be one subject upon which he does not exaggerate."  He
paused.  "Forgive me, I have not introduced myself.
     "I am...Dracula."

(continued in part two...)

+-------- Gary W. Olson --------+        "All roads lead *away* from Ankh-
| swede@drycas.club.cc.cmu.edu  |         Morpork, but sometimes people just
+----- swede@drycas.bitnet -----+         walk along them the wrong way."
                                          - Terry Pratchett, _Moving_Pictures_