And the Word Unmade Flesh

By Mike Slabon

The Upior* Nagi cocked his head to one side as he listened. He always cocked his head to the left. His right ear just wasn’t the same since the incident. The men in the alley below did not notice him. He was perched between two gargoyles on the rooftop, high above their heads. Even the moon, which was full tonight, did not illuminate his form. He sat quietly, between his shadowy, stone companions... listening... watching... waiting. By the light of a small fire, a group of men cast their lots and collected their winnings. But if the Upior had his way tonight, and he almost always did, they would all end up losers. Cheap wine and a hard day’s work made for idle chatter amidst the dice throws. He listened carefully, only not so much to their conversation as he did to their flesh--six heartbeats. Six tender morsels with plenty of sustenance coursing through them. The Upior would feast well tonight.

"Ah...bon soir, M’lady," the Upior said, looking up at the moon. Its silver crescent cut through the cloudy sky. "Joining me for dinner again, are you?" He grinned. "You look absolutely splendid, M’lady." He cupped a hand to his ear. "What’s that? How kind of you..." He bowed graciously. He leaned closely against one of the gargoyles and whispered, "M’lady addresses me as Malady. Is she not so sweet?" He reeled his head back with a horrific cackle, and slapped the gargoyle on the back. "Ah, you are too kind," he said, giving the moon a nod. "And so are you gentlemen." He placed a hand on each gargoyle’s head. "Time to get back to business," he said. "Dinner is soon to be served and I do not want to keep M’lady waiting." He leaned over the edge, and looked down into the alley.

One man’s heart beat a little faster than the others. Cheating, eh? the Upior thought. He flared his nostrils--rank body odor, and the unmistakable stench of fish filled his sinuses.

He closed his eyes and slowly, ever so slowly, flexed every muscle in his body, until he was perched on the edge of the roof. His joints, with sinews stretched like steel cables, snapped and popped, but not so much that any mortal ear would notice. With his muscles flexed and ready to spring, the Upior grinned, and the moonlight bathed a most hideous spectacle of row upon row of sharp white teeth. He could easily rend flesh from its bones, but rarely did he need to. His inhuman strength allowed him to tear limbs from their sockets effortlessly, or loose a head from its torso with a single chop. Upior glanced quickly at his two companions. Their horrified expressions were so fitting for the carnage that was about to ensue. He leaned forward, and prepared to strike.

Suddenly, his muscles relaxed, and the Upior cocked his head yet again. Something had caught his attention. He resumed his stance and listened.

"I had my way with the whore in the market today," a man boasted.

"Again? How many times has it been this week? Two? Three?" asked the old fellow.

"I cannot keep count... I have only ten fingers," the man said confidently.

"With your pants down, you can count to eleven," said a man, whom the others referred to as Zob.

"I cannot believe you are in her league, Paul," said the old man. "It is said that no man can satisfy her..."

"I hear she is a witch," a man added.

"Why should a woman need to be satisfied?" replied Paul. They all laughed.

"Perhaps she should have her way with me," said one, stepping up and puffing out his chest.

"Jean-Francois will teach her well!" another said, and slapped him across the shoulder.

"I believe you may be premature in your claim," said Paul. The men laughed.

"You think so?" the other man said.

"All right," said Paul. "Go to the market, then! You will find her selling herbs in the booth next to the old hag with the pretty flowers. You know, right at the foot of the church of St. Eustache. Tell her you would like to buy some jasmine."

"Very well, then," Jean-Francois said. "We shall see what this whore can do."

"Please good sirs," the old man said. "It is getting late and I still have much money to lose." The men returned their attention to the game.

The Upior sat back and thought about what he had heard. "Most curious!" he whispered. He placed his hands on the gargoyles’ shoulders. "Thank you for your company, gentlemen," he said. "But I am late for supper!" He dropped over the edge. Swiftly and silently, the men were eviscerated. Nobody had a chance to scream.

The Upior moved quickly through the crowded market. Most people would take notice of a man in a long heavy cloak on a hot summer afternoon. But the Upior had an uncanny ability of remaining inconspicuous. He took great pleasure in wandering about this sea of flesh. He had no difficulty wandering about in daylight--there was a time when this would have been harmful, even fatal. But decades of training and discipline had changed this. Nonetheless, darkness was still his closest companion.

He paused as he approached the base of the Cathedral. From the distance he saw her, tying dried herbs into a bundle. He stroked his chin as he watched. He would have preferred to rake his nails through his beard. But after the way these people treated the Jews, he decided to remain clean-shaven. A beard reminded him of mortal days, so long ago, when he first crossed the sea to meet the Incas. The memories were still clear in his head.

The Upior found refuge in a shadowy corner near the base of the Cathedral. From his nook, he watched the herb seller as she busied herself with concocting potions of various sorts. Many people passed her stall, but few paid any attention to her.

She was tall and slender, yet muscular, with a skin as white as porcelain. She was very beautiful if not for the tangled mass of dark unkempt hair and patches of dirt all over her skin and dress. She walked about in bare feet, and she did not bother to lace her bodice, which revealed her large, shapely breasts when she leaned over. Her face was expressionless and her eyes empty, as if her mind was anywhere but here.

Upior flared his nostrils but came up empty. There was no scent; not even a hint of flesh. He could smell nothing but lavender, primrose and jasmine. Odd, he thought, raising an eyebrow. He watched as a young man approached her stall. She paid no attention to him. He dropped a handful of coins into her moneybox--as he grabbed a handful of jasmine. Before he could speak, her hand shot out like a cobra, and took hold of his collar. She pulled him close, pressing her cheek to his, and whispered in his ear. He stepped into her stall, and she held back the curtain. He hesitated at first to enter, but she pulled him in quickly, throwing him onto his back on the ground. She had somehow simultaneously undone his breeches, and had a firm hold of his member with the other hand. Before he could gasp for breath, her breasts pleasantly smothered him. He flailed about madly as she gyrated. Not a single expression crossed her features.

The Upior was quite impressed by this show of aggression. "Raaarrrghh!" He grinned. Within minutes, the man lay motionless and limp. She was already on her feet and gave him a slight kick. "Get out," she said. "Half-naked men are bad for business." He scurried away quickly, whimpering under his breath.

The Upior was not the only one who had been watching closely. A filthy clothed youth crept out from behind a stall where he sat hidden. He snaked towards the herb seller, when suddenly the Upior picked up his scent. The youth was quick, however, and he grabbed the wooden moneybox and ran.

The Upior was about to pounce on him when a sudden high-pitched scream pierced the air. Both Upior and the youth were startled. They turned to the source of the disturbing wail only to see the whore, staring at the boy while pointing a finger at him. Her face was contorted into a horrible mask--a sight that was as disturbing as her unearthly scream. The boy stared for a moment before running off.

Her face returned to its placid state, and she returned to her work without incident. She looked down at the spot where her moneybox had once sat, and shrugged her shoulders with a sigh. All around her, people made the sign of the cross, and Upior’s keen ears picked up whispers of "Mon Dieu!" and "Jésus et Marie." The herb seller did not seem to care.

Upior stood still until the market place returned to order. He decided he must investigate this odd creature. He returned to his shadowy nook. There, he breathed deeply and closed his eyes. A sudden wave of emotion overcame him: he felt the frustration of a haggling purchaser; a happy child who has just received a pastry; the anxiety of someone waiting to get their share of fresh fruit; and then her. There was nothing. There was only emptiness. The Upior opened his eyes, as if seeing her confirmed that this was no illusion.

When he chose to walk in social circles, the Upior enjoyed the cloak and dagger of courtship. Often, he would spend his evenings enchanting a voluptuous coquille, only to feast on her later. Seduction was his mastery. The Upior had the most unusual ability to arouse a beautiful youth, sometimes with merely a glance. He decided it was time to turn on the charm.

He emerged from the shadows and approached the stall. The whore did not notice him as he walked by, even though he gazed at her. A woman looking at the flowers suddenly sighed and blushed.

"Nothing," the Upior cursed.

He walked by again, and this time he heard more sighing and deep breaths, but not from the whore. He grit his teeth and clenched his fists.

Another pass. This time someone fainted, but the whore did not flinch. A woman selling French bread asked her husband for water while she panted.

Upior fixed a firm gaze upon the whore. Like a peacock, he marched in a wide circle around her stall. As he did, women fell to the ground, writhing in ecstasy. Men tried to make sense of the sudden, sultry wave of euphoria."Cherchez joyeux dans ma cue," someone moaned. And yet the whore did nothing. The Upior stopped directly in front of her stall. She was intent on grinding some dried catnip with a mortar and pestle, completely oblivious to the chaos around her. She then looked up at the massive shadow, which stood before her. The Upior took a deep breath and unclenched his jaw.

"Bonjour, Madame," he said with a grin. He took her hand and kissed it. She smiled. He gazed deeply into her eyes. "I have been bested." The Upior released her hand and departed. She did not see him when he returned later that day, but she did see that her moneybox had been returned, accompanied by the severed head of the young thief.

  *  *  *

The Upior perched himself up in the rafters of the courthouse, where no one could see him in the shadows. Although he could have easily entered without being noticed, he chose to arrive early and hide--it was good to have the element of surprise work in his favor. He spent his time scrawling obscene cartoons into the wood with his nails, and snacking on the resident spiders.

It had been two weeks since Upior had seen the whore in the market. She now sat quietly next to the guard, her face staring down at the floor. She wore the same dress and still had no shoes. The Upior had heard the news a few days ago that the herb seller had been taken into custody under the charges of heresy and murder.

The Judiciary entered the courtroom and was seated. A small-robed man stood and approached the centre of the room. He had a very stern face, with closely cropped hair and goatee. "Most noble and puissant lords, we command ourselves lovingly to your high nobility, the Christian Faith, and His Holy Church. We thank you for employing your noble power in apprehending this woman who has immeasurably offended God’s name."

"Proceed." The head of the Judiciary nodded.

The Lord Inquisitor bowed curtly, and then approached the herb seller. He extended his arm and held out a Bible. "Place your hand on the Holy Book as the charges are read!" he said.

The herb seller stared at the floor.

He paused. "Place your hand on the book!" He looked impatiently at the Judiciary. The Council was busily making the gesture of placing his hand on a book, hoping the herb seller would follow his lead. The Inquisitor looked at the guard and gave a nod. The guard seized the herb seller by the arms.

The Council rose from his seat--he was visibly worried. She looked to him, and then at the Inquisitor. She smirked, and then leaned forward and licked the cover of the Holy Book. The Council buried his head in his hands, while the Upior grinned.

The Inquisitor’s face was red with rage. He grabbed her hand and forcefully slapped it down on the Holy Book.

"I, Andre Beoufmain, Lord Inquisitor of Heretical Error, plan to remedy the offense perpetrated by this woman against our Creator, His Faith, and His Holy Church." He pulled the book away, and then guard released her.

"I enter into evidence," the Inquisitor began, "a variety of herbal potions and concoctions sold by the herb seller." He presented a series of glass jars filled with various remedies.

"This proves nothing," the Council argued, rising from his seat. He took a deep breath and composed himself. "These are merely herbal remedies..."

"Herbal remedies only a witch could create!" the Inquisitor spat.

"Herbal remedies are quite common in the Marché," the Council said. "What makes these remedies witch’s brew?"

"I have had several authorities on the subject examine the contents of these jars," the Inquisitor stated. "They are unlike any herbal remedy we know of."

"Who were these authorities?" the Council asked.

"Reputable herbalists," he replied.

"What do herbalists know about witchcraft? Why did you not consult any witches?" the Council asked.

"Preposterous!" the Inquisitor said. "The herbalists were unfamiliar with these remedies..."

"Most noble lords," the Council stated, "if the Lord Inquisitor were to ask a witch if she were familiar with the said remedies, and she said no, then this would rule out that my client is in fact a witch herself."

"His Holy Church does not act in league with witches," the Inquisitor spurted.

"Ah yes," the Council said. "His Holy Church only burns them all at the stake. Therefore, the evidence is bias towards my client and I suggest it should be withdrawn."

"Witches are known liars!" the Inquisitor spat.

"So are Lord Inquisitors!" the Council retorted. His eyes met the Inquisitor’s--there was nothing but daggers between them. Upior Nagi clapped, his wide smile brandishing a mouth full of horrific teeth. .

"We will not tolerate your tone. Be warned!" the Doctor of Sacred Theology said. "Commence with the trial."

"I apologize, your lordship," the Council said. "But I cannot tolerate a bias implication against my client. The Inquisitor has failed to prove that the evidence was investigated without prejudice."

"The evidence will stand!" The licentiate of civil law now spoke.

The Inquisitor huffed, and continued, "I wish to present to the Judiciary with the known fact that the herb seller whored herself to customers. She would take them behind the curtain of her stall and pleasure them. And might I add that she did so directly at the foot of the church of St. Eustache--such disrespect!"

"Have you any witnesses?" the Council asked.

The Inquisitor somberly strolled before the bench. "Most noble lords of His Faith," he said, "because the nature of this testimony is sensitive and understandably so, I would ask that we not shame the good Christians who have borne witness, but rather accept the testimony in conjunction with the other evidence presented. I personally interrogated the witnesses and they have more than atoned for their transgressions and infidelities."

"Most noble lords of His Faith," the Council contested. "The Lord Inquisitor has done nothing to prove my client’s guilt--he has only proven his own ineptitude and prejudice..."

"Nothing, eh?" the Inquisitor said. "Then I enter this into evidence!" The Lord Inquisitor reached into a small wooden crate under his table, and held up a severed head. Upior’s eyes widened. The slightly decayed head belonged to a familiar face--it was the street urchin who had stolen the herb seller’s moneybox. The Upior slapped his face into his hands. The Inquisitor held the head in the air before the Judiciary, and then before the herb seller. She did not look up from the floor.

"Witnesses in the Marché," he began,"recall seeing this face--at the time attached to a body and in a living condition--and confirm that the said individual was seen stealing a money box belonging to the accused." The Council was silent. "Witnesses also recall that the accused did not pursue the thief, but spat a series of curses in an unknown tongue."

The Upior shook his head. "Merde!" he whispered.

"I would like to also add," the Lord Inquisitor said, "that shortly after the curse was spouted, a number of female persons in the Marché felt faint and collapsed to the ground!"

The Upior began to bite his nails.

The Lord Inquisitor placed the severed head on the table in front of the Council. "Ah..." he began. "The Council threw his hands desperately into the air and then quieted. The Lord Inquisitor was now grinning, as the Council hung his head.

The Upior was enraged. He slammed his fists into the rafter as he stood, but forgot that he had little headroom. His head slammed into the ceiling, causing the chandeliers to shake violently.

"Merde!" he yelled, clutching the top of his skull. He fell back down onto the rafter, causing bits of dust and debris to fall to the courtroom floor. His scream caused the windows to rattle in their panes.

The Judiciary, Lord Inquisitor and Council were awestruck, sitting quietly with wide eyes and gaping mouths, staring up into the shadows. They saw no one, but heard the voice and felt the mild quake. Then suddenly, a dark patch of chittering bats swarmed into the courtroom from somewhere up in the clock tower. The Upior’s curse had not gone unheeded by his friends. They had come to console his pain, but humans did not understand such things. Instead, a panicked frenzy ensued as the Judiciary frantically exited the chambers. Guards ran about shouting orders and waving their swords. The Upior cursed himself again as he watched the chaos ensue from above. "You’ve really done it this time, old boy!" he said to himself. He took one quick look at the herb seller before he departed. As always, she sat quietly, motionless in her seat. It was the first time anyone had ever seen her smile.

  *  *  *

Although the weather was cold and foggy, there was quite a gathering on the morning of her execution. The herb seller had the same vacant expression on her face. She stared off into the dark and cloudy sky with empty eyes. Her clothes were tattered, and her mass of unruly hair had small twigs and hay caught in it--escaped tinder from the pyre. The lashings, which bound her to the large post, were wrapped tightly around her midsection, which amplified her already shapely bosom.

A member of the judiciary was reading from a parchment--something about her sentence--while the crowd slowly chanted "Burn her!" Finally, a man came forward and lit the pyre. The hay and branches slowly smoldered, gradually erupting in flame.

As the herb seller stared into the sky, she noticed a black form flit across the rooftops before perching itself on a large spire. The smoke blurred her vision, but she could suddenly see the form swoop down toward her. Its arms were outstretched--and the cloak flapped in the wind, giving the illusion of a large raven.

She heard screaming and then saw commotion in the crowd. The form was upon her and she was staring up into the dark eyes of a tall, handsome man.

"Hello," he said. He smirked. She responded with a smile.

The Upior grabbed the heft of his cloak and fanned it across the flames. They burst outwards, away from the two of them, and into the crowd. Several spectators caught fire and ran about like screaming torches.

The Upior raked his nails across the ropes, severing the bindings. She fell forward into his arms. She brushed her hair away from her face, and then placed a hand on his cheek. It was ice cold. His smirk turned into a smile, and then a grin. Her eyes widened when she saw his inhuman teeth.

She threw herself back against the post, tore open her bodice, and then took the Upior’s hands and placed them on her breasts. She tilted her head back, exposing her neck. She bit her lip as the jagged razors gnawed into her flesh. She felt a warmth flood through her body--starting deep inside her abdomen and then radiating outwards until it tickled her toes and her scalp. She hooked her legs over the Upior’s hips and her arms locked around his broad shoulders.

As the warmth dissipated, she began to feel dizzy--her mind was drunkenly floating through the sky. She smelled smoke, and then realized she was coming to her senses. She looked into the face of the dark-eyed man. He smiled, his chin dripping with blood. She pressed her cheek to his. It was cold and sticky with cooling blood.

She felt the muscles in his legs and back coil, and they were suddenly airborne. She looked down at the square--at the people running about in a panic; at the burning bodies; at the awestruck Judiciary; at the bustling Marché. One day, she thought,I will come back and kill them all.

She leaned back so she could see the Upior. He held her tightly in his arms as they traversed the sky. She bit her lip. He cocked his head to one side.

"What is it, my dear Upior Kurwa?" he asked.

She flared her nostrils. "Now that," she began, "was an orgasm!"

*Upior--pronounced "oop-yoor"--a Polish word meaning vampire

*Kurwa--pronounced "koor-vah"--a Polish word meaning slut

The End

And the Word Unmade Flesh © 2004 by Mike Slabon

Mike Slabon lives in Canada. His grandparents say that from the age of three, he told very vivid stories. He used words in English, Polish, and German, which they did not understand. Mike's writing is inspired by his dreams, by the conversations he has with the miniature soldiers he paints, and by the crazy things his son Maximus tells him. Mike is crazy about GIJoe figures, and he hopes to one day witness The Toronto Maple Leafs win the cup in a non-historically fictitious context.

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