Under a Blood Red Moon

Under a Blood Red Moon

by Kelli Norris

I suppose it is only fitting that the happiest day of my life should also be my last.  It is so easy to ignore the signs when you are happy.  So, as I watched the rose colored orb between the poles of my wedding lodge I felt nothing but joy in my heart.  Of course, I knew the Yaqui people called a crimson shaded sphere like this a Blood Moon.  And I knew according to legend when the moon bled red that Death would come to call.  But not this night, of all nights. The night I would finally become a woman.  This night it was easy to laugh off the ancient warnings as silly superstitions.

I took a wild rose from the nosegay hid beneath my pillow.  I plucked a petal and rolled it between my fingers, dabbing the fragrant extract behind my ear and down my neck like mother had taught me.  I straightened my night dress for the hundredth time and wondered again if my husband would prefer I be already nude.  The thought brought an instant blush to my cheeks, while simultaneously sending a sweet tingle to my loins.  The tingle quickly grew to a throbbing ache as I imagined the touch of my lover’s strong hands gently caressing me.  I glanced anxiously at the tent flap willing it to open and reveal my beloved.  I could wait no longer to give him my most precious gift.  The flower I had diligently guarded all my life so that I might bestow it upon my husband on our wedding night.  I was thoroughly immersed in Ecclesiastic fantasies of my deflowering, when the bloody, disembodied head of my young mate rolled into our marital bed.

The scene is so surreal, for a moment all I can do is stare disbelieving at the ghastly, visage.  It struck me that this must be some kind of joke.  An absurd jest, like that detachable thumb trick the old Chief likes to play on the village children.  A giggle bubbles up deep from within my chest.  A prank!  That’s all this is just a demented practical joke.  I reach out a finger and gingerly prod the still warm face.  The giggle turns to vomit as the horror becomes real.  Seconds later when the four Comanche enter the tent any semblance of sanity has run from my mind like blood upon the floor. 

I wail like a banshee as the bastards move to block my escape.  I break for the back of the tent when the biggest of them grabs me by my hair and throws me to the ground.  The force of the impact jams my teeth closed so hard that the hot, salt taste of blood fills my mouth as I bite my tongue nearly off.  The red-skinned devil ignores my screams as he pins me to the floor, pulls up his dirty loincloth and straddles me in one fluid motion.  I spit a mouthful of bloody, puke filled, mucus into the face of my attacker praying it will burn like acid.  I watch in wide-eyed amazement as the tomahawk floats in the air above me like a feather before coming down like a hammer on the side of my head. 

Sometimes the Great Spirit is kind.

As I lose consciousness I feel the sensation of rising from my body.  All the fear and pain melts away.  I am blissfully oblivious of what is happening to me.  I see the animals taking turns violating my defenseless shell over and over again. It is like watching a dream unfold.  A macabre vision happening to some other poor soul.  I am spared the indignity of gagging on the foul smelling breath of one alcoholic rapist after another.  Likewise, I escape the shame and humiliation of losing my long protected virginity to this band of merry sadists.  I watch uninterested as the event comes to a close.  It is more a half-hearted observation, like a well-fed cat watching a mouse.  Apparently, murder and rape are very taxing exercises because the villains are soon passed out around the fire.  Or maybe it was the whiskey. 

Sometimes the Great Spirit is not kind.

The pain settles in my body like an ember smolders in a log, long after the fire has died.  The first agony I remember is the acrid smell of urine and horse sweat brutalizing my nostrils like a fist against my temples.  The next more excruciating misery is the sensation of jagged bone on bone, as it becomes all too clear that both my legs are shattered.  Even after hours of torture blood still flows freely from my head wound.  I can feel my life slipping away with each ruby red drop.  Then like a cornered bear sensing the end is near I am filled with rage.  If I must die tonight, I will not die in the presence of this vermin lying in my own filth.  At last the fog has lifted and my thoughts are clear.  One desire blazes in my mind.  A single goal burns brightest.  I must wash this stench away! 

I take the doe skin armband from off my arm and place it firmly between my teeth.  I set my jaw, steeling myself for the scream that I know will come.  Only then do I pull my decimated body across the floor.  The pain is maddening.  I scream soundlessly into the leather gag and pull again.  Blood colored sweat rolls down my face as I silently pray to the Earth Mother for strength.  The strength comes in a glorious vision that can only be an answer to my desperate prayer.  As I drag my broken body through the dirt and out of the tent, I see him bathed in moonlight. He is standing with his wings/arms outstretched like a scarlet angel. He moves towards me and in my blood hazed vision he is even more beautiful than when he was alive.  My mind starts to question how?  The illusion shivers threatening to disappear. My heart screams NO! The image solidifies.  As the angelic specter of my husband bends over me I sob his name through dying lips.  When he draws me into his arms my mind stays silent and with all my heart I believe he is real. The world around me begins to fade.  All the color drains away along with my life’s blood until only the scarlet tint of shadow remains.  Tears for love lost, warm my face, as I weakly raise my hand to the velvet lips of my almost lover.  And with my last breath I profess my undying love. 

“I love you.” softly, barely audible. “I will always love you.”

My heart takes wing soaring up, higher and higher.  I look down from what must surely be heaven.  I’m held spellbound as those velveteen lips place soft, bloody kisses down the side of my neck.  My body shutters as a silken tongue licks them clean.  Lost in the ecstasy of my final moments I never notice the needle prick sting of fangs as they pierce my skin. 

Lady Scarlet maintains the illusion until all cognitive signs of life have left me.  Then as if she knew my last wish she lays me beside a cool running stream and gently washes my body.  She speaks quietly while she works.  The words are strange and I would not understand them even if I were alive to hear them.  Yet, these strange words hold much power and my broken body responds to them despite my battered condition.  Or perhaps it is the blood to which my body responds.  The hot, thick blood she poured past my fish white lips, down deep to what had once been my soul.  The Crimson Bloodbringer smiles as my body starts to visibly repair itself.  She stretches cat-like spreading her raven colored angel wings full span. 


Her sing-song voice dances upon the midnight breeze like diamonds on ice.


“Come Lilith, it is far past the time of our departure.  We must not keep the Queen waiting.  She’ll wear our guts for garters!”


The giant scorpion hears her mistress’ command clearly enough but is reluctant to leave before the fledgling awakes.  The arachnid is curious to see this drama through to the end.  There might still be a meal in it for her. 

“Lilith!” the scarlet lady blasts the familiar a shot gun stare that sends the creature scurrying as fast as its multi legs can carry it. 

I open my eyes to a brilliant blood red moon so blinding it hurts, with the name Lilith still ringing in my ears.  I desperately scan my memory for the name.  It is not there.  Not only the name but the memory.  I have none.  Not a single memory before this moment.  Who am I? Who is Lilith? Am I Lilith?  I gaze heavenward secretly begging the moon to answer.  I stand transfixed basking in its sanguine glow.  It shimmers melodically and I swear I hear it say to me.

“Yes, that is who you are.  Lilith, daughter of the moon.  You were born to the blood, Lilithmoon.” 

Amazingly, that was all I need know.  Some how it is enough.  An inner peace washes over me like the waves of an ocean.  I savor the sensation.  Then it hits me like a raging buffalo!  The hunger crushes me like corn under a grind stone.  I fall to my knees clutching my sides, not realizing I have no breath to catch and no need of air.  It is an innate reaction that still lingers within the synapses of my new vampiric mind.  Almost as devastating as the hunger is the scent.  It is an aroma unlike anything I have ever before experienced.  It is the smell of life, love and longing.  The fragrance is so enticing my body trembles with anticipation. The heavenly perfume beckons me.  It promises to quell my hunger and quench my thirst. 

A lustful growl rumbles up my throat.  I raise my head to the moon and howl with an intensity that shakes my bones.  My primitive call is quickly answered by the local wolf pack.  They match my enthusiasm.  I pause for a moment to marvel at the wonder of it.  I hear sleepy stirrings a short distance away with my now superior hearing.  I peer through the darkness and detect what can only be a campfire.  The wind catches the scent again and playfully skips it beneath my nose like a little girl skipping river stones.  I lose all sense of myself as I run so fast it seems like flying.  I break through the clearing so mad with hunger I am out of my mind.  My eyes barely register the small, gaily decorated lodge.  The intoxicating fragrance is so thick here I am panting to take it all in.  It is everywhere.  I put my nose to the ground and follow the trail like a dog.  The ground is sticky but the scent is strong.  I run my tongue across a patch of dark, damp grass, and lose all control.  I howl again with a vengeance.  The pack answers in kind. 

I burst into the tent like a maniac still howling at the top of my lungs.  I am unaware my fangs have descended for the first time.  I am also unaware that saliva drips from my razor sharp incisors like venom.  I have no idea that my once lovely face has contorted into a monstrous mask of fury. 

The miscreants in the tent however ARE aware.  They are well aware.  They recognize immediately that every nightmare they have ever had just came true.  The stark terror on their disbelieving faces goes unnoticed.  The fact that they whimper like frightened puppies goes unheard.  None of this concerns me.  I am a shark in the mist of a feeding frenzy.  Only one thing matters to me.  The blood!!  The blood soothes, the blood heals, the blood fulfills every desire.  Now at last, I will be sated.

That night took place almost three hundred years ago.  I have since heard it said that, “revenge is sweeter by far than flowing honey.”  That night I found this statement to be true.  Revenge is indeed sweet nectar.  But BLOOD is sweeter still.

(2060 words)