Blood and Breath 05, Mother Midnight

Raphael felt lightheaded as he climbed the steps to Mother Midnight’s apartment. He felt like he had been on these steps only a day ago, almost like he had always been here, waiting for his self to catch up, to return.

At the top, he looked back at his waiting taxi. In her last illusionary message, she had said to get a taxi, because they were going for a ride.

Raphael didn’t knock or press the doorbell. He just waited. It wasn’t long before the locks clicked and the door swung open slowly. Mother Midnight stood before him, wearing a long dress, unmatching sneakers, and a scarf around her gray hair. She smiled softly and said, “It has been a long time, young man.”

Raphael noticed how much older Mother Midnight was. For him, it was five long years of growth. For her, it was five years of aging. Her old body wasn’t holding up, even in appearances, anymore. She walked with an awkward limp, and her right hand trembled as she reached out for Raphael’s arm. Raphael remained steady for her, helping her down the steps to the street below.

“Where are we going?” asked Raphael.

“The Morgue, of course,” said Mother Midnight, patting Raphael’s arm. When they were settled in the taxi, Mother Midnight instructed the driver to head to the nearest morgue, her voice always the gentle grandmother’s.

“Why are we going to the morgue?” asked Raphael.

“To identify the body, of course,” said Mother Midnight.

“Whose body?” asked Raphael.

“Mine, of course,” said Mother Midnight. Raphael asked no more questions. He was too confused, and was afraid that he might learn something he was not ready for.

******************

It was late afternoon in the middle of the week, so the morgue staff was busy with everyday activities. It took a moment for someone to offer to help the couple, the tall young man carrying a rucksack and the very old woman.

“Please, could you show us the body?” Mother Midnight asked of a young worker. He seemed to slow his pace when Mother Midnight spoke, as if her words pulled him out of his life and into her world.

“Which body, ma’am?” asked the man.

“Which body do you have?” asked Mother Midnight.

The young man cocked his head to one side in mild confusion, then shrugged and turned, beckoning them to follow. They walked slowly through the busy halls, passed an empty autopsy room, and found themselves in a cold room with a wall of refrigerator doors.

“Leave us,” said Mother Midnight, her voice becoming harder, more commanding, “And forget us.” The young man blinked, turned and walked away, leaving Raphael and Mother Midnight in the cold room.

“Who are we looking for?” asked Raphael.

“Someone nice,” said Mother Midnight, pressing her house keys into Raphael’s hand. He dropped the keys into his shirt pocket. “Someone pretty, and of course, young.” Raphael looked down at the old woman, frowning, his brow drawn together tightly.

Raphael dropped his rucksack in a corner of the room. He started opening the small square doors and pulling out the trays holding cold pale corpses. He was not uncomfortable in the presence of corpses. He didn’t feel like he was in the presence of death. Death had already come and gone. In Death’s wake lay bodies, empty and lifeless, technically dead, but no longer somebody. In Africa, he learned what Death felt like. This was not it.

It was the sixth body that appealed to Mother Midnight. After finding victims of bullets and drug overdoses, she smiled brightly. The body was of a young woman, maybe late teens, thin, but healthy. The skin was dark gray, a black woman with no blood. The hair was black and kinky, but short. It looked like it had been tied up in a bun recently. Mother Midnight put her hand on the cold body, squarely between the young breasts and closed her eyes.

“This is it,” said Mother Midnight. “I’ll take this one.”

“Take it where?” asked Raphael.

“She was murdered,” said Mother Midnight, “drained of all her blood while you were eating your chilidog. Look at her wrists.” Raphael hesitated, feeling disturbed by Mother Midnight’s words. He did look at the girl’s wrists. The skin was slashed, right at the veins, and there appeared to be teeth marks, human teeth marks, around the cut skin.

Raphael felt light headed, remembering the lessons of Africa, remembering the Emissary of The Predator. Raphael shivered. In the darkness of night, the wind had spoke to him, bending grass and rubbing boughs together to create a creaking, hissing voice. It told him a story of a man who discovered the Path of Blood, the rituals that stole the life of one to empower the life of another. The voice in the wind was an Emissary, as The Predator was no longer a physical being, and it beckoned Raphael to follow down its path of power. Raphael lost his pride that night, feeling the presence of Death in the air. Death always followed The Predator. If Death had been an ancient, The Predator would have been its Avatar. Fortunately, Raphael did not meet The Predator’s Avatar. All who did also became intimate with Death.

“Lift me up,” said Mother Midnight. She had been watching him remember, as if she had been there, also. She was, in a way, but the presence of something that powerful had driven her deep into his subconscious mind. To her, it was the memory of a dream. To Raphael, it was more of a nightmare.

Raphael kept his confusion plain on his brown face as he swept Mother Midnight off her feet and sat her on the tray next to the corpse. Mother Midnight struggled with her aging joints and weak muscles, pulling up her dress so she could straddle the young body.

“Do not interfere, Raphael,” said Mother Midnight in a stern and commanding tone. “You will know me by my voice, and when I speak next, you will obey.”

Raphael nodded slowly in silence. Mother Midnight place her open mouth on the corpse's and exhaled deeply. After three or four deep breaths, Mother Midnight seemed winded, drained. Her eyes were drooping, and Raphael thought she had aged years in the last few moments.

When Mother Midnight revealed a scalpel in her hand and sliced her own wrist, Raphael opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, looking towards the door to the room. In the corner of his eye, he saw Mother Midnight dripping blood into the mouth of the corpse. Slowly, Mother Midnight slumped down onto the corpse, her head resting on the dead woman’s breast bone.

The minutes were long, cold, and quiet as Raphael waited. He didn’t know what he was waiting for, other than Mother Midnight to speak to him, to tell him what he should do next. He kept expecting someone to walk in on them, to find him involved with some kind of sick ritual that would linger on the front pages of the tabloid newspapers for weeks.

Then Raphael noticed that Mother Midnight was no longer breathing, but the corpse was moving, subtly, slowly. The corpse’s mouth was sucking on Mother Midnight’s arm. Raphael’s mouth went dry and his stomach tightened. The corpse was still the color of black ash, but it held more life than Mother Midnight. The corpse’s arms came up, shaky and weak, and moved Mother Midnight’s arm from its mouth.

“Come to me,” whispered the corpse. When Raphael didn’t move, the corpse spoke again. “Remove the old woman’s body. I cannot rise.” Raphael wasn’t sure he understood, he wasn’t sure if he could bring himself to believe what he suspected, but he stepped over to the tray and rolled Mother Midnight’s aged body into his arms.

Free of the old woman’s frail weight, the young dead woman slowly slid her legs off the tray and sat up, steadying herself with near lifeless arms. Raphael stared, motionless, watching the corpse breath slowly, steadily, her head down with her chin on her chest.

Then, with determination, she sat up straight, facing Raphael, holding her head high, her chest out, and her arms in her lap. When she had been alive, she had been beautiful, retaining her African heritage very strongly in the deep dark skin and the high noble cheekbones. Her broad, smooth nose and full thick lips centered her face with almost perfect symmetry.

After inhaling deeply, the young woman, the dead woman, said, “Raphael, what you hold in your arms is a very dead body. While I have many fond memories of its pleasures and pains, we will leave it here to be handled with profession care.” The young woman’s voice spoke like Mother Midnight, but the voice itself was steadier.

“Mother Midnight?” asked Raphael, looking into the eyes of the young woman.

“Yes, Raphael,” said the young woman. “It is I in this young shell. Although, I believe that the moniker ‘Mother Midnight’ is no longer appropriate. Shall I call myself ‘Dawn’, instead?”

Raphael didn’t know how he felt. He wasn’t stunned, or scared, or even surprised, really. He looked down at the old body in his arms, then back up at the young woman, Dawn. She slid off the tray, holding herself as steady as she could in her weakened state. Her bare feet slapped the hard tile floor and her knees bent, but by leaning on the tray, she kept herself from falling. Raphael stepped forward and placed Mother Midnight’s old body on the tray, gently.

Both Raphael and the Dawn looked down at the old body in silence. Raphael reached out to touch the hand of the old woman, as the young woman touched the old woman’s face.

“I didn’t sense the presence of Death,” said Raphael.

“That’s because no one died,” said the Dawn. “I am still the Mother Midnight you know.” There was a moment of silence, then, “You have fulfilled your payment for my guidance. You have helped me find my youth. Now, I think we need to find my health.” She smiled weakly.

Raphael looked at her, and realized how naked she was. Not only was she physically nude, but she was weak, drained, though no longer frail. He went to his rucksack and pulled out a t-shirt and sweatpants. He brought the clothes over to Dawn. She smiled broadly.

“Thank you. It is cold in here,” said Dawn, “Especially for someone with too little blood in her veins.” Raphael watched as Dawn put on the clothes.

“Dawn,” said Raphael, trying the name on his lips, as he returned to his rucksack.

“You can still call me Mother Midnight,” said Dawn, “Though, I think I am going to bask in my youth for a while.”

Raphael hefted the strap of his rucksack onto his shoulder, then walked over and slid the tray back into the wall, closing the door on the aged body.

“Next stop, Chinatown,” said Dawn, holding onto Raphael’s arm as she had on the way to the morgue.