Read Online Written in the Blood by Stephen Lloyd Jones - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Stephen Lloyd Jones
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jubilation – which had always been a fragile thing at best, a curious reaction to a stay of execution virtually meaningless in the greater scheme of things – fractured.
Hannah and Leah were hosszú életek . . . and yet they were not. One half of their lineage was irrefutable: Jakab’s blood seethed in their veins. They were Balázs bastards, descendants of the very kirekesztett son who had triggered, with his crimes in Budapest, the outpouring of venom that, in part, led to the great hosszú életek cull.
One half kirekesztett monster, and the other half? Peasant stock, in the eyes of many. To some, below even that. Balázs Jakab had mated with a simavér , a flat-blood commoner with no history, no claim on the world. It wasn’t even meant to be possible: their very existence challenged the veracity of some passages within the Könyve Vének , oldest and most revered of hosszú eletek texts, and source of all their laws.
As the truth grew more widespread, it split the community in two: those who welcomed Hannah and her daughter, and those who sought to distance themselves.
Hannah could not have cared less. Debating the quality and validity of a single family’s heritage while their numbers dwindled further each year struck her as insane. Proof, if any were needed, that the societal fractures preceding the hosszú életek ’s last days had already begun to appear.
Although adaptability, in the purely physical sense, was one of their greatest assets, for many it appeared, in the intellectual sense, to be a trait tragically lacking. While they could adapt the colour of their eyes and the contours of their flesh, they found it impossible to evolve their definition of what it meant to be hosszú élet .
Again, Hannah could not have cared less: until, of course, she began to understand the implications for Leah. Without intervention, her daughter would cement her position as the last of them, destined for an old age of solitude and misery, an unthinkable final act to the tragedy that had haunted them for so long.
Blinded by the fire in the mill, Hannah could no longer guard Leah’s physical safety. But there was something else she could offer the girl – something only she could provide – and it was a task to which she committed herself with all the conviction and single-mindedness of her former life.
In her body, she knew, lay the possibility of redemption. Perhaps they would never learn the reason why Balázs Jakab’s kirekesztett blood had combined with simavér and borne fruit. Perhaps they did not need to know. But the chance of regeneration it offered them, however small, was undeniable.
The move would bring her into conflict, once again, with some of the Könyve Vének’s strictures. To Hannah’s supporters those passages were virtually indecipherable, and contextually irrelevant besides. To her opponents they provided a banner of protest to rally behind: irrefutable proof that what she attempted was heresy. While so many busied themselves with the debate of its rights or wrongs, Hannah busied herself with the work itself.
In the months that followed, she gathered around her a group of like-minded souls. Gabriel, naturally, was the first. Others soon followed. Their single intention: to use the miracle of Hannah’s blood to end the entropy and repopulate, bring new life.
They had started here, in this very building deep inside Germany’s Black Forest. Together, they rejoiced at each new life they created, wept as Death snatched so many away. And slowly, over time, they realised that even with everything they had achieved, it would not be enough. They’d granted themselves, at best, a reprieve; a little light to banish for a time the shadows gathering in their future. It was a stuttering light, a smoky stump of a thing, and in her darker moments Hannah questioned whether what they had done had been any use at all. They had created new life, yes. But not enough. Tragically, perhaps all Hannah
Hannah and Leah were hosszú életek . . . and yet they were not. One half of their lineage was irrefutable: Jakab’s blood seethed in their veins. They were Balázs bastards, descendants of the very kirekesztett son who had triggered, with his crimes in Budapest, the outpouring of venom that, in part, led to the great hosszú életek cull.
One half kirekesztett monster, and the other half? Peasant stock, in the eyes of many. To some, below even that. Balázs Jakab had mated with a simavér , a flat-blood commoner with no history, no claim on the world. It wasn’t even meant to be possible: their very existence challenged the veracity of some passages within the Könyve Vének , oldest and most revered of hosszú eletek texts, and source of all their laws.
As the truth grew more widespread, it split the community in two: those who welcomed Hannah and her daughter, and those who sought to distance themselves.
Hannah could not have cared less. Debating the quality and validity of a single family’s heritage while their numbers dwindled further each year struck her as insane. Proof, if any were needed, that the societal fractures preceding the hosszú életek ’s last days had already begun to appear.
Although adaptability, in the purely physical sense, was one of their greatest assets, for many it appeared, in the intellectual sense, to be a trait tragically lacking. While they could adapt the colour of their eyes and the contours of their flesh, they found it impossible to evolve their definition of what it meant to be hosszú élet .
Again, Hannah could not have cared less: until, of course, she began to understand the implications for Leah. Without intervention, her daughter would cement her position as the last of them, destined for an old age of solitude and misery, an unthinkable final act to the tragedy that had haunted them for so long.
Blinded by the fire in the mill, Hannah could no longer guard Leah’s physical safety. But there was something else she could offer the girl – something only she could provide – and it was a task to which she committed herself with all the conviction and single-mindedness of her former life.
In her body, she knew, lay the possibility of redemption. Perhaps they would never learn the reason why Balázs Jakab’s kirekesztett blood had combined with simavér and borne fruit. Perhaps they did not need to know. But the chance of regeneration it offered them, however small, was undeniable.
The move would bring her into conflict, once again, with some of the Könyve Vének’s strictures. To Hannah’s supporters those passages were virtually indecipherable, and contextually irrelevant besides. To her opponents they provided a banner of protest to rally behind: irrefutable proof that what she attempted was heresy. While so many busied themselves with the debate of its rights or wrongs, Hannah busied herself with the work itself.
In the months that followed, she gathered around her a group of like-minded souls. Gabriel, naturally, was the first. Others soon followed. Their single intention: to use the miracle of Hannah’s blood to end the entropy and repopulate, bring new life.
They had started here, in this very building deep inside Germany’s Black Forest. Together, they rejoiced at each new life they created, wept as Death snatched so many away. And slowly, over time, they realised that even with everything they had achieved, it would not be enough. They’d granted themselves, at best, a reprieve; a little light to banish for a time the shadows gathering in their future. It was a stuttering light, a smoky stump of a thing, and in her darker moments Hannah questioned whether what they had done had been any use at all. They had created new life, yes. But not enough. Tragically, perhaps all Hannah
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