You posed this question to me when you were in your first year of primary school. We were at the park down the street from your house. I’d just pushed you on the swing for nearly an hour, and we were sitting down to lunch under the canopy of a large Banyan tree. Our conversations at this age reminded me of when I’d first met you in your previous life. I thanked the Principatus every day that I’d been given another opportunity to know you.
“I have heard some stories about Medusa, but why don’t you tell me yours?” I suggested.
In addition to Latin, Lena had been teaching you our family lore, which, by and large, contradicted the religious canon you were taught at school. I could only imagine how Lena felt about you being raised in the Catholic faith.
“She was very beautiful, and she had snakes for hair. Like Mater.”
Outside the earthen realm and in her bloodborn body, Lena’s hair was nested with snakes. My own locks tended to undulate as well when I was in Shade Vales, but they didn’t hiss or bite. I wondered if it would be similar for you.
“What do you think about having snakes for hair?” I asked.
“I’d rather have cats.”
Your obsession with cats had certainly grown. They were attracted to your energy, and wherever we went, there were always one or two that begged for your attention, including the strays who’d taken up permanent residence on Santiago’s property. It was one of the strangest phenomena I’d ever witnessed. Of course, you’d named them and insisted on feeding and nursing the wounded ones, much to your parents’ displeasure. When one of your brood died or disappeared, you held a funeral for them complete with “cat mass,” which seemed sacrilegious to me, but I left that determination to Xavier.
These cat funerals were special events with a growing guest list, refreshments, and solemn words spoken by all who’d known said feline. On one occasion, the cat we were mourning stumbled upon the affair, which then resulted in a jubilee of miraculous proportion. With the exception of that resurrection, I found these affairs rather gloomy. But Xavier felt the ritual helped develop your empathy.
I had a dress suit reserved specifically for cat funerals if there was any doubt as to my devotion.
“Cats for hair?” I asked incredulously. “I can only imagine the scratch marks.” I tweaked your nose then reached into the cooler Xavier had packed for us and pulled out two bags of blood, peanut butter sandwiches, and freshly baked chocolate chip cookies.
“Cats are smart. They see things.”
“Just like you,” I said, and you nodded in agreement.
“Anyway, like I was saying,” you said with a bit of sass. “Medusa didn’t turn people into stone like the stories say.”
“Oh no?”
“No. She froze them with her powers.” You held out your hands so that your whole body appeared rigid with your fingers outstretched and one hand still gripping your bag of blood. You resembled a resurrected mummy with your eyes wide and mouth slightly agape.
“Why would she do that?” I asked, feigning ignorance.
“She was hungry.” You glanced around and lowered your voice. “Then she drank their blood. All of it.” Your eyes grew alarmed at that. I mirrored your shock and dismay.
“That wasn’t very nice of her.” I was careful not to pass too harsh a judgement on a behavior that was sometimes necessary to our survival, but you needed to understand that the old ways were no longer acceptable.
“But yummy.”
I suppressed a chuckle.
“Yummy to drink someone’s blood?” I asked.
You glanced up at me, guiltily, then nodded.
“Do you think about that?” I asked gently. “Drinking people’s blood?”
These blood bags were tolerable, but they were nothing compared to warm heme fresh from its source. It was like comparing chlorinated tap water to the pure, sweet artesian spring water of our family’s homeland, not to mention the gentle resistance of flesh, that first tear of a vein, and the surge of warm blood across the tongue…
“Not my friends, but some of the boys in my class. I’d like to bite them.” You drew back your lips and bared your teeth. The casual observer might not notice how sharp they were, but I certainly did.
“That would hurt them, you know?”
“Yeah, I know.” You sighed, disappointed. “They probably don’t even taste good.”
“Probably not.” I was sure they tasted delicious. One day when you were older, I’d teach you to hunt in a safe manner but until then… “Even if they were yummy, you can’t bite them, Vincent. Even if they say it’s okay.”
“You sound like Papa.” You groaned and nearly rolled your eyes.
