Red Drops on Blood Plums

"I dream of her," Morgun said, his tentacles wrapped around his torso, the grip tightened in a nervous pout.



Morgun's father, Guardian of the Medi Family and active god of said family, comforted the young forty-six-year-old boy. "She dreams of you as well. I hear her whispering to her father in the wind about such."



"Does she not like me?"



"She's—well, humans are fickle, my boy. They live only for a moment. Everything is dire to them, especially in the eyes of commitment. Her father is honorable, I'm certain he'll steer her in the proper direction..."



***



Through windy valleys, cut-off to all but the traders hulked the Medi blood plum plantation. Since the extinction of most fruits and vegetables, the Medi Family begged the Gods for a means of survival. The blood plums were their prayer. The uncanny produce grew by mere droplets of water. Entire fields would sprout eagerly by a lone bucket of irradiated water. Valleys aren't known for their nutritious soil, but the fruit grew without a blemish in the barren dirt. When bit, the fruit's lusciously tart taste tickled the tongue. So thick the juices were that they bled like blood.



"Babette," her father called.



The girl awoke, her silver nightgown shimmered in the morning's radiant gaze. Her bare feet touched the ghastly cold wooden floors and she shivered from the sensation.



Alfred and Woden, the two-headed mutt, scampered to Babette, her complaint causing the mongrel some worry. She smiled at the beast, petting each head with her long fingers. Alfred sneezed while Woden panted.



"Babette."



That time her father's tone was low with warning. She bolted to his studies not knowing if she was truly too old for spankings.



"Yes, father?" she panted, but at a glance, she knew what he wanted. The old crone stood at her father's side. Her long, curled fingernails held a red dress. Alluring at a distance, the fabric called to her.



“Satin?” she mouthed, too astonished to speak. The crone cackled.



"Come here, child."



The dress fit, and it was beautiful. It hugged her buttermilk skin, making her think of freedom. Her life was as far from freedom as her mother was from living.



"Lord Morgun will find you exquisite," her father said. His eyes trailed up and down Babette reminiscent to the family chef's when he eyed healthy meat.



"Father—"



"Not another word," he snapped. His eyes glared and fists shook, knowing she would continue last night's argument.



"No," she whispered, looking down at her feet, "I accept the Gods' arrangement."



"It is of great honor to be accepted by the Gods," the crone cooed. Her blackened teeth had shown.



Silenced by great relief, Babette's father boomed a proud grin. Bebette dismissed herself, removing her dress and deciding to spend the rest of her last day of maidenhood with her greatest friends: her thoughts.



The afternoon burned the morning away with hot fury. The farmers worked with tired, blistered hands, but they endured, picking blood plums from vines and tilling other fields to grow more. Occasionally, the valley gave pleasant bursts of wind, giving some reprieve to the workers.



Babette sat upon a barrel, looking out at the determined workers while she combed her raven-black hair. That was, at least, what her mother called it. Babette had never seen a raven before. A pure black bird was hard to imagine, perhaps it was a unicorn—something that existed in fairy tales alone. Young women burdened by tragedy crawled to blissful endings, in such tales. Naivety ripped from her, she no longer believed happiness would find her.



Vibrant red clouds swarmed over the horizon.



"Lord Morgun blesses us!" some chanted—others cried.



"If only your mother was still around," Babette's father said, wiping a lone tear from his eye.



Babette left, changing back into the satin dress. She stood in front of the mirror, examining her reflection. She didn't know if she were beautiful. Her bosom large, it made her "tantalizing" her father warned when speaking about other men. She bit her lip and went to the dining room, her eyes away from all others. She couldn't eat despite the aroma of cured meats on the plates. She stared at hers—a single blood plum sat. She cut it open with her knife, watching the viscous fluid bleed out. Vulgar things danced in her head. The men chatted contently, making a toast to Babette and Lord Morgun whenever they drank.



The red rain ceased and so did the laughter and joy booming from the dining room. A serene silence loomed, and without instruction, all escorted themselves outside into the wet blood plum fields.



Morgun stood, his yellowing tentacles moved with the fluidity of the wind. His red hair combed upward into a spike, like the tip of a waning moon. With a face as pale as bone, his eyes gave a hungry look to Babette. The ceremony must begin.


Tears streaked Babette's soft cheeks. She kissed her father farewell. Morgun approached them and Babette's father did as his father had done before, taking a long, jagged knife out from the leather sheath on his hip. He guided his daughter behind him, kissing her back before getting on his knees and slitting his throat.



Babette howled in grief, feeling hot blood pouring down the small of her back. She crept towards her new husband. Morgun's tentacles wrapped around her arms and shoulders in a longing embrace--the thorn-like tips were cautious not to cut her. She shivered and gasped at his hideousness, but a pleasant scent permeated from him. It calmed her, smelling of hay in the sunlight.



"Please be good to me." Her voice was shaky.



Morgun nodded, allowing his new bride to break the tradition of silence. He escorted her behind an invisible veil, disappearing in the night. Their absence left behind the wet plantation. With the promise of a virgin daughter kept, it continues to flourish even without an heir to the Medi Family.