Blood Barters

An Exchange

Blood is a commodity; the only one left that matters.

I've sold it. I've purchased it. The purest is richer than the treasures of Tutankhamen. Perhaps that is why the Egyptians drained his from the body. Perhaps they sold it then as I sell this now.

Sweet. Coppery. One drop of Pure holds enough Ts and RHs to sustain the lower half of Phoenix for an entire month.

I'm a Blood Barter. My adventure is the street as was my father's before me. My purpose is life. My reward...a mere pittance. My heart.

Well, let's talk about that.

I am a frail man, sound of mind, true of spirit. The new epidemics of the twenty-third year magically passed over me-or dare I say intentionally passed over me for I still believe in the hand of God regardless the voices that scream His name from the streets in multitude. My beliefs are a product of this insanity and that is why I sell from my heart that which I have taken from others.

Only the purest, mind you, for my heart is the purest and the cleanest of disease. My heart is the reservoir from which man must survive.

Of all matters Good I can honestly say I rank quite high. Blood is not Evil. Only Bad Blood reeks. Only Bad Blood sets mens' minds to murder, and eventually to death. Millions of gallons there are of this, all totalled worth less than the lint in the pockets of all the children lying comatose before me. Their Bad Blood is the hardest to fathom for their hearts have never known Pure, and my heart could never supply enough enrichment.

"You are one of them?" The voice is tiny, squeaky, feminine. She has no hair and only a few teeth. These are the signs.

"Yes," I say.

"Might I have one drop?" She brandishes a silver coin that covers two-thirds of her up-turned palm. A twinkle of street light reflects from the silver into her wide, brown eyes, and for a fraction of time I see her hope.

"You should buy food for a month with silver such as that," I say.

She realizes the price is more than she holds and turns her head, dejected, to the ground. The coin drops, tinkles on the street walk. A busy child's hand snatches it and disappears within tall shadows.

The needle in my hand, drawn from my pocket, will not save her but she must taste how sweet Pure is. A gentle prick of my thumb. A crimson ooze at which the girl stares, hypnotically. She reaches for it and I shake my head. She does not understand the consequence of my open wound should there be compromise. Such a chance I take so deep in the dirge of the city. But the children. I cry for the children.

I place the drop on a sterile slide of glass, hand it to her with my unwounded hand, wrap quickly the open thumb with white tape.

The girl says nothing, but smiles. Another tooth falls from her face. The Pure is something she's only heard of, never witnessed. Her tongue strikes out as a dozen frail hands snatch at her prize. And into the darkness she flees, skeletons in a long line chasing her heels.

"A thousand silver coins?" This voice is deeper and slightly ancient. It ambushes my apathy from behind. "Surely that offer is worth much more."

Turning, it is his breath cloud I first notice. It is summer. It is hot. There should be no vapor in his voice. Yet...

"A thousand coins per drop," I say. "Is this your price?"

He laughs...hard...once. A great wall of shadow separates us and he emerges as if part of it. His description is quite accurate. He is the Indian for which I have been sent. Long braids of black hair tangle below broad shoulders. His skin is dark, the eyes even darker, showing no reflection as was in the girl's. He is without hope.

"There are many who would bleed you dry in these street shadows. Quite a chance you take." His breath cloud covers my head and in it I smell vanished wisdom.

"This was your place to meet." I scan the street walk nervously. Perhaps this is an ambush. Perhaps he is right because he has set me up.

"Don't fear. It's bad for the blood. And we want to remain pure don't we?"

"How much?" I say, growing tired of his small talk, wanting to leave the street walk and its uncertain shadows.

He moves closer. He is a foot taller than myself. I hunker nor cringe before any man yet the electricity in my spine pulls me down. I can not remove my eyes from his pulsing, thick neck. He notices.

"Here," the Indian says, thrusts forward his hand and a blade, slashes a small incision across the palm.

Quickly, I produce the testing tube filled with a single drop of my Pure. Behind me, childrens' voices and dark shadow.

"No," the Indian says, grinning. "The price is trust."

"You would give away such value for nothing?" I am wary of his deep eyes digging for my soul. I think again of ambush, the shadows, the children.

"You find no value in trust," he says, the grin widening. "Then this should be to your great profit. Test it with the tongue not with the tube."

His blood flows within his lifeline; a few drops fall to the street walk. The childrens' breaths increase. Packs of them.

"Two thousand coins, wasted." The Indian looks at his bleeding palm. "Three thousand. Four thousand. Five-"

"Deal," I blurt without thought of consequence. The Indian closes his hand, stops the dripping, raises the fist to my face.

And the children hold their breaths. How can the street walk sound so still? A moment in time wearing the face of my future. I might be rich. I might be dead. Trust is a high price. The Indian clenches his fist over my mouth.

The taste is sweet, coppery. It tingles the gum line. It skips between my teeth, flows, skips again. Something is added. The Indian's grin subsides and a stroke of lightning crosses the cloudless, black sky.

"I will tell you the story," the Indian says and drops to his knees. "My people, my time, our journey." He tilts his head, brandishes his neck, a pulsing artery. "It is part of the deal."

My jaw contracts. My teeth sink deep. The agreement is a pint but the artery purses more, all. The Indian's heart stops. He slumps. The children breath again. A stroke of lightning.

And he tells me the story as I turn away, as the children pounce.

He was the last of his kind, the Anasazi, the tribe of lore which vanished from Arizona's Walnut Canyon in 1300 A.D. He was very old, his blood very ancient, tasted of it, and held within it the secret to life.

He was never trusted and the children feared him, and the Blood Barters before me had not done what I had done. To test his blood would have shown false accusations against the Pure. He could not give it away. He could not save the world from the diseases of the twenty-third year.

I am a Blood Barter, certified. I am frail, meek, without menace. The Anasazi found me to save the children. The price, a mere offering of trust, of no substantial value except the savior of the world.

"Mister. You are one of them?" Another tiny voice; another tiny girl; another handful of silver.

I do not answer, only smile, gain her trust. I unwrap my thumb, place it to her lips. There are no teeth, but there will be. The Anasazis' blood, not extinct, the taste so sweet, coppery, with something added. The lost souls.

***END***