Following the Trail of Blood

The Beginning “This Colonel Blood,” he said with a strained voice, “is a devil, y’can mark me on that. And he’s no bloody Colonel or Captain neither. Not in this earthly realm.” The White Prince stood perfectly still before the fire in the great room and swirled his mug of brandy. The White Prince! I can barely write those words without giggling like a ninny. Yet there he was before me. In life, in truth, in fact. Lecturing me – me! – as if it were the most natural thing in the world. So naturally I sat there silently and listened. It would have insulted him to do otherwise. But inside, I was all ninny wall-to-wall. Sparks from the flames rose up and landed on his waistcoat, then vanished into the thick twill of the fabric. Fabrics, I realized, were damn itchy in those days and I could barely sit still in my own clothes; heaven knows how he could stand his. But the White Prince must have been thinking beyond his own discomfort as he communed with the head of a lion carved into the ornate mantelpiece. He had not said a word in many minutes but soon followed the path of his shadow on the waxed wooden floor and looked right at me. “Yes, I see,” I said, but I was just reciting some dialogue from an old movie. Acting was all I could muster. I did not know the White Prince, had no idea who Colonel Blood was, and not the slimmest hint as to why I was sitting there in the first place. And yet this codger seemed to know me right away when I arrived at his estate. Knew me rather well actually and asked me all about my own affairs. It was mighty weird but there I was, thrust into that movie, so I played along and ad-libbed as well as I could. Luckily I had acted a little in local theater and knew how to maintain my character. Rather than lose my goddamn mind, that is. “Let me start at the beginning when ye were still but a mere child,” he said. His accent made him hard to understand. It was Irish, that much I could tell, but with a hunk of Hungarian or something that I could not pin down. But he was also an old man and somewhat deaf and so he spoke slowly and carefully. I nodded to encourage him as he ran his fingers through the long white hair from which I assumed that he got his name. He put the mug down on top of the mantelpiece as he braced himself for the tale. “As y’know it was in 1660, eleven years ago, that Charles II was restored to the throne of England. That was good news for Ireland after the indignities of that rat Cromwell. Good news for us, but nay so good for our friend Blood. His lands were seized by the Court of Claims and he was left penniless. You don’t empoor a scoundrel like that without consequences. And that was when it all began, my child, for ‘twas then he embarked on this life of thievery and villainy!” As he placed his thumbs dramatically in his vest, another spark landed on his stocking but he seemed not to notice. With the fire blazing behind him, I could see only the cutout of his frail thin figure and that head brooding in the orange light. Like one of those toy shadow theaters. And thank goodness for that since it added a peg of levity that I desperately needed to hang my sanity on. “Oh, he’s tricked many with his schemes ‘n plots. Not the least of which was your poor father, as y’know. Aye but the worst of it was this – that he played the devil against his own people, his own country. And in troubled times like these too, with England breathing down our necks and ready to strike again!” The White Prince took a deep breath at that point and paced slowly back and forth. I could see that these matters about Blood and Ireland and the Crown were of grave importance to him even if they were no more than historical twiddles to me. But I tried to pay attention in case any of it held clues to help me with my predicament. My predicament…which was a lot bigger than some old coot with a vengeance. As he continued, an owl living in the rafters of the mansion flapped its way to a new perch to keep an eye on us below. The thought that owls were some kind of rotten omen flitted into my head, darted out. “Ach, this is all old history to ye, I know,” he went on. “Old, old history,” I said without exaggeration. “Old wounds, old wars. F’give me, I’m an antique of a soldier without the good sense to hang up me sword. Back to Blood then. He’s been in London these many months engaging in one black deed after another. But he’s known to associate himself with fools and ruffians and so none of his plans have worked out.” The White Prince placed his hand behind his back and took a wider stance, giving a false impression of vigor but a true one of determination. “I fear now that Blood has reached the end of his patience and is planning one last great crime to set himself aright. To win himself a fortune and earn the notoriety on which he thrives. This would be but the worse for Ireland for I’m certain we’d exact a heavy penalty for an Irishman’s exploits in London. They’ll call him an Irish patriot and have one more excuse to take away our lands. A patriot! Rubbish! My young friend, listen well…Blood is a rogue and nothing more!” He slammed his hand on the mantle, the owl growled, I bounced. It all made perfect nonsense to me. I had no idea what this was all about; I was there by a simple accident of physics. Rogues and lands and the whole English/Irish thing…what did it have to do with me? Unfortunately, that answer was coming and it did not soothe. Now agitated and irate, the White Prince stepped forward and again ran his bony fingers through his hair. The skin on his face was pale and mottled but the look in his eyes dimmed the antiquity. He quickly pulled back into the shadows as though trying to keep his face, if not his anger, a secret. “I have other reasons, as ye might guess, for wanting Blood to fail. But I’ve said enoof for now. Y’must to London then and find him. But keep your own cover. Let no man know the nature of your adventure. Y’can only detain Blood with solid proof of the crime or, better still, catch him in the act of committing it. Otherwise he’ll slip through yer fingers like an eel. Do y’understand?” Understand? What I understood was that this little shadow theater had just turned into a horror show. Did this fellow really expect me to go to London and catch Colonel Blood in the act of committing a crime? Arrest him, wrestle him to the ground, kill him? It was impossible, ridiculous. What did I know about 17th century London, let alone about blood and crimes and kings? I was a just a marketing director for a company that sold smart running shoes with computer chips in them. And to be perfectly honest, the shoes were not even that smart. They gave you some instant bioreadings, that’s all. A dimwit in a clinic could do as much. The venture he was describing could get me killed…or worse! So I got up abruptly and started to leave, looking for the way out. But the owl hooted and when I looked up it was eyeballing me with those creepy peepers. I froze and suddenly caught my reflection in a massive mirror on the rear wall. I had not noticed it before and the image in it shocked me cold. It was not me! Yes the reflection was wearing the clothes I had on all right, but the body was off, the head all wrong. Shape, posture, demeanor…wrong, wrong, wrong. I moved my arm and it moved its, lifted my leg and so did it. But my face – my familiar face, my hello face – was nowhere to be seen. I was not me. Stunned, I sat down again and, as a final insult, so did the reflection. But it was the body of a total stranger that collapsed into that seat, drenched in unfamiliar sweat.