Reverend Alpert: The Gestaltist of Blood
Jan. 19th, 2024 02:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lb_leeThe Gestaltist of Blood
Series: Reverend Alpert
Summary: At the start of the story, before he meets Perfection, Alpert gets caught by some enterprising bandits.
Word Count: 1200
Notes: I was never fully satisfied with the first, introductory Alpert story being “the Sins of Flesh Demon.” This story is meant to fulfill that role, and also to jive with the eventual paperback omnibus. This story was posted with the support of the LiberaPay and Patreon crews!
“I don’t like robbing no Gestaltist,” one of the bandits was saying. “No telling what they’ll pull on you.”
The other bandit, a woman, rolled her eyes. “Don’t be superstitious. At least he ain’t no hoodoo man; now they are the worst.”
“Hoodoo men, you know what you’re getting,” the first insisted. “My granddaddy was a hoodoo man, and a damn good one. Gestaltists, though, they do all sorts of damn fool things, don’t got no proper tradition, no lineage, you know what I’m saying? They could be any damn thing.”
Alpert said nothing. His head still rang from the beating they’d given him, and the less attention they paid him, the better. This was not the first time he’d been robbed on the road, and he still hoped that if they thought him a helpless old man (which, at the moment, was truer than he would’ve liked), they would leave him alone… and alive.
But the superstitious bandit was making that seem less and less likely: “I ain’t getting followed by no Gestaltist curse forever and ever.”
“Quit making a fuss; he can’t curse shit,” the woman bandit groused. “Look, see those blacks he’s wearing, the white collar dashes? That makes him a Reverend, low level. He’s an exorcist, am I right? You an exorcist, old man?”
Alpert kept his eyes down. His forehead was bleeding badly.
The woman bandit continued, “Exorcists are only good for getting rid of badness. They can’t put it in. It don’t work that way.”
“An exorcist who lives to be old out here is one I don’t care to disrespect,” the superstitious one said darkly. “I don’t care what color his collar is.”
“Relax. Gestaltists need a medium. Without it, they’re nothing. And our boy,” she tossed down Alpert’s belt, “is a chalk Gestaltist.”
Alpert’s chalk belt was the nicest thing he owned. Made of leather, it held slots for sticks of chalk, pouches and pockets for compass, protractor, string and stake and short-edge, along with whatever miscellaneous materials he needed. It had been a gift from Booker Z. Lilac, and in that moment, Alpert regretted the generosity.
“No chalk? No works.” The bandit kicked it well out of reach of the tree Alpert’s wrists were tied to. “We’re safe. I didn’t know anyone even used chalk anymore…”
Alpert watched silently as they went through his belongings. There wasn’t much; nothing cured sentimental attachment to objects like bodily carrying them, year in and year out. He carried no money, since it was good for no one but brigands and the Scattered City dwellers. What he did have: a change of clothes, a bar of soap, wooden eating utensils wrapped in a bandanna, a hair pick, toothbrush, tweezers, bowl/pot and handle, water jug, oil bottle, some food, first aid and mending kits, and a notebook. Nothing special, nothing nice, except for the chalk belt… and Alpert’s cotton gloves with birch bark rounds sewn into the backs. The bandits had noticed them, in the course of tying his wrists, but the gloves went high enough that now there was no way to get them off without untying or killing him first. Alpert worried that they planned the latter.
Blood dripped from his forehead, running into his eyes. Trying not to attract attention, Alpert brought up his bound hands to wipe the blood away. It was awkward—there wasn’t much slack in the rope between his wrists and the branch—but he got it.
The superstitious bandit found the notebook and the letter Alpert had used to mark the pages. “‘Booker Z. Lilac has rejoined the Gestalt,’” he read, “‘Please return for check-in at your earliest convenience.’ Rejoined the Gestalt?”
“Means he died,” the female bandit explained. “Friend of yours, exorcist?”
It was just as well they didn’t expect a response. It would’ve been hard for Alpert to categorize his relationship to Booker Z. Lilac—his friend, yes, once, but also his minder, his superior, his…
The blood on Alpert’s gloves sizzled.
...his binder.
But Booker Z. Lilac had died over a season ago, and Alpert had avoided his required check-in at the equinox. Which meant…
Alpert looked at the blood on his gloves. Moving as slowly, unobtrusively as he could, he began to twist his wrists around in their bonds. The rope was rough and cut into his flesh, but the gloves helped protect his skin, and he stayed silent.
“Check-ins mean he’s probably disgraced,” the female bandit continued, seeming to enjoy educating her squinty partner. “What’d you do to get thrown in the woods, old man?”
Alpert’s wrist twisted into position. His bloody fingers were now against the birch bark back of his other glove.
“I was a Gestaltist of blood,” he replied, and scrawled a plus sign on the birch bark.
His blood roared in his ears. Vitality surged through him, sweeping aside the pain in his head. It wouldn’t, couldn’t last long—using one’s own blood was dangerous, even when one was in practice—but Alpert yanked. The rope held, but the branch snapped, and he sprinted, faster than a young man, fast as a deer, snatching up his belt with his bound hands.
“Catch him, catch him!”
Too late. His hands found the chalk.
The blood was already wearing off, but he used the last of its boon to spin, drawing the chalk in a wide circle around him. Even though the ground held nothing but brown grass, the white line blazed into brilliance, throwing the bandits back. With four quick sweeps, Alpert drew a square around him, and the ward blazed into life.
“No!”
The blood’s boon died, and now it claimed its price. Alpert’s pulse became a susurration. His vision bled white. He collapsed over his pack and put his head down, trying to avoid fainting.
It was no good. It’d been too long, and Alpert was no longer a young man. Everything went white.
The last thing he heard was the superstitious bandit shouting, “Damn it, didn’t I tell you about them Gestaltists?”
Chalk was a humble medium, not like blood. It gave no boons, and it devoured no blood price. What chalk did well was simple, solid things: boosts, bindings, warnings… and wards. Despite his ward’s sloppiness and haste, it would protect him from all sources of ill-intent for at least an hour or two. He only hoped that the bandits weren’t knowledgeable enough to try calming themselves and then approaching him with pure intent; he’d been robbed by a Zen master that way, once.
Thankfully, these bandits were not spiritually minded. They were gone when he came to in the darkness, sticky with blood, pack digging uncomfortably into his ribs. The chalk ward held its silent vigil. It had been the golden hour when he blacked out; he must’ve been unconscious for a while.
He felt weak and exhausted. The blood price had been harsh, harsher than he remembered… but he’d managed to pay it. He’d managed to use it, for the first time in… had it truly been twenty-five years?
Regardless of how long it’d been, that wasn’t a good sign. Alpert wasn’t supposed to be capable of blood work anymore. If he was…
He looked at his gloved hands, marked with blood and chalk dust. He put his face in his hands and took a deep breath.
He needed to return to the High Church. He’d put this off long enough.
For now, though, he would set up camp and pass the night. He could go nowhere until he healed from his injuries, and his wards would protect him until he recovered.
Series: Reverend Alpert
Summary: At the start of the story, before he meets Perfection, Alpert gets caught by some enterprising bandits.
Word Count: 1200
Notes: I was never fully satisfied with the first, introductory Alpert story being “the Sins of Flesh Demon.” This story is meant to fulfill that role, and also to jive with the eventual paperback omnibus. This story was posted with the support of the LiberaPay and Patreon crews!
“I don’t like robbing no Gestaltist,” one of the bandits was saying. “No telling what they’ll pull on you.”
The other bandit, a woman, rolled her eyes. “Don’t be superstitious. At least he ain’t no hoodoo man; now they are the worst.”
“Hoodoo men, you know what you’re getting,” the first insisted. “My granddaddy was a hoodoo man, and a damn good one. Gestaltists, though, they do all sorts of damn fool things, don’t got no proper tradition, no lineage, you know what I’m saying? They could be any damn thing.”
Alpert said nothing. His head still rang from the beating they’d given him, and the less attention they paid him, the better. This was not the first time he’d been robbed on the road, and he still hoped that if they thought him a helpless old man (which, at the moment, was truer than he would’ve liked), they would leave him alone… and alive.
But the superstitious bandit was making that seem less and less likely: “I ain’t getting followed by no Gestaltist curse forever and ever.”
“Quit making a fuss; he can’t curse shit,” the woman bandit groused. “Look, see those blacks he’s wearing, the white collar dashes? That makes him a Reverend, low level. He’s an exorcist, am I right? You an exorcist, old man?”
Alpert kept his eyes down. His forehead was bleeding badly.
The woman bandit continued, “Exorcists are only good for getting rid of badness. They can’t put it in. It don’t work that way.”
“An exorcist who lives to be old out here is one I don’t care to disrespect,” the superstitious one said darkly. “I don’t care what color his collar is.”
“Relax. Gestaltists need a medium. Without it, they’re nothing. And our boy,” she tossed down Alpert’s belt, “is a chalk Gestaltist.”
Alpert’s chalk belt was the nicest thing he owned. Made of leather, it held slots for sticks of chalk, pouches and pockets for compass, protractor, string and stake and short-edge, along with whatever miscellaneous materials he needed. It had been a gift from Booker Z. Lilac, and in that moment, Alpert regretted the generosity.
“No chalk? No works.” The bandit kicked it well out of reach of the tree Alpert’s wrists were tied to. “We’re safe. I didn’t know anyone even used chalk anymore…”
Alpert watched silently as they went through his belongings. There wasn’t much; nothing cured sentimental attachment to objects like bodily carrying them, year in and year out. He carried no money, since it was good for no one but brigands and the Scattered City dwellers. What he did have: a change of clothes, a bar of soap, wooden eating utensils wrapped in a bandanna, a hair pick, toothbrush, tweezers, bowl/pot and handle, water jug, oil bottle, some food, first aid and mending kits, and a notebook. Nothing special, nothing nice, except for the chalk belt… and Alpert’s cotton gloves with birch bark rounds sewn into the backs. The bandits had noticed them, in the course of tying his wrists, but the gloves went high enough that now there was no way to get them off without untying or killing him first. Alpert worried that they planned the latter.
Blood dripped from his forehead, running into his eyes. Trying not to attract attention, Alpert brought up his bound hands to wipe the blood away. It was awkward—there wasn’t much slack in the rope between his wrists and the branch—but he got it.
The superstitious bandit found the notebook and the letter Alpert had used to mark the pages. “‘Booker Z. Lilac has rejoined the Gestalt,’” he read, “‘Please return for check-in at your earliest convenience.’ Rejoined the Gestalt?”
“Means he died,” the female bandit explained. “Friend of yours, exorcist?”
It was just as well they didn’t expect a response. It would’ve been hard for Alpert to categorize his relationship to Booker Z. Lilac—his friend, yes, once, but also his minder, his superior, his…
The blood on Alpert’s gloves sizzled.
...his binder.
But Booker Z. Lilac had died over a season ago, and Alpert had avoided his required check-in at the equinox. Which meant…
Alpert looked at the blood on his gloves. Moving as slowly, unobtrusively as he could, he began to twist his wrists around in their bonds. The rope was rough and cut into his flesh, but the gloves helped protect his skin, and he stayed silent.
“Check-ins mean he’s probably disgraced,” the female bandit continued, seeming to enjoy educating her squinty partner. “What’d you do to get thrown in the woods, old man?”
Alpert’s wrist twisted into position. His bloody fingers were now against the birch bark back of his other glove.
“I was a Gestaltist of blood,” he replied, and scrawled a plus sign on the birch bark.
His blood roared in his ears. Vitality surged through him, sweeping aside the pain in his head. It wouldn’t, couldn’t last long—using one’s own blood was dangerous, even when one was in practice—but Alpert yanked. The rope held, but the branch snapped, and he sprinted, faster than a young man, fast as a deer, snatching up his belt with his bound hands.
“Catch him, catch him!”
Too late. His hands found the chalk.
The blood was already wearing off, but he used the last of its boon to spin, drawing the chalk in a wide circle around him. Even though the ground held nothing but brown grass, the white line blazed into brilliance, throwing the bandits back. With four quick sweeps, Alpert drew a square around him, and the ward blazed into life.
“No!”
The blood’s boon died, and now it claimed its price. Alpert’s pulse became a susurration. His vision bled white. He collapsed over his pack and put his head down, trying to avoid fainting.
It was no good. It’d been too long, and Alpert was no longer a young man. Everything went white.
The last thing he heard was the superstitious bandit shouting, “Damn it, didn’t I tell you about them Gestaltists?”
Chalk was a humble medium, not like blood. It gave no boons, and it devoured no blood price. What chalk did well was simple, solid things: boosts, bindings, warnings… and wards. Despite his ward’s sloppiness and haste, it would protect him from all sources of ill-intent for at least an hour or two. He only hoped that the bandits weren’t knowledgeable enough to try calming themselves and then approaching him with pure intent; he’d been robbed by a Zen master that way, once.
Thankfully, these bandits were not spiritually minded. They were gone when he came to in the darkness, sticky with blood, pack digging uncomfortably into his ribs. The chalk ward held its silent vigil. It had been the golden hour when he blacked out; he must’ve been unconscious for a while.
He felt weak and exhausted. The blood price had been harsh, harsher than he remembered… but he’d managed to pay it. He’d managed to use it, for the first time in… had it truly been twenty-five years?
Regardless of how long it’d been, that wasn’t a good sign. Alpert wasn’t supposed to be capable of blood work anymore. If he was…
He looked at his gloved hands, marked with blood and chalk dust. He put his face in his hands and took a deep breath.
He needed to return to the High Church. He’d put this off long enough.
For now, though, he would set up camp and pass the night. He could go nowhere until he healed from his injuries, and his wards would protect him until he recovered.
no subject
Date: 2024-01-20 03:38 am (UTC)