Blue Light by Walter Mosley

kill me?” I asked.
    “I don’t know,” he said. “The others died, but you’re different. You’re … you’re weaker than they were. You’re one of the susceptible ones. More than anyone, you hear us. You hear the music.”
    He handed the knife to me. “Cut a vein and cover the bottom of the bowl to about an inch or so.”
    I didn’t want to die and I was sure that what he was going to do would kill me. But I couldn’t refuse him. Death was better by far than his disappointment. I cut my wrist and the blood flowed freely. The feeling of the blood trickling down between my fingers was familiar, almost comforting. It was a sensation I associated with power — my power.
    The warm dollops plopped quickly into the white bowl. I tried to stop the bleeding with my thumb, but the blood kept coming. I tried three fingers, but still it came between and around. I was beginning to panic when Ordé took my wrist and placed a large gauze pad over the cut. He pressed hard for about a minute and then produced bandage tape and wound it tightly about the gauze. A large circle of blood grew on the bandage but stopped before reaching the edges.
    Then Ordé took the knife. He raised his sleeve, showing his wrist. There were many scars there along the vein. I wondered if each incision meant a death.
    Ordé chose a spot between scars. He dug in the point and made a quick twist with his wrist. The blood came out in quick droplets, mixing with mine. Ordé’s blood was darker, but mine was heavier. At first the droplets formed little pools across the top like dark islets in a crimson sea. But as he bled more, the islets came together to form continents.
    When he was finished Ordé simply pressed his thumb against the small incision for ten seconds or so. The bleeding stopped completely, and I wondered if that had to do with his truth also.
    “We have to wait for the mixture to prepare itself,” Ordé said.
    He sat across from me and smiled.
    I remembered the first time I sat in his presence on the afternoon I’d decided to die the second time.
    “How’s it goin’, brother?” he asked me.
    “Fine.”
    “You at the school?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “What you do there?”
    “I study Thucydides’ Peloponnesian War and its impact on the idea of history. That’s the general idea anyway. …” I stopped myself from going on to explain that the general and medical observer and historian not only told history but was himself a part of that history; he was history. That was my thesis, simple and elegant, I believed. But no one in Ancient Studies had thought my idea was scholarly enough, and they were happy to see me gone.
    “You like that?”
    “It doesn’t seem to matter. Maybe it did a long time ago, but not now.”
    “All you learn around here is how to mix up the slop,” Ordé said.
    “You got that right.” That was the first time I felt Ordé’s truth telling, but I didn’t know it then.
    “You know the water tower above the statue back up in Garber Park?”
    “Yeah?”
    “I get together with some people there at noon on Wednesdays. You’d learn a lot more up there than you ever will in a classroom.”
    “About what?” I asked.
    Ordé turned to me then and looked in my eyes. “About everything you miss every day. About a whole world that these fools down here don’t even know exists.”
    Back then I thought it was his eyes that convinced me to live at least until the following Wednesday.
    Sitting there in his kitchen, as we stared at each other over a bowl of our blood, I wondered at how far I had drifted from my pristine studies.
    “See,” Ordé said. “The blood mixes itself.”
    He was right. The darker blood and the lighter had formed into longish clumps like fat worms. They twisted and turned against each other, sometimes slowly, sometimes fast. Every now and then two worms would collapse and fall together and then fall apart — another color completely now, almost white.
    “When they’re all the same color