by Anne Rice
"Then they can move. "
"I thought at first the necklace had fallen. But after repairing it three times I realized that was foolish. She was tearing it off her neck, or making it fall with her mind. " I made some little horrified whisper. And then I felt absolutely mortified that I had done this in her presence. I wanted to go out at once. Her face was like a mirror for all my imaginings. Her lips curved in a smile but did not curve.
"It has happened with other ornaments, ornaments bearing the names of gods whom they do not like, I think. A vase I brought from a church was broken once, blown to tiny fragments as if by their glance. And then there have been more startling changes as well. "
"Tell me. "
"I have come into the sanctuary and found one or the other of them standing. " This was too terrifying. I wanted to tug his hand and pull him out of here.
"I found him once several paces from the chair. And the woman, another time, at the door. "
"Trying to get out? " I whispered.
"Perhaps, " he said thoughtfully. "But then they could easily get out if they wanted to. When you hear the whole story you can judge. Whenever I've found them moved, I've carried them back. I've arranged their limbs as they were before. It takes enormous strength to do it. They are like flexible stone, if you can imagine it. And if I have such strength, you can imagine what theirs might be. "
"You say want . . . wanted to. What if they want to do everything and they no longer can? What if it was the limit of her greatest effort even to reach the door! "
"I think she could have broken the doors, had she wanted to. If I can open bolts with my mind, what can she do? " I looked at their cold, remote faces, their narrow hollowed cheeks, their large and serene mouths.
"But what if you're wrong. And what if they can hear every word that we are saying to each other, and it angers them, outrages them..
"I think they do hear, " he said, trying to calm me again, his hand on mine, his tone subdued,
"but I do not think they care. If they cared, they would move. "
"But how can you know that? "
"They do other things that require great strength. For example, there are times when I lock the tabernacle and they at once unlock it and open the doors again. I know they are doing it because they are the only ones who could be doing it. The doors fly back and there they are. I take them out to look at the sea. And before dawn, when I come to fetch them, they are heavier, less pliant, almost impossible to move. There are times when I think they do these things to torment me as it were, to play with me. "
"No. They are trying and they can't. "
"Don't be so quick to judge, " he said. "I have come into their chamber and found evidence of strange things indeed. And of course, there are the things that happened in the beginning... " But he stopped. Something had distracted him.
"Do you hear thoughts from them? " I asked. He did seem to be listening. He didn't answer. He was studying them. It occurred to me that something had changed! I used every bit of my will not to turn and run. I looked at them carefully. I couldn't see anything, hear anything, feel anything. I was going to start shouting and screaming if Marius didn't explain why he was staring.
"Don't be so impetuous, Lestat, " he said finally, smiling a little, his eyes still fixed on the male.
"Every now and then I do hear them, but it is unintelligible, it is merely the presence of them- you know the sound. "
"And you heard him just then. "
"Yeeesss . . . Perhaps. "
"Marius, please let us go out of here, I beg you. Forgive me, I can't bear it! Please, Marius, let's go. "
"All right, " he said kindly. He squeezed my shoulder. "But do something for me first. "
"Anything you ask. "
"Talk to them. It need not be out loud. But talk. Tell them you find them beautiful. "
"They know, " I said. "They know I find them indescribably beautiful. " I was certain that they did. But he meant tell them in a ceremonial way, and so I cleared my mind of all fear and all mad suppositions and I told them this.
"Just talk to them, " Marius said, urging me on. I did. I looked into the eyes of the man and into the eyes of the woman. And the strangest feeling crept over me. I was repeating the phrases I find you beautiful,
I find you incomparably beautiful with the barest shape of real words.
I was praying as I had when I was very, very little and I would lie in the meadow on the side of the mountain and ask God please please to help me get away from my father's house. I talked to her like this now and I said I was grateful that I had been allowed to come near her and her ancient secrets, and this feeling became physical. It was all over the surface of my skin and at the roots of my hair. I could feel tension draining from my face. I could feel it leaving my body. I was light all over, and the incense and the flowers were enfolding my spirit as I looked into the black centers of her deep brown eyes.
"Akasha, " I said aloud. I heard the name at the same moment of speaking it. And it sounded lovely to me. The hairs rose all over me. The tabernacle became like a flaming border around her, and there was only something indistinct where the male figure sat. I drew close to her without willing it, and I leaned forward and I almost kissed her lips. I wanted to. I bent nearer. Then I felt her lips. I wanted to make the blood come up in my mouth and pass it to her as I had that time to Gabrielle when she lay in the coffin. The spell was deepening, and I looked right into the fathomless orbs of her eyes. I am kissing the goddess on her mouth, what is the matter with me! Am I mad to think of it! I moved back. I found myself against the wall again, trembling, with my hands clamped to the sides of my head. At least this time I had not upset the lilies, but I was crying again. Marius closed the tabernacle doors. He made the bolt inside slip into place. We went into the passage and he made the inner bolt rise and go into its brackets. He put the outside bolt in with his hands.
"Come, young one, " he said. "Let's go upstairs. " But we had walked only a few yards when we heard a crisp clicking sound, and then another. He turned and looked back.
"They did it again, " he said. And a look of distress divided his face like a shadow.
"What? " I backed up against the wall.
"The tabernacle, they opened it. Come. I'll return later and lock it before the sun rises. Now we will go back to my drawing room and I will tell you my tale. " When we reached the lighted room, I collapsed in the chair with my head in my hands. He was standing still just looking at me, and when I realized it, I looked up. "She told you her name, " he said.
"Akasha! " I said. It was snatching a word out of the whirlpool of a dissolving dream. "She did tell me! I said Akasha out loud. " I looked at him, imploring him for answers. For some explanation of the attitude with which he stared at me. I thought I'd lose my mind if his face didn't become expressive again.
"Are you angry with me? "
"Shhh. Be quiet, " he said. I could hear nothing in the silence.
Except maybe the sea. Maybe a sound from the wicks of the candles in the room. Maybe the wind. Not even their eyes had appeared more lifeless than his eyes now seemed.
"You cause something to stir in them, " he whispered. I stood up.
"What does it mean? "
"I don't know, " he said. "Maybe nothing. The tabernacle is still open and they are merely sitting there as always. Who knows? " And I felt suddenly all his long years of wanting to know. I would say centuries, but I cannot really imagine centuries. Not even now. I felt his years and years of trying to elicit from them the smallest signs and getting nothing, and I knew that he was wondering why I had drawn from her the secret of her name. Akasha. Things had happened, but that had been in the time of Rome. Dark things. Terrible things. Suffering, unspeakable suffering. The images went white. Silence. He was stranded in the room like a saint taken down off an altar and left in the aisle of a church.
"Marius! " I whispered. He woke and his face warmed slowly, and he looked at me affectionately, almost wonderi
ngly.
"Yes, Lestat, " he said and gave my hand a reassuring squeeze. He seated himself and gestured for me to do the same, and we were once again facing each other comfortably. And the even light of the room was reassuring. It was reassuring to see, beyond the windows, the night sky. His former quickness was returning, the glint of good humor in his eyes.
"It's not yet midnight, " he said. "And all is well on the islands. If I'm not disturbed, I think there is time for me to tell you the whole tale. "
MARIUS'S STORY
"It happened in my fortieth year, on a warm spring night in the Roman Gallic city of Massilia, when in a dirty waterfront tavern I sat scribbling away on my history of the world.
"The tavern was deliciously filthy and crowded, a hangout for sailors and wanderers, travelers like me, I fancied, loving them all in a general sort of way, though most of them were poor and I wasn't poor, and they couldn't read what I wrote when they glanced over my shoulder.
"I'd come to Massilia after a long and studious journey that had taken me through all the great cities of the Empire. To Alexandria, Pergamon, Athens I'd traveled, observing and writing about the people, and now I was making my way through the cities of Roman Gaul.
"I couldn't have been more content on this night had I been in my library at Rome. In fact, I liked the tavern better. Everywhere I went I sought out such places in which to write, setting up my candle and ink and parchment at a table close to the wall, and I did my best work early in the evening when the places were at their noisiest.
"In retrospect, it's easy to see that I lived my whole life in the midst of frenzied activity. I was used to the idea that nothing could affect me adversely.
"I'd grown up an illegitimate son in a rich Roman household-loved, pampered, and allowed to do what I wanted. My legitimate brothers had to worry about marriage, politics, and war. By the age of twenty, I'd become the scholar and the chronicler, the one who raised his voice at drunken banquets to settle historical and military arguments.
"When I traveled I had plenty of money, and documents that opened doors everywhere. And to say life had been good to me would be an understatement. I was an extraordinarily happy individual. But the really important point here is that life had never bored me or defeated me.
"I carried within me a sense of invincibility, a sense of wonder. And this was as important to me later on as your anger and strength have been to you, as important as despair or cruelty can be in the spirits of others.
"But to continue . . . If there was anything I'd missed in my rather eventful life-and I didn't think of this too much-it was the love and knowledge of my Keltic mother. She'd died when I was born, and all I knew of her was that she'd been a slave, daughter of the warlike Gauls who fought Julius Caesar. I was blond and blue-eyed as she was. And her people had been giants it seemed. At a very young age, I towered over my father and my brothers.
"But I had little or no curiosity about my Gallic ancestors. I'd come to Gaul as an educated Roman, through and through, and I carried with me no awareness of my barbarian blood, but rather the common beliefs of my time-that Caesar Augustus was a great ruler, and that in this blessed age of the Pax Romana, old superstition was being replaced by law and by reason throughout the Empire. There was no place too wretched for the Roman roads, and for the soldiers, the scholars, and the traders who followed them.
"On this night I was writing like a madman, scribbling down descriptions of the men who came and went in the tavern, children of all races it seemed, speakers of a dozen different languages.
"And for no apparent reason, I was possessed of a strange idea about life, a strange concern that amounted almost to a pleasant obsession. I remember that it came on me this night because it seemed somehow related to what happened after. But it wasn't related. I had had the idea before. That it came to me in these last free hours as a Roman citizen was no more than coincidence.
"The idea was simply that there was somebody who knew everything, somebody who had seen everything. I did not mean by this that a Supreme Being existed, but rather that there was on earth a continual intelligence, a continual awareness. And I thought of it in practical terms that excited me and soothed me simultaneously. There was an awareness somewhere of all things i had seen in my travels, an awareness of what it had been like in Massilia six centuries ago when the first Greek traders came, an awareness of what it had been like in Egypt when Cheops built the pyramids. Somebody knew what the light had been like in the late afternoon on the day that Troy fell to the Greeks, and someone or something knew what the peasants said to each other in their little farmhouse outside Athens right before the Spartans brought down the walls.
"My idea of who or what it was, was vague. But I was comforted by the notion that nothing spiritual-and knowing was spiritual-was lost to us. That there was this continuous knowing . . .
"And as I drank a little more wine, and thought about it, and wrote about it, I realized it wasn't so much a belief of mine as it was a prejudice. I just felt that there was a continual awareness.
"And the history that I was writing was an imitation of it. I tried to unite all things I had seen in my history, linking my observations of lands and people with all the written observations that had come down to me from the Greeks-from Xenophon and Herodotus, and Poseidonius-to make one continuous awareness of the world in my lifetime. It was a pale thing, a limited thing, compared to the true awareness. Yet I felt good as I continued writing.
"But around midnight, I was getting a little tired, and when I happened to look up after a particularly long period of unbroken concentration, I realized something had changed in the tavern.
"It was unaccountably quieter. In fact, it was almost empty. And across from me, barely illuminated by the sputtering light of the candle, there sat a tall fair-haired man with his back to the room who was watching me in silence. I was startled, not so much by the way he looked- though this was startling in itself-but by the realization that he had been there for some time, close to me, observing me, and I hadn't noticed him.
"He was a giant of a Gaul as they all were, even taller than I was, and he had a long narrow face with an extremely strong jaw and hawklike nose, and eyes that gleamed beneath their bushy blond brows with a childlike intelligence. What I mean to say is he looked very, very clever, but very young and innocent also. And he wasn't young. The effect was perplexing.
"And it was made all the more so by the fact that his thick and coarse yellow hair wasn't clipped short in the popular Roman style, but was streaming down to his shoulders. And instead of the usual tunic and cloak which you saw everywhere in those times, he wore the old belted leather jerkin that had been the barbarian dress before Caesar.
"Right out of the woods this character looked, with his gray eyes burning through me, and I was vaguely delighted with him. I wrote down hurriedly the details of his dress, confident he couldn't read the Latin.
"But the stillness in which he sat unnerved me a little. His eyes were unnaturally wide, and his lips quivered slightly as if the mere sight of me excited him. His clean and delicate white hand, which casually rested on the table before him, seemed out of keeping with the rest of him.
"A quick glance about told me my slaves weren't in the tavern. Well, they're probably next door playing cards, I thought, or upstairs with a couple of women. They'll stop in any minute.
"I forced a little smile at my strange and silent friend, and went back to writing. But directly he started talking.
"' You are an educated man, aren't you?' he asked. He spoke the universal Latin of the Empire, but with a thick accent, pronouncing each word with a care that was almost musical.
"I told him, yes, I was fortunate enough to be educated, and I started to write again, thinking this would surely discourage him. After all, he was fine to look at, but I didn't really want to talk to him.
" 'And you write both in Greek and in Latin, don't you?' he asked, glancing at the finished work that lay before me.
; "I explained politely that the Greek I had written on the parchment was a quotation from another text. My text was in Latin. And again I started scribbling.
" 'But you are a Keltoi, are you not?' he asked this time. It was the old Greek word for the Gauls.
"'Not really, no. I am a Roman,' I answered.
" 'You look like one of us, the Keltoi,' he said. 'You are tall like us, and you walk the way we do.'
"This was a strange statement. For hours I'd been sitting here, barely sipping my wine. I hadn't walked anywhere. But I explained that my mother had been Keltic, but I hadn't known her. My father was a Roman senator.
"'And what is it you write in Greek and Latin?' he asked. 'What is it that arouses your passion?'
"I didn't answer right away. He was beginning to intrigue me. But I knew enough at forty to realize that most people you meet in taverns sound interesting for the first few minutes and then begin to weary you beyond endurance.
"'Your slaves say,' he announced gravely, 'that you are writing a great history.'
"'Do they?' I answered, a bit stiffly. 'And where are my slaves, I wonder!' Again I looked around. Nowhere in sight. Then I conceded to him that it was a history I was writing.
" 'And you have been to Egypt,' he said. And his hand spread itself out flat on the table.
"I paused and took another good look at him. There was something otherworldly about him, the way that he sat, the way he used this one hand to gesture. It was the decorum primitive people often have that makes them seem repositors of immense wisdom, when in fact all they possess is immense conviction.
"'Yes,' I said a little warily. 'I've been to Egypt.'
"Obviously this exhilarated him. His eyes widened slightly, then narrowed, and he made some little movement with his lips as though speaking to himself.
"'And you know the language and the writing of Egypt?' he asked earnestly, his eyebrows knitting. 'You know the cities of Egypt?'
" 'The language as it is spoken, yes, I do know it. But if by the writing you mean the old picture writing, no, I can't read it. I don't know anyone who can read it. I've heard that even the old Egyptian priests can't read it. Half the texts they copy they can't decipher.'