by L. J. Smith
“They want to kill him,” Hana murmured in the old woman’s ear when the story was over. “But look at his eyes. I know he’s sorry, and I think maybe he didn’t mean to hurt Ryl. Can you talk to him, Old Mother?”
Old Mother knew a lot of different languages; she’d traveled very far when she had been young. But now, after trying several, she shook her head.
“Demons don’t speak human languages,” Arno said scornfully. He was standing with his spear ready although the stranger squatting in front of the old woman showed no signs of trying to run away.
“He’s not a demon,” Old Mother said, with a severe glance at Arno. Then she added slowly, “But he’s certainly not a man, either. I’m not sure what he is. The Goddess has never told me anything about people like him.”
“Then obviously the Goddess isn’t interested,” Arno said with a shrug. “Let the hunters take care of him.”
Hana gripped the old woman’s thin shoulder.
Old Mother put a twiglike hand on Hana’s. Her dark eyes were grave and sad.
“The one thing we do know is that he’s capable of great harm,” she said softly. “I’m sorry, child, but I think Arno is right.” Then she turned to Arno. “It’s getting dark. We’d better shut him up somewhere tonight; then in the morning we can decide what to do with him. Maybe the Goddess will tell me something about him as I sleep.”
But Hana knew better. She saw the look on Arno’s face as he and the other hunters led the stranger away. And she heard the cold and angry muttering of others in the clan.
In the morning the stranger would die. Unpleasantly, if Arno had his way.
It was probably what he deserved. It was none of Hana’s business. But that night, as she lay on her leather pallet underneath her warm furs, she couldn’t sleep.
It was as if the Goddess were poking her, telling her that something was wrong. Something had to be done. And there was nobody else to do it.
Hana thought about the look of anguish in the stranger’s eyes.
Maybe . . . if he went somewhere far away . . . he couldn’t hurt other people. Out on the steppes there were no people to hurt. Maybe that was what the Goddess wanted. Maybe he was some creature that had wandered out of the spirit world and the Goddess would be angry if he were killed.
Hana didn’t know; she wasn’t a shaman yet. All she knew was that she felt pity for the stranger and she couldn’t keep still any longer.
A short time before dawn she got up. Very quietly, she went to the back of the cave and picked up a spare waterskin and some hard patties of traveling food. Then she crept to the side cave where the stranger was shut up.
The hunters had set a sort of fence in front of the cave, like the fences they used to trap animals. It was made of branches and bones lashed together with cords. A hunter was beside the fence, one hand on his spear. He was leaning back against the cave wall, and he was asleep with his mouth open.
Hana edged past him. Her heart was pounding so loudly she was certain it would wake him up. But the hunter didn’t move.
Slowly, carefully, Hana pulled one side of the fence outward.
From the darkness inside the cave, two eyes gleamed at her, throwing back the light of the fire.
Hana pressed fingers against her mouth in a sign to be quiet, then beckoned.
It was only then that she realized exactly how dangerous what she was doing was. She was letting him out—what was to stop him from rushing past her and into the main cave, grabbing people and biting them?
But the stranger did no such thing. He didn’t move. He sat and his two eyes glowed at Hana.
He’s not going to come, she realized. He won’t.
She beckoned again, more urgently.
The stranger still sat. Hana’s eyes were getting used to the darkness in the side cave and now she could see that he was shaking his head. He was determined to stay here and let the clan kill him.
Hana got mad.
Balancing the fence precariously, she jabbed a finger at the stranger, then jerked a thumb over her shoulder. You—out! the gesture meant. She put behind it all the authority of a descendant of Old Mother’s, a woman destined to be co-leader of the clan someday.
And when the stranger didn’t obey immediately, she reached for him.
That scared him. He shrank back, seeming more alarmed than he had at anything else that had happened so far. He seemed afraid for her to touch him.
Afraid he might hurt me, Hana thought. She didn’t know what put the idea into her mind. And she didn’t waste time wondering about it. She simply pressed her advantage, reaching for him again, using his fear to make him go where she wanted him to.
She herded him into the main cave and through it. They both moved like shadows among the shelters built along either side of the cave, Hana feeling certain that they were about to be caught any minute. But nobody caught them.
When they got outside she guided him toward the river.
Then she pointed downstream. She put the food and the waterskin in his hands and made far-flung gestures that meant, Go far away. Very far away. Very, very far. She was going into a pantomime indicating what Arno would do with his spear if the stranger ever came back when she noticed the way he was looking at her.
The moon was up and so bright that she could see every detail of the strange boy’s face. And now he was looking at her steadily, with the quiet concentration of a hunting animal, a carnivore. At the same time there was something bleak and terribly human in his eyes.
Hana stopped her pantomime. All at once, the space around the cave seemed very large, and she felt very small. She heard night noises, the croaking of frogs and the rushing of the river, with a peculiar intensity.
I should never have brought him out here. I’m alone with him out here. What was I thinking?
There was a long pause while they stood looking at each other silently. The stranger’s eyes were very dark, as bottomless and ageless as Old Mother’s. Hana could see that his eyelashes were long and she realized again, dimly, that he was handsome.
He lifted the packet of traveling food, looked at it, then with a sudden gesture he threw it on the ground. He did the same with the waterskin. Then he sighed.
Hana was bristling, going from fear to annoyance and back again. What was he doing? Did he think she was trying to poison him? She picked up the food packet, broke a piece of traveling food off and put it in her mouth. Chewing, she extended the packet toward him again. She made gestures from packet to mouth, saying out loud, “You need to eat food. Eat! Eat!”
He was watching her steadily. He took the packet from her, touched his mouth, and shook his head. He dropped it at his feet again.
He means it isn’t food to him.
Hana realized it with a shock. She stood and stared at the strange boy.
The food isn’t food to him and the water isn’t drink. But Ryl’s blood . . . he drank that.
Blood is his food and drink.
There was another long pause. Hana was very frightened. Her mouth was trembling and tears had come to her eyes. The stranger was still looking at her quietly, but she could see the fangs indenting his lower lip now and his eyes were reflecting moonlight.
He was looking at her throat.
We’re out here alone . . . he could have attacked me at any time, Hana thought. He could attack me right now. He looks very strong. But he hasn’t touched me. Even though he’s starving, I think. And he looks so grieved, so sad . . . and so hungry.
Her thoughts were tumbling like a piece of bark tossed on the river. She felt very dizzy.
It hurt Ryl . . . but it didn’t kill Ryl. Ryl was sitting up and eating before we all went to sleep tonight. Old Mother said she’s going to get well.
If it didn’t kill her, it wouldn’t kill me.
Hana swallowed. She looked at the strange boy with the glowing animal eyes. She saw that he wasn’t going to move toward her even though a fine trembling had taken over his body and he couldn’t seem to loo
k away from her neck.
What good does it do to send him off starving? There’s no other clan near here. He’ll just have to come back. And I was right before; he doesn’t want to do it, but he has to do it. Maybe somebody put a curse on him, made it so he starves unless he drinks blood.
There’s nobody else to help him.
Very slowly, her eyes on the stranger, Hana lifted the hair from one side of her neck. She exposed her throat, leaning her head back slightly.
Hunger sparked in the strange boy’s eyes—and then something blazed in them so quickly and so hot that it swallowed up the hunger. Shock and anger. He was staring at her face, now, not her neck. He shook his head vehemently, glaring.
Hana touched her neck and then her mouth, then made the far-flung gestures. Eat. Then go away.
And for the Goddess’s sake, hurry up, she thought, shutting her eyes. Before I panic and change my mind. She was crying now. She couldn’t help it. She clenched her fists and her teeth and waited grimly, trying to hang on to her resolve.
When he touched her for the first time, it was to take her hand.
Hana opened her eyes. He was looking at her with such infinite sadness. He smoothed out her fist gently, then kissed her hand. Among any people, it was a gesture of gratitude . . . and reverence.
And it sent startling tingles through Hana. A feeling that was almost like shivers, but warm. A lightness in her head and a weakness in her legs. A sense of awe and wonder that she’d only ever felt before when Old Mother was teaching her to communicate with the Goddess.
She could see startled reaction in the stranger’s eyes, too. He was feeling the same things, and they were equally new to him. Hana knew that. But then he dropped her hand quickly and she knew that he was also afraid. The feelings were dangerous—because they drew the two of them together.
One long moment while they stood and she saw moonlight in his eyes.
Then he turned to go.
Hana watched him, her throat aching, knowing he was going to die.
And somehow that wrenched her insides in a way she’d never experienced before. Although she kept herself standing still, with her head high, she could feel the tears running down her cheeks. She didn’t know why she felt this way—but it hurt her terribly. It was as if she were losing something . . . infinitely precious . . . before she’d had a chance to know it.
The future seemed gray, now. Empty. Lonely.
Cold and desolate, she stood by the rushing river and felt the wind blow through her. So alone . . .
“Hannah! Hannah! Wake up!”
Someone was shouting, but it wasn’t a voice from her cave. It sounded—faraway—and seemed to come from all directions, or maybe from the sky itself.
And it was saying her name wrong.
“Hannah, wake up! Please! Open your eyes!” The faraway voice was frantic.
And then there was another voice, a quiet voice that seemed to strike a chord deep inside Hana. A voice that was even less like sound, and that spoke in Hana’s mind.
Hannah, come back. You don’t have to relive all this. Wake up. Come back, Hannah—now.
Hana of the Three Rivers closed her eyes and went limp.
CHAPTER 6
Hannah opened her eyes.
“Oh, thank God,” Paul said. He seemed to be almost crying. “Oh, thank God. Do you see me? Do you know who you are?”
“I’m wet,” Hannah said slowly, feeling dazed. She touched her face. Her hair was dripping. Paul was holding a water glass. “Why am I wet?”
“I had to wake you up.” Paul sagged to the floor beside the couch. “What’s your name? What year is it?”
“My name is Hannah Snow,” Hannah said, still feeling dazed and bodiless. “And it’s—” Suddenly memory rushed out of the fog at her. She sat bolt upright, tears starting to stream from her eyes. “What was all that?”
“I don’t know,” Paul whispered. He leaned his head against the couch, then looked up. “You just kept talking—you were telling that story as if you were there. It was really happening to you. And nothing I could do would break the trance. I tried everything—I thought you were never going to come out of it. And then you started sobbing and I couldn’t make you stop.”
“I felt as if it were happening to me,” Hannah said. Her head ached; her whole body felt bruised with tension. And she was reeling with memories that were perfectly real and perfectly hers . . . and impossible.
“That was like no past life regression I’ve ever read about,” Paul said, his voice agitated. “The detail . . . you knew everything. Have you ever studied—is there any way you could have known those kinds of things?”
“No.” Hannah was just as agitated. “I’ve never studied humans in the Stone Age—and this was real. It wasn’t something I was making up as I was going along.”
They were both talking at once. “That guy,” Paul was saying. “He’s the one you’re afraid of, isn’t he? But, look, you know, regression is one thing . . . past lives is another thing . . . but this is crazy.”
“I don’t believe in vampires,” Hannah was saying at the same time. “Because that’s what that guy was supposed to be, wasn’t it? Of course it was. Caveman vampire. He was probably the first one. And I don’t believe in reincarnation.”
“Just plain crazy. This is crazy.”
“I agree.”
They both took a breath, looking at each other. There was a long silence.
Hannah put a hand to her forehead. “I’m . . . really tired.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I can understand that.” Paul looked around the room, nodded twice, then got up. “Well, we’d better get you home. We can talk about all this later, figure out what it really means. Some kind of subconscious fixation . . . archetypical symbolism . . . something.” He ran out of air and shook his head. “Now, you feel all right, don’t you? And you’re not going to worry about this? Because there’s nothing to worry about.”
“I know. I know.”
“At least we know we don’t have to worry about vampires attacking you.” He laughed. The laugh was strained.
Hannah couldn’t manage even a smile.
There was a brief silence, then Paul said, “You know, I think I’ll drive you home. That would be good. That would be a good idea.”
“That would be fine,” Hannah whispered.
He held out a hand to help her off the couch. “By the way, I’m really sorry I had to get you all wet.”
“No. It was good you did. I was feeling so awful—and there were worse things about to happen.”
Paul blinked. “I’m sorry?”
Hannah looked at him helplessly, then away. “There were worse things about to happen. Terrible things. Really, really awful things.”
“How do you know that?”
“I don’t know. But there were.”
• • •
Paul walked her to her doorstep. And Hannah was glad of it.
Once inside the house, she went straight down the hall to her mother’s study. It was a cluttered, comfortable room with books piled on the floor and the tools of a paleontologist scattered around. Her mother was at her desk, bending over a microscope.
“Is that you, Hannah?” she asked without looking up. “I’ve got some marvelous sections of haversian canals in duckbill bones. Want to see?”
“Oh . . . not now. Maybe later,” Hannah said. She wanted very much to tell her mother about what had happened, but something was stopping her. Her mother was so sensible, so practical and intelligent. . . .
She’ll think I’m crazy. And she’ll be right. And then she’ll be appalled, wondering how she could have given birth to an insane daughter.
That was an exaggeration, and Hannah knew it, but somehow she still couldn’t bring herself to tell. Since her father had died five years ago, she and her mother had been almost like friends—but that didn’t mean she didn’t want her mother’s approval. She did. She desperately wanted her mother to be proud of her, and to realize that
she could handle things on her own.
It had been the same with the notes—she’d never told about finding them. For all her mom knew, Hannah’s only problem was bad dreams.
“So how did it go tonight?” her mother asked now, eye still to the microscope. “That Dr. Winfield is so young—I hope he’s not too inexperienced.”
Last chance. Take it or lose it. “Uh, it went fine,” Hannah said weakly.
“That’s good. There’s chicken in the crockpot. I’ll be out in a little while; I just want to finish this.”
“Okay. Great. Thanks.” Hannah turned and stumbled out, completely frustrated with herself.
You know Mom won’t really be awful, she scolded herself as she fished a piece of chicken out of the crockpot. So tell her. Or call Chess and tell her. They’ll make things better. They’ll tell you how impossible all this stuff about vampires and past lives is. . . .
Yes, and that’s the problem.
Hannah sat frozen, holding a fork with a bite of chicken on it motionless in front of her.
I don’t believe in vampires or reincarnation. But I know what I saw. I know things about Hana . . . things that weren’t even in the story I told Paul. I know she wore a tunic and leggings of roe deer hide. I know she ate wild cattle and wild boar and salmon and hazelnuts. I know she made tools out of elk antler and deer bone and flint. . . . God, I could pick up a flint cobble and knock off a set of blades and scrapers right now. I know I could. I can feel how to in my hands.
She put the fork down and looked at her hands. They were shaking slightly.
And I know she had a beautiful singing voice, a voice like crystal. . . .
Like the crystal voice in my mind.
So what do I do when they tell me it’s impossible? Argue with them? Then I’ll really be crazy, like those people in institutions who think they’re Napoleon or Cleopatra.
God, I hope I haven’t been Cleopatra.
Half laughing and half crying, she put her face in her hands.
And what about him?
The blond stranger with the bottomless eyes. The guy Hana didn’t have a name for, but Hannah knew as Thierry.
If the rest of it is real, what about him?