by Anne Rice
Yet he felt shivers through all his flesh remembering his vague dreams of the disaster.
He hoped and prayed that his newfound friend would confirm the things he'd seen. He hoped and prayed that the blood drinker would be truly old, not young and tender and bungling.
He prayed that this blood drinker would have the gift of words. For he wanted to hear words more than anything. He himself could
seldom find the right words. And now, more than anything, he wanted to
listen.
He was almost to the bottom of the steep street, the snow coming down lightly around him, when he saw the sign of the tavern: The Werewolf.
It made him laugh.
So these blood drinkers play their reckless games, he mused. In his time it had been wholly different. Who of his own people had not believed that a man could change into a wolf? Who of his own people would not have done anything to prevent this very evil from coming upon him?
But here it was, a plaything, the concept, with this painted sign swinging on its hinges in the cold wind, and the barred windows brightly lighted beneath it.
He pulled the handle of the heavy door and at once found himself in a crowded room, warm, and full of the smell of wine and beer and human blood.
The warmth alone was overwhelming. In truth, he had never felt anything quite like it. The warmth was everywhere. It was even and wondrous. And it crossed his mind that not a single mortal here
realized how truly marvelous this warmth was.
For in olden times such warmth had been impossible, and bitter winter had been the common curse of all.
There was no time however for such thinking. He reminded himself,
Do not be surprised.
But the inundating chatter of mortals paralyzed him. The blood around him paralyzed him. For one moment his thirst was crippling. In this noisy indifferent crowd he felt he would run rampant, taking hold of this one and that one, only to be discovered, the monster among the throng who would then be hounded to destruction.
He found a place against the wall and leant against it, his eyes closed.
He remembered those of his clan running up the mountain, searching
for the red-haired witch whom they would never find. Thorne alone had seen her. Thorne had seen her take the eyes from the dead warrior and put them into her own sockets. Thorne had seen her return through the light snow to the cave where she lifted her distaff. Thorne had seen her winding the golden red thread on the spindle.
And the clan had wanted to destroy her, and wielding his ax he had been among them.
How foolish it all seemed now, because she had wanted Thorne to see her. She had come North for a warrior such as Thorne. She had chosen Thorne, and she had loved his youth and his strength and his pure courage.
He opened his eyes.
The mortals in this place took no notice of him, even though his clothes were badly worn. How long could he go unseen? He had no coins in his pockets to purchase a place at a table or a cup of wine.
But the voice of the blood drinker came again, coaxing him,
reassuring him.
You must ignore the crowd. They know nothing of us, or why we keep this place. They are pawns. Come to the rear door. Push it with all your strength and it will give for you.
It seemed impossible that he could cross this room, that these
mortals wouldn't know him for what he was.
But he must overcome this fear. He must reach the blood drinker who was summoning him.
Bowing his head, bringing his collar up over his mouth, he pushed through the soft bodies, trying not to meet the gaze of those who glanced at him. And when he saw the door without a handle, at once he pushed it as he'd been told to do.
It gave upon a large dimly lighted chamber with thick candles set upon each of its scattered wooden tables. The warmth was as solid and good as that of the outer room.
And the blood drinker was alone.
He was a tall fair creature whose yellow hair was almost white. He had hard blue eyes, and a delicate face, covered with a thin layer of blood and ash to make him look more human to the mortal eye. He wore a bright-red cloak with a hood, thrown back from his head, and his hair was finely combed and long.
He looked most handsome to Thorne, and well mannered, and rather like a creature of books than a man of the sword. He had large hands but they were slender and his fingers were fine.
It occurred to Thorne that he had seen this being with the Mind Gift, seated at the council table with the other blood drinkers before the Evil Queen had been brought down.
Yes, he had seen this very one. This one had tried so hard to reason
with the Queen, though inside him there lurked a dreadful anger and an unreasonable hate.
Yes, Thorne had seen this very one struggling with words, finely chosen words, to save everyone.
The blood drinker gestured for him to take a seat to the right, against the wall.
He accepted this invitation, and found himself on a long leather cushion, the candle flame dancing wickedly before him, sending its playful light into the other blood drinker's eyes. He could smell blood now in the other blood drinker. He realized that the blood drinker's face was warm with it, and so were his long tapering hands.
Yes, I have hunted tonight, but I will hunt with you again. You need this.
"Yes," said Thorne. "It's been so long you can't imagine it. To suffer in the snow and ice was simple. But they're all around me now, these tender creatures."
"I understand," said the other blood drinker. "I know."
These were the first words Thorne had spoken aloud to anyone in years and years, and he closed his eyes so that he might treasure this moment. Memory was a curse, yes, he thought, but it was also the greatest gift. Because if you lost memory you lost everything.
A bit of his old religion came back to him—that for memory, the god Odin had given his eye, and hung upon the sacred tree for nine days. But it was more complex than that. It was not only memory which Odin gained, it was the mead which enabled him to sing poetry.
Once years ago Thorne had drunk that poet's mead, given him by the priests of the sacred grove, and he had stood in the middle of his father's house singing the poems about her, the red-haired one, the blood drinker, whom he had seen with his own eyes.
And those around him had laughed and mocked him. But when she began to slay the members of the clan they mocked him no more. Once they had seen the pale bodies with their eyes plucked out, they had made him their hero.
He shook himself all over. The snow fell from his hair and from his shoulders. With a careless hand he wiped the bits of ice from his
eyebrows. He saw the ice melt on his fingers. He rubbed hard at the frost on his face.
Was there no fire in this room? He looked about. The heat came magically through small windows. But how good it was, how consuming.
He wanted to strip off his clothes suddenly and bathe in this heat.
I have a fire in my house. I'll take you there.
As if from a trance, he woke to look at the blood drinker stranger. He cursed himself that he had been sitting here clumsy and mute.
The blood drinker spoke aloud: "It's only to be expected. Do you understand the tongue I speak?"
"It's the tongue of the Mind Gift," said Thorne. "Men all over the world speak it." He stared at the blood drinker again. "My name is Thorne," he said. "Thor was my god." Hastily he reached inside his worn leather coat and pulled out from the fur the amulet of gold which he wore on a chain. "Time can't rust such a thing," he said. "It's Thor's hammer."
The blood drinker nodded.
"And your gods?" Thorne asked. "Who were they? I don't speak of belief, you understand, I speak of what we lost, you and I. Do you catch my meaning?"
"The gods of old Rome, those are the gods I lost," said the stranger. "My name is Marius."
Thorne nodded. It was too marvelous to speak aloud and to hear the voice of another. For the mo
ment, he forgot the blood he craved and wanted only a flood of words.
"Speak to me, Marius," he said. "Tell me wondrous things. Tell me all that you would have me know." He tried to stop himself but he couldn't do it.
"Once I stood speaking to the wind, telling the wind all things that were in my mind and in my heart. Yet when I went North into the ice, I had no language." He broke off, staring into Marius's eyes. "My soul is too hurt. I have no true thoughts."
"I understand you," said Marius. "Come with me to my house. You're welcome to the bath, and to the clothes you need. Then we'll hunt and you'll be restored, and then comes talk. I can tell you stories without end. I can tell you all the stories of my life that I want to share with another."
A long sigh escaped Thorne's lips. He couldn't prevent himself from smiling in gratitude, his eyes moist and his hands trembling. He searched the stranger's face. He could find no evidence of dishonesty or cunning. The stranger seemed wise, and simple.
"My friend," Thorne said and then he bent forward and offered the kiss of greeting. Biting deep into his tongue, he filled his mouth with blood, and opened his lips over those of Marius.
The kiss did not take Marius by surprise. It was his own custom. He received the blood and obviously savored it.
"Now we can't quarrel over any small thing," said Thorne. He settled
back against the wall greatly confused suddenly. He wasn't alone. He feared that he might give way to tears. He feared that he hadn't the strength to go back out into the dreadful cold and accompany this one to his house, yet it was what he needed to do so terribly.
"Come," said Marius, "I'll help you."
They rose from the table together.
This time the agony of passing through the crowd of mortals was even greater. So many bright glistening eyes fastened on him, though it was only for a moment.
Then they were in the narrow street again, in the gentle swirling snow, and Marius had his arm tight around him.
Thorne was gasping for breath, because his heart had been so quickened. He found himself biting at the snow as it came in gusts into his face. He had to stop for a moment and gesture for his new friend to have patience.
"So many things I saw with the Mind Gift," he said. "I didn't understand them."
"I can explain, perhaps," said Marius. "I can explain all I know and you can do with it what you will. Knowledge has not been my salvation of late. I am lonesome."
"I'll stay with you," Thorne said. This sweet camaraderie was breaking his heart.
A long time they walked, Thorne becoming stronger again,
forgetting the warmth of the tavern as if it had been a delusion.
At last they came to a handsome house, with a high peaked roof, and many windows. Marius put his key into the door, and they left the blowing snow behind, stepping into a broad hallway.
A soft light came from the rooms beyond. The walls and ceiling were of finely oiled wood, the same as the floor, with all corners neatly fitted.
"A genius of the modern world made this house for me," Marius explained. "I've lived in many houses, in many styles. This is but one way. Come inside with me."
The great room of the house had a rectangular stone fireplace built into its wooden wall. And there the fire was stacked waiting to be lighted. Through glass walls of remarkable size, Thorne saw the lights of the city. He realized that they were on the edge of the hill, and that a valley lay below them.
"Come," said Marius, "I must introduce you to the other who lives here with me."
This startled Thorne, because he had not detected the presence of anyone else, but he followed Marius through a doorway out of the great room into another chamber on the left, and there he saw a strange sight which mystified him.
Many tables filled the room, or perhaps it was one great broad table. But it was covered all over with a small landscape of hills and valleys, towns and cities. It was covered with little trees, and even little shrubbery, and here and there was snow, as if one town lay under winter and another lay under spring or summer.
Countless houses crowded the landscape, many with twinkling lights, and there were sparkling lakes made of some hard substance to imitate the gleam of water. There were tunnels through the mountains.
And on curving iron tracks through this little wilderness there ran little railroad trains, seemingly made out of iron, like those of the great modern world.
Over this tiny world, there presided a blood drinker who didn't bother to look up at Thorne as he entered. The blood drinker had been a young male when he was made. He was tall, but very slight of build, with very delicate fingers. His hair was the faded blond more common among Englishmen than Norsemen.
He sat near the table, where before him was a cleared space devoted to his paintbrushes, and to several bottles of paint, while with his hands he painted the bark of a small tree, as if in readiness to put it into the world that stretched out all over the room, surrounding and almost enclosing him.
A rush of pleasure passed through Thorne as he looked over this little world. It struck him suddenly that he could have spent an hour
inspecting all of the tiny buildings. It was not the harsh great world
outside, but something precious and protected, and even slightly enchanting.
There was more than one small black train which ran along upon the wandering tracks, and a small droning noise came from these trains as if from bees in a hive. The trains had lights inside their tiny windows.
All the myriad details of this small wonderland seemed to be correct.
"I feel I'm the frost giant in this room," Thorne whispered reverently.
It was an offering of friendship to the youngish male who continued
to apply the brown paint to the bark of the tiny tree which he held so delicately between his left fingers. But the youngish male blood drinker did not respond.
"These tiny cities and towns are foil of pretty magic," Thorne said, his voice a little more timid.
The youngish male seemed to have no ears.
"Daniel?" said Marius gently to his friend, "do you want to greet Thorne who is our guest tonight?"
"Welcome, Thorne," said Daniel without looking up. And then as if neither Thorne nor Marius were there, Daniel stopped the painting of his tree, and dipping another brush into another bottle, he made a dampened spot for the tree in the great world before him. He set the tree down hard upon that spot and the tree stood firm as though rooted.
"This house is full of many rooms like this," said Marius in an even voice, his eyes looking at Thorne gently. "Look below. One can purchase thousands of little trees, and thousands of little houses." He pointed to stacks upon stacks of small containers on the floor beneath the table. "Daniel is very good at putting together the houses. See how intricate they are? This is all that Daniel does now."
Thorne sensed a judgment in Marius's voice but it was soft, and the youngish blood drinker paid no attention. He had taken up another small tree, and was examining the thick green portion which made up its leafy upper limbs. To this he soon applied his little paintbrush.
"Have you ever seen one of our kind under such a spell?" Marius asked.
Thorne shook his head, No, he had not. But he understood how such a thing could happen.
"It occurs sometimes," said Marius. "The blood drinker becomes enthralled. I remember centuries ago I heard the story of a blood drinker in a Southern land whose sole passion was for finding beautiful shells along the shore, and this she did all night long until near morning.
She did hunt and she did drink, but it was only to return to the shells, and once she looked at each, she threw it aside and went on searching. No one could distract her from it.
Daniel is enthralled in the same way. He makes these small cities.
He doesn't want to do anything else. It's as if the small cities have caught him. You might say I look after him."
Thorne was speechless, out of respect. He couldn't tell whether Marius's word
s affected the blood drinker who continued to work upon his world. Thorne felt a moment of confusion.
Then a low genial laugh came from the youngish blood drinker. "Daniel will be this way for a while," said Marius, "and then his old faculties will come back to him."
"The ideas you have, Marius," Daniel said with another little easy laugh. It was hardly more than a murmur. Daniel dipped the brush again into the paste that would make his little tree stick to the green grass, and he pressed the tree down with appropriate force. Then out of a box beside him, he drew another.