by Rice, Anne
Immediately, the fear that had been hovering inside me during all my happy weeks in New York came to the fore. No, it was not fear so much as it was dread.
My Lord, I whispered. I turned and looked up at the Face of Christ on the high Crucifix above Lestat’s head.
This was an excruciating moment. I think the image on Veronica’s Veil overlaid what I saw there in the carved wood. I know it did. I was back in New York, and Dora was holding up the cloth for us to see.
I saw His dark beautifully shadowed eyes perfectly fixed on the cloth, as though part of it but not in any way absorbed by it, and the dark streaks of His eyebrows and, above His steady unchallenging gaze, the tricklets of blood from His thorns. I saw His lips partway open as if He had volumes to speak.
With a shock, I realized that from far off by the altar steps Gabrielle had fixed her glacial gray eyes on me, and I locked up my mind and digested the key. I wouldn’t have her touch me or my thoughts. And I felt a bristling hostility for all those gathered in the room.
Louis came then. He was so happy that I had not perished. Louis had something to say. He knew I was concerned and he was anxious about the presence of the others. He looked his usual ascetic self, got up in tired black clothes of beautiful cut but impossible dustiness and a shirt so thin and worn that it seemed an elfin web of threads rather than true lace and cloth.
“We let them in because if we don’t, they circle like jackals, and wolves, and won’t go away. As it is, they come, they see and they leave here. You know what they want.”
I nodded. I didn’t have the courage to admit to him that I wanted exactly the same thing. I had never stopped thinking about it, not really, not for one moment, beneath the grand rhythm of all that had befallen me since I’d spoken to him on that last night of my old life.
I wanted his blood. I wanted to drink it. Calmly, I let Louis know.
“He’ll destroy you,” Louis whispered. He was flushed suddenly with terror. He looked questioningly at gentle silent Sybelle, who held fast to my hand, and Benjamin, who was studying him with enthusiastic bright eyes. “Armand, you can’t chance it. One of them got too close. He smashed the creature. The motion was quick, automatic. But it has an arm like living stone and he blasted the creature to fragments there on the floor. Don’t go near him, don’t try it.”
“And the elders, the strong ones, have they never tried?”
Pandora spoke then. She had been watching us all the while, playing in the shadows. I’d forgotten how very beautiful she was in a downplayed and very basic way.
Her long rich brown hair was combed back, a shadow behind her slender neck, and she looked glossy and pretty because she had smoothed into her face a fine dark oil to make herself more passably human. Her eyes were bold and flaming. She put her hand on me with a woman’s liberty. She too was happy to see me alive.
“You know what Lestat is,” she said pleadingly. “Armand, he’s a furnace of power and no one knows what he might do.”
“But have you never thought of it, Pandora? Has it never even entered your mind, to drink the blood from his throat and search for the vision of Christ when you drank it? What if inside him there is the infallible proof that he drank the blood of God?”
“But Armand,” she said. “Christ was never my god.”
It was so simple, so shocking, so final.
She sighed, but only out of concern for me. She smiled. “I wouldn’t know your Christ if He were inside Lestat,” she said gently.
“You don’t understand,” I said. “Something happened, something happened to him when we went with this spirit called Memnoch, and he came back with that Veil. I saw it. I saw the … power in it.”
“You saw the illusion,” said Louis kindly.
“No, I saw the power,” I answered. Then in a moment I totally doubted myself. The long corridors of history wound back and away from me, and I saw myself plunged into darkness, carrying a single candle, searching for the ikons I had painted. And the pity of it, the triviality, the sheer hopelessness of it crushed my soul.
I realized I had frightened Sybelle and Benji. They had their eyes fastened on me. They had never seen me as I was now.
I closed my arms around them both and pulled them towards me. I had hunted before I’d come to them tonight, to be at my strongest, and I knew my skin was pleasingly warm. I kissed Sybelle on her pale pink lips, and then kissed Benji’s head.
“Armand, you vex me, truly you do,” said Benji. “You never told me that you believed in this Veil.”
“And you, little man,” I said in a hushed voice, not wishing to make a spectacle of us to the others. “Did you ever go into the Cathedral and look at it when it was on display there?”
“Yes, and I say to you what this great lady said.” He shrugged, of course. “He was never my god.”
“Look at them, prowling,” said Louis softly. He was emaciated and shivering a little. He had neglected his own hunger to be here on guard. “I should throw them out now, Pandora,” he said in a voice that couldn’t have threatened the most timid soul.
“Let them see what they came for,” she said coolly under her breath. “They may not have so long to enjoy their satisfaction. They make the world harder for us, and disgrace us, and do nothing for anything living or dead.”
I thought it a lovely threat. I hoped she would clean out the lot of them, but I knew of course that many a Child of the Millennia thought the very same thing about those such as me. And what an impertinent creature I was to bring, without anyone’s permission, my children to see my friend who lay on the floor.
“These two are safe with us,” Pandora said, obviously reading my fretting mind. “You realize they are glad to see you, young and old,” she said making a small gesture to include the entire room. “There are some who don’t want to step out from the shadows, but they know of you. They didn’t want for you to be gone.”
“No, no one wanted it,” said Louis rather emotionally. “And like a dream, you’ve come back. We all had inklings of it, wild whispers that you’d been seen in New York, as handsome and vigorous as you ever were. But I had to lay eyes on you to believe it.”
I nodded in thanks for these kind words. But I was thinking of the Veil. I looked up at the wooden Christ on the tree again, and then down at the slumbering figure of Lestat.
It was then that Marius came. He was trembling. “Unburnt, whole,” he whispered. “My son.”
He had that wretched neglected old gray cloak over his shoulders, but I didn’t notice then. He embraced me at once, which forced my girl and my boy to step away. They didn’t go far, however. I think they were reassured when they saw me put my arms around him and kiss him several times on the face and mouth, as we had always done so many years ago. He was so splendid, so softly full of love.
“I’ll keep these mortals safe if you’re determined to try,” he said. He had read the whole script from my heart. He knew I was bound to do it. “What can I say to prevent you?” he asked.
I only shook my head. Haste and anticipation wouldn’t let me do anything else. I gave Benji and Sybelle to his care.
I went over to Lestat and I walked up in front of him, that is, on the left side of him as he lay there to my right. I knelt down quickly, surprised at how cold the marble was, forgetting, I suppose, how very damp it is here in New Orleans and how stealthy the chills can be.
I knelt with my hands before me on the floor and I looked at him. He was placid, still, both blue eyes equally clear as if one had never been torn from his face. He stared through me, as we say, and on and on, and out of a mind that seemed as empty as a dead chrysalis.
His hair was mussed and full of dust. Not even his cold, hateful Mother had combed it, I supposed, and it infuriated me, but then in a frosty flash of emotion, she said hissingly:
“He will not let anyone touch him, Armand.” Her distant voice echoed deeply in the hollow of the chapel. “If you try it, you will soon find out for yourself.”
I looked up at her. She had her knees drawn up in a careless clasp of her arms, and her back against the wall. She wore her usual thick and frayed khaki, the narrow pants and the British safari coat for which she was more or less famous, stained from the wild outdoors, her blond hair as yellow and bright as his, braided and lying down her back.
She got up suddenly, angrily, and she came towards me letting her plain leather boots echo sharply and disrespectfully on the floor.
“What makes you think the spirits he saw were gods?” she demanded. “What makes you think the pranks of any of those lofty beings who play with us are any more than capers, and we no more than beasts, from the lowest to the very highest that walk the Earth?” She stood a few feet from him. She folded her arms. “He tempted something or someone. That entity could not resist him. And what was the sum of it? Tell me. You ought to know.”
“I don’t,” I said in a soft voice. “I wish you would leave me alone.”
“Oh, do you, well, let me tell you what was the sum of it. A young woman, Dora by name, a leader of souls as they call it, who preached for the good that comes of tending to the weak who need it, was thrown off course! That was the sum of it—her preachings, grounded in charity and sung to a new tune so that people could hear them, were obliterated by the bloody face of a bloody god.”
My eyes filled with tears. I hated that she saw it so clearly, but I couldn’t answer her and I couldn’t shut her up. I rose to my feet.
“Back to the cathedrals they flocked,” she said scornfully, “the lot of them, and back to an archaic and ludicrous and utterly useless theology which it seems that you have plainly forgot.”
“I know it well enough,” I said softly. “You make me miserable. What do I do to you? I kneel beside him, that’s all.”
“Oh, but you mean to do more, and your tears offend me,” she said.
I heard someone behind me speak out to her. I thought perhaps it was Pandora, but I was unsure. In a sudden evanescent flash I was aware of all those who made a recreation of my misery, but then I didn’t care.
“What do you expect, Armand?” she asked me cunningly and mercilessly. Her narrow oval face was so like his and yet so not. He had never been so divorced from feeling, never so abstract in his anger as she was now. “You think you’ll see what he saw, or that the Blood of Christ will still be there for you to savor on your tongue? Shall I quote the catechism for you?”
“No need, Gabrielle,” I said again in a meek voice. My tears were blinding me.
“The bread and wine are the Body and Blood as long as they remain that species, Armand; but when it’s bread and wine no more then no more is it Body and Blood. So what do you think of the Blood of Christ in him, that it has somehow retained its magical power, despite the engine of his heart that devours the blood of mortals as if it were mere air that he breathed?”
I didn’t answer. I thought quietly in my soul. It was not the bread and the wine; it was His Blood, His Sacred Blood and He gave it on the road to Calvary, and to this being who lies here.
I swallowed hard on my grief and my fury that she had made me commit myself in these terms. I wanted to look back for my poor Sybelle and Benji, for I knew by their scent they were still in the room. Why didn’t Marius take them away! Oh, but it was plain enough. Marius wanted to see what I meant to do.
“Don’t tell me,” Gabrielle said slurringly, “that it’s a matter of faith.” She sneered and shook her head. “You come like doubting Thomas to thrust your bloody fangs in the very wound.”
“Oh, stop, please, I beg you,” I whispered. I put up my hands. “Let me try, and let him hurt me, and then be satisfied, and turn away.”
I only meant it as I said it, and I felt no power in it, only meekness and unutterable sadness.
But it struck her hard, and for the first time her face became absolutely and totally sorrowful, and she too had moist and reddening eyes, and her lips even pressed together as she looked at me.
“Poor lost child, Armand,” she said. “I am so sorry for you. I was so glad that you had survived the sun.”
“Then that means I can forgive you, Gabrielle,” I said, “for all the cruel things you’ve said to me.”
She raised her eyebrows thoughtfully, and then slowly nodded in silent assent. Then putting up her hands, she backed away without a sound and took up her old station, sitting on the altar step, her head leaning back against the Communion rail. She brought up her knees as before, and she merely looked at me, her face in shadow.
I waited. She was still and quiet, and not a sound came from the occupants scattered about the chapel. I could hear the steady beat of Sybelle’s heart and the anxious breath of Benji, but they were many yards away.
I looked down on Lestat, who was unchanged, his hair fallen as before, a little over his left eye. His right arm was out, and his fingers curling upwards, and there came from him not the slightest movement, not even a breath from his lungs or a sigh from his pores.
I knelt down beside him again. I reached out, and without flinching or hesitating, I brushed his hair back from his face.
I could feel the shock in the room. I heard the sighs, the gasps from the others. But Lestat himself didn’t stir.
Slowly, I brushed his hair more tenderly, and I saw to my own mute shock one of my tears fall right onto his face.
It was red yet watery and transparent and it appeared to vanish as it moved down the curve of his cheekbone and into the natural hollow below.
I slipped down closer, turning on my side, facing him, my hand still on his hair. I stretched my legs out behind me, and alongside of him, and I lay there, letting my face rest right on his outstretched arm.
Again there came the shocked gasps and sighs, and I tried to keep my heart absolutely pure of pride and pure of anything but love.
It was not differentiated or defined, this love, but only love, the love I could feel perhaps for one I killed or one I succored, or one whom I passed in the street, or for one whom I knew and valued as much as him.
All the burden of his sorrows seemed unimaginable to me, and in my mind a notion of it expanded to include the tragedy of all of us, those who kill to live, and thrive on death even as the very Earth decrees it, and are cursed with consciousness to know it, and know by what inches all things that feed us slowly anguish and at last are no more. Sorrow. Sorrow so much greater than guilt, and so much more ready for accounting, sorrow too great for the wide world.
I climbed up. I rested my weight on my elbow, and I sent my right fingers slipping gently across his neck. Slowly I pressed my lips to his whitened silky skin and breathed in the old unmistakable taste and scent of him, something sweet and undefinable and utterly personal, something made up of all his physical gifts and those given him afterwards, and I pressed my sharp eyeteeth through his skin to taste his blood.
There was no chapel then for me, or outraged sighs or reverential cries. I heard nothing, and yet knew what was all around. I knew it as if the substantial place was but a phantasm, for what was real was his blood.
It was as thick as honey, deep and strong of taste, a syrup for the very angels.
I groaned aloud drinking it, feeling the searing heat of it, so unlike to any human blood. With each slow beat of his powerful heart there came another small surge of it, until my mouth was filled and my throat swallowed without my bidding, and the sound of his heart grew louder, ever louder, and a reddish shimmer filled my vision, and I saw through this shimmer a great swirling dust.
A wretched dreary din rose slowly out of nothingness, commingled with an acid sand that stung my eyes. It was a desert place, all right, and old and full of rank and common things, of sweat and filth and death. The din was voices crying out, and echoing up the close and grimy walls. Voices crowded upon voices, taunts and jeers and cries of horror, and gruff riffs of foul indifferent gossip rushing over the most poignant and terrible cries of outrage and alarm.
Against sweating bodies I was pressed, struggling, the s
lanting sun burning on my outstretched arm. I understood the babble all around me, the ancient tongue hollered and wailed in my ears as I fought to get ever closer to the source of all the wet and ugly commotion that swamped me and tried to hold me back.
It seemed they’d crush the very life out of me, these ragged, rough-skinned men and veiled women in their coarse homespun, thrusting elbows at me and stepping on my feet. I couldn’t see what lay before me. I flung my arms out, deafened by the cries and the wicked boiling laughter, and suddenly, as if by decree, the crowd parted, and I beheld the lurid masterpiece itself.
He stood in His torn and bloody white robe, this very Figure whose Face I’d seen imprinted into the fibers of the Veil. Arms bound up with thick uneven iron chains to the heavy and monstrous crossbeam of His crucifix, He hunched beneath it, hair pouring down on either side of His bruised and lacerated face. The blood from the thorns flowed into His open and unflinching eyes.
He looked at me, quite startled, even faintly amazed. He stared with wide and open gaze as if the multitude didn’t surround Him, and a whip did not crack over His very back and then His bowed head. He stared past the tangle of his clotted hair and from beneath His raw and bleeding lids.
“Lord!” I cried.
I must have reached out for Him, for those were my hands, my smallish and white hands that I saw! I saw them struggling to reach His Face.
“Lord!” I cried again.
And back He stared at me, unmoving, eyes meeting my eyes, hands dangling from the iron chains and mouth dripping with blood.
Suddenly a fierce and terrible blow struck me. It pitched me forward. His Face filled all my sight. Before my eyes it was the very measure of all that I could possibly see—His soiled and broken skin, the wetted, darkened tangle of His eyelashes, the great bright orbs of His dark-pupiled eyes.
Closer and closer it came, the blood flowing down and into His thick eyebrows, and dripping down His gaunt cheeks. His mouth opened. A sound came out of Him. It was a sigh at first and then a dull rising breath that grew louder and louder as His Face became even larger, losing its very lineaments, and became the sum of all its swimming colors, the sound now a positive and deafening roar.