by Rice, Anne
No matter, it was important to keep that secret to himself for now. Why trouble his friend with dark thoughts? Why trouble himself with guilty confessions?
He looked at his companion.
Marius sat back against the side of the wooden tub with his arms out resting upon the edge. His hair was wet and clinging to his neck and shoulders. He didn’t stare at Thorne, but he was obviously conscious of him.
Thorne dipped his head again; he moved forward and lay down in the water, rising suddenly and turning over, letting the water run off him. He gave a little laugh of delight. He ran his fingers through the hair on his own chest. He dipped his head back until the water lapped at his face. He rolled over again and again to wash his full head of hair before he rose and sat back contented.
He took the same posture as Marius and the two looked at each other.
“And you live this way,” said Thorne, “in the very midst of mortals, and you are safe from them?”
“They don’t believe in us now,” said Marius. “No matter what they see they don’t believe. And wealth buys anything.” His blue eyes seemed earnest and his face was calm as if he had no evil secrets inside, as though he had no hatred for anyone. But he did.
“Mortals clean this house,” said Marius. “Mortals take the money I give them for all that’s needed here. Do you understand enough of the modern world to grasp how such a place is heated and cooled and kept safe from intruders?”
“I understand,” said Thorne. “But we’re never safe as we dream, are we?”
A bitter smile came over Marius’s face. “I have never been harmed by mortals,” he said.
“You speak of the Evil Queen and all those she’s slain, don’t you?”
“Yes, I speak of that and other horrors,” Marius answered.
Slowly without words Marius used the Mind Gift to let Thorne know that he himself hunted only the Evil Doer.
“That is my peace with the world,” he said. “That is how I manage to go on. I use the Mind Gift to hunt those mortals who kill. In the big cities I can always find them.”
“And mine is the Little Drink,” said Thorne. “Be assured. I need no greedy feast. I take from many so that no one dies. For centuries I’ve lived this way among the Snow People. When I was first made I hadn’t the skill. I would drink too fast and too recklessly. But then I learned. No one soul belongs to me. And I could go like the bee goes from flower to flower. It was my habit to enter into taverns where many are close together, and to take from one after another.”
Marius nodded. “That’s a good style,” he said with a little smile. “For a child of Thor, you’re merciful.” His smile broadened. “That’s merciful indeed.”
“Do you despise my god?” asked Thorne politely.
“I don’t think that I do,” said Marius. “I told you that I lost the gods of Rome, but in truth I never had them. I was too cold of temperament to have gods. And not having had any true gods of my own, I speak of all gods as if they were poetry. The poetry of Thor was a poetry of war, was it not, a poetry of battles without cease, and of noise in Heaven?”
This delighted Thorne. He couldn’t conceal his pleasure. The Mind Gift never brought this kind of keen communication with another, and the words that Marius spoke were not only impressing him, they were confusing him slightly, which was wonderful.
“Yes, that was Thor’s poetry,” he said, “but nothing was as clear and certain as the sound of the thunder in the mountains when he wielded his hammer. And alone at night when I went out of my father’s house into the rain and wind, when I climbed the wet mountain fearlessly to hear that thunder, I knew the god was there, and I was far from poetry.” He stopped. He saw his homeland in his mind. He saw his youth. “There were other gods I heard,” he said quietly. He didn’t look at Marius. “It was Odin leading the Wild Hunt through the skies that made the loudest noise; and I saw and heard those spirits pass. I never forgot them.”
“Can you see them now?” asked Marius. It was not a challenge. He spoke only with curiosity. Indeed it had a bit of respect in it. “I hope you can,” he hastened to add as if there might be some doubt as to the interpretation.
“I don’t know,” said Thorne. “It was so long ago. I never thought that I might recover those things.”
But they were keen in his mind now. Though he sat in this warm bath, his blood soothed, all the cruel cold driven from his limbs, he could see the wintry valley. He could hear the storm, and see the phantoms flying high above, all those lost dead following the god Odin through the sky.
“Come,” Thorne had said to his companions, the young ones, who’d crept out of the hall with him, “let’s go to the grove, let’s stand in the very grove as the thunder rolls on.” They’d been frightened of the holy ground, but they couldn’t show it.
“You were a Viking child,” said Marius quietly.
“Oh, so the Britons called us,” said Thorne. “I don’t think we used that name for ourselves. We learnt it from our enemies. I remember their screams when we climbed their walls, when we stole the gold from the altars of the churches.” He paused. He let his eyes rest calmly on Marius for a moment. “What a tolerant one you are. You truly want to listen.”
Marius nodded. “I listen with my whole soul.” He gave a little sigh and he looked out through the immense glass. “I’m weary of being alone, my friend,” he said. “I cannot bear the company of those whom I know most intimately. And they cannot bear mine on account of things I’ve done.”
Thorne was surprised by this sudden confession. Thorne thought of the blood drinker Lestat and his songs. He thought of all those gathered at the council when the Evil Queen had come. He knew all had survived. And he knew that this blond one, Marius, had talked with reason more potently than any other.
“Go on with your story,” Marius said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you. You meant to make a point.”
“It was only that I slew many men before I ever became a blood drinker,” said Thorne. “I swung Thor’s hammer as well as my sword and my ax. I fought as a boy at my father’s side. I fought after I buried him. And he died no straw death, I can assure you, but with his sword in his hand as he wanted it.” Thorne paused. “And you, my friend?” he asked. “Were you a soldier?”
Marius shook his head. “A Senator,” he said, “a maker of laws, something of a philosopher. I went to war, yes, for some time because my family wished it, and I had a high place in one of the legions, but my time wasn’t very long and I was home and back in my library. I loved books. I still do. There are rooms of this house which are full of them, and I have houses elsewhere that are full of them. I never really knew battle.”
Marius stopped. He leant forward and brought the water up to his face as Thorne had done before, and he let the water run down over his eyelids.
“Come,” he said, “let’s be done with this pleasure and go for another. Let’s hunt. I can feel your hunger. I have new clothes for you here. I have all you need. Or would you stay longer in this warm water?”
“No, I’m ready,” said Thorne. It had been so long since he had fed that he was ashamed to admit it. Once again he rinsed his face and hair. He ducked down into the water, and came up, pushing his wet hair back from his forehead.
Marius had already climbed out of the tub, and held out for Thorne a large white towel.
It was thick and roughened and perfect for mopping the water off his blood drinker skin which never absorbs anything. The air of the room seemed chilled for one moment as he stood on the stone floor, but very soon he was warm again, rubbing fiercely at his hair to press the last droplets out of it.
Marius had finished with the task and now took a fresh towel from the stack and began to rub Thorne’s back and shoulders. This familiarity sent the chills through Thorne’s limbs. Marius rubbed hard at Thorne’s head, and then he began to comb the wet hair free of tangles.
“Why is there no red beard, my friend?” asked Marius, as the two faced each other. “I reme
mber the Norsemen with their beards. I remember them when they came to Byzantium. Does that name mean anything to you?”
“Oh, yes,” said Thorne. “I was taken to see that wondrous city.” He turned around and accepted the towel from Marius’s hands. “My beard was thick and long, even when I was very young, let me assure you, but it was shaved the night that I became a blood drinker. I was groomed for the magical blood. It was the will of the creature who made me.”
Marius nodded. But he was far too polite to say her name, though the other young one had brashly spoken it.
“You know it was Maharet,” said Thorne. “You didn’t need to hear it from your young friend. You caught it from my thoughts, didn’t you?” Thorne paused, then went on. “You know it was the vision of her that brought me out of the ice and snow. She stood against the Evil Queen. She bound the vampire, Lestat, in chains. But to speak of her just now takes the breath out of me. When will I ever be able to speak of her? I can’t know now. Let’s hunt, and then we can really talk to one another.”
He was solemn, holding the towel against his chest. In his secret heart, he tried to feel love for the one who made him. He tried to draw from the centuries a wisdom that would quench anger. But he couldn’t do it. All he could do was be silent, and hunt with Marius now.
3
In a large painted wooden room full of many painted cabinets and chests, Marius offered the clothes—fine leather jackets with small buttons of bone, many lined with silvery fur, and close-fitting pants of wool so soft Thorne couldn’t see the weave of it.
Only the boots were a little too small, but Thorne felt he could endure this. How could such a thing matter? Not satisfied, Marius continued to search until he found a large pair, and these proved more than serviceable.
As for the costume of the times it wasn’t so different from Thorne’s old habit of dress—linen for the fine shirt next to the skin, wool and leather for the outer garments. The tiny buttons on the shirt intrigued Thorne, and though he knew that the stitching had been done by machines and was a common thing, nevertheless it delighted him.
He had a dawning sense of how much delight awaited him. Never mind his dark mission.
As Marius dressed, he chose red once more for his jacket and for his hooded cloak. It intrigued Thorne, though he had seen garments such as these on Marius in the vampire tavern. Nevertheless the colors seemed bright for hunting.
“It’s my common way to wear red,” Marius said to Thorne’s unspoken interest. “You do as you like. Lestat, my sometime pupil, also loves it which annoys me mightily but I endure it. I think we appear to be Master and Apprentice when his shade of clear red comes so close to mine.”
“And so you love him as well?” Thorne said.
Marius said nothing. He gestured to the clothes.
For Thorne, it was dark brown leather, more concealing, yet silken to the touch, and his feet went naked into the fur-lined boots on account of the size of them. He needed no cloak. He felt it would encumber him.
From a silver dish on a cabinet, Marius took ashes on his fingertips, and mingling these with blood from his mouth, he made the thin paste to cover his face entirely. It darkened him; it made the old lines of his face appear. It gave a graven character to his eyes. In fact, it rendered him entirely more visible to Thorne while no doubt disguising him for mortals.
Marius made a gesture that Thorne might do as well, but something prevented Thorne from accepting. Perhaps it was merely that he had never done this.
Marius offered him gloves, but these he refused as well. He did not like the feel of things through gloves. After so long in the ice, he wanted to touch everything.
“I like gloves,” said Marius. “I’m never without them. Our hands frighten mortals when they take the time to look. And gloves feel warm which we never do.”
Marius filled his pockets with paper money. He offered handfuls of this to Thorne, but Thorne refused, thinking it greedy to take this from his host.
Marius said, “It’s all right. I’ll take care of you. But if we become separated somehow, simply return here. Come round to the back of the house, and you’ll find the door there open.”
Separated? How might that happen? Thorne was dazed by all that was taking place. The smallest aspect of things gave him pleasure.
They were all but ready to take their leave when the young Daniel came in and stared at both of them.
“Do you want to join us?” Marius asked. He was pulling his gloves very tight so that they showed his very knuckles.
Daniel didn’t answer. He appeared to be listening, but he said nothing. His youthful face was deceiving, but his violet eyes were truly wonderful.
“You know that you can come,” said Marius.
The younger one turned and went back, presumably to his small kingdom.
Within minutes they were on their way in the falling snow, Marius’s arm around Thorne as though Thorne needed the reassurance.
And I shall drink soon.
When they came at last to a large inn, it was into a cellar that they went where there were hundreds of mortals. Indeed the size of the room overwhelmed Thorne.
Not only did glittering noisy mortals eat and drink in this place, in dozens of little groups, they danced to the music of several diligent players. At big green tables with wheels they played at games of chance with loud raucous cries and easy laughter. The music was electric and loud; the flashing lights were horrid, the smell of food and blood was overpowering.
The two blood drinkers went utterly unnoticed, except for the tavern girl who accompanied them unquestioningly to a small table in the very midst of things. Here they could see the twisting dancers, who seemed one and all to be dancing alone rather than with anyone else, each moving to the music in a primitive way as though drunk on it.
The music hurt Thorne. He didn’t think it beautiful. It was like so much confusion. And the flashing lights were ugly.
Marius leant over to whisper in Thorne’s ear:
“Those lights are our friend, Thorne. They make it difficult to see what we are. Try to bear with them.”
Marius gave an order for hot drinks. The little tavern girl turned her bright flirtatious eyes on Thorne. She made some quick remark as to his red hair and he smiled at her. He wouldn’t drink from her, not if all the other mortals of the world were dried up and taken away from him.
He cast his eyes around the room, trying to ignore the din that pounded at his ears, and the overwhelming smells that almost sickened him.
“The women, see, near the far wall,” said Marius. “They want to dance. That’s why they’re here. They’re waiting to be asked. Can you do it as you dance?”
“I can,” said Thorne almost solemnly, as if to say, Why do you ask me? “But how do I dance?” he asked, watching the couples who crowded the designated floor. He laughed for the first time since he’d ever gone North. He laughed, and in the din he could barely hear his own laughter. “I can drink, yes, without any mortal ever knowing it, even my victim, but how can I dance in this strange way?”
He saw Marius smile broadly. Marius had thrown his cloak back over the chair. He appeared so calm amid this awful unendurable combination of illumination and music.
“What do they do but move about clumsily together?” Thorne asked.
“Do the same,” said Marius. “Move slowly as you drink. Let the music and the blood talk to you.”
Thorne laughed again. Suddenly with a wild bit of nerve he rose and made his way around the edges of the crowded dance floor to the women who were already looking eagerly towards him. He chose the dark-haired of the three, because women with dark eyes and dark hair had always fascinated him. Also she was the eldest and least likely to be chosen by a man, and he did not mean to leave her harmed by his interest.
At once she rose, and he held her small limp hands in his and guided her out onto the polished floor, the relentless music suggesting nothing but an easy senseless rhythm, which she took up immediately a
nd awkwardly, her fine delicate shoes clicking on the wood.
“Oh, but your hands are cold!” she said.
“I’m so sorry!” he declared. “You must forgive me. I’ve been in the snow too long.”
Yea gods, he must be careful not to hurt her. What a simple trusting being she was, with her eyes and mouth sloppily painted, and her cheeks rouged, her breasts thrust forward and held in place by tight straps beneath her black silk dress.
Boldly she pressed against him. And he, enfolding her as gently as he could, bent down to sink his tiny fangs most secretively into her neck. Dream, my precious one, dream of beautiful things. I forbid you to be afraid or to remember.
Ah, the blood. After so long, it came, the blood pumped by her urgent little heart, her defenseless little heart! He lost the thread of her swoon and entered his own. He saw his red-haired Maker. And in a hushed moan he actually spoke aloud to the woman in his grip. Give me all. But this was wrong and he knew it.
Quickly he pulled away, only to find that Marius stood beside him with a hand on his shoulder.
As he let the woman go, she looked at him with glossy drowsy eyes, and he turned her in a rapid circle, laughing again, ignoring the course of blood through his veins, ignoring the weakness for more blood that overtook him. On and on they danced, as clumsy as the other couples. But he was so thirsty for more.
At last she wanted to return to her little table. She was sleepy. She couldn’t think why. He must forgive her. He bowed and nodded, and he kissed her hand innocently.
Only one woman of the trio remained. Marius was now dancing with the other. Thorne offered his hand to that last of the three women, and vowed that this time he would need no guardian.
She was stronger than her friend. Her eyes were lined in black like an Egyptian, and she wore a deeper red on her lips, and her blond hair was full of silver.
“Are you the man of my dreams?” she asked him, raising her voice boldly over the music. She would have taken him with her upstairs in the inn at this moment.