by Anne Rice
“And the goddess thirsts,” she said.
HOURS later, as we walked arm in arm like two students through the boulevard crowds, it was already forgotten. Our faces were ruddy, our skin warm.
But I did not leave her to go to my lawyer. And she did not seek the quiet open country as she had wanted to do. We stayed close to each other, the faintest shimmer of the presence now and then making us turn our heads.
5
Y THE hour of three, when we reached the livery stables, we knew we were being stalked by the presence.
For half an hour, forty-five minutes at a time, we wouldn’t hear it. Then the dull hum would come again. It was maddening me.
And though we tried hard to hear some intelligible thoughts from it, all we could discern was malice, and an occasional tumult like the spectacle of dry leaves disintegrated in the roar of the blaze.
She was glad that we were riding home. It wasn’t that the thing annoyed her. It was only what she had said earlier—she wanted the emptiness of the country, the quiet.
When the open land broke before us, we were going so fast that the wind was the only sound, and I think I heard her laughing but I wasn’t sure. She loved the feel of the wind as I did, she loved the new brilliance of the stars over the darkened hills.
But I wondered if there had been moments tonight when she had wept inwardly and I had not known. There had been times when she was obscure and silent, and her eyes quivered as if they were crying, but there were absolutely no tears.
I was deep into thoughts of that, I think, when we neared a dense wood that grew along the banks of a shallow stream, and quite suddenly the mare reared and lurched to the side.
I was almost thrown, it was so unexpected. Gabrielle held on tight to my right arm.
Every night I rode into this little glade, crashing over the narrow wooden bridge above the water. I loved the sound of the horse’s hooves on the wood and the climb up the sloping bank. And my mare knew the path. But now, she would have none of it.
Shying, threatening to rear again, she turned of her own and galloped back towards Paris until, with all the power of my will, I commanded her, reining her in.
Gabrielle was staring back at the thick copse, the great mass of dark, swaying branches that concealed the stream. And there came over the thin howling of the wind and that soft volume of rustling leaves, the definite pulse of the presence in the trees.
We heard it at the same moment, surely, because I tightened my arm around Gabrielle as she nodded, gripping my hand.
“It’s stronger!” she said to me quickly. “And it is not one alone.”
“Yes,” I said, enraged, “and it stands between me and my lair!” I drew my sword, bracing Gabrielle in my left arm.
“You’re not riding into it,” she cried out.
“The hell I’m not!” I said, trying to steady the horse. “We don’t have two hours before sunrise. Draw your sword!”
She tried to turn to speak to me, but I was already driving the horse forward. And she drew her sword as I’d told her to do, her little hand knotted around it as firmly as that of a man.
Of course, the thing would flee as soon as we reached the copse, I was sure of that. I mean the damned thing had never done anything but turn tail and run. And I was furious that it had frightened my mount, and that it was frightening Gabrielle.
With a sharp kick, and the full force of my mental persuasion, I sent the horse racing straight ahead to the bridge.
I locked my hand to the weapon. I bent low with Gabrielle beneath me. I was breathing rage as if I were a dragon, and when the mare’s hooves hit the hollow wood over the water, I saw them, the demons, for the first time!
White faces and white arms above us, glimpsed for no more than a second, and out of their mouths the most horrid shrieking as they shook the branches sending down on us a shower of leaves.
“Damn you, you pack of harpies!” I shouted as we reached the sloping bank on the other side, but Gabrielle had let out a scream.
Something had landed on the horse behind me, and the horse was slipping in the damp earth, and the thing had hold of my shoulder and the arm with which I tried to swing the sword.
Whipping the sword over Gabrielle’s head and down past my left arm, I chopped at the creature furiously, and saw it fly off, a white blur in the darkness, while another one sprang at us with hands like claws. Gabrielle’s blade sliced right through its outstretched arm. I saw the arm go up into the air, the blood spurting as if from a fountain. The screams became a searing wail. I wanted to slash every one of them to pieces. I turned the horse back too sharply so that it reared and almost fell.
But Gabrielle had hold of the horse’s mane and she drove it again towards the open road.
As we raced for the tower, we could hear them screaming as they came on. And when the mare gave out, we abandoned her and ran, hand in hand, towards the gates.
I knew we had to get through the secret passage to the inner chamber before they climbed the outside wall. They must not see us take that stone out of place.
And locking the gates and doors behind me as fast as I could, I carried Gabrielle up the stairs.
By the time we reached the secret room and pushed the stone into place again, I heard their howling and shrieking below and their first scraping against the walls.
I snatched up an armful of firewood and threw it beneath the window.
“Hurry, the kindling,” I said.
But there were half a dozen white faces already at the bars. Their shrieks echoed monstrously in the little cell. For one moment I could only stare at them as I backed away.
They clung to the iron grating like sc many bats, but they weren’t bats. They were vampires, and vampires as we were vampires, in human form.
Dark eyes peered at us from under mops of filthy hair, howls growing louder and fiercer, the fingers that clung to the grating caked with filth. Such clothing as I could see was no more than colorless rags. And the stench coming from them was the graveyard stench.
Gabrielle pitched the kindling at the wall, and she jumped away as they reached to catch hold of her. They bared their fangs. They screeched. Hands struggled to pick up the firewood and throw it back at us. All together they pulled at the grating as if they might free it from the stone.
“Get the tinderbox,” I shouted. I grabbed up one of the stouter pieces of wood and thrust it right at the closest face, easily flinging the creature out and off the wall. Weak things. I heard its scream as it fell, but the others had clamped their hands on the wood and they struggled with me now as I dislodged another dirty little demon. But by this time Gabrielle had lighted the kindling.
The flames shot upwards. The howling stopped in a frenzy of ordinary speech:
“It’s fire, get back, get down, get out of the way, you idiots! Down, down. The bars are hot! Move away quickly!”
Perfectly regular French! In fact an ever increasing flood of pretty vernacular curse words.
I burst out laughing, stomping my foot and pointing to them, as I looked at Gabrielle.
“A curse on you, blasphemer!” one of them screamed. Then the fire licked at his hands and he howled, falling backwards.
“A curse on the profaners, the outlaws!” came screams from below. It caught on quickly and became a regular chorus. “A curse on the outlaws who dared to enter the House of God!” But they were scrambling down to the ground. The heavy timbers were catching, and the fire was roaring to the ceiling.
“Go back to the graveyard where you came from, you pack of pranksters!” I said. I would have thrown the fire down on them if I could have gotten near the window.
Gabrielle stood still with her eyes narrow, obviously listening.
Cries and howls continued from below. A new anthem of curses upon those who broke the sacred laws, blasphemed, provoked the wrath of God and Satan. They were pulling on the gates and lower windows. They were doing stupid things like throwing rocks at the wall.
“The
y can’t get in,” Gabrielle said in a low monotone, her head still cocked attentively. “They can’t break the gate.”
I wasn’t so certain. The gate was rusted, very old. Nothing to do but wait.
I collapsed on the floor, leaning against the side of the sarcophagus, my arms around my chest and my back bent. I wasn’t even laughing anymore.
She too sat down against the wall with her legs sprawled out before her. Her chest heaved a little, and her hair was coming loose from the braid. It was a cobra’s hood around her face, loose strands clinging to her white cheeks. Soot clung to her garments.
The heat of the fire was crushing. The airless room shimmered with vapors and the flames rose to shut out the night. But we could breathe the little air that was there. We suffered nothing except the heat and the exhaustion.
And gradually I realized she was right about the gate. They hadn’t managed to break it down. I could hear them drawing away.
“May the wrath of God punish the profane!”
There was some faint commotion near the stables. I saw in my mind my poor half-witted mortal stable boy dragged in terror from his hiding place, and my rage was redoubled. They were sending me images of it from their thoughts, the murder of that poor boy. Damn them.
“Be still,” Gabrielle said. “It’s too late.”
Her eyes widened and then grew small again as she listened. He was dead, the poor miserable creature.
I felt the death just as if I had seen a small dark bird suddenly rising from the stables. And she sat forward as though seeing it too, and then settled back as if she had lost consciousness, though she had not. She murmured and it sounded like “red velvet,” but it was under her breath and I didn’t catch the words.
“I’ll punish you for this, you gang of ruffians!” I said aloud. I sent it out towards them. “You trouble my house. I swear you’ll pay for this.”
But my limbs were getting heavier and heavier. The heat of the fire was almost drugging. All the night’s strange happenings were taking their toll.
In my exhaustion and in the glare of the fire I could not guess the hour. I think I fell to dreaming for an instant, and woke myself with a shiver, unsure of how much time had passed.
I looked up and saw the figure of an unearthly young boy, an exquisite young boy, pacing the floor of the chamber.
Of course it was only Gabrielle.
6
HE gave the impression of almost rampant strength as she walked back and forth. Yet all of it was contained in an unbroken grace. She kicked at the timbers and watched the blackened ruin of the fire flare for a moment before settling into itself again. I could see the sky. An hour perhaps remained.
“But who are they?” she asked. She stood over me, her legs apart, her hands in two liquid summoning gestures. “Why do they call us outlaws and blasphemers?”
“I’ve told you everything I know,” I confessed. “Until tonight I didn’t think they possessed faces or limbs or real voices.”
I climbed to my feet and brushed off my clothes.
“They damned us for entering the churches!” she said. “Did you catch it, those images coming from them? And they don’t know how we managed to do it. They themselves would not dare.”
For the first time I observed that she was trembling. There were other small signs of alarm, the way the flesh quivered around her eyes, the way that she kept pushing the loose strands of her hair out of her eyes again.
“Gabrielle,” I said. I tried to make my tone authoritative, reassuring. “The important thing is to get out of here now. We don’t know how early those creatures rise, or how soon after sunset they’ll return. We have to discover another hiding place.”
“The dungeon crypt,” she said.
“A worse trap than this,” I said, “if they break through the gate.” I glanced at the sky again. I pulled the stone out of the low passage. “Come on,” I said.
“But where are we going?” she asked. For the first time tonight she looked almost fragile.
“To a village east of here,” I said. “It’s perfectly obvious that the safest place is within the village church itself.”
“Would you do that?” she asked. “In the church?”
“Of course I would. As you just said, the little beasts would never dare to enter! And the crypts under the altar will be as deep and dark as any grave.”
“But Lestat, to rest under the very altar!”
“Mother, you astonish me,” I said. “I have taken victims under the very roof of Notre Dame.” But another little idea came to me. I went to Magnus’s chest and started picking at the heap of treasure. I pulled out two rosaries, one of pearls, another of emeralds, both having the usual small crucifix.
She watched me, her face white, pinched.
“Here, you take this one,” I said, giving her the emerald rosary. “Keep it on you. If and when we do meet with them, show them the crucifix. If I am right, they’ll run from it.”
“But what happens if we don’t find a safe place in the church?”
“How the hell should I know? We’ll come back here!”
I could feel a fear collecting in her and radiating from her as she hesitated, looking through the window at the fading stars. She had passed through the veil into the promise of eternity and now she was in danger again.
Quickly, I took the rosary from her and kissed her and slipped the rosary into the pocket of her frock coat.
“Emeralds mean eternal life, Mother,” I said.
She appeared the boy standing there again, the last glow of the fire just tracing the line of her cheek and mouth.
“It’s as I said before,” she whispered. “You aren’t afraid of anything, are you?”
“What does it matter if I am or not?” I shrugged. I took her arm and drew her to the passage. “We are the things that others fear,” I said.
“Remember that.”
WHEN we reached the stable, I saw the boy had been hideously murdered. His broken body lay twisted on the hay-strewn floor as if it had been flung there by a Titan. The back of his head was shattered. And to mock him, it seemed, or to mock me, they had dressed him in a gentleman’s fancy velvet frock coat. Red velvet. Those were the words she’d murmured when they had done the crime. I’d seen only the death. I looked away now in disgust. All the horses were gone.
“They’ll pay for that,” I said.
I took her hand. But she stared at the miserable boy’s body as if it drew her against her will. She glanced at me.
“I feel cold,” she whispered. “I’m losing the strength in my limbs. I must, I must get to where it’s dark. I can feel it.”
I led her fast over the rise of the nearby hill and towards the road.
THERE were no howling little monsters hidden in this village churchyard, of course. I didn’t think there would be. The earth hadn’t been turned up on the old graves in a long time.
Gabrielle was past conferring with me on this.
I half carried her to the side door of the church and quietly broke the latch.
“I’m cold all over. My eyes are burning,” she said again under her breath. “Someplace dark.”
But as I started to take her in, she stopped.
“What if they’re right,” she said. “And we don’t belong in the House of God.”
“Gibberish and nonsense. God isn’t in the House of God.”
“Don’t! …” She moaned.
I pulled her through the sacristy and out before the altar. She covered her face, and when she looked up it was at the crucifix over the tabernacle. She let out a long low gasp. But it was from the stained-glass windows that she shielded her eyes, turning her head towards me. The rising sun that I could not even feel yet was already burning her!
I picked her up as I had done last night. I had to find an old burial crypt, one that hadn’t been used in years. I hurried towards the Blessed Virgin’s altar, where the inscriptions were almost worn away. And kneeling, I hooked my fingernails around
a slab and quickly lifted it to reveal a deep sepulcher with a single rotted coffin.
I pulled her down into the sepulcher with me and moved the slab back into place.
Inky blackness, and the coffin splintering under me so that my right hand closed on a crumbling skull. I felt the sharpness of other bones under my chest. Gabrielle spoke as if in a trance:
“Yes. Away from the light.”
“We’re safe,” I whispered.
I pushed the bones out of the way, making a nest of the rotted wood and the dust that was too old to contain any smell of human decay.
But I did not fall into the sleep for perhaps an hour or more.
I kept thinking over and over of the stable boy, mangled and thrown there in that fancy red velvet frock coat. I had seen that coat before and I couldn’t remember where I had seen it. Had it been one of my own? Had they gotten into the tower? No, that was not possible, they couldn’t have gotten in. Had they had a coat made up identical to one of my own? Gone to such lengths to mock me? No. How could such creatures do a thing like that? But still … that particular coat. Something about it …
7
HEARD the softest, loveliest singing when I opened my eyes. And as sound can often do, even in the most precious fragments, it took me back to childhood, to some night in winter when all my family had gone down to the church in our village and stood for hours among the blazing candles, breathing the heavy, sensual smell of the incense as the priest walked in procession with the monstrance lifted high.
I remembered the sight of the round white Host behind the thick glass, the starburst of gold and jewels surrounding it, and overhead the embroidered canopy, swaying dangerously as the altar boys in their lace surplices tried to steady it as they moved on.
A thousand Benedictions after that one had engraved into my mind the words of the old hymn.
O Salutaris Hostia
Quae caeli pandis ostium
Bella premunt bostilia,
Da robur, fer auxilium …
And as I lay in the remains of this broken coffin under the white marble slab at the side altar in this large country church, Gabrielle clinging to me still in the paralysis of sleep, I realized very slowly that above me were hundreds upon hundreds of humans who were singing this very hymn right now.