by Anne Rice
It was a short and quiet journey to the tomb.
The oars dipped gently into the still waters. Their boots made scraping sounds here and there as they walked with balance and precision over the giant rocks.
Matthias, their patient giant, climbed to the top of the island by himself, removed the three boulders that had sealed light from the cavern below. Then he returned to the closest thing the island had to a shore, and the three of them rolled back the great stones blocking the tomb's side passage.
By the time they entered the central cavern, sunlight was pouring down onto their father's remains.
The regeneration had begun.
Strands of their master's great, leonine mane sprouted from a head that had been withered flesh only moments before. There was a fullness now to the face that rendered it something between pure skeleton and animate man.
The tomb in which he'd slept, however, was as empty as when they'd left him here a century before. It was perched above the highest tide, so only the faintest dappling of seaweed was visible along the bottoms of the rock walls. He had granted all his earthly possessions to them, his children. His final fracti. But now, Jeneva saw this desolate tomb for what it was. A temple to his despair, and all that he had lost.
For millennia he had tried to discover the formula for the pure elixir. Each attempt had been met with failure. As a result, every two centuries, he was forced to grieve for another generation of his children. This ceaseless loss had broken his immortal spirit, he claimed. He had once described it as being tormented by the gods themselves. To be able to extend the lives of those he had made, but for what was only a mercilessly short period in the life of an immortal.
And his regrets had followed him throughout the centuries with the persistence of angry spirits.
Why had he given all the elixir to his soldiers within moments of having stolen it? Why had he not predicted that their allegiance to him would crumble once they were gifted with eternal life? Why had he been so confident he would find the formula in the quarters of the queen from whom he had so brutally stolen it?
His insurrection. His uprising. A grotesque mistake. He should have tried diplomacy. Or, at least, subterfuge.
Would those regrets still plague him now?
Or would the story they brought him give him a true life, and a true resurrection?
"Rise, Saqnos," Jeneva whispered over his body. "Your children bring you hope."
*
His robes had decayed, so they brought him clothes from the ship. But he had not yet dressed. In the nude he chewed great mouthfuls of the fruit and bread they'd brought him. It would have been easier to tend to him on the yacht, of course. But they dared not ask him to board. Not yet. That would be presumptuous.
He had not yet decided to leave this island and this tomb.
For all they knew, he would listen to their tale and ask to be sealed away again.
They had prepared themselves for his anger as well. So far he had shown none.
He listened to the tale of the immortal gambler in Monte Carlo attentively, his eyes bright.
Jeneva marveled at his restored skin, his lustrous tumble of curly ink-black hair. In this modern age, his coloring would be described as Middle Eastern, but in the kingdom to which he had been born, he had served a black-skinned queen.
This ancient, fallen empire, he had told them, existed in a time before the sun had suddenly and mercilessly scorched the northern end of Africa, creating a desert out of his ancestral lands, driving the survivors of the great plague that felled his kingdom south and east. Starved and in dread of disease, these survivors of Shaktanu had aligned themselves into fearful tribes, united by the most primitive of reasons: the shared color of their skin or scattered bits of history, most of it myth, suggesting a common ancestry. And all of this had resulted in ceaseless tribal warfare. All of it, this legacy of scarcity, fear, and misperception, had formed the ancestral basis of the tribes and kingdoms that would rise in later years on the borders of a new desert created by a cruel sun.
But before that terrible time, his had been a truly global civilization, and in it, the concerns of race that afflicted this modern age simply did not exist, and Shaktanu, in what was now the vast Sahara Desert, had been the center of its power.
Shaktanu. Jeneva could count on one hand the number of times her father had been able to say the name without weeping.
He did not weep now.
He listened and he ate, and he allowed them to marvel at the sight of his beautifully restored naked body, bathed in the shafts of sunlight still pouring down from above.
Jeneva had never witnessed the awakening of a pure immortal before.
His confusion was slight and passed quickly. His consciousness returned fully before his strength did. Throughout, his hunger and thirst were enormous.
By the time they had finished their tale, he had eaten all the food they'd brought him. And so, they all realized with a heavy silence, a moment of decision had arrived.
There was more food aboard the boat. Would he join them?
"I did not make these immortals, if that is truly what they are," Saqnos finally said. "Is this why you have awakened me? To learn this?"
"In part, yes," Jeneva answered. "We fear the queen, as you always taught us to. If this Earl of Rutherford is one of her associates, or a child of hers, then we were right not to--"
"Bektaten sleeps," Saqnos said, too gruffly, with too much authority. But they allowed him this certainty. What other choice did they have? They had never meet this queen, the one with the power to destroy them all. He rarely shared details of her beyond the most frightening one. "She seeks to guard the pure elixir, not spread it. She would not make immortals like this. And so what you rouse me for, my children, is the hope of a quest. A quest none of you may have the time to complete."
"You will have the time, Master," Jeneva said. "That is why we awaken you."
"And so there is a choice before us," Callum said, "one we cannot answer alone, given that our numbers are limited."
"What is this choice?" Saqnos asked.
"Do we follow this gambling aristocrat on his travels, or do we assemble in London and seek to learn everything we can of this Mr. Reginald Ramsey of Egypt?"
A long silence followed. For Jeneva, it was torturous.
Saqnos gazed past them; at what exactly, she did not know. They could hear the gentle lapping of the sea beyond the cavern's rock walls. The sunlight penetrating the cavern had begun to dim.
Dusk would soon fall upon this island, and with it, their father might choose to begin another sleep.
"We travel to London," Saqnos finally said. "We travel to London so that we can learn all we can from this Mr. Ramsey."
Part 2
10
SS Orsova
The ship was infinitely more powerful than the one that had carried her to Rome thousands of years before.
Outside of a sandstorm, she'd never felt winds this strong.
Before she was willing to venture out onto the decks, she'd forced Teddy to assure her that she would not be swept away.
"This is how fast things move now, and their movement creates this great, sustained wind," he had explained. "If there had been no roof on the train to Alexandria, we would have felt much the same thing, my beautiful queen."
That had been on the first day of their voyage, and now, a few days later, she'd found the courage to release the rail and drink in the pleasurable sensation of the wind lifting her hair from the back of her neck.
Absurd, these thoughts. Absurd to believe the strength provided her by the elixir would not be enough to keep her feet rooted in place.
And look at the other passengers! They weren't being whisked off into the sea air like grains of sand. But this is why she needed the handsome young doctor with her: to illuminate the sudden and unexpected mysteries of this modern world with its flying machines and roaring trains.
If only Teddy could also reveal to her the my
steries of the elixir.
But for that she needed Ramses. Again this fact aroused great bitterness in her, threatened to make this modern journey across the seas towards London into a kind of death march of the spirit.
How was it that her thirst for revenge had faded so quickly?
Weeks before, she would have delighted at the prospect of torturing answers out of her old lover, her old counselor, her immortal king. Now she dreaded it. And there was no putting his life in peril, of this she was sure. Of course, there were the lives of those he now loved, those with whom he had toured Egypt. And so if he refused to offer some explanation for the strange visions that had begun to plague her, she could threaten one of them with ease.
And this marriage to Julie Stratford--did it mean he'd given her the elixir as well? She doubted it. A pale-skinned little weakling, Julie had been. Far too cowardly to embrace the challenge of eternal life.
But she doubted Ramses would have offered Julie the elixir in the first place. He craved only the illusion of attachments to mortals. At the end of the day, he wished to be free so he might move on to the next long slumber, the next new age. Why else would he have denied her request for the elixir all those years ago and brought about Egypt's utter ruin in the process?
He didn't deny your request for the elixir. Maddening to have the voice of her rational mind sound so much like his voice, Ramses' voice. He denied Marc Antony's request for an immortal army. To you, he offered it, and you refused because you believed you would reign as queen until your body gave out.
Such confusion still.
She pulled the cable Teddy had brought her from the pocket of her dress, and tensed her fingers to keep it from flying off into the wind.
FATHER ARE YOU WELL STOP ENGAGEMENT PARTY FOR JULIE AND RAMSEY EIGHTEEN APRIL OUR ESTATE YORKSHIRE STOP MOTHER THRILLED PLEASE COME OR WRITE YOUR SON ALEX
"We'll make it in time," he said now. "Don't worry."
He'd approached silently.
"With you, I have no fear, Doctor," she answered.
"Nor should you." He kissed her earlobe gently, lips nuzzling against the nape of her neck. "Bella Regina Cleopatra."
But his words only served to bring to mind the last man who had called her by this beautiful name.
Alex Savarell, youthful and handsome and eager. Even amidst the mad disorientation of her resurrection, his gentlemanly attempts to control himself in her presence had seemed like a kind of worship. In turn, his desire for her had made him seem as new to this modern world as she was. How she longed to see that eagerness again, to feel it, to taste it. To feel and taste him.
And her thoughts of Alex only reminded her of how much more collected she was now than in those first fumbling and terrifying days after her resurrection. Days in which her sense of awareness of the world around her had been a fractured, jagged thing, its sharp edges waiting for her whenever she reached out and tried to grasp for her name, her memories, her very being.
She felt a terrible revulsion when she thought of the lives she'd taken, almost as terrible as the visions that had started to plague her.
"Come," she said. "Let's return to our stateroom. I'll tell you more tales of my royal past and you will pleasure me as you always do."
"You are troubled by thoughts, my queen."
"Thoughts in and of themselves are never a trouble, Teddy. Only the actions they might inspire."
She took his arm.
There was a brief, contented moment of seeing the empty, windswept deck before them; the miracle of such a solid, massive structure moving effortlessly across the open seas beneath a night sky teeming with stars. Then the stars seemed to vanish, and suddenly the sky seemed to be bearing down on her like the lid of a sarcophagus.
Her knees buckled. She heard her frightened cry as if from a distance. The sound of it enraged her, but her rage was impotent before the power of this vision.
A train. She could hear it.
Barreling towards her?
A memory of the accident that had almost killed her a second time?
No. These sounds were different; they were coming not towards her, but from all around her.
The ship's deck had been transformed into a narrow, shaking passageway of some sort, lined with vague points of shifting light.
"My queen," she heard the doctor cry. But his voice also seemed far away, his hand in hers suddenly as soft as overripe fruit.
I am inside of this train, she realized suddenly.
From the darkness, another voice. Not the doctor's. Not her own.
Miss? Are you all right, miss?
The voice had a different, unfamiliar kind of accent, harsh and guttural compared to Teddy's. She'd heard this kind of accent several times since she'd come back to life; it was American.
Shafts of sunlight pierced the train's windows as it hurtled through unknown countryside. The part of her that was stumbling down the hallway of this speeding train car was as unsure of her footing as the part of her that struggled to stay upright on the steamship's deck.
She was a being divided somehow, trapped in two places at once, the only thing she could feel, the only thing of which she was absolutely sure, was an overwhelming nausea and the terrible noise of the train's screaming metal wheels.
She heard Teddy's distant voice call her name. "Cleopatra!"
And then suddenly she found herself staring into a reflection that was not her own in one of the train's rattling windows. Bare suggestions of the same woman in her earlier, far-less-powerful visions. Pale skinned and blonde, the details of her face lost to a whirl of strange countryside beyond the glass.
She could hear her scream quite clearly, as clearly as she could hear the young doctor begging her to calm herself, as clearly as she could feel him placing one hand over her mouth to stifle her anguished cries.
11
The Twentieth Century Limited
"Miss Parker!" the porter cried. "Are you all right?"
Sibyl gripped the handrail just before she fell knees first to the carpet. The porter rushed to her and curved an arm around her back.
A dream, Sibyl thought. But I'm awake. Wide awake in broad daylight and yet it came over me with the same power as my nightmares.
She'd just left the dining car on her way back to her compartment when the entire train car filled with wind. A door of some sort had been left open, she'd been sure. Her mouth had opened to call out to the porter when the smell of ocean wind suddenly filled her nostrils. And that's when she realized that her clothes weren't ruffled in the slightest, that the wind she felt was just that and only that, a feeling. As for the scent of the ocean, the Twentieth Century Limited was still miles from the coast. Then she had felt the presence of a man next to her, gripping her hand. Impossible. There wasn't space enough in the narrow passageway for anyone to be standing next to her.
And then she'd seen him. Not the handsome Egyptian from her dreams.
This man had pale skin and a jutting, defiant jaw. But he looked just as terrified as Mr. Ramsey had in her dream, the dream in which she'd reached for him with skeleton hands. And he'd shouted something, a name, but it hadn't quite made any sense, and his voice had sounded far away, as if the wind in her vision were carrying it away from her.
She and the man were standing on the deck of a steamship at sea. And in one of the large stateroom windows beside them, she glimpsed a reflection that was not her own. The same dark-skinned woman with perfectly proportioned features she'd glimpsed in her dreams. The woman's great mane of raven-colored hair had been coming lose from its braid.
And then the vision broke, and now, here she was, the porter guiding her back to her compartment by one arm as if she were an aged invalid.
"You're motion sick, Miss Parker. That's all. We'll get you some water and you'll be just fine. There's time for rest before we reach New York. Plenty of time for rest. Yes, ma'am."
Lucy had heard the commotion and came rushing down the hall, her face a mask of alarm. She took Sibyl
from the man's grip and guided her back to their compartment.
Once they were alone, Sibyl's breathing returned to normal. Lucy crouched before her, reached up, and took Sibyl's face tenderly in her hand. Her lady's maid had never touched her like this before; it was a testament to how thoroughly undone she was.
"Just a spell," Sibyl whispered. "That's all. It was just a spell."
"I'll fetch a doctor," Lucy whispered.
She stood quickly. Sibyl grabbed her hand. "No. No, there is nothing a doctor can do for this."
"But, madam..."
"Please, Lucy. Coffee. Just coffee. If you can fetch me some coffee, I'll be quite all right."
With a piteous expression, Lucy nodded and quickly departed.
To not share the extent of her condition with her lady's maid pained Sibyl greatly. Perhaps it was reckless, dangerous. But Sibyl had become convinced the most reckless thing would be to not make this journey at all. To not seek some form of answer.
She was not going mad. She could not be. For the handsome, dark-skinned man in her dreams existed. He was real, and she had never seen him before. This was proof of something so extraordinary her lady's maid might drive herself mad trying to understand it. And she needed sanity at her side, at least.
The bright countryside flying past outside seemed a universe away from her frightening vision. And yet, the ship's windswept deck had felt as real as the seat underneath her now, a vision she could not blame on the mysteries of her sleeping mind. It had taken hold with the force of an epileptic seizure.
It's getting worse, she thought. No longer just nightmares, but something more powerful. But so far, the fear is the most dangerous part of it. If I can endure the fear, I will survive this.
And whenever fear had threatened to deprive Sibyl of all reason and self-regard, she could rely on one thing to protect her soul--her pen.
She grabbed her diary and began to write the details of her vision as fast as she could, as if each quick pen stroke had the power to steady her heart. She'd brought so many of these hardbound journals on her journey they made her suitcase almost impossible to carry. But there was no analyzing what had taken hold of her without once again studying the dreams of Egypt she'd had as a little girl. They were all connected; she was sure of it. All she had were her journals and the desperate hope that a mysterious man she'd only glimpsed in a news clipping might be able to unlock the secret of her new condition.