Prince Lestat and the Realms of Atlantis

by Anne Rice

  Three years after the premiere of The Sleeping Beauty ballet, when the great Tchaikovsky died, Garekyn wept bitterly. So did Prince Brovotkin. By that time, Garekyn had been thoroughly educated in the Prince's library and Prince Alexi had taken Garekyn to Paris twice and London once, to Rome and Florence and Palermo, and was planning to take him to America. Garekyn knew more about the late nineteenth century than he'd ever known or understood about his brief existence twelve thousand years earlier.

  To Prince Brovotkin, Garekyn confided all that he knew of himself, of how he'd been sent with three other humanoid beings to Earth specifically to correct a grievous error. Bits and pieces came to Garekyn when he talked, when they traveled, when Garekyn read new books or saw new cities--when Garekyn encountered new wonders such as the Pyramids of Giza or the great Crystal Palace in London, or the great cathedral of Saint Mary of the Nativity in Milan.

  People of the Purpose is what they had called themselves, Garekyn and his kindred, but not because they meant to fulfill what the Parents had sent them to do, but because they had conceived of another purpose far more important.

  Splendor of humanity. A being who had spoken those words...but there Garekyn's faculties betrayed him. He could hear the voice, and see the eyes, pale eyes, not brownish black like his but remarkably pale greenish-blue eyes, so rare in that time on Earth, and golden-red hair--such lustrous golden-red hair.

  Fleeting images, and broken questions obsessed Garekyn. He saw jungles in his dreams, jungles through which they'd walked together, he and his companions, struggling against insects and reptiles and the curious savages who had invited them into their villages and offered them abundant food and drink. He saw a vast glittering city beneath an immense transparent dome. Everything depends on your getting into the city itself. Nothing can be achieved unless you do. He recalled the faces and forms of the others, beloved Derek, the boyish one, and Welf, gentle, patient, and ever-smiling Welf, and the brilliant and commanding Kapetria, who never raised her voice in anger or enthusiasm.

  The Parents had said to them all: You have been created for this one purpose and you will perish as you achieve your purpose, and without your perishing it cannot be done. Derek had cried when the Parents spoke those words. "But why do we have to die," Derek had asked. The Parents had been surprised by the question. Kapetria had taken Derek in her arms. "Is it necessary that this boy suffer so?"

  Prince Brovotkin died in 1913 on the voyage to Brazil, leaving his entire estate to his adopted son, Garekyn. For a time, Garekyn had been lost. It was agony to see the Prince's body committed to the ocean deep, and he wept nightly for months afterwards, even as he traveled the length and breadth of the American continents. Even music did not comfort him. Garekyn had never experienced the death of a loved one, or grief. And he had to learn how to go on in spite of it. The search for his lost brothers and sister soon came to obsess him.

  Even now as he walked up Fifth Avenue in the bracing cold air of mild winter, Garekyn wore an old military coat of fine black wool with brass buttons given to him by Prince Alexi. And in his vest, he carried the Prince's great pocket watch with the quotation from Shakespeare engraved inside the cover: LOVE ALL, TRUST A FEW, DO WRONG TO NONE.

  Garekyn had never found any evidence anywhere of the others, his kin, as he called them. But he had never given up searching. If he was alive, they might still be alive. If he had been locked in the ice for thousands of years, so surely might they have been locked in the ice. And indeed, they might be locked in it still or only just released thanks to the strange phenomenon the world called "global warming."

  And Garekyn's memories were increasing, bit by bit, and growing ever more detailed and disturbing.

  The late twentieth century had given Garekyn new powerful instruments to fear, and also to help in his search for the others. Everywhere he traveled, he needed complex and carefully worded documents, and he lived in dread of an accident or illness that might put him in the hands of doctors who might discover in an emergency room that he was not human.

  But the invention of the internet and the spread of social media had greatly emboldened Garekyn with regard to his search, providing opportunities for him that hadn't existed before. And it was through the internet that Garekyn had discovered the delightful and spirited Benji Mahmoud and the complex realm of Benji's blood drinkers, blood drinkers of all ages who called Benji's phone line for help from everywhere in the world, often enlisting the broadcast itself as a means of finding their lost ones.

  What a striking idea, thought Garekyn. Might he not somehow through this broadcast find his lost ones? But how should he go about it, and how might he prevent an onslaught of responses from playful blood drinkers eager to pretend that they were Garekyn's companions and eager to play along with Garekyn's realm as humans sometimes did with the realm of Benji Mahmoud?

  Benji Mahmoud thought he had a foolproof way of separating all others from his blood drinkers. He and his vampire kindred spoke in voices on the radio that only other vampires with their powerful preternatural hearing could hear. But Garekyn Brovotkin could also hear those voices effortlessly and detect a subtle difference in timbre in those voices from the voices of the humans who so badly wanted to play the imaginary game of the Children of the Night and the kingdom of the great Prince Lestat.

  Almost immediately after his discovery of these enchanting broadcasts, Garekyn had heard mention of "Amel," and of the curious mythology of Amel, and Garekyn's mind had been disturbed as if by a whirling sandstorm. Amel. That very name, Amel.

  This "Amel" according to the mythology of Benji Mahmoud was a spirit who had entered the world of human beings through the seduction of two powerful red-haired witches in ancient times, witches who had learned to communicate with the spirit and manipulate him. That these witches were red haired had also startled Garekyn. Garekyn had seen in a flash for the first time the being that he himself had known as Amel--with his pale white skin and red hair! And it had been this being who had said the words: the splendor of humanity.

  Coincidences, probably. Coincidence and poetry. Fictive worlds. Likely Benji Mahmoud was an artist of fictive worlds of some sort, and made millions from his broadcast, though Garekyn could not turn up the slightest evidence of this or any money-making motivation. The program's websites offered nothing for sale. It did offer lots of exquisite pictures of beings who appeared to be human beings of unusually pale and radiant complexions, all of which might have been faked.

  The more he listened, the more Garekyn had been intrigued that there had been disastrous consequences to this seduction of the spirit Amel, that he, in seeking to please the red-haired witches, had plunged into the physical body of an early Queen of the land of Kemet and created in so doing the very first "vampire." From this vampire came all other vampires, with Amel animating every single one in an unbroken chain to the present time.

  Red hair. Amel. Ancient times. Immortals. It wasn't much to go on. But what about the distinct timbre of the voices? Was the spirit of Amel responsible for that as well? Amel gave great powers to his vampire children; they could spellbind "mortals," read minds, and develop over time the power to kinetically burn their opponents or break down doorways. They could even learn how to defy gravity and fly.

  Now think on it.

  How did Amel live and breathe in these creatures? Who was Amel?

  All the vampires of the world, according to Benji Mahmoud, were animated by this Amel who had since those early times been moved from one primal host to another, and finally into a young blood drinker now known as Prince Lestat from whom the spirit kept the entire tribe of vampires animated and thriving. The "Amel Consciousness," as Benji sometimes called it, could travel from vampire to vampire through invisible weblike connections--and Amel himself had actually phoned the program more than once last year through the voices of random blood drinkers whom he had seduced.

  But of course any blood drinker might boast that Amel spoke through him, and Benji had brushed off a
number who made such claims as not credible.

  Then the Prince had come, Prince Lestat, and Amel was safe inside him, Benji reminded the tribe.

  Full darkness. It was just settling all around him, swallowed up and warmed by the rush of pedestrians on the pavements and the endless parade of motorcars, and the streetlamps snapping on silently all around him.

  Garekyn had reached the proper street. A newspaper article had given the description of the three townhouses for which Garekyn was searching. As he turned right and made his way towards Madison Avenue, he saw them and their central iron gate. This much is real, he thought. The lights were on throughout the compound from the basement windows near the pavement to the high stories.

  Garekyn stopped on the narrow pavement to adjust his silk tie as if this was his only concern. Scanning the people loitering about he saw at once that they were simply human beings. Young people, some with books or magazines under their arms, obviously eyeing Trinity Gate with awe and expectation. It was not a large crowd, and it appeared faintly restless. But it made it easier for Garekyn to loiter as well.

  More humans passing by, simple humans coming and going. Garekyn played for time without causing attention. He took out his watch and marked the hour and promptly forgot it. He walked slowly from one end of the block to the other.

  An hour passed during which most of the crowd had moved on.

  Garekyn was prepared to wait. He could have waited until midnight or after. From time to time he had the feeling that someone was watching him from inside the house, though he saw nothing to indicate this. Again and again, he walked the block. Finally a great sinking sadness came over him. He might never find the others. He might be lost forever on this planet, concealing himself from its mortal inhabitants forever.

  How could he love again and lose in death a cherished companion? How could he ever alleviate the loneliness and isolation he felt unless he defined himself a new purpose?

  Purpose.

  He came to the corner of Madison Avenue again in his little promenade and was just starting back down the block when he saw the shining lacquered front door of the central townhouse open. Out onto the small granite porch stepped a diminutive male figure dressed in a black three-piece suit of worsted wool, with a sharp Italian fedora on his head. Little Man! Benji Mahmoud himself! Garekyn recognized him at once from a thousand descriptions uttered over the airwaves in the past year, and from his pictures online, and he also knew in a flash that Benji Mahmoud was not human. This was beyond question. Benji Mahmoud might not be the heroic revenant he claimed to be, but human he was not.

  How Garekyn's fine senses told him this, Garekyn couldn't know. But the skin had a luster, and the being's walk, though graceful, was unnatural.

  "Little Man," as they called him, paused at the foot of the steps to sign autograph books for a couple of young humans. And to another he tipped his hat with a charming ease and then, with a tactful little hand gesture pleading for privacy, walked swiftly towards Madison Avenue and towards Garekyn.

  Garekyn came to a halt as they passed one another, and then pivoting he discovered that Benji Mahmoud was gazing back at him.

  Not human.

  Benji Mahmoud had marked Garekyn for what he was, or what he wasn't, as well. But Benji Mahmoud had turned and continued walking on fearlessly and indifferently.

  Garekyn could hardly contain himself. He wanted to approach the figure and confess all he knew of himself and beg Benji Mahmoud to help him. But something stronger than instinct kept him many paces behind as he tracked Little Man now, who turned right and started walking downtown.

  Garekyn didn't know what to do! He realized how surprised he was, how positively amazed, and though he knew that nothing like this had happened to him in a hundred years, indeed that he had never seen a being like this Little Man anywhere in the world, nor a being like himself anywhere in the world, this was in fact happening, and this Benji Mahmoud was ignoring him! Indeed, it was worse than that. Little Man picked up his pace. In the thin leisurely crowds on Madison Avenue, Little Man appeared to be trying to lose him.

  In fact, it was amazing how fast the little blood drinker could walk without attracting attention. Like many another New Yorker, he darted gracefully past people to the right and left, with his head slightly bowed, and vanished from moment to moment as Garekyn, half a block away, sped forward trying to catch sight of him again.

  Garekyn's mind raced. It wasn't calculation to have one's thoughts race like this, and to have the inevitable mammalian emotions clashing wildly in one's body and brain. And suddenly, he began to repeat the name "Amel" under his breath, repeat it as if it were a prayer. "Amel, Amel, Amel...," he whispered, as on and on he walked. "I must find out about Amel!" he whispered. "I must know about Amel!" Could the vampire be hearing what Garekyn was saying? "Amel, tell me, I must know about Amel."

  The figure he was following stiffened, and then came to a stop.

  For a moment, Garekyn couldn't see Benji for the passersby, but then he did see him. Benji had turned around and was looking at him, and Garekyn felt the nearest thing to panic he'd felt in years. Danger. Threat. Retreat.

  Now, Garekyn had no instinctive fear of humans. He was, by his own calculation with the help of Prince Alexi, about five times as strong as a human male. But every molecule in his body alerted him to overwhelming risk.

  He couldn't retreat. He couldn't. He had to make contact with Benji, and Benji had to talk to him! Besides what could this "blood drinker" do to him? He walked on towards Benji and he kept repeating that word, "Amel, Amel."

  A car appeared at the curb beside Benji.

  Garekyn and Benji weren't thirty steps from one another.

  Benji fixed Garekyn with his sharp black eyes, and then he climbed into the car and the car sped away, rushing northbound past Garekyn and on into the steady flow of cars that choked the avenue.

  Garekyn cried out, begging Benji to wait.

  But the car was gone, spurting away almost recklessly through the other cars, and turning off two blocks ahead.

  Garekyn's heart sank. He ran his fingers back through his hair, and finding a handkerchief in one of his many pockets, he wiped angrily at his face.

  He walked on, trying to think.

  Perhaps this had happened for the best. Perhaps this thing, this Benji species of mutant, could have done him harm. If he were to go back now to Trinity Gate, perhaps a collection of these beings, alerted by the redoubtable Benji, could do him harm.

  Only slowly did he come to realize this had been a great experience for him, a unique experience, and that he had now much to ponder, whereas he'd had almost nothing tangible at all to think about before.

  But he was stung, stung to his soul. He'd encountered somebody, somebody vital in his search for the past, and that someone had fled from him, and so he would have to approach the entire matter in some new and more cautious way.

  He found a cafe where he felt at home.

  It was a restaurant actually, not open as yet for "dinner," as they called it, but it was fine with them if he took one of the smaller tables near the front window and drank a glass of the house wine.

  The wine went to his head as it always did from the first mouthful, and he felt the relaxation move through him as if he'd sunk down in a warm bath.

  He had never forgotten the warning of the Parents that during his mission on Earth, he must refrain from all spirits or fermented drinks, and all other intoxicants, that he would have little or no defense against them, that indeed human beings had little or no defense against them, but that they might cripple his cerebral circuits even more quickly than they worked on human beings.

  But he liked wine. He liked being intoxicated. He liked having the pain and loneliness dulled by intoxication. He loved it, in fact, and he wept as he called for another glass and drank it down as if it were a shot of bourbon. Why not a bottle? The waitress nodded without a word, and filled the glass for him again when she returned, setting the corke
d bottle beside it.

  Silently, Garekyn shed tears. People passed him on the other side of the glass. He wiped at his eyes crossly with his handkerchief, but it didn't make him feel better. He sat back in the comfortable little chair, and began to take a swift inventory of everything Benjamin Mahmoud had ever said about the "spirit Amel."

  Then something utterly unforeseen happened.

  Garekyn's eyes were closed. He had pressed two fingers of his right hand against the bridge of his nose as a mortal might who was experiencing a headache.

  But he saw--. No, he was in another place. A vast room with walls of glass, but it wasn't glass, no, nothing like glass, a vast room and beyond were the towers of--. He had almost seized on the name of the city when the voice of Amel interrupted him, Amel rising from behind his desk, pale skinned, red haired, yes! Amel! Amel speaking in that rapid, emotional, classic mammalian voice with which they'd all been endowed: "Don't tell me you are the People of the Purpose when your purpose is to do just what they sent you to do! For the love of your souls, find for yourself a finer purpose! Just as I did."

  In shock, Garekyn opened his eyes. It was gone, this fiery fragment from the past. And he felt both an overwhelming desire to recall it to himself, and a fear of doing so.

  Suddenly the weight of his frustration crushed Garekyn, and the rejection of him by the silent Benji Mahmoud cut his heart. He could have spoken to me! What did he have to fear from me, this strange being, who was brave enough to hide in plain sight among humans in the busiest metropolis in the world?

  Angrily, Garekyn rose from the chair and sought out the lavatory. He needed to slap water on his face, wake himself up, come to his senses. The waitress directed him to a small corridor behind the dining room that reeked of dust and disinfectant. He made his way to the "last door on the left."