Nicolai found that this philosopher-bum’s words had a dual affect on him. In the moments where he resisted their truth they were like an extra twist on the wench tightly bound to his head, and they built a pressure there which he felt might burst, conversely, when he gave in to their soft wisdom they were like a twist counterclockwise on a faucet on his forehead, each turn releasing thoughts of (he found now) liquid determination in his brain; he found himself more and more giving in to the latter. Nicolai looked (for the first time) deeply into the man’s faceface because it was more than his eyes that were entrancing, his whole face it seemed drew you inand the man looked back somehow without staring, in fact, the sockets of his eyes were so deep that the exact position and orientation of its eyeballs was impossible to tell. Where did he come from? He seemed almost not to be of this world, and yet in a way seemed also as solid and necessarily a part of it as the very stones from which it was made. He was so grand, so despicable, so wise, and so well spoken, that he might have risen directly from the stacks of library books buried below them.
The man dipped his hand, cupped, into the fountain and brought a draught of water to his mouth and drank and then dragged his wet hand down his face. “It’s cool,” he said, “try it.” Nicolai mimicked his action, the water was cool. It refreshed him, but did not quench his thirst, rather it increased it. He drank again but was thirstier still and longed to submerge his head in the pool and take in as much as he could hold, he wished to fill his body itself in it: lungs, heart, and head. “Enjoy as much as you like, it is free.”
Suddenly, however, the wind changed again and the coldness of it almost froze the dripping water on his chin. He stopped drinking, the cool refreshment of the water was no longer needed. The owl flew away and perched in a nearby tree. The man looked up at the clouds briefly and clucked his tongue. “Well,” he said to Nicolai, “a man should not walk a thousand miles on foot when faster means are available, and where you wish to go is much farther than that.” He flung open a fold in his robes and held it spread out like a wing. Hanging on its inner wall were three things: a rusty knife, a length of rope, and a vial of black liquid. “A dagger for the heart (excuse the rust, but it is very old), a rope for the neck, and poison for the soul. This now, take it,” he unfastened the vial and handed it to Nicolai, “a concoction very old, of ancient formula, with a touch of sweetness that I added on my own. You will not find it unpleasant. This is the fastest and the surest, no antidote is known and you needn’t drink much to have the deed done. Smell it, I think you will find it to your liking.” Nicolai did, it did not smell good and had a bitter aroma like cider grown warm in the sun. The man noticed his grimace and took the vial back. He smelled it himself. “Sorry, gone bad, but moving right along...” He dumped the poison into the fountain and its surface went black. A little bathing bird on the far side tipped over with a squeak and bobbed, feet up, in the churning water. “Now this was once a dagger of kings. Old it may look and old it is, but its blade is still sharp, shaved with it myself this morning. Many a warrior this blade has brought to great honor. Touch it, hold it, feel its weight in your hands.” He unhooked it and gave it to Nicolai. It was, as he’d said, heavy and Nicolai dropped it accidentally. As it hit the ground the blade shattered, one of the shards, flying, caught a passing squirrel in the neck; it fell over dead with a thud. The man looked at it for a moment. “Hmm, rust was deeper than I thought. Never mind that. Here I have saved the best of my collection for last. Long I have saved this cord, a piece they say of the very ropes that bound Christ to his cross. It is dear to me, but I will let you borrow it. Feel it, it is strong.” He untied the rope and gave an end to Nicolai, who tugged and felt that it was strong and sure. The man took it back. “Good, look I can help you with the knots.” He made a quick noose out of it. “And we can just attach it here to this tree.” There was a tree with not too high branches (though high enough) ten or so feet away and the man jumped up, sprightliness now in his step, and tied the rope to the lowest branch of that tree. “See, very strong, come let me help you.” He tugged on the rope to demonstrate and while it held fast to the tree, the branch to which it was tied did not and came crashing down to the earth. A moment later, the owl followed and landed on its head, cracking its neck, and one leg-twitch later it was dead. “After all I do believe that walking is good for the soul. He who goes humbly, goes best. Come,” he sat again at the fountain, “drink some, it is cool.” He splashed some water on his face. “Go ahead, drink. Aren’t you thirsty?” Nicolai was not, the spell he’d been under was broken and he smiled. I did not kill Rooka. He was suddenly able to distinguish the real from the false, the true from the fraudulent. There is some other, more reasonable, explanation of his death and I shall find it.
The man was growing flustered and was frothing at the mouth. “Drink, drink, see it is good. Yummy, water, refreshing. Just try one, one little sip, you won’t regret it. I assure you.”
“I’m not thirsty, thank you.” He moved as if to leave, but the man rose first and prevented him. With strong arms he forced Nicolai’s head into the water and held it there against his struggling. Nicolai inhaled accidentally as his head plunged into the icy water. He thought first of the poison on its surface, but that it seemed had dissipated. Now he could not breath, the cold water choked him as it flowed into his lungs and his vision began to fade. He was aware of the force holding him under, but soon gave up his resistance. He felt good, an excitement filled him, every nerve tingled, his brain was on fire with delight, and every fear he had was overshadowed by a wonderful physical titillation. The last thing he saw with his eyes was a large disk, a coin at the bottom of the fountain, and as his eyes caught it and his focus narrowed, he saw reflected on its surface a large approaching red cross.
Chapter 9
Nicolai awoke and went up to the deck, no, not the deck, the observation car, no, not that either, he still lay in his sleeping car. The fog, his fog, in any case, had cleared and as he opened his eyes he could see (after resolving the confusion about where he was) the train moving above him, the lights, windows, and walls flashing by. He couldn’t recall requesting a sleeping car, perhaps he’d been upgraded, that was always a good thing, nice surprise. He was content. There was just one thing that didn’t quite make sense (not that he wanted to nit-pick, but he couldn’t help noticing): if he was on the train, a train, lying in (he guessed) his bed, then why (it was most unusual, downright odd), why could he see the train moving? For according to his understanding of nature (and past experience bore this out infallibly), via the law of inertia, he should be moving along with the train. If, however, his bed were in the center aisle of the train (supposition here, speculation) and friction were reduced (well oiled wheels; on the bed? Just suppose) and the train made no turns, but continued in a perfect line (it could happen) then yes, he might see, as he did, the train moving about him; except, eventually he would smash into the rear of the thing, no? He had been lying there for some time already pondering this and no such collision had yet occurred. Long train? Very long train. He rejected this. They wouldn’t put the beds in the aisle, with wheels no less, and well oiled (this last was intrinsically against railroad policy which states quite clearly that everything that may must squeak and squeal, no oil is in fact allowed within three hundred feet of a train yard). The ticket had been cheap though. No, he rejected the idea again. He clearly was not on a train and this made him sad, he’d truly hoped he was and on his way west. Where then?
A face entered his field of vision from above, came down over his forehead; it was upside down. It was a nice face, he thought, very fair, very bright. Porter? No, he’d rejected that already. Ah, yes, of course. He suddenly remembered. An angel; I am of course dead. He should have known immediately from the air, it was cool and fresh and invigorating as he’d expected, quite unlike any on the Earth. At least I’ve gone to the good place. With every breath of the fresh air his senses came closer to life, hearing, then smell, sight a bit earlier
than usual, but otherwise the same drill. Music came to his ears and it seemed the most beautiful that he’d ever heard. He snapped his fingers slightly to its lithe rhythm. This is not so bad, he thought, I’ve waked to worse. As his sense of touch came to him, he noticed that there was some odd contraption attached to his face which was the source of the particularly refreshing air. Sudden realization came to him, of course! Heaven too had entered the Industrial Revolution (probably with the death of the robber barons, late 1800’s). Nice of them to keep the fresh air thing going though, at least for new arrivals, probably have to breath the regular stuff in a bit, but that’s all right, we’ll make due. He let the music fill him, beautiful, beautiful, thoughhe heard it more clearly nowrather jiving if I may say, inspiring though. He could understand the words now (words? He had expected harps) “Ease on down the road.” Diana Ross? If only she knew that she had edged Bach out of the heavenly music market. What a modern Heaven I have found for myself, with just that right touch of retrospective to make it interesting. I think I will like it here. And (wished this before) if they have tobacco here, hallelujah!
They entered an elevator, Nicolai on his rolling bed and the angel behind, and began going down. Uh oh, Nicolai thought, that’s the wrong direction. I knew things had been looking too good, still it’s better than I imagined or the old tales tell. Perhaps I shall receive less torment than expected, eternal certainly, but with weekends off. The elevator stopped, the doors opened, and Nicolai was rolled into a room filled with bodies. The angel (arch?) damned him. “Damn, damn, damn.” So it has begun so soon, at least it was a first class ride. The bodies lay mostly in rows on nondescript slabs, the light was bright, but not red, and it was cool, cold actually, there was no fire. Some of the bodies were covered, others were not, and of those some lay recently (and partially) vivisected, their organs on the tables next to them. One of the uncovered bodies he recognized. Oh Rifka, have you too earned this fate? Again with the damning, “Damn, wrong floor. Sorry.” They sure are kind around here, considering. Nicolai was backed up again into the elevator. He noticed a sign on the way out: “Morgue,” it read. Huh? “Don’t worry, I’ll get you there.” The elevator stopped again, but they did not exit, instead someone got on. “Doctor,” the angel (Nicolai was beginning to doubt this) said.
“Bruce,” the doctor replied. Nicolai felt faint. There was no doubt about it this time, he knew exactly where he was: the sanitarium again. So they’ve caught me. Was it Stinky who turned me in? Tom, after I let him know that I was wise to his schemes? That rat. He felt faint and he did faint and his eyes saw no more.
Until he woke again. He was in a room. It was white, true, but larger than he remembered the sanitarium’s to be, and uncrowded. His bed was soft and comfortable and a soft caressing heat emanated from it. There was also a small television attached to a posable arm above the bed, and only one other person in the room, on the other side, in a bed of his own, separated from Nicolai by a curtain which at present was not fully drawn. It was a hospital room. A hospital, not the crazy house at all. So there was still a chance for him, perhaps. He remembered now being drowned, had he pushed himself in or had the other attacked him? He wasn’t sure, but someone had obviously come to his aid. That would explain Rifka in the morgue, that had been only how many days? a few, three or four depending on how long he had been here.
He looked again at his neighbor. He was a young man, barely in his twenties, if even, and looked severely ill or injured. Every bodily function seemed controlled by a machine or electronic device. He bore no cast though and seemed dead, pale and gaunt as he was. The only sign of his living was a constant blip-bleep on several of the machines. On his bedside table sat an unopened box of chocolates. It was a red box with a white ribbon which crossed itself and terminated in a bow.
There was a window on that side of the roomthe young man’s side, Nicolai was nearer the doorand through the drawn blinds he could see that it was night. He sat up too quickly and coughed, he was no longer connected to the oxygen, and breathing was more difficult. Must have taken some water on.
The door to Nicolai’s room creaked open and the mendicant from the park creeped in. He was slyly making his way toward the young man’s bed and then noticed Nicolai. His eyesfor the first time Nicolai saw the actual globes themselves, yellow they wereflashed fearfully and he dashed out. Nicolai sat again, again far too quickly, and again gagged on some remnants of water in his lungs. Staying prone for a moment, however, he overcame them (the remnants). He stood, fighting momentary nausea, and his head pounded: boom-boom-boom, boom-boom-boom. He suppressed the sickness in his tummy, and by walking in time with the rhythm in his head, step-step-step, step-step-step, used the pain to propel him. During a pause in the beat, he noticed that he was clothed in a skimpy paper smock and barefoot. Doesn’t matter, requisite dress no doubt.
The hallway was empty when he arrived there. He turned left because the right ended abruptly in a windowon the right at that end was a stairway and on the left another room. In the direction he was now facing, he could see, some way down, a crossroads of sorts where another hallway bisected the present one. In the far right corner there he espied a nurses station. He progressed slowly due to a combination of wariness, weariness, and the odd rhythm to which he kept time. Three doors down on the right he found him. The door was half open and the man was inside at someone’s bedside. That someone, an old man, had his head in his hands and was sobbing. The other, the first, was speaking softly in his ear. Looking upon him now, Nicolai decided not to interrupt. Each must fight this one on his own terms and my battle has already passed, and been won. He looked once more and then moved on. As he did there was a sudden ruckus, a series of beeping tones in the air merged into one continuous beeeeeeeeeep and a flurry of activity began in the nurses station. Nicolai ran back the way he had come and at the same time several men and women started down the hall after him. So, at least he thought, but they stopped short and entered the dying (old) man’s room. Nicolai did not see this and so continued and entered the stairwell on the right. It was then, as the door clanged shut, that he noticed that they were not following; he noticed too that the door had locked itself behind him. He was beginning to tire of facing the same trials and challenges again and again regardless of his success or failure; was life nothing more than these?
A placard there indicated that he was on the fourth floor and his present idea was to go down until he found an unlocked door and then to come back up (hopefully) somewhere on the other side. The third floor door was locked, as was the second, but the first was not, and there Nicolai emerged. The layout appeared to Nicolai an exact replica of his own floor, window to the right, crossing hallways some way down, and a possible nurses station. Here though there was considerably more activity. Many patients walked about, some were wheeled, and doctors and nurses were present. Emergency room is probably on this floor. He walked down the hall and no one bothered him. He reached the crossed hallways where the nurses station was located and paused. Looking down to his right he saw, at a distance twice that he’d just walked, the exit: several banks of mechanical glass doors, a lone guard at a console standing watch. No hope that way. One of the nurses asked if he was all right, and when he replied that he was, she troubled him no more. To his left now, continuing along the way he’d come, he saw some vending machines of varying sorts and just beyond those a glowing exit sign. Stairwell. He entered there and checked: no, the door had not locked behind him. However, he could not go up. The stairwell was blocked with yellow tape and he heard voices above. He climbed down, hoping there at last to find some way back up to his room. As he opened the door in the basement, he found himself again in the morgue.
The room was just as it was before, just as well lit. His eyes immediately set on Rifka. She had been moved and looked much thinner. He saw a moment later that this way because most of her internal organs had been removed to a small plastic bag at her side, which fortunately was sealed and opaq
ue (but that didn’t stop him, not in the least, from surmising its contents). He went to her. She looked pretty again, at ease, old to be sure, but as though a great ordeal had passed and she now had peace. He took her hand and it creaked as he lifted it. He dropped it and shuddered. Yuck. He looked at the hand again, it was pale (she’d always been pale, but it was quite a bit more pale now). Around her third finger there was a dark circle of stained flesh. They’ve taken the ring. That seemed the greatest tragedy of all to him. You died for that ring, Rifka and deserve to wear it in your death. He removed his current ring from his finger and placed itnot without some strugglingupon hers. He thought she smiled (but hoped she did not, that would really be too much) and felt good for having made some peace in the end with her. “Now Rifka, I go to my doom. I’ve been caught you see and it will only be time before they realize, and not much at that. More like than not I shall soon be lying here next to you, fresh from a hanging. Rifka,” he lowered himself to her and whispered in her ear, “I did not kill Uncle Rooka.”
Saying these words aloud (albeit softly), for the first time reinvigorated him, and refreshed his desire, if not to fight (yet), then to escape. I can make it, if not past the guard then through some back door or via one final leap out of a high window; but I think I shall try the guard first.
Nicolai climbed back up to the main level. The guard was still there. Not too attentive, I’ll be out the door and away before he knows what happened. Not in those clothes you don’t. Lord! I’d forgotten. He’s not about to let a patient through those doors, that is at least some one dressed like a patient. And, in any case, I wouldn’t get much farther without my ticket or my money. Dolt. Now how to get back? He decided on the direct approach, no one should care or complain, he reasoned, about a patient returning to his room, and no one accosted him at all when he got on the elevator, took it to four, got off, and sauntered back to his room.
I Thought My Uncle Was A Vampire, But He Was Just A Creep Page 21
