It wasn’t a recording, and it wasn’t a pipe organ faking it. It was an actual, real, once-part-of-a-living-animal ram’s horn someone blew their own breath into. He’d never heard anything like it before.
It was a soul-shattering sound.
Each individual peal vibrated all the way through his flesh, sizzled through his brain, turned his eyes to jelly, and made him need to scream with fear, ecstasy, elation and humility all at once.
When the sound stopped, the Gate was closed. He knew it, all the way through to the center of beingness. He was no longer a focus of Divine Attention.
And with that, Malory’s distress grabbed his whole mind and heart.
But a new Reader took a place at lectern near him and everyone kept right on praying. According to the prayer book, they were doing the Evening Service. It was several pages long, but they raced through it all at blinding speed which was just as well since Malory was awake and hurting worse than ever. The Vampire was helpless and scared, and just short of panic.
Hang on, Mal, I’m coming to get you out of there. It’ll be all right. Bozez came back.
He felt the vampire’s pained astonishment at his use of the Link. He was weak, and confused, but replied, “Take your time.”
And then people were leaving. David had to thank the Rubensteins, and give his phone number to the old man who wanted to find him a wife.
The social amenities were very brief since it was a mitzvah not to delay breaking fast. And David managed to contrive to hide himself behind the open door of the book cabinet in the sanctuary as the old man was closing up. Shortly, the building fell into utter silence except for the cars starting outside, and people calling happy greetings.
When he was certain everyone was gone, he came out of hiding.
All the lights were off except for the Eternal Flame, which could hardly be called a light.
By feel, he groped and stumbled his way up to the Aron. As he had guessed, the time-lock was not engaged, as the Rabbi had instructed, which meant that someone would be along soon to fix the latch. He turned on the little light inside the Aron, moved the Scroll and opened the back panel.
He found the Vampire sitting Indian fashion among the worn out books, the old Torah Scroll cradled in his arms, his head tucked down because of a low shelf, suit rumpled, tie askew, wearing a pained expression. “Dare I ask what happened?”
An Angel took a pratfall to teach me to have a sense of humor!
Something inside David gave way and he burst into divinely inspired laughter.
THROUGH THE MOON GATE
Remora made camp in the high pass overlooking the Waste. She was still far above the sudden, frightening flatness that spread northward before her as far as she could see.
Off to her left, the sun was setting, a huge glowing coal kissing the horizon. It would be hot tomorrow, absolutely the wrong time to be crossing the Waste.
But what choice did she have? She forced herself to look down into the bleak, broken country. She had been born and raised in the Dales, surrounded by tree-shrouded mountains. She found her heart pounding at the thought of walking out onto that sere plane. It wasn’t safe.
A thought trembled to the surface: I’ll go back. Her clan tended herds, grazing them in the high valleys. No, I won’t go back to chasing smelly cattle around the mountain peaks! She would not go back to being laughed at when she dared to mention her visions of the Old Ones.
She was short, stocky, and not at all pretty. Her face was weathered to a dark tan. Her hands were callused, and her legs lumpy with muscle. People looked at her and saw a worthless orphan, a drudge of doubtful parentage. Not even the wise woman considered her visions real.
“You put yourself above your station, Remora!” they’d say. “Now haul that bucket of slop, and stop this nonsense.”
No, she was not going back. She’d find Arvon and the Old Ones or die trying.
With that settled she gathered firewood, and skinned the birds she’d brought down with her sling. In the days she’d been working her way through the passes which had been known to her only in nebulous tales, she had gradually learned to set a secure and comfortable camp. But she bore the scars from several nearly fatal errors.
Thus, she built a large fire, and sat up late watching for hunting creatures. They said four-footed beasts roamed the edge of the Waste in packs. But this night, all was peaceful. Light from a large, full moon came flooding over the peaks around her, and she rose to stretch and answer the call of nature before rolling up in her blanket.
Moving off to her left, she rounded a large outcropping and tended to her needs. She was arranging her clothing when she noticed the soft chuckle of water over rocks. Her water skins were getting low, so she followed the sound thinking of the bright taste of fresh water.
Through a narrow cleft, she found where a thin stream dove down a crevice. Climbing a bit, she peeked over a boulder expecting to see the stream emerge. A watering hole would make good dawn hunting. But what she found set her gripping the sharp edges of stone under her hands until they hurt.
There, in a cup surrounded by steep, shrub-covered walls, was a place of the Old Ones.
A soft green carpet covered the ground. Huge undressed stones had once stood sentinel in a circle, but now most had fallen. Several stones still supported top pieces. It seemed like a building, but one that only defined an area rather than cutting it off from the elements. In the center of the stones lay a perfectly circular pool of water, glowing whitely under the fullness of the moon.
It seemed as if the few remaining stones somehow focused the whiteness into the water, and Power gathered there.
She took a deep breath, only now realizing she had stopped breathing. Without actually deciding, she found herself edging over the lip of the cup. The pale light shimmered in sheets between the stones, forming a protective wall more formidable than any keep’s stone battlements.
She circled, cautiously, resisting a silent call. On the far side, she came abreast of three standing stones forming a door. On the right pillar a glowing area pulsed strangely. Around its edge, runes marched in a circle. She couldn’t read them, but something reached out to her murmuring a promise, pulling her heart to safety.
Just then, a night hunter cried on the peaks above, and Remora started violently, stumbled, and was inside the circle. Peace engulfed her. She padded over to the edge of the pool and knelt, searching her mind for a prayer. There weren’t many. She had been excluded from any talk of moon magic, and she had never related to Gunnora who was worshipped by so many wives. Those Who Set the Flame didn’t sound very wise to her.
In any event, this place was older than any of those. She placed her palms on the surface of the water, hardly surprised to find it warm and coated with a soft mist that refused to let her submerge her hands. “Let the powers that blessed this place flow forth in abundance to bless the world in light. May I find acceptance in your eyes.”
On one level, she was embarrassed by how childish she sounded. But tears flowed, and her breath came in gasps as she mourned for all the years she had been starved for this.
The moon sailed overhead, the light pouring through her body as if she were as insubstantial as the mist that gripped her hands. Power went through her, soft, silken power.
And then she saw it. Huge and black, in the bottom of the pool, it undulated until the whole pool heaved with it. The edges were curved into wicked points. Then, as it loomed larger, it turned up to her the white face of a man.
She screamed.
Remora had never been given to screaming, but what came out of her now was the screech of pure terror.
The pool surface broke open and spewed forth the demon. It shot into the air, and right before her eyes folded its blackness back across itself, and somehow, before it splashed down into the pool, it became a man in a black cloak.
Remora clamped her lips shut and swallowed a whimper.
No one grew up in the Dales without hearing of the Wereriders and all kinds of
tales of Were-magic. Shapechanging. It happened. It wasn’t, she told herself, necessarily evil. But her feet wanted to run.
The moonglow faded rapidly out of the pool as if bled off. She was aware of the shimmering walls spread between the stones going dark and winking out. She knelt beside an ordinary pond, under ordinary moonlight, and watched a man in a heavy black cape thrashing weakly.
Flinching away from the edge of the water, she stared fascinated as the man coughed, spat, and fought. It was almost funny, except that it finally hit her that he was truly helpless. She watched with a frown pinching her face as the figure curled into itself as if in mortal agony, and then, with a strangled cry, sank again beneath the surface.
He can’t swim!
She peeled off her tunic, yanked off boots, and, not bothering with her heavy winter trousers, dove into the pool.
It was very deep, and very cold. She hadn’t expected the shock. A moment before the pool had been blood warm.
She managed not to gasp, and when she forced her eyes open, she discovered that the water was so crystal clear that the moonlight penetrated nearly to the bottom. She spotted first the unnatural white face and hands and kicking, she scooped the unconscious form into her arms.
Her well-muscled legs thrust them to the surface, and she towed her limp burden by his sodden cloak to the rim. By the time she’d jackknifed the limp figure over the lip of the pool, she was wondering why she’d done such a foolish thing.
Before she could even consider throwing him back, he was coughing and sputtering. She crawled out of the water and heaved the now struggling man onto the greensward. “Take it easy, stranger. You breathed some water, that’s all.”
“That’s all!” he managed. “To my kind, water can be deadly!”
“Then what in the Name of The Lady were you doing in there!” She was bending to wring out her trouser legs when it hit her that she’d understood him as if he were speaking her own dialect. But he was certainly no Dalesman.
He sat up, knees bent to prop his elbows. Regarding her with the same gaze she’d expect from a lord passing through her village, he challenged, “I might tell you if you’d tell me how I got in there!”
“I should tell you how you got in there!” She heard the furious indignation in her voice, and quailed, waiting for the lord to deliver one of those withering judgments that always came her way.
Instead, he cocked his head to one side, and asked, “You mean you don’t know? You didn’t do it?”
“Do what?” Maybe I did.
He looked about, and his face spoke clearly of inward bewilderment liberally laced with fear. He recited, half aloud, “I was flying along on my way to Denver. I had a midnight appointment with Irene. The snow pack was two feet deep. I was flying low because we were totally socked in. I remember—there was a Lear jet. I was knocked head over teakettle by the wash...then...Good God, this isn’t Denver, is it?”
Remora hadn’t followed all that, but the question was clear enough. “No, I don’t think this could be Denver. I’ve never heard of any such place.”
“Los Angeles? This is a movie set, right?”
She shrank away from his vehemence.
His lips worked, and his panic submerged as he reached out to her. “Look, don’t be afraid. I don’t—I won’t hurt you. I thank you for saving my life. You must be chilled.”
She watched his lips, then his eyes. A hard knot in her chest warmed and let go. “I believe you won’t hurt me.” Stupid! I ought to run.
A pack of hungry nightrunners yammered, voices echoing off the peaks. The stranger made a feeble attempt to wring out his cloak. She couldn’t take her eyes off him. His skin was the color of moonlight, his eyes dark coals. His hair slicked back into a black cap, but it ended at the nape of his neck. His eyes met hers, and she felt his loneliness like a pain inside her.
“I have a campfire. Over there.” She gestured with her chin. “We should get dried out.” Why did I say that?
He followed her docilely. At the camp, she built up the fire and offered him a blanket while his clothes dried. “I don’t own anything that would fit you.”
“I don’t suppose you would,” he chuckled.
His voice soothed her in a way she’d never felt before. She tore herself away, and dragged out her spare clothes. When she’d changed, she returned to find him with the blanket twisted and folded about himself in a strange style, covering one shoulder and making a skirt about his waist. She wondered how he’d accomplished that, but silently bent to help him build a rack near the fire for their garments.
His were the strangest things she had ever seen. There were closures that just stuck together and made a tearing sound when parted. There were others that miraculously clung together and parted silently. And his cloak clasp displayed a huge red gem set around with clear ones that gathered the firelight. It must have been worth three fortunes.
She held it in the palm of her hand and asked, “Would you favor me with your name, lord?”
He cocked his head to one side. “I haven’t been addressed that way in—” He seemed to catch himself. “The lands where my father ruled are far away, and the country he ruled no longer exists. My current name is Dorian St. James, and you may call me Dorian.”
The sadness throbbing through that speech almost made her want to cry, and in a fit of needing to comfort him, she replied, “If it is your wish to be called Dorian, lord, then I shall call you Dorian.” She handed him back the clasp.
He took it and pinned it to the blanket, a wistful smile playing about his lips. With an effort, she asked, “Are you hungry?”
Taken aback, he answered, “How did you know?”
“I have some jerky here, and there’s a little—”
“Ah! Your forgiveness. I shall not take your food. Such an act is not permitted to my kind. May I ask how long you expect it to be until the sun rises?”
“Oh, half the night is not yet gone.”
His relief shocked her, but he distracted her by asking, “And your name? Would you favor me with such knowledge?”
In a rush of pleasure to be asked instead of commanded, she told him, “Remora. I served in Mistdale.”
He bowed, putting his head down to the level of her waist. “Remora of Mistdale, I am at your service.”
Her face went hot, and the tips of her ears burned. “Oh, no, I am nobody....”
“To me, you are She Who Saved My Life. Could you perhaps tell me how far it is to civilization?”
She waved back toward the south. “That way, about ten or maybe fifteen days’ travel, there’s Eroffkeep.”
He paced to the edge of the camp, where she had stood to look down at the Waste. As if the moonlight were enough to show him what she’d seen, he asked, “And down there?”
“The Waste. I’m going to cross it. But I’ve no idea how big it really is.”
He turned. “Alone? You’re going to cross that, alone?”
“Certainly, I’m going to cross it alone!” She turned her back and stirred the fire.
His chill hands closed over her shoulders and he turned her to face him. Looking down into her face, he breathed, “I meant no offense. Where I come from, even my kind would quail before such a barrier.”
“I didn’t quail from rescuing a demon from a pool of the Old Ones, did I?”
One elegant brow arched upward in Dorian’s white face. “A demon? Is that what you thought? Then I owe you more than I ever knew.” He tilted her chin up with one finger, and she felt the strength in him, strength that could crush her. But he held her gently as his voice caressed her. “And I have no right whatsoever to ask what I must ask of you. If I were the lord you thought me, or even the demon, I would offer to see you safely across the Waste. But I cannot do that, Remora.”
His face lowered toward her, and his eyelids lowered in anticipated pleasure. She was sure he was going to kiss her on the neck, and she didn’t know how she wanted to respond except that the thrill that warmed her promp
ted total surrender. Idiocy!
Her virginity might be a necessity in the kind of training she sought. She’d heard of such things, and not knowing what would lie ahead, she had guarded herself. She stiffened in his hold, knowing resistance was futile.
But he hesitated, whispering, “May I?”
She imagined his breath was cold on her skin. “Dorian, no. Please, no.” But she did want it.
As he withdrew, she thought she saw something white and shiny concealed by the corners of his mouth. Huge teeth? But when his face was in moonlight again, she wasn’t sure. He bowed. “Forgive my presumption.”
Flustered again by the unaccustomed courtesy, she needed to escape. “I’m going to set some traps. At least we may have something to break fast on.”
“Remora, I won’t be joining you for breakfast.” He delivered the news in the tone of a confession.
She inspected him anew. “You must have your own destination in mind. I do not hold you to any debt to me.”
“I must somehow cope with the sun’s rising. It’s effect on me will be far more devastating than that of the water.”
Cold needles of dread flashed across her skin. Demon! Creature of the Dark.
Her thought must have shown on her face, for he began to gather up his wet clothes. “Since it is clear that my presence distresses you, I will leave you now.”
Guilt shot through her. If he was in fact a demon, she could not let him run loose. It came to her all at once that her very presence had activated a Gate, such a portal as one only heard tales of. If he was just a man, she could not in conscience turn him out to wander and die alone. He had no food. He wore indoor shoes, and knew nothing about the countryside. Worse yet, be might not be here had she not gone into the Old Ones’ place of Power.
“Please!” she called after his retreating back. “Don’t go!” She ran after him.
He turned. “I will leave your blanket.” His hand went to his waist.
She covered his hand with hers. “No. Wait until your clothes dry, at least.” He’s just a man nearly frozen.
He paused, a preternatural stillness overcoming him. Very quietly, as if it took great courage, he asked, “Do you mean that you may find a way to send me back?”
Through the Moon Gate and Other Tales of Vampirism Page 10
