by Rice, Anne
Once years ago Thorne had drunk that poet’s mead, given him by the priests of the sacred grove, and he had stood in the middle of his father’s house singing the poems about her, the red-haired one, the blood drinker, whom he had seen with his own eyes.
And those around him had laughed and mocked him. But when she began to slay the members of the clan they mocked him no more. Once they had seen the pale bodies with their eyes plucked out, they had made him their hero.
He shook himself all over. The snow fell from his hair and from his shoulders. With a careless hand he wiped the bits of ice from his eyebrows. He saw the ice melt on his fingers. He rubbed hard at the frost on his face.
Was there no fire in this room? He looked about. The heat came magically through small windows. But how good it was, how consuming. He wanted to strip off his clothes suddenly and bathe in this heat.
I have a fire in my house. I’ll take you there.
As if from a trance, he woke to look at the blood drinker stranger. He cursed himself that he had been sitting here clumsy and mute.
The blood drinker spoke aloud: “It’s only to be expected. Do you understand the tongue I speak?”
“It’s the tongue of the Mind Gift,” said Thorne. “Men all over the world speak it.” He stared at the blood drinker again. “My name is Thorne,” he said. “Thor was my god.” Hastily he reached inside his worn leather coat and pulled out from the fur the amulet of gold which he wore on a chain. “Time can’t rust such a thing,” he said. “It’s Thor’s hammer.”
The blood drinker nodded.
“And your gods?” Thorne asked. “Who were they? I don’t speak of belief, you understand, I speak of what we lost, you and I. Do you catch my meaning?”
“The gods of old Rome, those are the gods I lost,” said the stranger. “My name is Marius.”
Thorne nodded. It was too marvelous to speak aloud and to hear the voice of another. For the moment, he forgot the blood he craved and wanted only a flood of words.
“Speak to me, Marius,” he said. “Tell me wondrous things. Tell me all that you would have me know.” He tried to stop himself but he couldn’t do it.
“Once I stood speaking to the wind, telling the wind all things that were in my mind and in my heart. Yet when I went North into the ice, I had no language.” He broke off, staring into Marius’s eyes. “My soul is too hurt. I have no true thoughts.”
“I understand you,” said Marius. “Come with me to my house. You’re welcome to the bath, and to the clothes you need. Then we’ll hunt and you’ll be restored, and then comes talk. I can tell you stories without end. I can tell you all the stories of my life that I want to share with another.”
A long sigh escaped Thorne’s lips. He couldn’t prevent himself from smiling in gratitude, his eyes moist and his hands trembling. He searched the stranger’s face. He could find no evidence of dishonesty or cunning. The stranger seemed wise, and simple.
“My friend,” Thorne said and then he bent forward and offered the kiss of greeting. Biting deep into his tongue, he filled his mouth with blood, and opened his lips over those of Marius.
The kiss did not take Marius by surprise. It was his own custom. He received the blood and obviously savored it.
“Now we can’t quarrel over any small thing,” said Thorne. He settled back against the wall greatly confused suddenly. He wasn’t alone. He feared that he might give way to tears. He feared that he hadn’t the strength to go back out into the dreadful cold and accompany this one to his house, yet it was what he needed to do so terribly.
“Come,” said Marius, “I’ll help you.”
They rose from the table together.
This time the agony of passing through the crowd of mortals was even greater. So many bright glistening eyes fastened on him, though it was only for a moment.
Then they were in the narrow street again, in the gentle swirling snow, and Marius had his arm tight around him.
Thorne was gasping for breath, because his heart had been so quickened. He found himself biting at the snow as it came in gusts into his face. He had to stop for a moment and gesture for his new friend to have patience.
“So many things I saw with the Mind Gift,” he said. “I didn’t understand them.”
“I can explain, perhaps,” said Marius. “I can explain all I know and you can do with it what you will. Knowledge has not been my salvation of late. I am lonesome.”
“I’ll stay with you,” Thorne said. This sweet camaraderie was breaking his heart.
A long time they walked, Thorne becoming stronger again, forgetting the warmth of the tavern as if it had been a delusion.
At last they came to a handsome house, with a high peaked roof, and many windows. Marius put his key into the door, and they left the blowing snow behind, stepping into a broad hallway.
A soft light came from the rooms beyond. The walls and ceiling were of finely oiled wood, the same as the floor, with all corners neatly fitted.
“A genius of the modern world made this house for me,” Marius explained. “I’ve lived in many houses, in many styles. This is but one way. Come inside with me.”
The great room of the house had a rectangular stone fireplace built into its wooden wall. And there the fire was stacked waiting to be lighted. Through glass walls of remarkable size, Thorne saw the lights of the city. He realized that they were on the edge of the hill, and that a valley lay below them.
“Come,” said Marius, “I must introduce you to the other who lives here with me.”
This startled Thorne, because he had not detected the presence of anyone else, but he followed Marius through a doorway out of the great room into another chamber on the left, and there he saw a strange sight which mystified him.
Many tables filled the room, or perhaps it was one great broad table. But it was covered all over with a small landscape of hills and valleys, towns and cities. It was covered with little trees, and even little shrubbery, and here and there was snow, as if one town lay under winter and another lay under spring or summer.
Countless houses crowded the landscape, many with twinkling lights, and there were sparkling lakes made of some hard substance to imitate the gleam of water. There were tunnels through the mountains. And on curving iron tracks through this little wilderness there ran little railroad trains, seemingly made out of iron, like those of the great modern world.
Over this tiny world, there presided a blood drinker who didn’t bother to look up at Thorne as he entered. The blood drinker had been a young male when he was made. He was tall, but very slight of build, with very delicate fingers. His hair was the faded blond more common among Englishmen than Norsemen.
He sat near the table, where before him was a cleared space devoted to his paintbrushes, and to several bottles of paint, while with his hands he painted the bark of a small tree, as if in readiness to put it into the world that stretched out all over the room, surrounding and almost enclosing him.
A rush of pleasure passed through Thorne as he looked over this little world. It struck him suddenly that he could have spent an hour inspecting all of the tiny buildings. It was not the harsh great world outside, but something precious and protected, and even slightly enchanting.
There was more than one small black train which ran along upon the wandering tracks, and a small droning noise came from these trains as if from bees in a hive. The trains had lights inside their tiny windows.
All the myriad details of this small wonderland seemed to be correct.
“I feel I’m the frost giant in this room,” Thorne whispered reverently.
It was an offering of friendship to the youngish male who continued to apply the brown paint to the bark of the tiny tree which he held so delicately between his left fingers. But the youngish male blood drinker did not respond.
“These tiny cities and towns are full of pretty magic,” Thorne said, his voice a little more timid.
The youngish male seemed to have no ears.
; “Daniel?” said Marius gently to his friend, “do you want to greet Thorne who is our guest tonight?”
“Welcome, Thorne,” said Daniel without looking up. And then as if neither Thorne nor Marius were there, Daniel stopped the painting of his tree, and dipping another brush into another bottle, he made a dampened spot for the tree in the great world before him. He set the tree down hard upon that spot and the tree stood firm as though rooted.
“This house is full of many rooms like this,” said Marius in an even voice, his eyes looking at Thorne gently. “Look below. One can purchase thousands of little trees, and thousands of little houses.” He pointed to stacks upon stacks of small containers on the floor beneath the table. “Daniel is very good at putting together the houses. See how intricate they are? This is all that Daniel does now.”
Thorne sensed a judgment in Marius’s voice but it was soft, and the youngish blood drinker paid no attention. He had taken up another small tree, and was examining the thick green portion which made up its leafy upper limbs. To this he soon applied his little paintbrush.
“Have you ever seen one of our kind under such a spell?” Marius asked.
Thorne shook his head, No, he had not. But he understood how such a thing could happen.
“It occurs sometimes,” said Marius. “The blood drinker becomes enthralled. I remember centuries ago I heard the story of a blood drinker in a Southern land whose sole passion was for finding beautiful shells along the shore, and this she did all night long until near morning. She did hunt and she did drink, but it was only to return to the shells, and once she looked at each, she threw it aside and went on searching. No one could distract her from it.
“Daniel is enthralled in the same way. He makes these small cities. He doesn’t want to do anything else. It’s as if the small cities have caught him. You might say I look after him.”
Thorne was speechless, out of respect. He couldn’t tell whether Marius’s words affected the blood drinker who continued to work upon his world. Thorne felt a moment of confusion.
Then a low genial laugh came from the youngish blood drinker.
“Daniel will be this way for a while,” said Marius, “and then his old faculties will come back to him.”
“The ideas you have, Marius,” Daniel said with another little easy laugh. It was hardly more than a murmur. Daniel dipped the brush again into the paste that would make his little tree stick to the green grass, and he pressed the tree down with appropriate force. Then out of a box beside him, he drew another.
All the while the small railroad trains moved on, winding their way noisily through hill and valley, past snow-covered church and house. Why, this tiny world even contained small detailed people!
“Might I kneel to look at this?” asked Thorne respectfully.
“Yes, please do,” said Marius. “It would give him pleasure.”
Thorne went down on both knees and drew himself up to the small village with its cluster of little buildings. He saw delicate signs on them but he didn’t know the meaning of them.
He was struck dumb by the wonder of it—that rising and confronting the great world, he was to come here and stumble upon this little universe.
A finely made little train, its engine roaring, its cars loosely connected, came rattling past him on the track. He thought he glimpsed small figures inside it.
For a second, he forgot all else. He imagined this handmade world to be real, and understood the spell, though it frightened him.
“Beautiful,” he said in thanks. He stood up.
The young blood drinker neither moved nor spoke in acknowledgment.
“Have you hunted, Daniel?” asked Marius.
“Not tonight, Marius,” said the youngish one without looking up, but then suddenly his eyes flashed on Thorne, and Thorne was surprised by their violet color.
“Norseman,” Daniel said with a little note of pleasant surprise. “Red hair like the hair of the twins.” He laughed, a light laugh as if he were a little mad. “Made by Maharet. Strong one.”
The words caught Thorne completely off guard. He reeled, scarcely able to keep his balance.
He wanted to strike the careless young one. He almost lifted his fist. But Marius held his arm firmly.
Images crowded into Thorne’s mind. The twins—his beloved Maker and her lost sister. He saw them vividly. The Queen of the Damned. Once more he saw the helpless blood drinker Lestat with the chains around him. Chains of metal could never have held him. From what had his red-haired Maker created those chains?
He tried to banish these thoughts, and anchor himself within the moment.
Marius held tight to his arm, and went on speaking to the blood drinker Daniel:
“Let me guide you, if you want to hunt.”
“I have no need,” said Daniel. He had gone back to his work. He drew a large bundle from beneath the table, and he held it up for Marius to see. On the cover was painted, or printed, Thorne could not tell, the picture of a house with three stories and many windows. “I want to assemble this house,” Daniel said. “It’s more difficult than anything you see here, but with my vampiric blood it will be simple.”
“We’ll leave you now,” said Marius, “but don’t try to leave here without me.”
“I would never do that,” said Daniel. He was already tearing at the sheer wrapping of the bundle. Bits and pieces of wood were inside. “I’ll hunt with you tomorrow night and you can treat me as though I am a child as you love to do.”
Marius kept his friendly grip on Thorne’s arm. He led him out of the room and closed the door.
“When he wanders by himself,” said Marius, “he gets into trouble. He gets lost, or thirsty beyond the point where he can hunt on his own. I have to search for him. He was that way as a man before he was ever made a blood drinker. The blood didn’t change him except for a little while. And now he’s enslaved to these tiny worlds he creates. All he requires is space for them, and the packages of buildings and trees and such which he purchases through the computer.”
“Ah, you have those strange engines of the mind,” said Thorne.
“Yes, under this roof there are very fine computers. I have all I need,” said Marius. “But you’re tired. Your clothes are old. You need refreshment. We’ll talk of all this later.”
He led Thorne up a short echoing wooden staircase and into a large bedchamber. All the wood of the walls and the doors was painted here in colors of green and yellow, and the bed itself was fitted into a great carved cabinet with only one side open. It struck him as a safe and curious place without a surface untouched by human hands. Even the wooden floor was polished.
Through a broad door they entered an immense bath which was paneled in roughened wood with a floor of stone, and many candles for its illumination. The color of the wood was beautiful in the subtle light and Thorne felt himself becoming dizzy.
But it was the bath itself which amazed him. There before another glass wall stood a huge wooden tub of steaming hot water. Made like a great cask, the tub was easily big enough for several to bathe together. On a small stool beside the tub there stood a stack of what appeared to be towels. On other stools there stood bowls of dried flowers and herbs which Thorne could smell with his acute blood drinker senses. There were also bottles of oil and jars of what might have been ointments.
That Thorne might wash himself in this seemed to him a miracle.
“Take off the soiled clothes,” said Marius. “Let me discard them. What else do you have that you would save other than your necklace?”
“Nothing,” said Thorne. “How can I ever repay you for this?”
“But you already have,” said Marius. He himself removed his leather coat, and then pulled off his wool tunic. His naked chest was without hair. He was pale as all old blood drinkers are pale. And his body was strong and naturally beautiful. He’d been taken in the prime of his life, that was plain. But his true age, either in mortal life long ago, or in blood drinker time now? Thorne could no
t guess it.
Marius took off his leather boots and his long wool pants, and not waiting for Thorne—only making a gesture that Thorne should follow—he stepped into the huge tub of hot water.
Thorne ripped at his fur-lined jacket. He tore it in his haste. His fingers trembled as he stripped away the pants that were almost ragged. In a moment he was as naked as the other, and in awkward haste he gathered the ruin of his clothes in a small bundle. He looked about.
“Don’t worry about such things,” said Marius. The steam was rising all around him. “Come into the tub with me. Be warm for now.”
Thorne followed, first stepping into the tub and then sinking down in the hot water on his knees. He finally seated himself so that the water came to his neck. The shock of the heat was overwhelming and utterly blessed. He uttered a little prayer of thanks, something old and small which he had learnt as a child to say when something purely good happens.
Marius put his hand into the bowl of dried flowers and herbs, and gathering up quite a bit of this mixture he let it loose into the hot water.
It was a deep good perfume of the outdoors in summer.
Thorne closed his eyes. That he had risen, that he had come this far, that he had found this pure and luxurious bath seemed almost impossible to him. He would wake soon, a victim of the Mind Gift, back in his hopeless cave, prisoner of his own exile, only dreaming of others.
Slowly he bowed his head and lifted a double handful of the cleansing hot water to his face. He lifted more and more of the water, and then finally as if it required courage, he dipped his head into the tub completely.
When he rose again he was warm as if he’d never been cold, and the sight of the lights beyond the glass amazed him. Even through the steam, he could see the snow falling beyond, and he was deliciously conscious that he was so near and yet so far from it.
Suddenly he wished that he had not risen for such a dark purpose.
Why could he not serve only what was good? Why could he not live for what was pleasurable? But that had never been his way.
