by Anne Rice
Never in all my time with Amadeo had I told such stories. Never with Pandora had it been so simple. But with this creature it seemed only natural to talk and to find consolation in it.
And I remembered that when first I had set eyes upon Bianca I had dreamt of this very thing, that she would be with me in the Blood and that we should speak together so easily.
"But let me tell you prettier stories," I said, and I talked of when I had lived in old Rome, and I had painted on the walls, and my guests had laughed and drunk their wine, and rolled about on the grass of my garden.
I made her laugh and then it seemed my pain was gone for a moment, gone in the sound of her voice.
"There was one I loved very much," I said.
"Tell me of him," she said.
"No, it was a woman," I replied. I amazed myself to speak of such a thing. Yet I went on speaking. "I knew her when we were mortals together. I was a young man and she was a child. In those times, as now, marriages were made when women were but children but her father refused me. I never forgot her.
"And then later, after the Blood was in me, we came together she and I.. . ."
"Go on, you must tell me. Where did you come together?"
"And the Blood went into her," I said, "and the two of us were together. We were together for two hundred years."
"Oh, such a long time," she said.
"Yes, it was a long time, though it did not seem so then. Every night was new and I loved her and she loved me, of course, and we quarreled so often...."
"But was it a good quarreling?" she asked.
"Yes, it was, how very right of you to ask that question," I said. "It was a good quarreling until the last."
"What was the last?" she asked gently.
"I did a cruel and mistaken thing to her. I did a wrong thing. I left her without warning and without recourse, and now I can't find her."
"You mean you search for her even now?"
"I don't search because I don't know where to search," I said, lying just a little, "but I look always...."
"Why did you do it?" she asked. "Why did you leave her as you described?"
"Out of love and anger," I said. "And it was the first time that the Satan worshipers had come, you see. Those of the very same ilk that burnt my house and took Amadeo. Only it was centuries ago, can you understand? They came. Oh, not with my enemy, Santino. Santino didn't exist then. Santino is no ancient one. But it was the same tribe, the same ones who believe they are put here on Earth as blood drinkers to serve the Christian God."
I could feel her shock, though for a moment she said nothing, and then she spoke.
"So this was why they cried out about blasphemy," she said.
"Yes, and long long ago, they said similar things as they came to us. They threatened us, and they wanted, they wanted what we knew."
"But how did this divide you and the woman?"
"We destroyed them. We had to. And she knew that we had to do it, and afterwards, when I fell sullen and listless and would say nothing, she was angry with me, and I grew angry with her."
"I see," she answered.
"It didn't have to be, this quarrel. I left her. I left her because she was resolute and strong and had known that the Satan worshipers had to be destroyed. And I had not known and even now, all these many centuries later, I have fallen into the same error.
"In Rome, I knew they existed, these creatures; in Rome, this Santino came to me. In Rome, I should have destroyed him and his followers. But I would have no part of it, you see, and so he came after me, and burnt my house and all I loved."
She was shocked and for a long time said nothing.
"You love her still, this woman," she said.
"Yes, but you see, I never stop loving anyone. I will never stop loving you."
"Are you certain of it?"
"Completely," I answered. "I loved you when first I saw you. Haven't I told you?"
"In all these years, you've never stopped thinking of her?"
"No, never stopped loving her. Impossible to stop thinking of her or loving her. Even the details of her remain with me. Loneliness and solitude have imprinted her most strongly on my mind. I see her. I hear her voice. She had a lovely clear voice." I mused. I went on.
"She was tall; she had brown eyes, with thick brown eyelashes. Her hair was long and rippling and dark brown. She wore it loose when she wandered. Of course I remember her in the softly draped clothes of those ancient times, and I cannot envision her as she might be in these years. And so she seems some goddess to me or saint, I'm not certain which. . . ."
She said nothing. Then finally she spoke.
"Would you leave me for her if you could?"
"No, if I found her, we would all of us be together."
"Oh, that's too lovely," she said.
"I know it can be that way, I know it can and it will be, all of us together, you and she and I. She lives, she thrives, she wanders, and there will come a time when you and I will be with her."
"How do you know that she lives? What if... but I don't want my words to hurt you."
"I have hope that she lives," I said.
"Mael, the fair one, he told you."
"No. Mael knows nothing of her. Nothing. I don't believe I ever spoke one sacred word of her to Mael. I have no love for Mael. I have not called out to him in these terrible nights of suffering to aid us. I would not have him see me as I am now."
"Don't be angry," she said soothingly. "Don't feel the pain of it. I understand. You were speaking softly of the woman...."
"Yes," I said. "Perhaps I know that she lives because I know that she would never destroy herself without first finding me and making certain that she had taken her leave of me, and not having found me, and having no proof that I am lost, she can't do it. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, I do," she said. She crept closer to me, but she understood when with my gloved hand I touched her gently and moved her away.
"What was the woman's name?" she asked.
"Pandora," I said.
"I shall never be jealous of her," she said softly.
"No, you must never but how can you say such a thing so quickly? How do you know? "
She answered calmly, sweetly.
"You speak too reverently of her for me to be jealous," she said, "and I know that you can love both of us, because you loved Amadeo and me. I saw this with my own eyes."
"Oh, yes, you are so right," I said. I was almost weeping. I thought in my secret heart of Botticelli, the man himself standing in his studio staring at me, wondering helplessly what sort of strange patron I was, and never dreaming that my hunger and adoration were commingled, never dreaming of a danger which had come so close.
"It's almost dawn," she said. "I feel cold now. And nothing matters. Do you feel the same way?"
"Soon we will leave here," I said in answer, "and we will have golden lamps around us. And a hundred fine candles. Yes, one hundred white candles. And we'll be warm where there is snow." "Ah, my love," she said softly. "I believe in you with my soul."
The next night we hunted once more and this time as if it were to be our last in Venice. There seemed no end to the blood I could imbibe.
And without confiding it to Bianca, I was eternally listening for Santino's brigands, quite certain that at any moment they might return.
Long after I had brought her back for safekeeping in the golden room, and seen her nestled there amid her bundles of clothes and soft burning candles, I went out to hunt again, moving swiftly over the rooftops, and catching the worst and strongest of the killers of the city.
I wondered that my hunger did not bring some reign of peace to Venice, so savage was I in cleaning out those bent upon evil. And when I was done with blood I went to the secret places in my burnt-out palazzo and gathered the gold which others hadn't been able to find.
Finally, I went to the very highest roof that I could discover and I looked out over Venice, and I said my farewell to it. My heart was bro
ken and I did not know what would restore it.
My Perfect Time had ended for me in agony. It had ended for Amadeo in disaster. And perhaps it had ended for my fair Bianca as well.
At last I knew from my gaunt and blackened limbs—so little healed by so many kills—that I must press on to Those Who Must Be Kept, and I must share the secret with Bianca, for young as she was, I had no real choice.
It faintly excited me in my crushing misery that I could share the secret at last. Oh, what a terrible thing it was to put such a weight upon such tender shoulders, but I was weary of the pain and the loneliness. I had been conquered. And I only wanted to reach the shrine with Bianca in my arms.
27
AT LAST it was time for the journey. It was far too dangerous for us to remain in Venice, and I knew that I could carry us to the shrine.
Taking one bundle of clothing with us, and as much of my gold as I could carry, I wrapped Bianca tightly against me and in less than half of one night, crossed the mountains, in bitter winds and snow.
By now Bianca was accustomed to certain wonders, and to be set down in a snow-filled mountain pass did not alarm her.
But within moments we were both painfully aware that I had made a desperate error in judgment.
I was not strong enough in my present state to open the door of the shrine.
It was I, of course, who had created this ironbound stone door to block any human assault, and after several pathetic attempts to open it, I had to confess that it was not within my power, and we must find some other shelter before dawn.
Bianca began to weep, and I became angry with her. I made another assault upon the door just to spite her, and then stood back and bid the door open with all the power of my mind.
There was no result, and the wind and the snow beat down hard against us, and Bianca's weeping infuriated me to where I spoke words that weren't true.
"I made this door and I shall open it," I declared. "Only give me time to determine what I must do."
She turned away from me, visibly hurt by my anger, and then in a miserable yet humble voice she asked me,
"What is inside this place? I can hear a dreadful sound from beyond the door, all too like the sound of a heartbeat. Why have we come here? Where shall we go if we cannot find shelter here?"
All of these questions angered me, but when I looked at Bianca, when I saw her sitting on the rock where I had placed her, the snow falling on her head and shoulders, her head bowed, her tears glistening and red as always, I felt ashamed that I had so used her in my weakness and that I needed so to be angry with her now.
"Be still and I shall open it," I said to her. "You have no knowledge of what lies within. But you will in time."
I gave a great sigh and stood back from the door, my burnt hand still tightened on the iron handle and with all my strength I pulled, but I could not make the door budge.
The absolute folly of it gripped me. I could gain no admittance! I was too weak, and for how long I would be too weak I didn't know. And yet I made one attempt after another, only so that Bianca would believe that I could protect her, that I could gain entry to this strange place.
Finally I turned my back on the Holy of Holies, and I went to her, and gathered her to me, and covered her head and tried to warm her as best I could.
"Very soon, I shall tell you all," I said, "and I shall find us shelter this night. Don't doubt. For now, let me say only that this is a place which I built and which is known to me only and which I'm too weak now to enter as you can see."
"Forgive me that I cried," she said gently. "You won't see tears from me again. But what is the sound I hear? Can't humans hear it?"
"No, they cannot," I answered. "Please be still for now, my brave darling."
But at that moment, that very single moment, another new and altogether different sound caught my ear, a sound which could have been heard by anyone.
It was the sound of the stone door opening behind me. I knew the sound infallibly and I turned around, unbelieving and as fearful as I was amazed.
Quickly I gathered Bianca to me, and we stood before the door as it opened wide.
My heart was racing. I could hardly fill my lungs with air.
I knew that only Akasha could have done this, and as the door fell all the way back, I perceived another miracle of equal kindness and beauty of which I'd never dreamt.
A rich and abundant light poured forth from the door of the stone passage.
For a moment I was too stunned to move. Then pure happiness descended upon me as I gazed upon this flood of beautiful light. And it seemed I could not possibly fear it or doubt its meaning.
"Come now, Bianca," I said to her, as I guided her forward at my side.
She clutched her bundle to her chest as though she would die if she let go of it, and I held her as though without her to witness with me I would fall.
We stepped into the stone passage and made our way slowly into the bright and flickering light of the chapel. All its many bronze lamps were aglow. Its one hundred candles blazed exquisitely. And no sooner had I taken note of these things, amid a subdued glory that filled me with joy, than the stone door was closed behind us with a crushing sound as rock sounded against rock.
I found myself staring over the row of one hundred candles up into the faces of the Divine Mother and Father, seeing them as perhaps Bianca would see them, and certainly with refreshed and grateful eyes.
I knelt down, and Bianca knelt at my side. I was trembling. Indeed my shock was so great that I could not for a moment fill my lungs with air. There was no way that I could explain to Bianca the full import of what had taken place. I would only frighten her if I tried to do so. And careless words spoken before my Queen would be unforgivable.
"Don't speak," I finally said in a whisper. "They are our Parents. They have opened the door, when I could not. They have lighted the lamps for us. They have lighted the candles. You cannot imagine the worth of this blessing. They have welcomed us inside. We can answer them only with prayers."
Bianca nodded. Her face was full of piety and wonder. Did it matter to Akasha that I had brought to her feet an exquisite blood drinker?
In a low reverent voice I recounted the story of the Divine Parents but only in the simplest and grandest terms. I told Bianca how they had come to be the very first blood drinkers thousands of years ago in Egypt, and that now they no longer hungered for blood or even so much as spoke or moved. I was their keeper and their guardian and had been so for all of my life as a blood drinker and so it would always be.
I said these things so that nothing would alarm Bianca and she would feel no dread of the two still figures who stared forward in horrifying silence, and did not seem even to blink. And so it was that tender Bianca was initiated into these powerful mysteries with great care and thought them beautiful and nothing more.
"It was to this chapel," I explained, "that I would come when I left Venice, and I would light the lamps for the King and the Queen, and bring fresh flowers. You see, there are none now. But I will bring them when I can."
Once again, I realized that in spite of my enthusiasm and gratitude, I couldn't really make her know what a miracle it was that Akasha had opened the door for us, or lighted the lamps. Indeed, I didn't dare to do it, and now that I had finished this respectful recital, I closed my eyes, and in silence I thanked both Akasha and Enkil that they had admitted me to the sanctuary, and that they had greeted us with the gift of light.
Over and over I offered my prayers, perhaps unable myself to grasp the fact that they had so welcomed me, and not too certain of what it really meant. Was I loved? Was I needed? It seemed I must accept without presumption. It seemed I must be grateful without imagining things that weren't so.
I knelt in quietude for a long time and Bianca must surely have observed me for she too was quiet, and then I could bear the thirst no longer. I stared at Akasha. I desired the Blood. I could think of nothing but the Blood. All my injuries were as so many open w
ounds in me. And my wounds bled for the Blood. I had to attempt to take the all-powerful Blood from the Queen.
"My beauty," I said, placing my gloved hand on Bianca's tender arm. "I want you to go to the corner there and to sit quiet, and to say nothing of what you see."
"But what will happen?" she whispered. For the first time she sounded afraid. She looked about herself at the shivering flames of the lamps, at the glowing candles, at the painted walls.
"Do as I tell you," I said. I had to say it, and she had to do it, for how was I ever to know whether the Queen would let me drink?
As soon as Bianca was in the corner with her heavy cloak wrapped around her and as far away as possible, for whatever good it would do, I prayed in silence for the Blood.
"You see me and what I am," I said silently, "you know that I have been burnt. This is why you opened the door for me and admitted me, because I could not do it, and surely you see what a monster I have become. Have mercy on me and let me drink from you as you have done in the past. I need the Blood. I need it more than I have ever needed it. And so I come to you with respect."
I removed my leather mask and laid it aside. I was as hideous now as those old burnt gods whom Akasha had once crushed when they came to her. Would she refuse me in the same manner? Or had she known all along what had befallen me? Had she understood completely all things before the door was ever opened?
I rose slowly until I knelt at her feet and I could put my hand upon her throat, all the while tensed for the threat of Enkil's arm, but it did not come.
I kissed her throat, feeling her plaited hair against me and looking at her white skin before me, and hearing only Bianca's soft tears.
"Don't cry, Bianca," I whispered.
Then I sank my teeth suddenly, viciously, as I had so often done, and the thick blood flooded into me, brilliant and hot as the lamplight and the light of the candles, pouring into me as if her heart were pumping it willingly into me, racing the beat of my own heart. My head grew light. My body grew light.
Far away Bianca wept. Why was she afraid?
