[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
in the open gate of the garden, peering at my still form within the
empty house. A young fair-haired European in Arab robes, he was.
Rather handsome. And by the early light he saw me, his fellow
European lying on the tile floor in the abandoned house. I lay staring
at him as he came into the deserted garden, the illumination of the sky
heating my eyes, the tender skin around them starting to burn. Like a
ghost in a white sheet he was in his clean headdress and robe. I knew
that I had to run. I had to get far away immediately and hide myself
from the coming sun. No chance now to go into the crypt beneath the
floor. This mortal was in my lair. There was not time enough even to
kill him and get rid of him, poor unlucky mortal. Yet I didn't move.
And he came nearer, the whole sky flickering behind him, so that his
figure narrowed and became dark.
"Monsieur! " The solicitous whisper, like the woman years and years
ago in Notre Dame who had tried to help me before I made a victim of
her and her innocent child. "Monsieur, what is it? May I be of help? "
Sunburnt face beneath the folds of the white headdress, golden
eyebrows glinting, eyes gray like my own. I knew I was climbing to my
feet, but I didn't will myself to do it. I knew my lips were curling back
from my teeth. And then I heard a snarl rise out of me and saw the
shock on his face.
"Look! " I hissed, the fangs coming down over my lower lip. "Do
you see! " And rushing towards him, I grabbed his wrist and forced his
open hand flat against my face.
"Did you think I was human? " I cried. And then I picked him up,
holding him off his feet before me as he kicked and struggled uselessly.
"Did you think I was your brother? " I shouted. And his mouth
opened with a dry rasping noise, and then he screamed. I hurled him
up into the air and out over the garden, his body spinning round with
arms and legs out before it vanished over the shimmering roof. The
sky was blinding fire. I ran out of the garden gate and into the
alleyway. I ran under tiny archways and through strange streets. I
battered down gates and doorways, and hurled mortals out of my
path. I bore through the very walls in front of me, the dust of the
plaster rising to choke me, and shot out again into the packed mud
alley and the stinking air. And the light came after me like something
chasing me on foot. And when I found a burnt-out house with its
lattices in ruins, I broke into it and went down into the garden soil,
digging deeper and deeper and deeper until I could not move my arms
269
or my hands any longer. I was hanging in coolness and in darkness. I
was safe.
6
I was dying. Or so I thought. I couldn't count how many nights had
passed. I had to rise and go to Alexandria. I had to get across the sea.
But this meant moving, turning over in the earth, giving in to the
thirst. I wouldn't give in. The thirst came. The thirst went. It was the
rack and the fire, and my brain thirsted as my heart thirsted, and my
heart grew bigger and bigger, and louder and louder, and still I
wouldn't give in. Maybe mortals above could hear my heart. I saw
them now and then, spurts of flame against the darkness, heard their
voices, babble of foreign tongue. But more often I saw only the
darkness. Heard only the darkness. I was finally just the thirst lying in
the earth, with red sleep and red dreams, and the slow knowledge that
I was now too weak to push up through the soft sandy clods, too weak,
conceivably, to turn the wheel again. That's right. I couldn't rise if I
wanted to. I couldn't move at all. I breathed. I went on. But not the
way that mortals breathe. My heart sounded in my ears. Yet I didn't
die. I just wasted. Like those tortured beings in the walls under les
Innocents, deserted metaphors of the misery that is everywhere
unseen, unrecorded, unacknowledged, unused. My hands were claws,
and my flesh was shrunk to the bones, and my eyes bulged from the
sockets. Interesting that we can go on like this forever, that even when
we don't drink, don't surrender to the luscious and fatal pleasure, we
go on. Interesting that is, if each beat of the heart wasn't such agony.
And if I could stop thinking: Nicolas de Lenfent is gone. My brothers
are gone. Pale taste of wine, sound of applause. "But don't you think
it's good what we do when we are there, that we make people happy? "
"Good? What are you talking about? Good? "
"That it's good, that it does some good, that there is good in it! Dear [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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in the open gate of the garden, peering at my still form within the
empty house. A young fair-haired European in Arab robes, he was.
Rather handsome. And by the early light he saw me, his fellow
European lying on the tile floor in the abandoned house. I lay staring
at him as he came into the deserted garden, the illumination of the sky
heating my eyes, the tender skin around them starting to burn. Like a
ghost in a white sheet he was in his clean headdress and robe. I knew
that I had to run. I had to get far away immediately and hide myself
from the coming sun. No chance now to go into the crypt beneath the
floor. This mortal was in my lair. There was not time enough even to
kill him and get rid of him, poor unlucky mortal. Yet I didn't move.
And he came nearer, the whole sky flickering behind him, so that his
figure narrowed and became dark.
"Monsieur! " The solicitous whisper, like the woman years and years
ago in Notre Dame who had tried to help me before I made a victim of
her and her innocent child. "Monsieur, what is it? May I be of help? "
Sunburnt face beneath the folds of the white headdress, golden
eyebrows glinting, eyes gray like my own. I knew I was climbing to my
feet, but I didn't will myself to do it. I knew my lips were curling back
from my teeth. And then I heard a snarl rise out of me and saw the
shock on his face.
"Look! " I hissed, the fangs coming down over my lower lip. "Do
you see! " And rushing towards him, I grabbed his wrist and forced his
open hand flat against my face.
"Did you think I was human? " I cried. And then I picked him up,
holding him off his feet before me as he kicked and struggled uselessly.
"Did you think I was your brother? " I shouted. And his mouth
opened with a dry rasping noise, and then he screamed. I hurled him
up into the air and out over the garden, his body spinning round with
arms and legs out before it vanished over the shimmering roof. The
sky was blinding fire. I ran out of the garden gate and into the
alleyway. I ran under tiny archways and through strange streets. I
battered down gates and doorways, and hurled mortals out of my
path. I bore through the very walls in front of me, the dust of the
plaster rising to choke me, and shot out again into the packed mud
alley and the stinking air. And the light came after me like something
chasing me on foot. And when I found a burnt-out house with its
lattices in ruins, I broke into it and went down into the garden soil,
digging deeper and deeper and deeper until I could not move my arms
269
or my hands any longer. I was hanging in coolness and in darkness. I
was safe.
6
I was dying. Or so I thought. I couldn't count how many nights had
passed. I had to rise and go to Alexandria. I had to get across the sea.
But this meant moving, turning over in the earth, giving in to the
thirst. I wouldn't give in. The thirst came. The thirst went. It was the
rack and the fire, and my brain thirsted as my heart thirsted, and my
heart grew bigger and bigger, and louder and louder, and still I
wouldn't give in. Maybe mortals above could hear my heart. I saw
them now and then, spurts of flame against the darkness, heard their
voices, babble of foreign tongue. But more often I saw only the
darkness. Heard only the darkness. I was finally just the thirst lying in
the earth, with red sleep and red dreams, and the slow knowledge that
I was now too weak to push up through the soft sandy clods, too weak,
conceivably, to turn the wheel again. That's right. I couldn't rise if I
wanted to. I couldn't move at all. I breathed. I went on. But not the
way that mortals breathe. My heart sounded in my ears. Yet I didn't
die. I just wasted. Like those tortured beings in the walls under les
Innocents, deserted metaphors of the misery that is everywhere
unseen, unrecorded, unacknowledged, unused. My hands were claws,
and my flesh was shrunk to the bones, and my eyes bulged from the
sockets. Interesting that we can go on like this forever, that even when
we don't drink, don't surrender to the luscious and fatal pleasure, we
go on. Interesting that is, if each beat of the heart wasn't such agony.
And if I could stop thinking: Nicolas de Lenfent is gone. My brothers
are gone. Pale taste of wine, sound of applause. "But don't you think
it's good what we do when we are there, that we make people happy? "
"Good? What are you talking about? Good? "
"That it's good, that it does some good, that there is good in it! Dear [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]