Prince Lestat
Page 102
I came to a large, cavernous, and brightly lighted bath.
Glittering mosaics covered the uneven ceiling and walls, tiny bits of gold and silver and crimson marble, malachite and lapis lazuli and shining obsidian and flakes of glinting glass. Candles burned on their bronze stands.
Two gentle dancing waterfalls fed the large rock-cut basin in which they bathed.
They were all standing in the water—the women—together under the soft sparkling downpour, some naked, some clothed in sheer gowns that had turned transparent with the water, faces glistening, hair slicked into long serpentine streaks of darkness over their shoulders. And in the far-left corner were the singers—three white-robed blood drinkers obviously made in boyhood, singing in high sweet soprano voices, castrati made by the Blood.
I found myself transfixed by the vision of this. The women beckoned me to come into the bath.
The musicians sang on as if blind to all those present, though they were not, each strumming the strings of a small ancient Greek-style lyre.
The room was warm and moist and the light itself was golden from the candles.
I moved forward, stripping off my clothes and joining them in the fresh sweet-smelling pool. They poured the water over me from pink-throated seashells. And I splashed it again and again against my face.
Allesandra, naked, danced with her arms up, singing with the boy sopranos, though in words of Old French, some poetry of her own, and Sevraine, her body frighteningly pale and hard, the water glancing off it as if it were marble, kissed me on the lips.
The sharp yet exquisitely controlled singing pierced me, paralyzed me, as I stood in the cool flowing water. I closed my eyes, and thought, Always remember this. Always remember though agony and fear crouch at the door. This. The throb of the lyre strings, and these voices weaving like vines together, climbing to heights undreamt of by the logical fearful mind and descending slowly to blend in harmony again.
Through the flashing waterfall I looked at them, these boys, with their round faces and their short curling blond hair; very slightly they swayed with the music and it was the music that they saw, not us, not this place, not this now.
What does it mean to be a singer in the Blood, a musician, to have that purpose, that love affair to carry you through the ages—and to be as happy as all of these creatures seemed to be?
Later on, dressed in fresh garments provided by the mistress of the palace, I passed a long shadowy chamber in which Gremt sat with Raymond Gallant. There was a blood drinker with them, as ancient perhaps as was Sevraine. And other ghosts there as beautifully realized in material bodies as were Gremt and Raymond Gallant.
I was immediately fascinated, but I was also very tired. Almost deliciously tired.
One of these ghosts rose to greet me and beckoned for me to wait as I stood in the door.
I backed up into the passage as this phantom moved out of the room and towards me, not out of fear so much as overwhelming reluctance. I knew where I stood with any human on the planet; I knew what I faced with any blood drinker. But I did not begin to know what I faced with a self-possessed ghost in a solid body.
He stood before me, smiling, the light from the shadowy conference room illuminating his rather remarkable face. Smooth forehead, Grecian features, and long ashen-blond hair.
He was dressed in a long simple black silk soutane. And it was a real garment, made of raw silk. This skin was not real, no, and the organs within were simulated well but not real, and who knew what soul lay behind these cheerful, friendly eyes?
Once again, I felt keenly that these spirits or ghosts clothed in bodies of their own making were exactly like us. They were incarnated souls as we were incarnated souls.
“I’ve waited a long time to beg your forgiveness for what I did to you,” he said in French. “I have hoped and prayed always that you were glad of it finally, glad to be living and breathing now, hard as it’s been for you on the Devil’s Road.”
I said nothing. I was trying to figure what this could possibly mean. That a ghost could speak so distinctly in a deep human voice amazed me. It truly seemed to be coming from his vocal cords. The illusion was perfect.
He stood eye to eye with me. He smiled. He reached for my hands and took them in his. “If only there were time for a long meeting,” he said, “a time for me to answer your inevitable questions, time for me to let your anger rise.”
Soft dusty fingers. They gave off warmth like human fingers.
“What anger?” I asked.
“I’m Magnus, the one who made you and abandoned you. And I will always bear the guilt for that.”
I heard but I didn’t believe. I didn’t believe in the possibility of it. My human soul refused. And yet I knew this creature wasn’t lying to me. This wasn’t the season for lies. This was the season for revelations. And this creature or being or entity or whatever it was, this thing was telling me the truth.
I don’t know how many minutes passed as we stood there.
“Don’t judge me by what you see here,” he said. “For a ghost can perfect a body himself which nature never gave him, and that’s what I’ve done. The ghosts of this world have learned much over the centuries, especially the last few hundred years. My body resembles yours now, fine and strong and well proportioned, the body for which you died, and I have given myself your eyes, your shining blue eyes. But I do beg your forgiveness, for bringing you into this realm we now share.”
A cool draft moved through the passage.
I felt a tingling on the surface of my skin. I was trembling. I heard my heart in my ears.
“Well, as you said, if only there were time,” I responded. “But there isn’t time now, is there? It’s almost dawn.” I struggled to form each word. “I can’t stay with you now.” I was so grateful for this, so grateful that I had to leave him, and move sluggishly, almost drunkenly, away. Shock and shock and greater shock.
I glanced back at him. How sad he looked standing there, how forlorn and burdened with grief and sorrow.
“You burn bright, Prince Lestat,” he said. And tears rose to his eyes.
I hurried away. I had to. I had to find some graceful and secret place to lie down in solitude. There was no traveling for me tonight. It was too late. There was only the hope of sleep now. And up ahead, Sevraine was waiting for me and gesturing for me to hurry.
Give me this little rock-cut tomb of sorts, this shelf on which to lie. Give me these satin pillows, so cool, and these soft woolen covers. Give me this and let me weep alone here. And let me forget all but darkness as you shut the door.
Glittering mosaics covered the uneven ceiling and walls, tiny bits of gold and silver and crimson marble, malachite and lapis lazuli and shining obsidian and flakes of glinting glass. Candles burned on their bronze stands.
Two gentle dancing waterfalls fed the large rock-cut basin in which they bathed.
They were all standing in the water—the women—together under the soft sparkling downpour, some naked, some clothed in sheer gowns that had turned transparent with the water, faces glistening, hair slicked into long serpentine streaks of darkness over their shoulders. And in the far-left corner were the singers—three white-robed blood drinkers obviously made in boyhood, singing in high sweet soprano voices, castrati made by the Blood.
I found myself transfixed by the vision of this. The women beckoned me to come into the bath.
The musicians sang on as if blind to all those present, though they were not, each strumming the strings of a small ancient Greek-style lyre.
The room was warm and moist and the light itself was golden from the candles.
I moved forward, stripping off my clothes and joining them in the fresh sweet-smelling pool. They poured the water over me from pink-throated seashells. And I splashed it again and again against my face.
Allesandra, naked, danced with her arms up, singing with the boy sopranos, though in words of Old French, some poetry of her own, and Sevraine, her body frighteningly pale and hard, the water glancing off it as if it were marble, kissed me on the lips.
The sharp yet exquisitely controlled singing pierced me, paralyzed me, as I stood in the cool flowing water. I closed my eyes, and thought, Always remember this. Always remember though agony and fear crouch at the door. This. The throb of the lyre strings, and these voices weaving like vines together, climbing to heights undreamt of by the logical fearful mind and descending slowly to blend in harmony again.
Through the flashing waterfall I looked at them, these boys, with their round faces and their short curling blond hair; very slightly they swayed with the music and it was the music that they saw, not us, not this place, not this now.
What does it mean to be a singer in the Blood, a musician, to have that purpose, that love affair to carry you through the ages—and to be as happy as all of these creatures seemed to be?
Later on, dressed in fresh garments provided by the mistress of the palace, I passed a long shadowy chamber in which Gremt sat with Raymond Gallant. There was a blood drinker with them, as ancient perhaps as was Sevraine. And other ghosts there as beautifully realized in material bodies as were Gremt and Raymond Gallant.
I was immediately fascinated, but I was also very tired. Almost deliciously tired.
One of these ghosts rose to greet me and beckoned for me to wait as I stood in the door.
I backed up into the passage as this phantom moved out of the room and towards me, not out of fear so much as overwhelming reluctance. I knew where I stood with any human on the planet; I knew what I faced with any blood drinker. But I did not begin to know what I faced with a self-possessed ghost in a solid body.
He stood before me, smiling, the light from the shadowy conference room illuminating his rather remarkable face. Smooth forehead, Grecian features, and long ashen-blond hair.
He was dressed in a long simple black silk soutane. And it was a real garment, made of raw silk. This skin was not real, no, and the organs within were simulated well but not real, and who knew what soul lay behind these cheerful, friendly eyes?
Once again, I felt keenly that these spirits or ghosts clothed in bodies of their own making were exactly like us. They were incarnated souls as we were incarnated souls.
“I’ve waited a long time to beg your forgiveness for what I did to you,” he said in French. “I have hoped and prayed always that you were glad of it finally, glad to be living and breathing now, hard as it’s been for you on the Devil’s Road.”
I said nothing. I was trying to figure what this could possibly mean. That a ghost could speak so distinctly in a deep human voice amazed me. It truly seemed to be coming from his vocal cords. The illusion was perfect.
He stood eye to eye with me. He smiled. He reached for my hands and took them in his. “If only there were time for a long meeting,” he said, “a time for me to answer your inevitable questions, time for me to let your anger rise.”
Soft dusty fingers. They gave off warmth like human fingers.
“What anger?” I asked.
“I’m Magnus, the one who made you and abandoned you. And I will always bear the guilt for that.”
I heard but I didn’t believe. I didn’t believe in the possibility of it. My human soul refused. And yet I knew this creature wasn’t lying to me. This wasn’t the season for lies. This was the season for revelations. And this creature or being or entity or whatever it was, this thing was telling me the truth.
I don’t know how many minutes passed as we stood there.
“Don’t judge me by what you see here,” he said. “For a ghost can perfect a body himself which nature never gave him, and that’s what I’ve done. The ghosts of this world have learned much over the centuries, especially the last few hundred years. My body resembles yours now, fine and strong and well proportioned, the body for which you died, and I have given myself your eyes, your shining blue eyes. But I do beg your forgiveness, for bringing you into this realm we now share.”
A cool draft moved through the passage.
I felt a tingling on the surface of my skin. I was trembling. I heard my heart in my ears.
“Well, as you said, if only there were time,” I responded. “But there isn’t time now, is there? It’s almost dawn.” I struggled to form each word. “I can’t stay with you now.” I was so grateful for this, so grateful that I had to leave him, and move sluggishly, almost drunkenly, away. Shock and shock and greater shock.
I glanced back at him. How sad he looked standing there, how forlorn and burdened with grief and sorrow.
“You burn bright, Prince Lestat,” he said. And tears rose to his eyes.
I hurried away. I had to. I had to find some graceful and secret place to lie down in solitude. There was no traveling for me tonight. It was too late. There was only the hope of sleep now. And up ahead, Sevraine was waiting for me and gesturing for me to hurry.
Give me this little rock-cut tomb of sorts, this shelf on which to lie. Give me these satin pillows, so cool, and these soft woolen covers. Give me this and let me weep alone here. And let me forget all but darkness as you shut the door.
