The Book of the Beast (22 page)

She had serenaded him for less than three minutes when a sigh, more a convulsion, rushed in and out of him. His eyelids fluttered and one arm sought from the covers. (The nurse slept on.) Ruquel did not stop her music, but now her eyes were fixed only on him.

The wordless song flowed and twined among the reedy pangs of the harp.

Another three or four minutes elapsed.

Abruptly, with no further prologue, the eyes of the young man opened wide.

Ruquel ceased playing and singing.

She was intensely unnerved, as if fire had been thrust into her face.

She had known that his eyes would be dark as her own. But the eyes looked at her now. Focused on her with feral acuity. They were brilliantly, violently and unhumanly green. Emeralds set in optic sockets.

Mastering herself, Ruquel said, “Sieur, you’re with friends. Lie quietly. I shall fetch my father.”

But the young man said, “It hears the music. It knows your song.”

“Who?” said Ruquel, holding back her terror with a rein of steel.

Then he sagged into the pillows, and he only said, “My God, my God. Didn’t I die? It’s all to do over. If you’re kind, fetch your father, someone, to brain me with a mace. Then burn—then burn the body.”

Raoulin slept the slumber of opiates. In that deep sea, he lost himself, and coming back to shore learned a month of days had been sunk there too. He did not protest. In sleep he had been incapable of harming another, or of facilitating—
that
, which was now his constant companion, the unborn child of death and destruction caged in the male womb of his loins.

Somewhere in the sleep there had been dreams. He recalled none of them, and was glad of that.

Sometimes, also, he believed Haninuh the Jew had questioned him, and he had answered. And perhaps
it
, too, had done so. And he seemed to have heard the soft jangle of the
kinnor
, then, across dark reedy waters under a lion moon.

There came an evening, when Raoulin had returned from the places of drugged sleep, and he was shown his body, a little emaciated, but with the wound healed to a plaited line. If he should move suddenly, then the muscle quirked and pained him, that was all.

The strong man came and lifted him, and the woman washed him and he was fed. There were some days of that, and some nights of shallow dozing, for sleep had been too long with him and now proved elusive.

He was afraid they would let the beautiful daughter in to tend on him. He was afraid of what the demon would make him do. And of the aftermath.

But the daughter did not come near him now.

There began to be days of letting him out to walk in a small enclosed court with fruit trees in pots, and herbs and flowers and a little sunken well. One day, as he marched aimlessly about there, to toughen himself—because they had said he must—he beheld a striped cat, which arched its back and hissed at him, then jumped up a series of perches to a window above, where it vanished. This furred angel was
her
messenger, he thought, the room must be that of Ruquel. And he longed to see her there, for an instant, for she was safe enough at that distance from him, he was not vital enough as yet to go after her. She had been very beautiful, very gentle.

He must not try to reason where her room lay inside the house. In any case, there was the giant, thank God, to protect her. And the Jew… surely the Jew was a magician.

As he patrolled the courtyard, Raoulin kept thinking of Ruquel, as of something precious he could never hope to see or touch, some prize once within his grasp, and now lost for ever, like the hope of Heaven.

And added to this forfeiture there came to be the remembrance of his family, his friends, the university, the City, time, youth, and the world.

Then he sat down on the plot of grass beside the well, and he cried, and he was so weak his body was rocked and racked with it, this grief. But all the while, even as he wept these scalding tears, he sensed the other, waiting,
waiting there
, within him, for the hour he would belong to it and exist only to achieve its will.

“Sieur, you’ve been my saviour. I thank you for my life. But I don’t see why you let me keep it. For I believe you know why I shouldn’t be let live.”

These were the first conscious sentences he rendered the Jew.

They met in a parlour above the hall, about lamp-lighting, and the scent of flowers came in from the house vine, and olibanum from the antique lamp. There were a great many books, and some scrolls and ornate cases of leather. The two men sat facing each other over a table where there was wine to drink neither had touched.

“In honesty, Raoulin, I do know, for you spoke of it asleep, and I took the liberty to interrogate you.”

“And that—
it -
did it answer you also?”

“Not in words. It has no use for those. But it was aware, I think, in its primordial way, of our dialogue.

Consider, it has no intelligence, only an instinct and an appetite. Even so, it may employ such knowledge as you yourself possess, to gain its ends. This is a power of desire more pliant and enduring than any of the desires of a man. It is a demon.”

“A demon. Yes.”

“I know its race, even. Out of Assyria, an
utuk
, having as its own form the body of a man, the head of a bird, but a bird of the beginnings, scaled not feathered, from the fifth day of the earth.”

Raoulin shuddered.

“Did I tell you all
her
story, too?”

“I have pieced it together. All your story and all the story of Helise d’Uscaret, who died and left her body for the demon to inhabit. For the matter of that, I sent Liva as a spy to the d’Uscaret mansion. He says the old kitchen woman and the groom go on about their doings as if nothing’s amiss. I conjecture that what you left upon that bed crumbled entirely, even to the bones. If they think anything, there, perhaps it’s that you and she have gone off together, in the way of heedless lovers.”

Raoulin said, “That must come. Where else can I go but after her, into the grave and down to perdition.”

The Jew replied, “God made all things. Even the creatures of his servant, the Devil. We are instructed to note the lesson their existence teaches. He never says we must offer them our throats.”

“Do you suppose I might prevent it—by abstaining? Heros made himself a priest, but the Devil won. My blood’s hotter than the blood of Heros. And when it works in me like yeast—’

“There now,” said the Jew. And he poured out the crystal wine, and gave it to Raoulin, as if it were medicine. “This is a clever enemy. It adapts itself as any beast will do. The ways of it are various. It can erupt inward, changing the victim to the semblance of itself, thereafter enacting by that body all it wishes.

Or it passes into the body of a woman at intercourse, and her child, when it comes forth, will be the shell of the demon. It can do both, or either. It can lie down dormant too, even as with Helise, where it waited inside the womb, that terrible ambush ten years old. Only the key is constant, the procreative spasm. All the pure line of d’Uscaret were susceptible to it, but it can casually infect anywhere. Now that whole house has perished, only you are left to it. How can it let you die? It resisted the death of Helise until its transference was accomplished. The stabbing you gave yourself was sewn up in a day. I partly believe you might burn yourself alive, Raoulin, and this creature would find some means to build you up again.

Death’s no answer.” The Jew sipped his wine. “Neither abstinence from the carnal act. The
utuk
provokes and seduces others to provoke. As you say, you’re not proof against it.”

The dark was in the windows now. Hesperus rang from a nearby convent. The nights were lengthening and drawing near.

“How can there be any escape?”

Haninuh looked at him steadily.

“You will have decided, perhaps, I’m versed in certain arts.”

“A magician.”

“If you will call it so.”

“Then—can you cast this out of me?”

“Once before,” said Haninuh, “it came, this thing, to mock me. I was unready then, knowing not enough.

But after that failure, I studied in the school of demons, gathered together books, and artifacts from the Roman time here, when this began. Strange to say, I felt that the
utuk
would return to duel again with me.

We’re ancient foes. Its primal memory and mine contain rank seeds of all those battles. The cities of the desert, the chariots, and the chains. Yes, I suppose I can cast it out of you.”

Raoulin started up. The Jew stayed him.

“This isn’t without great danger.”

“I’m ready to die,” said Raoulin. “You know as much.”

“Also you must give yourself into my charge. What must be done is in itself unholy. There will be for you shame, rank sweetness, confusion, and agony. You may die indeed, you may lose your mind for ever.

But this I do promise,
not
your soul.”

Raoulin stood before him, white-faced, arrogant with fear and courage. In the dusky lamplight, his eyes were only black.

“Sieur magus, do what you must. I’m your slave. When will it be?”

“In seven days, that is the new moon, God’s remaking. Then.”

The Beautiful Jewess, eighteen years of age, sat playing with her cat on the floor of the bedroom. The cat’s play was more sedate than it had been, still adept.

Haninuh, having been admitted, stood gazing at them.

He saw the child clearly, as the kitten was still visible in the cat. But both were mature, and changed.

Ruquel was a woman. He must acknowledge that.

Presently she looked up, and her smile faded into a serene strictness. It was his own habitual look, given back to him like a mirror.

“I’ve read the book, as you instructed, my father.”

“That’s good.”

“You’ve spoken to the young man?” He was touched at her way of referring to Raoulin, as if she were by far the elder. In some ways she was. Raoulin had not been wise, but he had, in the end, striven to be virtuous, prepared to sacrifice himself for the sins of other men.

“We’ve spoken. It shall be done.”

“And I?” she said. He was thankful for her quickness.

“As it’s set down in the book.”

She lowered her eyes. Her face shadowed with the self-consciousness of the girl she was. Then the woman governed the girl, she looked up again and said, “Yes, I’m willing. And I have the skills.”

“I know what’s asked of you,” he said. “Such a dance, though part of your secret training as in the days of Salome, is a hidden thing. If you refused, I should have had to find some other, a paid dancer, and perhaps she doesn’t exist in this City. Those that tutored you know of none.”

“Besides the paid one could command no magic.”

He had always allowed her that word, though it was not exactly accurate; it seemed to step appealingly from her tongue. She had from the first recognised she must be careful of its use with strangers.

“That’s true, she could not. But let me say this, too. I’d never have petitioned you, my own daughter, except,” he hesitated, wanting to spare her, yet sure that there must be no lies, “except, Ruquel, that I noticed at once you love this man, love him as your bridegroom, and your husband.”

She waited, and then she said, “You’ll think me foolish.

It happened the moment I saw him there. Perhaps even before, hearing the jar break on the street. He was at my door.”

“How should I think you foolish, Ruquel? You are a sybil. Your awareness has always been profound, even as a child. This love you have recognised, but not invented.”

“I honour you. I’d do nothing against my father’s wishes.”

“I know. It is your father instead requests of you a dishonourable task, which only your love for Raoulin can redeem. You understand, despite everything, he may die?”

“Yes.”

“You understand, though I can protect you by the powers I command, in this arena nothing is certain?

We are bound to it by our gifts and his plight. There’s peril for all.”

“Yes.”

“You understand, my daughter, you are my star?”

“Yes,” she said, smiling again, “I understand.”

Raoulin fasted on honey and curds and water, then on water only. The irritating hunger dissipated to a comfortable lack of all thought of food. Then he was cleansed with a potent cathartic herb. On the sixth day, the water was brought in a water-like goblet of glass. There was a drug mixed in it. His senses became abnormally clarified. His body was light, nearly weightless. He could smell the scent of flowering things and decaying things from streets away. He felt he could have reached up and clasped the vault of the sky.

That night, he supposed he would not be able to sleep at all, for everything had become so fascinating and had such nuances, even the creak of the mattress under him. But sleep discovered him and took him away up among the stars. He saw the City far below, he saw
stars
beneath him. When he woke at sunrise, he believed his soul had flown close to Heaven, and God had not flung him down.

Late in the seventh day, the woman brought him a bittersweet resinous drink. When he had consumed it, every doubt or fear he had had abandoned him. It was like strong wine, but without wine’s blurring or analgesic properties, without wine’s stupidity.

When Liva entered and asked that Raoulin go with him, Raoulin got up and did so, in a wild, still peace that was better than hope.

Nevertheless, Raoulin did not seem to take in the route they went by. Perhaps it only appeared irrelevant at that intrinsic moment.

Liva had brought him to a heavy double door of black wood, not ebony, something more essential, some tree that had altered into coed.

In the door were two handles of cold translucent onyx.

Liva had gone away. Raoulin gripped the door handles and turned them, one to the left and one to the right, or rather they seemed to turn themselves this way at the pressure of his hands.

Within, was midnight, without a star. But the Jew had already impressed upon him that he would come to the chamber and must go in. In he walked, and thrust the doors shut at his back.