Nunc Dimittis(english) - Tanith Lee

The Vampire was old, and no longer beautiful. In common with all living things, she had aged, though very slowly, like the tall trees in the park. Slender and gaunt and leafless, they stood out there, beyond the long windows, rain-dashed in the grey morning. While she sat in her high-backed chair in that corner of the room where the curtains of thick yellow lace and the wine-coloured blinds kept every drop of daylight out. In the glimmer of the ornate oil lamp, she had been reading. The lamp came from a Russian palace. The book had once graced the library of a corrupt pope named, in his temporal existence, Roderigo Borgia. Now the Vampire's dry hands had fallen upon the page. She sat in her black lace dress that was one hundred and eighty years of age, far younger than she herself, and looked at the old man, streaked by the shine of distant windows.
"You say you are tired, Vassu. I know how it is. To be so tired, and unable to rest. It is a terrible thing."
"But, Princess," said the old man quietly, "it is more than this. I am dying."
The Vampire stirred a little. The pale leaves of her hands rustled on the page. She stared, with an almost childlike wonder.
"Dying? Can this be? You are sure?"
The old man, very clean and neat in his dark clothing, nodded humbly.
"Yes, Princess."
"Oh, Vassu," she said, "are you glad?"
He seemed a little embarrassed. Finally he said:
"Forgive me, Princess, but I am very glad. Yes, very glad."
"I understand."
"Only," he said, "I am troubled for your sake."
"No, no," said the Vampire, with the fragile perfect courtesy of her class and kind. "No, it must not concern you. You have been a good servant. Far better than I might ever have hoped for. I am thankful, Vassu, for all your care of me. I shall miss you. But you have earned…" she hesitated. She said, "You have more than earned your peace."
"But you," he said.
"I shall do very well. My requirements are small, now. The days when I was a huntress are gone, and the nights. Do you remember, Vassu?"
"I remember, Princess."
"When I was so hungry, and so relentless. And so lovely. My white face in a thousand ballroom mirrors. My silk slippers stained with dew. And my lovers waking in the cold morning, where I had left them. But now, I do not sleep, I am seldom hungry. I never lust. I never love. These are the comforts of old age. There is only one comfort that is denied to me. And who knows. One day, I too…" She smiled at him. Her teeth were beautiful, but almost even now, the exquisite points of the canines quite worn away. "Leave me when you must," she said. "I shall mourn you. I shall envy you. But I ask nothing more, my good and noble friend."
The old man bowed his head.
"I have," he said, "a few days, a handful of nights. There is something I wish to try to do in this time. I will try to find one who may take my place."
The Vampire stared at him again, now astonished. "But Vassu, my irreplaceable help-it is no longer possible."
"Yes. If I am swift."
"The world is not as it was," she said, with a grave and dreadful wisdom.
He lifted his head. More gravely, he answered:
"The world is as it has always been, Princess. Only our perceptions of it have grown more acute. Our knowledge less bearable."
She nodded.
"Yes, this must be so. How could the world have changed so terribly? It must be we who have changed."
He trimmed the lamp before he left her.
Outside, the rain dripped steadily from the trees.

The city, in the rain, was not unlike a forest. But the old man, who had been in many forests and many cities, had no special feeling for it. His feelings, his senses, were primed to other things.
Nevertheless, he was conscious of his bizarre and anachronistic effect, like that of a figure in some surrealist painting, walking the streets in clothes of a bygone era, aware he did not blend with his surroundings, nor render them homage of any kind. Yet even when, as sometimes happened, a gang of children or youths jeered and called after him the foul names he was familiar with in twenty languages, he neither cringed nor cared. He had no concern for such things. He had been so many places, seen so many sights; cities which burned or fell in ruin, the young who grew old, as he had, and who died, as now, at last, he too would die. This thought of death soothed him, comforted him, and brought with it a great sadness, a strange jealousy. He did not want to leave her. Of course he did not. The idea of her vulnerability in this harsh world, not new in its cruelty but ancient, though freshly recognised-it horrified him. This was the sadness. And the jealousy… that, because he must try to find another to take his place. And that other would come to be for her, as he had been.
The memories rose and sank in his brain like waking dreams all the time he moved about the streets. As he climbed the steps of museums and underpasses, he remembered other steps in other lands, of marble and fine stone. And looking out from high balconies, the city reduced to a map, he recollected the towers of cathedrals, the star-swept points of mountains. And then at last, as if turning over the pages of a book backwards, he reached the beginning.
There she stood, between two tall white graves, the chateau grounds behind her, everything silvered in the dusk before the dawn. She wore a ball dress, and a long white cloak. And even then, her hair was dressed in the fashion of a century ago; dark hair, like black flowers.
He had known for a year before that he would serve her. The moment he had heard them talk of her in the town. They were not afraid of her, but in awe. She did not prey upon her own people, as some of her line had done.
When he could get up, he went to her. He had kneeled, and stammered something; he was only sixteen, and she not much older. But she had simply looked at him quietly and said: "I know. You are welcome." The words had been in a language they seldom spoke together now. Yet always, when he recalled that meeting, she said them in that tongue, and with the same gentle inflexion.
All about, in the small caf
He rose, and left the caf
A step brushed the pavement, perhaps twenty feet behind him. The old man did not hesitate. He stepped on, and into an alleyway that ran between the high buildings. The steps followed him; he could not hear them all, only one in seven, or eight. A little wire of tension began to draw taut within him, but he gave no sign. Water trickled along the brickwork beside him, and the noise of the city was lost.
Abruptly, a hand was on the back of his neck, a capable hand, warm and sure, not harming him yet, almost the touch of a lover.
"That's right, old man. Keep still. I'm not going to hurt you, not if you do what I say."
He stood, the warm and vital hand on his neck, and waited.
"All right," said the voice, which was masculine and young and with some other elusive quality to it. "Now let me have your wallet."
The old man spoke in a faltering tone, very foreign, very fearful. "I have-no wallet."
The hand changed its nature, gripped him, bit.
"Don't lie. I can hurt you. I don't want to, but I can. Give me whatever money you have."
"Yes," he faltered, "yes-yes-"
And slipped from the sure and merciless grip like water, spinning, gripping in turn, flinging away-there was a whirl of movement.
The old man's attacker slammed against the wet grey wall and rolled down it. He lay on the rainy debris of the alley floor, and stared up, too surprised to look surprised.
This had happened many times before. Several had supposed the old man an easy mark, but he had all the steely power of what he was. Even now, even dying, he was terrible in his strength. And yet, though it had happened often, now it was different. The tension had not gone away.
Swiftly, deliberately, the old man studied the young one.
Something struck home instantly. Even sprawled, the adversary was peculiarly graceful, the grace of enormous physical coordination. The touch of the hand, also, impervious and certain-there was strength here, too. And now the eyes. Yes, the eyes were steady, intelligent, and with a curious lambency, an innocence-
"Get up," the old man said. He had waited upon an aristocrat. He had become one himself, and sounded it. "Up. I will not hit you again."
The young man grinned, aware of the irony. The humour flitted through his eyes. In the dull light of the alley, they were the colour of leopards-not the eyes of leopards, but their
pelts.
"Yes, and you could, couldn't you, granddad."
"My name," said the old man, "is Vasyelu Gorin. I am the father to none, and my nonexistent sons and daughters have no children. And you?"
"My name," said the young man, "is Snake."
The old man nodded. He did not really care about names, either.
"Get up, Snake. You attempted to rob me, because you are poor, having no work and no wish for work. I will buy you food, now."
The young man continued to lie, as if at ease, on the ground.
"Why?"
"Because I want something from you."
"What? You're right. I'll do almost anything, if you pay me enough. So you can tell me."
The old man looked at the young man called Snake, and knew that all he said was a fact. Knew that here was one who had stolen and whored, and stolen again when the slack bodies slept, both male and female, exhausted by the sexual vampirism he had practised on them, drawing their misguided souls out through their pores as later he would draw the notes from purse and pocket. Yes, a vampire. Maybe a murderer, too. Very probably a murderer.
"If you will do anything," said the old man, "I need not tell you beforehand. You will do it anyway."
"Almost anything, is what I said."
"Advise me then," said Vasyelu Gorin, the servant of the Vampire, "what you will not do. I shall then refrain from asking it of you."
The young man laughed. In one fluid movement he came to his feet. When the old man walked on, he followed.

Testing him, the old man took Snake to an expensive restaurant, far up on the white hills of the city, where the glass geography nearly scratched the sky. Ignoring the mud on his dilapidated leather jacket, Snake became a flawless image of decorum, became what is always ultimately respected, one who does not care. The old man, who also did not care, appreciated this act, but knew it was nothing more. Snake had learned how to be a prince. But he was a gigolo with a closet full of skins to put on. Now and then the speckled leopard eyes, searching, wary, would give him away.
After the good food and the excellent wine, the cognac, the cigarettes taken from the silver box-Snake had stolen three, but, stylishly overt, had left them sticking like porcupine quills from his breast pocket-they went out again into the rain.
The dark was gathering, and Snake solicitously took the old man's arm. Vasyelu Gorin dislodged him, offended by the cheapness of the gesture after the acceptable one with the cigarettes.
"Don't you like me any more?" said Snake. "I can go now, if you want. But you might pay for my wasted time."
"Stop that," said Vasyelu Gorin. "Come along."
Smiling, Snake came with him. They walked, between the glowing pyramids of stores, through shadowy tunnels, over the wet paving. When the thoroughfares folded away and the meadows of the great gardens began, Snake grew tense. The landscape was less familiar to him, obviously. This part of the forest was unknown.
Trees hung down from the air to the sides of the road.
"I could kill you here," said Snake. "Take your money, and run."
"You could try," said the old man, but he was becoming weary. He was no longer certain, and yet, he was sufficiently certain that his jealousy had assumed a tinge of hatred. If the young man were stupid enough to set on him, how simple it would be to break the columnar neck, like pale amber, between his fleshless hands. But then, she would know. She would know he had found for her, and destroyed the finding. And she would be generous, and he would leave her, aware he had failed her, too.
When the huge gates appeared, Snake made no comment. He seemed, by then, to anticipate them. The old man went into the park, moving quickly now, in order to outdistance his own feelings. Snake loped at his side.
Three windows were alight, high in the house. Her windows. And as they came to the stair that led up, under its skeins of ivy, into the porch, her pencil-thin shadow passed over the lights above, like smoke, or a ghost.
"I thought you lived alone," said Snake. "I thought you were lonely."
The old man did not answer any more. He went up the stair and opened the door. Snake came in behind him, and stood quite still, until Vasyelu Gorin had found the lamp in the niche by the door, and lit it. Unnatural stained glass flared in the door panels, and the window-niches either side, owls and lotuses and far-off temples, scrolled and luminous, oddly aloof.
Vasyelu began to walk toward the inner stair.
"Just a minute," said Snake. Vasyelu halted, saying nothing. "I'd just like to know," said Snake, "how many of your friends are here, and just what your friends are figuring to do, and how I fit into their plans."
The old man sighed.
"There is one woman in the room above. I am taking you to see her. She is a Princess. Her name is Darejan Draculas." He began to ascend the stair.
Left in the dark, the visitor said softly:
"What?"
"You think you have heard the name. You are correct. But it is another branch."
He heard only the first step as it touched the carpeted stair. With a bound, the creature was upon him, the lamp was lifted from his hand. Snake danced behind it, glittering and unreal.
"Dracula," he said.
"Draculas. Another branch."
"A vampire."
"Do you believe in such things?" said the old man. "You should, living as you do, preying as you do."
"I never," said Snake, "pray."
"Prey," said the old man. "Prey upon. You cannot even speak your own language. Give me the lamp, or shall I take it? The stair is steep. You may be damaged, this time. Which will not be good for any of your trades."
Snake made a little bow, and returned the lamp.
They continued up the carpeted hill of stair, and reached a landing and so a passage, and so her door.
The appurtenances of the house, even glimpsed in the erratic fleeting of the lamp, were very gracious. The old man was used to them, but Snake, perhaps, took note. Then again, like the size and importance of the park gates, the young thief might well have anticipated such elegance.
And there was no neglect, no dust, no air of decay, or, more tritely, of the grave. Women arrived regularly from the city to clean, under Vasyelu Gorin's stern command; flowers were even arranged in the salon for those occasions when the Princess came downstairs. Which was rarely, now. How tired she had grown. Not aged, but bored by life. The old man sighed again, and knocked upon her door.
Her response was given softly. Vasyelu Gorin saw, from the tail of his eye, the young man's reaction, his ears almost pricked, like a cat's.
"Wait here," Vasyelu said, and went into the room, shutting the door, leaving the other outside it in the dark.
The windows which had shone bright outside were black within. The candles burned, red and white as carnations.
The Vampire was seated before her little harpsichord. She had probably been playing it, its song so quiet it was seldom audible beyond her door. Long ago, nonetheless, he would have heard it. Long ago-
"Princess," he said, "I have brought someone with me."
He had not been sure what she would do, or say, confronted by the actuality. She might even remonstrate, grow angry, though he had not often seen her angry. But he saw now she had guessed, in some tangible way, that he would not return alone, and she had been preparing herself. As she rose to her feet, he beheld the red satin dress, the jewelled silver crucifix at her throat, the trickle of silver from her ears. On the thin hands, the great rings throbbed their sable colours. Her hair, which had never lost its blackness, abbreviated at her shoulders and waved in a fashion of only twenty years before, framed the starved bones of her face with a savage luxuriance. She was magnificent. Gaunt, elderly, her beauty lost, her heart dulled, yet-magnificent, wondrous.
He stared at her humbly, ready to weep because, for the half of one half-moment, he had doubted.
"Yes," she said. She gave him the briefest smile, like a swift caress. "Then I will see him, Vassu."

Snake was seated cross-legged a short distance along the passage. He had discovered, in the dark, a slender Chinese vase of the
yang ts'ai palette, and held it between his hands, his chin resting on the brim.
"Shall I break this?" he asked.
Vasyelu ignored the remark. He indicated the opened door.
"You may go in now."
"May I? How excited you're making me."
Snake flowed upright. Still holding the vase, he went through into the Vampire's apartment. The old man came into the room after him, placing his black-garbed body, like a shadow, by the door, which he left now standing wide. The old man watched Snake.
Circling slightly, perhaps unconsciously, he had approached a third of the chamber's length towards the woman. Seeing him from the back, Vasyelu Gorin was able to observe all the play of tautening muscles along the spine, like those of something readying itself to spring, or to escape. Yet, not seeing the face, the eyes, was unsatisfactory. The old man shifted his position, edged shadow-like along the room's perimeter, until he had gained a better vantage.
"Good evening," the Vampire said to Snake. "Would you care to put down the vase? Or, if you prefer, smash it. Indecision can be distressing."
"Perhaps I'd prefer to keep the vase."
"Oh, then do so, by all means. But I suggest you allow Vasyelu to wrap it up for you, before you go. Or someone may rob you on the street."
Snake pivotted, lightly, like a dancer, and put the vase on a side-table. Turning again, he smiled at her.
"There are so many valuable things here. What shall I take? What about the silver cross you're wearing?"
The Vampire also smiled.
"An heirloom. I am rather fond of it. I do not recommend you should try to take that."
Snake's eyes enlarged. He was naive, amazed.
"But I thought, if I did what you wanted, if I made you happy-I could have whatever I liked. Wasn't that the bargain?"
"And how would you propose to make me happy?"
Snake went close to her; he prowled about her, very slowly. Disgusted, fascinated, the old man watched him. Snake stood behind her, leaning against her, his breath stirring the filaments of her hair. He slipped his left hand along her shoulder, sliding from the red satin to the dry uncoloured skin of her throat. Vasyelu remembered the touch of the hand, electric, and so sensitive, the fingers of an artist or a surgeon.
The Vampire never changed. She said:
"No. You will not make me happy, my child."
"Oh," Snake said into her ear. "You can't be certain. If you like, if you really like, I'll let you drink my blood."
The Vampire laughed. It was frightening. Something dormant yet intensely powerful seemed to come alive in her as she did so, like flame from a finished coal. The sound, the appalling life, shook the young man away from her. And for an instant, the old man saw fear in the leopard-yellow eyes, a fear as intrinsic to the being of Snake as to cause fear was intrinsic to the being of the Vampire.
And, still blazing with her power, she turned on him.
"What do you think I am?" she said, "some senile hag greedy to rub her scaly flesh against your smoothness; some hag you can, being yourself without sanity or fastidiousness, corrupt with the phantoms, the left-overs of pleasure, and then murder, tearing the gems from her fingers with your teeth? Or I am a perverted hag, wanting to lick up your youth with your juices. Am I that? Come now," she said, her fire lowering itself, crackling with its amusement, with everything she held in check, her voice a long, long pin, skewering what she spoke to against the farther wall. "Come now. How can I be such a fiend, and wear the crucifix on my breast? My ancient, withered, fallen, empty breast. Come now. What's in a name?"
As the pin of her voice came out of him, the young man pushed himself away from the wall. For an instant there was an air of panic about him. He was accustomed to the characteristics of the world. Old men creeping through rainy alleys could not strike mighty blows with their iron hands. Women were moths that burnt, but did not burn, tones of tinsel and pleading, not razor blades.
Snake shuddered all over. And then his panic went away. Instinctively, he told something from the aura of the room itself. Living as he did, generally he had come to trust his instincts.
He slunk back to the woman, not close, this time, no nearer than two yards.
"Your man over there," he said, "he took me to a fancy restaurant. He got me drunk. I say things when I'm drunk I shouldn't say. You see? I'm a lout. I shouldn't be here in your nice house. I don't know how to talk to people like you. To a lady. You see? But I haven't any money. None. Ask him. I explained it all. I'll do anything for money. And the way I talk. Some of them like it. You see? It makes me sound dangerous. They like that. But it's just an act." Fawning on her, bending on her the groundless glory of his eyes, he had also retreated, was almost at the door.
The Vampire made no move. Like a marvelous waxwork she dominated the room, red and white and black, and the old man was only a shadow in a corner.
Snake darted about and bolted. In the blind lightlessness, he skimmed the passage, leapt out in space upon the stairs, touched, leapt, touched, reached the open area beyond. Some glint of star-shine revealed the stained glass panes in the door. As it crashed open, he knew quite well that he had been let go. Then it slammed behind him and he pelted through ivy and down the outer steps, and across the hollow plain of tall wet trees.
So much, infallibly, his instincts had told him. Strangely, even as he came out of the gates upon the vacant road, and raced towards the heart of the city, they did not tell him he was free.

"Do you recollect," said the Vampire, "you asked me, at the very beginning, about the crucifix."
"I do recollect, Princess. It seemed odd to me, then. I did not understand, of course."
"And you," she said. "How would you have it, after-" She waited. She said, "After you leave me."
He rejoiced that his death would cause her a momentary pain. He could not help that, now. He had seen the fire wake in her, flash and scald in her, as it had not done for half a century, ignited by the presence of the thief, the gigolo, the parasite.
"He," said the old man, "is young and strong, and can dig some pit for me."
"And no ceremony?" She had overlooked his petulance, of course, and her tact made him ashamed.
"Just to lie quiet will be enough," he said, "but thank you, Princess, for your care. I do not suppose it will matter. Either there is nothing, or there is something so different I shall be astonished by it."
"Ah, my friend. Then you do not imagine yourself damned?"
"No," he said. "No, no." And all at once there was passion in his voice, one last fire of his own to offer her. "In the life you gave me, I was blessed."
She closed her eyes, and Vasyelu Gorin perceived he had wounded her with his love. And, no longer peevishly, but in the way of a lover, he was glad.

Next day, a little before three in the afternoon, Snake returned.
A wind was blowing, and seemed to have blown him to the door in a scurry of old brown leaves. His hair was also blown, and bright, his face wind-slapped to a ridiculous freshness. His eyes, however, were heavy, encircled, dulled. The eyes showed, as did nothing else about him, that he had spent the night, the forenoon, engaged in his second line of commerce. They might have drawn thick curtains and blown out the lights, but that would not have helped him. The senses of Snake were doubly acute in the dark, and he could see in the dark, like a lynx.
"Yes?" said the old man, looking at him blankly, as if at a tradesman.
"Yes," said Snake, and came by him into the house.
Vasyelu did not stop him. Of course not. He allowed the young man, and all his blown gleamingness and his wretched rou
The blinds, a sombre ivory colour, were down, and the lamps had been lit; on a polished table hothouse flowers foamed from a jade bowl. A second door stood open on the small library, the soft glow of the lamps trembling over gold-worked spines, up and up, a torrent of static, priceless books.
Snake went into and around the library, and came out.
"I didn't take anything."
"Can you even read?" snapped Vasyelu Gorin, remembering when he could not, a wood-cutter's fifth son, an oaf and a sot, drinking his way or sleeping his way through a life without windows or vistas, a mere blackness of error and unrecognised boredom. Long ago. In that little town cobbled together under the forest. And the chateau with its starry lights, the carriages on the road, shining, the dark trees either side. And bowing in answer to a question, lifting a silver comfit box from a pocket as easily as he had lifted a coin the day before…
Snake sat down, leaning back relaxedly in the chair. He was not relaxed, the old man knew. What was he telling himself? That there was money here, eccentricity to be battened upon. That he could take her, the old woman, one way or another. There were always excuses that one could make to oneself.
When the Vampire entered the room, Snake, practised, a gigolo, came to his feet. And the Vampire was amused by him, gently now. She wore a bone-white frock that had been sent from Paris last year. She had never worn it before. Pinned at the neck was a black velvet rose with a single drop of dew shivering on a single petal: a pearl that had come from the crown jewels of a czar. Her tact, her peerless tact.
Naturally, the pearl was saying, this is why you have come back. Naturally. There is nothing to fear.
Vasyelu Gorin left them. He returned later with the decanters and glasses. The cold supper had been laid out by people from the city who handled such things, pthen against the house, and, roused by the brilliantly lighted rooms, a moth was dashing itself between the candles and the coloured fruits. The old man caught it in a crystal goblet, took it away, let it go into the darkness. For a hundred years and more, he had never killed anything.
Sometimes, he heard them laugh. The young man's laughter was at first too eloquent, too beautiful, too unreal. But then, it became ragged, boisterous; it became genuine.
The wind blew stonily. Vasyelu Gorin imagined the frail moth beating its wings against the huge wings of the wind, falling spent to the ground. It would be good to rest.
In the last half hour before dawn, she came quietly from the salon, and up the stair. The old man knew she had seen him as he waited in the shadows. That she did not look at him or call to him was her attempt to spare him this sudden sheen that was upon her, its direct and pitiless glare. So he glimpsed it obliquely, no more. Her straight pale figure ascending, slim and limpid as a girl's. Her eyes were young, full of a primal refinding, full of utter newness.
In the salon, Snake slept under his jacket on the long white couch, its brocaded cushions beneath his cheek. Would he, on waking, carefully examine his throat in a mirror?
The old man watched the young man sleeping. She had taught Vasyelu Gorin how to speak five languages, and how to read three others. She had allowed him to discover music, and art, history and the stars; profundity, mercy. He had found the closed tomb of life opened out on every side into unbelievable, inexpressible landscapes. And yet, and yet. The journey must have its end. Worn out with ecstasy and experience, too tired any more to laugh with joy. To rest was everything. To be still. Only she could continue, for only she could be eternally reborn. For Vasyelu, once had been enough.
He left the young man sleeping. Five hours later, Snake was noiselessly gone. He had taken all the cigarettes, but nothing else.

Snake sold the cigarettes quickly. At one of the cafcity.
Some of the day, he walked.
A hunter, he distrusted the open veldt of daylight. There was too little cover, and equally too great cover for the things he stalked. In the afternoon, he sat in the gardens of a museum. Students came and went, seriously alone, or in groups riotously. Snake observed them. They were scarcely younger than he himself, yet to him, another species. Now and then a girl, catching his eye, might smile, or make an attempt to linger, to interest him. Snake did not respond. With the economic contempt of what he had become, he dismissed all such sexual encounters. Their allure, their youth, these were commodities valueless in others. They would not pay him.
The old woman, however, he did not dismiss. How old was she? Sixty, perhaps-no, much older. Ninety was more likely. And yet, her face, her neck, her hands were curiously smooth, unlined. At times, she might only have been fifty. And the dyed hair, which should have made her seem raddled, somehow enhanced the illusion of a young woman.
Yes, she fascinated him. Probably she had been an actress. Foreign, theatrical-rich. If she was prepared to keep him, thinking him mistakenly her pet cat, then he was willing, for a while. He could steal from her when she began to cloy and he decided to leave.
Yet, something in the uncomplexity of these thoughts disturbed him. The first time he had run away, he was unsure now from what. Not the vampire name, certainly, a stage name-
Draculas-what else? But from something-some awareness of fate for which idea his vocabulary had no word, and no explanation. Driven once away, driven thereafter to return, since it was foolish not to. And she had known how to treat him. Gracefully, graciously. She would be honourable, for her kind always were. Used to spending money for what they wanted, they did not baulk at buying people, too. They had never forgotten flesh, also, had a price, since their roots were firmly locked in an era when there had been slaves.
But. But he would not, he told himself, go there tonight. No. It would be good she should not be able to rely on him. He might go tomorrow, or the next day, but not tonight.
The turning world lifted away from the sun, through a winter sunset, into darkness. Snake was glad to see the ending of the light, and false light instead spring up from the apartment blocks, the caf
He moved out on to the wide pavement of a street, and a man came and took his arm on the right side, another starting to walk by him on the left.
"Yes, this is the one, the one calls himself Snake."
"Are you?" the man who walked beside him asked.
"Of course it is," said the first man, squeezing his arm. "Didn't we have an exact description? Isn't he just the way he was described?"
"And the right place, too," agreed the other man, who did not hold him. "The right area."
The men wore neat nondescript clothing. Their faces were sallow and smiling, and fixed. This was a routine with which both were familiar. Snake did not know them, but he knew the touch, the accent, the smiling fixture of their masks. He had tensed. Now he let the tension melt away, so they should see and feel it had gone.
"What do you want?"
The man who held his arm only smiled.
The other man said, "Just to earn our living."
"Doing what?"
On either side the lighted street went by. Ahead, at the street's corner, a vacant lot opened where a broken wall lunged away into the shadows.
"It seems you upset someone," said the man who only walked. "Upset them badly."
"I upset a lot of people," Snake said.
"I'm sure you do. But some of them won't stand for it."
"Who was this? Perhaps I should see them."
"No. They don't want that. They don't want you to see anybody." The black turn was a few feet away.
"Perhaps I can put it right."
"No. That's what we've been paid to do."
"But if I don't know-" said Snake, and lurched against the man who held his arm, ramming his fist into the soft belly. The man let go of him and fell. Snake ran. He ran past the lot, into the brilliant glare of another street beyond, and was almost laughing when the thrown knife caught him in the back.
The lights turned over. Something hard and cold struck his chest, his face. Snake realized it was the pavement. There was a dim blurred noise, coming and going, perhaps a crowd gathering. Someone stood on his ribs and pulled the knife out of him and the pain began.
"Is that it?" a choked voice asked some way above him: the man he had punched in the stomach.
"It'll do nicely."
A new voice shouted. A car swam to the kerb and pulled up raucously. The car door slammed, and footsteps went over the cement. Behind him, Snake heard the two men walking briskly away.
Snake began to get up, and was surprised to find he was unable to.
"What happened?" someone asked, high, high above.
"I don't know."
A woman said softly, "Look, there's blood-"
Snake took no notice. After a moment he tried again to get up, and succeeded in getting to his knees. He had been hurt, that was all. He could feel the pain, no longer sharp, blurred, like the noise he could hear, coming and going. He opened his eyes. The light had faded, then came back in a long wave, then faded again. There seemed to be only five or six people standing around him. As he rose, the nearer shapes backed away.
"He shouldn't move," someone said urgently.
A hand touched his shoulder, fluttered off, like an insect.
The light faded into black, and the noise swept in like a tide, filling his ears, dazing him. Something supported him, and he shook it from him-a wall-
"Come back, son," a man called. The lights burned up again, reminiscent of a cinema. He would be all right in a moment. He walked away from the small crowd, not looking at them. Respectfully, in awe, they let him go, and noted his blood trailing behind him along the pavement.

The French clock chimed sweetly in the salon; it was seven. Beyond the window, the park was black. It had begun to rain again.
The old man had been watching from the downstairs window for rather more than an hour. Sometimes, he would step restlessly away, circle the room, straighten a picture, pick up a petal discarded by the dying flowers. Then go back to the window, looking out at the trees, the rain and the night.
Less than a minute after the chiming of the clock, a piece of the static darkness came away and began to move, very slowly, towards the house.
Vasyelu Gorin went out into the hall. As he did so, he glanced towards the stairway. The lamp at the stairhead was alight, and she stood there in its rays, her hands lying loosely at her sides, elegant as if weightless, her head raised.
"Princess?"
"Yes, I know. Please hurry, Vassu. I think there is scarcely any margin left."
The old man opened the door quickly. He sprang down the steps as lightly as a boy of eighteen. The black rain swept against his face, redolent of a thousand memories, and he ran through an orchard in Burgundy, across a hillside in Tuscany, along the path of a wild garden near St. Petersburg that was St. Petersburg no more, until he reached the body of a young man lying over the roots of a tree.
The old man bent down, and an eye opened palely in the dark and looked at him.
"Knifed me," said Snake. "Crawled all this way."
Vasyelu Gorin leaned in the rain to the grass of France, Italy and Russia, and lifted Snake in his arms. The body lolled, heavy, not helping him. But it did not matter. How strong he was, he might marvel at it, as he stood, holding the young man across his breast, and turning, ran back towards the house.
"I don't know," Snake muttered, "don't know who sent them. Plenty would like to-How bad is it? I didn't think it was so bad."
The ivy drifted across Snake's face and he closed his eyes.
As Vasyelu entered the hall, the Vampire was already on the lowest stair. Vasyelu carried the dying man across to her, and laid him at her feet. Then Vasyelu turned to leave.
"Wait," she said.
"No, Princess. This is a private thing. Between the two of you, as once it was between us. I do not want to see it, Princess. I do not want to see it with another."
She looked at him, for a moment like a child, sorry to have distressed him, unwilling to give in. Then she nodded. "Go then, my dear."
He went away at once. So he did not witness it as she left the stair, and knelt beside Snake on the Turkish carpet newly coloured with blood. Yet, it seemed to him he heard the rustle her dress made, like thin crisp paper, and the whisper of the tiny dagger parting her flesh, and then the long still sigh.
He walked down through the house, into the clean and frigid modern kitchen full of electricity. There he sat, and remembered the forest above the town, the torches as the yelling aristocrats hunted him for his theft of the comfit box, the blows when they caught up with him. He remembered, with a painless unoppressed refinding, what it was like to begin to die in such a way, the confused anger, the coming and going of tangible things, long pulses of being alternating with deep valleys of non-being. And then the agonised impossible crawl, fingers in the earth itself, pulling him forward, legs sometimes able to assist, sometimes failing, passengers which must be dragged with the rest. In the graveyard at the edge of the estate, he ceased to move. He could go no farther. The soil was cold, and the white tombs, curious petrified vegetation over his head, seemed to suck the black sky into themselves, so they darkened, and the sky grew pale.
But as the sky was drained of its blood, the foretaste of day began to possess it. In less than an hour, the sun would rise.
He had heard her name, and known he would eventually come to serve her. The way in which he had known, both for himself and for the young man called Snake, had been in a presage of violent death.
All the while, searching through the city, there had been no one with that stigma upon them, that mark. Until, in the alley, the warm hand gripped his neck, until he looked into the leopard-coloured eyes. Then Vasyelu saw the mark, smelled the scent of it like singed bone.
How Snake, crippled by a mortal wound, bleeding and semi-aware, had brought himself such a distance, through the long streets hard as nails, through the mossy garden-land of the rich, through the colossal gates, over the watery, night-tuned plain, so far, dying, the old man did not require to ask, or to be puzzled by. He, too, had done such a thing, more than two centuries ago. And there she had found him, between the tall white graves. When he could focus his vision again, he had looked and seen her, the most beautiful thing he ever set eyes upon. She had given him her blood. He had drunk the blood of Darejan Draculas, a princess, a vampire. Unique elixir, it had saved him. All wounds had healed. Death had dropped from him like a torn skin, and everything he had been-scavenger, thief, brawler, drunkard, and, for a certain number of coins,
whore-each of these things had crumbled away. Standing up, he had trodden on them, left them behind. He had gone to her, and kneeled down as, a short while before, she had kneeled by him, cradling him, giving him the life of her silver veins.
And this, all this, was now for the other. Even her blood, it seemed, did not bestow immortality, only longevity, at last coming to a stop for Vasyelu Gorin. And so, many many decades from this night the other, too, would come to the same hiatus. Snake, too, would remember the waking moment, conscious another now endured the stupefied thrill of it, and all that would begin thereafter.
Finally, with a sort of guiltiness, the old man left the hygienic kitchen and went back towards the glow of the upper floor, stealing out into the shadow at the light's edge.
He understood that she would sense him there, untroubled by his presence-had she not been prepared to let him remain?
It was done.
Her dress was spread like an open rose, the young man lying against her, his eyes wide, gazing up at her. And she would be the most beautiful thing that he had ever seen. All about, invisible, the shed skins of his life, husks he would presently scuff uncaringly underfoot. And she?
The Vampire's head inclined toward Snake. The dark hair fell softly. Her face, powdered by the lampshine, was young, was full of vitality, serene vivacity, loveliness. Everything had come back to her. She was reborn.
Perhaps it was only an illusion.
The old man bowed his head, there in the shadows. The jealousy, the regret were gone. In the end, his life with her had become only another skin that he must cast. He would have the peace that she might never have, and be glad of it. The young man would serve her, and she would be huntress once more, and dancer, a bright phantom gliding over the ballroom of the city, this city and others, and all the worlds of land and soul between.
Vasyelu Gorin stirred on the platform of his existence. He would depart now, or very soon; already he heard the murmur of the approaching train. It would be simple, this time, not like the other time at all. To go willingly, everything achieved, in order. Knowing she was safe.
There was even a faint colour in her cheeks, a blooming. Or maybe, that was just a trick of the lamp.
The old man waited until they had risen to their feet, and walked together quietly into the salon, before he came from the shadows and began to climb the stairs, hearing the silence, their silence, like that of new lovers.
At the head of the stair, beyond the lamp, the dark was gentle, soft as the Vampire's hair. Vasyelu walked forward into the dark without misgiving, tenderly.
How he had loved her.

Nunc Dimittis(español) - Tanith Lee

La Vampira era vieja, y había dejado de ser hermosa. Al igual que todos los seres vivos, había envejecido, aunque con gran lentitud, como los altos árboles del parque. Esbeltos, flacos y sin hojas, los árboles se alzaban allí fuera, más allá de las alargadas ventanas, salpicados por la lluvia en la grisácea mañana. Mientras tanto ella estaba sentada en su silla de alto respaldo, en aquel rincón de la habitación donde las cortinas de grueso encaje amarillo y las persianas de color rojo oscuro impedían el paso de hasta la última pizca de luz exterior. A la tenue lucecilla de la adornada lámpara de aceite, la Vampira había estado leyendo. La lámpara procedía de un palacio ruso. El libro había agraciado en tiempos la biblioteca de un corrupto Papa llamado, en su existencia temporal. Rodrigo Borgia. Las secas manos de la Vampira habían caído sobre la página. Iba ataviada con su negro vestido de encaje, que tenía ciento ochenta años de antigüedad, mucho menos viejo que ella misma, y desde su silla miró al anciano, veteado por el brillo de lejanas ventanas.

—Dices que estás cansado, Vassu. Sé cómo te sientes. Muy cansado e incapaz de reposar. Es terrible.

—Pero, princesa —dijo tranquilamente el anciano—, es más que eso. Estoy agonizando.

La Vampira se agitó ligeramente. Las pálidas hojas de sus manos arrancaron un susurro a la página. Miró fijamente al viejo, con una extrañeza casi infantil.

—¿Agonizando? ¿Es posible? ¿Estás seguro?

El anciano, limpio y pulido con su negro ropaje, asintió humildemente.

—Sí, princesa.

—Oh, Vassu —dijo ella—, ¿estás contento?

El hombre parecía un poco avergonzado.

—Perdóname, princesa —dijo por fin—, pero estoy muy contento. Sí, muy contento.

—Comprendo.

—Pero, de todas formas —añadió Vassu—, estoy preocupado por ti.

—No, no —dijo la Vampira, con la frágil y perfecta cortesía de su clase y de su especie—. No, no debes preocuparte por eso. Has sido un buen siervo. Mucho mejor que lo que yo podía esperar. Estoy agradecida, Vassu, por todas tus atenciones hacia mí. Te echaré de menos. Pero te has ganado... —Vaciló. Y agregó—: Has ganado con creces tu paz.

—Pero tú...

—Me las apañaré perfectamente. Mis necesidades son pocas, ahora. Mis días de cazadora pasaron, y también las noches. ¿Recuerdas, Vassu?

—Recuerdo, princesa.

—Cuando yo estaba tan hambrienta, cuando era tan insaciable. Y tan encantadora. Mi blanca cara en mil espejos de salón de baile. Mis zapatillas de seda manchadas de rocío. Y mis amantes caminando en la fría mañana, donde yo los había dejado. Pero ahora no duermo, raramente tengo hambre. Nunca deseo. Nunca amo. Son las comodidades de la vejez. Sólo hay una comodidad que se me niega. Y quién sabe. Un día, también yo...

Le sonrió. Sus dientes eran hermosos, pero casi romos ya; las exquisitas puntas de los caninos estaban muy desgastadas.

—Déjame cuando tengas que hacerlo —dijo ella—. Lloraré tu ausencia. Pero no pido nada más, mi buen y noble amigo.

El anciano inclinó la cabeza.

—Me quedan —dijo— escasos días, un puñado de noches. Hay algo que deseo hacer en estos momentos. Intentaré encontrar una persona que pueda ocupar mi lugar.

La Vampira le miró fijamente de nuevo, asombrada en esta ocasión.

—Pero, Vassu, mi insustituible siervo..., eso ya no es posible.

—Sí. Si actúo con rapidez.

—El mundo no es como era —dijo ella, con grave y espantosa sabiduría.

Vassu alzó la cabeza. El tono de su respuesta fue más grave.

—El mundo es como siempre ha sido, princesa. Pero nuestras percepciones de él se han agudizado. Nuestro conocimiento es menos soportable.

La Vampira asintió.

—Sí, así debe ser. ¿Cómo es posible que el mundo haya cambiado tan terriblemente? Debemos ser nosotros los que hemos cambiado.

Vassu despabiló la mecha de la lámpara antes de irse. En el exterior, la lluvia goteaba sin cesar en los árboles.

La ciudad, bajo la lluvia, no era muy distinta a un bosque. Pero el anciano, que había estado en muchos bosques y en muchas ciudades, no sentía demasiada simpatía por el lugar. Sus simpatías, sus sentidos, estaban aleccionadas para otras cosas. No obstante, era consciente de su extravagante y anacrónico efecto, como el de una figura de un cuadro surrealista. Caminaba por las calles con prendas de una época pasada, sabiendo que ni se mezclaba con el ambiente ni debía rendirle homenaje alguno. Pero cuando una pandilla de niños o jóvenes, como ocurría algunas veces, se burlaba de él y le gritaba los insultos con los que él estaba familiarizado en veinte idiomas, Vassu ni se asustaba ni se molestaba. No le preocupaban esas cosas. Había estado en muchos sitios, había visto muchas cosas; ciudades que ardían o se arruinaban, los jóvenes que envejecían, como él, y que morían, como ahora él, por fin, moriría. El pensamiento de la muerte lo calmó, lo alivió, y vino acompañado por una gran tristeza, una extraña envidia. No deseaba abandonar a la princesa. Naturalmente que no. Pensar en su vulnerabilidad en aquel mundo cruel, no nuevo en su crueldad pero antiguo, aunque se había dado cuenta de ello hacía poco tiempo..., esa idea le horrorizaba. Por ello la tristeza. Y los celos..., porque debía encontrar otro hombre que ocupara su lugar. Y ese otro hombre sería para ella, como había sido él.

Los recuerdos brotaron y se esfumaron en su cerebro como castillos en el aire mientras recorría las calles. Al subir los escalones de museos y pasos inferiores, Vassu recordó otros escalones de otras tierras, de mármol y fina piedra. Y al mirar desde elevados balcones, la ciudad reducida a un mapa, recordó las torres de las catedrales, los picos de las montañas escudriñados por las estrellas. Y por fin, como si leyera hacia atrás las hojas de un libro, llegó al principio.

Allí estaba ella, entre dos altas tumbas blancas, con los terrenos del castillo detrás, todo plateado por la penumbra anterior al alba. Lucía un vestido de baile, y una larga capa blanca. E incluso entonces, su cabello iba peinado a la moda de hacía un siglo. Oscuro cabello, igual que flores negras.

Vassu sabía desde hacía un año que iba a servir a la princesa. Lo supo en el momento en que oyó hablar de ella en la ciudad. La gente no temía a aquella mujer, la respetaba. Ella no atacaba a los suyos, como habían hecho algunos miembros de su estirpe.

En cuanto pudo levantarse de la cama, fue en busca de ella. Se había arrodillado, había tartamudeado algo. Sólo tenía dieciséis años, y ella no muchos más. Pero la mujer se había limitado a mirarle tranquilamente.

—Lo sé —le había dicho ella—. Sé bienvenido.

Había pronunciado esas palabras en un idioma que en la actualidad raramente empleaban. Pero siempre que Vassu recordaba aquel encuentro, ella las pronunciaba en idéntico lenguaje, y con idéntico tono dulce.

Por todas partes, en la pequeña cafetería donde Vassu se había detenido para sentarse y tomar un café, vagas sombras iban y venían. Sin interés para él, sin utilidad para ella. Durante toda la mañana nada le había obligado a estar alerta. El elegido lo sabría. Lo sabría, del mismo modo que Vassu lo había sabido.

Se levantó, salió de la cafetería, y siguió soñando despierto. Un alargado vehículo negro se deslizó junto a él, y Vassu recordó un carruaje que tallaba la blanca nieve...

Una pisada rozó el pavimento tal vez a cinco metros detrás de él. El anciano no dudó. Siguió andando y entró en un callejón que se extendía entre elevados edificios. Las pisadas le siguieron. No las escuchó todas, sólo una de cada siete, o de cada ocho. Un menudo cable de tensión se tensó en su interior, pero no dio muestra alguna de ello. El agua corría por el embaldosado suelo, y el ruido de la ciudad había desaparecido.

De pronto, notó una mano en la nuca, una mano fuerte, cálida y segura, una mano que de momento no le causaba daño, prácticamente el tacto de un amante.

—Así está bien, viejo. Quietecito. No quiero hacerte daño, no si estás quieto.

Vassu permaneció inmóvil, con la cálida y vital mano en la nuca, y aguardó.

—Muy bien —sonó la voz, masculina, joven y dotada de cierto rasgo esquivo—- Ahora dame tu cartera.

El anciano respondió con voz temblorosa, muy extraña, muy asustada.

—Yo no..., no tengo cartera.

La mano alteró su carácter, le aferró, le mordió.

—No mientas. Puedo hacerte daño. No quiero hacerlo, pero puedo. Dame todo el dinero que tengas.

—Sí —tartamudeó Vassu—. Sí..., sí...

Y se escabulló del firme y despiadado puño igual que agua, dando vueltas, aferrando a su vez, huyendo precipitadamente..., un torbellino en movimiento.

El asaltante del anciano chocó contra la pared húmeda y rodó a lo largo de ella. Quedó tumbado en la mojada basura del suelo del callejón, y alzó la vista, demasiado sorprendido para reflejar sorpresa.

Esa situación se había producido muchas veces anteriormente. Varios hombres habían juzgado al anciano como blanco fácil, pero él poseía el acerado poder de su condición. Incluso en esos días, a pesar de que estaba agonizando, era terrible por su fuerza. Y sin embargo, aunque hubiera ocurrido lo mismo muchas veces, en esta ocasión había una diferencia. La tensión no había desaparecido.

Rápida, deliberadamente, el anciano examinó al joven.

Cierto detalle le impresionó al instante. Pese a estar tendido en el suelo de cualquier forma, el adversario era especialmente garboso, tenía el garbo que proporciona una enorme coordinación física. El tacto de su mano, además, impenetrable y confiado... También ahí había fuerza. Y los ojos. Sí, la mirada era firme, inteligente, y con un curioso brillo suave, con inocencia...

—Levántate —dijo el viejo. Había sido criado de un aristócrata. Él mismo se había transformado en aristócrata, parecía serlo—. Arriba. No voy a pegarte más.

El joven sonrió, consciente de la ironía. El buen humor revoloteó en su mirada. A la tenue luz del callejón, sus ojos eran del color del leopardo..., no de los ojos de un leopardo, sino de su piel.

—Sí, y podrías pegarme, ¿eh, abuelito?

—Me llamo Vasyelu Gorin —dijo el anciano—. No soy padre de nadie, y mis inexistentes hijos e hijas no tienen descendencia. ¿Y tú?

—Me llamo Serpiente —repuso el joven. El viejo asintió. En realidad, tampoco se preocupaba por los nombres.

—Levántate, Serpiente. Has intentado robarme, porque eres pobre, porque ni tienes trabajo ni deseos de trabajar. Voy a comprarte algo de comer, ahora.

El joven siguió tendido, como si estuviera a gusto, en el suelo.

—¿Por qué?

—Porque deseo algo de ti.

—¿Qué? Tienes razón. Haré prácticamente cualquier cosa, si me pagas bien. Así que explícate.

El anciano miró al joven llamado Serpiente, y comprendió que todo lo que decía era verdad. Supo que estaba ante el hombre que había robado y que se había prostituido, robado de nuevo cuando los flaccidos cuerpos dormían, masculinos y femeninos por igual, exhaustos por el vampirismo sexual que él había practicado con ellos, extrayéndoles sus descarriadas almas por los poros del mismo modo que instantes más tarde extraería los billetes de bolsos y bolsillos. Sí, un vampiro. Quizás un asesino, también. Muy probablemente un asesino.

—Si estás dispuesto a hacer prácticamente cualquier cosa —dijo el anciano—, no es preciso que te lo explique por adelantado. Lo harás de todos modos.

—Casi cualquier cosa, eso he dicho.

—Adviérteme, pues —repuso Vasyelu Gorin, siervo de la Vampira—. ¿Qué cosa no harás? De esta forma me abstendré de pedírtelo.

El joven se echó a reír. Con un movimiento fluido se puso en pie. Cuando el anciano salió del callejón, lo siguió.

Para ponerlo a prueba, el anciano llevó a Serpiente a un restaurante de lujo, en lo alto de las blancas colinas de la ciudad, donde la vitrea geografía casi arañaba el cielo. Haciendo caso omiso del barro de su dilapidada chaqueta de cuero, Serpiente se transformó en intachable imagen del decoro, en algo que siempre acaba respetándose, en una persona despreocupada. El anciano, también despreocupado, apreció este gesto, aunque sabía que era simplemente un gesto. Serpiente había aprendido a ser principe. Pero era un gigolo con un armario repleto de pieles para ponerse. De vez en cuando los moteados ojos de leopardo, escrutadores y recelosos, delataban al joven.

Tras la excelente comida y el magnífico vino, el coñac, los cigarrillos sacados de la pitillera de plata (Serpiente había robado tres, pero, estilísticamente público, las llevaba sobresaliendo como púas de puercoespín en el bolsillo delantero), volvieron a salir bajo la lluvia.

La oscuridad aumentaba, y el solícito Serpiente cogió del brazo al anciano. Vasyelu Gorin se soltó, ofendido por la vulgaridad del gesto tras el aceptable detalle de los cigarrillos.

—¿He dejado de gustarte? —dijo Serpiente—. Puedo marcharme ahora mismo, si quieres. Pero podrías pagarme el tiempo perdido.

—Basta ya —repuso Vasyelu Gorin—. Vamos.

Risueño, Serpiente lo acompañó. Caminaron entre las relucientes pirámides de las tiendas, por sombríos túneles, sobre el mojado pavimento. En cuanto las vías públicas quedaron atrás y las praderas de los grandes huertos empezaron. Serpiente se puso tenso. El paisaje era menos familiar para él, obviamente. Esa parte del bosque era desconocida.

Los árboles caían desde el aire hasta los lados del camino.

—Podría matarte aquí —dijo Serpiente—. Coger tu dinero y echar a correr.

—Podrías intentarlo —repuso el anciano, pero cada vez estaba más molesto.

Ya no estaba seguro, y sin embargo estaba suficientemente seguro de que su envidia había asumido un tinte de odio. Si el joven era tan estúpido como para atacarle, qué sencillo sería partir el cuello columnar, cual claro ámbar, entre sus manos sin carne. Pero, claro, la princesa se enteraría. Sabría que él había encontrado algo para ella, y que había destruido el hallazgo. Y ella se mostraría generosa, y él la abandonaría, sabedor además de que le había fallado.

Cuando aparecieron los enormes portalones. Serpiente no hizo comentarios. Por entonces parecía haberlos previsto. El anciano entró en el parque, moviéndose con mayor rapidez a fin de que sus sentimientos quedaran atrás. Serpiente avanzaba a grandes zancadas junto al viejo.

Tres ventanas estaban iluminadas, en lo alto de la casa. Las ventanas de ella. Y mientras los dos hombres se aproximaban a la escalera de entrada, pasaban bajo las marañas de marfil y entraban en el porche, la sombra fina como un lápiz de la princesa saltó sobre las luces superiores, igual que humo, o como un espíritu.

—Creía que vivías solo —dijo Serpiente—. Creía que eras un solitario.

El anciano no dio más respuestas. Subió la escalera y abrió la puerta. Serpiente entró detrás y permaneció inmóvil hasta que Vasyelu Gorin encontró la lámpara que había en el nicho, junto a la puerta, y la encendió. Vidrio de un color sobrenatural destelló en los paneles de la puerta, y en los nichos de las ventanas a ambos lados, en buhos y lotos y distantes templos, adornados con volutas y luminosos, extrañamente alejados.

Vasyelu se dirigió hacia la escalera interior.

—Un momento —dijo Serpiente. Vasyelu se detuvo, sin responder—. Me gustaría saber cuántos amigos tuyos hay aquí, y qué piensan hacer tus amigos, y qué pinto yo en sus planes.

El anciano suspiró.

—Sólo hay una mujer, en la habitación de arriba. Voy a llevarte ante ella. Es una princesa. Se llama Darejan Draculas.

Empezó a subir los escalones.

—¿Qué? —dijo el visitante, abandonado en la oscuridad.

—Crees haber oído ese nombre. No te equivocas. Pero es otra rama.

Sólo oyó el primer paso cuando el pie tocó la alfombrada escalera. De un brinco, la criatura estuvo encima de él, y le quitó la lámpara de la mano. Serpiente danzaba detrás de la luz, rutilante e irreal.

—Drácula —dijo.

—Draculas. Otra rama.

—Un vampiro.

—¿Crees en esos seres? —dijo el anciano—. Deberías creer en ellos, por la vida que llevas, por tus depredaciones.

—Si esa palabreja tiene algo que ver con oraciones —dijo Serpiente—, yo nunca rezo.

—Depredaciones—repuso el anciano—. Pillajes. Ni siquiera sabes hablar tu idioma. Dame la lámpara. ¿O tendré que cogerla? La escalera es empinada. Esta vez podrías hacerte daño. Cosa que no beneficiaría a ninguno de tus oficios.

Serpiente hizo una ligera reverencia y devolvió la lámpara.

Siguieron subiendo la montaña alfombrada de la escalera, llegaron a un rellano, a un pasillo y a la puerta de la princesa.

Los accesorios de la vivienda, pese a que sólo se vislumbraban con el errático desplazamiento de la lámpara, eran muy atractivos. El anciano estaba acostumbrado a verlos, pero Serpiente, quizás, estaría tomando nota. Claro que, como había ocurrido con el tamaño e importancia de los portalones del parque, el joven ladrón podía haber previsto tanta elegancia.

Y no había abandono, ni una mota de polvo, no se olía a decadencia o, más trivialmente, no se olía a tumba. Regularmente llegaban mujeres de la ciudad para limpiar, bajo las severas órdenes de Vasyelu Gorin. Incluso había flores en el salón en las ocasiones en las que la princesa bajaba. Que eran muy escasas, en esa época. Cuan cansada había llegado a estar. No por la edad, sino aburrida de la vida. El anciano suspiró de nuevo, y llamó a la puerta de la princesa.

La respuesta sonó en voz baja. Vasyelu Gorin vio, por el rabillo del ojo, la reacción del joven: sus orejas casi se levantaron, como las de un gato.

—Espera aquí—dijo Vasyelu, y entró en la habitación.

Cerró la puerta y dejó al joven en la oscuridad.

Las ventanas, muy brillantes desde el exterior, eran negras por dentro. Las velas ardían, rojas y blancas cual claveles reventones.

La Vampira se hallaba sentada ante su pequeño clavicordio. Seguramente había estado tocándolo, su canto tan silencioso que raramente era audible al otro lado de la puerta. Hacía mucho tiempo, sin embargo, Vassu lo habría oído. Hacía mucho tiempo...

—Princesa —dijo—, he venido con alguien.

No estaba seguro de qué haría, o diría ella, enfrentada a la realidad. Incluso podía protestar, encolerizarse, pese a que él no la había visto enojada con frecuencia. Pero en ese momento Vassu comprendió que ella había supuesto, de forma tangible, que él no regresaría solo, y se había preparado. En cuanto la princesa se levantó, Vassu contempló el vestido de satén rojo, el enjoyado crucifijo de plata que llevaba al cuello, el plateado goteo de sus orejas. En las manos menudas, los grandes anillos agitaban sus colores oscuros. El cabello de la princesa, que jamás había perdido su negrura, se reducía a la altura de los hombros y fluctuaba a la moda de tan sólo hacía veinte años, encuadrando los famélicos huesos de su rostro en una salvaje lozanía. La Vampira estaba espléndida. Delgada, entrada en años, perdida ya la belleza, el corazón apagado, y no obstante... espléndida, prodigiosa.

Vasyelu la miró fija y humildemente, a punto de llorar porque, durante la mitad de la mitad de un momento, había dudado.

—Sí —dijo ella. Le ofreció una fugacísima sonrisa, como una rápida caricia—. En ese caso lo recibiré, Vassu.

Serpiente estaba sentado en el pasillo con las piernas cruzadas, a corta distancia. Había descubierto, en la oscuridad, un fino jarrón chino de la gama de colores yang ts'ai, y lo tenía entre sus manos, con el mentón apoyado en el borde.

—¿Tendré que romper esto? —preguntó.

Vasyelu hizo caso omiso de la observación. Señaló la puerta abierta.

—Ya puedes pasar.

—¿Puedo? Estás excitándome mucho.

Serpiente se puso en pie ágilmente. Todavía con el jarrón en la mano, entró en los aposentos de la Vampira. El anciano lo siguió y situó su cuerpo, vestido de negro, igual que una sombra, junto a la puerta, que en esta ocasión dejó abierta de par en par. Vasyelu contempló a Serpiente.

Tras dar un ligero rodeo, quizá de forma inconsciente, el ladrón había recorrido una tercera parte del largo de la sala en dirección a la mujer. Observando desde la oscuridad, Vasyelu Gorin pudo ver los movimientos de los tensos músculos a lo largo de la columna vertebral, como los de un animal que se apresta a saltar, o a huir. Sin embargo, no verle la cara, los ojos, era insatisfactorio. El anciano cambió de posición, se deslizó como una sombra por el borde de la habitación hasta obtener un punto de observación más favorable.

—Buenas noches —dijo la Vampira a Serpiente—. ¿Te importaría dejar el jarrón? O, si lo prefieres, destrózalo. La indecisión puede ser embarazosa.

—Es posible que prefiera quedarme con él.

—Oh, pues hazlo, por supuesto. Pero te sugiero que permitas a Vasyelu envolverlo, antes de irte. O alguien podría robártelo en la calle.

Serpiente se volvió, grácilmente, como un bailarín, y dejó el jarrón en una mesita. Tras mirar de nuevo a la princesa, sonrió.

—Hay muchas cosas valiosas aquí. ¿Cuáles me llevaré? ¿Qué me dice la cruz de plata que lleva puesta?

La Vampira sonrió también.

—Una joya heredada. Le tengo bastante cariño. No te recomiendo que intentes llevarte esto.

Los ojos de Serpiente se abrieron más. Su aspecto era de ingenuidad, de sorpresa.

—Pero pensaba que, si hago lo que usted me pide, si la hago feliz... podría quedarme con lo que me apeteciera. ¿No fue ese el trato?

—¿Y cómo te propones hacerme feliz?

Serpiente se acercó más a ella, merodeó a su alrededor, con gran lentitud. Disgustado, fascinado, el anciano observó al ladrón. Serpiente se situó detrás de la Vampira, se apretó contra ella, su aliento agitó los filamentos del cabello femenino. Pasó la mano izquierda por el hombro de la mujer, la deslizó desde el satén rojo hasta la seca y descolorida piel de su cuello. Vasyelu recordó el tacto de aquella mano, eléctrica y muy sensible, los dedos de un artista o un cirujano.

La Vampira no se alteró ni por un momento.

—No. No me harás feliz, hijo mío —dijo.

—Oh —le dijo Serpiente al oído—. No puede estar tan segura. Si le apetece, si le apetece de verdad, dejaré que me chupe la sangre.

La Vampira se echó a reír. Fue aterrador. Algo dormido pero intensamente potente pareció cobrar vida en su interior mientras se reía, igual que la llama de una brasa. El sonido, la pasmosa vida, alejó de ella al estremecido joven. Y durante un momento el anciano vio miedo en los ojos amarillos de leopardo, un miedo tan inherente al ser de Serpiente como producir miedo era inherente al ser de la Vampira.

Y la mujer, todavía despidiendo la llama de su poder, miró a Serpiente.

—¿Qué piensas que soy? —preguntó—. ¿Una bruja senil ansiosa de frotar su escamosa carne contra tu tersura? ¿Una bruja a la que tú, por no tener cordura ni remilgos, corromperás con los fantasmas, con las sobras del placer, y la matarás luego para arrancarle las joyas de sus dedos con tus dientes? ¿O acaso soy una bruja pervertida, deseosa de succionar tu juventud con tus jugos? ¿Soy eso? Vamos.

Su fuego menguó, crepitó y apagó la diversión, apagó todo lo que ella mantenía reprimido. Su voz se convirtió en una larga, larguísima aguja que espetó en la pared opuesta las palabras.

—Vamos. ¿Cómo puedo ser tan malévola y llevar el crucifijo en mi pecho? Mi viejo, arrugado, caído y vacío pecho. Vamos. ¿Qué es un nombre, al fin y al cabo?

Conforme el alfiler de su voz iba llegando al joven, éste se alejó de la pared. Por un instante hubo muestras de pánico en Serpiente. Estaba acostumbrado a las características del mundo. Los viejos que se arrastraban por lluviosos callejones eran incapaces de asestar potentes golpes con férreas manos. Las mujeres eran mariposillas que ardían, pero no quemaban, caracteres oropelados y suplicantes, no cuchillas de afeitar.

Serpiente se estremeció de pies a cabeza. Y luego su pánico se esfumó. Por instinto, dedujo algo del efluvio de la misma habitación. Con la vida que él llevaba, había acabado confiando casi siempre en sus instintos.

Se deslizó de nuevo hacia la mujer, no muy cerca esta vez, no más cerca de dos metros.

—Su criado, ese —dijo—, me llevó a un restaurante de lujo. Me emborrachó. Cuando estoy bebido digo cosas que no debería decir. ¿Comprende? Soy un palurdo. No debería estar aquí, en esta casa tan bonita que tiene. No sé qué decir a personas como usted. A una dama. ¿Comprende? Pero no tengo dinero. Nada. Pregúntele. Se lo expliqué todo. Haré cualquier cosa por dinero. Y mi forma de hablar, a algunos tipos les gusta. ¿Comprende? Así parezco peligroso. A la gente le gusta eso. Pero sólo es una comedia.

Mientras adulaba a la mujer, mientras dirigía hacia ella la infundada gloria de sus ojos. Serpiente había retrocedido, se encontraba casi en la puerta.

La Vampira no hizo movimiento alguno. Cual maravillosa estatua de cera, ella dominaba la habitación, roja, blanca y negra, y el anciano era una simple sombra en un rincón.

Serpiente se volvió bruscamente y salió corriendo. En la ciega oscuridad, recorrió el pasillo casi sin pisarlo, saltó hacia la escalera, tocó, saltó, tocó, llegó a la parte despejada de la casa. El centelleo de las estrellas permitía ver el vidrio de color de la puerta. Cuando ésta se abrió de par en par, Serpiente sabía perfectamente que le habían dejado escapar. Después, la puerta se cerró bruscamente a su espalda y él pasó precipitadamente bajo el marfil y por los escalones exteriores, y cruzó la breve pradera de altos y mojados árboles.

Hasta ese momento, de modo infalible, el instinto le había guiado curiosamente, cuando cruzó los portalones hacia el camino desierto echó a correr en dirección al núcleo de la ciudad, el instinto no le decía que estaba libre.

—¿Recuerdas que te interesaste desde el principio por el crucifijo? —preguntó la Vampira.

—Lo recuerdo, princesa. Me pareció extraño, entonces. Naturalmente, no lo comprendía.

—Y tú... —dijo ella—. ¿Qué pasará después de...? —Hizo una pausa, y agregó—: Después de que me dejes.

Vasyelu se alegró de que su muerte causara momentáneo dolor a la Vampira. No pudo evitarlo, en ese momento. Había visto el fuego reavivarse en ella, centellear y arder en su interior como no había hecho desde hacía medio siglo, encendido por la presencia del ladrón, el gigolo, el parásito.

—El es joven y fuerte —dijo el anciano—, y puede cavar una fosa para mí.

—¿Y ninguna ceremonia?

La princesa había pasado por alto el mal humor de Vassu, por supuesto, y el tacto que demostró avergonzó al anciano.

—Estar inmóvil será suficiente —dijo él—. Pero gracias, princesa, por tu preocupación. Supongo que eso no tendrá importancia. O no hay nada, o hay algo tan distinto que me asombrará.

—Ah, amigo mío. De modo que no te imaginas condenado.

—No —dijo él—. No, no. —Y de pronto hubo pasión en su voz. Un último fuego que ofrecer a la mujer—. En la vida que tú me diste, y estuve bendito.

La Vampira cerró los ojos, y Vasyelu Gorin presintió que la había herido con su amor. Y se alegró de ello, ya no como un hombre quisquilloso, sino a la manera de un amante.

El día siguiente, poco antes de las tres de la tarde, Serpiente regresó. Se había levantado viento, y parecía haber empujado al ladrón hasta la puerta con un montón de presurosas hojas muertas. Llevaba el cabello revuelto, y brillante, y las bofetadas del viento habían dado ridícula frescura a su rostro. Pero sus ojos estaban abatidos, cercados, apagados. Los ojos demostraban, como ningún otro de sus rasgos, que había pasado la noche, la madrugada, enzarzado en un segundo metodo comercial. Podrían haber corrido gruesas cortinas y apagado las luces, pero eso no le habría servido de ayuda. Los sentidos de Serpiente eran doblemente agudos en la oscuridad, y él veía a oscuras, igual que un lince.

—¿Sí? —dijo el anciano, mirándolo inexpresivamente, como si fuera un vendedor.

—Sí —dijo Serpiente, y entró con el viejo en la casa.

Vasyelu no se lo impidió. Naturalmente que no. Dejó que el joven, con todo el brillo que le había producido el viento y sus lastimosos ojos de libertino, avanzara hacia las puertas del salón y se introdujera allí. Vasyelu fue tras él.

Las persianas, de un sombrío color ebúrneo, estaban bajadas y las lámparas encendidas. En una lustrosa mesa las flores brotaban como espuma de un jarrón de jade. Había una segunda puerta que daba acceso a la pequeña biblioteca, y el tenue fulgor de las lámparas tremolaba del suelo al techo, sobre lomos con doradas capas, con un torrente de estáticos e inapreciables libros.

Serpiente entró, paseó por la biblioteca, y salió.

—No he cogido nada.

—¿Ni siquiera sabes leer? —espetó Vasyelu Gorin, mientras recordaba los tiempos en los que él, quinto hijo de un leñador, un zoquete y un borrachín, era incapaz de abrirse paso bebiendo o durmiendo en una vida carente de ventanas o vistas, una mera negrura de error y no reconocido aburrimiento.

Hacía mucho tiempo. En aquel pueblo que era un remiendo bajo los árboles. Y el castillo con sus luces rutilantes, los carruajes en el camino, brillantes, los oscuros árboles a ambos lados. Y recordó haber inclinado la cabeza como respuesta a una pregunta, y extraído una caja plateada de dulces de un bolsillo con la misma facilidad con que había sacado una moneda el día anterior...

Serpiente se sentó y se recostó cómodamente en el sillón. No estaba cómodo, y el anciano lo sabía. ¿Qué estaría pensando? Que había dinero allí, excentricidad con la que cebarse. Que podía cautivar a la mujer, a la vieja, como fuera. Siempre era posible inventar excusas para uno mismo.

Cuando la Vampira entró en el salón. Serpiente, experto, un gigolo, se puso en pie. Y a la Vampira le divirtió el gesto, levemente en esta ocasión. Vestía una túnica blanca como un hueso que le habían enviado de París el año anterior. Jamás se la había puesto hasta entonces. Sujeta al cuello se veía una aterciopelada rosa negra con una gota de rocío que temblaba en el solitario pétalo: una perla procedente de las joyas reales de un zar. El tacto de la Vampira, su inigualable tacto. Naturalmente, estaba diciendo la perla, este es el motivo de que hayas vuelto. Naturalmente. No hay nada que temer.

Vasyelu Gorin los dejó solos. Regresó más tarde con garrafas y vasos. La cena fría había sido preparada por personas de la ciudad que se encargaban de tales menesteres, paté, langosta y pollo, trozos de limón cortados igual que flores, trozos de naranja como soles, tomates que eran anémonas, y océanos de verde lechuga, y frío y rutilante hielo. Vasyelu decantó los vinos. Dispuso las cucharillas de plata para el café, cajas con distintos cigarrillos. La noche invernal se había cerrado ya sobre la casa y una mariposilla, excitada por las habitaciones brillantemente iluminadas, volaba entre las velas y las frutas multicolores. El anciano la capturó con una copa de vidrio, se la llevó y la soltó en la oscuridad. Durante cien años y más, jamás había matado un ser vivo.

De vez en cuando los oyó reír. La risa del joven era al principio demasiado elocuente, demasiado hermosa, demasiado irreal. Pero luego se hizo ronca, estrepitosa. Se hizo genuina.

El viento soplaba sin compasión. Vasyelu Gorin imaginó la frágil mariposilla batiendo las alas contra las inmensas alas del viento, cayendo agotada al suelo. Qué agradable sería el reposo.

En la última media hora antes del alba, la Vampira salió quedamente del salón y subió la escalera. El anciano sabía que ella le había visto aguardando en las sombras. Que ella ni le mirara ni le llamara era su esfuerzo por ahorrarle la visión del repentino resplandor que la cubría, su lustre directo y despiadado. Y de este modo el anciano lo vio indirectamente, nada más que eso. Vio la erguida silueta que ascendía, delgada y límpida como la de una niña. Sus ojos eran juveniles, reflejaban un reencuentro primordial, una novedad total.

En el salón, Serpiente dormía bajo su chaqueta en el alargado sofá blanco, con los cojines bordados bajo su mejilla. ¿Examinaría atentamente su cuello, al despertar, en un espejo?

El anciano observó el sueño del joven. La princesa le había enseñado a hablar cinco idiomas y a leer otros tres. Le había permitido descubrir la música, el arte, la historia y las estrellas. La profundidad, la compasión. Vasyelu Gorin había encontrado el cerrado sepulcro de la vida abierto en todas direcciones a increíbles, inexpresables panoramas. Y sin embargo... Y sin embargo... El trayecto debía tener un final. Consumido por el éxtasis y la experiencia, demasiado cansado ya para reír con alegría. Reposar era todo. Estar inmóvil. Sólo ella podía continuar, porque sólo ella era capaz de renacer eternamente. Para Vasyelu, una vez era suficiente.

Dejó durmiendo al joven. Cinco horas más tarde. Serpiente se marchó silenciosamente. Cogió todos los cigarrillos, pero nada más.

Serpiente vendió los cigarrillos con rapidez. En una de las cafeterías que frecuentaba, se reunió con ciertas personas que, percibiendo algún cambio en la fortuna del joven, lo incitaron a vanagloriarse. Serpiente no accedió, permaneció irritablemente reservado, vago. Era otro patrón. Un viejo encantado de hacerle regalos. ¿Dónde vivía el viejo? Oh, en un piso elegante, en la parte norte de la ciudad.

Parte del día. Serpiente paseó.

Cazador como era, desconfiaba de la despejada estepa que era la luz diurna. Había escasos refugios, y por lo mismo abundantes refugios para los seres que él acechaba. Por la tarde, se sentó en los jardines de un museo. Los estudianes iban y venían, seriamente solos o en alborotadores grupos. Serpiente los observó. Apenas eran más jóvenes que él, y sin embargo formaban otra especie. De vez en cuando, una chica, tras sorprender su mirada, le sonreía o trataba de demorarse, para interesarle. Serpiente no respondió. Con el económico desprecio de lo que había llegado a ser, desechaba esa clase de encuentros sexuales. La seducción, la juventud de aquellas chicas era un bien sin valor en otros aspectos. Ellas no iban a pagarle.

Pero Serpiente no despreciaba a la vieja. ¿Cuántos años debía de tener? Sesenta, quizá... No, muchos más. Noventa era más probable. Y sin embargo, su cara, su cuello y sus manos eran curiosamente tersas, sin arrugas. En ocasiones, ella aparentaba solamente cincuenta años. Y el cabello teñido, que debería darle un aspecto de mujer pintarrajeada, realzaba la ilusión de una mujer joven.

Sí, ella le fascinaba. Seguramente debía de haber sido actriz. Extranjera, teatral..., rica. Si estaba dispuesta a mantenerle, juzgándole erróneamente su gatito, él se prestaría gustoso al juego, algún tiempo.Le robaría en cuanto ella empezara a hartarse y él decidiera desaparecer.

No obstante, cierto rasgo en la sencillez de estos pensamientos inquietaba a Serpiente. La primera vez huyó, y ahora estaba inseguro del motivo. No por el nombre vampiresco, ciertamente, un nombre de teatro, Draculas, ¿qué otra cosa podía ser? Por otra cosa..., cierta conciencia de destino, para cuya idea su vocabulario carecía de término, y de explicación. Impulsado a huir, impulsado a regresar después, puesto que era una tontería no hacerlo. Y ella sabía tratarle bien. Con gracia, con elegancia. Ella se mostraría honorable, porque los de su clase siempre eran así. Acostumbrados a gastar dinero por capricho, tampoco se resistían a comprar personas. Jamás habían olvidado la carne, además, tenían un precio, puesto que sus raíces se hallaban firmemente trabadas en una época en la que habían existido esclavos.

Pero... Pero él no iría allí esa noche, pensó. No. Era aconsejable que ella no pudiera confiar en él. Iría mañana, o pasado mañana, pero no esa noche.

El rotante mundo se alejó del sol, pasó por un crepúsculo invernal, se sumió en la oscuridad. Serpiente se alegró de ver el fin de la luz, y de ver brotar falsa luz en los bloques de edificios, en las cafeterías.

Salió al amplio pavimento de una calle, y se acercó un hombre y le cogió del brazo por la derecha mientras otro individuo empezaba a caminar junto a Serpiente por la izquierda.

—Sí, es este, el que se llama Serpiente.

—¿Eres tú? —preguntó el hombre que caminaba junto a él.

—Claro que sí —dijo el otro, apretando con más fuerza el brazo del ladrón—. ¿No nos dieron una descripción exacta? ¿No tiene el aspecto de la descripción?

—Y está en el lugar preciso, además —convino el otro tipo, el que no agarraba a Serpiente—. En la zona precisa.

Los hombres vestían prendas pulcras e inclasificables. Sus rostros eran cetrinos y risueños, y miraban con fijeza. Se trataba de un acto rutinario al que ambos estaban acostumbrados. Serpiente no los conocía, pero sí conocía el tacto, el acento, la risueña fijeza de sus máscaras. Estaba tenso. Pero dejó que la tensión se fundiera, para que los desconocidos vieran y notaran que había desaparecido.

—¿Qué quieren?

El hombre que le agarraba por el brazo se limitó a sonreír.

—Simplemente ganarnos la vida —dijo el otro.

—Haciendo ¿qué?

La iluminada calle desapareció a ambos lados. Por delante, en la esquina, un solar donde una destrozada pared arremetía contra las sombras.

—Al parecer has molestado a alguien —dijo el hombre que solamente caminaba—. Los has molestado mucho.

—He molestado a mucha gente —dijo Serpiente.

—Estoy seguro de ello. Pero hay gente que no lo tolera.

—¿Quiénes? Podría ir a verlos.

—No. Ellos no quieren eso. No quieren que veas a nadie.

La negra esquina se hallaba a pocos metros.

—Podría arreglar las cosas.

—No. Para eso precisamente nos han pagado a nosotros.

—Pero si no sé...

Y Serpiente se volvió hacia el hombre que le sujetaba el brazo y le hundió el puño en su blanda panza. El desconocido le soltó y cayó.

Serpiente echó a correr. Cruzó el solar, entró en el brillante resplandor de la siguiente calle y casi estaba riendo cuando el cuchillo arrojado le alcanzó en la espalda.

Las luces dieron vueltas. Algo duro y frío le golpeó el pecho, la cara. Serpiente se dio cuenta de que era el pavimento. Había un ruido apagado y confuso, un sonido que se acercaba y se alejaba, quizás un gentío congregándose. Alguien se puso encima de sus costillas, le extrajo el cuchillo y el dolor empezó.

—¿Listo? —inquirió una voz sofocada por encima de su cuerpo: el hombre al que había golpeado en el estómago.

—Misión cumplida.

Sonó otra voz. Un coche se desvió hacia la acera y frenó roncamente. La puerta del vehículo se abrió y unas pisadas recorrieron el cemento. Detrás de él. Serpiente oyó que los dos hombres se alejaban rápidamente.

Serpiente se dispuso a levantarse, y averiguó sorprendido que era incapaz de hacer tal cosa.

—¿Qué ha pasado?—preguntó alguien, arriba, muy arriba.

—No lo sé.

—Mira, hay sangre—dijo una mujer en voz baja.

Serpiente hizo caso omiso de la observación. Al cabo de unos segundos intentó levantarse de nuevo, y logró ponerse de rodillas. Le habían herido, eso era todo. Notaba el dolor, pero ya no agudamente, confuso, como el ruido que escuchaba, acercándose y alejándose. Abrió los ojos. La luz había menguado, volvió en una gran oleada, se apagó de nuevo. Al parecer sólo había cinco o seis personas de pie alrededor de él. Cuando se levantó, las sombras más próximas retrocedieron.

—No debería moverse —dijo alguien en tono apremiante.

Una mano tocó el hombro de Serpiente, y se apartó al instante, igual que un insecto.

La luz se hizo negra, y el ruido arremetió contra él como la marea, inundó sus oídos, lo dejó aturdido. Algo le sostenía, y Serpiente lo apartó de él... una pared...

—Vamos, hijo —dijo un hombre.

Las luces se encendieron otra vez, de tal forma que evocaban un cine. No tardaría en encontrarse bien. Se alejó de la pequeña muchedumbre, sin mirar las caras. Con respeto, con reverente temor, la gente dejó marchar al herido, y todos contemplaron el reguero de sangre que iba dejando en el pavimento.

El reloj francés sonó dulcemente en el salón. Eran las siete. Al otro lado de la ventana, el parque estaba negro. Había empezado a llover otra vez.

El anciano había estado observando desde la ventana de la planta baja durante más de una hora. De vez en cuando se alejó inquietamente del vidrio, dio vueltas por la habitación, enderezó un cuadro, cogió un pétalo desechado por las flores moribundas. Luego volvió a la ventana, observó los árboles, la lluvia y la noche.

Menos de un minuto después de las campanadas del reloj, un fragmento de la estática oscuridad se desprendió y comenzó a moverse, muy despacio, hacia la casa.

Vasyelu Gorin se dirigió hacia el recibidor. Mientras andaba, miró la escalera. La lámpara del rellano estaba encendida, y la princesa se hallaba allí iluminada por los rayos de luz, con las manos colgando, elegantes, como si no pesaran, y la cabeza erguida.

—¿Princesa?

—Sí, lo sé. Por favor, apresúrate, Vassu. Creo que apenas nos queda margen.

El anciano abrió la puerta rápidamente. Bajó saltando los escalones con la misma ligereza que un muchacho de dieciocho años. La negra lluvia azotó su rostro, sugestiva de mil recuerdos, y Vasyelu se encontró corriendo por un huerto de Borgoña, por la ladera de una montaña en la Toscana, por la senda de un jardín silvestre cerca de la San Petersburgo que ya no era San Petersburgo, hasta que llegó hasta el cuerpo de un joven que yacía sobre las raíces de un árbol.

El anciano se agachó, y un ojo se abrió pálidamente en la oscuridad y le miró.

—Me dieron una cuchillada —dijo Serpiente—. Me he arrastrado hasta aquí.

Vasyelu Gorin se agachó bajo la lluvia hacia la hierba de Francia, Italia y Rusia y alzó en brazos a Serpiente. El cuerpo se bamboleó, era muy pesado, no ayudó a Vasyelu. Pero no importaba. Qué fuerte era él, podía maravillarse de eso, estaba en pie, soportando en su pecho el peso del joven, y tras dar media vuelta echó a correr hacia la casa.

—No sé —murmuró Serpiente—, no sé quién los envió. Cuánto me gustaría... ¿Es grave? No pensaba que fuera tan grave.

El marfil flotó sobre el rostro de Serpiente y éste cerró los ojos.

Cuando Vasyelu entró en el recibidor, la Vampira se hallaba ya en el escalón más bajo. Vasyelu se acercó con el moribundo, y lo dejó a los pies de la princesa. Luego se dispuso a marcharse.

—Aguarda —dijo ella.

—No, princesa. Se trata de un asunto íntimo. Entre vosotros dos, como en otro tiempo lo fue entre nosotros dos. No quiero verlo, princesa. No quiero ver lo mismo con otro.

Ella le miró un momento, igual que una niña, lamentando haberle molestado, reacia a ceder. Después asintió.

—Vete pues, querido mío.

Vasyelu se alejó al instante. Y no vio a la princesa cuando ésta acabó de bajar el escalón y se arrodilló junto a Serpiente en la alfombra turca cubierta de sangre desde hacía poco. Sí, Vasyelu creyó oír el susurro del vestido, cual fino papel de seda, el murmullo de la minúscula daga al abrirle la carne y finalmente el prolongado y mudo suspiro.

Vasyelu fue a la parte baja de la casa, llegó a la limpia y frígida cocina moderna llena de electricidad. Se sentó allí, y recordó el bosque próximo a la ciudad, las antorchas de los vociferantes aristócratas que iban en su busca por el robo de la caja de dulces, los golpes cuando lo cogieron. Recordó, como algo que vuelve a la memoria, sin dolor y sin opresión, qué se sentía al empezar a morir de esa forma, la confusa cólera, el ir y venir de objetos tangibles, largas pulsaciones de existencia que alternaban con profundos valles de inexistencia. Y luego aquel agónico e increíble arrastrarse, con los dedos en la misma tierra, impulsándose, las piernas capaces a veces de ayudarle, otras veces fallándole, cual pasajeros que hay que arrastrar con el resto. En el cementerio, al borde de la finca, Vasyelu dejó de moverse. No podía continuar.

El suelo era frío, y las blancas tumbas, curiosa vegetación petrificada sobre su cabeza, parecían succionar el negro cielo, de tal modo que ellas se oscurecían y el cielo palidecía.

Pero conforme el cielo iba quedándose sin sangre, el sabor anticipado del día iba poseyéndolo. En menos de una hora saldría el sol.

Vasyelu había oído hablar de ella, y sabía que acabaría siendo su siervo. Lo había sabido, tanto en su caso como en el del joven llamado Serpiente, gracias a un presagio de muerte violenta. Durante todo aquel día, mientras buscaba en la ciudad, nadie había tenido ese estigma, esa marca. Hasta que, en el callejón, la cálida mano le agarró por el cuello, hasta que escrutó aquellos ojos leopardinos. En aquel momento Vasyelu vio la marca, olió su aroma como si fuera hueso socarrado.

El anciano no tenía que preguntar (ni asombrarse de ello) cómo Serpiente, disminuido por una herida mortal, desangrándose y apenas consciente, había podido recorrer tanta distancia, arrastrándose por largas calles duras como uñas, por los jardines musgosos de los ricos, a través de los colosales portalones, por la empapada pradera teñida de noche, tanta distancia y agonizante. También él había hecho lo mismo, hacía más de dos siglos. Y allí le había encontrado ella, entre las altas y blancas tumbas. En cuanto los focos de sus ojos se ajustaron de nuevo, alzó la cabeza y la vio, la criatura más hermosa sobre la que se había posado su mirada. Ella le había dado su sangre. Vasyelu había bebido la sangre de Darejan Draculas, una princesa, una vampira. Un elixir extraordinario que le había salvado. Todas las heridas sanaron. La muerte se desprendió de él cual piel desgarrada y todo lo que él había sido (carroñero, ladrón, camorrista, borracho y, por determinado número de monedas, ramera), todo ello se desmoronó. Tras levantarse, Vasyelu había pisado todo ello, lo había dejado atrás. Se había acercado y arrodillado ante ella, del mismo modo que ella, pocos minutos antes, se había arrodillado ante él para abrigarle, para darle la vida de sus plateadas venas.

Y esto, todo esto, iba a ser para el otro. Ni siquiera la sangre de la princesa, al parecer, confería inmortalidad, sólo longevidad, próxima a su fin para Vasyelu Gorin. Y de este modo, muchas, muchísimas noches a partir de entonces, también el otro acabaría llegando al mismo vacío.

También Serpiente recordaría el momento de su despertar, sabría que otro iba a soportar la pasmosa emoción, y todo ello se repetiría después.

Por fin, con cierta sensación de culpa, el anciano salió de la higiénica cocina y volvió al resplandor del piso superior para situarse furtivamente en las sombras del borde de la luz. Sabía que ella percibiría su presencia, que no iba a molestarse por ello... ¿Acaso no había estado dispuesta a que él se quedara?

Todo estaba hecho.

El vestido de la Vampira yacía cual rosa abierta, el joven apoyado en ella, con los ojos muy abiertos, contemplando a la mujer. Y ella sería la criatura más hermosa que jamás había visto. Alrededor de él, invisibles, las desprendidas pieles de su vida, pellejos que él pisaría despreocupadamente. ¿Y ella?

La cabeza de la Vampira se inclinó hacia Serpiente. El oscuro cabello cayó blandamente. Su cara, empolvada por el brillo de la lámpara, era joven, rebosaba de vitalidad, serena vivacidad, encanto.

Todo había vuelto a ella. Había renacido.

Quizá fuera sólo una ilusión.

El anciano agachó la cabeza, en las sombras. La envidia, la pesadumbre habían desaparecido. Finalmente, su vida con la princesa se había convertido en otra piel que debía desprenderse. Iba a disfrutar la paz que ella quizá no tendría nunca, y se alegraba de ello. El joven serviría a la Vampira, y ella sería cazadora una vez más, y bailarina, un brillante fantasma que se deslizaría por el salón de baile de la ciudad, de esa ciudad y de otras, y de todos los mundos intermedios de tierra y espíritu.

Vasyelu Gorin se agitó en la plataforma de su existencia. Iba a marcharse ahora, o muy pronto. Ya escuchaba el murmullo del tren que se aproximaba. Sería muy sencillo, esta vez, totalmente al contrario que la otra. Partiría deseosamente, con todo hecho, en orden.

Sabiendo que ella estaba segura.

Incluso había un tenue color en las mejillas de la princesa, lozanía. O quizá fuera tan sólo una travesura de la lámpara. El anciano aguardó a que ambos estuvieran de pie y se alejaran tranquilamente hacia el salón antes de salir de las sombras para subir la escalera. Y escuchó el silencio, el silencio de la pareja, el silencio de los nuevos amantes.

Al pie de la escalera, más allá de la lámpara, la oscuridad era apacible, suave como el cabello de la Vampira. Vasyelu se adentró en la negrura sin temor, tiernamente.

Cuánto la había amado.

Tanith Lee

The Man Who Stole The Moon - Tanith Lee

Several tales are told concerning the Moon of the Flat Earth. Some say that this Moon, perhaps, was a hollow globe, within which lay lands and
seas, having even their own cool Sun. However, there are other stories.
One evening, Jaqir the accomplished thief rose from a bed of love and
said to his mistress, “Alas, sweetheart, we must now part forever.” Jaqir’s
mistress looked at him in surprise and shook out her bright hair. “You are mistaken. My husband, the old merchant, is miles off again, buying silk and other stuff, and besides suspects nothing. And I am well satisfied with you.”
“Dear heart,” said Jaqir, as he dressed his handsome self swiftly, “neither
of these things is the stumbling block to our romance. It is only this. I
have grown tired of you.”
“Tired of me!” cried the lady, springing from the bed.
“Yes, though indeed you are toothsome in all respects. I am inconstant
and easily bored. You must forgive me.”
“Forgive you!” screamed the lady, picking up a handy vase.
Jaqir ducked the vase and swung nimbly out of the high window, an
action to which he was quite accustomed, from his trade. “Although a
deceiver in my work, honesty in my private life is always my preferred
method,” he added, as he dropped quickly down through the vine to the
street below. Once there he was gone in a flash, and just in time to miss
the jar of piddle the lady that moment upended from the window.
However, three of the king’s guard, next second passing beneath, were not so fortunate.
“A curse upon all bladders,’” howled they, wringing out their cloaks and
hair. Then looking up, they beheld the now no-longer mistress of Jaqir,
and asked her loudly what she meant by it.
“Pardon me, splendid sirs,” said she. “The befoulment was not intended
for you, but for that devilish thief, Jaqir, who even now runs through that alley there toward a hiding place he keeps in the House of the Thin Door.”
At the mention of Jaqir, who was both celebrated and notorious in that
city, the soldiers forgot their inconvenience, and gave instant chase. Never before had any been able to lay hands on Jaqir, who, it was said, could steal the egg from beneath a sleeping pigeon. Now, thanks to the
enragement of his discarded lover, the guard knew not only of Jaqir’s
proximity, but his destination. Presently then they came up with him by
the House of the Thin Door.
“Is it he?”
“So it is, for I have heard, when not in disguise, he dresses like a lord, like this one, and, like this one, his hair is black as a panther’s fur.”
At this they strode up to Jaqir and surrounded him.
“Good evening, my friends,” said Jaqir. “You are fine fellows, despite
your smell.”
“That smell is not our own, but the product of a night-jar emptied on us.
And the one who did this also told us where to find the thief Jaqir.”
“Fate has been kind to you. I will not therefore detain you further.”
“No, it is you who shall be detained.”
“I?” asked Jaqir modestly.
But within the hour he discovered himself in chains in the king’s
dungeons.
“Ah, Jaqir,” said he to himself, “a life of crime has taught you nothing.
For have the gods not always rewarded your dishonesty—and now you
are chastised for being truthful.”
Although of course the indifferent, useless gods had nothing to do with
any of it.
A month or so later, the king got to hear that Jaqir the Prince of Thieves
languished in the prison, awaiting trial.
“I will see to it,” said the king. “Bring him before me.”
So Jaqir was brought before the king. But, despite being in jail, being also
what he was, Jaqir had somehow stolen a gold piece from one jailor and
gifted it to another, and so arrived in the king’s sight certainly in chains,
but additionally bathed, barbered, and anointed, dressed in finery, and
with a cup of wine in his hand.
Seeing this, the king laughed. He was a young king and not without a
sense of the humorous. In addition, he knew that Jaqir, while he had stolen from everyone he might, had never harmed a hair of their heads, while his skills of disguise and escape were much admired by any he had not annoyed.
“Now then, Prince of Thieves, may a mere king invite you to sit? Shall I
strike off your chains?” added the king.
“Your majesty,” said one of the king’s advisers, “pray do not unchain
him, or he will be away over the roofs. Look, he has already stolen two of my gold rings—and see, many others have lost items.”
This was a fact. All up and down the palace hall, those who had gathered
to see Jaqir on trial were exclaiming over pieces of jewelry suddenly
missing. And one lady had even lost her little dog, which abruptly, and
with a smile, Jaqir let out of an inner compartment in his shirt, though it
seemed quite sorry to leave him.
“Then I shall not unchain you,” said the king. “Restore at once all you
have filched.”
Jaqir rose, shook himself somewhat, and an abundance of gold and gems
cascaded from his person.
“Regrettably, lord king, I could not resist the chance to display my skills.”
“Rather you should deny your skills. For you have been employed in my
city seven years, and lived like the prince you call yourself. But the
punishment for such things is death.”
Jaqir’s face fell, then he shrugged. He said, “I see you are a greater thief,
sir, than I. For I only presume to rob men of their goods. You are bold
enough to burgle me of my life.”
At that the court made a noise, but the king grew silent and thoughtful.
Eventually he said, “I note you will debate the matter. But I do not believe you can excuse your acts.”
“There you are wrong. If I were a beggar calling for charity on the street
you would not think me guilty of anything but ill luck or indigence. Or, if I were a seller of figs you would not even notice me as I took the coins of men in exchange for my wares.”
“Come,” said the king. “You neither beg nor sell. You thieve.”
“A beggar,” said Jaqir, “takes men’s money and other alms, and gives
nothing in return but a blessing. Please believe me, I heap blessings on the heads of all I rob, and thank them in my prayers for their charity. Had I begged it, I might, it is true, not have received so great a portion. How much nobler and blessed are they then, that they have given over to me the more generous amount? Nor do they give up their coins for nothing.
For what they buy of me, when it is I who steal from them, is a dramatic
tale to tell. And indeed, lord king, have you never heard any boast of how they were robbed by me?”
The king frowned, for now and then he had heard this very thing, some
rich noble or other reciting the story of how he had been despoiled of this or that treasure by the nimble Jaqir, the only thief able to take it. And once or twice, there were women, too, who said, “When I woke, I found my rings were gone, but on my pillow lay a crimson rose. Oh, would he had stayed a while to steal some other prize.”
“I am not,” declared Jaqir, “a common thief. I purloin from none who
cannot afford the loss. I deduct nothing that has genuine sentimental or
talismanic weight. I harm none. Besides, I am an artist in what I do. I
come and go like a shadow, and vanish like the dawn into the day. You
will have been told, I can abstract the egg of a pigeon from beneath the
sleeping bird and never wake it.”
The king frowned deeply. He said, “Yet with all this vaunted knack, you
did not, till today, leave my dungeons.”
Jaqir bowed. “That was because, lord king, I did not wish to miss my
chance of meeting you.”
“Truly? I think rather it was the bolts and bars and keys, the numerous
guards—who granted you wine, but not an open door. You seem a touch
pale.”
“Who can tell?” idly answered pale Jaqir.
But the king only said, “I will go apart and think about all this.” And so he did, but the court lingered, looking at Jaqir, and some of the ladies and young men came and spoke to him, but trying always not to get near
enough to be robbed. Yet even so, now and then, he would courteously
hand them back an emerald or amethyst he had removed from their
persons.
Meanwhile the king walked up and down a private chamber where, on
pedestals of marble, jewel-colored parrots sat watching him.
“He is clever,” said the king, “handsome, well mannered, and decorative.
One likes him at once, despite his nefarious career. Why cast such a man
out of the state of life? We have callous villains and nonentities enough.
Must every shining star be snuffed?”
Then a scarlet parrot spoke to him.
“O king, if you do not have Jaqir executed, they will say you are partial,
and not worthy to be trusted with the office of judge.”
“Yes,” said the king, “this I know.”
At this another parrot, whose feathers shone like a pale-blue sky, also
spoke out. “But if you kill him, O king, men may rather say you were
jealous of him. And no king must envy any man.”
“This is also apt,” said the king, pacing about.
Then a parrot spoke, which was greener than jade.
“O king, is Jaqir not a thief? Does he not brag of it? Set him then a test of
thieving, and make this test as impossible as may be. And say to him, ‘If
you can do this, then indeed your skill is that of a poet, an artist, a warrior, a prince. But if you fail you must die.’”
Then the king laughed again. “Well said. But what test?”
At that a small gray parrot flew from its pedestal, and standing on his
shoulder, spoke in the king’s ear with a jet-black beak. The king said, “O wisest of all my councilors.”
In the palace hall Jaqir sat among the grouped courtiers, being pleasant
and easy with them in his chains, like a king. But then the king entered
and spoke as follows:
“Now, Jaqir, you may have heard, in my private rooms four angels live,
that have taken another form. With these four I have discussed your case.
And here is the verdict. I shall set you now a task that, should you succeed at it, must make you a hero and a legend among men—which happy state you will live to enjoy, since also I will pardon all your previous crimes.
Such shall be your fame then, that hardly need you try to take anything by stealth. A million doors shall be thrown wide for you, and men will load you with riches, so astonishing will your name have become.”
Jaqir had donned a look of flattering attention.
“The task then. You claim yourself a paragon among thieves. You must
steal that which is itself a paragon. And as you say you have never taken
anything which may be really missed, on this occasion I say you will have to thieve something all mankind shall miss and mourn.”
The court stood waiting on the king’s words. Jaqir stood waiting, perforce.
And all about, as at such times it must (still must), the world stood
waiting, hushing the tongues of sea and wind, the whispers of forests and sands, the thunder of a thousand voiceless things.
“Jaqir, Prince of Thieves, for your life, fly up and steal the Moon from the sky. The task being what it is, I give you a year to do it.”
Nine magicians bound Jaqir. He felt the chains they put on him as he had scarcely felt the other chains of iron, thinking optimistically as he had been, that he would soon be out of them.
But the new chains emerged from a haze of iridescent smokes and a
rumble of incantations, and had forms like whips and lions, thorns and
bears. Meeting his flesh, they disappeared, but he felt them sink in,
painless knives, and fasten on his bones and brain and mind.
“You may go where you wish and do what you will and suffer nothing.
But if you should attempt, in any way, to abscond, then you will feel the
talons and the fangs of that which has bound you, wrapped gnawing inside your body. And should you persist in your evasion, these restraints shall accordingly devour you from within. Run where you choose, seek what help you may, you will die in horrible agony, and soon. Only when you return to the king, your task accomplished fully, and clearly proven, will these strictures lapse—but that at once. Success, success alone, spells your freedom.”
So then Jaqir was let go, and it was true enough, honesty being the
keynote to his tale so far, that he had no trouble, and could travel about as he wanted. Nor did any idea enter his mind concerning escape. Of all he was or was not, Jaqir was seldom a fool. And he had, in the matter of his arrest, surely spent sufficient foolishness to last a lifetime.
Since he was not a fool, Jaqir, from the moment the king had put the
bargain to him, had been puzzling how he might do what was demanded.
In the past, many difficult enterprises had come Jaqir’s way, and he had
solved the problem of each. But it is to be remembered, on none of these
had his very existence depended. Nor had it been so strange. One thing
must be said, too, the world being no longer as then it was—Jaqir did not
at any point contest the notion on the grounds that it was either absurd or unconscionable. Plainly sorcery existed, was everywhere about, and
seldom doubted. Plainly the Moon, every night gaudily on show, might be accessible, even to men, for there were legends of such goings on. Thus Jaqir never said to himself, What madness have I been saddled with? Only: How can I effect this extraordinary deed?
So he went up and down in the city, and later through the landscape
beyond, walking mostly, to aid his concentration. Sometimes he would
spend the night at an inn, or in some rich house he had never professionally bothered but which had heard of him. And occasionally
men did know of him to recognize him, and some knew what had been
laid upon him. And unfortunately, the nicest of them would tend to a
similar, irritating act. Which was, as the Moon habitually rose in the east, to mock or rant at him. “Aiee, Jaqir. Have you not stolen her yet?”
Because the Earth was then flat, the Moon journeyed over and around it,
dipping, after moonset, into the restorative seas of chaos that lay beneath
the basement of the world. Nor was the Moon of the Flat Earth so very big in circumference (although the size of the Moon varied, influenced by who told—or tells—the tales).
“What is the Moon?” pondered Jaqir at a wayside tavern, sipping sherbet.
“Of what is the Moon made?” murmured Jaqir, courting sleep, for
novelty, in an olive grove.
“Is it heavy or light? What makes it, or she, glow so vividly? Is it a she?
How,” muttered Jaqir, striding at evening between fields of silver barley,
“am I to get hold of the damnable thing?”
Just then the Moon willfully and unkindly rose again, unstolen, over the
fields. Jaqir presently lay down on his back among the barley stalks,
gazing up at her as she lifted herself higher and higher. Until at length she reached the apex of heaven, where she seemed for a while to stand still, like one white lily on a stem of stars.
“Oh Moon of my despair,” said Jaqir softly, “I fear I shall not master this
riddle. I would do better to spend my last year of life—of which I find
only nine months remain!—in pleasure, and forget the hopeless task.”
At that moment Jaqir heard the stalks rustling a short way off, and sitting up, he saw through the darkness how two figures wandered between the barley. They were a young man and a girl, and from their conduct, lovers in search of a secret bed. With a rueful nod at the ironies of Fate, Jaqir got up and meant to go quietly away. But just then he heard the maiden say, “Not here, the barley is trampled—we must lie where the stalks are thicker, or we may be heard.”
“Heard?” asked the youth. “There is no one about.”
“Not up in the fields,” replied the girl, “but down below the fields the
demons may be listening in the Underearth.”
“Ho,” said the youth (another fool), “I do not believe in demons.”
“Hush! They exist and are powerful. They love the world by night, as they must avoid the daylight, and like moonlit nights especially, for they are enamored of the Moon, and have made ships and horses with wings in order to reach it. And they say, besides, the nasty magician, Paztak, who lives only a mile along the road from this very place, is nightly visited by the demon Drin, who serve him in return for disgusting rewards.”
By now the lovers were a distance off, and only Jaqir’s sharp ears had
picked up the ends of their talk after which there was silence, save for the sound of moonlight dripping on the barley. But Jaqir went back to the road. His face had become quite purposeful, and perhaps even the Moon, since she watched everything so intently, saw that too.
Now Paztak the magician did indeed live nearby, in his high, brazen tower, shielded by a thicket of tall and not ordinary laurels. Hearing a
noise of breakage among these, Paztak undid a window and peered down at Jaqir, who stood below with drawn knife.
“What are you at, unruly felon?” snapped Paztak.
“Defending myself, wise sir, as your bushes bite.”
“Then leave them alone. My name is Paztak the Unsociable. Be off, or I
shall conjure worse things—to attack you.”
“Merciful mage, my life is in the balance. I seek your help, and must loiter till you give it.”
The mage clapped his hands, and three yellow, slavering dogs leaped from thin air and also tried to tear Jaqir into bite-size pieces. But avoiding them, Jaqir sprang at the tower and, since he was clever at such athletics, began climbing up it.
“Wretch!” howled Paztak. And then Jaqir found a creature, part wolverine and part snake, had roped the tower and was striving to wind him as well in its coils. But Jaqir slid free, kicked shut its clashing jaws, and vaulted over its head onto Paztak’s windowsill.
“Consider me desperate rather than impolite.”
“I consider you elsewhere,” remarked Paztak with a new and ominous
calm.
Next instant Jaqir found himself in a whirlwind, which turned him over
and over, and cast him down at last in the depths of a forest.
“So much for the mage,” said Jaqir, wiping snake-wolverine, dog, and
laurel saliva from his boots. “And so much for me, I have had, in my life,
an unfair quantity of good luck, and evidently it is all used up.”
“Now, now,” said a voice from the darkness, “let me get a proper look at
you, and see if it is.”
And from the shadows shouldered out a dwarf of such incredible
hideousness that he might be seen to possess a kind of beauty.
Staring in awe at him then, from his appearance, and the fabulous jewelry with which he was adorned, Jaqir knew him for a Drin.
“Now, now,” repeated the Drin, whose coal-black, luxuriant hair swept
the forest floor. And he struck a light by the simple means of running his
talonous nails—which were painted indigo—along the trunk of a tree.
Holding up his now flaming hand, the Drin inspected Jaqir, gave a leer
and smacked his lips. “Handsome fellow,” said the Drin. “What will you
offer me if I assist you?”
Jaqir knew a little of the Drin, the lowest caste of demonkind, who were
metalsmiths and artisans of impossible and supernatural ability. He knew, too, as the girl had said, that the Drin required, in exchange for any service to mortals, recompense frequently of a censorable nature. Nor did this Drin seem an exception to the rule.
“Estimable sir,” said Jaqir, “did you suppose I needed assistance?”
“I have no doubt of it,” said the Drin. “Sometimes I visit the old pest
Paztak, and was just now idling in his garden, in chat with a most
fascinating woodlouse, when I heard your entreaties, and soon beheld you hurled into this wood. Thinking you more interesting than the mage, I followed. And here I am. What would you have?”
“What would you have?” asked Jaqir uneasily.
“Nothing you are not equipped to give.”
“Well,” said Jaqir resignedly, “we will leave that for the moment. Let me
first see if you are as cunning as the stones say.” And Jaqir thought,
pragmatically, After all, what is a little foul and horrible dreadfulness, if it will save me death?
Then he told the Drin of the king’s edict, and how he, Jaqir the thief, must thieve the Moon.
When he had done speaking, the Drin fell to the ground and rolled amid
the fern, laughing, and honking like a goose, in the most repellent manner.
“You cannot do it,” assumed Jaqir.
The Drin arose, and shook out his collar and loin-guard of rubies.
“Know me. I am Yulba, pride of my race, revered even among our
demonic high castes of Eshva and Vazdru. Yulba, that the matchless lord, Azhrarn the Beautiful, has petted seven hundred times during his walkings up and down in the Underearth.”
“You are to be envied,” said Jaqir prudently. He had heard, too, as who
had not who had ever heard tales about the demons, of the Prince of
Demons, Azhrarn. “But that does not mean you are able to assist me.”
“Pish,” said the Drin. “It is a fact, no mortal thing, not even the birds of
the air, might fly so high as the Moon, let alone any man essay it. But I am Yulba. What cannot Yulba do?”
file:///C/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry%20kru...e%20-%20The%20Man%20Who%20Stole%20The%20Moon.html (12 of 28)24-2-2006 20:44:43
THE MAN WHO STOLE THE MOON by Tanith Lee
Three nights Jaqir waited in the forest for Yulba to return. On the third
night Yulba appeared out of the trunk of a cedar tree, and after him he
hauled a loose, glimmering, almost-silky bundle, that clanked and
clacketed as it came.
“Thus,” said the Drin, and threw it down.
“What is that?”
“Have you no eyes? A carpet I have created, with the help of some elegantspinners of the eight-legged sort, but reinforced with metals fashioned by myself. Everything as delicate as the wings of bees, strong as the scales of dragons. Imbued by me with spells and vapors of the Underearth, as it is,”
bragged on the Drin, “the carpet is sorcerous, and will naturally fly. Even as far as the gardens of the stars, from where, though a puny mortal, you may then inspect your quarry, the Moon.”
Jaqir, himself an arch-boaster, regarded Yulba narrowly. But then, Jaqir
thought, a boaster might also boast truthfully, as he had himself. So as
Yulba undid the carpet and spread it out, Jaqir walked on there. The next second Yulba also bounded aboard. At which the carpet, with no effort, rose straight up between the trees of the forest and into the sky of night.
“Now what do you say?” prompted the Drin.
All the demon race were susceptible to flattery. Jaqir spoke many winning sentences of praise, all the while being careful to keep the breadth of the carpet between them.
Up and up the carpet flew. It was indeed very lovely, all woven of blue
metals and red metals, and threaded by silk, and here and there set with
countless tiny diamonds that spangled like the stars themselves.
But Jaqir was mostly absorbed by the view of the Earth he now had. Far
below, itself like a carpet, unrolled the dark forest and then the silvery
fields, cut by a river-like black mirror. And as they flew higher yet, Jaqir
came to see the distant city of the king, like a flower garden of pale lights, and farther again, lay mountains, and the edges of another country. “How small,” mused Jaqir, “has been my life. It occurs to me the gods could never understand men’s joy or tribulation, for from the height of their dwelling, how tiny we are to them, less than ants.”
“Ants have their own recommendations,” answered Yulba.
But the Moon was already standing high in the eastern heaven, still round in appearance, and sheerest white as only white could be.
No command needed be given the carpet. Obviously Yulba had already
primed it to its destination. It now veered and soared, straight as an arrow, toward the Moon, and as it did so, Jaqir felt the tinsel roots of the lowest stars brush over his forehead.
And what was the Moon of the Flat Earth, that it might be approached and flown about on a magic carpet? It was, as has been said, maybe a globe containing other lands, but also it was said to be not a globe at all, but, like the Earth itself, a flat disk, yet placed sidelong in the sky, and
presenting always a circular wheel of face to the world. And that this
globe or disk altered its shape was due to the passage of its own internal
sun, now lighting a quarter or a half or a whole of it—or, to the
interference of some invisible body coming between it and some other
(invisible) light, or to the fact that the Moon was simply a skittish shapechanger, making itself now round, and now a sliver like the paring of a nail.
As they drew ever nearer, Jaqir learned one thing, which in the many
stories is a constant—that heat came from the Moon. But (in Jaqir’s story) it was an appealing heat, quite welcome in the chilly upper sky. Above, the stars hung, some of them quite close, and they were of all types of shape and shade, all brilliant, but some blindingly so. Of the closer ones, their sparkling roots trailed as if floating in a pond, nourished on some unknown substance. While below, the world seemed only an enormous smudge.
The Drin himself, black eyes glassy, was plainly enraptured by the Moon. Jaqir was caught between wonder and speculation.
Soon enough, the vast luminescence enveloped them, and the heat of the
Moon was now like that of a summer morning. Jaqir estimated that the
disk might be only the size of a large city, so in his story, that is the size of the Moon.
But Jaqir, as the carpet began obediently to circle round the lunar orb,
gazed at it with a proper burglar’s care. Soon he could make out details of the surface, which was like nothing so much as an impeccable plate of
white porcelain, yet here and there cratered, perhaps by the infrequent fall of a star. And these craters had a dim blue ghostly sheen, like that of a blue beryl.
When the carpet swooped yet nearer in, Jaqir next saw that the plate of the moon had actually a sort of landscape, for there were kinds of smooth, low, blanched hills, and here and there something which might be a carven watercourse, though without any water in it. And there were also strewn boulders, and other stones, which must be prodigious in girth, but they were all like the rarest pearls.
Jaqir was seized by a desire to touch the surface of the hot, white Moon.
He voiced this.
Yulba scowled, disturbed in his rapturous trance.
“Oh ignorant man, even my inspired carpet may go no closer, or the
magnetic pull of the Moon will tug, and we crash down there.”
As he spoke, they passed slowly around the globe, and began moving
across the back of the Moon, which, until that minute, few mortals had
ever seen.
This side lay in a deep violet shadow, turned from the Earth, and tilted
upward somewhat at the vault of the sky. It was cooler here, and Jaqir
fancied he could hear a strange sound, like harps playing softly, but
nothing was to be seen. His hands itched to have something away.
“Peerless Yulba, in order to make a plan of assault, I shall need to get, for
reference, some keepsake of the Moon.”
“You ask too much,” grumbled Yulba.
“Can you not do it? But you are Yulba,” smarmed Jaqir, “lord among
Drin, favorite of the Prince of Demons. What is there Yulba cannot do?
And, I thought we were to be friends…”
Yulba cast a look at Jaqir, then the Drin frowned at the Moon with such
appalling ugliness, Jaqir turned his head.
“I have a certain immense power over stones,” said the Drin, “seeing my
kind work with them. If I can call you a stone from the Moon, what is it
worth?”
Jaqir, who was not above the art of lying either, lied imaginatively at
some length, until Yulba lumbered across the carpet and seemed about to demonstrate affection. “Not however,” declared Jaqir, “any of this, until my task is completed. Do you expect me to be able to concentrate on such events, when my life still hangs by a thread?”
Yulba withdrew once more to the carpet’s border. He began a horrible
whistling, which set on edge not only Jaqir’s teeth but every bone in his
body. Nevertheless, in a while, a single pebble, only about the size of an
apricot, came flying up and struck Yulba in the eye.
“See—I am blinded!” screeched Yulba, thrashing on the carpet, but he
was not. Nor would he then give up the pebble. But soon enough, as their transport—which by now was apparently tiring—sank away from the Moon, Jaqir rolled a moment against the Drin, as if losing his balance.
Thereafter the moon-pebble was in Jaqir’s pocket.
What a time they had been on their travels. Even as the carpet flopped,
wearily and bumpily now, toward the Earth, a blossoming of rose pink
appeared in the east.
This pretty sight, of course, greatly upset Yulba, for demons feared the
Sun, and with good reason, it could burn them to ashes.
“Down, down, make haste accursed flea-bag of a carpet!” ranted he, and
so they rapidly fell, and next landed with a splashy thump in a swamp,
from which green monkeys and red parakeets erupted at their arrival.
“I shall return at dusk. Remember what I have risked for you!” growled
Yulba.
“It is graven on my brain.”
Then the Drin vanished into the ground, taking with him the carpet. The Sun rose, and the amazing Moon, now once more far away, faded and set like a dying lamp.
By midday Jaqir had forced a path from the swamp. He sat beneath a
mango tree and ate some of the ripe fruit, and stared at the moon-pebble.
It shone, even in the daylight, like a milky flame. “You are more
wonderful than anything I have ever thieved. But still I do not see how I
can rob the sky of that other jewel, the Moon.”
Then he considered, for one rash moment, running away. And the
safeguarding bonds of the king’s magicians twanged around his skeleton.
Jaqir desisted, and lay back to sleep.
In sleep, a troop of tormenters paraded.
The cast-off mistress who had betrayed him slapped his face with a wet
fish. Yulba strutted, seeming hopeful. Next came men who cried, “Of
what worth is this stupid Jaqir, who has claimed he can steal an egg from
beneath a sleeping bird.”
Affronted in his slumber, Jaqir truthfully replied that he had done that
very thing. But the mockers were gone.
In the dream then Jaqir sat up, and looked once more at the shining pebble lying in his hand.
“Although I might steal a million eggs from beneath a million birds, what use to try for this? I am doomed and shall give in.”
Just then something fluttered from the mango tree, which was also there in the dream. It was a small gray parrot. Flying down, it settled directly upon the opalescent stone in Jaqir’s palm and put out its light.
“Well, my fine bird, this is no egg for you to hatch.”
The parrot spoke. “Think, Jaqir, what you see, and what you say.”
Jaqir thought. “Is it possible?”
And at that he woke a second time.
The Sun was high above, and over and over across it and the sky, birds
flew about, distinct as black writing on the blue.
“No bird of the air can fly so high as the Moon,” said Jaqir. He added,
“but the Drin have a mythic knack with magical artifacts and
clockworks.”
Later, the Sun lowered itself and went down. Yulba came bouncing from
the ground, coyly clad in extra rubies, with a garland of lotuses in his hair.
“Now, now,” commenced Yulba, lurching forward.
Sternly spoke Jaqir, “I am not yet at liberty, as you are aware. However, I
have a scheme. And knowing your unassailable wisdom and authority,
only you, the mighty Yulba, best and first among Drin, can manage it.”
In Underearth it was an exquisite dusk. It was always dusk there, or a
form of dusk. As clear as day in the upper world, it was said, yet more
radiantly somber. Sunless, naturally, for the reasons given above.
Druhim Vanashta, the peerless city of demonkind, stretched in a noose of shimmering nonsolar brilliance, out of which pierced, like needles,
chiseled towers of burnished steel and polished corundum, domes of
faceted crystal. While about the gem-paved streets and sable parks strolled or paced or strode or lingered the demons. Night-black of hair and eye, snow-frozen-white of complexion, the high-caste Vazdru and their mystic servants, the Eshva. All of whom were so painfully beautiful, it amounted to an insult.
Presently, along an avenue, there passed Azhrarn, Prince of Demons,
riding a black horse, whose mane and tail were hyacinth blue. And if the
beauty of the Eshva and Vazdru amounted to an insult, that of Azhrarn
was like the stroke of death.
He seemed himself idle enough, Azhrarn. He seemed too musing on
something as he slowly rode, oblivious, it appeared, to those who bowed
to the pavement at his approach, whose eyes had spilled, at sight of him,
looks of adoration. They were all in love with Azhrarn.
A voice spoke from nowhere at all.
“Azhrarn, Lord Wickedness, you gave up the world, but the world does
not give up you. Oh Azhrarn, Master of Night, what are the Drin doing by their turgid lake, hammering and hammering?”
Azhrarn had reined in the demon horse. He glanced leisurely about.
Minutes elapsed. He too spoke, and his vocality was like the rest of him.
“The Drin do hammer at things. That is how the Drin pass most of
eternity.”
“Yet how,” said the voice, “do you pass eternity, Lord Wickedness?”
“Who speaks to me?” softly said Azhrarn.
The voice replied, “Perhaps merely yourself, the part of you that you
discard, the part of you which yearns after the world.”
“Oh,” said Azhrarn. “The world.”
The voice did not pronounce another syllable, but along an adjacent wall a slight mark appeared, rather like a scorch.
Azhrarn rode on. The avenue ended at a park, where willows of liquid
amber let down their watery resinous hair, to a mercury pool. Black
peacocks with seeing eyes of turquoise and emerald in their tails, turned
their heads and all their feathers to gaze at him.
From between the trees came three Eshva, who obeised themselves.
“What,” said Azhrarn, “are the Drin making by their lake?”
The Eshva sighed voluptuously. The sighs said (for the Eshva never used
ordinary speech), “The Drin are making metal birds.”
“Why?” said Azhrarn.
The Eshva grew downcast; they did not know. Melancholy enfolded them among the tall black grasses of the lawn, and then one of the Vazdru princes came walking through the garden.
“Yes?” said Azhrarn.
“My Prince, there is a Drin who was to fashion for me a ring, which he
has neglected,” said the Vazdru. “He is at some labor for a human man he is partial to. They are all at this labor.”
Azhrarn, interested, was, for a moment, more truly revealed. The garden
waxed dangerously brighter, the mercury in the pool boiled. The amber
hardened and the peacocks shut every one of their 450 eyes.
“Yes?” Azhrarn murmured again.
“The Drin, who is called Yulba, has lied to them all. He has told them you yourself, my matchless lord, require a million clockwork birds that can fly as high as the Earth’s Moon. Because of this, they work ceaselessly. This Yulba is a nuisance. When he is found out, they will savage him, then bury him in some cavern, walling it up with rocks, leaving him there a million years for his million birds. And so I shall not receive my ring.”
Azhrarn smiled. Cut by the smile, as if by the slice of a sword, leaves
scattered from the trees. It was suddenly autumn in the garden. When
autumn stopped, Azhrarn had gone away.
Chang-thrang went the Drin hammers by the lake outside Druhim
Vanashta. Whirr and pling went the uncanny mechanisms of half-formed sorcerous birds of cinnabar, bronze, and iron. Already-finished sorcerous birds hopped and flapped about the lakeshore, frightening the beetles and snakes. Mechanical birds flew over in curious formations, like demented swallows, darkening the Underearth’s gleaming day-dusk, now and then letting fall droppings of a peculiar sort.
Eshva came and went, drifting on Vazdru errands. Speechless inquiries
wafted to the Drin caves: Where is the necklace of rain vowed for the
Princess Vasht? Where is the singing book reserved for the Prince
Hazrond?
“We are busy elsewhere at Azhrarn’s order,” chirped the Drin.
They were all dwarfs, all hideous, and each one lethal, ridiculous, and a
genius. Yulba strode among them, criticizing their work, so now and then there was also a fight for the flying omnipresent birds to unburden their bowels upon.
How had Yulba fooled the Drin? He was no more Azhrarn’s favorite than any of them. All the Drin boasted as Yulba had. Perhaps it was only this: Turning his shoulder to the world of mankind, Azhrarn had forced the jilted world to pursue him underground. In ways both graphic and
insidious, the rejected one permeated Underearth. Are you tired of me?
moaned the world to Azhrarn. Do you hate me? Do I bore you? See how
inventive I am. See how I can still ensnare you fast.
But Azhrarn did not go to the noisy lake. He did not summon Yulba. And Yulba, puffed with his own cleverness, obsessively eager to hold Jaqir to his bargain, had forgotten all accounts have a reckoning. Chung-clungk went the hammers. Brakk went the thick heads of the Drin, banged together by critical, unwise Yulba.
Then at last the noise ended.
The hammering and clamoring were over.
Of the few Vazdru who had come to stare at the birds, less than a few
remarked that the birds had vanished.
The Drin were noted skulking about their normal toil again, constructing wondrous jewelry and toys for the upper demons. If they waited breathlessly for Azhrarn to compliment them on their bird-work, they did so in vain. But such omissions had happened in the past, the never-ceasing past-present-future of Underearth.
Just as they might have pictured him, Azhrarn stood in a high window of Druhim Vanashta, looking at his city of needles and crystals.
Perhaps it was seven mortal days after the voice had spoken to him.
Perhaps three months.
He heard a sound within his mind. It was not from his city, nor was it
unreal. Nor actual. Presently he sought a magical glass that would show
him the neglected world.
How ferocious the stars, how huge and cruelly glittering, like daggers.
How they exalted, unrivaled now.
The young king went one by one to all the windows of his palace. Like
Azhrarn miles below (although he did not know it), the young king looked a long while at his city. But mostly he looked up into the awful sky.
Thirty-three nights had come and gone, without the rising of the Moon.
In the king’s city there had been at first shouts of bewildered amazement.
Then prayers. Then, a silence fell which was as loud as screaming.
If the world had lost the Sun, the world would have perished and died. But losing the Moon, it was as if the soul of this world had been put out.
Oh those black nights, blacker than blackness, those yowling spikes of
stars dancing in their vitriolic glory—which gave so little light.
What murders and rapes and worser crimes were committed under cover of such a dark? As if a similar darkness had been called up from the mental guts of mankind, like subservient to like. While earth-over, priests offered to the gods, who never noticed.
The courtiers who had applauded, amused, the judgment of the witty
young king now shrank from him. He moved alone through the
excessively lamped and benighted palace, wondering if he was now
notorious through all the world for his thoughtless error. And so
wondering, he entered the room where, on their marble pedestals, perched his angels.
“What have you done?” said the king.
Not a feather stirred. Not an eye winked.
“By the gods—may they forgive me—what? What did you make me do?”
“You are king,” said the scarlet parrot. “It is your word, not ours, which is law.”
And the blue parrot said, “We are parrots, why name us angels? We have
been taught to speak, that is all. What do you expect?”
And the jade parrot said, “I forget now what it was you asked of us.” And
put its head under its wing.
Then the king turned to the gray parrot. “What do you have to say? It was your final advice which drove me to demand the Moon be stolen—as if I thought any man might do it.”
“King,” said the gray parrot, “it was your sport to call four parrots, angels.
Your sport to offer a man an impossible task as the alternative to certain
death. You have lived as if living is a silly game. But you are mortal, and
a king.”
“You shame me,” said the king.
“We are, of course,” said the gray parrot, “truly angels, disguised. To
shame men is part of our duty.”
“What must I do?”
The gray parrot said, “Go down, for Jaqir, Thief of Thieves, has returned
to your gate. And he is followed by his shadow.”
“Are not all men so followed?” asked the king perplexedly.
The parrot did not speak again.
Let it be said, Jaqir, who now entered the palace, between the glaring,
staring guards of the king, was himself in terrible awe at what he had
achieved. Ever since succeeding at his task, he had not left off trembling
inwardly. However, outwardly he was all smiles, and in his best attire.
“See, the wretch’s garments are as fine as a lord’s. His rings are gold.
Even his shadow looks well dressed! And this miscreant it is who has
stolen the Moon and ruined the world with blackest night.”
The king stood waiting, with the court about him.
Jaqir bowed low. But that was all he did, after which he stood waiting,
meeting the king’s eyes with his own.
“Well,” said the king. “It seems you have done what was asked of you.”
“So it does seem,” said Jaqir calmly.
“Was it then easy?”
“As easy,” said Jaqir, “as stealing an egg.”
“But,” said the king. He paused, and a shudder ran over the hall a
shuddering of men and women, and also of the flames in all the countless lamps.
“But?” pressed haughty Jaqir.
“It might be said by some, that the Moon—which is surely not an egg—
has disappeared, and another that you may have removed it. After all,”
said the king stonily, “if one assumes the Moon may be pilfered at all,
how am I to be certain the robber is yourself? Maybe others are capable of it. Or, too, a natural disaster has simply overcome the orb, a coincidence most convenient for you.”
“Sir,” said Jaqir, “were you not the king, I would answer you in other
words that I do. But king you are. And I have proof.”
And then Jaqir took out from his embroidered shirt the moon-pebble,
which even in the light of the lamps blazed with a perfect whiteness. And so like the Moon it was for radiance that many at once shed tears of
nostalgia on seeing it. While at Jaqir’s left shoulder, his night-black
shadow seemed for an instant also to flicker with fire.
As for the king, now he trembled too. But like Jaqir, he did not show it.
“Then,” said the king, “be pardoned of your crimes. You have surmounted the test, and are directly loosed from those psychic bonds my magicians set on you, therefore entirely physically at liberty, and besides, a legendary hero. One last thing…”
“Yes?” asked Jaqir.
“Where have you put it?”
“What?” said Jaqir, rather stupidly.
“That which you stole.”
“It was not a part of our bargain, to tell you this. You have seen by the
proof of this stone I have got the Moon. Behold, the sky is black.”
The king said quietly, “You do not mean to keep it.”
“Generally I do keep what I take.”
“I will give you great wealth, Jaqir, which I think anyway you do not
need, for they say you are as rich as I. Also, I will give you a title to rival
my own. You can have what you wish. Now swear you will return the
Moon to the sky.”
Jaqir lowered his eyes.
“I must consider this.”
“Look,” they whispered, the court of the king, “even his shadow listens to him.”
Jaqir, too, felt his shadow listening at his shoulder.
He turned, and found the shadow had eyes.
Then the shadow spoke, more quietly than the king, and not one in the hall did not hear it. While every flame in every lamp spun like a coin, died, revived, and continued burning upside down.
“King, you are a fool. Jaqir, you are another fool. And who and what am
I?”
Times had changed. There are always stories, but they are not always
memorized. Only the king, and Jaqir the thief, had the understanding to
plummet to their knees. And they cried as one, “Azhrarn!”
“Walk upon the terrace with me,” said Azhrarn. “We will admire the
beauty of the leaden night.”
The king and Jaqir found that they got up, and went on to the terrace, and no one else stirred, not even hand or eye.
Around the terrace stood some guards like statues. At the terrace’s center
stood a chariot that seemed constructed of black and silver lava, and
drawn by similarly laval dragons.
“Here is our conveyance,” said Azhrarn, charmingly. “Get in.”
In they got, the king and the thief. Azhrarn also sprang up, and took and
shook the reins of the dragons, and these great ebony lizards hissed and
shook out in turn their wings, which clapped against the black night and
seemed to strike off bits from it. Then the chariot dove up into the air,
shaking off the Earth entire, and green sparks streamed from the chariot
wheels.
Neither the king nor Jaqir had stamina—or idiocy—enough to question
Azhrarn. They waited meekly as two children in the chariot’s back,
gaping now at Azhrarn’s black eagle wings of cloak, that every so often
buffeted them, almost breaking their ribs, or at the world falling down and down below like something dropped.
But then, high in the wild, tipsy-making upper air, Jaqir did speak, if not
to Azhrarn.
“King, I tricked you. I did not steal the Moon.”
“Who then stole it?”
“No one.”
“A riddle.”
At which they saw Azhrarn had partly turned. They glimpsed his profile, and a single eye that seemed more like the night than the night itself was.
And they shut their mouths.
On raced the dragons.
Below raced the world.
Then everything came to a halt. Combing the sky with claws and wheels, dragons and chariot stood static on the dark.
Azhrarn let go the jewelry reins.
All around spangled the stars. These now appeared less certain of
themselves. The brighter ones had dimmed their glow, the lesser hid
behind the vapors of night. Otherwise, everywhere lay blackness, only
that.
In the long, musician’s fingers of the Prince of Demons was a silver pipe,
shaped like some sort of slender bone. Azhrarn blew upon the pipe.
There was no sound, yet something seemed to pass through the skulls of
the king and of Jaqir, as if a barbed thread had been pulled through from
ear to ear. The king swooned—he was only a king. Jaqir rubbed his
temples and stayed upright—he was a professional of the working classes.
And so it was Jaqir who saw, in reverse, that which he had already seen
happen the other way about.
He beheld a black cloud rising (where before it had settled) and behind the cloud, suddenly something incandescent blinked and dazzled. He beheld how the cloud, breaking free of these blinks of palest fire (where before it had obscured said fire) ceased to be one entity, and became instead one million separate flying pieces. He saw, as he had seen before when first they burst up from the ground in front of him, and rushed into the sky, that these were a million curious birds. They had feathers of cinnabar and bronze, sinews of brass; they had clockworks of iron and steel.
Between the insane crowded battering of their wings, Jaqir watched the
Moon reappear, where previously (scanning the night, as he stood by
Yulba in a meadow) he had watched the Moon put out, all the birds flew
down against her, covering and smothering her. Unbroken by their landing on her surface, they had roosted there, drawn to and liking the warmth, as Yulba had directed them with his sorcery.
But now Azhrarn had negated Yulba’s powers—which were little enough among demons. The mechanical birds swarmed round and round the chariot, aggravating the dragons somewhat. The birds had no eyes, Jaqir noticed. They gave off great heat where the Moon had toasted their
metals. Jaqir looked at them as if for the first, hated them, and grew
deeply embarrassed.
Yet the Moon—oh, the Moon. Uncovered and alight, how brilliantly it or she blazed now. Had she ever been so bright? Had her sojourn in darkness done her good?
End to end, she poured her flame over the Earth below. Not a mountain
that did not have its spire of silver, not a river its highlight of diamond.
The seas lashed and struggled with joy, leaping to catch her snows upon
the crests of waves and dancing dolphin. And in the windows of mankind, the lamps were doused, and like the waves, men leaned upward to wash their faces in the Moon.
Then gradually, a murmur, a thunder, a roar, a gushing sigh rose swirling from the depths of the Flat Earth, as if at last the world had stopped holding its breath.
“What did you promise Yulba,” asked Azhrarn of Jaqir, mild as a killing
frost, “in exchange for this slight act?”
“The traditional favor,” muttered Jaqir.
“Did he receive payment?”
“I prevaricated. Not yet, lord Prince.”
“You are spared then. Part of his punishment shall be permanently to
avoid your company. But what punishment for you, thief? And what
punishment for your king?”
Jaqir did not speak. Nor did the king, though he had recovered his senses.
Both men were educated in the tales, the king more so. Both men turned
ashen, and the king accordingly more ashen.
Then Azhrarn addressed the clockwork birds in one of the demon tongues, and they were immediately gone. And only the white banner of the moonlight was there across the night.
Now Azhrarn, by some called also Lord of Liars, was not perhaps above
lying in his own heart. It seems so. Yet maybe tonight he looked upon the Moon, and saw in the Moon’s own heart, the woman that once he had loved, the woman who had been named for the Moon. Because of her, and all that had followed, Azhrarn had turned his back upon the world—or attempted to turn it.
And even so here he was, high in the vault of the world’s heaven,
drenched in earthly moonshine, contemplating the chastisement of mortal creatures whose lives, to his immortal life, were like the green sparks which had flashed and withered on the chariot-wheels.
The chariot plunged. The atmosphere scalded at the speed of its descent. It touched the skin of the Earth more slightly than a cobweb. The mortal
king and the mortal thief found themselves rolling away downhill, toward fields of barley and a river. The chariot, too, was gone. Although in their ears as they rolled, equal in their rolling as never before, and soon never to be again, king and thief heard Azhrarn’s extraordinary voice, which said, “Your punishment you have already. You are human. I cannot improve upon that.”
Thus, the Moon shone in the skies of night, interrupted only by an
infrequent cloud. The king resumed his throne. The four angels—who
were or were not parrots—or only meddlers—sat on their perches waiting to give advice, or to avoid giving it. And Jaqir—Jaqir went away to another city.
Here, under a different name, he lived on his extreme wealth, in a fine
house with gardens. Until one day he was robbed of all his gold (and even of the moon-pebble) by a talented thief. “Is it the gods who exact their price at last, or Another, who dwells farther down?” But by then Jaqir was older, for mortal lives moved and move swiftly. He had lost his taste for his work by then. So he returned to the king’s city, and to the door of the merchant’s wife who had been his mistress. “I am sorry for what I said to you,” said Jaqir. “I am sorry for what I did to you,” said she. The traveling merchant had recently departed on another, more prolonged journey, to make himself, reincarnation-wise, a new life after death. Meanwhile, though the legend of a moon-thief remained, men had by then forgotten Jaqir. So he married the lady and they existed not unhappily, which shows their flexible natures.
But miles below, Yulba did not fare so well. For Azhrarn had returned to the Underearth on the night of the Moon’s
rescue, and said to him, “Bad little Drin. Here are your million birds.
Since you are so proud of them, be one of them.” And in this way Azhrarn demonstrated that the world no longer mattered to him a jot, only his own kind mattered enough that he would make their lives Hell-under-Earth. Or, so it would seem.
But Yulba had changed to a clockwork bird, number one million and one.
Eyeless, still able to see, flapping over the melanic vistas of the demon
country, blotting up the luminous twilight, cawing, clicking, letting fall
droppings, yearning for the warmth of the Moon, yearning to be a Drin
again, yearning for Azhrarn, and for Jaqir—who by that hour had already passed himself from the world, for demon time was not the time of mortals.
As for the story, that of Jaqir and Yulba and the Moon, it had become as it had and has become, or un-become. And who knows but that, in another little while, it will be forgotten, as most things are. Even the Moon is no longer that Moon, nor the Earth, nor the sky. The centuries fly, eternity is endless.

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(Nota: si lo quieres en español pidelo y puede que lo considere... no es verdad, si lo traduciré)
(Nota 2: Azhrarn es tan encantador..)

(nota 3: la imagen de azhrarn (el de arriba) no es mía, no reclamo ......)