The Vampire Armand - Anne Rice [127]
Why did those near me allow these thoughts in me, for surely they read them from my mind. I could feel the presence of the leader, the black-eyed one, the powerful one. Perhaps I was here with him alone. If he could make sense of this, if he could lend it meaning and thereby contain its monstrousness, then he would be some saint of God. I saw soiled and starving monks in caves.
I rolled over on my back, luxuriating in the splashy red and yellow pain that bathed me, and I opened my eyes.
15
AMELLOW and comforting voice spoke to me, directly to me:
“Your Master’s vain works are all burnt; nothing but ashes remain now of his paintings. God forgive him, that he used his sublime powers not in the service of God but in the service of the World, the Flesh and the Devil, yes, I say the Devil, though the Devil is our standard bearer, for the Evil One is proud of us and satisfied with our pain; but Marius served the Devil with no regard to the wishes of God, and the mercies granted us by God, that rather than burn in the flames of Hell, we rule in the shadows of the Earth.”
“Ah,” I whispered. “I see your twisted philosophy.”
There came no admonition.
Gradually, though I had rather hear only the voice, my eyes began to focus. There were human skulls, bleached and covered with dust, pressed in the domed earth over my head. Skulls pressed into the earth with mortar so that they formed the entire ceiling, like clean white shells from the sea. Shells for the brain, I thought, for what is left of them, as they protrude from the mortared soil behind them, but the dome that covers the brain and the round black holes where once the jellied eyes were poised, acute as dancers, ever vigilant to report the splendors of the world to the carapaced mind.
All skulls, a dome of skulls, and where the dome came down to meet the walls, a lacing of thigh bones all around it, and below that the random bones of the mortal form, making no pattern, any more than random stones do when they are similarly pressed in mortar to make a wall.
All bones, this place, and lighted with candles. Yes, I smelled the candles, purest beeswax, as for the rich.
“No,” said the voice, thoughtfully, “rather for the church, for this is God’s church, though the Devil is our Superior General, the founding saint of our Order, so why not beeswax? Leave it to you, a vain and a worldly Venetian, to think it luxury, to confuse it with the wealth in which you wallowed rather like the pig in his slops.”
I laughed softly. “Give me more of your generous and idiotic logic,” I said. “Be the Aquinas of the Devil. Speak on.”
“Don’t mock me,” he said imploringly and sincerely. “I saved you from the fire.”
“I would be dead now if you had not.”
“You want to burn?”
“No, not to suffer so, no, I can’t bear the thought of it, that I or anyone should suffer so. But to die, yes.”
“And what do you think will be your destination if you do die? Are the fires of Hell not fifty times as hot as the fires we lighted for you and your friends? You are Hell’s child; you were from the first moment that the blasphemer Marius infused you with our blood. No one can reverse this judgment. You are kept alive by blood that is cursed and unnatural and pleasing to Satan, and pleasing to God only because He must have Satan to show forth His goodness, and to give mankind a choice to be good or bad.”
I laughed again, but as respectfully as I could. “There are so many of you,” I said. I turned my head. The numerous candles blinded me, but it wasn’t unpleasant. It was as if a different species of flame danced on the wicks, than the species that had consumed my brothers.
“Were they your brothers, these spoilt and pampered mortals?” he asked. His voice was unwavering.
“Do you believe all the rot you’re talking to me?” I asked, imitating his tone.
He laughed now, and it was a decently churchly laugh as though we were whispering together about the absurdity of a sermon. But the Blessed Sacrament was not here