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The blood drinker who had come in and was now, here in this great cavernous room, singing a hymn I knew with German words, the masterpiece of Bach, "Wake up...the voice summons...of the watchmen on the battlements, wake...you city of Jerusalem! This is the hour of midnight...." And beneath the voice, the marching of the harpsichord. This tender-yet-piercing boy soprano voice of one of Notker's choristers.
The ghost who embraced me sighed, and slowly its limbs took form, its body solid once more and its head resting on my shoulder, the hair so fine to the touch, and the hands clasping my arms.
Love you, yes, always and forever....
I'd be dead forever now beneath the earth were it not for you, or a ghost wandering without ever having glimpsed what you gave me....
The music went on, the boy soprano blood drinker singing just above the volume of the keyboard, drifting into variations of his own on Bach's theme, as Bach himself might have done for pure amusement, taking the lyrics into uncharted places, "Wake, wake, the blood calls us from eternal sleep...."
We stood together, and it was the music now that enfolded both of us.
Finally the music grew softer, and found its subtle finish.
A radiant silence gripped the room in which it seemed the walls gave back the ghostly echo of the cantata. Then the ghost turned and kissed me on the mouth. Magnus again, fully. Not the made-up ideal Magnus, but a strong powerful Magnus who'd brought me over, no longer the wraith, but robust, and clothed in simple black robes, his long dark glossy silver-streaked hair combed, and his gaunt face calm and etched with the fine lines that had become as pen strokes when he was made.
"You are my finest work, my finest miracle," he said to me. Once again he kissed me, and I opened my lips to receive the kiss and give it back. I bit into my lower lip, and offered the blood on my tongue. He took it, though how and what he felt, I couldn't know. He stroked my hair, my face.
"And now you are the Prince of the tribe, and old Rhoshamandes wanders with the mark of Cain on him, that winsome, capricious, heartless blood drinker, with the mark of Cain, so that no one will put him out of his anguish for what he did to the gentle witch, and you are the ruler."
He drew back, just as any living being might at this moment, and wiped the tears from his eyes, staring for a moment at his own hands. This was a creature I had never really seen--the true Magnus restored: the long thin nose and long mouth, the high domed forehead and white hands made of knots, and shoulders squared but misshapen--what he must have looked like in those early nights when the Blood had done all it could to make him near perfect. And who was to say this wasn't beauty?
"Aye, but I was never beautiful," he said with a sigh. "What is it that has made you see beauty here when others only ever saw ugliness and imperfection, and the ravages of disease?"
"My maker," I said. "Who gave me the power to see all things as beautiful."
Not one sound came from Amel inside me. Not one quiver. But he was there.
Magnus turned as if looking for the chair, reaching for it, in fact, yet unable to find it. I escorted him to the chair and held his hand as he sat down slowly, as though his phantom bones were actually aching.
Does a ghost become the full expression of the mortal and the immortal? Does a ghost embrace the entire past of the being?
"Forgive me," he said looking up at me. He sat back, relaxing, putting his hands on the arms of the chair as we are wont to do with these old wooden chairs with their knobby carvings, and he looked at me calmly. "You came here seeking Gremt, and I've distracted you, caught you up in my griefs and madness. I was always mad, or so I was told, when I said things of the world that common men and women say today; I was thought mad, when I spoke of loving and how one had to learn to love; mad Magnus the thief of the Blood. I should leave you now to your talk with Gremt. But I am whole and firm again, and don't want to give it up."
"I understand."
I looked at Gremt. He was merely watching us. The slender vampire boy soprano had come up to stand beside him, eternal acolyte in a white lace surplice, and he held the boy around the waist as he'd held me moments ago.
I wanted to leave. It was time to leave. I knew that Magnus was weary to his heart, and he had had enough and so had I. And the silence of Amel was ominous and baffling. I found I was drained and sad and had nothing more to say just now to anyone.
I
turned and took Magnus's right hand and kissed it. Flesh. Anyone would have thought so. I don't know that I'd ever kissed any being's hand before, but I kissed his.
"Anon, I come to you," he said under his breath. "Blessed heir."
"Yes, Master, whenever you wish," I said. I turned to Gremt and took Gremt's hand. "And I'll take my leave now and invite you to come whenever you wish to Court, you and all the household here."
"Thank you," Gremt said. "We'll come soon enough, but remember my words. Remember: he is not what you think he is. He is more and less. And don't be fooled by him."
I nodded. I looked at the boy singer and tried to remember if I'd seen him before with Notker's choir or musicians. Surely he had come from Notker's lair in the Alps.
He had been thirteen or fourteen when he was made, before the manly changes came over him, a boy of curly dark hair and dark glowing eyes and skin almost the color of honey by lamplight. His face brightened.
"Yes, Prince," he said. "I've sung for you and will sing for you again. It was Benedict who brought me to Notker, but your master who made me, and so I sing for him to bring him comfort."
"Ah, I see," I said. I repressed the simple urge to touch his hair affectionately. Against all evidence, he was hundreds of years old, a man in a boy's body, and no more the boy than Armand was a boy, or I a young man of twenty.
Gremt followed me as I headed to the front doors, hastening to open them for me.
