Last Vampire 6(48)

And I should be able to read his mind completely.



"What if you rest on the rock you were sitting on a moment ago," I suggest. "And I bring you water to clean you. Would that be all right?"



He nods with his eyes closed. "I'll rest on the rock and be all right."



I lead him back to the stone where he initially rested. As he sits, I stroke his head. "I will moisten my shirt," I say. "Then I will touch your sores gently, to clean them. There will be no pain. You will feel nothing but relief. You understand, Dante?"



"I understand," he whispers.



I let go of him. "I will be gone a few seconds. Remain at peace."



He sighs. "Peace."



At the pond the water is very still, more so than ever. Like the pond in the desert, it is a perfect mirror of the heavens. There are so many stars on its delicate surface, so many constellations that it seems almost a sin to disturb the cool liquid. Yet I have stood here before. Last time I also gave Dante my blood and sent him on his way healed of his horrible disease. Like now, and then, I felt moved by love to give him what I could. Certainly he has earned my blood and my trust.



I bend to dampen my shirt and then pause.



I cannot stop staring in the water at the sky. There is the familiar constellation, Andromeda, and I can't remember it ever looking so clear. Why, I can almost imagine that I see Perseus' wife, chained to the rocks as the Titan slowly approaches, bound as a human sacrifice to appease an evil monster. Much asL andulf chained and sacrificed young women to appease his own wickedness. It is incredible, as I look closer, to see Perseus creeping closer to her side, to rescue her, with the Medusa's head hidden in his bag, out of sight. He will only show it at the last moment, when the Titan has exposed himself. Perseus was wise to keep his weapon hidden. It was Dante who suggested that Perseus would have been a fool to part with such power.



Medusa. Perseus. Dante.



"My lady," Dante whispers at my back.



"Coming," I say.



I kneel to wet my shirt.



But once again I pause.



Richard Wagner's opera returns to me on the si­lence of the night air. The music echoes in my mind with rhythms older than man. Again it is as if I am watching the opera, Parsival, being staged against the majestic background of the constellations. Each of the principal characters could be a mythological being. King Arthur could be King Polydectes, who sent Perseus after the Gorgon. Parsival could be Perseus, who slew the Medusa. But who wouldKl ingsor be? Why, of course, the Medusa itself. The one who appears fair from the outside, but whose hair—whose aura—i s filled with hissing snakes. I understand in that moment that the serpents are symbolically placed above the Medusa's head. They are there so her true identity cannot be mistaken.



"Hurry, my lady," Dante whispers.



I will," I say. But I cannot move, or breathe.



Klingsor and the Medusa. Klingsor and Landulf.



They had so much in common.



Except for one little thing. The play spoke of this "thing."



Wolfram von Eschenbach's Parsival told of this "thing."



Klingsor had a special mark.



He was smooth—in a delicate spot.



I remember now. Everything.



And I am sick because the truth is horrible beyond belief.



I am turned to stone. Tears cannot help me. They will not come. Not before a pain beyond all measure comes. Because even though I know the truth, I refuse to accept it. My faith may be stronger than stone, but in time all stones are worn away by water. Or tears—it doesn't matter. All I can do now is force my stone body to face what waits behind me.



Wetting my shirt, I stand and spy a lizard that slithers near the side of the pond. In a moment he is in my hand, in my pocket, and I casually walk back to Dante, who sits expectantly on the rock where I left him. A smile springs to his face as I approach even though his eyes remain closed. Leaning over, I begin to gently wipe at his burnt and diseased hand and arm. My touch pleases him.



"Oh, my lady," he says.



"Just relax, Dante," I say softly, "I have to clean you and then I can cure you. You want me to cure you, don't you?"



"Oh, yes."



"Good." I momentarily close my own eyes and bite my lower lip. "That's good."



Seconds later his hand and arm are clean. I stand and reach for the lizard in my pocket. "Now don't be afraid," I say.



"I am not afraid," he whispers.



Placing the lizard behind my back, I pulverize it in my hands. I crush it so hard all the blood squirts into my palms. Then my hands are over Dante's leper sores, dropping the reptile's blood over his wounds. The lizard was cold-blooded; its blood is not so warm as mine would have been. But Dante doesn't seem to notice and for that small favor I am glad. I cannot take my eyes off his face. I am looking for something there, a faint change of expression as his system soaks up my blood. An expression I have not seen before. An expression of triumph, perhaps, or maybe even arrogance. I need to see such a thing to dispel all my questions.