“How do you do that?” Csimenae asked as she came up to him.
“Those of our blood do not easily break our bones, nor do we harm our sinews.” He saw the eagerness in her face, and added, “When we do break bones, they are as painful to align and as hard to knit as those of the living.”
“But you, who tell me to be cautious, you would not make such a leap if you thought you would be hurt by it, would you?” Excitement shone in her eyes. “Do you teach how to do that, too, or only those things I am not supposed to do?” She had begun to stride toward the forest and the path that the woodsmen used.
“You will learn, in time,” he said, knowing she was hoarding grievances against him. “It is like many other skills—you cannot do it well at the beginning, but practice over time will make you proficient.” He lowered his voice. “The same with hunting.”
“So you tell me,” she muttered, ducking her head as the forest thickened around them. “What shall we hunt, then?”
“Goats. Boar,” Sanct’ Germain suggested. “Both are about tonight, and near enough to hunt with ease. It should not take long to find game to our liking.” He raised his head and sniffed the wind. “The boar are eating acorns. You can smell them both on the wind.”
She inhaled and tried to sort out what the scents and odors told her; shrugging her disdain, she said, “There is no need to snuffle the air, like mice seeking the pantry. I know where their favorite grove is. If we go there, we will find them.” She motioned for him to follow her.
“Do not be reckless, Csimenae,” he recommended, following after her.
Without hesitation she rounded on him. “Or what? Or you will chastise me?”
He held up his hands. “No. The tusks of a boar can cause real injury, and their hooves can break our spines.”
“Oh,” she said, somewhat mollified. “You wanted to keep me from being hurt, is that it?”
He decided not to answer directly. “The woods are no place to be hurt. We are not the only creatures drawn to spilled blood.”
She laughed softly. “Wolves and cats, you mean?”
“Among others,” he said. “Kites, vultures.”
“And insects?” she suggested, moving quickly toward the narrow trail made by animals passing among the trees.
“Yes, insects. And rats.” He could sense her shudder of distaste. “They all dine on blood and flesh.”
“And we drink living blood,” she said with pride. “Not like those who scavenge on the dead.”
Puzzled, he made a gesture of agreement. “Does that matter to you?”
“Does it not to you?” She stopped and tugged at his arm in a show of exasperation.
He studied her face. “No. Not as it seems it does for you. I revere life; it sustains me. The rest is the nature of death.” He wondered if she would tell him why this difference was so significant to her. Whatever her answer might have been, it was cut short by the sudden noise of a sounder of boar coming through the undergrowth. “Hold to the side,” he ordered, all but thrusting her off the trail and into the cover of the thick-growing trees.
She moved with alacrity, crouching down behind an old oak, completely alert, as feral as any prey she sought. Her eyes glistened with excitement and she grinned, anticipating her kill. Although Sanct’ Germain was only an arm’s-length away, she paid no attention to him, her full concentration on the boars.
Listening to the forest around them, Sanct’ Germain could hear the silence grow around them, and knew it was not caused by the boars. Something else was out hunting this night, and he strove to discover what it might be. He motioned to Csimenae not to attack, to remain where she was, and saw insolence in her gaze. “Something is coming,” he whispered, hoping he would not disturb the boars.
One of the nearest lifted his tusked head and squinted into the darkness, then ducked back down toward the ground to root for acorns and mushrooms.
“Let’s get him,” Csimenae hissed. “I can reach him easily.”
“Stay still,” Sanct’ Germain responded.
She was not listening; already she was moving into position so that she could drop upon the nearest boar’s back. Her knife was in her hand, ready for use. She glanced once at Sanct’ Germain, confident and expectant. Then she flung herself forward, attempting to straddle the boar and stab its neck at the same time.
The boar squealed in fury and pain, and began to run, heading into the deepest undergrowth, crashing headlong through the brush. The rest of the sounder panicked, and began to mill about, grunting and shrieking in dismay, a few of the larger boars slashing out with tusks and hooves, snapping branches and gouging the earth.
Forced to act before he was ready, Sanct’ Germain slipped out of his cover behind the tree, moving with a speed greater than living men achieved; he was as surefooted as he was swift, unhampered by the uneven footing and the nervous boars. With his senses wholly engaged, he dodged his way through the sounder, striving to keep up with the one bearing Csimenae in spite of the close-growing branches that tangled around him, and the precarious footing.
Suddenly the boar Csimenae had caught slowed, then stopped just before it toppled over, blood welling from a long gash in his throat: the boar was dead. Scrambling to her feet, Csimenae began to kick the carcass, outraged at the boar’s demise.
“Your people will get meals from the body,” Sanct’ Germain said as he came up to her.
“But
I
will not, and I am
hungry,
” she protested with another kick to the boar’s shoulder. “He ought to be alive.”
“And it is unfortunate that he is not,” said Sanct’ Germain quickly. “But it is too late to worry about such matters.”
The rest of the sounder was increasingly restless; one of the older males made a rush at the two of them, but stopped short of slashing at them with his tusks. Others in the sounder pawed the ground, grumbling.
“I will find another,” Csimenae said, starting impetuously toward the nearest of the boars.
This time Sanct’ Germain caught her arm in time. “No. We must move this animal and soon. We are not the only hunters abroad tonight. Once we have it inside the village walls, we may hunt for other prey. We have time enough to search for more sustenance. The goats will be out, some distance up the slope; they will suit us well.” He released Csimenae and bent to lift the boar, which was more than half again his weight. Slinging it across his shoulders, he peered into the darkest part of the forest, still uneasy. “Something is coming.”
The sounder wheeled and began to scatter, running down the mountain, ignoring Sanct’ Germain and Csimenae in their sudden headlong plunge. The sound of their shattering escape filled the forest.
“What now?” Csimenae asked impatiently, annoyed that she had been denied more hunting.
Sanct’ Germain motioned her to silence. “Now you run,” he breathed in utter stillness. “Toward the village. Now.”
She glowered at him, ready to protest, and lost valuable time. Confused by the flight of the sounder of boar, she had not heard the approach of the bear.
It shambled toward them, taller than the tallest man, standing upright, its front legs swiping the air ahead of it, emitting rumbling grunts as it came on.
Csimenae stifled a scream and sprinted away toward Mont Calcius; the bear dropped onto all fours and prepared to give chase, a chase in which the bear would surely prevail.
Sanct’ Germain swung the boar from his shoulders and threw it at the bear.
With a coughing roar, the bear half-rose and snagged the boar out of the air, then struck out at Sanct’ Germain as well, his huge, curved claws leaving four deep furrows along Sanct’ Germain’s shoulder and shredding his hippogaudion.
Sanct’ Germain staggered and strove to stay on his feet as the pain sank into him. Only when he saw the bear tearing at the boar did he dare to move, and then at an unsteady walk, for he felt his back wet with blood.
By the time he reached Mont Calcius, the night was more than half over, and he was reeling with every step. He made his way around to the barn, hoping to get inside the walls without attracting any questions. Vaguely he wondered where Csimenae might be, but concentrated on reaching his house and the annealing comfort of his native earth. He had just rounded the goat-pen when he heard a voice from the slaughtering-shed.
“Sanct’ Germain,” Csimenae repeated a little louder. “Come.”
Reluctantly he obeyed, his body so sore that it seemed each pebble underfoot was spiked and the air filled with sand. As he reached the shed, he saw a young ram hanging from the rafters, his trussed feet kicking feebly as blood spurted from the wound in his throat. Csimenae pointed to the ram with pride, her face smeared from her feeding. He nodded. “You have fed.”
“So can you,” she encouraged him. “I did not take all.”
“This is from your herd,” Sanct’ Germain said.
“Yes. I chose carefully.” She motioned to the animal. “He will last a little longer, and you are in need, are you not?”
His esurience was as much a part of him as the pain from where the bear’s claws had raked him, but he made himself shake his head. “It is unwise to feed on your own flocks and herds.”
“Why?” She was dumbfounded. “The villagers will get the meat when I am done. Where is the trouble in that?”
“The villagers will know you as a vampire if you feed on their herds and flocks,” he said. “In time, they will resent what you do.”
“They will understand, as they know why we sacrifice horses, to gain their protection.” She went back to the ram. “I have earned this.”
Sanct’ Germain leaned on the wall of the shed and pointed to the ram. “You had better finish your meal. He is almost gone.”
A single glance confirmed this, and Csimenae moved hastily to catch the last of his living blood as the ram kicked his last. “It is sweet, this blood.”
“It is fodder,” said Sanct’ Germain. “It will keep you from starving, but there is no touching with it.”
“Touching,” she said, and laughed. “You keep talking about touching. You chide me because I will not have it, as if I have put myself at hazard by my refusal. Why should I want touching of any sort? What use is that to me?”
“It is the touching that nurtures. The blood is the least of our nourishment. We do not sustain ourselves without the humanity of touching.” He closed his eyes, fighting the weakness that went through him.
“You have not had any touching here,” she told him bluntly.
“No,” he agreed, an emotion that was almost grief in his dark eyes.
“But the blood is necessary,” Csimenae said pugnaciously. “You cannot deny that.”
“No. It is necessary.” He paused, trying to marshal his thoughts. “You do not understand what I mean because you had no chance to experience—”
“Why should it matter?” She cut him off. “You think you have found the only way to live this undead life. If that is the case, why should you have to teach me so much? Would I not find it out for myself, through compulsion?” Licking the ram’s blood off her lips, she went toward Sanct’ Germain. “Well? Wouldn’t I?”
“In time you might,” he said, longing to rest. “It took me several centuries to learn that I was feeding on despair, and to turn away from it.”
She laughed. “Why would I despair? You lost all your family, and your homeland. I have lost neither, nor will I.”
He shook his head. “You cannot remain here forever,” he told her gently, for he could feel her fear beneath her defiance.
“You had better dress those wounds,” she said, her abrupt change of subject indicating she was tired of their discussion.
“Yes; I will tend to them,” he said slowly, righting himself as if all his body had gone stiff.
Belatedly she shot him a concerned look. “You will not take any lasting injury from the wounds, will you?”
“No; as are all vampires, I am proof against such damage. I have nothing to fear from these gouges. They are not pleasant, but they will pass.” He paused. “If you will consider this awhile: soon or late, all those of us who have come to this life are vagabonds and exiles.”
“I will not be,” she declared, glaring at him. “You say this because it is how you live. I have this village and I will not have to leave it. This is where I live and die.” She went back to the ram and began to gut it, taking care not to cut the intestines, but to pull them from the carcass intact. Soon her arms were red to the elbows; she finally turned to speak to him, but found he was gone. “Good,” she said aloud before she started to quarter the ram.
Text of a letter in Imperial Latin from Ragoczy Sanct’ Germain Franciscus to Atta Olivia Clemens, carried by Rogerian to Osca, there entrusted to a merchant bound by ship from Valentia to Ostia. Delivered on November 29
th
, 622.
To my most dear, long-time, long-treasured friend, Olivia, my greetings, and the assurance that I am still in this world, as you are no doubt aware through our bond.
My apologies for this dreadful vellum, but it is the best I have left in my sadly depleted supplies. There is no better to be had here. I have been in this out-of-the-way village for some time; you will not recognize the name: Mont Calcius. It is in the mountains north and somewhat east of Valentia, a walled group of houses and a barn, not much larger than the stable-yard at Villa Ragoczy. Presently twenty-nine people live here, although there is room for eighty or more. I will probably not leave until the winter snows are out of the high passes, but I will be gone from this place by May. I plan to go to Tolosa for a time, and then I may venture to Roma once again. Do not wonder at the route this travels to reach you—Rogerian is carrying this to Osca for me, where he is going to purchase grain for the village, and such other supplies as he can bring back on a mule. He will find a merchant or pilgrim bound for Valentia and Roma to take this to you.
For all its smallness and isolation, this place has been something of a haven for me, but it will not be so much longer, for it may be that I have erred in bringing another to our life, though I did so with the hope that in preserving her from death I would also bring her to cherish the living, a goal which thus far I have not achieved. Since she is determined to hunt without regard to touching or compassion, I will be prudent; for that reason Rogerian and I leave here when winter is done, as I have told you. I have already begun preparations against that day. Perhaps we should depart sooner, but that would mean traveling over water; considering what happened to me the last time I did that, I suspect it would be wiser to keep to the land, no matter how inconvenient it is. I have not vellum enough, nor the inclination, to tell you the whole of it.