Tanith Lee - Paradys 2 - The Book of the Beast

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The Book Of The Beast
by Tanith Lee
THE GREEN BOOK
EYES LIKE EMERALD
PART ONE
The Scholar
She with apples you desired
From Paradise came long ago:
With you I feel that if required,
Such still within my garden grow.
-Shelley
By the end of the first night, he knew that his lodging was haunted. From the night's first minute, he should
have guessed.
A hag greeted him on the threshold.
"M'sire Raoulin?" squawked she in her old-fashioned way. And in the dusk she held high one quavering
candle. He learned at once by that the interior would be ill-lit.
"I am Raoulin. My baggage and chest have arrived?"
"You are to follow me," she said, like a portress of the damned in Hell, who could not be expected to
have luggage.
"To my host, your master?"
She said, "There's no master here. There's no one here. M'sire No One is the lord in these parts."
She led him in across a black cavern of a hall, over a blacker courtyard, up an outer stair, in at an arch,
along two or three corridors, and in the light-watered darkness opened for him a wooden door with her
keys. When she had lit a pair of candles in his apartment, she told him she would bring his supper in an
hour, or if he liked company he might partake below in the kitchen with herself and the groom. Plainly he
was not royalty, and she intended him to see she knew it.
Out of malicious curiosity therefore he said he would dine below. She gave him directions he was sure he
would forget. "And mind out, on the stair," she said. "Mind what?"
"For M'sire No One," she replied, and cackled. She was a cheery eerie old soul.
Raoulin was a tall, well-made young man, good-looking in his ivory-ebony mode, for he was by stock a
black-haired northerner. His father owned horses and cattle, vineyards, orchards and numberless fields,
and in the long low house, while the other sons toiled at the land or galloped off wenching, there was
Raoulin, constricted by tutors. They swelled his brain with Latin and fair Greek, they made inroads on his
spirit with philosophy and hints alchemical. Raoulin was to go to the City and study at the university of the
Sachrist.
When the hour came, he was not sorry. He had been set apart from his family by increasing erudition. It
had come to pass he could not sneeze without being accused of some sophistry or conundrum. For the
City, he had heard it was packed with churches, libraries and brothels. It was the epitome of all desired
wickedness: teases for the intellect, pots for the flesh.
The lodging was arranged via his father's steward, who told him only the place had been, a decade
before, a great palace, the home of the noble house of d'Uscaret. They had fallen on hard times, through
some political out-management, the steward believed. For the mighty families of the City had, even ten
years before, been constantly engaged with one another, fighting their blood-feuds on the streets and
cutting each other's throats besides in the Duke's council chamber.
Certain members of tribe d'Uscaret were still supposed to live in the mansion. It was said to be
dilapidated but also sumptuous. A prestigious residence, a good address.
But no sooner had Raoulin ridden along the narrow twilight street and seen the towers of the manse
arising behind their ruinously walled gardens; the ornate, unillumined facade, like that of some antique
tomb, than he was sure of poverty, plagues of mice and lice, and that the steward of his father, altogether
fonder of the other sons, had done him a bad turn.
Supper was not so bad, a large vegetable dish with rice, and a gooseberry gelatine, pancakes, and ale.
Though money had been provided for his fare, Raoulin was not sure he would not be cheated. As it was,
grandma tucked in heartily, and the bony groom, smacking lips and clacking their three or four teeth like
castanets.
"Perhaps," said Raoulin, "you might get me some beef tomorrow."
"Maybe, if beefs to be had. And my poor legs aren't fit for running up and down to the meat market,"
replied grandma.
"Then send the girl," said Raoulin casually. "And by the by, I hope you'll see she's fed too."
A silence greeted this.
Raoulin poured himself more ale.
The groom sat watching him like a motheaten old wolf, dangerous for all his dearth of fangs. The hag
peered fiercely from her mashed plate.
"We have no girl. He and I, is all."
"Then, she's the lady of the house. I beg her pardon."
In fact, he had not thought her a servant, not for one minute. It had been a test.
Now the hag said again, "Only us. And yourself."
"And M'sire No One. Yes, I recall. But in the corridors I passed this lady. A maiden, I believe."
Then the groom spoke. He said, "That can't be, for lef me tell you, sieur, there's no other living soul in this
house saving we and you."
"Oh, a ghost, then," said Raoulin.
His heart jumped, not unpleasantly. He did not believe in ghosts, therefore longed to have their being
proved to him, like the existence of God.
He had of course lost himself on emerging from his apartment. There were no lights anywhere, only the
worm-runs of windowless corridors on which the occasional door obtruded. Now and then, from
perversity, he had tried these doors. Three gave access to barren chambers, empty of nearly anything.
One had a shuttered window, another a candle-branch standing on the floor. (The branch was of iron,
worth little. The candle-stubs had long ago been devoured by vermin.) A few other doors resisted his
impulse. He fancied they were stuck rather than locked. Presently he reached an ascending stair he was
certain he had not seen on entry with the hag. He paused in irritated perplexity, wondering if it would be
worthwhile to climb. Just then a woman appeared and went across the stair-top, evidently negotiating the
corridor which ran parallel to that below.
She did not carry a candle, and that he saw her at all was due to his own light, and the pallor of her hair
and skin which caught it. Her gown was of some sombre stuff, high-waisted as was now not always the
fashion, and she held her hands joined under her breast. A stiff silver net contained her hair; it glittered
sharply once as she glided by. That was all. She was gone literally in that flash. Her face he did not really
see, yet her slightness, something about her, made him think her girlish.
Anyone else, going over the unlit upper corridor, must have glanced downward at his light. Not she.
He had lacked the impertinence to pursue.
He waited all through supper to see if any reference would be made to the fair passager - he had decided
she was attractive; she had to be, being mysterious.
"And if she is a ghost," he continued, "whose ghost?"
The groom and the old woman exchanged looks. Raoulin had seen such before. The camaraderie of age
against youth, stupid cunning against stupid intelligence, the low against the better who was not better
enough to get respect.
"There's no ghost here," said the old woman at length. "You were dreaming, your head full of scholar
books."
"All right," said Raoulin, pleased by the heightening Stygian shade of deception, faithfully observed as in
any romance. "Probably a trick of the candle."
Returning towards his rooms, he tried for the fork of the corridor where he had lost himself and found the
stair.
He could not regain it.
Having gone up and down and round and about for quite an hour, having peered into further fruitless
rooms of dust, mouse-cities, broken furniture, he only rediscovered his rightful corridor with difficulty. His
heart, which had begun by beating excitedly, was now leaden with weariness. Reaching his bed, thank
God aired with hot stones, he flung himself among the sheets and barely had space to blow out the candle
before he was asleep.
Here, unconscious, he dreamed the door to his apartment was stealthily opened. A slim shadow drifted
over the outer chamber. He sensed it examining as it went the closed travelling chest, the books he had
already set out, a small reliquary his mother had pressed upon him. Then, entering the bedroom, all in
black night, the shadow cast around. White fingers, that glimmered in the void, traced his doublet where
he had thrown it down, a purse of coins - he heard them chink - his dagger - he longed to warn her to be
careful, the edge was newly honed.
Then to the brink of his bed she stole, this immoderate phantom.
In utter black, through sleep and closed eyelids, yet he made her out.
A mask of Parsuan porcelain floated above him in a silver-grilled aureole-light of blondest hair. As he had
known it must be, the face was lovely, and cool as snow. And the eyes - ! Never had Raoulin seen such
eyes. Wide-set, carved a touch slantingly, fringed with pale lashes, and very clear.
And oh, their colour. They were like the jewels he remembered from a bishop's mitre, two matching
emeralds, green as two linden leaves against the sun.
Asleep, miles off, Raoulin attempted to order his body to speak to her. But the words could not be
dredged up from the sea, his lips and tongue refused obedience.
Drowning, he could only gaze on her as she drew aside from him, swimming far away, over the horizon
of night.
One day remained to Raoulin before he must present himself at the university. How he regretted its
brevity. He had meant to use the time in exploration of the wicked City of Paradys, but now a morning
sufficed for this. He visited the markets, and pried amongst the crannied shops, saw the shining coils of
the river straddled by bridges, gazed on the great grey Temple-Church of the Sacrifice, where he must
hear at least one Mass and report the fact to his mother.
By early afternoon he had strayed back south-west of the City, to gloomy House d'Uscaret.
In daylight, the upland streets - the mansion was on one of the many hills that composed Paradys - were
not appetising. Nothing fell so low as the highmost. There were other large houses and imposing towers
in the area, now gone to tenements, tiles off, stones crumbling, strung with torn washing. In the alleys was
disgusting refuse. Every crevice seemed to hold debris or the bones of small deceased animals.
Having gained the house by a side entry, to which the hag had given him a key, Raoulin set himself to
master the building.
He had determined to recover the ghost's corridor, and all through the hot post-noon he sought it, and,
wide-awake, finally found it, too. The corridor seemed redolent yet of her ghostly fragrance. And
shivering slightly, he started along in the direction she had chosen. Soon enough it gave on a further flight
of ascending steps - perhaps the spectre had a lair… But the solitary door above was disappointingly
jammed - or secured - Raoulin could only concede that this kept up the best traditions of romance.
Then came another fall of stairs leadingdown, with, at their head, a slit of window covered by a grille.
Looking out, Raoulin realised himself to be in a tall tower of the house. He saw the pebbled slope of
roofs, and, to his surprise, noticed the distant miniature of the Temple-Church adrift like a promontory in
soft haze.
Taking the downward stair, he next arrived against a low door, which for an amazement opened.
There lay a garden, walled apart from the rest.
It had been made for a woman, he supposed; even through the riot of weeds and ivy, a map of vestal
symmetry was apparent. A garden of more southern climes, modelled, maybe, on the classical courts of
the Roman. Clipped ilex and conifer that had burst from shape, a tank of marble all green with lichen and
with a green velvet scum upon it. The wrecks of arbours were visible, and a charming statue, a young girl
in a graceful tunic, holding up an archaic oil-lamp which once it had been possible to kindle.
Raoulin trod down paths, breaking the skeins of creeper with his elegant shoes, the ivy trying to detain
him by clutching at the points of his sleeves and hose.
No birds sang in that garden of emerald green. He knew it had been made for her - or that she had made
it her own.
Therefore, he was not startled, reaching the end of an avenue, to confront the bank of yew in which
gaped a black frontage: the arched portico of a mausoleum.
The tomb was not very big, nor very old, quite fresh. He read with ease the name on the arch in its
bannering of stone. While, student-scholar that he was, he had no trouble either with the Latin
underneath.
Helise d'Uscaret Brought a bride to this House Now at the court of Death below
A huge lock maintained the entrance of the tomb. But, thought Raoulin, leaning on a tree, a ghost could
pass straight through all walls, of wood, iron or granite.
Useless then to fasten up his own chamber. Even had he dreamed of doing so.
He wished to be served his supper that night in his rooms. He did not question the hag. He told her
nothing. He did not even note she had put some morsels of beef into his stew, as requested.
During the evening, he glanced upon a few books, and partly turned his mind towards the morning. But
the Sachrist had lost its stature.
In a strange condition he took himself early to bed, soon after the City bells had rung the Hesperus. (He
would need to rise at Prima Hora.)
He lay on his back, besieged by sensuality, and lovely listless desires that had no need to exert
themselves or to hold back. Lethargy stole slowly but certainly upon him, the harbinger. Sleep came in
drifts, easily, totally, before the window had quite darkened.
But she, she did not come at all.
Though he had been trained to be something of a thinker, Raoulin was not properly a dreamer. Where he
inclined to poetry, it was the cadence of the moment.
The ghost had failed to keep their assignation, and continued to fail.
Within a month, unsupplied by anything further uncanny, and by then thoroughly embroiled in the student
life of the university, Raoulin had put the green-eyed haunt aside. It is true that he referred privately to the
house as "bewitched", and even once in conversation with a fellow student had described his address as
"d'Uscaret the ghost mansion."' But the fellow student had only absently remarked that among the
desuetudinous old houses of Ducal times, there were scarcely any that did not have either a phantom or a
curse.
By day the university, which was run rather on the classical lines, worked its claws into his brain, and
Raoulin caught a fever of learning only before intimated. By night he had now friends of the same feather,
unlike his leery brothers, with whom to go debating and drinking. More often than not, as the first month
enlarged to a plural, Raoulin did not bother to sup at his lodging, but dined in some cheap tavern with his
comrades, went to a cock-fight, or to watch in their season the street players, who would set up their
stages under the walls of the Sacrifice, or such commemorative plague churches as Our Lady of Ashes.
His head was either burnished with wine or bright with ideas, the licence or strictures of Petronius,
Petrarch, and Pliny the Other, the miracles of Galen. Raoulin was aware he was happy, but wisely, like a
superstitious savage in some travelogue of the Caesars, did not name his state.
With the wine-shops and bookshops and passing shows, temporal or religious, he was soon familiar. Not
so after all with the brothels. Some caution from home had stuck, concerning dread diseases, and
heartless females intent only on robbery. Raoulin had been accustomed to the wholesome but difficult
girls of the village, or to celibacy perforce.
The ghost had fired his blood, but that was only to be expected. Women were the Devil's, and if dead or
damned, their power must be irresistible. You could not be blamed for fancying a ghost.
But the phantom came no more to tickle him in helpless sleep.
Instead it was Joseph who caught his arm and said, "Tomorrow is a Holy Day."
"Good. Let us be holy," replied Raoulin.
Joseph laughed, and the dark sunlight of evening glinted on his eye-glasses and the silver tags of his points
- for Joseph was not poor.
"I had another notion in mind. Over the river is a tavern, by name the Black Smith. Behind lies a house
which calls itself the Sweet Cup."
"Ah ha," said Raoulin cautiously.
"The girls are clean, you have my word," said Joseph. "I've been there."
"I have a treatise on the fifth humour - '
"First come and console the possibly non-existent other four. The world is for man's enjoyment."
On the board of the tavern was a mighty Nubian -the eponymous smith - who, swinging high his hammer,
was about to crush the noddle of a fallen enemy sprawled across the anvil. Raoulin regarded this sign
with interest, disfavour, and amusement. They drank no more than a token goblet, however, before going
through a hind door and out across a yard. Here a ladder had been fixed, seeming to ascend into a
hayloft. "What kind of pastoral cubby is this?" demanded Raoulin jollily: the one goblet had been of the
strong kind. "Never fear, you shall see wonders," answered Joseph.
They managed the ladder and so got into the loft. It seemed bare, and they crossed in near blackness.
The far end of the loft gave them a shut door. Joseph knocked loudly in five spaced raps.
Presently a tiny aperture, like the spy-hole of a nunnery, was opened, and someone looked out at them
invisibly. A woman's voice inquired: 'Who is there?"
"Two men."
"Are you thirsty?" asked the voice.
"For a sweet cup," said Joseph.
Apparently all this was in the nature of a password. The door of the brothel came unbarred, and they
were let through.
Raoulin stared. He was in a lobby, the plaster of whose walls was covered by paintings of a vivid and
obscene nature.
There a shepherd disrobed a shepherdess by means of his crook, there a minstrel, his curvaceous viol put
by, gently bowed the naked breasts of a lady instead - and there a priapic faun frolicked with two dryads
in garlands of grapes and vine leaves. Swerving about from this, Raoulin encountered the door-keeper
herself, who was startlingly clad in the draped garment of an antique Roman lady, a thing of such fine
gauze that through it every contour, glint and shade of her otherwise nudity might be seen.
This nymph greeted them with an Eastern flourish.
"Will you drink of the bowl of joy?"
"We will," said Joseph.
The nymph ran her glance across Raoulin. Her eyes were edged with kohl and her cheeks powdered.
Her face had on more clothing than her body.
"Do you know the custom of the house?"
Joseph nodded. Raoulin. his blood thundering in his ears, was prepared to learn it.
From a pedestal the nymph raised a large cup of white ceramic. She held it out before them.
Joseph reached in a hand, and plucked something forth.
"Take a counter," he said to Raoulin. "That's how you select your girl."
"What? Unseen? Suppose she's not to my taste - '
The nymph said to him smoothly, flirtatiously, "Every one of our damsels is beautiful."
"Whose word do I have?" (Joseph wriggled uneasily.) 'What if," said Raoulin, primed still by the one
strong goblet, "I prefer you?"
But just then he became aware of a man stirring in the shadow of a curtain beyond the paintings. Big and
black he looked, like the smith off the tavern sign. So Raoulin shrugged, paid as Joseph did what he was
asked, and took a small square counter like a die from the cup.
The nymph, while she had not responded to his sally, did not seem to dislike him for it. She said to
Joseph, "You know the way, sieur. I'll guide your friend."
Then the curtain was drawn aside (the bully had effaced himself) and they entered a corridor. It appeared
to run back a long way, and its sides were made mostly of high wooden screens which creaked
mysteriously and emitted driblets of light. Although the screens were occlusive, weird shadows had been
flung up on the low uneven ceiling, tangles of writhing knots, like serpents. And there were sounds too,
perhaps like the noises in Hell, gasps and grunts, squeals and moans, and now and then a cry, a
blasphemy, a prayer.
Raoulin was filled by apprehension as by lust. They had long since become, these two emotions, mutually
conducive.
Suddenly Joseph slunk aside. He went through one of the screens and was consumed into the abyss.
The door-keeper had not looked at the counter Raoulin selected, perhaps it made no difference. She led
him unerringly, and all at once the corridor was crossed by a pair of aisles. These were both of them in
darkness. The nymph halted, and pointed to the left-hand way.
"Yes?" said Raoulin uncertainly.
"Yes, m'sieur," said the door-keeper. And reaching up, she kissed him on the lips with a little snake's
flicker of the tongue. "The very last of the doors. It's marked with the same mark as on the counter. For
you, something special."
Then she was gone, leaving him alight with the thirst of the house.
He went into the corridor and saw that it did indeed have doors rather than screens. The last of these,
blundered on in the gloom, was marked with - what was it? A sort of mask… He did not wait for more,
but pushed at the barrier. It swung open with a lubricious croak.
Again, Raoulin had pause.
There was a pale-washed room with an Eastern carpet on one wall, the floor very clean, and lightly
strewn with colourless flower-heads picked for their scent, as in a lady's chamber. One felt one had
stumbled into the wrong house. Against another wall stood a couch, perhaps too wide for virginity; yet
otherwise this was all the stuff of a well-to-do and pure girl's bedroom - even to the straightbacked chair
and the little footstool. These, turned a fraction away from the door, were occupied.
Raoulin's heart, ready engorged like his loins, took a leap. Was it all some jest - some mischief - but how
would Joseph have known - ?
Raoulin closed the door with stealth, and began to walk silently forward, his heart noisy, and prepared
for anything -
As he circled like a fox, the posed picture came visible, the chair and the girl seated in it, her blonde head
slightly bent, her face dippered into shadow…
She wore a black gown, but its lacing, at the bosom not the back, had been loosed, and under it there
was no modest "breast-plate" of embroidered linen or silk, only the silken pressure of two breasts. Her
feet were bare upon the stool, and nearly all one leg, the skirt of the gown caught up as if through
negligence. Her left hand lay idly at her throat, just above the portion of white flesh that rose, swelled and
tugged at the laces of the bosom, and sank down, leaving them slackened. The right hand rested upon an
object which nestled at her belly. It was a skull.
Here was a maiden discovered alone and untrammelled, her hem carelessly raised, but in the most
solemn act of contemplation advocated by the church: dwelling upon the martyrdom of the saints, and on
the personal death. To this shall you come.
But her face - whose face was it?
At that instant, as if quietly wakening from a dream, she lifted her head.
Despite the blondness, and the skull, she was not Helise d'Uscaret.
Raoulin shuddered. He was dreadfully relieved and sorry.
It was a pretty face, too innocent, with a weak kissable mouth, and cool weasel eyes that knew
everything.
She had seen him shudder, and she said in a whisper, "Thinking of death makes me remember life."
And she took his hands and put one upon the skull and the other upon her left breast.
So warm one, and beating itself with a heart, and the other as cold and hard as a stone.
"We're only mortal," said the girl. "How constricting are these laces - '
For a moment he could not unclamp his hands, from the icy apple of corruption, the hot fluttering apple of
quickness.
But she released him and drew his fingers to her laces.
Then, the skull had rolled down into the flowers and he knelt between the bared limb and the covered
one, his hands sliding on the treasures of Eve, and her hands, not those of a maiden, everywhere upon
him, so he could hardly bear it.
She showed him how he might have her in the chair, if he •wished, and he could not wait another second.
As he united with her, the whole room seemed to thunder. He had not had a girl for half a year.
She urged him on with wild cries that, in his tumult, he believed. As the spasm shook him, he kicked the
damnable skull, and it rattled away across the floor.
"Have I pleased you?"
"Oh, yes."
"Then… will you give me a little gift - ?"
Raoulin frowned. He had paid at the door and reckoned this unsuitable. But then again, perhaps they
robbed their girls here, and it had been very good. If he tipped her, she might let him have her again,
although she had already gone behind a curtain to wash, and she came back with her laces tied, and he
supposed his time with her was up.
He put a coin between her breasts, and leaned to kiss her. She allowed it. But then she said, "I regret.
The Mother's strict."
'Mother - what, of your nunnery?"
The blonde whore lowered her eyes. But she removed his hands.
"Unkindness," he said. "No charity."
"It isn't my choice. In a minute I shall be wanted."
"And if I protest, that hulk of a door-fellow will throw me out."
She said nothing.
Raoulin straightened his clothes and did up his points with surly tardiness. "This is a churlish place. I won't
come back. Even the old hag's more friendly at d'Uscaret."
No sooner had he uttered this than he was puzzled at having done so. To name his lodging to a chance
harlot would not, even in the nicest circumstances, have seemed sensible to him. But there, too late, it
was said.
He expected no response. Perhaps she would have the grace to be deaf.
But then she asked, in a peculiar tone, "How is it called?"
"What?"
"Your lodging is it? There?"
"Where?" And now he looked up with a merry smile - and met the eyes of a terrified animal in a trap."
Why - what's up with you?"
"D'Uscaret?" she said. "Is it there?"
"Possibly I may have - '
"You lodge there?"
She was so insistent she seemed to drive him.
"Very well, I do. But don't try to make anything of it - '
Before he had even finished, she began to scream.
He stood astounded, without a thought in his head. It seemed to be occurring in another room, this
appalling outcry and madness - for while she screamed she ran about, threw herself at the walls, tore at
herself with her nails in the most horrible way - dragged down the costly carpet from the plaster and
writhed with it on the ground.
As had to happen next, the door burst open. Two roughs, one with drawn dagger, came shouldering
through. The larger, unarmed, man seized Raoulin, while his companion laid the dagger under Raoulin's
ear.
Raoulin kept quite still. He said firmly, "I did nothing to her that wasn't natural. We were talking after -
and then this!" He had to raise his voice, for she went on shrieking, though now her vocal chords
cracked. The doorway filled with clusters of frightened or curious male and female faces. A girl, clad only
in a shift, pushed by and ran to the blonde harlot, tried to take hold of her and quieten her. It was beyond
her powers. Two others hastened to join the struggle, calling the blonde pet names as they ripped her
ripping hands from her hair and breasts -
Then the proprietress, the "Mother", was in the room, a pockmarked frump one would not turn to regard
once on the street.
"Explain this hubbub."
Her presence bore such authority, even the demented creature on the floor grew abruptly mute, and then
began to weep. The three other girls cradled her.
The Mother turned her unadorable gaze on Raoulin.
"Well?"
Raoulin thought quickly. Only the bizarre truth would do. He reluctantly rendered it. " - And when I told
her d'Uscaret - "
"D'Uscaret!" exclaimed the woman. Her face had altered. She did not look afraid, but a wily sort of
blankness was stealing over her, the appearance she would put on for the confessional.
摘要：

TheBookOfTheBeastbyTanithLeeTHEGREENBOOKEYESLIKEEMERALDPARTONETheScholarShewithapplesyoudesiredFromParadisecamelongago:WithyouIfeelthatifrequired,Suchstillwithinmygardengrow.-ShelleyBytheendofthefirstnight,heknewthathislodgingwashaunted.Fromthenight'sfirstminute,heshouldhaveguessed.Ahaggreetedhimont...

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