Lee, Tanith - Sabella or The Blood Stone

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LETTER FROM THE DEAD:

---------------------

"I know what you are, Sabella. I didn't know until I came to God, but

when I found God, He told me. His angels told me. I know what you've

done, I know you killed my sister. I hope the cross cripples you, as it

should. If it doesn't, I've made another arrangement. Don't try to guess

what it is. You're just one of the wolves, Sabella, an animal, and

animals can't guess things. Not till it's too late. But you don't have

so long, Sabella, I hope it's soon, and then you'll rot, and your soul,

if you have one, will writhe and shriek in Eternal Fires, Sabella, and

God will let me hear you as I rest on His bosom."

TANITH LEE has also written

THE BIRTHGRAVE

VAZKOR, SON OF VAZKOR

QUEST FOR THE WHITE WITCH

DON'T BITE THE SUN

DRINKING SAPPHIRE WINE

VOLKHAVAAR

NIGHT'S MASTER

DEATH'S MASTER

ELECTRIC FOREST

THE STORM LORD

DAY BY NIGHT *

*Forthcoming

SABELLA

=======

The Blood Stone

===============

Tanith Lee

==========

DAW BOOKS, INC.

DONALD A. WOLLHEIM, PUBLISHER

1633 Broadway

New York, N.Y. 10019

Cover art by George Smith.

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FIRST PRINTING, APRIL 1980

PART ONE The Wolves

PART TWO The Avenger

PART THREE De Profundis

Part ONE

--------

The Wolves

==========

I was out hunting the night my aunt Cassi died. As she was taking her

last breath of revitalized Arean air, I was high on the Hammerhead

Plateau, under forty thousand stars burning like diamond bonfires. Maybe

I even killed in the same minute she let that last breath go. I hadn't

meant to kill, perhaps it was an omen. And did I feel her reach out to

me in the black eye-star-burning darkness, reach out with her dead

finger, pointing, beckoning, condemning me, me thinking it was only the

chill night wind of Novo Mars?

Just after sunup (Novo Mars sunup like a bomb of light going off in the

sky: sixty-second dawn) the mailman buzzed the porch. He was a real man,

the mailman, I mean human, because mechanization doesn't stretch out too

far into the Styx of Hammerhead. He stood against the fresh pink sky,

his electric mail dolly sitting beside him. When I went to open up, he

saw me just as he always did, in my black wrapper and my dark glasses,

my hair like black coffee poured over me from the crown of my head to my

shoulders. He thinks I'm a slut, a boozy drug addict. Thinks? Thought.

Maybe still thinks, who knows.

"Miss Quey? Registered stellagraxn. Thumbprint right here."

He looked resentful, as he always did. He was wondering if I'd seduce

him someday in my silky wrapper. But I wouldn't. He thought my name

Quey, (pronounced Kay) was phony too. The name on the sender's docket

was Koberman, Cassi's name.

"Thanks," I said, as I thumbprinted.

"Sorry to wake you," said the mailman. His stupid sad malevolent human

eyes said to me: I guess all you whores have to sleep it off in the

morning.

But I didn't argue, not then, with the tepid rosewater sun streaming in

my door and my hands shaking a little and the lightweight stella like a

pack of lead.

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"That's O.K.," I said, and buttoned shut the smoked-glass door, and

slunk back into the lovely shadows.

All the blue paper day-blinds were down, and the blinds of violet

cotton. How beautiful it all looked, true virtue of necessity. But that

one slap of light in the face had told. I remembered the striped deer

and some weak tears oozed from my eyes.

Out in the hallway, over the stair, the. stained-glass window cries too,

staining the wooden floor with a big crimson patch.

When I finally opened the stella, I wasn't really interested in it, it

was something else that had to be seen to. At first I thought it was

from Cassi herself, and wondered why she'd suddenly recollected me and

what she wanted that she had to send star-bounced telegrams for, and

what it was going to mean. (Does anyone else ever read their mail like

this? Trepidation always, occasionally fear. How I loved ads and

circulars, things you could send for or forget.) But then I found it

wasn't Cassi, but Cassi's brother-in-law, a lawyer's formal bit of paper

with formal phrases on it. Cassi was dead, but she'd sent me an invite

to the funeral. She'd fixed her heart on it. And to ensure I came, she'd

left me several thousand tax-clear New Mars credits. I hadn't recalled

she was wealthy. I hadn't known she recalled where I was or even if I

was still on-planet. I didn't know either what her post mortem game was,

but it seemed to me she had set out to nail me on a very special

Revivalist Christian Cross. But then, would she, all these years, have

known that too?

Why does everybody have to love money so much? I wasn't rich. They'd

expect me to want to be, and if I didn't, they'd want to find out why

not. And Cassi had remembered where I was and they'd traced me here.

Even if I ran (I contemplated that) they'd follow me.

Sabella Quey, this cash belongs to you, they'd say, as we stood there in

the bright delicate sunlight of rose-hued Novo Mars.

An hour later, I went to the music deck and keyed in the phones. I let

the sinister marvel of a Prokofiev symphony wash up through the house

and over me as the jets of the shower washed down.

But oh, Sabella Quey, the cross stands ready.

The funeral, the day after tomorrow, drawing me, as if by suction, back

into the world.

* * *

-----

Novo Mars is enough like old Mars to have been dubbed with the name, but

a pink planet rather than red, pearl rather than ruby. I was born east

of Ares. This little world is all I've ever known. It's sugar-mouse

color skies with their pale blue clouds of oxygen revitalization that

turn the air over the cities to a lavender soup, the tawny-rose sands,

the knife-ridge plateaus like pasteboard cutouts, the rust-red crags

dissolving in the five-second dusks.

The vegetation is all earth-import, the books tell you, and mostly so is

the fauna that breeds and hunts and basks and leaves its bones on plains

and heights and in the dry canals. But both flora and fauna have mutated

here to fit new climates, zones and geography. The waters were also

initially false, atmospheric stabilizers replenished by viaduct and

sub-surface reservoir, yet they, too, like crystal tinted by indigenous

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skies and pointed mountains, have become one with Novo Mars. There are

genuine ruins (beware tourist traps) here and there. Thin pillars

soaring, leveled foundations crumbling, cracked urns whispering of

spilled dusts--all the Martian dreams that old Mars denied to mankind.

Though this prior race, whose wreck men inherited, left small

self-evidence beyond their architecture. Maybe men find it, anyway, more

romantic to guess.

But there are still real Martian wolves in the hills above Hammerhead

Plateau. Fine nights, you can hear them howl in tin-whistle voices, like

antique lost locomotives searching for a station. Periodically, men come

out from the cities and shoot at them, and those nights, from Brade to

Hammerlake, the uplands ring to lead-blast and electric flash-gun

charge. But wolves that have survived so many things, a passing of

peoples, drought of four-fifths of the water, death of half the

air--they can survive guns. Their rough coats are like pink champagne,

their genes programmed long ago to copy the dusts, but catch the glare

of their eyes at night, disembodied blood drops seemingly framed in

stars, and know them for what they are.

When they cry, when they cry, Sabella, the hair lifts on the scalp, and

the eyes fill up with tears and the mouth with water.

* * *

-----

I took the night flight to Aresport. It's a two-hour run by air-bug from

the Brade lift-off point. To reach Brade, there'd been the nineteen

o'clock flyer from Hammerlake Halt. I'd footed the five miles to the

Halt, through the fading afternoon, the scarlet minute of pre-sunset,

through the seconds of sunset, through the tidal wave of night. Five

miles was nothing to me, and the road was good. Once the sun went out, I

took off my black straw hat and the big black glasses and carried them

with my sandals and my single piece of luggage.

The half-hour flyer ride was uneventful, the bus almost empty, though we

picked up a pair of couples on route through Spur and Canyon.

When I'd checked into the cabin of the air-bug at Brade and fastened

myself down in the plasti-plush seat, the first intimation of fate came

over me. I'd been expecting it; not such force. After all, I'd

undertaken a few unavoidable journeys before, and I'd survived,

sometimes with fewer scars than others. Then I remembered my mother's

death, the memory also expected and inevitable, and a dreary pang swept

through me. My mother, Cassi's sister, had understood me. Had understood

me so well that one morning I came home and she was dead, lying there

accusingly under the crimson patch cast by the stained-glass window. I

don't know if she'd planned that, or not. (My paranoia, you perceive,

was that the dead were always in league against me--worse than the

living. The dead, plotting to snare and to implicate, to trip and fell

me and lay a naked sword across my neck.) But my mother died of natural

causes, if heart attack is natural. The medical man, who like the

mailman caught me in my sunglasses, and who looked at me with the same

unliking, interested stare, cleared the death certificate for me

disappointedly. He would, of course, have heard stories of the odd

recluse duo, the mother and her daughter, living in the old colonial

house under the hills. When I was sixteen or seventeen and couldn't keep

out of Hammerlake town, nights, all kinds of tales were spelled out

about me. The boys would whistle after my lean long flanks, nipped-in

swaying waist and heavy young-girl breasts. In those days (nights) I had

no wisdom at all. None. When I think how lucky I was, I tremble, even

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now. Caution came long after guilt, but before then it got to my mother.

It made a slim artery in her heart engorge and burst. It killed her.

I--killed her.

Presently the plane began to clear its throat and the fasten-up warning

lights came on. I hadn't glanced about. I'd learned not to where space

is confined, for this is a gregarious civilization; I too, if I could

afford to be, maybe. The bug lifted on its jets and stars crowded the

windows.

I don't often sleep at night, darkness has too much to offer with its

silences and mysteries. But the motion and hum of the air-bug and the

thick half lights gradually sent me under.

Then I started to dream. I dreamed about Easterly, which was a logical

progression from the rest, the death of Cassi and my mother's death.

Easterly was the little township, sixty-two miles east of Ares where my

mother and Cassi were born, and where I grew up. My father was an

ore-blaster, and when I was two years old the drill he was working on

caught fire. (Catalog of death.) My mother, his widow, got the insurance

payments the company awards to survivors. Aunt Cassi, an adventuress,

was way off on Earth, then. My mother and I, alone without a man, became

briefly wealthy.

Consciously, I can perfectly recall the copper-brick house at Easterly,

on a street of copper-brick houses, for Easterly was an ore town on the

boom. Asleep, I could see it in microscopic detail. Every brick shining

in the sun, the neat lawn of aniseed grass running into the avenue of

honeysuckle trees and the brindle oaks across the way where black-haired

boys kick a ball. The mines were neatly hidden underground, but the

distant towers of the three refineries gleamed and gave off tiny puffs

of cotton wool. Beyond the refineries, over the river and the crescent

of the dam, the meadows and the wildflowers faded into the rose-petal

sands. There are ruins at Easterly. At eleven, I didn't know. One of the

dry canals plunges in under the rock of an old quarry. In there.

"Come out!" my mother calls. "Bel, come out of that, it's nothing but a

dirty hole. Bel, do you hear me?"

But momma, I've come to place with a tall pillar like a lily stem. Momma

it's not so dark--

"Child, the sides may cave in--"

Why was I scared? I wasn't scared before. I was eleven. It was the day I

started to bleed for the very first time. It was the day I found--

"Bel!"

Oh God, why am I so scared?

"Bel!"

I realized the tunnel was closing in on me after all, was dragging me

away, and I beheld my mother's terrified face snatched from me,

receding--

And I woke up to discover myself crying softly,

"Momma, Momma!" Like one of those dolls of centuries before.

"It's all right," somebody said. "Really it is. You're awake. It's all

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right, now."

I could see the air-bug, quiet, and scattered with persons who slept on

without the raw edges of dreams to slash them alert again. And next to

me, on the twin seat at my side, but not fastened in, a shadow saying,

"Honestly, it's O.K. now," very gently, as if to the child I had been

two instants before. "Is it O.K.?" I asked, to gain time. "Sure it is.

You're back."

"Am I?"

"Truly. I swear."

He laughed, this gentle still. I hadn't looked at him beyond the first

uncalculated awakening gaze that hadn't assimilated anything. But he was

young. My age?

I'll have to be extra careful now. 'That's better," he said. "Look, can

I get you anything?"

"Anything?" No, I must not fool around. "Well, a brandy?"

"No thanks."

"You must have something, to prove to yourself the dream's over. I've

had dreams like that sometimes."

"How do you know what kind of dream it was?"

"A bad one. Come on. Oh, I know," he said. His voice was warm, melodic.

Perhaps Prokofiev had written his voice. "Last year I was on Gall

Vulcan, with my brother. I freaked out on mescadrine." (Some drug.) Now

he was telling me how his big brother saved him, sat and held his hand,

ran him into the ground to sweat the horrors out of him, rocked him like

a baby. It was extraordinary. "I'm not ashamed to tell you," said the

young man in the shadow. "We shouldn't be ashamed."

"I was ashamed. Afraid, ashamed. Excited.

This was the duck-catch syndrome. I'd ducked, but the missile had still

come straight at me. In avoiding it, I'd caught the ball in my ungloved,

unready hands.

"If you don't want a brandy, what about an iced fruit juice?"

I'm going to a funeral. Don't make it two.

"All right. Thank you."

He went to the auto-dispenser, and I looked at him. And when he came

back and we sat drinking cold juice, I looked at him then, too. He was

sunlit, even in the night cabin. He had the light bronze suntan of Novo

Mars I can't even take from a ray-lamp. His eyes and his hair, like

mine, were dark, and his hair was worn rather long, the recurring

fashion among the young poets, the dreamers. His clothes were casual,

but of good quality, and he had one of those gold ropes around his neck

that are jewelers' fantasies of snakes, and have narrow graven heads and

gem eyes.

"I hope you're not angry that I spoke to you," he said.

"I'm not angry."

"I have another confession." He lowered his lashes and I felt sad. Old

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and sad, and tired, and alone. "I was watching you when you were asleep.

I was planning something to say when you woke up, but then you had the

nightmare."

How rare and chill the juice tastes on my tongue, the tip of which is

burning now. I always imagine it's like champagne, which I've never

tasted, but how could it be?

"I wanted to talk to you, you see."

Yes. I see. I know.

I mentioned those centuries-old dolls that used to say ('Momma!') Dolls

nowadays are robotic and can do anything your child programs into them.

Eat, sleep, sob, dance, urinate, tell stories. And like dolls, humans,

given a certain programming, will do... anything.

I put down my fruit juice.

"A relation of mine just died," I said flatly.

"I'm sorry."

"We were very close. It's my turn to apologize. I'm not good company

right now. I want to be alone."

That was difficult to say. Laughable, but difficult.

"O.K.," he said. "Of course."

He stood up. The snake about his throat had blue eyes that comprehended

me, and that glittered. But his eyes were innocent.

"My name is Sand--that's really Sand Vincent. If you need anything."

Magic formula, the exchange of names, but I only smiled at him, as

stiffly and coldly as I could, and he went away.

It was so easy to make them come to me, like filings flying to a magnet.

I was a lodestone. The boys on the neon-striped black candy streets of

Hammerlake when I was sixteen, seventeen, seven or eight years ago. Hey,

sister! Hey, baby!

There are still wolves in those damned hills!

The sound of guns, and the lights over the ridges, and the scent of

burnt electric air.

I watched the cabin clock. Less than an hour to Ares. I wouldn't fall

asleep again.

* * *

-----

The Brade air-bug landed at the Cliffton Terminus Strip. Aresport has

twenty-seven landing strips. Ares is a big city, though not as big as

Dawson and Flamingo in the north.

Cliffton was a ghost terminus at this hour, almost deserted. However,

every port had its duty-check, for drugs, for guns, for stolen goods.

Machines clear the luggage, and every now and then a bag was opened.

Mine got opened. The electronic eye scanned inside and hit the metal cap

of the container, and an alarm went off. Aresport is too sophisticated

to let a mechanism handle such matters. Two human securi-guards walked

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over and asked me to remove the container. Apart from the cap, it's

transparent, so they looked at the red juice inside.

"Christ, lady, what's that, blood?"

Sand, having got through the check right in front of me, returned.

"Is anything wrong?"

"This lady is carrying a bottle of blood hi her bag."

The guards at the port were bored and power-conscious. But here was a

malign brittle good humor I could match.

"Pomegranate and tomato juice," I said. "Half a liter, concentrated,

with added vitamins. My physician makes it up for me. Like to try some?"

The guards grinned. Sabella the proud beauty was turning them on, and it

had been, was going to be, a long slow night on Cliffton strip.

I uncapped the jar, and they fetched plastic cups and distilled water

and we mixed some and drank together. I hope they enjoyed it.

"It smells of flowers. Or hash," said Sand, perplexed.

"You want to come round the back, son," said one of the guards. "We've

got confiscated Vulcan-grown hash up to the roof, no duty paid."

"And good old frecking alcohol," added the other.

"Are you going to be O.K.?" Sand asked me as we went out of the terminus

building. The wide port highway strode up toward Ares. You never see the

stars above a city. The revitalized atmosphere is thick, but oh the

colors of their lights chalked on the under-swag of the clouds,

greengage and peppermint and opal and strawberry ribs of color, as if

the cities were on fire, and this their smoke.

"Yes, I'll be all right."

"Only, things seem to be happening to you, don't they?"

"Yes, they do. But it will be fine now/'

"I'm not trying," said Sand, outlined against the first hour of black

cloud-blazing morning city, "to be a pain in the ear. But after

this--the funeral--"

"Then, I'm going home."

Say: To my husband and my twelve babies. Say it. Nothing comes.

Sand turned to the city.

"Pillar of fire by .night," he said. He must have had Revivalist

biblical training.

My heart was racing. The sight of the city was hurting me with pleasure.

I have none of civilization's taint A landscape of steel towers against

hills of concrete, sings to me as does a landscape of rock pinnacles and

gullies. All landscapes are one, dissimilar, yet still landscape. All

one to me.

I swallowed.

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"I must go now," I said. I can't even be nice to him. Dare not. "Excuse

me."

I brushed by him, and a cab crawled to the walkway.

I got in and gave it directions to drive me to any middle-price hotel.

(Not cheap enough to attract random fellowship, not flashy enough to

attract speculation.)

Sand stood by the window.

"You won't even tell me your name?"

"I'd rather not."

"That pendant," he said.

The cab drove away.

My tongue's tip was a scald of flame.

***

Sunrise was at six o'clock, sunset eighteen-thirty; Aunt Cassi's funeral

was set for sixteen in the afternoon. That was fortunate. The sun would

already be westering behind the tall gray pines and cumulous trees and

the white marble groves of the Koberman cemetery that uncle-in-law

Koberman had sent me a picture of.

Why do you wear so much black, Sabella, baby?

It keeps the sun out, my parasol black. The women in the east of Earth

knew that long ago. They knew other things. Anyway, what else do you

wear for a Christian Revivalist burial? Black frock, black stockings,

black shoes that seem to grow into the legs, as if T were born with

three-inch heels. Big black hat. I am a raven. No, the ravens in the

Ares Zoo are white.

I slipped the pendant inside my dress. It must have wormed out when I

fell asleep on the plane and I didn't properly notice. Only Sand

noticed, and perhaps the securiguards.

The hotel had been sleazier than it should have been.

On the sidewalk, between the great golden towers and the glass shards of

the city, the cab whooshed through the dust. But once I was inside, the

cab disowned the city, throwing it over its shoulder, racing into

suburbs of grass plantings and white colonial houses.

The shadows were long and red when I reached the cemetery. There were no

drivers in these autocabs to argue. I put the necessary credits in the

meter and left it parked among the pines.

Westering glow, yet the sun fell on my face, my hands, like embers. I

walked quickly up the path and into the chapel. The Kobermans had a

Gothic twist. The Christ was white and warped and screwed by pins to his

length of wood and apparently screaming. To be mercilessly nailed

forever in a window; who could blame him?

There were two or three people already there, dark figures kneeling

between the white bench-pews in the white light of the window. The huge

jeweled cross by the lectern took your breath away. If Cassi had paid

for that, Cassi had been in clover. Now she was in a box. My eyes

touched the coffin in its snow drape and the nausea began as it had to.

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The last coffin I saw had been my mother's,

"Miss Quey, I'm so glad you were able to come. When we received no

stellagram, I'm afraid I'd almost given up on you--"

The big tusker in the black formal two-piece suit spoke to me in a

hushed monotone.... This was how you spoke in front of the dead, because

they mustn't overhear the huge secret of what had happened to them. He

thought I'd come to listen to the will read, shed a crocodile tear (I've

never seen a crocodile), and collect, like all of them, and so he was

instantly at home with me. But he introduced himself as the sender of

the Stella, uncle-in-law.

"You'll be coming back to the house. For the er, to settle matters."

"Yes."

He was extra pleased. He'd got a word out of me. "And stay over,

naturally. Hammerhead is quite a way."

"That's all right. I have a cab waiting to take me back to town."

"But Miss Quey--Sabella, Come on, now. You must be worn out already."

No, I'm not worn out. The sun left a line of invisible blisters all over

my skin, and through the blisters my nerves were thrusting like eager

wires.

The chapel had filled up, and the priest appeared hi his black cassock,

the lilies of death embroidered on his shawl.

Uncle-in-law wedged me into a pew. Somewhere music started and my heart

stopped.

Oh Christ, let me get through this. I shouldn't be here. I'm on fire.

"Deus," said the priest, authoritatively, as if he had a through line to

God, "cui proprium est misereri semper et parcere--"

The Revivalists revived the Latin with the rest of the Revival. It's

beautiful. It plays me like a harp. Everything's so bright and clear and

full of pain and sorrow. Six years since I heard such words.

"Dicit illi Jesus: Resurget frater tuus."

I was leaning on the pew, and weeping and I didn't really know her, and

it was wrong. And it makes it worse if anyone thinks it's right I should

be weeping.

If it goes on much longer I shall faint. They'll carry me out and the

sun will smite me by day between the pine needles. It will kill me and

they won't know why. They'll say I died of grief for Cassi and now I'm

going to laugh.

I didn't laugh. Something made me turn, maybe the acute instincts of the

hills. And there, at the back of the chapel, his dark head bowed over

his gentle mourning and the snake coiled round his throat, was Sand

Vincent.

* * *

-----

Big hog uncle took me by the arm, and guided me, guided all of us away,

when it was over. At a C.R. mass you often don't see the box go in the

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file:///G|/Program%20Files/eMule/Incoming/Tanith%20Lee%20-%20Sabella%20o\r%20The%20Blood%20Stone.txtLETTERFROMTHEDEAD:---------------------"Iknowwhatyouare,Sabella.Ididn'tknowuntilIcametoGod,butwhenIfoundGod,Hetoldme.Hisangelstoldme.Iknowwhatyou'vedone,Iknowyoukilledmysister.Ihopethecrosscripplesyou...

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Lee, Tanith - Sabella or The Blood Stone.pdf

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Lee, Tanith - Sabella or The Blood Stone

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