‘But -‘
Now listen: go to school in Ploiesti – become as clever as your teachers, more clever – and when you return, come back as a scholar. And as a man. I lived for five hundred years and was a great scholar. It was necessary, Dragosani. My learning stood me in good stead then, and will again. One year after I rise, I shall be the greatest power in this world! Oh, yes! Once I would have been satisfied with Wallachia, Transylvania, Rumania, call it what you will – and before that it was enough that the mountains were mine, which no one else wanted – but the world is a smaller place now and I would be greater. When I took part in man’s wars I learned the joy of the conqueror, so that next time I would conquer all. And you, too, shall be great, Dragosani – but all in good time.
Something of the importance of what the voice said got through to Boris. Behind its words, he sensed the raw power of the creature which issued them. ‘You want me to be . . .a scholar?’
Yes. When I walk this world again I would speak with learned men, not village idiots! Oh, I shall teach you, Dragosani – and far more than any tutors in Ploiesti. Much knowledge you shall have from me – and in my turn I shall doubtless learn from you. But how shall you teach me if you yourself are ignorant?
‘You’ve said as much before,’ said Boris. ‘But what can you teach me? You know so little of things as they are now. How can you know more? You’ve been dead -undead – in the ground, anyway – for five hundred years, you said so yourself!’
There came a throaty chuckle in Boris’s head. No fool you, Dragosani. Well, and perhaps you are right. Ah, but there are other seats of knowledge, and other sorts of knowledge! Very well, I have a gift for you. A gift . . . and a sign that indeed I can teach you things. Things you cannot possibly imagine.
‘A gift?’
Indeed. Go, quickly now, and find me a dead thing.
‘A dead thing?’ Boris shivered. ‘What sort of dead thing?’
Any sort. A beetle, a bird, a mouse. It makes little difference. Find me a dead thing – or kill me a live thing -and bring the body to me. Give it to me as a gift, and you in turn shall have your gift.
‘I saw a dead bird at the foot of the slope. A pigeon chick, I think. It must have fallen from the nest. Will that do?’
Hah! And what dire secret has a pigeon chick, pray tell? But. . . yes, it will suffice. If only to prove a point. Bring it to me.
In twenty minutes Boris was back, laying the poor limp body on the dark earth near the broken, fallen slabs.
And again the cynical snort heard in his head: Hah! Small tribute indeed. But no matter. Now tell me, Dragosani, would you learn the ways of this small dead thing?
‘It has no ways. It’s dead.’
Before it died. Would you know the things it knew?
‘It knew nothing. It was a fledgling. What could it know?’
// knew many things! Now listen carefully: spread the wings, pluck out the down and small feathers and feel them, smell them, rub them between your fingers and listen to them. Do it. . .
Boris did as instructed, but clumsily, without feeling or expectation. Mites and fleas and a small beetle scurried, fleeing the small corpse.
No, no! Not like that. Close your eyes, let me more fully into your mind. Now, like this . . . there!
Boris was in a high place; he felt a swaying and heard the soughing of high branches. Overhead the beckoning blue vault of the sky opened outward forever. He felt he could fall upward into that sky and never stop. Vertigo overtook him; he fled back to his own mind, dropped the dead bird and clutched at the earth.
Ah-hahhh! said the devil in the ground. And again: Ah-hahhh! What? And was the nest not to your liking, Dragosani? But no, don’t stop, there’s more. Take up the bird, squeeze its body, feel it pliant in your hands. Feel the small bones under the skin, the tiny skull. Lift it to your face. Open your nostrils. Smell it, breathe it in, let it instruct you! Here, let me help . . .