‘Yes!’
It’s a long one, and bloody. It will take time.
‘We have time, plenty of it,’ said Dragosani – but he sensed a restlessness, frustration in the unseen presences. It was as if something warned him not to try his luck too far. It was not in the undead thing’s nature to be pressured.
But finally: / can tell you something of my history, yes. I can tell you what I did, but not how it was done. Not in so many words. Knowing my origins, my roots, will not help you to be of the Wamphyri, nor even to understand them. I can no more explain how to be Wamphyr than a fish could explain how to be a fish – or a bird how to be a bird. If you tried to be a fish you would drown. Launch yourself from the face of a cliff, like a bird, and you would fall and be crushed. And if the ways of simple creatures such as these are unknowable, how then the ways of the Wamphyri?
‘May I learn nothing of your ways, then?’ Dragosani was growing angry. He shook his head. ‘Nothing of your powers? I don’t think I believe you. You showed me how to speak to the dead, so why can’t you show me the rest of it?’
Ah! No, you are mistaken, Dragosani. I showed you how to be a necromancer, which is a human talent. It is in the main a forgotten art among men, to be sure, but nevertheless necromancy is an art old as the race itself. As for speaking to the dead: that is something else entirely. Very few men ever mastered that for a skill!
‘But I talk to you!’
No, my son, I talk to you. Because you are one of mine. And remember, I am not dead. I am undead. Even I could not talk to the dead. Examine them, yes, but never talk to them. The difference lies in one’s approach, in their acceptance of one, and in their willingness to converse. As for necromancy: there the corpse is unwilling, the necromancer extracts the information like a torturer, like a dentist drawing good teeth!
Suddenly Dragosani felt that the conversation was going in circles. ‘Stop!’ he cried. ‘You are deliberately obscuring the issue!’
/ am answering your questions as best I might.
‘Very well. Then don’t tell me how to be a Wamphyr, but tell me what a Wamphyr is. Tell me your history. Tell me what you did in your life, if not how you did it. Tell me of your origins . . .’
After a moment:
As you will. But first . . . first you tell me what you know – or think you know – of the Wamphyri. Tell me about these ‘myths’, these ‘old wives’ tales’ which you’ve heard, on which you appear to be something of an authority. Then, as you say, we shall separate the lies from the legend.
Dragosani sighed, leaned his back against a slab, lit another cigarette. He still felt he was getting the run-around, but there seemed little he could do about it. It was dark now but his eyes were accustomed to the gloom; anyway, he knew every twisted root and broken slab. At his feet the piglet snorted fitfully, then lay still again. ‘We’ll take it step by step,’ he growled.
A mental shrug.
‘Very well, let’s start with this: A vampire is a thing of darkness, loyal subject of Satan.’
Ha, ha, ha! Shaitan was first of all the Wamphyri – in our legends, you understand. Things of darkness: yes, in that night is our element. We are . .. different. But there is a saying: that at night all cats are grey! Thus, at night, our differences are not so great – or are not seen to be so great. And before you ask it, let me tell you this: that because of our proclivity for darkness, the sun is harmful to us.
‘Harmful? It would destroy you, turn you to dust!’
What? That is a myth! No, nothing so terrible – but even weak sunlight will sicken us, just as strong sunlight sickens you.