The Innsmouth Heritage and Other Sequels. Brian Stableford

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СКАЧАТЬ ought not to be here in this attic, covered and kept secret. I ought to be on display, in the National Gallery or the Louvre or the Escorial—but I could not be content with that. In an age of print and photography I ought to be reproduced in millions, so that my simu­lacrum might hang in every home in the world. I ought to be the property of every man of discrimination, every secular idolater, every connoisseur of the finest arts.

      It is not immodesty that makes me say all this, but altruism. I could achieve so much more than I have already done, if only I had the opportunity.

      I am no longer recognizable, you see, as poor Dorian Gray— nor, for that matter, as any particular individual. As a result of my evolution, I have become a potential Everyman—and Everywoman too. I could take on a far greater burden than I have so far been re­quired to bear. Given the chance, I could take on the responsibility of moral and physical corruption for every single person in the world. It is foolish of the world to let me languish here, when there is so much to be done.

      It would need another miracle, but miracles are much easier to achieve than you may think; all that it would require is the passion­ate desire, the sincere wish, the fervent hope.

      I could be your redeemer, if you would only let me.

      I am equipped to accept into myself all the sins of humankind. They would not diminish me in the least, for I AM ART!

      You only have to bring me down from my hiding-place and nail me to the wall, where any and all may come to see me. You only have to reproduce my image on posters and postcards, for anyone to see. Only do these little things and the world’s Great Age might be­gin at last.

      If you are hesitant, you have only to pause for consideration. It will not take you long to perceive that there is one thing, and one thing only, that matters. Release me, and you need never age a sin­gle day, nor spend a single moment in regret. No line will ever mar your face; no reckless act will ever weigh upon your conscience.

      How can you possibly resist a temptation like that?

      THE TEMPTATION OF SAINT ANTHONY

      There was no moon on the night when Anthony was bitten by a vampire as he slept within the walls of the abandoned fort at Pispir; the star-shadows were so deep that he got no ore than the merest glimpse of the creature. His only abiding memories were tactile, of skeletal thinness and rags so fragmentary and dust-encrusted that they seemed more like the tatters of an ancient shroud than clothing.

      The bite was ragged too, being perhaps more tear than bite, hav­ing apparently been inflicted by blunt and decaying teeth. It never entirely healed, although it did not become infected. Although little trace of spilled blood remained, Anthony was sure that he had lost a good deal—perhaps enough to kill him. For three full days he ex­pected to die; even when he stopped expecting it, he was not at all sure that his condition could still be reckoned as life, rather than a strange kind of undeath.

      When the next travelers stopped at the fort to draw water from the well that had determined its site, they found its resident hermit awake and active, but somewhat delirious. They were reassured, however, when he consented to accept a little food from them, and showed no inclination to savage them like a rabid dog. They even offered to escort him to Alexandria, if he decided that it would be best to leave his refuge, but he declined the offer.

      “I have sworn to remain here for twenty years,” he told them. “There will be time for preaching when my own education is com­plete.”

      “There are schools in Alexandria,” the caravan’s leader told him, “and the greatest library in the world, in spite of the accidents it has suffered.”

      “That is not the kind of learning I seek,” he replied. “I want to know what is within myself—what the Lord might communicate to me if only I may hear him.”

      The travelers were not Christians, but they understood his no­tion of the Lord better than a Roman would have done. “This is the desert,” the leader of the band told him. “Here, the voices of the djinn are louder than the voice of God. Solitude leads to madness.”

      “The Devil will undoubtedly tempt me,” Anthony admitted. “I am ready for that.” He did not tell them that the thirst was already building within him for something richer by far than water or wine, nor what effort it required to resist the urge to cut his visitors’ throats and suck the wounds till he could such no more.

      He had always thought that solitude was the best thing for a man of his sort. The fact that the company of living human beings would henceforth be an endless torment of unacknowledgeable de­sire only served to confirm his judgment.

      The travelers went on their way on the thirty-first day after An­thony had endured the vampire’s bite; after that he was alone until the evening of the fortieth day, when he woke from a doze at sunset to find a simulacrum of Christ offering him a cup.

      “This is my blood,” said the apparent Christ. “Drink of it, and be saved.”

      “I have been expecting you, Satan,” Anthony replied. “I knew that you would seize upon my new weakness. Why else would you have sent the demon to suck the fluid from me?”

      “This is my blood,” the false Christ repeated. “It is my gift, and the way to salvation.”

      “You are the Devil,” Anthony retorted, “and you have no gift to offer but eternal damnation.” He got up and went to the well, setting Satan firmly behind him. He lowered the bucket and brought it up again.

      He drank—but he was still thirsty, and he knew that the darker thirst would not be assuaged by water.

      Anthony did not doubt that the fluid in the Devil’s cup really was blood, nor that it would answer his terrible need, but he had not come to Pispir in search of satiation—quite the reverse, in fact. He did not drink water to salve his thirst, but only because he would die without it; had he been able to drink and keep his thirst he would have done so. To be able to drink and still have thirst of a sort to test him was a privilege of sorts.

      When he turned around again, determined to see things in the light of his faith, the Devil was cloven-hoofed and shaggy-legged, with horns set atop his brow. Satan did not seem comfortable in this form, for his eyes seemed pained and his gaze as roaming restlessly, but Anthony assumed that this was because honesty was a sore trial to a creature of his sort.

      “You are foolish to insist on seeing me thus,” the Devil com­plained, casting aside the cup, from which nothing spilled as it rolled over the sand-dusted flagstones bordering the well. “I am nei­ther the Great God Pan, nor the Father of Lies, nor a prideful angel cast out of Heaven. I will admit to being a temptation personified, but mine is the temptation of knowledge and progress. I am one who can and will reveal secrets, if you will only consent to listen.”

      “I will not,” Anthony told his adversary. “I am deaf to all but the word of the Lord, and knowledge of the Lord is the only wisdom I seek.”

      “I did not send the vampire to bite you,” the Devil insisted, his agonized eyes looking upwards as if to welcome the deeper blue that was consuming the sky from the east. “That is not my way of working—but if I were of a mind to create such creatures, I would shape them as seductive women, whose bite would be a glorious indul­gence and a pleasure unmatchable. The wretched parasite that at­tacked you was one of nature’s sports. If God were responsible for such monstrosities—and I cannot believe that He is—they would be evidence of His sickness or His sense of humor.”

      “Have СКАЧАТЬ