By Blood We Live by Stephen King, John Joseph Adams Page B
Authors: Stephen King, John Joseph Adams
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first in days under the open skies. The soldiers cursed the lack of strong drink, but spirits were good nonetheless—even Ibn Fahad pried loose a smile.
As the under-vizier Walid told a humorous story, I looked about the camp. There were but two grim faces: the clerk Abdallah—which was to be expected, since he seemed a patently sour old devil—and the stolen peasant-boy. I walked over to him.
"Ho, young one," I said, "why do you look so downcast? Have you not realized that we are good-hearted, Godfearing men, and will not harm you?" He did not even raise his chin, which rested on his knees, shepherd-style, but he turned his eyes up to mine.
"It is not those things," he said in his awkward Arabic. "It is not you soldiers but. . . this place."
"Gloomy mountains they are indeed," I agreed, "but you have lived here all your young life. Why should it bother you?"
"Not this place. We never come here—it is unholy. The vampyr walks these peaks."
"Vampyr?" said I. "And what peasant-devil is that?"
He would say no more; I left him to his brooding and walked back to the fire.
The men all had a good laugh over the vampyr, making jesting guesses as to what type of beast it might be, but Ruad, the young mullah, waved his hands urgently.
"I have heard of such afreets," he said. "They are not to be laughed at by such a godless lot as yourselves."
He said this as a sort of scolding joke, but he wore a strange look on his round face; we listened with interest as he continued.
"The vampyr is a restless spirit. It is neither alive nor dead, and Shaitan possesses its soul utterly. It sleeps in a sepulcher by day, and when the moon rises it goes out to feed upon travelers, to drink their blood."
Some of the men again laughed loudly, but this time it rang false as a brass-merchant's smile.
"I have heard of these from one of our foreign visitors," said the under-vizier Walid quietly. "He told me of a plague of these vampyr in a village near Smyrna. All the inhabitants fled, and the village is still uninhabited today."
This reminded someone else (myself, perhaps) of a tale about an afreet with teeth growing on both sides of his head. Others followed with their own demon stories. The talk went on late into the night, and no one left the campfire until it had completely burned out.
By noon the next day we had left the heights and were passing back down into the dark, tree-blanketed ravines. When we stopped that night we were once more hidden from the stars, out of sight of Allah and the sky.
I remember waking up in the foredawn hours. My beard was wet with dew, and I was damnably tangled up in my cloak. A great, dark shape stood over me. I must confess to making a bit of a squawking noise.
"It's me," the shape hissed—it was Rifakh, one of the other soldiers.
"You gave me a turn."
Rifakh chuckled. "Thought I was that vampyr, eh? Sorry. Just stepping out for a piss." He stepped over me, and I heard him trampling the underbrush. I slipped back into sleep.
The sun was just barely over the horizon when I was again awakened, this time by Ibn Fahad tugging at my arm. I grumbled at him to leave me alone, but he had a grip on me like an alms-beggar.
"Rifakh's gone," he said. "Wake up. Have you seen him?"
"He walked on me in the middle of the night, on his way to go moisten a tree," I said. "He probably fell in the darkness and hit his head on something—have you looked?"
"Several times," Ibn Fahad responded. "All around the camp. No sign of him. Did he say anything to you?"
"Nothing interesting. Perhaps he has met the sister of our shepherd-boy, and is making the two-backed beast."
Ibn Fahad made a sour face at my crudity. "Perhaps not. Perhaps he has met some other beast."
"Don't worry," I said. "If he hasn't fallen down somewhere close by, he'll be back."
But he did not come back. When the rest of the men arose we had another long search, with no result. At noon we decided, reluctantly, to go on our way, hoping that if
As the under-vizier Walid told a humorous story, I looked about the camp. There were but two grim faces: the clerk Abdallah—which was to be expected, since he seemed a patently sour old devil—and the stolen peasant-boy. I walked over to him.
"Ho, young one," I said, "why do you look so downcast? Have you not realized that we are good-hearted, Godfearing men, and will not harm you?" He did not even raise his chin, which rested on his knees, shepherd-style, but he turned his eyes up to mine.
"It is not those things," he said in his awkward Arabic. "It is not you soldiers but. . . this place."
"Gloomy mountains they are indeed," I agreed, "but you have lived here all your young life. Why should it bother you?"
"Not this place. We never come here—it is unholy. The vampyr walks these peaks."
"Vampyr?" said I. "And what peasant-devil is that?"
He would say no more; I left him to his brooding and walked back to the fire.
The men all had a good laugh over the vampyr, making jesting guesses as to what type of beast it might be, but Ruad, the young mullah, waved his hands urgently.
"I have heard of such afreets," he said. "They are not to be laughed at by such a godless lot as yourselves."
He said this as a sort of scolding joke, but he wore a strange look on his round face; we listened with interest as he continued.
"The vampyr is a restless spirit. It is neither alive nor dead, and Shaitan possesses its soul utterly. It sleeps in a sepulcher by day, and when the moon rises it goes out to feed upon travelers, to drink their blood."
Some of the men again laughed loudly, but this time it rang false as a brass-merchant's smile.
"I have heard of these from one of our foreign visitors," said the under-vizier Walid quietly. "He told me of a plague of these vampyr in a village near Smyrna. All the inhabitants fled, and the village is still uninhabited today."
This reminded someone else (myself, perhaps) of a tale about an afreet with teeth growing on both sides of his head. Others followed with their own demon stories. The talk went on late into the night, and no one left the campfire until it had completely burned out.
By noon the next day we had left the heights and were passing back down into the dark, tree-blanketed ravines. When we stopped that night we were once more hidden from the stars, out of sight of Allah and the sky.
I remember waking up in the foredawn hours. My beard was wet with dew, and I was damnably tangled up in my cloak. A great, dark shape stood over me. I must confess to making a bit of a squawking noise.
"It's me," the shape hissed—it was Rifakh, one of the other soldiers.
"You gave me a turn."
Rifakh chuckled. "Thought I was that vampyr, eh? Sorry. Just stepping out for a piss." He stepped over me, and I heard him trampling the underbrush. I slipped back into sleep.
The sun was just barely over the horizon when I was again awakened, this time by Ibn Fahad tugging at my arm. I grumbled at him to leave me alone, but he had a grip on me like an alms-beggar.
"Rifakh's gone," he said. "Wake up. Have you seen him?"
"He walked on me in the middle of the night, on his way to go moisten a tree," I said. "He probably fell in the darkness and hit his head on something—have you looked?"
"Several times," Ibn Fahad responded. "All around the camp. No sign of him. Did he say anything to you?"
"Nothing interesting. Perhaps he has met the sister of our shepherd-boy, and is making the two-backed beast."
Ibn Fahad made a sour face at my crudity. "Perhaps not. Perhaps he has met some other beast."
"Don't worry," I said. "If he hasn't fallen down somewhere close by, he'll be back."
But he did not come back. When the rest of the men arose we had another long search, with no result. At noon we decided, reluctantly, to go on our way, hoping that if
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