Red as Blood, or Tales from the Sisters Grimmer: Expanded Edition by Tanith Lee
Authors: Tanith Lee
Ads: Link
and everything spread before her, a glittering sea clothed in phantasmal mists, tossed by mystic gradual lights. On this her mind embarked, into the perpetual dawn of knowledge. And now knowledge was enhanced by that best accessory of all—desire.
Jaspre did not know that, in the person of the remarkable and lifelike statue, her desire and her love had come to reside, to put down tenacious roots, to burn into red blossom. But her feelings, senses, yearnings, these did the work for her. She did not need to think, to know, to reason. Her pulse and her spirit were now her guides.
The woman had been not only generous in the gifts of learning she had poured in on Jaspre’s receptive intelligence; she had been also most selective. There from the first, always, was that which would enhance and increase this ultimate moment, the moments which succeeded it. Nothing to detract. Nothing to alarm, defame, erode.
Knowing nothing of this esoteric cult which now had been set shimmering before her, Jaspre knew no indecision and no doubt.
She had been born to magnify him. He had chosen her.
For a year then, she “served.”
She brought her offerings, fruits and flowers from the walled garden, and laid them at his jeweled feet. She brought him wine, and music. She began to dream of him. Her dreams were lapped in fires, which were dark, heatless, sable, laval fires, such as burned in his kingdom, far, far beneath the earth.
Lord of Demons, Prince of Darkness. She began to hunger for him, for those things which were his. Less and less did she sleep by night. She slept by day, drawing her shutters and her curtains against the sun. At dusk, as if to blue morning, she woke. She sat among the closed night flowers, and played upon her guitars to the rising of the moon. She made her hymns to him then. And her skin grew moon-burned, she supposed, as was his.
For she too altered. Her hair hung long, to her waist, to the backs of her knees. She was taller, more slender. An ambient night-vision enabled her to perceive the silver apples on the tree, the nocturnal moths flying on their paper wings from the surface of the moon.
Angemal. Arimanio. Lord of winged things, lord of the panther and the black wolf, lord of quietude, lord of the silver caves a hundred miles beneath the ground.
Fruit and flowers she brought, her hymns she brought, and next her tears.
He lived. She worshiped. Should he never come to her? Would they never meet? Her mind, her spirit dreamed; her flesh spoke also—dreams were not enough.
* * * *
“How old, Jaspre, are you now?”
“I am fourteen, my lady.”
“I seldom see you in the garden, now, by day.”
“I am there after dark, my lady. I abhor the sun. I love only the night.”
“And he that is the night. You love him.”
Jaspre’s face, lovely, savage, a storm.
“Yes! I would give him more than ever I gave.”
“You shall.”
The hidden door, the stair, the insularium.
There was a difference to the room.
At its every angle, aromatics burned, bittersweet, rose, terebinth, camfre, myrrh. The lamps were out. A single blue cloud burned high up on a massive chandelier of candles let down from the ceiling. On the floor there were marks: The Circle, the Star of the Five Points, the figures of an arcane zodiac—Fish, Serpent, Bull, Virgin… At various stations stood the symbols, the Chalice, the Sword, the Crown, the Veil and others.
The girl knew little of any of this. But what if her baroque world grew still more unfamiliar and bizarre? She checked at nothing.
“Now,” said the woman, “I will tell you what you must do.”
She did so, and Jaspre obeyed her.
Jaspre removed her gown of icy satin, her undergarments and her shoes. Unaware that nakedness meant shame and vulnerability, she went to the Circle naked, and naked she lay down in it, her hands and her feet extended to conform with four points of the five-pointed Star, her head conforming with the fifth, and her hair like pale golden snow
Jaspre did not know that, in the person of the remarkable and lifelike statue, her desire and her love had come to reside, to put down tenacious roots, to burn into red blossom. But her feelings, senses, yearnings, these did the work for her. She did not need to think, to know, to reason. Her pulse and her spirit were now her guides.
The woman had been not only generous in the gifts of learning she had poured in on Jaspre’s receptive intelligence; she had been also most selective. There from the first, always, was that which would enhance and increase this ultimate moment, the moments which succeeded it. Nothing to detract. Nothing to alarm, defame, erode.
Knowing nothing of this esoteric cult which now had been set shimmering before her, Jaspre knew no indecision and no doubt.
She had been born to magnify him. He had chosen her.
For a year then, she “served.”
She brought her offerings, fruits and flowers from the walled garden, and laid them at his jeweled feet. She brought him wine, and music. She began to dream of him. Her dreams were lapped in fires, which were dark, heatless, sable, laval fires, such as burned in his kingdom, far, far beneath the earth.
Lord of Demons, Prince of Darkness. She began to hunger for him, for those things which were his. Less and less did she sleep by night. She slept by day, drawing her shutters and her curtains against the sun. At dusk, as if to blue morning, she woke. She sat among the closed night flowers, and played upon her guitars to the rising of the moon. She made her hymns to him then. And her skin grew moon-burned, she supposed, as was his.
For she too altered. Her hair hung long, to her waist, to the backs of her knees. She was taller, more slender. An ambient night-vision enabled her to perceive the silver apples on the tree, the nocturnal moths flying on their paper wings from the surface of the moon.
Angemal. Arimanio. Lord of winged things, lord of the panther and the black wolf, lord of quietude, lord of the silver caves a hundred miles beneath the ground.
Fruit and flowers she brought, her hymns she brought, and next her tears.
He lived. She worshiped. Should he never come to her? Would they never meet? Her mind, her spirit dreamed; her flesh spoke also—dreams were not enough.
* * * *
“How old, Jaspre, are you now?”
“I am fourteen, my lady.”
“I seldom see you in the garden, now, by day.”
“I am there after dark, my lady. I abhor the sun. I love only the night.”
“And he that is the night. You love him.”
Jaspre’s face, lovely, savage, a storm.
“Yes! I would give him more than ever I gave.”
“You shall.”
The hidden door, the stair, the insularium.
There was a difference to the room.
At its every angle, aromatics burned, bittersweet, rose, terebinth, camfre, myrrh. The lamps were out. A single blue cloud burned high up on a massive chandelier of candles let down from the ceiling. On the floor there were marks: The Circle, the Star of the Five Points, the figures of an arcane zodiac—Fish, Serpent, Bull, Virgin… At various stations stood the symbols, the Chalice, the Sword, the Crown, the Veil and others.
The girl knew little of any of this. But what if her baroque world grew still more unfamiliar and bizarre? She checked at nothing.
“Now,” said the woman, “I will tell you what you must do.”
She did so, and Jaspre obeyed her.
Jaspre removed her gown of icy satin, her undergarments and her shoes. Unaware that nakedness meant shame and vulnerability, she went to the Circle naked, and naked she lay down in it, her hands and her feet extended to conform with four points of the five-pointed Star, her head conforming with the fifth, and her hair like pale golden snow
Similar Books
