The Vampire Lestat Read Online Free PDF Page B

brothers rising from the table and my mother patting my father, who was blind already then and wanted to know what was happening, I don’t know what I said. I know my voice was very flat, and there was some sense in me of the simplicity of describing what had happened:
    “And then . . . and then . . . ” Sort of like that.
    But my brother Augustin suddenly brought me to myself. He came towards me, with the light of the fire behind him, and quite distinctly broke the low monotone of my words with his own:
    “You little bastard,” he said coldly. “You didn’t kill eight wolves!” His face had an ugly disgusted look to it.
    But the remarkable thing was this: Almost as soon as he spoke these words, he realized for some reason that he had made a mistake.
    Maybe it was the look on my face. Maybe it was my mother’s murmured outrage or my other brother not speaking at all. It was probably my face. Whatever it was, it was almost instantaneous, and the most curious look of embarrassment came over him.
    He started to babble something about how incredible, and I must have been almost killed, and would the servants heat some broth for me immediately, and all of that sort of thing, but it was no good. What had happened in that one single moment was irreparable, and the next thing I knew I was lying alone in my room. I didn’t have the dogs in bed with me as always in winter because the dogs were dead, and though there was no fire lighted, I climbed, filthy and bloody, under the bed covers and went into deep sleep.
    For days I stayed in my room.
    I knew the villagers had gone up the mountain, found the wolves, andbrought them back down to the castle, because Augustin came and told me these things, but I didn’t answer.
    Maybe a week passed. When I could stand having other dogs near me, I went down to my kennel and brought up two pups, already big animals, and they kept me company. At night I slept between them.
    The servants came and went. But no one bothered me.
    And then my mother came quietly and almost stealthily into the room.

2
    I T WAS evening. I was sitting on the bed, with one of the dogs stretched out beside me and the other stretched out under my knees. The fire was roaring.
    And there was my mother coming at last, as I supposed I should have expected.
    I knew her by her particular movement in the shadows, and whereas if anyone else had come near me I would have shouted “Go away,” I said nothing at all to her.
    I had a great and unshakable love of her. I don’t think anyone else did. And one thing that endeared her to me always was that she never said anything ordinary.
    “Shut the door,” “Eat your soup,” “Sit still,” things like that never passed her lips. She read all the time; in fact, she was the only one in our family who had any education, and when she did speak it was really to speak. So I wasn’t resentful of her now.
    On the contrary she aroused my curiosity. What would she say, and would it conceivably make a difference to me? I had not wanted her to come, nor even thought of her, and I didn’t turn away from the fire to look at her.
    But there was a powerful understanding between us. When I had tried to escape this house and been brought back, it was she who had shown me the way out of the pain that followed. Miracles she’d worked for me, though no one around us had ever noticed.
    Her first intervention had come when I was twelve, and the old parish priest, who had taught me some poetry by rote and to read an anthem or two in Latin, wanted to send me to school at the nearby monastery.
    My father said no, that I could learn all I needed in my own house. But it was my mother who roused herself from her books to do loud and vociferous battle with him. I would go, she said, if I wanted to. And shesold one of her jewels to pay for my books and clothing. Her jewels had all come down to her from an Italian grandmother and each had its story, and this was a hard thing for her to do. But