Drink - Mark W. Tiedemann(1), ebook
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Mark W Tiedemann - DrinkDRINK
Mark W. Tiedemann
"Drink" was purchased by Gardner Dozois, and appeared in the July 1994 issue
of
Asimov's, with an illustration by Jonathan and Lisa Hunt. A relatively new
writer, Mark W. Tiedemann has made a handful of sales to Asimov's, as well as
to
markets such as Universe and Tomorrow, and we have more stories by him in
inventory. A professional photographer, he lives in St. Louis, where he is at
work on several novels.
Here he takes us deep into the past for an unflinching and frightening look
at
what it means to be compelled to drink… whether or not you are thirsty.
Madrin awoke suffocating. His right arm was pinned beneath him. In his mind,
he
saw the beast above him, lowering its wet mouth to rip out his throat. Madrin
swung his left arm out and kicked to get away. His head struck something
solid.
The beast vanished, and Madrin opened his eyes. Darkness enveloped him.
He tried to fill his lungs to scream and tasted wool. Twisting, he freed his
arm
and scraped the blanket from his face. He jumped up, throwing the blanket,
and
pressed his back against the stone wall.
A taper burned on a wooden shelf across the small room. In its wan yellow
light,
the blanket looked black, the cloak of the beast. Madrin's panicked breaths
almost drowned the sound of blood in his ears.
Flashes of his dream kicked his heart: the beast wrestled him to the earth,
still unslaked after having taken everyone else, and covered him with its
mouth,
whispering "Drink… drink… drink… I thirst…"
The dream changed details from time to time, but never its essence. Madrin
wished—sometimes prayed, when he thought it might accomplish something for
him—that he could change the dream completely. He felt dreams ought to be
more
malleable than reality, which he could never change. His parents were still
dead, their bodies drained to quench a thirst that would have taken him, too,
if
Brother Renard had not intervened. The beast could not hurt him anymore.
Maybe. So Brother Renard had promised. But other things Renard had said had
turned out to be lies, or at least not the truth his words had implied.
The wall was cool. Madrin closed his eyes and rested his head back against
the
stone. I hurt, he thought to God, I hurt deep, and still You don't make the
memories go away…
Madrin looked at the rough-hewn crucifix on the wall above his pallet. When
Brother Renard had given it to him, he had been filled with gratitude. "I'm
safe
now," he had said. The monk had shaken his head. "No. This is only a
temporary
crutch. You'll only be safe when you accept the Sacrament and join us. You
must
take our Lord into yourself. When you become one of us, then your soul will
have
the promise of eternal life."
"But until then, I have a protector." Madrin remembered his words clearly,
remembered that he had believed it then. The cross was like his dead father's
knife, possessing a plain perfection of purpose. But the little crucifix
seemed
less powerful in the dark. It did nothing to keep the dreams at bay. "How
many
more times do I have to see my mother die?" he asked it. His father's knife,
hidden now beneath his bedding, had done nothing to keep the beast away
ei-'ther.
He heard noises out in the corridor. It was too soon for Matins. The
monastery
was still in the nameless time between Compline and the first vigils.
Everyone
should have been in their room, sleeping or praying. In the year he had been
here, the monks more and more moved about at night and stayed shut away by
day,
destroying any sense of order Madrin tried to cling to. Madrin pulled on his
robe and tied it hastily, then opened his door.
A man-shaped shadow stood in the corridor, Madrin started.
"Weren't you sleeping, Madrin?"
Brother Renard's voice was soft, almost too quiet to hear.
"Yes," Madrin said.
"But you're awake now. Were you dreaming again?"
Madrin swallowed dryly and nodded.
"Doubt," Renard said. "It's doubt."
"I'm… sorry…" It seemed the right thing to say, though Madrin did not know
why.
Brother Renard shrugged. "You have a visitor. In the refectory."
Madrin frowned. "Visitor… ?"
Renard reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. "It may be important to
remember where your allegiance lies, Madrin. Do you?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
"Here. To you."
"Why?"
"Because you saved me."
"From…?"
"Satan. The fiend."
The hand withdrew. "Good. Remember that. All the steel in the empire cannot
keep
you safe, but here… ?"
"I have a protector."
"Good. Go on, now. See your visitor."
Madrin eased by Brother Renard and hurried to the day stairs. He descended
two
floors to the refectory and emerged into dim torchlight. Shadows shifted over
the beams of the ceiling and across the walls like moonlit water.
A soldier stood in the middle of the hall, his back to Madrin. Madrin crossed
the stone flags, wondering who he knew that was a soldier. The man turned
then.
"Hanlausen!"
Cleanshaven, lean face, bright eyes, thick brown hair, the soldier smiled and
opened his arms to embrace his brother.
Madrin ran to him and wrapped his arms around Hanlausen's waist. The leather
jerkin felt cool against his face and the odor of horse and sweat mingled in
his
nostrils. A large, callused hand scraped over Madrin's scalp, and strong arms
crushed him warmly.
Hanlausen laughed, patted Madrin's back. "By Wotan, you're growing!"
Madrin glanced over his shoulder. "It's blasphemy to call on the old gods in
here."
Hanlausen shrugged. "It's still true. It's good to see you, Madrin."
Madrin grinned and it felt odd. It had been so long since he had smiled. He
touched his face and laughed selfconsciously.
"What's wrong?" Hanlausen asked.
"Nothing. I'm just—I didn't expect to see you again."
Hanlausen looked surprised. "Ever? You thought I'd leave my own brother
somewhere and never come visit him?" He looked around at the chamber. "Though
this isn't where I left you." He frowned at Madrin. "I heard about Mater and
Pater. I couldn't come. We were south, far south, in Rome."
"Rome…?"
"The Emperor's coronation. I'm sorry I couldn't be here. But—have they
treated
you well?"
Madrin shrugged. "I can think of better places to be." He winced
involuntarily
and looked quickly around.
Hanlausen sighed. "Well, is there any wine in this crypt? I've been on the
road
since midday."
Madrin turned and stopped. Brother Renard stood in the archway to the
kitchens.
"The best wine in the empire," he said and held up a bottle.
Hanlausen laughed. "Isn't it always, from abbeys like this? Thank you."
"I've roused a couple of the others," Renard said, setting the bottle on the
long oak table. "We'll prepare your food. You must be hungry."
"True enough. Let me go see to my horse first, though."
"I'm sure it's been tended to," Renard said.
Madrin shivered briefly.
"Still," Hanlausen said. "I'd feel better making sure myself." He roughed
Madrin's hair again and said con-spiratorially, "I don't think they get many
horses to tend here." He grinned. "I'll be back."
He hurried to the exit. Madrin watched him, mouth going dry. When he turned,
Renard was gone. He bolted for the archway.
The oven fires had been started. Brother Seric and Brother Win wrestled a
cauldron onto its boom. They paused to give him wide-eyed stares. Renard was
nowhere in sight.
He hurried to the left, toward the salt blocks and stacked pots. He pushed
through the door that connected the kitchen to the slaughter house. Three
huge
vats clustered in the center. Pens lined the far wall; pigs snuffled within.
The
opposite door led outside.
The air was cold. No stars showed; it had been a storm-filled month.
Hanlausen was just entering the stables. Madrin looked around. No one had
followed. He crossed the open ground to the high, wide entrance to the
stables
and slipped inside.
A new scent mingled with the usual stale odors of leather, oven, hay,
manure—horse. The abbey possessed none. Hanlausen walked with a lantern down
the
length of pens to one from which the big animal leaned its head out. In the
lamplight the horse's breath was thick and smokey. Madrin hurried toward his
brother.
"You ought to leave," he blurted. His stomach tingled with fear.
Hanlausen started, reached automatically for his sword, then let out a long
breath.
"Don't steal up on a soul like that," he said. He reached up and scratched
his
horse's forehead. The animal snuffled loudly. "I'd like nothing better. These
old places, filled with monks… sometimes I think they're older than the rock
they're built on. They sap the life out of a body." He shook his head and
added,
quietly, "I hate them." He laughed self-consciously. "Do you? Hate it here, I
mean."
Madrin nodded and the tingle turned to a solid lump.
"Thought so. One more night, brother. In the morning we can leave."
"I… can't."
Hanlausen grabbed a pitchfork and began filling the feed trough before the
horse. "Hmm? What do you mean?'' He frowned at Madrin. "You didn't take vows,
did you?"
"No, I—"
"Then there's nothing to keep you here."
Madrin looked back toward the stable doors. It would be wonderful.
"I've tried to leave before," he said. "Brother Renard always brings me back."
"Rightly so, too, if you just ran away. Too easy for a young boy to get lost
or
hurt or killed in this country. But not with me. He shouldn't object if your
own
brother takes you away."
Madrin shivered. "You have to leave. Tonight. This isn't a good place."
"I'll agree to that!"
He's not taking me seriously, Madrin thought angrily. He glanced back at the
entrance. For an instant, he thought he saw movement, but no one was there.
"Come with me," he said. His heart hammered. "I've got to show you something."
"Just a moment…" Hanlausen said, emptying a bucket of water into the horse's
trough.
"Now!"
Hanlausen jerked, startled, and frowned at Madrin. "Now you take care how you
talk to me. Mater and Pater are gone, and it's my place to be head of the
family. You don't—"
Madrin bared his teeth. "This is important!"
Hanlausen hesitated, then nodded. "All right. Show me."
Madrin led him to another door that led out of the side of the stables.
Hanlausen hung the lantern on the post. It was a short distance to the barn,
through the barn, into the smithy. By this circuitous route, Madrin made the
way
to the galilee, then into the chapter house.
Incense tainted the air. None of the braziers were lit, only candles, which
provided star-points to guide the way. The small assembly room was connected
to
the transept of the cathedral. When they entered here, sound changed. The
vastness of the place drew them in, forced eyes upward to search out the
vaults,
hidden in darkness. In day, light streamed through the tall windows, cast
marvelous shapes on the floors, among the pews, across the sanctuary. At
night,
only the candles by the altar and at the entrance gave light, and it was
insubstantial. The objects so illumined seemed only suggestions of the things
they were by day, incomplete, and somehow false.
Madrin took Hanlausen up onto the sanctuary. Madrin's heart raced. His
brother's
hand hovered close to the hilt of his sword. Behind the altar, Madrin found
the
release for the doorway that was built into the wall below the towering
crucifix. The dying Jesus stared down at him with lifeless eyes.
The door snapped open.
"Gods!" Hanlausen stepped back at the smell.
Madrin's lips curled involuntarily, and he nodded, and took a candle from the
pallet nearby.
"Breathe through your mouth," he whispered. "It's not so bad then."
They ducked through the short door into a small, bare chamber.
Stretched and tied on a raised granite bier was a robed form. A pan lay
beneath
the slab. Madrin stayed back while Hanlausen, drawing his sword, stepped up
to
it. The odor was suffocating; Madrin felt his skin crawl, as if it were
trying
to slide off of his muscles.
In the corner lay a heap of bones.
"What's this…?" Hanlausen asked.
"It killed Mater and Pater. Brother Renard captured it and brought it here.
He
says it can't die, only be locked away, imprisoned, in a sacred place. He
says
it's not really a beast, only that it's been wandering the earth, alone, for
so
long that it forgot what it really was."
"And what does he think it really was?"
Madrin shook his head, staring at the restrained form. "He says its blood is
the
source of eternal life. He says it is the Host."
Hanlausen stared at it for a long time. "In Rome," he said quietly, "I heard
controversies—some said heresies, but I couldn't see any difference between
what
was said to be true and what was not—among all the priests and bishops. None
of
them can agree on anything. One I heard, though, got an old monk expelled. He
told how when the Christian savior, Jesus, rose from the dead and walked the
earth for forty days, that at the end of that time he went up to heaven.
Nobody
disputes that. But a few suggested it was just his soul that went, and left
his
body behind. This old monk said that since Jesus was the son of God, he was
immortal, so that his body must have survived."
"Do you think it's true?"
Hanlausen shook his head. "Wouldn't make sense, would it? Everything else
they
say about this Jesus, being the son of God, why would God leave him behind,
body
or soul?" Hanlausen swallowed loudly. "But if one old monk in Rome can
believe
it…"
"It killed Mater and Pater," Madrin said. "Brother Renard says that it can't
die." He shook his head impatiently. "Everything here is inside-out and
backward."
"I've traveled to Rome and back in the emperor's caravan," Hanlausen said.
"I've
seen a lot, more than I wished I had. I swear to you, though, there's nothing
that can't be killed."
"I've seen it walk after being run through."
"With steel, maybe."
"It's sleeping now, but it's alive. It moves, anyway. I said that this was a
bad
place. You've got to leave. Tonight."
The figure on the bier was almost bald; long strands of dark hair clung to a
veined skull. The eyes were sunken deep. The skin had the appearance of
desiccated parchment. It wore a bishop's silk robe. One thin arm bore dozens
of
inch-long scars and a few scabs.
Hanlausen gestured to the bones in the corner. "What's that?"
"The patron saint of the abbey. I forget who."
Hanlausen backed away from the bier. His hands shook.
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