Act VIII: The Mother Goddess and the Queen (Part 10)
ten
Warm water was poured over Yakov's long hair, and the thin monks used razors to cut it away. Their movements weren't gentle, and Yakov's head was pulled and swayed. He stared at the pile of fine, damp golden hair on the ground, as if many worries had vanished with it. Yakov thought that he finally no longer needed to hesitate or persist, like a stone sinking to the bottom of a lake, he had ended his days adrift in the water; like a small fish rising to the surface, finally able to open its mouth to breathe. He couldn't tell if he was rising or falling.
A large towel was draped over his head and rubbed. "Doesn't your head feel much lighter?" His recommender—the white-haired old man—was smiling as he examined his new hairstyle. The old man's gaze moved downwards, taking in the scar-like markings on Yakov's chest. "This is your regimental uniform. Put it on and come with me."
The gaze made Yakov feel strangely familiar, yet he couldn't recall where he had seen it before. A very plain white robe was handed to him. Yakov unfolded it and saw a red cross drawn on his left chest—right where his own tattoo had been. Yakov put the robe on; it was made of coarse cloth and felt very uncomfortable against his skin.
The old man opened the door for him, and the two went out. They were in a small room in the cathedral's crypt, a tunnel so dark it was as if night itself clung to them, requiring torches for passage. "Now, I will tell you the rules of the Order," the former Grand Master murmured to himself. "From this day forward, you must always wear the white uniform of the Order so that others can recognize you, unless you are ill and lying in a hospital; your weapons and armor must not be adorned with any ornaments, you must maintain the virtue of simplicity, and should not be as vain and frivolous as worldly knights."
Holding torches, they continued down a staircase, the sounds of the Easter celebrations fading into the distance. Yakov wondered, they were already in the basement, where were they going next? But he remained silent.
The old man continued chanting, as if reciting scriptures: "You must remain quiet while eating, and remember to pray and recite scriptures. You may eat meat three days a week, and one-tenth of your bread must be given away to others; you must not hunt any animal except lions, for lions are the embodiment of the devil."
The two men entered a deep, damp tunnel, the torch flames flickering dangerously. Yakov heard the clear, melodious sound of flowing water in the distance, like a string of bells ringing.
"You must remain chaste and never kiss any woman again, including your sister and mother; you must not be anyone else's godfather; you must not own any private property; all your letters must be read aloud in public; the lights in your dwelling must be kept on all night."
Yakov glanced discreetly at the old man's retreating figure. "Why bring this up now?" he stopped. "If someone disagrees, they can no longer leave the group."
"Don't be impatient, haha." The old man suddenly laughed. "You don't have to obey, you just need to understand. You are different."
"How are they different?"
The old man stopped answering and simply stepped forward, torch in hand.
Yakov felt a chill run down his spine. He told himself that he could face anything, however terrifying, with eeriness lingered, like a haunting ghost. After walking for a long time, Yakov estimated the distance and realized they had left the cathedral's underground perimeter—a sliver of light appeared at the end of the tunnel, accompanied by a damp breeze.
A vast and magnificent underground water palace appeared before him. Countless stone pillars stood in neat rows, topped with countless circular arches, extending endlessly in all directions. They were standing on a walkway, and below the stone bricks lay a calmly flowing spring. The water was like a huge, smooth mirror, reflecting all the scattered lights and illuminations, making it impossible to distinguish the edge between reality and reflection.
"Where is this?" Yakov asked, looking at the watermarks on the stone pillar.
“A good place to hold secret ceremonies,” the old man said.
They continued along the boardwalk at the edge of the water palace. As they walked, a sparse procession appeared in the dimly lit palace. The people in it all wore blood-red robes, their faces obscured by extremely long and heavy hoods. They stretched out their hands, holding torches high above their heads—Yakov observed the fingers and noticed that the people beneath the robes were both men and women. Their fingers were delicate, mostly belonging to wealthy nobles.
At the head of the procession were several masked slaves, slowly carrying an unfinished statue. It was a large, smooth silver bust of a woman. She was graceful and richly dressed, but headless, with nothing above her neck—a red-robed figure approached and handed Yakov and the former Grand Master each an identical robe.
"Should we follow them?" Yakov asked.
“Yes,” the old man said, “put them on.”
In the center of the water palace stood a vast, towering terrace, around which burned a strange, crimson bonfire. The fire was devoid of warmth, and its glow offered no comfort. A sparse procession moved onto the terrace, forming a circle with the bust of the statue as their focal point. Yakov suddenly remembered seeing flames of that color before—deep in the mountains of Transylvania, atop Camilla's castle.
"Mother!"
"Mother!"
With the cry of a young girl and a young man, all the red-robed men bowed down to the headless statue, their limbs sprawling on the ground.
"Mother!"
They cried out in unison, filled with grief.
Yakov felt his heart pounding wildly, and pain burned through his body like wildfire. He stood there, stunned, not knowing what to do—the old man beside him tugged at his clothes, gesturing for him to kneel, but Yakov stood there oblivious, his eyes scanning the crowd in terror. He wondered, which of these people was Yubi?
No one cared about his overstepping of bounds at the funeral. Soon, the people finished their greetings and stood up again. "You're a vampire's servant too?" Yakov grabbed the white-haired old man's collar. "You're a blood slave too? Everyone here is a blood slave?"
The old man didn't answer, only bowing his head devoutly. The wailing of the crowd ceased, all sound abruptly silenced as if sucked away, and the water palace fell into a deathly stillness. The girl removed her hood, revealing long, bright red hair. She held in her hands a ball of fine red linen, in the center of which lay a horrific corpse, rotting to the bone—Camilla's head, which Yakov recognized at a glance.
Ambikia raised his head high above his head and slowly brought it to the bust—Yakov moved quickly through the crowd, trying to make out Yubi's features. Soon, he grasped a delicate hand wearing two rings: a gold heraldic ring and a ruby ring with an obsidian base. "Yakov! Look at your hair!" Yubi recognized him and immediately relaxed. "I thought you wouldn't make it."
"What is this?" Yakov gripped his wrist tightly. "What kind of funeral is this?"
"What should the funeral be like?"
"Didn't you attend Henry's funeral at the monastery?"
Yubi lowered his head and thought for a moment. “But Mother isn’t a Christian.” His red eyes stared at Yakov in the shadow of his hood. “And Henry isn’t a vampire either.”
Yakov's heartbeat subsided painfully, like a withered shrub stripped of its leaves. He thought, isn't this how it should be? Yubi was absolutely right. He had already decided to embrace the darkness; why should he continue to judge everything by the standards of light?
The two remained silent as Ambicea positioned the decaying head atop the statue's neck. The area was designed in a bowl shape, allowing the linen and the corpse to rest securely within it.
"The annihilation of [the spirit] is the breaking of the cage, the stagnation of the spirit is the rest of suffering. Death is the most peaceful and tranquil sleep; the grave is the cradle that gives birth to new life and resurrection. You ruthlessly abandoned your supporters, yet you forbid them from going with you, simply because we are all weak and foolish, powerless to fathom your vast thoughts!" She took out a silver dagger from her sleeve, as smooth as a mirror, "We only wish our mother to rest in peace, that she may have sweet and happy dreams."
"We will offer you a sea of blood!"
Yakov couldn't understand these words. He saw Anbichia roll up her sleeves, raise her dagger, and slash her palm fiercely. Her blood flowed down the deep wound to her elbow, stopping at the crook of her arm and then stopping—the blood was woven back into her wound like thousands of red threads, just as Yubi had demonstrated—the red-robed figures surrounding her, witnessing this miracle, let out extremely painful and heartbroken screams, writhing on the ground in a daze, clutching their chests in contorted postures.
Yakov vaguely saw a familiar dark face among them, which sent a chill down his spine. "Don't be afraid," Yubi reassured his arm. "Everyone just needs to go up and cut a little blood. My sister said that in the past, you really had to kill people to create a sea of blood, but that's not necessary anymore."
Unfortunately, these words did not lessen Yakov's fear in the slightest.
“My mother pities her bloodline and refuses my gift.” Ambicea raised the dagger high. “Who will be the fortunate one?”
People rushed forward, grabbing the dagger and cutting off pieces of flesh to offer their blood. They were humble and cautious, afraid to sacrifice too much, yet worried about offering too little. Their backs huddled together, obscuring Camilla's head. Ambikia slowly emerged from the crowd and returned to Yubi's side.
"It'll be over soon," she said with a smile. "Are you tired of standing?"
“I’m not tired.” Yubi gazed at the obscured silver statue. “The last one is me, right?”
“Yes, remember to take off your ring.” Anbichya looked up and reminded Yakov, “You’re in front of him.”
Yakov felt a horrifying absurdity, as if they were attending an ordinary funeral. What did these actions mean? What did the death of a vampire signify? Yet he also thought of truly ordinary funerals—the monks singing hymns, the coins placed in the corpse's eye sockets, the candles lit in the mourners' palms. What was the difference?
The blood-stained dagger was passed around until it finally reached Yakov's hands. He stepped forward and looked at the decaying head.
The blood of the red-robed men mingled with the linen, forming damp patches. Camilla's head was almost unrecognizable, her flesh a charred, greenish-black color. She lay there wearily, trickles of blood streaming down her face.
Yakov frowned and drew a line on his finger, drawing two or three drops of blood. He turned back and handed the dagger to Yubi's cold hand. His master was a little nervous, gripping the hilt of the dagger twice before he could get a firm grip.
The young vampire stepped forward, and everyone stared at him. He hesitated, raising his hand, then lowering it again.
“I have a way to get my mother to accept my gift!” he suddenly turned to Ambichia and said.
“Really?” Ambikia didn’t stop him. “Then give it a try.”
Yubi, having received permission, put the ruby ring he had removed back on his hand. This time, he didn't delay; he closed his eyes and, enduring the pain, cut open his own finger.
A terrible premonition spread from the mark on Yakov's body, numbing him completely. He rushed forward, trying to stop Yubi, but it was too late—blood dripped onto the corpse, and the shattered head turned its moldy eye sockets, opened its exposed jawbone, and let out a hoarse, hollow scream—all the red-robed figures trembled and lay prostrate on the ground. Yakov firmly gripped Yubi's hand and dragged him away from the statue.
Ambikia excitedly opened her arms and cried out, "Mother, rest in peace!"
Masked slaves surged forward, surrounding the seemingly writhing head with a cast mold. They pushed a large, scorching cauldron filled with molten silver, quickly pouring it into the mold. A plume of acrid smoke, accompanied by towering flames, billowed from the mold, along with a foul odor.
Yubi stared blankly, stunned for a long while. The screams of the corpse seemed to echo, still lingering in the water palace. "Mother is still alive, sister! You heard it!" He tried to break free from Yakov's restraints, but the blood slave wouldn't let him. "Mother drank my blood, and she can live!"
“I know this, my dear brother,” Ambikia said, looking at him. “But you only brought Mother’s head. How can you revive her with just her head? I think her body is probably with Inart.”
Yubi's struggle weakened. He opened his mouth, unsure how to respond.
“I think your mother died for you.” Anbicia lovingly raised her hand to stroke his face, which bore a striking resemblance to her mother’s. “You are too young to understand this. Since your mother chose death, what reason do you have to stop her or disturb her?”
The underground water palace was very cool, and in no time the fire died down, and the casting was complete. The slaves removed the mold, and a brand-new, scorching, and rusty half-body statue appeared before everyone.
Yubi gazed at that familiar, gentle face. The silver statue gleamed, like a dirty mirror.
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