Act Three: The Laws of Engaging with the World (Part Twelve)
twelve
Yakov was restless. The mark on his stomach seemed to have never completely healed. It felt like having sand stuck in your bread, sharp yet rounded grains sliding down your throat, as if stuck somewhere, as if cutting a wound, as if feeling a distinct presence in some part, but you just couldn't be sure. It'll be fine in a while, Yakov thought. If you eat sand, it always goes down.
He didn't sleep in bed again, but instead put on his dirty chainmail and robe once more, grabbed his longsword and helmet, and sat leaning against the doorway, his reason being that he feared Lord von Brunel might harm them for his money. Bright moonlight streamed in through the window, and he could see Schumeer lying on the bed snoring, seemingly oblivious to everything; while Yubi lay flat on his back, hands at his sides, as still and proper as a corpse. The tear tracks at the corners of his eyes had dried.
Yakov was disappointed to find that his old problem of not being able to fall asleep had returned.
He closed his eyes, trying to think of his mother. Yubi murmured about his mother as he fell asleep. And what about him? In Yakov's memory, his mother's face was incredibly blurry. He had barely seen her; some of his infancy memories had long since vanished. Yakov fantasized. What kind of person was his mother? What would it be like to have a mother? Fantasizing about this was extremely difficult for Yakov: for a weak, helpless woman to protect and support him was both unreasonable and shameful. He couldn't imagine having a mother, let alone losing her. He felt it was both a badge of invulnerability and proof of his inferiority. Camilla's face appeared before him again—a face of sorrow, despair, and madness, his mother's face. Was this what a mother should be like?
Yakov suddenly remembered that her head was still wrapped in a bundle in a glass jar, placed in his baggage beside the bed. For some reason, he felt compelled to go and see it.
By the firelight, Yakov picked up his sword and got up from the floor. He was the only one in the room who knew how to be wary of his surroundings while half-asleep at night, but he still carefully approached, trying not to make a sound, so as not to wake anyone. He reached the bedside, opened the leather bag, and took out a jar wrapped in cloth inside.
A sliver of the glass container peeked out from under the cloth. Yakov noticed a layer of silvery hair, soaked with blood and a dried, dark brown, which was nauseating. Yakov thought, a dead man's head. It was cold, so the body wouldn't be badly decomposed, and the sealed jar wouldn't breed maggots. But no matter how beautiful a face was in life, in death it would inevitably be crooked, a mass of rotting flesh. Yakov mentally prepared himself and lifted the silk shawl covering it.
Camilla's head lay amidst her thick, bushy hair, eyes closed, staring at him with a chilling stillness that made it almost unbearable for Yakov to face her without his helmet. Her face was gaunt, as if dehydrated, her skin like thin wax paper, the veins within congealed into black lines, like evil patterns covering her cheeks. Yakov thought, even vampire corpses eventually rot, turning to ash and merging into the soil, indistinguishable from the real thing. If even those comparable to gods, masters of control, were nothing more than this, then what truly mattered, what was powerful, and what was free?
A terrible sense of powerlessness crept over Yakov. He turned to look at the young face in the firelight of the Yubi and thought to himself, every living being will one day end up like this. So, there is nothing more important in the world than to make himself more comfortable. He decided that first thing tomorrow morning, he would trade with Lord von Brunel and buy that piece of ambergris. Whether it was real or fake, he and Schumeer could sell it for a good price. From then on, he would be the dragon guarding this fortune. If his conscience bothered him, he would buy a few barrels of good wine and comfort himself by saying that everyone suffers the consequences of their own actions, the deserved sins of being foolish and unambitious.
Yakov felt a discomfort, like a grain of sand stuck in his throat. But it was nothing; enduring it for half a lifetime wouldn't be considered painful.
He examined Camilla's face again by the firelight. When the head rotted to the point of reeking, he would have to persuade Yubi to throw it away, or find a place to bury her. At the very least, he would have to fill it with wax or mercury. If vampires had their own churches, they would display the head as a sacred object in a cage, to be worshipped. Yakov thought Camilla must have been a powerful vampire, deserving of saintly treatment.
Suddenly, a clattering sound came from the doorway. Yakov's ears perked up, and he quickly wrapped the head up and stuffed it back into his bag. Schumer and Yubi were awakened by the noise, jumped up instantly, and looked at each other in bewilderment.
"Who is it?" Schumer shouted, lighting a candle and watching Yakov pull his helmet back over his head and grip the hilt of his sword.
“…I’m so sorry, esteemed guest.” A woman’s voice came from outside the door, sounding like a Latin-speaking maid. “I’ve come to retrieve Lord Conrad Green’s things. He said you borrowed some of his items.”
They stared wide-eyed, wondering, "What is it?" "Is it this book? The one called 'The Song of Hildebrand'?" Yubi grabbed the poetry collection from the bedside table. "But Conrad said we can return it to him tomorrow."
“…I don’t know.” The maid’s voice seemed to choke, becoming muffled. “Lord Conrad Green only told me to come and get something. He said it was related to the ring.”
"A ring?" Yakov's eyes darted warily beneath his helmet. He asked Yubi in a low voice, "What ring?"
“I think you’re referring to this book.” Yubi turned to look at him. “There’s a scene in it where a father gives his son a gold ring.”
Yakov felt something was amiss, yet he couldn't fathom the riddles and tricks of these upper-class men. He watched as Yubi got out of bed, slipped her feet into her boots, and, carrying a candle and a book, went to open the door. He gripped his sword hilt tightly, following behind Yubi. Yakov imagined what would happen if, as soon as Yubi opened the door, soldiers, standing behind the maids, rushed in and killed them all. But he also knew that if Lord von Brunel truly wanted to kill them, he wouldn't need to go through such trouble.
Yubi opened the door, and the candlelight illuminated the outside. Only an elderly woman stood in the doorway. Her face was wrinkled, her temples gray, her clothes simple, and her fingers rough, like that of a lowly servant. But as soon as she saw Yubi, her eyes seemed to sparkle, and a complex, sorrowful expression appeared on her face, as if she were about to weep.
“This should be what Conrad wanted.” Yubi slipped the book to her through the crack in the door. “...Are you alright?”
“You are very handsome, sir.” The woman took the book, her hands trembling. She grabbed Yubi’s wrist and examined the ruby ring on his left hand. “...You also have a beautiful ring.”
Yakov immediately grabbed Yubi's arm and forcefully pulled him aside, blocking the doorway. "Is there anything else?" His sturdy helmet pressed in front, obstructing the old woman's view.
"That's all, that's all," she muttered sullenly, holding the book.
"Then what are you still doing standing here?" Yakov asked bluntly.
The old woman looked up at his impenetrable body in despair and had no choice but to leave. She glanced back at the door every few steps, but finally, under Yakov's intense gaze, she left the corridor, turned the corner, and disappeared from sight.
“I think her face looks familiar…” Yubi sat back down on the edge of the bed, turning the ruby ring around again. “But I only know a handful of people, and she’s nobody.”
“Maybe it’s just a resemblance.” Schumacher lay back on the bed. “The older a woman gets, the more sentimental she becomes about strange things. Maybe you look like her deceased child, maybe she says that to every handsome young man she meets. Don’t worry about it too much.”
“I feel like the way she looks at me is like my mother…” Yubi muttered, head down.
“You miss your mother too much!” Schumer patted his back and urged him to get back into bed. “Moderate mourning can soothe your emotions, but too much will affect your mind and body. If you are sad, go find Yakov and drink some blood.”
Yakov remained standing at the door. Worried that the woman might return, he peered through the crack in the door, listening for any sounds outside. As he expected, footsteps soon returned. The old woman tried to move more quietly, but she couldn't escape Yakov's notice.
“She’s back,” Yakov said softly.
“Don’t be so neurotic! Maybe she’s just a servant Conrad sent to keep watch.” Schumacher lay on his side with his back to them and his eyes closed. “I’m so sleepy.”
Yakov glanced at him. He envied Schumeer's detached attitude and composure. The sounds subsided, like the old woman standing in the doorway, doing nothing. The scene was unsettling, Yakov thought, and he wished the person across the door would react in a way he could understand. Just then, Yubi, still in her pajamas, slipped off the bed and tiptoed to his side.
"Is she still at the door?" Yubi asked in a low voice.
Yakov nodded and gestured for silence.
The two men held their breath, listening intently through the crack in the door. After a long silence, a rustling sound came from the doorway again. Yakov, unsure of what the person on the other side was doing, reached out and pulled Yubi behind him.
Suddenly, a gentle, sorrowful voice came from behind the door. It was the old woman's voice.
“I am Christina,” she called out in her old age. “Do you remember me? I am Christina.”
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