you, beautiful man?' I asked. I shook myself all over. Of course, I knew him. I knew the drama. The lion's breath.
"But then I didn't. I knew nothing.
"Marduk spoke up, but by now Marduk was merely a spirit standing there, friendly and good.
" 'Azriel, do you know who I am?'
" 'A friend, a spirit friend?'
" 'What more?'
"I was anguished. 'I don't remember,' I said. I told him that I could remember the cauldron, murdering that nameless priest and the dead old woman. I knew the King. I knew him. But I couldn't really remember. I caught the sudden scent of roses. I looked down and saw the floor was littered with petals.
" 'Give them to him,' said Cyrus, pointing to the petals as he spoke to the harlot.
"And the sweet gentle harlot gathered up the petals in handfuls.
" 'Put them in the casket for me,' I said. 'What is this city? Where are we?'
" 'Babylon,' said Cyrus.
' 'And you are sending me to Miletus to a great wizard. I must know and remember his name.' He'll call you,' said Cyrus.
"I took one last look at them. I walked to the windows which were open to the river and I looked out and I thought, What a beautiful city this is, it is so filled with burning lights tonight, and so much laughter and merriment.
"Without raising my voice, I dissolved my form once more, raging at the souls as they surrounded me and plunged again into the velvet blackness, only this time I could smell the roses, and with the roses there came a memory, a memory of a procession, and people cheering and crying, and waving, and a handsome man singing with a beautiful voice, and petals tossed so high they showered down on us, on our shoulders . . . but the memory faded.
"I was not to remember these moments, these things, what I have told here for two thousand years."
Azriel sat back.
It was almost daylight.
He closed his eyes.
"You have to rest now, Jonathan," he said, "or you'll be sick again, and I must sleep, and I fear what will happen. But I'm tired, tired!"
"Where are the bones, Azriel?" I asked.
"That I'll tell you when we wake. I'll tell you everything that happened with Esther, with Gregory and the Temple of the Mind. I'll tell you . . ."
He seemed too weary to continue.
He stood up and then very firmly helped me up from the chair. "You must drink more broth, Jonathan."
He gave it to me, from a cup by the hearth, and I drank it, and then he helped me into the small bathroom of the cabin and politely he turned his back as I made water, and then he helped me to bed.
I was shaking badly. My throat was .thick, my tongue swollen.
I could see that he was in great anxiety. The telling of the tale had been an ordeal.
He must have read my sympathy. "I'll never tell it again to anyone else," he said. "I don't ever want to say it again, I don't ever want to see the boiling cauldron-" His voice dried up.
He shook his head and his thick hair to wake himself, and then he helped me into the bed. He made me drink more cool water, which was very good.
"Don't fear for me," I said. "I'm well. Only a little tired, a little weak." I took one last deep drink of water then offered the bottle to him and he drank more deeply. And he smiled.
"What can I do for you now?" I asked. "You're my guest and my protector."
"Would you let me sleep beside you?" he said. "As if we were just boys together in the field, so that . . . that... so that... if the whirlwind comes for me, so that if the souls come, I can reach out and touch your warm hand."
I nodded. He put me under the covers, and then he climbed in beside me. I turned towards him and he faced away. I put my arm over him. The red velvet robe he wore felt comfortable and thick and warm. I had my arm around him. He went limp, as it were, in the covers, his head deep into the pillow, the big mass of black curls close to my face, and smelling of the clean air outside and the sweet smoke from the fire.
The sunlight was just creeping under the door. And I could tell by its brightness and the warmth of the room