Hanns Heinz Ewers Alraune (43 page)

Once again resistance awoke in him.

“You are dangerous,” he said. “Like a
poisonous berry.”

She raised her lips, “Why does she nibble
then? I ordered her to stay away forever!–But you changed it to two
months. It is your fault.”

“No,” he cried. “That is not true. She would
have drown herself–”

“So much the better!” laughed Alraune.

He bit his teeth together, grabbed her arms
and shook her.

“You are a witch!” he hissed. “Someone should
kill you.”

She didn’t defend herself, even when his
fingers pressed deeply into her flesh.

“Who?” she laughed. “You?”

“Yes me!” he screamed. “Me! I planted the
seed of this poisonous tree–so I am the one to find an axe and chop
it down–to free the world of you!”

“Do it,” she piped gently. “Do it, Frank
Braun!”

Her mockery flowed like oil on the fire that
burned in him. Haze rose hot and red in front of his eyes, pressed
stuffily into his mouth. His features became distorted. He quickly
let go of her and raised his clenched fists.

“Hit me,” she cried. “Hit me! I want you
to!”

At that his arms sank, his poor will drown in
the flood of her caresses.

That night he awoke. A flickering light fell
on him coming from the large silver candlestick that stood on the
fireplace. He lay on his great-grandmother’s mighty bed. Over him,
directly over him, the little wooden man was suspended.

“If it falls, it will kill me,” he thought
half-asleep. “I must take it down.”

Then his gaze fell to the foot of the bed.
There crouched Alraune, soft words sounded from her mouth,
something rattled lightly in her hands. He turned his head a little
and peered over at her. She held the dice cup–her mother’s skull.
Threw the dice–her father’s bones.

“Nine,” she muttered, “and
seven–sixteen!”

Again she put the bone dice in the skull dice
cup, shook it noisily back and forth.

“Eleven,” she cried.

“What are you doing?” he interrupted.

She turned around, “I’m playing. I couldn’t
go to sleep–so I’m playing.”

“What are you playing?” he asked.

She glided over to him, quickly, like a
smooth little snake.

“I’m playing ‘How it will be’, How it will
be–with you and with Frieda Gontram!”

“Well–and how will it be?” he asked
again.

She drummed with her fingers on his
chest.

“She will die,” she twittered. “Frieda
Gontram will die.”

“When,” he pressed.

“I don’t know,” she spoke. “Soon, very
soon!”

He tightened his fingers together, “Well –
and how about me?”

She said, “I don’t know. You interrupted me.
Should I continue to play?”

“No,” he cried. “No! I don’t want to
know!”

He fell silent, brooding heavily, then
startled suddenly, sat up and stared at the door. Light steps
shuffled past. Very distinctly he heard the floorboards creak. He
sprang out of bed, took a couple steps to the door and listened
intently. Now they were gliding up the stairs. Then he heard her
clear laughter behind him.

“Let her be!” she tinkled. “What do you want
from her?”

“Why should I leave it alone?” he asked. “Who
is it?”

She laughed even more, “Who? Frieda Gontram!
Your fear is too early, my knight! She still lives!”

He came back, sat on the edge of the bed.

“Bring me some wine!” he cried. “I want
something to drink!”

She sprang up, ran into the next room,
brought the crystal carafe, let the burgundy bleed into the
polished goblets.

“She always runs around,” Alraune explained,
“day and night. She says she can’t sleep, so she climbs through the
entire house.”

He didn’t hear what she was saying, gulped
the wine down and reached the goblet out to her again.

“More,” he demanded. “Give me more!”

“No,” she said. “Not like that! Lay back
down. You will drink from me if you are thirsty.”

She pressed his head down onto the pillows,
kneeled in front of him on the floor, took a sip of wine and gave
it to him in her mouth. He became drunk from the wine, even more
drunk from the lips that reached out to him.

The sun burned at noon. They sat on the
marble edge of the pool and splashed in the water with their
feet.

“Go into my room,” she said. “On my dresser
is a hook, on the left hand side. Bring it to me.”

“No,” he replied. “You shouldn’t fish. What
would you do with the little goldfish?”

“Do it!” she spoke.

He stood up and went into the mansion. He
went into her room, picked up the hook and examined it critically.
Then he smiled in satisfaction.

“Well, she won’t catch many with this thing
here!” But then he interrupted himself.

Heavy lines creased his forehead, “Not catch
many? She would catch goldfish even if she threw in a meat
hook!”

His glance fell on the bed, then up to the
little root man. He threw the hook into the corner and grabbed a
chair in sudden resolve. He placed it by the bed, climbed up and
with a quick pull tore the little alraune down. He gathered some
paper together, threw it into the fireplace, lit it and laid the
little man on top.

He sat down on the floor watching the flames.
But they only devoured the paper, didn’t even singe the alraune,
only blackened it. And it seemed to him that it laughed, as if its
ugly face pulled into a grimace–yes, into Uncle Jakob’s grin! And
then–then the phlemy laugh sounded again–echoed from the
corners.

He sprang up, took his knife from the table,
opened the sharp blade and grabbed the little man from out of the
fire. The wooden root was hard and infinitely tough. He was only
able to remove little splinters, but he didn’t give up. He cut and
cut, one little piece after the other. Bright beads of sweat
pearled on his forehead and his fingers hurt from the unaccustomed
work. He paused, took some fresh paper, stacks of never read
newspapers, threw the splinters on them, sprinkled them with rose
oil and Eau de Cologne.

Ah, now it burned, blazed, and the flames
doubled his strength. Faster and stronger, he removed more slivers
from the wood, always giving new nourishment to the fire. The
little man became smaller, lost its arms and both legs. Yet it
never gave up, defended itself, the point of a splinter stuck
deeply into his finger. But he smeared the ugly head with his
blood, grinned, laughed and cut new slivers from its body.

Then her voice rang, hoarse, almost
broken.

“What are you doing?” she cried.

He sprang up, threw the last piece into the
devouring flames. He turned around and a wild, insane gleam showed
in his green eyes.

“I’ve killed it!” he screamed.

“Me,” she moaned, “Me!”

She grabbed at her breast with both
hands.

“It hurts,” she whispered. “It hurts.”

He walked past her, slammed the door shut–Yet
an hour later he lay again in her arms, greedily drinking her
poisonous kisses.

It was true–He had been her teacher. By his
hand they had wandered through the park of love, deep onto the
hidden path far from broad avenues of the masses. But where the
path ended in thick underbrush he turned around, turned back from
the steep abyss. There she walked on laughing, untroubled and free
of all fear or shyness. She skipped in light easy dance steps.
There was no red poisonous fruit that grew in the park of love that
her fingers did not pluck, her smiling lips did not taste–

She learned from him how sweet the
intoxication was when the tongue sipped little drops of blood from
the flesh of the lover. But her desire was insatiable and her
burning thirst unquenchable.

He was exhausted from her kisses that night,
slowly untangled himself from her limbs, closed his eyes and lay
like a dead man, rigid and unmoving. But he didn’t sleep. His
senses remained clear and awake despite his weariness. He lay like
that for long hours.

The bright light of the full moon fell
through the open window onto the white bed. He heard how she
stirred at his side, softly moaned and whispered senseless words
like she always did on such full moon nights.

He heard her stand up, go singing to the
window, then slowly come back, felt how she bent over him and
stared at him for a long time. He didn’t move. Again she stood up,
ran to the table and came back. She blew quickly on his left
breast, then once more and waited, listening to his breathing. Then
he felt something cold and sharp slice through his skin and
realized it was a knife.

“Now she will thrust it,” he thought.

But that didn’t seem painful to him. It
seemed sweet and even good. He didn’t move and waited quietly for
the quick thrust that would open his heart. She cut slowly and
lightly. Not very deep–but deep enough that his hot blood welled
up. He heard her quick breath, opened his eyelids a little and
looked up at her. Her lips were half-open, the tip of her little
tongue greedily pushed itself out between her even teeth. Her small
white breasts raised themselves quickly and an insane fire shone
out of her staring green eyes.

Then suddenly she threw herself over him,
pressed her mouth to the open wound, drank–drank. He lay there
quietly, felt how the blood flowed from his heart. It seemed to him
as if she was drinking him dry, sucking all of his blood, not
leaving him a single drop.

And she drank–drank–through an eternity she
drank–

Finally she raised her head. He saw how she
glowed, her cheeks shone red in the moonlight, and little drops of
sweat pearled on her forehead. With caressing fingers she once more
tasted the red refreshment from the exhausted well, then lightly
pressed a few light kisses on it, turned and looked with staring
eyes into the moon–

There was something that pulled her. She
stood up, went with heavy steps to the window, climbed onto a
chair, and set one foot on the windowsill–awash with silvery
moonlight.

Then, as if with sudden resolve, she climbed
down again, didn’t look to the right or to the left, glided
straight through the room.

“I’m coming,” she whispered. “I’m
coming.”

She opened the door and went out.

He lay there quietly for awhile listening to
the steps of the sleepwalker until they lost themselves somewhere
in some distant room. Then he stood up, put on his socks and shoes
and grabbed his robe. He was happy that she was gone. Now he could
get a little sleep. He had to leave, leave now – before she came
back.

He crossed the hall and headed toward his
room, then heard her footsteps and pressed himself tightly into a
doorway. But it was a black figure, Frieda Gontram in her garb of
mourning. She carried a lit candle in her hand as she always did on
her nightly strolls despite the light of the full moon.

He saw her pale, distorted features, the hard
lines that crossed her nose, her thin pinched mouth, and her
frightened, averted eyes.

“She was possessed,” he thought, “possessed
just like he was.”

For a moment he considered speaking to her,
to find out if–if perhaps–But he shook his head, no, no. It
wouldn’t help. She blocked the way to his room, so he decided to go
across to the library and lay down there on the divan. He sneaked
down the stairs, came to the house door, slid back the bolt and
unhooked the chain. Then he quietly slipped outside and went out
across the courtyard.

The Iron Gate stood wide open as if it were
day. That surprised him and he went through it out onto the street.
The niche of the Saint lay in deep shadows but the white stone
statue shown brighter than usual. Many flowers lay at his feet.
Four, five little lanterns burned between them and it seemed to him
as if those little flames the people brought, which they called
eternal lamps, wanted to do battle against the light of the
moon.

“Paltry little lanterns,” he murmured.

But they helped him, were like a protection
against the cruel, unfathomable forces of nature. He felt safe in
the shadows near the Saint where the moon’s own light didn’t
penetrate, where the Saint’s own fires burned. He looked up at the
hard features of the statue and it seemed to him as if they lived
in the flickering light of the lanterns. It seemed as if the Saint
extended himself, grew taller, and looked proudly out to where the
moon was shining. Then he sang, lightly humming as he had many
years ago, but this time ardently, almost fervently.

John of Nepomuk

Protector against floods

Protect me from love!

Let it strike another.

Leave me in earthly peace

John of Nepomuk

Protect me from love.

Then he went back through the gate and across
the courtyard. The old coachman sat on the stone bench in front of
the stables. He saw him raise his arm and wave to him and he
hurried across the flagstones.

“What is it old man?” he whispered.

Froitsheim didn’t answer, just raised his
hand, pointing upward with his short pipe.

“What?” he asked. “Where?”

But then he saw. On the high roof of the
mansion a slender, naked boy was walking, quietly and confidently.
It was Alraune. Her eyes were wide open, looking upward, high above
at the full moon. He saw her lips move, saw how she reached her
arms up into the starry night. It was like a request, like a
burning desire.

She kept moving, first on the ridge of the
roof, then walking along the eaves, step by step. She would fall,
was going to fall! A sudden fear seized him, his lips opened to
warn her, to call out to her.

“Alr–”