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coldness.
    “Akasha!” he cried again.
    But she was gone, and he was still falling. Then the broken tumbling ice caught him, surrounded him, and buried him, as it crushed the bones of his arms, his legs, his face. He felt his blood pouring out against the searing surface, then freezing. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. And the pain was so intense that he couldn’t bear it. He saw the jungle again, inexplicably for an instant, as he had seen it earlier. The hot fetid jungle, and something moving through it. Then it was gone. And when he cried out this time, it was to Lestat:
Danger. Lestat, beware. We are all in danger
.
    Then there was only the cold and the pain, and he was losing consciousness. A dream coming, a lovely dream of warm sun shining on a grassy clearing. Yes, the blessed sun. The dream had him now. And the women, how lovely their red hair. But what was it, the thing that was lying there, beneath the wilted leaves, on the altar?

PART I
THE ROAD TO THE VAMPIRE LESTAT
    Tempting to place in coherent collage
the bee, the mountain range, the shadow
of my hoof
—
    tempting to join them, enlaced by logical
vast & shining molecular thought-thread
thru all Substance—
     . . . .

    Tempting
    to say I see in all I see
the place where the needle
began in the tapestry—but ah,
it all looks whole
and
part—
long live the eyeball and the lucid heart
.
    STAN RICE
    from
“Four Days in Another City”
Some Lamb
(1975)

1
THE LEGEND OF THE TWINS
    Tell it

in rhythmic

continuity
.
Detail by detail

the living creatures
.
Tell it

as must, the rhythm

solid in the shape
.
Woman. Arms lifted. Shadow eater
.
    STAN RICE
    from
“Elegy”
Whiteboy
(1976)
    C ALL her for me,” he said. “Tell her I have had the strangest dreams, that they were about the twins. You must call her!”
    His daughter didn’t want to do it. She watched him fumble with the book. His hands were his enemies now, he often said. At ninety-one, he could scarcely hold a pencil or turn a page.
    “Daddy,” she said, “that woman’s probably dead.”
    Everybody he had known was dead. He’d outlived his colleagues; he’d outlived his brothers and sisters, and even two of his children. In a tragic way, he had outlived the twins, because no one read his book now. No one cared about “the legend of the twins.”
    “No, you call her,” he said. “You must call her. You tell her that I dreamed of the twins. I
saw
them in the dream.”
    “Why would she want to know that, Daddy?”
    His daughter took the little address book and paged through it slowly. Dead all these people, long dead. The men who had worked with her fatheron so many expeditions, the editors and photographers who had worked with him on his book. Even his enemies who had said his life was wasted, that his research had come to nothing; even the most scurrilous, who had accused him of doctoring pictures and lying about the caves, which her father had never done.
    Why should she be still alive, the woman who had financed his long-ago expeditions, the rich woman who had sent so much money for so many years?
    “You must ask her to come! Tell her it’s very important. I must describe to her what I’ve seen.”
    To come? All the way to Rio de Janeiro because an old man had had strange dreams? His daughter found the page, and yes, there was the name and the number. And the date beside it, only two years old.
    “She lives in Bangkok, Daddy.” What time was it in Bangkok? She had no idea.
    “She’ll come to me. I know she will.”
    He closed his eyes and settled back onto the pillow. He was small now, shrunken. But when he opened his eyes, there was her father looking at her, in spite of the shriveling yellowed skin, the dark spots on the backs of his wrinkled hands, the bald head.
    He appeared to be listening to the music now, the soft singing of the Vampire Lestat, coming from her room. She would turn it down if it kept him awake. She wasn’t much for American rock singers,