So she didn't know.
Not that it should matter. He wasn't sure whether it was better or not, to know. It didn't change anything, after all, couldn't change what they had become. Was it easier to accept, not knowing the identity of who had turned you? Ishmael didn't know the identity of the vampire back in New York - couldn't even be sure of what they looked like, or even their gender - but he was quite sure they hadn't lingered long after the attack, hadn't decided to introduce themselves or ease him in with a bit of guidance or a hand. In all honesty, they might well be dead by now. They might have been dead by the next day, for all he knew.
(He had loitered a little longer than that, when he had turned the pretty Portuguese girl a few years later. Maybe because he'd been fond of her, maybe because it had been his first conscious experience of the process of transformation at all, and he'd been keen to unpick how it worked, to work out what precisely he had gone through. What had he learnt? Well. Either Ishmael had underestimated the power of that first bloodthirst, or he had overestimated Azazel's sanity - whichever it had been, he had soon realised his mistake, and, since he had not been prepared to assume responsibility for that, Ishmael had done what the vampire in New York had done at his side, and scarpered.)
Perhaps he would have cared more about knowing, if he had come to terms with this existence any less. If there had been someone to whom he might have directed the anger, the bitterness, the fear - well, perhaps he would have felt more of those at his fate. Maybe having no one had helped in letting him let it go.
Maybe that was just something he had been able to do, regardless. Because his life had been little enough, before. Because he was a practical person, had a healthy instinct for self-preservation and enough of an aspiration to imperviousness to see him through. Because this life, though not ideal, wasn't the worst thing in the world. Because, perhaps, he had feared death that little bit more.
Lyra's attacker was dead though, she said. So if she were harbouring any bitterness about her fate (and, although all the details of her prior existence hadn't yet sharpened into perfect perception in his head, Ishmael had the instinct that she had inevitably been someone with more to lose), it was wasted feeling, would lead to no confrontations here. It would be more awkward, he suspected - after five years or a hundred and fifty - to have to reunite with one's maker on such altered ground.
He could work it out well enough, from what she said, now. Congregate as they might on the margins of magical society as they did, there had never been many vampires here. (They were more in number than merely those here, of course, but Ishmael never would deign to pretend vampires were the sort who could settle, not really. They were solitary wanderers if they were anything; he might not be wandering much for the moment himself, but he was certain it was the life that suited them best.)
He considered telling her something, doling out some scrap of information about her "killer" (as it were) to satisfy any curiosity that she might have. But, again, the potential bitterness attached to the whole affair: it was a feeling better not risked being awakened. Besides, Ishmael had no intention of making excuses for people who were dead. He didn't make a habit of taking responsibility for his own mistakes, let alone anyone else's. So: "Ah," was all he said, a thoughtful hum.
"Well, never mind that," he said in the next moment, mildly regretting leading her down that line of conversation - how gloomy, indeed! and he the self-appointed welcome party to this life! - "not much sense in looking back." He grinned at her again, with a quirk of his eyebrows. Looking forward was the best way to be, and dwelling would help no one. This was to be Lyra's new life, after all, and, thus far at least, Ishmael was inclined towards seeing himself in it. New company was not to be thrown away so fast - and, at any rate, the Forest did not much allow for them to be picky about their closest neighbours. Speaking of neighbours -
Ishmael straightened up from his position by the fire. "What we should do, you know, is find you somewhere to stay." To live - or close enough - if Lyra hadn't been scared off, if she did become more than an ephemeral visitor. "I can show you an empty cavern or two, if you like."
Not that it should matter. He wasn't sure whether it was better or not, to know. It didn't change anything, after all, couldn't change what they had become. Was it easier to accept, not knowing the identity of who had turned you? Ishmael didn't know the identity of the vampire back in New York - couldn't even be sure of what they looked like, or even their gender - but he was quite sure they hadn't lingered long after the attack, hadn't decided to introduce themselves or ease him in with a bit of guidance or a hand. In all honesty, they might well be dead by now. They might have been dead by the next day, for all he knew.
(He had loitered a little longer than that, when he had turned the pretty Portuguese girl a few years later. Maybe because he'd been fond of her, maybe because it had been his first conscious experience of the process of transformation at all, and he'd been keen to unpick how it worked, to work out what precisely he had gone through. What had he learnt? Well. Either Ishmael had underestimated the power of that first bloodthirst, or he had overestimated Azazel's sanity - whichever it had been, he had soon realised his mistake, and, since he had not been prepared to assume responsibility for that, Ishmael had done what the vampire in New York had done at his side, and scarpered.)
Perhaps he would have cared more about knowing, if he had come to terms with this existence any less. If there had been someone to whom he might have directed the anger, the bitterness, the fear - well, perhaps he would have felt more of those at his fate. Maybe having no one had helped in letting him let it go.
Maybe that was just something he had been able to do, regardless. Because his life had been little enough, before. Because he was a practical person, had a healthy instinct for self-preservation and enough of an aspiration to imperviousness to see him through. Because this life, though not ideal, wasn't the worst thing in the world. Because, perhaps, he had feared death that little bit more.
Lyra's attacker was dead though, she said. So if she were harbouring any bitterness about her fate (and, although all the details of her prior existence hadn't yet sharpened into perfect perception in his head, Ishmael had the instinct that she had inevitably been someone with more to lose), it was wasted feeling, would lead to no confrontations here. It would be more awkward, he suspected - after five years or a hundred and fifty - to have to reunite with one's maker on such altered ground.
He could work it out well enough, from what she said, now. Congregate as they might on the margins of magical society as they did, there had never been many vampires here. (They were more in number than merely those here, of course, but Ishmael never would deign to pretend vampires were the sort who could settle, not really. They were solitary wanderers if they were anything; he might not be wandering much for the moment himself, but he was certain it was the life that suited them best.)
He considered telling her something, doling out some scrap of information about her "killer" (as it were) to satisfy any curiosity that she might have. But, again, the potential bitterness attached to the whole affair: it was a feeling better not risked being awakened. Besides, Ishmael had no intention of making excuses for people who were dead. He didn't make a habit of taking responsibility for his own mistakes, let alone anyone else's. So: "Ah," was all he said, a thoughtful hum.
"Well, never mind that," he said in the next moment, mildly regretting leading her down that line of conversation - how gloomy, indeed! and he the self-appointed welcome party to this life! - "not much sense in looking back." He grinned at her again, with a quirk of his eyebrows. Looking forward was the best way to be, and dwelling would help no one. This was to be Lyra's new life, after all, and, thus far at least, Ishmael was inclined towards seeing himself in it. New company was not to be thrown away so fast - and, at any rate, the Forest did not much allow for them to be picky about their closest neighbours. Speaking of neighbours -
Ishmael straightened up from his position by the fire. "What we should do, you know, is find you somewhere to stay." To live - or close enough - if Lyra hadn't been scared off, if she did become more than an ephemeral visitor. "I can show you an empty cavern or two, if you like."
