Three Thousand Five Hundred and Thirty Three

I long ago set aside the notion that every day is a gift, but not out of some cynical resignation to the mundane nature of life. No, I simply came to understand I had lived so long I could find no reason to resent the notion of there being no tomorrow.

And yet there are those times when I wish another tomorrow were a gift I could bestow. Life is not fair and never will be.

Rest In Peace, Cathy.

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Farley's Question

Farly asked me a question: if in 2012 you began aging a normal human lifespan... what would you do?

At first it seemed a simple question to answer, but each time I set about formulating a reply I found myself unsure of the easy responses. So many things spilled forth without consideration, as if the sudden realization I had but seventy or so years remaining might somehow erase thirty-five centuries of experience. I suspect the certainty of mortality might change me though I have often purported no fear of my own death- it would be in understanding my time was now finite. Seventy years pass so quickly.

I thought I might marry and have children. There was a time when the desire for mate and family overwhelmed me, but that was long ago and the ages have driven that need from me. Those times I allowed myself to become as a mother to an adopted family did offer a richness and fulfillment of sorts, but they also saddled me with the inevitable grief of parting from those I allowed myself to care for. That pain was not solely my own, often settling upon those I was forced to abandon as the years closed in about us. I found myself wondering if I could bear to be parted from my own children, had I any. Could I be content to die and leave them, never knowing their fate? To know as I passed that their own grief would weigh upon them long after? I must admit the thought of such circumstance is not inconsequential to one who has been party to such events more times than she cares to recount. That this is the accepted fate of men and women throughout time does nothing to mitigate these reservations.

I would not have children. My desire for that lies far in the past and is best left there.

Farly suggested I might seek to record the events of my life, the lessons learned over long decades. I do that to a very small degree in this venue, but I wonder if there is any point to the attempt? In recent correspondence with Hrodgar I offered the following:

I once thought to be a teacher of men, to attempt in some way to share those things I have learned, but in short order it became clear men need to learn for themselves those lessons that define the limits and opportunities of civilization. I am but one voice toiling in anonymity. The lessons I offered were unwelcome and unheeded, perhaps even useless. I am too far removed from the rhythm of the lives of those who surround me, out of synch as it were. Your lives race forward at such a pace should I allow my attentions to wander but a little it seems the culture has warped nearly beyond recognition. I adapt out of habit, but it seems I learn nothing new. The mores shift, the slang changes, but in the end what was alien is revealed to be so very familiar.

I suspect I lack the proper mix of devotion and charisma to be an effective teacher of the human race. It bears too much resemblance to the toils of Sisyphus. I write my words and leave them here. Those who encounter them may make of them what they will.

I have no new adventures to explore beyond this somewhat self-destructive habit of revelation (Yes, Loren, I am mindful of your admonitions- forgive my unwillingness to heed them). Were the yoke of immortality lifted from my shoulders I do believe I would set my affairs in order then find a place both peaceful and beautiful to await my end.

That notion suits me best.

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The Hope Of Others

I receive e-mail. Some messages are dismissive, a very small percentage of those evincing outrage at the thought of my existence, either as fact or farce. There are notes from those few people with whom I maintain semi-regular correspondence. Finally, and perhaps most disturbingly, there are those who seem to find some small sliver of hope in my scribblings here. To them I can only reply- I do not understand.

I have never accomplished anything of note. I did not rescue Jews from the Holocaust. I did not spirit escaped slaves along the Underground Railroad. I did not hold the plague at bay, nor lead any peoples to either greatness or destruction. I never eased life?s burdens upon Men. I have inspired no poets, tortured no romantics, discovered no transcendental truths? in short, there are no great acts I might point to with pride. The bulk of my life has been spent in the underside of humanity, amongst the poor, or the low, or the vile. What pride I might allow myself is writ upon the ledgers of the mundane.

I have acted to change things, to shape my surroundings to suit my liking, but those times are best left without comment. My capacity for monstrous behavior haunts me, and it is no small factor in the confusion that now surrounds me. It would be so simple to force matters in a direction more acceptable, but I cannot escape the fear such a notion brings upon me.

I compare the vast majority of my life against the last eleven decades and it leaves me somewhat at a loss. The sudden abandonment of the lifestyle that served my purposes so well for so long has unsettled me- I am uncertain of my direction, my place in these times. This journal is little more than the latest manifestation of the confusion that has ruled me since I cast aside the shadows. That recent events have driven home the folly of such a life only compounds my foolishness- faced with the certainty I should return to those dark and comfortable spaces I once called mine I instead choose stubborn denial.

That some find hope in this... it is yet more proof that no one can truly understand the workings of the inner human being.

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Rendezvous

It was an exercise in futility, but one willingly undertaken. Half a day spent in the air, trying not to think of the vast, blue expanse of the sea far below, then another day adjusting, waiting for the appointed day, and the appointed time.

The caf? was warm and relaxed, offering an excellent view of the square. It would have been simple to let my mind wander as it so often does in such places, but I had made a promise so my beverage of choice was coffee as I kept my silent watch upon the flowing crowds, seeking that familiar face, or distinctive walk. The day passed in its natural way, punctuated by the occasional attempted pickup declined with grace and a smile until dusk settled in.

I was surprised to feel a pang of such disappointment that it engendered a terrible longing within me. I had so wished to believe, my so-very-rational dismissal of the possibility suddenly riven and scattered upon the winds of emotion. The overwhelming urge to try again, to give him another day, another week, frightened me. It was madness to contemplate such a thing, yet I found myself in my hotel room, rescheduling my flight. Two more days. I had waited a century, what was two more days?

Those two days cost me dearly in terms of frayed nerves, self-doubt and self-recrimination. I felt foolish returning to that caf?, yet the thought of simply leaving? to call this episode finally closed was not something I could do. I despise such weakness in myself, wallowing in indecision, but there I was.

As the final hours passed I forced rationality upon myself. There had never been a chance. He had humored me as I had him. Such an insightful man, but those in his profession usually are, even today. I allowed myself to think of those days, traveling with a small circus as his assistant. He was not a magician, lord no:

?A magician produces doves from his sleeves and pulls rabbits from hats. I, my dear, am an Illusionist!?

He had seen something in me that intrigued him, and in our final year together I had told him in an offhand way of my unusual circumstance. Like any rational person he assumed I was lying, or deluded, or both. Yet he had played along and there had been a certain connection between us those final months before I moved on. He promised he would learn my secret and join me here in one hundred years. I had promised to be here.

I kept my promise. That he would be unable to keep his had been a foregone conclusion. That knowledge was cold comfort to me now.

As I gathered my things, preparing to leave, someone caught my eye- a woman, perhaps forty years old. She had been in the caf? every evening, arriving perhaps an hour before I departed each night. She deliberately made eye contact with me and she smiled, then rose from her table and approached me. She was handsome, her face a study in delicate beauty and aristocratic grace, with wide set eyes of grey framed in blonde hair going gracefully silver. I returned her smile.

?Forgive my intrusion, but you do look so very sad,? she said, her voice soft and warm, her French flavored with the accent of a Londoner.

?Oh, it really is nothing. Rather foolish of me, to be honest. My name is Genevieve.?

?Elizabeth,? she replied, taking a seat at my table, ?I really must apologize- I have been watching you for the past two nights?? and she laid her right hand atop mine.

At least I would not spend my last night in Paris alone.

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God

In the comments to this post, Mr. Renick takes me to task for my inhuman and murderous ways, then asks:

"By the way, do you even believe in God? He may judge you one day you know."

Mr. Renick,

What am I to believe in? What would you have me believe in?

God. If I assume you mean by God anything resembling the all-knowing, all-seeing creator of the universe depicted in the Bible, Talmud and Koran, then I am afraid I must disappoint, for I have no real ability to relate to that concept in any meaningful way. I worshipped many gods in my first two thousand years. I was worshipped as a minor goddess on and off for a pair of centuries. I have seen the religion complex from both sides and I am left feeling drained and unimpressed.

I know that religion offers much to those who believe. Faith is an immensely powerful force in the lives of Men. It can motivate entire nations to greatness, and even when we accept that the converse is also undeniably true we can still sift through the results and reasonably conclude that belief in God is a Good thing.

I am unimpressed by those who hold religion as maleficent influence in the affairs of Man. Yes, I am aware of the Crusades. I am aware of the Inquisitions, the Heresies and the auto-da-f?. I witnessed many such in my time and had reason to suspect that I might be on the receiving end of such un-tender mercilessness. Nevertheless, this was not the doing of religion- it was the handiwork of Men who used religion as an excuse. Lacking God, they would have found some other handy tool to flog the populace in to a frenzy of fear and murder.

I am no atheist. I do not pretend to great knowledge in the spiritual realms inhabited by such as you. I am denied such things. Your fears are not mine. Your failings are your own. That which I carry as an aching weight upon my heart would burn you to ashes in but a moment. That I might bear such burdens is by virtue of long practice and I undertake it without much in the way of joy or satisfaction. My life slowly becomes such that I wonder at my ultimate purpose. Perhaps I merely seek that one final act of contrition, that thing which might set the scales to balanced and allow me to fairly contemplate my own end in the sure and certain knowledge that what great harms I have done are finally, mercifully, put to paid.

God. If He exists for such as I, perhaps he might be so kind as to answer a simple question:

What did I do? What made You so terribly angry with me?

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Boston

I generally avoid staying in one place too long; however, Boston has become somewhat of a touchstone for me. I have had an apartment there since 1970 and it makes for a convenient place to meet lawyers and whatnot. I suppose it is coming time to leave that behind as well. These days with their computers and registries and databases? suddenly thirty years becomes an eternity of paper trails and evidence.

I fled the events in the desert that decades-past summer feeling the scrutiny of the police upon me. They had been kind in their own way, and amused at the idea that this ?little slip of a thing? could have dealt out such mayhem and destruction. They were willing to be deceived as I told them tales of my father teaching me the proper handling of a pistol and gifting me with his souvenir Army Colt .45 because he refused to let his little girl head out in to the world untrained and unarmed. Some of those men had tears in their eyes as I recounted those tales. I am a supremely skilled liar and raconteur- I showed them what the wished to see, and they accepted it readily.

First to California, into the embrace of friends who knew me for what I was, then back to Boston. As much as I dislike urban living, I could think of no other place to be and I took some small comfort from familiar things and well-known streets. I dabbled in university classes and oversexed coeds with too much money, too little history and overblown concepts of self. Given the backdrop of local strife those diversions fulfilled a need, but provided little in the way of real satisfaction. If anything it merely served to lull me in to a sense of complacency- a dangerous state for me.

I lose track of time. This is a recent development, something I began to notice at the onset of the Twentieth Century. It is not a matter of simply becoming engrossed and passing a day without intending to; rather it is the loss of months, even years at a time. It nearly always manifests itself when I feel myself at peace with my surroundings- life takes on a certain comforting rhythm and the days fade in an out from one to the next until I take note of the world once again to find that I have passed as much as a decade with little regard.

All of this is in sharp contrast with the past few months where each day has presented something to be confronted directly. To be certain, these are not life-changing events, they present no realistic danger and can hardly be called matters of import, but I find my life cluttered by dealings not easily left to the hands of those not privy to my unique concerns. I am unaccustomed to such distraction. It seems to have consequences beyond my mere displeasure.

My sleep is tortured. Long ago I ceased to be troubled by dreams. While I am certain my unconscious mind continued its nightly reshuffling and sorting of events, memories and motivations, those activities were no longer partially visible to my waking awareness. Instead, dreams seemed to become portents, warnings of some kind, or prodding towards or away from some course of action. Rare were the dreams I remembered, and those were always vivid and unmistakable in their intent.

Not so now. My nights are filled with visions of the open sea, a hunger for that one thing I fear most in the world, or else I feel myself lost and seeking solace, seeking that which I might call ?home?. That is an odd desire, as I have no real home. There are many places I live, but nothing yet is home. I have hopes for Pennsylvania? Yet I must consider just what Home would be?

Perhaps simply that place where I might pass those sudden decades without care or concern.

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Suicide

Why continue on?

Suicide is an odd construct amongst mortals. There are those societies and cultures that abhor and condemn it. Others are less judgmental. Still others glorify suicide in pursuit of some temporal victory. Regardless of which cultural construct one chooses to operate within I find the idea of taking your own life somewhat foolish given that death offers little but the unknown, and is quite likely the utter cessation of existence. In that case, suicide is the destruction of an entire subjective universe and hardly justifiable under most circumstances.

I understand seeking to end one?s own suffering. Those situations where life is merely the prolonging of an ever-escalating burden of agonies does indeed cry out for the rational to have the choice to bring existence to an end, but from my perspective your existence is so very brief, and you are so often not rational?

I have never seriously considered suicide. By that I mean to say I have never come to the point of actually laying in place those things I might need to affect a permanent end to my existence. This begs the obvious question: why not?

The issue is devoid of simple explanations.

On a personal level, while I carry a certain burden of pain as the result of my immortality it has yet to fully overwhelm me. I have succumbed to it in the past, let it form as a hot kernel of rage that fires the engine of depravity and destruction; however, in the end I learned what that rage was, what it meant. I shoved the genie back in to the bottle as it were, and moved beyond the days of anger and hate. It is both the advantage and the curse of my existence that I am afforded the opportunity to live past my accumulated evils. In this case it becomes somewhat comforting to view the coming days as an opportunity to right my wrongs and atone for my sins. They are legion, and not so easily put to paid.

To be amongst you causes me pain, this I freely admit. As the centuries move past I cannot help but come to view your lives as fleeting things, mere vignettes scattered in and about the slow drama that is my life. You often seem random and disconnected, even dissonant in your utter lack of relation to the difficult truths and comforting lies that construct my life among you. Yet it is by my own free choice that I live amongst you. I am of no meager resource, it is well within my means to live in blissful isolation, to hold the mortal world at bay and sample it but sparingly, if at all. If the truth is to be told such isolation might be the precursor to a decision to seek an ending, but it is something I seek only on occasion these days. My most recent sabbatical lasted less than twenty years.

I have noted before that in balance I am an optimist; that I look on my life, and on the relative progress of Man, and I find reason for hope. It seems to me that such hope is proof against the desire for self-destruction. I have loved, and the inevitable loss of that love to the relentless march of time pains me as well. Yet here I am amongst you, and despite my fears, the trepidations surrounding my current course of action, I find hope in the idea that I may yet love again. That when I do it is possible that my new love shall know me fully for what I am before our lives intertwine. That I might fall into that delusion that is love without the burden of secrets held close against fear. I do not dwell upon this, but neither do I dismiss it.

There is yet one final reason why I have not sought to end my life and this one is a matter of both technique and moral responsibility. In short, it is a question of fear. Not fear of death, for that holds no dread for me. Rather, it is fear of failure. It is not enough to contemplate suicide, or to act upon it. Were I to make a serious attempt at it I must be certain to succeed. In order to be certain of success I must seek complete destruction. Anything less leaves the slight possibility, perhaps vanishingly small, yet still quite real, that I might be condemning some new and undefined entity to the same struggle I have faced lo these thirty-five centuries.

This I cannot permit.

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Invitation to Despair

Having been absent some short while I feel the need to revisit something; however, I am uncertain of my ability to express this properly. In no small way a major purpose of this forum has been to seek the best, most complete method of saying what follows.

Note that I hold no faith. Note furthermore that I reject no faith. My existence is such that I am denied the easy definitions Men place upon the indefinable.

I am not as you, destined to spend perhaps a century upon this plane, a full lifetime of pleasures, pains, fears and triumphs. This span I shall count but in passing. This does not make of me something greater than thee, merely something different.

There is naught one such as I may call companionship, for it is the nature of mortals that they must perish. In words more direct, by the time you become truly interesting to me, you die. It is my fate to place my hopes and desires within such fragile containers and hope beyond reason that some thread, some connection, might persist in to the coming days: some inkling of understanding that has as its heart a beacon of hope rather than a desire for power, a plea for justice and mercy rather than a plot for dominance.

It is Death that separates us. Death has parted me from all I have come to know and love, but it further sets a wall between you and I, forcing either a painful revelation or the keeping of secrets both dear and dire. It has transpired that I shared the truth of myself with some who in the end could not accept what I am or that this ?gift? I cannot share. Those are the most painful of all for long experience can inure me to the pain of losing those I hold dear, but the burden of knowing I have caused suffering by the mere knowledge of my existence? how do I make amends for existing? How do I make amends for desiring the comfort of others about me? For being so weak as to show all of who and what I am?

Is this the infinitesimal mark of evil, that I should thrust myself in to the world of those whose lives might be carefree but for my need? Is this a right, something I deserve, or is it a cruel selfishness? Am I to see myself as blessed, or damned? I despair of kenning the difference. My knowledge is but of Men, not of Gods.

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Partings

There is no good way to bring anything to an end for any endeavor will always leave a gap, an emptiness, when it is concluded and put to rest. This journal is no exception. I noted before that I launched it in order to test the waters and that I had not found things entirely to my liking, but bringing this to an end is only somewhat related to that revelation. I did indeed desire to learn what reaction, if any, my existence might elicit and in that the results were almost universally encouraging; however, by its very nature this journal cannot provide me with a deeper understanding of what I could expect should I publicly proclaim my existence in a more direct fashion. The Internet is too fast-paced and far too ephemeral to provide me with the certainty I had sought. I believe I knew this going in, but as an incremental step it was most valuable.

What have I learned? Most cryptically I have learned that which I needed to learn. It has always been apparent to me that this little exercise had far more to do with me than with the outside world. The reflection upon my past, the episodes I chose to share, and perhaps more importantly those I have chosen not to share, all led me to a certain place within myself, an understanding that has likely always been there, but that I never once visited with any seriousness. Until now. I understand now that this chameleon?s life I have been living is a loser?s game. I always knew I was angry; that the need to pick up, let go and move on was the source of a bitterness that colored my relationships and robbed me of the happiness I felt I had a right to. This sometimes erupted in bouts of truly embarrassing self-pity, and sometimes in an almost pathological misanthropy.

To those readers who have found me an entertaining raconteur with perhaps a hidden softness inside I can only say that had I been less circumspect in the tales I chose to tell you may well have been disgusted, perhaps even horrified. Three and one half millennia afforded ample opportunity to fall in to monstrous depravity: my hands are stained with the blood of innocents.

That is not so easy to admit, here in this space. It has been my existence in this little digital arena that has led me to this. I have so many entertaining and informative tales to tell; glimpses in to lives past and cultures remembered only by graves and refuse. But I have found that the good tales are no longer so easy to tell. The weight of my sin grows heavier with each carefully crafted, carefully neutered tale I tell. The murder of Clayton was a glimpse of that darker portion of myself, but even that was chosen because it afforded me the cover of a somewhat moral act. I dealt out death because it felt good to do so, but perhaps he deserved it, so perhaps it was not so terrible a thing to do. I tried again, describing my eight-year murderous rampage through the streets of Ostia and Rome, but I seem incapable of finding the words to make the horror of what I was in those days clear. I lack the courage to face it squarely.

I am a moral coward.

All of this- this journal, my stories, and this confession: it all comes back to Jeremy. He understood me, both the good and the bad. In the end it was he who set me upon the path I walk today. After Clayton, after feeling the shame that act brought to my heart whenever I thought of Jeremy I came to believe I might be standing at the cusp, at the point of something momentous. The world had already plunged deep in to a whirlwind of change and I was caught up in it, blown upon the bitter storm. Just as Jeremy had predicted in those final days before he passed away. And in the end he betrayed me for my own good. I am still unsure as to whether to forgive him for that. Time will tell.

Now it all makes sense to me. I have now an understanding I had despaired of ever achieving. I know what I want to do. I know what I am going to do.

I am going home.

I am going to make my stand. Watch for me, those of you who are young enough. In thirty, or forty, or perhaps fifty years it will come out- the questions, the little tabloid stories, the speculations. Then some enterprising journalist will decide it is time to rip the top off the charade and will dig deep in to my past. I am looking forward to seeing the expression on his face when he comes to the inescapable conclusion.

Life should become terribly interesting at that point.

I remain faithfully yours,
Zsallia Marieko

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Random Notions

Some random notions that have come to the fore as a result of comments, events and other factors:

I am frequently surprised. One would think I should be beyond surprise, but one would be wrong. One would think I would be coolly in control of my emotions, having had so very long to come to an intimate understanding of my own inner landscape, but one would be wrong. One would think that thirty-five centuries would smooth the contradictions from the fabric of my soul, and one would be wrong yet again.

It seems some are convinced that one such as I should be either above human foibles, or incapable of them. They are wrong. There are those who insist that one such as I must view all those about her as nothing more than mayflies, lesser things to be used for amusement and hardly missed upon passing. I would ask them how they have come to such an understanding, and I would tell them their assumptions speak volumes regarding their own private demons, but they say nothing regarding mine.

I protect myself. I protect those I consider to be my friends. Those people are few and thus precious to me.

I am immortal, not indestructible.

I am often asked if I am bored and I always reply in the negative. Boredom is not the problem I face, and no one seems to be inclined to ask regarding what that problem may be. I understand this since it is likely unique in the acuteness of its manifestation with me; however, I still see it in others from time to time. It is not loneliness. When I become aware of the weight of ages upon me, what I feel is desperately tired.

Thirty-five centuries have taught me useful things, but not so many as some seem to insist must be the case.

I understand people- my ability to interact on a personal level borders on the telepathic. This is not some mystic ability, but the simple byproduct of millennia of experience. It is an ability that is limited to personal, face-to-face, situations. This also makes me a rather entertaining bedmate.

Conversing via the written word is an extraordinarily poor cousin to personal interaction. At the same time it offers a separate set of tools, and a different level of nuance that cannot be dismissed.

I am merciless in self-analysis- my ability to delude myself is limited, but when I indulge it the results are usually disastrous. I take no pity upon myself, for I posses the ability to outlive my errors. Others do not.

I understand that nothing ever really ends. Everything that has preceded this moment in time forms the foundation upon which the next moment must stand.

I have noted before that I view myself as primarily a destructive force in relation to those with whom I interact. There are those who disagree with me. They lack my perspective on this subject. This extends to this journal: every post I make, every comment left on any site constitutes an act of almost criminal selfishness on my part.

I never share everything with you. Never.

There is more to say. I choose not to say it.

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I Know Who You Are

?I know who you are.?

I said nothing, allowing Edna?s quiet words hang in the air behind me as I gazed upon Catherine?s final resting place. Her marker was large, yet very simple- a granite spire, somewhat weathered as were all the stones in this corner of the cemetery, with just her name and the dates: b 1831 d 1896.

?She was only sixty-five. Even being wealthy and protected, the damned winters were like a scythe, weren?t they??

?I know you heard what I said, so don?t pretend you didn?t.?

I had been feeling something from her for two days now. It was the only reason I had not left yet- I had to know what it was. Her certainty was so strong and it excited her so. I turned to face her.

?Who do you think I am??

?Great Grandma hired a Pinkerton man to track down Elaine a few years after the War Between the States. He went to Boston, found her lawyers? offices, but they were well paid, quite reputable and very tight-lipped.? She paused then and said, ?I think I need to sit... could we move to that bench?? She gestured with her cane and I nodded. Edna shuffled over, suddenly looking every day of her ninety-eight years, and settled down with a sigh, placing her cane before her with her hands perched atop. She waited until I took a seat beside her. ?Where was I? Boston. You always seem to go back to Boston. The Pinkerton man was no slouch, and you?d a way of impressing people, of course. He found a name: Melissa Burns, and there was some talk of Georgia. It took some doing but he tracked you down to a plantation where you were hired as a tutor in literature and mathematics. Then he discovered that you?d murdered a man named Clayton Williams. You were caught, tried, convicted and hanged. End of story, or so he thought.

?I have to wonder what he thought when Catherine sent him back to Georgia and told him to dig up your corpse, if he could. He went back and started asking more questions, spreading around money and liquor, until he bumped in to these two gents who?d had a near religious experience. Neither of them?d had a drink in years before they ran in to him- reformed men, they were. But his questions shook them up, and the whiskey was good, and the tale they told him? well, he?d never heard anything so wild and unlikely in his life, but he had his orders, and like I said, he was no slouch at his job.

?He tracked you to a border town in Texas. A pretty young redheaded prostitute named Molly, sweet and kind and very quiet, and sporting a hanging scar. Only by the time he got that far poor Molly?d had an accident, took a spill in to the river and drowned. Body never recovered. Of course, it couldn?t have been the same woman, because everybody swore she couldn?t be more than eighteen and Elaine?d have been close to sixty by then, except that Melissa Burns hadn?t been more than twenty-five??

?He would have had a very difficult time following me after that. Molly was a throw-away?? I stopped there because there was no point in continuing. Edna?s gaze was fixed on me, waiting. ?How many people know this story??

?Just me. It?s been passed down through the women in the family. Honestly, I didn?t really believe it myself until you showed up, and even then I wasn?t sure until just now. I haven?t told anyone; Sarah would be the obvious choice, but she?s such a Chatty Cathy I just couldn?t trust her with it.? She sat up straighter then, and took a deep breath, ?So, if you wanted to you could shoot me with that ugly old pistol you?ve got your hand on and the story?d die with me. I suspect you?d be able to get out of town before anybody caught on.?

I snatched my hand from my bag- I had not even realized I had my hand on the gun. I was embarrassed that she had noticed, that I had even unconsciously considered?

And then I was shaking, trembling so violently that I could not even speak. It was not fear, or anger, or joy, but simply conflict. I did not know what to do. Then a sharp pain exploded in my shin and I cried out as Edna drew back her cane after striking me with it.

?Get a hold of yourself! Lord, you?d think someone as old as you?d be beyond this kind of thing!?

I laughed out loud at that. ?I?ve heard that before? I should introduce you to the Yeti!?

?The who??

?Yes, never mind, it?s too hard to explain.?

We sat for several minutes before Edna finally asked, ?So, what?re you going to do??

?That?s the question, isn?t it? It?s not so easy as Jeremy thought it might be.?

?Sure it is. My son had you checked out- you?re loaded. I name you as my successor in the trust and then you can do what you want.?

?Really? It?s not that simple at all. Everything I know is telling me to leave, now, and never come back! I have rules I live by and I didn?t come up with them on a whim!?

?And you married Jerome- what?d your rules have to say about that? Why?d you do that? Seems pretty stupid to me. Be careful what you answer because Catherine had an idea and I think she was right.?

?I fell in love with him. Is that so hard to believe??

?Honestly? Yes, it is hard to believe. Catherine believed you were just lonely, and tired. Marrying her uncle was almost like trying to kill yourself. Just look at the trouble it?s caused you. Look at where you are right now, honey. Sure you loved him, but you loved him because it gave you a taste of something you couldn?t ever really have. You were trying to destroy yourself. Or at least destroy your life. You wanted an end, and Jerome was just the right man to help you find it.?

She sat back, her shoulders sagging. I could see the exhaustion radiating from her and suddenly I was ashamed again. How could I not see how much this was costing her? To be out here confronting me? Without another word I helped her to her feet and steadied her as we made our way back down the path to my car. She settled in to the seat and I buckled her in, then came around and started the car. Edna had her head back against the headrest, her eyes were closed.

?See, I think you?re going mad. All that running and hiding can?t be good for a body.?

?Do you understand how? how impudent it is of you to presume to speak to me like this??

She laughed quietly, opening her eyes to look over at me. ?Do you think you are wise?? she asked.

I thought about that as I maneuvered down the narrow drive to the cemetery?s exit. ?About some things, yes. Others, no.?

?Good answer. I am wise, and about a lot of things. That cemetery makes me wise- I know that?s where I?m headed, and soon, too. Focuses the mind, assuming the mind still works of course.? She chuckled then at her own little joke.

?And that?s something I lack, is it??

?It?s not just something you?re missing, it?s something you need.?

That was not a new thought for me, so why did it disturb me so to hear it from this woman?

?A cemetery?s not just a place of endings,? she continued, ?it?s a symbol, a place of roots. Kids today just don?t understand this stuff; they go wandering off in all directions and don?t give a thought to their family or their history. My daughters? I haven?t seen either of them in five years, or the grandchildren. All picked up and moved off to California and Hawaii? I kept hoping that one of them would get the notion to come home, but it?s never happened.?

?Yet here I am.?

?Yes,? she smiled, ?here you are. I?m fit to be pickled now that you?re here. I honestly never believed it was possible, just some funny folk tale, or better yet a practical joke.?

I considered that for several minutes as we drove on in silence.

?So, if I were to say I was merely humoring you??

?I wouldn?t buy it for a second. I saw the look on your face when you were touching that pistol- you?re first thought was to kill me and run like the dickens.?

?I would never have??

?I know, but you thought it. So why are you here??

?I needed to know how much damage? no. I wanted to come, to see what had happened to the people I cared about. I was here a few weeks ago- I visited Jeremy?s grave. I thought that would be enough?? I stopped then, feeling tears coming from someplace unexpected. I pulled to the side of the road and parked the car, then just gripped the wheel, desperate to compose myself. Why was this happening? Why was this woman, somebody who was still just a child in comparison to myself, having this affect on me? Why was I so damned angry?

?Don?t stop now.?

I looked at her, uncomprehending for a moment, and then I asked her, ?What would you do if I took you home and then left, and never returned??

?Nothing. I?d go to my grave knowing that I?d been privy to a great secret. Of course that?s easy for me to say because we both know you?re not leaving. C?mon dearie, stop trying to nice to the little old lady and spit it out- why are you here??

?Because I was never ready to leave!? It came out so suddenly and so succinctly that it drew all of the emotion out of me in a single statement: I had never wanted to leave. I left because it was my way, a habit, a rule I lived by. It had never been a problem before, but so much had changed since the early centuries of my life?

?Then why leave??

?That?s enough,? I snapped, my voice dropping in to a peremptory tone that made Edna sit back a bit. I put the car in gear and pulled out again, unwilling to talk any further, or to listen for that matter. Edna attempted to engage me, but I tuned her out so thoroughly that she soon gave up.

What was wrong with me? I had been willing to reinsert myself in to this family so long as I could do it on my terms, maintaining this thin fiction of secrecy, holding myself aloof from them. Why did Edna?s knowledge change things so? Why that sudden impulse to murder and flight? It was clear to me, unmistakably clear that she posed no threat. Even if she did choose to tell her family what she knew, what would they think? She knew this, I could tell she knew this.

I am terrible at snap decisions. Every one I have ever made has turned out to be ill advised in one way or another. I needed time to think. I arrived at that terribly insightful conclusion as I pulled in to Sarah?s driveway. Edna sat beside me, radiating dismay.

?I am going back to Boston,? I told her, making my voice as gentle as I could.

She emitted a quiet sigh of resignation, and then visibly nerved herself to ask, ?And What will you do there??

I paused, unwilling to be short with her again, and then gave her the most honest reply that I could: ?Think. Decide. Act.? She nodded at that, and allowed me to help her out of the car and up to the house. At the door something suddenly occurred to me. ?You never visited your husband?s grave??

?Oh, that?s not important. Perhaps next time??

?Yes, perhaps.? I turned to go, but I could feel her eyes on me, as if they sought to pull me back.

?Genevieve? now that can?t be your real name, can it??

I paused and turned back to face her as she stood framed in the open doorway, looking small and frail and forlorn. ?No, of course not. I don?t have a given name that I can remember, but I chose one, long ago,? and I told her my name, the name I chose that I have called myself for more than two millennia. Then I turned away and walked to the car. It was time to go.

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Visitations

Morning arrived clear and delightfully cool. I took an early stroll about the center of town before checking out and loading my things in to the car, and then I set off for Sarah?s home to pick up Edna. I was not particularly eager to make the visit to the cemetery, but it seemed a small courtesy to these people who had been so willing to accept me- call it recompense for my necessary deceptions.

I have never made a habit of visiting my dead; it always seems so pointless. Even my visit to Jeremy?s grave, so stylized and staged and Hollywood-dramatic was really nothing more than a lark. I was content that I had done it, but I believe I could have found as much closure reminiscing in my own living room with a bottle of brandy to mellow the mood. That I had been drawn back to this place so soon afterward was nothing more than the natural consequence of finally putting that entire episode of my life to rest.

Jeremy is dead. Catherine is dead. I could fill many, many pages with the names of those who meant something to me in some way who were now dead. To visit their graves would mean nothing to me. I understand that graves have meaning to those who are left behind, but I believe I have spent so long watching as one generation after another are returned to dust that any possible meaning has been diluted beyond detection. Cemeteries are packed with the dead and empty past. I choose not to dwell there.

Edna was already up and waiting for me when I arrived. Sarah had departed early so it was just the two of us sharing coffee and light conversation as we waited for the day to warm a bit before setting out. Edna seemed in very good spirits, commenting that she had felt guilty for neglecting her duty to visit her relatives, in particular her husband, over the past years.

?Henry?s been gone over thirty years now, so I suppose he forgives me, but I?m glad you were willing to come. I think Catherine would have been pleased to see that somebody from Elaine?s family had finally found this place.?

We were in the car and I smiled at Edna?s prattling. It is a common delusion of the living that the dead are witness to the day, but Edna seemed to take particular delight in the idea of me standing over Catherine?s grave. I felt better then- I have nothing against making a kindly old woman just a bit happier. We turned in to the gate of the cemetery and she directed me up towards the back, where the older plots were laid out over and about a low hill.

We parked at the foot of the hill and I helped her out of the car, then we began walking up towards the McAllister family?s section near the crest of the hill. As we passed various other collections of stones Edna pointed out families and individuals. I had known several of them personally.

?Surely your husband is not buried here?? I asked, ?These are all quite old.?

?Oh, no- Henry?s down by the western lawn. I thought we?d stop up here first. See that tall spire? That?s where Catherine and Jonathan are buried. Why don?t you go on ahead- I?ll catch up.?

This was all so odd, and I found myself just a little more curious than I would have admitted earlier. Edna had stopped to admire the carvings on a stone near the walkway so I strolled up the remainder of the path, and found that brief segment of my past laid out in neat rows.

Catherine and her husband were together. Off to one side were two small markers: young children, neither more than four years old. There were other pairs, more husbands and wives, and solitary markers of those who never wed, or who met untimely ends only to have their loved ones make new lives when they were gone. I knew some of their stories from Catherine?s letters; others were a mystery to me.

I heard Edna come up behind me. We both stood quietly and I began to remember times when such places had held meaning for me: never the same meaning they held for others, but meaning nonetheless. Then she spoke, and everything became deathly quiet.

?I know who you are.?

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Returnings

The town bore only a passing resemblance to what I remembered. The old church was still there- I wondered if people still worshipped in those same pews Mrs. Tremblay had gifted to the church so very long ago. When I had paid my visit to Jeremy?s grave more than a month before I had done no more than drive through- I had known then that the land was wrapped up in a dispute so I had come cross-country from a neighboring community. Still, there were enough familiar things and I found the Historical Society easily enough.

The building was easily a hundred years old and not well suited to its purpose as a museum of sorts. This had been some sort of a meeting hall, but I could not be certain, as it had been built long after I had left. The door was unlocked so I entered and found a table by the inside of the door with a small basket labeled ?Donations Welcome? the sole decoration. There did not appear to be anyone about. I dropped a few hundred dollars in the basket and set out to explore, making enough noise to ensure that anyone inside would eventually take note.

It was typical fare. Flags, documents, war memorabilia, some pictures, pieces of furniture, all of it documenting the passage of more than two hundred years: the town was older than that- perhaps the oldest pieces were stored away some place. Still, it was somewhat unsettling to be wading through pieces of lives that I might have touched so long ago. Things were familiar by their type and form, but nothing that I might point to and say ?I remember that.? Then I entered the main hall.

I felt it before I saw it. Everything in the room was so very, very familiar. There was furniture from the south parlor, the large dining table, my harpsichord? so many things that had been ours. I turned and froze, for hanging on the south wall there was a portrait of a young woman, decked out in Victorian splendor, her hair piled high in scarlet curls and ringlets? me. Jeremy had commissioned that portrait on our tenth wedding anniversary. The artist had paid particular attention to the eyes?

?Mesmerizing, isn?t she??

I turned to face the woman who had spoke and saw her start nearly as badly as had I. She was older; perhaps fifty or sixty, with dark hair going gracefully gray worn in a very modern style. Her blue eyes were open and friendly, though somewhat startled and there was something about the shape of her mouth and the angle of her jaw? I had to stop myself from commenting on it as her gaze tracked back and forth twice between the portrait and my face.

?I? I believe she was my great-great-?? the lie refused to fall gracefully from my lips, but she interrupted me as I stumbled on it.

?Oh, Lord, I believe it! Just look at the eyes, my dear!?

?Not to mention the hair, of course.? I smiled then, back at ease now that the moment had passed. ?I am Genevieve Baker.?

?Baker? Oh! You?re the one who?s got Josh in such an uproar!? She laughed then and the sound passed in to and through me, calling up memories- young Catherine at her wedding, her laughter as she danced with Jeremy. I was in control of myself now, none of this showed on my face. ?I?m Sarah, Sarah Jameson,? she turned towards the back of the hall and called out, ?Edna! Edna, come and see who?s here!?

?I?m out front!? came a dry, yet sprightly voice, then an elderly woman appeared in the entrance to the hall. She was small, and clearly closer to one hundred than to eighty, but she was spry and her eyes were clear. In her left hand she wielded a cane that certainly had to be a mere prop for her stride was brisk and her gait even. In her right hand she waved a clutch of bills. ?Somebody dropped five hundred dollars in the? Oh! Oh my word!? She stepped closer and looked me up and down, just radiating a mischievous delight as she grinned and said, ?Well, it?s a good thing I didn?t bump in to you alone in here- I?d have figured I?d finally had The Big One. And that straight hair does nothing for you, dearie.?

They offered me coffee- we sat at a table in the kitchen at the rear of the hall and they both began asking and answering questions. Edna was Edna Carstairs. Josh was her eldest son, Joshua, and co-executor of the McAllister Trust along with his mother. Sarah was Edna?s niece. Edna and her late sister were the great-granddaughters of young Catherine. I felt somehow lacking in the presence of these women who knew their ancestry and their family histories, where I was forced to lie and in turn keep my stories simple and boring. Despite this Edna seemed fascinated with my story.

?And you had no idea about the trust, or your connection to this place until you found Elaine?s diary??

?That?s pretty much it, yes. Oh, I knew a little about the family history, but it wasn?t until I found her diary and the legal papers that I had any idea what had happened. Even then, the diary only covers the year 1843. I assume she kept a yearly record, but I?ve not found any others.? Another lie- I had all twelve volumes, but this was the only one I could safely share with anyone.

?Did you bring it with you?? Sarah asked, ?I?d love to see what it has to say.?

?I don?t have it here- it?s back at the hotel, but I?d be happy to let you look it over after I?ve met with Joshua. I?m assuming he?ll want to see it as well.?

?Oh, don?t let yourself be too concerned with my son,? Edna commented, ?he?s really in no position to argue with you and he knows it. Truth is the trust is nearly bankrupt. He couldn?t afford to put up a fight even if you were a fraud.?

?Perhaps we shouldn?t talk about??

?Oh, piffle! It?s not a secret. Lawyers should never try to be investment brokers. We sank a lot of the trust?s money in to Internet stocks- lost it all. Since then with the town putting the squeeze on us we?ve barely kept up with the taxes. We tried to take a mortgage on the property, but the trust?s got no income to speak of?? Edna trailed off, but I could see the wheels turning in her, thinking about the money in the donation basket. Somebody who dressed so nicely and could drop five hundred dollars in a charity basket on a whim might just be in a position to ease some of the financial stress. She smiled again. ?Does my son know you?re in town??

?I called his office when I checked in to the hotel, but he wasn?t in??

Both of them laughed at that and Sarah said, ?Oh, he?s in, he?s just avoiding you. He?s afraid you?re somebody the real estate developers dug up to try and break the trust?? At the same time Edna was digging through her bag and finally produced a cell phone, which she opened up and put to her ear.

?Joshua? It?s your mother. I?m at the museum with Sarah? yes, I know you?re busy, but I need you to come over right away? Now don?t be like that? I?m not getting any younger and you?re wasting my time and I haven?t got a lot to waste so stop complaining? of course, dear, I know? now don?t dawdle?? She folded up her phone with a sigh, ?Don?t misunderstand, Jenny, he?s a good man. It?s just that he seems to think all the problems in town are his personal responsibility.?

Joshua Carstairs arrived within a few minutes. I was seated at the table having a second cup of coffee when he walked in and spied his mother over by the sink. He was tall and handsome, and quite distinguished looking with his thick silver hair and ruggedly lined face. His voice was quite warm and resonant- it must have been quite a boon to him in court.

?Okay mother, I?m here, now tell me what?s so important that I had to hang up on Jim Kelleher up in Boston??

?Ah, talking with your spy? And what did he have to say? But you might want to turn around before you answer that??

Joshua turned and stopped for just a second when he saw me, but no longer. Then he smiled and stepped forward, extending his hand. ?Miss Baker, I presume??

I rose and took his hand, smiling as openly as I knew how, ?I hope you understand this was not my idea- I had planned a more formal meeting.?

?Oh, don?t worry. I know my mother?s handiwork when I see it. I had intended to call you after I, uh, finished conferring with my colleague in Boston.? He took a seat and Edna brought him a cup of coffee, after which she and Sarah departed without another word.

?Don?t be embarrassed. You?ve done your research, and I?ve done mine. Perhaps we should just lay out our cards and see where we stand??

?Directly to the point, I like that. Okay, Jim Kelleher seems to feel you?re a legitimate heir, and now that I?ve seen you I certainly agree. You?re obviously not after any money, not with your bank accounts. So tell me: why are you here??

I sipped at my coffee and read him for a moment. He was unconcerned, actually relieved, which was good. His curiosity was certainly piqued, but he was absolutely unaffected by my looks or demeanor. He had a wedding ring and unconsciously fiddled with it- a thoroughly married and honest man.

?You and your family are well-off, but the trust is broke. You can?t afford to keep it afloat and you can?t get financing. Four years, perhaps five and you?ll have to default on the taxes and be forced to dissolve the trust and sell the property.?

?That sums it up nicely, yes,? he sighed, ?I?ve considered selling some of the pieces in storage, both to raise cash and save money- museum quality storage space isn't cheap. But that would be little more than a stopgap measure, and mother would never permit it in any case. Now, you haven?t answered my question.?

?No,? I smiled, ?I haven?t. I am not entirely certain what I want to do, but I think I?d like to help save the house. Once the pressure is off we can discuss the future.?

With that we agreed to leave any further discussion until the next day when I would present the trust document I possessed, just to make everything legal. Edna and Sarah rejoined us, having been not-to-secretly listening outside the door and the afternoon ran in to evening as we talked about the past and they filled me in on all the details of the family?s history they had collected. I had so little to offer them I again felt embarrassed, but Edna soaked up every little scrap I offered and was clearly eager to see the volume of the diary.

The next morning I met with Joshua at his office and we signed the various papers that made me an official beneficiary of the trust. I had already made arrangements with my bank so we were able to make a transfer of funds to the trust?s operational account- not a lordly sum, but enough so that Joshua could make the next few quarterly payments without having to liquidate any more of the trust?s dwindling stock holdings.

The remainder of that day I spent with Edna and Sarah, first letting them pour over the diary I had brought with me. Sarah was in heaven- it was filled with all sorts of minutiae regarding the daily activities of the family, both the children of the household as well as the activities of the other adult relatives and their families. Edna was quite please as well, but there was something overriding her happiness at having this piece of her family history in hand. She questioned me repeatedly about what I thought of this passage or that and I had to be very careful to avoid offering anything even remotely detailed, particularly when either of them got some piece of information egregiously wrong. Edna seemed to delight in having an outsider of sorts past whom she could run her historical narrative.

We took lunch together at a local restaurant and they took great pleasure in introducing me to any who happened by. After that Sarah drove me up to the house, Edna choosing to sit out that trip, as she was not up to ?traipsing through the wilderness? that day. I had been there just a few weeks before, but it was enjoyable still, as Sarah was able to tell me where work had been done, what had happened to the barn and stables (a fire in 1956), and other details. The house had not been lived in since 1951, but the family had used it as a reunion spot for twenty or thirty years after that time. It had not been sealed up for good until 1985, which explained why it was not in far worse condition.

Sarah and I returned to her home in the early evening and I prepared to take my leave. I would be driving back to Boston the next day.

?So soon?? Edna complained, ?I was hoping tomorrow Sarah and I could take you up to see the family plot- Catherine and her husband are buried up there, you know.?

?Oh, why go up there? You haven?t made that trip in over ten years,? Sarah protested, ?and I can?t take you- I have to go in to the city tomorrow.?

Edna looked at me and I could feel her anticipation. I smiled. ?I could stop by in the morning- I wouldn?t mind visiting the graves if that?s what you would like. I can leave for home after lunch.?

That night I was actually quite pleased with how things were going. I still had no firm idea what I would do beyond helping the family keep hold of the property, but I was already considering making some major investments to restore the house and the surrounding land. Perhaps we could move the Historical Society?s museum in to the house itself- the town had a tourism industry of sorts. A restored Victorian era home might make a nice addition. I took some time to review my cash status and see where I could gain liquidity without drawing too much attention. Then I started packing for the trip home. I hesitated over my pistol- I had been carrying it illegally for the past two days and it seemed silly to do that given the circumstances, but I am always reluctant to have it out of reach in situations like this. I do not like guns, and that makes me very, very serious about them. In the end I left it in the bottom of my purse. When I got home I would lock it up again.

I went to sleep that night with a smile on my face.

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Monsters

What follows was not easy to recount. I have alluded to such things before, but I have never been explicit, and even here I find myself forced to soften the words and the images. I nearly posted this elsewhere to keep it off of this site, but that would be inappropriate. If what follows offends or disturbs I can offer only that life often offends or disturbs. If it makes it any easier to accept, know that I still carry the sickening weight of this monstrosity. It haunts me to this day.

Roughly two thousand years in the past, I was quite insane:

It is a game, nothing more. I slip out in to the twisted labyrinth of the city?s stinking streets and drop my lure- in this case, myself. Naked but for a scrap of linen, or perhaps something finer, a little jewelry, and a pair of sandals I stroll the winding sewers that make up the Eternal City, centre of power and all things glorious. They think me a slave, a prisoner of their power, a thing.

I hate them. I hate their pretensions to civilization; their fascination with blood sport, their arrogant assumption of superiority. The very soul of their culture is warped and diseased and I had allowed it to infect me, to deceive me in to believing that I could become a part of it. Then I watched it destroy the first person I had ever truly loved.

So I play my part, enticing the lust-addled simpletons to my bloated mistress?s wretched establishment where lesser creatures sweat and toil for the pleasures of beasts. I bring a high price the nights I am there, but I serve my mistress better as an advertisement, and this permits me to satisfy my own need. Every day I seek what I crave, some misbegotten fool believing he has a right to my body, to my undivided attentions. I entice him with the easy promise of fulfilling my duty.

It is always the same, yet it is always just different enough. Each is unique in his own way. A dark corner, or a back room, private and unnoticed, a perfect place for his brutish pleasures, except? It is always such a surprise. Private for him, perfect for me- I delve in to my deepest place and produce a work of art. I never use a weapon; I delight in taking my prize with my bare hands.

A soft caress transforms in an instant to a sharp blow to the throat. Perhaps he is confused, not understanding what I have done. Then the panic sets in, the fractured airway sealed forever against the precious release of life-giving breath. Some, the pathetic ones, clutch at their throat, struggling to breathe, thrashing and kicking as I laugh, taunting them. Others are more entertaining, spending their last moments in a rage, trying to lay their hands around my pretty neck and send me to Hades before them- and they learn I am swift and strong and disinclined to die. I take small pity on those, as their strength fails and they fall, easing them to the ground, whispering to them, telling them how they have lightened the day of an ancient creature.

Playful wrestling, a game of chase that incites his lust until that moment when I dance in to that one spot, poised just so, where I have all the advantage and this fool is at my mercy, confident there is naught to concern him in the form of this curvaceous, giggling wench. I slip my arm about his neck and he laughs as I trap him, then stiffens as I pull. There is a spasm of reaction as I apply all my strength in a single, savage wrenching twist. Flesh tears, gristle popping, and bones grinding until the sudden deep, thick crack of separation is felt and he goes limp in my grasp. I let him fall, grinning, gasping as the laughter forces its way up to my lips and I am trembling from excitement and exertion- it is no small effort to break a man?s neck. It lacks the artistry of other methods, but the pure adrenaline, the sudden contest of strength with the certainty that I shall not be denied my trophy, it is the closest this comes to a pure sexual thrill, and it surpasses all in the sense of being suddenly, vividly alive when it is done. Again, I lower my lips to his ear, and whisper the secret I shall allow him to take to his grave. A parting gift he hardly deserves.

?Die quietly like a good fellow, yes? You have fallen prey to a Goddess??

Let my whispered words mock them and their worthless gods.

The first few become a dozen. The dozen become scores, then hundreds, and then many hundreds. This city is an abattoir- a few extra murders per week can hardly be expected to elicit concern. Still, eventually they come to suspect something is amiss, and even then they have no inkling. My score stands at Eight Hundred and Forty-Six the first time anyone thinks to question the pretty slave seen here and there where the corpses are discovered, and yet all they ask is ?Have you seen anything?? I am too small, too feminine, too submissive and far too deft at manipulating men to become a suspect, even when so many things point directly at me. It is a blindness born of arrogance, and fully thirty pay for that with their lives, tortured to death by frustrated agents of the law and other interested parties determined to punish somebody while I add another fifty or so by my own hand.

It had begun slowly and so does it end. Even one such as I cannot ignore the growing scrutiny and my pace slackens, and with it the madness that drives me ebbs, until one day when I draw a man in to my net? and then let him go. He would have been number Nine Hundred and Thirteen?

Six years of homicidal madness, arguably the price paid for my first taste of love.

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Vexatious Fate

This is proving to be quite vexing. I should put this behind me and think of it no more- let it lie as quietly as it has for a century or more, but it will not allow me to do that. Retrieval of the records was no mean feat itself: a company that specializes in the safe keeping of museum-quality historical documents stored them. One does not simply drive up and haul away cases of old records from a facility such as this. Nonetheless I was able to get at them after some hours of effort.

Thirteen large cases awaited me: the accumulation of over two hundred years of documents, books and letters. What concerned me would be contained in one of two particular cases and I set about the task of sorting them out once I had had them moved to my apartment outside the city. I suppose those who first collected these at my behest had been methodical in dating and storing them, but over the years as they were moved from one place to another they had become somewhat jumbled. Still, my money had been well spent- they were in remarkably good condition.

I started with letters dated after I had ended my contact with Catherine. Even after she was certain I was unlikely to respond she had continued to write in a most conversational manner. I nearly became ill when she mentioned that she had co-opted her son in to the task of ensuring I would be welcomed should I ever choose to return- this was written in 1890. Not once in any of her missives to me had she made any overt statement or even hint that she was aware of my secret: it was clear to me that her son was a lawyer and she had merely employed him in the creation of a trust to hold the family property inviolate for a great span of years, until 2050 to be exact. Unlike her words, her actions made it unmistakable that she had indeed been told, and that she believed.

Her last letter was dated December of 1896. Following that there was a letter from an attorney, informing me of her death and that I or my descendants had been named in a portion of her will. Two further letters followed, requesting a reply, then a final large packet.

Catherine and her son had been quite clever. The family fortunes had apparently grown quite large by that time so they set up a trust to hold title to the house and property. I am no legal scholar, but it appeared to me the trust stipulated any family member could reside in the house at will, but that efforts must be made to maintain the current structure and properties as they were. The trust also endowed a Historical Society for the town with a stipend for a museum. Finally, almost as an afterthought, it was noted that any person in possession of a specific legal instrument could present it to the trust as proof of descent from Elaine in order to take full advantage of the trust and its assigned properties. That instrument was sealed within an envelope in the packet.

It seems Catherine had been quite thorough.

I had already been aware that the property was in a trust- I had quietly engaged two different law firms to look in to the status of the property back when I decided to visit Jeremy?s grave. Now I was faced with having them probe more deeply, investigating the financial status of the trust and the Historical Society, as well as determining the legal status, if any, conferred by the instrument I possessed. These could conceivably be very dangerous acts on my part. They could also quite easily come to nothing. I found it hard to believe that whoever was holding the trust at this time would suddenly agree to surrender use of the property to somebody who arrived with a letter over a century old.

I chose to tackle the simplest task first: the instrument. A few hours huddled with some fine (and expensive) gentlemen determined that the instrument appeared to be valid, assuming the provisions of the trust were properly described and had not been changed; however, to execute it I would have to become personally involved as it could not be done by proxy. What surprised me was how easily I made my choice. I then set them to the task of learning everything they could while I set about making my own preparations.

Common sense tells me I should leave this be. Whatever threat there may have been is obviously minimal- digging in to this can only serve to make it worse. So why am I unwilling to walk away? Why am I so excited?

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Betrayed

Jeremy betrayed me. He told me he had done it in a letter he wrote some few days before his death, but in that letter he made it clear he expected I would not learn of his act for some time:

?I know you, my love. I know this missive shall remain unread for decades, perhaps centuries. It is conceivable you might never read it, and never know what I have done, or why??

He was correct on both counts. I had only recently begun carrying bits of my past forward, storing them against future need. Oh, I have left hordes in the past, but I have never returned to them- best to leave the past behind, let it remain dead. Only over the past few centuries have I made an effort to change this, with some success, I might add. Thus I still had my diaries from my years with Jeremy.

I retrieved the first volume of that diary some months ago, along with the letter he wrote on his deathbed. At first I had not opened it because my grief was too deep. Later I was afraid to read it and reopen the wound his passing had left in my heart. Finally, I had set it aside as part of the dead past. When recent events lured me in to revisiting that time the letter was still there. Once I had made my peace with my past I decided it was time to read it.

I cannot begin to recount it in its entirety for it is too detailed and I am loath to remake his words for my own petty needs. I am also somewhat at a loss to describe how I feel about this.

Five children survived the fire that took the lives of Reginald, Clarice and their youngest child, Sarah. I have made little specific mention of them for several reasons, none of which I am at liberty to discuss here. The eldest I shall refer to as Joshua, the youngest as Catherine (named after Reginald and Jeremy?s sister). Joshua was fourteen when Jeremy and I arrived in his life and while he respected his uncle he absolutely despised me. His intense dislike persisted until the day Jeremy?s Will was read and he understood that I had been left nothing of the family?s fortunes, and that I had been pleased to have it so. After that day he subsided in to simple irritation with me and with his youngest sister who, along with her husband, inherited the family home and its lands.

Catherine had always adored me, something I am sure contributed to Joshua?s dislike of me. After Jeremy died she insisted I remain with her and her family at the house, and I did so for one year, mostly in response to this odd feeling that she desperately wished me to remain more out of concern for my welfare than for her own purposes. When I did choose to leave, journeying to Boston, Catherine went to great lengths to maintain correspondence. We exchanged frequent letters for several years and when I was ready to set aside my identity as her Aunt Elaine I actually went to the trouble of hiring a law firm to collect any further letters or packages from her and hold them indefinitely until I sent an agent to retrieve them. I then became Melissa Burns and disappeared.

I had always wondered in an offhand manner why Catherine had been so concerned with me. Now I know why.

Jeremy revealed my secret to Catherine just over a year before he died. That I did not detect this I attribute to my foreboding of his coming end. He was still healthy, but he was no longer young. At sixty-one years of age he was now prone to infections in his lungs during the winter and I knew that it was only a matter of time. Preoccupied with what for me was an immanent change I failed to notice or properly account for Catherine?s change in attitude. In the wake of his passing, well, everything had changed for all involved.

His letter explained that he was not content to have me wandering the world, hiding here or there, always lost, always alone. He wanted to provide me with a refuge, a place to come to whenever I wished where I would be known and accepted. He wanted me to have a home. He charged Catherine with seeing to it that our home would always be available to me. He laid that obligation upon her because he knew she was fond of me and because she was such an extraordinary woman herself (a trait he insisted was my doing), having studied literature and law and the sciences at an advanced level despite her youth. He trusted her with my secret because he felt he knew her heart nearly as well as he knew mine. What surprises me most is that she might have believed him at all.

My very first instinct was to disappear: to drop everything and go underground in Eastern Europe or South America. I thought better of that- the secret had been ?out? for better than one hundred and fifty years to little or no effect so there could be little harm in taking the time to examine what this meant. Still, I did make certain arrangements against possible need.

Then I returned to Boston to sift through everything I had from Catherine.

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Mr. E Asked A Question

In response to Mr. E?s comment on a previous post:

If I were insane, how would I know? You and I could sit over coffee and have a nice chat and at the end of it you might be tempted to tell me you were fairly certain I was off my rocker, but would I be able to believe you? In my case I have lots of history to look back on and that gives me some perspective on myself. I can look back and say ?Oh, my! I was certainly not thinking too clearly, was I?? It is all relative, after all.

So what about love? I have offered a few paragraphs here to describe my understanding of the nature of love and its effect on Man and I know I have mentioned that there is a difference between this love to which Man is predisposed and the Romantic Love that is the source of such joy, such excess and such sorrow. I understand that first love- I rely upon it when I try to understand you and everybody else surrounding me. The second love, let me spell it Love for clarity?s sake, is something I try to avoid. It is dangerous to me. It is madness most raw.

Just so that you do not begin to think I am talking nonsense, please understand that what follows applies strictly to me and not to others.

Love is an invitation to pain and despair. When I allow myself to fall in Love I am guaranteeing myself a painful ending, one that is not possible, but inevitable. Tell me, please, what is rational about willingly inviting such horror in to my life? Given that, is it at all surprising that I have only had Love in my life four times?

Each time, I fooled myself in some way.

The first time was easy- when I confessed to him that his slave was immortal, he nodded and pronounced me Diana for he had encountered me as a huntress in the wilderness. Somehow my lack of chastity did not deter him in his conviction. When over the next few years our mutual foolishness made itself clear he ordered me bound hand and foot and forced me to watch as he opened his veins and bled to death. He believed he was doing the right thing.

I was none too eager to repeat that experience, but I did, three more times, the last being my Jeremy, whom I have discussed at some length. Each time I told myself that I could grasp those brief years of delirium, that the pain waiting at the end would be bearable, that this time I was far too mature to allow the inevitable to scar me so. Each time I was wrong. Oh, to be certain with the passage of time the pain eased, to be replaced with a certain rueful recognition of my own foolishness, but the memory of those times?

Only the last time came close to breaking the pattern, but I begin to suspect that there is more to play from that episode in my life. Jeremy is not through with me yet.

So, Love lures me with the promise of decades of joy and blinds me to a century of pain in payment. Self-delusion indeed. Do not seek to find flaws here, instead recognize that what I say of myself does not apply to all- it cannot for reasons I do believe I have made explicit.

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Things That Need Saying

I need to say something, to explain something, but I find myself reluctant. No matter how many attempts I make at putting this in to written words it comes out as somewhat arrogant and condescending. Would that I could meet with every reader who happens across this journal, sit down and explain in person- that is my personal strength. I can communicate with a gesture what I cannot describe in pages of text.

Complaining of the inadequacy of the only medium afforded me is pointless. Arrogant and condescending are all that are left me. So be it. Here is my gentlest iteration:

Do not attempt to understand me. You are by your very nature incapable of understanding me. This forum is woefully ineffective in providing you with what you would need to understand me. If you believe you understand me you are mistaken. All you have are fragments, musings, disjointed pieces and tattered remnants of the tapestry of a life too long to be fully described in a few dozen pages of digitized text. This is not your fault, nor is it mine. It simply is.

This does not give me satisfaction. It brings no joy to my heart. I began this site with the expectation that I might somehow make myself known- to test the waters as it were. I have tested those waters and found them not entirely to my liking, mostly for the reason that the waters were not what I expected them to be. I need something more concrete, more visceral, and I fear I know exactly what that something may be. I wrestle with that fear for I am above such things and they should have no hold on me. In this particular struggle I shall certainly prevail.

Finally, what I attempted to do when I began this site eventuated to be the opposite of what I seem to have accomplished. Rather than make myself known to others, I have made myself better known to me. The mirror of others? regard is a powerful thing indeed.

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Insanity

I am slipping in to insanity. I can feel it stealing up behind me, stray thoughts and desires, those things that make up the normal background chatter of an active mind are beginning to press their way to the fore. Irrational urges I am unable to ignore. The other day a realization that a young man had made a habit of admiring me as I took my morning latte mushroomed in to a ruthless seduction I was helpless to stop. He did not deserve this, to have me sweep in and out of his life like an emotional wrecking ball. He should have spent the weekend with his friends, spouting his silly politics, chasing after some doe-eyed freshman girl, not crashing about a hotel suite with me.

I expect better of myself, but such things have happened before. My grasp over my emotions slips, and it snowballs out of control, sometimes destructively so. At least this time it is only sex.

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Jeremy

Who was Jeremy? Why did I love him? Why is he such a powerful presence in my life? Why am I so inadequate to the task of describing him?

Jeremy was the eldest son and expected to take on his father?s law practice. There were his younger brother Reginald, and Catherine, the youngest of the three. There were two more siblings, but in the cold mortal calculus of the age they did not survive past early childhood.

He was a good student, but his heart was elsewhere. Jeremy saw the world shrinking before his eyes and he desperately wanted to see it, all of it, before it became commonplace and familiar. He left school, and his father?s good graces, and set off on a twenty-year journey around the world, paying his way with labor, skills and the occasional stipends from his brother. He began with wanderings across the frontier in North America. He joined the fighting in the War of 1812 where he served with distinction in the Northwest Territory before mustering out after the Treaty of Ghent was received in the States. After the war he traveled east, across the Atlantic and North Africa, into the Middle East, then Turkey. He entered India, and then went on into Asia proper, through China and then south to the British colony in Australia. From there he took ship via a rather meandering route to North America, where he ran in to me

Sounds simple, does it not? Consider that many of these lands were dangerous places for white men and Christians. He was on his own for much of that time, and on several occasions he found himself imprisoned, even facing death. Each time by providence or guile or both he managed to find his way to freedom. Never once did he consider ending his trek.

Consider further: in twenty years he saw more of this world than did I in three thousand. No mean feat that. Even our own jaunt across North America was the stuff of popular adventures. Jeremy could have had fame from writing his memoirs, but he did not live his life of adventure to seek out fame or fortune. He needed that time to nourish his soul. To see wonders. To see horrors. To see humanity in all its glory and despair, so that he could finally fully understand himself. And when he had that, when he felt complete, when he was satisfied, that was when he met me.

There I was, deep in my blackest, foulest of spirits, brimming overfull of disdain for men and Man when this confident, energetic, shockingly whole human being knocked on my door having chosen it solely for the fact that my lamp was still lit. I had never met a man like him. Let me repeat and emphasize that last: I had never, in three thousand three hundred and fifty-odd years met a man remotely like Jeremy. He shattered my angry wall of self-pity and cynicism with his courtesy and deference. He was grateful for my willingness to take him in. He accepted me in the guise I inhabited for he understood that sometimes, often times, women on their own were left with no good choices.

In appearance he was not remarkable, no more than half a head taller than me, and deceptively slender for he was quite strong as more than one ruffian discovered to his dismay. His eyes were pale blue, almost gray, his face was narrow, lending him an almost preacher-like severity that was shattered when he smiled, for when he did his face would light up and all the warmth within him shone through. His smile was quite disarming. He was well acquainted with the art of the fistfight and the blade, as well as being an accomplished marksman, but his greater strength was in negotiating his way out of the need to fight. He understood people. He understood me even when he had no inkling of the secrets I held.

He entered my life and in typical gallant fashion took me under his protection. In just days he came to understand that I did not need protecting and he took me to his side as a lover and partner in adventure. When he learned the truth about me he was afraid- afraid for me, not of me. He understood instinctively what loving him would ultimately cost me. He tried to protect me from that as well even knowing how futile it was. He loved me.

Yet some wonder why I loved him? Some wonder why losing him was so devastating? I fail to convey just what he was, try as I might. Were you a drinking man, you would have found him an able companion for a night of carousing. Were you a scholar an evening with him discussing the histories and foibles of man would have been counted as the best spent hours of your life. Were you a crusader for justice his thirst for the recognition of the innate nobility of all men would have set you on fire. Were you beset by misfortune his charity would have been easy to accept, for you would have understood his gratitude for being able to do so. Were you a scoundrel, an abuser of others, a thief and bottom feeder, you would have feared him. Were you as I, you would have had little choice but to love him.

Perhaps that last does say it best.

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Love

Why would I allow myself to love? For me love is both a selfish indulgence and an invitation to despair. It is destructive to the object of my affections, for if they return my love they make themselves a part of a relationship that will can only leave them childless and in their grave. One could cogently opine that for me to allow anyone to love me borders upon naked criminality.

In very condensed form those are the arguments I use with myself when I find myself tempted to fall in to that delusional state. They carry no small weight with me, both morally and intellectually and I wield them as a club to destroy any hope I might foolishly allow myself to hold when it comes to the subject of love.

But love is an insidious creature, determined to have her way, undaunted by the most vitriolic attacks and desperate defenses. Love is as much my nemesis as Time, seeking to draw me in to a state of madness from which I fear I may never escape, taunting me with the promise of happiness, then fetching me up upon my personal Scylla and Charybdis of reality and despair.

Love and Horror: opposing faces of the same bitter coin.

So, why? Weakness, selfishness, narcissism, jealousy, all those apply.

Weakness and selfishness are self-explanatory. Narcissism plays its part, as my vanity would demand that somebody could love me. But those are truly weak forces in comparison to the lessons of my life. They have little sway over me.

Jealousy, there is one monster that gnaws at me. It is difficult beyond description to live amongst you, to interact with you, to become part of your lives even in the simple, mostly tangential ways I do. To see your friendships, your loves, your crises, and your tragedies? and know that there is no way that I can ever truly be a part of them. To always stand apart, knowing that all of what you call your lives will flow past me and vanish in to the mists of what was but is no more. And I will remember, at least that small slice that I was permitted to share. And I will be alone, insulated from your fate, an alien in every meaning of that word.

And in those times when my heart is cold and my thoughts are dark and lonely, I will hate you for that.

Hardly sounds like a recipe for romance, yes? Yet that was precisely where I was when I encountered the last great love of my life. Forced to abandon my situation because too many years were piling atop me, lacking the resources to reach a place where I could tap what monies I had stowed away I found myself in a Mexican frontier port selling my body for food, whiskey and what coin I could muster to gather what I needed to make an attempt for the East. To say my mood was foul would be the understatement of the ages.

Enter Jeremy, facing arrest for not being Catholic and desperate to head in to the wilderness before the commandante?s men caught up with him. Hardly the time for a man to take up for a night with a young red haired whore with a reputation for surliness and a sharp tongue. Yet there he was, and because he was courteous I took him in. Because he was gentle and kind he touched that part of me that despised my own self-pity. Because he was a unique man, he ripped open my oh-so-carefully constructed armor of cynicism. And when he had done all that, and I lay helpless and defenseless, I foolishly let just the slightest glimmer of hope grow in me. Not love, not yet, just some hope of getting away from the hell I was trapped in. And in two days and nights together, Jeremy never laid a hand upon me.

?Your brogue is atrocious,? he commented, ?any real Irishman would catch you out before you spoke five words.?

?Lucky for me then that I?m dealing with Mexicans and lost boys from Philadelphia, yes??

We were packing to set out for the United States, cross-country via Mexico. We had pooled our money to purchase supplies, and one very sturdy mule. Jeremy impressed me by what he bought- shot and powder, blankets and canvas, spare clothing, tools, some dried and salted beef and pork- it was clear to me he was ably prepared to live off the land. I could feel his apprehensions about me- I was still an unknown to him, but his sense of honor would not let him abandon me, particularly not after taking my money.

I excused myself as he finished tying down the packs on the mule. Back in my little hovel of a room I gratefully stripped off my dress, petticoats, and corset essentially losing all the useless acres of clothing. I put on my last good set of undergarments (think a neck to knees linen garment, somewhat akin to a union suit) then leggings, over which I wore a simple homespun skirt hanging halfway down my shins and a loose blouse that tied high about my neck. My hair had to be unpinned and let down and I was a bit surprised that I had let it get so long- nearly touching the floor. Quick work with a knife brought it to just below my shoulders and I tied it in a ponytail. I finished off with a leather wide brimmed hat, thick stockings and a new pair of sturdy boots, then slung my own rickety pistol in its holster over my shoulder along with my powder flask and shot bag, stuffed my knife in my boot, fetched up my last two bottles of whiskey worth the name and strode out the door.

?My, my!? Jeremy exclaimed, ?Let me see what we have here.? I turned for him, smiling because I could feel his approval and relief at seeing me properly accoutered for the wilderness. ?You look like a boy,? he finally commented.

?Moi? I assure you I have had many comments upon my appearance, but never that!? but I was laughing because I could see the jest in his eyes.

?Have you ever fired that?? He asked, gesturing to my pistol.

?Umm, not recently, no.?

He took it from my holster and examined it with a practiced eye. ?French,? he noted, ?this was a nice piece of work. Have you ever fired it??

?Once, last year,? I confessed, ?It nearly broke my arm.?

?Well then, we will have to make a point of teaching you the proper handling of a firearm, once I get it back in to proper condition.? He handed it back to me and I returned it to its holster, then he swept his arm in a broad arc to the east. ?Shall we??

It was a long walk.

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Awakening

Awakening. Imagine you have slept with your arm under your body, squeezing off the circulation so that the limb is completely insensate. You roll off your arm and it flops free- you can feel the circulation returning, fresh blood rushing in as your arm returns to life in a tingling rush, sometimes quite painfully, stinging as if infinite pinpricks were assaulting you.

The first awareness is that of nothingness. I am numb, like that arm, but throughout my body, to the very core of myself I am numb. I recognize this; I know what it means even though I cannot remember exactly how or why. It slides in to the very center of me, a tiny thread of sensation, first warm, then achingly hot. I am drawing air, oxygen setting me ablaze from within. Pins and needles and fire and throbbing pressure are the total of existence for an indeterminate length of time.

I am on my back, with my hands folded across my chest. My ears ring so that I cannot determine my surroundings, but even though something covers my face I can taste fresh air and suddenly I am drawing in great draughts, my lungs eager for the taste of breath again. There is thirst; burning, raging thirst, and I can smell water.

Motion is pain, but I am incapable of resisting the babbling call of the nearby stream. My arms clumsily draw away the blanket that covers me and my eyes slowly focus on? stars. The canopy of the heavens is ablaze above the trees. Something calls to me, trying to force its way to the forefront of my mind, but I cannot think, only move, crawling towards the tantalizing scent of running water: sweet, cool water, sparking and wet and delicious, and irresistible. It is a journey made in increments of inches, but I arrive, first my hands are in the stream then I plunge my face in to it, sucking in water and grit, my body shuddering in the first sensation other than pain since returning to awareness.

Jeremy.

That was the first coherent thought, forcing its way up past the now relieved thirst and the gnawing ache of hunger in my belly. I was shivering and weak, but at least I could think, and my head was clearing, I could hear the sounds of the night; the horses shuffling nervously, a rhythmic buzzing sound? snoring. Jeremy. I crawled towards him, my limbs stronger, but my right side still very much weaker than my left. I could smell the fire now, smoldering to one side, could see the silhouette of a sleeping man, recognized the strong scent of brandy.

Of course: Jeremy only snored when he had been drinking.

Then the hunger was too much to ignore, but our supplies hung from a tree, out of reach even if I could stand. I crawled to Jeremy?s side and lay there, warring with myself, frightened to wake him but unable to do anything else.

I pulled myself up to a sitting position, and laid my left hand on his shoulder.

?Jeremy?? My voice was a dry croak and I cleared my throat, ?Jeremy, you have to wake up.?

His snoring abruptly stopped and he stiffened. I pushed feebly at him again. ?Wake up, Jeremy.?

With glacial slowness he rolled on to his back and looked up at me, his eyes wider than I would have thought any man?s could be, his face? unreadable. He pulled himself to a sitting position, staring at me. His eyes flickered over to where I had lain covered, then back to me. There was so much I wanted to say to him, but I had not the words and my hunger was driving at me?

?Jeremy, help me?food??

He stood and walked to the spot where the rope suspending our food was secured, releasing the knot to spill the packs to the ground. It took all the willpower I possessed to keep from leaping at them. Instead I waited until he returned carrying bread and jerky. He held them out and my control was gone- I seized them from him and tore in to it, ravenous, almost choking as I forced the bread down my throat in seven or eight large mouthfuls, then taking on a strip of jerky, pulling at the dried smoked beef.

?I thought I was deluding myself,? he whispered. I stopped for a moment, the need to speak, to say something, nearly overwhelming the hunger, but not quite.

?You just didn?t look dead. I kept uncovering you and looking at you? I?ve seen my share of dead men, in the War and through the years?you just didn?t look dead, even with that hole through your chest, and your spine snapped??

He stopped then, regarding me as I choked down the last of the jerky, my belly finally full enough, at least for the moment. Almost immediately I felt the urge to sleep coming over me so powerfully that I began to sway and Jeremy reached out to steady me. It was so comforting to feel his hand on my arm- at least he was not afraid to touch me. I could not give in, not yet. Not until he understood.

?Jeremy, I am ancient.? I was whispering, unable to summon the energy to speak any louder, but I had his attention. ?Rome was but a cluster of huts when I had seen a thousand years pass by.?

?Why? What are? why are you here, with me? What can I have that you desire??

I felt tears hot on my cheeks. This was wrong! So wrong! ?I don?t want anything but what you?ve already given me! I love you?? I began to sway, unable to hold myself upright as torpor settled over me, a thick blanket of exhaustion enveloping me? just as Jeremy?s arms encircled me. He picked me up and I curled in to his grasp, feeling him shaking? he was crying. He carried me to his bedroll and set me down there.

?You sleep,? he whispered in my ear, ?I?ll be here when you wake??

He bathed me in my sleep, removing my bloodied clothing and cleansing away the stains of my brutal misfortune. When I awoke, he brought me food and water and brandy. When I was lucid, he listened, and I told him all there was to tell: all my joy, my fear, my shame, my sorrow, my hope, and my love.

?You have been injured like this many times??

?No. I?ve been hurt, left for dead, but it was seldom so traumatic. When it was I usually took months to fully recover,? I smiled then, ?I usually haven?t anyone to take care of me. How long has it been? how long was I down??

?It?s been three days since you fell. Do you think you can ride??

I lifted my right arm, feeling it shake uncontrollably. ?I don?t think I can manage a horse. If we doubled up I think I would be good? you sat with my body for two days??

His eyes dropped to the ground and I could see the raw emotion rippling across his face as he tried to work up the courage to lie to me. To his credit, he failed.

?I was nearly insane,? he whispered, ?and I kept telling myself that you did not look like a dead person. Your face? when a man dies his face grows dark. Two days dead and you didn?t look? there was no scent of death? do you understand??

?Of course I do.?

?You did not look? I thought I was deluding myself. It hurt so much. I could not just wrap you up, but inside I was afraid I really was going mad. You had to be dead, so I must have been? That night, last night, I opened the brandy I had brought for us and I began drinking? and I did a fine, thorough job of loading my pistol. Couldn?t have a misfire, you see? I was going to put it to my head?? He stopped then, and a single, gasping sob shook his body. The understanding of what he was telling me sent a sickening chill down my spine. That I could have brought him to that, however inadvertently?

?But you did not do it??

?No? I pressed that barrel under my chin seven, eight times, but? two things stopped me, even as drunk and as miserable as I was. First, there was Reggie and the children. He trusted me to do right by them. And then there was you: I couldn?t shake the conviction that you would be ashamed of me. Eventually I packed the pistol away and I went to sleep, knowing that in the morning I would have to bundle you up and take you home.? He paused then, his eyes wet; yet very, very firmly fixed on mine. ?When you woke me, for one long horrible moment I thought I had done it.?

?Jeremy? Can you ever forgive me??

For the first time since I had crawled to his side that night, he laughed. ?Forgive you? Forgive you for what? Not dying? Elaine, I know you planned to tell me. I knew when we set out on this little excursion that you were prepared to share with me that great, brooding secret you kept locked inside. The anticipation was writ all over you in your face, and your words and your bearing,? he reached for me, taking my hands in his, ?I just never imagined? this.?

He believed me. He accepted me. He understood me.

He feared me.

I was content with that. Of all that he could have felt, fear I knew I could overcome. For the nemesis of fear is love, and that we had in abundance.

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The Truth

We were riding together. It was the spring of our second year and the house was rebuilt, the children were as settled and adjusted as anyone could expect and we finally had some time to devote to ourselves. No genteel traveling for us, instead we packed up what we needed and struck out on our own, determined to put as much distance between civilization and ourselves as we could for the next ten days.

It was a delightful time, a small taste of our past years together, though certainly made much easier by ample provisions, sturdy clothing and fine mounts to carry us. Catherine was horrified, of course, but she knew better than to try to stop us, instead insisting that Jeremy provide some clue as to our destination and coming away with no information of any real value. This was a chance to relax, and a chance to finish something I had been working towards for several years by then.

?This reminds me of you,? Jeremy commented as we rode away from our third camp, beginning our climb in to the low hills. It was late spring, the air crisp and cool with just a hint of the coming warmth filtering with the sunlight through the trees above, and the taste of resurgent life permeating the air. Nature was done with her first wild explosion, preparing to settle in to the long grind of summer- kill, eat, die, and be eaten. I love the wilderness.

?Really? How so??

?So calm and peaceful on the surface; beautiful and lively and inviting, but underneath it all, seething with all the passions and tragedies of the finest Shakespearean dramas. Nature has secrets hidden from the eyes of the common man? just as do you.?

I turned to look at him, knowing the question I had heard in his voice, but desiring to see it in his face. I said nothing. I wanted to see how much he had figured out for himself. Not that he could have possibly discerned the truth, but knowing his thoughts would help me with the remainder.

?It made sense to me at first, your being with me. You were so young and alone in that festering pit. I offered you a way out and you seized it,? he laughed then, just a chuckle, ?you know, I nearly left without you? I thought you might be too much trouble.?

He stopped then as the trail disappeared and we had to guide the horses through a spot of rough terrain, letting them pick their footing. Once on better ground he picked up again.

?Later, once I realized how unique you were, I started to fear you would leave once we returned to civilization. I was so hopelessly in love with you and I had no idea how to tell you. I hadn?t felt like that since I was a boy of fifteen. I took as long as I could making our way back. As it turned out, that was unnecessary.

?The strangest part is even though you are such a mystery to me, I?m still absolutely certain that I know you, that I know your heart.?

Fate has never been a factor in my life. I have never once felt that some higher power was watching me, prodding me along one path or another, or placing obstacles in my way out of malice or any other motivation. I reject that, have always rejected it, even in light of what happened next.

I turned to smile at him, to begin to tell him things I ached to share with him? Something spooked the horses. Jeremy?s mount shied hard, but my Melody reared with a screech, turned, bucked, and I was airborne. I tucked in to a ball, arms covering my head just as I hit the soft loam. I bounced once and unfolded as my spine slammed up against something hard and unyielding, the blow driving a red fog across my eyes.

A scream splits the air, something primal, horrified, agonized: Jeremy. Jeremy is screaming my name. I try to draw breath and sickening agony is my only reward. My sight wavers, red to black. I try to move and fire ripples through my belly, the bitter salt of blood and bile filling my mouth as I try desperately to call out. My eyes lower and I stare at the glistening crimson stained spar of the broken tree limb upon which I am impaled.

Jeremy. He runs to me. His face? horror, pain, tears? I try to speak, but only blood? only blood? my right arm will not move, the left flails towards him and he falls to his knees. My lips try to mouth words, his name?

Jeremy? secrets?

He is talking to me, holding me? the pain shudders through the core of my body as he draws me off the limb. I collapse in his arms, my blood, everywhere, covering his coat, his trousers, his hands... He is weeping as I find the strength to grip his coat, to raise my face to stare in to his eyes?

Jeremy? don?t leave me? don?t leave me?

Lungs scream for air as the cold seeps inward, slowly at first, then faster and faster as sight darkens and contracts, the roaring in my head drowning out the words he whispers in my ears. I am fighting, terrified of this, terrified of this for the first time in a very, very long time, but there is no strength left, there is nothing?

Jeremy! Don?t leave me!

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Revelation

How do you tell somebody you love that you are not what you seem to be? How do you tell anyone that you are immortal?

I met Jeremy in California in 1829. We journeyed together across what was then northern Mexico, pretending to be an Irish couple to avoid problems with what few local authorities we encountered. Most of the land was wide open then and we managed to avoid the natives, who were somewhat of an unknown for me since I had had no dealings with them at all, though Jeremy claimed he had and I believed him. From the Pacific coast to Jefferson City it was an adventure the likes of which I had seldom experienced, and by the end of that trek I knew that I would be spending many more years with him.

He was an odd man. Not handsome by any measure, and small, barely taller than myself, but possessed of a wiry strength, wily mind and an optimistic wisdom that shone through whenever he graced me with a smile. In short, he was infectious in his likeability and somewhat of a rascal in his behavior. A Gentleman he was not, but he could fake it, and when people deserved it he could mean it, heart and soul.

We traveled across the States, staying wherever the night found us, sometimes under a roof, often under the stars. We huddled together through miserable rain and blinding snow with naught but our shared warmth to hold us against the chill. I nursed him back from the edge of death when his lungs were assaulted by pneumonia of immense virulence. By then we had been together for six years and he had begun to suspect that his lovely and fearless young lady had secrets both deep and profound.

That is how I told him, or at least how I began to. I let him see the true me in small pieces, and every part of me that I gave to him, he returned to me in his devotion, his trust, and his admiration. He never questioned how I had come to learn to survive in the wilds, or how I had learned to handle even the most bizarre situations with learned aplomb. He accepted it and adored me all the more for it.

Then came Philadelphia, 1836. Jeremy had an attorney in Philadelphia who handled all of his correspondence. He tried to check in with him yearly, but oft times it was longer than that. He would collect his letters and spend a few weeks composing responses, or writing to his family- then he would entrust those letters to the lawyer for delivery. In this case it had been a full two years since they had corresponded so we traveled to the city to meet with him personally. It turned out to be a fortuitous choice.

I remember the look on his face when he returned to the Inn- there was pain etched in every line of his countenance, but there was also an aura of anticipation, something immensely hopeful. Without a word he took my hand and led me up to our room where he motioned me to sit by the fireplace.

?What has happened?? I asked. He knelt before me and took my hands in his, his eyes moist with tears barely held in check. I could feel him trembling, and even though the confused pain he radiated I knew what his next words would be.

?Elaine, would you be content to settle down with me? To end this vagabond life and be my wife, the lady of my house? Will you marry me??

?You already know the answer?? I began, but I could see his need to hear it, so I said it, ?I would be proud to be your wife. I will be content to be by your side wherever we may be, whatever we may do. I will be your bride. Now, tell me??

?My brother is dead? and Clarice as well.?

?Dear, Lord! How? What??

?There was a fire. Five of the children escaped, but Reginald and Clarice could not find little Sarah. They were trapped?? he gasped then, deep wracking sobs shaking his body as he laid his head in my lap and I folded my arms about him, holding him, just holding him until his sorrow was spent enough to let him speak again. He slipped from my arms, standing and composing himself and I could see a definite change in him for he had made several decisions, and now that his first had been made real, he knew he could move forward with the remainder. He knew that I would be beside him.

?I?ve been a very fortunate man. I was never able to sit still, I always wanted to see what was over the next hill, what was beyond the horizon. I have sailed the seas, and visited lands most people only know through the tales told by great men. My father never accepted this- he always thought me a failure, but not Reggie. Reggie envied me. He loved his wife and adored his children. He was a farmer and a gentleman through and through, but he would have lived my life if he hadn?t found his love first. He is the one who made my journeys possible; always willing to part with a little treasure just so he could receive letters from far-away places. In very many ways he bought me a freedom I could never have earned for myself.

?I?ve always known that someday I could be called to stand and account for his patronage of me. It?s somehow unseemly that I should be the benefactor of a man ten years my junior, no matter what the reasons.?

?You?ve spoken of Reggie before. I know he never once resented you, never once begrudged you the money he provided.?

?Of course not, never,? he smiled at me then and I saw that he was content with that, ?but there is a debt, a moral debt. A debt of honor.? Somehow he seemed taller, stood straighter as he continued, ? I am responsible for his legacy. The news only arrived here three days prior. Mr. Hannaford was just setting about hiring men to find me when I arrived at his door. I am executor of Reginald?s estate and responsible for his children.?

He grinned a bit sheepishly then and I laughed. ?You already wrote back, didn?t you!?

?Yes? I told them that I would return home? with my wife.?

?Presumptuous man!?

?I prefer ?prescient?. Elaine, I am forty-six years old. I have never married, and I have no children. I know that you can give me none. I am content with that. I crave only your companionship?? and then he was silent for my lips were on his for a very, very long time.

The first year was wrenching for everyone. Jeremy?s family was wealthy, but wealth is a relative thing when counted in the context of that time. They had land and crops, and social standing, but Reginald?s accounts were hardly overflowing and Jeremy desperately wished to rebuild the house and move the children back to their own home though his sister, Catherine, was somewhat mistrustful of Jeremy?s judgment and even more so of me. I could hardly blame her on either account for Jeremy had remained in contact only with Reginald. Catherine insisted we remain in the guesthouse on her husband?s estate and much rancor ensued.

Four months in things were getting out of hand when I finally took receipt of a package I had requested from a law firm in Boston, Massachusetts. It arrived at Catherine?s attorney?s office, a deliberate act on my part for I needed her cooperation. We took a carriage together in to town and at the lawyer?s office I opened the package with Catherine in attendance. It contained a small locked wooden chest, which I opened with a key I had been carrying for years. The chest contained 300 gold coins, Spanish doubloons to be precise.

?My word!? Catherine exclaimed.

?My dowry?? I offered.

?Jerome never mentioned a dowry. I thought you had no family living.? Catherine was probing, tryin