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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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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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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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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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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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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September 11, 2001

September 11, 2001

I tend towards the emotionless when it comes to world-changing events. I was watching on television the morning of September 11, 2001, at a fitness center of all things. The news had cut to the story of a plane colliding with one of the towers while I was listening to some very well educated and very well meaning woman moan on about how horrible things were going to be under George W. Bush as we both sweated atop our LifeCycles. She was not one of those rabid ideologues, but she certainly disliked the man and his party.

The second plane hit the South Tower and I instantly put two and two together and came up with four. She did as well, just a few seconds later. She looked at me, slack-jawed, the understanding of what we had just witnessed clear in her eyes.

Understand that when this unfolded I never once doubted that the President had the mettle to face this challenge. I will go even further and tell you that had Albert Gore been President, or even William Jefferson Clinton, I rest assured that they too would have proven to be as American and as resolute as George W. Bush has been. You Americans always tend to underestimate your politicians.

The woman was looking at me, in shock.

?It looks like you have a war on your hands,? I told her.

?Oh? oh my God!?

?Don?t worry, honey. George won?t let you down.?

I left the gym and never went back.

I am not the person to commemorate this date. If you are looking for something more, something with the meaning and gravitas I cannot provide, I strongly recommend visiting two places. First, this excellent entry at The Lemon, proving that satirists understand the world at a level some can only dream of. Second, the Voices project by Michele Catalano of A Small Victory, where you can read the words of many people who seek to express their feelings or share their experiences of that day.

In the end, this date belongs to all of you, American and otherwise. Try to learn the lesson it offers.

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Resolution, Of Sorts

In the end the crisis point of my latest little misadventure stole up behind me on quiet feline feet. Several days had passed without any activity, meaning that none of my few very modest ?monitors? had detected any action regarding inquiries in to my name, or my finances or my history. So of course early Saturday afternoon my doorbell buzzed.

I regarded the intercom for a full minute, fully aware that if the person who rang the buzzer was truly looking for me my days in this city, in this identity, were quite likely over. The buzzer rang again.

?Yes??

?Miss Baker? I need to speak with you. My name is Roger Travis.? There was no anger in the voice, perhaps just a trace of apprehension. With a heavy sigh I triggered the latch for the security door and then opened the door to my apartment. Mentally I checked the location of my pistol, then examined myself in the mirror- I was wearing a light white sun dress as I had been preparing to go for a walk and enjoy the summer heat after so many days of rain. I was not made up. I appeared painfully young.

The man who arrived at my door was nearly forty, tall and in good condition- barely breathing hard after climbing four flights in the heat of this summer day. He bore a strong resemblance to his father, handsome in that square-jawed, steely-blue-eyed quintessential American Cowboy way, all of it accentuated by blue jeans that had obviously seen their fair share of hard days? work and a crisp, clean khaki shirt open at the neck and sung about muscular biceps. There was the scent of fresh hewn cedar about him, enticingly masculine.

He introduced himself again and I invited him in. We exchanged pleasantries and he commented on all the boxes still stacked in the kitchen and the hallway.

?Moving out??

?In, actually. I?ve been in Colorado for several months- I only returned two weeks ago. Everything was in storage so I?ve been sorting out what I need and what can go. I just made a pitcher of iced tea, would you care for some??

?Yes, thank-you,? he smiled then, put at ease by the nicety of domestic hospitality. Just as I had intended. It was a dance, each carefully feeling the other out in a game both ancient and tantalizing. I poured a tall glass over fresh ice cubes and handed it to him. He took it in his left hand and I deliberately noted the lack of a wedding band, allowing my index finger to trace the length of his ring finger. I produced a bowl of sliced lemons and sugar and we fixed our refreshments to taste then took our leave to my living room. There we sat, and an uncomfortable pause stretched out for several seconds.

?I hope your father was not terribly put out by my behavior the other day. I?m not normally so easily flustered.? That drained a great deal of the tension from his face and I began to hope just very, very slightly, that this might turn out well after all.

?My father?? he began, and then hesitated before starting again, ?It?s been a very tough year for him. For all of us. Four months ago my mother passed away- she?d been sick for nearly a year, bone cancer.?

?Oh! I?m terribly sorry.? I did not have to feign sympathy- mortality always strikes a chord within me and I let it show clearly. I have seen so many times where death has wreaked havoc in otherwise normal, happy lives that it always leaves me feeling at least a little compassion towards those left behind. It is odd, but it is innate. Furthermore, I had suspected this was the case. ?You all must miss her very much.?

?Yes, especially my father. They were inseparable?? he caught himself then, unwilling to offer any more to this stranger than he had to. ?When he showed up at my place last week he was so badly shaken I thought he was sick. He wouldn?t talk to anyone about it, he just said he couldn?t be home alone.?

?He did seem very distraught.?

He ignored me and went on. ?That night, he told me about Claire. Mind you he?d never mentioned her before, I don?t even think my mother knew about her. It?s not like it?s some giant scandal in the family or anything like that. Hell, it?s just something he never, ever mentioned? ?til he ran in to you.?

I could see everything coursing through him: concern over his father?s reaction to me, relief that I was so obviously not some youthful-looking sixty-something, an uncomfortable and titillating awareness of how thin my dress was and how neatly I curled in to my chair. I drew him out with a dangerous and carefully applied mix of genuine concern for the words he spoke, inviting sexuality, and open friendliness. It was an elixir he was ill prepared to resist, assuming he had cared to. Men cannot be badgered in to opening up, instead they must be invited, seduced.

?He had a photo album, pictures from his racing days I?d never seen before because all of them showed your mother. You really do look exactly like her, you know.? I nodded and he went on. ?I can see how he might mistake you for her at first glance, from a distance? but after he introduced himself? What happened??

I recounted the meeting in full factual detail, only prevaricating where my own internal reactions were concerned. Roger nodded and I knew he had already spoken to others about it, ticking off facts in his head as I replayed the scene for him. I could sense his concern deepening and once again I had to review my own impressions, but I saw nothing beyond what I had originally surmised.

?Damn,? he sighed, ?I don?t know what to think. I thought he?d bounced back as well as anyone could expect after ma passed away.?

?He still thinks I?m Claire?? That thought disturbed me immensely, not so much for its implications for me, but rather for William.

?No? at least he understands that it?s not possible that you?re her, but??

?He knows it up here,? I whispered, touching my head.

?But not here,? he finished, touching his chest, ?exactly. I?m not sure what to do. Hell, I?m not even sure why I?m here, telling you this. I have to wonder if there?s something wrong, something psychological??

He said psychological, but he was thinking Alzheimer?s. It was a possible out for me except that it was absolutely untrue, and I knew that for a certainty. I could have let Roger continue thinking that, perhaps go and convince his father that something was wrong? and curse him as fully as were I some ancient shaman of myth and lore. Such doubts could become self-fulfilling prophecy. No matter how much I desired to see this episode filed away as something innocuous I simply could not purchase my security at such a price.

?You said yourself that your father has been through a lot. What if he actually was sick that day??

?What do you mean?? he asked, his eyes looking directly in to mine, piercing, searching. It was all well and fine for him to privately consider his father?s mental state, but he would brook no disrespect from me on that topic.

?You said he looked ill when he got to your place. What if he was? Has he been sleeping well? Has anyone been looking in on him to make sure he?s taking care of himself? What if it was just a long day and he was coming down with something? He saw me and got one shock, then was told something he certainly didn?t want to hear, that had to be another blow, and then I got all defensive when he wanted to meet again. So for a moment he thought he saw something that he knows he couldn?t have seen, and now it?s something that he can?t let go of because it upset him so much.?

Roger was nodding because it had a certain consistency about it, and because I was prodding him as hard as I possibly could with body language. No man truly wants to be in disagreement with an attractive woman, particularly when she is telling him something he desperately wants to hear. He mulled it over for all of thirty seconds.

?I have a favor to ask??

?Of course. I would be happy to meet with your father again.?

?Thank-you,? he said, smiling. I felt myself blushing. This was growing more complicated by the second, but I did not let that stop me from returning his smile.

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Escape

Fate smiled upon me: the bus was preparing to pull out and I caught it just in time. Even then I was soaked to the skin from the downpour. The weather fit my mood perfectly as I took a seat in the back to wait for my stop and attempt to sort out what had just happened. I wanted to believe I had not seen what I had in William?s eyes, but I am far, far too old to deliberately deceive myself.

Throughout the ride I went over the events in the restaurant, assessing what problems I could expect, drawing out every shred of information I could recall. Part of me was screaming to drop everything, take the thousand dollars in my purse, get out of town and never look back. This was actually the most reasonable part of me. The colder, more calculating, more selfish part of me wanted to stay and tackle this head-on. That part of me could be quite dangerous and had to be held in check.

I do not remember getting off the bus. I became aware that I was standing in my apartment, staring out the front window with the lights off. The air conditioner was running and my clothes were becoming clammy from the chill. I undressed in the bathroom and turned on the shower as hot as it would go, but before stepping in I went to my bedroom and took my pistol from its drawer. Nothing fancy: a model 1911 Colt .45. Large, unlovely and utterly reliable it had been my companion on and off for over eighty years. I loaded it, chambered a round, verified the safety was on, and set it on the vanity in the bathroom.

The scalding spray cut in to my skin, shocking, invigorating? cleansing. I flipped the control over from full hot to full cold, turning as liquid ice coursed down my back, then over my shoulders, across my breasts, down my belly. It centered me, driving away the uncertainty as I let it cool my scalp and my face. Five minutes was all it took, five minutes to bring logic and order to the chaos that had forced its way into my life unbidden. Even then, it was too long.

I slipped into my bathrobe and took up the pistol. I felt silly now for taking it out- by any objective measure I had little to fear tonight. I secured it and slipped it back in to its holster, but I did not put it away. I had to consider- instinct made me take it out. Instinct told me to run in the restaurant, I ignored it, and that turned out quite badly. I am no huge fan of guns, instead I accept the basic truth about them: when you need one nothing else will really do.

What course to take? The encounter in the restaurant could conceivably turn in to nothing, depending on who and what William was today. Both the hostess and the manager of the restaurant had recognized him and from their reaction I knew he was more than just a regular customer. As chaotic as things had been that still came through unmistakably. I went to my computer and called up a search on the mall- I did not dare to search for his name, but instead began methodically browsing through the information on the web site. I found it almost frighteningly fast.

General Manager: William Travis

I began a mental inventory of my visits to that particular mall; when, what stores, what purchases. I always pay cash so there was no easy way for anyone to come up with my name? I nearly laughed when I realized my largest problem was sitting directly in front of me: the cherry wood computer desk. Paid for with cash, of course, but delivered and assembled in my apartment only a week after I returned from Colorado. The panicked voice that wanted to run began piping up again, and this time I listened a little closer, but still?

Running posed a problem, just as it had in the restaurant. If William did search for me my disappearance would make the mystery more intriguing. Furthermore it would mean leaving the country, for I currently have no new identity prepared that would allow me any degree of security. I do have an escape route prepared against need, but? I do not want to go.

With that decision made I began to prepare for a confrontation, should it come to that. The story regarding ?Claire? was verifiable- it was how I had transitioned from that identity to the one I currently wear. The best lies are always spun about a framework of truth, after all. I could produce everything short of a grave to prove that Claire had lived and died in Guatemala and that I was her daughter. My financial records would hold up to an audit, but not a criminal investigation, at least not a determined one.

The time I spent in Colorado could be problematic, but a phone call or two would help to close any holes in the time line. Once again I was forced to confront my foolishness: what had ever possessed me to go skiing? It had not been a bad fall, but I fractured my left leg in three places. I can only imagine the perplexity of the doctors when I failed to follow up with them or anyone else- hopefully they were used to injured vacationers going home to their own doctors. Perhaps those doctors sometimes failed to request records and X-rays. It was plausible, but I should have been more diligent.

Of course the problem was more complex than that: the injury had healed rapidly, but I had also dropped a number of years in appearance as well. It happens and I have no control over it. While my birth certificate and driver?s license said I was twenty-four, without make-up and a conscious effort I looked all of eighteen. Not a huge difference, but enough that the last time I presented an ID to someone he had looked twice.

Despite the cumulative effect of these issues, I felt I had a very good chance of defusing this if I held my ground. Most in my favor was that no reasonable person could seriously entertain the idea that I was over sixty years old. Most likely William would wake up in the morning feeling foolish for having accosted that girl in the restaurant, for thinking even for a moment that she might be other than she claimed.

It made sense. All I had to do was sit tight and most likely this would pass.

Still, I slept with the .45 under my pillow.

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A Chance Encounter

It was a chance encounter, all the more unnerving for that. I was at a mall shopping for some replacement items for my wardrobe. Since returning from Colorado I had been feeling an urge to make a change in my daily attire and I finally decided to indulge it. As it was well past dinnertime I decided that I could stop for a bite at one of the restaurants just off the food court. I am not terribly fond mass-produced food, but this mall is rather upscale and the dining options were fairly attractive. I took a small table looking out upon the mall that allowed me to engage in my favorite hobby: watching people.

I was waiting for my meal, sipping at my tea, casually looking over the passers-by while avoiding any direct eye contact. It actually works better if I have a magazine or a book, but I can put forth an expression of bored indifference well enough to convince anyone that my gaze in his or her direction must be nothing more than coincidental.

I spotted him as he left the food court, and he instantly made eye contact. His reaction was so startling that I nearly reacted myself, but I let my eyes slide off of him as if he had not come to my attention. Still, in my peripheral vision, I saw him stagger over to a bench and carefully take a seat. Alarm bells began ringing in the back of my head after another pass revealed him to be sitting, staring at me intently. Then I recognized him: William Travis.

William and I had shared one very short, exquisite year of hedonistic pleasure together in Southern California on the cusp of the 1960?s before I had ended our relationship for his own good. He had promise, and he wanted children, eventually. It helped that I only liked him, I was still too deep in the grip of my last true love to be foolish enough to let it go any further, but he had felt otherwise. Or at least he thought he had. How could he love me when he knew only what little I had been willing to show him of myself?

Our eyes locked. I gave him a ?confused, why you are staring at me?? expression I hoped would convince him to move on, but as he rose to his feet again he made straight for the entrance to the restaurant. For a brief moment I considered fleeing, but I knew that might make matters far worse. I pretended not to notice as he came in, waving off the hostess who addressed him by name, saying he was here to meet somebody and, oh, there she is right over there, thank you very much.

He came to my table and I looked up in to his earnest, questioning face.

?I?m so sorry to bother you like this, miss, but? you wouldn?t be related to Claire Simon by any chance??

Lie? Or deny?

Lie.

?Claire Simon is my mother,? I replied, smiling, ?and you are??

?Will, Will Travis. I knew your mother many years ago- I would have guessed you to be her granddaughter, rather than her daughter, but the resemblance is? striking.? He gestured to the empty chair, ?May I??

?Please, yes,? I smiled at him. This had the potential to be very, very painful for him, but once begun there was no way to stop it. ?My mother was forty when I was born. It came as quite a shock to her, or so she said.?

?I?m sure it was. Your mother and I? Claire was very important to me. We were very close??

He seemed at a loss for words, trying to put it in to some sort of context he thought I might understand. I had to help him out, so I offered, ?Mom always thought she was sterile. She said she had ended more than one relationship because she couldn?t have children?? His eyes were still so very blue, and the way he looked down at the table, the set of his jaw, was the pain still so sharp? How deeply had I wounded this man? And I was about to multiply it, for there could only be one answer to the obvious question he was about to ask.

?How is your mother? I would love to see her again.?

I let my face tell him before I uttered any word, waited for him to see, and to draw the obvious conclusion. ?My mother died several years ago. She was doing medical missionary work in South America at the time??

We had dinner together and talked about Claire as I tried my best to ease his pain, but there were problems. He kept coming back to how uncannily like my mother I seemed to be.

?I noticed you in the window here, but it wasn?t so much your appearance at first, as what you were doing. You were people-watching, weren?t you??

?Well, yes, ? I smiled, letting a little blush show.

?That?s what startled me so- Claire used to do the same thing, sometimes she would be very dramatic about it, telling stories about people who passed by, stories that you always had a feeling just might be true. When I saw you, the way you were sitting and looking over the people walking past? it was such a shock of recognition? though Claire usually had a newspaper or a magazine in her hand when she did it. At first I was sure you were her, then I realized how young you were?? but he was looking in to my eyes. Always in to my eyes.

I could see the wheels turning inside him and I knew this was becoming more dangerous by the moment. William was never stupid, nor was he given to flights of fancy, but at such close proximity, the two of us talking about my ?mother?, his senses were picking up all sorts of signals from me, unmistakable signals that kept drawing him towards a conclusion that his rational mind had to deny. Suddenly he inhaled deeply.

?You wear your mother?s perfume,? he commented.

Oh, Dear Lord, if you exist, please, you have to help us both! Right now!

The check arrived and he insisted on picking it up. He wanted to continue our conversation, but I pleaded other commitments. I tried to make it clear that I had enjoyed meeting him, but that there really was no reason for us to make plans to meet again. He became insistent almost to the point of rudeness. I could see the turmoil inside him, the certainty that there was something more he needed from me, the inner shock at his own behavior and the irrationality it bred. Every attempt I made to circumvent, to handle and direct him, was overwhelmed.

It was becoming a scene; people in the restaurant were turning to see what was going on. The hostess and a man who had to be the manager were approaching, discreetly, but deliberately. William was known to them- the hostess had greeted him by name. It was time to leave.

?Mr. Travis, I?m certain that your memories of my mother, and the news of her death have upset you, and I am very sorry for that, but I must be going.?

I snatched up my bags and rose to leave, but the manager was in the way and as I tried to brush past him he caught me by my arm.

?Just a moment, miss?? he stopped in mid-sentence because I had his wrist in my free hand and had twisted it from my arm, turning it just enough so that he knew another inch would make it quite painful.

?Jack! No!? William cried out, ?Let her go? let her go.?

I released the manager, and the tableau froze- William?s eyes and mine locked for the second time that night. And he knew. The manager made no move to stop me as I sped out the door and made for the nearest exit, fleeing in to the rain-soaked night.

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Loneliness

Etherian asked me about loneliness. It defines my life, but not in the way one might think. Early on, after I came to understand what I was, every dislocation was wrenching and death came to take on an aura of a prize that I had been deliberately denied. I have never had children, but I raised many and to have to leave them? to this day that is the single most difficult act I have ever committed. So, the short answer is yes, I am terribly lonely.

Despite this, loneliness does not cripple me. I know that death stalks every relationship, that friendships are ephemeral, but I am blessed as well: I have had so many friends, so many interesting people in my life that I have to count the balance as in my favor. I met Samuel Langhorne Clemens. He took my hand and smiled when I offered up the notion that his writing was timeless and he said, ?Perhaps it is, my dear. Unfortunately, I am not,? and he chuckled. I remember his scent and the twinkle in his eye, thirty seconds of time locked forever in the vault of my treasured memories. Who is there living today that can recall that day? (And before anyone asks, I have just described the entire encounter- he was a magnificent man.)

There is a secret inside me that aches to be told, to be shared with people who, when they look upon me, see an object of adoration, a partner in their journey of life, someone they love. I have had that precisely four times in my long life, each time an all too brief episode of delirious joy, followed swiftly by devastation. Each time I swore I would never again allow myself to become so delusional as to love anyone. The interludes between those times grew longer, but I am afraid I crave the wholeness that is part of being in a loving relationship and I will stumble again, and again I will weep for a century when my nemesis, time, steals away all I hold precious.

I loved them, and more important, they loved me. Rufus, who swore he only learned to love a woman in my arms. Robert, who gave up the only chance any mortal has for immortality to be true to his love for me. Genevieve? sweet, gentle, laughing Genevieve with her emerald eyes and golden hair. You saw right through me, so perceptive and so warm. And Jeremy. Good God, Jeremy, I still weep for you. So wise, and strong, and gentle, and firm? Jeremy, if the world desired a King they could have found no better than you. So desperately I tried not to love you, but you were in my soul, and you are there still. I stayed with you to the bitter end though you tried to send me away. You gasped your final breaths cradled in my arms, my tears the final blessing to fall upon your brow, and you told me you were immortal now, for I would always remember you. And your words were so true. I remember the promise I made you and here today, this day, I honor it again- you will never truly die, my love. There will be others, but never another Jeremy, or Genevieve, or Robert, or Rufus?

Loneliness. Loren was right: you people cannot truly fathom loneliness. Be thankful for that.

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A Killing in Georgia

It was not that people did not feel the War was real, rather the War was news of far-off battles, exhortations by hotheads in meeting halls and preachers from pulpits, young men now gone to fight; with the elderly, the children and the womenfolk left to carry on. It was hard on everyone, as society seemed to slowly disintegrate. Not a huge collapse, just the realization that today was not so good, not so carefree as yesterday, yet better and more carefree than the morrow. Trips in to town were no longer routine stops for supplies and gossip, but a strenuous search for staples and any kind of hard information. And from the last few such forays in to town there came a single word, a name: Sherman. The Blue Coats were coming.

That suddenly, the War was knocking on the door and the results were near panic. Old men and young boys took up what arms they could and marched out to do battle while the easily deluded pretended this ragtag militia could turn the Union Army aside. Those with more sense prepared to take flight. I mulled taking to the hills, knowing that one way or another I could make myself safe, but there was a small piece of business that needed finishing- just a promise that I had made myself a year earlier. A better opportunity would never come.

Clayton was a nasty, vicious, hateful man. Strong and handsome with a terribly deceiving smile that melted the heart of more than one regretful miss. He was wealthy enough to buy his way out of military service, sending poor men in his stead while he remained at home playing on widows and amusing himself with negro women. I swear you could find him at any time by following the tears of those unfortunate enough to catch his eye. In the modern world he would represent the epitome of everything vile in a man who would own slaves, except that he was, as I noted earlier, devastatingly handsome.

A year before I had interrupted him in the act of assaulting a negro girl no more than fourteen years of age. He had had business at the Manning place and she had the misfortune to wander by when he had an idle moment. To make matters worse there were two others there, watching with amused interest. I was not part of the family, having been hired as a tutor for the Manning?s two youngest daughters, so I had no real standing with those men, but I laid in to them with the utmost indignation, and I must ask you to trust me when I say that I do indignation quite well, thank you. They scattered, all but Clayton, who kept right on with his business until I planted a well-aimed heel in the lower side of his rib cage, being unable to aim where I wanted to most without harming the poor girl.

He was tossed to his side by the blow, but then exploded to his feet, his face twisted with the kind of rage that nearly always precedes murder? except that with his trousers undone he tripped and fell to his face before he took a full step. I danced back and hiked back my skirt; my foot poised for another blow as the terrified girl pulled her shift together, stumbled to her feet and fled. His eyes flicked after her, then back to me, and the hot anger in his face suddenly turned icy cold.

?I?ll not be forgettin? this, Missy Burns,? he said straightening up.

?I trust you won?t. And I?ll be bringing this up with Mrs. Manning, whom I am certain will not be forgetting this either.?

With that I turned my back on him, but as I stormed off he called after me, ?Got a mighty fine leg there, Missy Burns. I?ll be lookin? you up sometime, you can be sure.?

On that day I vowed that Clayton would not live one day longer than I had to permit. So while all were either preparing to fight or to flee I arrived in town and handed my buggy over to the livery boy.

?Just tie her up here and leave some water- I shan?t be long.?

There were still many people about, mostly women, but the air was electric. I was stopped more than once and forced to engage in the obligatory hand wringing and it was in the midst of just such a conversation that a ripple of gunfire was heard breaking from the northwest. Every conversation stopped. Another volley, carried on the wind, almost ghostly in the way it settled over the landscape and in to nerves already strung taught and rubbed raw. I left my partner in conversation and made my way directly to my destination.

Clayton was loading a packhorse. No one ever accused him of being stupid- he had what looked like two packs full of provisions as well as gear for rough living. Obviously he was intending to strike out cross-country. As I approached a much louder barrage of gunfire rumbled in the distance. Clayton looked up, saw me, and smiled.

?Looks like our boys must?a dug in good up at the bend- Yankees are turnin? cannon on ?em. Surprised, though- would?a thought they?d only have scouts this far down the road.?

?My, my, all that military know how and here you are fixing to run, rather than out there fighting. I?d heard it, but I had to come and see for myself.?

?Now, Missy, you just keep that sharp tongue in your head- I know you?re no daughter of the South. Makes no nevermind to you if the Bluecoats march on in here, does it?? He finished tying down his pack and stepped closer. His face was open and friendly, but I could sense the tension underneath. Tension, and something else.

?I expect it means even less to you. I wonder what the good ladies here will think when they see you turning tail and galloping south??

Had he simply brushed me off and mounted his horse that would have been the end of it. Had he shown that much good sense- he knew he was a scoundrel at best and I was not telling him anything he did not freely admit under the right circumstances. But he had his pride, and I had just poked it, hard. He also had a grudge to settle and the sudden change in his eyes told me he had just made the last bad decision of his miserable life.

He moved swiftly, stepping forward and seizing me by the front of my cloak and bodice, hands twisting the fabric to close my throat, silencing any cry I might make as he dragged me back in to the stable, then he held me, my feet dangling a good foot above the floor for he was quite tall. I grabbed at his wrists, struggling to break his iron grip and he laughed.

?I told you I?d be looking you up, Missy. Now you just be quiet and I won?t have to mess up that pretty face.? With that his arms wrenched violently apart, snapping the button of my cloak, tearing open my bodice and blouse, baring my chest as he tugged the garment down my arms, then threw me to my back on the hay strewn floor of the stall. I lay still, apparently stunned in his eyes as he dropped his coat, fell to his knees and began working his suspenders off his shoulders, then reached down to hike up my skirt and begin tearing at my undergarments.

He was not a stupid man. He simply had no idea whom he was dealing with. I thrashed beneath him as if attempting to pull away and he forced me back with one hand, cruelly twisting my left breast. The pain only served to give me focus as I finally freed the slender steel pin from my right sleeve. He descended upon me, his mouth crushing against mine, leaving him open and vulnerable. Time seemed to slow as it always does in these situations: my right arm grazing his left, as if attempting to find purchase to push him off but using the line of his shoulder to find the proper position, rising above his back as the pin turned in my fist, the point aligning with his spine.

With a smooth, swift stroke I jabbed it forward and down, striking his neck in the soft spot where it reaches the skull. I am very strong, and the pin was very, very sharp, puncturing the flesh and gristle, lunging in to the brainpan. Without any sound, or struggle Clayton fell instantly limp, dead weight atop me. I held him like that, twisting my mouth out from under his now flaccid lips, brining my lips to his ear.

?I made a promise to myself, ? I whispered, ?because I know that many good people who deserve a better end will die before all this is done. I promised that regardless of events I would send you to Hell if I could. And I would have let you go, I would have, but you are just too violent, too much the slave of your ego and your lust.? I lifted his head with my right hand so I could look in to his eyes, still moist, not yet glazed with death. I smiled at him and touched my lips to his cheek. ?Nobody will ever know why this happened, why you died, who killed you. I am unimaginably old, Clayton. I have seen despots, and horrors through the ages. I have lived in chains. I have loved and hated, saved the worthy, abandoned the worthless, and every now and then, just like right now, I have taken a tiny piece of evil and erased it from the world of men. Think of it as my good deed for this day. Goodbye, Clayton.? With that I wrenched the pin first left, then right and his eyes rolled up and back as the last breath wheezed from his chest, then withdrew it and struggled out from beneath him.

The wound was tiny, no blood, hardly noticeable particularly once I straightened his long, dark hair. I stood and pulled my clothes together as best I could, then dragged him fully in to the stall. Using a pitchfork I broke up the hay bail in the stall and covered the corpse. Not a very stealthy burial, but under the circumstances it would suffice. I could hear the rumble of another cannon blast in the distance and when I peered out to the street there was no one to see. In the brief minutes since I had confronted Clayton everyone had fled, or at least moved indoors. I clasped my ruined cloak across my breasts and made a dash for the livery where my buggy was still waiting.

In the buggy I donned my riding cloak then wheeled about and trotted over to Clayton?s building, maneuvering out to the stall in the rear. There I took my bag from the rear and stepped in to the stable to change in to traveling clothes, grateful to finally lose the extra fabric acreage and get in to a pair of trousers and a shirt. Just for a last measure of spite I took Clayton?s hat and tucked my hair up under it, then secured my bag on the packhorse. The buggy would have been more comfortable, but the riding horse and the pack animal were far more versatile. I unhitched my horse from the buggy and left her in the stable, then mounted Clayton?s gelding and struck out to the south, leaving behind the swiftly ebbing reports of the skirmish now drawing to a close to the northwest.

And the oddest thought feeling suffused me: ?My, how I hated riding side-saddle!?

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