Crisis

We were three days on the road when Dalene began digging through her bag, her face a study in quiet desperation as she pawed through her few belongings searching for something she knew she would not find. Aiko was driving with Neff beside her. Dalene and I were in the back seat.

?When did you run out?? I asked her.

Her gaze settled on me, her eyes a curious mixture of fear and resignation. ?This morning,? she said. ?I?ve been trying to stretch it out, but?? She sat back, her head lolling to one side as she stared out the window. ?I?ll be ok.?

?No, you won?t.? I tapped Aiko on the shoulder, ?We need to find a motel. We?re stopping for a few days.?

And so we landed in small town in Virginia. Our hotel room left some to be desired, but was still an immense improvement over the one-room apartment we had shared in New Orleans. It had a separate kitchen and a bedroom and was located at the end of the unit so we had only one room adjacent, and that was empty for the moment. We paid for a five day stay, though I planned on leaving as soon as possible- I still worried Ham?s car would be found too soon, that somebody might remember us coming through that town in Mississippi. Everything I knew demanded we stay on the move, but we had run out of time.

I watched her as we settled in, trying to gauge how bad it might be. I had seen opiate addicts shake free from the drug?s grip in a few days with little more discomfort than one suffered during a bad cold. I had also seen them die after days of agony and delusion. I had little idea what to expect in this case- would the way she injected the drug make it worse? Was heroin more addictive than the laudanum of the previous century, or less so? We were in the wrong place to do this, but there was no choice. In the hours since we stopped Dalene had become increasingly agitated, pacing around the motel room, unable to sit for more than a few minutes at a time- it had been little more than six hours since her last dose. I reached out and touched her lightly on her arm, making her jump.

?Let?s take a walk?? I suggested. She just nodded at me and we headed outside with Neff and Aiko?s eyes trailing after us.

The motel rested by the side of what used to be a main road until the highway came through. Now it was slowly mouldering, as were other roadside attractions along the way. We walked in the afternoon heat, Dalene?s pace quickening with every step until I nearly broke into a trot to keep up with her long-legged stride. I said nothing, letting her attempt to burn out the nervous energy racing through her body, putting first one, then two miles behind us without slacking before she began to falter.

She was sweating profusely, tears streaming down her ashen face as she slowed, then stopped, trembling from head to toe. We were standing in front of a Dairy Queen so I gently led her to one of the picnic tables under the trees.

?I can?t do this,? she whispered, ?Angie? I can?t, I can?t?? She started to cry in earnest now, her shoulders shaking as she buried her head in her hands. I stroked her head and she was burning up despite all the sweat.

?You need something cold to drink, baby. Can you wait here while I get you something? Can you do that??

She did not answer so I slid one finger along her cheek to her jaw and coaxed her head up until her red rimmed eyes were on me. ?Can you wait here just a minute while I get you something to drink??

?A Mr. Misty?? She almost whispered it, like a child pleading for a treat.

?Sure, baby,? I smiled at her, ?just sit tight, okay??

She nodded at me, then dropper her eyes. I watched her a moment, then decided she really would be okay and walked over to the window, getting in line behind a family that had pulled in while Dalene and I were talking. I could not help but notice the attention we were drawing to ourselves, two young women, strangers in this town, one of us in obvious distress. I ignored them, keeping a furtive eye on Dalene until it was my turn to order.

I paid for two cherry Mr. Misty?s and a cup of ice water, then turned and froze. A Sherriff?s car had pulled into the parking lot and stopped next to our picnic table, a young man in uniform was standing beside Dalene. I steeled myself, then put on my best concerned face and walked briskly to the table.

?Now Miss,? the Deputy was saying, ?you really need to help me here. I need to know your name.? He radiated a mixture of suspicion and genuine concern. Dalene had deteriorated even further with the added stress of his questioning, but he had only just arrived. There was still a chance to avoid any problems.

?Day, cher, you need to drink this,? I told her, putting the French lilt in my voice, letting it shake a little as I pressed the cup of ice water into her hands, then looked up at the deputy.

So much conflict there was within him. He was young, perhaps twenty-two, and very much a son of Virginia. Part of him was moved to chivalry- confronted by this wounded dove his instinct was to do everything in his power to succor her. Part of him was driven by Southern chauvinism- here were two young women, apparently alone, obviously not from the south, all of this leading him to suspect it would be best to simply round us up and send us across the county line before we caused any mischief. It was a tribute to his humanity that the ingrained suspicion was being held in check, but it was still no certain thing.

?We stopped at the motel down the road, the Shade Tree, we had to. Day didn?t feel well this morning? and she got worse through the day. We thought getting out of the car, some fresh air??

Dalene coughed, choking as she drained the cup of ice water, her body shaking as she gasped for air between the spasms in her chest. Both of us looked at her and when she turned her face to me her eyes were bright red, tears streaming down her cheeks.

?I don?t think I can walk back,? she whispered.

I could not have scripted it better- she was so helpless, so scared. The deputy?s body language shifted drastically and when I looked into his eyes I did not even have to ask.

?Don?t you worry miss; I?ll take you ladies back to the motel.?

His name was Jefferson Carlyle and he treated Dalene as if she were made of spun sugar and moonbeams. He was still unsure of me, but I radiated so much gratitude his suspicion simply crumbled in the face of it. He did not approve of our accommodations as the Shade Tree served mostly blacks, but when we arrived at the motel Aiko and Neff bolted to the door as I helped Dalene out of the back of his car and suddenly it made sense to him.

I spoke up before either of them could say I word, telling them to get Dalene into bed. Things were under control and we could not risk reigniting Deputy Carlyle?s suspicions. The three of them were only three days off the streets and there was simply no expecting them to behave with discretion, but they all seemed to know to leave the talking to me and it seemed everything was going to work out.

?You never told me your name,? Deputy Carlyle said, breaking into an almost sheepish grin.

?Angevin, Angevin du Marmande. I can?t thank you enough for your kindness.? I took a half step closer to him, looking up to his eyes without being too bold. It was an understated invitation, merely a suggestion that should he want to meet again I might say yes? and a scream shattered the spell.

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A Sudden Change of Plans

I seldom attempt anything drastic without having a sense of certainty regarding the outcome. I require no guarantees, but there must be some logical expectation of success. Unfortunately I set out that morning without such expectations, instead simply counting on Jacques?s greed or, failing that, being prepared to use force- the latter option not being looked upon with any favor whatsoever. I would have taken more time to plan, but events were moving so quickly there was no other choice. If we simply ran, Jacques would send people after us. I had the resources to make it easier, but I knew that would bring everything crashing down: we were the four of us against the world and that was the only strength holding Dalene together and through her, Neff and Aiko as well. Even this plan, assuming I could see it through successfully, was fraught with potential for disaster

The morning air was thick, the temperature passing the eighty degree mark even though it was barely seven o?clock. If there was sweat upon my brow it was as much from nerves as from the heat. The heavy overnight bag pulled at my shoulder as I made my way to the hotel to meet with Jacques, but the pistol taped to my back was the heaviest weight to bear. Those few people out and about paid me little attention as I was dressed like a tourist rather than a whore. I passed people who knew me and they never looked up, a symptom of the human predilection for placing people into categories: I could not be Angie because I did not look like a whore and Angie was a whore. A predictably flawed bit of logic, but it relieves one of the need to think about what one sees, and it served my purpose that day.

I reached the hotel and paused at the steps. There was no doorman. In the fourteen months I had spent here I had never once seen the door unguarded. I stood for nearly a minute waiting for somebody to appear, but it became an uncomfortably long time and I had to either go inside or move on. I climbed the steps and entered the lobby only to find another oddity: there was nobody at the desk. Jacques?s mother always watched the desk Sunday mornings since there was little business going on. Jacques liked to believe she knew nothing of what he did, but in truth her sweet, grandmotherly exterior was home to the heart of a toad and soul of a crocodile.

I peered over the desk and found the small chair tossed on its side, but nothing else seemed amiss. Still, there were too many things out of place and I reached back under my blouse to peel the heavy snub-nosed revolver from my lower back. I wadded up the duct tape that had secured it and stuffed that in my pocket, then held the revolver low as I carefully made my way back to Jacques?s office. The entire building was eerily quiet and when I turned the corner I saw the door to the office was ajar. I set the overnight bag down against the wall and stepped quietly to the door, listening for a moment before pushing it open with my toe. I took in the scene with a single glance, then turned and took up the bag, heading for the front door. At the front desk I scooped up Ham?s car keys from the ashtray where he always left them, then went out the door, crossed the street and dashed down the alley to the parking lot.

The Falcon convertible started with a simple twist of the key and the temperature gauge showed it was still quiet warm- it could not have been parked more than fifteen or twenty minutes. I pulled out of the lot and headed north, away from our flat, then stopped at a gas station to put the top down. Next I turned towards the canal, crossing at the first bridge with no traffic, and the gun went over the rail and into the brown water. After that I followed a circuitous route back to our flat, parking in the alley behind the building.

?Get up!? I hissed at Aiko when she opened a blurry eye to see who had walked in.

She shook her head and sat up as I went to the couch and nudged Dalene hard. She lashed out at me and I grabbed her wrist, pulling her off the couch where she landed on Neff who was only just stirring.

?Damn, Angie!? Aiko moaned, ?What time is it??

?It?s early, get up. We need to get out of here right now.? Dalene started to say something and I stamped my foot emphatically. ?No questions! Get moving- we?re leaving in ten minutes.?

?What?s wrong?? Dalene finally asked as she struggled into a pair of hot pants.

?Jacques is dead. So?s Ham, Gillie and Aggie, maybe more.?

All three of them froze, staring at me.

?Oh my God, will you three just move!?

It was more like twenty minutes before I could get them out to the car even though we left almost everything behind. Each had a change of clothes and we?d brought two guitars since most of our instruments were junk. When we reached the alley and they realized I had Ham?s car all of the doubt left them because Ham never let anyone drive his car, ever.

?Where are we going? Why are we going?? Dalene asked as we left Metairie on the Causeway, striking out across the lake.

?Right now we just want to get out of Louisiana and lose this car, then I was thinking New York City. Why? I?d think that?s obvious.?

I described for them the scene at the hotel- Gillie and Ham face down with their hands tied behind their backs, each with a bloody hole on the back of the head. Jacques slumped over his desk and from the amount of blood it looked like his throat had been cut. His mother had been sitting on the couch against the wall, looking like she was simply napping except for the small red hole in her forehead. It was clearly not a simple robbery- somebody was moving in and taking over and that somebody was pretty ruthless.

?I?m not sure I like New York,? Dalene said, and I could read her mind just by looking at her face: too close to home.

?Me, either,? Neff shouted from the back seat, ?You think New Orleans is bad, wait?ll you?re on the street in the Big Apple.?

?We aren?t going to be on the streets in New York!? I laughed, suddenly feeling the tension and uncertainty drain away. ?Look in the bag on the floor back there.?

Aiko reached down and unzipped the overnight bag, then almost screamed at what she saw.

?Where did you get this?? she shouted, almost laughing herself as she held up a bundle of twenty-dollar bills.

?I knew where the key to the locked box was hidden, so I cleaned it out,? I lied. Dalene looked at me with a mixture of awe and suspicion, but said nothing.

?How much?? Neff asked, and I told her I had no idea, but that was also a lie.

The bag contained two hundred thousand dollars in twenties, fifties and hundreds, Jacques?s price for our freedom. I still wonder to this day what his reaction would have been had he lived to receive it. That it became our lifeline over the next three years seems nearly karmic.

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An Aside

?It?s not really fear,? she finally offered. ?It?s more akin to shame. It?s also been self-indulgence, as I?ve been letting you try to sympathize with me. That?s a nice feeling. And, you may not realize it, but I do care what you think of me. It?s not something that I worry over, but? in truth I?m no saint my friend, and no innocent.?

?You think I?ll stop liking you?? I asked, unable to keep the irritation out of my voice. After the past two months it seemed pretty juvenile, especially coming from her.

Note: What follows may be distressing to some readers

?Not quite,? she replied, turning her head to one side to look at me. It was almost pretty, except for the cold seriousness in her eyes. ?What I am afraid of is that you?ll come to see me as dangerous. Wicked even. I don?t like that. But perhaps you should, and I don?t like that either. You might even come to fear me.?

?Fear you? I already do, at least a little. You?re something way beyond my experience. You?re rich and maybe even a little capricious. And,? I grinned, ?you pack a wallop.?

She smiled faintly at that, but her eyes didn?t smile with her lips. For a second, I wondered if she?d had more than one reason for bringing that pistol with her today. But as I thought it, she stiffened.

?You know you?re in no danger here, today. If you don?t know that, then? then we have little more to talk of now. Or ever.?

?It would help if you?d just tell me what?s on your mind. Why would I fear you?? As I said it I reached into my pocket and produced the recorder, deliberately turning it on.

She looked at it, then back at me, before turning her gaze out across the river again.

?I am a murderer,? she said, her voice expressionless.

?You?ve killed people. I can?t imagine living as long as you without being forced to do that at some point.?

?I?ve killed people out of convenience. I?ve killed? I?ve murdered because it felt good to kill, because I didn?t see any reason not to. I?ve killed men mostly, but also women? sometimes people whose only mistake was to encounter me when I just didn?t care??

I didn?t say a word, just waited. Eventually she spoke again.

?The first time? the first time was in a place much like this.

?Her name was Saennuz. She was the mate of the patriarch of the clan and as is often the case in such things she was the real power in the group. Her man enforced the rules and kept order, but in the dark hours of the night he took her counsel and marked it well. She was very intelligent, beautiful by the standards of the time, and quite ruthless. She despised me.

?I suppose it may surprise you but in the years after finding a new tribe for Attuz, I slowly learned that life was still easiest for me as a slave. I was wise enough to leave him behind before he aged, as painful as that was for the both of us. As I could not allow myself to fall in love again, life as a valued, skilled property was generally easiest if I were to stay among humans, and for the longest time I still did.

?So it was many years later that I found myself among Saennuz?s people. Seannuz?s man bought me from a village in a valley near his own. He knew I was barren and in the simple calculus of power politics he thought I would make for a welcome diversion in a clan that was somewhat bereft of women. I had been in the previous clan for several years, keeping time with the old shaman. I?d learned all I ever would from him, so I welcomed the chance to move on.

?Of course, he failed to consult with Saennuz on this. Mind you, she had nothing to fear from me. I couldn?t have babies and everyone knew it, but I was young, and healthy, and pretty, and strong. Jealousy overrode her common sense.

?I did everything I could think of to mollify her. I deferred to her in all things. I took every nasty, filthy task she could hand out and acted grateful to have the work. But nothing satisfied her.

?It came to a head that first summer, after there had been a gathering with some of the neighboring clans. A few matches were made and Saennuz concluded it was time to get rid of me.

?Her man would have sent me away if she?d told him to. He hated all the friction, but she never suggested it. Instead, after the gathering she became even more unbearable. She was pregnant again, her sixth child, and it made her insufferable in general. Perhaps that is why I failed to understand what she had in mind.?

Zsallia paused, and stared out at the water. Her tone had been almost a monotone, though there was a tiny waver to it that might have been from the chill. Finally she went on.

?Saennuz told me one morning to follow her to the river. She?d been having good luck with a fish trap she?d set up near the bank and wanted me to spend the day there. It was light duty even if it would be all day?and we would be alone. We arrived at the trap and I saw she?d set it up just after the bend of the river. Some trees offered shade, which made it easier to see the fish when they came up against the barrier of rocks. It was a nice piece of work, but it was also a bit treacherous. The current picked up a quite bit there, and the bank fell off into deep water if you stepped out too far.

?She asked me if I knew how to swim. I had my back to her, watching the fish trap, but something in her voice made me decide to lie so I told her ?no?.

?She must have used a rock because the next thing I knew I was floating downstream, choking on river water. My head was throbbing with pain.

?I managed to fight the current and make my way to the bank and once I caught my breath I realized I was not too far downstream. Strangely enough I wasn?t even angry. I considered leaving. I could let her have her little victory, move on down the river, and find a new place, but something about that idea left me cold. I liked this clan.

?I made my way up the river. It wasn?t far. I found Saennuz calmly working the fish trap and I stopped to watch her. She was just spearing fish and tossing them on the bank, humming a happy little tune, utterly unconcerned. Somehow that sight disturbed me far more than the idea that she had tried to kill me. I was over five hundred years old at that point, so she wasn?t the first to try that. But the idea that she would do it and then just go about her business? it annoyed me.

?I fetched up a good sized stone and waited for her to crouch over the trap, knowing she would be quite still for several seconds, then I let fly. My aim was true, but she flinched. Perhaps she heard me as I threw, but in any case it just grazed the right side of her head. She cried out and spun around, then froze as she saw me.

?She smiled. Laughed, actually. ?You?re tougher than I thought,? she said, ?now get back to work.?

?I walked towards her and her expression narrowed. She must have seen my intent. I?ll give her credit: she didn?t back down, but charged at me instead. The water slowed her, but as I struck out she shifted and threw her shoulder into me, forcing me to fall backwards as she scrambled up the bank. I reached out and caught her by her tunic, pulling myself up towards her. She lashed out with her foot and connected with my collar bone, and I felt it crack. My left arm went numb. She kicked again, aiming for my throat, but I grabbed her foot and slipped it to one side, and she slid down a bit. Her other foot caught my hip, and she shoved me back down the bank.

?Regaining her feet, she ran for the trees. I recovered and set after her. It wasn?t too hard, as she only had a couple of steps on me, and I was taller. I tackled her just inside the trees. She hit hard and I felt her breath escape in a rush as she curled up in pain, her arms encircling her midsection, and she was still struggling as I forced her on to her back with my good hand and straddled her chest. Her eyes met mine, and for the first time I could remember, I saw fear in her.

?My left arm was still numb, but I laid my left palm across her throat. She was trapped beneath me, my knees pinning her arms to the ground. My right hand settled on a rock, and seized it up as she finally drew a breath.

?Wait?? was all she managed to say before I brought the rock down on her head.?

Zsallia stopped talking. She was kneading the palms of her hands, and staring down at the river. I started to talk, but she just shook her head and gave me a quiet gesture with her hand. No, she seemed to say without words. I?m not done. Her voice when she spoke again was still dull, and flat.

?The rock?. it made a sound. A solid, sickening ?thok!? Then a high, thin squeal came out of her, like a whispered scream. But that stopped as I struck her again. And again. And again. And again??

She stopped again, drawing a deep, ragged breath that whistled as she exhaled. Her eyes were moist, but otherwise dead as she stared at the water.

?I would hit her? and her body would jerk underneath me, like spasms, or convulsions? there were pieces of bone? and so much blood?? she paused and her eyes turned towards me, almost pleading. But before I could react she shook herself, turned back to look out across the river, and went on.

?I kept hitting her until I felt all the breath go out of her, then I stopped, staring down at the bloody ruin of her face and head. I was fascinated by what I had done. I?d never simply killed anyone before. I?d seen death countless times, killed once in self-defense in a way that was almost a blur. But this?

?I was trembling as I crawled off her, my left arm and shoulder on fire, my right weak from exertion. I knelt by her body, my arms clutched together across my breasts as I shook and rocked, my belly churning with revulsion. She would twitch, a movement of an arm or a leg, and I would stop and stare, unsure if I could make myself strike her again should she resume breathing. But finally, I knew it was over.?

Zsallia was still not looking at me. Almost like she was afraid to. She just hugged her knees and rocked a little. I couldn?t think what to say or do, so I just waited again until she went on.

?I reached out and laid? laid my hand on the swelling of her belly. She had always had others, the women and the men, touch her like that, but she had never permitted me. I rested my right hand on it, and I felt it move.

?It was if my heart stopped and turned to ash in my chest.

?I wanted to scream then, but I could not breathe, I could not move. I held my hand there, feeling Saennuz?s baby move less and less until, inevitably, it stopped.

?A tiny, precious piece of myself died there, under those trees, by that riverside.?

The light breeze whispered in my ears as we sat. I listened to it, and the gurgle and rush of the river, she staring at the water, me staring at her. Unmoving. Finally she sighed again.

?So then I did the only thing I could think to do: I dragged her back to the river and pushed her body in, forcing it out into the swift current. I followed it downstream a ways to make sure it didn?t come ashore or fetch up on anything. After that, I washed up as best I could and returned to the village. I told them Saennuz and I had fought and she slipped in the water. That she?d struck her head and been swept away.?

She stopped again, still refusing to meet my eyes. I watched her, trying to gauge what she was feeling, but her face was like stone. I had no idea what to say. Could you try someone for a murder three thousand years ago, in a country that probably didn?t exist anymore? What kind of verdict could you bring to that? What court could judge it? What jury would know what to do with it?

?So they believed you?? I finally asked.

?Of course they did. By then I was an excellent liar. For that matter, how much of a lie was it, really??

?She was pregnant.?

?Yes. The baby would have come in the late fall?? she turned her face away, craning her neck so I couldn?t see, and seemed to shrink in on herself. Then her shoulders shook, just once. ?It probably would have died over the winter anyhow. At least that?s what I told myself.?

I found my voice. ?She tried to kill you,? I offered.

?I could have walked away. I could have gone down river and found a new home. There were people a few days away that knew me from the clan gatherings. I could have told them what happened.? She turned and looked at me finally. Her eyes were hollow, and whatever tears might have been there were gone. ?I didn?t have to kill her. I wish I hadn?t.?

?You feel guilty? Even today??

?Of course I do. I don?t lie awake at night agonizing over it, but??

?What did they do to you??

?To me? Nothing. At least, not right away. But it was not long after that that I learned?.? She stopped. ?I learned?? She stopped again. ?I?d like to stop talking for a bit if you don?t mind,? she finally said, staring at the water. So we just sat and listened to the stream for a while.

Then she asked me to take her back to her hotel.

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1964

My only thought is to somehow ease you from the grip of this death spiral that defines you. There are but two things capable of touching your darkly secreted soul and you continue to hold the first at bay. I could seduce you with ease, but I fear to introduce yet another complication. All that remains is music. The three of you have not played together since I joined your group, but the introduction of the new guitar rekindles interest and soon music is again a real presence in this dingy flat.

The band forms almost naturally, a development I did not foresee. It makes sense now, a way to release the massive reservoir of anger and pain, that horrible angst you could never express as anything other than self-destruction, but at the time it seemed little more than a lark, a distraction from the goals I hoped to achieve? for all of you.

Truly Dalene, it is for all three of you, but you are first amongst them. I may have held Aiko and Nefertiri in lesser regard as I began this madness, but they are not to be lightly dismissed. You love them for a reason and it becomes clearer with every passing day. Those inclined to worship Fate or the Providence of the Divine would see those powers at work in your meeting, but I understand better than most: you are much like me in some ways, for you draw others to you as they see there is more than what meets the eye.

Your anger fuels the muse, and its grip is tight upon us. We play to small crowds with instruments scavenged from any source we can find. People are amused, disgusted, or merely indifferent, but it is unimportant- the need to express what lies within is overpowering. I am so very accustomed to steering those who stray into my sphere I am astounded to realize this is nothing of me and all of you. You play your guitar and I feel your pain- I give it a voice, words you would never allow yourself to speak, words appalling to those many that prefer to view the world through a veil of civilized indifference. It is amusing for they view me as the unstable and violent one while all believe you are the calm center of our angry coterie.

We cannot escape our reality- Jacques demands we attend the duties he assigns us, but he is first and foremost a man of commerce and he sees opportunity in our performances. Our first real show, with decent instruments and a stage and an audience, comes at his behest in a back room performance at a club he owns. We perform topless, a twist lending a certain surreal flavour given the tales your music tells, and the night ends with us plying our given trade; yet it matters not a bit, for we have the taste of it now. We had them in our hands, even if only for a moment.

The more we play the more animated you become? and then comes the first of three fateful events.

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Dalene

?It?s an electric guitar,? I said, blinking at her as innocently as I could manage.

Dalene smirked at me, ?I know what it is. Where?d you get it??

?Last night. You know how musicians are- always horny, always broke. I made a trade.?

It was mostly the truth, though I had laid out cash for the amplifier, dipping into my reserves to make it all come together. Dalene turned the case and opened it, then looked at me with a question in her eyes.

?What??

?This is a pretty nice guitar,? she said, ?and it?s left handed.? She drew the Fender Stratocaster from its case, ?You didn?t steal it??

?Ham would have my head if I got caught, you know that.?

Aiko walked in and just stopped, staring at Dalene and me.

?Holy shit, where?d you steal that??

I looked daggers at her and she stuck out her tongue at me, then we both broke down in giggles as Dalene plugged the guitar into the amp and hit the power. It took a minute for it to warm up and she touched the strings lightly, her fingers barely in contact with them as they hummed in high, clear tones that warbled, then steadied as she twisted the machine heads with practiced precision.

It was like the whole world just vanished for her- Dalene shut out everything and concentrated on the instrument in her hands. She plucked at it: weak, discordant sounds bleeding from the amplifier until she reached for a knob on the amp and twisted it to the right. It didn?t get louder- it just started to howl, and after that it was almost hypnotic, watching her long fingers dance along the neck of the guitar as it sang in high, moaning notes that blended into harmonies almost too high pitched to hear before crashing down into low, dirty tones that grabbed us by our bellies and shook our bones.

By then Neff was watching, and Aiko looked at her, the two of them grinning as Dalene?s fingers sailed up and down the register, coaxing agonized harmonies from her instrument until a sudden metallic whine scarred the sound and she clamped her fingers across the neck of the guitar.

?Needs new strings,? she said, then she looked at us, saw the expressions on our faces. ?What??

She stared at us for a moment, perplexed, then grinned.

?I?ve been playing since I was five, you know??
Her voice trailed off as she looked down at the guitar in her hands and I watched all the joy drain from her as she closed into herself again. She yanked the cord out of the guitar and dropped it back into its case, staring at it for a minute before she slammed the case shut.

When she looked at me again she was the gaunt, wounded, joyless girl of the past months once more. She thanked me, but there was so much pain in her voice I had to believe I had made a terrible mistake. Neff and Aiko saw her shaking, but neither of them would approach her, instead just standing there as if to recognize her suffering would somehow shatter their world. In a way it was the honest truth: Dalene was the center of everything for them, she was the strong one? and she was slowly unraveling before their eyes.

I reached for her, just laying my hand on her shoulder, feeling her tense under the touch. She fixed her gaze on the floor, taking slow, deep breaths as her face flushed with the effort of burying her pain, but I moved closer, settling to my knees beside her, drawing her head to my shoulder. She was stiff, tried to resist the simple physical contact I offered, but something inside her yielded just a bit and she let me cradle her as we sat in an awkward silence, Neff and Aiko both frozen nearly as thoroughly as Dalene.

?My father?? she whispered, then she stopped, choking on the words before starting again. ?My father bought me a guitar just like this? just a few months before he? before he threw me out of the house.?

It was not what she said, but the way she said it- there was a pause there, something she was desperate to say, but could not force herself to put into words. I looked up at Neff for she had known Dalene the longest and she stared at me wide-eyed for a moment before ever so minutely moving her head from side to side-Don?t do it.

Aiko?s eyes were nearly pleading with me to just let this go as we had so many times before? but I knew what that would mean, and if I gave in to their fear yet again I might as well slip away and leave the three of them to their chosen fates. I nearly did just that, once again overwhelmingly aware of my own arrogance in thinking I had the right to intervene; to judge Dalene, and Aiko, and Neff, and decide they had to have choices made for them. By me.

Dalene would be dead within a year, either from the drugs or from the brutal reality of the life she lived. Since my coming to this place there had been three prostitutes murdered, and those were just the ones the police would admit to. There were more, of that I was certain. When Dalene was gone what would her friends do? How far behind her would they be? Aiko was already dabbling in Dalene?s heroin habit and Neff? Nefirtiri was wasting away be sheer force of will, refusing to eat for long stretches until Dalene could coax her into it again.

All of this ran through my mind for the hundredth or thousandth time as I clasped the shaking nineteen-year-old girl to me and finally chose for her, for all of them.

?There?s a lot more to that story, isn?t there?? I whispered, ?What really happened??

She went rigid in my arms, not even breathing as I felt her heart begin pounding so hard it was as if her whole body was being struck by the repeated blows of some infernal hammer. She tried to pull away, but I held her tight.

?What did he do to you? What happened when he found out you were a lesbian??

She drew a deep shuddering breath and this time I let her sit up straight. She stared into my eyes, not even looking at her friends, just completely focused upon me, seeking something in there. I opened up every non-verbal cue I possessed, asking her to trust me, to let this out. There was utter silence in the room; the entire outside world had melted away so that the universe was nothing more than that small space and the four people inside it.

?He said there weren?t going to be any dykes in his family? He said? he made me pack a suitcase and he drove me to New York, to Albany.?

?He left you in Albany?? Neff asked, and I quietly raised my hand, gesturing for her to keep quiet. Dalene hesitated, looking now at her two friends, uncertainty in her eyes. I shook her gently, just once, and her gaze snapped back to me.

?What happened in Albany??

?Daddy? he knew a young man there, a guy who?d done contracting work for our family when we had a summer place up in the Catskills. I guess he?d called ahead because when we got there he already had a Justice of the Peace waiting. The wedding was over before I even really knew what was happening.

?Daddy tossed my bag in Doug?s pickup and told him he knew he could straighten me right out. Then my new husband dragged me out to his cabin in the middle of nowhere and spent the next two months raping me two, three, sometimes four times a day.?

I heard the sharp intake of breath from both Aiko and Neff- neither of them had known of this. Despite the squalor of their current lives, what Dalene described was something beyond horrific. She was sixteen, her husband was twenty-five and he patiently explained to her that this was her life now, that he wanted a big family and he had promised her father that he would take good care of her. He was not violent, at least not overtly, but he kept her on a very short leash, confining her to his rustic home for three months before finally taking her into town.

?I finally got pregnant,? she whispered, her voice straining to escape her throat as tears began to flow, ?and he wanted me to have a good doctor. I?d been pretty docile, just biding my time, and when we realized I was pregnant he got all gooey about it, like this meant I?d finally come around? at the doctor?s office they sent me into the ladies room to pee in a cup, and I went out the window. Second floor? dropped into a dumpster, then ran like hell.?

She had no money, no idea where she was, but she found the bus station and managed to beg bus fare from two women, telling them she was a runaway, but was going back home. At the station in New York City she hopped the first bus she could find and landed in New Orleans.

?That?s how I met Jacques? I needed an abortion and he offered to help me out. And then??

She just waved her hand over her head as if to say ?and here we are now?. Neff and Aiko drew close, the spell that had held them rooted to their places finally releasing them, and the four of us held each other there on the floor.

I finally understood her. I finally realized that I could indeed help her, help all of them? if they would let me.

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Ham

?You look like hell,? she said, but there was a very real note of concern in her voice. I looked up at her, staring into those corn flower eyes sunk within their dark sockets, and I offered her a wan smile.

?You should talk.?

Just a week ago she would have made some cutting remark and stalked off, perhaps to find another needle, but today she just grinned and shook her head.

?That was pretty stupid, getting in that guy?s face like that, ?specially with Black Eye hangin? around.?

It had been a long night, and we were just heading back to our flat when a carload of drunken teenagers pulled up. We ignored them, but they became angry and one of them got out of the car and actually grabbed Dalene by the arm. She was going to give in, but I could see the hot anger she bit back and without hesitation I slipped my switch blade from my belt and stepped up, stomping down the boy?s shin with my four inch heel. He howled and his friends boiled out of the car, but then he was on his knees and I had the knife hard against the side of his neck.

?We?re done fucking for the night, asshole!?

Before he could react Johnnie ?Black Eye? Gillie stepped in and gave one of the other kids a hard fist in the gut, folding him over.

?You punks get the hell outta here, NOW!?

Black Eye was one of Jacques? largest, ugliest, and least intelligent ?doormen? and nobody could match him at being loud and menacing. The kids practically threw their two friends into the back seat of the car which was already rolling as they all piled in. Five seconds later all that remained was the sound of squealing tires as they rounded the corner.

And then all I saw were stars, pavement and blood.

?Stupid cunt!? Black Eye roared, punctuating that last with a savage kick to my ribs that lifted me into the air and dumped me onto my back. He said more, but I couldn?t hear it through the ringing in my ears. He let fly again as I curled around the pain in my chest, driving his pointed toe into the small of my back. After that I do not remember anything until I awoke in the apartment and found her sitting by the couch where I lay.

?Hey! Still with me??

Her voice shook me from the memory of the previous night and I focused on her again. Her concern was now writ deep upon her face and I realized things might have been more drastic than I recalled.

?Still awake,? I mumbled, and then I tried to sit up. The pain in my side was not so terrible, but my back convulsed into a scalding knot of agony, forcing me to bite back a cry. Then I felt her hands on me, easing me down onto my side again. I finally took in my surroundings; saw the blood-stains on the couch and the pillows. Black Eye Gillie had done a pretty thorough job, from all appearances. Once everything fell into place I realized I was ravenous.

?I?ll be okay,? I whispered as she touched my face. ?I?m hungry.?

She turned her gaze and I realized both Neff and Aiko were standing in the doorway between the kitchenette and the large room that formed the remainder of our flat.

?Maybe some soup?? She asked.

Neff shook her head, her bright green eyes staring out from her finely chiseled coal-black face.

?Not until she stops throwing up. Nothing but water.?

I watched her talk, the way her full lips worked to reveal flashes of dazzling white teeth almost mesmerizing to behold.

?Water? water?s fine. I?m thirsty. I won?t throw up anymore? I promise.?

The water was good on my throat, but my stomach was growling loudly and I could feel myself fading out again. I had not been eating very well the past several weeks and now all the injuries sapped my strength. I was in no danger, but how could I convince them?

I heard the word hospital and forced myself to stay awake, lifting my head again.

?No!? I shouted, trying to be forceful, but sounding more desperate than anything else. They ignored me, Aiko suggesting the landlord might be willing to take me in for little favor or two.

There was a firm knock at the door, just two raps, and then the door opened framing a broad shouldered man with no neck whose bald scalp gleamed as if it had been polished to mirror brightness. Thick arms hung from his shoulders, seemingly relaxed yet at the same time poised to strike out at the least provocation; his hands permanently curled into fists the size of melons. None of us knew his real name; we all just called him Ham.

?It?s after four,? he said in a voice that was always surprisingly calm and pleasant no matter how many times you heard it, ?Jacques wants to know where you are? Damn, girl, what the hell happened to you??

Ham was deceptively quick for a man of his size and suddenly he was standing over me and I swear I may have seen a brief flash of anger cross his face. He was not a man quick to rage; unlike Black Eye Ham did not seem to take any pleasure in hurting people. It was strictly business with him; he did what Jacques told him to do and his personal feelings did not enter into the equation. When Jacques wanted somebody beaten up he sent Black Eye Gillie. When somebody was in real trouble, he sent Ham.

?Somebody roughs you up, you?re supposed to let us know,? he said, his voice a quiet sigh, ?Who did this??

?Gillie,? Aiko said before I could even answer. He looked at Neff and she nodded, then he returned his gaze to me. His only visible reaction was to slowly open his right hand, cracking his knuckles, and then close it again. When next they met it would not be a good time for Johnnie Black Eye Gillie.

?Fine. Angie stays, the rest of you get your butts out there.?

?Ham,? Dalene objected, ?just an hour ago she was still throwing up blood. We can?t leave her alone.?

?I?ll be okay,? I protested, but Ham cut me off.

?You three go. I?ll stay for a bit and make sure she doesn?t go dying on us. Now move it.?

That last was delivered as gently as anything he ever said, but it was emphatic nonetheless. All three looked at me and I just nodded as they gathered their things, and then they were gone. Ham closed the door and went to the fridge where he found a bottle of Budweiser and popped off the cap with his thumb, then returned to the room and settled down into a creaking easy chair barely sufficient to hold his muscular bulk.

He sipped at his beer, his eyes locked on me, unblinking. There was no menace there, just a feeling he was trying to make sense of something.

?Gillie told me you pulled a knife on a guy so he slapped you around. That true??

?The knife? Yeah. Slapped around? I think he was too kind to himself.?

?Yeah, I?ll be talking to him about that. No point in damaging the merchandise? no offense.?

?Why are you here, Ham?? I asked because it was clear to me he had something on his mind.

?That?s just what I was going to ask you. Your friends? I know why they?re here. Nefertiri?s family tried to kill her, some weird African thing about family honor. Aiko?s plain lost- been on the streets since she was twelve. And Day, she just hates life and everything in it. But you? I don?t know why you?re here. You?re not broken, you?re not desperate and I don?t think you ever do anything you don?t choose to. So, why are you here Angie? What are you doing??

I watched his eyes as he spoke, gauging just how serious he was. Was he thinking I was dangerous, or was he just curious? It seemed to be a little of both and in a situation like that nothing serves quite so well as a smidgen of truth.

?Dalene. Dalene is why I?m here.?

Ham took another sip from his beer, but his eyes never left me and he remained silent for an uncomfortably long time. Finally, he nodded.

?She?s a screaming dyke, and I know you?re not, so why??

?Some people deserve to be saved. When I met her I knew she was one of those people, I knew I couldn?t just walk away and leave her here to die.?

I had not intended to say that, but as the words passed my lips I knew I was telling him the absolute truth: something about her, about the way she and Neff and Aiko clung to each other had driven me to do something I had never done, not in more than three thousand years: I chose to act, to deliberately intervene and attempt to change someone?s life for the better. It was such an arrogant thing to do, even more so than taking the life of a monster. Killing is easy; it is living that is hard.

Perhaps Ham discerned some of the thoughts coursing through me at that moment because he simply nodded at me and said, ?You?ve got one hell of a job ahead of you.?

?I know,? I replied. ?I?m hungry- Neff wouldn?t let me eat anything.?

?Hungry? What, I?m your cook now??

?If you?ll help me up??

?Naw, stay there,? he said, standing as he drained his beer, then set it on the table next to the chair. ?I know a place you can get some real Gumbo, not the crap they serve on Bourbon Street. I?ll have one of the girls bring it up. Just don?t choke on it and die or Jacques will have my head for losing one of his top girls.?

?Thanks, Ham. You?re a prince.?

?Don?t let it get around, okay??

?Tell Black Eye I said hello,? I called after him as he closed the door. I heard him laughing as he went down the stairs.

Be my bride
Let them scoff and cry
Be my bride
This world?s too sick and I?m too tired
We play these parts, scream and weep
Deny our souls, seek the free ride
But you are mine, I am yours
Just ask, take my hand
Be brave, we?ll make our stand
Be my bride
Let them cry
Be my bride
Watch them die

Die For Love
Hera- 1964

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1963- Summer

You are dying, every day marking another long stride towards the grave. Neff and Aiko are terrified, but they cannot confront you for you have become the center of their world. The do not trust me, they cannot, for I am too new and too much an unknown. They resent me nearly as much as do you, an interloper in the closed little world the three of you have built.

Heroin is a relatively new scourge, but opium is quite familiar to me and I can see its handiwork all through you. I wonder- am I too late? But when I touch that thought, attempt to explore its meaning, I recoil from it. You are such a distraction to my soul and your self-destruction angers me, yet I cannot seem to reach you, cannot show you I care more than you suspect. I try to tell you and you rebuff me- how can I be so unequal to this task? What is wrong with me?

Weeks pass and summer arrives, the Gulf Coast attaining its mixture of sweltering heat and cool sea breezes. You seem happier, more engaged, and I see your friends, the ones who have loved you for a year that seems a century, clinging to the hope you will choose to crawl out of the darkness devouring you. But it is a transient thing, a cruel illusion shattered by another long and terrifying bout of abuse.

Scenes etched upon my memory:

Aiko forcing breath into your lungs, the three of us taking turns for more than an hour while you cannot breathe on your own, refusing to give up while we feel the thin tremble of a pulse in your neck?

Aiko and I dragging Neff from the clutches of some drunken maniac as you let fly with booted feet, pummeling the man into unconsciousness?

Jacques?s fury at finding you too high to step out, and the beating I took for standing up to him... and your disdain at my weakness for taking the beating meant for you.

A stolen car and manic dash to an emergency room, watching as you are shocked back to life not once, not twice, but three times?

I should give up on you, for I long ago learned not to stand in the path of those who would destroy themselves. I cannot do it. I cannot because they cannot: Neff, and Aiko will not surrender, will fight for you to the bitter end they know must come. If these two wounded souls can stand by you, how can I not?

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One Day In the Life..

?The most important thing?s to stick together. Ain?t nobody here for us girls but us.?

I nodded, nothing more, keeping up my facade of nervous anticipation. Neff and Aiko had paired off to work the far end of ?our? block while we took the north corner. Our pimp, Jacques, was a small-time player and his girls all worked a set of streets centered on a hotel he owned through his mother, the kind of place that rents rooms by the hour and charges an extra three dollars if you want clean sheets. It was just after noon and there were already cars cruising the block, looking us over.

She seemed steadier now. Back at the apartment I had watched as she slipped a needle into a vein in her left arm, that act followed by nearly half an hour of eye-fluttering incoherence as she lay trembling on the couch. Neff told me not to worry, that this was her way of making the day tolerable, but I could see she was hovering on the brink, her body only barely able to tolerate what she was doing to herself.

Part of me, the cold and rational being that made up the center of me, suggested I face reality and let her finish destroying herself. I had seen many such episodes in my life and why should this one be any different than the others? What made me sit by her wiping the spittle from her mouth when there were others in this place just like her who would be left to fend for themselves? As she settled down, her body becoming bonelessly relaxed I could see something, that very same vision I had had the day I first saw her- through the drug-induced haze there was a burning core of anger, the only thing that kept her moving through one day and into the next.

Now, out on the street, she was all in control. Numbed against the reality of her trade she could ply it wearing a facade of indifference and as a late model Chevrolet drew up beside us, its driver beckoning with one hand, she sauntered up to the passenger side and rested her hands on the door as she bent down to look the driver in the face.

?You lonely, baby??

I watched her haggle with the man, a middle aged fellow from Montana according to the license plate. He was experienced, that I could tell, and it was clear she understood this too, but after a few minutes she turned her head, looking over her shoulder at me.

?Both of us? Now that?s what I like, a man with a real appetite. Forty-five, and you pay for the room. Angie! Let?s go!?

Suddenly she was excited, the energy of that moment sweeping aside all other considerations as I strolled to the curb.

?Deux??

?Oui.?

He had a name, but what could it matter? We took him to the hotel, her pouring obscene incantations into his ear as I groped at his groin, massaging the growing bulge in his pants. She was a superb actress, swallowing her disgust, her outrage and her anger as she tumbled into bed with him, the two of us swarming the man, eager to bring this episode to an end as quickly as we could. For one hour we gave up ourselves to his desires, surrendering all we held precious for mere money. Such degradations rolled off me, too familiar to raise my ire as I chose to be there in that way for a purpose of my own. For her it was as another nail in her coffin, another irreplaceable piece of who she was chipped away and irrecoverable.

He tipped us, paying ninety dollars, enough to cover the nut for the night, but she insisted we return to the corner and so we strolled and strutted, dragging down one warped soul after another. Sometimes we were together, other times we worked it alone, but we followed up with each other, our concern for each other the only insurance we had against the stinking depravity of the life we led.

I had vowed never to whore again, yet I slipped so easily into the role that by the end of the night I nearly lost myself in it, feeling the old resentments such labor would sow within me. When she emerged from the back seat of yet another car she was smiling and laughing until it pulled away, then her cheeks hollowed as she worked her mouth and spat, trying to cleanse herself of the taste of it. She nearly told me to get back to work, but then her eyes softened, glistening with the barely contained agony roiling inside her and I saw her shake with it.

?You look like you?ve had enough,? she finally said, her face settling into her preferred scowl of disapproval. ?Let?s go crash.?

We turned in our latest earnings to the ?doorman? at the hotel, one of Jacques?s thugs, and then went looking for Neff and Aiko, finding the two of them loitering in the shadows of an alley. Aiko asked how I was and I gave her a wan smile, but my partner told her I was a disaster and lucky she had been with me or I might have earned a beating my first night out. The four of us wandered back to our rundown apartment, stepping over the drunks passed out in the doorways and halls until we closed the door behind us, shutting out the world as the sky turned grey with the coming dawn.

Pay for me
Have your way with me
Don?t dare think you mean anything to me
Now I got a hundred dollars all my own
So you can just fuck off and leave me alone

Impermeable Shield of Stupid
Hera- 1964

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1963

I saw you long before we met; you and your girlfriends on a street corner near the French Quarter, surrounded by a crowd. You were playing guitar while Neff and Aiko accompanied on the violin and viola. It was hauntingly beautiful, and so very sad, for as I approached it was clear despite this performance you had another occupation, one that was destroying you by degrees. You were beautiful even with the heavy makeup you used to cover the bruises on your face, even with the obvious needle tracks in your arms.

Another woman watching you perform was nearly in tears, and I asked her why she was crying. She told me it was such a waste, such talent being lost here in the abattoir of the New Orleans flesh pots. I agreed with her and I watched as the three of you played, the music floating from your instruments like the scent of roses caught upon a light summer breeze. It was sad, but beneath it there was anger, perhaps too subtle for others to perceive, but so clear to my senses. You were dying, being murdered, really, and you felt so powerless. Perhaps that was what the woman I spoke with understood- not that musical artists were being wasted as whores, but that they were being destroyed.

I watched for an hour, until a hard faced man arrived to take the money others had left in appreciation of your artistry and order you back to your ?real job? with gruff, Cajun obscenities. I saw the anger and the surrender in you.

I fell in love with you that very day, that very moment. I do not act rashly, yet I set aside everything I had planned, the course I expected my life to follow, and I returned to Boston to prepare.

Three weeks after that fateful Saturday in April, Jacques picked me up at a bus station in Mississippi and I played the part expected, allowing him to draw me into that dark realm where he imprisoned you. Three weeks after that, he dragged me into your flat, the one the three of you shared, and said you had another girl to look after. You were not terribly happy, and you snapped at me, demanding my name.

?Angevin,? I told you, pronouncing it in my best French accent: Ohn-sheh-veen.

?Fuck that,? you laughed, ?you?re Angie. Get used to it.?

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Not With a Bang, but a Whimper...

God hath chosen the foolish things of the world to confound the wise; and God hath chosen the weak things of the world to confound the things which are mighty. (First Corinthians, 1:27)

Ostia, circa 115 BCE

Dawn was more than an hour past as I made my way to the fish market?our brothel had its own kitchen and we could bring in quite a morning crowd, turning a decent profit from selling fish cakes and bread, let alone our other common wares. The morning was delightfully cool and there had been a rain during the night so the air was clean, delicious on the tongue. I actually felt a certain contentment; something so very rare these past years, so when I was interrupted it made me more predisposed to lash out. He was a young man who recognized me from a party some time ago, and I did try to politely put him off, but he was insistent and thus sealed his own fate.

I led him into an alleyway, to some empty stables for a quick dalliance and I took his life almost as an afterthought. As I did so I nearly felt? regret. He struggled on the ground, weakening by the second as he hissed and burbled. I had struck his own knife deep into his throat, cutting his voice box for good measure. I leaned back against the wall as he died, watching him silently.

It used to mean something more, killing these people. It had been a visceral joy the first time, and the second, and the third? better than sex, better than a full meal after weeks of starvation. Each death was an epiphany, an eruption of feeling. It was the closest thing I had to feeling true power, and that had fueled me for more than ten years, but now? Now it was almost habit rather than joy. All these men and women dead by my hand, and it seemed the only reason I kept on was to hold at bay the creeping suspicion that it was all meaningless.

As he faded I stepped away from the wall and settled to my knees beside him, laying my hand upon his cheek. His eyes glazed, the ruddy complexion of his face slowly darkening.

?It?s not your fault,? I whispered, ?it was just bad timing? sleep now and be done???

I made to clean my hands on his cloak; by now I had learned to kill a man with a knife without making too great a mess, but I had some blood on my hands. I also stripped him of his valuables to make his body look as if he had been robbed. It was a dangerous ploy, for I would be at risk while they were in my possession, but I would dump them in the river so no one would find them. I had no stomach these days for seeing common thieves put to death for my crimes.

I froze when I heard a quiet noise off to one side, turning just in time to spy movement behind a wooden box at the other end of the alleyway. I held still for a moment, just listening. I had known this place well and was certain it was empty this time of day. Clearly someone was near the back of the alley cul-de-sac. If it was more than one, I would have to pretend I had found this man waylaid. It would be a weak excuse, but it had been so many years since anyone had even questioned me I believed I could pull it off. But if it was just one, then perhaps I would have one more kill to crown this morning before returning to my more mundane tasks.

I rose to my feet and strode towards the box and there was an unmistakable intake of breath. It had the sound of a woman, or a boy.

?I know you?re there my friend,? I said. I was calm and welcoming. ?Please show yourself.?

Not a sound came and I sighed in resignation. What did this person hope to accomplish? I resolved to make it quick for I had lingered here long enough. A single corpse could be easily explained easily by simple robbery, but two would attract attention, and my last had been taken just four days previous.

I strode down the length of the alley and stepped around the box to find myself confronting a boy no more than ten years old, huddled in a servant?s entrance doorway. He was dirty the way only long months on the streets can make one dirty. He looked Greek, or perhaps even Ethiopian, with hair like black wool, dark olive skin, and brown eyes large and wide with terror. He was beautiful, quivering in the deep alcove leading to the door, his eyes darting from side to side before fixing on me.

?There?s nowhere for you to go,? I told him gently. I smiled broadly, welcomingly, like an aunt or sister, and stepped towards him. He bolted towards me, ducking as if to run underneath me, and I lunged downward to catch him. But suddenly he jumped up, leaping like a squirrel and actually bouncing off my shoulder, kicking at me as he ran. I turned and grabbed for his leg but his skin was slick with the sweat of fear and he slipped my grasp. I cursed myself for being so careless.

For a brief moment I thought to let him go. I stood there for a pair of heartbeats, watching him sprint to the end of the alleyway. It was still dark in the alley, and my cloak covered my head. He could not have seen my face clearly, and who would listen to a street urchin?s tales of a woman killing a man nearly twice her size?

But I became frantic. I had to have him. He had an good head start and people would be filling the streets soon, yet I sprinted down the alley, determined to find him anyway. As I left the alley I saw him a ways off, stopping to catch his breath. As he saw me he began to run again, directly toward the market. I walked quickly but calmly. I had to catch him. I would not let this little street rat bring me down.

I turned a corner and spotted him not ten paces away behind a crowd of women bartering with a large African basketseller. I pointed at the boy and yelled, ?Thief!? The merchant and women turned to stare as he jumped and sprinted away, dumping over a pile of baskets. The merchant swore and the women squawked as I shoved past them, tripping over the baskets and cursing. As more and more people filled the streets, I ran on, looking for any sign of the boy while others looked at me, idly curious but not otherwise paying much attention as I searched for anything out of the ordinary such as shouting, or swearing or?

Another angry merchant was collecting a pile of fruits that had tumbled into the street near a corner, cursing and looking over his shoulder to the east. I broke into a run, sprinting around the corner in the direction the merchant had been looking. Noting the zig-zagging direction the boy seemed to be taking, the memory of his scent came? rotted fish and oil. He must live near the docks. I zigzagged though the narrow streets and even narrower alleys, pausing now and again to look and listen.

I came to a square where three bakeries formed another small marketing spot and I stopped, something telling me to pause and look. I scanned the crowd and the corners of the buildings and a sudden motion caught my attention. I saw him staring at me, his face a study in shock as he peered around the corner of a stall selling baskets of yellow bread loaves. He bolted again, but I had his measure now and I sprinted down a parallel alley before turning to spy him across the way, headed the way I anticipated.

I have your number now you little vermin!

I bolted down a parallel street, threading through the growing crowd like a serpent through grass, heedless of the sometimes-indignant cries of those I passed. I had to get ahead of him before he reached the river, for he doubtless had people there who knew him and that would complicate matters. I broke into the cross street and turned east, expecting him to emerge from the alley at any moment? except that he did not. I reached the entrance to the alley and saw nothing, not him, nor any obvious place he might be hiding. I whirled about, looking west and caught the barest glimpse of a small form as it disappeared into another alleyway further down the street.

The insolent little mouse had doubled back upon me! With a growl in my throat I took after him again, able to run at a full gait along an empty side street. There would be no more attempting to finesse this. He had shown me how clever he was and I would not let him slip from my sight again.

I sprinted along the space between two buildings and out into another narrow street where I turned again towards the river mouth. I heard a shout ahead, some cursing, and I knew I was close. Suddenly, I burst into the docks area.

I saw him then, not too far ahead but running full out, the flash of the pale bottoms of his dirty bare feet almost a blur as he headed toward a ship? a boat that had just cast off its last moring, and was already beginning to push clear of the dock.

I sprinted after him, closing the distance rapidly, but as I ran a man stepped toward me as if to grab my arm. I spun as he reached for me, my cloak and part of my shift ripping away as I tore myself free. I continued running after the little wharf rat, thinking I would catch him in the river if I must. I was sure I could out swim him, and I was certain he could not possibly catch the boat.

But I was wrong. As he reached the end of the dock, perhaps only ten paces ahead of me, he gave a mighty yell and launched into the air, hands and feet flailing? and he caught in some thick netting hanging from the stern of the boat.

I skidded to a stop and fell just at the edge of the dock, sweating and panting, nearly falling into the water. Looking down I noticed that I was all but naked, my shift torn to shreds and my cloak long gone. I looked up to see two stout seamen pulling the boy into the back of the ship, staring at me as the rowers eased the vessel out into the mouth of the river, bound for the sea. The boy was saying something to the crewmen, and others were watching with great curiosity. The man who had grabbed my cloak came running up behind me and suddenly I was acutely aware of just how public, and just how dangerous a situation, I was in. I had to do something, say something, and a desperate thought for cover came to me.

I leapt to my feet and shook my fist at the boy as I screamed at the top of my lungs.

?The little shit didn?t pay!?

Silence fell over the docks for an instant, and then someone started laughing, first just a chuckle, but growing into a full-throated uproar of mirth. It spread to the others, shrieks of laughter coming even from the man who had my torn cloak in his hands. He was bent over, tears streaming down his face as he guffawed. On the boat I saw the men laughing and clapping the boy on the back, clearly amused and astounded by his supposed audacity, but he was not laughing himself. His eyes were fixed on me, still wide and terrified.

I locked my eyes on his, and then very deliberately broke into a smile. I raised my right hand high in salute, and after a moment he did the same. I could see him visibly relax. I then turned to the man holding the remnants of my cloak and snatched it from his hands.

?Tell me, where is that ship bound?? I asked him.

?Oh, they?re Egyptian, sweet doris. They won?t be making way back here for another few months. Maybe you can settle up then??

He was laughing at me as he said it, but I ignored him and stomped away, wrapping what was left of my garment about my hips, relieved to find I still had the pocket with my last victim?s belongings in my possession. I tried to calm myself, but I was shaken so badly that I had to find an alley where I could just stop and try to make sense of what I was feeling, of what had happened.

There was a sensation in me that I could not place my finger upon, and it touched me whenever I thought of that boy sailing away, escaping my grasp. It wasn?t until several minutes passed that I realized just what it was: I was happy.

I was glad he had escaped. I had not put my hands around his slender little neck, and I was relieved for him. It surprised me to realize this, and as I tried to understand it I felt myself going weak, my knees buckling, forcing me to sit.

The confusing happiness I felt turned to something bitter and terrifying. How could this failure render me more satisfied than all the murderous artistry of the past thirteen years? What did it mean that a child had bested me, and that I was relieved to have it so? In the years since Rufus died I had been in pursuit of something almost indefinable, and it had lain forever just beyond my grasp. I sought to feel powerful again, to assert mastery over others, but that quest seemed unending?and what had been such ultimate joy had become something I was afraid to stop.

In that moment I just stared at the wall opposite and it came to me. I finally knew the truth about myself. I was not a goddess. I had never truly been one and never would be one. As I tasted that thought I angrily rejected it, but it returned, refusing to be set so easily aside. I tried to hold it away, to make it leave my mind, but it returned, doubly insistent until I clapped my hands to my ears and crouched, singing softly to myself. But finally I was forced to look at it and accept what it meant.

All the hate, the fury, the death and mayhem sown by my hands: Worthless.

I remained in that alley for a very long time, alternately raging in frustration and weeping in resignation. But there was no escaping it. Rufus had been more right than he knew:

You can never be more than a frightening and murderous witch skulking in the shadows?

The final acceptance of this truth closed about my heart like chains of iron, cold and unyielding; anchoring me in the here and now as the world I thought I knew receded into nothingness.

I finally rose to my feet, looking out from the alley to the street and there were many people about as the day had begun in earnest, the docks and markets coming to life. I straightened my torn garments as best I could, stalling, somehow unwilling to walk amongst them, perhaps even afraid to do so. When I strode out into the crowd I wore a careful mask of carefree indifference, but as I moved amongst them, threading a path through the sounds, scents and feel of them I found myself more utterly alone than ever I had been.

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The Valley of the Shadow...

Rufus?s suicide and the open gloating of his wife and cousin had been bitter to endure, but that was merely the beginning. The next morning Vipsania had taunted me before the household, daring me to act, to prove I was divine and undo the acts she had set in motion; and I had been powerless, knowing in my black and burning heart that the Romans themselves had stolen my divinity from me?tearing me from my lands and the comfortable dominion I had enjoyed, burying me in the stinking swamp of their worthless and corrupt myths and beliefs. What place was this, amongst brick and stone and the poison of a city, for the Huntress?

Note: what follows may be disturbing and/or not safe for work

My ultimate humiliation had come after the death of my doomed love, after she showed me the cold and lifeless body of the old Greek who despised me yet had won my affection and respect. She told me Marieko cursed my name before he died.

?You should die as well,? she told me, ?Though Livius says I should deny Rufus the final honor of his dying wish, but I believe I will keep your pretty throat intact.?

?You would do well to heed the words of your husband-to-be,? I had snapped at her, seeking to goad her into action, ?lest he suspect you might have designs on yet another man.?

She laughed at me then, the sound made ever more cutting by the clear beauty of her voice.

?Oh, no, little one, Livius has no such concerns regarding me. He shall be Senator, and I shall have what I desire?a path to power for my sons. Our match is too perfect for either of us to risk it. No, I am free to do with you as I please. And I am mindful of my debt to you, for I am certain my late husband would never have been moved to such a bold plan had you not filled his head with silly notions of Destiny and Prophecy. And of course, I know the perfect solution? the perfect place for the likes of you.?

And so I finally came to the great city of Rome herself not as a victorious goddess, but in chains in the back of a slave cart to be sold as a whore. Sometime on the journey to that city, somewhere in the back of that cart, something inside me snapped and I was overcome with numbness. My rage and anguish still burned furiously hot, but somehow it became distant, muffled and far away. When I tried to reach out to embrace it, to feel it? there was nothing, just numbness, nothingness. It was as if I had been torn asunder and that part of me, the part that knew the taste of rage and fury and all other passions now sat apart, screaming in some dark secluded place separate from the rest of me.

By the time I was sold in the marketplace in Rome, specifically to a whoremaster at Vipsania?s orders, I had become disinterested in all that surrounded me. I watched my own actions with detachment as I did what was expected of a slave, a role I knew well and that came back to me without effort. In the coolly intellectual part of myself I knew this could not last, that this submission was more than odious. Yet that knowledge could not stir in me the urge to rebel against it. I submitted to every indignity, iron chains and a mark upon my hip. I could seem to take no action of my own volition.

My new master?s name was Pavlos. He was a freed slave who ran his patron?s brothels in Rome and Ostia, seeing that they turned a profit whilst never allowing his patron?s name to be too closely associated with them. He dragged me to the adiles to register me as a prostitute under the name Felicia, then set me immediately to work. He fancied himself a strong-willed man and a demanding master, but I had his measure in a day. In a way his pathetic nature eventually drove me to some action beyond listlessness. It became my plan to endure this place until I could leave Rome without worry of being pursued, and then make for my old lands. I kept a civil tongue when that bloviating fool spoke to me and I bided my time.

I turned out to be popular amongst his clients, at least those who preferred the company of women, for without any pretense to vanity I can say I was easily the most attractive of the girls there. I wore a mask of cheerful servitude that I had learned many centuries before?the instincts came almost automatically and while part of me recoiled in horror I could not find the energy to break out of it. Still, my cheerful demeanor endeared me to many clients so that my earnings were always good.

The House of Pavlos was decidedly not a high-end establishment. Pavlos was a terrible manager, and a worse master?he beat girls who failed to perform to his satisfaction, that in itself no unusual thing, but he lacked the good sense to avoid bruising their faces. Of the sanitary conditions, the less said the better.

Seeing that Pavlos somehow had to be turned I made certain to pay special attention to him, for his suspicious and brutal nature stood in opposition to my half-hearted thoughts of escape. It never occurred to me to simply dispose of him, such was my subdued condition, but he proved ridiculously easy to manipulate, as did all those around me, and within a few weeks I had him convinced I loved him and could not stand to be without his touch. It suited his ego and certainly amused the other whores, but once I had him firmly in hand I was able to effect changes in the house, making subtle suggestions that come morning he would swear were his own thoughts.

It began as simply having the ten girls and four young men spend an hour or two every morning just cleaning rather than standing out on the street trying to attract customers, who seldom visited during those hours anyway. We began keeping clean cubicles and making more use of the laundry Pavlos?s patron maintained. Pavlos complained bitterly of the cost, but soon the combination of a clean house, well-groomed whores and fresh bedding did have the predictable result: business increased and our prices rose accordingly. From there it slowly became my responsibility to discipline the bad performers and see to it the establishment gathered in the monies Pavlos demanded. In order to do this I was forced to endure more than one beating at his hands, but such were of small consequence, and once the changes had taken place the weekly tallies were easily met, then well exceeded.

Some ten weeks after arriving in Rome I found myself in charge in all but name and I ran the brothel with an efficient if sunny brutality, gathering in more control as Pavlos became happily preoccupied with counting his patron?s money and skimming profits for himself. I disposed of the older and less comely whores, dipping in to the brothel?s accounts to purchase new slaves, youthful and attractive and at least less diseased than their predecessors. I set my own medical knowledge to the task of keeping them as healthy as was reasonably possible. There were now thirty girls and seventeen boys and our establishment began to gain more respectable clients as word spread through the subura that ours was an entertaining place to spend one?s free time. Profits increased even more as I raised our prices and hired boys to escort some of the prettier girls out during the day to drum up business, and I often went myself, since I remained better looking than all of what passed for beauty in this place.

All in all, perhaps four months? effort on my part, just to reach a point where I could be out upon the streets without Pavlos to keep me in check. Once that was accomplished I set my sight on being shut of the place, to buy my freedom so I would not have to flee and risk being caught and in even worse circumstances? but something still held me in check.

It served a purpose, all of this activity on my part. I cared not one whit for those whom my actions gave benefit, not Pavlos?s pocketbook or the young men and women whose lives were still miserable, but certainly less so now. It all helped me to avoid looking back upon that tiny, scintillating spark that dwelt within me, yet so far from me I could not even feel its warmth. At night my dreams were fevered and I would awaken sometimes with my heart racing, my breast filled with panic and hate, but it would fade so swiftly into the numbing grey that cocooned my thoughts and my life. I would almost look forward to those nightmares because for one brief instant I would actually feel something, anything other than the cold and passionless plodding of the days as they passed. I confess the numbness at times was so bad that alone in bed at night I would occasionally cut myself with a knife, just to feel something, but even that pain was usually so dull and distant it brought almost no reaction. One night in frustration I thrust the knife through my left hand completely. But even that brought only a brief surfeit from the numbness that enveloped me, the pain a thing I could feel only as a phantom, removed from me, unreal. By the next day of course the wound was gone. I took at least some comfort in the fact that at least this visible manifestation of my strange nature had not abandoned me, even if it frustrated: I could not even truly hurt myself.

We had begun hiring out to banquets and other festivities, sending a dozen or more to act as servants and entertainment for the assorted guests. I usually took part in these for I was in fairly high demand amongst our regular patrons. Pavlos preferred that I go because it spared him the need to see that everyone returned the following along with whatever accoutrements they might have taken with them. I would send everyone on their way, remaining behind to ensure nothing and no one had been forgotten, and then I would make my way back on my own. I told myself that I would one day use just such a day to take my leave of Pavlos and Rome, but I never truly acted on this, not even so far as to scout the ways out of the city.

I was returning from just such an engagement, this having kept me at our customer?s dwelling well past midday, when I encountered the man who led me to feel something again. He was a taller man, and older, perhaps forty, and I spied him walking with some five others of similar bearing, headed to some purpose. I noticed him because his eyes locked onto me with recognition, and then he made some excuse to his companions and parted from them. Not one of them even chanced to glance in my direction.

I recognized him, of course. He had been in Rufus?s villa in Arretium for a day during my first year there, but his name escaped me. He did not offer it when he spoke to me, but simply asked if I were indeed the Felicia from that house and I told him that I was. He enquired as to my current circumstance and I was truthful regarding that as well, though I made no mention of my odd status within the brothel. We chatted in as amiable a fashion as was appropriate as he accompanied me on my way, and I maintained a friendly flirtatiousness with him, but inside I was deeply annoyed?he brought up memories of those closing days and of my humiliation.

But the annoyance lit a small spark, and I began to blow gently upon it as we reached the alley that would take me into the heart of the subura, what in modern America would be called the Red Light district. I thought to part with him there, but then he noted in a very matter-of-fact way that he had always fancied me.

?Well of course you do,? I replied, smiling, ?you have excellent taste, after all. If you come to the House of Pavlos tonight I can promise you??

?Oh, no, that wouldn?t do,? he protested, ?I shall be on my way soon, with much to do. I was thinking we might just try one of these.?

He walked to one of the stalls forming the entrance to the alleyway and tried the door, which was surprisingly not even fastened shut. He smiled charmingly and seemed to like me. I smiled in return. He looked around and no one was about so he ushered me inside. The stall was really the back of a workshop, perhaps where a mule was kept, though it seemed unused as he peered out front and pronounced the place unoccupied. We haggled briefly on a price, since this was obviously not the most accommodating place, then I stripped off my garment, a robe somewhat more modest than my usual raiment, and I spread it on the ground, reclining upon it as he worked open his own clothes.

He descended on me in full heat, but I was accustomed to such treatment and bore his rough penetration without complaint, relaxing to accept him even as I made quite sounds of encouragement. I danced on my back underneath him for a bit but he seemed intent on taking as full advantage as he could, first urging me onto all fours that he might mount me from behind, then laying back and having me straddle him.

It was strictly utilitarian from my point. My purpose was to bring him to climax quickly, but one had to be sure to play to the male ego, so my face was a mask of pleasure and excitement while quiet sighs of passion passed my lips. All the while I was growing angrier and more impatient. I hated him for recognizing me, for being a part of a past that had robbed me of so much, for his easy acceptance of the circumstance that led me to be here on this day and in this manner, and for taking advantage. In another place, under other circumstance I would have killed him for far less than what he inflicted upon me now. I would have killed him just for being Roman, and the visceral thought of that sent a thrill through the core of me, like some deep well of fire had been tapped and was seeking release. The anger fueled it such that my pelvis now ground against his with renewed purpose as I imagined taking this fool?s life in the most gruesome fashion even as he urged me to greater effort, his body straining upwards beneath me as his finish approached.

I looked upon his face, seeing him straining close-eyed, his hands firm like clamps upon my hips as he held me tight against him, and it burst through me as a storm?not orgasm, but screaming rage so hot it burned through all thought and caution. He shuddered as his own pathetic pleasure took him and I struck him, first my right arm driving the knuckles of my balled fist in to his exposed throat and then my left, feeling his windpipe fracture as he jerked beneath me, his body now rigid and trembling, his spine arched as his climax poured forth.

He began to thrash, his hands suddenly as fists, lashing out at me, but I held him imprisoned beneath me and batted aside his flailing arms, his body already so spent in this furious copulation there was little left for his final, defiant spasms, and as his face darkened and his motions became but trembling, it swept though me: a pleasure so sweet, so utterly delicious in its source and flavor I could hardly believe it could be real but for the convulsions of physical joy rippling through my flesh. I was so very alive!

It subsided slowly as I held myself atop him, unwilling to so much as move unless it should bring this joyous convulsion of pleasure and hate to a sudden end, but it could not last and as my heart slowed and the furnace of my rage banked and cooled I felt tears in my eyes, so desperate I was to hold onto that delicious pleasure, that white hot feeling. When it was gone I sprang up to my feet in sudden revulsion, standing over the corpse, stifling my sobs of anguish as the dead and icy vault of numb resignation returned to claim me. I kicked the body, trying to reclaim the savage glee I had felt as I struck him and crushed his throat, but it fled from me, returning to that far away place I could not reach, that I could barely look upon.

All of it, the pleasure, the fiery joy of it, the delicious sensation of such total arousal, left me trembling and confused, but I quickly realized I had a very real problem on my hands. In all our thrashing about on the floor my robe had been kicked aside so I fetched it up, donning it swiftly as I moved towards the door, peering out between the cracks to look on the street beyond. Traffic was normal, nearly all on foot, but this end of the alley had no open shops so people were not venturing in this direction. I found a bit of cloth hanging from a post and used it to wrap up my hair so that its color would be less obvious, then watched the ebb and flow of the crowds. When I judged the moment right I swiftly slipped out the door and began walking away from the alley. I would circle around and approach the subura from the opposite direction.

As I made good my escape I felt a cold certainty within my heart: I knew what was needed now. Escape would not serve, not until I had recaptured that part of me these Romans had stolen.

As time passed the memory of that killing became more muddied, and I began to doubt I had experienced those things. It was the deadness inside me, the numbing lack of anything that deceived me, pushing away that fleeting moment of absolute feral ecstasy. Still, there was that searing spark, buried so deeply in me, so very hot and painful yet so far away?that far away part of me watched, and waited.

It was more than a month before I took another life. My second victim was barely a man, just seventeen. Drunk on wine and so very full of his own needs he accosted me as I sought to join others from my House on a job just off the Aventine Hill. I let him draw me in to an alley before the fury awoke within me and I slipped his grasp, twisting to one side as my left arm caught him by the neck, pulling him off his balance. My grip tightened and he made a noise, a quiet, desperate gasp as his throat was closed and I continued to twist, leaning back as he fell forward, turning his head until I felt the sudden cracking of bones and he went limp. I let him slide to the ground, dragging his corpse to the wall and dropping him there, then moving on down the alley and out onto the street again, walking as if I had not a care in the world even as my blood sang with the fire of this newfound delight.

It was so easy to do because I hated them so. I hated their pretensions to civilization, their fascination with blood sport, their arrogant assumption of superiority. The very soul of their culture was warped and diseased and I had allowed it to infect me, to deceive me into believing that I could become a part of it, could rule over it. Then I had watched it destroy the man I loved and bring all my hopes?hopes I had never dared allow myself before they gave them to me?to ruination.

So it became a game, truly a sport for me, taking my trophies in dark alleys or even in the most public of places, each death restoring to me just one more shred of that which had been lost at the hands of this vile race.

I grew bolder as I realized they were unable to recognize what was happening, treating my acts as individual events. A family would send hired men to hunt down the killer of their loved one, only to fall upon some hapless thief who stumbled on the body and stripped it of anything of value. I would hear the uproar and go to the square where some magistrate would condemn the fool to death and then watch with glee as the Romans did my killing for me. If anything those deaths were sweetest of all.

There was a hunger, a ferocious need within me that could only find satisfaction in wanton slaughter. I once took an entire household, poisoning the wine they had purchased for a son?s wedding, then watched in astounded glee as the fury of the neighborhood turned on a cousin who had some petty squabble with the family, ending in his suicide. It was as if they could not help but step into my bloody grasp, helpless to resist, even eager to feed my rage.

The butcher?s bill grew longer, years passing as I struggled to reach that point, so tantalizingly close, yet always just beyond my grasp, where I could call myself satisfied and whole once more. My ferocious appetite began to leak out around the edges of the carefully cheerful persona I affected, frightening my master, Pavlos, such that he shipped me off to Ostia. There I found even better game amongst the transient merchants and sailors who regularly flooded that port city. For who noticed another dead sailor apparently waylaid by muggers?

I lived for nothing but the kill. More than a decade passed, a savage, bloodstained collection of years where my vicious sport left a trail of death and heartbreak in two cities and even across the sea, and though I came close to being discovered once or twice, I always managed to outwit the fool Romans. Yet it never seemed enough, and my determination to see it done, to complete this tapestry of murder and vengeance, began to overtake the fury that drove me, the pleasure of each act falling prey to the desperate hope that this one would put paid to the debt I sought to collect.

How many lives would it take to quell the hunger within me? After some time, I ceased to even ask the question.

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Whom the Gods Would Destroy...

Arretium, circa 128 BCE

Death, when it comes, rarely arrives with a knock at the door, waiting politely while one prepares oneself. This is a lesson I had learned long before, yet still the following events struck me with a force beyond any I had experienced in many centuries.

Two days before it came, Salia was playing in the library while I read. Her childish musings were no distraction to me; indeed, they were almost calming. Sometimes this place was simply too quiet for my liking?a thought that would have seemed passing strange not so long before. In a way her presence there was also an act of defiance, for Marieko had forbidden her to speak to me. This naturally rendered me irresistible to her, but I respected her grandfather?s wishes as best I could, feeling that I outraged the old man sufficiently as it was.

I was reading Euripides that morning, finishing up what Rufus had of his writings with Troiades. It struck me that Euripides seemed certain the gods were much like mortals: so petty, so childish. It made little sense to me. In my domain I had most certainly punished those who slighted me, but mortals with the good sense to run away seldom had much to fear from me. Indeed, the more I read of the doings of the gods of the Greeks and Romans, the less kinship I felt with them, extending even to my counterpart Diana.

It was while ruminating on these things that a phrase caught my attention, something Salia whispered as she toyed with a rag doll on the floor near my feet.

?No she?s not a tricker, you?re a tricker. You should be nice to her?she?s so lonely.?

My head snapped about and I stared at her down on the floor. She looked up at me, then looked to her side and made a shushing gesture.

In a calm and friendly voice I asked her, ?Who are you talking to, little one??

?Nobody,? she replied, looking up at me wide-eyed.

I smiled at her. ?Ah, it sounded like you were talking to somebody. Perhaps you were talking to your doll??

?Dolls don?t talk,? she said in a very matter-of-fact tone, ?they?re just dolls.?

?That?s true, but tell me, does anyone talk to you? Anyone? special? Perhaps someone who only talks to you??

She tried not to smile, but her face gave her away, then she giggled. It took no small amount of will for me to maintain my calm demeanor, for inside I was roiling.

?I?m not supposed to say,? she told me, ?but you already know??

?Yes, Salia, I do know. What is your friend?s name??

?It?s a secret. He won?t tell me.?

Even as she spoke I knew the truth of it and began to calm myself. With a few more questions I confirmed it: an imaginary friend. Lonely children often created those and, though I had never been a child, I recognized the phenomenon well. I found myself uncomfortably remembering my past, from the time before I became a goddess, memories I had pushed away but which came suddenly to the fore. I remembered times when I had cared for children? and remembered seeing people be very cruel to children who imagined friends, accusing them of consorting with demons. I knew it was merely harmless play.

Yet that knowledge could not completely erase the flash of trepidation I had felt, for I had thought for one brief, terrifying moment that my nemesis, Loghaz, had found the path to place his voice in this child?s ear.

Loghaz: the trickster, demon whisperer of lies and fear. Not since the day that voice had driven me back into the arms of the man I had hated, then feared and now loved, had he deigned to speak to me again. Indeed neither Loghaz nor any other of the familiar voices of the gods ever came to me. It was as if leaving my lands had stripped them from me.

An unbidden thought startled me: Or perhaps we were never more than a lonely dream? It was as a whisper from some secret place, yet I knew it to be merely my own words, and that realization chilled me such that I shivered in my seat.

I gazed again at the tome I held. Now the tale of Cassandra and Hecuba and the gods held no lure for me. I had felt for some time something was amiss and this sudden remembrance had focused my mind and fixed my heart upon it. The gods of the Romans might be powerful and hold sway over these people, but they were not my kin. They did not speak to me.

If that were the case, if these unfamiliar feelings of doubt were indeed simple and undeniable truth, then what of Rufus? What of his certainty that my divinity would guide his plans to fruition? This revelation was sudden and crushing, all the more so for having built within me these many weeks as I partook of the fountain of knowledge given me by the written word. Rufus, so confident, so certain?

Whom the gods would destroy they first make proud.

One old Greek had taught me the meaning of written words. Now the written words of another old Greek taught me the meaning of doubt: doubts I had long suppressed, doubts I had never even considered.

I sent Salia on her way, and then set out to find Marieko. I had questions for the old man, and I hoped to find him in a talkative mood.

?A question? You? The wise and immortal Felicitas, O child of Jupiter and Priestess of Diana, you seek to ask me a question?? He cast his eyes skyward and grimaced. ?What great power have I so wronged that he sets you on my doorstep again!??

?Please,? I whispered, ?old teacher? this is not a moment for your ranting against me. You have knowledge and I have fears. My questions may be your very own.?

He stopped then, and regarded me with narrowing eyes. I had never used either of those words with him before, neither ?please? nor ?teacher?, and hearing them from me clearly gave him pause.

?Well, speak your questions quickly then,? he said, ?for I am busy. Rufus?s wife is coming to visit you know.?

This caught me up short. ?His wife?? I asked. Rufus had gone to Rome twice without me to attend to business matters with his wife, but he had assured me she meant nothing to him and that she would never come here.

?Yes indeed,? Marieko continued to speak while my mind wrestled with several conflicting emotions and ideas at once. ?An advance courier arrived not an hour ago to say she would be arriving no later than sunset with important business matters for Rufus. We will of course need to sort out what to do with you while she?s here.?

?What do you mean, ?do with me??? I asked, a flush of anger and jealousy injecting itself into my confusion as my mind caught up with his words.

?Come now, barbarian, you?ve been carrying on as this man?s mistress, shamefully above your station, and now his rightful wife is?.?

?Enough, Marieko!? Rufus?s voice barked from down the tiled hallway. He was striding toward us purposefully, a moderately manic look marring his normally cool and controlled features. As he approached he gave the old Greek a withering glare, then stopped and gently took my elbow. ?Felicitas, please come, we must speak privately.?

I locked my knees and glared at him. ?Oh we must speak, must we?? I said. Sudden anger drove all my earlier thoughts and concerns away. ?And of what must we speak that the old man must not hear??

A look of anger whipped across his countenance, and then suddenly turned?for a breath?to a flash of fear that he quickly put under control. Then he laughed jovially.

?Ah, my Felicitas. You are so lovely when you are like this. Come with me and we shall talk.? As he chuckled, he tugged at me, and I reluctantly allowed him to draw me away. Fury warred with what I had to admit was petty jealousy as he guided me to the privacy of our shared bedroom, quickly shutting the door against other ears.

?My lovely Felicia?? he began. I merely glared at him. ?A complication has arisen in our plans.?

?Your plans,? I said coolly.

His look became cold. ?Our plans,? he said firmly. ?We have spoken of this. You know that a Roman wife does not begrudge her husband casual dalliances but that I must still honor the contract with Vipsania until such time as I can divorce her.?

My eyes narrowed. ?Yes??

?Would it make sense for either of you to meet, then??

?You wish to hide me. In shame.?

?My darling no, of course not,? he said, sounding a little rushed. ?But again please, my dear? have I ever begrudged you anything you requested?my sweet lovely goddess?? He said it with that gentle purring noise that usually made my knees a little weak.

?Perhaps, but??

?And surely one so wise as yourself would not wish to be forced into the same room with this other woman?the woman your man does not love? Would you be so cruel as to torment her so??

I stopped. I had been so jealous I had not even thought of that. I cared not a jot for her discomfort, but what of my own? ?So you are not ashamed of me,? I said, my voice betraying a bit of an edge, ?yet you wish to send me from our home.?

?My darling?? he said, embracing me, cooing in my ear, nuzzling and kissing my neck between his words. ?Never, never?. But would it not be beneath your dignity? to have to play? Vipsania?s petty jealousy games? Would it not be?. Perhaps better?. To take a shopping trip to the sea for a few days? perhaps with a few of the? household servants???

He always was able to make me shiver with delight and forget my cares. By the time we were done making love, I almost believed it was my idea to leave the villa that very day.

Still feeling a bit confused between my doubts about Rufus? plans, my anger, and my jealousy, I made to leave for a few days with a three of the household servants?two girls, and a boy to drive the cart?in tow.

They were loading up the cart in the stable behind the villa, packing some belongings and goods for our stay as we prepared to take our leave when a commotion broke out by the front gate. As I had agreed that a confrontation with Rufus?s wife would be a pointless exercise I urged the girls to finish and ordered the boy to take us away. Yet as he whipped the horses into motion and we began to trot away, I suddenly grabbed his shoulder and demanded that he stop.

Some two hundred paces from the villa, we halted. Motioning the slaves to hold still, I found myself walking quickly away from them, traveling back down the alleyway to the villa, then slipping surreptitiously around the side of the house to spy the front entranceway.

Rufus?s wife was a striking woman. Tall for a woman, with a mane of dark hair gathered about her ears with barrettes, with a proud nose buttressing blazing black eyes that glowed with power?not unlike Rufus?s very own eyes, I found myself thinking. She waited with her retinue some 20 paces from the front entrance, expecting her husband to greet her. In that moment I knew I hated her, and wanted to kill her: who was she to claim my Rufus?s affections?

Within a few breaths Rufus came through the front entrance, walking with his regal and arrogant way, to greet her. As he grasped her hands, I turned away, and ran back along the side of the house and into the alleyway, at once both repulsed and understanding: surely he must greet her cordially now, and yet I wished he would set her aside this very moment. Yet it would make no sense to confront her here and now, would it? So I sped down the alleyway, knowing now that there was no good purpose to my being there. I returned to the other slaves in the cart. We sped away to the west, towards the coast.

We planned to spend a few days at a local inn, observing the sea and spending Rufus? money shopping for trinkets and whatever exotic goods might be brought in by merchants from Africa and other lands. We would stay until Rufus sent for us, but the next morning, before we had a chance to do almost anything, a boy from the household arrived at the inn. He was a good boy, one of Rufus? favorites, and he showed up at my door in the inn looking a little flustered.

?My apologies for awaking you, mistress, but I have a message from our master,? he said.

I opened the scroll. On it were written words that made my heart drop to my toes:

My darling, I have made a terrible blunder. Our plans together are come to naught. When last I visited Vipsania, too much wine and a loose tongue made me speak foolishly, and now I am undone. All is lost. I have told you many times that you might take your freedom any time you wished, and now I say to you: take it. By the time you read this, I shall likely have perished. Take what wealth you have garnered from me, including the slaves if you wish, and depart back to Gaul. Run with all speed my darling?all our plans our come to naught.
---R

It was marked with his seal. The boy just stared at me as I looked up from the scroll into his face.

?No,? I said to myself. ?No!? I screamed at the boy. As he cowered away, I slapped him in the face. Then I quickly turned back into the room in the inn, gathered up a few of my belongings, including my favorite knife, and strode out into the courtyard and on to the stables where I demanded a riding horse, much to the consternation of the stable hands. There was some difficulty, but Rufus?s money smoothed the way and in short order I was galloping east to Arretium, to him. It was most of a day?s ride back, and I ignored everyone who might chance across my path as I made my way.

It was early evening when the exhausted gelding trotted me back down the alleyway toward our villa?Rufus? villa. Slipping quietly off the horse?s back, my knife secured in my belt, I made toward the back-corner window?Marieko?s chambers. Pulling back the shutters, I was stunned at the scene I saw. Marieko?s grandson and granddaughter lay by his straw-stuffed wooden bed. As I pulled myself through the carved stone window, hefting my legs over the opening and setting my feet upon the tiled floor, Marieko?s grandchildren stared at me.

Marieko? the old Greek lay in his bed, his pallor grey, his body unmoving.

?You!? his grandson said, hoarsely. Little Salia ran into a corner and hid her eyes, clutching her doll. ?You!? he said a little louder.

?Tell me what has happened here young man,? I said evenly. Yet my eyes already told the tale. In Marieko?s hand was a cup containing the remnants of a crimson liquid. It appeared that he had drunk poison, and died in the arms of all that was left of his family.

?He died because of you!? the young man suddenly screamed, charging toward me with his arms flailing. I struck him in the belly just under the ribs and he folded over, falling to his knees as he gasped for air.

I realized that I must find my Rufus now, at this very instant, and charged to the bedroom door, unlatching it and flinging it open. Two armed men who had obviously been guarding the door and heard the commotion inside confronted me. With a shrieked curse I lashed out with one foot, striking the one on the left in the knee as I seized my knife, lunging low at the other and raking the blade along his arm as he reached for me. He cursed, but his stout arms encircled me, lifting me from my feet as I twisted in his grasp. Other men came running, attracted by the shouting and I kicked another hard in the groin before they overwhelmed me, forcing me to the ground. They rained kicks and punches upon me as I shrieked and struggled. Soon the clutch of them had stripped me of all my belongings and even my clothes, pummeling me with their fists until I was silent and then dragging me to the room Rufus and I had shared, bellowing at me to be silent as they made fast my limbs with iron shackles.

?No,? I heard myself sobbing. ?No, no, you cannot do this to us?.?

They left me alone in a room, bound hand and foot like a criminal, unable to stand or even move in more than the smallest way. As I sat there shaking, my limbs screaming to reach out and kill all of these Roman bastards, I realized I was alone in the bedroom that Rufus and I had made our own, and that I could do nothing but await what might come.

After what seemed an eternity two stout Roman soldiers came in and siezed me by my arms, hoisting me to my feet and then, half-carrying me, forced me to hobble out into the main Atrium of our house?. of our home together? of?.

?of Rufus? villa in Arretium.

Rufus was there, on the high couch where he had often reclined while friends and political acquaintances sat on the couches strewn about at many a banquet. Suddenly I was afraid for him more than for me. How could all of this, which had seemed so obviously right and proper and inevitable, have gone so terribly wrong? I had thought we had the world at our fingertips. I had thought that this was the answer, the reason I had been so tortured for so long. I had thought this was the final ending of centuries of fear and loneliness and pain.

Rufus just stared at me as they dragged me in and threw my on the ground at the foot of his couch.

?Oh my Felicitas? my Tiwazō? how could I have led us both so far astray??

His wife was standing at his left, looking down her haughty nose at me as she said, ?This? This is the barbarian strumpet you preferred over me?? Her voice dripped with disgust.

From his right, a fey, slender middle-aged man said, ?Oh really now Rufus, this filth is what you thought to conquer me with?? I suddenly realized that this must be Livius.

As I stared at my lovely, beautiful Rufus, I was horrified to realize both his wrists were slashed with angry red welts across them and along his forearm; laid open, palm out, both of his arms slowly bleeding into cups held by servant boys. The cups already overflowed onto the tiled floor.

Naked, my hands and feet bound with chains, on my knees, I could only look helplessly into his beautiful, beautiful face?which I had never seen so dark.

?Rufus, you always were a stupid fool,? said Vipsania.

?Honestly, Rufus, had I known you were such a fool I would never have taken your efforts to poison my name so seriously,? Livius added, simpering as he laughed.

Rufus? eyes seized my own?pleading, apologizing. ?Felicitas, you should have fled?. I stand accused of slander and of fomenting rebellion. If I do not destroy myself, my entire family?s estate will be forfeit? and I realize now that this was all my folly.? He glared accusingly at Vipsania, and I suddenly realized: likely he had told her just enough that she was able to betray him. I looked at the woman and felt sick inside. Rufus was going to die, and that bitch he called a wife was positively ecstatic behind her glowering visage. I could not let this happen.

?I am to blame for this!? I suddenly yelled. ?No, please, it was my plot! Please, you cannot blame him!?

Vipsania and Livius merely smirked as Rufus shook his head.

Rufus looked at me and said, ?No, no, my darling one, you seek to save me but you did no wrong? I will have no one blame you?. I love you? there is nothing in this world that matters more to me. Not my life or the life of any other man or woman, slave or free?nothing do I hold above you!? Livius and Vipsania both made disgusted noises at that, and he looked defiantly at them before focusing on me again. ?Nothing means more, not my life, nor the Gods??

?Gods?? I laughed, ?Oh, I am certain that there is much laughter amongst the Gods this day! ?Look at that fool mortal, Rufus! Stumbled on a whore in the woods and thought he?d made a Goddess his slave!??

?Do not take this upon yourself!? he pleaded.

?Enough!? Vipsania screeched, ?Are we all to stand and listen to this nonsense? Bind her mouth!?

Strong hands seized me again and a rag was thrust into my mouth. Prostrate and helpless I pleaded with my eyes as my beloved launched in to his final oration, declaring that his own life was far too compromised to continue, that his acts, though taken with the good and security of the Senate and the People of Rome always first and foremost in mind, had led him to believe that his innocence might be questioned and his honor impugned. That to make good on his failings, and to preserve the honor of his family he would take his own life, protesting to the end that he was innocent of charges of Treason and Tyranny.

A low moan erupted from the family slaves and the handful of Rufus? friends who had come to bear witness as he finished his oration. Then he settled back onto his couch and took a cup of wine, using both hands now that his arms were so crippled. For perhaps the next hour, he ate and drank wine, his life oozing from the wounds he had inflicted as a result of our madness. Muted by my gag I pleaded with my eyes, but he would not look upon me. His gaze always avoided the naked girl bound and gagged at his feet. I would sometimes try to gain my knees, but one of his retainers would always force me down, grinding my face in the spreading pool of his blood. Though he refused to allow them to blame me, clearly they all felt me guilty.

As he grew weaker, his speech slurring, he finally looked upon me again. Though he could no longer muster the strength or will to move, he made his voice heard clearly.

?Unbind her mouth,? he finally whispered, ?and bring her to me.? Vipsania protested, but no one listened, and the gag was finally removed. I crawled up to him, and took his hand in mine.

?Behold our handiwork? are you Diana, or perhaps Discord? what would you say to me now as my end approaches??

?Forgive me,? I wept, ?I should have known with what wisdom might be mine, I should have seen??

?Forgive?? he whispered, his hand reaching out clumsily to grasp my shoulder and draw me close, ?There is nothing to forgive? I know whose folly this is? fear not?Vipsania is a calculating woman, but she?ll not begrudge me my dying decree? you are not to be harmed?.? Drawing a deep breath he said it loudly, ?She is not to be harmed??

Then his hand slid from my shoulder as his head slacked backwards. Though my wrists were still bound together as I sat shamed at his feet, a sudden wild thought came upon me. As his eyes began to glaze over, I took my left wrist to my mouth, bound as it was in chains, and bit into it hard, feeling pain and a sudden gush of blood, and I thrust it to his lips screaming, ?Drink my darling, drink of my blood and live forever with me!?

With his last breath his eyes looked upon mine. Then he turned to drink from the blood that flowed from my hand?. and with a long sigh he died before my eyes, my blood flowing across his teeth, over his lips, and down his face.

I wept over him, ?I love you? we should have been as gods together? we could have been? we should have been?.?

After that I remember nothing but the cold, distant laughter of Vipsania as the guards dragged me away.

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Arretium, continued

And so I found myself that next morning on a sun-drenched stone patio engaged in light verbal sparring with an old Greek, envying him his family and the joy they gave him. Once Marieko sent Salia on her way he turned his gaze fully upon me and his displeasure was clear. I tried to imagine his reaction when Rufus handed him the task of teaching me to read and write, for I felt certain it must have been an interesting moment. He seemed fond of Rufus, but at the same time he held him in a sort of disdain, somewhat as if he were a father looking upon a son who simply had not turned out so well as he had hoped. I was even more amused when I came to understand that Rufus?s chief failing in his eyes was simply that he was Roman rather than Greek.

If he had somewhat conflicting emotions regarding Rufus, he had no such confusion regarding me: I was a barbarian, and a dangerous barbarian to boot. He never truly forgave me that episode in the hunting camp when I tried to strangle him, and he never turned his back on me again. In an odd way I found that rather endearing, for it was the one thing that had made sense to me in the midst of all the new and confusing ideas I had faced here among the Romans. It also added to my amusement at how sourly he accepted his task, becoming even more curt and dismissive than ever before.

There we were: him disgusted and disdainful, me amused and yet hiding my nervousness that I might not be able to understand this magic.

?For the love of all that is proper in this world,? he finally barked at me, ?stop lounging like an idle whore and sit up straight!?

It was an inauspicious beginning.

He thrust a red wax tablet and stylus at me then pulled up a wooden stool and sat stiffly upon it, holding a tablet of his own. I sat up with the tablet in my left hand and the stylus clutched uncertainly in my right, while Marieko sat across from me glowering unhappily.

?Repeat after me: Alpha...? He would draw the shape and show me. ?Beta...? He would draw it and show me again. ?Gamma... Delta...?

I slowly began to repeat the words, one after the other.

?Nefas,? he said whenever I got it wrong?which was often at first. So I would stumble and repeat, feeling almost like a child, but unwilling to end the game. ?Fas,? was all he said whenever I got the word correct. I think his frown may have actually deepened whenever that happened.

?Now, write the letters out.?

I tried. He would show me one shape, demand that I name it, and then that I draw it as he had drawn it. When I had first learned the Seafarer tongue-- called Greek by these people-- only the women had known what symbols meant; however, today it was considered ill form to teach a woman these things. Still, I slowly wrote out the letters, taking care to put every slash and dot in the correct spot.

The first morning was hardly promising. It ended somewhere around ?theta,? which I drew poorly. He had slammed his own tablet down, muttered something about barbarian women, and stomped away. I was too relieved to be angry myself.

Yet the next morning he and I both returned. And the next. And the next. Soon I could make all the shapes and name them, and we began creating groupings of them in order to form words. Soon, he began doing so in both Greek and the Roman tongue.

Other than repeating the sounds for me, he rarely said much. ?Nefas. Iterum Attemptabis.? I would try, again and again each new task, usually finally earning at least one grudging ?Fas? before ending a day?s lesson.

?In lingua Barbarae iterum,? he would command after I finished some string of Greek words. His estimation of the Romans was not much higher than it was of me. I doubt I ever saw him happy about anything, save possibly the plays of Aeschylus.

For several weeks this was how it would progress, out there on Rufus? patio except on days when it rained. Marieko would teach and I would write, learning by rote without much true understanding. It was grueling on both of us and on occasion his irritation would get the better of him, sending him off growling about unwashed barbarians while he left me to copy some string of writing over and over again. Yet he always returned, and we would press ahead. Although he obviously hated this task at first, it became clear at some point that once he was started Marieko was far too stubborn to give up, even with a student as hopeless as me.

By then I would have been too embarrassed to quit, although I thought about it every morning as I contemplated returning to those accursed wax tablets yet again.

We were some three weeks into the lessons when suddenly I understood the essence of it. It took me so unexpectedly as to be almost a physical blow.

?Nefas!? he grunted with irritation as my hand jerked and I mangled a ?theta.?

Yes. He had seen me err yet again. But suddenly something was different. He did not sense it but I did. My head spinning, I finished the rote line of words he had just assigned me, earning me his grudging ?Fas? as he demanded that I now write the same line in Latin. But I simply sat there, staring at the tablet in my hand, and then at some of the other tablets, my eyes roving back and forth. He stared at me as I looked up at him.

Suddenly, I could understand the connections between the various things I was doing. It became so clear to me, so easy to understand that I could hardly believe I had not seen it before. Before he spoke again I said his name. ?Marieko.? His bushy gray eyebrows shot up toward his bald pate, but I ignored the implicit question in his eyes. Instead I turned to the tablet and spoke his name aloud again, slowly making the sounds: ?Marr-eee-eck-oh.? And as I made each sound, I scrawled a shape. Then I looked up at him and turned the tablet to him.

His eyebrows scrunched back downward as his brow furrowed, then arched back upwards in surprise again. As plain as day I had just written his name.

I had never seen it written before.

?Fas,? he said, seeing the comprehension dawning in my eyes. ?Fas.? His face may have become a bit gentler. Perhaps. A bit.

?Homerumne legeritus esses?? he asked, a grudging smile on his face. I looked at him blankly. Though the Iliad has since become one of my favorite books, until then I had never so much as seen it performed. But the next day, he introduced me to his old friend Homer, and the Iliad, and we read each morning from it.

It was stimulating, for the tale was thrilling, especially when I learned that the goddess Diana played a major part in it. Yet it was also most difficult, for he would read a line from the Greek, and would expect me to write the Latin. But in this manner, I would reinforce my understanding of both languages. Perhaps it was not the easiest or best way of going about it, but it worked for me and more importantly, it worked for him.

After I truly understood the magic of writing and reading, Marieko?s attitude toward me began to thaw somewhat. He still neither trusted me nor approved of me, but he loved to speak of literature and was always willing to answer my questions or point out new things I should read. As it turned out I loved the written word even more than he did?and within two months of my breakthrough I was fluent and literate in both languages.

I had also begun to learn far more about the gods of the Romans and Greeks than any of my prayer sessions with Rufus had ever taught me. Soon it was more than just Homer, but also Plato, and Aristotle, and Aeschylus, and?Marieko?s favorite?Euripides. Soon our daily lessons ended as I began to study on my own, but always from then on Marieko was happy to talk to me about anything I had read, and to make recommendations and answer questions for me.

It was as if an entirely new world unfolded before me, made up of a glorious tapestry of words nearly as ancient as me. After those first months any time Rufus wondered at my whereabouts he would find me in his library, poring over the volumes upon volumes of texts he had collected there. Rufus was proud of his vast collection, and even took time to read some of them from time to time. I on the other hand all but made that library my home. I drank in the works of Herodotus, his Histories opening my eyes to the unknown and heretofore unknowable world beyond the horizons. The Hellenika of Xenophon; I reread Homer?s Iliad and Odyssey a second and then a third time. Their tales of the gods (most important to me, Diana) fascinated me, as did the philosophical works of many major and minor Greek and Roman thinkers.

This new and engrossing world largely drove out all other activities during the day. The only thing that could draw me away was Rufus?s return to the villa in the afternoon, and even then I would find myself planning which texts I would absorb next. Rufus laughingly proclaimed teaching me to read was his gravest error as my studies competed with him for my affections.

I would have given anything to make that last the truth. For months I was heady, almost drunk, with the vast new worlds of words in that wonderful library. Although after some time I began to do more than just drink in the words, but to ponder much of what I found in them.

Perhaps eighteen months after arriving in Arretium with Rufus, my readings caused me to begin to worry. I was coming to understand some of the politics of the Romans, even if most of it still bored and confused me?histories were ever so much easier to understand than petty political wrangling. I finally began to do my own thinking on what I read, and I began to draw conclusions. From those I came to comprehend that there might be grave dangers in Rufus? plans to assume political power and Godhood. Sadly for both Rufus and I, by the time I understood the danger it was far too late to save him?or my own heart.

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Arretium

Circa 129 BCE

I watched as the young man left the patio, his olive skin rippling over smooth muscles, his body alive with energy that can only be captured by youth in full bloom.

?He?s beautiful,? I offered, then stifled a laugh as I saw Marieko?s spine stiffen. ?There are things I could teach him? but you already know that, yes??

The old Greek turned to face me as I reclined on my left side and snatched another pear slice from the tray before me. His face was unreadable, a skill he thought he had perfected years ago, but had been forced to re-learn since Rufus brought me to this place. It was his only defense against me.

?My grandson is none of your concern, Felicitas,? he growled at me, and this time I did laugh, but quietly.

?I like you, old man. Why do you rebuff me??

?It is none of my concern, what you like or dislike. Rufus would be displeased should you kill me?that is likely all that stays your hand.?

?Not at all! True, Rufus holds you in very high regard, so were I inclined to still your breath I would refrain for his happiness? sake. But I do like you. I always have.?

He made a sour face, but decided to end the conversation when he heard Salia?s bare feet happily racing up the stone steps to the patio. The little girl, all of seven years old, squealed in joy as her grandfather turned and swept her from her feet, lifting her high above his head before drawing her to his chest in a firm embrace. It caught at me, that simple act?that such a dour and suspicious man could in an instant become a doting grandfather merely from the spell of a child?s love. Though I had seen such things countless times, and had long come to accept that such things were always to be denied me, it brought home just how alien I still felt here among the Romans.

Rufus had taken me from my land and my people. After doing so, he journeyed with me across the frontier of his mighty Republic into Spain. That in itself had been a humbling journey, as I saw the power and industriousness of these people he called his own. But still it failed to prepare me for what followed when we took ship from that land and made our way to his home in Arretium. It took all my skill at deception to hide from him the awe and wonder I felt at the works of the Romans.

Though to modern eyes the towns we traveled through would probably seem small, to me they were immense. Yet Rufus assured me what I had seen was nothing compared to the sheer size and grandeur of Rome herself. Even their roads?I knew paths and trails, the well-worn routes between villages, but nothing like these solid brick passageways, these straight and level conveyances upon which their carts and wagons traveled as we made our way toward the center of what Rufus called their ?great republic.?

It was dizzying and confusing to see one city, then another, then more and more, and to understand that though these were disparate peoples they shared a common allegiance to ?Rome,? either by choice or by circumstance. But it was also the thought of the labor required to make these roads and cities, as well as their fine clothing and their beautiful and deadly armor and weapons of bronze and iron, that impressed me so. How could any chieftain or king hope to rule them all, or muster all the energy and materials and organization to not just create all these things but to actually make them commonplace? When I asked what King had begun all this, Rufus surprised me with the forcefulness of his answer.

?Only barbarians allow kings to rule them! Rome has no king!? He practically spat the words out. But then his visage softened, and he smiled. ?Ah, but you are a barbarian still,? he said, grinning warmly and embracing me briefly as if to apologize.

As we traveled he would describe to me the way the Romans were governed: by a huge council of men, Senators, who were overseen by men called Consuls who seemed somewhat king-like but could serve for only one year and had to share power on alternate days with another Consul. All were defended by an army of ?citizens? and organized by ?equestrians? and ?centurions.? But at a deeper level, written laws that all agreed upon and recognized governed their actions. According to Rufus, these were laws that even their greatest men, even the Consuls themselves, would prostrate themselves before. No one man, no matter how mighty or prosperous, could risk defying these laws, or what he called ?the law,? without punishment.

How did it come to pass that they all agreed to these same laws? Rufus said they were first written by Senators long dead, and added to and modified by current Senators, then read to an assembly of all citizens who would vote: would they accept it or would they not? It was difficult for me to grasp and dizzyingly complicated, for I had always lived among men ruled by a chieftains whose word was law when tradition had no answer. Sometimes there would be an allegiance to a greater chief or even a king, but for Rufus and the other Romans this was an offensive thought. To them the law had solidity; an unbreakable certainty far greater than any king could ever create. I did not quite fathom it, but pretended to understand. In any case I accepted it: most things among the Romans were so because ?the law? or ?the Roman way? made them so, and for no other reason, not even the invocation of any particular gods. Though it infuriated me at times, I felt small and insignificant in the presence of such power, for it had clearly made them a mighty and fabulously wealthy people.

After several months among them, living in Rufus? villa in Arretium, my sense of wonder for the Romans had eased somewhat. I found the people I met to be people still. They had unusual ways and their law ruled great expanses, but taken individually they were almost as simple to fathom as any other humans. It was only their politics, and Rufus?s maneuverings within that sphere of power, that left me utterly baffled. He would describe to me his plans for ascension to the Senate, then even to Consul, but the terms and assumptions were outside my knowledge. I would feign understanding, but I suspect Rufus was aware of my confusion.

Rufus would often have me at hand when visitors called, displaying me like some trophy. It irritated me and yet amused me as well. Early on Rufus told me that my name Tiwazō sounded barbaric to Roman ears, and named me ?Felicitas? to his people. He called me simply ?Felicia? in the quiet of our bed at night. He said that it meant ?good fortune.? This rankled me only slightly, as it annoyed me to have others view me as his slave. Yet I had worn many names in my long existence, and ?Felicia? had a lovely and exotic sound. My old people might know me by one name, and the Romans might know me by another, just as the Greeks knew Diana by the name of Artemis.

The city of Arretium dazzled me, for it was larger than any town we had traveled through before. The brick streets ran between buildings that were usually made of Roman bricks but sometimes made entirely of stone. The buildings were cut in square and rectangular patterns, with columns supporting the immense curved-tile roofs. Beautiful mosaics and lifelike painted statues abounded, and the smells were often overpoweringly exotic. The Romans ate more salted fish than anyone I had ever encountered, and they loved their oils. Indeed it seemed that when they were not putting oil into their food, they would smear their bodies and hair with it, then scrape it off in order to cleanse themselves. The entire city of Arretium seemed to smell of salt, fish, and olive oil.

Rufus? own villa within the city of Arretium was most impressive. It was made entirely of stone, with beautiful mosaics on some of its walls both outside and in. Its stone-tiled floors covered the entire domicile, with nary a sight of the earth underneath. The rooms included quarters for his dozens of slaves and servants, a kitchen with an impressively large stone hearth, an open-air atrium and garden in the center of it all, and several bedrooms each with its own fireplace. One bedroom was set aside especially for his wife, although Rufus assured me that she never even visited here and would likely never use the room. But all viewed that room as sacrosanct. She herself resided in a supposedly even grander home with others of his family in the city of Rome itself. It was hard to imagine a home more huge and clean and beautiful than this one, yet he assured me that this was not only so, but that his family?s means were meager compared to the most powerful families in Rome.

Our lovemaking was energetic and exhausting, and it amused me that he often referred to me as his ?virgin? even as he merrily had his way with me and I with him. The Romans considered any woman who had never borne a child to be a virgin?how utterly amusing a thought for one such as I! It also flattered my ego, for the Romans believed that a woman who would not conceive (?would not??Rufus? own phrase!) was either flawed like a whore, or even more magically powerful than other women. In the quiet of our room at night, Rufus painted this as the ultimate proof of my relation to the goddess Diana, herself an eternal virgin, for surely one so powerful as I could hardly be lowly. He told me I should become Queen of a group called the Vestals, that he wanted ultimately to become one among the gods such as myself. He wished to make me first among the Roman goddesses?and assured me that he would make it so.

How could I doubt him? He was so utterly certain, and he had already shown me he could do far more than any man I had ever met.

As impressive as this all was, however, it rendered me even more difficult for Rufus to handle, for I was both his slave and a goddess at once. I also had a habit of questioning him incessantly on things he considered settled or that I should already understand. But he could never stay irritated with me for long, and would usually laugh and hug me and say, ?Just accept it, my beautiful barbarian.?

Yes. I was not immune to flattery. To this day I still am not, I confess. It is one of my many failings.

?You are my beautiful, beautiful Felicia, my virgin goddess and my soul,? he often said to me during and after our nightly lovemaking. ?With you at my side I know I can accomplish things greater than any man has ever dreamed.?

I believed him. For I so very much wanted to believe him.

So there I found myself with Rufus in his incredible home in Arretium. All there called me Felicitas, and I was considered his most favored and beloved slave. Neither Rufus nor I spoke of how I was a God, not to anyone. I still chafed a little at this, for while I had been a slave many times before, I felt I had left that part of myself far behind. When I felt the instincts of one returning to me, I felt repulsed, yet sometimes allowed myself to go through the motions?if only to help further his plans. It was sometimes difficult, yet sometimes seductively easy, for this was different from other forms of slavery. Now I had a master who viewed me as an equal.

I do not know that I can describe to modern ears why this bothered me in some ways but flattered my ego in others. Still, Rufus would often beat his slaves for failure; he felt it necessary to maintain discipline, as did most Romans. I even once saw him cut the tongue out of a young male slave who dared to speak to me crossly. But he always treated me as his most favored and valued of properties, and would tolerate no rudeness toward me from any of his other slaves (save one), nor from any other member of his household.

Rufus was, in most ways, more powerful than any man I had ever encountered. He was also so very beautiful in form and grace, with nut-brown skin and searing, onyx-black eyes, hair like black wool, and a form as hard as it was fluid. His short stature held an incredible energy and self-assurance, and an occasionally self-deprecating manner (in his privacy with me, if not before others) that was intoxicating. While he had a wife, in his eyes I was first among his women. He was shorter than me in a way I sometimes found comical, but somehow his short stature only accentuated the resonant power within him. He sometimes drew a small chuckle from me, yet I never forgot that he had been able to humble me in a way that no man had in centuries?and that I would have instantly killed any other man or woman for trying. While I was not sure I loved him, he surely loved me?and he saw me as the key to his own ascension to power and immortality. It was an alluring dream, and one that flattered my ego all the more.

Rufus told me many times I could walk away whenever I wished. Yet he thought he would be nothing without me. Though of course he did not speak this aloud to anyone but me, it was clear that all who served him knew his regard for me. Indeed, all but one of his many manservants and maidservants deferred to me in even the smallest of areas.

Marieko was the perennial exception. When he could not otherwise avoid me, he made it clear in both his manner and posture that he dissented, and that he thought very little of his master?s decision to elevate me to such a high position in the household. Yet somehow this never offended me. In some strange way it endeared him to me. And there was always my demon-lover Rufus to flatter my ego, after all.

?My beloved Felicia?my lovely Felicitas! In our nights together as man and woman in my own bed, do you not know what it portends? For I take you, but in so many ways you take me, while the gods look upon us and favor us. Divine destiny must have set us together, and surely it all promises that you and I shall be together forever!?

Forever. He used the word ?forever? constantly while we were alone. He did not want his other servants or friends to hear it, but he believed that with me by his side he would be able to live forever, and that the two of us would come to rule the entire Roman world with might and justice and wisdom. I cannot describe it fully, for it was intoxicating. But he was a man who had bested me, and then shown me that he thought himself less than me, that he wished to join me. He believed that with me he too would live forever.

In response I did little but smile, sometimes a bit giddily. I was hoping beyond hope, believing beyond reason, that he was correct. In any case, for now I would be his Felicitas, and began to understand myself to be his helpmate. To modern eyes this must seem so very primitive. Yet I gradually began to see myself as just that. Indeed, our conversations on the matter became more passing strange with time, not less. Every night we would pray certain rituals of his making to the gods. And once every week, at night and in private, I would open the veins of my forearm to fill a cup with my blood that he might partake of it in his pursuit of immortality and godhood.

I accepted all this, as I accepted so many things from him. But after our several months like this, something began to irritate me. It began as a small notion, but quickly grew into suspicion, then anger. I had been intrigued by the power of scrolls since I first saw Rufus use one. There were runes, varied and intricate beyond any I had ever known, and they were carried upon these scrolls. Rufus would study them and pronounce the runes had ?told? him this or that story or fact. Sometimes he would create small sets of runes upon thin squares of pressed wood and send them off to some person, only to receive them back, claiming this person had now spoken to him as if he were present in the very room.

?Ah, Lucius says there shall be a feast on the first of next month at the governor?s estate,? or ?Martinus says all is well at the tax office.?

I would strive to hear voices, but it quickly became clear to me that the runes themselves conveyed the meaning. Rufus would leave scrolls about his room for he often ruminated upon them and he seemed unconcerned when I might take one up and examine it. My ability to read humans, to see the workings of their minds, was and is strong. Yet while I could see no guile in him toward me, I began to wonder had he found some way to counter my own ability to understand the thoughts behind his eyes. My pride would not allow me to ask the meaning of these things?instead I grew angrier and more resentful until I convinced myself he sought deliberately to keep understanding of these things from me.

It came to a crisis without warning one evening almost nine months after our arrival together in Arretium. We had taken our meal in his bedroom, an oddity he was known for amongst his servants. By happenstance, it made our mutual prayers and rituals to the Roman gods easier to keep out of sight. Every night we always followed a precise ritual: first our meal, then lovemaking, then certain chants and small sacrifices to Jupiter, Pluto, and Diana. Once a week he would also drink of my blood, and this was to be one of those nights. I had not understood that I would take issue with him this night, but after our meal, as we moved to his bed, my anger was suddenly fierce in me, though I gave no outward sign of it.

Rufus reached for me and I let him draw me towards him across the bed even as I rolled out of the soft wrap I wore, then slid my naked body up along his until our mouths met and we kissed. His powerful arms encircled my waist, pulling me to him, his body like a granite statue beneath me as I felt his manhood stiffen against my thigh. Our lips parted and I bit playfully at his nose, rolling with him as he urged me over onto my back, then his face moved, his mouth sliding down my neck before nuzzling into my breasts. I gave a soft cry of encouragement and Rufus? hands moved, sliding up and down my body with firm assurance, delving between my thighs while I reached down to grip his member, encouraging him to move up further. Then, as he pressed me back, easing between my open thighs, he lifted himself up, looking to my face.

I slowly slid my free hand between us, tracing my fingers up his breastbone until I reached the point where his neck began. Two fingers suddenly turned hard and pressed forcefully at that soft spot in his throat. He gagged and drew back, but I kept pressing even as I heaved beneath him, throwing his balance astray when he reached for my arm. I twisted beneath him and, as my grip on his penis tightened most threateningly, his body stiffened. I forced him onto his back, that huge, powerful body of his suddenly as a child?s doll in my hands as I straddled his belly. Suddenly my right hand released his penis and darted to the tableside where our dinner platter lay, seizing up the knife and brining its point to his throat before he could react.

There was no fear in his face, but as he looked into my eyes I saw a certain doubt creep in. I reinforced it by sinking the edge of the blade into his skin. Should he make any sudden move I could open his throat with a mere twitch of my wrist.

?You keep secrets from me,? I hissed at him through clenched teeth, ?You would rule me, my fine Roman. You would call me Queen amongst gods, but you would have me at your mercy. This little play act, this fiction of me as your slave, you would make it a reality, an eternal servitude!?

?Felicitas?? he began.

?Tiwazō!? I hissed through clenched teeth, ?You will address me by my name, not yours!?

?I? I don?t understand,? he said. There was still no fear in him, but I had expected none; he was certain I was deadly serious and that would suffice.

?You keep secrets from me, secrets of power. You flaunt them before my very eyes as if they were nothing, but I am no fool! I see them, and I know them, Talmudius Africanus Rufus!? I spat each of his names with vehemence, feeling him respond to each as if to a physical blow. ?I sought them out, but they are powerful and arcane? they are secrets that must be shared and given, not spied and stolen!

He merely stared at me, his eyes filled with confusion. To my anger, I could not tell if he were feigning this or not. ?You will share with me,? I whispered, leaning forward and putting more pressure on the blade, ?or you will die.?

He stared into my eyes for long moments, and then spoke in careful, level tones.

?I will share all I have, anything you desire? but I still don?t know what you are talking about.?

?I am no fool! I have seen you, seen others of your kind wield these powers! You have an entire room full of these secrets and you let me wander there thinking I?ll not understand, or not bother to wonder! You flaunt these things, these scrolls??

Suddenly his eyes widened in surprise. I think he might have laughed had he not been certain I would slit his throat for it.

?Of course,? he sighed, and chuckled a little nervously. ?You cannot read, can you??

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Surrender

The forest enveloped me as I ran in a long, loping stride while watching my footing along the game trail. Branches tore at me unnoticed as I let the seething anger in my breast drive me forward, expending it in the physical exertion of separating myself from the Roman camp. Following the game trail let me make good time, but it also rendered me somewhat easier to follow? except that I knew Rufus would not pursue me. I slowed once I felt the mad rush of anger waning?why run when none followed? I was near my altar clearing and I set myself to pass to the northwest. It was unlikely anyone was there, but I had no desire for a confrontation. I needed to reach one of my camps and collect myself.

The first site I approached had been looted, doubtless by Rufus and his hunting party. I struck out to the east from there, away from the river valley, only to find yet another of my regular haunts thoroughly tossed. From there I traveled north, walking into the early evening until I came to the cave I sought. This was unmolested, though I spent another hour circling carefully, ensuring there was no sign any person had approached it.

It was sparsely provisioned?just clothing and blankets and tools. I was famished, but still too agitated to set about hunting. Instead I eased my hunger with berries and great draughts of water from a nearby spring. I built a fire and set about fletching arrows for my bow as darkness descended on the forest, the fine fingerwork easing my mind and returning focus to the world.

Liar.

It was but a whisper in the rustling leaves, but it set my heart to leaping and I struggled to contain myself, closing my eyes and listening, my thoughts floating free on the shifting breeze caressing the forest.

Liar!

?Loghaz,? I whispered, a smile on my lips, ?I have missed even you??

I have no name your lips are worthy to speak. But I know your name?liar and whore!

The voices of the gods seldom made themselves heard when mortals were about. Even when I was captured and taunted by the Romans, they had abandoned me. I had longed for even the worst of their voices when trapped among the Romans. But now, as I listened to the demon-God Loghaz?s voice upon the wind, I found myself faltering.

?I am Tiwazō??

You are a slave. Your Roman snaps his fingers and you jump and spread your legs like a pampered concubine.

I snarled at him, striking my fist out in rage at the empty air. All he offered in response was laughter. Yet, while there was hot anger in my breast, I still felt some satisfaction at the return of these solitary companions, these spirits who were such an integral part of my everyday existence, whom I had come to know for so many lifetimes. I resolved not to argue with them, but to rebuild the shambles that Rufus had made of my life regardless.

That night I did my best to commune with the mother-goddess. I ached to hear Her words. Once She spoke: You shall endure my sister. But it was only once, and She sounded almost uncertain, then She fell silent and did not answer my calls. I curled into a ball that night and quietly prayed for Her voice until I fell asleep.

She did not touch me in my dreams, either.

By day, the only voice I heard was Loghaz. I tried to ignore him, or taunt him in return, while I spent my days attempting to restore my surroundings to their virginal beauty. Cleaning up the violations as I went, I began hunting and collecting useful belongings from my few remaining campsites. It was clear the Romans had looted the first site I revisited, but I could tell that others besides the Romans had desecrated my other sites. Each site I returned to brought the icy laughter of the demon back to my thoughts, as I wondered whether it was the Romans or my own people violating me in each case. In either case, Loghaz? gloating ridicule grew with each passing day.

You fear him, little fool. His mark is burned deep within you.

It angered me to suffer the taunting of this deceiver while all other voices remained lost to me. The mother-goddess Nerthō refused me even when I went to the unheard of extreme of killing a stag and making an offering to her. Worse, Loghaz shrieked in derision as I did so. The sudden sense of shame I felt in that that moment was so alien and so overwhelming to me I heard myself sob.

I endured this taunting. I also endured Nerthō?s rejection of me. Despite them both I forged ahead, preparing to reassert myself over the people I had owned for so long. I knew them as the Darrihardōz although apparently they no longer called themselves that. There was much else now that I realize I had not known about them. They had changed over the centuries while I had not, so I avoided any direct confrontation with them for now as I contemplated how I might reassert my power over them.

They were mine! If I had to kill them all I would do so, but they would be made to worship me again. Yet night after night, the voices would not respond, and I could not bear the thought of so much as facing another mortal, and I could not clear my head enough to plan how I would re-take their worship.

Then Loghaz invaded the night realm of my dreams, his demon?s voice conjuring images of shame and despair that tore me screaming from my slumber. He tormented me with images of Rufus, and the memory of Rufus? hands upon me, and the pleasure I felt that last night with him even as I struggled to resist the urge to tear out his throat with my teeth.

Why sleep when your master?s touch awaits you? Or does he await his death at your hands, were you not such a weakling coward? Yes, you are a coward, coward and weakling and pathetic whore?

But this time, I quieted and simply listened to the demon?s taunting. Instead of arguing or shutting him out, I just listened. He seemed almost disappointed, and soon quieted himself as I felt resolve grow within me. Like a moth to a flame, I knew where I would go. Even as I set out that morning I knew what I would find, and I feared it in a way I had not permitted myself in so very many years. As I journeyed, silence was my only companion.

There had been much coming and going around the clearing where my altar had stood. Taking my time I circled the site, satisfying myself that no one was lurking nearby. As I came to the south I could taste smoke in the air, and I knew it to be a campfire for I could detect the scent of meat upon it.

I stopped, crouching, listening for any sound carried upon the breeze, but there was nothing of any note. I advanced carefully, watching my footing, staying to the shadows until the clearing was in sight. There was a single tent, Roman, and a campfire with simple cooking accoutrements set to one side. There was movement in the tent and I settled down to watch. After some time Rufus emerged and set about tending his fire.

His arrogance angered me, but did not surprise me. Whatever he was, he was not one to give up easily. He desired something from me, something more than my body or my obedience. Memories of whispered gloating in the night chilled my heart. I could not accept that this man might be my equal?the very thought of it was absurd. At that moment all it would take was the lifting of my bow and the setting of an arrow. I could take him in the leg, then the arms, then let him struggle towards his weapon as I strode up to him. Knife in hand I would kick him over onto his back so he could see my face as I slit his throat?

I wonder even now: what would have been the course of my life had I done just that?

I watched unmoving as he went about his small chores with the efficient precision of one well accustomed to living in the wild. He maintained his fire, buried his scraps, gathered more wood, refilled his water gourd from the nearby stream and tended to his bodily needs. It was boring routine, yet I watched him in utter fascination, as if by taking in these mundane things I could divine the inner secrets of his soul. Not once did I raise my bow. As the day wore on towards evening he partook of bread and what had to be salted meat along with a generous portion of wine- taking a small part of it in a cup and pouring it over the fire as he spoke quiet words of ritual.

When he finished his meal he stood and stretched, his magnificent form straining as his muscles tensed and bulged. As he relaxed his gaze wandered about the clearing.

?I know you are out there,? he said, his voice firm, but not shouting. ?This is my sixth night here. The first five you were nowhere near this place, but tonight you are here. I can feel you.?

My heart leapt up into my throat and I forced myself to cease the trembling that threatened to betray me. I turned my head, listening for signs of anyone approaching, but the forest was undisturbed by anything other than Rufus?s voice. He turned, slowly scanning the edge of the clearing, his eyes trailing past the spot where I sat concealed.

?Had you come to kill me you would have done it by now. Since night is falling and I still live, you must have had another reason. Do you know what it is??

That I did not understand why I had not killed him made the question almost intolerable to hear from his lips, and he went on, his voice friendly, even jovial as he spoke to the darkening gloom of my forest. Eventually he fell silent, and with a rueful shake of his head he retreated into his tent. I waited, keeping quiet counsel with myself as the moon crawled up the sky, a bare sliver of the waning light casting a light silvery glow upon the forest.

Nothing stirred for long hours and finally I rose to my feet, quietly stretching the cramped muscles in my legs as I carefully slung my bow over my back and drew my knife. I crept forward, taking a half step every few heartbeats, circling my way into the clearing and towards the tent. As I drew closer I could hear his deep rhythmic breathing as he slept. I circled his tent, but I could not bring myself to enter it.

It was not fear, nor was it mercy. I knew that should I retreat into the forest the brutal spirit haunting my dreams would return, his derision and scorn redoubled and well-deserved. Why could I not act? How had he done this to me? My forest, my people, my world?all now bore the mark of this man. He had torn all the rhythms of my life asunder and I could not make them whole again so long as he lived. For the first time in a very, very long time I was afraid of what songs were sung on the night breeze. My place was not certain, my understanding unclear and at the center of it was this magnificent, arrogant enigma.

Trembling with renewed anger I stepped to the tent flap and carefully drew it aside.

For the first time that day Loghaz spoke.

Kill him, little whore. Will it set you free, or destroy you? Kill him and see.

The choice was made so suddenly I hardly had time to think as I dropped to one knee and scraped my mark into the soil outside the opening to his tent and then backed away slowly until I reached the edge of the clearing. I turned and fled into the forest as a dark, malicious laughter tainted the air and hot tears stung my cheeks. I ran as hard as I could, trying to make a reckless pace and the sound of my passing drown out the words I knew that dark spirit spoke, but to no avail. I reached my camp and he was there, just a wordless laughter amongst the rustling leaves, dripping with contempt.

Sleep was elusive, as it had been for days. I would close my eyes and it would steal over me?the sensation of being watched. So strong was the feeling that I would start suddenly, my heart racing as I gazed about. I knew there was nothing to be seen, but the certainty of danger in the once-comforting darkness was lodged in my mind and would not be cast aside. And so I spent yet another restless night, finally falling into a light slumber as the birds began their chirping to greet the coming dawn.

Rufus touched me, his strong hands urging me over onto my back and I gazed up at him, clad in his shining breastplate, the gleaming helm upon his head, its crest a brilliant crimson, flowing over his shoulders. He touched me and my body shuddered even as the anger burned in my heart. I shouted at him, Why are you here? He simply smiled and reached out to me, clasping my hand in his and drawing me to my feet, my body so light I seemed to float in his grasp. He spoke to me in a whisper?I strained to hear, then recoiled as I recognized the bleak, grating voice: I know what you are?

Laughter rang in my ears as I was startled to wakefulness and I leapt up, confused and frustratingly frightened until the sound fell into place? merely birds. I went to the entrance of the cave and found hundreds of birds in the trees twittering and chattering at each other. Fear and anxiety were replaced by the low, burning anger that had settled in my heart since the day I awoke and found myself Rufus?s captive. In turn that opened the door to shame and confusion. Why had I not taken his life? Why?

I wrestled with that question for the next two days and through it all the demon laughed at me, stripping all my pretenses bare until I wept tears of anguish, begging him to be silent just one night, just one hour?

It is not for me to choose silence, fool. It is for you to silence me.

It was as if I were trapped, as thoroughly bound and imprisoned as I had been in Rufus?s camp. I could strike out in any direction and take myself far from this place but the memory of Rufus and my humiliation at his hands could not be left behind. It was as I came to this point after another long and sleepless night, followed by half a day of wrestling with the demon?s laughter, that I heard other voices, voices unlike those that tormented me, the voices of people.

I fetched up my bow and followed the sounds, knowing what I would find. I came upon them by a stream that fed into the river another day?s walk to the southwest. There were five of them, women. My people. Following the stream they were gathering berries and anything else of interest, an activity that in and of itself was not unusual; however, they had not approached my altar. This was most likely due to the man camped there, but I could tell there was more to it for they were blissfully unconcerned. Surely they knew I had escaped the Romans? They should have been cautious, and wary of the shadows, but there was no hint of unease about them.

I could have changed that. They were women, and unarmed other than the long knives they used to chop back the brush and take whole branches from the fruit-laden bushes. I could easily take them with my bow. Delivering their heads in a sack to their village would serve as ample warning that I truly had returned and would not countenance disrespect. Yet I felt fear at the thought of approaching them, and anger at my own fear. These were my people, mine by divine right! Yet I could not face them even to destroy them. It was maddening.

It is because such things avail you nothing whilst your master awaits you. He takes his ease in your sacred place- there shall be nothing for you here so long as he lives.

That dark and demanding whisper?it came now without the breeze to give it voice. It mocked me with words I knew to be truth. These women did not represent a challenge to me. Not yet. Not so long as Rufus dwelt in these woods. Not so long as he lived.

I turned away from them, leaving them to the chores that defined their short lives. I had business this evening with an arrogant creature whose hand still gripped my thoughts and haunted my dreams. He who had no right to hunt me, to hold me, to gloat over me and then offer me my freedom as if it were his choice, his decision: to accept that from him, that was the weakness in me that now drove the madness, forcing me to hear little but the dark and malicious spirit who now mocked my every thought and deed.

Once the choice was made silence again became my companion. As I made my way directly to the altar clearing my mind became so very settled and calm. I slipped into the icy detachment of my familiar mien, embracing it with joy as my murderous resolve invigorated me, setting me to running that I might reach the clearing before darkness fell.

Everything fell away from me, all my anger, the doubts since I had left the Roman camp, and the fear and confusion of my dreams. The calm focus in my mind centered on that single thing required for me to be whole once again.

I reached the clearing while there was still some daylight remaining. Approaching warily I took up a position on the eastern edge, directly across from the opening of Rufus?s tent. He sat within, his tunic gathered about his waist, his chest and shoulders uncovered as he worked a stone along the edge of the short blade of his sword. I watched him for some time until he finished with his task, cleaning the blade and returning it to its sheath before he stepped out of the tent and stretched, much as he had that night before. His eyes turned toward where I crouched? and they stopped.

?I spent the past days learning every shadow and tree surrounding this clearing,? he said, speaking directly to me, ?and now there is a shadow that does not belong. Perhaps you might care to share my supper, sparse as it is??

I said nothing and he sighed after a moment, shaking his head slowly as a smile touched his lips.

?As you wish. Crouch in the shadows if that is your desire, but I?ll make you pay a price for your loitering about. I am going to enjoy some wine, and I am going to tell you a story.?

With that he turned his back to me and picked through the bundles laid out before the tent, fetching out a leather bottle and a loaf of bread. He made a show of settling down to eat, again pouring a small portion of wine into his cup and offering it to the fire before tearing off a piece of bread and beginning to eat. I watched with some curiosity as I debated whether to take him down with my bow, or to risk his strength and face him again with my knife.

?The Greeks,? he began, ?named her Artemis. To my people she is Diana. To both peoples she is The Huntress, amongst other things. When I was born my father took me to a seer, one who purports to understand things unknowable to other men. That oracle proclaimed me to be one whose fate was known to the Huntress, and that through Diana I would find greatness and power. My father took great care in seeing that my path was set to honor Diana, and through that I have achieved some fame, and yet, it seems there must be more. I know I yearn for more. I feel the eyes of the goddess upon me.?

He stopped then and partook of his wine. Despite my purpose this day I was fascinated, for Marieko had spoken of the gods of the Greeks and Romans, but had never mentioned this. Watching Rufus I knew there was no deception in him and in the light breeze touching the leaves there was nothing?no laughter, no mocking, no dark spirit urging me forward. Intrigued by his tale, and enthralled with his beauty I awaited his next words.

?My father was a man with powerful friends. They took an interest in me and recommended me to the Praetor of Spain, he himself a man of influence and friend of my family. I came and took the commission offered for I believed the frontier was the place to find glory that might propel me further towards my ultimate goals. It was there that I first encountered an old man, a barbarian from beyond the borders, who told a tale of a beautiful Witch both ageless and cruel who killed with a bow made unmatched and deadly by the gods.

?I dismissed his words, but I did not forget, and as life in Spain grew tiresome and repetitive I began to wonder if I had made a mistake. Some few years had passed and the tale of the Witch came to me again, this time from a trader, a Roman of low status, but good bearing. He told of peoples who lived in fear of the Huntress. I was ready to dismiss this as well, but then the Praetor asked that I undertake a mission, visiting the peoples beyond the frontier. I was given some two hundred men-at-arms and sent out to follow the frontier and take the measure of what lay beyond it.

?That mission led me here, and allowed me to see if this Witch was a creature of myth, or of fact. When I saw you that first day, standing proud and arrogant over the bodies of my men, your bow clutched in your hand, your eyes fixed on mine? all doubt left me then. I knew that fate had brought me here, had brought us both here, so that we might meet, and contest. Our destinies, yours and mine, are bound together. I can never achieve the glory I am due without you. You can never be more than a frightening and murderous witch skulking in the shadows without me.?

He stopped then and I found myself regarding him in a new light. Rufus was my enemy; of that there was no doubt in my mind. I hated him for his arrogance, and his presumption of the right to call me his own. Yet his words? his words rang true. It was frighteningly clear to me that he believed what he said, and if anything that fanned the flame of resentment even hotter within me. I listened to the forest, straining for some hint that he was lying, that he was a fool, but the voice that had driven me forward was now mute. Just as before, with Rufus aware of me, speaking to me, the gods abandoned me. And what did that mean?

?You presume much, Roman,? I said, speaking in a low, contemptuous voice as I rose from my crouch with my bow in hand, and arrow at the ready. ?My only desire is to claim your life, and have my freedom.?

?Yet you are free, are you not? I gave you your freedom without hesitation or reservation. Turn and go from here. I?ll not follow.?

?You gave me nothing!? I spat, ?You sent me from you with the promise I would be free, yet you haunt my dreams!?

He stood then; his eyes fixed upon mine and said, ?Then we have another thing in common between us.?

We stood there regarding each other for a very long time. Curiosity warred with anger in my breast as I tasted the words he had spoken and the admission he had just made. My own dreams, the restlessness borne of mocking words that filled the air when I was parted from him, it all possessed a kind of symmetry when I took his claims into account. He believed these things, was willing to place his life in my hands to share these notions with me. I remembered my thoughts as he had pursued me so relentlessly, driving his men by sheer force of will: I had thought he must be a god himself. Could it be that simple?

Moving carefully, deliberately, I lifted my bow, turning to the right as I drew the arrow back until my hand rested just below my jaw. I sighted on the center of his belly, a target impossible to miss at that range. I watched him as he stood unflinching, his eyes hard as granite as he awaited my choice. He was confident, and arrogant, and beautiful?

My arm trembled as I allowed the bow to relax and then slipped the arrow into the quiver on my back. I was by no means certain of my choice, but there was no other way. Were I to kill him now there would be no way to be certain he was not telling the truth. I strode into the clearing until I faced him from across his campfire.

?Why?? he asked. Just that one word.

?I don?t know why. Tell me more.?

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Rufus

I awoke swinging by my ankles and wrists, bound to a pole carried on the shoulders of two men, like some fresh kill being carried home after a hunt. I was naked, my throat was on fire, and I could feel neither my hands nor my feet. As I realized my predicament a roar of incoherent rage pushed from my chest but came out of my aching throat with considerably less force than I intended. Still, it was enough to attract attention, and my captors stopped briefly, stared at me, and called out to some others in that strangely clipped tongue of theirs. After a few pokes at me and some infuriating laughter they continued their march.

Warning- what follows may be disturbing

I prepared myself for the humiliation to come. I would undoubtedly be beaten and raped, but those would be familiar degradations at least. I sincerely hoped not to be burned; I had been burned fairly badly once and that was a pain difficult to suffer through. In any case I would watch for whatever chance to escape presented itself?and though there was no sign of his whereabouts I would await my opportunity to kill that vile creature Rufus the moment he should chance my way.

When we arrived in the camp the initial humiliations were not the worst they could have been. They freed me from the pole and shifted my ropes to the high branch of a tree, leaving me dangling by my ankles, my wrists still bound together but hanging free. I noticed my hands, still quite numb, were purple and swollen. I was left to hang there for a good while as Rufus? men poked, prodded, and mocked me, occasionally making threatening gestures, twisting my breasts or roughly grabbing at me between my legs. I bore it without responding until one of them made the mistake of letting his hand stray near my face. I sank my teeth into the meat of his hand and he howled, clawing and punching me repeatedly as he tried to pull free while his fellows laughed at his predicament. It ended when one of them kicked me hard in the side of the head. I saw stars, but managed to laugh anyhow.

I noticed a few of the tribesmen who made up my people were there in the camp, keeping a fearful distance. Even those who came close out of curiosity did not dare approach me. They were not fools. They knew the legends of the witch-goddess who could not die, and the vengeance she might wreak. But finally one of them did find the temerity to speak to me.

?Why did you allow them to capture you, great Tiwazō? Have you lost your power??

I stared at him and said nothing, glaring upside-down into his eyes until he shifted uncomfortably and left. As he did so, I began to feel a twinge of uncertainty: though he still feared me, an unmistakable doubt had filled his countenance. It was a doubt that I began to feel stirring in my own soul, though I tried to deny it.

Angrily I thrust the feeling away when I saw Rufus himself finally approach. I noted the bandage about his right forearm, and the stiffness in his gait from the wounds to his chest. He would not soon forget that we had fought. He had obviously groomed himself after our contest and was wearing a fine white shift that hung slightly above his knees, with short sleeves and a loose rope belt. I was particularly taken with his sandals, which were intricately bound to his muscular calves. Even hanging upside-down, I noticed again just how beautiful he was. I briefly considered spitting at him, but merely waited instead as he looked me up and down carefully. Then he spoke to me again in the seafarer tongue.

?So you speak Greek, witch woman, though your accent is crude. Well, what have you to say for yourself after killing my men and giving me such a chase??

?I spoke the seafarers? tongue long before the goat that spawned your father was born,? I growled.

He looked at me with a half-smile and said, ?Can you tell me why I should not let my men have their way with you, then cut your throat??

?If you were not such a pathetic coward you would cut my throat now,? I rasped.

?You would rather die than be dishonored,? he said. Even as I swayed slightly in the breeze I kept my eyes locked upon his. His gaze was level but his smile stayed upon his lips. ?Impressive spirit you show for a woman.?

I tried vainly to spit at him but my mouth was too choked and dry to do more than make a rude noise. ?If you haven?t balls enough to kill me then let me down little man, so I can cut off the tiny ones you have and shove them down your throat!?

He smiled at that, and laughed gently. ?You have a noble spirit, and might fetch a pretty price in the right market. It is a pity fate brought us to this circumstance.? He turned and spoke in the strange tongue to his men, who stared at me as he gestured and spoke firmly. I listened as closely as I could, attempting to pick up the feel of their language, but I had no time to get the gist before he turned and spoke to me again.

?Cruelty for no purpose is useless and destructive,? he said, ?and I am not easily insulted by careless words. Yet by killing my men you have given me no choice. None would respect me were I to allow a woman and a barbarian to humiliate me,? he said. ?I might let you go were it not for that,? he said, ?but you have sealed your own fate.?

He seemed serious, but I said nothing. He looked at me some more, sizing me up, then shook his head almost tenderly as he walked away. As he disappeared into the camp, three of his men cut me down and surprisingly gently lowered me to a sitting position. One of them, a particularly weasel-faced one, squatted and showed me his knife, trying to provoke fear. I stared at him as I would a worm, and watched the disappointment on his face with some satisfaction. But then he smirked, reached for the complicated knot that bound my wrists, and with a jerk suddenly loosened it.

At first I was surprised at my good fortune, but then realized my own foolishness. Before I could stop myself an embarrassing gasp came from my lips. My hands, swollen and numb, were now on fire. As the blood rushed back into them the only sensation was raw pain. Then a foot lashed out and my head snapped to one side as I was forced on to my belly. Stunned by the blow I struck out with my useless hands but they were seized again and lashed together behind my back. I tried to rise up only to be kicked over onto my back again and another man grabbed my ankles, roughly pulling the bindings free, sending waves of pain into my swollen feet. That did not stop me from driving my heel into his crotch and the man went down with a howl, then kicks rained down on me as his fellows jumped in.

My legs were kicked apart; my ankles pinned by strong hands, and then one of them dropped to his knees and pulled up his tunic. I tried to head-butt him as he descended on me, but a foot pressed me down, grinding the left side of my face in the dirt as I felt myself violated, the men laughing as the one raping me spent himself in mere moments and another took his place.

I had stopped struggling and the fools took the bait. As a third man took me the foot lifted from my face and I waited, lying motionless as he worked himself into frenzy. When I moved it was sudden and swift, pulling my legs up to wrap tightly about his waist as my jaws lunged at him, sinking my teeth into the side of his neck. He screamed and bucked in my grip, but I bit deep, my mouth suddenly filled with a gush of salty copper as his veins tore asunder and everything dissolved in flurry of feet and fists, my eyes blurred in red and black, my body jerking from the blows until a sudden strike to the back of my head made everything numb and dark...

The world was pain and darkness, and I so desperately wanted to lie down, but something held me, pinned my arms above my head so that my feet only barely touched the ground. I was cold, so very, very cold and I felt rather than heard the moan of anguish escape from me. One eye would not open; the other offered only blurred grey ghosts. My wrists? they were afire with pain, and when I tried to move them white-hot agony lanced through them and down my arms to my shoulders and spine. I forced myself to focus, to try to sort out one pain from another.

My vision cleared slowly, the one eye I could open gazing up at two hands, my hands, crossed at the wrist with a long metal spike driven through them, fastening them to a tree. I hung suspended, my body beginning to scream at me as the agonies of my wounds fought for my attentions. I tried to move and I cried out as broken bones grated in my right leg.

Laughter drew my attention and I spied several of the men building a cage from poles they cut out of saplings outside the camp. It was small, no more than four feet long and perhaps two feet square. When it was done three of them approached me and I tried to move, but my body was beyond obeying my will and I concentrated on keeping silent as two of the men secured my arms while the third struck at the spike impaling my wrists, finally wrenching it free. I collapsed into their grasp and they dragged me over to the cage and then shoved me inside head-first and lashed it closed. They flipped it over and attached a rope to one corner, using that to hoist the cage high up in the air, hanging me from a high tree limb. I lay curled around myself, unable to move, just trying to breathe through the waves of pain wracking my body.

That cage was my home for the next six days.

From my lofty position I watched as Rufus and six others left camp the following morning, armed with spears and nothing else. Once he was gone my cage was lowered and I was given some water by a man who simply seized a handful of my hair and yanked my head back, then poured water from a jug into my mouth, half drowning me. Then it was back up into the branches of the tree to hang for the rest of the day. If I should happen to doze there was always a man detailed to stick me in the leg or the side of my chest with the point of a spear to keep me awake. During the day there was nearly constant taunting, and the men would often sport at spinning the cage or striking me with a well-pitched stone while at night the insects would be out in force. Through it all I had not a morsel of food, and barely enough water to sustain me.

My bones healed, and some of the other wounds, but my hunger was like a flame after the first day, sapping my strength to the point I could hardly bring myself to move. The sixth day was the worst. Up until that time I had retained a semblance of rationality, but as dawn broke I could hear laughter in the wind rustling through the trees. I thought perhaps the demon Loghaz had finally returned to taunt me, but it was a different sound, seemingly more gleeful and malicious. I strained for it, desperate for even the mocker?s voice, but what came to me was cold and angry in a way the trickster could only dream of. It hungered for my flesh, promising in words I could only barely comprehend to tear the meat from my bones and consume me whole, to make an end of this foolish goddess. I could hear it singing to me through the trees, a song of avarice, destruction, and appetites insatiable and horrifying even to one such as I. It overwhelmed my senses, making time itself seem to stand still.

I became vaguely aware of the commotion of Rufus returning, of his men carrying two huge boar carcasses slung upon poles. It seemed as though I was floating freely above the scene, detached, warm, and comfortable. I was dimly aware of the man below prodding at me, but I could no longer feel his spear point against my side. I looked down and saw a deep gash in my side, oozing thick blood, but I was numb to it, as if it were happening to somebody other than me. My gaze returned to Rufus, the world slowly contracting and as my sight darkened all that filled my field of vision was this magnificent, arrogant man.

He seemed to glow a radiant light, and I watched as he cast his eyes up at me. I could feel his gaze as a physical thing, touching me, almost caressing me. He shouted and a moment later the cage began to sway, settling towards the ground as my eyes finally succumbed to the aching weariness, closing and embracing the darkness.

Rough handling forced me back to awareness. The cage had been opened and I was being carried. The scent of raw male sweat filled my nostrils, a heady and intoxicating mixture of animal, leather, spice and smoke? and a taste, the taste of Rufus. I forced myself to focus on that taste, to hold to it as an anchor of awareness to keep the abyss from claiming me again. I could smell cooking meat and it set my belly afire with such a raging hunger that I nearly choked on my own spittle. But I forced the hunger down, determined to keep some measure of my dignity even as my head spun madly.

Rufus set me down upon something soft and yielding, a bed of some kind, and then he spoke some words in his clipped, savage tongue. Then a damp, cool cloth kissed my forehead and my eyes focused upon his darkly radiant, manly face.

?You have had a very difficult time of it, yes?? he asked tenderly. I simply stared at him and said nothing. My hand moved to my side, where several deep and sticky gashes were torn in my flesh, wounds that would have healed had I been given food but which were now days old, oozing and hot, and then there was the newest gash, seeping my strength into the blanket I lay upon. His eyes shifted to them, and I saw genuine concern, then anger. I remained silent.

He turned away from me, and then produced a leather bottle, uncorking it with his teeth. He brought it to my lips and I drank deeply, hardly noticing that it seemed to be water mixed with wine. Suddenly I found myself retching, but managed to prevent myself from vomiting. As I did so, he made soothing, comforting noises, and continued to wipe my face with the cloth.

?You are hungry, pretty one,? he said. ?Would you like some food??

I looked upon him impassively, calculating his behavior. What he was attempting was pathetically obvious. I had seen slaves broken many, many times before, and this was always the cleverest way: to make the new slave see you as a savior. Yet this felt almost like a dream, and he was suffused with a fire of beauty. I stared at him, exhausted, and finally nodded silently. Let him play his game.

?I will have some lessons I must teach you,? he said, ?for fate has made you mine. But I have told you I am not needlessly cruel, and you should believe me?

At that moment another man entered the tent. He was older than Rufus, thinner, his head bald but for a thick fringe of white hair that spanned the back of his head from ear to ear. He was bearded, but his beard was neatly trimmed even as it fell nearly to his chest. His eyes were quite dark and yet piercing. He spoke and I saw an odd thing: the old man clearly deferred to Rufus, but at the same time Rufus deferred to him as well. Rufus called him ?Marieko,? and I recognized other words as well, as I began to pick up the feel of their speech: words that seemed to mean ?girl? and ?hurt? and, perhaps, ?heal.?

Rufus turned to me. ?This man is skilled in treating wounds,? he said. ?He shall tend you now.?

?Tend? is hardly the word I would have chosen for what followed. As Rufus left the tent, the old man did not deign to so much as speak to me. Instead he simply began prodding at my wounds. I felt the pain as a distant thing, almost as if it were not a part of me. Then he called out to men standing outside the tent and shortly thereafter two large warriors entered carrying a pot full of glowing coals with wooden handles. There were several long iron rods stuck in the coals. I understood instantly what he was about and I struggled to move, but the two warriors pinned me down and I was too weak to fight them. One after another the old man pressed the hot irons into my wounds as I gritted my teeth, refusing to scream. Once he was done the warriors took the pot and left the tent.

?I will enjoy watching you die, old man,? I rasped once I was able to speak again.

?You?ll need to live first, barbarian,? he laughed, the first words he had spoken to me, ?and who taught you the language of the Greeks? You speak like a sailor?s whore.?

I spat dryly at him, but he did not react, and merely stepped back to the opening of the tent. Then he said, ?I am the slave of Secondus Talmudius Africanus Rufus, as are you. Be certain to obtain your master?s permission before attempting to carry out your threats.? With that he turned and left.

I heard myself growling, a low moan coming from my chest, whether with rage or fatigue I could not truly tell. My head began to feel light again and I let myself fall back onto the blankets where I had been placed, feeling the darkness creep inward again even as I heard a man approaching. Rufus entered, followed by a boy carrying a large tray of meat and bread, the sight and scent of which immediately snapped me back to full awareness as my side burned, my muscles screamed, and my belly ached. The boy set the tray on a low table next to where I lay, then backed out of the tent while Rufus settled down opposite, reclining on his left side upon some cushions piled there. With his right hand he took one of the round loaves from the tray and tore off a piece, then gestured with it to me.

?As I have said, you will find I am not a cruel master unless I need to be, and for now you need food.?

I could not have refused to eat no matter how determined I might be. I attacked the feast laid before me as I looked back up at him. A tender smile crossed his lips as he watched me. I suppressed my own smile because I knew the game he played. I planned to kill him as soon as I had the chance, but for now there was the food, and the drink, and my head swam from the alcohol and exhaustion. I had a belly finally being filled after a week or more of running and fighting and then another week of torture and starvation. I could think of little but feeding.

There would be a time and a place to contemplate the destruction of this arrogant creature.

As I ate greedily, involuntary animal noises escaping me between swallows, he spoke again. ?My men were cruel. They are greatly displeased with the way you murdered their comrades. They sought to punish you and I could not deny them. By all rights I should let them kill you. Now that this is all done I will see to it that they are kept from you? but only if you are cooperative. Defy me, and I shall return you to them.?

It was suddenly clear to me that Rufus had expected to return and find me dead. The past week had been some kind of test. He was watching me expectantly, but I said nothing. Let him read what he would in my silence. I continued to methodically dispatch the food and drink at hand.

After the tray was emptied and the bottle was spent, I sat back in exhaustion, and watched listlessly as he produced some iron shackles. As I looked mute daggers at him, he very casually reached for my ankles and shackled them, then did the same to my wrists. I did not resist. I needed time to rest, to heal, and to plan, but I plotted how painful I would make his death even as I silently allowed him to chain me. Then he arose to his feet and straightened his tunic.

?I shall see you again at sunset, my barbarian witch,? he said, and turned to leave.

My only reply was a glowering silence. I worked to keep my anger in place, but a slaked thirst, a full belly, and the ability to lie down and stretch worked their magic, and hard slumber fell upon me like a hammer. Still, in my dreams I felt my arms closing around him, my hands squeezing, squeezing about his throat as I screamed in rage and sank my teeth into his face, tearing, making him howl with pain....

I did not awaken until the next morning, did not even recall Rufus returning although he did. Instead I awoke and found the old Greek, Marieko, bending over me. I instantly lunged at him and looped my chains about his throat, squeezing with all my might. But I was still weak and he punched me several times in the head to make me fall away. He did not make so foolish a mistake as to allow himself into my grasp again. Still he examined me, with Rufus watching in the background. Both looked surprised but said nothing. From then on I was allowed to stay in the tent, my wrists and ankles joined by a short chain and staked to a metal pole driven deep into the ground.

Rufus fed me all my meals personally. I made no attempt to kill him, though that desire burned so fiercely in my heart. I was chained, and still weak, though now I was healing quite well. I smiled at him, talked with him; let him believe his little trap for my soul was closing about me.

And throughout it all I could not escape the realization that he was beautiful. So incredibly beautiful it took my breath away. Especially when he smiled. His brow came to just above the bridge of my nose, which seemed quite comical. All of the Romans seemed short to my eyes, yet he was shorter than most of them. Most of the men he commanded, and most of the people he owned, were at least a little taller than he. Yet a fire burned within him that all could see, and there were times when Rufus seemed to tower over men a full head taller than he.

Most of the Romans were dark-skinned, he no exception. His skin was nearly as dark as the bark of an oak. His hair and his eyes were even darker; indeed both were as black as the blackest night, yet gleamed with a fiery intensity. His strong brow had an almost delicate veneer, with thin lashes that seemed like an angry stripe across his face. His largish yet appealing nose sat like a proud hawk?s beak over thick, slightly down turned lips.

His enormous head sat, with its thick mane of black hair pulled back in a short tail, above shoulders as broad as a boar?s. The knotted muscles flowing from his enormous neck led to arms almost twice the size of mine, yet so shapely and well defined I could almost point to each bulge and name it. The whole rest of his body?his chest, his waist, his thighs, his calves, were smooth and almost hairless like a woman?s body, but hard and knotted and manly in a fashion I found almost intoxicating. Even his feet astounded me. They were almost twice the size of my own, were shaped like the curve of a pear, yet they were muscular and mannish and beautiful.

By the third day in his tent I was still weak, but both he and Marieko were amazed at how well my wounds had already healed. With plentiful sleep, and enough food and water to satisfy a small army of men, the wounds on my side had already begun to fade to mute scars. Finally I could breathe easily, and I was fully alert to my surroundings again. Still my ankles and wrists were bound closely together, and I feigned infirmity, knowing that at some point that perceived frailty might be crucial.

The fourth morning Marieko had looked upon my wounds once again, and suddenly looked upon me as if I were an unearthly thing. I laughed openly at him for he knew and I knew that he could see the truth, that I was no mere mortal like himself. I laughed at his chagrin, even as my wounds were already disappearing like the wisps of forgotten dreams. Rufus sent two boys to the tent with bowls and towels and they bathed me, an act I tolerated with ill grace, for I was certain I knew what was to follow. A choice was approaching.

Each night Rufus would come and take a meal with me. Each night I would look upon him with glowering animosity and fascination. Bit by bit I began to learn his language, but more importantly, I began to learn him. On the fourth night as he fed me again and looked at my fading wounds, he suddenly reached down, released the shackles upon my ankles, then fiercely grasped my left breast and kissed me.

Time to choose. It was not yet dark, but the gate to the palisade was closed and I doubted my ability to scale it. To kill him now would require a feat of strength, and I already knew my physical prowess was nothing compared to his. As I relaxed into his grasp, my mouth alive and eager under his I reminded myself that I had given my body to far less appetizing specimens of manhood.

Morning came and I awoke to find him already up and gone. The events of the night before were etched deep in my memory and my body tingled at the thought of them even as I steeled myself against his eventual return. He was a superb lover, as facile with a woman?s body as he was strong and swift in combat. That admission diminished my desire to see him broken not a whit, rather it strengthened it: such beauty of form and arrogance of character begged for destruction.

He entered the tent clad in his habitual short tunic, belted at the waist. He had the scent of fresh bathing and his hair was wet, but freshly combed, falling about his shoulders in a black, gleaming mane. He looked down upon me where I lay chained and a look of decision set in his face. He produced the key he always carried with him and first unlocked my ankles, then freed my wrists.

I sprang into a crouch, eyeing him warily as he turned and reached out through the tent flap to seize a wrapped bundle, and then tossed it at my feet. I glanced down and saw my bow wrapped in a leather tunic along with sandals and my knife; the very one with which I had attempted to kill him. That day seemed an age ago though it had not been more than eleven days past. He smiled and cocked his head, gesturing to the bundle before me. He was perhaps the most magnificent thing I had ever seen, even at this moment of supreme arrogance.

He drew a deep breath into his huge chest, looked down at me, and said, ?So, barbarian witch. Would you like your freedom?? He paused, then turned toward the tent opening. ?There it is,? he said, gesturing broadly. ?Go on, take it. You want your release? Go, I offer you forgiveness for all your crimes against my men and me. I give you your freedom.?

I stared at him, seeking some hint that this was a lie, but there was nothing there but the ridiculous assumption that I would choose to remain here, his slave. It would have been ludicrous, but for the fact that I did hesitate.

Freedom or slavery? I could leave this place of my own free will, disappear into my forest certain in the knowledge that in a few short decades this man, this Rufus, would be dust and whatever existence he had beyond life would be plagued with my laughter. It would mean allowing him to live, no small price for my freedom. It would mean allowing him to walk away from this desecration of my altar, my land, and my body, believing he had won some victory over me. That was a bitter, bitter thing to contemplate- that he would die not knowing how wrong he was, how foolish and unworthy of even my contempt.

There were things I had learned from him, and from Marieko; intriguing stories of Rome and Rufus? home in Arretium. They had gods and goddesses of their own, and a mighty City they spoke of, the descriptions of which made me laugh in disbelief yet sparked a burning curiosity. These men also had amazing order among themselves, such confidence in their own power and the inevitability of their triumphs. Most beguiling of all, I had seen Rufus scrawl some marks upon a scroll, and speak just a few words to a brace of men, then within mere hours see his will done. It was a power he wielded with astonishing ease.

And I had been ignorant of my own people, the ones I called ?mine?. They had a king, trade with far off places, temples of their own gods- I had been ignorant of all this, cocooned in my forest, toying with the odd hunter or straggler from time to time. My standing with them could have done nothing but suffer after witnessing my capture and humiliation at the hands of the Romans.

I made my choice. I fetched the bundle and unwrapped it, pulling the simple leather tunic over my head and belting it about my waist, and then fetched up the sandals, Roman sandals, like those Rufus wore. I took up my bow and my knife, moving with extraordinary care for I was boiling inside with rage and the hunger for his blood, but I knew that the time and manner of his end had to be my choice, not his. I stepped towards the tent opening.

Rufus settled his large powerful hand upon my shoulder. The touch was almost thrilling, a rush of energy suffusing me so that he nearly died at that very moment.

?We shall be here for another month,? he said, ?Perhaps we shall hunt together.?

I stared at him, wide-eyed in disbelief, for he was utterly serious. I could not bring myself to even speak, but my face could not have failed to express my utter contempt at that moment. Instead I snorted, just a brief, sharp exhalation from my nose, then I slipped free of his grasp and strode barefoot out into the camp.

A commotion erupted, several of the Roman men-at-arms scrambling to their feet, reaching for their swords. They suddenly stopped as Rufus barked a command, stepping back, a look of astonished disbelief on their faces as I walked with my back straight and my head held high to the open gate. There I spied a familiar face, that weasel-looking man who had taken such pleasure at my torment.

I stopped and stared into his eyes, my face expressionless as a stone. Our gaze locked for a very long time until he shifted nervously, his hand fiddling with the hilt of his blade, and he finally looked away. I allowed myself the barest hint of a smile, and then resumed my carefully measured exodus from the camp. I could feel myriad eyes burning into my back, but one pair above all. I was shaking now, so violent were my emotions I could no longer fully contain them.

I reached the edge of the clearing and my will broke. I turned around, looking back to see Rufus standing in the opening of the gate, his massive arms folded across his chest. His face broke into a wide grin.

Suddenly it was too much to contain and I threw down my bow, my knife and the sandals Rufus had given me. I tore at the tunic, stripping it from my body, cleansing myself of all things Roman. My fists balled in rage I stared across the clearing at him and it erupted from me, unbidden and uncontrollable as I drew in a huge breath and screamed, my throat pouring forth such a sound I could taste blood in my mouth as it rose and rose as if I could never stop screaming until it had all poured from me. It ended with me shuddering with the violence thundering in my heart, my vision red and wavering, as I finally gasped for breath.

I do not believe I had ever been so powerfully aroused in all my life.

With that, I fetched up my bow and my knife, and strode into the forest. Behind me I heard laughter, the laughter of Rufus.

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Captured

Seven days. Seven days of running, hiding, backtracking and on occasion, killing. Seven days of knowing he was out there, relentless in his determination to bring me to heel. I could see it in him whenever I ventured close enough to spy him, see that this was not about punishment, nor about revenge. This was all about his honor and his power: he would not permit that I should stand against him.

His arrogance was as a God?s and I thought, perhaps, he must be one. As frustrating and maddening as I found all this, there was comfort of a sort in that notion. Here was a worthy adversary, the first I had ever encountered since realizing my divine nature. There must be the spark of the divine within him as well, for that could be the only plausible explanation for his unshakable tenacity.

He was certainly as beautiful as any God. I watched one night when the chase had ground to a halt, the men exhausted, the dogs spent and confused by the pungent herbs and animal scat I had strewn about. I watched as he set aside his armor and his tunic and spent hours at pleasure with a young man who had been by his side throughout this long contest. He had marched no less than his men, and had had no more of food or rest or comfort, yet his appetites were strong and he did not stint in sating them.

The seventh morning found me skirting the ridge of the western side of the river valley. These were lands only familiar from long, long years ago and as the wide arc of hunters drove me further and further north I came to realize I would be driven from my lands, away from those people I called mine and everything that had become familiar and comforting. Rage seethed in me, but there was little I could do- my bow was lost days ago and my bag of tricks emptied. They would not be dissuaded or eluded and even as I tasted the bitterness of those traitorous thoughts I felt the weariness setting in. The sun was not even half way along its journey across the sky and I was feeling spent.

This was hopeless.

Exhausted, I stumbled toward a great old tree that marked the westernmost border of my territory, of my divine sphere and home. The tree had marked this edge of it for as long as I had lived here. It would take six men clasping hands in a circle to surround it, and its gnarled, twisted branches held many crevices, and even a water hole in a crevice about five arm lengths above. It was the thickest, most twisted, least handsome, and yet most beautiful tree in my realm, and always had it guarded this border for me. I felt a kinship with it, for it had been here as long as I could remember, as long as even I myself had been here, and it had grown and changed so little in all that time.

I suddenly realized I had not walked past it since I had left the company of mortals and began realizing my divine nature. I also understood I was unwilling to walk past it?not to be driven past it, in any case. Instead, I patted the rough bark on its side, and put my head down, feeling the weight of exhaustion. I listened to their approach, and resolved that if they were to capture me, I would kill as many as possible first. And what then? They could not kill me, this I knew, but what abuses would be forced upon my body? And what would it matter?

The wind shifted and interrupted my reverie. I could hear them again, my nose tasting the scent of the oil on their weapons, their sweat and exhaustion on the air. There were at least five of them, and they were close. Weary from a long night of searching, excited that their prey was in sight. Raising my head and turning toward them I drew my knife, then hesitated as I saw him: Rufus himself was staring at me from amidst his small band of men, leading this party personally.

Holding my knife, I gazed levelly at him. He stopped, holding up his hand, and returned my gaze. He spoke, those clipped words of his people, and his men spread out to encircle me. One sounded a horn and others responded. They would rush to this spot to behold their prey, hoping to witness her destruction.

A sudden smile came to my lips as I realized I had been a fool. No wonder the gods had abandoned me: I had failed to see the most simple, most direct avenue of escape. I dropped my belongings; just a belt and a small bag, and then moved five paces towards Rufus, who remained motionless, his face as a stone visage gazing upon me. With deliberate scorn on my face and in my pose I dragged my bare foot through the soft loam, scratching a line in the earth and then stepped back, and prepared to defend myself.

Rufus spoke, and several of his men laughed. Their mirth angered me and as I took in the scene I realized that Rufus was calmly stripping off his armor. He would take me down himself. I ached to taunt him, but did he know my tongue? His words were foreign to me.

?Gweme, leudhe dewale, en dhautun geuse par minaizōn handiwōn,? I hissed in the old tongue, Come little Godling, and taste death from my hands, but there was no comprehension in his face. I tried again in the words of the seafaring peoples and this time he clearly understood me. His face darkened slightly, but then he laughed.

?You are rather tall, but too thin, and there is the stink of fear about you.? He finished stripping down to his tunic and drew a long, slim knife from his belt on the ground before stepping up to the line I had drawn in the earth. ?Drop your weapon.?

It was a command, not a request. What a magnificent creature he was, his body so firm and muscular, yet moving with such supple grace and quickness it made me feel weak just to behold him. How could I think to stand against this?

He stepped across the line and I lunged forward, throwing my left leg out in a wide arc, sweeping low to take his feet out from under him. He dodged like a cat, but my right leg swept in the reverse and he fell with a sharp exhalation of breath, his arms rising only barely in time to catch me as I fell on him, my knife seeking his throat. I had the advantage, but only for that brief moment and I surged against him? and his strength overwhelmed me, throwing me easily off and away. I spun and regained my feet, turning to ward off his attack, but it did not come. He stood warily, grinning at me, but a line of blood welled from his right arm where my blade had kissed him.

?That was nicely done,? he said, grinning.

His words threatened to enrage me and I forced myself to step back, circling him as I waited. I could see the tension in him, the shifting of his face and his stance, betraying his moves a precious moment before he made them and as he lunged inward I slipped low and drove the knife against his ribs. He twisted, my blade raking against him rather than sinking home, leaving a bloody rent in the skin as he sought to entrap me with his left arm. That was the deadly embrace I had to avoid at all costs. I had felt his strength and I knew myself unequal to it.

Twice more we closed, and each time I managed to touch him, but no more. Still, minor as they were his wounds angered him and I laughed at him, taunting him wordlessly. I needed his rage, needed him intent upon murder rather than capture. This was my only hope.

As we closed yet again I sought to brush against him, slipping in and out of his grasp, but either a slip of footing, or perhaps a tremor of fatigue, slowed me just enough that his left fist closed about my right forearm, bringing me to a sudden halt. We stood there, frozen in that moment, faces so close I could taste his breath, and I saw the triumph in his eyes.

I surged forward, driving my forehead against his face, but he slipped the blow, then pulled my arm high, twisting it behind my back as he pulled me close against him. His fist clenched hard as I struggled in his grasp and my heart sank as he dropped his knife. My knee surged upward, striking him hard in the groin and he shuddered, but if anything his grip tightened, my right hand going numb as he stripped the knife from my grasp. Desperate I sank my teeth in to his neck, but he had both my wrists trapped in his left hand now and with his right he took me by the throat, closing my windpipe, peeling my mouth from his neck and forcing me to my knees. I tried to kick him again, but my body just trembled, refusing to obey my will as my lungs screamed for air and the world shrank in to a dwindling tunnel of darkness and pain.

NEXT: Rufus

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The Roman

Rhumenk, Slodhe had called them. They were rumored to have killed and enslaved some of the tribes to the far south, but Slodhe said they were not hostile in their encounters with his people, merely sought trade and hunting. I was angry at that last, for if they were hunting in my woods, they had yet to pay their respects to me.

I found them after only a half a day. They had obviously broken camp, and were headed north, crashing loudly through my forest as if they had not a care or concern. There were so many of them, tens upon tens of them, most with extensive weaponry and some with oddly fitted bronze armor. Their garments were of a wide assortment, but all of made from impressively finely knit cloth.

They were all men; all their faces were clean-shaven, like boys, with neat, short-cropped hair except for two elderly ones whom I recognized as local hunters. Some were clearly warriors, armed and armored; others were somewhat of a mystery as to their purpose or place. Several were unmistakably slaves. They seemed to be on the short side, yet all of them strode with a swagger, a confidence the likes of which I usually saw only in the most powerful of chiefs. Except for my two hunters, all exuded arrogance and power.

Anger warred with curiosity as I trailed them. They were so unlike anything I had ever encountered before that I felt some kinship with the moths that fluttered about my campfire at night. Fascinated, I watched them all afternoon, and into the evening. I came to understand that they might all have the bearing of chiefs, but one amongst them was chief of all, expecting and receiving deference from all the others.

This one was shorter even than most of the others, yet he was compact and powerfully built. Indeed, I had never seen muscles so sharply cut and defined on a man. His bare legs and arms seemed almost like polished wood. His obvious ease at command made it clear that he was accustomed to instant obedience. I was able to come close enough as they stopped for a meal to catch some bits of conversation. Frustratingly, their tongue was unknown to me. It fell oddly upon the ear, in sharp, clipped cadences. Still, one word, his name, did come through repeatedly: Rufus.

They finally stopped in one of the common campsites surrounding my altar. Hunting parties would customarily make their offering then spend the night nearby before journeying home. I wondered what sort of offering I could expect from such as these, as it could not be coincidence that brought them directly to this spot. I felt a certain warm satisfaction as four of them, three of the warriors and one of the old hunters, set out along the path to my altar.

I moved parallel to them, trying to stay close enough to catch the words they spoke, but unable to get a clear picture of what they were saying. One thing was clear, though: the old man was unhappy, and that amused the other three. As they neared the altar the old man?s distress mounted and I began to suspect something was badly amiss.

They entered the clearing. My altar consisted of a pillar of carefully placed stones, with a large, flat slab at its top. It stood just thigh high to a normal man and was otherwise undecorated, but I enjoyed its simplicity as it stood in the center of a clearing devoid of other stones or stumps. It was solitary and solid and as such it represented me in a way that gave me some satisfaction. The old hunter pointed to it and the other three approached it. They circled it, looked it up and down, and peered closely. One of them said something in that odd tongue, and then all three of them laughed. I could not understand their words, but I could understand their intent.

This is what you have been babbling about all the way out here? A pile of rocks?

I was stringing my bow even before they acted, but what they did next sealed their doom. The tallest of the three lifted his boot and set it to the altar. With a powerful shove he toppled the slab from the top, and the pillar crumbled about it. As he did so I stepped clear of the trees and leveled my bow. They all laughed at the old hunter who nearly screamed in horror as his eyes locked on me. One of the three turned in his mirth to see what the hunter was looking at, and my arrow took him in the throat.

The other two reacted instantly, crouching and drawing their blades, but I killed the second with two arrows to the chest before he could do any more. The last warrior turned and dove for the trees, finding cover before I could drop him. I sprinted in to the clearing, trying to listen for his movement, but the old man was weeping too loudly for me to hear the running coward clearly. I silenced the old fool with my knife through his throat, fair punishment for bringing these interlopers into my woods to desecrate my altar. In the blessed silence that followed I could hear the last man attempting to move quietly around to the south, back towards his camp.

Fetching an arrow from my quiver I set out after him and soon had him in sight, though he was unaware of me. I trailed him back to the camp, which was now brightly lit with two large fires and numerous torches. As we drew close he began to run, thinking himself safely away. I listened to him begin to cry out an alarm, watched as those in the camp reacted, and then dropped him with an arrow through the left calf. He shrieked in pain again as I sent another shaft into his right calf, effectively pinning him to the ground.

Others rushed towards him, but stopped suddenly as three shafts struck the ground before them in rapid succession. I drew down on my whimpering victim again, this time piercing his left shoulder. I waited a moment, listening to the commotion in the camp, seeing several men head out in to the woods, doubtless to attempt to circle around me. I loosed another arrow in to my victim?s other shoulder, fixing him to the earth at all four limbs. My last arrow struck him at the base of the skull, silencing his moaning.

The one who commanded, Rufus, came to the fore and stood just beyond where my three warning arrows had fallen. It would have been so very easy to kill him then and there but I stayed my hand, taking his measure. He stood fearless with his arms crossed over his chest, staring in to the deepening gloom of the forest, obviously intent on laying eyes upon the one responsible for this. I nocked an arrow and stepped clear of the tree line and out in to the light. Our eyes met. His gaze was level as he regarded me in my loincloth, chest wrap, and bare feet. A flurry of motion began behind him, but my eyes never left his as with a motion of his hand he brought his warriors to a halt. I pursed my lips, spat on the ground before me and, certain that my point had been clearly made, turned my back upon him. I returned to the forest, striking out to the west, moving swiftly along hidden trails I knew well in order to avoid any skirmishers who might seek to annoy me.

I retreated deep in to the forest, avoiding all contact for two days. Despite my firm response to the disrespect I had suffered I was still somewhat disturbed by the episode. Who were these people that they should think to come to my land and behave as if I were of no consequence? I knew the old hunters must have warned them, yet they had laughed and invited retribution. What kind of men would be so foolish?

I took up at one of my meditation spots, quiet and secluded, there to contemplate what had happened and how to ensure it would not happen again. The breeze carried the scent of storm and lightning the next morning and I approved, for a savage storm would be just the thing to reinforce my displeasure with these invaders. When the sky lit up and the thunder rippled across the land I laughed and cavorted in the rain, so very pleased that I had chosen this as my parting message to those fools who were doubtless even now beating a hasty retreat back to whence they had come.

On the third day, content that my storm had finished what I had begun, I set out to return to my normal haunts. However, as I made my way south there was uneasiness in the forest, a whisper of danger, a wrongness I could taste on the air. Moving with more care I slipped through the brush, following my nose and my ears.

Then I heard them off to my left, and a bit behind me: dogs and men, crashing through my forest with an obviously intentional and destructive racket. It was the interlopers I had encountered, and there seemed to be more of them than I remembered. Worse luck, they sounded to be fairly tightly clustered, and I realized I had only ten or so arrows. I did not think I could reliably kill them and their dogs in the thick of the trees, and they were between me and both my closest emergency cache and my main sleeping spot.

I attempted to circle around them, but as I did so the dogs began baying excitedly. I cursed myself, realizing they were probably trained to follow scents, and that I had not retrieved the arrows I had shot into their camp. Habitually, I bound iron tips and feathers onto my arrows using my own hair, and it had been too long since I had considered the danger that might bring: could the dogs could now scent me from my own arrows?

A flock of birds took flight overhead, and in their fluttering wings I heard a voice: ?Silly fool, run!? the trickster-God Loghaz laughed. Cursing him silently, I turned and made with all speed toward the nearest clearing in the opposite direction. This would perhaps give me a chance to see exactly how many there were, and might afford me an opportunity to thin their numbers. I believed I could outpace them for some time; however, if they spread out with the dogs it could be quite difficult to slip around them.

I crossed the clearing at a dead run, taking up a position on the far side a small distance in to the trees. I counted my arrows: eleven. Listening, I tried to determine how many I faced. I could clearly make out eight different dogs, but there could be more. They drew closer and I nocked an arrow, waiting, but no one entered the clearing. I could make out motion along the edge, men and dogs, but nothing I could take a clear shot at. Clearly, they were wary of my bow and suspected my presence.

Suddenly a man shouted and two dogs dashed into the clearing, heading straight for me. I loosed two arrows in quick succession and was in motion even before I heard the animals yelping in distress. It had been a foolish move on their part, for they should have waited until they were certain of my location and could move in closer before charging. On the other hand, I was now down two arrows and the chase was on in earnest.

The advantage of being tracked by dogs was that there was little point in attempting to be circuitous. I ran at the best pace I could maintain while trying to think of an escape route. There was a river ahead, but even at this pace it would be well towards evening when I reached it. I was not certain I could open my lead enough to use the river effectively. I could hear the demon laughing as the wind rushed past my ears. You are no goddess, you are nothing! he hissed, but his taunts were nothing new and I ignored him.

Then I heard a dog charging upon me, nearly silently. Only the rapid thuds of footfalls warned me in time to seize my knife and turn. This dog was larger than the two I had dispatched, and yellow in color, thickly muscled with a wide jaw and a collar of sharp spikes protecting its throat. I feinted with my bow but he ignored it, lunging for my left leg as I leapt out of the way. He spun on his paws, spittle flying from his jaws as he came for me again, forcing me back towards the line of pursuers. I dodged again and this time threw down my bow as he lunged. I turned and leapt at his back. He snapped at my arm, but I was able to force him down and bring my weight to bear on the knife, sinking it into the beast?s back as he struggled beneath me. He did not die easily, forcing me to hold him down and strike again and again with the blade. Through it all he made only eerily hoarse and quiet yelps and grunts; otherwise, no sound but my own breaths and the slick snicker of my knife plunging into his ribs again and again accompanied our struggle.

My anger was now mixed with an emotion I had not felt in a long, long time: doubt. I found that emotion even more infuriating, for how dare these mortals cause such feelings in one such as I? But these men and their beasts feared me not, and now I found myself having to kill a beast with my hands just to escape their clutches. How mortifying, how offensive!

Then, as the beast?s struggle ended beneath me, I realized I had lost precious time and could afford no further emotional indulgences. As I scooped up my bow I spied one of my pursuers coming through the brush about 50 paces away. I loosed an arrow, but he stopped and quickly raised a shield, catching it. As I turned to run I heard a horn sound behind me, and my left arm began to throb. The dog?s collar had caught me; and I realized that a long gash running along the inside of my forearm was welling blood.

I ran hard, seeking out some place where I could perhaps pause and strike at them. The land rose somewhat as I approached the crest of the hills, and I began to calculate: it would have to be here, for beyond this point they would be above me. I skirted along the ridge, seeking the highest point where I could see what opportunities would present themselves.

The men swept towards the hill in a semicircle, very deliberate and methodical. At some point they must have realized I might be perched on the high ground, because horns sounded and they stopped closing. Watching carefully as I tended my left arm, I could make out some forty men, all wearing identical garments and armor. Towards the center of the line there were several men clustered together?and there he was. The one they called Rufus.

He wore gleaming armor and a helmet with a tall crimson crest. I could see him gesturing, the men about him reacting almost as if his very movements carried some physical force. The breeze carried his voice to me, deep and imperious, so very certain of himself, of his power and his purpose. He sent men running to the ends of his skirmish lines and they began to fan out, stretching the line as the center began to move forward. He turned and gazed along the ridgeline, his eyes passing over my hiding place and continuing on? then returning. With a look of determination, he pointed energetically. Four men immediately set out up the hill, straight towards me. I cursed him even as I admired his ability to so quickly calculate where I must be.

I realized then that I wanted him to come closer. I wanted to watch this arrogant creature die. But the others below were spreading out. I realized that if I remained I would be encircled and would have to slip past the dogs to escape.

Watching the trees I gauged the wind for a moment, then drew three of my precious remaining arrows, setting two point-down in the earth and nocking the third. The men climbing the hill were getting close enough for me to hear them clearly. There was no more time.

I stood and drew the arrow back to my ear, aiming in a high arc out over the ground below. I loosed the arrow, and then swiftly repeated the action, sending two shafts in a high arc toward the men below. The third I let fly at Rufus himself, and smiled grimly as he missed with his shield and my arrow found the side of his calf. A confused commotion began below as I turned and sped down the reverse slope, hoping to disappear into the brush as I made for the river still far below.

It was growing dark when I reached the riverbank and plunged in to the water, making for the far bank. I had gained ground on my pursuers, and had time to use the river to my advantage. I followed it far downstream, at times letting the current carry me as I rested my aching legs. I would be far south of them now, well beyond the skirmish line, and the dogs would have to scour both banks upstream and down to pick up my trail.

As the night grew deeper I came upon a familiar spot and left the river, heading up in to the low hills where I had a regular camp. To the north I could see the glow of fires. They had given up the chase and settled in for the night. Oddly enough it saddened me that they had stopped. Despite the arrogance and foolishness of their pursuit, it had been? exhilarating.

Finding blankets and supplies where I had secreted them the season before I settled down for the night, but I set no fire. I could see their light, and there was no need to permit them to see mine.

Sleep was elusive and light when it did come, but I managed to rest until the sky began to go gray with the coming dawn. Muscles ached but were otherwise cooperative and the wound to my arm was well on its way to healing as I broke camp. With a new quiver full of arrows I set out eastward, seeking to circle far behind the men who had pursued me. I was still angry and it was in my mind that punishment was in order as I made my way along familiar trails, listening to the wind in the trees and?

There was silence. Listen as I might, seeking the words of Nerthō, or even Loghaz, I heard nothing. Nerthō electing to remain silent I could understand, but Loghaz? That one never passed an opportunity to make merry at my expense, sowing his doubt in my heart with whispered words of fear, death, and despair.

I slowed my pace. Had I missed something? What would silence the voices that had been my companions for so many winters? What would drive them from me? I stopped in my tracks, eyes closed, listening as I calmed my breathing and the beating of my heart. Settling down in to a cross-legged sitting position I slowly shut out the sounds I knew, listening solely to the rustling of the breeze in the trees, the songs of birds? the quiet snapping of a twig.

Instantly alert I attuned myself to that sound. Men were moving in the woods toward me. There were at least two of them, and they were close, but they likely had not seen me.

Angered by their persistence, I strung my bow and slipped off the trail.

NEXT: Captured

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Tiwazō

Circa 130 BCE

Communing with the mother-goddess, Nerthō, in my dreams, I felt a slight breeze upon my face and heard her voice upon it. Your people are calling you, sister, she whispered in my ear. Stirring myself awake I heard a group of men in the distance, chanting in the old tongue. My people, the Darrihardōz tribe, were calling to me.

With some irritation I noted they were once again mispronouncing my name. These young ones did not appreciate the old ways. I stood and stretched, realizing that I had been dozing for days again, and curious to see what they had brought. Feeling the ache in my muscles I wrapped my chest and took up my bow and quiver as I left my cave and headed for the altar clearing.

Unfortunately they were still there when I arrived. They had chosen to take a short meal there in communion. It was an option they were allowed, I remembered sourly. I watched silently from the woods with only idle curiosity, waiting for them to depart, as I was loath to meet with them.

They sat around the flat stone altar in a semicircle, eating and talking companionably, obviously not really expecting an appearance. But a small bowl of leaves and herbs burnt on the stones, lending a sweet fragrance to the air. Next to it was their main offering, a fat haunch from what was obviously an unusually large buck. I was not particularly hungry, but it was generous I had to admit.

There were seven men, six of them familiar to me. The seventh was a young man in his late teens, unusually tall, grinning with the excitement of his first hunt, his hands and face bloody with the celebration of his first kill. That was common enough, but what caught my attention was a piece of jewelry he wore about his right arm: a torc of braided metal, leather and bone. I recognized it instantly, and realized the timing would be right.

With a flash I felt drawn to the recent past. I could clearly remember the young woman who came to my altar some sixteen winters prior, laying out blankets and furs and a fine iron knife, along with some gathered foods and meat. Unlike others who came alone, she did not leave her offerings and depart. She simply remained at the altar, sitting on her calves, nursing a newborn, waiting and quietly singing a little now and then. I lurked nearby, having no intention of meeting her, as I had grown tired of people in recent decades. But as nightfall approached it was clear she was not moving. I was a bit surprised, as it soon would be dark, but still she did not leave.

Reluctantly I had returned to my cave and donned my most impressive attire: a long cape fashioned from the hides of two wolves, a tunic of fine cloth, soft and glowing, left as an offering by some passing clan, and buckskin boots with fur and feather tassels. I also fetched up every bit of decoration that was easily at hand, festooning my arms and neck with armlets, rings and necklaces.

Dusk was upon us when I returned, and I was surprised that she had not started a fire for the sky was beginning to darken with a chill making itself felt. I approached quietly, for it would be unseemly to simply crash out of the woods like some lumbering beast. I was rewarded by a gasp of surprise when she looked up and saw me standing not more than an arm?s length from her.

?Juwunte matar kwi ken ert med tinom bharnoi?? I asked in the old tongue: ?Young mother, why are you here with your child?? She was unlikely to fully understand the words, but could not mistake the tone or intent. She looked up at me, fear and hope mingling in her eyes.

?I?ve brought you many fine gifts,? she whispered, ?so that I might plead for your blessing on my son.?

Now that was certainly different, and more than a little brave. Most women were too timid to approach my altar, as well they should be. I squatted before her, cradling my bow in my arm, and squinted at her. She lifted the child, extending him to me. I hesitated a moment, then set down the bow and took him from her. He squirmed and made a noise, sensing he had left his mother, but I made quieting sounds to him and stood.

?You presume much, mother,? I said softly, in the newer tongue these young ones used. Then I snarled and bellowed: ?I am Tiwazō the Huntress, and care not for your womanly concerns! You are unwise to disturb me!?

The child squawked in fear as his mother put her face to the ground and begged forgiveness. I growled at them both, but then she looked up at me with pleading in her eyes. ?My husband died last week, and I have only his brother Eidhaz to help care for us.?

I regarded her infant coolly, then moved my fingers to the back of its neck, considering. It would be easy enough to snap, barely a little pressure and a twist. It was tempting, for it would surely avoid a repeat of such foolish requests. I turned my head sideways, and stared down at her with a cold smile. She could clearly sense my intent, and tears of fear sprang to her eyes as I glowered mercilessly at her. I raised his head, pinching at his neck while he squirmed. ?So this is part of your sacrifice to me? Perhaps I?ll take him.?

?Mercy! Please! His father died in the hunt!? she cried out, and buried her face again in the ground.

?Be still, you little fool,? I hissed, but for some reason I felt myself relenting. I stared at the infant, who was surprisingly quiet, merely making little grunting noises there in the dimming light. Suddenly he looked me in the eye and gave a little smile. I gave him a sour one back. He was not easily impressed, this little one. Finally I looked down at his mother, her face still down, obviously struggling to stay quiet though she kept making annoying little whimpering noises.

?Gather wood for a fire,? I finally snapped at her. ?You?ll both be staying the night.?

With a small cry she leapt up and ran to begin her assigned task. I could sense her excitement and relief. I squatted down and leaned back, contemplating the child. It was the first I had seen up close in a very long time. He snuggled contentedly in my arms as his mother busied herself gathering fuel.

As she assembled a pyre of larger pieces and some kindling, I wondered what she would think were I to tell her she possessed a power I did not. As she produced a flint and a metal knife, I interrupted her.

?No. Here, take your son,? I said. With a look of relief, she reached for him, simpering and bowing a bit.

I relinquished the child and regained my feet, then dug in my belt pouch as I approached the gathered wood. From two pouches I gathered the powders of Thonaraz, the mixing of which a long-dead shaman had introduced me to long before either of these humans was born. I mixed them in my hand and poured them into the heart of the kindling, then took my own flint and knife and casually stuck them at the piled wood. It caught with a brilliant flash, and I suppressed a smile as I heard the young mother gasp. I smirked, and imperiously pointed to the ground at my feet near the fire. She scurried to the spot and sat obediently.

Surprisingly, I found myself curious enough to talk to her. Cooking some of the food she had brought to my altar, I even deigned to share it with her. We spent that night together, talking, caring for her child, and sharing company against the darkness. Her life was likely to be a hard one: married into a new clan, no family but her husband?s, and him dead after a minor wound during a hunt earned him a fever that never broke. She was not well liked by her sisters-in-law. I knew the feeling well.

As night wore on she began to nod off, and I allowed it. As she slept, cradling her son in her arms, I foolishly allowed myself to feel a little kinship with her. As the hours wore on, I heard the howling of a pack of wolves, and in them I heard a voice. Mortals would not understand the words, but I did: show mercy little sister, the brother-god said to me. At his words I found myself softening, and kept my watch silently over them.

When dawn began to break, the baby stirred, and in her sleep she put him to her breast. Watching, I decided to make gesture to her. I chose a torc fashioned of metal, leather and bone, drew it off my arm, and shook her awake. Startled, she looked up at me.

?He is to keep this with him always, so that I will know him when he hunts my woods.? She smiled at me gratefully, and thanked me.

?You are a beautiful and wonderful friend,? she said, reverently.

Annoyed that she should be so presumptuous I snarled at her, and grabbed her by the throat. She squeaked as I squeezed and dug my nails in a little. ?You are lucky, little fool, that I did not cut out both your hearts and eat them,? I hissed. ?Do you understand me? You earned my blessing once at my brother?s request, but you will tell the other women that had it been another day I?d have built a new altar from your bones.? Her face turned white, and she whimpered and closed her eyes. ?Tiwazō the Huntress is no friend to women and children. She is cruel and quick to anger. Remember this!?

She nodded, then cried out as I savagely drew a scratch across her face and pushed her head against the ground again. ?Be gone and never return!? I bellowed, then turned and stalked off angrily, ignoring her mewling apologies. Little fool.

Snapping out of my reverie, I noted that apparently my words had been well heeded. I never saw her again, nor had anyone attempted such a stunt again. Yet he still had my torc, and seemed to have grown in to quite a handsome young man. Yes, quite handsome, I thought as I stared silently.

Eventually, they all got up to leave. But rather than collecting their sacrifice, I took up my bow and set out after them. I knew where they were going, for the Darrihardōz tribesmen would almost always camp in the same clearing on their way back from trips to my altar. In short order I was downwind from them, but stayed concealed in the trees, still watching.

It was a welcoming sight, these seven men gathered about a fire to share tales and celebrate the accomplishments of the newest hunter. This was not nearly so common as times past, for these men were farmers first and hunters second, but the ritual, the rite of passage, was older than I, perhaps as old as man himself. I nearly decided to leave them be, for I was still weary of humans and their tiny lives. Still, it had been many years since I had enjoyed the company of a man, and that urge drew me closer. I crept stealthily through the trees and low brush as they drank some concoction and boasted to each other as men so often do.

I made my decision. There was still some time before darkness fell, and that was just as well. I stood up and very casually unstrung my bow. One of the men, sitting directly across from where I stood, saw me and simply stopped talking, eyes wide and staring. After a moment his companions noticed and all eyes turned to me, silence falling over them like a blanket.

I regarded them coolly, looking each in the eyes one at a time as with measured steps I moved into their circle. They remained seated and silent, watching as I walked a sinuous path about them. I was pleased to sense no more than mild concern from them, for it had been some time since I had done this and I was not certain they would all remember the rite. But they all looked excited, and remained seated as was proper. All were smiling, and the young man?s gaze was most confident of all, riding high on the thrill of his first successful hunt.

I stepped in front of him and reached out to touch his face. He did not flinch, but his deep brown eyes focused on mine as I slid two fingers under his clean-shaven chin and lifted it. I graced him with a smile.

?I know you,? I said, my voice low and quiet, ?You are Slodhe, nephew of Eidhaz.?

?Yes,? he gasped in surprise, his spine straightening. I could hear the others? reactions as well. I squatted to look him in the eye and slid my fingers down his neck and across his muscular chest, then traced my hand up over his shoulder and down his arm. I squeezed the hard muscles of his arm, feeling a tiny thrill, then fingered the torc there. This close I could smell him, his masculine scent swirling in my head, filling my lungs.

?You bear my talisman,? I whispered, then lifted my fingers to touch his lips, silencing him before he could speak. ?Your mother brought you to me as an infant, seeking my blessing upon you.? I stood again and turned to face the others. ?Would you agree that he has proven himself a man, and hunted well in my name??

There were murmurs of agreement, but one was somewhat muted. I turned my attention to that one. Stepping toward him, I spied a mark on his right shoulder, a circle split in to three sections by curved lines radiating from the center. I had placed my mark on him many years before, on a day much like this one. I recognized it, and recognized his aging face suddenly. I smiled a bit at the obvious jealousy in his eye.

Bending my lips to his ear I whispered, ?Only strong men win my favor, and only once. You know that. But you remember what I gave you, yes?? His chest swelled and he smiled at me, remembering, and laughed a little.

Patting him in a gentle goodbye, I turned and walked back to Slodhe and extended my hand. He glanced at the others, then grinned, taking my hand as he stood. My heart skipped a beat as I realized just how tall he really was. Stepping close I laid my hands upon his shoulders and pulled myself up to press my lips hard upon his. He hesitated just long enough to tell me what I wanted to know.

Biting his lip hard enough to draw a bit of blood, I suddenly let myself drop to the ground and stepped away from him, turning towards the darkening woods. ?Try to keep up little man!? I sneered, then sprinted away.

I heard the older one laugh suddenly. ?Don?t just stand there, boy!? my previously chosen pretty cried. ?Go get her!? I laughed again as I heard Slodhe take after me as the men around the fire burst in to cheers of encouragement.

I tested the boy, crashing ahead at a breakneck pace then fading quietly in to the cover of the brush to double back and set off at an angle away from the altar clearing. He lost me for a moment, but simply began circling until he picked up my trail again. From then on he never faltered. I could have evaded him completely had I so desired, for I knew these paths far too well to let any hunter follow me against my will. But while I certainly did not make it easy, losing him was not my goal. On those occasions where I paused and let him come close enough for me to spy him, I could see that he was unconcerned, concentrating on his task yet aware of his surroundings. That he was enjoying himself immensely was unmistakable and all to the good.

Finally, I led him to one of my favorite spots, where the major stream through the area took a large dip, rushing down a rocky basin to form a deep, clear pool before meandering off towards the lake two days walk further down. I had a shelter there on the far side of the pool, really nothing more than a lean-to with dry bedding, firewood and some basic tools and supplies. I did not live there, but I often spent time there, and it had everything we would need.

As I heard his approach, I stripped off my clothes and bundled them about my bow and knife, then plunged in to the icy pool, holding my belongings high with one hand as I swiftly made my way across. The water was mountain runoff, clear and brisk, a gift from the mother-Goddess Nerthō. When I reached the far side I tossed my bundle upon the bank and sank back in to the water, submerging myself fully, rinsing away the accumulated sweat and dust from my romp through the green. I surfaced again there in the shallows, letting my knees settle to the bottom and turning to face him. I felt my breasts harden a bit as they bobbed near the surface, my shoulders above the water line, just as Slodhe emerged from the trees.

?You can swim, yes?? I mocked him, though it seemed a safe bet as his people made their home on the shore of the very lake fed by this stream. He confirmed my suspicions by casually shedding his leggings and boots and plunging in. He crossed the pool swiftly, using an oddly flailing overhand stroke I had never seen before. Always there are new things to learn, I mused. I stood then, the water up to my hips, waiting for him as he made his way toward me. We were both shivering from the chill water, but the air was warm and the sun had not yet set fully. As he stood in the shallows near me it was clear the cold had done nothing to dampen his enthusiasm. I grabbed him in an embrace then, thrilling at the feel of his hardness against me as I dug my fingers into his back and bit at his chest.

Suddenly I sensed awkwardness in him: he did not know exactly what to do, and I was frightening him a little?which I would not mind, except he began to sag, and that I could not have. So I relaxed a little, smiled up at him, and led him to my lean-to, where we pulled out the rolled furs and blankets stored there, spreading them on the grass in the last remaining spot of sunlight. Pushing him down firmly, I told him to relax, and took his manhood in my mouth. I reveled in his pleasure as he gasped and climaxed within moments.

When I looked up he seemed embarrassed, but then I moved my face above his, looking down upon him. ?Oh no, my fine young man. This was only the beginning. You are young and strong, and now that we have calmed your fire, we will light it again slowly, and I will teach you about a woman?s body.? He grinned nervously, and I laughed.

And show him I did. Relighting his fire was no challenge at all.

Later we relaxed together in the twilight, our bodies quivering with the energy we had spent. We chatted amiably for a while. He mentioned some odd strangers who had been moving through the area that he was very curious about. This made me curious as well, but other than knowing they were camped to the south, he knew little more. Growing irritated with his tangled locks, I took his head in my lap and began working a comb through his hair. I felt dim memories sparking as I did so, but forced them away. He yelped as I pulled a knot a bit too hard, and I smirked at him. Running one hand idly over his shoulder as I continued teasing his hair, I decided to make more conversation.

?Tell me, boy, has your family chosen a mate for you?? I asked, not sure why I was asking.

?Yes. Her name is Thordiz. She is to be mine when we return from this hunt.?

?Ahh. So many firsts for you.? He pushed himself up from my lap and sat back. I smiled at him, sensing his unease.

?It?s getting dark. We should build a fire,? he said. He was glorious, his thick black mane spilling over his broad shoulders, framing his wide brown eyes in the dimming light. I reached out, taking his arm and sliding my other hand into his lap.

?Later,? I said. Then my mouth was on his, hard, and I felt his need rise again, delightfully.

He slept soundly as the fire began to gutter and die, but sleep eluded me. I sat up and moved carefully so as not to wake him, sliding over to the fire to add a few more sticks, sufficient to keep it going until dawn. Slodhe rolled away from the light, and I idly fingered the scratches on his back, amused at how he twitched a bit in his sleep as I did so. Gazing on him I was taken with an urge to wake him, to shake him from his dreams and tell him to go, that we were done here. Instead I rose and walked to the pool where the rushing of the stream covered the sound as I dove in.

The moon was up and quite bright, but I had to exercise some care as I climbed the rocky face of the hill, picking and choosing my way until I reached a large, flat stone I often used as a perch. It was cold, the warmth of the sun having long since been drawn away by the spray from the stream, so I pulled my legs up and wrapped my arms around them, resting my chin upon my knees.

Below me a small campfire glowed next to the sleeping man. He was really no more than a boy, despite his growth. Perhaps he knew enough to be a man. Perhaps he was strong enough. One thing was certain: come morning he would be going back to his people and taking up the mantle of manhood whether he was ready or not. Perhaps my having blessed him a second time would serve him well in the coming years.

I could keep him with me; it would be so simple to do. I could go back down there and wake him, talk to him, tell him I needed him. I could tell him I loved him for that would only be half a lie, and he would believe me. He would toss aside family and the certainty of a life he knew in favor of a red-haired demon-lover. We would retreat into the wild, my man and I, and make a place for ourselves in this lush and bountiful forest. We would share our time and our pleasures and I would teach him so many things he could not have even dreamed. Or I could return with him to his people, make of him a god-man, a leader of wisdom and certainty whose counsel would be sought after by all who knew him. We could rule the many clans and villages that made these lands their home. He would be shaman-chief, and I his totem and his trophy and the source of his power.

And he would grow old.

The day would come when he would look back and realize he had no sons, no daughters, and no grandchildren to delight in. Would wisdom and power be enough? Would he be able to forgive me all I had stolen from him? Would my love be enough? Would he come to resent me for what I had taken from him?

In the burble and splash of the water, I heard the taunting of the demon Loghaz: He is nothing. They are as dust, and worth nothing.

?Be gone, trickster,? I told him angrily. But I found myself wondering: Why had I gone to that camp, taunted those men, drawn the boy here? Simply because my own hunger was so strong I had been unable to resist? Here we were, this boy, sleeping soundly by the fire, his day and night complete with accomplishments that filled him with excitement and joy; and I, curled upon my stone, suddenly feeling tears, taunted by the Gods. I hid my face in my knees, and listened to Loghaz?s mocking voice burbling from the water, doing my best to ignore him as he urged me to kill the boy, to think how I would enjoy hearing his screams as I used my knife to?.

I shook myself. ?Quiet, demon, I cannot hear your lies!? I repeated it over and over, rocking back and forth until finally, finally, I heard only the water.

But when I looked up again, looked back at the boy, it was with different eyes, cold and hard. What right would he have to resent me? Such arrogance! That he might look upon all I might give him and call it poor recompense? but what else could he do, poor, miserable, short-lived creature that he was? How could I expect him to understand me when his view of the world was a narrow stretch of land, a lake, and a girl named Thordiz who waited at home to be his wife? He had no grand vision, no way to grasp what I was beyond offering some pitiful sacrifice on an altar, in hope that I might at least decline to cause mischief among his people. It would all be gone in a moment, just a brief interlude of struggle with perhaps some joy and a generous share of fear and uncertainty, all inserted in the miniscule space between that time before he lived, and that time after. Were I inclined to mercy I might indeed do him the favor of quietly cutting his throat tonight. I could spare him all the fear and pain the future held, and let his life end on a night of pleasure and happiness.

And would that be any more or less cruel than loving him?

Angrily, I leapt back into the water and swam to shore, returning to where he slept. As I walked back toward him, the fire shifted, launching a cloud of orange sparks skyward. I followed them as they ascended, my spirit dancing among them and laughing cruelly as I watched them slowly winking out, their energy spent. My spirit returned and my gaze fell to his sleeping form. The fire was warm on my backside as I knelt near him, and found my knife.

I began sharpening it with the whetstone from my belt, moving the stone along the blade with slow, deliberate strokes as I contemplated his face, feeling the fire some more. The fire gave something to those who sat about it, even if no more than some light to hold back the darkness, and a circle of warmth against the chill. What had I to offer that the fire did not? What had I been given in return for being forever outside that circle? Fire warmed, and changed, and emboldened, and sometimes destroyed. I was nothing compared to the fire, merely starlight, cold, unblinking, and changeless, perhaps lovely to behold, but beyond that? useless. Except perhaps to destroy.

Lost in these thoughts I barely noticed as the sky grayed with the coming dawn. The demon-God Loghaz? voice began taunting me again from the burbling water, and finally, angrily, I leapt upon the boy?s sleeping form. He cried out as I let the weight of my knees slam into his arms. He struggled but for a moment, then froze as I showed him my knife. I pressed it into his neck, and then made my choice.

He at least did himself proud enough not to whimper as I removed the knife from his neck, turned the point toward his breast, and cut a circle and made my mark in his flesh. ?Remember me and remember this night and what I have taught you, mortal,? I said. ?It is a gift you shall receive but once.?

I then kissed his body a few more times, tasting his blood as it oozed from my mark gouged in his chest. Finally I caressed his cheek gingerly, and stood looking upon him one last time. Then, ignoring the demon?s taunting and the boy?s parting words, I left without another sound.

My appetite was sated for now. Slodhe had mentioned that there were strangers camped to the south, and I intended to find out more about them.

NEXT: The Roman

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The Bull

By the time I realized what they were about it was too late to make my excuses and leave. Besides, Crescentius would never have permitted it- this was the Praetor?s prime entertainment for the afternoon and none of his household would be seen slipping away before the grand climax. So I waited with the others as the Praetor?s men prepared the open courtyard for the event. While the celebration itself was held in the villa?s beautiful atrium, the demonstration required a great deal of space.

The girl at the center of the festivities seemed less than pleased. For young Tacita this was no small event being her fourteenth birthday and the prelude to her upcoming wedding, yet she sat sullen at her mother?s side, draping her hand across her face, attempting to hide the crooked line of her once straight and very Roman nose. I understood her unhappiness, but I had to wonder what she thought of her father?s gift to her. Was a broken nose worth the price about to be paid?

I gravitated towards the archway opening onto the yard, pausing from time to time to exchange pleasantries with my master?s many friends and acquaintances. These gatherings were as much about politics as they were about celebration and Crescentius had warned me to be on my absolute best behavior, for nothing could sully a man?s reputation amongst his betters like a recalcitrant slave. Still, I was seen as nothing more than a plaything even if I was well-spoken so nobody kept me for too long.

I stepped out into the hot mid-august sun and regarded the cloth-draped figure standing in the center of the courtyard. It was large, but not terribly so- perhaps half again the height of a normal man, perhaps twelve feet long and five wide with what I assumed to be the back end hanging lower than the front. Given its rough shape and dimensions I had a fair idea of what it was and my curiosity shamed me, for I knew its purpose this day.

"Now keep back there," one of the men called to me, "We don't want anyone spoiling the master's surprise today."

I looked at him and I could see a certain grim resignation in his eyes. His accent was Greek, his hair dark and curly and he might have been handsome once, but he was missing the tip of his nose and one eye. Tacita's father had a reputation as an exacting master.

"Oh, I won't be making any such mischief," I said, smiling at him as he hurried over to usher me back inside, then I switched from Latin to Greek and added, "There's no point to giving them any excuses, is there? Perillos's monster will see enough death this day."

He paused a moment and a knowing look passed between us, then he sighed as he gestured me back towards the archway.

"Get yourself back where you belong, lady. I've got no desire to be part of the show."

NOTE: what follows may be disturbing.

When the time came the crowd seemed almost eager as we gathered around the courtyard and our host took his seat on a raised dais fronting the open space- he actually used an ornate chair, lending a somewhat officious atmosphere to the moment. His wife and children were arrayed about him on either side, with young Tacita seated to the left of her mother. He spoke to one of his retainers and then raised his arms, gesturing for the crowd to quiet down. As he did so I saw the slaves of the house being led out to bear witness to what would occur- they were sullen, but knew better than do anything more than to stand and watch.

Next came the condemned. There were four of them: a man, a woman, and two young children. All of them were naked. The children, a girl of perhaps five years age, and a boy of about nine, had their hands bound behind their backs. The adults, obviously man and wife, were more heavily encumbered, their arms bound to poles stretched across their shoulders, and their feet shackled together. The man was gagged and looked to have been beaten repeatedly. The woman? her face was a mass of bruises, an almost shapeless wound and she staggered on legs streaked black and red from burns. They were forced to kneel before the dais.

Our host rose to his feet and began to speak. I wish I could recall his words for I am certain they would be of interest to those who study the oratory of the Romans, but my attention was focused on the woman. I already knew the story being put forward; that she had squabbled with Tacita over some petty thing and had dared to strike the girl, breaking her nose and marring her for life, but as I watched her I could see beyond her shocked resignation, her fear for her children: beneath those things there was a hard and angry core of resentment. It surprised me for these people were not unused to the capricious cruelties of their station in life.

I hazarded a glance at Tacita. She seemed almost ill, her face ashen even as she struggled to maintain her dignity. She would not look at the woman, her eyes skipping over her, unwilling or unable to meet her gaze. Already the picture was forming in my mind and it was clear there was so much more to this story, but it was immaterial now.

The crowd gave up a cry and I realized the cover had been drawn off the figure standing at the center of the courtyard. Before us stood an enormous figure of a mighty bull, its head raised as if in a bellow of rage. Its skin was polished bronze that seemed to glow in the sunlight falling through the trees surrounding the courtyard, throwing the details of the beast into high relief. The sculptor had been meticulous and I suspected it was likely the work of the nose-less Greek I had encountered earlier.

Two men came forward and took the bound man, heaving him to his feet by the iron bar across his shoulders. Our host gestured to the bull and the men dragged him to its side, then reached under the belly of the statue and drew open a door in its side. One man held it open as the other released the bound man from his chains. The prisoner tried to rise to his feet but the man with him spoke quietly and he ceased his struggle. None could hear those words, but I saw the man?s mouth as he spoke.

?Die bravely,? he said, ?it is the only hope for mercy.?

Our host was still talking, his words washing over me unheard as the two men locked the man inside the bronze statue, then dragged over a low, wheeled iron cart loaded with neatly stacked firewood. They positioned it beneath the belly of the statue and as the breeze shifted I could smell the oil soaking the wood. Around me the crowd seemed rapt in anticipation of the next moment, waiting almost impatiently for the speaker to finish while the gathered slaves maintained their cowed silence. Finally the oratory came to an end and with an almost offhand gesture the order was given.

A torch was brought to the statue and laid to the oil-soaked pyre beneath it. The flames spread quickly, roaring up at first to envelope the statue, but then descending again as the oil quickly spent itself. There was the sound of movement, thumping against the insides of the statue, and then as the fire began to burn in earnest there was a sound, halting and almost inhuman as it wailed forth from the open mouth of the bull. It rose and fell, distorted and sometimes almost musical as the sound of thrashing within first increased, then stopped. The bull fell silent as smoke began to issue forth from its snout and mouth, the breeze carrying the scent of thick incense and burnt meat. Already the underbelly of the bull glowed with a dull red heat- it had taken the man less than ten minutes to die.

Across the courtyard the household slaves watched as an overseer walked back and forth, prodding any who turned their eyes from the sight, forcing them to watch. My eyes returned to the woman, her two children huddled to her side as she stared in mute witness to her husband?s death. The children cried, pleading with her, but bound as she was she could not even embrace them, so she whispered to them desperate words of comfort. They must have been so terribly bitter on her tongue.

The crowd had begun to stir and servants began refilling goblets of wine, circulating with sweet pastries and meats for the guests while the fire burned for nearly an hour. I could not long take my eyes from the woman kneeling with her children. I tried to read her, to understand what she must be thinking and feeling. How could she remain so calm knowing what was to come? Certainly such cruelties were commonplace, but in her there was a kind of calm strength that refused to despair.

The fire was drawn from beneath the statue and large buckets of water were tossed upon it to cool it such that it could be opened again. Two men used hoes and spades to drag the charred remnants of the man from inside, depositing them in a wooden box, and then dragging it over to where the woman and her horrified children knelt. More water was used to rinse out the insides of the bull and the crowd began turning its attention back to the scene, anticipating an encore.

Another cry went up as the two men tending the bull seized the two children, dragged them to the center of the courtyard and shoved them screaming through the open door. One man took the handle of a spade and began beating them back as they tried to scramble out of the belly of the beast while the other tried to close the door, being hampered by the children?s desperate attempts to escape. Even for the jaded guests it was a pitiful scene and I saw more than one person find an excuse to look away. I had no desire to witness this myself, but suddenly I felt my master?s hand firm upon my shoulder.

?Do not turn away, Anneva,? Crescentius whispered.

I steeled myself to it even as the kneeling woman finally cried out.

?Mercy!? she wept, turning to face the dais even as her guard thrust her down with his boot between her shoulder blades. Cold eyes regarded her from above.

?What mercy would you have from this house?? our host growled, ?What mercy could you think you deserve from this house??

?Please, master! Let me be with them!?

His face impassive as stone he regarded her for long moments before finally speaking a single word: ?No.?

In the courtyard the men had finally managed to force the door closed and secure it. Blood smeared the edges of the door and inside the sounds of screaming and pounding could clearly be heard, the door shaking as the boy was doubtless banging at it with his feet, desperate to force it open. The man guarding the mother took his foot from her back and cruelly yanked her up to her knees, turning her to face the spectacle as the iron cart, freshly loaded with fuel, was rolled into place beneath the statue. From inside the panicked screaming grew more shrill and desperate and some in the gathered crowd began to laugh, finding amusement in the scene.

As the torch was pressed to the pyre a cry of despair came from the slaves gathered on the far side of the courtyard and I watched as the overseer laid into two girls with a stick for daring to raise their voices. The flames roared up again, engulfing the bronze bull in an envelope of fire, but this time the conflagration quickly banked- they had used less oil, letting the fire take more time to build to a killing heat. There was some mechanism within the statue that served to distort the sounds coming from within, but I could clearly make out the voice of the little girl, crying out for her mother, begging for her.

My heart turned hot and sick as I watched the crowd, seeing their delight at this new spectacle, watching the mother forced to listen as her babies were put to death before her eyes.

?Tell me, Crescentius,? I asked, my voice low, ?do you find this amusing??

I felt him stiffen at my tone, his hand tightening on my shoulder, but then he relaxed and with a sigh replied, ?No, Anneva. Not amusing. Simply necessary.?

My eyes returned to the woman as she shuddered and wept, the pitiful cries from the bull growing more desperate as the heat of the fire worked its way inside. The tiny pleading words became a moaning wail, one voice having fallen silent, only the little girl?s remaining. I could not prevent my mind from picturing the scene as she doubtless perched atop her brother, keeping him between her body and the killing heat of the belly of the bull. She lasted far too long, wailing and choking until the air grew too hot and the smoke too thick to breathe any longer. When she fell silent it was as if some great fist clutched about my heart was suddenly released and I realized I had been holding my breath as dizziness took me and I stumbled.

The smoke poured from the bull?s snout, filling the air again with that sickening odor. I had experienced such before, but somehow this was far worse. It was the crowd and their casual acceptance of events, the almost festive way they embraced the spectacle. It should not have affected me so; I was accustomed to the casual cruelty of the Romans, but somehow this was uniquely intolerable. I looked to the dais again, gazing upon the daughter?s face, seeing behind her carefully indifferent mask a hint of horror, and perhaps even guilt. A servant offered her wine and she took it in hands that clearly shook, drinking deeply as her own mother frowned disapprovingly.

They roasted the children for more than an hour. When the fire was drawn down and the bull cooled what they removed were little more than burnished bones and ash, all of it piled into the box with the father?s remains and then laid at the feet of the bound mother who now knelt quiet and motionless, awaiting her fate.

More wine and food circulated amongst the guests as the final act was prepared and I gave in to my weakness, seeking to dull the reality of the moment with wine. It was a pointless exercise, my attention being so tightly focused on the woman. Again she seemed almost eerily calm despite her pain and grief. It went beyond the acceptance of her impending death and spoke of something greater and more powerful, but what it was I had no idea.

She was lifted to her feet and dragged to the statue, and then her chains were removed, freeing her from the binding pole. As this went on her eyes wandered around the courtyard and I saw more than one of the gathered slaves meet her gaze. Her gaze swept over the guests and for a brief moment our eyes met, and in that meeting a world of understanding flowed between us. Without thinking I quietly mouthed the word ?courage?. Her head inclined at me and her right hand, now free to move, rose and made a simple gesture, almost imperceptible in its subtlety, but clearly very important to her, so I returned it. She seemed to straighten in response, if anything becoming even more calm and determined. The men shoved her towards the bull and she willingly dropped down to crawl inside, offering not the slightest resistance.

?She?s broken,? Crescentius sighed, ?she?s not even trying to resist.?

?She?s far from broken,? I whispered. ?She has such courage as few ever possess.?

He looked at me oddly, but said no more as the statue was sealed up and a fresh pyre was set beneath it. Inside I knew she was simply waiting, determined to suffer this fate, perhaps hoping her own pain might somehow ease the agonies her little ones felt when they were torn from her side. There were many things I suspected, but of one thing I was certain: she felt no fear.

The torch was put to the pyre and the crowd waited in expectation of the woman?s screams, seeking to enjoy her agony as her punishment was so brutally meted out. Yet as the flames first roared to life then settled into a steady burn there came not a sound from the bronze statue. After all her suffering and horror this mother offered nothing but defiance to her Roman master. Her silence roared in my ears and I found myself strangely elated that I had been able even for a brief moment to meet her eyes and offer her what I could.

Cheated of their final entertainment the guests returned to their merriment, the birthday celebration proceeding apace while the household slaves were set to cleaning up the courtyard. My master and I remained until all the sacrifices were made and all the blessings bestowed, but I paid all that scant attention as I went over those brief moments when I had known this woman and shared what I could of her suffering. The gesture we had exchanged puzzled me and I promised myself I would learn its meaning, for it had lent that mortal woman a strength I could hardly comprehend.

It was the very first time I encountered the sign of the cross.

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1967

I remember our last words to each other, the anger you felt, and the betrayal. You could not understand how I could love you as I did and not share the vision you treasured. What could I say to you? That for me the band had been no more than a tool to pry you free of a destructive life? That my place had been to absorb all your anger and give it voice in a way you never could? That Neff and Aiko, as much as I cared for them, were never so important to me as you? That I had seen the beauty and vision of this tortured young soul and sought nothing more than to set it free?

That I loved you too much to let you love me any longer?

You threw me out, screaming at my back as I walked away. I am so very strong, the armor around my heart so thick and well-tested, but it took everything I had to do what I knew had to be done. Had I stayed, I would have consumed you, destroyed you, and I could not bear to see that. So I left.

I took the Dodge and drove into town, found a bar and started drinking while fending off the advances of those neatly dressed businessmen in town for a meeting and the old men for whom this place was a second home. I drowned myself in scotch, turning over a glass for every thought of never again hearing your laughter, or feeling your warm curves under my hands. I cried, the quiet tears I shed being all the mourning I could allow, and I felt soiled knowing they also served to make my final act that much more believable.

The bar held me until closing time, when I wandered out into the night with the other lost and drunken souls. In the car I broke open another bottle- I was quickly sobering up and I did not want to. In sobriety I would find cold and calculating approval for my actions- drunk I could embrace the pain and the loss, and I was not ready to let it go.

The car felt chilly, but that was for the best- it helped me to concentrate as I maneuvered my way out of town and then onto the railroad right of way, following the tracks until I reached the river crossing. It was a popular make-out spot, but at 3:00 AM it was deserted. I pulled the Dodge as far to the side as I could. From the back seat I took the small bag that made a lie of all this drama: it carried a dark wig, a dress, undergarments, sneakers and shoes, a handbag, two thousand dollars in cash and my .45. I changed in the back seat, throwing the old clothes into the bag before I carefully tucked my hair under the wig.

I left the car running and the door open. I wanted it to be noticed at some point, though I was certain I had at least an hour before the local patrol might happen by. Wearing the sneakers I walked out onto the bridge until I was at the center of the span. I laid my old shoes and purse on the side rail along with the empty bottle, then drew the light jacket I had been wearing out of the bag. I stepped up onto the side rail and dropped it over the edge.

I stood there, balanced upon that rail in the moonlight. My jacket fluttered down to the river, disappearing into the froth and rush just a hundred feet below. It was like watching the last three years spin down into the past, lost to me and to everyone. There was a sudden longing, an urge to simply lean forward and fall, let my body hurtle down into the maelstrom of surging water and shattering rock and truly make an ending of this.

I am not indestructible... perhaps that would have been enough. The thought of it held me rooted there far longer than I had intended, the river calling me to seek peace within its crushing embrace. It tempted me, singing to me the angry words you hurled at me and the bitterness of your pain, but I know those easy lies and I have lived too long to fool myself. It was not fear of death that finally let me step back onto the tracks, but fear of survival.

The tracks made a graceful curve along the bridge and into the forest. Behind me the old Dodge Dart idled, the driver?s door open with the dome light forming an oasis of warmth in what now was such a cold and lonely darkness. I turned away and crossed the bridge, letting the night close in about me. Leaving everything behind. Leaving you behind.

It would be five miles to the next town- there I would catch the 8:00 AM bus and start making my way back to Boston. The pain was already receding, tamped down into that deep, cold place where my more rational and calculating self stored such things. I knew my choice was correct, that it was truly the only choice I had.

But I felt unclean.

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Chicago, Summer, 1984

Consciousness returned slowly, with pain and nausea as unwelcome companions while confusion slowly settled into first fear, then anger, then cold rage. I was naked, twisted in an uncomfortable position, and my hands and feet were bound. My left shoulder and arm were in agony. Inside I was raw with a familiar and infuriating pain. There was tape over my mouth. I tried to focus, remembering only vaguely that I had been approaching my car in the parking garage? what had happened?

A sound broke through the fog, rhythmic sounds and grunting- a man digging, the sound of the spade splitting the ground unmistakable. My head ached, and I peeled open my eyes, actually my right eye, for the left was swollen shut. I felt panic as the scene failed to resolve itself, dark trees, and the smell of carpet and blood, something hard and painful gouging in to my spine. It snapped in to sudden relief: I was lying in the open boot of a car.

I worked my wrists against the bonds, stifling the almost involuntary cries as my left side protested savagely- they were tight, but the material was flexible- perhaps one of my garments? I strained quietly, keeping motion to a minimum as I felt the material stretch and loosen until my hands were free. I felt around, searching for anything I might use as a weapon, and my right hand settled on a nylon bag- my bag. This was my car! I carefully worked open the zipper, turning the bag on its side without looking. I would only have one chance at this for the digging sounds were close by. I fished through the clothes and other things for what felt like an eternity until I finally felt the cold hard form of the holstered .38 and snaked it free from the bag.

With the pistol free of the holster I mustered my energy for what must follow, drawing the hammer back until it clicked. It would have to be done quickly. I forced the molten column of pain that was my left arm to move, thrusting myself up in to a sitting position. His back was to me as he worked his shovel no more than five yards away, so I allowed an extra moment to aim, then squeezed off a shot. In the quiet muggy heat of that night the gun sounded like a cannon, and he jerked as the bullet struck him in the upper right portion of the back, sending him spinning as he toppled in to the grave he had dug for me.

When he did not immediately stand up I swung my bound feet over the lip of the trunk, taking the pistol in my numb left hand so that I could pull myself out. My feet touched the ground and he roared as he leapt up, charging at me with the shovel in his hands. I lifted my left hand and fired at him, the recoil tearing the pistol from my grip, but fate smiled upon me as he buckled, the second shot having taken him in the right knee.

?Fucking bitch!?

I ignored him as he started towards me on one leg and two hands, trying to reach the pistol, but I was now very calm and simply bent over and picked it up a moment before he reached it. He grabbed my bound feet, pulling at them, trying to bring me down, but I drew down on him, the third shot taking him square in the spine at the center of his back. I kicked myself free of his grasp and hopped back a couple of yards until I was certain he was not coming after me again, then I sat, set the pistol down, and went about freeing my ankles, which were wrapped in duct tape, then peeled the tape from my mouth, flesh tearing free with it from a wound to my mouth I hadn?t even realized was there.

He was lying face down by the rear of the car, not moving at all from the waist down, his arms flailing as he cursed at me almost nonstop. I did not say a word, instead going to the car where I found a large roll of duct tape in the back seat. Using the tape I secured my left wrist, wrapping the tape in a figure eight around the wrist and the support column between the doors. Once that was done it took a few minutes to find the right angle, the pain becoming exquisitely hot until I was able to coax the shoulder joint back in to its socket.

I think I passed out for a few moments after that, because his shouting startled me back to reality. Images were returning, the way he deliberately twisted my arm until he dislocated my shoulder, the pain of his fists pummeling my face and chest as he violated me, and the vile incantation of murderous rage he spewed forth through it all. The myriad insults to my body clamored for my attention now that the adrenaline rush of the past minutes had subsided, ribs cracked, chest on fire, the vision in my one open eye going blurry as my head spun.

Shaking violently now I forced myself back to my feet, freeing my wrist from the tape, then picking up the revolver and returning to where he lay. I looked in the trunk and saw my panties twisted in a knot, and I nearly burst out in laughter.

?What the fuck are you laughing at??

?You,? I replied and I snatched my underwear from the trunk before turning to face him. He?d managed to roll on to his back, and there was blood at the corners of his mouth, perhaps from a punctured lung. It gave me pause, looking at him, but I was not truly surprised. Even lying there slowly bleeding to death he looked so very ordinary: white, fortyish, balding, his face reminding me of a college professor of all things. I realized I had seen him before around the library and the parking garage- had he actually been stalking me?

I dangled the knotted panties from the index finger of my left hand. ?Like to tie up your victims in their underwear? If you?d used duct tape you?d be putting me in that hole right about now.?

I know I slurred the words, but it did not matter. He heard what I had said. I do not know if he had something to say back to me because I shot him once in the forehead. I needed to be done with him.

The sky was turning gray. It had been sometime after six when I left the library. There was a chance nobody had missed me yet, but I was running out of time. I grabbed the corpse by the collar and dragged it to the grave. It was not nearly deep enough, but I simply did not care. Covering him up took quite a bit longer than I wanted it to, but I had no choice. I needed the body to stay hidden for at least a few days and I was hardly in any condition to do it quickly. Pain, weakness and hunger made it a struggle, but once done I collected every scrap of anything that might be called evidence and threw it in the trunk along with the shovel.

When I saw myself reflected in the rear windshield of the car I realized I had larger problems than somebody wondering where I was. My face was a black and blue nightmare image- I still could not see out of my left eye. My body was a patchwork of livid black and purple splotches, there was dried blood streaking the insides of my thighs, my mouth was an open wound. I had clothes in the trunk, but they would hardly serve to disguise this. Any who saw me would, assuming they were of the Good Samaritan type, seek to bundle me off to a hospital. I had to avoid that at all costs.

I sat in the car, thinking furiously as my belly growled at me. I was not sure where I was, though I had a notion the city was to the east of me. The clock in the car said six-thirty, far too late to attempt a return to my apartment? except that in my current state I had little choice. I could park in the lower level of the garage and wait until all the work and school traffic had passed, then take the stairs and hope my luck would hold.

There was a gallon jug of water in the trunk, part of my emergency kit. I cursed myself for not storing food as well, an error I would never again repeat. Half the water went down my throat, the rest I used to clean myself up as much as possible. The bag in the car held mostly shorts and t-shirts- summer clothing. There was one pair of jeans, but I doubted I could get in to them in my current state. I dressed in the loosest things at hand then closed the trunk? and found my keys in the lock. How could I have forgotten to search him? I could have been forced to dig him up again!

The car lurched along the close path as I followed the tire tracks out.

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The Bitterness Of Joy

Gunnō tig
Sloghan en pullan katois
Newudhrōstōdhlikan
Prijandan tēz galōjai

Ghernjō tig
Tinan plekhan aileso ana mēz
Salbhan ana taisiai bhrekani
Plaikhendhō tig tū werdhō

Rigganō in tēz
Lallanō an bhlisjan
Alnaz wittaz ni ūtan laikendh
Minō paurktjō ni ūtan rūnō

Tinō sē
Prijō ghibhanō
Ūtan gwemidhi andhjō
Gerbhanō ana prumoi

Gunnō tig
Tinan skarban erzendhan
Dhaghrinz wurdheso en skandhōz
Prijandan tēz galōjai

-Tiwazō

Bear in mind this suffers somewhat in translation-

Gunnō tig
I know you

Sloghan en pullan katois
Sly and malicious

Newudhrōstōdhlikan
Irresistible

Prijandan tēz galōjai
I would call you friend

Ghernjō tig
I long for you

Tinan plekhan aileso ana mēz
Your touch of fire upon me

Salbhan ana taisiai bhrekani
A balm upon this broken thing

Plaikhendhō tig tū werdhō
I embrace and become you

Rigganō in tēz
Bound in you

Lallanō an bhlisjan
Lulled to joy

Alnaz wittaz ni ūtan laikendh
All reason but a lark

Minō paurktjō ni ūtan rūnō
My fear a mere whisper

Tinō sē
I would be yours

Prijō ghibhanō
Freely given

Ūtan gwemidhi andhjō
Yet comes an end

Gerbhanō ana prumoi
Writ upon the start

Gunnō tig
I know you

Tinan skarban erzendhan
Your poignant deception

Dhaghrinz wurdheso en skandhōz
The tears of fate and shame

Prijandan tēz galōjai
I would call you friend

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Michigan Territory, 1835- concluded

I had already been up two hours or more when dawn drew near and the younger Kelly began to awaken. As I heard him begin to stir, I pulled down the tent wall he had strung against the lean-to, then ran a few steps and smoothly mounted the horse I had prepared. I readied one of the two muskets I had loaded, took careful aim, and waited. A silent smile touched my lips as he bellowed a loud oath at the sudden inrush of cold air?and a louder one when he discovered himself hobbled. While he slept on his side in the night I had managed to reach under his thick blankets without waking him and tie his left wrist behind his back by a short length of rope to his right ankle. I had used a clever knot that only tightened (and thus would only be felt) when he began to yank on it. He would be able to sleep comfortably but not to stand without removing the rope. As he cursed and fell over in the sudden morning cold, his father also stirred and gave a yelp, finding himself similarly half-tied. At that moment I fired the weapon, aiming between the two of them, then dropped the gun to the ground.

To my surprise the horse bucked; I had assumed the animal was trained not to start at gunfire. But I quickly brought the gelding under control. While keeping my eyes on the men and pulling out the second musket, I successfully managed to get the horse?s feet back on the ground just as I leveled the second gun at both men.

The horse?s bucking now seemed all to the good; the image we presented as I came down and took aim at them, rifled musket in one hand and the reins in the other, must have been rather dramatic. In any case it had the desired effect: both men were in half-crouches, frozen and staring at me, their mouths agape. The sound of the shot that had whizzed between their heads must have still rung in their ears.

Shooting from horseback was even easier than using a bow from horseback, I thought to myself with some satisfaction. Then I spoke in a clear, firm voice.

?Gentlemen! My first shot was between both your heads, and was no accident. My second shot shall also be no accident, but will embed itself into the belly of the first man to move to stop me. I am returning to my husband, and I will not be interfered with. Do I make myself clear??

The tableau remained frozen for a moment, both men on their knees and I on the shivering appaloosa as we listened to the breeze whistle in our ears. The son looked to his father. The father looked around and noticed the obvious: while they had slept I had not only managed to half-tie the both of them, but I had taken every weapon in the camp, all without causing either of them to so much as stir. Finally he licked his lips and spoke, obviously trying to buy time to think.

?Now Mizzus McAllister,? he began. Even as he manfully tried to sound placating, he already sounded rather shaken. Still, I let him continue. ?Y? must know if this storm comes up you may not make it back to that cabin. He pro?bly won?t be alive even if you do make it back.?

I stared at him levelly, and let out my words very carefully.

?Let us both,? I said, pausing a bit for effect, ?hope that is not the case.?

I did not hate these men, and I realized my anger the night before had not been so much with them as with myself for allowing these circumstances to come about. But I could not stop myself from knowing that had my Jeremy died in the night I would hunt them down wherever they might be and kill them both with my bare hands.

I shook myself and forced myself back to calmness. ?I shall be returning to my husband, regardless of his fate. You shall continue on your way and will make no attempt to interfere with me again. Are we clear on this matter??

They both looked at each other, uncertain.

?ARE WE AGREED ON THIS OR ARE WE NOT?? I bellowed.

Finally I sensed the father?s will completely break. He would not interfere. His son, seeing the capitulation in his father?s eyes, also relented. Both men nodded and murmured, ?yes ma?am.?

With grim satisfaction, I carefully placed the musket into its saddle pocket, pulled out a large hunting knife, and hurled it at the banked fire, where it stuck blade-first into one of the smoldering logs. They both stared at it, startled, as I dismounted.

?You may use that knife to untie yourselves, and I shall leave you your muskets. I sense that you would not shoot a woman in the back.? As my feet touched the ground, I gathered my pack from the horse?s back. ?Now if you will excuse me,? I said, turning back toward them, ?I have a very long walk ahead of me.?

I had mounted the horse both for dramatic effect and so that I might gallop away if need be. But I did not want to steal the horse, and once I knew from their demeanor that they would let me go there was no reason to stay mounted. I would walk with the mule.

Will Kelly was pulling the knife from the fire as I spoke, but his father continued to stare at me.

?No, Mizzus McAllister,? he finally said. ?You take that horse, and the supplies with it. We?ll have enough for the post. You haven?t got much chance but that horse and his supplies will help you. If the weather clears in the next couple weeks, we?ll send a party to look? to look for the both of you.? I could tell by his tone that he expected nothing but two corpses to be found, and perhaps not even that.

I hesitated. I did not want to take charity from them. But as his son cut his bonds away, he allowed a hint of pleading to enter his voice.

?You?re gonna need them supplies,? Mr. Kelly said. Then his son cut himself free and turned to face me.

?Pa?s right ma?am. Sides, we just?? he looked to his father, who nodded at him to continue. ?We just couldn?t live with ourselfs if we didn?t try to leave you with what we could.?

They had no idea how close they had been?might be? to death at my hands. I did not want their charity. But seeing my hesitation, Tom Kelly spoke again.

?We?ll keep your mule in trade,? he said. ?You take what you need from it and you go on. We?ll say a prayer for you.?

I swallowed, and my heart swelled. These were good men, though I knew I could not stop what would happen if I found Jeremy dead. But I nodded, and then re-mounted the appaloosa as both men stood. I allowed them to remove some of our things from our pack mule, and to strap them across the back of my new mount. Though I knew from their bearing they would keep their word, I kept a grip on my gun and my knife.

As he finished tying the last sack to the saddle, Will Kelly spoke cautiously. ?We?ll take ya back if you want, Ma?am. We promise? I promise?.?

?No.? I said, firmly. ?You and your father go on to that trading post and let me be. You are?? I swallowed. ?You are good men, you are. But I have made my way alone in the world for? for a very long time. I thank you for your gift and your concern.? Then, before they could see my face, I dug my heels into the gelding?s side and galloped away.

I never looked back. I knew they would not follow.

Finding my way back along the trail was harder than I had anticipated, although I had done my best to note our path the day before. As morning progressed the day failed to lighten, angry black clouds casting a shroud across the sky while the wind blew from the north, steadily rising. A light snow began to fall and swiftly increased to a heavy downfall, coating all in sight with deadly beauty. I was suddenly grateful we had left the plains behind the week before; such a storm in open ground would be brutal beyond imagining. As it was I did pause to wrap myself in my heavy cloak and an extra blanket, and to rub the horse?s legs.

Whatever marks there might have been for the trail were soon lost to me and I navigated by keeping the icy north wind to my back and attempting to discern some clearer path amongst the trees. By this time in my existence I had developed a sense of direction that I trusted intimately, but even so I found myself forced to backtrack more than once. As the snow fell harder I sometimes became confused, forced to guess what direction to take based on nothing more than intuition. With thousands of winters behind me, that intuition was now my only hope.

The world began to slow. I had been on the trail for what felt like better than half a day and my stomach protested, but I was unwilling to stop. The aching fear that had driven me earlier was now a numbness creeping inward, my mind wandering, unfocused as the horse picked its own path amongst the trees. I wanted to stop, to just take a moment to rest, but I knew the danger of that and forced myself to press onward.

I abruptly noticed that I was gasping and that painful tears had frozen on my face. I angrily ground them from my cheeks and wrapped my scarf tighter around my face. Vainly I watched ahead for any sign of smoke. If Jeremy were alive he would have kept the fire burning and I hoped eventually to see smoke in the sky. My eyes burned desperately for that sight, but the north wind and the driving snow made such evidence impossible to discern. Sudden violent shivers threatened to throw me from my mount and I clung to the saddle in desperation even as I felt my hope fading like a physical thing within me.

More terrifying notions worked their way in to the muddled flow of my thoughts. I had found myself in the wilderness in winter before, where I might fetch myself up in some small hole and fall asleep, only to find myself awakening in springtime, ravenous. I worried constantly that the horse might fall over and die in the cold, making me more likely to find myself repeating that experience?and knowing full well that if it did happen I would never see my Jeremy again.

This I could not allow. I would not allow it, I could not. That anger lent me some energy, refocusing my thoughts as I prodded the gelding forward once more. But I fell again into that almost dream-like state of confusion, broken only by more violent shivering as the temperature seemed to plunge. Eventually all I could do was to cling tightly to the forward edge of the saddle, my body mo longer able to muster the energy to move or even shiver. A very small part of me cried out as I felt a curious sensation of warmth ooze through me, a kind of peaceful calm and comfort. A gentle urge to lie down and take my ease began to overcome me.

The horse stopped again, and I noted it with the calm detachment of the hopeless. I knew I could not make myself prod the animal further. Something wailed inside me, trying to break through that thick fog of exhaustion and defeat, but I paid it no heed, instead focusing on the odd swirling of the snow as the wind pushed it before me. My vision, already blurred, began to contract until I was staring down a long dark tunnel to a brilliant white landscape of wind-driven snow piling up against? what?

The world snapped back in to focus, my body wracked with pain. I had fallen from the saddle, landing on my back. As I gazed up in to the falling snow I realized my view was cut off by something. My thoughts were so slow? idly, I speculated: it could not be the horse, for it was too straight, and it came to a corner? the cabin roof.

All motion was pain and my body began to shake, forcing me to curl in upon myself, hugging the pain to me, letting it force energy in to my limbs as I held the darkness at bay. My arms and legs screamed in protest such that I cried out, but I pulled myself to my feet and staggered towards the front of the cabin, plowing my way through snow drifts, some three feet deep, pulling the horse behind me, my wrist still wrapped up in the reins.

I cast my gaze upward and saw no smoke from any fire. In that moment, I knew, I knew in my heart that he was dead, my Jeremy was gone. I screamed in rage. I could not feel my hands or feet as I pulled at the door?s lever. With another scream at the sky I forced the door open, nearly falling through it as I struggled to free myself from the tangled reins. I left the shivering gelding standing in the doorway as I crawled, weeping in frustration and rage, toward the unmoving blanket-wrapped figure on the bed. But as I reached the side of the bed his eyes opened and focused slowly upon me.

I became dimly aware that the nearby fire was banked but glowing, though I could not feel its warmth. The world began closing into a tunnel surrounding Jeremy?s face. He stared at me, and I stared at him. ?Elaine??? he gasped, his voice unbelieving. It was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard in all my existence. I still could not feel anything, but I slowly pulled myself up on to the bed and buried my face in his chest. I hugged him fiercely. ?Never. I?ll never let you go. Never?? I murmured it like a prayer.

?Elaine? my God you?re so cold? how??

?Foolish man,? I whispered through chattering teeth as I drank in his smell and hugged him even tighter. ?Don?t you understand? you cannot die without me by your side??

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Michigan Territory, 1835- continued

Darkness was falling rapidly upon us, but the Kelly?s kept moving, trying to make up lost time. I had the impression Tom knew of a good campsite and was willing to travel another hour or two in darkness to reach it. That they had declined to spend the night at the cabin in favor of covering more ground spoke volumes. I stayed silent, having screamed and wept myself hoarse the first hour of the journey. I was stiff and sore from being tied to the mule and my mind was nearly numb from the shock of what had transpired. I could not even be angry with any of them for they all believed they were doing what was right.

No, I saved my anger for myself, for failing to recognize that as well as I knew Jeremy, he still had no true understanding of me. He felt me unique, but his natural instincts drove him to put my welfare above his own, and now I was far from him in the hands of well-meaning men who knew even less of me and so would be inclined to underestimate both my will and my abilities. We had ridden at least four hours, and not at any moderate pace. As it stood I would need more than a day to walk back should I take my leave of them in the night.

Would he wait that long? He was convinced he was dying, and in the hands of any other caretaker he would have been correct. Would he still fight? Or would he take the liquor for comfort and sleep as the fire guttered out, letting the cold of the night finish what the fever had begun? Did I have even half a day?

?I?d like to sit up,? I finally said.

?We?re near to camp, ma?am,? Will Kelley said, ?quicker to get there and set you down than to stop and??

He broke off because his father had brought us to a halt and a moment later the two of them were helping me down from the back of the mule, then Tom quickly cut the bonds from my wrists and ankles. He could hardly look me in the face and I knew his shame was not for having taken me away against my will, but for lashing me to a pack mule like some criminal.

I stretched in silence, stamping my feet to restore sensation to them. I wondered- were I to simply begin walking back now, what would they do? But the darkness was growing thick and impenetrable, and I knew Tom Kelley was traveling solely by his gut and his knowledge of this trail. To walk without the stars to guide me would be foolish in the extreme, even for me. After several minutes I allowed Tom to take me up behind him in his saddle and we set out again.

We reached the campsite in short order: a clearing to the side of the trail with a stone fire pit and a well built north-facing stone wall sufficient for a serviceable lean-to. Tom Kelly helped me down from the saddle, and then set about making a fire while his son unrolled a large tarpaulin of leather and began setting poles against the wall, taking them from a pile stacked there for just that purpose. Within minutes he had the shelter constructed, driving iron spikes in to the ground with a mallet to secure the cover in place.

I turned and gazed back upon the way we had come. What was he doing now, I wondered? My fear refused to be held in check. Would he endure another night? He was a God fearing man, despite the faults he admitted. Would he eschew deliberate surrender, or would he choose a quick and more comfortable end? The answers were back down that path. I had to believe he would choose to survive another night. The alternative was unbearable.

The Kelly?s were kind men and sought to draw me in to conversation, but I remained mute and avoided their eyes. They offered food, jerky and warmed beans, and I did eat, being unwilling to refuse that simple hospitality. Within slightly more than an hour of arriving we were settling down to sleep, the two of them facing the east end of the shelter so that I might be closer to the fire?s warmth. They knew my pain and respected it. They deserved better than what I contemplated.

I lay awake, listening as their breathing settled and they dropped off to sleep, my mind racing with plans, anger, and fear. Come morning I would take the mule and go, and I would do my best to convince them with words to let me be. If they tried to stop me? I had my pistol in my pack, and the pig knife Jeremy had fashioned for me. I would be prepared- there would be no overpowering me and trundling me off against my will. I would be calm, reasonable and firm.

And if they refused to listen?

That thought, the calm certainty of it, chilled me to the core. I would not be held from my chosen path and I had killed for far, far less. Even as I contemplated it a far colder and more calculating notion worked its way to the fore: that I should not wait, rather I should kill them now, as they slept. It brought deep, sickening pain to my heart, but try as I might I could not drive it away and as the night wore on the fear and anger grew.

What would their deaths bring? What would Jeremy think? He would never buy his life with such coin, nor would he have even a single life, willingly given, sacrificed on his account. Why else had he sent me from him?

Did he need to know? I had kept my greatest secret from him for more than six years, why not this as well? That thought was buried by the certainty I would not be capable of keeping that secret. Murder stains the inner canvas- Mr. Jerome McAllister had oft revealed his ability to see that which I might prefer he not. I would perhaps save his life, but lose that which I craved most.

I found myself in the wrenching position of risking his death that I might avoid his disapproval. I might laugh at my predicament were it not so tragic.

I wrestled with those thoughts, my mind racing back and forth between the extremes of murder and persuasion until a final, acceptable notion settled the issue. I would take my leave in the morning. Should they attempt to force me to remain with them I could not be held responsible for my actions- I would be defending myself. And if I did convince them to yield, and I returned to discover Jeremy already dead?

I would find these men. I would find them and kill them both.

Oddly enough, that resolution so settled my mind that I was suddenly aware of the most simple and effective method to ensure their compliance, short of murder. I smiled and settled back in my blankets, waiting on the dawn.

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Michigan Territory, 1835

The sound of his breathing filled me with dread, for it was wet and rasping. When he coughed it was with the rough of agony and ruin. The fire was as warm as one could hope and I had done as much as I could towards sealing our dilapidated cabin against the wind, but it was still far too chill. Nonetheless I coaxed Jeremy to unwrap himself and lose some of his fevered heat to the air, particularly when his temperature would soar and his mind would become clouded with delusion. When lucid I plied him with hot cups of herbal tea made from plants and roots I knew could be relied upon to ease his discomfort and aid his breathing. The pickings were slim, for the season had long turned, but there was enough to provide a slender reed of hope to which I would cling.

?This is vile,? he rasped after sipping at my latest concoction, ?but I prefer it to the blood letting and purgatives of the doctors I?ve known.?

?I?ll do my best to keep you from the clutches of those fiends,? I laughed, showing far more cheer than I truly felt. He was so very ill that a visit from a ?real? doctor would likely kill him.

Outside I listened to the wind, which had been gentle at dawn, but was now picking up as the sky turned a dull, depressing grey. The temperature was falling and the scent of storm was in the air. The trees were bare and lifeless, only the majestic spruce and firs showing any signs of willingness to struggle through the coming storms of November. I gathered my coat tightly about myself as I scoured the ground about the cabin for useable stones. The cabin?s fireplace was open and placed near the north corner, with only a smoke hole in the roof. If I could pile stones in that corner as a backdrop for the fire they would catch and conserve the warmth.

Our mule, tied on the leeward side of the cabin, shifted nervously uttering noises of unhappiness as he chewed the meager fare I had gathered for him. I had thought to bring the mule inside with us, but I knew I would soon have to shoot him for meat and I preferred to do that work outside. It would be a dangerous corner I turned once done for it would mean spending the winter in this cabin. It would mean Jeremy?s death, for we were in no way prepared to spend four or more cold, harsh months in this place.

I had made two trips out and back, each time returning with several large stones for my makeshift hearth, when as I set out for my third I heard the sounds of horses? hooves on the frozen ground followed soon by the voices of men. My first thought was to run back inside to fetch the pistol and I silently cursed myself for neglecting it, but they were already upon me, coming from the trees along the same path Jeremy and I had followed three days prior. I stood straight under the overhanging roof and leveled my gaze on them as they approached at a slow walk, each trailing two pack mounts.

One was older as evidenced by the grey in his full beard and the weary creases about his eyes. He sat easily in his saddle and I could see no threat in him at all. The other was younger and while not sporting a beard certainly had several days growth on his face. He too appeared unthreatening to my eyes. They were likely father and son and as they brought their mounts to a halt before the cabin they both tipped their wide-brimmed hats to me.

?Mornin?, ma?am,? the older man said by way of a greeting, ?I?m Tom Kelly, this is my boy, Will.?

?Elaine,? I replied, adding after a moment?s hesitation, ??McAllister.?

I surprised myself at feeling hesitation over that small lie. I had never presumed to call myself Jeremy?s wife even though we freely allowed others to see us as married. For some reason I had felt it necessary to be explicit with these men. I only hoped Jeremy would not expose the lie.

?A bit surprised to see anyone out here this time of year, what with the weather settin? in and all. I hope you?re not plannin? on winterin? here??

?We stopped here three days ago. My husband is very ill and I had no inkling of the distance to any town? when we happened upon this place it seemed prudent to??

The door to the cabin flew open with a crash and Jeremy lurched through it, his rifle in his hands. His eyes were glazed and he was shaking violently, his skin gone ashen. Mr. Kelly and his son both reined their horses back, the boy reaching for his own musket before his father stayed his hand.

?What goes here?? Jeremy rasped, ?Who are these men??

I turned just in time to catch him up as he staggered, his knees buckling. I put my shoulder under his and bore him up as I took the rifle before he could drop it. I heard the men dismounting behind me, then a moment later Mr. Kelly took Jeremy?s other arm and together we brought him inside and settled him back upon his bed of blankets. He was on fire with fever, now moaning incoherently between racking coughs as I struggled to settle him down again, holding him down and speaking soft soothing words until the fever?s surge subsided.

Both Mr. Kelly and his son were inside the cabin and as I looked up at them I could see the grim certainty in their eyes. I set myself firmly, meeting their gaze in defiance. Mr. Kelly frowned, and his eyes wandered over the interior of the cabin, settling on the fire and the stone hearth I had been constructing. He nodded approvingly.

?That?s a fine idea, Mizza McAllister. Will, why don?t you go help the lady gather up what she needs to finish this up? Mr. McAllister and I need to have a few words.?

I looked back at Jeremy where he lay. His eyes were open and clear again as he nodded at me, but I was reluctant to leave for I knew what these men, so polite and gallant in their certainty, would have to say to one another. Nonetheless the help with the fireplace would be appreciated so I gathered my coat and hat and set out with the younger Mr. Kelly. I would deal with the good-intentioned foolishness of my man and Mr. Kelly once other tasks were well completed.

?Me an? my pa kinda got a late start,? Will told me as we gathered stones and piled them inside the door to the cabin, ?should?a been back t? camp near a week ago. Got held up dealin? with the traders back at Fort Brady.?

?Your camp,? I enquired, ?how far off is it??

?Maybe two days ride due north, if?n the weather holds. Sure don? feel like it, though. Gonna be in a real state o? things, we don?t make time. That?ll be tough on ?em that?s waitin? on us, we get ourself dead out here.?

?You?re bringing supplies? How many are there??

?Oh, it?s a good tradin? outpost, maybe a dozen. More, dependin? on who straggles in for winter.?

I digested that as we hauled more stones, but I kept my thoughts to myself. They had four loaded packhorses. The men at that trading post might enjoy those supplies, but I doubted it was a matter of life or death. That thought turned down dark paths I did not wish to follow, but I took measure of them regardless. Those thoughts were heavy on my heart, particularly with this young man working by my side.

Two days ride. So tantalizingly close, yet it might as well be a thousand miles for Jeremy would never survive the trip. If we had but another week, a chance for him to break his fever and regain some strength? But the sky did not bode well. Once the snow set in these trails would be closed to all but those most brave, or most foolish.

Will?s father had been working on the hearth as we gathered the stones and he pronounced it fit as it was likely to get after a couple of hours. Midday was closing in and the sky was still grey and cold, but things had not noticeably worsened, giving us hope the storm might stay its hand, and as Will and I returned to the cabin I was hopeful things might turn out better than I had thought.

All hope of that died when I found my own pack fully loaded and propped up next to the door. I stared at it for a moment, and then looked at Jeremy, propped up into a sitting position near the fire.

?Elaine?? he began.

?No.? I said, quietly, but firmly, shaking my head.

?Mrs. McAllister,? Tom Kelly began, a pleading tone in his voice.

?No!?

?Elaine, please,? Jeremy pleaded, ?come here and listen to me.?

Angry and determined I moved towards him, intending to kneel by his side and explain in no uncertain terms why I would not be sent away, when I was suddenly seized from behind, strong hands gripping my arms and pulling them back. I screamed and lashed backwards with my heel, but Mr. Kelly slipped that, then caught my leg and gently, but firmly pressed me forward to the ground.

?Now Mrs. McAllister,? he said, speaking quietly with no animosity in his voice at all, ?Your husband and I had a long talk and this is really for the best.?

?You?re going to leave him here to die!? That?s for the best?? I tried to squirm out from under the man but his grip was strong and he held me fast. ?Jeremy! Tell him to let me go!?

Jeremy coughed spastically, shaking his head as he held out his hand, trying to signal me to stay calm. I stopped struggling, listening to his breathing as he brought the coughing under control again. There were tears in his eyes? and surrender.

?Elaine,? he whispered, his voice too hoarse for anything else, ?I am done. Look at me? look at me! I?ve been holding so? afraid to leave you alone.? I stared at him, calculating what to say. ?I told him you would resist, my love, but?? he coughed uncontrollably a few times, then looked at me weakly. ?Elaine? you must, you must go.?

I stared at him some more, my heart ripped by his nobility, his sacrifice, and his utter foolishness. I knew in that moment that I could not reason with him: I would just have to fight. Everything dissolved then into a flurry of screaming, kicking, cursing, and pleading as the Kelly men finally lashed my feet together and bound my hands, there being no other way to control me. Tom then hefted me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and turned for the door. Jeremy was slack in his huddle of blankets, eyes closed, his face pained as he wheezed for breath.

?He?s unconscious!? I wailed, ?You can?t leave him like this! He?ll die in hours if the fire fails!?

Outside our pack mule had been added to the train of horses and I was carefully laid over its back, face down. I pleaded with them, cursed at them as they calmly secured me in place, Will carefully wrapping me in blankets against the cold, moving stiffly as I pleaded with him not to do this. Then Tom returned and stooped down to look into my face.

?He?s awake, ma?am,? he said, ?And I stoked the fire right good for him. We?ve left whiskey and water and food, more?n he?s like to need. I don?t expect you to thank us. I know you?ll be cursin? my name ?til your dyin? day, but at least that?ll be some time down the road, not this winter and not in this place.?

?Please!? I wept, ?You can?t do this! You can?t!?

?Will, it?s time we got on our way.?

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AD 1345, More Or Less

It was dark and cool, but not cold- spring had finally driven off the worst of the chill and the night air was refreshing, the air wafting over the fields and the barn, redolent with life. The moon had set and at its departure the heavens had opened up in a riotous explosion of color. I stood transfixed by the barn, gazing up at the blazing stars spread across the sky? and felt loneliness clutch about my heart as a vise. I used to love to lie awake at night and gaze up at the mysterious night sky. When had that stopped for me? How long ago? no, surely not that long, but it had to be a century or more.

What had taken from me the joy and mystery of contemplating the night sky? I remembered the fear and excitement long ago when the heavens had burst forth with a new light and the monks had called all the people to prayer as the brilliant portent of evil tidings hung in the sky for a month or more before finally fading back in to the velvet canopy of the night sky. Until then I had seen the stars as much like myself, cold and unchanging. It had been liberating to see that they could become brilliant and unpredictable, even if only for a short while. I had seen throughout my life the comings of comets. I did not understand them, I did not know why they were as they were, and that pleased me. Why had I lost that?

The small house was dark and quiet; Robert and his grandchildren slept soundly, the dogs undisturbed by my being out, having grown accustomed to my strange ways. I had a good home, a man who gave me not love, but some companionship, and a place to call mine for a span of years. He was a conscientious man, my Robert Girard, devoted to his family, and now to his young bride. He was fond of me, but more than that he needed me, and that was good to feel. It was nearly enough to? but I thrust that down, deep inside me, for those thoughts and desires could bring naught but agony and madness. As good as he was, as much comfort I found ensconced in his house and his family, he was but a man and already old. His back was straight and his eyes clear but the thief of time stole up upon him as it did all the people and things I was foolish enough to feel any attachment to.

The stars were cold in the sky, their light beautiful, but devoid of warmth. Like me. There was such ice in my breast it weighed upon my heart. It had been so long, so many centuries since that day I watched a proud man die at the behest of a cruel and bloodthirsty ethos? no, I could not bear to think of that again. Not his death, nor the horror I became in the aftermath.

It was too late. Pain welled up in me as a sharp aching in my heart as I fought for control of myself. I would not weep, I refused to, but even as I spoke these words to myself I felt hot tears running down my cheeks, my sight blurred as my emotions turned treasonous to my will and sought their escape. Trembling I leaned back against the barn while the burning fear and grief passed from my lips as quiet sobs until finally I could put them down, the pressure having eased somewhat with their escape.

?Is it so terrible, being with me, that you steal away behind the barn at night to weep??

Startled I turned to see Robert?s silhouette, an inky blackness against the night, and I ran to him, threw my arms about him and clutched myself tightly there as fresh tremors, more immediate in their provenance, shook my body. His thick limbs encircled me, strong and sure, and I buried my face in his chest, the aura of him filling my lungs, the taste of hard labor, the smoke from the fire that warmed our tiny house, even the traces of our love making. I drew in great draughts of it, my tears soaking the rough shirt he wore. I heaved a last sigh, will finally triumphant over grief, and forced myself to stop shaking.

?It is not you, Robert, not at all,? I said, my voice returning. ?I told you when we met, I am? complicated.?

His hand came up and he slipped a finger under my chin, turning my face up so I gazed in to his shadowed face.

?All women are complicated, my Monique. You more than most.? Then without another word he walked me back to our house as I turned my face again to the stars.

I so hungered to adore them as I had, but not at the price of revisiting that dark and painful place in my soul. My roots were here in the now, for as long as I could bear it. Let the dead past lie in its grave?

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1959

Tourists liked the place and old man Malloy had certainly been the beneficiary of the Luck of the Irish the day the State of California laid out the Pacific Coast Highway and ran it directly past the front door of his little diner. I landed there for the same reason the truck drivers and tourists did- late at night, tired from driving and wrung out from the events of the last month I had seen the brightly lit Diner and decided to stop to stretch and have a bite to eat.

The last three years of my life had culminated in a funeral I had had no wish to see. I owed those people nothing now, any possible obligation laid to rest with the man now planted in the earth for eternity. Three years of my life were no great sacrifice, and I made it willingly, if only for the son, whose grief had been more than I ever wished to experience. It was good that it was now done.

I was tired and unkempt. I must have had the look of the pathetic upon me when I walked in for Angus Malloy had come to me and asked what a young lady was doing all alone at two in the morning on a deserted highway. It was kindness and concern, and touching in its simple way and I had found no desire to rebuff him. One year later I was still there, wearing a ridiculous little pink dress with an apron and taking orders from drivers who stopped by on their voyages up and down the west coast. It satisfied an urge towards the bizarre for me to speculate what one person or another would think had they known the pretty little waitress serving their burgers and fries with cherry colas was a creature both ancient and grim.

As metaphor it presented a rather apt model of my life: all those travelers flowing past me, some I would touch oh so briefly before they were gone, never to be seen again. Others would linger for a while, returning again, but still so far outside my life, removed from who and what I was. There was a certain philosophical calm to be found in it and as such it suited my mood.

There were other attractions as well. I was given ample opportunity to indulge my assorted appetites, what with the nearby beaches, clubs to patronize, and of course, men. I took to the local surf culture fairly readily, even going so far as to learn though I did not care for it: it seemed pointless and I preferred to remain on the beach.

And there was Will Travis. Twenty-one years old, tall, blonde, blue-eyed and in love with the beach and drag racing. He stopped by one afternoon on his way to a race and I flirted with him just a bit. After that he stopped by nearly every day I was on. I did not dissuade him even though I was not particularly interested in any kind of relationship that might last longer than a week. He had the soul of a poet, and even though he spent his time indulging himself, he was possessed of a certain firm core of determination that marked him as a man to be reckoned with. Conversations with him were never inane, even when he was simply trying to coax me out on a date.

His madness in climbing in to these incredibly powerful machines to tear down a straight track dovetailed quite nicely with my own need for a taste of wild abandon. The ?Sexual Revolution? had yet to fully break upon this generation, making my carnal proclivities something of a shock even to his rebellious soul. We formed an unusual pair for most of that year before I was forced to bring it to an end, mostly for his good. Time with me was time wasted for a man who wanted a family.

In the end 1959 was a year spent drawing a fine, bright line between one chapter of my life and the next.

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Not So Long Ago, And Not So Far Away

It was such a beautiful summer morning: very hot of course, but there was a breeze that let the dry air cool the body without being so strong as to send the dust flying. I reminded myself to keep an eye on everyone since my young friends had a tendency to forget to drink enough water. They were young and idealistic, and very, very foolish to have set out to live in the desert. If they had not encountered me they probably would have been dead within a week, yet here we were a year or more later and our little community was alive, if not completely ?well?.

It was a constant struggle. They had had no clue about survival, let alone the challenges the desert could present- just hazy notions of living in some secluded place away from ?the grind? and ?the man? and all those pieces of society that seemed so negative and constricting. With my help they had built not a paradise, but at least a quiet place, off the beaten path and free of whatever imagined evils had stalked their lives.

?Something?s coming down the road,? Gina said. She and I were up on the roof of the barn, trying to get the patches finished before the sun became too much to handle. Of all the kids, she was certainly the one most likely to actually do any work so she naturally gravitated towards me. Tall and curvaceous, with dark, curly hair and wide gray eyes she was quite the contrast to me and the boys liked to refer to us as ?Built for Comfort? and ?Built for Speed?, respectively. She was more amused by it than I, but I was hardly offended.

I stood and shaded my eyes to peer off to the west and sure enough there was a plume of dust making its way down the wash towards our little commune. I watched for a minute without any real concern, making out six motorcycles, two of them with two riders. We were off the beaten path here, but we did have visitors from time to time and we were free with offering our well and our hospitality so bikers crossing the desert knew where to stop for a cool drink and maybe a good time.

?Billy!? Gina shouted, ?Company?s coming!?

Billy looked out the door from the ramshackle ranch house and followed Gina?s pointing finger to the now clearly visible group of riders. I could see the way his lanky form straightened up at the prospect of some new faces to liven up the scene. This commune had been Billy?s idea so it was not at all surprising to me that he was the first to begin to feel it was not what he had hoped it would be. Truth be told, it had been a foolish idea to begin with, but worth doing if only for the lessons it would have taught.

Gina was climbing down the ladder as Billy strolled out to greet the newcomers. I saw it coming before he did- something was terribly wrong. He turned suddenly and almost screamed.

?George! Shit...? then the gunshot cut him off and he fell to the ground. Gina looked up at me, a question on her face.

?Run!? I hissed, then dashed across the roof of the barn, heedless of the loose boards. I heard Gina scream over the roar of motorcycles as the other riders circled the two buildings. One of the men looked up and saw me, pointing me out to another who grinned as he stopped his bike and calmly dropped the kickstand before dismounting. I heard more gunshots; the distinctive bark of George?s shotgun followed by more pistol fire and more screaming- Alicia and Terry.

I reached the large hatch in the roof and jumped down to the top floor of the barn, then sprinted along the main beam to the far end where it opened up over the roof of the house. There was no way to avoid being seen so I took it at a run, and hit the roof in a roll that took me to the rear edge. Fortune smiled upon me as I saw the back end of a motorcycle disappear around the corner and I dropped to the ground, ignoring the screaming and the sound of people running. Leaping in through the open Dutch door in the back I was able to make the turn in to the hallway before somebody crashed through the door behind me. My room was at the end of the hall and I sprinted through the door, kicking it closed and diving to the ground to reach under my bed. My hand drove in to my bag and closed about the butt of my pistol as the door was kicked aside.

?Ah, there you are, red,? a man laughed and I shrieked as he grabbed my ankles and pulled me out of the room before callously flipping me on to my back. His eyes went wide when he saw the .45, and I snapped off a shot that nearly tore the weapon from my hand as the recoil slammed my elbow back against the floor. He should have jumped on me, pinned the gun down, but instead he leapt back and this time I used two hands, calmly walking the big automatic up the front of his torso: once, twice, thrice, before he finally toppled over backwards.

I scrambled back in to my room and fetched up the two remaining magazines just as another of them turned the corner down the hall, cursing.

?Dammit, John, what the hell are you??

My forearm went numb as I squeezed off the last four rounds from a crouch, two catching the man in the chest and throwing him violently backwards. I watched him as I reloaded, but he was just lying there squirming, and I heard somebody come in the front door so I went up and out my window, landing in a crouch to peer around the corner where I saw Billy?s crumpled form out at the end of the driveway. Behind me I could hear Gina in the barn weeping and gasping which meant at least one of the remaining men was currently too preoccupied to be a threat.

I spared three more heartbeats to listen and try to determine where people were, and then all hell broke loose inside the house as the two dead men were discovered. To go back meant crossing the length of the house and I knew there were men in there so I slid around the corner to come up towards the front and nearly bumped in to one of the two women who had come with the men. She started to say something but I struck out with my left foot, catching her in the knee and she went down with a shriek before I hit her hard in the throat with the butt of the pistol.

The other woman was standing next to two motorcycles parked near another body stretched out in the dust: George, the only other man in our little group. She turned to see what her friend had shouted about and I stood, training the pistol on her. Normally I could have made that shot easily, but my arm was still tingling from being slammed in to the floor so I missed twice before dropping her, and then turned to cover the front door where another man lay in a pool of blood- George apparently had not missed.

Things became very quiet then, except for the woman moaning in pain next to the bikes. No men shouting, no sounds from my friends, even from Gina. Nothing moved outside, but I could hear footsteps in the house. I guessed they were going to try to come out the back and circle around. Perhaps try to flush me out front where somebody was likely waiting in the cover of the doorway. I measured the distance to the barn and decided it was worth a try even as I heard noises from behind that confirmed somebody was sliding up towards the corner.

I bolted out towards the barn, cutting left when I sensed I had gone far enough to be seen. I could not hear the shots, but the whistle of the bullets flying past me were enough to keep my attention focused and I jinked right towards the door, then stumbled as fire tore through my right shoulder, but managed to roll in to the barn as I fell. I brought the pistol up in my left hand, the right side useless now as I searched for the man I knew had to be there.

?What the fuck are you assholes doing out there!? a voice roared and I spun to see my target standing over Gina who was stretched out on the ground, legs akimbo with her jeans hanging from one ankle and her blouse torn open. His pants were open and he was just zipping up his fly- what kind of fool indulges his appetites in the midst of a gunfight? His hand dove for the gun in his belt as I fired, my shot grazing his left shoulder. He spun as he drew down on me, but suddenly Gina?s right leg lashed out, her heel connecting solidly with his groin. He folded over, but still managed to point and fire in my direction before she kicked him again in the hand, sending the gun flying.

I rolled to my knees and fired point-blank in to his forehead, sending bone, blood and gore spattering across Gina?s body. She stared at me and at the ruin of the head of the man who had raped her. Her face was puffy, she was bleeding from her mouth and nose- she had always impressed me as the type to put up one hell of a fight, but I could see the overload of events in her eyes, all wild and dilated. Unfortunately there was no time to tend to her as I could hear the last two outside. I tried to stand and my right leg buckled- only then did I realize I had been hit a second time, a dark red stain running down my right leg, the jeans soaking it up and spreading it as it grew.

?Gina!? I shouted, and her frightened gaze locked on me. ?I need your help,? I continued in a level voice as I pulled my injured leg out from under me and managed to get up on my good leg. I hopped over to where the revolver lay and took it up after stuffing the .45 under my arm. It was a small six-shot, one round spent and only three more loaded.

?Heather?? Gina croaked. I looked at her and she was still just lying there, but her face was suddenly horrible to see: pain and fury all intermingled. At least it was better than dumb shock. I stumbled to my knees again and crawled over to her.

?Take this,? I whispered, handing her the revolver, ?and put your pants on. I need you to help me.?

?HEY BITCH!?

Gina?s head jerked around at the sound of the shouting outside, but she did what I told her to, shaking as she pulled her jeans on.

?We know you?re in there!? the man outside shouted, ?We got something here you should see!?

?You?re bleeding,? she gasped.

?I know. One thing at a time, okay? I need you to take this,? I said putting the pistol in her hand again, ?and when I tell you, just point it in the air and keep pulling the trigger, as fast as you can. Can you do that??

She nodded, but she was trembling violently. Still, there was little choice. I crawled down to the opposite end of the barn as I listened to the goings on outside. The last two men had Tracy and Alicia out there.

?You come out of there right now, or I?m going to blow a hole through your little friend?s stomach and you can watch her bleed to death! You got ten seconds!?

I reached the window and snapped my last full magazine in place. My right arm was on fire, useless? but he was already up to five. I could see through a gap in the wall the two of them were only about fifty feet away, standing over my friends. Alicia was curled on the ground, naked, her face bloody, and she was not moving. They both had their guns on Terry.

I looked over at Gina and mouthed the word ?NOW?. Scrunching her eyes closed she dropped her head down and lifted the gun in both hands. I stood on my good leg as her fist contracted, leveling the pistol as the report from Gina?s pistol made both men start, crouching.

The .45 bucked terribly in my left hand, tossing the spent brass in my face, forcing me to carefully retrain with each shot as I methodically emptied the magazine. When the gun was empty both men were on the ground, one absolutely still, the other writhing in agony, curled up with his fists in his belly, vomiting blood in to the dust. Terry sat there, stunned for a moment before finally moving over to Alicia.

I hopped over towards Gina, but my head was spinning and I had to stop and brace myself against a beam. Behind me there was a dangerously thick trail of blood and more was pooling under my right leg, flowing from the wound in my thigh. Suddenly everything hurt.

It would be a very bad time to pass out, but I couldn?t keep my feet and slid down to the ground with my back against the beam as Gina rushed to my side.

?Can you do a tourniquet?? I asked. She was in a panic, but she followed my instructions as I struggled to remain conscious. In the end though, when she tightened the cord around my upper thigh, exquisite white-hot pain sent me spinning down in to the quiet darkness.

Later I came to find out that Gina and Terry had loaded Alicia, the wounded biker woman and me in to George?s pickup and drove us in to town. Needless to say the police became quite agitated over the sudden bumper crop of corpses and the unusual circumstances, but after a couple of months of repeated questioning the District Attorney decided he did not have anything more than a self-defense case on his hands and the Grand Jury agreed.

It turned out that Billy and George had been making Blue Crystal in a small lab in a broken down trailer on the back of the property. Roughly once a month they took the pickup in to the city and returned a couple of days later with a load of supplies and a little cash. I had known they were up to something, but had not been interested enough to find out precisely what. Apparently the bikers had been doing a brisk business of their own and had not appreciated the competition, so they decided to deal with it in brute-force fashion. Unfortunately for them, they ran in to me.

I dismiss this event now, but at the time it was traumatic. It was not the deaths of Billy and George, nor the actions I was forced to take that had me so shaken; instead it was that ?Heather? was a rather weak identity, a name and a past I had put on while waiting for something more reliable to firm up. Had the police been so inclined an extensive investigation of my background would have turned up far too many questions with far too few answers. That fear followed me for years before I was finally able to put it somewhat to rest. Even then, I knew it was merely a matter of time.

The world was catching up to me.

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Annoyance And Triumph, Of Sorts

God placed the gift upon those who create and build. There is something viscerally satisfying about the act of creation, be it a work of art, a cord of neatly stacked firewood, or replacing the wiring in my Victorian-era farmhouse. The wiring was decrepit when the house was finally sealed up, and had declined to improve with further aging, but my electrical contractor has done a marvelous job of not only upgrading everything, but also preserving the basic beauty and atmosphere of this grand old home. There is neither a socket nor a light switch to be seen in the living areas.

Of course, the devil could not let this go unmatched, hence Zoning Boards and Inspectors. I do try to not be overly harsh, for I understand the town?s dismay over my arrival- it stood to benefit greatly from the development plans laid out, and they had the property virtually within their grasp. Nonetheless, it seems petty to place needless obstacles in my path. Fortunately Joshua is up to the task, taking some personal pleasure in the reversal of fortune represented by my plans to reoccupy the house.

So, the wiring is now reluctantly admitted to be up to code, the barn and stables are now properly permitted and under construction, the McAllister Family Cemetery does not require relocation, and the interior work is well under way? It has been a marvelous maelstrom of activity.

Of course, it has left me little time to consider on further topics for this little journal. I am mindful of the question posed in comments to the previous post and I shall address them in a somewhat timely manner, but for the moment I do believe I shall laze about and draw something that existed elsewhere and place it here. What follows was originally offered as a guest post at Etherian?s Island in October of 2003?

The house was more difficult to find than I had expected. One Hundred and Fifty Three years is not such a great span, but for this once small town? the changes had been profound. A small town had become a larger town, had become a suburb. Still, there were traces of the past to be found in the historic buildings downtown, and the aged ante bellum farmhouses that had survived the rapacious maneuverings of developers. One in particular called to me.

There was no road. There had been, but the house and the property had been unoccupied for so long that the track had overgrown. Yet landmarks remained; the lay of the land had not changed so much. There was a bit of a struggle on going between the trust that held the property and a group of land developers who envisioned multi-million dollar homes and a championship golf course. But the legal strictures of the trust were strong and the land remained as it was. The house had been empty for more than fifty years.

Given the contention surrounding it I was required to be secretive, approaching cross-country, taking most of a day to reach it. The air was warm- summer giving way grudgingly to fall. The heat was real, but it hinted at the cool night to follow, the buzzing of beetles giving the lie to the day. I walked out of the woods, past the faded ?No Trespassing? signs, crossing the low rise to bring the house in to view. It sprawled across the next small hill, still majestic in its own way, despite the obvious toll of decades of disuse. The outbuildings were gone- the stable and the barn, either removed or collapsed.

The sight of it gave me pause. Suddenly, and again, this seemed foolish- what was the point of coming here? Everything that had made this place precious to me was gone long, long ago. There was nothing here? no. Almost nothing.

I crossed the field of high grass and brambles, feeling the weight of the past settle upon me as I drew closer to the dilapidated structure. The years certainly had not been kind, nor had the occasional band of squatters, for some of the damage was obviously deliberate, the work of teenagers marking the spot of their private drinking parties.

The sun was setting behind it as I drew closer, stepping in to the shadow of the house, into the embrace of it. The long, wrap-around porch was sound, barely creaking as I walked along it, past boarded up windows and the sealed front doors. There had been changes, of course. Nothing lasts so long without changing. Nothing but me.

I spotted the way in with little effort- one of the windows had had its plywood carefully removed then replaced more than once. I slid the wood from its frame and squeezed through, my large pack making it a tight fit. Somebody had actually gone to the trouble of attaching a handle to the inside of the plywood cover so I used it to seal the window behind me. The house, so old and full of ghosts, now had one more.

I was in the southern parlor. The room was empty of course, but I recognize it and my mind?s eye filled it with those familiar things that made it such a delightful place to take a morning?s breakfast or brunch. The house was gloomy with so many windows covered yet it was as if I could feel it warming at my presence. Silly, yes, but suddenly I as if the house were so very happy that I had come.

I stepped through the arch to the entryway, the front parlor: the grand staircase sweeping up to my right, the entry to the northern parlor across from me, the hall to the dining room offset to the right from that and the entrance to the sitting room leading due west. I dropped my pack, suddenly eager to be free of the weight.

The house was empty, just some beer cans and other trash piled in the corner near the front doors- whoever made a habit of visiting this place at least had the courtesy to clean up after themselves a bit. I strolled through the lower floor, pausing to remember here, or there, noticing things that were now missing, or were new. There was a scent to the place, even after all these decades, even after being empty for so long, I could taste the familiarity of it.

The staircase beckoned.

By then I was nearly manic. I snatched my pack from the ground and swept up the wide steps, but something halted me. A memory, an echo, teasing at me and taunting me until I sat a moment and finally called it up from the place it lay buried. I turned it over in my mind, tasting it, feeling it until a trick of the deepening darkness and my own desire conspired to make it real.

I saw him, standing at the foot of the stairs- he could not look at me nor I directly at him, that would shatter the spell, but I knew that this memory of him, this pale echo of him knew me. He heard me.

?I came to say goodbye.?

We said goodbye long ago. We parted- you on your path to future days; and I, on mine to oblivion.

?But I held on to you. I was selfish, but no longer.?

I understand, but this is not the place for goodbyes.

?I will come. I will see you in the proper place. That is why I am here.?

Would that I had eyes with which to see you?

He turned to bring his eyes towards me and the moment collapsed in to the shadows. For the first time since setting out on this journey a twinge of sadness brushed my heart. Not grief. Not bitterness. The time for those had passed.

Upstairs I made my way around to our bedroom and my old dressing room. It was quite dark and I had to use the flashlight I had brought to find my way. Once there I opened my pack and drew out the lantern, filling it with oil and priming the wick before lighting it. The pale yellow illumination suffused the room, rendering it in an almost surrealist cast of flickering shadow and light. Another time this might have been depressing, the empty room, the bare floors, the walls stained and faded, but to me it was a welcome sight. I knew this place. I could feel the past alive in it.

The remainder of the pack held only a blanket and one large, carefully folded and wrapped item. I spread the blanket on the floor and took out the package, carefully opening it, laying out the contents, smoothing the fabric. Then I began to undress.

The dress precluded slipping out the way I had come in. Fortunately the door out the back to the garden was easily opened from the inside. The sun was almost below the horizon now and I stood a moment to admire it as I had so many times before, so very long ago. I set out westerly from the garden, walking in to the lowering sun until I encountered a rusted iron gate, still hanging awkwardly from a single hinge attached to the skewed granite pillar whose twin lay broken in the grass opposite. The remainder of the fence I remembered was gone. I could see the stones, three neat rows of them, miraculously unmolested by those who had claimed the house as a favored nightspot.

I counted the headstones- fifteen of them. So, he was the last to be buried here after all. I stepped to the end of the short row, my feet touching the very spot where I had stood One Hundred Fifty-Three Years, Two Months and Eleven Days before. The day my beloved Jeremy was given to the Earth to hold for all eternity.

Come, Elaine. Sit with me once more.

?I miss you, Jeremy. I will always miss you, but the pain is gone.? I set the lamp atop his headstone and spread the blanket, tamping down the tall, dry grass, then carefully took my seat, folding the dress and the petticoats just so.

Your wedding dress. How appropriate.

?Let me tell you of what has come to pass...?

Seated there by my husband?s grave as darkness fell, I made my final peace: a quiet, laughing communion with the memory of the one who had made me so happy, so joyful, so alive.

And we were interrupted only once?

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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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Interesting Times

Interesting (actually, somewhat disturbing) developments over the past two days. As a result I shall be wading through a sea of lawyers. Posting will be light to non-existent until some time next week. Do take care.

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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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Interlude

?I have been wondering, is there anything you cannot do??

I lifted my eyes from my book and smiled at my husband, ?Whatever are you talking about??

?Mrs. Trembley. A woman who could not bring herself to offer a civil hello to the new Pastor for three years invites you to join her for Sunday Tea after only six months,? he settled in to his chair by the fireplace and stretched his hands towards the flames, ?it?s a miracle.?

?Oh, not at all. It?s simple self interest and nothing more,? and with that I returned to my reading, but I was laughing when he swept out of his chair and caught me up, then pressed me to my back on the floor, his hands pinning my shoulders back.

?I?m afraid I require a little more detail in your answer!? He was grinning down at me as I struggled in his grip.

?Oh, very well, if you must know. Mrs. Tremblay?s oldest son is in the business of importing lumber from overseas, amongst other things. It seems he had an arrangement to procure a fairly large shipment of mahogany for a certain individual. Said individual turned out to be somewhat of a braggart and hasn?t the means to make payment. Now, I?m certain that given some time another buyer would present himself, but there seems to be a problem of capital. The young man in question was faced with having to go to his creditors and ask for an extension of terms.?

Jeremy sat back, releasing my shoulders, laughing. ?Why do I begin to suspect we are going to have many, many mahogany treatments in our new house??

?Because you are a man of astounding perspicacity. And we are getting a reasonable bargain as well. All because I was able to approach Mrs. Tremblay in all innocence and enquire as to where she had obtained the beautiful pews she donated to the church.?

?I can imagine,? he reached for the top button of my nightdress and playfully worked it open, ?and are you certain that there were no? overt application of feminine charms involved??

And so it progressed, until an hour or so had passed and we were both spent, curled together on the bed. His right hand traced a lazy loop about my left breast, then down to my hip? and paused.

?Your scar is gone,? he noted, his voice a mix of tired happiness and curiosity, ?I?d have wagered a healthy sum you would have been marked for life.?

?Are you complaining?? I asked, my voice light and amused.

?Hmmm, you laugh, but you?re blushing,? He laid his hand firmly over my left breast, ?and your heart is racing.?

?My heart always races when you touch me,? I whispered, emphasizing the point by stretching, my body out against his, rolling on top of him again. I dropped my lips softly on to his, feeling him rise delightfully to the occasion.

?Be mysterious if it suits you,? he sighed, ?Besides, I prefer you flawless.?

?Prove it,? I invited him. And he did so, splendidly.

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Interlude

?I have been wondering, is there anything you cannot do??

I lifted my eyes from my book and smiled at my husband, ?Whatever are you talking about??

?Mrs. Trembley. A woman who could not bring herself to offer a civil hello to the new Pastor for three years invites you to join her for Sunday Tea after only six months,? he settled in to his chair by the fireplace and stretched his hands towards the flames, ?it?s a miracle.?

?Oh, not at all. It?s simple self interest and nothing more,? and with that I returned to my reading, but I was laughing when he swept out of his chair and caught me up, then pressed me to my back on the floor, his hands pinning my shoulders back.

?I?m afraid I require a little more detail in your answer!? He was grinning down at me as I struggled in his grip.

?Oh, very well, if you must know. Mrs. Tremblay?s oldest son is in the business of importing lumber from overseas, amongst other things. It seems he had an arrangement to procure a fairly large shipment of mahogany for a certain individual. Said individual turned out to be somewhat of a braggart and hasn?t the means to make payment. Now, I?m certain that given some time another buyer would present himself, but there seems to be a problem of capital. The young man in question was faced with having to go to his creditors and ask for an extension of terms.?

Jeremy sat back, releasing my shoulders, laughing. ?Why do I begin to suspect we are going to have many, many mahogany treatments in our new house??

?Because you are a man of astounding perspicacity. And we are getting a reasonable bargain as well. All because I was able to approach Mrs. Tremblay in all innocence and enquire as to where she had obtained the beautiful pews she donated to the church.?

?I can imagine,? he reached for the top button of my nightdress and playfully worked it open, ?and are you certain that there were no? overt application of feminine charms involved??

And so it progressed, until an hour or so had passed and we were both spent, curled together on the bed. His right hand traced a lazy loop about my left breast, then down to my hip? and paused.

?Your scar is gone,? he noted, his voice a mix of tired happiness and curiosity, ?I?d have wagered a healthy sum you would have been marked for life.?

?Are you complaining?? I asked, my voice light and amused.

?Hmmm, you laugh, but you?re blushing,? He laid his hand firmly over my left breast, ?and your heart is racing.?

?My heart always races when you touch me,? I whispered, emphasizing the point by stretching, my body out against his, rolling on top of him again. I dropped my lips softly on to his, feeling him rise delightfully to the occasion.

?Be mysterious if it suits you,? he sighed, ?Besides, I prefer you flawless.?

?Prove it,? I invited him. And he did so, splendidly.

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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, trying to be polite, but desperate to learn all she could. She knew Jeremy from her childhood, but despite the past months she knew little to nothing of me. I was about to test her taste for scandal. I asked the lawyer to excuse us.

?Jerome never mentioned a dowry because I never told him of it.?

?You never?? her blue eyes widened, ?You have kept this a secret for six years??

?Not at all. You see, this money, it is no inheritance. It is my money. I earned it.?

She digested that information, then her eyes narrowed a bit and she asked ?How??

?I spent a few years in the British ruled islands. The Gentlemen from London pay handsomely for comely whores with refined manners. Less unsightly, you understand, easier to pass off as a visiting niece should the wrong people take notice of the goings on.?

She started to laugh, derision lighting her face, then she saw my eyes. ?Oh, my God! You?re serious! My brother? oh!? This last came as the inevitable result of the combination of shock and tightly laced stays- Catherine wobbled and sought a nearby seat. I took little mercy.

?Your brother, my husband, is well aware of my past. Remember, we met in a Mexican port. He had some money and I had a supply of fine whiskey and a warm bed. We bonded instantly and after just a week he invited me to leave my sordid past behind and join him on his journeys. He knew a kindred soul when he met one. We have been inseparable ever since. When news of this tragedy reached him we married at once and travelled here.?

?Why?? she gasped, slowly recovering her breath, ?Why are you telling me this??

?Because Jeremy and I love each other. It is a love born of our own pasts, a love that we could never have found with anyone else. I never expected to find myself in a place like this, in a situation like this. I did not marry your brother to better my place in the world, I married him because he needed me to be his wife, so he could face this and conquer it, and because the thought of being apart from him was too painful to bear.

?You don?t trust me, Catherine, and if you started snooping about and having me investigated? things are already too sharp between us, between you and Franklin, and Jeremy and I. This must stop. I am being as honest as I can be with you because I hope you might understand that neither Jeremy, nor I, are looking to make off with the family fortune or to ruin reputations. We are here because we see a responsibility to Reginald, and Clarice, and the children. I am giving this money to my husband because he needs it to rebuild the children?s home. I am giving you the truth because we need you to be a partner in this, not an obstacle. Your distrust breeds ill will amongst people with whom we must live, who form the circles these children should be part of. If you can find it in your heart to believe we have no intention other than to do right by Reginald?s trust, then that, too, can spread amongst your friends, and perhaps then they can accept us freely and without reservation.?

Catherine sat very still, very silent and I could almost see her mind working, feel the conflict in her beginning to resolve. I took a seat across from her, quietly waiting for her to speak.

?I know that you love him,? she finally whispered, and then in a firmer voice, ?it shows so clearly. And he adores you, that is unmistakable.? Her eyes lifted to meet mine. ?I cannot even begin to? no, that is not what I want to say??

?You will help us,? I whispered, but it was a statement, not a question. I had read her correctly.

?Yes? yes! We will put this behind us, a secret that none need know of,? she nodded, her conviction growing, ?and you and Jerome will make your home here, and we will be family. I can respect your honesty with me, even if I can?t imagine? never mind, we should not speak of this again.?

Together we took my small treasure to her husband?s bank while I quietly patted myself on the back for working out a resolution to one of our many problems. Unfortunately I still had one very large secret to share, but that would have to wait.

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Revisiting The Past

I made a brief visit to Boston where a certain Safe Deposit Box contains certain things of little value to anyone but myself. From that box I retrieved a Diary, and a letter. Both are quite old, but the script on the diary is still familiar. I can remember the first line without looking:

?I am most insanely foolish to keep a reckoning such as this, but my Jeremy insists, and I shall deny him nothing.?

Should any care to know, this is all Etherian?s fault. Her fault, and the perverse creature Fate, turning my thoughts to love lost and pasts left to dust. Once I set the issue of William Travis to rest I found myself drawn to this place and these desires.

I spent a quiet afternoon on the Common reliving two glorious decades. And when I was done I had made a choice without ever realizing there was a question before me.

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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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Awareness

Awareness is an odd thing. One is tempted at all times to draw a fine, bright line between the time when there was no awareness, and the time where there was. Unfortunately, awareness is seldom so neatly defined. Even in the most extreme cases, there is a disconnect between when reality reveals itself and the mind recognizes and accepts that reality. Think of the crash victim who recalls the violence of an accident as something he witnessed rather than experienced, or the cuckold spouse who has all the evidence of unfaithfulness before him, yet cannot comprehend the betrayal.

By my loose reckoning it required nearly half a millennia to understand what I was and even longer to fully accept it. The evidence was there almost from the very beginning, but I was too addled, too primitive in my thoughts and emotions to comprehend my uniqueness.

Consider the following:

I came in to consciousness naked, swathed in furs, uncomprehending as an old woman bathed a wound in my scalp. She spoke to me in gibberish. All of this is very simple, very primitive- I had no language, no internal dialogue with which to make sense of what I was experiencing. The memories are jumbled, almost abstract- impressions of occurrence rather than narrative recollections. I remember Gtochk, the sour odor of thin brew on his breath, rolling me to my back, dumb and uncomprehending as he opened my thighs and taught me the first lesson that would guide me in my relationships with men for nearly three thousand years. I must have learned that lesson well for he named me his Precious Flower and kept me by his side for many winters despite my fruitless womb.

Gtochk?s people told tales. From them I learned that I was taken in a chance encounter with a wandering band, but the details were sparse, or else my recollection is poor. When famine threatened I was sold to another clan where my existence was more wretched as there was no one man to protect me, but I was desirable so I could survive by playing on the lusts of the younger men.

That which made me acceptable to men made me despised amongst women, but I was a hard worker as well and able to ingratiate myself to some small degree, deflecting the worst of the animosity by taking the most arduous and unpleasant tasks without complaint. It was always a selling point when I traded hands for my childlessness could not be concealed: no one willingly parted with healthy and desirable woman unless she was barren. I was sold as whore and beast of burden many times over and it never occurred to me to resent it. It was the way of life for me.

The first hint came the day an odd traveler guested in the roundhouse of my master, a man small and swarthy with a lilting cant to his voice. I was sent to entertain his bed for he had found favor with our chief and shaman, no small feat at a time when strangers were habitually slain. In the dwindling light of fading firelight, in the idle talk after pleasures taken he asked my age and I could not tell him for I could barely count beyond my fingers and toes. He taught me the basic skill of counting (incidentally doubling my value in years to come) and I totaled the winters I could remember, then lied and told him thirty-three because one hundred and thirty-three seemed a ridiculous number. Even then I understood instinctively that honesty would not serve me well in that regard. To be unusual was ill advised.

A second clue. For the first time I was turned out in to the cold of winter- food was short, I was a luxury, and there were no buyers. I knew enough of the basic skills of survival to find shelter and fire, and I did not starve though there was little of nourishment to be found. I slept through much of that time, rousing only when fortune brought some prey close enough for my sling to fell. When spring arrived I knew better than to seek out those who had abandoned me to the wilderness. I struck out on my own and passed ten winters in solitude- the first of many such interludes over the centuries. By then I was counting myself at nearly three hundred and I wailed to the sky, pleading to know why. What had I done to deserve such misery?

A hunting party gathered me in, a fair bit of prey for their entertainment. I could have eluded them. Perhaps I could have killed them as I had become quite skilled with my small bow. But I hungered for the company of people, even for the brutal lust of men, and in the end they were not so brutal, being amenable to my charms. I entered again in to the dangerous game.

I knew I was older than anyone I had knowledge of. There were myths and tales of ancient ones, but they offered nothing to me. Those of legend had power, what had I but a comely form and a strong back? Every new clan, every new cult, and every new god I preyed to, sacrificed to, pleaded with. I sought deliverance, and end to this pointless existence. Yet it never occurred to me to deliberately attempt to put an end to my life by my own hand. It was just as well.

The final clue, the one that crystallized my understanding, came after many decades of dwelling with people. Another terrible winter after a terrible harvest. The man who called me his own led me out in to the wild in the company of one of the elder women and I thought I was to be turned out again. I had seen this coming of course, so I had a good idea of where I would go, but something was wrong. He was tense, far more upset than I would have expected and the woman, Katka, radiated a certain malevolent pleasure that I at first attributed to my departure- she despised me, and she was a vicious, vindictive sort.

?Far enough,? she said, and I looked to my man, then gasped as Katka?s wiry arms seized my own, drawing them up and back behind me, ?This is the end of the trail for you!? she laughed in my ear.

?I don?t understand!? I cried, but then I saw the blade. I looked in to his eyes; saw his unhappiness, his determination as he reached for me, pulling open my cloak and my tunic to expose my chest. I smiled at him. ?It?s better this way,? I whispered, ?strike true.?

I could feel Katka?s disappointment. She had so wanted to hear me beg for my life. I trembled in fear and excitement, an intensely sexual thrill coursing through my body as I lifted my head, arching my spine to offer a clearer target. I could feel the conflict rising in him, but Katka broke the spell.

?Do you expect me to hold her forever? Do it!?

?Makta!? he cried, and his fist lunged forward, plunging the blade in to my chest, the edge perpendicular to my breastbone, entering inside the curve of my left breast, seeking and finding my heart in an expert stroke. It did not even hurt; rather it drove the breath from me, my chest collapsing inward from the force of the blow. Breath would not come and my knees buckled as Katka released me, letting me drop to my knees as he stepped back, drawing the knife from my chest. Vision wavered as I saw crimson stained snow, then I could support myself no longer, falling forward in to the cold and darkness, a throbbing, pulsating roar of sound filling my ears as their voices receded. I embraced the darkness, welcomed it, invited it to envelope and consume me, erase me, make an end to this, to everything?

Cold and pain and aching pressure in my chest dragged me from the embrace of the nothingness I craved. My body shook and I could feel the thin stream of air torturously drawn in to my lungs, slowly filling me with breath, then a wracking, agonizing coughing exhalation; thick, vile goo spitting from my throat, fouling my mouth, forcing me to full awareness. Hands sought purchase, trembling arms lifted me and another breath entered me, much easier now that the clotted blood and mucus had been expelled, then made its exodus in a scream of rage and anguish. I probed at my chest with numb fingers- the wound was barely perceptible.

Cold, and starving, and betrayed I tried to stand, but slipped and fell back, landing across a frozen hump in the snow. Rolling over I struggled to my knees, feeling fur under my bare hands. Uncomprehending I swept aside the snow to reveal? Katka? She was on her back, but her head was twisted, her neck quite emphatically broken, shock frozen on her face. In my state I was unable to appreciate the irony of it all. I began tearing at her clothing, stripping the furs from her frozen body, wrapping myself in a desperate attempt to shelter myself from the biting cold. And through it all the gnawing ache in my belly grew stronger, more insistent, a scent touching my nostrils through the dry, frosty air: tantalizing, intoxicating. Raw meat.

?I don?t think so!? I shrieked in to the coming darkness. Not that cannibalism was new to me: it happened, on occasion. But Katka, and uncooked? No.

Forcing myself to my feet I sought my bearings and set out west? but stopped after only three steps. I could not think, could not force my feet to move, my body trembling violently as the hunger became like fire within me, warming me even as it sapped my strength further. I felt under my garments for the knife I had secreted there what felt like an age ago. I drew it out and turned- Katka?s body lay stretched out in the snow.

After all, what difference did it make? He had left us to be food for beasts. I sank down beside the body- once the decision was made I wasted no time. The knife bit in to the frozen meat of the thigh, cutting, tearing at the tough flesh until a strip came free. The first mouthful was the hardest. The meat was grainy and tough, and so cold it was tasteless, at least at first. After that it did not matter what it tasted like: I fed like a starved animal?

I had a small cave in mind- easy to seal off from the wind, if not terribly roomy, and far enough from the village to avoid being detected. I dragged Katka?s carcass behind me, my mind fixed solely upon my destination and reaching it before dark. The sky cleared offering bright moonlight to make the last leg of the trek possible, but the temperature plummeted as well. The cave was south facing, really just a depression in the hillside, but I had spied it years before and any time I had a chance I had done my best to prepare it against need: there was wood and flint and soon there was a fire.

Katka?s frozen, colorless eyes regarded me from the edge of the circle of firelight.

?You don?t know how lucky you are, old woman. And how did you wind up dead, anyhow? Did you put him up to killing me? You always hated me, so I guess that?s probably what happened. I?ll bet you just laughed a little too loud, and now there you are, and here I am. You know, if I could give you back your life and take your place out there, I?d do it. But since I can?t? if it?s any consolation, you taste terrible.?

The fire snapped and muttered at me, only just blunting the bitterness of the winter night. I was alone in a way I had never truly allowed myself to understand before. When he produced that knife I was so certain that finally, finally this would end. Instead here I was, with only flames and the dead for company.

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A Response To The Yeti

I am flattered when anyone takes the time to speculate rationally regarding the nature of my existence, particularly when one goes to the lengths The Yeti obviously did in his missive to me. That having been said, I hope he does not take what I have to say about it as dismissive or disrespectful.

I have several problems with the theoretical premise and it begins in the very first paragraph. Cro-Magnon man likely did not suddenly arrive 35,000 years ago. The same mitochondria DNA evidence that excludes Neanderthals from the ancestry of modern man also pushes the emergence date for modern human beings back to as far as 200,000 years ago

Ignoring that for the moment (because evidence of this type is still in a state of flux) we have to understand that none of the ?facts? are fully established. What archeologists present for both peer and public consumption are at best highly educated guesses and attempting to draw hard conclusions based upon those data, or for that matter attempting to categorically refute such theories is an exercise in futility.

Given the above, I am not going to argue the scientific merits of what The Yeti has proposed. I will point out that he and the authors he references seem to suffer from the common human predilections towards compression of history. ?Suddenly, civilization appears in Sumer.? While Sumer and Pre-Dynastic Egypt certainly pre-date my memories I can assure you there was nothing ?sudden? about their rise. Modern humans? major advantage over Neanderthals seems to be an innate ability to deal in abstract concepts, particularly numbers, symbols and historical trends. When these abilities developed and were honed, the rise of civilization would seem to be a natural consequence. But it did not happen suddenly, of that I am certain.

The point I am attempting to make with the verbiage above is that the entire record of evolution and the birth of civilization are still too rife with holes to be bent to any one purpose or another.

Whenever I am confronted with theories about anything to do with human beings, or theoretical intelligences, I always fall back on a basic tool of analysis: motivation.

What motivated the hypothesized aliens to come to Earth? Mining metals is suggested, but it seems to me that any race capable of space travel, even if only within the Solar System, could much more profitably mine metals from the asteroids. Consider: once out of the gravity well of their own world, why descend in to another just to collect raw materials that are so much easier to obtain in space? If they can travel from their planet to Earth they can travel to the asteroids and reap the cornucopia of materials available there. As such, the idea that such beings would go to such lengths solely for metals seems unlikely. If they desired a race of slaves it seems to me they have been dangerously neglectful, as their beasts of burden have developed some interesting habits and abilities likely to make them unsuitable for coerced labor.

Perhaps these aliens acted out of mere altruism? They came across proto-humans and saw potential there, so they meddled in order to give them an evolutionary nudge in the proper direction? There is little to be gained in speculation on this point as we can easily imagine that such actions were taken and the theorized benefactors of humanity then moved on to let Homo Sapiens find its own way towards full sentience. Unless we uncover 100,000-year-old genetic laboratories buried under the ice cap of Antarctica (or elsewhere) there is no empirical method of proving or disproving such a theory and no profit in debating it.

But where does this leave me?

Am I a failed genetic experiment? A pet left behind and forgotten by my masters when they left this world? An autonomous monitor, unaware of my underlying purpose? I am viscerally inclined to reject all of these possibilities; however, honesty requires that I not do so. By my own admission I have no knowledge of my origins, or even of my true age. I claim thirty-five centuries, but this is merely an informed guess- perhaps I am far, far older, but my memories were erased when I suffered that head wound so very long ago? Short of submitting to full genetic analysis I am unlikely to come to any definitive answers in the near future.

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The Yeti Offers His Thoughts

The Yeti writes, offering the following theories and speculations. The links are my own, just to provide some background. I have comments to make; however, I will offer them seperately.

Man's ancestor apes are now placed at a staggering 25 million years ago. Hominids appeared about 14 million years ago. 3 million years created the first Homo species, followed by Australopithecus. 1,000,000 years later, we have the first evidence of Homo Erectus. And finally, after another 900,000 years, primitive man, known as Neanderthal. The difference between Australopithecus and Neanderthal is noticeable only in evolutionary terms. They used the same crude stone tools, and had no civilization that we would recognize.
Suddenly, Cro-Magnon man appeared 35,000 years ago. Discoveries in the last two decades have shown that Cro-Magnon is a different offshoot than Neanderthal. Originally, it was thought that Cro-Magnon was our progenitor. Now we know that there truly is a missing link.

And then suddenly, civilization appears in Sumer. I've been reading a lot of my old texts and some of the new articles out. There's a lot of study that simply does not make sense - and can't be fit into the accepted view of civilization. So why did I bring this up.

Because the accepted views of mankind?s origins are not complete. And you maintain that you truly do live a different life than any we've heard of.

If what you say is true, perhaps so is some of the research done by Sichin and Velikovsky and Fromm.

Allow me to throw something out there. Ralph Solecki had evidence that man had actually entered a regressive period through time. Then, inexplicably, "thinking man", Homo sapiens sapiens appears, with a high level of cultural sophistication in relation to what had been a regressive culture. Almost as if man had received a boost.

Do these names sound familiar? Anu, Enki, Enlil, Ninlil, Ea and Ishkur. They're the name of Sumerian Gods. They also have a significant role in what I'm going to suggest.

The theory is that real live aliens came down and utilized prehistoric man as labor to mine metals. They used their knowledge of genetics to create "man" in their own image, using the "clay" of prehistoric man.

This would explain the regression of man, as different types of men would procreate like animals, and be abandoned by their creators.

Enki was the God if the Underworld, and it seems he was in Africa working the mines, away from the original landing places in Mesopotamia.

We know that every culture has Gods and Kings, and all of the ancient literature, from the Iliad, to the Egyptians, to the Bible, to the epic of Gilgamesh to the Indonesian legends all talk of Gods intermarrying the females of man.

Even in Genesis, the sons of Adam left the Garden and went out to procreate with men.

Anyway - that's a lot of information. But the specific understanding, is that Enki was the great protector of man. And also responsible for disobeying Enlil, giving man the secrets of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, which were assumed to be increased intelligence and the power to procreate.

Some texts, including that of Berossus, talk of genetic manipulation that included men with two heads, with animal parts, and also, something that we could easily describe as cherubim and seraphim. Manlike creatures, created to serve the Gods, without the power of reproduction, but with other skills according to their need. Say, recreation and a gene that prevents the aging gene from turning on and destroying cells?

Sumerian texts describe men created by Enki and Ninhursag (a type of Female mother Goddess), including one that could not hold back his urine, a woman who could not give birth, and four others, including those who were old too soon, and another with neither male or female organs.

The animals did not work well, but perhaps this explains the artwork and statuary of the time. The Gods realized that they had to mix the ape-men of the time with their own genetic material. And this was Homo-Sapiens created - millions of years ahead of when evolution would allow them to, and without branches leading from Homo Erectus to Homo sapiens.

Straight forward readings of the Bible, the Greek legends and the Egyptian ones actually make sense. It's only when we claim that they had to be myths and legends that they suddenly become convoluted and no longer fit the historical record.

Knowing that this is possible, or probable, or at least no more strange than a woman who claims she is 3500 years old - could it be that you are literally a creation of the same gods that created man, made in their image (God always seems to speak in plural), but bred for a different purpose? The Nefilim, which is the name Sitchin gives them, return every 3600 years, based on the non-elliptical orbit of the Twelfth Planet. In the last six months, we have confirmed the existence of a large body in an non-elliptical orbit that affects Uranus, Neptune and Pluto.

Now - obviously this is pretty far out. And it is not "accepted."

Then again, how would the human race react to finding out we domesticated pets and workers? How would this affect our religion, and our government?

This is the information that is supposed to reside in the secret societies of the Masons.

Interesting, No?

Try finding a copy of the Twelfth Planet, by Zecharii Sitchin. Then look into studies of current astronomy on Planet X, theorized in the 1980's, and recently in the news.

Fascinating. I eagerly await a reply.

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1000 Years In A Nutshell

Let us assume it is late spring. Morning comes before the sun is above the horizon. Usually the adults rise first; however, in short order the children are up as well. Breakfast is simple and seldom hot- bread, fruit or nuts, dried meat (jerky, if you prefer) if there is any about and perhaps the milk of goats or cows, depending on the time and location. It is a quick meal for there is work to do. Always.

The men head out to their chores, be it in the fields with a plow or other tools, or in to the wilds to hunt, or to the river or the shore to fish. It hardly matters for the type of work is merely a particular iteration of the uniform struggle to wrest the essentials of life from the world around them.

Back at home, the women and children are just as busy. Carefree childhood is a modern construct, in these times any child who can walk and carry is put in to service, perhaps to gather fuel such as fallen branches or animal dung, or to tend to livestock or to whatever garden plot may exist. There is wood to be moved, water to be hauled, feed to be poured, bread to be baked. There are always things requiring mending: clothes, tools, dwellings, and even weapons. Often the older men remain behind to handle the heavier work while the women do finer tasks, but all are hard at work long before most modern peoples would have stirred from their beds.

Food storage is primitive. Human beings are ingenious and bend all sorts of knowledge to the task of taking what is in hand today and storing against need for tomorrow, but it is all labor intensive. Drying, smoking, salting (assuming you happen to have salt), mashing, cooking, preserving? as the technology grew more sophisticated the options grew broader and more effective, but not particularly easier.

Midday often produces brief respite. In warmer climes it is best to stay out of the sun if possible. The concern is not skin cancer; rather it is simply the heat. Chores that can be attended to indoors might be left to that part of the day. Perhaps a midday meal, usually more substantial than the morning meal, is prepared. It depends on the nature of the village or clan, whether the men will return to eat or will take whatever food they might need with them so as to remain at their own tasks.

Afternoon progresses and it is time to finish what tasks must be completed before nightfall. There is a constant bustle to get things organized for the evening meal, see to it that the animals are secured, sort through whatever has been gathered and see that it is properly stored. If the men are hunting or fishing there will be the day?s catch to be properly dealt with, and whatever was gathered fresh for the day must be prepared.

Evening is the only regular moment of respite, and it is brief by comparison to the day. A meal is taken- perhaps large if times are good, but more likely simply adequate. Sometimes, in bad times, it will be desperately sparse. As darkness closes in perhaps there will be rituals to whatever spirits your people pay homage. The hope is always essentially the same though: ?Dear Lord, please keep the monsters at bay.? When it is time for sleep it settles quickly, the reward for a hard day?s work.

The routine varies with the seasons. Harvest time means twice the food, but four times the work. Winter in the cooler climes means cold and darkness and often worse. A bad harvest means deprivation no matter where you may be- not losing the farm, but perhaps losing your life, or the lives of your children. In my case a poor harvest almost always meant I was on my way out, either driven away or sold for whatever value I might bring. Summer in a farming community means pleading with fickle deities for rain. Everywhere summer means fear of disease. Spring means you have survived long enough to start this all over again.

One constant companion is death. Throughout the years babies are born, and babies are buried in the ruthless calculus of reproduction and mortality. Adults fare only slightly better. Once past puberty life is often just a span of thirty years or so. Hard living breaks bodies so that a man of thirty would seem far older to modern eyes, and in a relative sense that judgment would be accurate for at 45 years most are facing the end of their days. Some live far longer, but most do not. Burying the dead is a regular part of life and death is not so much a spectre as an accepted fate, surcease to the struggle of carrying on from day to day. There were times when I saw death as immensely desirable.

Of course, random events can break up the routines of life, forcing people out of their accustomed rut (random events being war, plague, disaster, and the occasional celebration). It was not all toil and drudgery, but the vast balance was and that made the bright spots that much the better, while placing the darkness in some kind of proper perspective. Still, all in all the routine remains constant, day in and day out, with minor variations as the seasons progress.

The paragraphs above are a fairly complete description of the first ten centuries of my life.

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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 s