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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Shreveport

Having recently embarked upon what is surely the most foolhardy experiment of my existence, the result of which you who visit me here in this place shall no doubt live to pass judgment upon--I find myself alternately elated, defeated, and terrified. I awake every day gripped by the impulse to flee this place and every night I wrestle with the same urge before sleep takes me.

Yet I have committed myself: I must stay. For Jeremy's sake if nothing else, mad as that sometimes seems. The few mortal companions I have entrusted find me at times infuriatingly capricious, and I must admit I sometimes take a kind of sadistic delight in this, and at others I feel shame at my own pettiness in this regard. As a result I occasionally find I must take my leave for at least a few days, usually unannounced, with nary a word to those around me other than an unspoken promise to return within a relatively brief span.

This last month I found myself overcome with just such an urge. As I made my preparations for bed in the evening, alone at last after an exhausting day of explaining myself yet again to doctors and skeptics, I was overcome with the urge to bury my identity and disappear. I knew if I did nothing to stop this urge I would be gone, and gone for good: one more needle prick and I would surely kill someone.

So there in the dark of night, long after midnight, I crept from our home--my home with Jeremy, as I will always think of it--and left only a brief note near the door: "Back soon. Z."

I struggled to remind myself that "soon" meant at best a few days, at most a few weeks. A month would be rude; a year, a betrayal; ten years, a disaster. For some reason, only thoughts of Jeremy made me think it necessary to avoid disaster (Such a frustrating man he was!).

Entirely on impulse, I found myself at the airport buying the first convenient ticket to any destination not requiring a passport, seeking some place I had never been to. It happened to be a small city in Louisiana. I have been to beautiful, savage and deadly New Orleans, a city marred by recent tragedy but which has seen far worse. Yet instead I chose a place in the northern part of the same state, Shreveport, some hundreds of miles away, near the border with Texas.

Upon arrival I found that it is not much of a town, although strange in its own way: half New Orleans, half Texas, half its own entity. A nearby military base, a large university, and casino gambling.

Gambling?

I confess that gambling has never held much fascination for me. It has often seemed the close cousin of whoring: at its worst those who run the game ply their trade preying upon the weakness, desperation, failures, frustrations, and even the loneliness, of those whose lives never became what they had imagined or hoped for in their youth. Yet at its best gambling might simply be a pleasant distraction, a simple way to wile away time, which even the short-lived sometimes find themselves compelled to do.

I found myself on, of all things, a riverboat: a riverboat in Shreveport Louisiana, in the early 21st century. I was at turns amused and beguiled, for these modern "riverboat casinos" would have been the spectacle of the world only a century or so in the past. Walking about this "boat" I was impressed by how it seemed no different than any other miraculous modern building: one could not tell it was afloat, the floors were so solid.

And there came the downfall, and the bit of disappointment: intellectually I knew I was on a ship, and yet there was no feeling of being on a ship. No smell of salt, brine, or river; no luscious shift and ho at the ankles. It was just another modern concrete and steel construction, identical in most ways to the many marvels of modern men: clean, airy, roomy.

Yet I could still marvel at the design. This was a casino easily the match of anything found in the fabled Riviera or the living legend that is Las Vegas. Indeed it possessed all the marks of the modern casino: the ample but soft lighting that made room for the bright blinking lights of the gaming machines with the constant buzz of bells and music creating a constant din, yet none of it loud enough to hurt the ears. There was the very slight smell of alcohol and tobacco, yet it was never enough to overpower the nose or offend the eye, even as smokers and drinkers could be seen everywhere; and everywhere were the machines holding their mesmerized patrons, tables and wheels surrounded by men and women all convinced that if they waited long enough, the Manna from Heaven would arrive for them.

I prefer my games to be personal, a contest between willing opponents, yet I sat down to a solitary game. Not wanting company, I chose an electronic machine, an altar to the Gods calling itself "Pick'em Poker." It would generously accept most any sacrifice I had to offer, so long as it were numbered $1, $5, $10, $20, or $100. I absently shoved five copies of Benjamin Franklin's face into its eager maw and began to play. I had learned the game of Poker before anyone present in the entire establishment had been born, and was mildly interested to know how this mechanical beast would interact with me.

Gambling at its worst is an exercise in predation. At its best it is a game of mental agility not unlike chess. At its most mediocre, it is mindless repetition. After some time worshipping at the altar of "Pick'em Poker," I began to realize that it was a game somewhere in that sadly uninteresting middle.

As I was about to give up, having lost $300 of my $500, a soft baritone voice to my left said, "You aren't playing it right."

It was a male voice, but not at all flirtatious or aggressive. I turned to find it possessed by a man perhaps in his early 30s, dark haired and fair skinned, with a slight paunch but a pleasing face and an unassuming demeanor.

"You're just trying at random," he said. "You aren't thinking about how the game works."

He was entirely correct. I did not much care if I won or lost. I only enjoyed the mindless repetition of the soft bells and tones and the occasional win amongst the far more common losses.

Although I could tell he was not stupid, I chose to play the part of the clueless female. "Oh really? Could you explain it to me?" I asked.

I could tell that he responded immediately to my flirtation, but not in any overt manner. Instead, he launched into a lengthy discussion of the most intelligent way to play with the "Pick'em Poker" machine. Over the last four years, he came to tell me, he had been playing this particular game two or three times a week for two or three hours at a time.

"In all that time," he said, "I've won a lot but not too much, I've lost a lot but not too much, and mostly come out just a bit ahead," he told me proudly.

The snarling and nasty part of me silently opined that he was inordinately proud of having spent so much time while achieving so little. But the more forgiving part noted there were far worse ways to spend your time and money. He was a light drinker, a light smoker, and a light gambler, and he had managed to become neither predator nor prey. Given the circumstances there was something to admire in that.

We chatted amiably as I allowed him, in his male way, to teach me more of the finer points of the "Pick'em Poker" machine: and how to play it (as he calculated it) by losing no more than 99 pennites out of 100. He also tried to teach me how to game the casino system so if you played constantly they would consider you a "high roller" and give you all sorts of perks, including free meals, free show tickets, and so on.

"By days I'm a pharmacist," he said. "I?ve been playing this game for four years, and in that whole time I've lost no more than a thousand bucks a year. I had lots of fun doing it, and gotten lots of free meals and shows and stuff for the whole thing," he said. "I love coming here; it's the only place I get to relax."

This was when I learned his dark side. He was an inveterate gambler, yes, but he never gambled too much. He enjoyed coming to the casino, but it never became the center of his life. But then when I asked him his name, he said it was "Moe." Suddenly I noticed something strange in his demeanor.

A kind of honesty had developed between us, and I instinctively said, "Moe?"

He looked at me a bit sheepishly and said, "Well, technically it's Moishe."

I smiled and looked around us. No one was paying the least bit of attention so I leaned into him a bit, grasping him by the elbow, and whispered softly in his ear, "Would you like to have a little fun, Moishe?"

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3532

Yes, the date was chosen by me rather than fate, and yes it is little more than a best guess, but I guessed and I chose to satisfy the curiosity of one who simply had to know.

So as the Vernal Equinox approaches, allow me to offer another bit to those who simply must know...

Portrait by Mary Madigan, to whom I owe so very much. Your patience rivals my own.

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Boston

I found myself in Boston once again, wandering streets I walked decades, or even centuries ago. This city has been a touchstone for me, a place I return to when an old life must give way to the new. I can measure my years on this continent by the changes wrought upon this city. It was never a conscious thing, not plan or design, merely happenstance transformed into habit. Habits are dangerous for me. I have maintained a dwelling in this city for more than thirty years so perhaps it is for the best this now comes to an end.

The apartment is empty now- I cannot imagine why I felt the need to come here yet again. It is not as if I am banished from this place, Boston being no great distance from Harrisburg in this modern age, yet for some reason this parting feels so? final. So I roamed, covering old ground, seeing through the veneer of this modern city to revisit those places so familiar. The houses I knew, the ghosts of people I could have loved, or perhaps should have loved, but did not. Revisiting scenes of moral failure, opportunities lost to fear or mere fate, things undone that cannot ever be done, standing on the Common, the chill breeze working persistent fingers into my flesh as memory erased today revealing visions of the past.

I lingered such that I missed my flight, but South Station was there before me, the 2171 train scheduled as if pleading for my company. As we rolled from the station I could feel the ghosts of the city clinging to me, unwilling to see me gone for they needed my remembering, but I can serve them no longer. I may yet return here, but I know my absence shall measure by the score.

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Weakness

He wears English Leather. It is an old man?s cologne, but on him the scent is so distracting. He is quiet and unassuming, but I would not call him shy. I feel his eyes upon me when he believes me unaware. He will not approach me for I am his benefactor- a free education and extravagant living conditions are not something he is willing to risk.

I cannot hold myself from thoughts of him. He is only nineteen years old.

I may have made a mistake.

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Interlude

Pennsylvania, April, 2005 CE

She wasn?t looking at me, but was sitting back in her chair with her hands clasped behind her head and her bare feet up on the coffee table, staring out the window. I turned her words over and over in my head, but there simply wasn?t any way to avoid what she?d just told me.

?How long?? I started, but that wasn?t the right question so I started over. ?How many? how many people did you kill??

?It wasn?t killing,? she replied, her voice still flat and ominous, ?it was murder.?

I didn?t argue. I noticed that the hair was standing up on the back of my neck, and had been for almost an hour.

?Less than one thousand?? she went on. ?Yes, perhaps somewhat less than that, but not by much. It went on for some time, thirteen years. Once it took hold of me I?d say I managed to strike at least once a week, on average anyhow.?

?Why? What could it possibly mean to you??

She turned her gaze on me and just stared, which was almost worse than any response I could have imagined. Ever since I?d come to Pennsylvania she?d seemed to be on this downward spiral, her personality oozing away and slowly replaced by this thing sitting in the chair, casually recounting horrors and cold-blooded murder. I remembered the story she told me about the pregnant woman Saennuz, but that was so different than this. Where was the regret, the quiet admission of being wrong? For that she?d seemed to want forgiveness, but for this she seemed unremorseful, almost dismissive she was so casual about it.

Her face was still completely expressionless, but she struggled to speak for a bit, then finally answered.

?They were vile,? she said, finally showing some emotion. Not remorse or regret: it was contempt. ?They?d stolen something from me,? she went on, ?something precious. I was determined to have it back.? She paused then, looking into my eyes. What she saw there made her frown, then she sighed, ?It truly was that simple.?

?I don?t buy it. You had to know there was nothing to gain. How could you not know??

?Nothing to gain?? she snapped back, and I saw genuine anger in her face. She suddenly leaned forward, her feet falling to the floor, and her voice became louder, almost threatening, and I recoiled a little as she went on. ?Who the hell are you to tell me what I felt I had to gain? Who are you to presume to tell me what I had to have known??

I leaned back and put up my hand almost?I was a little embarrassed to admit?to ward her off. Defensively, I answered. ?All I?m saying is that after everything you?ve told me up to this point, this sudden? spasm of violence seems out of place. Yes, Rufus was dead, yes it was unexpected, yes it was certainly humiliating, but? why lash out? Why didn?t you just leave? If these people were all just ephemeral to you, what was the point of hurting them so much? I don?t understand it.?

?Of course you don?t understand it. You can?t!? Her voice struck me like a club, not shouting, but almost violently emphatic, and it set off something inside me that probably should have been left where it was. Fight or flight I guess: I went from fear to anger.

?That?s bullshit, Princess, and you know it,? I snapped.

She snarled and stood up suddenly, her fists clenched, and took a step toward me. I swear to God, without even thinking I leaned forward and shifted my weight to the balls of my feet, making to grab her as she lunged at me. My heart was pounding so hard in my throat and ears I almost couldn?t hear anything else. But she didn?t lunge. Her eyes just blazed at me, and then suddenly they went out. She was just staring at me, almost through me.

?Do you really think you could stop me from snuffing you like a cheap candle, little man?? she said, her voice a complete monotone.

?I won?t make it easy,? was all I said, keeping my voice as level as I could, even though my heart was doing a drumbeat like Bonzo from Led Zeppelin and my stomach felt like alligators were trying to get out of it. She just kept staring at me like a tiger ready to pounce.

Finally, infuriatingly, she started laughing at me. Contemptuously. She plunked back down in her overstuffed chair and threw her leg over one of the arms, still laughing a little and muttering to herself. I couldn?t tell what she was saying. It sounded like Latin, or maybe that guttural old barbarian-talk she?d taught me a few words of. She wasn?t even looking at me, just shaking her head.

?You didn?t hire me to take abuse,? I said.

She stopped and just stared at me. I went on. ?If I don?t understand something it?s my job to ask.?

?You?ve lived what? Thirty-five years? You?re nearly halfway through your life and you know there?s an end to it. I was more than thirteen hundred years old? I was already far beyond human terms. I know you dislike that notion, that you prefer to think of me as basically just like you with a few added quirks, but it is not the case. It hasn?t been the case for a very, very long time.?

?So you?re just an utter mystery? Something fools like me can?t ever know or understand? If that?s the way you feel why are we even doing this? What?s the point??

?I am,? she pronounced with certainty, ?just what I am. I am not what you would like to think me to be. You can?t fully understand because no matter how much empathy you bring to the table my experience lies outside your understanding. You haven?t got anything to compare it to other than your own life and the stories you?ve internalized through the years. This doesn?t make less of you or?? the she paused and sighed, looking down, sounding resigned. ??or any more of me. It just describes the differences between us. Important differences.?

She was relaxed now, but still wearing that cold demeanor. I was pretty sure she wasn?t going to yield an inch in this.

?So you refuse to even try to explain any of it? Why you did it??

She stared at me for almost a full minute, still looking almost through me. Finally she shook her head ever so slightly from side to side.

?No, of course not. I?m just not certain I can put it into terms you?ll be willing to accept.?

?Try me.?

Her eyes closed and she sighed. After another moment she finally spoke again.

?I loved Att, loved him in a way I?d never allowed myself to love anyone before. Until I met him I don?t think I was capable of loving anyone like that. And he loved me. I was everything he ever wanted in a woman. He knew I was different, but he never knew how or why. He never knew the truth, and I can?t be sure I ever would have told him. If there was any stain on our love, that was it. I knew he would die, but I pushed that all aside because I was so desperate to have what he offered me.

?When Att died? when he died it was sudden, and unexpected, but it wasn?t a mystery. I understood what had happened because I?d seen such things before. And I had Attuz, a chance to honor Att by seeing his son safely in the embrace of a new family. It was as if I?d been given the chance to somehow seal our relationship, to make it so real and so? permanent. Despite all its flaws, that love was perfect in my memory. Its only failing being that it was so terribly brief.

?After that, I never dared to allow myself to love. I knew how dangerous it was, how fleeting. Att gave me something precious, but it was special because nobody else could have done it, and it could only have happened precisely when it did. I had four centuries behind me, but they had been dead and thoughtless, aimless and pointless years. I understood nothing, had no grasp of what it truly meant to be what I was. Loving Att, and losing him, brought that home to me.

?Rufus? I knew better by the time Rufus came along. I saw him, and I hated him. He was just another mortal with an enormous ego. Yes, he was handsome, but that just made him more intolerable. Then he defied me. He pursued me, captured me, and humiliated me. After that I hated and feared him as I had hated and feared no other human being before.?

She stopped, her eyes closed, and she didn?t speak for some time, but I could see things, her face changing as if she were remembering something painful.

?But you came to love him, eventually,? I said.

Her eyes snapped open and locked on my face, but there wasn?t any of the cold anger in them anymore. Instead she looked? confused.

?I?m not really sure anymore. I thought I knew, I thought I loved him? we certainly had a passion for each other, that?s undeniable. But love him? I think I was in love with what he promised me he would be. I attached my fate to his far more deeply than I could ever have imagined and it made me ignore things? things I shouldn?t have? and when it all came to naught I was sent reeling.

Her voice wavered a bit as she went on ?Once I?d fallen under his spell it never occurred to me that he might?? She stopped, and closed her eyes again. ??that he might fail.?

Her voice cracked, ever so slightly, on that last word. She didn?t open her eyes. I just waited.

?He created a world about me that was so real, so very familiar, all his talk of Gods and Goddesses and the twists of fate that brought us together. Even in those final days when I began to wonder, to have doubts, his absolute confidence in himself succeeded in overwhelming me. He truly did not see his end coming. It must have pained him so when he realized there was no undoing it and that we were finished. And yet??

Her voice caught again, and I was surprised to see a glimmering of tears around the edges of her closed eyes. She visibly forced herself to take control, shaking a bit before she continued.

?And yet he sought to protect me. In the end he sent warning. He thought he?d failed me. He told me to flee. Instead I sought to save him, to confront whatever mischief his wife had set in motion? and found myself powerless.

?I once had the power to send armed men fleeing before me in terror. Those who worshipped me, they did so out of fear. They knew that to hunt my woods without paying homage meant death, and that to confront me meant punishment even more drastic. I was a real deity to them because my anger had very real consequences, and I had been a part of their existence for more than three hundred years. But amongst the Romans? Amongst them I was nothing. They stripped me of my power, first luring me away from my lands and the peoples I knew, then laying waste to the hopes and dreams they gave me. Rufus thought he had failed me, but the truth is I failed him. I allowed my desire to lead him to his doom, and allowed myself to be robbed of my godhood? then of all my hope.?

I cleared my throat. ?So it was revenge?? but she held up her hand to silence me, her eyes still closed, her head tilted back, although she was becoming calmer.

?Killing those men and women made me powerful again. At first it was the thrill of embracing the raw hate buried inside me, but it grew into something more insidious, and more desperate. When I killed I had power over those people. Not just the victims, but their families, friends, neighbors. I could twist them to my bidding, turning my one murder into two, or even more as they flailed about in vain attempts to find and punish those responsible. I was able to play the part of the frail innocent too perfectly, and to manipulate those around me too well. I began stalking some victims, finding people who had open enmity with others, then weaving my spell. Sometimes just a few minutes effort with my hands, or perhaps a well-placed drop of poison was all it took. And then I could watch the aftershocks ripple outwards, and I was a goddess once again.

?When it was over? I told myself it was revenge. But it was never about revenge. It was just about my hunger to return to that place of power.?

Her eyes stayed closed, and then she suddenly sighed, and seemed to relax. She was almost completely still. ?You could not understand,? she said, quietly. Almost as if she were falling asleep from exhaustion.

She was wrong though. I did understand what she was saying. She sounded like every confessed serial killer I ever read about.

?I was evil,? she said. It was as if she?d read my mind. Her eyes were still closed, her voice a quiet whisper. ?Naked, unfettered evil. Such is the price of love for me.?

I had to say something, but I was honestly afraid to provoke her. I wasn?t sure I could bear to listen to any more of this. My thoughts kept sliding back to Joshua and his fears. I had to admit they might not be as foolish as I?d thought. Remembering that caused something to come to mind though, something so obviously important that I couldn?t let it pass without asking.

?Yet you fell in love again. Why?? She sat up and her eyes snapped open. They were cloudy, stormy, but not angry. She just looked lost. She stared at me, her eyes almost accusing, but I thanked whatever higher power there was anyway because she?d finally lost some of that horrible blackness. ?You fell in love again,? I repeated and I waved my hand around the room, ?You spent twenty years here, and you?re living in this house today with descendents of his family. Why??

She turned away from me and looked at the floor, her hands clasped tightly together in front of her. When she spoke, it was almost too faint to hear.

?I don?t know?? she said forlornly. Her eyes were still brimming a little at the edges, anger warring with regret. But then she took a deep breath, sat up straight and scrubbed her face, and looked at me fiercely. ?Have you had enough yet tonight?? she said, sharply.

I paused. ?It?s up to you but you haven?t finished telling me what happened.?

Her eyebrows moved down a little, then one raised slightly. ?What??

I was afraid of this question. ?Why did it stop?? I asked. ?Or did it ever stop? completely??

?Oh,? she said. Her head tilted back a little and her eyes rolled up a little and to her left. ?Yes it stopped.?

?When?? I asked.

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Interlude

Pennsylvania, April, 2005 CE

She woke me up the next morning some time after sunrise. She was already dressed and told me if I didn?t shower and come downstairs soon I?d miss breakfast.

When I got downstairs she seemed cool, distant. She was making pancakes, eggs, and bacon, puttering around and humming absent-mindedly. She insisted I sit down and not help. As she poured me some coffee and put a plate of hot bacon, eggs, cakes, and grits in front of me, me told me she normally had servants come in and cook but she didn?t want anyone around today.

She seemed constantly distracted, like she didn?t want anything but small talk. As I ate I occasionally caught her staring at me, only to look away quickly. When I finally started to ask her what was up, she promptly said, ?So I understand you ride. Finish your food and then we?ll take the horses and I?ll show you around.?

Clearly she didn?t want to talk, so after breakfast she took me out to the stables. Pretty soon I regretted even agreeing to this. I hadn?t been on a horse in ten years, but she took me on a three hour ride around the area, all around the estate, then through the woods to other areas, showing me the other farmhouses, pointing out historic spots where some homes had once stood but were now gone and generally chattering endlessly without saying much of anything. Still once in a while I?d catch her looking at me oddly, sizing me up, calculating in some way I couldn?t fathom. But I mostly tried to shrug it off.

By the time we got back for lunch I was exhausted and I had to take a nap. When I woke up later in the afternoon I was a mess: my legs were on fire, I?d gotten too much sleep, and I was grumpy as hell. I took some aspirin and a long shower, and then went looking for her.

As I came downstairs I heard her humming. The huge empty house was otherwise deathly quiet. It seemed spooky, but I followed the sound of her humming, and found her reading a book in what looked like an old smoking room, with big overstuffed chairs and a bar at one end.

?Well are we going to talk at all today or just play around?? I asked, walking in and plopping into one of the chairs. She just looked at me, almost accusingly, like I was being rude. I sighed and said, ?Okay, sorry, you?re the boss.? I drummed my fingers and looked out one of the big double windows.

?No, we?re here to talk. Go on, bring out that infernal recorder.?

I looked at her and yanked it out. She was still looking at me weirdly, and I couldn?t tell what was behind those eyes of hers now. So I just launched into it.

?Okay, so, you don?t want to talk about Jeremy just yet,? I said. ?I get that. But you know we haven?t talked about Rome since we left Ann Arbor. You kind of left me dangling on that. You told me you learned how to read there, and I guess that must have been a mindblower.? She gave me her smoky half-smile and nodded. ?You also said you thought you could have saved Rufus. But from what??

She sat back a bit when I said that, and then slowly, a little ruefully, shook her head.

?Rufus could have been a great man? probably would have been. Instead, he ran into me and got his head filled up with notions of destiny. Why not? He thought the gods were with him, yes??

?There you go again,? I said, making sure I was smiling when I said it. ?Everything is your responsibility, right??

?In this case? I certainly had something to do with it, don?t you think? Rufus wanted his uncle?s seat in the Senate, but he had no realistic chance of achieving it. His cousin Livius was very well established, and Rufus?s side of the family had not been seriously active politically for a generation. He knew this. Had he returned from that expedition to Gaul without ever meeting me he certainly would have channeled his aspirations in some more constructive direction.?

?I hate to say it because I know you liked the guy, but? he doesn?t seem like he was a very nice man. I mean? you talked about him beating slaves and even... well?? I stopped, feeling a little repulsed, not sure I wanted to ask, but I went ahead. ?Did you mean that part about him cutting out a slave?s tongue? Literally??

?That was not uncommon among the Romans,? she said, her brow furrowing a little, almost like she wasn?t sure what I was driving at.

?Well Jesus!? I said. ?I mean, he tortured you! He cut people?s tongues out for chrissakes??

I just stopped. She was staring at me with a look I didn?t like. It wasn?t even angry, just emotionless. She seemed to be calculating, watching me, like she was deciding something. Finally she spoke again.

?Before we left my lands, he wiped out the entire village near where I was captured? then killed all the men who had witnessed me killing his soldiers. Called them traitors and liars who were spreading tales to discredit him. He had his fellow Romans cut all their throats.?

?Christ!? I said. ?Why??

?It would have shamed him if anyone had known that he had allowed me to live after killing his men. So he eliminated everyone who witnessed it. Well, save for Marieko.?

I just stared at her. She was still utterly without emotion. Her look was almost alien. ?So you were okay with that?? I finally asked, more than a little repulsed.

?The world is a harsh place. I?ve met harsher men. I?ve been even harsher myself. You do not realize this about me by now??

I took a deep breath. I thought back to my conversation with Joshua, and tried to keep my face passive. ?So are you like that now??

She just stared at me, then gave the barest hint of a smile. ?You really are a good Christian boy, aren?t you?? she asked.

At first I thought she was mocking me, but by now I?d learned to count to ten before responding to almost anything that seemed provocative. Her tone didn?t seem mocking. It seemed almost affectionate and I couldn?t decide if that was worse or not. Either way, the question bugged me on more than one level. Finally, I just laughed.

?Princess, I?m not even a believer??

?No? Are you a hypocrite, then?? she asked. There wasn?t even a trace of hostility to the question.

I frowned. ?Okay look, I?m not a religious guy, but? this guy wasn?t nice. You weren?t nice either. I?m just asking you?? I stopped and thought about it. ?Crap, I?m not sure what I?m asking you.?

?It is so simple for you, isn?t it?? she smirked, ?Brought up in this modern American utopia of yours, ensconced in the bosom of a well-defined moral universe. You have your rules, your directions all laid out before you, easy to see, easy to follow? you have no idea what it means to not know what is right and what is wrong.?

?I don?t think it?s all as simple as that,? I shot back. ?And I don?t buy into moral relativist bullshit. I know you know right from wrong. It?s all through everything you?ve said to me, or in your journals, or even on that weird web site of yours. Or was that all a lie??

Her eyes narrowed, but her face was otherwise impassive. ?It is the end result of thirty-five centuries of fear, of mistakes. Of loss and horror. You realize don?t you,? she said, a little melodramatically, ?that by your biblical accounting of three score and ten for a normal lifespan, I have already seen 50 lifetimes?do you not??

I thought for a second. ?Okay, yeah.?

?So are you so foolish as to think that regardless of your lucky freedom to believe or disbelieve as you please? due to this lovely liberal democracy you were born in, this apex of civilization you are the inheritor of? are you so foolish as to think that you haven?t had your moral certainties handed to you on a silver platter? And yet you presume to judge me? Or the people I have chosen to love? Who do you think you are??

?Yeah whatever!? I snapped. ?This isn?t about me!? I immediately regretted that. But it didn?t seem to upset her. She just chuckled?dryly, humorlessly. Then she stood up.

She walked to the window, looking out.

?No. No it is not, is it? Still my friend?? she stopped, still facing out the window, her hands behind her back. ?I don?t call many people that, by the way. You know that don?t you?

?Well,? I said, suddenly feeling embarrassed. ?Yeah I guess so.? I felt apologetic, but wasn?t sure why.

She gave a little nod, still looking out the window. ?Still I must ask you,? she continued, ?Do you believe for an instant that your affected disbelief, your supposed atheism, somehow erases a lifetime of conditioning??

Once again I counted to ten. She had a tendency to leap to conclusions that could be really destructive and I wasn?t about to feed that beast again. Then, as I thought about it, I had to wonder if she was wrong. ?Okay, I don?t believe in some white-haired God in the sky, or the Saints, but I do believe that there were great and wise men in the world, and that Jesus was one of them? and that people have learned a lot with time??

?You are even less willing to lie to yourself than you are to lie to me, aren?t you??

I grinned a little. ?It?s not about me.?

The words just sat there for what seemed like an eternity. Finally she spoke again.

?Perhaps by your judgment Rufus was an evil man.? She stopped. ?By your judgment I am probably evil myself.?

By my judgment? I thought about that for a minute. I was afraid to let this out, but I decided there was no better time.

?Joshua tells me you murdered a man in Georgia about 140 years ago.?

She didn?t move, although I could swear I saw a little flinch. ?Joshua knows about that, does he?? she asked.

I didn?t answer. I just waited. She stayed completely calm. ?The family?s detectives did good work,? she said. She was calm, matter-of-fact. Her gaze never strayed from the window, her hands locked firmly behind her back. I began to squirm a little. Her tone reminded me of a moment back at the hotel room in Ann Arbor. She?d been fiddling with her gun, and I?d asked her if she was planning on shooting someone. ?No. That would probably just complicate things,? she?d said, looking at me with no expression. It was the exact same look and tone she was using now: dead, expressionless, matter-of-fact: cold.

?You keep your promises don?t you?? I asked, not sure why I was asking. ?Especially the ones to yourself.?

?You are in no danger from me,? she said. It was flat, factual, certain. It wasn?t what I?d asked, but for whatever reason I believed it. We both just sat there for a bit, me in my chair fiddling with the hand rests, her quietly staring out the window.

?Murder is a horrible thing, but there are worse things,? she finally said, evenly. Then she took a deep breath.

?I do not kill lightly, not since?.? Her voice trailed off, and she didn?t finish the sentence. ?Even when I think I must kill, it leaves a stain upon me. I learned long ago not to do it if I could avoid it. If I could?? She suddenly took another deep breath and swallowed, her voice catching a little. She kept staring carefully out that window into the back yard, though her voice started grating a little.

?That man in Georgia deserved to die. But I do not kill lightly. Not anymore. The price? the price is so very high.?

Finally I decided to change the subject. ?So you figured out Rufus wasn?t going to become a God with you? and trying to be one was his undoing??

Without changing expression or looking at me, she suddenly turned and walked to the bar. Every time we reached a point where I was getting under her skin, the scotch would start flowing and she?d light a cigarette. Even as I thought it, there she went again, knocking a cigarette out of the pack with one hand as she poured a drink in the other. I couldn?t help but laugh a little.

She didn?t look up, but she obviously heard me. ?I amuse you, do I?? she her, face and voice still impassive as she lit her cigarette, staring into the flame as she puffed.

I grinned. ?You?re predictable, Princess. Every time I try to point out that you might not have been in control of everything, you get up, light up, and pour a drink.?

She turned and stared at me for a minute and I thought I might have gone too far, but then her face cracked into a grin, and she looked human again. She deliberately tossed her freshly lit butt into her scotch glass and turned back to me, leaning against the bar, hooking one bare foot on the side of a barstool, her mouth in a little half-smiling moue. She just looked at me like that for a minute until I spoke up.

?Anyway,? I said, groping for words. I felt a little nervous, but she was starting to look normal again and that was good. ?I guess I understand what you?re saying. It was a harsh world and I guess the Romans weren?t more brutal than most people, huh??

?They were even more brutal than most actually,? she said. ?In some ways. But in others?? she stopped, and nodded a little curtly. ?Sometimes they were kinder.?

?Okay, but still, it?s like? it?s like you can?t stand the notion that maybe, just maybe, Rufus was just another arrogant glory hound whose own ambition did him in. I mean, seriously, Roman history, hell, human history, is chock full of guys just like him. You say it all went bad, and I can almost see it coming from what you?re saying. His idea to be a god and take over the world was crazy. But why does it have to be because of you? What the hell happened that makes you so certain??

?Rufus,? she announced flatly, ?committed suicide. He did it right before my eyes. Before his entire family, with all his friends and supporters in attendance.?

?Wow. Why??

?He stood accused of treason.?

?Because of you??

She looked impatient. ?He had a plan to usurp power. His first step was to discredit his cousin. His uncle was a Senator and Rufus?s cousin Livius was his heir apparent. Rufus started rumors that his cousin enjoyed loving men.?

?Huh? You said yourself that Rufus was a switch hitter.?

She smirked again. ?Indeed. But the rumor was that Livius was fond of performing fellatio on his more handsome male friends, and of receiving anal pleasure from them. That he extended those favors even to his slaves.?

?So wait a minute, you say it was okay to? but not to?? The light finally went on in my head. ?Oh. I get it. Okay to be on top but not on the bottom.?

?Quite,? she said. Then she straightened up and started walking aimlessly around the room, looking at her paintings, fiddling with her plants. I could usually tell by now when she needed to be quiet, so I just waited as she glided around. This seemed to be her favorite place in the house because it was well lived-in. There were comfortable leather chairs, low tables, another of the ever-present fireplaces, and the bar? Finally she stopped at the same window again and stared out at the back yard.

?The Romans had some very strict notions about what constituted proper behavior amongst males,? she said, a little flatly. ?My Rufus was spreading the notion that Livius was disgustingly weak and decadent.?

?So that?s treason?? I asked, forcing my brain back into gear.

"Oh, no, that was just a piece of the plan. It wasn?t enough that Livius should be thought weak and disgraceful. Rufus had to be seen as a stark contrast to him. Rufus needed his cousin?s weakness to threaten the Republic.?

?So how did he do that?? I asked.

?Young Livius had substantial holdings outside Arretium, including a farming estate not far from Rufus? own estate. So Rufus set about fomenting a rebellion amongst Livius?s slaves, particularly amongst the laborers who worshipped Diana. Many of them were Carthaginians and Spaniards.?

?So he was?? I stopped. ?I?m confused,? I said, finally.

?Rufus thought to ?fortuitously? uncover a rebellion by Livius?s slaves. He would then crush it personally and lay the blame squarely at the feet of his weak, effeminate cousin.?

?So wait, Rufus was trying to talk the slaves into rebelling, so he could turn around and stab them in the back??

?Precisely. The slaves would rebel, and bring other slaves in with them, and then Rufus would put them down.? She paused. ?Fomenting a slave rebellion: That,? she said, ?was treason.?

?And you knew he was up to that?? I asked.

?Certainly. Then he would kill them all.? Her voice was flat again, and that look was creeping back again.

?And you were okay with that?? I asked.

She slowly turned to face me, and I stiffened a little. Her face was completely dead, with that deep, almost inhuman presence behind her eyes. It was almost lizard-like. The other times I?d seen that it?d disappeared pretty quickly. This time it stayed, and it was almost like I was seeing something behind the mask. It was unnerving. When she spoke again her voice was like ice dragged across a rough stone floor.

?Rufus miscalculated: he thought the slaves were more loyal to him?and more stupid?than they were. He was filling their heads with odd notions about the goddess Diana, whom they loved, and how they might throw off their shackles and find freedom with her blessing.?

I opened my mouth, but something in her look made me shut it again. She went on, still cold as ice.

?Mind you, he planned to sacrifice them all to Diana. But first he was making them think he was their friend, that he and I would support them in rebelling and escaping. Then he would make it clear that the rebellion was a direct result of his cousin?s weakness, and kill each and every one of them.?

She said it like saying Rufus planned to crush an anthill. She just kept looking at me, expressionless and cold.

I shivered a bit. ?Okay,? I said. ?He came up with a harebrained plot and messed it up. Get to the part where it?s your fault.?

?He was going to sacrifice them to Diana? she said, her face still expressionless. ?On my behalf.?

?Well that?s a pretty harebrained?? I started.

Coldly, she cut me off. ?It wasn?t ?harebrained.? It was genius.? Her only emotion was a slight annoyance, which was really creeping me out. ?The slaves were stupid fools anyway and probably deserved their fate.? She just went on, not even reacting to my expression. Deserved what Rufus had in store for them? I thought, but said nothing.

?Rufus was subtle in all his workings. It took him well over a year to bring events close to where he could spring his trap. His cousin was just beginning to suffer from the whispering campaign against him and had yet to act in his own defense. The timing was crucial. His cousin and his uncle were well respected in Rome. Once they took a public stand it was unlikely the rumors would prevail. The rebellion had to erupt just before they were forced to act. The combination of the two: that was to be the fatal blow. Rufus had it planned perfectly? Perfectly, except for one, small thing.?

I shivered a little, but she just kept staring at me with that dead look. ?So? what did he forget?? I finally asked.

?That bitch?? she said. It came out in a hiss. ?Vipsania.? She spat the name out, her face still impassive, but her voice dripping. ?Vipsania,? she said again. ?I should have snapped her neck the instant she set foot near our house.?

Our house? I wondered. But I just looked at her, and waited for her to go on.

She stood there, her face like granite as she stared at me? or not so much at me as through me, like I wasn?t even there. The rest of her was so still she almost looked like a statue. ?Rufus was a fool and hinted at his plans to her when he visited her in Rome, about two months before he was ready to make his move. I?m certain that he only hinted? but that was enough. It was his undoing. And mine.?

I wanted to ask her more, but her eyes were still boring into me, and behind those eyes was just? nothing. Emptiness. Soullessness. I felt like I couldn?t breathe. Then finally her eyes slid off me, down to a spot on the floor in front of her. Then she turned her head again, and directed that lifeless gaze outside. It was like I wasn?t even there all of a sudden, but it was a relief not to have her looking at me that way.

I shook myself, straightened and cracked my neck, then got up. She still didn?t move. I went to the bar and took two fresh glasses. I poured myself a drink, then a double for her, and grabbed her cigarettes and lighter. Part of me didn?t want to get close to her. But I knew? I hoped? I could wipe that terrible inhuman look off her face.

As I walked up she was so motionless I wondered if she were even breathing. It was almost startling when she suddenly turned her face to me. Her deadly eyes locked on mine, cold and bottomless. Then they dropped to my hands, where she stared at the scotch glass like it might be dangerous.

Suddenly, she chuckled.

It was just a short exhalation of breath, but just like that it seemed like the room was warm again?and just like that she was human once more. She smiled and took the drink, then let me light her cigarette for her.

?A superb idea,? she quipped, lifting the glass to me before she drank. I took a gulp out of my glass as she took a hard drag off her cigarette. She took another look at me, and her eyes asked a question.

I searched myself for a minute, then took another sip out of my drink. I looked at the paintings on the wall across from us, then looked back at her. She was still staring at me, but without malice. She looked a little embarrassed, but knowing. Her eyes waited for me. Almost like she knew what I was going to ask.

?So? What did I just see?? I asked.

I could tell she knew exactly what I meant because her shoulders dropped just a bit. She looked a little resigned, but behind it I still saw something? something a little bit? alien.

?So you saw me,? she said. When I looked a little confused, she went on. ?So you finally saw me,? she said, a bit of resignation in her voice. She also sounded a little amused, but still there was something a little alien in her countenance. I was still confused.

Her eyes suddenly returned to that chilling look. ?Just me, nothing more, nothing less.? I thought about it, and said nothing. ?It?s not pretty, is it?? she asked.

?I saw a?? I paused. I took another sip. ?We?re just kind of things to you sometimes, aren?t we?? I asked.

She paused and tossed back the rest of her scotch, then looked out the window again. ?Sometimes I forget where I am? what I am. I get lost in the moment and the person I am supposed to be? what people expect me to be? falls away, and all that?s left is me. Raw and naked.? She looked at me again. ?I am not one of you.? She said it flatly, coldly, without even a hint of remorse or regret.

?Are you saying? that this is all an act?? I couldn?t help but think about that afternoon in Joshua?s office. What would he make of all this?

?An act? My entire life is an act. I pretend to fit in; I learn to make the appropriate responses so that no one sees just what I am. I suppose it?s a natural consequence of living the way I have for so many centuries.? She took a breath, and I thought I detected a little bit of regret. ?Sometimes it?s hard to understand where the act ends and I begin.?

That was something I hadn?t really expected her to say, and I wasn?t sure what to do with it. I knew at some point I?d have to explore it with her again, but not now. Instead I asked the obvious question.

?So, who the hell was Vipsania??

?Vipsania? Vipsania was Rufus?s wife.?

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Interlude

What follows is the recounting of a conversation told not by me, but by my companion. I will admit to finding some of his characterizations mildly irksome.

-ZM

Ann Arbor, March 2005

I stared at her, waiting for her to continue, but she just stared at the floor for the longest time. Then she sighed and looked up at me.

?What?? she asked, seeing the look on my face.

?You went back.? I said it flatly, not sure whether it was even a question.

?I believe that is what I just said, yes.?

I chewed on that for a minute, but it didn?t taste right.

?You went back to him and he talked you into going back to Rome with him? As his slave??

?Not to Rome. Arretium. As to being a slave? you?re something of a liberal, aren?t you??

?What? Well, yeah in some ways, maybe not others??

?Yes. Well slavery was difficult to accept but not so much as you might think. I had been one many times before, sometimes a valued one. It was a normal thing for most of the peoples I had encountered, from my earliest days, and Rufus assured me that it was in name only. He said it was the only way other Romans would accept my presence, and as time went on I saw that was obviously true. He told me to see it as merely pro forma. I believed I could leave at any time, and he assured me that I could. I didn?t believe he could stop me.? She paused. ?I wasn?t quite right about that, but it was mostly true.?

?But wasn?t it still a big step down for you??

?I chose to view it as a meaningless mortal concept that did not truly apply to me. You modern Americans have a different view of slavery than was once common. Slavery was not always a horrible bereavement.?

?I always thought that was just, well, you know, something white people say so they don?t feel bad about slavery in America.?

She made a face. ?Such concepts are not? do we really need a philosophical debate on the differences between American and Roman slavery? Neither were good things in the final analysis, but we are not talking about the American experience here.?

?Okay, okay,? I said, backing down. ?I?m just trying to understand.?

?It is a wonderful thing that modern men loathe slavery. But in that time and place, well, I wasn?t Roman and there was no real reason for me to be among them otherwise. Rufus already had a wife and couldn?t marry me. Slavery amongst them was not universally terrible to endure. Marieko was his beloved and respected slave and had been his teacher since childhood. A slave in a household such as his, with her master?s favor, could live quite comfortably??

?Fine,? I interrupted her, ?but that doesn?t explain why. From what you were telling me you were pretty?? I swallowed. She just looked at me with that eerily empty look of hers. ?Well you killed pretty casually. Back then anyway.? My voice faltered because sometimes she scared me that way now.

Her eyes softened. ?That is not a thing I am proud of. I don?t? I don?t kill so casually now. I don?t? Killing? killing eats away at something in me, destroys something in me. I don?t do it unless?? She swallowed, and stopped. Her face stayed impassive, almost expressionless. Very quietly she said, ?I don?t like who I was then.?

?Do you like who you are now?? I asked, without thinking, then immediately regretted it. I thought she?d get angry. But she didn?t.

?Ask me that question another day,? she said, quietly. Her face was still expressionless.

We both sat quietly for a while. I felt like I was intruding again, but I finally continued.

?So, okay you were pretty? pretty? ruthless I guess you?d say, back then. So why didn?t you kill him? Why did you stay with him? You obviously hated the guy, but you were attracted to him too? Make me understand it.?

She left her chair and slowly walked to the small bar where she picked up her pack of cigarettes. With deliberate care she drew one from the pack, then took up her old Zippo and lit it. She stood there, taking drag after drag, exhaling through her nose. I suddenly noticed she was shaking; her hands fluttering like a hummingbird?s wing. When she turned to look at me again the expression on her face was pained.

?Your hands are shaking,? I said. ?You want to stop??

She suddenly looked at her hand like it was a snake, almost like it betrayed her. ?That?s very frustrating,? she said, balling it into a fist.

?What, a lot of people, a lot of women, they get that way when they?re upset.?

?I DESPISE BEING SO OUT OF CONTROL!? she bellowed. I didn?t know someone so little could yell that loud. But I was used to her getting mad, so I just let it go.

?Hey Princess. Chill out. We?re still friends, right??

She turned away and lit another cigarette. Her hands weren?t shaking anymore, like she was deliberately making them smooth and hard with her gestures. Then she slowly shook her head, and looked back at me, a quiet half-smile on her face. ?Nobody has ever called me that before you know.?

That startled me. ?What? Princess? You know I don?t know where that got started but hey, if it offends you??

?I find it charming,? she said, with a smoky half-grin, then sighed. She was relaxing visibly, and that was a good sign. ?No, we do not need to stop.? Her voice was even. ?My apologies. As I have said, some of these memories are painful, and some? embarrassing. But it is what we are here for.?

?Okay. So make me understand you and Rufus.?

?I don?t know that I can,? she said, then her demeanor still settled, but the pained look crept back onto her face just a little. ?You are a man of your time and place. But what are you??

?I?m pretty sure I know who I am,? I replied, ?but what I am? I?m a husband. A father. A writer, a liberal, kinda??

?Blend that into the whole of what you are, all of those discreet little labels and characterizations, and what you are is easily described in a single term: you are a human being. Would you agree??

?Sure.?

She took a final drag from her cigarette and carefully snubbed it out in the ashtray, then said, ?There were some seven hundred years behind me when I finally turned my back on the communities of men. I couldn?t bear to be with them any longer, even though at that time my life was much better than it had ever been before. I was a valuable individual."

She paused again, scowling and I half expected her to reach for another cigarette, but she just stared at the floor for a minute before continuing.

"I was a huntress and warrior. Over time I also learned the secrets of bronze and iron. By the time I left men behind I had seven centuries of shaman wisdom to draw upon and I knew what was fakery and what was not. I daresay I may have been the greatest single repository of pharmacological knowledge in the world at that time. I was a skilled midwife. I wasn?t orjan any longer, but I was still an outsider. I had no ties to anyone, and whenever I allowed myself to feel any real attachment to any place or any person??

?You?ve talked about this before?the alienation and the need to get away.?

?Yes, I have. But you must try to understand?when I finally left, walking into the wilderness on that first day of what turned into six hundred years on my own, I had no idea what I was. All I knew was what I was not. I was not a human being. But I did not stride into the forest and proclaim myself a goddess. No, that came over time, a very long time.

?But when I encountered Rufus I was deep in the grip of that delusion. Yet I had never seen his like before, or that of his men, and I misjudged them from the very start. His pursuit and capture of me fueled hatred, a hatred born mostly from fear of what he might represent, and from the very effrontery of making me fearful. When he offered me my freedom he fully expected me to choose to stay with him, and that was even more infuriating. But when I left, he changed his tactic, and came to meet with me alone, and that too was impressive.?

She stopped then, and returned to her chair. Then she sank back into it, and crossed her arms into her shoulders, suddenly looking almost pitifully small. When she spoke again her voice was low, and so quiet I had to lean forward to hear her again.

?Rufus offered me an explanation of what I was and why I was there. When I told him how many years were behind me he believed me, without question. He said I was clearly the lost daughter of Jupiter or Latona, a half-sister to Diana or perhaps even one of her divine creations. When I told him I?d never had children that only confirmed it for him, and he told me the same was true for Diana. It all made so much sense that we both believed it.?

?That?s it? He told you a story about Diana and a prophecy and you just bought it??

She sat up then, and raised her chin a bit defiantly. ?Before I took up the hunt, I was nothing! But now I was a goddess!? She almost spit that last word out. I watched with fascination as she visibly forced herself to calm down again. She was one mercurial lady.

She looked at me, and a tiny wisp of a grin came back to her countenance. I could tell she was practically reading my thoughts. She nodded, as if to say, yes, you see how I am. Then she sat back in her chair again, her back straight and her face falling back into that preternaturally calm demeanor she affected most of the time. Evidence of the stormy forces roiling inside her was only distantly visible now behind those huge green eyes of hers.

She went on. ?I was nothing but a beast of burden and a toy for men before Att taught me the art of the sling and the spear. When our time together was? when he was gone, I took Attuz into the wilderness for two years and sheltered him like a mother. When we rejoined people and I had to abandon him before he grew old? well I was quiet for a while, disconsolate, and returned to my meek ways. But after the incident with Oskuz I resolved to learn everything I could, to make myself invaluable to the men I accompanied. I then resolved to set myself above those around me so I would not be at anyone?s mercy again. The more I learned, the more it was as if I were being shaped and prepared for some destiny. The moment when I finally stepped into the wild for what I thought was the last time, shedding myself of mankind completely, I felt like I was finding that destiny.

?When finally I met Rufus I was quite mad. But I was easily his match in arrogance and in disdain for those we felt beneath us. And almost everyone was beneath us. We were so very alike, he and I.?

?Yeah, I kind of got that vibe from what you were saying.?

She smirked at me, then nodded. We sat there again for a few moments without saying anything, her eyes off in the distance. Then her eyes fixed on mine again.

?Rufus sought power and fame. He wanted a seat in the Roman Senate, his uncle?s, but was too far down the family line to take it without a fight. Yet he wanted to be a driving force in the Republic, and in the world as a whole. When he encountered me, and saw in me the realization of his personal prophecies, he aimed even higher. Diana was most beloved by slaves and while he never admitted it I know now that just having me as his slave was part of fulfilling prophecy, to him. In any case, he told me that by making me his consort, he could become as a God. He believed? well, he believed he could become like me.?

Suddenly, it clicked for me. ?So you wanted to believe it. And that was enough to make you forget all that crap he did to you??

?He had explanations, and they made sense to me.? She stopped, then her voice grew very intense. ?Yes. I wanted to believe it. With every fiber of my being I wanted to believe. He was going to become as me. He was going to become a God. He had a prophecy and plans I would be an integral part of, and had he succeeded??

She stopped. I waited. Then she looked at me again. Looking into her eyes was like staring into a cavern, and although I?m pretty sure it was my imagination, it was almost like her voice echoed when she spoke.

?I would have forgiven him anything if he could save me from ever being alone again."

-------------------
This recounting begins with Tiwazō

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Thanksgiving

There are many things I am grateful for, but I give true thanks for this.

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Lessons Apparently Not Learned

Contrary to popular perception, it seems that history rarely repeats itself. Yet humans do repeat the same mistakes.

I thought you Americans might have learned an important lesson from the aftermath of your shameless abandonment of the South Vietnamese people in the 1970?s. From the looks of things in the media and in particular this comment I ran across while perusing my regular reads, it appears that lesson did not take.

Finish what you started, America, or 2000 dead will just be the down payment on the butcher?s bill.

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Gabrielle Francesca East

Now for something a little different: I admit to having developed? not quite an obsession, but rather an intimate appreciation for a story very long in the telling about a certain red-headed character with whom I am certain I could lay waste to a perfectly respectable case of Scotch Whiskey. Her name is Gabrielle Francesca East, but she is most definitely Dolly, and her tale begins here.

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What has consumed my time this past year

Just under a year ago, driven by events beyond my control, I took a man into my confidence. This is just a taste of what may come.

--[begin journal entry]--

21-November-2004

The hospital is almost tolerable tonight. The Intensive Care ward is kept under constant low lighting, but I have been moved to a room at the far end of the unit where it is somewhat quieter, and the brighter lights from the nurse?s station do not intrude so much. The bustle and noise of the day has begun giving way to the quieter cadences of night, and my distance from the patients requiring the most attention from the nurses has increased. All this permits a reasonable facsimile of sleep to take me. Until my phone beeps quietly.

?Hello, Mitch,? I say.

?He wants to see you. I wasn?t sure you?d be awake.?

?It?s alright. I told you, he gets whatever he wants. Please ensure the hospital does not interfere.?

?Of course. I?.? He hesitates for a moment.

I sigh a little and say, ?Go on, Mitch. Is something bothering you??

?I just want to say I?m sorry for what a mess I?ve made of things for you. I was trying to do what you told me to, and??

?No, Mitch,? I say. ?It?s my fault, not yours. An old, dear friend of mine once counseled me never to make irrevocable decisions when one is either tired or hungry. Unfortunately for me, I?ve been doing nothing else for more than a week. Something was bound to blow up on me sooner or later. It?s not your fault. But do try better next time, okay handsome?? I force a smile and a sound of approval from my voice. He really is a good young man, and I can practically hear his spine straightening.

Ye Gods. Twenty-five, and fresh out of Law School. Barely sentient, by my standards. He thanks me and we hang up.

I quietly comport myself, readying for my visitor. I am uncertain as to what I should say, or what I should expect. I find that unsettling. Equally unsettling is that I have come to realize just how important it is to me he accepts this task, that this stranger should accept me for what I am. I confess this much to myself: I may not have the courage to start over again. It may be this one, or no one.

A quiet commotion outside tells me he has arrived, and I listen to the duty nurse reminding him how terribly unusual this is. He is surprisingly calm with her. He is not easily intimidated, this one. He knocks at the doorway, and I invite him in.

?Please leave the lights down,? I ask as he reaches for the switch. ?Once they?re on I?ll be unable to go to sleep again.?

?Sure thing.? He keeps standing near the doorway, hands in his coat pockets. He looks at his feet. ?I?m sorry for overreacting this afternoon.?

?It is entirely my fault. I accept full responsibility.?

?Mitch told me you didn?t order the security checks.?

?It doesn?t matter. They acted under my imprimatur and that makes me ultimately responsible. I was careless. I suspect they were merely going overboard to protect me?or just looking for an excuse for more billable hours. But it?s my fault. When I told Mitch to send you everything on hand that you might possibly want I don?t think he knew they were important, and I didn?t know he had them.

?But I want you to know,? I go on, ?that I didn?t see them, and I do not do business like this. I trust my instincts, not men. I chose you because of those instincts, and for no other reason.?

He shifts a bit, looks me in the eye, and nods. ?Okay.? He has decided to believe me, but he has not sat down yet. I must say more.

?You were right about what you said earlier, you know. I am manipulative. Unhealthily so, at times. It?s been a long time since anyone had the courage to point that out to me so forcefully. And I am a cripple. In more than one way.?

He blushes, and opens his mouth. I interrupt him.

?Please don?t apologize anymore. But it would make me happy if you would sit and talk with me.?

He relents, and sits. ?You?ve got an amazing story here,? he says, carefully. ?You?re incredibly lucky you?re not dead.?

?It was a close thing, was it?? I say, smiling.

?No. Not really close. The only thing missing from those records is your autopsy report. Are you aware of everything in there??

I shake my head. ?Although I know the basics, I haven?t been all that interested. I planned on giving them some attention after recovering more fully.?

?You lost two-thirds of your blood volume, and your blood type is so rare they had to call in a specialist just to identify it. You took a nasty shot to the head that was life-threatening all by itself, and those were the most minor things that nearly killed you.?

I listen quietly as he goes on, listing each major injury, and several other things besides. He mentions every oddity detailed in my medical records, every time I should have died, everything odd about my recovery up until now, and the doctors? belief that I have a horrible cancer and possible brain damage. Finally he winds down, as if he has run out of energy. I can see that despite all this he is not confused, or angry, just resigned. He has come to the conclusion that he is the wrong man for this job.

?I?ve thought about it for the last few hours, and I?ve honestly come to the conclusion that I?m not your man. Yes, I have a bit of medical knowledge and can write popular accounts of such things fairly well. But I don?t do biographies, and,? he grimaces, ?I have to be honest. The truth is that ?miracle recovery? books are a dime a dozen, and aren?t all that interesting to me.? He looks at me, hoping he hasn?t hurt my feelings. He has no idea how utterly endearing I find that.

?All that you say might be true,? I say, ?were I trying to write such a book. But that?s not the kind of book I want. I want something quite a bit more serious.?

?Well, okay, but really? Why me?? he asks.

?I picked you because I have read your work. I admire your good sense, and your honest skepticism regarding any subject you write about. You reject emotion-based pseudo-science while retaining your basic human empathy. You understand pain and treat your subjects with dignity--sometimes more than they likely deserve.? I incline my head at him, and smile. His eyes glitter, but he says nothing.

I continue speaking: ?I also just happen to like your writing style and, having met you, I have concluded that what I saw in your writing is a direct reflection of the man. I would therefore like to work with you.?

He smiles only slightly, and says, ?That may be the nicest thing anyone?s ever said to me.? He does not gush. He will not be flattered. ?Well, we do have your miracle recovery to start with. So what else would we be writing about??

?I?m not particularly interested in telling the story of my ?miraculous? survival. In fact there is nothing miraculous about it at all, at least from my perspective.? I pause then, but he is silent, waiting for me to continue. I have begun speaking softly, forcing him to listen and focus intensely upon me. I will not risk him mishearing me. ?This is not the first time I have been gravely injured. Doubtless it shall not be the last. I?ll grant that this is by far the most dramatic physical injury I?ve ever suffered, but, when you?ve lived as long as have I, these things are unavoidable.?

He smiles with condescension and a bit of irritation. Leaning forward, he says, ?Okay, you?re very, very good at being melodramatic. I used to be that way a little too. But you?re twenty-seven years old, and believe me, whatever you think you know about life?.?

?Mary Genevieve Baker would be twenty-seven now, had she not died when she was eleven months old. I chose her because her name reminded me of someone who was very dear to me, very long ago. I?ve had to change names like that many times in order to be accepted by people.?

He stares at me.

I take a deep breath. ?My name? I?m sorry, I don?t say this very often. But I call myself Zsallia Marieko. I am some three thousand, five hundred years old. I cannot die, you see.?

He barely reacts. No snort of derision, no sitting back in his chair; just a slight dilation of his pupils, nearly undetectable in the low light.

?Sha. Lee. Ya,? he pronounces slowly. ?That?s an interesting name. Hungarian??

?I think not. I chose it because I liked the feel of it, and I was tired of my name changing every time I moved from one place to another. I don?t know how to explain exactly, but having my own name is important to me, even if only I know it. There are only two others alive at the moment who know both that name and my face. Now you are number three.?

He sits back noncommittally, and his fingers drum the arm of his chair very lightly. He is trying hard not to give away anything, but he does not believe me. But he is not becoming angry, or frightened, and is not amused. Nor do I sense pity. He has decided to test me. I decide to let him.

?Are you aware that I have insane people in my family?? he finally asks.

Mildly surprised, I say, ?No, not until you just said that. Do you believe me to be insane?? He pauses, trying to find a nice way of saying it. I decide to save him from it. ?Yes, you do. I can accept this.? Then he surprises me a bit.

?What I believe in is Occam?s Razor. All things being equal, the simplest explanation is most likely correct. But since we?re laying it all on the line, Princess, I?ll tell you that I do consider that to be the most likely assumption.? He contemplates me for another moment, choosing his words carefully. ?Are you aware that your doctors believe you may be mentally unbalanced?? he finally asks.

?Yes, although they do not know as much of the truth as you do now.?

He pauses, then chuckles. ?Okay. You promised me something. Do you remember what it was??

?Yes. I will not lie to you, because I need your trust, and I need to trust myself.?

?Do you think you?re deluded?? he asks, quite pointedly.

?No, I do not.? I say.

?Thirty-five hundred years you say?? he says, finally getting back to it. ?That?s a pretty long time.?

I blink in acknowledgement, inclining my head, but say nothing. He goes on. ?Where were you born??

?To be honest, I?m not certain. I believe somewhere in northern Europe, perhaps near Scandinavia, but I honestly have no way of knowing.?

?How old are your parents??

?I never knew them. I?m not sure I had them,? I say evenly.

?So you?re some kind of spirit, maybe a goddess??

I take a deep breath, and wish for a cigarette. I try very hard not to sound angry when I say, ?no.? It comes out rather more forcefully than I would like, but he does not seem taken aback.

?No relation to Prometheus?? he asks. I blush, and blush harder when I realize I am blushing. ?That was a turn of phrase. From a woman who was feeling very sorry for herself. Please?don?t tease me about this. That?s not what I am. At all.? This is becoming difficult to endure, but I keep a tight grip on my emotions.

He drums his fingers some more on the arm of his chair, then says, ?So were you ever a mighty queen, ruler of a great people??

I stare at him for a moment, and my mouth drops open. In my entire existence no one has ever asked me such a question. Startling myself, I suddenly burst into laughter. I find myself coughing, but I continue to laugh. My head goes light and I experience a bit of tunnel vision, and worry that I have offended him.

As I get myself under control and blood begins to return to my head, I refocus on him. He looks concerned, but is leaning forward and grinning now.

?So that would be ?no,? I take it?? he says and that causes me to laugh again, and my vision actually goes black for a moment. But this time I get it under control more quickly, and manage to shake my head.

?No, no,? I wheeze, looking for my water cup. ?By which I mean, I was never a? no.? I suddenly feel drained, and light, but more relaxed than I?ve been since waking up from the accident.

?Well, you certainly are an interesting one, Zsallia Marieko, I?ll give you that,? he says. I let him know with my eyes that it is up to him where he wants to go next. But there is a twinkle in his eye. I think, perhaps, I have almost won him over.

?So do you have any other super-powers? Other than not-dying, I mean??

I look at him with a bit of annoyance, but say, ?I?ve picked up a trick or two here and there,? and shrug.

?Can you show me an example?? he says. He is half-hoping I will claim to do something he cannot see, or perhaps remove all doubt by levitating from the bed, although he does not really believe it. I look carefully around the room. Spotting the tissue box on my bed-tray, I pull out two. I moisten each a bit in my water cup, just to give it a bit of weight, and squeeze each into its own little ball. I hold them both in my right hand, then look him carefully in the eye. I begin to flip each deftly into the air into its own little arc, juggling them one-handed.

His head goes back in a loud laugh. Then he stands up, leans forward, and clasps my hand.

We have an agreement.

--[end journal entry]--

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Katrina

Today I am a rational, thinking creature. I was not always thus. Today I understand that weather is driven by physical forces- even if I cannot define them to the extent a meteorologist might I still comprehend those forces are not animate. Those forces have no soul or spirit driving them. And yet? the oldest part of me, the deeply buried pagan soul of me sees the destruction wrought by Katrina, or the Boxing Day tsunami, and shudders in fear of the ancient gods of my past.

I love New Orleans- she is the most flavorful and gloriously alive city in these United States. The mixture of celebratory excess, opulence, decadence, poverty, history: nothing compares. Other cities are mighty and grand and beautiful, but none are New Orleans. I have watched with dismay as her destruction unfolds before our eyes and I weep for her while inside me anger burns; resentment towards those creatures that set this in motion. It is irrational in the extreme, but I cannot resist the notion that those ancient and malevolent spirits have thrown a challenge at the doorstep of this battered city and dared her to defy them.

I recently read a comment on another site and it seemed to me as apt an expression of the American spirit as I have encountered in some time. You Americans do not gladly suffer failure. New Orleans shall rise. The gods be damned.

Do your part.

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Changes

I have become reticent of late. Circumstances have surrounded me such that my sense of control over events has been frayed nearly to the breaking point and I have embraced notions that would have been anathema to me just one year ago. I have taken not just one, but two men into my confidence, and in doing so have laid open my most private thoughts and memories to be prodded and explored- and all within a time span so brief as to be but an eye-blink. This is the reason for my prolonged silences and the dearth of tales once so prevalent here.

Changes are coming; drastic, dangerous ventures that once done cannot be undone. I surrender myself to the judgment of this ?modern? world you have created, but I reserve the right to throw down my arms, abandon my safe haven and flee into the wilderness.

Those I trust assure me such drastic measures should never be necessary. I do wish I shared their certainty, but I admit to being of a much less charitable disposition of late. Along those lines I have made some changes in preparation for the coming weeks? festivities. First, there is a new site design in the works. Second, I will be turning on TypeKey registration for comments. Those who shun TypeKey for whatever reason are still welcome to comment, but those comments are subject to approval. I shall endeavour to be diligent and see comments move fairly swiftly, but I am a creature of slow habits so I make no firm promises.

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"Why do you carry a gun?"

?Why do you carry a gun?? he asked.

I looked up from my Calamari and rice to watch his face. He was genuinely curious rather than probing, but I knew my preference for being armed sometimes troubled him. In the early, less settled days of our relationship I had startled him, even frightened him with the sudden revelation that a pistol was tucked away in some discreet but easily available place.

?For the obvious reasons,? I replied, smiling at him, ?what makes you ask??

?I just wonder? you can?t be hurt, not permanently. And I know you can face down just about anyone without using a gun. It just seems like an unnecessary risk. And this comes from a guy who?s owned plenty of guns.?

?Why would you believe my carrying a gun poses a risk? Do you think I am too careless, irresponsible??

I was teasing him now and he took it with good grace. There was a time not long ago when this could easily have descended into bitter argument, but since November we had come to a semblance of understanding. He knows more of me now than any other human being ever has. He knows I do nothing without good reason.

?If you were ever in a situation? say a police officer had reason to search you??

?In this state? I have the proper permits.? I then returned to my meal, letting him decide if he should pursue the matter further. To his credit he did not set it aside.

?But you want to avoid drawing the wrong kind of attention, don?t you? Back in Ann Arbor you drew down on that guy in a very public place- that alley had lots of foot traffic. You didn?t need to do it, either- with the other two down??

I set my fork down with a sigh and gave him a frank look of incredulity. He was serious.

?I broke one man?s knee- he is likely crippled for life given the unlikelihood of his possessing sufficient insurance to have his leg properly cared for. The second man earned a broken jaw and lost several teeth. I drew my pistol because the third man hadn?t quite internalized the notion that his friends were badly hurt. That, and I lost my cane when I struck that man in the jaw. Drawing the pistol stopped him in his tracks. Without it I might have been forced to hurt him, or even kill him?

?So you pulled the gun instead of killing him??

I noticed then that two ladies at the next table were being very quiet, obviously overhearing the conversation. I considered ending the discussion, but decided there was no harm so long as certain overt subjects were avoided.

?Is that your phone ringing?? I asked.

He reached in to his jacket and drew out the phone to check. I reached across the table and seized his wrist, twisting as with the other hand I took the phone from him. It was swift and sudden and he barely had time to gasp. He looked at me in surprise, and then chuckled as he rubbed his wrist.

?Okay, you?re fast and you?re strong, but that?s my point- you could have put him down without using the gun.?

I offered him his phone and he took it from my hand, but as he drew back I lashed out again. This time he held firmly and I could not even twist his wrist, let alone try to take the phone from him. I let him go and sat back with a grin on my face.

?I was able to take the phone the first time because you weren?t expecting it. Likewise, I could have struck that man once, but a second chance was unlikely. My left leg was still quite weak, and it nearly buckled when I kicked the first man- I would have had to hit the third with my fist. The only way to drop him would have been a hard punch to the throat? and that probably would have killed him.?

?And all this went through your head in those couple of seconds??

I smiled a bit. ?Not precisely, but my reflexes are honed from long experience. Had I pulled the gun immediately I probably would have had to shoot one of them. By drawing it when I did, I did not have to shoot. Likely it saved that man?s life.?

?Hmm, I suppose you?re right. Still, it?s a little embarrassing. You know I can take care of myself, but the whole thing was over practically before I could react.?

My smile broadened a bit as I returned to my meal. That foiled mugging had possessed great potential for tragedy, but the three miscreants were focused on the large brutish-looking fellow with me rather than on the woman with the limp and cane. When I lashed out the surprise was total. Had I been alone, the outcome would have been far more grave.

He continued looking at me, ignoring his steak, and finally decided to press further.

?Okay, that was a specific situation. And it turned out okay, for us anyhow. It still doesn?t answer my question, though. You carry a gun everywhere- you even avoid flying if you can, just because you can?t carry a gun on a plane. It smacks of paranoia.?

?The realities of my life are different from your own, but choosing to be armed springs from a simple and recognizable fact: unarmed means dependent upon others for safety. In most cases that is acceptable, but when it is not the results are nearly always tragic. I prefer to be in a position to defend myself at all times, and in situations where social norms hold no sway a weapon is indispensable. Trust me on this point- I have much experience on this topic.?

?I?ll grant you all of that? but you?re in a pretty unique position, don?t you think? What would be really dangerous to others is just? well, inconvenient for you, isn?t it??

?Inconvenient? It would certainly have been inconvenient had I let them kill you.? He started at that. Perhaps I should not have said it?the male ego is a fragile thing. ?In any case, do you suggest I have some obligation to permit violence against myself??

?Well no, I guess not. I?m just curious how you judge which situations justify violence, and which don?t. You seem primed for it, if you catch my meaning. It?s kind of the opposite of what I would expect from?? he glanced around suddenly, realizing he might be in a situation where he should watch his words, then finished with, ?from somebody in your particular position.?

?It goes back to the same reasoning behind drawing down on that fellow in the alley: will violence reduce the situation, and if so, how much is enough??

?We could have just handed over our money??

?Unacceptable. Your people have made too many civilized concessions to criminals. If one chooses to engage in crime there should be a tangible and credible threat of immediate consequence, but the modern reaction is often to allow the crime to occur and then look to the government to mete out some form of justice after the fact.?

?So? shoot first and ask questions later? Vigilante justice??

?I did not shoot that man, did I? The issue is willingness to act in one?s own defense, and possessing the means to do so. In any situation where I believe my safety?or that of those I care about?is threatened I will not hesitate to employ whatever means are at my disposal to defend myself, including deadly force. Even for a simple mugging or purse snatching, I would not hesitate to use whatever force I felt necessary. Tolerance of such things is a social weakness. It is so endemic in modern society that instances of ?ordinary citizens? acting to foil crime are considered news? unless, of course, they use a gun. For some reason your news reporters rarely mention when a gun is used in defense.?

There was motion at the next table as one of the two women turned to face me, her younger companion obviously attempting to prevent her.

?I?ve been sitting here and listening to you two and I just can?t believe what I?m hearing!? she hissed, ?You honestly believe you have the right to shoot anyone who you think is threatening you? Don?t you understand just how stupid that is? This is supposed to be a civilized country but people like you make me wonder. We have a maniac in the White House and maniacs on the streets!?

?Only a slave refuses to defend herself," I said, then stopped. If I said more it would likely cause a scene. I smiled disarmingly, but as I feared my response seemed to make her angrier. I could hear the gold bracelets on her wrists jangling as she trembled with indignation. So I was surprised when my companion spoke up.

?Your problems with what you?re hearing are solved by not eavesdropping, lady. It?s not like we?ve been shouting here. Besides, you?ve got no idea who we are, which makes you not just rude, but ignorant.?

I graced him with an amused expression as the woman turned a withering gaze in his direction. He smiled, a picture of almost beatifying calm that nearly forced a laugh from my lips. Still, this was becoming a scene, and that would not do. Not at all.

?Madame, there is no point in arguing. I am certain we both have very different worldviews. I understand yours; I doubt you would ever comprehend mine. Why don?t we just finish our lunches and say no more? Or should I call the manager??

She almost made the wrong choice, but her young friend took her by the arm and asked her to quiet down, breaking the flow of her anger.

?Barbarian,? she sniffed, and turned back to her lunch.

My companion covered his mouth and snickered.

?Indeed,? I sighed, and returned to my salad.

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Fear

It has been a time of introspection for me these last weeks. I finally returned home from Ann Arbor, having been quite hale and whole for some months, and I have enjoyed the coming of Spring, even as I hold at bay those thoughts and fears plaguing me since my accident in November. It matters not a jot that I have so many years behind me, not when events have unfolded along such myriad unforeseen paths. I find myself daunted by understandings I had long ago thought meaningless.

I fear my own destruction. I thought I was beyond such petty insistence on self-preservation, but that turns out not to be the case. It is not fear of death, for truly that has not plagued me in centuries; rather it is an unwillingness to offer myself up for annihilation at the whim of others who might believe they were engaged in an act crucial to the survival of their race or creed. After thirty-five centuries I believe I have earned the right to an end of my own choosing- to have others choose for me is a notion so disturbing as to bring upon me a state of near paranoia.

I have invited too many people into the sphere of my personal life. There are too many who know me now for who and what I truly am. Some of them fear me, and I fully understand that reaction: however, I have no intention of permitting their fear to override my own prerogatives. This leads me to conclusions I dislike, but cannot readily ignore.

I was riding the other day, there are several suitable trails on the property and the surrounding lands, but my preferred route follows the borders of the McAllister Farm property. As I rode I found myself making mental notes: A fence line here, perhaps remote cameras, how many guards would it take to secure this boundary? Should I look in to that German concern employing so many former East Berlin border guards? Do I prefer men who will err on the side of caution, or those who are prone to treat every trespass as a grave danger and will respond accordingly?

It disturbs me to be thinking in terms of protecting myself from the community I have struggled to make my own and yet I cannot dismiss those fears for they certainly spring from some buried awareness of danger. I think of poor Isabella, trapped in her cocoon of devoted protectors, and I am certain this is nothing I desire any part of, yet if I do as I say I shall, how can I avoid drawing a moat about this place? I am not so convinced of the goodness and reliable rationality of Man as some of my new friends and advisers purport to be. I admire their high opinions of their species and their fellow countrymen, but I am disinclined to share it. Instead I now go armed at all times, and I consider turning this home in to a fortress.

And I despise myself for those thoughts.

I have been driven towards rash action by sudden event-driven worries that fortunately came to naught. I find myself now poised upon an immensely difficult decision, an opening of my life to the world in a way that just months ago would have been unthinkable to me. Will I regret this in months or years to come? Am I merely trading the cloak of secrecy for the prison of true fear?

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Argument With A New Friend

?It is so simple for you, isn?t it?? I snapped, ?Brought up in this utopia of yours, ensconced in the bosom of a well-defined moral universe. You have your rules, your directions all laid out before you, easy to see, easy to follow? you have no idea what it means to not know what is right and what is wrong.?

?I don?t think it?s all as simple as that,? he shot back, ?and I don?t buy this line of bullshit, either. I know you know right from wrong; it?s all through everything you?ve written, in your journals, on your web site. Or is that all a lie??

?It is the end result of thirty-five centuries of fear, mistakes, loss, and horror. You have your moral certainty handed to you on the platter of a Judeo-Christian heritage, and you presume to judge me? I think not.?

He laughed, ?Princess, I?m not even a believer??

?No? Are you a hypocrite, then? Do you believe for an instant that this affected disbelief somehow erases a lifetime of conditioning? That it makes you a creature separated from all those about you? You asked me before what I see in you- I see a man who believes. You may have no truck with the churches built by men, but you have an intimate knowledge of the God whose laws form the bedrock of the nation you call your own. Deny it. Look me in the eyes and tell me that it is categorically not so. Do that, and perhaps I will believe you.?

He nearly shot that argument straight back at me, but then he hesitated. I could see the wheels working in him and I had to suppress my urge to smile. Instead I turned, taking my eyes from his face and looking out the window over snow-covered city streets. In our short time together he had learned how adept I was at guessing the thoughts of those whom I know. By looking away I was respecting his privacy

?I don?t believe in God,? he said, his voice firm, ?but I do believe that there were great and wise men in the world, and that Jesus was one of them? This does not make me a hypocrite.?

?No,? I agreed, ?it does not. But how did you come to know of Jesus? How did you come to know of the bible? Or these other great men you speak of??

?I was taught, obviously??

?Yes, obviously.? I turned to face him again. ?I was taught nothing. What morality I learned centered on obedience and survival. Had I been in the Levant perhaps things would have been different, but mine was a world of pagan disciplines, if any at all. Try to imagine it, if you can, and then remember- that is the foundation of my beliefs. If you are going to fear me, that is the reason to fear me.?

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Christmas in Pennsylvania

I can stand again. I find myself somewhat ashamed for resenting the debilitating circumstance of being confined to a wheelchair for all but brief moments. I am still in pain, but the worst is clearly behind me. I can make my way with a cane, it is still an effort and my left leg shall likely annoy me somewhat for another week, but it is good to be amongst the motile once again. I know there are many more for whom such injuries are not so easily set aside.

A further indication of my returning health: I am suddenly acutely aware that this city is a college town. Of beef and liquor I have had plenty since leaving the hospital. Now other appetites do call for my attention. They will have to wait, however, for I am returning home to Pennsylvania for Christmas. I am sufficiently whole to appear there without requiring cumbersome explanations, and over the last week I have lost just a tiny bit of the trepidation I felt.

Still, I am one to prepare against need, particularly having been recently caught unawares. For instance, I managed to obtain a firearm (do not ask how) so that I have some measure of extra security. I am usually a fan of automatic pistols, but this revolver seems to suit me well, being small handled and easily concealed while still offering decent stopping power. It turned out to be a fortuitous acquisition, given the events of this past evening.

I have been ?mugged? before, with varying results. I am disinclined to yield to the demands of society?s bottom-feeders, but I am no fool. In this case it was a relatively feeble attempt and the pistol put a stop to it quite handily. That and the broken knee and shattered teeth of two of the would-be highwaymen. My companion was somewhat flustered, but it was all of a minor inconvenience in the end. For myself, that is.

As to other precautions I have taken, let us simply say that I may now disappear at need far more efficiently than at any time previous.

I missed Thanksgiving with the family, but by all accounts it went quite well. Those old enough to remember the house when it was still in regular use were suitably impressed. Those who had heard only tales of its former glory were similarly given pause as they came to understand the tales they had been regaled with by their elders were not simple nostalgia, but honest fact. That in itself was enough to provide satisfaction, but still I wish I had been there. Jeremy had no direct descendants- I find myself curious about those descended from the children I helped raise.

I find myself eager for Christmas.

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Pain

Pain is a relative thing. I am capable of enduring levels of pain others might find excruciating, but this is more a matter of long experience rather than some innate superiority on my part. After all, pain is generally a warning sign of illness or injury, and I am proof against such things.

That said the pain is nearly unbearable. It is a pressure against my temper and rationality, eruptions of crippling fire that leave me weak and trembling upon their passing. It ends with a trip to the toilet, then the raging hunger comes again and the cycle repeats until exhaustion brings merciful respite in unconsciousness.

I apologize for my reticence, but I am still uncertain what to do. The recent events in Denver coupled with my injuries have left me unbalanced unto madness and the urge to simply flee is hard upon me. Once again this morning I nearly succumbed to the urge to destroy this journal yet I stayed my hand again. While typing is difficult and painfully slow I do find that somehow it soothes me, if only a little. At the moment I am in need of whatever soothing I might find.

Then there is the pain of my soul. It did not go well with my friends. The one has died and the other, overcome with grief and loss, became so angry with me I thought he might never forgive me. Perhaps he should not, but he did, and in doing so he made so very clear to me the guilt he feels- he believes my current circumstance to be his responsibility. To my dear friend I can say only this- it could have been any intersection, in any city, on any night. It seems it would be inevitable, given enough time, and we both know the truth of that, do we not? Mourn your wife, as I mourn for you, and think not of my troubles. They are transitory and I shall emerge whole once again. You are one of a dwindling group of friends who know me as I am and care for me for who I am. I do not believe I can ever repay that debt.

And now there is... another.

How shall I describe him? A friend? There is potential although in all honesty he is not one I normally would have considered. We have been thrust together he and I, by an impulsive act born of desperation. I knew of him through his public persona and upon our meeting I was pleased to find the public face a fair reflection of the inner man. Circumstances have forced me to act in moments upon notions I should have taken decades to plan. My history with such things is somewhat less than encouraging.

He is annoying. That seems a good sign.

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It Has Been Close To One Month

Whither goes my poetic friend?

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A New City, An Old Fear

This would be exciting were I not alone, or in such circumstance as I now find myself. This city is new to me and I am unequal to the task of exploration, being weighted with such dire needs and regrets.

I have never become accustomed to the death of a friend, but I believed this time I had what I needed to make this something to hold on to, an act of unmitigated good. And I did succeed at that in no small measure, but in the end my presence was as it has always been- wound rather than balm. That from that night and its achingly painful end I should then tumble in to this circumstance, having all my privacy stolen, all my deepest fears rendered reality? days after returning to awareness I am still numbed from the shock of it.

I reject the notion of fate. This horrifying turn of events seems inevitable in retrospect. I should have prepared for it, now I am forced to improvise, to put my trust in those over whom I have but the most tenuous of control and simply wait for events to play out.

I missed Thanksgiving with Edna and the family. I fear I may never see them again. I ache to weep over this, but I am so desperately tired.

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A Friend In Need

Sudden events require my presence in Denver. I cannot be certain when I shall return.

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Rendezvous

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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