I talked to her a few times on the phone after Thanksgiving, but Zsallia kept saying she needed some time alone. I had all sorts of questions, but she just wouldn’t let me engage her in any long conversations. When I finally pushed her on the phone one night, all she said was, “I’m not in such a hurry now and I would hate to see you burn your bridges. I’ll see you when you have your affairs in order.” Then she made an excuse and hung up on me.

Typical.

Still, she was probably right anyway. The two weeks after Thanksgiving were a grind, what with quitting my job, then calming my wife’s horror over me quitting my job, then fending off my employer’s generous attempts to keep me from quitting my job. But the money “Miss Baker” was paying was far too good to pass up, and there was no way this could be a part-time gig anyway.

So it was a Monday in the middle of December when I finally saw her for the first time after Denver. I brought her a sack of groceries, and as I approached her suite door I noticed it was already open. I had called ahead as a courtesy, so I just knocked at the door jam, poked my head in—and froze. She was standing by the breakfast table smoking a cigarette and drinking a large glass of orange juice.

Standing. Not balancing on one leg. Standing on two.

She gave me an embarrassed-looking half-grin. “I still can’t walk very well on it,” she said, putting down her glass, grabbing an elegant-looking walking stick, and hobbling toward me. I just stood there looking at her from the doorway. As she approached, she leaned her stick against the wall, looked at me very seriously, and shook my hand. “It is a pleasure to see you again,” she said softly.

“I brought you a present,” I said gruffly, pointing to the bag of
groceries. As she thanked me, I noticed that she looked like she’d put on at least 15 pounds—pounds that looked good on her. She’d seemed wanly pretty in the hospital, but now her cheeks, bust, and hips had all filled out significantly. The circles were completely gone from under her eyes, and she didn’t look nearly so pale. I noticed, though, that she winced a bit in pain as she took up her cane and limped back into the suite.

“Please come in and make yourself comfortable. If you could set the bag on the counter there I would appreciate it.”

I set the bag down on the bar, staring as she limped into the middle of the suite and sat down on a large sofa. I moved to a large easy chair across from her, took out the recorder and set it down on the glass coffee table, then said, “How the hell are you even possible, Zsallia?”

She gave me a pained smile. “Not one to waste any time, are you?” she said. A bit awkwardly, she pulled her shriveled left foot onto her right knee, and began massaging the new leg, which looked very thin under the jeans. “It hurts,” she said, absently. “But it’s a bit stronger every day, and it helps to rub it.” Then she fixed her eyes on mine. “The short answer to your question is ‘I don’t know.’ My primary hypothesis, the one that seems to make the most sense, is that I’m a sport. Some sort of odd stage of evolution gone awry.” She smiled a bit sickly, and said, “An acquaintance once suggested that I might be some sort of new stage in human evolution.” She gave an evil chuckle, and I started a bit, but she gave me a friendly snort and winked. “I’m not much of one if so, since I add nothing to the gene pool, and there aren’t any others like me. I’m hardly a boon to the race.”

“I hate to say it,” I said, “but that doesn’t really make any sense anyway. Genetic anomalies, even if they’re very extreme, can’t produce things like… like….”

“I wouldn’t be so certain if I were you. Man’s knowledge of these things is hardly complete.”

“But no one’s ever found any immortal animals, or spontaneous growth of limbs like this, I’m sure of it,” I said.

“Yes, well, perhaps you’d know better than I.” Her expression was blank. “I honestly don’t know.” She seemed to be growing distant, and a little cold, as she spoke.

“So you’re pretty sure you’re not…” I trailed off. I wasn’t sure what I was asking, or how to proceed. “You’ve never met anyone else like yourself?”

“No. I’ve made a few efforts to look, made a very serious effort for about 200 years not long ago. Decided to chase legends of vampires and whatnot, thinking perhaps…. Well, it came to naught. I entertained the notion that I might be from fabled Atlantis for a while, but it now seems rather unlikely that such a place even existed. I am alone so far as I know, and I do not know how I came to be.” She paused, and smiled a bit again. “I’m one of God’s little jokes, perhaps.”

I heard just a trace of bitterness there as she pulled out a cigarette and puffed it to life. None of this made any sense, but she seemed to be getting glum inside. “Well, let’s try something else,” I said, thinking about it. “Back in Denver, you told me you woke up one day with amnesia, and said for a long time after that you were, well, stupid, and a piece of property more or less. That’s obviously changed for you. When did you start to be, well, not slow and stupid?”

She thought about it for a while. Her eyes took on a faraway look, as if she was searching through the caverns of her mind. “It’s tempting to draw a fine line. For a long time I was not really so much aware of the world or myself as simply existing. Almost like a beast. I believe it took nearly half a millennia to understand what I was and even longer to fully accept it. For a long time, a very, very long time, I was traded and sold every few years, either as a beast of burden or a whore, and did little but what was expected of me. It honestly never even occurred to me to resent it, and I thought very little about much of anything. I merely did the necessary, whatever was easy, and nothing more.”

She thought about it some more. “I suppose it may have begun to change when I first learned to count.” She looked up at me. “Yes, it was probably there, although I can’t say it was all that dramatic.”

I shook my head. “Counting?” I asked, a bit confused.

“Well, most people didn’t, you know. One, two, three, perhaps, then simply “many.” But there was once this odd traveler who guested in the roundhouse of my master. I was sent to entertain his bed because he’d found favor with our chief shaman. That was no small feat since we usually killed strangers in that tribe. But he was entertaining, and didn’t have any possessions that seemed worth killing him over.”

“Jeez,” I interrupted. “Real barbarians huh?”

In response, she just gave me the oddest look, like she was looking through me. “I suppose so,” she said. She sounded pretty noncommittal though. I could also tell she wanted me to shut up, so I did.

“Anyway,” she said, “He sang, and told tales, and none of us had met anyone quite like him. He wasn’t too rough in bed either, come to think of it. But afterward, while we talked idly, he asked my age and I couldn’t tell him. So he taught me the basic skill of counting to ten, then to count tens: one ten, two tens, three tens, and so on. It was more an amusement than anything else for him, but I picked it up pretty quickly. He probably doubled my sale value in the years to come, as I think of it.”

That last part made me queasy, but I didn’t say anything. She smiled ironically at me, like she could read my mind and was enjoying my discomfort a little. But she went on.

“So he asked me again how old I was, and I lied. I told him thirty-three because one hundred and thirty-three felt frighteningly wrong somehow. I wasn’t sure why, but it did.”

I thought about that. “I’m not sure I could count all the years I remember, and I’m nowhere near that old.”

“Yes, well I confess that there is a certain amount of guessing involved,” she said, “but I’ve a fairly sharp memory, and am fairly good at guessing the passage of time. There’s no clock in this room but I can tell you that it’s about 10:45 as we speak. Years sometimes seem blurry but I can usually count the springs. If I think on it, for example, I seem to recall reading that my favorite modern author, Samuel Clemens, passed on… oh, 83 Springs ago I believe.” She sighed. “There’s one I wish were still writing, even if his last days were so sad.”

“83 huh?” I said. “How long ago did Shakespeare die?”

She gave me a dim look, one of her eyelids drooping like an evil eye, although she put a little grin behind it. “I’m not a circus pony, my friend.”

“Sorry,” I muttered, and grinned back. She smiled bigger and moved on.

“Just take my word that I’m guessing, but that I’m pretty good at this. I have had a long time with my memories, and plentiful opportunities to double-check myself. In any case,” she went on, “that was one small incident I remember being different. I seem to recall that I learned a bit about guile the first time I became a shaman’s woman exclusively. But for the longest time I merely existed, and drew as little attention to myself as possible, and that was all.”

She stopped, and just looked at me. I gathered that she was ready for another question, but wasn’t sure what to ask. Finally I remembered something. “You told me once that there was a child who helped you decide you were something more than property or whatever. What was the story there??”

“Oh,” she said, starting. “Attuz,” she sighed, “and his father.” She smiled, wistfully. Out of nowhere, she suddenly looked almost tender. “I suppose I could tell you about them. He was my first husband you know. My first true husband, and I still think of him that way. It would be something of a long story though.”

I smiled. “I’d guess you’ve got a lot of those. But it’s what I’m here for, right?” I asked.

“Very well,” she said, and took a deep breath.

Circa 1100 B.C.

The next few years were happy ones. Deliriously so, and when I use that word, part of me acknowledges that it was a delirium in some ways, for there was also a madness to what I was doing that I did not wish to acknowledge.

Still, I had never felt so alive, so free, or so accepted. Just belonging to him made me respected by most of the women, well-liked by most of the men, accepted almost everywhere I went, and treated as an equal by most. It was intoxicating. His children were also both wonderful, and I took to helping him with them both like a duck to water.

Hunting was a constant thrill and pleasure. Although the men teased me at times when I would join their hunting groups, they always welcomed me. I learned as fast as the cleverest young boys among them, and even some of the girls started trying to take after me. All were impressed by how quickly I acquired skills that usually took young people several years to master. I learned so quickly in part because I possessed at least some of the basics of these skills before, having quietly watched others during my years as a lowly orjan or outright slave. But I believe I also learned so well because I had learned patience in my 400 years, and because this new avocation was such a heady joy for me.

One frustration was that I never could manage to throw a spear quite as hard as the men, but my ever-gently-mocking husband Att had an immediate solution when I mentioned it. He made for me what we called a darriz, which was very similar to what is called an atlatl today: a special spear-thrower. They are a bit tricky to master, but allow one to throw farther and harder than with the naked arm. Most of the men did not bother with them since hunting deer in deep forest rarely required one, but I found it invaluable, and soon could out-throw many of the men who were too proud to use the darriz.

While I did not always join the men on their hunts, I was fully accepted when I did join them. Indeed, sometimes they were disappointed when I demurred to stay home with little Attuz and Herdhiz. But even when I stayed back with the children and other women, I would still practice my weaponry, and even teach the younger children some of what I had learned with Att and the other men.
I learned best, and had the greatest joy, however, when Att would take me with him on his solitary hunts. A few times we went off together for a week or more at a time, leaving the children with Att’s sister. Those trips together were always the most delightful for me, as he would teach me some of the tricks not everyone learned, of solitary tracking, of hiding your own tracks, and of mastering complete silence in the woods. He also helped me grow particularly adept with the sign language of his people, and we would sometimes hold suggestive and lurid conversations together while sitting in the pre-dawn, waiting for elusive game. He was something of a rutting beast; it was one of the many things I loved about him.

Often on those solitary hunts, especially during the mid-day when we tired of stalking real prey, we would make a game of tracking. He would hide in the woods, covering his tracks and leaving only hints for me. He knew I had mastered those skills on the day I not only caught him unawares, but managed to attack him from behind, jumping upon him and pinning him to the ground before he sensed my presence. He yelped in startled surprise, then laughed, turned over, and pinned me as I opened for him. He was easily the best lover I had ever had, but that day in particular was one of our most splendid lovemaking sessions.

In later days for sport we would practice by having me hide in the woods, covering my own tracks. He would always find me, but as the season wore on, I became good enough at the game that I had to intentionally leave him at least one or two traces so he would not give up. After all, our unspoken agreement was that if he found me he got to ravish me, and that was no prize I wanted to deny him!

Still, for all our fun, Att sometimes needed to go out on his own. I respected that need, and never minded. I knew it was not a rejection of my companionship, but rather a reaffirmation of his place in the village. He was not a farmer, could not seem to take that task seriously, so I knew he needed to prove his value to himself more than those around him. Besides, he was my husband, and I desperately loved him, the first man I could ever say such a thing about. I would do most anything to make him happy, and was often content just to be near him. Moreover, his children, his sister, and the other villagers were a joy to be around, and I basked in the acceptance and friendship I had found among them while Att was away. Indeed, I drank it in thirstily. I had never known such contentment.

I have progressed so many centuries since those days that I rarely think on them. Yet of all the memories of my first centuries, those burn brightest in my mind, and almost always bring a smile to my lips when I do think on them. He was my husband, my first true husband, and in many ways still he is my hero. He taught me so very much about life, about what I could be, about self-respect and self-worth, about confidence, about friendship. I was changed so much by that flickering instant in my long existence, it seems nearly miraculous.

During those brief, heady years, the only bad spots were those times, late at night, when I would awaken sweating, my pulse racing, unbidden thoughts echoing in my head, whispering: this cannot last, this cannot go on. He is going to die, and you will not. But I angrily pushed those thoughts away. I knew one day I would have to face them, but I refused to think on it. Joy had been denied me; misery and loneliness and self-loathing my constant companions for so long, I could not make myself face the truth. I knew I would have to make a choice one day, but I refused to ponder it, instead holding it at arm’s length, desperate to somehow escape the inevitable.

As it turned out, the choice was made for me.

I had but four years of happiness there, only four years of belonging to Att and his people. It was little more than the space between two heartbeats, but one fact I have known from the very beginning: all things end.

It was spring again, the beginning of my fifth year with these people. I was baking bread with Att’s sister and two other women late one day. We would make many flat loaves at one time, sufficient to serve us for a many days. Winter had been hard, and another earthquake had frightened us all recently. But the hunting had been a little better, enough to keep starvation away, and now we had bread again, and the weather was fairer. We all hoped this year would be better than the last, and we would joke that it could hardly be any worse.

I stepped out of the hut where we had our ovens. The scent of fresh bread was like flowers on the air, sweet and promising. But then there was a commotion to the south, first just a hint of noise, then cries of alarm, then screaming.

They thundered into the village, men on horses, clad in dark leather and bronze, wielding lances and swords and great hammers, laying about them at all they encountered. I had seen war before, had seen slaughter, but this… who were they? I stood transfixed, staring as they swept closer, until one of the women peeked out from the hut and shrieked to her children to run and hide.

I found myself running, desperate to find Att and the children, my hands aching for my sling or a spear, anything I could use to fight. They moved up the hill, slowly now, more methodical as the men in the village began to fight, lunging at the riders with whatever was at hand. I saw a rider go down, swarmed by farmers with shovels and forks, and then heard an ululating scream—Att! I turned towards the sound in time to see a rider turn the corner and bear down on me, raising a giant hammer for a looping swing. I ducked low and scraped up a handful of dirt, tossing it at his face as I slipped inside his swing, nearly getting caught under his mount. He cursed and spat, rubbing at his face as he furiously heeled his horse, turning to come at me again.

Lunging forward I managed to make a turn around a hut, then dashed along the wall until I reached my own dwelling where our spears were laid up against the outside wall. Desperately wishing for my darriz, I seized up the largest spear I could reach and turned as the rider again swept around the corner of the row of huts, casting about, looking for me.

“Red! No!” Att screamed as I stepped away from the wall and set myself to throw. The rider spied me, laughed as he wheeled his horse and lunged towards me, his hammer high as he prepared to swing down on me, while his left hand clutched the reins, presenting his small shield against what he obviously thought was the very small danger of my throwing the spear. He did not see a woman as a real threat.

The man died when I dropped to one knee and planted the butt of my weapon firmly on the ground, guiding the point towards the right side of his belly and letting his own momentum impale him. The spear stuck in the ground and lifted him out of his saddle, turning him over. His head crashed to the ground, and I heard his skull and neck break as he died. I was buffeted aside as his horse shied past me, but I rolled to my feet and turned just in time to see another rider, and another hammer whistling towards my head. I turned and began to duck—but then I saw nothing more.

Consciousness was pain. My head ached, my side burned, and thirst and hunger warred inside me for primacy. I was trapped beneath something, and as I forced my eyes to open I understood that somebody was on top of me.

“Get off!” I gasped, but the person was not moving. I began to push, struggling out from underneath…them. The bodies had been gathered and tossed in a rude pile in the center of the village. The reek of blood and death and fire was overwhelming, and as I crawled free of the bodies I saw the smoldering ruin of the village, all the dwellings and outbuildings reduced to charred mounds.

It had all happened so fast, so suddenly, so unexpectedly, I could barely think. I was too weak to stand, and all I knew was that the well was nearby and I desperately needed water. My head ached horribly and my limbs protested, resisting the urge to move, but ever so slowly I managed to crawl to the well, pulling myself up so I was leaning against it. I rested there, gathering my strength, when I heard something off to my left.

“Utha?”

The voice startled me, even though it was so small, so frightened. I turned towards it, too exhausted, and feeling too much pain, to react strongly. But then joy flickered in me as I finally recognized him: Att’s son, Attuz. He was peering at me from behind a stone wall that backed on the forest above the village.

“Attuz!” I croaked, my tongue thick and dry, “Attuz… help me. Water…”

He came over the wall, wary, but eager to see anyone he knew still alive. He drew a bucket of water from the well for me, I drank greedily, the sweet taste of it coursing through me. The sickening ache in my belly began to subside. The effect was almost instantaneous. I could feel strength returning to my limbs, my thoughts clearing, although I suddenly felt hungry. I reached up to feel the aching wound at the back of my head, and felt encrusted blood mixed in with my hair as I probed the tenderness.

“Attuz, is anyone else here? Is anyone alive?”

“No… Hild and Tokiz were with me up in the trees, but they went home just before… before…”

Hild and Tokiz were Attuz’s cousins. I managed to get to my feet and drew another bucket of water, using it to wash the blood and filth from my body and hair.

“Your father?” I finally asked, but my heart knew the likely answer. Attuz’s eight-year-old face turned solemn and he shrugged.

“I haven’t seen him,” he said, sounding lost and frightened. “What are we going to do?”

“We can’t stay here, they may come back through. We’ll see if we can find anything useful, then we go. That way,” I pointed south, into the wilderness. Attuz looked uncertain at the thought, but he nodded. Together we started searching through the ravaged village, gathering together anything useful that we could carry, mostly tools and knives. The riders had stolen almost everything of value, but useful scraps and overlooked items were still to be found.

While he was off scouring one of the burnt-out barns, I went to the pile of bodies and started searching for Att. Finally, I found him, his body battered and bloody, with wounds on his arms and through his chest. He had died fighting.

I dragged him free of the pile and straightened his limbs, then paused to stare at his face. As I closed his wide, staring eyes, I felt something very small, like the collarbone of a tiny bird, snap inside me.

Then I felt nothing.

I started picking through the other bodies looking for salvageable clothing or tools. I found Herdiz, her young face almost peaceful despite the pallor of death upon her. Her neck was broken and I straightened her head as I laid her beside her father. I continued my searching, but there was very, very little. I collected anything leather or metal. I could sort through it later. I had just finished piling it all together when Attuz returned to the well.

“Look what I found!” he exclaimed, holding high two loaves of the bread I had helped to bake that now felt like an age ago. “There’s more in the bag, too. Some of it was burnt, but most of it was sitting on the sill outside the…” He stopped when he saw his father and sister stretched out on the ground. After a moment he set down the things he had found and walked over to where the bodies lay, falling to his knees. I took to wrapping up the things we would take with us, forcing myself to ignore the rumbling in my belly as the scent of the bread reached me, trying hard to feel something, anything, as I listened to the boy quietly weeping.

When I was ready I stepped up behind him, standing over Att’s body. I reached down and took his hand, drawing him to his feet. We stood together, regarding his father and sister.

Attuz looked up at me, his face passive, and then he stared away into the sky. I squeezed his hand, and looked down at the body of his father.

We stood silently for a bit longer. Then I let go of Attuz’s hand, pulled out my knife, and reached up to my scalp. Roughly, wincing a bit at the pain still in my skull, I severed my braid. Bending down, I put it into Att’s lifeless hand, closing his fingers about it, then straightened back up.

“Good bye, Att," I said.

“It isn't fair," the boy said, his voice breaking.

“No. It isn't fair," I said. I took his hand again, and shook it a little. He looked up at me. "It is never fair, Attuz," I said, looking into his eyes. "Never." I felt almost nothing, but it seemed important that he understand this.

He nodded. We stood silently contemplating for one last moment, then I handed him the sack full of bread he had found, and took up my pack.

Together we walked south into the forest. We never looked back.

===============

Methuselah's Daughter, A Novel

Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

--------------------

Circa 1100 B.C., somewhere near Scandinavia

It was an odd sort of acceptance I had found, and not at all the way I had thought I might. In recent years it was as if a fog had begun to lift from my mind, but as that fog cleared I found only desolation around me. I found myself in just another village, just another clan, or so it seemed. These new people were farmers mostly, and were more prosperous than others I had seen in recent years. I had come to them in a trade, thrown in almost as an after-thought to seal a deal. The winters had been growing more harsh, the summers less productive, and my old clan was cutting away whatever it could not use. At least they had liked me enough to keep me through spring.

I started in this new clan in almost the worst possible situation: I was still orjan, an outsider, but no one owned me, and no one was responsible for my well-being. Instead I was merely the property of the village and expected to make the best of it I could. So as was usually the case, a strong back, eager hands and a willingness to lie down on demand meant I would not starve or freeze, but I had no place at all of my own. Decade after decade of living like that had me despondent, and I had begun wondering, for the first time, why anything mattered to me.

It was worse than being in a rut. It had been like this for me for four hundred winters or more, and I had only just begun to notice, to think on, the oddness of that. But my actions were still almost all automatic, driven towards offending no one and otherwise being seen as useful. I could see problems coming and I would do my best to bend circumstances in my favor, but that in itself caused problems, for some would see me as too manipulative and everyone saw me as aloof and strange. I had to balance the danger that represented against the danger of becoming too comfortable with my surroundings.

Then along came Att.

His real name was Attaz, but no one called him that. He was a lanky one, with pale skin, black hair he kept in a knot, and flinty gray eyes. He was respected amongst the men, desired by the women, but strange in his own way. He had had a mate who bore him a son, Attuz, and a daughter, Herdhiz, before dying in labor with their third child.

Att was often a hunt leader, but he sometimes set out on solitary jaunts as well, ranging for long days on his own, usually returning with something, but sometimes with very little. To others his wanderings seemed random, but I could always tell when he was going to set out. There was a restlessness about him that would grow as days amongst his people stretched into weeks, until he finally would pack up his gear in the evening, and disappear into the wilderness before dawn the next morning, returning after a week or more with at least his peace of mind restored.

I had made a habit of watching Att’s comings and goings all spring, for when he set out his sister would have his children to care for, which meant there might be some easier labor for me in helping her. She was friendlier than some of the other women, her light brown hair framing an open face that matched her open manner. So when I showed up outside her dwelling that morning I was expecting Att to be gone, and the possibility that she might need my help.

“Good morning, Red,” he greeted me at the door, giving me a very slight smile, but with his face otherwise impassive.

I was startled. He had never so much as spoken to me before. “I... My name is Utha,” I managed to say, “I was looking for…”

“My sister, I know. Not today. Today, you come with me.”

My heart sank for a moment as I wondered what I had done wrong, thinking that he meant to turn me out into the wilderness; however, there was no malice in him that I could see. He stood from his crouch by the door and hefted a pack, pointing to another like it on the ground.

“Pick it up,” he said, “unless you’d rather stay here?” His manner seemed gruff, but oddly so, almost as if he was testing me. I opened my mouth and shut it. “Well?” he asked.

Then before I realized I had made up my mind I was lifting the heavy pack and following him as he set off across the green. We paused long enough for me to gather my small knife, a blanket, and my few other meager belongings from the shed I had been sleeping in. Then we turned east for the forest. Many were the curious eyes upon our backs.

We passed in silence for some time, and then stopped in the midmorning for water and a brief meal of bread and fruit.

“‘Utha, huh?” he mused as we ate. I nodded. “I don’t like it. Sounds like a boy’s name,” he said, his face still characteristically expressionless. He didn’t look at me much.

“It can be either,” I said, nervously.

He grunted noncommittally. “I like 'Red' better," he said. I nodded; people had changed my name before, and I was used to this. "Anyway,” he went on, “it’s a full day’s walk to my favorite camp. We won’t get there until sundown.” He paused, remembering. “We have to range further these days to where hunting is better, it’s not so good like it was when I was a boy. So I hope you like walking.”

“That’s a long way to go on your own,” I noted with surprise, “what would you do if you were injured?”

“Hasn’t happened yet,” he grinned, “and I’m not alone, am I?”

There it was again, that look in his eyes, like he was laughing at me a little, but he was not. I stayed silent as we ate and then returned to walking. I was not afraid of him; rather I was somewhat confused. Att had always seemed to want to get away from people and men usually only brought women along when they were making a special hunting trip, in a large party. So why bring me? That he was enjoying my company was clear for he continued to talk as we traveled. I listened with only half my head, trying to make some sense out of his motives. They were not at all clear. If he had wanted sex, there was no need for this, for no man had claimed me. Then he said something that stopped me in my tracks.

“What?”

“You remind me of me,” he repeated, looking over his shoulder, “always watching other people, trying to see what they want.”

This dumbfounded me. Dumbfounded, and amused.

“Now that’s interesting,” he said, stopping and turning to face me. “This has to be the first time I’ve ever seen you smile.” I simply stared at him, trying to read what was behind his face, hiding in that impenetrable grin. “And there you go again,” he sighed, shaking his head, “What’s the matter with you, Red? You’re always so glum. But I watch you, and I see you watching everything and everyone. I think if I wanted to know about anyone in the village I could ask you and you’d have something to tell me. But you don’t say anything. You just watch, and you try to be good. And you’re always sad. Why?”

I did not know how to answer that. No one had ever asked me a question like that. Att kept watching me, waiting for an answer. What surprised me even more than the question he had asked, was how desperately I wanted to answer him. It caught in my chest like a hot pain and I felt tears rising, but I had to force them back. What could I say to him?

“Some people are just born to be sad, I guess,” I finally managed to say. I started walking again, hoping that he would just let it go, while at the same time hoping he would not.

“Kind of tough, I guess,” he agreed, falling in beside me, “being barren and all, with no family. Do you miss them?”

“Who? My family? I… I don’t remember ever having a family.”

“Hmm,” he muttered, mulling it over as we walked. Then he said, “I still don’t get it. You’re young, and you’re strong, and good-looking. You could still make a place for yourself if you tried. But you just stay on the outside, moping.”

“I’m not so young,” I shot back without thinking. “I’m older than I look. A lot older.”

I regretted that as soon as I said it, but he seemed to accept it easily, and his attitude actually brightened, if that was possible.

“You know, the way you watch things, I think you’d make a good hunter.”

“Really?” I laughed, genuinely amused now, “Me? A hunter?”

“Sure. Like I said, you see stuff, and you’re patient—I’ve seen that, too. Ever used a sling before?”

“No…” I said, thinking. “I’ve used a cudgel. I can drop a rabbit with one on a good day. I got a bird once.”

“If you can do that, you’d be a natural with a sling. Want to learn?”

The idea did not just appeal to me, it astounded me. I looked over at him and I could see he was absolutely serious.

“If you’re offering to teach me…”

“We’ll get started in the morning,” he said, and with that he set out at a brisk pace I was hard-pressed to match. I continued to be astonished by this man, although I was beginning to see why the women of the village all thought so well of him.

After we found his favorite camp spot late that afternoon I busied myself building a fire in the same spot he had obviously used before, while he disappeared into the woods. Some hours later, in the evening twilight, he returned with three fat rabbits. I busied myself preparing them, and fed him some of the nuts I had found while he was away.

That night as I spooned against his back, I was surprised again as he seemed simply to wish to sleep.

The next morning, he was up and gone again before dawn. When he returned the mid-morning sun was poking out from behind the clouds, and his face was sour.

“Almost got a doe, but she was too clever for me this time,” he said, dropping his spear carrier. “Maybe tomorrow. So, are you ready now?” He looked at me inquisitively, and I nodded, eagerly.

He smiled, and pulled a long buckskin sling from his belt, and pulled out several large pebbles from his belt sack.

“Now, watch me,” he said, holding the two ends of the sling in three-fingered fashion, and demonstrating how to let go of one side but not the other. Then he placed one of the larger pebbles from his left hand into the sling, turned sideways to me, and pointed to a tree some 30 paces away.

“Now watch carefully,” he said.

Staring at the tree, he began to twirl the sling in an overhand motion, faster and faster, until it began to almost whistle. Stepping forward, he threw out his arm, and with a loud ‘crack!’ the rock hit the trunk of the oak. Bark flew from a spot directly in its center, and a patch of white wood the size of a man’s thumb was revealed. He grinned at me.

“I don't think I can do something like that,” I said, nervously.

“Perhaps not,” he said. “But let us see what you can do. Here,” he said, and walked closer to the tree. I followed until we were perhaps 10 paces away from the tree. “We’ll start you with an underhand throw. That’s probably easier for girls anyway.” He showed me again how to hold the sling in my hand, and made me practice letting go of only one side.

“Now,” he said, “This is very important, Red. You must look at your target. I want you to look at that tree, and concentrate on making the rock hit the tree. Spin the sling like this,” he said, twirling his hand in an underhand motion. “But remember, keep your arm out sideways, like this,” he said, gesturing. “And look at the tree until you step forward and let go.”

Determined now, I straightened my back and concentrated very hard upon the tree trunk. I inserted the rock, holding the sling ends carefully in my fingers, and then began to twirl it in the same underhanded motion as he had shown me. As I began to twirl, the rock caught my eye, and I followed its motion around once, then twice.

“Hey don’t…!” he said, as I saw the end of the sling come toward my eyes.

As the spots cleared, I found myself staring at white clouds in a clear blue sky, my ears ringing. The sound of his merry laughter filled the air, and I sat up, groaning.

“Are you all right?” he said, his voice still laughing a little. But as I looked at him, I saw genuine concern. I nodded, and rubbed my forehead.

”You’ll never make much of a boy,” he said, his grin broadening.

To my shock I felt my blood quicken, and without thinking I said. “Yes I might!”

His friendly laugh barked out again, and I heard myself laugh a bit too. “So you haven’t had enough of this foolishness?” he asked.

I shook my head, and stood up, a little wobbly, but determined.

“Very well, Gloomy Red. Once again. Arm out like so. Now you look at the tree. Not at the rock.” He grinned again. “We don’t look at the rock, right?” I nodded, and grinned back at him foolishly. I suddenly knew why all the women in the village loved him.

“So we turn the sling like so, looking at the target…” he went on.

And thus began the greatest summer of the first 400 years of my existence.

We spent five days in the wilds together. All that first day I practiced with the sling, as he patiently watched. To his surprise, I experimented throwing overhand as well as underhand, but soon found that I preferred to twirl the sling over my head best of all. He seemed a bit chagrined that his advice about throwing underhand was wrong, and I did not let him see my small grin. He seemed content mostly to patiently watch me, letting me find my own way, giving me only a little advice. He also spent some time showing me how to find good wood for a spear, and how to sharpen the end and harden it in the fire for a crude weapon, and how to fix a precious bronze point to it. I mostly knew how to do this anyway, but I let him show me as if I did not, and to teach me the things about the craft I had never paid attention to before, such as the best ways to hold it against a charging beast. He seemed impressed with how quickly I picked up everything he told me, for I absorbed everything with a single-minded eagerness.

The next morning, while he was away, I surprised myself by spotting and killing a squirrel at nearly 25 paces, and then another only a little closer. I felt a thrill that was almost sexual at this minor accomplishment, and beamed with foolish pride when he returned empty-handed that morning.

“Haha, not much meat on a squirrel, but we can make a good stew for breakfast with them,” he said. I nodded, and set about doing exactly that. “Well,” he said, “you are a most impressive young boy. Perhaps I should teach you how to move silently in the woods today, eh?”

And so after our breakfast, he began to do exactly that. He again seemed impressed by how quickly I picked up some of the tricks of it and, although I did not master it immediately, he said I would probably only need a few months of practice before I was an expert. I didn’t tell him, but I had learned some of it before from watching and listening other men speak of it in the past, and from times when the more nomadic clans I had sometimes been with needed to sneak quietly through dangerous areas. My smaller, lighter frame also made some of it easier for me. Bare feet helped as well, as my soles were already fairly tough, and minor cuts never bothered me and always healed quickly.

As the days passed I got to know him fairly well. He sensed early on that I did not like to talk about myself, so he spoke of his life, his family, and his philosophy. He didn't like people much, preferred to commune silently with nature. But when he spoke of his dead wife, I always saw a small pain in him, and I could tell he missed her: she had been his best friend and a good mother, which made her loss all the more troubling for him. The Chief was after him to marry again, and there were two or three marriageable-aged girls in the village that would be suitable. Or he might find one at the next clan gathering this summer.

At night he would not touch me, and I was surprised at how disappointing I found that. Normally it would have been a bit of a relief, but he was terribly attractive to me, and treated me with a respect I was unused to. Still, I understood it. Clearly the memory of his wife still bothered him, and I knew that some older men had no interest in bothering with barren women anyway.

Our third evening together at the camp site, he told me he would take me hunting with him in the morning, to help flush game toward him, and also began teaching me the sign language his people used for hunting. It was just the basic gestures to begin: prey there, stop, freeze, down, hide, danger, run, kill. I did my best to follow and obey his every word, and that first morning we nearly got a deer from a small herd, but I was too impatient and spooked them. I was mortified, but he was patient.

“Do not worry, Red,” he said, his eyes grave. “Have you learned a lesson?” I nodded, my face still hot with shame.

The next morning, I helped flush a small herd toward him, and he speared a doe that ran past him. It kept going, even though wounded, so he also began teaching me how to track a wounded animal. Within in hour we found it, and killed it, and I felt a thrill just watching him finish the prey. I spent the day helping him to dress the carcass there at our campsite, and cooking some of it so we could enjoy the meat’s freshness. We would go home in the morning, but I had never felt so alive in my entire life as I did that day.

“They’ll be happy to see us at home,” he said. “This is a fine fat doe. And you,” he said, grinning, “are a fine young hunting companion.” I just nodded, beaming at him, my heart nearly bursting with pride. My blood sang, and I tingled to my fingers and toes.
I was something. For once I felt like I was something, like I actually mattered.

The next morning we set off back to the village, taking turns carrying the meat. He seemed surprised that I was strong enough to carry most of it for long stretches without complaint. When we finally reached the village near dusk there was the usual small celebration that came with Att’s return: his sister and her husband, the children, a few of the neighbors. We cooked more of the organs and meat, sucked the bones, and ate some garden vegetables and a little bread, along with the beer Att’s sister made for such occasions. The chief also stopped by to take Att aside for a few minutes, speaking privately of the affairs of men with him, and taking the usual haunch for his own family. Att and the chief apparently had an understanding. They both glanced at me a few times as they talked, their voices low and serious. Att shook his head a few times, which made me a bit worried, but I said nothing.

Then a dozen or so adults, with a scattered handful of children and old people, sat around the fire. We sang songs, then Att told the tales of our hunts, and of teaching me, while I sat silently, embarrassed. One of the neighbor women, still youngish for a matron, came over and struck up a conversation with me, telling me how she used to hunt sometimes with her father, and how she still liked to travel as a porter with the men now and then, sometimes helping them to flush out game and such, now that her children were getting a bit older. She told me I was lucky to find such a friend in Att. In her eyes, I saw something I had not seen in a very long time in someone looking at me: respect. I chatted with her a bit awkwardly, not sure how to respond, and asked her about some of her adventures, eager to learn more about the hunting arts. Most of the tribes I had been with either rarely hunted and never thought me worth bringing along on such trips, or never brought women along at all.

As we talked, I watched Att from a distance as he played with his children, drank his sister’s beer, and chatted amiably with others. I noticed a young girl, perhaps 15, hovering around him and flirting. He had mentioned a neighbor girl whose parents were after him as a mate for her. She was cute, buxom in her young sexuality, and she caught his eye a few times. He smiled and joked with her, while her parents watched quietly. He was over 10 years her senior, but still young and strong, and a proven father and provider. I felt a tiny twinge of pointless jealousy, but a much deeper feeling of happiness. I could think of nothing better than a beautiful young wife for this fine man.

Before things became too quiet, while others were still enjoying themselves, I left and retired to the goat shed I had been sleeping in since first arriving in the village. Att was still playing with his children, and I wanted to be gone before one of the young men came looking for me. As I stretched out on my stomach, shooing the animals away, I lay for a while with a wistful smile on my face, then snuggled with the warm straw and my even warmer memories. Att had promised to bring me with him again some time, and I lingered upon the glory that was that week spent learning with him. I had never felt more alive, and just remembering it all felt almost as wonderful as living through it.

Such a gift this man had given me. I pondered how I would use it, find time to practice what he had taught me, and watch for other chances to learn. I planned how I might make my own spear tomorrow, even if I knew others might laugh at me.

I heard a rustle at the gate, and with a resigned sigh I realized one of the young men had probably decided to come after me for the night. I was still village property after all, and had my role to play. But I kept still, hoping perhaps he would think I was not there.

“Hey Red, you in there?” a man’s voice called quietly, and my heart leapt. I scrambled to my feet and ran to the gate of the pen. He was relaxed and a bit drunk from beer and exhaustion, his shirt hanging half-open. The full moon bathed his face in a soft glow as he squinted at me. Tousled and smelling of beer and sweat and cooked meat, he seemed more glorious there in that moonlight than ever. I felt an urge almost to worship him.

“What, you tired already?” he asked, his voice slurring a little. I shook my head, though my mouth seemed locked. I did not want him to leave, but I could not think of what to say. “You hunt good,” he said. “I think I’ll take you with us next time we form a party. The Chief’s after me to take a group again soon, says the spring planting's done and people are getting tired of just bread and nuts for now. I don’t think the guys will mind if you tag along. You can be a porter, and learn a bit with the other boys.” He grinned at me, and I grinned back. “Guess I should call you Utha, huh?”

“You may call me whatever you like,” I said. “Utha was what my last clan named me.”

“Huh. No family at all with them, huh?” I shook my head. “No father or mother or anyone else?” I shook my head. “No family here wants take you in either, eh?”

“Young women don’t usually want me around their men,” I said. “I would be happy to help a family that would let me stay with them, and would never try to take the man, but…” my voice trailed off.

He looked at me, sharply. “You wouldn’t, huh?”

“No, no, a few times families have taken me in and I have always respected the boundaries expected of me. Always." I said it firmly. "If a family were to take me in, I would know my place," I said, hoping he would catch my hint. He scratched at his beard and just kept staring at me. “I work with all the families now a little though,” I said, a little embarrassed. “I take care of the goat pen for the chief’s family and help everyone else when I can. I like hunting!” I said, changing the subject. “A whole lot, and if that can make me more valuable, that would make me very happy,”

He smirked. “You try to please everybody, huh?” he asked.

My throat caught a little, and he noticed. “I want only to fit in, not make trouble. I want to be valuable to everyone.”

He grunted. “You’ll never be valued by everyone,” he said, cryptically. “But my sister says the kids around here all like you, even my brats.”

“I like almost all the children here, and your sister is very good with yours.”

He grunted again. “You always have something good to say about everyone, don’t you?” he said, staring at me. I was not sure how to respond, but he yawned and stretched his broad shoulders. “We’ll probably get a group party going out in a few days, they’ve all been waiting for me to get back and the chief’s getting impatient with me again,” he said, rambling a bit and repeating himself. I nodded eagerly. “Well you go on and sleep well with your goats.” He stared at me, expressionless, for several moments longer, and I began to shift uncomfortably, uncertain how to respond to his dismissal. I moved back toward the wooden shed and straw bedding I normally slept in.

When I looked back, I could see his broad shoulders and strong arms moving as he walked away. I lay down to sleep, planning to enjoy dreaming of the hunt—and a bit of him. I thought of the young girl who had been flirting with him that evening around the fire, and smiled again. I hoped that she got what she wanted and that the next few years would be good to watch.

The next morning I awoke before dawn, as the chief’s youngest son took the goats out to graze. As I shook off my sleep, I was still glowing from my recent adventure, and my blood sang with the hope for another like it. While I had been away, however, the village children had tended the pen only halfheartedly, so I had some mending and cleaning to do before going off to see if I could beg some breakfast from the Chief’s wife. I imagined she might be more generous this morning, since I had contributed to Att’s recent hunt.

“Good morning, Utha,” a young man’s voice called, with a mocking tone. My heart sank a little and my shoulders dropped a bit, resigned. It was the chief’s nephew Ghraniz again. He really should have been married by now, but his parents had not chosen a proper mate for him yet, and so he sometimes liked to visit me when he was feeling frisky. As usual, he had his two younger cousins with him.
This was nothing new, but it was a bit disappointing, after the last week, to find myself back in these whelps’ company.

I nodded, gave him a halfhearted smile, and said, “Well, let’s get to it, then.” He followed me as I moved toward the rain shelter next to the shed. “I’d like to find some breakfast soon. Could you help find me some?” I asked, putting a little wheedle in my voice.

He smirked. “Maybe,” he said. I thanked him as he pulled open my blouse. He started fondling me, and I hiked up my skirt a bit for him as his cousins watched. I closed my eyes. I didn’t mind this sort of thing, but I was not really in the mood. I tried to disconnect my mind as he pawed at me eagerly. This would not take long, anyway.

Suddenly he yelped, and I felt him pull away from me. Snapping my eyes open, I saw him standing on the balls of his feet, waving his arms.

“Hey, hey, I didn’t do anything!” he yelled.

Att was holding him by his hair, right in the middle of the pen, practically lifting him off the ground. But Att was staring at me.

“What in blazes are you doing?” he roared.

Stunned and frightened, I shrank back and closed my blouse, unsure what to say. Was it not obvious?

“No fair, I got here first!” yelled Ghraniz, sparing me from answering. “I’ll tell Wulthuz!”

Att turned his head, forcing the boy’s eyes toward his. “Bah!” he yelled. Then he practically threw the young man to the ground. He turned to me, his eyes seething. I had never seen him like this, and was genuinely frightened. I thought he might beat me. But then he calmed slightly, and his voice lowered slightly, but sounded dangerous. “What in blazes have you been doing, Utha?”

Frightened, I noticed Ghraniz staring angrily at me over Att’s shoulder. He was the chief’s nephew, and I could not afford to have him angry with me. Thinking quickly, I said, “Please, Att, he hasn’t done anything wrong, he’s a good man. If I’ve done something to make you angry, it’s not his fault. He was just maybe going to help me find some breakfast.”

From the middle of the pen, Ghraniz said, “Yeah, breakfast!”

“Was just going to….!” He stopped, and looked around. Then he looked at me again. His eyes were cold, expressionless. “You sleep in the goat pen,” he said, his voice expressionless. “You keep it clean, you beg for work and food, and you bend over on command. That’s your life,” he said. “You have no one and are nothing.” He said it flatly, but his eyes looked angry. I noticed we were attracting the attention of the other villagers, and that he was loudly saying things that everyone knew.

“Att,” I said. My heart was racing wildly because I could not think what to say to placate him. Stepping toward him awkwardly, I said, “if you want me this morning first….”

He pushed me away, and I had to stop myself from falling. “You are very stupid, do you know that?” He said it very loudly. Then he whirled around. “Get the hell out of here!” he yelled to the young men, who all scrambled as he stomped away. As I watched his back leaving, I noticed that more villagers were staring, watching from a distance. Att never acted like this.

“What did you do Utha?” called one of the women who had gathered to watch the scene.

“I told you she was crazy,” I heard one of the older men tell her.

Ashamed of the attention, unsure what to do, I scrambled back into the shed and hid in the straw. My mouth tasted of ashes. I did not want to be turned out, but I began to think I understood. Att’s unexpected interest in me, taking me away from the village for a week with no explanation, his conversations with the chief…

Likely I was an unwitting party to some game Att and others were playing, some power struggle involving the Chief or some such. I was to be scapegoated, the public spectacle giving them some pretense. I wondered vaguely what woman was involved, since one usually was. Perhaps that one who had spoken to me the night before? None of this was really new to me; I had been used in such ways before. I was just angry with myself for not watching more carefully, seeing whatever it was before it came. Grimly, I began making plans. At least this time I would be turned out with something more, with skills I had been foolish not to begin learning sooner.

I wiped my eyes, pressed down my emotions, and smiled grimly. Yes. I had faced worse, and now I had learned new, useful things, including useful things about myself. Perhaps before I was gone I could think of a thing or two to hurt their plans, whatever they were. Who all were involved, what woman was behind this? Men were not usually so clever on their own unless…

"Utha," Att called loudly again from outside, startling my reverie.

I stood up, straightened my shoulders, and poked my head out. I kept my face passive, for I would display no sign of fear or guilt.

“Gather your things. All of them. And come out here.”

I did as ordered, keeping my face impassive. I was a bit surprised to notice the chief, his woman, and a few of the other elders of the clan there, but was relieved that they did not look ready to beat me. I resolved to say nothing and merely calculate until I could find my best advantage—whether to say something, to run, or to quietly do as ordered. I kept my emotions at bay. Remembering everything he and that neighbor woman had said, I knew now I had missed something I should not have, but would watch for what I could say or do to at least rob them of some small piece of their spoils.

As I walked out the gate he grabbed me a bit roughly by the arm, and savaged my mouth with a kiss. Still holding my arm, he turned to the chief’s woman, and said, “Do you have any objections?”

She looked a bit dubious, but said, “It's your choice, Att.” Att then looked to the chief, who gave him a perplexed but resigned shrug.

Then Att turned and said, “Anyone else object?” No one said anything, and most turned back to their tasks.

He then marched me through the center of town, his hand holding my upper arm, as I stared at the ground in frustration. Apparently I was not even to be told what was happening, or why. We stopped, suddenly, and I was surprised to find we were in front of his hut.

He relinquished my arm and said, “Go on inside.” His voice was much quieter, and I began to get nervous. I considered running, but thought the better of it. No point in being chased down in broad daylight.

I had never been in his hut before. It was one of the smaller but nicer ones in the village, with a fresh thatched roof, and a few wooden walls with skins sealing off three rooms. A fire pit with a small stone chimney and a few nice pots stood in one corner, and there was a wood table in the center with a few utensils on it.

He turned me to face him. “Never had a family?” he asked.

Numbly, I said, “No, though I’ve lived with a few…” My voice trialed off, as my mind recalculated. “I can cook for you, I’d be honored to help you…”

“You want a family?” he said, gruffly.

“What?”

“I want you to be my woman,” he said, flatly. “If you’ll have me.”

My mind reeled, and my knees went weak. This was wrong. Some few men had made this mistake a few times in the past before learning I was.... But this man… I could not think. As my head went light he caught me, and sat me at his table. My mind replayed everything that had happened this morning, and I felt as if this could not be real.

“Att,” I started. “Att, I can’t give you…”

“I don’t care. I have children, and I’ve lost one woman enough that way anyway.” He paused. “I’ve also got my sister’s kids. But you can help me with mine, since they like you.”

“But Att, that girl, she’d be better for you.” I said, my head still spinning, almost not hearing myself speak. "If you take her, I can help you…”

“I don’t want her. I want you. I like to hunt, like to be away, and most women don’t understand that. But a huntress-wife will do me just fine,” he said. “Though sometimes you can stay here with my kids if you want.”

I just stared at him, uncomprehending. This had never, no man had ever… but he stood up and pulled aside the cloth to one of the rooms.

“The children, they sleep here. They’ll join us tomorrow night. You and I,” he said, pointing to another of the hut’s divisions, “We sleep in there.” Then he walked to the fire pit, turned toward me, and pointed to it with his open hand.

“This is yours now,” he said.

In his clan the woman owned the family fire pit. A lump grew in my throat, and I had difficulty breathing. I tried to stand, but faltered. My hands started shaking.

He smiled softly, and came back to sit next to me. “In our tribe, when a woman becomes a man’s wife,” he said, stretching out a hand to touch one curl that drifted over my left brow, “she braids her hair, so the other men will all know to leave her alone, and the other women will respect her territory.” As his finger trailed gently down my cheek, I could only nod in acknowledgment. I knew this.

“Utha, will you braid your hair for me?” he asked, softly.

My heart leapt like a small rabbit caught in a trap. Fear bound me, as it had kept me for so many centuries. As I tipped my head down, I pushed at my mental bonds and slowly wrapped my fingers into my thick, auburn hair. The strands were tangled, and my hands began to tremble, making things worse.

Att's hand cupped my chin, gently forcing me to look once more into his eyes of flint. In that instant I wrapped my arms tightly about him, mirroring the prison of my own heart. I could smell the earth in his skin, the fires of his people in his hair, and I could feel the softness of his children in his hands that ran down my back.

“Att, you don't know what you are doing, please, you can't do this,” my entire body shuddered as I whispered so softly I could barely hear my own voice, "You don't know...”

"I do know, and I just did." His voice rumbled in his chest like the thunder of a distant storm. Slowly we stood; me clinging to him as though I were hanging off the edge of a cliff. Firmly but tenderly, Att spun me so my back was to him. "Let me help,” he said.

From the table he took a comb of shell, and pulled it through my hair with infinite patience. I stood as each knot was replaced with smooth strands that crackled with electricity. My hair fell to the middle of my back and as the comb reached the bottom of that first stubborn lock, my body shook once more, but no longer with fear. Within my mind the bonds that had held me for so long shattered. A part of me screamed that I should stop this, but I ignored it. With a grateful sigh I heard myself mouth the words, “Thank you,” but I wasn’t sure I made a sound. Att's lips brushed across my hair until they touched the edge of my ear, and a thrill of electricity ran through my body. Then he gently cupped my breast and squeezed before returning his attention to my hair.

Time stood still for me as Att divided my hair and plaited it. I'm sure I never once took a breath. With each and every curl tamed by the ritual, my heart became calmer but my soul steadily more aroused, until I could no longer stay where I was. Turning, I slipped my arms around his body and lifted my lips to his. My face, my teeth, my tongue tingled. The first kiss was harsh; of anger, desire, hunger and need. Then the second; more subtle as our lips brushed lightly, like explorers taking that first hesitant step onto a new land. I felt as if I were floating.

"You are mine," he said. This was both a proclamation and an order. His hands undressed me, with deliberation. As each piece of clothing fell to the ground, his hands stroked each curve. When I was completely naked, I felt a blush course through me and felt a tiny particle of panic threatening to rise up— but why? Naked I had been many times, but I felt truly vulnerable with him. Yet before I could say or do anything, Att took my hands into his. It was clear I was to do for him what he had done for me.

I began with his shirt, untying the leather laces and opening the shirt. Once my fingers got in their own way, but he caught them up and kissed each fingertip and set my hands back to their task.

"Say it," he urged and I stared up into his eyes. At first I didn't understand, but then, I spoke.

“You are... mine,” I whispered. It was as though lightning struck, and there was nothing in the universe but he and me. Together we embraced, desire suffusing both of us. It felt like I couldn't breathe, but then, I didn't want to. Att could breathe for me.

The bed was beneath our bodies before I even realized it, but suddenly, I pushed him off of me and back against the soft straw. He looked surprised, but I needed to touch him, to explore—and, quietly, he let me. I'd never done this before, taking to my own curiosity with such abandon. My fingernails tickled the softness in his elbows and behind his knees. I playfully nipped at him, luxuriating in tasting his saltiness. When, at last, our bodies came together, the Earth was swept into swirling madness and time stood still as we became one. I closed my eyes, and shrieked my pleasure to the skies.

For the first time in my life, I felt I was truly alive.

====================

Methuselah's Daughter, A Novel

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

—[Begin Journal entry]—

25 November 2004 (Thanksgiving)

The windows are dark when I awaken, and the clock on my bed stand says 03:02 in glowing red letters. To my great surprise, I realize that I must have slept through the entire day since early afternoon. I do not even remember the quiet interruptions of the nurses, measuring my blood pressure, and noting the other useless numbers they are required to collect every few hours. This both disturbs and pleases me; disturbs me that I should have been so unaware of my surroundings, but pleases me because I have not slept so soundly since first awakening last week from the coma. With guilty pleasure, I realize that I feel more refreshed than I have in many days, and far more calm—though it may well be the calm before the proverbial storm, I am content to enjoy it for now.

I am rested, and I am leaving. Indecision, at least, no longer plagues me.

“So now you will not even let us examine you? Not even another x-ray to make sure…” he had asked me, incredulous.

“No. I am so sorry, but I have had enough of being poked and prodded. You are a good and wise man, but you may not touch me.”

“But you could at least show me again the wounds, for if there is an infection you might…”

“You are a fine doctor, truly. But I have no infection. You may continue to monitor me if you really must, but only to be sure I remain stable. That is all.”

“You still will not consent to at least talk to the oncologist, the cancer doctor? He has thoughts he wishes to share with you, questions he would like to ask you, maybe it would not be so bad like you think, things perhaps can be done that would not….” But then his voice trailed off. He wanted desperately to help me, and the look of defeat was heartbreaking.

“No.”

His face, normally an impressive and impassive mask, finally cracked.

“You do not even need us, do you?” It came out a little hoarse. He is a man from a nation still plagued by shamans and witch doctors, superstition and demonology, and has worked his whole life to accept the ways of Western science and rationalism. But he can no longer deny what he saw on the weekend’s MRIs and x-rays, or the rapid healing of my surgical wounds that had so astonished him when I last consented to his examination. He now finally allowed himself to sense why I would not let him see, and drew the conclusion his deepest childhood memories would force him to consider. His look betrayed a fear that I had not seen in many years, one that in a just world would never have marred his face: she is a witch.

When he turned and left without another word, I cursed myself. I curse myself again when I remember. It cannot be helped, but I add it to my private list of sins anyway, for it is not fair.

It is never fair. But I will remember.

In the dark of the hospital room I light a forbidden cigarette, risking the nurses’ wrath, and turn on the little bedside television for company. Would that I had mustered the courage to leave a day or two sooner.

But enough. It is done. Decisions have been made, and events shall unfold as they will. As I doodle now in this ridiculous journal, I think again of this planned book, this revelation, this confessional tome. My ghostwriter tells me we will use some of these journal entries, and so I find myself thinking of you whom may one day read these very words.

What are you thinking of me, as you read? I suppose soon enough I will know. I am ready to accept your judgment. Please know that much.

25-November-2004 (later)

It is a foolish obsession, I admit, but with nothing left to think about or do, and a few hours remaining before the chartered jet is ready to wing me away, I am no longer able to ignore the intriguing sign adorning the doors to the ward adjoining my own. It calls to me, just a curiosity… no, as earlier, I am lying to myself again, and that is never a good thing to do. There are signs listing liberal visiting hours, and restrictions on who may enter, but I am certain I can exploit the open nature of that ward, if only for a few minutes. Today it should be especially easy, Thanksgiving having reduced the staff to a skeleton crew.

It is simple to do. I lack the notoriety here that I had earned up in the ICU. In a wheelchair and with some extra blankets, I look fairly normal, and I wear a patient’s wristband. I blend in. Even with the hospital chair’s wheels locked, maneuvering with one hand and foot is maddeningly slow, if workable. So I quietly watch the routine, and when the breakfast carts arrive I casually push my way past those adjoining doors and into a new and brightly lit wing, full of cheery colors and the smell of vitality, the sounds of life.

The Maternity ward.

There are many about, but they take little notice of me as I make my way patiently towards the large windows that open onto the nursery. I pass open rooms where women cradle their new sons and daughters, see the joy and exhaustion of new motherhood writ upon their faces and bodies.

“Hey, let me help you out there, little lady” a cheerful masculine voice startles me, and somebody takes the handles of my wheelchair. I look back and see an man of perhaps sixty, wearing a silly grin, “Where to?” He asks.

“Just the nursery window, please.”

“Off we go!”

His name is Jack and he is finally a grandfather, and ecstatic for all that. I make encouraging remarks, but my attention is drawn to the small, swaddled forms laying in their neat rows on the other side of the glass as he pulls me up to the window. I touch the glass, and hear myself making foolish noises. They are so small, and peaceful, even those beginning to cry out for the attentions of the nurses. Precious and irreplaceable each one. How much better their lives are now, compared to the vast numbers I have seen before—it is still somewhat hard to accept that so many of them will live to see long lives, and babies of their own. Some things are certainly much, much better than they used to be.

Jack takes his leave from me as his new grandson is taken to his mother’s room. I know I cannot remain long, particularly being alone like this, but I am rooted to my spot. The desire to simply wheel my way around to the door, to reach out and touch them, to drink in the scent of them… my chest is suddenly heavy. Perhaps this was not such a good idea after all.

I hear a gentle, laughing sob. I do not hear it so much as sense it, a strained undertone in an otherwise soft, smiling voice. I am unable to ignore it, even knowing there is likely a whole world of someone else’s personal pain I might be invading. Post-partum depression can be devastating.

I find myself pulling my chair across the hall to a room across from the nursery. Cautiously I look through the door, and there is a young woman cradling her child to her breast. She is smiling, but I see the unhappiness there. I should turn and go, but I cannot, not even after she looks up at me, a questioning expression on her face.

“I was just listening to you talk to your son,” I offer, “He is quite beautiful.” The words are unimportant; it is the expression, the open invitation to emotional intimacy that is key here. Within minutes she is sharing with me more and more of her personal struggle. She is a young woman, twenty-one, single, and a college student, caught at a crossroads in her life.

“I feel stupid for being so… so lost over this. I know I have a lot to be thankful for. Compared to others I mean, but…”

“You’re not where you thought you would be this time last year?”

“No,” she sighs, “not at all.” Her child squeaks at her and she lifts him to her shoulder to rub his spine. I do not attempt to conceal my envy, but smile as I let it show. Her eyes close as she cradles him again, and she continues, “I’m happy, but I’m not. It’s so… strange. I had plans, you know? My friends at school all thought I should have an abortion, but I just couldn’t do it. So I change my plans, right? It all sounds so simple.”

“And the father is where on all of this?” I see the answer before she even speaks.

“He doesn’t know.” I look at her, smiling a bit, and give a little knowing nod. “I know I should find him, but it was just a Spring Break thing. We met up in Myrtle Beach, it was something that was supposed to last a couple of days and be over. I didn’t even know how to find him, and what was I supposed to say to him?”

“’I’m pregnant’ would have been my choice, but then it’s not my choice, is it? What will you do?”

“I don’t know. I have to take some time off from school.”

“And you fear you might not be able to go back?”

“My family… I haven’t even told my mother. They won’t be able to help much. She’d tell me to give him up, that I couldn’t handle it myself. And,” her voice broke, “she’d probably be right.” Tears fell down her cheeks, and she clutched him tightly.

“Adoption can be a loving choice…” I say. But she hears without listening, and isn’t looking at me. She knows, and is struggling with a choice no one can make for her, that no one should push upon her.
I hear a quiet conversation behind me and I know my time is up. I squeeze her wrist, smile at her, then glance at her chart. Amanda Beech, mother of Justin Michael. I know I cannot play Lady Bountiful for everyone, and the worst that can happen to this girl is better than what many others must face every day. But an idea is forming.

“You might be surprised what options are available, you know.”

She looks oddly at me and is about to ask what I mean when a nurse intervenes.

“Ma’am?” she enquires, “You’re not a patient in this ward, are you?”

“No, I’m from down the hall a piece,” I reply, “I just got tired of hanging with the bedridden crowd.”

“She wasn’t bothering me…” the girl interjects, but the nurse is having none of that.

“This ward is off-limits to other patients,” she begins, then a suspicious look crosses her face, “You’re the one from the ICU.”

“Guilty as charged,” I grin at her as her face goes stern. I turn to the girl and say, “Don’t let it worry you today. Enjoy your son. You never know what tomorrow may offer up, but I know you will make the right choice.”

I allow the nurse to usher me unceremoniously off the ward. On the other side of the door she delivers a stern lecture on both the dangers of sick patients wandering into the maternity ward as well as the security issues that raises, but I am only half listening. I firmly promise to behave myself in the future, and she looks somewhat deflated, as if she were anticipating an argument. I wheel myself back to my room to enjoy—if that is the proper word for it—my ridiculous hospital breakfast, and finish off the last of my extra food.

For good measure, I finish the rest of the vitamin and mineral supplements. I have never bothered with such things before, but they do seem to help. Checking the time, I telephone the limousine service, and confirm that they should be here within the hour. Then, for the first time since my awakening last week, I look through what is left of my clothing from the luggage Mitch recovered from my hotel for me last week.

I am annoyed to note that my blue jeans are baggy on me, and that I have lost so much weight I do not even need my brassiere. How utterly revolting. I must look almost like a boy, or one of those absurd modern fashion magazine models. If I had someone to lodge a complaint with, I surely would. Ah, but patience I do have, and I should look better once my body no longer needs its resources for more pressing concerns. Fluffing my hair a bit will give me at least a little to be vain about in the meantime.

The phone chirps. It is the limo service. I tell them I will be right down, and grab my purse.

Wheeling myself toward the ward’s front desk, I confront the young nurse behind the counter. My attorneys told me I should always sign all appropriate forms, and I suppose if I have listened to their advice this far, I must do this last thing.

The staff are mostly young this morning, most of the senior people either gone for the holiday or sulking in their offices. She looks panicked when I tell her I am checking out immediately, but before she can bolt for someone in higher authority, I put a commanding tone in my voice and give her a steely gaze.

“You will find me the papers first, then you may go tell whoever you need to tell,” I say. She looks like a deer caught in headlights. With an edge of impatience, I say, “Get me the paper. Now.” She fumbles about, finds me the form, hands it to me, and then bolts into the back office. I give it a perfunctory signature and date, and leave it on the counter.

As I grunt my way toward the elevators with all speed, a flight of scrub-clad nurses explodes from the back offices, their high-pitched voices blending together into a sound like frightened birds as they call out to me, saying silly things about insurance and needing to call doctors and asking me to wait. I keep going, and make it just far enough to press the elevator button before they descend around me. I resist the urge to strike at them with my stolen cane, but merely raising it causes them to flutter back a bit.

Making it very clear to them that I will brook no opposition, I consent to allow one of them to push me downstairs and outside to my limousine. Startling both the nurse and driver, I stand, open the door myself, throw in my one bag, and hop inside.

“Get me to the airport now, I don’t have any more luggage I care about,” I tell him as I slam the door.

As the car pulls away, I am disturbed to find myself shuddering almost uncontrollably. I begin to realize that it is a wonder I did not go completely mad.

Lighting a cigarette, I lean forward and ask the driver how long it will be before we reach the airport. Satisfied with the answer, I lean back and open my window to feel the cold blast of icy wind against my face and chest, hoping it will brace me a bit. It does, and after a few minutes I roll it back up again, close my eyes, and meditate.

I detest hospitals.

As I relax, I check the time, and calculate. It should be nearing noon in Pennsylvania. That thought brings a new and unexpected pain to my breast, the sudden hot pang of loneliness. They are gathered there, those people… his people. The ones he gave to me. Unable to shake the darkness closing in upon me I open my phone and dial.
Edna’s son Joshua answers the phone. I apologize for disturbing him at home. He responds in mock outrage and tells me he expects to see me there for supper that evening. I demur, telling him I am still in Denver, but that I wish I could be there.

“Joshua, I came across a girl here in Colorado who I think may be a good candidate for our foundation. I’d like to give you her name and some information on her. If you’re going into the office for a few hours tomorrow, I’m hoping you could track her down before she slips away.”

“Sure, just a second…” he locates a pen and I give him what I have regarding Miss Amanda Beech.

When we are finished I ask him if Edna is available.

“Umm, she’s down in the family room. I’m upstairs in my office, hang on.” There is the muffled sound of Joshua shouting for somebody to pick up the phone. I hear the extension pick up, and Edna’s voice comes through.

“THAT YOU GENEVIEVE?!” she bellows, and I jerk my ear from the phone. She grew up before telephones were common, and still seems to think that to speak across long distances, one must yell to be heard. I hear her son chuckle and hang up his extension.

“Yes, Edna, your Genevieve is here!” I yell back, suppressing a laugh. “And I can hear you just fine, you needn’t shout.”

“Sorry,” she chuckles. “When are you coming home, child? It’s not good for you to be wandering about the world so unattached at times like this.”

My heart melts a bit, and I reply softly, “I know, Edna. It can’t be helped. I promise, it really can’t be.”

“You’ll be here for Christmas I trust?”

I think hard about it. “I hope so. I will try, I promise.”

“You know some things better than I ever will, but I am very nearly a hundred years old, you know.” I smile to myself. She likes to remind me of that as often as she can. “I think I’ve learned a thing or two in my time,” she continues, “and let me tell you, I’ve learned that you can’t miss these chances when you have them. We want you here, and not everyone can say they have people who do, you know.”

“I know,” I say, my voice growing softer. How is it that I sometimes feel so much the child when talking to this woman?

“Well, you’d better,” she says. “I want you to make sure you’re eating, girl. Are you eating well?”

I laugh out loud. “Yes, Edna! I am eating well! I can certainly promise you that!”

“Well all right then,” she grouses. “You finish your business and come home quick, all right? That wet-behind-the-ears quack of a doctor only lets me have one drink a month and I was saving this one to have with you. I’ve just missed out on that, don’t make me miss another, understand?”

“I’ll do my best,” I say, feeling a bit of a strain in my voice.

“You’ll do better than try.”

I chuckle. “Yes ma’am,” I say with mock seriousness.

“Alright then.”

“It sounds as if you’ve quite a crowd there.”

“Oh, yes! You should be here! Would you believe my daughter Cathy came all the way from Hawaii? Her and her son, and the great-grandchildren… oh, it is such a treat! They’ll be leaving Sunday, but we’re going out to the house tomorrow, assuming that manservant of yours remembers…”

She goes on for several minutes and I let it flow through me, picturing the scene at Joshua’s house with so many generations gathered under a single roof for that day. No wonder Edna is so wistful in her desire to have me there with her.

“Are you alright, child? You’ve hardly said a word.”

“I wasn’t, but I certainly am now. Edna… can you find some privacy? There is something I need to tell you.”

“Oh... certainly, I’ll just step out… marvelous things these cordless phones, aren’t they? Okay, I’m in the loo. What’s wrong?” Her voice is immediately fraught with concern and I nearly balk at what I mean to tell her, but she is one confidante I cannot keep in ignorance.

“I want to tell you why I could not come home from Denver, and I need you to understand first that I am okay…”

It comes out terribly wrong, but Edna is wise. She understands me and listens quietly as I explain the accident and its aftermath.

“Ann Arbor! Good God, why? All they have out there is hippies and bad football!”

“I need to be somewhere I am not known until… until I recover. Edna, no one must know. There will be too many questions, do you understand?”

“Of course I do, I’m old, not stupid. I’ll be out there as soon as I can manage.”

My heart sings Yes, but my head knows better. She is a stubborn woman, but I manage to convince her to give me at least another week or two. As strong and energetic as she is I know she is not up to the trip, and I fear her reaction should she be confronted with my injuries in person. Eventually she relents, but her unhappiness is evident in her voice.

“You call me every day, do you understand? I don’t hear from you, and I’ll be out there in a trice.”

“Every day, I promise. I’m nearly to the airport now, I have to go… I’ll call from the hotel when I’m settled in.”

We part with uneasy words, but I feel better now that she knows. The heaviness that had threatened to crush my heart is gone now and I find I can finally enjoy a drink from the limo’s bar. As I sip on my scotch I think again of the man who gave these people to me. I still wonder if his betrayal was worth it. Can I forgive him?

Ann Arbor and my uncertain future await. But for now, I am at peace.

—[End Journal entry]—

===============

Methuselah's Daughter, A Novel

Case in point: Four whores from New Orleans should find no haven in a small Virginia town, yet this is precisely what we have found. The doctor is as good as his word- nobody asks and he volunteers nothing, stopping by daily to check on you and pump us all full of penicillin “just on general principle.” Buck Carlyle stops by every day, sometimes twice a day, just to check on you- his chivalric impulse in full control now.

The first two days are horrible as you slip in and out of delirium, the three of us having to pin you down when you lashed out, but the valium Dr. O’Malley left for you relieves the worst of it and by the third morning you are calm and lucid. Neff and Aiko are better as well, the knowledge we are not being sought by the police and your recovery easing the fear they have carried inside. We are all of us keeping true to each other, true to the need to leave the streets behind.

Once you are feeling better I have to turn my efforts to the breaking of bad habits. Our new surroundings are helpful for they are alien to you and the others. Aiko in particular seems to slip into this new reality effortlessly, cultivating a sense of reserved dignity in stark contrast to the excitable, fidgeting creature who sold herself on a New Orleans street corner. Having left the surreal horror of New Orleans behind, she has found her inner self and is amazed.

Neff, always the calm one of the three, now seems lost and forlorn. Things have changed too suddenly, her world now turned on its head. New Orleans was terrible, but there was a certainty to it, a familiarity that makes such things seem almost comfortable. Freedom is something she is not prepared for, not yet. There is time now, time to heal all manner of hurts until she feels the firmness of the world beneath her feet.

And you, as days become weeks you unfold like a flower. The drugs are gone from your body, but their hold upon your soul is far more difficult to sunder. More difficult, but not impossible: like being born you emerge from the darkness and begin to perceive the world around you with a clarity that grows deeper and more complete with every passing day. The cold bitterness of your past still churns inside you, those wounds will leave their marks forever, but there are moments when the girl overwhelms the pain, and those come more frequently every day.

So many good things, and yet the past years cannot be set aside so easily. Buck’s attentions to you, so well-meant, set you on edge. You are afraid to offend him and afraid to be alone with him. Neff and Aiko naturally seek to protect you, but none of you know how to behave around men who give you a choice. The results are sometimes comical, but also problematic. As we reach the end of a month here there is no choice but to move on.

?[Begin Journal entry]?

10 November 2004

Jacqueline Novak is dying.

On the flight from Harrisburg I find my mind running over my telephone conversations with Jacqueline?s husband, Dennis, again and again. He is distraught almost beyond words, and when he realizes all his family are scattered literally to the four corners of the Earth, he calls the only other number he can think of. Even in his fear and grief he is a wise and logical man. As I am carried towards Denver my people are moving Heaven and Earth to gather his family, people he needs far more than me. I am determined to be an adequate substitute until they arrive.

Oh, Jacqueline. I know this is inevitable, but why so soon? It is not the first time, but it tears at me nonetheless. I have buried too many of the people I love.

10-November-2004 (later)

Dennis sees me and leaps to his feet, crossing the distance from the lounge to the door in just a few long strides. He sweeps his long arms about my shoulders. He has been holding himself together by sheer force of will these past twelve hours, and now he can contain it no longer.

I hold him tightly for a long, long time as he weeps. Finally it all comes out, in fits and starts?the morning headache, her dizziness, and the collapse at the doctor?s office, followed by a heart attack two hours later.

?It?s not supposed to be like this,? he says. ?She was always worried about me leaving her behind. Honestly, I always thought it would be that way??

Eventually he takes me to see her. I despise hospitals. I understand the need for the routines and regulations, but even the best facilities become terribly desensitized to the crises they are forced to deal with daily. The duty nurse attempts to interfere with us, insisting that only family should enter. With all the ice I can muster, I suggest that she call security, and we brush past her. I am being unfair, but at this time, in this place, I simply cannot make myself care.

She is a crumpled shell, merely a shadow of the vibrant woman I know. Her gray hair is carefully laid out about her, reminiscent of the chestnut mane she once sported, still silky despite the ravages of age. Her face is sunken and colorless, but her eyes are still open, so very blue and bright, and they fix on me with recognition. They plead.

?She can hear you,? Dennis says, ?but she can?t speak very well.?

?I hear you, Jackie,? I whisper. I feel her respond, see the shifting in her face.

?Dennis, give me some time with her. Why don?t you go get something to eat? I?ll sit with her. I?ll make sure they call you if anything changes. And take this,? I hand him my cell phone, ?If it rings, just answer it and tell them who you are?they are expecting that it might be you.?

He protests only slightly, and then bends over his wife to lay his lips upon hers. He whispers to her, words of love and care and hope, straightening finally before slowly walking out.

It is a game of hit and miss, but I am very good at it, and she is determined to play. She is still my friend, still the astoundingly critical creature that so set her apart from her peers. Between us we work out the language of gesture and tension and half-articulate sounds, until between us it is almost as a spoken conversation.

I know I?m dying. I can feel it. I?m not afraid.

?I know. I?m here for Dennis. I?ll take care of things until the children arrive.?

So sad? to leave him like this. Not fair.

?No, it?s not fair. It?s never fair to anyone. I?m going to miss you so very much.?

It?s good? good to know you?ll remember me?

Tears run their course down my face as we share what memories, condolences, and sorrows we can in this way. This is too familiar by far. I cannot stop thinking of my Jeremy, so long ago yet so terribly close. She sees my tears, and she understands.

Want to wait? see the children? so tired?

?It?s alright. They?ll understand. You can let go, if you have to??

Dennis?

?I?ll fetch him.?

I step out of the room into the lounge and call my cell phone from the courtesy phone. Dennis answers and I tell him Jacqueline wants to see him. He arrives within moments and he hands me my phone before going in. The two of them do not need me to translate?they have thirty-five years of shared lives to bind them. I sit in the lounge, waiting until I feel I can go in again.

My phone beeps quietly. The number is not displayed. ?This is Genevieve,? I answer, ?May I ask who is calling?? It is their youngest son, calling from Germany. My people found him. ?Yes, you have the right number. You don?t know me, but I?m a friend of your parents. Has anyone told you what?s happened??

?Only that my mother is in the hospital.?

There is nothing for it but to be blunt. ?I?m sorry to tell you that she?s had a stroke, followed by a heart attack. It really doesn?t look promising at all. Please, let me get your father.?

This is how it goes for the next several hours. My phone rings, and it is some member of the family. They were contacted by one of my lawyers, and told to get in touch. Somebody is being quite resourceful at my law firm?I intend to find out who it is and see that he is commended. Their son John is on a private jet, returning from Belize where he had been working on some government contract. Patricia is stuck in Sydney and cannot catch a flight for another two hours?she is most of a day away even after I arrange to have her met in Los Angeles and flown here directly.

11-November-2004

Dawn breaks as the children begin to arrive.

She is fading now, almost a full day after my arrival. I watch as the gathered children and their spouses are joined by aunts, uncles, nieces, and nephews: the numbers swell impressively. I take satisfaction that at least this small thing I could do for them. Most of them look oddly at me, unsure who I am; the name is unfamiliar to them, and understandably so. Some secrets remain secret, even in times like these. I wish I could see her again, but this is their time. I am loath to intrude. I have said my goodbye.

11-November-2004 (later)

Jacqueline Victoria Novak passes away at 11:01 PM, surrounded by her husband, daughter and sons. She is sixty years old. I wait until the family has left the room. Then Dennis comes to me, and together we pay one last visit to her side. Her face is peaceful. Truth be told, she looks better now than she did when I first saw her, even with death?s pallor upon her. The pain and grief are gone from her.

Suddenly I am aware of overwhelming anxiety from Dennis. He radiates it?his face, the stance of his body, the way he is breathing. He is exhausted, and everything is crashing in on him. He turns, and I feel his hands settle on my upper arms, his grip strong, almost manic. Startled, I try to pull away, but his grip tightens, painfully so.

?Why?? he gasps, his voice trembling with grief and anger, ?Why couldn?t you save her? Why did she have to die? Why?!?

Shocked and hurt, I simply stare at him.

He shouts at me, and I wince, ?With everything you?ve done, and everything you know? why couldn?t you help her? Why?!?

His face is twisted with rage and grief, tears streaming down his flushed cheeks as he demands an answer he has to know I cannot give.

?Daddy!?

His daughter Patricia rushes into the room, and Dennis relaxes his grip on me, letting me pull away as his daughter forces us apart. He stares at me with a look that cuts me like a knife: sheer uncomprehending hatred. She looks at me as if to ask what has happened, but I am already backing out of the room. Others are coming, and I force my way past them, then begin to run, even as I hear him crying out.

?Zsalli! I?m sorry!?

I want to stop, to go back and tell him I understand, that it is still right between us, but that would be a lie. I do not understand. I cannot ever truly understand.

I ache to rage against this, but the cold sanity of reason cannot be broken, not even by horror and exhaustion. I am a destroyer of lives, perverse and poisonous to those I love most. His children are with him. I brought them here. Perhaps that will be enough to tip the balance in my favor should I ever be brought to account for my sins.

?[End Journal entry]?

I?m not a huge drinker, but when I decide to do it, I don?t do it half-way and this just seemed like a made-for-sour mash kind of moment. I let the bartender set them up and I knocked them down at a deliberate pace while I tried to sort out what I knew from what I?d been shown.

This had to be a scam, it just had to be, but why me? I turned it over and over in my head and I just couldn?t see what the point was. Sure, I?d gotten some nods for some of my articles, but I didn?t have the ear of anyone with money or influence, and wouldn?t be able to deliver any major news headlines for her. What could she possibly expect to gain from this, from me?

I had turned the little cell phone off, which I figured might be rude, but I needed to think. So I was startled when someone I didn?t expect to see at all interrupted me after barely an hour.

?Drinking alone is a very bad habit, young man.?

Dennis Novak settled onto the barstool next to me. He casually ordered Southern Comfort on ice and just looked at me.

?Yeah, I got other bad habits too,? I finally said, looking at the bottom of my glass. ?So, what, she called you??

?Yes, but I hadn?t gone far. Amazing, these cell phones. I went most of my life without even the idea of one, and now I don?t know how I?d live without it.?

I grunted noncommittally. ?How?d you find me??

?Oh, she knew where your hotel was, and I figured I might find you right in here. I did much the same thing thirty-odd years ago.? He paused then and sipped at his drink for a minute, then swirled the ice cubes in his glass. ?It?s still hard to accept, even after all this time.?

?I?m a professional skeptic. I?m having a hard time thinking this isn?t a scam.?

?Well, I?m probably more a New Age child than are you, but I had the same problem. Say, why don?t we take a booth?? I looked at the bartender and motioned for another Jack Daniels, then nodded to Dennis. Once we settled into a booth, he asked me, ?Why is it that you?re willing to believe she?s deluded, yet when confronted with evidence she?s not, you decide it must be a lie??

?Come on, Doctor Novak. This is crazy! She can?t be what she says she is.?

?Call me Dennis, please.? He cocked his head. ?But she is what she is. You said you saw the pictures.?

?Give me a decent computer and I can show you pictures with me sitting between Stalin and Hitler.?

He spread his hands and said, ?Ask to examine them, then. They?re home pictures, taken with our old Kodak?s. Pick a lab. She?ll gladly pay for the tests. She needs you to believe.?

?Why??

He frowned. ?Well, because she does.?

?Tell me something then: when did you really believe it? What made you sit down and throw your common sense out the window??

?Oh,? he sighed, sitting back as he blew that word slowly out through pursed lips, ?I?ve always sort of believed in the paranormal, but that is still a little hard to answer.?

?I got time,? I said. He nodded.

?Alright. I met her when I was fourteen. My father introduced her as somebody he?d met during the war. She had that streak of grey hair, but he always complimented her on how well she?d aged. I guess she grays it on purpose sometimes.? He looked into space for a moment, and chuckled ironically to himself. ?Some problem to have, isn?t it? Well, anyway, my parents had divorced two years earlier, because Dad hadn?t been faithful. Now here was dad, with this pretty new girlfriend that he said he?d met during the war? Well, I really didn?t like her very much at first. It felt like the nail in the coffin of any chance my folks would get back together.?

I nodded at that. Divorce can be hell on the kids, so I could see where he might have had problems with her.

?The fact that she was very nice, and pretty, actually made it worse. I was spending summers with my father and that first summer with her there was about the toughest I remember. I was determined to hate her. Fortunately she just let me. The next year it was as if the first summer never happened.?

?How long was she with your father??

?I guess they?d just had a short fling during the war?? he sighed. ?Damned old man, mom was home with me and pregnant with my sister. Ah, but that?s old news. It wasn?t her that caused the breakup; anyway, it had been a short thing. At any rate, Zsallia and my dad, I guess they ran into each other by coincidence later on in San Francisco, and got more serious. They dated about three years total after that. That second summer, I got to know her really well, and she encouraged my reading. Dad used to want me to be into sports, but she got him to leave me be. He always listened to her.? He smiled with a look of fond remembrance.

?So late in ?56, my father was diagnosed with lung cancer. She stayed with him until he died in 1957. After his funeral I didn?t see her again until 1967 when she walked into my European History class.?

?That must have been a shock,? I said with a laugh, lifting my glass and polishing it off.

?Actually, no. I saw her when she walked in, even in that huge lecture hall. Couldn?t miss that hair. But I just thought ?wow, she reminds me of Claire.? It wasn?t until later, after class when she approached me and spoke to me that I really did a double take on it. But she didn?t seem to know me, and her demeanor was so different, and I just chalked it up to memory playing tricks, maybe a distant cousin. It was easy; there was a huge difference between that demure, very sophisticated woman my father had dated, and this wide-eyed, outgoing, opinionated? bohemian.?

?She was a hippie,? I laughed. I had no idea why I found that so funny.

?Yes, exactly. Things were normal for a week or two, and then Jackie got involved.? He stopped, then by way of explanation said, ?She was my fianc?e at the time.?

I nodded. ?I saw the photos.?

?Right. Well, Jackie and I were just engaged, and I guess she was a little jealous. Zsallia?well, she was calling herself Heather at the time, and ?Heather? was making a point of dropping by my office to chat about class work now and then. She was a kind of bubbly airhead and she used to drill me on obscure points of history. In fact,? he stopped, and laughed. ?She was pretty mad at me the second week of class, wanted to know if I was sure there was never any Robin Hood who wooed any Maid Marian. She seemed pretty put out by that.?

I laughed. ?What? Did she know them or something??

?No, not at all, though I did ask her that later on, when I came to accept the truth about her. But at the time I just thought she was a kind of flaky and na?ve girl, so when she asked me questions like that I liked setting her straight. I didn?t know the half of it, but it turns out that my class was the first time she?d ever taken an interest in academic history. Until then, I guess everything she knew from history mostly came from folk songs and poems and such, which is the way most people used to get their information. In fact,? he stopped, and laughed again. ?Oh, Lord, I had forgotten, I remember when we were first arguing about it, she actually stopped and said, ?I suppose you?re right. Besides, Marian was rather the slut anyway, wasn?t she???

We both laughed.

?It was doubly funny coming out of her, once you got to know her. She was a real wild child. But you know the funny thing is,? he said, wiping his eyes, ?it?s easy to laugh, but she?s actually not ignorant at all. She just has weird quirks in her knowledge like that. At the same time, she?s got incredible insights? well, I guess they?re memories? of what life was like in the lower classes in bygone eras. Plus she has an almost encyclopedic knowledge of old French and English folk tunes.? He chuckled again. ?She likes singing them, especially the bawdy ones. But anyway, she?s so good with them, she wound up helping me some with my doctoral thesis. There was a real give and take relationship between us during those first couple of years, even though she dropped out. She used to play a guitar and sing some of those songs for me. Some of them are known by historians, but the others, well, I?m not sure anyone knows them anymore but her. Lovely voice she?s got, too?? his voice trialed off, and he looked a bit sad.

?Guitar, folk songs, sounds like it fit her image real well,? I offered.

?Oh yeah man, after she dropped out, sometimes we?d go visit her where she was living in Haight-Ashbury. We?d go to this little coffee shop and sometimes on open mike night, if it wasn?t too crowded, she?d get up on stage. She wasn?t exactly Joni Mitchell, but she had enthusiasm. She didn?t do it too often, though, since crowds made her a little nervous, but those are some good memories.?

?So, um, how did you come to decide she wasn?t just a flaky bohemian??

?Ah. Yeah. Well before all that, during those first few weeks in ?67, she kept coming around, drilling me, asking me these off-the-wall questions, and I took a bit of a shine to her. Strictly platonic of course. I was still working on my dissertation, and Jackie was finishing her Master?s program, and we were planning to get married after graduation. Then word got around about a pretty red-headed coed hanging around me, so Jackie naturally decided she needed to make her presence felt,? He laughed, a little ruefully. ?It was a pretty tense couple of minutes, let me tell you. I never really understood how it worked out that they became such good friends. Two more dissimilar women you?ve never met.

?But Jackie was fascinated with her. At first I thought it was just curiosity about the lifestyle, but it was more than that. A lot more. Jackie was a very perceptive woman and she saw things that made her curious. Then one day I mentioned how Heather looked a bit like my dad?s old girlfriend. She asked if I had any pictures, so we dug out the photo albums. We were both a bit surprised at how close the resemblance really was. Jackie didn?t say anything, but I could see her wheels turning. To be honest I had been wondering a little about Heather?s background myself, but I figured her life was her own, and she?d said she was from Boston.

?Three weeks later I got back to my apartment after classes and found the two of them together, waiting at the kitchen table, laughing over a bottle of scotch. Jackie got serious and told me to sit down and poured me a drink. Then Zsalli told me she was my dad?s girlfriend Claire, and apologized for lying to me.?

He stopped talking and stared at his drink for a minute before deliberately lifting and draining his glass. He set it back down and fixed his gaze on me. His eyes were just a bit hollow, as if he were remembering something traumatic.

?She told me everything about those three summers she spent with my father and me. She told me about how she and my father met in 1943 just before he shipped out for the South Pacific, and apologized for that. Then she told me how old she was.?

?And you just believed her??

?Hell no,? he forced out with a laugh. ?But then she did this thing, I don?t know quite how to describe it. She didn?t change really, but her posture changed, her voice shifted a little, and it was like everything about her changed. Like she was suddenly a different person in the same body. She leaned over and she gripped my hand just like she used to, called me ?Denny,? just like she used to, and I just knew it had to be her.? He paused. ?Honest to God, she?s the best actress, and the best goddamned liar, I?ve ever met,? he said, with a mixture of awe and admiration.

?So I left and got rip-roaring drunk. I was angry, confused, and I told myself the whole thing was a lie, but by the time I sobered up in the morning, I knew I believed her. She just knew too much, and when her demeanor changed like that? well, I believed she was my dad?s girl Claire, anyway. And the more time went on, the more I believed the rest of what she said. But also, Jackie believed, and that by itself was pretty much the clincher for me. You could never put anything over on Jackie.?

I?m a pretty good judge of people myself, and even with four double Jacks burning in my gut, I knew he believed every word he was telling me.

?And Jackie believed her,? he repeated. Like that meant everything.

?Damn.? That was all I could think to say. I?d wanted him to be unbelievable, but he just wasn?t.

?But you said she?s a good liar, a good actor?.? I said, halfheartedly.

?Yeah. She?s good boy. Seems to do it without thinking, and always slick and smooth. But honestly,? he said, choosing his words carefully, ?when she lets her guard down, you know it. I guess she just needs friends she can be real with sometimes. I suppose that?s why she revealed herself to us. And she?s never broken a promise to us, not once.?

I just kind of stared at his chest. ?Damn.? I repeated.

?Hard to get your head around, I know. Try this. She?s in that hospital because of me.?

The waitress arrived then and we ordered fresh drinks. After she carried off our empty glasses I asked him to explain. He told me of his wife?s sudden stroke, and how Zsallia had flown in from Pennsylvania on the spot, and helped gather his family from literally all over the world. He told me what happened after she died, and how he?d acted toward her.

?I?ve never been so ashamed in all my life,? he finished.

?So, today is the first time you?ve seen her since??

?Yes. Her lawyer called on me this morning and told me what had happened. I hadn?t heard from her in almost two weeks and I figured I?d never see her again. When he told me she wasn?t mad, would like to see me before she left town but only if I wanted to...? He swallowed, hard, then said, ?Man, if I hadn?t lost control that night?? he stopped then, his gaze dropping. He didn?t drink. Instead he just stared at his glass and said, ?Dammit.?

Suddenly my drink had lost all of its appeal as well. ?Still, she seems to have forgiven you.?

?Oh, of course she did,? he said, smiling ruefully. ?I tell you she?s quirky, but when it comes to knowing people, understanding people, I?ve never met anyone sharper, or who has her ego better in check. I also imagine,? he said, glumly, ?that she?s been party to scenes like that before.?

?She certainly does seem to have her feelings dialed in pretty tight, most of the time.? I grinned. ?Except for that temper of hers.?

He looked up at me when I said that, his face turning very serious again, and said, ?It?s easy to think that. Hell, she wants everyone to think that, but it?s not entirely true. Like the way I saw her today, and talking to her on the phone?.? He stopped, and looked me square in the eye. ?Buddy, I?ve never seen her more frantic, or more out of her wits.?

?Really?? I laughed, ?From watching her, I?d think??

?You?d think wrong. Listen, you?ve got to understand, this girl?s been hiding from the world her whole life, and now all of a sudden, people six ways from Sunday have seen how she?s doing impossible things, and they?ve run all kinds of tests on her that she?d normally never consent to. It?s like a giant spotlight?s been put on her, with megaphones about to blare out to the world that she?s a freak. Even though she won?t admit it, she?s scared to half to death what?s going to happen when people realize she?s not? well, not really human I guess.?

I leaned back. ?I guess I hadn?t thought about it that way.?

?Hell, you know what could happen here. You?re a man of the world. You know how the people who really run the government and the big corporations can be. Especially with that maniac Bush still in charge.? I avoided laughing, but his Berkeley roots were showing. ?Besides,? he went on, ?you?ve got to think in the long run with her. Maybe this doesn?t get out and public now, but rumors get started, and before you know it, a year or two down the road, someone starts snooping over this weirdness here today, and then the men in the dark suits come take her, maybe want to dissect her, God knows what. You know how power works in America.?

?Well, I don?t know that I?m as afraid as you are about that, but? Okay, I get your point.?

?Well she sure as hell gets it. I?ll tell you something else,? he went on. ?She?s very good at people, very good at getting what she wants out of them, but she?s got these? these? blind spots. Like, she doesn?t really understand power. I talked to her attorney for a while today, and he told me how she?s been acting in that hospital. My God. Typical Zsallia, but even worse than usual.?

?Yeah, pretty heavy handed. Why do you think??

?Fear, mostly. That and she was probably almost crazy hungry because they wouldn?t feed her. I guess her appetite goes nuts when she?s injured. But anyway, what you need to understand is, when she deals with individuals she can be very subtle, very careful, and very persuasive, and half the time it?s like she can read your mind, or knows what you?re thinking before you do. But when she deals with large groups or institutions, it?s like the only thing she knows to do is either run and hide, or beat them into submission. I saw it at the university, and I?ve seen it every other time she runs into bureaucracy, lawyers, or anything like that. Hell, back in ?70 she had a run-in with the police in Arizona that she still refuses to talk about. There?s just no subtlety to her in those circumstances, and right now I think that tendency is very, very dangerous to her, because she?s probably attracting more attention and pissing off more people than she needs to. She?s trying to force everyone to shut up and making a spectacle of herself doing it.?

?So what?s she doing asking me to write this book for her? Sounds like exactly something she wouldn?t want.?

?You know I didn?t get that when I talked to the both of you earlier this afternoon,? he said. ?She didn?t want to talk about it, just told me you were writing her life story. I thought she was nuts but she wouldn?t listen, just kept changing the subject. Hell, I thought maybe she was looking to kill herself, I just didn?t know.?

?I thought she couldn?t die,? I said.

?Her exact words: ?I?m immortal, not indestructible?. She?s certain she couldn?t survive things like decapitation, or being thoroughly burned?? he stopped, and his eyes narrowed at me. ?She denies it, but she?s talked about things like that in the past.?

?So I?m helping her write her suicide note?? I said, my voice rising in pitch.

?I don?t know. I don?t think so, exactly. But I talked with her on the phone for about a half hour before I finally came looking for you. You know what she told me on the phone? ?Dennis,? she says, ?I?ve come to realize it really is fight or flight. I can either give up everything and go hide in some hole in the middle of the Sonoran desert for the next hundred years and hope everyone forgets me, or I can make a stand. And I have come to realize that I simply don?t want to hide in the dirt anymore. The modern world is going to find me sooner or later. So I?m going to do what damage control I can, for now, try to tell the world my story on my own terms, the whole truth and nothing but, and then just let the cards fall where they may.??

?And she picked me, a name she spotted on some articles, to help her do it,? I said.

He rubbed his face a couple of times with the palms of his hands, then put them flat on the table. ?Yeah.?

I pondered that. What would I do, in her shoes? Finally, I said, ?So what do you think she should be doing??

He just looked at me, pursed his lips, and then let out a long sigh again. ?I told her I didn?t want to lose her, that I wanted her to run, that I?d help hide her. She thanked me, started crying, said she was sorry, but no. Then asked me if I would try to find you.?

Now what do you say to something like that?

?Shit,? was what I said.

He nodded.

There didn?t seem much else to talk about. After a few more minutes, he took his leave of me, giving me his home number and telling me to call him any time. He shook my hand firmly and urged me to do the right thing. Whatever that was.

I sat there for a while, ordering a light beer just to slow down. I felt pretty sober by the time I reached into my pocket, turned the cell phone back on, and dialed her number.

?I?m glad you called,? she said, a little cautiously.

?Yeah.?

?So. I understand you spoke to Dennis.?

?Yeah. Good guy.?

?Yes. He is a very, very good man, and very dear to me.?

I paused. Finally, I said, ?Okay, Zsallia Marieko. I believe you.?

Silence.

?Are you sure you know what you?re doing?? I asked.

?As certain as I ever will be, yes.?

?Well then, I guess we have a lot more ground to cover. Should we meet again tomorrow??

?That would be lovely, but I think it should be short. I expect you?d like to be on your way home early. Thanksgiving is the day after tomorrow, and I?m certain your wife and child would like you home before then. You weren?t expecting to be here this long anyway. I?m sending my lawyers home as well, and I?ve had them arrange a ticket for you so you?ll be home at a decent hour. I believe they, and you, have done all that needs to be done here. I intend to slip out myself tomorrow night, or perhaps in the morning. All the senior staff will be at home with their own families by then, so it should cause less of a ruckus that way.?

?Where will you go??

?Well Mitch managed to find one of those electrified wheelchairs, and it should be deliverable wherever I go. I thought perhaps I?d either charter a plane, or catch the first flight out of the state I could find, and find a hotel near whatever airport I land in. The room service bills will be ridiculous, but that doesn?t matter. I intend to wait until I?m whole again before I go back home to Pennsylvania. You and I will be able to chat on the telephone, and I?ll get a computer and an email address so you can send me things.?

?Jesus. Where do you get all your money, anyway??

She laughed. ?Einstein?s greatest discovery was the theory of compound interest. It?s probably a bigger miracle than I am. When you go decades without spending much of any of your money, you tend to get nice surprises when you call your brokers.?

?Damn.? I laughed. Made sense. ?Well, anyway, if you?re just going anywhere at random, why don?t you come to Michigan?? I asked.

She hesitated. ?That?s very kind, but I?m not certain I should impose on you so much more than I already have. Your wife might not appreciate me being so near, either.?

I barked a laugh. ?She?s not jealous, and you?re not my type anyway, Princess. Too crazy.? I heard her chuckle. ?Anyway, I?m perfectly capable of staying away for days at a time if I need to. If you?re going to just pick some random hole anyway, it might as well be somewhere convenient.? I put a smile into my voice and said, ?I might even help you out with a little shopping. As long as you don?t get too uppity with me.?

She gave low laugh and said, ?All right, my friend. Michigan it is. Where would you suggest I stay??

I thought about where Dennis told me she?d lived in the ?60s, and grinned. ?I bet you?d like Ann Arbor. I bet you?d like it a lot.?

================================

Methuselah's Daughter, A Novel

The next morning, back at the hotel, I found myself thumbing through her journal entries. Like lots of personal journals, they were scattershot and rambling, although sometimes compelling.

?[Begin Journal entry]? Why would I allow myself to love? For me love is both a selfish indulgence and an invitation to despair. It is destructive to the object of my affections,