Interlude

This is my 2008 National Novel Writing Month effort. To participate in next year’s challenge, sign up at www.nanowrimo.org. I encourage everyone who’s ever started writing a book and failed to finish to give Nanowrimo a try. The whole point is to finish 50000 words in 30 days, and everyone who does is a winner. Do it. Why the heck not?

 

INTERLUDE

Chapter 1

It was chaos, chaos, chaos.  The piano rippled and buckled and nearly gave way under the strain.  Was it magic, either white or black?  Was it prowess or cowardice or sheer massive stupidity?  Was it an act of god or of man?

It was neither, or it was both; I sat and listened to him playing the piano.  There was a time when this was the sound I hated the most of any in the world, you know, and now….and now it’s like a drug.   Like alcohol, I guess.  Remember your first glass of wine? Remember how disgusting it was? The things you hate lose their teeth and become the things you love.

It was Sunday afternoon, and I was alone. The cathedral windows shook and the sound vibrated in my bones, and the grand piano sat alone on the altar.

He was playing it.  His blond mane of hair shook as the waves of music surged around him. He looked young and vulnerable, body tensed and supple like an athlete, an Olympian.  He wasn’t young, not even a little bit, and I knew as well as anyone that he wasn’t all that vulnerable; but the old folks crowded into the pews around me liked the lost little boy look. His power made them feel powerful, and his beauty made them feel protective.  It was a triumph of marketing.

Every artist needs a good story, something for the reporters to hang a puff piece on.  A hook to make it interesting.  Are you an orphan or a cancer survivor or blind?  You’re in.  Are you from a boring middle-class home and have you done nothing in your life except practice six hours a day?  Not newsworthy.  When I found him, he was getting old and floundering.  His playing was great, of course – thirty years of practicing will do that – but his chance had passed him by.  I gave him what he needed: a new crack at youth, and a story.  How I did the first you’ll see later.  The second was easy.

“PIANO GENIUS DISCOVERED IN MENTAL HOSPITAL,” the headlines screamed.  (The madness/art link is always fruitful.)  The story ran that he’d been hospitalized for bipolar disorder and started fooling around on an old rattletrap piano that was lying around.  From the instant he touched the keyboard it was as if he’d found his spiritual home.  Within weeks he was playing Chopin by ear, picking it up from the radio in the common room.  One of the nurses explained musical notation to him, and at once he could read music as if it were his native language.  He had perfect pitch and rhythm and synaesthesia and I forget what else.  It doesn’t matter.  No one except a few nerds knows what synaesthesia is anyway.  The point is, he was a miracle boy, discovered when I happened to visit an art exhibit at the hospital and heard him playing Rachmaninoff on the out-of-tune old beater and recognized his genius.  Then came the recording contracts, the recital tours, the concerto appearances…and the earnest little lost boy with mental health problems who needed taking care of and looking after, and I was there to do that.

The real story, is, of course, a little different.

I was in Kansas.  I was there to adjudicate a big conducting competition; they put me up in the best hotel in the goddamn town.  I hate those provincial capitals – you know, those cities with maybe 200,000 people who nevertheless are the biggest town in the state and get all the government jobs and put on airs.  The hotel was like an imitation of a classy hotel.  From 1985.  The decor was awful and the food literally from the past.  And, of course, since they were a “classy” place, they had a piano player for cocktail hour. 

Well, he was pretty good.  He was playing Billy Joel and Elton John and all that crap, but he had a nice touch.  Good tone and a great range of colours.  He was a seedy-looking middle-aged guy with a thinning blond ponytail, and he looked like life had let him down.  I wasn’t paying an awful lot of attention to him until the cocktail crowd thinned out and he started playing Rachmaninoff.

It was that horribly cheesy Prelude in C# Minor – the one that’s supposed to represent a man being buried alive – but sweet jesus, could this dude play.  For the first time I actually heard music in that overplayed piece of shit.  And the attention to detail, the voicing, the touch!  This man was a genius.  What the hell was he doing here?

“That was some playing,” I said to him as he was packing up. 

He seemed caught off guard and looked vaguely guilty.  “Uh, thanks,” he said.

“You have a fantastic touch,” I said.  “Where did you study?”

“Julliard,” he said sadly, “but it was a while ago.”

“Come have a drink with me,” I said.

He looked startled.  I suppose women didn’t say that to him often, at least not back then.

“We’re, uh, we’re not supposed to socialize with the guests.”

“It’s OK,” I said, handing him my card.  “I don’t think you’ll be working here all that much longer.

His eyes widened as he read my name.  Blue, blue eyes.  I saw at once the potential in that face, the beauty that must have been his twenty years before.  And then the plan hit me.  But more on that later.

It didn’t take long to convince him.  His was the usual story – years of practicing, success in a big school, a few concertos, a competition or two…then nothing.  It’s unfortunate that in order to be a first-class pianist, you often have to be a massive nerd.  Massive nerds don’t often do well in this world, but if you’re not obssessive like that, you’ll never put in the eight hours of practice you need to every day.  It’s a problem.  But as I said, it didn’t take long to convince him.  He left Kansas with me two days later, and in Toronto I knew exactly what I had to do to get him ready for his debut.

*

My own turn had come when I was still young, when my hair was still a glistening dark mane and my skin unmarred.  Don’t get me wrong, my hair still shines and I have the face of a Madonna (as in the mother of Jesus, not the pop star), and I look angelic on the covers of music magazines…but there’s a difference between the first and the last time, if you know what I mean.  I was twenty-two and singing in a cheap bar in a little town in a country you don’t need to know about.  That’s when I met the old man.

He came into the bar one night with a party of hikers.  I hated the hikers more than the other customers.  They always heckled and never bothered to tip. I hated pretty much everyone, though, back then, including the bar owner who thought he could pay me in beer, my brothers back on the farm who thought I should cook their breakfasts and wash their clothes and play nice, and my father, who thought good girls shouldn’t be singers and I should be happy to have a roof over my head.  I suppose I wasn’t a very good girl.  So when I was 17 I set off for the big city to try my luck…but the little bar at the foot of the mountains was as far as I got.  So I sang dirty songs every night with a worthless hack on piano and watched my life slip away.

So when the old man beckoned to me that night, I silently thanked God and resigned myself to whatever it was he wanted to do to me.  I was so far from having a dream of my own that I would have done or been anything to get away from that shithole.

“Well, my dear,” he said, looking up at me with kindly eyes, “you’ve quite a voice.”

“Thanks,” I said as seductively as I dared.

“You could do great things, you know,” he said, taking my hand and rubbing it between his own. 

“I wish,” I said fervently.

“Oh, come now, dear,” he said.  “It’s not too late, you know.”

He held my eyes with his own, and I saw a steeliness under their gentle blue.

“I could do something for you,” he said.

“Really?” I said breathlessly.

“Yes, kitten,” he said, “but not what you think.”

*

That old bitch is always talking about herself.  I swear if I have to listen to her blather on for another minute I am going to tear that fake-looking hair out by the roots.  Always going on about how beautiful and talented she is.  Always taking herself so seriously.  Always with the art and the destiny and the dark majesty.  WhatEVER.  The only reason the old man took her home is that he wanted to do her.  All the rest came later.

I couldn’t believe when he walked in the door with her.  Just some trailer trash, really – well, they didn’t have trailers back then, but you know what I mean – with that hard, flat face and that big hair.  Who HAS hair like that anymore?  It was so from the past, I couldn’t believe it. But she waltzed in as if she owned the place, plunked herself down on the sofa, stretched herself out (I suppose she thought she looked kittenish and sexy) and said, bold as brass, “So now that you’ve got me here – what are you going to do with me?”

She didn’t have a bad voice, I’ll give her that.  Even her speaking voice was rich and low, in spite of her abominable hick accent.  The old man chuckled and motioned to me to bring him a drink.  “All in good time, my dear,” he said, “all in good time.”  I brought two glasses of Tokay and went to put some fresh sheets on the bed.

I stayed out of their way for most of the evening, but I couldn’t help but overhear them whenever I passed with fresh firewood or pitchers of water or something.  Even then – this was their first date, by the way – she was going on and on and on about her art and her ambitions and how their meeting was fated by the gods and BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH. So boring. 

The next morning she was very sweet to me.  “Gervaise,” she said – I suppose the old man told her my name – when I brought her her morning tea, “I feel awfully lazy just lying here. Isn’t there anything I can do to help you?”

“Oh no, sugar,” I said, patting her on the tousled head, “you just relax and do whatever your little heart desires.”

She smiled and batted her eyelashes at me (not like it worked), and believe me she never offered again.  Little bitch.  Not once in the past seventy years or however long it’s been has she as much as lifted a finger for herself, the old man, or anyone else for that matter.  And yes, I know that her mother died when she was a kid and she had to run the farmhouse and the dairy and look after her brothers for about ten years.  You can only coast on a story like that for so long, though.  It wore thin for me a couple of decades ago.

It only took a few months for the old man to get tired of having sex with her.  What can I say?  He was old, and she was dull.  Pretty, but dull.  Single-minded people always are.  Me, I am interested in life in general, so I never get bored.  That was when he started to take an interest in her voice.

She was sitting at the fortepiano one day, playing over and singing a filthy little folksong – really, the words made me blush – when the old man came in from a walk.  They hadn’t had sex in five or six days (hey, I change the sheets, so I should know), and I had a bet on with Claude the stable boy that he’d kick her out within a week.  But, like I said, she didn’t have a bad voice, and at least the melody of the song was charming.  I saw the old man pause in the doorway, and his eyes light up as he listened. 

“You know, Gervaise,” he said, “that girl has got something.”

“I’ll say,” I said.  What she had was a meal ticket for the rest of her natural life and beyond.  But I didn’t say that.  Not out loud.

She started the process later that day.  I don’t know what he said to her or how he persuaded him – well, maybe she persuaded him, I don’t know – but it was me who brought her the potion, it was me who held her hand when she drank it, and it was me who sat with her for the three days and nights until it was over.  I knew it was a mistake.  I should have brought her poison instead.

*

Dawn.  Another day I watch come to life outside the picture window.  Red light reflects back from the windows of the city, and slowly the streets fill with cars and people, everyone going its own pointless way, marking time again and again and again until finally death will stop them.  From up here each human is no more than an ant carrying its bit of leaf aimlessly around the anthill.

I turn and look at her, sleeping in the bed.  She looks like an angel, her long hair tousled across the pillow, her unlined face simple and pure.  An angel!  That’s what she seemed like to me when I first met her.  An angel bearing magical gifts.

“It’s safe and natural,” she said when she first told me about the process.  “It’s been used for centuries by people in the know.  It’s a little painful at first, but nothing you can’t handle.”

And she patted my hand and stroked my head and handed me the glass.

Do you know why I drank it? 

For thirty-three years, ever since I was five years old, I had practiced and practiced and learned every note of music I could get my hands on.  I played every song in every book my teachers ever gave me, whether they told me to or not, and once my technique was good enough I branched on my own.  By the time I got to Manhattan I knew all of the preludes and fugues, all of the Haydn sonatas, all of the Prokoffief concertos, everything I could find.  But it would never be enough.  No matter how hard I tried or how much I practiced I’d never learn it all.  And worse, people were still writing music – most of it wasn’t that good, but how would I know what the masterpieces were if I never played them?

That was where I went wrong, by the way.  I wouldn’t focus.  I wouldn’t stick to five major concertos and the big standard sonatas.  I was always wandering off into the weird dark corners of the piano repertoire.  My teacher warned me about it.  My manager – when I had one – quit on me.  I had to move back home and work in that godawful hotel.  Then I met her.  

What she was offering me was the chance I needed – unlimited time to learn it all of the music in the world.  As she handed me the cup I saw the future stretch out in front of me, an infinite series of days and nights at the keyboard; finally the time I needed.  So I drank.

The bitch didn’t tell me what I’d have to give up.

You see, I didn’t just get the regular potion, the one she’d taken when she was twenty-two or whatever all those years ago, the simple one that just stops you in place.  I had to take the one that erases the years, because I needed to be young again in order for her “story” to work.  Not that she told me any of that.  She just smiled at me and told me how all that had happened to her was a few days of fever and sleep, then everything had been fine.

I’ve only ever told one person I ever told about this.  It was a kid called Elsie that I met in New York last year.  She stayed up with me after a party and we talked.  She asked me all the obvious questions – “What’s it like?”  “Did it hurt?”  “What did it taste like?”

What did it taste like?  Not bad, a sort of herbal, alcoholic taste.  A bit like Jagermeister, come to think of it.  I wonder if it doesn’t taste different to everyone who drinks it, though I have no way of finding out.  It’s not like I can drink it again and for some reason I don’t like to ask the others.

And that night I smiled at Elsie and said, no, it didn’t hurt much.  Though it did, but only in that dream-like way that you forget as soon as it’s over.  For three days I lived in limbo, a haze between waking and sleeping, between Earth and Hell.  And then it was over.  My face and body were young again.  I had my chance and I had my time.  A life of endless pleasure without want or terror or disappointment, an infinite stretch of days in the sun.  But that night, when I got into bed, I couldn’t sleep.  Not in the way that people normally mean when they say that, that I tossed and turned for an hour or two and then slept badly.  I did not sleep that night, or the night after, or any of the nights since then.  Not for a moment.

That was my thing, you see.  If you take the potion I took, there’s always a thing that you lose.  The old man explained it to me when she brought me to him.

“Ah, yes,” he said, handing me a glass of wine, “that does happen sometimes.”  He sounded apologetic, comforting, like a doctor informed of a grave side-effect.  “Not to worry,” he went on.  “After all, when you’re one of us, you don’t need to sleep.”

It’s true, I don’t need to sleep.  It’s just that the nights are so long, and there are so many of them ahead of me.

She’s stirring now, the dawn light hitting her eyes.  I imagine smothering her with the pillow. Is it even possible to kill one of us?  I would ask the old man, but I haven’t seen him since he left two months ago.  Perhaps she killed him, though I don’t know why she would.

I turn back to the window and lean against the cool glass.  The sun appears from behind the church tower, dazzling my eyes.  The day will begin for me in a few minutes, another long day of torture.  I have made a bad bargain.

 

Chapter 2

I was playing some Poulenc, badly, the chords halting and feeble under my fingers.  I’m not really a pianist.  I’m a singer, though no one seems very interested in listening to me sing.  Getting anyone to notice you in this business is almost impossible.  During my last lesson I asked Allison how she did it.

“Well, dear,” she said, “you just keep working hard and eventually you’ll get somewhere.”

Which is no answer whatsoever.  The world is filled with talented people who work hard and get precisely nowhere, so it can’t just be hard work and dedication.  There must be something else.  I’m beginning to suspect it’s just an accident; that’s why Allison doesn’t seem to know how she got started because there’s nothing you can do but wait and hope.  

And practice.  Which is why I was hacking my way through the sublime chords of Fleurs, so I could understand the chord progressions and the structure and thus interpret the song more intelligently.  I’m not one of those dumb singers who do nothing but open their mouths and make beautiful sounds.  How boring is that?  I’m a real artist; every sound I make is intentional and it means something.  But as I said, it takes practice, which is why I was massacring this beautiful song on the piano when I heard a laugh behind me.  I turned.

“Do you mind?” I said to him.  “I’m trying to practice here.”  

He was tall and blond and actually really good looking.  And not that old.  Maybe 25 or so.  Some piano prodigy superstar, probably, visiting the school to give a masterclass, and looking for some poor student to boost his ego with.

“Carry on,” he said, “Sorry I disturbed you.”

But he didn’t leave the practice room.

“Who the hell are you, anyway?”

He told me his name.  I must have gone white, because he started to laugh again.

“Don’t worry about it, kid,” he said.  “It was rude of me to come in here and laugh at you.  What are you playing that song for?”

“It’s for me,” I said.  “To learn it better.  I’m not a piano player, I’m a singer.”

“Okay,” he said.  “Why don’t I play it for you?”

Even though I suck at the piano, I know that Fleurs is pretty easy song to play.  I prepared to be unimpressed.  I knew, of course, his story – the whole loony bin thing – and I figured he would be an even worse sight reader than I am.

“Are you singing the whole set?” he asked me.

“I’m working on it for my recital.”

“Let’s start from the beginning, then.”

And of course he played the whole cycle perfectly, even Il vole, which is crazy hard.  It’s just not fair.

“How did you do that?” I asked him.

“Do what?”

“Sight-read like that,” I said.  “I mean, you’ve never played this before, right?”

“Maybe I have,” he said, “in a past life.”

I stared at him.  “Is that where you learned all the nuances?” I said.  “You know, which rests count and which you’re supposed to omit?  Which of the double dots in Violon are real and which you can make single dots?  That little crescendo in Fleurs that’s not written in but everyone does?”

“I can see you’ve been doing your homework,” he said mockingly.

“I take my work very seriously,” I said hotly.  

He started to laugh again.  “I can see that,” he said.  

“Hey,” I said, feeling my face turn red, “just because you’re famous doesn’t mean you can make fun of people.”

“I’m not making fun,” he said.  “Listen, do you really want to know?”

I shrugged.

“Black magic,” he said, a little sadly.  “Nothing but black magic.”

*

I’m a skeptic.  I don’t believe in magic, black or white.  I don’t believe he played those songs in a previous life or that he just somehow “knew” when to pause and speed up and slow down.  That stuff is tradition, and you only learn it by doing it.  Somewhere, sometime in this life he’d played those songs.  He’d worked on them and coached them with someone and played them with a singer.  But the official story about him – you know, learning Chopin or whatever by ear in the mental hospital, getting discovered, then the whole whirlwind life of orchestra and recital appearances – that didn’t leave much room for learning the vocal repertoire.  Why would he have played that cycle before?

Everyone in the school was talking about him, and of course the story of me talking back to him in the practice room was legend within days.  I didn’t care.  I never care about stuff like that.  Besides, I know for a fact that that bitch Carly was telling everyone that I slept with him.  Like I would, just because he’s famous.  This place drives me nuts.  I should have gone to Manhattan like I wanted to, but it was so expensive and I wouldn’t have been able to work in the States.

I learned quickly enough that he was here to teach for a term, to give a bunch of masterclasses and play a series of concerts with the orchestra.  Not the school orchestra.  The Toronto Symphony Orchestra.  The pianists in the school were split pretty evenly between not being able to get enough of him and thinking he was a total hack.  Some thought he was the best teacher ever.  Some thought he was a complete dunce.

“Oh, doesn’t he know much rep?” I said to one of them, innocently.

“No, he seems to know the music,” one of the pianists said, grudgingly.  “He actually knows a lot of pretty obscure stuff.  But you can’t expect someone who’s self-taught to understand the process.” 

“I don’t know,” said another pianist, “he seems pretty comfortable teaching.  And he knows a lot about the background and history of all the rep I’ve done with him.”

“I never said he couldn’t read, did I?” the first one said.  “He’s probably reading up before your lessons.”

I didn’t tell anyone about his unbelievable mastery of my Poulenc set.  Somehow I didn’t want to give up this little bit of knowledge.

I spent some time researching him on the Internet.  It wasn’t hard to put together a picture of what his life had been since his discovery five years before.  Concerto after concerto, recital tour after recital tour, masterclass after masterclass, and so on.  No vocal recitals, no residencies, no studies anywhere.  Hardly a week off, it seemed, between shows.  It was like he’d dropped fully formed from another planet.  That was when I decided he must be lying.

Back in my hometown – to talk about myself for a moment – I’m something of a celebrity.  (Not like it’s hard to be one in a town of 900 people.)  The local paper always covered my recitals and my wins in the Kiwanis festivals I used to travel to when I was in high school, and whenever I go home I do a performance of some kind and about half the town shows up.  Anyway, this past Christmas I brought my friend Melanie – she’s a mezzo – home with me, and we sang Pergolesi’s Stabat Mater at my mom’s church.  You know Stabat Mater – 35 minutes of duets and arias for soprano and mezzo, normally with orchestra but in our case with my mom playing the organ – a pretty standard piece, but still impressive.  After the show, the vicar’s wife came up to me and shook my hand.  “Very pretty, dear, as always,” she said.  “Tell me, did you practice before you did that?”

Some people would consider that an insult, I’m sure, but what they don’t get is that most non-musicians don’t understand music-making.  Mrs. Grafton thinks I have a gift from God (not that I believe in God, but you know what I mean) and that all I have to do is open my mouth and it’s perfect.  Not so.  We practiced like crazy for six weeks, and apparently I was really irritating in rehearsal, because Melanie wouldn’t speak to me for a week after the show.  Every minute of music takes a several hours of practice to perfect.  So how could someone who only started playing the piano seven years before – according to his official bio – have perfected so much music?

A week after our first meeting I saw him again.  “Gina!” he said, as if we were old friends meeting after a long absence.  “Come into my office for a coffee.”

“I have to practice,” I said.

“Shall I play for you again?” he said.

“OK,” I said, suspicious.  “If you like.”

This time I got him to play my Strauss.  I don’t like doing the same songs everyone else does – I always try to pick stuff that’s a little obscure, even if it’s by a famous composer.    It was extremely unlikely that he’d know them, and it would be impossible even for him to sight-read the hard ones.  

But from the first note he was perfect, and perfectly responsive to me.  Strauss is full of rubato – the tempo is always pushing and pulling, speeding up a little and slowing down – and it’s torture if the accompanist doesn’t know how to follow.  Not only did he know the music, he knew how to play it with me.  

“You must have played this before,” I said accusingly.

He smiled and shrugged his shoulders.  “Might have,” he said.  

“Is it black magic?” I said.

He said nothing.  

“It kind of sounds like you played them already,” I said, “that’s all.”

“You’re a very talented girl,” he said, not looking up from the keyboard.

“Thanks,” I said.

“I wonder if you ever think about your future.”

“I do,” I said emphatically.  “A lot.  What do you think I’m doing here?”

“You want the big opera career, all that?”

“Of course,” I said.  “That’s what everyone wants.”

“I always just wanted to make music,” he said.  “I don’t care about the rest of it.”

Weird.  I guess Allison is right – you just keep doing it and eventually it all comes together.

The practice room opened and a woman exclaimed, “There you are!”

The first thing I noticed about her was her lips, a thin, compressed line.  The second was how well dressed she was and how expensive her clothes looked.  I suppose you could call her pretty.  She didn’t look much older than me – you could almost mistake her for a student – but for some reason I immediately classified her as being almost infintely old.  She looked at me with a cold pair of dark eyes, blank and dismissive.  “Hello,” she said.  “And you would be…”

“This is Gina,” he said quickly.  “I was just helping her with her Strauss.”

He sounded so defensive and guilty that I decided she must be his girlfriend.  

“We’ve got to get to the airport in two hours,” she said to him.  “Get your stuff together.”  She turned to me with a fake smile and they were both gone.

*

After that I didn’t see him for a while, except when I went to his masterclasses.  I always sat in the back, though, so I don’t think he knew I was there.  He went off every weekend and played concertos, and his fake young girlfriend with her sleek black hair and lizard eyes went with him everywhere.  She was some big shot conductor, too, so they were a sort of package deal – guest conductor and guest artist in one shot, with a romantic story and a pretty picture to go with it.

I was starting to shrug the whole thing off when a very curious thing happened.

Now, I am a very hard worker.  I have three jobs as well as going to school.  I work in the library at school, I work in a coffee shop, and I sing in a church choir.  Whatever I have to do to fund my education and get my career started, I do.  The ladies in the choir make a big deal of me, always fluttering on about how wonderful my voice is and how it’s a gift from God (there’s that line again!) and how I’m sure to be a big success.  One night after rehearsal one of the nicer ones said to me, “Gina, dear, I have a little surpirse for you. Come with me.”

She led me down the hall to a little storage room.  

“I was going through some of the books in here,” she said, “to see if there was anything we could put in the Easter bazaar, when I found these.”  She gestured towards the table.  “I thought you might be able to use some of these.  I know music books are so very expensive these days.  Please take whichever ones you want.”

“Thank you very much,” I said.  “That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Westman.”

There was a stack of ragged old opera scores on the table.  They all looked like out-dated editions, and I didn’t think they’d be very helpful – you have to use good editions, you know – but I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.  

“Take whichever ones you want,” she said, beaming at me.  “You stay just as long as you like.  The door locks automatically.  Good night, dear.  God bless.”

“Thank you,” I said again, and sat down to look through the books.  They all had the same name written on the first pages – “Ludwina Clark” – and many were German-language editions of Italian operas.  Weird – Il pagliacci as “Der Kaspar”.  I had always thought the German word for “clown” was just “Clown”, but maybe that’s a recent loanword.  Ludwina must have been a German singer who married a Canadian – maybe a war bride?  WW1? – or maybe she just studied in Germany and brought the books back with her to a life of respectable Anglican housewifery in north Toronto.  As I was flipping through Dido und Aeneas, a stack of old photos fell out of it.  With a guilty feeling, I looked through them, too.  Mostly they were family photos from what looked like the thirties and forties – ordinary-looking people holding babies and dogs and sitting beside Christmas trees, either with fixed smiles or expressions of blank stoicism.  Some, though, were action shots from some opera or other – I’m guessing the Magic Flute from the costumes, but I could be wrong – and you’ll never guess who Papagena was.

None other than the piano genius’ girlfriend.

I don’t mean it looked kind of like her, or it might have been a relative.  It was her, or it was her clone.  I turned the picture over: 

Vienna Statsoper, 1931

*

Midnight.  Rain.  An empty church full of burning lights.  An old man kneeling at the altar.  He is trying to pray, and failing.

“All this time,” he murmurs, “all this time, and what have I done?”

A phrase of song enters his mind, and he murmurs over it -

Belles journees, souris du temps,
Vous rongez peu a peu ma vie…

“Is it possible,” he says to himself, “to have lived so long and accomplished so little?”

“Yes,” a woman’s voice comes from behind him.

It’s her.  Her long dark hair is wet and she’s shivering under a streaming leather coat.

“There’s something else he needs to do, isn’t there?” she says, her voice urgent and strained.

“What do you mean?”

“It can’t last forever.  It was never meant to bring us back in age, just to freeze us where we were.”

“It wasn’t my decision to make him one of us.  Moreover, it was not my decision to bring him back.”

“He needed to be young.  There was no point if he was still old.”

“He wasn’t old.”  The old man stands and turns to face her.  “He wasn’t even middle-aged.  He was thirty-eight.  Do you know what “old” means?”

His steely blue gaze turns on her, full of contempt.

“I am old. I cannot remember my father or my mother.  I cannot remember where I come from or what my first language was –  I don’t think my first language is spoken at all anymore.  I cannot remember what colour my hair was, before it was grey.  And I had forgotten all of these things when Bach was a young boy.  I taught him, you remember, and many generations before him.  I made some of them like us, but always at the right time.”

She stares at him.  “What happens now, then?”

“I fail to understand you.”

“He’s not sleeping,” she says.  “He’s never slept.  And he’s taken up with some stupid little soprano from the university.  He looks at me so oddly, too, like he can’t see me.  None of the others ever acted this way. Is he starting to change?  Will he get old?”  She takes a step forward.  “Will he die?”

“What do you even care?” he barks at her.  

“He’s mine,” she cries.  “I made him what he is, I should get to keep him.”

“He is not a doll you won at the fair,” he says.  “He is – he was a human being, and you had no right to change him without understanding the consequences.”

“You should have told me that there were consequences.”

“You should have told me what you were going to do,” he shoots back at her.  “I would have stopped you.”

“You’re not my father.  You can’t control me.”

He sighs.  “It was my mistake,” he says, “to change you.  I should have seen that you were not just young but immature.  It’s my own fault, but I was in love with you.”

She looks away.  “Don’t say all that again,” she says.  

“Why not tell the truth after all this time?  I loved you.”

“You’ve never loved anyone but yourself,” she says scornfully.  “I knew that back then.  If I treat him like a doll, you certainly treated me like one.  And haven’t I proved that I’m more than that?  Didn’t I sing everywhere anyone possibly could?”

“With my backing.”

“But still with my voice and my artistry.  And when you decided we’d been here too long, didn’t I give it all up and move to Russia?  Didn’t I spend four years learning Russian until you said I could start singing there?  And when the iron curtain fell, didn’t I reinvent myself again and start conducting?  Haven’t I always been better than you assumed, done more than you thought possible?”

“There’s still the issue of this young man,” he says.

Their eyes meet.

“What’s going to happen to him?” she says again.

“What’s already happening,” he says.  “And more.”

“And you won’t tell me.”  It’s not a question, it’s a statement.

“No,” he says, and turns back to the altar, his monk’s robe sweeping the floor.

 

Chapter 3

I hate Sherlock Holmes.  Hate, hate, hate Sherlock Holmes.  So goddamn smug and always going on about the nature of reality.  “If you’ve eliminated all other options what remains however improbable blah blah blah and so on.”  I suppose Conan Doyle, being into spiritualism and fairies and all that wouldn’t have balked at the idea of an immortal – or at least extremely long-lived – opera singer turned conductor.  If there’s no other option it must be true.

I, not believing in either spirits or fairies, didn’t quite know what to think.  

My friend Justin, who believes in everything, was pretty open to the idea.

“Maybe she’s a vampire,” he said. 

“Vampires aren’t real.”

“How do you know?”

“Plus I’ve seen her in the sunlight.”

He shrugged.  “Maybe we don’t know everything about vampires yet.”

So he was no use.  I thought of asking a priest or a doctor or something, but what do they know?  They’d just think I was crazy.  Eventually I ran into him again.

“Hello, Gina,” he said to me and smiled.  He had a beautiful smile.  It looked more real than anything else about him.  “Anything else I can play for you today?”

“I’m done practicing for now,” I said.  “Hey, I found something really cool, though.”

“What?”

I told him about my church job and the stack of old opera scores, and I showed him the picture.

“Doesn’t it look just like her?”  I said.  “Maybe it’s her grandmother or something.  Is her family Austrian?”

“I – I don’t know,” he said, his voice tense.  

“It could almost be her,” I said, trying to sound innocent.

“Yes,” he said, staring glumly at the photo.  “Almost.  Come into my office.”

*

“Gina, you have to believe me,” he said, his face white, his eyes earnest.

“No I don’t,” I said.  “You’re crazy.”

“I’m not crazy.  It’s the truth.”

“You tell me you’re some kind of vampire and your girlfriend is really a hundred years old and you expect me to believe you’re not crazy?”

“We’re not vampires.”

“Well, obviously.”

“We don’t drink blood.”

“No shit.”

“It’s much simpler than that.”

“Look, I understand,” I said, standing up.  “It’s not your fault that you’re crazy.  You 

just need a bigger dose of whatever drugs they give you, that’s all.  I’ll tell her about it and she’ll get your doctor to change it.”

“I’m not crazy, I tell you!” he cried.

“It’s OK, everyone knows that you were in a mental hospital.  It’s just like being sick.  You wouldn’t be able to help it if you got diabetes, so how could you help being crazy?”

“No, you don’t understand,” he said desperately.  “I was never in the hospital.  I was a lounge pianist in a hotel in Topeka.  She found me there.  She changed me and launched my career.  She made up the story about me being crazy so she could control me.  I’ve been in hell ever since.  Do you know what it’s like, tied to a harpy like her, never able to sleep, never to get a break from your own thoughts?  I thought it would give me unlimited time to practice, that I could play anything and learn anything and make music until the end of the world.  Instead I have to play the same concertos over and over and over again and travel with her and live with her and do what she tells me.”

“Look,” I said, keeping my voice low and calm, “I’m sure it feels that way.  If she controls your drugs, I’m sure she does control you.  You should break out on your own – find a manager and maybe a psychiatric nurse that you can trust.  Then you could play whatever you like.  But vampires aren’t real.  Neither are immortals.  You have to know that deep inside.”

He looked up at me.  “What would convince you?” he said.

I shrugged.

“You’re a skeptic, right?  So you’ll be convinced by evidence?”

“There isn’t any evidence for vampires.  Or immortals.”

“Oh, but there is,” he said, springing up.  “Let me take you somewhere and I’ll show you.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m not going anywhere with you,” I said firmly.  “Not when you’re like this.  You’re not yourself.  You might do anything.”

“I can’t prove it to you any other way.”

I hesitated.  He was crazy.  It was madness to go anywhere with him.  But there was that picture…

“I’m bringing my friend Justin,” I announced.

“Can you trust him?”

“He already believes in vampires,” I said, “so no one takes anything he says seriously.”

“Get your coat and hat,” he said, “and meet me here in ten minutes.”

*

“I told you she was a vampire,” Justin said triumphantly as we raced up the stairs to the office.

“You didn’t tell me he was a vampire,” I said.  “Besides, he’s not.”

“He’s an immortal.  Same thing.”

“He’s not EITHER.  There’s no such thing.  You’re here in case he goes nuts.”

“What am I supposed to do about it?”

“You’re a man, aren’t you?  You’re here for protection.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Listen, all those hours at the gym have to be good for something.  You’re easily five inches taller than him, anyway.”

“But if he’s a vampire, he might have super-strength.”

“JUSTIN, THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS A VAMPIRE!” I shouted at him, causing two passing flautists to give me dirty looks.

“Well, there’s not,” I said to them.  Honestly.  “Besides, this isn’t Buffy,” I said to Justin.  “If – and I’m not admitting that there is such a thing – if he’s a vampire or an immortal or whatever, you don’t know what characteristics he might actually have.”

“That’s true,” he admitted.  We knocked on the office door.

He answered, looking pale and sick.

“This is Justin,” I said.

“Hi,” he said.

“Are you two ready?”

“Yes,” I said. 

“Good,” my piano genius said.  “Come with me.”

“How do we get there?” Justin said nervously.  I was thinking the same thing, too – wormhole in space-time?  Drinking a potion?  Through a fireplace, like in Harry Potter?

He looked at us oddly.

“We’ll take my car.”

*

Whatever I was expecting from the journey to wherever the hell we were going, it was not a pleasant drive through the city to an obscure but very nice neighbourhood.  We parked on one of those streets backing onto a ravine and walked up to a beautiful old Victorian house. 

“Justin, you have your phone, right?” I whispered to him.

“Yes,” he whispered back.

“Keep your hand on it, OK?”

“OK.”

“So, what is this place?” I said aloud.  He looked at me.

“You’ll see,” he said.

The house was dark red brick with a broad and metal-studded castle-like door.  There was even a turret.  It looked like the set of a silent vampire movie.  The only things missing were the dark, brooding clouds in the sky and the mob of angry villagers.

He let us in.  “Wait here,” he said, and disappeared.  We were left in a dim hallway with flock wallpaper and ticking grandfather clocks.

“Do you think this is his house?” Justin said in a penetrating whisper.

“Shut up,” I hissed at him.

“It’s definitely from the past,” he whispered.

He reappeared at the top of the winding staircase.  “It’s OK,” he said nervously.  “You can come up.”

Justin and I looked at each other, shrugged, and walked up the heavy wooden stairs.  All I could think was, “I am too stupid to live.”  Here we were, probably about to be murdered by psychotic piano genius and I was just walking stupidly forward because I couldn’t help but be curious.

“Come in here,” he said, and we did.

We were in the turret now, and another staircase took us up to a small, circular room, pleasantly lit by the spring sunshine and decorated in a fussily Victorian manner.  Seriously, floral-print wingback chairs and elaborate pink lampshades.

We stood around for a moment, a feeling of anticlimax washing over the room.  Justin was the first to speak.

“Wow, what a…uh…great house,” he said, an artificial lightness in his voice.  “Have you lived here long?”

“I don’t live here,” he said sadly.  “I have a condo on King Street.”

There was another silence.

“So,” I said.  “What are we doing here?”

“Waiting.”

“Waiting?”

“Waiting.”

“For what?”

“For her.”

Her.  His girlfriend?  His mother?  His keeper?  Akasha, Queen of the Damned?

“She’s not that busy at this time of day,” he said.  “She’ll explain everything.”

We sat and waited.  I picked up a magazine – Maclean’s, of course; even Canadian immortals run true to type – and flipped through articles about Stephen Harper and Sarah Palin.  Fifteen minutes later, Justin stood up.

“I can’t take it anymore,” he said.  “I’m out of here.”

“Justin, you promised you’d stay with me,” I said.

“This is so boring.  Plus I have to practice.  I thought we were going to find out about vampires, not sit around in a waiting room with a nutcase.”

“You don’t even know where we are.”

“I’ll get on a bus.  It’s bound to go somewhere.”

“There’s no need for that,” a low voice said behind him.  We turned to see a cheerful-looking middle-aged lady with a thin face and a shock of curly greying hair.  To tell the truth she looked a bit like Margaret Atwood.  She wasn’t Margaret Atwood, though.

“Oh,” Justin said, and sat down.

“I know just why you’re here,” she said comfortingly.  “Would you kids like something to drink?”

“NO!” he exploded.  Justin and I looked at him.  “They’re not here for that.”

She stared at him.  “Then what are they here for, my dear?” Her voice had lost its attractive plumminess.

“They want some answers,” he said.  “They want some proof.”

“Proof of what?”

“Of what we are.”

She turned and looked at me and Justin, cold and dismissive, like the young one had done.  She turned back to him.  “What the hell are you doing?” she yelled, her voice raucous now, her eyes flashing.  “What right do these kids have to know anything?  Are you a complete moron?”

“It’s important to me,” he said quietly.

“You are just the limit,” she said.  “I knew it as soon as she brought you here.  You just don’t get it.  One thing after another after another after another.  You won’t play this, you won’t play that, you don’t want your picture taken, you don’t want to change your eye colour, you don’t want to do the rituals -”

“Rituals?” cried Justin.  I smacked him.

“- and now you bring a couple of – of teenaged nobodies and expect me to reveal our secrets to them?”

“Hey,” I said, “I’m not a teenager.  I’m twenty-one.”

“Shut up,”  she spat at me through clenched teeth.  She turned back to him.  “The answer is no.  Unless you intend to change these children, I am most certainly not going to tell them or show them a thing.”

“That’s your answer, is it,” he said, angry and scornful.  “Well, tell me what you think of this.”  He grabbed her by the shoulders and started to whisper in her ear.  Even though they were only a few feet away from me, I couldn’t hear what he said.  Her face changed from red to purple to white, and her expression from angry to furious – to frightened.  Finally he released her.

“You really mean that?” she said.

“Yes,” he said quietly but intensely.

She looked at him, then at us, then back at him again, then sighed.  “Oh, what’s the use,” she said.  “Everything’s going to hell anyway.  They might as well know.”

“OK, this is officially really weird,” Justin said.

“You two have to promise,” she said to us, “not to tell anyone what I reveal to you.”

“I promise,” I said, and Justin promised too.

“You also have to take part in the ritual.”

“Does the ritual involve either of us getting killed?”  I asked.

“No.”

“Maimed, injured, mentally damaged?”

“No.”

“Do we have to kill babies or anything?” Justin asked.

“No.”

“Then I guess it’s OK,” I said.

“Sure,” said Justin.

“Good,” she said, her sunny manner returning.  “You might be just what we need.  Something’s been going wrong lately.”

 

 

Chapter 4

We were in the garden, a tangle of dead vines and bare trees surrounding a circular clearing.  A low wooden fence was all that protected the drop into the ravine.  The spring sky above the trees was the enormous blue of March, and the air was crisp and clear.  We could have been on a mountaintop in Switzerland rather than in the middle of Canada’s largest city.  The woman was in the middle of a very vague metaphysical lecture about the nature of reality.

“So you see, dear, that all living things are connected,” she was saying.

“Connected to what?” I asked.

“To each other,” she said, annoyed, “and to the cosmic source of life.”

“Right,” I said.

“Gina’s a skeptic,” Justin piped up.  “She doesn’t believe in a cosmic source of life.”

“Well, we’ll just have to show her that she’s wrong,” she said soothingly.  “Gina, dear, come over here.  Let me show you something.”

She led me to a corner of the garden and lifted up the hanging branch of an evergreen tree.  Under it was a tiny but perfect rosebush, studded with green leaves and miniature red roses.

“Do you see this plant here?”

“Yes,” I said.

“What do you notice about it?” she asked me, eyes sparkling.

“It has leaves and flowers, and everything else is bare,” I said.

“Exactly!  And why should that be?”

“I don’t know,” I said heavily.  “Why don’t you tell me?”

She took a small object from her coat pocket and handed it to me.  It was a small vial with a cork in it, full of a dark liquid. 

“What is it?”

“If you were to drink that,” she said, “in a sufficient dose, you would be like this rose, forever beautiful and forever young.  Your hair would never grey and your skin never wrinkle and your voice stay as fresh and youthful as it is today.”

I examined the little bottle and handed it to Justin.  “Do you water the rose with it?”

“I did once,” she said, “but I probably won’t again.”

“Why not?” he said.

“Once is enough,” she said simply.  “It’s best not to overdo things, don’t you think?”

“What happens if you take too much?” I asked.

“It depends,” she said evasively.  “Now, do you understand?”

“About all life being connected to a cosmic source?”

“That’s right.”

“No,” I said, “I don’t.” 

“Come on, Gina,” Justin said.  “Have an open mind.”

“But this rose doesn’t prove anything,” I said.  “You could have been keeping it inside and just planted it today.  It could even be fake.  I don’t see how you can get from one rosebush to the metaphysical underpinnings of a universal consciousness.”

“No?” she said.  “Well…let me see.”  She took the vial from Justin, opened it, and poured this contents into the heart of one of the tiny roses.  Within ten seconds it had opened fully, wilted, turned brown, and fallen to the ground.  In its place was a new rosebud, a perfect miniature. 

“Oh,” I said.  “That’s…is that what always happens?”

“I wish I could say yes,” she said thoughtfully.  “Sometimes it kills the entire bush.  Sometimes it does something else.”

“I see,” I said, though I didn’t.  “So you have this – substance -”

“Potion, dear,” she said serenely.

“Potion, then – which makes plants and people immortal and invulnerable to harm -”

“Oh, not invulnerable,” she laughed.

“Ok, just immortal – unless you give them more of it, then it kills them, or makes them be reborn, or does something else which you won’t tell me about.”

“That’s right.”

“What’s in it?”

“Yeah, that’s a really good question,” Justin said.  “What’s it made out of?”

She laughed and put the empty vial back in her pocket.  “You don’t think I’m going to tell you that, do you?”

“You said you would explain things,” Justin said, wounded.

“I’ll do better than explain,” she said.  “I’ll show you.  Tonight, at the ritual.  Until then, let’s go back inside.  A little background reading might help.”

*

“Oh, come on,” Gina said, putting down her book in disgust.  “This is pure Anne Rice.”

“Shut up!” I said.  “I’m trying to concentrate.”

“No, Justin, listen to this.” She read out loud:

In Antioch there lived a wise man, learned in the ways of God and man, knowledgeable in the lore of magic and the medicine of herbs.  It was he who found the elixir, and, being a lover of music, founded our order. The finest musicians of his age he gathered around him and, administering to them the elixir, admonished them to go forth and make joyful noise unto the end of the earth.  His own elixir he did not drink, not thinking himself worthy of eternal life, and being already aged and tired of the pains of living.  In his place he trained a young boy, a cunning lad, in the art of brewing and blessing the water of eternal life, and in his time he passed from this world.  The lad did not share in his master’s caution and humility, and drank the elixir himself.  But either his hand had been too heavy in the brewing, or his own dark nature perverted its course; for while the elixir made him immortal, it also made him old before his time.  From that time, he has been the guardian of our order and the master of its secrets. 

“It’s more Lord of the Rings,” I said decisively.

“Whatever it is, it’s bullshit,” she said, turning back to the book.

“How can you say that?  You saw what happened to the rose.”

“That could have been a magic trick,” she said.  “He could have cooked it up with her before we left.  Plus, look at this book.  It’s not really old.  It’s fake old.  It must be some kind of elaborate hoax.”

“Why would they do that?” I said.  Gina can be so goddamn annoying sometimes. “What possible reason could she have for going along with his craziness?”

“Maybe she’s crazy, too.  Folie a deux or whatever it’s called.  You know, when one person enters into and takes on another’s madness.”

“I guess.”  We read for a while longer, then Mr. Bigshot Piano Genius came into the room.

“How are you guys doing?” he asked nervously.  He is so in love with Gina, it’s disgusting.

“OK,” she said, barely glancing up from her book.  “I still don’t believe any of it.”

“You’ll get there,” he said.  “Come on, I’m going to take you guys to get some food.”

“Isn’t there any food here?” I asked. 

“I don’t want you to eat anything or drink she gives you,” he said.  “I don’t think she’ll do anything, but I don’t trust her completely.  Or the others.”

“There are others?” I said.  This was getting better and better.

“They’ll be here tonight.  Come on, let’s go now, so we’re back in time for the ritual.”

Gina rolled her eyes.  “This is going to suck,” she said.  “I used to have a roommate who was a Wiccan.  She was always trying to get me to do spells with her.  They were always really stupid.”

“It’s nothing like that,” he said earnestly.  “Let’s go.”

He held out his hand to her, and she took it.  She blushed a little – I think she must like him, too.  That’s why she’s so rude to him. 

So he took us out for burgers.  He’s really not that bad, I guess.  Being immortal must be difficult in its own way.  So what if he’s rich and successful?  He’s kind of cut off from everyone, because most people aren’t open-minded like I am.  They’d either think he was crazy or lying, and even the most broad-minded people don’t usually like lunatics and liers.

At dinner Gina was wary and sullen, so I talked to him about music and ignored her.  I hate it when she gets like that.  It’s always when she’s wrong and doesn’t want to admit it.  She’s a Taurus, you know.

“Time to get back,” he said at last.  “You really need to see the ritual.”

“Yeah, I’m sure it’s going to be great,” Gina said sarcastically.

 

*

It was the perfect end to the perfect day, really just the icing on the cake.  When I saw him there with those two idiotic kids I could have throttled him.  If had been anyone else but him, anyone but the keeper of the keys who’d brought them here – well, I would have killed them all, there and then.  I suppose I sound heartless, but since the old man entrusted me with the secret, I have a responsibility to him and to our kind that I take very seriously.

I could tell that the boy, at least, wasn’t much of a threat.  We’ve had problems with a few of those believer types before.  They go on talk shows and spill their guts and no one pays the slightest attention to them. The dark-haired little minx was another story, though, I could see at once; I knew I’d either have to bring her into the order or kill her.  She could do too much damage.

 

As the afternoon drew to an end and the evening closed in, I lay in the ritual bath, perfumed with roses and lavender, watching the sun set through my west-facing skylight. When twilight spread across the sky and the stars began to appear, I rose, dressed, opened the seal and said the prayer.  I was ready for what I had to do.

*

The clearing in the garden was full now of people, standing around an open fire, their faces ominous in the dancing flames.  It was like some kind of grim cookout.

The Margaret Atwood lookalike was standing over the fire, hand outstretched.  She was wearing a ridiculous-looking robe and reciting an obscene blessing.  I can’t remember the exact words, but it was exactly like the crap my Wiccan roommate used to spew – “powers of the earth, powers of light and darkness, image of the Mother,” blah blah blah.  In her hand was a small crystal and a clay model of a bird. 

In the flickering light I recognized a famous cellist, an opera singer, and a jazz trumpeter.  I nudged Justin and pointed them out.

“This must be some kind of music cult,” I whispered.

“Cool!” he said.  He would say that.

Two more ridiculously-garbed people stepped out of the shadows behind her, carrying large glass vases full of dark liquid.  I suppose they could have been crystal, not that it matters.  Another extra from Aida came out with a shallow brass dish and an evergreen branch. 

“Powers of the universe,” Margaret Atwood screamed, “enter us!”

The acolyte set the branch on fire and waved it over her hands.  The sickly pine smoke filled the air.  It looked pretty dangerous – if I had designed the robes, I personally wouldn’t have given them long, wide sleeves – but no one got accidentally set on fire.  At least not this time.

“Gina, come here,” she called.  I hesitated.

“Gina, come here now,” she thundered, and I went.

The circle of faces around the fire looked at me, pinched and angry. 

“Take the bird,” she said.  I took the little statue and held it in my palm.

“Cover it with your other hand,” she said, “and close your eyes.”

What happened then I can’t say, since my eyes were closed.  Justin tells me there was a flash of light from the crystal and a the fire flared up, but he’s pretty unreliable.  A moment later I heard her say, “Open your hands.”  I did and looked down at a perfectly motionless statue of a bird.

She gave a cry of rage.  “You stupid girl!  What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything!” I cried.  “What was supposed to happen?”

“You idiot, the bird comes to life!” she snapped.  “The bird comes to life, we burn it alive and put its ashes in the bottles.”

“That’s horrible.”

“It’s what we need for the potion to work,” she said miserably.  “Put out the fire,” she told the acolytes.  “There’s no point.  We’ll have to try it again next Friday.”

The circle began to disperse, its member muttering and glaring at me out of the shadows.  “Way to go, Gina,” Justin called out from the back.

“You shut up,” I called back to him.

Margaret Atwood was staring murderously at me over the glowing coals.  “I thought you could help us,” she said.  “Your negativity must have ruined it.”

“Don’t blame me if your fake magic didn’t work,” I said. 

“Oh, honestly,” she cried, and stumped off back to the house.  I felt a hand on my shoulder and nearly jumped out of my skin.

“Oh, it’s you,” I said.  He looked sheepish and apologetic.

“Let me give you a ride home,” he said.

“No, I think me and Justin will take the bus.”

“It’s too far.   It’ll take hours.”

“Yeah, I’d like a ride,” Justin said, popping up beside me.

“OK, I guess,” I said.

“Do you still think I’m crazy?” he said to me, so sadly that I wanted to cry.

“No, I don’t think you’re crazy,” I said heavily.  “I think you’re part of a silly and dangerous cult.  But that’s really none of my business.”

“Isn’t it?” he said.  “Let’s go.”

*

In a way I was grateful to Gina; she gave me something I had been missing for a while – curiosity.   I had been so apathetic that wondering about something – about anything – was like waking up from a coma.  Why had the ritual failed?  Was it us?  Had we done something wrong again?  Or was it her?  Why did it fail, and why did it keep failing?

The next day I went to the house again and let myself in quietly.  I didn’t want to see her, didn’t want to deal with her threats or her demands; I wanted to look something up, and I wanted to see the old man.

 

In the library I searched through the old books and folders.  Much of the library is in old languages that I don’t read – which is one of the reasons we need the old man and his knowledge -  but there are a few newer chronicles in some kind of English.  In a gaudy gold-bound book I found this odd passage:

The source of all life and wisdom, the fount of our eternal gift, is in itself not eternal.  Like the tightly-wound spring that drives the pocket watch, in the end it must unwind, slow down, and stop; when this occurs, the force which drives our sacred mission must needs come to its natural end.  Signs and omens will presage this, and sages and seers will warn of it.

“Sages and seers,” I murmured.  If the old man was anything, that was what he was.

I had to find him.

When I was first changed, for some reason I was given something that no one else in our order has.  I don’t know why – I think there must be some sort of Messiah legend going around, not that I would necessarily believe in it or believe that I was it – but after she’d changed me, she brought me to the old man and said, “He’s the one.  Give it to him.”

He looked at me with his inscrutable steely blue eyes.  “So this is your new toy,” he said.  “He doesn’t look like much.”

“He has a lot of potential,” she said.  “He represents a new direction for our kind.”

 

“Oh?  And what direction might that be?”

 

She didn’t answer him but stared unblinking at him.  Lizard eyes, I saw for the first time, cold and alien.  

“Oh, alright,” he said.  “It really doesn’t matter to me anymore.  Come here, young man.”

I walked up to him.  The room was dark with heavy red curtains.  “Close your eyes,” he said to me, “and hold out your hands.”  I did.

In the next moment I felt something burn the palm of my hand, like a red-hot penny, and a sharp sensation in both my heart and the back of my neck.  

“It’s done,” he rasped.  “I hope this satisfies you,” he turned to her and said.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Now don’t bother me again,” he said.  “Go away, both of you.”

“Wait, what just happened?” I said.

“I told you to go away!” he snarled.  “Ask her if you want to know.  It’s nothing to me anymore.  Get out, out, out!”

We left.  She refused to tell me anything, of course, but in the end I made her tell me.  

“He made you into the keeper of the keys,” she said impatiently.

“Yes?”

“That’s all,” she said.

“But what does it mean?  What keys?  I don’t have a keys.”

“Yes, you do.  One is in your left ventricle and the other is behind your left ear.”

“What?”

“Don’t worry about it.  It’s not going to do anything to you.”

“I have a piece of metal in my heart?”

 

“I think it’s actually made out of crystal,” she said.  “Really, don’t worry about it.  It won’t do a thing to you.  It’s just necessary that you be at the ritual.”

“What ritual?”

“The ritual where we make the potion,” she said wearily.  “Stop asking stupid questions, OK?  Let’s work on your Rachmaninoff.”

At first I went along with everything unquestioning.  Eventually, though, I realized that the key he had hidden in my body gave me some power over them.  All I had to do was threaten to stay away from the ritual and I could get whatever I wanted.  I could stay in Toronto for six months instead of perpetually travelling.  I could bring Gina and her friend and make her reveal  at least some of our secrets to them.  I could make demands and  most of them were met.

I  rose from my chair in the library and went into the garden.  A light drizzle was falling, and it was cold and miserable.  I needed to contact the old man.  But how?

*

“It was the girl’s fault,” she said nervously, pacing up and down in front of him.

“Really?” he said dryly. “And why should she be to blame?”

“She was negative. She didn’t believe. She wasn’t even impressed.”

“The ritual does not require belief.” He was fiddling with the cups on the altar, not even looking at her. She grabbed his robe in despair.

“What other explanation is there? Everything else was perfect. The fire, the branch, the perfurme, the crystal vases. The words. The song. So why didn’t it work?”

“Woman, you are asking too much of me,” he turned and thundered at her. “Why do you bother me with your stupidities? You understand the ritual, and you claim to have satisfied the conditions. Why blame others for your own failure?”

He turned away from her and busied himself at the altar, swirling the cup with its fragrant liquid. 

“Do you think it might be something else?” she said quietly.

“What?”

“That the power is drying up?”

He looked at her. “Now that is an interesting thought,” he said meditatively. “The power source may not be inexhaustible. ‘Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold.’ You may not be as stupid as you look.”

She ignored the insult. “What happens then?”

“Why do people keep asking me that?” he said with a chuckle. “Why do you think that I know? I am only a man, after all. A very old and very odd man. But nothing else.”

“Is it the end for us?”

“It might be. It might not. Frankly I don’t care much either way. I’ve had enough of this world of wonders. Do you have any idea how many wars and famines and plagues and panics and paradigms I’ve seen rear their heads and fall apart? I’m sick of it.”

He raised the cup to his lips and drank.

“What is that?” she asked sharply.

“What do you care?”

“Is it something new? Something that will protect us? Something that will save us?” 

“I wouldn’t tell you if it was.”

“Show me!” she cried, and grabbed at the cup. It fell to the floor, spilling in a fragrant stream along the marble.

“Dammit,” he cried, “it was only mulled wine. Why do you have to bother me so?”

“Why do you have to be such a mystery-monger?”

He picked up the cup and stared thoughtfully at the red liquid. “What else do I have left?”

“Come back with me,” she said in a low, impassioned voice.  “We need you.  Come back.  If we cannot make more potion the order will dwindle and disappear.  One by one they leave us, and we need to replace them.  Come back.”

“Why should I care?”

She took a step forward.  “About the girl,” she said.

“Yes?”  He didn’t turn.

“There’s something unusual about her,” she said.

When she told him what it was, he turned and looked at her with eyes now wide with wonder.  

“Do you really think so?” he asked once she had finished.

“Yes,” she said.

“In that case,” he said, “I’ll get my hat.”  

 

 

Chapter 5

Stupid Gina and her stupid skepticism. Always messing things us. I read tarot for her once and she said it didn’t work at all. Of course it didn’t work – with her negative energy messing it up. You have to be able to go with the flow and just feel it, or it doesn’t work.

I have to say, though, the ritual was pretty lame. Even if I’d been holding the bird, I don’t think anything would have happened, because I don’t think they know what they’re doing. I bet they’ve never gotten it right, and that’s why they can’t make more potion. 

“What I can’t figure out,” I said, breaking the glacial silence, “is why they want to make more elixir.”

Gina was sitting in the front passenger seat and turned and looked at me. “What?”

“Well, if they could die when they take it again, why would they want more? Do you know?” I said to what’s-his-name.

“They don’t tell me anything,” he said gloomily. He seemed pretty bummed out. I guess he’d hoped to impress Gina with the whole shebang; too bad for him that it fell so flat.

“It’s always that way when magic goes wrong,” she said dismissively. “Remember when you read my tarot?”

“Shut up,” I said, “that was your fault.”

“Whatever.”

I thought about it for a minute, watching the city lights go by. 

“Maybe they want to make a lot more of them,” I mused.

“What?”

“Maybe they want to turn a whole bunch of people into vampires at once. You know, like a vampire army.”

I saw him flinch in the driver’s seat. “We’re not vampires,” he said in a desparate sort of way. 

“Yeah, what’s the point of an army of more or less immortal people with no superpowers?” Gina said scornfully. “Not that I think you’re immortal,” she added hastily. 

“But you know what I mean. Why would they need – or WANT – an army of them?”

“Don’t ask me,” I said. “Maybe they have to battle an army of zombies. Maybe they have some kind of cosmic quota. Maybe they’re putting together some kind of immortal orchestra.”

“Hey, that’s a pretty good idea,” he said. 

“What, you want to start one?”

“No, that actually might be true,” he said. “Do you remember what she said when she first saw you, how excited she was? She thought I was bringing someone new in, and she was happy about it.”

“Just out of curiousity,” I said, “what did you say to her to make her change her mind about telling us about stuff?”

He didn’t answer at first. I watched the back of his neck grow red in the orange streetlight. “I have something they need,” he said at last.

“What’s that?”

“I don’t think I should tell you.”

“Oh,” I said. “Ok.”

Gina turned and scowled at me. “Justin, you have, like, no manners,” she said.

“Screw you.”

Honestly, that is so like her. Always telling people what for and being a total bitch myself. Why do I bother?

Gina had him drop us at the school – I don’t think she wants him to know where she lives, and I can’t say I blame her – and insisted that we go out for martinis.

“Justin, that was pretty fucking weird,” she said, and downed a Cosmopolitan.

“Don’t you have a lesson tomorrow?” I said. “Cool it with the mixed drinks.”

“It got moved to Friday. I’m getting another one.”

“OK, if you are, I am.” I downed my own drink and ordered two more.

“What the hell was that?”

“The drink?”

“No, you idiot, the lame magic show we just saw.”

“Gina,” I said seriously, “you just don’t understand things like that. You’re not a spiritual person. Spiritual people get that there are some things that reason and logic can’t explain, and that sometimes people can tap into hidden forces – for good or for evil. Thanks.” This was to the waitress who’d just set two more drinks on the table.

“Why do you believe in everything, Justin?”

“I don’t believe in everything. Just some things.”

“Same with me.”

“No, you don’t believe in anything.”

“Yes I do!”

“No, you don’t. You sort of kind of generally and conditionally give your OK to things. You don’t really believe in them.”

“You mean I don’t uncritically accept everything you tell me.”

“No, I mean you don’t know how to enter into things whole-heartedly, without reservation. You always just stick your big toe in to test the waters, then decide the water is too hot and pull it out.”

“No, I decide the water’s not there. Just because you believe in acupuncture doesn’t mean that I’m in denial.”

Ok, that made absolutely no sense, but whatever. I let it go. “Anyway,” I said, “let’s not fight about it. I think that maybe, under other circumstances, the bird might have come to life.  For some reason it didn’t tonight, but that doesn’t mean it’s not possible.  You, on the other hand, think the whole thing was bullshit.”

“That’s right.”

“Well, at least I’m not in love with a vampire,” I said, and ordered another drink.

*

“Well, well, well,” the old man said avidly, “I hear you’ve been up to a thing or two.”

He rubbed his hands together.  I didn’t altogether like the expression on his face.

“If you mean the young singers I brought here last week,” I said stiffly, “I don’t see -”

“Oh, is she a singer?  I was only told that she was a very pretty young girl.”

I bristled.  “That’s not why I brought her,” I said hotly.  “She discovered an old picture-”

“Of my protegee as Papagena back in the 30s.  I always told her to stick to the Italian roles.  Her German was never very good – I don’t know if you knew it, but she is a native Italian speaker.  She’s a much better conductor than she was singer, too – did you know that?  So instead of laughing it off as a coincidence, you decided to bring the girl and her sidekick here and enlighten them.  I wonder why.  Drink?”

He was pouring himself a glass of mulled wine.  I shook my head.  I couldn’t get a handle on what he was doing.  He seemed pleased somehow.  

“It happens to all of us, my boy,” he said.  “We get in a rut, we get bored, and we look for someone outside of the order to confide in.  But you see, don’t you, that you can’t let her in on the secret without making her part of the club?  Fortunately it seems that she didn’t believe a word of it and has gone off thinking you a madman.  Now, if you really want the girl, get her to take the potion and bring her back.”  

“What are you doing here, anyway?”  I said.  “I thought you were going to be in retreat for six months, communing with the cosmos and purifying your soul.”

“One gets rather bored of doing nothing but meditate day in, day out,” he said.  “Also I have been informed that the rituals have been singularly unsuccessful.  If my children needed me, how could I say no?”  He chuckled and looked me straight in the eye.  “Bring the girl back here,” he said, suddenly serious.  “Get her back.  I don’t care what you have to do, but get her back here.”

*

“What are you doing with that girl?” I said to him.

 

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said, not looking up from the piano.  He was practicing something weird that he shouldn’t have been practicing, some Granados or Alvarez.

“Why are you playing that, anyway?” I said.  He is so infuriating.  “Don’t you know we’re doing the Tchaikovsky concerto next week in Vancouver?”

“I’m sick of playing it,” he said.  “I’ll be fine.  Don’t worry about the Tchaikovsky.”

“I have to worry about it if you’re not going to.”  

“Will you leave me alone?”  he turned and snapped at me.  “I’ll play what I want to play.  You can’t tell me what to do.”

“What are you doing with that girl?”  I said again.  “Every time I turn around you’re in a practice room with her, wasting your time giving her a free coaching on Poulenc or Strauss or something.  What’s the appeal?  Why?”

He stood up.  “You don’t have any right,” he said, “to tell me how to spend my time, either at the piano or away from it.  I’m going to play what I want with who I want and I’m not going to let you boss me around anymore.  Is that clear?”

He looked hostile and truculent, like a litte boy talking back to his teacher.  

“Fine,” I said.  “No use arguing about it.  Could we go over Tchaikovsky sometime before the dress rehearsal, though?”

“As you like,” he said coldly, sitting back down at the piano.  “Just leave me alone.”

“Oh, I can do that,” I said, and quietly left.

*

I didn’t want to go back.  Really, I fully intended not to.  I was firmly resolved to distance myself from him and his sad and stupid cult.  I planned to, if I ran into him again, nod and smile and run away.  That was the plan, anyway.  It didn’t work.

Of course I saw him the next day.  Of course I did.  And of course I felt sorry for him, so I talked to him as if nothing unusual had happened.  So when he suggested that he play the Poulenc for me again, of course I went along for it, and when he took me out for lunch I didn’t see how I could say no.  The same thing happened the next day, and the next.  Justin teased me about it - 

“Don’t think that I look down on you,” he said pityingly, “just because your boyfriend’s older than you,.  In a few year’s you’ll have caught up to him anyway.  Tell me, what’s it like, dating a vampire?”

I whacked him with my purse when he said it, but I guess it was true.  I was sort of dating him.  Not that anything happened – not yet – and it was still pretty weird. 

After about two weeks he asked me again if I would come to a ritual.

“No, I really can’t,” I said.  “I’m sorry, I’m really trying to respect your beliefs, but I don’t believe in magic, and you haven’t shown me anything to make me change my mind.  I don’t think I can go back.”

 

“Gina, please,” he said, looking at me with his blue puppy-dog eyes, “please, give it one more try.  If you don’t believe after this, I promise you I won’t bring it up again.”

As if that were true.  That’s what Mormons always say – “just read these passages of the Book of Mormon, and if you’re still not convinced we’ll leave you alone”.  As if – they’re back the next Saturday with reinforcements and a whole new round of apologetics.  But he looked so sad, and I thought, Well, what the hell?  The worst that could happen was another embarrassing campfire (embarrassing to THEM, not me) and another lifeless bird statue.  No skin off my nose.  

It was Friday when he took me there again, a shimmering half-moon low in the sky as we drove west through the city.  

 

“You should really take the subway,” I said sternly.

He smiled.  “Why?”

“Don’t you care about the planet?” I said.  “Hello, global warming and all that?  I would think immortal people would care more than others, since you’ll have to live through all of the consequences.”

He laughed.  “I never thought of that,” he said.  “Next time you come here, we’ll take the subway, OK?  It’s a bit of a walk from the station, though.”

“I don’t care.”

When we pulled up to the house, the older woman, already in her ridiculous robes, was waiting on the doorstep.  

“Gina, dear, so nice to see you again!” she cried in fake delight.  “What a pleasant surprise.  Where’s your friend tonight?”

“She’s here with me,” he said in a low, warning tone.

“Of course she is,” she said.  “Well, this time you just sit back and observe, alright, dear?  No need for you to go to any extra trouble.” 

She smiled at me in a sickly way, and I said, “Sure,” and followed her into the house.  This time I noticed more – the candles everywhere, the strange brass bas-reliefs of flying birds on every wall.  Why hadn’t I seen them the first time?

“Remember, don’t eat or drink anything,” he said in my ear, then disappeared.

 

The house and garden were full that night, and there was a party atmosphere.  Swirls of laughing chatter came from every room, where people in black and multicoloured robes mingled with ordinarily-dressed middle-aged musicians.  I noticed the same cellist I’d seen the first time; plus her, the smooth-haired conductor who was controlling my piano genius’ destiny.  Hers eyes met mine for a moment; she sneered, laughed, and turned away, saying something that made the group around her roar with laughter.  

I felt like Alice in Wonderland at the Red Queen’s party.  No one spoke to me, though I got plenty of strange looks.  Why would I want to talk to them, anyway?  They were just a bunch of deluded assholes.  If it weren’t for him, I would have just walked out and made my way home.  Where had he gone?  Why had he left me alone like that?  Why would he leave me unprotected with these lunatics?

Just as I was starting to wish I’d learned how to hotwire a car so I could steal one and go home (or that I had enough money to take a taxi all the way back downtown and that the odds of finding a taxi in this secluded spot at this time of night were greater than about one in ten million), the crowd suddenly melted from the house, and a crackling sound began in the garden.

 

“Great,” I murmured to myself, “another round of psycho Cumbaya.”

“There you are,” I heard him say.  

I turned and saw him coming down the stairs.  His lips were stained red and his eyes were bright.

“I haven’t gone anywhere,” I said.  “What were you doing?”

“I’ll tell you later,” he said, not looking me in the eye.  “Let’s go out back.  I have to be part of the ceremony tonight.”

Everything else was just as before – the stupid-looking robes, the bonfire, the idiotic business with the branch and the vases – except instead of me holding the bird, it was him.  When the Margaret Atwood type called out for him, he stepped forward into the light of the flames, a grim excitement on his face.  

“Do you accept?” she said to him.

“I accept,” he said.  She hadn’t said anything like that to me.

“Do you have the will to knowledge?”

“Knowledge is my light and desire,” he answered.

“Do you undertake the consequences?”

“I have already consumed them,” was his reply.

“Hold out your hands,” she said, and he did.  She closed her hands over his, and together they murmured something I couldn’t quite catch.  There was a flash of light – I was so keyed up that I jumped and cried out – and a strange sound filled the air.  It was like a human voice, but colder, more powerful; an alien song from another world.  It made me feel warm and drowsy.  The half moon trembled, and the stars started to spin.  I fell to the ground and knew no more.

 

Chapter 6

I was lying on a beach, white light on pale sand, the surf breaking in lazy waves somewhere beyond my reach.  It was heavenly.  I lay on the soft sand and allowed the warm breezes to play over my body.  A deep feeling of peace and relaxation engulfed me,

“This is an absolute, unqualified disaster,” a sharp voice said.

“What happened?” I heard him say, and tried to open my eyes.

“They told me you were the one,” the first voice said.  I was strugglng, the waves now breaking over my head, pushing me down.

“They told me the same, too,” he said.

“I trusted you.  I let you be made the keeper of the keys.  I believed in you.  How do you explain this?”

“She’s waking up,” he said.  “Gina?  Gina?  Can you hear me?”

Finally I was awake, looking up into his deep blue eyes.  

“Hey there,” he said, and smiled.  “How are you feeling?  Say something.”

I swallowed.  “I am going to fucking kill you,” I whispered, my mouth dry.  “I was having the best dream ever.”

“Well, it sounds like she hasn’t changed a bit,” an acid voice said from the foot of the bed.  I looked over.  It was my old friend, Margaret Atwood.  I sat up.  

“So,” I said, “what’s going on?”

She opened her mouth, looking murderous.  He started to speak before she could.

“Gina,” he said, “did you notice something different about the ritual tonight?”

“Yes,” I said.  “She asked you some questions, and you answered.”

“We were doing a slightly different ritual tonight,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“It was supposed,” Margaret Atwood said between clenched teeth, “to tap into the central power source and restore the potion.  That’s why we needed him.”

“There’s something special about me,” he said sheepishly.  “I’m the keeper of the keys.”

“Whatever,” I said, and started to get out of bed.  “Listen, I’m really sorry your ritual didn’t work or whatever, but I should really be getting home.  I have a lot of schoolwork to do this weekend -”

“You’re not going anywhere,” she said.  “There was an unexpected  side effect.”

My head was aching.  “Oh?  What was that?”

“I was made the keeper of the keys,” he said, “because they thought I was something I’m not.”

“There’s a legend in the old books,” she said, “about one who would bring the order together and lead us to greater heights.  One who would lead us from the shadows into the light and bring us to our rightful place as the natural leaders of the world.  We thought it was him.  We were wrong.”

“Gina, it’s you,” he said gently.

“What?”

“It’s you,” she said sharply.  “You’re the one we’ve been waiting for.”

I tried to stand up, but the pain in my head made me fall back.  “I am not going to play along with your stupid Anne Rice pastiche,” I said.  “I refuse to take part in this idiocy.  I am not – NOT – anyone’s Messiah.  I’m going home.”

“During the ritual, you jumped and cried out,” he said.  

“Yes, I did.  It was the flash of light from the magic trick you did, it startled me.”

“No, it was the light from the inflammation of the bird entering you,” he said.

“Are you crazy?”

“Then you fell down unconscious.  I felt the keys leave my body, and when I ran over to you, you were bleeding from the left side of your neck.”

“I must have scratched myself on a twig.”

“Feel your neck, just under your left ear.”

I did.  It was tender and sore, and I could feel a slight bump.  “It’s probably nothing,” I said.  “A scratch or a bug bite or something.”

“No, it’s the key, you stupid child,” she said.

“Hey!” he stood up and turned at her.  “Have some respect.  Gina,” he said, turning to me, “that’s one of the keys.”

“Where’s the other one?”

“In your left ventricle.”

“There’s something in my heart?” I cried.  “Jesus Christ.  I’m going to the hospital and getting an X-ray.  I have to see this.”

“The keys are made of a crystalline energy matrix,” he said, “it’s transparent to X-rays.”

“How convenient,” I said.  “Listen, this has been an unusual but entertaining evening.  I think I really should go.  I must have hit my head on a rock or something.  I have an awful headache.”

“It’s from the key,” he said.  “I had awful headaches, too, for the first few days.  It’ll go away.”

“No doubt,” I said, “once I’m in my own bed with a hot chocolate.  Will you give me a ride home?”

The two of them looked at each other.  

“You should stay here for a few days,” he said gently, “just until your body gets accustomed to the keys.  We need to keep an eye on you.”

“I do not believe in the existence of invisible keys,” I said, “I don’t believe they entered my body because you did some magic tricks with a clay bird and some miniature flares.  This is ludicrous, and I am leaving right now.  Will you drive me home?  Or call me a cab?  I’m willing to walk, but I’m not staying here a minute longer.”

“If you think we’re letting you go,” Margaret Atwood said spitefully, “you’ve got another thing coming.  You’re staying right here whether you like it or not.  I’ll bring you some food if you like.”

“I’m not hungry, and you can’t keep me prisoner!” I said.  “It’s a crime.  I’ll call the police.  I’ll get out and I’ll bring them back and they’ll arrest you.”

“Fine,” she said.  “Suit yourself.  No one is going to believe you if you do.”  She smiled.  “Sit tight.  You’ll see soon enough.”

*

 I sat in the room fuming impotently for a while.  The window was barred and I assume the door was locked.  I didn’t try it because every time I stood up I got dizzy and nearly fainted.  I must have fallen asleep eventually, because the next thing I knew the sun was streaming in the window and a new voice was booming from the foot of the bed.

“I knew you were wrong,” it was saying.  

I looked up.  An old man, my genius, and the young conductor were standing there, looking at me.  

“Ah, she’s awake,” the old man said, advancing towards me.  “Welcome, my dear, welcome.  I’m so glad to finally meet you.”

She made a derisive sound.  “This is ridiculous,” she said.  “It was him.  All the signs pointed to him.  I did the divining ritual and it was him.”

“You did it wrong,” he said wearily.  “I told you so at the time.  Here is the one.  I can tell.”  He turned to me and looked deeply into my eyes.  His eyes were a cold blue, not like my genius’; they made me feel tired and alone.  “I’ve been waiting for you for a very long time,” he said to me.

“Oh,” I said.  “Nice to meet you.”

“I understand you’re something of a skeptic,” he said.

“I don’t believe in magic,” I said.  “Or immortality.”

“Neither did she,” he said, gesturing back at the woman.  “Neither did he, she tells me.  None of us did to begin with.”

“What about you?” I asked.

“It was so long ago,” he said a little sadly, “I don’t remember.”

I remembered suddenly the passage I read in the old book, about the apprentice who was made not forever young but forever old by the potion.  

“Gina,” my genius said suddenly, “this is the head of our order.  He’s here to tell you what you need to know, and decide what the next step should be.”

“Oh, there’s no need for a second step,” the old man said.  His cold eyes sparked with a brief twinkle.  

“Don’t we need to change her?” the other woman said.  

“It’s happened already,” he said.  “So you see she must be the one.”

“What do you mean, it’s happened already?” I cried, alarmed.

“Can I get you something to eat?” he said.

“What?  No, no thanks,” I said.  “I’m not hungry.  Tell me what you mean.”

“You’re sure you’re not hungry?” he asked.  “Not even a little bit?”

“No, not at all,” I said.  “Why won’t you tell me what you mean?”

“Do you know what day it is?” he asked me.”

“It’s Saturday morning, right?”

“No, dear,” he said, “it’s Sunday afternoon.  You haven’t eaten since Friday, I presume, and you’re not hungry.  What do you think that means?”

“Why don’t you tell me?” I said faintly.

He leaned forward and patted my hand.  “You’re one of us now,” he said.

*

“This is too embarrassing,” I moaned, and put my head down on the table,

“Oh – my- god,” Justin said.  “You’re their Messiah!”

“I am NOT a Messiah!” I said loudly enough for people at the next table to look at me oddly.

“Don’t be so modest,” Justin said, flagging down a passing waitress.  “We need two more Cosmos.  And quickly, she’s a VIP,” he added in a whisper.  She rolled her eyes and disappeared.  “How did you get out of there?”

“I pretended to go along with everything and told them I’d go back next Friday for the ritual.”

“And they just let you go?”

“Well, I’m supposed to meet with him every day to learn about stuff.”

“Magic lessons?”

“Justin, don’t make fun of me, OK?” I said.  “This has truly been an awful weekend.”

“But you don’t believe any of it, right?”

“Justin,” I said, “can I tell you something?”

“Sure.”

“Today’s Sunday, right?”

“Yeah, so?”

“I haven’t had anything to eat since before I went to the ritual.”

“Omigod, you must be starving,” he said.  “Why didn’t you eat anything?  Let’s order you some food.”

“No, don’t bother,” I said, “because I’m not hungry.”

“You must be,” he said.  “You haven’t eaten in three days.  How can you not be hungry?”

“I’m just not,” I said.  “They said it’s because I’ve – changed.”

“You didn’t drink the potion, did you?”

“No, it’s supposed to be the keys or something.”

“Wow,” he said.  “So you’re immortal now.”

I shrugged.  “Maybe,” I said.  “I guess I won’t find out for a while.”

We sat in silence for a minute, sipping our drinks.

“But you can drink,” Justin said.  

“I suppose I could eat, too,” I said.  “I haven’t tried yet.”

“Well, that’s something,” he said.

Chapter 7

Life is so unfair.  Gina, who doesn’t believe in anything, gets to be immortal – gets to be the long-awaited saviour of an immortal cult of musicians – and what do I get?  I’ve never even been abducted by aliens or had a near death experience.  This sucks.

I went to see him, that stupid long-haired piano prodigy.  I wanted an explanation.

“What have you been doing to Gina?” I demanded.

He looked confused and guilty for a minute, then said, “What do you mean?”

“I was at the ritual, right?  I read the books and saw the rose shrivel up.  What’s this about Gina being your Messiah or something?”

“Justin,” he said quietly, “I don’t think you should be prying into this.”

“Gina’s my best friend,” I said.  “If something weird is happening to her, I should know about it.”

“I don’t know much myself,” he said.  “Whatever Gina’s told you is probably as much as I know.”

“She told me she’s immortal now, the keeper of the keys and some kind of mystical long-hoped for leader. And she doesn’t have to eat anymore.  She doesn’t know what to think about it, and it’s really upsetting her.”

“I’m doing my best to make it easy for her,” he said.  “I convinced the others to let her come home and stay in school and do everything she normally does.  I’m teaching her myself everything she needs to know.  If the old man had had his way, she would still be at the house, a prisoner, under his tutelage twenty-four hours a day.  What more can I do?”

“Why did you have to tell her at all?” I said.  “Why couldn’t you let her go and not say anything about it?  You don’t understand Gina as well as you think you do,” I said.  “She talks really tough and she can be a pain, but underneath it she’s a simple person.  All she really wants to do is sing.  She’s a massive nerd, and singing is the thing she’s nerdy about.  She doesn’t believe in angels or psychics or vampires because they don’t matter to her – they don’t enter into the one and only thing she really ever wants to do.  Then you come along and this happens.  It’s upsetting her whole worldview and tearing her in half.  Why couldn’t you leave her alone?”

“Believe me, if I could have left her out of it, I would have,” he said.  “I wish I’d never taken her to the house.  But it’s her fate.  If she’s really the one in the legends, then – there are others like us, and one of them would have found her eventually, and it might not have gone so well for her.  I’m doing my best to protect her.  You have to believe that I have her best interests at heart.”

Yeah, like I would believe that.  As if.  He probably changed her on purpose.  He probably engineered this whole thing so that they could be together forever.  

I went and found Gina.  She was practicing downstairs.

“Che faro senza Euridice,” I warbled at her.  “You sound good.”

“Justin, what if my voice never matures?” she said desparately.

“What?”

“If I’m going to be twenty-one forever, will my voice be stuck where it is forever?”

“So you believe in the immortality thing?”

“I don’t know,” she said.  “I don’t know what to believe.”

“Have you gotten hungry yet?”

“No.”

“Well, have you tried eating?”

“No, I haven’t yet,” she said.  “There doesn’t seem to be much of a point.”

“Maybe if you start eating it’ll make you mortal again,” I said.  It seemed like a valid enouh idea.

She looked at me.  “Why?”

I shrugged.  “Why not?  It’s worth a try.”

So I took her to an Indian restaurant for the all-you-can-eat buffet. 

“Hungry yet?”

“No,” she said.

“En mangeant l’appetit vient,” I said, “or whatever it is the French say.  Eating makes you more hungry.  Go for it.”

So she ate about a metric ton of Tandoori chicken and naan and everything else she could lay her hands on.

“I’m not hungry,” she said, “but it’s still fun to eat.”

“I wonder if immortals can put on weight,” I wondered aloud.

“Very funny,” she said.  “This doesn’t make sense.”

“What?”

“This whole -” she looked around furtively, then went on in a lower voice – “immortality thing.  How does it work?”

“It must keep your life force going,” I said thoughtfully, “and that keeps repairing your body.”

“There’s no such thing as ‘life force’,” she said dismissively.  As if she knows anything about it.  “So does your body keep repairing itself?  Or are you just sort of stuck in place?  I mean, does it keep you in stasis or just keep up with the damage?”

“Don’t analyze it too much,” I said.  “You’re always over-thinking things.”

“Though my not eating,” she said, picking up a drumstick, “suggests stasis – if it were just repairing all the damage I’d need fuel to do it.”

“Maybe it makes your body more efficient, so you need much less fuel,” I suggested.  “So it’s not that you don’t need to eat at all, you just don’t need to eat very much.”

“Maybe.”  She looked at the drumstick in her hand bit into it.  

“Anyway,” I said, “some things we are not meant to know about.  Just try to enjoy yourself a bit, OK?”

*

Sweet little thing.  She was a sweet little thing.  Underneath the bravado, she was just a little girl in over her head.  Girls of twenty-one seem so much younger than they did once.  When I first changed, a girl of twenty-one was most likely a married woman and a mother, already fully engaged in the struggles of life, not hovering on the edge like these kids seem to be.  I told her as much when she was staying with us.

“What’s your name?” she said.

“Gervaise,” I said.  

“Don’t call me a kid, Gervaise,” she said.  “Just because you’re really old.”

What did I say?  Just like a kid.  So touchy.

“She doesn’t look like a Messiah,” I said to the old man.

“They never do,” he said.  “Get my globe and sextant.”

“Why do you need to do the divining ritual?” I said.

“Don’t ask questions,” he barked.  “Fetch them and balance the orb for me.”

I did as I was told.  I don’t know why, but I always do, at least for the old man.  As I held the crystal from its silver chain, I said, “So what happens if she’s it?”

He didn’t look at me, but stared and the light scratching across the surface of the globe.  “You know the legend, Gervaise,” he said.

“I know the story from the old books,” I said.

“Well, then you know what will happen.”

I sighed.  “How do you know if the story’s true?”

He sighed and put down the sextant.  “Really, Gervaise, you are impossible,” he said.  

“Why shouldn’t the story be true?  Why doubt it when you accept everything else?”

I shrugged.  “My theory is,” I said, “that the potion’s not really magic, it’s more like a medicine.  It switches something on or turns something off, and that’s why we don’t age.  So why should some silly Messiah story be true?  Plus the divining ritual doesn’t work very well.”

“It depends who’s doing it,” he muttered, snatching up the sextant.  “Gervaise, your materialism is a grave disappointment.  Bring Gina to me.”

“Remember? He let her go.”

The old man sighed an exasperated sigh.  “Did he at least collect a lock of her hair?”

“How should I know?”

“Well, find out for me, you useless little guttersnipe.  And bring it to me if he did.  And if he didn’t, go find her yourself and bring me one.”

Fortunately the Adonis of the piano had taken the hair.  He didn’t seem to want to give it up, though.

“What do you want it for?” he asked suspiciously.

“Himself wants it for the divining ritual,” I said.

“Why?”

“Don’t ask me,” I said, “he doesn’t tell me anything.  

“Well, alright,” he said, “I’ll give you half.”  And he portioned off less than a third of the hair – it was pretty coarse hair, too; I wonder if she dyes it – and gave it to me.

Whatever.  I don’t get love.  I don’t know if I ever did, even when I was mortal.  Love for your family, maybe – I was certainly sorry to say goodbye to my mother and my sister when it was my turn – but love for one insignificant individual over another seems like an odd thing.  Not that I’m not interested in people – I am, it’s all I’m really interested in – but loving someone seems to be making up a fake person to love on top of a real one, inventing all sorts of beautiful fictions that get in the way of seeing who they really are.  Maybe you only lose that after you get past a mortal life span, though.  It’s hard to remember the attitudes you used to have.

I handed the hunk of black hair to the old man.  “Not very much of it,” he sniffed.

“It’s all he gave me,” I said, which was true.

“It’ll have to do.”  He placed the hair in a shallow brass dish and had me hold the orb over it.  The light played over it for a while as the old man stared at it.

“Anything?” I asked.

“Shut up,” he hissed.

“Sorry.”

We stood in silence for some time – well, I stood and he sat – until a faint shadow appeared on the table in front of him.  

“What does it say?” I asked.  

“Silence,” he read, “silence – defeat – death.”

He looked up at me.  I noticed a worry in his face that I haven’t seen in a very long time.  “The pendulum,” he said urgently.  “Quickly, you fool.”

I put down the orb, ran to the instrument case and fetched the pendulum.  He swung it over the lock of hair, staring moodily at it.

“Do the signs tell the truth?” he asked, and watched it swing. “Can the lost ones speak?  Can the mirror be broken?”  He watched the pendulum with a frown, nodded slightly.

Then he leaned back in his chair and handed the pendulum to me.

“What was all of that about?” I said.

“All of what?”

“‘Silence, defeat, death’ and the cryptic questions.  What’s the story?”

“If you weren’t so abominably lazy, Gervaise,” he rumbled, “you might occasionally read the old books and chronicles and actually learn something.  Why should I enlighten you if you won’t take the trouble to enlighten yourself?”

“Like I have time to read those moldy old books.  So is she the one?” I said.

He laughed a short, bitter laugh.  “Oh, she’s the one, alright,” he said.  “The only question is: what to do now?”  

*

The one who is to unite us, the one who is fortold, will bring at first discord to the lords of the order.  A fair face and a gentle demeanour will hide a nature fiery and uncompromising to all.  A sweet voice will speak words of rebellion, and behind the legions shall assemble.

But from the ashes of our fallen might, will rise an even greater order, one which will encompass the globe of the earth with its power.  The one who leads may fall, yet in spirit unite all in glory and peace.  

Look, my children, look ye for the one who comes unknowing, the one who is brought unto without guile or premeditation.  You will know this one by the proclamation: Endless are the days and the glory.  This is the one who is foretold.  Do not tremble, but meet your fate with a clear and uplifted heart, for it is a glorious one.

I closed the book with a bang.  It wasn’t at all conclusive.  It could just as easily have been him as her.  He was without guile or premeditation.  He had been putty in my hands.  It was the old man, out to spite me, losing his edge.  He was leading us astray, and I had to stop him.

I searched the house for the only person who I thought might listen to me.  Finally I found her in the garden.

“There you are,” I said.  “Listen, about this girl being the one.  I don’t believe it,” I said to her, trying to make my face and voice hard but failing, I knew.  I looked desparate and scared, because that was how I felt.

“It doesn’t matter if you believe it,” she said calmly, raking over the spent coals of the ritual fire.  “What one believes is rarely of much issue.  What matters, my dear, is that it’s true.”

“He was the one,” I said.  “Listen to this.”  I read her the passage from the old book.  “When I did the ritual, I got “Endless light and beauty”.  Doesn’t that sound like “Endless are the days and glory”?  I asked the pendulum, and it was very clear, unmistakeable.  It was him.”

“And that’s how you convinced the old one to make him keeper of the keys?  I see.  Did he do the divining ritual with you?” 

“No, he didn’t believe me,” I said.  “I don’t think he ever believed me.”

“Why’d he let you do it?” she asked, looking up at me.

I shrugged.  “Who knows why he does anything?  He’s so unpredictable these days.”  

She didn’t answer, but went back to scrabbling through the ashes.

“What are you even looking for?” I asked.

“The tab,” she said.

“The tab?”

“Yes, the tab.  Don’t repeat yourself like an idiot.”

“What tab?”

She stopped and sat back on her heels.  “Since the key ceremony was not complete, since it was involuntary and unplanned, there should be a tab, a piece of physical evidence of her connection to the power source.”

“Oh?” I said.  “I didn’t know that.  There wasn’t one when I gave the keys to him.”

“No, because you did the proper rituals,” she said.  “You don’t want a tab if you can help it.”

“Why not?”

“It connects to the key in the left ventricle,” she said.  “If anything happens to the tab it can hurt the keeper, even kill him.”

“Or her,” I said slowly.  “Does it damage the keys?”

“Not if they can go into a new keeper right away.  But it’s still dangerous.”

“What does it look like?”

“The tab?  I’ve never seen one,” she said thoughtfully, “but the books describe them as small and lavender in colour.  Other than that I’ve no clue.”

“Can I help you look?”

“No, dear,” she said, “I should find it myself.  You run along.  And stop brooding over this.  Everyone makes mistakes sometimes.  Leave it to the old man – he knows what he’s doing.”  

I turned and walked slowly towards the house, pausing at the miniature rosebush peeking through the last of the snow.

Under its leaves winked a tiny, perfect amethyst rose.  Small and lavender in colour,

I put it in my pocket and walked away.

 

Chapter 8

“Try to visuallize it, Gina,” I said encouragingly.  “Clear your mind and concentrate.”

She stared again into the heart of the blue crystal.  “OK.”  She gazed into it for a few moments.  Good, I thought, it was working.  “What am I supposed to be doing again?”

“Connecting to the cosmic power source,” I said, trying not to sound impatient.

“That is just impossibly vague,” she said.

“Just try,” I said.  “It won’t work if you don’t try.”

She glanced darkly at me, then back at the crystal.

“Breathe deeply,” I said, “and tell me what you see.”

“Blue,” she said.

“Yes?”

“Blue,” she said, “it’s a blue stone.  It’s really very pretty, isn’t it?  It would look nice as a pendant.”

“Gina, it’s a sacred crystal,” I said, annoyed.  “It’s not jewellery.”

“Why can’t it be both?” she asked.

“Because wearing it might dilute its power,” I explained.  “The energy fields that your body creates can imprint their own signatures on the crystal.  Its connection to the source would be weakened or even destroyed.”

“Can we do something else now?” she said wearily.  “I’m trying to be serious about this, but this crystal stuff is just silly.  I mean, you do know that there’s no such thing as an energy field, right?  Whatever name you call it – chi, aura, whatever – it’s not real.  It’s made up.  Plus, I don’t see how you can tap into the cosmic power source – assuming there is one – by staring at an aquamarine for an hour.”

“It’s the only way to clear your mind,” I said.

“No, it’s a waste of time,” she said.  “If this power source exists, we should be able to find it, measure it, and connect with it reliably.  Not by this foolishness.”

“It’s not that kind of thing,” I said.  “It’s not like it exists in the same way you and I do.  It’s more like a combination of things coming together, like we’re part of it.”

“That’s what people say about God, too.”

“So?”

“So it’s a bad argument for the existence of God, that’s what.  God is supposed to be all-powerful, all-knowing, and all-loving.  But then you get the problem of free will and evil and all that stuff.  So people say that God is an essence of goodness or of life, that he exists as a sum of all of the love in the universe, and praying is really a way of getting in touch with yourself and your fellow man.  But what’s the point?  Why call it God if you have to do all the work yourself?  It’s the same with this power source.  If I can only contact it by staring into crystals and bullshit like that, and it only works sometimes, and even then it doesn’t always do what it’s supposed to, well, why bother?”

“You shouldn’t think about these things so much,” I said.

“That’s what Justin always says,” she said.  “But why shouldn’t I?  Why not think about them?  What, do you have to be stupid for it to work?”

“No, but you have to have an open mind,” I said.

“I do have an open mind,” she said, “just not so open that my brain’s falling out.”

*

Interlude: A fairy tale

Once, long ago, there lived a beautiful princess in an enchanted castle in a magical forest.  This princess had lived there with her retinue of maidservants for many years, dancing alone in her magical ballroom, polishing her magic mirrors, and taking rides on her magic carpets.  She spent every day laughing and singing and dancing and was happy as a clam.

There was one pretty strange thing about this princess, though.  She didn’t believe in magic.

You see, every time she heard the magical violins begin to play in her ballroom, she said to herself, “I must be imagining it.  Or the neighbours are having another ball and playing too loud. I don’t care, the music sounds beautiful!”  Whenever she looked in the magic mirror and saw wonderful scenes from faraway kingdoms, she said, “What an amazing mirror!  The person who made it must have been very clever and talented.”  Whenever she took a ride on her magic carpet, she said, “What good luck that it’s so windy today!  Otherwise I might have just fallen to the ground.”

And so for a long time, the princess went about her business, making magic in her magical castle and pretending that nothing out of the ordinary was happening, until one day a handsome prince came to the castle.

“Fair princess,” he said, “I have heard from far and wide of your great skill in the arts of magic.  I have come to ask for your hand in marriage, so you may come with me to our great society of sorcerers and join with us in our work.”

“Stuff and nonsense!” she said.  “I don’t believe in magic, and I most certainly can’t do magic myself.  You must have lost your wits!  You should take yourself to a doctor and get a draught to clear your head.”

The handsome prince laughed gently.  “Fair maiden, your stubbornness becomes you,” he said.  “Nevertheless I will show you that you are in the wrong, and that magic is very much real.  May my servant and myself stay here for three nights?”

“If you wish,” she said haughtily, “though I am sure your efforts will be wasted.  I will instruct my servants to attend to you and your man.”

“Your hospitality is most generous,” he said with a bow.  “We will make three demonstrations on three evenings.  If I can show you that magic is real, may I have the honour of your hand in marriage?”

“Very well,” she said.  “And if you fail, as you most certainly will, will you undertake to leave this place, never to return?”

“Very well,” he said.  “I look forward to convincing you with my skill.”

“You will never convince me,” she cried  with spirit.

“Then you will accept my challenge?”

“Of course,” she said with a toss of the head.  “But I warn you that you will not succeed.”

“I will be most honoured merely to make an attempt,” he said, bending down and kissing her hand.  “Our first demonstration will take place tomorrow evening.”

“I will order a banquet prepared,” she said.  “Please enter and I will show you to the guest chambers.”

All through the next day, as she directed her maidservants this way and that and made decorations for the banquet, the princess spied on the fair prince and his manservant (a little gnome-like man with a good-humoured face) as they juggled with all manner of odd-looking things.  She saw them polishing small metal statues, pouring potions into beautiful crystal bottles, and measuring magic wands against the ground to make sure they were straight.  She saw them practicing incantations and murmuring spells.  

“Stuff and nonsense,” she said to herself.  “What fools they will look!”

Because she was so sure that they would embarrass themselves, an the handsome prince had hurt her feelings by laughing at her, she invited all of her neighbours to the banquet to witness his failure.  “So he’ll understand what it feels like,” she said to herself, “when everyone laughs at him!”

When the princess swept into her beautiful ballroom that night in her shimmering gown of silk, the walls were lit with magical torches and every seat was filled with a fair princess, a noble knight, a strong and sturdy king, or a wise and gentle queen.  She greeted them all with a nod of the head and a kind word, and exchanged news with those she had not seen in some time – “Fancy that!  I had no idea that Sir Jasper was such a fine jouster.  I must congratulate him on his victory when next we meet,” and “I was so happy to hear about the wedding.  I’m sure the lovely Princess Beatrice and brave Prince Darien will live happily ever after,” and so on.

And so the banquet began.  The princess took her seat next to the guest of honour, the handsome prince who had so wounded her feelings with his unkindness.  

He raised his glass to her and said, “To you, my fair princess.  May your mind be opened by my skill.”

“To you, dear prince,” she responded.  “May you be spared all embarrassment and unpleasantness.”

Their eyes met as they drank deeply from their own glasses.  He could see, of course, that she didn’t mean it.  But he didn’t care.

Once the feast was finished, and the kings and queens and princes and princesses had eaten their fill of delicious and dainty foods, the princess stood and addressed her friends.

“Noble ladies,” she said grandly, “and gallant gentlemen, this prince has come forward to claim my hand in marriage.  In the tradition of our land, we have made a wager.  This young man is foolish enough to believe in magic, and he has undertaken to prove to me that magic is real.  If he is triumphant, then I will be his bride.  If he is not, then he will ride away, never to return again.  As my guests, I urge you conduct yourself with the politeness that befits your noble breeding, and not to mock him too severely when his efforts are met with failure.”

The noble guests looked at each other in wonder, but clapped politely as the princess sat down and the prince stood before the assembled worthies.

“Gentle people,” he began, “I crave your indulgence.  In matters of the heart, one naturally wishes to be left to woo in private.  But as my princess stubbornly refuses to believe what is right before her eyes, I must woo her any way I am able.  So it is my wish that, since you are to be my witnesses, that you are both entertained and enlightened by my humble forays into the arts of magic.  For tonight’s demonstration, I will require the aid of my manservant.  Gerard!”

The honest-looking gnome emerged from the shadows carrying an ancient-looking but very beautiful trunk, made of gold and studded with precious stones and diamonds.

“Gerard, my wand,” he said, and the servant handed it to him.

With a wave of his hand, the prince conjured the lid of the casket open.  A whirlpool of gems rose into the air and sparkled in the torchlight.  With flicks and sweeps of his wand, the prince conjured a rose, a tree, and finally a peacock, all constructed of the glittering gems.  The crowd oohed and ahed and applauded loudly.  Only the princess on her dais stamped her foot and pouted.

“It’s a trick,” she said hotly.  “It must be a trick.  It’s simply not possible.”

“Tell me, my princess,” the prince asked mockingly, “will you accept a ring for me now?”

“No, I most certainly will not,” she snapped at him.  “You must do the three demonstrations, as we agreed.”

“Very well,” he said, “but accept a token of my admiration.  Pick up your spoon.”

“My spoon?”

“Yes, your spoon,” he said, and she did.  “Hold it in your open palm.”

With a flick of his wand, the stream of gems flew threw the air, astonishing the guests even further, and the plain old spoon sitting in the princess’ hand was instantly transformed into a beautiful necklace, set all round with jewels.  With another flick of the prince’s wand, the necklace floated gracefully into the air and fastened itself around the princess’ neck.  The spectators rose to their feet, clapping and shouting furiosly.  The prince took many bows and thanked them profusely.

Only the princess remained pouting and annoyed.  “Stuff and nonsense,” she said.  “It’s all tricks.  It has to be.  There’s no such thing as magic.”

The prince returned to his seat with a final bow.  The assembled gentry and royalty had a wonderful time for the rest of the banquet, enjoying the fine liquers and desserts which the princess’ kitchens provided.  Only the princess was unhappy.  She refused all sweets and wouldn’t even speak to the prince all evening.

The next evening all of the guests returned for the second demonstration, and brought some more friends with them.  There were princesses sharing seats with other princesses, and noble kings jostling for room on long benches.  This time the princess made a much more forthright speech.

“My friends,” she said coldly, “last night you witnessed as dastardly an exhibition of trickery and deception as any man has ever performed.  I will allow this pretender to play out the three evenings of falsehood as we have agreed.  But I beg you, do not be taken in by this foolishness.  There is no such thing as magic, and as soon as we can agree on that, the sooner we can all get on with our lives.”

The crowd paid no heed to her, however, and waited breathlessly for the prince to begin his performance.  This time he called on Gerard to bring him another box.

“Not the jewelled one,” he said.  “The other one.”

Gerard nodded and winked at his master, then returned with a plain wooden box.  The audience sighed in disappointment.

“Surely he can’t woo a princess with an ugly thing like that,” one princess said to another.  “Watch your cowl, dear, it was almost in the mustard there.”

“Yesterday evening,” the prince announced, “I gave the princess a token of my love and admiration, a jewelled necklace which she is, I see, not wearing this evening.  But jewels are in the end worthless things, valued only for their superficial beauty, making nothing and doing nothing.  This evening I will give the princess something more beautiful and more magical.”

He opened the box with a flourish of his wand.  It contained nothing but earth.

“Plain old dirt!” one king rumbled to another.  “What the devil is he up to?”

“For this feat of magic,” the prince continued, “I require the aid of my fair princess.”

“Very well,” she said petulantly.  “What shall I do?”

“All I need,” he said gently, “is a seed from the pomegranate you have been eating.”

“Is that all?” she said haughtily.  She placed it on a silver salver and sent a maidservant over to the prince with it, who took it with a smile and a bow of thanks.

“I call upon you all to witness,” he said, addressing the crowd, “that I have here a single seed of the pomegranate fruit.  Can you all see it?”

“Yes!”  cried the noble lords and ladies.

“Gerard, bring me the potion,” he said to the manservant.

“In the blue crystal jug, guv’nor?” came the servant’s rough and kindly voice.

“Yes, the blue crystal.”  The prince took the potion from his manservant, and anointing the seed with a drop of the clear liquid, planted the seed in the box of earth.  Muttering an incantation under his breath, he sprinkled the earth with more of the potion, and waved his wand over it three times.

“The real magic in this world,” he said to the assembled audience, “is the magic that makes the seed sprout and the flower bloom.  It is the magic that makes us breathe and love and live.  It is the magic of life creating more life.”  

He gave a final flourish of his wand over the box of earth.  Slowly, steadily, a green shoot appeared above the surface of the dirt. The prince coaxed it up with gentle taps from his wand, and for five minutes the audience watched, transfixed, as a mighty pomegranate tree grew before them, bloomed, budded, and bore ripe fruit.  

The prince picked a fruit from one of the lower branches, sliced it in half with his wand, and handed it to the princess.  “Taste it,” he said.

She did.  It tasted just like a normal pomegranate, which happened to be her favourite fruit.  

“For you,” he said, and bowed again.

The knights and ladies and kings and queens and princes and princesses were all on their feet once more, cheering and clapping and giving the prince three cheers and then three cheers more until he felt quite tired.

“Please, my good sirs and gentle maidens,” he said, “withhold your applause for another day.  For I see that while my princess has been impressed by my skill, she is not yet convinced; and while she is still unconvinced, I have failed, no matter how majestic my feats of magic.”

The next day the princess watched thoughtfully while her servants planted the magic pomegranate tree in the courtyard.  It certainly looked like a real tree, and the fruit tasted like real fruit; how could he possibly have deceived her this time?

“Stuff and nonsense,” she murmured to herself, “It has to be false.  It has to be.”

That night, all the knights and ladies and kings and queens and princes and princesses came back again, and once more they brought even more friends and quite possibly enemies to see what amazing feat of sorcery the prince would perform this time.  Not only were princesses sharing seats, they were sitting on each other’s laps.  Not only were kings squashed together on benches, they were standing on each other’s shoulders to get a better view.  There was a knight in every nook and a queen in every cranny.  The place was packed to the rafters.

This time the princess didn’t make a speech at all but sat, white and speechless, on her throne on the dais.  For some reason she was a little bit afraid of what the prince was going to do.

“Two nights ago,” the prince began, “I fashioned from a simple spoon a beautiful necklace to adorn the even more beautiful neck of my fair princess.  Last night, I grew a mighty pomegranate tree to grace her courtyard and delight her delicate palate.  Tonight I will show you the most powerful magic of all.”

He motioned to Gerard, who brought him a small box, made of silk and adorned with lush ribbons.  “And the potion, Gerard.  The red bottle.”

Gerard bowed and fetched the potion.  The prince removed something small from the box which he held within his two hands out of the view of the audience.  He made a small opening, and into it Gerard poured a few drops of the potion.

The prince seemed to be rubbing the potion into the object as he spoke.  “The magic which man has invented,” he was saying, “is as nothing compared to the magic of nature.  And the magic of nature is nothing compared to the highest magic of all – the magic of love.”

He opened his hands.  Over his left palm a small white crystal was floating, emanating a pure, white light.  He turned and addressed the princess directly.

“If you marry me,” he said softly, “we will walk together for all our days in love and friendship, working together, playing together, building a life together.”

From his hands a miniature prince and princess, constructed of light and air, walked out hand in hand into the air.  

“We will love each other every day of our lives,” he continued, “and we will have children to share in our love and make our days joyful.”  The tiny prince and princess were joined by three beautiful little children, who romped playfully about them.  “We will watch them grow into fine princes and princesses, watch them become people we had never imagined they would become, and take delight in the grandchildren they bring to us to be blessed.”  The tiny prince and princess were looking a little old and bent now, and their children were now tiny adults themselves with fine children of their own in their arms.

“And when the day comes when my eyes must close forever,” he went on, as the tiny prince lay down on a bed and all the tiny family surrounded him, “I will look into your eyes with as much love as I looked into them on the first day of our marriage, and I will know that I have passed my life in the most blessed way possible, with love and laughter and joy and delight.”

The tiny family faded as the crystal ceased to glow.  The prince returned it to its box and stared deeply into the princess’ eyes.

“Now do you believe in magic?” he asked simply.

“Oh,” she cried, “I do!  I do!”

Chapter 9

“That,” I said coldly, “Is the worst story ever,”

“What?” Justin said as he put down his manuscript and looked at me, hurt.  “But it’s about you!”

“I know,” I said.  “And it’s the stupidest possible reading of the situation.”

“But it’s the truth,” he said.  “You’re surrounded by evidence of something really cool and you don’t really believe in it.”

“First of all,” I said, “the princess in your story lives in a magical world, right?  She’s surrounded by magic and uses it all the time.  So for her not to believe in magic is doing something extra, you see.  In the real world, TO believe in magic is doing something extra.  Do you get the difference?”

“I guess,” he said huffily.

“Secondly,” I went on, “the prince makes a stupid bet with the princess because he knows he’s right and she’s stupid and he’s bound to win.  But all he wants is to be with her, right?  In my case, I’m involved in this because I’m supposed to be some sort of legendary Messiah person and I’ve had keys magically implanted into my body.  It’s not exactly the same thing, is it?  Now if the princess were kidnapped by a society of wizards because they think she’s the reincarnation of their leader and she had to learn to believe in magic because it’s her destiny -”

“That’s why reading group is so much better than you,” he said, pouting.  “It’s all about constructive criticism, Gina.  Something you just don’t get.”

“And all that stuff like, ‘He flourished his wand over it three times.’  It sounds so dirty.” 

“Alright, alright,” he cried, throwing up his hands, “you don’t like my story, fine, whatever.  I guess I won’t take it to writer’s group this weekend.”

“It would actually be a good story if you did it my way.”

“No way, sister.”

“But less like a fairy tale.  More sci-fi.”

“Whatever.  I’m not doing it.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Now I have to write a whole other fairy tale,” he said, and threw himself down on the couch.

“Maybe you should make it about two handsome princes who fall in love.”

“Shut up!”

“He waved his wand three times over it.  ‘Now hold out your palms,’ he said, quivering,” I recited lasciviously.

“Hey, a soft porn fairy tale is actually kind of a good idea,” he said.

“When you’re a famous literary porn author, you can dedicate your best-of book of erotic short stories to me,” I said loftily.

“Not likely.  So, what’s it like?”

“What’s what like?”

“You know.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Come on, Gina.  Don’t be a prude.  Tell me, what’s it like?”

“Justin, just tell me what you mean, OK?  You know I don’t get subtlety.”

He rolled his eyes.  “OK, if I have to spell it out for you…What’s it like,” he said slowly, “to do it with a vampire?”

“Justin!”

“What?  I’d tell you if it was me.”

“Yeah, I know you would.”

“What’d'ya mean by that?”

“You’d tell me whether I wanted to hear or not.”

“Well, it’s a fair question.  Come on.  Is it weird? Is it normal?  Is he really good, because he’s had all those centuries to practice?  Does he have, like, any weird parasites or stuff on his body?”  He lowered his voice.  “Is he all cold?”

“Justin, first of all he’s only been a vampire – an immortal – for five years,” I said, “assuming this immortal thing turns out to be real.  And he was 38 when that happened.  So he’s 43, not 700.  So that point doesn’t apply.  And anyway it doesn’t matter, because I haven’t slept with him.”

“But you’ve been going out for a month!”

“Yeah, I know, but it just hasn’t happened yet.”

“Why not?”

I shrugged.  “I don’t know,” I said.  “It’s complicated.”

It was complicated.  Our relationship had settled into something – you couldn’t say we weren’t together, but we weren’t exactly together, either.  It was like he was ten steps ahead of me, and once I caught up to him, it might happen, but not until then.  

“Well, you know best, I guess,” Justin said.  He sounded unconvinced.  “They’re not, like Christian vampires or something, are they?”

“You are impossible,” I said severely.

*

The old man was starting to scare me.  All that “silence, death, defeat” stuff.  And who were the “lost ones”?  He was starting to sound like Faust.  Awfully apocalyptic. 

Now I, personally, have always liked being alive; that’s why I chose to change.  There is nothing better than sitting in the sun for a long a summer afternoon or settling down for a long night’s sleep.  All those things the others go on about, art, eternity, the cosmic power source, the meaning of life – I’ve never thought much about them.  Just being alive has always satisfied me.

But I’m not really an artist.  I was a mere laquais, a footman/flautist when the old man found me and changed me.  He was bending the rules of the order a bit, since they’re not supposed to change people unless they have the potential to be great, and I have never pretended to be anything but a hack, at least musically speaking.  He needed a confidential servant, someone to talk to who wouldn’t talk back.  The order isn’t the noble meeting of minds the old books make it out to be, you know.  People are people, and musicians are the most self-absorbed and immature bastards imaginable.  (All the cat-fights and hissy fits I’ve seen over the years, trust me, I know.)  Out of all those he changed over the centuries, I don’t think he found one who could be his loyal companion for more than a few years, a decade or two tops.  Eventually they all turned on him in one way or another, founding colonies in different countries, even brewing their own potions and setting up their own rituals.  That’s why no one knows how many of us there are.  Like the Catholic Church – so many schisms and popes and antipopes and heretics and sects, no one quite knows how many breakaways there are.

I could see that the old man had grown tired of it all, tired of the ungrateful kids and the squabbling and the weight of getting up and going to bed and eating and drinking.  Often he would stare into space for hours at a time, pretending to meditate.  Other times he would kneel at the altar in his little chapel and pretend to pray.  He knew all the secrets of the order.  He knew the trick that gave us eternal life.  What if he decided to take it away?

There was only one person who might listen to me, I thought.  It took all my willpower to force me to talk to her.

“”He’s been out of it for decades,” she said dismissively, swinging her straight dark mane of hair.  “What do you expect?  After 2000 years or whatever it is I’d be bored stiff too.  He should just take the anti-potion and get it over with.”

“The anti-potion doesn’t exist,” I said.  “It’s just a legend to explain the disappearance of that violinist that Napoleon didn’t like.  He probably just ran off and changed his name.  We might run into him again someday.”

“The old man told you that, did he?  Well, that’s not what I heard.  There is an anti-potion, or at least there will be soon.”

“What do you know that I don’t know?”

“Can you keep a secret?” she said in a low voice.

“What, are you crazy?  Of course not.”

“Can you try extra hard this time?”

“I suppose.  What’s the big mystery?”

She opened her purse and took out a small leather pouch.  Inside it was a tiny amethyst rose.  Rather pretty if you like that sort of thing.

“What is it?” I said, reaching for it.  She slapped my hand away and put it back in its hiding place.

“It’s the key to everything,” she said.  “I’ve been doing some very interesting reading lately.  There are some unbelievable prophecies in the old books.  Now that I have that little trinket, I can make as much anti-potion I want.  I can take control of the whole order, and I’m sure I’d do a better job of it than the old man has.  I need your help, though.”

“Me?”

“Gervase, you’ve served the old man for – what – three hundred years, right?”

“Something like that.”

“You must have learned a lot in that time.”

“A few things.”

“You must have helped him brew the potion, or at least what goes into it before the ritual.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No, he always does it alone.  Or with whoever the latest apprentice is.”

“But you must know what goes in it.”

“Not really.”

“Dammit, Gervase,” she screeched, “don’t you keep your eyes open?”

“Yes,” I said, “but I don’t pay attention to things that don’t interest me.  I don’t give a shit about the potion or the anti-potion or whatever half-baked conspiracy you’re cooking up and I wouldn’t help you with it even if I did.  The reason I’m still talking to you at all is that the old man is getting worse and worse and I’m worried that he’s going to lose it altogether, and there’s no telling what he might do next.”

“So why are you telling me?  What do I have to do with it?” she sniffed.

“You – and I mean this in the nicest possible way – have no heart or conscience.  You’re out for yourself and yourself alone, so I can’t imagine you feel any loyalty to him or obligation to anyone else.”

“Why would I try to stop him from falling apart, then?”

“Listen,” I said, “I told you I keep my eyes open, didn’t I?  Even if I don’t look at the same things you might.   There’s something you, oh wise and mighty one, haven’t figured out yet.”

“Oh, yeah?  And what might that be?”

“Did it ever occur to you,” I said, “that if he knows how to make the potion work, then he can make it stop working, too?”

“What do you mean?” she said.

“I mean – and let me put this simply so that you’ll be sure to understand – he’s turned the taps on.  He can turn them off.  Then it’s back to mortality for all of us, everywhere, and that wouldn’t be much fun, now would it?”

“It’s not possible,” she said decidedly.  “It’s a mystical cosmic thing.  That’s what the anti-potion is for – turning it off for the one who drinks it.  No one man could control it for everyone.”

“You’d think so,” I said, “but you’d be wrong.  One man can control it, because he already does.  If he makes the decision, you and your pretty face are history.”

“Why do you think so?”

“From a few things he’s said over the years.  From how tired he is.  From how scared he looks.”

“Would I get old right away?” she whispered.  

God, did she look scared.  It wasn’t death she was afraid of – it was old age and ugliness.  

“Who knows?”  I said.  “Anyway, I don’t want to find out.  I don’t want to get old and I don’t want to die.  I am perfectly happy the way I am, and I’m not going to let him annihilate all of us in a fit of ennui.”

She stared at me with round, fearful eyes.  “So what do we do about it?”

*

Endless days of mist and mud.  Endless trackless deserts of snow and slush.  Endless journeys on foot, horse, train, plane, car.  Forever seeking him, always one step behind.

That was what it felt like.  In reality, it was easy to follow the old man by following his followers.  While he was no longer in the public eye, they were – and where they congregated was always where he could be found.  More than once I had tracked him to his hiding place – always a well-appointed house, usually with turrets, in the suburbs of a major city – only to turn back in fear and doubt.  Was I doing the right thing?  And when I hesitated, the old man and his retainers would slip away beyond my grasp.

It might surprise you to hear that I, who have been hunting for him for so long, have such pity for him.  He is ruthless and careless and he destroys people, yet I am afraid of destroying him.  I of all people!  I who have most reason of all to hate him.  Yet when the moment comes that I hold his fate in my hands, I am powerless to use my power.

‘This time will be it,’ I said to myself as I stood in front of the turretted house on the quiet street.  ‘This time I won’t back down.’

And I looked up at the moonless Monday sky and swore that I would keep my vow.

*

“There’s the seeding ritual at the end of the week,” she said waspishly.  “Will she be ready for it?”

“Is it necessary for her to be there?” I asked.

“Yes,” she snapped, her greying hair dancing around her head.  “She is to be the conduit.  Her life energy will supplement the power of the keys and bring power to us all.  You’ve been teaching her, I suppose?”

“Yes,” I said, feeling my neck grow hot and pink.

She stared at me sternly.  “You have been training her, haven’t you?”

“I’ve been doing my best.  And so has she.  But nothing seems to be working properly.  Not yet, anyway,” I said hastily, as she rolled her eyes and put down her drink in disgust.  “We’re working hard.  I’ll fix it.”

“If her energy field isn’t properly attuned to the keys, the ritual will fail!” she said through closed teeth.  “You of all people should be trying to get her ready.”

“Why ‘me of all people’?” I asked.  

“Never mind,” she said.

We studied the star charts in silence for a while.  “Gina compared the energy field to chi,” I said, “when I told her about it.”

“That’s very astute of her,” she said, sounding almost pleased.  “Chi is just another name for it.”

“Gina said chi doesn’t exist.”

“Oh, what a disaster that child is,” she said.  “She’ll never be ready.”

“She said, if chi exists, why hasn’t anybody been able to measure it?  Why doesn’t it do things that have effects in the real world?”

“And what did you tell her?”

“That the energy field is both too big and too small to be measured, that its effects are indirect, and that she should be more open-minded.”

“Not a bad answer,” she said thoughtfully, “though I’m sure it didn’t convince her.”

“No, it didn’t,” I said.  “She said that if something’s real we should be able to measure it and access it reliably, and if it acts indirectly we should still be able to measure real changes in the things it effects.”

“Oh, why did it have to be her,” she moaned, dropping her head into her hands.  “Why did it have to be this smart-mouthed little -”

“Why can’t we measure the energy field?”  I broke in.  “Or the cosmic power source?”

“Bring her to the old man,” she said, white-lipped and furious.  “Bring her to the old man tonight. I don’t care what you have to tell her.  Get her there.”

 

Chapter 10

It was in my lesson.  I guess I didn’t sound like myself, because Allison stopped me in the middle of Marietta’s Lied and said,

“Gina, dear, is everything alright?”

I promptly sat down and started to cry.  I don’t know why, but it was like someone at the cosmic power source had opened all the taps.  It was mortifying.  Allison made soothing noises and patted me on the arm.

“Don’t worry, dear,” she said.  “Is it a boy?”

And that just made me cry harder.  In between sobs I tried to tell her that yes, I had met someone, but it was very weird and complicated and I didn’t know what to do.

“He’s – he’s – involved,” I said gaspingly, “with – something – weird – and I don’t know what to do,” and I kept on crying and crying and crying.  I think she must have thought I was dating a Scientologist or a drug addict or something.  Finally she gave me a couple of tea bags and instructed me to go home, drink the tea and go to bed.  “And get something to eat,” she said with a frown, “you’re looking too thin.”

Back at my apartment I did make the tea – some kind of organic ginger lemon  stuff doubtless meant to soothe sore throats rather than confused minds.  But it’s the thought that counts, right?  And I did mean to go to bed.  I always do what my teacher tells me to.  

But just as I was about change into pyjamas my roommate came in to my room.

“Gina,” she said in a hushed voice, “someone’s here to see you.”

“Who?  Justin?”

“No,” she said in an excited whisper, “someone else.”

“Well, either tell me or let him in,” I said.  I could have screamed at her.  

Of course, I knew it was him.

“Hi,” I said, conscious that he was in my bedroom, and hoping there weren’t bras lying around.

“Hi, Gina,” he said.  “So this is your place.”  

“I think this room used to be a covered porch,” I said.  “It gets awfully cold in the winter.”

He nodded, and just sort of stared around him for a while.

“Were we supposed to meet tonight?” I said.  “Did I forget?  I’m sorry, I had a really bad lesson and Allison sent me home with some tea.  I was just about to go to bed -”  I stopped and blushed.

“No, we weren’t supposed to meet,” he said.  “I’d like to take you somewhere, though, if you’re not busy.  It’s only 5:00,” he said hastily, “you can’t be tired yet.

“Where?”

“There isn’t much time,” he said, “I have to catch a flight to Prague at eleven and I won’t be back until Thursday night, so we’d better go.”

“Go where?”

“It’s not important.  Let’s go.”

“It’s not back to the house is it?  I don’t think I can handle that awful woman right now.”

“No, not to the house.”  He paused.  “I need to take you to see the old man.  I haven’t been able to teach you everything you need to know, and there’s an important ritual this Friday.  I’ll take you to his private lair.  Almost no one knows where it is.  I didn’t until today.”

I shivered, thinking about the old man’s icy blue eyes.  “Where is it?”

“You’ll see.”

*

On the campus of the University of Toronto there is an old and tumbledown Victorian house nestled in between two modern glass and concrete science buildings.  Its lawn is neglected and its sign in bad repair.  You can just about make out “Faculty of Medieval” and two more scratched and illegible words.  I had always sort of wondered what it was, and why it was falling apart.  

This is where he took me.  “We’ll go in the back way,” he said.

Behind the old house an old-fashioned fire escape ladder hung down over a dumpster.

“You first,” he said.

“I have to climb up that?” I said.

“I’ll give you a boost,” he said, and he did.

He clasped me by the waist and lifted me up.  The sudden pressure of his body against mine made me lose my breath and miss the rungs of the ladder the first time.  Finally I grabbed hold and swung myself up.

“You’ve never done this before, have you?” he said with a laugh.

“I’m from the country,” I said sternly.  “We don’t have fire escapes there.”

“Well, go up,” he said, “I’ll meet you on the roof.”

“We have to go all the way up to the roof?”

“Go up the the landing around the turret,” he said, hoisting himself onto the dumpster.  “That’s close enough.”

It was cold and a little damp, and the ladder felt clammy and slippery under my hands.  Thankfully it was starting to get dark, since I’m sure I looked ridiculous trying to claw my way up.  This certainly wasn’t the relaxing evening Allison had ordered me to have.

One of the turret’s windows opened onto the roof – it wasn’t a terribly secure feeling standing up there, but it was easy enough to get to from the ladder.  I clung to the side of the turret as I waited.  He came over the top a moment later and laughed.

“I wish I had a camera,” he said.  “You look priceless up there.  Have I finally found the thing that Gina’s afraid of?”

“Very funny,” I said.  “Now what?”

“Come in,” said a voice from the window.  It was the old man.

“When we spoke earlier,” he said, handing me a cup of tea, “you told me that you don’t believe in magic.”

“That’s right,” I said.  I was sitting in a plush red velvet chair.  The turret room – why is it always turrets? – looked like something out of Harry Potter, an alchemist’s lair.  Dark, heavy furniture, old books and strange instruments everywhere.

“And you’ve been discussing the energy fields with our friend here,” he said, “and you don’t believe in that either.”

I glanced over at him.  “We were talking about it, and I compared it to chi,” I said.  “And chi definitely doesn’t exist.  But I don’t see-”

“Clearly you don’t,” he said coldly.  “No matter.  I’m sure his explanations failed to do the subject justice.  Let me show you.”

He motioned me to stand and drew me over to the opposite window.  “It’s going to rain,” he said.  “Can’t you feel it in the air, the restlessness, the crackle of lightning about to snap?  Can’t you feel it in your skin?  Can’t you even see it out of the corners of your eyes?”

“I can feel the humidity in the air,” I said, “and the wind picking up.  I can, if I think about it, maybe feel a bit of electricity that might mean a thunderstorm.”

“That’s the beginning,” he said, “That’s the first step.  Now close your eyes and focus on that feeling.  Focus on the surface of your skin.  Focus on the dampness against your face.  Focus on the crackle against your arms.”

My eyes were closed, and I was focussing.

“Reach out with your hand – no, not your real hand – the hand in your mind’s eye.  Good.  Reach out through this window into that storm cloud.  What do you feel?”

“Umm…cold…wet…crackle.”

“Other than the obvious things.”

I imagined my hand stretching through the window, stretching into all corners of the sky.  I held the raincloud in my palm and felt how little it weighed.  I saw electricity dance in it like the flakes in a snow globe.  I felt the coldness of the air and the weight of the atmosphere heavy on my hand.

“Move your fingers, dear,” he said, “and tell me what you feel.”

I twitched my index finger – not much, just a little – and there was a sudden flash of lightning, followed instantly by a crack of thunder.  I opened my eyes.   There was a parking lot about twenty metres beyond the backyard; a plume of flame and smoke rose from among the huddled cars.

“Power,” I said. 

*

For three days I did nothing, thought of nothing but the power I felt with my hand in the thundercloud.  Every night I went to the old man’s turret room, where he taught me more and more about the order and its secret powers.  I called in sick at the coffee shop and the church choir with excuse after excuse.

“They’re going to fire me soon,” I said to the old man.

“No need to worry about that anymore, my dear,” he said.  “The order will look after you.”

And the next day I found in my mailbox a fat envelope full of $100 bills.

For three nights we worked feverishly.  “You are far behind,” he said, shaking his head.  “The seeding ritual is of the greatest importance, and the keeper of the keys must perform it perfectly.”

“What’s the deal with the keys?”  I asked him.  “Why aren’t you the keeper?”

“The first master of our order is said to have forged them,” he said.  “They are the matrix through which the power of the cosmic source is focussed.  Without them the potion can’t work, and all of our power is nothing.”

“But why do they have to be in my body?  Where were they before?”

“For a long time the keys had no keeper,” he said.  “They were kept with other holy objects in our temple at Antioch, then at Byzantium, then at temple after temple until perhaps four hundred years ago.  I have forgotten the precise date, but I transferred the keys temporarily to my body for safekeeping.  Our temple was raided by our enemies, and it seemed the best way.  All of the other objects are replaceable, but not the keys.”

“And did you keep them until he was given them?”

“Which ‘he’ do you mean, my child?”

I blushed.

“Ah.  Your young man.  No, they were passed from one keeper to another.  Some were volunteers, some I thought might possibly have been the one we were waiting for.  All carried the keys for a time, but as you have found out, they are not without side effects.  You have carried them for a mere week and a half, and you have eaten and slept little, am I correct?”

I nodded.

“And you are getting headaches and dizzy spells?  Of course.  It’s to be expected.  It is a great burden to bear, but a glorious one.”

“Does it get better?”  I asked.

“It may,” he said.  “It depends on this Friday’s ritual, among other things.  If your body can adjust to the keys, then we will know without a doubt that you are the one.  If not -”  He shrugged eloquently.

“You’ll find someone else,” I said, a little disappointed.

“But the fact that the keys jumped to you spontaneously is a very good sign,” he said encouragingly.  “Don’t despair, my dear.”

And we went back to crystal-gazing and divining and meditation.

As I was leaving that Thursday night, the old man stopped me as I paused on the windowsill.

“Be careful,” he said, “the enemies who burned our temple all those years ago and still with us.”

“They are?”

“Read this,” he said, thrusting a tattered old book into my hand.  “It will explain everything.  And be careful on your way home.  They may have found you.”

I started down the ladder.

“And don’t be late tomorrow night,” he called after me.  “6 PM sharp.”

As I walked down the silent and deserted streets – it was after 3 AM – I heard a car start up and drive slowly behind me.  I turned and looked at it.  Its driver rolled down the passenger side window.

“Cold night,” he said cheerily.  He was middle-aged, with sandy hair, a mustache, and blue eyes.  I memorized as much of his appearance as I could in the dim streetlight.  “Awfully late to be out alone.  Can I give you a lift?”

I gave him a cold look and shook my head.  

“Aw, come on,” he said.  “It’d be my pleasure, really.  It’s no time for a little girl to be out by herself.  Just hop in the car -”

“Leave me alone right now or I’ll call the police,” I growled at him.

“OK, OK,” he said, throwing up his hands, and drove off.

Seriously.  Men are such pigs.  

I walked quickly home with my head held high.  I had a power now that no man could take away.  I wasn’t going to let him or anyone make me afraid.

Chapter 11

Interlude: An epistolary story

Nov. 2

Dear Jeannie,

You make it sound like this is all my fault.  Why do you always blame me for everything?  I’m not the arbiter of the fate of the entire universe, you know.  I’m just one human being, and I am not responsible for you or your problems.

Yours sincerely,

Rex

 

Nov. 3

Mother,

Rex has been sending me nasty notes again.  Talk to the doctors about upping his dose, would you?  This is getting really annoying.  And kind of scary

Love you,

Jean

 

Nov. 5

Jeannie dear!

Your brother is very upset.  Apparently he’s been getting psychic messages from you all week, blaming and upbraiding him for your situation.  I know it must be a difficult time for you, and believe me I’m here to support you, but could you try to keep your thoughts to yourself for the next little while?  The doctors say this is a critical stage in Rex’s recovery, and I don’t want to risk setting him back again.

See you in next month!  Have you decided what you want for Christmas yet?

Love,

Mom

 

Nov. 6

Dear Rich,

I miss you so much.  I can’t believe you’re going to be gone for another three months.  It’s awful, being stuck here without you.  My brother is – well, less said about it the better.  I don’t want to bring you down, since I’m sure you’re lonely over there and don’t want to hear me complaining.  If only you could come home for Christmas!

I have to run now, but I’ll write more later.  I love you.

Yours ever,

Jean

 

Nov. 10

Jeannie baby,

Don’t you worry about me.  Tell me all about it.  Sure it’s a bit lonely here, but at least I have the other boys to talk to.  It sounds like you’re all alone up there.  Can’t your mom keep Rex under control?  Poor kid, I never should have left you alone at a time like this.  Keep your chin up and I’ll be home before you know it.

Love you too, babe,

Rich

 

Nov. 11

Jean,

I simply do not understand your attitude.  What is your problem?  Why can’t you leave me alone?  Don’t you understand that your complaints are driving me insane?  I can’t bear this for much longer.  Please, I am begging you, stop this endless torture.  I’m warning you, I’m not going to put up with it forever.

Rex

 

Nov. 14

Dear Rich,

Well, if you really want to know…Rex is convinced I’m sending him psychic messages about how unhappy I am, that I blame him for you being away and all the rest of the stuff that’s going on.  It’s probably part of his God complex or something.  I haven’t seen him – thankfully – but he’s been sending me weird letters and what’s worse, he seems to have convinced my mom that the psychic stuff is real.  It’s worrying, and I don’t know what to do about it.  If only you were here to advise me!

But you’re right.  It’ll be over before I know it.  I love you and I miss you.

Jean

 

 

Nov. 14

Jeannie,

Your brother is just the teeniest bit worked up.  He says that not only have your psychic messages not stopped, they’re coming more often and getting more aggressive.  He said you told him, “If you don’t stop f*ing up my life, I’m going to make d*mn sure you don’t do it again”.  Really, Jean, did you have to use that kind of language?  I’m disappointed in you.  Now, I’ve always let you and your brother work out your differences for yourself and I don’t want to be a busybody, but really, Jeannie, do you think this is really called for?  Your brother isn’t responsible for Richard’s posting.

Please, Jean, think again and stop blaming your brother for this.  

Love,

Mom

 

Nov. 14

Jean,

I mean it, I’m not going to put up with this for much longer.  You think you can push me around, make me do whatever you want me to?  Don’t you know who I am?  I’m not the little weakling that used to get beaten up at school anymore.  I can make you wish you’d never been born.  Stop doing this or I’ll make you.

Rex

 

Nov. 14

Dear Dr. Reynolds,

My name is Jean Standish Clemens, and I understand that my brother Rex Standish is under your care.  I have recently received some disturbing letters from him that I thought I should bring to your attention.  He is convinced that I am sending him psychic messages blaming him for my problems and accusing him of malice.  His language in these notes has become more aggressive and violent lately.  What is even more disturbing that he somehow has convinced my mother that these psychic messages are real.  I am very concerned about both of them, and hope that you can advise me as to what steps are appropriate to take – should I try to persuade my mother to seek treatment for herself?  Should I attempt to get Rex into a residential treatment program again?  

I would appreciate any counsel you can give.

Yours sincerely,

Mrs. Richard Clemens

 

Nov. 16

Dear Mrs. Clemens,

While I sympathize with your concerns, unfortunately there is little I can do.  Rex Standish is no longer a patient of mine.  I have added your letter to Rex’s file and believe me, if he becomes a danger to himself and others, I will work with you to get him into a treatment program.  Other than that, I’m afraid there isn’t much else I can do.  

Do encourage Mrs. Standish, as much as you can, to seek psychiatric treatment.  The stress of caring for someone in your brother’s condition can sometimes trigger these symptoms in caregivers.  With proper treatment they are rarely permanent.

Please keep me informed of how this situation develops, and let me know how I can assist you further.

Yours,

Joseph Reynolds, MD, PhD

 

Nov. 18

Dear Jean,

That sounds rough, kid.  Hang in there.  Have you written to Rex’s doctor?  He can probably do something about it – up his meds or something.  I don’t get why your mom would buy into his shenanigans, though.  What’s up with that?  I guess she’s stressed out.

Don’t let it get you down.  If you need to get away, why don’t you go up to my mom’s?  I’m sure she’d be happy to see you.  I know I will be when I manage to get out of this hell hole.

Love you, kid.  Don’t let it get to you.

Rich

 

Nov. 18

Mother,

What’s this I hear about Rex not going to Dr. Reynolds anymore?  I thought the treatment was going well, and they thought he’d be almost back to himself in another year.  Why did you take him away?

Mom, you have to know that I haven’t been sending Rex any psychic messages.  I don’t think there’s such a thing as psychic ability, and even if there were, I wouldn’t blame Rex for Rich being away.  How could it be his fault?  Rex is a war correspondant – it’s his job to go where the wars are and cover them.  It’s no more Rex’s fault that Rich is in Africa than it’s his fault that we had a snowstorm last night.

You said before that you want to be supportive and help me out.  Considering, Mom, that my husband is in a war zone, my baby is due the week after he comes back, and I’m alone in a new city in what’s supposed to be the worst winter in twenty years, I think you could do something more supportive than go along with Rex’s delusions and accuse me of psychically harrassing him.

I think Rex should go back into the hospital.  It sounds like his delusions are coming back, and it can’t be good for you, looking after him by yourself.  Why don’t you get him into a program, then come spend a few weeks with me?  Maybe you could stay until after Christmas.  It would be a nice break for you, and I’m sure you could help me get ready for the baby.

Let me know what you decide,

Jean

 

Nov. 20

Jeannie,

Yes, I took your brother away from Dr. Reynolds.  The drugs he was giving Rex were awful – he was like a zombie half the time, never smiling or laughing, not getting the least bit of enjoyment out of life.  I’ve found a wonderful healer who’s treating Rex naturally, and the results have been amazing.  Of course his delusions haven’t come back!  You won’t believe it when you come for Christmas, he’s his old self again!  Always laughing and joking and making up little jokes.  He doesn’t need to go back to the hospital, where they’ll keep him in prison and poison him.  That’s the last thing he needs.

I’m sure when you see what an immense improvement Dr. Kurtzman has made in Rex, you’ll be as happy for him as I am, and stop this silly vendetta of yours.  Rex says you finally stopped last night, but were back again this morning.  Jeannie, you have to learn when to let things go.

Love you,

Mom

 

Nov. 21

Jean,

I’m warning you.  That’s all.  Consider yourself warned.  I’m not going to take this much longer.

Rex

 

Nov. 22

Mom,

I called the Ontario College of Physicians and Surgeons, and they don’t have a listing for a psychiatrist called Dr. Kurtzman.  Are you sure he’s the right doctor for Rex?  I know you say he’s much improved, and I’m really glad if he is, but you know that his condition is very serious and he needs the best care.  

Please think about what I suggested.  Let me know what you decide.

Jean

 

Nov. 24

Jeannie,

Dr. Kurtzman isn’t a psychiatrist, silly!  Psychiatrists are nothing but quacks and torturers.  Dr. Kurtzman is a naturopath.  And acupuncturist.  He’s been treating Rex with herbs and vitamins – did you know that most schizophrenics are seriously deficient in vitamin B6?  – not those nasty drugs that didn’t work.  I’m surprised at you, that you would look up Dr. Kurtzman.  He truly is an angel, doing God’s work on the earth.  Finding him has been such a blessing for us.  

Don’t you think that I have Rex’s best interests at heart?  I must say, it’s a bit hypocritical for you to spend all of your time sending negative thoughts to Rex and tormenting him, then accuse me of not getting him the best of care.  Please, Jeannie, rethink this bitterness of yours.  If you would just stop pushing your unhappiness onto Rex, everything would go back to normal and we could all be happy together.  I talked to Dr. Kurtzman about it, and he said you should be very careful – that sort of negativity can seriously harm your baby, too.  Think about your little one if not about us.

Mom

 

Nov. 25

Rich,

You won’t believe it, but it’s even worse than I thought.  Mom has taken Rex off his meds and taken him to some quack who’s giving him vitamins.  She’s bought it hook line and sinker.  Jesus Christ, I don’t know what to do.  You can’t reason with her.  I tried calling her, and Rex picked up the other phone and started yelling at me.  I couldn’t get a word in edgewise and just hung up.  He’s completely lost it, and she’s losing it.  

I would love to go to your mom’s, but remember it’s not safe for me to drive, and no airline will let me fly – remember, I’m seven months pregnant, right?  Even if I weren’t, I probably wouldn’t want to drive over the Rockies in November.  I’m from Toronto, and I’m not used to driving over snow-covered mountains in the winter!  And the train doesn’t go to Victoria.  Plus there’s the twenty four hour train trip to Vancouver…and it costs eight hundred dollars if I want to get a sleeping car…and I can’t face sitting up for twenty four hours straight.  Why the magazine had us move out here only to send you away a few weeks later is beyond me.

Sweetie, I’m not complaining – really, I’m not – but I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.  This is starting to scare me.  I can’t wait for you to come home.

Love,

Jean

 

Nov. 25

Dear Dr. Reynolds,

I thought you should know that my brother, Rex Standish, is no longer receiving proper medical treatment.  My mother has taken him to a “naturopath” called Dr. Kurtzman, who is “treating” him with vitamins and herbs.  She thinks he is a wonder-worker and that Rex is almost cured, but it seems to me that he is delusional again and starting to sound violent.  I am afraid for his safety and my mother’s.  If I were in Toronto and not Edmonton, I would fear for my own.  Please alert the proper authorities.  I think it’s time for Rex to go back to the hospital.

Please let me know what you need me to do – if I need to send an affadavit or talk to anyone or send any more evidence.

Yours sincerely,

Jean Clemens

 

Nov. 26

You lying bitch,

I warned you.  Now I’m not going to warn you another time.  It’s too late.  I’ll only be able to get some peace once I’m free of you.  Sayonara.

 

Nov. 27

Dear Mrs. Clemens,

Your report has caused me great concern both for Rex and for Mrs. Standish.  I have arranged for him to enter the hospital tonight, and will assess whether or not your mother requires in-patient care when I see her.  

Thank you for your diligence in protecting your family’s mental health.  I only wish all of my patients had such concerned and involved sisters.

Sincerely,

Joseph Reynolds

 

Nov. 29

Jean,

I’ve gotten family leave from the old mag.  I’m coming home on the next plane I could get onto, which is four days from now.  I’m not leaving you alone there a minute longer.  I’m not letting you face this by yourself.

I love you.  I’ll see you probably around the same time this letter will.

Keep a stiff upper lip, kid.

Rich

 

Nov. 29

Dear Mrs. Clemens,

I don’t know what to tell you, but I have been unable to locate either Rex or Mrs. Standish.  I managed to gain entry to your mother’s home, and found some very disturbing writings and drawings that seem to have been made by your brother.  I’m afraid that he may be coming to Alberta.  He seems to have fixated on you as the source of his illness, and I’m worried that he may attempt to harm you.  If he does show up at your house, please do not let him into your house or interact with him in any way.  Call the police immediately, and inform them of his condition.

If you wish to file suit against Dr. Kurtzman for fraudulently treating your brother, endangering your life and that of your mother’s, I will be happy to testify as to Rex’s condition and its proper treatment.   

Please keep me informed as to how events progress.  Do not hesitate to contact me if there is anything more I can do.

Sincerely,

Joseph Reynolds

 

Edmonton Journal, Dec. 1

MOTHER, SON DEAD IN FREAK SNOWSTORM

“Bizarre murder plot” uncovered

Irene Standish, 51, and Rex Standish, 27, both of Toronto, were found dead in a vehicle which became trapped in a snowbank off of Highway 16.  Police and medical officials were still investigating; however, the preliminary findings point to carbon monoxide poisoning as the cause of death.  A source at the medical examiner’s office speculates that the pair were rendered unconscious by the accident that trapped the car in the snowbank, then, unable to turn off the engine, were poisoned by the fumes.  Police were unable to explain the presence of a machete in the back seat of the car, or of a handgun in the glove compartment.  Investigations are underway.  Jean Standish Clemens, 31, of Edmonton, daughter and sister of the two deceased, had no comment.

Chapter 12

“You know, Gervaise,” I said thoughtfully, “I think we may be able to work together for our mutual benefit.”

“Talk English, sweetie,” he said.  “I got enough of that flowery mumbo jumbo in the eighteenth century.”

“Both your plan and mine might work together,” I said sharply. “You want the old man out of power?  So do I.  My enemy’s enemy is my friend, after all.”

“No, my enemy’s enemy is just my enemy’s enemy.  I haven’t got time for this, I’ve got a heap of ironing to do for tomorrow night’s ritual.  What do you people do to your robes?  Get to the point already.”

“I told you I’ve been reading a lot lately, didn’t I?  Come into the library and I’ll show you.”

He put down the iron and switched it off.  I guess the old man’s robes could wait after all.  

*

When she found me in the laundry room, I could see by the unholy glint in her eye that she was up to something.  It went against my instincts to go with her into the library, but my curiosity won out over my good sense, curse it.

On the library table several books were spread out untidily.

“Don’t you ever clean up after yourself?” I said.  “Do you expect me to pick up after you all the time?  Ungrateful girl.”

“Never mind that.  I’ll put them away later.  Look at this.”

She opened a fragile-looking volume illuminated in gold.  “Read this,” she said.

In the last days of the order, two fair ones will fight for the love of the young god.  Into the hand of one will be placed the key of light; into the other’s, the key of darkness.  And they will be guided by forces unknown to either, until the final day arrives and the order is born again to a new era.

“Oh, look, a vague prophecy in an old book,” I said sarcastically.  “That’s it, I’m convinced!  I totally am going to help you kill her now.”

“What makes you think I want to kill her?” she said uncertainly.

“The look on your face just now.  Don’t worry, I won’t tell on you.  OK, so what else?  What else did you find to confirm your delusions of grandeur?”

“Here.”

The keys know their home; they will seek it and enter it with or without the ritual.  When the keys enter on their own power, an artifact is created in the form of a rose.  This artifact holds the power of the keys hostage, and the one who holds it holds the keys and their keeper in the palm of his hand.  With its aid, he may also brew the potion which undoes the potion which has made us all; he may dole out mortality as immortality has been dealt to us.  Death and destruction are his, as are the lives of all in the order.

“You know, this isn’t really making your case any stronger,” I said.  “It’s just something out of a book.  Just because something’s old and written down doesn’t make it true.  Anyone can make up silly prophecies.”  I closed my eyes and recited in a low, spooky voice, “And it shall come to pass that a woman with hair like the night will think too much of her own power and weave an elaborate fantasy around herself.  Lo, like a dog with an overstuffed pillow, she will make herself the victim of many a pleasantry, and all who see her will laugh as if Jehovah himself were tickling them.”

“Ha, ha,” she said sarcastically.  “Always so sure of yourself, Gervase.  Now look at this.”

She took another book from the desk, this one very small – a mere pamphlet – and even more ancient than the last.  Its writing was faint but I could make out the old-fashioned cursive on the first page:

The prophecy of the servant

“Who wrote this?” I said.

“Who do you think?”  she said with a wicked grin.  “The old man did.”

She left me alone.  I put my ironing entirely out of my mind and sat down.  I needed to read this all the way through.

*

The prophecy of the servant

I am old; so many days have passed since my youth, I have no memory of the joys and delights others know without question.  I am weary and I fear the gift our potion grants may not last eternally in my case.  Every day I live is another past the natural age of man, and another day longer than any other man on this earth.  My great age has made the eyes of my body dimmer, but the eyes of my mind more bright; and in my researches with crystal and globe and brass I have seen and learned much.

He will come soon, the servant who will bring all to a close,

he will serve in faithfulness the lords of the order

and with his own eyes see the destruction of all they have wrought.

With his hands he will knead their bread and mend their linen,

he will know their secrets and guard them jealously.

In all things he will be guide and comforter,

in all ways helper and friend,

and in all the years an unwavering staff on which they shall lean.

In time the lord of all will trust him above all others,

and it is through his hand that his downfall will come.

I have seen in the mists of the glass a day of great peace,

of health and happiness for the men of the earth,

of prosperity and plenty for its children.

In those days we shall number few but mighty,

the lords of the order will rule over them as over fractious children,

and the lord of the lords will give away his power.

To the servant shall fall in the end the great key,

the one whose future determines our own,

and with his hand he shall crush or submit or deny

the fate that attends us, the master’s creations.

[The next three or four pages were stained with something dark and the words illegible.  I flipped ahead.]

Watch and listen, o man of competent parts,

 Learn of the signs and omens around you,

Watch and wait, for your time approaches - 

A lightning strike in an open field,

A lovely woman like a silver-tongued snake,

An ungodly hush in the rivers at midnight,

A dumb and flightless bird by the fire,

And a sudden leap of the beating heart. 

Watch and wait, and choose your actions well,

For the fate of us all hangs upon your lightest word.

*

I stared dumbly at the final page of the little pamphlet.  “The sudden leap of a beating heart” – didn’t the keys find their way spontaneously to Gina?  That would be a sudden leap of a beating heart.  And I certainly knew who the beautiful snake-like woman was.  But was I the servant?  Was it me?

Just then she came back in.  “What do you think, Gervaise?” she asked me.  “Anything sound familiar to you?”

“It’s a very interesting piece of creative writing,” I said, trying to keep my cool.  “I don’t think much of the old man’s poetic style, though.”

“Oh, come off it,” she said.  “Don’t you get it?  It’s you.  You’re the subject of the prophecy!  It’s obvious.  ‘He will serve in faithfulness the lords of the order…in all things a guide and comforter, in all ways a helper and friend’?  It’s you to a tee.”

“It could be anyone,” I said, but couldn’t help being a little flattered.

“No, it’s you.  You have a destiny,” she said, patting me awkwardly on the arm.  

“We all have a destiny, honey.”

“Well, you have an extra one.  Honestly, Gervaise, the signs are as clear as day.  You have to live up to your destiny, or your life will be wasted, no matter how long it goes on for.  Come on.  Opportunity’s knocking – answer the door!  Do your part.  It could be amazing.”

I looked at her.  She was a worthless, heartless piece of trash, and I’d hated her for as long as I’d known her.  But she had a point.  If I did have a destiny, anyway, it would come to pass whether I did anything about it or not.  And if I went along with her plan, I might have a chance of making something good out of it, of protecting the old man from the worst of it while still getting my own way.

“Tell me what you have in mind,” I said.

“You’re going to love this,” she said.  “It can’t fail.  It’s like this…”

*

I could see at once that the kid needed watching – the little dark-haired one, the one I’d watched go to the old man’s tower room for three days in a row.  She had that look about her, that hungry, weary look.  She was in deep trouble and she didn’t even know it.  

And time was running short, for me and for her.  Fortunately, my years of hunting had so sharpened my detective skills that it was simple for me to get hold of what I needed know.

I’m lying.  I had no clue.  To be perfectly honest, I had more or less written the girl off with a mental shrug of the shoulders – hey, she’s young, she’ll get over it – until a lucky chance made me change my mind.

I was sitting in my car in the university, watching the girl and the piano player with my binoculars – just the usual surveillance, you know – when something hit me on the head.

It was a rolled-up paper Starbucks bag.  I turned and saw a young man glare in through the driver’s side window at me.

“I saw you, you creep,” he said.  “Staring at girls through binoculars?  What do you think you’re doing?”

“Oh – uh,” I said, trying to be casual, “well, I know it looks suspicious, but she’s my daughter, and I’m a little concerned about her new boyfriend, and I -”

“No she isn’t,” he squealed.  “She’s my best friend, I’ve met her dad like four times.  Oh my god, you are a fucking stalker, aren’t you?   I am so calling the cops on you, you freak.”

I couldn’t allow that.  I smiled and held up my hands.  “Hey, no need to do that.  I’ve made a mistake, that’s all.  I’ll just move on -”

“Go right ahead.  I’ve already got your licence plate, you perv,” he said, flipping open a phone and starting to dial.

This was enough.  Quickly I opened the door and dragged him into the car.  He was tall but lanky and put up no resistance, except for screaming like a little girl when I grabbed him.

“Shut up,” I barked at him.

“OK, OK,” he said, obviously scared out of his wits.  “Please don’t kill me.”

“I’m not going to kill you, you idiot,” I said.  “You’ve got one hell of a high voice.  What are you, a transvestite?”

“No,” he said.  “I’m a countertenor.”

“A what?”

“A countertenor.  Look, what the hell are you doing?”

“You don’t know this, but your friend’s in a lot of trouble.”

“I do know it.  Believe me.”

“Why don’t you tell me about it?”

“Why should I tell you anything?  You tell me something if you want me to help you.  As far as I know you’re just some perv staring at her and jerking off in his car.”

“I was not jerking off.  And I’m not a pervert.”

He gave me a look as if to say, “Whatever,” but said nothing.  

“If you must know,” I said at last, “there’s a man your friend is involved with who I’ve been looking for for a long time.”
“Who?  Him?”  He gestured towards the young man, now walking away down Harbord Street.  “Mr. Bigshot Piano Genius?”

“No.  Though I know a thing or two about him as well.  No, it’s an old man.  He seems very grandfatherly and may act like he holds a lot of esoteric knowledge, but he can be very dangerous.  Have you seen her with him?”

“How old?”

“Hard to say,” I said.  “70s, 80s.”

“No,” he said thoughtfully.  “Some weird things have been happening, though.”

And he told me about their visit to the turreted house in the suburbs, the lecture from the middle-aged woman, the rose, the ritual, the other ritual, the girl’s (I learned her name was Gina) sudden loss of appetite and the explanation for it.

“But I never met any really old man,” he said.  

“Hmm,” I said.  “Has she been disappearing a lot lately?”

“Actually, she has.”

“Going off for hours without telling you where, blowing things off, ignoring her friends and her studies and her job and her life?”

“Yeah,” he said unhappily.  “I’m really worried about her.  The thing is, at first she didn’t believe in it.  She even made fun of me because I did.  She just went along with some of it because of him, the piano guy, because she was star-struck by him, but also because I think she wanted to save him from it, and maybe if she could get far enough into it she could show him that it wasn’t real.  But now she’s like another person.  She’s a believer.”

“And you aren’t?”

“I was,” he said.  “Normally I’m very open-minded, and I totally bought it at first.  Now I’m not so sure.”

I stared at him for a moment.  He looked a flaky sort of kid, and I didn’t know if I could trust him.  I didn’t want him to ruin all my plans and bring down the work of years.  But if I trusted him, maybe I could help the girl as well, and he might just help me; it would be a good thing to do, and it might even be a smart thing to do.

“Alright, kid,” I said.  “I think you can help me with something.  If you do this, there’s every chance your friend will be just fine.  She’s in over her head, but it hasn’t been going on for long enough to do serious damage.  Let me explain all of this to you.”

And I did, watching his eyes widen and his jaw drop open.  

“This is what I want you to do,” I said eventually.  “Are you listening?”

He nodded.  “I’m in,” he said.

Chapter 13

When I got home I made another cup of Allison’s tea and went to bed with the book the old man had given me as I was leaving.  It was a tattered little pamphlet, bound in moldy red leather, the pages were curled and foxed and the ink splotched in places; but its meaning was clear enough.  It began with a history of the order, its rules and customs, and a description of the different rituals – potion making, potion restoring, seeding, thanksgiving, birth of the immortals – but then it went somewhere else:

In Antioch there lived, in those days, an order not unlike our own – monastic, immortal, devoted to a cause sacred to their hearts – but opposed to us in aim and deed  They held us to be enemies of the progress of mankind, a predatory race of leeches and parasites – always maintaining, never innovating – and they resolved that we should be struck from the face of the earth.

While their stratagems have varied – at some times they have attacked us directly and openly – their most cherished goal has always been to strike at the heart of our order, to eliminate the old man who holds our secrets and understands our ways.  Without him, they reason, we would fall to pieces; the potion would go unmade and undrunk, the keys would be shattered and lost, and we would return to our mortal state and live what days remained far from one another, scattered to the corners of the earth.  

It is their custom to appoint one of their order to the role of hunter, a term which he will serve for a century.  In that time he seeks our leader relentlessly, through trackless deserts and across wild mountains; if by the end of that time he has not procured the old man’s head, his own will be forfeit to his brothers.  For this reason their order has consistently decreased in numbers since the day of its founding, as they lack the skill and knowledge to brew the potion in their own right.

 Legend tells us that in its first days this order numbered 20 in total; if this is so, then the age of the last hunter will soon begin.  When the final hunter begins to stalk his prey, the one whom we await will appear, and through the power of the one will we at last end this dreadful game of chance.

I closed the book at sat up in bed.  A cool spring wind whistled in the alley outside my window; already the sky was beginning to lighten and birds sing somewhere outside.  It was Friday, and I knew somehow that it was going to be the day that decided my fate forever.

*

It wasn’t easy, brewing the anti-potion overnight.  And I don’t need to tell you that she was no help.  Other than finding the recipe, that is, and I could have done that myself.  I had to steal all of the ingredients, andthe mixing vessel, and the sachet to hold the tab, and hide all of them in a laundry basket until it was time to set up.  It was all I could do to persuade her to take over mixing duty for part of the night.

“Why can’t you do it?” she said.  “Why should both of us lose our sleep over this?”

“You hatch the plot, you stir the pot,” I said.  “I have ironing to do.”

So I left her there in the closet off the kitchen from three to six, stirring exactly seven times every twenty-three minutes.  I’m sure it didn’t really have to be done like that, we could have made the damn thing in a blender for all that it mattered, but it was her idea in the first place, and it gave me a little frisson to wake her up in the middle of the night.  And so I went and finished my ironing and lay down on my little bed, but I didn’t sleep.

Don’t think I was worrying about the girl.  I liked little Gina, but I liked myself more.  If she had to be sacrificed for the survival of the rest of us, well, that’s the way life goes sometimes.  Too bad, but so be it.  No, I was worrying about the old man.

After all the time I’d spent with him, looking after him, tending to him, helping him, listening to him – it was very strange to contemplate life without him.  As much as I’d complained about him over the years, and as often as I’d wished myself anywhere but where I was – still I felt something tug at my heart when I thought about what I’d be doing to him, and I felt something else in the pit of my stomach.

Guilt.  It was guilt.  I hadn’t felt it in the longest time, and I didn’t like it much.

I shook the feeling off and closed my eyes.  But still I couldn’t sleep, and I was cursing the hell that is a busy day with no sleep that lay ahead of me when -

“Gervaise!” came a sharp whisper from the foot of my bed.  I must have jumped about twenty feet before I saw it was her.   With a flashlight.  And a stern expression.

“What the hell do you want?” I hissed at her.  “Why did you have to scare me like that?”

“Sorry,” she whispered.  “I wanted to go over the plan again.  We might not get the chance to talk again tomorrow.”

“You mean today,” I murmured, looking at my watch.  It was ten minutes to six.

“Whatever.  People will be up soon, so let’s not waste time.”

“Fine.  I know the plan.  Are you satisfied?”

“No.  Let’s go through it again.  During the ritual, you make sure you get the old man the right goblet, right?”

“Yes, I know.”

“How will you know which one it is?”

“The steam will rise from it counter-clockwise instead of clockwise.”

“That’s right.”

“But what if it doesn’t?”

“That’s what it says in the book.”

“What if the book’s wrong?  Or I can’t tell in the dark?”

“It’ll be hotter than the others.  Do stop making a fuss.  You’ll be able to tell.  Then what?”

“I give him the anti-potion and keep an eye on him.”

“Then what?”

“That’s all you told me to do.  Keep an eye on him and make sure he doesn’t say or do anything.”
“And what else?”

“Keep the flask of anti-potion on me in case we need to use it on the girl.”

“But we won’t.”

“Why won’t we?”

“Never mind.  I’d better go.  Everyone will be up soon, and they’ll wonder what I’m doing here.  Here’s the flask.”

“Did you clean everything up?”

“It’s all done.  Don’t worry about it.”

She handled me a jewelled – well, I suppose rhinestoned – flask with a pattern of lips on it.  Just the tacky sort of thing she would buy.  Honestly, she has no taste.  And she left and I lay back down for a moment before getting up and getting on with the business of the day, such as it was, the odd guilty feeling still somewhere in the pit of my stomach.

*

Friday was dawning, cold and pale, and I was alone here and Gina alone in her bed.  If the old man had allowed her to get any sleep.  I hadn’t seen her in four days.  Dammit, was I always to be shut out and kept out of everything?  He was trying to take her away from me, to make her think I’m stupid and worthless.    

I forced myself to calm down, looking out onto the pale mists rising from the ravine.  I had been in the garden for some time, watching the night dwindle, watching the stars disappear and the moon go down and the sunlight leak in from the corners of the sky.  It was one of those grey and sunless dawns that make April so depressing.  I should know – I’ve seen them in every climate possible since my vigil began three years ago – and my mind as well as my body was beginning to feel its chill.

I told myself not to be paranoid, not to be selfish – that tonight was Gina’s night, the night she truly joined us and gave herself to us – that the old man had to teach her the things I wasn’t capable of, at least not capable of yet.  He had so much wisdom and experience, and I was still such a beginner; it was only natural that he would know how to draw her mind into the right channels.  I resolved to be happy for her and not to cloud the ritual with my jealousy.  After tonight, everything would be better.  We could truly be together without all of this hanging between us.  She would understand, and everything would be OK.  All I had to do was wait for night to come.

I sat on the bench under the trees and watched the sky turn from grey to the palest pink to a washy, whitish blue.  Day was coming, and night would come soon enough.  I sat down to watch the sky and wait.

*

Un-fucking-believable.  That’s what it was.  The perv’s story.  I didn’t know what to make of it, whether to run screaming or laugh in his face or go along with the whole thing.  But when I told him my side of the story, or Gina’s, or whatever you want to call what’s been going on for the past few weeks, I realized – he had a point.

Sometimes it’s only when you say something out loud that you understand what it really is.  When I heard my own voice telling him about the rituals and the rose and all that stuff it’s like a bell went off in my head and - ding ding ding - I finally got it.  And I decided then and there that when we got through all of this, I was going to smack Gina upside the head, then make her tell me everything she knew, then have a very serious chat with her.  Then we would go for martinis.  Maybe.  If I decided to forgive her.

We were flying back to the city then.  Another unbelievable thing, the dude had his own plane.  And he flew it himself.  What we’d gone to get was safely in the back two seats, and I was watching Friday dawn over the cornfields and pastures that surround the city.  Soon we’d be back, and we’d all go sleep a bit before the real business of the day began.  At least I would.  I don’t know what he had in mind.  And tonight everything would be decided, one way or another, and whatever happened I made up my mind that I’d help Gina out the best that I could.

After we landed in the little airport north of the city, the dude slapped me on the back and told me to go home.  “Go home,” he said.  “You get some sleep, and I’ll pick you up at 5:00.”

“What about…” I said, gesturing towards the back of the plane.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of them.  I’ll arrange everything.  You just be ready to go at five.”

So I gave him my address and directions, and he gave me some money to take a cab back home, which was really nice of him, I thought, and I went home, thinking about what I had to do.

*

The old man slept in the chair by the window in his turret room, forgotten by the city that was waking around him, in the house forgotten by the university that had grown up around it.  He was dreaming a pleasant dream.  Everything was going exactly as he wanted it to be, and everyone was doing exactly what he wanted them to do.  Life was unfolding in his mind like an elegant and well-rehearsed drama, every actor in place and every line memorized.  Nothing could stop the orderly progression of events – at least not in his dream.

The old man smiled in his sleep.  Behind him the window lightened as dawn came slowly to the city.  Birds sang, lights came on in early-rising bedrooms.  The sound of tires came once more from the damp and misty streets.  The milk trucks rumbled towards the supermarkets, and the coffee shops opened their doors and turned on the espresso machines.  Cats came in from nightly adventures, and dogs went out for morning walks.  In every respect it was an ordinary Friday morning in April.  But the old man still smiled as he slept; because for him it was the day of days.

*

Gervaise and that stupid girl were plotting something.  I knew it.  I was missing a bronze mixing dish and some herbs, and I could hear her scurrying around the house like a cockroach all night.  When the piano-playing doofus broke up with her and fell in love with that odious child, Gina, she of course came to live here.  As if she couldn’t find somewhere else to go.  She cried and got drunk and said she was thinking of making a clean start of things, going somewhere else and remaking herself again.  I didn’t believe her for a moment.  Revenge, that was what she wanted, not a clean break.  And because she’s a stupid and grasping person, she was going to take revenge on the girl, not the man.

People like her have always made me tired.  I was taught to be a good woman, to have self-control, to be charitable towards others and to hold no one to a standard of behaviour higher than what I myself would follow.  Someone like her who just wants to take and take and take, whose eyes size up everything rather than looking at it – what a waste of the gift of the potion, I thought as I lay under my skylight, looking up at the dawn sky.  She had taken the old man in with her beauty and charm, and look at what we were all stuck with.  He couldn’t even stand her anymore, and I had to deal with her machinations, on today of all days.

More whispers and scurryings.  What exactly they were plotting I couldn’t imagine.  Even less that they would manage to make it work, Gervaise being a good cook and gossip and little else, and her with no practical sense about anything except clothes and how to use a baton.  But I couldn’t afford to take any risks.  

I might seem like a practical and homely person, someone who carries out the wishes of others rather than making plans of her own.  That is what I have always been, from my early days playing the organ in a cathedral to the sacred mission I now hold.  But just because I understand the realities of life doesn’t mean I don’t uphold my duties.  My duty above all is to protect the order, not just from outsiders, but from itself.  As I lay there, listening to the sounds of the house coming to life, I resolved to do my duty, come what may.

*

I sent the kid home.  He was bushed from staying up all night and probably a bit airsick.  The turbulence in these little planes take some getting used to.  I needed him to be relatively fresh for the evening.  Plus I didn’t need him to be part of the next phase.

What I’d brought with me from up north I brought downtown.  I needed to prepare for the day and night ahead, and it wasn’t going to be easy.  In my hotel room I laid the case bare and put it, element by element, clearly from beginning to end.  I made the necessary phone calls and arranged the necessary documents.  Finally I was ready.  What I had started all those years ago would finally come to an end, and soon I would be able to rest, the old man laid at last to rest. 

Chapter 14

Interlude: A detective story

It was a cold night, a crisp night, a spring night that felt more like fall than anything else.  I was walking down a damp and empty street, thinking about nothing but the next whiskey and the next cigarette when I saw her.

She pulled up in a car next to me, a convertible with its top down in spite of the cold.  She was one helluva hot dish, if you know what I mean.  Long blonde hair and a swell fur coat, and lips to die for.  Not a bad catch, if you ask me.

“Are you the private dick?”  she asked in a low, sexy voice.

“Who’s asking?”  I said, not losing my cool.

“Never mind that,” she said.  “Hop in, sweetie.  I’ve got a job for you.”

She had a job for me?  I could think of a couple of jobs I had for her, but never mind.  Because I also had a stack of unpaid bills as tall as the Empire State Building, and I’m not too proud to take dough from a dame.  As long as she has dough, that is.  But since convertibles and fur coats don’t come from the five and dime, I figured it was a good bet.

“What’s the job?” I said, hopping into the car.  “Some guy giving you trouble?  Ex-husband, loony little brother, heavy father?”

“No,” she said, peeling away from the curb, “nothing like that.  I need you to find something for me, that’s all.”

“What is it, doll?  Jewellery?  Love letters?  A yappy little lap dog?”

She shot me a killer look with those baby blue eyes.  “Think you’re a funny guy, don’t you?  No, I’m not one of those girls who gets her pearls nicked or gets blackmailed and I don’t like little dogs.  I have a Doberman back at my house, and I’d like to see someone try to kidnap him.  No, it’s something else.  Something very special.”

I waited for her to spill her guts and tell me what it was, but she wasn’t exactly forthcoming.  

“I need a few more clues than that, sister,” I said.  “So it’s not a ruby or an IOU or a Pekinese.  That only leaves a cool million or two other things in the world it might be.  Care to fill me in?”

We’d driven a good way out of downtown into a sprawling neighbourhood of swell old houses with curving driveways.  

“Nice digs around here,” I said.  “I bet the servants’ quarters in these would sure beat my little two room flat.  You live around here?”

Still she didn’t say anything.  For such a good-looking mouth, it sure didn’t say much.

“Look, lady, you gotta give me something to go on here,” I said.  “Either dish the dirt or let me out.  I ain’t going any farther until I know the score.”

She pulled up the car in front of the biggest house on the street.  Lordy, but did it look like a mansion from one of those English movies.  All it needed was a couple deer roaming in front of it and footmen in wigs standing on either side of the door.

“Nice little shack,” I said.  “Maybe they’ll let me use the phone and call a cab.  Thanks for the scenic drive.”

“It’s my daughter,” she said quietly.

“Your what?”

“My daughter,” she said more loudly.  

“Listen, sweetheart, I don’t do custody cases.  You want your little daughter back, you take her daddy to court and do it the right way.  I don’t get mixed up in -”

“She’s not a baby, she’s  fifteen.”

“Huh?”

“I said she’s fifteen.  You don’t listen too well, do you?”

“Hey, you just don’t look old enough to have a grown-up kid,” I said.

“I was a child bride,” she spat at me.  “Anyway, that’s none of your business.  About my daughter – she thinks she’s in love.  She’s holed up in that house with an old scoundrel who’s promised her the world.  She thinks he’s going to marry her and they’ll live happily ever after.”

“But he won’t?”

“No,” she said sadly.  “I know a thing or two about him.  He’ll throw her out when he’s sick of her, or worse, he’ll pass her on to one of his scumbag friends, and the scumbag will pass her on to another scumbag, and on and on until…”  She paused.  “And I’ll never see her again.  I have to get her out of there before it’s too late.  Please, won’t you help me?”

She turned her big round eyes on me.  I could see the tears shimmering in them.  

Dammit, I’m such a sucker for the dames.

“Alright, alright,” I said.  “You got me.  Can’t let a lady down, now can I?”

“Thank you, oh, thank you,” she sighed, and kissed me on the cheek.

“Yeah, yeah,” I said, though I can tell you my heart skipped a coupla hundred beats.  “So what’s the plan?  This place looks pretty solid to me.  How the heck are we getting in and getting the girl out?”

“I have it all figured out,” she said.  “It’ll be easy as pie.  Don’t you worry about a thing.”  

*

My old dad, bless his heart, used to have only three rules in life.  “Son,” he said to me, “remember; Never bet against the house, never borrow money you know you can’t pay back, and never believe a dame when she tells you something’s easy.”

Well, my old dad’s been underground for a few years now, but I can still hear his voice sometimes, repeating his maxims to me over the slosh of ice cubes in a glass of whiskey and the sound of horse racing on the radio.  Usually I hear him when I’m about to do something stupid, like one – or all – of the things he warned me against.  As the dame told me her plan, I could hear him loud and clear.  But if you don’t listen to your dad when he’s alive, you’re not going to listen to him after he’s gone, and tough luck to you.

So I went along with the dame’s plan.  What can I say, other than it seemed like a swell idea at the time.  I got dressed up like she said and in the early hours of the morning we went back to the tony house in the suburbs, ready for action.  

Now afterwards my friends – the fellas down at the bar, and the lawyer in the next office, and everyone else who heard about it one way or another – had a belly laugh or two at my expense, usually when I was there.  “Hey, tough guy,” they said, “how’s about a poke from your magic wand?”  And the whole room would laugh.  But hey, they usually bought me drinks after, so I guess I can’t complain too much.  As much ribbing as I took from it, at least I did it to help out a dame, like any honest guy would do.

It couldn’t have been earlier than three in the morning when we pulled up in front of the house again.  The costume she’d got me to put on was itchy and didn’t fit too good, but I didn’t want to look like a wimp, so I kept my gob shut.  She eyed me with an unsatisfied look on her face.

“What’s up, cookie?” I said.  “Don’t I look the part?”
“Pretty close,” she said in a whisper.  “It’s too bad you didn’t get a chance to shave.”

I felt my chin.  Yeah, maybe I did have a five-o-clock shadow.  A five-o-clock in the morning shadow.  But what gives?

“Sorry, sweetcakes.  Best I could do.” 

“I’m sure it’ll be alright,” she said doubtfully.  “You know what to do?”

“I got it, don’t worry,” I said.

“I’ll be waiting around the corner,” she said.  “Don’t be long.”

I tucked the file into the pocket of my cape and got out of the car.  “What if the old fella’s in the room with her?” I asked.

“He won’t be.  He never sleeps in the same room as them.  Go on, go on!  It’ll be light in an hour or two.”

Like it would take that long, I thought.  But I ran off all the same, tripping over the cape once or twice, but otherwise quick as a hound on the trail of a ham sandwich.

The girl’s room was in the back of the house, her mom had told me.  She’d been staking the place out with binoculars, and she knew the whole layout.  “Climb up the tree in the backyard,” she’d told me, “and from there you can jump onto her balcony.  Use the key I gave you and unlock the doors, then the rest is easy.”

The old guy didn’t seem to have any dogs, or at least if he did they were probably spoiled old spaniels sleeping on the foot of someone’s bed – there weren’t any bloodthirsty curs chained up in front of the old manse, or roaming the grounds looking to rip the throat out of any unlucky burglars.  I made it to the tree easy, and climbed it.

It ain’t a simple thing for a grown man to climb a tree, that’s all I’m saying.  When I was a kid I climbed trees with the best of them, but a couple thousand gallons of water have flowed under that bridge.  Also I never tried to climb a tree in my Hallowe’en costume.  The damn cape kept getting stuck on branches, and I think I tore the tights in a place or two.  But I got up the tree alright in the end, and I got onto the balcony no problem.  Not bad for an old schlub like me, who’s never lifted anything weightier than a scotch on the rocks.

The dame’s key worked.  I wondered for a minute where she’d gotten it from.  Probably bribed someone, all the dough she had it’d be pie.  I walked into the room.  There was a little covered nightlight on the table, and in the dim light I could see it was a swell room with fancy furniture, all gold and curved, and big pictures of girls in poufy dresses.  There was a big bed, too, with curtains around it, like in a King Arthur story.  I walked over to the bed and opened the curtains.

I’d like to say that when I opened the curtains I saw a two-headed monster, or a three hundred pound tough guy with a cosh, or fourteen cats, or something exciting or unexpected – but it was just a girl, sleeping.  She was real pretty, too, the image of the dame who’d picked me up in the car, and real young.  She looked like such a sweet and innocent thing.

I pulled myself together.  I’m not a sentimental sort of rube, and I don’t go into raptures over a little girl in a nightgown.  I cleared my throat and started my part.

“Hist!” I whispered.  I don’t know why, but the dame told me to say “Hist”.  So I did.  “Hist,” I said, and tapped the kid with the magic wand.  She stirred a bit, but didn’t wake up.  Damn teenagers, you can never get them out of bed.  So I said “Hist!” a bit louder, and poked her harder with the wand.

Her eyes fluttered open, big blue eyes like her mama’s. 
“Hist!” I said again for good measure, and poked her again.

Her eyes opened wide in astonishment and she sat up in bed, clutching the sheets around her.

“Fairest lady,” I said in the swellest accent I could come up with, “do not fear.  I have come from the kingdom of the fairies to bring you, as the loveliest woman ever yet to walk the earth, to dine with the fairy queen and her court.  Come with me, oh most beautiful of creatures, and I will show you wonders beyond any you have yet seen.”

She stared at me for another moment, then started to laugh.  She had a pretty laugh, too, the kind they always call ’silvery’ in the sappy kind of novels dames write.  I couldn’t let her make noise, though.

“Shut it,” I hissed at her.  “Shut it or else!”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, still giggling.  “It’s too funny.  My mom sent you, didn’t she?”

“Ah, geez,” I said, sitting down on the bed.  “Was I that bad?”

“Even if I did believe in fairies,” she said, “I don’t think they would have stubble and Jersey accents.  It was my mom, wasn’t it?”

“She’s real worried about you, kid,” I said.

“She should mind her own business,” she said, her eyes flashing.

“She just wants to talk to you,” I said.  “She wants to know that you’re OK.”

“She knows,” the girl said.  “I wrote her a letter, telling her I wasn’t coming back.  I’m not a baby anymore.  She can’t make me.”

“She thinks this fella isn’t good for you,” I said.  “She thinks he’ll hurt you real bad.”

“She doesn’t understand.  He loves me,” she said passionately.  “We’re going to be together forever.   Why can’t she just leave us alone?”

“Well, I can think of a reason or two,” I said, pulling the file out of my pocket.  The dame told me to bring it along as Plan B, in case the fairy gag didn’t work.  Good thing, too.

“Take a look at that picture.  What’d'ya think of that?”

“She’s pretty,” she said.  

It was a picture of another girl, a pretty little dark-haired thing with snapping brown eyes.

“Her name’s Angela DiNovo, and yeah, it is a pretty picture,” I said.  “What about this one?”

I handed her the next picture.  She gasped and threw it down.

“Why did you show me that?”  she cried.

“What, you don’t think she’s so pretty anymore?”

“No, it’s…she’s…”

“Yeah, that’s right, she’s dead.  Drowned herself in the river.  Couldn’t face going back home, didn’t have a dime, didn’t have nowhere to go.  Couldn’t get a job and didn’t want to sell herself on the street.  She was just about your age, too, only sixteen.  Angela sent a note home to her mama, gave her favourite necklace to another girl, and offed herself.”

“That’s awful,” she said, looking at the first picture.  “But why are you telling me this horrible story?”

“Simple, kid,” I said.  “Who do ya think she left home with in the first place?”

And I handed her another picture, this one of the girl in fancy clothes, standing next to an old swell whose arm was around her.

“He look kinda familiar to you?” I asked her.

“It looks like…it’s…”

“It’s your boyfriend, ain’t it?  The one who promised to marry you and love you forever?  He’s awful good at making promises.  Not so hot at keeping them.”

She looked at me, her little lower lip quivering.  “He did this to her?”

“He threw her out.  He was bored with her.  Only took him a couple months, too.  Like I said, she was too ashamed to go home.  Didn’t need to be.  Her mama was mad when she left, but would’ve taken her back in a heartbeat.  Just like your mama.”

She looked back down at the picture, her lip still quivering.  Suddenly she started to cry, and Jesus Christ, was it like the flood all over again.

“Hey, hey, kid, don’t cry,” I said, gathering up the pictures and putting the file away.  I didn’t want them to get all wet and ruined.  “It’s not too late.  Get your hat on and we’ll go right now.  Your mom’s waiting outside.”

“Really?” she said, lifting up a tear-stained face.  “She’s waiting?”

“Just around the corner.”

“And she’s not m-m-mad at me?”

“Maybe a bit,” I said, “but she’s more worried than mad.  Come on, get your hat and coat on.”

“Shouldn’t I write a note?” she said, still sniffing.  

“Send one in the morning,” I said.  

“I have to pack my stuff,” she said.

“No ya don’t,” I said.  “It don’t matter.  You can always get more stuff.”

“OK,” she said.  “I’ll go.  But I need to bring one thing.”

She darted out of bed and opened a big wardrobe in the corner of the room.  She pulled on a coat over her nightgown and a little cap over her blonde curls, and she took something else out of the back of closet.

She turned around.  “I’m ready now,” she said.

Under her arm she was holding a bedraggled little doll in a tattered red dress, with scraps of red yarn for hair.  I felt an honest to God tug at my heartstrings.

“Aw, kid,” I said, “let’s get out of here.”

And that’s pretty much all she wrote, folks.  We got down the tree OK, and the kid and her mama cried and hugged each other, and the girl promised never to be so stupid again, and Mom promised to take her to Switzerland for a long vacation in the Alps so she could get over it – “We’ll heal together, darling,” she said, and everything was hunky dory.  Especially the nice fat cheque that came to my office the next day.  I’m a sucker for happy endings.

*

I guess it might seem kind of heartless, to write detective stories while Gina was in so much trouble.  But what else could I do?  The dude with the plane was off somewhere, getting ready for tonight, and I couldn’t sleep.  Plus I needed something for my writing group, since I hadn’t been able to come up with another fairy tale, and the meeting was the next day.  Though I wasn’t at all sure if I’d be going.

By the time I’d finished the story it was early afternoon, still hours before I had to go to the ritual.  In case anything went wrong – and I wasn’t taking anything for granted – I wrote three letters, one to my parents, one to Gina’s parents, one to Allison, who’s my teacher as well as Gina’s.  I even put stamps on them so my roomate couldn’t fail to mail them out of laziness or cheapness, and wrote on a piece of paper:  IF I’M NOT HOME AND YOU HAVEN’T HEARD FROM ME BY SUNDAY MORNING, PUT THESE IN THE MAIL RIGHT AWAY.”  I gave myself until Sunday just in case something weird happened that wasn’t really an emergency.  Nothing is more embarrassing than a final letter that gets sent when you’re still alive.  Overdramatic?  Maybe.  Uncalled for?  Maybe not.  

After I wrote the letters, I lay down on my bed and re-wrote the detective story.  I could hear what Gina would say about it – “Justin, it’s pretty good, but can’t you write anything that’s not a pastiche?”  Like she’s ever tried writing anything in her life.  It’s hard.  Actually, I kind of suspected her of writing poetry but being too chicken to show it to anyone.  Maybe when this was all over I’d ask her about it.

 

Chapter 15

From The prophecy of the servant:

In the city by the lake, the city of trees by the narrow water,

eight will await the day of days,

with trepidation, fear and trembling,

and with expectation of all earthly and unearthly delights.

Six of our own, two of the others, 

they shall watch the dawn and the day rise and fall,

and it is their actions, for good and for ill,

which will drive the day into night and close.

*

I spent most of the day in bed.  My head ached on and off, and I was feeling dizzy again.  The old man had told me the keys would do this to me.  I knew I just had to live through it, and after tonight it would all be OK, one way or another.  The phone rang a couple of times, but I ignored it; and once or twice my roommate knocked on the door and said,

“Gina, are you OK?”

“Fine,” I called back lazily every time.

“I’m making some food, do you want any?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“OK.” 

Eventually she must have gone out, and I must have dozed off, because the next thing I knew someone was shaking me awake.

“Wake up, Gina,” a voice was saying.  I opened my eyes.  It was him.

“Good morning,” I said.  He smiled down at me.

“You’d better get up,” he said.  “It’s five o’clock.  The ritual starts in an hour, and the traffic’s terrible at this time of day.”

“I thought we were going to take the subway next time,” I said drowsily.

He laughed and picked me up.  “I love you, Gina,” he said.

“I love you,” I said, and then he kissed me.

I wish I were like Justin and could write, because then I could write exactly what that kiss was like.  No, actually I don’t – if I were like Justin I would write an unintentionally hilarious parody of a romance novel, so I won’t even try.  All I’ll say, then, is that when he kissed me I didn’t care about the past or the future or anything else, that I could have died right then and it would have been alright.  At least I had that.

On the long slow drive across the city, he told me all of the things they had in store for me.

“Gervaise even made you some new robes,” he said.  “He showed them to me.  They’re beautiful.  And maybe after tonight you could come and live in the house.”

“Doesn’t she live there?”

“Who?”

“You know,” I said, “her.  Your old girlfriend.”

“Oh, her,” he said.  “Why would that be a problem?”

“I don’t think she likes me much,” I said.

“Don’t worry about that,” he said.  “She can be a pain, but she has the best interests of the order at heart, like the rest of us.”  He reached over and patted me on the leg.  “But if you don’t want to live there, you could always come to my place,” he said shyly.

“I always could,” I said softly.  I could feel my face getting hot.  We had just stopped in another traffic jam, and he reached over and kissed me, and didn’t stop until the driver behind him leaned on his horn.

It was close to six when we pulled up to the big house with the turret.  It was lighted and decorated, and the street was lined with unfamiliar parked cars.  

“Everyone’s coming tonight,” he said.  “They all want to meet you and see you.  It’s the event of the year.”

“I hope I do alright,” I said nervously.  

“Of course you will,” he said.  “You’re going to be just fine.  Don’t get stage fright now.”

“I never get stage fright.”

“I know.”  He kissed me one last time.  “Come on, let’s go inside.”

And I took a deep breath and stepped across the threshold.

Inside it was just like the second ritual I came to, the one where the keys found me – lots of people milling, all of them talking and chattering and holding drinks.  Except this time instead of ignoring me, everyone was eager to talk to me and shake my hand.  Drinks were thrust into my hand, and I found myself talking seriously about Poulenc with a famous conductor and a well-known composer.  It was hot and muggy with all the people stuffed into the hall and gallery, and even though my head started to ache again I was actually enjoying myself.  I was telling everyone about how exactly I thought La voix humaine ought to be staged when I felt a hand on my shoulder.  It was him.

“Come with me,” he said.  “It’s almost time.”

He lead me to a little room behind the kitchen, where Gervaise was standing, holding a beautiful robe embroidered with golden birds.  

“Do you like it, honey?”  he said.  “I made it just for you.”

“It’s lovely,” I said.  

“I just hope it fits,” he said.  “I asked your boyfriend to bring you for a fitting, but he said you were to busy with the old man.  I think I eyeballed it pretty well.”

I slipped it over my head.  “It’s perfect,” I said, looking at myself in the mirror.  “You’re good.  Will you make me a dress for my recital?”

He laughed in a funny sort of way.  “Honey, I think you’ve got bigger things to worry about than a school recital.”

“What do you mean?”

“Never mind.  Put these on.”  He handed me a pair of golden slippers, which also fit perfectly.  He put rings on my fingers, a necklace with a beautiful blue stone in it around, my neck, and a circle of gold on my head.  “Now look at yourself again,” he said, and I turned towards the mirror.

“I look like a queen,” I said breathlessly.  

“You’re lucky you can carry off all that gold,” he said.  “Blondes never can.  Now run off outside.  It’s about to start.”

“Aren’t you coming?”

“I have a few things to do here,” he said.  “I’ll be out in a second.  Run along.”

And I tripped down the now-deserted hallway, light as air.  I felt like the princess in a fairy tale.  Life had become a beautiful story that I made up as I went along.  It was wonderful.

*

The ritual fire was laid, the flames already leaping into the spring night.  The ceremonial potion was ready to be scattered, and the goblets prepared for us to drink.  The branches were cut and the crystals prepared.  All was ready.

I stood by my chamber window, already dressed in my robes, watching the crowd filter into the garden.  It was almost time.  The seeding ritual was only performed once every ten years, and only under the right conditions.  Tonight everything was perfect – the potion could be restored and the cosmic power source kept in motion.  All was well.

Gervaise came to fetch me once he’d robed the girl.  “Come on, mistress,” he said.  He always calls me that, I don’t know why.  “It’s almost showtime.”

I turned and looked at him.  His eyes shifted under my gaze, a guilty look.  Soon enough, though, whatever his plan was would be at an end.  

“Very well,” I said.  “I’m coming.”

*

“Do we have to hide in the bushes?” I whispered.

“Yes,” the dude said.  “Be quiet.”

“I can’t see anything,” I said.

“Justin,” he hissed at me, “shut up.  We have to wait for the right moment.”

How we were going to know what the right moment was when we could only see the backs of a crowd of people and some smoke was beyond me, but what do I know?  

“How much longer?” one of the others said.

“Not long, once they get started,” he answered. “Now everyone stay quiet and let me listen.  We’ve got to catch them at the right moment.”

*

I took my place in the half circle around the flames and watched as Gina came out of the house.  She looked so beautiful, and I was so proud of her.  She smiled at me as she walked slowly along the path lit by torches to where we stood.  

It would have been perfect except for the two women on either side of me; it’s hard to stay euphoric when your former girlfriend is watching you admire your new girlfriend, and the killjoy mistress of your order is watching her for any mistake or slip-up.

“I hope the old man did his job,” she hissed at me, not losing her fake smile.  “Everything depends on her.”

“She’ll come through,” I replied.  “She’s like a new person now – she’s been transformed.”  

And she had.  She was a princess, an angel, a queen of light.  

“Where is the old man?” my neighbour said.  “I don’t see him.”
“Oh, he’s in the back somewhere,” the other said.  “I saw him a minute ago.”

Gina stood before us.  “I am here,” she said.  Even her voice sounded different, a new, low, silvery tone.

“We are here,” the three of us replied.

“Where is the wine of togetherness?” she said.  

At this sign Gervaise handed goblets to each of us.  Steam rose from each one in elaborate swirls.  He was holding a fifth goblet on the opposite side of his tray.  “For the old man,” he whispered to me, and disappeared into the crowd.

The mistress eyed him suspiciously.

“All must drink,” she announced, “once the wine is blessed.”

More ushers moved through the crowd with trays, distributing goblets of wine.  

“We will drink,” said Gina, “to the power and beauty of life.”

“To the harmony of the universe,” all replied.

“To the flowing of energy from all to all,” she said.

“To the everlasting source of all power,” we replied.

“We drink to the music of everlasting life,” she said.

“To the beauty of the world to come,” we replied, and raised the goblets to our lips.

*

“There you are Gervaise,” the old man snapped at me as he took the goblet.  “What have you been doing?  I must be getting to the fire now.”

“Oh, nothing’s happening yet, sir,” I said.  “No rush.”

“Nonsense,” he said.  “The girl’s come out and they’ll be reciting the blessing any moment.  I want to see how she does, dammit.”

“No, you’ll just get in the way,” I said.  “You might make her nervous if you stand over her.  She told me she gets awful stage fright.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.  “She told me she never gets stage fright.”

“She probably wanted to impress you,” I said, putting a hand on his arm.  “Besides, what’s the big deal?  You’ll get a better view of the final ascension from here.”

“No, I want to see the whole thing,” he said, shaking me off impatiently.  “Let go of me, you fool.  Why are you trying to keep me back?”

“Oh, I’m not,” I said.  “I just think you’ll be more comfortable back here.”

“I’ve had enough of you,” he growled at me, and pushed past me.

Crap.  She had told me to keep him back.  I pursued him through the crowd.

The four of them at the fire were already murmuring through their ridiculous blessing.  The old man reached them just as the glasses were raised.  That old bat looked at the old man with a raised eyebrow as if to say, “There you are.”  That sniffy young bitch looked at him in alarm, then at me in accusation.

But what could I do?  We all drank.

I watched the old man carefully as I gathered the goblets.  Nothing seemed to be happening to him, other than an expression of disgust after he drank.  I’m sure the anti-potion tastes even worse than the ceremonial wine.  But nothing else.

I shot her a look, and she shrugged her shoulders very slightly.  And the ceremony went on.

*

The crowd regrouped and thinned in front of us, and finally I could see what was going on at the fire.  Gina was standing there with the Margaret Atwood look alike, the boyfriend, the old girlfriend, and some old guy.

“Is that him?” I whispered to the dude, and he nodded.

They were all dressed in stupid-looking robes like at the first ceremony.  Gina’s was more elaborate than the rest, and she was wearing lots of ugly jewellery and some kind of crown thing.  She looked sick and pale.

They all drank from some gold wine glasses.  “Now?” I whispered.

He shook his head.  “Soon.”

*

That idiot Gervaise had let him get away.  He was right there, standing four feet away from me.  And worse, the anti-potion hadn’t started to take effect yet.  I would have to act quickly, at the earliest opportunity.

The ritual continued.  “Give me the water of life,”  the stupid child said, and the flask was handed to her.  She walked slowly around the fire, pouring it on the grass and reciting,

“We are born of the earth but will not return to it; we come from this grass but will never feed it; accept this reckoning, oh font of power, and allow us the course which nature forfends.”

When the flask was empty she handed it to Gervaise and stood again in front of us.  I’d been keeping my eye on the old man, who had been watching her.  He looked proud and afraid at the same time, but no sign of anything else.  It was taking too long.

She held out her hands.  “I am the offering,” she said, her eyes closed.

You bet you are, I said to myself.

“I will take into myself the gifts of the spirit,” she said.

Now was my chance.  

“How’s this?” I said out loud, holding up the tab.

She opened her eyes, looking confused.  I guess my going off script had thrown her for a loop.

“Do you know what this is?” I said.

“N-no,” she said weakly.

“Well, you’re about to find out,” I cried, and threw it into the fire.

“NO!” the old man screamed, and ran at me.  I held him off.  “What was it? What did you throw into the fire?”

“It was the tab,” I said.  “I found it, and I found out what it was good for.  Are you feeling sick yet?”  I said to the girl.  She didn’t answer, but her thin face looked pale in the firelight.  “How about you, old man?  Feeling alright?”

“What are you talking about?” he snapped.  “What are you doing?”

“Don’t worry about him, dear,” the mistress said.  “Worry about yourself.  I finally realized what you and Gervaise were plotting, and I switched the goblets.  You drank all the anti-potion yourself.”

“Anti-potion?” the old man cried.  “You made anti-potion to give to me?”  He gave a final wordless cry, rushed at me, and the next thing I knew I was on the ground.

*

“What is that old fart doing?” I whispered.

“NOW!” the dude yelled, and everyone ran out of the bushes and into action.

*

“Is this what’s supposed to happen?”  I cried as the old man flew at her.  I looked at him, at my genius.  He looked just as confused as me, and the next moment everything was chaos.

A voice shouted “NOW!” and the world seemed to explode.  The garden was suddenly full of running people – some of the crowd running away, some other people running towards us.  Someone pulled the old man off of her and picked him up off the ground.

“Don’t touch me,” he cried.  “You’ll never get me.”

It was the man with the moustache who’d talked to me outside of the old man’s house.

“You!” I cried.  “You’re the hunter!  You’re the enemy!”
“He’s been trying to kill me for years,” the old man croaked.  “Stop him!”

“That’s enough,” the guy with the moustache said.  “I’m not his enemy.  I’m his son.”

“That’s impossible,” I said.  “He’s immortal.  He’s 2000 years old.  You can’t be his son.”

“I am,” he said, “ and he’s not.  It’s all a lie.  He’s not immortal.  None of you are.”

“What – the – hell,” someone said from the crowd.  “Immortal?  Who thinks they’re immortal?”

“No one told me that,” another one said.  “I thought this was some kind of music religion.  That the rituals would help us clear our energies and connect to the spirit of music.  I didn’t hear about this immortality stuff.”

“Let’s get out of here,” a third said, and they were gone.

“We are immortal,” I said.  “There’s too much that you can’t explain any other way.  I haven’t had to eat in two weeks -”

“Oh, Gina,” someone cried.  I turned around.

“Mother?”  I said.  “Daddy?  What are you doing here?”

“Justin and this man here came and got us yesterday.  We’ve come to take you home,” my mother said.  “What have you been doing to yourself?  You must have lost twenty pounds.  You’re skin and bone.”

“You don’t understand,” I said.  “I’m not like you anymore.  I don’t need to eat.  I haven’t eaten in two weeks.”

“Yes, you have,” Justin came forward out of the shadows and said.  “You’ve eaten with me a few times.  You probably ate by yourself, then forgot about it.  You just don’t think you have to eat.  You’ve been fooling yourself.”
“Dad,” the moustache guy was saying to the old man, “why’d you make me do this?  I’ve been looking for you for a long time now.”

“I don’t know you,” the old man said.

“Leave him alone,” Margaret Atwood growled at him.

The moustache man turned to her.  “Oh, look who it is,” he said sarcastically.  “My beloved stepmother.  You encouraged him to do this by pretending you believed in his nonsense.  You could have put a stop to it and gotten him into treatment.  This is all your fault.”

“I do believe in him,” she said.  “And I don’t know who you are either.”

She turned and started to walk towards the house, but was stopped by one of the strangers.  I noticed he was wearing a white coat.  Lots of them were.

The moustache guy looked down on the conductor, still lying on the ground, looking up at him in shock.  “And of course,” he said, “I can’t forget my father’s favourite student.  And his last personal assistant,” he turned towards Gervaise.  “How did you manage to fall into his delusions, too?”

They said nothing, but looked at each other, then at him.

“What about him?”  I said, gesturing towards him, the only him for me.  “He hasn’t slept in five years.  And he was old!  He was 38, and they made him young again.  That’s not a delusion.”

“Yeah,” he said.  “There’s no explanation for that.”
The moustache man looked at us both pityingly.  “Son,” he said to him, “I think this has gone on long enough.”  He turned to me.  “Didn’t you hear the story,” he said kindly, “about him being in the mental hospital?”

“That was just marketing,” I said.  “She made it up for him.”

“No it wasn’t,” he said.  “He was never old – he’s only, what are you now, son, twenty-seven?  Twenty-eight?  The story was true.”

*

Well, it wasn’t pretty.  Gina sat down on a rock and started to cry, and the piano genius started ranting and raving until one of the whitecoats led him away, too.

“Hey, Gina,” I said, sitting down next to her, “it’s OK.  You’re going to be fine.”

She kept crying.

“What, are you embarrassed?”  I asked.  “Are you worried you’re going to go to the mental hospital too?  Because you’re not, your parents are going to look after you until you’re ready to go back to school.  Because you’ve only been involved for a few weeks, the doctors don’t think you’ll need much treatment.”

She didn’t stop crying.

“And I promise I won’t tell anyone at school,” I went on.  “I won’t tell anyone, and I don’t think they’ll hear about it any other way, so no one will make fun of you.  Everyone already thinks you’re anorexic, so they’ll just think that’s why you’re not there.”

Still she didn’t answer, just went on bawling.  I looked up at her mother and father, standing there, looking stricken and shrugged my shoulders. 

“Justin,” Gina said at last, “I am so hungry.”

And her mother started to cry and Gina jumped up and hugged her, and her father started to cry, too, and they were all hugging each other and crying.  It was kind of sweet.

 

Chapter 16

“My father,” the moustache man said, “was a very famous conductor.  He retired about ten years ago, though he still had a few students, did the occasional guest spot, and gave the odd masterclass.  He had another hobby, though, which was writing a long series of fantasy novels about an immortal order of musicians with mystical powers.”

We were in Justin’s apartment, crowded around a table covered with as much food as the late night grocery store down the street could provide.  I was eating barbecue chicken as fast as I could.

“Slow down, dear,” my mother said, stroking my hair.  “It’s not good to overdo it right away.”

“He never meant to publish the books,” the moustache man (whose name, by the way, was George) went on, “they were his own private universe, for him and a select few who he shared them with.  I was never one of the few,” he said wryly.  “Mostly they were favoured students and like-minded colleagues.  His goal was not just to tell a story, but to create a complete fantasy universe.  That’s why he wrote all those fake reference books we found in the house – the pamphlets, the chronicles, the prophesies – to flesh the thing out.”

“Gina, you thought they were fake old when you first saw them!” Justin said.  “You were right.”

“He also made the books,” George went on.  “He had a little book-binding shop in the basement.  He did wonderful work, too.  They were beautiful.  And he made or collected the different objects you used during the rituals, plus all of the paraphenilia he had in that house or in his room at the university.”

“Why did he have that room?”  I asked.  “Isn’t it part of U of T?”

“Actually our family owns that house,” he said.  “The university used to rent it from us for some classes, but they haven’t used it in years.  Mostly it’s just empty and overrun with rats.  He must have fixed up the tower room when he came back to Toronto.”

“So what happened?” Gina’s father asked.  “How did all this happen?”

“After my father retired,” he said, “he started to spend more and more time on his fantasy world.  He also married Elspeth and brought her into the story.  I saw less and less of him, and every time I did see him he was more and more different.  He started to talk about the world of his story as if it was real, to say things like, “Bach was a lousy pupil, he never did his homework” and stupid things like that.  If I challenged him, he would get angry and accuse me of being in league with his enemies.  Finally he and Elspeth disappeared.”

“What about the other woman?” I said.

“Jennifer was one of dad’s last students,” he said.  “He was infatuated with her and launched her career.  I’m surprised she fell for the story.  She always seemed like such a sycophant, so out for what she could get.  She was more or less living in the house at the end.”

“How old is she really?”  I asked.

“Let’s see…she was still in her early twenties back then…so thirty-three, thirty-five, something like that.”

“And Gervaise?  Who was he?”
“Dad’s personal assistant and general helper.  I always liked him, actually.  He did some housework, some cooking, scheduling appointments and so on.  I think he was a flute player, too, but couldn’t get an orchestra job.  Anyway, the four of them disappeared.  Dad had put most of his money into a Swiss bank and sold the house in Rosedale, so I couldn’t track him through his bank accounts.  He dropped off the face of the earth and stopped teaching and performing all together and never used his own name, so I couldn’t trace him through the music grapevine.  I was worried about him, and I didn’t know what to do.

“After a few years, though, I started to see Jennifer’s name pop up again, conducting orchestras and operas, always very high-profile one-off gigs.  I was living in Paris at the time, and I noticed she was performing there, and, thinking I might get some information about Dad from her, I tried to get hold of her.  I called every major hotel in Paris, and none of them had her registered.  The symphony wouldn’t give me any contact information, so I ended up following her home from the concert.  And guess where she went.”

“A big house with turrets on the outskirts of the city?” I asked.

“Correct.  What’s more, when I looked up the ownership of the house, I found it was registered to a holding company located in Switzerland, one I knew my father had used before.  So I staked the place out.  I never managed to see my father, but Jennifer and Gervaise were in and out constantly.  I figured that if they were together, my father must be there as well, because they didn’t like each other much.  Does that make sense?”

“Of course,” I said.

“Finally Jennifer spotted me in my car.  I had been hanging around for too long and she I suppose she recognized me.  Though you’d never know it from what she said.”

“’You,’ she hissed at me.  ‘You think you can destroy us.  You will never stop us.  Never!  Go back to your brothers, if there are any of them left, and tell them that the order is eternal!”

The next time I went back to the house it was empty.  So I looked through some of the books my father had left behind when he first left, and started to piece the story together.  I realized that he must have come to believe his own fantasy, and somehow or other the others had started to believe in it too.”

“How does that work?”  Justin said.

“Gina can tell you,” George said with a smile.  

I shrugged my shoulders.  

“It’s called folie a deux,” he said, “when two people share the same madness.  It’s rare but it’s been known to affect four or five or six at once.  Usually there’s a dominant figure – my father – who develops the delusion, then imposes it or encourages it in those around them.  It’s not surprising that Gina could get drawn into it.  It’s very hard to resist being told that you’re the Messiah.”

I felt my face get hot again.

“So for a number of years I kept tracking him.  He would settle in a city, buy a big house, attract a few more followers, then get spooked and move on.  I found him in Prague and in London before he came back to Toronto.  Every time I bungled it and they got away from me.  I probably would have bungled it again this time if it hadn’t been for your young friend.”

It was Justin’s turn to blush.

“Justin told me about the rituals, and about how you’d been caught up in it.  His testimony allowed me to get control over my father’s affairs, and to get him into the treatment program he needs.  And he persuaded me to get your parents, too.”

“I still don’t understand,” I said.  “What about the rosebush?  And the keys?  And the lightning?  And the photo of what’s her name from seventy years ago?  And what was she doing with that thing she threw in the fire?”

George looked at me, confused, and I gave him some more details.  “Oh, the rosebush thing is a magic trick,” he said.  “Elspeth had her own hobby – she was a very skilled magician as well as an organist.    The keys – well, there really isn’t any evidence that they’re there at all, is there?  Other than a scratch on your neck, which you could easily have gotten by falling down.  The thing with the lightning – did he tell you what would happen if you moved your fingers?”

I thought about it.  “No, I guess he didn’t.”

“So whatever happened – if anything happened – he could say it was you.  If nothing happened, he would have said or done something else.  It doesn’t prove anything.  As for the photo, I haven’t seen it, but I do seem to remember that Jennifer’s grandmother or great aunt or something had been an opera singer in Vienna.  It’s not unusual for a grand daughter to resemble a grandmother.  As for what she was doing -”

He fished around in his pocket and took out a little object, a purple crystal flower with bits of ash sticking to it.

“Where did you find that?” Justin cried.

“It’s yours?”  I said.

“It’s from a pin I found in Chinatown,” he said.  “I was going to give it to you to wear for your recital, but the flower part fell off and I dropped it somewhere.  Where did you find it?”

“It was in the ashes of the fire,” George said.  “Jennifer threw it there during the ceremony.  I think she thought it was connected to you somehow, Gina, and hurting it would hurt you.”

I took the little rosebud and turned it over in my hand.  “It’s pretty,” I said, and handed it to Justin.  “You must have dropped it in the garden when we were at the house the first time.”

“You keep it,” he said, handing it back.  “I’ll give you the rest of the pin later.”

“I’m afraid she was very jealous of you and the young man,” he said.

“We don’t have to talk about him now,” my mother said.

“No, I want to hear the rest of the story,” I said.  “Tell me.”

“Paul,” George said, “was a very gifted young man, as far as my detective work can find out, who had a master’s degree from the Manhattan School of Music by the time he was twenty.  He was by all accounts headed for a brilliant career, but unfortunately his behaviour became delusional and erratic, and he was diagnosed with schizophrenia.  So part of the story that got splashed around the media was true.  He was hospitalized for a few years, and he did play the piano in the hospital.  Somehow or other Jennifer found out about him, got him released into her custody, and launched him.   It was probably all too easy to persuade him that the story was true, sadly enough.  I’m sure she controlled his drugs to her own benefit, as well.”

“But what about the sleep?”  I asked.  “He said he never had to sleep.”

“It’s possible that she gave him amphetamines at first,” he said.  “They would heighten his delusions and make him more malleable.  After that, he simply had to believe that he never slept.  It’s not hard to do if you already believe you’re immortal.”

“Do people like him ever get better?” I asked.

George shrugged.  “With people like my father, or like Paul,” he said, “I don’t think “better” is the right word.  I think you can make them more in tune with the world around them, and you can make them more comfortable, and you can stop them from hurting others.  But I don’t think they ever quite get back to normal.”

“Plenty of other fish in the sea, Gina,” my father said gently.  “You’ll meet someone else.”

I didn’t say anything.

“I think Jennifer must have been bored and wanted someone of her own to control,” George said.  “So when you stole him from her, of course she wanted to kill you.”

“Lovely,” Justin said.  “I always thought she had a lot of class.”

“You’re lucky,” he went on, “that you were only involved for a few weeks.  Too long in that environment and it gets harder and harder to get yourself out.  You can go back to your real life now, and no harm done.”

“Lucky?” I said bitterly.  “I don’t feel lucky.”

“What I want to know,” my dad said, “is how you managed to pay for all of the detective work.  Didn’t you have to do your own work?”

“Dad!”  I cried.  “That is so rude.”

George laughed.  “No, it’s a good question.  My father was lucky and talented enough to become a very wealthy man, and when I was born he set up a trust fund for me.  I’ve been fortunate enough never to have to work for money.”

“So what do you do with yourself, then?” my dad said.  Good old Dad.  Always the practical note.  “What do you do with your time?”

“I write vampire novels,” George said.  “Under a pseudonym.”

Chapter 17

Interlude: A parable

There was a wise man who lived in a forest hut, simply, subsisting merely on what he needed and leaving the rest of the world alone.  He was without guile, ambition, or rancour, and he lived in harmony with the world around him.

One day a traveller passed his simple hut, saw the bearded wise man tending to his garden, and said to himself, “This simple fellow can surely teach me to be wise.”  So the traveller tied up his horse and went to the wise man, saying, “Oh, master, teach me the wisdom of your simple ways.”

And the wise man, though non-plussed at first, allowed the traveller to enter the simple hut and showed him all of his duties – how he tended the garden and fed the chickens and sealed up holes in the hut whenever they appeared, and so on.  The traveller did not seem satisfied.

“No, no, master,” he said impatiently.  “I know how to pull up weeds and give chickens bran mash.  What I want to know is how to be happy and content with so little, and to be serene and joyful in the midst of such simplicity.”

“Oh,” the wise man said.  “Well, why don’t you weed the garden and feed the chickens for a while?  And then I’ll tell you.”

So for many weeks the traveller lived in the simple hut with the wise man, feeding the chickens and caring for the garden, while the wise man sat in the sun and thoughtfully smoked the traveller’s pipe.  Whenever the traveller repeated his question – “How can I learn to be content with a simple life?” the wise man replied – “All in good time, my son, all in good time.  I believe the tomato patch is looking a little weedy.”

And so it continued, until another traveller happened to pass the lonely little cabin in the deserted forest.  Seeing the first traveller bent over in the garden, he said, “Hail, fellow wanderer!  Surely you are not a native of this desolate place.”

“You speak the truth, friend,” the first traveller replied.  “I am here to learn wisdom and contentment from my master, the hermit who dwells here.”

“Fancy that!”  said the second traveller.  “Can I come in?”

And so it came to pass that the wise man had two students eagerly weeding his garden and tending his chickens and patching his hut.  They worked feverishly, each hoping to learn the secret of contentment before the other, and the wise man had less and less to do each day except sit in the sun, smoke, and contemplate the felicity of the simple life.

As time went by, more and more travellers passed, and more of them decided to stay and learn the secrets of simplicity and freedom from desire that the wise man imparted.  Eventually the wise man had to build another two more huts and expand his garden quite a long way to accommodate them all.  

The first traveller, still anxiously waiting for the truth to come from the master’s lips, would ask him almost every day, “Master, how am I to become content with the simple life and simple things?”

Sometimes the wise man would reply, “All in good time, my son.  All in good time.”

But other times he would reply with a cryptic maxim – “No man can be content with life who is not first content with his own mind.”

And the first traveller would walk away, nodding thoughtfully.

In the fullness of time it came to pass that the wise men’s days neared a close.  He became very ill and unable to move from his bed.  All of the students waited on him devotedly, but none so much as the first traveller, who never left his bedside.  As death closed in on the wise man, the first traveller cried out despairingly - 

“Master!  After all of these years, are you to leave us without enlightening us?  What is the secret?  How does a man live simply and contentedly?”

Death was almost upon the wise man, and his breath came slowly and with much difficulty.  But with a final act of will he raised himself and said to the traveller - 

“My son, the wise man finds happiness and contentment when he finds others to do his work for him.”

*

“So what’s the moral of the story?”  I said, handing Justin back his manuscript.  We were standing in the backyard of my parents’ house.  

“The moral is,” he said, “totally obvious, but whatever.  The moral is that it’s easier to be a fraud than honest, and it’s easier to lie to yourself than to see the truth.”

“Really?”

“Of course.  The wise man takes advantage of the traveller because he’s tired of weeding and doling out chicken feed, and the traveller lets himself get taken advantage of because it’s easier than making decisions about life for himself.”

I nodded and picked up a stick to throw for the puppy.  She bounded, in spite of her broken leg, and ran after it.

“She’s really cute,” Justin said.  “What’s with the cast?”

“Someone abandoned her in a ditch with a broken leg,” I said.  “My mom took her in.  I’m thinking of bringing her back to the city with me.”

“What if she gets really big?”

“So what?” I said.  “She’s a dog.  She can go for walks.”

“It might be tough for a big dog to live in a little apartment,” he said.

The puppy – I’d decided to call her Grace – brought back the stick and dropped it at my feet.  She looked up at me, pleading, with her liquid brown eyes.  “Life’s never perfect,” I said.  “You’ve got to do the best with what you’ve got.”

“So what’s your plan?” he asked me.

I shrugged.  “I’m putting off my recital until September,” I said.  “I’ll have to repeat some courses.  I might have to do another year.  Who knows?  It’s not really up to me.”  I threw the stick again.

“That’s not what I meant,” Justin said.  “You know what I’m talking about.  The guy.  Paul.  What are you going to do about him?”

“He’s in the hospital,” I said calmly.

“Well, duh,” he said.  “Obviously.  But he won’t be in forever, will he.”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, what are you going to do?”

“Why do you keep asking me?”

“Because I want to know, silly.  Because an ungossiped-about life is not worth living.  Because I care.”

“I know.”  I didn’t know what else to say.  “I don’t know, Justin, it’s – Sometimes I think it doesn’t matter, and he’ll get out and it’ll go back to how it was before.  But I don’t know if what I felt for him was even real, or if it was just part of the whole stupid illusion, or if it’s some weird combination of the two that I can’t pick apart.  And I think it’s probably better to let the whole thing die.”

He nodded.  Grace spit the stick out at my feet and gave a short yap.  We both looked down at her.  

“At least you won’t be lonely,” he said, “not if you bring her with you.”

“What did you come here for?”  I said.

“Well, that’s nice,” he said.  “I take a ten hour bus ride just to come see you, and you say, ‘What are you doing here?’  I’m here to see you, you idiot.  Why is that such a weird thing?”

“Sorry,” I said.  “Don’t bite my head off.”

He shrugged.  Grace looked up at me, tail thumping.  “Anyway, now that I’m here, what’s there to do it this place?”

“Well, there’s the forestry museum,” I said.

“Sounds exciting,” he said.

“You have no idea.”

*

Poor heartbroken Gina.  Poor stupid suffering perfect little saint of a Gina.  That’s all he thinks about, all he talks about, I’m sure, never thinking of me or all I did for him.

Not that they let us see each other.  It’s not permitted, since being together might bring our delusions back.  But I know.  His room is across the courtyard from mine, and once it’s dark I see him pacing in the lamplight, pacing up and down in front of the window, thinking about her.  

It’s funny, I don’t miss thinking I’m immortal.  It was fun while it lasted, but now that it’s over I can, of course, admit that I was wrong.  It’s weird, but all I can say is that it’s easy to believe in lies – even if you know they’re not true – as long as they give you something you need.  Once that failure George came thundering out of the bushes I knew it was over, and I gave up on it at once.  But him, him I do miss.  I miss him needing me.  

Do you know what my therapist said?  He said I act in “bad faith” – that I don’t respond to the real world, but to what I think the real world should be like.  That I’m always acting, always being the playwright, director, critic, and star – and audience as well.  That I should just relax and be myself for a while and I’d be happier and wouldn’t get into trouble like this.

He’s an idiot.  Almost as stupid as George.  I will say one thing for George, though, he managed to get a good official story placed about us.  Though I suppose he’s eager to avoid bad publicity as any of us.  Paul had an unfortunate relapse and had to be hospitalized, and I am being treated for depression and anxiety.  I’ve been getting sympathetic letters and emails from all over.  I’m keeping all my bookings for next season and my residency in Switzerland in August.  I’m planning on being out of here by July 1st, and I’m not letting anyone stop me.

I wonder what Gervaise is going to do.  I don’t know how far he let himself get sucked in.  Maybe if he’s out in time I’ll hire him to be my P.A.

Well, George managed to wrap us all up nicely.  Me and Gervaise, probably out in a month or two, Paul in until he understands the difference between reality and Lord of the Rings, and the old man…

The old man.  God only knows what will happen to him.  I don’t think he’s here.  No one’s said a thing about him, none of the nurses or therapists or other patients.  The nurses probably wouldn’t tell me, anyway, since they think I’m still stuck in the fantasy of being an immortal, but I’m sure Harriet or Rosie would say something.  “Hey, didn’tcha think some old guy was older than Moses and smarter than Pierre Trudeau?  Sure as shit he’s just moved into the feeb ward.  He don’t look too smart now.”  No, he’s not here.  I would know if he were.  I’ve lived with him or near him for so long – only ten years, true, not eighty – that I would know if he were breathing the same foul air as I was.  George has had him taken somewhere else, or else he’s keeping him at home with his own private psychiatrist and staff of nurses.  Or else had him killed.  I wouldn’t put it past him.

I know a thing or two about George, you know.  He didn’t spend ten years looking for his father out of sheer family feeling.  He’d pretty much run through his trust fund by the time he was thirty, and he was a failure at everything he ever tried, except for writing schlocky novels.  He needed to find his father to get control of the money, that’s all.  “Just like his mother,” the old man had said to me, shaking his head, when I first met him.  “She was flighty, unreliable, never could settle down to doing only one thing.  The boy takes after her.  She got into drugs and ran off when he was thirteen.  The next thing I heard of her, she was dead.  Heroin overdose.”  

“Is that why you never married again?” I said to him, batting my eyelashes.  At that time I was seriously considering becoming Mrs. Famous Conductor #2, but another week or two of his company made me change my mind.  Being married to him would make anyone turn to drugs.  I figured I’d use him to get my career started, and if that included going along with the vampire story, well, why the hell not?  And look where it got me.

Not that I’m complaining.  If you look at things rationally, everything’s going great.  I have youth, health, money in the bank, a career I love, everything I could want.  All I have to do is get out of here and get on with life, and I’m set.  The order might have been a fraud, but the old man’s money was real – and since he paid all the bills, I’ll be coming out of this pretty well off.  But money – I can’t believe I’m saying this – money’s not everything.  And I can’t think of a single person I know who I can actually talk to anymore, who comes from the same world I do.  That’s what it is, I feel like an alien.  People open their mouths and make sounds, and while I understand what the words mean, I don’t understand what they mean anymore.  I’m a stranger here now.  And I suspect I always will be.

*

Dear Gina,

My doctors told me not to write to you, that you’re a part of my obsession that I have to give up.  In a way I know they were right.  My feelings for you are all mixed up with my memories from that time, and thinking of you brings up so many dark and dangerous things inside me that I know it’s a bad idea.  But I want you to know something, and I don’t care if it sounds like I’m contradicting myself: when I said I loved you, I wasn’t delusional or deluding myself; I was telling the truth.  I do love you.  

Whether or not we meet again is in God’s hands – though since you don’t believe in God, I’ll say fate.  In Fate’s hands.  Even if we’re never meant to see each other again, I want you to know how I felt – how I feel about you.  So, you see, even when you’re alone, you’re not alone, because I’m thinking of you, and I’m with you in my spirit if not in my body.  When you’re feeling hopeless, remember that there is hope, because I’m hoping for every good thing to come to you every day.   When you’re faced with an impossible choice and you don’t have faith in your ability to choose, know that I have faith in you, that I’d trust your intelligence and humility and sense of humour to the end of the world.

Another reason I decided to write to you is that I don’t want you to worry about me.  I’m not going to be stuck in this grim hospital forever.  George has found a quiet place for me in the country – it’s a state-of-the-art medical place, but it’s pleasant and quiet and they’ll let me bring my Steinway.  So at least I can play there.  That’s been the worst of it here, only able to play an hour or so a day on the old upright in the lounge.  So I’ll get some peace at last, where I can just play and play as much as I want to.  I remember telling you once that all I ever wanted was to play, right?  It’s true, I really don’t care about the rest.  Today – or maybe it’s tomorrow, I’m not sure – I was supposed to be playing the Emperor concerto in San Francisco.  But who cares?  I don’t.  

They think I’ll be well enough in a year or so to go back out again.  I’ll always have to take the drugs, of course, but I should be stable by then.  I think I’ll play some recitals, but not too many and no more big concertos, only stuff I really want to play, and look around for a teaching job.  And then, Gina, if you like – only if you like – maybe I could come and see you and we could play Poulenc together again.  But I won’t pester you.  When I come out I’ll let you know where I am, and if you want to see me, you’ll know where to find me.

About you and me, Gina, I have two feelings that somehow both contradict and reinforce each other.  On the one hand, I’m sorry I met you – because I know how I much I’ve hurt you, and how much danger I put you in, and I can’t help wondering if you’d have been better off without the experience.  On the other hand I am profoundly and selfishly grateful, that I had the chance to know you and love you, if only for a few weeks.  Does this make me a bad person?  I don’t know.  I don’t care.  I do know that I will treasure every memory I have of you, even the bad ones.

If you can without causing yourself too much pain, dear, think of me sometimes.  Don’t think of me how I was during the rituals, or when I was trying to persuade you that the story was true; think of you and me playing Poulenc and Strauss together.  Remember me that way.  Maybe someday we’ll play those songs again.

Until then, I am yours,

Paul

*

“How is he today?” I asked the male nurse.

“Not so hot,” he said.

“Violent?”

“No, more sullen,” he said. “Though he did throw a glass of orange juice at me.”

“Christ,” I murmured, and went into my father’s room.  “How are you doing today, Dad?”  I said cheerfully.  

He was sitting in a chair by the window, and looked up at me with sheer hate.  “You,” he hissed.  P.G. Wodehouse wrote somewhere about someone hissing a word with no “s” in it. It’s true.  You can do it.  “You.”

“Yes, it’s me,” I said buoyantly.  “Are you feeling any better?”

“Always you must torture me,” he said bitterly.  “Why didn’t you kill me and get it over with?  It would have been kinder than keeping me here, away from my kind, and coming to taunt me every day.”

“I’m just here for a friendly visit, Dad,” I said.

“Stop calling me that!” he thundered, pounding on the arms of the chair.  “I am not your father.”

“Of course you are.”

“No, I most certainly am not.”  He looked malevolently up at me.

“I guess you know best,” I said.  “Doesn’t sound like a nice thing to say about Mom, though.”

He harumphed, but said nothing.

“How are they treating you here?”  I asked.

“It’s horrible,” he said.  “Horrible.  They make me go to an exercise class – “Sit to be Fit”, it’s called – and ‘participate in group activities’,” he said with the utmost bitterness.  “Watching sentimental moving pictures and listening to trombone recitals.  Though the trombonist was not at all bad.  If I weren’t stuck in this vile place I would think about making him one of us -” He stopped and looked at me.  

“But they’re feeding you and getting you to the doctor and not beating you up?” I asked.

“I suppose their standard of care is adequate,” he said huffily.

“Good,” I said.

I didn’t say anything for a bit.  He stared out the window.

“How’s my revered stepmama?” I asked.

“I haven’t the faintest clue to whom you’re referring,” he said.

“You know.  Elspeth.  The one you married – what was it – nine years ago.  She used to put on funny robes, just like you, and do magic tricks with clay birds.  Don’t you remember?”

“Don’t poke fun at me, boy,” he said.  “A victor should be gracious to the vanquished.”

“I’m not poking fun,” I said.  “Seriously, how is she?”

“The lady of whom you are speaking,” he said, “is, as far as I know, off her rocker.  She appears to have whole-heartedly bought into your version of reality and turned her back on the truth.  She believes that we are married and that she is not immortal.  It troubles me, and I can’t speak with her anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Because she upsets me, that’s why,” he snapped.  “She tries to persuade me of things that simply are not true.  I won’t have my sense of reality tampered with.  I won’t have it.”

“But she is your wife, after all.”

“She’s nothing to me,” he said disdainfully.  “Besides, I understand that they’ll be letting her out in a few weeks.  Letting her out into the world!  She’s next door to a dangerous lunatic.”

“What do your doctors say?”  I asked.

“About her?”

“About you.”

He harumphed again.  “Doctors.  I remember the time – though I suppose you must too, you must be nearly as old as I am – when doctors were ignorant sawbones who were more likely to kill you than anything else.  They haven’t changed much.  Doctors.  They tell me, if you must know, that I am not ‘cooperative’ and am not ‘responding to treatment’.  They threaten to increase my medication or send me away to somewhere even less pleasant than this – very hard to imagine, I know – or hook me up to the electroshock machine and leave it running.”

I can imagine.  I would probably do the same in their place.  But I decided to change tack.  “Tell me, Dad,” I said, “do you ever find time to write anymore?”

He looked at me out of the corner of his eye.  “I’ve never been much of a writer,” he said.  “A chronicle here, a prophecy there.”

“Oh, no, you were a great writer,” I said.  “I’ve been reading all of the books since we cleared out the house.  You were fantastic.  I liked your novels the best, the stories about the Legrand and Vaux-la-belle and the fair Eloise.  You should go back to writing.  They must give you some time off between “Sit to be fit” and the activities.   Why don’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said stiffly, but I could see some uncertainty in his eyes.

“Don’t you?” I said.  I took the book from my briefcase and laid it on the bed next to him.  “This is the first one you wrote,” I said.  “You typeset and bound it yourself in the shop in our basement.  You spent hours hand-tooling the turquoise leather.  Don’t you remember all the care and love you put into it?  It was your life for a while.  Don’t you remember?”

He picked up the book and examined it thoughtfully, then opened it and started to turn over the pages.

“I’ll leave you to it,” I said.

“Thank you,” he said, not looking up from the book.  “Umm – will I see you tomorrow?”

I smiled.  “Sure thing, Dad,” I said, and closed the door behind me.

Chapter 18

I was probably the last one to give up.  Other than the old man, that is.  I clung as long as I could to the story, convinced that I was immortal.  I didn’t believe the documents or the pictures of me as a kid or what the doctors said.  

“I was born in 1683,” I said, “and there’s nothing you can do to make me think anything else.  So put that in your pipe and smoke it.”

But there was, because there always is.  

“There’s a visitor for you,” the nurse said cheerfully, coming into my room one morning.  

“I don’t want to see anyone,” I said.  “The order is imprisoned or murdered.  There’s no one else I want to see.”

“I think you’ll want to see this one,” she said.  “Come in dear.”

“For God’s sake, Gervaise,” the newcomer cried.

I looked up at her.  Suddenly I thought, “Oh, sweet mother of Christ,” and I just gave up.  It was my twin sister.

“You have really made a mess of things now,” she said, sitting on the bed.  “What have you done to yourself?”

“Good to see you, too,” I said.  “I haven’t seen you in ten years, and that’s all you can say to me?”

“Ten years?  It’s your own goddamn fault that it’s been ten years.  I’m not the one who ran off and joined some stupid vampire cult.  You nearly broke mom’s heart.  I could murder you.”

“It wasn’t a vampire cult,” I said with dignity.  “It was a monastic musical order.”

“Bullshit,” she said.  “Your doctors told me about it.  It was a cult led by a delusional old man.  He made you believe you were all immortal and you did a bunch of stupid rituals.”

“You don’t understand,” I said.  “You weren’t there.  You weren’t part of it.”

“But I want to understand,” she said.  “You’re so smart and so talented.  Everyone back at home thought you were going to do amazing things.  Instead you dropped out of your Master’s, got some menial job, then disappeared.  Why?  Why did you waste ten years of your life in this preposterous joke?”

I sighed.  “I thought families were supposed to be supportive,” I said.  “You’re not doing a very good job, honey.”

“Very funny,” she said.  “So we’re family?  You admit that I’m your sister?  That you’re 34, not 408 or whatever you thought you were?”

“325,” I said indignantly.  “1683.  Please.”

“Whatever,” she said.  “You admit it?”

I looked at her.  It had been ten years, but she hadn’t changed much.  She was still my sister, the sharer of my childhood’s games and secrets, the one who had confided in me about her boyfriends and crushes, the one who stood up for me whenever the other kids teased me.  She looked so strong and self-assured now.

“There’s no use,” I said.  “You are my sister.  There, are you happy now?”

“No,” she said, but she was smiling.  “I’m still furious with you.”

“So what’s been happening to you?  What are you doing now?”

“I have a little girl now.  She’s four.”

“Oh my god!” I cried and clapped my hands.  “When did you get married?”

“I didn’t.  The guy turned out to be a jerk, so I dumped him.  It’s just me and Isabelle.”

“Did you bring her with you?”

“I’m not going to bring my child into a mental hospital.  You can see her when you come out.”

“OK,” I said.  I was an uncle!  

“Other than that I’m just working, just going along.  Mom helps look after Isabelle.  Dad was pretty mad that I didn’t want to get married when I got pregnant, but he got over it.”

“How is he?” I asked uncomfortably.

“Not too bad,” she said.  “What can you expect?  His heart isn’t great, and he’s had pneumonia a few times.  He’s not getting any younger.  Neither of them are.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes.  

“You know,” she said at last, “I am really mad at you.  A lot of shit happened in the past ten years.  Stuff you should have been there to help with, but I had to handle on my own.  Our parents are getting old and starting to get sick and I’ve had to do it all myself.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.  “No, I really am.  You’ve gotten so strong and capable, because you’ve been dealing with reality all this time.  I’ve been living in fantasy land, and I feel pretty damn weak.”

Another silence.

“Did you leave,” she said at last, “because you were afraid what would happen if Dad found out you were gay?”

“What?”

“You heard me.  Did you not want Dad to know you were gay?”

“Why would you think that?”

“Just a guess.”

I thought about it.  “Does Dad know I’m gay?”

“Of course he does,” she cried.  “Everyone in the entire world who has ever met you knows you’re gay.  And they don’t care.  At least Dad doesn’t.  Or at least he doesn’t care anymore.”

“So what would happen,” I said cautiously, “if I went home?”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t know.  I haven’t seen them in ten years, remember?”

“My guess is,” she said, “that Mom would cry and hug you, then slap you a few times, then cry and hug you some more.  Dad would nod in a tight-lipped way, then shake your hand, then have about five beers and then cry and hug you.”

I nodded.  “They wouldn’t shut the door in my face or throw me out?”

“Oh, Gervaise,” she said.  “You should have seen their faces when they told me you’d surfaced again.  We all thought you were dead.  You should have seen the relief on their faces.  They love you.  I love you.  Isabelle doesn’t know you, but I told her all about you, and she thinks you were the coolest brother ever.  In fact, she wants a brother too now, and she wants to call him Gervaise.”

“Well,” I said, “think she’ll settle for an uncle?”

*

I sat at my desk, staring at the blank computer screen.  I needed to come up with something new for writer’s group.  This week there was no theme or genre, and I was stumped.

Just then my computer bleeped, telling me I had an email.  I opened it.

“Hey you,

I’m coming back to the city next week.  Grace just got her cast off and is coming too.  Martinis on Friday?

Gina”

I wrote back:

“Yo!

I’ll be there.  Glad you’re coming back.  This city is sooooo boring without you.”

A minute later I got a reply.

“Whatever.  8 o’clock at my place.  Bring vodka.”

I smiled.  Gina was sounding like her old self again.  I disconnected from the Internet – easier to get work done that way – and wrote:

Interlude: A vampire story

‘This could be good,’ I thought, and started typing.

*

Dear Paul,

I didn’t know what to do when I got your letter.  That’s why it’s taken me so long to write back to you.  It’s not that I didn’t appreciate it, don’t think that, and it’s not that I didn’t care about you.  

But when I think back to those couple of weeks in the spring, it’s like I’m thinking about another person’s life, like a story I’ve read or a movie I’ve seen.  It wasn’t real; it was an interruption, an interlude in the real course of my life.  I can see it all and remember it all and remember how I felt, but it doesn’t feel like me feeling it.

Does this make any sense to you?  I’m not trying to be mean or hurtful.  I’m not angry with you or anything for getting me involved with the order.  You said that you were sorry you met me because of the danger and trouble you put me through.  You don’t need to feel bad – I’m not sorry at all.  In fact, I should thank you more than anything.  You never showed me anything but kindness and concern.  And, if nothing else, you taught me that goodness can be found everywhere, in every situation.  In the end, you protected me from the worst of what happened.  

I’m very happy for you that you’ve found a place where you can be at peace, where you can play and play and not worry about anything else.  Please believe me when I say that.  It seems to me that you’ve been unable to live as you would like for a long time now, and there’s nothing worse than that.  I hope you make the best of your time there, and can learn all the weird and obscure music you want.

Paul, I wish I had something more to say about what will happen when you’re ready to come out.  My own feelings are still such a tangle that I can’t give you any kind of answer, other than to say that when I said I loved you I wasn’t lying either.  But I need to concentrate now on getting myself back to where I was before.  Do you know, I lost twenty-eight pounds in that three weeks?  It was almost a fifth of my body weight.  It’s taken me all summer to get back into a good physical shape, to feel strong enough to start to sing well again.  I’m going to have to do an extra year of school and all sorts of stuff to catch up. 

Other than that, everything here is pretty much the same.  I’m back at the same apartment.  I have a dog now, a beagle/lab cross called Grace.  My mom found her in a ditch with a broken leg.  She’s the smartest dog in the world, and the cutest.  Justin is pretty much the same – still singing, still writing.  I’m thinking of going to Banff next summer if I can get my technique back up to speed.  Allison thinks I’ll be pretty much where I was this spring within another month or so.  

I saw that Jennifer conducted the TSO last weekend.  She got a bad review in the Globe and Mail, though I can’t say how accurate it was since I didn’t go.  She has another tame soloist, a violinist who looks about eighteen years old.  What happened to the old man and Elspeth?  Or Gervaise, for that matter?

Anyway, what can I say?  If we meet again, I would love to play some Poulenc with you.  But I don’t know where I’m going from here, so let’s not make any plans, OK?

All the best to you, now and always,

Gina

*

I have been told that what I created was destructive; that I caused pain to and disrupted the lives of others.  This may be true.  If it is, the one the most harmed would most definitely be myself; but I am old, and what happens to me is of little account.  What is it that I have done?  And how guilty should I be accounted?

Let me examine how I have injured those who shared this strange experience with me.  Elspeth probably suffered most.  How was she to know, when she married me, that I would bring her this far away from what she treasured most?  If I am old, she is merely middle-aged; she could have easily spent another ten or twenty years in her profession.  As it is, that is all over now.  I stole from her – or she chose to give up – those years of productive work.  So I have injured her thus, as well as by the damage it has done to our relationship.  We no longer live as husband and wife, which is only to be expected.  That may have happened in any case, but there is no way to know.

Gervaise gave the best of his youth to help me.  When this was merely a job that he did, it did not prevent him from developing himself as an artist.  When the story consumed all of us, he lost all chance of that for many years.  In that way I have injured him.

Jennifer I feel no guilt over or compunction for.  She is a cold and heartless woman, and whatever injury I have done her is nothing she would not have suffered in any circumstance.  She is professionally and financially very successful and I forsee nothing but continued success for her.

Paul I do feel responsible for.  While I had no guilt in bringing him into the order, I failed to prevent Jennifer from manipulating him, and I allowed this poor mentally ill young man be the pawn of our group for years.  Worst of all, he is the most genuinely talented of them all.  I do not know how life will treat him and I trust, George, that you will assist him as long as you can.

Others have come and gone through the order; none have lasted long enough to be damaged.  The little girl who Paul brought into it, has, I understand, not been permanently harmed by the experience.  It was myself who suggested to her the idea that she did not need to eat, so I do bear responsibility for causing her distress.  However, a young girl  could hardly be badly harmed by three weeks of poor nutrition, so I see little cause for guilt in this case.

Finally, George, the one whom I have harmed most would, by most accounts, be yourself.  A son spends ten years searching for his father, who has run away with a band of followers and started a cult.  He eschews marriage and family and ignores his own personal projects for his father’s sake.  On tracking down the old man, he is treated with hostility and resistance.  Most people would feel sympathy for the son, and nothing but pity, or perhaps contempt, for the poor misguided old man.

George, I do regret causing you pain.  I have never been the world’s best father – your mother certainly didn’t think much of me as one – but I have never actively wanted to torment you.  I am sorry that you had to give up so much time and put so much effort into finding me.  But if you want me to say that I am sorry I did it, then I am afraid I will disappoint you.  I’m not sorry.  The time I spent living in this fantasy were the best years of my life.  The thrill of making others believe in me was better than the thrill of making musicians obey the dictates of my baton.  The joy of creating a totally new world was infinitely greater than the joy of creating a new interpretation of Mahler 3.  It was a blast, and I would do it again in a heartbeat.

*

Interlude: A poem

Spring has come, summer too, and are gone;
blue skies and cool nights mean autumn nears.
Soon the sky will be blown out grey
and snow will begin to fall; and another year will end.

And I am here.  In spite of everything, I am still here.
And what I am is no different – I am still flesh and bone,
Made of time and wind and fundamental particles,
No more and no less than a human being.

For what reasons I cannot say, but I have hope
Hope that nothing can destroy that
Which with nothing but my own desires
I have created;

But I fear as well, also for reasons I do not know,
That I have crossed a line unknown to me at the time
And lost that which I will need
In the river I never intended to ford.

With what shall time and life greet me next?
What shall the next corner turned reveal?
I wonder, often, if it is worth it to keep walking,
Or more wise to retire from the race and rest.

Enough!  Every year comes as new,
And nothing is irredeemable.
Nothing ends, even though it does; and all these movements
Are mere interludes in this symphony.

Justin – here’s a poem I just wrote.  What do you think?  I think I caught some kind of bug from you, because I’ve been writing a lot lately.  (Get it?  The writing bug?  Never mind.)  Yes, I know I always make fun of people who write poetry, but be kind to me.  I’ve had a rough summer.