Dean's World

The two chapters that Dean and I wrote, then fought over for three years, have been posted at my blog, Filed Away, for any who might be interested.

Pennsylvania, August 29, 2005 CE

[---Begin journal entry---]

Long ago, before Rufus—before my solitary madness, when I still dwelt amongst people but knew I was not of them—during that time, there was a woman. She was older, in her forties and still in remarkably good health. Her life was tragic; her mate dead, her children all lost in such a brief span of years they seemed to pass in but an eye blink. But she lived amongst good people and she had their sympathy, their support, even their love.

This woman, she suffered her losses and misfortune with the stoicism common amongst peoples of that time and place. Every day she made herself useful and none could call her a burden. Nonetheless there was emptiness in her, for the community in which she dwelt could not hold her as her family had. She looked about her and felt a longing for what she had lost and eventually that longing became too great for her to resist.

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Pennsylvania, April, 2005 CE

I opened my mouth but couldn’t think what to say. She turned and looked at me, answering the question I hadn’t asked.

“I never killed… for sport… again.” She said it flatly, matter-of-factly. But she was looking at me, a question in her eyes.

I stood up and walked to the bar next to her and poured myself a drink. I thought about stealing one of her cigarettes but thought better of it. I took a sip and then just looked at her. I didn’t know what to say, but for whatever reason, I wasn’t afraid of her anymore.

“So now you know the worst of me,” she said, finally. Her eyes were hollow and empty. She had a look in her eye I couldn’t quite make out. It wasn’t remorse and it wasn’t exactly a question. But she was watching me, looking for… for what?

“I think I need to go get my head around all of this,” I said, and put down my drink. She just nodded as I walked to the parlor door. I picked up the recorder and snapped it off as I reached the door, then turned and said, “You know I’m not really a religious guy,” not sure what I meant to say.

She just nodded calmly and took another drag off her cigarette.

“But you were right about one thing, I did grow up religious, and I guess… I guess I do believe in redemption.” I wasn’t sure she’d like that, but it’s what came out of me.

She just stared and then did something strange. She turned and poured herself another drink and stared at it, then looked at me and smiled gently. She gestured with the drink in her hand.

“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus sancti,” she said, delivering it like a benediction. Then she tossed the drink back, and swallowed it down. “Bless you and thank you, but this is all I need.” She poured herself another drink, then leaned back on the bar, watching and waiting for me to leave. Her smile was gentle, but her eyes were far away. It was almost like I was already gone.

I shook my head. “Sleep well,” I said.

I made my way upstairs to the guest bedroom and lay down on the bed, thinking but trying not to think. I mean, what do you say to a story like that?

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

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

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Pennsylvania, April, 2005 CE

She wasn’t looking at me, but was sitting back in her chair staring out the window with her hands clasped behind her head and her bare feet up on the coffee table. I turned her words over and over in my head, but there simply wasn’t any way to avoid what she’d just told me.

“How long…” I started, but that wasn’t the right question so I started over. “How many… how many people did you kill?”

“It wasn’t killing,” she replied, her voice still flat and ominous, “it was murder.” I didn’t argue. I noticed that the hair was standing up on the back of my neck and had been for almost an hour. “Less than one thousand?” she went on. “Yes, perhaps somewhat less than that, but not by much. It went on for a long time, thirteen years. Once it took hold of me I’d say I managed to strike at least once a week, on average anyhow.”

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

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

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

“They were vile,” she said, finally showing some emotion. But it was almost worse: it was contempt. “They’d stolen something from me,” she went on, “something precious. I was determined to have it back.” She paused then, looking into my eyes. What she saw there made her frown. Then she sighed, “It truly was that simple.”

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

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

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Arretium, circa 128 BCE

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

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

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

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

She laughed at me then, the sound made ever more cutting by the clear beauty of her voice. “Oh, no, little one, Livius has no such concerns regarding me. He shall be Senator and I shall have what I desire—a path to power for my sons. Our match is too perfect for either of us to risk it. No, I am free to do with you as I please. And I am mindful of my debt to you, for I am certain my late husband would never have been moved to such a bold plan had you not filled his head with silly notions of Destiny and Prophecy. And, of course, I know the perfect solution… the perfect place for the likes of you.”

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Arretium, circa 128 BCE

Death, when it comes, rarely arrives by knocking at the door and waiting politely while you prepare yourself. This is a lesson I had learned long before, yet still the following events struck me with a force beyond any I had experienced in many centuries.

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

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

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

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Arretium, circa 128 BCE

Death, when it comes, rarely arrives by knocking at the door and waiting politely while you prepare yourself. This is a lesson I had learned long before, yet still the following events struck me with a force beyond any I had experienced in many centuries.

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

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

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

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Pennsylvania, April, 2005 CE

She woke me up the next morning some time after sunrise and told me if I didn’t shower and come downstairs soon I’d miss breakfast. When I got downstairs she seemed cool, distant. She was making pancakes, eggs and bacon, puttering around and humming absent-mindedly. She insisted I sit down and not help. As she poured me some coffee and put a plate of hot bacon, eggs, cakes and grits in front of me, she told me she normally had servants come in and cook but she didn’t want anyone around today.

She seemed constantly distracted, like she didn’t want anything but small talk. As I ate I occasionally caught her staring at me, only to look away quickly. When I finally started to ask her what was up, she promptly said, “So I understand you ride. Finish your food and then I’ll take you on a tour, show you around.”

Clearly she didn’t want to talk. Instead, after breakfast she took me out to the stables. Pretty soon I regretted even agreeing to this. I hadn’t been on a horse in ten years, but she took me on a three hour ride around the area, all around the estate, then through the woods to other areas, showing me the other farmhouses, pointing out historic spots where some homes and families had once stood, but were now gone and generally chattering endlessly without saying much of anything. Still once in a while I’d catch her looking at me oddly, sizing me up, calculating in some way I couldn’t fathom. I just tried to shrug it off.

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Excerpt:

He didn’t look amused. Instead his eyes narrowed, then he slumped forward, his forehead resting in his hands. He looked exhausted and a little embarrassed. “So what do you believe she is?” he asked, not looking up.

I didn’t say anything because I didn’t know. Instead I thought about it. How did I get involved in this, anyhow? She’d played to my ego and to my needs—my family had been fighting the financial beast for years with no end in sight until she showed up and dropped a year’s salary in my lap. I was still wrestling with that when Joshua spoke again. This time his voice was darker and he still wasn’t looking up.

“My mother is a Presbyterian, but my father, he was a Baptist through and through. Any time mother would let him he’d haul us off to his church to listen to old Pastor Fisher preach the gospel. One thing he taught always stuck with me: The war between good and evil is purely spiritual and it’s fought on the battlefield of the soul. Evil doesn’t show up on your doorstep and make you rob banks or kill people. No, it invites you out for a soda pop, or an ice cream. It offers you help by showing you easy solutions to difficult problems. It helps you to take the things you did and find ways to justify them. ‘Evil,’ he’d say, ‘leads us to Hell in baby steps’. I look at the way she has worked her way into our lives. I see the way everything we do, and everything we care about, is slowly but surely being twisted into tools that serve her purposes.”

He stopped, then went on. “I step back and I see how she’s bound my family and this town to her, emotionally, financially… and I see how I helped her do it… and all I can hear is that old preacher.”

He finally looked up and fixed his steely gaze on me, waiting. Finally I found my voice. “Okay, but what’s she asked you to do that’s bad or wrong? So far you haven’t said anything… and she’s never, not even once, asked me to do anything bad or….”

He shook his head. “So far, nothing even remotely sinister. Yet she’s obviously got these plans she isn’t always clear about, and sometimes she has a way of changing the subject… and if she is this ancient thing, and she’s lying to us about her desires, about her purposes, then…” He paused, taking a breath and then slowly letting it out. “If she’s lying we are all of us well and truly damned.”

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Pennsylvania, April, 2005 CE

It was a month before she finally sent for me. We hadn’t spoken at all, and then plop! some money for plane tickets and a note asking me to come just showed up in a FedEx envelope. I was used to this by now though and was sick of sitting around at home all the time, so I booked the first plane out the next day.

You build up mental images of places when you hear about them. For some reason I had it in my head that the house in Pennsylvania would be one of those sprawling, piecemeal farms that you see in paintings; a small house with an obvious addition, a barn in the back to one side. But the place was huge, spread out across a hilltop at the end of a tree-lined gravel drive. It had a very Victorian look to it, but there was a wrap-around porch with a large balcony overhanging it. Each end of the house was marked with big, multi-windowed rooms. As the limo pulled around the driveway I also saw a modern-looking barn and what looked like a corral. When the driver parked in front of the house I saw her coming across the lawn on horseback.

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Arretium, circa 129 BCE

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

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

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

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

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Ann Arbor, March, 2005 CE

She was packing for the ride back to Pennsylvania when I arrived that last morning to see her off. She was, she’d told me, going home. That word, “home,” had resonated from her voice a few times in a way I didn’t really understand.

Pennsylvania was obviously pretty important to her, but I couldn’t get her to tell me much about it. I knew there was someone named Edna that she thought the world of, and I knew Edna had a son named Joshua who was a lawyer that she also admired. She thought of them as family somehow, but any time I tried to get her to tell me more she’d find some way—sometimes subtle, sometimes blatant—to change the subject. But Pennsylvania was home to her, and while part of her wanted to stay away from it, part of her couldn’t wait to get back. She’d had enough of farting around here in Michigan working with me and toying with college kids. Apparently whatever conflicts were going on down there were settled up and she was done with the Wolverine State. She wanted me to meet her down there in a week or two for more talks once she’d settled in.

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Ann Arbor, March 2005 CE

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

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

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

“I believe that is what I just said, yes.”

I chewed on that for a minute, but it didn’t taste right.

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

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Circa 130 BCE

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

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

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

Liar.

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

Liar!

“Loghaz,” I whispered, a smile on my lips, “I have missed even you…”

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

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Circa 130 BCE

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

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

Note: Some readers may find what follows disturbing.

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Blooking Central is a blog by Cheryl Hagedorn specializing in articles about blogs that have made the transition into books. It is not a book review, rather she explores the mechanisms of how a blog can be transformed into a book- what has worked, what hasn't and what services are out there for people interested in trying to take that big step with their own blogs.

I mention this because Dean and I were recently written up on Blooking Central after she ran into Methuselah's Daughter via the 2007 Lulu Blooker Prize. She asked some detailed questions and I responded- Dean chimes in through the comments (or he better have by the time this posts!). Check out what we had to say, and stick around to browse the site- pretty interesting stuff to be found there.

“Restrain in me the cursed thoughts that nature gives way to in repose.” (Macbeth, Act II, Scene 1)

Ann Arbor, February 2005 CE

I was kind of depressed. For about a week after our last meeting I hadn’t heard a word from her and she didn’t return my phone calls. Finally one morning she called and asked me to meet her at her hotel room, so I drove on out. I was still mystified and a little hurt, but I tried to keep it off my face as I knocked on her hotel room door. Then, when she opened the door, I looked at her and covered my mouth to stop myself from laughing. She had a dead serious look on her face, and her hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail. She was wearing a long green floral-print housedress and, of all things, a pair of pink bunny slippers.

Her face was cloudy. “You are amused?”

I straightened my face. “No, no. You look great. Glad to see you.”

“Thank-you,” she said crisply, her back straight as she stepped back and gestured me inside. I walked quietly toward the suite’s generous sitting area and chose the large overstuffed brown chair. As I sat, I watched as she walked archly toward the leather couch, the floppy bunny ears bouncing with her footsteps. In spite of the incongruity, she had a new look in her eye that kept me from snickering. I hadn’t seen her look that way since the first week we met; guarded, distant. She sank into the large couch and it practically seemed to swallow her as she crossed her arms, dropped her chin, and regarded me levelly, unsmiling. I leaned back in the chair across from her and tried to relax.

“So what’s on your mind?”

She crossed her right leg over her left at the knee and bounced her dangling foot, the bunny face on it smiling bizarrely at me.

“I am considering terminating our relationship,” she said bluntly and I shook my head and looked back up at her.

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Circa 130 BCE

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

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

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Ann Arbor, March 2005

I was getting kind of used to her patterns. Even after I told her it was counterproductive, we’d still lose a day here or there talking philosophy or politics or religion. She didn’t seem to believe in God but did respect spirituality in others, and her take on politics was always wild. Then sometimes she’d just abruptly tell me to get lost for a few days because she wanted a break.

Once, she was out of touch for a whole week, then called me one morning out of the blue and asked me to come meet her for breakfast the next day at eight in the morning. So I was kind of confused when there was no answer to repeated knocks on her door.

Suddenly, the door burst open. She leaned against the doorjamb, rubbing her head and running her hand through her hair, which was a complete mess. She was in her bare feet and wearing nothing but an enormous blue and gold football jersey.

“Morning,” she mumbled, her eyes half lidded and a dreamy smile on her lips. “Forgot you were coming, sorry,” she mumbled, rubbing and scratching her head.

“Wow,” I said, involuntarily.

She grinned sleepily, turned, and said, “Come on in.” Then she looked at the clock on the wall and yelled. “Yo Beef! It’s after eight!”

I heard a thump from her suite’s bedroom and a deep grunt. I looked around the suite and said, “Dear Jesus.” There was at least a case of beer cans, several empty whisky bottles, and some empty Chinese food and pizza boxes, along with what looked like mostly her clothes strewn all over the place. Some of the furniture was on its side and the coffee table was obviously broken. I just stared at her while she made her way to the kitchenette and poured out some juice.

“Thirsty?” she asked.

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Circa 130 BCE

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

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

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Ann Arbor, March 2005

[—begin Journal entry—]

It is not often that people manage to surprise me, but Edna has been doing so almost from the day we met. I was wary of her at first, then fascinated by her as I learned more and more of her life.

She once was a pilot, learning to fly when she was barely twenty years old, and she and her husband pursued that with a passion, barnstorming across Pennsylvania in an old Jenny bi-plane. She flew aerobatics and did wing walking in daredevil shows, always describing those as some of the best days of her life.

Eventually she settled down and had three children, Joshua the youngest having been born in 1940. When World War II enveloped the United States her husband enlisted immediately, being selected as a trainer for the Army Air Corps due to his extensive piloting experience. Not to be outdone, Edna dropped her children with her mother and sought out an opportunity to do her part, eventually becoming a member of the Women’s Air Service Pilots ferrying bombers and fighters for the Army. She once confided to me that flying the twin-engine P-38 fighter was the “the most fun I ever had with my knickers on.” More than once she was reprimanded for tearing up airfields to the delight of onlookers before bringing her plane in for delivery.

I wish I had known her back then. We would have had much fun together. Throughout her life she always faced things head-on and never looked back in regret, and it is to that she credits her long life. Battles are to be fought and won: that is her belief and her motto. Her son Joshua was learning just what that meant firsthand.

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Circa 130 BCE

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

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

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

Note- what follows might be considered NSFW

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Circa 1000 BCE

After Saennuz was gone life continued fairly quietly, at least for a while. The chief, Manniz, was only mildly irritated at the turn of events, cementing my certainty that he had been looking to be rid of his overbearing mate and would not be inclined to question me too closely.

My own position within the clan was still somewhat precarious, however; I had some skills as a shaman, but the shaman woman, Oskuz, viewed me as a competitor in this area. She had also been close to Saennuz and I believe she suspected me.

Worse still, everyone—men and women alike—viewed game caught by a woman as an affront to the men of the tribe. Normally I would not mind for I still enjoyed gathering and preparing foods and tending to animals, and the men in the tribe were kind to me. But it was challenging to make myself be seen as truly valuable and trusted and I found myself despondent again, wondering why I should care about anything.

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Ann Arbor, February 2005 CE

She’d switched to a new hotel when she came back in January. “To avoid attracting too much attention,” she said. I didn’t think much about it, but I did notice that we had some trouble working together. The first few days, whenever I’d ask her a direct question, she seemed agitated, and she’d find a way to change the subject whenever we got to anything that seemed important. She acted like she wanted to talk about anything but herself. She’d chat about the weather, or the hotel staff, or business, or the technical issues in writing and organizing a book, or philosophy, or even about me. Her insights on politics and philosophy were especially interesting to me, and she was very seductive that way. More than once I went home after a day of very pleasant and entertaining conversation only to realize we really hadn’t gotten any work done.

At first I figured she was paying, so we’d talk about whatever she wanted. But finally I decided I’d better ask her about it. When hinting a few times didn’t work I just asked her flat out: “We really aren’t getting anywhere on the project. Is there a reason?”

She looked at me blankly for a moment, started to speak, then stopped. “You’re right,” she finally said. “I’ve been having conflicts with my family in Pennsylvania, and I’ve wanted to distract myself from stressful conversations. Talking about myself doesn’t come naturally to me, and it’s especially difficult in these circumstances.”

“Well, we don’t have to…” I started, but she gestured gently with her hand. We both knew she didn’t have to do this if she didn’t want to.

“I suppose you should know that I have been telling you things I have very rarely told anyone. In some cases things I’ve never told anyone, not even… well, not anyone.”

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Please be advised- some may find what follows to be very disturbing.
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Methuselah's Daughter, A Novel

—[Begin Journal entry]—

Pennsylvania, January 2005 CE

It was a hectic fortnight, first arriving at home to the mothering fuss of Edna’s ministrations and dealing with Joshua’s dismay over my injuries, then the sudden desire to host the family at the house for Christmas and the furious pace of preparations for that. Then the day itself, with so many people: it was with a sense of relief that I finally collapsed into the overstuffed chair by the fireplace in the smoking room.

The urge to abandon this mad desire to tell my story to the world was strong as I felt the reality of all that had transpired withdrawing from me as some weird fantasy that could not truly touch me. Only the aching of my left arm and the stiffness in my left knee gave the lie to those thoughts, but as I sat by the warmth of the fire it was easy to indulge myself. For a few precious hours I thrust the outer world aside.

I awoke with a start to find Edna perched in the matching chair across from me. A pillow and a blanket had appeared about me, the fire was but ashes in the hearth and sunlight streamed through the open doorway from the windows in the next room. I sat up straight as Edna laughed quietly.

“You are amused?” I asked as I stifled a yawn.

“I don’t think I’ve ever walked in on you when you were sleeping. You snore, did you know that?”

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Methuselah's Daughter, A Novel

Circa 1100 BCE

“I don’t understand why we’re following them.” “Because we can’t stay out here on our own forever.” Attuz looked at me with doubt, but at eleven years old he was not about to challenge me on this. Another couple of years down the line, maybe, but not now. In the three winters since our village had been attacked we had been living off the land, avoiding contact with others, and doing rather well. Still, we had to find a place to settle down. Indeed, I had been a little selfish and I knew it. We had seen no sign of the riders in more than a year, and I had been avoiding doing what I knew I needed to do.

We chose to camp a good distance from where I expected the hunters to stop, conveniently downwind from the site. I left Attuz with the job of setting up while I set out again to make certain they were headed where I expected.

I had seen these hunters a few times since we had migrated closer to the coast in the spring. They were organized and disciplined, and they seemed relaxed. Most important to me, they bore no resemblance to the riders who had massacred Att’s people and deprived us of our home. This time rather than giving them a wide berth I was trailing them, at a good distance of course. They followed familiar trails, seeking deer, only this time rather than the normal four there were seven—a fifth man, really not much more than a boy, and two women. I had seen this before: when they were after larger game women often joined them, and not just as porters. They would act as beaters, flushing game, and were often in the thick of the kill.

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Methuselah's Daughter, A Novel

Ann Arbor, December 2004 CE

“You’re right, it is a nice city,” she said, as I pulled us into the parking structure a block or so from the restaurant.

Yeah, downtown Ann Arbor was beautiful, especially since it was Christmastime. The city had put up soft white lights to decorate its many trees, which added a nice ambiance to the late dusk. We’d been working a lot on the book project, and it was nice to step out and relax a bit. As we got out of the car, she stuck her left hand, which was wrapped in a brace that looked almost like a cast, into her jacket pocket. The hand had grown significantly, but it was still very, very thin and weak. As I walked around the back of the car I saw her dither a bit, thinking about leaving her walking stick behind. Finally she sighed and leaned on it as she closed the door.

We walked down the street to the restaurant I’d chosen, a micro-brewery called the Maple Tree Inn. As we got near it, I noticed a willowy blonde in leather walking up the street toward us. As she glided past, I noticed she was sporting a streak of green in her hair, and had several ear piercings. As I turned my head back to watch where we were going, I noticed Zsallia looking at me. She chuckled softly.

“Pretty, isn’t she?” she asked.

“Yeah I suppose. She’s a little young for me, and I don’t know how I feel about all the earrings. I kinda like the hair though.”

“Do you know what makes a woman beautiful?” she asked, as I opened the restaurant door for her.

“I must admit I don’t,” I said.

“I can tell you,” she replied.

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Methuselah's Daughter, A Novel

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

Typical.

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

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

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

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Methuselah's Daughter, A Novel

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

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Methuselah's Daughter, A Novel