Why continue on?

Suicide is an odd construct amongst mortals. There are those societies and cultures that abhor and condemn it. Others are less judgmental. Still others glorify suicide in pursuit of some temporal victory. Regardless of which cultural construct one chooses to operate within I find the idea of taking your own life somewhat foolish given that death offers little but the unknown, and is quite likely the utter cessation of existence. In that case, suicide is the destruction of an entire subjective universe and hardly justifiable under most circumstances.

I understand seeking to end one’s own suffering. Those situations where life is merely the prolonging of an ever-escalating burden of agonies does indeed cry out for the rational to have the choice to bring existence to an end, but from my perspective your existence is so very brief, and you are so often not rational…

I have never seriously considered suicide. By that I mean to say I have never come to the point of actually laying in place those things I might need to affect a permanent end to my existence. This begs the obvious question: why not?

The issue is devoid of simple explanations.

On a personal level, while I carry a certain burden of pain as the result of my immortality it has yet to fully overwhelm me. I have succumbed to it in the past, let it form as a hot kernel of rage that fires the engine of depravity and destruction; however, in the end I learned what that rage was, what it meant. I shoved the genie back in to the bottle as it were, and moved beyond the days of anger and hate. It is both the advantage and the curse of my existence that I am afforded the opportunity to live past my accumulated evils. In this case it becomes somewhat comforting to view the coming days as an opportunity to right my wrongs and atone for my sins. They are legion, and not so easily put to paid.

To be amongst you causes me pain, this I freely admit. As the centuries move past I cannot help but come to view your lives as fleeting things, mere vignettes scattered in and about the slow drama that is my life. You often seem random and disconnected, even dissonant in your utter lack of relation to the difficult truths and comforting lies that construct my life among you. Yet it is by my own free choice that I live amongst you. I am of no meager resource, it is well within my means to live in blissful isolation, to hold the mortal world at bay and sample it but sparingly, if at all. If the truth is to be told such isolation might be the precursor to a decision to seek an ending, but it is something I seek only on occasion these days. My most recent sabbatical lasted less than twenty years.

I have noted before that in balance I am an optimist; that I look on my life, and on the relative progress of Man, and I find reason for hope. It seems to me that such hope is proof against the desire for self-destruction. I have loved, and the inevitable loss of that love to the relentless march of time pains me as well. Yet here I am amongst you, and despite my fears, the trepidations surrounding my current course of action, I find hope in the idea that I may yet love again. That when I do it is possible that my new love shall know me fully for what I am before our lives intertwine. That I might fall into that delusion that is love without the burden of secrets held close against fear. I do not dwell upon this, but neither do I dismiss it.

There is yet one final reason why I have not sought to end my life and this one is a matter of both technique and moral responsibility. In short, it is a question of fear. Not fear of death, for that holds no dread for me. Rather, it is fear of failure. It is not enough to contemplate suicide, or to act upon it. Were I to make a serious attempt at it I must be certain to succeed. In order to be certain of success I must seek complete destruction. Anything less leaves the slight possibility, perhaps vanishingly small, yet still quite real, that I might be condemning some new and undefined entity to the same struggle I have faced lo these thirty-five centuries.

This I cannot permit.

Posted on May 6th, 2004
Filed under: Immortality, Philosophy | 4 Comments »

God placed the gift upon those who create and build. There is something viscerally satisfying about the act of creation, be it a work of art, a cord of neatly stacked firewood, or replacing the wiring in my Victorian-era farmhouse. The wiring was decrepit when the house was finally sealed up, and had declined to improve with further aging, but my electrical contractor has done a marvelous job of not only upgrading everything, but also preserving the basic beauty and atmosphere of this grand old home. There is neither a socket nor a light switch to be seen in the living areas.

Of course, the devil could not let this go unmatched, hence Zoning Boards and Inspectors. I do try to not be overly harsh, for I understand the town’s dismay over my arrival- it stood to benefit greatly from the development plans laid out, and they had the property virtually within their grasp. Nonetheless, it seems petty to place needless obstacles in my path. Fortunately Joshua is up to the task, taking some personal pleasure in the reversal of fortune represented by my plans to reoccupy the house.

So, the wiring is now reluctantly admitted to be up to code, the barn and stables are now properly permitted and under construction, the McAllister Family Cemetery does not require relocation, and the interior work is well under way… It has been a marvelous maelstrom of activity.

Of course, it has left me little time to consider on further topics for this little journal. I am mindful of the question posed in comments to the previous post and I shall address them in a somewhat timely manner, but for the moment I do believe I shall laze about and draw something that existed elsewhere and place it here. What follows was originally offered as a guest post at Etherian’s Island in October of 2003…
Read more…

Posted on May 2nd, 2004
Filed under: Love, The Past, The Present | Comments Off on Annoyance And Triumph, Of Sorts

Having been absent some short while I feel the need to revisit something; however, I am uncertain of my ability to express this properly. In no small way a major purpose of this forum has been to seek the best, most complete method of saying what follows.

Note that I hold no faith. Note furthermore that I reject no faith. My existence is such that I am denied the easy definitions Men place upon the indefinable.

I am not as you, destined to spend perhaps a century upon this plane, a full lifetime of pleasures, pains, fears and triumphs. This span I shall count but in passing. This does not make of me something greater than thee, merely something different.

There is naught one such as I may call companionship, for it is the nature of mortals that they must perish. In words more direct, by the time you become truly interesting to me, you die. It is my fate to place my hopes and desires within such fragile containers and hope beyond reason that some thread, some connection, might persist in to the coming days: some inkling of understanding that has as its heart a beacon of hope rather than a desire for power, a plea for justice and mercy rather than a plot for dominance.

It is Death that separates us. Death has parted me from all I have come to know and love, but it further sets a wall between you and I, forcing either a painful revelation or the keeping of secrets both dear and dire. It has transpired that I shared the truth of myself with some who in the end could not accept what I am or that this “gift” I cannot share. Those are the most painful of all for long experience can inure me to the pain of losing those I hold dear, but the burden of knowing I have caused suffering by the mere knowledge of my existence… how do I make amends for existing? How do I make amends for desiring the comfort of others about me? For being so weak as to show all of who and what I am?

Is this the infinitesimal mark of evil, that I should thrust myself in to the world of those whose lives might be carefree but for my need? Is this a right, something I deserve, or is it a cruel selfishness? Am I to see myself as blessed, or damned? I despair of kenning the difference. My knowledge is but of Men, not of Gods.

Posted on April 26th, 2004
Filed under: Immortality, Philosophy, Regrets | 6 Comments »

On occasion western civilization seems bent upon engaging in a startling, and perhaps quite dangerous bit of psychic engineering. I would find it odd, but for the fact that people generally prefer the safe to the arduous, the certain to the speculative. It is the unusual ones, those who eschew the known for the unknowable, who chart most of the progress in the record of the advancement of species. That they also form the foundation of much misery and failure is the inevitable price to be paid. Evolution, both of creatures, and their societies, is not a game for the faint of heart.

The human animal is born in pain and fear. It is perhaps an accidental mercy that the memory of birth is so feeble, so deeply buried, that it does not haunt the dreams of every living man and woman every night of their lives. It becomes clear that in birth, Man faces His first great trauma. What surprises me when I choose to muse upon it is that Man seems desirous of eliminating that which forms the bedrock of His experience of life. Lacking trauma, what would drive the creature that is Man? That is the experiment the West seems to be setting forth. I wonder at its wisdom for the mind of Man seems to thrive on trauma. What will be made of Him should He somehow circumvent the hardening found in that kiln for the soul?

It is not some conscious endeavor, nor is it particularly well under way. It moves in fits and starts, being seen in efforts to shield the youthful against any and all duress or hardship born of failure. It is seen in the penchant for demanding that some greater entity stand in to assure that no one should be offended, distressed or discomfited by either malice or simple happenstance. Nor is this trend guaranteed to continue for reality is a mistress most harsh and given to stilling such foolishness in the womb.

Nonetheless, it does seem to be a process that could build a certain momentum. It bears watching.

Posted on April 21st, 2004
Filed under: Philosophy | 4 Comments »

Why do this? Why return to this? There are so very many reasons to let it lie and no good reason to take it up again, yet here I am. I cannot begin to tell you how many times I returned to the old site and set my pointer over the delete option. Make it all go away. Cover my tracks and make it all something that may never have been.

That would have been the wise thing to do. Instead I have moved here. I have enlisted others to design this place. These are not entirely rational acts for one such as I.

The past few months have not been lacking in distractions. There is the house, requiring meetings with architects and contractors. I am fortunate that the off-season renders them more available than would oft be the case. Between that happy circumstance and my willingness to spend money, I should have the house in a livable state by the end of the summer. There are also more long-term plans requiring my attentions, preparations against future needs both anticipated and unpredictable. Those require the attentions of lawyers and accountants and bankers sufficient to fill my days with irritating minutiae.

Why add another source of uncertainty to an already uncertain life? It cannot be loneliness for my life is now filled with people who treat me as family. I have Edna, and her niece Sarah. They are both comfort and somehow unnerving. Only Edna knows the truth, but she walks about with an odd grin upon her countenance that leads some to wonder on her sanity. When we are alone we talk, a transportation in to a life I left behind. Though she knows of it only through family tales and what snippets have survived the decades she has an insight that can be astounding. I believe she has carried the romance of her little secret close to her heart. I find that notion both endearing and, strangely, more than a little frightening.

The question remains: why return to this? Despite the risks it entails it offers some comfort, some release. I suspect my dear Alice would propose it offers nourishment to the ego. Perhaps she would be correct. Of late I am not so certain in my pronouncements on my motives, desires and needs. I have surprised myself over the past year; no small feat, that. So I am here, and here I shall remain until I understand why.

Posted on April 18th, 2004
Filed under: The Present | 9 Comments »

There is no good way to bring anything to an end for any endeavor will always leave a gap, an emptiness, when it is concluded and put to rest. This journal is no exception. I noted before that I launched it in order to test the waters and that I had not found things entirely to my liking, but bringing this to an end is only somewhat related to that revelation. I did indeed desire to learn what reaction, if any, my existence might elicit and in that the results were almost universally encouraging; however, by its very nature this journal cannot provide me with a deeper understanding of what I could expect should I publicly proclaim my existence in a more direct fashion. The Internet is too fast-paced and far too ephemeral to provide me with the certainty I had sought. I believe I knew this going in, but as an incremental step it was most valuable.

What have I learned? Most cryptically I have learned that which I needed to learn. It has always been apparent to me that this little exercise had far more to do with me than with the outside world. The reflection upon my past, the episodes I chose to share, and perhaps more importantly those I have chosen not to share, all led me to a certain place within myself, an understanding that has likely always been there, but that I never once visited with any seriousness. Until now. I understand now that this chameleon’s life I have been living is a loser’s game. I always knew I was angry; that the need to pick up, let go and move on was the source of a bitterness that colored my relationships and robbed me of the happiness I felt I had a right to. This sometimes erupted in bouts of truly embarrassing self-pity, and sometimes in an almost pathological misanthropy.

To those readers who have found me an entertaining raconteur with perhaps a hidden softness inside I can only say that had I been less circumspect in the tales I chose to tell you may well have been disgusted, perhaps even horrified. Three and one half millennia afforded ample opportunity to fall in to monstrous depravity: my hands are stained with the blood of innocents.

That is not so easy to admit, here in this space. It has been my existence in this little digital arena that has led me to this. I have so many entertaining and informative tales to tell; glimpses in to lives past and cultures remembered only by graves and refuse. But I have found that the good tales are no longer so easy to tell. The weight of my sin grows heavier with each carefully crafted, carefully neutered tale I tell. The murder of Clayton was a glimpse of that darker portion of myself, but even that was chosen because it afforded me the cover of a somewhat moral act. I dealt out death because it felt good to do so, but perhaps he deserved it, so perhaps it was not so terrible a thing to do. I tried again, describing my eight-year murderous rampage through the streets of Ostia and Rome, but I seem incapable of finding the words to make the horror of what I was in those days clear. I lack the courage to face it squarely.

I am a moral coward.

All of this- this journal, my stories, and this confession: it all comes back to Jeremy. He understood me, both the good and the bad. In the end it was he who set me upon the path I walk today. After Clayton, after feeling the shame that act brought to my heart whenever I thought of Jeremy I came to believe I might be standing at the cusp, at the point of something momentous. The world had already plunged deep in to a whirlwind of change and I was caught up in it, blown upon the bitter storm. Just as Jeremy had predicted in those final days before he passed away. And in the end he betrayed me for my own good. I am still unsure as to whether to forgive him for that. Time will tell.

Now it all makes sense to me. I have now an understanding I had despaired of ever achieving. I know what I want to do. I know what I am going to do.

I am going home.

I am going to make my stand. Watch for me, those of you who are young enough. In thirty, or forty, or perhaps fifty years it will come out- the questions, the little tabloid stories, the speculations. Then some enterprising journalist will decide it is time to rip the top off the charade and will dig deep in to my past. I am looking forward to seeing the expression on his face when he comes to the inescapable conclusion.

Life should become terribly interesting at that point.

I remain faithfully yours,
Zsallia Marieko

Posted on December 8th, 2003
Filed under: Immortality, Regrets, The Present, Triumphs | 1 Comment »

Money is an odd thing. It is such a measure of power or worth, yet it is intrinsically nothing, particularly in the present day western world. The possession of monetary wealth is nothing more than a representation upon a digital ledger in some bank computer, yet it confers so much upon those who control it.

I am wealthy by any reasonable standard one might care to apply; yet I am powerless. I own my fate, but nothing more. Do not misunderstand- I believe that to own one’s fate is a precious thing, and I remember when (oh-so-very recently) this was not so, and it was the accumulation of money that initially made this possible. Yet when I calculate the sum total of the wealth I either own or control, that value is meaningless to me. I do not feel powerful regardless of what the numbers imply. I cannot relate to that sort of thing- it is an innate failing on my part.

I understand that money affords me freedom to ignore certain restraints. My apartment, for instance- I pay about six thousand dollars a month to call it home. I do not love it, it has no true hold on my affections- it is simply convenient to the places I like to visit, and I enjoy the view. Due to my account balance I may avail myself of this convenience. Six thousand dollars might seem a great sum, but it is meaningless to me- all it represents is a short walk to the rail station and an ocean view. I know that these things are desirable and hence command a high price, but how can that price be paid in something that has no intrinsic value?

I remember the first time I was sold for a handful of coins rather than bartered for real things that could be touched and measured- it was the first time I felt shame at my place in the world. I did not understand money then, and I still fail to fully comprehend it now. I understand that I need it. I comprehend how to earn it through labor or create it through investment. I understand its nature as fuel to the engines of capitalism, but when I attempt to put that knowledge in to some concrete form, to make it real, make it visceral so that I can feel the truth of it as I do other things, I fail.

I am sufficiently knowledgeable to manoeuvre within the framework defined by money, but I cannot believe in the basic precepts that make this possible.

This frustrates me. I cannot escape the notion that this is something I must overcome, and soon.

Posted on December 4th, 2003
Filed under: Philosophy | 1 Comment »

The desert offers solitude, and a simple mode of existence: mere survival. Granted this is a somewhat moot point for me, but it acts as further guarantor of my privacy, for the desert is both swift and merciless in its dealings with fools.

Modern society has effected sufficient intrusion that it attempts to protect those so unwise as to venture in to the desert unprepared. This is not an act of altruism rather it is simple efficiency. Every preempted lost hiker represents concrete savings in search time and potential bad publicity. That it also saves lives is a secondary, albeit welcome benefit. As a result of this well-developed attitude towards tourists I elected to abandon any idea of walking to my chosen spot, opting instead to pay a young man to fly me out and return to collect me a few days later. Profligate waste, but necessary.

I could have locked myself away in my apartment. I have access to other places, properties I either own outright or have an interest in through membership in assorted foundations and organizations. There is a particular monastery where people are welcome to come and find the solace of introspection amid the grounding rhythms of a simpler, less hectic life. There are numerous parks, forests, jungles, and mountains… all are accessible to anyone who might seek a few days or weeks outside the sphere of the modern.

I prefer the desert. It is something about the hardscrabble nature of the flora and fauna, and the stark beauty of the landscape that suits me when I need to be shuck of mankind. It is dangerous for me- I could set out for a week or two and stay for a decade or longer. Even this little expedition- after three days I found myself musing on the notion of heading deeper in to the wild, finding a cave and sitting out the next fifty years. Fortunately (or not, depending on how you choose to view it) I had left far too many loose ends to merely walk away. It was deliberate on my part for I know myself well enough to anticipate that urge. I may yet indulge it, but not this day.

It was a desire to take some time, put things in to perspective, time away from my normal haunts, away from e-mail and computers and the web, away from the lawyers and that bloody fool of an accountant who is determined to prevent me from doing as I will with my own money. Away from all the yammering, and posturing, and postulating… I needed years, but I allowed merely days. I suppose it sufficed.

I am in love with the night sky- one of the things I truly despise about living in the North East is the lack of any truly clear, dark sky. Civilization’s fascination with light renders the canopy of the heavens a pale mockery of itself. Ever since my earliest memories I have been fascinated with the stars. I ran to the desert so that I could lie beneath them in their glory and seek… something. Balance, I suppose, though that is a poor descriptor.

I needed to know I was doing the right thing. As important, or perhaps even more so, was I doing it for the right reasons? Somehow sitting beneath the stars smoking Camels seemed the proper avenue for pursuing that thought. Warm, sunny days; cool, clear nights with a sliver of moon and a dazzling array of stars- there were no answers, but there certainly was peace.

Posted on November 30th, 2003
Filed under: Interludes, Philosophy, The Present | 1 Comment »

Some random notions that have come to the fore as a result of comments, events and other factors:

I am frequently surprised. One would think I should be beyond surprise, but one would be wrong. One would think I would be coolly in control of my emotions, having had so very long to come to an intimate understanding of my own inner landscape, but one would be wrong. One would think that thirty-five centuries would smooth the contradictions from the fabric of my soul, and one would be wrong yet again.

It seems some are convinced that one such as I should be either above human foibles, or incapable of them. They are wrong. There are those who insist that one such as I must view all those about her as nothing more than mayflies, lesser things to be used for amusement and hardly missed upon passing. I would ask them how they have come to such an understanding, and I would tell them their assumptions speak volumes regarding their own private demons, but they say nothing regarding mine.

I protect myself. I protect those I consider to be my friends. Those people are few and thus precious to me.

I am immortal, not indestructible.

I am often asked if I am bored and I always reply in the negative. Boredom is not the problem I face, and no one seems to be inclined to ask regarding what that problem may be. I understand this since it is likely unique in the acuteness of its manifestation with me; however, I still see it in others from time to time. It is not loneliness. When I become aware of the weight of ages upon me, what I feel is desperately tired.

Thirty-five centuries have taught me useful things, but not so many as some seem to insist must be the case.

I understand people- my ability to interact on a personal level borders on the telepathic. This is not some mystic ability, but the simple byproduct of millennia of experience. It is an ability that is limited to personal, face-to-face, situations. This also makes me a rather entertaining bedmate.

Conversing via the written word is an extraordinarily poor cousin to personal interaction. At the same time it offers a separate set of tools, and a different level of nuance that cannot be dismissed.

I am merciless in self-analysis- my ability to delude myself is limited, but when I indulge it the results are usually disastrous. I take no pity upon myself, for I posses the ability to outlive my errors. Others do not.

I understand that nothing ever really ends. Everything that has preceded this moment in time forms the foundation upon which the next moment must stand.

I have noted before that I view myself as primarily a destructive force in relation to those with whom I interact. There are those who disagree with me. They lack my perspective on this subject. This extends to this journal: every post I make, every comment left on any site constitutes an act of almost criminal selfishness on my part.

I never share everything with you. Never.

There is more to say. I choose not to say it.

Posted on November 25th, 2003
Filed under: Immortality | 1 Comment »

“I know who you are.”

I said nothing, allowing Edna’s quiet words hang in the air behind me as I gazed upon Catherine’s final resting place. Her marker was large, yet very simple- a granite spire, somewhat weathered as were all the stones in this corner of the cemetery, with just her name and the dates: b 1831 d 1896.

“She was only sixty-five. Even being wealthy and protected, the damned winters were like a scythe, weren’t they?”

“I know you heard what I said, so don’t pretend you didn’t.”

I had been feeling something from her for two days now. It was the only reason I had not left yet- I had to know what it was. Her certainty was so strong and it excited her so. I turned to face her.

“Who do you think I am?”

“Great Grandma hired a Pinkerton man to track down Elaine a few years after the War Between the States. He went to Boston, found her lawyers’ offices, but they were well paid, quite reputable and very tight-lipped.” She paused then and said, “I think I need to sit… could we move to that bench?” She gestured with her cane and I nodded. Edna shuffled over, suddenly looking every day of her ninety-eight years, and settled down with a sigh, placing her cane before her with her hands perched atop. She waited until I took a seat beside her. “Where was I? Boston. You always seem to go back to Boston. The Pinkerton man was no slouch, and you’d a way of impressing people, of course. He found a name: Melissa Burns, and there was some talk of Georgia. It took some doing but he tracked you down to a plantation where you were hired as a tutor in literature and mathematics. Then he discovered that you’d murdered a man named Clayton Williams. You were caught, tried, convicted and hanged. End of story, or so he thought.

“I have to wonder what he thought when Catherine sent him back to Georgia and told him to dig up your corpse, if he could. He went back and started asking more questions, spreading around money and liquor, until he bumped in to these two gents who’d had a near religious experience. Neither of them’d had a drink in years before they ran in to him- reformed men, they were. But his questions shook them up, and the whiskey was good, and the tale they told him… well, he’d never heard anything so wild and unlikely in his life, but he had his orders, and like I said, he was no slouch at his job.

“He tracked you to a border town in Texas. A pretty young redheaded prostitute named Molly, sweet and kind and very quiet, and sporting a hanging scar. Only by the time he got that far poor Molly’d had an accident, took a spill in to the river and drowned. Body never recovered. Of course, it couldn’t have been the same woman, because everybody swore she couldn’t be more than eighteen and Elaine’d have been close to sixty by then, except that Melissa Burns hadn’t been more than twenty-five…”

“He would have had a very difficult time following me after that. Molly was a throw-away…” I stopped there because there was no point in continuing. Edna’s gaze was fixed on me, waiting. “How many people know this story?”

“Just me. It’s been passed down through the women in the family. Honestly, I didn’t really believe it myself until you showed up, and even then I wasn’t sure until just now. I haven’t told anyone; Sarah would be the obvious choice, but she’s such a Chatty Cathy I just couldn’t trust her with it.” She sat up straighter then, and took a deep breath, “So, if you wanted to you could shoot me with that ugly old pistol you’ve got your hand on and the story’d die with me. I suspect you’d be able to get out of town before anybody caught on.”

I snatched my hand from my bag- I had not even realized I had my hand on the gun. I was embarrassed that she had noticed, that I had even unconsciously considered…

And then I was shaking, trembling so violently that I could not even speak. It was not fear, or anger, or joy, but simply conflict. I did not know what to do. Then a sharp pain exploded in my shin and I cried out as Edna drew back her cane after striking me with it.

“Get a hold of yourself! Lord, you’d think someone as old as you’d be beyond this kind of thing!”

I laughed out loud at that. “I’ve heard that before… I should introduce you to the Yeti!”

“The who?”

“Yes, never mind, it’s too hard to explain.”

We sat for several minutes before Edna finally asked, “So, what’re you going to do?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it? It’s not so easy as Jeremy thought it might be.”

“Sure it is. My son had you checked out- you’re loaded. I name you as my successor in the trust and then you can do what you want.”

“Really? It’s not that simple at all. Everything I know is telling me to leave, now, and never come back! I have rules I live by and I didn’t come up with them on a whim!”

“And you married Jerome- what’d your rules have to say about that? Why’d you do that? Seems pretty stupid to me. Be careful what you answer because Catherine had an idea and I think she was right.”

“I fell in love with him. Is that so hard to believe?”

“Honestly? Yes, it is hard to believe. Catherine believed you were just lonely, and tired. Marrying her uncle was almost like trying to kill yourself. Just look at the trouble it’s caused you. Look at where you are right now, honey. Sure you loved him, but you loved him because it gave you a taste of something you couldn’t ever really have. You were trying to destroy yourself. Or at least destroy your life. You wanted an end, and Jerome was just the right man to help you find it.”

She sat back, her shoulders sagging. I could see the exhaustion radiating from her and suddenly I was ashamed again. How could I not see how much this was costing her? To be out here confronting me… Without another word I helped her to her feet and steadied her as we made our way back down the path to my car. She settled in to the seat and I buckled her in, then came around and started the car. Edna had her head back against the headrest, her eyes were closed.

“See, I think you’re going mad. All that running and hiding can’t be good for a body.”

“Do you understand how… how impudent it is of you to presume to speak to me like this?”

She laughed quietly, opening her eyes to look over at me. “Do you think you are wise?” she asked.

I thought about that as I maneuvered down the narrow drive to the cemetery’s exit. “About some things, yes. Others, no.”

“Good answer. I am wise, and about a lot of things. That cemetery makes me wise- I know that’s where I’m headed, and soon, too. Focuses the mind, assuming the mind still works of course.” She chuckled then at her own little joke.

“And that’s something I lack, is it?”

“It’s not just something you’re missing, it’s something you need.”

That was not a new thought for me, so why did it disturb me so to hear it from this woman?

“A cemetery’s not just a place of endings,” she continued, “it’s a symbol, a place of roots. Kids today just don’t understand this stuff; they go wandering off in all directions and don’t give a thought to their family or their history. My daughters… I haven’t seen either of them in five years, or the grandchildren. All picked up and moved off to California and Hawaii… I kept hoping that one of them would get the notion to come home, but it’s never happened.”

“Yet here I am.”

“Yes,” she smiled, “here you are. I’m fit to be pickled now that you’re here. I honestly never believed it was possible, just some funny folk tale, or better yet a practical joke.”

I considered that for several minutes as we drove on in silence.

“So, if I were to say I was merely humoring you…”

“I wouldn’t buy it for a second. I saw the look on your face when you were touching that pistol- you’re first thought was to kill me and run like the dickens.”

“I would never have…”

“I know, but you thought it. So why are you here?”

“I needed to know how much damage… no. I wanted to come, to see what had happened to the people I cared about. I was here a few weeks ago- I visited Jeremy’s grave. I thought that would be enough…” I stopped then, feeling tears coming from someplace unexpected. I pulled to the side of the road and parked the car, then just gripped the wheel, desperate to compose myself. Why was this happening? Why was this woman, somebody who was still just a child in comparison to myself, having this affect on me? Why was I so damned angry?

“Don’t stop now.”

I looked at her, uncomprehending for a moment, and then I asked her, “What would you do if I took you home and then left, and never returned?”

“Nothing. I’d go to my grave knowing that I’d been privy to a great secret. Of course that’s easy for me to say because we both know you’re not leaving. C’mon dearie, stop trying to nice to the little old lady and spit it out- why are you here?”

“Because I was never ready to leave!” It came out so suddenly and so succinctly that it drew all of the emotion out of me in a single statement: I had never wanted to leave. I left because it was my way, a habit, a rule I lived by. It had never been a problem before, but so much had changed since the early centuries of my life…

“Then why leave?”

“That’s enough,” I snapped, my voice dropping in to a peremptory tone that made Edna sit back a bit. I put the car in gear and pulled out again, unwilling to talk any further, or to listen for that matter. Edna attempted to engage me, but I tuned her out so thoroughly that she soon gave up.

What was wrong with me? I had been willing to reinsert myself in to this family so long as I could do it on my terms, maintaining this thin fiction of secrecy, holding myself aloof from them. Why did Edna’s knowledge change things so? Why that sudden impulse to murder and flight? It was clear to me, unmistakably clear that she posed no threat. Even if she did choose to tell her family what she knew, what would they think? She knew this, I could tell she knew this.

I am terrible at snap decisions. Every one I have ever made has turned out to be ill advised in one way or another. I needed time to think. I arrived at that terribly insightful conclusion as I pulled in to Sarah’s driveway. Edna sat beside me, radiating dismay.

“I am going back to Boston,” I told her, making my voice as gentle as I could.

She emitted a quiet sigh of resignation, and then visibly nerved herself to ask, “And What will you do there?”

I paused, unwilling to be short with her again, and then gave her the most honest reply that I could: “Think. Decide. Act.” She nodded at that, and allowed me to help her out of the car and up to the house. At the door something suddenly occurred to me. “You never visited your husband’s grave…”

“Oh, that’s not important. Perhaps next time…”

“Yes, perhaps.” I turned to go, but I could feel her eyes on me, as if they sought to pull me back.

“Genevieve… now that can’t be your real name, can it?”

I paused and turned back to face her as she stood framed in the open doorway, looking small and frail and forlorn. “No, of course not. I don’t have a given name that I can remember, but I chose one, long ago,” and I told her my name, the name I chose that I have called myself for more than two millennia. Then I turned away and walked to the car. It was time to go.

Posted on November 22nd, 2003
Filed under: Friends Found, Immortality, The Past, The Present | 1 Comment »