E-mail from John at Weekend Pundit:

I’ve enjoyed all the speculation and “what-if’s” proposed by other readers that you’ve been posting lately and your responses seem geared to making everybody take a kind of laid back attitude. You seem to be in some sort of “whatever” mode regarding what you might be. In particular I liked the Yeti’s comment that perhaps you were some sort of “key”. So far everyone seems to be acting as if this were all benign, so let me get all dark and paranoid, since somebody’s got to do it:

What if you are simply a Judge? Seems to me you’d be uniquely qualified to pass judgment on the human race as a whole.

I take exception to that characterization, but not with any ire. Perhaps I would be qualified to pass judgment on the direction of cultural development in the western world, but the human race? I think not. Consider: my experiences have been mostly confined to broader Europe, the Mediterranean area, Northern Africa and the Americas. On reflection I have spent less than two centuries in the Middle and Far East, and that in bits and pieces. Hardly an all-encompassing worldview, to be certain.

I understand that you might have assumed that I had traveled the world extensively since I have never offered any detailed accounting of my travels. This is partly by design and partly out of necessity, as I could not truly give anyone an accurate accounting of just where I was for the first ten or so centuries of my life. I have done some research and what I recall versus what is recorded in the historical and archeological texts fails to match up at all neatly. I could make some educated guesses, but that is all they would be.

Finally, I existed in what would best be described as semi-civilized barbarism for a large portion of that time. Not that there was no social order, but my own place in that order was always very low and constantly shifting. As a barren woman I was at the mercy of the men surrounding me- unable to bear children I was either sport or burden, but seldom if ever considered exceptionally valuable. When food became short, or other dire circumstance arose I was always expendable, hence my prolific wanderings between clans and villages. Given the suspicious and superstitious nature of folk at that time I was often forced to live on my own, in some cases for decades at a time, scratching an existence out of the wilderness and meeting only the occasional passer-by who might shelter in my hut out of need or desperation. After that time I was still a dweller on the outer fringes, but civilization advanced to the point where it was easier for me to ingratiate myself: civilization leads to wealth, and with wealth comes the ability to afford such luxuries as myself. I became more valuable as sport, and less of a burden: a gritty calculus, but one that I accept. It allowed me the time and opportunity to prove myself to be more than what I had been before.

So were I a judge, upon what should I pronounce judgment? What constitutes desperation? Or despair? A properly run brothel? A worthwhile civilization? And to whom would I render such a judgment? God? No matter what form of deity you choose to believe in I find it hard to comprehend why the Alpha and Omega would choose such a one as myself for that task.

Forgive me my stridency. I have had those in whom I have confided seek to twist the fact of my existence in to some form that would concur with their own understanding of the world and reality. I do not resent it, but neither do I enjoy it. I simply am what I am and I have yet to find any great significance to my existence. In the unlikely circumstance that I was created to some purpose I can only assume that I have proven a disappointment to my creator.

Posted on July 19th, 2003
Filed under: Immortality | 3 Comments »

The bath was finally ready, the water heated with stones from the fire until it was just shy of painfully hot, and scented with the oils of flowers. The rising steam was fragrant as a garden in spring- Rufus would be pleased. For such a hard man he had an abiding love for nature and things of beauty. He surrounded himself with art and exquisitely crafted wooden and stone furnishings, as well as beautiful slaves. His banquets were famous for providing all sorts of fine food and wine as well as offering up satisfactions of all sorts of carnal appetites, of any nature. Of handsome young men and women he owned dozens.

I had become his slave almost by accident. I had been living a solitary life after washing ashore many years before. The urge for human contact had remained dormant in me until the day a ship laid anchor near the beach I called home. I had come out to greet the strange men who came ashore and there Rufus had first laid eyes upon me. We shared no language in common, but the attraction was powerful and I stayed with him that night. In the morning he made it clear he expected me to accompany him. There was no force involved, just his calm certainty that I would not deny him. He named me Felicia.

Rufus sauntered in just as the preparations were complete. Two young men relieved him of his robes and sandals and he walked with practiced ease down in to the steaming bath. He motioned to me and I stripped off my tunic then slid in to the water, suppressing a small gasp as the heat sank in to my skin. Rufus grinned at me as I took up a decanter of oil and waded to him.

“This is perfect, Felicia,” he sighed as I slid in to place behind him.

“Thank-you. We worked very hard, we know how much a good bath means to you.”

“Yes, still, I should take you with me when I travel to Rome- the great baths are magnificent!” He continued to talk as I began massaging his broad shoulders, working the warm oil in to his skin as I worked at the hard knots of his muscles. This was really a man’s job, but Rufus enjoyed my personal attentions.

“It is a place where more true commerce is conducted than anyone would care to admit,” he continued, “I have made some impressive contacts just by frequenting the baths… I had hoped to build something like them here, but there are so few true Romans about. Who would come?”

“Perhaps if you were to build something as magnificent as you dream of then more would come just to behold them?”

“You think like a man, Felicia,” he smiled, “but in the end it would come to nothing. Some would come, and they would marvel, but every praising word would be followed by ?But in Rome…’ and they would be right. My pride would not willingly endure that,” he sighed after that statement, then continued, “But of course, I will build baths. Magnificent baths. My pride, again.”

“You war with yourself even here, when you should be relaxing in my embrace.”

Rufus laughed and turned, his muscular arms drawing me close as he looked in to my eyes.

“I’ve warned you before, Felicia: this is a bath, not a brothel,” at which point I burst out laughing because his left hand had slid up between us to cover my breast. I rubbed up against him, the firm muscled mass of his body setting my skin to tingling. All he ever had to do was touch me…

But he was serious: this was a bath. He pushed me off, gently but with firm strength and I made a show of pouting before taking up the soft spiny brush he preferred and setting about the task of bathing my master. He appreciated the flirtatiousness. He also demanded that I respect his preferences- later there would be time to light the lamp and pay homage to Venus.

Rufus was very serious Roman. He had a wife and three children in Bruttium, but had accepted a post in the “hinterlands” on the request and advice of his patron. It had been on his journey to this place that he had encountered me on that beach and as I came to understand his language I had to wonder what kind of man it was who would profess such admiration for his wife while openly keeping time with me. It took time for me to understand the he admired his wife as mother to her three children, and respected her as one who was adept at maintaining the proper social ties and proprieties, but of love there was nothing, merely an agreement to share a household and have children. Among the upper classes this was not so terribly unusual.

As for his relationship with me- Rufus had fist been intrigued by the idea that I might be a manifestation of Diana, appearing as I had clad in skins and carrying a staff. My willingness to submit to him had quickly disabused him of that notion, but he still considered it small twist of luck and fate that we should meet, hence his chosen name for me.

For me, it was all delightfully, refreshingly new.

Posted on July 16th, 2003
Filed under: The Past | Comments Off on The Bath

Joe Bowers offers the following:

Eu li apenas sua resposta a Yeti em seu blog. Eu suponho-o acredito que h? alguns para fora l? do esse o acredita. Quando voc? diz que somente a lata m? vem deste blog, eu n?o sigo completamente. Eu sou certo que se voc? sentir amea?ado, a coisa l?gica seria abandonar apenas o blog, paro de escrever. I, para um, faltaria realmente suas entradas, mas voc? deve proteger-se. Yeti menciona que seu corpo pode ter sido habitado pelos esp?ritos estrangeiros, mim perguntou-lhe uma vez que sobre o Nefilim… voc? n?o comenta naquele. Voc? n?o acredita em tal “absurdo”? Eu sou muito curioso sobre seus pensamentos no Nefilim. Voc? acredita-os existiu, e se voc? acreditar, n?o ? ele poss?vel que voc? pode ser um produto deles? Eu esperarei sua resposta, se voc? escolher assim. Obrigado fazendo exame do momento de ler minhas perguntas.

Joe

I say that only bad things can come of this exercise in writing, and I do believe that; however, I am not so terribly concerned that I would be moved to stop just now. It is merely that there are essentially four responses to what one finds here: critical curiosity, acceptance as fiction, angry rejection, or delusional acceptance. To date I have been fortunate in encountering only those who seem to have a firm grasp of their own reality and do not feel threatened or outraged by my scribbling here. Those who would become angry over this are easily ignored. Those who are delusional can be… difficult.

As for the Yeti’s references to the Scientologists’ belief that proto-humans were invaded by alien spirits, or any reference to Nefilim, I do not hold to that belief any more than I do to supernatural manifestations such as vampires, werewolves, zombies and the like. While those tales are somewhat ubiquitous it has always seemed to me that they are more related to ignorance and are often encouraged by those in power as a method of keeping the lower orders in thrall. The idea that aliens were involved in the early development of humanity is an attractive conjecture, but lacks any truly debatable facts and as such cannot be proven or disproved nor even profitably discussed. I am aware of the stories of St. Germaine, and the various iterations of The Wandering Jew, but these have nothing to do with me. I cannot explain why, but I harbor a certainty that I am alone and I have never expended a great deal of effort in the search for others such as myself. For that matter how, exactly, does one go about tracking down an immortal being? Remember that it is only fairly recently in terms of human history that record keeping, communications and travel technologies have advanced to the point of making such a search conceivable.

Posted on July 12th, 2003
Filed under: Immortality | 3 Comments »

Comments from The Yeti, and my responses:

On your peculiar regenerative condition.

It indeed sounds like you do not die, but rather consume fuel, which would not make you human. You could perhaps be an intelligence inhabiting a human form that was reduced to a simple parasitic state in the distant past. It would explain your comments on how you thought you were rather stupid when you first remember consciousness.

There are plenty of science fiction stories from the 60’s that theorize this kind of possibility. I could look them up if you are interested.

Other possibilities – that you are what was once perceived as a minor God, as you thought yourself for a while. The Scientologists teach that precursors to human beings were invaded by alien spirits. Perhaps they are not entirely wrong, and only a few people were. Those few are destined to wander?

You raise some interesting points; however, I am not quite prepared to abandon any claim to humanity just yet. The idea that I consume fuel and that this would be sufficient to distinguish me from humankind seems a bit rash. Let me propose that you allow me to lock you in my basement and feed you nothing but water for three weeks. I daresay you would come out of it alive, but with a noticeable loss of body mass. Would I be justified in saying that you consumed your own mass as fuel?

Do not misunderstand- I freely admit that my continued existence is in and of itself sufficient to raise suspicions as to my humanity. Add to this that I apparently cannot reproduce and I have to conclude that if this is a mutation it is a singularly unsuccessful one. While immortality might seem a desirable goal for an individual it appears it would be terribly inhibiting to a species, an evolutionary dead end.

Or perhaps anyone like you truly does just learn to lay low. With the vast amount of experience gained over time, they would seem god-like to others. Or demonic, as you have found.

Jesus Christ? Mohammed? Buddha?

Of course one might begin to remember what happens to those who step forward to show a new way for humanity. Christ the Almighty has risen? How hard would that be for you to pull off?

Or perhaps myths and scary stories.

Vlad the Impaler? Zombies? Werewolves?

No doubt a person with your peculiar talents would easily inspire stories among illiterate peasants. But what might it do to a philosopher with an ability to write and on whose writings portions of societies are created.

Why did I “lay low” for so long? It was not a conscious choice at first, just a seemingly fortuitous set of coincidences which led me to move from one situation to another in a way that served to protect me from scrutiny by those too primitive to understand my nature. I am willing to entertain the idea that at some subconscious level I was aware of the danger presented by staying too long in any one place; however, by my reckoning it was some four hundred years or more before I came to fully understand and accept my condition. This implies more than just subliminal understanding, almost a programmed response. I dislike the idea that I might be some semi-autonomous device gone slightly awry.

As to myths, scary stories, etc inspired by me, I tend to doubt I have had such influences. I recently recounted probably the most public and untidy of my exits from society and that failed to generate much in the way of folklore. Of course since I make a habit of avoiding returning to places I have dwelt in the past it is possible that I did leave such things in my wake without being aware of it. Still, I tend to discount it for as I have noted before I have steadfastly avoided bringing attention to myself. Even in those rare circumstances where people began to suspect something was odd and acted against me it was never a momentous event. In most cases I was simply banished. On occasion it was worse.

What would Voltaire, or Emerson, or Thoreau have done with this knowledge.

And if there are more of your kind, is there some impulse that leads itself to eventually outing yourself to the world – like you have just done on your blog?

You count on hiding out in the open – and I’ll respect your choice whatever it may be and never ask you, the suspense of not knowing of course being a fantastic creative engine on its own for me. Well done, Methuselah’s Daughter. Here’s to another 3500 years.
-TheYeti

As to what impulse has led to this “outing” of myself, who can truly tell? Perhaps it is a subconscious urge to self-destruction. It is certainly frightening to be so open (and believe me, I am being deliberately obfuscatory in both my replies and my recounting of events), and in all honesty I can only see bad things coming of it. Yet still, here I am.

Posted on July 11th, 2003
Filed under: Immortality, Philosophy, The Past | Comments Off on The Yeti Speaks

Acidman asked 25 questions. I heasitated, then chose to answer as best I could.

1. Do you have a personal hero? If so, who is it?

My first real husband. He was a farmer and a father of five when we met and he devoted every moment of his life to making his little corner of the world a better place for his children. He married me to fill the void left by his late wife and never stopped showing me how much he appreciated me. In a very real way he set the tone for the vast majority of my following years.

2. What is your favorite book of all time and what made it so fucking good?

Plato’s “The Last Days of Socrates” , in particular Crito where Socrates defines his respect for law even though it demands his life.

3. What does “diversity” mean to you?

Freedom and respect. No more, no less.

4. What is the wildest thing you’ve ever done?

Oh, my. I am not certain the provider’s TOS will let me be explicit. Does scratching my way out a shallow grave count?

5. Do you regret doing it?

NEVER.

6. Can you drive a stick shift?

Of course

7. What’s the highest speed you ever traveled in a car?

135mph

8. Were you driving, or riding at the time?

I was behind the wheel but I am not certain you could truly call it driving. It was more of a desperate struggle to stay on the road.

9. Which is better: snakes or spiders?

Snakes- they make a better meal.

10. What is the most disgusting thing you ever ate?

Oh, the possibilities. Raw human flesh, I suppose. It is not so bad when cooked.

11. Have you ever shit your pants? Be HONEST!

Yes

12. Was losing your virginity an enjoyable experience?

Immensely, if I was actually a vigin at the time. It was all so confusing.

13. Should oral sex be outlawed or encouraged?

Encouraged. Silly question.

14. Name one man with a fine ass.

In the modern pantheon? Ah-nuld, circa 1980

15. Do you watch golf on television? If not, will you iron my shirts?

No and No.

16. Who is Martha Burk?

A very earnest woman with a chip on her shoulder the size of Texas. She means well.

17. If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?

Physically? I wish I could have children. Personally? I would like to sharpen my wit and stop sounding so arrogant when I write.

18. Do you eat raw oysters?

Yum.

19. Are you claustrophobic?

No.

20. If you rode a motorcycle, would you wear a helmet even if the law said you didn?t have to?

No. In my case it is somewhat pointless.

21. Name five great Presidents.
Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, Teddy R. and Nixon.

22. Name three shitty Presidents.
Grant, Taft, and Nixon

23. Now call me fanny and slap my ass. Just kidding.

That will cost you $1500 in advance.

24. This is the 4th of July. Did you set off any fireworks?

No. I leave it to the professionals

25. If you could have dinner and conversation with anyone in the history of the planet, who would you choose?
Sulla. He dared to flirt with Empire and had his name damned for it.

Posted on July 7th, 2003
Filed under: The Present | 3 Comments »

More e-mail from Joe Bowers, whom I have mentioned before. He touches on some topics that I have been reluctant to speak to:

Do you keep friends that are ignorant of what you are? Telling untruths to hide your nature? Destined to leave them after a decade (or a little more) and never to meet them again? That has to be hard on you, not being able to get close to anyone, not having something lasting. It must be incredibly lonely to be immortal

Those I would call friends are few and very far between. Friends must be confided in, and even those whose company I truly enjoy usually cannot be trusted with the truth. I do not enjoy lying and I go to great pains to avoid situations where I would be forced to lie to someone I care about. Most times this is accomplished by remaining aloof and refusing to care, painful as that can be. In the end it is the most merciful solution for all involved.

I have married, but I have always chosen my husbands carefully- men who already have families, who are looking for a surrogate mother for their children or grandchildren, or who realistically have no prospects of ever having a family. I am not so cruel as to deny a man his chance at the only form of immortality available to him simply to satisfy my own emotional needs; furthermore, the deeper my ties the harder it is to move on. Better that I be the young bride in a May/December marriage.

Loneliness. There is a topic I deliberately avoid dwelling upon. I cannot truthfully say that I experience loneliness because my life has been so solitary for so very long that I am not sure I have any true understanding of the concept. Do I enjoy the company of others? Yes, I most certainly do. Can I tolerate being completely alone? A meaningless question for I am completely alone and so far I have tolerated my existence quite well. And yet… I keep this very public journal, something I have never done before in any way, shape or form. I keep no written diaries, no journals; I leave no traces of myself in the history books, but I decided to begin this site. It is addictive- I enjoy telling these tales, discussing things with strangers that I have kept from all but a few confidantes. It occurs to me that I have never in my life gone in to such detail and the act of revelation is thrilling in a way I have not experienced before. I know the day is coming when I must abandon this and for the first time in a very, very long time I feel reluctance at the thought of moving on. Perhaps when I do I will again become acquainted with loneliness?

Posted on July 5th, 2003
Filed under: Immortality | 2 Comments »

It is time to update the blogroll. Generally I will link to anyone who links to me so long as I find his or her site interesting. Fortunately for most people my tastes are broad and I enjoy topics from domestic realities to engineering to politics and beyond.

I did finally remove Glenn Reynolds since it seemed somewhat pointless to include him. I rest easy with that choice, confident that should he notice (quite unlikely) he would understand.

New entries include Etherian’s Island and Dreaming Witch, sites I encountered via my referrals and which I enjoy reading. She’s a Flight Risk I found via Pointy Ears after I noticed a flurry of referrals. If you read Isabella’s tale you might understand my affinity for her. Finally, The Yeti is simply refreshing- my thanks to Weekend Pundit for guiding me there.

Posted on July 4th, 2003
Filed under: Administrata | 2 Comments »

Warm, dark and quiet- I could hear the slow rhythm of the beating of my heart, hypnotic in its promise of new sunrises to be seen. Awareness came upon me slowly, stealing up on quiet paws to slowly, carefully prod me back towards understanding. Finally I took in a slow, ragged breath, my chest relaxing as air finally streamed in to my lungs. Oxygen invigorates me and I was finally cognizant of where I was.
Read more…

Posted on July 4th, 2003
Filed under: Immortality, The Past | Comments Off on From The Grave

Having studiously avoided commentary on world affairs for some time I feel it is proper to weigh in briefly on the situation in the Middle East in general, and Iraq in particular.

The current situation in Iraq comes as no surprise to anyone who takes a realistic view of the challenges ahead. While the military victory was a foregone conclusion there is no one of any note who believed that once the major battle was won the aftermath would be any less difficult or bloody than it now is. Every death in Iraq, be it of a Coalition soldier or an Iraqi civilian trying to make life a bit better today than it was yesterday constitutes a tragedy: Families are devastated, loved ones are bereft and it can become difficult to understand what the ultimate point is to all the struggle and suffering.

What we see now in Iraq is the predictable aftermath of the overthrow of tyrants and their power base: those who once walked as princes in Baghdad are not inclined to go meekly in to irrelevance. This is exacerbated by the commitment of the Jihadis who now flock to Iraq determined to undermine any peace and stability that might set in, regardless of whether it is driven by the occupying forces or ordinary Iraqis simply attempting to get back to the business of living.

The war itself was a simple matter that could be won by tactics, strategy and application of hard resources. The aftermath, the winning of the peace as it were, carries a steep price, and the only coin that can pay it is blood. As tragic as every death is each one is part of a necessary chain of events, an unavoidable cost on the road to true peace and security in the Middle East. This is not an easy path, and it calls for fortitude and determination on the part of the United States and those allies who have chosen to step forward and shoulder their part of the burden. The ultimate result will be worth the cost, and those whose lives were given as a precious sacrifice upon the altar of freedom shall not have died in vain.

We have seen the military prowess of the West. Now we must see its courage. There are forces in play, both from the reactionary fundamentalist circles and those whose concepts of reality have been twisted by the shattered curse of Marxist socialism, which daily seek to convince the peoples of the west that they have failed, that the struggle was a lie foisted upon them by a deceiving government and that there can never, ever be a free and democratic Iraq. They seek to make such a prophecy self-fulfilling by sapping the will of the American people with a drumbeat of accusation, innuendo and despair. The courage required is that which stands in the face of such adversaries and declares: “The path is long, the choices are hard, and the cost is dear, but the fight is ours to win and we are determined to prevail.”

Time, of course, will tell the tale of victory or failure. I remain optimistic.

Posted on June 30th, 2003
Filed under: Politics | Comments Off on Iraq

“They gonna’ hang you, Missy Burns!”

The pastor looked up from his bible with a pained expression, but I simply smiled. “Give me just a moment, pastor.” I stood and stepped up on to my seat so I could see out the barred window in to the alleyway. There at the end was Timothy, all twelve years and 90 pounds of him, looking all bedraggled, yet grinning like a Prince counting his horde.

“Thank-you, Timothy,” I called in a cheery voice, “It had nearly slipped my mind.”

“I don’t know how you can be so cheerful with that little beast,” the pastor sighed as I took my seat again, “cruel he is to be taunting you so.”

“It’s somewhat complex- he was my little project you know. I was trying to draw him in, get him back to school, and I was making progress before all this unpleasantness.”

In the end, I simply had not run far enough, had not covered my tracks sufficiently, counting on the aftermath of the war to muddy the waters. It is a lesson I had learned the hard way once before, but time has a way of blurring the hard-won wisdom of years past, even in one such as I. Mr. Cletus Williams had pursued me for more than two years, convinced (correctly, of course) that I had murdered his brother Clayton and (incorrectly) that I had made off with his fortune. I had made an assumption that the Union Army would sweep through town and Clayton’s death would have been lumped in with any other misfortune that befell the community; however, the Blue Coats had simply destroyed the local militia and moved on, leaving the town virtually untouched but for one fresh corpse and witnesses telling of Missy Burns galloping out of town on Clayton Williams’ own horse.

“A Christian act of kindness? You repeatedly show me that you are so much more than the murderess you have been named.”

“You do need to stop fretting so much over the fate of my soul, Pastor. I appreciate your concern, truly I do, but there are others who could benefit even more from your attentions. Timothy, for example. I’m afraid I have disappointed him, betrayed him, even. Right now he needs guidance and comfort far more than I.”

The pastor was not elderly, perhaps fifty years old, but at that moment he looked ancient. He had been coming to visit me in my cell every day for the past week, since the day it became clear I was destined to hang. Partly it was rote discharge of duty, but there had been a bit of curiosity as well and our conversations had become quite intense as he probed my own understanding of faith and morality. It pained me that he labored under the erroneous assumption that I was soon to die for he took my calm acceptance of my fate and my concern for those who might be harmed by my death as something far more meaningful than it actually was.

Mercifully for all concerned the deputy interrupted us, tapping on the bars to my cell he said “Miss? Sorry to interrupt, but the undertaker is here.”

“Oh! Excellent. Thank you, Pete. Pastor, I do believe I will be seeing you tomorrow at the gallows, yes?”

“Of course, my dear,” he sighed as he rose to leave, “and if you feel the need, please send someone for me, at any time.”

“That’s very kind of you, and I may, perhaps if I have trouble sleeping.”

Pete opened the cell and led the pastor out, then returned a moment later with Mr. Burke, the undertaker. Contrary to stereotype Willy Burke was a smiling, rotund and jovial man, though he possessed the unique ability to project profound concern and sympathy at will. It was all an act, of course- he was a pure businessman, but he understood that concern and empathy were part of the business. He had a contract with the town to dispose of the remains of the condemned. Me, in this case.

“Miss Burns! So nice to see you in such good spirits so close to your Final Day On This Good Earth!”

“Well, Mr. Burke, I don’t see any purpose to being in anything other than good spirits, do you? The sun is shining, and so many good folk such as you are coming to visit this day. Tell me, is my casket prepared?”

“That is why I am here, to see to it that you are satisfied… though I do wish you would consent to allow mw to handle the burial. I know you trust that Negro, but…”

“Now, now, none of your ‘but’s’, please- I have made my own arrangements and I beg you respect them.”

Pete had opened my cell and Mr. Burke stepped inside, collapsing in to the padded chair the Sheriff had so kindly provided for my visitors.

“Of course, Miss. Just that Joseph is such a slow sort and all… I could at least check up on him and see that the job is done proper.”

“That’s very kind of you, but Joseph knows what I want. I’m the first official hanging this little town has seen- the first murderess convicted in the fine new courthouse. I would like my grave to be a private place. I’m certain you understand and you have been more than adequately compensated…”

One thing Clayton’s brother had failed to accomplish had been to deprive me of my fortune- every penny of Clayton’s gold had been accounted for and he had no claim on my estate. I had arranged to have a delightful elderly Negro named Joseph (“Not a bit more, not a bit less, jus’ Joseph if you please, ma’am”) claim my body in a casket I purchased from a local carpenter. Joseph had tearfully memorized my instructions and I knew I could rely on him. Joseph was the heir in my will, keeping my few possessions and a tidy sum of money, the rest being given to the Pastor to further good works in the town. Such arrangements made it terribly difficult for Mr. Williams to gain any sympathy for his outrageous claims.

So I signed Mr. Burke’s contract after carefully reviewing the terms and ensuring nothing was amiss. Pete witnessed the document for us before escorting Mr. Burke from my cell. Once he was gone the Deputy returned.

“I do trust him, Pete, but if I might impose on you, I would dearly appreciate it if you could make certain he respects my wishes?”

“Oh, don’t you worry yourself on that, Missy. I’ll see that ol’ Willy stays in his place…” his voice trailed off.

“What is it, Pete?” I asked, my voice oozing concern for his wellbeing.

“Mr. Carlton wants to see you.”

“No.”

“Missy…”

“No.”

“He’s just tryin’ to do his job… he’s your lawyer…”

“I know that. There is nothing more for him to do. I admitted my crime- I murdered Clayton Williams. The jury heard the case and rendered its verdict. It is done.”

“But he… Clayton tried to…”

“It makes no difference, Pete. I knew what Clayton would do when I confronted him. I went there to kill him. I’m guilty.”

Pete stopped then. It was tough on him, being only nineteen and so smitten with me, but he also had a deeply abiding sense of duty. In a way my insistence on seeing my sentence carried out made sense to him in a way that others had a very difficult time understanding. Mr. Carlton was trying to do his own duty as well- he certainly had enough to work with what with my extradition and trial; however, for me this was not at all about justice. I had allowed him to make an appeal, but the result had been a foregone conclusion given the turmoil after the war.

The day passed quickly enough as I was treated to a steady parade of visitors. It came to me via some of these folks that Mr. Williams was quite put out by the way people were treating the woman who murdered his brother. I actually had some sympathy for his position for I, too, wished this episode were not attracting so much attention. This was going to be very public. That was a source of some trepidation for me.

When night fell it was a relief. The visitors stopped coming and I could begin to prepare for my upcoming ordeal. I requested an immense meal, heavy with beef and eggs, milk and nearly a pound of fresh baked bread. Pete watched in amazed disbelief as I methodically dispatched a feast fit for five men. We talked well in to the evening and I found myself feeling deep regret that come morning I would never be able to spend time with Pete again.

Morning came quietly. I had not slept; rather I meditated in a semi-conscious state I had learned to employ centuries before. The execution would be unpleasant to say the least: I can tolerate a great deal of pain, but this does not mean that I enjoy it, and this promised to be particularly difficult. I knew how my body reacted to injuries and I was not looking forward to returning to consciousness. My meditation was directed towards preparing for those first moments of pain and disorientation.

I had set out clothes for this day and I dressed at the break of dawn. I let the sheriff know that I would prefer not to be disturbed until it was time to go to the scaffold and he agreed to keep people away, including the pastor. In a deep state of relaxation I let my senses expand, drinking in the sounds and scents of the new day. As morning progressed I could hear the crowd growing, people conversing- speculations about how I would comport myself, or would the hanging be clean. I could pick out individual voices, people I knew, some somber, some not. I could hear Timothy, suddenly a subdued little boy, not coming to taunt me from the alley outside my cell, and the murmured tones of the pastor speaking with first one person, then another.

They began testing the gallows and the crowd began to swell. Though destined for greatness this was still a small town, people were coming from some distance to witness this first hanging. I listened to the mechanical release of the trap, the plunging of the weighted sack, the sudden taught snap of the rope. Calmly I analyzed the information, the time elapsed between the opening of the trap and the snap of the rope- the hangman was adjusting the drop and I trusted he knew his business. I was light enough that I need not fear decapitation (something I am certain I could not survive)- I simply hoped that the end would be as swift and painless as those who extolled the virtues of the long drop claimed.

Finally, a tap on the bars brought me back to my immediate surroundings. I looked up to see the Sheriff and the Judge, along with Pete.

“It’s time, Missy,” Pete whispered.

“Yes, I suppose it is,” I sighed straightening up and brushing at my dress to smooth the pleats and folds, “Shall we?”

The sheriff took me by right arm and led me out of the cellblock. The door to the office was open and bright sunshine spilled over the scarred wooden floor and dusty furniture. The sky was perfectly cloudless and brilliant blue, the day warm and dry with just enough light breeze to render it delightfully comfortable. We stepped out on to the porch and I saw the crowd turn to stare at me as I was led down the steps and across the center of the town to the gallows. I found myself counting my steps from the porch to the base of the steps to the gallows- 169. I gave a small laugh and Pete must have heard me because he reached out as if to steady me, thinking I was becoming emotional, perhaps.

“I’m fine, Pete,” I whispered, “I was just admiring somebody’s attention to detail: 169 steps to the gallows, thirteen times thirteen.”

The Pastor was there and overheard. He looked stricken, but he held his bible to his chest and began a quiet invocation to God as I was led up the steps (thirteen again- somebody had far too much time on their hands). The Judge turned to the crowd (I would estimate no more than five hundred souls) and began reading out the finding of the court. I searched faces in the crowd and finally found Timothy off to one side near the front. He was crying and it pained me more deeply than anything else about this entire sad affair.

It was the Pastor’s turn next and he led the crowd through a pair of Hymns that I found to be peculiar, but not inappropriate. If anyone had doubted the Pastor took a dim view of the day’s proceedings they could hardly doubt it any longer. Many were the uncomfortable faces below me, and what little there had been of an air of the carnival had fled.

“Does the condemned have any last words?”

“Please, yes,” I replied, then raising my voice, “I murdered Clayton Williams and I have never maintained that I did not. He was a coward, a lecher, a thief and a brigand and if any of the men in this town had had a single shred of decency they would have spared me the trouble of putting an end to the blight his miserable existence inflicted upon the world. This town is the better for him being in his grave.”

The Judge looked grim as he stepped back and the Pastor followed me to the trap over which the noose hung.

“Pastor, do promise me that you will look after Timothy?”

“Of course, my dear, of course. If you have any final desire to cleanse your soul before going to God, now would be the time.”

My hands were drawn behind me and bound at the wrists.

“You do the praying, Pastor, I’ve never been particularly good at it. And thank-you again.”

The Sheriff wrapped a cord about my ankles and cinched it tight, binding my feet. A hood was offered and refused and then the Sheriff settled the noose over my head. Another pair of hands adjusted it, placing the large looped knot behind my left ear and cinching it down so as to prevent it slipping off over my head. There were murmured protests from the crowd.

“Missy,” Pete’s voice sounded behind me to the right, “I think you should have the hood.” He sounded as if he were desperately trying to avoid being ill.

“I don’t need it, Pete.”

“It’s not for you, Missy- a hanging is an ugly thing…”

“So they’ll come to see me hang, but be upset if it’s not so pretty? Can you imagine how little I am moved by their plight?”

“Missy, please… I don’t want to see your face.”

That made me reconsider because it was clear Pete was having a terrible time with this, so I relented and the noose was removed and the hood descended over my face, sealing out the light. The noose was placed again, and positioned.

Everybody stepped back. Despite everything, all the preparation, all the certainty that this was nothing more than an inconvenience, my heart began to pound. I might know that death had little hold on me but the primitive, reflexive parts of my mind were not interested in the nuances. I forced myself to remain still, breathing evenly as I waited. What was taking so long? What more could they possibly-

A mechanical “clack” signaled the tripping of the trapdoor and I instinctively tried to throw myself back as my footing failed- weightless, falling then pain exploded in my head as if I had been struck by a massive bell clapper and the rope snatched about my neck like the gnarled fist of Hercules…

Posted on June 24th, 2003
Filed under: Immortality, The Past | 2 Comments »