A Monster's Coming of Age Story

by G. D. Falksen

  “Is Georgia so miraculous a place that the laws of men and women do not exist here?” Babette asked.

  Iosef laughed and said, “No. Georgia is no different than the rest of the world. And you will find that the Svans, for all their admirable qualities, are as beholden to tradition as any people living. But in this valley, governed by the laws of Shashava, we reside in a place guided by wisdom rather than folly. The mortals among us, the villagers and farmers, live in accordance with many of the traditions of their Svan brethren. But all those who have taken the oath are regarded as equals by nature, divided only by their accomplishments. Sophio serves as the Vicar of Shashava because she is the oldest and wisest among us, with centuries of experience to guide her. The fact that she is a woman matters for nothing.”

  “Admirable,” Babette said, “but you will forgive my skepticism. How can the world be so different here? Am I to believe that I will be judged equal in my own right? Or do men deign to treat me so for their own amusement?”

  I will not tolerate that, she thought, looking into Iosef’s blue eyes with a firm, almost angry stare.

  Iosef did not flinch in replying:

  “No, the world is different here. Members of our order have studied the origins of such divisions between the sexes and their conclusions vary; but the view shared by many of us is that men have always ruled first by simple virtue of strength and, later, by virtue of familiarity. Man may overpower woman; therefore, man has always ruled woman. And man, feeling perhaps somewhat guilty for the mistreatment of his mother, daughters, and sisters, places such commandments into the mouth of God to justify his conduct.

  “But you must understand, Varanus, there is no such distinction among the Shashavani—indeed there cannot be. Even the frailest woman of our order is more powerful than a strong mortal man. And we grow stronger with age, regardless of what we were when we languished in the shadow of death. If we were governed by the law of might, the old would tyrannize the young, and Great Shashava would have dominated his accolytes like the god-kings of old. But Shashava, guided by wisdom, rejected strength as the source of authority. If anyone has deigned to grant equality, it was he. And he granted it to all who came after him in equal measure.”

  “Most intriguing,” Babette said, “though I doubt it will catch on. Men ‘languishing in the shadow of death,’ as you put it, do so enjoy their tyranny.”

  “If only we could change the world,” Iosef said, chuckling. “But we can only guide humanity, watch and safeguard it. The follies of mankind must change because people understand that their ways are foolish, not because they are made to change. An enlightened dictatorship lasts only as long as the dictator is enlightened, while an enlightened society remains so generation upon generation of its own accord.”

  Babette looked at Iosef very seriously and said, “I do understand the wisdom in that, my lord. But speaking as a woman who has endeavored to achieve a purpose in life greater than that of child-bearer, believe me when I say that there are times when an enlightened dictatorship would be a most welcome instrument of change.”

  “I can understand that sentiment,” Iosef said. He tilted his head and looked at her, suddenly concerned. “You shudder. Why?”

  “I am shivering,” Babette said, “because it is cold.”

  “Ah yes,” Iosef said. He looked toward the pale moon and spread his hands. “Cold. Again, I have forgotten.”

  “With so much to think about, surely minor details such as food and temperature fall by the wayside,” Babette said, not entirely—though mostly—sarcastically.

  If Iosef realized the sarcasm in the statement—how could he not?—he gave no indication of it. Certainly, he did not seem offended. Instead, he placed one hand on the small of Babette’s back and motioned toward the doors.

  “Let us go inside where it is warm,” he said. “I will show you the library. You will like it, I think.”

  To this, Babette replied, “I will like anything, my lord, that is warmer than here.”

  * * * *

  There were several libraries in the house, Babette soon discovered, each with their own purpose: astrological subjects in the library by the observatory, martial topics in the reading room of the armory, and so forth. It was a realization that delighted her immensely. But when one spoke of “the library”, Iosef told her, one always meant the common library at the center of the castle. The reason for this became immediately apparent to Babette once they arrived.

  She entered through a door on the fourth floor and instantly felt her breath escape her in a gasp. She stood on a broad balcony of polished wood, ancient and smooth after ages of wear. All around her rose shelves of books five stories tall, filling a space as great as the Grande Salle of the Paris Opera beneath the watchful eye of a single massive dome. Balconies circled the room, each ten feet above the one below it, while walkways crisscrossed the space at intervals, connecting the balconies and accessing more shelves set in the middle of the room. Staircases rose at the corners, joining each level in an endless circuit of steps.

  Babette walked to the balcony and leaned out, rising on tiptoe to improve the angle of her view. She felt dizzy at the sight, but strangely elated as well. Perhaps a dozen men and women in chokhas, robes, and gowns were busy on the ground floor, carrying books from the shelves to tables or reading chairs. She saw a few more on the various balconies, perusing the tomes in search of their night’s reading.

  “Magnificent,” she said, when she finally found her breath again.

  Iosef joined her at the railing, arms folded.

  “It is,” he said. “It is more than a thousand years old, but it is still as sturdy as the day it was completed. Much of the wood is more recent of course—it is replaced regularly to circumvent age and rot—but the carpenters always match the shape and color with such precision that you would not know the wood was new by looking at it.”

  “A thousand years old?” Babette blinked as she looked at Iosef. Tilting her head upward, she studied the dome for a little while before turning back to him. “I find that rather incredulous. The size of that dome is tremendous for a thing so old, and especially one constructed of stone.”

  “True,” Iosef said, “but it is not without precedent. The architects took many lessons from the building of Hagia Sophia in Constantinople.”

  “Construction must have been difficult this high in the mountains,” Babette said.

  “Yes, it must have been,” Iosef agreed. “It is my understanding that the construction of the library, indeed of the entire castle, was a formidable undertaking. Of course, that was before my time.”

  “Like the Mongol hordes,” Babette said.

  “Indeed.”

  “When precisely was your time?” Babette asked.

  “A century and a half ago,” Iosef replied. “Not terribly long ago in the scheme of history, but enough to grant me perspective from which to observe things. Once one has outlived the shadow of death, things become much clearer.”

  “You said you were a foreigner,” Babette said. “Not a Svan.”

  “That is correct.”

  “How did you come to be here?” Babette asked.

  “You wish to hear the story?” Iosef asked.

  “I do,” Babette said, most sincerely. She was intrigued by Iosef. He was normally so reluctant to speak about himself.

  “Very well,” Iosef said. “Come.”

  He motioned for her to follow him and began walking along the balcony. Babette hurried after him and fell into step beside him, which took a little effort at first given the great difference in their respective strides. Finally, Babette found a tolerable pace of a step and a half to each of Iosef’s.

  “I was born at the dawn of the 18th Century,” Iosef said, “the third son of a third son. My father was the child of a Georgian nobleman from the lowlands, but left with no prospects for inheritance, he took up his sword and traveled north to Russia in search of fortune and glory.”

  “I take it he fou
nd them,” Babette said.

  “Indeed,” Iosef replied. He did not seem particularly concerned by the interruption. “My father became an officer in the service of Peter the Great and served with great distinction during the taking of Azov and in the war against Sweden. He took a Russian wife and set about producing my elder brothers and me in quick succession.”

  “Quick succession?” Babette asked.

  For a moment, Iosef seemed almost to smile.

  “Very quick,” he said. “By all accounts, my parents were very fond of one another and very healthy as well. Both of my elder brothers survived to adulthood, more’s the pity.”

  They reached one of the staircases, and Iosef led Babette down to the floor below.

  “When I came of age,” he continued, “I joined the Russian Army as an officer of cavalry. My commander was, in a word, a fool. In two words, an arrogant fool. When war broke out against Persia, we were sent as envoys to the Shashavani to beg their aid. Georgia and Armenia had already readied men to the cause, but the heirs of Shashava, despite pledges of support, were notably absent. I was sent because of my heritage and my knowledge of Georgian and because my low rank made me expendable if the Svans proved hostile.”

  “Did they?” Babette asked.

  “Not the Svans, no,” Iosef said. “Sophio.” He paused and turned toward her. “Upon arriving in the valley, we were greeted with great hospitality. And we were not killed on sight, despite arriving armed and without warning, which I now realize was utterly foolish.

  “Sophio proved a model host,” he continued. “She invited us in, had our horses stabled and our men fed. She ordered that a feast be laid out for us as emissaries of the ‘King of the Rhos.’ Alas, my commander proved boorish and impatient. In the midst of dinner, he had the audacity to demand words with Sophio’s lord and master—as, surely, no woman could rule. Upon learning that Sophio was indeed the highest authority in the valley, my commander ordered her to provide him with soldiers and arms to be ready for departure under his command within a week.”

  “I would have killed him,” Babette said.

  “She did,” Iosef replied. “There in the hall, before everyone, she tore his head from his shoulders and ordered the body thrown to the wolves for the offense. The men, loyal to their commander, attacked Sophio. It was a bloodbath.”

  “But Sophio is alive—” Babette began. She caught herself, understanding. “Oh.”

  “The guards of the house were on hand to protect her, but they were an added consideration. Most of the soldiers were slaughtered by Sophio’s hand alone.”

  “How did you survive?” Babette asked.

  “It was surprisingly simple,” Iosef said, turning down the next flight of stairs. “I neither fought nor fled. While the other men were cut down in the fighting or killed as they ran in fear, I finished my dinner.”

  “You what?” Babette stared at him, shocked beyond measure.

  “It was a very good dinner,” Iosef said, “and I never had much affection for my captain. I suspect he was similar in thought and conduct to your Captain des Louveteaux.”

  “Well,” Babette said, “that does put things in a different light. But what of your men?”

  “If I could have stopped them, I would have,” Iosef told her. “But they did not listen when I ordered them to hold. Any fool could see the only likely outcome—she had just torn a man’s head from his body—but still they attacked her. So I sat there and finished my dinner. I expected to be killed along with them, but Sophio apparently noticed the difference between the men attacking her and the man sitting quietly at her table.”

  “So she spared you,” Babette said rather than asked.

  Iosef nodded. “After my dinner and her slaughter had both finished, we sat and spoke for a long time. We discussed many things, and by the time she retired at dawn, she had, apparently, decided to keep me.”

  “Your marriage,” Babette said.

  “It was legitimate,” Iosef replied. “Although I do wonder what the Church would make of it if the Patriarch knew that my wife was a thousand years old at the time. Since then, we have maintained a careful genealogy of succession to keep up the illusion, and whenever I travel abroad, I do so in the guise of my descendants.”

  “How did you explain the deaths of the men?” Babette asked.

  “A rock fall,” Iosef replied. “And as the sole survivor, I was in the perfect position to corroborate the claim. I rejoined the Army, bringing with me the coveted Shashavani troops, and together we served, admirably I feel, at Rasht and Baku in ’23. After the victory, I returned to Svaneti to marry Sophio and, after my observance, I was inducted into the order. And the rest is a story for another day.”

  He led her to the final set of stairs, and they descended to the ground floor.

  “What is this ‘observance’ that you mention?” Babette asked. “Sophio spoke of it as well, but no one has explained it.”

  “It is simple,” Iosef said. “During your observance, you are observed. Members of the house watch you, study you as you go about your daily life. We determine from your conduct and habits whether you are to be inducted into the order. It is of great importance, though in practice it seldom prevents a supplicant from joining our ranks. The instincts of our members are sufficiently honed that only rarely does the observance result in a rejection.”

  “Good,” Babette said. “I would be most displeased to have come all this way for nothing.”

  “Hardly nothing, I think,” Iosef said. “After all, you shall enjoy our hospitality whether your pass your observance or not. And the view of the Caucasus is a sight unique in all the world.”

  “Yes, your mountains are both majestic and beautiful,” Babette agreed, “but I also have a special distain for boats. They do not agree with me.”

  Iosef smiled a little out of the corner of his mouth and said, “Believe me, Varanus, by the time your month of observance has passed, you will see things to warrant a hundred journeys upon stormy seas.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Iosef’s words proved true. Within days of her arrival, Babette had seen more incredible things than she could count. The sun rising over the Caucasus was the first sight that greeted her the following morning. It was the most beautiful that the sun had ever looked to her.

  The month of observance passed quickly. Babette saw little of Iosef and all but nothing of Sophio. Ekaterine was her constant companion, serving as her guide and translator. The language barrier was immense from the outset. Few of the Shashavani spoke French, German, or English, and those that did used archaic vocabulary and had accents determined as much by time as by geography. It seemed that none of them save Iosef, Luka, and Ekaterine had spoken French to a native speaker in less than two hundred years.

  Babette spent her days traveling the length and breadth of the valley, exploring the strange new land and its wonders. In the evening, she joined Iosef in the library, though he often left her to her own purposes once he had seen her settled in. The Shashavani archives were sufficient to hold her attention night after night.

  The contents of the great library so enraptured her that Babette lost all track of time. She did not even notice the ending of the month of observance until Iosef met her in the library that night.

  “Good evening, Varanus,” he said. “It is time.”

  “Time?” Babette asked. Then, with understanding, she asked, “Has it been a month already?”

  “It has,” Iosef said.

  “Am I to be presented to Sophio for approval?”

  Iosef shook his head and said, “There is no need. She and I have already met with the other masters of the order to discuss our views on your observance.”

  There was a pause.

  “And?” Babette asked. “With what result?”

  “It was as I believed,” Iosef replied. “You were approved with but a few reservations on Sophio’s part, and she has agreed to trust my discretion in this matter.”

  “So I
am to be inducted into your order?” Babette asked.

  “Yes, if you wish it,” Iosef said. “You have been granted leave to become one of the Shashavani.”

  Babette smiled and held her head a little higher, pleased to hear this. It was not every day that one was approved to become one of a cult of vampires. Then again, she had no idea what she was to do next.

  She cleared her throat and said conspiratorially, “It may surprise you to know this, my lord, but I have never before become a Shashavani. How does one go about this?”

  “One begins,” Iosef told her, “by following me.”

  Without another word, he turned and went out of the library. Babette quickly fell in behind him, hurrying to keep up with his long stride. She followed him through the corridors and down into the deep parts of the castle, through basements and sub-basements, past storerooms and darkened crypts, until they finally arrived in a bleak stone chamber occupied by nothing but a solitary altar carved from a single block of stone that sat in the center of the room. It was decorated with delicate carvings and words written in a language that Babette could not understand.

  “Not quite what I was expecting,” Babette said.

  “Patience,” Iosef told her.

  He crossed to the altar, knelt, and gave it a firm shove. Under concerted effort, it slowly slid back, revealing a set of stone steps that descended deeper into the earth.

  “Oh my,” Babette said.

  Iosef stood and nodded at the altar.

  “It is a precaution,” he said. “Only the Shashavani have the strength to open it. Now come. You must be told the story of Shashava before you can choose whether to take the oath.”

  “I follow, my lord,” Babette said.

  She watched Iosef take a lantern from a hook on the wall and followed him into the dark hole. The steps descended for a dozen feet or more before the tight passage finally opened up into a proper tunnel with smooth walls covered in mosaics and worn paintings. The images were of various things: mostly, it seemed, kings and queens and scholars, with the occasional warrior or fantastic beast. Babette noticed a gentle slope in the floor, taking them still downward as the tunnel turned, progressed, and turned again, slowly forming a great spiral.