by C. F. Waller
“Another three hours.”
“We should have booked train tickets before we left.”
“I was unaware you spoke Mandarin?”
“I don’t,” she frowns.
I remain silent. I do speak a little Mandarin, but pre-ordering has not occurred to me either so why belabor the point. Jennifer shuffles down the aisle to the rear and returns with a Diet Pepsi. Her green eyes glare at me as she sips.
“So, how old are you?”
“Old enough.”
“No really,” she presses. “You want me to share so it’s your turn. I’d like to know who I am travelling with.”
“I’m Edward,” I recite as if we are just meeting, lifting a hand to shake.
“No really,” she exhales, shaking her head slightly.
“Very well, I was born in the year 998 AD in Kiev. My father, Vladimir, was a man of some influence and I received a fine education. He passed when I was but sixteen and his holdings were handed over to my half-brother Illarion. He was a bastard born of a prostitute, and ordered the legitimate children killed before my father’s body was cold. We escaped to Poland, but one of my brothers stayed behind. I hear he eventually regained his position in a fairly grotesque battle with the whore’s spawn.”
“Ouch, sounds like an uncomfortable Thanksgiving dinner,” she sighs, rolling her eyes. “So you were already a thousand years old when I was born.”
“I have lived a blessed existence.”
“How’d you meet Beatrix?” she inquires. “I thought she was from England.”
“That’s true, but she was in France when our paths crossed. Bee had been keeping company with a Grand Master in the Knights Templar. You’re aware of that organization I assume?”
She nods.
“Our first meeting was a Saturday as I recall. On Friday the French had paraded out the Knights one at a time and burned them at the stake.”
“Yes, that’s why Friday the 13th is bad luck,” Jennifer tosses out.
“Well remembered young lady. By Saturday, they had run out of top management types and were burning the leftovers. I wasn’t really much for the spectacle, but Dorian was a huge fan of executions.”
“Really?”
“Yes, were trading cards in vogue during that time, he would have no doubt been an avid collector.”
To this, she wrinkles her nose as if she smelled something foul.
“Anyway, his preferred method was boiling people in oil, but in a pinch a good round of burnings would suffice. He was drawn out of the pub by the vocal crowd, leaving me at the bar alone. The assembled onlookers were howling at the executioners loud enough for me to hear inside. Dorian eagerly called for me to join the proceedings. Normally I would have declined, but he was insistent. The authorities had dragged out a woman and begun to burn her. While this was not unheard of in Paris, on this day the crowd was not pleased.”
“They were burning Beatrix?” Jennifer exhales in horror.
“Quite right. I was smitten with her on the spot. She was of course cursing like a common beggar and spitting at the crowd.”
“Classy.”
“Being on fire has a tendency to bring out the worst in a person,” I state firmly. “Nevertheless, I hurried to the men in charge and pointed out the impending riot.”
“And they just took her down?”
“There was a fairly large bribe provided by Dorian as well,” I admit. “And the poor dear was burned severely.”
“But boom, just like that you’re a couple?”
“This seems odd to you?”
“Not really,” she admits. “If I was on fire and you put me out, a romance would not be out of the question.”
“In truth she was bed ridden or recovering for the better part of three years. Even after that, the scars she carried were horrific. I left her with Dorian and only returned when informed she wished to leave his care.”
“Not that smitten then,” she frowns. “Passed her off to your friend.”
“You’re quite wrong,” I reply sharply. “I trusted Dorian implicitly. He assured me nothing illicit occurred between them.”
“If you say so.”
“Bee and I shared a love of the arts and travel. Ours was an affair for the ages.”
“Well that’s a great meet-cute I guess,” she shrugs. “If you two were so in love how come you weren’t together in Vegas with my father?”
“You’d have to meet Bee to understand. Independent doesn’t even begin to describe her. We had a tendency to disagree rather strongly from time to time. She would leave and then re-appear decades later to resume our love affair.”
“So, on again off again.”
“I last saw her in 1987,” I admit reluctantly. “We traded correspondence of course, but last spoke face to face in that year.
“So just texting and email?”
“Letters,” I scoff. “True love can only be conveyed by the written word.”
“Again, if you say so.”
“On this point, I most assuredly do.”
“Okay, on another subject. Dorian told my father, just before he died, that he was the last of us. Now you’re here, so clearly Dorian was wrong. How many others might there be?”
“A good question, but I have no inkling why Dorian thought he was the last?”
“Trust me,” she assures me. “He had it on good authority. So the question remains. How many of us are there?”
“We hold a Gathering every hundred years.”
“A gathering of minor-immortals?”
I nod. “If the event has to be cancelled the next location is already chosen. In 1950, the location was Berlin. For obvious reasons the Gathering did not take place.”
“You mean because it was a smoldering pile of rubble after the Russians squashed the Nazi’s?”
I nod again, acknowledging her grasp of the historical timeline.
“So you met where in 1951?”
“No, you misunderstand. The next Gathering would be in the year 2050.”
“You’d skip 100 years?”
“Obviously,” I bristle.
“Okay, where was the next Gathering held?”
“Gothenburg, Sweden.”
“Home of the Cartographer,” she blurts out.
“Home of what?”
“When my mother found the Cartographer he was living in Gothenburg,” she reveals. “Who chose the locations?”
“Apparently he did.”
“So who was at the Gathering in 2050? I assume you, but I don’t think my dad went,” she pauses, a finger on her lips. “Or at least he didn’t mention it to me.”
Arron Faust was not in Gothenburg at the 2050 Gathering. As a matter of fact, I was the only attendee that year. Does that mean I can pick the next location? I did make the trip and scoured the city looking for others of my kind, but found none. I had held onto a desperate delusion of finding Bee sipping tea in a café. This scenario not materializing did lead me to the assumption that the three of us were all that remained.
“No, he did not attend.”
“How many were there?”
“Other than myself,” I pause, then admit. “None.”
“Then our best guess is that we are the final three.”
“To the best of my knowledge that would appear accurate.”
“So, she only needs to kill three of us,” Jennifer mutters, tapping a fingertip on her bottom lip.
“She what?”
“Nothing, it’s not important yet.”
I want to protest, but she stumbles into the aisle and uses the seat tops to balance on her way to the bathroom. As I watch her close the door the old woman sitting behind us waves. Her dog is out of the cage and sitting in her lap. I return her acknowledgment, then turn to face forward. Thoughts of Bee float around in my consciousness. For whatever reason, Jennifer’s inference that there was more than friendship between Dorian and Bee chafes me. They were the best of friends, by any measure, but was there somethi
ng more? Why did she call Dorian to meet her and demand that I hide? Have I been kidding myself?
The tiny dog runs down the aisle, stopping just in front of me and coughs. After several violent heaves, a black mass the size of a gumball splatters on the floor. The pooch sniffs it, and then turns up his nose, racing up the aisle to the cockpit door. Leaning over so I can better see, the spot looks like chewed licorice.
“Disgusting beast,” I exhale, putting my seat back and closing my eyes.
Chapter Five
The cab ride from the airstrip to the train station takes two hours to travel what turns out to be 15 miles. Ragged looking people line the roads forcing all the vehicles into a narrow line. Horses and livestock congest the roadway exacerbating the dilemma. It’s visually odd to see the huge white dome of the massive train station on the horizon as you pass through what remains of Beijing. Crumbling concrete and rusted relics that many have been cars or possibly trains, lay rusting on the sidewalks. Even sitting inside the cab the putrid odor of rotted fish assaults my nostrils. There is a black sludge running downhill on the streets inside gutter. We pass a dead goat, which lies across the stream of the dark goop. This is what overpopulation and pollution look like after decades of ignored warnings.
In contrast, once safely inside the station everything is clean and white. It’s crowded, but the people are well dressed and looking prosperous. My Mandarin comes in handy and Jennifer seems impressed. I acquire two tickets on the bullet train that will allow us to reach Berlin. The next train won’t leave for another six hours. This information throws her into a hissy fit, complaining that we might not reach her father in time. In hopes of quelling her fears, and basically ending the foot stomping scene she’s making, I steer her to a restaurant in the station. It’s full up, but two men at the bar see her crocodile tears and offer us their seats. At last, some advantage materializes from her fits of sobbing. The place turns out to be very upscale offering a French menu, but in my opinion, all of the food in China tastes like chop-suey. After eating, I order an expensive bottle of Bourgogne Pinot Noir and when Jennifer approves, request a second. The wine seems to calm her.
“Where’s your money come from?” she wonders aloud in a slightly inebriated way.
“Come again?”
Money, where’s your money?” she repeats. “My father’s money is all inherited.”
“Your indicating it was once Dorian’s?”
“Yes, Dorian had storage units filled with old stuff worth millions. There was a book full of lists. Each list had a key attached. You go to the location listed and use the key to open the locker. There are furniture lockers, jewelry lockers and even some filled with antique cars.”
“Yes, I have seen your fathers’ gas guzzling automobile,” I chuckle, recalling the only internal combustion car I witnessed in the entirety of Germany.
“Is that the financial blueprint for all minor-immortals or is your wealth elsewhere?”
While my own wealth is held in private holding companies, there are a few caches of antiques. If you live long enough, you encounter plenty of stuff worth hoarding. I have not laid eyes on any of my secret belongings since before Jennifer was born, but am thinking about it now. Thoughts of my estate in Mirabella rush into my head. My treasures hidden in plain view among a string of tiny bungalows along the Southern coast of Spain. I spent many summers there with Bee. I pay a small fortune every year to a management group to rent it. Underneath the foundation sits a concrete bunker full of Bee’s things. Is that where my photographs are? While paying for the upkeep and men to oversee the property, I have not visited that location in at least eight decades. I make a note to go there should we survive whatever debacle I am entering into now. The remains of a bread crust bounces off my chest as Jennifer attempts to get my attention.
“Are you having mini-stroke? Because I’m not a dull person.”
“Sorry, my funds are diversified, but yes, I have several caches of antiques.
“I better get started then,” she muses. “The oldest thing I have is a Hello Kitty mousepad from high school.”
“When did you find out you were a minor-immortal?” I ask, wincing at the new term. “Did he tell you when you were a child or wait till you stopped aging?”
“On my twenty-first birthday dear-old-dad took me to dinner. Afterward we have a bottle of wine and cruise his Mustang down to the church where my mother is buried. I know something is up, because he sits down in the grass and leans on the headstone like it’s a sofa. I’m standing there with my arms crossed in annoyance when he drops it on me.”
“You said he’d been telling you stories for years,” I jump in. “Were you not previously aware?”
“Oh sure, I knew he was immortal. He had explained every intricate detail of my mother and his life after, but not that I shared this trait.”
“But surely it’s good news?”
“In a way, but there was a boy,” she shares, her face looking distraught. “We had been together since my freshman year. With graduation around the corner I suspected a proposal was coming.”
“What was his name?”
“Rodrick.”
“And did young master Rodrick ask for your hand?” I inquire, becoming entwined in her tale.
“He did, that very summer,” she answers wistfully.
“Please tell me you married the lad.”
“What do you think?” she frowns tipping up her glass and emptying it.
“There’s nothing wrong with marriage to a mortal. In your case, it’s much easier than for a man. You could never become pregnant, thus avoiding the very thing that doomed your mother.”
She glares at me over the top of her empty wine glass. Its takes several moments before the reality of her predicament becomes apparent to me. She holds out her glass and I refill it, though her look remains sullen.
“He wanted children?” I choke out, lowering my voice.
She nods and takes another swig. I decide to drop the matter here. I fully understand that navigating the seas of this type of relationship is beyond difficult. I myself carried on torrid affairs with mortal women before meeting my queen Bee. Pausing, try as I might, no names come to me. Is it that time has devoured them or did loving another so very much wash them from my heart? I pray it’s the latter, but fear my memory is failing. Patting my breast pocket, I feel the reassuring thump of my notebooks. When the mind fails, you can always return to the written word. When I look up Jennifer is again staring at me.
“Where is it you go when you drift off?”
“To a better place,” I sigh, thinking of things long past.
“Are you dangerous?”
“Come again?”
“My father claims that our kind are pacifists,” she remarks, putting a hand over her mouth to silence a belch. “But from what I know of Beatrix this isn’t the case.”
“It’s true that we avoid violence, but it’s an obvious symptom of our gift. If you know you won’t die from old age, then why would you enter into dangerous entanglements?”
“My mother claimed that when she first caught up to Beatrix, she killed three guys,” Jenn raises her eyebrows, wine sloshing in her glass. “She had some sort of Japanese sword hidden up her sleeve.”
I fight not to grin at this revelation, least I be labeled as bloodthirsty. Bee was unusual for our kind. She often blamed her reckless nature on having lived her life and many others she did not deserve. Beatrix never initiated violence, but did not shy away from it either. The weapon in question was hand made by an Asian Craftsman. Not in Japan however. The item was purchased and fitted in London.
She had been toting around a short dagger in her handbag for centuries, but witnessed a demonstration at a ball we attended. A drunken nobleman was showing off his own concealed sword when he accidentally ran his lady through. They were slow dancing and the blade popped right out of her backside, covering another couple in blood. I clearly recall the white powdered wigs of the unfortunate couple t
urning pink from the spray. In an unnerving display of upper class decorum, many of the witnesses laughed. They didn’t even stop dancing. Infatuated, Beatrix faked outrage at the incident, then, demanded to know where he had acquired such a ridiculous prop.
On a grotesquely filth covered street on the West End we found the inventors abode. When told of the accidental impalement, the tiny inventor looked grieved. Once Bee assured him we were not looking to make trouble and instead wanted a similar sword he calmed considerably. Over the next three months, we paid regular visits as the artisan custom fit Bee’s own weapon. It was a sword on a rolling track concealed under the long sleeve of her dress. Bee always wore high-collared long sleeve attire, as her burn scars were considerable. The blade was hinged so once free of her cuff it could double in length, but the 12 inches it started with were almost always more than sufficient. The item seemed to empower her, but as a result, we danced far less often.
“Ahhh heeem,” Jennifer croaks when I disappear from the conversation.
“Yes I know the weapon in question. I never saw her use it in anything but self-defense.”
“And yet she murdered three guys, nearly beheading one.”
“I’ll go out on a limb and guess they were attempting to detain her,” I wager, pointing my wine glass in her direction. “Am I close?”
She nods and holds her glass out for a refill. When I pluck the bottle out of the silver bucket of ice there isn’t a drop left inside. Scanning the bar, I find our waiter and wiggle the empty over my head. He nods and disappears into the kitchen.
“Maybe we have had enough,” Jennifer suggests, then belches.
“You can never have too much wine,” I recite, recalling this being chanted in the salon at many a Gathering. “That I have on good authority.”
…
When they call our train, we stumble into our private cabin and relax. The tiny space has single bunks that flip down on either wall. When in the upright position they act as sofas. I tuck Jennifer into hers, draping a blanket over her as she rolls away roughly, clenching her eyes shut. She is going to have a whooper of a headache. Removing my suit jacket, but not the vest, I lie atop my bunk and put my hands behind my head. I have travelled by train quite often as I moved through the timeline of the industrial revolution. This bullet train is a far cry from the smog belching early models, but a train is ultimately still a train. Closing my eyes, I try to recall riding the rails with Bee. It doesn’t take long to find a memory that fits this description.