by Mark Eller
Chapter 14-- The Nature of Evil
Mira watched her guest open his eyes to discover he was tied to a bed resting in a pale room. He looked up, she knew, to see a pale skinned woman wearing a thin frown who held a knife against his throat.
“You’re awake,” Mira said emotionlessly. “I was debating whether I should kill you or escort you down to dinner.”
“I haven’t eaten in a few days,” the man carefully replied. He pulled on the ropes fastening him to the bed. The ropes did not move, but Mira felt her knife scrape against his skin. A thin bead of blood rose from the new wound.
She nodded, pulled the knife away, and set it against his ropes. “Just as well. It’s been years since I last killed somebody. I’m out of practice.”
“I would hate for you to do a bad job of it,” the man said. “Imperfection easily becomes habit.”
The ropes parted with only a little persuasion. Mira nodded approvingly when she saw he waited for her to signal he could move.
“You won‘t like dinner,” she warned. “Winter struck before autumn arrived so the local farmers didn’t have time to properly cull their sheep or bring in their harvest. All I have to offer are the feet of a two-week dead boar and a few vegetables. By the way, my name is Mira, and can you tell me why you were lying in the snow near my doorstep wearing nothing but light clothing?”
Pulling the severed ropes away, he sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He looked as if every muscle he owned was stiff and sore, which Mira thought unsurprising since the man had been unconscious when she found him. She watched while he released a faint groan and studied his surroundings. The room was small and utilitarian, holding the bed, a small dresser, and a window without curtains. Through the window, evening had long ago chased daylight away. The only outdoor light was moonlight and a hint of the northern lights which danced across the far northern sky.
“There is still snow,” he said, rubbing at the marks on his neck.
“Ignorant Souther. We still have a good deal of winter left. Most of it, in fact.” She pointed out the window. “I used to think snow was pretty when the northern lights came out. They sometimes made the snow green or purple, and once, when I was still a child, I saw the snow turn red, but that was long ago.”
“Snow is cold,” he observed, rising, “and my clothes are too thin because I thought the winter over. I was told long ago I could find warm clothes here. I am Jolson.”
“Snow is always cold,” Mira told him. “The weather remains more unpredictable than I’ve ever before seen, and I’ve three rooms filled with discarded clothes from people who’ve died in this house. Come. My other guest waits.”
She led him down a short dark hallway where cobwebs decorated the ceiling corners and the air held the familiar scent of must and mold. The hallway took them to a set of steps leading down to a sitting room which was attached to a dining room and butted up against the kitchen. Only the furniture’s arrangement and stripes painted on the floor differentiated the rooms. There were no intervening walls. The things Jolson saw, she knew, were awash in clashing colors she could not see. For her, the world existed in varying shades of black and gray.
Another man sat at the dining table.
“His name,” Mira announced, “is Jolson.” She gestured toward an empty chair at the table. “Jolson, please sit. Mr. Izza Van Wess was about to inform me on the King’s Matter. He has the honor of being the king’s courtier, as well as being a noted mage and philosopher.”
“I am not aware of this matter,” Jolson said as he settled into the seat. A plate holding two pig hocks and a small pile of stirred greens sat before him. After her guest was seated, Mira settled into a chair which had neither a plate nor a cup before it.
“Please forgive me if I don’t join you,” she explained. “I dine only infrequently.”
Van Wess snorted. “Not aware of the King’s Matter? You must have been living in a hole for the last five years if you‘re so ignorant.” He studied Jolson with steady brown eyes set below graying hair. Caution entered those eyes. A muscle twitched in his hollow cheek
“Actually,” Jolson smiled faintly, “I did live in a hole.”
“There’s no heir,” Mira said, hoping to clarify matters. Resting her hand on Jolson’s shoulder, she ran it along his arm until her hand caressed his hook’s shank. The hook felt warm and alive, and this excited some inner part of her core. Frowning, Mira pulled her hand away. “The queen is barren so the king must set her aside, only Anothosia, the goddess he follows, forbids divorce. The king’s paramour is impatient, and all of Yernden awaits the outcome.”
“But not for much longer,” Van Wess added. “King Vere has changed his allegiance. Yernden will no longer follow any of the seven gods since the king has now cast his lot with the Two. Athos’s priests have assured him they will grant his divorce petition.”
“He has accepted Athos!” Mira exclaimed, shaking her hand beneath the table’s top to rid it of a residual tingling.
“He has accepted the father,” Van Wess calmly explained. “Zorce.” Pulling a small shaker from his front pocket, he sprinkled a brown powder across his pig hocks. “Jolson, would you like some spice? Our hostess has none of her own.”
“Please,” Jolson replied. Reaching over, Van Wess sprinkled a liberal portion over Jolson’s food. Jolson nodded, held the meat down with a fork, and sliced off a thin strip with his hook’s edge, possible because this flesh was dead. When he tried a careful taste a pleased expression crossed his face. He took another bite.
Mira shook her head, saddened by the king’s troubles. “This is a sorry time for the kingdom. Athos is bad enough, but he’s sainted when compared to his father‘s evil.”
Van Wess chuckled contemptuously. “Pure provincialism. There is no such thing as good and evil. They are only popular concepts which can be manipulated by priests and kings to control the populace.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Watching Jolson take another bite, Mira wished she dared try the food.
“I am not surprised,” Van Wess said scornfully. “You country folk don’t get the latest university educations. The books you read were written twenty years ago, and they were out of date then. Our modern schools recognize good and evil are nothing more than artificial concepts created to codify ambiguous ideas posited by past scholars in an effort to understand the nature of man‘s inner struggles. I have proven in philosophical debate the fallacy of those past beliefs.” After studying his plate for a few moments, he lifted a small stack of greens with his fork and let them fall back, uneaten.
Jolson stirred his own greens and tried a sample.
“Let me posit you a question,” Van Wess said to Mira. “Jolson has the appearance of a spawn, and yet it is obvious to the trained eye he is actually an admixture of spawn and human both. Tell me, do you consider Jolson evil?”
“Of course not,” Mira replied, affronted. “He is my guest. To think ill of him would be rude.”
“And yet,” Van Wess jabbed his fork at her, “most would consider him evil incarnate. For example, he wears the cloak of a man I met a few months ago. The spot of blood on it was not there before. I must conclude he has done evil by murdering the cloak’s original owner, and yet the murder most likely saved Jolson’s life by providing him with a modicum of warmth when the weather changed. To not have murdered the man would have been tantamount to suicide. Suicide is thought to be evil. Jolson was left with two choices, both equally repellant, yet in the end the path he followed was the path of good because the man he killed was a charlatan who had beggared more than one unsuspecting family. An act of evil preserved Jolson’s life and did a great good for a small segment of mankind. Ergo an evil act became good, and to have done good by allowing the man to live would have been evil.”
“I’m not sure I follow your logic,” Mira admitted, feeling uncomfortable. “Murder is murder.”
“But you have murders of your own,” Van Wess pointed out. Idly usi
ng his fork, he stirred his greens once more.
“Yes,” Mira agreed. “I do. I’ve never denied my own wickedness.” She wanted to reach out to Jolson’s hook. Its touch made her feel warm when she thought she would never feel warmth again. An old face with accusing eyes passed through her memory. Several others followed. The faces of her dead. Those memories brought a familiar wave of remorse. “My murders were long ago, back when I first came into who I am, but that is no matter. My acts were evil, and I am forever damned.”
“But we have just concluded there is no such thing as evil,” Van Wess pointed out.
“You are both wrong,” Jolson broke in. “Evil exists, as does good, and neither is part of a person‘s innate nature. They are separate substances which seek to infect the human soul. Evil seeks to destroy all that does not partake of its nature, while the substance termed ‘good’ desires only that all things be given a chance to exist.”
“Claptrap!” Van Wes released a barking laugh. “I have sixteen pages of proofs which say different. Substance indeed. Nonsense. Your brain is weak from blood loss.”
“I have lost no blood,” Jolson said evenly. “I was merely cold.”
Shaking his head, Van Wess smiled a contemptuous smile. “Why do you think our hostess does not eat?”
Jolson turned his gaze to Mira. His smoky eyes bore into her, weighed her. Mira shifted uncomfortably while Jolson’s pulse sounded heavy in her ears. She watched the slow throb of blood passing through a vein in his neck. The marks she had left earlier were almost healed, and the memory of his flavor still pleased her. She felt— full— something she hadn’t felt for a very long time.
“It’s no secret,” she said defensively. “My neighbors all know. They watch for signs of my predations, but they leave me to myself so long as I kill no one and don’t leave my land.”
“You are a living soul housed in dead flesh,” Jolson observed. “I can see your body’s need for blood, but there is little evil within you.” He gestured toward Van Wess. “This one has more evil than you, though he is as white as the snow outside your door when compared to me. Human flesh is limited by its mortal nature. It can possess only so much evil or so much good. I was born human, but I was murdered on Athos’s altar. The flesh I now wear was created in Hell, and so the evil I possess is greater than anything held by a pure human.”
“But Van Wess said you’re conflicted,” Mira pointed out. She shivered inside, treasuring the uniqueness of the sensation. Part of her wondered if she should be afraid. She wasn’t sure. Mira hadn’t felt fear since she died, and she’d been dead for far longer than she had ever been alive.
“I am cursed,” Jolson explained. “A moment’s hesitation and I fell victim to a trap. I gave a dying man peace and he gave me conscience. Later, I took the knowledge within part of a woman‘s soul. With it came part of her good.” He grimaced. “I have encapsulated both within a mind-made burl but remain always aware both exist within my brain. Hell-made flesh is not meant to house light’s curse.
“Then you, too, don’t know peace?” Mira asked.
“Peace?” Van Wess snorted. “Evil, if it existed, would never allow you to give a man peace.”
“There is will,” Jolson said quietly. “Evil does not always rule.”
“Maybe not,” Mira said, “but hunger does. My neighbors will become cross if I don‘t finish grinding their grain. Cross neighbors will refuse to bring me the occasional small cup of their blood, and I need blood to survive. Please finish your meals. I must return to work.”
* * * *
Mira pressed grease into the mill’s shaft bearings at the ground and near the ceiling. She noted two cracked paddles on her horizontal waterwheel would need to be replaced soon, but they would do for now. Climbing a ladder, she opened the chute which jutted into her mill’s lower room. Water shot down the chute and struck against the paddles, turning the wheel slowly at first, and then a bit faster. The water splashed off the blades before flowing down the hill slope she had built her mill on. After studying the mill’s speed for a short while, Mira adjusted the chute’s gate until only enough water flowed to turn the wheel six times every minute. Above, she heard the sound of stone on stone. Satisfied with these settings, she climbed the rest of the way up the ladder, critically studied the rotating grindstone, adjusted the anvil stone’s height, and then filled the hopper with sorted grain. Footsteps sounded behind her.
“Ah,” Van Wess said. “A horizontal waterwheel. I’ve not seen many. The art of their design was mostly lost when the Hellas Empire fell. I’m surprised yours has existed so long.”
“It hasn’t,” Mira said. She turned to frown at her unwelcome guest. “I built this wheel. It isn’t as efficient as a vertical overshot, but it was the best I could do with what I had.”
“I see.” His face scrunched, almost as if he had eaten something sour.
“You disapprove?”
“The mechanical arts do, I suppose, have their place,” Van Wess admitted, “but they are hardly appropriate for a person possessing a refined mind. Indeed, their study is not a part of the trivium or the quadrivium.”
“I’m not familiar with those terms,” Mira lied. She bent to the grain bin, filled a bucket, and poured it into her already half empty hopper. A fine dust filled the air.
“The trivium is grammar and rhetoric and logic,” Van Wess explained. “The quadrivium is arithmetic, geometry, astronomy and music. They are the seven arts, and those arts are all that matter to a man of intellect.
“I heard nothing of magery in your recital,” Mira said, “and yet it’s a craft you claim.”
“We all have our faults,” Van Wess conceded while fishing around inside several of his pockets. Pausing, he drew forth a tangle of string as gray as his hair. “I possess more than a few.”
“As do I,” Mira conceded. “One of my greatest is a growing impatience with flawed philosophy. May I enquire as to how long I’ll be burdened with your company?”
His smile was gentle. “An extended period, I am afraid. King Vere sent me here because he has need for your talents. He desires your presence in his court.”
Shaking her head, Mira took a careful step back. “But what could he want from me?”
“You are a vampiress,” he said. “You have the ability to control those from whom you have directly drunk more than once. There are, sadly, a few nobles who are hesitant about changing their allegiance to Zorce. These few could cause the king some difficulty. The worst offenders are presently being killed. He requires you to control the others for us.”
Mira shook her head. “You speak of the king, but I suspect you answer to Helace and Belsac, the King’s Pair.”
Shrugging, Van Wess winked. “At this time, there is no difference.”
“I refuse,” Mira said. Preparing for action, she gathered her strength and dropped her fangs.
“I can force you to it,” Van Wess said warningly, “but I will not. Instead, I wish you to fulfill a desire of my own.”
Mira bared her pointed teeth. “You forget what I am.”
“No,” he said. “I do not, and that is why you suit my needs so well.” With a quick flick of his fingers, he cast his tangle of string into the air where it spread out in a fine web. Amused, Mira tried to brush the web aside, but it entangled her arm and then enveloped the rest of her. Surprised, Mira paused for a moment too long. In that moment, the string settled on her body, sank through her clothes, into her skin, and was gone.
Watching, Van Wess chuckled. “Did you really think I came all this way merely because of the king’s whim? My dear, I knew of you long before King Vere ordered me to prepare my spell. I have long wanted the chance to open your body for examination. Learning how you can live for so long would give me great insights.” Stepping to the ladder, he put a hand on its rail. “However, after meeting your other guest and discerning the nature of his hook, my plans have changed. Follow me. Jolson awaits our return.”
* * * *
Wishing she could be anywhere else, Mira followed Van Wess into her home to see Jolson standing beside the dining table. His face was marble hard, but his eyes blazed fury.
“Unlike the spell I laid on you,” Van Wess explained as he led her toward Jolson, “the spell on our friend is only temporary. My ‘spice’ is a generic and short term magic, so we must hurry this up and kill him before he regains the ability to deny my will.” He studied Jolson’s still form. “The spawn does not seem to take well to being controlled.”
“I’ve been controlled before,” Jolson responded, his voice crystal hard. “I will not be controlled again.”
“Everybody is controlled,” Van Wess told him. “The secret is to know who is doing the controlling.”
“Control is an illusion,” Jolson insisted.
Van Wess smiled warmly. “Welcome to my illusion.”
Mira’s face felt wooden, but inside, her anger roiled. “What do you want of me?”
“I want you to die,” Van Wess explained. “Jolson will use his hook to take everything which prevents you from aging and give it to me. The process, he assures me, will cause your death. It will also be his as I will have no further use for him once the process is complete.”
“But I’m alrea—”
Green lightning flared when Jolson’s hook blazed to life. Angrily striding forward, he grabbed her wrist. Mira tried to pull away from him only to fail. She was vampire strong, but his strength proved to be greater. Resigned, she stood calmly when the evil hook’s point jabbed though her palm and jutted out the other side of her hand. Strangely, she felt no pain although a little blood flowed sluggishly from the wound. Grinning, Van Wess raised his own hand, looked wryly at its palm, and jammed it down over the protruding point. His wound did not bleed.