by Anth
Anton glanced at the painting, at the knives of sunlight cutting through the city streets.
"You give up something, yes," Bethany said, "but you'll be free of age and death forever."
"And you drink blood. You prey on other people," Anton put a hand to the bandage on his throat.
"But you don't need to hurt them" Bethany insisted. "It can be pleasurable. You saw that."
Anton nodded. "In the stories, vampires can hypnotize their victims," he said.
"Yes," Bethany said.
'So I couldn't resist if you just came in here and attacked me again."
"No, you couldn't, not for long," Bethany agreed. But the Prince has ordered us to offer you a choice between Serata and myself"
Stefan, bored by this, growled, "Choose, mortal. Bethany or Serata?"
"I need time," Anton said. "I need time to think about it."
"What is there to think about?" Stefan demanded. "We offer you eternity, and you have a choice between more power or less—choose now!"
"I need time," Anton said, "to put my affairs in order.'
"No one needs to know you've crossed over," Bethany pointed out.
"Still, I need time" Anton insisted. "You're asking me to choose between a total stranger and a woman who is nearly so, between power and something that might be love—or might not. You two claim to be eternal—what does one day matter?"
Bethany smiled wryly. "It doesn't," she agreed "Tomorrow night, then?"
"Serata will not be pleased," Stefan warned "Come on," Bethany told htm. She took Stefan arm and pulled him toward the door; he shook her off and marched out, Bethany close on his heels.
The fog was thick the following night, spilling through the streets in opaque billows, cutting off all vision and blurring all light; perhaps, Bethany thought, that was why Stefan was late, why she had arrived alone and found the door of the studio standing open.
When she saw the door open, for a moment she feared that someone had broken in, that Anton had fallen prey to human avarice—or Serata's.
There had been no robbery, and Serata had not disobeyed the Prince; a dozen paintings were set out on display, untouched. The one that Bethany had borrowed had a place of honor in the center. The note was pinned to that last finished canvas, and addressed to her—not to Stefan, only to her
"Dear Bethany," she read, "I have made my choice."
She looked up for a moment, then continued reading.
"I had thought that you understood and appreciated my work," the note said. You certainly praised it highly, and in your own way, I suppose you did appreciate it—but it's plain that you didn't understand it, nor did that other person, Stefan, who you brought here."
Bethany glanced at the painting, momentarily puzzled, "Perhaps I could have explained it to you," Anton's words continued, "but I don't think that Stefan or the creature he serves could ever have accepted it. All my life, other people have made my decisions for me—sent me to the best schoois, found me the right jobs, always acting for my own good— until I inherited my grandmother's money and could finally do what I pleased.
"And now, I've succeeded too well, and Stefan's mistress would act for my own good, and destroy what she seeks to control I can never be what you are. what you want me to be, any more than I could be what my parents wanted me to be.
"Goodbye, Bethany I know you meant well."
Bethany dropped the note and looked up again, at Anton's body dangling from the noose, turning slowly, limbs stiff—he had obviously died hours before, perhaps just minutes after she had last seen him alive, and there was no hope of revival to either life or a vampiric approximation of life.
Even had revival been possible, Bethany thought, she would have respected this final artistic decision— or at least, she hoped she would have. Her gaze fell back from Anton's remains to his works.
His body hung below the broad studio window, below the row of too-bright Eights, and the corpse's black shadow twisted across a dozen paintings, paintings that, one and all, showed bright sunlight slanting across the sky, illuminating fields, forests, streets, and spires, sunlight gleaming from whitewashed walls, sunlight scattered by dancing water, sunrises, sunsets—everywhere, on all sides, in every painting, the sun that Bethany had not seen with her own eyes for more than forty years, the sun she had asked Anton to give up forever, the sun he could not live without.
The Waters of Lethe
by Bill Bridges
Doctor Murry F, Bruckner scribbled more notes onto his pad, put his pen down, and looked over at his patient- The man was lying on the couch looking uncomfortable and nervous. It was only the patient's second therapy, and he was still unsure of the process. Doctor Bruckner cleared his throat
Ahem Are you ready, Mr. Barnes?" he asked.
Mr. Barnes breathed deeply. "Yes. Go ahead, We might as well start now."
Ail right. It really is for the best, Mr, Barnes. I'm sorry: Charles.
That's not my real name, you know. I just pulled it from a phone book,"
"Yes, I know. But let's use it for now, as if it had meaning. All right?"
Mr. Barnes was silent for a moment, then responded in a low voice, "Okay."
"Charles, have you thought more about your dream from last time?"
"Yes. But I've had another, stranger, dream."
"Oh? Does this one seem more important to you than the last one?"
"Yeah. I guess so."
Then let's talk about it. What happened in this dream?"
"!—I was standing on the street, outside the hospital. The hospital was dark, evil There was no light I .. knew that. . . things moved in there. I had to get away. So I ran I ran all the way here, to your office. But this building was dark also. I was worried. Something was behind the door. I didn't want to go in."
"Something? What kind of thing?"
"I don't know It was evil."
"Was it an animal? A lizard or mammal? A person?"
"It was all three, I don't know."
"Did any of it seem familiar to you?"
"Yes. The things. I've met them before."
"[n other dreams? You remember these dreams?'
"No, not in dreams. In real life."
"Hmm I think perhaps your memories of dreams and actual events is somewhat confused, But it's a good sign. At least some memories are coming back."
"No. I'm sure it was real. It wasn't a dream before,"
"Charles, dreams can have an amazing pull on our psyches, especially upon a wounded psyche such as yours. You're suffering an advanced case of amnesia, You are desperate to have your memories—your life, your identity—back. In such an instance, I'm not surprised fantastic dreams seem so real, as if they actually happened."
Then how do you explain the weird shit in every dream I've had for the past three weeks?!"
"Calm down. As I said before, it's either a reaction to whatever caused your traumatic amnesia, the psyche's attempt to make you deal with it by veiling it in symbols and mythic images, or perhaps you were a science fiction writer, and these images are things from your stories."
"Wait—that seems close. I almost remembered something when you said stories. Maybe that's it. Maybe I do write stories."
"You see No cause for alarm. Our session is almost over I want to see you again this Friday, Realize that our task in these sessions is to awaken the memory. You've drunk from the waters of Lethe. to use a classical metaphor for amnesia. But nothing is ever really forgotten; it's all in there somewhere." Bruckner tapped his head as he said this in the meantime, I recommend you go to the library or bookstore, to see if anything seems familiar. Who knows? Maybe you'll find a book or two you wrote."
Charles tried to fake a smile, but Bruckner wasn't fooled.
"Now," said the psychologist. Tel! me what happened in your dream last night."
Charles stared up at the ceiling as he spoke. "They're killing me: the dreams. I wake up every night sweating and shaking_ I swear they'
re real—or at least they seem to be."
"Have you seen the 'things' yet, or do they still lurk outside your vision?"
"No. I haven't seen them But I heard something new: a bark—a dog barking somewhere in the distance,"
"From what direction?"
"Huh? I don't know. It was just far off"
Bruckner wrote something down on his pad. "Anything else?"
"No, just the same dream for a week now—except for the bark."
"Yes, the bark. Interesting. Do you recall ever owning a dog?"
"I don't remember. Maybe I did. I do like dogs,"
"Oh? How do you know?"
"Well, I pet them when I see them. They seem to like me too '
"Good. Good. I like them too. I have a few myself. A setter and a beagle. What about the fiction? Have you looked in any stores to see if you recognize any books?"
'Yes. But I don't recognize anything, I don't think I've read anything in those stores."
"Really? Not even Huck Finn?"
"What?"
"The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain. Ring any bells?"
"No. Is it a bestseller?"
"Sort of. Just about all American schoolboys are required to read it sometime in their education. So, either you did not have conventional schooling or your memory loss is still chronic
"I guess so. I still don't remember anything."
"Well, just try those exercises I gave you; the memory tests Perhaps by next week we'll have seen some progress."
"Okay. Thanks " Charles rose from the couch and headed for the door.
"Goodbye, Mr. Barnes," Bruckner said.
"Oh, God. I don't know what's going on anymore!' Charles cried,
"Get ahold of yourself," Bruckner said, sitting Charles on the couch. "Let me get you some water. lust sit down and teli me what happened."
Charles buried his head in his hands as Bruckner poured some water from a decanter into a glass and brought it over to him. He looked up and accepted the water. "Thanks."
All right. From the beginning," Bruckner said, sitting in his chair and arranging his notebook.
"One of those things attacked me. And it wasn't a dream."
"What? When was this? Where?"
"Outside the hospital Last night. J was walking to the market when it jumped out of the bushes. God, it had huge teeth and claws, like a bear's. It
was dripping pus and screaming at me! Oh, God,
i "
"Stop it! Don't let yourself get carried away by this. It was obviously a hallucination. Brought on, perhaps, by the stress of your situation. Maybe you shouldn't go near the hospital any—"
"Doctor, it wasn't a hallucination! Look. .." Charles pulled back his right sleeve, revealing three huge. closely spaced gashes across his arm. They appeared to be infected.
"Good God! Have you seen a doctor about this?"
"No. I was afraid, i just ran. I coutdn't go back there. It's waiting for me."
Bruckner got out of his chair, moving over to look at the arm more closely. The injury appeared to be claw marks from some animal. The wound was too jagged, too irregular for a knife injury.
"I've got to get you some help,' Bruckner said.
"Doctor, it's not my arm I need help with. It's my sanity. What's happening to me? You said the thing was just a dream, but it attacked me."
'Nonsense! Don't fail into that pit! You've been attacked by a wild animal, perhaps escaped from the zoo. Certainly not by a creature from your dreams!"
"But. it was so real."
"Of course it was. You're in the grip of an archetypal image, perhaps even your shadow. We must change our tactics somewhat. I hadn't thought your condition was so severe. I think we should try hypnotism."
"Will that work? I thought that was just hocus pocus."
"It can be a very effective tool when used with skill and understanding. It is a tool of discovery, not control. May we try it?"
"I've got nothing to lose. Why not? When should we start?'
"Right away. I see no reason to delay. If it can help calm you and release you from the grip of whatever unconscious content holds you in its sway, it can only help us now. Now, lie back and breath deeply."
Charles did as Bruckner told him and immediately calmed down. Bruckner pulled his watch and chain from his vest—an old, but effective standard in hypnotism. "All right. Stare closely at the watch. As it swings, you will be getting very sleepy."
Bruckner went through the whole routine. In minutes, Charles was in a deep hypnotic state. "Now, Charles, when I snap my fingers, you will awaken. You will remember only what is good from our talk, not what is bad. Only what is good, what you want to remember, not what is bad, not what hurts to remember Nod if you understand."
Charles nodded.
"Good. Now, lets go into your memories, your deep memories, the ones you have not been able to access recently. Can you do that? Nod if you can."
Charles nodded.
"Good Now, Charles, what is your real name?"
Charles thrashed on the couch, but then calmed down. Holds-Their-Songs," he replied.
"Holds-Their-Songs? (s that your name, Charles, or what you were told to do?"
"My name," Charles said. "And what I was told to do,"
Bruckner looked perplexed and wrote some things down on his pad.
"Let's go farther back, to your childhood. Do you remember your name then?"
"Yes."
"What was it?J
"Daniel."
"Daniel? Was that your full name? Did you have a last name also?"
"Robertson."
"Did you have a happy childhood. Daniel?"
"No."
"Oh? Why not? What was bad about it?"
Daniel began to thrash about on the couch again, still hypnotized. He began to growl low and menacing.
Why are you growling, Daniel?"
"Angry! Like a dog!"
"Why like a dog, Daniel?"
"I am a dog!"
"I thought you were a boy?"
Charles wrinkled his brow in confusion and squirmed on the couch
"Aren't you a boy, Daniel, not a dog, but a boy?"
Silence for a moment. "Yes."
"What made you angry?"
"Hurt. Pain. Nobody understands."
"How old are you now, Daniel, when you fee! this pain?"
"Thirteen.'
"Don't the other kids fee! the same, Daniel? Why is your pain special?"
"They don't! They don't understand! They hate me!"
"Why? Why do they hate you? Tell me why, Daniel."
Charles began swinging his arms about, contorting his face into a mask of animal menace. He growled loud and angrily.
"Stop! You are no longer Danie! but Charles, who does not remember the pain."
Charies was immediately still.
"All right, Charles. When did you get the name Holds-Their-Songs? How old were you then?"
"Twenty."
"Who gave you this name?"
"Celeste."
"Who is she? Your girlfriend?"
Charles growled threateningly.
"Stop. Be calm. Who was she?"
"Leader. Sept leader."
"Sept? What is that?"
"All of us."
"Who do you mean by us?"
"The other wolves."
"Wolves? Are you a wolf now?"
"Yes No."
Bruckner scribbled more notes. "Why did Celeste give you this name?"
"So I would remember"
Bruckner was silent for a moment. "But you didn't remember. You don't remember their songs."
A tear ran down Charles's face, and he began crying.
"Why not? Why did you forget?" Bruckner asked.
"They are dead! All of them dead!"
"Who? Who are dead?"
"My pack, My pack."
"Your fellow wolves?"
"My fellow Garou,"'
"Garou? What does that mean?
"
'The People."
"What kind of people?"
"Werewolves."
Bruckner didn't say anything for awhile, He looked down at his notes and over at his patient. He snapped his fingers. Charles blinked and looked around, as if coming out of a nap. He craned his neck around to look at the psychologist.
"Well? Did you find out anything?" Charles asked.
"Yes," Bruckner replied, looking out the window, not meeting Charles' eyes, "But . . I need to think about it, Would you please come back at your usuat time?"
"All right. Thank you. doctor," Charles said and headed for the door
"Oh, Charles?" Bruckner said, not looking away from the window.
"Yes?"
"Get that wound looked at, will you? It's very bad. You never know what type of infection could get into it.
"Charles, I want to hypnotize you again. Is that all right?" Bruckner said.
"If you feel it's best, all right. But what did I say last time?" Charles asked, sitting in the couch again
"Why don't we talk about that at the end of the session? E still have some unanswered questions."
Charles shrugged.
"Let's begin then." In a few minutes, Bruckner had Charles in a deep trance. He sat back in his chair and reached into his pocket, pulling out a small tape recorder. He pushed the record button and set it down with the microphone facing Charles.
"You are not Charles now, but Holds-Their-Songs. Who am I speaking to?"
"Holds-Their-Songs," Charles replied woodenly.
"Good- You said your pack was dead. How did they die?"
"The Wyrm killed them,"
"Wyrm? What is that?"
' Dragon. Corruption."
Bruckner smiled and wrote something down on his pad.
"What do you mean by corruption? Have you done something corrupt?"
"No. The Wyrm is corrupt. I Fight the corruption Protect Gaia,"
"Who is Gaia?"
"The Mother."
Bruckner smiled again He wrote a small note in his pad. "This Wyrm It tries to harm the Mother?"
"Yes. It tries to destroy Her."
"And you stand against it? You alone?"
"No. All Garou fight. My pack fought"
"They died in the fight. Where did they die?"
"Near oil factory, Gasoline smell, Foulness."
Bruckner wrinkled his brow. "When did they die?"