Reave the Just and Other Tales

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  “At first, of course, she did not know that she taught me. She did not know what I was—and I gave her no glimpse of my ignorance. She merely offered me her friendliness and courtesy. Perhaps she did so because she could see that I was lost in loneliness despite my mimicry. Perhaps she was guided to me by the hand of Heaven. Or perhaps the flawless bounty of her heart surpassed the ordinary bounds of flesh and blood. I could not account for her actions then, and cannot explain them now. But in the days which followed she showed me what friendship and kindness were. By example she gave me my first instruction in righteousness.

  “And with every taste of her companionship, I found that my hunger for it swelled. I grew eager for her smiles and mirth. I gave her occasion to tease me because her jests brought me pleasure. I accompanied her on the rounds of charity, the innumerable generosities, which filled her days as an adopted daughter of the chapel, and my small part in them warmed my heart. And when we were apart—as naturally we were more than we were together—I craved the sight of her as I craved survival. Her presence was like the vitality I drew from my victims. It elevated me, it made me strong and whole, it added a sparkle to the light of day and a glow to the depth of night—but it did not satisfy me. I desired more. I had been lonely too long. Her company became as necessary to me as blood, and I grew insatiable for it.

  “So I began to reveal myself to her, hoping to strengthen the bonds between us—bonds which I had never felt before, and had no wish to break. I did not tell her what I was. But when I had known her for a month or more, I unfolded my ignorance to her. Embarrassed and cunning, I described the yearning which caused me to stand among the congregation and sing—badly—although I lacked all comprehension of what my worship signified.

  “My ploy succeeded better than I could have dreamed. It drew Irradia to me, for she was pure in her faith, and the thought of healing the breach which separated me from Heaven enchanted her. At the same time, however, it increased my own attraction to the teachings of Mother Church. As my companion exemplified them, they seemed entirely lovely to me, worthy of all devotion. The idea that my long experience of revulsion might be redeemed transported me. Hopes and desires beyond imagination took root in my once-barren heart, and sprouted richly.

  “The more I knew of Irradia, the more I longed for her. And the more I learned from her, the more I desired the solace and acceptance of Mother Church.”

  The assembly stirred, restive with distress—indignant tinder smoldering toward outrage. They had seen that I was fearsome, a creature of powers miraculous to them, and therefore cruel. That I now laid claim to the teachings of Mother Church, which they held as their own, affronted them mortally. The Duke himself appeared disturbed, and his supporters with him. I heard whispers of “blasphemy” and “carnal evil.” No doubt the gathering thought that I expressed a wish for Heaven in order to disguise my lust.

  But Duke Obal had cornered me in his bright hall. I was as ready to give battle as any trapped beast. And the pain of Irradia’s loss—and of my part in her torment—gave me a kind of strength. Briefly I could raise my voice.

  “Do you question my sincerity, my lords?” In sudden fury I flung my goblet so that it bounded, soundless and empty, across the rugs. “Do you believe that I dissemble?”

  My vehemence shocked the whispers to silence.

  “It may be that I have no soul,” I cried. “But I have a heart.” There my flare of force consumed itself, and died. Ash and regret seemed to fill my mouth as I repeated, “I have a heart. I wish daily that I did not.”

  Then I rallied against my weakness. “But I do not ask God to take it from me. It is mine. My life is only my life. Doubtless you will slay me, when I am done with my tale. But you cannot erase my pain, or stifle my yearning—or avoid the cost.”

  The Duke covered his eyes. Perhaps he lacked the courage to regard me directly. “Continue, Scriven,” he murmured as though he had been moved. “Fear nothing. I am as mortal as any man, and as flawed. But I am not so easily turned aside from my promises.”

  He could not truly believe that I would “fear nothing” at his command. He was not such a fool. But I had set my feet to this path, and did not mean to step back now. Bowing my head, I answered, “As you wish, my lord.”

  All the influential of Mullior watched me as they would a serpent. Under the bale of their fascination, I pursued my tale.

  “As I have said, the maid Irradia gave me instruction, binding me to her with every lesson—and her to me. Indeed, the growing warmth of her regard taught me the truth of her words, for it demonstrated God’s forgiveness. In the name of Mother Church, she offered me a life which was not defined and circumscribed by revulsion.

  “And when she believed that I had understood her, she took me to Father Domsen, so that he might further my edification.”

  Bishop Heraldic and his confessors crossed themselves in self-protection, warding away heresy, but I paid them no heed.

  “That good man welcomed me,” I said without scorn, as though I had seen no reaction. “He taught me gladly. He was Irradia’s father—in a manner of speaking—both temporally and spiritually, and at first I thought that he extended his kindness to me for her sake. Later, however, I understood him better. His love for her enriched but did not determine his acceptance. The simplicity of his faith, and the embrace of his heart, were wide enough to enfold all who worshiped with him.

  “Sooner than I would have thought possible”—and altogether too soon for my dismayed auditors—“he and Irradia began to speak of my baptism—of my union by water and sacrament with Mother Church.”

  Despite the moisture in my gaze, I held up my head as though I meant to stare down the assembly. But I needed more valor to confront my memories than to outface my enemies. Word after word, my tale gathered its anguish.

  “My lords, I know now that I should have feared baptism. Belatedly I have heard that holy water is agony to my kind, scalding us with Heaven’s rejection. At the time, however, I had no such concern. Irradia and Father Domsen had taught me to trust God’s utter benison. Having no soul, I was unaware that I was damned.

  “Yet I was troubled in my mind—and in my heart, if I have no soul. Throughout my life, I had known only abhorrence. And from abhorrence I had learned shame, although I did not realize it until I had recognized my loneliness. I am what I am, and life is life, and I had not ceased to feed. No creature of flesh endures without its proper sustenance. I studied the will of Heaven openly, desiring it as I desired Irradia’s love. Yet still I preyed widely in Sestle so that I would not perish.

  “Ashamed, I feared that Irradia—and Mother Church—would repulse me if they learned the truth.

  “Further, I knew that I had been careless, although I had not yet imagined the consequences. Blinded by yearning, I had fed too often upon the fat and the wellborn, the wealthy and the publicly devout. And in so doing I had drawn notice.

  “A child might have foreseen this, yet I did not. Ignoring the hazard of my actions, I had brought myself unwittingly to the awareness of His Reverence Straylish Beatified.”

  And the High Cardinal had completed my instruction. I abided by his precepts still.

  “From his spies and informants,” I explained, “as well as from more common sources, he heard tales of unexplained deaths, sudden passings. And some of the lost were his supporters, vital to his stature in the affairs of Sestle. Inspired by righteousness, he guessed the truth.

  “So he searched for me.” Relentless as a deathwatch, my tale progressed toward its doom. “With every resource at his command, he hunted the byways and coverts, the dens and hovels, the inns and stables, the markets and middens, seeking some sign of my presence. As yet he did not know who I was, or where I resided, or how I selected my victims. But he knew what I was, and he bent the annealed iron of his loathing toward me.”

  I sighed so that I would not groan aloud. “Yet I was oblivious, immersed in my hunger for salvation. Only the sanctuary of my loft protected
me, for I had lost the true habit of self-regard. While Cardinal Straylish stalked me with all his priests and allies, I concentrated on the impending crisis of my baptism.

  “As I have said, I was ashamed. I saw my nature as an obstacle to my baptism—a bar to my union with Mother Church, and to Irradia’s love, and to all good. Yet for that same reason I was loath to speak of my dilemma. The rejection of the congregation I might survive. I had endured for many long years without a place among ordinary men, and might do so again. But the thought that Irradia might hear my revelation with horror—that her outpouring love might curdle against me—caused such pain that I did not think I could bear it.

  “At last, however, I accepted the risk. How could I ask for love if I did not honor truth? Irradia and Father Domsen preached that the welcome of Heaven knew no end or limit—that all life was of Divine creation, born of God to seek God’s glory through Mother Church. How then could anyone who saw the worth of that worship be refused?

  “On the eve of the day appointed for my baptism, I told Irradia what I was.”

  Inwardly I flinched at the memory. Yet I suffered it alone. Only the ceaseless blurring of my sight and the quavering of my voice betrayed my distress to the assembly.

  “At first her response was all I had dreaded. Her dear features paled, and she shrank from me as though I had become loathsome to her. She trembled, feverish with alarm. And she avoided the supplication of my touch, hid her face from my gaze. Weeping threatened to overtake her.

  “The blow was a devastation to me, my lords. My life in Sestle, and my heart, cracked wide at the impact. In another moment, I would have begun to tear my garments and wail in despair. And when that was done, I might have turned my thoughts to ruin. She was the foundation upon which my dream of love and Heaven rested, and she could not stand.

  “However, she rallied. Groaning my name, she turned toward me. Pain in runnels streaked her face. ‘Have you lied to me all this time?’ she cried out. ‘Are this chapel and this congregation no more than a trough at which you mean to feed? Am I nothing more to you than meat and drink?’

  “I knew not how to answer her. I cannot prove my sincerity to you, my lords, and could not to her. But at last I said, ‘All my days, Irradia, I have spent alone. I have known only fear and abhorrence. Your regard, your gentleness, Father Domsen, this congregation, the teachings of Mother Church—they are sacred to me. Ask me to sacrifice myself for your preservation, and I will do it.’ My desire for life had never been greater, yet I spoke truly. ‘Death would be kinder to me than the loss of Heaven’s blessing, which I have tasted only from you.’

  “Gradually she calmed. Her innocent heart and her faith defended me when her mind quailed. Doubt still held her, but her revulsion had passed. When she had composed herself, she sighed, ‘Oh, Aposter. This matter is too grave for me. A darkness has fallen over me, and I cannot see. I must speak to Father Domsen.’ She studied me sidelong. ‘Will you accompany me?’ In that way she tested my protestations. ‘Will you tell him what you are?’

  “I felt the burden of her request. It weighed heavily upon my scant courage, my slight hopes. I esteemed the priest highly—but I trusted only her. However, I did not hesitate. ‘I will,’ I told her shortly. ‘I will abide his judgment.’

  “‘Then I will believe you, while I may,’ she replied with a wan smile. ‘You have given me no cause to fear you. I have met no harm in you, and no malice.’ Then she added, ‘I, too, will abide his judgment.

  “‘Come.’

  “I complied. Together we sought out the good Father.”

  Shading my eyes to ease the sting of the light, I walked that path again in my mind, dreading what followed.

  “The hour was late, and he had retired, for he was old. When her knock summoned him to the door, however, he welcomed us into his dwelling.

  “His quarters had been erected against the side of the chapel as an afterthought, and they were draughty, ill lit, and damp. Still his congregation had given what they could for his comfort. A fire burned in the hearth of his small study, warming the moist stones. At his invitation, we seated ourselves on hard lath chairs softened by pillows.

  “He asked Irradia to speak of her plain distress, but I forestalled her. Seeking to spare her as much as I could, I blurted without grace or apology, ‘Father, I have concealed what I am. I am not of your flesh—not an ordinary man, as I seem. Because I hunger to be united with Mother Church, and to earn Irradia’s esteem, I feared to reveal myself.’

  “He regarded me in confusion. Quailing within myself, I continued weakly, ‘Yet I must speak the truth, or set aside my hope of Heaven.’”

  Remembering that moment, I uncovered my eyes again so that the Duke’s assembly might see my pain.

  “‘Father,’ I told him, ‘I am called “vampyr” and “death-eater.”’ Among much harsher names. ‘I do not feed on beasts or growing things that have no souls. I sustain myself on the lives of men and women formed in God’s image.’

  “At my words, he fell back in his seat, overtaken by clear shock and apparent horror. Watching him, I felt my hopes shift from under me, as though they rested on sand. How had I so entirely misconstrued his instruction? Had God created me and my kind solely so that innocent maids and gentle priests could name us evil?

  “His hands clasped each other around his crucifix. For a moment it seemed that he would not speak—that he could find no words sufficient to denounce me. But then he asked, whispering terribly, ‘Do these men and women die to feed you? Do you slay them?’

  “I wished to cry out against his revulsion. But I did not. Irradia’s need for his guidance was vivid in her gaze, and it restrained me. Instead I answered, ‘I do not slay them in order to feed. Yet they are slain. They die at my hand. Their life becomes mine as they nourish me, and they fall.’

  “His voice trembled. ‘Then how can it be that you desire baptism?—that you seek the embrace of Mother Church?’

  “There he saved me, although he did not know it. Despite my distress, and his, I heard his bafflement—and his sincerity. I had misread him. He had been profoundly disturbed, shaken to the core, but not by abhorrence. His nature may have lacked that capacity. He had asked an honest question. His dilemma was one of incomprehension.

  “And Irradia clung to his every word, as though it issued from the mouth of Heaven.

  “I replied as well as I could, like a man who had been snatched back from the rim of perdition. ‘I did not cause what I am. I cannot alter it. But I have met kindness from you, and from Irradia. I have learned to know love. And I ache for the teachings of Mother Church. If the grace of Heaven is without end or limit,’ I pleaded softly, ‘surely it holds a place for such as me?’

  “At first he did not answer my gaze. Raising his hands, he fixed his eyes upon the crucifix. Prayers I could not distinguish murmured from his lips. Unsteady light from the hearth colored his features, and Irradia’s. Together they appeared to contemplate the flames of everlasting torment.

  “When he had finished his prayer, however, he turned toward me. Tears reflected in the lines of his face, but he did not waver.

  “‘Then, my son,’ he avowed, ‘I will baptize you tomorrow.’

  “I heard him without moving, without breath. Trained to apprehension, I feared that if I stirred his promise would be snatched away.

  “‘Father—’ protested Irradia. Perhaps he had answered his own uncertainty, but he had not yet relieved hers. ‘If he is a vampyr—’

  “He silenced her gently. ‘Whatever he is, my daughter, he has been created by God, for God’s own reasons. It is not our place to judge what the Almighty has made. In baptism Heaven will accept or reject him, whatever we do. But if for the sake of our own fears and ignorance we refuse that which Heaven welcomes, our sin will be severe. Mother Church does not empower us to withhold the hope of redemption.

  “‘If he is accepted, the flock we serve will see it. That will do much to ease his way among us.’ His tone darke
ned. ‘And if he is rejected, they will be forewarned.

  “‘But there is a condition, my son,’ he told me before I could speak. ‘You must cease from slaying.’

  “My hopes had blazed up brightly. Now they dwindled again, doused by Father Domsen’s words. ‘Then I will die,’ I retorted bitterly. ‘Does Heaven honor self-murder?’

  “He shook his head. ‘It does not. Yet you must cease,’ he persisted. ‘Since you require sustenance, as do all things living, seek it from those whose lives have already been claimed by God. Nourish yourself among the dying. It will—’ He faltered momentarily, and I saw a new sorrow in his gaze. Yet he did not relent. ‘I fear it will not be pleasant,’ he continued more harshly. ‘But I cannot condone any other course for you. To take lives which have not yet been called by Heaven is more than murder. It is blasphemy. It offends the sacredness of God’s creation.’

  “At once a great relief washed through me. The restriction he required would not be pleasant. In that he spoke more truly than he knew. Yet its difficulties were within my compass. In Heaven’s name, I could bear them gladly.

  “‘Father,’ I vowed, ‘I will do as you say.’

  “Irradia stared at me with wonder, as though she hardly dared to believe that her doubts had been lifted.

  “Father Domsen showed no relief, however. He accepted my oath without question, but it did not ease him. Wincing, he bowed his head and slowly slumped into his seat. Perhaps he had seen visions in the firelight, and Irradia’s face, and mine—sights which wracked him.

  “‘Leave me now, my children,’ he breathed thinly. ‘I must pray.’ His sorrow did not abate. ‘I must pray for us all. Tomorrow the will of Heaven will be made plain.’