Unbound, page 8
“Very much,” I said. But I was puzzled. “Didn’t we pass the theatre district a few blocks back?”
“It’s not that kind of theatre,” he assured me. “You’ll see.”
We strolled towards another city park, this one much larger than our little park, thick with maples and oaks. With an inward smile, I realized I did think of the other park that way, as our park. Eaden’s and mine. I liked that we shared something, a physical space in the world that we both felt we belonged to. Or at least I did. I hoped that he felt that same way.
We entered the park under a canopy of trees, brilliant red and gold leaves lit by hundreds of twinkle lights strung through the branches. The crisp evening air held the tang of wood smoke. Weaving through the open woods, Eaden led me to a clearing where a semicircular wooden stage has been constructed. In front, rows of benches lined the hard packed dirt, numerous enough to seat a good-sized audience. Directly in front of and behind the benches were patches of soft grass. A few people bustled around the stage, looking efficient as they checked cables and lights.
“What is this?” I asked, enchanted. The strung lights made me feel as if I had been transported to another world. It was magical.
“Dress rehearsals,” he said. He looked pleased at my reaction. As we moved closer to the stage, Eaden explained that this was a local theatre company that performed Shakespeare in the Park all summer and into the fall. With the advent of cooler weather, public performances were held only once a week, on Sunday afternoons.
I looked up at the night sky through the trees, the twinkle lights mimicking the stars I could see beyond the half-cloaked branches. “It’s wonderful.”
He nodded in agreement. “Come with me.”
We walked over to a small aluminum trailer that was set well back from the seating area. Painted dark green, it was almost hidden in the foliage. Squinting, I could see a stooped figure shambling through the darkness from behind the trailer towards us; white hair rimmed his head like a halo. As soon as he spotted us, a broad smile broke across his craggy features.
“Eaden lad,” he cried in a full Scottish brogue. He reached up to clap him heartily on the back. “It’s good to see you.”
“You as well, Hamish,” Eaden said, shaking his hand. For a moment, I thought I detected an accent creeping into Eaden’s voice as he spoke and made a mental note to try to find out where Eaden was born. He had to have grown up somewhere, didn’t he? Even immortals weren’t born full-grown.
With a twinkle in his eye, Hamish turned towards me. “I see you’ve brought company.” His tone was jovial, but I saw him glance quickly at Eaden in surprise, a question in his look.
“Hamish, this is Ms. Rachel Dawes. Rachel, this man is nearly as old as I am and reputedly the best stage director in this part of the country.”
Hamish guffawed loudly. “That’ll be right,” he said. I wasn’t sure if he was refuting the reference to his age or his ability.
Turning back to Eaden, Hamish asked, “Will it be the usual, then?”
“Please,” he said, nodding his head in thanks.
With a wink in my direction, Hamish shuffled off into the trailer.
I was intrigued. “Does he know about you?” I asked.
Eaden’s mouth twisted slightly. “He knows something, although I’m not sure what story he tells himself. He’s certainly known me long enough to recognize that I’ve not aged, but, he’s never asked.” He looked thoughtful. “I trust Hamish,” he said simply.
A few moments later the old man came out of the trailer, a worn rucksack in his hands. “Here you go, lad. I’ve tailored it a little.” He looked significantly in my direction.
“Pleasure to meet you,” Hamish said and then surprised me by grabbing my hand and planting a kiss on the back of it. “It’s no surprise that the first person he would bring to meet me,” he jerked his head in Eaden’s direction, “would be a lovely lass like yourself. You’ve done well, Eaden.” He snorted merrily as he walked away from us.
“I know,” Eaden said, turning to look at me.
Was it possible to die from happiness?
Leading me back among the trees, he chose a spot beside the benches on the grass and then, opening the rucksack, shook out a blanket he pulled from inside. He spread it over the ground and turned to me with a wry grin. “They’re not exactly box seats at the opera.”
“This is much better.” With a contented smile, I sat down on the cozy wool plaid. Eaden smoothly sank down on his heels beside me and dug through the rucksack.
“You must have made quite an impression on Hamish,” he said as took inventory. “He’s never gone to this much trouble for just me.”
From the depths of the rucksack, Eaden pulled out two bright green apples, a large wedge of orange cheddar, crackers, and a small bottle of wine. Rummaging around in the bottom, he also retrieved a knife and two plastic cups.
“How do you two know each other?” I asked, breaking off a piece of cheese to nibble. I hadn’t thought I was hungry, but suddenly I was ravenous.
Eaden grabbed an apple and took an enormous bite. Chewing thoughtfully, he stretched out his long legs, leaned back on his elbows and looked up through the trees into the clear night sky. He seemed boyish suddenly, his expression, for once, matching his physical appearance. “We met at the airport. Hamish was emigrating from Scotland and I was flying back after a visit home.”
I smiled inwardly as another piece of the puzzle fell into place. That explained the Scottish brogue I’d detected. I added this to the ridiculously short list of things I knew about Eaden. Immortal. Check. Scottish. Check.
He went on. “Our connecting flight was cancelled after a particularly vicious winter storm. It was 1950, I think.”
He was so nonchalant that I made a concerted effort not to react to the date.
“Twelve hours and a bottle of fine malt later, we were back in the air and had become fast friends.” Eaden smiled at the memory. “Hamish was the principal actor for the Stratford Festival that summer. He made a wonderful Hamlet, tortured and passionate in equal amounts.” He chewed reflectively. “We kept in touch from time to time after that. He’s been with this troupe for the last ten years or so. Hamish knows I prefer dress rehearsals, so he’s been kind enough to make provisions for me when I attend.”
“Why dress rehearsals?”
“Partly because it’s easier to avoid being around other people,” he said, “and partly because I like when the actors are still fresh. If you do anything often enough, something is lost.” The words hung in the air for a second and then he took the last bite of his apple and shrugged, “I’d much rather see productions before they are perfected. They seem more real to me that way.” The way he looked at the stage made me think he was remembering a much different time and place. “Shakespeare’s original productions were a great deal more interactive.”
My eyes widened as I digested this and understood what he hadn’t said. “You actually saw Shakespeare’s plays, didn’t you? I mean... you saw them live, at the Globe Theatre.”
He nodded, hesitant.
I took a steadying breath and shook my head. “This will take some getting used to.”
I regretted my words as soon as they left my mouth. The shadow passed over his face again. He leaned forward and looked at me warily. “Is it too much?”
I wanted to kick myself. Finally, Eaden was beginning to let down his guard, and I had to spoil it.
“No,” I said, stumbling, “it’s just...honestly it’s... extraordinary. It’s just a bit hard to process sometimes.”
“It’s difficult to know what’s appropriate to tell you.” He sounded discouraged. “I’ve had very few friends like you in my life, Rachel.”
My heart twinged in sympathy. I knew what if felt like to be lonely, I understood being on the edge of things, feeling as if you stood apart.
“It sounds like Hamish was a friend.” I said, wanting to lessen his pain.
He looked thoughtful. “I suppose we have been friendly. But friendship requires much more than acquaintanceship and fond regard. To have a friend, you must be a friend, and therein lies the problem.”
I said nothing, not sure what else to say, not sure how to ease the hint of grief and loneliness that had crept back into his eyes.
He sighed and raised an eyebrow. “Forgive me for being maudlin. There is little reason for it, given present company.”
He opened the bottle of wine and poured us each a small cup.
“To good friends,” he said, raising his wine.
“Friends,” I toasted, unable to stop my heart from sinking again. As honoured as I was to be considered his friend, I knew I wanted so much more.
A flutter of activity on the stage indicated the rehearsal would soon be underway. As the actors appeared on stage, Eaden leaned over close to me. “Have you ever seen Macbeth?”
I shook my head. “Nope, first time.”
There was meaning in the smile he flashed that I didn’t quite understand. “So much the better.”
Smiling back, I silently prayed he would find reason to lean close again. His nearness would undoubtedly be more enjoyable than any production, regardless of the skill of the troupe who performed it. As magnificent as the immortal bard was, there was no way he could compete with the allure of my own immortal.
As it turned out, Eaden did find reason to get closer as the night wore on. Halfway through the second act, the cold began to seep through the thick blanket. Unable to control myself, I rubbed my arms and shivered. Noting my discomfort and completely ignoring my adamant denials, he pulled me gently over towards him so that I was nestled against his shoulder, and wrapped an arm around me.
I shut up immediately.
Thoroughly distracted by his physical proximity, I desperately tried to pay attention to the dialogue and tried not think about how warm and solid and safe he felt. Or how good he smelled. Or how badly I wanted him to kiss me. I prayed that he could not feel my heart thumping, so loud it seemed audible to my own ears.
Far sooner than I would have liked, far sooner than seemed even possible, Macbeth’s head was presented to us amidst cries of “Hail, King of Scotland” and the play was over. Sitting up reluctantly, I clapped and smiled my pleasure at Eaden.
“So you liked it then?” he asked, helping me up. My legs had become stiff from sitting on the ground for so long.
“Yes, very much so,” I said and meant it. I had read Macbeth in tenth grade and I guess I had enjoyed it – as much as any high school student can enjoy Shakespeare. As tragedies go, Romeo and Juliet was far more captivating for me at that point in my life; Eaden’s random appearances during my adolescence having favourably disposed me to tales of ill-fated romance. But now, although Macbeth was full of dark unhappiness and human brutality, I found it far more reassuring than depressing. The story was more complex than I remembered and unlike the tragedy of Romeo and Juliet, it was less fatalistic. Whereas Romeo had always seemed like he was being punished randomly by a cruel, capricious God, Macbeth’s eventual ruin was entirely predictable from the first act, his fatal flaw presented to the audience with a wink as if to let them in on the events to come. Too easily led from his path, Macbeth abandoned his honour and ethics for ambition. The formula was there for us to follow. Choice and consequence. Action and reaction. Yet ultimately, even after struggling with temptation and avarice, Macbeth did the right thing and found redemption in death. There was relief in a parable that maintains that no matter how badly you fall from grace, no matter how badly you mess things up, there is a way to make it right. I wanted to believe that was true.
After returning the rucksack to Hamish, we walked in silence towards the edge of the enchanted forest that would lead us back out into the night. I was reluctant to re-enter the world we had left behind, if only for a few hours. The evening had been so wonderfully ordinary that it was easy to forget who we were. Eaden’s unusually bright mood earlier this evening had so helped to complete this fantasy that I found my feet were leaden as we walked back, my body wanting to prolong this magical gap between past and present. It felt as if I was just starting to know Eaden. And yet, knowing him at all, I was aware that at any moment he might close himself again, his secrets, and his heart, locked up tight inside, impenetrable.
“What are you thinking?” Eaden asked, glancing at me curiously.
“Just how much I like it here,” I said, embarrassed to be caught thinking about him. I looked up at the lights sprinkled throughout the leaves. But I paused, wanting to say something that might bring us closer, or at least keep him from moving away again. “And... I guess...how different you seem tonight.”
He didn’t respond at first. Waiting, I worried that I’d offended him. Glancing at him furtively, I saw his expression was sombre.
He sighed and scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Rachel, I’m not sure what it is that I am tonight. Senseless comes to mind,” he said. He fell silent for a moment. Traces of the emotions that were becoming so familiar flitted across his features – guilt, fear, doubt, sadness – all reflected in those steel grey eyes.
Yet, he seemed resolved in some way, if reluctantly so, and went on, his words coming out in more of a rush than his usual measured tones. “I realize how difficult – how confusing – this must be for you and I promise...from this point on, I will try...I will be more forthcoming.” He seemed to brace himself as if expecting an attack. “What do you want to know?”
“Why are you...,” I stumbled on the words, “...how did it happen?” I didn’t have a vocabulary for this conversation. How do you ask someone why they can’t die? I tried again. “Were you born this way?”
He shook his head and his shoulders seemed to ease back down. Maybe this wasn’t the question he had feared. Which only made we wonder what he thought I might ask. And why it scared him so much.
He paused, waiting until we were truly out from under the canopy of trees and a good distance away from others before beginning. “For the first eighteen years of my life, I was no different than anyone else. I was born, grew older, learned my letters, had friends...I almost died from fever at the age of five and I broke my nose,” he tapped the bridge of his nose lightly with one finger, “in a fistfight when I was fifteen.” He looked down at the ground, seeming lost in memories that were, unbelievable to me, almost 1,500 years old. “It was during my nineteenth year that I began to understand that I was changing, that my body was becoming...impervious. Truly, I didn’t understand what it meant in the beginning,” he said, his face neutral, as if to belie the bitterness I detected just under the surface, “and even when I did understand, the implications weren’t immediately obvious.”
He glanced at me briefly, his eyes tight. “I didn’t ask for this condition, nor even want it. It’s heritable – a genetic mutation that has been carefully cultivated.” He said the words as if they left a bad taste in his mouth. “I was bred,” he said flatly.
“Bred? But why?” Who – or what – was old enough to breed immortals? It had a chicken and egg type of logic that was dizzying.
There was a long pause; Eaden seemed to be choosing his words with incredible care. “For the most part, we are bred as weapons...but not in the conventional sense.” He sighed, and glanced at me again. Checking. For what, I wasn’t sure. “There is a very powerful group of people you would be better to know little about.” Resignation crept into his voice. “It is enough to know that they ensure that there will always be immortals to witness the events of humankind.”
“But...why?” I repeated again, feeling hopelessly thick. It was like trying to figure out the rules of a game when I didn’t understand who the players were or what their positions were supposed to be. Or how they had been picked for the team.
He ran a hand roughly through his hair and grimaced. He seemed to be shifting through his words, trying to find the right way to explain, trying to keep me from whatever it was that he didn’t think I was capable of hearing. “Humans are terrible historians – governments cheat, politicians lie, cultural values shift. History is not a fixed sequence of events, but a fluid, living entity, and the path it takes is guided by those with the most power. Knowledge is power, Rachel, the ultimate power. And those who command history, who determine that path, are virtually invincible.”
“History is written by the victor?” I offered. Even my high school history courses had at least touched on this idea. And for the first three weeks of this semester, Lacey, who’d enrolled in an elective women’s studies course, had refused to say the word history at all, adamant that as women we should only say herstory. I saw her point, but balked when she asked me to refer to my floor at the library as herstorical archives.
“Just so,” he nodded, seeming pleased I understood. “Now imagine that the victor has been led to that victory, perhaps unknowingly, but led as surely as one leads a horse to pasture.”
“How is that even possible?”
“Human beliefs, human values are inventions – religion, philosophy, art – these are social constructions, not laws of nature. The Council, this group, these –” he seemed to struggle for the word, “...individuals who breed immortals, they create the blueprints for civilization by manipulating what humans believe, what they value, what they will fight for.”
Not wanting to break the spell that had loosened his tongue, I said nothing, hoping to hear more, but also fearing what he might say. This cut a bit too close to home for me. Having a sense of control over my environment had given me at least a precarious grasp on my anxiety. Could I believe that instead, the world was mapped out by some ancient race? Did I even want to?
“Does this make any sense? Is it too much?” he asked again. He seemed to be avoiding my eyes.
Yes and no, I thought. But my desire to reassure him was strong. I wanted to make him less apprehensive about my reaction, to let him knew I understood and would not hold him accountable for whatever sins he thought he’d committed. More than anything I wanted to erase the look of self-reproach that seemed to mar every other expression that crossed his face.
“It’s not that kind of theatre,” he assured me. “You’ll see.”
We strolled towards another city park, this one much larger than our little park, thick with maples and oaks. With an inward smile, I realized I did think of the other park that way, as our park. Eaden’s and mine. I liked that we shared something, a physical space in the world that we both felt we belonged to. Or at least I did. I hoped that he felt that same way.
We entered the park under a canopy of trees, brilliant red and gold leaves lit by hundreds of twinkle lights strung through the branches. The crisp evening air held the tang of wood smoke. Weaving through the open woods, Eaden led me to a clearing where a semicircular wooden stage has been constructed. In front, rows of benches lined the hard packed dirt, numerous enough to seat a good-sized audience. Directly in front of and behind the benches were patches of soft grass. A few people bustled around the stage, looking efficient as they checked cables and lights.
“What is this?” I asked, enchanted. The strung lights made me feel as if I had been transported to another world. It was magical.
“Dress rehearsals,” he said. He looked pleased at my reaction. As we moved closer to the stage, Eaden explained that this was a local theatre company that performed Shakespeare in the Park all summer and into the fall. With the advent of cooler weather, public performances were held only once a week, on Sunday afternoons.
I looked up at the night sky through the trees, the twinkle lights mimicking the stars I could see beyond the half-cloaked branches. “It’s wonderful.”
He nodded in agreement. “Come with me.”
We walked over to a small aluminum trailer that was set well back from the seating area. Painted dark green, it was almost hidden in the foliage. Squinting, I could see a stooped figure shambling through the darkness from behind the trailer towards us; white hair rimmed his head like a halo. As soon as he spotted us, a broad smile broke across his craggy features.
“Eaden lad,” he cried in a full Scottish brogue. He reached up to clap him heartily on the back. “It’s good to see you.”
“You as well, Hamish,” Eaden said, shaking his hand. For a moment, I thought I detected an accent creeping into Eaden’s voice as he spoke and made a mental note to try to find out where Eaden was born. He had to have grown up somewhere, didn’t he? Even immortals weren’t born full-grown.
With a twinkle in his eye, Hamish turned towards me. “I see you’ve brought company.” His tone was jovial, but I saw him glance quickly at Eaden in surprise, a question in his look.
“Hamish, this is Ms. Rachel Dawes. Rachel, this man is nearly as old as I am and reputedly the best stage director in this part of the country.”
Hamish guffawed loudly. “That’ll be right,” he said. I wasn’t sure if he was refuting the reference to his age or his ability.
Turning back to Eaden, Hamish asked, “Will it be the usual, then?”
“Please,” he said, nodding his head in thanks.
With a wink in my direction, Hamish shuffled off into the trailer.
I was intrigued. “Does he know about you?” I asked.
Eaden’s mouth twisted slightly. “He knows something, although I’m not sure what story he tells himself. He’s certainly known me long enough to recognize that I’ve not aged, but, he’s never asked.” He looked thoughtful. “I trust Hamish,” he said simply.
A few moments later the old man came out of the trailer, a worn rucksack in his hands. “Here you go, lad. I’ve tailored it a little.” He looked significantly in my direction.
“Pleasure to meet you,” Hamish said and then surprised me by grabbing my hand and planting a kiss on the back of it. “It’s no surprise that the first person he would bring to meet me,” he jerked his head in Eaden’s direction, “would be a lovely lass like yourself. You’ve done well, Eaden.” He snorted merrily as he walked away from us.
“I know,” Eaden said, turning to look at me.
Was it possible to die from happiness?
Leading me back among the trees, he chose a spot beside the benches on the grass and then, opening the rucksack, shook out a blanket he pulled from inside. He spread it over the ground and turned to me with a wry grin. “They’re not exactly box seats at the opera.”
“This is much better.” With a contented smile, I sat down on the cozy wool plaid. Eaden smoothly sank down on his heels beside me and dug through the rucksack.
“You must have made quite an impression on Hamish,” he said as took inventory. “He’s never gone to this much trouble for just me.”
From the depths of the rucksack, Eaden pulled out two bright green apples, a large wedge of orange cheddar, crackers, and a small bottle of wine. Rummaging around in the bottom, he also retrieved a knife and two plastic cups.
“How do you two know each other?” I asked, breaking off a piece of cheese to nibble. I hadn’t thought I was hungry, but suddenly I was ravenous.
Eaden grabbed an apple and took an enormous bite. Chewing thoughtfully, he stretched out his long legs, leaned back on his elbows and looked up through the trees into the clear night sky. He seemed boyish suddenly, his expression, for once, matching his physical appearance. “We met at the airport. Hamish was emigrating from Scotland and I was flying back after a visit home.”
I smiled inwardly as another piece of the puzzle fell into place. That explained the Scottish brogue I’d detected. I added this to the ridiculously short list of things I knew about Eaden. Immortal. Check. Scottish. Check.
He went on. “Our connecting flight was cancelled after a particularly vicious winter storm. It was 1950, I think.”
He was so nonchalant that I made a concerted effort not to react to the date.
“Twelve hours and a bottle of fine malt later, we were back in the air and had become fast friends.” Eaden smiled at the memory. “Hamish was the principal actor for the Stratford Festival that summer. He made a wonderful Hamlet, tortured and passionate in equal amounts.” He chewed reflectively. “We kept in touch from time to time after that. He’s been with this troupe for the last ten years or so. Hamish knows I prefer dress rehearsals, so he’s been kind enough to make provisions for me when I attend.”
“Why dress rehearsals?”
“Partly because it’s easier to avoid being around other people,” he said, “and partly because I like when the actors are still fresh. If you do anything often enough, something is lost.” The words hung in the air for a second and then he took the last bite of his apple and shrugged, “I’d much rather see productions before they are perfected. They seem more real to me that way.” The way he looked at the stage made me think he was remembering a much different time and place. “Shakespeare’s original productions were a great deal more interactive.”
My eyes widened as I digested this and understood what he hadn’t said. “You actually saw Shakespeare’s plays, didn’t you? I mean... you saw them live, at the Globe Theatre.”
He nodded, hesitant.
I took a steadying breath and shook my head. “This will take some getting used to.”
I regretted my words as soon as they left my mouth. The shadow passed over his face again. He leaned forward and looked at me warily. “Is it too much?”
I wanted to kick myself. Finally, Eaden was beginning to let down his guard, and I had to spoil it.
“No,” I said, stumbling, “it’s just...honestly it’s... extraordinary. It’s just a bit hard to process sometimes.”
“It’s difficult to know what’s appropriate to tell you.” He sounded discouraged. “I’ve had very few friends like you in my life, Rachel.”
My heart twinged in sympathy. I knew what if felt like to be lonely, I understood being on the edge of things, feeling as if you stood apart.
“It sounds like Hamish was a friend.” I said, wanting to lessen his pain.
He looked thoughtful. “I suppose we have been friendly. But friendship requires much more than acquaintanceship and fond regard. To have a friend, you must be a friend, and therein lies the problem.”
I said nothing, not sure what else to say, not sure how to ease the hint of grief and loneliness that had crept back into his eyes.
He sighed and raised an eyebrow. “Forgive me for being maudlin. There is little reason for it, given present company.”
He opened the bottle of wine and poured us each a small cup.
“To good friends,” he said, raising his wine.
“Friends,” I toasted, unable to stop my heart from sinking again. As honoured as I was to be considered his friend, I knew I wanted so much more.
A flutter of activity on the stage indicated the rehearsal would soon be underway. As the actors appeared on stage, Eaden leaned over close to me. “Have you ever seen Macbeth?”
I shook my head. “Nope, first time.”
There was meaning in the smile he flashed that I didn’t quite understand. “So much the better.”
Smiling back, I silently prayed he would find reason to lean close again. His nearness would undoubtedly be more enjoyable than any production, regardless of the skill of the troupe who performed it. As magnificent as the immortal bard was, there was no way he could compete with the allure of my own immortal.
As it turned out, Eaden did find reason to get closer as the night wore on. Halfway through the second act, the cold began to seep through the thick blanket. Unable to control myself, I rubbed my arms and shivered. Noting my discomfort and completely ignoring my adamant denials, he pulled me gently over towards him so that I was nestled against his shoulder, and wrapped an arm around me.
I shut up immediately.
Thoroughly distracted by his physical proximity, I desperately tried to pay attention to the dialogue and tried not think about how warm and solid and safe he felt. Or how good he smelled. Or how badly I wanted him to kiss me. I prayed that he could not feel my heart thumping, so loud it seemed audible to my own ears.
Far sooner than I would have liked, far sooner than seemed even possible, Macbeth’s head was presented to us amidst cries of “Hail, King of Scotland” and the play was over. Sitting up reluctantly, I clapped and smiled my pleasure at Eaden.
“So you liked it then?” he asked, helping me up. My legs had become stiff from sitting on the ground for so long.
“Yes, very much so,” I said and meant it. I had read Macbeth in tenth grade and I guess I had enjoyed it – as much as any high school student can enjoy Shakespeare. As tragedies go, Romeo and Juliet was far more captivating for me at that point in my life; Eaden’s random appearances during my adolescence having favourably disposed me to tales of ill-fated romance. But now, although Macbeth was full of dark unhappiness and human brutality, I found it far more reassuring than depressing. The story was more complex than I remembered and unlike the tragedy of Romeo and Juliet, it was less fatalistic. Whereas Romeo had always seemed like he was being punished randomly by a cruel, capricious God, Macbeth’s eventual ruin was entirely predictable from the first act, his fatal flaw presented to the audience with a wink as if to let them in on the events to come. Too easily led from his path, Macbeth abandoned his honour and ethics for ambition. The formula was there for us to follow. Choice and consequence. Action and reaction. Yet ultimately, even after struggling with temptation and avarice, Macbeth did the right thing and found redemption in death. There was relief in a parable that maintains that no matter how badly you fall from grace, no matter how badly you mess things up, there is a way to make it right. I wanted to believe that was true.
After returning the rucksack to Hamish, we walked in silence towards the edge of the enchanted forest that would lead us back out into the night. I was reluctant to re-enter the world we had left behind, if only for a few hours. The evening had been so wonderfully ordinary that it was easy to forget who we were. Eaden’s unusually bright mood earlier this evening had so helped to complete this fantasy that I found my feet were leaden as we walked back, my body wanting to prolong this magical gap between past and present. It felt as if I was just starting to know Eaden. And yet, knowing him at all, I was aware that at any moment he might close himself again, his secrets, and his heart, locked up tight inside, impenetrable.
“What are you thinking?” Eaden asked, glancing at me curiously.
“Just how much I like it here,” I said, embarrassed to be caught thinking about him. I looked up at the lights sprinkled throughout the leaves. But I paused, wanting to say something that might bring us closer, or at least keep him from moving away again. “And... I guess...how different you seem tonight.”
He didn’t respond at first. Waiting, I worried that I’d offended him. Glancing at him furtively, I saw his expression was sombre.
He sighed and scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Rachel, I’m not sure what it is that I am tonight. Senseless comes to mind,” he said. He fell silent for a moment. Traces of the emotions that were becoming so familiar flitted across his features – guilt, fear, doubt, sadness – all reflected in those steel grey eyes.
Yet, he seemed resolved in some way, if reluctantly so, and went on, his words coming out in more of a rush than his usual measured tones. “I realize how difficult – how confusing – this must be for you and I promise...from this point on, I will try...I will be more forthcoming.” He seemed to brace himself as if expecting an attack. “What do you want to know?”
“Why are you...,” I stumbled on the words, “...how did it happen?” I didn’t have a vocabulary for this conversation. How do you ask someone why they can’t die? I tried again. “Were you born this way?”
He shook his head and his shoulders seemed to ease back down. Maybe this wasn’t the question he had feared. Which only made we wonder what he thought I might ask. And why it scared him so much.
He paused, waiting until we were truly out from under the canopy of trees and a good distance away from others before beginning. “For the first eighteen years of my life, I was no different than anyone else. I was born, grew older, learned my letters, had friends...I almost died from fever at the age of five and I broke my nose,” he tapped the bridge of his nose lightly with one finger, “in a fistfight when I was fifteen.” He looked down at the ground, seeming lost in memories that were, unbelievable to me, almost 1,500 years old. “It was during my nineteenth year that I began to understand that I was changing, that my body was becoming...impervious. Truly, I didn’t understand what it meant in the beginning,” he said, his face neutral, as if to belie the bitterness I detected just under the surface, “and even when I did understand, the implications weren’t immediately obvious.”
He glanced at me briefly, his eyes tight. “I didn’t ask for this condition, nor even want it. It’s heritable – a genetic mutation that has been carefully cultivated.” He said the words as if they left a bad taste in his mouth. “I was bred,” he said flatly.
“Bred? But why?” Who – or what – was old enough to breed immortals? It had a chicken and egg type of logic that was dizzying.
There was a long pause; Eaden seemed to be choosing his words with incredible care. “For the most part, we are bred as weapons...but not in the conventional sense.” He sighed, and glanced at me again. Checking. For what, I wasn’t sure. “There is a very powerful group of people you would be better to know little about.” Resignation crept into his voice. “It is enough to know that they ensure that there will always be immortals to witness the events of humankind.”
“But...why?” I repeated again, feeling hopelessly thick. It was like trying to figure out the rules of a game when I didn’t understand who the players were or what their positions were supposed to be. Or how they had been picked for the team.
He ran a hand roughly through his hair and grimaced. He seemed to be shifting through his words, trying to find the right way to explain, trying to keep me from whatever it was that he didn’t think I was capable of hearing. “Humans are terrible historians – governments cheat, politicians lie, cultural values shift. History is not a fixed sequence of events, but a fluid, living entity, and the path it takes is guided by those with the most power. Knowledge is power, Rachel, the ultimate power. And those who command history, who determine that path, are virtually invincible.”
“History is written by the victor?” I offered. Even my high school history courses had at least touched on this idea. And for the first three weeks of this semester, Lacey, who’d enrolled in an elective women’s studies course, had refused to say the word history at all, adamant that as women we should only say herstory. I saw her point, but balked when she asked me to refer to my floor at the library as herstorical archives.
“Just so,” he nodded, seeming pleased I understood. “Now imagine that the victor has been led to that victory, perhaps unknowingly, but led as surely as one leads a horse to pasture.”
“How is that even possible?”
“Human beliefs, human values are inventions – religion, philosophy, art – these are social constructions, not laws of nature. The Council, this group, these –” he seemed to struggle for the word, “...individuals who breed immortals, they create the blueprints for civilization by manipulating what humans believe, what they value, what they will fight for.”
Not wanting to break the spell that had loosened his tongue, I said nothing, hoping to hear more, but also fearing what he might say. This cut a bit too close to home for me. Having a sense of control over my environment had given me at least a precarious grasp on my anxiety. Could I believe that instead, the world was mapped out by some ancient race? Did I even want to?
“Does this make any sense? Is it too much?” he asked again. He seemed to be avoiding my eyes.
Yes and no, I thought. But my desire to reassure him was strong. I wanted to make him less apprehensive about my reaction, to let him knew I understood and would not hold him accountable for whatever sins he thought he’d committed. More than anything I wanted to erase the look of self-reproach that seemed to mar every other expression that crossed his face.
