"Hope," Christina says, her eyes turning towards the bar as she hugs her bear tight, but her eyes appear to be seeing into a past a thousand years before... "It is a funny thing that you should ask about hope...." "Yes, Hope," Christina says, pondering. "To bring hope to humanity --even as the future looks dark and bleak, even as our own doom approaches. Everywhere the signs of the Red Star are upon us --the Garou, the Kindred, we Fae are convinced the end of our worlds is soon to come. So why go on trying to light candles in a blowing darkness?" Christina pauses, unsure whether to share this story. Then she takes a deep breath, and continues: "We Fae were not always half-mortal, half-supernatural. Nay, this is but a recent development; only in the last eight-hundred to a thousand years have we been wedded to mortal souls. Before then we existed free and immortal... and it is ironic that my memories begin in bulk -after- mortality became a part of my life..." "I have complete, crystal clear memories going back about eight-hundred years, good ones another five hundred years before that, and then patchier and patchier memories through my immortal life as a Fae before that...and it was in one of those earliest memories that I first discovered something that has stayed with me all this time since...and in which that I met Turnberry for the very first time...." "Despite what Hollywood would say, the Emperor Commodus of the Roman Empire was not slain by the good general Maximus in Rome," she smiles briefly, then turns serious again. "The year by modern accounts 168 AD; the seventh year of the reign of Caesar Marcus Aurelius Antoninus Augustus...and the third year of the Great Plague. Marcus Aurelius's troops had brought it back from the frontier, a wave of smallpox, measles and Plague that skipped some areas completely and anihilated the populations of others, leading to the confusion today about how bad it was. In the urban areas, it was bad indeed." "Not that it would matter to me or my bretheren, as we were then immortal in every sense of the word. Plague could not touch us; nothing could, save cold Iron. We were worshiped like Gods and strode among men without concern for banality...or...for them. Their sufferings were but mere inconveniences to us; while the Banality of their horriffic suffering, of their death of hope, -was- a chill to us, we merely trapiezed to areas yet untouched. Dreamers were Dreamers were Dreamers; as it was for a hundred thousand --for a million--- for time immemorial, it would be now," Christina says with shame. "In time it would be our downfall...but not that day." "We weren't the only people fleeing the plague; everywhere, society was in tumult. The rich left in vast vans of slaves and baggage; the poor fled in mobs; noble and commoner alike abandoned the cities and the towns, farms fell fallow, forges went silent; the halls of the Academy, the columns of the Olympic Temples, and the stalls of the Market were abandoned to the dead. Parent abandoned child and brother left behind brother in a pell-mell rush to save themselves; the sick starved and died alone, and thieves and murderers swept through like vultures. It was not the first time, nor the last....but still it was terrible." "I was in Corinth, but soon to leave it; the local artist's colony had fallen to the Plague, and the city was becoming dreadfully dreary as the Plague took hold. Everyone with the means to do so had fled; everyone else remaining was dying or waiting to die. On the last day before I was to leave with my motley for friendlier climes, I loped into a local dive for a mug of wine and a cake. Vitus was the big friendly brute behind the counter, and nothing could kill him; he had scars from where he had beaten off smallpox, measles -and- Barbarian hordes with the Emperor; he was a gruff man with a heart of gold darkened by cynicism. We were good friends, and it pained me to leave him, but...." "Other than him, there was but one other patron in that...pub, I guess you could call it," Christina says. "It was late at night. Suddenly a large crowd of prostitutes pushed their way into the Pub. They were regulars; they worked the local streets; some were clearly sick, but heck, by that point, -everyone- was. Even in the depths of the plague, the oldest business in the world would still have customers..." "They were a hard, baudy and cynical lot --who would not be? Streetwalking was hardly a more glamourous profession then than now. Vitus got them their usual rounds, and they started their usual bitching." "One woman looked sadder than usual. She was sitting next to the one other patron who was there earlier, and opined: 'Tomorrow will be the Festival of Vesta... my birthday, she sighed.' " " 'And?' one of her compatriots sneered. 'What, you want us to throw you a party? Get you a cake?' " " 'Why do you have to be so mean?' the first asked, hurt. 'I just made a comment.' " " 'Life's hard everywhere, and tomorrow we'll be dead!' the second shot back. 'Who do you think cares a whit about your stupid birthday?' she spat. 'You're a whore --we're all whores --nobody gives a rat's-ass about us. Get with it --have some wine!' " "Quickly they were all gone again, leaving just me, Vitus and the stranger. It was now that the stranger unhooded himself for the first time and spoke in a gentle voice to Vitus . 'Do they come here always?' he asked." " ' Every night, right after second watch,' Vitus replied. " " The stranger nodded, and then asked, 'I was just thinking...maybe we could have a party for her --the one with the birthday tomorrow,' he said, sincerely. 'I could get chalk and parchment and gum, and we could decorate this place...I could get a cake from the bakers...make something special for her. ' The stranger pulled out a gold drachma of his coat and put it on the bar. 'For your troubles.'" " Vitus looked at the stranger kinda weird and then asked, disbelivingly, 'You're serious?'" "The stranger nodded. Vitus started at him weird...and then smiled, almost as if not believing it himself. 'Agatha's a good girl with some hard knocks, and if you're actually going to work on throwing a party for her...-I'll- bake the cake,' he said, good naturedly but still unsure. 'And you keep the gold --you'll need it to get anything in this Hades of a city...' " "I was seized by curiosity --enough to stay in Corinth one more night. Who was this stranger? What was his game? Was he serious? Well, he was serious, alright -- by the time I got there just a little after dark --just after the great fires began-- he was there, too, decorating the place. Vitus was a little unbelieving, too, but game --he'd put together a neato cake with dried fruits and nuts and spices. He must have digged deep into his stocks, for such things must have been nearly impossbile to get in the plague ravaged city. Caught up in the spirit --hey, what Pooka could pass up a prank like this!-- I helped out secretly as I could --I was hiding in a mortal's form --I used my arts to brighten up that color, help that banner stick, polish up the place, make some extra amphorae of wine show up where Vitus hadn't expected but 'I guess I must have had some extra'..." "I guess word filtered throughout the quarter, cause soon the place was packed with other prostitutes. Came the night-watchman's call for second watch, and Agatha's group came on in, right as clockwork...and all of us gathered cried out, 'Surprise' and sang the Roman equivalent of a happy birthday song... Vitus came out with the cake and we all cheered." "Agatha was....stunned. Shocked beyond belief. She just stared mutely at the cake, at everyone...even her hard-case friends got into the spirit of celebration.... tears began to run down her face." " 'Nobody has ever thrown a birthday party for me before,' she said, brokenly.... tried not to sob....and broke down, crying. The room quieted...nobody moved, except the stranger, who got up to comfort her--" " Vitus yelled out --'Look out! She's got the active Plague! You'll catch it too!' he yelled, really concerned. For he was right --the stranger didn't have a mark of the plague on him; while Agatha --like most everyone else-- had open sores on her face. To come in that close contact with the pus of the sores --that would be a virtual sentence of death. The stranger stopped, looked at Vitus , said, 'Thanks for the warning,' sincerely, and then hugged Agatha tight, holding her as she buried her face in his shoulder and cried, hugging the stranger tightly." "She cried for a long time, and he held her tight. Nobody moved, nobody breathed. Finally, she sniffed, looked up at him, and said to everyone, 'Thank you.' " "Then she lit up. 'Hey, can't let this cake and wine go to waste! Dig in!' And a rowdy party began." "The stranger came over the Pub, next to me and Vitus , wiping the pus of Agatha's face off of his own. Neither Vitus nor I were afraid to be near him, since Vitus has already beaten the Plague and I had nothing to fear. The stranger smiled. 'Well, she looks like she's having a good time,' he smiled. " " Vitus stared at him like the man was mad. He finally gathered enough composure to speak. 'Agatha's your sister?' " "The man shook his head no. 'Your cousin?' No. 'Your kinfolk? An old flame? Your friend? Someone you owe?' No, no, no, again no. Vitus was really puzzled now. 'Then why did you do all that?' " "The man smiled. 'I just wanted to make her happy.' " " Vitus stared at him like the stranger was absolutely nutcased. 'You are absolutely nuts! That girl's got the plague! What do you care about some whore--' " "The stranger chided Vitus gently. 'Agatha isn't -just- some whore, friend. She's a woman who has never had a birthday party in her whole life, and now look at her,' and he was right --she was radiant. She might be dead tomorrow, but she was radiant now; probably happier than she had ever been in her whole terrible life." "I scanned him hard --he wasn't Fae. He wasn't a Mage. He wasn't anything --just a mortal, just like Vitus . But there was something...just under his tunic... you could see the faint outline of a charm worn around the neck under the cloth... a cross." " ' You're one of those cross-worshiper cultists, aren't you?' I blurted out." " 'Not cross-worshipers,' he corrected gently. 'A Christian.' " " 'Hah!' Vitus barked. 'Another cult? A 'religion?' Religion's full of crap! All the Temple Priests burning those sacrifices to Zeus and Apollo and the Roman Emperors --what the hell did they ever do for us little people! Take your money, lord over the best seats in the banquests and make us all bow and scrape, and when the plague came they turned their tail asses on and fled like all the other rich fat cats! The priests --the -gods- don't give a rats-ass about us little people! Show me a god who can lead his people to give a flying fark about us....' " "And Vitus trailed off, shaken, suddenly finding in this gentle stranger the answer to his own trick question. He stared. As did I." " Vitus blubbered. Then he spoke in a very, quiet voice, almost lost in the din of celebration surrounding them: 'You did this, for your god?' " " 'No,' the stranger replied, 'not -for- Him...not out of debt...but of gratitude. Because He loved me so much to die for me and my sins. Who am I to do less for others? He gave me so much; who am I not to give in return? What right do I have to not do my best? ' " "The stranger was crazy! He was mad, he was ....utterly sincere. He wasn't chiding us, he wasn't telling us we were going to Hell because we were bad and wrong; he hadn't tried to convert us or even mentioned his religion; he hadn't even worn his cross where any but a Fae could see it. He just told us why he did what he did, like it was a fact, like he was talking about the weather, like he was talking about the sun rising the next day." " 'What kind of God,' Vitus said quietly, 'inspires his people to love plague-stricken whores?' " Christina sits quietly for a moment, staring further into space. Her aura has blazed brightly the whole time. Her tail doesn't even twitch; she is lost within a world dead when even Astarial was young... "When the party broke, and Vitus had closed up shop, we both followed the stranger --whose name was Nerius-- back to where he was staying. Nerius had said that there many others of his sect who were running a shelter for the dying --much like Mother Theresa would do almost two millenia later-- and both Vitus and I were seized by curiosity to see just who these cultish freaks were. We came to a low-rising, expansive manor, owned by a local centurion, across the street from the black, shuttered mighty temple of Apollo, dark since her priests had abandoned it weeks before. Inside the gates of the manor were hundreds of dying people, being fed, being warmed, being comforted by volunteers, many who wore crosses, but many who did not. Many of the dying wore the same simple tunics as did Nerius and the volunteers --they who had contracted the plague while helping others." " Vitus just stared. He couldn't believe people would do this. -Nobody- gave a shit about the dying. But these people sure did. He screwed his forehead in deep thought, wrestling with a decision. Then he looked at Nerius." " ' I still don't know if your God and your teachings are full of crap,' he said, 'and I don't think I'm ready to start waving my hands before your guy on a cross, but I've had the plague and I won't catch it again, and you guys look like you could use a strong back. Gimmie some people and a cart and we can get all my stuff from the Pub and bring it back here --' he looked at the line of fire sweeping across the plague-driven city '--the Pub don't seem like it will be doing much more business anyway.' " "And so we did --emptied out the Pub, brought it back. Came back with the cart for Agatha and her friends a few days later...Agatha died in Vitus 's arms. So, a few days later, did Nerius. And so, a few days after that, despite what he had said, did Vitus . Guess he was wrong about being immune." Christina stares, deeply saddened, even after the passage of almost two-thousand years. "I didn't have Primal, and could not heal --even if I did, our Arts don't do that. We can heal injuries, because they are static. We can restore memories, because they were lost. But disease....disease constantly attacks. Even when you heal, the person immediately gets sick again. You could try Reweaving them so that they were immune ....but you can save but no more than one person every week. And they stand as much chance of dying of Reweaving as they do of the plague. It's why we Fae can't today help those dreamers with AIDS, for example. As I've said before, our magic is quite strong in some ways...and quite weak in others." "I cried over Vitus and the others-- the first time I could remember really crying over a mortal. I held Vitus 's head in my arms for a long time. And as I cried, a gentle hand touched my shoulder, and then an arm around my back, comforting me. I instincively wrapped my arms around the fellow volunteer without looking to see if I recognized him/her--all of us there, in that place of the dying, in that place of comfort, believers and non-believers alike, shared a common comaraderie, a breaking down of social borders in the midst of everything. I cried into that man's shoulders...and felt fur where his cheek was." "I looked at this fellow volunteer. He had a gentle face, warm green eyes, long floppy ears. His name was Turnberry." Christina is still staring into space, her hands now fingering gently the charms around her neck...among them, a small, grey-stone, polished crucifix. Perhaps the same Nerius wore two thousand years before. "It would be hundreds of years yet before I made my own choice," Christina says, simply. "I had a lot of questions for God...and still do. I've seen what much of the Church became and did, and the suffering venal corrupt clergy imposed just as the Roman Priests did to their own people. I've seen massive horror perpetrated in Christ's name as well as anyone else's. But throughout the centuries, I have met others, clergy and lay alike, from those who stayed to help the dying in Corinth to the Sisters who strove to help the dying in Calcutta...who still loved those most in need, who still lived as if the words of Christ were alive and real, rather than just words on a page..." "Christianity has no monopoly on kindness, service and love to others. One does not need to be a Christian to help the innocent, to give of one's self, to spend one's life helping those who need help the most. But the reverse -is- true," she says, firmly, "despite what many so-called-Christians might do and say. One cannot be a Christian without -living- a life of love and service as our Lord Jesus did...Christianity is what happens the other six days of the week. And if they ask me why it is my mission to bring hope to the world, to fight even when the end appears near, even when I know myself that my own death, perhaps my own Final Death, comes and can see it like it is tomorrow...if you ask me why I try my best to help others..." "Then tell them this: it be because I serve a God who loved plague-stricken women that noone else would help." Christina looks apologetic. "I'm really sorry to have gone all preachy on ya," she says, sincerely. -- Christina
|
