From: thanatos@interaccess.com (Timothy Toner)
Subject: The Caine FIles (6 of 6)

My name is Wilhelm, and I am a vampire.  And in one week, I will be
dead.
     Once, I feared the hidden end of immortality; that no things
were truly infinite.  Now I know the truth, and the bitterness
burns a channel of relief into my spirit.  I will die, and there
will be an end to it.
     Once I feared death would come at the hands of another
Kindred, slain as a martyr in some undead cause.  The moment I
agreed to collect these dialogues, I knew my life was in peril.  It
was a choice, and one I indulged in openly.  In truth, I had grown
tired of this existence, of this endless string of debates and
brawls.  The chance to die gloriously, then, was all I could ask
for.  I would die, but my name and my work would live forever.
     And now...now I need to finish my work.  I cannot blame a
blundering ennui, or a repressive dictatorship to end my life.  I
instead must blame the beginning of all things.
     But I speak too quickly.  For you, the reader to understand,
I must begin at the end.
     It was a week ago.  I had just finished the layout of the
book, and was going to send it to the printers.  Word had just
reached my ears that Fredrick had committed himself to the asylum,
and for some reason, this inevitable event chilled me.  It meant my
careful plans were bent slightly awry.
     I am not a superstitious man, by any means, but I am a
traditionalists, and a sentimentalist.  A good friend, who advised
me to take on this project, was surveying the final draft, when he
asked me why I was content to stop at five chapters.
     "The Law of Fives, of course.  Two plus three is five." I
smiled at him.  It was a brave little secret joke.
     "Ah, but two time three is six, and times means so much more
than plus.  Why don't you add a conclusion, to round the book off?"
     "Well, I had planned a dynamic symmetry.  Five chapters, and
five copies of the book to be made.  It made sense to me."
     "Ah, well.  Very good, I suppose.  Still, I can't but think
that there's one last tale to tell out there."
     And then Nietzsche and Arond passed beyond my grasp.  I could
not send Fredrick a copy, and my fragile symmetry was no more.  I
would still make his copy, lest some miracle happen and he would
come free.  For now, however, it would remain with me.
     Perhaps a conclusion was in order.  Perhaps I could sum up the
words of my betters in some coherent gestalt.  It seemed supremely
unlikely, but I was willing to try anything.  It felt, then, that
my life had suddenly become hollow, and that I would do anything to
rekindle the living fire within me.
     And so on that night, a mere hour after sunset, I sat at my
desk, a piece of blank paper growing steadily blanker.
     And then there was a knocking at the door.
     More bothered than startled, I called for the visitor to
enter.  Paranoia had run deep in my veins for the least few months,
but now that the project was so close to completion, I had ceased
to care.  Those who knew where I lived could come and torment me as
they pleased.  In truth, my only visitors were the scores of
Malkavians, who knew intimate details about my supposedly secret
project.  I was in a foul mood.  Perhaps the arrival of one of
these cretins could brighten my night.
     Whoever it was, he paused for a moment after I made the
invitation.  Finally, the door swung open widely to allow his
entrance.
     He was tall, possessing a frame that almost filled the door. 
His clothes were sharp and organic, the latest fashions from the
finest clothiers, unlike most of our kind who seemed trapped in
their specific fashion moment, a poorly dressed testament to a dead
time.  His face seemed almost kind, and had only a slight pale
pallor, that seems to come more from tired exertion than unlife.
     I would have passed off this stranger as an inquisitive
mortal, if not for his eyes.  They were dead, as dead as my heart. 
But it was the death of gold, still and motionless, and unchanging. 
Whereas our eyes were dull and shiny, reflecting dimly the light of
life, his seemed to burn it back a thousand times more brightly. 
My instincts told me that I should fall to my knees in
supplication, but I have never been a creature of instinct.
     At last, after the minutes slowly dragged by, I finally was
able to avert my gaze.  "Who are you?"
     "Gentility is dead in this century?"  He seemed amazingly
reassured, and not a tad nervous, as all the others had been.  I
knew who he claimed to be, and oddly, physically he was the one who
least resembled my conception of Caine (one had even gone so far as
to reveal himself in his 'father's fig leaf.').  Perhaps that was
what terrified me most.
     "No.  Gentility is but one aspect of the protocols of life,
protocols that demand a discourse.  Your name?"
     He tried to smile, as if contemplating just how naive I could
be.  "You know better than anyone alive today.  You _have_ been
writing about me."
     "Caine, right?"
     "It seems so odd that the worst of you spend the majority of
their existence in the search for me.  And now, finally, when a
deserving student takes the challenge, he cannot accept the
evidence of his eyes."
     "'My eyes, they deceive me...'"
     "No.  Your _mind_ deceives you.  You addled attempt at
education has blinded you to the truth.  My truth."
     What was once mildly amusing was now getting increasingly
annoying.  "You reject the doctrine of Proof?  If not, _Prove_ you
are who you say you are."
     "Lackey, it is you who reject the doctrine of Proof. 
Verification lies in the beholder, and not the beholden.  So now,
if fear does not rule your life, prove me."
     "Prove...?"
     He slid his wrist from its velvet and silk sheath, and in a
bizarre mockery of mortality, ripped a chunk of his flesh free.  I
have seen Kindred carve into themselves with knives, teeth, or
razor sharp talons.  This was far from feral, instead almost
methodical, as if he was plucking a stray thread from his arm, only
to discover it was a vein carelessly placed.  The blood politely
flowed, burbling into his cupped palm.
     "'Taste and see, my Childe, for the Lord is good.'"
     I stood, a boy afraid to take candy from a stranger.  My lips
quivered in hunger, and my eyes grew wide with passion.  Once
again, instinct assaulted my mind, telling me to lap like a dog
from his eminence, but ironically a mortal timidity spared me the
ignominy.  I held my ground.
     "What's the matter?  Not _hungry?_"  As he said that final
word, the syllables resonated, as if I had never known the meaning
of hunger before, and he was showing me through example.  I reached
forth, to catch a small bit on my fingers, then once again,
stopped.
     "No."
     "No?  No what?"
     "No!  I will _not_ drink your blood, you animal!"
     He began to laugh heartily, and slowly shook the crimson fluid
off his hands and onto the floor.  "I have been called many things,
both in my presence, and while I slept.  I have heard it all.  In
all this time, no man has dared called me an animal.  You, perhaps
are closest to the truth.  They were wise in choosing you, Wilhelm.
     "It's just as well you did not drink."  He stared thoughtfully
at his reddened palm.  "One taste..."
     We both remained silent for too long.  At last, I had to
speak.  "One taste...?"
     "One taste, and you can never go back.  One taste, and you
savor the purity of God.  One taste, and you die as you live,
instead of living as you die."  He licked his palm clean.  "Do you
know why?"
     "Why...why you became...a..."  I could not believe I was
stammering.
     "No, you little fool.  Why eventually all of your kind must
rely on Kindred blood to survive.  Why the press of humanity no
longer sates your desires.  Why you must ultimately shun the herd
for the Herd."
     "Why?"
     "Evolution.  Pure and simple.  It seems the doddering
scientists have got one thing right, except in the wrong direction. 
Evolution exists.  It happens.  But not in the manner that anyone
expects.
     "When man was created, he was created perfect.  Perfect in
every way, perfectly adapted to Paradise.  When he, and she, were
cast out of Paradise, they were no longer...perfect.  Disharmony
ruptured the system, compelling all things to change to the new
conditions.  Man changed to fit nature, and nature changed to fit
man.  But neither changed in the right way, and to the right
amount.  Thus they change continually, constantly.
     "You...you change not.  Your body is locked into that state,
into the specific evolutionary pattern manifest when you were
alive.  Your body is attuned to that pattern.  Since those of your
species are similar enough to you, you have no problem feeding on
them.  But as time goes by, as each successive generation becomes
less and less like you, weakening in that ephemeral trait, the
blood no longer nourishes you as it once did.  At that point, the
only blood that can feed you is that blood which is closest to that
original state of grace.  Kindred blood."
     "So we are becoming corrupted...tainted?"
     "Humanity has become tainted.  _You_ can never be farther than
thirteen generations from the source.  From the font.  From me."
     He finally stopped his smooth lecture, and walked over to a
chair sitting by the cold fireplace.  Dragging it back to the
table, he sat and made himself comfortable.
     "You're not writing this down."
     I glanced down at the piece of paper, now lightly dappled with
the drying ink of my pen.  "I..."
     "How do you expect to recall my words, my thoughts?  No
matter.  By the time we're through, I think you'll find it hard not
to remember every last word."
     I dipped the pen, then glanced at it and threw it aside. 
Every word still burned and intoned inside of me.  I couldn't
forget it.  I couldn't dare.
     "To continue.  Man is corrupt only in the benighted sense that
what we had was perfection.  We were paragons then, but sterile.
Impotent gods.  As you are now.  But it was not perfection.  It was
something different, a distinct state of existence altogether.  We
were perfect only in that we matched our environment completely: 
physically, spiritually, emotionally."
     "Sterile?  Didn't you...reproduce?"
     "The question you're _dying_" he paused and savored that word
for a few moments, "to ask is 'Is that why they ate the apple?' 
Freedom is such a radical concept, and most of humanity are too
sheeplike to understand its full implications.  You have to
understand how difficult defiance was.  We fit paradise like a
sword fit its sheath.  To go against that grain proved terribly
difficult.  But, as you see, not impossible."
     "Free will didn't come in to it?"
     "Free will was built into paradise.  We were never sure which
way it was, whether paradise bent to us, or we bent to paradise,
but in any event, nothing was denied us.  Nothing but the apple."
     "Of course.  And you couldn't resist the one thing that was
denied you.  Human nature."
     "_Please!_  You are denied the sun.  Do you long to bask in
its radiance?"
     "Some...in theory..."
     "Do they actively seek to expose themselves, to know how
liberating it can be?"
     "No, but sunlight is different.  It is oppressive, it is
destructive.  It weighs upon us terribly."
     "So did the damn apple."
     "Wait.  You speak as if you were _there._  I thought you were
a...consequence..."
     "The pains of labor followed the apple.  The _pains._  Not the
labor.  I was born before the Fall, but not in the usual sense. 
One day, the two became...not bored..._distracted_ with the
business of perfection.  They conceived of me, and I was...
conceived.
     "I remember very little of that time; only that I was happy,
but they were not.  I stood amidst perfection, and I was flawed. 
A first attempt, badly conceived.
     "How did I know?  They made my brother.  Suffice it to say,
they took a bit more time in his creation.  And then I was alone,
as they abandoned me to enjoy creation with him.  I suppose it was
then that my wanderings began.
     "And then the apple fell, and we fell.  I remember nothing of
that time.  There have been those who blame me, after hearing my
tale, saying I cannot remember because I am the cause of their
pain.  Perhaps it is so.  I cannot say.
     "I remember next only being born.  Again.  In pain.  The world
was cold and incomplete, and I looked up at Eve's eyes, and saw her
anguish at my creation.  She hadn't wanted me the first time, and
now I returned to pain her.  But I could not be unmade, no matter
how much they desired it.
     "I worked hard to make myself wanted.  I tilled the soil.  I
sowed the seed.  I transformed the land, bending it to _my_ will. 
I understood the nature of reality into which we had been thrust. 
Unless we controlled it, it would control us.
     "Abel found the sheep:  docile, easy to control.  It became a
war between us.  Would our children control, or would they become
sheep?  I think we both know the answer to that."
     "Why did you...kill him?"
     "Why did they eat the apple?  The answer is never easier than
you could ever imagine.  Passions?  No.  Anger?  No.  Hatred?  No. 
I never fit in, and I would never fit in.  My exile from my "kind"
was nothing hateful.  It was a natural extension of my being.  To
kill him, as he killed his sheep, to sweeten my field with his
blood, seemed as natural as threshing the grain.  All I knew was
that I never had a more rich harvest than that next season."
     "So vampirism wasn't the curse?"
     "No.  Not for me."
     "So you can go in the sun?"
     "I walked in paradise.  Nothing was barred from me.  I slew my
brother.  Not even death could hold me then.  I am no vampire."
     "But we are.  What happened then?"
     "A story.  I must tell you a story, and you must listen.  I
heard it a long time ago, and certain aspects still puzzle me.  But
it does not render it any less valid.
     "The woman stood on the valley's edge, and watched the silver
ribbon wend its way through the crags.  She was the first.  Her
hair was the color of warm spring shifting into cool autumn.  She
felt it as a shiver racing through her limbs.  It had begun, and
they would arrive soon.
     "The second came, in a shimmering cloud of gold.  He hung over
her, and enveloped her in his nimbus.  She smiled at his warm
embrace.  He finally solidified, and lightly kissed her cheek.
     "The third struggled up the incline, enjoying the challenge
that heights and breadths presented.  This new world was a
fascinating place, but it was not home.  And that was significant.
     "The last was there.  He simply appeared, above them around
them, as if he had always been there.  He regarded the three in
silence, as his being swelled with frightening power.
     "The second shook his golden mane, and held the woman's hand.
'It has happened, then.'
     "'Yes.  Eternity is no more.  There shall now be an ending to
all things.'
     "The third spoke out.  'There was _always_ an ending.  It just
was never defined, never before us.  Now the time ticks away.'
     "The last said nothing.
     "'It all seemed so sudden.' said the woman.
     "'Finality next to infinity always seems sudden.' replied the
second.
     "'Must we fight?  Must there be war?  Endings do not always
demand a conflict.  Why must it be this way?' queried the third.
     "The last remained silent.
     "The woman shifted, and broke contact with the second. 
'Already the land changes.  Already they take from me without
returning.  Already the endless cycle slows.  It will stop.'
     "'But not _today._'  The second moved to touch, but the woman
shied away.  He clenched his hands in frustration.
     "'We all feel the loss.' consoled the third.  'We all lose
numbers, just by fighting in this war.  And, still, we will all
fight.  Right?'  He turned to the last.
     "The last remained silent.
     "'My children will fight, but I fear for the future.  Those we
protect will come to revile us, hunt the hunters.  My children do
not always listen as they should.  When they do listen, often they
do not understand, or they understand only what they choose to
hear.'
     "The second shook his head sadly.  'My followers are
unprepared for what lies ahead.  Their power lies in the mutability
of reality.  They will not accept an absolute fate.  This will
cause some to rebel, to make their reality the absolute reality. 
In those the Other does not corrupt, difference of opinion will
divide.  Their strength will bring them low.'
     "The third laughed a tiny, nervous chuckle.  'My people are
immortal.  They will not understand the concepts of finality.  They
will fight it, and in doing so, fight me.'
     "The last said nothing.
     "The woman regarded the plaintive call of a faraway wolf, as
the sun resolved into darkness.  'They will die...all die, before
the war is won.  My children are few, and must be born.  As others
are stamped out of existence by the "gentle" ministrations of
humanity, they shall be annihilated.'
     "The second breathed out a shallow sigh.  'My followers must
learn.  They can be culled from the ranks of humanity, but only a
desperate few will have the mental faculties to master its
disciplines, and of those few born, how many will find the teachers
and the knowledge to plumb the depths within?  Not enough to win a
war.  The finest will flee this place, questing for words of
ancient power, fleeing the humanity who would burn them.  All that
will remain will be the dregs, the mass who knows only how to hide
best.  They will fall before the first wave."
     "There was a horrid silence in that place, as below a young
man dug deeply into the earth, carving a gash that would never heal
properly, and would leave the earth there scarred and swollen.
     "Finally the third, so playful and laughing, at last allowed
the weight of the world to fall between his ears.  'My people are
frivolous.  They enjoy the life of sedate ease.  Even as we speak,
the sinews that bind our worlds are dissolving in the foetid acid
that drips from the Other's fangs.  As that chasm grows, the worlds
will separate and grow cold.  Few will desire to cross over when
our orbs grow too dissimilar, even to laugh and brighten stern
moments.  For they know that no matter how noble the cause,
death...finality stains this place.'
     "As was his habit, as was his right, the last said nothing.
     "'So what are we to do?' asked no one in particular,
attempting to smother out the horrid silence that followed the self
recriminations.
     "'Wait, I suppose,' said another.  'What else is there to do?'
     "'Perhaps, my friend, we discount them too quickly.'
     "'Who?  The enemy?'
     "'No, the troubled masses of humanity.  Perhaps we can instill
within them the courage to protect themselves; the power to defend
themselves...'
     "'Against the night?  Its lure is too seductive.  Even _our_
people draw power from it, and in doing so, are corrupted.  The
frail press of humanity would be crushed under the weight of its
own addictions.  Let them tread the path of light.  Let them cower
at the coming of night.'
     "'Light has little to do with it.  Did not the brightest angel
fall into eternal corruption?  Is not his radiance still
illuminating the darkest horrors of Hell, so that no sin can be
escaped in that place.  Darkness is what you make of it.'
     "The first three looked at each other in astonishment.  None
had spoken.  Not even the last, who was now bubbling plaintively in
its own putrescence.
     "Shaking off this sudden confusion, the woman turned on the
men.  'It is not enough to _say._  We must do!'
     "'And once again, we turn to the eternal question.  Do
_what?_'
     "'Have you not some small shred of discarded power left within
you, a modicum that seemed to fit in no particular place?'
     "The two, the woman and the second, regarded the third.  Both
breathed a reply, as if a dreadful secret had finally been told. 
'Yes,' they sighed in relief.
     "'I know.  I pondered that bit for the longest time, pondered
why it fit in no particular place.  I could not give it to one
group, without upsetting the fragile balance I had designed, and
yet spreading it around equally seemed frivolous.  I speculated the
same had occurred to you.  I think there is a reason, my friends.'
     "'Must there always be a reason?'
     "The golden haired adonis scowled at the greying woman. 
'Speak on, friend!  Tell us your plan!'
     "Deep within the valley, the man was finished.  The soil was
replaced, and he was slowly covering over the wound, gently
scattering dirt to hide all traces that the violation had ever
happened, to return to the sense of normalcy.  In the west, dark
clouds were already beginning to gather.
     "Seeing all this, the woman retreated into herself.  It had
truly begun.  Heat was being stolen from the earth with the promise
of a sudden squall.
     "'My plan is simple, and subtle!  Oh, so subtle!  We will
bestow upon humanity aspects of ourselves, invest within them
power, so that none will suffer the weaknesses, while all will
benefit from the strengths.  They will become us, and yet beyond
us, for they will acknowledge no pecking order, no supreme leader,
no god.  They will not know from whence this power runs, and it
will make them potent, for they will know no limitations!'
     "The woman regarded the dreamer darkly.  'We are talking of
fractions of power, not vast expenditures!  At best, it will give
them an edge the Foe will quickly subvert, or duplicate.'
     "The second spoke in support, 'Have faith, sister.'  He had
never called her sister in all their quiet moments, flitting about
in the Everything, together.  By the seconds, he was growing aloof,
distant.  His golden hair blazed while, and his clothes became
ethereal.
     "The imp confirmed this.  'Faith can shatter mountains,
sister.  We must believe, and all things are made possible. 
However, I see your point.  To spread the power would be weak and
useless.  We must appoint champions from their masses, those who go
forth with our blessing, our power mingling in their flesh.  We
must infuse one with the savage power we possess.  What will you
give?'
     "Already the lightning flashed and the thunder roared.  Heaven
spilled its sweet tears on the desecrated land.  A lone man stood
in a field, and waited.
     "'Come...let us go elsewhere,' finished the imp.
     "In a moment they were elsewhere.  To all, they were home. 
All pondered the matter gravely.  Then the woman, whom all supposed
would speak last, until forced by the majority, spoke.
     "'I reverse the curse.  To gain his strength, he shall neither
toil nor sweat.  Instead, he can suckle at my teat, and take all
the strength he suffices.  To create his children, he shall not
suffer in labor, but rather shall infuse them with my goodness. 
Such power befits a champion.'
     The second, more intangible as time crept on, spoke out.  'I
give him power, neither as grand nor as diverse as my flock, but
powerful in its own right.  His will be the secret ways of
humanity, whose paths only the greatest of my acolytes can fathom.'
     The third considered these wondrous gifts, and was about to
speak, to confer his blessing, when the last finally spoke out.
     "'The vile creatures whom your "blessings" will forge shall
not suckle at your teat, but rather feast on your flesh, devouring
your precious lifesblood.  They will only breed in death, when the
pains of life have snuffed all hope, and only the promise of
godlike agony remains.  The Beast you hide behind your skirts, away
from our prying eyes, will claw in their brains, and defend them
when they need it least.
     "'The hateful reflections whom your "benedictions" will spawn
shall subvert mankind to their will, dominating and destroying,
rather than protecting and preserving.  The monstrous powers you
have bestowed upon them will twist their minds and batter their
souls, til no vestiges of bright humanity remains in their godlike
forms.
     "'As for my gift:  they shall fear each of us in kind, for no
matter how similar we are, we are not them, and they are not us. 
They shall fight the Enemy in its element, in the bitter darkness
where It draws its power.  Sunlight, the salvation of Man, will be
their deadliest enemy, and they will find safety only in the
darkest of corners.  Lastly, they will become as I am, mutable
spirits trapped in alien, unchanging flesh.  They will rail against
this, never truly knowing why they suffer, for that, only I will
know, I who care least for their creation, for their comforts.'
     "At this he finished.  Days flew by in silence, as all paused
to think on these bitter, bitter words.  They gave their gifts
freely, and it was his right to change them, to mutate them into
whatever ghastly form he chose.  Of all them, he had the most stake
in what lay below.  It was his right.
     "Then the imp summoned the courage to speak.  'A good gift,
and one that I am hard pressed to match.  But I say this:  they
will enjoy your gifts...forever.'
     "The woman turned pale, then red with wrath.  The man's
astonishment drove his atoms farther apart, until he almost lost
all desire to reform.  Almost.
     "But of all these simple emotions, none could match the
seething rage of the fourth, his eyes burning and turning, as they
regarded the little man.  'How _dare_ you!' he screamed, silently.
     "'It is my right,' the Imp smiled back.  'I know things that
you could not dare to dream, my _brother._  The final blessing
shall be mine.'
     "Confused, the first two tried to dredge out a hidden meaning,
but none could be found.  It seemed as simple as sand on a flowing
beach.  'What now?' asked the Imp.
     "'I suppose a champion would be in order.'
     "'Yes,' supported the Man.  One who is strong of will.  One
who will lead the way.  One who is not afraid of what lies ahead.'
     "'One who has nothing to lose.'  It was that voice again,
belonging to none collected there.
     "They at last open their awareness to the world around them,
perceiving a thriving village on the edge of the river, near where
the man had first tilled the field.  All four reached out with
their grace, and all they touched were found sorely wanting.  'Our
champion is not here,' wept the Man.
     "'Look beyond this place,' replied the Imp.  'There are more
humans than the ones in this locale.'  He waved his small hand, and
revealed a far off spot, a half naked man huddled before a dying
fire.
     "'He is so pitiful...so alone.'
     "'Your eyes judge with mercy, sister.  There is strength in
him who lives alone, so far from family.  It takes courage to
suffer as he is suffering.  He is an ideal choice.  He will be our
harbinger.'
     "They materialized before him, and he drew back.  'More demons
to torment me!  The last!  How awful!  O lord!  Stop my suffering!'
     "'We are here to ease your pains, my child.  I am your mother,
and your mother's mother, and even her mother's mother.  We have
come to grant you blessings.  But what is it you have done, to
dwell so far from the others?'
     "'I have murdered my brother.'
     "And at last, the spell broke, and the Primogenitur appeared
before her, in all his shameful glory.  This was the First
Deception, and her children mourn its passing in their most
secretive rites. 'Spare me, mother!' he cried.
     "Once a boon is given, it cannot be taken away.  Still, her
finest dreams and hopes had been annihilated by the pains of these
three, these four.  With tears moistening the earth, she picked up
great clots of mud, and anointed his face and shoulders.  'This is
your Brother.  Draw strength from his suffering.'
     "The Second reached forth, and gouged deeply within the throat
of the man.  When he withdrew his steaming fist, it glowed with the
fires of heaven.  'This, my son, is no longer a part of you.  Fear
its power.  Fear its heat.  The blaze burned brighter, and yet the
man did not flinch.  Instead, the glowing enveloped him in its
radiance.  'Draw your power from without, and seek to conquer your
fears enough to draw it within.'
     "The second stepped away, and the last took his place.  The
mortal shivered at the horrific countenance, at the blood flowing
sweetly from an imploded skull.  'Know this.  All that is mine...is
now _yours._  Brother.'
     "Pain racked the man, shaking him until all blood congealed in
its deepest recesses, lending the pale pallor.  He hungered and
wept, for vengeance, for blood.  But he did not know why.
     "Finally, the last stepped forth.  'I rename you, Cain.  These
three no longer have power over you.  You are now Caine.'  The
Three stared about wildly, their control rended away by simple
words.  The change was so subtle, and yet it was absolute.  'I
grant you eternity, and the responsibility it entails.  I grant you
solutions, hidden deep within yourself.  And lastly, I reinvoke
your curse!'
     "And with a swirling nimbus of light, the Imp was gone,
leaving only a blasted patch of earth.  The mortal ceased his
shuddering, and felt only need.  He regarded the Three who stood
before him questioningly.  'Who are you?'
     "The woman struck out, determined to wipe clean this
abomination, even if it obliterated her.  Invisible servants of
faith restrained her destructive touch.  'None may harm him.  That
is the Law.'
     "Then they all vanished from sight, and returned to their
home.  Each of the remaining three regarded the other.
     "The fourth spoke first, leading the litany.  'None may speak
of this.'
     "'None.'
     "'None.'
     "'If it be His gift that saved the man, let it be _all_ on His
head.'
     "'So be it.'
     "'So be it.'
     "'Come, my brethren.  Steel yourselves for the coming battle. 
It is one I savor winning, even over Heaven's head.'
     "'I am ready.'
     "'I am ready.'
     "'So am I.  Err...what are we ready for, by the way?  Sorry I
was late.  Got distracted by the most amazingly bright bauble. 
What just happened?'
     "They all regarded the little imp, now here, and cared not at
all.  They left him for their separate homes, and awaited battle in
their own fashion.  The imp was left to fend for himself.
     "The rest fades from my memory."
     A bitter moment of silence followed, when I struggled with my
scientific urges.  Finally, I realized that he came to me to allow
me to do my job, to be an objective viewer to all that I saw and
heard.  I would then do my job.
     "Is it true?"
     His melancholy stretched into a savage grin, as he thrashed
his head, left and right, searching the ceiling with eyes clenched
tightly shut.  I thought for a moment that I had indeed gone too
far, and would die here.  But just as soon as the spasming started,
it ceased.  He grew remarkably still, and finally muttered.  "It
was a story.  Truth is only in the telling, and the interpretation. 
Was it true?"  I had no idea whether the question was directed or
rhetorical.  I dared not ask.
     He did not await an answer.  Instead, he slicked his hair
back, and regarded me.  "Any more questions?"
     "Are you Caine?"
     Once I thought I would know the answer to that question the
moment I heard it answered.  Only Caine would answer it correctly. 
It was a fervent belief of mine, that somehow only one being could
properly intone the proper response, after taking in all the title
entailed.
     Not surprisingly, the stranger did not answer it.  Not
directly.  "Why don't you ask what you _mean_ to ask.  About me. 
About God."
     "I don't know what you're talking about."  And for a moment,
I began to doubt.  It was an easy question, and yet he obviously
avoided it.  Perhaps I wasn't basking in the shadow of greatness.
Perhaps this was some clever Malkavian, or potent Antediluvian.  I
_was_ in the presence of a powerful being, but whether or not it
was the First still lay unanswered...I prayed.
     He seemed to note my hidden defiance, and his countenance
miraculously changed.  He returned to the emotionless form who
first passed into the room.
     "I mean Jean Rickard and his Ten Theses, as presented before
the Philisoph Commune last week."
     I was there.  Jean, a brilliant French philosopher, postulated
ten reasons against the existence of God.  He wholly swayed all but
those "special" observers, and compelled his listeners to take up
arms and throw down the "hollow leeches" who inhabited the
churches.  It took a great deal of time to bring the crowd down. 
Jean disappeared the next night.  Such men are a danger to us all.
     It is disturbing to muse on it now.  When I was alive, I
prayed to have such rhetorical power, to hypnotize the masses, and
march a mob to my particular beat.  To watch my present colleagues
hover over these demagogues, watchful buzzards, makes my flesh
crawl.  God had his defenders that night.
     "Yessss...."
     He was staring me down, all that time, while I pondered that
night.  And now he seemed ready to pounce.  He knew where he had
led me, and now he shut the iron gate.
     "If I am Cain, son of Adam, then Adam exists.  If Adam exists,
forged of clay and dust by God, then there is a God.  A thousand
years of defiance, a half millennium of proof denying faith, thus
is washed away.  I am Proof supporting Faith.  Jean did not have to
die.  But he was an interesting case study."
     "How can you deny his message?  I could not find the flaw in
his argument."
     "His 'argument,' if such tripe can rate as an argument, was
that if God was benevolent, then He would not have allowed Man to
be ravaged by free will, since He should have known the suffering
it would reap on his people."
     "The argument has its merits."
     "The argument lacks in its basic supposition, that we can
perceive the motivations of God as a human.  Humanity is still a
child."
     "Ah, yes, the child that must be beaten and scolded every time
it does not lick its Father's boots.  How Godlike!"
     "How non-human.  You fault God for failing to be the one thing
he cannot:  human."
     "How is it you pretend to know so much about such a being?"
     "You forget that I am one of a handful of those who warranted
a personal chastisement.  We talked.  We talked of the whys and
wherefores of the world.  I was not capriciously spared.  There was
a reason for my eternity."
     "And why does he not come marching down from his ivory tower
and chastise me for my blasphemies?  What made _you_ special?"
     "I was the first.  And I suppose he grew tired of talking
without being listened to.
     "I will lecture to you once more.  By the time I finish, the
sun will have soared into the heavens, and I will walk forth into
the light.  If you doubt my identity, then you shall know.  If I
lie, then I shall die.  But first listen.  After all, it may be my
last.
     "You wonder the why's of humanity?  Why have we climbed from
the dust, to become masters of this world?  Why do powerful forces
grapple for the meager weight of souls?  There is no pat parable to
answer these haunting questions.  All I can offer is insight."
     The stranger paused and stared at his hands, the fingertips
slowly brushing.  He breathed out a heavy sigh.  "Primogenitur.
It's an interesting word.  The root of Primogen, it means, 'The
First Born.'  It has come to mean the Rights of the Firstborn, but
its meaning is much deeper than that.  And its meaning is a lie.
     "To the first born, there are no rights, no privileges, except
perhaps getting a larger slice of the pie, until another precious
mouth comes forth, and steals food from your belly.  The only thing
the firstborn gets is responsibilities, most important being the
protection of the younger child.
     "Look at your precious histories.  Throughout, the youngest
curried favor with the father, while all was stolen from the older.
The world is built in such an unfair fashion.  Jacob tricked Esau,
Eve toppled paradise, while afterwards Adam had to watch over her. 
And, of course, Abel was beloved of God, while my precious
offerings were spurned.  Now I know.  It was not the _quality_ of
the gifts.  It was the _source._
     "So it is with humanity.  This great world thrums with life,
as many and varied that can be dreamed of.  Each species is a child
of God, as part of a vast family.  Humanity was the last to come,
whether it be through divine creation or secular evolution, and
thus they share the rights and privileges of the lastborn.  They
may slay, they may trick, rob, and deceive, and the Father will
stay his hand.  If the other children fight back, then they will
suffer...as I have."
     "I do not see you suffering as greatly as others...say, Sodom
and Gomorrah, if it _is_ a true story.  God's retribution must be
indeed a fickle thing."
     "I am glad that you brought up Sodom, for it is an interesting
example of what I speak.  As I said, God is not a judge.  He is a
father.  Humanity is his child, still growing, still learning. 
When humanity was young, it needed a rod to be disciplined.  Not
so, however, in Sodom.  In that case, part of the organism
rebelled.  It was a boil that needed to be lanced, to prevent the
infection from corrupting the entire organism.  But instead of
being blotted out by heavenly discipline, the Father chose a
different punishment."  The stranger giggled for a moment, then
resumed.  "He merely relinquished his control over reality at those
two locations.  In every way, their fondest dreams came true.  Too
bad their meagre human shells could not handle the pyrotechnics. 
That is why it was so important for no one to glance back.  If they
did, all _their_ desires would come to pass, much to the surprise
of Lot's wife.
     "So, you see, even the most vulgar and destructive acts can be
misinterpreted.  The greatest punishment a father can confer upon
a child is in allowing all things.  In many ways, Sodom's
punishment is my own."
     It had passed in a glimmering.  There was a faint aura of
remembrance, and now, before my eyes, his countenance had changed
altogether.  He was no longer the defiant spirit, who told me how
he had assaulted the old ways.  Now, he was sad, almost pathetic,
and in some deep way, I felt sorry for his fate, even though I did
not yet fully understand its depths.
     He still possessed the strength (courage?) to continue.  "Some
good must come of my life, some truth must survive my dark fate. 
I tell you this:  humanity is indeed a child who has usurped the
blessings of all its brethren.  It has now entered the stage in its
life after infancy and discovery, where it questions the nature of
intangible reality, where it seeks to define the world in its own
terms, and where it questions all authority.
     "This stage will last for a time, and then comes the next: 
accountability.  The desire for independence has, as a cost,
independence.  There will come a day when humanity must justify the
atrocities it has committed in its own name, when its crimes
against its brothers, and against itself, will be enumerated.  And
regardless of that, the outcome will be the same.  We will be left
alone."
     "That's it?  No divine retribution?"
     "Nothing of the sort.  We will be given over to ourselves. 
And seeing humanity at its best and worst, I cannot think of a
darker fate.  We deserve what we receive."
     And he finished; I knew because he suddenly drew back, and I
collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut.  The sun was now
high in the heavens, and its oppression beat down on me savagely. 
I wanted to sleep, perhaps even to die.  I had not been prepared
for the onset by the sudden numbness.  Something about the stranger
blocked that influence...until now.  Now I was suffering.
     "I think I shall leave you like that, Wilhelm.  I apologize
for the pain, but it is the only way to keep you sane, to keep you
from lapsing into a torpor from which you will never awaken.  You
will never quite forgive me for the results of this day, except
perhaps after you are done with the book, and finally understand
why I did what I did.  Until then..."
     He smiled and walked out the door onto the shadowy staircase
that would lead to an alley suffused with light.  It was perhaps
eight in the morning, and few would be up and about in this part of
town.  He could leave without meeting a single person, and I would
have no proof that anyone had passed this way.
     Then a low moan reached my sensitive ears, building into an
anguished screaming.  Someone above was in great suffering, and I
ached for him.  Were the legends true?  Did he truly have to kill
one of his brother's children each day to maintain the immortality?
Had he happened upon some poor urchin on his way to the factory?
     It was then that the stench raged through my nostrils.  I
tried to close them off, but it was...overwhelming.  That thing
which had verbally, mentally, and emotionally assaulted me that
evening was now incinerating in the heat of the sun.  This was no
Caine!
     Now there was another noise, coming high above, and close to
the first sound.  It started as the quiet crackling of immolated
flesh, but soon grew and screamed.  Bones snapped, flesh peeled,
lungs burst out.  Something was dicing my friend savagely, crushing
him to component pieces.  That crackling sound, still in the
background, slavered at my brain, until finally I realized where I
had heard it before.  On the farm, in the sound of a newborn chick
escaping an egg.
     At last, it was over.  There was a terrible silence, then a
mild whimper.  It seemed to hang in the air for too long, as if not
produced by human lungs, with mortal endurance.  Suddenly, it built
in intensity, and as it crescendoed, it broke in upon itself, and
resolved into blood churning laughter.  It was as if someone had
finally understood a great cosmic joke, and was properly savoring
its passion.
     Then there were footfalls on the stair, human boots scraping
down the stones.  It was a measured, slow pace, as if the walker
was in no hurry, and knew that I could not run, even if I could
think of it.  He (she?) finally paused, stopping short of the
threshold of the open door.
     And then a voice spoke to me, but in no physical way.  It
reverberated through my soul, each word beating down like a stick
hitting a tympanum.
     "Hello, Wilhelm.  Hello," it spoke, in an uncanny, sexless
voice.  "It seems my little friend went too far.  He was merely
supposed to scare you, to terrify, until you did not possess the
will to continue on this fool's project.  The very fact that the
legend of Caine has survived all these years is proof of its
veracity.  For indeed, if there was no Caine, you would have to
make one up."  
     Then something fell from above, a charred head which
splintered upon the ground at the impact.  It was my visitor.
     "'What is Caine?' you wondered.  In a week's time, I shall
come for you.  In a week's time, you shall know as this poor fellow
knew.  And as I'm showing it to you, remember all the while that
you really _did_ want to know.  It will make the experience easier.
     "Until then, I leave you with this hint of things to come."
     There was a scrunching on the stairs, as heavy leather boots
turned to go, and then something monstrous happened.  With each
step, my body shivered and shook.  No.  Not my body.  My _soul!_ 
It was a crude skin stretched on the frame of my putrid body.  With
each step, it shook and vibrated more painfully.  I felt myself
hideously separating from the mortal shell, as my essence wrenched
free from the meagre anchors of blood which locked it down.  I
wanted to scream, but there was no breath in the lungs of my soul,
no way to express this secret, spiritual pain.
     And then it ended.  He had reached the top stair, and walked
out to join the rest of the world, just one of the thousand
faceless faces.
     All that day, I wept from the horrid pain he inflicted on me,
for in the center of my being, beyond the soul, beyond the mind, in
that quiet little primitive animal, I at last knew the truth.  In
those moments when my soul shook, and I felt my rotting body as an
alien, dead thing, I had lied.  It was not my body that was alien,
but my soul.  Everywhere it touched, it putrefied my form, the last
thing that I could truly call my own.  And now, one week hence, he
would take even that from me.
     The inquisitive soul of Wilhelm had died the moment dark blood
had flowed sweetly down my throat.  What had replaced it was
monstrously familiar, filling all the old crevices where my spirit
once lay.  It had cloyed and hardened there, but it had never truly
become a part of me.  It had numbed the once living part of me,
until it made my form seem rough and unholy, while it breathed and
fed.
     Now it makes sense.  The sun's rays and the fire's heat seeks
not to destroy our form, but rather expose the ugly sin that crawls
within our veins.  The priests are correct:  we are abominations,
but not against nature.  Against ourselves.
     As I pen this, only now can I feel what I have always
suspected, gnawing at me.  There is a lag, almost imperceptible,
between the dream of action, and the response to that action.  The
spirit claws out, and the body rebels against the movement.  It is
a numbing delay, but now it agonizes me for the secret I was too
ignorant, too deviant to acknowledge.
     And now, in a week, there will be a closure, an ending to the
horrid cycle.  I will be reaved, ripped asunder.  My form will
perish, and I will die.  But what will be released?  Once I feared
where this hidden part of me would go.  Now I only fear what the
monster within will do, when stripped of all vestiges of humanity.
Will there be an end?
     In a week, I shall know.
     I can only wonder two things:  what he meant, and why he gave
me this week.  Somehow, he must sense the implications of allowing
me to know this horrid secret, and then letting me free.  Does he
think that this secret is too terrible to tell?  Does he think I
lack the courage to confess to others of my kind?  
     Perhaps.  I decided, earlier this evening, to go out and kill
some pitiful excuse for a human, to glut myself on his essence, and
to abstain from feeding ever again.  When I came to the mirror
before the door, I glanced at the haunted, drawn figure who stared
back at me.  I had seen that dark glint once before:  in the eyes
of almost every Malkavian I have ever met.  They know.  They feel
their false souls itch beneath their flesh, and they say nothing. 
If thousands who have come before me could say nothing, then how
can I?
     Perhaps some _were_ trying to tell me.  I only now see that in
those who came before me, claiming to be Caine, that the haunted
trace was gone.  They were trying to _tell_ me, and all I, all _we_
can do...is laugh.
     I can only pray, pray to a God I have forsaken long ago for
"higher" ideals, that you who one day find these words, will
recognize their import.  If I can dare to fathom the myriad twists
of so ancient a brain as his, then somehow I think that Caine is
giving me a chance, giving us a chance, because he is as trapped as
we are.  This thought, this musing grants me a shard of hope on
which I can impale myself, for my reason then takes over.  That
which I praised above all defeats me at last:  if he cannot escape
this vile, degenerate existence, then how can we?  God help us, how
can _we?_


"Two copies were immediately retrieved; they and their owners were
burned and utterly destroyed.  None will mourn the passing of that
fool, Erasmus, but the summary judgement against Haarlan has led to
threats against my person.  I shall endure these, as I understand
that we Brujah are an excitable lot.  Also, Haarlan was a respected
member of our clan, and will be sorely missed.  Still, there was no
excuse for his actions.  He himself swore fealty to the Masquerade
at its inception.  If anyone should have known better, it was he.
     My Archons and I have slain all those at the printing shop
where the book was made.  Before they died, they confirmed that
five copies of the book were printed.  Two are accounted for, one
is believed consumed in the fire that destroyed Wilhelm.  Finally,
agents have informed me that Arond's copy was sent by Wilhelm to
the Vatican itself!  Although it has passed beyond our reach, I
have been informed that there is no danger of anyone reading the
tome, since books received in that manner are catalogued and stored
by clergy unfamiliar with German.  Further, every attempt will be
made to retrieve the book...
     There is one matter that I must bring to your attention:  the
matter of Wilhelm.  Accounts of our raid have spread to all spheres
of kindred society.  It is time for me to impart my version.  I and
four of my archons descended upon the haven of Wilhelm a week ago.
     There we found the remains of what is believed to have been
Wilhelm.  However, positive identification was impossible, for no
bone was left unbroken.  His head was caved in, and the face was
removed by force.  Only the clothing and distinctive items of
jewelry allowed us to confirm that our prey had indeed been found.
     Several things about the events of that day are quite
disquieting, however.  First, it is obvious Wilhelm was murdered. 
The "who" is unimportant, since he was no longer protected by the
Traditions.  The "why" puzzles me.  Who is so zealous about the
Camarilla that they actively seek to protect the Masquerade, even
before a Justicar can act?
     Second, the body seemed...different.  I could not place it at
the moment, but one of my assistants confirmed the suspicion.  The
body was completely devoid of blood, which is not so odd with
diablerie as a possible motive.  However, what I was too oblivious
to notice was that the flesh, rather than being dessicated, was
moist.  It was _not_ a mortal.  His organs were atrophied, and his
disdended canines, though broken, were still present.
     Third, the body was prepared for us.  It lay on a bier of
books, soaked in lamp oil.  All that the tableau lacked was a
licking flame, and why it lacked that, I cannot say.  In the
corpse's folded, mangled arms, was the book we sought, or, should
I say, the _cover_ of the book we sought.  Some unknown entity, 
obviously the one who killed the heretic, had systematically ripped
each page out.  Where the contents of the book is, I cannot say.
     As you can see, the case, as it stands, is far from settled.
On my oath as a Justicar, I will retrieved the damned copies, and
all pages.  I will further search for any evidence that Wilhelm
still lives.
     Why should I endeavor to seek the dead?  I am not completely
convinced Wilhelm is.  Soon after setting fire to his haven, we
went into the streets.  There we encountered a pack of Kindred,
apparently waititng for us.  I announced myself, and asked them to
identify themselves.  I heard but one answer, "Wilhelm."  Later, I
was told that these Malkavians comprise a group that actively
believe, individually and collectedly, to be Caine.  Why this
change of identification, why this bizarre twist in dementia, I
cannot say.  All I can say is that we shall not know if Wilhelm is
truly dead until all of these Malkavians are hunted down and
questioned."
                    - An Excerpt of a Report Given by Trennart,                  
Justicar of Clan Brujah, to the Camarilla


                                 EPILOGUE

     "So Sandy, how long are you gonna be?"
     "About ten more minutes, Jeremy."  She stared at him as he
leaned against the stacks of books, a blank look on his face.  A
smile creased her cheeks.  "Why don't you go home...I'll catch up."
     "No, I like spending time with you."  He remained standing,
unmoved.
     She sighed, grabbed a microbar, and attacked another crate. 
Being a library science major was a bitch, especially when it came
to cataloging new acquisitions.  These were rare books, a few even
unique.  But she didn't have the time to sit and savor these lost
masterpieces.  Instead, it was a quick check on the inventory
manifest, and then on to the next.  What was worse was that all
these books came from Germany.  She couldn't understand a single
one of the titles she was scribing.
     Suddenly, she felt him next to her, reaching into the box.
     "Do you mind, Jeremy?  I _do_ have a system."
     "Pardon _me._  Hey, there's something wrong with this book."
     "What?"  She stood, and shone the light on the cover.  He
handed the book to her, a heavy red leatherbound tome.
     It was a fat tome, with a flaking crimson cover, and faded
gilt edges.  It looks like it withstood a horrible heat, without
burning.  It was probably a bible, or other holy writings, she
deduced from the style.  What was strange was that the pages seemed
stuck together, as if each were systematically glued shut.  No
title graced its spine, and it seemed to have been crammed into a
dark corner of the crate, out of the way of the other neatly
stacked books.
     She tried to gently ease it open, but he lost patience, pulled
out a pocket knife, and sliced into the pages before she could do
anything to stop him.  He wrenched the book open.  It unfolded to
reveal a small black clothbound book, hidden in a series of cut-out
pages.  A deliberate hiding place!
     Jeremy reached in, and grabbed the book.  "'De Cainus.'
'Concerning dogs.'"  Sandy stared at him incredulously.  "Hey, I
took Latin in high school," he shrugged.  He flipped through the
pages.  "Damn!  It's in German!  Why would the title be in Latin,
and the book in German?"
     "Whatever," she muttered to no one in particular.  "Hey, are
you going to help?"
     "Yeah."  He stared at the book one more time, and waited for
her to turn her head.  He then dropped the book in the stack that
would go to the animal science section.
     "Here's another one."
     "'De Mysteris Vermiis.'  'Concerning the Mystery of Vermin.' 
Did they find a dead veterinarian?"
     She laughed at the inane joke.  Throwing the book on the
animal pile, she closed her notebook.  She had not written either
book down on the log, but she would get to it later.
     "I need a drink.  Let's hit the bars."
     He smiled, grabbed his coat, and ran out the door.  "Ah, who
cares," he agreed, "it's just a bunch of books..."
     Sandy rolled her eyes at the ceiling.  Why did she date
Kinesiology majors?
     They both passed into the hallway outside the Rare Book Room,
and Sandy began locking up.  Before she could arm the system,
however, someone behind her called out.
     Sandy turned.  "Hey, Marjorie!"  It was Marge Dane, a fellow
Library Science student.  She was hauling behind her a serious
looking man in his thirties, who seemed rather nervous about being
here.
     "Sandy, this is my uncle Sully.  He's passing through town and
kinda wants to get a look at the rare book room.  Would you mind? 
He'll just be in there just a second."
     Sandy looked at Marge, then her uncle, then Jeremy, who was
getting impatient.  If she delayed any longer, he was going to lay
the pressure on her _thick_ tonight.  "Sure."  She handed over the
keys.
     "Thanks."  She turned the key in the lock, and swung it open.
Her uncle passed Jeremy, and stopped, almost sniffing the air.  He
stared at the athlete, as if he had stepped into something foul.
"What's your name, boy?"
     Jeremy stiffened.  Sandy whispered, "Shit."  She really didn't
need macho crap right now.
     "Jeremy Hauss."
     The uncle tightened, concentrating on something invisible.
Then he smiled warmly, convinced that nothing was overtly wrong. 
He shifted his eyebrow, and thus his countenance, a bit. 
"Interested in books?"
     "No."  Jeremy stared at slightly homely Marge.  "But there is
a book about _dogs._"  Marge turned beet red.  Sandy glared at the
insensitive cretin.  There was _no_ way now...
     "Good."  Somehow, that utterance defused the tense situation. 
"Good.  I've always like books about our furry friends.  What's its
name?"
     Sandy stepped in, and began to drag away Jeremy.  "It's on the
Animal Studies pile.  I think it's called 'De Cainus.'"
     "You mean, 'De Ca-nus'" in a tone that reeked of imperious
Jesuit tutoring.
     "No, 'C-a-i-n-u-s,' dickhead," he spat out.  He turned to say
something else, but Uncle Sully wasn't there anymore.  Only Marge
was left, still holding the door open, slightly sniveling.
     "C'mon, Sandy.  Let's get the Hell out of here.  We've got
more important things to do..."

thanatos@interaccess.com