The Enterprise of Death - Jesse Bullington [63]
“You seem like a decent girl,” Manuel said once she had, to some extent, stopped frightening the ever-loving shit out of him. “So why traffic with the devil?”
“I’m a woman,” Awa snorted. “And I’ve never dealt with your anti-god, if he even exists.”
“But the raising of the dead is an evil act, rife with—”
“So I’m to understand the taking of lives is less evil, as you say, than the returning of them?” said Awa.
“Now, putting it like that is dodging the issue,” Manuel argued.
“No it isn’t,” said Awa. “You kill other men for money, never knowing, as you yourself admitted, if they’re desperately protecting their homes or simply after the lucre like you.”
“I said that?” It did sound a bit like something he might say.
“You did. So you kill other men, possibly innocent men, for money. You told me that first night it was to feed your family, but you seem like a smart enough man to earn wages doing something else. I, by contrast, restore life to those who have lost it, and not for money but to help those cut down before their time.”
“Now, I don’t know if Werner and—”
“An exception, and a rare one. These last few years I have scoured this world on a desperate errand, and as I often stopped in churchyards on my travels I found cause to raise the occasional corpse, it’s true, but always, with only a few exceptions, at the behest of the spirits of the dead, souls returned from wherever the dead go.”
“Ah!” said Manuel, careful as ever not to ask about her history. “But you admit there’s a Heaven and a Hell! You said where the dead go! You did! And how can there be a Heaven without God?”
“I didn’t say anything of the sort,” said Awa, exasperated. “Do the sort of people you usually debate with tolerate these, these shenanigans?”
“The people I usually debate with aren’t versed in arcane mysteries.” The artist laughed.
“That’s it, mysteries,” said Awa. “You’re learning. What I do is simply mysterious, not impossible or, as you would have it, evil. As a child I was taught that we are born even, balanced, and maintaining that balance is how we live a just life.”
“You mean a balance of good and evil? That would justify evil actions, wouldn’t it?”
“Using those words, yes, I do mean a balance of good and evil. I think that’s what she meant, anyway, my mother. It’s as sure as daybreak in the east that we will act in our own self-interest at the expense of others, but so long as we maintain a balance we are living … good lives.”
“Leaving aside that not all evil is simple self-interest gone awry, would you admit then that something so unnatural as raising the dead is evil, and you have much to atone for?” Manuel asked cautiously.
“I have much to atone for, but I don’t think necromancy is intrinsically good, evil, or unnatural. Much of what is natural seems more than to the ignorant.”
“The first time I saw a gun fired I nearly shat myself,” admitted Manuel, “but that’s simple alchemy!”
“Simple.” Awa nodded. “Doing what I do is quite simple, I assure you.”
The artist was relieved to discover that his wrist was not nearly so injured as he had initially thought, and after a few days of drinking her special broth he could barely remember which arm he had hurt. Other aspects of her witchiness were taking more getting used to. Manuel’s legs had locked up and his jaw had hung open like a busted trap when he noticed that one of her bare feet left cloven hoofprints in the muddy road, and when she lightly informed him that this had always been the case and he had just failed to notice on the march out from von Stein’s camp he gave a little squeal of disbelief. Then she had bent over and made a bit of loose string appear between her fingers, her left foot instantly replaced with that of a goat. Manuel had nearly fainted, but when he recovered he wished to paint her more than ever, he needed to paint her. Out of the question, said Awa, secretly delighted.
“So there I am,” Manuel said conspiratorially, though theirs was the only fire