• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

By Root 3016 0

he never moved from his knees and never once lowered his arms, which he held outstretched in the form of a cross. The slaves all thought he was mad.” The vampire raised his eyebrows in wonder. “I was convinced that he was only … overzealous. That in his love for God, he had perhaps gone too far. Then he told me about the visions. Both St. Dominic and the Blessed Virgin Mary had come to him in the oratory. They had told him he was to sell all our property in Louisiana, everything we owned, and use the money to do God’s work in France. My brother was to be a great religious leader, to return the country to its former fervor, to turn the tide against atheism and the Revolution. Of course, he had no money of his own. I was to sell the plantations and our town houses in New Orleans and give the money to him.”

Again the vampire stopped. And the boy sat motionless regarding him, astonished. “Ah … excuse me,” he whispered. “What did you say? Did you sell the plantations?”

“No,” said the vampire, his face calm as it had been from the start. “I laughed at him. And he … he became incensed. He insisted his command came from the Virgin herself. Who was I to disregard it? Who indeed?” he asked softly, as if he were thinking of this again. “Who indeed? And the more he tried to convince me, the more I laughed. It was nonsense, I told him, the product of an immature and even morbid mind. The oratory was a mistake, I said to him; I would have it torn down at once. He would go to school in New Orleans and get such inane notions out of his head. I don’t remember all that I said. But I remember the feeling. Behind all this contemptuous dismissal on my part was a smoldering anger and a disappointment. I was bitterly disapppinted. I didn’t believe him at all.”

“But that’s understandable,” said the boy quickly when the vampire paused, his expression of astonishment softening. “I mean, would anyone have believed him?”

“Is it so understandable?” The vampire looked at the boy. “I think perhaps it was vicious egotism. Let me explain. I loved my brother, as I told you, and at times I believed him to be a living saint. I encouraged him in his prayer and meditations, as I said, and I was willing to give him up to the priesthood. And if someone had told me of a saint in Arles or Lourdes who saw visions, I would have believed it. I was a Catholic; I believed in saints. I lit tapers before their marble statues in churches; I knew their pictures, their symbols, their names. But I didn’t, couldn’t believe my brother. Not only did I not believe he saw visions, I couldn’t entertain the notion for a moment. Now, why? Because he was my brother. Holy he might be, peculiar most definitely; but Francis of Assisi, no. Not my brother. No brother of mine could be such. That is egotism. Do you see?”

The boy thought about it before he answered and then he nodded and said that yes, he thought that he did.

“Perhaps he saw the visions,” said the vampire.

“Then you … you don’t claim to know … now … whether he did or not?”

“No, but I do know that he never wavered in his conviction for a second. That I know now and knew then the night he left my room crazed and grieved. He never wavered for an instant. And within minutes, he was dead.”

“How?” the boy asked.

“He simply walked out of the French doors onto the gallery and stood for a moment at the head of the brick stairs. And then he fell. He was dead when I reached the bottom, his neck broken.” The vampire shook his head in consternation, but his face was still serene.

“Did you see him fall?” asked the boy. “Did he lose his footing?”

“No, but two of the servants saw it happen. They said that he had looked up as if he had just seen something in the air. Then his entire body moved forward as if being swept by a wind. One of them said he was about to say something when he fell. I thought that he was about to say something too, but it was at that moment I turned away from the window. My back was turned when I heard the noise.” He glanced at the tape recorder. “I could not forgive myself. I felt responsible for his death,