Blood Vivicanti (9780989878586) by Becket

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
    People are born with a
strong personal identity. As infants we know what we want. And
we’re not afraid to cry about it.
    A strong personal identity
is like infancy: In time we might grow out of it. Some people’s
strong personal identities are maintained by a good family. Other
people’s personal identities are weakened by bad parenting and
unchecked sibling rivalry. A few people’s personal identities are
obliterated by neglect and abuse.
    By the time I drank Theo’s
blood, my personal identity had the strength of tissue paper. It
tore easily. It soaked up many of my tears.
     
     
     
     
    Theo’s Blood Memories
pierced my heart and penetrated my mind. My heart raced with his
feelings. My mind bubbled with his memories. It was as if I had
taken into myself Theo’s deepest passion, pursuits, and perceptions
– all of who and how he was.
    This tissue paper girl felt
she might burst from the potency of his self-possession.
     
     
     
     
    Theo believed in a power
greater than himself. He called this power “God” because that word
alone was simple and small.
    He dismissively waved off
the association God had with religion. He thought God was an aptly
insignificant word to describe an infinitely powerful
mystery.
    My personality had been
insignificant until then. Like a reed in the wind. I needed a
strong personal identity to borrow. Theo’s was brimming with the
confidence I’d always wanted. I would try to be exactly like him. I
would feel the way he felt. I would think the way he thought. I
would stride the way he strode. I would pose with his poise. I
would love what he liked – except for myself. I didn’t know how to
love my “self” yet.
    Who can say they deeply
love tissue paper?
     
     
     
     
    My china doll’s Blood
Memories went to work in Theo immediately. On the violin, she could
play Bach, Mendelssohn, Paganini, and much more great music from
many other great violinists.
    Now, Theo could do so also.
Her Blood Memories surged through his veins. He knew the notes to
every song she knew. He knew the fingering to any scale she knew.
Theo was now a concert violinist – at least for a week or so, until
his Blood Memories faded away.
     
     
     
     
    Wyn had tucked away
somewhere in his cavernous mansion a great Stradivarius violin,
which was by that time gathering dust. He gave it to Theo for the
week. It was interesting to see how Wyn regarded it so
nostalgically.
    “ It’s good someone’s using
it again,” he remarked.
    I wondered who had owned
the violin before. I had not yet met his dead wife,
Aemilia.
     
     
     
     
    Wyn said nothing more about
it. But the way he moved explained much. His movements slowed while
his breathing quickened. A human wouldn’t have noticed any
change.
    I’d never seen him look so
mournful.
    Whoever had owned that old
Stradivarius violin had been very important to Wyn.
     
     
     
     
    The next morning, I came
into the kitchen to find Theo restringing the
Stradivarius.
    Wyn also came in, reading
Brian Greene’s The Elegant
Universe . He had drunk the blood of an
astronomer. The astronomer was a lonely man living on the outskirts
of the village near the mountaintop. His whole house was a homemade
observatory. Wyn had devoured the man’s Blood Memories.
    Wyn was now entirely
occupied with the vast mysterious life of the universe. His mind
was teeming with new ideas.
    He also read Carl
Sagan’s Cosmos in
a few minutes, and then cross-referenced that with Lewis
Carroll’s Through the
Looking-Glass . He believed the two were
highly interrelated.
     
     
     
     
    Ms. Crystobal prepared
coffee and fruit-salad for breakfast. She was our housekeeper,
cook, and maid. She did everything. She never complained about the
workload. She was amazing.
    That should have told us:
She wasn’t from our planet – or from our universe – and now that I
think about it, I doubt that she was even from our
dimension.
    Her daily sour expression
never