Death and the Lady by Judith Tarr Page B

truly am. If you will.”
    The Abbot found that he could not look away. His friend
stood in front of him, very tall and very pale, his eyes wide with something
close to despair. Strange eyes, palest gold like his hair and pupiled like a
cat’s.
    “You see,” said Alf. “Remember what else had the novices
calling me devil and witch’s get. My way with beasts and with men. My little
conjuring tricks.” He gathered a handful of fire and shadow, plaited it into a
long strange-gleaming strand, and tossed it to Morwin. The other caught it
reflexively, and it was solid, a length of cord at once shadow-cool and
fire-hot. “And finally, Morwin, old friend, how old am I?”
    “Two or three years younger than I.”
    “And how old do I look?”
    Morwin scowled and twisted the cord in his hands, and said
nothing.
    “How old did Earl Rogier think I was when he brought Jehan to
St. Ruan’s? How old did Bishop Aylmer think I was, he who read my Gloria Dei thirty years ago and looked in vain for me all the while he guested here,
only last year? How old did he think me, Morwin? And what was it he said to
you? ‘That lad has a great future, Dom Morwin. Send him along to me when he
grows a little older, and I promise you’ll not regret it.’ He thought I was not
eighteen!”
    Still Morwin was silent, although the pain in his friend’s
face and voice had turned his scowl to an expression of old and bitter sorrow.
    Alf dropped back into his seat and covered his face with his
hands. “And you would make me swear to accept the election if it came to me
again. Morwin, will you never understand that I cannot let myself take any
title?”
    The other’s voice was rough. “There’s a limit to humility,
Alf. Even in a monk.”
    “It’s not humility. Dear God, no! I have more pride than
Lucifer. When I was as young as my body, I exulted in what I thought I was.
There were Bishop Aylmers then, too, all too eager to flatter a young monk with
a talent for both politics and theology. They told me I was brilliant, and I
believed them. I knew I was an enchanter; I thought I might have been the son
of an elven prince, or a lord at least, and I told myself tales of his love for
my mortal mother and of her determination that I should be a Christian. And of
three white owls.” His head lifted. “I was even vain, God help me; the more so
when I knew the world, and saw myself reflected in women’s eyes. Not a one but
sighed to see me a monk.”
    “And not a one managed to move you.”
    “Is that to my credit? I was proud that I never fell, nor
ever even slipped. No, Morwin. What I have is not humility. It’s fear. It was
in me even when I was young, beneath the pride, fear that I was truly inhuman.
It grew as the years passed. When I was thirty and was still mistaken for a
boy, I turned my mind from it. At forty I began to recognize the fear. At fifty
I knew it fully. At sixty it was open terror. And now, I can hardly bear it.
Morwin—Morwin—what if I shall never die?”
    Very gently Morwin said, “All things die, Alf.”
    “Then why do I not grow old? Why am I still exactly as I was
the day I took my vows? And—what is immortal—what is elvish—is soulless. To be
what I am and to lack a soul...it torments me even to think of it.”
    Morwin laid a light hand on his shoulder. “Alf. Whatever you
are, whatever you become, I cannot believe that God would be so cruel, so
unjust, so utterly vindictive, as to let you live without a soul and die with
your body. Not after you’ve loved Him so long and so well.”
    “Have I? Or is all my worship a mockery? I’ve even dared to
serve at His altar, to say His Mass—I, a shadow, a thing of air and darkness.
And you would make me Abbot. Oh, sweet Jesu!”
    “Stop it, Alf!” Morwin rapped. “That’s the trouble with you.
You bottle yourself up so well you get a name for serenity. And when you
shatter, the whole world shakes. Spare us for once, will you?”
    But Alf was beyond even that