asked for their help. They said they could do nothing and justified themselves with the usual mystical gobbledygook. They further declined to put the matter to Atoning Unifex, their chief. Apparently, since we Remillards produced this family demon, we’re the ones who will have to exorcise it.”
So the Family Ghost had washed its invisible hands of us! Even as I was cursing the thing inside my skull, a useful idea obtruded, no doubt spawned by the liquor’s lowering of my misery quotient. “We can count on help from Jack and from Dorothée, too. She’ll be part of the family soon.”
Anne considered this without much enthusiasm. “At least it’sworthwhile taking both of them into our confidence. Fury can never probe their paramount minds and learn we’re on its tail. But I’m not at all sure about the other members of the Dynasty. Or Marc.”
“He told me he’s had dreams,” I admitted. “And not harmless ones like mine, unless I misunderstood him. Fury’s trying to tempt him into joining it—like it once tempted Dorothée.”
“And me,” Anne confessed.
“Toi aussi? Ah merde—ça, c’est le comble!” And the first hint that Anne might be lying came tiptoeing into my mind on icy little pygmy crampons.
“That was when I first started to suspect Denis. When Fury tried to convert me to its cause in a series of elaborate dreams.” She replenished her drink. “It happened late in 2054, right after humanity was finally enfranchised in the Galactic Milieu.”
“That’s eighteen years before Dorothée had her encounter,” I said.
“Perhaps she and I share some attribute that made us suitable candidates for Fury’s scheme. In my case, Fury took the form of the goddess Athene and tried to recruit me. I was going to be far superior to Hydra, it said—a kind of sacred vessel of election, but a mind-slave all the same! At the culmination of my dream-temptation I had this sudden devastating insight that my temptor was Fury, not Athene. I rejected the goddess and her plan for a Second Galactic Milieu, but I nearly lost my mind as a consequence. Later, when I had recovered, I recalled that the goddess was Zeus’s favorite, his daughter who had sprung full-grown and fully armed from his own brow, the wise, powerful virgin who sat at his right hand and even used his sacred shield and lightning bolts to administer justice.”
“You used to have a little statue of that goddess on your desk,” I recalled.
“Quite right. In my conscious life I had always seen
myself
as an Athene-figure. And my Zeus, the beloved father-god whose mind I most admired—”
“Was Denis,” I concluded. “There’s a certain Jungian plausibility.”
“And no logic—but it was then I first became convinced that Papa was the only possible candidate for Fury.”
“Do you have any other evidence?” I was staring into my empty glass, trying to make sense out of all this unwelcome data.
“It derives from Denis’s psychology. The disease that laymen call multiple-personality disorder is brought on by some hideoustrauma that probably occurred very early in the patient’s life. The instigating mental injury or injuries are often painfully sexual and involve someone very close to the victim. A person he wanted to love, who betrayed his natural childish trust and devotion. The trauma would have been reinforced later by other damaging experiences associated with this evil person and by intense guilt, eventually resulting in the emergence of the dyscrasic persona. The only living Remillard who can possibly fit this scenario is Denis. And his victimizer—”
The awful light dawned. I looked up and our eyes met. “Donnie!” I blurted. “Oh, God, my own twin brother! From the time Denis was born Don was afraid of him and resented him. But Don could never have … not to his own little boy …” I broke off, too appalled to put the accusation into words.
Anne’s face was bleak. “Don probably would have been drunk the
So the Family Ghost had washed its invisible hands of us! Even as I was cursing the thing inside my skull, a useful idea obtruded, no doubt spawned by the liquor’s lowering of my misery quotient. “We can count on help from Jack and from Dorothée, too. She’ll be part of the family soon.”
Anne considered this without much enthusiasm. “At least it’sworthwhile taking both of them into our confidence. Fury can never probe their paramount minds and learn we’re on its tail. But I’m not at all sure about the other members of the Dynasty. Or Marc.”
“He told me he’s had dreams,” I admitted. “And not harmless ones like mine, unless I misunderstood him. Fury’s trying to tempt him into joining it—like it once tempted Dorothée.”
“And me,” Anne confessed.
“Toi aussi? Ah merde—ça, c’est le comble!” And the first hint that Anne might be lying came tiptoeing into my mind on icy little pygmy crampons.
“That was when I first started to suspect Denis. When Fury tried to convert me to its cause in a series of elaborate dreams.” She replenished her drink. “It happened late in 2054, right after humanity was finally enfranchised in the Galactic Milieu.”
“That’s eighteen years before Dorothée had her encounter,” I said.
“Perhaps she and I share some attribute that made us suitable candidates for Fury’s scheme. In my case, Fury took the form of the goddess Athene and tried to recruit me. I was going to be far superior to Hydra, it said—a kind of sacred vessel of election, but a mind-slave all the same! At the culmination of my dream-temptation I had this sudden devastating insight that my temptor was Fury, not Athene. I rejected the goddess and her plan for a Second Galactic Milieu, but I nearly lost my mind as a consequence. Later, when I had recovered, I recalled that the goddess was Zeus’s favorite, his daughter who had sprung full-grown and fully armed from his own brow, the wise, powerful virgin who sat at his right hand and even used his sacred shield and lightning bolts to administer justice.”
“You used to have a little statue of that goddess on your desk,” I recalled.
“Quite right. In my conscious life I had always seen
myself
as an Athene-figure. And my Zeus, the beloved father-god whose mind I most admired—”
“Was Denis,” I concluded. “There’s a certain Jungian plausibility.”
“And no logic—but it was then I first became convinced that Papa was the only possible candidate for Fury.”
“Do you have any other evidence?” I was staring into my empty glass, trying to make sense out of all this unwelcome data.
“It derives from Denis’s psychology. The disease that laymen call multiple-personality disorder is brought on by some hideoustrauma that probably occurred very early in the patient’s life. The instigating mental injury or injuries are often painfully sexual and involve someone very close to the victim. A person he wanted to love, who betrayed his natural childish trust and devotion. The trauma would have been reinforced later by other damaging experiences associated with this evil person and by intense guilt, eventually resulting in the emergence of the dyscrasic persona. The only living Remillard who can possibly fit this scenario is Denis. And his victimizer—”
The awful light dawned. I looked up and our eyes met. “Donnie!” I blurted. “Oh, God, my own twin brother! From the time Denis was born Don was afraid of him and resented him. But Don could never have … not to his own little boy …” I broke off, too appalled to put the accusation into words.
Anne’s face was bleak. “Don probably would have been drunk the
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