September 15th, 1891
Harlgrove has been mercifully absent these past long months. I do not miss his intrusions, that inane clotheshorse sauntering up the avenue to parley with me. Is it too soon to think I may have run him off for good? Charles asks about him from time to time, but even the boy seems to have let the matter drop. I could see the potential for comradery developing. I will not risk such potential entanglements, competition for Charles' attentions. I need all the lad's faculties focused on me.
I decided it was time to develop him further. I've been successful thus far, but I've yet to truly push the nature of his breeding. It became high time to see what he was indeed made of.
The years are creeping up to the four-year anniversary of Charles' arrival at Belledouleur, and I cannot begin to say how much he has changed. For the better, I might add. Gone is the sniveling little "Happy" whelp I first dragged into my life. In his place stands a lad, ten years in age; clever and delightfully reserved.
He's shown remarkable brilliance in his studies. He grasps all things his pedagog (a gentleman I hand-picked for the job) has presented: languages, arithmetic, science and history. I let his tutor handle the academics. I haven't the time to be bothered.
Instead, I focus on presenting other studies. More important materials.
On the eve of his tenth year, I took him upstairs, to the top level of Belledouleur, to my private workspace nestled between the gables, largely shut away from the light. He complained of the dark heat, daring even to describe it as "infernal," much to my amusement. I find it ideal. It allows me to think. My attic loft is different from my study on the second floor, the room from which I am writing now.
At the highest points in the house, I find the temperature restorative. As the sweat leaves my brow, my pores and mind open. I am able to devote myself freely and without interruption to my life's great work.
Though he was clearly overwhelmed by his body's initial calefaction. I could almost see his brain beginning to simmer in its juices. His eyes rolled in his head, and he staggered forward a step before catching himself on the edge of my desk. I allowed him this transgression without word. The sweat coursed his temples and jawline.
I sat back, fingers tented, curious to see if he would pass out. I confess I was eager to see which would happen. I waited.
After several long moments of swaying precariously, he rolled his shoulders forward, and with a display of surprising fortitude, straightened his back. He pulled his long hair back, away from his neck. I offered him a ribbon with which to tie his locks up.
"Father," he said, voice almost drugged, "how can you work like this?"
I drummed the tips of my fingers together. "I find it soothing, conducive to thought. It also helps ensure that I shall be left undisturbed until I see fit to emerge."
"And what do you do up here, Father?"
"Dear Charles, pull up a chair. Allow me to divulge a secret." I leaned in, conspiratorially.
The boy leaned in as well.
"I'm sure by now you are well-versed in natural history of the world, the cycles of life, death, decay… but I assure you there is a great deal more than that. At the most simple, a man can shape the growth of a tree, manipulating the truck with wire and frame, trimming some branches, encouraging others. Why, some might say a skilled gardener can create a plant that is quite unnatural, yes?"
He nodded.
I held up a finger. "Wrong. It is all quite natural, the bending of the world to the will of man. It is how all things are supposed to be. Was it not written 'fill the Earth and subdue it?'" I smiled as innocently as I could, worried the boy might catch a glimpse of the design behind my eyes. Would he, after all those years, recognize the line?
Apparently, yes. He did.
"The Book of Genesis, from the Bible," he muttered. Then his face grew confused. "But Father, did you not say that was nothing more than a tale for the weak-minded? A book of fairy stories?"
I laughed then, truly laughed. After regaining my composure, I gestured to my workbench. "Charles, my boy, I never said it was nothing more than a tale for the weak-minded. I said blindly following it was for the weak. 'Fill the Earth and subdue it.' Do you really think the weak are capable of such an act?" I gave a snort of derision. "No. That line applies to the strong. That line speaks to us. The weak are to be subdued, and we shall overcome. But herein lies the catch. You see, son, we were never meant to die. We were meant to live, immortal."
"Adam and Eve."
"Yes and no." I reached up and pulled book down from a shadowy perch. My personal Bible, worn and stained with the passing of too many years. I quickly flipped through the pages. "Adam lived for centuries. His son Seth did as well. And yet, by the time you reach the tales of Abraham and Moses, the lifespan of a man cannot even break two centuries. Why do you think that is?"
Charles sat silent for a moment, his body unable to even sweat further. I offered him a sip of the dark twice-brewed salted tea I kept in a flask on my desk. It could restore the body, sharpen the mind. He drank it readily enough, despite the bitter taste. Two swallows, that was enough. I removed the flask from his hands and returned it to its place.
"Accumulation of sin?" he finally asked.
I could not suppress my mirth at his answer. Ah, so close, and yet so far.
"Boy, if that were the case, the so-called 'men of the Church' would still live forever. Their false God would give them greater life in thanks for their humble piety and servitude, would you not think?"
He nodded, good.
"And yet," I continued, "that is clearly not the case."
"Indeed, Father," he agreed, bobbing his head. Such a good lad he's become.
"No, what ultimately causes us this short life is nothing more than the product of human complacency. Mankind, as a species, is weak, unambitious. Unintelligent. We, as a society, have forgotten how to channel the powers we used to freely access. Names of the powerful and divine; all in exchange for some blind allegiance to some single false-prophet, the ultimate deceiver who sought steer focus away from the great divine, and focus it into a single 'church' of mankind: written by men, controlled by men, damned to weakness by men."
The boy looked as if he were about to speak. I held up a hand, silencing him before a single word escaped. "What if I told you, boy, that the reason we have become so weak, so short-lived, is because we have forgotten how to channel the divine?"
I could tell he was perplexed, and I was glad.
"Charles, have you ever heard of Beliyya'al? Abizithibod? Beelzeboul?"
The boy shook his head.
"Of course you haven't. And why should you? For each time that man pens down the ancient texts, they grandly omit more and more." I tapped his head with the tip of my finger. "But I am not a weak man, and I daresay you are not either. Those names are but a fraction of all the divine figures dutifully omitted from the monotheistic religion of this age. They are demons, or angels if you will, that can be summoned and controlled, much like the servants of this house."
I sat back, interlacing my fingers, and smiled at the boy.
Charles looked back at me, positively febrile with the heat, and ever-so open to suggestions. So delightfully pliable.
Admittedly I wasn't even aware at this point I had risen to my feet. But there I was, towering above Charles, fist clenched in defiance towards the ridgepole and sky. "Here, I have made it my life's work to transcend the limitations society might impose. Find merely the right words, the right sacrifices to offer, and a long-life can be deservedly had. I shall endure, I shall conquer senescence, and stand alone: the potent and nearly ageless. Autocrat of Mortrouge, ruling all from the sacred grounds of Belledouleur; year after year escaping the rot of the grave."
I grinned down at him, lips drawn away from my teeth. "You, dear Charles, are my heir. You will reap the benefits of this association with me. At my side, I ask you to join in my studies, my research. I need a trusted apprentice, perhaps someday even a colleague. Tell me, Charles, are you willing to join me at my side: not merely in ruling Belledouleur, but in pursuit of my life's work?" I extended my hand.
He looked up, glazed and attuned, and fanatical all in one. "I will!" he said, grasping my outstretched hand in his. "Yes, yes!"
His hand was so hot against mine. He'd nearly exceeded his body's tolerance for my lair. I rose, taking him firmly by the shoulder, forcing upon him another sip of the tea, then ushering him down the flight of stairs past plaster and lath to the finished hallway below. "There's a good lad," I soothed as I ordered the housewoman to fetch a cold washcloth for his brow.
I escorted the staggering boy to his chamber, and laid him down upon the bed. The servant arrived with the cool rags, and I sent her away. In this moment, I needed him myself to be his sole focus. I had pushed him, body and mind, farther than some might have found medically wise. He would be addled by heat and dehydration, pliable.
In these moments of false comfort that I intended to provide, he would regain his faculties, scare able to differentiate between real and imagined memories. One thing he would not be able to question though, was my attentive acts.
He would awaken to my pretense of doting care, never considering that I was the one who had deliberately endangered him an hour before. He would believe me concerned for his well-being, consider it truth, and be all the more loyal for it.
Ah, Charles, you are a delight to my machinations. You are everything I could've hoped for; a wonderful plaything in my hands. And, if all goes as I hope, you will continue follow in my footsteps so perfectly a man would scarcely be able to tell one from the other. You will be my legacy, my heir, and one of my greatest works. Charles, I am glad you are here. Happy Birthday, dear boy. This is my present to you.
- Wainwright M. Burns, Belledouleur Plantation. September 15th, 1891