What Dreams May Come
Day is done.
Jasper's return to school was commented upon and whispered about at least through lunch time. The purveyors of some of the more lurid explanations for his absence had to invent even more outlandish explanations for his return – so soon, and so little the worse for wear. In the end it was accepted, though not without disappointment, that he had probably just had a 'spell' with his heart.
Now the day is done, and all will soon be forgotten.
My footsteps echo around me as I get up from the piano and walk out of our great room.
Just like it was on the night I betrayed Bella, the house is empty. Everyone has cleared out. Looking for some peace and quiet and space to breathe. Jasper is standing in our foyer with his hands in his pockets. I can't believe he has … the gall? … the nerve? … the courage? To face me alone in this empty house. I am not over yesterday by any means, and he knows it.
I see the corner of his mouth lift in a wry half-smile. His sigh is nothing but sad. He's not covering his feelings either, and I feel his uncertainty.
"Walk with me?" he asks.
And in that split second I am tired, so tired, of being the boy in this family. Whatever it is that Jasper has in his mind, I'm going to take it like a man.
There's no need for words. He turns, and I follow him out.
His voice is soft and low in the dusk. "I don't like calling these things to mind."
Dark shapes flicker violently, as we meander across Esme's beautiful grass. I cringe from his memories, even though he himself barely lets them take shape. They cut and scream. His scars come to life on his skin and my own flesh hurts.
"I've never wished that girl harm. You have to know that. Alice loves her."
And he shows me what she had been feeling since the day Bella came. Joy. Discovery. Devotion. Though it lies in some unknown day yet to come. The happiness of being received and liked by someone who has no family tie with her. A friend.
The intensity of it pierces me, twining with Alice's visions of herself and Bella with their heads together, arms around each other's waists, telling each other secrets.
"I'd never take that from her. Not willingly. Not even when she thought she saw differently … thought that of me …"
His pain at that, his indignation at being thought less of, is a stabbing thing.
I have nothing to say.
Jasper sighs again, shuttering his thoughts. I catch them anyway – what he knows, what Alice won't say.
He loves the girl, too. It's hopeless, now.
We have made our way to Esme's gazebo. The wisteria is leafless still, gnarled vines twisting across the arbor beams. "I don't like calling these things to mind at all … but it's the least of what I owe you."
Night clouds hang, brushing the treetops with grey.
"Walk with me," he says once more – though we both are seated firmly on the iron bench – and then he opens his memory to me completely.
The Chihuahuan desert is dusty and unlovely in the dark. The apparitions come at great speed from the north, slowing as they approach. They must have come from a town, because one of them bears a trussed child slung like a kid across his shoulders. It is a boy of perhaps eight or ten years, terrified into silence. As are Jasper's coven. Maria does not even dare to hiss. Even the newborns crouch fearfully, taking their cue from the others. The dark cloaks are known, even here.
They come forward, like a processional in some ancient play – libation bearers – as Jasper realizes that is what the human child is to be.
There are five, and I recognize three of them – Demetri, Santiago and Chelsea. They had visited Carlisle and me in 1919. Now I see the errand that they had been on just beforehand.
With them are a dark-haired boy and a pale-blonde girl, barely older than the human slung across Santiago's shoulders.
The five come to a halt before the coven. They are outnumbered perhaps eight to one, but Maria's flock are seething with fear and uncertainty. Jasper does not dare make any move to calm them, for fear of discovery. Only into Maria's emotions does he oh-so-carefully pour trickles of deception, and the imperative to conceal her greatest asset.
Demetri smiles disarmingly. "Who leads?" he asks, in impeccable Spanish.
Maria takes a half step forward and goes down on one knee.
Demetri gestures lightly with his chin and in a single movement Santiago swings the child down from his shoulders and, with the long nail of his pinky finger slices open the throat from ear to ear. Maria is caught full in the face with the arterial spray and the whistling froth from the severed trachea.
She does not dare to even lick the blood that is on her lips, but the newborns cannot be stopped. They surge forward in a mass, only to collapse as if every string in their bodies had been cut.
Jasper does not dwell. The memory of the blood – the smell, the spatter to his own jaw and neck and shirt; the child's body carelessly let fall, convulsing briefly in the ropes that bound wrists and ankles; the hard-baked ground barely drinking anything in at all – is unbearable to both of us. We want it. Horribly. Even now, Jasper does. Even I, yes, I want it. Even a child's blood. I would like to think that I wouldn't, that I would never. For whatever it may be worth, I have never. And yet …
I think of myself, crouched as I was on the rocking chair in Bella's room, imagining, as I did, myself – or some spirit shade of myself – lying down on that bed beside her.
I shudder.
"Lead us to your rival," Demetri commands, and suddenly all of the newborns are released from whatever had held them in thrall. The level of panic among them is uncontrollable, and the five have to herd the coven as much as follow it, a hundred miles to Roderigo's camp.
Even though it is only a memory, the un-moderated fear buffets Jasper all over again, and he is trembling on the bench beside me.
I see in the next moments an aspect of Chelsea's talent that I had not known, that perhaps even Carlisle does not know.
Some of Roderigo's coven have gone foraging. One by one and two by two they appear from all directions, drawn in by a net of loyalty that compels them to drop whatever they have been doing and come home.
The pitch of dread and helplessness and fury is excruciating. Jasper can barely hold himself together. The two covens are each huddled with their own like penned cattle. Any vampire foolish enough to try to make a break for it is instantly severed from the use of his body. A dozen in each camp lie on the ground, spastically twitching like the murdered child.
With an oddly whimsical smirk, Demetri begins to recite.
"Wherever a host is stationed, briars and thorns spring up. In the sequence of great armies there are sure to be bad years."
The strange spell is cast wider, and every member of both covens lies collapsed on the ground.
"Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven."
I watch as Santiago culls the newborns from each coven.
"Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted."
There is no wailing, but there is certainly gnashing of teeth, as the newly made vampires of each army are thrown on top of one another like so much cordwood.
"Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth."
There is not much real wood in this part of the country, but Santiago manages to gather a sizeable pile of dead chaparral, tumbleweed and rabbit brush.
"Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled."
The emotions of the newborns are screaming, and Jasper is near shattering. Only one thought holds him together. If he breaks open and reveals his gift he will be either conscripted or killed.
"Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy." At this, Demetri laughs softly.
"Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God." Demetri nods to the blonde girl, and she produces a flint and an iron bar.
He pauses, and stares directly at Maria and Roderigo, who have been ravaging the haciendas and towns under cover of Mexico's ten-year revolution, to feed their own intemperate war.
"Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God!"
Santiago and Chelsea begin dismembering the newborns joint by joint, throwing the pieces onto the piled kindling. Hands and feet flop like fish, trying to find their owners. The blonde girl solemnly strikes sparks onto the glistening venom, and white-hot fire erupts.
"Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness' sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven."
Not even the strange quelling spell can stop the screaming now, as the newborns are limbed alive, and thrown, one piece at a time onto the pyre. No head goes in until the entire body has been burned.
"Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake. Rejoice, and be exceeding glad: for great is your reward in heaven: for so persecuted they the prophets which were before you."
In an hour, both newborn armies are reduced to ash.
"In all things, moderation; nothing in excess," Demetri says when it is done. "But we must allow Jane to do her part."
The blonde waif giggles, and then Maria and Roderigo are twisting and screeching on the ground, biting their own limbs in the extremus of their pain.
"Enough, Jane. Enough."
Here in the safety of our lovely yard, Jasper and I are quivering uncontrollably. If we were human we would be sweating and puking, and probably passed out. Whatever anger I may have felt toward him for Bella, is completely blotted out by the magnitude of what he endured that night. He felt everything. In the fate of the newborns he was dismembered and burned, over and over, held paralyzed in their terror until the last airless scream.
We lean against each other, completely spent.
"I'm sorry Edward. I'm sorry."
The five cloaked figures draw together, and Jasper notices that they have positioned themselves on purpose so that the dawn rising at their backs throws their faces into shadow, but ignites halos of light around them.
A chilly breeze skirls in from the horizon, and separates the lavender-colored ash from the few black embers of wood that have survived. Finer than talc and lighter than feathers, it disperses with the last tendrils of smoke. Only Maria's face, still damp with the slaughtered child's blood, catches a thin layer of her foot soldiers' remains.
Amid the numb stillness that has fallen, Jasper is acutely aware of Demetri's aura. Though the guardsman's face is as impassive as a graven idol, inside he is laughing at his own mummery, and sneering at the ignorance and superstition of these "locals", whose eyes are gaping at beings who seem to be even more supernatural than they are.
/ This is how it's done … /
And I am not sure if that is Jasper's thought ninety years ago in Mexico, or right now, here beside me.
/ Controlling at a distance. They make legends of themselves. /
Demetri raises his hand, as if in benediction.
"Remember what you have learned today, children. My master commands it. Live peaceably among yourselves, and be good shepherds to your flocks. Take only what you need. Remain invisible at their gates. Aro has spoken."
The five wheel in unison, and glide away as swiftly as they had come. Only after they have gone far out of sight does the immobility spell lift.
"Nobody ever questioned your blond hair?"
"I expect they thought I'd been taken from among Pershing's men."
That would be just like Demetri, to take no interest in such trivialities as human customs of hair length in the military from one century to the next.
Jasper has certainly garnered my sympathy with his memories, but now that we are out of them I only resent him for it.
"What does any of this have to do with Bella?" I snap.
Jasper's eyes squeeze shut, and his worst nightmare floods us both.
The piano in our great room is smashed to flinders, its dark, splintered pieces all swept in a heap. The red-eyed children are in our house. Our family lies incapacitated on the floor. The tearing begins. Limb by limb. In his imagination, Jasper is the last to die. Carlisle, Esme, myself, one by one in pieces onto the pyre. Purple and black smoke boils upward, staining the ceiling. Rosalie and Emmett, beheaded, faces contorted. Sheets of flame roar ravenously with the venom that pours from every severed part.
Alice, they lay their hands on Alice, and Jasper curls in on himself beside me with a cry.
"For Christ's sake, stop it! You've made your point!" Even though I don't believe for a minute that it would come to this. Not for a tiny little slip like one girl saying something injudicious about an old journal. If it came to that, we could move, and everything would be forgotten.
"You take this family for granted, Edward. Just to live in peace. To have people around you who laugh. Who are kind. Who love."
I've known this. I've seen it in his thoughts: what a balm Alice has been, what a balm we are to him, how he's longing for the day when his years among us are more than those he spent in the Southern Wars, when the happiness will begin to weigh more than the pain.
But I'd never felt it the way I do right now. Now that I have known exactly that refuge in Bella.
"Don't think for a minute they'd spare her, Edward. Don't think for a minute." He has the decency to stop at words, but my own imagination supplies the rest. It is my face that I see, helplessly baptized by her spraying blood.
If I could throw up, I would; but I haven't fed since the two sheep on Hurricane Ridge.
We sit side by side, hyperventilating uselessly, until Jasper can bring us both under control.
"You all think it was about Alice and me having a spat. Maybe it was." He shakes his head. "Maybe it was. Maybe her not trusting me like that made me feel like giving up on trying to give her what she wanted. She hurt me, Edward."
And he shows me.
Perhaps I am lucky that I have no lover, no mate. His giving to her, day after day enduring and quelling my thirst, only to be so distrusted, so cast aside for a stranger, was like a bed of swords.
"But that was still just the small potatoes," he whispers. Our shoulders knock against each other as a final shudder passes through us both, and I feel Jasper fasten shut the place where his memories lie. They are my memories, now, too.
"I had to get away from her, from all of you, to clear my feelings. To figure out what had to be done. But I'm no deserter!"
That is not entirely true. But then, who could blame him for deserting Maria's army?
Pictures flit through his mind – a log that he sat on for a day and a night, the puzzle pieces of Bella and the journal and me, our family on its tightrope between darkness and light.
The danger he felt we were in.
His inevitable conclusion.
Silence stretches. No one has come back yet.
After everything Jasper has shown me, I am even more at a loss than before.
"Why didn't you kill her, then? You could have. There was no one to stop you."
Jasper sighs, and looks upward, past the arbor of straight beams and twisted boughs, to the featureless black of the sky. For a long time there is nothing in his mind except the black above us. It's too early in the season for any sort of insect noise, and though the clouds hang low, nearly touching the treetops, there is no rain. The stillness is profound. For once, I do not press, but only wait.
Minutes pass.
I feel something building in his chest, and of course, in my own as well. From the corner of my eye, I see him shake his head minutely.
"She went into the church."
He lets the words lie.
"I wasn't going to follow her. But I got curious."
If I had a human heart, it would be racing now.
Curious.
The way a lion becomes curious upon seeing the movement of a gazelle across its path. We all know the feeling. We know it all too well. He was hunting her, plain and simple. I want to kill him again.
He shoots me a look. "Do that and you'll never get the end of the story."
Damnation.
In his mind's eye, and in mine, I watch him follow Bella through the big black door. He relives it for me, with me.
Easing the heavy door shut without a sound. Hiding himself in a corner behind the furthest pews.
She wanders a little bit, in the empty church, searching. He watches her from behind as she finds the collection box, slips a dollar bill into the open slot.
She moves to the left, where there is a table with a double rack of holders and a few spent candles. A modest crucifix hangs on the wall above.
He feels her. She is a little uncertain, a little abashed, but beneath it all … He cannot take his eyes off of her.
She fumbles with the lighter. The votive flares to life. She places it carefully and then gets down on her knees.
Jasper's chest aches, and so does mine. She crosses herself, before the flame and the nailed man. We see the posture of her back, the soles of her shoes. Simple. Humble. Pure. We are as soft as new clay, and she stamps us indelibly.
With palms together, she prays. No word passes her lips but we feel. Oh, we feel.
Held in care and peace. Comforted, and led beside still waters.
This is what she is praying for. For Jasper. For Alice. For Rosalie. For all of our family. For all who have need. The empty air fills to the rafters with her wish.
Night falls outside, and there is barely any light in the church except for the one candle's lonely flame. Jasper has long ago fallen to his knees. Pacified.
The clouds finally open, and a light, chilly rain patters around us.
My brother slips out of the church, just as Bella gets to her feet. Her voice barely reaches his ears. He is already running. Running back to Alice.
"I'll die before I let anyone hurt her, now, Edward. You have to know that."
"You've told … showed …"
"Yes."
This is why they all tolerated my outburst; why no one in our family harbors any thought to harm her any more; why, hurt as we all were, their every thought was just to hold, and to heal.
"She's part of us now, Edward. For better or worse."
For better or worse.
Everything has changed.
A/N: I want to give special thanks to my dear beta, averysubtlegift, for this beautiful image which she wrote back on my first draft of this chapter:
"I picture the wind blowing around them, anyone passing by seeing two handsome men in a deep conversation - never knowing the truth about what is really passing between them." (Guh!)
Following are some notes on the text for anyone who is as nerdy-minded as I am ...
(1) It is no secret that I am in love with Edward Anthony Masen's My Lost Youth ( .net/s/4855866/1/ ). I humbly take her pre-Twilight narrative as canon. In that story, Chelsea, Demetri and Santiago pay Carlisle and Edward a little visit while Edward is still in his first year as a vampire. One of the most compelling and harrowing and moving and, yes, FUNNY series of chapters I have ever read.
(2) Demetri fancies himself something of a connoisseur of human literature, (although for the Americas his considered opinion is "Pfft!"). The first quote "Wherever a host is stationed ..." comes from the Tao De Jing - Chapter 30 儉武 (Jian Wu = "Avoid Battle"). The Beatitudes are from Matthew 5.3-12. "All things in moderation ... " Demetri is paraphrasing one of the three inscriptions said to be on the Temple of Delphi: γνῶθι σεαυτόν (gnōthi seautón = "know thyself"); μηδέν άγαν (mēdén ágan = "nothing in excess"); and Ἑγγύα πάρα δ'ἄτη (engýa pára d'atē = "make a pledge and mischief is nigh")。
(3) In Maria's army, Jasper's lovely golden locks would have been a very gringo oddity, hence Edward's question. As for Jasper's reply, in March 1916, General John J. "Black Jack" Pershing led the United States Army 8th Brigade on the "Punitive Expedition" into Mexico in search of the revolutionary leader Pancho Villa. They never did catch their quarry. Presumably all casualties were accounted for ...