Immortal Castrati 6

Part 6 of 7 : much longer that 1-5.  A bit of Death and a murder in 
this section . . .

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  IMMORTAL CASTRATI  

 
-6-

     "I never made it back to the church.  I ran until my sides 
ached.  I had only been a eunuch for about six months, so I hadn't 
grown enough to have the huge lung capacity of most castrati.  That 
and I was only about nine or ten years old at the time.  I had to 
stop just short of the town limits; the pain was so bad.  I hid 
under an abandoned wagon beside the road, but he found me, that 
stranger.  
     "Whatever passed between him and Father Alfonso was over, and 
I had the aweful feeling that this man was the evil that the Father 
had spoken of.  Indeed, he was moreso than you could know.  He 
pulled me out from under the wagon and held me up to stare into his 
baleful red eyes.  I had never even heard the vampire legends 
before, and I was convinced that the Devil himself had captured 
me!  He read everything in my Mind in that stare, and laughed at 
me.  He said, 'Your priest is dead, little one, and I still hunger 
!  I have never fed on one so young, so you should feel honored.  
It's not like you will have much of a life, anyway, little castrato 
!"
     Pietro still listened, watching Roberto's tears fall onto the 
forest floor.  He pulled the vampire closer and whispered, "Go on, 
get it out."
     "I couldn't tear my eyes away from his gaze, Pietro.  He held 
me so tight I could hardly breath.  I was so scared, and I knew I 
was going to die.  You can't know how many times over the last 
century I wished that I had !  He just smiled at me with those 
aweful, long yellow fangs of his.  Then he pushed my head back and 
opened his mouth up all the way.  I swear to you, Pietro, it was 
like looking straight into hell !  I remember feeling a horrible 
ripping pain in my neck, and then nothing.  When I awoke, I was in 
bed in the basement at the conservatorio."  Roberto paused to stare 
at Pietro for a moment.  "You reminded me so much of myself when 
you were sleeping, still wounded from the cutting.  You looked so 
sick and helpless, and I really thought I could help.  Now look 
what I have done."
     "What you have done, " Pietro objected, "is give me the gift 
of song that no one has had nor heard in almost a century.  You 
have come to be my friend when my best friend was dead, and 
absolved my terrible guilt that would have destroyed me.  You also 
took vengeance on his killers.  His death even proved to be a help 
to you, and you gave me the power to send his soul away from this 
world as none has been sent for God-knows-how-long.  You have not 
wronged me, Roberto.  Together, we will overcome this somehow."
     "I wish we could, my friend.  You have no idea how long I have 
waited for someone to say that to me."
Roberto replied, his voice still choked with emotion.
     "What happened, my friend, when you awoke ?" Pietro felt he 
had to know.  
     "I remember waking up in the basement, where the baths are.  
At first, I thought it was a dream and that I had just been 
castrated, but then my head cleared.  It should have been dark, but 
I could see so well.  My own Maestro and Headmaster - and to think 
I cannot recall their names - were standing over me with the doctor 
who had cut me.  There was a bandage all around my neck, and I felt 
so weak.  I could not sit up, and I could bearly talk.
     "They told me the Father was dead, murdered on the road.  They 
had been in a panic to find me, and they had thought me dead when 
the doctor had brought me in.  They wanted information, and I spent 
hours trying to tell the authorities what had happened.  I did not 
think they would ever go away.
     "But it got worse.  I wasn't getting  better, and all I did 
was sleep.  I could not get up, and my body just got weaker and 
weaker.  Finally, the doctor came to me late on night, and I was 
wide awake.  He simply said something like 'I know what you need,' 
and he gave me a large glass of something dark to drink.  I found 
out later it was blood.  But when I had finished it, I felt my 
strength returning.  He stayed and talked to me all night, 
explaining what had happened and how he had run across me and the 
vampire who had killed Father Alfonso.  He had been returning from 
delivering a baby late that night, and had taken the vampire by 
surprise.  I could hardly believe it, that he had staked the 
horrible stranger through the heart, but he knew, Pietro, he knew 
all about vampires and what they are and what they must do.
     "I did not believe him at first, so he proved it to me.  He 
grabbed my arms and pulled me up close to his face to study me.  He 
told me he could see the beginnings of the change, and that he had 
seen it before.  I can still remember his saying how  I would never 
grow old, that I could not be killed except by burning or by a 
stake through the heart.  I can still remember 'hearing' his 
thoughts as he held my face in his hands.
     "I was a child, remember, and I didn't believe it.  Certainly, 
I was frightened, but he told me that I would no doubt have to 
learn the hard way.  It was pure random chance that brought me the 
proof.  He left me there that night with another glass of what he 
told me was blood, and by morning I had drank it all and gone to 
sleep.  The Maestro came in that night with the Headmaster again, 
and they told me that I would have to make a try of resuming my 
normal life.  But I was so weak.  I begged them to leave me alone 
until I felt better, but they moved me back up to my own room. 
     "I remember being up all night, and when the sun came up, I 
began screaming.  It hurt me so, the light burnt me.  My skin was 
red and there was smoke rolling off my nightshirt when the Maestro 
and Headmaster came to me.  I think the Headmaster knew, because he 
threw a blanket over me and carried me back to the basement.  I was 
frightened and angry, and when they pulled the blanket off of me, 
they both gasped and turned pale.  They backed away from me, but 
there was a look on the Headmaster's face I will never forget - the 
fear, the realization, and the contempt.  The contempt was the 
worst, I think.
     "They left me alone then, and I cried myself to sleep as the 
practicing students began to sing and play.  I knew then that I 
would never join them again.  Somehow I knew, I knew that I was 
different and that my life there was over. 
     "That night, the doctor came again with the Maestro.  They 
told me that they knew, and that there was nothing anyone could 
do.  Father Carlo's father, you know, Father Alfonso's brother, 
came also.  He took one look at me and fled, saying something about 
his brother's mad ravings having been correct after all.  It seemed 
that Father Alfonso knew a great deal about all forms of evil.  His 
writings confirmed it.  They also confirmed his guilt over his 
castrati fascination, but no on held that against him.  
     "He came back later, and they all stayed up all night with 
me.  Finally, as dawn was coming on - brace yourself for this part 
- the Headmaster came right out and said I had a choice : I could 
leave and make my way in some distant part of the world, or . . ." 
Roberto's eyes had become distant, and he was on the verge of tears 
again.  " . . .  Signore Fellini offered to drive a stake into my 
heart and put me out of my misery."

     Pietro was livid with rage.  Somehow, the knowledge of Father 
Alfonso had found its way to Father Carlo who was reading the signs 
he had seen.  Stupid, Pietro thought, stupid.  You are gelded, then 
you perform at a funeral the day after and amaze them all, blowing 
out windows.  You frighten a priest who loved your singing, and you 
alienate the entire conservatorio.  You sleep all day, and stay out 
all night,   . . . . you may as well have a sign reading VAMPIRE 
hanging  from your neck !
     But Roberto was one step ahead.  "You are not a vampire, 
Pietro, not yet.  What you are feeling now is merely a side affect 
of my company.  If I were to leave, it would cease.  But if I 
leave, you will be alone to face your persecutors.  We must go to 
this Father Carlo and set him straight, one way or another."

     Father Carlo Fellini was sitting at his desk in his study.  
The windows of the church were already being replaced, the first 
already in place,  but the priest found he could not go along with 
the lie about poor workmanship.  He thought of Pietro, the young 
castrato whose voice he had loved - and now feared.  There was evil 
at work in the boy, the priest believed, an evil that he heard of 
before and discounted.  But now it seemed so true.  Before him sat 
the journal of his uncle, Father Alfonso Fellini.  It described in 
detail his uncle's work in the field of the pursuit of evil and his 
conviction that he had been assigned this task as retribution for 
his intense interest in the conservatorio and the castrati singers.
     Father Carlo sighed.  His uncle had been his roll model, and 
though he had been a priest for nearly sixty years, there was 
something else.  He recalled the boy he had met on the road one 
evening so very long ago, that sickly looking little boy who had 
turned out to be evil incarnate itself - a vampire castrato.  He 
had run up against a creature of the night, immortal, and with an 
immortal perfect voice.  It had been a terrible shock to his 
sensibilities, and he had deemed himself lucky - if not weak of 
faith - to have survived the encounter.
     He remembered the face of the vampire, a pale small face that 
was not the face of an innocent child.  It had been a face of 
something unnatural, something unholy.  He recalled that he had 
been a priest for only a short while, not long out of the 
seminary.  He had come up against his first true test of faith, and 
had failed.  Quoting scriptures and throwing holy water, indeed !  
What a fool  !  The little monster had let him live. 
     And eaten his pony as well.  For some odd reason, Father Carlo 
found himself more upset over the pony than anything else.
     The priest rested his head in his hands and sighed.  Now that 
same evil had returned.  He knew that his uncle had been murdered, 
torn to pieces.  Father Carlo was convinced that Giovani, the 
fantastic composer-player student, had fallen victim to the same 
evil.  And now the young castrato Pietro had come up off of his 
sick bed not two days after his castration and sang a song that had 
left everyone in shock and taken out all the windows of his 
sanctuary.  He could feel it, the very presence of it.  Evil had 
returned to his town, to his people, to his church. 
     It was his time to act, and he was determined not to fail this 
time.
     It was the sudden rap on his door that brought him out of his 
reverie.
     "Who's there ?" he demanded.  Someone coming to confess at 
this late hour ?  Unlikely.  But who could it be ?  Were there not 
such a terrible drive to locate this evil he felt, not even Father 
Carlo would have been out at that hour.
     There was no answer to his question.
     Again, the rapping.  Harder.
     Trembling, the old priest got up and approached the door.  He 
was praying intently, a feeling of confrontation flowing through 
him.  He held in his right hand the Bible, and a large crucifix 
hung about his neck.  His robes were wrinkled from the day's 
activities, and his eyes were red and itchy.  He desperately needed 
sleep, but could not.  And now . . . someone, no - something - was 
there.
     Again, the rapping.  It was a pounding now.
     Father Carlo braced himself and pulled the door open, praying 
fervently.
     Pietro stood in the doorway with his hands clasped in front of 
him.  His black robe was clean and only slightly rumpled and the 
sash was such a red as to resemble blood.  His blonde hair was 
windblown, and his face very pale.  He looked very much, however, 
like a little boy who had had a typical boy's day.
     But this was NOT what Father Carlo saw.  Before him stood the 
little monster, the little castrato who had defied nature by coming 
to the church to sing and destroy it in the process, hardly two 
days after his castration.  Father Carlo did not share in his late 
Uncle's beliefs on that subject though - he felt the castrati were 
something unnatural, not girls and no longer boys.  They were an 
androgenous lot, freaks of nature made by the hand of man.  And 
even though their voices were sublime and the music and song so 
moving, Father Carlo could not condone them.  His trips to the 
conservatorio for whatever reasons always unnerved him, and seeing 
all those boys - no, not boys, eunuchs - in their black robes with 
red sashes made him uneasy and somehow angry.
     And before him stood the worst of them all.  Pietro.  Pietro 
the castrato.  Pietro, singer of songs never heard by anyone 
before.  Pietro, the destroyer of his church, the stuff of 
nightmares !
     Before Father Carlo stood a boy almost ten years old, confused 
and hurt.
     Pietro, the boy who MUST be consorting with evil to have this 
voice.  Ah !  but his voice, Father Carlo thought, how I so loved 
the sound that night he practiced here in this very church.  But 
nothing had happened then - he was intact then - now he is a 
castrato !  That is it !  A sign !  And then it dawned on him - 
standing before him was something that so closely resembled the 
evil little castrato he had met some sixty years before that they 
must be brothers !  The memory came back clearly now after so long, 
and standing in the doorway of HIS church office was Evil itself.
     Standing in the doorway was a boy with tears in his eyes who 
had only wanted to sing for his dead friend.
     Father Carlo stared at the little monster who was staring back 
at him.  Tears ?  But why were there tears in his eyes ?  Was it 
some kind of trick ?
     Pietro asked simply, breaking the terrible silence, "May I 
come in ?"
     Father Carlo took a step back and gasped.  "You are already 
in, little monster !  You are again in the House you have tried to 
destroy once already !  Have you come to mock me, or have you come 
to let try and save what is left of your soul ?"  The priest's 
voice was full of power now, his fear evaporating rapidly, and 
Pietro was stung by his words.
     "I meant no harm, Father, " Pietro objected, clasping his 
hands behind his back.
     The light from the fireplace on the far side of the priest's 
office threw shadows around the room, and light fell upon the 
little castrato's face.  The orange-yellow glow made him look 
angelic, even serene.  And then Father Carlo's mind was filled with 
the image of the boy (the eunuch) burning at the stake as the evil 
which infested him was purged by the fire.
      In that very moment, Father Carlo passed judgement - in 
violation of the scriptures - that this creature who stood before 
him in the guise of innocence was beyond all hope of redemption.  
His Uncle had known it, he had seen it sixty years ago himself, and 
now it stood before him again.  It was his sign !
     "Come in, boy, " the priest offered, stepping back a bit, 
"Come in and let us talk."
     Pietro stepped into the office and stood before the desk.  He 
glanced at the open book lying there and saw a few passages 
mentioning "evil in the guise of childhood" and "those in black 
robes who sing."  He took his eyes off of the book quickly and 
stared at the priest.  The man's face was a mask of calmness 
covering a terrible rage.  Pietro could feel it.  Talking would do 
no good, he knew.  Father Carlo was convinced now, and there was 
simply no point.
     "I'm sorry I bothered you, Father, " the little castrato 
began, "but I have learned that since Giovani's funeral that you 
have been saying things about me - terrible things.  I came to 
reason with you, but I see now that that is out of the question."
     The priest had taken a step towards the fireplace, and Pietro 
could hear his thoughts as if he were speaking them aloud.  Surely 
Roberto is outside, as close as he can come, Pietro thought.
     Father Carlo made an indelicate sound and stepped closer to 
the fire.  "You read my Mind !" he shouted.
     "Yes, " Pietro replied calmly, "I can . . . now."
     "And you are here, at this hour !  How is it you can enter 
this holy place ?" the priest demanded.
     "I am a little boy, Father, nothing more.  Surely the church 
is open to children."
     "You !?  You are no little boy !  The little children who come 
here are innocents !  They do not blow out the windows with their 
unholy voices and come seeking revenge in the middle of the night 
!"  the priest shouted at him.
     "I came to ask you not to attempt to send me away, " Pietro 
replied softly.
     "Send you away ?  I would not seek to send you away, Pietro.  
There is only one course of action left to take with you and your 
unholy talents !"  the priest stated flatly.
     It was too late.  Pietro could see that Father Carlo was 
beyond reasoning.  He had taken the funeral performance as a sign, 
and now Pietro knew that things would never be the same.  The 
priest would surely continue his campaign of crying "evil" and 
"witchcraft" all over the town until enough people were rallied to 
his cause.  Pietro could see the image in Father Carlo's mind, an 
angry mob storming the conservatorio to haul him out and burn him 
at the stake.  
     "No one has been burned for witchcraft in very many years, 
Father, " Pietro said in a whisper.
     Father Carlo flinched and stared intently at the little 
monster, the little creature of the night standing before him.  
"Stop that !" he screamed.
     "No, Father, it is you who must stop.  If you would only admit 
that I am nothing more than a little boy with an extraordinary 
gift, then this would all blow over with your blessing.  How can 
you think such horrible things about me ?"  The tears had begun to 
fall down Pietro's cheeks now.
     "I will not be swayed by your false tears, evil one, " the 
priest stated, his voice rising up almost to a shout, "And I will 
not follow after your trail of lies and deceit !  This time, you 
and your . . . whatever he is, will both die !"
     The memory crossed Father Carlo's mind again, and Pietro 
intercepted it.  He saw Roberto sixty years ago, simply walking 
down the road.  He saw Father Carlo, young and fresh from the 
seminary, meeting up with him.  He also felt the revulsion, for the 
first time, that Father Carlo held in secret for all castrati.  He 
could feel the joy at the music, yet at the same time, the priest's 
secret loathing of the singers.  
     In the Memory, young Father Carlo was asking the boy in the 
black robe questions.  The boy was trying to answer, and then the 
young priest's feelings towards his kind took over.  Pietro saw the 
look on the young priest's face, and the sudden red glow of the 
boy's eyes.  The castrato had grown fangs and pulled back from the 
priest, who was throwing a vial of water at him.  No, not water, 
holy water !  Pietro saw the smoke rising from Roberto's disfigured 
face, saw the little vampire's blood running from between his 
fingers and he covered it with his hands.  He heard Roberto's cry 
of anguish, not only physical pain, but the rejection . . . and 
that was by far the worst.  He saw Roberto attack young Father 
Carlo, flying at him and beating him senseless.  
     He saw the pony become Roberto's breakfast.
     Finally, he saw his friend, Roberto, slowly walk off towards 
the forest sobbing.
     So Father Carlo knew of Roberto and had made the connection.
     "Yes, " the priest began, "I saw you both the other night when 
you were walking back to the conservatorio.  I figured you must 
have been in town, gloating over your handiwork here.  I was unable 
to sleep and I could feel the eyes upon me.  I followed you a ways, 
you know, but I was tired.  I failed once again, and I turned 
back.  I will never forget the face of that little monster, a face 
I see now before me !  You are keeping company with evil, Pietro, 
and you are even starting to look like HIM !"
     Pietro took a step back, flinching at the onslaught of the 
hateful emotion pouring from the priest.
     He has harbored this thought for so long, Pietro thought, and 
it has driven him mad !  
     Father Carlo was advancing on him now, holding something he 
pulled from behind the desk.  Pietro swallowed hard when he saw 
that it was a large wooden stake, sharpened at the end.
     There could be no doubt as to what the priest intended to do 
with it.
     "You must be destroyed, you little . . . . " but words escaped 
the priest.
     "Is 'vampire' the word you are groping for ?" Pietro asked.
     The idea was so simple that Pietro smiled when it came to him.
     "Well, you'll have to catch me first !"  he yelled, and turned 
to run towards the sanctuary and the front doors of the vast church.
     He could hear Father Carlo's snarl of rage behind him, and 
Pietro ran for all he was worth.  He scarcely took note of the 
still-broken windows hanging in their frames or the one already 
replaced.  A few new ones were also leaning up against the wall 
beside their intended frames, but he scarce noticed them either.  
He had a lead on the priest, having surprised him.  As he ran, he 
saw the funeral services in his mind once again.  He heard his own 
voice filling the church, saw the adoration and awe on the faces of 
the audience.  He even felt the departure of Giovani's soul as it 
sought the way to Heaven as the glass shattered from all the 
windows.  He felt it all again, that bodiless sensation as he had 
felt when he was singing.
     Pietro risked a glance back over his shoulder and saw the 
priest following him, waving the stake in his hand.  The look on 
the man's face said it all - I WILL DESTROY YOU !
     And then, deliberately, Pietro stopped just short of the door 
and began to sing.
     He opened his Mind to the night, reaching out for Roberto, 
wishing he could sing in this church and be loved for his voice 
once again.  His voice rose up and all of the sadness he felt over 
the whole ordeal poured into it and out into the sanctuary.  It was 
a song no one had ever heard before, and came up from the depths of 
Pietro's very soul.
     Father Carlo slid to a stop only a few paces from the singing 
castrato.
     The waning moon filled the sanctuary with bearly enough light 
to see by, but the priest could see the horror before him well 
enough.
     Standing before him was a sad little boy who only wanted to 
sing.
     Standing before him was an unholy monster, an unnatural thing !
     Father Carlo dropped his stake and fell to his knees, praying 
in screams to Someone who was not answering him.  All of his life 
had been dedicated to his Faith, and now that the utmost test of 
that Faith was finally there, it all seemed for nothing.  Images of 
the funeral also filled the priest's mind, as well as images of 
young boys in black robes with red sashes.  They were all singing, 
mocking him with their voices.  Their song was beautiful yet sad, 
sad beyond all words.  
     The images coming from the foreign language of Pietro's song 
continued.  Father Carlo found himself paralyzed by that unnatural 
voice, so beautiful . . . and totally evil, he thought.  There were 
images of boys, frightened and separated from their families.  
There were feelings of pain as boys were gelded for those voices.  
Still, Pietro sang.
     His song brought scenes of eunuchs who proved unworthy, 
without manhood or their conservatorios to shelter them -  their 
voices simply not the stuff of greatness.  And finally, the song 
brought the illusion of being so completely different and so gifted 
that the boys - two of them - were driven away from all they had 
ever known by a frightened and angry mob.
     As Pietro came to the end of his song, Father Carlo was 
sobbing and clutching his chest.  On that last and highest note, 
Pietro once again felt himself disembodied and without form.  He 
was once again only a voice, a power without form - and the new 
windows of the church blew out once again, covering the street 
below with multi-colored fragments of shattered glass.
     The hundreds of candles all around the alter burst into sudden 
high flames, and the sanctuary glowed with their light and the 
light of the waning moon.  Pietro moved to the center of the stage 
     "Abandon this insane notion of yours, Father, " Pietro 
thundered with a voice that could not possibley be his alone, 
"Abandon it, lest ye die !"
     Father Carlo had recovered himself a little and was staring 
madly around the sanctuary.  All he had ever wanted, all he had 
devoted his life to, was here.  It was all he needed.  It had all 
been so perfect !  He was the priest of the church, and the people 
loved him.  He had loved them back, and everything had gone so 
well.  His life in this town had been full and rewarding.  His 
career as a priest had been more than he had hoped for.  And yet 
now, now in the midst of the life he had worked so hard to build 
stood a monster.
     A short, pale monster in a black robe with a red sash and an 
unholy voice.
     The candles were all burning, even the ones not intended to be 
burnt simply for light.  And the light was playing all across the 
icons and the horror standing in their midst.  It was scene from 
his worst nightmares.  The windows were ruined once again, and the 
chill night air was blowing through them now.  The flames on the 
candles bobbed and sputtered, but none went out.  Still Pietro 
stood in the center of the stage, looking at the same time like a 
cherub of Heaven and a demon from Hell.
    Father Carlo got to his feet and stared at the vision before 
him.
    "Leave us alone, " Pietro commanded, his voice still great and 
full with some power that the priest could not begin to understand. 
"Put aside your hatred and loathing and irrational fears.  We mean 
you no harm, and never did.  How much damage must we do here to 
make you see that ?"
     It seemed like Eternity trying, in vain, to pass as the two 
stared at each other.
     Pietro could tell that Father Carlo's mind had gone vacant 
with shock, and he stepped down from the stage to leave.  As he 
passed through the doors and into the night, he heard the priest's 
strangled sobs coming from the sanctuary.

     Roberto was waiting on the lawn as Pietro exitted the church.  
     "Nicely done, " the little vampire complimented him, "but do 
you really think it did any good?"
     Pietro sighed and shook his head.
     "I didn't think so, " Roberto replied, "he has been obsessing 
on it for far too long.  What do we do now?"
     "I don't really know, " Pietro said, "but we should be getting 
home.  It will be dawn soon."
     They spoke but a little on the walk back to the 
conservatorio.  They didn't need to, really.  Finally it was 
Roberto who broke the silence.  
     "We may have to do more, you know."
     The mortal castrato turned to look at the immortal castrato.
     "I know."

     Pietro had only been in bed and asleep for a few hours, and 
Roberto under the bed and asleep, when the Maestro awakened him to 
announce that doctor Florenti had come to examine him.  Pietro's 
head felt like it was filled with sand, and the Maestro had to 
place some bandages on him to make him look the part.  "Try to wake 
up a bit, boy, " he ordered.
     But Pietro was incoherent.  His body was screaming for rest, 
and he could bearly sit up unaided.
     "The doctor is going to think there is something else wrong 
with you if you do not give up this act !"  the Maestro said.
     Pietro moaned an fell back on his pillow.
     "I have put him off as long as I could, " the Maestro stated, 
"but he is insistent.  He is coming here right after he gets done 
examining Marc's wounds.  How we are going to explain this healing 
of yours is beyond me.  Will you please ? "
     But doctor Florenti was already at the door.  He came in and 
sat his bag down at the foot of Pietro's bed.  "I see he isn't up 
yet, " the doctor observed.
     "I believe he has taken this bed-rest thing too seriously, 
doctor, " the Maestro joked.
     "Could be, " the doctor agreed, "a lot of boys seem to enjoy 
the rest afterwards.  Well, not all of them.  That little Marc down 
the hall is more than ready to be up and at it again.   He has bit 
of infection, but nothing to worry about yet.  He begged me to 
untie him and let him up, but he still has a few days to go !  I 
have never seen anyone like him.  Is he always that wound up?"
     The Maestro nodded.  "Pretty much, " he agreed, "we have to 
watch him all the time."
     Doctor Florenti nodded his own agreement and pulled Pietro's 
blankets back.  He gently pulled the bandages away from the boy's 
groin, and gasped in alarm as he saw the wounds totally healed.
     "This is impossible !"  he breathed, "I do not understand how 
he could be so completely healed in such a short time !"
     "Well, he was always robust and quick to heal, doctor.  You 
remember the time you had to stitch up the back of his head when he 
was four ?" the Maestro asked, trying to change the subject.
     Pietro opened his eyes, but did not appear to see anything.
     The doctor thought for a moment, and then said, "Ah, yes.  
When he whacked it on the fireplace in the main hall.  He DID heal 
up very quickly, now that you mention it.  Perhaps he is blessed 
with this, Maestro, but still - this is very unusual."
     "There is one thing that bothers me, however, doctor, " the 
Maestro began, "And that is the fact that he does not seem to want 
to eat nor get up out of bed.  He sleeps all the time.  In fact, he 
has hardly been awake for more than only a few hours at a time.  
Even now, he seems to be sleeping through all of this."
     Thinking that that would get Pietro's attention with the 
threat of a complete examination, the Maestro had hoped that it 
would rouse the sleeping boy.  It didn't.
     "Let us give him one more day, Maestro, " doctor Florenti 
suggested.  Get him up by noon at least, and MAKE him eat.  Then 
keep him up.  He looks well enough to be up and about.  Make him go 
out and get some fresh air and exercise.  That may be all he 
needs.  If he is not acting more like his old self by tomorrow 
morning, send for me."
     The doctor covered Pietro again, not replacing the bandages 
that the Maestro had placed there for show.  It seemed to have 
worked.  "Oh, " the doctor said as he was heading out the door, "I 
almost forgot this."  He handed the Maestro a piece of paper with a 
great deal of writing on it.
     "What is this ?" the Maestro asked.
     "Diet restrictions for Frederico.  He's fat, Maestro, too fat 
!"

     Pietro was dragged out of bed around noon and forced, by the 
Headmaster, of all people, to eat a large lunch with him in the 
privacy of his office.  Even though he knew of the boy's surprise 
healing and impossible voice, the Headmaster was seemingly 
uperturbed by all of it.  He watched the young castrato closely as 
they ate, and talked in a calm, low voice the whole time.  Pietro 
listened to the old man as they ate, and slowly came to realize 
that his night-life and his real life were simply not going to 
mix.  The thought disturbed him.
     "I know what you have been up to, " the Headmaster said 
suddenly, pushing his plate aside.
     Pietro nearly choked and the old man pounded his back several 
times.
     "Old men like me do not often sleep well, my boy.  I have seen 
you sneaking out with that little vampire the past few nights.  I 
can only imagine what you are up to, but you are starting to look 
like the walking dead, " the Headmaster stated matter of factly.
     Pietro stared at him in amazement.
     "Oh, come now, Pietro ! "  the old man said, "You must realize 
that someone as old as me has been around and seen it all.  I got a 
pretty good look at Roberto the first night you went out, and 
something about him looked VERY familiar.  So . . . " 
     "But this is impossible !"  Pietro interjected, "We were so 
careful !  And you !  How could you know ?"
     The old man was smiling now, something that Pietro had seldom 
seen before.
     "As I was saying - if you will let me finish, that is - that I 
am old man who has been around.  I've met up with some vampires 
before and Roberto is nothing new to me.  In fact, he's mentioned 
in some of the old logs of the conservatorio.  He was listed as a 
runaway about 100 years ago, or so.  Sometimes boys do run away, 
Pietro, as you are planning to."
     The young castrato simply stared open-mouthed at the 
Headmaster.  He could not believe what he was hearing !
     The old man continued.  "When you sang that song at Giovani's 
funeral, I thought I recognized the tune and some of the language.  
I went digging through the history books that night.  It seems that 
this Roberto was enrolled by his parents at this school, did very 
well, and soon became the star singer.  He was always in demand, 
and he had this gift of coming up with original songs that no one 
had ever heard before.  Well, someone got industrious and wrote 
down some of his lyrics as best they could.  We Headmasters are a 
very industrious lot you know !
     "It seems that Roberto got so good that people began to fear 
his voice.  He had some sort of power that came from within that no 
one had ever heard before.  He sang a great deal, and then he is 
listed as becomming very ill.  The performances stopped, and then 
he is listed as 'runaway' a few days later.  No one ever saw him 
again, " the Headmaster finished.
     "He was bitten, " Pietro offered, "attacked by the vampire 
that killed Father Carlo's uncle, the Father Alfonso Fellini.  
Roberto told me the town doctor was coming home late that night and 
found him by chance.  He staked the vampire and rescued Roberto.  
But the poor boy, changed, Signore - he did not run away.  He 
transformed and they sent him away !  They wanted to kill him !"
     "I surmised as much, Pietro.  You wouldn't believe the things 
I've seen in my long life.  Forgive me if I am not sufficiently 
surprised, " the old man stated.
     Pietro stared out the window, wondering.  Why had the old man 
waited so long to say something ?
     "Things are not looking good for you right now, my boy, " the 
old man said, "Father Carlo is not in the best frame of mind.  Even 
now, he is preaching throughout the town about evil and the 
servants of the devil running loose !  You are going to have to 
come back to your old life, Pietro, and make a go of it.  Try to 
convince everyone that you are just a normal little castrato with a 
fine voice.  And please, don't go blowing out any more windows or 
terrorizing priests !"
     "But . . . "
     "NO 'BUTS' !"  the old man shouted, "You could easily bring 
down this institution, and I will not stand for that.  If Roberto 
stays, and you continue to change, then the school will know.  You 
cannot lead both lives.  And if you do not resume your normal life 
and let the Maestro and I try to repair the damage you both have 
done, Father Carlo is going to hunt you both down !  Do you 
understand me ?"
     Pietro nodded.  "Is there any chance of silencing him ?"
     The old man shrugged his shoulders.  "I do not know.  He has 
gathered quite a following, and he is sending some parishioners out 
today to see you.  You will get dressed now, come down to practice, 
and sing just like any other boy, or castrato, here.  You will not 
unleash this power of yours upon anyone, and you will try to make 
up with some of the other boys.  Do you realize that almost every 
student here, even the older ones, are terrified of you now ?"
     The boy was still staring out the window, on the verge of 
tears once more.  The conservatorio was the only home he had ever 
known, the only place he ever remembered being.  He had been told 
that he had been left as a baby in a basket on the doorstep one 
night, and that the Maestro had taken him in and raised him like 
his own son.  He did not want to lose that, but he did not want to 
lose his friend either.  The young castrato did not know what to do.
     As if knowing what were going through the boy's mind, the 
Headmaster simply said, "Get properly dressed, come down and watch 
the others - join in if you like.  Act it out well for the 
observers, for you are very much under suspiscion.  We can get 
through this, Pietro, and I for one do not believe that you are 
evil."
     Pietro nodded and went back upstairs to his room to dress as 
the Headmaster left the room.  He pulled off his gray tunic and 
threw it onto the unmade bed.  He was very conscious of his 
nakedness for some reason as he stepped over to the bureau to pull 
out a fresh robe.  All of his other plain brown and gray tunics, 
except for a few more worn ones left for the rare play 
opportunities, had been taken away after his castration.  There 
were red sashes to go with them as well, however.  
     I am marked, he thought as he looked down as his groin, devoid 
of what would have made him a man, I am marked, even at play, for 
all to see and know what I am now.  But what is that ?
     Quickly he pulled on the black robe and tied the red sash.  He 
put on the slippers that he usually wore while inside, and started 
towards the door.  He was startled by Roberto's voice.
     "Comb your hair, Pietro, you look like a haystack."
     "What are you doing up ?" Pietro said in the direction of the 
bed. 
     "Who could sleep with that old man rattling on like he did ?  
I could hear him a mile away ! So he found me on the old books, did 
he?  I'm not surprised.  Those Headmasters keep track of everything 
!  A runaway indeed !  What choice did I have ?!  It was that or 
the stake !"  the little vampire complained.
     "But you have me now, Roberto, and no one will drive you away 
this time, " Pietro said.
     Roberto laughed.  "If I could get out from under here right 
now, I'd almost smack you, Pietro.  Did you not hear what the 
Headmaster said ?  You have to prove to them that you are not some 
demon come up out of Hell to destroy them.  You have to admit, you 
and I are not exactly on Father Carlo's list of favorite people 
right now !'
     "Wait and see, my friend, I have a plan," Pietro replied, and 
went out the door.
     He stopped on his way down the hall, listening to the sounds 
of the younger boys practicing.  The older, more experienced 
singers were taking a break.  Most of them were strolling about 
outside, taking advantage of the lingering warm weather.  The 
nights were chilly, of course, but the days were absolutely fine.  
Then Pietro heard a familiar voice.  It brought a smile to his face.
     "But just for a little while !"  It was Marc, of course.  
     "No, " Pietro heard Frederico reply, "for the thousandth time, 
no!  I am not going to untie you and let you up !  If you had 
obeyed Dr. Florenti's orders in the first place, you wouldn't be in 
this state.  You're stuck, Marc, face it.  Until he comes and takes 
your stitches out and gives you a clean bill of health, you're 
stuck.  At least he isn't trying to starve you !"
     Pietro could not help but laugh.  Frederico had obviously been 
introduced to the diet restrictions already.
     He stopped and knocked on the door.  "May I come in ?" he 
asked softly.
     Silence.
     So, this is how it is to be, Pietro thought.  "Never mind, " 
he said aloud, turning to go.
     But then Marc's high and piping voice called out, "Wait !  
come back !"
     Pietro turned and went back to the door and looked in.  
Frederico was pale and shaking as he stared at Pietro, but Marc's 
face was alight with joy.  "You are well !" the dark toned boy 
shouted, "You are up and back !  I thought you had hurt yourself 
badly after the funeral !"
     Marc was winding up, Pietro could tell.  "Frederico, why don't 
you go and see if you are to be in on any practice sessions today 
?  I will stay with Marc, and, oh, if anyone is looking for me, 
send them up will you ?"  
     The husky eunuch stared at Pietro, his mouth agape.  Pietro 
sighed.  "Frederico, I am NOT going to bite you or do anything bad 
to you.  I don't know what went on at the funeral, it just 
happened.  Please don't look at me that way."
     Frederico went to the door and glanced back.  Pietro had sat 
down on the bed beside Marc, and was examining the soft sashes that 
they had used to secure the little boy's waist and ankles.  "I'm 
sorry, " Frederico offered, "I didn't mean anything by it, really."
     Pietro turned and smiled.   "That's alright, I think I would 
have scared me too."
     Frederico smiled and left.
     Marc was smiling as well, and he sat up to catch Pietro in 
tight embrace.  
     "I hate this, " he said.
     "Hate what ?" Pietro teased.
     Marc smiled and then wrinkled up his nose.  He gestured at the 
sash about his waist and the one binding his feet.  He was wearing 
his nightshirt, which had been slit up the back to accomodate the 
waist binding.
     "Well, you should have stayed in bed after the operation, " 
Pietro reprimanded him.
     "You didn't, " Marc countered.
     "That was different, Marc.  At the time, I felt that if I 
killed myself with it, it did not matter.  I didn't want to go on 
without Giovani, but that is all different now."
     The younger boy was staring at Pietro now.  "They say you 
might have to go away, " he said, his expression becomming one of 
bewilderment.  Marc had been following Pietro and Giovani around 
for about the last two years, almost like a little shadow.
     "I know, " Pietro replied, staring into the younger boy's 
eyes.  How full of trust they are, Pietro thought, how full of 
trust with no idea of how things can really be.
     "Well, if you leave, I want to go with you, " Marc announced.
     Pietro was shocked by that remark, and he bent down and took 
the boy in his arms and embraced him again.

     After taking his leave of Marc and sending the 'starving' 
Frederico back to watch him, Pietro made his way down the stairs 
and into the main hall to listen to the little singers practicing.  
They were all dressed in gray or brown peasant tunics, none of them 
having proven worthy of a black robe as yet.  Pietro sighed and 
listened to the untrained voices.  It felt soothing somehow, yet it 
also felt wrong.  There were a few glances in his direction, but 
none of the boys stopped singing.  A few even smiled.  There were 
no smiles from the opposite end of the hall, however.
     Seated along the back wall were twelve adults, men and women, 
watching.  A few of them had papers in hand, and were taking 
notes.  They stared as Pietro pulled up a chair next to the Maestro 
at the harpsichord.  Pietro did not return the looks.
     The practice went on for almost another half hour, then the 
Maestro dismissed the little boys for their afternoon break.  They 
resembled a stampede as they made their way to the door and out 
into the yard.  A few moments later, the boys near Pietro's age 
came back in and took their places.  Of course, not all them were 
castrati.  Some of the boys were training in composition, some to 
play instruments.  Still others were training to sing the tenor and 
bass rolls that were also required.  Pietro noticed that fully half 
of them were wearing black and red, however.  
     "Join them, " the Maestro suggested, "as if nothing had ever 
happened.  They have all been told."
     Pietro shook his head.
     "GO !"  the Maestro replied.
     The young castrato jumped up from his chair and took his usual 
place in the middle of the front row.  Group practice always came 
first.
     The Maestro struck up the usual songs for practice, moderately 
difficult pieces that didn't really challenge the boys.  As they 
warmed up, he moved on to different pieces of more difficulty.  
Pietro sang as usual, his heart not really in his singing.
     The group at the back of the room stared and took more notes.
     When the time came for individual practice, Pietro did his 
best to go last.
     As he finally stepped up to the center of the practice stage, 
the Maestro began to play the piece that he sung as his final test 
to determine his status.  The piece he had sung as Giovani had 
played in the church.  The young castrato could almost feel the 
sadness rolling out of Maestro's flying hands at the keyboard, and 
he felt the now-familiar power rising up within him as his sublime 
voice filled the hall.
     As he headed into the second verse, he heard Roberto's voice 
within his own mind.  "NO !"  it shouted silently, "Do not do it !  
Sing, and be a typical castrato . . . I know, they did it to me . . 
. push it down, pull it back in !"  And Pietro did.
     The spectators took more notes, and there were tears in the 
eyes of some of the women.  One man was shaking his head in 
disgust.  "Is that the best he can do ?" the man called out.  
Pietro smiled, and the Maestro scowled.  The castrato put a little 
more into his effort, but only a touch more.  He was thinking of 
Marc, for some reason.  The man had sat back down and was 
listening, his arms folded across his chest.  After a moment, he 
began to nod and smile. 
     Finally, after an eternity of singing, it was over.  Pietro 
stepped down and went back to his seat next to the Maestro.  
"Nicely done, my son, " he whispered in the boy's ear, "but a 
little weak in the low parts, too soft and delicate !"
     Pietro grinned.  "We cannot afford new windows, Maestro, " he 
joked.
     The seeming leader of the group, the man who had heckled 
Pietro, stepped forward.  He did not, however, move with the 
determination of a man out to prove anything.  "So, this is the so-
called demon-seed  who knocks out church windows and terrorizes 
priests ?" he asked.
     Pietro blushed and nodded.
     "I am not impressed, " the man said flatly, "pity they cut 
you, boy."
     The Maestro stood up abruptly, cracked his knuckles and 
stretched to his full heighth.
     "There is no need to be rude, signore, " he said.
     "This is a ridiculous waste of time, you know, " the man said.
     "I agree, " the Maestro replied, "but Father Carlo seems 
determined."
     "My name is Ricardo, " the man stated, "and I have much to 
do.  To me, the good Father seems unhinged.  Thank you for your 
time, Maestro.  Work with this poor boy and make it worth our while 
to come and sit here all day !"
     Pietro was angry now.  Pity they cut you, boy ?  He thought.  
PITY ?!  
     "Maestro, " the castrato demanded in a firm tone, "something 
very high and difficult, if you will.  I think I am suitabley 
warmed up now."
     Ricardo returned to his seat.  The other boys and castrati had 
gone off to practice individually, but all the other sounds stopped 
as Pietro began to sing.  
     He did not slip into the language in which Roberto sang, but 
as he progressed through the aria that the Maestro had selected, he 
began to put as much as he dared into his voice.  As he ranged 
through the song, restraining himself on the high notes, yet 
pulling it off beautifully, he began to form a plan.  One of the 
ladies was drinking from a tall, thin glass.  As she placed it on 
the end table by which she sat, Pietro came to a series of tempting 
highs.  He moved closer, with practiced fluid grace as he danced 
across the hall with an invisible partner in his arms.  When he was 
in range, he aimed head at the glass and shattered it.
     Ricardo jumped from his chair as the lady and few others 
fainted.
     "It takes a while for pitiful little castrati like me to warm 
up, " he snarled at Ricardo.
     Pietro then walked slowly to the door, as the spectators and 
students watched him go.

     The rest of Pietro's day was uneventful.  A few of the other 
castrati sought him out to tell him that he had sung beautifully 
and that they wished that they could shatter glasses so easily.  
Pietro took it all in stride, being polite and nodding graciously.  
It was at the supper table when the Headmaster came to sit next to 
him that he began to worry a bit more.
     "Well, " the old man began, "I have here a detailed report 
from the observers today, Pietro.  Would you like to know what they 
thought of you ?"
     Pietro nodded.
     "It says, 'the castrato singer in question, Pietro, seems to 
have all the natural ability of a trained singer and the potential 
to become a very good opera performer.  He sings well, moves with 
grace, and seems to take pleasure in cheap parlor tricks : acting, 
shattering glass, making ladies faint, etc., all the things one 
sees at the opera house.  He also demonstrates the arrogant 
attitude of famous singers, and could well be another Caffarelli in 
time.  Further observation is warranted, however'."
     The Headmaster laid the paper down and smiled.  "You teased 
them, " he accused.
     Pietro nodded again.
     "This could be good, you know.  Just keep acting like a cocky 
little miniature opera star and perhaps they will grow bored and go 
away, " the old man mused.
     "You do not believe I'm bad, " Pietro stated bluntly.
     The Headmaster sighed, noticing a few strange looks from the 
other boys.  "I do not know what to think, but I do not think you 
are an evil thing, Pietro.  I think what we saw was a sign perhaps, 
but nothing more, " the old man mused.
     "But you know about Roberto, " Pietro accussed.
     "As I said to you before, I know about a great deal of things, 
boy !  We will continue this discussion in my office after you are 
done eating."  The old man got up and walked out.
     When Pietro joined him a few moments later in his office, the 
Headmaster was sitting at his desk.  He was resting his head in his 
hands.  "It seems my predecessor had a kind heart, even towards 
little vampires, " he stated as if observing the weather and 
nothing more.
     Pietro closed the door and pulled up a chair.
     On the desk before the old man was a thick book, written by 
the former headmaster of the conservatorio.
     The Headmaster pushed the book towards Pietro, who made no 
move to take it.
     "This old bastard lived to be almost 95, did you know that ?" 
he asked the boy.
     Pietro shook his head, but said nothing.
     "It seems that our little immortal castrato friend was the 
pride of this school once.  When he was attacked, the old people 
weren't too shocked, but the younger generation didn't believe such 
things.  Vampires ?  Come now, they said, we do not believe that.  
I can just hear them, " the old man went on, "They didn't believe 
it, but the old Headmaster did.  He and the doctor.  Would you like 
to read what is in the book, Pietro, and understand your new friend 
better ?"
     The old man pushed the book closer towards the castrato and he 
took it in his lap.  He read the old, fading script as it described 
in detail how Roberto had fallen ill after being attacked.  The 
book told of how Roberto was the best singer that the conservatorio 
had seen in years, and of the high hopes all the staff had for 
him.  It told more of his suffering, the doctor's efforts to save 
him, and finally, of how the doctor took the ailing boy away to his 
own home.  The chapter ended with the fact that the old Headmaster 
doubted that anyone would ever hear Roberto sing again.  No one was 
sure what had become of the young castrato, and the book listed him 
as a runaway and moved on to other affairs and business.
     The details were amazing, if not tedious.
     Pietro skimmed over a few more pages, but there was not a 
mention of Roberto anywhere.
     "But they let him live, " Pietro whispered.
     The Headmaster nodded.  "My predecessor could hardly cover a 
murder of a castrato here, you know.  They had to do something, and 
Roberto promised them that he would not come back until he had been 
forgotten."  There was another book on the desk, and the Headmaster 
pushed it at Pietro as well.
     It was a medical journal.
     It was the journal of one Doctor Aldo Florenti !
     Pietro gasped.  He read quickly through the marked chapter, 
and suddenly burst out, "You knew all along !  You and Doctor 
Florenti !  You knew when you saw me sing !  And this . . . this . 
. . "  words failed Pietro.
     "Yes, " the Headmaster agreed, "I told you I knew a great 
deal.  My own grandfather founded this institution, and our good 
Doctor Florenti comes from an even longer line of physicians.  
Someone has to watch and maintain order, you know.  Roberto wasn't 
the first, and, obviously, won't be the last."
     "You know, and you watch ? " Pietro asked, awed.
     The old man nodded.  
     "Me and a few other like me, " the old man replied.
     "And what will you do now ?  Send us away and hope we never 
return, or kill us both ?" the mortal castrato demanded.
     "I do not want to send you away, Pietro.  Just as they took 
pity on Roberto so long ago, I would do the same if you choose to 
go with him.  I can only imagine the living hell they consigned him 
to.  Sometimes I think that he would have been better off dead, but 
who could kill a boy that young ?  He was frightened and confused, 
but even though he was becomming a creature of the night, they 
could see he was no killer.  Perhaps it was wrong, maybe more than 
wrong - adbominable even - but it is too late now.  He has come 
back out of longing for companionship, and you give him that.  We 
will handle Father Carlo and the townsfolk as our predecessors did, 
and besides, does anyone believe in vampires anymore ?  Werewolves, 
shades and ghosts ?  No.  Father Carlo will find himself all alone 
in his quest, and eventually fail, " the old man stated, "But, you 
must NOT encourage him.  Your last visit did more damage, and the 
observers will be here for a long time, you know.  This will not go 
away overnight."
     Pietro thought for a moment.  "May I stay and read this all, 
Signore ? " he asked.
     The old man nodded and got up to go.  "Take all the time you 
need, Pietro, " he said, rising to go.  "I will send Roberto down 
when it gets dark."
     Pietro almost dropped the book.  
     "I know where he is, I can feel the chill of his presence, " 
the old man said, unperturbed.
     "But how can you know ?" Pietro asked, "and not fear him ?"
     "Keep reading, " the Headmaster replied, "You'll see."
     
     It was past sunset when there was a rap at the door. 
     "Come in, Roberto, " Pietro said.
     The little vampire stepped into the room and closed and locked 
the door.
     "He is a remarkable old man, do you know that ? " Roberto 
asked.
     Pietro nodded and placed the book back on the desk.
     "You left a letter with the doctor when he let you go, " the 
mortal castrato said.
      The immortal castrato nodded.
     "You are not evil, and neither am I, " Pietro stated.
     Roberto crossed the room to stare out the window.
     "It's going to be a long week, " he mused.

     Pietro threw himself back into his practices and resumed his 
normal routine.  The observers came every day, took notes, and 
eventually began to bring others with them.  Pietro spent his days 
in study and practice while Roberto slept, and by night - when 
Pietro was sleeping - Roberto roamed the darkness alone as he had 
for nearly a century.  He realized that his only friend needed rest 
and to resume the airs of convention if all was to pass smoothly.  
Still true to his word, he never killed any people.  The cattle 
around the several farms began to look anemic after a few days, 
though, and the little vampire prudently extended his range.  Marc 
had been released from his bed, much to his delight, and Frederico 
complained endlessly of starving to death.  Father Carlo's church 
was repaired, and the Maestro busied himself in rigorous 
instruction of the students.   Life seemed to be returning to 
normal.
     It was several Sundays later, however, when things heated up 
again.  
     Father Carlo gave a blistering sermon on the many faces of 
evil, and Pietro felt the priest's eyes on him every time the 
Father looked towards the choir section.  On Monday, the observers 
were back at the conservatorio, but their attitudes were much more 
relaxed.  Pietro could not help but wonder if Roberto was 
'tampering' with them.  That thought brought a smile to his face.
     The rest of the services were uneventful though, except for 
Marc having to excuse himself quickly to run outside and be ill.  
He had been running fevers off and on and looking paler than usual; 
Dr. Florenti took him home.
     That evening, Pietro anxiously awaited sunset.  When Roberto 
awakened, Pietro announced that he had the following day off and 
wanted to spend the night together.  Roberto's smile was enough of 
an answer, as it had been weeks, and the two castrati set off into 
the night.  The moon was waning, but Pietro could see well enough 
in the company of his immortal friend.  They went back to that 
huge, ancient tree deep in the forest and Roberto sang for Pietro.  
He demanded that the mortal castrato learn from him, committ his 
ancient airs to heart, and perform them only when he felt it 
proper.  Pietro was a very apt student, and he learned quickly.  
Even the nocturnal animals stopped to listen to the two castrati 
filling the night with beauty, and they all voiced their approval 
in various ways.
     "You seem to know them all, " Pietro whispered.
     Roberto looked around and turned to his student.  "The 
animals, the trees, all the world is filled with life and those who 
can hear and enjoy the music.  If not for these misunderstood 
creatures of the night, like myself, I would have gone mad years 
ago."
     A very old wolf had come up to sit on his haunches and stare 
at them, his pink tongue lolling out as he waited.  Roberto smiled, 
his fangs just touching his lower lip and said, in the language of 
wolves,  "Greetings, my friend."
     Pietro could hear the reply plainly in his Mind.
     "Very nice, " the old wolf responded.
     Pietro smiled.  
     "And who is this one who is not as you ?" the wolf asked.
     "A new friend, " Roberto answered.
     "Ah, " the wolf replied, dropping onto his belly and 
stretching out, "I think I shall stay and listen to you more.  I am 
so very tired this night."
     Roberto turned back to Pietro and said, "He is very old.  Soon 
he will hunt no more."
     "Then we will sing for him, " the boy replied.
     "We shall, " the vampire agreed.
     The song Roberto introduced was the one that Pietro had sung 
for Giovani, only changing as it went, and as their voices filled 
the forest once more, Pietro could feel all the hundreds of eyes 
upon him as he felt the intertwining of all the life in the forest 
and the song itself.  The two castratis' notes rose to the black 
and starry sky and echoed off of the trees.  Higher and higher 
their voices climbed, and Pietro felt that disembodied feeling 
still once again.  He was one with the night, one with the song, 
one with Roberto.  There were only the stars and the song and the 
thin sliver of a moon.
     Pietro wanted it to last forever.
     It very nearly did.
     When the song was finally finished and he returned to himself, 
Pietro saw that the old wolf had closed his eyes and was no longer 
breathing.
     Roberto, with tears in his eyes, knelt beside the huge furry 
form and placed a pale hand on the wolf's head.  "Sleep well, old 
friend, " he said, and the dead form of the wolf turned to dust.
     "Shall we go ?" the immortal castrato asked.

     They walked slowly towards the town, not intending to got 
through it for fear of attracting attention.  Roberto was obvouisly 
upset of the death of the old wolf, but Pietro did not know what to 
say.  Just being together seemed to be enough for the time.  
     Finally, Pietro asked, "How is it that all the creatures of 
the night do not fear you ?"
     "Because I am not an evil thing, my friend, " the little 
vampire replied, "I am nothing like the monster who did this to 
me.  I am just a lonely night creature, like the rest of them.  All 
life is connected, somehow, my friend.  I just see those 
connections is all."
     Pietro nodded and they continued to walk.  The pair skirted a 
harvested field and bypassed the town, coming back onto the main 
road quite a ways beyond it.  Roberto was thinking - Pietro could 
feel it.  "Do you think anyone knows you are out ?" he asked.
     Pietro smiled.  "I am sure the Headmaster does.  He seems to 
know a great deal."
     Roberto smiled, and Pietro found that it no longer unnerved 
him to see those teeth.  "I find it hard to believe that he and the 
doctor have all the records from their parents and grandparents.  I 
think something is going on here, " the immortal castrato mused.
     "From what I read, you are not the only one they have had to 
deal with, my friend, " the mortal castrato replied.
     "It makes sense, " Roberto went on , "that there would be 
others and men who know.  One would think, however, that they would 
have 'dispatched' me when I changed.  Sometimes I wish they had."
     "Don't say that, " Pietro reprimanded, "Besides, your days of 
lonliness are at an end now."
     Roberto stopped and turned to face Pietro.  The tears were 
welling up in his red glowing eyes again.  "But how long will it 
last this time ?" he asked, "How long until something happens that 
will drive me away again ?  I cannot go through it again, my 
friend, I simply cannot !"  
     The little vampire's words were choked off as Pietro drew him 
close and held him until the emotional storm had passed.  I won't 
let them send him off alone again, Pietro thought, not sure if his 
friend could hear his thoughts or not.  
     They were startled out of their melancholic state by the sound 
of approaching hoofbeats.  Roberto jerked his head up, his eyes 
flashing and his teeth shining.  "This is NOT happening !" he 
snarled.
     "What is it ?"
     But Roberto was already dragging Pietro into the air with him, 
looking around for a tree in which to hide.  The hoofbeats were 
drawing closer.  The cold night air seemed to cut through Pietro's 
clothes, and the new rage pouring off of Roberto was sickening.  
The boy got the feeling that something was about to go desperately 
wrong.
     Pietro glanced down and saw a rider coming along the road at a 
furious pace.  It was Father Carlo.
     "Why now ?"  Roberto whispered, still almost snarling, "I hate 
that priest !"
     Father Carlo brought his horse to such a stop that the animal 
almost slid on his haunches.  He jumped down and began looking 
around.  Pietro could feel the contempt rolling off of the priest 
in waves.
     "Is he out looking for us ?" Pietro whispered.
     "No, " Roberto replied, "He's looking for me !"
     Both castrati shiverred at the thought.  
     Things had been slowly returning to normal, or so it had 
seemed, but Father Carlo had not given up.  Hid demeanor had been 
nothing more than a cheap facade'.  The priest was out roaming the 
night during the week, searching for what he considered 'evil'.
     They held their breath as Father Carlo looked around.  In one 
hand was a bottle of some sort, and in the other was a rosary.  
There was a small pack tied to the saddle of his mount, and Pietro 
had a bad feeling about the contents of that pack.
     "He knows, " Roberto announced.  "I don't know how, but he 
knows we are here."
     "What do we do ?" Pietro asked.
     "You will do nothing, my friend, " the little vampire replied, 
jumping from his hiding place and moving so quickly to the road 
that Pietro did not even see him go.
     When the mortal castrato got his bearings again, the immortal 
castrato was facing the priest at the side of the road.  Pietro 
could feel the waves of hatred flying back and forth between them.  
Roberto seemed to be encased in a pale red nimbus of some kind, and 
Father Carlo was praying.  The fight was about to start.  This 
could mean the end of it all, Pietro thought, he'll either kill 
Roberto, or Roberto will kill him.  Either way, it's all over for 
both us.
     Slowly, they stalked each other.  Pietro could hear words like 
'infidel' and  'demon' being exchanged.  Roberto was trying to 
explain something, but Father Carlo would not listen to him.  The 
boy slid down from the tree and moved closer.  He had to know. 
     "You have come to corrupt this Godly town, " Father Carlo was 
saying, "to prey on other innocents for your own perverse delights 
!"
     "And you are a fool ! "  Roberto was shouting, "A fool who 
knows nothing of me !"
     "I know what you are, child of darkness !"  the priest replied.
     "True, " Roberto replied, suddenly calm, "A lonely little 
child who lives in the darkness, but not by choice.  I have only 
come here seeking comfort."
     "You have come here to steal from us, our lives, our children 
!"  the priest accussed, "Even now, you seek to bring one of the 
castrati over into your realm of darkness !"
     Roberto stepped back, obviously hurt.  He hung his head.
     "I shall bring you comfort, evil one !  Renounce your 
existance and confess your evils to me !  You may yet be saved from 
eternal damnation !"
     Pietro was angered and shaking.  But he did not know what to 
do.
     When Roberto lifted his head again, however, his eyes were two 
exploding suns and his fangs were like tiny swords, slicing into 
the night.  The sound that came from his mouth, however, was not 
the guttural, rasping snarl that Father Carlo expected.  It was the 
voice of a child.  A child in pain.
     "I have done nothing wrong ."
     Father Carlo took a step back and smiled.  "You lie !  And I 
will not fall for that trick again !  I am stronger than you in my 
faith, vampire, and I shall destroy you and the evil you bring !"
     "And will you destroy Pietro as well ?" Roberto asked in a 
soft whisper, "an orphaned castrato who has also done nothing but 
try to be my friend ?"
     But Father Carlo was beyond reason.  His passion had run away 
with him.  He was moving towards the pack now, and reaching into 
it.  Pietro was at a loss, and helpless to intervene.  He would 
only make things worse.  
     Suddenly, as the priest put his hand into the pack, the horse 
bolted and ran.  Father Carlo was jerked off his feet to land 
uncermoniously in the dirt road.  Roberto was smiling again.  "You 
may not fall for it again, priest, but your horse did !"
     Father Carlo got to his feet, smiling as well.  "Too late, my 
evil friend, " he replied, holding a sharpened wooden stake in his 
hand.
     Pietro gasped.  The situation was definitely taking a turn for 
the worse, and he could feel the energy that Roberto was expending, 
trying to overcome the priest's mind.
     It was not working.
     Father Carlo was advancing on Roberto, and Pietro could take 
no more.  He sprang from his cover as the priest lunged at the 
little vampire.  He hit the priest in the back at a dead run, 
knocking him down and landing on top of him.  
     "NO !"  he heard Roberto cry, as the priest righted himself 
and caught Pietro's robe, pulling the boy up off the ground.  
Father Carlo's eyes were wide with fury, and he drew back and 
slammed his fist into Pietro's face.  
     Roberto lunged at them as Pietro fell to the ground, blood 
flowing from his nose and mouth.  Father Carlo spun around, 
anticipating his attack, and lanced out with the stake.
     There was a horrible tearing sound as the point pierced 
Roberto's chest and came out his back.  The fires of the little 
vampire's eyes flickered for a moment as Pietro staggered to his 
feet.  The boy tried to scream when he saw his friend impaled so, 
but he choked on his own blood.  
     It cannot end this way, Pietro thought, pain stabbing at his 
head, I will not let it !
     He took a step forward as Roberto began to cough, and dashed 
his foot on rock.  The idea that came to him was sudden, violent - 
and the mortal castrato did not care.  
     He picked up the rock, slid up behind the priest who still 
held the stake in his friend's chest, and brought it down on Father 
Carlo's head as hard as he could.
     There was a sickening sound of bone shattering as Pietro 
stepped back.
     The priest stiffned for a moment, then let go of his weapon.  
He tried to turn, sank to the ground, and died.
     
     Roberto was lying very still where he had fallen, his pale, 
small hands grasping the stake that was protruding from his chest.  
Father Carlo was also lying where he had fallen.  Pietro took one 
look at the priest and realized that he had killed him.  His 
thoughts, however, were only of Roberto.  
     Still choking on his own blood, he took the little vampire in 
his arms and pulled the stake out.  He tore open Roberto's black 
robe, pulling off the red sash and trying to staunch the bleeding 
of the terrible wound with it.  The cold reddish-black blood of 
that was Roberto's life spilled over Pietro's shaking hands.  The 
little vampire was shaking and gasping, tears rolling down his 
ashen cheeks.
     Pietro's head was pounding, his vision blurred.  Roberto - who 
was his friend, teacher, and exonerator - lay dying in his arms.  
     He did not know what to do.
     Then a new gush of blood sprayed from Pietro's nose as he 
sneezed.
     He then knew what to do.
     He pulled Roberto's head up and locked his own bleeding mouth 
over the little vampire's.  Pietro made himself cough and sniff 
hard at the same time.  He could feel his own hot blood pouring out 
of his mouth, past his loose front teeth, and into Roberto's.  
     It had to work.
     Pietro held onto his friend, blowing hard to force his own 
blood down Roberto's throat.  He held him like the lovers he had 
seen in town before on one of their nightly excursions, his mouth 
pressed tightly to the immortal castrato's.  He blew again, and 
tightened his grip.  No matter what the outcome, Pietro knew he 
could not, would not ever, let go.
     Pietro began to feel his own consciousness slipping away as 
Roberto suddenly stiffened up and locked his arms around the mortal 
castrato's shoulders.  The embrace was tight, hurting his ribs, but 
Pietro could somehow feel life returning to the wounded vampire.  
     He had no idea when the sun would be up, as blackness 
descended upon him and he knew nothing.