Immortal Castrati - Ending

All Good Things Must Come to an End

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  IMMORTAL CASTRATI  

 
        finish


     Pietro awoke to the sounds of heated discussion.  He could not 
see very well, and was not sure where he was.  He could make out 
the voices of the Headmaster, the Maestro, the Doctor, and the man 
who had been at his every practice since all of this had started.  
One phrase caught his attention however - "Kill them both now while 
there is yet time !"
     The young castrato jerked fully awake and sat upright.  He was 
in bed, in the basement where he had not so long ago been 
castrated.  There were so many people there, in the room, on the 
stairs, ones he knew and ones he did not.  They were all staring at 
him, and standing between him and the men that were argueing was 
Roberto !
     The little vampire was wearing a new black robe and sash, and 
his eyes were glowing red.  His fangs were fully extended and 
shining.  There seemed to be a distortion of some type surrounding 
him, making him look ethereal.  Pietro could tell that his friend 
was not only alive and well, but enraged.
     "No more death !"  Roberto was shouting.
     "YOU are Death itself !" someone else shouted.
     Pietro clenched his jaw and set his mind to speak, but was 
distracted by a jab of pain in his lower lip.  Then he remembered 
what had happened.  He had killed Father Carlo.
     Murder, he thought, I have killed the town priest !  
     But Roberto was alive !  They were in the conservatorio 
basement, and Roberto was alive !
     The young castrato reached up to touch his sore lip, but 
jerked his finger back when he felt in his mouth.
     His own canine teeth had extended down like Roberto's, into 
fangs.
     As if sensing this, the vampire turned to face him.  Through 
all of the rage in his glowing eyes, Pietro could see sympathy - 
and love.
     "My friend . . . . ," Roberto began, only to be interrupted by 
the Doctor.
     "Don't . . . "
     "You're alive !"  Pietro blurted.
     "That idiot priest missed my heart, " the vampire replied, 
"but not by much."
     "He will know, Roberto.  Take him and go !"  the Doctor 
shouted. 
     Pietro touched his new fangs again and his eyes widened.
     "The result of your gift of Life to me, my friend." Roberto 
offered.
     Pietro smiled.  "Worth it, " he acknowledged.
     "I fixed you nose, too."
     "Thanks, " Pietro replied.
     "Kill them now !"  the angry man shouted, with other voices 
joining him in his call for blood.
     "SILENCE !"   It was the Maestro whose own thunderous voice 
filled the small room, commanding a tone that Pietro had never 
before heard.  "What has been done this night cannot be undone.  
This boy I have raised as my own son, trained him to be a singer, 
even consented to his cutting for his beautiful voice.  I can 
understand the mercies of a century past that spared the Immortal 
Castrato's life, and I have read all that was written about him.  
Here in this room we have the two most perfect voices that the 
world has ever known, and we cannot let them be destroyed !"
     It sounded like insanity, letting two blood drinking monsters 
loose upon the Earth for the sake of Song ?  How could it be 
justified ?  
     "There are questions, " the angry man was ranting, "a priest 
has been murdered by this evil little capon !  This crime cannot go 
unpunished !"
     Pietro was feeling his teeth again, and a slow anger was 
rising up in him.  He drew in his breath, and as he opened his 
mouth, a hush fell over the bickering men.  Roberto stared at him, 
and nodded.
     "I will go, " he said softly.
     "My son, " the Maestro whispered, approaching and taking the 
changed boy, the newly Immortal Castrato, in his arms.  He pulled 
Pietro close and suddenly began to shiver.  
     The men looked on, and the Headmaster turned away.  "Perhaps 
it was meant to be, " he murmured, "I shall assemble the boys . . . 
. well, not all the boys."
     That comment set off an alert in Pietro's Mind.  He looked up 
over the sobbing Maestro's shoulder and demanded, "Who ?  What is 
yet wrong ?"
     The Maestro, recovering himself slowly, pushed Pietro back and 
stared into his eyes.  Pietro saw the red fires reflected in the 
eyes of the man who had raised him, and gasped.  "Marc is dying, " 
the Maestro said.
     "How ?"  Pietro demanded.
     "Infection, " Roberto answered, "it happens sometimes."
     "Pietro, " the Doctor began, "There is nothing I can do for 
him.  The infection is too advanced, and we did not catch it in 
time.  And there was some very slow internal bleeding as well it 
seems.  Marc seemed so energetic and healthy . . . only a bit pale 
. . . "
     It was too much.  Marc was such a sweet, loving boy.  He did 
not deserve to die the terrible death from the infection that had 
set in due to his castration.  Something had to be done.  
     As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Pietro found himself 
charging for the stairs.  The onlookers stepped hastily aside in 
terror.  He knocked the door open but pulled back with a shout.  It 
was daylight.
     Tears were streaming down the new vampire's cheeks as he 
recoiled from the burning light.  "Bring him !  Now !" he thundered 
in an inhuman voice that no man, woman, or castrato had ever before 
produced.
     There was a long moment of silence.
     "No !" the Doctor finally protested, "No, please . . . ." 
     "Then I will wait, " Pietro replied.
     "What are you about ?" Roberto inquired, a sly look playing 
about his face.
     "The last thing that Marc said to me was 'if you go, take me 
with you,' "  Pietro answered.
     Roberto smiled, his fangs flashing in the torchlight.
     "I can't take him with me, not now, yet there is something 
that I - that we can do for him !"
     Roberto nodded his consent.
     But the Headmaster was already gone, and soon he was carrying 
the shivering and sweating form of Marc down the stairs.  The 
little castrato was in his nightshirt, which was soaked in sweat; 
his usually dark skin was an unhealthy shade of pale.  Pietro could 
see the swelling in the boy's midsection and thighs as the 
Headmaster laid the insensate child on Pietro's makeshift bed.  The 
old man took a step back and murmured two words. 
     "Save him."
     Pietro turned to Roberto and Roberto nodded.  The two Immortal 
Castrati joined hands and bowed their heads over Marc's still 
form.  Eternity seemed to pass and the silence was deafening.  Time 
seemed to stretch out forever as the song built up in Pietro's 
heart.  He could feel it in Roberto as well, his hand warm in his 
own.  The Immortal Castrati opened their mouths in song, and the 
song which issued forth was not the song of death that had sent 
Giovani and the ancient wolf off to Paradise.  Instead, it was a 
song unbidden, filled with images of happy childhood days gone by 
and of sunny days and green grass in that sunlight; all the things 
which Pietro would never again know.
     It was not powerful in the sense that it was loud; the sound 
of the song was hardly more than  mere whispers.  The onlookers 
were listening.
     Not even the officers present dared interrupt.  To them, the 
murder of Giovani was as good as solved.
     He was disembodied again, only this time, Roberto was at his 
side.  They were looking down, seeing only the wasted form of a  
little boy on the verge of death.  Nothing else mattered then.  The 
blind faith that Marc had had for Pietro and the conservatorio 
itself was enough.  The boy's love of the Song was there, stirring 
in his fever-wracked brain.  The Immortal Castrati grabbed onto 
that thought, and held it tightly.  
     There were voices from the top of the stairs.  The students of 
the conservatorio were there, crowded together, watching as best 
they could.  There were other voices of more townspeople come for 
vengeance, but they all fell silent as the archaic song of Life 
poured out of the little vampires who were pouring out their very 
souls for the sake of a dying child.
     Time passed, and didn't.  
     There was only the Song, Marc, and Hope.
     And then the boy stirred.  He whimpered as the final verse of 
the Song fell into silence, never to be sung again.  His eyes 
opened, and tears poured down his face as he stared at Pietro and 
Roberto.
     Exhausted, Pietro released Roberto's hand took the crying 
child in his arms.  Then the Maestro was there, and the sound of 
applause filled the small room.  They were coming down the stairs 
now, some in peasant clothes and some in black and red-sashed 
robes.  They crowded around the three boys in the dark corner and 
each reached out to shake the hands of vampires.  Not a word was 
spoken.
     Roberto had already begun 'suggesting' things to the crowd, a 
few ideas here and there; eventually the rumor mill of the 
townsfolk would do the rest.  The danger was past.  There would be 
no arrests for Giovani's murder, nor for Father Carlo's.
     The townspeople turned and left, none daring to intrude.  
There was talk of a priest gone mad who beat up little children and 
destroyed his own church, and of highwaymen murdering a boy and who 
had since had some sort of Divine Retribution taken on them.  They 
were all talking about one thing or another amongst themselves.  
The outspoken one, so determined to find the truth, had also gone 
away with more truth than he ever wanted.

     The Maestro sat up with the boy and the two vampires until the 
sun went fully down.  They spoke but little, and when the last 
colors of red and orange and purple were fading away into night the 
Headmaster came back down.  In his hands were the untitled books 
that told of Roberto's strange tale.  He placed them in Marc's 
lap.  The old man reached out then and touched Pietro's cheek, then 
Roberto's.  "I know you will keep your word, " was all he said as 
he turned to go.
     "Where are you going ?" Marc suddenly blurted out, "You . . . 
. you're n-n-n-ot leaving are y-y-you ?"
     Pietro's heart wrenched at the desperation in the voice of the 
boy who had been like a shadow to him for so long, this little 
brother of sorts that he had always wanted.
     Pietro and Roberto exchanged a long look and told the 
resurrected boy the tale of what had happened and why they had to 
go.  The darker boy cried all the way through the story, shaking 
his head and holding tightly to Pietro.  It was more than any of 
them could bear.
     "There must be a way, " Pietro whispered, choking back tears.
     Roberto sighed, the red light coming back into his eyes.  
"There is, " he replied.
     The Maestro Lorenzo sighed as well.  "I am losing much this 
night, " he said.
     Marc looked at them, not understanding.  His face was pale and 
tear-stained.
     Finally, the Maestro nodded and said, simply, "Take him."
     The Immortal Castrati could both feel the loss emanating from 
the Maestro.
     "Somehow we will explain it, " he offered, "although I do not 
know how.  This may well be the end of this institution, you both 
know, but somehow . . . . " his voice trailed off.
     "No, " Roberto answered, "in time, they will forget.  We will 
see to that."
     "Burn the books as well, " Pietro added.
     The Maestro picked up the books and slowly climbed the stairs.
     There was a hope shining in Marc's eyes, and his tears had 
dried.  It was obvious that the little castrato did not understand 
what was happening.
     Once again, Roberto took Pietro's hand in his, and Marc's with 
the other.  The two tired little vampires' eyes lit up like blazing 
suns in their death throes, and they concentrated their wills upon 
Marc.  The light of understanding - which was not red - came into 
the small castrato's eyes, and he smiled and nodded.  A century of 
knowledge and experience passed from Roberto to Pietro to Marc as 
the three, in a very deep and secret place within, became one. 
     "I understand, " Marc whispered, "and maybe someday . . . but 
for now I'll stay."
     And a century of unbearable lonliness and longing for a sense 
of family finally came to an end.

     There was no moon as the Maestro Lorenzo leaned, still 
sniffling a bit, against the ancient tree at the conservatorio 
wall.  The three Castrati, dressed in the finest silk robes of 
black with new red satin sashes about their waists were walking 
away from him.  Their new boots did not even disturb the fallen 
leaves as he watched them disappear into the night, and felt a cold 
sudden wind blow past him as the tears seemed to freeze on his 
face.  He sank to his knees, knowing that they were safe and 
together.    
     A bit of fog began to roll in as the last leaves of Autumn 
fell from the ancient tree, and the Maestro looked to the Heavens, 
listening hard to the faint aires of a farewell hymn coming from 
high above the clouds.  The voices, two of which he knew so well, 
and a third he had only heard once before, comforted him as he lay 
back on the cold ground to listen.
     Suddenly, one of the familiar voices was right in his ear.  He 
jerked his head to his left and saw the dark-skinned face of the 
now-healed Marc, his mouth open in impossible song and his eyes 
bright and dry.  The Maestro pulled the little castrato into a 
tight embrace and looked up at the night sky again.
     "I couldn't go, " Marc said softly, over the slowly fading 
song, "All they did was heal me."
     "And perhaps more, " the Maestro suggested, sweeping the child 
up in his arms and turning to go back  into the bright and warm 
conservatorio, "But we shall miss them forever."
     Then he and Marc headed back into the brightly lit building.  
The Maestro stopped in the doorway and put Marc down, turning one 
last time to face the night sky.  
     "Goodbye my son, " he whispered.
     
     "Ah, grieve not, my friend, " he heard a tired and ancient 
voice saying in his Mind, "you too once longed to fly from my 
branches so many years ago, but you climbed back down instead.  Let 
us both sleep a little . . . ."


END