Chapter 6: The Hermit & the Devil
“Leaving the life you led before we met.”
Black Sabbath, “N.I.B.”
The U.S., New Orleans. 19th century.
Lazarus Bernardius was born in 1827. His father was Jerome Bernardius, a large-scale planter and a descendant of French settlers. Lazarus’s mother, Margaret, came from the once glorious Stevenson family, which had been through difficult times at the beginning of the 19th century and was on the brink of financial collapse. Margaret’s mother, Elizabeth Stevenson, after the early death of her husband, raised her four daughters in rigor and piety. The girls had grown up to be beauties, and all married early and successfully. The youngest, Margaret, thought she had some time before she needed to be married, but Elizabeth, feeling that her days were numbered and wanting to arrange the future of her daughter as soon as possible, insisted on Margaret’s marriage to Jerome, who had been captivated by the girl’s beauty and modesty.
Jerome and Margaret’s marriage was unhappy. Bernardius was a practical man, concerned only about his plantation, and his work was a greater passion than his young wife. Deprived of her husband’s attention, young Margaret spent her days reading books and attending church. She was kind to the slaves, helped them in sickness, and prayed to the Lord for them. But her husband did not share her views. Soon it became obvious to Margaret that Jerome was a violent man who treated black workers as tools for personal gain. Meanwhile, his wife’s attitude toward the slaves often infuriated Jerome. Eventually, he forbade her to communicate with the workers in the field, allowing her to chat only with the domestic servants. Only books and church were left in Margaret’s life.
When on the night of October 17, 1827, Margaret gave birth to a son, she named him after Lazarus of Bethany, who had been resurrected by Christ on the fourth day after death. But, in an ironic twist of fate, Lazarus was a weak child, prone to ailments, and he had twice been on the verge of death. In those days, Margaret took him to church and prayed to God for the salvation of her son. His son’s poor health irritated and depressed Jerome. He had hoped for a strong successor who would help him manage the cotton plantation. But the child’s weakness did not allow him to be in the field with his father. Instead, like his mother, little Lazarus spent all his time reading books on religion. At the insistence of his wife, Jerome invited a priest from New Orleans, Roger Abernathy, to teach his son. The young clergyman was a man of the gentry and had a gift for education. He became a friend and a mentor to the boy, something Lazarus’s father would never be.
Abernathy also became friends with Margaret. They were the same age, with similar traits of character, and they quickly hit it off. When Roger wasn’t spending time with Lazarus or preaching in the church, he could often be seen in Margaret’s company.
At first, Jerome Bernardius paid no attention to his wife’s new friendship, but when it was whispered about even among the slaves in the cotton fields, the seeds of anger were sown in the planter’s heart. He became suspicious and angry. At last, he announced to Roger Abernathy that the Bernardius family no longer needed his services, and he was free to return to New Orleans. The priest was shocked. He knew people were whispering behind his back, but the simple-hearted young man believed it was obvious that his relationship with Mrs. Bernardius was just friendship. Abernathy tried to explain this to Jerome, but the planter did not want to listen. When Abernathy persisted, Jerome beat him, tore off his Roman collar, and threw the priest out of his home.
Abernathy went back to New Orleans, and no one in the Bernardius estate ever saw him again. Jerome, however, couldn’t move past the quarrel. His confidence in his wife, despite the innocence of her relationship with Abernathy, was shaken. He became an anxious and nervous man, and soon had a stroke from which he never fully recovered. With his health compromised, his involvement in his business decreased, and the plantation suffered. In 1842, he decided to hand over the responsibilities of the estate and the plantation to his wife and son, and a year later he died quietly. Until the Civil War, Lazarus tried to manage the business, but with no experience, no real desire, and no support from his mother, who had become a closed and inhospitable woman since Roger Abernathy had been banished from the Bernardius home, he was doomed to fail. Before Lazarus turned thirty, his mother died, and he finally lost all interest in his father’s plantation, which had become a burden to him.
After the war, the estate was all that remained of the once thriving business of Jerome Bernardius. The slaves were freed by Lazarus or escaped. Eventually, Lazarus sold the house for a pittance and went to New Orleans. He saw the city as a place where he could start a career unrelated to the plantation business, perhaps a career as a journalist, or, if he was lucky, as a writer. But Lazarus never had the chance to use the money from the sale of the house. Immediately upon arrival, Bernardius was careless enough to venture into a dark alley, where he was hit on the head with a baton and stabbed in the back. He came to his senses at night, as his body was loaded onto the stretcher of a police carriage. He was scared, he felt giddy, but otherwise he was unhurt. The police clearly took Lazarus for a dead man and did not expect the corpse to come to life. When he did, they figured he was a tramp, filled to the eyeballs with alcohol, so they let him go to the four winds. Bernardius lingered in New Orleans for two weeks, with no money or shoes, in a vain attempt to restore his father’s old connections. Barefoot and disheveled, smelling of sewage, he was not allowed to set foot in the noble houses. Exhausted, Lazarus trusted in God, hoping He would send him salvation from misery and suffering. But in the end, he was stabbed again, this time, right in the heart.
When Lazarus Bernardius came to life, the first thing he saw was light. It was so bright and blinding that he had to squint. He tried to cover his eyes with his hands, but he could not move. Lazarus blinked, trying to clear the tears from his eyes. When his vision cleared, he saw that the light was not a supernatural phenomenon proclaiming that his earthly sorrows were finished and Heaven waited. The light came from a lamp on a white ceiling. The feeling of weightlessness that had filled his body when Lazarus woke up began to fade. He felt a sense of his own body weight. He also felt tingling in his fingers and toes and warmth in his chest. Suddenly, the feelings that had been coming on gradually, hit him like a wave, flooding into his consciousness. The heat in his chest turned into a fire, as if a torch was burning in the very heart of him. For a moment, Lazarus thought he heard a devilish laugh. He put his hand to his chest and heard a melodious clink.
“Oh, you finally woke up, Mr. Bernardius,” a voice said. Lazarus turned his head to the right and saw a strange metal table on thin legs, on which lay something formless, covered with a white sheet.
“I’m here, Mr. Bernardius,” the voice said. Bernardius turned his head to the left and saw the man who was talking to him. He was tall, had blond hair, and was dressed in a black coat over a white suit. Curly hair fell over the stranger’s quaint face, a face that could be described as beautiful, except for its sharp features, which were slightly longer than they should have been. Bernardius, who had not yet recovered himself, strained his eyes to have a better look at the stranger. The face of the man curved a bit to the left, like a half moon, and one eye was twice as big as the other. His mouth, splayed from ear to ear, was full of small triangular teeth. Lazarus shook his head and the face of a man again became normal.
“Where am I?” asked Lazarus.
“You are in a waiting mortuary,” said the stranger. The man was holding an apple, which he cut into pieces with a small knife and ate. The fruit seemed weird to Lazarus, but, because of his shock and poor health, he considered this a hallucination and did not look closely.
“Waiting mortuary?” Lazarus looked around and saw tables on which lay bodies covered with sheets. For a moment he felt sick. His memories returned. “I was attacked. I was stabbed in the chest.” With his memories came renewed energy. He sat up abruptly on the table, pushing away the sheet, under which he was uncove
red. The bell rang again.
“What is it?” he asked the stranger. The man silently pointed to a knife on a string tied to Lazarus’s hand. It was strapped around the bell on a stand next to the table on which Bernardius lay. Lazarus looked at his chest. There was a just small scar right above his heart, a trace of the wound.
“I’m alive! I am alive by the grace of the Lord,” Lazarus said. He was so excited by this fact that for a moment he forgot his manners, which normally were very important to him. “Pardon my look, sir.” Mr. Bernardius sat up and dangled his legs from the bed, covering his private parts with the sheet. “However, this might be habitual to you, because you work here.” Only when the words slipped out did Lazarus realize his stupidity. The strange gentleman was too well dressed for a man whose job was to watch and see if someone in the morgue rose from the dead.
“No, Mr. Bernardius, I don’t think that God has something to do with the fact that you continue to breathe, and no, I don’t work here,” the stranger replied. A perpetual smirk seemed to be attached to the face of the stranger. “To be honest, I never heard of anyone in the waiting mortuary watching corpses. As far as I know, the bell has never rung in places like this.” The stranger continued to eat his apple.
“Then who are you?” The mocking tone of the black-and-white-clad man bewildered Lazarus. What was this strange man doing in this place? Was it possible that he was one of those rich perverts who paid the guards in the morgue to let them take a closer look at a dead body, still warm or already touched by corruption? As if reading Bernardius’s thoughts, the man raised his eyebrows emphatically, and Lazarus’s face flushed with shame.
“Mr. Bernardius …”
“How do you know my name?” Lazarus interrupted the stranger.
“I have my sources,” the blond stranger said in a low voice. But noticing Bernardius’s frightened look, he hastened to dispel the mystery. “The tag on your foot. Your name is written on it.”
Lazarus checked it, feeling stupid. The tag was tied around the big toe of his right foot.
“Mr. Bernardius, I’m here on behalf of a gentleman who wants to offer you a job,” said the stranger, slicing off a piece of the apple. Lazarus looked closer at the apple. It was red, almost black, and in some places it was covered with dark spots of rot. Lazarus winced.
“You’re a friend of my father?” he asked.
“No. Look, Mr. Bernardius, I realize you are lost. Not many have found themselves in this place. No one, to be honest. So you probably have many questions. The man I work for can answer all of them. And he wants to invite you to work for him. The decision will be yours. But, in any case, if you want to learn how you got here and why you were attacked twice in one week, you’d better come with me.”
“Come with you? When?”
“The person who wants to talk to you does not usually have a lot of time. We have to go today.”
“But my stuff. I’ve been living for two weeks like a vagabond, without changing my clothes.”
“Nothing to worry about,” the stranger said. He pulled a bundle out from somewhere behind him and threw it on the table next to Lazarus. “Here is your suit. Shall we go?”
“Yes, I agree,” Lazarus said. He was confused, but he reasoned that if the stranger wanted to harm him, a more convenient location than the morgue was hard to imagine.
“Fine,” said the stranger. He pulled the apple open with his fingers and pulled out a worm. He held it up to the light, as if admiring it, and then he put it in his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. He licked his fingers and smiled at Lazarus.
“What are you waiting for, Mr. Bernardius? Get dressed.”
Lazarus Bernardius was accustomed to living simply. After the death of his father, who wasn’t shy about showing how wealthy he was, and after the affairs of the cotton plantation had gone awry, Lazarus and his mother, humble and pious people, led a very unpretentious life.
The carriage of the black-and-white gentleman, whose name Lazarus hadn’t asked, took them to the door of a pompous-looking building in the Greek Revival style. The building was huge, and its opulence made it clear that commoners were not allowed to enter. Obviously, anything hiding behind its heavy doors was available only to the richest citizens.
“We are at St. Charles Avenue?” asked Lazarus. He tried to look around. When Mr. Bernardius and the black-and-white stranger had left the waiting mortuary, it was early evening. It had taken some time to get here, but the street was already dead-of-night dark, and Lazarus could barely see the houses around the mansion.
“Come on.” Lazarus’s companion ignored the question and gently took him by the arm, leading him up steps to the entrance of the building.
The inside of the house struck Mr. Bernardius even more than the outside. A room with an incredibly high ceiling was filled with tables at which people, old and very rich, were dining. The suit the stranger had given Lazarus in the morgue at first seemed too snazzy. It may have been unwise to appear on the streets wearing it, but in this place to dress differently would be unacceptable. Ladies were bedecked with jewels, and their companions wore suits that would have cost an entire library of the Bernardius estate.
“What is this place?” Lazarus asked the black-and-white stranger.
“A restaurant,” came the reply.
“What’s it called? It must be famous throughout the city!”
The stranger pointed to a gilded sign above the entrance. It depicted tongues of flame, with twisted horns above them and flaunting hooves underneath.
“It serves only meat?” asked Bernardius.
“It serves anything you can afford to order,” the black-and-white stranger said with a smile. “We have to go, Mr. Bernardius.”
The stranger led Lazarus between tables. The waiters seemed not to notice the two guests, nor did the other diners. Bernardius was turning his head left and right, stunned by the wealthy and snobby restaurant. He saw golden bas-reliefs, high marble columns holding up the ceiling, and a bright, almost fluorescent, light pouring down.
Lazarus saw a man sitting at the central table, watching them. The black-and-white-clad gentleman went toward him.
“Mr. Bernardius, I’m glad you agreed to meet with me,” the man at the table said. He smiled at Lazarus but didn’t extend his hand for a handshake. He turned to the black-and-white-clad stranger. “Mr. Star, thank you for taking the trouble to deliver Mr. Bernardius here.” The man from the morgue nodded without saying a word and walked away.
“Please, sit down, Mr. Bernardius,” said the man at the table. He was dressed much simpler than the other people in the room. He had a broad face, which could be taken for the face of a commoner, except for his clever and mocking eyes. The stranger was smiling, but Lazarus felt uncomfortable. It seemed to him that those eyes saw right through him. The stranger’s hair, long, heavy, and black, was drawn back into a simple ponytail.
“Who are you?” asked Lazarus, ashamed of the weakness of his own voice. “You know my name, but I do not know yours.”
“Say, my name is Louie Louis,” said the long-haired man. His voice suggested mockery, even more so than Mr. Star’s. In their behavior and in their ridiculous names was something similar. Bernardius wondered if they might be siblings. Star looked younger, although it was difficult to determine either of their ages. Lazarus guessed that Star was about thirty, Louis in his forties.
“Are you French?” asked Lazarus.
“No, Mr. Bernardius. Although, in some sense, we do share a common blood with you. However, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. You look tired. I heard about your misadventures in New Orleans. You should recuperate before we continue.” A moment later, three waiters arrived and began to serve dishes.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Bernardius. To avoid you having to spend time studying the menu, I chose for you in advance. I assure you that I ordered only the best of what they serve here.”
“Do you own this place?”
“I own many things,
Mr. Bernardius. In the meantime, please eat.”
Lazarus did not argue with Louis. The dishes were luxurious, and Mr. Bernardius had been hungry for almost two weeks. Keeping up with the dishes on the table was not easy. When he finished, the waiters quickly cleared the table, leaving Bernardius alone with Louie Louis.
“Mr. Bernardius, as you know, you’re here because I want to offer you a job,” Louis began.
“Yes, Mr. Louis. And this, I must confess, confuses me. As far as I can tell, you know more about me than I can imagine. And you must know that my only job in life I haven’t managed very well. My father’s business has folded.”
“I know, Mr. Bernardius. But the work that I want to offer you doesn’t involve money. You won’t have to clutter your mind with figures, you won’t have to worry about costs and profits. You have special talents that make you a unique candidate for this position.” There was no mockery in Louis’s voice.
“I’m flattered, Mr. Louis. But I’m not sure I have any outstanding talents. I’m good at English, my French is tolerable, and I love to read, that’s probably it.”
“And you cannot be killed,” Louis said cheerfully.
Lazarus went cold inside. His companion’s tone was playful, but he didn’t seem to be joking.
“My presence in that morgue was some absurdity. The doctor who examined me must have been an amateur. In a city like New Orleans, any accident can happen.”
“You are right, Mr. Bernardius. And the first attack on you was accidental indeed. But I had to arrange the second one.”
For a moment, Lazarus thought he had misheard. His head was spinning. He was fighting fear, distrust, and resentment. He stood up from the table.
“I do not know why you called me and gave me clothes. Your jokes are bad, and you are a swindler, Mr. Louis. I’m not going to tolerate your bullying,” Lazarus said loudly, but he was surprised to note that none of the other diners turned their heads in his direction.
“Sit down, Mr. Bernardius. If I don’t want to let you go, you will not get out of here. Sit down and listen to me.”
Something in Louis’s voice made Lazarus change his mind. He suddenly felt like a fractious child with whom an adult was talking in a strict and confident tone. He sat down.
“Mr. Bernardius, when you came to New Orleans, you were attacked. Some backstreet boy saw the robbers hit you on the head with a bat and stick a knife in your back. This boy stole your shoes, making sure you were dead. But he had the decency to report the attack to the police. However, when the coppers arrived, you suddenly returned from the dead, scaring the blazes out of them.”
“Returned from the dead? You speak as if I was really dead,” protested Bernardius.
“That’s right, Mr. Bernardius. But I still had to verify this. That’s why I organized the second assault on you.”
“What? Why?”
“My goal was to ascertain if there was any chance your first resurrection was the fantasy of an urchin or the daydream of a copper wearied by his service. I had to know for sure, so the blow was aimed to the heart, Mr. Bernardius.”
Lazarus winced. He recalled how only a few hours ago, his chest had been on fire, his head had been in a whirl, and his lungs had been ready to explode with a single breath. Yet when he came to life, only a small strange-looking scar reminded him of the assault.
“You would kill a man,” muttered Lazarus. “Just to prove some stupid theory?”
“Mr. Bernardius. The city is rife with tales generated by dreamers, people who are crazy or just too sensitive. If it hadn’t been you, my people would not have paid attention.”
“Your people? What do you mean?”
“A lot of people work for me. They watch all the oddities that take place. Some they discard as nonsense, some they check.”
“And why did they pay attention to me?”
“I’m sure you know that you weren’t the healthiest child. A couple of times your father hastily ordered a small coffin. But you survived. And when the man who had escaped death as a child befooled it again, my people told me. And I told them to check on you.”
“Check on me? To kill me! You ordered them to kill me.” Lazarus felt as if he were on the edge of hysteria.
“Mr. Bernardius, as we can see, you are alive. You even dined.” Louie Louis’s derisive tone had returned.
“Only a dastard can joke like this. I was lucky to survive. But what if your people were wrong? What if someone else had been in my place? You’re not just a dastard, Louis! You’re a fiend!”
Louis laughed. “Come now. History knows no ifs.”
“If I had not survived, you would have just shrugged and your sleep would have been undisturbed.”
“Mr. Bernardius, everything has ended up in the most beautiful way for both of us. Do not find problems where there are none,” said Louis in a weary tone. “I want to offer you a job, and your immortality is the very quality you need for it. If you are still interested in my offer, follow me. Don’t worry; I’m not going to hurt you. Besides, we both know it is impossible to kill you, so you don’t need to worry about anything.” With these words, Louis stood up and left the table. Lazarus was so amazed by Louis’s aplomb, which bordered on arrogance, that he wanted to show his backbone and remained seated. Thoughts swarmed in Mr. Bernardius’s head. Louie Louis had ordered him killed, but had also revealed his extraordinary abilities. Immortality, a gift available only to gods. But he didn’t know if he could trust Louis. On the other hand, Mr. Bernardius told himself, Louis treated everyone and everything with a grin, but something in the way he acted implied that he was not a charlatan. Perhaps his affairs took place in the shade, but Lazarus felt no lies in what Louis had said. New Orleans had been rejecting him, he had no way back, and his father’s business partners had turned away. The only person interested in Mr. Bernardius was Louis.
Mr. Bernardius jumped up and ran to catch up with Louie Louis, who was slowly walking toward the exit of the restaurant. Lazarus thought his musings had lasted only a few moments, but during this time Louis had almost reached the door. Bernardius had to run to catch up with him, dashing among the tables. He ran into a waiter, apologized for his awkwardness, and caught up with Louis as he was getting into the carriage that Mr. Star had used to take him to the Horns & Hooves.
“Wait a minute, Mr. Louis,” Lazarus called. “I changed my mind, I’m going with you.”
“Changed your mind, huh? I thought that you agreed ab ovo,” said Louis with a smile, and he gestured for Bernardius to climb into the carriage.
There were three of them in the carriage, Lazarus, Louie Louis, and Mr. Star. The windows were curtained, and when Mr. Bernardius pushed the curtain aside to see where they were going, he saw only darkness. It seemed a long time since the carriage had left New Orleans. Lazarus was delighted by the comfort of the carriage, which rode smoothly down a country road, as if there were no rises or dips or holes. The doors of the carriage protected them from the sounds of the outside world. For a moment, Mr. Bernardius thought they were in the womb of the stars, flying through the universe. The whole world had shrunk to the limits of his equipage, and he felt his head clearing. For the first time since moving to New Orleans, he was strangely calm, his thoughts streamlined and easy. He lost his sense of time. Sometimes it seemed to him that the equipage was rushing through the darkness for only a minute, other times it seemed as if they had been riding for several days. Lazarus was surprised to find that it did not bother him at all.
“Let’s get back to our conversation, Mr. Bernardius,” said Louie Louis. “I chose you because you have a very rare gift. But the fact that you do believe in God, and you have read dozens of books on religion, also has meaning for me. You believe in God, don’t you?”
“Of course,” said Lazarus.
“And the Devil?”
“I think he exists. But to believe means to trust, and I never trusted the Devil.” What Lazarus said somehow amused Louie Louis, and Mr. Star chuckled con
descendingly.
“It seems as if your mind is saturated with books, but lacking discernment,” Louis said. “Give me your hand.”
Lazarus held out his hand, thinking that this would be his first, if belated, handshake with Louis.
Barely touching Louis’s skin, Lazarus felt the world changing around him. The carriage began to fade, and there was nothing beyond it: no roads, no trees, no stars, no sky. Only darkness. It was as if the world was woven from the finest fabrics, and now some invisible monster of unimaginable proportions had ripped it to pieces in a fit of madness, crumpling the torn shreds and throwing them into the darkness. The darkness beyond the world was alive, Lazarus could sense it. There were no visible signs of its life, but he felt it watching him.
The world kept disappearing piece by piece. Only the lower part of Mr. Star’s face was left, with the eternal smile on it, and in next moment even it had gone. Everything vanished with a deafening roar. Lazarus felt something trying to break him and pull him back into the darkness. But Louie Louis held his hand, and he was safe. Louis stood in the darkness, clearly visible, smiling, proud, and full of strength. Finally, the last piece of reality had been destroyed, and the two were surrounded by the darkness. The humming abated, and in the next moment Lazarus was blinded and deafened by a flame that superseded the darkness. In exhaustion, he fell to his knees. Fear seized them, but Louie Louis still gripped his arm. Fire engulfed Lazarus’s body, and he felt his hair and muscles burning and melting, but after a moment he realized that the fire seemed to be waltzing around him, without penetrating his skin, not burning him from the inside. In horror and awe, Lazarus looked up at Louis. He should have known before. Louie Louis. What a ridiculous name. A jest about people who were not accustomed to seeing beyond their own noses and believing what their books claimed.
Lucifer. Lightbringer.
The flames began to subside. Fire retreated from Lazarus’s body. Lucifer was still holding his hand. Lazarus looked around. Behind the diminishing flames, he saw thin gray spires of towers that seemed to be piercing the gray sky. The towers looked like melted candles. Lazarus tried to see what they were made of but couldn’t. Something weightless touched his cheek. He put his hand to his face, and it slipped on something soft, destroyed by a single touch. Lazarus looked at his fingers, which were black. Ash. The buildings were covered with ash, making it impossible to figure out what they were made of.
The ash rain increased. Gray and black flakes fell to the ground, covering it with a layer that grew thicker with each passing minute. Ash had reached to Lazarus’s mid-thigh. He was kneeling, and when he tried to get up, he couldn’t. The ash assumed extraordinary weight, and Lazarus couldn’t move his legs. Mr. Bernardius panicked. The ash grew so thick that he could see neither the sky nor the spires. With every moment, black and gray flakes covered Lazarus, first up to his waist, then his chest. When the ash reached his neck, Lazarus screamed. The flakes flew at him, flew into his mouth, and impeded his breathing. It sealed his eyes. Mr. Bernardius began to choke. He tried to swallow the ash, but it was useless. The ash rain grew stronger, and Lazarus did not have enough time. He could not see a thing, but felt the weight of the ash on his face. The weight would not let him rise from his knees, would not even let him clean his face and mouth. I’m dying, thought Lazarus.
Louie Louis, who was holding Lazarus’s hand, yanked it. Lazarus thought he was rising abruptly from the depths of the sea or from a very deep grave. The weight pressing on him became lighter, and he saw in the distance a spot of light that was coming to him at incredible speed, developing from a tiny point into the whole world. He flew into the source of light, and the air instantly filled Mr. Bernardius’s lungs and cleared his eyes so he could see again.
Lazarus sat in the carriage racing through the dark. Louis no longer held his hand. Mr. Star was still grinning. And for a moment it seemed to Lazarus that his face was the same as it had been in the morgue, curved, with a huge mouth full of sharp teeth.
“I could have introduced myself in another manner, but I’m afraid you’d have thought I was crazy,” Louis said. Bernardius looked at him with eyes full of fear. Lazarus knew what he had seen, knew it was not a dream.
“Mr. Bernardius, I understand your shock, but I hope that the knowledge you acquired in your father’s library and Mr. Abernathy’s schooling will help you cope with it.”
“You know about Abernathy?”
“I thought that after the things you have just seen, such details would not surprise you, Mr. Bernardius.” Louie Louis seemed almost annoyed. “You do realize who I am and what kind of things are subject to me?”
“You are Lucifer, the highest of the demons of Hell. A fallen angel.”
“It is true, Mr. Bernardius.”
“All the more, I don’t understand why you need me.” Lazarus was baffled. But his training, the hours and days spent in the library, helped him cope with his feelings. At heart, he had always been sure that everything he had read was true.
“Mr. Bernardius, you haven’t just read the Bible and theologists’ work. You lived among slaves, who trusted God much less than the Devil. You studied the books on which the official church prefers to remain silent or deny their existence. Goetia grimoires, scientific works of apostates. From these books, you should know that the structure of Hell is much more complicated than it might seem to an unenlightened mortal. We have enough trouble outside of your world, despite what your churchmen say and do. Mr. Star and I are rarely out of Hell. But on the ground, things happen that require our observations and sometimes interference. So I need you.”
“For what?”
“Mr. Bernardius, do you know the big difference between angels and demons, other than that referred to in the Bible?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Lazarus.
“Angels cannot have offspring. Demons can. We were expelled from paradise and lost the privileges that angels have, but some limitations of our nature have fallen. Have you ever wondered why the victims of so-called demonic possession are almost always women? And mostly young ones.” Lazarus’s face turned white with a terrible guess.
“At the time of possession, a woman can conceive a demon? But this is absurd!” shouted Lazarus.
“Not at all. The results of such a coupling are demionis, or mongrels. Mankind calls them evil spirits. In some of the demionis, people see humans with amazing abilities. Unfortunately, not all demionis retain a human form. Some are more like beasts or monsters.”
“Demionis? You’re saying that all the vampires, werewolves, monsters of fairy tales, they’re all the offspring of the possession of women by demons?” Lazarus refused to believe such things.
“Yes, Mr. Bernardius. All the monsters that are considered to be of the devil are, in fact, half-human offspring. Many women are forced to accept demons, it’s true. But some voluntarily desire the spawn of Hell. What would come to light as a result of demon possession is unknown to anyone. This comes from the demon and its position in the hierarchy of Hell. We only know that the blood of demons can manifest itself for generations with very different effects. One child may have incredible power or control the weather, and another may grow to become an ogre or mermaid.”
“And my …”
“Your immortality, Bernardius? A very curious case. It was not necessary for your mother to be possessed. As I said, the blood of demons can manifest itself through several generations. But immortality is a gift available only to a very few lucky ones, even among demons. And almost never to a mortal. It makes you a very special person. You do realize this, don’t you, Lazarus?”
Lazarus did realize it. In his heart he believed in his own immortality, but his consciousness and common sense had resisted this idea. He was lost.
“Due to certain reasons, the number of such creatures—demionis—is diminishing. They have no shelter and protection; they are poorly adapted to the modern world. Almost all of those whom you call evil spirits, from dr
agons to vampires, remained only in fairy tales. Few survived. I’m interested in finding them and helping them. With your assistance, Mr. Bernardius,” Louis said with a smile.
“Why should I help you?”
“Because, in some way, all of them are your family. Because you will discover many of the mysteries of the universe. And your immortality will make you an excellent teacher and an advocate for these unfortunate creatures. You will collect and transmit knowledge to them, protect them. You will become their leader. You do not need to think about earnings or hide your gift, because you will be surrounded by the likes of yourself.”
Something in this speech made Lazarus’s heart beat faster. Since childhood, he had been a loner, and sometimes it seemed to him as if he did not belong to this world. But he could never have imagined how true it really was. And now he had the opportunity to do something special to help those like him.
“Helping the Devil. It’s too much,” muttered Lazarus.
“Look, Lazarus. Think about it this way. You won’t be helping me. You’ll be helping those who cannot survive without you. People do not like oddities. They do not like what does not fit in their heads. Encountering something unusual, they are likely to erase it from the face of the earth. Normality, ordinariness, these are the protective mechanisms of humanity, a form of security. You can help demionis. You can protect them from the human world, and protect people from them. Because, I’ll be honest with you, not all of them are harmless and friendly. But you can reach out to everyone. After all, you are not limited by time, Mr. Bernardius.”
“Here we are,” said Mr. Star, looking out of the window of the carriage. The announcement interrupted Lazarus’s thoughts. The driver, clad from head to toe in a black cloak, jumped from the box and lit a torch.
The light of the torch penetrated the darkness. They were in a silent forest far from the city. The only sounds were a crackling fire and rustling leaves. The driver went on a wide circle around the equipage, using a torch to ignite lanterns mounted on high poles. It was getting brighter. Before he lit all the lanterns in the center of the circle, outlines of carts loaded with bales and chests, wooden columns, and bright patches of fabric became visible.
“What is it?” asked Lazarus.
“A traveling circus,” said Mr. Star.
“I don’t understand.”
“That’s your job, Mr. Bernardius,” said Louie Louis. “Your disguise and your shelter. People hate abnormality. But only if it does not entertain them. The circus has always been a salvation for those who are not accepted by the society of normal people—cripples, freaks of nature, and, in the case of the demionis, a certain kind of mongrels. This is the only place where a group of strange creatures will not arouse suspicion. With a traveling circus, you can move around the country to look for the unusual and give it shelter and protection.”
Lazarus walked among the carts, looking at bales. As a child, he had seen circus performances. But he had never seen a circus not yet assembled. Now it seemed incredible that the stage, the cells, the main tent did not appear magically right before a show, but were collected and transported in carts.
“I don’t want to attract attention, Mr. Bernardius,” said Louie Louis, as Lazarus wandered among the carts. “Therefore, you have to use such gimmickry. There are forces that will be happy if people continue to destroy mongrels. And my demionis are too few. You won’t have to think about money or food. But you must be careful. Inhabitants of your circus will have to follow certain rules to guarantee their safety.”
“Inhabitants? But there is no one, only staff and equipment!” said Lazarus.
“And you have not said yes,” said Louis with a sly smile.
Lazarus caught himself thinking that he had already agreed to the proposal of the lord of Hell. “I agree.”
“Perfect. I was counting on that. Then I will give you a minute to satisfy your curiosity, and then we’ll go back.”
“That’s all? No contract signed in blood?” Lazarus thought he was talking nonsense. And judging by the reaction of Louis and Mr. Star, nonsense it was. Both laughed.
Louis smiled, but his eyes were serious. “You’re immortal, Mr. Bernardius. I will not get your soul. Your word is enough.”
Lazarus felt goose bumps on his back and said nothing. He again looked at the bales and carts, wondering how many were needed to transport the circus. He reminded himself what he had agreed to. To his surprise, he felt no guilt or anxiety, only excitement, like a child waiting for something new and interesting. He always thought he was needed for something more than keeping accounts on the plantation or in an office. The thought flashed in his head that maybe the blood-of-hell inhabitants had made him agree to such a venture.
“Mr. Louis,” said Lazarus. “Will I know my bloodline?”
“In time, Lazarus,” Louie said solemnly, and he disappeared into the carriage, making it clear that the time to explore the circus had expired. Lazarus followed the demon. He had so much to ask Louis and Mr. Star. But his thoughts were floundering, and he didn’t know where to begin. Before he was ready to ask the first question, they got to New Orleans. Dawn had already risen over the city.
The carriage moved through the unfamiliar streets, and Lazarus realized they were heading toward the most fashionable part of town. The lasher stopped the coach at an expensive hotel.
“Enjoy the pleasures of a big city while you can, Mr. Bernardius. Life in a traveling circus is interesting but lacks comfort,” said Louis. “The man who will lead you into the swing of things will contact you tomorrow morning. In the meantime, relax. Your room and amenities are paid for.”
The coach of demons left. In his room, Lazarus found clean clothes and money. Without changing clothes, he took the banknotes and went down to the street. He needed a coach that would deliver him to Horns & Hooves. He was sure the patrons of his expensive hotel often dined there. But to his surprise, nobody had heard of such a place. Nor did any driver in any other part of the city know where the restaurant was.
Bernardius had traveled the entire city before he met a driver at the port who agreed to take him to Horns & Hooves. The coach brought Lazarus to the door of a dilapidated shack that smelled of spoiled fish and exotic spices. Gathering his courage, Lazarus went inside. In the dim light he saw several low and dirty tables where visitors of the eatery had crowded, workers and blacks who looked with distrust and hostility at Mr. Bernardius’s expensive suit.
Lazarus tried to find out from the owner of the place, a small and ancient Chinese man with a long thin mustache, if he knew anything about Louie Louis, but the old man only listed the names of the dishes and their prices. Realizing that Lazarus was not going to order anything, he waved his hands, as if to dismiss him.
Lazarus returned to his hotel and collapsed onto the bed, immediately falling asleep. The next morning he was awakened by a short man in a funny embroidered hat who introduced himself as Faulkner. Chubby and smiling, with small spectacles on his nose, he smiled at Lazarus.
“I am from Mr. Louie Louis,” said Faulkner. “I’ll be working with you, taking care of all the paperwork. I’m your first archivist. It’s time to hit the road, Mr. Bernardius!”