29 November 1999
Monday
Derek Rayne died this morning on the Golden Gate Bridge, but I know not yet who will be born in his stead. Expedience will doubtless dictate that.
After I left Rachel's house, I found the rocks to weight my pockets. In the fog, I eluded the bridge's security cameras, and by 3:45 was at the center of the span.
So thick was the fog that not even a car passing mere feet away could see me, nor I them. The silence was glorious and horrible, both at once. I stood there looking down into foggy, black oblivion for what seemed like eons, but in reality could not have been more than 20 minutes. I stood upon the edge of Limbo - neither here nor there. The temporal distortion was such, however, that I am minded of stories I've heard of time slips, where one passes into another dimension, another universe, then re-emerges in one's own, unaware that time has progressed, or believing that eternity had passed.
I emptied my mind and climbed over the railing. Standing there, with my arms locked back over the rail, I could hear the rush of my own blood, my own heart. Both were echoed below in the sound of the restless sea and the distant slap of waves against the pylons and the rocks. I heard a ship pass beneath me - the sound of its turbines, the clank of chain, its fog horn, the voices and footsteps of crewmen. I heard a gull take wing in the darkness. I heard life.
I tried to let go, but couldn't. I who have faced death a hundred times in its most hideous forms - I who have planned my own death on more than one occasion and have carried out those plans - I who put a gun in my mouth to protect my friends and to end my agony - I who craved oblivion, wanted it with all my heart and soul - I could not let go.
I stood like that for yet another eon, begging release, begging protection, begging for salvation, but no heavenly voice answered me, nor did my arms relax their grip. Why? I'm ready. I want this more than I've wanted anything ever before. I searched deep within myself for a voice, a feeling that has never failed me. It has nothing to do with the "Sight," which is a deceptive thing, but something in my soul. I've always trusted it, even when my rational mind and all those in whom I've placed my faith have said to do just the opposite. It has not always been beneficial to me, nor to those whom I love, but, like a ley-line, it has always shown me the true path. It feels like a growing, glowing creature that I sense first in the solar plexus. It has weight and warmth. It is what I've clung to in the darkest times, when I've failed or when I've lost myself to possession or screamed in torment. Then I feel its warmth spread to a place between my eyes - the third eye. When I feel this, I know that I have chosen correctly - no matter the cost.
Still I fought with myself to let go. I counted the reasons why I must end this existence. We had known that I could not survive the destruction of the portal. We had known what I would have to do to stop the Apocalypse. I was ready. I'd said my good-byes. I'd placed my House in order. Yet I did survive, while the portal and the House did not. How? Why? I have no memory. Did I yield? Surely not - the world still exists as it was - ships still pass beneath the Golden Gate, birds still take wing. But what if we were all wrong? What if my insanity was the truth? What if I was begotten of Satan himself? What if his plan is so far above our comprehension that we cannot even surmise its essence? What if I am doomed to become Madam Monstrosity, or the Anti-Christ? What if my voice, my compass, has told me the truth all these years so that it could lie to me now?
I remained frozen in that battle even as the new day began to whisper its presence. Suddenly, in only the way that can happen here, in this place, the fog lifted for a scant moment. A strong wind simply parted it like theatre curtains. There, before me lay San Francisco - the whole of the bay - Angel Island - home. The sun rose directly behind the Transamerica Pyramid, which seemed to split its rays into the shape of a cross - a beam shot upward, arms stretched side to side. As soon as that had vanished, light struck something on Angel Island. I cannot guess what. There is no beacon left, no windows remain to reflect, but for a fraction of a second, it was as bright as a supernova. "I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help." I could feel the warmth of it on my face, between my eyes, behind my eyes. "Wait!" it said. "Trust in me. Trust in the Light. Bear and forbear the torments. They too shall pass."
Breathless, I climbed back over the railing and cast the stones in my pocket into the bay in my stead. Now I sit in an arbor in Golden Gate Park writing this and planning the rest of my life. The fog has settled in again. All is chilled and dripping. Sound is magnified tenfold. I hear squirrels chittering in the trees somewhere up the hillside. Have I been freed of the burden I've borne since childhood? If I quit, will the Darkness win? Or am I now the useless, arcane sword, tossed into the sea as its time has passed into the age of Uzis and AK-47s?
I cannot go home - not till I know - my beacon tells me that as well. What a hornets' nest that would be. Our plans to protect everything were well laid and still unfold. Even if I was untainted, I could bring down the Legacy, destroy my friends, simply by my mere presence.
I must go on. I must shift the field of battle, adapt to a new era, a new terrain. I must learn to live without the wealth, without the position, the privilege, the heritage, without my friends, my family, without the Legacy, and without the "Sight". At my age, will I be able to forsake all? Can I begin again? For more than 20 years, I've been prepared for such an event, but can I really do it? Am I to be melted down and reforged, but for what reason? What fate? Or am I to slide into a desolate old age? God, I shall miss them all, but I have confidence that they will all carry on the fight for good, each according to their talents and their destinies. I am so very proud of each and every one, and I love them dearly. Please, God, watch over them.
I have a memory. "It is not given to you to know the when and where of your ending, nor is it given to you to dictate to US the how of your ending. Beware, your greatest flaw - pride. You are an instrument of Our power - nothing more." But I've no idea from whence this memory comes - a place of spinning light, golden voices, pain, anguish, a rending asunder. I will wait. I must believe that I shall be shown my way. Come what may, so be it. It will pass, as all must pass.
Today, I shall pawn my watch, then I'll buy some rat poison, cyanide based, and what I need to reduce it to purity. I hope I remember the Major's recipe. I'll make up some caplets to keep with me, always, in case I should sense Madam Monstrosity's presence within. Then I'll go to the bank, retrieve my first cache, and do right by Charlie, Xena, and the others. I owe them. In a few days I'll try for the second cache at the tomb, which will be difficult. Perhaps by then I shall see my way. Alsublieft, God. Show me my way, as You've always done - please.
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