(This is my favorite among my own stories. I'm sure you'll see why.)
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Jerome Huygens padded into the kitchen, his burden squirming feebly against his chest. The infant's eyes were closed. Its limbs moved sluggishly, as if the little body barely contained enough force to move them. He laid it down on the great oaken table, stood a moment looking down at it, pulled out a chair and sat.
This is the price of being first to rise.
His thoughts would not jell. He'd have liked to put it down to the hour, but he knew better.
Ordinarily, the kitchen was his favorite room. He loved the size and brightness of it, the warmth of its woods, the gleams from its porcelain and brass. He'd assumed the duties of house cook upon arriving three years earlier. With them came an authority over the kitchen that no one dared challenge. He had decreed order and perfect cleanliness here, and it was so. He decided what would be served, and when. Outside the kitchen, he got as good as he gave, but here his rule was absolute.
They'll certainly have something to say about this.
"Jerome?" Felix LaMontaigne stared at him from the archway. "What is it?" LaMontaigne's voice was early-morning soft.
"A foundling."
"From where?" LaMontaigne approached, plainly curious.
"The porch. Don't touch it!"
LaMontaigne jerked back the hand he'd extended toward the baby's pallid cheek.
"Why not? Are you afraid I'll infect it with something?" Hurt clouded LaMontaigne's moonlike face.
"Au contraire, mon frere." Huygens put forth his own hand. With his fingertips, he teased back the light blanket to expose the baby's neck.
LaMontaigne's eyes went wide.
"Bon Dieu."
"Still want to pet it, Felix?"
The stout little man put both hands to his mouth and fled from the kitchen.
Five minutes later all the house's occupants had crowded into the kitchen to gawk at the foundling and its discoverer.
"Jerome, how could you have done this thing?" Allard Boileau's voice was pure disbelief.
Huygens looked sideways at the gaunt septuagenarian. "Would you not have done it, Allard? It was lying on our porch, with naught but that miserable blanket for warmth and protection. Would you have left it there?"
"Who has done this?" Jacques Giverny whispered.
"Done what, Jacques? Made the child a vampire? We shall never know. Left it at our door? The same. Brought it into our house? I, Jacques. I did it." Huygens rose and stared down at his colleagues. "I arose before you all, as I always do. I donned my robe and went to the porch to check the post, as I always do. I saw the child lying motionless on the cement, covered by that blanket, so I picked it up. The blanket fell away from its neck and I saw the wounds, and I knew at once what I held. Nevertheless, I turned and entered the house, and brought it here where we all stand. Now will you have done with your astonishment and help me to consider what to do next?"
Huygens's gaze moved across the seven faces. They were filled with variations on embarrassment, shame, and mortal fear. No sound rose from them.
"What can we do?" Laurence Gottschalk's words were halting, tentative. "We cannot simply cast it into the streets. Yet surely we cannot have it among us."
"We have it among us now, Laurence. Where is the harm?"
"Jerome!"
"Do you propose that we take it to the convent, Laurence?"
"...no..."
"Then where? The Satanist coven in Melun? They'd be delighted, I'm certain of it. They'd have all manner of uses for an infant vampire. It chills my heart to contemplate the joy such a gift would bring them."
"Enough, Jerome." Allard Boileau's voice had gone hard. "You know that we cannot have it among us."
Huygens looked the old man full in the eyes.
"You shall not harm it."
"Jerome, it is a vampire. It is the enemy of everything that lives and breathes and walks in sunlight!"
"Is it, Allard? It is at most six weeks old. It weighs perhaps ten pounds. Do you fear it so?"
"I do." Dominic Bretigny stepped forward. "And you are a fool not to, Jerome. If you are not man enough to admit what we must do, there are enough of us that are."
Huygens took the Provencal by the lapels of his robe and slammed him against the doors of the pantry cabinet. The others gasped as Bretigny's back thudded against the birch.
"Do you fancy yourself with a hammer and a stake, Dominic? Have you done it before? No? Well, then you'll want practice. Perhaps before you assault a helpless child, you should try your mettle against me. You'll have to."
"Enough!"
Boileau thrust his arms between the two and forced them apart.
"This is unseemly. This whole affair is unseemly. Dominic, you shall not hurt the child." The old man turned to Huygens. "It is Jerome's responsibility. Whatever is to be done, Jerome shall do it."
Huygens's mouth dropped open.
"You brought it here, Jerome. To your demesne, the kitchen, where all rules and decisions are yours. So long as the child remains here, this one shall be yours as well. But if it should leave this room, I will take it in hand."
"Will you, Allard?" Huygens had begun to shake from rage. "Would you strike me down to do it?"
The old man's eyes narrowed. "Would you force me to do so?"
"I will take this child," Huygens said, straining to keep his voice steady, "to my room, and I will make a place for it there. I will see to its care, and to its feeding. It cannot feed itself, and you know that vampires neither age nor grow. Will you prevent me, Allard? Will you raise your hand against me?" He swept his eyes over the others. "Will the lot of you raise your hands to strike me down, for fear of a babe that cannot even turn over without assistance?"
"Jerome, it feeds on blood."
"I know."
The silence had the weight of a lead cloth.
Boileau tore his eyes from Huygens and addressed the others. "You all have tasks. See to them. Breakfast will be at eight. Leave us in peace."
Feet shuffled, a voice muttered, "Mon Dieu," and presently the old man and the young one were alone with the foundling.
"How did this come to pass, I wonder?"
Huygens' gaze remained on the child. "Does it matter, Allard? Perhaps the mother found it this way, and could not bring herself to destroy it but feared to keep it. Or perhaps the mother was a vampire, and succumbed to a bloodlust she could not control, then left it here to mock us. We have no idea how long it has been... what it is."
"It is already dead, Jerome. Its soul is long gone. Why perpetuate the unnatural life of this body, when the soul has departed?"
"How certain of that are you, Allard? We have nothing but conjecture to guide us in this."
The old man's jaw tightened. "We know they feed on the likes of us."
Huygens nodded. "As we feed on the beasts of the field. For we consider them less than us, and the relationship to be a proper one."
Boileau could scarcely credit his ears. "Do you set them above us, then?"
"No, Allard. But I'm sure they do."
The child's eyes popped open. It began to cry softly.
Huygens glanced at Boileau, rose and fetched a saucer and a small sharp knife.
A nick at the base of Huygens's thumb and a steady pressure put an ounce of blood into the saucer in less than a minute. He wadded a dishcloth against the wound and put the saucer to the baby's lips. It drank with relish.
"Every day, Jerome," Boileau whispered. "Every day for the rest of your life."
"There are other sources of blood." Huygens grinned. "Perhaps one or two of the others can be persuaded to contribute."
"Jerome!"
"Relax, Allard. I will find a way."
The older man opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. He waited until the baby had emptied the saucer.
"Why, Jerome? You have always been headstrong. From the day you arrived, I knew trouble would attach itself to you. I thought I had made ready to deal with it, but I never expected this."
The grin vanished from Huygens's face.
"How strange that you must ask, Allard. Are we not priests of the same Christ? The one who said, 'Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not' ?"
Boileau's heart clenched, and he nodded.
The younger man rose from the table and looked down at his new ward. "Allard, I have the Mass at the convent this morning. Would you watch over the baby until I return?"
It was an expression of trust for which the old priest was unprepared. He found that he could not refuse it.
"Of course."
Huygens passed a hand over the infant's wispy hair. It smiled and closed its eyes. Traces of red were visible at the corners of its mouth.
"Take it to my room. Be sure to keep the blinds drawn."
"Jerome..." Boileau swallowed and tried to calm himself. The bridge he was about to cross would surely crumble behind him. "Have you thought about a name?"
The young priest turned to him in obvious surprise.
"No. I don't even know its sex."
"Well..."
Huygens's grin returned. "I'll leave that honor to you, my pastor." He tossed the bloodstained dishtowel at the sink, then mounted the stairs to don his cassock and begin his day in the service of God.
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Jerome Huygens padded into the kitchen, his burden squirming feebly against his chest. The infant's eyes were closed. Its limbs moved sluggishly, as if the little body barely contained enough force to move them. He laid it down on the great oaken table, stood a moment looking down at it, pulled out a chair and sat.
This is the price of being first to rise.
His thoughts would not jell. He'd have liked to put it down to the hour, but he knew better.
Ordinarily, the kitchen was his favorite room. He loved the size and brightness of it, the warmth of its woods, the gleams from its porcelain and brass. He'd assumed the duties of house cook upon arriving three years earlier. With them came an authority over the kitchen that no one dared challenge. He had decreed order and perfect cleanliness here, and it was so. He decided what would be served, and when. Outside the kitchen, he got as good as he gave, but here his rule was absolute.
They'll certainly have something to say about this.
"Jerome?" Felix LaMontaigne stared at him from the archway. "What is it?" LaMontaigne's voice was early-morning soft.
"A foundling."
"From where?" LaMontaigne approached, plainly curious.
"The porch. Don't touch it!"
LaMontaigne jerked back the hand he'd extended toward the baby's pallid cheek.
"Why not? Are you afraid I'll infect it with something?" Hurt clouded LaMontaigne's moonlike face.
"Au contraire, mon frere." Huygens put forth his own hand. With his fingertips, he teased back the light blanket to expose the baby's neck.
LaMontaigne's eyes went wide.
"Bon Dieu."
"Still want to pet it, Felix?"
The stout little man put both hands to his mouth and fled from the kitchen.
***
Five minutes later all the house's occupants had crowded into the kitchen to gawk at the foundling and its discoverer.
"Jerome, how could you have done this thing?" Allard Boileau's voice was pure disbelief.
Huygens looked sideways at the gaunt septuagenarian. "Would you not have done it, Allard? It was lying on our porch, with naught but that miserable blanket for warmth and protection. Would you have left it there?"
"Who has done this?" Jacques Giverny whispered.
"Done what, Jacques? Made the child a vampire? We shall never know. Left it at our door? The same. Brought it into our house? I, Jacques. I did it." Huygens rose and stared down at his colleagues. "I arose before you all, as I always do. I donned my robe and went to the porch to check the post, as I always do. I saw the child lying motionless on the cement, covered by that blanket, so I picked it up. The blanket fell away from its neck and I saw the wounds, and I knew at once what I held. Nevertheless, I turned and entered the house, and brought it here where we all stand. Now will you have done with your astonishment and help me to consider what to do next?"
Huygens's gaze moved across the seven faces. They were filled with variations on embarrassment, shame, and mortal fear. No sound rose from them.
"What can we do?" Laurence Gottschalk's words were halting, tentative. "We cannot simply cast it into the streets. Yet surely we cannot have it among us."
"We have it among us now, Laurence. Where is the harm?"
"Jerome!"
"Do you propose that we take it to the convent, Laurence?"
"...no..."
"Then where? The Satanist coven in Melun? They'd be delighted, I'm certain of it. They'd have all manner of uses for an infant vampire. It chills my heart to contemplate the joy such a gift would bring them."
"Enough, Jerome." Allard Boileau's voice had gone hard. "You know that we cannot have it among us."
Huygens looked the old man full in the eyes.
"You shall not harm it."
"Jerome, it is a vampire. It is the enemy of everything that lives and breathes and walks in sunlight!"
"Is it, Allard? It is at most six weeks old. It weighs perhaps ten pounds. Do you fear it so?"
"I do." Dominic Bretigny stepped forward. "And you are a fool not to, Jerome. If you are not man enough to admit what we must do, there are enough of us that are."
Huygens took the Provencal by the lapels of his robe and slammed him against the doors of the pantry cabinet. The others gasped as Bretigny's back thudded against the birch.
"Do you fancy yourself with a hammer and a stake, Dominic? Have you done it before? No? Well, then you'll want practice. Perhaps before you assault a helpless child, you should try your mettle against me. You'll have to."
"Enough!"
Boileau thrust his arms between the two and forced them apart.
"This is unseemly. This whole affair is unseemly. Dominic, you shall not hurt the child." The old man turned to Huygens. "It is Jerome's responsibility. Whatever is to be done, Jerome shall do it."
Huygens's mouth dropped open.
"You brought it here, Jerome. To your demesne, the kitchen, where all rules and decisions are yours. So long as the child remains here, this one shall be yours as well. But if it should leave this room, I will take it in hand."
"Will you, Allard?" Huygens had begun to shake from rage. "Would you strike me down to do it?"
The old man's eyes narrowed. "Would you force me to do so?"
"I will take this child," Huygens said, straining to keep his voice steady, "to my room, and I will make a place for it there. I will see to its care, and to its feeding. It cannot feed itself, and you know that vampires neither age nor grow. Will you prevent me, Allard? Will you raise your hand against me?" He swept his eyes over the others. "Will the lot of you raise your hands to strike me down, for fear of a babe that cannot even turn over without assistance?"
"Jerome, it feeds on blood."
"I know."
The silence had the weight of a lead cloth.
Boileau tore his eyes from Huygens and addressed the others. "You all have tasks. See to them. Breakfast will be at eight. Leave us in peace."
Feet shuffled, a voice muttered, "Mon Dieu," and presently the old man and the young one were alone with the foundling.
***
"How did this come to pass, I wonder?"
Huygens' gaze remained on the child. "Does it matter, Allard? Perhaps the mother found it this way, and could not bring herself to destroy it but feared to keep it. Or perhaps the mother was a vampire, and succumbed to a bloodlust she could not control, then left it here to mock us. We have no idea how long it has been... what it is."
"It is already dead, Jerome. Its soul is long gone. Why perpetuate the unnatural life of this body, when the soul has departed?"
"How certain of that are you, Allard? We have nothing but conjecture to guide us in this."
The old man's jaw tightened. "We know they feed on the likes of us."
Huygens nodded. "As we feed on the beasts of the field. For we consider them less than us, and the relationship to be a proper one."
Boileau could scarcely credit his ears. "Do you set them above us, then?"
"No, Allard. But I'm sure they do."
The child's eyes popped open. It began to cry softly.
Huygens glanced at Boileau, rose and fetched a saucer and a small sharp knife.
A nick at the base of Huygens's thumb and a steady pressure put an ounce of blood into the saucer in less than a minute. He wadded a dishcloth against the wound and put the saucer to the baby's lips. It drank with relish.
"Every day, Jerome," Boileau whispered. "Every day for the rest of your life."
"There are other sources of blood." Huygens grinned. "Perhaps one or two of the others can be persuaded to contribute."
"Jerome!"
"Relax, Allard. I will find a way."
The older man opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. He waited until the baby had emptied the saucer.
"Why, Jerome? You have always been headstrong. From the day you arrived, I knew trouble would attach itself to you. I thought I had made ready to deal with it, but I never expected this."
The grin vanished from Huygens's face.
"How strange that you must ask, Allard. Are we not priests of the same Christ? The one who said, 'Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not' ?"
Boileau's heart clenched, and he nodded.
The younger man rose from the table and looked down at his new ward. "Allard, I have the Mass at the convent this morning. Would you watch over the baby until I return?"
It was an expression of trust for which the old priest was unprepared. He found that he could not refuse it.
"Of course."
Huygens passed a hand over the infant's wispy hair. It smiled and closed its eyes. Traces of red were visible at the corners of its mouth.
"Take it to my room. Be sure to keep the blinds drawn."
"Jerome..." Boileau swallowed and tried to calm himself. The bridge he was about to cross would surely crumble behind him. "Have you thought about a name?"
The young priest turned to him in obvious surprise.
"No. I don't even know its sex."
"Well..."
Huygens's grin returned. "I'll leave that honor to you, my pastor." He tossed the bloodstained dishtowel at the sink, then mounted the stairs to don his cassock and begin his day in the service of God.
==<O>==
