Anne Rice
 Lasher
  
  
  
  
  
  
  One
  
  IN THE beginning was the voice of Father.
  
  "Emaleth!" whispering close to her mother's belly while her mother slept. And then 
singing to her, the long songs of the past. Songs of the Glen of Donnelaith and of the 
castle, and of where they would sometime come together, and how she would be born knowing 
all that Father knew. It is our way, he said to her in the fast language, which others 
could not understand.
  
  To others it sounded like humming, or whistling. It was their secret tongue, for they 
could hear syllables which ran too fast for the others to grasp. They could sing out to 
each other. Emaleth could almost do it, almost speak "Emaleth, my darling, Emaleth, my 
daughter, Emaleth, my mate." Father was waiting for her. She had to grow fast and grow 
strong for Father. When the time came, Mother had to help her. She had to drink Mother's 
milk.
  
  Mother slept. Mother cried. Mother dreamed. Mother was sick.  And when Father and 
Mother quarreled, the world trembled. Emaleth knew dread.

  But Father always came after, singing to her, reminding her that the words of his song 
were too rapid for Mother to comprehend. The melody made Emaleth feel as if the tiny 
round world in which she lived had expanded and she was floating in a place without 
limits, pushed hither and thither by Father's song.
  
  Father said poetry which was beautiful, especially words that rhyme. Rhymes made a 
thrill pass through Emaleth. She stretched her legs and her arms, and turned her head 
this way and that, it felt so good, the rhymes.
  
  Mother didn't talk to Emaleth. Mother wasn't supposed to know that Emaleth was there. 
Emaleth was tiny, said Father, but perfectly formed. Emaleth already had her long hair.
  
  But when Mother talked, Emaleth understood her; when Mother wrote, Emaleth saw the 
words. Emaleth heard Mother's frequent whisper. She knew that Mother was afraid. 
Sometimes she saw Mother's dreams. She saw the face of Michael. She saw fighting. She saw 
Father's face as Mother saw it and it made Mother sad.
  
  Father loved Mother, but Mother made him fiercely angry, and when he struck Mother, 
Mother suffered, even falling, and Emaleth screamed, or tried to scream. But Father 
always came after, while Mother slept, and said Emaleth must not fear. That they would 
come together in the circle of stones at Donnelaith, and then he told stories to her of 
the old days, when all the beautiful ones had lived on an island, and it was Paradise, 
before the others and the little people had come.
  
  Sad and sorrowful the weakness of humans and the tragedy of the little people, and is 
it not better that all be driven from the Earth?
  
  "I tell you the things I know now. And things that were told to me," he said. And 
Emaleth saw the circle of stones, and the tall figure of Father as he was now, strumming 
the strings of the harp. Everyone was dancing. She saw the little people hiding in the 
shadows, spiteful and angry. She did not like them, she did not want them to steal down 
into the town. They loathe us instinctively, said Father, of the little people.
  
  How can they not? But they do not matter now. They are only a lingering from dreams 
which failed to come true.
  
  Now is the hour. The hour for Emaleth and Father.
  
  She saw Father in the old days, with his arms outstretched. This was Christmas and the 
glen was filled with snow. The Scots pines were close. Hymns rose from the people. 
Emaleth loved the rise and fall of the voices. There was so much she must see and learn 
later on.
  
  "If we are separated, my beloved, come to the glen at Donnelaith.  You can find it. You 
can do this. People are searching for Mother, people who would divide us. But remember, 
you will be born into this world knowing all you need to know. Now can you answer me?"
  
  Emaleth tried but she could not.
  
  "Taltos," he said, and kissed Mother's belly, "I hear you, darling, I love you." And 
while Mother slept Emaleth was happy, because when Mother woke, Mother would cry.
  
  "You think I wouldn't kill him in an instant?" Father said to Mother. They were 
fighting about Michael. "I would kill him just like that. You leave me, and what makes 
you think that won't happen?"
  
  Emaleth saw this person, Michael, whom Mother loved and Father did not. Michael lived 
in New Orleans in a great house. Father wanted to go back to the great house. He wanted 
to possess it, it was his house, and it made him deeply angry that Michael was there. But 
he knew he must bide his time. Emaleth had to come to him, tall and strong. There had to 
be the Beginning. He wanted them to come together in the Glen of Donnelaith. Beginning 
was everything. There was nothing if there was no beginning.
  
  Prosper, my daughter.
  
  Taltos.
  
  No one lived in Donnelaith anymore. But they would live there - Father and Emaleth and 
their children. Hundreds of children. It would become the shrine of the Beginning. "Our 
Bethlehem," he whispered to her. And that would be the beginning of all time.
  
  It was dark. Mother cried against the pillow, Michael, Michael, Michael.