perceive why this is so. But once we come into our life, the expression of that love … changes, as well. We hunger for life, Mister Tree. And that is the one thing we cannot offer one another.”
“Oh, shit,” James burst out. “I don’t know how much of this I can listen to.”
Saint-Germain’s manner became more steely. “You will listen to it all, Mister Tree, or you will come to regret it.” He waited until James settled back into the chair once again. “As I have told you,” he resumed in the same even tone, “you will have to learn to seek out those who will respond to … what you can offer. For we do offer a great deal to those we love, Mister Tree. You know how profoundly intimate your love is for Madelaine. That is what you will have to learn to give to others if you are to survive.”
“Life through sex?” James scoffed feebly. “Freud would love it.”
Though Saint-Germain’s fine brows flicked together in annoyance, he went on with hardly a pause. “Yes, through, if you take that to mean a route. Sex is not what you must strive for, but true intimacy. Sex is often a means to avoid intimacy—hardly more than the scratching of an itch. But when the act is truly intimate, there is no more intense experience, and that, Mister Tree, is what you must achieve.” He cocked his head to the side. “Tell me: when you were with Madelaine, how did you feel?”
The skepticism went out of James’ eyes and his face softened. “I wish I could tell you. I can’t begin to express it. No one else ever …”
“Yes,” Saint-Germain agreed rather sadly. “You will do well to remember it, in future.”
On the hearth one of the logs crackled and burst, filling the room with the heavy scent of pine resin. A cascade of sparks flew onto the stone flooring and died as they landed.
James swallowed and turned away from Saint-Germain. He wanted to find a rational, logical objection to throw back at the black-clad man, to dispel the dread that was filling him, the gnawing certainty that he was being told the truth. “I don’t believe it,” he whispered.
Saint-Germain had seen this shock so many times that he was no longer distressed by it, but merely saddened. He approached James and looked down at him. “You will have to accept it, Mister Tree, or you will have to die the true death. Madelaine would mourn for you terribly, if you did that.”
“‘Die the true death.’” James bit his lower lip. “How …”
“Anything that destroys the nervous system destroys us: fire, crushing, beheading, or the traditional stake through the heart, for that matter, which breaks the spine. If you choose to die, there are many ways to do it.” He said it matter-of-factly enough, but there was something at the back of his eyes that made James wonder how many times Saint-Germain had found himself regretting losses of those who had not learned to live as he claimed they must.
“And drowning? Isn’t water supposed to …” James was amazed to hear his own question. He had tried to keep from giving the man any credence, and now he was reacting as if everything he heard was sensible.
“You will learn to line the heels and soles of your shoes with your native earth, and will cross water, walk in sunlight, in fact live a fairly normal life. We are creatures of the earth, Mister Tree. That which interrupts our contact with it is debilitating. Water is the worst, of course, but flying in an airplane is … unnerving.” He had traveled by air several times, but had not been able to forget the huge distance between him and the treasured earth. “It will be more and more the way we travel—Madelaine says that she had got used to it but does not enjoy it—but I must be old-fashioned; I don’t like it. Although it is preferable to sailing, for brevity if nothing else.”
“You make it sound so mundane,” James said in the silence that fell. That alone was persuading him, and for that reason, he tried to mock it.
“Most of life is mundane, even our life.” He smiled, and for the first time there was warmth in it. “We are not excused from the obligations of living, unless we live as total outcasts. Some of us have, but such tactics are … unrewarding.”
“Maybe not death, but taxes?” James suggested with an