conversations with Archdeacon Odenrick and other thinking individuals. The archetypes are symbols. They have no living stuffed animals as prototypes, nor have I tried to caricature any of them.
First up is the Dictator. He is evil in theory, never in practice. He is intellectual and driven by conceit and self-interest. The Dictator strives for power, sometimes even as a goal in itself. More often, however, power is a means to attain other purposes. It might be a matter of securing the most favorable parking place in the garage at work. Or filling a secret bank account to the bursting point. Large things as well as small. The Dictator archetype dwells in all too many of us. He might be the neighbor who has just been named department head. She might be our mayor who’s going to run for yet another term.
I’m not saying that it is like that. It might be like that.
The Dictator might very well have lived his entire life without a single evil intention. It is only at second or third hand that his decisions and actions result in evil.
The Dictator is the general in the army.
The Dictator is the theoretician behind the sect.
The Dictator is the philosopher behind the -ism.
The Dictator is the first tile in the game of dominoes.
The Dictator is the origin, not the intention.
The Dictator never lowers his gaze so low that he needs to see or take a position on the consequences of his self-justifying plans.
The second archetype that I’ve defined is the Sadist.
The Sadist is a stuffed animal who spiritually and intellectually knows that what he strives for is wrong. Yet he can’t resist. The actions of the Sadist have a single purpose. He is out to get satisfaction. He lives in, and for, his feelings.
The Sadist might be the bitter taxi driver who by accentuating his unsuccessful life—for example, by placing a diploma in sailing clearly visible up by the steering wheel—is out to implant guilt in his passengers.
The Sadist is the torturer in the wars of distant times.
The Sadist’s intention is not evil. Even if the Sadist has an emotional disturbance, he is intellectually and spiritually exactly like you and me.
The third and final archetype is the one which is most uncommon.
Yet he is the most-often referred to and feared.
I know why. What I call the Psychopath is the person who is seen as the most evil of the three. Nothing frightens us more than the kinds of things we don’t understand. No one knows the behavior of the Psychopath. There are theories, but no answers. The Psychopath suffers from a spiritual defect. He can be rational at times, but it’s impossible to say when or why. On one occasion he’s filled with empathy, the next time emotionally shut off. He is unpredictable.
The Psychopath is a kind grandmother who secretly captures and kills butterflies.
The Psychopath is the office rat who gnaws himself on the legs at night.
The Psychopath is the mass murderer we read about in the newspapers and who pursues us in our nightmares.
The Psychopath isn’t evil, either.
The Psychopath is sick.
It took a while before I’d gathered enough courage to follow Eric when he sneaked out through the window. By then we’d finished our elementary school studies, begun our high school education, and turned sixteen.
I surprised even myself.
Like many nights before that night, I heard the rustling of Eric’s bedclothes and woke up. The weather was past midnight. Eric stole across the floor. I was lying dead quiet. As usual I was in agony. But inside me there was suddenly a courage that had never been there before.
I don’t know what caused it.
I waited until he’d gotten out of the window, until it was silent. Then it was my turn to throw off my blanket and pull on my clothes, which were folded over the desk chair.
Then I crept out after him onto the roof.
He wasn’t easy to follow. I ran across the roofs that were Amberville’s shield against the rain. The light breeze burnished the sky smooth and black, the moon’s glow was reflected in thousands of glistening black roof tiles.
I tried to run as quietly as I could.
Beyond the muddle of Amberville’s rooftops, on the other side of Western Avenue, I could see the lights from Tourquai. Some of the façades of the stately skyscrapers were illuminated. Along with the lights down in the street, that light was my salvation.
At regular intervals I caught sight of Eric farther ahead, a blur of motion behind a chimney.