“Chosen?” I repeated the word but its significance
was meaningless to me. “Chosen for what purpose?”
“Chosen as a vessel, as it were. A vessel containing
reanimation, rejuvenation.” Though my expression was
vacant, he could tell that I did not understand. He brushed
away my tears with the back of his hand. The touch was
delicate and reassuring.
“When we first met in the study, my situation was
desperate” he said. “I was very near death.”
I thought of the palsy in his hands, the arthritic
curve of his fingers, the overall frailty of physique
disguised by clothing of an ancient and formal design.
“You could sense that I'm sure” he continued. “Or
at least detect the gravity of my condition. This state
befalls me at regular intervals of twenty years. My existence
has been prolonged now for the past one hundred years by
the process in which you have just participated.” The back
of his hand caressed my cheek then withdrew.
“Then we did meet in the study” I mumbled.
“That was not a dream.” The state of continuous slumber
in which I had existed for the past days made it difficult to
distinguish reality from fantasy. “We did meet. The servant
girl does exist. I didn't imagine her.”
“Imagination is a marvelous thing” Wertenberg
replied. “The inventions of our subconscious thought can
project anxiety, desire, longing, buried emotions of which
we are unaware or perhaps suppress in our waking
moments. Perhaps there is a woman. You may know her,
you may not. In dreams, you find what you most want or
fear”.
20