“the Still, Small Voice”, 3/5

[aadler]

 
Third installment



(Part 2 here)

Part III

Travers looked to Nolan. “Well,” he said. “More brandy?”

“It’s excellent, but no,” Nolan told him. “If there’s any coffee left, I’ll take some of that.”

They sat at the table, sipping their respective drinks and regarding one another with … not companionship, really, more an awareness of long acquaintance that offered at least the comfort of familiarity.

“I’m glad to have you here, Patrick,” Travers said at last. “Even apart from the value of your efforts in this endeavor, I’m always happy for further opportunity to enjoy your company.”

The enjoyment was strictly one-sided, but there was nothing to be gained by saying that aloud. “Thank you. But while we wait, I have a few questions.”

Travers’ lips twitched. “Beyond even the exhaustive interrogation to which you and Robert just subjected me? Tedious, I fear, but hardly surprising. Very well, what is it you wish to know?”

“First of all,” Nolan said, “how much did you leave out of your little addendum to his oral history recitation?”

Travers nodded, as if he had expected this. “Small things, not truly relevant to our task, but it would have been discourteous for me to bring them up at that point. Especially given that you were on hand as witness.”

Nolan wasn’t having it. “For instance —?”

“To begin with, these events took place some twenty-odd miles from present-day Kirkcolm, in Dumphries and Galloway — a respectable area with its own honorable history, but lacking the romance of the Highlands — at the site of a monastery in the process of being built; it was the retreat to this holy ground, rather than a churchyard, that provided sanctuary for the besieged defenders. In addition, the workers at the monastery were being protected by a small party of soldiers, there also to guard a crew of minor criminals who had been pressed into service to aid the construction; this mixed group were the men fighting the demon horde, so I’m afraid we’ve lost the proud clan warriors as well. To continue, the invading force was made up of a few dozen demons; a bandit band, rather than an army, though the triumph of unprepared humans over such a number of supernatural opponents truly does count as one of the greatest victories in all the histories we’ve compiled. Then, there is some evidence to suggest that the reversion to humanity wasn’t automatic, that the Qart‘arafiim chose it because, with their overlord dead, they could no longer survive in their demon form.” Travers allowed himself a smile of some satisfaction. “And, finally, some of the monks joined with the other men in taking the new-formed women to wife, dedicating themselves to a different form of service; so, my friend Robert is descended not only from conscripts, convicts, and common laborers, but also from Catholic clergy. I wouldn’t wish to discomfit him with that information.”

Nolan considered it. “And why did all the hybrid demons turn into women? Why no males?”

“Yes, that would seem to be a thin spot in the story, wouldn’t it?” Travers eyed the level of brandy still in his glass, and apparently decided to let it remain for the moment. “Actually, however, it’s quite true. The Qart‘arafiim were always female. That was the way their overlords had once fielded armies, each ‘soldier’ serving as a brood mare for the production of yet more. That would also, I think, suggest why they should so readily swear obedience to the men who had conquered them; subservience was part of their nature, at least originally.”

From the delivery of the answers, Nolan felt that Travers was sincere both in his amusement and in his desire to spare Maclay from embarrassment. Satisfied, he said, “Okay, I suppose that’s acceptable. On to the next thing, though. It’s suspiciously convenient that you and I should both be here, in Maclay’s general area, at exactly the time when he needed help, and that he knew it. You knew where to find me, though I certainly haven’t kept you posted as to my schedule; is there any reason I shouldn’t believe you somehow arranged this whole business, for purposes of your own?”

This time Travers upgraded from a smile to a chuckle. “I did arrange it, Patrick, as quickly and thoroughly as I could under the circumstances. But, no, the situation itself unfolded without my contrivance. Robert didn’t call me because he knew I was nearby; he called me when, trying to locate his niece and persuade her to return home, he discovered indications that she had degenerated into demon form. You have seen that his sense of responsibility is quite strong; his intent was that, if he couldn’t find and capture the creature by his own efforts, I would have a team sent to imprison or kill it before it could harm anyone else.” He shook his head. “I was at the airport in Baltimore when the call was routed to me — Council business, the details needn’t concern you — so he was fortunate in that I was able to reach him quickly to help in his pursuit; and we were both fortunate that I had kept abreast of your movements, so that you, too, could join us in this enterprise.”

Nolan was nodding; again, Travers’ explanation carried the ring of truth. “You can’t blame me for wondering, you know. You never denied that it was your machinations that got me sent to Sunnydale in the first place.”

“You wouldn’t have believed me,” Travers said. This time he finished the brandy, went to replenish his glass, and returned to the table. “And it didn’t matter that you knew. Your devotion to your calling wouldn’t allow you to avoid acting on the things you saw there; and your preparatory studies toward becoming a Watcher, before you decided the priesthood was your true vocation, made you eminently qualified to recognize what was taking place. I maneuvered you to where you could make the best use of your abilities, and not coincidentally be of service to a cause that we agree to be important. That was hardly a burden.”

No, the unwelcome part had been the knowledge that Travers would have enjoyed putting him in a position where his obligations had him reporting just as much to the Council of Watchers as to the holy mother church. “That covers the main things that had me wondering,” Nolan said; then he fixed Travers with a sharp look and said, “On the other hand, there’s never been a time when you haven’t operated on several levels at once. You may have called me exactly as you said, for exactly the reasons you said … but did you, maybe, have some other reason for getting me here?”

“Suspicion has become habitual for you,” Travers murmured. “A healthy attitude, for one in your situation, but in this case unwarranted. A man may recognize an unexpected opportunity, and wish to use it to best advantage, without in any way having a hidden agenda.”

“Right,” Nolan said. “Like I said, you want something. Just tell me what.”

“Perspective, perhaps.” Travers set down his drink. “You’ve had occasion to observe certain things and to form certain opinions, and your periodic reports, however grudging, have proven quite astute and quite valuable. I have a matter before me which requires delicate handling, and may require a decision very soon. I believe I can address the situation more knowledgeably with the benefit of your insights. Whether or not you believe it, I genuinely hope this won’t be too great an imposition.”

Nolan sighed. “I’ll help if I can, you knew that before you asked. It’s the same as always with us: however much we may disagree in the particulars, we’re still basically on the same side.”

“Yes. Yes, indeed. I rely always on your sense of fairness and your appreciation of our common purpose.” Travers folded his hands together. “So. The issue facing me is far from simple, but it can be quite simply stated: what are we to do with Willow Rosenberg?”

The answer was instant. “Why, kill her, of course,” Nolan said. “Kill her immediately.”

*               *               *

Travers regarded Nolan with an expression carefully schooled to reveal none of the thoughts the priest could see whirling behind it. “You astonish me, Patrick,” he said at last.

“Why?” Nolan asked him. “You had to know that was one of the possibilities.”

“True, but I had expected you to reach that conclusion reluctantly, if at all. For it to be your first response …” Travers took another swallow of the brandy, his unhurried motions giving him time to choose his next words. “My position and responsibilities frequently require a fair degree of ruthlessness; yours, by contrast, deal primarily with forgiveness and redemption. Thus my surprise.”

“It isn’t a matter of redemption,” Nolan said. “As regards her soul, I pray for her as for anyone else, in the full faith that God will watch over her according to His own designs. No, this is purely practical. She’s dangerous, and has to be stopped.”

Travers nodded. “You’re not the only one making that argument. She is currently in our care … at a discreet remove, of course, putatively Rupert Giles is serving as her guardian and counselor, but she is being sharply watched.” He pressed the fingertips of his hands together, studying Nolan with a small frown. “Giles insists she is truly remorseful, and all signs indicate that to be the case. You will, naturally, be aware of these things.”

Nolan settled into his chair with a sigh; he had put considerable thought into these matters, and knew that steering Travers to the proper conclusion would take time and care. “Remorse is relative,” he said. “And if you must know, I’m not really sure Rupert Giles is the best judge of such things.”

“His judgment was instrumental in turning her from the destructive course upon which she had embarked,” Travers pointed out reasonably.

Nolan shook it away. “That same judgment left her in Sunnydale, unwatched and unsupervised — and unreported, too, wasn’t it? yes, I thought so — after he knew the kind of things she had begun to do, the attitudes she had begun to develop. They’re different people, with very different views of control and responsibility, but they have a common blindness.”

“Ah,” Travers said. “And that would be —?”

“I can’t sum it up with a tidy label,” Nolan said. “But I’m sure it won’t surprise you that I see this blindness as pertaining to faith.”

Travers quirked a smile. “No, it doesn’t. But I don’t discount your opinions simply because I don’t share all your beliefs. Please, go on.”

“All right,” Nolan said. “Before anything else, let’s be clear: I don’t question for a moment that Rupert Giles is a genuinely good man. You’re lucky to have him; for that matter, the whole world is lucky that you sent him to Sunnydale when you did. The problem is that …” Nolan stopped, shook his head, started over. “What you said when you were explaining the attitude behind the prudent application of magical practices, about treating those forces as respectfully but impersonally as you would treat electricity or pharmaceuticals … Giles applies that to everything.”

Travers nodded approval. “As well he should.”

“No, he shouldn’t. His attitude isn’t objective, it’s a deliberate denial of observable reality. It’s more than irrational; in the world where he operates, it’s tantamount to insanity.” Travers’ perplexity was obvious, and Nolan went on impatiently. “He’s a committed agnostic. How can a man who knows the truth about Sunnydale be agnostic?”

“Force of character?” Travers offered cordially.

“This isn’t a joke.” Nolan stood and began to pace in the small kitchen. “As someone who was once being prepared to serve as a Watcher, I have some idea how you train your people for field work, and I won’t say there’s no value to it, but sooner or later a rational man should reach a stopping point. Giles passed that point long ago, apparently without noticing it.” Nolan turned to look at the other man. “Six years. For almost six years he came to me regularly for holy water and blessed crucifixes; yes, I knew you sent him to me, just as I knew you pulled strings to see I wound up in Sunnydale. He treated me with unfailing courtesy, he never denigrated my beliefs, but it was always clear that he had no such beliefs of his own. He came to me for holy objects strictly for their practical value … and it never seemed to cross his mind that they would have no value unless there was real power behind them.”

At last, he could see, he had put it in terms that Travers could recognize. Nolan sat down again, and said, “He isn’t a stupid man. The only way he could have failed to see and wonder about these things is if he had in some way decided in advance not to see them. That’s why I say it isn’t objective, because he’s totally rejected the possibility without ever allowing himself to consider the facts.”

“Mm, yes, I take your point,” Travers said. “And you say the same point operates in Miss Rosenberg, and makes her, in your opinion, irredeemable?”

“Anyone can be redeemed,” Nolan corrected him. “True doctrine would tell me that even if I didn’t already believe it. I’m saying we can’t afford to gamble that she won’t obliterate all life on this planet before she reaches the point where she’s prepared to accept redemption.”

Travers was nodding as if hearing confirmation of something he had already half-known. “She is truly so dangerous, then? Her repentance so shallow?”

“I don’t doubt that the repentance is real, but yes, it’s shallow.” Nolan sat back wearily. “She has no moral foundation for it to take root in. It’s all emotional, no substance to it.”

“Ah, yes,” Travers said. “The blindness you said she shared with Giles. Yet you judge him far less harshly, I note.”

“Yes, I do,” Nolan agreed. “For all his obstinate godlessness, Giles has dedicated his life to something greater than himself, while Willow Rosenberg has yet to recognize any authority greater than her own desires. He uses mystical forces infrequently, carefully, with watchful recognition of their potential dangers; she uses them frivolously, impulsively, with no sense of responsibility for the weight of what she’s wielding. He places hard-and-fast limits on himself when he calls forth such power … but she does it to break limits, to free herself from all the things that used to bind her. He uses magic as a tool; she uses it to substitute for something missing in herself. He binds himself to a higher law, even if he refuses to recognize the source of that law; she only allows herself to be bound by her own conscience, and in her case that’s a pretty flimsy restraint.”

“Mm, yes, conscience,” Travers observed. “ ‘That still, small voice that says someone might be watching.’ Shaw, do you think, or perhaps Wilde? The source escapes me.”

“I’ve heard the quote, but I don’t know, either,” Nolan said. “In a way, though, you just reinforced the point I’ve been trying to make.”

“Indeed?” Travers studied him, his expression genial and inscrutable. “How so?”

“That term, ‘still, small voice’,” Nolan clarified. “It comes from the Old Testament: first book of Kings, I think chapter 19 or 20. Elijah was on a mountain, waiting for God to make himself known. There was a wind powerful enough to split the rocks, but God wasn’t in the wind; then there was an earthquake, but God wasn’t in the earthquake; then there was a fire, but God wasn’t in the fire. Then there was a still, small voice — the New International version translates it as a gentle whisper — and Elijah stood up and went out to speak with God.”

Nolan looked to Travers. “That ‘still, small voice’, the very idea of conscience, used to be thought of as God speaking to us in the depths of our heart. When exactly did it come to be seen as coming from us? and how did that become another way of shutting ourselves away from God, denying or even refusing to think about the possibility of his existence? Willow Rosenberg, when she consults her conscience — assuming she still does — is looking back into herself, not outward in search of something beyond herself. In those terms, conscience just means what feels right; or, in other words, what she really really wants to do at any given moment. As long as she’s stuck in that self-referential circle, she’ll never be safe. Never.”

Travers was silent for a long time, his glass untouched. “I am told she acted in response to enormous trauma,” he murmured at last. “It seems unlikely that she could ever again be taken so … off-guard, by such shattering grief.”

“You’re probably right,” Nolan said. “I just don’t think we can disregard the results. We’ve all felt grief, but she responded to it by methodically murdering two men.”

“There’s that, yes,” Travers acknowledged. “Not that they were themselves entirely without guilt.”

“She didn’t kill them because they deserved it,” Nolan said. “She killed one for gain, and the other for pleasure. Then she tried to kill two more simply for having been involved with one of the guilty parties. Then she tried to kill her closest friends. Then she tried to kill the world.”

“The same world she several times helped to save,” Travers pointed out.

“Yes, well,” Nolan said. “That makes it okay, then, doesn’t it?”

Another lengthy silence. “You are … a harsh judge, Patrick,” Travers observed. “I had expected you to advocate mercy, restraint, in our dealing with Miss Rosenberg. It is disconcerting, and in no small measure unsettling, to hear you counsel precisely the opposite. You are adamant in this?”

“It isn’t my decision,” Nolan said. “If it were, I would order her execution, and then spend weeks praying that I had done the right thing. I’ll pray anyhow, just for having told you what I have. Not that I actually expect you to pay much attention to my warning.”

Travers tilted one eyebrow. “No?” he said.

“No. You operate out of that Watchers’ pragmatism. Willow Rosenberg has power, and you can’t help wanting to harness that power for your own uses, and you wonder if it’s worth the risk. I knew when you first posed the question that you weren’t asking what was right, you were trying to decide what was practical.”

“Indeed?” Travers shook his head. “And yet you stated at the outset that your recommendation was, in your own words, purely practical.”

“In this case, practicality and morality aren’t in conflict,” Nolan answered. “She may not think of it in those terms, but Willow Rosenberg sold her soul for power, no less because the demons she submitted to were her own. Justice says that she merits punishment — for murder, not just for sorcery — and self-interest says she should be prevented from doing further harm. Against which, we have the prospect of you acquiring a useful puppet. To you it may seem worth it; I’m telling you it’s not.”

“Yes, well,” Travers said. “I was aware you considered me more devoted to worldly works than to moral rectitude, Patrick, but I hadn’t realized just how cynical you believed me to be. You have argued long and earnestly, and despite what you have said you expect, I will take your advice into careful account. Will you give equal consideration to my own reasoning?”

“My beliefs will always influence my judgments,” Nolan said. “I can’t change that, and I wouldn’t want to. But I’ll hear you out as fairly as I can.”

“I shan’t attempt to duplicate the length and detail of your presentation,” Travers said. “Briefly, in counter to the issues you have raised, I have four.

“First, the two men she killed were far from innocent; this world is a markedly better place without them. She may have had murder in her heart, but the actual result was one which could have been legitimately carried out by some of our own extreme action teams: the same teams, I might add, that will be tasked to eliminate Miss Rosenberg if I choose to follow your recommendation. This tempers my condemnation of her.

“Second, the ‘inner demons’ that — by your testimony — she allowed to rule her, are exactly what she is now attempting to purge, overcome, and banish. You have no trust that she will succeed, but any decision must take into account that she might. It may be that decency requires that we allow her to make her best effort.

“Third, terminating her would not be an isolated event; her long affiliation with the Slayer would attach substantial repercussions to such a course of action. The risks generated by her death might well exceed those consequent to her continued life, and I must weigh that possibility.

“Fourth, Miss Rosenberg’s friends — the Slayer and those surrounding her — have the faith in her that you and I lack. This might be dismissed as misplaced loyalty, and I honestly am inclined to do so, but they have shown an uncomfortable tendency to be correct in matters where all reason and past experience would predict otherwise. It would not, I think, be wise for us to forget or discount that history.

“I am not rejecting your counsel out of hand. I asked for it because I value it. It is, however, not the only thing I am compelled by duty to consider. I hope you will believe me in this, and accept that I will make my best effort.”

Nolan sighed. “I believe you. I can see which way you’re trending, but I suppose you really will try to make a fair decision.” He leaned forward across the table. “I’ll just say this much: with her, it’s all or nothing. Either kill her, or let her go. Don’t, don’t try to control her. That would be the surest recipe for disaster.”

“Mm.” Travers frowned. “Perhaps. Yes, perhaps.” He sat thoughtfully silent for several minutes; then, glancing at Nolan’s empty cup, he asked, “Would you like more coffee?”

“Yes, thank you,” Nolan said. “And, um … splash in a little of that brandy, would you?”

The senior Watcher chuckled, and moved to comply. Then, their drinks replenished, the two men waited without further conversation until it was time for Maclay to be relieved.

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