Subj: The Diary Of Victor North Pt.11
Date: 5/9/99 12:46:42 PM Central Daylight Time
From: marcos1

The early morning light peeked through the windows of cast iron bars. The dank air was rich with the smell of putrid, rotting flesh. This was a prison from which there was no escape, except through burning. Lucien LaCroix sat on a pile of dirt. He held his daughter in his arms. Her name was Victoria.

“Father,” Victoria said, “I can't believe that it can end like this. You were his counselor, his greatest advocate, his friend.” Her face was bruised and bleeding. The guards had made her night a living hell, taking turns at tormenting and abusing her. It was a tradition in the dungeons of Victor North, ugly and brutal men, having their way with beauty.

“He is reacting only to fear,” LaCroix said, “it is the great deceiver of well-meaning men. He thinks that I'm embracing his enemy, Angelique, that I'm one of her confederates.”

“But how can he doubt you?” Victoria sobbed. Outside the sound of a crowd, laughing with the joy of celebration, a burning being a favorite avocation of the poor. The guards were piling the dry grass high, nailing boards to create a cross, creating a pyre for the two traitors.

LaCroix stroked his daughter's brown hair. Thinking about how beautiful she was. Twenty years ago, he had found her on the door step. It was the beginning of the cold season. The ground all covered with frost. He had named her Winters...Victoria Winters. He loved her, like she was of his own blood. “The rose bears a point so sharp, gentle creatures put forth a horn, while Victoria-her skin of ashen hue-shall in my love delight, not point so sharp, not horn, shall stain her beauties incandescent glow.”

“Hold your horses,” a voice called from the corner. “I wouldn't be in such a hurry to die. Life is good. Life is fine.”

LaCroix stood quickly. He walked over to the corner, kicking at the hay, uncovering a young man. The guards had apparently deposited another prisoner during the night. The young man had fair hair, dressed in animal skins, like the peasants.

“My name is Willie Loomis,” he said, reaching forth his hand, “how are ya doing?”

LaCroix slapped his face. “How dare you play the fool with me. This is to be the day of our death. Do you seek to sweeten the taste of bitter tears with a jest?”

“But that's just it,” Willie said, “you don't have to die. There is a way...”

LaCroix grabbed him by the neck. “Then speak with haste, before I break your neck.”

Moments later, LaCroix and Victoria watched as Willie drew on the stone wall. He used a soft stone to sketch the outline of a great bird. It was a raven. A bird of ill omen. But this bird was colored white, with wings of great scope. Willie moved his hands across the drawing. His hands glowed with blue light. He turned and smiled at LaCroix and Victoria.

“What foolishness is this?” LaCroix asked. Enraged he moved towards Loomis. But then there was a great rumbling. The sound of rocks being pulled apart. There was a great burst of light as sunlight broke through the prison walls. The bird was white, with wings a dozen feet across. It had broken down the walls. Its wings flapping.

“Shall we escape?” Willie asked, climbing onto the great white wings of the raven. LaCroix and Victoria mounted the great feathered arm. Willie laughed, “funny thing, when old Willie draws something. It becomes real. Don't know why...just does.” The three prisoners soared into the air. The crowd below hardly dared to breath, for none had ever seen a white raven of such size and grandeur. It was a creature created by magic. They were enchanted by its mere presence. The prisoners escaped into the blue sky, visible for a moment, and then they vanished.

To be continued—