Childhood's End
Kerry L. Schaefer
At the tender age of eleven, they cut open my scrotum and removed my testicles, so I have never truly known what it was like to be a man. I won't say the experience was an enjoyable one. Even now, some forty years later, I still relive it in an occasional nightmare. However, it was better than the alternative, and I was old enough to realize that. My other choice was death.
I was born in the Year of Our Lord 1530, on a small estate called Lindenheim, located not far from Oberammergau in the beautiful country at the northern edge of the Apennines. As the first-born and only son of a very minor nobleman, I passed my childhood fully expecting to follow in my father's footsteps. Granted, I wasn't much good at the manly arts even then, being slight and small in stature, and not particularly interested in the lessons that were required of me. I was most certainly not the apple of my father's eye, but I was his only heir, so he had to put up with me, despite my many imperfections.
As the dutiful son of my very religious mother, Mathilde, I spent much of my time in church, and was, in fact, quite comfortable there. The chanting, the ceremonies, the ornate garb of the priests, the majesty of the Mass, all this was far more interesting to me than slashing at other people with swords too big and heavy for my skinny arms. I learned Latin and Greek easily, finding my talent lay with words and language, not with bloodshed. At six years of age, I could already read and write with proficiency and skill.
At every opportunity, I escaped the confines of the dank manor house and wandered through the surrounding forest, often bringing books to study in a favorite meadow or a bit of food to eat. Sometimes I walked the faint trails left by deer, singing to myself, rehearsing my memory of the sacred chants and melodies I had heard in church. I swam in the cold water of a mountain stream, or merely sat listening to its song, as it raced over the rocks in the shallow places. Closer to the house, I admired the graceful shapes of the many linden trees that grew on our estate. It was from the abundance of these trees that Lindenheim had been named, so I felt an especial fondness for their rounded triangular shapes, pale green leaves, and slender trunks. The linden is at best a small tree, dwarfed by the larger trees in the wild forest. Smaller and more delicate, I fancied it to be all the more worthy despite its lack of stature, perhaps because it reminded me of my own entirely un-robust self.
Clearly, I should have been destined for the Church, but my father would hear nothing of it, especially as the years went by and he was blessed with no other children. Frequent and loud were the arguments I overheard between him and my mother on this topic, with him accusing her of barrenness, while she on her part pointed to my existence as proof that she was entirely capable of child-bearing. I heard full well the words my father had to say of me, and his detestation of my unassuming temperament. Often the shouting was accompanied by blows and weeping. I would go to my poor mother's rooms later on and lie with her in bed as she cried, comforting her and assuring her of my love and devotion. It was all I could do.
Even so, I spent a happy childhood on the family's small estate. I saw the dreary lives and endless toil of our tenant farmers, and never failed to thank God for my fortuitous birth and privileged circumstances, not to mention the promise of a secure, if not terribly wealthy, future, when I should one day succeed to my father's position, whether he willed it or not.
When the time came that my mother's slender body grew large with another child, I liked it not at all. Daily I prayed that the child would be a girl, and was certain my prayers would be answered, for was I not a good child, always in attendance at church, giving alms to the poor to the best extent of my limited means and gaining the praise of the priests? How then could a kind and faithful God fail to hear my fervent pleas?
The first shock of my tender life came when my mother gave birth, not to the sister I had requested, but rather to twin boys. Lusty boys, whose crying disturbed the genteel silence of the halls, and whose every smile or infantile gesture made my father's chest swell with pride, while my beloved mother, exhausted by the difficult labor, grew wan and pale, with little strength or interest left to show for me.
I will confess to hating my brothers. I prayed daily for their deaths, but that prayer also went unanswered, as they grew into boisterous health, delighting in each other's company, rolling about on the floor, breaking whatever they could grasp with shrieks of glee. Heavy-bodied and stocky, in a little over a year, they were to be found running around the estate, causing chaos and consternation wherever they went.
When I one day discovered the small miscreants in my own room, with the shredded pieces of a book I had been reading strewn around the floor, I flew into a rage and slapped them both soundly and repeatedly. My father, hearing their screams, came in unnoticed. When he had finished beating me, I could not rise from my bed for a full day afterward, but my mother stayed with me, fluttering about the bedside and plying me with treats and her own sweet tears.
After that, my reprisals became more careful. My brothers seemed to fall quite often into the rosebushes, or trip over their feet whilst running. Branches would spring back into their stupid and unsuspecting faces when we played at chase through the woods, and they were often sick and vomiting after eating berries that I knew full well would produce that satisfying effect.
But I was not a truly vicious boy, and never considered doing real harm to them, much as I may have wished their deaths in my heart of hearts. Their frequent mishaps were ascribed to their exuberant spirits and youthful ignorance, even if my father sometimes may have suspected otherwise. If my mother knew, she kept silence. Truth to tell, the two strapping boys she had produced seemed almost to intimidate her, and she turned their care over to a nurse as soon as she decently could. We resumed our churchly activities together, and I began to think of the presence of the twins as a nuisance which must simply be endured.
It was shortly after my eleventh birthday when the twins were barely 2 years of age that they fell down the long flight of stairs that led to our entrance hall. I heard their screams, as did everyone in the house, but my room was closest to the top of the stairs, so when my father came on the scene, it was me upon whom his eye fastened, and the small smile on my face must have enraged him even further and convinced him of my guilt.
At the foot of the stairs, one of my brothers lay unconscious, while the other continued to shriek at the top of his lungs. The chirurgeon was called to attend them.
I trembled then in earnest, knowing my father's thoughts. But this time it had not been my fault, a fact that only served to make my later sufferings more bitter on my tongue. In vain were my protests that I had been peacefully reading at the time of their mishap. I knew from the expression on his face that there would be hell to pay, but I didn't think it would be as bad as it turned out to be.
My unconscious brother awoke, seeming not too much worse for the experience save for a somewhat glazed emptiness that now and then appeared in his eyes. The other one had broken an arm, and walked around with it strapped to his chest, whimpering whenever anyone attempted to touch him.
As soon as it was certain that both would survive, my father went to my mother's room and I heard much shouting and pleading. I knew he believed I had tried to do harm to my brothers. Why should he not think so? They were too young to tell him otherwise, and he had seen me there at the head of the stairs, looking happy.
I snuck close to the door, to overhear what was said. Much of it was beyond my childish comprehension, but some I understood all too well.
"No, Heinrich, no!" my mother swore fervently. "The twins are your sons. There was no other man. I swear it!"
"And Karl, do you still say he too is mine?"
Did I hear a faint uncertainty in my mother's response when she answered, "Have I not always told you so?"
"You have. But is it true? Is that priest-ridden sissy really my son? Tell me the truth, Mathilde. If you never told me before, tell me now. His very life depends upon your answer."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that I shall see him dead before I let him inherit my estate. The sneaking little weasel disgusts me. I'll not give him another chance to harm my other boys. Mark me well here, woman. If Karl is my heir, he shall not live to manhood. I'll see to that."
"You would have your own son murdered?"
"Is he my son, Mathilde? Is he truly?"
The silence grew long. It seemed my heart stopped beating, anticipating her answer.
"And if he is not?" my mother asked, her voice small and cautious.
"Then he shall live. But not as my heir."
I had to place my ear against the door to be sure to hear her whispered answer.
"Karl is a bastard, Heinrich. He is not your son."
I backed away from the door in shock. Never had I thought to hear such a thing from the lips of my saintly mother. In all the years of my life, I had not suspected it could be true, although I had often enough overheard that very same question in the course of my father's rantings and ravings.
But my father had never truly pressed the matter until now, since I had been his only heir for so long.
Terror-stricken, I fled to my room. I sat at the window and stared out over the fields and gardens that I now knew had never truly been mine, and never would be. The world had turned upside-down before my very eyes, and my mind struggled to encompass the changes. Armed with this new knowledge, what would my father do? Should I flee for my life? But where would I go? I was but a child. How could I survive on my own?
No, I decided finally. I would stay where I was. Let my father do what he would, I would live or die accordingly. I slid to my knees beside the windowseat, clasped my hands before me, and prayed for courage, that I might be ready to meet my death with composure and bravery, though my father thought I had none.
When the door opened behind me, I stood up and turned calmly to meet my fate, only to be embraced fiercely by my disheveled and frantic mother.
"Oh, Karli, Karli! I can't explain this," she said, "but you have to get ready to leave! Some men will be coming for you very soon."
"Mother," I asked calmly as the tumult of words continued pouring from her lips, "am I truly a bastard?"
She became silent, pulling back and staring at me with a face that had lost all color. "You heard?"
I nodded. "Mother, please answer me. Is it the truth, or did you only say that to save my life?"
Her eyes fell. "It is true, my beloved Karli. I hoped you would never know. For so many years before you were born, your father pressured me to bear him a child, but I could not produce an heir." She looked up to me, a plea for understanding in her tear-filled eyes. "I was desperate! I thought perhaps some other man -- Oh, Karli, forgive me!"
I could not answer her then. It would be many years before I had enough understanding of life to learn forgiveness for such things.
I turned away, unmoved by the sobs behind me. She hugged me to her bosom, although I only stood there like a stone until she stopped her senseless wailing. At last, she heaved a great sigh and said to me, "Karli, I told him the truth only to spare your life. But your father won't let you remain here. When the monks come, you must go with them."
"Am I to join the Church then?" I asked, hope lightening the burden fate had placed upon my heart.
"Oh, I cannot bear to talk about it!" She took my hands in hers, and I thought I saw a shadow cross her face. "But you will live, my own dear boy. Please believe that! I did the best I could for you."
I nodded, and turned to her with a forced smile, allowing her to embrace me more tightly. I would not mind becoming a priest, or even a simple monk. I tried to convince myself that her crying and upset was only because I would be leaving here, and we would not see each other often, if at all. Yet still, something did not ring true. I wanted to ask, but she released me from her arms and began bustling about the room, her words again overflowing and drowning my doubts.
"Come, Karli, we must pack your things. Quickly now, choose what you would take. It cannot be overmuch, but you must be ready to travel, and that right soon." She rang for a servant, and a small trunk was brought through the door and set upon my bed.
With the thought in my mind that I must now surely put aside childish things, in the words of the Apostle Paul, I gathered up a few favorite books, but ignored my old toys. Of what use would toys be to a child preparing to enter religious orders, after all?
Meanwhile, my mother picked out a few of my more somber outfits, folding them carefully and stowing them away inside the trunk. When it was filled to the brim, she placed her hands on her hips and nodded in a satisfied fashion.
We had barely finished this task when my father came through the door, flanked by two older men on either side.
"You have told him, Mathilde?" he demanded of my mother.
Eyes downcast and her bottom lip caught between her teeth, she only nodded.
He bent his fierce gaze upon me, taking in the somber and sensible clothing I wore and the attitude of calm resignation I had assumed. A slow smile crossed his lips, but the hatred never left his eyes. "You like the Church so much, do you, boy?"
"Yes, father."
"Then that's exactly what I'll give you. You are to go to Rome, in the company of these two good monks, and you are to obey them in all ways."
"Yes, father," I again replied. His mind was clearly made up against me. It would do no good pleading my innocence. In fact, I was glad to be sent away, happy at the thought of my future life as a priest. And in Rome, no less! It was with great difficulty that I hid my joy beneath a pretense of filial obedience.
As the servants picked up my trunk, my mother embraced me for the last time, tears streaming freely down her face. When she let me go, she plucked a ring off her little finger, then pressed it into my hand. "Here, Karli. Take this. It was given me as a child, and I have worn it ever since. Wear it now, and think of me whenever you look at it."
Fumbling a bit, I slid it onto my forefinger, noticing only that it contained a garnet in a rather elaborate setting. "Yes, Mother. I shall," I promised.
She clutched me once again to her bosom. "Go with them now, my child," she whispered. "And may the merciful God go with you."
My heart softened toward her then, and I returned her embrace willingly. "God be with you also, Mother."
She let me go, wringing her hands and exclaiming wretchedly, "Oh, Karli, Karli! My beloved child!"
As I walked from my room between the two monks, I saw her swoon onto what had been my bed.
The long trip was made mostly in silence, with few words spoken by my companions beyond those which were made necessary by our circumstances. As the days passed and our coach jogged up into and at last over the mountains, I spent most of my time staring out the window, watching the scenery and reflecting on my fortune in escaping alive from Lindenheim, although already I missed it sorely. As we approached the mountain passes, it grew cold. Sometimes there was snow.
Each night I slept between the two monks, on lumpy beds at chilly wayside inns, remembering the fresh linens and down mattress of my own soft bed at home. My beloved books, my fine clothing, the excellent food I had grown up being served – all this was lost to me now. I dared not even allow myself to remember my mother's arms, her comforting bosom pressed against my cheek, her hesitant, loving words. Had I done that, I would have cried inconsolably, and I did not want to cry before these two stern men who were my only company.
"Where am I to go when we reach Rome?" I asked one day, as the coach jogged down the mountains and through orchards whose leaves were being painted red by the frost and by the coming of winter.
But the monks would tell me nothing, ask as I might. This reticence on their part set my teeth on edge. Even as a relatively innocent child, trust never has been my strong point.
I contented myself as best I could with watching the countryside go by.
When the mountains behind us had almost faded into the distance, we stopped at midday at a very small and disreputable-looking farm, far from any town. My travelling companions handed me over to two new men, then took their leave hurriedly, as if glad to be rid of me. Or perhaps, I thought, as if they carried some sort of guilt about accompanying me to this destination.
I feared the strangers would simply murder me, here in this deserted place. Perhaps the entire trip had been a diversion. Had my father merely sent me far away before carrying out his plans, so my fate would be unknown to all?
But no. The strangers showed me no ill will. Stowing my trunk into an open cart, they motioned for me to enter the house, where a pot of stew bubbled on the hearth and a goodly loaf of brown bread sat invitingly on a table.
Now my knowledge of Latin stood me in good stead, for these men spoke another language, which had much more in common with the Latin of the Mass than it did with my native tongue. With attention and effort, I could understand and make myself understood, if not fluently, at least acceptably.
At first, I thought to keep my knowledge of what they were saying a secret, in order to catch a hint of my future, should they speak of it while we ate. However, when the younger of the two men stood up and inquired of me casually in their native tongue, "What's your name, boy?" I replied without thinking.
"Karl von Lindenheim, is it?" he said. "Around here, you would be called Carlo. Come with me then, Carlo."
He started for the door, as his companion also arose from the table.
I didn't move. "My name is Karl, not Carlo," I replied haltingly.
When several hard slaps across the face failed to persuade me otherwise, the older man grabbed his arm.
"Let him keep the name. God knows, he has lost enough else that was doubtless precious to him, and will soon lose more."
Somewhat puzzled by this cryptic remark and thinking I might well have misunderstood, I followed them to the wagon. This was apparently not to be the end of my journey after all.
We traveled on. But Karl I was, and Karl I was determined to remain, no matter the languages that were spoken around me.
Very late that night, the wagon creaked into a town, but what town it was, I did not know and do not know to this day. Even in my ignorance of the world beyond my father's estate, I did not believe it to be Rome. Perhaps my father had lied about my destination, or perhaps it was merely another stopover along our way.
A large man appeared to open the door, which squeaked badly on rusty hinges. The younger and crueler of my two companions jumped down from the wagon, raising a hand to help me down also.
"Come then, young sir," he said. "This is to be our stopping place for the night." He smiled unctuously. "I'm certain you will have an excellent sleep."
He seemed too eager to bring me inside, but I could see no reason for his attitude. The man at the door wore a long robe, but it was not the habit of any religious order I had ever seen. "Please, sir, what is the name of your monastery?" I asked carefully in the local language.
"Monastery?" Out of the corner of my eye, I saw one of the others make a gesture to him. "Oh, indeed. Monastery. It – well, it has no name just yet. You see, we're just getting started here. But certain it is you all must be very hungry after your trip. Come to our kitchen and we'll see if we can find you a bite to eat."
This seemed a good sign. At least my arrival was expected. And the fat man seemed friendly enough. As I followed him down the hall, I asked, "Good monk, may I know your name?"
"My name? Ah, yes, my name." He chuckled, his vast stomach quivering with his laugh. "You may call me Brother Giovanni, child. Brother Giovanni. Yes. That will do well." He laughed again, at what display of humor I did not know.
When we reached the kitchen, the monk bustled around, serving us at last a platter of bread and cheese, apologizing that there was not finer food available. While the meal was indeed not very remarkable, the wine was an excellent vintage, with a rich and heavy taste. By the time I had finished eating and drinking, I was half-asleep in my chair.
The jolly monk laughed again as I struggled to rise, then collapsed on the floor. "Ah, poor child!" I heard him exclaim heartily. "He's had too much wine. No matter. Here, help me lift him up. I'll carry him to the bathing chamber and prepare him."
Hands lifted me, then heavy arms held me against a broad chest. I felt I was once again a babe in my mother's embrace. I laid my head on his shoulder with a sigh.
The next I knew, I was lying naked in a tub of hot water. Soft, heavy hands washed my body with a cloth, scrubbing away the accumulated filth of my long journey. When the cloth moved to touch the private place between my legs, I must have tried to squirm away or resisted in some manner, since I felt the rim of a glass pressed against my lips. The sweet, cloying wine flowed into my mouth when I tried to protest.
Dimly, I heard the voices of the two men who had brought me here, intermingled with the deep rumble of Brother Giovanni's own voice, who spoke only soothing words to me, words meant to lull a child into a peaceful slumber.
Then the cloth once more approached my groin, and heavy hands parted my thighs. Drifting in and out of a pleasant drowsiness, I allowed the invasion of my nether regions, as careful fingers poked and prodded me. Indeed, as this strange Brother Giovanni held my small member in his hand and drew back the foreskin to cleanse me more thoroughly, a sharp thrill ran through my entire body and I think I must have gasped.
"Ah," he said softly, his voice holding what might have been an inexplicable note of regret, "you like that, do you, my child? It's a mercy that you're not older, so you don't understand the true nature of what you are to become."
Even those puzzling words didn't seem to carry enough foreboding to penetrate the drugged lassitude into which I had fallen.
Wrapped in a large towel, I felt myself once again lifted in the monk's strong arms. As he carried me into another room, my head lolled away from his chest and my heavy eyelids blinked open enough to see my surroundings.
It was not an encouraging sight. A bare table in the center of the room, with straps hanging from the sides. A smaller table just next to it, where a selection of small knives shone in the light of a goodly number of candles.
Brother Giovanni placed my limp body onto the table. As the straps tightened across my chest and hips, I struggled weakly against the bonds. But it was to no avail. Wrists and ankles were soon secured as well, leaving me exposed and helpless.
"What are you doing to me?" I demanded, but my voice came out slurred and vague.
"You do not wish to know," Brother Giovanni replied. I felt his hand stroking my penis. "Relax now. It will be better for you that way."
"No, no. Tell me," I insisted, as tendrils of fear infiltrated my clouded mind. It has always been this way for me, namely that I would prefer to know the worst in order that I might prepare myself for it, rather than be comforted by lies and blandishments. But it was not to be this time. The wineglass was once again held to my lips and I was forced to drink or choke on the sticky fluid.
"Hush now, boy," came the soft voice of the monk. "It will be over quickly. I promise." I felt a stout piece of leather pushed between my teeth. "Bite down on this, and keep still."
His fingers continued their seductive caresses between my legs. Now he was stroking my small sack, squeezing the testicles carefully. It was a pleasure I had not felt before in my young life. I wanted very much to give in to the feelings, but some part of me knew there was something wrong about all this. I tried to struggle away, but more hands clamped onto my thighs and hips, pinning me down with a strength my child's body could not hope to match.
The knife bit into my flesh before I realized their intent.
It was over with a merciful swiftness. When they held the cauterizing iron to the wound, I could not help but scream.
When I awoke, I was lying on a soft bed. The hurt in my groin reminded my groggy mind of what had happened, but overall the pain was not so awful as some of my father's beatings. I reached down to touch my privates, to discover what harm had been done, but my groping fingers found only a bandage before they were captured and moved back to my side.
"You're all right, boy. Keep still."
Hearing Brother Giovanni's voice only served to terrify me. What further horrors might he be going to inflict upon me?
While I might be unsure as to what had happened thus far, as my mind cleared from its drugged trance, there was one thing of which I was now certain.
"You're no monk," I accused.
"It was only you who insisted I was," he reminded me gently. "If your believing me to be a monk helped calm your fears, why should I have disabused you of your quaint notion?"
True, it had indeed been only myself who had made the assumption. And his demeanor simply did not seem, even now, demonic or overly vindictive. "Who are you then? And what have you done to me?"
"In a way, deluded child, I do work for Holy Mother Church, although no priest would acknowledge my contribution," he said gently. "Do you know of the ones who are called castrati?"
Now, you may have thought me hopelessly naïve prior to this time, but let me remind you that this was in the early 1500's, before castration became more widely practiced in the Italian city states, and well before any castrato had become famous for singing in the now popular operas that are springing up all over. To most people, such a thing was at best a vague rumor, something whispered, but not spoken aloud. It was a vile perverted practice that was said to be done in the Iberian Peninsula, rather than in civilized cities and towns.
But I was not so naïve about the actual operation. I had been raised on a rural estate. I had seen stallions gelded. I knew full well what had been done to me. Like the gears I had once been shown inside a finely made timepiece, the pieces of my shattered life meshed and formed a working mechanism. I should have seen it coming before now, for the hints had been there all along: my mother's despair, the reticence of my various travelling companions.
I struggled to comprehend, through the remaining effects of the drugged wine. "But why? What harm would it have done to simply send me to a monastery instead?"
"Poor child, do you think you are the first inconvenient son to be disposed of in this manner? And do you imagine you will be the last? A monastery can be left behind, but the condition of your body is permanent. So long as you live and can father children, you are a threat to your family's heirs. You might return someday, to claim your rightful place, if not for yourself, then for your own children. But this way --" He shrugged eloquently. "Who would take seriously the claims of one who can beget no offspring?"
"If it was known that it was my father's doing --" I suggested timidly.
"Your father's doing? Oh no. The story will have already been put about that you were in an unfortunate accident, perhaps a fall or the attack of a dog." His voice became false and sarcastic, and he rolled his eyes in an exaggerated manner, assuming a piteous expression. "Alas, try as he might, the chirurgeon was unable to save your virility! There was nothing to be done but to send you into the waiting arms of the Church, far from your native land, where you could make a new life for yourself."
"A new life?" I said, still somewhat confused and trying to make sense of my misfortune.
"Tell me, boy," the false Brother Giovanni queried, "had you any talent as a singer? A pretty voice perhaps? A love of ecclesiastical music?"
"I – I spent much time in church. I could chant the Mass as well as any of the priests, if I wished."
He smiled and patted my hand. "There, you see? You are to be a singer of sacred songs, perhaps even the director of a choir. That is to be your vocation, your new life."
"But my voice isn't that good. I mean, it's nice, but not exceptional," I objected.
"Perhaps not, but now you will retain that boyish soprano for as long as you live. Women are forbidden to sing in the choirs, so who is to take the higher parts, if not for young boys – or the unfortunate victims of terrible accidents, such as yourself?"
I was beginning to see what my future would hold. "My voice," I asked uncertainly, "won't change as I grow up?"
"It will not. And you are to be taken to the conservatorio as soon as you've recovered fully. Arrangements have been made; money has been paid by your family. Whether you have great talent or only mediocre ability, you will be a student there for the next ten years. So you see, my young friend?" he said consolingly. "Things are not so gloomy as they may have seemed, eh? You have paid a small price for an assured and comfortable livelihood. And you are alive. Truly, your father is a merciful man. If he had wished merely to be rid of you, it would have been far cheaper to have had you killed."
I knew too well that the false monk now spoke truly in pointing out the fact of my continued existence. But if there had been mercy involved, I was sure that it had come from my mother, not my father. What had I lost, after all? A few bits of flesh. What was that to me, who had never tasted the delights of a woman's body?
"That's it, my boy!" the man who had castrated me said cheerfully. "I can see that my words have brightened you up considerably. Here, have a bit of this broth. It will build your strength and help you recover."
I sipped gingerly at the thick chicken soup that was offered, my stomach still queasy from the drugged wine. Yes, I should need to gain strength, if I was not to let these present circumstances plunge me into a lethal melancholia from which I might never revive. I determined that I would not give my father the satisfaction of hearing a report of my death, as a result of the cruel operation he had arranged for me. I would survive, and not only survive, but I would prosper. The day might come when I could take a more substantial revenge, but until then, let my father know that I lived with the full knowledge of his treachery burning in my heart. Let his money finance my training. Let my mother's wounded gaze tear pieces from his cruel heart. She at least would not forget me.
I drained the bowl of soup, then drifted off into a healing sleep.
Three days later, I mounted silently into the coach that was to take me to the conservatorio in Rome. My groin was only middling sore, except when we hit one of the numerous bumps on the rutted road. With each stab of pain, I gained new courage and determination to persevere.
None of this would change me in any way. I would be the same person I always was. My mind would not grovel before the altar of what had been done to my flesh. I was Karl von Lindenheim, who knew more than many a grown man about languages and words. I was Karl, the boy who had always been old beyond his years. I was Karli, my mother's well-loved child, despite those loathesome brothers who may have taken my place on my dastardly father's estate.
And I was Karl the castrato, the boy who would now never be quite a man, no matter what I did.
Well then, so be it. I would learn to sing praises to the Great God of All, with a voice that would never break and never falter, no matter what else might happen. There were far worse fates.
In my innermost being, I had not changed. If my body would never become that of a man, what of it? No similar constraints could be placed upon my immortal soul.
