Children of Semyaza

by Kevin C Noel

  “Wait,” Octavius called out. His tone was stern and commanding. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Octavius standing straight, with a fixed austere glower on his face. For the first time since he had met him, Garrick was genuinely frightened of him. “You want seriousness?” he began to say. “You want the truth about what is really going on here?”

  Garrick nodded. Octavius sighed. “What if I you can’t handle it? What if it drives you mad?”

  “Why would it? What could you possibly tell me now that would be so shocking?”

  “Things that would seem impossible to one such as yourself.”

  “Such as myself? What do you mean by that?”

  “Haste in every business brings failure, young Garrick. Follow me” he said as he looked askance at the attentive Rumsfeld.

  Garrick followed Octavius through a brightly lit antechamber into a bigger and exorbitantly furnished study brightened by an ormolu, glass and bronze chandelier. He felt the softness of the carpet through his slippers and briefly considered laying down on it. Such comforts were a new and exciting experience for him, despite the ominousness of his situation.

  Another large portrait adorned a wall in this room, but this time it was one of an entire family. However, Garrick was more interested in the high bookshelves. There were no gaps between books—there must have been hundreds of them. Octavius noted how he gawked at the books with wondrous captivation. “Feel free to read as many as you’d like,” he said. “Something tells me you’ll have the time.”

  Garrick pushed the ladder toward the center of the shelf and climbed up to examine a few. As he read through the backs of several books, Octavius still considered the best way to tell the young man everything he needed to know. To tell him about his destiny. He had been so hell-bent on finding him that he had forgotten to consider the best way to break the news to him—the news of who he really was and his role in the larger scheme of things to come. Had he found him years ago, when knowledge of the other world was more widespread, this might have been easier. But no, this was the age of science. The age of skepticism. “Everyone is a positivist,” he said to himself.

  “Rumsfeld seems to be very good at his job. I can tell these books are pretty old yet there’s not a speck of dust on any!”

  Octavius noted the book Garrick was skimming. “Ah yes, Phaedo. A personal favorite of mine.”

  “I’ve only read the Republic,” he answered without taking his eyes off the pages.

  “It’s a captivating read. Makes you ponder on the immortality of the soul.” Garrick scoffed. Octavius flinched as though he had been pinched. “You don’t believe in that sort of thing, I presume.”

  “If it can’t be verified, it can’t be valid, right?” Garrick replied as he climbed down the ladder, with book still in hand.

  Octavius rolled his eyes as his suspicions were confirmed “Everyone’s a positivist,” he muttered to himself again.

  Garrick shook his head. “Where are you going with this?”

  “We shouldn’t concern ourselves with validity when we consider the possibility of the soul’s immortality, or any supposedly unexplainable and unverifiable phenomena such as… reincarnation.” He stressed the last word intent on keeping it etched in Garrick’s mind.

  “Fine,” said Garrick resignedly as he sat down on a sofa, “I retract my former statement. What I really meant is that a statement that cannot be empirically verified is meaningless. Life after death; the immortality of the soul; even reincarnation. It’s all meaningless bullshit.”

  “And what if you believe they’re unverifiable simply because you do not have the tools to verify them? Many cultures have embraced the idea of reincarnation, for example. Plato; Pythagoras; the Hindus believe the soul is everlasting and capable of entering another body once a previous host dies. The very idea of past lives is hinged on that. Are all these people crazy? Is it all nonsense?” Without a thought, Garrick nodded his head. “I would have pegged you for a more open-minded one.”

  “Even my open-mindedness has its limits, Mr. LeGrey. “

  “Do you even believe in a supreme being?”

  “I believe people of all religions are delusional lunatics intent on deceiving themselves and others around them into believing that nothing in this world is random. That it’s all part of some divine plan constructed by an omniscient super being who punishes evil and rewards the faithful. Like I said—bullshit! My father is a Lutheran, yet he’s probably the worst human being I’ve ever met. He makes a lot of money every year, though I have no idea how; and he always seems, despite his constant inebriated state, to get what he wants. He would be considered blessed! Him? Jared Hartmann? Blessed? What sort of fucked up supreme being blesses such a person? Oh, it’s better it doesn’t exist, Mr. LeGrey. It better not.” He threw the book on a coffee table and paced. Octavius observed him intently, feeling the heat of his rage. The boy had been damaged beyond anything he could have imagined.

  “And then these people,” continued Garrick. “Especially Christians, go about claiming their God is the one true god. Christianity is turned into a tool for colonialism and Africans and Asians are forced to believe they were worshipping demons or false gods. Who the fuck were they to decide that? If their God was truly the one and only, why couldn’t he manifest all over the world? Why limit himself to the colonialists? Is it a racist god? Does it abhor the non-whites so much it would rather let them know of it through a proxy? Is it even a he or a she?” He sat back down and began to rub his throbbing head. “There are too many questions, Mr. LeGrey. If there truly was a supreme being, I would appreciate an explicit sign.”

  Octavius laughed. “What have you been reading, my dear boy?”

  “Anything I could get my hands on. I’ve read the Bible, Mr. LeGrey. The disciple, Thomas, has gone down in infamy for his doubt. But why blame him? He was only being an empiricist and I respect him for that. Even though his master, a man he loved and respected, had just died, he did not let the euphoria of the possibility of his resurrection cloud his judgement. He took a moment to rationalize. Everything in my life must be rationalized; it must be verified. Do not expect me to believe in anything I cannot see. I won’t believe in any of it.”

  He was on his feet again, overtaken by his sudden cathartic outburst. “Now, you clearly have no intention of telling me why you brought me here. If you feel I’m not ready to know, I’ll accept that for now. I have so much on my mind. I have lost my family and someone I care about all at once. If you’re a sicko who wants to kill me, I say get it over with. Otherwise, I think I’ll go back to my room and sleep some more.”

  Octavius nodded and chuckled lightly. “I’ll see you in the morning. Have a good night.” He fixed his gaze on the raging teen as he picked another random book from the shelf and walked out without a word. His rage, detrimental as it may have been, could come in handy, Octavius reckoned. Garrick was clearly doing his best to keep it tucked in. But years of withholding his emotions had begun to take a toll on him and he was bound to crack at the slightest prodding. Octavius needed to tread carefully; there was no doubt about that.

  He chuckled again. He thought it was funny. Killing Garrick Hartmann was foremost in his mind.

  8

  Several weeks had passed since Garrick woke up in the manor, yet he still knew very little of his host. He passed the time reading books from the immense library, sometimes finishing as many as two a week. He would take short walks around the estate without stepping past the gate. Sightseeing was not something he was particularly keen on at the time. The little he did know about his new host city was that it was called Kaunas. He never complained, however, he was more than happy reading indoors.

  Octavius had a rigid routine which Garrick had mastered in a matter of days. He’d show up for breakfast every morning, exchange brief pleasantries with him, and then disappear for the rest of the day. Garrick had no idea where he would go but was certain he was not leaving the premises. He wasn’t even sure which of t
he many rooms he spent his time in. Then he would reappear in the evening for dinner, looking much younger and healthier, and they’d have conversations about philosophy, psychology, politics and literature. Curious as it may have seemed, Garrick never bothered to ask him where he disappeared to during the day. He was completely content with his uneventful situation.

  However, Octavius’ presence eventually became less frequent and the few times he did emerge, their conversations were brief. One humid evening, Garrick stumbled upon a thick book with a leather cover. Etched in gold at the center was its title which prompted Garrick to read it.

  The Chronicles of Clan LeGrey

  “Clan LeGrey?” thought Garrick as he sat cross-legged on the floor. “Octavius’ family?”

  Garrick noted dates and locations at the top of each entry, almost like a diary. The first entry dated back to 685AD in a place called Dunnichen Moss. It recounted the ordeals of a Labhran LeGrey. As he skimmed through each page, the prevalence of warriors in the clan became apparent. The final two entries were about Alistair and his son, Colin LeGrey. Colin LeGrey died in 1513 at the Battle of Flodden but there was no mention of his father’s death. There was also no mention of Octavius or any other LeGrey after Colin.

  Cryptic as it may have seemed, the book gave Garrick more information about his enigmatic history teacher. He understood it said nothing definitive about the man, but the thought of Octavius being a descendant of warriors fascinated him. Garrick envied the idea of having a family to be proud of—a rich history to look back on and smile. Nevertheless, he was still a little skeptical about the legitimacy of the manuscript. Was it fact or fiction? Perhaps it was part of an oral tradition penned down by—the name of the author was noticeably absent from the cover and within the book.

  “Does it strike you as odd?”

  Startled by Octavius’ sudden emergence, Garrick stood up from the floor and dropped the book on a gueridon as he sat down on one of the couches. “None of the accounts are clear, Mr. LeGrey. Is it based on oral traditions passed down in your family?”

  Octavius smirked. “Most of it is. I wrote it based on what my father told me when I was a boy.”

  “You wrote it?” he asked as he nodded pensively as if something obscure suddenly became clear as day.

  “I would have thought that was obvious.”

  Garrick cleared his throat lightly and looked back at the leather-bound book. “So why does it end with Colin? Was he the last of the LeGrey warriors?”

  Octavius took a moment to ponder on his response. He considered Garrick’s patience laudable, albeit uncommon, and felt it was as good a time as any to finally let the young man know why he had brought him to Kaunas. His reaction would be uncertain but that was no reason to stretch things out any further.

  No reason whatsoever.

  He sat on the couch opposite Garrick and leaned toward him, his elbows rested on his laps and his hands were cupped under his chin. He reverted to the serious scowl Garrick had come to associate with him. Garrick, on the other hand, wasn’t sure what to make of the serious-minded atmosphere which had overcome the library. Were they going to engage in another philosophical debate?

  “I have something to offer you, Garrick. A story about Colin LeGrey that isn’t in the book. Would you like to hear it?” Garrick nodded without a moment’s thought. They hadn’t spoken for some time. It was a pleasant change from all the reading.

  Octavius brushed back his dark hair, leaned into his chair, and crossed his legs. “Colin LeGrey didn’t fit into the family business. I’m sure it has become pretty evident to you based on what you have read that the males of clan LeGrey were warmongers. Please do not misunderstand me; Colin was a bona fide warrior. Except, he did not engage in battle with what one would call normal foes.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It happened three months after his thirteenth birthday. His father, Alistair, and mother, Deirdre, died under suspicious circumstances. It was assumed they were mauled by a pack of wolves.”

  “And that was suspicious because…?”

  “It was indoors, and all the doors were closed. Wolves, last time I checked, cannot open and shut doors.” Garrick nodded. “But that didn’t stop the other clan members from hunting down the beast responsible. After hours of searching, they came upon the malevolent creature. And the sight of it changed the lives of every single member of clan LeGrey.”

  “Was it a wolf then?”

  “Somewhat.”

  Garrick raised an eyebrow and sighed in frustration. “There’s no need for the suspense, Mr. LeGrey.”

  “Are you familiar with Lycanthropes, Garrick?” He shook his head in response. “You’re possibly more acquainted with their other name—Werewolves.”

  For the first time since Octavius had met him, Garrick had begun to guffaw uncontrollably. This reaction was more than common, yet not expected—not from him. What he had deduced of this young man through the course of their stay together was that nothing really amused him. His sense of humor seemed damaged beyond repair. He was a brooding individual more attuned to constant mentation than unnecessary jubilation.

  The laughing young man before him was someone he had never met.

  Garrick wiped the tears that slid down his cheeks. Quite frankly, he wasn’t sure why the mere mention of a werewolf had driven him to such a mirthful outburst. Perhaps it was the seriousness on Octavius’ face as he said it. “I admire our ancestors, Mr. LeGrey. It must have been liberating to be so ignorant.”

  Octavius recoiled at the statement. “I’m pretty sure it wasn’t an error of ignorance.”

  “Oh, come on, why are you so obsessed with the supernatural? First reincarnation, now this? I’m beginning to worry about you.”

  Octavius sighed. “Now, there’s no need to taunt, Garrick,” he said as he smoothened his hair. “To assume that nothing beyond the realm of your comprehension could possibly exist is ignorance, my dear Garrick, and quite arrogant.”

  “So, you’re going to tell me that werewolves exist… or existed?” Garrick inquired cynically. “Next you’re probably going to tell me Vlad Tepes was a real vampire—"

  “There’s no such thing as Vampires, Garrick,” Octavius interjected. “Not really.”

  Garrick laughed some more. He was standing with the blue book in his hand again. He walked over to the shelf and climbed the ladder aiming to put it back. “Werewolves, but not vampires, huh? I wonder why you insist I believe this crap.” He returned the book and was on his way down while Octavius tapped his feet on the carpet repeatedly. He had waited years for this young man’s ascension. His cynicism, although vexing, wasn’t going to change a thing.

  “What I find interesting, Mr. LeGrey,” Garrick continued. “Is the fact that you’re so sure that they saw werewolves. I mean, if they believed it, I wouldn’t be surprised. They were ignorant, after all. But you, Mr. LeGrey—you’re an academic. How could you let such stories confuse you?”

  Octavius’ blue eyes were fixed on Garrick’s emerald ones. He bit his bottom lip for a moment before saying: “Because I was there, Garrick.”

  Garrick almost fell off the ladder. Once he was off, he kept his gaze fixed on the stern face before him. “There how? What do you mean?”

  “I am the last LeGrey.”

  “So, what?” Garrick stuttered.

  Octavius smirked. “So,” he said. “I am Colin LeGrey.”

  Garrick simply scoffed and shook his head. He couldn’t believe someone could say so much garbage and still keep a straight face. “Impossible,” he finally muttered.

  “Very little is impossible in my world,” Octavius replied. Garrick had opened his mouth to retort, but somehow he was at a loss for words. “I believe the time has come, Garrick,” he continued. “The time for me to tell you why you’re here; the time for you to know the truth about Volant Kesgaila; the time for you to know about—the Incardians.”

  9

  “Y

  our inner Descartes m
ust be feeling a need to doubt,” said Octavius as Garrick leaned back on the couch. Octavius was right. He doubted. Who could blame him? The man before him claimed to have lived centuries ago; and not only that—he insisted werewolves were real. And at that moment he was going to tell him a story, no doubt a fantastical one, about the owner of the mansion which he considered an asylum for weeks.

  Oh yes, Garrick doubted very much.

  Octavius cleared his throat. “Before you storm out of here, I have something else to offer you.” Garrick said nothing. “I will tell you everything, but I will need you to suppress that urge you have to doubt my every word.”

  “And why would I do that?”

  “Because once I’m done, I shall do something you will appreciate very much.”

  “What?”

  Octavius smiled approvingly. “I’ll prove it.”

  “Prove?”

  “Yes, prove. To sate your craving for empirical verification.”

  Garrick considered this for a quick moment. “And you’ll explain how I really got here?”

  Octavius flinched, but he wasn’t surprised. He suspected Garrick was not completely satisfied with the haphazardly conjured up tale of their arrival. “Very well.” Garrick gestured for him to begin. “A history of Incardians is undoubtedly the best starting point for my tale.”

  “Whatever you say, Mr. LeGrey,” Garrick remarked snidely. “It’s your show.”

  Octavius cleared his throat and began.

  “During the infancy of humankind’s existence, beings from another realm were tasked with watching over the fledgling human race. They were guardians. They were called the Grigori. The Grigori were forbidden from cohabiting with humans. Nevertheless, it wasn’t long before they shunned the rules and lusted after them. After copulation, the human men fell ill and died; the women, however, seemed unfazed. But then, they bore children who possessed peculiar features. Some were giants who pillaged the Earth because of their unbridled maniacal urges; others resembled regular human beings but possessed otherworldly power they often abused. These hybrids were the Nephilim. The rage of the Nephilim led to wars for supremacy which adversely affected humankind. Their battles were lengthy and bloody, and before long, it seemed the Nephilim were wiped off the face of the Earth as a result. The few that remained were flushed out by the Great Flood. By then, the Grigori were long gone—said to have been banished to the depths of hell for their disobedience.