Sands of Time

by Christine Church

  An hour passed. I knew the sunlight shown full in the sky above ground. Even deep within the darkest and safest tunnels, protected by layers of earth, I felt the heat, the burn, of the sun’s rays on the earth. I wondered if André felt it as well. Finally, he spoke.

  “What did you do to me?” he asked in broken English.

  I gave his hand a light squeeze. “I gave you immortality.”

  “But I wished to die.” He pulled his hand away.

  “A second chance at life,” I replied, mimicking some of the first words I had spoken to him.

  Burning blue eyes turned to me. “Second chance,” he snorted, turning from me. “Ce ne est pas la vie. You have transformed me into a blood-thirsty murderer!”

  How, I wondered, would I explain to him that I had given him a great gift, an honour to be amongst the children of the Pet Mer...Not a murderer, but a god.

  “André,” I spoke in a whisper. Calm. “You are no murderer. You are merely—hungry. This...thirst. It can be controlled.”

  Finally, he looked to me once again.

  And so I continued, my words careful as humanity had still, in thousands of years, not caught up to what I was, to what my family had been and from whence they had come.

  “A very long time ago my family arrived in Egypt and made a home there. They aided society and building great structures, growing into a magnificent and powerful race. My people—we were seen as flesh and blood gods.”

  “Are you to tell me God bore life through your people?”

  “Not exactly.” I would have to approach this topic with great delicacy. “My people came from a location very far away from Egypt. Far away from here. This place was algid in climate. To compensate, though they grew little hair on their faces and bodies, the hair on their head grew at great lengths and was worn as a shield of sorts. This and the clothing they wove, protected them. So, when they came here they needed to exist in the darkness as this sun is bright and hot and close.”

  “Where is this place?” André asked.

  “It no longer exists,” I explained sadly.

  “Where did it go then?”

  My thoughts turned to Jabari. He seemed a slight memory now, though our love was eternal and would forever remain within my heart. Yet, how little humans had come to understand in thousands of years. Once again, I was faced with the dilemma of explaining to a mortal of this era that my family had come from a far off planet, not earth. Even in Egypt so long ago, it was scarce accepted. Only those who had seen the arrival of the original Pet Mer had believed, and thus dubbed them gods. Flesh and blood Gods. Placed among Ra and Seth and Bastet among many more.

  My father and the others who had come in a great sky ship, as termed by the humans of the time, had insisted they were not to be transcribed in any writings or worshiped as the gods that existed in those times. They had wished only for a place to live, and to fit in, not to conquer or draw to themselves unwanted attentions.

  To André I said, “The place where my family had lived before my birth was destroyed. And so they came to this...this place. To Egypt.”

  André nodded. “And your family, they drank blood to survive?”

  “Yes, but they did not kill! I can teach you this skill, André. I can teach you to appease your hunger without death, without bloodshed.”

  “And you have never killed?”

  His question took me aback. I drew a deep breath and sat back against the crenulated wall. “I cannot claim to have lived a perfect life. Yes, I have had to kill to protect who I am, to survive.”

  “Then you sin as well and we are both damned.”

  Religion. God. Hell. Sin. Heaven. All of it I had skipped around for thousands of years. So many variations existed and most all of them befuddled my brain. I was raised with the Egyptian gods of long ago, however, taught by my father to understand that we, too, were seen as gods yet were not gods. Everything within our existence was as it was, and we did not question it. But years of exploring this planet since my father’s departure taught me to eradicate my judgment from the affairs of religion. This was a personal matter for each, and too convoluted to make any rational decision. So, I wondered, as André waited for an explanation—how would I explain to a devout Catholic soldier that I existed before his god, before his Jesus? Or that many gods, many religions, made similar claims, thus rendering them all myth? Most of all, that my own people were once deified?

  I decided to take a direct yet dangerous approach. “How old would you say I am, André?”

  Through his confusion, he stared at my face. And then I saw what I had hoped for—a relaxation of his expression. “Mon Dieu! I can see you!”

  I merely nodded.

  “I can SEE you,” he repeated. “It is dark. There is nary a sliver of light and I can see your face. How is this possible?”

  Progress. “The same way it is possible that you now require blood to survive. That you are André LaChandler, yet you are no longer human.”

  His willowy fingers ran through long flaxen locks, and he stared at the strands as if they belonged to another.

  “You have inherited,” I explained, “One of many gifts from my ancestors and family.”

  He looked ahead then, staring at nothing, or perhaps at something only he could see. And when he spoke it was not to me, but to himself, or perhaps this God he had put his faith and trust into for a lifetime.

  “Dieu a créé la vie. He created humans in His image. Is this his image?” André raised up his hands before his face and gazed at them. “I am still myself. My memories, my thoughts, my beliefs. And yet I hunger for blood. I have taken life in battle, yet now I take life for sustenance.” Tenderly, he touched a finger to one sharp tooth, also an inheritance of necessity.

  He was working it out in his own mind, trying to elucidate information almost impossible to comprehend. I remained silent at that point, allowing him freedom to understand at his own pace.

  After half an hour of blathering, half in English and half in French, making it difficult for me to keep up with his commentary, finally André looked once more at me in question. “Is there no God?” he asked.

  This was a question I was ill equipped to answer. I could give him only what experience had taught me. “I will not tell you God does not exist. I have yet to encounter substantiation that supports or refutes the existence of your God.”

  “I have prayed,” said André, taking the conversation to an entirely different track. “Ma 1ere, she was dying of le peste—the plague, suffering. I prayed to God that he take her quickly. She lingered on, the pain I could feel for myself. I felt my prayer was not heard. My mother was a good woman, God fearing Catholic who sinned not a day in her life. For a long time I was angry at God for allowing this torture into my home, onto such a good woman. Why, I asked. Pourquoi?

  “For quite some time I had forsaken God. However, a local prêtre spoke to me. He explained God often took those who were virtuous, as my mother, so they might become angels to watch over others.”

  I sighed. This I had heard all too often. “If this belief comforts you, André, then hold onto it.”

  “Ma 1ere still suffered, I said to le prêtre. If God wanted her, why not take her quickly?” He closed his eyes, slowly shaking his head.

  I felt a sort of empathy for his pain at the loss of his mother. But, having lost my mother so long ago, a human mother whom I would have outlived anyway, I could not completely comprehend. Perhaps it was not the loss with which I held empathy, but simply seeing the slight tear that bubbled up in the corner of this beautiful man’s eye.

  “I am no longer sure,” said André. “Just short a week ago, if one had told me there existed, eh... personnes... people who survive by consuming blood, I would have thought them mad.”

  “I could delve deep into theology with you, André, but then we would exist in these tunnels for many years.” I smiled, hoping to sedate the atmosphere.

  What happened next astonished me so that I did not immediately
react.

  Using his newly acquired swiftness, André rose and sped toward the entrance to the tunnels.

  Something I had said must have spoken to his need to get out into the world once again, to feed, to hunt, to be what he was... But... the sun! I rushed behind, hoping to catch him before he reached the death that awaited him above.

  ~~~

  “The Deadly”

  Entry four

  I feared I would not reach André in time. I moved as fast as my power would allow. Speed was not my gift. And when I finally began to feel the scorch of the rays that streamed in through the tunnel’s narrow opening, my heart was near stopped with fear. My only successful progeny, I was sure, would parish a painful death of boils and pus simply because I had neglected to inform him of the damage the sun will reek on those of our ilk.

  By the time my vision caught sight of his hunched figure, my mind was in turmoil and panic. Thought and reasoning were not mine as I reached for him. Red, painful welts bubbled onto my flesh. My arms were on fire. My face flamed with pain. But he was my son and I needed to save him from himself. If he perished, then I did as well.

  “André! Take my hand. Come with me!” I cried in desperation.

  The flames of the sun obscured my vision. I could no longer see him. I reached a hand as far as the scorching heat would allow. All my strength I expelled in order to pull André from the fires of a metaphorical hell humans called daylight. This was a concept with which I had always been familiar.

  When I felt a hand in mine I jerked inward and started back towards the darkness. I still could not see and had not a notion of what I would find once my vision returned. I did not stop, and blind as I was, I stumbled. The shaft of tunnel fell deep from there and my body tumbled into the cool and relieving dark where the sun could not reach even one deadly tendril. I sat against the stone wall, heaving for breath until my sight returned. I looked beside me and what I saw nearly put my mind into panic.

  What could I do to help him? This was all so new to me, turning a human into one of our kind. I knew the sun could harm them as it did us, but—

  “André?” I scrambled to where I could see a trembling mass of scorched flesh, his once elegant blond hair now black with billowing tendrils of smoke rising up to dissipate at the cave roof. I had suffered but nothing compared to my child. A few boils and red scorch marks on my arms and face. But I had already begun to heal.

  I moved to touch him, to comfort him if I could, but stayed my hand just over the blackened flesh. His clothing had all but burned away and he shivered as if cold. Small moaning sounds were all that issued from his throat.

  I felt helpless, wracked with guilt, and dire. If André died—

  Yet another aspect of the transformation I had neglected to inform him—he would live virtually forever. But the sun!

  Even we can perish from too much damage to the external regions of our bodies, if the harm went beyond the outer flesh. I hoped that would not be the case with André.

  As had become my habit, though I knew it a fruitless act, I prayed to my father, the only “god” to my vast knowledge that actually existed outside translated books and tales of fancy. I knew of course he could not hear me, wherever he had gone, but it soothed the ache in my heart. And so, silently, I asked my father’s aid in healing my child.

  ~~~

  “Montparnasse”

  Entry Five to the France journals was not found in the same location as the others, but within a tomb of the cemetery known as Montparnasse. Only one short page. More entries have been found, and are being dated and translated.

  Several days have passed. I sit now within Montparnasse, amongst the stones1memorializing the dead, yet not deep within the quarries that house the bones of millions. I have not returned there since I pulled André from the fire once night had fallen.

  The damage to his newborn flesh was such that healing was not a quick process, as it is once one has aged. The welts I suffered in pulling André to safety had long healed, leaving no trace of their existence. I had lifted André over my shoulder once the dark penetrated the mines. I brought him to my townhouse and settled his charred body into the spare bed. He needed blood, I knew, but not just any blood. He needed human blood, and quite a bit of it. I could offer him my own, but as a half human, it would not have the same healing properties for him as the sweet nectar that flows within each person on this vast earth.

  But where would I find it? This was my dilemma. Even I was having much difficulty in locating any human willing to give a donation and keep my secret. I feared my greatest anxiety; that I would have to kill in order to save my progeny, as well as myself.

  To be continued…

  If you liked this book, please consider writing a positive review. Reviews are a great way to help readers discover great books. Your review would be truly appreciated.

  ~~~~

  Next: Read the first two chapters of the Compendium to Sands of Time, Volume Two in the Fate of the True Vampires series.

  Compendium

  The Early Scrolls

  Fate of the True Vampires Series

  Second Installment

  Christine Church

  Copyright © 2016 Christine Church

  All rights reserved.

  The entries within this publication were all found by Dr. Jonathon Brumble and his team in 1960. They were preserved within a limestone box inside Giza slave quarters. This is the closest experts have found to full and well preserved records from Kesi that date back so far. However, these texts did not travel the same path as previous documents and were not rediscovered until the early part of the 21st century.

  Circa 7th and 8th Dynasties

  Written in ancient Hieroglyphs on papyrus

  English Translation was performed in 2014

  “Not as the Others”

  It is clear from the first few texts that these scrolls were personal entries by Kesi, written when she was what we consider today a “tween.” This gives us a glimpse into an ancient life, different from the others, even ridiculed as many are today. Read on. Kesi’s story has those working to translate this tale in awe and fascination. These scrolls and documents offer insight into a life, albeit not a human life, that no one has ever before experienced.

  Journal of Kesi of Giza, Circa, 7th Dynasty

  What I should say on this scroll is unclear. Perhaps I should speak of the life I have lived thus far. The life I am sure will end on this night. What the punishment is for killing a human, I know not, for none of us have ever before carried out such a terrible deed. Is there even a law for this?

  Or should I remove my mind from this evening’s events and speak of the other children—these mortals who avoid me, casting their gazes away when I emerge from the tunnels of our unfathomable chambers? They speak of me under whispered breaths. Most times I can disregard their banters. After all, they do not know I hear them, for few are aware of our gifts.

  And yet, when before me, they bow. They all know who I am. Kesi of Giza. And that I am not like them. Just as they, I was born from my mother, but I play when Ra takes the form of Atum and creates so many tiny lights within the sky. The other children often go in once Ra passes through the akhet, unless they have duties that keep them without.

  Though I appear the same age, I have existed for more cycles than they. I recall the birth of many, and from what Father tells me, I will live to see their passage into the Field of Reeds.

  And so, I remain here, in my chamber. So often I can be found here, learning to write my letters and to read, to understand a language printed, not merely spoken. My assignments must be seen by my tutor and my parents. However, here alone, I speak my secrets to no one but papyrus and ink.

  What else can I do? It is so gloomy at times, despite my exceptional vision—deep within this triangular tomb structure—built by humans, designed by a human, yet aided by my father’s people, their knowledge and strength. Pet Mer, they are termed by the Egyptian folk. Sky Friends. Those who ca
me down from the stars so long ago. I have not yet learnt all of the details. I know only that I am the child of a Pet Mer. Half human, for my mother was born to Egypt. Yet half god, for my father’s people are deified, as they materialized into the Sahara from the stars long ago. This I am told.

  Since I can remember, the humans venture down to us only when Ra holds the sun above, just as they did today. And this is where my troubles began.

  I was working my assignment when I heard the call that mealtime had approached. I hardly noticed the hunger welling inside me, so lost was I in practicing my scripts. And so I emerged out into the stone aisleway.

  The humans stood lined against the grey stones of the inner wall, adults and children alike, all dressed in simple white linen—as always.

  Many of the mortal children I knew well. I often saw them outside of the pyramids when Atum boosted the stars up into the sky.

  Mostly, they avoided me. But one, Nekhure was his name, smiled whenever our eyes met, then proceeded with his ritualistic bow.

  And this night was no different. He stood motionless, a tight grasp on the hand of his father. But, tonight his father saw the pleasantry Nekhure offered me and wrenched at his son’s hand.

  Nekhure’s smile faded, eyes cast down once again, lost by respect, as all humans who come to offer us their contribution.

  I sighed. I wished for friends beyond the others such as myself. And Nekhure was always polite to me. He was closer to my age than most of the others.

  Though I would never express my inner feelings, it formed an ache within my heart for him to cast his gaze away. To see him bow his head, his straight ebony hair falling over his face, that even it was obscured from my vision.