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The shadow of the dome of pleasure Floated midway on the waves; Where was heard the mingled measure From the fountain and the caves. It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw: It was an Abyssinian maid, And on her dulcimer she played, Singing of Mount Abora. Could I revive within me Her symphony and song, To such a deep delight 'twould win me That with music loud and long I would build that dome in air, That sunny dome! those caves of ice! And all who heard should see them there, And all should cry, Beware! Beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair! Weave a circle round him thrice, And close your eyes with holy dread, For he on honey-dew hath fed And drunk the milk of Paradise. -"Kubla Khan", Samuel Coleridge May 3, 1823 The bright sunlight twinkled off the blue waves of the Aegean, a wonderful view for breakfast on the terrace. The dark-haired, dark-eyed traveler delighted his palate with a wonderful golden wine made locally here in this southern Greek port village. It was a small, but clean village, the whitewashed walls of the houses gleaming in the sun. In several hours, the man would board the sailing ship he had bought and embark for the island of Kythria. He appeared as a gentleman of western Europe, in dress and manner, but something appeared to not quite fit to the residents of this out of the way village. His Greek was flawless and unaccented, so his exact point of origin was difficult to determine. But as he had plenty of money to disperse amongst them, they paid it no mind. He caused no trouble, paid more for lodging than asked, and had commissioned the local shipyard for an extravagant yacht of his own design. If he seemed strange, he harmed no one and brought prosperity to most. He had resided in the village for three months, as the boat was built to his specifications. He charmed the local populace in general, yet stood off from making too close of ties to anyone in particular. Children trailed after him, as he would tell them wild tales of adventures past, and then distribute sweet treats and candies among them. He was well-liked, as he had planned. Long centuries of trial and error had taught him many things about human nature, how to insert himself quietly and without suspicion into the everyday mortal lives of ordinary people. It had not always been thus. Early on, he had made many mistakes, been chased from villages, hounded by those who thought him a witch or agent of the Devil. He learned quickly, although his life was never in danger. Simple injuries lasted but a moment, and more severe ones healed in a mere fraction of the usual time. More painful was the loss. Any friend he made, any lover he took, he must watch grow old and gray before his eyes. Or else leave them in their youth, and transfer his pain to them. Human lives were as to an eye-blink to him, but not the sorrow or the memories. Memories. His mind drifted, remembering where it all began. He had awakened deep in the caves of ice, no memory of what had happened after he entered. A great preternatural fear had come upon him, triggering the flight instinct long before his clouded mind was truly aware of his surroundings. The barely conscious man had bolted through tunnels, running as if the spirits themselves hounded his trail. His awareness came fully upon him on exiting the caves, the frigid winds calling him back to the world in earnest. The geyser he remembered no longer rose. In fact, the hole from whence it had came was solidly covered in ice, and there was no sign of the lush garden that had spread idyllically before the font. He heard a loud CRACK behind him as a strange voice rang in his head. He swore he did not know the language (though he would later learn over a hundred different languages, he was never able to identify this one), but the message came into his mind with clarity. EXPERIMENTAL SUBJECT COMPLETE. BEGIN DISSOLUTION. His mind reeled as he saw alien geometries, planes and angles not seen in this reality as the gigantic dome with its towers began to fold IN on itself. His eyes reported things his brain could not resolve with reality and his bowels emptied in atavistic fear. Within seconds, he was alone in the valley, no trace of the huge structure to be seen. His memory faded in and out for a long time after that. He only vaguely remembered the months and months following the setting sun. He became aware that his body was not as it had been. It was stronger, healed much faster, did not need food or sleep (although it still appreciated both) and had endurance to continue on indefinitely any activity he desired. It did not inure him to weariness nor weakness, yet his body could be pushed beyond these feelings. And an ominous pink line of a scar had appeared, down the center of his chest, from collarbone to groin, fully healed, but ever present. It was not until decades later that he was able to determine that what had seemed like a blink of an eye in the frozen caves had actually been a century and a half. His long trek through the Siberian wastes towards civilization had taken several decades as well, as he stopped for whiles at villages that would have him, in no hurry to move on when contented. He had headed west, fearing to see his homeland and people he knew in his new state. And many times, then, and thereafter, he would suddenly find himself living in forests and woodlands like an animal or a barbarian or, he thought as he looked at the slim cigar he had just lit, like one of those Red Indians on the American continents from whence came this excellent tobacco. Months, years or decades might pass while he was in such a state, with no recall at all of how he got into such a position and why. After returning to civilized lands, first in Western Russia, and later traversing most parts of Europe and the Mediterranean, he learned to amass and hide away small fortunes to facilitate reintegration after such incidents. With much time on one's hands, it was easy to learn to manipulate economic situations in his favor, and make wise investments yielding long term gains that his "son" or "cousin" might be bequeathed with upon his "death". It was a long life, and often an easy one, but putting down any roots was impossible, and he was always on the edge of having to move on to areas unfamiliar. He had lost count of how many names and identities he had adopted, and remembered even less of various peoples he had encountered. Faces blurred together over the long centuries, if for no other reason than sheer volume. The name he was wearing at this time was Etienne Bernaux. When he bothered to reveal, he claimed to be an Austrian merchant of French parents. He often appeared prosperous, but never overly so, a modestly well-off merchant but not a superior one. Enough to have a few conveniences, but not enough to draw undue attention. His exotic good looks often drew women to him, but he turned away their advances for the most part. There were families to consider, and he did not like disappointing people, but nor did he wish his secrets discovered. He fulfilled his physical desires with the usual detached fallen women, knowing there would be no ties, or chance of discovery. Some times, in moments of weakness, he had revealed his secrets to the occasional friend or lover (and that blasted poet, Coleridge, who had sworn to never reveal the secrets, and had no doubt begun his illustrious poem the moment he had departed! At least he had not been mentioned, but it taught him to be more careful, even in more sophisticated times.). For the most part, he had been considered to be a teller of tales, or someone good, just addled in this specific area. He was relieved in retrospect when he was disbelieved, and more than once had to flee when he was taken at his word. In many and various guises, he had sought news of others of his kind. Eternal life can be lonely and empty and the need for immortal company was very strong at times. In all his travels, in all his seeking, he had only found one who was possibly one of his kind. In the mid-17th century, he had heard tales in Saxony of an area protected by a god. Scouring the area, he eventually encountered a red-bearded giant of a man, boisterous and bred for battle. The meeting was a strange one. He would answer no questions without a fight, but without malice. He merely enjoyed battle to that degree. "Vladamir" surprised the giant. Though he was stronger and more impervious to injury than any of his peers, the giant was slow wielding his huge mace. While Vladamir could do no harm to the Teuton, nor could the mace harm him. Smaller and faster, Vladamir ran rings around the great bear of a man, earning his admiration and trust. He said his name was Thunor1, and that he had been sent by his father, Wotan, to protect the mortals of the world. He laid claim to being a thunder god, and had been living in northern Europe for more than a millennium. It was difficult to tell if he was serious, as he was given to telling long (and often obscene) tales full of obvious falsehoods and contradictions, with a smile on his face and a flagon in his hand. He actually gave little indication of protecting anyone, spending most of his days wenching and drinking, and occasionally getting in random fights. It is supposed that his very presence kept away marauders and bandits, for the tales surrounding him grew larger with every telling. He was a good companion, sincere in friendship, laughing at death and hungering for adventure! Vladamir spent 75 years in his company, but eventually grew tired of the lifestyle. He had questions he wanted answered, questions Thunor had no interest in. Why and how meant nothing to Thunor. As long as his immediate physical desires were sated, he was content. Vladamir eventually took his leave. One. In five hundred years, only one, and that only a maybe. Nothing had happened to Thunor that he knew of. He persisted in his godhood claims and decried any knowledge of an icy blue dome or times when his mind went blank for long periods. Etienne shook his head sadly. He thought there no connection to this immortal roisterer, save shared experience and friendship. He continued to seek. Now at last he felt he had a solid lead. Tales in historical documents, especially those of the historian Herodatus, had led him to this corner of Greece. The mentions of an island called Praxidae, meaning Vengeance, had drawn him towards the island of Kythria between the Greek mainland and Crete. More investigations had revealed tales of the Well of Furies containing the Fountain of Zeus, a source of immortality that seemed more credible than any other claims. Whispered in villages and ports along the coast were smatterings of information about a group of sisters, supposedly centuries old living in the same area, now residing on Kythria. A lead to be followed, to be sure. Etienne finished his wine, stubbed out his cigar and pushed the small breakfast table aside as he rose. It was time. His boat awaited. The folk of Kythria were obliging, with a few silver coins thrown their way, with directions to the Sisters on the Hill. Except one old crone, who pointed the way, but cackled at the offer of compensation. "The Sisters will exact their toll soon enough. I need not your coins," she chuckled toothlessly, as she took her basket and her leave. At dusk he approached the villa, darkness creeping across the sky. Three tall women with sharp features and long curly dark hair stood outside, as if he had been expected. "Good evening, man of many names. I am Alexis and I know where you have been," claimed the first. "And I am Megan, and I know what you are," the second said. "My name is Phoebe," the last said, "and I know where you go. Come in, and have a glass of wine." |
| Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Acknowledgments |
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