Dear Journal,
I am skipping forward in my tale to allow my daughter Jaunee to add her story to my book.
But first some background …
It has been a long time since last I wrote, for reasons I cannot elaborate at this time. Tonight, however, I should like to tell you of current events instead of the age-old tales of my youth. My beloved daughter Jaunee came to see me yesterday. We had parted ways about half a century ago over a trifling argument. I was surprised and overjoyed to see her again, to say the least, though her visit worried me beyond words, and I shall explain why. Like me, she is immortal yet unlike me, she was never really human. Jaunee is an astonishingly beautiful lady, her eternal youthful appearance enables her to easily pass for a teenager. Much like a teenager, she enjoys parties, dancing, and drinking and life as wild as it can be. Throughout the ages she has retained her youthful, unchanging looks and lifestyle, regardless of how many centuries have passed. Until now. That is, when I saw her yesterday. Her hair had whitened completely. This brought me to two dire realizations: one, something is terribly wrong with her, and two, she hasn’t dyed her hair ― so she wants me to know. I was certainly worried, but uncertain on how to approach the matter.
“So what …” I began, looking at her hair after I had served her a dish of spaghetti and red wine.
“No,” she replied dismissively. “Not now, I’m not ready yet,” she added in more pleasant tones. I did not want to put pressure on my little girl, so I questioned her no further. Like a worried father, though, I searched the refrigerator for a treat more suitable to her palate. I knew she loved cheese, wine, and sweets. I, however, lived a more modest lifestyle when she wasn’t around, and therefore kept few of those things. After an extensive search I managed to locate some salty cheese of a local brand that I consider to be quite good and some bonbons I keep in case guests arrive. She smiled as I placed these things on the table, and her smile warmed my heart as it always does. We then debated the quality of Israeli cheese, being the local brand in this case, while we ate.
When the ice had finally melted and the Israeli cheese had been properly debated she spoke more warmly.
“This is nice, this place,” she began after a few moments of awkward silence, smiling.
“Thanks, I like it too,” I replied casually.
“So of all the places in the world, why pick Palestine, and a small secluded village at that?” She asked.
“Israel,” I corrected.
“Israel,” she repeated, wishing to avoid a debate.
“Well, I like the fresh air,” I said, trying to hide an awful truth.
“So, are you in some sort of trouble?” She boldly asked, catching on far too quickly for this young-old man.
“What makes you ask that?” I replied, exploiting my people’s age-old custom of answering a question with a question.
“You, living in a secluded location pretty far from any settlement ― as far as I recall you’re usually a city-dweller,” she said.
“Maybe I’m favoring country life for a little while,” I offered.
“And I suppose the armed guards are here to keep you company?” She added in the same tones I had used.
“Maybe I prefer to keep human company for a while, and providing them with a useful occupation is an added bonus,” I jested.
“And you like people around you carrying guns, cuz you like guns so much you think no person is complete without one, like Prada for the masses.” She said with a winning smile. Damn her, I couldn’t think of an answer she wouldn’t twist around to reveal how pitiful my attempts at deceit were.
“I’m not naïve, Ray. Since when do you need someone to guard you?” She asked, slightly worried.
“I decided I want a change of pace,” I lied. “I’m actually working on a book, and the quiet pastoral environment helps my muse,” I added.
“Really?” She asked with a raised brow. “What about?” She added.
“Well…” I began nervously, “My life, actually,” I explained.
“You’ve gotta be joking!” Jaunee said. “Haven’t you always been shy of the public? Warning me repeatedly what would happen if we are discovered,” she asked. I tried to come up with a clever retort, but couldn’t find a winning argument. She was right.
“Yeah, well, being the old man that I am, I thought it’d be good to actually write my story. Besides, even if I am ever published ― and I doubt that I will be, nobody’s going to believe this is a real story,” I said.
“You don’t grow old,” she stated, and I frowned. “And are you actually considering getting yourself published?” She queried.
“Well, no. I mean, I’m not sure,” I replied.
“Very well. I want to help!” She exclaimed in lighter tones, catching on that I really do want to keep my secrets as much as she wants to keep hers. She’s obviously in trouble now, and there is no need to put my troubles on her shoulders as well.
“So you really want to help?” I asked carefully.
“Sure!” She replied, “Where are you at, exactly?” She queried.
“Well, I just finished writing about my battle with the demon in Drentwych,” I explained.
“Just before you found me!” She replied. “Yes, I remember,” she said, and I blushed. “How about I’ll write you my side of the story and we can compare versions later, wouldn’t that be fun?” She asked.
“Sure,” I replied. She bounced from her chair and gave me a kiss.
“So, where do I stay?” She asked with a winning smile. I showed her to a lavish bedroom with a king-size medieval hand-carved bed, a large armoire, and all the latest electric appliances one could wish for.
“This is the guest bedroom,” I lied, showing her the room I had furnished for her and her alone. I had kept the room clear and in pristine condition with the hope that someday she will return to me.
“Ray-mond,” she began with a wide smile. “Mon Dieu, I didn’t know you had it in you!”
“Thanks,” I replied.
“This is a room befitting a king …” she said “… or a queen,” she added.
“And it’s yours,” I replied, and left her to explore it on her own. I would have told her that I designed the room and carved the bed thinking of her — hoping a day such as this would come and that she would fly back home to me, but I wish it had been sooner and under different circumstances.
Dear Reader,
I am going to call this Jaunee's Diary, and write my story from time to time. I will use a different pen, and of course my writing style is different so you should be able to recognize my pages. Later we will organize it in the correct order …
As promised, here’s my part of the tale. I guess I should start with an introduction for you, dear audience. So, my name is Jaunee, and I’ve been immortal for close to a thousand years now. Unlike my stepfather Raymond, I was never an ordinary mortal. I was born odd-looking and I have always had this touch of magic which set me apart from the rest of humanity.
I’m a tad less than a meter and a half tall, though by no means a dwarf. I’m a perfectly proportioned miniature woman and it’s a perfectly natural height for my race in the era in which I was born. My hair is naturally tomato-red and wavy. I have crystal, ice-blue eyes and a heart-shaped face. With my pale complexion I’m not too comfortable in direct sunlight. I wasn’t a pretty child but nowadays, but matured nicely. Raymond is the only person in the world for whom I am neither a trophy nor a monster. For him, I am and always will be his little girl.
I was born in a small village near Paris — in my estimate around 1010 or 1011. My father was a local nobleman of minor title and no lands, having lost them in this or that venture. He was not a tall man. Probably of mixed Celtic and Normand blood, he had blond hair and blue eyes you could die for. I mean, I always loved his eyes, but that’s about all I loved about him. He was drunk most of the time — rude, and cruel.
My mother often said that it was my birth that broke him, but I heard from more reliable sources that he had already been like that before she met him. My mom was a French prostitute, by the way, and a famous one at that. She had ginger hair and a natural talent for, well … she was a famous and much sought after prostitute.
Together the charming couple took over the brothel she worked in, after she got pregnant with me. The establishment later served as our home. It wasn’t all that bad, though. I was actually quite fond of the place, if it hadn’t been for the presence of my father.
Really, brothels in France are the best places in the world. In the old days it was where men and sometimes women came to unwind after a hard day’s work. We had good food, good drinks, and fabulous music and dances―it was like a party that never ended with interesting guests showing up every evening, each carrying with him a story to be told. I learned to sing right after I learned to talk, and to dance right after I learned to walk. My passion, ever since I can remember, has been for song and dance and life as it should be lived, abundantly.
However, my personal life wasn’t one big party. My parents weren’t too fond of me, you see, given that I had been born unnatural. And it showed. I was odd looking, I saw things nobody else could see, and I was far too smart for my own good. Since predestination was a dogma, it was obviously my fault for being born as I was, just like it was my mother’s fault for giving birth to a girl, instead of a boy. The priest, and even the midwife, thought it best to drown me right after birth; that’s what my mother told me when we were on better terms. However, on that day my father would hear nothing of it. Perhaps only because he was drunk, he insisted that I be allowed to live. Maybe his evil heart had a drop of tenderness in it, which he utterly spent on the day of my birth.
So I was allowed to live, but I was not loved. And I think the most tragic and sad part of it all is that they blamed me, and I blamed myself. So I’ve always tried to impress my parents, showing off the new songs and dances I learned. My father was usually drunk and impatient — he wanted me away from him, and my mother; she didn’t care about anything. She was absorbed in herself. When my talents failed to attract attention from my parents, I showed off my skills to the rest of the patrons. Everyone thought it’s amazing that a girl so small spoke fluently, and sang like an angel. On stage I was admired and cheered. I shone, and I felt that this is where I belong.
The awful truth was that my life was terrible during my tender years. I tried to hide behind stories I heard, and the songs I sang. I tried to win admiration when I failed to receive affection. But in the end, my fantasies always shattered when confronted with the truth of reality. They both hated each other, locked in a marriage because of my birth. One day I just couldn’t take it anymore. I wanted to live like in the songs and ballads. I wanted to see the world and go on adventures. I wanted to dance with the faerie maidens of the woods, and to dine at the tables of kings, and to meet heroes like mighty Hercules and Beowulf. I wanted to see the round table of Camelot, and to ask Morgain, “Who am I.”
And so it was that a seven-year-old girl took to the hard road. I managed by stowing away on carriages and ships, by stealing, and sometimes by singing or playing music for food. I can say fairly that I lived day to day, not knowing where the next meal would come from, but I had fun — I really did. I loved traveling and seeing new places. Everything seemed so big and wonderful to my eyes. Some people along the way were cruel to me but most took pity and offered me shelter and food ― at least for as long as I kept my hair covered and hidden from view.
That’s how I got to Drentwych ― by accident, really. I had been on a ship moored at the docks, and decided, on a whim, to disembark there. In a way that’s where my life’s story began; in that fateful town which changed all our lives.
I disembarked quietly before anyone noticed I stowed away. I then sought the town square so that I could play the flute or maybe even sing for food. I dreamt of playing my flute, and to see all the townsfolk gather in admiration. Surely I’d find a warm meal before continuing on my journey to see the whole wide world. But it was a cold day — too cold for singing and playing, and it turned into an even colder evening. In the end I earned a scrap of bread and caught a chill that penetrated my bones.
I was in tears then — the bread was my only solace, and yet that too was taken from me before I had a chance to take a good nibble. A boy much larger than I with a filth-crusted face and a red aura mirroring his violent intentions, grabbed my bread, took a handsome bite out of it, and laughed as I shrieked and tried to take it back. I tried pleading with him, but whatever reply he gave was in a language I could not understand. As I despaired of attempts at diplomacy and tried once more to grab the bread by force, he shoved my face into the filthy, slushy ground and sniggered.
I remember feeling despair, as only someone defenseless can feel. Unable to contain the stream of tears that came rushing forth, I saw the villain speeding off with his loot. Then another boy tackled him and they fought. This one was a smaller boy with brown hair. They appeared as venomous monsters to my eyes, with a red light of violence emanating from them both. A part of me was content, though, seeing my villain on the losing side. Then it was over as quickly as it had started. The thief, now beaten out of his trophy, escaped, and his vanquisher made his way towards me. I tried to brush off my tears and thought perhaps to thank him, if his intention was to return my food, or to defend myself should I be attacked again. Humans were always needlessly violent. Internally I tugged upon my magic. To my utter surprise and gratitude, he chose the first of the two options. I released the tug before it hurt me.
He handed me the bread, which I took gladly, but with a trembling hand as he smiled victoriously. He also said something in the same crude language his adversary had used. I expressed my gratitude in French, which he probably understood, for his aura changed to a more passionate color. I broke the bread in half and offered him the bigger half. He took it graciously, for he was hungry too: I could tell. Then he sat beside me and we dined on the two scraps.
He then pointed to his chest and said, “John,” to which I nodded and pointed to my chest and said my own name. He fumbled as he attempted to repeat it in the same accent I had used, and then called me, “Jane,” instead.
I hugged him, which took him by surprise though he did not push me away. I was very cold and trembling. The boy spoke and took me by the hand when I failed to reply, guiding me to a place I assumed to be his home.
It was a large abandoned house with five or six children like me ― well … not exactly like me. They had an old, greedy man for a Papa. I assumed it was the local orphanage.
John led me straight to the Papa. His aura at closer inspection made me distain him even more. It was sickly and colored by greed. I often gazed at that particular shade when workers in my mother’s establishment were given jewels, or when my father counted coins at the end of a successful night. Never had I seen this aura shade coloring a person when he gazed at me. I lowered my eyes in fear of him. This unsavory man was to be the judge of whether or not I’d be allowed to stay, and spending the night in the cold is not a thing I was sure I could survive. I needed his approval for just one night I decided, ‘for tomorrow I’ll go someplace else, hopefully warmer.’
They spoke; John and the Papa. John’s tone was somewhat urgent and pleading, while the Papa’s tone was mainly flat and uncaring. I was amazed and frightened to see the bully who had beaten me earlier enter the house and go straight to the Papa. The darkness in my heart sent vile images to my mind of what I can do to him, what I should do to him. But I didn’t want to listen, I didn’t want to be the demon-child my parents said I am. I forgive; that’s what good girls do.
The three of them argued, and at the end of their fight Papa slapped John, felling him, as he barked an order at him. John got up and fled the room as fast as he could. My eyes followed John as I stood still, very intimidated by the large old man.
His bony finger touched my chin and forced me to look at him, right into his eyes. He studied my face and then said a few words in the same crude language he had used earlier, switching to French when he realized that I could not understand a word he said.
“What’s your name?” He asked impatiently.
“J-Jaunee.” I replied.
“Indeed she is,” he replied, addressing everyone, turning his head around to make sure they all heard him, his aura taking more iron tones.
“What?” I asked, completely puzzled by his remark. I was only seven at the time, though I was a smart and clever child.
“God is Gracious’, that’s the meaning of your name,” he replied.
‘He isn’t so gracious to me,’ I thought. ‘Not with how he made me, not with the parents he gave me. And I wouldn’t be standing here, a beggar, if God was indeed gracious to me.’
“All right,” I replied, after a pause in which his aura once again shifted ― I tried to understand why.
“Where are your parents?” He asked, and once more his tone and aura took on iron quality.
“Dead,” I replied and lowered my eyes to hide my lies. He misread me and thought I was sad, as well I should have been had I had any feelings for them besides utter contempt.
“I’m sorry,” he answered, but didn’t mean a word of it; his tone revealed that he was pleased somehow by my loss. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why that would make him happy.
‘He didn’t know them, or how vile they were. Why would he be pleased by their demise?’ I wondered.
“Have you any guardian, someone who takes care of you?” He asked.
“No,” I replied, my mind still occupied with trying to understand him.
“So where do you sleep?” He asked, leaning forward a bit, like a predator catching the scent of blood. To that I had no reply. I was now more than ever completely intimidated by this ugly old man who smelled so badly. I sought with my eyes an escape route.
“You can sleep here if you like,” he said in lighter tones, and still I did not reply, for I was puzzled, and scared by his conduct, which frightened me more than his words.
“What do you say?” He asked, hanging on his own words.
“Thank you?” I replied, but as I spoke in French he may have mistaken my tones for actual gratitude.
“You’re welcome,” he replied. “I’m sure we can be great friends,” he added as he patted my hair. I loathed his touch, I wanted to bite his fingers. A part of me wanted to run away now, another part wanted to remain and lash out, or at least to protect myself, by calling upon my demonic gifts.
“You’re cold,” he said. He then turned from me and barked orders to his orphans, who obediently cleared a bed for me and guided me towards it. I wasn’t so sure at this point if I was going to run away or not, but the warm comfy bed put its spell on me, so I stayed the night.
Come morning the Papa cooked us all breakfast and then sped all the other children off to whatever it was that children did in Drentwych. My first thought was that they were sent to help adult workers as cheap labor and as a way to learn a profession, but my naïve notions were quickly dispelled when I was left alone with the old man.
“Do you like games?” He asked as I eyed him fearfully.
“Yes,” I lied. I preferred music and dance to pretending, but I didn’t want to disappoint him.
“How about we play a game? I know quite a few,” he said. He tried to sound harmless, but his aura revealed his inner thoughts.
“All right,” I replied after a pause. I knew that if I wanted food and a roof over my head I’d better play nice and play along. To my surprise he showed me a game where he adorned a scarecrow with small bells, and my job was to pick off the bells as fast as I could without them ringing. I liked the game, though it was quite difficult to get a hold of more than a couple of bells at a time.
He seemed quite pleased, and urged me with pleasant tones to try again. When I grew frustrated, then bored with this game, he showed me another. In this one, I had to carry the bells on me yet not make a sound while I walked. I grew bored with that too after a while, though in this game I fared better. I wasn’t so unfamiliar with sneaking or stealing and these games demanded similar skills.
“You’re quite good at it,” he complimented me.
“Thank you,” I replied politely with the winning smile my mother used to put on when she wanted to win men over. He smiled back, pleased with himself.
She always said that. “If you let a man know my heart, he will own you. So you must mask your feelings with a smile. As long as you smile they’ll never be the wiser.”
“Do you know why I taught you these games?” He asked. I honestly did not so I shook my head.
“This is what all the other children are playing outside,” he replied.
“You’re strange,” I replied.
“Why?” He asked.
“These are strange games. Why play them?” I wondered.
“Because we’re a family,” he replied.
“I don’t understand,” I said. I knew what a family was well enough, but I’d never seen these games before.
“I take care of my family, and I teach them these games so they can bring me gifts to show me they care,” he said.
“All right,” I replied. I understood that he was asking me to steal, but I wasn’t going to do that. I offered him my flute instead — my one possession. That will win him over, I thought, and I could always steal it later, from him.
“A gift,” I said as I presented him the flute, wearing my mother’s smile. He shook his head and did not take my gift.
“Can you play the flute?” He asked suddenly.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Show me,” he urged, and I pressed the flute to my lips. I fumbled at first with my notes, but after a few tries music flowed from my flute. I played the tunes of my home and a few songs I had learned on the road. He seemed transfixed by my music, and it pleased me greatly.
“You’re very talented,” he said at last, and I smiled broadly.
“Thank you,” I replied.
“Why don’t you play in the town’s square for everybody, and come back with a gift,” he said.
“All right,” I replied and hurried to get to the town square. When I arrived there I played my flute as I’d done the day before. This was a better day; somehow cozier. The people of Drentwych seemed to be deeply
Influenced by the weather, for as the weather brightened so too did their generosity.
At noon all the people of Drentwych came to dine together for a big meal. There was a cook who made the food for all of them, and a line in which everybody stood and waited eagerly to get their share. The guards kept the peace, taking a double share of food as wages for their hard work. They all smiled and pointed at me, seeming pleased with my music. Though it wasn’t a stage, I was the center of attention, and as they all stopped to listen, I felt at home. I played travel songs, allowing my inner self to shine through the music.
A strong old man came as I paused to rest, smiling, and gave me a bowl of food. He said something in that same crude language that I could not comprehend, and I bowed my head and thanked him in my native tongue.
I didn’t eat just yet, for I thought it best to play for my crowd while they ate, and eat when they finished. That way I’d have the most chance of winning alms. It was as I played that I noticed the rest of Papa’s children. At first it seemed that they were staying in line, though making a bit of a noise while they were at it. Upon closer examination, though, I discovered their clever ploy. While some children made a commotion — playing, yelling at each other and running, others used the distraction to steal from the unsuspecting townspeople.
I thought it best to mind my own business and play my music as Papa had instructed me, lest I be tossed back to the street. I wasn’t sure why it became important for me to stay with Papa at this point, but it was. As I played my music the townsfolk listened and made no sound. That was the biggest compliment an artist of my small stature could receive. Even Papa’s children all remained as silent as death, listening to my music. Of course, being silent was of paramount importance in the art of stealing, which they continued to practice with ease now that I was providing them with a good cover.
When the eating was over I stopped playing and joined the rest of the kids on their way back to Papa’s house. John took me by the hand, which both surprised me and sent butterflies flying through my belly. I cared for him; there was something about his honest, chivalric manners that moved my heart. His friends — even the brute from the day before, all seemed impressed with me and envious of John. I adored the feeling it gave me, and craved more of it.
John tried talking to me, but I couldn’t as yet understand his speech. I assumed, though, by the tone of his voice, his body language, and the color of his aura, that his words were compliments. Yet I couldn’t be sure, so I refrained from responding lest I make a mockery of myself. Still, I kept on smiling at him lest he interpret my silence as rejection, occasionally nodding to show I was listening.
Back at the orphanage Papa waited eagerly for our return. Some children advanced ahead and gave him gifts as well as explanations or boasts of their deeds ― I couldn’t be sure, but their tones suggested as much. Then some others advanced with nothing in their hands, John amongst them. They all talked, seemingly at once. I stayed where I stood, not so sure what I was supposed to do. To my surprise, they all pointed at me and spoke hurriedly, their auras signifying nervousness and excitement. As the papa approached me, I took a few steps back. I didn’t like the shade of his aura, or the look in his eyes.
“Jaunee, my pretty,” he began in French. “My children tell me you played very well,” he continued; at this point I stopped walking backwards. “Because of you they were able to bring me gifts, so I am very pleased,” he said.
“I’m glad I have been of service,” I replied nervously, not sure what I was supposed to say. He spread his hands as he advanced. The movement frightened me beyond words, though I presume he meant well. Still, there was something about his gestures which terrified me. My eyes darted about, seeking an avenue for escape. Like a coiled snake or a threatened cat, I bared my teeth and hissed at him. I surprised both myself and him, but at my sudden weird, threatening movement he stopped in mid-step and did not advance any further. In my mind I saw myself leap over him, biting his neck. There was a strange warmth flowing through my body, and a craving for his blood. I suppressed my demonic urges. I will not hurt him unless he leaves me no choice.
“Didn’t mean to scare you there,” he said apologetically.
“Pardon,” I replied as the darker side of me slept again.
“I just meant to thank you,” he added, still defensive.
“Pardon,” I repeated. I was appalled with myself and the wickedness with which I wanted to tear him apart. In my mind, he was my father, a rude, crude drunk. But he was not a monster like me. I just couldn’t let him touch me ever again.
I fled and hid in an alley behind some trash and broken barrels. I must have hidden there for hours, though I don’t even know why. Luckily, I was found when the night grew dim. John had been searching for me throughout the day, but I had remained hidden, not replying when he called my name. He nevertheless did a wonderful job and found me in the alley. I was fortunate, you see, for in my fear I’d lost track of the fact that I was frozen to the core.
He extended his hand to me, saying my name quietly. He waited until I was ready to come out on my own and let him take me by the hand. As he touched me he said something worriedly, then rubbed my palms until they were warmer.
I slept a haunted sleep that night, feeling the room grow alternatively too cold or too warm. Feverish, I dreamt of my father and suffered the worst of nightmares, sleeping and waking in spurts. Sometimes when I awoke John was there at my side, petting my hair or offering me food. Other times when I awoke, I burst out in fits of weeping, especially if he wasn’t there. He really did try to take care of me, though, even if he didn’t know how. Days passed, I think, and my sickness only worsened. At the height of my fever, I could not tell if I was asleep or awake, for both worlds seemed to defy reason, and both were coated with a thick layer of misery.
Several days later, come morning I could not rise from bed even to relieve myself. John was not there when I awoke and Papa came instead and touched my head. He said something, then he picked me up and carried me somewhere. I was half asleep or delusional, but I remember the rush of wind and the change of temperature. I remember the bitter-ice kiss he gave me, like the mark of Caine on my forehead, and then he laid me in the freezing snow.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t have you infecting the other children.” Then he left me for dead in an unknown alley in Drentwych.
This is the end of my entry for now so it’s back to Ray’s story.