Count Eternal
Fiction Short Story
James William was just a young lad when the American war for independence ended and the Declaration of Independence was ratified in the Year of Grace, 1776. Just three years prior he came forth from his mother’s life-giving womb into the deathful world of Colonial America during the war. His father, as with every man of his fathers and grandfather’s generation that James knew and respected had fought in the war. He grew up hearing stories told, and songs sung of the victory of the American people gaining independence from the Motherland. By the time that the young James William had grown up, the colonies were thriving; he was given a good education which the aristocratic families of the colonies ensured their children always had. He excelled in his studies; he perhaps was on a path to being a professor someday, maybe an author, or perhaps he will be a philosopher. In any case, James Williams had every option afforded to him for his future. His family owned well-known businesses in Pennsylvania where he was born and raised, and almost every man in his family was involved in politics as the aristocratic families always were; any path that he chose to pursue would be at most a menial task for his family to make reality for him. But the stories of the past generations, their adventures while subduing the frontier, the dangers they faced from the Indians, exploration of a new world, and of course the glorious stories of the war for independence planted a deep seeded desire for adventure in James Williams. A seed which continued to grow and was just awaiting the long-anticipated opportunity to blossom, an opportunity which would come in his 24th year of life, in the year of our Lord, 1800.
The room was dark, the only light was from the candle of the young man who was busy searching the ancient books that filled the old bookshelves of the Colonial Pennsylvania home. Each book was bound in fine leather, the shelves were made of solid Maple, Red Maple to be exact, although the fine joinery and craftsmanship was nearly impossible to see due to their age and the dust that seemed to cover the ancient wood in a perfectly smooth surface as when the soft, powdery snow of Pennsylvania covers the plains and fills the ruts left by the bovine. Unlike those snow-covered fields which are trampled on as soon as the snow falls, the dust that has come to cover these shelves had no impressions left on it. The dust had remained unmolested all these years, making obvious to James that no soul had pulled a book across the surface of the shelves to read it. No. From all appearances no one has been here for a great many years, perhaps since the original and only inhabitant of this home disappeared some one hundred years ago… Since then, the identity of whomever lived there, and their story was forgotten, and with it the location of the home which was built in one of the remotest parts of the commonwealth had been lost to history.
The only reason that James learned of its existence is from the library of his great grandfather, which was passed down to his grandfather, who were both prominent businessmen in Pennsylvania during the time of the homes construction. His great grandfather started a sawmill in the middle of the 17th century, and he was meticulous when it came to keeping records of his business affairs. While visiting his grandfather’s estate, which his uncle and cousins now live in, James found himself in the library and discovered a box of those records. While he was not particularly interested in his grandfather’s work or business, he was always interested in family history. He decided to briefly thumb through the records, nearly all of them were receipts of lumber purchases, and locations for delivery. The vast majority of those who had the means to have lumber delivered were very wealthy and prominent families that he knew the names of, many of them he had visited himself seeing as his family was also prominent in the area. As he quickly glanced at records, he came across a receipt for a sizable lumber purchase, and location for delivery. The identity of the purchaser was the first detail that caught his eye, he had never heard of them and someone with the means to make a purchase this large is always well known. The second detail that demanded his attention was the location; it was far north of his family’s lumbermill in the middle-eastern part of the state. It was so far north in fact, that it was rare for people to willingly move there, especially not wealthy men who could afford to live in a much more hospitable location. Winters are harsh in the far north, the journey to the land nearest the great lake is treacherous, even in 1800, and it must have been even more difficult a hundred years ago. The people who inhabited that land tended to be pioneers who harvested their own lumber. But that was not the case for the man who placed this order. It immediately piqued the interest of James; he began asking his Uncle for any information, seeing as he now operated the family sawmill; when the questioning of his uncle proved unfruitful he went to the elderly folk of his town with hopes that anyone may have some information.
His investigation was to no avail, no one had heard, or if they had they had not remembered any large home in the most Northern and remote part of the state that his family had provided the lumber for. One fact, however, was brought to the attention of James by an elderly man who had been a family friend for many years; he reminded him that it was no secret that his great-grandfather was a member of at least one secret society in his life. He decided that the best guess was that the man who built the home was a fellow member of one of those secret societies, it seemed the most plausible answer. Those men often had plenty of money, and they tended to enjoy seclusion and even recluse levels of privacy.
Enticed by the mystery, a powerful craving for adventure, and an unexplainable longing in his soul, as if the house were a long-lost friend calling out to him; James Williams made plans to travel north. He set off from Allentown by way of the small dirt road which heads west for nearly a days ride past the cattle fields of the local farmers. Then he came to the small and much less traveled road on which James made a right turn, and began to head north. The chill in the air made him all the more thankful that he had decided to utilize his wagon rather than just riding one of his horses. The decision was not made without debate; bringing the wagon along would cost him at least several extra days of travelling. But as the cold air nipped at his face and the snow fell, he was most willing to take on the extra days for the opportunity to have some extra shelter from the elements. As he continued north, he would occasionally pass through a small village made up of settlers, they were usually not comprised of much more than a handful of log cabins, a Church, and in the larger towns, a bar as well. The days passed and the road became rougher, but some kind of trail was still navigable; “perhaps the wagons of my great-grandfather passed over this same path on the way to deliver the lumber”, James thought to himself. The road becoming rougher was a clear sign that travelers tended to not continue as far as he had, and the lack of villages seemed to be proof that human life was scarce in these parts.
He had to pass through many mountains and cross many streams; thankfully the shallowest and least treacherous bit of the fast-moving water was always where the path chose to cross. For food he would fish in the streams or occasionally find a bird or small beast that was brave enough to venture out into the frigid cold; he would roast them over the fire that he would use for warmth whenever he rested for the night. As he drew closer to the location of the home the woods began to look more welcoming; while plants and trees still grew wild as with the rest of the woods that he passed through, these woods appeared as though once upon a time they had been well kept. There was some evidence of trees being cut, small paths through the woods that would be completely indistinguishable in another hundred years; but it was obvious that someone at some time lived in or around these woods. The path remained small, certainly intended not for the use that major streets enjoy, this was closer to a driveway which leads up to a fine estate. And in just a few short miles James saw his first sign of the estate, a wall several feet high; there was a gate of heavy iron which blocked the path. James dismounted his wagon and inspected the gate; it was rusted but the evidence of its former magnificence shone through the red dust. He checked the hinges to see if they were also rusty, if they were then James would know whether or not the gate had been opened in recent history; he found they were covered by the same red dust, and when he pushed against the gate he discovered them rusted to such an extent that it took every ounce of strength he had just to move the heavy iron gate. When the gate was open just enough to pass through, he mounted his wagon. James sat up a little straighter and his eyes lost the haze that overtakes one during from a long journey with no excitement, the hidden object of his desire was drawing nearer and his heart burned to lay eyes on the home.
As he continued up the path, he noticed that to either side was what clearly used to be a garden, there he saw the homes well and a short but relatively large stone structure that he had never seen before; he noticed it had five points but that was the only detail that stuck out to him. Of course the garden was overgrown but there still remained some semblance of organization; the trees were placed in a line, the bushes were laid out in such a way that appeared to form various circles, much like the gardens of the estates back home which used bushes to section off different places of the gardens to give privacy to those who wished to be out of doors but not seen. It was once a fine garden, James was sure of that, but it paled in comparison to the magnificence of the home which rested just a hundred yards from where James found himself. He snapped the reins and pressed onward faster. This was the first moment that he regretted bringing the wagon, if he were sitting in the saddle of his horse free from the weight of it, he would have already been within the home. As he drew closer the sun was beginning to set but there was more than enough light for James to find the hitching post which sat at the end of the drive. He dismounted and unhitched his mare from the wagon and secured her to the old hitching post.
He retrieved the large candles that he had brought with him and when he had lit one, he proceeded towards the house. He first walked the circumference of the exterior of the home to check for signs of human life outside. As he went he quickly peered into the large windows to get a glimpse of the interior of the estate, the cry calling out to him only got louder with each passing window he gazed into, his heart yearned desperately to pass through the front door and enter. When he had circled the home and ensured it was empty, which he believed surely it was; he turned the solid brass handle of the large front door and pushed it open. The creaking was loud, as if it were an iron door of a mausoleum that was being opened for the first time in many ages to reveal inside the treasure that a great king was laid to rest with. The front door opened into a large room which seemed to welcome him as if he were a long-expected guest. There were two flights of stairs, one on either side of the room which extended up to the third floor with a landing at the second. A large balcony hung over the great room facing the front door as if the stairs were just there to frame the welcoming face of the host who once stood there and watched as his guests entered. There was a large hall that passed under the balcony that seemed to lead directly into the heart of the home, which is where the feet of James carried him in his trance. There were doors on either side of the hall which he did not bother opening and none of them were open; his feet continued floating down the long and grand hall.
Finally, James noticed an archway approaching on his left, his feet never stopped but he saw that if one passed under the arch, they would find themselves in a fine dining hall. The table was enormous; twelve chairs lined each side with a single seat on each end which appeared like thrones. Even from a distance the craftsmanship of the table was obvious in the engravings on the legs of the table and the backs of the chairs. In fact, he thought to himself of the magnificent quality of the craftsman ship of the whole home. From the large front doors which were made of a single slap of hardwood, to the trim that framed the windows; it was immaculate. Unlike anything he had ever seen, and certainly not like anything he expected to find here. He had found himself surprised at the extent of the money the inhabitants must have had; it exceeded even his expectations, which he formed based on their lumber purchase; this of course made the mystery all the more enticing. When he finally got to the library in the home which seemed to eternally rest at the end of the grand hall; he was astounded at the size of it. At least fifty feet by fifty feet, twelve feet tall at the very least, and every wall was covered in those magnificent maple bookshelves from floor to ceiling, there remained not one single empty place where another book could be stored.
As James Williams explored the library with his candle in hand the substance of the books perhaps became the most unexplainable part of the whole mystery. Many of them were handwritten and untitled, nearly every book was bound in fine leather. Some of the books contained notes, nearly all of them were religious, or Alchemic with the vast majority being Occult; quite different from the libraries of the Christian aristocrats back home. His still young life had thus far been spent as a student of all, he craved knowledge more than nearly anything else, so this library tickled his fancy quite well. He had done some studying into Alchemy and dark magic, although he did not practice them himself, he still thought it best to be well informed, and he found himself compelled towards the subjects for some unknown reason. As he chose random books from the shelves, he almost never knew what he would find when he opened them, since most of them were untitled. How the man who compiled the library ever found what he was searching for perplexed James greatly. But he carried on choosing books at random, now more determined than ever to find out more about the mysterious inhabitant. The handwritten books were the ones he found most intriguing, the works he had discovered thus far were dated to before the invention of the printing press in the 15th century. As he continued exploring the intellectual maze of the grand library he came across another handwritten work with the same handwriting as all the rest, what was unusual of this book was the date of writing, it read 1650. Seeing as the writing style was the same throughout all of the books, and the language was the same, James decided that the books with older dates were actually copies, seeing as if they were written at the time of the date, the language and colloquialisms would have matched works from that time. The older dated books must have been hand copies of works written originally in past times or at least notes from them, and the dates must have reflected the age of the original work. He wondered where the author was able to find the originals that he took notes from or copied into the leather-bound books that now filled the library.
Up until this point the book dated 1650 was the most recent work in the library, and since it was handwritten, James thought that perhaps it was written by the owner of the library and may hold some secrets as to who he was. Secrets it did hold, and whatever answers he found recorded in the 150-year-old ink just led to more questions, they really were no answers at all. They recorded events from history that the author wrote from the first person, as if he were there. “It must be the musings of a writer attempting to write a story” James thought to himself. But as he continued flipping pages of the notebook that seemed less likely. Of course, as a well-educated man he had some formal training in literature and writing, and he had read a great many books, and this was unlike anything he had ever seen. While it started retelling seemingly historical events from the first person, there was a clear change in the type of literature. It became explicitly occult in nature with some alchemy sprinkled in, but it was not a story about those topics. It was more like a textbook, or perhaps the spell books that are spoken of in hushed voices by those interested in the ancient tales of Wizards and magic of old which were passed down from past generations. Some of it were the most basic teachings which he had read before; the basic elements and substances of the earth, the most basic occult rituals… nothing outstanding or particularly memorable. There were some basic medicinal herbs, and various other medical practices. The author seemed to have a particular interest in the Greek idea of balance in the human body and the world and as it relates to health, and this is where the seemingly disorganized work started to become organized. As James read the pages relating to balance he could not help but remembering the Physician from Plato’s Symposium and how that book spoke of “bodily filling and emptying.” From what James understood of this ancient Greek idea, there was a certain balance that the world and each human body has, and that balance maintains life. James thought to himself that it appeared as though the author believed that we could balance life for life, one person can continue living so long as another dies in his place. As he read further it became increasingly obvious that the author was interested in using his knowledge of the occult, alchemy, and various ancient religions and medical practices to find what James knew as the “elixir of immortality.” It is a legend that has been passed down and it was, along with the Philosophers stone, the object of desire for the Alchemists of old. And by the end of that notebook, he had concluded that whoever penned the work was surely seeking the key to an extraordinarily long, if not eternal life. The author seemed to believe that each legend throughout history had some cornel of truth, and he seemed to follow those truths through various alchemic and occult practices, ancient medicine, and even more ancient religious mythologies, the chief focus of the author was the Greeks and balance. On the very last line of the book was written “Continued in book 271”.
He had never noticed any marking system in the books before, but he didn’t look for one either, so after flipping to the front of the book he flipped the very first page to expose the inside of the front cover, and there in the upper corner he found a number. The book he had just finished was “Book 268”. Leaving that book open on the large table in the middle of the library, he set off to find book 271. The first place to check was exactly three books next to the empty spot on the shelf left by the book that was now laying open on the table, but much to his frustrations, neither to the left nor to the right of the empty space was the book anywhere to be found. As he began quickly pulling books off the shelf and checking the number he was able to discover no sort of pattern whatsoever, and after he had felt like he had searched the entire library he took a break to see how far he had gone and how many shelves he had yet to check; he had covered not even an eighth of the vast library. So, he turned his attention towards the books again and started thumbing open the front cover to check the number. Each individual shelf was about four feet wide, and extended from the floor to the ceiling, he checked every book on each shelf starting from the highest level, which required the ladder that rolled along a track on each wall, and he worked his way to the floor.
As James Williams was still searching for the book, he was mulling over possibilities for the potential owner of the library, and the potential author of the books, he was undecided whether he believed they were the same person or not yet. As he was near the end of the search for book 271, he was imagining who could be the author of the books, and in the mindless search his thoughts wandered to what might seem like very imaginative ideas. Although he lived in the America’s his whole life, as had his immediate ancestors, being of an aristocratic family he had visited various places in Europe to visit with family and friends there, and likewise acquaintances in Europe had visited the Americas. In Europe it doesn’t much matter what country you are from, legend spreads like wildfire spreads across the dense brush of the American frontier, and he had heard legends which arose just the century prior of a man who is remembered as the “Count of St. Germain”. His real name is unknown, but what is known is that he was an explorer who rose to prominence first among intellectuals for his studies in science, alchemy, philosophy, the arts, and occult studies. The legend goes that he had discovered the key to eternal life, throughout his long life many men and legends throughout European history which are shrouded in mystery are attributed to whoever the Count was, whatever role he played and name he took at that moment in history. But as quickly as the thought came to the young man, he thumbed open the cover of a book and it was 271, so his imagination was put to rest for the present.
When he strode twenty or so paces back to the table where he had been doing his studies while utilizing the library, he immediately sat down and opened the book to the first page. It was in fact a continuation of the previous book; when he reread the last paragraph in 268, he shifted his eyes to book 271 and he found just a paragraph break separated the two books. This work stayed perfectly in-line with the theme that was developed in the last quarter of the previous one: the theme of balance and its possible relationship to eternal life. After several pages which just comprised of Greek quotes on balance in the universe and human bodies, there was a shift in literary style yet again. It became a historical narrative; it read much like the first chapters of Holy Scripture. It told a creation account of the world, it told of a Father figure creating what can only be explained as angelic beings, and it told of the creation of mankind. It was not a myth that the young man was familiar with, but that is not saying much, there are many creation myths recounted in history. This one did have a striking similarity to the Christian account though, the fall of man was recounted with shocking consistency, it seemed as though the murder of Abel was recounted in different language than a Christian may be accustomed to, but the symbolism was nearly identical. “What does this have to do with anything else I’ve read so far?” James thought, and with just a few turns of the page he found his answer: in the form of a poem:
“Blood is sweet and powerful,
The life of a man is so there stored,
It can be yours to surely live forevermore.
Now on this night, take up your knife,
Find a victim and stay out of sight,
By your hand their life must end tonight.
Offer the blood on an alter to me,
A most generous thanksgiving
For wisdom I have revealed to thee.
Now feel the strength in you revived,
Today you tasted eternal life,
It can be yours forever if you’d just be mine.
It will not last but 50 years,
When then the life will leave you,
And you must kill again and to me sacrifice dearly.”
The poem was sung to a man by “Soilsitheoir”, who, according to the creation account James found, he recognized as being what he would call “Lucifer.” Who the poem was sung to was unknown, perhaps it was the figure of Cain who was cursed to never die, at least that was one idea that bounced around in his entranced mind... His imagination was once again interrupted by a realization, the balance of the universe and human body that the author of the books so heavily referenced from the Greeks, is the same truth that was revealed by Soilsitheoir. “A life for a life, it maintains the balance of the universe. That must then be the key that unlocks the secret to eternal life,” James thought in his mind; but in his excitement nearly shouted in the library. “But that does not make any sense. People are killed all the time, never have we seen a murderer or soldier who has taken life live forever.” James reread the poem, and the very last line Soilsitheoir spoke of some kind of sacrifice. He immediately remembered the books that he had flipped through before finding 268, one of them was solely dedicated to the study of sacrificial ritual. He immediately fetched the book and as he read instructions for various sacrificial rituals, he came across a page which had the top corner bent over to mark something of importance. On the top line of that page was written “Sacrifice to Soilsitheoir.” The ritual was a specific sacrificial ritual in which a blade is first forged and consecrated to the Luciferian figure, this blade then must be used to slit the throat of a human victim, any other blade will render the ritual useless. An altar must be made of stone, and the stones are to be arranged in the shape of a star and wood is the be stacked inside of the arranged stones, as if creating a burning star on earth. The victim is to be laid on their back with their feet touching the point of the star facing towards the south, and their blood is to be sprinkled along the whole edge of the stone altar. The heart is then to be cut out by the consecrated blade and the one performing the ritual is to take one single bite from it, and the rest is to be thrown into the center of the star. The offeror then makes a single incision across his palm and drips his blood onto the burning heart while praying to the Luciferian Soilsitheoir. The blood that the offeror consumes, if the ritual is performed correctly, transfers the remaining life of the victim into the dark soul performing the ritual. It is a dark ritual and one that has been a well-kept secret. In none of the studies the James has done into the topic had he ever heard of this ritual, much less the name of Soilsitheoir. And from where this information came to the author to be able to record it, was another mystery. But at least one mystery was solved, whoever lived in this house was in fact a devoted practitioner of the occult, and by all appearances he lived out here for the secrecy it afforded. Perhaps the owner of the home was in search of eternal life; perhaps he found it and was satisfied to move on, or maybe he died in his search. At the bottom of the page, under the diagram of the star alter and the instructions for performing the offering was a brief note; not more than two or three lines. It was presumably written by someone who had performed the ritual and gained at least some years added to their life. James mentally summarized it as a short mathematical equation that was used to calculate the life that would be gained from the victim. The younger the age of the victim and the greater their innocence would reap more life than an older or morally corrupted victim. The equation was likely used when deciding what victim to choose when they life of the previous sacrifice was fleeting from the veins of the offeror. James Williams pondered on those who had given their lives in pursuit of the evil souls quest for eternal life; perhaps infants had been slain, maybe a holy monk would provide many years. More than likely the evil wretches of the earth were passed over, safe from the blade of those seeking eternal life. It was a cruel quest that seemed to have the annihilation of everything good as its goal.
It had been several weeks of studying in the library and James Williams had just begun to scratch the surface. What he discovered in those few short weeks was more knowledge of this world than he may ever hope to gain for the remainder of his life. He wanted to, nay, he needed to learn as much as he could before his time in the home had to end; for this reason, James elected to briefly read as many books as possible rather than reading fewer in their entirety. This method proved fruitful, he learned of ancient religions lost to time, the locations of ancient cities long since forgotten, he learned the truths behind many mysteries that had haunted the pages of books; he even learned how to turn lead to gold. But he had other matters to attend back home, and he must depart with just the memory of the home and a new legend to pass on through generations. He decided to keep the location of this home a secret, on his journey here he found no other homes or people for at least sixty miles to the south-east, Ohio was still nearly uninhabited, and the great ocean sized lake was to the north. The odds of anyone finding the home were low; the chances of someone devoting weeks to study the books in the library were even lower. It pained him greatly to depart the walls of the home, as if he were leaving one that he loved with the likelihood of never seeing them again; with every book he placed back on the shelf, they became heavier, as if begging him to allow them to drag him back to the table which he had come to adore so much. Finally, after much struggling, the books all found their proper places on the shelves and the library seemed to rest peacefully once again.
On the way out of the home he had to travel through the great hall once again; but this time his feet did not float across the hardwood floors; they dragged and weighed James down, he was sure they the weight of his feet would leave marks on the pristine floors. As he passed by the familiar walls of the hall he noticed through an open door a magnificent desk in an otherwise empty room, the sun was up and there was a window directly behind the desk shining light on a book that was neatly placed directly in the center, a quill and dried ink rested next to it; left as if the owner intended to pick up where he left off in just a few short moments but became occupied with a brief one hundred yearlong task, and forgot. The book he saw appeared to have the same binding as the rest of the handwritten books in the library, dark leather with rough edges and no markings on the spine. James thought that this book may hold the answer to the question that he had been pondering since he first entered the library. Were the author and owner of the home were the same person? All he had to do was match the handwriting. He opened the book and immediately found the handwriting the same; when he checked the date, almost exactly one hundred years to the day, “1699” is what it said. Curiosity got the best of James, “one more book won’t delay my arrival home by more than a few hours,” with his thoughts reassuring his rationality, his heart could fulfill its lustful desire and remain in the home for just a few moments longer. He took a seat on the desk chair that had not been sat on for one hundred years and began turning pages. It was unlike any of the other books; it read like a banker’s record book which records transactions, dates, debts, and names of the clients. The book on the desk had written on its yellowing pages; names with seemingly random numbers and dates next to them. Occasionally there was a note referring to a move from one part of the world to the next, and the move to Pennsylvania was recorded in 1670, the year construction on the home began. The beginning of the book had names with dates extending back to before the birth of Christ, and some more recent inputs recorded on the last page referenced names with dates extending up to 1701 at the latest. It was both a copy of previous records prior to 1699 and the records that extended into the authors time living in Northern Pennsylvania. What the numbers meant next to the names, James did not know.
When he had briefly read the book and found it most dull and least interesting of all the rest he had read; he flipped the last page to expose the inside of the back cover. There he found one final input which read as “James Williams, 24, 1800.” Reading those words, he felt frozen solid, unable to rip his eyes from the writing; his heart began beating fast, but not as one who is experiencing great fear, rather his heartbeat as that of a man when he first embraces his new bride. His mind immediately began searching for an answer, but he found none. And when he had finally been broken free of his trance and dropped the book onto the desk, the front door of the old home creaked open, the familiar sound of the hinges that he remembered so vividly from when he first entered the home echoed down the hall; and a rough voice with the wisdom of ages resounded all throughout the abandoned colonial home. It said:
“I have lived many years. I have been called many things. Today I am the Count. Though I am eternal, perhaps tomorrow the Count no more…
And then the voice began reciting a poem in one of the finest voices that James had ever heard...
“Soilsitheoir a mighty demon of old,
Ferocious yet gentle,
Calculated and cold.
Brutal towards men,
Whether his friend or foe,
Granting secrets of life
At the cost of my woe.
Their life for mine,
What could be more just?
That’s what Soilsitheoir told me,
And so I must…
Kill again.
Offer the blood of James,
Innocent and young,
But it won’t be in vain.
If I die Soilsitheoir
Will have nowhere to go,
I am his friend,
Though he treats me like foe.
I was warned of hell,
But all the same,
I will be with Soilsitheoir
Paying the price of our game.
A bet against God,
A wager of my life,
I will live forever
By the blade of my knife.
Soilsitheoir swore
That I would live eternal,
No need of God anymore.
Soilsitheoir I am yours,
I am yours to my core…”
James heard a brief pause… and as if replying to itself, the voice, ever so slightly different than before, sang the final verse.
“Yes my son… and human no more.”
The End
Signed,
Soilsitheoir
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Sincerely,
John, Son of Dick