CHAPTER 1
It’s a habit I picked up over my long, long life – walking at night. It is something I enjoy so terribly much. I love looking at people as they go about. Some of them are on their way home. Others are on their way to work, to some secret or not-so-secret rendezvous, or to simply while away the time. I love the feel of the cold night air on my skin and on my face. Somehow, walking at night is just not the same as walking in the day. The noise and the hubbub that comes with daylight seem subdued and muted at night. And the colors! What might appear garish in the bright light of the sun appears lovely in the gentle light of the moon and the lamps that line the streets.
Taking long unhurried strolls at night has a calming effect on me. It eases the tension of the day and regenerates the body, the mind and the soul. Ah! That word – soul. Have I still one that could pass for a soul? There are times when I sincerely doubt that.
How many walks like this have I had in my lengthy life? To be completely honest, I haven’t the slightest idea. Not an inkling at all. You see, I am immortal. And I use that word in all its preternatural sense.
Let me repeat myself – I am immortal. Death cannot touch me. I am immune to all the lethal diseases that have plagued and are still plaguing mankind. I am impervious to all weapons that human hands have fashioned since the specie first learned to fashion tools from stones and animal bones. I am resistant to all manners of poison and venom, whether natural or otherwise.
But let me be clear about a few things. While I cannot die, I am susceptible to physical pain. Draw a knife across my bare skin and I will bleed. But the wound will close up quickly. Bring down a lead pipe on my skull and you will crush my skull. But by the following day, the bones will have healed. Cut off a part of my body – an appendage, a limb – and somehow, that dismembered part will seek out my body and reattach itself.
I am immortal, yes. I have lived countless lifetimes. But my memory is not perfect. Perhaps because my mind has learned to protect itself, perhaps because there are not enough neurons in this brain of mine to hold all those recollection – whatever the reason, I can only dimly recall all that I have seen, heard, or lived through. Although I did notice that my recall becomes extremely sharp and focused when remembering something or someone is vital to my safety or survival. In those times, everything becomes vivid and clear.
When was I born? I simply do not know. It must have been in some remote past where the keeping of meticulous records of births and deaths was not done. I, therefore, have no document to tell me when I came into this world.
How was I schooled? I remember attending several universities of the Old World. And that was when Oxford was still to be granted its charter by the king. I have dim remembrances of sitting among the toga-wearing youth of Ancient Greece to listen to the long discourses of philosophers and thinkers. But I cannot be too certain. I have a trunkful of diplomas on parchment, vellum and paper conferred by various institutions throughout the world. And most of these are for reading history and classical literature. Ironic? Perhaps. I suppose I was curious to see how “modern” scholars understand the words and works of the classical masters. I suppose I wanted to hear how the events that I have seen with my own eyes are interpreted by authorities of today. You cannot imagine how much I enjoyed those classes. Most of the time, I could hardly control myself from breaking out into hysterical laughter as I sat there listening to self-proclaimed experts on this or that history, culture or civilization describe events that they barely have any idea of. Those degrees were conferred to me not so much for “learning” as for amusing myself at their hypocritical intelligence.
How do I look? Am I wrinkled and bent like an ancient crone? I am not. I look the same as I did in all my old photos. Place my most recently taken photo with the oldest daguerreotype I have and you’ll see that I have barely aged. In fact, you will see that time has not touched me at all.
I am average looking. I wouldn’t even stand out in a crowd. Which, considering my situation, is a good thing – and which I actually prefer. I loathe being made the center of attention. I can’t bear having everyone else’s eyes on me. I would rather blend in with the all those nameless faces in the crowd.
You ask about my appearance? As I have said, I am as plain as you could possibly get. You might say I favour the athletic type – I am built like a swimmer. Although I do tend to neglect myself every now and then and inadvertently starve my body. I shall explain why in a while. Such a built is a blessing for an immortal. It enables me to move quickly when needed.
Hair: that is my one vanity. I have always followed whatever is in fashion, be it powdered wigs or short-cropped Prussian hair. Rummage through trunks and trunks of my photos and you will see countless images of me wearing my hair in every conceivable manner ever thought of by the human race.
And yes, my eyes. Those are what usually give an immortal away. I have heard and read of tales of others like me whose presence was discovered by the unnatural colour or hue of their eyes. Some had eyes of an eerie shade of blue. Not the blue that is the hallmark of the people of the northern climes. But the azure of an untouched lagoon. Others bore eyes of grey. Still, others had eyes the colour of royal purple. But all of them had one thing in common – their eyes were almost transparent, too glasslike to be human. And mine? I have yet to hear tales of anyone having eyes like mine. My eyes are of the deepest black. In fact, they are so dark that no light reflects from them. Staring into my eyes, I have once been told, is like staring into a bottomless abyss. I believe the modern comparison would be looking into the heart of a black hole.
Perhaps that is what unsettles anyone I talk to. One even remarked that he felt like being drawn into a bottomless pit. That used to be a problem in the centuries prior to this age. There was no way for me to hide my eyes aside from averting them from the eyes of whoever I am conversing with. Unfortunately, such a gesture is often taken as proof incontrovertible of guilt over something or of rudeness and lack of breeding.
But now, I can walk into an optical shop and purchase a pair of disposable contact lenses. And even select a coloured set. In my experience, among the people of the Old World, blue and grey are the most common colour of the iris. Among the Asians, it is hazel or light brown.
But where are my manners. You may think me bereft of manners. Here I am rambling on and on, and I have not even introduced myself. My dearly departed father would have disapproved of such an ungentlemanly conduct.
Allow me to make a belated introduction. My name is Stephen.
I was named after the first Christian martyr. Though truth be told, I am not a religious person. Now, don’t get me wrong. I am not an atheist. I am agnostic. I shall delve on this matter in greater detail later on.
This whole opus is a collection of my musings and ruminations about life and the universe – about anything and everything that catches my fancy. I have tried to be candid to the point of bluntness. I wish to hide nothing.
-Sir Sej-
