Parallel World

Chapter 3

I was born in Wales on April 10, 1893 and my parents named me John Franklin Spencer. I had an ordinary childhood and adolescence, nothing worth mentioning here.

My life truly began after the outbreak of the Great War in 1914 when I was mobilised. I was 21 years old and full of foolish enthusiasm and pride, just like everyone else in my regiment. In the world we had been born in wars meant epic battles, elaborate uniforms, grand victories and public admiration.

That was soon to change. Three years of war changed my perception of the world completely. Should I ever publish my war journals they would make the complete works of Alexandre Dumas père look like a compilation of short stories. The first thing I learnt was that the rigid British class system did not apply there. Both working class and noble men lived and fought together. Instead of grand battles we spent most of our time stuck in muddy trenches. We saw the introduction of new weapons and later grasped for breath after yet another chemical attack. Friendship, loyalty, betrayal, incompetence of senior officers, disillusionment, destruction, death - I experienced all that. Us soldiers thought and talked a lot and we discovered that no-one had to be persuaded to join the army, even men who were exempt from military service had cheated their way in here. And every single one of them had become just as dispirited as I was.

In early May 1917 we were near the German-French border. We had suffered a heavy defeat recently, lost a lot of men and the Germans had pushed us several miles back. My last battle was also the deadliest - everyone was either dead or fatally wounded. I could hear agony and farewells around me but I was too weak even to whisper anything. In my thoughts I said goodbye to my family, then I lost consciousness.

When I woke up I realised I was inside a house and there was a worried young woman examining me. She asked me something but unfortunately I could not understand her. She was French and I only knew a few words in her language, not enough to hold a conversation. I replied in English but I could tell by the look on her face that it was not a language she spoke. She grabbed a pencil and some paper and started drawing something, then gave it to me. I was amazed at how talented she was, her drawings were so lifelike.

She had found me on the battlefield and carried me back to her house. The language barrier prevented me from asking what she was doing there and how a small and fragile woman like her had managed to lift and move me.

Cecile, that was her name, tried to nurse me back to health but ordinary medicine could not help me anymore. Although she provided better medical care than any doctor I had ever met - and that was another thing that surprised me - I knew my life has coming to an end. I was 24 years old.

Cecile became visibly upset. She started pacing around the room, looking for a solution, then sat next to my bed and started drawing. Just minutes later she gave me several sheets of paper that created a story. The drawings showed the life of a young girl: coming of age, illness, family grave, the same girl standing at a grave. Her face bore a striking resemblance to Cecile. She pointed at two numbers: year of birth - 1779, year of death - 1804. I was confused. What was going on here? If Cecile had drawn herself it meant she had been dead for more than a hundred years! How could she be dead, she was right in front of me! Cecile continued drawing. The next sheet of paper she showed me depicted creatures that looked like humans but fed on blood, followed by various self-portraits. Her face looked exactly the same in all of them. The only difference was the year written underneath - 1917, 1930, 1970, 2000...

"La vie... éternelle..." Cecile said.

Already when I first saw her I thought she was too beautiful to be real. Cecile looked as if she had just stepped out of an old painting - she had very long blond hair, mesmerising blue eyes and flawless skin. As it turned out, I had been right. She was not a human.

Cecile handed me another drawing. This time I was looking at my own face - she offered to transform me.

Eternal youth and a life that never ends... I did not have much time to think. I said "yes". It was May 10, 1917.

Since I had nowhere to go Cecile offered me to stay with her. Initially we got by using sign language and drawings but I asked Cecile to speak French to me. Just a few months later I was fluent enough to ask her all the burning questions I had.

Cecile told me her house was not far away from the battlefield and on that fateful day she had gone there to see the destruction and suffering humans could inflict on each other. She saw a lot of bodies but something made her stop when she stumbled across me. Then she noticed I was still alive and decided to save me. She thought it was really unfair that I had to die so young.

We lived together for ten years. Cecile helped me to adapt to my new life and, when we decided to part ways, wished me luck. She stayed in her village whereas I went back to Great Britain. I could not bear returning to Wales, I knew I would be tempted to check up on my family, so I decided to go to Dover instead and then decide what to do next.