The cursed chronicle
"Sir, why don't you also teach the afternoon batch?", asked one of the students.
Albert smiled and placed the heavy book — from which he was reading — on the desk, firming both his palms on to the old mahogany.
"I respect your lot, that's why. You see, the ones who are studying in the regular batch are there because their parents want them there or they are following a tradition. Some of them are just there to give company to others. Whereas you lot! you guys are different. You work during the day and you come here at night to study. You're not here because your parents are forcing you or you want a place to crash or make new friends. You are here because you want to do something meaningful with your education. It's rare in your generation and I respect that."
"Professor, you read from that old book of yours but you teach us from the one assigned by the university and we know you hate it. Why not teach us from the one you like?" queried Peter. "Cause that is the book whose history will carry weight in your examinations," replied Albert. "No matter how fallacious it is!"
"You aren't that old Professor, your syllabus must have been something similar. What makes you think it is fallacious?" enquired one more curious student.
"A fascinating trait certainly. Us humans. No matter which century we reside in, the trait to judge a person's knowledge based on their age, race or monetary state never ceases. Nowadays we construct our facts based on postulates. With time I think it has only cemented its position in our DNA."
"Anyway," sighed Albert quietly resting back on his chair, "I have seen more in my small existence, boys. More than I can seize. Sometimes I sense I have been toured by the devil's carnation. Thankfully all that were just nightmares."
"What makes you so sure that our books are wrong?" asked Peter leaning back on his seat. "I have seen... I mean... I have heard... stories. Stories which have been carried down by generations. Stories which are not maligned by the government's puny hidden intentions to repaint history. The unadulterated version of reality. This book here, this is not history. Well, not in its entirety. It's a farce. Terming women who believed in anyone other than the Christ as witches. Burning them at the stake — accusing them of dark magic. People who unknowingly got cursed into immortality —"
"How can immortality be a curse?!"
Feeling that he has already said more than he meant, Albert tried to restrain himself. "It's quite a complicated matter."
"Heck! It's much more interesting than what the 'government' is trying to teach us." snorted Peter.
Cornered as he was — seeing no other way to digress — Albert resorted to the truth (or his version of the truth). He closed the book. The students had closed their books way before him. Considering the seriousness sparked by the curious eyes of his disciples he began...
"As opposed to the popular belief, immortality is not only living till eternity, it also implies living till eternity without your loved ones. To see your cherished ones die in front of you, begging you to pass the curse. Some urge you to go away and never come back. Not because they resent you but because they don't want to be tempted with the prospect of life when they are already in the clutches of death. Immortality is surviving with despair, remorse, hatred, anger and the inability to love someone and even when you do, you can't grow old with them. To see generations perish before you. The constant battle which is going on within you, where one side struggles to stay alive and the other wants to be remembered like you remember the ones that are dead."
"Never considered it that way!" exclaimed another student Ralph, "Professor, seems like you believe that there are beings with... with... the curse. Like those things that suck blood from humans. Vampires they call them. Do you believe in such things?"
"Of course I don't Ralph. There are no such things as blood-sucking immortal creatures whom people refer nowadays as vampires. A fancy name I must say. But the whole notion is against nature. Such things can't exist. Just folklore evolved to keep people interested and make children dread the prospect of exploration. Anyway, enough talking about imaginative things. Let's get back to the matter that matters."
Albert removed his trench coat and placed it on the hanger. Picked up the book he dreaded and resumed reading chapter 4, 'The rise of the Russian revolution'. Students listened with half-hearted interest, not because Albert wasn't a remarkable teacher but because the previous conversation still had some unanswered questions which were lingering in the air. The revolution was paused right at 10 PM. Albert settled his archaic book in the drawer, wore his trench coat and bid his students adieu.
There was murmuring among students as they were leaving in groups, all discussing and presenting their own thoughts and parallels to the idea which was pitched in by their professor. The topic with the highest dissent was the age of their professor. Some thought he was just young with astounding knowledge, while others were adamant that he was old who somehow looked way younger than his actual age. The classroom was getting thinner. "Aren't you coming, Peter?"
"I'll just stick a bit longer. Have one assignment to finish. Need some peace you know. Will catch you later."
All the students had left and Peter was the only one remaining. He moved towards the drawer, the one where Albert had kept his old book. What was this book and why Albert never read it to the class? These questions were bugging Peter. To his astonishment, the drawer wasn't locked. Moral warfare was at its peak in his mind. He admired Albert. Is it acceptable to go through someone's private entities just to satiate one's anxious mind? Peter opened the drawer and the great bulky book glimmered in front of him. The heavy book was hard to settle on the table. Peter also had to manage it cautiously acknowledging the book's almost decaying pages. He flipped the cover and tried to make sense of the faded ink.
'A vast chronicle of necromancy and incantation by Albert Nogtail Santos, The Prince of Santos.'
Why and how his history teacher was in possession of such an archaic and irrelevant book? Who is Albert Nogtail Santos? Was his teacher named after him? He realised his mistake and hurriedly tried to place the book inside the drawer when he saw a silhouette on the opposite wall. The breeze made the long coat of the shadowed figure sway. He was stupefied. His legs felt as if they were cemented. With shallow pants, he appealed the unknown figure, "I'm sorry. Whoever you are just let me go. I was stupid to go through this one. You leave and I won't tell this to anyone, I swear. Please! Please! I don't even know who you are!" But the shadow didn't speak — as they never do.
The longer the stillness prevailed, the harder it became for Peter to breathe. Tears waved down his cheeks but he was rendered entirely paralysed. Peter nearly started to choke and tried to plea through his asphyxiated state but nothing came out.
"You were one of my favourites, Peter." Now Peter knew who was behind him. He didn't need to turn. His history teacher was Albert Nogtail Santos, the writer of this bewitched book. But the book must be 300 to 400 years old. How? Within a second all things aligned perfectly in his oxygen-deprived brain. He knew it was too late. Too late to plea and beg. The inevitable was near and even if he could, he was sure it won't be considered.
"Curious minds have always intrigued me, my boy. Such a dishonour, a curious one as yours would no longer be with us. But you have to understand, I can't let my secret out in the open. Well, I have protected myself for the last 4 centuries. Of course, there had been some odd cases such as yours but these are some necessary precautions one has to take. After all, all that matters is legacy, isn't it!"
Some more choking and Peter died an excruciatingly painful death with his body still standing as rigid as a marble figure.
Feeling that he has already said more than he meant, Albert tried to restrain himself. "It's quite a complicated matter."
"Heck! It's much more interesting than what the 'government' is trying to teach us." snorted Peter.
Cornered as he was — seeing no other way to digress — Albert resorted to the truth (or his version of the truth). He closed the book. The students had closed their books way before him. Considering the seriousness sparked by the curious eyes of his disciples he began...
"As opposed to the popular belief, immortality is not only living till eternity, it also implies living till eternity without your loved ones. To see your cherished ones die in front of you, begging you to pass the curse. Some urge you to go away and never come back. Not because they resent you but because they don't want to be tempted with the prospect of life when they are already in the clutches of death. Immortality is surviving with despair, remorse, hatred, anger and the inability to love someone and even when you do, you can't grow old with them. To see generations perish before you. The constant battle which is going on within you, where one side struggles to stay alive and the other wants to be remembered like you remember the ones that are dead."
"Never considered it that way!" exclaimed another student Ralph, "Professor, seems like you believe that there are beings with... with... the curse. Like those things that suck blood from humans. Vampires they call them. Do you believe in such things?"
"Of course I don't Ralph. There are no such things as blood-sucking immortal creatures whom people refer nowadays as vampires. A fancy name I must say. But the whole notion is against nature. Such things can't exist. Just folklore evolved to keep people interested and make children dread the prospect of exploration. Anyway, enough talking about imaginative things. Let's get back to the matter that matters."
Albert removed his trench coat and placed it on the hanger. Picked up the book he dreaded and resumed reading chapter 4, 'The rise of the Russian revolution'. Students listened with half-hearted interest, not because Albert wasn't a remarkable teacher but because the previous conversation still had some unanswered questions which were lingering in the air. The revolution was paused right at 10 PM. Albert settled his archaic book in the drawer, wore his trench coat and bid his students adieu.
There was murmuring among students as they were leaving in groups, all discussing and presenting their own thoughts and parallels to the idea which was pitched in by their professor. The topic with the highest dissent was the age of their professor. Some thought he was just young with astounding knowledge, while others were adamant that he was old who somehow looked way younger than his actual age. The classroom was getting thinner. "Aren't you coming, Peter?"
"I'll just stick a bit longer. Have one assignment to finish. Need some peace you know. Will catch you later."
All the students had left and Peter was the only one remaining. He moved towards the drawer, the one where Albert had kept his old book. What was this book and why Albert never read it to the class? These questions were bugging Peter. To his astonishment, the drawer wasn't locked. Moral warfare was at its peak in his mind. He admired Albert. Is it acceptable to go through someone's private entities just to satiate one's anxious mind? Peter opened the drawer and the great bulky book glimmered in front of him. The heavy book was hard to settle on the table. Peter also had to manage it cautiously acknowledging the book's almost decaying pages. He flipped the cover and tried to make sense of the faded ink.
'A vast chronicle of necromancy and incantation by Albert Nogtail Santos, The Prince of Santos.'
Why and how his history teacher was in possession of such an archaic and irrelevant book? Who is Albert Nogtail Santos? Was his teacher named after him? He realised his mistake and hurriedly tried to place the book inside the drawer when he saw a silhouette on the opposite wall. The breeze made the long coat of the shadowed figure sway. He was stupefied. His legs felt as if they were cemented. With shallow pants, he appealed the unknown figure, "I'm sorry. Whoever you are just let me go. I was stupid to go through this one. You leave and I won't tell this to anyone, I swear. Please! Please! I don't even know who you are!" But the shadow didn't speak — as they never do.
The longer the stillness prevailed, the harder it became for Peter to breathe. Tears waved down his cheeks but he was rendered entirely paralysed. Peter nearly started to choke and tried to plea through his asphyxiated state but nothing came out.
"You were one of my favourites, Peter." Now Peter knew who was behind him. He didn't need to turn. His history teacher was Albert Nogtail Santos, the writer of this bewitched book. But the book must be 300 to 400 years old. How? Within a second all things aligned perfectly in his oxygen-deprived brain. He knew it was too late. Too late to plea and beg. The inevitable was near and even if he could, he was sure it won't be considered.
"Curious minds have always intrigued me, my boy. Such a dishonour, a curious one as yours would no longer be with us. But you have to understand, I can't let my secret out in the open. Well, I have protected myself for the last 4 centuries. Of course, there had been some odd cases such as yours but these are some necessary precautions one has to take. After all, all that matters is legacy, isn't it!"
Some more choking and Peter died an excruciatingly painful death with his body still standing as rigid as a marble figure.
Comments
Post a Comment