A Tale of Jean Philippe Sanguerin
And did Jean Philippe remember as he lay? When the great empire was no more and the shadows of the continuous winter had been cast upon the land for as long as memory could allow. The night was the domain where the evil spirits roamed and man kept still in his abode. Then on sacred ground, did the good knight Galeas slay the mighty demon-wolf, sending Varcolac and his kind back to the Otherworld, putting an end to the darkness. The Feeric folk fled to the forest, banished from mans’ sight and light returned once more. The land was cleansed by spiritual men who spread the word of the one god and his son and for an age all was peace and tranquillity, until men became dissatisfied. They had misunderstood ‘the word’, so with hearts full of sin and with minds full of greed, they journeyed far to a holy place, where redemption was thought be found. Only fires interrupted the darkness and it would soon cast a spell across the land again and the evil would return.
Drawn to the dark by foolish curiosity and driven by madness, Jean Philippe Sanguerin had awoken the evil spirits again and joined with the demon. He laid bare the Christian promise, causing his terrible havoc and mayhem, from the north, through the Valleys, to the plains in the south, then to the mountains in the East. With the bloodline of Varcolac running through his veins, his hate reached far and wide. Those holy men had fallen to their knees and his howl spread fear into even the bravest of hearts. Shot by silver arrows and stabbed with golden daggers, poisoned and drowned, stoned and hanged. None knew how to rid themselves of this turmoil and no man knew the secret of how to kill the beast. Until one day a girl came down from the mountains. A fair maid of tender years, with eyes as clear as crystal and heart as pure as his hate, she knew, to lure him to sacred ground and now here he lay lifeless at her feet. Jean Philippe was gone and Varcolac returned to the darkness. And there the great demon would sleep, until called upon once more, by those who might have hate in their hearts.
The clock ticks and so quietly we sleep, more baffled and bewildered than the day before, unable to grasp this elusive peace of mind, which remains tantalisingly out of reach. Restless with unease, sinking deeper and deeper only to be caught within a dream of a dream, that teases and taunts with inevitable thoughts of the grave and causes troubled minds of unknown movement below. As those that busy themselves, away from eyes that cannot see and ears that do not hear. So far away as one can imagine and further still, or perhaps as near as beneath your very nose, silent and invisible, they carry on as they do, plotting and planning, awaiting the wisdom of the seer to return. Hidden with the secrets, deep within the ancient earth, beneath their hollow hills, away from the light where Jean Philippe Sanguerin had been and only other, curious fools dream to venture, even upon this ‘the shortest day.’