The First Book of the Pure

Chapter 1

Sir, Host and Story Teller

"I count my life in centuries, not years or decades. Those like me are very, very rare. Let me call us by our chosen designation: the ‘Pure.’

Because we are exactly that."

The Host

Kenneth was a reporter with a good reputation, and he was very well known. His career had made him more than a few enemies through the years, but by and large his stories had made him a good living and hadn’t brought him any death threats. He stopped to get his coffee just as he did every day, walking in with his brilliant blue running shoes, his Cincinnati Reds cap pulled rakishly low, with his khaki pants and polo shirt both some shade of universal beige. For all his desire to look different than the average human in the herd, he did not. He inhaled deeply as he walked in, savoring the aroma of various coffees brewing and being enjoyed.

He waited, ordered, chatted up the pretty young Barista, sipped his brew, and started out. He was just walking out of the Starbucks with his triple shot caramel latte, when two large men wearing dark suits lifted him and kept walking like he was a paperweight. He kicked, trying to reach the ground but to no avail. He looked a bit like a cartoon character running on air, getting nowhere, except he was real and this was really happening to him. One man grabbed him under his left arm, lifted his coffee from his grasp and casually dropped it, while the other grabbed his right arm, immobilizing it. Then they simply lifted him into the side door of the van that was already open.

His silence, other than the startled, Hey! was due purely to surprise. As the van gathered speed he determined to be silent no longer. He opened his mouth to yell but couldn’t fail to see the gun leveled at his face. The man holding it looked like he might chew the legs off children before breakfast, and then get really mean. He looked more dangerous than mysterious. He looked like a man who did what he set out to do, no matter what. Since Kenneth was the what in this case, he felt panic rise to the surface, which had not been too far under it. The man said very firmly but softly, Keep your mouth shut and you might live through the day. Unfortunately for you, I’ve done this before, all of it. His cold smile showed his teeth, off color and somewhat twisted. Kenneth, a good and therefore sometimes pushy reporter, was fairly certain the deadly looking man meant every word he said. Kenneth’s immediate reaction was a fast, unthinking retort of, Not your first time, huh?

At that point the man pointed the silenced 9mm at Kenneth’s foot, and said, very low and clearly, I’m not supposed to kill you unless you fight us. Nothin’ was said ‘bout pain or injuries. Next word, got it? So in a completely un-Kenneth like fashion, he kept his mouth shut and tried not to tremble and show his fear in front of these men. He was sure that they, like most predators, could smell fear.

The van drove through the city and eventually sounded like it was in the country, although he couldn’t see because the panels on the sides and back had no windows, and there was a dark barrier just behind the front bucket seats. He stared at the mustached man with the gun, glad the gun was no longer pointing at him, and asked the question with his eyes. The gunman lifted his bushy eyebrows, which also moved the long scar from his left eyebrow down to the bottom of his ear. Kenny he said, my employer won’t harm you if you cooperate with him completely. We’ll arrive in another fifteen or twenty minutes, so just relax. Kenneth nodded, as if to agree, but his pasty complexion and terrified, darting eyes denied that he could really relax. Oddly enough, he most wanted to correct the man and tell him to call him Kenneth. He hadn’t gone by Kenny since he was twelve.

As they traveled, Kenneth tried to mentally label his immediate tormentor, the man with the gun. His cold, sweat producing terror was such that he came up with almost nothing. Scarface wasn’t too helpful, instilling even more fear in him. But Scarface it was. He couldn’t stop thinking of him that way. The further they drove, the more restless he became. He had no trouble mentally labeling the other two men, and decided on Tweedle Dee for the driver, who said nothing, and Tweedle Dum for the guy next to him.

Once the van had stopped moving, Tweedle Dum jumped out and opened the side door. The man with the gun, Bertram he later found his name to be, simply sat looking at him and waved the gun to indicate he should step out of the door. Kenneth was no fool, and had covered some fairly dangerous events in the past for his stories. He followed directions without giving the men any trouble.

As he looked at the estate before him he saw a home that implied great wealth. Truly palatial, surrounded by high walls and beautiful landscaping, it was more castle-like than homey. So, we’re fifty minutes outside of Washington DC. Where are there mansions like this? He was escorted into the main house and into what seemed to be a very well-stocked library. The walls were covered with a rich mahogany, with stained glass lamps and a magnificent chandelier. He was made to sit in a very comfortable, deep leather chair. It was the kind of leather chair that he hadn’t splurged on, even with his better than average income, the kind he imagined might be in high class country clubs or exclusive gentlemen’s clubs. As that thought went through his mind, he was suddenly sorry he’d never accepted an invitation to such a club for an evening on leather such as this, minus the thugs escorting him, of course. In fact, he was wishing he was in exactly that kind of club, casually sharing quips with associates, right now. He rubbed the leather on the chair arms again; it was so warm and supple it felt like the steer might still be wearing it. He inhaled the rich scent and let it ease his fear some. He was an olfactory kind of guy. At that point Scarface said to him, again very gently, Sit still, and wait for my employer. You don’t need to know his name or nothin’ about him that he don’t offer to tell you. I can’t stress this enough. Don’t ask questions or pressure him. I would hate to have to dump your body and start this over with another reporter. He narrowed his eyes as he looked at Kenneth. It’s too much extra work. Just before he turned and walked out of the study, the man gave Kenneth a smile so cold and filled with threatening implications that Kenneth felt a chill as he gripped the chair arms. He desperately hoped he wouldn’t be asked to give as much as the steer he was sitting on had given.

***

About ten minutes later a tall, dignified looking man entered the room with the very blond hair of a Norwegian, maybe a Swede. He looked about thirty five, Kenneth thought, but it was really hard to gauge for some reason. While he was fair skinned, he also had the darkest eyes the reporter had ever seen. The smile he offered to Kenneth was quite the opposite of the one he had just gotten from Scarface. It exuded warmth and almost relaxed Kenneth, who had never been escorted anywhere before at gun point. He sincerely hoped this kind of thing wouldn’t become a habit.

I want to make this simple for you, and as clear as possible. You may refer to me simply as Sir, because that’s all I’ll answer to. There’s no reason for you to know my name. You are in considerable danger here, young man, so take nothing for granted. This is going to take a few days, I expect, so we’ve made arrangements with your employer. It’s been made clear that you’re chasing an undercover story that you just had to have. He gave that radiant smile again and continued. "You know how you irrepressible young reporters are, always chasing after the next big story. Your ex-wife and mother of your two young children seemed to think the explanation was plausible. Trust me when I tell you that what she was told was very believable.

It seems very odd to me that I’m willing to share with you something that I have not shared through all of my considerable years. No living outsider knows of this great truth I shall share with you. Those dark, unreadable eyes caught him up, and Kenneth was suddenly a reporter again, and had more than a fleeting interest in what was about to be told. There was a touch of German in this guy, but the white blond hair and dark eyes were throwing Kenneth off. He also noticed the man’s odd speech pattern, with very few contractions, and almost, ‘proper’.

I have never felt it wise or prudent to share with anyone any more than is absolutely necessary. Let me explain why I am making this one unprecedented exception. I want this recorded, written down for posterity. I want someone who has a gift with words to write this incredible history down, not that it will necessarily be shared with anyone. At least I will have it. But let us move on to the meat of the matter.

Wait, interrupted Kenneth. You said, ‘considerable years,’ and you’re obviously in your thirties.

He pierced him with that lifeless stare. Things are rarely what they seem. I count my life in centuries, not years or decades. Those like me are very, very rare. Let me call us by our chosen designation: the ‘Pure.’ Because we are exactly that. He paused as if he were thinking about how to approach this fantastic story that could well be dismissed as nonsense.

Vampires! You kidnap me to tell me some fantastic tale about vampires? spouted an outraged Kenneth, unable to contain his anger any longer, as it now outweighed his fear.

Nonsense. Vampires are legend and creations in stories. No such thing. What I’m telling you is simple and true: I’ve lived longer than you can believe. You see, we have already established that you cannot believe it.

What about your children if this is so? Kenneth was wondering what he had done to deserve being chosen to hear this tale. There should be lots and lots of people by now, living what, hundreds of years? Hardly a secret that could be kept!

Those same dark eyes that had seemed so captivating before now seemed threatening when they turned to him. Without blinking the man said, I shall give you opportunities to ask questions when I choose. Interrupt me again and I shall simply eliminate you and share this history with someone else. Without waiting for any kind of response from his listener to this open threat, he took a breath and continued. But, a fair question, so I shall answer it. Our children live long lives, and unusually healthy ones. I have some sons over 100; let’s see, I think 103 and 105. Others are spread the full gamut of age, from fairly young to very old. Most of them, however, will show little to none of Pure traits, and will live the usual paltry seventy to ninety or so years in all probability. He laughed his throaty, practiced laugh again. "I’ve spread my seed far and wide you know. My Pure children will live in strength and health, as I do. You look ready to burst, sir. You’ve a question already? Please, ask it at this time. Forgive the earlier death threat, but do not dismiss it. Your life is short, and therefore doesn’t seem terribly important to me. Death for you isn’t really the threat that it would be to me. Your loss would lose you just a few years compared to what I would lose if my life were forfeit, not that I expect that to happen. But, your question…" he asked, with a lift of his full, blonde eyebrows.

Kenneth was very tentative in his question. So, just how many Pure children do you have, and is your experience with offspring the same pattern as others of, the, uh, Pure?

His host answered with a predatory smile. I really don’t know. I track some of my children and grandchildren, although most of them have no idea who I am. I see no benefit to me in having Normals, even if they are of my seed, knowing anything about me. If you lived one hundred years as a grown, healthy adult male, how many children might you have? Now multiply that by a factor of say, 12 or 15. A very few of that number, almost all bastards of course, could be as Pure as the driven snow. I’ve always assumed that at least some of the children who didn’t survive to adulthood, which are many by the way, in other and older cultures, might have been Pures. He shrugged. "As a point of reflection on your current culture, bastardization seems to have become very acceptable in your short-lived culture today. I remember when it was like having BASTARD branded on your forehead; it had social and economic repercussions. No longer, though.

My Pure children would not have built-in aging protocols which, like aging vehicles, make people quickly obsolete, and essentially useless.

He stared at Kenneth for a moment and added, in a baiting fashion, "Those protocols in your own body are what make you obsolete so quickly, and essentially useless. People fantasize about this kind of thing, but cannot understand it. Let me quote one of my favorite characters. I do so enjoy today’s wonderful entertainments; they are technological marvels. I recall visiting with Mr. Roddenberry years ago, a decade before anyone recognized his vision of the future. Well, the incident I am referring to was after Mr. Spock had died and been brought back to life. His doctor companion, ‘Bones’ he was called, wanted to discuss it, but Mr. Spock said something like, ‘Without having experienced a similar thing we have no common ground for a good discussion.’ Bones was incredulous, and asked if he needed to die to have the ability to discuss death with Spock. Spock’s answer was an unequivocal ‘yes.’ In similar fashion, I’m afraid, you simply cannot completely understand that which you cannot anticipate or expect, nor have ever known anyone to actually have.

"We are time travelers. I see the skepticism in your eyes. We are time travelers, just as you are and everyone else on this planet. I don’t fault your skepticism really, but consider this: we are all time travelers. Indeed, all you Normals are time travelers too. Don’t deny it. In the next, and he looked at his $15,000 watch and said, twelve hours you will have moved from when we are right now, to when we will be then, that is, tomorrow. You won’t stay in today, but you will move into tomorrow. We all move from the now into the future. We’re no different in that aspect. We are all time travelers. It is a rule of the universe. But you see, you have to do it by slow, con-se-cu-tive seconds.

We Pures can do it in much larger chunks. We skip" periods of time, for our own reasons, but fairly infrequently. We move only into the future as you do, but not quite the same way. If this were a time I chose to not live through and experience, then I would not. I would tell my mind and body to sleep, and while I’d look very dead to you, I would on some level still be alive, and I’d simply awaken at some point in the future and pick up my life again. We have abilities others don’t have. We are, quite honestly in your terms, more like gods than like men. I say that without pride. It’s a simple statement of fact. Well, actually, I suppose I am proud of it.

I believe it will work best if I simply share the stories of several of the Pure, and bring you up to date, as it were. I will, however, tell you this about myself: I skipped through about forty years I wanted to avoid in the last century. I invested, disappeared, and with the right preparation came back to collect my grandfather’s wealth" which he willed to me forty years before. It was an easy way to obtain more means, and to skip a segment of history that I expected would be unpalatable, wars and such. I’ve seen enough of them, and fought more than enough in other people’s wars. In all fairness though, I have started some of my own.

I recall vividly how Gheret spoke of his first remembered experiences. He’s likely the oldest man alive, and as most of us, he’s worn various names through his long years.

Chapter 2

Gheret, First and Eldest

Gheret stood watching as his pack mates tore into the downed antelope. He flicked his long, dark, filthy hair out of his face with a shake of his head. His handsome features were hidden under the dirt and sweat of this pre-industrialized culture. In good weather they swam in the river, but now, when the chill was strong, they just stayed dirty.

Flies and other vermin were already attracted to the blood and gore and were rapidly making a nuisance of themselves. The hunters cut their kill with stone knives and teeth, having just taken it down with sharpened poles fifteen feet long. They had learned to hunt as the pack they were. Several had herded the antelope family toward the hidden pack hunters, who hunkered down low, with their rock-sharpened spears on the ground. As the animals got close the pack hunters crouched, set their crude lance butts into the ground, and let the antelopes’ own speed and momentum impale themselves on the crude lances. Three went down and two couldn’t get back up. The hunters were on them, ripping and eating raw meat, fighting for the tenderer, inside parts, as the animal was shredded with their crude stone knives.

The tribe was able to communicate, but could not be verbally specific. Gheret, in fact, was just a guttural sound that referred to him, as others were Hoo, Duug, and Bek. They used crude gestures and guttural utterances to convey their desires. When their desires were sexual, the males simply fought, and the toughest in any given fight took the female in question and did what males continue to do many centuries later. With inhibitions non-existent, and not being gentle or particularly loving, the pack members mated aggressively and often, fulfilling the original purpose of sex. They brought enough offspring into the world so that some survived to adulthood. They would then continue the cycle.

They were crude people, but people. They were not inhuman primates, or a species flowing from the less developed to the more developed, which would counter certain laws of nature. Far later in his life, after studying the various sciences and disciplines, he wondered at the logic of denying natural law to argue that humanity had evolved instead of having devolved. Though both sides of that argument are adhered to and fought for zealously, he knew that early man had been people. Mankind has always been mankind.

Gheret