Spade Pierre: Prolouge
Life wasn't what I expected. It was rather boring and indifferent. Everyday I go to class, had exams and chat with rather regular looking comrades of mine, such lethargy.
Despite my regular life, I do enjoy looking at myself. Though usual, I am one of my school's finest, achieving top grade and having to compete here and abroad. I specialize at Literature, having engrossed in many books that our own home library had.
I was once living at our house at London, where life was fine there. I wanted a much greater bearing so I transferred to a boarding house near our school. I wanted seclusion, independence, freedom. Yet, the turn of events gave me too much freedom, my whole familyeveryone I knew, went wiped out. A catastrophic airplane crashed and landed at our house by accident at midnight, everyone was asleep and never woke up, forever. No God who helped, nor anyone, nor anyone "godlike".
Now I am all alone. I stayed at my boarding house along with the fortune my family left me. I need to keep standing. I don't have anyone. I can't turn my head on anybody's shoulders to cry. Anybody have their own businesses, their own problems, their own topics. And I don't want to hear theirs' too. My own problems and theirs, we are all just the same.
MEROPE. In my precious memories, that wordor namestill etches its lurid to me. All that I can remember are those Cyprus trees that stood so proud, the warm ambiance that covers the forest where she and I met, and my mother, who convincingly permitted me to meet her then, left her alone after our premature introductions. A name, no likes nor dislikes, nor who or what connection or relationship I have with her, all became vague and completely buried six feet under with my family.
I graduated with much color as the rainbow had. My closest professor kindly volunteered to escort me to the rites we all have to undergo and accepted me as her apprentice in research. My professor was part of the party our institution held for the latest excavation in the Palestine. They found manuscripts all around a rather familiar- looking town. Though ruined in the last civil war, I can clearly recognize those proud Cyprus trees, the same cold ambiance, and the pungent smell lingering the area.
"The people around here are making lives through the dead ones, they embalm the ones dead, whole or not," my professor noted, she might've noticed me as the smell is getting to me, "just bear with it, ok? Besides, after seeing the manuscripts at the excavation area, you'll be ecstatic!" she convincingly added.
I nodded in agreement.
Spade Pierre: Down the memory lane
It was extremely cold, getting down on foot to the excavation area was truly tiring. We were accompanied by some local residents. Immense moisture and pressure left us all dripping wet. On our journey through meters and meters of cold earth, a few spotlight directed our way, gently revealing talc of gold that added splendor to the run down terrain. And then it came, a large Norwegian door welcomed us, fully decorated with mold and fungus and stood proudly ajar that revealed a misty ground surrounded with ghastly white draperies.
"Well, isn't it a beauty? Reckon those above really stood to their ancestor's occupation!" Naomie, my professor, greeted the grand vicinity. She walked into the spot- lightened excavation grounds and straight towards one of the large dug out grave, its worn- out tombstone laid rest on a lightened table, waiting for scrutiny from experts. Remnants of the graves' occupants were encased in what looked tree trunks, preferably Cyprus that surrounded the whole province. The whole vicinity looked a nightmare made realitycobwebs, illuminated ghost- like tree trunks, the draperies that flew were actually dilapidated plywood walls that thinned in time.
"Most of the graves here had their occupants, er- except for that one, reckon that it belongs to a poor lil' girl", my professor pointed at a small dug out grave, about the size fit for a 5 year- old child, its tombstone still erect above the hole. "A rag doll still left inside that 'ol hole," she held out a rather voodoo- looking doll, "the occupants here lived about the Dark Ages" she added.
I looked out for the child's tombstone, recognizing distinguished engraved letters: "July 7". I scouted for more pieces to complete the owner's identity, though the tombstone still erect, it was too damaged to note, no letters or codes to decipher.
"Lemme point you out to the manuscripts, the weather up there's getting worse and worse by the minute, if we stay, we might not get back up" Naomie pointed to the sudden rush of water pouring from the lintels that holds the whole structure.
"But how about" I blurted, but she took me by the hand and shoved me into the unnoticed crevice as the water pours more out of the trellises.
We ventured deeper into the vicinity, I didn't noticed another sequence of lintels just a stone's throw from the little girl's grave, "Though we're getting deep, we are actually moving upwards, funny how this graveyard was made, really" Naomie said with a hunch, "Most of the time, if ever a treasure is to be buried along, it is usually hidden deep within"
In agreement to what Professor Naomie had said, the air went more loose and breathable, but contrary to the air, the lintel walls now became tunnels, the deeper and deeper we went, the narrower the tunnels went.
"Better crouch in a lil' while" she comforted, "it'll be a jiff."