This Immortal Coil Read online

  This Immortal Coil

  The Unforgiving Nature of Monsters & Men, Volume 1.5

  M. Benjamin Naves

  Published by American Gothic, 2020.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  THIS IMMORTAL COIL

  First edition. January 31, 2020.

  Copyright © 2020 M. Benjamin Naves.

  ISBN: 978-1393003519

  Written by M. Benjamin Naves.

  Also by M. Benjamin Naves

  American Gothic

  The Unforgotten Rose

  Ashes

  Candy: The Revenge of Hansel & Gretel

  Mister Nightmare & Sister Dream

  The Drinking Djinn

  The Gravedigger’s Nephew (Part 1 - The Wager)

  The Gravedigger's Nephew (Part 2 - The Quest)

  The Awakening - A Short Story

  Disney Film Nerd

  A Face Lost Amongst The Crowd: (1937-1949)

  Redd's Curse

  Bound By Blood & Tragedy (Redd's Curse)

  The Ballad of God, The Devil, And The Damned

  Scars of Damnation (Episode 1 - South of the Oasis)

  Scars of Attraction (Episode 2 - South of the Oasis)

  The Unforgiving Nature of Monsters & Men

  The Shadow of Saint Nicholas (Part 1)

  This Immortal Coil

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Also By M. Benjamin Naves

  This Immortal Coil | By M. Benjamin Naves | (Stories of “Faustus Kain” Within the World of “The Unforgiving Nature of Monsters & Men.”)

  A Note

  Prologue | The Crusader in the Woods

  2.

  Chapter I | Smoked Forgotten Passages

  Chapter II | Goblins & Dwarves

  2.

  3.

  Chapter III | Troll Blood

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  Chapter IV | This Immortal Coil

  Chapter V | The Blunderbuss, The Iron Ring & Kain’s Box

  2.

  Chapter VI | The Guilt of The Alchemist

  Epilogue | Fulfilling A Promise

  2.

  Also By M. Benjamin Naves

  This Immortal Coil

  By M. Benjamin Naves

  (Stories of “Faustus Kain” Within the World of “The Unforgiving Nature of Monsters & Men.”)

  A Note

  I call these types of stories you’re about to read “in-betweeners” or “supplemental” stories. This is for the reason that they don’t necessarily revolve around the overarching plot, or even the first of the stories that I am covering, but they do have a place of importance that need to be addressed about our reluctant protagonist.

  Within this particular tale, we find ourselves with a continuum of poignant backstory belonging to both Kain (also known as Jeremiah “Tombstone” Graves), and his second of three mentors, John Dee. (Who, by all accounts, really did exist within the period of 1527-1608 A.D. a.d.) I need to say, that not every one of these in-betweeners will have important information like this one, for some will mostly be done for the purposes of filling the forgotten years of Kain, and seeing more of what made him such a carefree, drunken spirit, you’d likely find in the beginning of “The Shadow of Saint Nicholas.”

  Nonetheless, I hope you find insight and enjoyment in this story and all future stories I decide to tell from here on in. Kain’s story (a.k.a Jeremiah Graves continually involves spaghetti epics), is far from being over. I personally look forward to future installments as time goes on, as I continue to create new and tell different ways to put the poor guy through more torment that is justifiably asked for.

  Happy Reading,

  M. Benjamin Naves

  12/2019

  Prologue

  The Crusader in the Woods

  The Tales of Faustus Kain, the first son of Adam and the man who would later be known as the bounty hunter, Jeremiah “Tombstone” Graves, spans lifetimes and centuries of the world’s own history. He’d wandered the earth for quite some time before he’d known his purpose, and even now, many aren’t even sure if he’d found it at all; or matter-of-fact, if Faustus Kain ever had died at all. But regardless of those impending questions, this tale starts in a time after he’d been awoken from his deathly slumber (the first one, that is), and was still being called by his given name of “Kain.”

  At the time, Kain was actually a crusader—a knight for hire—during the time of wars in Jerusalem. It should be noted that before he wore the armor and the tunic of a Templar, he was being trained by a reluctant fallen angel by the name of Merlyn, to be a hunter and seeker of monsters, human being or otherwise. Back then and in secret, Kain had been known to work for both Heaven and Hell—until either party found out about the other. By then the Holy Wars had started, and either side, both heaven and hell, did not really care for anything but to keep the order of the world at an undying peace. (Relatively in their own twisted way, as they saw fit.) Till this day, this modern day in which where the story of The Shadow of Saint Nicholas takes place, Kain waits for the day that either side will approach him on the matter. And from there, our story begins—far prior to that, but still with this question on his mind: will Heaven or Hell ever catch-up to me?

  2.

  The Romanian Mountains, 1252

  He felt the ground, and tasted the earth, just like his father had taught him. A master tradesman and a highly skilled hunter, Kain’s father was indeed a “jack of all trades” in a sense; as he was a proficient and dutiful farmer as well. Kain would have said personally that his mother grew better crops than his father—just not to the old man’s face. (Mother Eve was also a better hunter than his old man, as to say, that she personally took care of those duties back then as well.) But that was unimportant. Back then, you had to be resourceful, when the world was young and teeming with raw imagination, otherwise, you’d die—end up starving and killing the earth you’d slaved over.

  “You must respect the dirt,” Kain remembered his father saying. “Respect the dirt, and it will inturn, respect you. This goes for everything that comes and goes, back into dirt...”

  This was true in more ways than one. For instance, there were more things to kill you or have you as a monetary chew toy back then, when the world first began. But at the same rate, the more humans that arrive, the less anyone has to worry about things like that. (From which in that sense, his father’s skills of knowing everything, but not mastering things, came in handy.) Of course, things did happen from time to time, but what growth that came from new life and newer people gave them, Kain himself didn’t care much for, in reality. That being, a community—a family. Faustus Kain, or just Kain at the time, was for the most part a loner. And in reality, he liked it that way. The older Kain, the one called Jeremiah would say that he had self-respect, and that is all that he ever needed. They younger Kain believed this same logic, he never really liked to rely on anyone but himself, despite his mother’s insistent call to bring siblings along when he ventured off into the widely broad wilderness of the new world, but in the same token, he wasn't opposed to having a helping hand when needed.

  It was times like these, him tracking relentlessly in full Templar armor, with nothing more than his silver broadsword he called, Charity, and a longbow with a small quiver of arrows, that his blood began pumping and allowed him to feel right at home. Familiar company, a village—a community—a family does many things, like giving you a sense of security to have when needing someone to watch your back. For Kain, he felt like all this—all that
which came with those described, had only weighed him down and made his continuous hunt, that much of a slower task to complete. Allies and friends were actually a good thing, he’d just prefer to have them at a distance; you would figure a man of a few centuries old would understand that, instead of leaving when things got too familiar.

  Kain had spat the dirt from his lips and gagged. There was blood on his tongue. He did see it before, thought it could have been something else, but now he could rightfully taste it lingering in his mouth. The Templar drank from his flask a few sips of honey-wine to kill the flavor that was held upon his lips. He then placed the flask back into his pouch, and pulled from the same location a stone emblazoned with a ritual craving—a sigil—used or broken.

  “Let hope Old Merlyn was right,” Kain said, pulling his dagger that was equipped to the side of his belt.

  Old Merlyn (later to be known as the rare book dealer, Merlyn Merflower during his adventures in our modern age), was Faustus Kain’s first mentor upon waking from his deathless sleep. Merlyn was an “unofficial” fallen angel, in the sense that he came down to earth by choice and before the great war with Lucifer. Nonetheless, to his peers, he was merely seen as one of the other kind that was destined to live upon the mess of humans till the end of days. To himself, he believes that he falls somewhere in the middle of all that; seeing how he cannot return to Heaven or enter Hell upon either account—but that’s another story for another time.

  Kain aligned the dagger against the engravings upon the stone, and began to whittle the point of the blade alongside its shape. The stone’s sigil glowed momentarily, before cracking in half. Kain returned the blade to his side, took the stone within both hands, and crushed its contents until it turned into fine grains of sand. He then used its remains to be scattered upon the dirt below. Instantly, a pair of wide, clawed footprints appeared underneath him in the same color as the stone; a bright, milky green.

  “There’s the bastard.” Kain said, and followed the steps forward, sprinkling a little more at a time of the stone upon the path to reveal the creature’s footsteps.

  Chapter I

  Smoked Forgotten Passages

  Taken From “The Deadman’s Almanac.”

  Page 111.

  You should be familiar, for I’ve made mention of this before, of the frozen, chained casket that had been unexpectedly delivered to me that one fateful September morning. If not, please see the previous passage*. It would be enlightening to discuss what was to happen next within this story.

  John Dee - Alchemist (1608)

  *Author’s Note: Please see previous passages in “The Shadow of Saint Nicholas; Part 1.”

  Page 112.

  As mentioned before, the chained casket was placed within the parlor, at the far end of my house, September 5th, forty-years ago. Upon reaching the casket and feeling the icy presence of its touch, something happened that was completely unexpected to himself and possibly any gravedigger or funeral director within London at the time—the casket had shook. Previously before that, a noise broke from within the shallow box. It sounded like a cough—to which I instantly thought myself to be mad with senility. But it happened again, and shaking of the casket became prevalent.

  From here I continue my tale with slight hesitation. Though this might not be the strangest story within these pages (one in-particular comes to mind, where “my friend and yours”—Faustus Kain tells of an altercation he’d dealt with regarding Mountain Trolls, when he was a crusader during the Holy Wars), this next part might just seem as strange to you as it still does to me. Still, I’ve lived with the reality of all this for the last forty-years. Dear reader, which I’d hope to be no one by the spirits of the dead and God to absolve me of my sins, here is how the rest played out with a particular chained casket.

  John Dee - Alchemist (1608)

  Page 113.

  The shaking and thumping of the frozen casket had grown significantly louder. By then, I had concluded that what whoever, or whatever, was inside had to be alive—but for how much longer, that I could not surmise at the time.

  “Hold on—whatever you are,” I called out to the casket, as I looked to retrieve a hammer or some sort of object to break the chains wrapped around the box. “I’ll get you out of there, you strange fool, as soon as I can. I’m going to look for something to break the locks!” I frantically checked my surroundings and found nothing of use to me.

  “Oh, goddamn it all! Why can’t you ever find something when you need it?” I said, starting to panic, as the thumping and now forceful grunts of anger took hold from within the casket; to which then, that’s when I saw the top of the box begin to crack open.

  The lid upon the casket then began to splinter and bend—both in-wards and out, to which I then knew what needed to be done. I grabbed the wooden mallet meant for tenderizing meat from a nearby cabinet and went to work on the warped casket lid.

  John Dee - Alchemist (1608)

  Page 114.

  “Shield your eyes!” I called out. “I’m going to try to widen the seal!”

  By the time I had found a wooden mallet, it would seem that I likely would have no real use for it now. What I saw first was a fist; or what I later realized, was a semi-gloved gauntlet of the purest iron-cladded metal. I’ve never seen anything like this in my lifetime, and relatively, the view of seeing this placed me in a sort of momentary shock. As the hand finally reached through, and small spouts of blood then began to line from wrist down, I could see that this authentic armor was actually attached to a human counterpart. I say “authentic” as by then the idea of seeing a knight in fully-cladded armor wasn’t necessarily unlikely, but instead mostly unheard of. It's not like they didn’t exist, it was just unheard of; especially since the style of this armor that was placed upon the cladded hand, did indeed look ancient—a relic of sorts, that had been placed from time long past.

  With the hammer in hand, I thought that I might use it now to open the locks on the casket. Seeing the blood and hearing the groans from the person within, I began to think otherwise. I now held the meat tenderizer in both hands, thinking if I might have to use it for a weapon instead. Then I heard a voice that came from within the box. It sounded angry, while also at the same time, all I heard was the cry of a man letting out every and any words of profanity it could possibly think of. This, as I would later learn, was naturally just him—the swearing was something as common to him as flying was for a sparrow. Regardless, it did not take long for him to rip through the lid of the casket thereafter, and soon, a malnourished, scraggly-bearded man, half-dressed in the garb of a holy crusader was sitting upon the table within my parlor room.

  As he made eye contact with me for the first time, and I saw what was to be the reminiscence of his life’s most epic tragedy crucified across his face, the crusader glared at me with an untrustworthy demeanor and said the only thing that came to him at that moment;

  “Tell me,” he said. “What year be this?”

  With my hand raised above my head, holding the wooden mallet within my grasp, I replied to the mysterious Templar’s question. I can say in retrospect, that I was still in shock. For what I did next should not come to any surprise to no one, if you were me, you’d probably had done the same.

  “The year of our lord,” I replied, “1568.”

  I then struck the crusader across the head with the wooden mallet, knocking him out cold.

  John Dee—Alchemist (1608)

  Page 115.

  In reality, I didn’t mean to hit him so hard. I was frightened, like I said, and what I did was out of impulse to say the least. But upon a further look of this man, sitting within the casket unconscious, I found from what he’d seem to say to be true. A pendant of gold hung around his neck, the sign of a knight’s Templar forged upon it; or at least something that seemed similar and or recognizable was placed indented within the gold. Something like this could not be easily replicated, not in the same efficient manner or craftsmanship shown on the pendant,
– possibly, late or early twelfth-century, at the very least.

  I then remembered reading, within a few of my own text (large volumes collected over the years from various scientific studies and first-hand accounts from historians), about different sects of Templars and crusaders that went on, as first, violent messengers for the church and to fight in their holy war, to later becoming warriors that were basically work-for-hire—common agents for one that was willing to offer the most gold. The pendant around this man’s neck did not look as to be of the typical variety (it’s almost hard to describe what it really looked like), but it was definitely otherworldly, within the barriers of the time period he had come from.

  Seeing that I had no choice in the matter—I was indeed stuck with him, and I was curious to know what this fellow knew about what I had just surmised, I thought it best to take him from the box and bring him down to the study from which I did most of my own personal work. He would likely wake up within an hour or two, I thought then. When that happens, he as well as I will have many questions to ask from each other. (Some of those questions still go unanswered even today.) I suppose, and I know this to be true, that they will never be answered within my lifetime.

  John Dee - Alchemist (1608)

  Chapter II

  Goblins & Dwarves

  Antarctica, 1301.

  307 Years Earlier...

  “Ahh, good, you’re awake,” said the voice that hovered above Faustus Kain’s head. “In all honesty, son,” the voice continued. “I’m sorry that I’d be doing this to you—it’s not my intention of hurting you like this. But you know the old golden rule: Do a deal with the devil, and become his slave until said debt is paid.”