I the Maker

All I had seen of man’s atrocities helped me to embrace the monster I had become. My first conversation with Eli would not be my last, but these occasional conversations seemed my only connection to what was left of my humanity. I had, however, managed to create for myself a routine that caused my business interest to flourish while keeping my nocturnal activities away from scrutiny.

In my 150^th year of this existence I grew tired of traveling Europe, and in the year 1853, I made my way to Caribbean island of Trinidad for the first time. I had acquired a large cocoa estate in the north of the island and was intrigued by the new path these diverse peoples were carving for themselves. Slave emancipation had only come to their shores fifteen years earlier and droves of indentured laborers were arriving to meet the shortfall in plantation labor.

I was a bit of an oddity, not because of what I am but because of my nationality. This part French speaking nation had changed hands from the Spanish to the English so I suppose a blood sucking Frenchman is not completely peculiar. Truthfully though I no longer identified with France or the self-interest that was dominant in Europe. I was restless and repulsed by most of what I had seen. Still, I craved human companionship almost as much as blood.

I craved the freedom to expose my always-cold skin to the natural warmth of the sun. The rumors that you have heard of others of my kind and their inability to exist in sunlight are true, but I have never been adversely affected by sunlight. When I was made my hair was of shoulder length, thus I was stuck with it for an eternity. I was pale, but thankfully not morbidly so and had taken to wearing my hair in a ponytail and dressing in cotton shirts, almost always white, and khaki or dark colored trousers. It was during this period that I transitioned from only thinking of making others like myself. Where before I had seen others in my travels with similar afflictions and sworn to spare anyone this existence, I now managed to convince myself that this was indeed a gift and I could be a father and mentor to my own creations.

Antonio Chacon was my first. He was a member of the movement to save the souls, of all brown islanders by introducing them to Christianity. He had been in their country so long working amongst its people that he had acquired a near local accent in his dealings with them. Chacon had a wiry frame and tanned, weathered features. His short cropped black hair; flowing robes and confident demeanor gave him a maturity beyond his twenty seven years. His was close to being ordained and was enamored with the island and its people. Consequently when his brother, the former Governor, returned to Spain he decided to stay on to do God’s work.

He made his way to my plantation to invite me to fellowship and was pleased that we could sit as Spaniard and Frenchman and discus numerous subjects, including religion. I politely declined his invitation, and instead extended my own invitation of conversation and friendship. Although he had answered a quite specific and challenging calling, he still questioned the terms of his covenant and had found our weekly conversations over tea, quite stimulating. Two months into our friendship one of those discussions sealed his fate.

“I know what you are.” Chacon said confidently, taking a sip from his cup before returning it to its saucer. His unblinking gaze fixed on me.

“Do you?” I said, arching an eyebrow.

“Yes, you are an independent thinker who does not believe in anything he cannot prove beyond reason. And because of your intellect and experience you challenge the existence of God.”

“Are you calling me a heretic Chacon?”

“Oh heavens no. I just think you are waiting on definitive proof.”

“I see. You’re calling me a skeptic.”

“I guess I am.” He said bursting into laughter.

“Well, what if I told you I was neither. What if I told you that there’s more to what you believe and that I can show you?”

His eyes widened and I could feel his heartbeat quicken.

“Go on.” He said hesitantly.

“Let us continue this conversation indoors.” I said rising. “It is getting dark.”

I lead him to my basement and following La Safer’s lead, I created another. I had corrupted a man of God and become a maker. It would be the beginnings of the House of Condé.