The nephilem, p.1
The Nephilem, page 1
The Nephilem
By S.E. Wilson
(Exquil)
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
THE NEPHILEM
First edition. June 29, 2022.
Copyright © 2022 S.E. Wilson.
ISBN: 978-1739705008
Written by S.E. Wilson.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
The Nephilem (The Eternal Game, #1)
Epigraph
Acknowledgements
CHAPTER 1 | Prologue
CHAPTER 2 | Sun Is Shining
CHAPTER 3 | Paramour
CHAPTER 4 | Extended Absences
CHAPTER 5 | Solomon’s Party
CHAPTER 6 | Lunch With Nathaniel
CHAPTER 7 | Skuld
CHAPTER 8 | Twice Remembered, Once Lived
CHAPTER 9 | What Is, Is Coming into Being
CHAPTER 10 | Sarah’s Smiling
CHAPTER 11 | Psalm of Lament: Yasmina
CHAPTER 12 | The Riding in of Autumn
CHAPTER 13 | The Riding in of Winter
CHAPTER 14 | The Riding in of Spring
CHAPTER 15 | The Riding in of Summer
CHAPTER 16 | You Can’t See Where Your Eyes Can’t Follow
CHAPTER 17 | Going To Barça
CHAPTER 18 | Zaragoza
CHAPTER 19 | Seth
CHAPTER 20 | S’Palmador
CHAPTER 21 | Swim To Shore, Swim To Me
CHAPTER 22 | Moirae: Of Owls and Crows
CHAPTER 23 | Say Goodnight To Tomorrow
CHAPTER 24 | The Mending of Catherine
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About the Author
Foreword / Dedication
For Poogie and the day our music died
Epigraph
“...We got many moons that are deep at play
So I keep an eye on the shadow's smile
To see what it has to say
You and I both know
Everything must go away
Ah, what do you say?”
-Red Hot Chilli Peppers “Dark Necessities”
Acknowledgements
My book has been twenty years in the making and there are many people close to me with whom I’ve shared my dream of writing this book. First, I’d like to thank those of you who contributed to the physical creation of my book. I am immensely grateful for the skill, guile, craft and advice of Charles N. and Peter C. It has been an absolute pleasure working with such wonderful collaborative people, where I learned many new skills and took so much narrative advice. Thank you to my editor, Velma Christie, for being so prompt with my manuscript over her Christmas holiday time, and so patient with my query. You’ve all been a pleasure to work with and I’ve learned so much from you.
For those ebook readers that are lucky enough to also read this book in physical format you are in for visual treat. You really must look at the illustrative contributions of Maham Aziz and Carma Naudé. I have special thanks to my main contributor Maham Aziz for the front cover illustration and the many chapter illustration openings.
I’d like to thank and acknowledge the important contributions of my beta reader community. Your feedback has been invaluable. I learned so much about my story because of your contribution and it gave me confidence that the vision that I set out for the book was the right one. I was especially pleased with the additional advice many have offered outside of the formal feedback. Many thanks to Danny Kaye, Glory Olowosoyo, Karly Marlow, Ionut George Mereuta, Nina M. Miller and Ana Corral Vuille.
I’d like to thank a long-time friend Jay Astill, who in the very early days helped me to develop my thought on the subject matter. Jay, with his incredible imagination and talent for character building undoubtably helped to bring The Nephilem story to life over twenty years ago, it is to him I owe the eclectic cast of characters such as Nathaniel, Solomon Vaughn and Seth – I thank him for giving them to me. Though he might raise an eyebrow regarding how I changed them, I really did try to write a story that he would be proud of.
To my family, my two children, my daughter, Lauryn who is studying English Literature, I hope you find inspiration in my work and work ethic. I hope this book is a lesson in never talking yourself out of chasing your big dream. To my son Ashley, in the early inception of this book when The Nephilem was little more than short fairy tale and folktale style stories in my head. When my son was still a little boy, I’d read him short bedtime stories based on The Nephilem. Sometimes I had written them, but most of the time I made them up on the bedside spot. My bedtime storytelling is something I am sure he has no adult recollection of. There is something to be said in having the non-judging ears of an innocent child taking in the woeful ramblings of a storytelling parent. His bedtimes gave me the imagination to develop the world of The Nephilem aloud night after night – and he could not possibly know how thankful I am to him for this.
Of course, for the past ten years it has been my wife, Debbie, that has had to put up with my woeful ramblings of out loud storytelling. Debbie has been a fantastic life partner for me on this journey; she has been a great sounding board for the many female voices in this book and because of her wonderfully creative artful eye, she has been quick to give me feedback on my illustrative concepts. For her to take in the most minute details involved in this book whilst managing her own creative projects is impressive stuff indeed. Her support has been unwavering, honest and a yardstick.
For this project my literary heroes and roles models are those of old classics, though I did draw from a couple contemporary works as well. I also pull inspiration from musical heroes, art and cinema as well. I learned so many lessons about connecting to the audience from them. I like to thank the works of classic fairy tales, E.T.A Hoffman, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Neil Gaiman, Quentin Tarantino, Grant Nieporte, Julio Medem, and Guillermo Del Toro. The music, the sounds, the emotions from the catalogues of Bob Marley, Surface, Astrud Gilberto, Corrine Bailey Rae especially “I’d do it all again” and Janet Jackson’s ‘The body that loves you’ haunted me throughout the books process.
Lastly, I’d like to thank God. I know it is customary for everyone from award show winners to top level athletes to people who battled against the odds to achieve a lifelong ambition to all give praise and thank God. But this time, my thanks is literal. Without God’s existence, our belief system in him as a deity or a ritual, this book would simply not exist at all because ultimately this book is about God. And so, to God, I give thanks.
CHAPTER 1
Prologue
“You shall go to the ball, Cinderella!” Catherine grinned and clapped as her big sister twirled a swishing circle in her new evening dress. “Perhaps your Majesty would care to address the huddled masses.” She dropped an extravagant curtsy and threw open the elegant French windows leading to the balcony.
The smells of roasting garlic, charcoal grills and moped fumes quickly filled the marble-floored apartment as Carmelita ignored the balcony and clicked across to a heavy scrolled mirror. She turned first one way, then the other as the diamonds cascading down her neck glistened and winked against her dark, flawless skin.
For a moment, both sisters fell silent as Catherine joined her, also resplendent in her own gown and matching ruby accessories. “Did you really think we’d climb this high?”
Carmelita turned to her little sister and smiled fondly. “With you two beautiful belles by my side, I never doubted it for a moment!” She turned back to the mirror and traced a sculptured fingernail along the string of brilliant gems resting comfortably on her ample bust. “Just think, some poor kid with an empty stomach and bare feet probably dug these up. Most likely got paid in cigarettes and booze. There’s always agony behind the beauty.”
Catherine’s expression changed to something between determined and thoughtful. “No need to dwell on that stuff. We didn’t make the world this way. There must be thousands of poor bastards born into that darkness every day, but how many end up wearing the diamonds rather than digging for them?” She gently squeezed her sister’s shoulder. “Come on, we’ll be late, and I don’t want to keep the mayor waiting on our first date.”
Carmelita rolled her eyes. “This again? Just wait till I tell your sister.”
Catherine feigned a hurt expression. “Hey, this is the closest I’ve ever got to a genuine bigshot. Makes me kinda hot to tell the truth.”
The older sister took the younger by the arm as they walked to the tall double doors leading out of the apartment. “Now, don’t you get tunnel vision over one provincial mayor- This is a big deal and we’ve no idea what kind of whales we could land if we’re smart. There could be bankers, arms dealers, playboy gamblers and mysterious Middle Eastern men with royal connections. Hell, there might even be some old Europe money mixed in too.”
Catherine stopped and put her hands on her hips. “Always the one with the sensible advice and a broad perspective. I knew there was a reason I’d hung out with you all these years.”
“Why thank you kindly, little sister.” Carmelita opened the door and reached for the light switch.
Both women suddenly froze as a startling and blood-chilling sound suddenly warbled through the apartment.
Catherine broke the silence after a few seconds. “No way!”
Carmelita closed her eyes and gently shut the door. “Oh, come on, not now!”
The younger sister kicked off her designer shoes and padded back into the apartment, where the t inny electronic ringtone was much clearer. “Yeah, it is.”
Carmelita followed her sister. “We can’t be at home all the time, can we?”
“You can tell that to Rosalita if you want.”
Once again, both women stood still as they listened to the plaintive chirping of cheap electronics echoing through the opulent and tasteful Mediterranean apartment.
Eventually, Carmelita gestured towards a short hallway leading to the bedrooms. “It’s your turn.”
Catherine stamped across to a small but elegantly scrolled walnut table and reached beneath it. After a few seconds of grunting and face-pulling, there was a tearing sound as she retrieved a battered cell phone and hurriedly pulled off the duct tape securing it in place. “There go my nails, goddammit.”
Carmelita pulled a sour face. “If this is some guy jacking off in a phone box again...”
Catherine rolled her eyes and pressed the green answer button. Holding the handset to her ear, she said nothing as she heard the line disconnect. She raised her pencilled eyebrows at her sister.
“Do you think...” Carmelita was cut short mid-sentence as the phone rang for a second time. After three chirps it fell silent once more.
A tense atmosphere descended rapidly as both women stood motionless, just staring at the scratched handset. That silence grew heavy and thick as they anxiously awaited the next development.
Both sisters jumped as the phone rang for a third time, its strangled electric call bringing with it a sudden rush of nervous anticipation.
Catherine swallowed hard and answered the phone once again.
This time she heard a smooth, deep, and educated male voice on the line. “Hello, my dear aunt. It’s been such a long time since I called you.”
Both women exchanged nervous glances before Catherine gave the prearranged response. “I’m sorry, but I think you must’ve called the wrong woman. Perhaps you should try again.”
The voice on the line paused for a moment, then spoke clearly and deliberately. “I’m very sorry. I was trying to reach my aunt Margarita. I will hang up and dial again as you so wisely suggest.” The line promptly went dead once more.
Catherine ended the call and looked at her sister, nodding slowly.
Carmelita motioned to her expensive evening dress and jewellery ensemble. “So that was a complete waste of time. You know I blew fifty Euros on my hair? Fifty Euros!”
Her sister nodded, making a similar gesture to her own exotic outfit. “We’d better get moving. Should we call Rosalita?”
Carmelita shook her head. “No time, and we’ve nothing to tell her yet. We’ll just have to fill her in later.”
“I don’t like it. I feel kind of vulnerable when we’re one short, but you’re right.” Catherine quickly removed the sim card and battery from the cell phone and placed all three items on the baroque style table. Reaching underneath once more, she prised a small, twenty-two calibre automatic free from its own nest of duct tape. After chambering the first round, she followed her sister hurriedly towards the bedrooms.
WITHIN TEN MINUTES, two of the three Moirae sisters were in the narrow street below their apartment, dressed in cheap, mass-market clothes which were a thousand miles and just as many dollars removed from the designer dresses they’d so hurriedly discarded.
Catherine stood by with a crash helmet in each hand as Carmelita started up the battered little scooter which always waited faithfully outside, come rain or shine.
Within seconds, both sisters were on the bike and weaving expertly through the meandering throng of commuters and tourists that milled around the countless cafes, bistros and street-food stalls crammed into Barcelona’s achingly fashionable El Born district.
As the architecture began to thin out, so did the tourists and commuters, to be replaced by roving gangs of kids kicking footballs outside concrete apartment blocks.
Carmelita reached out and tossed the battered cell phone into a trash can as they slowed at some traffic lights, having disposed of the sim card and battery earlier on. She glanced at her cheap watch as they bumped up a cracked curb, weaving between some bollards and coming to a halt at the edge of a small public square.
Their destination was a far cry from the fashionable awnings and elegant apartments of their home district. Although they’d only been riding for about fifteen minutes, this grey, brutalist version of a public space felt like a different country, a different world even. Weeds sprouted through cracks in the uneven paving, struggling for sunlight in the shadow of the surrounding tower blocks; while graffiti policemen, bankers and boxers gasped for breath behind an encroaching spread of sun-bleached posters and cheap, faded flyers.
Both women left their crash helmets on as they scanned the square for signs of trouble. Although it was early evening and the weather was warm, the place was mostly in shadow and fairly quiet, with just some old bloke feeding the pigeons and a group of teenagers skateboarding around a dry, cracked concrete fountain.
This was a place their well-heeled neighbours knew nothing about, but the Moirae sisters were only too familiar with those endless acres of concrete warehouses used to store surplus citizens who languished on welfare or struggled vainly in poorly paid and thankless tourist jobs.
In many ways, these forgotten corners of the great city were the true source of the sisters’ strength. They knew such places intimately, and each fleeting visit renewed and reaffirmed their cold, unshakable conviction that they would never go back.
The payphone stranded near the dead fountain was already ringing by the time the sisters reached it, but nobody else heard that lonely call for contact, save for the army of bottle blondes pouting from poorly printed contact cards that fluttered and flapped in the warm evening breeze.
Catherine glanced around once more before removing her helmet and picking up the greasy receiver. “Yes.”
The same educated voice crackled over the line, although this time it was somehow more distant and tinny, as though somehow diminished by the payphone’s public utility components. “I’ve lost my delivery.”
Carmelita leaned in to follow the exchange, although she faced outwards to keep a watchful eye on the surroundings.
Catherine twisted her body to allow her sister to hear. “You should be more careful with valuable and volatile consignments. I assume you’re taking every measure to recover your property.”
“That’s why I’m calling, out of courtesy, and to reassure you there is no cause for concern should you see my spotters in your genteel neighbourhood or even outside your apartment.”
The sisters exchanged silent glances before Catherine spoke again. “There’s no reason either of those packages should turn up in our neighbourhood.”
The voice on the phone remained polite and professional. “I sincerely hope not, but missing consignments do have a habit of returning to their senders, one way or another.”
Catherine’s voice hardened. “Those packages were delivered in good faith and exactly as you specified. If you can’t keep hold of two valuable items for more than a week then I suggest you review your security before bothering your suppliers.”
There was a pause before the voice crackled down the phone once again. “In point of fact, I have only mislaid one package. The other has already been recovered; alas also, it was damaged beyond repair.”
“Damaged? How?”
The caller sighed heavily. “Water damage. I’m afraid some of my movers were a bit careless during a delicate situation, but it’s so hard to find good staff these days. Naturally, I’m very upset with them and in turn they’re determined to recover at least some of the considerable losses we’ve suffered during this transaction. I assured them that you were reliable and acting in good faith, although you know how suspicious staff can be. Some of them went so far as to outright accuse you of covertly recovering your own merchandise in order to redirect it to another buyer.”
Catherine bristled. “Now, just you wait a minute...”
The voice on the phone continued. “Let me put your mind at ease. I have placed you and your dear sisters firmly off-limits to all investigators, so once again you have my reassurance that my contractors pose no significant risk to yourselves, despite their rather brusque and martial manner at times. Of course, they are aggrieved at their own failure and are very keen to put things right, hence their commitment to keeping a watchful eye around your neighbourhood. Just in case.”
