Demon Stories

Diana: The God Child, 1866, India

Diana 

The God Child

1866, India

"I am not Indian," Javana whispered into my ear, laid next to me wrapped in the white linens of the bed, while the white linens of the canopy above swam lightly in the warm wind.

I did not open my eyes, for I knew he had more to say. Listening quietly, all I heard was his youthful voice in the whispering Summer wind.

"I am not English," he told me softly. 

Now it was my turn.

"What are you, then?" I asked, opening my eyes a fraction to behold his comforting, familiar brown face. 

"I am the same as you," he said clearly, looking into my eyes. His light caramel colored eyes were locked into my green ones. 

Here I knew was to come another story. A beautiful story, of which he told me many. So many stories of all the religions he knew, taught to him by the monks here. 

He sat up, and began to hug his knees covered in the white cloth. His dark brown hair tumbled down on his bare chest which breathed gently, and he was relaxed, in this story. I laid, watching him from that vantage point, beholding his androgynous youthful beauty. 

His eyes still looked into mine, and as I gazed into his I was reminded of another story he had told me, the first one. The one about a child, a Prince, who had the universe inside of his mouth. But here, I felt as if I could see the whole universe inside of Javana's eyes. My dear Prince Javana.

But the universe was shut out as he closed his eyes, and an aura of strange depth surrounded us. I felt as if everything had stopped as his eyes closed, and everything was shut out except for just us two. Just us, for this moment. Here I felt how this would not be like those other times. I wanted to shudder, but the shiver would not come. Already I wanted to be rid of it, this bad aura. How I did not want this to come out of his mouth so darkly, but it was too late.

Very quietly, his mouth opened slightly, and out came his words, said painfully and slow, as if each word were a separate weave in a tapestry of this long, awful story.

"When I was young," he began softly, "Brother Vasu told me of something of which I did not know to be true or not."

I stared at him, and I do not know if he knew.

He continued on, causing worry in my heart even from these first words.

"He told me a story of a boy who came to this temple a long time ago, in his own youth. 'A special boy,' he told me, 'a boy with light brown eyes and gently brown skin.' This shocked me then. I wanted to know everything about the boy. This boy, who looked like me. Who had also come to the temple."

He paused then, and I urged him to go on with everything but words. My body felt as if it were balancing on a cliff, as if he were pushing me towards that cliff edge due to his strange behavior alone.