Abyss (Songs of Megiddo) (29 page)

I
n the trials being faced in the wider world, there were, clearly, better days and worse days. Dio remembered a week where the entire sky had darkened with smoke and ash as they burned the corpses from the Great Jerusalem Outbreak. He and Salman had prayed together, each and every morning of that week. Both typically managed their self-imposed spiritual obligations in isolation...and were surprised to find that their experience was enriched – despite the differences in their worship – by the other’s presence. As a result, this, too, soon became one of Dio’s rituals.

§§§

It was a Thursday – Dio was aware of that much – when Ibrahim, complaining of intense pains in his stomach, was unable to go to school. Dio waited until Sunday to see if the symptoms began to lessen. By then, a number of other people in the community had begun to show signs of infection. Thankfully, Salman and himself were not among them...but Dio suspected, again, that this was only a matter of time.

§§§

Dio Ben-Zeev and Salman Nadir sat on the front steps of Salman’s little house, and shared some bread and cheese. Salman had – quietly of course; with eminent subtlety – made an effort to find kosher food for Dio, despite Dio’s constant reminders that, to him, it hardly mattered. The effort was still appreciated. Dio appreciated everything Salman had done for him.

“Do you drink?” Dio asked without really thinking about it. Salman raised an amused ey
ebrow.

“What do
you think, my friend?” Dio sighed.

“I
think...that I could really...really use a drink.”

“Why today and not some other day?” Salman asked. Dio looked away and off into the distance, sighing.

“Because today...I’m trying to work out how to tell you that I may know what’s wrong with Ibrahim, and with the rest of the people in Qabatiya.”

“I
know what’s wrong, Dio.” Salman replied. “I may not want to say it, but I do know.” Dio inhaled sharply, and then, slowly, exhaled.

“I don’t mean
...generally. I mean...I specifically know what the disease is, and who is spreading it. They were the people who I left, when I walked into the desert to atone. The one’s who gave me reason
to atone. And I think...I
think
that I might know where to find them. They
will
have a cure. If we can find them, I swear to you that I will get that cure for Ibrahim, even if I have to die to do so.” He forced himself to turn and meet Salman’s eyes; his own filled with a guilty plea for understanding. Salman’s expression was unreadable. “We need to take Ibrahim...and as many others as will join us. Then, we need to go to Petra.”

“Across the
Jordan River?” Salman asked with extreme scepticism. Dio nodded. “Into Jordan.” This time it wasn’t a question but a statement: a confirmation. Dio, again, nodded. Salman looked toward the heavens, and, as if attempting to break a kind of fourth wall that lay between himself and the world of the divine, muttered, with a shake of his head: “The boy’s finally lost his overworked, Israeli
mind
...”

“I’m right about this, Salman...” Dio assured him.

“Dio, Jordan closed its’ borders months ago. Inside, the King has declared martial law.”

“I know.” Dio nodded. “I didn’t say it’d be
easy. I said it was what we needed to do.”

“Why
now?” Salman asked quietly. “I mean: why did you tell me this now?” Dio was surprised at the lack of judgement in Salman’s voice. His question was a plea for understanding, and nothing more.

“Because I can’t
...” Dio paused, shaking his head and looking straight ahead, into the distance. He almost smiled. This was the first time he’d seen the symmetry for what it was. In a way, it reassured him. It told him something very important about himself. It told him that, even after everything...he was still – at the very heart of him – a good man. “Because, regardless of what might happen, I can’t just sit here and watch an innocent child die. It’s something that I just can’t do.”

Dio sighed. He
knew that, in some form: in some guise or another...when they arrived at Petra, death would be waiting for him.

Not that he cared. He was done caring. That was the whole point.

Act 5

Fragments

§

Bars of golden cusp

The world’s edge; morning slumbers

Far away and deep.

Fragment I – Benjamin Manus

~ Ben ~

30/11/2023

The air chilled Benjamin Manus to the bone, and he pulled the faded, grey
-green hoodie tighter around himself. Ahead of him, the stubborn rubber soles of Jen’s freshly bought, stiff leather shoes rhythmically clacked along the cobblestone path. It had been a week since they’d arrived in England, and Ben knew that he never wanted to go back.

London’s sparkling city centre was a vast jungle of glass, cement, and steel: carefully cult
ivated and allowed to spread and grow...up from, out of, and over the aged brick and coal-soaked iron of the cities’ past. For Ben, post-modernity was inauthentic. He’d hoped for the London he’d grown up reading about: for that great, dystopian metropolis from whence industrialism first issued. The vast monolith that had cast its shadow forward through time, haunting his childhood dreams. The London of Dickens. Of Gaskell. He hadn’t found it. Sure, there were echoes...and he could go to the places that he’d read about...but they weren’t what he had expected them to be.

Just goes to show: you should never follow your
heroes home. Wait...what’s the saying? Fuck it. Who cares?

Ben noticed Jen slowing her pace. He took it to mean that they were probably quite close to their destination.

“We’re almost there.” She clarified, turning to face him and gesturing back at the large, archaic-chic function centre that lay directly in their path.

“I figured.” He acknowledged. Their exchange was an exercise in redundancy. A way of delaying the inevitable.

“Ben: Are you
sure
you want to do this?”

“Of course I do. We’re
friends. I want to be supportive.” His voice echoed unconvincingly in his ears.

“‘Supportive’ was convincing me to do this. Paying for my plane ticket? I can
kinda chalk that up to you having too much money and too little sense. But...
this
? This is something totally different.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He innocently insisted. Jen rolled her eyes.

“Yeah you do. I’ve known you since
primary school, guy. I know about...” She stepped closer, lowering her voice to a mocking stage-whisper: “‘
The Rivalry
’.”

“Come on, Jen. It has nothing to do with that.”

“Two houses,” She intoned, chin lowered and eyes raised for dramatic effect: “alike...in dignity.”

“Not really,” he chuckled. “The Lilums
are, actually, dicks.”

“Here we stand. In fair Londinium, where we
lay...our scene – ”

“
–
Pretty
sure it was already called ‘London’ back then – ”

“
– Shh! Poetic license.” He rolled his eyes, realising that she meant to continue. “From ancient grudge...
break
! To new...mutiny, where civil blood...” She growled intensely: “makes civil hands...unclean.”

“Did you memorise this to fuck with me?” She nodded, a crooked grin twisting her lips.

“Yeah. I kinda did.”

“Well, wake me when you get to the bit where that ‘Mic
hael’ guy from Lost drops some super-acid, or whatever unrealistic interpretation of a drug he was meant to be taking. I’m gonna try and catch up on some sleep.” Looking at Ben seriously, Jen placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed.

“Listen, dude
...Mary’s a fucking bitch. And a moron. You’re a catch. Personality-wise, at least. I mean...if you weren’t so hideously unattractive, I’d date you myself.” Ben cracked an awkward smile. He and Jen had played their game of ‘will-they-won’t-they’ for years. Every time things seemed to be nearing a significant turning point, one or both of them came to the conclusion that they were better off as friends. Mary had been Ben’s latest attempt to decisively move on from all of that. The attempt had failed. Badly. “But you’ve just been through some fucked up shit with a girl who didn’t want you. And here you are, at Princess Jill’s coronation.”

“Birthday party.”

“Same difference. I’m just saying. If I were a cynical person...” She trailed off, leaving the implication hanging in the air.

“You
are
a cynical person.”

“Yeah,” She acknowledged. “Yeah, I
am.
And
I’m your best friend.”

“I’m here because I want to be.” Ben
stated with a definitive nod.

“Okay. Whateve
r. But if you have a death wish? You’ve gotta tell me. It’s in the bro-code, bro.” Ben laughed.

“Jen.
Bro. Shut the fuck up.” Jen smiled, pulling him into a close hug.

“It means the world that you’re here. Truly.” She said.
And she meant it. “But you’re not...fooling...me.” He shrugged it off, looking around nervously. The crowd around the front of the function centre had him feeling cautiously optimistic about his chances of getting inside without a scene.

“We should really get
in there, right?”

“That’s what
she said.” Jen grinned. Her grin faded as Ben’s eyes narrowed. “In like...the context of a threesome? Where there are at least two girls and one of them is saying it regarding another girl?”

“That was terrible. Really, truly, terrible. Seek help.”

“Shut up.” She rolled her eyes.

“
You
shut up.” He dug his hands into the pocket of his hoodie, fingering the ticket he’d been given; embossed, as it was, with a name that wasn’t his. As the eldest son of Senator Michael Manus – archrival and bitter enemy of the Lilum family – he could only imagine the chaos that an attempt to get in using his own name might result in.

While Senator Manus had never seen fit to tell either of his sons exactly
why there was such a problem between them and the Lilum family, Ben’s suspicion was that it had grown out of what had, once, been friendship.

No one ever hated anyone as much as they hate each other without it all being built on a foundation of love lost or trust broken.

So...yeah. It was, potentially, a tiny bit Shakespearean.

Anyway, even without knowing the
origins of the conflict, Ben had spent much of his life watching his father exacerbate it. Using his sway in the Senate – and, beyond that, any other connections he could draw on – Michael Manus had gone to extreme lengths to block any-and-all attempts by Lilum Multinational to expand their interests on Australian soil, while simultaneously positioning Manus Incorporated in the most adversarial position that its shareholders were willing to tolerate. While his brother – Adam – had, apparently, succumbed to the weight of their father’s propaganda, Ben had not. It had never been
his
vendetta – or, he suspected, Jill Lilum’s – but the fact of the matter was that they were both their parent’s children. With parents who cast shadows as long as theirs did, it was hard to entirely escape their prerogatives.

“Ben?” Jen waved a hand in front of Ben’s face. “What the
fuck are you doing? I said ‘yeah, let’s go inside’.”

“Fine. Sure. Let’s do it.”

“Cool. Follow.” She instructed. He could have sworn he saw a glint in her eye as she turned sharply on her heel. He rubbed his chin for a second; staring at the gentle sway of her hips beneath the tight, black skirt.

“Y’know
...if I’m Romeo, that makes you Benvolio.” Ben mused.

“Point being
...?” Jen queried over her shoulder.

“I’m just not sure how Shakespeare would have felt about Romeo noticing how nice an ass Benvolio had.” The comment received a breathy laugh.

“Clearly you never studied Shakespeare at Uni,” Jen teased. “Or you’d know that The Bard would have been totally down with that.” Shrugging, Ben walked slowly after her.

He had to admit, on approach, that the venue was incredible. Sheets of glass, many stories high, reflected the swirling, curling dabs of light cast across the river Thames by the tho
usand-and-one towering watch-towers of the city of London at night. Many minor archways curved over oases of shrubbery and manicured scrub. Small, minimalist gardens of grass and ornamental, night-flowering orchids sat – restive and haloed with ghostly caps of pale light – around the curved frontage of the sandstone-accented building. A huge keystone arch towered, centrally located, over the immense hardwood and black-iron doors of the main entranceway. The imposing, Romanesque monolith was illustrated with a series of interlinking symbols that were either Celtic, or just plain decorative in origin; carved all around the exterior of the semicircular stone object. Ben heard Jen sigh in muted amazement. “Wow. I really hit the jackpot with this gig.”

“Yeah, you sure did
...” He could feel his palms moistening in apprehension. “Unless they figure out who your friend is...” he muttered, mostly for his own benefit, as Jen strode ahead. He exhaled deeply, pulling the hood of his jacket back: blindly pushing his hair into what he hoped was an approximately respectable arrangement. Jen turned, seeing what he was doing and rolling her eyes.

“Come here, you
idiot.” He bowed his head slightly, letting her tweak and adjust the mussed, matted mess of brown and blond. “There. Less homeless, now.” She concluded with a self-satisfied grin. They paused for a moment: mutually mesmerised by the cascading steam that rushed forth from their mouths with every outward breath. In the crisp night air, it hung and clung like mist; pooling in the space between them.

For what seemed like the hundred
-billionth time, Ben caught himself admiring the gentle precision of his friends’ features. There was the wavy, chestnut hair; soaked with the amber and pearl of the ambient, understated light of the city that surrounded them. There was also the sharp, aquiline stroke of her nose, and the aristocratic cheekbones ridged with a healthy, natural blush provoked by the meeting of hot blood and cold skin. Most of all were the swirling vortices of her smoky, seductive eyes; their somniferous allure accentuated by the fog of condensation that hung between them.

“You’re gonna be great.” He murmured.

“I know, right?” She laughed. He rolled his eyes. “Come on, ‘Romeo’. After you.”