The Centaur (22 page)

She smiled slightly and withdrew her hand from his when he stood.

“Now come over here to your circle, and we’ll take care of this together.”

Huber stood very carefully and held her head in both hands. Already, it had left her neck twice, to Abaddon’s greater horror.

“Do you realize how disconcerting it is to suddenly find oneself lying on the floor looking up at one’s body? Most unpleasant indeed, I will tell you that much.”

She walked slowly to the circle and waited, while Abaddon retrieved the necklace from the floor. He untangled the white strands and held it up, inspecting the silver earrings hanging from it. They jingled softly in the breeze from the vent, reminding him of the enigmatic specter, who had given it to him.

“What is that thing made of, Abaddon? It feels like hair,” Huber complained as he slipped it gingerly over her head. “I don’t like it.”

“It will soon be over, my Queen,” Abaddon said and smiled as he draped the braided necklace over her head. “Very soon. And if this does not do the trick, then we may have use of our little prisoner after all. They haven’t killed him yet as I instructed, have they?”

“What?” Huber frowned. “Oh, the little one? No. I don’t think so, but what could he do?”

“I learned he is a healer of some renown. He may be able to finish what I cannot readily remedy.”

“Ahhh. Well, then, do what you can, Abaddon. I do not have an eternity to dawdle here,” she grumped and then knelt in the circle.

((((((((((((()))))))))))))

“Soooo-phiiiii-a, Soooo-phiiii-a,” Mark said as he pulled the sheet from the bed and dropped it on the floor. Sophia did not answer him, but pulled the pillow over her head to block out the bright, mid-morning light spilling through the bedroom window. He leaned one knee on the mattress and pulled the pillow away.

“Sophia! Get up now, lassie, we have to go.”

“What? Nooo, come on, Mark, back to bed. Go to sleep. There’s no hur…” the rest of her words were cut off as she turned on her stomach and pushed her face under the pillow again.

“It’s half past nine.
Toime’s a’wastin’.” He pushed himself off the bed and threw her sweater to her. “I’m not joking. Get up. We have to go.”

Sophia rolled half over again and stretched. Mark grabbed her arms and pulled her from the bed, slipping the sweater over her head at the same time.

“Mark! Stop it.” Sophia protested, but he pushed her down on the bed and retrieved her woolen slacks from the floor. He knelt in front of her and began to push her feet into them. “Wait!” She popped his head, and he looked up at her in aggravation. “I can’t wear those without underwear! They’ll itch me to death.”

Mark relented and she tripped across the room to the dresser and dragged out a pair of well-worn jeans.

“You are always full of surprises,
Bambino
,” she said, and then clapped one hand over her mouth. He had specifically told her not to call him ‘bambino’ for some strange reason. “I’m sorry,” she apologized and then hopped about looking for socks. “Where did you learn that little trick with the light, Mark? That was… it was… I mean, I didn’t know you could do that. How did you do that?” She stood up straight and frowned. “What have you been up to, Mark?” She turned around in time to receive her coat across her face. “Dammit! Would you stop? Where are going? What is your hurry?”

“Look, Sophia,” Mark came out of her bathroom and closed the space between them. “We have to hurry. Today is the sixteenth. We have to get everyone over to the chapel.”

“The chapel? What for?” Sophia began with the questions again and he ignored her. He was already fully clothed and she wondered when he had left her side and gone to find his coat and boots. She stopped short at the sight of the golden hilt protruding from the leather scabbard on his hip. “Mark? Where did you get that sword? Is Luke Andrew back? Did you see…? Is Sir Ramsay here?” She pulled on the coat.

“Luke Andrew?” Mark frowned back at her from the door. “Why? What makes you ask that?”

“The sword,” she pulled on her boots as she hopped toward the door. “Whose sword is that? Sir Ramsay’s or Luke’s?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he smiled at her and took hold of her arm, escorting her down the hall. He startled her again when he stopped on the landing and shouted up at Nicole’s bedroom door.

“Nicole! Lassie! Get down here and bring your coat!” He shouted and the old paintings on the wall seemed to rattle with the sound. It was most likely the loudest sound the old walls had heard in a long, long time.

Nicole’s door flew open and she rushed out to the railing.

“Daddy! What’s wrong?” Her beautiful face was crumpled in a frown. She had a towel wrapped around her head and was dressed in a fluffy pink house robe.

“Get
yur clothes on gurl and get down ’ere! Tell th’ two Queens to accomp’ny ye.” He shouted up at her. “Toime’s a’wastin’!”

He didn’t wait for an answer, but dragged Sophia down the stairs. When they reached the bottom, he pushed her into a straight chair in the hall.

“Wait right there. I’ll be right back.”

Sophia watched in dismay while he stomped down the hall toward the rear bedrooms, most likely in search of Bari. She could hear Gregory and Nicholas in the kitchen. They were singing a bawdy song about girls in a 'bilge-water town’. She thought it odd that the two brothers liked to sing such things and wondered where on earth they had learned them. The only thing she could assume was that Paddy Puffingtowne had taught them the songs. They probably didn’t even know what bilge-water was.

Mark came back with Bari in time to meet Nicole coming down from upstairs. Meredith tried to stop him and he pushed her aside gently, telling her and Oriel that there was no time to explain.

“What on earth is wrong, Daddy?” Nicole tried to stop him once more and Bari grabbed her.

“You don’t want to do that,” he told her in a low voice and shoved her ahead of him.

Nicole bumped along the hall in front of Bari with the Queens following after him, glancing back nervously as Mark pulled Nicole by one hand behind him. Nicholas and Gregory were in the process of making something, no one could have known what, for lunch. They often tried their hand at cooking which was, to them, a novel experience. There were only so many ways one could prepare Spam, but since the durable canned meat was the most abundant commodity in their cupboard, it was Spam the two brothers experimented upon with surprising ingenuity and joy. They were truly pleased or equally disappointed by the praise or complaints precipitated by their concoctions. Today, they had something going in a large stock pot on the stove when their ‘grandfather’ arrived with his captive entourage.

“Gregory? Nicholas?” He spoke their names as he pushed on through the kitchen toward the back door. “Come with us, please.”

“Wait, wait, wait!” Nicholas called after them, but they did not stop.

Gregory looked at his older, larger brother in surprise.

Nicholas yanked off his apron and threw it on the floor.

“Come back here!” He shouted after the departing party. “Do you hear me?! I said come back here! Where did you get that sword? Answer me!”

Gregory watched for a few minutes, and then yanked off his own apron in imitation of his brother. He threw it on the floor, thought better of it, picked it up, along with Nicholas’ discarded apron and placed them carefully on the bench by the table. He lifted the lid on the pot and looked forlornly inside before turning off the gas and hurrying after his brother, muttering to himself.

Nicholas ran after Gregory and found him chasing Mark down the sidewalk. The little group was almost to Simon’s monument when Nicholas caught them. He grabbed Mark’s shoulder and spun him around. The rest of the group stopped to watch in various shades of shock when Mark reciprocated by taking the slightly bigger man down with little or no trouble at all. Nicholas found himself on his back on the walk with the tip of the golden sword at his chin.

Merry was astounded by the change in him, and clutched Oriel’s arm, unable to utter a word. She’d seen enough of his strange behavior to question this one, though Sophia had explained to her this was not the Mark Andrew she had known. Oriel had been unable to shed much light on the situation, but had merely insisted she’d had a terrible dream about Louis in which he told her to go to Lothian posthaste. Oriel never ignored her dreams, and she always obeyed Louis as her king and her husband, even in her dreams.

“Dunna be foolin’ aboot with me, Nicky,” Mark warned as he leaned over him and smiled in his face. “Now get yur brother and yur coat and bring yur weapons to th’ chapel. Alart th’ soldiers down at th’ Academy and bring them along as well. I’ll nae ’ave me daughter moonin’ over a lost love, and I’ll nae be ’avin’ me grandson layin’ ’is ’ands on me loike thot again. If ye canna respect yur elders, then ye’ll damn well respect yur bettars.”

Mark let go of Nicholas’ sweater and he banged his head on the bricks painfully. Gregory was beside him in a moment, helping him to his feet. They stood speechless on the walk watching as Mark stopped beside the monument. He took a small vial from his pocket and shook out some green dust atop the bronze and copper seal of Solomon before herding the group in front of him as they cut across the lawn and headed directly toward the old chapel in the glade.

“Damn me!” Gregory whispered under his breath and then smiled broadly. “I knew that he would kick in sooner or later.”

“Kick in?” Nicholas spun his brother about and pushed him toward the house. “I’ll kick in your butt, if you don’t get a move on. Go and fetch our coats and our blades, little brother. I’ll see to the soldiers. They’re not going to like this. I’ll tell you that, for sure! Your grandfather has lost his mind.”

“My grandfather?” Gregory looked back over his shoulder. “I thought he was
your grandfather!”

((((((((((((()))))))))))))

The red calf was dead and burned on the altar. Its blood sprinkled on the horns at the four corners and its aroma, sweet and savory sent into the sky as a last tribute to the god who had so cruelly demanded the blood sacrifice just to tempt his vanity. The incense was smoldering and the Ark was no more. After the confrontation with Raguel, the storm abated atop the Holy Mountain and the ceremony went off without a hitch as had the displaced angel to points unknown, preferring not to hang around for the return of his master. No great, omnipotent power had rushed up from the roots of the mountain to devour them. No fire had fallen from Heaven to consume them. No whirlwind had come to fling them down from the mountain. Nothing had happened other than a few sighs of regret as the magnificent golden box disappeared into the depths of the chasm. Nothing except that tiny, still voice in their hearts which told them they had done the right thing.

The party of bedraggled Knights and the two weary monarchs trailed back down the path on the mountain in brooding silence. Konrad had wasted the last of the Dragon’s Blood when he had dropped the vial on the rocks. Lavon had been shamed by his lack of experience with the Wisdom of Solomon. Simon had been greatly relieved that neither he nor Levi had been struck dead as they entered the Holy of Holies. Edgard had been very disappointed at the destruction of the box without opening it and Louis Champlain shared his disappointment. He had, after all, nurtured, cherished and protected the Key to the Ark for hundreds of years and all for naught. The Frankish king’s successor as Knight of the Golden Key,
Benji d’Ornan, returned the golden Key to him after the ceremony as a sort of bizarre souvenir of his life long quest. He clenched the disc tightly in his pocket as he trailed along behind the others, the weight of his beautiful mantel covered with golden bees, pressed on his mind as well as his shoulders. He only wanted to get home to France and his lovely Queen before disaster struck from the Cosmos. Mark Andrew’s dire predictions about the comet or meteor had given no hope for any of them.

They reached the foot of the mountain and were greeted with heroes’ welcomes by Eduord de Goth and King Corrigan. Lemarik took his father aside immediately.

“My father,” the Djinni began as soon as they were alone. “The destruction of the earth is imminent. I suggest we gather these souls together and save them for the aftermath. My people will go quietly and they are good, sincere and loving. They have no appetite for war or violence. They would be assets for the New Age. I have come to petition for their lives. I had no idea so many remained true to my teachings when I was but a benevolent child of earth.” Mark raised one eyebrow at his son’s words. “It was a good attempt, do you not think so? But evil is so much more fun… in your alternate time, I must have been a much more beneficent soul. Beneficent, magnificent… what is the difference?”

“You are beyond doubt, the most disturbing, most confusing, most… most..” Mark began and then stopped. His head spun at the idea of his enigmatic son’s colorful history, trying to sort it was out of the question.

Mark scooped up a bottle of brandy from the floor and dropped wearily onto a purple and gold cushion before opening the bottle. He took a long swallow and smiled at his precocious son. The Djinni still wore the elaborate robe, colorful cape and long beard full of tiny braids he had used during his brief, but wonderful stint as Zoroaster. The curled toes of his golden shoes peeked from under his robe.