Children of Semyaza

by Kevin C Noel

“You Glared?”

  Garrick nodded. “I believe Rumsfeld has restrained me somehow. And it’s probably for the best.”

  Kolten turned his chair to face Garrick and sat on it again. “First of all, it’s amazing you can communicate with me under such conditions. The amount of strain you’re going through must be unbearable. Secondly, have you come to me for permission?”

  Garrick did not answer. Kolten’s skill often made conversation useless. “Go on,” he finally said.

  “You want some sort of closure. When you found out you’ve never been the son of the Hartmanns, you initially thought it explained why you were treated the way you were. But now, you don’t feel it’s enough. You want to go back to Reading. You’ve always wanted to go back.”

  “Are you sure your gift is deduction and not mind reading?” Garrick asked, slightly miffed by how easily his thoughts were being read out to him. “She isn’t in Reading anymore,” he continued. “This could be the perfect opportunity for me to understand why. I didn’t realize how much I wanted this until now. I realize humans are instinctively aggressive toward a human who’s been approached by a potential Questioner. But I suffered long before I met Octavius. There must be a reason and I don’t think I can move onto this… this quest Octavius has set up for me until I know. There must be more to it. Celina can’t be that evil. I need to know, Kolten. I need to know.”

  Kolten gently brushed off a strand of his silver hair from his eye as he said, “You’re no longer a Nink, Garrick. My permission is not required. Neither is that of your Questioner.” Garrick sighed in relief as he began to fade away gradually. “However, you should know this. You are now solely responsible for your actions. It would be wise to remember that.” And Garrick was no longer there.

  Kolten opened his eyes and saw he still sat facing the warming fireplace with the glass of half-full scotch in his hand. Now that their mental conference was over, he could go back to sitting in peace.

  Garrick woke up with a sore neck. He wasn’t shocked to see he had been restrained on the hotel bed by leather ropes. He was also impressed by how tight they were because he could not move. He knew he was in his hotel room, yet he was surrounded by the serene landscape of the grounds of the manor in Kaunas. No doubt this was some spell conjured by Rumsfeld to keep him calm and away from them.

  “I’m fine, Rumsfeld. You can let me out now.” Abruptly, the bright sky began to melt away and was replaced by the hotel room’s ceiling.

  Rumsfeld stood at attention by the door with a pouch in his hand and half a smile on his face. “Glad to have you back, Master Garrick. You were mumbling in your sleep. I waited to be addressed directly.”

  “Mumbling?” asked Garrick as he attempted to stretch.

  “Yes sir. I wish I could say it was music to my ears, but it really was the most atrocious thing I have ever heard.” He flicked his wrist and the leather ropes around Garrick came to life and slithered away from his body.

  “You’re really impressive, Rumsfeld,” Garrick laughed softly.

  With a modest bow, Rumsfeld thanked him for the compliment and stashed the pouch in his pocket once he was sure its contents would not be needed.

  Garrick sat up and rubbed his sore neck while he pondered on his latest decision. He had no idea what he was going to say when he saw them, but figured he’d come up with something on the way. To preserve his skydust, he decided he was going to fly commercially to Reading. Rumsfeld was a little anxious and reprehensive—not because Garrick ordered him to wait behind in Los Angeles while he traveled, but because he saw it as a diversion from Octavius’ plan. However, Garrick wasn’t compelled to care about any of that. He was obsessed with getting closure, or he would never ever be able to focus on anything else.

  The flight to reading wasn’t the most comfortable for several reasons. First of all, it was his first time in an airplane and despite knowing he could not die in the event of an accident, he still felt a great deal of unease; secondly, it was a daytime trip and he had to contend with his Incardian constitution’s apathy toward sunlight. Being on an airplane also brought him closer to it and worsened his sickness.

  Hours later, after checking into a hotel nearby, he alighted a taxi in front of the very same porch he had spent his ruminating nights on. The house had been renovated recently and he had no doubt his adopted family still lived within once he noted the Hartmann name on the mailbox. Regardless of the many hours that passed since he left his hotel room in Los Angeles, he still hadn’t the slightest idea how he was going to approach this. It occurred to him that if he didn’t take control of his emotions he would Glare again and possibly kill Jared and Delilah Hartmann during a fit of rage. He wondered whether that would have been so bad. Part of him thought they deserved it.

  “No, that’s not why I’m here,” he told himself as he cautiously approached the door, dreading every step he took. He knocked on the wooden door and hated himself for it the moment he heard the footsteps of one of the occupants approaching the door.

  “Who is it?” called out an unfamiliar voice.

  Garrick looked back at the Hartmann name on the mailbox, half-hoping he was mistaken, and they had moved. “I’m here to see Jared and Delilah Hartmann,” he said.

  “I’m afraid my father’s not home,” responded the voice.

  Garrick’s mouth had opened in shock. It had only just occurred to him that all those years had passed and not once did he think of him; or of how his absence would affect him; or if he was too young to even notice; how he would feel if his parents were suddenly killed by a maniac he once thought was his brother. He was overwhelmed by a dreadful feeling of guilt which turned his stomach.

  Garrick completely forgot about his little brother, Hermann.

  28

  Hermann opened the door. He was a good-looking young man in his early twenties who had inherited his father’s height but his mother’s pristine face. He looked at Garrick with well-founded curiosity. He wondered who the cleanly dressed man on his porch was.

  “He will be back in a few minutes. He just stopped by the store to get something. You are?”

  Garrick wasn’t thinking when he asked, “liquor store?”

  If Hermann was offended by this question, he was good at concealing it. He merely chuckled and assured Garrick his father had gone five years sober. “I’m… I used to live in this town,” Garrick said. “I was just checking out… old friends.”

  “How long ago was it? Because we look like we could be the same age.”

  Garrick laughed nervously. “I guess I’ll come back…”

  “Garrick?”

  He was too carried away by Hermann to notice Delilah had come down from the stairs and was staring at him with wide eyes. Her expression, surprising Garrick, was one of utter sadness as her eyes moistened up while she stumbled toward her estranged son. Hermann, on the other hand, looked back at his mother incredulously. This could not be his long-lost brother, Garrick, he thought. Garrick would be much older. But Garrick’s grim expression made him challenge his skepticism.

  “You’re alive,” said Delilah as she walked to the door. “We thought you were dead. Hermann this is your big brother. This is Garrick!”

  This was unexpected, thought Garrick. The Delilah he remembered was the very personification of nonchalance. He could not remember a time when she ever showed any emotion toward him, yet she was bawling uncontrollably over him that moment. He did not understand. Her crying had completely disarmed him.

  “You look great,” said Delilah after he had been invited in and they were all seated in the living room. “How do you look so great?” Garrick was still muted by his surprise. Hermann examined him from head to toe. “You left us. At first, we thought you’d come back like the other children who’d run away after a misunderstanding with their parents,” she said, “But then we never saw you again. Never got a letter or a phone call. So, we thought the worse. We even filed a report with the police.” She was holding back tears, and this a
nnoyed him.

  “Well… it wasn’t just a simple misunderstanding, was it?” Garrick said bitterly. “Would it have been better if I died here?” he asked. Delilah opened her mouth to speak but she could form no words. “When were you going to tell me that I was adopted?”

  “How?”

  “I met Hagen. He told me everything. Is that why you didn’t care what your husband did to me? Why you let him torture me? Why you loved Celina more?”

  Delilah began to cry profusely. Meanwhile, Hermann looked visibly irritated. “What are you saying? My father is not a monster.”

  “Of course, you’d say that,” snapped Garrick. “He loved you, Hermann. You’re his blood. I was only ever an outsider to be discarded. If I hadn’t left, I would have been thrown out eventually or killed in this house. I would have…” Garrick stopped himself. Not just because he noticed he was losing his cool which would have inadvertently led to their deaths. But because he was uncomfortable with how childish he sounded. Yes, he had been wronged, but it was apparent he was better off without them. He calmed down and, with a more hushed tone, continued. “So, tell me…mother. Why?”

  Delilah sobbed as she said, “I don’t know.”

  He had hoped for a better response. One that would have clarified everything. He desperately needed a reason—something or someone to blame who wasn’t Celina. He wished he could blame Delilah instead, but she was a weakened sad old woman who was a shadow of her former classy and statuesque self.

  He thought it best to leave. There were no answers for him in that house.

  “You’re alive?”

  Garrick saw Jared walk into the living room with a brown bag of groceries clutched against his chest. Where his slick black hair once rested was a shiny bald spot surrounded by inconsistent tufts of hair; his eyes, once reddened with alcoholic bliss, were yellow dimmed lightbulbs; the man who once towered above him had become a short caricature of his former self. Yet, despite the degradation of years past, something remained unchanged.

  Garrick’s complete hate for the man.

  He did not know when he had left the couch and started throttling his adopted father. He did not know when Hermann had grabbed his arm and tried to wrestle him to no avail. He did not know when he smacked a hysterical Delilah away. But he regained himself when he heard the old man say something over and over even as the life was being strangled out of him.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

  Garrick released his target and fell to his knees. He remembered all the beatings; he remembered being chained in the basement of the house; he remembered being denied a normal childhood; he remembered being discarded in favor of a cousin. All the painful images came rushing to the fore of his mind with harrowing ferocity. This man did not deserve to live. Garrick’s dark and sad experiences vindicated his murderous intent. Yet, an apology… a simple apology had stopped him. How stupid was he to be halted by a mere apology? Why, after all those years, did Garrick still yearn for this man’s acknowledgment? He could not accept it.

  Garrick let out a roaring cry that shook the foundations of the house. The Hartmanns were huddled up in a corner, holding each other in fright as they struggled to comprehend what was happening to the one they once called son and brother. Even he wasn’t sure why he was doing it. He didn’t know if it was sadness, anger or catharsis. All he knew, was that he had to let it out and he went on for another minute before he could consciously stop himself. He panted as he wiped the warm tears from his cheeks.

  He did not look back at them when he said, “Garrick Hartmann is dead. You won’t be seeing me again.” Then he stood up and walked out without another word.

  As he sauntered toward his hotel, he wondered why he ever thought it was a good idea to show up in the first place. There was no closure and he didn’t feel any better. The entire trip felt like an incredible waste of time.

  As he scolded himself for his foolish decision, he noted a familiar store, Theodore’s, still lit in the night. For once, he saw something in Reading that made him smile in delight and thought it would be nice to walk in, say hello and, not only explain where he had been the last twenty years, but also why he looked so young and wealthy.

  Inside, he noticed the shop looked almost the same. However, the most apparent difference was the absence of the portly Mr. Lawrence Theodore behind the counter and the presence of a dark-haired lady in his place.

  “Good evening,” he said softly. “Is Mr. Lawrence here?”

  Unstartled, the young lady asked, “who are you?”

  “An old employee.”

  She eyed him from head to toe wondering how one so clearly wealthy could ever have worked in such a store. “My father passed away five years ago,” she said. “I came to this town to sell this place. Ended up running it, instead.”

  It was unfortunate news, but his face betrayed no emotion. He merely bowed courteously and headed for the door.

  “Would you like something to drink?” she called out.

  Garrick stopped, shook his head, and asked, “What is your name?”

  “Alison.”

  “Your father was kind to me, Alison. I cannot repay him now that he’s dead, but I hope you will let me assist you whenever I can.”

  Moved by this, she nodded her head slowly. “How… how do I contact you?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll contact you,” he said. “Have a good evening.”

  He felt slightly better when he left the store. He saw no reason why he couldn’t achieve something on his trip. Helping the daughter of one of the few people that helped him out when he was young was a worthy cause. He admitted to himself that since he left Reading, his preoccupation with revenge had made him forget the people who once mattered to him. Even Arianne.

  Arianne’s house was inhabited by people he did not know. According to the new residents, they moved in shortly after the abrupt sale of the house by the McMahons and had no idea where they moved to—all they were certain of was that they were no longer in Reading. He wondered if the appearance of Shimshonites the night he last saw her had anything to do with it. But then he wondered if he still loved her after so many years apart. He wondered if he could ever love again with as much intensity as he loved her all those years ago. He quietly mourned a dead relationship and continued his ambling into the night.

  He did not expect any more surprises that night. He would book another flight to Los Angeles and figure out his next move from there. There was nothing left for him in Reading. Or so he thought. Just as his hotel was in sight, a cold sensation, followed by a harsh burning pain on the back of his head had knocked him out cold.

  Once Garrick regained consciousness, he found himself in a familiar situation. He was bare-chested and his hands were chained and held up by a hook on a ceiling. He did not need to open his eyes to realize he had been taken by fellow Incardians. He noted seven of them, all men, sneering up at him, some with contempt; others with devilish anticipatory glee. Garrick swore. He was sick and tired of being knocked out all the time.

  “You’ve just killed yourself,” said one of them. “You were warned to stay away from Doctor’s daughter, weren’t you?” Once his eyes had cleared, Garrick realized he knew this massive blonde Incardian. The first time they had met was in Kaunas and he’d tried to kill him then as well.

  “Vincent,” Garrick began. “I heard Hagen isn’t overly fond of that nickname.”

  “Well he isn’t here now, is he?”

  “And neither is Celina,” he retorted back testily. “So, let me go!”

  They all guffawed like mad men. “You can’t fool us, Garrick. You know she’s here for her friend’s fundraiser. Your mistake was thinking we wouldn’t be here as well… to protect her.”

  Garrick flinched when he realized the Incardians were not following him—they were following Celina—and she was in Reading. How could she be there the same night he was? What ominous forces were at work, so insistent on bringing them together? “I did not know
,” he finally said. They laughed some more. “Are you just going to keep me here till she’s out of town?” he asked, though the answer to his question was already clear to him even before Vincent shook his head with that same evil grin on his wide face.

  Garrick wasn’t afraid this time. He had an all-new confidence that even seven Incardians couldn’t abate. “I’m not the same frightened boy from all those years,” he warned. “You should not underestimate me.”

  “What? Because you caused an Ousting on TI? Please! We all know that story was bullshit! The last time we met, you had Ingrid to save your arse. Where is she now?”

  Garrick laughed softly. The reason he was confident of his odds against them had a lot to do with Ingrid’s painful training. He never could best her, but with each attempt he had learned something new; he had become stronger.

  “Well, look here, lads. The boy’s finally gone mad,” said Vincent. “What say you? Let’s dispose of this little shit and have us some fun at Peck’s fundraiser, eh?”

  The name brought on another wave of haunting memories. “Lester Peck?” Garrick asked half-expectantly.

  “What of it?”

  “What’s the fundraiser for?”

  “He’s going to become a congressman. Wait, why the fuck am I answering your questions?” He pointed at one of his henchmen. “Kill this fuck and let’s be off.”

  Celina was a renowned movie star. Lester was on his way to becoming a congressman. No. Not anymore. Garrick was done letting the people who made his life hell live a prosperous life. He was going to this fundraiser. He wasn’t going to hold back anymore. He only had to stay away from Celina. No one said anything about Lester.

  As the Incardian henchman approached his hanging body with an icepick, Garrick grabbed the weapon with his feet and slit his throat. Incardians could not be killed so easily, but the pain from the cut was disarming enough. In the confusion, Garrick pulled his hands down hard enough to detach the hook from the ceiling and landed on his feet. He picked up the icepick and waved it wildly toward his attackers. Vincent stood back and yelled out orders, while the bleeding henchman, whose neck wound had finally closed, was charging toward him. Garrick was tackled to the ground, disarmed and punched several times in the face and stomach. He managed to head-butt him away and rolled to his feet. He stepped into a corner and, with his bare hands, tore the chains from his wrists like paper. Then he searched his pockets frantically and sighed in relief when he felt something sandy. He took a pinch of skydust and sprinkled it on the ground before him hastily.