The Jealous God

by Brendan Carroll

  “And where is General Watkins? I thought he was supposed to be here by now?”

  “He is still in Louisiana rallying the Voodoos there!” Schweikert laughed. “He took his mother with him.”

  “Ahhh. Then you did well to save him, my friend,” Jozsef said. “A very powerful woman in her own right, his mother. She should have no trouble convincing her brothers and sisters to fall in line.”

  “None at all.” Schweikert smiled.

  ((((((((((((()))))))))))))

  Mark Andrew lay on the bed in his room staring at the open casement window, frowning deeply. He had been trying to sleep. Sleep was something that did not come easy for him and he could not remember the last time he had actually tried to sleep, but even if he was unsuccessful, sleep would have been preferable to spending what was left of the afternoon and the evening with the rest of the various people on the island. He had always felt out of place with them and he could not help but remember many such occasions in the past when Meredith had given parties for birthdays and anniversaries and most any other occasion of note and his attendance had been mandatory.

  Those had been miserable affairs. Very few people who knew him actually wanted to socialize with him even though he had, at some point or another had profound impacts on their life in some way or another. In fact, most of the people on the island would not be there or even be alive if not for him. But he understood their reticence at speaking with him on casual topics. Invariably, any conversations that might be in progress when he drew near were suddenly cut short and there was always an uncomfortable silence until someone clumsily began a new conversation about such things as the weather or the quality of the wine they were drinking. He understood, but it did not make things better.

  He, of course, was not one of those paranoid people who believes everyone is talking about him behind his back and he wouldn’t have cared if they were; he just didn’t want to impose himself on what little joy they might be having. He knew his very presence often caused them to think of things they would rather forget for a least a little while, and he had never developed the social side of his nature. He doubted he had one.

  As he drifted very near sleep in that strange state of semi-consciousness half in and half out of reality, he heard a female voice calling his name. He tried to focus on which name it might be and failed to identify the voice or the name she was using. The voice was soothing, restful, comforting…. He snapped his eyes open. Had it been Inanna? He didn’t think so. Just a dream, no doubt. The voice sounded more like his mother than anything else, but she could not reach him here.

  There were many possibilities, but he preferred to think it just a dream and let it be. He closed his eyes again and then opened them for a second time as he discerned something had changed outside. He could hear something did not seem to fit with the sounds that had been filtering up and through his window for the past hour or so. He’d been listening subconsciously to the sounds of the children playing games on the bowling green. Laughs and shrill shrieks interspersed with whistles and a few shouts from the adults who were watching their progress from the sidelines near Louis’ pit. The children’s voices had died and the sounds afterward had indicated something had happened to quell their mood drastically.

  He got up wearily and walked down the balcony above the great hall. As he reached the foot of the spiral staircase, he heard several people enter the front doors that were standing open. Their voices confused, but subdued, as they headed toward him in the semi-enclosed corridor created by Meredith’s partitions. He met them there in the drawing room or den, as Merry had called it.

  His heart sank as he recognized the uniforms of the Fox soldiers in the group of men.

  Simon, Konrad, Christopher, Izzy and Philip were with them, leading the way, and in the midst of the group, Luke Andrew, Luke Matthew and the unmistakable form of Omar Kadif, dressed in his white and purple signature uniform that had become a sort of symbol of authority for the Prophet of God. They had been expecting him. He had been invited and he had sent word he might be able to make it, but he would be late, as he intended to stop by to see Ruth in Berne before traveling on to the islands. To see him here dressed in his working attire with a small contingent of soldiers, did not bode well.

  Mark waited until they had filed into the room and then stepped inside when they made a gap for him. He walked through the line of suddenly silent men toward his son, grandson and brother. Luke Andrew had one arm around Omar’s shoulders and seemed to be speaking or whispering to him before they saw Mark Andrew coming toward them. Omar looked at him, meeting his puzzled frown with a terrified expression and Mark’s heart sank even further.

  “Son?” Mark Andrew said softly and the Prophet actually ran to him and threw his arms around his neck, hugging him very tightly, pressing his face against Mark’s neck and shoulder. He was weeping uncontrollably. Mark looked at the others over his grandson’s shoulder and Luke Andrew walked toward them. He pushed the Prophet back almost forcefully and looked into his face. “What is wrong? What has happened?”

  “My father told me I should not have a son,” Omar told him through his tears. “He said I was wrong; I was making a terrible mistake! I never listened to him, Grandfather. I never listened to him unless I wanted something from him. I thought he was out-dated and naïve and silly. I dishonored him with my thoughts and I treated him with contempt. And he was only trying to save me from myself.”

  “Has something happened to the Djinni?!” Mark was truly alarmed now. He’d not seen Lemarik in quite some time.

  “No!” Omar shook his head and Luke stopped beside him. “It’s not my father! It’s… it is my…it was…” he faltered and stammered and could not go on.

  “Father,” Luke Andrew said and touched his arm. “Ruth is dead. One of us has to go to Switzerland.”

  Mark closed his eyes briefly and then Omar was hugging him again.

  “What will I do?” his grandson asked him and then sank to his knees on the rug.

  Mark Andrew waved one hand at the rest of the assembly and they began to file silently from the room. Luke Andrew turned to go and Mark caught his arm. Luke Andrew was closer to Omar than any of them and Mark was not good at condolences and such situations. He had seen plenty of death and much suffering and mourning, but it had never gotten any easier, and he had never been good at sympathy, receiving it or giving it.

  “You are part of this family. Do not forget that, my son,” Mark told him in a low voice and then waited while the others vacated the area.

  When everyone had gone, Mark shivered involuntarily though the room was not cold. He could sense something almost evil or, at least, unfriendly in the room with them as if some evil spirit or presence pervaded the modernized portion of the old keep, watching or listening to them. He pushed the feeling aside and attributed it to the shock of the news he had just received and the thought of what would have to be done now.

  “Where is your father?” he asked Omar as he pushed him down in one of the armchairs.

  “I haven’t seen him.” Omar wiped his eyes with a cloth handkerchief. “I don’t know where he is.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  Mark sat on the footstool in front of him and Luke Andrew dropped the bag he had been carrying on the floor behind the sofa. He came to stand behind his father.

  “I don’t know exactly.” Omar shook his head. “No one knows. She left her bed… I’m sorry, let me regress a moment. She had gotten to the point where she would not leave her bed without coercion. But somehow, for some reason… she went out on the balcony, presumably for fresh air. The attendants said they often made her get up and go out on the balcony in the evenings for a while. She never protested, but she had never requested it. But she went out before they came for her… didn’t leave a note or a letter… didn’t say anything to anyone.” His voice trailed off and he looked up at Luke Andrew.

  “She threw herself from the balcony,” Luke Andrew supplied the rest of th
e story. “That is all he knows. They found her body in the courtyard. The fall was from only the second floor, but it was sufficient.”

  “I’m sorry, Omar.” Mark took hold of his grandson’s arms. “Is there no hope of recovery?”

  “Her neck and her back were broken the fall," Luke told him softly. “She does not breathe.”

  Mark nodded. Someone would have to go. Either himself or his son, to perform the rite of death. He was not sure if it was truly necessary for Ruth Carlotti, but he knew she was, or had been, as immortal as any of them. They would take no chances this time.

  “I’ll go,” he said shortly.

  “It would be better if I did,” Luke Andrew objected. “I knew her better than you did, Father, and you may be needed here more than me.”

  Luke was right of course. He still expected to hear from John Paul any moment, any day and there would be much work to do. Luke’s status as Knight Apprentice made him less crucial to the upcoming meeting and planning. Luke Andrew would not have to argue with d’Brouchart for permission to leave the island and travel to the continent. Mark’s permission would suffice. He nodded briefly.

  “What would you like to do, Omar?” he asked. “Would you like to bring her here or to Scotland, perhaps? There is room for her wherever you decide unless you have another place in mind. Perhaps her home in Sicily?”

  “I believe she would prefer Sicily,” Omar said quietly. “She never lost her love for her homeland. Her family has a small plot on their land. She could be with her family….” Again his voice trailed off and he sniffled loudly before continuing.

  Mark nodded again. He did not know what to say and the feeling of malevolence in the room was growing. He could not push it away and he could not think of anything else to say to his grieving grandson.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again. “She was a good woman. She did not abandon you even though much evil came to pass. A good wife... for a time. Time is cruel to us all, Omar. Some have too little. Others have too much.”

  “True enough,” Omar agreed halfheartedly. Ruth had abandoned him years ago, but it had been invisible to all but him.

  Mark Andrew stood up and looked about the room. It was as warm and cozy as ever, but it felt all wrong.

  “Simon!!” he called loudly enough for the priest to hear him over the walls. His voice echoed in the vaulted ceilings and then footsteps hurried toward them. Simon appeared at the door.

  “Simon,” Mark waved him inside. “Take Omar upstairs and give him a room. Stay with him for a while.”

  Simon nodded and waited for Omar to join him.

  The Prophet walked from the room in a semi-daze.

  Mark caught Luke’s arm again before he could leave and made him stay.

  “Something is not right here,” Mark Andrew muttered and began to walk about the room, poking into the cushions and vases, even looking up the flue of the great fireplace. “Can you feel it?” He turned to Luke questioningly.

  “No!” Luke shook his head. “I don’t feel anything out of the ordinary. It must be the situation. I am shocked and grieved. Ruth! Dear, sweet Ruth. I would never have expected it.”

  “Nor I.”

  Mark continued to circle the room, looking behind the big-screen television and the bar. He did not want to be the one to break the news to Lemarik and he knew Lucio would be devastated by Ruth’s death.

  Luke quickly picked up his bags from the floor and headed for the door.

  “I need to get up to my room and then see Omar for the details. I need to plan my trip and he will need someone to talk to,” Luke said and Mark nodded absently.

  Luke hurried from the room and Mark looked around in confusion. His frown deepened. The eerie feeling left with his son and he could actually feel it receding from him as Luke made his way to the stairs. Something unnatural had attached itself to his son. It would have be dealt with… later.

  Chapter Eight of Fifteen

  Sorrow is better than laughter: for by the sadness of the countenance the heart is made better.

  Lucio walked slowly down the stairs. He was feeling light-headed. The events and information his poor brain had been forced to absorb over the past few days and the weeks prior to his meeting with Catharine de Goth were still floating around in his brain as if disconnected and searching for the proper niches in which to fall. He wondered if it might be possible to run out of niches. His meeting with Catharine overall had gone quite well, he thought, in spite of the startling revelations she had given him. He had underestimated her entirely; and she had proven to be a very powerful source of magick, reinforcing his belief that his life was nothing more than a string of divinely willed occurrences over which he had no control.

  The Will of God. Whatever and whoever God might turn out to be in the end, God was definitely controlling every move he made and he could, apparently, do nothing whatsoever about it. Thus the bag in his pocket, the very heavy little bag full of golden bees, was just another manifestation of his destiny and the destinies of the men and women of the Red Cross of Gold. Louis would know what to do with them, she had said.

  His main concern was trying to convince Mark Andrew it would be wise to consider joining forces with Catharine’s brother; more specifically, he wondered how he might present her case convincingly enough to cause the Knight of Death to take the collection of crystal skulls to Wewelsburg Castle in Germany. Lucio just couldn’t see it happening, but if it was the will of God, then the skulls would go there, including the skull of Santa Lucia they had just managed to smuggle onto the island. At the thought of the skull in Luke Andrew’s bowling bag, his heart leaped into his throat. In his haste to get up to the chapel, he had almost forgotten about the thing and wondered if Luke had managed to get it inside without being discovered. He walked along the corridor behind the partitions and stopped at the door of Meredith’s den. Mark Andrew was down on his knees looking under the sofa.

  “Did you lose your ring?” Lucio asked, causing him to bang his head on the heavy coffee table.

  “Dammit!” Mark Andrew cursed and sat back on his knees rubbing his head. “Ye froightened the bejesus out o’ me! Th’ damned place is haunted.”

  “Oh… sorry.” Lucio stuffed his hands in his pockets, and his right hand closed on the lumpy bag of bees. “Where is everyone?”

  Mark got up and dusted off his pants even though he had been kneeling on a rug. He frowned again and shook his head. The feeling was gone. Now, he had another distasteful task.

  “You finished your… business?” Mark narrowed his eyes at him slightly.

  “It went very well.” Lucio smiled a bit crookedly. “In fact, I believe we should have a private talk about Miss de Goth and her plight.”

  “I thought we might.” Mark fell heavily into one of the armchairs. “Did you know Omar is here?”

  “No.” Lucio looked about as if he expected to see the Prophet behind the door. “How are things in Babylon?”

  “You’d best sit down, Brother.” Mark waved his hand tiredly at the sofa.

  Lucio hesitated and then sat down uneasily. He did not like the tone of Ramsay’s voice. As soon as he sat down, Mark was up again. He watched with growing trepidation as the Knight began to pace nervously, back and forth in front of the fireplace.

  “I know ’ow ye feel aboot th’ lady… Mrs. Kadif… Ruth,” he began, stopped, pressed his hands to his face and then continued.

  “What about Ruth?” Lucio asked in alarm.

  “Ye know thot we brot Bari ’ere t’ th’ oiland fur a reason.” Mark stopped again. He had hoped not to be the one to break the news to the Italian.

  “I know that, but I am not privy to the details.” Lucio was now growing a tad angry. He had given quite a bit of thought as to why Omar would take Ruth’s son away from her and send him to St. Patrick’s Island after all the trouble they had gone through to find him, but he had reasoned it had something to do with Ruth’s recent mental breakdown. He planned to visit her in Berne when he had t
he chance. It wasn’t right. She had always wanted children…

  “I dunna know ’ow t’ tell ye this, Brother.” Mark stopped pacing and came to stand in front of him, looking down at him darkly. “I was nevar verra gud at such things.”

  “Santa Maria!” Lucio looked up at him. “Just tell me, il fratello, what it is.”

  “She’s dead, Lucio.” Mark Andrew shook his head slightly. “She threw herself from a balcony.”

  “Holy Mother!” Lucio’s mouth fell open. “Why?”

  “She was pregnant,” Mark lowered his voice.

  “But she loves children!” Lucio’s voice went up in volume. He could not believe this. Ruth loved children. She wanted dozens. She had always said so. “She would not kill herself and her baby. She would never do that. It had to be someone else. Someone murdered her!” He stood up, and Mark took hold of his shoulders.

  “She killed herself,” Mark told him again, more slowly. “The baby did not belong to Omar.”

  “What?” Lucio had thought himself beyond shock. This was too much. “You are lying! Ruth would never do such a thing. That would be impossible. She is a good, true Catholic girl. She had a few problems, but that was my fault. Everyone loved her! Everyone. She had no reason. I loved her, Mark. I really did. It’s just that… at the time it was… I never meant to hurt her. Santa Maria. Who would murder her?”

  “Lucio!” Mark Andrew suppressed the urge to slap the near hysterical man. “Lucio. I know this is hard to hear. God knows, it’s even harder to say. Listen to me. Sit down!”

  Lucio dropped onto the sofa and buried his face in his hands.

  “Who? Who did it?” he asked without looking up. “Who was the sorry bastard? I’ll kill him myself!” He looked up at Mark with wide eyes full of disbelief. “She was raped? That was it, wasn’t it? That is why she had a breakdown. Why didn’t you tell me? You know I’ve always loved her. Tell me who it was, and I will have revenge enough for all of us!”