by Bryan Davis
“Wait! I heard Mardon say that those magnetic bricks made the giants immune to the electrical charge.” She pointed at herself with her thumb. “Maybe I’m immune, too. Why don’t you let me climb up there and whack his legs off?”
“But they were in those chambers for years and years. You were there for what? Two hours at the most?”
“Maybe, but”
“The answer is no!” Walter grasped her arm tightly. “You got it?”
Karen firmed her lips and nodded. What else could she do? As long as Walter was in charge, there wasn’t much choice. Besides, he’d proven himself so many times and against such impossible odds, he could do it again, couldn’t he?
Gabriel arrived, breathless. “What’s going on?”
Walter guided Karen toward Gabriel. “Keep her safe, okay?”
“You got it!” Gabriel spread a wing over Karen’s shoulders. “By the way, Mardon said Chazaq’s coming.”
Walter rolled his eyes. “Great! Just what we needed.”
While Walter stalked away, Karen eyed Mardon until he ducked through the opening to the turbine room’s antechamber. When he disappeared from sight, she turned her attention back to Walter. He marched out into the middle of the open-air room and shouted. “Hey, Mr. Giant!”
The Naphil glared at him, his red eyebeams landing on Walter’s chest. “What do you want, little man?”
“I want to issue a challenge.”
Karen caught a glimpse of Roxil out of the corner of her eye, just her head peeking out of the clouds. She had circled behind the giant. Would she close in now that Walter had his attention?
The giant laughed. “How could a runt like you possibly challenge me?”
“Well, not a challenge to you directly. I heard that Chazaq is your commander and that he’s coming here.”
“He is my commander, and I expected his arrival.” The shafts of light emanating from the Naphil’s fingers grew slowly brighter. “So what?”
“If I can defeat him in one-on-one combat, will you surrender?”
“My surrender would be quite a prize for you. What could you possibly give me that is of equal value if you lose?”
“I’ll be dead, and Excalibur will be yours.” Walter spread out his arms. “What else could you want?”
The red eyebeams swept across the floor and landed on Karen.
“No!” Walter’s face flushed bright red. “No deal!”
Gabriel planted his feet in front of Karen. “Over my dead body!” He pulled a dagger from his belt and held it high.
“And over my dead body, too.” Walter lifted his sword. “She is not a bargaining chip.”
“She is my choice, and Chazaq is now here to trample over your dead bodies.”
Walter spun toward the sound of stomping feet. Chazaq hunched as he walked through the anteroom’s punctured wall, but when he came out into the open area, he straightened to his full height and marched closer.
Mardon had to step quickly to stay at his side, his head only as high as Chazaq’s elbows. “What are you two talking about?” Mardon asked.
“Nothing of consequence,” the other giant said. He aimed his eyebeams at Walter. “The boy is a nuisance. I suggest that Chazaq dispose of him immediately.”
“With pleasure.” Mardon nodded toward Walter. “Chazaq, break him in half and bring the sword to me.”
Gabriel stepped in front of Chazaq. “You’ll have to go through me first.” Beating his wings, he jumped high and swiped at Chazaq’s face with his dagger but missed. The giant swung a fist. Gabriel darted back just in time, then struck again, this time plunging the dagger into Chazaq’s eye. The giant roared and smacked Gabriel with the back of his hand, sending him flying toward Karen.
Karen tried to catch him, but his body flew by too quickly. Gabriel crashed into the pillar and sprawled around it.
Chazaq yanked out the dagger and threw it to the ground. With a hand covering his eye, he stalked toward Gabriel, screaming, “I will crush every bone in his body!”
“No!” Mardon shouted. “He is harmless now. Get the sword!”
Chazaq veered away from Gabriel and marched again toward Walter.
“Gabriel!” Karen knelt at his side, trembling as she pulled him away from the pillar. “Are you all right?”
He didn’t answer. She laid a hand on his cold cheek and pressed a finger against his throat. “Come on! Give me a pulse!”
Chapter 19
The Oldest Memories
Timothy awoke to the smell of roasting herbs, a hearty aroma that stung the back of his throat with a sharp, rousing bite. Sitting at his table, Abraham gazed at Enoch’s Ghost while sipping from a steaming mug.
“Whatever that is,” Timothy said, stretching, “I think I’ll have some, if you don’t mind.”
“It is brownleaf tea, a special blend I concocted many years ago.” He nodded toward a fireplace where a silver kettle hung over fading embers. “Help yourself. There are mugs on the mantle.”
Timothy rose from his straw-stuffed mattress and, still weary from his cathartic experience with the oracle, shuffled over to the fireplace, his companion bouncing up and down with his labored gait. “What does Enoch’s Ghost tell you this morning?” he asked, bringing the kettle back to the table by its wooden handle.
“That you have seen a great vision and carry an even greater burden.”
Pouring the tea, a dark, pungent brew, Timothy sat in the opposite chair but said nothing while the aromatic vapor bathed his face. His companion hovered next to his nose as if taking in the aroma with him.
Abraham pushed his mug against Timothy’s, making a quiet clinking sound. “I am willing to share that burden with you, if you care to move a bundle or two from your shoulders to mine.”
Timothy swirled the tea around in his mug. “I think the greatest burden might be deciding who is reliable.” He took a test sip, but it was too hot to drink. “I guess it’s okay to tell you that the oracle said there’s some kind of deceiver who is going to spread corruption. I’m not sure what she meant by that, but if this deceiver is already lurking, I have to be careful.” He blew on the tea while keeping his gaze on Abraham. Of course, the oracle had said much more, but could he possibly reveal the plan about the sacrifice, even to Abraham?
After taking a long drink, Abraham fingered the mug’s raised design, a dragon in mid-flight. “When a deceiver is in your midst,” he said slowly, “it is difficult to trust anyone. Of course, I hope you will trust me, but if I am the deceiver, my pleas for your trust would be yet another deception. Therefore, until you get your bearings, you cannot reveal your mission to anyone, not me, not Angel, not even Candle or Listener, for a deceiver might pose as a child as easily as an adult.”
Timothy sipped his tea and set the mug on the table. He watched three tiny black flecks spin in the rust-colored liquid. As Abraham’s words sank in, the tea itself took on a new character in his mind. Could even this drink be a ploy?
He picked up the pot and tipped it toward Abraham. “Freshen your cup?”
Abraham slid his mug over. “Please.”
Timothy poured the rest of the tea, and as Abraham drained it without even waiting for it to cool, he scolded himself for his paranoia. His companion scooted in front of his eyes and flashed. The seed for your lack of trust was planted by Abraham. Do not punish yourself for taking him at his word.
Timothy sighed. “You’re right.”
“Right about what?” Abraham asked.
Laughing, Timothy lifted his palm underneath his companion and let it rest there. “I’m not used to talking to these things yet. I have to learn to keep our conversation in my mind.”
Abraham’s fatherly eyes gleamed. “Some of our people speak out loud to their companions. It’s not so unusual.”
Timothy closed his fingers lightly around the little ovulum. “Since it attaches itself to the soul, what would happen if a companion were stolen while its o
wner was still alive?”
“A shadow person did just that. He took a small boy’s companion. It caused immediate pain, and within minutes the boy’s eyes glazed and he could no longer walk. By the time the news reached me, he was unconscious with a severe fever. Albatross and I hurried to the basin and searched all day until we found the culprit. If not for Enoch’s Ghost, I never would have located the glimmer of light that always indicates a companion’s presence.”
His hands trembling, Timothy leaned closer to Abraham. “So, what happened to the boy?”
“By the time I returned …” Abraham’s voice pitched higher. “He had passed away.”
Timothy hung his head low and tensed his jaw. “Cursed fiends!”
“Now you have more sympathy for my summary justice yesterday.”
“I do.” Timothy released his companion. It rose slowly and floated back to his shoulder. “I feel like I’m one of your people now, like I should just stay here under your rule.”
Abraham raised an eyebrow. “And marry Angel?”
Timothy nodded, keeping his eyes on the table. “Not too hard to figure that one out.”
“Not at all. Your face is still glowing from last night.”
Timothy laid a palm on his cheek. “The light tunnel did that.”
Abraham laughed. “Angel is a fine woman. I would have to look long and hard to find a more worthy lady, if I could at all.”
He looked up at Abraham. “Do you think she’ll have me?”
“Without a doubt. Without a doubt.”
Timothy stroked his chin. “Of course, I have to know for sure that Hannah died and didn’t come back to life, as I did, but how do I find out what happened to her? Can Enoch’s Ghost tell me?”
“Perhaps.” Abraham slid the ovulum between them. “Before we ask that question, there is other vital information you need to know. Now that much of your memory is restored, and now that I know who you are, it is time to fill in the gaps from the beginning.” He waved a hand across the glass egg. “More memories should return as your distant past streams before your eyes.”
Timothy slid his chair close and gazed into Enoch’s Ghost. The fog evaporated, revealing a land awash in a heavy rainstorm. Low clouds swirled around an enormous boat as the downpour fed streams of rising water that rushed around the bow. Atop the deck, a red dragon perched on the parapet while a smaller, tawny dragon looked on from the deck’s rain-slicked boards.
Tiny voices arose from Enoch’s Ghost, giving life to the characters inside. At first, the language seemed odd but quickly grew more familiar. Soon, Timothy was able to translate every word as they sprang from the mouths within.
“I cannot leave my father!” The larger dragon stretched out his wings and lifted into the air.
“We must go!” The smaller one bit his tail and pulled him down.
“Don’t make me fight you!” the red dragon said, jerking his tail away.
Scarlet light flashed all around. While a pulsing ball of fire descended from the clouds, an old man ran onto the deck, saying something, but the sound of rain drowned out his voice. Fingers of crimson flame sprouted from the ball, long tendrils that pierced the ground and gave birth to geysers of muddy water. A peal of thunder shook the ovulum. Torrents of rain veiled the boat, making it impossible to see the dragons or hear their voices.
Abraham rubbed the glass with one hand, seemingly turning the scene as if adjusting a camera angle. Now one of the rising streams came into view. Another red dragon, as large as the one on the boat, floundered in the water, black splotches covering his otherwise red scales. Beams from his ruby eyes pierced the misty breeze and the black clouds above. Shouting a dying call, he roared. “To you, Maker of All, I commit my spirit!” Then, he submerged.
Two winged humans, both bright and shining, descended from the storm. They plunged into the foaming water and lifted the great dragon, but, instead of trying to save him, they seemed to battle over him, struggling in midair while the dragon’s limp wings and legs flopped from side to side.
“Give me the dragon, Michael!” one angel shouted. “You have no use for it.”
“Jehovah’s purposes are beyond your knowledge,” Michael boomed.
As lightning flashed, Michael plunged a hand into the dragon’s chest and pulled out its heart, then, with a flaming burst of power from his four wings, carried the heart away. The other angel shouted something in a different language, indecipherable but clearly words of outrage. It turned and flew in the opposite direction, lugging the huge body under one arm.
The scene in the ovulum faded, replaced by the red fog. Timothy looked up at the Prophet, his eyes blurred, his heart racing.
“Do you know what you just saw?” Abraham asked.
Trying to steady his breathing, Timothy spoke slowly in a near whisper. “I was there. I saw the rain, the red light, the old man on the deck. But I don’t remember the battle between the angels.”
“You wouldn’t. You had already entered the protected part of the boat, Noah’s ark.”
“Noah? I remember Noah. He was a kind old man, gentle and good.”
“Indeed he was. He rescued you and your soon-to-be mate.”
“Thigocia? She was the other dragon?” A tear filled Timothy’s eye. Memories rushed in—flying with other dragons, shooting fire at angelic beings, zooming with reckless abandon with two smaller dragons in playful dives and hairpin turns, then reclining with the tawny dragon, necks intertwined in blissful peace.
“Thigocia,” Timothy said quietly. “My dear Thigocia.” With each repetition of her name, the memories linked themselves together, fashioning a story chain that began thousands of years ago in a dim cave, where the dragon he had seen drowning in the flood boosted him with a loving wing, and the chain led through multiple millennia to this dim room and the chair in which he now rested. Finally, in breathless wonder, Timothy sat back. “I remember so much more! But every thought burns like fire!”
“Memories are the greatest torture of all, and the greatest solace.” Abraham took Timothy’s hand. “Now look into my eyes. What do you see?”
With their fingers locked, Timothy could feel the Prophet’s rhythmic heartbeat. Trying to calm his own heartbeat, he first scanned Abraham’s bushy red eyebrows, then focused on the gleaming orbs just below. The wise man’s black pupils seemed to pulse as well, growing and shrinking slightly with every beat of his heart. The surrounding iris, the same color as his eyebrows, suddenly flushed with a deeper red.
Pulling his hand away, Timothy almost toppled his chair. “The eyes,” he said breathlessly. “The dragon in the flood. The red eyes.”
Abraham stood and leaned forward. “What is my name, Makaidos?”
“I … I do not know your name. I am a dragon, and I am unfamiliar with most humans.” He got up and looked around the room, so confused he couldn’t figure out where he was. “Where is Merlin? He might know who you are.” He shook his head hard. “What am I saying? Who is Merlin?”
“Your memories are spilling together, and now you must speak the bind that ties.” Abraham banged his fist on the table and shouted. “What is my name, Makaidos?”
The image of Angel bowing before Abraham flashed in his mind and the word she used to address him passed from his mind to his lips. “Fa … Father?”
Abraham marched around the table and jerked Timothy into a tight embrace with his powerful arms. “Yes, son, but what is my name?”
Barely able to breathe, Timothy cried out, “Arramos!” Wrapping his arms around Abraham, he laid his head on his shoulder and wept. “My father! Oh, my father!”
Abraham kissed Timothy’s neck and patted him on the back. “Yes, my son. And we will have many more revelations before the end of our journey.”
Timothy slid away. “How did you get here? Is my mother here, too?”
“Since a picture is worth a thousand words …” Abraham gestured toward the table and chairs. “Let us sit again, a
nd I will let Enoch tell the story.”
When they were both seated, Abraham touched the ovulum. Timothy scooted close again and gazed through the glass. As before, the red mist disappeared, and a movielike scene materialized.
Michael cradled the heart, cold and lifeless in his hands, beating his wings furiously as he ascended through the swirling storm clouds, and later, a dense blanket of water vapor. When he broke into the clear, he seemed to be in outer space, surrounded by inky blackness. He began to spin, and the black canopy shattered and swept to the side, as if the wind from his wings blew the pieces away.
When the spinning stopped, Michael, now surrounded by at least ten more angels in an enormous, churchlike chamber, walked reverently to an altar where a human body lay, a man whose motionless chest proved his lifeless state. Tall white candles surrounded him, each one flickering yellow light over his bared skin.
When the other angels joined him, Michael glanced around, his gaze finally landing on the closest one. “Has his world been prepared, Uriel?”
Uriel nodded. “All is complete. Second Eden is ready to receive its king.”
Raising both arms, Michael lifted the heart into the air. “Holy Spirit, breathe life into this creature and fulfill your wondrous plan. May the heart and soul of Arramos guide his people in this new creation and watch over his realm with eyes of wisdom.”
Wind swirled through the room, invisible at first, but as it collected smoke from the candles around the altar, its shape became apparent, a narrow band that weaved its way through the angelic host and then poured into the heart.
Instantly, the heart began to beat. Michael plunged it into the man’s chest, pausing for a few seconds like a surgeon attaching vessel to vessel. The body lurched and began to thrash. Michael withdrew his hands, and with a swipe of his fingers, closed the wound, leaving no perceptible scar.
The body settled down, the chest heaving at first until its breathing stabilized into an easy rhythm. Michael placed a hand over its eyes. “Awake, King of Second Eden, Father of the Forsaken. You will be called the Prophet, but the Holy One has named you Abraham, for you will be a father to the castoffs of the wicked realm.”
