Thoth, the Atlantean

by Brendan Carroll

“I believe that I am the best man.” Mark Andrew frowned at them. “Or did you forget that?”

  “The best man?” Lucio turned and frowned at Simon. “You didn’t tell me that, Brother!”

  “I didn’t?” Simon returned his frown and then looked back at Mark Andrew. “I thought I told him that.”

  “I believe that it was all laid out in Rachel’s planbook or whatever that thing is she sent to everyone. You are giving her away, are you not?” Mark asked the Healer.

  “He is,” Levi answered from behind him. “And Lucio is going to assist me in the ceremony. It will be my first wedding.”

  “Levi!” Simon hurried around Mark and embraced his son. “Are you ready to go then? Did you get everything packed?” He surveyed the brown bag his son carried. “Did you remember to pack an extra pair of…”

  “Poppi!” Levi laughed and pushed his father away from him. It was almost comical to see the Healer fussing over this hulking young man that he obviously still thought of as his little boy.

  “Well, you were always forgetful, cherie`,” Simon told him. “I remember once when we were going to Paris and you…”

  “Poppi!” Levi flushed and Simon shrugged. “I packed everything. Believe me. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

  “No, I suppose not.” Simon turned around and bobbed his head to Mark Andrew. “Well, Brother, my prayers will precede you going and coming. Take care of my little one.”

  “I’ll take good care of him, Brother.” Mark Andrew glanced at his watch again and frowned at the door. Konrad was late… as usual.

  Simon hugged his son again and kissed him affectionately on both cheeks, standing on tiptoe to make it possible. It was quite clear that the Healer was on the verge of tears. He did not want his son to go, but he would not say no. They all had their duties to God and the Order and Levi was as much a part of the Order as any of them. But sending one of his precious sons off with the Knight of Death had not been a part of the Healer's agenda for his priestly son. Mark Andrew’s missions were usually disastrous. If not physically, at least, mentally and he half expected his gentle son to return a Viking berserker, half-naked, painted blue and wielding a Claymore. Not that Levi couldn’t have held his own in such an endeavor, but… He wiped at his eyes and left the room hastily, almost bumping into Konrad who had finally arrived.

  Mark Andrew frowned at the Knight of the Apocalypse and the dark Knight grinned apologetically.

  “Wait for me in the car,” he told his two companions. “I would have a word with Brother Lucio before we leave.”

  They followed his instructions and he turned on the Italian.

  “Now… tell me what you and Brother Simon were up to in here? I can see that neither of you have been to bed. What is so important?”

  Lucio stood staring at his long time Brother and friend and sometimes arch-rival. He had never really been able to lie to Mark Andrew… not really… not face to face… not when the man asked him something pointblank.

  “We were talking about…” Lucio looked about the library and then up at the ceiling. “Vanni.”

  “Vanni?” Mark Andrew glanced about as well, expecting to see the boy in the fireplace or some such.

  “Yes! I believe that it would be more beneficial to keep him here in Scotland for a while before going to Italy. Give him a… a… a period of adjustment. We were looking for a good local school on the web. Simon knows these things.” Lucio rushed ahead. “Yes! A period of adjustment.” He began to pace the floor of the library. “I know that you don’t have much time and that you have to catch your plane, but I promise to stay right with him. I won’t let him out of my sight. Just allow us to stay here while you go on this mission and then we’ll leave.”

  Mark Andrew’s eyebrows shot up again as a commotion broke out on the front lawn. The two Knights moved to one of the tall windows and saw both wolfhounds rushing past the front of the house, down the drive toward the highway with Vanni running barefoot after them as fast as he could. One of the hounds had something bright yellow in his mouth and Lucio’s son wore no shirt. The other hound carried a pair of sneakers tied together with the strings in his mouth. They could here the boy shouting at the dogs in the elven language at the top of his lungs. Levi made a grab at the shirt and ended up in the grass when the dog passed him. Konrad turned about with his mouth hanging open as the boy rushed past him and on toward the highway after the errant, but ecstatic dogs.

  “Santa Maria!” Lucio clamped one hand over his mouth.

  “Ye’ll nae let ’im out o’ yur soight?” Mark looked at him doubtfully. “Just keep ’im in one piece until I retarn and we’ll see.”

  Lucio was already on his way out the door.

  ((((((((((((()))))))))))))

  General Ernst Schweikert plopped the brown cap on his curly hair and slid the gaudy white-rimmed sunglasses onto his nose. He pushed the body of the UPS delivery man over the side of the embankment with one foot and watched as the lifeless body rolled all the way down to the streambed and lodged against a moss-covered rock. Blood flowed away down the little waterway from the hideous gash on the back of the man’s head.

  The General jogged lazily back through the woods to the secluded little cottage where two more people lay dead just inside the open front door. It was a glorious day. Beautiful blue skies. Unusual for Scotland this time of year. He whistled a tune as he climbed into the delivery truck parked in the drive and turned it around in the former resident’s flowerbed. He was feeling very good to be out and about. As he drove away, a wiggling black mass emerged from under the stone steps of the small house. Thousands of scorpions scuttled into the yard, up the steps and inside the partially open door.

  He tested the delivery van’s equipment as he drove along the scenic highway that led from Edinburgh into the heart of Lothian. He was very near the Ramsay estate. Ramsay had two less neighbors to worry about and one fewer pesky deliveryman. Along the way, he managed to kill two rabbits, one cat and narrowly missed an old man on a bicycle, causing a terrible upset in the ditch. The delivery truck was fascinating. State of the art. Music, cell-phone, multi-lingual navigator, GPS system, girlie magazine. The deliveryman’s cell phone beeped on the console next to him. He picked it up and tossed it out the window, watching as it exploded on the pavement behind him. The packages in the rear of the van bounced about as he swung lazily from one side of the lane to the other, thoroughly enjoying himself. When he reached the drive that led to the home of Mark Ramsay, he had to slam on the brakes to keep from wrecking the van on two runaway wolfhounds. He would have taken them out, but their size might have caused considerable damage to the vehicle. He slid to a stop in the highway as the dogs loped across the road and into the ditch on the far side of the highway. A young boy of perhaps fourteen or fifteen, ran after the dogs, completely oblivious to his presence, shouting at them desperately in a very familiar, but out of place language. The boy was soon followed by a tall, lanky man dressed in black.

  “Hmmm,” Schweikert remarked to himself and touched the horn button briefly and the man waved one hand to him apologetically before chasing after the boy and dogs, shouting at him in Italian. “Lucio Dambretti! How careless of you. You could get run down on the highway.” He mused to himself as he lowered the sunglasses with one finger and watched them disappear into the field on the other side of the fence. He was startled as another car horn blast sounded on his left. A black BMW sat at the end of the drive, waiting for him to move out of the way. He was blocking the exit.

  “Sorry!” he shouted and drove on, more slowly down the highway, watching the car in the rear view mirror. Three occupants. He wondered how many more would be at the house. He had not been able to see clearly who might have been in the BMW. He drove down the shady lane that led to the old chapel and stopped in front of the stone edifice. He’d never thought to see it again. For all that had happened here, it still looked the same. Quiet and peaceful. Completely unassuming and deceptive. The two imposing figures of Saint Bern
ard and Saint John stared at him from either side of the double doors with hollow eyes. A pair of doves searched for bugs in the sparse grass around the foot of the steps. He leaned forward over the steering wheel and looked up at the bell tower.

  Surprisingly enough, one of the doors opened and nothing less than the figure of the Grand Master himself stepped out into the dappled afternoon sunlight.

  “Hello!” Edgard d’Brouchart waved to him. “May I be of some assistance?” The big man trundled down the steps and approached the passenger side of the van.

  Schweikert pushed his sunglasses up his nose quickly and grinned, pretending to chew gum as he spoke.

  “’allo! I’m lookin’ fur th’ Ramsay residence.” He smacked and affected a very convincing brogue. “Must o’ took a wrong turn.”

  “I’m afraid so.” D’Brouchart frowned slightly at him. “The Ramsay residence. Go back up the highway, second drive on the right. You will see an iron gate.”

  “Thank you koindly, sair.” Schweikert tipped the brim of his ball cap and put the van in reverse.

  He let out a long sigh of relief as he turned the truck around and headed back up the shady lane. D’Brouchart. That had been close. They were everywhere. And the old man was up here as well! A surprise indeed. Ramsay had a cook and two former apprentices living with him. His brother and sister-in-law lived in the other house on the estate. There might have been a few other servants to maintain the grounds and stables. It was a rather large place. There could have been dozens of people there. Counting Lucio Dambretti, d’Brouchart and the boy. That would make at least eight or nine people at the house, if Mark Andrew and his son, Luke Andrew were home. He drove very slowly, watching as the Grand Master cut across the lawn and under the trees in front of the chapel. He had apparently walked over and was now on his way back. A formidable force. Coupled with the Knight of Death, the Knight of the Golden Eagle and Ramsay’s son…

  “Hmmm.” Schweikert smiled. He liked a good challenge.

  He drove back to the cutoff to Ramsay’s estate and boldly drove the van up the long, narrow drive to the small parking lot in front of the great stone house. The place had not changed since he had come here with al Hafiz and burned Omar’s body beyond recognition. That must have hurt! In more ways than one. He only wished that it could have been his old friend Konrad von Hetz that they had burned on the concrete in front of the house. But that was not his own memory, just a vestige of what had been Ernst Schweikert.

  Yes, the place looked almost exactly the same. In fact, he could still see a black mark on the stone where the bird had lain. He could not help but remember with a certain kind of admiration the amount of control the Knight of Death had shown as they had incinerated his grandson’s body in front of him. A very cool head, that one. It was no wonder he had lived so long without being annihilated.

  He carried a package up to the house and rang the doorbell.

  A short, very nervous looking fellow of perhaps fifty or fifty-five opened the door.

  “Oui`?” The man squinted up at him. He had smudges of what looked like chocolate on his face and he wore an apron. The cook.

  “’allo! Package fur Mr. Ramsay?” He smacked his lips in the mock gum-chewing that helped to disguise his voice.

  “Which one, monsieur?”

  “Ahh, let’s see.” Ernst held up the small package and looked at the name.

  “M. M. Ramsay. Is that you?”

  “Of course not! Monsieur le Compte is not in.”

  “Le Compte?” Schweikert frowned. “Mr. Ramsay is a count?”

  “Oui`.” The chef nodded. “I will take it.” He reached for the package and Schweikert craned his neck to look past him into the hall. The chef cleared his throat and reached for the electronic clipboard instead.

  “P’raps it’s th’ wrong Ramsay. Is there anoother Ramsay ’ere?” he asked and withheld the clipboard and package. “I really need t’ ’ave a signature from Mr. Ramsay. Th’ rules, you see?”

  “Ahh. Monsieur Luke Ramsay is upstairs.” The chef looked indignant. “He is the son of le Compte.”

  “Could he come down?” Schweikert grinned. Luke Ramsay what a pleasure to see old acquaintances.

  “I would not presume to awaken him, monsieur.” The chef shook his head.

  “Is there… are there any others here who are not… servants?” The General continued to smile.

  “I assure you, monsieur, I am quite capable of career this package.” Gil was growing impatient. His soufflé was in the oven at a very critical point in its career.

  “The rules…”

  “Monsieur le Compte’s brother lives down the road. First drive on the left.” Gil made a move to close the door.

  “Wait, it doesn’t have to be a Ramsay per se, just a resident.” Schweikert blocked the move. “Is there someone else?”

  “Hmmph!” Gil scowled at him, clearly aggravated now. He could smell the chocolate in the oven. “Please, come inside. Wait here. My soufflé is crisping!”

  Schweikert stepped inside the foyer and looked about. He had never been inside the house. Only outside while the Fox searched it. It was a masterpiece of country antiquary. Very homely. Very unlike the title of le Compte. As soon as the cook disappeared down the hall, he pushed open the door to the library. He was impressed. No one was there.

  He crossed the hall and opened the door to the parlor very carefully. He was even more impressed. No one there either. He peered down the dim hallway on the opposite side of the wide staircase. Nothing moved there. Presently, he heard the cook returning and the sound of voices.

  Gil Pairaud and Stephano Clementi appeared in the hallway.

  “May I help you?” Clementi had a heavy Italian accent.

  “And you are?” Ernst pushed his luck.

  “Stephano Clementi. What do you need, a signature?” The man frowned at him suspiciously.

  “Are you a resident, sir?”

  “I live here, si`!” Stephano looked about as Gil deserted them.

  “And you are not a servant? You look like a gardener to me.”

  “I am not a servant, signor! Now do you want to deliver the package or no?”

  “Oh, yes, that is my job.” The General had dropped his fake accent. An Italian and a Frenchman. Not likely to notice the absence of a Scottish brogue. “But I’m not sure. There is the matter of policy and this package has been insured for a goodly sum. I would hate to lose it.”

  “I will not lose it.” Stephano was appalled. He had received many packages. This was ridiculous.

  “But you are not even Scottish. How do I know that you are not just… passing through? An itinerant? “

  “I live here. I have lived here for ages.”

  “Is there someone else… I hate to be a bother, but I don’t want to lose my job. You understand? Someone a bit more… Scottish, perhaps?”

  “You are being silly.” Stephano frowned at him and then stumped across the foyer to the hallway. “Planxty! Planxty Grine!” he shouted down the hallway.

  Shortly, they were joined by the grumpy Irishman. He had been reading in his room and had fallen asleep. There were creases from the bedlinens on his freckled face.

  “Wot’s oll th’ ruckus aboot?” he asked as he eyed the deliveryman.

  “Are you Scottish?” Ernst asked at once.

  “I’m Oirish! Whoy?”

  “I’m sorry!” The general backed toward the door. “I really am. I do need to see someone that I can be sure…”

  The front door burst open and the two wolfhounds bounded into the hall, startling them beyond measure. The big dogs made a wide circle about the three men, snuffling and wagging their tails before disappearing down the hall toward the kitchen. Lucio came dragging Vanni by one arm. The boy dragged his yellow tee shirt behind him and held his sneakers in his other hand.

  Lucio drew up short at the sight of the surprised trio.

  “Ahh!” Stephano greeted his former Master. “Master Dambretti! This gentleme
n has a package for Master Ramsay and he will not give it up to any of us. He thinks we are reprobates.”

  “Che cosa e` esso?” Lucio frowned and reached for the package.

  “Ah, ah, ah.” Schweikert backed away from him. Vanni pulled loose from him and dashed up the stairs, passing Greta on her way down.

  “Vanni?” She turned on the stairs and started back up. Simeon, who had started down the stairs with his daughter, took her arm and then shook his head, unwilling to allow her to follow the half-naked boy back upstairs..

  “What is going on?” Simeon asked. His half-French, half-Italian upbringing caused his English to be very peculiar.

  “We ’ave an impartinent beggar ’ere ’oo doesna trust us in our own hoome!!” Planxty told him and stomped off down the hall toward the smell of chocolate.

  “My goodness!” Ernst put on a puzzled frown. “Do all of you live here?”

  “That is none of your business.” Dambretti reached for the package again. “Now give me the damned package before I throw you out!”

  “Please, Sir,” Simeon held up his hand to stay the irate Italian who’d not had any sleep in over seventy-two hours. “You will wake up my father and he is exhausted.”

  “He’s exhausted?!” Dambretti turned on his heel and started up the stairs. “To hell with it.”

  “I can see that you are upset.” Schweikert stepped back out of reach when Stephano reached for the package again “but I really must have some idea of whom I am delivering this package. I can’t just leave it with anyone! What would you think of our company’s integrity if I…” He stopped as Luke Andrew came down the stairs, dressed in his Ramsay red kilt.

  “Ahhh!” Ernst’s face lit up. “Now thair’s a Scotsman, if evar I did see one. Sair, please! ’elp me, if ye wud.” He smacked his lips with great satisfaction.

  Luke stopped on the stairs and looked from one of them to the other in puzzlement. He clumped down the stairs in his new Ghilley Doos and took the package easily from the deliveryman, holding it up to the light.

  “I’m afraid you have the wrong address, my friend.” Luke grinned at the man. “This is for M. Angus Ramsey with an E not an A. No one here by that name.”