Thoth, the Atlantean

by Brendan Carroll

  “I have been thinking about this rhyme thing, Father.” Vanni told him. “I have noticed many words in this language sound the same but are not the same. It is most confusing. Take for instance, the ‘irt’ sound. We have the ‘irt’ sound in elven language but it is simply used, not expressed a dozen different ways on paper. If we were to write the ‘irt’ sound in the runic alphabet, it would always look the same. But in this English, we have I R T, U R T, E R T and sometimes Y R T which is very similar to A R T or E A R T. I propose we make a change and simply express the sound with R T which is common to all of these different spellings. Do you think this would be wise? Could we not convince the people it would be simpler to do it this way? More efficient?” Vanni’s expression was one of dead seriousness.

  “Who would we try to convince?” Lucio asked him. “I mean to whom would we present our petition?”

  “To the writers of these words. Dr. Seuss, for instance or Leo Tolstoy, who wrote the multi-purpose book on war and peace. Surely, they would agree it would be easier to write so many words if we eliminated some of the problems plaguing the English language.” Vanni told him solemnly.

  “I think it is too late to change the English language now, my son. It is too old and old habits are hard to break. I think you will like Italian or Spanish better than English. They are much more organized languages.”

  “Ahhh. Your language. Italian. I would like to learn it.” Vanni crossed his legs in front of him and looked at his father as if he expected to learn the language from him in the next few minutes.

  “Good.” Lucio nodded. “I will find you a suitable tutor.”

  “You can teach me, Father.” Vanni told him. “I do not think Greta knows Italian. She knows French, but her Italian is a bit ragged.”

  “How would you know?” Lucio frowned at him.

  “She told me herself.” He blinked sympathetically. “She is so young and ignorant. I feel very sorry for her. She has much to learn.”

  “Ahh. I see.” Lucio nodded in agreement. “And who taught you English?”

  “Il Dolce Mio speaks it quite often. He says it is best to keep in practice. If you would speak Italian for the rest of the day, I could learn it that way.”

  “Santa Maria.” Lucio laid his head back. “Go down to the library and find an Italian television station. A news station, perhaps. Listen to that for a while.”

  “That is an excellent idea, but everyone is down there watching a story about Il Dolce Mio’s father. I do not think they would allow me to interrupt them. They fussed at me when I asked about War and Peace.”

  “What?!” Lucio sat up again. “What story?”

  “Luke Andrew says that his father is in New Babylon. Simon and his son Simeon argued that it is not Mark Ramsay, but one called Jozsef Daniel that is there. Luke Matthew sides with his nephew that it is his brother Mark who is with the dead colonel and that he should not be there at all.”

  Lucio was already out of the bed and crossing the floor with Vanni close behind him.

  “Greta says that everyone is upset because the Prophet has returned and someone has tried to kill this Colonel St. John. She said the evil one, Bari, is behind it. I think it is very confusing. Perhaps if you went down there, they would change the language to Italian and we could learn something in a more organized language.”

  “Santa Maria!” Lucio’s voice drifted back from the hall.

  ((((((((((((()))))))))))))

  While waiting for the arrival of the Prime Minister’s entourage, Mark Andrew had the soldiers and his personal secretary, Curtis Franklin, a very frightened individual, moved a larger desk into the bedroom where he had them set up a phone and a computer. The desk was positioned at the foot of the big bed and faced the door. He could not leave the bedroom. He had ventured into the bathroom and found that his image was almost transparent in the mirror and his voice, when he tried it, sounded hollow and unreal.

  Curtis was almost hysterical. The calls had begun to come in to the palace switchboard in such numbers that the lines had been totally shutdown. Kings, Prime Ministers, Presidents, Foreign Ministers, the Papal Office, Ambassadors and a long list of lesser diplomats and government officials had jammed the switchboard almost simultaneously. Mark had issued orders to simply take names and numbers and tell them to wait. Don’t call us, we’ll call you was the order of the day. He asked for a cell phone and received at least a dozen as every soldier and servant in the house offered up their own personal phones for his use. He sat behind the desk with Ruth nervously sitting in a chair next to him. Bari was stationed on a small sofa on the far side of the room. The servants had brought in a cart loaded with food and drink for them, but of course, Mark was neither hungry nor thirsty. He knew that his physical body was somewhere in America, and he had to get word to Konrad to tell him what to do. He had tried to call the Knight of the Apocalypse again and again, but he could not get a line out. He sent word to the switchboard to allow only calls from a limited number of specific individuals to be put through to him directly. Among the names listed were all of the Knights of the Council including several apprentices and Merry Ramsay, just in case. It was a wonder he could even talk on the phone at all.

  The Knight of Death could do nothing but sit and listen to Omar’s personal assistant drone on and on about the chaotic state of the palace and the local government in New Babylon. He tried to answer some of the man’s questions, but could not. He hardly knew what the man was talking about, and he could not defer the questions to Omar, whose consciousness came and went as he battled to recover from his injuries in the bed behind him. There were armed guards inside the room and outside in the hall.

  He received a call from Lucio Dambretti just as the Prime Minister and two of his cabinet members were escorted into the room. The General had not put in an appearance so far and that was another worry.

  He held up one hand in the man’s face, much to his consternation and turned his back.

  “Brother!” Lucio’s voice was almost hysterical.

  “Lucio.” Mark Andrew frowned.

  “I’ve had a call from America!”

  “Then they are still there?”

  “There has been an… accident. They need assistance. They cannot return by conventional means. How is the colonel?”

  “He is recovering. I am at a loss here, Lucio,” Mark’s voice was very low and he had no idea who might be listening in on the call.

  “They need to be picked up,” Lucio told him.

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Brother?” Lucio’s voice changed to one of alarm.

  “Yes?”

  “Should I come there?”

  “No! Stay put. I’ll see you as soon as possible. Where is… the old man?”

  “Italy. There is trouble there! A great deal of it!”

  “Oh? How so… be careful,” Mark warned him.

  “A certain woman we met recently… there was a severe disagreement between you and I concerning her sleeping arrangements?”

  “Ahh. Yes?”

  “She was here. And her companion?”

  “Yes?”

  “She is in custody.”

  “Custody.”

  “Yes. There was an attack. Two. Italian and Scottish. Personal and professional. Your General and the old man’s latest enemy.”

  “Yes?”

  “She has gone to the islands. Her companion did not go. He went to sunny southern Italy.”

  “Ahhhh. Yes?”

  “There have been… casualties.”

  “Anyone I know?”

  “Perhaps, perhaps not. Students.”

  “Great Sc… day in the morning. How many?”

  “Two.”

  “Kin?”

  “Nor mine, nor thine.”

  “And there?”

  “All is well… now. Two are missing.”

  “Mine or thine?”

  “Thine. Two new students. No information has been forthcoming concerning their
whereabouts.”

  “Great Sc…!” Mark closed his eyes.

  “Most likely looking for kith and kin.”

  “Ah, well. Good. Hold tight. I’ll do what I can from this end. My friend’s name is Curtis.”

  “Do you have any ideas?”

  “Hundreds.”

  “Good. Check them all and go with God.”

  Mark Andrew turned around and faced the scowling visage of Minister Ahmed.

  “Please… have a seat, Your Grace.” He held out his hand. “Excuse me. I will be right with you.”

  He called Curtis aside. “Get downstairs. Call the Minister of Transportation. Dispatch a helicopter to pick up some… people in New York.” He took the man’s clipboard and scribbled the number to his house in Lothian and the name of the motel in New York where Konrad was most likely stuck. “Ask Guiseppi where to find the people in need in New York. Identify yourself as yourself and tell him you work for me. If that doesn’t work call this number.” He wrote down another number. “Ask for Mr. Jackson. Tell him you need to know where to send the helicopter to pick up the… survivors. Tell him John Larmenius gave you the number.” He scribbled the name on the pad. “Try calling the motel first. Ask for Herr von Hetz, room 214. Then try this number.” He paused and then scribbled out Konrad’s cell phone. He was so confused himself, he thought the man would surely botch the whole thing. “Just find out where von Hetz is and have him picked up along with the rest of the survivors.”

  “Survivors?” Curtis’ eyes widened.

  “Just do what I say, Curtis. Tell them to follow Herr von Hetz’ instructions when they make the pick up. Tell them to take him anywhere he says. Now go!” Mark shoved the clipboard at the man and their hands touched. Mark’s hand passed cleanly through the man’s hand. Curtis dropped the clipboard and stood staring at him. “Look, Curtis.” Mark leaned toward him. “If you value your life, you will do exactly as I have said. No more, no less and report back here immediately.”

  “Yes, Your Grace!” Curtis almost shouted as he scrabbled for the clipboard and hurried from the room.

  “Now,” Mark Andrew said more slowly and smiled at the disgruntled and highly agitated Prime Minister. “I want you to tell me why you sent assassins to my palace to kill my emissary?” He sat down behind the desk and pretended to lay his hand on top of Ruth’s though he could not feel her. She glanced at him briefly and then raised both eyebrows at the Prime Minister, awaiting his answer.

  Prime Minister Ahmed’s face drained of color and he began to stammer.

  ((((((((((((()))))))))))))

  Konrad nearly jumped out of his skin when his cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He had been pacing the floor of the room at the motel for what seemed hours. Mr. Jackson had helped him carry Mark Andrew into the room without attracting too much attention from the other tenants. They pretended to be drunk. The man had offered to make phone calls for him, but he had declined. He did not know the man personally and did not trust him. He had assured him he could handle the situation from here and allowed him to leave, but now he was not so sure. It had taken forever to get through to Lucio Dambretti in Lothian. They were in an uproar there and the lines to the Villa in Italy were totally inaccessible. Everyone who was anyone was jamming the airways with calls to New Babylon. At least he had learned from CNN where Mark Ramsay had gone, but it had done little to ease his mind to hear the rampant rumors coming out of that city. The Knight of Death was in serious trouble and so were he and Levi d’Ornan. They could not stay here indefinitely. They had to get home. Simon had spoken with Levi briefly before they had lost the connection. There had been much trouble in both Lothian and Italy after the mission had departed for America, but they had not had time to learn much about it before they had lost contact again.

  He pulled the phone from his pocket and heard an excited voice he did not recognize begin chattering at once.

  “Who is this?” Konrad frowned and held up one hand to the frightened Tuathan healer, who sat on the bed beside Mark Andrew’s body.

  “Curtis Franklin, personal Aid de Camp for his Grace, Omar Kadif, Prophet of Allah.”

  “Ahh. And how do I know this?”

  “John Larmenius told me to call you.”

  “I see. And what did John have to say?”

  “He is sending a helicopter from Buffalo to pick you and the survivors up there. You will remain at the hotel?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good.”

  “How is John?”

  “He is well. He is in a meeting.”

  “I see. Give him my regards and tell him that I hope to see him very soon.”

  “I will do that. Praise be to Allah.”

  “Sure, of course.”

  Konrad tapped his phone's screen and let out a great sigh. So it really was Mark Andrew in New Babylon. Omar must have summoned him there when they, whoever they were this time, had attempted to pull off the coup. He had to wonder if the attempted assassination had anything to do with Schweikert and Jozsef Daniel. He had to assume that it could have been someone else. Possibly. If Jozsef Daniel wanted, he could have simply waltzed back into New Babylon and announced that the Prophet had returned. The people would have never known the difference. Obviously, there were other powers at work here.

  Jozsef had no interest in the New Order of the Temple. His goal was well known to all of them. He wanted the skulls and he wanted to bring Chaos back to the earth. Chaos had not been in the prophecies of either the New or Old Testaments. Nowhere in any of his mystery was there a mention of Chaos or Tiamat or the return of the Ancient Evils from the pits beyond the Abyss. Somewhere this part of the future had been overlooked and he was mystified by this. Surely such a one as the creature that had taken possession of Jozsef Daniel, his own half-brother, could not be the prophesied Anti-Christ. He did not fit the description. He was above and beyond. The Apocalyptic Knight’s temper rose as he thought of his brother’s destruction. Jozsef Daniel had been loved by everyone, who had the pleasure to have known him. It was more than he could bear to think of it. He slammed his fist against the door jamb in frustration.

  “Sir?” Levi’s voice startled him. Simon’s son was not lying on the other bed, but sitting stiffly in a chair near the small table. “I am concerned about our friend.” He nodded to the Tuathan who sat straight up on the bed except for his head, which hung limply on his chest. He was apparently sleeping, but sitting straight up. He clutched his yellow bag tightly in his hands in front of him.

  “He is exhausted.” Konrad went to look closely at the healer’s small face. His eyes were tightly closed and his reddish-blonde hair fell in long strands about his face.

  “He needs new clothes,” Levi told him. “And probably something to eat.”

  “You're right,” Konrad agreed. “What size do you think he is, Levi? He’s hardly larger than a twelve year old.”

  “I would say about ten perhaps,” Levi adjusted his legs and tugged at the bandage around his neck. His voice was raspy.

  “It vexes me to no end to think that they would treat him like this!” Konrad’s anger erupted again along a new fissure, albeit somewhat more quietly.

  “He is certainly a gentle soul,” Levi agreed. “I have never had the pleasure of knowing any of the elves.”

  “We have a bit of time, I presume,” Konrad looked about the room. “Perhaps I can find something nearby. At least I can find us all something to eat.”

  “That would be good,” Levi nodded and then grimaced as the movement caused pain. He had been surprised at the effects of the poultice the healer had applied to his neck. Only now was the pain of the wound beginning to bother him.

  Konrad removed his sword and placed it under the mattress alongside the golden sword of the Cherubim. He shoved a pistol into the holster under his jacket and checked his wallet for credit cards.

  “Keep the door closed. I won’t be gone long or far. No room service. Too dangerous.”

  Levi nodded, got up an
d took hold of the healer’s shoulders. He laid him down gently on the pillows and covered him with the spread. The healer did not wake up, but neither did he relax his grip on his tattered and dirty medicine bag.

  “You will need a new bag, my little friend.”

  Levi smiled down at the beautiful features of the Tuathan healer. He could not believe what had happened. To have had the precious artifact within his grasp and then to have lost it so quickly! It was still hard to grasp the enormity of the disaster. His father would be furious. He’d not had the chance to tell him all that had occurred and Konrad had warned him not to say too much on the phone. How would they ever recover the stolen artifact? What did the vile creature plan to do with it?

  Levi had no idea what power was contained in the Urim and Thummin, but he did not think even the Ancient One could wear the instrument of the Creator on his person without inflicting serious damage on himself. He knew the story of what had happened when the Evil One had tried to open the Ark in Jerusalem without proper authority. Only an ordained priest of the line of Levi could wear the breastplate of God and open the Ark without fear of great retribution and death.

  His father had told him once he would be the one to do it, but he was no rabbi, no priest of the Hebrew line. If he were the one who would do this thing, it would be sometime in the future. Rabbis were required to be married men and he was not married, nor had he been ordained into the Jewish ministry in the capacity of a candidate for the priesthood. Furthermore, he had not even the faintest prospect of whom he might marry and his father had said nothing of it. Perhaps Simon, like his father before him, would arrange his marriage. But what good would it do if they could not recover the Urim and Thummin? Levi resumed his seat in the chair. Many things would have to come to pass before that day came. One thing he knew for sure. If Mark Andrew did not recover and take Selwig to Scotland, he would certainly take the healer to St. Patrick’s Island, and there, he would be welcomed as friend and brother into the family of Simon d’Ornan if nothing else.