The Forever Man: Betrayal

by Craig Zerf

  ‘It’s me,’ she said in a puzzled voice. ‘It’s just a mirror. I don’t understand.’

  Ammon walked over and stood next to her. ‘Tilt the mirror slightly.’

  Milly did so and, to her credit, she did not drop it. But she did draw in a sharp intake of breath as she saw what was reflected in the mirror. Gray rubbery skin. A large dome shaped head. Huge black eyes, no ears or nose and a spindly, long armed body.

  She whipped her head around to face Ammon and did a double take as she was faced with a tall blond human male.

  And then, like the whole world was coming onto focus, his body dissolved and reformed as the creature that she had seen in the mirror.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she whispered. ‘You’re an alien.’

  Ammon said nothing for a while, allowing Milly time for adjustment. ‘Yes,’ he affirmed. ‘In a manner of speaking. Does that matter?’

  ‘Why the façade?’ Asked Milly.

  ‘We did it to help us assimilate. We thought that it would be easier to become part of our new would if we blended in. But I ask again – does it matter?’

  Milly shook her head. ‘No. It truly doesn’t matter. It does however prove something to me.’

  ‘What?’ Asked Ammon.

  ‘It proves that Nathaniel, as well as being a warmonger is also a racist.’

  Chapter 14

  Tad sat back in his chair and relaxed. There had been a lull in Annihilator activity and Nathaniel had firmly told The Little Big Man to take a few days off. In the past Tad would have argued, maintaining that he was needed on the wall. Insisting that a leader should always be present. But now he jumped at the chance to spend time with Maryanne and the girls. Cocooning himself in their love and affection.

  The smell of the large breakfast that Maryanne had cooked that morning still lingered in the air. Ham, eggs and fresh baked bread. The two girls were at the far end of the room, sitting at the dining table, heads bent over their slates as they practiced their letters.

  Outside he could hear the murmur of conversation and the odd tinkle of female laughter.

  Maryanne was in the herb garden picking rosemary for the roast dinner she was going to cook that night and had obviously struck up a conversation with Tammy, the next door neighbor and wife of colonel Parker.

  Women thrive on gossip, thought Tad, smiling as he wondered whether he should draw himself a beer. It was still early morning but he felt that he was entitled to push the boat out a little, after all, it was the first full day off the wall for over three weeks.

  He decided against it and stood up to get some water instead. Outside he heard someone shout out. An angry explicative. Perhaps someone had slipped and fallen. Or hit their thumb with a hammer whilst mending the fence. He ignored it and ran the tap until the water was running cold.

  More shouting intruded and then a woman’s scream. Long and drawn out. A cry of terror.

  Tad’s blood ran cold and he reacted instantly, dropping his mug and running for the door, picking up his axe and sword as he did so.

  ‘Stay inside,’ he shouted at the two girls. ‘Lock the door behind me. Do it.’

  He slammed the door as he ran through.

  Annihilators!

  One of them attacked Tad, slashing at him as he exited the door. The Little Big Man dropped, rolled and stabbed upwards, piecing the Roache’s groin and dropping him in a welter of blood.

  Two more approached and Tad cut through them as he fought with total desperation.

  ‘Maryanne,’ he shouted as he searched for her.

  He looked up and saw groups of Yari flying overhead. Each group of four carried a wicker basket under them and in each basket were two Annihilator warriors. They had obviously flown high over the wall and managed to drop in undetected.

  A quick glance around showed him that there were probably two or three hundred Roaches in the near vicinity and they were wreaking havoc on the surprised humans. Cutting down women and children and unarmed farmers.

  Tad hacked his way through another attacker and ran to the herb garden around the side of the house.

  Maryanne’s body lay on the ground, still and broken. Covered in blood.

  Tad ran up and knelt next to her, cradling her head in his hands. As he touched her he knew that she was gone. Her body was limp and lifeless. The injuries massive and horrific.

  The small pruning knife in her hand was covered in blood and a few feet away lay a single Roach warrior. She had defended herself with valor.

  Tears ran down Tad’s face as he gently lay Maryanne’s head down.

  The Little Big man stood up, gathered his weapons and went looking for Roaches to kill.

  They lost over six hundred humans that day. The majority of them women and children. In return, two hundred Roach warriors were exterminated. Tad killed seventeen.

  As a result of the airborne raid, Nathaniel ordered that the Vandals maintained a constant vigil above the villages behind the wall, further stretching their limited recourses and adding to their exhaustion.

  Humanity tottered on the very edge of existence.

  Chapter 15

  Papa Dante managed to smile. ‘Good of you to come,’ he croaked.

  Nathaniel grasped Papa’s hand and squeezed gently. ‘You look terrible,’ he said.

  ‘Good,’ replied Papa. ‘If I felt this bad and still looked my usual dashing self then people wouldn’t feel sorry for me.’ He coughed weakly and then grimaced as the small movement wracked his body with pain. ‘The wall is almost finished,’ he said. ‘Roo is still out there, pushing the men to put the finishing touches. I told you that we could do it.’

  ‘I never doubted you, old friend,’ said Nathaniel. ‘Not for a second. Now rest. No more talking.’

  Papa grinned again, although it was hard to tell if it was humor or a grimace of pain. ‘I need to talk,’ he said. ‘Don’t have much time left. Is Sam here?’

  A young man stepped forward. He was broad of shoulder, narrow of hip. His eyes were the blue of a stormy ocean, his hair as black as crude oil, his jaw strong and pugnacious. He took Papa’s hand.

  ‘I am here, Papa,’ he said, his voice gruff with hidden emotion.

  ‘Young Somhairle,’ whispered Papa. ‘Do you remember when I first found you?’

  Sam nodded. ‘I was hiding in a hedge and your horse stuck its head in and snorted at me. I thought that it was a monster and I was going to be torn to shreds.’

  Papa chuckled. ‘Dancer. Her name was Dancer.’

  Sam nodded in agreement. ‘And then you took me in,’ he continued. ‘You gave me a family. You gave me a new name.’ Finally a single tear slid down Sam’s face, belying his stoical expression.

  Papa struggled to sit up, grunting in agony as he did so.

  Sam tried to push him back down. ‘No, Papa,’ he said. ‘Rest.’

  ‘No, Somhairle,’ he argued. ‘I need to be sitting up for this. Now listen . All of you,’ the dying man gestured for all to come closer.

  Mama, Nathaniel, Gogo and Sam all drew in around the bed.

  ‘Sam,’ he said. ‘Do you know my name?’

  Sam nodded. ‘Papa Dante.’

  Papa shook his head. ‘No, that’s just what everybody calls me. My name is Durante Breathnach. My father was Connor Breathnach, he was known as Papa Connor. My grandfather, Gwennin Breathnach, known as Papa Gwennin.’ Papa took a shuddering breath. ‘Now, Sam my boy. I have no heir, so I give you the title. Papa Sam.’

  Sam frowned. ‘I’m not sure what that means.’

  ‘It means that you are now the leader of the Walking People,’ said Gogo. ‘You are our father. Papa Sam.’ Gogo bowed. ‘Tá muid do sheirbhísigh,’ she said.

  Mama stood forward and bowed as well. ‘Tá muid do sheirbhísigh. We are your servants.’

  Sam said nothing, he simply sat next to Durante and held his hand, his face an expressionless block of granite disproved by the glitter of emotion that filled his eyes.

  Chapter 16

 
; After much discussion the Fair-Folk, in conjunction with human Milly, had decided to send lord Bartholomew Richards to the Annihilators to act as their emissary.

  Bartholomew was a man of advancing middle age. Before the pulse his father was a lord and, on his death, Bartholomew had inherited the title. He insisted on using it on any possible occasion even though his estate was owned by a member of the Fair-Folk and Bartholomew lived in a two roomed house, fit for those with little or no discernable skills in the post-pulse world.

  People did still call him Lord and he had convinced himself that the title was used as a sign of respect as opposed to the indication of mockery that it actually was.

  It was this very ability to assume his own superiority and pre-eminence in the face of the obvious that prompted Milly to forward him as a choice. She maintained that he had just enough confidence and self importance to deliver the Fair-Folks’ message with sincerity and aplomb.

  But none of that mattered now.

  ‘So,’ said commander Ammon. ‘How was it delivered?’

  ‘A Yari dropped it on one of our outlying encampments,’ answered the Orc who was standing to attention opposite the commander.

  ‘When?’

  ‘This morning, commander. Just after first light.’

  Ammon sighed. ‘Fine. You can go.’

  The Orc saluted and turned on his heel.

  ‘Wait,’ said Ammon. ‘Take it with you. I certainly have no use for it.’

  ‘Of course, commander,’ responded the Orc as he grabbed Lord Bartholomew’s severed head and left the room.

  Chapter 17

  Tad let the empty bottle drop from his fingers and fall to the flagstone kitchen floor. It shattered with a sharp pop and the shards littered the floor like frozen tears.

  He pulled another bottle towards himself and fumbled drunkenly with the cork for a while. Eventually he pulled the stopper using his teeth and spat it onto the floor to join the rest of the filth and detritus.

  The Little Big Man took a deep pull on the brandy and shuddered, wondering how long it took to literally drink yourself to death. Two days? Three? Four? No, he thought, longer. Must be, because he had been drinking like this for almost a week now and, although he felt like death, he continued to breath.

  After Maryanne’s death he hadn’t left the kitchen except to relieve himself or to find more alcohol.

  Tammy, the next door neighbor, had taken in Clare and Stephanie. She had brought them across to visit a couple of times but Tad had refused to open the door, choosing instead to wallow in his own terrible misery.

  Tad took another pull on the bottle and then started as the front door slammed open.

  Gogo stormed into the room, negotiating her way around the furniture and litter in spite of her lack of sight. She walked straight up to Tad, drew back her hand and slapped his face hard enough to pitch him off his chair and onto the floor.

  The Little Big Man simply lay there. Unmoving. He didn’t even bother to raise a hand to his face.

  ‘Get up,’ yelled the old lady.

  Tad rose to his knees and then, wobbling slightly as he did so, to his feet. He stared at Gogo, his face a mask of insane grief.

  ‘What?’ He asked in a croaking whisper.

  ‘How dare you?’ Said Gogo. ‘You selfish, stupid man. Maryanne is dead. Dead.’

  Tad flinched as she spoke, each word cutting into his soul like a blade.

  ‘The dead have no feelings,’ continued Gogo. ‘The dead don’t wallow in self pity. The dead cannot take care of anyone. They are dead.’ She slapped Tad again and this time he rubbed his cheek.

  ‘Oh good,’ said Gogo. ‘You felt that one did you?’

  Tad nodded and then sat down on the chair again. As he did so he noticed, for the first time, that Clare and Stephanie were standing behind Gogo.

  The old blind lady beckoned to them. ‘Step forward, little ones,’ she said. ‘Come and greet your father.’

  Both of the girls came and stood next to Tad, putting their arms around him as they did.

  ‘Gogo says that mommy won’t be coming back,’ said Stephanie.

  Tears ran down Tad’s face. ‘I’m so sorry, my darlings,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’ Asked Clare.

  ‘I couldn’t save her,’ sobbed Tad. ‘She was my everything and I couldn’t save her.’

  ‘We know,’ said Clare. ‘But you tried.’

  ‘Yes,’ admitted Tad. ‘God how I tried.’

  The three of them sat together for a while, arms around each other.

  Eventually Stephanie spoke. ‘You smell,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you go and take a bath and Clare and I will make something to eat?’

  Tad stood up and nodded. ‘I think that would be great,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

  He turned to thank Gogo as well but she had gone and the door was closed. It was as if she had never been there.

  Chapter 18

  Papa Dante’s body had been washed, shaven and rapped in pure white line before being paced in his casket. The casket was then laid out in the open, surrounded by the vardos, or wagons, of the walking folk.

  Torches were lit and placed at his head and feet and spares were placed ready to light so that there was always living flame around him during the entire period of the wake.

  Over a thousand people had lined up to pay their respects and were wending their way past the coffin, each one kneeling, crossing themselves and mumbling a quick prayer.

  On the far side of the circle, the walking people had erected three whole oxen on the spit and they rotated above a long bed of coals. The spits were driven by a group of boys who took turns to grind the handles and slowly rotate the meat.

  Next to the roasting oxen were two long tables laden with food and drink. Potatoes, fresh baked bread, vegetables, casks of ale, mead, and flagons of brandy.

  On the outside of the circle of Vardos burned a massive bonfire, its flames leaping high into the frigid night sky. Orange and yellow dancers, their arms stretching high above the tree tops. Burning supplicants pleading with the gods, trying to reach the heavens before they died and turned to ash.

  The feasting and drinking would continue all night and into the next day as the mourners both paid their respects and celebrated his life and achievements.

  As was tradition, many of the men stood around Papa Dante’s body smoking their pipes, the fragrant tobacco smoke wreathing the area like early morning mist. It was reputed that the smoke would keep the evil spirits away and allow Papa’s soul free access to paradise.

  There would be no eulogy, no impassioned speeches, no public outpourings of grief. The wake would be conducted with dignity and reverence and, once the sun had risen the next day, the mourners would accompany the body to its final resting place where it would be buried. A silver cross would be placed in his hands, the casket would be sealed and he would be laid beneath the sod. A simple stone would mark the grave. His name, date of birth and of death. Nothing else.

  Nathaniel stood alone in the shadows next to one of the Vardos. He thought of Axel and his wife, Janice. The Prof, father O’Hara. Gramma Higgins, her two nieces, Janeka and Adalyn. Maryanne. There were countless others as well. Men, women and children. Kings and peasants and warriors, marines, civilians.

  Janiver, his queen when he was king of the Picts. Torkill, his druid. Padraig his most trusted friend and lord of the lance who had betrayed him with Janiver.

  Now Papa Dante. The pain of relationships lost and found. How many more could he bear to lose? How many more people that he loved would he outlive?

  A voice spoke to him, speaking to him without words. The voice of the Unicorn. ‘You are The Forever Man,’ it said.

  And he knew the answer. Everyone. He would outlive everyone that he ever loved. He would spend eternity losing all that was dear to him. Over and over and over again. A thousand lifetimes of bereavement.

  He sensed someone next to him and turned to look. It was Gogo. She held out a mug to him and he
took it. Brandy. And something else, some sort of herb or spice. He took a sip and the warmth spread through his body, melting the ice that seemed to have encased his heart and stoking the fires of his spirit.

  ‘Thank you, Gogo.’

  ‘Papa Dante is the fourth leader of the walking people that I have buried,’ she said.

  ‘Does it get any easier?’ Asked Nathaniel.

  ‘I wish that it did,’ said Gogo.

  The two stood in silence for a while, watching the line of mourners pay their respects.

  ‘I don’t know if I can handle it,’ said Nathaniel. His voice a quiet whisper.

  ‘You can,’ said Gogo. ‘Because you have to. You are the lever that tilts the world. Without you there can be no Alpha or Omega. You are The Forever Man.’

  And the torches burned and the smoke wreathed and Papa Dante’s soul departed.

  Chapter 19

  It was two days after Papa Dante’s funeral and Sam simply needed to be alone. The shock of Papa’s death, combined with him being made the new leader of the walking people had left him confused and, quite frankly, overwhelmed.

  So he had packed his saddle bags, mounted his horse rode, heading for the mountain area of Braemar. It had been a long time since he had been on his own. In fact it had been a while since he had last had any free time whatsoever. And now that he looked back at the past few months it was obvious that Papa Dante had been grooming him for his position of leadership. He had been running twenty-four-seven, doing all of the tasks that Papa Dante usually did, leaving Papa to concentrate on the new wall.

  He had given advice on family disputes, given his blessing to marriages, taken charge of the food distribution, assisted Gogo with new born naming ceremonies and generally kept the cogs of the walking people’s community spinning without interruption.

  He laughed to himself as he realized how smoothly Papa Dante had passed the reins over to him without him even noticing it. So much for being a perceptive leader, he thought to himself.