When Darkness Comes

by W. Franklin Lattimore

  Pulling his woman close, he rocked her gently and whispered into her ear, “It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s over. You did fine, Aileen. You did it.”

  THAT NIGHT, OVER the Village of Pittston, a demon took position; a Principality—a prince of evil. A being that thirteen clueless humans naïvely believed was a god named Cailleach the Hag.

  Stephanie was giddy with excitement. This evening it would finally happen. The Key Stone would be assembled—well, at least eight pieces of it—for the first time in over six-hundred years. In a couple of days the Key of Bridei would be reunited with the stone for the first time in over a millennia! What would happen? What answers would be found out?

  Brendan had in his possession photos of all of the known standing stones throughout Scotland that had Pictish writing etched into them. Not only would tonight mark the beginning of the discovery of the true power of their religion, but Brendan and Stephanie would step firmly into their roles as high priest and priestess.

  The field surrounding the ceremonial mound was full of people milling about in street clothes. Two hundred and sixty-seven people had made it to the Pittston farm from five different countries, most coming from the British Isles, and Brendan was pleased. In fact, he was obviously in his element, shaking hands, chatting, and just milling about completely relaxed.

  The occasion was festive. Fire pits were erected in scattered areas of the field where grill masters prepared fare for the attendees. A special ale was created by a local microbrewery that was as close to historical honey mead as Brendan could imagine. Anticipation was in the air as people laughed, ate, and listened to the sounds of music being piped through speakers situated around the field.

  Stephanie walked over to an area just east of the mound that had been cleared of grass and made perfectly flat. A few of the new Picti members were standing and looking at the space, arms folded.

  “Hello,” said Stephanie as she approached the two men and a woman, whom she had yet to formally meet.

  “Hello, Aileen!” said the woman, quick to respond.

  The two men slightly bowed their heads in acknowledgment.

  Stephanie allowed for the British woman’s excitement to trump the respect that was due as their high priestess.

  “How are the three of you enjoying your time here so far?”

  “Ve are enjoying ourselves greatly, mein priestess,” said the oldest of the three, his German accent prevalent. “Ve vere just vondering about dis … umm … Vhat’s de vord? … emptiness?”

  Stephanie smiled with a nod. “Yes. This empty space is going to play a very special part in the upcoming ceremonies.” She stopped, not wanting to disclose anything further.

  It seemed the English woman was about to ask for more details before catching herself. “We are looking forward to seeing what is to take place here, my priestess.”

  Another smile, reflecting some appreciation for the acknowledgment for her title, and Stephanie resumed her walk through the throng of Picti believers.

  She thought about that barren area of dirt. Brendan had come up with an idea of pure genius that pleased David to no end; they would use the original eight pieces of the ancient Key Stone to create a full-size, one-piece replica of the standing stone. It would look and function very much as it had a thousand years ago.

  That I get to be a part of it! What a time to be alive!

  For the remainder of the afternoon she would enjoy meeting and getting to know their guests, interesting people of such varied backgrounds. It was hard to believe that all of them had Pictish blood in their veins. The work that David and Brendan had completed over the years was just astounding. More incredible, yet, was that these people had made it their unified life goal to proselytize the faith. Three-hundred-plus people was hardly a blip on the radar when it came to having a religion large enough to be recognized by the rest of the world, but it was a good start.

  The Olde Faithe would not be presented to just anyone, of course, but as the tracking of bloodlines revealed more and more people who had even the smallest amount of Picti blood, the religion would be introduced. There would be no coercion. It made no sense to have anyone in the faith that didn’t have sincere hearts. What did make sense, though, was raising one’s own children up in the faith.

  These modern-day Picti would be encouraged to make babies. The Islamists of the world had figured out a way to spread their religion with very little bloodshed by simply moving into areas where their beliefs were not yet present and to begin procreating in large numbers. Look at Detroit! The Picti would do the same.

  Stephanie’s stomach began to growl. The scent of sweet meats in the air was more than she could endure. Stepping up to one of the fire pits, Stephanie picked up a paper plate and piled some mutton onto a bun. A little BBQ sauce over the top made her mouth begin to water. Walking over to another of the pits, she took an ear of roasted corn and dipped into a pot of melted organic butter, then salted it.

  She sighed. This is going to be so good!

  She found an open spot in the freshly-mowed grass and sat down. A hand holding a clear plastic cup of lemonade reached from over her right shoulder. The hand was attached to a delicate light-skinned arm that turned out to belong to Donna McNeill, David’s twin sister.

  Stephanie smiled as she looked up and accepted the cup. She hadn’t expected to see Donna here.

  “Donna, what a pleasant surprise.”

  “Hello, Stephanie. May I join you?”

  “Of course. Please sit.”

  Donna took a seat opposite Stephanie, her own cup of lemonade in hand.

  “Are you not eating?” asked Stephanie.

  “I’ve just finished, but please don’t let me stop you from enjoying your food.”

  “I’ve got to admit that I didn’t plan on seeing you here today.”

  “David made another plea for me to attend and meet the people who were coming. I think this was a last-ditch effort to convert me.” She laughed easily.

  “Not happening, huh?”

  Donna shook her head. “I find it all very interesting, to be sure. But truth be told, I’ve got too many other pursuits right now. I will admit, though, these people sure do know how to throw a party!”

  Stephanie smiled as she took a bite of her sandwich. But the levity of Donna’s quip fell short of the mark. This woman should not be here. David has taken too large a risk.

  Donna continued. “David said that since I hadn’t made your beliefs mine that I could only stay for the festivities leading up to the inaugural ceremonies tonight.”

  “How do you feel about that?” queried Stephanie, hoping for some more insight into the woman’s thoughts.

  Smiling, Donna replied, “Oh, I don’t really mind too much. Of course I’d love to see the intricacies of your ceremonies, but I understand. I’m an outsider.”

  “Your brother must hold you in high standing to extend an offer of such high regard.”

  “David and I have always been close and we share many of the same interests. I’m sure it has a lot to do with us sharing a womb.”

  Stephanie remembered a discussion between David and Brendan a couple of years back about the potential of even more giftedness resulting from the McNeills being twins. It was speculation, of course, but there was a lot of evidence in the scientific community that seemed to indicate that twins had more in common than a birth date to make them special.

  “Well, I’m sure that David will be disappointed that you won’t be joining us. We all are, dear.”

  Donna looked at her watch. “I only had a brief period of time to come by today. I’ve got a client appointment at one o’clock that I must not be late to.” Donna got up and looked down at Stephanie. “It was good seeing you again, Stephanie.”

  “The pleasure was all mine,” heretic. “I hope you have a successful day.”

  “I hope the same for you,” said Donna before turning and walking away.

  David… Stephanie produced a deep sigh. David, this had bett
er not turn out to have been a mistake.

  5:14 P.M.

  BRENT LOOKED AT his watch, very happy to have his regular shift back, though his day had been a couple of hours longer than normal. He pulled his patrol car into the driveway of his suburban home. At times he was glad to have the vehicle to take home at the end of his shifts; it allowed him to keep the mileage off of his own, though the 3.7 miles to the police station was hardly a concern. If there was a downside to not driving his own car to work, it was the visibility of having the neighborhood’s lone police vehicle parked in the driveway, which, in turn, led to knocks at his door at inopportune times.

  Just the previous week he had answered the door to find two ten-year-old boys whose faces were covered with red marks, wearing torn shirts, and covered with dirt from head to toe. He’d come to find out that the boys, after battling it out for several minutes on a ball field at a nearby park, came to the conclusion that they would have the police officer who lived in the neighborhood settle things for them.

  Apparently there was the lofty matter of a missing MP3 player. One had accused the other of stealing it sometime during the course of the day while they played throughout the subdivision. The accuser wanted the thief put in handcuffs and carted off to jail.

  Brent had done his best to maintain a straight face while listening to the facts and asking the “hard questions.” During the investigation, Brent’s probing inquiries led the two to discuss their whereabouts during the course of the day. Most interesting to Brent was the description of their time at a nearby creek. The two boys had gone wading and searching for crayfish. When Brent asked about it, the recollection led to the accuser going wide-eyed with the realization that he had taken it out of his shirt pocket and put it next to a tree on the bank of the creek to keep it from getting wet.

  As the accuser hurried off to reclaim his lost goods, Brent called him back, reminding him that a false accusation is a very serious offense and that boy needed to immediately ask his friend for his forgiveness in the matter. Brent then encouraged them to shake hands to firm things up. The next moment, the boys were best friends again.

  Of course, not all of the knocks on the door were so easy to fix, but he and Tara accepted it as part of the job. Thankfully the after-hour interruptions were very infrequent.

  Brent gathered his gear and got out of the car. He could hear kids playing in the backyard. Opening the door to the house, he was immediately tantalized by the delicious scent of spaghetti sauce—homemade! Oh, yes! That’s what I’m talking about!

  Brent let out a call. “I’m home!”

  One of these days, Tara is going to come out to greet me at the door in a casual dress, an apron, a pair of pumps, and with a perfectly made up pair of lips and eyes, just like June Clever from that old black-and-white TV show. He laughed at the thought. Yeah right.

  She did come out of the kitchen, though, and met him in the living room. She wore a pair of pink sweat pants and a T-shirt from their trip to Disney the previous year. But Minnie Mouse’s smiling face was the only one to greet him this day. Tara looked defeated.

  Without a word he put his gear bag on the floor and opened his arms for her to enter. She walked into his grasp willingly and pressed her head against his chest. Brent felt her strong arms wrap around his torso while she let out a deep sigh.

  Brent’s right hand found its way up to the soft, strawberry-blonde hair that he still loved to smell and play with, and he began to knead the back of her neck. For a few moments neither of them spoke, until she decided to break the silence.

  “Thank you for coming home to me.”

  “Bad day?”

  “No,” she said with a pouty expression.

  “But it looks like…”

  “Shush. Just hold me and love me, and everything bad about my day will go away.”

  And that’s what Brent did. He held his wife in the middle of their living room and didn’t say another word about it.

  After what seemed like only a few wonderful moments, Tara raised her head and looked Brent in the eyes. She smiled and said, “I sure hope you’re hungry. Because when I’m having a day I’d like to forget…”

  Brent finished the sentence with a smile, “… you start cooking everything.”

  She giggled. “You got it. Tonight it’s a combination of spaghetti and meatballs and pork chops.”

  “Well, there’s a combination we’ve never had before.”

  Brent loved his life.

  So many differences. So many reasons in the minds of these people for driving hundreds, or flying thousands, of miles to this village called Pittston, to attend a gathering that few fully understood. Brendan, David, and Stephanie knew that the lifestyles of those gathered were not the only things that varied in great degree, but also the mindsets. The food, fun, and frolic of the day had been an opportunity for the thirteen men and women of the Home Coven to mingle with, and get to know, these individuals—who they were, their beliefs, why they had ultimately decided to become a part of this reestablished culture group.

  As predicted, the findings proved to be important.

  While the hundreds of Picti had been given leave to enjoy the farmland or to head out into the Pittston community, the Home Coven, along with thirty-five other men and women from the domestic and international covens, had gathered in the farmhouse, away from the rest of the hopefully faithful. They managed to squeeze into the large living-room area of the farmhouse. The furniture and folding chairs were filled, with some sitting on the floor and others sitting on the stairs leading down from the second story.

  The festive mood was gone. All of those gathered knew that this discussion would set the tone for the remainder of the gathering. And the first thing that needed to be discussed was the mindsets—the paradigms—of many of the attendees.

  “There are still many of these people who think this is just a fun getaway; an opportunity to visit the U.S. for several days,” said Jim Connor, the Pittston police chief, a.k.a. Uilliam Agar—his adopted Pictish name. “I don’t know if they have the mental discipline to accept some of the ‘events’ planned over the course of the next several days.”

  Brendan didn’t comment. He just raised his eyebrows and scanned the eyes of the leaders of the covens. He saw a few heads nodding.

  “Aye. I’ve observed the same.” This came from one of the Scottish priests, Hugh MacEarnan, sitting on the stairs. “Forgive me for saying so, Brendan, but many of them are from the U.S. and Canadian covens. That’s not to say that there aren’t some from the homeland, but for the most part, the Scottish Picti know more about the history of our people and the brutality that tried to end our bloodlines.”

  One of the Canadians spoke up. “If you’re claiming that we’re not taking our parts seriously in all of this—”

  And so began several minutes of clamoring. Brendan just allowed the discussion to take flight, measuring his leaders. There was a lot of self-importance in this group; pride that could cause a lot of division if left unchecked. Unity was essential. Though the contention wasn’t entirely unexpected, it was still disappointing.

  Brendan finally interrupted and asked them pointedly, “What is more important to all of you, being right or being unified? If any among you are here for a power grab—because you think you’ve got the most important covens—or because you thought this would be a fun way to spend your summer vacations, I ask you to immediately excuse yourselves from these proceedings.” Again he looked around the room. All became quiet.

  Brendan got up from his chair and knelt on the floor in front of it. His eyes became devices of pleading. “My heart aches. I’ve not done all of this work to bring us together just so that we can have something akin to another Masonic organization or some new wave of contemporary witchcraft.

  “For hundreds of years my family has passed down secrets—some of them, probably, with only a wisp of truth in them—that revealed that we had once been much more than we are now. Our people had once been the world
’s royalty, the single-most important culture on the planet. We were more than warriors, more than a unified society. We were the elite!

  “We held secrets that no one else in the world could understand. Some say that we were—that we are—related to the Faery Folk of legend. These people weren’t miniature people like mythical leprechauns or little winged creatures who sprinkled pixie dust. The Faery Folk were long-believed to be those fortunate few who had escaped the destruction of ancient Atlantis. They were tall, beautiful, powerful people. Think of it, my friends! While we are certainly Picti, we may also be the only blood remaining of an even more ancient and powerful culture!

  “Please, let us set aside pride. Let us come together so that we can thrive as a people once again. As for me, I am certainly not the greatest among you…” Brendan paused with a sigh. “But I am fully dedicated with my heart, spirit, soul, and body to the resurrection of what I hold most dear, the faith of my forefathers.

  “One day I shall pass from this earth and enter the blessed realm of Tír na nÓg.9 When I do, this mantle of leadership will fall to another. That person’s heart must be as faithful to the wellness of our people as is mine. Let this never be about power. Let this never be about popularity. Let this only ever be about whom we once were as a people and whom we will become once again.”

  Stephanie, who had been seated next to him, now joined her leader and lover on the floor. She rested her right hand upon Brendan’s left shoulder. All those gathered watched as tears streamed down Brendan’s face, his eyes moving from person to person in the room.

  One of the men toward the back of the living room left his seat, as well, and fell to one knee. With a voice of true humility he spoke, “I bow my heart and my will to you, my priest. I will give my all, and dedicate my life, to the Redeeming Age of our people and our religion.”

  One after another, each of the priests and priestesses went to one knee and gave their allegiances to Brendan and the Olde Faithe.