In the Shadow of Men

by Darren Swart

  ****

  On a distant rock, Lavigne sat with his knees drawn tightly to his chest and watched as the boy disappeared into the night. The young man unnerved him, somehow. The thoughts of him gone were strangely comforting. A crumpled cross tunic lay where his bedroll was. The other men would brand him as a deserter—even a traitor. The oldest of them would attribute that he was too young for the burden of being a knight. Lavigne remained silent. He neither condemned nor defended the boy. Secretly, he pondered. He couldn’t remember why he had even selected Jean Michael. Thinking back, it almost seemed like an impulse; one that he never considered until now.

  ****

  Each new dawn foretold another day of unforgiving heat for Jean-Michael. It was like trying to breathe oven-like air, while trying to survive on meager rations of food. And yet, he moved on. Each day, visions led him to brackish water and sparse hidden fronds for the mare. Miraculously, they found shelter among the rocks to protect them from the blistering sun. Each new day, the Sappir led him ever deeper into the hostile desert. Against any logic, they survived. Drained and bleary, they moved on. It was weeks before the weary young man with a gaunt horse emerged at the tall sandstone edifices of the bustling port of Jaffa.

  His sword dragged at his side like an anvil; he’d anticipated an ambush at every corner. Yet, he was too weak to lift the broadsword to protect himself. Still the Sappir urged him on. He stopped at a well and gave the mare a drink of cool, clean water. People laughed and talked, and passed him as though he were invisible. He no longer tried to understand how it was possible. Refreshed by the water, he moved on.

  The seductive kiss of the sea air reached out to him and teased him closer to the docks. The mare began to prance. For the first time in weeks, she swished her tail to swat flies. Her head raised and nostrils flared as she sniffed the change in the wind. The fog gripping Jean-Michael’s mind lifted. His spirit rallied. A North wind called them closer to his beloved ocean. They rounded a corner to an image which raised a lump in his throat. A sapphire blue ocean stretched for as far as he could see. He stared for a moment, wondering if he had ever seen anything so beautiful. The mare nudged him like a child, urging him on. A long wooden dock lay ahead, with small swarthy men scurrying about loading and unloading.

  Jean-Michael’s eyes moved from ship-to-ship, looking for a sign—something to let him know that he was in the right place. Several men struggled to move the large wooden wagon. As the wagon rolled away, she appeared before him, floating proudly in the midday sun. Her mast was tall and white; her bow, beautifully carved into a proud Falcon. Her captain ran from the ship, greeting him like a brother. He laughed and wrapped his arms around Jean-Michael, hugging him like a lost brother. His small body only reached the tall Norman’s chest. Jean-Michael smiled painfully, trying to pat the little man’s back, but found his new friend’s bear hug only allowed for minimal movement.

  As he pulled away, the captain straightened his turban. He chattered to Jean-Michale like an old friend. Jean-Michael smiled, carefully leading his black mare across the wooden plank. She whinnied nervously, but carefully moved across. An old man sat with Jean-Michael and fed him dried fish and dates, while a young boy stroked and fed his beleaguered mare hay and water. The salted fish burned his raw mouth, but he didn’t stop eating. Having survived without eating for days, the fish was like a suckling pig, he crunched into the bones and flesh of the seasoned meat.

  He lost track of the days before he awoke one morning to find that his body no longer ached. Happily, he assumed the role of a deckhand. He fished, scrubbed, and bailed water alongside the Arab shipmates. Slowly, he learned their routines and language. He felt the comforting coolness of the deck, while he removed his boots to feel the ocean spray on his bare toes. The salt no longer burned his flesh. The sores of the burning desert heat were long gone. He wiggled his toes in the mist and smiled, remembering what it was like to be on a ship with his father. He heard her creak and felt the pitch, as the tail wind tugged the main sail and pushed her briskly through clear blue waters.

  The days turned into weeks and each setting sun found him more content than the previous. Each night cast him into a restful sleep where he dreamed of being a boy on his father’s ship. He couldn’t be sure what it was that woke him that night. He couldn’t tell if it was the wind, the heaviness of the air or some sense that change was beckoning. His eyes were open and his hand went to the stone. It was there, waiting for him. The men all around him were snoring peacefully, dreaming of foreign shores and exotic women—anything but what was about to happen. The roar of the air took them all by surprise. The cyclone struck the mast amidst a maelstrom of splinters and ripped it from the deck like a corkscrew, taking much of the deck with it. Hardened men screamed in fear, while the Captain tried to save the stricken ship. The stress of the ocean and the damage were too great. She began to break up into the rough seas. Young men scrambled to grab anything they thought would help them survive, while older sailors waited stoically for their fate.

  Jean-Michael placed the Sappir in his mouth and dove as far from the ship as he could push. He swam hard in rough waters to escape the vortex of the sinking ship, knowing he would drown at any moment. He heard the main beam snap, as the ship groaned and folded neatly in the middle. The rush of water swirled behind him, tugging at him and trying to suck him down with the doomed ship. He struggled to get farther away from the watery grave, kicking with all his might. Slowly, he began to edge away from the whirlpool into calmer waters. Beyond the reach of the collapsing ship, he treaded water while his heart calmed. In the distance, he heard a terrified whinny. The mare was alive and thrashing. He swam toward the sound, hoping to save her. A malicious wave cast him onto a barrel, knocking him unconscious.

  He came to in time to see the rising sun glittering across the water in a million points of light. Crates and debris floated and bobbed in the water around him. Jean-Michael found himself draped across a large barrel, only vaguely remembering how he had landed there. He looked over the debris field to see if there were any other survivors. He saw the Falcon face up in the water first and then he saw her. Near exhaustion from treading water all night, the black mare was barely above water. Her eyes were wide and full of fear, but she kept moving. Jean-Michael tied a rope to his waist and dove into the blue water. His body undulated under the water like he had as a child. His father’s nickname for him was ‘poisson de mer’ or sea fish. Pulling the large timber behind him he moved toward her. She looked relieved to see him paddle toward her. Lashing the rope to a floating timber, he swam back to the barrel. Carefully, he pulled the rope tight under her chest and dove again. In no time, he had rigged a makeshift harness under the mare, easing the drag of her muscular body and buoying her up. The Falcon still bobbed in the water nearby. He dove and paddled it toward the mare. He lashed the final bit of rope to the Falcon’s talon, holding them together as one.

  He didn’t know how long they floated. What few casks of food and water he could find, he shared with the mare. The Sappir whispered to him, keeping him alive. He thought back to his time in the cavern where he wanted to die to end the suffering. Now, he was resolved to survive and he smiled at the irony of it.

  It was at dawn when he saw the green mountain in the distance. Steadily, they were drawn toward it. At mid-day, he saw the white sail of the ship looming toward them. Stout red-haired men in longboats tied ropes to them and began to row steadily toward the ship. Jean-Michael came and went from consciousness. He barely remembered them winching the mare from the water. She was too weak to put up a struggle.

  He was unsure how long he had lay there, but by the growth of stubble on his face it must have been days. He sat up in a soft bed and found himself staring out of a window at the round green mountain from his dream. A buxom redhead rocked on the porch. She smiled coyly at him through the open window. He smiled back, pushing a shock of thick black hair out of his eyes. His other hand still clutched the blue gem tightly. He stood and walke
d unsteadily to wash his face. A basin of water rested on a simple wooden stand against the rough wall. He barely recognized his face as his own. He looked at the square jaw, the quick dark eyes, the deep lines in his tanned face were those of his father; he would miss him. Jean-Michael studied the one prominent difference, a silver white streak coursed through his dark hair across the temple. Dipping his hands into the cold water he broke the image. It was time to move forward.

  The black mare whinnied in the distance, calling out to him from a green pasture nearby. He smiled and considered that once again he was a stranger in a strange land. And yet, he was home.

  Chapter 1

  Present Day

  A courteous tap resonated on the dark, enormous door. He could barely be heard over the persistent tick of a gold leaf Chinoiserie grandfather clock. He peered up from the quilled notes of the weathered lambskin. He sat back and drew in a deep breath, almost tasting its ancient mustiness. He knew she would not interrupt him unless it was important. She slipped silently into the room like a thief. He rarely saw her smile. It made her pristine face rigid like that of a manikin. Her blonde hair was pulled tight against her head in a bun like an old maid and her business suit hid the supple lines of her body, she appeared almost embarrassed to be so beautiful.

  She knew he tolerated the intrusion only because he trusted her and that she wouldn’t be here unless it was of the utmost importance. He sighed again deeply, clearing his mind of the manuscript and touched the small furry head beside him. A dainty Persian paw stretched out to touch him from her cushion, tribbling at being awakened. As his manicured nails delicately caressed her behind the ear, she purred contentedly and kneaded the silk threads of the chair’s tapestry cushion.

  Gretchen appeared small, almost childlike across the vast cavern of the library. Level after level of leather volumes climbed upward, making anyone in the room look small. He opened a single palm to her expectantly and, in a surprisingly soft tenor he asked, “Yes Gretchen, what is it?”

  Her voice was precise like her hair. “I have some unfortunate news about your son, Sir.”

  His eyes rolled and his head shook disdainfully. “What do we need to bail him out of now?”

  She hesitated for the briefest of seconds. “I’m afraid it is more complicated than that this time.”

  He looked at her dourly before opening both hands in a gesture to go on.

  Flatly, she said, “He’s dead, Sir.”

  His eyebrows knitted together, forming a deep furrow between his steel blue eyes. He almost sounded irritated as he asked, “How did it happen?”

  “It appears to be a drug overdose. The doctor said he didn’t suffer.”

  “Well, I suppose we can be thankful for that. Please see to the arrangements. Does his mother know?”

  “No, Sir. We are trying to locate her.”

  ****

  “Try the South of France. She tends to frequent the villa in Marseille this time of year.”

  “I’ll request that the Liaison Chief of Staff inform her. He tends to be more diplomatic than the Security Chief.” He concurred silently by nodding.

  With the subtlest tone of tenderness she could summon she asked, “Will you be able to attend the funeral?”

  “I doubt it. I have far too much to do. Ensure it is kept low key. I don’t want some gung ho reporter spraying this all over the papers. Use the discretionary account to pay off whomever you need to. If the bribe goes over a half million Marks, employ Mr. McPherson to deal with the problem.”

  “Yes, Sir.” She turned to leave.

  He stared at the thousands of volumes surrounding them. Collectively, they captured the most powerful reasoning in mankind’s history. Yet, not one of them could tell him how to control one stupid impudent child—his only heir. Not that it mattered now. His thoughts flashed to another unassuming young man in the United States, roughly his son’s age, whose destiny was yet to be explored. Ironically, he had far more respect for the American than he had for his own child. The thought struck him. It was time to nudge the American forward to achieve his true potential. “Gretchen?”

  She stopped and pirouetted gracefully on a toned calf. “Yes, Sir?”

  “At your first opportunity, please call Mr. She’mul and advise him that we need to accelerate our plans with Mr. Wood.”

  Passively, she responded, “Certainly, Sir.” Turning, she made the long trek out of the room.

  He rose from the massive desk and stretched his shoulders. It took only a few steps to reach the small, plain door in the corner of the room between two massive bookcases. He removed the shiny brass key from his vest pocket and listened as the tumblers clicked when he turned it in the lock. The small room within was in utter contrast to the luxury of the library. The ugly naked glare of a single bulb amplified the bleakness of the peeling paint and the thick crust of grime on the dated black and white floor tiles. No one had been allowed in this room for over a decade. He faced rows of shoulder height beige file cabinets. A sturdy white enameled steel table with faded red trim and a sturdy uncompromising oak chair sat under the light. Each file drawer was numbered with a year. He went to the oldest drawer and opened it. Reaching in, he removed a dog-eared green file. Carefully, he placed it on the table and spread it open. Numerous pictures were clipped to typed reports. He leafed through the yellowed, worn pictures stopping at an 8x10 photograph close to the bottom. His finger traced the outline of a little boy clutched tightly against an old farmer, as he carried him across what looked like a battlefield. Small flames and long columns of smoke served as a backdrop for the old man and the child. The old man’s face was dotted with mud and dark blood, while the child looked almost completely untouched. It was the kind of photo that should have ended up on the cover of Time Magazine. And yet, there was only a small press release buried in the business section of the Times. He set the photo down almost reverently on the metal table. No matter how many times he looked at it, the question always intrigued him—how had the child survived the plane crash?

  From another file drawer, he removed a more recent police photo of his son. His handsome features bore a striking resemblance to the duke, himself. He placed the photos together and studied the images intently. In one photo the picture of Marty as a small child; , blonde curls and rounded cherub like cheeks underscored eyes that bore a daunting determination for one so young. In comparison, his son’s photograph captured a sullen youth. His disinterested eyes reeked of entitlement.. He tried to find some hint of his boy’s powerful bloodline. There was none.

  He gazed at Marty’s picture again. It puzzled him. Why did he feel such a strong connection to a child he had never met? The old wooden chair creaked, as he sat back heavily, pondering what lay ahead. Methodically, he put the photos back into order and into their separate files. He nodded to himself, convinced that he had made the right decision to bring the Wood in. It was time to move to the next stage of the plan.

  ****

  Marty stared absently at the droplets of condensation on the brown glass as they snaked their way down to form a puddle on the lacquered surface beneath. He crunched on stale cocktail nuts under the angry glare of the red neon of a Budweiser sign. All the while he kept going over reruns of what was probably one of the worst days of his life. He stifled an irritated retort as the bartender asked, “Are you feeling okay, sir?”

  Marty tried not to glare at the young man who was probably the same age. A shock of blonde curls on the bartender’s forehead amplifying the deep tan made Marty wonder how he managed to keep a tan like that on a bartender’s salary. He tried not to seethe, as he responded, “I suppose.” He tapped the bottle. “Give me another.”

  He reached out and slowly turned the near empty bottle in front of him in slow circles trying to forget the memory of her curled up on the loveseat in the morning sun. He knew something was wrong when he saw her. There had been no warning; no indication that she was going to die, other than her being old. They had been together since he
was a boy. It was unreasonable to assume she would live forever. But still, she could have given him a sign; a signal that something was wrong. She was only a cat, but she was the only family he had left.

  A fresh beer appeared before him. He finished off the wash in the bottle in front of him and sipped on the fresh one. He scowled at the Hotspot calendar behind the bar. He stared at the date, trying to remember something. There is something significant about this date. It irritated him that he couldn’t recall what it was. He quit trying to remember and that is when it hit him. He pushed himself away from the bar and took a deep breath. It was five years ago to the day that Bess had died. The irony, however significant at the moment, would be short lived.

  The bartender’s quick eyes watched from a distance, as the back of Marty’s hand covered his mouth. His head lowered, while his face contorted into an unmistakable grimace. A single tear tracked down his cheek, but he didn’t try to wipe it away. The bartender looked toward the other customers and made an off color joke, drawing their attention away from the guy at the end of the bar having a bad day. It was the best he could do for Wood at the moment. He had a feeling Marty’s day was going to get worse, though he didn’t know how.

  Chapter 2

  A steady hand carefully drew the blackened steel blade across the moonstone in front of him, it rasped as it slid across the stone. The pungent oil glistened on the dark metal in the dim light. The sound and smell were comforting to him, taking him back to the few quiet moments of his childhood. It was on those rare occasions- when his father had sharpened the blade- that he hadn’t beaten him and it was the same blade he used to take his father’s life like a thief in the night.