by Dyrk Ashton
Peter places a hand on her shoulder. Her first reaction is to pull away—but she doesn’t. He’s smiling in a way that isn’t in the least false or condescending, his green eyes glowing with compassion. Soothing warmth radiates from his touch—and his breath—her favorite fragrances in the world.
“Fi, your uncle will be fine.” His voice is soft and sincere. “I’ll get you to him as soon as I possibly can.”
She bites her lip. Zeke comes closer, pretending not to listen. Peter reaches nonthreateningly and pulls him nearer, throws his arms over both their shoulders and walks them down the sidewalk—an intimate gesture that happens so naturally neither of them realize he’s done it.
“Who did you call?” Fi asks.
“Someone who can help us,” Peter reassures them. “Someone we can trust. More than anyone.”
Fi ponders, But can we trust you? “Did you call the police?”
“I did, against my better judgment.” Fi gives him a look. “But they had already been informed and are, how do you say, ‘on the scene.’ Hopefully, Kleron discovered I was no longer at the hospital and vacated the premises straightaway. I’d hate to see a confrontation with the authorities lead to more needless death.”
Fi and Zeke saw what the men at the hospital could do, and what little effect guns had on them. Peter’s right.
“What did they want?” Zeke asks. “Those... men, at the hospital.
Peter speaks as if it’s obvious. “Most likely to capture me while I was afflicted with the patermentia and drag me off to a new Tartarus.”
Once again, Fi has no idea what Peter is talking about. She’s beginning to think he’s making shit up.
Zeke, on the other hand, knows what “Tartarus” is. The bottomless hell-pit of Greek mythology. But that’s just crazy! “Why would they want to do... that?”
“That’s a very good question, to which there is no pleasant answer.” His brow furrows. “Unfortunately, my friends, they’ve seen us together. They may now be after you as well.”
Fi looks stricken. “Why?”
“To get to me. And they will stop at nothing, I assure you.” He holds them more snuggly as they walk. “I can protect you, but you must stick close and do as I say.”
Fi looks to Zeke, but he’s staring at the sidewalk. A few more silent steps and she ventures to ask Peter, “Who are they? They can’t really be your family, like they said.”
Peter’s expression is grim. “They are my children.”
* * *
Fi wants to call bullshit. Zeke’s agitated, and thinking hard about something. He opens his mouth several times to speak but says nothing.
”What about Billy?” Fi asks.
Peter breathes out sadly. “My son as well, yes.”
She scoffs silently.
“I hadn’t spoken to him in quite some time. We didn’t part on the best of terms. In the depths of the mentia, I didn’t realize he’d come to my side...” His voice trails off.
“Samson,” says Zeke. It just slipped out and he regrets it immediately.
Peter stops him in his tracks, his countenance hardening. He doesn’t shout but his voice has a tone that sets Zeke’s bones ashiver. “Why do you say this?”
“I didn’t—I don’t...”
“Did he tell you?!”
“No!”
Fi is struck by Peter’s mercurial change in demeanor.
Peter backs Zeke firmly to a wall. “Explain yourself!”
Zeke’s teeth rattle at his command. It’s been twisting in the back of Zeke’s mind since the incident in the stairwell with Billy, but he felt stupid just thinking it so he didn’t dare say anything. Now he spits it out as fast as he can.
“The big scary guy with blue eyes—when they were on the stairs—he said something about Billy having cut his hair—which doesn’t mean anything—then Billy said he still had both eyes, too. It sounded familiar, but it didn’t occur to me—then he said something about a jawbone of an ass. I thought it was some kind of joke. They seemed to know each other.”
Fi doesn’t understand what Zeke’s talking about, but she shares his distress. Peter might look like a raggedy redneck in a crappy blue bathrobe, but his presence is formidable. She touches his arm. “Peter...”
He ignores her, pressing Zeke further. “Go on!”
Zeke’s voice rises an octave. “According to the Book of Judges—Old Testament, right? Samson got his strength by letting his hair grow long and he had his eyes stabbed out when he was captured by the Philistines. It also says he killed a thousand men in a battle using nothing but a mule’s jaw, the jawbone of an ass!”
Peter still glares.
“But then,” Zeke sputters on, “that Kleron guy—he called Billy’s axe the Axe of Perun. When I tried to put it all together it didn’t make any sense, but...”
Fi doesn’t know about any “Perun,” but she’s familiar with the story of Samson and Delilah—she saw the TV movie—it’s ridiculous!
“Peter!” she appeals, “Zeke studies history and mythology. He’s nuts about it but he’s just kidding. Aren’t you Zeke?”
Peter’s taut features relax but Zeke flinches as he places a hand on his shoulder. “You are full of surprises, Mr. Prisco. And you are correct, Billy’s Truename is...” his expression saddens, “...was, Samson.”
“Not the real Samson?” Fi asks dubiously. “From the Bible story?”
“The same.”
“That’s... impossible,” Zeke murmurs. But then again, how much of what he’s seen today with his own eyes is even remotely possible?
Peter eyes him keenly. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in all my years, it’s that anything is possible.”
Before they know it they’re walking down the street with Peter’s arms over their shoulders again. Fi notices this time. How does he do that?
”Much of what you’ve read about Samson is false,” Peter expounds. “His story was passed generation to generation by word of mouth, which has never been particularly reliable. And the quality of any tale is affected by the motivations of those telling it.” Pedestrians give them odd looks as they pass by. Peter takes no notice. “Samson’s hair had nothing to do with his strength, of course, and he never lost his eyes, though his captors tried and claimed they were successful. He did have a jawbone of an ass when he laid waste to the army of 1,000 men, but it broke. Mostly he used his bare hands.”
Now Fi really wants to call bullshit.
“I’ll tell you something else,” Peter adds, “which I believe you will heed without judgment since you seem to have been his friends. Delilah was not a woman.”
Fi trips over a crack in the sidewalk.
Peter steadies her. “Careful, there.”
Peter might be truly crazy or a great liar, but Zeke can’t help wanting to hear more. “And the axe”?
“I gave it to him years ago, after his celebrated adventures.” He halts abruptly, removes his arms from their shoulders and claps his hands together. “So!”
“So... what?” Fi asks.
“I should acquire some proper attire,” he answers matter-of-factly, “don’t you think?” He nods down the street. “There should be a thrift store around the corner.”
“There is,” Fi replies. “I think, but—”
“Do either of you have any cash?” he interrupts. “I promise to pay you back.”
“Um...” Fi pats her pockets. She left her money in her backpack.
Zeke peels wet bills from his wallet. “I’ve got twenty-five, thirty... thirty-six dollars.”
“That’ll do nicely,” says Peter, snatching the cash. Without checking for traffic he jaunts across the street, dragging Fi and Zeke by the hands like little kids.
* * *
Zeke stands by a bent rack of Pre-Loved stuffed animals, hands in pockets, contemplating his loafers.
“He’s changing clothes,” Fi says curtly, arriving from the back. “Says not to leave the store.”
Zeke nervously r
uns a hand through his hair. “Okay.”
She grabs him by the shoulders and shakes him. “Zeke! What the fuck?!”
“What?!”
“What do you mean, ‘what’? This! Everything! I mean, is that really Peter?”
“You’d know better than I would. Is it?”
Fi pauses. “Yeah, it is. But who is ‘Peter’ now? And what’s all that crap about those guys being his children? And Billy? Samson? Really?”
Zeke shrugs, as much at a loss as she is.
“We need to get out of here,” Fi says. “Find my uncle. If anyone would know what to do—”
Zeke interrupts, “We—Fi—we can’t just leave him here! I mean... Jesus. This is crazy, yeah, fucked up... really fucked up. But it’s amazing too!”
Fi’s shocked. “Amazing? You think today’s been amazing?”
She has a point. The attack on the hospital, the murders, Billy dead, and who knows what happened after they left. “Fi, I don’t think we should—”
“No, you shouldn’t.”
Fi jumps and Zeke looks up with a start.
Peter stands in the aisle a few feet away. “Well?” he says in a more cheerful tone, and right here in the store performs a perfectly executed pirouette, stopping to face them with a graceful bow. “What do you think?”
It takes them a second to realize he’s asking about his outfit. Checked flannel shirt tucked into patched green cargo pants, and oil stained ox-blood boots. He dons a camouflage baseball cap, pulling it too far down over his brow. The ensemble makes a fine compliment to his messy brown hair and unkempt beard.
Fi sighs, walks to him and untucks his shirt, tugging it down to smooth it over his hips, then adjusts his hat. “That’ll do, I guess.”
Peter leans close, genuine affection in his eyes. “Thank you.”
She says, “You’re wel—,” but her voice cracks. She clears her throat and tries again, “You’re welcome.” Peter puts an arm over her shoulder once more. It should still feel odd to her, people don’t usually do that sort of thing—certainly not her Uncle Edgar. But with Peter, whom she’s found out she doesn’t really know at all, it seems perfectly normal. Almost comforting. He walks her over and embraces Zeke as well, moves them toward the front of the store.
“What next, then?” Fi asks.
“The bank,” Peter replies. “I owe Zeke some money, and I always pay my debts.”
* * *
“But it’s Sunday,” Fi protests as she and Zeke hurry along the sidewalk, trying to keep up with Peter’s purposeful stride. “The banks are closed.”
“We’ll see about that,” Peter responds.
Ahead of them, three rough looking young men in sideways baseball caps, droopy drawers and gold chains come around the corner. Each of them leads a dog. Two heavily muscled American Pit Bull Terriers, one on either side of a massive Rottweiler. The Rottweiler is muzzled, but that doesn’t keep it from trying to snap at the Pit Bulls, who snarl back. Hefty as he is, the man leading the Rottweiler is barely able to hang on to its leash. They take up the entire sidewalk, and it doesn’t look like they’re going to move.
Fi and Zeke slow down.
Peter halts and throws his hands up. “Puppies!”
The men with the dogs stop, giving each other a look that clearly communicates this hillbilly redneck must be bat-shit crazy.
“Peter,” Fi cautions, “let’s just cross the street.”
Peter’s answer is to lean forward and pat his knees. “Come on!”
Zeke keeps his eyes on the dogs, who cautiously sniff the air in their direction. “Fi...”
“I know,” Fi snaps at him under her breath. “I’m very aware of the situation, thank you.” She raises her voice, “Peter?”
Peter turns his head, still leaning on his knees. There isn’t the slightest hint of concern or annoyance in his voice, “Yes?”
The dogs suddenly leap forward with such force they yank their leashes free. The man with the Rottweiler manages to hold on just long enough to be pitched forward onto the sidewalk with a curse.
Peter stands straight as the dogs barrel toward him.
Zeke utters, “Shit...” Fi grabs him by the arm.
Peter grunts, a noise that sounds a lot like “ruff!” One of the Pit Bulls jumps up on his leg. The Rottweiler hits him full in the chest with its front paws. Peter doesn’t budge.
“Hi there!”
The first Pit Bull licks madly at his shirt and arm. The Rottweiler buries its head in his chest, snorting with pleasure. The other Pit Bull cowers at Peter’s feet, tail wagging, making little whining sounds, sneaking furtive peeks up at him.
The dogs’ owners’ mouths fall open, the big guy still lying on the sidewalk. Fi and Zeke are stupefied. Peter fusses with the muzzle on the Rottweiler.
The big guy pushes himself up. “Hey man! I wouldn’t do that!”
“You don’t need this,” Peter coos at the Rottweiler, “do you boy?” He removes the muzzle. Immediately the dog slathers his face with its tongue. “Yeah, that’s better.” Peter tosses the muzzle to the big guy, who catches it, his gape renewed.
Peter rubs the head of the Pit Bull at his waist. “Well, hello.” He leans to the meeker Pit Bull at his feet, pets it as well. “You too, sweetheart. You’re a good girl, huh?”
Fi and Zeke hear more dogs barking from all directions, growing louder. Some run up the sidewalk behind them and push past, almost knocking Zeke down. Others round the corner across the street, a middle-aged man and woman racing behind them, shouting and waving small plastic bags.
“Hi! Hi!” Peter greets them all. The Rottweiler jumps down and growls at the newcomers, but Peter “ruffs” again and all aggression ceases.
Then Peter starts jumping up and down, swinging his arms and spinning, all the while shouting exclamations like “yay! and “woo-hoo!” There are close to a dozen dogs now, and more are arriving by the moment. They bark and bounce around him, some hopping on their hind legs, others whirling in circles, all yapping gleefully.
One of the Pit Bull owners says, “What—the—fuck?” He’s still incapable of closing his mouth.
Peter beams at Fi and Zeke from the center of the doggie melee. The look on Fi’s face sobers him. He glances around to see people stopping in the street to watch. More come out of storefronts, others lean out of upper story windows.
He sees the meek Pit Bull face away from him in a submissive squat, her tail cocked to the side. “O-o-o-kay,” he says. Then, loud enough to be heard over the barking, he looses another commanding “ruff!” All the dogs immediately sit and become silent.
Peter waves Fi and Zeke toward him. They approach with trepidation. Surprisingly, the dogs scoot out of their way. Peter puts his hands on their shoulders when they reach him. They proceed up the sidewalk, the dogs parting as they go. The owners of the first three dogs stare after them as they pass.
When they round the corner the dogs leap up to follow, but Peter leans back around, holds out a hand and whistles softly. The dogs all lie down and put their heads on their front paws. The female Pit Bull whimpers.
Halfway down the next block, Peter feels the eyes of Zeke and Fi upon him. “Dogs like me,” he retorts. “I can’t help that, can I?” They don’t look at all satisfied with his answer. “Well I like cats too!”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Mendip Hills 3
“It’s thicker than I thought,” Bödvar says aloud, then realizes he’s speaking to his rucksack, which still sits on the ground against a nearby tree. These are the first words he’s spoken to his hidden “partner” on the entire mission, other than “hush” and “be quiet.” Eerily sweet humming emanates from the pack in response, accompanied by the muffled slosh of water. Oh, what the hell, Bödvar concedes. “Almost there,” he tells the sack.
He’s bashed a hole five feet deep in the face of the cliff. How much more can there be? He kicks away rocks, claws out loose chunks, then resumes hammering in rhythmic, tireless strokes.
* * *
PHOOOOOOM! PHOOOOOOM!
Myrddin forces himself to his feet, completely naked and frightfully thin. The dim light of the glowing rock illuminates him from below in a most unflattering manner. Dust sprinkles from the ceiling of the cave, shaken loose with each pounding beat. He listens, then titters to himself and claps his hands, imagining an enormous heart beating in the earth. The heart of his beloved, beating for him. He does a little jig, shuffling in a circle, stops and gazes at the area from which the sound originates.
Could it be her? Finally, after all this time, come to set me free? A single word escapes his thick dry lips, “Nyneve...”
Myrddin blinks, his eyes glaze...
* * *
Sunlight through autumn leaves dappled his robe and the path beneath his feet as he walked through the wooded hills. No, not walked. Skipped. And he was singing. His beloved had sent him a message, received clandestinely in his study, received with a leap of his heart. Then he was there, at the mouth of the cave, their secret place. She had set out a picnic of roast chicken, a loaf of bread and wine. Lovely beyond description. The Lady Nyneve. She’d been his apprentice until things turned amorous. Until he turned amorous.
He attempted a kiss, but she was coy and turned her cheek with the slightest smile. When they finished their meal, he ushered her into the cave to describe once again his plans to transform it into a spectacular home for them, a veritable mountain palace. She listened kindly. Then she told him he could have his kiss, the first of many to come, if he would prove that he loved her as much as she loved him, that he trusted her—if he would tell her the last of his secrets, the ancient words that were the key to unlocking the mysteries of his grimoire scrolls.
Though he had sworn a blood oath to his mentor not to tell anyone, he revealed them to Nyneve. She kissed him on the lips for the first time, and the last. She placed a hand against his cheek and smiled—but there was a sadness there, too. Then she spoke just two words and he couldn’t move. Gently, like a nurse undressing the wounded, she removed his shoulder bag of “magical” items, the ones he kept near at all times, including his scrolls and precious gambanteinn. She even lifted the talisman from around his neck, the one made by his mentor, his teacher, his friend, The Prathamaja Nandana.
