by Dyrk Ashton
Bödvar’s eyes widen, ever so slowly, as he lets out a long, soft breath.
Will my sister be there? he wonders. Will she forgive me?
* * *
Myrddin watches the flailing mass of gray flesh that was his beloved Nyneve, frantically twisting, coiling and uncoiling, mist rising from its blistering skin. It emits an ear-splitting scream that goes on and on.
Then it’s upright, shrieking, “IT B-U-R-R-R-R-R-R-N-S-S!!!”
The shadow swiftly unfolds a thin arm, impossibly long, and smacks at the creature, sending it to slap against the wall of the cave. From the shadow’s core an opalescent globe appears, then flies through the air as if of its own accord. It shatters on the wall, splashing blue liquid on the wriggling thing. A spark flicks in an arc and the creature is engulfed in flames. The screaming and writhing increases in intensity.
It takes supreme effort for Myrddin to push himself into a sitting position. “Lamia,” he finally comprehends. Then, with loathing, “Lamia!”
Suddenly she’s up and hurtling at Myrddin with a shrill cry. The shadow lashes out and she slops to the ground, severed in two.
The flames are dying, but The Leech isn’t dead. The bottom half of her quivers, tail and legs wriggling like worms. The top half lies in a steaming mass, breathing with short ragged breaths.
“Brother-r-r-r-r-r-r,” she moans. “Help m-e-e-e-e-e-e.”
The shadow occludes her from Myrddin’s sight and there are sounds of slicing wet meat. Lamia could have healed from the burns, perhaps even lived out her life as an amputee without legs and tail, such is her genetic makeup. But when the shadow moves away she lies slashed to ribbons. There will be no recovering from this.
The dark shape approaches Myrddin, and like black smoke blown away in the wind, the shadow cloak is gone.
Myrddin gapes. “Fintán mac Bóchra...”
“Good greetings, Myrddin Wyllt,” says The White Watcher. “We thought we’d lost you forever.”
* * *
When Myrddin last had contact with this Firstborn, Fintán had been hiding himself away since the time of the ancient wars over the island of Éire. The loss of his wife Cessair in The Deluge had taken a dreadful toll on him, but it was the plague that wiped out the Partholonians which finally sealed his despair. He’d sworn never again to take part in the affairs of the world.
Over the millennia he gained the fabled epithets of White Ancient and The Witness, the ageless observer of the unfolding history of Ireland and indeed all the British Isles. Myrddin, however, had begun addressing him, not without some derision, as The White Watcher.
Myrddin smiles, an affectionate gleam in his eye. “Fintán my boy, as I live and breathe.” He speaks in Caithness Norn, a lost language once spoken in the far north of what is now called Scotland.
If there ever was a being who looked like a true mythological god of old, it is Fintán mac Bóchra. When he appears in mtoto cloak, both men and women swoon. He’s that handsome. A true Adonis. More than Adonis himself ever was.
In Trueface, as Myrddin sees him now, it’s no wonder he’s known to his fellow Firstborn as The Falcon. His mother wasn’t exactly a falcon, but one of the first raptors of the avialae clade, a predecessor to the diurnal birds of prey that populate the world today—and much larger. Fintán stands nearly seven feet tall and his wings span over 14 feet. Built somewhat like a man, he has extremely broad shoulders—actually, two sets of shoulders—one higher and wider for his arms, the other lower and set farther back for his wings. To accommodate both arm movement and the rigors of flying, his chest is tremendously thick, with rippling pectoral muscles that taper to his waist.
His head resembles that of a modern day eagle, with ivory feathers tipped gold, though his beak is more severely curved like a falcon’s. The rest of his body is bare, with deeply bronzed skin, except for his white feathered waist and thighs. His legs are roughly humanoid in shape and function, but his feet are entirely bird-like with wicked curving talons.
Fintán removes his hand from the grip of a dagger sheathed at his hip, cocks his head to survey Myrddin with an eye the color of a golden citrine gem. “As you live and breathe, truly, by my grace.” He has no human mouth, but his tongue and the lower part of his beak move when he speaks.
“By your grace,” Myrddin replies with a nod of gratitude. “And what kept you, old friend? The Leech almost put me to an end.”
“I had some articles to fetch,” replies Fintán, reaching into a cloth bag that hangs from a strap over his shoulder.
Myrddin gazes at the steaming heap of Lamia. “Salt, oil, and flame.”
“And this.” He tosses bunched fabric to Myrddin, who catches it and holds it up. A hooded gray robe of worsted wool. “I thought you might want for cover.”
Myrddin stands, shaking, holding his hands out to steady himself on the air. Once he is relatively sure he isn’t going to topple over, he dons the robe, runs a hand up one of the sleeves. “Many thanks, and more.”
Fintán removes the cap of a plastic water bottle and hands it to Myrddin, who takes it hesitantly, having never seen such a thing.
“Water,” Fintán explains.
Myrddin sniffs the bottle’s contents and drinks cautiously. He smacks his lips. “Delicious.” The effect of his encounter with Lamia, the loss of blood and so many years without food or drink suddenly washes over him. He puts a hand to his forehead, wavers, and begins to fall.
Fintán catches him easily in his strong arms. Myrddin’s eyes flutter at the edge of consciousness.
“I have food as well,” Fintán informs him. “You’ll need to take it slowly.”
Myrddin’s voice is a ragged whisper, “There are... so many things...”
Fintán answers thoughtfully, “Over 1,500 years have passed since you were imprisoned here. Much has changed, but much has not. Many searched for you. When they desisted, I persevered, but in vain. How these beasts found you is beyond me. Nor do I know what it portends.” Then, after a pause, “Nyneve is gone. As is your king.” He studies The Madman. 1,500 years is a nighttime to Firstborn like he and Myrddin Wyllt. Somehow it must seem very different, however, when there is no escape. Still, it should be no surprise that Nyneve is dead. She was fifthborn, nearly mtoto-kind. And Arthur was merely human.
After a long silence, Myrddin asks, “And my people?”
“The men of science today have uncovered their bony remains. They call them Homo habilis.” Myrddin’s countenance falls. “But some do survive, yes.” Relief washes over Myrddin’s features. “But what you really want to know...”
Myrddin searches The Falcon’s features. Does he know my deepest secrets?
“Launcelot is dead.”
Myrddin closes his eyes. Of course he does. He is The White Watcher.
“But his son lives.”
Myrddin’s eyes snap open. He gazes at Fintán in wonder.
Fintán lowers him to sit on the ground and strides to the entrance of the cave. Myrddin checks his wound. A red ring from the bite of The Leech has soaked through his robe, but the flow of blood is assuaged. He crosses his arms over his knobby knees and looks to Fintán, who stands over a bulky motionless form. “The Bear?” he queries.
Fintán crouches next to the body. “Yes.” Bödvar’s eyes are open, but there’s no life in them.
“Young Matunos.”
“Younger than you, perhaps, Old Madman, but senior to me. The Bear has always been a savage foe and time was of the essence. I waited for assurance this was indeed where you were entombed, and better he to open it than I. I also did not know their true intentions until it was almost too late. There was no time for propriety of combat.” He gently closes Bödvar’s eyes. “Be that as it may, let it be known that I announced myself and did not stab our brother in the back.”
“You did what had to be done,” Myrddin reassures him. “There would be no reasoning with The Bear, and certainly not with The Leech. I owe you my life.”
“Consider it
a debt repaid. One of many.” Fintán removes the dagger from its sheath and severs Bödvar’s head from his body with one swift motion.
Myrddin doesn’t even wince. It isn’t necessary to decapitate a Firstborn to kill them, but it isn’t a bad idea, just to make sure they stay dead, and it has become a grisly custom. But he does notice Fintán’s weapon.
“Is that what I believe it to be?”
Fintán wipes it on the hair of Bödvar’s chest. Long for a dagger, short for a sword, it’s forged all in one piece with no hilt. The blade is a triangular spike with runes inscribed along all three sides—symbols older than Enochian, older than mankind, older than all but the most ancient of Firstborn—runes of the First Language.
Fintán utters the weapon’s name, “Carnwennan.”
“Pratha’s Athamé.” Myrddin looks to Fintán with circumspection. “It must have been given to you freely for you to wield it as an Astra blade, to cloak in shadow even to Firstborn who are not of mtoto blood, such as The Bear.”
Fintán stands. “Arthur passed it to me upon his death. Excalibur went back to the lake.”
“That is a story you must tell me, one day.” Myrddin forces himself to his feet, shuffles to Fintán. “How do you suppose these devils found me, when all others failed? What incited them to commit such an act? I know well how Lamia despised me, and I have never been kind to Matunos, but to make this journey... And she and The Bear together, I cannot imagine...”
“They could not have done this of their own volition,” Fintán responds. “Someone put them up to it.” Together they regard the bodies of The Bear and The Leech, contemplating the grim implications.
After a long moment, Myrddin studies Fintán’s regal bird face. “And what of you, Fintán mac Bóchra? Why have you come to my aid? Why has The White Watcher broken his solemn vow to never again take part in the affairs of this or any world, to observe only, and forever?”
Fintán shoves the Athamé into its sheath. “The time for watching is done.”
PART THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
Flowers & Figs 11
On the rain-slick sidewalk, Fi and Zeke struggle to unravel the knot of arms and legs they’ve tied themselves into.
“Fiona Megan Patterson!” Edgar exclaims in his familiar English accent. He grasps her arms and lifts her to her feet. “You’ve been trying to give me a heart attack since the day you came into my care. But this!”
Fi’s shocked to see him here, but also taken aback by her imperturbable uncle’s sudden ire.
Then he smiles affectionately. “It’s good to see you, dear.” Standing there with his hands on her arms, Fi feels safe for the first time in what seems to be a very long time. She moves in reflexively for an uncharacteristic hug, but he brushes past her to Zeke, ignorant of her need.
“Young man,” he says, taking Zeke by the elbow and hauling him up, “are you all right?”
“I think so,” Zeke replies, rubbing his knee.
“Are you certain?”
Zeke shakes his leg tentatively. “Yeah, I’m good. Thank you.”
“I’m okay too,” says Fi, crossing her arms. “In case you were wondering.”
“Of course, dear,” Edgar responds. “Into the auto, then.” He strides to the old blue Bentley. “You too, lad,” he urges, opening the back door.
Zeke hesitates, but Fi nods in encouragement. When he looks in at the back seat, there isn’t much room—“Fi!”
“What?!”
“Look!”
She gives her uncle a questioning glance over the roof of the car then whips open the passenger’s side rear door.
Lying on the seat is Mol. “Oh my God!” Patches of blood soak through bandages that wrap his torso and front leg and he has freshly cleaned cuts on his face, but he grunts in welcome and wags his tail. “Mol!” She hugs his big furry head. He groans in her embrace.
“Where’d you find him?” she asks Edgar. “Is he going to be alright?”
“He’ll be fine, dear. He arrived at the house shortly after I returned and I dressed his wounds. Then I heard something had occurred at the hospital and left as soon as possible to find you.”
“I’m so sorry,” she says. “You had to be really worried! I wanted to call, but...” Her eyes flit to Zeke.
“You’re here now,” Edgar reassures her, “and all in one piece. That’s the important thing. Now, get in out of this rain, both of you.” Zeke hesitates. “Don’t worry, lad, you won’t hurt him.”
That’s not exactly what Zeke’s afraid of. He cautiously presses himself in next to the big dog, who actually scoots over to give him more room.
Fi climbs in the front, turns to Zeke. “You okay? I can sit in back.”
Now that he’s in and Mol hasn’t torn his arm off or even growled, he feels relatively safe. “It’s alright, thanks.”
Edgar addresses Zeke’s reflection in the rearview mirror. “You must be the fellow who plays guitar at St. Augustine’s.”
Zeke sits up straight. “Yes sir.”
“Oh, shit,” says Fi, realizing she’s made no introductions. “I mean, sorry. This is Zeke—wait—how do you know who he is?”
“Fiona, you don’t think I am completely unaware of your life outside the house, do you?”
“You’ve been spying on me?!”
“Absolutely not,” he replies indignantly. “There is quite a disparity between spying,” he says the word as if it tastes awful, “and attending to your safety as a proper guardian should.”
The only things Fi can think of to say aren’t very nice, nor would they be productive in the present situation, so she remains silent. Luckily, Zeke speaks up.
“Um, I’m assuming you’re Fi’s Uncle Edgar. It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. She’s told me a lot about you.”
“She has, has she?” says Edgar. “Nothing good, I hope. I wouldn’t want anyone ruining my hard-won reputation.”
Zeke laughs anxiously, unsure whether he’s joking or not.
“So,” Edgar states, “explain yourselves, you two.”
Fi’s eyes go straight to Zeke, whose mouth hangs open. Could he possibly know about them dating?
“Uh...” she stammers, “explain...? You mean...?”
Edgar is reassuring but determined. “Fiona, what occurred at the hospital?”
“Oh!” she responds, relieved. Then the events of the day flood back like the memory of a nightmare. She bites her lip. “Please don’t think I’m crazy...”
It’s beginning to rain harder, pattering on the windshield, tapping the roof of the car. Edgar turns on the wipers. “Tell me everything,” he says, putting the car in drive and exiting the alley.
* * *
Fi relates the story of the attack while Edgar drives unhurriedly along back streets, then makes his way to the river and across it via the Cherry Street Bridge. Zeke interjects on occasion to clarify or add detail. Edgar listens without a word, keeping his eyes on the road. Fi thinks she sees his weathered hands tighten on the wheel when she describes the group that came after Peter, then backs up to tell him about the homeless guy grabbing her on the street before she got to work and showing up later with the rest.
Her voice quavers as she tells him about the guards being killed, and Billy. Edgar grows thoughtful when she describes what Billy did, and his axe, and how Mol showed up and fought and even killed some of the bad men. “I have no idea how he got out of the house,” she says, “or why he would’ve come.”
The only time Edgar looks at her is when she explains how they escaped from the hospital. What Peter did. The “slipping” thing. The strange misty beach, and how Peter changed. When she speaks of Zeke being able to “slip,” Edgar regards him with circumspection in the mirror. She tells Edgar that there are other worlds, what Peter told them about Billy, about going to the bank, the little gold rod that Peter retrieved from the secret vault—and what he told them it was—and admits that this must all sound completely insane.
She leaves out any mention of her seizure last night and the dreams about the baby, and the part about the vision in the swimming pool. She also doesn’t tell him the reason they left Peter at the bar was they caught him in a ménage à trois in the women’s restroom.
“I was worried, I just had to leave,” she says in conclusion. “I had to find you.”
Edgar pulls into a deserted gravel lot that overlooks the Maumee river to downtown and stops the car. Fi watches him, hoping for some reassurance. For long moments he stares out the windshield, the wipers beating rhythmically against the drumming rain.
Deliberately, Edgar removes his hand from the wheel and places it tenderly on hers. She looks at it in wonder. “You’ve done well, dear,” he says in the kindest voice she’s ever heard him use.
“You believe me, then? You don’t think I’m crazy?”
“Your sanity has always been questionable, dear.” She frowns. Edgar gives her hand a squeeze. “Of course I believe you,” he assures, “of course I do.” She smiles weakly. Edgar returns the smile then looks back out the windshield in contemplation.
Distant lightning blinks the city skyline into ghostly silhouette, followed seconds later by the faintest rumbling of thunder.
“I don’t think it would be wise to return home,” Edgar says. “If the men who came to the hospital know who you are, and have truly associated you and Zeke with Peter, their next move may be to find out where you live, if they haven’t done so already.”
Zeke sits up in the back seat. “You think so?”
“It’s what I would do.”
Fi refrains from biting her nails. She nibbles on her lower lip instead. “Where will we go?”
“Somewhere safe. Where we can gather our wits and you can rest.”
Zeke shifts in his seat. Fi turns to meet his gaze. She bites her lip harder, addresses her uncle. “What about Peter?”
“From what you tell me,” Edgar replies, “the old man sounds perfectly capable of taking care of himself.”
* * *
