by Dyrk Ashton
Fi still needs reassurance on the whole subject of reproduction. “Okay, but, he never actually had sex with animals. In the form of a man, I mean.”
“Mmm...” Edgar looks uneasily to Mrs. Mirskaya, who rolls her eyes. “I wouldn’t say never...”
“Ugh! That’s just—”
“Fiona!” scolds Mrs. Mirskaya. “Don’t be blyustitel’ nravov!”
“But this is about—hey! I’m not a prude!“
“You are being prude!”
Then Fi realizes—if Mrs. Mirskaya really is one of them, she could be talking about Peter and Mrs. Mirskaya’s mother—who might not have been a human person at all... Oh God, she thinks, please don’t let it be a muskrat...
“Just to be clear,” Zeke asks, “we are talking about Peter, right?”
“Yes,” Edgar replies. “Peter is The Pater, the physical father of not only the ancient beings of which we speak, but quite literally all life on the planet.”
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
Flowers & Figs 15
In the deep dark tunnel, the wall of fallen rock heaves forward, toppling stone and earth into the water. Then it’s pushed farther from within, more violently. A third time and Peter bursts forth into the tunnel. He feels around in the rubble, tugs out the haversack, now practically ruined. He retrieves a chemiluminescent glow-stick, its activating capsule already broken. Yellow-green light illuminates the rough walls, reflects in the water. He places it in his mouth, rummages through the sack, pulling out cash, identification, and stuffing them into the multiple pockets of his ragged cargo pants. Leaving the pack where it lay, he pats dust off his tattered shirt, brushes grit out of his hair and rubs it from his eyes. He checks his pockets once more to make certain the small metallic rod that is Gungnir is there, then listens, sniffs the air, and splashes down the corridor.
* * *
Zeke’s mind is spinning. Fi crumples back on the wall, exhaling like a punctured tire.
“Before I go on,” Edgar continues, “I must tell you, no, Peter is absolutely not the all-seeing, all-knowing, all-powerful creator of the universe. He is very strong, very smart, and by all accounts entirely indestructible, but he cannot conjure something from nothing, transport himself wherever he wishes, be everywhere at once, see all, travel through time, read minds or miraculously answer prayers. What, or who, the True Creator may be remains a mystery, and a matter of faith. But be assured, Peter is not The Devil either.”
Fi isn’t sure if that’s a relief or it just adds to the greater quandary.
“It is the case, however,” Edgar continues, “that all of the ancient religions and mythologies, some still known and many long forgotten, have a god or multiple gods based upon him, and he has mistakenly been believed to be God himself.”
“Well sure, if he’s been around for, like, ever—” Zeke catches himself, apologizes for interrupting, and leans back against the wall.
“No apology necessary,” says Edgar. “I completely understand your—eagerness—shall we say.” He addresses Fi. “And skepticism. But hear me out.” Fi and Zeke do their best to contain themselves.
“As I mentioned earlier, the result of a union between The Pater and another living creature is called a Firstborn. They are a natural part of what we understand as evolution, but each of them can constitute a great leap in and of itself. Now, evolution proceeds as it always has, and The Father, or The ‘Pater,’ as the word came to be used for the same meaning in ancient Greek and Latin, began the process, but Firstborn can, and do, alter it as well. They are capable of breeding only with their mother’s kind, or those species very close to it—with Kleron being one notable exception, as I mentioned—and though their progeny lose their mighty strength and longevity rapidly over successive generations, new species have evolved, many of which are still with us today.
“From the beginning, however, Peter realized his offspring were very different from their mother’s kind. They gained from him incredible strength, immunity to disease and the elements, and unnaturally long lives, but they also had physical attributes he had never seen before. Some gained more of these than others—five fingered hands, two arms, bipedal locomotion, binocular vision, certain organ and brain configurations, warm bloodedness—attributes that only much later did he realize were collectively humanoid.
“He’s never known why, or what this means, but somewhere in his unique, magnificent physicality, his cosmic genetic makeup, there is the blueprint for man—and woman, of course. From inception, dominant within his unexplainable DNA, has been the pattern for humankind.”
“And he looks like a man today,” Zeke interjects.
“He has not returned to his original shapeless state for a very long time, and except for a few isolated instances, for the last two and a half million years he’s had only the appearance of a man. In fact, it seems that he can no longer take any other. His form has become fixed. He has, for many thousands of years now, remained human entirely.
“Maybe because he’s finally achieved his true form,” Zeke comments. “Our true form. What he was always meant to be.”
“Perhaps. There’s still much he doesn’t understand, and perhaps never will. Strange as it may seem, he knows more about everything else in the world than he does about himself.”
“He looks to be in his early forties, maybe,” says Zeke. “Does he get any older, physically, I mean?
“None are old enough to have seen much change in him, but he insists that he does indeed age with the passing of time, just not very quickly. In human form, he appears to have matured at the rate of approximately ten years of a natural human’s life for each billion of his own.”
“Why did he look so old when he was in the hospital?” Fi asks.
“Ah, the patermentia, or so it is called. This is the first time I’ve seen it, but he’s been afflicted with it numerous times in his life. Entirely beyond his control, and completely debilitating, it’s a condition brought on when depression progresses to despondence and finally despair. From what I’ve been told it can last for quite a long time. He either simply gets over it eventually or it is alleviated by an occurrence of great significance—but sometimes just some small seed of hope and love.”
Mrs. Mirskaya smiles with proud affection. “This time, Fiona, you were cure.”
Fi’s not so sure about that, but Peter did say something about her bringing him back. “In my dreams, or visions, or whatever they were, why did I see him as a human baby?” she asks.
“Other than being precipitated by love,” Edgar proffers, “he theorizes that his appearance may also be affected by what another creature’s—or person’s—perception of him may be, mapping their own understanding of themselves and the world upon him. In your case, you perceived him through your own sensitivities and perhaps even intuited his innate human form. When faced with the entirely unfamiliar image of Peter from his earliest memories, you may have sensed this newborn consciousness and your mind defaulted to imagining the persona of a child.
“This isn’t much different from how Firstborn who are not born of human mothers can appear to be human, as you have seen, through a sort of illusion called ‘cloaking.’ There is a physical transformation, yes, but mostly it’s us. We see what our minds are familiar with, what makes sense to us. And let’s be honest, the natural appearance of a Firstborn of an animal mother doesn’t make sense in the modern world. The Firstborn willfully give us a mental nudge to complete the impression, but in essence, we see only what we are ready to see, and what our limited minds can accept.”
Fi has her fingertips pressed to her lips. She won’t bite her nails while Edgar’s watching, but she really wants to.
Zeke breathes a quiet, “Oh man.” Shapeshifters appear in practically every myth he’s ever read, men and women who can change into animals, or vice versa. It’s called “therianthropy.” There are many creatures that are part human, part animal, too. Most of them incredibly strong, living for unbelievable amounts of time. No wonder
so many of the Firstborn were considered to be gods or supernatural monsters. And Peter himself—there are stories from all over the world of a supreme god who falls in love with a woman—or a female animal—and spawns more gods. Now Zeke knows where all these legends come from. The paper he was writing for the assistantship competition, where he proposed a common denominator between disparate mythologies, now seems to be absolutely validated—and incredibly naïve.
“Due to multiple factors,” Edgar continues, “there aren’t many Firstborn alive today. But the fact remains; they do exist. Some live secretly amongst us, cloaked as humans, but most abide quietly in remote places of the world.”
“Or on other worlds.” Zeke adds.
“Yes, but the majority remain here, on this earth.”
“How many are there?” Fi asks. “Firstborn, I mean?”
“There have been millions over the epochs,” Edgar replies. “But now only a few dozen, maybe more, maybe less.” He looks to Mrs. Mirskaya for affirmation, who nods. “No one knows exactly, since they generally don’t keep in contact with one another. Or with their father.”
“Why not?” asks Zeke.
Edgar shrugs. “Old feuds, ambivalence, apathy, a desire for privacy, even fear for their lives. Firstborn are strong, as I have said, but they are not immortal, not entirely beyond injury or death. Some are benign and some benevolent, but there are those who are neither. You’ve met a few of the worst. The fact is, for a very long time all have been silent, relatively inactive. Until today.”
Fi asks, “Why today?”
“I wish I knew.”
“But why would they go after Peter?” Zeke queries.
“There are animosities that go back millions of years, and wars, terrible wars. But the last, which is referred to as The Second Holocaust, ended almost twenty thousand years ago. There has been peace between them, relatively speaking, ever since. Peter hoped the aggression had finally come to an end. That, however, does not seem to be the case.”
“Wars over what?” Zeke asks. “What do they want?”
“You’ve no little knowledge of mythology. The Titanomachy and Gigantomachy of the Greek’s, the Hindu’s Vedic struggles between the Deva and the Asura, the Armageddon of scripture and the Norse Ragnarök (which have both already happened, by the way), The War of Heaven as described in the Old Testament, also called the battle between the Sons of Light and the Sons of Darkness. What do you think?”
“Control of the earth,” Zeke ventures.
“Dominion over mankind,” says Fi.
“Or,” Zeke considers, “our annihilation.”
Edgar and Mrs. Mirskaya look grave.
“You think that might be what Kleron’s up to now?” Fi asks.
“It is entirely possible.”
“I don’t mean to sound rash or disrespectful,” says Zeke, “but if that’s what they’re planning, if they’re so awful, why didn’t Peter just kill them all, up in the house? We saw what he can do. I mean, I appreciate that it might be hard if they’re his children, for Christ’s sake, but under the circumstances...”
Fi shoots Zeke a look. She never warned him about taking the Lord’s name in vain around her uncle.
Edgar takes it well. “‘Difficult to kill one’s children, for Christ’s sake,’” he repeats. “That’s something to think about. But to answer your question...” He contemplates how to proceed. “I cannot begin to fathom all of Peter’s thoughts or motivations, but even if he were to have taken them all on—and he could, make no mistake—chances would be very good that Kleron, the Cerberi, or more likely Max, would have gotten to either or both of you, or me, for that matter, while he was busy with the others. Then we would have been in a very tight spot indeed. In fact, that may be exactly what they were hoping for. Since none of us, including Peter, are sure of what Kleron intends, would the possible sacrifice of all three of us have been worth it? Also, if Peter would have managed to capture any of them alive, torturing them for information would do no good, not with this lot, and the weres and wampyr would certainly not have been entrusted with any information worth having.”
“And Kleron knew that,” Zeke realizes. “And he can slip. He could have just disappeared at anytime.”
“Exactly. Most likely, Peter hoped that if he showed them he was back in full capacity they might cease and desist. He wouldn’t have to kill them.”
Fi shakes her head. “I still don’t know why he wouldn’t want to after what they did at the hospital, and to Billy—Samson—whoever he is—was, he was Peter’s son too... and a great guy.”
Edgar sighs, “I appreciate your sentiments, and I am truly sorry about your friends, but The Pater does not do that sort of thing carelessly—unless...” He and Mokosh exchange glances. “Unless he is afflicted by the mania.”
“You mean like when his eyes were red when he was fighting?” Zeke asks.
“No, that is the bloodlust. All creatures have the capacity for it, to some extent. The patermania is something quite different.” He studies his hands, continues with his previous train of thought. “There is something about The Pater that you must understand. He loves all his children, regardless of what they’ve done, when he is in his right mind. We’ve inherited our emotions from him, but he feels them stronger than we ever could. That doesn’t mean he is always lenient, that he won’t sacrifice one child to protect others, but it’s a choice he does not relish, that he never takes lightly, and his remorse and guilt know no bounds, even when taking the life of a Firstborn is justified.
“When Peter was forced to slay the worst of them, responsible for the deaths of millions of Firstborn, his own brothers and sisters, as well as the near eradication of all humankind, still, The Pater wept.” Edgar pauses. “Imagine if all your worst enemies were your children.”
Fi and Zeke mull that over.
“Consider a family, a lifetime, measured not in years and decades, but in epochs, tens of millions of years, even hundreds of millions, where days fly by like seconds and ice ages come and go like winters. In lives like those, relationships are more complex than you can possibly imagine. There is love, yes, but there are also resentments, jealousies, hatreds that go deeper than humanly possible. In lives like those there is sea change, even war, every day.”
Edgar rests a moment, studies his upturned palms on his knees. “I have a hard time grasping these concepts myself. I am a mere infant to them, no more or less than you two children.” His voice wavers. “And I was born on April the 12th, in the year five hundred and three, anno domini.”
Zeke’s eyes jerk to Fi, who’s staring at her uncle.
This is it, Fi thinks. When she discovered Edgar’s association with Peter, she got an awful nagging feeling—an unthinkable notion that swelled dramatically at the first sight of her uncle so deftly wielding his sword and shield, and has been mounting into an ominous fearful anxiety ever since. And now...
She finally asks the question she knows she doesn’t want the answer to. “Edgar, are you one of them? Are you Firstborn?”
Edgar closes his eyes, “Yes,” shakes his head weakly, “and no.”
“But you’re not my uncle.” It’s not another question, but a statement of fact that wounds her deeply.
Edgar’s eyes open. There are tears, and he can’t bring himself to look at her. “Please understand that to tell you this pains me more than you can imagine. But it is also a great weight lifted from my heart. There is no worse burden to bear than deceit. I can finally be free of it, as you can now know the truth.” He takes a deep, slow breath, gathering his courage. “No, dear, I am not your father’s brother, nor his cousin. And my name has not always been Edgar. I am, or I was, Galahad.”
Zeke’s eyes whip from Edgar to Fi, then back to Edgar. “Sir Galahad?! Knight of the Round Table? The only person to ever sit the Siege Perilous and live? The ‘Perfect Knight,’ who succeeded in the quest for the Holy Grail?!”
Edgar nods, but it appears not to be in agreement, only sh
ame. “I am thirdborn, Peter’s great-grandson. The illegitimate child of the betrayer, the adulterer, Sir Launcelot du Lac, God rest his soul. His father was not, however, King Ban of Benwick, as the legends tell it, but a lecherous Firstborn who tricked Ban’s wife into bedding him, in much the same way he manipulated the Lady Igraine into sleeping with Uther Pendragon to beget Arthur.
“My real grandfather was heralded by many names. His first name, his Truename, given to him by Peter, his father, was Myrddin Wyllt. They called him The Madman, for good reason, but you might know of him best as Merlin, The Magician.”
Zeke looks back to Fi, who sobs, tears flowing freely. He would think this revelation about Edgar was unbelievably cool—if Edgar and Fi didn’t look so awfully miserable.
Mrs. Mirskaya’s eyes are moist with sympathy for both of them.
“And you?” Fi asks Mrs. Mirskaya, her voice catching on the words.
“I am Firstborn, Fiona. Peter is my papa. My Truename, is Mokosh.”
Mokosh... Zeke doesn’t know a lot about Mokosh, only that she was a fabled deity of earth and water, invoked by ancient Slavic peoples for protection from their enemies, and the weather, because she supposedly held sway over the elements.
“My mother, however,” Mrs. Mirskaya adds, “was not muskrat.”
A pang of guilt stabs Fi’s heart. “You know about that?”
“Mokosh knows all.” She grins. “Just joking! Is not a problem, Fi. Is appropriate, I think. And I have been called worse things in my life, believe me.”
Fi can barely speak due to the painful lump in her throat. “I’m sorry.”
