by Dyrk Ashton
“And a long and illustrious life it’s been, Fiona,” Edgar explains, taking some small relief in talking about someone other than himself. “Mrs. Mirskaya, Mokosh, was born in what is now known as the Orinoco River Valley of Venezuela. Her mother was a prehistoric aquatic mammal that today’s scientists have named Phoberomys pattersoni. Quite like a muskrat, yes, but much larger.”
“The name ‘pattersoni’ is only coincidence,” says Mrs. Mirskaya, “but you are Patterson too. Is funny, yes?”
Fi can think of a few things it might be, but ‘funny’ isn’t one of them.
“If it makes you feel any better,” Edgar says to Fi, “the predecessors of the Native Americans of the Pacific Northwest referred to her as The Beaver, and they revered her.”
Fi’s guilt isn’t eased much, but she says, “Okay.” Getting busted calling Mrs. Mirskaya ‘Old Lady Muskrat’ sucks, of course, but it’s nothing compared to the weirdness of finding out what Mrs. Mirskaya really is.
Zeke’s trying to imagine what Mrs. Mirskaya looks like uncloaked, or in “Trueface,” as Edgar called it. He isn’t having much luck. He eyes Mol. “What about him? He isn’t going to stand up and start talking, is he?”
In spite of herself, Fi blurts out a sound that’s part sob, part laugh. Years of no tears at all and now she’s crying for the zillionth time in one day.
Edgar rubs Mol’s head affectionately. “I’m afraid not, lad, but my old friend here is definitely not your typical dog.”
Mol poses proudly while Edgar explains. “This faithful fellow is the last of a most noble bloodline called the Kelabim. Their progenitor, Mol’s great-great-great-great grandfather, was Shvan, a gallant Firstborn warrior who perished long ago fighting for the survival of the human race. Mol’s father was named Argos, not to be confused with Arges, the cyclops and armorer of the gods. You might remember Argos as the canine companion of Odysseus from Homer’s The Odyssey.”
“Damn...,” Zeke moans, eyeing Mol with newfound respect.
“Mol has chosen to remain by my side for quite some time, but I did not name him. He is the Molossus, the original Hound of War of the Greeks, present at the Battles of Marathon and Thermopylae, among many others, friend to Socrates and Plato, escort to the armies of Alexander the Great. It was his children and theirs who went to war alongside the peoples of Hellas, today known as Greece, for many centuries, and his line that has been reared into the largest breeds of dogs we know today.” Mol slops his big tongue up the side of Edgar’s face. Edgar wipes his cheek without fuss. “He is fifthborn, though nearly 3,000 years my senior.”
Fi stares at Mol through a haze of detachment, as if nothing more can astonish her.
Edgar addresses her directly. “I’m sure you’ve noticed, Fiona, I never hovered as you played in the yard alone, or showed concern for your safety when you walked the streets at night. Perhaps even wondered why. It wasn’t that I did not care.”
Fi shrugs flaccidly, sniffs. “I thought you were just letting me do my own thing, I guess.”
Edgar places a hand on Mol’s back. “It’s because you’ve always had a guardian angel, following, watching from the shadows.”
Fi doesn’t even look up. Too much. It’s just too much.
“Normally he would tail you from a distance, even in the day, on your walk to work, but today he was locked in.”
“I was at the house,” Zeke offers in apology. “He came outside.”
“Not to worry, lad, but he must have sensed some time later that something was amiss, as is his way, broken out of the house in my absence and made haste to the hospital.”
All Zeke can think of to say is wow, but it seems so incredibly lame he keeps it to himself. Then something occurs to him. “Mol’s a dog though, right? Pretty much, anyway. No offense, but you look older than he does. Mrs. Mirskaya seems younger, too—though I’m guessing she’s doing that cloaking thing.”
Mrs. Mirskaya snorts. “Flattery gets you nowhere, mal'chik (boy).”
“Astute observation,” Edgar replies to Zeke, brushing off Mrs. Mirskaya’s brusqueness. “All the earlier generations in direct lineage with The Pater live very long lives, but all, even the Firstborn, age at varying and unpredictable rates. No one knows why. Mirskaya is indeed far older than I, but has aged more slowly. Firstborn always live the longest, regardless. And though I’m closer in descendance to The Pater than Molossus and he is older, and humans live longer than dogs, he may yet outlive me. It’s a mystery.”
Fi stirs from her daze, wipes her cheeks and rubs her eyes. “I don’t understand.” Her voice is pleading. “I’ve known you,” she looks to Mol and Mrs. Mirskaya, “all of you, since I was a baby. And now all this with Peter...”
Edgar exhales in an odd mixture of sorrow and liberation. He’s been dreading this moment since Fi first came into his life—but also looking forward to finally being able to tell her the truth one day. Now that day has come. “I was pledged to look after you since before you were born.” Mrs. Mirskaya lays a hand on his wrist. “We both were.” Mol barks sharply. “Mol too, I suppose.”
Fi shakes her head in disbelief. “Pledged? By who?”
“Your father,” Edgar replies. Fi just stares blankly. “I may not be your uncle, but we are related, you and I. I am, in fact, your nephew. Your great-nephew, to be more precise, because you are my grandfather’s sister.”
Edgar is fully aware that this revelation is ripping Fi’s world apart, and his heart aches for her as she stares at him with her teary green eyes. Nonetheless, a touch of pride creeps into his voice. “You, Fiona Megan Patterson, are Firstborn.”
Fi’s jaw bobs inaudibly. Zeke’s color isn’t so good.
Mrs. Mirskaya weeps with joy. She envelopes Fi in a tender hug. “Welcome to the family, sestrenka (little sister).”
Blinking tears over Mrs. Mirskaya’s shoulder, Fi manages to speak. “That’s... but then... Peter?”
“You must find it in your heart to forgive him, dear,” Edgar implores. “Forgive us all.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Flowers & Figs 16
Fi is stunned, bewildered, confounded. Me? Firstborn? Peter? My father? No fucking way!
A bizarre sound echoes through the hub chamber, nearly inaudible in pitch but chilling to the bone. Goosebumps rise on Fi’s arms. Zeke’s injured eardrum jangles painfully at the sound and the hair pricks on the back of his neck. Mol whines and shakes his head, sending his ears flapping. Edgar leaps to his feet, sword ringing from its scabbard.
Mrs. Mirskaya curses softly, “Chort vozmi.”
It comes louder, a high-pitched series of ticks and squeaks.
“What’s that?” says Zeke, with a shiver. “It sounds like...”
“A bat, aye,” Edgar confirms. “The Bat. This can be none other than Lucifer himself.”
* * *
Peter bounds from the top of a ladder into a tunnel of brick. He runs to another and leaps, catching it near the ceiling—but it snaps, sending him sprawling to the floor. He regains his feet and springs straight up the shaft, catching the edge of the tunnel floor fifteen feet above with one hand. With a single tug he swings himself over and hits the ground running.
* * *
Fi and Zeke snatch up their flashlights and jump to their feet. They hear the flutter of large leathery wings and skitter of many clawed feet.
Edgar watches the tunnels, including the levels above. “From the odor of it,” he says, “The Spider as well.”
Fi smells it too, the now familiar charnel stench. “Max.”
“Max is a spider?” Zeke squeaks. He feels like he’s going to puke again. “I really don’t like spiders.”
“Maskim Xul is not just spider,” says Mrs. Mirskaya, “He is True Ancient, born 140 million years passed.”
“140 million years...” Zeke mutters, still trying to comprehend such incredible spans of time. He sweeps his flashlight desperately across the various entrances. The sounds seem to come from everywhere.
; Edgar dons his shield. “Behind me, quickly.” Fi and Zeke back towards the wall. “You too, lad,” he tells Mol. Mol hesitates.
“Do as you are told, glupaya sobaka (silly dog),” Mrs. Mirskaya scolds him. “They eat you alive.” She takes a place beside Edgar. Mol reluctantly squeezes in behind her, but positions himself to defend both Fi and Zeke. She laments to Edgar quietly in Russian, “They might eat us all.”
Fi doesn’t translate the fearful words to Zeke. She still hasn’t come to grips with what Edgar told her about who and what she, and her father, really are, but she can’t help the words that escape under her breath. “Peter, where are you?”
* * *
Peter comes skidding around a corner and stops dead, faced with a stone slab wedged between the walls. He shatters it with a swift kick only to find a boulder blocking the entire tunnel behind it. A single punch and it crumbles, but the passage is still packed with rubble beyond. He grunts in frustration and dashes back the way he came.
* * *
“There,” Edgar says, pointing his sword at the tunnel that slants downward from the chamber floor. Fi and Zeke aim their flashlights around him. There’s the sound of scrabbling on rock. A dark umbral figure flits across the ceiling, then down the wall to the shadows below, where they can’t see from their angle.
Edgar steels himself for the attack. “Fiona, Zeke,” he whispers. “I must confess, I have never met foes such as these in combat. I would have you flee, but I’m afraid that would not be wise. They are very, very fast. Be ready, however, as a last resort.”
“What are you going to do?” Fi asks.
“What I was born to do, dear,” he answers firmly. “I will defend your lives unto my very death.”
Fi blanches at the thought.
“But do not despair yet, young ones.” He raises his voice so Max and Kleron are certain to hear. “I wield the Sword of David, taken from Goliath in the spoils of battle. It is one of the deadliest arms ever forged, an Astra weapon crafted by The Prathamaja Nandana herself, with the power to pierce hide and heart of even a True Ancient. I also bear the shield of Joseph of Arimathea, blessed with his own holy blood. No harm shall come to those under my protection while I still draw breath.”
His tone resounds with confidence and clarity. “And hearken unto me, ye devils! I, Galahad, doth ne choose to die this day!”
* * *
Peter wriggles through a crack and finds himself stymied once again, the natural crevice before him clogged with stony earth. He crawls to the blockage, jams the glow-stick in his teeth, and shovels with his bare hands.
* * *
A melodic voice lilts into the chamber.
“Oh, the Incy, Wincy Spider,
Climbed up the water spout...”
Hearing the words to Max’s song, Mrs. Mirskaya eyes the well in the center of the chamber, then the ceiling.
Edgar raises sword and shield. “Prepare yourselves.”
Fi and Zeke press harder against the wall behind them. A slight breeze brushes their hair and they realize Mrs. Mirskaya is speaking quietly in a language that sounds a little like Russian, though it is actually much, much older—an ancient appeal only Mokosh can muster.
Here, deep underground, they hear a distant roll of thunder. Mrs. Mirskaya’s voice rises and the wind increases, circling in the chamber. Near the ceiling, black clouds materialize, tumultuous and coursing with heat lightning. Raindrops fall, fat and warm on their raised brows.
The clouds spin in cyclonic fashion and the rain becomes a torrential downpour, but Mrs. Mirskaya raises a hand and it’s blocked from them as if by a shield of curved glass. She raises her other hand and lightning bolts strike ferociously into each of the tunnel openings, again and again. The crack and peal would be deafening, but the invisible shield muffles the din.
The lightning ceases at Mrs. Mirskaya’s command, but then she shouts her incantation and a roaring geyser spouts from the well in the center of the room, up through the eye of the storm above to blast against the ceiling. More arcane speech and the geyser splits into branches that flood the tunnels with the force of a thousand fire hoses.
Zeke’s awestruck at the realization he’s witnessing something that most likely hasn’t been seen in human memory—and no one would ever believe today. The supernatural power of the ancient deity Mokosh unleashed.
Fi’s speechless. Then she hears another voice. Even behind the invisible barrier its foul timbre assaults her ears with striking clarity. A searing ache shrieks through her brain. From Zeke’s groan, she can tell he hears it too.
Mrs. Mirskaya shouts her spell to repel the verbal attack, but the fell words only become more strident. Fi feels an unearthly chill and realizes she can see her breath. Mrs. Mirskaya struggles on, but through the frosty shield they see the geyser freeze solid. The dreadful words quiet, then roar to life once more. White hot fire blazes from one of the upper passages. The ice shatters and its shards boil to steam. The fire reels through the chamber and Mrs. Mirskaya’s shield flares like the hull of a spacecraft descending through the atmosphere.
Fi and Zeke feel like they’re being cooked alive. Mrs. Mirskaya fights on, but her hands tremble under the strain and her voice falters.
The vulgar incantation roars even louder and the shield is blasted to nothing. Mrs. Mirskaya cries out and slumps to the floor. The foul speech silences and the fire is gone.
“Mrs. Mirskaya!” Fi crouches over her, Zeke by her side.
Mol nudges the old lady’s cheek. She’s breathing.
“Oh, thank God,” Fi exclaims.
“She’ll be alright, Fiona.” Edgar is shaken, but resolute. “We have other matters to attend to.”
Fi and Zeke once again aim their flashlights at the mouth of the lower tunnel.
Max creeps toward them far enough to reveal his soiled stocking cap, soaking wet and steaming, their lights mirrored in his four pairs of sunglasses, and his savagely grinning mouth.
He chortles, “There ain’t no rain can wash this spider out.” And he changes...
The stocking cap is now a mangy tuft of gray hair above a face covered in patchy gray fuzz, matted with filth, his nose two seeping holes and mouth a wide slobbering crescent grin with yellowed and blackened fangs that protrude over rubbery lips. Each lens of the sunglasses is a lidless, yellow orb of an eye, eight of them in all, one pair above the other, each pair a different size. The black pupils are rimmed in red and all of them move in unison as he peers around the chamber. He inches forward, revealing more of his true form in all its hideous glory
Zeke’s insides turn to water at the sight. A ribbed thorax, black with red markings, and a bloated rippling bulb of an abdomen that expands and contracts as he breathes, with shabby peeling flesh sparsely covered in gray bristles. Attached to the thorax are eight legs, like any self-respecting spider should have, but the first set is more like scrawny arms with slender hands that each have two fingers and a thumb with curved black claws, and the back set is oddly angled in bony hips that afford him the ability to walk upright when he wishes. Each of the back six legs have a pair of hooked and sharply toothed claws, bristling with spiky hair. Crawling on the ground, as he is now, the knees—or elbows—peak above his head and back.
Fi covers her nose and mouth against the stench. Zeke gags. Both shrink behind Edgar but peer around him to keep the creature in sight.
Max crawls along the edge of the well, all eight eyes trained on Edgar. His voice is eerily whimsical and soft.
“Will you walk into my parlor?
said the Spider to the Fly,
‘Tis the prettiest little parlor,
that ever you did spy;
The way into my parlor,
is up a winding stair;
And I have curious things to show you,
when you are there.”
Edgar takes a bold step to block Max from Mrs. Mirskaya’s prostrate figure, and Fi and Zeke are surprised to hear him finish the stanza.
“Oh, n
o no, said the Fly,
to ask me is in vain;
For who goes up your winding stair
can ne'er come down again...”
Max zigzags closer, side-stepping this way and that like a crab, his claws skritching on the stone floor. Edgar adjusts his stance with each movement, anticipating the coming assault.
“Sheathe your sword, young wæpenbora,” creaks Max, “and I’ll kill you quickly, I promise.”
“I cannot tell you how many times I’ve heard that one, little Spider,” Edgar scoffs, “and the word of Anansi is dubious at best.”
“Alas,” Max sighs, inching closer. “I have other tricks up my sleeve—Oh!” his hand shoots to his mouth and he looks at his arm, grinning like a fool. “No sleeves.”
A high piercing squeal slashes the air, causing Fi and Zeke to jump. Edgar is distracted for an instant—just enough time for Max to strike, quick as lightning.
Edgar crouches, stabbing past his shield, straight at Max’s eyes, but The Spider rolls sideways, avoiding the thrust by an inch, and propels himself upward with all eight legs, high into the air. Edgar raises shield and sword.
A phantom shadow descends from a walkway above. Fi tries to shout in warning, but before she can utter a sound Kleron sweeps Edgar’s sword arm aside with his left wing and clamps Edgar’s wrist with the claw at the peak of it, then grips Edgar by the throat with one hand, hoists him off his feet and pins him between shield and wall with a leaping shove.
Edgar exhales sharply, pain shooting through his chest and back.
Fi screams, “Edgar!!!”
With a lion’s roar, Mol attacks. He clamps his jaws onto Kleron’s leg and wrenches with all his might—to absolutely no effect. With less concern and effort than one might shoo a gnat, Kleron kicks him. Mol sails across the room, thuds against the far wall with a piteous yelp, and falls limp to the floor.
“Mol...” Fi wants to go to him, but she fears more for her uncle.
Kleron leers up at Edgar with his grotesque, bat-like Trueface. “What did I tell you, boy?” He clenches his wing-claw, snapping Edgar’s arm below the wrist. Edgar grunts in pain. His sword clangs to the floor.
