The Centaur

by Brendan Carroll

  “Of course.” ‘Barshak’ stood up and looked about, frowning slightly. “Where would I find the soup?”

  “Through there. Down the hall to your left… that way.” Sophia pointed the way and he walked from the room, looking at everything he passed with curiosity. “The kitchen,” she called after him.

  “Sophia,” Mark took her other hand and pulled her back around to face him. “That is not what you think it is.”

  “What? Mr. Barshak? He’s not a healer? What is he? Do you know him?”

  “Sophia, fur God’s sake. Will ye listen t’ me?”

  “When did you pick up a brogue, Mark? I swear, Nicole is teaching you awful things. You needn’t speak like that, Mark. Your English is perfect.”

  “Wot aboot yurs, lassie? Ye ’ave th’ verra same accent as Dambretti. I’m a Scot, fur pity’s sake. Ye wud expect a Scot t’ speak loike a Scot, wud ye not?” Mark asked her in consternation, and then closed his eyes, sighing in defeat. “You’re right, Sophia. Nicole is teaching me bad things. Now about Mr. Barshank…”

  “Barshak… shak,” she corrected him.

  “Mr. Barshak. I had to make some magick, Sophia,” he began to explain. “I didn’t want you to worry, and so I went alone, down the meadow to a place where I hoped no one would see me. I had to use the black mass to call up the dark powers of Marduk.”

  “Marduk!” Sophia leaned back from him.

  “Yes! Now listen. I called up some of the powers to help us. You must know I’ve been trying to tell you we are in a great deal of trouble. Today is the sixteenth of October.”

  “I know, and its too damned cold out there for you to be running around in just your trousers in the rain, no less! And furthermore, endangering yourself with this black magick and spells to call on demons. What were you thinking, Mark Andrew Ramsay? Do you want me to have a miscarriage? Do you want to scare me to death? I love you, Mark, but you really must start acting like a grownup now and do what Sophia tells you to do or else you’re going to get both of us hurt. You don’t want to cause us to be hurt, do you, love? Think about it. After all I’ve done for you, you must know that I love you by now or else I would have gone my way and left you to sort it all out on your own. Now that you’re a man…” she tapped the side of his head and smiled at him, “I have to respect you in that regard, but you still have a long way to go before you know everything you need to know. It’s a big world out there, Mark and the elves won’t always be around to protect you and show you secret passageways and all that stuff. Don’t you want to be a man and take care of Sophia for a while? You said you would take care of me, remember?” She leaned forward and kissed his nose. “How can you take care of me, if you are upstairs with pneumonia? Remember that little game we used to play? Paper, scissors, rock?”

  Mark nodded automatically. He was making no headway at all with her.

  “OK. Look. I’ll play with you one more time if you promise not to go out without telling me first. OK? Promise?”

  Mark nodded again in disbelief.

  “Good. After you eat and we get you upstairs for a bath and some clean, warm clothes, we’ll play and then I’ll teach you some more about the chess game. OK?”

  Mark nodded once more and Sophia stood up. She held out her hand to him.

  “Come on; just wrap the blanket around you. No one will look. Don’t you want to take a nice hot bath?”

  Again he nodded.

  “And….” She wrapped her arm around his waist when he stood up. “If you like, Sophia will get in the tub with you. OK? Would you like that?”

  This time he nodded more readily. He would like that a great deal. If they were all going to die sometime before midnight, he might as well make the most of the time he had left. Besides, he had done all he could do to avert as much of the coming disaster as possible from the shores of his beloved Scotland, and he had the tender attentions of this sweet girl. What more could the gods ask of him? What more could he ask of the gods?

  Chapter Eight of Seventeen

  the Lord hath his way in the whirlwind and in the storm,

  and the clouds are the dust of his feet.

  Abaddon returned from his reconnoiter just in time to hear shrieks emanating from the Queen Mother’s chamber. The guards outside the massive, concrete and steel door cringed in terror when her voice echoed down the hall. One of the few remaining personal servants flew bodily through the open door, crashing against the far wall of the dimly lit corridor. The old woman bounced off the wall like a broken rag doll and slid silently onto the floor, unmoving, lifeless.

  One of the soldiers saw the general approaching and ran toward him, speaking unintelligibly, throwing himself at Abaddon’s feet, begging for mercy, pleading for his life.

  Abaddon picked him up with one hand and held him close.

  “What happened?” He growled in the man’s face.

  “The Queen, something happened. Horrible. Horrible!” He wailed. “She’ll kill us! We had nothing to do with it. Nothing. Help us, sir! Help us!” The man covered his face with his hands, and Abaddon dropped him.

  He approached the door cautiously and peeked around the scarred door facing. The screaming had subsided and she sat on a velvet bench in front of a gold and silver dressing table. A large mirror, now spidered and splintered showed her reflection in thousands of tiny faceted images.

  “My Queen, what is the problem? Allow me to take care of it.”

  She did not turn, but waved him inside with one hand.

  “Close the door,” she snapped, and he obeyed before walking carefully across the room. He stopped behind her and waited.

  “What is wrong, my lady? Is it bad news?” He asked when she said no more.

  “Your magick!” She moaned and then turned on the bench. She wore a green satin gown, cut very low, exposing her neck, throat and a great deal of breast to him.

  He gasped and stepped back. It was worse than he had expected. Her entire neck and most of her chest was brown, withered, decayed and desiccated flesh. The horrid gash across her throat had returned. The hideous wound resulting from the Key of Death ceremony Luke Andrew had performed for Ruth Kadif, releasing her soul from her body. Above the wrinkled flesh, near her jaw line the flesh was perfect. Her face was as lovely as ever, but her eyes were wide with fury, inhuman with hatred and loathing.

  “My Queen. I know this is most distressing, but I must beg to ask: did you perform the ritual as I instructed. I warned you the necklace was most powerful? Dangerous,” Abaddon said cautiously and looked about the floor for the necklace she no longer wore. He saw it near the foot of the bed, lying in a heap.

  “I did exactly what you said to do, and this is what happened! I should disembowel you and string you up and down the hall, you imbecile!”

  Abaddon fell on one knee and held out his hands imploringly.

  “My Queen, I beg your forgiveness. It was never my intention to bring harm to your beautiful body! I am sure we can learn the cause of it and repair the damage. Whatever has been done can be undone, I assure you. Allow me to assist you.” He bowed his head exposing his neck to her. “I swear on my life, most gracious lady, I will return you to your former beauty or throw myself into the fires of Arauch.”

  He waited, eyes closed, expecting the worst.

  “Of course, Abaddon. You may help your queen.”

  He let out a long sigh of relief and stood up. Trying not to look at the hideous monstrosity in front of him, he moved to the bar and poured himself a glass of whiskey.

  “Now you must tell me everything. Do not leave out the smallest detail. It is most likely some tiny thing. Something seemingly insignificant, yet necessary to render the necklace a servant. Try to calm yourself now. Everything will be just fine. It pains my heart to see you in such needless distress.”

  Huber snorted impatiently and then sat back on the bench, leaning against the table. She began to relate every word she had spoken, every gesture and hand signal, every movement she had made. At
length, Abaddon stood up straighter and slammed his glass on the bar.

  “That’s it. You say you made the sign of the inverted pentagram with your right hand? Like so?” He held out his right hand and drew an invoking pentagram in the air.

  “Yes, yes. Exactly.” She perked up.

  “Then that is where you went wrong. The revoking pentagram is done with the right hand. Revoking. Right. Invoking. Left.”

  “Ahhh. Then you can reverse the damage?” She ran one hand over the disgusting, putrefying flesh that had one been soft and supple, invitingly smooth and tan.

  “I may be able to reverse a goodly portion, but…” he walked forward and leaned down to look closely at the deep, red gash completely encircling her neck. He wondered how her head remained in place. “This gash is not the result of the mistake. This incision was made by the necklace, itself. I have seen it before. I may not be able to close it completely, my queen.”

  Huber grabbed a bottle of perfume shaped like a crystal swan and flung it across the room.

  “Abaddon!” She shrieked at him and grabbed both sides of her head when he backed away from her in alarm. “I can barely keep my head sitting atop this wretched stump. You had best do something or else I’ll discard this puny form and take on my former glory, and that, I assure you, would not be conducive to our plans for the evening.” The Queen Mother pursed her red lips and raised one eyebrow. “At least, it will be none too pleasant for you, my love.”

  “Shhhhh, my lovely Queen. I understand. I understand,” he said and took her hand in spite of his loathing and kissed the back of it as passionately as he could. “Think of my poor heart! I was looking forward to a night of eternal bliss with you, my life, my love. Can you not hear how my heart breaks at seeing you in distress? This is no great horror as you might imagine. I would keep you as you are, but not if it displeases you. Before we take pleasure in your bed, I will have you refreshed and laughing.”

  She smiled slightly and withdrew her hand from his when he stood.

  “Now come over here to your circle, and we’ll take care of this together.”

  Huber stood very carefully and held her head in both hands. Already, it had left her neck twice, to Abaddon’s greater horror.

  “Do you realize how disconcerting it is to suddenly find oneself lying on the floor looking up at one’s body? Most unpleasant indeed, I will tell you that much.”

  She walked slowly to the circle and waited, while Abaddon retrieved the necklace from the floor. He untangled the white strands and held it up, inspecting the silver earrings hanging from it. They jingled softly in the breeze from the vent, reminding him of the enigmatic specter, who had given it to him.

  “What is that thing made of, Abaddon? It feels like hair,” Huber complained as he slipped it gingerly over her head. “I don’t like it.”

  “It will soon be over, my Queen,” Abaddon said and smiled as he draped the braided necklace over her head. “Very soon. And if this does not do the trick, then we may have use of our little prisoner after all. They haven’t killed him yet as I instructed, have they?”

  “What?” Huber frowned. “Oh, the little one? No. I don’t think so, but what could he do?”

  “I learned he is a healer of some renown. He may be able to finish what I cannot readily remedy.”

  “Ahhh. Well, then, do what you can, Abaddon. I do not have an eternity to dawdle here,” she grumped and then knelt in the circle.

  ((((((((((((()))))))))))))

  “Soooo-phiiiii-a, Soooo-phiiii-a,” Mark said as he pulled the sheet from the bed and dropped it on the floor. Sophia did not answer him, but pulled the pillow over her head to block out the bright, mid-morning light spilling through the bedroom window. He leaned one knee on the mattress and pulled the pillow away.

  “Sophia! Get up now, lassie, we have to go.”

  “What? Nooo, come on, Mark, back to bed. Go to sleep. There’s no hur…” the rest of her words were cut off as she turned on her stomach and pushed her face under the pillow again.

  “It’s half past nine. Toime’s a’wastin’.” He pushed himself off the bed and threw her sweater to her. “I’m not joking. Get up. We have to go.”

  Sophia rolled half over again and stretched. Mark grabbed her arms and pulled her from the bed, slipping the sweater over her head at the same time.

  “Mark! Stop it.” Sophia protested, but he pushed her down on the bed and retrieved her woolen slacks from the floor. He knelt in front of her and began to push her feet into them. “Wait!” She popped his head, and he looked up at her in aggravation. “I can’t wear those without underwear! They’ll itch me to death.”

  Mark relented and she tripped across the room to the dresser and dragged out a pair of well-worn jeans.

  “You are always full of surprises, Bambino,” she said, and then clapped one hand over her mouth. He had specifically told her not to call him ‘bambino’ for some strange reason. “I’m sorry,” she apologized and then hopped about looking for socks. “Where did you learn that little trick with the light, Mark? That was… it was… I mean, I didn’t know you could do that. How did you do that?” She stood up straight and frowned. “What have you been up to, Mark?” She turned around in time to receive her coat across her face. “Dammit! Would you stop? Where are going? What is your hurry?”

  “Look, Sophia,” Mark came out of her bathroom and closed the space between them. “We have to hurry. Today is the sixteenth. We have to get everyone over to the chapel.”

  “The chapel? What for?” Sophia began with the questions again and he ignored her. He was already fully clothed and she wondered when he had left her side and gone to find his coat and boots. She stopped short at the sight of the golden hilt protruding from the leather scabbard on his hip. “Mark? Where did you get that sword? Is Luke Andrew back? Did you see…? Is Sir Ramsay here?” She pulled on the coat.

  “Luke Andrew?” Mark frowned back at her from the door. “Why? What makes you ask that?”

  “The sword,” she pulled on her boots as she hopped toward the door. “Whose sword is that? Sir Ramsay’s or Luke’s?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he smiled at her and took hold of her arm, escorting her down the hall. He startled her again when he stopped on the landing and shouted up at Nicole’s bedroom door.

  “Nicole! Lassie! Get down here and bring your coat!” He shouted and the old paintings on the wall seemed to rattle with the sound. It was most likely the loudest sound the old walls had heard in a long, long time.

  Nicole’s door flew open and she rushed out to the railing.

  “Daddy! What’s wrong?” Her beautiful face was crumpled in a frown. She had a towel wrapped around her head and was dressed in a fluffy pink house robe.

  “Get yur clothes on gurl and get down ’ere! Tell th’ two Queens to accomp’ny ye.” He shouted up at her. “Toime’s a’wastin’!”

  He didn’t wait for an answer, but dragged Sophia down the stairs. When they reached the bottom, he pushed her into a straight chair in the hall.

  “Wait right there. I’ll be right back.”

  Sophia watched in dismay while he stomped down the hall toward the rear bedrooms, most likely in search of Bari. She could hear Gregory and Nicholas in the kitchen. They were singing a bawdy song about girls in a 'bilge-water town’. She thought it odd that the two brothers liked to sing such things and wondered where on earth they had learned them. The only thing she could assume was that Paddy Puffingtowne had taught them the songs. They probably didn’t even know what bilge-water was.

  Mark came back with Bari in time to meet Nicole coming down from upstairs. Meredith tried to stop him and he pushed her aside gently, telling her and Oriel that there was no time to explain.

  “What on earth is wrong, Daddy?” Nicole tried to stop him once more and Bari grabbed her.

  “You don’t want to do that,” he told her in a low voice and shoved her ahead of him.

  Nicole bumped along the hal
l in front of Bari with the Queens following after him, glancing back nervously as Mark pulled Nicole by one hand behind him. Nicholas and Gregory were in the process of making something, no one could have known what, for lunch. They often tried their hand at cooking which was, to them, a novel experience. There were only so many ways one could prepare Spam, but since the durable canned meat was the most abundant commodity in their cupboard, it was Spam the two brothers experimented upon with surprising ingenuity and joy. They were truly pleased or equally disappointed by the praise or complaints precipitated by their concoctions. Today, they had something going in a large stock pot on the stove when their ‘grandfather’ arrived with his captive entourage.

  “Gregory? Nicholas?” He spoke their names as he pushed on through the kitchen toward the back door. “Come with us, please.”

  “Wait, wait, wait!” Nicholas called after them, but they did not stop.

  Gregory looked at his older, larger brother in surprise.

  Nicholas yanked off his apron and threw it on the floor.

  “Come back here!” He shouted after the departing party. “Do you hear me?! I said come back here! Where did you get that sword? Answer me!”

  Gregory watched for a few minutes, and then yanked off his own apron in imitation of his brother. He threw it on the floor, thought better of it, picked it up, along with Nicholas’ discarded apron and placed them carefully on the bench by the table. He lifted the lid on the pot and looked forlornly inside before turning off the gas and hurrying after his brother, muttering to himself.

  Nicholas ran after Gregory and found him chasing Mark down the sidewalk. The little group was almost to Simon’s monument when Nicholas caught them. He grabbed Mark’s shoulder and spun him around. The rest of the group stopped to watch in various shades of shock when Mark reciprocated by taking the slightly bigger man down with little or no trouble at all. Nicholas found himself on his back on the walk with the tip of the golden sword at his chin.