The Centaur

by Brendan Carroll

  Merry was astounded by the change in him, and clutched Oriel’s arm, unable to utter a word. She’d seen enough of his strange behavior to question this one, though Sophia had explained to her this was not the Mark Andrew she had known. Oriel had been unable to shed much light on the situation, but had merely insisted she’d had a terrible dream about Louis in which he told her to go to Lothian posthaste. Oriel never ignored her dreams, and she always obeyed Louis as her king and her husband, even in her dreams.

  “Dunna be foolin’ aboot with me, Nicky,” Mark warned as he leaned over him and smiled in his face. “Now get yur brother and yur coat and bring yur weapons to th’ chapel. Alart th’ soldiers down at th’ Academy and bring them along as well. I’ll nae ’ave me daughter moonin’ over a lost love, and I’ll nae be ’avin’ me grandson layin’ ’is ’ands on me loike thot again. If ye canna respect yur elders, then ye’ll damn well respect yur bettars.”

  Mark let go of Nicholas’ sweater and he banged his head on the bricks painfully. Gregory was beside him in a moment, helping him to his feet. They stood speechless on the walk watching as Mark stopped beside the monument. He took a small vial from his pocket and shook out some green dust atop the bronze and copper seal of Solomon before herding the group in front of him as they cut across the lawn and headed directly toward the old chapel in the glade.

  “Damn me!” Gregory whispered under his breath and then smiled broadly. “I knew that he would kick in sooner or later.”

  “Kick in?” Nicholas spun his brother about and pushed him toward the house. “I’ll kick in your butt, if you don’t get a move on. Go and fetch our coats and our blades, little brother. I’ll see to the soldiers. They’re not going to like this. I’ll tell you that, for sure! Your grandfather has lost his mind.”

  “My grandfather?” Gregory looked back over his shoulder. “I thought he was your grandfather!”

  ((((((((((((()))))))))))))

  The red calf was dead and burned on the altar. Its blood sprinkled on the horns at the four corners and its aroma, sweet and savory sent into the sky as a last tribute to the god who had so cruelly demanded the blood sacrifice just to tempt his vanity. The incense was smoldering and the Ark was no more. After the confrontation with Raguel, the storm abated atop the Holy Mountain and the ceremony went off without a hitch as had the displaced angel to points unknown, preferring not to hang around for the return of his master. No great, omnipotent power had rushed up from the roots of the mountain to devour them. No fire had fallen from Heaven to consume them. No whirlwind had come to fling them down from the mountain. Nothing had happened other than a few sighs of regret as the magnificent golden box disappeared into the depths of the chasm. Nothing except that tiny, still voice in their hearts which told them they had done the right thing.

  The party of bedraggled Knights and the two weary monarchs trailed back down the path on the mountain in brooding silence. Konrad had wasted the last of the Dragon’s Blood when he had dropped the vial on the rocks. Lavon had been shamed by his lack of experience with the Wisdom of Solomon. Simon had been greatly relieved that neither he nor Levi had been struck dead as they entered the Holy of Holies. Edgard had been very disappointed at the destruction of the box without opening it and Louis Champlain shared his disappointment. He had, after all, nurtured, cherished and protected the Key to the Ark for hundreds of years and all for naught. The Frankish king’s successor as Knight of the Golden Key, Benji d’Ornan, returned the golden Key to him after the ceremony as a sort of bizarre souvenir of his life long quest. He clenched the disc tightly in his pocket as he trailed along behind the others, the weight of his beautiful mantel covered with golden bees, pressed on his mind as well as his shoulders. He only wanted to get home to France and his lovely Queen before disaster struck from the Cosmos. Mark Andrew’s dire predictions about the comet or meteor had given no hope for any of them.

  They reached the foot of the mountain and were greeted with heroes’ welcomes by Eduord de Goth and King Corrigan. Lemarik took his father aside immediately.

  “My father,” the Djinni began as soon as they were alone. “The destruction of the earth is imminent. I suggest we gather these souls together and save them for the aftermath. My people will go quietly and they are good, sincere and loving. They have no appetite for war or violence. They would be assets for the New Age. I have come to petition for their lives. I had no idea so many remained true to my teachings when I was but a benevolent child of earth.” Mark raised one eyebrow at his son’s words. “It was a good attempt, do you not think so? But evil is so much more fun… in your alternate time, I must have been a much more beneficent soul. Beneficent, magnificent… what is the difference?”

  “You are beyond doubt, the most disturbing, most confusing, most… most..” Mark began and then stopped. His head spun at the idea of his enigmatic son’s colorful history, trying to sort it was out of the question.

  Mark scooped up a bottle of brandy from the floor and dropped wearily onto a purple and gold cushion before opening the bottle. He took a long swallow and smiled at his precocious son. The Djinni still wore the elaborate robe, colorful cape and long beard full of tiny braids he had used during his brief, but wonderful stint as Zoroaster. The curled toes of his golden shoes peeked from under his robe.

  “You are truly amazing, Adalune,” Mark shook his head. “So you think these followers would make good shepherds?”

  “Yes. Yes. Yes. Good shepherds. The best. They will teach the men of tomorrow what it means to be alive.”

  “I never knew you had a following… I mean, I never knew you were a teacher.”

  “I have been many things. I became a hermit and a teacher when I lost my beautiful wife, Zarathu. I wandered for years in the mountains, mourning for her. She was my first true love, you know,” Lemarik said as he sat down next to his father and sighed. “Ahhhh. Zarathu. None could compare to her. I did not understand death then, my father. I did not understand the pain I felt in my heart. At first, I became philosophical and thoughtful and that is when I took on the name Zarathustra and tried to teach men of the follies of life and the endless struggle for meaning. They thought me a great prophet, and I thought of them as my children. But then I was drawn to the excitement of the great cities and alas, I fell from grace and went back to my old ways. It is truly amazing that my little children, my people, never gave up even though I did. Of course, they never knew what had happened to me. I could not let them think I was anything more than a man. I believe you can understand that, my father.”

  “Of course.” Mark turned up the bottle and took only a small sip. “What do you suggest, Adalune? Should we take these people to the moon to wait out the storm? Or do we try to build a raft?”

  “You should not joke about such things, Adar.” Lemarik’s face went dark. “Do not presume you are aware of everything that passes on the face of the earth. Did not your Preacher say ‘the thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun’? Perhaps you should come with me and if there is time, I will show you something old, yet new, and you may know all you know is not all there is to know.”

  “You speak in riddles. I have exhausted my means. I cannot fight two wars at once. The Psalmist said ‘My strength is dried up like a potsherd; and my tongue cleaveth to my jaws; and thou hast brought me into the dust of death’. I am like that, my son. I am come to the end and I have accomplished naught. I have spent fifty lifetimes of men mourning over my children, and now I will see them all perish before my eyes. It is too much to ask of any father that he should live to see such a day.” Mark turned up the bottle once more took a lingering drink. “I have always preferred Scotch even before it was invented.”

  Lemarik laughed, slapped his knees and stood up. He reached out his hand to his father.

  “Come, Father. Come and see the fruits of your son’s labor.”

  Mark sighed and followed his son out of the
tent. Outside the tent were several gaudily dressed men waiting with camels. They commanded the beasts to kneel and Lemarik climbed onto the lead animal. Mark took the second beast as his Brothers watched from the campsite in front of the command tent.

  “Hold on justa one momento!” Lucio shouted as he perceived that Mark was leaving them. He leaped over the Master’s lap and climbed onto the camel behind Mark Andrew.

  The rest of the crew stood up as the camels lurched off down the trail.

  Izzy, Zeb and Philip d’Ornan, the three amigos, ran alongside the camels like young boys.

  “Hey! Signor Ramsay!” Izzy grinned up at the Knight of Death. “Does this train stop at Timbuktu?”

  “I’m not sure.” Mark returned the smile and looked around at his passenger. “What do you think, Signor Dambretti?”

  “I’m a’sure it would a’stop wherever we would a’want it to a’stop,” Lucio’s Italian accented English, which he always denied having, showed his lack of enthusiasm for the entire world. He felt life as he knew it was about to end, but he was not about to let Mark Andrew get out of his sight again. Whatever might happen to them, he intended to be with his lifelong companion, friend, enemy. If they were to be destroyed, they would be destroyed together.

  Philip accosted the third camel driver and he stopped to allow two of the brothers to climb aboard. The fourth camel picked up Zeb and Benji, who had come running after them.

  Simon, Levi, Little Barry and Edgard started after them and then waited while Barry of Sussex called for their horses. Soon, Lemarik had a goodly, impromptu caravan winding through the mountain trails, including all of the Knights, all of the royal members of the expedition, all of the commanders, the Tuathans and the soldiers who were capable of moving out behind them. He had very rarely ever been happier. Never had he collected a more regal following than that day.

  When they at last rounded a sharp bend in the rocky trail, they were surprised to see the tents of the Bedouin encampment clinging to the slope of the mountain. They were surprised to see the happy faces of the children who came running out to meet them. They were surprised to see the vitality of the little tribal gathering in such a barren and rugged wasteland. But they were astounded to see what the Bedouin had built on a wooden platform about a third of the way up the slope above their camp.

  “Great Scot,” Mark whispered as he slid from the camel to the ground.

  “Santa Maria!” Dambretti muttered as he followed closely behind him, dust flying from his tattered clothes.

  “Heaven’s to Betsy!” Christopher’s voice drifted through the still air and then more exclamations in various languages followed as the rest of the camel and horse train filed into the midst of the tiny settlement. Goats and chickens wandered about in the dust, cackling and bleating. A considerable flock of sheep was corralled nearby, bleating out their own exclamations. An entire zoo of doves, rabbits, deer, foxes, pigeons and cattle could be seen or heard calling from pens and crates in the rocks.

  The old priest with the long white beard came out to greet them enthusiastically as they dismounted and stood gawking up at the incredible sight of the huge boat perched on the side of the mountain, hundreds of miles from the nearest water source large enough to float it.

  “Behold the handiwork of God!” The old man shouted and held out one hand toward the ship.

  “Is it not beautiful, Adar?” Lemarik nudged his father.

  “It is a miracle,” Mark still could not find more than a whisper.

  “It is magnificent!” Lucio was already scrabbling up the steep trail that led to the boat. “Even Cleopatra would be jealous.”

  “What is this, du Morte?” Edgard finally caught up with him and looked up at the boxy structure in wonder.

  “Zamir,” Mark jerked his head toward the old priest. “But Zamir found grace in the eyes of the Lord.”

  “Is it made of gopher wood?” Konrad’s question made everyone turn to look at him in consternation.

  “My question is will it hold all of us?” Eduord de Goth joined them.

  The priest folded his hands in front of him and his faced glowed with a holy light. “My Lord has said that it would hold all that I cared to bring inside.” His voice was very much like his venerable prophet, Adalune also known as Zarathustra or Zoroaster, soft and sing-song.

  Konrad nodded his head and raised one eyebrow.

  “And the camels and horses?” Christopher asked hopefully.

  “Whatever I wish it to hold, my son,” Zamir smiled. “It is but a matter of faith.” The old man smiled a snaggle-toothed smile and held out both hands, palms up.

  ((((((((((((()))))))))))))

  “What is wrong with him?” Meredith whispered the question to Sophia.

  “I’m not sure,” Sophia breathed the answer, glanced at her quickly and then looked back down at her clasped hands.

  She and Meredith, along with Nicole and Oriel all sat prim and proper on the front pew right of the altar, nearest the confessional booths in the old Chapel of Glessyn. The plush cushions that John Paul had placed in the chapel were gone and only the gleaming rosewood remained. The chapel was quiet and the sound of the wind under the eaves gave the place a hauntingly beautiful, almost surreal atmosphere. Sophia leaned forward slightly and looked across Meredith and Oriel at the men sitting on the left side of the altar. Bari was looking at her. He held up both hands and made a face as if to ask ‘what’s going on?’ Sophia shrugged and quickly went back to her prayer as Mark Andrew shifted slightly and looked over his shoulder at her.

  Mark was kneeling in front of the altar. He had both hands on the table that held the votive candles, and he was looking up at the figure of the crucified Christ on the wooden cross above the altar. The morning sun slanted through the stained glass windows in the northeastern quadrant of the apse and one beam of golden light seemed to bath the kneeling figure at the altar in its warm glow. He had brought his little troop here, seated them according to some fanciful whim, in the pews, and then knelt at the altar after admonishing the men to repeat the Pater Noster continuously, while the female members of the party prayed the Rosary of St. Sophia. When Nicholas and Captain Gallipoli had attempted to protest, he had silenced them with the wave of one hand. The six soldiers, two brothers, one former emperor and one very flustered Captain sat down promptly, and began to pray in subdued voices at first and then in silence. Every time one of them ceased the prayer, he seemed to know immediately, and they would be promptly punished by either slight pain or greater pain, depending on the nature of the interruption. They had quickly learned praying was far preferable to not praying.

  Occasionally, Mark would leave the altar and walk down the aisle to the front doors where he would look out briefly, and then close the doors again. He was waiting to see if his magick had been in vain. He had called upon two of the greater powers of Marduk in an attempt to divert the tragedy approaching from space. He had not asked too much in his way of thinking. Only that Scotland and England should be spared. If all went well, nothing would happen. The flood would not come, and they would be spared along with the rest of the Islands in what was once known as the British Isles.

  He had negotiated with the power who ruled over the movements of heavenly bodies. The spirit had been congenial enough, but had driven a hard bargain. The task, it said, was great and would require enormous effort because the Centaur was already very near the earth and moving at a tremendous speed. Mark had offered the Spear of Longinus, but the spirit had been uninterested in it. He had wanted the golden sword. Mark had not wanted to give it up without a fight and a fight was exactly what he had gotten. The spirit, amused with Mark’s distress, had agreed to a wager. They would duel for the possession of the sword. If Mark won, the sword would remain with him and the spirit would divert the broken parts of the Centaur from crashing into the Northern Atlantic. But there had been a second provision that had been even worse than the lien on the sword, and that had been the promise of something so great
that Mark could not even begin to think of the implications. The second lien would not be negotiable. A high price to pay, but ultimately worth it in the long run. At least in Mark’s way of thinking. Half of him rejected the idea completely; the younger half, the true father of Sophia’s child, but the older, wiser part of him rationalized the agreement, tempering it with the logical argument. They had to save themselves first and worry about the details after the fact. The spirit had made his mark on the parchment paper Mark had placed in the velvet lined box under the counter in the lab and Mark had signed his own name in agreement on the same sheet. What he would do about it would be quite problematic. The duel had been taxing to say the least, but he had managed to come away victorious simply due to the superior quality of the blade, itself.

  Afterwards, he had called upon yet another power of Marduk. The thirtieth power known by the rather unassuming name of Val. Val was supposedly one of Semiramis’ favorite spirits, able to make the crops grow and the flowers bloom. Val was also able to make the birth of children easy and painless, and this was something the younger Mark Andrew wanted for Sophia. Val was pleased to receive the spear of Longinus and seemed to know something of its significance. Unfortunately, Mark had collapsed upon removing the protective ornament from around his neck and had only regained his wits after being carried back to the house. He had no recollection of what had become of Val after he had passed out. Nicole had assured him that she’d grounded the circle and dismissed the attendant spirits, but she had no idea what he had been doing. No idea what powerful entities he had invoked to protect the circle against the powers of Marduk. Val had instructed him to bring his people to the nearest temple and send up continuous prayer to their most revered god in order to protect himself and his people from the wrath of Asar. The personal watcher of Marduk had made some very ominous threats against Mark when he had lost his golden sword for a second time to the same magician. And so Mark had come here to pray his most fervent prayers to the Creator. They would remain here in constant prayer until the Centaur had passed and if they were lucky and all went well, they would walk back to the house in time for supper.