by Dyrk Ashton
Peter’s now calm as can be, holding the orchids against his cheek, fig seeds spilling into his chin whiskers as he chews away.
* * *
In reclaiming the old YMCA, the hospital completely renovated the Olympic-size pool in the basement. Now it’s only chest deep, sectioned off with buoyed ropes and stainless steel rails. At one end, a lifeguard-slash-medic watches over a small group of the more ambulatory patients who walk in circles in the water, guided by a therapist.
Fi tries not to make too big of a splash as she jumps in at the opposite end. She fingers the controls on the hydraulic lift at the edge. Peter, in swimsuit and life vest, sits strapped in a cushioned chair, which swivels gently out over the water then lowers until he’s in up to his belly. Fi unstraps him and gently slides him into her arms. Some of the patients hate the chair and need to be carried in, but Peter doesn’t mind. Or he hates it. There’s really no way to tell.
She places his arms over a foam floating device then walks him back and forth across the pool a dozen times, encouraging him to use his legs as much as possible. Any of the other patients would be moaning and exhausted but Fi is breathing harder than he is.
She urges him back to the lift. Keeping one hand on his arm, she adjusts the seat straps then turns to find him with his head tilted back, looking up. She follows his eyes. All she sees are banks of bright, low-glare luminaires attached to the concrete ceiling.
“What do you see up there?” she asks.
Peter stands straight up, supporting himself with his hands on the floaty.
“Peter?”
He suddenly stiffens, slipping out of her grasp, and topples backward with a splash.
“Shit!” Fi exclaims, shoving the floaty out of the way and scrambling to him.
Thanks to his life vest he only goes under for a second before she grabs him up and holds him in her arms. He sputters but seems unharmed. Fi glances at the lifeguard, who hasn’t noticed. Thank God!
“Peter, what has gotten into you today?”
He starts to giggle.
“What the...?”
He splashes in the water, still gazing at the ceiling. Then the light that falls on him dims, a night shroud rippling with pink, purple and green. Fi looks up again and blinks forcibly at what she sees.
A stormy night sky with pulsing auroras of color. Shooting stars streak by. Lava flows from a volcano erupting in the distance, throwing up steam as it pours into the sea. Fi clenches with fear--she’s having a seizure! Right here in the pool, with Peter! I should have never have come to work today! I should have stayed home! Peter! Stricken with fear, she looks back down.
In her arms, on his back in reddish waves, is a frolicking baby boy. His eyes twinkle and swirl from sky blue to stormy gray, then golden brown and emerald green. He looks at her and smiles.
Fi squeezes her eyes shut, shakes her head vigorously.
When she opens them she’s still standing in the pool, and lying in her arms is just Peter, the old man, his eyes only cloudy gray.
Everything is fine. No seizure. No convulsions. She’s incredibly relieved. But how is this possible?!
Peter ceases to splash and giggle, though he still stares at the ceiling, as if he can see right through it.
* * *
The whole incident at the pool felt more like déjà vu than a hallucination. Fi knows she’s seen that baby before, those shooting stars, that red ocean. She just can’t place it.
Then it hits her. It’s from a dream! A recurring one! She had it during her seizure last night, then dreamed it again later. She grabs her head, rubs her temples. But it’s just a dream! She’s got this inexplicable feeling, though, that it’s not her dream. And what just happened at the pool, with Peter? That was no dream, and she definitely didn’t have an episode.
I am going crazy! She’s always considered herself a neurotic mess, on the edge of losing it altogether most of the time. A “basket case,” she used to say, but her uncle corrected her in his Edgarian way. According to him--and she’s never been able to prove him wrong--the term doesn’t come from asylums having inmates weave baskets for therapy, as many people believe. It originated with World War II military jargon for a soldier so badly wounded that he had to be carried around in a basket. That didn’t make her feel any better, of course.
“Ahh!” she shouts, jumping up from the toilet in one of the stalls in the women’s restroom. She wasn’t relieving herself, but after what happened in the pool with Peter she really didn’t want to run into Billy or Zeke or anyone else, so she spent her break hiding here.
She lurches out of the stall, hunches over the sink--and notices a woman janitor near the door with a mop, giving her a curious look.
“Uh...” Fi says. “Hi.”
The woman backs out without a word.
Fi splashes water on her face and rubs her eyes. She’s tired and she remembered a dream about a baby, that’s all. It’s been a stressful couple of days. She’s almost 18, dreaming about babies, even daydreaming, can’t be that out of the ordinary. She has absolutely no interest in actually having a baby, not now, but dreams are dreams and you’ve got no control over them. Still, that’s all they are. It’s why they call them “dreams” and not “realities!”
She aggressively dries her hands with a paper towel, whips it into the trash. Time for music hour. With Zeke. Great.
* * *
Peter’s wheelchair squeaks softly as Fi pushes him down the third floor residence hall toward the recreation room. She’d put him down for a nap after their adventure in the pool. He didn’t sleep, she doesn’t think. Rarely does, apparently. Billy says he closes his eyes on occasion but not for very long. But Peter hasn’t made any further trouble, either. Thank God.
They enter the rec room at the opposite end from the security booth. There are fewer patients than earlier and the light from the high windows is more diffuse due to clouds rolling in again. She aims Peter toward a dozen or so chairs arranged in an arc in the center of the room where staff members are getting other patients into place.
Seated at the open end of the arc, Zeke plucks strings and adjusts tuning keys on his guitar. He looks up at Fi as she pushes Peter’s wheelchair to a stop nearest his right. They exchange uncomfortable “hellos” and she takes an empty seat next to Peter.
When it looks like everyone’s ready, Zeke says “Hello everybody. What would we like to start with?”
Fi shoots him a look. He knows very well that none of them can answer.
“Apple pie!” shouts an old man with an I.V. in his arm and an oxygen breather in his nose. Zeke glances at Fi as if to say, See?
Fi frowns. They can’t answer in a way that makes any sense, that is.
“Okay, by popular demand,” Zeke announces, “we’ll begin with a little ditty called the ‘Opus 15 Sonata’ by Mauro Giuliani, also known, apparently, as ‘Apple Pie.’” He launches into the bright, quick tune.
Fi can feel the immediate positive affect on the patients, and the staff as well, including herself. Though she’s heard him perform this song before, she is always moved and impressed. It’s got to be a particularly difficult piece to play, not only by the sound of it, but also because of the way Zeke concentrates, eyes closed, head down and bobbing with the tempo.
Lisa props open the security booth door and leans against the frame, listening to the music. The old man with the I.V. hoots and smacks his knees in what he thinks is in time with the music. It isn’t. An old woman with silver hair that falls almost to the floor behind her chair pets the flowered throw pillow she never lets go of and sways her head from side to side.
Fi notices that Peter, however, is frowning uncharacteristically, tight and exaggerated, and his eyes are blinking erratically. Zeke sees it too and looks questioningly at Fi, who shrugs. Zeke plays more slowly, finds a good place to end the song. Mr. Apple Pie claps, as do the staff.
“For Peter,” says Zeke, and begins a soothing familiar tune.
Peter’s expressi
on relaxes and he closes his eyes. This song calms him better than any other, every time. Fi smiles, then catches Zeke watching her, smiling as well.
“Merry Christmas!” Apple Pie shouts.
The song Zeke plays is “Greensleeves.” Uncle Edgar’s voice pops into Fi’s head. “That was not originally a Christmas ballad, you know. The historians,” (Edgar always refers to experts of any sort with an air of disdain) “cannot definitively identify who wrote the original tune.” He went on, as he does, to explain that it was registered in England by as many as half a dozen different composers in the years 1580 and 1581, each with slightly different lyrics about a salacious lady who wore a gown with green sleeves, and it is sometimes attributed to King Henry the VIII. Edgar scoffed when he told her that, spouting, “Preposterous! Henry couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket,” as if he actually knew him. “And the song is much older than that. Henry wasn’t born until the year of our Lord 1491, for crying out loud!” As Edgar tells it, the melody was originally used by traveling minstrels to aid in the memorization of news from across the lands, first in Italy, then in Great Britain. It didn’t become associated with Christmas and New Years until the late 1600s, and the “What Child is This?” version wasn’t composed until 1865, by William Chatterton Dix.
Fi shared this information with Zeke, who found it far more interesting than she did. She doesn’t know why she remembers some of the stuff Edgar tells her. Sometimes she wishes she didn’t.
Peter sits completely still in his wheelchair--except his eyes suddenly pop open.
* * *
A buzzing sound lifts Stan’s gaze from his latest Sudoku. On the monitor in front of him a group of men can be seen standing on the front steps. Stan taps the screen, enlarging the image.
In the center of the group, closest to the wide angle lens of the camera, a man with dark combed back hair looks up at him with deep black eyes, the tall collar of his black leather trench coat turned up well above his ears.
Stan touches a speaker icon on the screen. “May I help you?”
“It is visiting hours,” the man queries, “is it not?”
“Yes it is, sir,” Stan replies.
Shane leans over Stan’s shoulder for a closer look at the group. On either side of the high-collared man are pale young men in designer shirts and jeans, each of them holding an umbrella, though it isn’t raining. Behind them are two big guys with identical spiky black hair, long black fur coats, and sunglasses. Farther back are a couple of fellows with beards, glancing around anxiously.
Shane nods to Stan, taps the nightstick and mace on his belt. Stan says, “Come on in, sir,” and presses a button to release the front door lock.
* * *
In the recreation room on the third floor, Peter gasps quietly, unnoticed by Fi, and his eyes go even wider.
Zeke continues to play “Greensleeves,” picking up the pace and adding some additional flair.
Fi smirks, watching his fingers move deftly over the frets. Now he’s just showing off.
* * *
The group of men file down the entry hall that leads from the front door. When the outside door has closed completely, Stan hits the release for the door to the lobby.
* * *
Sarah sits at her counter in the combined reception area/waiting room on the second floor, filling out paperwork. Behind her, Bob watches his surveillance screens, headset hanging around his neck, feet up on the control panel counter, fingers intertwined over his ample belly. He can see the lobby downstairs and Stan in the security booth, but his attention is on the group of men in the entry hall.
“Look at this bunch,” he says to Sarah.
An ample woman herself, Sarah groans as she leans back to check out the screen. “Well, well. We have visitors.” She looks more closely. “Who on earth dressed them this morning?”
Bob chuckles. “Somebody oughtta smack their mamas.”
* * *
In the security booth in the recreation room, Joe catches the activity in the lobby on one of his monitors. He adjusts his headset and enlarges the view.
* * *
The men enter the lobby, the guard booth to their left. Shane stands at the far end of the room, near the security door that leads to the rest of the hospital. He crosses his arms and nods to the high-collared man, who smiles back. A friendly smile, but one that does not reach his eyes.
Stan hits a switch for two-way communication as the high-collared man steps to the window. “Welcome to St. Augustine’s, sir. Name, please?”
“Pardon?,” the high-collared man replies. “My name, or the name of the person I’m here to see?”
“Yours, sir.”
“You can call me Kleron.”
“Thank you, Mr. Kleron.”
There’s a snigger from the group, which remains clustered at the door. Kleron shoots a look that knocks the grin off one of the pale young men. He turns back to Stan, his mirthless smile returning. “Just Kleron, thank you.”
“Yes sir, whatever you like. And who are you here to see?”
Kleron’s black eyes glint with his insincere grin. “I believe he’s calling himself Peter.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Order of the Bull 5
Tanuki and Arges leap back from the edge, buffeted by wind as the monstrous form of Ziz swoops past the terrace.
Arges spins. “Asterion!”
The Bull remains in his chair, eyes closed, appearing for all the world to be asleep. Sitting there, fingers curled over the ends of the square arms of the chair, he looks just like the statue in the temple below. A quake runs through his body. The arms of the chair crack, stone crushing in his hands. His eyes snap open, the chestnut-brown now burning red.
He bolts to his feet. “To arms, brothers!” He strides toward the back hall, heading for their private armory.
Arges places a hand firmly on Tanuki’s shoulder and ushers him inside. “Come, Tanuki. You must go. Now.”
“Arges--” Tanuki’s reply is cut short by a booming concussion that shakes the hall. Arges doesn’t stop, but angles to the right, toward the nearest hearth.
Another boom, accompanied by a loud CRACK! The chamber shakes. Arges spins into a crouch, shielding Tanuki from the debris that plumes from the collapsing back hall.
How could he know?, Asterion asks himself as he eyes the tumbled stone. Access to the elevator, their private chambers and the armory is gone. He and The Rhino could dig it out, but there isn’t time. They will have none of the formidable weapons crafted by Arges. So be it, The Bull resolves. Hoof and horn have always served me well.
Arges looks Tanuki over for injuries. He’s unharmed but shaken, as much by the atypical attentiveness of The Rhino as the collapse of the hall.
“Arges, I’m fine,” he insists.
Arges grunts and drags him to the hearth, pounds once on the keystone of its arch. The keystone recedes and the back of the hearth slides upward. Tanuki knows about this secret passage, one of many, but--
“Go to the safe room,” Arges tells him, “but do not stay. Retrieve your pack. Take the--”
A loud whoosh and heavy thump. A gust of wind pummels them, smelling of snake--heavy musk and cat piss. Tanuki turns slowly, not wanting to look but compelled to.
Ziz’s wings flap deliberately as he settles on the lip of the terrace, stirring the air throughout the hall. His fifty foot wingspan nearly blocks the opening. He stoops, folding his wings in half where three-fingered talons protrude from the upper wing bones, the outer length folding up along the back of each arm. He curves his snakelike neck, positioning himself to see in. Tanuki estimates the length of his head at eight feet, not including the crimson crest bone on top of his skull, and over six feet of it is beak--a pointed, pile-driving spear, his most fearsome weapon.
Ziz peers between the columns with a dinner-plate-sized yellow eye, opens his beak but a crack, his mouth lined above and below with curved piercing teeth. Though he has no lips and his mouth does not move, he emits a
single word, his voice the sound of gas escaping a bog.
“A-s-s-s-t-e-e-e-r-r-r-i-i-i-o-o-o-n-n-n-n...”
The Bull snorts, glaring. “Ziz! Foul dragon! What is your purpose here?!”
Ziz doesn’t blink, but the round pupil slowly contracts. “D-e-e-e-a-a-a-th-th-th-th-th-th.”
“Then you shall have it!” Asterion replies.
Turning his eye on Arges, Ziz utters another name, “X-e-c-o-t-c-o-v-a-ch.”
Something leaps from his back, strides to just inside the pillars. Tanuki’s nose wrinkles at the vulgar odor of wet fowl. The creature’s orange eyes scan the hall, lingering only a moment on Asterion before locking on Arges.
The Rhino’s whole body tenses. He spits the loathsome name from his lips. “Xeco.”
Tanuki inhales sharply. The Terror Bird.
Xeco was born in a South American region now called Chile. His mother was a giant predatory flightless bird, one of what the watoto have named Kelenken guillermoi of the Phorusrhacidae family. He stands over nine feet tall, with a long craning neck, legs of an ostrich but stouter, and clawed gripping feet. His wings are little more than stunted arms, like those of a Tyrannosaurus or Velociraptor, but with five clawed fingers on each hand instead of three. His head and beak together are a massive hatchet-hammer designed for one purpose, chopping and rending the bodies of his prey. Unlike the eyes of Ziz, which are on the sides of his head, The Terror Bird’s face forward, peering over the anvil of a beak that’s almost two feet long, with a wicked hook like that of an eagle. Except for his arms and legs he’s covered in filthy yellow feathers with a crest of orange on the crown of his head.
From the Yucatan peninsula down through Patagonia in South America, early watoto knew and feared him as Xecotcovach, but also Tecumbalam, the “Face-Gouger,” a bird-beast who, according to Mayan mythology, tore out the eyes of the Tsabol, the Mayan name for the “first men.” The myth is not entirely inaccurate, and in a battle during the Second Holocaust, it had been Xeco who plucked the right eye from Arges.
