by Richard Long
“It is too late. Our merging has already begun. You cannot go back. You cannot live in that world again until we become whole.”
“No!” Ceallach shouted, tearing himself free of the angel. Then clutching the princess close to his heart, they flew headlong into the merciless jaws of the Maelstrom.
“COME BACK!”
He turned to look. It wasn’t the angel calling after him. The angel had disappeared along with Róisín and everything else he had seen beyond the curtain of dreams. What was this place? Who had called him?
“I thought I lost you!” the voice shouted from far away. It was Da, his arms extended.
“Da!” he cried, rushing to his father’s side, gripping him in a crushing embrace. When he pulled back to look upon his beloved father, he was filled with terror.
“You’re not Da!”
“Yes, it’s me!” Paul cried. “I’ve missed you so much!”
“No, you killed me. You want to kill me again.”
“No, they killed you! I tried to save you! Don’t you remember?”
“You took everything from me!”
“No, Ceallach. I let you go. To the angel. To the girl! She betrayed you!”
“I’m not Ceallach.”
Paul looked at his son’s crying face and saw Martin looking back. Then he began changing…to another, younger boy, then another and another until…
The boy was so beautiful. So innocent. So desecrated.
His name was Paul.
“Da, don’t take me…please!” his young self pleaded, as he had long ago.
“I must,” the old man replied, his chest heaving in pain. “Don’t you see? We are so close to the end!”
“Da…I’m scared, please let me go!” he cried out, begging on his knees now, his face soaked with tears.
“Don’t be afraid,” Paul said, kneeling down, holding his own small wet face in his big hands, weeping with him. “You’ll still be here, inside me.”
“No, I won’t! I’ll be gone!” the boy cried, his face morphing into the son of Ceallach, then his son after that, and on and on until it finally came to rest in the anguished face of Martin, in the wheat field again.
“You killed all of them!” little Martin screamed. “They wanted to live, just like you!”
“No! It’s that girl! She’s got you all mixed up!” Paul shouted at the boy.
But the boy was now a grown man. “It doesn’t have to be like this,” Martin said calmly, standing up in his perfect adult body, holding Paul’s hand, helping him rise.
“Come Da,” Martin said, pulling Paul’s hand toward the swirling glow of the Axis.
“No! We will Turn in the Maelstrom!” Paul commanded, pulling Martin’s hand with all his strength, his tear-streaked face hot with rage.
Martin shook his head and pointed to the Axis, effortlessly freeing his hand from Paul’s viselike grip. Together they stared into the vortex as The Great Wheel turned. Something was rising from the molten, twisting core, taking shape in front of them, gaining form and substance, its great wings even more majestic than the Axis.
The light streaming from the angel’s chest was blinding in its brightness, but Martin could see. He reached up and touched the angel’s hand. Then they were floating together above the Great Wheel.
“The story has a purpose,” the angel said as the winds of the Maelstrom accelerated, roaring faster and faster…swirling, grinding. “We’re doing something together…something that will change…”
“Everything?” Martin asked hopefully, a boy again.
“No…” the angel said. “One thing.” The voice was different now. Lighter. Softer.
Martin looked into the eyes of that beautiful creature and its face began changing, first to Norine, who rubbed his hand on her soft, soft cheek, then to Johnny, smiling that ten-thousand-megawatt smile, and finally to Rose. It was Rose who finished the angel’s thought, Rose who whispered in his ear as the winds began tearing him apart again, the swirl of his atoms blending with the fiery essence of the angel. When he finally heard the other words he had no ears to hear them with, and the words, like all words, barely mattered. Yet he knew what they meant, what the angel meant, what he had always wanted for him and Rose.
Suddenly a black cloud swarmed around them like a billion starving locusts, and Paul’s voice melded with the angel, repeating the words as he began to take shape, wrapping his beefy arms around Martin’s chest, squeezing him harder and harder, bringing him back, back to finish it. The last thing Martin heard before he opened his eyes was Paul and the angel saying the same thing at once, with different intents, each as demanding as the other:
“We’re doing something together…something that will change…”
The ending.
“Gaaaaaaahhh!” Martin sucked in a massive lungful of air and released his grip around Paul’s back. His eyes turned immediately to Rose. She was standing still as a statue, her eyes unblinking, her hand thrust out with the Beretta pointing at Paul’s head. It was then he realized that they hadn’t come all the way back yet. They were housed in their bodies, able to breathe and move, but there was still an atom’s breadth of discontinuity between the two dimensions they had bridged. Rose and the universe she occupied were here, as they had always been, yet still so far away. They would remain like that until Paul released his grip.
He wouldn’t let go. “You have betrayed us,” he said from beneath the dead mask.
“No, I saved us,” Martin said, his voice firm, yet choked with passion. “I saved you.”
“Who are you?” Paul demanded.
“I am the Guardian,” Martin said.
“And the vessel!” Paul shouted, spittle covering Martin’s face.
“And the vessel,” Martin reluctantly agreed.
“What is your task?” he asked, grinding out each word.
“I am the Guardian,” Martin repeated softly.
“Finish it!” Paul shouted, his face beet red as they stood chest to chest on the altar. “Speak your vow! State your sworn duty!”
Martin looked at Rose’s frozen face over Paul’s wide shoulder, then turned away. Looking into the eyes of his Master, he knew he had to voice the entire phrase, the promise he sealed in blood so many years ago, in the stiff, yellowed pages of the Book. “I am the Guardian and Vessel of my Master,” he whispered. “And my task is to serve the Becoming.”
Paul dropped his hands to his sides. We all came alive.
“Now!” The Striker shouted, his nailed-wide eyes suddenly as animated as his lips.
Rose pulled the trigger. Didn’t squeeze it. BANG! It tore off a piece of Paul’s ear. Martin grabbed Paul’s shoulders and rolled off the other side of the altar. Paul’s back hit the floor with a crushing thud, Martin landing right on top of him. Rose gasped in terror, recoiling more from the sight of Martin’s intervention than from the gun blast.
What was he doing? Was he protecting Paul…from her?
“Move!” The Striker shouted at Rose. “Get over there! Shoot him in the head!”
Rose nodded, crawling toward the altar, trying to shield herself from view, her legs wobbling like Jell-o. She couldn’t see Martin and Paul around the corner, but I could. Martin was struggling with every ounce of his strength to keep Paul pinned to the floor.
“You are the Guardian!” Paul bellowed at Martin.
Martin lifted his hand from Paul’s wrist with lightning speed, then punched him so hard in the face that the back of his head actually bounced on the floor.
“Honor your vow!” Paul spat, spraying Martin’s face with the blood from his torn lips.
Martin, never much of a talker, was feeling even less chatty now. I knew what he was thinking, nonetheless, as did Paul. He had sworn to protect his Master’s life, but there was nothing in his vow to prevent him from kicking his ass and defending Rose just as vigorously. Which is exactly what he did. His fist rocketed into Paul’s face again. Into his eye. Blood spurted out like a geyser. Hammurabi would have been proud. Unfo
rtunately, Martin had to lift his hand from Paul’s wrist again to do it. Exploded eyeball or not, Paul was ready this time. He landed an uppercut squarely on Martin’s bristly chin and his head reeled backward.
“Get over there and shoot him!” The Striker howled at Rose, his words jabbing her rump like a cattle prod. “What are you waiting for?”
If Rose weren’t blocking his view, he wouldn’t have asked. She was waiting for me. I had Martin’s pistol in my hand, the one with the fresh clip of live ammo. It was pointed at her mascara-streaked face. By the time she raised her gun and aimed at me, it would be too late. One slow squeeze and it would all be over. Her casual betrayals. Her cruel rejections. All over in the flash of an instant.
“Kill her!” Paul barked at me, trying to push Martin off. “Do your duty!”
I stared into her red, raging eyes. She raised the Berretta. “Drop that gun or I swear to God I’ll shoot you!”
“Kill her now!” Paul shouted at me again, clutching Martin’s throat, hammering another blow into his ribcage.
“Give her the key!” Martin croaked, gasping for breath, riding Paul’s bucking body like a rodeo champ, wailing another punch into his cheekbone, shattering it in four places.
“Pull the trigger!” Paul shouted savagely, pushing harder against Martin, who had amazingly managed to pin down Paul’s wrists again.
I didn’t fire. And I didn’t drop the gun. I aimed it at Paul. Rose gasped with relief and turned in the same direction, creeping forward.
“You fool! She must die at your hands! Today!”
I kept the pistol pointed at Paul. Rose poked her face around the corner of the altar. Martin was shielding Paul with his body.
“I can’t let you kill him,” he gasped, trying to keep Paul pinned down while blocking Rose’s line of fire. And mine.
Rose felt her chest heave with blind panic, but she found the courage to crawl even closer, looking for a clear shot at Paul’s head. She could barely catch a glimpse of his torn ear, let alone his grin concealed behind the bristles of Martin’s crew cut.
“Don’t make me hurt you. Take the Book. Run as fast as you can,” Martin grunted over his shoulder, nearly exhausted by his effort to keep Paul restrained.
“Yeah, make a run for it, bitch! Let’s see how far you get!” Paul seethed.
Rose pursed her lips in a silent Please! begging for Martin’s help.
He didn’t respond with a wince of helplessness. “Turn around,” his lips mimed. She turned and her eyes narrowed. Then softened. I was holding the gun in one hand, the key chain gripped in the other.
I opened my fist and held it out to her. She moved cautiously toward me, but Paul’s booming voice stopped her cold.
“Kill her!” he commanded me, feeling Martin’s strength begin to ebb as quickly as his own was mounting. “Do it now!”
I looked at my hands. Two choices. Life and death. Love and hate.
“Killing her is your only path to glory!” Paul railed, thrusting Martin’s chest upward. “This is your destiny! You can never defeat me! Never!”
“He’s right,” Loren hissed, “Throw me the key and we’ll even the odds.”
I hadn’t been watching him. No one had. That had been a mistake. He was yanking his hand off the widely flanged nail, slowly but efficiently. His muscles, bones and tendons gaped open like ragged labia, without a trace of any reaction. Except a smile for me.
“Kill her and kill the serpent!” Paul yelled, apoplectic. “Kill them now!”
“I’m aghast at your lack of command in this situation,” Loren taunted Paul, his first hand free and prying the sickle from his neck. He threw it at the altar, imbedding it so deeply that only half the blade remained exposed.
“Ah, that’s better,” he sighed, pulling the nails from his forehead and eyelids, oblivious to the gaping wound in his throat. The blade had sliced his trachea. Bubbles of blood hissed out with every breath. He ignored them completely and began a much more vigorous attempt at freeing his other hand, ridiculing Paul all the while. “I cannot recall a time in all the annals where you’ve bred such traitorous curs for heirs…and wielded so little authority over them. Your time has passed, ancient one. I should think you’d be dying of shame now, instead of waiting for a twit barely out of her teens to conclude this travesty.”
Paul exploded. He tossed Martin on the altar like a sack of flour, climbed on top of him and whisked the ice pick from Martin’s vest with the silky ease of a riverboat gambler dealing from the bottom of the deck. He smiled. Then he poised the gleaming tip an eighth of an inch above Martin’s miraculously restored eyeball. Yeeesh.
“You’re right, Ole Snake Eyes! These boys are a great disappointment to me. But you’ll never live to watch me spank them!”
He turned on Rose, “Ahoy there Queeny! Care to pull the trigger? No, I thought not. Love sweet love.”
“He’s bluffing!” Loren shouted, oblivious to the pain as he frantically tried to yank his other hand free. “He won’t kill Martin. He needs him!”
“I’ve got a million more like him in this big pouch between me legs. And if I can’t mix up a better batch than the one that made these two pitiful mooks, I’ve got a fresh new recipe waiting in the fridge! Time is on my side, Loren, as it always was and always will be!”
“Shoot him!” The Striker shouted at Rose. “He can’t kill you!”
“Oh Loren, what a poor sport you are! Yet another violation of the rules. But she will never take the risk of losing her beloved, will you, Queen Rose of the Cross?” Paul laughed, slowly lowering the ice pick close enough to prod Martin’s cornea. “Oh my, you still don’t have a clue what we’re gabbing about, do you, your lowness?”
Rose turned her head from Martin to me. From Loren to Paul. No one said anything. She felt like Carrie at the prom, everyone in on the hideous joke. Everyone but her.
She had been queen of her matriarchal line since she her mother died. But no one, not even her father, the regent, had told her, out of fear she would unwittingly expose herself to one of the Kellys.
“Don’t listen to him!” Loren shouted at Rose, his other hand almost free. “Shoot him while you still can!”
Rose stared at Martin. His head wasn’t moving, but he was nodding. She could see it. Feel it. Hear it. “Do it,” he was saying. “Kill him. Let me go.”
“She can’t. She loves you far too much, dear boy. We’re running a little behind schedule now, so here’s what you’ll do, Queeny, and do quickly: I want you to take that Beretta and point it at Loren’s head. Then I want you to pull the trigger. Now I reckon you’re a bit shy about ending his long, cursed life, considering that he’s toting around such precious cargo. But if you don’t do exactly what I’ve said by the time I count to three, you can watch me gouge out this lovely new eyeball that I worked so hard to make, not for him, mind you, but for me…and then you can retch in horror as I push a little deeper and blow out your boyfriend’s brains with the CO2 cartridge he so cleverly concealed in this ice pick.”
Rose and Martin stared helplessly at each other.
The Striker desperately tugged at his nailed, bleeding hand.
Rose looked at The Striker and saw her mother’s face.
Time seemed to freeze all over again as Paul began to count: “One…”
Rose stared at Paul, her hands shaking so much she almost dropped the pistol.
Paul grinned back at her, winking his blood-burst eye, pressing the ice pick down against Martin’s eyeball, his thumb poised over the button at the base of the handle.
“Last chance m’lady…” he said softly. “Two…”
Rose turned her gun on The Striker, then whipped the barrel back to Paul so quickly all I saw was blur.
Paul could see it perfectly. And with a final, fatal shrug, he whispered, “three…”
“LEAVE MARTIN ALONE!” I yelled so loudly the windows almost shattered.
Paul paused. To laugh. BANG! Rose shot him in the face, right below his br
oken cheekbone. It scraped along the bottom of his skull, blowing a chunk of flesh and hair from the back of his head. Martin kicked against his chest with both feet, sending him halfway across the room. Bang! Bang! Rose followed with two more shots. The first one missed, slamming into the bookshelf behind him. The second one got him in the gut.
Paul gripped his stomach with a wince. Rose took aim again, more carefully this time, right at Paul’s forehead. Martin leapt from the altar and knocked the pistol out of her hand. Whap! Rose almost slapped him back, but Martin had already scooped up the Beretta and was heading my way.
“Give me the key!” he shouted, holding out his hand.
“Protection?” I asked, clenching it tighter, negotiating my terms of surrender.
“Protection,” he replied.
With those three grunted syllables I relinquished the prize I’d schemed so hard to acquire. Martin took it from me at the same time Paul was struggling to his feet. He ran to Rose, her lip quivering with rage as he placed the chain around her neck.
“NO!” Paul shouted, staggering toward them.
I looked at Paul and shrugged. Martin put his arm around Rose. Paul looked at both of us, shaking his head. For once he had nothing to say.
I stared at him in awe. Sometimes it’s really hard to kill someone. Especially Paul Kelly. Hard, but not impossible. He was semi-human, after all. And he was a fucking mess. One ruined eye. Bullet holes in his face and gut. Knife wound in his chest. Six busted ribs and a fractured collarbone, courtesy of Loren.
“You’re really showing your age, King Cole,” Loren sneered, wholly delighted at the sight of Paul’s teetering legs. His other hand was free now. He pulled against the nails still binding his feet. When they wouldn’t budge, he tried reaching for the sickle he had hurled into the wood of the altar. Not too smart, that move. He stretched his spindly arms as far as he could—his long, bony fingers only inches away. But he couldn’t reach it.
Paul shook his head again, smiling now, but silent. Broken, but still unbowed. On his last legs, but still standing. Unfortunately, those legs were dragging themselves over to the lectern. To the Book. When he touched it, I knew what would happen.
