Grigor blinked in surprise, the words registering immediately in his mind; a puppet from Gabryal. As they stood there, the man began to laugh, gutturally, soaked with the imminence of death like a tuberculosis victim. Pale, green foam dripped from the corner of the man’s mouth mixed with saliva and blood; he had taken a suicide pill. But, before he could expire, Grigor, in a fit of uncontrollable rage, pummeled the man, and growled like an animal, unable to find words to fit his wrath. He unleashed centuries of hatred and wrath on the expiring messenger.
Relentlessly, he hit the man over and over with his fists, in the face, in the chest, in the stomach. The man continued to laugh, even as the last remnants of life drained from his eyes, until finally Grigor was holding nothing more than an empty shell. He let out a visceral yell of anger, frustration and hatred, “God damn you!” He threw the body into the center of the hallway, kicking it once more in the side. “God damn you!”
With the final kick, something strange happened, something that took Grigor by surprise. A thick, viscous oily substance seeped from the corpse’s mouth, forming a pool. It glistened like oil on water, but reflected no light. And as Grigor stood dumb-founded at the sight, it formed into a winged creature, with cobalt blue eyes, the signature of the Weird. Grigor raised a foot to stomp the aberration, but it merely squawked at him in an eerie tone, that of a hell-sent raven.
“You cannot win,” it said in Gabryal’s undeniably arrogant voice. “Stay away from Germany.”
Grigor leapt, but was unable to capture the fleeing shadow raven. And as he was about to make pursuit, he heard Olivia speak in a small, labored voice. “Grigor…”
Grigor whirled around to see Olivia slumped to the floor; her arm lay over her stomach, covered in blood. He realized he also been shot, in his left side, pain leaping to the forefront of his conscious mind, only to be overwhelmed by a rush of adrenalin and sadness as he saw the blood soaked gown. He fell to his knees next to her.
“No...” he sighed, choking back sorrowful frustration. She had been shot twice. One of the bullets had passed through his side into her stomach; the other had hit her in the center of her chest, blood pumping from the wound in time with her diminishing heartbeat. Her head lolled to the side against the door to look at Grigor, eyes bright with tears, sadness darkening the rest her face.
“I’m sorry,” she managed to say, knowing that her own sorrow, her own will, had made this happen. She had wanted to die rather than be apart from him, and now that it was upon her, she embraced it. The pain had already left her, leaving her cold and trembling uncontrollably as the life drained away.
He pulled her to him tightly, burying his face in her hair, shoulders jerking as he fought back the urge to weep. “Shhhh,” he whispered. “It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay. You’re fine.”
“I’ll see you soon,” she whispered, barely audible. She knew that it was over, she had experienced this so many times before, and it was undeniable. She struggled to stay, just a few more moments with him, say all the things she had wanted to say but never did out of her own self-doubt and fear. Nevertheless, it was too late; the body was forcing her out. The room began to fade to black, her vision clouded, as she heard the muffled the sounds of peace officers running down the hall.
“Don’t,” Grigor said, looking into her dimming eyes, tears streaming down his face. “Please.” Though he knew he would see her again, he did not want it to end this way, he did not want another terrible memory. A single year was nothing in the line of time, barely memorable on its own. Now he would be forced to remember this year, not for the wonderful memories he and Olivia had shared, because of the insatiable lust for vengeance that now burned in his chest. It had changed him forever.
She watched him with all the expression draining from her face, eyes fixed on his. “Good-bye,” she managed with the last of her breath. The fluttering in her chest ceased as the words fell from her lips, almost lost in the tumult of police shouting at him to move away, women screaming at the sight of the dead man, and children wailing in fear.
Grigor kissed her again as she left the body, the room becoming transparent and filled with the mist, pulling her away from that final kiss – away from Baltimore, away from the moment, away from him. The pain of the body and the intensity of her emotions evaporated, leaving only peace and contentedness, as she felt wrapped up protectively in his arms that final winter night. She embraced her death, knowing she would find him again, in a better place and time.
And as she floated into the place whence she came, whence we all came, she heard him whisper, echoed in the vastness of the Spaces Between, his voice reverberating like notes on a somber violin, “So long, my love, but never good-bye.”
He sat there in that hallway, staring at the empty shell of Gabryal’s mutilated minion, holding her corpse in his arms. He knew that she was gone, and that he would see her again, but that did not matter. It was time to end this. If Gabryal found him this easily, he had grown dramatically in power. He needed to warn the others.
A peace officer rushed over to the two, “Are you alright?”
Grigor remained silent, his gaze fixated on the bloodied mess in the center of the hall. Two of the other officers were whispering about a bird, and the woman in the room four doors down was screaming uncontrollably, while her child wailed with fear from a room beyond. This was the world that Gabryal was creating.
“Colonel,” the peace officer insisted. “Can you tell me what happened?”
Grigor looked up at him, his eyes filled with tears and rage, “Call General Bishop at Camp Meade and do not disturb that,” he motioned disgustedly at the corpse. “That is all that remains of a Nazi assassin. Time is of the essence.”
“Nazi?” The peace officer asked, looking barely older than 25, his eyes widened. “Yes, Sir!” he responded and hurried to the officers.
Grigor kissed Olivia’s forehead once more before standing. He left her shell to the coroner, left everything they had in that room, except for his overcoat and the memories they had made. He strode down the hallway, ignoring the onlookers and officers. It was time to end this madness. Fueled with a renewed hatred for the lord of shadows, Grigor hailed a cab and left behind that year full of beautiful memories. The hunt for Gabryal had begun again.
The Place of the Sisters
Devlin, Virginia 1955
While pondering his visions of the coming of a great darkness to cover the land, Jonathan Weir remembered the first night his father told him the story of the Weird Sisters, a story that would haunt him the rest of his life, and ultimately, provide a critical clue to the fate of the Waking Dream. It was not until he heard his Grandfather, Maxwell Weir, retell the story that planted a seed in his head that would nag him until his death.
It was 1958, and he had just turned eighteen, a week before Halloween. The townsfolk had just begun the Harvest Festival in the town square, which was a tradition as long as anyone could remember.
The Autumn House was full of new Dreamers, who descended on the town like leaves from the October trees, escaping the aftermath of three wars and the threats of an ongoing Cold War. Casks of cider were ready for drinking and hundreds of carved jack-o-lanterns lined the long driveway leading to the Autumn House. The children of Devlin were all dressed up for the festivities in homemade costumes, keeping with long time traditions of the mountain. The Miller boys, Jack and Jakob played guitar and fiddle while Moiré, their sister, sang songs passed down through the generations of Devlin, brought from far across the sea.
At eighteen, Jonathan was stumbling through manhood and alien changes to his body and mind. He tried to control his second sight and the phantasmagorical images that presented themselves to his inexperienced consciousness. At that time, he struggled with gaining the courage to court Moiré. She had eyes as green as emeralds and hair the color of the autumn itself. That particular year she had chosen to dress as a dryad, captured by the music and festivities. Her vocal ability was beyond any he had every encount
ered and through her songs, and Weirdness, she could place pictures and invoke deep emotion in the minds of her listeners.
Unfortunately, for Jonathan, Moiré was in love, with Roderick Werner, whose family lived in Haus Schwartzwald, managing the vineyard for relatives who lived far away in Bavaria, the ancestors of the founder of the town, Count Ludwig Werner. Roderick was intelligent and accomplished, only in his twenties and managing the vineyard and family affairs for his absent parents, who were seldom in Devlin. Jonathan could find little to dislike about Roderick, other than his own adolescent envy.
Despite his worthy adversary, Jonathan had gone to great lengths constructing his own elaborate costume, attempting to look like a bard, hoping to catch Moiré’s attention. As the evening wore on, Jonathan’s hopes of stealing her away to the orchard behind the Autumn House drained from his being as fast as the cider from the casks at the festival.
It was customary late in the evening for the children and teens to gather around his grandfather Maxwell on the porch of the Autumn House. He was the head elder of the town, and the oldest living resident. A master of weaving tales about the areas surrounding Grey Mountain, he never ran out of ways to entertain and at the same time impart his venerable wisdom. This always raised Jonathan's spirits, interested in hearing more about the area in which they dwelt. On that particular evening, Grandfather Maxwell chose a story about a mysterious place, The Place of the Sisters, or the Weird Sisters as they came to be known.
“Some places are not meant to be explored,” Grandfather Maxwell began cryptically, in a sagely voice. “I was a very young man, younger than most of you sitting here now, when my father told me this very story, one of the first Weir men to come to the shadow of Grey Mountain. Before him, he’d heard it from those who had escaped the fate of our once sister town, Elswyre.”
He paused dramatically, casting a pointed gaze over his captivated audience, then warned, “We must always remember that we are merely visitors here and that the only true resident is the mountain and its kin. And there are many things that exist here, that we’ve yet to encounter.”
It was evident that he had told this story many times before and it flowed from his lips as if he had witnessed it himself.
“There were three sisters, believed to live in the shadow long before our families came to expand and inhabit the town that the Count had built. We believe that they were not the first to wander these ancient woods and valleys. The mountain can weigh heavy on those who live under its shadowy blanket.” He paused to cough violently before lighting a hand carved pipe which he always kept in his teeth, whether lit or not.
“They were odd, weird, pixilated as it were, which is an old term meaning that they were kidnapped by pixies and spirited off to the a hidden place then returned different from when they left. When I say odd I mean that they were not only Weird as we are in their minds, but they had odd features, white hair, pale skin and grayish eyes, unlike their parents of the folks of Elswyre.
“The family, whose surname has been long forgotten, lived on the mountain, far up along the stream that feeds the waterfall, which in turn feeds the Whispering Stream, separating Devlin from the rest of the world. Before coming to Gray Mountain, when they were just babes, the people of the town of Elswyre had tried to burn them as witches, seeing the affliction as an ill omen, or warning. Their parents knew this was not true, and in the dead of night one summer eve, they spirited their beloved daughters away, far away from the superstitious individuals of Elswyre, to the shadow of Grey Mountain.” He paused once more and pointed a crooked finger to the mountain, rising high above the town and the steeple of St. Michael’s Church, casting darkness over the town.
“However,” he continued, taking a long draw on his pipe, letting the smoke out like a mist to envelop the mesmerized listeners, “it would seem that the townspeople had been right to some degree. After many years of isolation, a strange illness befell their parents, sapping the life from their bodies until they shriveled into nothing more than a pile of dead leaves, something never witnessed before or again. The three sisters left to fend for themselves. The winters are cruel, but none of you has experienced them without the aid of your parents or the other townsfolk. Could you imagine venturing into the woods alone, trying to find food and wood to make it through the bitter cold and seemingly unending snow that assails our town each and every winter?”
He raised a bushy brow, leaning forward slightly in his rocking chair to look at each of the children in turn, who shook their heads with fear.
“The eldest of the three,” Grandfather Maxwell continued, “Ceridwyn, had just passed through threshold to womanhood, at thirteen, when their parents died. She alone led the three through the bitter cold of the winter. Deirdre and Fiona, her younger sisters, were one and two years younger, respectively. The burden of foraging the forest for food fell on Ceridwyn's shoulders, while the others fetched water from the brook and wood for the fire in the hopes of surviving. They were not as fortunate as you were, as they had not yet realized how special they were, as many of you have just begun to understand. They had not embraced their own magick.”
Grandfather Maxwell puffed on his pipe thoughtfully for a moment, either remembering the story or forgetting himself, as he often did. His blue eyes twinkled in the light of the lanterns hung around the porch, rocking in his chair slowly. Jonathan thought for a moment that he saw the old man smile slightly to himself.
“The winters are cruel here," he continued, "the wind, screams through the valleys and trees, like a sea of angry souls trying to find a warm body to inhabit. Nevertheless, with Ceridwyn at the lead, the sisters cut and gathered wood continually to keep the small cabin warm through the long winter nights. By the middle of December, the small pond nestled beyond their home had already frozen over and the barrels of apples in their cellar slowly drained with each passing day. Not being a skilled hunter, Ceridwyn had great difficulty keeping them fed as the ground froze and the rabbits and squirrels seemed too shrewd to fall prey to her snares. It would be spring before she could make the long journey to civilization, saving herself and her sisters from the fate of isolation.
“But January came and went, their food had all but vanished, leaving the sisters to water and a diet of leaves and roots that Ceridwyn was able to dig up when the snow receded for brief times. As she and her sisters withered away, it became evident to Ceridwyn that they would not survive if they stayed, but being inexperienced, she could not determine how best to survive the rest of the winter.”
Grandfather Maxwell paused to puff on his pipe, “That is why you must always pay attention to your parents and the rest of the town. If we are to remain in the shadow of the mountain, we must learn how to recognize the gifts it provides.” He pointed a finger at the enthralled group. “No one can survive alone.” He gauged their reactions before he continued.
“The first week of February was the coldest of all, and there was no food left in the home, despite Ceridwyn’s tireless foraging in the woods. It became evident that they would have to leave. But, she had waited too long. She awoke one frigid morning to find that Deirdre had died in her sleep, succumbing to malnutrition and the cold, huddled beside Fiona.”
“It is believed that if you listen carefully,” Grandfather Maxwell said in a hushed voice, “at first light of a crisp winter day, you might hear Ceridwyn’s cry of anguish echoing over the mountains as she cradled her dead sister. But,” he paused for effect, “it is believed that anyone who hears it will surely perish within a fortnight.” A few of the children gasped, but Jonathan smirked nervously, having thought he’d heard it before, but figured it had been a seed planted in his head by his father and grandfather.
“Malnourished and weak,” Grandfather Maxwell continued after a few hushed moments, “the two dug a shallow grave for their sister beside their parents. In the dead of that very night, Ceridwyn had a vision of her dead sister, beckoning her into the woods to a crevice in a rock face she’d not seen before
. It was then that Ceridwyn Awakened to her magic, and realized that they could not stay in the cabin any longer.”
“The next day they made their way from the cabin, moving along the ridge of the mountain, towards Elswyre, the only town they knew of, where their uncle still resided. Ceridwyn gathered as many tools and supplies as she could, but left a note on a table hoping that if they were to perish, or become lost, perhaps their uncle would come from Elswyre to check on the family and be able would to find them. She even quickly drew a picture of the cliff from her vision as a clue.”
“As they traveled, Ceridwyn struggled to keep her younger sibling warm and mobile, yet the many days without food and the biting cold caused them to stop frequently to rest. It wasn’t long before they noticed the dark grayish clouds forming overhead, sinister and foreboding…”
Grandfather Maxwell paused, coughing wetly into a frail wrinkled hand, and then gasped for air as he tried to right himself. Agnes Miller stepped up from behind him, rubbing his back gently, “Perhaps you should end the story now, grandfather.” Yet, the stubborn old man waved a hand, shaking his head.
“No. They must know the story,” he replied through the cough then breathed deeply to right himself.
A few moments later, despite the fidgeting and whispering of the younger children, he continued. “Before the sisters knew what was happening, the sky opened up with a tempest of snow and biting winds blotting out the sky, and causing them to become confused in the white-out. It was as if the heavens themselves were trying to prevent the sisters from escaping the shadow of the mountain. And just as hope was all but gone, Ceridwyn found the crevice from her vision, in a precipice facing east, providing some level of protection from the wind. They huddled at the entrance of the crevice, holding one another as the snow fell on them, yet Ceridwyn, ever strong, refused to give up. She picked up her sister and headed deeper into the crevice, following it wherever it may lead.
Immortal Memories Page 5
