Now the Changer is coming to Arthur for assistance—even the King would not use the word “help” where the Changer is concerned. He wonders what has stirred the old dog and looks forward to the challenge of assisting him.
Arthur rises from his polished-oak desk (this bought at an auction in New York City from himself the last time he needed to change personas) and crosses to the door of the office adjacent to his own. His knock is acknowledged by a male voice.
“Come in.”
Arthur opens the door and enters an office as large and well-appointed as his own, even as it should be. Eddie has been at his side since the dawn of history, from a time when he was known as Enkidu the Wildman, a creature said to have been sent by angry gods to punish an arrogant king for abusing his power.
Of course, the gods had been disappointed. Enkidu and Gilgamesh had each found in the other the equal each was lacking on the created earth. Rather than becoming enemies, they had become the closest of friends, and, when departure from ancient Sumer had seemed prudent, the excuse of Enkidu’s death had been what Gilgamesh had used to send himself into voluntary exile.
Unlike what legend said, he had not searched for the secret of eternal life, for both had already learned that aging passed them by. Enkidu had learned this sooner than Gilgamesh, thus his residence among the beasts, for they did not grow hostile when he did not journey into old age with them.
Gilgamesh had learned of this difference himself, as he had learned that he healed much more quickly and thoroughly than those around him. With Enkidu, he had gone out into the world, and together they had left their mark on numerous cultures.
Arthur had the gift of inspired leadership. As Akhenaton he had tried to reform the theocracy in Egypt, as Arthur he had tried to found a society based on law, not might, in England. Many times, in many places, he had sought to change human cultures. His influence rarely lasted beyond his own reign.
For the last several centuries, he had turned his energy to a greater challenge, that of protecting the athanor from encroaching human civilization and its damning records. In this crusade, as in the others, Enkidu—now known as Eddie—had been at his side.
“Eddie,” Arthur says, and his friend raises his head from the computer terminal at which he has been working. Dark, curly hair, and a perpetual five-o’clock shadow recall his original self, traits Eddie has maintained whenever possible. His build recalls a stone wall: thick and blocky, hard with muscle and square of jaw.
“Yes?” Eddie says. “You sound troubled.”
“The Changer is coming here.”
“The Changer? What does he want?”
“I don’t know. He says he wants to call in his dues.”
Eddie rubs his hand along his bristled jawline. “That’s reasonable. Every year he brings his contribution to the treasury—sometimes more than is called for. We owe him service for that if for nothing more.”
“I agree,” Arthur says, “and there has always been his strong support of our rulership. Can you free yourself to attend the meeting? I’ve sent Vera to collect him.”
Snapping off his computer, Eddie nods. “I would not miss it for the world. The Changer come for our aid. Old Proteus, sea-born, perhaps the oldest of us all.”
“There is no proof of that,” Arthur replies, slightly miffed. He has always enjoyed his seniority.
“No proof,” Eddie says mildly. “True, but no lack of proof, either. He slips in and out of myths and cultures, refusing to be pinned down to any one origin just as he refuses to be pinned to any one shape.”
“Or name,” Arthur agrees. “The Changer. Most of us have names we use, a handful we return to as we return to certain callings. The Changer gives us no name to hold on to and remains an enigma.”
Eddie stretches. “I could use a sandwich before confronting the ancient. How long do we have?”
“Easily half an hour,” Arthur says, glancing at his watch. “Vera had to drive out nearly to Tijeras Pass to get him.”
“Why didn’t he just fly?”
“He said something about having his daughter with him.”
“Daughter?” Eddie’s bushy brows rise to his hairline. “How often has he claimed get?”
Arthur frowns thoughtfully. “That is a fascinating question, Eddie. I’d need to consult my records, but I could swear that this is the first time. She must be very special, this Daughter of the Changer. Could she share our gift?”
Eddie spreads his hands in a universal gesture of ignorance. “I don’t know. Most of our children do not.”
“Those of us who have children,” Arthur says sadly.
Like so many of his kind, he is sterile. Even his celebrated daughters by lovely Nefertiti had not been his own. She had not been precisely unfaithful; rather she had been more than faithful, trying to give him heirs to carry on his dream. It had not made a difference in the end, and young Tutankhamen had been a weak reed who had forsaken the Aten.
He shakes himself, aware of Eddie’s dark eyes gazing at him with kindness. Eddie has been burdened with a different sorrow. He has engendered children and it has been his lot to watch each die, of age, of illness, of accident.
Long ago, each had given up asking the question of whether their immortality was worth the price. Death is not a stranger to the athanor, only quiet, easy Death. When an athanor dies, it is in pain and suffering, body struggling to maintain a haven for life. Still, despite the phenomenal healing powers that are their heritage, athanor can die, they can suicide. That neither Eddie nor Arthur has pursued that option is proof enough that life still holds fascination.
“Let’s get that sandwich,” Eddie says, taking his arm.
“I’ll be a moment,” Arthur answers. “I want to check the records and learn what I can about the Changer’s children.”
His research confirms their earlier guesses. The Changer’s biographical file lists no recorded children. Offspring from his numerous matings with various birds and beasts (of late mostly ravens and coyotes) must exist, but the Changer has never brought any to the Lustrum Review, never asked that any be recorded and recognized. This daughter, then, is a first.
Interesting.
He tells Eddie as they eat the sandwiches and potato chips down in the warm, tiled kitchen.
“I’d better make a few extra sandwiches,” the king concludes. “They should be here any moment.”
As if in response, they hear the wrought-iron front gate opening and two cars coming up the gravel driveway. The door to the kitchen swings open a few moments later and Vera enters.
Dark-haired, brown-skinned, with high, rounded cheekbones and almost oriental eyes, she appears to be a classic Navajo woman in her mid-thirties. Even her speech is touched with an Athabascan accent: the even tones sometimes sounding flat, internal “r’s” softened, the final “g” in a syllable often dropped completely. The only jarring element in this portrait is her large, grey eyes.
Grey-eyed Vera had not sprung full-grown from the forehead of her father as legend said, but such a tale might have helped a father explain the appearance of a rather too precocious young woman who was quite clearly his daughter.
Arthur had not known well the man who had sired Athena, later called Minerva, and currently known as Vera, but he had been one of the rare ones who not only was potent, but whose children carried his gift. He had died in the latter days of the Roman Empire, inadvertent victim of the persecutions of the Christians. His death had been slow and grisly; that it had ended up with his being made a Christian saint had doubtless been some small comfort to his daughter.
She had drifted from place to place, nation to nation, for a time, giving rise to a host of virgin saints and other such inspirational figures. That her celibacy was a matter of inclination rather than sacrifice did not bother her a whit.
“We cannot choose how people interpret our actions,” she had said more than once, “and I will not behave as a slut merely because it would please some.”
Arthur ra
ther suspects that Vera’s aversion to sexual congress is a reaction to her late father’s promiscuity, but he does not care to address the point with her. That she might have inherited her father’s prepotency along with his other gifts is a matter for quiet speculation when he and Eddie discuss such matters, but neither of them cares to bring up the matter with Vera. Her earliest identities had not been warrior maidens for nothing, and she had a tendency to take umbrage with a ferocity that recalled her legendary enmity for the people of Troy.
Instead they chose to let the grey-eyed girl take up residence with them, her formidable talents for organization and her solid common sense (on matters other than sexual congress) assets that helped Arthur’s organization to thrive.
At this moment, she looks less than tranquil. “I have directed the Changer to wait for you in the courtyard.”
“You told an ancient to wait outside?” Arthur asks, surprised.
Normally, Vera is the soul of propriety; a fan of Miss Manners and Emily Post, she knows to the smallest margin precisely how much hospitality a guest is due. The Changer, despite his tendency in bird form to leave white droppings on polished doors and expensive carpets, has always been accorded the honor of a first place.
Vera looks momentarily uncomfortable, well aware of the breach of courtesy she has committed.
“He did not complain,” she explains. “In fact, he seemed grateful for the opportunity to let his daughter out of her box.”
“Daughter? Box?” Arthur actually stammers.
“His daughter,” Vera answers woodenly, “is a coyote pup no more than a few months old. She is apparently terrified of everything and shows such by wetting copiously.”
“Oh, my,” Eddie says, chortling. “We should have guessed. The Changer hasn’t been human for at least fifty years, and I don’t believe he fathered any children during that incarnation.”
“That we know of,” Vera says stiffly. “It is not easy to know what that one has been doing. He has also acquired an old sedan with doubtful registration.”
Eddie nods. “I can straighten that out.”
“First,” Arthur says, “let us hurry to greet him. If we must entertain him outside, at least the weather is pleasant.”
When they enter the courtyard at the center of the hacienda, they find it tenanted by two coyotes. One is full-grown, grizzled grey above with a darker cross about his shoulders and a touch of white on his underparts. The other is a fat grey pup with hints of the coyote she will become. She had been cuddled next to her father but, upon their entry, she scuttles under a lavender bush. The thick blossoms and new foliage hide her very effectively, but if he looks closely, Arthur can see her eyes, still baby blue, peering suspiciously out.
With a surge of motion, the Changer takes a human form. The body is tall, dark-haired, and rather aggressively male—a fact that his present nudity does nothing to conceal. Perhaps out of courtesy for Vera, perhaps not, he reaches for the clothing draped on one of the teak patio chairs and dons it.
The jeans and shirt were clearly purchased for someone several inches shorter. From this, Arthur surmises that the Changer has used more than one human shape recently. Or perhaps he merely stole the clothing from some unlucky sod. The Changer has always been rather cavalier regarding other’s property.
“Changer,” Arthur says. “Welcome.”
Occupied with buttoning his shirt, the Changer only grunts. Not a promising start for a conversation.
Arthur sallies on. “We made a few extra sandwiches when we were having lunch. Would you care to join us?”
“Thank you.” The Changer now smiles warmly; he knows that offering food equals an offer of protection in many old cultures. It may do so no longer, but Arthur likes such archaic gestures. “Your welcome and your food are appreciated.”
He takes a ham sandwich from the plate Arthur has set on the table and tosses it under the lilac bush, where it vanishes to a chorus of small growls. Then he takes a second and seats himself in one of the carved-teak chairs that are scattered about the patio. The others follow suit.
“How are you, Arthur? Eddie?” Somehow, the Changer’s body language suggests that he is in charge of the little gathering. “Has the universe been kind to you of late?”
“Kind enough,” Arthur says.
Eddie nods. “Pretty good. We had a bit of trouble with a clash between Katsuhiro Oba and Dakar Agadez, but that has been resolved satisfactorily.”
“Who?” the Changer asks.
“Susano and Ogun,” Eddie clarifies, using names with which the Changer is certain to be familiar.
“Gods of storm and iron,” Arthur adds. “When they lack others to fight, they battle each other. How have you been?”
“Well enough until recently,” the Changer says. He has inhaled his sandwich in a fashion that recalls a neater version of his coyote self. “And that recently is what brought me here.”
He pauses. The others wait. There had been an anger in those last few words that did not invite casual rejoinders.
“A few days ago, my mate of these last five years and all of my family except for the poor creature under that shrub were slaughtered.” The Changer’s eyes narrow, and a dangerous light touches their yellow depths. “I have reason to believe that the killing was commissioned by one of our kind. I am here for three things. I want identification, so that I may move in the human world. I want to register my vendetta and its purpose with you. And I want to know where Lilith resides these days.”
Arthur nods slowly. “I hear you and you have right to claim the first two things that you have asked. Before I grant the last, could you explain why you want to know Lilith’s location?”
“On the day my family was slain,” the Changer says, “I returned from hunting in time to see the killers finishing their work. They rode from the site, my wife’s pelt and that of my elder daughter behind their saddles. My babies were shoved in a sack—all but that one, who had been so terrified that she did not cry out and so saved herself.”
The listeners do not need further details. In the long centuries of their existence, they have witnessed the cruelties of which humans are capable. Nor are they unduly judgmental, for they know well their own capacity for cruelty. The deaths of a group of coyotes at the hands of men who believed they were slaughtering “just animals” is a small thing on the scale of what humans can do to those they believe their equals.
The Changer also knows this, and so they know that this killing is not what has brought him from the wilds.
“I watched as they rode down the slope,” the Changer continues, “and they were met by a car. A woman got out of the car and gave them money in exchange for the raw pelts. Her scent was carried to me on the wind and I knew that scent as that of one of our own—a particular one of our own.
“I have spoken to the rancher who did the killing. He said that the woman commissioned the killings—not just of coyotes in general, but of those coyotes. The name he gave me was ‘Lil Prima’ and the scent that I smelled was of the one who in ancient days was called ‘Lilith.’”
He stops then, inviting their questions. Eddie begins.
“Did you get anything else?”
“Yes.” The Changer takes Martinez’s scrap of paper from his shirt pocket, but he does not relinquish it. “A phone number. And I saw the license plate of the car and memorized the number.”
“If I can copy that phone number and have the license number,” Eddie says, “I can do some checking.”
The Changer gives him the information, then the slip of paper is tucked again into his shirt pocket.
“What do you plan to do if you find Lilith?” Vera asks, speaking for the first time since the Changer began his tale.
“When I find her,” the Changer says, and his emphasis is enough to remind them all of his age, of the nightmare of being tracked by one whose shapes are nearly infinite, “I shall ask her what her purpose was in killing my family. I shall find out if she intended my death as well.
Then I shall take retribution.”
None gathered in that courtyard had expected anything less, but to hear those words spoken by that deep, husky voice strikes an atavistic fear in each.
“And if we recommend against it?” Vera says, nobly asking the question that Arthur should not.
“You are not my masters,” the Changer says. “My support for Arthur’s reign is out of appreciation for the loyalty he can inspire in others, not out of sworn obedience. You cannot turn me from my purpose—I can forgive human stupidity, for they do not know what they do. When an athanor challenges me, I must answer that challenge.”
Silence falls then, broken only by the faint sound of the coyote pup digging a bed for herself beneath the trembling shrub.
“Lilith,” Arthur muses at last. “I will look into this. In the meantime, let Eddie help craft you an identity.”
The Changer nods. “I will. And Arthur, if you warn Lilith, and my vengeance is thwarted because of this, I will come for you and all the admiration I hold for you will not slow my wrath.”
Arthur is not a king for nothing. He squares his shoulders and meets the ancient one’s eyes.
“I know this, and I accept it.”
The Changer smiles, a bitter quirk at the corner of his mouth. “Trust me in this. I have not lived to my age by taking pity on those who stand between me and my purpose.”
His dark gaze includes them all; then, words spoken and understood, he gives his polite attention to Eddie.
Rebecca>> Hi, folks! I’ve just finished feeding the critters. What’s up?
Demetrios>> We’ve been discussing the new appeal. Did you stop to look at it?
Rebecca>> No. Felt like talking. Dear brawny Bron is still fussing over what the latest fury over fur is going to do to business. All he wants to talk about.
Demetrios>> Poor dear. Basically, the Moderator has suggested that we converge on Albuquerque and the King for the Lustrum Review in June.
Rebecca>> Go in person, you mean?
Demetrios>> That’s right! The Moderator has promised assistance with travel plans.
Changer (Athanor) Page 5
