Cassidy St. Claire and The Fountain of Youth Parts I, II, & III

by A. H. Rousseau

  As he descended, security guards appeared from nooks in the walls, their guns trained on him and his two cohorts.

  “Don't try anything hasty,” said one of the guards., appearing behind the man at the top of the stairs.

  “I have no intentions of doing anything of the sort,” the Impeccably-Dressed Man replied, over his shoulder.

  “This is a private engagement. What do you want?” yelled the MC.

  The Impeccably-Dressed Man turned and smiled. “It's such a funny thing, war I mean, don't you all agree?” the man began. “History has shown us, beyond doubt, that it is useless. Nation fighting nation. Tribe fighting tribe. For millions of years. Where are they all now?” The cockney man tossed the body of the Silver-Haired Man over the railing. It fell the fifteen feet and landed on the carpet below with a dull thud. The crowd gasped. “Where is he?”

  “Is that what this is?” the MC said, annoyed. “You broke in here to give us all a speech on the evils of war? You killed an innocent man to lecture us?”

  “Actually, we killed many more. All of your men on the surface are dead.” This statement triggered a wave of murmuring and discussion in the crowd.

  “How dare you! You will—”

  “Oh please, my chubby friend! You are upset about a handful of men being killed while you shill your weapons of mass death!? Every single time one of these weapons is used, more men, women, and innocent children will die than have thus far tonight!” The Impeccably-Dressed Man stared daggers at the MC. “Your arrogant cynicism makes me want to vomit!”

  “Well it doesn't much matter what you want to do. You're going to jail to undoubtedly be hanged where your childish ideas will die along with you!”

  “I doubt that. Indeed, if I were a betting man, I'd say that it is your ideas who will die tonight.”

  “Oh? And why do you say that?”

  “Because you are already surrounded,” said a deep, commanding voice from the crowd. The MC looked around, trying to ascertain where the voice had originated. He stopped and focused on a bearded man dressed in formal Arabic clothing walking toward him, away from the rest of the guests. As he did so, more men appeared from the outskirts of the room, all armed. The security guards didn't know where to aim as others in the crowd began to brandish weapons.

  “It's true, though, isn't it?” asked the Mysterious Man, now only a few feet from the MC.

  “What's true?” asked the MC, indignantly and with a sneer.

  “The uselessness of war. The sheer, complete, total, and unrelenting uselessness of war. It's as though all of humanity is charging toward a cosmic finish line that never comes. You see it in war. You see it in stories. You see it in religion. It's like a cruel joke that mankind has sadistically perpetrated on itself. And here you all are: the jesters.”

  “Who are you?” asked the MC in a muted voice.

  “The harbinger,” responded the man in a quiet tone, who removed his beard and hair, revealing them to be fake. He then took off his keffiyeh, revealing tightly-cropped black hair. He gave his hair a slight tussle with his hand before looking directly into the MC's eyes, his eyes so blue as to be almost white, his pale, Arabian skin smooth and youthful.

  “... You,” said the MC, shocked pallid and wide-eyed.

  The Mysterious Man walked past the MC and toward the Impeccably-Dressed Man “You said that we would witness the future here, tonight.” He turned around to face the MC. “How right you are.” The man turned back to the Impeccably-Dressed Man and put his hand on his shoulder.

  “Have I done well?” asked the Impeccably-Dressed Man.

  “You have done better than I could have ever hoped. We are here today because of your efforts. Our great design can now be set in motion because of you. You have earned your journey, my dear friend.” He handed the Impeccably-Dressed Man a small, glowing vial.

  The Impeccably-Dressed Man held it up and looked to the Mysterious Man with a smile. “Thank you,” he said, before removing a small cork and drinking it.

  For a moment, nothing. Suddenly, the man jerked inward, grabbing at his abdomen. He started to gasp and pant. He grimaced and grunted in pain as his body started to shake. A glow from his abdomen, visible through his clothes, increased in intensity. It eventually traveled up to his face where his eyes began to glow with an otherworldly light. The man dropped to his knees, shaking violently, clasping at his stomach. His grunts turned to screams, and the screams got louder and louder, echoing through the structure. The crowd gazed on in horror, with women clasping their partners. As it seemed as though his screams could get no louder, he threw his arms open wide, looked up into the sky and screamed one last, long scream as his body was overtaken by the bright light. Silenced, the glow subsided as his now-colorless body disintegrated into a pile of glowing ash, before the light was fully extinguished, and he was reduced to nothing more than powder and clothing.

  There was now a palpable panic in the crowd. The Mysterious Man leaned down to the powder and ran his hands though it. “Thank you again, my friend,” he said quietly. “I will join you, one day. God willing, I will join you.”

  The Mysterious Man stood and turned, looking at the orrery. He focused on the Earth, and eventually on the glowing diamond that represented Britain. “Lord, what fools these mortals be,” he said quietly to himself. “How foolish it all is!” yelled the Mysterious Man, silencing the crowd. “All, all, of those who have warred and raged before us are now dead. Nearly all of the nations and empires that funded and encouraged that war are likewise gone. And what is their legacy?” He paused, as though he were expecting a response from the crowd. “Nothing,” he said, holding his hands wide. “Nothing. They have no legacy. Nearly all of them have been forgotten. These kings and conquerors once shook the pillars of heaven in their mighty struggles; they covered the Earth and all its lineaments with fire and fury and trod its peoples under hell-born dogs of war; they moved mountains and erased civilizations... only to be snuffed out all the same. We know that they were there, yet there is nothing left. We know that they were there because there is nothing left. They have no legacy.

  “And how could they? How could they have a legacy?” The man spoke as he slowly walked down the stairs. “War cannot leave behind a legacy, regardless of what the warriors may wish. War is, by its nature, destructive. A legacy must be creative. A legacy must have meaning. A legacy must be a memory, left behind in the collective mind of humanity, that others can discover and understand. This act of recollection is humanity. It is the only thing that separates us from beasts. And yet, we persist in disregarding this ability. We persist in being no better than the animals that ravage one another by the multitude. Manifest humanity bequeaths memories to those who come after. It is our gift — our blessing. The only bequest of war is a nothingness in which memory can find no purchase. It produces silence. We become the architects of our own oblivion. We are nothing more than words, and where we make a silence, we make our tomb.

  “Just imagine the rivers of blood that have flowed only to inevitably dry up and be filled with the sediment of time. Just imagine the skill and intellect applied to an endeavor that never survives. Just imagine the resources consumed to no end. Every man who has picked up a sword in place of a hammer or pen is lost. And what number of men have done so? History is defined by a small cadre of great men because so few took up the pen instead of the sword. But then we are left to wonder why that has happened. Why do so few of us have the wisdom to be human?

  “I believe this is because those who pick up the sword are, in fact, seeking death. Like all base animals, we seek to return to the cosmic womb that birthed us. Dust, to dust. The terrifying triviality of our being, our condition, drives us mad. We want to die. Life is little more than an elaborate, protracted suicide. We war because the fury gives us a sense of importance, if only for a moment. We die in the belief that, in that moment, right there, at the Rubicon of existence and annihilation, we are doing something significant, as though we are circumven
ting the futility of life. But we are not doing that. War is not a fiery scream against the void. It is a pathetic, whimpering request for the void to act more quickly. It is the lashing out of an infant, at a world that it does not understand. It grabs the void and willingly wraps itself in it, because it is easy. It is comforting. But make no mistake, it is cowardly.

  “But perhaps I am preaching to the wrong flock. None of you are foolish enough to believe your own propaganda. You see no honor in being a warrior. You only ensure that the idiots who follow you do. You perpetuate a religion around a romanticized thug to make those thugs feel as though they are doing something important when in reality they do nothing more than fulfill your childish whims. Thousands, millions, have died while you stand far away, sipping your wine. You imagine yourselves as civilization builders — the descendants of Caesar and Khan, both of whom would slit your throats as soon as look at you. You command your armies in a giant, neverending, game of chess. To what end, I doubt you know. Do you think that you will one day win this endless conflict? As though once you have met certain goals, the world will click into place? Does the fact that this endgame has never occurred give you pause? Do you ever think that conquerors have warred and raged for their entire lives, only to achieve nothing? Does it bother you that timid monks, hidden away in cloisters, writing their musings on parchment, have had a greater influence on the world than those who conquered it?”

  The Mysterious Man sighed. “It seems that I ask that for little more than my own therapy. Of course it does not bother you. You do not think. Stupefied as you are by your own power, you have likely lost the ability to think. Today's kings and conquerors, steadfast, assured that you will make it a little farther than the others did, confident for some inscrutable reason that now will be different. Now will be significant. Now will be transcendent. There is one finish line: death. No matter what you do, that is where you will end up, rotting with all those who you trampled. And perhaps that is why you do what you do. You feel as though there is a finish line. You feel as though there is a conclusion.

  “But of course, there isn't. Time goes on without us. Society goes on without us. How strange it would all seem... if we didn't die... But of course we do die. We must inevitably crumble to dust and relinquish our fate into the hands of history and for you, history likewise inevitably tosses you into the trash heap of forgotten kings. Your utter and total insignificance, your weak pathetic nature made painfully apparent only after you have lost the ability to learn the lesson. Oh what cruel, cruel irony! But the lesson is still there! A thousand forgotten empires calling to you, begging you to join them in oblivion! And like the shambling, simpering beasts that you are, you happily heed that call. Ohhhh, you of course deny this. You deny it with a fierceness that is almost inspiring. You deny that this lesson is there. You deny that it applies to you. You deny that it has any bearing on the present at all. You deny everything that threatens to undermine your sense of superiority, your sense of historical transcendence.

  “And even if you admit it, even if you admit that the lesson is there, and it applies, and it has bearing, you claim to understand it all better than others. You try to paint those who deride you as fools with their heads in clouds — as though you are the ones who truly understand the world. You fight on the ground. You see the machine for what it is. You and only you know how to wrangle this pesky thing called the world. You are the titans for whom history itself must bend.” The Mysterious Man spit on the ground with a fierce scowl on his face. “Oh what pain I have seen in service of your arrogance, you titans, you gods, you lords of history.

  “You all ignore the past in a ridiculous belief that you know the future. You are so unwaveringly arrogant that you hold a gun to your head believing that if it ever goes off, you will be bulletproof. You live in a barbarous fantasy world made pretty with a sheen of finery and fragrance, but I smell what lies beneath: the dead, desiccated corpse of your humanity. You are nothing more than vile, illiterate animals, on the verge of consuming one another in a gargantuan orgy. You said that we will see the future tonight.” The Mysterious Man said, motioning to the MC. “And indeed these machines will help to usher in that future. But it is not the future you expect.

  “You were also correct in saying that I am here to deliver a lecture, but not to you. Every world power is represented here this fine evening. What better place to send a message to the entire planet than right here, right now. A great message, for a great exhibition. And in what better medium to write that message, than the only ink your pens have ever known.” The man looked out over the crowd for another moment.“Kill them.”

  Panic. The various armed men began firing into the crowd. The security guards and guests returned fire. Bodies. Blood. Spattered brain. Blank eyes falling upon plush carpet. The room was a battleground. The St. Claires, already near the door, ran unseen into the nearest service room. After getting inside, they huddled by the door as the battle outside escalated.

  “Everyone alright?” Carter asked? Cassidy and Cassandra nodded.

  “Carter, what the hell is going on? Who was that man?” Cassandra asked

  “I don't know. I... I... I just don't know,” he replied.

  Cassandra kept her eyes on Carter, who seemed to have drifted off into panicked thought. She grabbed him by the chin and lifted his eyes up to hers. “Do you have any guns on you?”

  Carter shook his head. “No. I didn't bring anything. And even if I did, we can't shoot our way out of here.” They looked at each other, scared, and nodded.

  “Ok, Cassidy,” Cassandra said, “just keep down, best you can. Don't stand up all the way.”

  Cassidy replied in a quiet whimper. “Yes.”

  Carter looked around. “There! When I say go, run for that door.” Carter pointed at the back wall where there was an open door. The three readied themselves for the short dash. “Run for it!” They all got up and scurried for the doorways as bullets shattered the windows of the office and a mass of people screamed as an explosion went off in the room next door. The door provided access to the service hallways running along the promenades. They stopped and glanced around the corner, looking down a long, empty hallway, walls made of wood and iron, floors with an industrial carpeting, with light coming out from a few doors running along the wall. “It's clear. There must be some servants elevators or something that we can use. We just need to get to them.” They started their way down the hallway when Carter heard a dull thud. He looked back, his body going cold and his breath leaving him as he saw Cassandra slumped against the wall.

  “Mama!” Cassidy yelled. Carter grabbed her mouth to cover it as Cassidy screamed underneath it. He ran over to Cassandra, who placed her hand on Cassidy's mouth as well.

  “Shhhh. Shh, shh. My little dear. My lovely little dear, shhh. You need to be a big girl and keep quiet. Ok?” Cassidy was breathing in a heavy stunted way as she tried to deal with sobs that were too big to release. Cassandra slowly released her hand, as did Carter.

  “Where are you hit?” Carter asked.

  “Someplace that will prevent me from getting up.” She said, her voice breathy.

  “Mama. Get up. We need to run.” Cassidy said quietly, with tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “Oh my beautiful little dear... little dear. So wonderful. So perfect. I love you more than anything. Remember that. Remember that I love you. Protect Papa for me, alright?” she said with a tearful smile. “Be big and strong, because he needs protecting.” Cassidy nodded, her face red and swollen with tears. “I'm so glad... so, so glad that... I...” Her voice trailed off, her eyes fixed on the distance, and her head slumped slowly down onto her chest.

  “Mama? Mama!!” Cassidy cried. She buried herself in Cassandra's chest and screamed anguished pleas into it, shaking Cassandra's body as hard as her little body could manage. “Get up! You have to get up! We have to go home!” Carter squeezed Cassandra's hand tightly, holding it against his face. He leaned in and kissed her on the forehead.
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  “I'm sorry,” he said. “I'm so sorry.” He placed Cassandra's hand in her lap. He grabbed Cassidy by the shoulders and turned her around. “Cassidy? Cassidy, listen to me,” he said, barely restraining his own tears. Cassidy fought back her crying and nodded. “I need you to be as quiet as possible. Ok? Can you do that. We need to stay secret.” Cassidy nodded as he spoke. “Ok. Let's go.” Carter picked up Cassidy, she wrapped her arms around his neck, and he began to run down the hallway. The world slowed as Cassidy watched the body of her mother shrink into the distance, sitting peacefully and quietly against the wall, bathed in an oasis of light from a single, overhead lamp. The last few seconds persisted for an eternity — time nearly freezing as Cassidy desperately held onto the final moments with her mother — before watching her body disappear behind the corner as Carter turned left to head down the western service tunnels. She closed her eyes and sobbed quietly into Carter's neck.

  As they ran, the ongoing firefight ringing throughout the structure, the wall up ahead that separated the hallway from the main hall suddenly exploded. “Shit!” Carter exclaimed. He looked around before running back down the hall to a door he had already passed. He opened it to find a large storage area, with lockers, chairs, and crates. He looked around before hiding behind the door, leaving it wide open. Armed men came down from where the hole had been blown open and glanced inside the room. Carter stood behind the door, covering Cassidy's mouth, holding her face near his. The armed man walked in slowly. He walked around the room inspecting behind the crates, even kicking some of the lockers. Satisfied, he headed out the door where he was met by other men. They spoke French to each other, before walking down the hall.