by D R Sanford
Cautiously pushing down on the latch, he eased the door open. Soft light from an end table lamp illuminated the far center of the windowless room. Warm artwork featuring sunrises and floral scenes more than made up for the lack of windows. Curled under a thick quilt was the woman they rescued from The Grove, her head above the covers and deep brown hair now glossy and tied back in a ponytail.
Tortured sounds escaped her lips. Her legs twisted in her sleep. Cullen began to imagine the isolation and indignities dealt to her. His thoughts turned back to Nora, enslaved somewhere, probably convinced that she'd never see the light of day again.
Tip-toeing to her bedside, Cullen sat on the edge and gently brushed his fingers from her temple to the curve behind her ear. If they had done anything right, it was pulling her out of that basement.
Perhaps they were all riding a downward spiral of insanity, but if Nora lay at the end of his trials, Cullen could try to swallow the crazy cocktail being offered.
Ferdiad and his mother argued in whispers when Cullen returned to the dining room. He clutched the back of his chair, ready to sit down and apologize when Ferdiad cut him off.
“We're saved. The prodigal son returns.”
“Quiet Ferd," Erin said. "He has a right to know all that we can tell.”
Cullen's mother clasped his left hand, her eyes still examining the surface of her mocha colored coffee until she addressed him.
“Please, sit down.”
Cullen scowled at Ferdiad and took his seat.
“It's my fault that you've never known your father," Erin continued. "As fathers go, 'Lugh of the long hand' is not a prime subject, but he could have prepared you for what you're about to face. Although, if I'd given him free reign over you, Nora would never have come into your life. Your only concerns would be for the edge of your blade and the end of Maeve's rule.”
“Lugh? You're talking about “Lugh” the myth, the godfather of Irish deities?”
Chuckling in his seat, Ferdiad said, “Godfather? Don't let him hear that, or we'll be stuck with Brando impressions for a decade. He is old, though. One of few that have stuck around."
Cullen considered it and looked to his mother for confirmation.
"So, you fell in love with an old Irish god and agreed to have his child? Why?"
"After nearly two thousand years of Maeve's ascension, Lugh decided he'd seen enough conflict and power struggles, achieving nothing but more conflict. Remember, Lugh is a master of all skills. Maeve's practice of enslaving the masses doesn't foster the innovation and arts that he's so fond of."
She wagged a spoon at him and finished, "And, you should know it was Lugh who fell for me, not the other way around. Otherwise I never would have secured a normal life for you."
“How do you explain my bones and hand healing so quickly?”
Ferdiad banged his fork on the table, catching Cullen's attention.
“Are you thick in the head, boy? Your mother just explained that you are the son of a god. It comes with some perks.”
“Enough, Ferdiad, he's adjusting as quickly as he can. Cullen, when was the last time you were sick?”
He remembered Nora pointing out that he always had a knack for avoiding flu season.
“I can't recall.”
“And the stitches from your head injury in January?” she asked.
“They fell out before my check-up. The doctor said I was a quick healer.”
“I'd say so,” Ferdiad interjected. “Well, the son of Lugh should have some more surprises in store. Laeg said you saved him and the woman after the car wreck. Tell me, how did you eliminate two armed mercs?”
Cullen recalled that dark road, climbing out of the ditch and killing two men as though he watched from the sidelines. At the time, he assumed that shock had overwhelmed him, but he remembered something else. The rise of an inner beast that took control, swift and deadly.
“I wish I knew. My legs moved on their own, and my good arm did the rest. It's beyond me.”
“Huh. It seems like there may be a touch of the old Cúchulainn in you after all. It's just a shame we don't have time to train you properly.”
“What does that mean?” Cullen looked back and forth between the two.
His mother was silent, her eyes pained.
Ferdiad answered, “It means today is Wednesday the 10th, and shortly after three o'clock in the morning on Monday the 15th, the moon will be full. At that time, Nora's labor will be induced, Maeve will take your child, and your wife will probably be left to die.”
The weight of it struck Cullen. A short nod from his mother confirmed it.
“How are we going to get her back?”
His mother gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.
“Your father is working on finding her. We have a pretty good idea where she may be, though. As far as retrieving her goes, that is up to Ferdiad.”
Ferdiad slid his plate aside, empty but for a few grapes that Erin had placed on the edge.
“That's right, I'm the man with the master plan. If you've got any potential, I'll be the one to drag it out. I recommend you get to work on your breakfast. There are a few long days ahead of you.”
***
Ferdiad promised to wait while Cullen showered and dressed. Freshly scrubbed and with a hearty breakfast in his stomach, he found his tennis shoes at the foot of the bed and the chest of drawers filled with clothes from home. His mother had come prepared. Cullen realized, with a twinge of guilt, that she had packed up their lives on a moment's notice and retreated to this ranch in the mountains.
Dressing in a fresh pair of jeans and a t-shirt, Cullen eased into a comfortable long sleeved shirt for added warmth. Ferdiad and his mother chatted in the kitchen, leaning against the countertop. She held a flannel jacket with a quilted inner lining that he slipped into. It was a size too big but should be fine for the outdoor walk Ferdiad mentioned.
The tip of a thermos peeked out of the crook in the big man's elbow, presumably full of more coffee. Apparently they had a full morning ahead of them. Erin sent them off with orders to Ferdiad that Cullen return in one piece, not a reassuring start to their alone time.
They exited the house through a side door in the kitchen, and Cullen took in the exterior surroundings. Angled toward them was a large garage, its roofline higher than the house's, deep enough for two cars with three double doors along the front.
Judging by the location of the morning sun to the left, the lake and nearby mountains lay to the west.
The only other building on the property was a barn situated perhaps fifty feet behind the garage. He noted that the red steel siding and roof was well maintained. A corral of Kentucky fencing connected at the barn's front corner and circled around, probably linked on the back side as well.
Two geldings trotted to the fence line as they passed. Ferdiad stepped off the path, and digging in the pockets of his prodigious canvas jacket, he produced two apples in his open hands. The dun colored horses greedily accepted the fruit, and Cullen saw Ferdiad in a new light. Happiness lit in his eyes as he rubbed their muzzles and spoke in a low tone. He may have been gruff and intimidating before but seemed to mellow around the animals.
Curiosity and the silence between them nagged at Cullen until he gave in, asking, “What's your story? If you don't mind me asking, that is."
Ferdiad looked at him from the corner of his eye and returned his attention to the horses. Just as Cullen was about to resolve himself to silence, Ferdiad spoke.
“You really don't remember any past life do you?”
“Not a bit. Why, does it matter?”
“I guess not. As your mother said, you're better off without the burden of recollection. I knew your namesake, the old Cúchulainn, quite well, and despite the years that have passed, I still remember him. For a moment there, when you held the fireplace poker, I saw a bit of the old fire in you. I'll have to take your mother's word for it that the Hound of Ulster has returned.”
The notion that
Cullen was the reincarnation of an Irish folk hero still made little sense. As an anthropologist, he respected cultural beliefs in reincarnation but had never considered there to be proof for the existence of past lives.
In popular culture everyone wanted to be Caesar or Cleopatra without owning up to previous lives as a milk maid or janitor. Plus, there could only be one Cleopatra. One. So, what were multiple people doing wandering around with claims of regal visions.
The communities he visited with his mother while growing up were a different story, however. People there often saw life and death as a continuous cycle. Their experience did not take them far from the village, and working with finite resources was a common thread in daily life. Cullen saw their adherence to reincarnation as support for their ecosystem. By honoring the souls of plants, animals, people, and even water around them, small bands ensured their own longevity.
“I'm still a little fuzzy on all that," Cullen said. "I was just wondering why you're motivated to help me. If it's such a bad idea to cross Maeve, why are you doing it?”
Ferdiad expelled a sigh, patted each horse one more time, and motioned toward the path. They fell into step beside each other again, and Ferdiad broke the silence.
“I've known Maeve for a long time, since our first lives. Back then her beauty was intoxicating, her ambitions enormous, and ability to draw men to her cause legendary.
“The first few hundred years were quite a ride. I'd spend the first years of each newborn life oblivious to the fact that I was Maeve's vassal, unaware of the eventual coming-of-age ceremony that filled my mind with every memorable detail of past lives.”
They skirted the lake along its western edge, then turned into the rising sun, its rays warming Cullen's face. For all the aimless miles he walked in the past months, nothing was so sweet or revitalizing as the feeling that welled inside on this open range.
Scrub brush dotted the surrounding country. Greenery along the edges of the lake stood in sharp contrast to the brown waist-high grasses blanketing the rolling hills beyond the path. They followed a wide trail to the northeast, kept bare by ATV and horse traffic, and began to follow it down into a depression.
"It feels good, doesn't it?" Ferdiad asked.
"What's that?"
"The freedom. For eight years now, I've been off Maeve's radar, preparing for the big push against Megalith. It's refreshing being out from under her thumb."
"So, what made up your mind to leave? Based on what you said about her methods for punishment, I wouldn't think you'd make that decision lightly."
Ferdiad grew silent again. Plucking a tall stem of prairie grass from the trail's edge, he stripped off the blades and chewed on the stalk within.
"Most of my relationships throughout the years were based on convenience. I married for someone to cook, clean, and give me sons. Megalith always kept me on the move, but Maeve stressed early on that we establish healthy bloodlines. Everything changed, though, when I met my last wife, Jenny.
“God knows what she saw in me, maybe a balance to her perpetual foolishness. That woman used to dance like a ballerina through the living room in her pajamas. No music except for what was playing in her head.” He smiled at the memory, eyes focused on the past and better times. “I was never safe around her, whether I had to defend myself against cold water attacks in the shower or being pants'd in the kitchen.”
“Pants'd? What is that?”
“Completely juvenile and always unexpected, she used to hook her fingers in my waistband and yank my pants down to my ankles. Not a welcome surprise when you're frying eggs in the morning. She fundamentally changed me. I accepted fewer missions and enjoyed life more than I had in centuries.”
Cullen couldn't help himself and bent over laughing at the idea of someone dropping Ferdiad's drawers for a joke.
“So where is your Jenny now? Did Maeve become jealous and separate you?”
“Nothing of the sort, actually.” A storm of inner turmoil passed over Ferdiad. His voice deepened to the growl Cullen had become accustomed to. “You know what they say about the light that burns bright? Well, Jenny was diagnosed with ovarian cancer before she was thirty. We had less than a year together after that.”
Cullen didn't know what to say. Maybe there weren't any appropriate words. He'd barely survived the loss of Nora, and that happened in a blink compared to a drawn out sickness that would have broken down every ounce of self until nothing was left.
“Maeve called me in to her study near the end. We shared nearly a full bottle of fine whiskey while retracing the glories of years gone by. She made me a very rare offer, one that is extremely difficult to decline. I raced back to Jenny, elated with the opportunity given us."
Dirt crunched under their feet and a breeze brushed over the tall grasses. Cullen risked a sidelong glance. Ferdiad clenched his jaw, the muscles bulging as he shredded the stalk in his teeth.
“Regular people like Jenny don't get offered Maeve's immortality, only the heroes she can mold for her future. I lay beside Jenny in bed that night, holding her, weak and racked with pain. I promised to wipe the pain away. We'd be reborn together with fresh new lives to spend. But, she was sadder contemplating her part in the destruction of a newborn's soul than her own dying, and in the end she refused. Said she wouldn't change a thing and knew that sooner or later we'd be reunited, on this side or the other.
“I learned an important lesson the following day. Never defy Maeve. Upon delivering the news to Maeve, she made her disappointment clear, and by the time I returned home Jenny was dead, two bullet holes in her skull. Maeve ordered it out of mercy, or so she claimed. I know she viewed it as defiance and was quick to deal out my punishment.”
“And that's when you turned against her?”
“Let's say it opened my eyes. Your father did the rest by coming to me and offering his protection. I had the feeling that Lugh was just biding his time, waiting for something, and now I know. He has great faith in you, though I don't know why. There's hardly a glimmer of Cúchulainn in you, and I sincerely doubt we can prepare you in four days.”
“What's the alternative if you can't.”
“If you fail to rise to the occasion, Cullen, you and Nora will be dead by Monday. And the rest of us along with you, I suppose.”
—Chapter 14—
THE BEAST WITHIN
No pressure, Cullen thought, as they followed the path into a narrow, winding canyon, the walls rising to a height of over fifteen feet. Moving in and out of shadows, he noticed a drop in the air temperature. They walked shoulder to shoulder for what must have been two hundred yards before it opened up and Cullen was struck by what, at first glance, appeared to be a junkyard.
Smashed cars lined the canyon floor in a haphazard formation. Numerous obstacles and various detritus popped up between the vehicles and continued around the bend nearly fifty yards away.
Something caught his eye in the shade nearby. A man sat, with his back against the canyon wall, juggling. On closer inspection, Cullen saw five knives rotating end over end, from hand to hand. Each knife passed silently, the man's face was slack, as though lost in a trance.
Ferdiad introduced him.
“That would be Larkin. Hey, Larkin, how about you get up off your duff and say hello to our latest recruit.”
Larkin's concentration snapped as he seemed to notice them for the first time. His hands moving faster than Cullen could watch, Larkin snatched the knives out of the air and deposited them somewhere on his body. He rolled off the ground, dusting himself off while stepping into the light.
A couple inches shorter than Cullen and clothed entirely in black, Larkin was a compact man with broad shoulders and a deep chest. He approached with right hand extended. Cullen shook the hand, matching the firm grip, and was drawn to the striking intensity of the man's cerulean blue eyes. They danced with some inner mirth that set Cullen on edge. The shortness of his black, wiry hair called attention to a pronounced widow's peak. Abnormally long, upper ca
nines jutted downward when he smiled.
“G'day mate,” the man said.
“Morning. Are you from Australia? I spent a year there on walkabout with my mother when I was, uh, twelve.”
“Never mind him,” said Ferdiad. "Larkin grew up in the Czech Republic, learning all he knows of the English language from American movies. He thinks he's a walking, talking action star. If you can stand to talk with him, you'll find that he makes up personalities and goes method with it. It pisses me off, and what makes it worse, I think it amuses him.”
Cullen turned back to Larkin, the man's face transitioning from mischief to hurt with the fluid response of a practiced mime.
“You're looking good, Sarge,” he said to Ferdiad.
“Knock it off, Larkin.”
Trying unsuccessfully to stifle a smile, Cullen turned his head and saw another man walking their way.
He stopped here and there to prop up a fallen barrel or jostle a piece of junk to make sure it wouldn't fall. Perhaps the fifty yards of chaos actually served a purpose.
The newcomer paused next to a department store mannequin for a moment, draping a black garbage bag over its armless shoulders. He cut a slit for the head to pop out and gathered the bag's slack at the waist in a knot. Now that Cullen saw the one, he noticed the landscape was packed with dummies outfitted in bags, their heads painted a dark red. Some stood out in the open, but most remained partially hidden behind car doors, barrels, and other obstacles.
The man worked his way toward them, fastidious with his preparations, stripping off old bags, replacing them, applying fresh spray paint from a can he pulled out of a satchel. He moved with a sort of grace and economy, no wasted motions and constantly aware of his surroundings. Over six feet tall in his boots, he kept long black hair tied back in a leather thong and a scruffy beard. Dressed in desert camouflage pants and a tight green tank top over his sun-bronzed skin, he completed his rounds and dropped the satchel on the ground by a nearby sedan.
