Star Angel: Prophecy

by David G. McDaniel

  What he learned was that the group she sought was the branch of an ancient tribe from that area of Idaho. An offshoot that must’ve arisen from the Matok (she, of course, gave him no details on who the Matok were). As she reviewed what Mike found she became convinced it must be them. If true it was incredible. A hundred strokes of fortune would’ve been required to bring them forward, doing what they were told, not migrating, maintaining a core of knowledge at all times, through generations, safeguarding the incredible secret they held.

  Or so she desperately hoped. That part remained to be seen.

  Such a tenuous connection across time. Such a tangled web leading forward until now. How twisted had that web become? Was this just the beginning of another long, convoluted journey, one that would take her forever to find the Codes? What if they’d misplaced them? Lost them? Sold them in a yard sale?

  It was ridiculous, and frightening, the number of things that actually could’ve gone wrong. The Codes, she was nearly certain, would appear to the average person as little more than a curiosity. If, in all these centuries, they slipped into the wild …

  Obviously she foresaw all this back then, including the fall of the Bok and the need for the Matok. Why couldn’t she just foresee everything? Why did it have to be vague? Her limitations frustrated her, and as she sat in the car earlier reviewing Mike’s discoveries, him looking on eagerly, she felt the disappointment of the ages. All she’d accomplished, all she’d become—incredible, mind-blowing things—and yet there she sat, angry with all she was not.

  She looked around the anachronistic confines of the lobby.

  She kept fighting the duality of her existence. Now here she was waiting in this dull little place, like waiting at the DMV or something, patiently just sitting there like any other good human, waiting to be led to her final destination, no other choice but to do so, the contrast of this world, these actions, at such odds with what she knew to be the truth: That she was a powerhouse and the thing she waited so patiently for could unlock the same power for everyone and create a universe of gods …

  It was killing her.

  And so there she sat. In a room time forgot, in a worn vinyl recliner, cracks in the armrests, crinkling in the silence every time she moved.

  The battle to be patient was hard fought.

  As one of those waves of impatience peaked a man entered. A different man, passing through the bead curtain from the back and the clacking of the little plastic balls seemed to unstick the moment. She watched him intently as he walked halfway across the room, paused to study her—she couldn’t tell if it was disdain, disbelief, curiosity, amazement or fear—all those emotions passed across his stern face at once—then he continued to the front door and turned the dead-bolt. It was an ominous action, locking them in, but it failed to alarm her. She was glad things were moving.

  He turned to her, back to the door.

  She stood.

  Deciding to get right to the heart of it. “You’re one of the Matok,” she told him. It was partly a question, but mostly a statement. She could see this man was the right one for that remark. Unlike the older one who answered the door, this man was involved. She studied his reaction. His face remained stoic, as when he entered, but his eyes, guarded from the moment she saw him, betrayed fresh surprise.

  “Who are you?” he’d entered the room defensive, and at her question only bristled further. He was Native American, like the other, probably in his forties, wearing a classic Western shirt with pearl buttons, belt with a big buckle, jeans and cowboy boots. Like the room he had turquoise extras; a necklace and a few rings. Like the room, a complete stereotype.

  “Tell me,” she decided to maintain the press, to jump right to the matter at hand, “do you have someone in your legends called the Star Angel?”

  Now the surprise in his eyes multiplied. It was like she’d just recited the entry code at a speakeasy, and there was no way she should know it.

  But he was silent.

  She pulled herself a little taller. “You recognize the name.”

  The uncomfortable stretch grew longer, and she was afraid he would speak no more. Just standing there, back protectively to the locked door, expression drawn. Like it was already too much and he was done talking before the conversation began.

  But his expression relaxed.

  Kind of.

  “There is one,” he said, so cautious it was hard to believe he was actually speaking. “In our legends. Those legends are ancient.” Curiosity now, and without warning he opened up, just a little; as if, beneath his resistance, he hid a strong desire to tell this tale and it could no longer be contained: “When they first saw her she descended as an angel from the night sky.” As if it was mildly liberating to speak of the thing he’d inherited and which he likely never expected to discuss, certainly not with anyone outside their little group, other than to pass it down to the next generation of Keepers. “She arrived to us from among the stars.

  “We called her the Star Angel.”

  There had developed a touch of reverence in him as he got out those words, and Jess could see that—even if on the surface he felt mostly like a good little soldier, carrying forward this obscure, seemingly irrelevant mission laid down by his ancestors, more ritual than anything—he, personally, held the Star Angel in awe. Like one would an ancient saint, or even a god; a thing that was around no more, maybe only written about, but was once great and deserved respect.

  Jess fixed his gaze. “She left you a task.” She tried to imagine the evolution of the tribe, the coming of the White Man and the disruption that brought, the conquering of their lands and the founding of America, all the insanity of growth and change through the years, the establishment of the reservation and all else, and yet, through it all, through generations that could surely have discarded this secret or forgotten it or any number of other ways to fail—through it all …

  They stayed true.

  She could see it in his eyes, suddenly, and there it was, clear as the light of day. The truth of what was.

  They actually did the task she gave them a thousand years before.

  Were still doing it, and would probably go on doing it.

  Somehow, some way, the Matok had preserved the purity of that crusade, and as she sensed it with certainty, as she knew the road would, in fact, end here, she felt a shuddering thrill.

  And all at once her whole being shifted, and she wanted to thank him, profusely; to throw herself at his feet, oddly, and thank him for what he’d done, for what he represented, for all those who went before and for everything the Matok had done.

  But it would make no sense at that point. There were yet steps to take. Time was of the essence, and nothing had yet been revealed. Even still, she knew in that moment she would have to repay them for their thousand-year service, these whole generations who kept the Codes safe.

  The entirety of humanity owed them.

  You are the Esehta Matok. She was in awe of this man, as he appeared to her suddenly in a whole new light.

  He maintained his standoff, back to the door.

  “The Star Angel told us the future of Man depends on us.” These were not guarded words, though they revealed no details.

  Then he stepped cautiously into deeper waters.

  “We are to reveal what we know to her and to her alone.” He forged on: “It is said she will return for what we hold. Her return will be as the harbinger of a New Path. A way forward that will mark a turning point. Legends say she will come in the midst of great tragedy, incredible strife, at the end of Man and at the end of the World.”

  Jess weighed her words carefully. “Would you not say this is the end of the world?” Her pragmatic view returned. Her urgency. This man here, this Matok, was merely the latest generation of the keepers of what had no doubt, to them, become a fairytale. Now here was a girl with yellow eyes in strange armor, appearing to have impossible insight into this thing he’d been charged with keeping secret and probably, until today, only
half believed in. What was he to do?

  She waited, and into the void he eased a bit of the “me wise elder, speak ancient truth” posture. He maintained his stance by the door but his expression relaxed, and when he spoke it was in a much more conversational tone.

  “You could make an argument for it,” he agreed, “sure. I mean, here we are in the middle of an alien invasion. Seems pretty End Of Man, End Of The World to me.”

  She let the pause hang in the room.

  Then: “It’s time to reveal what you keep.” The significance of the word “keep” could not be underestimated. Matok. Keeper. It drove right to the heart of it and his expression was taut again, veering back into uncomfortable territory.

  “How do you know to ask these questions?” His skepticism remained high, though this could be no prank. The Matok would’ve been such a closed loop, there was no way anyone could’ve known enough to even think of pulling such a trick. Which meant the girl standing before him was for real. That much he’d slowly come to believe. Only …

  “Who are you?”

  She debated her next move, then reached in the little pouch at her waist and took out ...

  The sigil. Symbol of the Matok.

  Keepers.

  His face dropped.

  She held it higher. “Is this familiar?” It was quite clear that it was. For a long moment he just stared. Frozen. Scared, actually. Trying to figure out how this could be a prank. Wanting it to be. Suddenly needing it to be. Now his expression had flipped and this could not be real. It had to be an elaborate hoax, meant to deceive or fool or make him look stupid. The thing he’d never had to worry over, the thing none of his ancestors had ever had to worry over, was in danger. Always a proud guardian, never a true defender, never had to be, now … now their treasure was in jeopardy.

  Who is she?! his eyes were screaming.

  Never in all their lives, Jess was sure, had their secret been this exposed. Now the crux of their purpose had arrived, no fanfare, no warning, no fireworks and nothing at all that it should’ve been. Nothing, surely, their legends would’ve told them. Just a teenage girl, American, local accent, dressed funny and knowing way too much, and this rapidly worsening gut check was hitting him hard.

  Slowly he reached for his neck, on automatic, fingered the handful of necklaces there nervously—he wore several—found the one he wanted, by touch, knowing it well, threaded it up, from within his shirt, pulled it out and showed her …

  The exact same sigil.

  Now it was her turn to be surprised.

  Ancient metal talisman, just like hers, engraved with the same symbol. Possibly, probably, just as old. Forged at the same time; a perfect twin.

  Matok.

  She saw him waver. Made a decision. A thing that would accelerate the finale of this slow-moving game of chess; a thing that would convince him, beyond any doubt. The final move, as it were, that would lead to a definitive resolution with no further need for discussion. She looked him hard in the eyes.

  And spoke directly in his mind.

 

  CHAPTER 39: RETURN TO HAMONHEPT

  The big yellow Waffle House sign towered high above anything else for miles around, clearly visible up and down the old country road. In the parking lot of the commensurately small restaurant Jess leaned against Mike’s car, waiting for him, arms crossed and looking up at the tall sign soaring above her, listening to the sounds of the night all around. Crickets, cicadas, an occasional owl, cars passing only now and again. It was late.

  WAFFLE HOUSE. A yellow square for each letter, each one huge. The thing was really up there. No missing it. And far overhead, backdrop for its majesty, twinkling in the night …

  Stars.

  Lots of them. There was little ambient light in that area of town and the stars were brilliant. She gazed upward a little longer then lowered her gaze to the parking lot. Only a few other cars at this hour. One semi. The lot was surrounded on three sides by woods. She remembered how excited she’d been when the Waffle House came to Boise, after having grown up with them in Florida. An icon in the South, it was like a whole new era when it was announced. She made all her friends go, again and again. Waffle House was the best.

  After getting the Codes she and Mike didn’t slow down. Mike was fine with that. He had boundless teen energy, same as her, ready to keep going though it was the middle of the night, and drove eagerly into the wee hours to get her back to Boise and on with her stated mission. Two teens, the fate of the world in their hands—the fate of worlds—and Jess thought maybe what she’d done so far, all she’d accomplished—outside any timelessness of being—took the sort of perspective only a teenager would have. Not yet weighed down by the failures and impossibilities of life, able to have the insane confidence needed to make the attempt. To believe it could be done. To absorb the kind of trauma such epic events entailed and move on. Even that shocking trip to Anitra—she found herself thinking all the way back to where this began—events that would’ve left an older mind scarred … even after that she managed to slug her way through the trauma and survive. Then slip back to normal life. Though she seemed too young to be the hero of this crazy tale maybe youth was exactly what was needed to make it work. Maybe that sort of durable optimism was the only thing keeping the whole charade in motion.

  Things failed. But they never failed unless you tried. Likewise, things succeeded. And, likewise, things never succeeded unless you tried. And so the only way was to try. To make the attempt. And she had. Often terrified, often wanting to do nothing more than curl up in a ball and wish it all away she’d persevered. So far the greater part of her attempts had been successful. Success outweighed the failures and here she was, having achieved what she set out to do and, voila, the once plain, shy, unknown teen girl had done the impossible.

  She had the Codex Amkradus.

  For the hundredth time she glanced through the passenger window into the back seat.

  Completely anticlimactic.

  Somehow she’d known they would be.

  They were in an armored briefcase. Recordings of a race that predated even the Ancients, last used by the godmakers, perverted to rule at their whim, left hidden after that until she, Aesha, found them a thousand years ago, hid them again, left them with a small band of Keepers and now here they were, locked in an armored briefcase in the backseat of a noisy little sport import.

  Her only mistake back then had been to try and make them known. Her rush to do so, and the violent reaction against what they promised, set in motion a chain of events that led to war and, a less significant but far more personal outcome, her own death. The effort to make known the Codes precipitated the fall of worlds, bringing an empire to ruin. Now here they were. The Codex Amkradus. In her possession once more. Mind-numbingly advanced holographic cubes, housing untold knowledge, packed in foam, locked in an armored briefcase.

  How very terrestrial.

  Spy Games style, and she admired the Matok for what they’d done. She could only imagine the various containers they’d used over the centuries to house the cubes. The most recent this simple case. When she opened it and looked at the cubes it was like seeing something you kind of remembered but weren’t sure, then when you saw it the image you recalled was verified and the thing you were looking at, the real thing, was suddenly the sharpest it had ever been. Two perfect cubes, the two she remembered, each one small enough to hold in one hand. Not much bigger than a Rubik’s Cube. Shiny, like perfectly smooth, mirrored hematite. Possibly metallic, though they could’ve had ceramic properties and she suspected they did. An advanced lattice that was not only super strong but, if she was right, was also a data matrix. Holding holographic information of an amount and type that was surely off the scale.

  Such significance, kept secret on a little-known reservation by the offshoot descendants of a thousand-year-old tribe, a handful of humans following some ancient rite they knew little about. Perhaps the sheer simplicity of it was what kept
the Codes safe. Who would’ve suspected … this?

  And there they were. Laying in the back of Mike’s car. The backseat of a customized weekend drifter, owned by a high-schooler from Boise, parked in a Waffle House parking lot in the middle of the night, crickets grinding the air all around. Just a metal briefcase, near as anyone would suspect. Near as anyone could suspect.

  The Codes, she’d realized all along, were no magic bullet. Now that she had them … they weren’t going to solve anything. Not yet. Her objective now was to protect them.

  Now I’m the Keeper. And the Defender. She was now Bok and Matok in one.

  She took a deep breath and turned her attention back out to the starry night sky. Thinking ahead to the gate and her impending return to Galfar’s world, Hamonhept.

  If the gate had been compromised, if she got close and found the Kel were there or already found it, she would have to abort and go deep, maybe even pop back to the Bok farm and find a way to reconnect with Drake and the resistance and go underground again. She really hoped not. Earth was definitely not where she wanted to keep hiding the Codes.

  For now, however, her plan was to eat. She was starved. After that she would go on foot back through the woods to the hills behind her house and, from there, to the gate. This Waffle House was near enough to her neighborhood so, in a sense, she was already almost there.

  Mike walked out the front doors. In his hands were a few to-go bags. Her mouth began to water in anticipation of the waffle and the hash browns. He smiled in the yellow glow of the tall lot lamps as he walked toward her, noticing her eager expression. “Here you go,” he handed her one of the bags. She took it, went around to the back of the car and put it on the trunk.

  “Thanks.” Delicious aromas wafted up from the warm bag as she took out Styrofoam containers and found the waffle. Eagerly she opened the little butters and dumped them on. Mike handed her plastic ware and she spread the half-melted yellow goodness, probably not even butter, actually, added syrup and dug in. He joined her on the trunk, preparing his a little more slowly. She opened her hash brown container and started in on that, savoring the multiple flavors. Mike brought milks; she dug one of those out too.