An old woman, who had been approaching on the road, saw them looking at Cnoc Angel, and stopped to listen in. When Michael paused, she stepped closer, tapped his arm with a bony finger, and in a thick Scottish brogue, whispered, “They still come here, you know. Last month, I saw three of them, right here.”
Then, pulling her shawl tighter around her head against the morning chill, she added, “And last week, down in the village, Agnes McClean and I was walkin’ outside at dusk and saw two of them angel beings flying over us, headed toward the East. They flew directly over our heads… and they had a otherworldly glow.”
Michael pulled out his dog-eared journal and made some quick notes, then got her name and asked if he could speak with her again.
“Looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you,” Patrick smiled. He didn’t want to admit it, but being on Iona, he was actually starting to believe the angels might show up.
They continued across the island. Topping a rise, Patrick could hardly believe his eyes… the road ahead ran down through the middle of a golf course! “So this is where my ancestors played golf?”
“Well, actually, your ancestors grew wheat here, but this is Scotland, you know.” Michael smiled. “Of course, everything on Iona is a little unique… notice the cows grazing over there near the fifth hole.
“But, now look straight ahead…”
Beyond the golf course Patrick saw something else that looked out of place on a wind-swept Scottish Isle. The path they were walking ended at a broad, crescent-shaped white-sand beach that looked like something out of a Caribbean travel brochure. All it needed was a few palm trees.
“That’s called The Bay at the Back of the Ocean.” Michael explained.
“Michael, I must say, Iona is an amazing place.”
“Patrick O’Neill, you haven’t even begun to see the wonders of this place. But, that’s enough of the tourist sites. The southern part of the isle has some interesting spots, but it’s pretty rugged, so I’ll let you explore that yourself. But wear boots when you go… the bogs will pull the shoes right off your feet.
“For now, let’s head back to the northern end of the island. I want to show you one more place.”
They retraced their path past the Hill of the Angels and along the winding road until they passed the hotel.
A short walk north of the hotel, on the right side of the road, stood a lovingly restored medieval monastery, the majestic Iona Abbey.
“Believe it or not, this was a crumbling ruin for hundreds of years,” Michael commented. “The 8th Duke of Argyll began preservation work in 1874.”
“So this was Columba’s monastery?”
“Hardly.” Michael laughed.
“As old as all of this looks, everything you see here was built at least 500 years after your ancestors retreated to Ireland. By the time this was built, the Catholic Church had taken over Iona, and the power of the ancient Celts was lost.
“The Iona Columba knew was entirely different than what you see here. The original ‘monastery,’ if you want to call it that, was a collection of small beehive-shaped huts. They called those huts ‘cells.’ Each monk had his own cell, or in the case of married couples… each couple had their own. Together, they formed a small community. For protection, they built a ten-foot tall earth and stone embankment called a vallum around the cells. Within the vallum they also built a mill, a barn, a church, and several other buildings. Of those buildings, of course, nothing remains.
“All that remains of the original Iona monastery is a trace of the vallum that surrounded the encampment. Let me show you the wall your ancestors built…”
Walking north past the medieval monastery, Patrick saw, running east-west across the middle of a field, the crumbling remains of a rock and earthen wall. “That wall was the northern edge of the original monastery. Your ancestors built that wall in an age when Roman legions still battled barbarian hordes all across northern Europe.
“Now, Patrick, there’s one more place I want to show you. It’s not mentioned in the tour books, but it’s really my favorite place on the island. It’s a little hill called Cnoc nan Carnan. That’s Gaelic for ‘Hill of the Cairns.’ Most tourists never even notice it, but I believe it’s where your cousin Columba lived.
“Historical records agree that Columba’s cell stood at the top of a rise overlooking the rest of the monastery. That puzzled me, since the monastery now is pretty much on level ground. Then I realized that the original monastery was much larger than the medieval one. If you notice the remains of the old wall, it continues past the road, and up over that rise of land on the west. So part of Columba’s monastery was actually up on that rise.”
They crossed the road and passed through a gate. Just to the left, rising above the coastal plain, was a small green hill. At the top of the hill, Patrick could see huge rock slabs jutting from the ground, forming a sheltered area between.
Michael pointed to the top of the hill. “That’s where Columba’s cell must have stood, nestled in the protection of those rocks. How many times did Columba converse with angels in that very place? Let’s go take a look.”
Patrick and Michael walked up the hill. The grass underfoot was covered in wildflowers. To the east was the medieval monastery, and beyond that, the Sound of Iona and the distant mountains of Mull. To the west he could see the rugged, green landscape of Iona, and in the far distance, the endless sea.
As they reached the top of the hill, Patrick walked between the huge rock slabs, his feet sinking into the soft heather. It was like walking on holy ground.
There was no mistaking this place. He was returning to a place he had visited many times before. It was the place of peace and refuge he’d left America to find. Patrick had found The Hill.
As Patrick glanced around in amazement, surveying the beauty and serenity of the place, he had no way of knowing that in less than three months time, the fate of the world would be decided on this very spot.
Chapter Nine: Aftermath
BRENTWOOD MEMORIAL HOSPITAL, BOULDER, COLORADO
The next morning, Brentwood Memorial Hospital, along with almost every place else in America, was buzzing with the news of the latest suicide bombing in New York City. In recent months there had been a series of New York bombings, but this was by far the worst. It took place in Grand Central Station at four in the afternoon. There were twenty-seven dead, most of them children returning from a school field trip. Many more were injured and maimed for life. The explosives had been heavily laced with nails and broken glass to produce maximum damage.
The news reports, as usual, replayed the security tapes over and over, with endless commentary and conjecture. No one had yet taken credit for the atrocity.
Lys Johnston had been watching the reports all day, and was literally shaking when Roger came in that afternoon.
“What’s wrong, Lys?” Roger asked with genuine concern. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I don’t know...” Lys answered haltingly. She was still in pain and heavily sedated. “Maybe I am seeing a ghost. I’m seeing something and I’m not sure what it is.
“The networks have been replaying the footage of the suicide bomber all day. In the video, you see the bomber enter the station and walk to the center of the floor. From the first time I saw it I knew something wasn’t right. She looked like she was already dead. It was like watching a zombie.”
“She gets to the center of the station and stands there, watching a crowd of school children come toward her. She waits until they’re all around her. Then, just before she detonates the bomb, she looks up at the camera… and smiles.
“The look she got…” Lys said, struggling against the pain, “It’s the same look the men gave me just before they tried to kill me. And every time I watch it, I see the same thing. Something’s there, and it’s not that poor woman. Something is in her. It’s looking at me through her eyes… and it isn’t human.” Lys’s body shuddered and she shook her head, as if trying to sha
ke the image from her mind.
“Roger, I know this sounds crazy, but that suicide bomber… I’m sure she’s somehow tied in with the men who tried to kill me.”
Roger reached out and rested his hand lightly on her shoulder, “Sis, you’re still shaken-up from the accident. Don’t let your mind get carried away. That woman was just mentally unbalanced.”
“No, Roger. I know what ‘unbalanced’ looks like. This was different. It’s like the woman wasn’t even there. Something was in her, using her body. And whatever you call it…” Lys fumbled for the right word, and finally found it. “It was…evil.”
The news channel was beginning another security camera replay. Roger reached out and switched off the TV. “Lys, you’ve had a horrible experience, but I know you’ll come through it. When they catch those men, you’ll see they were just strung out on drugs. And that woman was just a brainwashed fanatic. Don’t let your mind make this into anything more.”
Roger hesitated. “Lys, I have to tell you something, and you need to listen. Your office called me earlier this afternoon. They checked on that woman, Kareina, you asked me about.”
Lys looked up, “Did they find her? Is she okay?”
“Someone from your office went door-to-door, checking every office on your floor, then every office in the building. But no one in your building has ever heard of a Kareina. Two floors down they found a Katrina working as an accountant, but she’s a 54 year-old blonde and weighs 250 pounds. In other words, sis… no matches.”
“But that’s impossible,” Lys objected. “I know her. She came by my desk almost every day. I remember talking with her in the car just before the accident. I didn’t make her up.”
Roger reached down and held her hand. “You’ve been through a terrible ordeal... something most people wouldn’t have survived. It’s natural for you to be confused.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that your mind is playing tricks on you. You’ve had a serious trauma and it’s left you mixed-up, but you need to face the facts. There was no Kareina in the car. There was no Kareina in your building. Lys, this ‘Kareina’ person doesn’t exist.”
***
PLANO, TEXAS (A SUBURB OF DALLAS)
I’m going mad, Erin thought. Absolutely stark-raving mad.
Erin Vanderberg sat numbly on her patio pouring her fourth glass of wine of the afternoon. She tilted the bottle to the vertical and held it a moment to drain the last drops. Then she raised the glass and admired its rich red contents. It was her favorite wine, a little-known Sangiovese from a remote village in Italy. She had it shipped in by the case.
Taking a long, slow sip, she leaned back on the chaise again to watch a beautiful pump-driven waterfall cascade down a carefully-landscaped artificial cliff and into her swimming pool.
Why am I doing this? She thought. Why do I keep going?
Three weeks earlier she had returned from Hawaii, nursing a glimmer of hope. Since then, however, her doubts about the events at Kilauea had begun to grow. She pondered the scene with Araton on the edge of the crater, replaying it endlessly in her mind. It seemed remote, like something she’d watched a long time ago in a bad movie.
She and Araton had spent most of that day at Volcano House talking. It had given her a fleeting sense of purpose and a hope that things could change, but she’d heard nothing from Araton since returning to Dallas. Had it even been real?
Maybe she’d imagined the whole thing. Perhaps that whole day was just an unusually vivid dream that somehow lodged in her memory.
After a while she began to chide herself for even thinking it could have been real. Erin Vanderberg rescued from the clutches of an ancient Hawaiian volcano goddess by a winged alien who warned of coming global catastrophe. Yeah, right!
In the weeks since returning to Dallas, absolutely nothing had changed. The only good thing was that Rex, as usual, seemed preoccupied with activities at the ranch. She’d only seen him once since her return.
But she’d quickly jumped back into a swirling tide of endless responsibilities. The curse of doing things well, she thought. Do one thing well, and you’ll be given more. Much more. She was torn by constant pressure from a dozen directions.
The mayor has opposed the new plan for the arboretum. No problem. Erin Vanderberg just got back from Hawaii. She’ll take the mayor’s new wife to lunch and get things back on track.
And by the way, Erin… we’re so looking forward to your presentation at the Dallas Arts Council luncheon. The governor will be there. This is very important.
And, Erin, the entertainment for the Charity Ball just canceled. The tickets have already been printed. Details have fallen through the cracks and no one is sure what to do. We need your help, Erin. You’re the only one that can pull this together.
Erin can fix it. Erin Vanderberg can do anything. They all depended on her.
After all these years, Erin knew she was still trying to prove herself. To prove she was not Rex. And to do that, she had to be perfect. She had to know the right people and have the right answers. And above all, she had to be strong. Always. She could never let anyone know what Erin Vanderberg was really like.
The momentary refreshment of her time in Hawaii was now a distant memory. Despite the Xanex, her panic attacks had resumed, and against her doctor’s warning, she drank a full bottle of wine every night just to get to sleep.
Then last night she’d lost it. It began with a middle-of-the-night panic attack. She awoke at 2:00 AM feeling frightened and alone. Her legs and shoulders were twitching. She felt lightheaded. There was a smothering sensation… the sense that there was no oxygen in the air she was breathing. Next came the pressing tightness in her chest. She tried to scream, but could not. Her heart was a sledge hammer pounding in her rib cage. Was she having a heart attack?
In her mind Erin knew there was no danger… just the classic symptoms of an anxiety attack. They would pass in a few minutes, leaving her shaky and drenched with sweat. She’d experienced these attacks on and off for years. It didn’t matter that the symptoms weren’t real. They always felt real.
When the symptoms finally subsided, she’d flipped on the TV and for the first time saw the reports of the New York bombing. That’s when she fell apart.
She didn’t know why the news hit her so hard. Terrorist attacks seemed to happen all the time now. She felt little connection to New York City, and certainly knew none of the people involved. Even the Nine-Eleven attacks had not affected her like this. The moment she saw the report she began to weep uncontrollably.
She never got back to sleep. She had her secretary cancel everything and spent the morning numbly watching and re-watching the reports.
What’s happening to me?
She’d nearly finished the wine when she sensed a presence close by. She looked up to see Araton standing beside her.
“Araton!” she gasped as she lurched clumsily to her feet, then stared at him with her mouth agape. His appearance was every bit as unsettling as their first meeting had been, but in a different way.
On the one hand, Erin had a strong urge to throw herself into his arms, embracing Araton like a long-lost love, finally reunited. With another part of her mind, however, she wanted to collapse in tears and pour out her frustration. Reigning in her emotions, she managed a middle course.
“Araton,” she repeated, struggling to remain standing, “I’d almost convinced myself that you weren’t real… that it had all been a dream.”
“I assure you, I’m very real.” He smiled. Then, noting the combined effects of a sleepless night and a full bottle of wine, he added, “… but I think you’d better sit back down.”
He helped her into the chaise, then sat down cross-legged on the patio beside her. “Tell me what’s happening.”
“I’m not sure what’s happening.” She answered. “This morning when I heard about the bombing, I just fell apart. I don’t even know why.
“What I’m feeling… it’s not t
he kind of grief you feel about terrible events in far-away places. It’s not even the sympathy you feel for people you know. Araton, this feels personal. It feels like I’m mourning a personal loss.”
Araton looked at her quietly for a moment, then said, “When I heard about the bombing I knew I needed to come. I expected you’d have this response when you saw her.”
“You assumed I’d fall apart when I saw the video of the suicide bomber?” Erin said, puzzled. “Why?”
“The woman in the video was Sylvia Romano.”
Seeing the questioning look on Erin’s face, he added, “No, you’ve never met her, but your destinies were closely intertwined.”
“Sylvia was supposed to be part of the group we’re forming. If her path had not been interrupted, the two of you would have worked together closely. In fact, she was destined to one day be your closest friend. Your subconscious senses that, and you feel the loss.”
“What happened to her?”
“Sylvia was captured by the enemy and held prisoner in one of their strongholds.”
“A stronghold?” Erin asked. “What’s that?”
“A stronghold is an area the enemy controls, where powerful Archon warriors dominate the territory. In this case, it was a neighborhood near the South Bronx called Tremont Point. They knew we couldn’t operate openly there to rescue her.
“We tried repeatedly to warn her, but we didn’t have sufficient strength to gain her release. In the end they took possession of her body and turned her into a walking bomb. They used her to further their plans.”
“They can do that?’ Erin recoiled in horror. “Control our bodies against our will?”
“Only when your will has been weakened. If you become hopeless enough they can overpower you and control your every movement.”
He paused and looked at her intently. “Erin, you must remain alert. I believe the enemy has formed a plan to eliminate you as well. You must not let that happen.”
Iona Portal (The Synaxis Chronicles) Page 7
