Guild Of Immortal Women

by David Alan Morrison

  Her last transmission to the USS Itasca had been placed, the plane’s fuel reserves had been exhausted, and her whereabouts labeled in a vague manner, which was sure to cause confusion upon her disappearance. Of all the lifetimes she had lived thus far, it is this existence she would miss the most.

  She had been thrilled beyond measure when she first learned of flight. The news of the successful airborne experiment in Kitty Hawk set her heart racing. Imagine! The opportunity to break away from the ruthless confines of the Earth; the ability to disconnect oneself from soil and connect to the sky, air and clouds. One step closer to God.

  She looked up into the azure expanse and uttered a silent prayer to those disembodied voices who had been with her since adolescence. She long ago had made peace with her gift of seeing angels, but they never amazed her more than they had back when she was a girl—a lonely peasant wench in France. She had learned that blue was the color of the sky; therefore, the color of the heavens. God was blue.

  “Hey! Hey! Torch!” the booming voice erupted, destroying her moment of tranquility. “You ready?”

  She sighed deeply and returned her focus to the plane’s dials. “No!” she screamed over the droning engines. Damn, how she hated to do this. Her entire life had been spent looking upward to the sky, the heavens that concealed the secret answers to her long-nagging questions: Who am I? Why am I so different from the rest? Why, God, do you choose to speak to me? Her life of flight was not so much devoted to the conquest of nature via the flying machine, but just one more step towards the Divine. One more step on a journey she began the moment of her magical birth.

  Living forever had its downfalls.

  “Yes, Fred,” she screamed at the impatient man running navigation, “now I’m ready.”

  She felt him kick her seat in acknowledgement. This is a signal the two of them had agreed upon somewhere over Australia on their way to Port Darwin. After hours of screaming at each other, they had finally created a crude sign language for themselves with closed fists meaning ‘good idea’ and thumbs up meaning ‘all’s okay on my end.’ The kicking of her seat was Fred’s ingenious plan not only to affirm his understanding of a plan, but to keep her awake. Personally, she felt it was payback for her strict supervision of the escape from the United States during the burning of Atlanta.

  She felt the plane descend slightly as she turned it towards the tiny island the Order had chosen for her. The rest of the world awaited her arrival at the Howland Islands, so the Order had decided it was best not to interrupt the flight until the last minute. Thanks to Aunt Eleanor’s ability to locate just the perfect minion for any job (God knows how she was able to do that), she and Fred had been directed to a tiny outcropping of land so tiny it hardly qualified as an ‘island.’ The plan was easy: to die.

  It’s not like they hadn’t died before. The tricky part about this death would be to avoid serious injury in the process. According to Aunt Eleanor, the piece of volcanic rock was just large enough to accommodate a small plane’s landing. If the weather did not hold out, or if conditions became unfavorable in any way, she always had the option of setting down in the Pacific. Since either of these choices suited her and Fred’s objectives, either one would work.

  The problem was, they couldn’t agree on a plan. Fred wanted to play it safe, as always, and land on the island. She, on the other hand, wanted a water landing. If she attempted to set the Electra down on the island and missed by more than a few feet, the plane’s wheels would be cut to ribbons on the sharp volcanic rock. Or, worse yet, run too long for the island’s short landing strip and send them plummeting over the island’s cliffs down into the sea. The lifeboat aboard the plane could be utilized, but that would bring a whole host of problems should the remains of the Electra be found. Once the rescue teams discovered the missing life raft, they would surely send a search team into the area to find them. This would be unacceptable. The point was to die. But the biggest problem to her was one of fire. Although there was little fuel in the tanks, what was there could still ignite.

  Fire is the one risk she refused to accept; far better to be ripped apart by ravenous sharks, or beheaded by the sharp edges of volcanic rock. Better yet, drown. At least she would survive a drowning death.

  “Heads up!” Fred’s voice bellowed. She felt his foot kick wildly under her seat—a frantic panic-stricken attack on her ass.

  The island was beneath them now, its polished surface sparkling in the sun. One look and she knew why nobody had charted this place. The land beneath her was hardly noticeable from the air. Almost perfectly rectangular, it consisted of coal black volcanic rock speckled with a bit of vegetation. At one of its long ends, it boasted two jagged peaks, while at its other end, the flat rock which she would use as a landing strip ended at a pile of jagged rocks. Why didn’t Aunt Eleanor’s people tell her about the narrowness of the opening between these two peaks?

  She had no time to debate the issue. The Electra’s gas supply was already down to almost nothing and she must do something quickly. She glanced at her watch—21:30 GMT. The Itasca still had plenty of daylight to search for them. They had to land, properly cover their tracks, and take refuge before the president called upon the rescue teams.

  “Come on!” Fred screamed again, kicking her seat.

  She decided to set the plane down in the water. Screw it. She didn’t want to fight with Fred, but he would have to accept the fact that she was in control. Suddenly, the nose kicked upwards.

  “What the—” she heard Fred gasp.

  The wind had unexpectedly changed. What was going on? Hadn’t the weather report stated mild skies? Without warning, she felt the plane hit a wall of crosswind and the tiny plane’s left side flew wildly out of control. The world before her began to shift, the horizon thrown perpendicular. She compensated but the sudden change of lift left uncertainty in her grasp.

  “LOOK OUT!” Fred’s frantic voice cut through the wind.

  She looked up just in time to see a wall of blue rushing at her, the waves breaking on the nose of the plane as it dove into the surf. Blue enveloped her; blue, the color of God.

  She banged her fists against the cold metal of the instrument panel as water consumed the cockpit. It crawled up the sides of the plane, swallowing her feet and floor panel. She pounded on the instruments, struggling against the undertow created by the vacuum of the sea. She pounded harder, her fists numb from the impact. The dull, hollow thud of her hands echoed through her, reverberating up her arms and into her shoulders.

  Frantic, she thrashed about, her arms flailing wildly, smashing into the submerging nose of the plane.

  Thud. Thud. Thud.

  “Abbey!”

  The water moved up her waist—.

  “Abbey! Wake up!”

  She lifted her head, desperate to keep her nose and mouth above the water line—“ABBEY!”

  The slap across her face sent waves of fire through her body. She threw herself out of the water and into the open air. When she opened her eyes, she lay on the runway next to the prop plane, Eleanor kneeling by her side, her arms wrapped protectively around her. “Aunt Eleanor,” Abbey muttered. “I remember dying.” With that, darkness consumed her and she fainted.

  38

  “Wow, I just paged you an hour ago. You make better time than pizza delivery.”

  Matt smiled and stifled a yawn. The past few days of Five hour naps in the car were catching up with him. He straightened his belt and smoothed down his shirt, hoping the wrinkles weren’t too distracting.

  “You look like shit, Detective,” Helen said, pushing her glasses back on her nose.

  “Thanks.”

  “That smell…is that you?”

  “I haven’t showered today.”

  “Today?” Her nose wrinkled. “It smells like several days. What the hell is going on?”

  “Stakeout.” Mathers didn’t lie. He had been on a stakeout. The stakeout was just interrupted by several periods of time when he went to wo
rk, then home to eat, catnap, and check his mail. And, since his stakeout involved the Emerson women, it wasn’t supported by the department. He thought of it as a hobby-esque kind of stakeout.

  Luckily, Janet and Sal took pity on him. Right after dinner, when he fell asleep on the couch, they cleaned out the guest room. When he awoke, Sal stood holding out a key.

  “Take it. Stay here as long as you want. No sense driving back to Montpelier every couple of days.”

  He felt as if he was imposing on them, but accepted the key anyway. So for this week, he didn’t have to worry about the drive back home and he would get more than a five-hour catnap.

  Helen busied herself at the computer while he pulled up a chair and flopped down. He looked at his shoes and realized with dismay that the hole in his heel was now the size of a quarter.

  “In English, or the full report?” Helen waved a thick folder in front of him.

  “English. My mind is a bit sluggish.”

  Helen opened the file and began referencing notes. “Remember those DNA tests that you wanted re-done?” Mathers nodded. “Yes, the ones that were perfectly accurate but you wanted re-analyzed because your mind wasn’t ready to accept the findings?” Mathers sighed and nodded at her. “They came back. Same results.”

  “I figured they would.”

  “Then why waste our time, Detective?”

  “I wanted to be sure.”

  “It’s good to want things,” was the retort. “Keeps the brain spinning.”

  “And?”

  “And?”

  “And they prove...?”

  “Detective, perhaps the dirt from this stakeout…why do you call it a stakeout? You’re not staking anything.”

  Mathers waved his fingers. “Move along.”

  “Right. This proves, Detective, that the skeletal remains date back to 1941 and 2008, respectively, but the clothing, jewelry and other artifacts can be traced back to—roughly—the 1200’s.”

  “The thirteenth century.”

  “Roughly.”

  He whistled and rubbed his eyes. “How is this possible?”

  Helen shrugged. She wheeled her office chair over to the sink, opened the cabinet beneath it and hauled out a huge box of Oreo cookies. She offered them to Mathers and he took two. “My theory,” she said as she twisted them apart, “is that someone knocked over a museum, stole some old clothes from a diorama, put the clothing onto a body they dug up from a grave, and left them for the ladies of the Bastille.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Seriously.”

  “I’m fresh out of theories.” She chewed the white sugary center from the cookie and grabbed for another. “Oh, I think we may have a lead on who the old woman is.”

  “Which one?”

  “The bones wrapped in the burlap bag. Circa 1941.” She shoved the chocolate cookie into her mouth and picked up another paper.

  “Elfi Reisner.”

  “Who the hell is Elfi Reisner?”

  Helen shrugged. “Some woman who used to work for the government during World War II.” She reached into the box and hauled out two more. “Apparently, she worked in a government office that kept intricate records. When we researched the DNA data, her name popped up.”

  “How?”

  “You’re the detective. Don’t you know this cop stuff?”

  He sighed again. He didn’t feel like sparring with her today. He was too tired and could smell himself. He smelled bad.

  “How goes the stalking of the ladies?”

  “Fine. Eight days of nothing.” He shoved an Oreo into his mouth and chewed for a minute. “I felt sure I would find something out of the ordinary, see something odd, notice something…”

  “That’s a lot of somethings.”

  He ignored her. “But got a big fat nothing. No possible break-ins at the Bastille, no crazies saying they buried the two bags of bones. No horrendous fights between the Ladies. Nada.”

  “That’s good.”

  “That’s bad.”

  “No, it’s good,” Helen insisted. “You’re alive. God knows what it would have been if you saw something.” They chewed in silence for a moment before she continued. “I’m wondering how someone would get old clothing and a skeleton from 1941.”

  “I’m not,” Mathers sighed again. “I’m wondering why.”

  39

  “Come to the den! Quickly!” Ruth’s terrified voice echoed through the empty hallways. Eleanor turned to Abbey and saw her chest rising and falling in perfect rhythm. The poor girl woke briefly about twenty minutes ago when Boo carried her into the bed chamber and the two of them were able to get her to swallow a sleeping pill. Thank goodness it worked.

  Eleanor set her knitting down and raced to the door. She hadn’t heard Ruth sound so panicked since the cancellation of M*A*S*H. Well, there were worse things a woman her age could do than watch television. When Eleanor stepped into the hallway, two of the Salukis pummeled into her, sending her careening into the wall.

  “Watch it, Eleanor!” Tom said. “They’re not indestructible.”

  “That’s a pity.”

  “What’s up with Ruth? The cable go out again?” she said, petting a Saluki.

  “Would you stay here with Abbey?” Eleanor gestured toward the closed door. “She had a bad experience on board the plane earlier.”

  `“I heard,” Tomyris said. She whistled and pointed to Abbey’s room. Two of the dogs rushed obediently to the door and lay across the threshold, panting loudly.

  “I would really feel better if a Human guarded our cherished member of the Team,” Eleanor snapped.

  Tomyris laughed. “They’ll kill without a shred of guilt. Rather like Boo, only they smell better.”

  Eleanor shook her head in disgust. She didn’t know why Tomyris loved these ugly dogs so much, but she had to admit, they were terribly keen watchdogs, in addition to giving Tomyris something to do. She waved to Tomyris, “Come on.”

  The other women stood in the large carpeted den staring at the big-screen plasma television. Ruth sat on the edge of the sofa, pink frilly apron splattered with chocolate, holding a large wooden spoon. The minute she saw them she hit the ‘mute’ button on the remote. “They said it would be the next story!” Ruth said in a hurried voice. “But so far, I have only seen the automobile commercials. Do we need a GMC truck? They seem so much more powerful than our limo.”

  “What is it?” Eleanor pleaded, ignoring the flashy GMC roaring down the beach, splashing water on bikini-clad women.

  “It is the local news,” Ruth’s voice was thick with fear. “They have identified one of the bodies found on the grounds.” Ruth threw the remote onto the couch and put her face in her hands. “I can’t bear to watch!”

  Zen patted the old woman’s back and looked at Eleanor. “It’s Elfi.” “Elfi Riesner?” Eleanor felt her mouth go dry.

  Tomyris whistled a long note and the two Salukis cocked their heads at her. “Holy shit. We are so fucked.”

  “Impending doom is no reason to use gutter language,” Eleanor snapped. “The TV!”

  The lips of the local television announcer started moving and the words BODY FOUND appeared at the bottom of the screen. “The sound! Give us sound, Ruth!”

  Ruth remained still, shaking her head and rubbing her eyes, banging the wooden spoon on her head. Zen used her free hand to search the couch, but her hand came away empty. With a groan, Boo stepped to the couch and shoved her hands into the cushions looking for the remote. Ultimately, Eleanor didn’t need the sound to follow the story. Sandwiched between the supertitles of BODY FOUND, DISAPPEARED and MISSING SINCE 1942, were black-and-white pictures of a dark-haired beauty of twenty-eight. By the time the sound came back on, all the ladies heard was the conclusion of the report. “...investigation is being conducted into the connection between the two bodies. Elfi Reisner’s body was found underneath that of her granddaughter, Sara Reisner. Both bodies were uncovered last week.”

  “Well,” Eleanor said after a short paus
e, “we now know what happened to them.”

  “This is Robert’s doing,” Boo sneered. “I can feel it.”

  “Reisner!” Ruth said through clenched fingers. “He said their last names were Reisner!”

  “I know, dear, we are old, not deaf.”

  “That means…” Ruth didn’t finish the sentence. She returned her face to her hands and rocked. Behind them, the dogs whined and barked once.

  They turned and saw Abbey standing in the doorway to the den, flanked by the two Salukis, who wagged their tales furiously and stared up at her with anticipation. Eleanor shot a look to Tomyris. “So much for the guard dogs. Tomyris, put them outside, please!”

  Tomyris whistled and pointed. The dogs scurried towards the kitchen.

  “What is it, Abbey?” Zen asked, standing and walking to the girl.

  Abbey swayed slightly and looked into Eleanor’s face. “That woman.

  The one in the photos…”

  “Which one dear? The old black-and-white photos?”

  Abbey nodded. “I remember who she is.”

  40

  Mathers jerked awake with the eerie feeling that someone was spying on him. He looked around, bringing his hand to his holster. What was it about this place? For years the women of the Bastille lived in this town under a cloak of secrecy, but never had there been a single instance of illegal activity. His research showed the last time the police became involved in the family was in 1969 when a group of post-Woodstock hippies were found having an orgy in a Volkswagen van. This was hardly the stuff of murderers.

  He stretched and looked out the windshield into the wooded section of the grounds, still sectioned off by yellow CRIME SCENE tape. He was stalling and he knew it. Protocol dictated that the tape should be removed and the area cleared of all police materials by this time of the investigation. All samples had been collected, all pictures safely downloaded into the police computers, and he had no reason to refrain from turning the grounds over to the women and let them get on with planning the Faire. But he had that strange feeling that something didn’t add up. How in the hell did anyone get the body of Sara Reisner into the clearing without touching the spongy ground? How did the body manage to land in the exact spot that Elfi’s body lay? Why? Nothing about this case made any sense. His gut told him Abbey was keeping secrets and he didn’t like secrets; secrets meant something bad.