Dark Rising

by Monica McGurk

  “I’ll be going now. Need to keep an eye on the Goose. May be some rough waters with the tides tonight. Enoch, will you be staying here or joining me to spin some yarns in the wheelhouse?”

  Enoch looked toward me, then at Michael, a strange expression on his face, his true thoughts hidden behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses. “I think it’s a good night for stories, Del,” he responded, a gruff note to his voice.

  “Good man,” Del chortled, slapping Enoch on the back. “I knew I could count on you. I’ve got some whiskey on board; we’ll make an Irishman of you yet. You kids okay here?”

  We nodded.

  “Good enough. We’ll be off, then. We’ll come get you in the morning if you don’t show up. Keep this flashlight, just in case, and remember to be careful on those steps,” he concluded, setting the flashlight down on the tiny table that seemed to take up half the room.

  With that, Enoch and Del pushed their large frames through the door, leaving us alone.

  “I guess we’d better get that fire going,” I said, unable to stand the silence they left in their wake. I grabbed the metal rail of the ladder and began climbing up to the second floor.

  The room was small and tightly packed. An ancient wood stove stood on one side of the ladder, a small stack of wood piled neatly next to it. A double bed, unmade, was pushed up against the opposite wall, a trunk at its foot.

  Michael clanged up the ladder behind me. I stepped aside, conscious of how close his body was to mine as he stepped away from the ladder, filling the room.

  “I’ll make the fire if you make up the bed,” he bargained, his voice carefully neutral. I nodded and went to the trunk while he busied himself laying the logs in the stove.

  The sheets were laid out at the very top of the trunk. I dragged a light hand over them—soft and worn, they bore witness to years of loving care. I picked one up and snapped it out, unfurling it over the bed. Swiftly, I made up the bed, being careful not to think about the question of who would sleep where.

  The crackle of the burning wood broke the quiet. I smoothed out the blanket I’d laid on top of the bed and sat down on its edge.

  It was so dark now I could barely see Michael’s face.

  “Do you want me to get a lamp?” he asked, politely.

  “No,” I responded. “I think I just want to go to sleep.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Do you want me to leave you?”

  I fingered the edge of the blanket nervously.

  “No,” I whispered, grateful for the darkness. “I want you to stay.”

  In the shadows, I saw him begin to turn away. I reached out and grabbed his hand, pulling him over to the bed. Quietly, I kicked off my shoes and socks. He watched me, intently, his eyes shining in the dark. Quickly, I dropped his hand to pull off my outerwear. I began to struggle out from my layers of clothes. Without saying a word, he began to help me, peeling one item off, then another, being careful not to touch my skin as he helped me out of my clothes. My body called out for his touch, the tension between us palpable, but still he remained the gentleman, quietly folding each piece of clothing as he pulled it away from me. When I was down to a T-shirt and underwear, I slipped under the cool sheets and turned over on my side, staring at the wall, waiting for him to join me.

  I listened for a few moments to the soft sounds of fabric pulling away from his body. Then, silently, he slid in behind me, coming as close to me as he could without actually touching me, the worn mattress sagging softly with the weight of him, conspiring to drive us closer together. I could smell him. I could feel the warmth rising from his skin and my mouth going dry at the thought of him next to me.

  Cautiously, he slid his hand up my thigh, leaving it to rest on my waist. I sighed, sinking into the mattress as he pulled me tightly next to his chest, emboldened by my response.

  He rubbed my hip bone with his thumb, tiny circles, lulling me into a calm state. I could feel his breath on my neck, could feel the familiar surge of his heat as it coursed through my body. I turned into his arms, facing him in the dark as I pressed my hand to his heart. I was close enough to see his face. Close enough to see the weariness in his eyes.

  I’m scared, Hope.

  I heard his thoughts, as clearly as if he’d spoken them aloud.

  “I’m scared, too,” I answered.

  His eyes glinted.

  But I don’t know if I’m scared for the same reason you are. I’m scared I’m losing you. You’re pushing me away, and I don’t know why.

  I started to protest, but he laid a finger gently over my mouth, quieting my words before I could speak.

  Please, let me finish.

  I nodded my assent, and he moved his hand behind my neck, gently caressing away all the tension.

  You know I won’t hurt you.

  I nodded quickly, ashamed that I’d ever doubted him.

  So I can only surmise that there is something else of which you are afraid. Something from Gabrielle’s message.

  I closed my eyes, closing my mind, shutting off his access to the truth.

  Please, Hope, he pleaded, pulling me closer, leaning his forehead against mine. A stirring of lust rose up in me, and I shuddered.

  Just tell me, he coaxed, stroking my back. Whatever it is, it can’t be that bad. It can’t be something we can’t work out, together.

  I bit my lip, holding back a sob. Silently, I pushed away from him and turned over, pulling my knees close against my chest. Instead of getting angry, he simply draped his arm back over me and pulled me in to the shelter of his body.

  “I love you,” he whispered into my ear. Slowly, tenderly, he kissed the back of my neck, then my shoulder, then the hollow spot of my clavicle. His lips lingered on each spot, soft and sweet. I dissolved into tears. I turned back into his arms, wrapping my legs around his, holding him close and letting myself sob against his chest.

  My tears fell against his skin, their rivulets evaporating in a rush of steam. He pulled my hand to his heart once again.

  I won’t pressure you, but when you’re ready, I’ll be here, I heard him thinking as I fell asleep in his arms. I’ll always be here.

  We woke, our bodies tangled among the sheets. The ghost of first light was filtering down from the lighthouse’s windows on the upper stories. My head was still resting on Michael’s chest, my hair splayed out around me.

  He was tracing my Mark, drawing his finger over its delicate lines, knowing them by memory. He did it intently, as if by the act he could unravel its mystery.

  “Good morning,” I mumbled, pressing a kiss onto his chest.

  “Good morning,” he replied, a smile in his voice. “It’s still early. We have hours before Enoch and Del will be expecting us.”

  I lifted my head to look at him, propping my chin up on one hand. The shadows under his eyes appeared lighter, and though he had more than a five o’clock shadow, he looked more well-rested than he had in weeks. The gash on his forehead was completely gone, not even a scab to indicate where he’d gotten scraped up in his wrestling match.

  He looked at me watching him and smiled, pushing a stray lock of hair out of my face.

  “You look happy,” I stated.

  “I feel happy,” he replied. He took my hand and kissed the knuckles, his fingers lingering on each bone. I felt woozy and alert, all at the same time.

  “Michael,” I asked, this time with urgency. “Are you in pain?”

  He didn’t let go of my hand. “Not a bit,” he said, turning my palm over and kissing it deeply.

  No! I thought. This can’t be happening. He can’t accept it. He can’t love me. Not now.

  I pulled my hand away and jumped from the bed, trailing the sheet behind me as I paced.

  “What’s wrong?” he demanded, leaping to his feet behind me.

  I stared at the wall, forcing myself to be rational. “What you said last night—did you mean it? Do you still mean it?”

  He pulled me around to face him, his ha
nds on my shoulders as he looked deeply into my eyes.

  “I meant it then, and I mean it now. I love you, Hope Carmichael.”

  I pulled the sheet up to my face to stifle my mangled cry.

  Without love, there is no sacrifice.

  There was so little between him and death now. So little.

  He looked at me, confused and hurt. Immediately, I was flooded with remorse. Even inadvertently, I kept hurting him.

  “I love you, too, Michael,” I whispered, tears streaming down my face, once again, as I rushed to reassure him.

  “Then please, help me understand,” he pleaded. I bit my lip. Frustrated, he stepped away from me, holding his head in his hands.

  He stood in the middle of the room, wearing nothing but boxers that were too big at the waist. I closed my eyes and could see every curve of every muscle, the breadth of his shoulders, the way his chest narrowed to a V at his hips. I could see the way he looked at me, hungry and needy, and I wanted to love him back.

  “Come here,” I said, stretching out my hand. He closed the distance between us with one stride, clasping my fingers in his. I pulled him in closer, pressing my forehead against his and clasping his hand to my heart, which was beating like a hummingbird’s wings.

  “Listen,” I commanded quietly, letting my tears flow. We stood in the middle of the tiny room, holding each other close, as I opened my heart to him, watching his reactions.

  His emotions flit across his face like fireflies darting in the night.

  Elation, as he understood how deeply I truly loved him.

  Remorse as he felt my confusion at his mood swings, the pain I felt at his coldness when he’d tried to push me away.

  Anger toward Raph, as he felt the disdain with which Raph had treated me behind his back.

  Then a stumble.

  A fall to the floor, pulling me with him, as he understood the depth of my grief and the reason for it.

  He clung to me, his jaw slack with shock, as he saw all the pieces of the puzzle fall into place, just as they had for me. His eyes raced ahead, looking for an alternative, searching in my memories for something that would disprove what he’d only now come to understand.

  He looked up at me, pulling my palm to his heart, his eyes questioning.

  I am the Gate? His blue eyes brimmed with unbelieving tears.

  I gathered him in, holding him in my arms, weeping, the sheet billowing out around us. I clutched his hand to my chest, so I wouldn’t have to speak the words out loud.

  You are the Gate. I repeated, over and over, rocking back and forth. You, my beloved, are the Gate.

  eight

  GEORGIA

  Mona looked around. She was in the middle of the produce section at the local Kroger. It seemed nigh impossible to get out of her house without being seen. Even though there had been no word in her daughter’s case, the press swarmed about her house, insatiable in their hunger for a word, a sign, a clue. She had to break down and cry and ask them to let her do her grocery shopping in peace to manage this meeting.

  She wasn’t above pretending she was weak to get her way, not when it came to her daughter. She made the mistake of showing her strength once before, when she thought her high-paying job would be an asset, yet Don used it against her to gain custody of Hope. She wasn’t about to let it happen again.

  Still, lingering amidst the fruits and vegetables, a long scarf wrapped around her head, dark glasses perched on her too-straight nose, she felt silly, like she was playing spy. But it wasn’t a game. She had to find a way to meet Tabitha Franklin. Hopefully, her daughter’s friend would show up.

  It was an odd time of night to be shopping. She and Don were the only ones in that part of the store. Did the store have cameras, she wondered? Probably. Knowing there was a good chance they’d be caught on film, she squeezed an imported avocado and pretended to consult her list. Don, unsure of himself, pretended to be busy reading the labels on packages of nuts. He made the drive back from Alabama when she told him what she was planning and met her right in the parking lot.

  She pushed the cart listlessly from one display to another, randomly adding items to the basket, as they waited. As she did, she stole a few glances at Don. Their meeting had been awkward, neither one of them sure what to do after their night together and Don’s abrupt departure. Butterflies? Hell, Mona had a whole zoo trampling around in her stomach. The problem was she couldn’t pinpoint whether it was the giddy nervousness of rediscovered love that was making her so useless, or the overwhelming sense of fear that she’d made a horrible mistake. She wasn’t one to fool herself with unrealistic optimism, but she found herself hoping she was starting to mend her broken world—that this thing with Don could be real, that maybe after all this time he was coming around, that they were on the verge of finding Hope … That they could bind themselves back together and, like a reknit bone, be stronger at the breaks when it was all said and done.

  “Psst. Mrs. Carmichael.” The whisper came from around the corner, in the international foods aisle.

  Mona slowly steered her cart, Don trailing behind her, skipping that aisle, to avoid being obvious, and landing in the baking section.

  She waited for a few minutes, carefully reading over the descriptions of the gluten-free flours, until Tabitha and her father turned into the aisle and headed toward her. Mona drew her eyebrows together, pursing her lips. She’d expected Tabitha to come on her own.

  “Hello, Tabitha. Dr. Franklin,” Mona said with feigned surprise. “How nice to run into you this way.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Dr. Franklin responded. His voice was deep and sonorous. Mona could imagine him preaching, how a sermon delivered by such a voice might touch a listener’s soul. With one hand, he gently pushed Tabitha ahead of him, closer to Mona. “How fortunate that we are both late-night shoppers. Tabby mentioned she had a hankering for brownies and ice cream, so I decided to come with her.”

  He looked sternly at Mona. His eyes seemed to say, don’t you dare draw my daughter into this any deeper. Mona sighed. The minister nodded at Don, not registering any surprise at his presence.

  “Tell her what you came here to tell her Tabby, so we can go home.” He moved down the aisle and picked a box of chocolate brownies from the shelf, placing it in his basket. He crossed his arms, waiting.

  Tabitha squirmed, shifting from side to side in her black biker boots. She was wearing pink and white polka-dotted pajama bottoms under her leather jacket, her face freshly scrubbed under her faux Mohawk. Caught between worlds, Mona thought to herself as she waited for Tabitha to speak.

  “The night that Hope stayed over at my house, we were getting ready to go out when I accidentally got a glimpse of the tattoo on her neck. She was really freaked out that I saw it.”

  “I can imagine,” Mona said, dryly, picturing Hope’s reaction.

  “I thought it was cool, but she was all worked up about it. Then she seemed to calm down when I told her what it meant. I still can’t figure out why she’d get a tattoo that she didn’t understand. Even though it does look pretty good.”

  Mona breathed quietly. She had to be careful not to rush it. Tabitha paused, and Mona nodded, saying, “Go on, Tabitha. How did you interpret her … tattoo?”

  Tabitha’s face became animated. “It was written in Aramaic. That’s the ancient language in which a lot of historical documents in the Christian faith were initially recorded. Even early books of the Bible. My dad studied Aramaic in Divinity School. He used to teach it to me. That’s how I recognized it.” She looked down at her feet demurely, shoving her hands deep into the pockets of her jacket, as if embarrassed to admit she knew something so scholarly.

  Mona looked at the girl, then her father, with newfound respect. “Tell me,” she urged. “What did it say?”

  “It didn’t make sense to me,” Tabitha forewarned her. “But I’m pretty sure I got it right. I mean, I wrote it out today for my dad, so he could see if I translated it properly.”

  Dr. F
ranklin nodded, the expression on his face unreadable.

  “It just said ‘Bearer of the Key.’ I guess that means she, Hope, is the person who carries the Key. Whatever that is. Do you know what it means?” She added, her eyes sparkling with hopeful curiosity.

  Mona shook her head. “No, I’m afraid I don’t.” She frowned, turning over this new bit of information in her head as Don shifted beside her. “Did Hope tell you how she came to have these markings on her neck, Tabitha?”

  Tabitha looked glum. “She didn’t tell me very much about herself, Mrs. Carmichael. She was a very private person. So no, she never explained why or how she got the tattoo.”

  Don muttered under his breath, “I don’t understand why no one recognized the script as Aramaic before. Especially at the FBI. They have linguists on staff.”

  Dr. Franklin looked at them, intrigued by Don’s reference to the FBI. “Most people think Aramaic is a dead language, even though there are entire villages all over the Middle East where it is still spoken. I would imagine the FBI linguists are more focused on modern languages. Today, with the anti-terrorism focus on Iraq and Iran, they might be more likely to recognize it, but even a few years ago, it would have been unlikely. They might not have even recognized it as a language at all, the way it was arrayed inside of the Greek motif.” He paused, considering how to put his next words. “Whatever you were trying to determine, what you needed was a biblical scholar, or a student of ancient Semitic history, not the linguists of a modern crime-fighting agency.”

  An old man wheeled into the aisle, a bum wheel on his cart rattling. Dr. Franklin looked over his shoulder and waited for the man to pick out his goods and leave. Once they were alone again, he continued, placing an arm protectively around Tabitha’s shoulders.

  “Why do I get the idea there is more to this story—and Hope’s tattoo—than you are telling us?”

  Mona pressed her lips together, silently damning Don for slipping up.

  “There’s nothing to tell,” she stated flatly.

  Dr. Franklin looked at her skeptically, crossed his arms in front of his chest. “If you say so. Come on, Tabby. I think we’re finished here. Unless there is anything else you want to share with Mr. and Mrs. Carmichael?”