Wanderers: Ragnarök

by Richard A Bamberg

  At that, she stopped so suddenly that I bumped her. I caught her arm to keep her from falling and then pulled her back toward me, steering her to face me as I did. For a moment, she stared up at me, our noses nearly touched, and I restrained an urge to kiss her full lips. Her lips parted slightly and I could feel her breath on my face. Then she blinked and her lips closed and tightened to be barely visible. She took a half step back but didn’t pull away from my grip on her arm.

  “There are a few people that might be involved in something dark, you met one of them tonight, but I don’t know it for certain. Abigail and the coven will be investigating. They’re not likely to allow someone to kill one of their apprentices without ensuring the witch is brought to justice.”

  “Justice or to the police?” I asked and regained that half step until our noses were almost in contact again.

  Her mouth opened as though to speak, but nothing came out. Her eyes searched mine in the dim light. She leaned the rest of the way into me. Her lips were as soft and as warm as they had been in my memory. I saw her eyes closing and my own eyelids lowered to leave barely a slit. I released her elbow and slid my hand behind her against her lower back. I pulled her gently to me, as the kiss grew passionate. Her body was firm against mine and she was warm, oh so warm. I felt the fingers of her free hand slide across my cheek and a moment later, it was pressing against the back of my head. Her tongue touched mine and I nearly shook with desire for her.

  The pressure on my head eased and her hand lowered to my chest. She applied the slightest of pressure as if unsure as to whether she really wanted to do this or not, and then her lips pulled back from mine. For a fraction of a second, I resisted her push and followed her lips. Her hand didn’t increase the pressure against my chest and our lips met again. This time it was chaste, affectionate without the passion.

  I clamped down on my own surging hormones. Damn, but it’s hard to live in a body that’s barely out of its teens.

  “That was an unexpectedly nice surprise,” I said softly.

  “Yes, for me too, but while this might be the place, it isn’t the time. I don’t know what I was thinking, someone was just murdered.”

  I wanted to argue; my hormones were lighting my veins with fire. Fighting for your life sends a complex set of hormones through your body and I was charged. I’ve read that it’s a natural biological response to danger. Anyway that’s my story.

  Instead of kissing her again, I said, “You’re right. We need to get the police out here. Maybe they can find some sign of who did this.”

  “Yes,” Cynthia said and half turned away, then she turned just as quickly back and pecked me on the lips. “There’ll be a time for us, yet.”

  I smiled without speaking as she turned away again. I followed and in another minute, the path opened onto the back yard of the Nichols’ house. Cynthia dropped her light spell as soon as she was clear of the trees. The party was still in progress, apparently everyone who could sense the events in the forest glade had either attended Abigail or left. Was the killer here? He would have had plenty of time to circle through the woods back to the house. If I could separate from Cynthia, I could ask around and see if anyone had seen the late Ms. Spelling at the party and if she’d left with anyone.

  Cynthia made a beeline for the porch and the back door. Her cousin, Cris, sat in a swing with a guy about her age; she saw us coming and met us at the top step.

  “Well, where’d you two get off to?” Cris asked.

  “Nowhere,” Cynthia said as she started to step around Cris.

  Cris blocked her path. “Hey, Cuz, you’d better check a mirror when you walk back out of the woods with a guy.”

  “What?” Cynthia asked, her voice confused.

  I raised a hand to my own lips and made what I hoped was a subtle wiping motion.

  “Your lipstick isn’t the smear free kind, Cynthia. I’d switch brands.”

  Cynthia blushed. The rise in the color of her cheeks was so pronounced that Cris actually stepped back to let her pass. As Cynthia opened the door and went inside to find the phone, I saw Cris smile.

  “That wasn’t very nice,” I said.

  She swung around, the smile still on her face. “Don’t think evil of me, Raphael. Cynthia and I are always teasing each other on such matters. Still, I don’t think I’ve seen her blush like that since we were little. You must have touched her.”

  “I thought that was obvious.”

  “Not like that, silly. I mean emotionally. The kissing was obvious, but I hadn’t really thought the two of you would hit it off like that.” Her eyes narrowed for a moment and she cocked her head. “Don’t you think you’re a little old for my cousin?”

  I made a quick glance at the boy who was rising from the swing and coming toward us. I cleared my throat and gave her a warning glare while tilting my head toward the boy.

  He was tall, at least three inches over my barely six feet, and thick enough to be a body builder. His hair was trimmed so close that nothing more than skin showed on the sides and little more than a quarter inch on top. I guessed military at first sight. During my stint, only the Marines wore their hair so, nowadays it seemed that all the branches had the same gung-ho look. He was dressed in a red plaid cotton shirt over jeans and desert combat boots. A silver belt buckle was adorned with the simple USAF letters.

  “Are you going to introduce me, Cris?” The young man said as he stepped up and placed an arm protectively around her shoulder.

  “Sure, Daniel. This is Raphael Semmes, a friend of Cynthia. Raphael, this is Air Force Staff Sergeant Daniel Rigby.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” I held out my hand.

  “Likewise.” Daniel closed a massive hand over mine. He started to squeeze and I felt a surge of irritation at childish games. I focused a little energy and squeezed back. The effort didn’t require a spell. One of the mind games Walt taught me was how to feed magical energy into your muscles. It allowed Wanderers to have considerable more strength when necessary and even shortened our reaction time. We could run as fast as a sprinter when necessary, and handle ourselves in hand-to-hand encounters.

  For an instant, surprise crossed his features, and then he jerked his hand back. I let him take it.

  “I’d like to stay and chat, but I’d better follow Cynthia,” I said. “Again, pleased to meet you, Daniel.”

  When I passed her, Cris was eying Daniel with amusement. She must have known what he was like and had let him shake my hand without warning me. Or had she guessed at the outcome? Was it some kind of a test to ensure what she had seen in my eyes had been truth and not some sort of glamour?

  I don’t like tests. Cris and I would have to talk.

  I saw Cynthia just as I passed through the door. The room was larger than a small basketball court. Area rugs dotted the hardwood floor in several seating areas that were designed to break up the large area into a half dozen smaller ones. The furniture was traditional, massive leather couches and armchairs big enough for two. The coffee and end tables were of a light colored wood. Concealed lighting was everywhere, but it was uniformly dimmed to make the room more intimate.

  Cynthia stood half way across the room talking into a portable phone. I maneuvered around several groups of from two to six people until I reached her. I stood silent; listening until she’d finished with the emergency operator and ended the call.

  She turned and started to see me standing at her shoulder. “I didn’t hear you come up.”

  “Should I have pounded the floor so you’d hear me?” I smiled, but she didn’t return it.

  “They said someone would be right out. It’ll take them a little while to get here. I imagine the closest patrol car will come by first and detectives will follow. I hope Abigail is ready for them.”

  “She didn’t say delay in calling them. I guess that means she will be ready.”

  “We should go out front and meet the police,” Cynthia said.

  “You think we ought to tell the other g
uests?”

  She gave me a look of curiosity. “Why? So they can leave before the police get here?”

  “There’s that, but they’re going to start asking questions when police cars start arriving. Just tell your cousin, she can spread the word.”

  She stepped closer, put her lips near my ear, and whispered, “But if the killer’s still here then we don’t want them leaving until the police get a chance to identify everyone.”

  “I don’t know if the killer was at the party tonight. But I do know he’s not here now, so there’s nothing for the police to find here. If he left any clues, Abigail will have to find them.”

  CHAPTER 8

  I left Grand Junction, Colorado, in the late afternoon; riding out of town toward the National Monument, the road wound up out of the dry river valley in a smooth climb. The massive twin cylinders of my Dad’s ‘65 Harley rumbled deep as we climbed toward the setting sun. Near the great cliffs of the Monument’s eastern slope, the ground was already in shadow and temperatures were dropping. Farther up the climb, I came back out into the sun. It still felt warm on my face.

  It’d been six months since I came back from the war. The first month I spent in a VA hospital in Denver at first recovering from wounds and then because the shrinks thought I needed observation. It was what they called it when they were deciding if you were safe to allow into an unsuspecting public. Eventually, they released me without telling me why. One day they didn’t know when I’d get out, the next morning the nurse said they needed the bed and I had been checked out.

  The Harley was one of the few mementos I had from my parents. The fire that had killed them while I was in the hospital had destroyed just about everything else they’d owned. The family heirlooms, photos, dishes, furniture; everything not destroyed by fire and the collapse of the roof had been so damaged by smoke and water that it hadn’t been worth keeping. The Harley had been in the shop. Dad usually did all of his own repairs to Beast, but it was time for tires and he trusted the local mechanic to mount them better than he could have. Besides, between working and visiting me at the hospital, he hadn’t had a lot of time for maintenance.

  For myself, I had little more than a pair of new jeans, a flannel shirt, my old cowboy boots, and my field jacket. After the hospital, I spent a little time clearing up Dad’s estate, paying off a few of his outstanding bills, and settling with the insurance company. When all was said and done, I was left with enough money to keep me comfortable for a number of years, longer if I was frugal and frugal was my state of being since leaving the hospital. Dad’s Harley was my only companion, the road my life. I had a bedroll strapped on the back with a couple of shirts and extra jeans. Until the weather had chilled down, I slept outside more often than not and had only spent a few nights in old, family-run motels. This was my second pass through the state since I’d left Colorado Springs in May. I’d made it through most of the states back east on the first pass. I watched the leaves change up and down the hills of New England, then followed the change south along the Appalachians until mid-October when I’d gone farther south, not stopping until I reached the end of the road in Key West.

  Key West was beautiful. I watched the sunset every afternoon for a week and then climbed back on the Harley and headed north and west.

  Some good ol’ boys dressed as Deputy Sheriffs pulled me over along Mississippi’s Gulf coast or at least what was left of it. I hadn’t heard the news, but after riding through miles of devastation and passing ocean-going freighters on the land side of the road, I gathered that a pretty severe storm had come ashore. I imagine the deputies thought I was another strung out veteran, just back from the war, and they were right, but my hair was short enough and I was polite and respectful. At least I think it was the cut of my jib that they liked. But they did stare at my eyes for an extended length of time after I removed my helmet and shades. I’d been getting that ever since the VA shrinks had decided that I wasn’t suicidal and that their time could be more usefully spent talking to those of my ward mates who were.

  The deputies let me continue on the road after a brief talk about the weather “things sure were different since Camille came ashore,” hippies “saw that damn movie with Peter Fonda at the drive-in last summer,” and the war “if Nixon had any balls he’d bombed North Vietnam back into the stone age by now”.

  I spent a couple of nights in New Orleans, drinking at some of the more notorious bars along Bourbon Street, but except for a few stares, no one bothered me. I spent most of my time staring into the mirror behind the bar, sometimes at the crowds, but mostly at my own eyes. When had they gotten so dark?

  From New Orleans, I followed Highway 90 through the swamps and into Texas, through smoggy Houston and on across to San Antonio. Near there I found a peaceful spot to camp along the Guadalupe River. I drank a few beers at the New Braunfels October Fest, but it’d been crowded and I was soon traveling west out of the Texas Hill Country.

  I spent a few days on the Big Res talking with a couple of Navajo healers who found me interesting for some reason they avoided discussing. I stayed in one of their hogans until the road called and I mounted the Harley and came north to Grand Junction.

  It snowed on me in Durango and the roads were snow-packed through Silverton. The path down the Million Dollar Highway had always been dangerous, but it offered such a magnificent view that I couldn’t pass it up.

  I wasn’t sure where I was staying that night, but I figured I’d make it to Green River, Utah or maybe I’d just find a campsite somewhere. It’d be cold, but my bedroll was warm and the cold didn’t seem to bother me as much these days.

  At the far eastern edge of the monument, I pulled the Harley into a small turn-around whose sign said “scenic overlook.” Whoever put up the sign knew what they were talking about. The Colorado River flowed through the valley and orchards dotted either side of it for miles. Grand Junction itself wasn’t that large and didn’t have any buildings over three stories. Interstate 70 was complete through this portion of Colorado and its twin concrete ribbons skirted the edge of dry buttes that guarded the north side of the valley. Farther to the east, the green slopes of the mesa rose to snow-covered plateau.

  I watched the shadows from the setting sun lengthen and reach across the valley toward the distant mesa.

  The sound of a motor caught my attention. It wasn’t a Harley, but it was deeper than most of those imports. I listened, trying to identify the type and still hadn’t made up my mind when the motorcycle swung into view around a curve in the road.

  The rider wore heavy black leathers from chinstrap to toe. His bike boomed as he down geared and turned into the parking area. With little interest, I watched him park next to my ride, many times a lone rider would stop to chat, but they usually wouldn’t stay for long once they realized I wasn’t looking for company.

  The stranger took off his shades and there was something about him that made me keep watching him. He didn’t appear a great deal older than me, but he had a look of ancient weariness about him. His face was scarred, old scars that had healed badly. His hair was nearly strawberry blond and longer than mine, but not as long as many of the bikers I’d met. He came toward me, walking slow and deliberate. I first guessed his age to be around thirty, but I bumped it up as he turned to face me.

  I knew immediately he was another vet.

  His face was solemn. He didn’t speak until he got along side me at the fence that separated the walk out from the sharp precipice at the edge of the monument.

  “That’s a right nice view,” he said without looking at me.

  I looked back to the east. Storm clouds were dropping more snow along the eastern mesa, shadowing its greenery with a black that was almost purple.

  “Son, you’ve been a hard man to find, but it’s to be expected. Still, you could have stayed in one place a little longer. I almost caught up with you in Key West. Why’d you stay there so long if you don’t mind my asking?”

  I don’t know whether it wa
s surprise or curiosity that made me answer. “The sunsets, I’d never seen sunsets like they have there.”

  “Yeah, can’t say as I blame you. Spent two nights there myself, I hadn’t been to Key West since they built the causeway.”

  That struck me as a little odd, even odder than him looking for me and actually finding me here on top of the mesa. “Didn’t they build that road back in the thirties?”

  “Is that right? Well, time does seem to slip by.”

  He grew quiet and stared off across the valley. I looked away from him, wondering about this strange man who claimed to have been looking for me. After a minute, I almost forgot he was there. Then he spoke up again. “Something changed you. I guess you know that much. I’m pretty much like you, as a young man I went through a change, too. It happens occasionally. Eventually someone found me much like I’ve found you. I spent a great deal of time learning from him. He taught me mysteries and marvels about life and this incredible world we live in. We eventually parted company, and now I’m here to pass on what I’ve learned.”

  I turned back to face him and found myself staring into his eyes. There was an ancient sadness in them, a sadness I’d only seen in one other person, and that person stared back at me from a mirror whenever I shaved. It was why I wore a beard.

  “So you’ve searched me out to teach me something? Do I have to guess what it is or are you going to tell me?”

  He smiled. Some of the sadness went away with that smile.

  In answer, he raised a hand toward my Harley and crooked his index finger at it. Its engine cranked smoothly, smoother than I’d ever heard it. For a few seconds, the massive twin cylinders throbbed, and then my bike leaned off its kickstand and came upright. I couldn’t hear the gears shift, but it rolled forward across the gravel parking lot, between the vehicle barriers, and onto the short trail that led out to us. When it reached us, it swiveled without the handlebars turning or leaning and stopped a few feet from me. It waited there, idling, balanced as though I were astride it.