Song of the Ovulum

by Bryan Davis

  “Your associates?”

  “Actually, two computers I call Larry and Lois do most of the searching, but a techno-geek named Carly and my sister Shelly help a lot, too. They operate the computers.” Walter tossed the ball to the bed. “Anyway, I didn’t mail the journal. I brought it with me and asked it to be delivered. I watched you read it from the window to see how you’d react.”

  Matt bent the cover and let the pages flip across his thumb. “So I cried a little. Does that disqualify me?”

  “Just the opposite.” Walter clasped Matt’s forearm. “I needed to know that you have a heart. It’s going to take a lot more than military training and intuition to get the job done.”

  Matt stared at Walter. Somehow this soldier-wannabe-turned-stalker had convinced Dr. Carter that he was on the up-and-up, so maybe he wasn’t a militia lunatic. “Okay. So you found me. What do you have in mind?”

  “To find the truth and free some prisoners.”

  “Prisoners?” Adrenaline pumped through Matt’s body. “You have friends in prison? People falsely accused?”

  “I do, and one of them is more precious to me than life itself.”

  Matt tapped his finger on the journal. “Oh, I get it. The girl who wrote this is your friend, and you wanted me to see how wonderful she is so I’d get stoked about helping you rescue her.” He pressed his lips together and nodded. “Good strategy. I could get excited about helping her.”

  “I hope so.” Walter took the journal and set his finger next to the name on the cover. “I believe that Bonnie Conner is your mother.”

  “My mother?” Matt backed away a step. Heat filtered into his cheeks, angry heat. “My mother deserted me. She was a drug addict who left me at a church when I was barely one year old.” He jabbed a finger at the journal. “How could anyone who wrote that abandon a baby?”

  “She didn’t abandon you. That’s just a story someone made up.”

  “A story?” Matt mentally counted to ten. Getting angry at this guy wouldn’t do any good. He had to keep a lid on his emotions. “How would you know?”

  Walter pointed at himself. “Because I invented the story. I wasn’t the one who put it in place, but the basic idea was mine.”

  “It was your idea?” Matt shook his head. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but aren’t we just playing cat and mouse with all the back-and-forth talk? Wouldn’t it be better just to tell me everything you know?”

  “I can’t tell you everything.” Walter glanced around as if nervous about who might be listening. “But I will as soon as I can.” He leaned closer and whispered, “Have you ever heard of Bonnie Bannister?”

  “Bannister?” Matt glanced at the barracks television sitting on a table in a far corner. “Sure. The woman with dragon wings. But she’s kind of dropped out of the news lately.”

  Walter touched the name on the journal again. “Bonnie Bannister and Bonnie Conner are one and the same.”

  “Are you serious?” Matt said, raising his voice. “You think I’m the son of one of those anthrozils?”

  Walter nodded. “In fact, now that I see your face and hear your voice when you’re agitated, I’m sure of it. You are definitely the son of Billy Bannister.”

  “But they’re … they’re …” Matt grabbed the first word that came to mind. “Weird.”

  “Weird? Well, in some ways, but so are a lot of normal humans.”

  “Yeah, but anthrozils eat fish while they’re still alive, and some of them need to drink human blood once a month to survive.”

  Walter rolled his eyes. “That’s nonsense. You’ve been brainwashed by the bigots.”

  “Bigots?” The word stung. He had always tried to make friends with the outcasts, being one himself most of his life. “Well, I don’t hate the anthrozils. It’s just that they kind of … creep me out.”

  “Then get used to being creeped out every time you look at a mirror.”

  Matt glanced again at the doorway. So that was why Dr. Carter said what he did. He seemed ready to execute the newly found anthrozil. “Look, if you’re really an Enforcer, you’re going to need more proof than a baseball and a journal to put me away.”

  “I can arrange for more proof, but I’m not an Enforcer. Now that Dr. Carter thinks you’re an anthrozil, you’re in more danger here than with me.” Walter withdrew a creased sheet of paper from his pocket. “Do you like adventure?”

  “Well, yeah. That’s one of the reasons I’m at the academy.” One of the other reasons came to mind—escaping from his foster sister, Darcy. No use mentioning that.

  Walter unfolded the paper and began reading. “Matthew Fletcher excels in every category of physical training. With superior scores in marksmanship, hand-to-hand combat, obstacle course drills, wilderness expeditions, survival skills, paratrooper training, and endurance tests, he will be an outstanding candidate for any branch of the military that requires extraordinary physical prowess and stamina.” He refolded the note. “Your drill sergeant wrote that.”

  Matt let out a low whistle. “I had no idea he noticed. He just barks at me all day long.”

  “He noticed.”

  “Well, it’s about time I got some credit for how hard I’ve worked. You wouldn’t believe what we have to—”

  “Credit?” Walter grabbed a fistful of Matt’s shirt and pulled him close. “Listen, Fletcher, if you want credit, then go do an extra five miles on the track or turn in another book report, but if you want to help me, you’re going to have to forget about credit. I live in the real world. My wife is rotting in prison because of bigots who think she deserves to die because of how she was born. She and your mother are tortured daily because of eggheaded fools who think their research is more important than two human lives, no matter how much they suffer. Credit or no credit, I’m in this to rescue my wife, or die trying. The question is, are you ready to grow up and put your life on the line for your mother?”

  Keeping his head still, Matt looked at Walter’s tight fist, then at his red face. It might be better to stay quiet than to risk saying something stupid.

  Walter released him and let out a sigh. “If you want to come with me, then get your wilderness gear, including your rappelling equipment. I have rope and everything else we’ll need in my vehicle. It’s a blue Ford SUV with West Virginia plates. If you’re not there in ten minutes, I’m hitting the road without you. It’s a two-hour flight and a one-hour drive, so I can’t afford to waste any time.” With that, he turned an abrupt about-face and marched out.

  Matt smoothed his shirt. Wow! That guy was intense! And he had reason to be. If his wife was being tortured, he had to move Heaven and Earth to set her free.

  As he watched Walter stalk away, he backed toward the bed. Should he pack his gear? Risk his life for someone he didn’t even know? The idea that a dragon-winged anthrozil might be his mother seemed so absurd. For years he had pictured an emaciated street hooker with stringy hair and dirty clothes, someone who chose to destroy her body for another drug fix, someone who sold her baby just to get her daily high.

  And now? Now he was stuck. Should he stay here and try to convince Dr. Carter that Walter Foley was one of the loony birds, or should he go out on a wild adventure that promised nothing more than a ride with someone who might be the head loony?

  He sat heavily on the bed. Something shifted near the newspaper. The journal lay next to his pillow. Walter must have tossed it there while he wasn’t looking.

  As he picked it up, it fell open to the same page he had read earlier. He focused on the entry’s ending paragraph. When comes my hour to face these dangers, will you be my friend, my comfort, my solace?

  The words stabbed his heart. An image formed in his mind, a crying girl in chains reaching out for help, dragon wings spreading out behind her. Then she changed into a grown woman, still reaching, still crying as she sat in a dim, dingy prison cell.

  Matt rose slowly to his feet. It didn’t matter. Whether his moth
er was a drug-addicted hooker, a crying twelve-year-old, or a grown woman in prison, it just didn’t matter. Walter’s friend, whoever she really was, needed help, and Matt Fletcher would give it to her.

  THE COLOR OF MERCY

  Joran and Selah sat side by side, a camel blanket covering their legs. The evening air had brought a chill, and the campfire to Selah’s left did little to warm their skin. A high rocky ridge hemmed them in, blocking a stronger wind from the highlands, which helped quite a bit. The nearby tent’s canvas didn’t flap at all, promising them a warm place to sleep when night fell.

  Father sat in front of them, leaving an arm’s-length gap in between. With Watchers always threatening, it seemed odd to be sitting out in the open without a dragon in sight. Yet, the scaly sentinels remained close, hidden in alcoves, watching, ready to fly to the aid of their human allies at the first sign of a demon’s approach.

  Playing a lyre with his leathery hands, Father closed his eyes and hummed with the song of the strings. Most of the notes stayed in the low range, and the slow rhythm added a sense of sadness to the tune.

  “It settles the dragons,” Father said in the midst of his dreamy humming. “The Watchers are near, and the great flood looms. The dragons know they will die tomorrow, so I think we can forgive them for their melancholy.”

  Selah raised a pair of fingers. “Except for two.”

  “That is correct, my dear.” Father strummed the strings and began a new song, this one even slower. “One blessed dragon couple will accompany Noah, and they will survive to repopulate the world with their kind.”

  Joran drew a mental sketch—the great ark with all the animals on board. He had seen it from the outside several times, as well as the plans for the inside. The streams of mockers who passed by daily, hurling insults and scoffing questions, kept him from drawing closer, despite Noah’s invitations to explore the divinely inspired masterpiece. Besides, walking through the refuge would only deepen the sadness of being forsaken. How could he rejoice about the handiwork when he and Selah would soon be drowning under its hull?

  This wrathful judgment was so wrong, so terribly wrong! Yet, as always, there wasn’t anything he could do about it. He had to cast away the thoughts and focus on something positive.

  Trying to keep his voice from cracking, he whispered the only question that came to mind. “Have the two dragons been chosen?”

  Father continued the sad melody. “The last I heard, they had settled on Arramos and Shachar. They are the oldest, which is a drawback, but they are still able to bear young. Since they are also the wisest, they will be able to help and advise Noah and his family after the flood subsides. Not only that, Shachar has a special gift that will be quite useful.”

  “Her scales sometimes glow,” Selah said. “Is that it?”

  “That is not the gift I had in mind, but it still could benefit. Eve herself told me that Shachar’s scales carry radiance that restores what was lost. I am not aware of the meaning of that phrase, and Shachar has not explained. Perhaps it is better that we do not know.”

  Joran looked at the western ridge, barely visible now in the failing light. Well beyond that boundary, the ark stood waiting for the coming deluge. “Are Arramos and Shachar on the ark now?”

  “Not yet. Every dragon is needed for battling the Watchers until the last moment.”

  “What if one of them is killed by a Watcher?”

  “Then Elohim will choose another pair.” Father stopped playing and set the lyre upright on his knees. “Joran, your concern is valid. In your perspective, Elohim’s plan rides on spindly legs, as if it could topple at the slightest breeze. His purpose seems harsh and vindictive, and when you and Selah inhale the killing waters tomorrow, nothing will be able to persuade you otherwise. Yet, I want to show you something that might provide a sliver of solace.” As he plucked each string in turn, the vibrating note radiated a trembling aura of white. “Now watch carefully.”

  Joran leaned forward. Father’s lyre was as much a part of their family life as hard work and baked bread, but now, on the eve of their final day on earth, it seemed more than a musical instrument that had accompanied their songs and laughter. Tonight it was a symbol of life itself.

  “This lyre,” Father said, “belonged to my father, Enoch. Like myself, he was a bard, but a much greater prophetic singer than I ever hoped to be. Since he was taken by Elohim long before you were born, you heard his songs only through my poor recitations, and you heard me playing his lyre in a vain attempt to recreate his prowess. In these final days, however, Elohim has allowed me to uncover one of Enoch’s secrets.” He strummed the strings, again making them radiate a white glow. “This instrument has been blessed as a visionary device. With it, you can see places far out of reach of your own eyes, and the strings are able to reproduce the sounds in those places, enabling you to hear every laugh and sigh.”

  Father’s fingers played nimbly in spite of their age-inflicted bends, creating a melody of stunning beauty that only his experienced hand could produce.

  “Can anyone in those places hear you if you call out to them?” Joran asked.

  Father hummed as he replied. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because Selah and I thought we heard you call us earlier. We had just finished battling a Watcher, and it seemed like your voice came to us from far away.”

  “Ah! Then you did hear my call! I could see you, but I could not tell if you could hear me.” Father waved a hand in front of the strings. “Images appear in this area, including scenes from the past, but, of course, I could not hope to speak to people in those visions, because they are no longer there to hear me. It seems that the most effective melody for creating the images is our traditional love song, the one Enoch composed to encourage love among siblings.”

  Father again strummed the strings in order—E, F-sharp, G, A, B, C, and D—calling out a name with each note. “Adam. Seth. Enos. Cainan. Mahalaleel. Jared. Enoch. These are the seven patriarchs who taught me the ways of Elohim. All warned of the wrath that would come if people rebelled. Yet, Elohim provided a way of escape for the righteous, a symbol of a greater deliverance yet to come. Noah’s ark is merely gopher wood that saves body and breath, while the greatest of all arks saves soul and spirit. All seven of my forefathers prophesied the deliverer’s coming, and we look forward to seeing his arrival, though we will not be able to do so in person. We will bear witness from a higher plane.”

  Joran gazed at his father’s face. He seemed so sad, yet joyful at the same time—a man filled with sorrow, yet hoping for the sun to rise on a brighter dawn.

  “Now that you have heard what the lyre can do …” Father laid it at his side, reached into a saddlebag, and began withdrawing ovula, setting them in a circle one by one. With each placement, the song of the ovulum hummed. No two songs were alike, yet when arranged, they harmonized perfectly, as if gathering together to form a choir. After placing the seventh and completing the circle, he set the bag at his side, though something still weighed it down.

  The choir sang a chorus that plunged deep into Joran’s soul. He laughed, then his eyes welled with tears. His biceps flexed, ready to fight and defend. Then, as they relaxed, he slid his hand into Selah’s and compressed it warmly. Whispered words spilled out unbidden. “I would do anything for you, Selah. You know that, don’t you?”

  With tears sparkling in her eyes, she raised his hand to her lips and kissed it. “Of course I do, and I will never desert you. I am your rhythm and harmony. We will live and die together.”

  “I see that their songs have affected you,” Father said. “This is a good sign, for those with hearts of evil are too hardened to allow the influence to penetrate.”

  As the eggs continued singing, each one glowed with its own color—blue, a shade that matched the sky just after dawn; yellow like the down of a chick; the green of a grape leaf; violet as the fruit of grapevines; orange as brilliant as the sun’s setting rays; indigo of a shade that n
early matched the violet, though not quite as dark, perhaps a grape of a different variety; and, finally, a red that shone like a scarlet ruby. The colors blended in a swirl at the center, painting a portrait of their perfect harmony.

  “Now,” Father said, touching the blue ovulum, “it is fitting that your heroic efforts restored the ovulum of valor and faithfulness.” He shifted his hand from egg to egg as he continued. “And your songs washed clean the violet ovulum of generosity, the indigo of liberality, the green of diligence, the yellow of patience, the orange of kindness, and the red of humility. These seven virtues are safe, and even now they send signals that confuse the Watchers, thereby protecting the ark.”

  “What color is mercy?” Joran bit his lip. His question blurted out as soon as it entered his mind. Selah straightened and looked at him as if stunned, but she stayed silent.

  Father slowly withdrew his hand. “Is this a sincere question, or are you casting a bait to hook old Methuselah?”

  “Well …” Under the blanket, Joran kneaded his own leg. His father’s counter question was the real bait, and now the son was the hooked victim. “I suppose I was making a statement. When talking about virtues, I think mercy should be near the top of the list.”

  “A wise observation, Son. In fact, we could list many virtues that are not individually represented here, but there is more on your mind. Speak it. In these times of trouble, there is no reason to withhold a heartfelt word.”

  Joran gazed toward the ridge where the sun had recently set. “Noah says the flood will come tomorrow, and only he and his family are allowed to be saved on the ark.”

  “That is true,” Father said, nodding. “But you are telling me what we both already know. Again, be free with your thoughts.”

  “Well, I deserve to drown. I know that, but—”

  “There are no buts, Joran.” Father’s tone took on a sharp edge. “What you did to Seraphina has been written in the books of Heaven. Only blood will wash away that stain.”