Song of the Ovulum

by Bryan Davis

  Joran boiled inside. “Naamah deserves no mercy. Her own words gave away her double mindedness. I’m sure if you kept watching her life, you’d find that she went back to her harlotries.”

  “Does that matter?” Timothy asked. “Who are we to cast stones at one who hopes for mercy? I grant you that forgiveness and reconciliation require something more than a penitent posture, but mercy should not be withheld from anyone. Forsake vengeance and any desire to punish. Leave retribution in the hands of God, for bitterness is a stone that strikes only the one who hurls it.”

  Joran looked at the stones, so close and so real, it seemed that he could reach out and pick one up again. Although Naamah deserved to be pummeled with stones, the words of her protector were powerful enough to disarm her accusers. “Who was the man who spoke to her?”

  “Jesus of Nazareth, the Son of God, the great ark who delivers us from the flood of this age. He is the one who writes the mercy song on every believing heart. Just as the sins of each supplicant are different, so the words change from person to person, but the tune is always the same. The words infuse the song with captivating beauty, which explains why you were so taken by it. Although you have heard the melody before from the ovulum, hearing it expressed in its fullness captured your hearts.”

  “Do you know how Naamah survived the flood? She looks like she hasn’t aged at all.”

  “She married Ham and went aboard the ark. Although I was there in my dragon form, I was unaware at that time of her crimes against your family, so I could not warn Noah of her treachery. I am, however, an eyewitness that she was a good wife, and when her baby was born, she cared for him faithfully. Then, through the sorcery of her villainous sister, Morgan, she became a wraith-like creature who does not age. For all I know, she is still alive to this day.”

  Joran let a growl invade his whisper. “And she still sings with my sister’s voice.”

  “My old friend,” Timothy said, clasping Joran’s shoulder, “if you keep holding tightly to bitterness, you will find that you are strangling yourself.”

  Joran averted his eyes. It was easy for Timothy to preach about releasing bitterness. He wasn’t there when Naamah conspired with Tamiel to murder Seraphina.

  “And this was the point I was hoping to make from the beginning,” Timothy continued. “You always have a choice. You are free to listen to Tamiel and believe that the options he has set before you are the only ones available, or you can step up to a higher plane and broaden your vision. Just as there is more to the purple plants than your eyes can see, and just as there is more to Naamah than the wickedness that your own heart projects, there are more options than those that darkness sets before you. Open the eyes of faith, and let God show you a brighter, broader perspective. As long as you reject hope, as long as you refuse to believe in something better than what you can see with your eyes, you will never be able to unlock the mystery of true liberty. A heart that cannot give mercy is a far more confining prison than is a glass egg.”

  Joran returned his gaze to Timothy. He longed to take those powerful words and make them real within, but they seemed elusive, ineffective, much like the yellow soil that imprisoned the plants.

  “In any case,” Timothy continued, laying a hand over his heart. “I believe mercy will someday be made manifest in me, and I will be able to walk through this wall and rejoin my dear Hannah.”

  “How long have you been waiting?” Selah asked.

  “Centuries. But I would be a fool to complain. I am content.”

  “Why would Elohim wait so long to set you free?”

  “Has it been so long? I neither hunger nor thirst here, and I never tire, so years seem inconsequential. When the time is right, I will be able to leave.”

  “I see,” Selah said. “The ark carries us to new life, safe from the floodwaters, and we wait for the new land to appear. Such is the love of Elohim.”

  Joran flinched. Selah’s words bit hard. Only moments ago he had mentally spoken that sentiment—Such is the love of Elohim—as a sarcastic slap, but now …

  Letting out a sigh, he looked again at the courtyard as it filled with people, some likely as enslaved to their passions as Naamah was, and others carrying the song of mercy in their bosoms. The flood was finally beginning to make sense. Without punishment, there can be no justice. Without justice, there can be no mercy. Without mercy, there can be no hope. And hope is the heartbeat of both the forgiver and the forgiven.

  Still, how could anyone believe Naamah was truly contrite? He would have to see it to believe it.

  A splash sounded. Seven colors splattered the wall and spread out, repainting the scene—a woman with frightened eyes standing outside a small cottage with an open window on one wall.

  Joran glanced at Timothy. “Do you know who she is?”

  “Hannah!” Timothy reached toward the wall. “My wife!”

  A HIDDEN DRAGON

  Lauren blinked her eyes open, again shivering. The dream was so real! With all the colors and textures, the facial expressions, and the sorrows, it seemed like reality had played in her sleeping mind. Why would she be dreaming about Joran and Selah, the same people Bonnie mentioned? Besides that, how long had she been asleep? The dream seemed to last for hours.

  Touching her cheek, she whispered. “Larry? Lois?”

  “I am here,” Larry said. “How may I help you?”

  “I dozed off. I’m wondering how much longer till the dragons come.”

  “I cannot give you an estimate. The weather conditions are too variable. I suggest that you go back to sleep. I am able to send a vibration signal that should awaken you when the dragons approach.”

  “Thanks.” Lauren closed her eyes. Joran’s plight called her back to slumber. She had to see what would happen to Timothy and his wife and how Joran would get Selah out of the lyre … if only the dream would continue.

  As sleep closed in, one of the dream events came to mind, the woman with the stones lying around her. It was a familiar Bible story, one Micaela had memorized about a woman caught in adultery, a woman who found mercy in the words of Jesus. And that song! It was so tragic, yet so beautiful, a blend of sorrow and joy.

  “Jesus,” she whispered, “let me finish the dream. Show me what I need to know.”

  After heaving a long sigh, she drifted off to sleep.

  * * *

  Barlow descended a narrow stairway, making sure each foot touched down with the utmost silence. Portia was deaf, so noise wouldn’t make her turn to see who followed her, but there were so many odd circumstances surrounding this woman, it didn’t make sense to take a chance. Her ability to read lips seemed too remarkable to be real, especially considering her lack of understanding regarding simple concepts. Yet, the Colonel’s label for her could explain everything. She might really be an idiot savant. If not, she was an actress of extraordinary skill.

  Barlow chuckled to himself. Portia was “a tough act to follow,” a delightful application of an idiom.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Portia, with her back toward Barlow, aimed her flashlight at a door’s security pad and punched a series of keys. Her orange jumpsuit made her easy to see, even in the dimness. When a buzz sounded, she pulled the door open and hurried through.

  Barlow hustled down and caught the door before it closed. Ahead, the flashlight’s beam illuminated a dark tunnel. The beam shifted as Portia walked, alternately shining on the paneled walls at each side.

  Pushing a hand into his pocket, Barlow felt for something to keep the door from latching, perhaps a penny. His finger brushed across the rubellite ring he had found at the roof-access door in the research building, but no coins. No matter. There had to be a way out.

  After letting the door close quietly, he tiptoed after her. He glanced at the plaster ceiling just above his head. Since they had descended through a secret door in the Colonel’s office, they should now be heading toward the walkway leading to the barracks. Soon they would approac
h the area underneath the mysterious plot of greenery that interrupted the walkway. The sod there had obviously been laid down recently, a mystery he had hoped to solve. Earlier, pulling up one of the squares had revealed a shallow layer of dirt and a metal floor underneath. Now, it seemed, he would learn what lay even farther below.

  Portia stopped at another door and again typed on a security keypad. A door slid to the left, revealing a dim chamber with flashing lights on control panels at the far end and on both sides. Other than swivel seats in front of the panels, the room appeared to be empty.

  Breaking into a jog, Barlow hurried to catch up. His shoes squeaked, but that didn’t matter. Supposedly, she wouldn’t be able to hear the noise.

  The flashlight beam swung around and struck Barlow’s face. “Who is there?”

  Barlow ducked under the beam and rushed ahead. He grabbed Portia’s wrist, pried the flashlight from her hand, and aimed the light at his mouth. “I am Sergeant Daniel Hoskins. What are you doing here?”

  She trembled. “I … I work … for the Colonel. … I check the guns.”

  “Guns?” Barlow pulled her into the chamber and set her gently on one of the chairs. The door slid closed, and fluorescent lamps on the walls flickered to life. As he hooked the flashlight to his belt, he read the labels under the various dials, slider bars, and display screens—Intensity, Angle, Degradation, Coverage, among others. The controls seemed to be divided into eight stations with repeated labels. A headset/microphone combination lay at each station along with a black electrode-covered glove. “What is this place?” Barlow asked, making sure Portia could see his lips.

  She opened her mouth, straining, as if trying to speak a difficult word. “Ex … Excali …”

  “Excalibur? The famed sword of King Arthur?”

  She nodded. “Guns shoot … like sword.”

  “How do you know about Excalibur’s abilities?”

  Again straining to speak, she forced out, “Colonel told me.”

  Barlow pointed at the panel. “Do these stations control weapons that create a disintegrating beam?”

  “And more.” She waved a hand over her head. “Um … umbrella.”

  “A photo umbrella,” he said, nodding. “Excalibur can do that. It creates a shield overhead and all around, like a dome of light energy.”

  As she nodded in return, Barlow studied her face. She seemed familiar somehow, like someone he had met long ago. Yet, since she was so pallid and haggard, if she had been in full health when he met her, it would be difficult to match the images. And she didn’t show any signs of recognizing him. Maybe they were two ships passing by a knight. “Why did you come here at this hour?”

  “I show you.” She pressed a button on one of the right-hand control panels. A thin computer monitor rose from the surface, displaying a graphic representation of a cannon-like object. She put the closest glove on her right hand, and as she moved her fingers, the cannon’s barrel shifted up and down and side to side.

  With each movement, a quiet hum emanated from above. Barlow looked up. A drop-panel ceiling blocked his view, but no doubt a real gun sat up there, guided by Portia’s hand. As his eyes shifted, he imagined seven other guns positioned in a rectangle. Apparently, a mechanism existed whereby they could rise above the ground and shoot, either to obliterate an enemy or to create a shielding dome. Such a battery of weapons would be a devastating arsenal against a dragon invasion.

  “I understand the operation,” Barlow said. “Continue your explanation.”

  Portia slid the headset on and spoke into the microphone, her voice strained, as usual. “Set to … manual … alert.”

  A message flashed under the cannon graphic—Command Not Recognized.

  Portia smacked her palm on the control panel. Her face straining, she spoke again. “Set to … manual alert.”

  Again, the error message flashed.

  Barlow pondered the command. Apparently this weapons system could defend the facility automatically, and the eight stations proved that it could be operated manually as well. Since no one manned the stations, they had set it to automatic mode, confident their equipment could hold off a surprise attack until the gun operators arrived. Now Portia wanted to shift it to manual to make the facility more vulnerable.

  “Is there any other way to switch the mode?”

  Portia shook her head. “Voice command. … Colonel must do. I wanted … to try.”

  “Ah! I see. Voice recognition. Are there any other options? Sabotage, maybe?”

  She touched the panel with a finger. “Cannot break.”

  “It’s indestructible?”

  “Not in … indes …”

  “It’s not indestructible. I understand.”

  She splayed her fingers, folded them in, then splayed them again. “Alarms.”

  “So you want to destroy it, but you can’t because of an alarm system.”

  She nodded vigorously.

  “Why do you want to destroy it?”

  “Pro … protect … dragons.”

  Barlow pointed at her. “You’re a dragon sympathizer?”

  She aimed her own finger back at him. “So are you … Ssss … Sir Barlow.”

  He glanced at his “Hoskins” name tag, now a useless façade. “How have we met?”

  “Not telling.” Portia rose from the chair and began gathering the gloves. “Help me.”

  Barlow collected four gloves, while Portia piled the other four into her arms. As they stood together at the door, Barlow looked her in the eye. “I understand your plan, Miss. Although you were unable to delay the activation of the weapons, at least now the operators won’t be able to move the guns around when they arrive, but what I do not yet understand is your motivation.”

  She shook her head. “Secret.”

  Barlow kept his stare locked on her. How could he just let her go? Without full knowledge of her person and purpose, he had no way of knowing whether or not his own identity might be exposed. Still, she specifically mentioned protecting dragons, and she had a familiar look about her, so maybe …

  He set his gloves on the closest panel and dug the rubellite ring out of his pocket.

  When she saw it, her eyes grew wide, and she dropped her gloves.

  Barlow grabbed her wrist and slid the ring over her pinky. The gem’s red color drained away until it turned pearly white. As he looked again into her eyes, they sparkled with tears. “Now I understand,” he said in a soothing tone. “We will finish here and go our separate ways.”

  Portia nodded, a tear trickling down her cheek. She slid the ring off and pushed it back into his hand, curling his fingers around it.

  He gave her a smile. There was no need to find out which former dragon she was. They were one in purpose, and that was all that mattered. They were birds of a feather flocking to gather the anthrozils and take them to safety.

  * * *

  Timothy gaped at the image on the wall. “I have not seen this before. It must be new, maybe happening at this moment.”

  In the image, Devin vaulted out through the window, and Palin followed. As Devin straightened, he faltered for a moment, clutching his leg.

  “He’s hurt!” Someone shouted as a hand reached out and grabbed Hannah’s elbow. “Run!”

  Devin and Palin stalked toward the foreground, each wielding a sword. Hannah’s voice came through again but too garbled to understand.

  Then, as if materializing out of nowhere, a white-haired man appeared in front of the wall, facing Joran and Timothy and blocking their view.

  Timothy’s mouth dropped open. “Enoch!”

  “Yes,” Enoch said calmly. “Timothy, you will eject from here in a cloud of gas that will temporarily disable the dark knights and place you safely next to Hannah. But since the effects from the gas will not last long, you must flee with all haste. Tell Elam that his next assignment is to find Valcor. He lives in Glastonbury, England, under the name Patrick Nathanson. Elam
will learn how he must aid Patrick as faithfully as he aided Thigocia. Lock this command in your mind, for you will quickly forget much of what you experienced within this ovulum.”

  Devin’s sword sliced through the viewing wall, cutting off the top half.

  Enoch grabbed Joran’s arm and pulled him away from Timothy. “It is time!”

  Red mist spun around Timothy, lifted him into the air, and sent him flying through the breach.

  “Your turn,” Enoch said to Joran, a hint of a smile on his face.

  Joran squinted at him. Could this man really be his grandfather? “Am I leaving now?”

  “Perhaps not permanently. We shall see.”

  More mist erupted from the floor. It swirled around Joran and carried him away. Blinded by the redness, he twirled and flew upward, holding the lyre close to his chest. Selah had disappeared. At least she was safe in the string.

  Soon, he began to descend, and the swirling eased. After a few seconds, his feet touched ground, and the mist evaporated. In the distance, Timothy, Hannah, and a young man climbed a low fence, then ran across a grassy field toward a trio of horses.

  The sound of coughing made Joran turn. Devin and Palin knelt nearby, both retching with violent spasms.

  Joran grabbed Devin’s sword and set the point against his throat. “Give me the ovulum.”

  After coughing several more times, Devin nodded toward Joran’s feet. “Are you blind? It’s right there. But it’s no good for protecting dragonkind. I destroyed it.”

  Joran glanced down. An ovulum lay in two halves in a pool of red liquid. “Not this one. I want the ovulum you used to find it.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Joran pushed the blade, pricking Devin’s skin, making him wince. Blood oozed around the point and streamed behind his shirt. “I know what you did to Tamara,” Joran growled, “and if you don’t give me the ovulum, I will not hesitate to separate your head from your body.”