The Destiny Code: The Soldier and the Mystic

by Hollingsworth, Suzette

  What they didn’t know was which of them would live to tell the tale.

  “Wish I’d married her before I left,” Colin murmured.

  Val wasn’t in the habit of praying for individuals, but he wished with all his heart that these two might live.

  It wasn’t smart to have such thoughts before a fight, it didn’t serve to become too attached to one’s men.

  I might be a good fighter, but I am a sorry soldier.

  The last rays of the sun evaporated, and darkness enveloped them, as if they had been buried alive inside a tomb.

  What a perverse prophecy, Val reflected.

  Their dinner complete, the advance began. The unrelenting rhythm of the boots on sand sounded strangely like the drum cadence prior to an execution.

  Many were afraid to breathe for fear it would be heard by the enemy. Val couldn’t see their faces, but he knew their expressions nonetheless: the men imagined that every sound, every breath, would somehow discharge an army of weapons now faced at each man alone, blasting each off the desert sands once and for all.

  The moment of the advance had arrived.

  “Glory for the Queen!” was whispered along with encouraging words of victory, honor, and duty among the men.

  “Fix bayonets!” he commanded in a whisper. Despite the darkness, he raised his right arm.

  Suddenly a solitary bugle call in the Egyptian camp blared out, revealing that their presence was known.

  “Bloody Hell!” Val cursed under his breath. Their chances of victory had not been good before, and now they were miniscule.

  As if to bring the point home, with startling abruptness the Egyptians closed in upon them, a burst of rifle fire from single shot Remington rifles showering out of the darkness.

  Despite being unable to see, Val lunged forward in the darkness, charging.

  Everything was in the Egyptians’ favor: they were sheltered while the British were in open desert.

  It was as if they were lined up before a firing squad, each row replacing the previous row, now on the ground. Officers and fellow soldiers were killed instantly, dropping and dying all around him.

  Still Val moved forward, shooting as he rode. It was as if his horse dodged the bullets.

  Lit against the gun blasts Val saw the Egyptian camp’s bugler, robed entirely in white, carrying a brass-hilted sword. He was moving like the wind—and heading right for Robert Tutt.

  The bugler seemed to come from nowhere, and suddenly he was four feet above Tutt as if suspended in midair, ruthlessly slicing like a demonic beast.

  Even as Val stormed towards Tutt, O’Rourke beat him to the scene. Val arrived just as the bugler stabbed Colin, blood gushing forth from Colin’s mouth.

  You bastard! For that you’ll pay with your life.

  Val attacked the white cloaked bugler, unconcerned that he would likely be the next man dead on the field.

  That’s right, beg for your life. I’ll show you the same mercy you showed O’Rourke. Even amidst the noise of battle, Val could hear the bugler yelling something. No doubt a plea for his life. But it seemed somehow personal.

  It was kill or be killed, as was evident all around him. Val saw his opening and thrust his bayonet in the bugler’s chest who fell backwards. Even as Val did so, the buglar’s cloak fell off, revealing his face.

  “Banafrit! God no!” Val felt his own heart rip out of his chest even as he leaned to the ground, not caring if he was struck down himself.

  Captain Lord Ravensdale held his friend in his arms, tears streaming down his face.

  “Ravensdale. Friend.” Banafrit murmured as he smiled up at Val. “My family. Watch after them.”

  “Yes, yes, I will.”

  The brave warrior then looked up to the heavens, murmuring his last words, “Mother Egypt”.

  And then he died.

  “Damn you!” Val cursed the heavens.

  Rashid. Jendayi. Banafrit’s children. Precious children whom he had robbed of a father with his own sword. Their faces flashed before Val’s eyes, the memory of the children’s laughter turning to icicles which stabbed him in the heart.

  I deserve to die. I want to die. Val knew no sense of honor for his part in this battle.

  He looked around. I have other men. I have a battle to fight. Thank God I will die, we all will. But perhaps I can save a few in the process.

  The captain of the 7th Dragoon Guards threw himself into every foolhardy act, taking every risk, as he sought to save his men from onslaught. Death was certain.

  This is my consolation.

  7

  The End of Dreams

  Alita breathed a sigh of relief even as she continued to read the letter. “Robert is alive.”

  “Colin has been killed,” Kristine whispered. She struggled for breath, giving the impression of one who was asphyxiating.

  And then the flood burst, tears pouring down Kristine’s cheeks.

  Alita sat stunned for some moments before she could find her words, the letter dropping into her lap.

  It is too horrible to be true.

  “I am so sorry,” Alita finally managed to whisper. She had been attempting so diligently to connect to the scene that she had ended up wide of the mark, and the obvious had escaped her. The irony was that someone without her ability might have known it already.

  Colin O’Rourke had been an unlikely match for the stunning and sought-after society brunette. His looks were not outstanding, but he was highly intelligent, with a lively wit and a gift for amusing himself and others. He was a superb dancer with impeccable manners—when he chose to utilize them.

  One never knew what Colin would do next. He had courted Kristine with wild abandon, riding for hours to find her favorite wildflower, sending her ridiculous poems which sent her into fits of laughter, and presenting himself at the park wearing a pink bonnet and cloak so as not to be detected by Kristine’s chaperone.

  Colin had been Kristine’s perfect match. And here he was, dead on the battlefield at twenty-three years of age.

  Alita went numb. Where there had been so much life, there was now nothing but a memory.

  “Why must England be plagued with assisting every backward country to right itself? Can these barbarians do nothing to help themselves? If I could, I would kill every Egyptian myself.” Kristine gritted her teeth and clenched her fists as she spit out the words.

  Feeling the full impact of the darkness encroaching upon her friend’s soul, Alita grew suddenly alarmed. “But, Krissy, dear, the war was on Egyptian soil. Egypt did not come to Britain and attack our people. What else could they do but defend their own country?” She knew from her mother that Egypt had been protecting herself continually against European invasion for almost a century, starting with Napoleon Bonaparte who landed in Egypt with thirty-eight thousand troops in 1798.

  “How dare you!” Kristine shot Alita a look that registered betrayal. Her hands were shaking as she picked up her discarded letter, as if this might bring Colin back, tears falling down her cheeks. Returning her eyes to Alita, she hissed, “Colin was good. He died because of them.”

  “He was good. Very good,” Alita agreed, sadness engulfing her. She searched frantically for some way to comfort her friend, closing her eyes momentarily. She thought of Colin and realized with a stark suddenness that he had experienced a particularly gruesome death.

  A shape is moving towards me. Startled, Alita wondered who it could be. She had never before connected with the afterlife, and she wasn’t sure she wished to. Frantically, she opened her eyes, but it was too late.

  Is it Colin from the afterlife? Without warning, someone called to her. Frightened by the possibility it was a departed soul, Alita fought the connection.

  No, no! I cannot handle the darkness. I might lose myself forever.

  And then it overcame her, the scent of blood and decaying bodies and organs, of human and animal waste. Alita entered into a trance she had never wished to experience. The further she travelled the greate
r her conviction she didn’t wish to be here. It smelled inconceivably worse than her mother’s hospital, and without the accompanying antiseptic smells.

  As Alita’s stomach began to churn, she fought the need to regurgitate with great effort. She would have failed had she eaten any food this morning.

  She began to shake. Involuntarily she transported into a dream state, so powerful was the image. Colin hurried to Robert Tutt’s aid. The thundering Egyptian bugler then turned his attentions toward Colin, his gigantic sword gleaming as it sliced the air.

  Another soldier rushed like lightning toward the scene, only a few seconds behind the bugler.

  Both men converging upon Colin and Robert were mighty, fearless warriors. Colin’s protector took the form of a black panther in her vision. The Black Panther left a trail of men in his wake as he rushed to Colin’s side, slashing them right and left as he moved.

  Despite his enormous speed and skill, the Black Panther arrived too late.

  As she accessed the anger and remorse that filled the Black Panther’s being, Alita found herself choking and gasping for air.

  But the warrior was silent. He did not scream, nor did he curse. His pale silver-blue eyes, all the more eerie offset against black hair, focused intently on the Egyptian he had watched kill Colin.

  Without hesitation, and with the warrior’s reflexes, the Black Panther attacked the white-cloaked bugler.

  The Egyptian was yelling something, but it could not be heard in the noise of battle. The combat that ensued as the darkness of night surrounded them was fierce and lengthy until the Black Panther delivered his fatal blow.

  The Egyptian fell backward, and his cloak fell off with the fall, uncovering his face.

  Looking into the Black Panther’s eyes, a wave of horror and recognition struck the victor. The Egyptian died in the panther’s arms as he whispered a name Alita could not discern, followed by an endearment.

  They were friends. This was the last thing she had expected, and she was more shaken than ever.

  The life the panther had taken would never return, and the realization was rich with meaning for the Black Panther.

  He knew no sense of honor for his part in this battle. He wanted to die. He prayed that he would die.

  The enormity of his misery made Alita feel as if her heart would break and her head would burst. She swayed, clutching her heart. Never before had she entered into emotions of such magnitude.

  There was the very real probability they might engulf and destroy her. And yet she could not pull back, did not know how to pull back.

  She did not wish to pull back.

  Fear overtook her. The Panther was in great danger of being killed on the battlefield. Being an accomplished soldier, there was the chance his instincts would take over, defending him against attack.

  Does he live? Alita frantically focused all her energy on finding the answer to this question so important to her now, critical to her existence, she knew not why.

  Suddenly a wave of relief swept over her, and she began to swoon.

  “Alita, Alita!” Kristine shook her, momentarily taken out of her own grief. “Why do you ignore me? What is wrong with you?”

  “Not now, Krissy! I have to know.” Alita braced herself against her chair, fighting her dizziness.

  Ordinarily she was guarded in what she revealed to her friends of her abilities, but she had just emerged—did not wish to emerge—from the most powerful trance she had ever experienced. If only Krissy would be quiet! “I have seen the Black Panther.”

  “The black…what?”

  “Shhh! He is confused…”

  “How could you, Alita? Today of all days!” Kristine stood, her eyes darkened. “I begin to think you are not my friend at all.”

  He lives. The Black Panther lives.

  A wave of relief swept over Alita, and she began to swoon. Sobbing from the encounter, her entire body began to shake. “He thought he knew his enemy, and then he saw the face of his friend in his enemy. He lost two friends on this day, one of them was Colin, and he blames himself for the deaths of both. The Black Panther is retreating to treat his wounds. He goes to a dark place where he will stay for a time.”

  “A dark place? Alita, what did you say about Colin?”

  “Enemy and friend are one and the same.” Her teeth were chattering now, even as she was perspiring. She forced herself to speak, the purity of the panther’s convictions now intermingled with her own. “He does not have the heart for his duty…”

  “Alita, have you gone mad? Colin did his duty—and don’t you ever say he didn’t.” Kristine exclaimed.

  “Of course he did.” Alita began to come into the present, picking up the letter. “He died bravely and he died with honor. He did precisely what he set out to do, he followed his orders, acquiring Egypt for the English.”

  Kristine looked at her aghast. “I could care less about Egypt.”

  “Britain has won, Krissy.” Alita skipped to the last paragraph, “Robert states most exuberantly that Britain has won. Tel-el-Kebir broke the back of Egyptian resistance, Urabi has surrendered, and British troops have entered Cairo in triumph. I gather that control of Egypt has effectively passed to the queen. This will secure the future of the Suez Canal for the English.” She could not eat at her mother’s table and not be well-informed in the political arena.

  “How can you talk about this when Colin has died? Have you heard nothing I have said?”

  “Oh, Krissy,” Alita replied faintly, taking out her handkerchief and patting the tears in her eyes. “I am so sorry. Believe me. The pain and suffering was incomprehensible. It was terrible.”

  “I was there.”

  8

  The Turning Point

  Something about descending the Grand Staircase at Buckingham Palace made one feel that there was a great significance to the moment.

  And there always was.

  One was utterly alive to the moment, aware that kings and queens had preceded one.

  If every architectural structure had the power of rendering its occupants completely present, how might it change the outcome of the connecting moments of a life?

  Even as these thoughts danced through her head, Lady Elaina was struck by the grandeur of the rooms, though she had seen the palace many times before.

  Gasp! Her daughter’s constricted breathing returned Lady Elaina to the task at hand. She glanced at Alita, surprised to observe an expression of dread, the girl’s hands quivering.

  This is not what I expect from Alita. It wasn’t like her eldest daughter to look upon a social event with anything other than expectant jubilation. Ever since Kristine’s visit Alita had not been herself ...

  True, this ball would determine the future lives of many in attendance, but Alita was a charming young lady and a perfect candidate for the matchmaking season. Unlike myself at the same age.

  “Calm down, darling. If the presentation went well, what could possibly go astray here? You cannot fail to please. Enjoy yourself.”

  “Yes, Ma-ma.” Alita swallowed.

  “You look so lovely, dearest. You are positively an ethereal vision in white.” Even though white was required for the presentation to the queen, and thus most girls chose outlandishly colorful gowns for the ball, Lady Elaina was proud Alita had chosen for her ball gown an antique ivory silk with a small circular train bordered by Belgian lace. A myriad of curls were placed artfully on her head, laced with pearl droplets and the palest peach-tone rosebuds, offsetting Alita’s emerald-green eyes.

  “You stand out like a swan amongst the peacocks,” the Dowager Duchess of Yarbury murmured, flanking Alita.

  “Or, rather, the parrots,” Lady Elaina mused.

  “I should say not. Everyone looks positively radiant,” Alita objected in defense of her contemporaries, though a giggle escaped her lips before she caught herself. “For myself, I merely wish to look nice without bringing undue attention to myself.”

  “Not bring attention to yoursel
f?” objected Marvella. “You must always bring attention to yourself, Alita—but without appearing to do so, of course.” The duchess swatted her daughter with a silk Chinese fan while making it appear she had merely opened the fan, as if to illustrate her point on subterfuge. “Slow your pace, Elaina.”

  “Yes, Mother.” Without warning, Lady Elaina felt a wave of consternation wash over her, knowing that her own confident, purposeful manner had nothing to do with the fashion of the day and everything to do with raised, disapproving eyebrows.

  I have never belonged in this venue, and it appears I never will, regardless of my accomplishments.

  Or perhaps because of them.

  Suddenly Alita asked in a whisper, barely audible, as if she were afraid of her own words, “I so want a family of my own. What if no one wishes to marry me?”

  “What a strange thing to say. Would that it could be so…” Elaina murmured.

  “Ma-ma! Do you mean it?” Alita stared at her mother in disbelief.

  “Bite your tongue, Elaina Lawrence,” seethed the duchess, conveniently forgetting her daughter’s married name, a not unusual occurrence.

  “Indeed I am confident of your success, my dear—and convinced that the establishment of your household will occur all too quickly,” explained Lady Elaina, ignoring her mother’s admonitions.

  “Not quickly enough,” murmured Marvella through a plastic smile as she glided forward.

  “I expect Alita to be married within a year. She’s too young. She isn’t ready for marriage,” Elaina said.

  Her Grace’s complexion began to turn blue, bringing out the shades in her white hair. “Sacrilege!”

  “Which isn’t to say that Alita won’t someday make a wonderful wife and mother,” Elaina added.

  “How could she do otherwise? She is my granddaughter.”

  Even as the duchess turned blue, the roses returned to Alita’s pale complexion, who conveniently forgot the parts of the conversation she did not like. “A year? Do you think so, Ma-ma?”

  “You perfectly fit the fashion of the day, my love, how could it be otherwise? You shall not long be unwed,” Lady Elaina said. “To the current way of thinking, a lady is refined and discreet in her manners. She is natural and unpretentious in her language, speaking little of herself and focusing on others.”