It was a book, yes, but unlike any that Sam had ever encountered. The covers looked to be a tarnished metal – silver, perhaps – with strange symbols embossed on its surface. Unable to resist, Sam ran his hand across the sigils, wondering what they could mean. As his fingers grazed the six-pointed star in the center, his mind was filled with
(blinding rushing light)
a strange sensation which left him dizzy for a few moments. He glanced over to his mother, who was watching him, watching his face. The silence stretched.
“Mom…what is this?” His eyes strayed to the cover, fingers itching to touch it again. Mary licked her lips, searching for the words.
“This…these…are the Seals of Solomon.” She paused, waiting for a response. What she got was dumbstruck incredulity.
“Wh…what?”
“The same magics that the Great King Solomon used to bind the angels, the demons, the genii are in this book.” She patted the cover. “Handed down for thousands of years in oral tradition until it was transcribed in text form in the late 1000s AD.” She smiled. “We have had it since, we Bucklands, caring for it, protecting it, using it when necessary.”
“You…you’re trying to tell me that my family is…what? Some sort of sect of holy wizards?” Sam looked from the book to her face, hoping to see his mother laugh at this ridiculous suggestion. To his horror, she did not – she nodded instead.
“Exactly. Each generation the Seals pass down to the eldest child. I was the eldest, as was your grandmother and your great-grandmother.”
Sam looked down. Started to chuckle. “Seriously, Mom?” he asked between laughs. “You really think you’re…we’re…some emissary from God? That some omnipotent power needs us to do His work? That we’re using ‘holy’ magic to do His will?” He leaned forward. “I hate to break it to you, Mom, but there is no God.”
The sound of her hand crossing his face was crisp, shattering the night air like a gunshot.
“You will never say those words in my house again, young man.”
Sam took three deep breaths and stood. He headed for the door, turning back as he opened it and stood upon the threshold.
“I’m sorry, Mom. I’m sorry that you can’t see, for the blindness in your eyes put there by your parents, and theirs, and theirs. I wish I could make you see that we don’t need some sort of ephemeral God to be special – we’re special enough the way we are.”
“Get out.”
Mary was sitting with her hands on the silver cover of the book, tears running down her face, leaving trails on her cheeks. Sam bowed his head, closing the door.
Damn fool. What’d you say that for? You know better.
He looked at the door, wrestling with himself. Then he turned the ignition.
“I’ll apologize tomorrow.”
He put his car into reverse.
“Tomorrow.”
~~~
Gregory Caitlin stepped out of the recording studio, sighing. Since he had announced his candidacy for governor, he had received hundreds of requests for interviews, talk show spots, radio programs. Although it strained his schedule to the limit – and his sleep as well – he did his best to make every appearance he could. Others thought that it was because he was fighting an uphill, probably hopeless, battle against an incumbent Democrat in California.
Gregory knew better. The Governor was competent, to be sure, but Gregory knew where his weaknesses were, knew exactly what he had to say, to do, to change the awe and reverence that most had for the rags-to-riches story of Gregory Caitlin into support and respect for his gubernatorial bid.
One of Gregory’s phones began to ring. He recognized the tone immediately – this came from the Special Research Division.
“Caitlin.”
A series of machine sounds as the line was encrypted, then – “Mr. Caitlin, this is Francis, SRD tech? Can you talk?”
Gregory opened the door to his Lincoln Town Car, rolled up the windows. Started the engine. “Okay.” He hooked up his hands-free device. “Go ahead.”
“Sir, we got an answer to one of your standing queries. It looks like the ‘first copy’ is ‘in circulation,’ and that it ‘remains in the line,’ although it has been ‘rejected by the heir.’” A pause. “Does any of that make sense to you, sir?”
Gregory had a grim smile on his face. “Yes, it does, Francis. Thank you. I’ll be contacting you later today with further instructions. Keep up the good work. Deus vult.”
“Thank you, sir. Deus vult.”
The line went dead and Gregory let himself sigh in relief. When God had revealed to him the secret which he had used to catalyze his fantastic success, Gregory had been told that his copy had a “twin” somewhere. When he had received this revelation, the first thing he had asked his new research division was where he could find the other. The answer had been unclear, in contrast to the more basic questions which had been easily resolved.
The response had been: “Sealed by their Keepers, the Keys wait for the heir.”
And nothing further.
Until now. Gregory drummed his fingers on the dashboard as traffic guided him to his exit, awaiting the telltale tone which would alert him to an email. It arrived as he was crossing 40th Street.
Pausing at the next light, Gregory opened up his secure mail to read two words.
Emily Buckland.
INTERLUDE
“He isn’t ready, Lord.”
Why do you say this, my son?
“He actively rejects Your Word, Your Presence, Your very existence. He does not model heroism, or charity, or forbearance. He is afraid of what he has become, and of what must be done. How can we trust him to continue?”
The days of prophets have long passed, my son. There are few among humanity now who would accept such a destiny without hesitation. This cannot be held against them.
“His mother would have been a better choice. She would have served without doubt, without the same reservations in her soul.”
Mary’s time has passed. The legacy must pass to her heir; this is how it has always been.
“But he has always been overly concerned with material things, with himself. His pride is powerful, Lord; what if that pride drives him to misuse Your gift?”
Solomon was proud, but he was also wise. Wisdom is what must determine the worthiness of his heirs as well.
“With respect, Lord, I invoke my right as accuser. Allow me to go down and test the young man. Allow me to tempt him, to judge his worthiness to wield Your power.”
So be it.
CHAPTER FOUR
Sam looked around the strange room he had appeared in. It was dark, but he could detect a small amount of light filtering through the glazed glass high on the walls.
Sam’s eyes were wide as he pivoted on the spot, taking in the computer banks against the walls, several monitors giving readouts of…well, it looked like a medical observation room, with EKG readouts, heart rate, temperature, blood pH and hemoglobin levels, everything.
As his gaze reached the third wall, Sam gasped, his breath and his reason lost in the horror of what he was seeing.
Upon the wall hung a young girl, maybe ten or eleven. Cloth that may have been whole once was in rags over her body, affording her little modesty. The girl was chained, held against the wall by manacles locked around her wrists and ankles. Her eyes were glassy and her cracked lips moved as if she were trying to speak in her semi-consciousness, but no sound escaped them.
Sam stepped closer, one footfall at a time, noting the IVs lodged in both arms, the shaved head covered in electrodes, the catheter disappearing under her rags and vials of blood being filled for analysis.
He stopped in front of the girl, looking at her chains for a way to release them, looking at her face for recognition. Her eyes passed over him again and again, her blinks languid and slow, no awareness on her face.
Sam tugged on the chains imbedded in the concrete blocks of the wall. “Who did this to you?”
&nbs
p; “I see you’ve found my sister.”
Sam spun to see the form of Mikey, Lakers T-shirt and ballcap, looking up at him from three paces away.
“You said you’d tell me if you found her, Samuel.”
“H…how…what?” Sam’s face turned one way, then the other, his mind reeling from the absurdity, the madness.
I’m dreaming. “This is a dream, Mikey. I’m dreaming.”
Mikey nodded, his eyes never leaving Sam’s face. “Maybe you are.” He opened one hand, palm upward. “Prophets once saw God’s will in dreams, you know. Did the fact that they were dreams invalidate their truth?”
Sam looked back as the emaciated figure on the wall took a ragged breath. “I don’t need to indulge this, Mikey. You’re just a figment of my imagination, probably because I feel bad about that fight I had with my mother last night.”
Mikey seemed to consider this, eyes down, nodding at his own thoughts. His head came back up after a few moments.
“I’m sorry.” A tear glistened in his eye. “We can’t let you go. Not yet. She needs you.” The boy laid a hand on Sam’s, patting the back of his wrist.
“When you wake up, Sam…don’t blame God.” Then, as people in dreams do, he vanished. Sam blinked, turned, and then, as also happens in dreams, the room was bathed in fire. The fire consumed the space; the equipment went up, sending sparks flying. The girl seemed to smile as her flesh cracked and turned to ash, ash that was blown about in the heated air.
The flames reached Sam, who was standing incredulous, and a tongue of fire lashed across the back of his hand, leaving a burn the shape of a crescent moon on his skin. He shrieked in pain
(dreams aren’t supposed to hurt)
and closed his eyes as he felt the fire closing in on him, searing his flesh, singeing his nose hairs.
Wake up, wake up, wake up! Fear flooded his brain with briny terror. Wake up!
The fire caught Sam in its fingers, and he screamed.
~~~
The sheets held him in place for several seconds after he awoke screaming; he was tangled in them, but after some effort he was able to escape. His muscles were coated in sweat, and the bed was soaked with it. His breath coming fast, Sam glanced at the clock.
7:18.
No way I’m going back to sleep now. He rubbed his eyes, then headed toward the bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth. As he looked in the mirror, admiring the fatigue under his eyes and the sallow cast to his skin, he turned on the water and ran it over his hands.
“Ouch!” He yanked his right hand away from the water, surprised by the stinging which had hit him. His eyes were dinner plates as he looked at that hand, and he shook his head back and forth, mouthing No, no, no.
There was a crescent shaped burn mark on the back of his hand.
“It’s…it’s not possible.” Blackness swirled at the edges of his vision, his sanity teetered on the edge of a chasm, a breath away from saying “Goodbye, cruel world!” and plunging down.
Sam tried to hold on to his fundamental beliefs, the idea that everything could be explained, that there was no metaphysical, no supernatural. He dug in his mind’s fingers, but there was little purchase to be found – there was nothing in, or near, his bed which could have caused that kind of burn.
Maybe I was sleepwalking? His mind was racing, scenarios playing out within, alternatives presented for approval. And I turned on the stove…and burned myself on something?
Good thought. The other voice in his mind was cynical, almost mocking his panic. You don’t sleepwalk. You key-lock your door every night. You were tangled in sheets, and this is a fire burn, jackass, not a heat burn.
But…but…
Samuel Buckland began to cry. It was too much. This can’t be happening. This really happened. I want to forget it. I can’t forget it. Ever.
~~~
Somehow, Sam managed to dress himself, shave, brush his teeth. Even though the world within him was suffering its own form of apocalypse, the world outside had kept spinning, and habits and routines too far ingrained had taken over in the absence of rational thought. He was halfway to his car before he realized that he had been preparing to go to work…to a job he didn’t have anymore.
Sam rubbed his open mouth, fighting back the panic and its accompanying nausea for the umpteenth time that morning. He was paralyzed by the contradiction in his soul – the burn was there (he checked again) but could not be, unless…but no, that was impossible. Except for the evidence in front of him.
He lost twenty minutes to this koan, this impossible quandary.
Then the slamming of a car door in the driveway pulled him from his reverie, fishing him from the oceans of madness like a life preserver thrown before him.
A portly police officer stepped out of his city cruiser, adjusting his tinted glasses in the sunlight. He shifted his pants and strode toward where Sam was standing.
“Sir? You all right?” The deputy looked him up and down. “You looked a little…out of it when we pulled up.”
Sam shook his head, fighting the tears which had begun to sting his eyes. “I’m fine, officer. What’s going on?”
“Are you Samuel Buckland?”
“Yes.”
“Sir,” said the cop, drawing himself up and dropping into the formal language of a bearer of bad news, “I am sorry to inform you that about two hours ago, your mother and father were found dead in their home.”
Sam stared a second, then laughed. The cop blinked behind his glasses. “There something funny about your parents being dead, son?”
Sam shook his head. “No sir.” He fought to suppress the manic giggling. “But at this point, if I don’t laugh, I’m going to fucking kill myself.”
The officer started to comment, then shrugged, opening the notepad he held. “I have to ask you to come in and identify the bodies, and to answer some routine questions – whereabouts, enemies, valuables, that sort of thing.” He closed the pad, looking back at Sam. “Do you have any questions?”
“How did they die?” The tears had started leaking down one side of his face, although the smile still held its ground.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Buckland, but that information will have to wait until we reach the station. If you’ll follow me?”
“Is it all right if I take my own…you know what? Never mind; I could use the ride.”
The deputy opened the back of the cruiser, and Sam climbed in, leaning his head against the window when the door closed.
~~~
The ride to the police station was uneventful, or so Sam thought; he had fallen into a dreamless sleep on the way, only awakening when the car pulled in to the parking lot.
The questions were, indeed, routine; there were neighbors who swore that Sam’s car, a rather distinctive one, had been in his driveway all night. None of the interrogators seemed serious about the idea of Sam’s involvement. When they asked Sam if his parents had any enemies, anyone who would want to hurt them, however, he asked them a question.
”When you searched the house…did you find…find a…” He rubbed his temples; he couldn’t believe he was about to ask this. “…a silver book, kind of tarnished, embossed?” The interrogator, a young black detective with bad teeth and a scar above his left eye, glanced through his notes.
“No.” His eyes pierced into Sam’s. “Should we have?”
Sam sighed. “My mom showed me that last night. It was…” Sam paused for just a moment; he had been about to say a book of holy magic, which probably wouldn’t have gone over so well, so he diverted mid-stream: “…a family secret, an heirloom, something that was special to us. I think maybe that was what they were after, if it’s missing.”
The detective nodded, scribbling on his pad. “How much would you say this book is worth?”
Sam laughed, spreading his hands. “I don’t know. A few pounds of silver in the covers, I guess. The designs were well done. A couple thousand dollars?”
Another nod. “Thank you, Mr. Buckland. Yo
u’ve been very helpful. If you come with me, I’d like you to identify your parent’s bodies. It’s just a formality, we have photo ID and such, so if you would rather not…”
“No, no.” Sam stood, bracing himself on the back of the chair. “I think I should. There’s something I need to say to my mother anyway.”
“Very good.” The detective nodded and rose, opening the door out of the interrogation room and motioning for the grieving man to follow him.
During the walk down to the morgue, Sam took no notice of the bleak walls or the harsh lighting, nor the police or investigators in the halls. His mind was blank, unable to hold a single thought long enough for it to register. Before he knew it, Sam was looking into the pale faces of his mother and his father.
His father looked to have gone quickly, with a single bullet in his forehead and his eyes closed. His mother, however, was a different story; she was shot in no fewer than 4 places that Sam could see, her face frozen in a hard mask of anger. He heard the question of “are these your parents” as if from a long hallway, and his head moved itself, nodding without his consent.
“She died fighting.” Gum snapped in the coroner’s mouth as she drew the sheet back over Mary’s body. “She got some good burns on her hands; the CSIs said they found her collapsed next to the wood-burning stove. She crawled there after being shot like four or five times, I think.” She glanced up at Sam, looking at his face for a reaction. “Hey, are you doing okay? I’d rather you didn’t throw up in my morgue; it takes forever to clean up.” Sam’s head panned up to look at her, his eyes glazed, blank…dead.
“No, I’m fine.” His head pivoted back to face his parents. “I think I just need some rest. Excuse me.” Sam plodded out of the morgue, feet shuffling as he swayed side-to-side.
The aide watched him leave. “With a look like that on his face, you’d think that he killed her.” The coroner shrugged.
“Nah.” She spat out the gum into the trash can, then began putting on her face mask and preparing the tools for the autopsy. “Seen enough of them to know; the guilty ones never look guilty, Maxwell.”
~~~
Sam sat in one of the lobby chairs, mind spiraling in on itself. His mother and father were dead. Whoever did it was after that secret, the book. The book was gone. Mom said the book was magic. There was no magic. The burn was still on his hand. There might be magic.
Chains of Prophecy: A Tale of Mythic Discovery Page 5
