Sword- Part Two

by D B Nielsen

  But Gabriel still hadn’t spoken throughout our outburst. He had watched the conflict with a kind of strange intensity and only now decided to wade into the heated discussion of my family’s dramas.

  But first his hand came down over Fi’s and gripped it hard.

  ‘Assieds-toi. Please sit down, Saffron.’ His voice was soft-spoken yet held authority.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ Fi whispered fiercely, ready for a fight. ‘I’m not sitting back down.’

  ‘Tiens! Sit down or leave. Your choice. But do not blame anyone if decisions are made in your absence and without your consent.’ Gabriel’s silver-grey eyes narrowed in warning. He’d had enough, and I really couldn’t blame him.

  ‘Fine.’ Her response was terse.

  Fi sat back down. Resentfully. Furiously. But she sat anyway, crossing her legs and her arms over her chest and mutinously listening to what Gabriel had to say next.

  ‘Your parents are right. They’re worried about your safety,’ Gabriel began in a firm voice, but I cut him off.

  Sending him a dirty look, I stated, ‘Wait a minute. I’ve heard the way this goes. It’s for your own good and all that. Is that what you’re telling us?’

  Gabriel held his hands up in surrender, mediating in the tense atmosphere. ‘What I am telling you is to be quiet and listen to what I have to say. Both of you.’

  Fi opened her mouth to shoot back a heated reply, but I shook my head forestalling her. Seated across from him, for the first time, I saw Gabriel as he really was and not as he pretended to be; not a twenty-something, charismatic young man, but as a battle-hardened soldier who had lived through the worst and a man of the ages. He was exercising great restraint in not putting us over his knee and treating us like the brats we were proving to be.

  ‘As I was saying,’ Gabriel said mildly, daring either of us to interrupt him again, ‘your parents are right. Your safety and wellbeing are all that is important. Have you thought about what it would do to your family if something were to happen to either of you? Do you honestly think your parents wish to oppress you by keeping you out of harm’s way? I believe you both have enough emotional intelligence to recognise that their desire to keep you safe is not meant to be tyrannical.’

  Gabriel’s words made me shift restlessly in my seat as I felt a sudden upsurge of guilt at my ingratitude – especially as I had so quickly forgotten my resolution upon entering the dining room to be more aware of my family’s needs. Even Fi’s expression was hangdog – like me she was remembering our many accidents and injuries that could so easily have been fatal.

  I could barely swallow the lump in my throat as my mother nodded in agreement, looking gratefully towards Gabriel.

  ‘Parents are supposed to protect their children. We’ve done a brilliant job of that, haven’t we?’ My dad ran his hand through his salt-and-pepper hair resignedly. ‘We really thought the move to London would be for the best ...’

  ‘Yet there is no fortress in the world that is impregnable,’ Gabriel commented, and I discerned a change in his tone and manner – not to censure but to empathise. ‘A great man I have the honour of knowing well told me that to have children is to learn the art of sacrifice and surrender – to realise that you cannot control your child’s choices, you cannot watch over them every second of every day, you cannot protect them from the vicissitudes of life – and so you must relinquish your dreams for who you want your children to be and what you want for them and let them search for and find the life they were meant to live, even if they hurt themselves trying.’

  The present moment and all its possibilities stretched across the dining room with a fluid surface tension, drawn between the known past and the unknown future.

  My father cleared his throat, calmer and more considered. ‘This great man you know, he isn’t your father by any chance?’

  Gabriel smiled with genuine warmth. ‘My foster father, in fact. I’m sure it’s not too much of a stretch of the imagination to understand I was a little wild in my youth. He took me in, gave me a home and family. In fact, he gave me a sense of purpose. In his words, he “saw my potential”.’

  ‘A wise man.’ Mum returned the smile. She had given up on cleaning away the dirty dishes and was content to sit and sip at her wine instead. ‘I did wonder about the difference between St. John’s features and yours – as an artist, it intrigued me – and then there was the obvious difference in your surnames. So that explains it.’

  ‘Mais si. But I am proud to call St. John my brother despite our differences, which are many.’ Gabriel rose from the table and, graciously, gestured towards a subdued Jasmine and Alex. ‘Why don’t we have that Easter egg hunt now? We can postpone a decision about the girls’ trip to Rome until you both have had some time to think it through. But the offer still stands.’

  The words were barely uttered when, with a huge whoop, my younger siblings rushed out of the dining room towards the front door – I realised that there was no way Mum would have held the Easter egg hunt in the backyard, which looked like a nuclear strike had taken place and that the ground was still emitting radiation, similar to the testing ground in Arizona – and I marvelled at their resilience; they so quickly bounced back from experiences of change, trauma and conflict.

  But I no longer shared such a carefree spirit and resilience. Though, to be honest, I wasn’t certain I ever had. I’d always been seen as much too serious for my age, unlike Fi. Perhaps Gabriel understood the dilemma of being different from someone you were close to and constantly compared with – and not always in a positive way by your peers.

  But the change in the dynamics of the household was more recent and I wondered if the tension was in some part caused by the removal of St. John’s blessing. If this was the case, then Belladonna and the Grigori had done more damage than they could possibly have hoped.

  My father got up from the table and went to help Mum to her feet.

  ‘Come on, Rose. Let’s get some fresh air.’ There was a tenderness in his voice, evident in the gentle tone he used, that made me look at my mother sharply. She was still smiling but it was tremulous; vulnerable and fragile ... and she suddenly looked all of the forty-three years she truly was and not like the women half her age that she could normally pass for.

  ‘I’ll clean up,’ I offered, contritely.

  ‘And I’ll help too,’ Fi volunteered, pushing Gabriel out of the way and beginning to stack the dirty plates, clattering Mum’s special occasions Wedgwood noisily.

  ‘Nobody’s staying behind to clean up. We can do that later.’ Dad’s voice instantly changed as he addressed Fi and me, becoming firm and authoritative. ‘We’re going to enjoy the rest of today as a family. Your sister and brother have been waiting for you since Indy woke them up early this morning to start the Easter egg hunt, and I expect that you won’t disappoint them.’

  I couldn’t have felt any guiltier if I tried.

  ‘Yes, Dad,’ I said sheepishly. Fi’s arm pressed against mine as she came up to stand beside me, demonstrating sisterly solidarity.

  At that moment, an exuberant Jasmine and Alex ran back into the dining room, shouting, ‘Are you all coming or what? Hurry up!’

  ‘But of course, we are coming. Tout est prêt. Bref, on y va!’ Gabriel’s voice held amusement and he led the way out of the dining room, shadowed by my parents who assumed that Fi and I would follow behind, turning the conversation to mundane things such as the beauty of the spring day, and how did we go about collecting the eggs, and had we thought of setting up a rabbit hutch as they made wonderful pets.

  No sooner were Jasmine and Alex out the front door, Indy yapping at their heels excitedly, my brother managed to find a gold foil-wrapped chocolate bunny under a cluster of bluebells and immediately began to devour it.

  I would have laughed if the faint smell of something smouldering mingled with an earthy decay hadn’t put me on edge – and I may not have noticed it at all if the direction of the breeze hadn’t changed right at
that moment.

  ‘What’s that smell?’ I hissed at Fi who was standing off to my right. ‘Do you smell it too?’

  Fi beckoned me to move away from the others and I joined her at the edge of the circular driveway.

  ‘I’ll tell you what that smell is!’ Fi snorted angrily, keeping her back to my parents so that they wouldn’t see her militant expression. ‘How do you think I knew you were in trouble and to come rescue you?’

  I thought the question a bit obvious but answered nonetheless. ‘I don’t know. Gabriel called you?’

  ‘Gabriel had nothing to do with it,’ Fi said dismissively, a little put out that I was so obtuse. ‘It was Indy.’

  ‘Indy?’ I asked bewildered, blinking owlishly in the sunlight. My good-for-nothing German shorthaired pointer had managed to finally act the watchdog?

  ‘Well, Indy and that bloody plant Isabella gave Mum and Dad,’ she conceded, shrugging her shoulders.

  There was tension in my voice. ‘I don’t understand.’

  My sister sighed in exasperation and walked a few steps forward along the gravel path, putting further distance between us and our parents. Beyond her, in the distance, a shadow wheeled amongst the cotton wool clouds and, squinting, I imagined I could see Fi’s inherited bird of prey, Kemwer.

  ‘Almost as soon as you left this morning, Indy began frantically whining and scratching at the solar door, desperate to get out. I figured he wanted to do his business and so I let him go outside. But he immediately ran to the garden compost bin, howling and acting really weird – like he was edging close up to it then backing away, wanting to attack it but afraid of it at the same time.’

  Always, just as I began to think the ground beneath my feet was certain, it shifted, sliding away to reveal more questions and mysteries. I asked, my body slightly shaking in response, ‘What happened? What was it?’

  Fleetingly she turned to look at me. I could tell she was uneasy; her hands crossed in front of her chest defensively. ‘That plant. Isabella’s plant. The one I threw out. I remembered, you see. Remembered seeing these plants displayed in the hallway at Satis House ... And after both Finn and Mum acting oddly, I wondered about Finn’s message. And then this happened ...’

  Her words seemed to echo in the quiet of the garden, obscured only by the shrieks of laughter coming every now and again from the others on their egg hunt.

  Fi stared through me, her voice betraying nothing. ‘And as I approached it, I started hearing the voices again. In warning. So when I went to open the compost bin, I was very careful. But the plant was rotting away and smelt like a decomposing corpse. It was crawling with maggots and flies. At first, I didn’t know what to do but I thought, like the invitation, I should burn it. And so I did.’

  ‘Good thinking,’ I praised, almost absently.

  But my sister laughed bitterly. ‘And that’s when I knew you were in trouble ... that St. John was never going to leave Home House with you. Why it didn’t surprise me that he wasn’t with you to make an escape. That the plan failed. Don’t you see, Sage? St. John must have known about the poison and Isabella’s involvement. He must have known she was Belladonna. He must have known for a long time.’

  No! No! No!

  Hesitating, an image of the ruined faces of the Anakim intruded. I shook it off. ‘Not at the beginning. Maybe later he did suspect but was unable to tell us. I suppose he might have known when we went to West Norwood Cemetery. But we can’t be certain. The poison ... he fought against it ... he told me it had happened as far back as our visit to the British Library ... and Isabella was with us that day ...’

  Fi took a step towards me. ‘Belladonna ... or, as it’s also called, Deadly Nightshade ... it’s a pity St. John didn’t share his suspicions with anyone. But maybe you’re right and he couldn’t ...’ There was bitterness in her voice. ‘We were stupid not to put two and two together ... I mean, maybe we could have been spared all this. You. Mum. Dad. Everyone Belladonna came into contact with, she poisoned. I just wish we had known sooner ... but I wonder if it would have made any difference.’

  The tense moment stretched between us, my loyalties fluctuating dangerously. But Fi didn’t know – couldn’t have known – what had just happened at Home House. I couldn’t blame her for her mistrust of St. John – there was too much water under the bridge – and she had no idea that he had been targeted by Isabella Donnatelli in the deadly and dangerous game she was playing against us.

  But no matter how I tried to suppress my own doubts, I feared he was now lost to me.

  The thought chilled me and I shook it from my mind. No! I wouldn’t believe it! I wouldn’t – couldn’t – falter at the first obstacle I faced. St. John and I were joined together. It was meant to be.

  Immediately apprising my sister of the situation, I admitted, ‘I guess that’s why they’ve been poisoning him. He’s the Keeper of the Seed.’

  ‘It’s more than just because he’s the Keeper of the Seed,’ Fi broke in, speaking to me as if I were blind. ‘Don’t you get it, Sage? Perhaps we should be asking ourselves what makes St. John so different from the others that poses such a threat to the Grigori. Is it his extraordinary powers like Finn believes – because St. John has been reluctant to use them and if no one has ever witnessed them ... how do we even know they’re so special? Finn hinted at St. John having the same abilities as him but it could be something else entirely ...’

  As I listened to Fi’s words, a change came over me. I knew that St. John had spent his life rejecting what he believed to be his dark heritage, a legacy of his father and the Fallen, and Gabriel had acknowledged that the struggle was driving his kind mad but ...

  ‘St. John has no darkness within him.’

  I’d voiced my thoughts aloud and, all of a sudden, I understood what Ellen Jacobi had been babbling about in her maddened state. It must have occurred to my twin too as she swiftly spoke up.

  ‘O-M-G! You’re right! Isabella’s poison targets the darkness within the Anakim, ravishing their minds. But St. John’s father wasn’t one of the Fallen when he and Miriam conceived St. John.’ Her words seemed to hover in the air around us. I shivered, feeling a strange sense of foreboding caress the length of my spine, even as a spark of hope took hold. ‘Do you know what this means?’

  ‘It means that Finn is correct,’ I said, my eyes never leaving Fi. ‘St. John must use his innate gifts to save himself ... and, if possible, to save the others too. They’re going mad. The darkness in their blood calls to them and the more they fight it, the more agonising it becomes because of the poison in their system. Eventually the poison will win if St. John cannot find it within himself to use his powers.’

  But we both knew that St. John would never be able to do this until he was liberated from Belladonna’s control.

  ‘Finn was right in more than one way,’ Fi conceded, turning to watch our younger sister as she attempted to exert her pre-teen feminine wiles over Gabriel, getting him to hold her basket. ‘He warned St. John that we’d need Elijah. And it’s evident that Elijah knows something about the sword of the Archangel Michael. So it looks like we’ll be taking that trip to Rome one way or another. It’s not like we can wait till our eighteenth birthday until we get permission from the ‘rents. Though, I guess, we’re going to have to at least try to ask Dad again ...’

  I swallowed hard, an intimation of the difficulty of what lay ahead for us making my breath catch. ‘Asking our father is not the real problem. It’s asking St. John’s father that’s the problem. I’d seriously hate to tackle the father without the son ...’

  FALSE START

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Your words hang weightless in the air: Remember me.

  Into the well of the past, raindrops of memory strike the surface, destroying the illusion of clarity and reflection. The silt murkiness stirs up from the bottom, obscuring the restless thoughts. Dark water bears away the mind’s unravellings.

  Even here, journeying to the interior, the walls colla
pse, the ground is less certain. You wander in circles. The ramblings of names and places; stories merge, images are superimposed one on the other, yesterday and tomorrow recede. Since the first fruit stolen, Time withers all, and the seasons come and go.

  Beloved. Your thoughts shimmer like sunlight on water, Time present and Time past, Time unreconciled ... glorious golden abstractions and meditations ... and, as quickly, are gone.

  Your stories, shuffled and dealt from a pack of Tarot cards, guarding the Lovers, the World, the Wheel of Fortune, are the dreams that will endure when all else is returned to dust and ashes, and forgotten.

  Let memory lie like ash and pumice upon the ancient streetscape of the mind, burying its inhabitants under layers of obscurity and preservation. Three thousand years of stories sinewed round the bone ... your stories are traced through the blood’s beating refrain ... and go wandering in your sleep ...

  Somewhere in the space between midnight and twilight, I strained for the sound that woke me. But nothing. No voice. No motion.

  Above your dreams, a flowering, fragrant arch of delicate Persian roses is fanned by a whispering breeze. You remember the harvesting of the flowers, done before the sunrise to obtain the most exquisite aroma. The velvety texture of undulating petals bleeding colour in pure white, bright pink, deep red, recall for you the blushing, silky smooth complexion of the lover you are leaving behind. But still, you blink ... and the centuries fall away as you wander again the rose fields of Qasmar to inhale the nectar and recall the distant Time when you were young in the Holy Land.

  Digging away at those hidden, secret places in the catacombs of your mind, there is a broken shard here, a fragment there, until you unearth an unbroken urn; the full curve of its beauteous form emerging from beneath the sands of Time, a rich survivor of a memory forgot.

  Between the dreaming and the waking, there was a familiar ache; not sharp like the slice made from the blade of a knife, but blunt and dull like the throbbing gash of the heart’s last yearnings.