Eye of the Oracle

by Bryan Davis

  “Then how could he tell how far they’ve counted down? Wouldn’t he want to keep track of that?”

  “Good point.” Sapphira strode toward the wall, much more confident than before. Mardon was likely nowhere around, at least for now. “If he has external counters, they’re probably near the bricks.”

  Arriving at Yereq’s chamber, she squatted and set her torch near the magneto’s control lever. “There is something here. It looks like a candy bar with numbers on it.”

  Acacia’s light flickered on the meter. “It says, ‘9856.’ What do you think it means?”

  “Like Mardon wrote. When it counts down to zero, they’ll wake up.”

  “I guessed that, but is it 9856 years, months, days?”

  Sapphira shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe if we come and check every once in a while, we’ll figure it out.”

  Acacia rubbed her arm with her free hand. “Okay, but let’s get out of here. It’s cold and creepy, and Paili’s bound to wake up soon. She’ll need more herbal tea and a cold compress.”

  “Okay. Awven’s going to need it, too.” Sapphira swung her torch to the side. “The main door should be over there. I don’t think we’ll need a combination to get out.”

  Acacia pointed toward the center of the room. “What about the rope?”

  “I’ll go up the back way and reel it in. We might as well make it look like we weren’t here. You never know when Mardon might return.”

  Acacia tapped the scroll under Sapphira’s arm. “Then you’d better leave that here.”

  “But how am I going to study the code?”

  “Come back with your own scroll and copy it.”

  “Of course!” Sapphira rapped her forehead with the heel of her hand. “How dumb of me!”

  Acacia grinned. “I didn’t say that!”

  Sapphira lifted her torch close to Acacia, catching the mirthful glimmer in her sister’s flashing blue eyes. As the flames warmed her skin, Sapphira winked. “I know. I said it. Sometimes I can’t see the answer to my question even if it’s staring me right in the face.”

  Circa AD 1929

  With the dusk of evening just beginning to fade to darkness, Sapphira stopped at the doorstep and crouched in front of Paili. Combing through silky strands of dark hair with her fingers, Sapphira whispered, “We want to make a good first impression.” After several more sweeps, Sapphira lowered her hands and smiled. Though tossed and tangled from walking two miles in a stiff breeze, the bedraggled mop of tresses wasn’t as bad as usual.

  After retying a scarf over Paili’s head, Sapphira lifted the little girl’s chin. “Are you ready?”

  Paili just nodded, a tear forming in her eye.

  Sapphira pointed at the growing tear. “Don’t cry. We want them to like you. Don’t you want a comfortable bed and good food, maybe even fig cakes?”

  “I don’t want fig cakes.” Paili threw her arms around Sapphira. “I want you!”

  Sapphira patted her lightly on the back. “We’ve been over this. I’ll visit you whenever I can. I promise.”

  Paili looked up at Sapphira, her eyes glistening. “Tomorrow?”

  “I’ll check on your progress in a couple of days. Everything will be fine.”

  Paili squeezed more tightly. “But what if they don’t like me?”

  “How can anyone not like you? You’re loving, you work hard, your speech is normal now, and you’ll probably age right along with the other girls here in Glastonbury.” Sapphira pushed her gently away. “Trust me. The local gypsies told me these people take in hungry strangers all the time, so I’m sure you’ll be all right. But you must never, never tell anyone about where you’re from, even if you think they might already know. Got that?”

  Paili nodded meekly and turned toward the modest home, a noticeable tremble in her hands. Sapphira pulled the wooden cross from her belt and knocked on the door. After a few seconds, the door swung open revealing a stout, red-haired woman holding a lantern. With soft, round cheeks and chin and bright shining eyes, she seemed just as friendly as she had been during the evenings Sapphira had spied on her.

  “Well, who have we here?” the woman asked, probing the darkness with her lantern. “Another pair of lost gypsy girls?”

  Sapphira backed away a step into the darkest shadows and lifted her cross. “We are not gypsies, dear lady, nor are we lost.”

  The woman waved toward the inside of the house. “Well, lost or found, you are welcome to our supper. My husband’s not home yet, but he won’t mind.”

  Sapphira whispered to the cross. “Give me light.” Fire sprang forth, illuminating everyone on the porch.

  The woman staggered but caught the door frame before falling. She seemed ready to drop to one knee, but she hesitated and stared, wide-eyed. “Are you . . . an angel?”

  Sapphira deepened her voice and added a solemn cadence. “What I am is not important. You have been watched from afar, and because of your goodness and mercy, both to your fine husband and to your fellow citizens in this village, your childless state has come to an end.”

  The woman covered her mouth but made no sound.

  “This girl needs a home,” Sapphira continued, laying a hand on Paili’s shoulder. “If you are pleased to take her in, she will become your daughter.”

  The woman set her lantern down and gathered Paili into her arms. “Oh!” she cried. “Oh, yes! Yes! Yes!” She hugged Paili close, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “Very well.” Sapphira stepped back a few more paces. Then, wrapping her arms around herself, she whispered, “Give me light.” Her entire body exploded into a human torch. The woman lifted Paili into her arms and lurched back through the doorway. Sapphira commanded the fire to cease and dashed into the dark road.

  The gloom of a cloudy night draped the outskirts of Glastonbury. Sapphira shuffled toward the city’s famous towering hill and the monument that had replaced the church of Michael, the same portal location where she had left Elam years before. Another descent into the dismal world below lay ahead, then another reemergence at the ghostly mining level. Finally, she would climb up the elevation shaft and wind through the corridors leading to the museum room where Acacia would be waiting . . . alone.

  Sapphira plodded forward, hoping to delay her return to the lower realms. She took a well-trodden path that promised no obstacles to a traveler who knew its twists and turns. With tears flowing, she counted her slow, careful steps out loud while struggling to conquer her tortured thoughts.

  “Nine . . . ten . . . eleven. Seven more until I turn. . . . Of course Paili will be fine. Thirteen . . . fourteen . . . after all, now she can eat good food instead of old cabbages and dried beans . . . sixteen . . . seventeen . . . and that woman is so sweet . . . eighteen . . . Turn here.” She pivoted to the left and continued. “One . . . two . . . All my other sisters are happy now. Four . . . five . . . six . . . so Paili will be happy, too . . . seven . . . eight. And Acacia and I won’t have to worry about her getting so sick again. . . . nine . . . ten . . . That fever nearly killed Paili and Awven, and now that Penicillin’s been discovered, it doesn’t make sense to risk their lives . . . twelve . . . thirteen . . . so now Acacia and I can concentrate on . . .” She halted and tapped her finger on her chin. “Concentrate on what? Staring at each other for several more centuries?”

  She turned back toward the little cottage in the distance, barely able to see two lanterns now glowing brightly at the front door. A man and woman stooped together, embracing Paili warmly.

  A tear trickled down Sapphira’s cheek, but she didn’t bother to wipe it off. It didn’t matter. Nothing else mattered. Even if she and Acacia had to live under a billion tons of rocks forever, giving such a glorious new life to someone so precious was worth it all. Her sweet little sister finally had a home . . . and people who loved her.

  Sapphira ignited her cross and ran the rest of the way to the portal.

&nbs
p; April, 1935

  Elam slung his knapsack over his shoulder and slid a silver coin across the counter. “Will that cover it?” he asked.

  “Quite well, laddie.” The innkeeper tipped his beret. “Come back again.”

  Elam nodded at the floppy-eared old man, then pushed open a heavy oaken door and strode out into the misty dawn. Glasgow smelled worse than usual, oilier somehow, certainly more sulfurous than the day before. He pulled a beret from his trousers pocket and pressed it over his head. Or maybe he just noticed the odors more. When he worked in the Clydebank shipyards, the stench of tar and sweaty men masked everything else, and now that he had been out of a job for a couple of months, his sense of smell was probably more sensitive.

  Elam turned back toward the one-story flat he had called home for the past two years. Although he had shared his ratty suite with a family of eight, this hostel was more than adequate in such tough times, and the innkeeper was fair and friendly. He laid his hand on the lintel, and, using the Scottish accent he had picked up over the years, whispered, “May the Lord bless the keeper of this house, and may he and his wife live long and well on the earth.”

  He dug into his pocket again and felt his leather purse, fingering the few coins that still weighed it down, enough for a brick of soap now and then, but not enough for lodging. He pulled his beret low over his brow and marched toward the road leading out of town. It was best to go back to camping in the woods, at least until hard times lifted. Ever since they finished building the Queen Mary, jobs had dropped off at the docks like ailing old men in the TB sanitariums.

  As he strode past his church, dozens of people streamed from the sanctuary. He stopped for a moment and enjoyed the sea of smiling faces. The sunrise service had been resplendent, filled with wondrous choruses for the risen Savior, but Elam had slipped out right before the benediction. While hardly ever missing worship, he couldn’t risk partaking in fellowship. There were always too many questions and never enough answers.

  Elam marched on mile after mile. Once he passed the outskirts of the city, he took a side road, a familiar dirt and pebble path that wound its way through sheep pastures on its hilly course to Hannah’s cottage. It had been at least three weeks since he last checked on her, so making camp in the woods behind her boarding house seemed a good choice for the night.

  As he strolled by a pasture of grazing horses, he reached into his pocket and felt the Ovulum. Since it had been cold and quiet for decades, his delay in visiting Hannah probably hadn’t mattered. The slayers were likely chasing down one of the hundreds of misleading clues he had left for them in London.

  He stopped in front of the cottage and lowered his knapsack to the path, imagining Devin and Palin conducting their search. In his mind, they leaned over to hunt through a dustbin in a foggy London alley and bumped heads so hard they fell back on their posteriors. Elam laughed out loud.

  “May I help ye, laddie?” a sweet voice called.

  Elam gulped. Hannah! She had come outside, and he hadn’t noticed! Why wasn’t she working the charity breakfast lines? He tipped his beret and tried to squeeze out some intelligible words through his narrowing throat. “Uh, yes. I, uh . . .”

  “Are ye sick?” Hannah stepped off her porch and walked straight up to him, her long dress seeming to sweep her petite body gracefully forward. “Do ye need a place to stay?”

  Elam grabbed his beret and wrung it with both hands. “Uh, yes, but I’m running short on money.”

  “Atween the wind and the wa, are ye?” Hannah snatched up his knapsack, hooked him by the arm, and pulled him toward the cottage, her long auburn hair bouncing in rhythm with her gait. “Don’t let it ever be said that Hannah MacKay turned out an impoverished laddie.”

  Elam gave in to Hannah’s persistent tug and followed her into the cottage’s front room. As the door swung closed, the rusty hinges squawked a loud complaint. Elam glanced around casually. Having sneaked in through the quieter back door several times to check on her, he was already familiar with the layout a small but tidy dining area to the left, a cluttered little kitchen to the right, and, lining a short hallway straight ahead, four perfectly square bedrooms, three for tenants and one for Hannah. During those visits in the wee hours, Elam sometimes crept into her room, feeling the need, as a faithful shepherd of dragons, to stand and gaze at her as she slept. Still unmarried after all these centuries, she always slept alone.

  She stopped at the first bedroom on the right and peeked inside. “You’re in luck. Mr. Logan took his chimney brooms. He and his boy won’t be back until at least tomorrow night.” She laid his knapsack on the floor and pointed at a washbasin. “Water’s there if ye wants a cat’s lick before supper.”

  As she turned to leave, Elam laid a hand on her shoulder. “Wait!”

  Hannah spun back, her friendly smile growing and her brow rising again in anticipation. “Are ye not throu?”

  Elam shuddered. Hannah’s Scottish accent was forced, and her idioms were slightly off-kilter. If the slayer ever heard her speak, he’d unmask her right away.

  “What’s the matter?” Hannah asked. “Short o’ the Greek?” She stared at him with her wise old eyes, nearly as ancient as the earth itself, yet framed by a smooth, narrow face. Her gaze seemed to attach to his mind and absorb information.

  He tried to shake off the brain lock, but it was no use. Something was up, and Hannah knew it. The Ovulum suddenly grew warm in his pocket, a good warmth, a prodding warmth. The prophet within the glass shell didn’t always need words to let his will be made known.

  Elam let out a long sigh. He had to tell her everything.

  Devin pulled Excalibur from its scabbard and lifted it in front of his face. The shining blade divided his view, slicing the image of Palin in half as the squire donned the final garment in his battle array, a dark leather surcoat with a red dragon emblazoned on the front. Five hundred years had passed since he last strapped on his scabbard, but everything still seemed to fit.

  Devin pointed the sword at Palin’s head. “Does your new helmet suit you?”

  Palin sat on his bed and rocked the domed helmet back and forth over his mop of black hair. “Yes. It’s not the same style as my old one, but it will do.”

  Devin resheathed Excalibur and leaned out of their second-floor window. A fresh breeze blew streams of mist across a triplet of castle turrets rising from the adjacent wing. He breathed in the moist air and smiled. “It seems that your old model isn’t fashionable with the mannequins in the Scottish museums. The first two castles had nothing but full body armor costumes. Can you imagine going into battle in one of those?”

  Palin took off his helmet and laid it on his lap. “Maybe you should inform the museum curators of proper battle attire in the sixth century.” He rapped the top of the helmet with his knuckles. “Or perhaps we need to be informed of proper, twentieth-century battle attire.”

  Still gazing out the window, Devin pulled up a necklace chain and let the candlestone dangle in front of his surcoat. “I know you think my obsession rather odd, but we are hunting dragons who are disguised in human skin, wolves in sheep’s clothing. Our integrity would be in question if we were to appear as anything but slayers when we confront one of the devil lizards.” He smoothed out the emblem on his vest, a screaming dragon with an arrow protruding from its belly. “I am not about to bow to hypocrisy just because our raiment is out of step with the vagaries of this century’s fashions. Unpretentious and unmasked, we have stripped the dragons’ disguises with the point of a sword, and we will continue in that sacred tradition.”

  “As you wish, my liege.” Palin drew his sword, his eyes scanning the blade as it emerged from its scabbard. “It is freshly sharpened for the ceremonial undressing of the queen of the demon witches.”

  “Excellent!” Devin raised the candlestone in front of his eyes. “If this Logan fellow speaks the truth, Thigocia will soon be ours. The witch who whelped the entire cove
n will finally be exposed.”

  “And then only two more,” Palin said, shoving his sword back in place.

  “Yes. I will repay Hartanna for wounding me, but” Devin clenched a fist around the candlestone’s chain “I want Clefspeare’s blood more than any other. To use his power to extend our lives would be the ultimate victory.”

  Chapter 2

  Reunion

  Still facing Hannah, Elam reached back into his mind and recalled the ancient Hebrew he once spoke so well. Now the language seemed foreign, but the words came quickly enough. “I know who you are,” he said.

  Hannah’s mouth dropped open. She sputtered, also speaking Hebrew. “What . . . what did you say?”

  Elam slowly withdrew the Ovulum from his pocket and lifted it in his open palm. “I know who you are.”

  Hannah grabbed Elam’s arm, pulled him into the bedroom, and slammed the door. “Who are you? How did you get the Ovulum?”

  Elam raised a shushing finger to his lips. “Are any other boarders here?”

  “None who speak Hebrew!” She gripped his wrist so tightly, pain shot along his arm, making the Ovulum tremble in his palm. “If you are a slayer, you were a fool to come with neither sword nor shield.” She squeezed even harder, revealing a strength that belied her petite frame. “Now, I will ask again, and you will answer. Who are you, and how did you get the Ovulum?”

  “I am Elam, son of Shem,” he said, laying a hand on his chest. “The Ovulum came to me by the will of Elohim. Since Noah was my grandfather, and Methuselah was his grandfather, it rightfully belongs to me.”

  Hannah gasped. “Noah was your grandfather? How is that possible? You are not more than sixteen years old, eighteen at the most!”

  Elam extended a hand and gently placed his palm on her cheek. “How old are you, Thigocia?”

  Hannah released his arm and backed away, her voice spiking with alarm. “Where did you hear that name?”

  He stepped toward her, but when he noted the anguish in her eyes, he halted and spoke in a soothing tone. “I have kept watch over you for fifteen hundred years. I prevented Devin and Palin from finding you at least a dozen times.”