Ennea’s lips parted to shout in warning, but it was too late. Bodies flew at the two women from all sides. Tamina tried to struggle, aware of Ennea putting up a good fight. Then a lump of wood caught a glancing blow across Tamina’s temple and she pitched forward into blackness.
vi. Gaia-Prime
A distant clamoring. Voices raised in anger. The banging of sticks, shouting and singing. Rage filled the air like a living thing. Tamina slowly came to, her head throbbing with the steady thud of her heart.
Earnest words in an exotic accent close to her ear: “You should have slept, my friend.”
“Ennea?” As the name passed Tamina’s lips, the foul vista of all those accusing animal corpses flooded across her mind. “No. I killed them…”
“It was not your fault, Tamina. ’Tis the darkness of these loathsome days. Savancery is twisted beyond all recognition. Forget them, for we have more serious concerns. Your islanders are indeed a superstitious people.”
Tamina’s wrists and ankles burned—they were tied tightly together. With sick confusion, she realized she could not move. She pushed open her eyes and tried to focus. Sunlight threatened to sear the back of her skull. As if this were a sign, the braying voices, dreadful singing, and shouting reached a deafening crescendo.
Her eyesight adjusted and the scene before her came into slow focus. She was tied up, back to back with Ennea, perched above a vast pile of bales, sticks, and a mass of feathers. The islanders—a mob of eager, hungry-looking and angry men, women and children—surrounded them on all sides. Through them strode the fetishmen, their faces painted with the blue of punishment, their ceremonial beating clubs snapping together as they chanted, sang and danced.
Where is Yore? He can’t let something so barbaric, so awful happen. I have seen his gentle side…
Tamina’s thoughts stumbled to a stop. Yore stood outside the raucous crowd. Silent, still, holding a single flaming torch. His shock of silver hair and his grizzled beard were gone. Shaved. His whole head painted blue. The red flesh of his unblinking eyes glared into her. Rigid, trembling.
Oh, Yore…
He strode forward on purposeful legs, the crowd parting, its voices suddenly stilled, and thrust the torch into the pyre like a dagger through her breast.
Tamina pitied him then. For his fear, for his many weaknesses, for the stupidity that had pushed him to this. I forgive you.
The fire took hold immediately, the flames leaping upward in the steady sea wind.
“We die,” said Ennea. “It is fitting that at my end, I should be with my Almeera…” A shaft of fire licked at her feet. She screamed, desperately twisting away from the growing conflagration.
“Dance the dance of death, witch!” a voice shouted. The other islanders joined in while the fetishmen took up their dirge.
Tamina’s eyes once again found Yore. Bowed as if by a dreadful weight, his back to the scene, to the burning. And standing next to him? A black-haired woman…
Prim?
The woman smiled at her, and in that moment, everything made sense.
“Goodbye, my friend,” said Ennea.
“No, we are safe,” said Tamina from far away.
A black cloud formed above the pyre. Lightning cracked into the headland and rain crashed down in a quick, gushing downpour. The forceful torrent extinguished the flames.
“How did you do that?” whispered Ennea with shock and relief.
“I didn’t.”
“I don’t understand.”
“That voice you mentioned earlier, the voice that has been lost for so long…”
“Yes?”
“Gaia-Prime has been found again.”
The air exploded above them with a deafening pop. Fifty enormous birds, their necks banded with gold, their red beaks screeching in surprise, appeared as if from nowhere and descended toward the beach in a flurry of beating wings and nervous squawks. The islanders scattered; the fetishmen dropped their clubs and ran.
A tall rider with a shock of blond hair dismounted. His eyes fell upon Ennea and, at the sight of her, climbed the sodden pyre to cut their bonds.
Tamina and Ennea clambered down and stood shakily before the amassed riders. The sun glowed with renewed vigor, bathing the beach in the warming rays Tamina had only known as a child.
“You did this?” Ennea asked. “You summoned my brethren across the width of the world?”
Tamina’s head twitched in the negative. “Not I, although it was my wish to meet your friends.” She smiled, and the green hue of her eyes shone bright for all to see.
“Behold, Tamina Savant!” shouted Ennea, bowing her head.
The riders dropped to their knees in supplication.
A delicate hand fell upon Tamina’s shoulder. She turned to gaze straight into the pale-blue haunting eyes of Prim. Wonderful, beautiful Prim.
We Have A Lot To Do, Little One, Prim said from behind a tired smile.
“I know. I am ready.”
Gaia-Prime talked to Tamina for long seconds and, with a mixture of rapture and growing determination, Tamina learned what must be done.
~
A Word From Kev Heritage
I am a two-meter, tea-drinking biped from the species Homo sapiens. I discovered science fiction and fantasy at an early age and nothing was the same for me again. I wrote my first story on the island of Santorini, Greece. It was sunrise on a Thursday. Thursdays have always been good to me. I am a Twitter nut and a lover of technology.
My career highlights include: factory gateman, barman, laborer, telesales operative, sales assistant, warehouseman, Student Union President, university IT help-desk guy, British Rail signal software designer, premiership football website designer, gigging musician, graphic designer, stand-up comedian, sound engineer, improv artist, magazine editor and web journo. Although I don't like to talk about them. Mostly.
I am English and reside in the seaside town of Brighton.
The idea for “Gyre~Witchery” came from my love of space habitats and a desire to fuse a traditional adventure fantasy with technological magic.
My debut novel is Blue Into The Rip—a sci-fi, climate-change time-travel adventure. Here are a few reviews:
“An amazing read and Kev Heritage’s writing is superb and unique … I definitely recommend this book to sci-fi adventure readers!!! … A book you don’t want to miss :)”
– Chloe, Girl In The Woods Reviews
“A fun, addictive read from page 1 … a unique, thrilling and immersive story, all the more impressive as it is a debut novel.”
– Scott Whitmore, 40 West Media
“Quick-paced … intense, exciting … a roller-coaster ride. Kev Heritage’s use of imagery in Blue into the Rip is just wicked! … rich with characters.”
– Nada, Nadaness In Motion Reviews
Blue Into The Rip is available at all online outlets and in all formats.
Catch up with me on:
Twitter: @KevHeritage
Website: http://kevheritage.com
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/kevheritagefans
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/KevHeritage
Chapter 1
When I close my eyes, I can still hear the sound of it. Then the vibrations follow, like a dozen trees felled and fallen at the exact same time, landing only feet from my head.
It was always hard to tell whether the flashes of light—red, orange, and blinding white—came before or after the sound; a kaleidoscope of color, which if it had been fireworks would have brought delight instead of chaos and fear.
I recognized the sound immediately.
It was 2:23 a.m.
I was never asleep between two and three.
Never asleep at four or six.
I barely slept at all these days. And when I did, the nightmares came. Always. And I would awaken with my bed wet with cold sweat and my chest aching as I struggled for breath. In the short moments before I opened my eyes, I’d feel myself clawing at some unknown assai
lant, his hands twisting around my neck.
Then, fully awake, I would realize it was just a nightmare; it was the night, and the life I now led, that was asphyxiating me. I was safe and alive.
But only half-alive.
So when the sound buffeted my consciousness, I presumed, as I always did, that this was just another one of those “flashes” where I was back there on that beach among the other soldiers. Knowing I was about to die. And if I did survive, the human being who had entered the torrid waters that morning would not survive, even if I were still breathing when the sun set.
So when I heard the sound, I merely turned my head toward the window and counted to fifty. If it came again, I would get up and take a look. But it was rare that I would need to count beyond thirty. On a bad night, it would take the whole fifty.
Tonight was different from other nights. Nearly seventy years of what I called “my flashes,” often visited upon me when the guilt became overwhelming.
So I waited and counted, watching the blur of the television, the sound muted because I didn’t need to hear the details of whatever they were selling at 2:30 in the morning.
I lay there, the pain in my right hip feeling as if someone were playing “dig the dagger in and twist.” Osteoporosis. Doctors informed me my milk intake when I was younger was inadequate—as if we worried about milk and aging when the chances of keeping your legs were pretty much against you. Getting old wasn’t a problem. Living with getting old was the problem, especially when you hadn’t expected to live.
So when the familiar sound came again, I seriously considered whether it was worth my while to pull my complaining body off the couch and shuffle it to the window.
At eighty-eight years old, this small movement was akin to sprinting a mile. And since I knew what I would find when I peered out the window, there wasn’t much incentive to move.
Oh, it beckoned vaguely. Sometimes I enjoyed looking at them. If you weren’t in the middle of the shit-fight; if, around you, your buddies and strangers (still kindreds) weren’t dropping like flies—their lives’ value only the claiming of a few inches of beach—then it was actually quite entertaining.
But most of the time the explosive sounds and blinding lights were an annoying intrusion into my day-to-day life. A life which was nothing more than interlinked moments of mundane shuffling from the couch to the bathroom to the door to family get-togethers that I “must attend to keep my spirits up.”
So the last thing I ever needed was a damning reminder that, by some kind of divine joke, I was one of the unfortunates to land on that Normandy beach on June 6, 1944.
I glanced at the rooster clock—a ridiculous piece of bric-a-brac that Mavis had purchased at a thrift shop, on our honeymoon in ’Frisco back in ’52. I’d always hated the thing, but it had been fifteen years since she’d passed, and now it served as a reminder of her ability to see the beauty in things that were nothing more than junk. Probably why someone as full of life as Mavis wound up with a broken soul like me.
The rooster clock’s hands showed 2:45. I figured I could sit there another hour and watch some idiot try to sell me something on the shopping channel, or I could pull this creaky body up and answer the call of the flashes. Then I could stand there and enjoy the wonderful vista of mortar shells raining down on my front lawn. And wait.
Eventually, the switch in my head would flick off and the twisted part of my mind that played this history reel would be satisfied with its daily quota of reminiscence.
Tonight, even my knees had joined the cacophony of pain, and I wondered if losing my legs—as so many of my compatriots had done—would have prevented the aches that plagued me daily. If, in losing limbs, they were the lucky ones. A splutter of laughter escaped my lips at the thought. Those complaining legs, with the addition of will and patience, were still capable of getting me across the room to watch the fireworks. So I pointed them in the right direction and willed my body forward.
I knew by the time I reached the window the shelling would have all but stopped. It rarely lasted longer than the time it took for my heart to begin the familiar pounding and my mouth to dry to a parchedness that no amount of water could quench. It would stop because it had achieved its goal. It had reminded me and proved its power over time. And it could rest, knowing I was still its puppet, still its slave, and that still I feared it.
But tonight it was a persistent tormentor. And as I reached for the lace curtains, and brushed them aside to peer outside, I wondered if tonight it had a point to prove. It had called me to the window, when most nights it was content to hurl its nightmare intrusion into my living room, my kitchen, my bedroom.
Tonight it wanted me to follow it.
I’m coming. You bastards, I’m coming.
The curtains felt dry and brittle in my hands, the lace catching on my rough, furrowed fingers. The coolness of the night leached through the glass, and as I pushed my face to the window, the cold kissed my skin.
A flash exploded.
My image reflected in the glass as the flares flickered and flashed beyond it. I looked like some kind of ghost arisen from the battleground. Sparse white hair sprouting out at “I don’t care” angles, a nose twice the length it once was. Eyes dark and hollow, and tired; so very tired. It was a face infested with lines, not of a life lived, but a life experienced through a veil of memories that hung so thick that only the strongest emotions struggled through.
And there it was, beyond my reflection… a seventy-year-old war looking as fresh as the day it was lived. Damn, if the vision wasn’t brighter and even more vivid tonight.
Across the road, the snipers sat in their bunkers, their guns unmoving: deadly black sticks poking over the sandbags, waiting to strike with a near-silent phht. Behind the stoop of Patrick Smith’s house—a single man with a penchant for blondes with big hips—perched the machine gun battalion. Yes, those bastards didn’t miss a trick, and neither did Patrick, from what he’d shared—which I didn’t care to know, but still he shared.
Pinpoints of red flared from the stoop, lighting up like a hundred angry eyes. The bullets smacked into the garden wall, the front door, and the bushes near the mailbox. Dirt flew up, exploding into the air in an arabesque of green and dark brown, spraying grains of sand and soil upon my driveway.
Thanks for the aeration of the lawn, you kraut devils.
I could feel the momentum of the assault building, just as I had that 1944 June morning.
I was in the 2nd Ranger Battalion. They sent us into Omaha Beach as a distraction, so that the Dog, Easy, and Fox Companies could take them out from inland. They hadn’t told us that before; we only learned of it later in the history books.
Old Dwight’s meteorologist gave the okay, when the tides, the moon, and the weather would be our allies. It was a good plan, except the weather just wouldn’t play ball. So you lose a few men because overcast skies means the air support can’t get through. Five thousand is a good number, isn’t it, folks? That’s acceptable, unless you’re one of the five thousand. It’s acceptable, unless you’re one of the forty-five thousand who lived, but waded past the bodies, past your friends dying around you, past the horror. It’s all very acceptable from a room with a map and names that end in Company, Battalion and Squadron.
Often when the flashes visited me, I wondered how Eisenhower made that choice: throwing us, and the 1st, and the 29th Division to those devils in order to claim that beach. Did he put the numbers in a hat? And what was it for? Now we drive their cars and visit their beer festivals.
A grenade landed just below my window. It wouldn’t explode while I watched it. They never do. Too much detail. I don’t get all the detail. These experiences: fugues, Dr. Clarke tells me. My version of post-traumatic stress disorder doesn’t supply the detail. And that’s normal for me. I don’t get faces or direct explosions, just distant visions of gun flares, flashes, and buzzing bullets, and an inescapable hell.
And I thank my brain for that small mercy. If I’d had
to watch my buddies die over and over, see the pain on their faces, hear their cries, and look into their pleading eyes, I couldn’t have taken it.
I looked down through the glass; the grenade sat there, nestled just next to the rose bush, black and waiting. Waiting for me to react, to run, to allow it to win, to allow it to impact my life.
I stood still, watching it. It would disappear in a moment, unable to withstand the assault of my stare.
Ten, nine, eight, seven, six...
It’ll be gone by three.
Five, four…
When the flash came, followed by an explosion that pierced my ears like the smashing of a thick glass wall, it was so unexpected that it threw me back across the room. I staggered, reeling, both arms swirling in mad circles as I fought to gain my balance. My hand caught the arm of the lounge chair and immediately I grabbed for its solidness, falling backward to half-land on it, my ass embedded in the cushion, my legs hanging over the arm.
That was new.
I pushed my body back up, my heart solid and thick in my chest as if the blood had pooled there, forcing the muscle to work overtime to shunt it out.
My feet shuffled beneath me toward the window. Move faster, you bastards.
The flashes had dulled, though the sounds were still there, cracking and banging. When I reached the window, I pushed my nose to the glass and looked down.
The grenade was gone. As it should be. As I knew it would be. The rose bush was alone in all its floral glory. In the moonlight, the white petals shone as if kissed by the sun and not its darker sister.
From the Indie Side Page 18