by Gene Stiles
It was in these rare moments, when there were no cares or concerns, no laughter or tears, no love or hatred marring her soft skin that Cronus could truly see her true radiance. The gentle curve of her incredibly lovely face, straight narrow nose and sensuous, full red lips seemed so serene, so innocent and youthful. Her strong, but somehow elegant jawline drew the eyes to her long, sculptured neck and the welcoming warmth of her ample, maternal bosom. Cronus allowed his appreciative appraisal to study the long, supple, dancer’s body, taking in the exquisiteness of her goddess-like allure as if seeing her for the first time. He never loved her more than he did at this very moment.
She seemed to sense his silent contemplation and stirred softly in her slumber. Her dazzling blue eyes lit her high, pink cheeks in their sleepy, sapphire glow. Rhea stretched her graceful arms above her head, straightening her well-proportioned legs and arched her balletic back up off the couch.
Full consciousness returned with the deep, lethargic slowness of exhausted restlessness, but when it did, Rhea’s eyes snapped open and she bolted suddenly upright. An ‘Oh’ of surprise escaped like an explosion from her parted lips and she leapt from her repose to his bedside in one fluid motion. Her smile lit the room as no noontime sunshine ever could. She planted kiss after wet kiss upon his face as if afraid she was only dreaming.
“Oh, my love,” Rhea cried, the river of her salty tears wetting his face and curly, red beard, “you are awake! I have missed you so very much!”
Rhea lay her golden head upon his heavily muscled, naked chest, her ear listening to the strong, rhythmic beating of his heart while her fingers entwined themselves in the abundant field of russet curls surrounding her face. Her hands moved of their own violation, tracing the contours of his powerful frame as if to insure they were real.
Cronus raised her weeping eyes and pulled her up to his thirsty, yearning lips. Rhea met his with a craving desire of her own, lascivious hunger shifting her thighs over his in a lustful marriage of unadulterated love and carnal salaciousness. It was as like when they found each other that very first time when their eyes met on the granite streets of Atlan. Their spirits, their very souls called out to each other like two halves of a whole longing to be compete. They were back to that time so many decades ago when their conjoined hearts could take on and defeat any obstacle in their paths. Their bodies were bathed in a golden glow of love that was far more, far richer than any Lending could ever be and they luxuriated in their blissful cocoon of happiness.
“Cronus, my brother and my Lord Father, can you ever forgive me?”
Iapetus knelt on bended knee before the great ebony desk, his head hanging on his stout chest. Ever since his dark decision on the Black Death, he had languished in a private hell of self-doubt and a soul-burning shame. Never had he broken his vow to protect his brother from harm and to serve him in all things. Until that horrific moment when his twisted mind had to choose between the preservation of the sorely injured remnants of a broken crew and what he perceived as his insane Captain. Was his choice truly based on his compassion for the mangled and crippled crew? Was it because of the shrieks and wails that echoed through the burning husk of a maimed, vile smelling ship and through his nightly demonic nightmares? Or was it because of his awakening amid the crushing weight of rotting corpses, disfigured dying bodies and mutilated, dismembered limbs. Or the banshee screams of despair and mind-numbing terror he felt as he sucked the last of the life force from those who could not fight his depraved, vampirial intrusion? Those sounds. His days and his dreams were ripped and twisted with those frightened screeches, those accusing, anguished, pain filled voices. He could not rid himself of his guilt nor his repugnance at his actions.
Each day, Iapetus had stood like a stone sentinel in a darkened corner of Cronus’ bedchamber, too ashamed of his disgraced dishonor to be seen by others. His immense, powerful hands he stuffed in the black folds of his long cloak, afraid someone would see the blood and trembling stigma of the sickening betrayal he could not cleanse from them. With each passing sun that Cronus lay comatose and silent beneath his soft blankets, Iapetus sunk deeper into a pit of self-condemnation filled with malfeasant phantasms whispering their venomous recriminations into his flame-filled ears. His blow should not have caused such damage as to last so long he knew in his broken heart. Cronus should have recuperated in days not months, but had he unconsciously struck too hard or in the wrong spot out of unreasoning rage? He feared his brother would never awaken and his answers would never come, his atrocity never forgiven, but now he may have a chance to repent. If only he was worthy of the Lord Father’s mercy.
Cronus rose from his high-backed leather chair, his black robe, streaked with crimson and sparkling silver, swirling around him like a living mist. His flaming red hair was held from his square-jawed face by a band of tooled gold, but fanned around his head and shoulders like the golden mane of some wild beast. He slipped between his brother’s prostrated form and the thick mantle of his desktop and squatted down before Iapetus. His hands laying lightly upon his friend’s shoulder, Cronus bade him to arise.
“Never again kneel before me, my brother,” Cronus said sternly, looking down into the obsidian eyes with warmth and compassion. “You have always been my champion, my confidant and my conscience. You have never feared to remind me when I do less than my best for the People. You have stood like a giant granite obelisk before my emotional rants, my frustrations and my insanities. There could be no better brother, no better man than you.”
“Yet I caused you immeasurable pain and suffering,” Iapetus rumbled despondently. “My vicious action put your life at risk and nearly killed you. I beg only your undeserved clemency and summit myself willingly to any harsh punishment you deem necessary.”
“You deserve no punishment, Iapetus.” Cronus smiled tightly and clasped his brother’s forearm in a firm, strong grasp. “Also, never beg to anyone, especially me. You did what was right to save our crew and me. I was lost in a torment and fury of my own making. I cared not for the lives of the People, only my savage ferocity in cleansing a blight I felt would destroy all of us. You were more than justified in stopping me before I became the destroyer. I thank you.”
“Thank me?” Iapetus stared up into those chipped jade eyes and saw no admonition or castigation, only a softness and understanding he had not seen since the two were mere boys. “I do not understand, but I make you this vow. Never again will I harm you or allow harm to come to you. I shall remain your steadfast champion in all things. From now until the Creator calls us home. This I promise you.”
“No more than that could I ask of any man,” Cronus smiled, pulling his rock-like brother into a short, tight embrace. “Now tell me all that has transpired in my absence.”
“My hatred of the Izon grew beyond my ability to control. This I know,” Cronus stated, standing behind his seat before the Table of Twelve. His stance was strong and authoritative, his voice commanding yet sensible. His crimson robe, patterned in silver and bluish constellations. “I so let my vehement desire to rid the People of their disease that I let my anger flow over all those who would aid them. Do I think my reasons for wanting them eradicated from our lives was wrong? No. You may think me mad or even cruel, but there is much you do not know. I have kept this secret only to myself, wishing you safe from the dire prophecy of my knowledge. You should make your own judgments. It is this secret that has tortured my soul and fueled my fury. I am wrong to keep it from you and I shall do so no longer.”
Cronus pushed his chair aside to remain tall before his peers. He saw their silent questions and shuttered inwardly at what he was about to do. He feared for them as he feared for all the children of the People. But the voices of the desert had dictated his course and he felt compelled to obey. He turned to Iapetus standing at his side and nodded. Iapetus strode to the massive wooden doors, carved with the symbol of the One Tree and pulled them open. Two of the sentries came in carrying a large, ancient box between them, sat it upon
the Table and returned to their posts, closing the doors firmly behind them.
At a motion from Cronus, the council members gathered around, carefully examining the rich inlays of the exquisite artifact. Its silver and gold surfaces seemed to dance in the bright afternoon sunlight from outside, but the red, smooth rock of the handles reflected nothing. Lines of black etched the top in the patterns, which the assembly quickly realized were maps of impossible lands and travel routes carved by a multitude of skilled hands. Strange symbols and pictures adored the magnificent relic, some recognizable as topographical notations, but others beyond interpretation by the Council. The Box laid out the path of the Izon’s travels and pointed them unerringly in the direction of Atlantis. It was an astounding tribute to the history of the Clan, their skill and their incredible desire to awaken the People. The council was stunned beyond words.
With quiet ceremony, Cronus untied the leather straps that held the two clasps on the front of the Box locked tightly. He slowly opened the ancient relic and lifted out the hide-wrapped item within. He untied the bindings that held the dusty, dirty skin in place, revealing a large Book covered by a thick, scaly, green hide like something torn from a giant lizard as yet undiscovered. Holes ran down one edge through which straps of the same skin was laced, holding together the many thinner layers within. Chiseled into the surface was a picture of a flat-topped triangle crowned with a likeness of the Key. Inside, flat white plates of velum were covered with hand-written words in the language of the People. He put his hand, fingers spread wide, over the first page to cover the words written there.
“Please sit, my brothers and sisters,” Cronus said, carefully studying everyone around him, gauging their reactions to the artifact. Some were utterly astonished and dumbfounded, openly skeptical of the find. Some were as excited as small children tearing at the wrapping covering a new toy. It was the others he would have to watch closely. They hid small, sly smiles as if the discovery vindicated their assessment of the Izon.
“I must warn you,” Cronus continued when all returned to their seats, “the contents of this Book will eat at your core beliefs of the Izon and, most importantly, of the future of the People. It will amaze you and tear out your hearts. I promise you, if you read this document, your very souls will be plunged into absolute, terrifying chaos. You will never again feel such horrifying fear or despair.”
“So I ask you to carefully consider all I have said and know that it is the utter and complete truth.” Cronus locked his blazing, emerald eyes with each member of the Table and with the three others carefully selected to be in the chamber. His rugged, square-planed visage was dark, deep lines furrowing his brow, his words clipped and hardened. “Think hard. Be sure. Be very sure you want to hear these words. Once read, you will never be the same as you are now. Your world will be changed forever.”
“You have given us much to think about, my brother,” Mnemosyne said, nodding her head at Cronus. She rose from the table and smiled tightly, her warm hazel eyes bright with the chance of hearing a new history. Her auburn hair cascading over her gently sloping shoulders and down the front of the thin layered, shimmering, celestial blue gown she wore over her scaled silver suit. The first layer floated just above her shapely form, highlighting not concealing each line and curve of her sumptuous body. The other glistened in the waning sunlight within the room with tiny threads of gold weaved into the gossamer fabric. All eyes were drawn to her and her wise, intelligent counsel.
“I believe we should take a little time to contemplate all you have shared,” Mnemosyne continued. “It is getting late. I do believe we should adjourn for the evening and reconvene on the morrow.”
Nods and murmurs of assent greeted her words as she scanned the room. Cronus gave his consent with a small wave of his hand. The chamber emptied slowly, groups of the gathered taking long moments to study the ancient box and its contents before leaving. Others met in small cliques whispering among themselves, casting sidelong glances at the box and the closed book lying on the glossy table. Cronus was questioned, but he brushed aside anything that had to do with the contents of the book, telling them all would be revealed only if all the members of the council agreed.
“I fear what may come from reading this book.” Rhea sat on a soft, red and orange patterned blanket spread out on a thick carpet of green grass. Her gaze swept over the children playing some made up game, chasing each other around the meadow, insuring her little ones were in close view. She could not help but smile at them rolling around in the grass, warmed by a brilliant yellow, late morning sun. Their childish laughter filled the air with a tinkling, joyful sound like the singing of a thousand birds.
Rhea searched out her children and found timid, shy, Hestia sitting cross-legged on a small outcrop of rock watching the antics of her peers, hands clapping, her sweet face alive and jubilant as her friends frolicked around her. Rhea’s first-born, so easy to spot with her long, loose, rich auburn hair blowing around her like a mane of blazing fire, preferred to sit on the sidelines sharing vicariously in the elation of others. As always, Hera led the festivities, laying out the rules, insuring they were followed, and it was she who was the center of attention. Standing a head taller than most of her friends, her reddish yellow hair reflected the sunlight like a golden halo around her rather stern features. Off to one side, Demeter moved among the carefully tended patch of garden she called her own, her dark brown eyes alight with rapture at the sight of vegetables growing in such abundance around her. Every now and then, she would kneel among the plants, the tips of her long hair, as fair as ripened grain, would dip into the rich, moist soil, dirtied by being dragged through the muddy, hand-plowed rows. Demeter dug her small, long fingers in between the plants, rooting out any weed that attempted to invade her little domain, her ocean blue eyes, glistening with pure ecstasy.
Their gleeful innocence did not ease squirming pit of concern tightening the muscles of her stomach. Rhea reached out to touch the thin, raven-haired child next to her, protected by a tiny Enviro-Suit and bundled in a wrap of soft, warm blanket the color of blue spring flowers. Hades was unusually quite child, rarely crying or making coos, ahhs or even babyish mummers. He had yet to smile, but his ebony eyes, buried beneath dark, black eyebrows, never stopped moving, taking in everything in his environs and seeming to catalog them away for future use inside a sharp and analytical mind. Rhea rubbed his narrow cheek, worry creasing her brow and forming deep wrinkles around her twinkling, blue eyes. The Book was not her only concern.
Thea placed a gentle hand on Rhea’s forearm and drew her hand between her own. She smiled with such a golden radiance, eyes of brilliant green shining like emerald stars that even Rhea felt captivated by her calming glow. Thea glanced over to her young son, Helios, scampering between blackberry bushes and among small hillocks of rock along with a group of other boys and smiled even brighter.
“I do hope that you are wrong, lovely Rhea,” Thea said softly. “For the sake of our children. I am not overly anxious about some ancient writings, which were scripted by a brutish culture. Oh, come now,” she grinned, patting Rhea on the hand, “do not get me wrong. I believe the Izon have evolved considerably from their early beginnings and are now a kind and intelligent species. I care for them and for their welfare. I do not, however, think that they pose any threat to our future any more than I think they do now.”
“Be careful of that assumption,” Tethys replied sagely, watching her daughter, Metis, running among a field of vibrant, purple flowers, her arms winged out behind her, knocking petals loose with her fingertips. Her son, Tyche, tussled on the ground with another boy in playful wrestling. Themis turned her attention to the three women sitting upon Rhea’s large blanket along with her.
“Remember how well they fought against the Aam that guarded them,” she said, “and they were outmatched by men and women almost twice their size backed with weapons of extraordinary technology. They still took many lives and managed to escape their captors.”
“True,” Thea’s twin sister, Themis, insisted, “but they were aided by not only rogue Aam, but by the People and some of us here.”
“You are missing a greater, more disturbing question,” Rhea interjected, raising her eyes to her friends. “What happened to affect my loving, kind husband and our wise and fair leader to such a degree that the People became fearful of him? What turned him into a bitter, angry, violent, vindictive man? Most of all, what burned his soul so much that we, factions within the Aam and, yes, many of the People felt compelled to stand against him? I pray it is not any kind of secret knowledge he gained from this Book. If so, what will it do to rest of us?”
“On the positive,” Themis smiled, leaning her head on Rhea’s hunched shoulder, “if the cause of our Lord Father’s darkness is within the contents of this Book, I must believe that sharing its secret with the rest of us will alleviate much of his burden.”
“I do hope you are correct, Themis, with every fiber of my heart.” Rhea watched her children at play, knowing she would have to take them home soon. Though she tried to keep her face impassive, the set of her jawline and the unfallen tears shimmering in her blue eyes fooled none of her sisters. “I pray that you are all right.”
“Has there been any progress in finding a replacement fuel source?” Cronus stood before the holographic display of the dying Proto-Sun, his fingertips seeming to hold the shifting whorl of poison in the palm of his hand. He knew the council was more interested in the contents of the Book, but he purposely kept their attention on more immediate issues first. If their eyes were on the seriousness of now, maybe the crushing blow he was about to deliver would somehow be lessened.
“No, Cronus,” Coeus replied, his wild, wavy, cinnamon hair swaying around his oval face in the light movement of air in the council chamber. His deep brown eyes were flat and unreflective and his generous lips were pulled tightly across his saddened face. “We have re-tasked the Sentinel from geographical survey to detecting some iota larger than trace amounts of anything remotely radioactive.”