by Gene Stiles
A violent thunderstorm pounded the thick foliage of the forest just south of the city’s edge, bolts of blue-white lightning ripping across the night sky and blasting away the darkness. Sheets of rain hammered the wooden shingles on the high-peaked roof of the squared-log cabin nestled deep within the stand of monstrous oaks that ringed a small lake near the eastern mountains. The sound, though dampened by the thickness of the ceiling, pounded out a steady rhythm that mirrored the turbulent flow of blood through Rhea’s veins. The brilliant explosions pouring through the condensed glass windows burned her eyes like the burning deep in her soul. It seems as if the Creator told her that even here, in the refuge she had built to escape Cronus and life within Atlantis, she could not run from the raging tempest building around her.
“You are doing it, sweet Hyperion,” Rhea whispered, afraid if she spoke too loudly she would not be able to contain her heartache. “It has been ten years since Cronus took my children. Ten years I have expended every resource to find them to no avail. For a decade, I have played the dutiful wife, sickening myself with his touch, sharing his bed, burying my hatred behind a vile mask in hopes that horrible, despicable demon would relent and tell me where they are. All for nothing. And now things are about to get much worse. So very much worse.”
“Cronus appears to be far happier now than he has been since we arrived,” Hyperion replied, quietly. “He is no longer the cruel, vicious person he became for a while. He is like the brother I used to have on Atlan, happy, loving, a true, compassionate leader of the People. Atlantis grows and prospers. Do you truly believe he will harm the child?”
“Yes,” Rhea nodded, her glistening eyes staring into the flames. She slipped one hand down to her slightly rounding tummy, terrified for the life growing within. “My ‘husband’ only regained a measure of humanity after he rid himself our children,” she spat angrily. “I prayed to the Creator every day, begging Him for the safe return of my daughters and son. He did not listen. I implored Him to keep me from bearing another and, for all these years, He granted me my wish. Now He has abandoned me. He has cursed me with the child of a monster.”
“We do not understand the Creator’s plans,” Hyperion said gently, taking her hand in his. “Maybe He gives you this gift because Cronus is now ready to receive it. This child may be what will open his heart and force him to realize what his has taken from you. It could be the very thing he needs to see what he has done and for him to bring your children back to you. You need to have faith.”
“I fear I have little faith left at present,” Rhea sighed heavily. “I live in terror every day that Cronus will learn of this child and tear it from me as he has the rest of my little ones. Oh, Hyperion, whatever shall I do?”
“Whatever you do, my lady,” Hyperion replied a wan smile touching his lips, “I will be here with you. Always.”
He held her tightly as the dam at last broke inside of her. Horrible sobs wracked her body, her rush of tears soaking his dark blue blouse. He could do naught but hold her, whispering tender words of comfort as he stroked the back of her head. There had to be something to ease her anguish, something he could do and he would find it. He swore this by the Creator.
“Have you not seen this? We have a serious problem here.” Themis stood before the council, her knuckles resting on the table, her slender arms quivering in anger. Her large, emerald eyes sparked at the stupidity of the way Cronus offhandedly brushed away her concerns. The knee-length braid of her honey-gold hair fell over her shimmering, dark blue, high-collared blouse, cascading over the shapely rise of her chest and past the crimson belt cinched tightly around her slender waist. Her white, loose-sleeved, gold-flecked robe hung open to the floor revealing the blue leather breeches that clung to her shapely legs, disappearing into her calf-high, black boots. The extraordinary beauty of her oval face was blunted by the redness darkening her cheeks and the sternness written across her full, sensuous lips.
“I do not dispute your facts,” Cronus replied with an indifferent wave of his hand. He leaned back casually in his black leather chair, his silver-stranded, black robe tossed over the heavily padded arms. His jade eyes sat half closed beneath the crown of braided gold that held his mane of red curls from his square-jawed face. “I simply do not see it as an important issue.”
“Not important?” Themis fumed at the nonchalant way he dismissed her with such aloof disregard. “The birth rate has dropped steadily over the last decade. When we first arrived, we were blessed with new children every year. Now we have almost as few births as we had on Atlan. If this continues, there will be no new Atlanteans born within another ten years. I would call that not just important, but dire.”
“Could it not be we are simply leveling off?” Mnemosyne leaned her slender arms on the table, hands clasped in front of her. The living cloak of her shining auburn hair flowed in soft waves over the sea green, gossamer robe she wore over a floor length, ocean blue gown.
“The abundance of young ones since we arrived is a miracle granted by the Creator, but far beyond the norm for the People,” she continued warmly, laying a gentle hand over Themis’ balled fist. “Maybe it is only nature adjusting itself to our new environment. We needed new Atlanteans to populate this world and to grow as a society. Now we do not. We are not Izon. We do not breed like animals.”
“You could be right,” Themis conceded, her golden-green eyes still clouded. “However, if I am correct and we do not attempt to find the cause immediately, are you willing to watch our race go extinct?”
“That will not happen,” Cronus scoffed with a huff.
“In either case,” Thea, twin to Themis, interjected, “what would it hurt to allow my sister to investigate? I suggest we give her the resources she needs. If it be folly, we lose nothing.”
“I think it a waste of time,” Cronus replied with a sigh, noting the nods of agreement Thea received from the council. “Yet, if indulging your foolish fantasy means this council can get back to the real business of running Atlantis, then so be it.”
Throughout the presentation and debate, Rhea remained quiet, her hand resting beneath the folds of her sparkling red robe. If Themis was correct, this child growing inside her was more important than ever. Protecting her little one from the machinations of Cronus meant keeping the knowledge of her pregnancy from him. But how?
“Boy, we need more wood for the fire. Fetch,” Amelia barked from the front porch of the small cabin nestled on the edge of the dense oak and evergreen forest. The wooden siding overlaying the cold granite walls was cracked and weathered, the thick coating of stain and glossing long since worn away by summer storms and icy winters. Hyperion and Rhea offered numerous times to fix and recoat it, but, so far, Amelia refused, preferring her house to look as broken down as she felt inside.
“Right away, Lady,” the boy called over his shoulder, running to the pile cut and stacked at the side of the house. He knew better than to make the slightest delay. He did not wish to give her any other reason for beating him than the mere fact that he breathed. He loaded as many of the heavy logs as he could hold in his strong arms and rushed back to the front door where Amelia stood dourly, arms crossed over her chest. Waiting for her nod of consent, the boy rushed in, carefully laying the wood out in neat rows in the stone box next to the blazing fire within the rock hearth. When he finished, he quickly left the house, knowing he was only permitted inside when performing a specific task.
Amelia cuffed him on the back of the head as he passed, her cruel lips twisted in a sneer as he tumbled down the four steps of the porch. He landed hard in the pebbled dirt in front the cabin, scraping skin from his cheek, knees and hands. Stinging pain burned from the wounds, but he uttered not a whimper, rising slowly and brushing the dirt from his too-short breeches. He knew to cry or whimper would only antagonize the woman and cause more of a beating. He turned to face her, keeping his face impassive and waited to see if she wished to heap further degradation upon him. Amelia stared at him with her dead b
rown eyes, spun on her heel and went inside, slamming the oaken door behind her.
The boy walked along the edge of the high, wire fence surrounding the small vegetable garden kept clear of the thick green grasses of the meadow. Golden stalks of maze grew in four neat lines next to rows of ripe red tomatoes, green beans and cumber vines. The rich, loamy soil gave off the pleasant, damp smell of life and growing things and he sucked the sweet aroma deep into his lungs. One of his endless jobs was to tend the garden and nary had a weed invaded the space. He loved the time he spent there, feeling the thick, black dirt between his fingers and watching the plants grow tall and strong. There was a serene peacefulness to it and the woman rarely bothered him when she saw him there.
A small, one-room hut sat on the far side of the garden, made of simple granite slabs with tiled wood roofing. Two of the walls were inlaid with windows of thick, transparent crystal, one large one and a small one next to a plain oak door. A third wall contained a block stone chimney for the tiny fireplace within. A thinly padded bed took up most of one wall with a plain wooden chest at the foot containing the clothing brought to him by Rhea and her few companions. The only other pieces of furniture was a rocking chair and footstool sitting in front of the hearth next to an oil lamp. Behind the hidden sliding doors covering most of the windowless wall, rows of shelves contained his most prized possessions - books and data crystals. If the woman ever found them, she would destroy them all, knowing how much he loved them.
Whenever Rhea and Hyperion came for their monthly visit, they brought him small gifts. Sometimes it was a toy or new clothing since the woman gave him neither. Other times, it was these wonderful books and crystals. Hyperion taught him how to read and to use the crystals, allowing the boy to escape from his misery into worlds of history and fantasy. He immersed himself into stories where there was love and kindness, so unlike the horror of his life. He studied the past of the People from the ancient times on Atlan to the rise of Atlantis. Oh, how he wished he could steal away into the cool darkness of night, runaway to the blazing lights of the golden city where laughter filled the air and happiness glowed on the faces of everyone he would pass on the smooth stone streets. Someday, he promised himself. Someday.
Rhea and Hyperion treated him with warm compassion and sweet tenderness, emotions that never touched his daily life. While one of them spent time with the woman, the other sat with him in his tiny cabin. He loved these times. Sometimes he curled on Rhea’s soft lap, feeling the warmth of her gentle heart as she ran her slender fingers through his wavy black hair. Her sky-blue eyes sparkled as she gazed at him with kindliness, her full, pink lips whispering words of comfort and compassion. More than once, the boy wept in the strong arms Hyperion, feeling safe and unafraid as long as the giant man held him close. He wanted nothing more than to hide in the back of their sled when they left for home and maybe he would when he was older.
As much as he loved Rhea and Hyperion, it was Keramec’s visits the boy longed for. The monstrous, blond-haired Aam looked like he was built of the same granite that made up the walls of his cabin. His arms were the size of the boy’s two legs together. His hand could lift him by the head with no effort at all, his fingers wrapping his skull like a grape. His chest was as broad as the trunk of an oak tree and curved down to a waist barely smaller. Keramec had eyes of emerald flecked with sparkles of gold set in a handsome, square face, strong-jawed but kindly. His lightly waved, honey-blond hair swept down his flat shoulders, held in a tight braid that fell to the middle of his heavily muscled back. Standing there in his high-collared, billow-sleeved white shirt, black leather vest laced tightly on the sides, ebony breeches stretched over legs of granite, tucked into calf-high, black boots, the boy felt sheltered from the agony of life.
Keramec came every two weeks, bringing food and supplies to the woman and making sure the boy was doing well. He ignored her for the most part, spending all his time with the boy, teaching him woodcraft and hunting skills. Hidden away far from the prying eyes of Amelia, Keramec taught the boy how to fight and handle pain. He showed him how to Heal, how to drawn forth the energy stored inside every person. Most important of all, Keramec told the boy who he was.
In the blunt but honest way of the Aam, on his eighth birthday, Keramec told him the story of Amelia’s horrific rape and torture. He spared no details. He did not do it to hurt the boy, but hopefully to explain why the woman hated him so much. Keramec, holding the boy on his lap inside the little cabin, told him how special he was and how important he would be in the future. He was unique, caring the blood of both the People and the Izon. That gave the boy the strength of both races and opportunity to act as a bridge between the Clan and the People someday.
“You are extraordinary,” Keramec told him, tussling his wavy, ebony hair. “You are living proof the People and the Izon are bloodkin. But you must keep that silent and secret until the moment arises when you are needed.”
“How will I know?” the boy asked, his little voice quivering as the tears fell from his onyx eyes and down his puffy pink cheeks. “Will you tell me?”
“No,” Keramec explained in his raspy, deep voice. “That is something you will have to find for yourself. Do not worry, little man,” he smiled softly. “You will know. I have great faith in you.”
“Just remember that there are many who will see your mixed blood as an evil thing,” the Aam warned, speaking sternly, but holding the boy close to his bulging chest. “Some may hate you for it as Amelia does. They may fear what you represent - that the two races are one. Cronus, the Lord Father and the leader of the People despises the Clan because of it.”
“Am I a monster then?” the boy whimpered, holding tightly to the man’s arm as if it were an anchor in a world of hurricanes.
“No, no, little man,” Keramec assured him gently, rocking the boy in the chair before the blazing fire. “It means you are special and important to all of Atlantis. Never forget that. You have a great destiny in your future. I know it as I know my own breath. Trust me.”
“I do.” The boy cried, wiping the flowing tears from his cheeks, looking up at Keramec with such agony burning in those dark, damp eyes that it broke the man’s heart. “But why does the woman hate me so? Why does she enjoy hurting me? No matter what I do, she tells me how horrible I am. Why?”
“It is not your fault,” Keramec sighed deeply, his warm eyes looking down on his small friend. “I think it is because she is ashamed of what happened to her even though no one blames her. Amelia hates herself for it. That is why she moved out here so far from the city. She does not want anyone to know the most horrific nightmare of her life produced a child and only we few know of you. That is what she sees when she looks at you. Not the extraordinary person you are, but that terrifying night playing over and over again inside her mind. She is burned and scarred to the very core of her soul. Remember that when you hurt. Her agony drives her. Not you. Please try to understand and forgive her for what she does no matter how hard that might be. You will be better for it.”
Over the years, the boy tried his best, but with each broken bone, each bleeding cut, each beating with whip or barbed switch, his anger grew, seething inside of him. He learned to say only what she wanted to hear, to do what she wanted done without question. The boy learned to be devious, hiding his growing intelligence by playing the simpleton. He watched her, studying her every expression, the twitch of her muscles that indicated what she had in mind and anticipating her every need and emotion.
Most of all, he kept secret his knowledge of the Izon. Keramec brought him crystals that told of the Clan, their journeys and all that happened to them after them after the People awakened. He taught the boy the Izon language. He learned how to speak it and how to read it. Their history and suffering tossed fuel on the bonfire blazing deep inside his angry heart. There would be a price to pay someday. He would see to it.
He knew the woman was his mother, but he never called her that. He did only once. It took more than a wee
k for him to Heal from the severity of the beating he suffered. She did not allow him to call anything other than Lady so he that is what he did. She enjoyed hurting him almost to the point of death. Her face glowed with each fisted blow, each stinging slap, each whip of a thorn-covered switch. Her body would tense and shiver as if his agony gave her a sexual release. He did all that he could to please her and to hide when he sensed her rising tension. It did not always work.
On his tenth birthday, Hyperion, Rhea and Keramec all came to see him. He was so happy he felt his heart would burst. He knew he would pay for his joy later, but in the presence of his only friends the Lady would do nothing but sear him with her fiery gaze, her face twisted in scorn.
“It is time,” Hyperion smiled, his sparkling jade eyes looking down on the little man from his chair gathered around the table in the woman’s house. A rare experience for the boy to be here. “You need a name. You cannot be ‘boy’ forever.”
“Hyperion is right,” Rhea nodded, every curve of her beautiful face radiating sweet happiness. “I think you should pick you own name. Do you have one in mind?”
“Yes,” the boy replied, careful to keep his eyes from the woman. “I want my name to be Loki.”
“Loki?” Keramec questioned him, his dark eyebrow raised in concern at the choice. “Do you know what that means?” He knew the boy would understand he meant in the Izon language but dared not mention the Clan around Amelia.
“Yes I do,” the boy said, shifting his gaze around the table, stopping for a moment on the Lady, meeting her cold, seething eyes with his blank stare. He looked back at Keramec and smiled. “I thought it fitting. It means ‘the hated one’. I will carry it as a badge of honor,” he stood tall and straight, his chest filled with both joy and trepidation at what would come after the guests left. “That is the name I want.”