Covenant Of The Flame

by David Morrell

  'Blood sugar?' Priscilla Harding's voice was thick-tongued, surprisingly deep. 'I'm sick of.'

  'Yes. That's right. You're sick. But in a few moments, after you've had something to eat, you'll feel much better. By the way, that navel orange is excellent. I recommend you try it.'

  With a weary glance toward her husband, Priscilla Harding obeyed, her arthritis-gnarled fingers raising a slice of the orange to her mouth. As she chewed methodically, she shifted her gaze, puzzled now, toward Tess.

  Again Professor Harding seemed to read thoughts. 'Forgive my rudeness, dear. This attractive young woman is a former student of mine, but of course her beauty can never compare to yours.'

  'You bullshitter.'

  'My dear. Tsk, tsk. And in front of company.'

  Priscilla Harding scrunched her wrinkled eyes in amusement.

  'Her name is Tess Drake,' the professor said, 'and she has a favor to ask. She needs to make use of your scholarly abilities.'

  Priscilla Harding's eyes rose, much less vapid. 'My scholarly.?'

  'Yes, it's a bit of a mystery we hope you can solve,' the professor said. 'I tried to assist my former student, but I'm afraid her questions are beyond me. They're not at all related to my field of expertise.'

  Her eyes gaining brightness, Priscilla ate another section of orange.

  'The sliced beef is very good. Try it,' the professor said.

  'What kind of favor?" Priscilla asked and continued eating, her eyes even more alert. 'What sort of questions?'

  'She'd like you to examine a photograph. The photograph shows. or so I believe. a modern reproduction of an ancient bas-relief statue. A rather brutal one, I should add. So prepare yourself. But when you feel your strength coming back, if you'd.'

  'Richard, the older you get, the more you avoid the point. A photograph? A modern replica of an ancient sculpture? Sounds fascinating. By all means, I'll be happy to look at it.'

  Tess felt tense from the pressure of speeding time. 'Mrs Harding, thank you.'

  'Please, there's no need to be formal. I'm Priscilla.' She munched on a piece of bread, wiped her hands on a napkin, and reached toward Tess. 'The photograph?'

  Tess took it from her purse and slid it across the table.

  Mrs Harding pulled glasses from a pocket in her dress and put them on, peering down at the photograph.

  She kept chewing the bread.

  Stopped chewing.

  And swallowed hard. Her jaws assumed a grim expression.

  She didn't speak for several moments.

  What is it? Tess thought.

  Hurry!

  Priscilla nodded grimly. 'I've seen something like this, a very similar image, several times before.'

  Muscles rigid, Tess leaned forward. 'But why do you look so troubled? The knife, the blood, the serpent, the dog. I know they're repulsive but.'

  'And the scorpion. Don't forget the scorpion,' Priscilla said. 'Attacking the testicles of the dying bull. And don't forget the flame bearers, flanking the victim, one torch pointing upward, the other down.' The old woman shook her wrinkled face. 'And the raven.'

  'I thought it was an owl.'

  'My God, no. An owl? Don't be absurd. It's a raven.'

  'But what do they mean?' Tess feared her control was about to collapse.

  Priscilla trembled. Ignoring Tess, she directed her attention toward her husband. 'Richard, do you remember our summer in Spain in seventy three?'

  'Of course,' the professor said with fondness. 'Our twenty-fifth anniversary.'

  'Now don't get maudlin on me, Richard. The nature of that occasion - however much I enjoyed it - is irrelevant. What is, what's important, is that while you stayed in Madrid and haunted the Prado museum."

  'Yes, Velazquez, Goya, and.'

  'But not Picasso. I don't believe Picasso's Guernica was exhibited then.'

  'Please,' Tess leaned farther forward, her voice urgent. 'The statue.'

  'I'd seen the Prado many times,' Priscilla said. 'And I'm a classicist, not an art historian. So I sent Richard on his merry way while I went on my own way. After all, I like to believe I'm a liberated woman.'

  'You are, dear. How often you've proven that.' The professor shrugged with good nature and nibbled on some cheese.

  'So I went to ancient Spanish sites whose artifacts intrigued me.' Priscilla's eyes became misted with favorite memories. 'Merida. Pamplona.'

  'Pamplona? Isn't that where Hemingway.?'

  'With apologies, Tess, pretend you're in my husband's classroom. Be polite, and don't interrupt.'

  'I'm sorry, Mrs.'

  'And don't make polite noises. I told you I'm not "Mrs". Not when you're my guest.' Priscilla concentrated. 'How I loved those. In ruins outside each village, I found etchings, engravings, and in a small museum outside Pamplona, I found a statue, like this. Weathered. Broken. Not clean, with perfect engravings. Not distinct in its outline. But it was the same as this photograph. And later, in my fascinating travels, while I waited for Richard to exhaust his compulsion for Velazquez and Goya. Apparently I'm like Richard. I'm so old I fail to get to the point.'

  'But what did you find?' Tess tried not to raise her voice.

  'More statues.' Priscilla shrugged. 'Further engravings.'

  'Of?'

  'The same image as this. Not frequent. In situ, they were always hidden. Always in caves or grottoes.'

  'Images of-?'

  'Mithras.'

  Tess jerked her head up. 'What or who the hell is.?'

  'Mithras?' Priscilla mustered energy. 'Are you religious, Tess?'

  'Sort of. I was raised a Roman Catholic. In my youth, I believed. In college, I lapsed. But lately.? Yes, I suppose you could say I'm religious.'

  'Roman Catholic? Ah.' Priscilla bit her lip, her tone despondent. 'Then I'm afraid your religion has.'

  'What?'

  'Competition.'

  'What are you talking about?'

  'Ancient competition. Stronger than you can imagine. It comes from the start of everything, the origins of civilization, the roots of history.'

  'What the hell.?'

  'Yes, hell.' Priscilla's face drooped, at once haggard again. 'Heaven and hell. That's what Mithras is all about.'

  'Look, I can't take much more of this,' Tess said. 'You don't know what I've been through! My mother's dead! People are dying all around me! I'm supposed to be at National Airport to meet someone in an hour! And I'm scared. No, that's an understatement! I'm terrified.'

  'About Mithras? I sympathize.' Priscilla clutched Tess's hand. 'If this photograph. if this statue's related to your problems. you have reason to be terrified.'

  'Why?'

  'Mithras,' Priscilla said, 'is the oldest god I know of, and his counterpart's the most evil and unforgiving.'

  'This is.' Tess shuddered. 'Crazy. What are you.?' She clenched her fists, her fingernails gouging her palms.

  'Talking about?' Priscilla stood with difficulty. 'Stop glancing at your watch. There's a great deal to teach you. and warn you about. and prayers to be said.'

  A SERPENT, A SCORPION, AND A DOG

  ONE

  Western Germany. South of Cologne. The Rhine.

  Headlights glimmered through fog along a seldom traveled lane. Years earlier, between the Great Wars, it had often been used by fishermen who'd laid their bicycles behind bushes, removed tackle kits from baskets on the front of their bikes, assembled fishing rods, and followed well-worn paths down the thickly treed slope to favorite spots on the river. Children once had scampered along the bank. On warm summer days, mothers had spread blankets on sweet lush grass and opened picnic baskets, the aroma of sausage, cheese, and freshly baked bread drifting out. Bottles of wine had cooled in shallows.

  But that had been long ago, and in western Germany, while at the same time in Washington Tess listened with horror to what Professor Harding's wife explained to her, this wasn't day, and even if it had been, no one came to fish here anymore. Few people came here for any reason and certainl
y not to picnic, for the stench from the river would have fouled the aroma of freshly baked bread, and the poison in the water had long since been absorbed into the soil, blighting the grass and trees, and the sludge that choked the current had long since killed the fish.

  On this evening, however, the passengers in the car that jolted along the lane did think about picnics and fishing, although their thoughts were bitter, making the men frown with anger at glimpses of leafless trees and stunted bushes in the fog.

  All except one passenger who frowned for another reason.

  Indeed he trembled. 'You won't get away with this! My guests are expecting me! I'll be missed!'

  'You're referring to the reception at your estate?' the driver asked, then shrugged. 'Well, your guests will just have to do without you, Herr Schmidt.'

  'Yes,' another man said. Too bad. They'll simply have to wait.'

  'And wait. And wait,' a third man said.

  'What do you want from me?' the silver-haired, lean-faced, tuxedo-clad man demanded. 'Ransom? If that's what you want, what are we doing here! Let me use a phone! I'll arrange-! My assistant will deliver any amount you demand! No police!'

  'Of course not, Herr Schmidt. I can guarantee,' the driver said. 'Later maybe, but not for now. There'll be no police.'

  'What are you talking about?'

  'Justice,' a man with a pistol said.

  The pistol was wedged against the silver-haired man's neck.

  'Examples,' another man said. 'Here.' From the back seat, he leaned forward, telling the driver, 'When I was a child, this was my favorite path. The river was so.! How I loved this place. Now look at it! Look at how ugly it's become! Here! Yes, stop right here.'

  'Why not?' The driver shrugged again. 'It's as good a place as any.'

  'For what?' Schmidt demanded, voice trembling.

  'I already told you,' the man with the pistol said. 'Justice.'

  The driver stopped among skeletal bushes at the side of the lane, dead branches snapping. He turned off the headlights and stepped from the car while his companions opened other doors and dragged Schmidt, struggling, into the fog-shrouded wasteland. The sleeve of his tuxedo tore on a barkless tree limb.

  'Ah, too bad,' the man with the gun said. 'What a terrible shame.'

  'Yes, a pity,' the driver said.

  They reached a bluff and forced Schmidt down the sterile slope. At once, the sickening fumes from the river enveloped them, making them cough. In terror, Schmidt resisted so fiercely that the men were forced to drag him downward, his patent-leather shoes scraping over rocks. Where the zigzagging, barely detectable path became steep, one of the men used a shielded flashlight to guide their way.

  At the oppressive grassless bottom, the light revealed the foam along the river's edge, the slime on the water, and the sludge that thickened the current. The area smelled like a cesspool, for sewage too fouled the water.

  'What a damnable.! I used to be able to swim here!' the man with the gun said. 'And the fish. the fish tasted so pure and delicious. Their meat was so white, so flaky, at the same time solid. The way my mother dipped them in milk. She used to cover them with biscuit crumbs, and.'

  'Fish?' Schmidt whimpered. 'What are you talking about? Fish? Why does that-? For God's sake, if your purpose was to scare me, you've succeeded! I admit it! I'm terrified!' His control collapsing, the silver-haired prisoner began to sob. 'How much do you want? Anything! Please! I swear on my mother's grave, I'll pay you anything!'

  'Yes,' the driver said. 'That's right. Anything. You'll pay.'

  'Name it! Just tell me how much! It's yours! Mein Gott, how much?'

  'You still don't understand how much you must pay,' another man said. 'You did this.'

  'Did? What did I.?'

  'This.' With disgust, the fourth man gestured toward the noxious desecration of the river. 'You. Not alone! But you share the responsibility!'

  'With?' Schmidt voided his bowels.

  'With the other greedy industrialists who demanded profits, no matter the cost to nature. Billionaires who wouldn't miss the comparative few millions it would have taken to keep the river pure and the sky free of poison.'

  'Millions?' Schmidt shook his head, frenzied. 'But my board of directors, my shareholders would have.!'

  'Millions? Yes! But only at the start!' the man with the gun corrected. 'A one-time only expense! But that was years behind us! Now the cost would be greater! Much, much greater! And the river's so poisoned, so dead, that it might take decades before it's revived, if ever, if the dead can ever be brought back to life.'

  Scowling, the man with the flashlight stepped closer. 'Pay attention, Herr Schmidt. We didn't choose this place merely because we used to love to come here when we were children. Not at all. We chose it because.' The grim man gestured. Even in the fog, the lights that silhouetted the numerous huge factories upriver were gloomily visible. Indeed the fog was not completely natural. Smoke containing toxic pollutants added to it. Nearby, a drainage pipe from one of the factories spewed nostril-flaring chemicals into the water. The foam accumulated.

  'We chose this site because we wanted you to witness your crimes,' the driver said.

  'Sins,' the man with the gun corrected.

  'Sins?' Schmidt cowered. 'You're all lunatics! You're-!'

  'And sins must be punished,' the man with the flashlight said. 'As you indicated, you're eager to pay.'

  'And will pay,' the fourth man said.

  Schmidt pressed his hands together. 'I'm begging you.' He sank to his knees. 'I promise. I swear. My engineers will redesign the waste system in my factories. The cost doesn't matter. I'll stop the chemicals from reaching the river. I'll speak to the other manufacturers in the area. I'll convince them to prevent the discharge from-'

  'Too late,' the man with the gun said.

  '-from pouring into the river.' Schmidt sobbed. 'I'll do anything if you'll just-'

  'Too late,' the man with the gun repeated. 'An example has to be made.'

  'Many examples,' the man with the flashlight said.

  'Justice,' the driver said.

  'I'm thirsty,' the fourth man said. 'The walk down that slope made my mouth dry.'

  'Mine, too,' the man with the gun said.

  'And Herr Schmidt, I imagine that your mouth feels especially dry. From fear. I believe you deserve a drink.'

  The fourth man removed a plastic container from a knapsack on his shoulder. Repelled but determined, contracting his chest, visibly holding his breath, he stooped toward the noxious fumes that rose from the water's edge and scooped foam, slime, sludge, and sewage into the container.

  Schmidt screamed. 'No! I can't drink from.! Don't make me swallow.! That stuff 'll kill.!'

  The man with the flashlight nodded. 'Kill you? Indeed. As it killed the fish. As it killed the river. As it killed the trees and the bushes and the grass. As it's slowly killing the people in the cities who depend on the river for water, however much the cities try to purify that water.'

  'Regrettably, an example has to be made,' the man with the gun said. 'Many examples. If it's any consolation, take heart. You won't be alone. I promise. Soon many of your fellow sinners will join you. Many lessons need to be taught. Until the ultimate lesson is finally learned. Before it's too late. That is, if it's not too late already.'

  The man with the container of sludge pressed it against Schmidt's mouth.

  Schmidt wailed, then clamped his lips tightly together, jerking his face away.

  'Now, now,' the man with the container said. 'You must take your medicine.'

  The other men held him firmly.

  'Accept your fate,' the man with the flashlight said. 'Taste the product of your success.'

  Schmidt struggled, desperate, yanking his arms, straining to escape the rigid hands of his captors.

  'Destiny, mein Herr. We must all confront it.' The man with the container raised it again toward Schmidt's clamped jaws.

  Again Schmidt jerked his face away.

 
'Well,' the man with the flashlight said, disappointed. 'That leaves us no choice.' With relentless strength, he tugged Schmidt downward. The other men helped him, using their knees along with their hands to force Schmidt onto his back, straining to keep their prisoner's thrashing face pointed toward the murky, fog-and-smoke-clogged sky.

  The man with the container knelt and pressed a nerve behind Schmidt's ear.