The Jealous God

by Brendan Carroll

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  Adalune Kadif, Son of the Moon, sat upon his shining white charger appearing very much like an apparition or a vision from the mind of a fantasy artist. His glittering, mirrored armor sparkled and glistened. The long purple plume descending from the top knot of his Trojan-style helmet, fluttered gently in the breeze, mingling with the silky strands of his black hair.

  His dark eyes were absolutely unflinching as he concentrated on the sounds coming from the depths of the pit in front of the horse’s forelegs. Here was something most horrid. A thin stream of acrid smelling yellow smoke drifted up from the depths and floated away across the field of golden grain. The pit should not have been here in the midst of this Wiltshire County farm. The Djinni turned his head slowly and looked away to the south where another plume of yellow smoke drifted lazily in the afternoon sunlight. Great works were going on in the depths of the earth. Evil things. Subsonic rumblings tickled his ears. The local residents were unaware of the grave danger lying beneath their fertile wheat fields. But nothing would be coming up here, he was quite certain. These were simply vents. They would be here today and somewhere else tomorrow.

  Something else was at work in the Abyss, and it was beyond his reckoning to know what it was. He had poured himself down the side of one of these shafts and almost been trapped when it suddenly snapped closed. He would not make that mistake again. He tugged gently on the reins, and the great horse turned away from the gaping wound in the earth. The stallion followed the narrow lane through the wheat to a larger part of the crop circle design, where two concentric circles several meters wide were flattened in the grain. Jasmine was standing near the center of the open area, examining the stalks of bent wheat. She raised up when the horse emerged into the clearing and smiled at the Djinni.

  “I have often wondered about these things,” she said waved one golden hand about the swirling pattern. Her slender body was encased in a shimmering green gown and her golden curls were covered by an iridescent scarf. Her golden earrings and bracelets jingled softly as she moved. “This is marvelous.”

  Lemarik slid from the stallion and walked carefully about the circle, taking oversized steps that made him look a bit comical. “I thought you might like this, my lovely peahen.” He stopped and moved his head back and forth as if sniffing or ‘feeling’ something in the air. “They are most attractive. Many people used to come to look at them, but now no one cares. There are too many other things to worry them.”

  “I wonder how they did this...”

  Jasmine knelt on the ground and ran her hand over the horizontal stalks of grain.

  “Who?” Lemarik looked about as if expecting to see the ‘who’ she spoke of.

  “The people… whoever made these circles,” she laughed lightly. “I know you’re not going to tell me they were made by mysterious vortices, or mini-tornadoes, or rogue plasma bursts. These things have intelligence behind them. I know they do.”

  “Ahhhh.” The Djinni joined her in the center of the circle and sank down, cross-legged on the grass. “Of course. You are speaking of the angels.”

  “Angels?” Jasmine frowned as she tried to straighten one of the stalks. It was almost as if it had grown at a ninety degree angle. “Angels make crop circles? That’s… that’s...” she stopped and frowned at him.

  He looked into her eyes and took her hands in his own.

  “Jasmine. You are the only love in my life at this time, but sometimes you disappoint me when you doubt my word. Have I ever lied to you?” His long, dark face was full of sadness.

  “Oh, Adalune!” Jasmine said and squeezed his hands. “I believe you. If you say little green men came here and made these things wearing roller skates, I believe you. It’s just that my idea of angels and what they might do, just doesn’t include playing around, making pretty designs in wheat fields for no good reason.”

  “Oh!” Lemarik perked up, and looked somewhat relieved. “They do not do anything without reason. Oh, no. No. No. No. No. No. Everything they do is for a reason. These symbols are not child’s play at all. Ohhhhh. Ahhhhh. They are pretty designs. Yes.” He stood up and pulled her up beside him. He wrapped his arm around her, and the two of them spun high into the air, and then turned slowly in order to view the complete design below them. “But many things of practical use have beauty as a secondary benefit. These symbols are great messages. An angel passed by here and left a message for another angel. They are a wonder to behold from the air, are they not.”

  They settled down in the center of the intricate pattern and he pulled her around the circle by one hand, following the grain swirl like Dorothy on the yellow brick road. “One must have wings, so to speak, in order to see them as they are meant to be. These fields have been used for millennia by the Celestial Ones much like the great signboards on the highways of men. They used to frequent the fields of Egypt and Macedonia and Babylon, confounding the great kings and wreaking havoc on the farmers when great things were afoot. Yes. Yes. Yes.” The Djinni directed her toward the horse and then climbed into the saddle. He helped her up behind him, and they started off through the wheatfield. “Why, once upon a time, I remember when Carlisle, the Great Chieftain, was marching through the hinterlands and…” his voice faded away as the crops closed in around them.

  The ground shook slightly and a puff of yellow smoke rose into the air as the pit closed, leaving barely a trace of its existence among the roots of the wheat.

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  Luke Matthew frowned at the sight of the stone house set in the midst of a green meadow covered with smatterings of colorful wild flowers in bloom. The picture perfect vision made him shudder to his toes. The sounds of sheep, cowbells and someone hammering in a forge met his ears. Beyond the house were several outbuildings. One of them had smoke billowing from a stone chimney. He could see what looked like a chicken house and heard a dog baying off in the woods to his left.

  Mark Andrew stopped at the steps and turned back to wave at his brother. “Come on now, Brother.”

  Luke walked slowly up the well-worn dirt path in the grass to the steps and joined his brother. Mark Andrew opened the door and stepped inside with Luke close behind him.

  “Mother?” Mark Andrew shouted, tentatively, in the hall.

  Presently, his mother peeked from the open parlor door.

  “Mark!” She dropped the embroidered doily and feather duster she clutched in her hands to the floor and rushed out to seize him in a big hug. “This is a great surprise!” She leaned forward as he kissed both her cheeks, and then hugged her tightly. Luke stood behind him, staring at the beautiful woman in shock and dismay.

  “Mother.” Mark pushed her back slightly. “I’ve brought Luke Matthew to see you like I promised.”

  She turned to her other son and took his limp hands in hers. Luke could barely breathe. This was his mother… He felt he would faint at the very thought of it. She was beautiful, even moreso than the painting Mark Andrew kept in the parlor in Lothian.

  “Luke! It is so good to see you again!” She waited for him to respond, but he was frozen.

  “Luke, give your mother a kiss now.” Mark Andrew jerked his head slightly, and Luke blinked at him before kissing her lightly on the cheek.

  “Mother,” he sounded choked.

  “Did you bring John Paul?” She glanced at Mark.

  “No, I’m afraid not this time,” he said. “He’s away at school.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad.” She frowned slightly. “But never mind all that. Please make yourselves at home. You will stay for tea? We have so much to talk about. I’ll see to the tea, and then, we’ll have a nice long chat. I believe we have some fresh gingercake. You like gingercake, don’t you, Luke? Mark loves it. We’ve had some excitement here. I do hope everyone is doing well?” She called over her shoulder as she hurried toward the kitchen. Her heels clicked on the stone floor and her full skirt rustled. She did not wait for an answer, but disappeared into the r
ecesses of the house.

  “Come on,” Mark Andrew urged his brother again and picked up their mother’s things from the floor and entered the parlor.

  Luke followed him in a daze. He had known this would not be easy, but he could barely make his legs work now.

  “You shouldn’t have done this, brother,” he told Mark Andrew stiffly as he entered the parlor. “It isn’t right. It’s hard for me to breath.”

  “I wonder what she meant by excitement,” Mark ignored his brother’s remonstrance as usual. He walked about the parlor, checking the windows and walls and even looking up the chimney. Everything looked the same as when he had last been here, when he had come to retrieve Merry and Michael Ian.

  “I dunna know if I can do this,” Luke said finally and sat down heavily in one of the chairs.

  “We will not stay long,” Mark told him. “I need to check the attic, but we have to have tea, Luke. It would break her heart if we didn’t at least visit with her a while. She never asks for much.”

  “Remoind me t’ kill ye when we evar get ’ome, brother,” Luke regained his accent and relaxed slightly.

  “I’ll do that.” Mark smiled at him.

  Madame Ramsay returned with the cook in tow, bearing two platters full of food and drink. They waited as the two women bustled about setting up the tea and passing out china plates filled with cakes and cookies and little sandwiches. She chattered all the while about how the weather had been, and how they had recently added several new lambs to the flock and so on and so forth.

  “Verra noice,” Luke said when the cook handed him a plate. “We nevar ’ad tea and crumpets at ’ome.”

  “Your brother has taught me many, many things, Luke.” His mother sat down primly on the velvet sofa. “We were quite uncivilized in the old days, it seems. Your father was never much on the fineries of life. He was more interested in riding about with King William, and if not that, he was always off with his dogs in the forest. I’m glad he met a hero’s death. I was always afraid he would get drunk and fall off his horse one night. He was always a bit reckless. Sometimes he didn’t come home for months…” her voice trailed off as if she was remembering something distasteful or painful.

  “… it was very lonely,” she added after a moment and narrowed her eyes at Mark.

  “Aye. Father was olways a bit reckless, he was,” Luke agreed. He glanced at Mark Andrew. Apparently, his brother had created a history for his mother concerning their father that did not quite meet with truth.

  “And what did you mean by excitement, Mother?” Mark Andrew asked her.

  “Oh!” She perked up a bit and leaned forwarded and ducked her head slightly as if telling some great secret. “We’ve had company since you were last here.”

  “Oh?” Mark’s face drained of color. “Any one I know?”

  “Yes, I believe so,” she said. “A very nice gentleman named… oh, dear me! What was his name? It was German, I believe. I’ve always had a problem with foreign names. Let me see…” She pressed her thumbnail against her teeth, and then tapped them thoughtfully, and Luke felt his heart lurch. So this is where they had inherited the little habit! She looked almost exactly like a miniature version of Mark Andrew. “Oh, yes. His given name was Ernst, but his surname escapes me entirely! How silly of me.”

  “Ernst.” Mark nodded his head slightly. “Schweikert?”

  Luke shifted in his seat and coughed.

  “Yes!” She smiled at her son. “That’s it. You do know him. He said he was an old acquaintance of yours and Luke’s. A very nice gentleman. He was looking for you as a matter of fact. He said he had just come from Edinborough, and was passing through on his way to London, and then he was going back to Vienna… no, some other place. Oh well, he was very impressed with the land, Mark, and promised to come back sometime soon.”

  “I’m sure he did,” Mark tried hard to keep his tone light. “Did he… stay long? Overnight?”

  “No. He wouldn’t stay long. He asked to see the grounds, and he asked about a chapel? Did you mention a family chapel to him? I have always wished we had a chapel here. It would be nice to attend real church services for a change.”

  “Did he go upstairs?” Mark asked, even though could still feel the presence of the skulls very strongly emanating from the house above them.

  “No. Edward took him out for a romp with the hounds,” she shook her head. “They were gone for a while, and when they returned, we had supper. Then he took his leave.”

  “Good.” Mark met Luke’s gaze.

  “Now,” she turned her smile on Luke. “Tell me all about your children, Luke. Meredith told me you have a son and a step-son? Michael Ian, I believe? And Galen Zachary? I want to hear all about them. Such fine, strong names. Have you left the Brotherhood then?” She frowned slightly at his clothes. “I thought your uniform was quite dashing. A man needs a wife to take care of his uniforms. I never put much faith in these military orders, but Scotland needs warriors. Your father said so constantly. We were always somewhat short on good men. He would have been very proud of the two of you. He must have been proud of you. Two fine sons. And grandsons as well! It is a shame Sir Timothy is not here to see you now.”

  “Aye, tis a shame,” Luke agreed, blinked at his mother and nodded. It was too much! He gripped the chair arm with one hand and his little cup in the other as if his life depended on it. She was certainly confused concerning Sir Timothy.

  Chapter Twelve of Fifteen

  The heart of the wise is in the house of mourning

  Luke Matthew sat in the top floor of the round tower in King Il Dolce Mio’s castle nestled in the great old forest. All around him were flowers of every imaginable size, shape, texture, and color, sprouting from vines that worked their way in and out of the tall, narrow windows under the conical red roof. Butterflies, bees and numerous other insects worked over the petals of the flowers collecting pollen and nectar while birds flitted in and out of the rafters tending their wondrous nests. The Knight of the Orient hardly recognized the beauty of the place wherein he sat cross-legged on the floor, holding a bright red flower in his fingers, twirling it back and forth absently.

  The skulls were no longer in the Seventh Gate. His brother had thought it too dangerous to leave them there with their mother any longer. The idea Abaddon had been brave enough to go snooping about in Adar’s realm was a frightening idea. Surely, the creature thought himself immune to prosecution for trespassing. That, in turn, could only mean he felt secure enough with his new master to feel safe even in the very heart of enemy territory.

  Mark Andrew was sure Jozsef Daniel knew he was pre-occupied elsewhere when he had sent Abaddon down into the Abyss. Most likely, it had occurred when Mark Andrew was working for King William Henry to ransom Luke from prison. The Knight shuddered again at the thought of what could have happened to his mother. Luke did not think Abaddon had gone to the Abyss before he’d lost Ernst’s head in Lothian. He thought, perhaps, Ernst’s death had freed the dark angel to travel to the Abyss freely in whatever form he chose. The sorry creature was probably back with his master right now, reporting on the location of his mother’s house in the Seventh Gate. Mark Andrew’s hopes that his magick had been too strong for Abaddon were dashed, and he could take no chances with them now.

  The elven king and Mark Andrew were downstairs in the great hall, making plans for transporting the white gold to St. Patrick’s and trying to decide how best to take the skulls to Germany, to Wewelsburg Castle. Mark had decided to accept Edourd de Goth’s invitation, at least, partially and take the skulls to Wewelsburg. If he and Eduord used their combined abilities to shield the skulls, they stood a better chance of protecting them from hostile interests.

  Mark Andrew had used the scrying dish in Armand’s laboratory to check on the status of the overworld and found things there not much improved. He had also learned the terrible secret about Ruth and the baby from the members of the Council, who were now somewhere in Western Europe, trying to get
back to St. Patrick’s. He blamed himself partially for the disaster, for not having kept closer tabs on his grandson, Omar. Lemarik had warned him Bari was born under an evil star, but Mark had thought it an exaggeration. Family is, after all, family.

  Luke Matthew had not even begun to get over the deaths of Planxty and Stephano before this latest encounter with his long-dead mother, when the subsequent bad news from the overworld added to his grief and caused him pain, he had never thought possible. On top of it all, Mark Andrew had told him, he would soon be required to replace King William Henry on the throne of Britain. He still did not feel, he was qualified to be King. Especially, not in the likeness of Arthur! But, Mark Andrew was adamant about it. He had told him to prepare himself for even greater things to come; the time of the New Camelot was upon them, and the call would come soon. What call, Luke had no idea. Who would call was another yet mystery.

  “Luke! Ahoy, the tower!” he was startled from his thoughts by the sound of his name from somewhere below. He got up stiffly and then leaned out one of the windows. Mark Andrew and Il Dolce Mio stood in the garden below the turret, looking up at him. Paddy Puffingtowne and Seamus Stagmaster were with them. He cringed when Mark Andrew waved him down. He just wanted to be left alone.

  Paddy bowed gravely to him when he exited the fanciful red door at the foot of the tower.