The Maelstrom

by Henry H. Neff

  “So what does Ms. Richter intend to do?” asked Max quietly. “Solstice is a few days away. Prusias’s emissary will demand his answer.”

  “I don’t know precisely,” said the teacher. “The Director’s exceedingly busy these days and it’s not easy to get a word. I won’t speak for her, but I highly doubt we’re studying pinlegs and kidnapping Workshop engineers because she intends to surrender.”

  Max smiled and looked around the room, at his friends and the pinlegs crawling about the spinning sphere. More symbols, more flickers, and the quills copied down the outcomes. As daunting as the prospects seemed, it was a comfort to know that there were so many capable people scattered about the globe doing everything in their power to keep Rowan free.

  “Is there anything I can do here?” he asked. “My handwriting’s awful, but I can jot down symbols if you like.”

  “Very kind, but unnecessary,” replied Peter. “I’m confident the Director will have many things for you to do, but for now it’s best if you rest and recover.”

  “I’ll head back up, then,” said Max. “Are you coming, Toby?”

  “Staying. I need to study up on this Workshop chap—marinate in the character, so to speak. Tell that domovoi at the reference desk to bring me a ham sandwich and a pot of warmed honey. My tonsils are a wee bit tingly.”

  Ignoring the smee’s demands, Max turned to Miss Boon. “Could I have a word with you outside?”

  The teacher followed him out into the dim corridor. When she closed the door, Max cleared his throat, uncertain of just how to begin.

  “I heard about Cooper,” he said. “The raid … the casualties. I heard he was involved and I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I know how much he means to you.”

  Closing her eyes, Miss Boon simply stood quietly with fingers clasped. She looked almost like a chastened schoolgirl awaiting a reprimand. Tears ran down her cheeks while she struggled to control her emotions. Max feared he’d made a terrible mistake until she finally exhaled.

  “Bless you,” she said, removing her glasses and wiping her eyes. “No one wants to talk about what happened—they just tiptoe around it or concoct euphemisms like ‘unfortunate outcomes’ and ‘compromised assets.’ Thank you for having the courage to speak plainly and acknowledge my feelings. It means the world to me, Max.”

  She gave a sad smile and looked at him, no longer a teacher but simply a person in pain.

  “Do you know what breaks my heart?” she said. “To most, William comes across as such a hard man—so grim and sinister. A professional killer. I called him that once when we were aboard the Erasmus. Do you remember?”

  Max nodded.

  “You’d never have known it then,” she continued. “But that little gibe wounded him. He knew that’s how people saw him—a scar-faced brute and nothing more. Rowan’s attack dog. For years, I think he even believed it—he withdrew into himself and became the role. But there is such nobility in that man,” she said, shaking her head. “There is such warmth and love. And what have the Atropos done? They’ve stripped it all away and turned him into the very monster he feared he was.…”

  “What can I do?” asked Max, feeling helpless.

  She blinked. Her mismatched irises returned to focus squarely on him. “Nothing,” she said sharply. “You are to do nothing, Max McDaniels. You are not to go looking for him. He is no doubt looking for you, and we’re expending many resources to ensure that William Cooper—or whatever he has become—stays far away from your person. Do you understand me?”

  “But—”

  “No,” she snapped. “I love very few people on this planet and I’m not going to lose them all to the Atropos. Grendel is on the hunt again and the Cheshirewulf is better equipped to track his steward than anyone else. If we need your help, we’ll ask for it.”

  “Fair enough,” said Max, anxious to change the subject. “Are you teaching again?”

  “Just two classes.” She sniffed. “Third and Fourth Year Mystics. I’d like to say my personal life hasn’t affected my work, but those students just took the hardest exam I’ve ever written.”

  “Well,” said Max, “just grade it on a curve.”

  She glared at him, simultaneously shocked and appalled. “Do you honestly believe in such ridiculous measures?”

  Max winced, feeling as though he’d violated some academic commandment. He made to speak, but she raised an authoritative finger and began pacing.

  “Tell me,” she demanded. “Are we to lower our standards and applaud a student’s mediocre efforts because it’s simply less mediocre than his or her peers? On the same basis, shall we admit an Agent to the Red Branch because he can do three whole sit-ups while his fellows only managed two? Are these the utterly absurd standards that you would impose upon the world’s greatest school of magic? Well, I submit to you that …”

  With a hasty bow, Max retreated.

  He left the Archives, climbing up the many steps and passing a handful of winded scholars along the way. Emerging from Maggie’s front doors, he beheld a campus that was settling into late afternoon. Above, the sky was azure; to the west was a thin band of orange as the sun dipped behind the Manse and the hedge woods of the Sanctuary. The air was colder and a light snow was blowing in off the ocean.

  Wrapping his cloak about him, Max walked through the woods behind the academic buildings, winding his way among the birches and oaks, conscious of the distant shouts and ring of steel from the refugee camp. But he drifted away from the noise, content to let his boots sink through the crusted snow and let the smell of pine tickle his nose.

  At last he came to the clearing where Rose Chapel stood.

  The sun had set and the snow was falling harder now. The chapel was conspicuous in the darkness, an elegant building of white stone whose open doors spilled warm yellow light onto the graveyard’s headstones. Poking his head inside, Max saw an elderly chaplain and several domovoi laying out prayer books for the Sunday service. The chaplain spied Max in the doorway, lingering at the threshold.

  “Can I help you?”

  Max cleared his throat. “Would it be all right if I sat in here awhile?”

  “Of course,” said the chaplain, gesturing toward the pews.

  Max slid into the nearest row, leaning back and staring up at the ceiling. It had been two years since Scott McDaniels’s death. The funeral had been held here; Max could still picture the man who raised him lying in a coffin by the altar. This very chaplain had spoken. Max wondered if the chaplain knew who he was. He almost certainly did, but at least he had the decency to let Max be—not to preach or pry but to simply let him sit in this quiet space of wood and glass and stone.

  When they’d finished with their work, the domovoi filed out. The chaplain followed behind, stopping only to set a lantern by Max’s feet.

  “Stay as long as you like,” he said. “No need to lock up.”

  Max lingered for another hour, savoring the silence and the warm glow of the yuletide candles set within the alcoves and windows. At last he rose and left the chapel, closing the door gently behind him and gazing out into the dark churchyard. Snow was still falling, the flakes settling softly onto the gravestones.

  Holding the lantern, Max walked the rows of the dead, shining its light upon each headstone until he found the one for Scott McDaniels. It was a modest slab of pale granite with the proper letters and numbers chiseled into the hard stone. Kneeling, Max brushed away the snow and wiped away the bits of dirt and grass that had accumulated upon the foundation.

  Rolf’s grave was easier to find. There were still flowers propped against the headstone, half-frozen roses and lilies left over from the funeral. As Max arranged them, he found a medal buried in their midst—an award the boy had won in Mr. Vincenti’s class. Polishing its surface, Max hung it around the headstone so that it dangled next to Rolf’s name.

  There were no flowers at Byron Morrow’s grave. It was a small plot near the woods that ran along the churchyard’s boundary. He’d bee
n buried next to his wife, Elaine. Her headstone was weathered, the corners worn smooth by many rains and winters. But Mr. Morrow’s was new, its edges clean and sharp as Max knelt to brush the snow away.

  He had just finished when he noticed that someone was watching him.

  The figure was standing in the woods, just beyond the lantern’s light. It did not move, but there was something unsettling and sinister about its quiet surveillance. Drawing the gae bolga, Max hoisted up the lantern.

  “Who is that?” he hissed. “Show yourself!”

  The figure glided smoothly forward, emerging from the dark wood so that the lantern shone full upon his white and smiling face.

  It was Astaroth.

  Max stared, disbelieving, as the Demon came forward. The last time Max had seen Astaroth, he had been radiant and white—a luminous image of terrible power. Now his raiment was less glorious, more subdued. He wore a simple black robe and leaned upon the very staff he’d been carrying when he pursued Max and David in the Sidh. The Demon’s face was the same—a gleaming white mask of patrician, almost genderless beauty framed by smooth black hair that hung past his shoulders. His fathomless black eyes crinkled into cheerful slits as he spoke in his honeyed tenor.

  “Now it is the time of night

  That the graves, all gaping wide,

  Every one lets forth his sprite

  In the church-way paths to glide.

  “Are we communing with the dead?” he inquired pleasantly.

  “I’m imagining this,” Max murmured, watching the Demon’s image grow translucent and flicker in the lantern light. “You’re not here—you’re skulking, lurking, hiding from Bram. You’re just some mischievous spirit, some watcher in the woods.”

  The Demon gave a knowing smile. “I’m the watcher in all the woods,” he replied softly. “And I am here. Not in the flesh, alas, but then I can’t risk getting close to that awful blade. What a crime to craft such a weapon. You will never be free of it. You’ve made a bargain with the Morrígan, my boy, and blood is the only coin she takes.”

  Frowning at the gae bolga, the Demon’s expression became thoughtful, almost melancholy.

  “Dismiss your silly thoughts of violence,” he said. “When I’m in this form, we cannot harm one another. I’ve merely come to talk with you, Max, to appeal to your good senses and save you from the path you’re on.”

  “Of course,” said Max scornfully. “You’re here to save me.”

  “Yes, I am,” replied Astaroth. He gazed about the churchyard and the falling snow and sighed. “You and David and all the rest have done such foolish things,” he lamented. “It tries even my patience. I resurrect this beautiful world, give you a veritable Eden scrubbed clean of mankind’s mistakes, and you’re determined to throw it all away.”

  Max’s face darkened. “This is your Eden? A world of war and death and fear?”

  “Tut-tut,” Astaroth chided. “Where is your vision? I suppose it’s not entirely your fault—it’s the human in you. But try to have some perspective. We’re merely baby steps into a grand project, but already the old cities and governments and even memories are gone, cleared away so that a new and better world can take their place. Will death and heartbreak accompany such massive upheaval? Of course they will. When a farmer tills his fields, the ants must scatter or perish. But very soon, new life is created. The land and the ants are better for it.”

  “Tell that to everyone who lost their families and their freedom.”

  Astaroth sighed. He glided past to examine the headstones, stooping to read aloud several names of the deceased and how long each had lived. The Demon raised a slender eyebrow.

  “Has it ever occurred to you that humans are dreadful at governing themselves?” he said. “Their lives are short but their appetites are large. It’s an almost comic recipe for greed and discontent. Most care nothing for future generations of their own kind, much less other beings and creatures. The rare specimens who strive to live in peaceful balance are quickly exploited or conquered by those who do not. They are punished for their virtue while the rest of the species cultivates and rewards its very worst traits. Moral man and immoral society, indeed!”

  Chuckling, Astaroth shook his head.

  “If humans are such a cancer, why not simply destroy them?” Max mused. “You have the Book of Thoth. You could strike humans from the record, make everyone fade away like everything else you’ve changed.”

  With a shrug, the Demon rose and turned from the headstone.

  “It is tempting,” he confessed. “It would be dishonest to pretend I have not weighed such a measure—a chance to wipe the slate clean and begin things anew, refashion the species and purge it of its lesser qualities. But I have not yet given up hope for humans. Within them exist the divine and the profane. Did you know that Isaac Newton published his Principia in the very year a sailor slaughtered the last dodo bird?”

  “What’s your point?”

  “My point is this. The genius who produced Principia is worth saving; the lout who bludgeoned the last of a helpless species is not. Such baffling extremes exist within mankind. Forgive me, Max, but such extremes exist within you. It’s why you intrigue me. And while it is periodically tempting to obliterate humans, I entertain the hope that they can be taught to nurture and embrace their better nature. It won’t happen overnight, but I’m optimistic that within a few centuries, we might see real progress. Perhaps we’ll see the same with you.”

  “So we’re all just living in your little garden,” Max scoffed. “Some pruning here, some planting there, and wondrous things will grow.”

  “You say it like it’s a bad thing,” teased the Demon.

  “People want to make decisions for themselves.”

  “Oh, I know they do,” the Demon purred. “They’re just not any good at it. How could they be when they lack the necessary vision, wisdom, or patience? You curse my name, but the painful truth is that mankind was already teetering on self-destruction. Would you prefer a nuclear holocaust, laboratory plague, or technological singularity to my ascendancy? You shed tears for the fallen, but my intervention has saved humanity. A benevolent dictator is best, as Plato himself realized.”

  “If you’re so wise and benevolent, why did the demons turn against you?”

  “Because they’re as greedy and shortsighted as the humans. I believed that Prusias and others would be content with what I’d given them. I was mistaken. I shall not make such an error again; Prusias will learn the error of his ways.”

  “What are you waiting for?” Max laughed. “His armies are rampaging all over Blys. Go punish him. Or have you grown too weak?”

  The Demon’s smile waned. “Let us understand one another. This is not about strength or my capacity to impose my will. I can destroy almost anything upon this planet the moment I choose. Shall I incinerate the earth’s atmosphere? What if I melt down the ice caps or turn every drop of water into dust? The Book of Thoth gives me that power. If my ambition was merely to crush my enemies and rule as a tyrant, I could do so. That is Prusias’s aim, not mine. Any brute can become a tyrant if he stumbles into enough power. That holds little interest for me.”

  “So what does interest you?”

  The Demon gazed up at the stars. “Creation,” he murmured. “To bring forth something whole and lasting from something diseased and broken. To design and build something that has never existed. I am older than you imagine, Max McDaniels, and I have seen countless worlds. None rival this for its beauty or sheer possibilities. In a few thousand years—a mere heartbeat of the cosmos—this could be paradise.”

  “Not if Prusias destroys it,” remarked Max. “Why don’t you stop him?”

  “There’s elegance in economy,” replied Astaroth. “Why should I expend the energy to humble Prusias when he will do the job for me? Even if he conquers the other kingdoms and little Rowan, Prusias and the Workshop have broken Nature’s laws and birthed horrors that will inevitably spiral out of control. When that happe
ns, whatever survivors remain will beg for my return. Really, I should be grateful—nothing could illustrate my value more than greedy, savage Prusias. Does the prospect of his invasion frighten you?”

  “I’d rather fight Prusias than bow to you.”

  “Touché,” replied the Demon. “That’s the very choice man has always faced—the king on the hill or the wolf at the door. A just king will protect you from the wolf, but he demands loyalty and service. You can choose to face the wolf alone, of course, but that is a risky proposition. And we’re not even talking about a wolf, are we? We’re talking about a Great Red Dragon.…” The Demon gave him a sharp look. “When Prusias comes, do you think Elias Bram will save you?”

  When Max did not reply, Astaroth laughed soundlessly.

  “Your silence speaks volumes. Already you sense what I know. The Archmage cares little for Rowan or its people. His real concern is hunting me and achieving vengeance. He may cite grand causes and ideology, but it’s really just his ego. It always has been. Look no further than how Elias won the hand of the lovely Brigit. Do you know that laughable myth?”

  “No.”

  “I’m surprised,” replied Astaroth. “It was very popular once upon a time. You see, Brigit and Elias were hardly childhood sweethearts. In fact, her father had already given his blessing to another suitor and did not approve a match to the brazen young sorcerer. But Elias was exceedingly stubborn and far too dangerous to simply dismiss out of hand. When Bram proclaimed that he would meet whatever demands Brigit’s father cared to set, the shrewd patriarch saw his chance. He devised a list of tasks so perilous that few believed Bram would even survive, much less fulfill them. Of course, they were mistaken. The Archmage not only completed the tasks and won his bride, but he also multiplied his fame in the bargain. Who could resist the story of the smitten sorcerer defying death time and again to win the hand of his truelove? The bards ate it up with a spoon and spread the tale to every shore.…” The Demon paused and tapped his chin. “Can you tell me what’s missing from the minstrels’ songs?”