by P. G. Burns
The others mock him. A tall, thin officer nearest to Ember pulls her roughly towards him, “Fucking right, we are, kid.” He licks her face.
Ember is trembling, all her strength dissolving in fear of what is about to happen and her inability to stop it. She struggles to breathe as a panic attack takes hold.
“Sweet little virgin pussy,” the officer adds, pushing his hand down and forcing it roughly between her legs. She suddenly recovers her senses and bites down hard on his exposed cheek. In reflex he lets go of her and she uses all of her tiny frame to push him away. The other men all laugh at his discomfort.
“You fucking little whore, I will rip your cunt apart for that!” He hurriedly undoes the buttons on his trousers to reveal a semi-flaccid penis, aggressively playing with it to make it harder quicker. With the situation quickly deteriorating Ember’s bravery fails her and she starts to go into shock. The captain appears, pulling the panting man away, but any hope this gives Ember is short-lived.
“I believe the highest-ranking officer goes first,” says the captain. “The rest of you can strip over there. First one ready can follow me. I’ll break her in for you all.”
The captain pulls out his gun and Ember can’t even cry any more, her mind falling into a sort of horrified trance. The other officers’ frantically undress, racing to be next; no one wants to be last and fuck a corpse. As the severity of what is about to happen overwhelms her, Ember crumbles to the floor, just a little girl who wants her daddy.
Adam still struggles on the floor. He has been trying to sum up the strength and courage, looking to somehow protect Ember but what could he possibly do? He can barely lift his body and there are more of them and they have guns. It is utterly pointless.
Regardless, Adam uses a surge of effort to get to his feet and stand between Ember and the captain.
“Leave her alone, you bastards!” he cries out.
He sways and his legs buckle as he attempts to throw a punch before crashing back to the floor. “Poor Adam,” thinks Ember, all their hopes for a better world being brutally crushed. She sees the captain’s face; a rough-looking beard covers it, his teeth are stained from tobacco and a scar runs from his eye to his neck. Ember’s disconnected mind wanders. She is a virgin, she has never even kissed a boy, and now the only touch she will ever know will be the sick perversion these men are about to commit. She knows what awaits her but she decides she will take control. She would rather take her own life.
Ember looks around. There are small shards of glass left over from Freya’s tantrum. She makes a mad grab for the nearest but the sweaty hand of the captain catches her first. She is lifted from the floor like a rag doll and forced into the corner of the room. The captain presses her tight into the corner and nuzzles into her neck. Ember turns her head in pure distress, waiting for the gross act to begin. The man brings his mouth to her ear, his hot breath coating her as he says, “Don’t worry.”
Ember can see something else now: a cloud-like swirl of colours forming a snake sits upon this man’s shoulders. He gives her a brief nod before turning his back to her, shielding her from the others who are in various stages of undress, slobbering with anticipation. Those ready and waiting watch him, a little bemused as he raises his firearm, pointing it right at them.
There’s a burst of gunfire and the men’s bodies dance as they are peppered with bullets. Their faces have little time to show the fear and confusion they feel as their trusted captain slaughters them. Ember looks over his shoulder mystified. The captain stops firing once he is certain all the guards are dead. He walks over to them to make sure, then walks to the prostrate body of Raphael. To Ember’s utter bewilderment he strips Raphael’s body of his blue Teddy boy jacket. He inspects it, frowning at the spots of blood before putting it on. He then walks to a drawer and pulls out another small disc and places it in the inside pocket. He looks down at the two stupefied children.
“Holy moly! That was some buzz. Come on kids, we have to go.”
Acre 1270 AD
“We have enough religion to make us hate but not enough to make us love each other” Jonathan Swift
Six men ride across the barren land that leads to Acre. They are dressed in the garb of Turks and carry the banners of Baybar, the fourth Sultan of Egypt. The lead man in this group is Baybar himself and he is followed by four head tribesmen known as Caliphs and one lowly slave.
A large tent sits in the middle of the wilderness. From the east rides another group of six: one wears the royal armour of the Kingdom of Great Britain, two wear the white surcoat adorned with a red cross as worn by the Knights Templar, two wear plain black robes and the last is conspicuous by his grey large-brimmed hat denoting him as a chaplain.
Standing at the entrance to the tent is a man adorned in a turquoise tunic and purple cape. Inside awaits King Hugh, the king of Jerusalem, and his general. Both groups arrive at the exact same time. A summit is about to take place that will bring an end to the Holy Crusades that have destroyed lives and land in this area for over two hundred years.
First to dismount is Jacques de Malay of the Knights Templar, followed by the Grand Master Thomas Bernard. The two sergeants dressed in black robes hold the horse of Edward, the Prince of Wales, to aid his dismount. They all look over suspiciously at the Arabian contingent.
Baybar waits for the Christians to tie their horses up before he instructs his men to dismount. Prince Edward looks at the Sultan. He is surprised at the blonde hair and blue eyes of this infamous warrior. Baybar returns his stare. He had heard this son of the Western king was a giant. He is tall, but he is no Nephilim.
The turquoise man at the entrance of the tent greets the honoured guests. Baybar and his generals remove their swords and enter the tent. The slave remains to tie up the horses and then takes out a bag from one of the saddles before settling beside a campfire outside of the tent.
Prince Edward, the two knights and the two sergeants make to follow Baybar into the tent. The elaborately dressed turquoise man welcomes them and, speaking in French, explains that they must leave their weapons at the door. The chaplain waits outside and joins the slave by the campfire as his party disappears inside.
Raphael adjusts his turquoise clothes and closes the heavy drapes sealing inside Hugh, King of Jerusalem, who is hosting this meeting between the Sultan of Egypt, the four Caliphs of the great Muslim empire and the soon-to-be king of England with two of the most influential men in Christendom. This great event will decide which of the two most powerful forces on the planet will gain control of the Holy Land.
It is to be held around the campfire outside of the tent. Raphael throws his cape over his shoulder as he makes his way to the small fire where the slave and the chaplain sit waiting. Raphael sits down cross-legged, turning to the slave first.
“Holy moly Benjamin Ocdar, you’re acting as the Sultan’s servant? This is a new low for you, at least you were a court guard with Saladin.”
“I prefer to call myself an attendant.”
The Djinn known as Benjamin has had many guises over his two thousand years on this physical plain. He knows the lowliest slave is the one who has the best access to the highest power.
Reuben Lupas is in the guise of the chaplain, he pulls at his clerical robes, exposing the marks where they irritate his neck.
“This fucking material.”
Raphael is amazed that in each incarnation Reuben always looks the same: pale blonde hair, a bony face and almost transparent skin. Why, when he can choose from thousands, does he always favour this appearance?
“So, you wish to agree to the Christian retreat from the Holy Land?” starts Raphael.
Reuben looks at the bright-blue Arc Hon, then to his fellow Djinn.
“First,” says Reuben. “I wish to have a ruling on these hand canons the savages have ‘all of a sudden’ discovered.”
Benjamin is quick to reply. “Are you accusing me of intervening with technology? That is rich coming from you.”
; An argument breaks out as the two Djinn vent their grievances to Raphael. Eventually Raphael calls for quiet.
“Do you want the lords and masters inside to hear you?” says Raphael. “Now, we investigated the hand canons and found no reason for action. This man, Baybar, is indeed an exceptional general and has developed new warfare and weaponry all by himself.”
Reuben scoffs, but concedes in the end.
“So, on to the surrender,” says Raphael. “Are you agreed, Reuben, that continuing is pointless? Benjamin’s side has defeated the Christian powers as well as Zeb’s Mongols so I think it’s only right that you pay the concessions, agreed?”
Reuben looks none too happy. “What is the concession?”
Raphael looks to Benjamin who answers. “Well, there is the pre-agreed reparation of gold but I also wish for a man you have under your influence.”
Reuben is outraged. His normally controlled face glows as a vein throbs on his forehead. He knows who the man Ben wants will be.
“Well, tell me, who?” he says stonily.
“Thomas Aquinas.” Benjamin smiles when he says this, knowing the upset it will cause Reuben.
Indeed Reuben leaps up and stomps around, kicking over a water bowl. He addresses Raphael while pointing an angry shaking finger at Ben. “He must have used the Almanac! How else could he know about Thomas? I have invested a lot of time in that man, I will not be handing him over to this arse-fucking slave.”
Benjamin calmly interrupts. “You say I used the Almanac but I have no access to it. Only the Arc Hon can allow such a thing.”
“Then you have forced your will upon one of my brethren using Vril. It’s the only other answer,” declares Reuben.
“Who was it that entranced the Caesar Constantine?” counters Benjamin. “Who is it that revealed our secret to the Knights Templar and showed them Vril?”
Again Raphael calls for calm but the two rivals are riled now. The occupants of the tent come out to witness the slanging match.
“What about you?” bites back Reuben. “Creating this religion, appearing to the Quraish! You started this fucked-up religion just to wage war on the Christians. You can’t tell me you did that without using Vril to inveigle their precious Muhammad?”
Raphael notices the onlookers from the tent. Prince Edward is aghast, Sultan Baybar seems confused. The two Templars look wary.
“Enough!” shouts Raphael. He looks to the delegates and shoos them back into the tent as if they were kids. Then he turns to the two Djinn. “First of all, using Vril to enter a dream is not strictly breaking the rules, it is only a violation when the human is fully conscious, which by the way, we know you did with the Roman, Saul, Reuben, as well as a few others. The Council are concerned about you flouting the rules and what seems to be a perversion for blood! So I recommend you agree to Ben’s request and clean up your own act before you start casting these aspersions at your fellow competitors, agreed?” He then turns to Ben. “As for how you discovered the name of Reuben’s protégée: we are aware of your alliance with Levi since the sacking of Constantinople. That alone does not break the rules but you know you cannot have influence over any who don’t carry your pedigree.”
Ben explains, “I don’t want influence over Aquinas. I just want to kill him.”
Reuben is still raging. “Well, you can fuck off! You say I have a blood lust?”
Raphael is aware that this meeting is going around in circles. He decides to make a ruling.
“Reuben concedes the Holy Land and he will pay the gold tribute. As for Aquinas, he will remain with Reuben for two more years, then he will be sent to Ben. I suggest, for convenience, that Paris is the best place for the transfer. He is not to be killed, only retained. That is my final decision. Now recruit your ambassadors and let’s get out of this godforsaken place.”
Raphael wipes his brow and wonders why these two ever fought over these barren lands in the first place; they are his least favourite place on the planet. He is also curious as to the high value both Djinn put on this Thomas Aquinas. Still, it is not for him to ask.
The two disgruntled Djinn take their place in the respective cavalcades as Raphael rounds up the dignitaries.
As the groups leave, Hugh, the king of Jerusalem, asks Raphael, “Have you agreed what is to be done?”
“Yes,” replies Raphael. “If I were you I would return to Cyprus. The war is won, this land belongs to Islam. I must take my leave.”
Raphael mounts his steed and rides out to the wilderness. He drives his horse as fast as the Arabian stallion can gallop. Out into the distance he can see what he is looking for: a bright light. As he gets closer the light becomes clearer. It is a cascade of blue and white electric bolts crashing against each other, covering a spherical space. The phenomenon emits a large clattering sound as Raphael gets nearer. The animal is stuttering as Raphael holds the reins fast, forcing his horse to ride straight into the electric storm. As they are about to enter, the light grows brighter and the noise louder. Raphael kicks his heels in and they both disappear through the bolts.
As the horse’s tail is swallowed, the electric bolts peter out until a spark no bigger than a Chinese firecracker dances around the sand and eventually dies.
The horse and rider appear on the dark terrain of the corona, a neutral zone between the frequencies inhabited by Arc Hon and Djinn. Dark red skies are punctuated by a bright white light setting in the horizon. The beautiful black stallion collapses as soon as he enters this strange world, gasping for air as its very bones crumble and the hide from its back melts away.
Raphael walks away from the remnants of the horse and sits on a marble seat. He looks around uncomfortably as he awaits the arrival of the Council. This place is not his favourite either. Not too different from the Levant, he observes; however, it is a plane that both Djinn and Arc Hon can exist in while still in human form and so is ideal for Council meetings. But it is a soulless place, a land left over from times forgotten even by someone who has lived as long as Raphael. If magic ever really existed, it was here in this nether world that it was spurned. Many times the Arc Hon, and more recently the Djinn, have called upon the corona’s unique power to aid the governing of the game, especially the arrival of the thirteen that marked the inception of the quest.
Raphael was not one for hocus pocus but this barren void that contained no living thing, not animal, insect or bacteria, even though it had all the necessary components to sustain life, gave him a sensation he believed was akin to man’s emotion of fear. He reflected that perhaps it was that he didn’t actually understand what this place was and how it came to be that caused this emotion or perhaps the eerie fact that any living thing that arrives here without the symbolic invite suffered the same fate as his horse did just moments earlier. But he knew what really freaked him out about this place was that even knowing that it was void of life, he always felt he was being watched, and not by a friendly gaze.
A buzzing noise tells him someone else is coming. He can see in the distance a dramatic swirling of a swarm of insects heading towards him at high speed. As the millions of bugs cluster around the seat next to Raphael they transform into a small black male.
Chamuel bows to Raphael who returns the greeting. Neither talk but Chamuel makes an exaggerated gesture of wiping his brow and flicking sweat, which amuses Raphael. Michael arrives next. A huge geyser erupts, spurting hot liquid over the terrain. The liquid rises up and covers the third seat, transforming into their leader, the high Arc Hon.
Each Arc Hon politely bows to the others but still no one speaks. There are still three seats unoccupied in the hexagonal stone courtyard. A wind rises and encircles them as glistening debris whirls at great speed. With a whoosh it stops and two Djinn are revealed. Not from the thirteen who are competing to become the Host of the human world, however, but two of the first to enter the physical plane and gain knowledge of its many alien ways: Solfrid and Baal. This is a rare meeting of the joint
councils of the Djinn and the Arc Hon. Raphael is not sure exactly why this one has been called.
The High Arc Hon, Michael, speaks first. “My fellow Arc Hon, Amitiel will not be attending so we can begin.”
Solfrid, red haired, blue eyed and ivory skinned, speaks next. “How goes the challenge? Who is in place of the Host?”
They all look to Raphael. “It is not conclusive,” he says. “Reuben has lost ground against Benjamin, so too has Zeb. Levi has changed his alliance from Reuben to Ben. Simeon and Isaac have joined together to defeat Asher who has influence on the north and east. Daniel has set up the house of Solomon in Ethiopia and…”
Solfrid taps impatiently. “Yes, yes, but what of the bloodlines? Are they of pedigree, are the Djinn controlling the purity of the bloodlines?”
“Well,” says Raphael, “the humans tend to copulate with whatever is about but, yes, there are clear bloodlines with enough pedigree to rule. I only fear for the likes of the southern tribes as their progress is slow.”
Michael concludes, “We are happy with things in general. No real violations. Reuben and Naphtali do bend the rules a lot and Gad seems to make little or no impact anywhere. Besides all that though, there is the matter for which we are all gathered.”
A picture develops in the centre of the courtyard. All of them recognise Amitiel as she sits in a market square talking to a young man who looks besotted.
“This young man goes by the name of Marco Polo,” says Michael. “He has appeared from nowhere and claims to be the son of Nicoli Polo, a man who has no son. His aura shows he is Djinn but we have the locations of the thirteen, so he is not one of them.”
Baal and Solfrid exchange a look.
“Am I right in assuming you have called us here while Amitiel keeps surveillance on this man, expecting to prove that one of us has taken this guise?” says the somewhat rotund Baal.
“Actually to disprove it,” says Michael. “Now that we are left with no doubt the question remains: who is this Marco Polo? Only you two and the thirteen have entered the physical plane as far as we are all aware. We all know the energy needed to open a new gate and any Djinn crossing over and taking physical form would have to first undergo the metamorphosis here in Gheisthelm. This Marco Polo has already crossed into the land of Zeb’s Mongols. We believe he plans to make his way into the Orient and even down through the southern continents. It is like he is mapping the progress of each of the Djinn.