Journeys of the Mind

by Sonny Whitelaw Sean Williams

  * * * *

  Mael took the longsword to the altar and knelt in prayer, the hilt pressed to his brow. Since that day, almost a thousand years ago, he had strived for holiness, done his best to ease the burden of sorrow in the world. Across the years he and his short-lived Fawns—acolytes—had achieved much good. Although never passing the threshold of power that yielded immortality, most had raised enough Magi powers to aid him greatly before their deaths. There was so much he could still achieve! How could he let it end without a fight? Killing Kivric would be a service to humanity. How many more had to die at his hands? How much blood had to be shed before he was stopped? For centuries he had prospered, standing behind a long succession of powerful leaders thirsting for earthly power. At least Napoleon, the canny little Frenchman, had rejected his help.

  Mael was overcome with guilt. Kivric had done nothing more than follow his father's lead. He had created Kivric, given him his power and purpose. Surely it was his duty to fight him? To face him?

  Indecision tore at him. If he could find the strength to face Kivric, to kill his own son, he would rid the world of a great evil. An evil he had struggled against for centuries from the shadows. Yet what of Kivric's dark power? Would that change him? Would he replace Kivric with an even greater darkness? Mael re-born as the conqueror, steeped in hatred, yet now possessed of unrivalled power? Perhaps if he sacrificed himself, he would change Kivric—fill him with the same light that had changed him all those years ago. Yet, what if he sacrificed himself to change Kivric but instead his power strengthened the darkness within his son?

  Pain made him open his eyes. In his torment his hands, gripping the sword's hilt with impotent fury, had slipped onto the razor edge of the weapon. Blood flowed freely from a deep wound across his right palm and fingers.

  He stared at the blood on his hands, remembering the thousands he had slain—warriors, peasants, chiefs ... and one king who should have lived.

  * * * *

  'Enough of this,’ snapped Mael. He launched a swift strike to Aibheel's unarmoured mid-section, channelling power into his weapon, charging it so that it would slip past the energy fields surrounding her. A quick kill was always the best, particularly with women.

  As soon as the sword neared Aibheel, a mind-tendril swept across Mael's arm and into his chest. His legs froze. He watched with horror as she took control of his arm, turning the blow. Desperately Mael focused his power, struggling against her. He screamed as his fingers disobeyed him, opening to let the sword fall to the grass. He stumbled back, away from the Magi's field of power. He knew in that moment that Aibheel could kill him—without touching him. He continued to back away, expecting her to close in and finish him, but instead the old Magi reached down and picked up Mael's sword. She walked slowly across the grass and held out Mael's sword, hilt-first. In a daze, Mael took his weapon back.

  'Is this all you know, Mael? How to kill?'

  'Only the strong survive, old woman. The hawk. The wolf. So it is in nature, and so it is among men. This is the lesson life gives the wise. And we Magis are the lions. It is our destiny to fight, and it is my destiny to rule.'

  'Yet, Mael, we are not wolves or lions are we? Neither are we Si. We have the hearts of men despite our power.'

  Mael lowered his sword. ‘Stand aside, Old One. Or better still, return to the High King's pavilion and open the way for my warriors,’ said Mael, waving at Brodar and his men, who waited anxiously to attack. ‘If you will not fight, you cannot stop us.'

  'I have dwelt in this land since the dawn of time. I have seen the coming of the chariots and the first of the longships—blood flowing over this land in tides of sorrow. For centuries I have watched this destruction and countered it where I could. But my mind spans too much time, Mael. I am ill-equipped to deal with the futures I see.'

  Aibheel's voice was hypnotic, and Mael found his grip on the sword weakening. He shook his head to clear the mist.

  'How do you plan to stop me? With prayers?'

  The Magi smiled and raised her hands, singing softly as she advanced toward Mael.

  'What are you doing?’ said Mael. Aibheel slowly advanced, backing him toward his waiting warriors. He could not let her close on him again.

  'Finish her!’ called Kivric.

  Mael stood his ground, effortlessly hefting his longsword.

  'Come no closer!’ called Mael, overcome with fear. A radiance began to swell around him. A soft music filled his mind.

  'Finish her.'

  The Old One was only paces away. Mael once more focused his power, using all his skills to create a spear-like point of energy ahead of his weapon. He had been surprised before, but now he had the Old One's measure. He strengthened the fields around his body to prevent Aibheel taking him as she had before.

  Mael stabbed forward with a single thrust, but met no resistance. The old Magi had dropped her guard completely. The old woman gasped as the sword slid through the rotten cloth and into her heart. Aibheel's eyes met Mael's with a sad, knowing gaze. She slumped to the ground, as light as a child, dragging down the point of his sword. She reached up and pulled the amulet from her chest, snapping the old leather cord.

  Mael strengthened the field of power around the sword, expecting the old Magi to take control of her heart and repair the damage with her powers. But to his amazement she did not struggle as death took her. She reached up and pressed the amulet into his hand. Her eyes burned with golden light. ‘Give,’ she commanded, touching his hand with her fingertips. Then she closed her eyes and let herself die, succumbing fully to Mael's powers.

  Time slowed to crawl. A fountain of power, filling the air with startling clarity, spread out from Aibheel's body as sounds fell away. The smell of blood, the fecund pungency of the earth, overcame his senses. The silence was a shroud, heavy on his mind. Now even Kivric was locked out of the moment, standing like the rest of his warriors—as still as a statue.

  A translucent tongue of yellow flame entered his chest with the ease of a breath.

  The world accelerated toward him with a rush. All the sounds of battle, the stale smell of sweat, suddenly crashed around him. Time had returned in its normal measure.

  'Mael! You are invincible,’ shouted Kivric.

  Mael swept his gaze across his men and his instincts screamed. These were the enemy! NO. These were his men. Pain seared into his mind as he struggled with the confusion. The old Magi had tricked him!

  A warrior, bleeding from a score of wounds, ran into the clearing. It was Sitvicmor, one of Anrud's men. Mael withdrew his longsword from the body of the old woman without comment, turning the corpse over with his booted heel. Goddess or no, she was dead.

  The warrior ran to Mael and knelt before him, despite his wounds.

  'Good tidings, my Master. Prince Murrough is slain. I carried the death blow myself, but had to flee his men. I could not take his head.’ The warrior lost his breath for a moment, his face white with pain as he grasped at a wound low in his chest. He took a long, slow breath, then continued. ‘Anrud and the others are dead.'

  Mael's heart ripped inside his chest. My Prince, the boy I shaped in the ways of Truth. What was he thinking? The old Magi's thoughts were meshed with his own! He felt a hand on his arm. It was Brodar, hot for the kill. Mael snatched his hand away.

  'Master. We should take the old King now, before we are discovered.'

  Not trusting himself to speak, Mael nodded, waving Brodar and his huge warriors down toward Brian's enclosure. Yes. That was better. With the High King and his son dead, with the Irish forces leaderless, he could bring in his fresh troops—now waiting in longships offshore—and turn the tide of the battle. King Sitric Silkbeard would claim the day, but it would be he, Mael, who would truly rule. It would be the beginning of his Immortal Empire on Earth.

  Mael stood with his men, watching with his mind as Brodar clove his way into the enclosure of Brian. There were shouts, then a cry of lamentation. Mael closed his eyes and his sight flowed effortle
ssly across the hill and into the pavilion of the High King. Brodar had cleaved his war-axe into Brian's head. It was a grievous wound, and would finish him. But the old King fought back, slaying Brodar and another of his men before he collapsed.

  'The High King is finished,’ said Mael. His heart was dead. Strange how he had never noticed this before.

  'Just give the order to attack, my liege. Our forces will sweep them into the sea!’ said Kivric gripping Mael's arm. ‘Father! This is everything we have dreamed! Victory is close.'

  Everything around Mael was outlined with a clarity he had never experienced before. On the plain of Clontarf thousands of Irish warriors battled desperately. He could see their faces and their fear; sense the delicate pulse of their mortality. He could also see the light of purpose shining from them. They were ready to fight the fight of the Just, to defend their homes and families.

  He turned to Kivric. Where before he had seen only loyalty and strength, he now saw bloodlust, cruelty; hunger for power.

  Mael turned to his men. A mass of emotions confronted him. Excitement. Fear. Yet beneath these emotions was a writhing darkness, a tense anticipation, a longing for destruction. Rape. The waiting longships were laden with death. He had only to give the word, and Ireland was his.

  He felt the tide of fortune sweep around him, then run seaward across the plain of Clontarf. A sudden change had come. The Irish were carrying the day, sweeping the Danes into the sea. Yet he could turn that tide back. The power was his.

  The longsword fell from Mael's fingers.

  'We will not attack today,'

  Later Kivric had brought the sword to him, urging him to attack, but by then he had already turned his Viking forces back. The Irish had won the battle, but without Brian and Murrough, their brief dream of freedom was over. Mael vanished into Dublin.

  His ambition had died, only to be resurrected by his son.

  * * * *

  Mael channelled power to his hand to heal it. He stared at the new scar for long moments. Surely this is what he had chosen: to heal rather than to kill?

  Outside the clouds broke open for an instant, illuminating the little church with a flood of grey light. With sudden certainty he knew what he had to do: sacrifice himself the way Aibheel had to save the forces of Brian. His death would change Kivric, just as he had been changed. He must believe that. He looked down at the longsword. It seemed out of place now. It should be returned to its place of rest in the vestry. He carefully cleaned his blood from the blade of the sword and placed it beneath the altar. He would have to face Kivric armed only with his faith.

  He looked up at the cross.

  The Si artefact he had taken from Aibheel was crafted for concealment. With it no other Magi had been able to sense his power for a thousand years. With it he had been able to work against Kivric without ever being discovered, using his power to alter his appearance and form as the years went by, feigning death then entering his role anew in the guise of another. That had all changed in the last days of World War II. Convinced Kivric had died with Hitler and his aides during the last days in Berlin, Mael had passed the amulet to another. It seemed Kivric had also grown skilled at concealment. Without the Si artefact to conceal his powers, Mael had been finally discovered. His son—the dark shadow he had given birth to and shed like an old skin—was coming to settle the debt of Clontarf. As evil as Kivric had become, Mael had always feared to face him. He had devoted his existence to the preservation of life. How could he kill his own son?

  A sharp, acidic smell hit Mael, a familiar, dreaded smell. He turned to see a woman, short and fat, with long dark, matted hair, dressed in an old, dirty parka. Her skin was dark and swarthy, her features like the Travellers, the Irish Gypsies. Mael knew a Si when he felt one. She was carrying what looked like a bundle of rags.

  The sounds of the city had vanished. No car horns, no distant hum of traffic. Time belonged to her.

  Mael sank to his knees. Why had one of the Si stirred themselves from their hidden domain? Although physical beings, the Si were elemental, energetic; and could change their physical appearance as men changed coats. Only the taste of their power remained constant.

  'I, your loyal son, am ready to serve you.’ said Mael.

  'Come forward, Magi.’ The words fled from her mouth into a vacuum. The high, empty church, which usually echoed at the slightest sound, was as still as the grave.

  Mael approached cautiously, drawing his power across him like a shield. For a moment the woman flickered. In her place was a tall, elegant being with shining hair of silver, draped in gorgeous robes of purple and gold. Casually the Si brushed aside the tendrils of his mind. The short Traveller once more stood before him in her dirty coat.

  She offered him the bundle. Mael's face lit up in a smile as he saw the child inside. ‘Take it,’ commanded the Si.

  The Si watched Mael though dark, implacable eyes as he took the baby.

  'A new life,’ he whispered, unwrapping the swaddling clothes to reveal a little girl. The baby cracked open one dark eye and, with a shock of recognition, Mael realised the child, like himself, was a half-breed Si, and had the Magi's talent. There was no doubt. To his trained senses, a field of energy already shimmered around the baby.

  'But ...’ stammered Mael. He looked up swiftly, but the Si had vanished.

  Mael rushed out onto the street-front. ‘Wait, please! I beg you!'

  Outside, the wind howled. The sky was grey and the temperature was dropping. The time was near. His pleas had been answered with a puzzle.

  Mael returned to his vestry. He cleaned the child with a cloth soaked in warm water and wrapped her in one his own robes. He would have raised the child himself, but it was not to be. Instead, he knew of a childless couple who could take the child. Padraig had once been Mael's Fawn, a key agent in the fight to bring down the Nazi regime, but had given up the ways of power for love. He had faced danger many times, yet in the end had lost his nerve. He and his wife Aine had feared the surviving enemies of Mael and pleaded for a life of safety. Mael, believing Kivric dead, had given Padraig the Si amulet. It had proved to be a fatal mistake, yet one that would save this child. With the Si amulet, she would be safe from Kivric. Padraig and Aine would make excellent parents for the little girl, and would be able to teach her the ways of the Magi. Mael made a quick telephone call, luckily catching Padraig just as he was leaving.

  'There must be no questions asked,’ said Mael.

  'Of course, Master.'

  'And come through the back way, Padraig. To the secret door. Be careful. There are dangerous men about today.'

  Mael wrote a quick note for Padraig. Presently, he heard a knock at the little trap door at the back of the vestry. He scooped up the child and ran to the door.

  At first the door seemed to open of its own accord. Then from nowhere, Padraig appeared, dressed in a drab brown coat. Not even Mael's powers could penetrate the shield the amulet generated.

  'Quickly, take the child,’ said Mael, pressing the child and note into Padraig's arms. ‘There is no time to lose.'

  The small trap door closed and Mael returned to his desk. He raised his hands to his face in contemplation. He heard the scuffle of feet on the flagstones and looked up sharply.

  The moment had arrived.

  Hundreds of years ago he had travelled to Rome. There he had cheered with thousands of others as the Christians were torn to shreds in the Colosseum. How they were mocked. And yet, even then, he had admired their courage and wondered what God could inspire such bravery. Since then, they had changed the world through their sacrifice.

  His thoughts flew to his longsword. It had been centuries since he had wielded the weapon, and yet with it in his hands, he would not need to fear them.

  He knew he could fight them and win.

  Just as he knew he would not. He could sense a chain of events in motion, triggered by his death, which would rid the world of Kivric and his ilk—those who would bring an age of darkness to the wo
rld.

  Mael walked into the church.

  There they were. Four henchmen, led by Kivric. He sensed immediately that the four men were Fawns and of little threat to him.

  Kivric's power flowed across the church stone to meet his own. Mael attempted to seize control of the Fawns, but Kivric was shielding them. Just as well, he could have stopped their hearts with ease and preferred not to be tempted.

  Kivric was dressed in a neat business suit. ‘Hello, father. Your son returns. Or do you deny me?'

  'You will always be my son, Kivric. Nothing can change history.’ The years had changed Kivric, deepening the darkness within him. ‘What do you want in this house of Peace?’ said Mael. With soft steps he walked toward them, measuring them with his green eyes.

  'House of Peace? You sicken me. All these years you have worked against my plans, father. Our plans! Or had you forgotten? For centuries you killed my Fawns yet never once had the strength or courage to seek me out and face me. And now I find you a priest. What have you become? How have you squandered the power the goddess gave you?'

  As Mael approached, Kivric's Fawns stepped back warily. Two slipped outside Kivric's shield. Instantly Mael's mind swelled across the room, invading their bodies, taking control. They fell to the ground shaking in convulsions. Within seconds they were still. Unconscious.

  Realizing their mistake, the remaining Fawns stepped inside the radius of Kivric's power, like chicks under the mother's wing. The two fallen men leapt to their feet even before they regained consciousness, Kivric taking control of their muscles. Slowly they came to life. Now Kivric was taking more care. His powers had grown considerably since that day on the plain of Clontarf.

  'Have you nothing to say?’ called Kivric.

  'Kivric. You are my son. But I have seen so much more than you. I have seen beyond the quest for power. Your conquests destroy the innocent. Your dreams are filled with blood. You, Kivric, are a cancer on the face of the Earth.