Siege Perilous

by Nigel Bennett

  Then Michael looked up, beaming at them all. "Hey—was that totally cool or what?"

  * * *

  Hours later, Richard dressed silently in the pre-dawn dark, not wanting to disturb Sharon, who was asleep in his bed.

  It could be their bed. Sharon had made it clear she could be persuaded to settle down for good with him now. She'd not been ready before. Her recent experience had sharply delineated her priorities.

  Richard's, too. He'd fought his last great battle; he would fight no more.

  Things would be just fine, he thought.

  Bourland and Richard had talked many things over during the drive back to Toronto from the cottage. They'd each been too wired to rest, and so they sketched out that which had to be done. Most of it would be in Bourland's yard. He had the talent and contacts for it.

  Sharon had dozed in the back seat of the van. Michael had elected to stay at the cottage with Iona. Apparently they also had much talking to do. The boy was elated from his sojourn to Otherside. He wanted to know more. He was in good hands.

  As was the Grail. Safe once more.

  With Bourland's help, life would indeed get back to a more or less normal footing. For the time being She-Who-Walks would take up residence in Sabra's cottage under the name of Iona Walker. Michael and Bourland looked to be regular and frequent visitors.

  The Rainbow bridge explosion would doubtless continue as a media mystery, but would fade from the public consciousness as no new leads were discovered. The luckless cab driver would be memorialized with an educational fund set up in his name; the identity of the man who went tumbling into the Niagara river would remain unknown, his body never to be recovered. The people who participated in the rescue effort were already sworn to secrecy for reasons of national security. Bourland's friend Frank would also be very supportive about obtaining the cooperation of his own people. The sunglasses group were silent by nature and necessity and would vanish from the radar entirely.

  They'd worked it all out by the time Bourland dropped them at Richard's Neville Park house. It was good to have things all tidied.

  He and Sharon trudged arm in arm up the steps, went in, went upstairs and collapsed. He did not sleep, though. His heart and mind still thrummed as he lay next to her.

  Richard rested, considered, mourned, and decided to carry on with the decision he'd already made for himself. He'd fought his last battle, he would fight no more, nor would he live on without Sabra. There was much comfort in that for him.

  He looked at Sharon; sadness welled up in him. She was very beautiful, long limbs and red hair and bright spirit sprawled artlessly in the tangled sheets. They'd rested together, but not made love. Too exhausted, mentally and physically by their respective ordeals, the both of them, but it had been nice lying wrapped around her warmth in the dark.

  He had vast regret about what this would do to her, but the others would be there for her. She was a strong woman, well on her way to swiftly getting over her experience. Much if it was already fading from her mind like a dream. She said she'd slept through most of it, which was likely for the best.

  Richard left her, moving quietly as only he could, and crept from the bedroom.

  And what of Michael? Well, he would be cared for and loved by Bourland and Iona, little to worry about there. Of all of them Michael would be the one who would understand Richard's actions the best. The likely irony was that he would comfort them.

  Richard paused downstairs. No fire in his hearth, an unthinkable lapse in pre-modern times, now hardly anything to bother about. From the mantel he took down a heavy ceramic urn. Sabra's ashes. He hugged them close and went outside, hatless and coatless, carefully and quietly shutting the door behind.

  Cold. Very cold it was. It would be colder still, shortly. He looked forward to it.

  He trudged along the sidewalk to the end of the street, using the stair rail to the steps down to the beach, one at a time, slow. Silly, really, to take such care, but if he slipped on the ice and broke something it would delay him, and he'd waited long enough.

  He labored across the mix of snow and sand, making his way to the cement groin. The beach was thankfully empty. This was a private thing. He wanted no witnesses, no well-intentioned interference.

  He went to the very end of the cement construct and, without ceremony, without prayer, slowly poured Sabra's ashes out over the water.

  The Goddess knows her own.

  A freezing wind from landward swirled them away from him, scattering them wide upon the lake's dark, gently surging surface.

  Perfect. Sabra of the Lake, gone home again at last.

  He gave a sudden painful shiver from the cold, but that was all right. Just part of the process. Life was harsh and laborious and the Otherside would be all the sweeter after his earthly strivings.

  Richard put the urn carefully down and sat on the glacial cement with the wide metal edge, his long legs dangling over the chill water. It was very black in this pre-dawn dimness, hiding its mysteries well, but he would soon discover them. He faced east, patiently watching the horizon. He noticed the cold; it seemed unnaturally bitter to him, his shivering nearly constant, his teeth chattering violently. Not long. Not long...

  All he had to do was wait. The sky was cooperating, free of clouds. All he had to do was wait and let the light work on him, weaken him. Even winter's pale orb was more than enough to overwhelm him, given time. He would resist it as long as possible, of course, resist until he was too wearied to sit up any longer. Then all he had to do was slip forward into the water . . . there were worse ways to die. Too weak to struggle against the acidlike burn of free flow, he would drift to the bottom and be content to stay there, welcoming death.

  All he had to do was go to sleep and wait. He knew how to do that.

  He breathed in the cold, cold air and held it for as long as he could, then puffed it out again, his starved lungs sucking in the fresh automatically. A little practice for what was to come. He'd hold his breath just this way down there, release, then pull in a draught of water. A painful shock at first, but he was confident in his ability to fight off the instinct to rise to the surface as he'd done before.

  The horizon got lighter. He shut his eyes against the growing glare.

  His bouts of shivering lessened, almost as though things were shutting down already. He'd not been out here long enough for his body temperature to drop, though. Perhaps his subconscious was being helpful.

  He drowsed and smiled as the peace settled on him, smiled as the sun crept up, its deadly light saturating him.

  But from the wrong direction. It seemed to be on his right, not in front of him. He blinked slowly awake and without much surprise saw Sabra sitting next to him. She was in her favorite jeans and a soft jersey the color of wheat. After all this waiting, all this silence, there she was, as though she'd turned up to take a morning walk with him.

  She was a dream, of course, a last defense mechanism thrown out by his mind to talk him out of taking this path. In life he could deny her nothing, but this time, this one time he would have to refuse her.

  But there is so much more yet for you to do, she whispered.

  "Not without you," he said.

  "Of course not. I will always be with you." Her supposedly ethereal presence had a physical effect, for he felt her grasp his hand. That was odd. "Our souls are still linked beyond all other mortal ties, you will never be without me."

  "Why now?" he demanded. "Why have you not come to me before? I was in agony for you."

  Her form wavered suddenly. Faded. He held his breath, for a different reason now. "Wait—don't leave!"

  Gradually, she returned. Her brown eyes were sad. "That's why. Your grief blinded and deafened you to me. The peace you feel now has at last opened you up. You must go on, my Richard. You will go on."

  "I cannot. The pain is gone from me only because I know I'll be with you again. The Goddess must see that and allow it."

  "She sees more and farther than you have.
The time has come for an ending, but not the one you think."

  "What do you mean?"

  "It's time for you to take the road you were denied before. You've been on such a long side-journey with me, but now the two roads are converged. As you move forward it will just happen."

  "I don't understand."

  "That night long ago, you gave up your original life, the original closing of your circle as a living man."

  "If you'd not come to me that night, I'd have lived with defeat on my head for yielding, or I'd have died—by my own son's hand, no less."

  "That would have been bad," she agreed. "But you and circumstances have changed over time."

  "More than I can stomach. I will close my circle well enough in this manner. It serves." He watched the sunrise, loving the deadly heat.

  I will love the coming heat, I will even love the burning.

  "No, my Richard. You will have children, and pass yourself and your memories on to them as other men do. You will help raise Michael and prepare him for his future. Dear Philip can't do it all on his own."

  "Such matters are forever beyond my reach. They are not to be. That's the path I took that night."

  She asked, "How long since you last fed?"

  He shrugged. "I don't know. That woman in the lab . . . a long time."

  Sabra smiled. A light shone from her, sweeter and more piercing than the sun. "Are you even hungry?"

  He was, vaguely . . . but he would not be distracted. Today he would feed on thin, cold lake water and be glad of it.

  "No, you won't. Not today or tomorrow," she said, responding to his thought with absolute certainty. She little by little shifted from sitting by his side, and hovered between him and the rising sun. She and it were of the same brightness. It was very like the glow Michael had given off on the Otherside.

  Richard stood up, bathed in that loving warmth, spread his arms to it. He gloried in it until the light was too bright to bear, then shut his eyes to feel its heat pulsing upon his body.

  The air was cold on his face. The chill was cleansing, like throwing open a window to sweep stale air from a sickroom. He felt like he'd never really breathed before, and gulped down great draughts of it. He waited for the flames to kindle, to overtake, to overcome him . . .

  But they never came.

  What was wrong?

  He opened his eyes. It wasn't a dream, the sun was truly up now, and he'd stood long in its glare, long enough to summon the weakness, long enough for the fire to begin its consumption of his flesh.

  But he continued unharmed.

  Why?

  He suddenly knew the answer. The Otherside battle. Michael holding the Grail, using its true power as it was meant to be used. It brought transformation to them all in one way or another, to a greater and lesser degree.

  "It seems," he murmured, "It seems . . . I've been living in the past."

  Sabra had told the truth. Ahead of him was a life he could never otherwise hoped to have. A life for himself, for Sharon, one with their children, and grandchildren . . .

  It was all before him now. And Sabra would be there, too. In her own way, as ever she'd done before.

  He felt laughter bubbling up within, a kind of joy so great he could burst from it, the kind of eager elation that saints spoke of in awe and gladness. He wanted to tell someone about it, anyone, even if they thought him mad.

  Oh, my Richard, I know about it.

  He saw a shimmering along the beach like a cloud of tiny crystals catching the sun. Laughter made visible. Dancing as though in celebration. Was it a swirling of snow particles . . . or Sabra, beckoning him to come and make a start on the new day?

  No matter.

  He quit his place and hurried his way back. He and Sharon had much talking to do, many plans to make. Happy plans.

  A young man . . . he was only thirty-five . . .

  THE END

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