Paternus

by Dyrk Ashton

With a mighty hop and whoosh of wings they ascend into the dark sky over Somerset County. Myrddin watches the Mendip Hills recede below, sees bright clusters of lights where he knows there once were villages, and in places where there were none. Lights that spread for miles. Things have changed.

  He would ask about it. He’d ask many things, but speaking with the wind rushing over them at this speed would be difficult, and needless. There will be time. There is always time. For now he’s content with the first crimson glow of the sun about to rise, the cool wind on his face. The wind of freedom. And it is enough.

  The Falcon banks and soars out toward the Atlantic. They aren’t certain where their journey will take them, Fintán and Myrddin Wyllt. But they know one thing. They must find their father.

  And The Madman has a sworn duty to seek out his grandson. Sir Galahad. The Perfect Knight. He promised.

  CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

  Flowers & Figs 18

  Zeke watches his feet shuffle one after the other on the damp tunnel floor, thinking back on their preparations to leave the hub chamber.

  After the gruesome beheading of Ao Guang, the prehistoric swamp disappeared and they were right back in the chamber. Edgar explained it was a hallucination induced by the archaic verse and psychic sway of The Prathamaja Nandana, a phantasm of memory and imagination like the vision of hell conjured by Kleron.

  Pratha kicked Ao Guang’s body to slither and splash into the well, then snapped off the end of his lower jaw, stored it in her ornately carved trunk and chucked the rest of the head in the water.

  Zeke ponders the bizarre procession ahead of him. Peter, supposedly the oldest living being in the world, the progenitor of all life on the planet, and Fi’s father, leads the way, wearing Fi’s pink backpack and carrying her wrapped in a silver blanket in his arms.

  Pratha walks alongside him, cloaked once again as a practically naked, beguiling woman, touching Fi’s pale sweaty forehead occasionally and muttering her bizarre words in a language Edgar told him is the First Language, invented by Pratha and Peter together when she was young, almost two hundred and fifty million years ago. Then there’s Fi’s old babysitter, Mrs. Mirskaya, who owned a Russian Market but also just happens to be the ancient Slavic goddess Mokosh.

  The legendary devil Baphomet, to Zeke an entirely fictional character until only an hour or so ago, follows them with his head held high—except when he ducks to clear his horns below an outcropping of rock in the ceiling. Beside him scuffles the grotesque hairy hyaena-thing they call Idimmu Mulla, Dimmi for short, sniveling as if he’s being led to certain death. The two of them now carry all of Pratha’s belongings.

  Edgar, who Fi thought was her uncle her entire life but turns out to be a fucking knight from King fucking Arthur’s court, follows a few paces behind them, the fucking Sword of David in his hand. His shield case, no longer needed, he left behind. Mol pads at his heels like any good dog would, except he’s the Molossus, original Hound of War of the Greeks and something like four and a half thousand years old.

  Zeke brings up the rear, backpack heavy on his sore shoulders, the handle of the guitar case containing a handmade Ramirez original clutched in his hand. His legs feel like lead, his head throbs, and his ear aches.

  Before he knows it, Peter calls down an “all’s clear” and they’re climbing a ladder. Following the others, Mol ascends on his own, which at this point doesn’t surprise Zeke in the least. Peter Pan and Tinkerbell up top passing out milk and cookies wouldn't surprise him now. Shit, he thinks, before the day’s out I might get to ride a unicorn...

  He’s suddenly jolted by remorse so intense his knees almost buckle and his ribcage constricts to cut off his breath. How can I joke like that? How can I even joke when Fi might be dying? She really might be dying. Right now.

  But he can’t think like that either. He can’t think like that at all or he’s just going to curl up and die himself.

  He squeezes his eyes shut, forces himself to swallow, to quell the dread expanding in the pit of him, threatening to engulf his breaking pounding heart and hollow him out forever. He tries to control his breathing, to muster what little strength and hope he has left.

  “You all right, lad?” Edgar peers down with a look of tender concern.

  Zeke manages a nod and meager smile. “Yeah. I’m good. Thank you.” He hands the guitar up and climbs, his hands weak on the worn wooden rungs.

  He emerges through a hatch in the floor of an expansive boathouse, in the center of which floats a pristine vintage yacht of gleaming wood with shining chrome fixtures. Edgar tells him it’s a 57 foot Trumpy Flushdeck, manufactured in 1962, but he isn’t listening.

  As if in a dream, he watches Pratha usher Baphomet and Dimmi through the main salon of the boat, forward to the cramped crew quarters, speaking to them in words that can only be interpreted as a promise of fatal consequence should they misbehave. Edgar takes a seat outside their door, sword in hand, Mol at his side.

  After depositing Fi on a berth in the owner’s stateroom, Peter leaves Pratha and Mrs. Mirskaya to look after her. Not knowing what else to do, Zeke follows him out to the aft deck, watches him climb to the bridge and fire up the engines. The tall boathouse doors open automatically and Peter backs the yacht out into the muddy Maumee River.

  Zeke has lost track of time entirely. It’s still dark, but the rain has stopped. Through the mist and trees he sees a muted orange and yellow glow high on a hill, maybe a half mile upriver. The burning remnants of Peter’s house. Tiny blots of blue, white and red blink around it, lights from emergency vehicles that must have arrived while they were busy trying to survive down below. Fallen trees crisscross each other over indentations in the landscape where sections of the tunnels have collapsed, like needles in a deflated pincushion.

  Peter swings the boat about and heads upriver in the direction of the house under low throttle. Zeke fights off his weariness and joins him on the bridge. Peter angles the boat to a thin wooded strip of land that forms a small islet near the center of the river. He keeps the boat as close to the bank as possible, peering through the mist.

  “Kabir?” Zeke asks.

  Peter’s throat rumbles but he says nothing. Zeke maintains the silence and keeps watch as well, listening to the soft splash of the bow and lap of the wake on the shore. They make a slow circle of the islet, search the far bank, cut back to the near, then out for another deliberate swing around the islet. No sign of anyone. As they round the side nearest the house, Peter pulls something Zeke can’t see from his pocket, studies it in shadow, then flings it ashore. He guns the engines and the boat lunges downriver, heading north-east toward Lake Erie, which Zeke approximates to be about 20 miles away.

  Peter stares straight ahead, deep in thought. Still and statuesque in the mist and moonlight, there’s something about him that gives Zeke pause. He seems absolutely present but distant at the same time, both rock solid and ethereal, singular and infinite, as if Zeke can perceive with his feeble human faculties only a slice of something that exists in unfathomable dimensions.

  In the face of such overwhelming presence and depth, Zeke feels tiny, fleeting, a speck of dust passing on the breeze, utterly humbled and insignificant. “I’m sorry,” he breathes.

  Peter looks at him. Zeke’s breath catches. In those eyes he senses for the first time Peter’s incomprehensible age. Eyes set in a skull far too finite to contain his immanent intellect and memory, reflecting thoughts that span back to the immeasurable past and ahead to a troubled future only Peter can envision or comprehend, looking right at him yet through him, lucid and enigmatic.

  “I broke my promise,” Zeke mutters. Peter’s eyes narrow. “I slipped.”

  Peter’s features fold into sadness, a profound sorrow for everything that has ever lived and died, or never lived at all. The burden of the world laid bare, shame and self-recrimination, ageless and inviolate.

  Then he smiles. “Get some rest.”

  But Zeke doesn’t leave. Instead, he squeezes
the bracing bar at the bridge entrance to steady himself. “I know I can’t be one of them...” he says, nodding below deck, but he can’t bring himself to say more, already fearing the answer, any answer, though he has absolutely no idea what it might be.

  Peter smiles again. “No, you’re not one of them.”

  Zeke almost laughs, feeling ridiculous and relieved. But not entirely relieved. There’s disappointment as well, and that makes him feel more ridiculous, even stupid.

  There is something he can hold on to though, crazy, ridiculous and stupid, but real. “Then why can I slip?” he asks, doing that little sliding motion with his hand, again afraid of the answer.

  Peter looks thoughtful. Zeke’s heart skips and thumps as he waits. Then Peter says, “I don’t know.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “But... you must have a theory.”

  Peter ponders a moment, then shrugs. “Not really.”

  Zeke’s confused. If Peter doesn’t know... But then, there’s something oddly comforting in that, as though, if Peter can’t explain it, it’s okay that he can’t either. But that’s confusing too. Oh my head...

  Peter catches hold of him as he sways. The hand on Zeke’s arm carries all the soothing, reassuring, all-encompassing power of a loving father cradling an infant child. That’s what it feels like to Zeke, anyway. His head is clearing, just a little, and the strength returning to his legs.

  Peter says, ”You may be just a man, but I’ll be keeping my eye on you, Zeke Prisco.”

  His smile is deep as the sea, firm as the foundation of the earth, radiant as the sun. Zeke blinks at his own bad cliches...

  Peter winks. ”Get some sleep.”

  Zeke descends wordlessly from the bridge. Having received no direction from the others and hesitant to knock on the cabin door, he makes his way along the rail to the foredeck where he drops his backpack and sits painfully against the divider between the front windows of the salon. He searches through his pack until he finds a thin insulated coat, and puts it on.

  The moist air should feel good on his face. The low rumble of the dual diesel engines, the hush of the bow cutting the water, the subtle rise and fall of the deck should be comforting. But the feelings are lost on him. He’s a wreck, absolutely exhausted, mentally and physically, his overfull and addled brain a sluggish morass mulling his own condition and the day’s events—including the most mind-bending of them all—what happened when he chased down that man outside the bank, an experience shoved aside by everything else that’s happened since, but he knows he’ll have to deal with eventually. And tell Peter about.

  For now, though, all he wants to do is sleep. But that’s not true. What he really wants, would give anything for, is for Fi to be alright. To open her glorious green eyes and smile that Fi smile that beams sunshine, to walk and talk and laugh and kiss him, and never let go.

  Epilogues

  Not twenty minutes after Peter’s boat has disappeared around a bend in the river, Kabir crawls from the flowing gloom onto the steep mucky bank of the islet. Muddied and bedraggled, he rubs his aching leg.

  This isn’t exactly what he had in mind when he considered taking some time off from work, even if he did find Father and is spending time with family.

  “We’re too late.” Cù Sìth towers atop the rise in human cloak, his black fur coat and hair dripping wet. “They’re gone.”

  Kabir groans. It took long enough to dig themselves out of the rubble of the demolished house, but Cù Sìth insisted on completing yet another task. Then the mtoto authorities arrived and had to be avoided with stealth and caution.

  “But I found this.” Between thumb and forefinger, Cù holds up a large gold coin, pitted and worn, framed by the ruby glint of his eyes.

  Kabir recognizes the token at once, the odd glyph stamped on its face. A Deva sigil. A call to war that cannot go unheeded. Cù Sìth may have some inkling as to what the coin signifies, but the glyphs themselves would mean nothing to him.

  Exposed on the precipitous slope in the shadow of the dreaded Moddey Dhoo, Kabir feels acutely vulnerable. He considers plunging back into the river. Not for his own safety, but to try and lose Cù Sìth, on whom he still can’t bring himself to rely. But he needs to see the other side of that coin...

  As if by providence, Cù flicks it with his thumb, sending it flipping into Kabir’s outstretched palm. Kabir keeps his eyes on Cù, not allowing himself to be distracted. Cù drops a makeshift sack of sopping black fur, red and ragged at the edges, dripping incarnadine—the result of his grisly endeavors back at the house. Kabir braces for the assault, but instead of hurtling them both into the river, Cù grips a tree branch for anchorage and offers a hand. After a moment of conflicted deliberation, Kabir takes it.

  Cù slings the carcass sack over his shoulder. Kabir inspects the flipside of the coin. Now he has a clue as to where to find Father. The question is, how are they going to get there?

  * * *

  Tanuki ran. Over 50 miles, roughly north, through the bowels of the mighty Kaçkar Mountains. Twice the speed the fastest marathon runner could muster, clinging tight to the straps of his pack. Goaded by tragedy, whipped by demons of regret, through winding tunnels he raced, up and down steep inclines and endless switchback stairs, around sweeping ledges, across narrow stone bridges that spanned bottomless crevasses, never slowing until he reached the safe room hidden behind the mountain face that overlooks the Turkish city of Rize on the southern coast of the Black Sea.

  He didn’t consider opening the secret door to the forested slopes beyond, but dropped his pack, lit an oil lamp, and flew into a frenzy of anguish. Benches, shelves of supplies, a stone table, nothing but the lamp and stool on which it sat escaped his woeful wrath.

  Finally he collapsed amongst the wreckage. His wracking sobs became whimpers and he drifted into sleep. But it brought him no reprieve. Tortured dreams of the horrific death of Arges at the hands of Xecotcovach, The Terror Bird. The fall of Asterion. The triumphant cry of Ziz as he plunged after him. And haunting all, like an apparition of contempt, the look on Father’s face Tanuki is sure to see when he learns what has transpired.

  How long Tanuki thrashed, gnashed his teeth and wept in fitful slumber, he did not know. Then the nightmare changed, and the terror deepened.

  Something is coming.

  Shuffling, sliding, huffing and wet. A sharp crack, then the sliding. Crack, and slide.

  Sprawled face down on the rough stone floor, Tanuki opens his eyes. His sight is soft and uncertain. A stupor of sleep and bereavement, or still dreaming?

  Crack, slide.

  Paralyzed by dread, he turns his eyes upon the sheer blackness of the tunnel entrance. Burbling, rasping, crack, slide. Then the shambling horror breathes his name, the wheeze of death itself.

  “T-a-n-u-k-i...”

  Abject fear grips Tanuki’s soul, but by some inchoate volition he flops over and scoots away in panic, bumping the stool and lamp. The wavering amber flame sets the shadow edges of the doorway quaking like Tanuki’s own heart.

  Crack, slide.

  A tenebrous form nears the entrance, humped and malformed on the floor. “T-a-a-a-n-u-u-u-k-i-i-i...”

  Wake up! Certain he’s still dreaming, Tanuki chokes on bile that rises in his throat, screams in somnambulant depths of despair. WAKE UP!

  A gory limb plunges into the light and stabs the floor.

  Crack!

  Tanuki can’t believe his eyes. And this is not a dream.

  A hand, clotted in grue, each finger ending like half a cloven hoof, clutching a horn with its tip driven into the stone. With a deathly groan, Asterion, The Bull, drags himself into the room, sliding on a greasy slick of his own Firstborn blood.

  * * *

  Far above the thin skin of atmosphere that shields the earth like a blanket protects a child from unknown terrors of night, the moon keeps its eternal watch in the cold silence of space. Through cloud, rain, and fog, roof, rock, sea and st
one, the moon sees. And the moon knows.

  Acknowledgments

  Writing must be one of the most selfish pursuits there is. Only when it’s shared do we crazed scribblers really do anything for others. But then our readers give back in return, more than we could ever bestow upon them, and the cycle of selfishness resumes. You have my utmost thanks.

  There are more than a few folks to whom I owe a deep debt of gratitude and must be named. I could never have written, promoted or published this book without each and every one of them.

  First, my beta readers. Brother Dillon and lifelong buddy John H., who suffered through every draft of every version. Thank you for your masochistic tendencies, the invaluable notes, and your undying encouragement. My parents, Richard and Harriette Ashton, who also read every draft of every version, and loved them all. Each was perfect and needed nothing more or less. Such is the love and perfection of wonderful parents. Thank you for your limitless tolerance and unconditional support. Nina O. and Mr. Christopher H., who were more like editors than readers, hatchet in one hand, scalpel in the other, neither afraid of my wrath nor seeking my approval. Without you Paternus wouldn’t be what it is, nor I the writer I am (for better or for worse). A. Dale Triplett (yup, I’m using your full name, Dale). A brilliant author himself, he copy-edited and proofed the living shit out of this thing, finding errors and offering insights no one else had. And they were brilliant. My sister Dianna, whom I know was dreading having to read this but now might be my biggest fan. Never stop giving me crap, Nan. John D., Vince M., Lee F., Zach P., Elizabeth B., and Michael E. (who told me to just go for it). All of you read it and have a hand in this. You are more than readers, you are dear friends, and in my mind, might as well be family.

  Folks who may or may not have read the book, but helped me tremendously along the way whether they know it or not. My brother Drew and sister Daphne, Irina A., Simon, Sasha, Maggie, Donovan, Wyatt, Weston, Dan and Lisby P., Lt. Col. Joe H., Steve A., Mark B., Chris L., Ralph C., Jenny L., Edmund L., Risa C., Ben P., Cynthia B., Don C., Jonathan C., all my pals in grad school, Donnie B., Joe & Stephanie S., Clay C., John S., Angus B., Jeff D., Ken S., Michael D., Kevin B., Hank T., Josh R., Rafael R., Jorge A., Heidi H. and Jim W.