Jhove meant to start anew, and he had left the future generations something: The tower.
When the waters had subsided and Noam’s descendants repopulated the lands, they would eventually come across the tower again.
And it would call to them.
Tempt them.
Just as in the ancient stories, where Adam and his wife were set in a beautiful garden with a forbidden tree in it. That is why Jhove left the tower standing and intact, yet incomplete. Future generations would have to decide for themselves whether to leave it alone, or try to finish it.
Lokutis didn’t have much time to ponder what the chances of either happening would be, for another great wave overcame him and this time all went dark.
#
The sound of the surf told Lokutis he was still alive. Salty air washed over his skin, and all around, seagulls made their excited cries. He could not move, and to open his eyes was to drag shards of glass underneath his lids, and to swallow was to gag. But there were voices and movement around him, so he forced himself to open his eyes.
The light hurt. He wanted to be blind. But then the brightness coalesced into forms and colors, and he was staring into a blue sky, at wispy clouds, at gulls coasting on arched wings.
“Ah, our guest is awake,” a deep voice announced.
There was more movement about him and a face swam into view. This person reached down and helped Lokutis sit up.
“I imagine you have an incredible tale to tell,” the voice said, and eased something soft behind Lokutis’ back to prop him up, “but by the looks of yea, the tale will have to wait a spell. No matter, you are in good hands now.”
Lokutis took a good look at the owner of the voice, who now crouched before him. He was a large man, with full beard and head of hair so dark that it had a blue sheen to it, and was streaked with silver. His skin was very pale, as pale as Lokutis himself. His eyes were piercingly blue, set deeply and fringed with crow’s feet. His teeth were big and straight on an expansive face; Lokutis assumed he was a nobleman in some faraway land.
“Can you at least tell us your name?”
Lokutis swallowed the rocks in his throat and licked swollen flaking lips. Even his tongue was dry, but he managed to say, “Lokutis.”
The large man frowned, yet maintained his fatherly smile. “My, that’s a mouthful. How about we shorten that to something more manageable, shall we? Loki.”
Loki moved his eyes around his surroundings. He was on a rocky beach at the foot of a slope. Snow and scree rose up to a high mountain peak. The air was cool and the rough, grayish foliage was alien. The only things that looked remotely familiar were the trees, some relative of his native cedar. His host wore coarse clothing of wool, leather, and animal skins.
Loki lay on wool blankets, under a pile of skins. The pleasant smell of roasting meat drew his attention to a campfire nearby on the beach. What looked like a boar was turning on a spit above the flames. A kettle boiled in the flames. Many people, dressed as roughly as his host, were gathered there and drinking from horns.
“Frigga, bring our guest some broth, he must be famished...and something to drink.”
A stout woman acknowledged the request and bent over her kettle.
The man turned back to Loki. “Frigga, my wife, she will fix you up nicely.”
Loki gestured weakly. “W-where am I? Who, you?”
“I am Woden, son of Bor, and you are in the highest reaches of Midgard, where we retreated from the Deluge. We have been here well over a moon now, waiting for the waters to recede. I sent out my birds to see if the waters had started to do so. They came across you, clinging to a log.” Woden gestured to two large ravens sitting nearby on a tree branch. “You have Hugin and Munin to thank for being rescued; otherwise you would have floated right by us.”
The ravens bobbed their heads. “Drowned rat! Drowned rat!” they croaked.
The woman Frigga brought a steaming bowl and a large wooden spoon. She was large of girth, but had a friendly round face that was not at all unattractive. Her blond hair was braided into a rope as thick as Loki’s arm. Woden took the bowl, spooned some broth and put it to Loki’s lips. With his aid, Loki managed to swallow some. Considering the circumstances, it was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted.
After a few spoonfuls of the broth Woden reached for the drinking horn. “I imagine everything and everybody you knew previously are gone now. But as I said, you are in good hands. You are one of us now.”
“There you go again, taking in strays,” somebody nearby scoffed. “Someday it will be your undoing.”
Loki looked in that direction. Sitting apart from the fire was a giant of a man with a flaming red beard and wild head of hair. He scowled as he wrapped a leather strap about the shaft of a great war hammer. The weapon was so huge that no normal person could wield it. But the redheaded stranger had arms as big around as Loki’s torso. All in all, he made Marduk look like a child.
Woden ignored the comment, but lifted the drinking horn to Loki’s lips. “My son Thor, he is a dour and taciturn sort who is slow to trust and even slower to befriend. But you needn’t worry; he will love you as a brother soon enough and there is no greater ally.”
Loki sipped at the dark liquid in the horn, and almost immediately gagged. His reaction drew much laughter from those gathered around the fire.
“Mead is an acquired taste,” Woden admitted.
“Father, look!” A new voice cried.
All in the camp turned towards a figure standing on the rocks at the ocean’s edge. He was another large man, and an elaborately carved horn hung from a strap around his neck. He pointed out into the sky. A hushed gasp rippled through the crowd. Arching across the heavens was an iridescent arc of many colors, which was simultaneously solid and ephemeral. Light emanated from it powerfully, so much that Loki could not look at it for very long.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” the man on the rocks said.
“What is it?” Frigga asked, mouth agape.
“It has something to do with the Deluge, I’m certain,” Woden said.
“Hemdal,” called Thor. “What do you make of it? Nobody knows the powers of the earth and sky as you do.”
Rapt with the bow in the sky, Hemdal turned to address the camp. “It has much power, I am sure. As if the song of the world itself was harnessed and made manifest. I can only imagine that it comes from the Creator himself. Why he would leave such a powerful thing unguarded, I do not know.” Hemdal seemed entranced, and his gaze turned inward. “What one could do if they could make it their own!”
Loki groaned.
Though he had floated to the ends of the earth, as far away from the tower as possible, he still bore witness to the sort of folly that lead to the Deluge. He did not know the true meaning of the prismatic bow, but he was sure Jhove had not put it there to be coveted.
As the camp stared in wonder at the beautiful arch, Loki reached for the spoon and bowl and sipped the broth gently.
#
At long last Loki stirred from his reverie.
He was silent for so long that Minion thought that perhaps he had fallen asleep, though that didn’t stir him from his corner to go check on his master.
“Minion, go to the instrument case and bring me the item that looks like a glass bulb with bits of metal in it,” Loki said without taking his eyes off of the sunny day outside their window.
“Y-yes, master,” Minion complied.
The little man crept out of the corner to the area where their luggage was stored. Against the wall were all sizes and shapes of valises, satchels, and trunks. He dug out a medium sized leather bound box and opened it on its hinge. Inside were many odd pieces of equipment. The object Loki requested was shaped like the bulb from a tulip, but made of clear glass. Inverted with round end facing up, it rested on a wood pedestal. Inside the glass, rising out of the foundation, was a thin wire that stood up straight and was capped by what looked like a tiny helmet of the sort the knights abou
t the keep wore when on duty. Sprouting from this helmet were four more wires that pointed in opposite directions like the arms on a windmill, but horizontal. At the end of each arm was a bit of tin beat so thin that wind would have easily blown it away were it not housed inside protective glass and attached to the wires. These kite shaped pieces of metal stood perpendicular to the arms like a man holding out signaling flags. Each bit was colored: dark on one side, light on the other.
Since the curious assortment of wires and foils jiggled with the slightest of movements, not to mention the delicacy of the glass housing, Minion brought the device with great care to Loki. Loki set it on the windowsill and opened the shutters wider.
“What is the most defining feature of the island?” he asked with a bit of excitement in his voice. Before Minion could even debate venturing a response, Loki answered his own query. “The weather! That and the fact the island lies hidden behind a wall of mist, yet another phenomenon of weather. And—” this time he turned and addressed Minion directly—”how many times have you seen rainbows about?”
Minion shrugged. “Many...?”
“Precisely! Now, how many times have you seen rainbows about...though it hadn’t rained recently?”
Minion’s eyes widened. But before he could respond, Loki pointed down to the glass device with a child’s delight. To Minion’s surprise, the arms were rotating about the helmet like the spokes on a wheel. The little metal flags were almost a blur, moving like the horses on a child’s carousel.
“Now, let’s see what we really have,” Loki said, moving his hands over the bulb like a witch scrying into a crystal ball.
The spokes moved even faster and now the little flags really were but a blur. Loki’s gestures became more elaborate, as if working a marionette on strings, and when doing so the black and white blur started to change colors, turning to reds, blues, yellows, and every shade in between.
Soon afterward, Minion’s jaw dropped and he stepped back from the window. The whole room became filled with prismatic colors as a rainbow alighted right into the window, arcing from the sky and spanning some distance over the entire keep. It mainly came to rest on the device in the window, but much of it spilled into the room, painting everything with rich and splendid colors.
“Isn’t it incredible?” Loki called, silhouetted in a mauve aura.
“Yes master!” Minion hadn’t realized it, but there was a rushing noise as well, like a wind whipping about the chamber.
Loki made a chopping gesture that ended with his hand in a fist over his chest. The color and wind were snuffed out. The miniature carousel turned lazily in the glass bulb.
Loki sighed heavily and fell to his knees beside Minion, ecstasy on his face, and he embraced Minion with a single arm while gazing wide-eyed out the window in a very un-Loki moment.
“This is better than my wildest dreams.”
Minion had no idea what he meant, but rubbed his hands together excitedly just the same.
#
“Oi! Watch it Patrick!” Corbin complained as he ran into the Irishman’s backside.
Patrick had stopped mid-stride in the courtyard. “Did you see that?” he asked, shielding his eyes in the sun and looking up at the old watchtower—the Viscount Loki’s apartments.
“See what?” Corbin asked, shielding his eyes in the same direction.
“A rainbow just appeared out of thin air and landed on the roof of the watchtower there.”
Corbin’s face scrunched up with disbelief. “Are you daft man? Rainbows don’t come and go like that.”
“I’m telling you, right...”
Corbin waved him off, mumbling. He left Patrick standing in the courtyard scratching his head.
Chapter Nine
Patrick Gawain lifted his head from his pillow. There was an alien sound coming from his door. After the sound had repeated itself several more times, he finally recognized it: someone was knocking.
He dropped his head back to the pillow and groaned. It could only be one person. He felt no desire to rise, so he called out, “Enter.”
Sure enough, through his blurry eyes Patrick saw Aimeé’s blonde head poke inside the room. Every now and again she brought him breakfast in bed, mended and washed his clothes, and he suspected her of feeding Siegfried extra, which was causing the horse to become fat.
Patrick, like everyone, was aware of her infatuation. He had tried ignoring her, but to no avail, and the one time he had tried telling her that her efforts were best applied to her regular duties, she looked completely shattered. So Patrick let her do him favors, at the cost of some ridicule from the other knights and his own respect for the girl. She was either incredibly thick-skinned or incredibly naive.
He ducked underneath his covers. He could hear her pull up a chair next to his bed, which surprised him. Usually Aimeé laid down a tray of food, tried talking for a while, then left.
“Are you going to hide underneath there all morning like schoolboy?” The voice was deeper, and harshly accented.
Patrick looked up. The girl laughed. It was not Aimeé, but Lady Katherina.
“What is wrong?” she asked.
Patrick rubbed his eyes. “I thought you were someone else.” He suddenly felt awkward. A servant being in his room while he was in bed in a nightgown was one thing, but a Lady Guest was quite another.
“Someone else?” Katherina said, her mouth turning into a mischievous smile. “So you have many Lady coming into your room. I have heard this.”
“Not exactly,” Patrick replied. He noted her strange accent that he couldn't place. He pulled the covers up to his neck and studied the young Guest. He now couldn't understand how he could have mistaken the platinum hair of the Lady for Aimeé’s earthy blonde. Katherina seemed at ease before an undressed knight, unescorted in the Hall for Boys. The look in her hauntingly clear eyes told him that she’d come to talk about something important.
Did she come to discuss the death of Jason McFowler? Patrick was uncomfortable. She had made him uncomfortable ever since the funeral.
“What can I do for you, my Lady?”
She studied him for a moment, then said, “We are told that we may choose chaperone. I wish to go outside wall today and fly kite. I choose you as chaperone.”
Patrick frowned. “Why me?”
“Why not?”
“I have my regular guard dut...”
“Sir Corbin says it is...is...” She struggled with the word. “Acceptable. In fact, he was pleased.”
Patrick smirked. I'll wager he was.
Katherina stood. “Very well then, after midday meal, at the main gate.” She turned and left the room.
Patrick put his hands behind his head as he lay in bed, groaning for the third time. He wished it had been Aimeé after all.
#
In the dining hall at breakfast, Patrick came across Sir Corbin, who was all smiles.
“Thanks,” he said.
Corbin laughed. “Of course, what are friends for?”
Many of the knights and staff ribbed him over the matter. Evidently he was the first knight to be selected by a Guest as a chaperone.
“She zeroed in on you like an arrow to a bull’s-eye.” Corbin winked at him. “We told you the Ladies have an eye for you.”
Patrick suppressed a shudder. “I'm not so sure it's like that.”
Corbin frowned. “Why not?”
Patrick waved the matter aside. He couldn't exactly explain how she had looked at him during the funeral, as if he had been responsible for Jason. If not that, then he felt guilty for having the affections of Jason's old flame. And yet still, he didn't want the repeat the episode with Lady Christianne Morneau. He was determined not to let another thief into the confines of his heart to steal another portion of his pride, what precious little of it remained.
#
Patrick met the Lady Katherina at the main gate. She carried a delicate and colorful kite. Without a word, she handed the thing to him and strode over the drawbr
idge. He was obviously meant to follow.
A small band of Avangarde in the courtyard saw this transaction, and several of them went down on one knee and swooned. Patrick made eyes at them to tell them to keep quiet, but this only caused them to laugh all the more.
Patrick followed the Lady Guest up a gentle slope. At the top, she took the spool from him and told him to stay put while she unraveled it and pulled it some distance away.
She talked nonstop. She spoke of keep affairs, the previous night's play, and what committees she aspired to join. She seemed to talk for the sake of talking, rather than with (or even at) the Irishman. Her accent and grammar grated on him; she constantly forgot to use articles, or indicate the appropriate number of subjects in a sentence. Patrick was no master linguist, and even he admittedly had problems speaking French or the Anglo language, but there was something arrogant about her butchery. She obviously had a command of vocabulary, but refused to string it together correctly.
“Sir Gawain, you are listening to me?”
“Yes, my Lady.”
She went into another monologue. Patrick shifted his weight to the other foot. He felt stupid standing there holding a kite, trying to figure out what the girl was up to.
She told him to throw the kite into the air. He did, but couldn't manage to get it aloft.
“Oh stop it, let me do it before you break it.” She came forward and took the kite, thrust the string into his hand and expertly sent the contraption into the air where it pulled the string taut. He tried handing it back to her.
“No, you keep. You obviously have need of learning how.”
Patrick’s brow furrowed. “My Lady, I don't think that it is a good idea for your chaperone and guardian to be preoccupied with a toy.”
“Why not?”
“The idea is to protect you, which I cannot do if I am...” He trailed off, struggling with the airborne kite that fought in his hand like a living thing.
Echoes of Avalon (Tales of Avalon Book 1) Page 28