by Gilliam Ness
Something horrible happened to us when we were babies.
He moved away from Natasha and stepped out onto the stone balcony. It was past midnight but the streets of Rome were still bustling below.
“I’ve had dreams too,” he said slowly, facing out into the night. “All my life. I’ve always pretended that I didn’t have them, but when they came, I always knew something was wrong.”
“Then we are not in this alone, Gabriel,” came Natasha’s voice, but this time there was a renewed strength in it. “That makes everything different.”
Gabriel turned to find that Natasha had gone over to his bed. She lay there on her stomach, propped on her elbows and gazing into the glowing Cube. Once again Gabriel was captivated. The Cube’s blue light was washing over her face as though it were moonlight. He could see that she was no longer frightened, and her resilience surprised him, helping him to douse his own fears.
Gabriel shook his head in wonder. Just like the Cube, it seemed to him that deeper levels of Natasha were being revealed to him with every passing moment. This being said, it was getting easier for him to keep his distance from her. The more virtues he saw in her, the more unworthy he felt. She was intelligent, genuine, and compassionate, without ever coming off as prudish or self-satisfied, and he was, after all, a whore monger and a thief; a tomb robber. He felt more empty than ever.
“Do you remember what Uncle Marcus said about the spiritual separation between us?” asked Natasha, her attention still fixed on the glowing Cube.
Gabriel gathered himself before answering.
“He said there’d be dark forces attracted to you as long as we were not spiritually merged. Whatever that was supposed to mean.”
Natasha looked over at him through dark, curling locks.
“Two days ago I felt a supernatural presence in my workshop,” she said, tucking her hair away behind an ear. “It was evil, Gabriel. That is why I went to stay with Uncle Marcus. It really frightened me. I thought I was going crazy.”
“Two days ago,” said Gabriel, letting himself fall into an ornate chair next to the bed. “The same day I recovered the Cube.”
“That would make sense,” she said, sitting up and facing him. “Uncle Marcus said that dark forces were alerted to my presence when you retrieved the Cube without me being there.”
Gabriel thought for a moment.
“Do you think the dark forces could be in tune with our separation, in the same way that the Cube is in tune with our togetherness?”
Natasha shrugged.
“Considering that all positive spirituality is based on unity, and that all negative spirituality is based on separation, it could be so.”
“By negative spirituality, do you mean Satanism?”
“Among other things,” she said. “There are two opposing belief systems. The right hand path, and the left hand path. Followers of the right look for integration with the godhead. They want to achieve divine creative power by achieving union with all. That is what ‘All Is One’ means.”
Gabriel nodded.
“And followers of the left?”
“They seek the glorification of the individual self,” said Natasha. “They want power over others, and fragmentation. That is what ‘divide and conquer’ means. Throughout history the left hand has always been synonymous with evil because of these two different paths. As a matter of fact, in Latin, the word left means sinister.”
“Dextra et sinistra,” said Gabriel in Latin. “Right, and left.”
They both fell silent, each one caught up in their own thoughts. Natasha continued to examine the Cube.
“You know,” she said at length, “I am thinking we might find something if we could scan this with a biris.”
“What’s a biris?”
“It is a portable imagining scanner. I have one in my shop. It is on loan from the National Research Council of Canada. I am using it to capture all the Vatican pieces I have been restoring.”
“How does it work?”
“It uses three twin-aperture lasers to scan an object,” she said, “and then it triangulates the data to generate a three-dimensional image. With translucent objects like this one, you can scan them inside too. A biris is like an x-ray machine and an MRI, all in one.”
Gabriel’s face lit up.
“We’ve got to get that gizmo, Natasha,” he said, a roll of thunder filling the room as he spoke. “It might give us a clue as to what makes that artifact tick.”
Just then Gabriel’s phone rang, the name on the display filling their hearts with hope. Gabriel hit the speaker setting.
“Marcus?” they said together. “Is that you?”
“It certainly is!” came the familiar voice. “And I must say that I am delighted to be speaking with you both!”
“And Suora and Fra? Are you all safe?” asked Natasha.
“We are all fine,” came the humble voice of the old nun. “The good Father sent a noble giant to save us.”
Gabriel and Natasha looked at each other.
“Bahadur?” asked Gabriel.
“That is correct!” said the old Bishop. “He will be coming to Gibraltar to help us organize the rescue.”
“I don’t understand,” said Gabriel. “I thought he was being held prisoner by Nasrallah.”
“Bahadur was the leader of the men who invaded the rectory, my son. Nasrallah forced him to do his dirty work by threatening to kill his family, but Bahadur has happily decided to join our side instead.”
“You’ve got to tell him how sorry I am, Marcus,” said Gabriel, frowning. “This is all my fault. By stealing the Cube I put his entire family in danger. I had no idea this would happen.”
“It was not entirely your fault, Dr. Parker,” came the deep voice of Bahadur. “Had I thought twice before giving you and my cousin Amir the information, all this might have been avoided. Nonetheless we will free them all. Everything will be fine. Of this I am certain.”
“What will happen now?” asked Natasha.
“I have chartered a plane that will take us all to Gibraltar,” continued the giant. “We will leave Rome immediately. There is a storm approaching. You must come quickly.”
“Is there any way we can meet you in Gibraltar?” asked Gabriel. “We have to gather some important equipment in Florence first.”
“That will not be a problem,” said Bahadur. “I can arrange to have a plane waiting for you there. How much time will you require?”
Gabriel looked at Natasha.
“How tired are you?” he whispered, covering the microphone.
“I feel like I have been sleeping for an entire month,” she said, smiling.
“Let’s see,” said Gabriel into the phone. “It’s about a three-hour drive from here to Florence, but in a fast car I could do it in less than two. We’ll need an hour to gather the equipment. How about three hours from now? That would put us there at around three-thirty in the morning.”
“Consider it done, my friend,” said Bahadur. “I will text you the particulars.”
“If you don’t mind me asking,” said Gabriel. “How can you be so sure you’ll find a plane on such short notice?”
“Dr. Parker,” said Bahadur. “My position has its advantages.”
“I’m sure it does,” said Gabriel with a dry laugh.
“Very well then,” chimed in the old Bishop. “Off you go! At the Pillars of Hercules shall we meet!”
The elevator doors opened, revealing the hotel’s pompous lobby. They had not taken two steps forward before they were approached by the concierge.
“Dr. Parker,” he said formally. “The car you have requested is waiting in the courtyard.”
“Thanks,” said Gabriel, stuffing a hundred Euro note into the man’s jacket pocket. “It mustn’t have been easy to arrange at this hour.”
“It was my pleasure, Doctor,” he said cordially.
A peal of thunder shook the air as Natasha led the way outside. There was a black Audi R8 parked in the
courtyard, its sleek curves reflecting the silent flashes of lightning that lit up the night sky.
“Wow,” she said to Gabriel. “I am impressed.”
“We needed something fast,” he said with a shrug.
Gabriel lead Natasha to the passenger door and held it open long enough for her to fall in. A moment later she felt a dense thud as the door sealed itself shut, the car’s interior reminding her more of a fighter-jet cockpit than anything else. In a moment Gabriel had entered as well, quickly firing the engine to life. He slipped the car into gear and Natasha felt herself being sucked back into her seat as they sped out of the hotel and into traffic. Following Gabriel’s example, she clicked her seatbelt home, delighting in the car’s sexy interior.
“Here’s where she really sings,” said Gabriel, entering the autostrada’s onramp and gunning it.
The car lurched instantly into dizzying acceleration, but just then heavy drops of rain began to strike the windshield, smacking into it with the force of small stones. They were headed right into the storm. Gabriel gripped the hand-stitched leather steering wheel and settled back into his seat.
“Good thing we’ve got the quattro-drive.”
CHAPTER 34
Rome, Italy.
The rain was pummeling the tarmac, sending water shooting upwards in great splashing torrents. In all of his years in Rome, the Bishop had never seen a time when it had rained with such profuse density. It seemed an almost tropical storm, an anomaly in keeping with the strange, and often catastrophic, weather conditions that had been battering the planet of late. On this particular night there was not a breath of wind to be had, only a slight breeze being stirred up by the rain itself.
“How can we possibly fly in this?” muttered the old Bishop to no one in particular.
They were making their way out onto a runway that looked more like a fast moving river. Up ahead, the Bishop could vaguely discern the shape of a parked plane materializing through the downpour. It looked to be an old twin prop, its engines already running.
“Please, come along!”
It was the deep boom of Bahadur that called out to them. He was guiding them forward through the downpour, their umbrellas heavy under the falling water.
“We are almost there!”
Through a wall of rain the Bishop saw a staircase appear. He moved aside to allow Suora to pass first. Bahadur stepped up to help her, taking her umbrella and making sure she did not slip on the wet steel.
“Thank you, my son,” she said as they made their way up. “God bless you.”
Fra Bartolomeo followed, with the old Bishop slogging his way up last. The aircraft looked to be a relic of the early seventies; a silver cargo plane built like a tank. The interior was no different. Single rows of seats lined a wide cabin, leaving a broad cargo area running down the centre of the fuselage. It was hardly luxurious, but it offered a welcome shelter from the rain. The Bishop took a seat behind Fra, strapping on his seat belt and settling back into his chair.
Bahadur had just finished assisting Suora on the other side of the fuselage when the plane began to move. The Bishop watched him swing his massive body into the seat behind her, strapping on his belt and turning to look out the window with bruised eyes. The pounding rain, combined with the roaring engines, was making for a very noisy take off, but in the matter of a minute they were airborne, the plane rising sharply and banking to the right.
Outside the night was black under the dense rain, only to ignite into a flashing landscape of cloud when the lightning struck. The frequent claps of thunder sent shuddering quakes through the fuselage. Crossing himself, the old Bishop joined his friends in their well earned slumber. He had long ago given his life to God, and he feared death no more than one might fear a future dentist’s appointment. That is to say, without looking forward to it, but accepting that the time would come when he would find himself sitting in that chair with a bib tied around his neck.
* * * * * *
Gibraltar.
Amir hung up the phone and then picked it up again, dialing a new number. He had just arranged hotel accommodations for the Bishop and Brother, and had also, at the nun’s request, phoned ahead to the convent to let them know to expect her. He was now in the process of calling an old friend; one of Gibraltar’s most infamous smugglers. He could hear the phone ringing but there appeared to be no one home. He was about to hang up when a voice sounded on the other end of the line.
“Yeah, yeah! Alright for Christ’s sake!”
It was gruff from too much smoking, and aggressive; the voice of a Gibraltarian pirate, its British accent rounded by its marriage with the Andalusian dialect.
“I’ll get the bloody phone, don’t you move a leg darling! Hello!”
“Scotty,” said Amir in his steady tenor. “Sorry to be calling so late.”
“Amir!” came the reply. “Late? The night’s just beginning, mate! Bloody hell! The wife’s had me locked up in here with her all day, and it’s bloody tiring! I’m bloody well knackered from it!”
Amir smiled.
“Your wife keeps you out of trouble.”
Robert’s reply was being directed at someone other than Amir.
“Well if she don’t shut up, I’m gonna lock her fat ass in the closet again, the bloody WITCH!” and then in a friendly tone, “What can I do for you, mate?”
Amir’s dreadlocks shifted as he shook his head in disapproval, smiling despite himself.
“We’re in trouble, Scotty. Could you help us?”
“Of course, mate. What’s the problem?”
“Nasrallah’s putting the screws to Bahadur. He’s taken our family hostage. He’s even got granny.”
“That bloody bastard,” said Roberts, genuinely shocked. “That’s heavy shit, man. How can I help?”
“Bahadur is flying in from Rome tonight. He’s talking about taking Nasrallah down, and busting our family out. They’re being held in Nasrallah’s digs.”
“Bloody hell, mate,” said Roberts, a little shaky. “That’s a bloody fortress. I’d love to see it happen, but that’s a bleeding war you’re talking about.”
“Listen, Scotty,” said Amir, frowning with concern. “A few of us are getting together at Dickey’s shop down in the marina; sometime around sunrise. I know it’s early but do you think you could make it?”
Amir could hear the smuggler screaming at his wife in the background, the rubbing sound of his hand on the phone’s mouth piece doing little to mute the dialogue.
“Shut up, you bloody whore!” he bellowed. “Can’t you see I’m on the bleeding phone! …What’s that? Well I don’t give a bloody shit what you think, so you can shut your bloody mouth is what you can do!”
“Amir, my mate,” said Roberts returning to his good natured self again. “For you, anything. I’ll be there. And don’t you worry. We’ll find a way to get them out.”
Amir nodded.
“Thanks, Scotty.”
Amir could hear the screaming continue for a few seconds until the line went dead. He shook his head and smiled. Some people never changed.
CHAPTER 35
Los Picos de Europa, Northern Spain.
Isaac dragged the bloated corpse of his son onto the rocks of the island, the air entering and leaving his lungs in great gasps. His feet slipped in the soft clay, his bleeding toes curling into the yielding earth in an attempt to find traction. Over the course of the crossing, the cadaver’s weight had almost doubled, the water having found its way in through the decomposing rib cage, leaving it waterlogged, and wretched beyond belief. Isaac strained to heave it onto the rocks.
Above him a thick tangle of trunks and boughs were dissolving into the grainy depths of the island. Somewhere outside of that cursed mountain range the sun would be rising, but it was invisible to him. He was in a low valley, the sky above dimmed by a somber mass of cloud that churned and boiled forebodingly.
“To the Portal of Ahreimanius!” came the icy hiss yet again, but this time with an i
nsistence that was almost crippling.
“To the Portal!”
A muffled cry escaped Isaac’s tightened lips. The demons within him were frantic, and the corpse of his son had begun to lurch and contort again, its limbs thrashing violently in great uncoordinated jerks. The stench of it was outlandish. Clotted masses of maggots, excrement, and vitriol were being pumped from the broken carcass with every freakish contortion.
“To the Portal!” it hissed voicelessly, the fiendish words stabbing like needles into his brain.
With a desperate and frantic tug, Isaac dislodged the corpse from the rocky depression where it lay, and proceeded in haste to drag it to the place of its incestuous conception. The rocks were slippery with the blood that left his feet, the incline steep and treacherous. Nevertheless, Isaac did as he was compelled to do, so that after an agonizing trial, he had arrived at the clearing, the skin on his hands and knees broken and torn, and his breath coming to him in choking grunts.
The circle of standing stones was better lit than the tangled path he had followed. Whereas the dense trunks had blotted out almost all of the predawn light, the clearing itself offered a dead glow of filtered illumination. It fell over the place like a pall. The central monolith seemed to call out to him. It lay there heavy and massive, its weathered top flat, and ready to accept what had burdened him for so long.
With his last ounce of strength, Isaac heaved the corpse onto its surface, a chorus of icy whispers driving away the last remnants of sanity from his mind. Around him, spread out in a perfect circle, were the fourteen standing stones, as tall as men, and disfigured as though they had been subjected to tremendous heat.
Isaac produced a shard of metal and proceeded to disrobe the jerking body. Black shadows had appeared on its skin, showing him where to cut. Without a word he began to butcher the undead flesh, all the while gagging and vomiting from the stench of it. No sooner had the corpse come into contact with the central stone than it had begun to tremble. It was as if each piece of the grisly carnage were somehow alive; quivering and contracting as the crude blade divided it up; the fingers gripping; the toes curling and uncurling. A tortured voice in Isaac’s soul cried out helplessly.