Dell could see how the whole situation could get out of hand. Malachi's friends might stop playing with him, instinctively knowing he was not like them. He could be made an outcast, a pariah. The adults coming into contact with him might discover his predictions were true and bring the news media into the secret. Then what?
All day long Dell worried, watching the clock until she could pick Malachi up and question him. She must really impress on her son the seriousness of all his actions, no matter how innocent they appeared to him. He only wanted to help, she knew, but he hadn't the maturity to realize the ramifications of the news he carried.
What am I going to do, she wondered. Can I really control how a three-year-old behaves when I'm not with him?
The hands of the clock crept toward two in the afternoon, each second a decade, each minute a lifetime.
~*~
Charles Upton woke, coming from deep sleep without any residue of cloudiness. He saw immediately that the cards were gone. He flew to the cell door in a rage, raising his thunderous voice. "Madeline! Did you steal my cards? Give them back!"
A faint voice floated along the corridor and to his ears. "I don't have them. Leave me alone, you simpering beast."
Upton knew she spoke the truth. "Where are they, then? Who took them? I'll take his head and crush it to pieces."
Madeline did not respond. This caused Upton's rage to spin out of control. He shook the iron bars in the grate until Joseph came running, his leather sandals flapping noisily down the long corridor.
"What's going on here?"
"The cards you gave me are gone. I want them back!"
Joseph kept his distance from the door. He put his hands behind his back and glared at the other vampire. "I was remiss in giving them to you. They belonged to a priest who asked for them back."
"Liar!"
"Stop this racket. It won't get you anywhere."
"I'll howl until your ears bleed, you lying bastard. Give me back the cards."
Joseph turned away and was gone in an instant.
Upton beat his head against the bars between his hands until his forehead bled. As he'd threatened, he howled like an animal, furious he'd been lied to. He had to have the cards. Already he'd been able to discern some of their vital message. They told him he was to be a great being, a vampire that would go down in history as infamous as any historical figure in the past. He'd been about to question the cards about how that event would come about and ask for advice on escape when he'd fallen asleep from exhaustion the night before. He'd been on the very brink of knowing everything he needed to get out of the monastery and be free.
How could they do this to him?
Violently, he flung himself away from the door. He struck the opposite wall and rolled around the walls of his cell four feet above the floor. He twirled so fast the world blurred to a dark cylinder. All the while he screamed at the top of his voice.
So violent was his spin around the walls that he never knew when the cell door creaked open and six large monks entered. The first he knew of the intrusion was when strong, cold hands clamped onto his head, shoulders, arms, and legs, throwing him to the stone floor with a tremendous thump.
"Let me go," he shouted, struggling mightily. He bit at his captors, teeth sinking into sinew and bone.
He heard Joseph's voice. "We will enter you now and bind you for your own good."
He hadn't an inkling what that meant. He continued struggling, throwing the whole bunch of them who were clasped to his body around the room.
At first he felt a chill, as if ice had formed to circle his brain. His thoughts diminished to a tiny glow, held deep within the innermost part of his brain. He had stopped moving and gone limp in the hands of the monks. He struggled now with silent voices which whispered, Be still. Rest now. Be not afraid.
He tried to curse and could not. He tried to move, but his limbs would not obey. There were presences inside him, milling about, standing guard, arms crossed. He could not see them, but he sensed them and knew the individuals would not leave until they were ready to do so. His brain seemed dead to him. All light was extinguished. His fury remained, but it was so small that it could not send out a signal to react against the beings who held him. He was as helpless as a babe, his consciousness bound as firmly as if it had been roped and dragged into an eternal pit.
He sat in his mind, crouching in the darkness, nursing his fury, waiting for release. He did not care how long it took. Time meant nothing to him. It meant nothing at all. He would sacrifice a thousand years if he had to.
Time stoked his need for revenge and revenge was a cloak in which he wrapped himself. He would throw it off so that it took his enemies into a whirlwind. Just as soon as he could manage it, that is.
Until then he would wait. He had no other choice.
~*~
Dolan sat in the chapel listening to the tolling of bells. It was midday and he was alone. He could walk around during the day in this place as it was as dark and shadowy as night inside the massive stone walls. The night before the monks had let him into the monastery on his arrival, bowing as he passed. He had never been treated with respect before. It produced an astounding feeling of wellbeing. He was thrilled to be on a mission of importance for Mentor and to be treated like a prince.
On the bumpy bus ride that brought him from the city airport to the small village, he soaked in the new and exotic sights and sounds of the night-shrouded Thailand country. He knew that once it was called Siam and the people called Siamese. No matter what they called it, he thought the country extremely beautiful. Even the signs of poverty, the shacks and huts, the roadside altars made of mud, the throngs of poor in their tattered clothing, children barefoot and hollow-eyed, could not lower his esteem for the land. He knew he was being romantic and he might have felt the same had he flown to France or Greece or Spain. He knew he was acting like an awed tourist who has never experienced the world. But he couldn't deny he had fallen helplessly in love.
As the bus left the village, stopping to let off passengers along the route, the long green fields and thatched huts gave way to a dense, emerald-green jungle that pushed in from each side of the ruddy road. From the open window Dolan caught glimpses of monkeys swinging in tall trees, looking for a branch fork to make into a bed. He wanted to get out and walk beneath the canopy and lose himself in the wild. He saw the mountains rising all around as they drew nearer to them.
When the bus slowed, gears grinding, he saw he was at his destination. He took up his bag and stumbled for the door. Far from any other habitation, the monastery rose from the floor of the jungle like a stone vision from antiquity. It was ringed with a high stone wall with a wide-open gate. Beyond the gate lay a courtyard, the pale moon-washed ground brushed clean and still bearing the marks of sweeping. In the center of the courtyard was another ring of gray stone blocks setting off a twelve-foot stone tower from which was suspended a set of three engraved brass bells.
Dolan was met near the bell tower by a monk in the traditional orange Buddhist robe. "Welcome," he said. "We have a room ready for you."
Dolan thanked him and followed his guide into the deeper dark of a portico where earth gave way to cobbled floor. They passed through massive wood doors, propped open with brass statues of temple dogs that caught and reflected moonlight.
Dolan lost himself in contemplation of the high ceilings where ancient, rough-hewn beams held up the roof. Along the several corridors they took, there were niches in the walls with various Buddhist figures surrounded by candles dripping fragrant wax.
"I could live here forever," Dolan said.
The monk leading him did not turn, but replied in a reverent tone, "We love it, too. It's very special."
Dolan was put into an austere cell on the ground floor.
"If you require anything, please let us know." The monk bowed and backed from the room, leaving Dolan alone.
There was a bed made from a slab of stone that projected from the wall. It held a burla
p bag filled with straw and then covered with white wool bedding, a crisp white pillow propped at the head. Across the room was a gorgeously carved rosewood chest to hold his clothes. A small writing table stood against the wall beneath a window looking out over the courtyard, the shutters thrown wide to the night's passing breeze. On the desk was a pewter pitcher of water and a washbowl made of carved wood. Heavy round candles set in saucers of brass gleamed on table and chest.
There was no ornamentation other than these simple utilitarian objects.
Dolan put down his bag and went to the open window. He leaned out, his arms resting on the wide wood sill. If Mentor had wanted to send him on a vacation, he could not have found a more restful place.
Of course, this was no vacation, he reminded himself. He had been given a sheaf of papers to take with him on the plane. The information gave him a picture of Charles Upton that any fool could see meant the vampire was a risk. He read about what sort of man Upton had been in life and what had transpired since his change to vampire.
It seemed to Dolan that Mentor might have made a strategic mistake in not calling for Upton's death. They probably should have taken him out into the West Texas desert, burned him to ashes, and scattered him to the wind. Neglecting to do so meant they were stuck watching him, the way a mortal might watch a hooded cobra.
A vampire had not come along who voiced such demented ambition before now. Upton wanted to murder the Cravens and throw the Naturals upon their own devices to obtain the blood they needed. He would have the world turned upside down, mortals slaughtered far and wide to quench the ravenous thirst. He cared not at all if the world discovered they walked alongside beasts bent on their destruction.
Dolan shivered with the thought. Anyone who had been born of woman could not think this way. Yet Upton had been a man, but obviously one of those rare men without a shred of empathy.
The jungle forest infringing on the compound resonated with birdsong and the raucous chatter of monkeys. Though it was night, Dolan could still feel the day's warmth rising from the wood beneath his hands. He smiled and turned to unpack his things.
This Upton would not get away from him. He'd do a good job and make Mentor proud. He was a Craven, but he was not useless. He was not a blight and a burden. He'd been given an important task and he would not fail.
The night sang with life outside his window and the moon rose above the canopy to shine down on the courtyard, its light soft and silver and without menace.
Chapter 7
Malachi learned early not to interfere in people's lives. He had done it once when he'd known his great-aunt Celia had a lump growing in her breast and from that time forward he was very careful about what he told people. There were secrets, he thought, and people didn't want to know them. Some of the secrets had to do with illness and some had to do with other things, like accidents about to happen, bad luck on its way, the loss of an expensive object, the betrayal of a loved one. Secrets came in all permutations, as unpredictable as the shape of the clouds in the sky.
He just couldn't tell anyone anything anymore, that's what his mama said, and he knew she was right. He'd known it was a mistake to speak out the minute he'd seen his great-aunt's stunned face. He'd shocked her. He'd scared her. He shouldn't have told her the secret.
It didn't matter that he thought she already suspected the lump wasn't a good thing. He never told his mama that, how Great-aunt Celia knew. In a way. She knew and she didn't know. She didn't want to know. Then he'd told her and messed everything up.
So the day he went to day care and his friend, Stevie, came in looking all gray and sick, Malachi couldn't help but put his hands on the other boy's shoulders. He did it as a gesture of friendship, one boy to another, but he had other reasons, besides. He had to know what was wrong. He couldn't stand not knowing. Upon touching Stevie, he knew everything. It was not a hungry, growing lump deep in his young flesh. It was something hungry in Stevie's blood. It was something that ate up some of his blood cells, one after another and another and another. He imagined it as a Pacman monster, hurtling through his friend's bloodstream, gobbling everything in its path. He knew immediately what it meant: Stevie was dying.
Malachi didn't say a word. He looked into Stevie's eyes and knew he shouldn't. Stevie wouldn't understand. He was too little to understand something invisible and painless was gobbling him alive.
But he was dying, that was irrefutable.
That night Malachi went to the porch and sat with his mother after dinner. She sensed his distress and asked if he wanted to talk about something. He felt her presence not only outside himself, but creeping now into his mind.
"Don't do that, Mama," he pleaded.
She withdrew, sitting quietly at his side, waiting.
He thought it over. She'd get mad at him again, he feared. Though he hadn't spoken aloud his misgivings about Stevie's future, she could still find something wrong with him knowing and she'd get that look on her face again—the one she'd used on him when he'd blurted out the news of the hungry lump.
He finally shrugged and said he didn't have anything to talk about. Nothing at all. Nothing.
It proved to be a terrible burden. When he was older, he realized if he'd confessed to his mother that night all his fears for Stevie, it might have helped. But he hadn't told her. He just went to day care every day and saw Stevie dwindle little by little. He watched the light in his eyes dim. Helplessly, he stood by and watched.
Stevie stopped playing with Malachi, stopped playing with anyone. He'd sit for hours with blocks in his hands, staring at the carved letters on their sides as if they contained a message, hardly moving for long minutes. He'd watch television, but never show any real interest in the cartoons.
Stevie didn't cry or complain. He just got grayer and smaller and quieter, like a gray mouse sitting in a corner, starving slowly. Then one day he didn't come to day care and Malachi never saw him again. He didn't have to ask the teacher where his friend had gone. He knew.
It was that way for many years. The secret keeping.
When he was eight, he watched as his elementary school teacher, Mr. Golden, walked in front of a speeding car that hurtled out of the student parking lot. Malachi had known for hours it would happen. It was like a movie running over and over in his head. Mr. Golden had an armload of books. He was looking to his right when he stepped from the curb. He was about to turn his head to look to his left when the red convertible driven by a high school boy who had come to pick up his little brother, sped toward him like a tornado.
Malachi hung back on the playground, covering his eyes. He was crying when they found him. They took him to the office and called his parents. His father came to pick him up and Malachi hunched his shoulders and cried all the way home. Once there, his worried parents made him talk.
"I knew my teacher was going to walk out in front of that car," he said finally. "I knew since I got to school this morning. I was passing Mr. Golden in the hall before the bell rang, and I had this . . . flash. I saw everything." He wiped his teary face. "You told me not to tell." He sobbed some more. "And now he's dead."
His parents held him close and absolved him of all sin. He was a child, they said. He didn't know it would really happen. It wasn't his fault.
"I'll keep all the secrets," he said.
His mother took his tear-stained face in her hands and made him look her in the eyes. "If you feel something bad like that again, you call me. Okay? Maybe I can stop it from happening."
"What if I don't have time? What if I can't get you?"
His mother frowned, realizing the logic of his protest. "Let me think about this, Malachi. I just don't know what's right yet."
Later that night when he'd been sent to bed she came to him. "I've talked this thing over with Mentor," she said. "He wants you to start seeing him once a week so he can teach you how to block these feelings out. We both think it would be best if you . . . well, if you don't even know about bad things."
He didn't
know how he could stop it. How could he not even know? It would be some kind of miracle.
Malachi was bereft for the rest of the night until he fell into an exhausted sleep. How was he going to stop knowing the secrets? How could he block them out? And if he did, how would he feel when something bad happened he might have prevented?
During the next year, under Mentor's tutelage, he came to understand the gravity of his gifts and the responsibilities they conferred on him. If he could sense impending disasters, they could haunt him every day of his life. He couldn't always prevent them. Life, in some ways, was predestined, and souls, Mentor said, walked individual paths that might have been laid down for them even before they were born. If he interfered in the lives of others, he was in effect rewriting destinies. And no one should have that responsibility, least of all a child trying to tune into his human nature so that he could live a natural life.
It was a long, slow process, but Malachi came to love his time with the old vampire. He wasn't like anyone else in Malachi's life. He was stronger and smarter than anyone. He was wiser. He had lived many more lifetimes than Malachi's mother or anyone in her family. He was ready to admit he was fallible and made mistakes, but, to Malachi, it seemed that was impossible. Mentor knew everything. He knew Malachi's mind and heart. He knew what would keep him safe and sane. He knew how to help him.
By the time Malachi was a little over nine years old, he had learned the valuable trick of neglect. He simply did not make any effort to know what he could have known had he tried. He developed ways to keep from putting his hands on his classmates, even during playtime. He became a log in the stream, letting the water of life rush past. He did not move, nor did he seek out secrets ever again. Not only did he not touch his classmates if he could help it, he kept his mind closed to stray visions that sometimes streamed from others. He ran from involvement.
And after a while, a peace descended on him that he hadn't known before. He grew calm inside, and it translated to a quiet, reserved exterior personality. He was able to love his classmates without fear he'd learn of their imminent deaths or disasters which might befall them. He loved them as he should have—in the moment and without reserve.
SCROLLS OF THE DEAD-3 Complete Vampire Novels-A Trilogy Page 37