by J. Naomi Ay
“You know him?”
“Indeed, I do.” With each stroke, Gabe began to sing. It was a love song from an old movie, one Katie had watched many times in her youth. It had featured Barlan Rando, the famous star of musicals both stage and screen. Gabe’s voice and rendition were so beautiful, she almost felt like crying.
"Communications," the boy smirked. "With that voice, he could wake the dead, although, it doesn’t seem to be working on Steve." Waving his hand, the boy produced a whorl of silver light, which encased both himself and the drowned man. “Come on, bro. You’re not done yet, you hear?”
"What's going on?" Katie began to say, although no one could hear her speak, as a rousing applause erupted from the other campsites on the shoreline. "Who is this boy, Gabe? What is he doing?"
Gabe ignored her, and instead began to sing another one of Barlan Rando’s Top 40 hits. That was until he was interrupted by Katie falling across his lap. That was not intentional. In fact, Katie had no control over the direction in which she toppled, having fainted dead away upon recognizing her oldest son, Shika.
“Oops,” Gabe chuckled, watching as Katie's head knocked against the wooden hull, punctuating the end of his performance with a misplaced staccato thump. “I suppose, you’ll have to revive her next.”
“No thanks,” Arsan replied, moving aside as Shika coughed and spewed a stream of water. "She's your problem."
A few moments later, when Katie awoke, without Arsan's assistance, Shika was sitting up, and complaining about Jimmy Mattson’s worthless spaceplane.
“The dude could have killed us!” he raged, although no one was listening, excepting the other campers along the shore, who were now shouting for him to be quiet and let them sleep.
While Rent secured the boat to the dock, and assisted his newly reacquainted and befuddled mother to disembark, Arsan and Gabe stood together gazing at the brilliant, star-filled sky.
“How was the weather?” Gabe was asking. "Were there any storms on the horizon?"
"Nope," Arsan shrugged, "It was surprisingly quiet."
"No hurricanes, tornadoes, blizzards, or quakes?”
“Nope,” Arsan repeated. “Bitterly cold, but amazingly calm. I didn't stay very long, though. I prefer to avoid him at all costs."
"Was he feeling okay? Did you take his temperature, by chance?"
"Nope. But, he was cold, just like I said. He seemed tired, and hung over, in his usual bad mood. I didn't really want to hang around, so he could yell at me for being stupid. Hey, Gabe, have you got anything to eat in your camper? I’m really hungry, and my clothes are all wet. Do you have internet? I want to text my girlfriend. She's pretty pissed off because I had to leave so fast.”
“Of course.” Gabe slapped the youngster on the back. “You’re almost as big as me now, and you know what? I've discovered that eating is great fun. You know what’s even more fun? It’s when you and your girl...”
"I know," Arsan interrupted, with husky chuckle, and a brotherly elbow in the Gabe's ribs.
“Gabe!” Katie shrieked, while holding her spinning head. “I told you to stop communicating!”
"Who is this guy?" Shika demanded. "Arsan, how do you know him?"
"Well," Arsan began. "The truth is, he's actually, well..."
"I guess you could say I'm your uncle," Gabe replied. "In a sense, if you consider all time and space."
"Not another one," Rent groaned. "I think I liked it better when I was still an orphan."
"Me too," Shika agreed. "I liked it even better before you came."
Chapter 2
Senya de Kudisha was hungover, a condition he experienced more often than not these days. If he had bothered to think about it, which he did not, he would have had trouble recalling the last time or place when he had been sober and clear headed. He wouldn't even bother trying to remember a time when he was happy. No, that was so distant a memory, it seemed almost as if it had never been.
Both the reason and the cure for Senya's hangover was more alcohol. In fact, the only way to combat his decrepit condition was to exist in a constant state of intoxication. This way, Senya would not have to acknowledge his misery, or the incessant pounding of the varying degrees of migraines which continuously plagued him. Neither would he have to recognize the depths of his mood, which were currently lower than the dirt beneath his long, curled toenails.
Despite all this, every morning, or if not morning, at some point during the day, Senya made a half-hearted attempt to stumble into his office. There, he would collapse behind his desk, briefly feign interest in the news sheets or writs before him, and pretend to care about the fate of what still remained of his Empire.
When this effort became too tedious, or when his throat once again parched, he would summon yet another bottle from the air, with which he would fruitlessly attempt to drown out his ever-present sorrows.
No one dared to stop him, or encourage him to break free of this disastrous cycle. There wasn't a single person left who had the fortitude to intervene on his behalf, and neither was there a single person close enough to care about the man.
This included the elderly Lord Taner of Turko, and Lord Kinar, who used to sit sentinel outside the Imperial Office. Both gentleman now spent their retirement playing cards in an Imperial Jail, or strolling leisurely across the fenced-in grounds while waiting for sentencing on their crimes of High Treason. Each evening in the facility’s common room, they watched classic Barlan Rando movies on the vid, laughing jocularly with one another for their lives now were far more enjoyable than their days spent serving the Evil Emperor.
Neither was the Empress present to alter the Emperor's disastrous course. Years ago, had she found him indulging such as this, she would have seized the bottle from his grasp, and lectured him soundly on the folly of his intemperance. After which, she would threaten him with all sorts of ultimatums, deny him breakfast or dinner, the pleasure of listening to a football game with his bare feet upon the coffee table, or in the worst instances, enact her most draconian punishment of refusing him entrance to their bed. Quickly, he would have mended his ways, promising to be good from here on out, and for a time, he would be, until the cycle began anew.
Now, there was simply no one, no friends, no family, no loyal retainers. Save the cherub, the single celestial brother, who he had not yet alienated in this life, Senya was completely alone, or as much as an empire-less Emperor could be.
“What are you doing, Mika?” the cherub was asking late one afternoon when Senya was very nearly passed out across his desk.
He had considered forcing himself upright, dragging his feet across the floor en route to his bedroom, but concluded the effort was simply not worth the reward. The desk wasn’t that uncomfortable. In fact, the pain it caused in his neck was much less than what he would have suffered should he have coerced his left leg into action.
“I’m doing nothing. What does it look like?” he snapped at the cherub’s seemingly innocuous question, although nothing with that little fellow was ever innocent.
The cherub, as his brothers referred to him, was actually the Archangel Uri’el. Unlike his elder siblings, he was currently in a strictly celestial form, hence the nickname, and the teasing which ensued.
“Well, you need to do something,” the cherub replied, hovering just slightly above the cluttered desk.
“I’m breathing, damnit. Isn’t that enough for you?”
“Actually, no. You have a few other tasks on your plate.”
“Fuck that.”
“Can’t,” Uri responded. “Although, if you wish to summon me down, I could do it in the future.”
“Aren’t you clever,” the Emperor slurred, summoning instead another bottle from his hidden storage, an ice box of sorts, in an alternate dimension. He kept many things there, although not all of them on ice. It was quite handy, really, except when he was too drunk to recall where it was. Like now. Despite how intently he willed it to be, no bottle appeared in his hand.
The cherub laughed. "Mika, you are pathetic."
"Indeed, I am.” The Emperor laid his head down upon the desk once again. "And, you are wise and tasked with spreading your wisdom amongst fools. Go for it, Uri. I wish you luck and much success."
"I am trying to offer my wisdom right now. Alas, poor, pathetic Mika, endowed with god-like virtues and strengths, the leader of both celestial and mortal warriors, yet again he turns out to be the biggest fool of all. Enough of your pity party, elder brother. Get out of your chair and get back to work. There are battles waiting to be fought, enemies to be vanquished, and wars to be won. Do you recall where you might have placed your sword?"
"I don't know. I can't remember. 'Tis probably in the same place I stashed all my bottles.”
The cherub slapped his forehead. He rolled his eyes, and shook his head.
"I believe you have stashed your reason there, as well, for that would explain why you lack it now."
With that, little Uri’el disappeared in a flash of silver light, leaving poor, pathetic Senya all alone.
That was until another brother arrived, plopping down in the empty chair across the desk.
"Hello Mika," Luka announced. “Having a good life?”
"Visiting hours are over," Senya mumbled. “Best to leave before the nurse ushers you out. She’s quite large and very cruel, as well as exceptionally ugly. On the other hand, all of your minions look and act the same.”
Luka laughed. “I enjoy you as this. When you are well into your cups, you aren’t nearly so arrogant. In fact, we are quite like one another now, so close we might be mistaken as twins.”
“That alone would be reason enough for me to drink.”
“Indeed. Shall I fetch you a fresh bottle? Whilst we indulge, we might play a little game of chess.”
"No, thank you. I'd rather just lie here on the table wishing I was dead."
"I can arrange that for you if you would like." Luka leaned back in the chair, and lit himself a cigarette, as if he planned to stay and chat a while longer.
"I do not doubt that you are able, but I shall decline your offer in any case. Go away now. I find your presence worse than death."
"Why does everyone always say that about me?" Luka mused, disappearing into the air. "Is it my breath? Or, the way I look, not that you can tell."
"'Tis your odor," Senya murmured, before briefly falling asleep, only to suffer tortured dreams of those self-same brothers.
When he awoke a short time later, due to the unpleasant stabbing pain of a crick in his neck, Senya sat upright and lit himself a cigarette. He was marginally less intoxicated, enough so that he could think on his situation, although doing so prompted an overwhelming desire to drink again.
He resolved valiantly not to succumb, which wasn't all that difficult, as he still couldn't recall the secret hiding place of his bottles. It could be here or there, or possibly, under that. In any case, it was dreadfully annoying to have forgotten such an important place, especially one that had steadfastly served him well throughout his many lives.
Leaning back in his chair, he forced his memory to focus on where said storage closet might be. When had he last been there? When had he first been there? Kari-fa! His mind was confused about so much these days.
The only closet which came to mind was an old locked cupboard filled with dust, smelling rankly of old wood, mouse droppings, and a bit of mold. His buttocks were hurting, and he was hungry, and unfortunately, he needed to pee, but no one was about to let him out anytime soon. Undoubtedly, he had been acting up again. Somehow, he always was. Regardless, the mere fact of his existence was an anathema to the Sainted Sisters.
Funny how he could recall so few details of these days, yet the memories of the switch across his ass, followed by the closet door slamming shut, were as sharp as they had been back then.
The reason for the switching was two fresh eggs stored in Senya’s pockets, which he had swiped from the kitchen, earlier that morning. At the time, he feared the switching might cause the eggs to break, sending yellow yolk and sticky white trickling down his legs.
If only he had somewhere else to put them, somewhere from which he might retrieve his little delicacies later, for he had planned on enjoying those eggs only moments before he had been caught. Then, unbidden into his mind came the memory of this place, this dimension, and this storage locker filled with treasures from lives past.
“Go there,” he whispered to the eggs in the secret language he used to speak to himself. This too he recalled from a distant time, although he knew not why. As it turned out, it was the language spoken by his celestial brothers in their celestial home, something his juvenile mind could not yet remember.
A few years later, he didn’t know how many had passed, when he had figured out how to visit that storage locker, he realized that along with his eggs, there were quite a few items there. Primarily, they were trinkets and souvenirs, as well as that famed golden sword of Heavenly Might. There was also a ring, a blue firestone set on a platinum band, and small enough to fit a lady’s finger. He picked it up, and held it within his hands, feeling the warmth of it, while recalling a woman’s touch. Who was she and where was she? At that point, he didn’t know.
However, he had inkling then of who he really was, and frankly, the prospect frightened him beyond measure. It was daunting enough to accept that he was the crown prince of his entire planet, but to couple that with the awesome responsibility of managing the universe, little Senya quickly grew overwhelmed.
However, things became clearer one afternoon when Senya was seven or eight years old. He had been sitting on a tree limb in an Old Mishnah park, while below him children played on rusted swings and broken slides. The winter sun was weak, but warm after days of incessant rain.
Steps away, in a ball field, a game had commenced, the rules of which required large sticks and heavy rocks to be lobbed at all contestants.
Senya never joined any of the children in their play. In fact, had he appeared on the playground in their midst, the children would have run quickly back to their mothers' arms. The larger, older boys, and the girls who thought they were strong and tough, might turn their rocks and sticks entirely in his direction. It was his odd Karupta looks, as well as the strange glow from his silver eyes, that prompted Senya's alienation from normal children, or so he thought.
Therefore, Senya chose to stay up in a tree. It was safer there for everyone concerned. A misplaced stone or stick might cause the hurler to end up dead, for Senya’s temper was quick, and not easily controlled. Also, he liked to be in a tree, nestled comfortingly against the trunk. The intertwined limbs held him, tightly embracing him almost like a mother's arms. He didn’t know this for certain, as a mother was something he never had.
"Hello Mika,” a voice announced arriving with no preamble, and startling the boy so much so he nearly lost his grip.
Senya couldn't smell the visitor, or feel any displacement in the air. Neither could he hear the man's thoughts through the electrical impulses of his brain. There was no one else around, not even a robin or a squirrel with whom Senya might briefly direct their eyes. Thus, he was truly in the dark when it came to whomever was demanding his attention, a situation he had rarely, if ever, been in before.
"Don't be afraid," the voice continued, his tone as melodic as a song. "I am the last one you need to fear, because I can't do anything but talk. Well, I can sing. I'm very good at that, and I can play musical instruments of any sort. You and Cassie used to enjoy when I played upon my lute."
"What?" Senya asked, realizing now that the voice was speaking in his secret language, which in itself was quite odd.
"My lute. You also liked my harp, although Cassie always despised my accordion. I promised you never to play that again when she was around. Music, Mika," the voice repeated. "That's my thing. I'm in Communications. Now, you on the other hand..."
"My name is Senya."
"Yes, yes, I know that. Sehron de Kudisha. You have a bun
ch of titles too, and a few more names, but we'll get to all that later. In the meantime, Mika, I'm here to tell you..."
"I'm not Mika. I'm Senya."
"Indeed, you are. This is a little bit more difficult than I anticipated. Ah well. You’re still young and quiet naïve, but I won’t hold that against you. I remember once when I was your age, you came and shocked me out of my gourd. I’ve been waiting all these centuries to do the same to you. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that Cassie has been born, and she’s doing fine, in case you were concerned. Unfortunately for you,” the voice chuckled. “She lives on another planet. Heh heh. That will certainly make it interesting when you are trying to get together."
"Cassie?"
"Your wife? I don't blame you for wanting to forget her. Women! You know how difficult they can be, especially that one. She is definitely a handful. When one thinks of angels, the image of Cassi’ot doesn’t exactly come to mind. Now, if I were to think of a demon, Cassie just might…"
"What?" Senya interrupted.
The voice sighed. "Catch you next time, Mika. I think I will send over our brother, Uri to help you turn on your brain. Your wisdom is definitely lacking, and your memory has obviously gone missing. Ta ta for now, big brother. Sing if you need me at all, although your voice has always lacked harmony. Tone deaf, I believe it’s called."
Then, he left, which wasn’t all that different than when he had been there. Senya turned his attention back to the children in the park, having just become reacquainted with his brother Gabe.
Now, as Senya studied the cigarette between his fingers, and the nagging pain running down his left leg from thigh to shin, he considered the paradoxical demands of being who he was.
His soul was that of Mika’el, but his mortal body was Sehron de Kudisha, and both of them were completely finished with this arrangement.
Chapter 3
"Where are you going?" Shelly demanded, noting Jimmy's travel bag in the front hall. "I thought you said you were staying home for awhile. You said, your budget was cut. No more junkets and conferences on Planet Vegas."