by Joey Ruff
I sat there for a second, and as I struggled to stand, the partner ran up to me with the shotgun lifted and brought the butt of the gun down onto my face.
Everything went black.
22
Ape
London took the intruder down to the dungeon, leaving me alone in the study where I just sat in one of the high-backed chairs, an ice pack at my head.
Chess appeared by my feet. He was carrying something in both hands, a rock of some kind roughly the size of a baseball. He watched me with a concerned look for a minute, turned and looked at where the intruder had been, the overturned books in the corner, turned back to me and nodded. “Well done, sir.”
I wasn’t sure what he was referring to, but I didn’t bother asking any questions.
He didn’t say anything else. Rather, he held up the rock. I took it from him and set the icepack on the table beside me. As I looked it over, I realized it was less of a rock and more of a broken fragment of concrete. It had a top and a bottom, both flat, with a rough, jagged edge around the outside. The rock was a sandy color with speckles of a darker brown and a slight tinge of red, maybe from clay. I looked at it, turning it over, finding nothing remarkable. “What is this?”
“A Babel stone.”
Maybe my jaw dropped. “Seriously?”
“So you know of it.”
“By reputation. I’ve never actually seen one. I guess I thought it would be fancier. I would have just walked past this without thinking twice.”
“Do you know how it works?”
“Yes. I mean, I think so. This is obviously the right side. I can still understand you. Right?”
Chess made an amused little humming sound.
“Where did you get this?” I asked.
“It belongs to the master. The hounds fetched it for me.”
“The…master?”
London’s boots came tromping back through the hallway. Just like that, Chess vanished. London entered the room, whistling, a cold beer in either hand. He passed one to me. I set the stone down and accepted the bottle, holding it to the side of my head.
“Asshole’s all chained up nice and tight. Good fucking luck slipping that shit.” He sank heavily into the other chair, set his beer on the table and noticed the stone for the first time. “What the fuck is that?”
“It’s a Babel stone. Chess brought it while you were gone.”
“What does it do?”
“It levels the playing field.” I took a drink from the beer. It was good. I hadn’t realized how thirsty I’d been. I drank again. “This is a piece of the tower of Babel.”
“No shit?”
“You know the story? After the flood in the book of Genesis, the people rallied together to make a tower that reached to Heaven. Then God sent an angel down to confuse their language.”
“Fuck yeah, brother. I love that shit. You know I grew up in church until I was sixteen? I was confirmed and everything.”
“Catholic?”
“Nah, brother. Grams was Lutheran, so that’s what she raised us as. Me and my sister. We stayed with her a lot in the summers.” He took a swig of his beer. “Sorry, man. I’m getting fucking carried away.”
“It’s okay. So, the stone, if you keep this side up, we can understand each other. It serves as a kind of universal translator. If there were ten people here speaking ten different languages, they’d all understand each other perfectly.”
“That’s fucking wild.”
“But if you turn it over…” I flipped the stone. The bottom of which was far darker and more reddish in color. “Then it scrambles the language. If we’re all speaking English…”
London’s eyes went wide. He spit out a string of what sounded like Chinese. I couldn’t help but laugh a little. I turned the stone back over and sat it on the floor.
“Brother…,” was all he said. He shook his head. He started to say something else, but stopped, looked at the stone, and laughed. “Fucking A.”
“As soon as he wakes up, we’ll get some answers.”
London laughed. “He’s conscious now.”
I looked over at him. He just shrugged. I took a deep breath and said, “Then I guess we go talk to him.”
I pocketed the stone and grabbed my crutches. We stopped in the kitchen and filled a glass with water and a straw. Then we headed back into the basement. I paused just outside the door, but London didn’t. He strode right in.
The man was chained against the wall opposite the door. The silver chain. London stood next to him, holding the water glass. I set the crutches against the wall outside and hobbled into the cell. I took the glass from London and knelt beside the intruder, positioning the straw so he could reach it. He drank hungrily, draining most of the glass in one swallow.
When he stopped drinking, I handed the glass back to London. The man’s eyes did not leave me. He was clearly suspicious, untrusting.
“You okay?” I asked.
The man looked at me for a minute, a very cautioned look in his eyes. He seemed confused. “You let me out of these chains right now. I am no animal...”
“No,” I said. “And I regret that we had to bring you down here at all. I don’t want to hurt you, but I don’t like being punched, either.”
“You…speak Hebrew?”
I shook my head.
London chuckled.
“I don’t…,” the man started to say, but stopped himself. He looked from me to London then back to me. He shook his head. He seemed to be trying to put the pieces together. I didn’t know if he spoke English or not, but by his expression, I guessed he didn’t, and he was trying to figure out how he suddenly could.
He looked at the water glass in London’s hand, as if I’d put something in it that explained the magical change.
I slid the Babel stone from my pocket and set it on the ground. “It’s the stone,” I said. “It’s a…a Babel stone. It helps us communicate.”
“Why did you not kill me?” the man said.
“Why would I kill you?”
“I violated your…” He stopped, looked away, down and to the side.
“I don’t know where you’re from, but around here, we don’t just go around killing people. I probably should’ve called the cops, but my Brownie tells me the phone lines are out. Is that your people?”
He looked at me and he said, “Brownie,” in such a way that it might have tasted as good as it sounded. He started to say something else, but caught himself, and looked sharply away.
Not wanting to take the time to explain to him what Chess was in further detail, I just continued. “Not that he’s been encouraging company at the present time, anyway. Something about the clock ticking. Does that have something to do with this? Is that why you and your friends are here now? This…Ouroboros thing he keeps talking about? Do you know what it is?”
“How is it that I have not seen you before?” was all the man said. “Were you not raised among the tribe?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. “Maybe if you answer some of my questions, I’ll answer a couple of yours. How’s that sound?”
“You don’t even speak our language. What is this place? An institution? Do you live here?”
“Are you going to cooperate?” I asked. “Did you hear what I said? You answer my questions, I’ll answer yours. If I can, that is.”
“If you get tired of the good cop routine,” London said behind me, “Just let me fucking know and I’ll come do the fucking bad cop thing. Or we can just fucking torture him.”
“Hear that?” I asked. “He’s not as nice as me. Maybe you should start talking.”
The intruder didn’t say anything. He continued to stare down and to the side, at a spot in the stone floor that held no particular importance.
“Fine,” I said. If I extended an olive branch, maybe he would reciprocate. It was worth a try. “My name’s Terry. This is my family house. One of my great, great grandfathers built the place. Are you hungry? Wo
uld you like some food?”
The intruder looked up at the nearest wall, scanned along it. “Your family house has a jail?”
I shrugged. “I can’t really explain that part.”
“Let’s just say you picked the wrong damn house to enter tonight,” London said with a stifled laugh.
The man was silent for a minute, so I said, “Why are you here? What are you after?”
“You must be very wealthy,” was all he said. His eyes looked up and stared directly at me, holding my gaze for a long minute. “Your childhood must have been filled with luxuries beyond imagine. You are no member of the tribe. What would you know of…”
His words trailed off, and he stared into the corner for a time. Eventually, his head gave a slight nod, but he didn’t say anything, only made a guttural noise, something like a roar.
Not knowing what to expect, I took a step backward.
“The man in the painting,” the intruder said. From his tone, his words sounded like an accusation. “In the room before. Is he of your tribe? Your…family?”
The entire manor was hung with paintings of my ancestors, oil on canvas. Not photographs. Going all the way back from my great-great-grandfather’s parents to my own. I figured he must’ve been referring to one he had seen in the study. He’d been looking around when I was cleaning his wound.
After my parents’ deaths, I moved a lot of the paintings around. I wasn’t fond of most of my family – cousins, uncles – because they treated me like the black sheep, resenting the fact that I was the one in the family estate when I looked the way I did and had no children of my own. I didn’t want their paintings anywhere I would regularly see them, so I moved them all into the West Wing, where I hardly ever went. Only two paintings remained in the study. The first was of my parents. In it, they were young, happy. It was from a time before I was born.
The second was of my Uncle Arthur. Despite the way the rest of the family treated me, even his own kids, Arthur never regarded me with anything but love. It hadn’t been hanging there for long. I’d moved it in from the hall in the West Wing not long after he died.
Like the portrait of my parents, Arthur was depicted in his portrait as a much younger man, in the prime of his life, late thirties, early forties. He channeled Howard Hughes, with the neatly trimmed mustache, thick dark eyebrows, and intense eyes. He was wearing a khaki suit with a blue tie.
“What the fuck is he talking about?” London asked.
I looked over at him, then back to the intruder. “I think he’s talking about Uncle Arthur.”
The intruder looked directly into my eyes and said, “That is your uncle?”
“Yes,” I said. “Do you…know him?”
London made a questioning noise.
I shrugged. “Arthur was a bit of a world-traveler. Very eccentric. He loved life and never stood in the same place for very long. He was world-famous. He appeared in magazines. His face was on the cover of cereal boxes.”
“Maybe this fucker’s like one of his bastard kids or something, ya feel me. Maybe Art had a side of pussy in the Holy Land, brother.”
“No,” I said, not wanting to think about that.
“It could happen. Fuck, he looks just like you. You must be fucking cousins or something, right?”
I looked at the red hair that covered the intruder’s face. It was more vibrant in color than the face that stared back at me in the mirror, but there was no denying the similarities.
The intruder laughed quietly to himself. “Then the story is true. You aren’t even an Edomite, at all.”
“An Edom…what story?”
Behind me, London started laughing, rich and hearty. I looked at him, confused. “What are you doing?”
“Did that motherfucker just say Edomite?” he said.
“I guess, sure. Does that mean something to you?”
“It should mean something to you, too, brother.” He stepped out of the cell and turned back to me. I followed him out, and he closed the door behind us.
“What is this about?” I asked.
“You still have a copy of the fucking Codex?”
“Sure, upstairs in the study.”
“Where at?”
I told him.
“Stay right here.”
He lumbered off into the dank basement. Seconds later, the floorboards of the stairs creaked as he climbed toward the kitchen. He was gone just over five minutes. When he reappeared, he had the book in his hand.
London whistled as he approached and handed me the Codex when he got near enough. The book was a thick, leather tome. The cover bore no marking of any kind, save the fleur-de-lis imprinted on its surface. I held it in two hands as he opened it, upside down from his perspective, to about the halfway point, scanning the page, then flipping a few, back and forth for a few seconds, before he came to the article he was looking for.
The Codex was a compilation of lore and knowledge, all gained first-hand by the members of the Hand of Shanai. It was given to every member as a sort of text book resource.
“Fucking Edomites,” London said. “This shit is Biblical. Descendants of Esau, the son of Isaac. Esau was the bastard that sold his birthright to his brother for some fucking soup. He was born covered in red hair and was a major fucking hunter. Not like us, though, brother. At least, I don’t think he was. More like a Ted Nugent kind of hunter, fucking deer and shit. Umm, hold on.” He took the book back, ran his finger along the page, scanning the lines, until he found the part he was looking for. “Says here, the Edomites are the fucking mercs of the Midnight world, brother. On account that they fucking sold out Judah to the Babylonians.”
“Mercenaries?” I said. “That means someone hired them.”
“Fucking A.”
I turned back to the cell and opened the door. “Who hired you?”
“You ate the fruit,” the intruder said.
“Who…” I stopped. Thinking of Arthur, I said, “Son of a bitch. Jono was right. I’ll never hear the end of it now.”
London laughed. “That doesn’t fucking sound good, brother. You better clue me in.”
“The tree,” I said to London. “Out back. The one that I told you lost the limbs in the storm. I planted it when I was a boy. From an apple my uncle brought me back from one of his trips. He’d missed my birthday party, and when I saw him, he gave me an apple. Told me it was magic. I didn’t believe him. After I ate the apple, Arthur helped me plant the seeds.”
“You still didn’t believe it was magic when you fucking grew fur?”
“It didn’t happen immediately,” I said. “The fruit was given for my tenth birthday. It was two or three years after, once I hit puberty, that the change started taking place. I never put it together. Jono did. Somehow. Maybe just a wild guess. I don’t know.”
“Shitty fuck balls,” London said. “I don’t see anything about an apple in here.”
I looked at the intruder. “What can you tell me? Please?”
He didn’t say anything, just stared at Arthur’s portrait.
“How do you know my uncle? You’re too young to remember him. This was thirty years ago. You weren’t even born yet.”
“There was a story,” the man said. He chose his words very carefully, thinking over each word before he said anything and spoke slowly. “Of a man who was found near death in the mountains outside our village. One of the young women took pity on him, despite the rule that no outsiders were allowed entrance among us. She housed him, fed him, and nursed him back to health. She hid this man from our tribe for months. Maybe longer. Eventually, the aluf found out and ordered him to be executed, but before that could happen, he just vanished. Some said they saw him near the tree of Dusares before he left. They saw him picking the fruit. The woman, Sarah, was whipped. It was…just a story told to children, but I knew it was correct.”
“How?”
“She showed me a picture of the man. He looked exactly like the man in your painting.”
“She had a
picture of him? Why?”
“She was smitten with him. That’s why she housed him for so long. She was a lonely woman. Her husband had been killed in battle, and – as is the custom of our people, she was not to remarry, as the husband had no brothers. She fell for this stranger. And just as my people chose to forget he had come, Sarah gave birth to a son.”
“Let me fucking guess,” London said. “That son was you.”
“No,” the man said. “That child was not permitted to live.”
“Oh. There goes that fucking idea.”
“What is the apple?” I asked. “Why did it do this to me?”
“Because Dusares found you worthy.”
“Worthy? What does that mean?”
“It means you didn’t die. That’s what happens to my people. They come of age, they pluck their fruit from the tree, and they eat it. The worthy become warriors and lead our people. The unworthy are burned as sacrifices to Dusares.”
“And this Dusares is your god?”
London laughed again. “I sure hope your uncle didn’t fucking know the apple could fucking kill you, brother.”
I tried not to think about it.
“Please,” I said. “Tell me your name.”
“Why do you need my name?” the man asked.
“I just want to know what to call you.”
He hesitated, looking between me and London. Finally, he said, “I am known as Levi.”
I nodded. “As I said, my name is Terry. This is London.”
“Fucking A,” London said.
Levi narrowed his eyes and studied me for a second. “We are not friends,” he said. “Don’t mistake that. In the instant I am free, I will end your life.”
“Can we fucking torture him now?” London asked.
I ignored him. “Levi, can you tell me about the apple? We don’t have any information on it. I’ve never heard of it before. Where did it come from?”
“What he read,” Levi said, motioning to London. “About attacking Judah. Israel’s God sent a prophet named Obadiah to pronounce utter devastation on all of Edom. But before our destruction could be carried out, our grand aluf made a pact with Dusares.”