The God of Battles

by David Menefee

  She walked toward the sound, her tiredness forgotten. Materializing out of the darkness under the trees was the broad-shouldered, wild-bearded form of George, dressed in his favorite red-checkered shirt and a pair of Levis. He looked so substantial and real that she had to remind herself that this was his oversoul.

  “Angel! I can see that you are here.” His voice was, as always, reassuringly solid, but his eyes stared past her, fixed on some distant point. Sometimes it took a while for him to “arrive” from wherever it was that oversouls lived.

  She closed the distance between them but didn’t hug him just yet. She waited, smiling, until his eyes focused on her.

  “Ah, okay. I am here now.” He grinned and spread his arms to hug her, and she laughed when he lifted her off her feet and set her down again.

  “Did you call me here?” Angela asked.

  “I did. There is something I must tell you, and something I must show you. Come. Follow me.”

  He led Angela to the edge of the clearing. They reached a path and walked along it, George leading the way.

  “What is it?” Her grandfather always had a good reason for calling her into the Otherworld.

  “You will see.” He resumed humming. It was a haunting melody, and as they walked, the trees morphed from the deciduous variety that surrounded her meadow into tall conifers. The light shifted as well, as if the sun were traveling swiftly in the sky. Then they emerged from the forest to stand at the edge of a clearing that she knew well. Ahead, beyond a gentle rise, a cliff’s edge dropped steeply to boulders far below at the edge of an endless ocean. She had visited this place many times since her first dream-walk had led her here. She always learned something new about herself when she did; the ocean represented the limits of her understanding

  “Come see this,” George said, motioning her to follow him. They climbed the slope and then stood, bracing against the constant offshore wind, and watched the crashing waves receding to the horizon. George pointed downward, and Angela leaned carefully to peer in that direction.

  Far below, hundreds of animals thronged the narrow beach at the foot of the cliff. At first it was unclear what the animals were doing. She shaded her eyes and squinted. The scene leaped into focus, and she gasped.

  A magnificently antlered buck was on his hind legs amidst the churning horde of creatures, his front hooves windmilling as he dueled with another, smaller deer. Both stumbled to one side as a lumbering brown beast, a bear for God’s sake, lunged at them, swinging a massive paw. Two wolves leaped, bringing the bear down.

  “They’re fighting!” She realized that the tiny dots swirling in the air below were birds. Specifically, they were birds of prey, because one stooped on another. Both dots corkscrewed downward to vanish into the heaving ocean beyond the strand.

  “Yes. That is what they are doing. Can you tell me why they fight?”

  The sight of animals warring was unnatural, even for this place. Angela looked at George, confused. Then light dawned. “This is a test. I get it.”

  George nodded.

  “When I was in training, you showed me that the animals are our instinctual nature,” she continued.

  George raised a finger. “Ah.”

  “I mean, they embody our instinctual nature.”

  He nodded. “Go on.”

  She peered down again. “But why is there a huge crowd of them? I mean, this isn’t right. That’s not anyone’s meadow. Why are the animals gathering there?”

  George was silent.

  Angela thought for a moment. “If those are the incarnations of our instincts, that’s too many for any one person.”

  George smiled encouragingly.

  “Wait a minute.” She snapped her fingers, guessing the answer to the riddle. “That’s it. They didn’t come from just one person.”

  “I think you know now.” George nodded.

  Angela remembered the spot that she and Cassandra had found while dancing at the Rings, crowded with animal-headed, shadowy forms. This was no meadow, but she guessed it was similar to that night-shrouded place. “That’s a crowd. A crowd of people.”

  “Almost right,” he said. “That is an angry mob mind. Many people, bound together in purpose by a common foe. But their instincts are at war with each other.”

  “Okay. These creatures are drawing strength from the deeper unconscious, which the ocean embodies. But I thought that a mob was more together, more cohesive than that.”

  “They are, but their instincts fight. Can you tell me why?”

  Angela knew part of the answer. She turned to face George, her mind calm once again. “Because at heart, we are peaceable.” Then she felt the rest of the answer click into place in her mind, and her voice rose. “But a mob, especially a violent mob, drives us against our instinct to get along.”

  George nodded, smiling broadly. “Remember what you have learned here. We gather together for many reasons. Families, friends, communities. Nations. Religions. Our minds join, creating a new thing, called an Egregore, that has a life of its own. Some of these gatherings result in something like that below, particularly if they are bound by hate rather than love. Look again.” He pointed down.

  Angela peered, and the rocky beach far below was empty. She saw nothing but waves, advancing and receding on that lonely strand. She moved closer to the cliff’s edge, trying to find where the animals went.

  Suddenly, she felt a sharp blow between her shoulder blades, and she cried out in alarm. The earth, sky, and ocean tilted around her as she lost her balance. Her vision tunneled until all she could see was a spot on a boulder directly below. Time slowed down, and certain fatalistic peace came over her as she plunged toward that ocean-washed patch of granite. Then, with a wrench, she felt herself dragged back to stand, gasping and shaking, at the cliff’s edge.

  When she could get her breath again, she whirled on her grandfather. “You pushed me! What the hell was that about? I could’ve been killed!”

  George gazed placidly back at her. “Angel, I did nothing. You did everything.”

  “Bullshit! I felt you hit me in the back. I was falling.” She doubled over, a wave of nausea washing over her, and retched on the grass. She coughed and spat then wiped her face with a handful of grass and stood once again, glaring at George.

  “I am sorry. I know how much that hurt,” he said calmly. “But I did not touch you. It was your Guardian spirit who pushed your vision. All I did was bring you to an appointment with your destiny.”

  Her mind spinning, Angela’s stare faltered. Her grandfather’s oversoul never lied to her. So, whatever had happened had been necessary. Up until now, her Guardian spirit had been an abstraction, a cipher that represented her intuition. The fact that this spirit could affect her in such a direct way was a revelation.

  Angela walked several paces away and sat. George sat next to her and waited while she wiped again with another handful of grass to clean her face. Tossing the grass away, she studied his face, so much like the face of the man who raised her from childhood and yet so different. The eyes set his oversoul apart from the grandfather she’d grown up with. She found herself mesmerized by the agelessness of them and shook herself. George nodded as if guessing her train of thought.

  “So, when you say the spirit ‘pushed my vision,’ what do you mean?” she asked.

  He chuckled. “I think you already know the answer. Think on what you saw when you thought you were falling.”

  That was just like him, never answering her questions without asking another. Angela concentrated, remembering every detail of the terrifying experience. The element that stood out was the odd tunnel vision, when it seemed as if she were falling toward the rocks at the base of the cliff. She glanced back at George.

  “I think that something happened to my eyesight when it, uh, pushed me. I felt as if I were leaving my body.” She shuddered.

  “Almost right. Your vision traveled. You see this place”—he swept his arm to encompass all that surrounded them—�
��in ways that none of us saw in life. You have the eyes of death, my sister would say. You see the way that the spirits of the dead see. But your vision is still confined to this one level. The Otherworld has many levels within it, as you know. Some are higher; some are lower. There will come a time when you must be able to see into those other levels.”

  She looked down at her hands, turning them over to study their backs and palms. He had told her years ago that his training required that he be able to see his own hands clearly with his second sight before he could move on into more advanced work. She, however, had been born with a talent that, according to her far memories of an earlier incarnation, represented the fruition of millennia of study and training. Yet limits to her strange gift remained.

  She looked back at him. “So, does this mean that I can see more than I did before?”

  “Yes,” George answered, his smile broadening.

  “Can I see your home? Where oversouls live?”

  “Not yet.” He pushed himself back to his feet and reached down to help her up. “But you will. You will.”

  They walked together back to the forest edge. Angela jammed her hands into her pockets, her mind racing. She was full of questions, but he would let her discover the answers on her own. That was the way he taught her.

  As they returned the way they’d come on the forest path, she thought back on her previous lifetime. She had developed many complex uses for her talent. The tricks that she and Cassandra used arose from some of those techniques, enriched by her studies with George. But this method of opening the vision was new.

  They arrived at her meadow, and Angela turned to regard her grandfather’s oversoul. “I remember most of my previous life. But why can’t I remember who you were in the old world?”

  He winked. “Someday you will. But for now, you must return to your sleep. Much work awaits you.” His smile faded. “Much work, Angel. Your power awakens many sleeping things.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that many things that have slept these ages past are remembering the old world, both here and on earth. You must seek your people, Lady.”

  “Granddad. What are you talking—?” Angela reached over to grasp his arm. “Wait. What did you just call me?”

  “Sleep, my Angel. You will know more soon.”

  His form grew brighter and filled Angela’s vision. Then, out of nowhere, an image flashed into her mind of her old world, torn by war. Her ancient, wise culture, destroyed. That image burned itself into her heart before the relief of black oblivion dissolved her awareness.

  The thump of her paperback falling to the deck awoke Cassandra. She stood to stretch and yawn before retrieving it to mark her place then went below decks.

  She found the trail of Angela’s clothing on the way to the master cabin. Grinning sleepily, she picked up the discarded garments on her way to bed. To avoid waking her girlfriend, Cassandra stopped herself from switching on the overhead light. Feeling her way around the bed, she deposited the clothes in a single heap, shucked her own somewhat clammy clothing, and crawled under the blanket.

  Reaching out to touch Angela, she hesitated. Some premonition stopped her, a sixth sense that she had grown accustomed to. Angela was on a dream-walk. Having realized this, Cassandra could detect a whiff of the strange aroma that sometimes clung to her girlfriend, like wet soil after a lightning storm. She heard a high keening sound at the edge of audibility as if her ears were ringing. Knowing that to touch Angela while she was dream-walking was to court disaster, Cassandra instead tucked the blanket around her girlfriend’s recumbent form and curled up under the top sheet.

  As occasionally happened after a night of strenuous dancing, she couldn’t fall asleep. She turned over, seeking a more comfortable position. Then, between one moment and the next, she was hovering, bodiless, in a vast darkness.

  A man stood in a slump-shouldered posture. He was dressed in a formal uniform, as befitted his high station in the Council. It should have been comforting to her to see the brightly colored tunic, high, conical hat and pleated kilt. Instead, he looked simply gaudy, overdressed, as if a common thief had put on the robes of an emperor. His face, somehow familiar, had a pleading expression beneath the hat, and he held his arms out in entreaty.

  “Forgive me,” he said. The words echoed and distorted, acting like a key to unlock her memories. She had seen this man in dreams all her life.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Meeting Strangers

  Rise up, she says, and take command

  To lead us all with steady hand

  And liberate our frozen hearts

  From endless toil at war’s demand.

  Janelle, the floor manager, was at her desk, an officious smirk on her face. Cassandra sat uncomfortably in the chair in front of the desk.

  Janelle steepled her fingers. “I’ve been getting reports that you aren’t getting along with your coworkers. Can you explain this to me?”

  Cassandra shook her head. That bitch wasn’t getting anything out of her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Look, Cassie. Can I call you that, Cassie?”

  No, Cassandra said silently.

  After a short pause, Janelle continued, leaning forward. “I have a business to run, and I can’t afford any troublemakers on my staff. I’m giving you the opportunity to provide your side of the story.”

  Cassandra looked at Janelle—at the store uniform and at the expression on her boss’s face. This bitch thinks she can scare me. She has no idea who she’s dealing with. But Cassandra kept her expression bland, neutral. She wanted to keep her job.

  Deciding to take the offensive, Cassandra sat forward. “Who’s been talking shit about me?”

  Janelle’s synthetic smile disappeared. “I can’t tell you that. My policy is that employees can file complaints. When I’ve heard from all sides, I’ll call a meeting, and everyone can talk it over. So, I’m asking again. Do you feel that you are not getting along with your coworkers?”

  Cassandra thought about all the annoying coworkers who’d been disrespecting her, crossing her boundaries. She had a right to draw a line around herself, to make a circle of safety. So she just shook her head without speaking. Janelle was the worst offender, but she’d never see it Cassandra’s way.

  “Cassie?” Janelle sighed. “Because you’re still in your probationary period, I’m afraid I’ll have to let you go. I had hoped you would cooperate with me, but I can see that we’re just not a good fit for you.”

  “What?” Cassandra leaped to her feet. “Bullshit! This isn’t about me, and you know it. You just think I’m a lying, thieving gypsy. I’ve heard you joking about me! You bitch!”

  The manager’s face grew red, and her mouth opened, but she appeared unable to speak.

  Cassandra pointed at her and glared. “You have no idea who you’re fucking with.”

  With that, she spun on her heel and stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

  Cassandra touched her clove cigarette to her lips. She took a luxurious drag, watching the tourists gawk at the clipper ships. The warm sun and cool breeze were intoxicating, and she basked, her mind empty. Her eyes tracked a tan, athletic, blond woman jogging past. A pair of skateboarders careened between the pedestrians.

  After she had left NutriMart, she had driven aimlessly in Berkeley to cool off. North on Telegraph toward the university then a U-turn back south. Right on Ashby. North on Fulton all the way to University Avenue. By the time she arrived at the entrance ramp to 580, she had managed to put her rage behind her. With nothing else to do and unwilling to bother Angela at work, Cassandra had decided to drive over the Bay Bridge to hang out in Maritime National Park for the rest of the beautiful June afternoon.

  She ground her cigarette out on the cylindrical ashtray and flicked the butt into the waste receptacle underneath. A black convertible passed by, its premium stereo thumping. The sound reminded her of the club music from the night before. Angela rarely went to
the Rings to dance since she was busy with the clinic. Last night’s Otherworld play and the subsequent lovemaking had been a treat.

  She thought about that strange voice she had heard and the face in the mist.

  —Help.—

  There had been a strange familiarity to it.

  —Help me.—

  It was odd how the voice had echoed. She could almost hear it again. The traffic sounds faded.

  —Lady.—

  Cassandra saw the face and part of his torso in her mind. He was pleading, his hands outstretched in entreaty, but he was not as panicky as he had been the first time. She felt a tug somewhere in her midsection, and she stood. Turning slowly in place, she felt the tug intensify, and she began walking. Her visual field narrowed so that everyone who passed came into focus and then disappeared as they walked by.

  —I won’t kill them.—

  She continued along Beach Street then turned right onto the crosswalk at Larkin. A rising babble of voices washed over her mind, and the faces of the other pedestrians acquired hallucinatory intensity. Cassandra reached into her pocket and pinched her fingers together. The voices receded, along with the faint tugging sensation and the vividness of the scenery. She stopped, uncertain. Then she saw a café ahead and, realizing she was ravenous, headed purposefully toward it.

  As small as Julian’s Café was, Cassandra was almost alone when she went in. She glanced at the “Seat Yourself” sign by the entrance, took a seat at a small table, and tossed her pack on the floor by her chair.

  Someone handed her a menu. Then she shook the fog out of her head and took out her cell phone to check her messages. Glancing at the screen, she realized that she had left it turned off.

  “Dammit.” She checked her voicemail. There were two messages, one from Angela and one from Janet. She touched the list entry for Angela’s message and held the phone to her ear. She sighed. It was a reminder about the birthday party at Nadia’s. Nadia didn’t like her, but nothing she said would convince Angela of that.