The humming began again, coming from another direction. She glanced that way, leaning on her staff. The source of the sound circled, and she stopped trying to track it.
“Angel.” A young voice drifted on the wind.
She looked up again. Sitting on the branch of a gnarled oak nearly overhead was a girl, perhaps eight years old. She had blond, curly hair and a cherubic smile.
“Really?” Angela muttered. Then, more loudly, she asked, “Are you George?”
The girl giggled. “No, silly. I’m his oversoul.”
She clambered down from the tree like a monkey and walked over to stand in the path in front of Angela. She spread her hands. “I know. I look really different, don’t I? I’m preparing for a new life on earth.”
“I hate to say it, but I need proof. You could be a trickster after all. Change back to George’s shape if you’re really him.”
“We don’t have much time, Angel,” the girl said. With a sudden movement, she grabbed Angela’s wrist. In her mind’s eye, Angela saw a rapid-cut replay of George’s life as her grandfather. Scenes from his childhood were followed by visions of her parents and then of herself as a child on his knee as he told one of his stories. She saw him at work, building a boat, swinging a mallet. There was a flash of him with her in the Otherworld, exploring its wonders. She began breathing more rapidly and felt a lump in her throat as her eyes stung. The visions stopped when the girl removed her hand.
A moment passed before Angela could speak again. “Granddad. But I thought you would always be here. Nadia’s oversoul is here.”
The girl shrugged. “After my soul is born again, I’ll be back here to watch over my new life.” She reached out fondly and placed a hand on Angela’s staff. “You can come see me then.” Then the girl became businesslike. “Now, I need to tell you something very important. Listen to me, my Angel.”
Angela wiped away a tear and stood quietly, awaiting her teacher’s instruction. George continued in a singsong voice.
“Ancient poison twists the heart,
Ancient warrior plays his part,
Angel finds a reborn king,
Fitting heir of everything.
Hero breaks the racial curse,
But things still go from bad to worse,
Till love prevails on killing field,
And war no more his weapons wields.”
With that, the girl giggled, twirled in place, and vanished in a burst of light. Angela stepped back involuntarily. “Granddad? George? Where are you?” She looked all around her at the suddenly dark, empty forest.
A voice whispered on the wind. “Look for me in newborn eyes.” Then there was silence. Angela heaved a shaky sigh, her chest constricted with grief, her vision blurred. She felt as if he had died all over again. Though he had promised he would be back, she knew it wouldn’t be as her grandfather but rather as an enigmatic oversoul, filled with riddles.
A shout followed by the crash of metal shattered the silence, sending a shock through her body and making her heart race. She whirled to face it and hurried back along the path. Skidding to a stop, she caught a glimpse of men fighting near the left edge of the clearing. The vision faded along with the sounds of combat as she stared.
“What the hell is going on?”
Her meadow was quiet once again. The conflict had happened at the base of a tall pine identical to the one that George had pointed out on her earlier excursion, but this was in her own meadow. Angela allowed her gaze to travel up it. A mist coalesced at the top, and another scene appeared in it. She saw a vast military formation with rank upon rank of soldiers of all sorts. There was no sound, only images. Walking alongside the soldiers, his hand waving as he chivvied them, was a large man dressed in archaic red armor. Iron Star.
Someone approached him with a document. He read it and handed it back. The scene seemed to rotate on an invisible axis to reveal a gigantic shining golden star hovering in the sky several miles away. Behind it, the sky to the left glowed blood red while that to the right shone white.
The golden star rippled as if seen underwater, then sparks cascaded off its edges as it disintegrated. A gigantic silver curved sword, imprinted with a crescent moon and star, materialized in its place, blood-red light dripping from its edge. A brilliant flash of red filled the sky, and the scene disappeared.
Angela threw up her free hand in exasperation, grasping her staff more firmly. “Granddad, I wish you’d tell me what’s going on.”
Nothing more happened. She sighed, returned her walking staff to the cabin, then hunted for a patch of floor. Finding one, she returned to her office in the clinic.
Angela went to her desk, opened her laptop, and entered the search terms “war,” “golden star,” “silver scimitar,” and “moon and star” on her web browser. Nothing came up. She spent a few moments racking her brain. The scimitar resembled the symbol for Islam, so she added that to the search. After a few more minutes of drilling and refining, she found a news report concerning the Middle Eastern conflict. She clicked the link.
Her breath hissed when she saw a flag displaying a golden star upon a bisected background, red on the left and white on the right. The report included an article link, and she opened it in a new window. It was the flag of the Yezidis, a minority religion that had existed in the region for centuries.
She turned back to the news report, which confirmed her suspicion. The sword, moon, and star were symbols for Islam, and under that banner flew the flags of a dozen war-torn nations in the Middle East. Within those nations, a new, dangerous enemy—ISIL—had arisen, which intended to establish a sovereign nation over all Islam and stamp out the presence of the West once and for all. She read the article with growing agitation. One phrase leaped out at her.
“ISIL is responsible for genocide against Yezidi Kurds in Iraq.”
She closed the laptop and stared at nothing. What connection did this genocide in Iraq have with her meadow in the Otherworld? Evidently there were larger movements behind the scenes in the Otherworld, and her work with Simon had peeled back a metaphorical corner of the world to reveal them.
Suddenly, there was a crash of shattering glass. Angela leaped to her feet, her heart racing. Running feet pounded in the corridor outside her office as she hurried to the door.
“Asshole!” Eric’s shout was like that of the soldiers in the Otherworld, and she froze for an instant. Then Angela unlocked her office door and flung it open. “Eric?”
“Angela, you need to see this.”
He was standing in the corridor by the open door to the waiting room. Scintillating reflections from broken glass covered the floor. She looked at the front windows. One of them was shattered, fragments still clinging to the window frame. “My window!”
“There was a bang and then a crash,” he gasped. “I ran out. Heard someone peeling off. They smashed the front window. Maybe they shot it out.”
She went to stand by his side in the doorway, reluctant to walk on the glass shards that covered the floor in the waiting area. Angela examined the window frame where small pieces of glass still clung like jagged teeth. She felt a chill down her spine. Her vision of war had been followed by vandalism.
“Shotgun, maybe,” she muttered. She craned her neck to peer at the wall next to the doorway but saw no sign of damage. She scanned the floor, searching for clues. Suddenly she hurled herself at Eric. “Get down!”
They dropped to the floor in a tangle of limbs. Angela held her breath, her mind emptied by the adrenaline rush. Nothing happened. She let her breath out and looked at what had frightened her. An unexploded grenade rested on the carpet in a bed of glass. She motioned back down the hall. “Back away. Hurry! Crawl!”
The two of them disengaged and awkwardly crawled away until they got to the fire exit. Angela pushed it open, triggering the alarm. They ran outside.
“What…?” Eric gasped.
“Grenade.”
“Holy shit!”
“They must’ve gotte
n it from military surplus somewhere.” Angela’s cold panic gave way to shuddering relief. “I don’t know why it didn’t go off, but we’re lucky to be alive.”
Eric and Angela stood in front of the clinic with one of the police officers who had arrived as a result of the 9-1-1 call. There was police tape strung around part of the sidewalk in front of the building, and beyond that milled a crowd of gawkers.
“We’ve secured the ordnance. You’re really lucky its components were old and rusted solid. Otherwise, it would have gone off.” The officer gestured at the gaping window. “You’re going to want to get that boarded up right away.”
Angela nodded. “Thank you. Yeah, we’ll do that tonight.”
Hugging himself and shivering, Eric stared at the tread marks on the sidewalk made by a small bomb-disposal robot that had removed the grenade. “Who would want to do something like this to us?”
“Who knows?” The officer scratched his face. “Town’s full of whackos. It’s been a long day.”
Angela glanced at him. “What do you mean?”
He let out a long-suffering sigh. “We’ve had three calls for vandalism, though this is the first grenade I’ve seen in a long time. There were also two fires, probably arson. And altercations all over town. If I were you, I’d go home today.”
“After I get those boards up, I’m going to do just that,” Angela said with a curt nod. “Thanks again.”
“Just doing our job, ma’am.” He touched the brim of his hat and left.
Angela put her hand on Eric’s shoulder. “I think we’d better lie low for a couple of days. That nut job might try again.”
Eric rubbed his face. “I’ll call my patients and reschedule. I need to keep working, though. Any suggestions?”
“No idea. I’ll think about it. If you get any good ideas, call me whenever you want, okay? In the meantime…” She hugged him. “Get some rest. I’m so sorry this happened.”
“Hey, it’s not your fault.” He returned the hug briefly, then they resumed staring at the broken window.
“I don’t know about that,” Angela muttered.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Sailing
The sailing on the bay was choppy but otherwise pleasant beneath a clear blue sky. A stiffening westerly breeze keep the sailboat heeled at a twenty-degree angle, propelling it at hull speed. Cassandra sat on the binnacle under the wheelhouse canopy, a clove cigarette dangling from her lips. She kept one hand behind her on the wheel while the other lazily grasped the line that controlled the position of the mainsheet traveler. The traveler, a pulley mounted on a horizontal track, provided a mobile attachment point for the mainsail boom. By tugging on the line in her hand, she could control the sail’s angle relative to the wind.
Fortunately for Simon, the sailboat had been built wheelchair-accessible with lockdown points. He peered through the spray-spattered windscreen as the boat smacked into the chop.
Cassandra puffed on her unfiltered smoke and glanced at Simon. “So. Wanna talk about it now?”
Simon sighed. “No, but apparently you’re not going to leave me alone till I do.”
Cassandra grinned. “Exactly.”
There was an uncomfortable pause, then Simon sighed. “It started like an old-fashioned session with me on a couch, shrink on a chair—except she put the chair right next to me. First, she told me to relax. Then she reached out and touched my forehead.” He rubbed his face. “I felt this weird falling sensation in my stomach, but nothing else happened for a few minutes. She just sat there, eyes closed, her fingers touching my head. Then…” He grunted and stopped.
“Then?”
He licked his lips. “It was like a shot to the gut. All the grief and guilt just… just came up. Then suddenly, I was full of rage. No reason. Then she got up and backed a couple of paces away toward the center of the room. That’s when I just lost it. I couldn’t stop crying.”
Cassandra puffed on her clove and studied the waves. She tugged on the traveler to adjust the mainsail when the trailing edge started flapping with a shift in the wind. They were making good headway on an upwind tack.
“I curled up in a ball.” His voice was steady again. “A minute later she started talking to me. Obviously she was back from doing whatever she’d done. Man, it really hurt.” He looked at her. “I’m not going through that again. I’m just going to keep fighting in the nightmares. Maybe I can win if I keep fighting Iron Star. But not if I have to go through another session with Angela.”
“She told you it wouldn’t be easy.”
His fists clenched briefly. “Yeah. I know. But I thought she was going after the nightmares. I didn’t agree to go digging up emotions from the past.”
“But that’s how this stuff works.” Cassandra adjusted the wheel as the wind shifted direction slightly. “We all have an emotional history. She just knows how to find it. I don’t know why you’re giving up, is all.”
He smacked his chair. “I’m not giving up! But I gotta choose my battles, Cassie. In the Corps, we learned that sometimes the enemy’s position is stronger than yours and to not throw yourself at impossible odds. If I’m an emotional wreck, I’ll be in no shape to deal with the nightmares.”
He was probably right, but the nightmares were slowly killing him. There were circles under his eyes, he had lost a lot of weight, and his hands sometimes shook. Her telepathic talent gave her glimpses into his befogged and tattered mind, which was even more disturbing than his outward deterioration.
However, he was also an adult, so she decided to give him some more time. She pointed through the windscreen. “Treasure Island. Let’s go around the south side.”
Simon looked at Cassandra rather than at the island. “Look, I’m sorry your friend can’t help me. I really appreciate you trying. No hard feelings, I hope.”
Cassandra returned his stare, keeping a poker face to hide her strong feelings. “When Angela met me, I had a family and a home. I told you about that and about the fire. Look, I spent five years being hunted by that thing, that Soul Thief. I was completely overwhelmed. I couldn’t think. I barely survived on my animal instincts, and I still don’t remember big chunks of those five years of my life. She brought me back from that. She helped me deal with the fire. And she destroyed the Soul Thief. I think you’re making big a mistake in cutting her off.”
Simon looked down. “I’ve made my decision.”
Silence descended once again.
Several hours later, the chop was rough on the bay as the sailboat headed back toward Alameda and the marina. Cassandra had already taken the main sail down, by two reef points, to expose less canvas to the wind, and was considering running with just the jib. She normally enjoyed this kind of sailing, when there was tension between the boat and the elements and when the risks associated with sailing began to rise. For the moment, though, she was preoccupied with Simon’s stubbornness.
“Look. I know it’s a lot to ask. But Angela knows how much it hurt. I know she’ll find a way to help without taking you down so hard.” She glanced sidelong at Simon and, seeing his frozen expression, shook her head. She turned her attention back to the sailing, peering at the buoys as she approached them. Then, as if torn by the wind, the horizon peeled back. Cassandra drew a shuddering breath when she saw what lay beyond.
Countless soldiers marched in formation in an eerie silence. They wore a bewildering array of uniforms and bore unidentifiable weapons of many shapes and sizes. In the foreground, a large man wore elaborate red armor. Nothing could be seen of his face except for glowing eyes and a cruel slit of a mouth. He waved his hands in apparent agitation as he marched alongside the formation. He extended an arm and pointed at one soldier. There was a flash of light. When the flash faded, that soldier was gone.
Someone handed him a large, square object. He examined it and handed it back. Then, beyond all the ranked soldiers, a gigantic golden star appeared, hovering in the sky. The air behind it, to the left, glowed blood red while that on the r
ight shone white. The image rippled and began to fade in a shower of sparks. A gigantic silvery curved sword materialized over it. The symbols disappeared with a brilliant flash of light.
At that moment, Cassandra heard Angela’s voice shout something unintelligible. The scene collapsed, restoring her view of the water ahead.
“Holy crap…” she gasped.
Simon mumbled something, but when she glanced in his direction he was staring at his hands, oblivious to her distress.
“All right,” she muttered. “I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s getting personal.”
She set the autopilot on the wheel and walked over to stand directly in front of Simon. She put her hands on the arms of his chair. “Hey. Asshole.”
He glared up at her. “What the fuck did you call me?”
“You’re being an asshole, Simon, and you know it.” She met his stare without flinching.
“You’ve got no right to talk to me that way.” His voice was low, dangerous.
Cassandra stood up straight and crossed her arms, one leg braced against the bulkhead to help her keep her balance. “I think Angela just tried to help you again, and all you can do is sit there like a lump. I agreed to take you sailing if you would consider going back to her.”
“I considered it, and I refuse.”
“You think you’re the only one with PTSD?” She tapped herself on the chest. “I was haunted by a demon for five years, pal. I was completely insane, and she brought me back. Yeah, it hurt, but look at me now.” She reached out and shook his chair. “She can do that for you, too. You gotta give her another chance.”
Simon stared silently at her, and his mouth compressed. Then his attention shifted to something behind her. “You might want to steer.”
She turned around and saw a buoy several hundred feet ahead. She quickly unlocked the wheel and adjusted her course. While Cassandra steered, she brooded about Simon’s stubbornness and worried about what was happening to Angela.
The God of Battles Page 13