“New phone?” A thick feminine voice sounded behind him. Finnegan turned to see a blustery haired blonde hugging a pink faced toddler to her hip.
“Can’t work the darn thing. Back home we all use pay phones. I’ve got a rotary dialler, can you believe it?” Finnegan smiled and held up his new contraption. The woman smiled and dug into her pocket to pull out her own ubiquitously identical phone.
“Gimme a second, I’ve got a temp charger in my purse. I’m addicted to this new game, you know? Walk around and hatch eggs, catch little monsters, it’s a hit with the other Moms in Peter’s daycare.” She rattled on, pulling a brown purse from her son’s stroller and digging one-handed into it. Her hand rose with a pink metal cylinder attached to a thin white chord. She plugged the chord into Finnegan’s phone and waited.
“Gee, this’s really dead.”
“I just got it. Silly, eh? Expecting things to work.”
“Gotta admire a man who doesn’t need to be constantly attached to his phone. Hold Peter for me?” She doffed her kid on Finnegan’s lap. The leprechaun tensed. Both hands flew to Peter’s tiny ribcage and waggled him an inch or two up and down.
“We’re in this together, boyo. Don’t bail.” Finnegan whispered.
“Got kids?” The lady said, tapping at Finnegan’s black phone screen.
“Probably.” Finnegan said.
She laughed. The sound was thick as her voice, laced with cotton, or the vestiges of a tired, aching life.
“Sound like Travis. I’m Bea. You don’t have a SIM card, do you?” She offered her hand. Finnegan heaved a hand from Peter’s ribcage and shook hers. He jostled the toddler, flinging his hand back on the boy, who was as confused as Finnegan as to why he was separated from his Mum.
“Bea! Finnegan. Bit of a pickle, my friend was supposed to be here, but he ain’t. Him and his dame. Bet they went off, if you catch me. Can’t say I’ve been to Vancouver without them. A bit lost, to be right about it.”
“They left you alone in Stanley Park? Hah! At least it’s pretty. Aha! Here! It’s on. The guy over there sells international calling cards. Bet he has a pay-as-you-go SIM card.” Bea passed Finnegan his phone. A black screen blazed with a white portrait of fruit, then flashed a universal welcome screen. He waited as Bea ventured over to the stand with his wallet. Charming woman, Bea. The sort of woman to pretty herself up in conjunction with a bit of hope for future plenty. Her blue eyes sparkled inside dim lids and dark circles. She returned, picked a piece of metal off the side of the phone, and slid in a small chip.
“Trade you a phone for a child.” She said, holding up the phone and waggling it in her fingers. Finnegan grabbed the phone and passed Peter. Peter reached his clammy hand into his mother’s hair and clung.
“Travis, then. Your man is he?”
“He left. It’s okay. Us single ladies can do it all.” She hugged her baby, kissing his chubby cheek. Finnegan flicked on the phone and keyed in the number for Ray.
“Course you can! Ladies always can, eh? Us men, we’re the ones you need to coddle. Thank you. Anything I can repay you with?”
“Aw, no worries!” Bea said, putting Peter back in his stroller. “Call me, we can grab a drink once you find your friend. Number’s in your phone. Bye.”
The edge of Downtown Vancouver yawned in front of Finnegan. His green eyes stretched upward to a sea of silver and grey pillars pushing at the sky.
The phone rang, and rang, and rang. A click, a yawning dial tone, chased by the voice of a woman asking Finnegan to leave a message. He sighed and tried another number. And another. He left a message on each, scrawling his own cell phone number into his address book so he could remember how to say the numbers Bea had put in his ‘Contacts’.
“Come along, feet.” Finnegan started off toward the stupas of modern Vancouver, eyes cast upward in hopes of a sight of birds. He hadn’t gotten past the third condominium before sitting on a concrete half-wall to catch his breath.
“How do these blokes do it?” He gasped, watching a miserably damp cyclist roll by. An intersecting colourful map with a circular ‘u’ caught his eye: Uber, on the App Store.
“App Store… App store! I’ve an App Store!” He surged to his feet, flicking on his phone and pushing the App Store button. When the payment info flashed up, he sank on a bus stop bench. Credit Card… dash these money lenders! A scrupulously dressed ginger-headed man dusted off the seat beside him and sat in his crisp business suit. He sniffed at Finnegan, sticking his nose up when he smelled the liquor on Finnegan’s breath.
“Easy on, lad.” Finnegan grimaced. The man grunted and swivelled in his seat, sticking an ankle on his thigh. His wallet peeked out of his trouser pocket. He stuck two string buds in his ears and flicked at his phone.
Finnegan grinned. He leaned in, pulled the wallet loose, tugged out the cards, and filled in the information. Slipping the cards back, he uploaded Uber and called for a cab. A massive blue bus groaned beside them, and the well dressed hooligan raced off with his wallet tucked back into his pocket.
“Now, then! Where’s the nearest place with Ravens?”
When the phone answered back, Finnegan near hopped out of his skin.
Chapter 6
The Vancouver sun crackled on the water beneath layers of ocean mist. Caleb inhaled deeply and shifted in the bed, reaching. His eyes snapped open.
She was still there.
Delilah grunted and rolled over, hands sprawled lazily above her head. How compromising, a gentleman waking before she did. Delilah must have lost her touch, or more dangerously, she wasn’t running game on him. Caleb smirked and pulled her in. She woke with a groaned.
“No, stop. Go away Amaterasu.”
“Battling against Japanese goddesses are we?” Caleb chuckled, fondling her shoulder.
“Want breakfast?” She asked, tugging on an elastic which failed to keep her hair in place.
“Eventually. Can we… can… coffee would be amazing.” Caleb released her, defeated by the morning sun. Permanence was a concept which shifted with Delilah’s sheets, laundered and replenished at too fast a rate for Caleb to imagine the unconscionable act of settling in domestic life. Delilah sat up.
“You make the coffee, I’ll make the breakfast. Deal?”
“Deal.” He sat up and stared at Jericho Beach. His fingers curled around the bunched sheets. Caleb took a deep breath and pulled himself back from vain desires.
Showered, dressed in jeans and a button down, Caleb rolled up his shirt sleeves as the kettle began to boil. Delilah came out of the bedroom in a pair of grey slacks and a white blouse, reaching for an apron as she opened her fridge.
“Are you still in love with bacon?” she asked, pulling her hair up in a loosely tied bun atop her head.
“Name the man who isn’t.”
“All the jewish and muslim ones.”
“Damn your multicultural approach to my food.” Caleb poured water into the kettle and set it in its’ heating dock.
“And the vegetarians. Oh! Vegans!”
“Vegans are vegetarians.” He said, measuring scoops of ground coffee into a glass french press.
“Don’t let them catch you saying that.”
“Gee, what could a vegan do? Throw vegetables at my shoes?”
“They have body builders, you know.” Delilah said, slicing into an avocado and chopping kale. She pulled a cast iron skillet off its hook and set it on the gas range. A sizzle greeted Caleb’s ears.
“Bacon. You goddess.” The salt-smoke aroma of cured meat joined with the rich, earthen coffee. Caleb inhaled heavily and sighed.
“Oy! No blaspheming.”
“Says the woman who cursed the gods earlier this morning?” He chuckled.
“I was half asleep, now I’m awake. How’s the coffee coming, Garçon?”
“Almost done.” He held the french press up, divining the steep of the grounds.
“Oh you saint.”
“Now whose blaspheming?” Caleb grabbe
d matching mugs from the cabinet.
“Oh right, you’re the one who wants eternal damnation on a tattoo.”
“Speaking of which, you said you knew a guy?”
“Caleb, don’t. You don’t want to meet this one.” Delilah shoved her spatula into the kale, avocado and bacon sautéing in the pan and turned around to face him.
“I’ve gone this far.” He said, pouring the coffee.
“How far’s that?”
“I found the mark on a skin scroll in the Hebrides. Had it authenticated in Israel. Took a scan off my phone in time to see the skin get blown up in a car bomb outside Tel Aviv. Called Finnegan, got an evac to Ireland and watched the nearest Tattoo Parlour spontaneously combust. The second had a brawl, cops came in, the place was trashed by the end of the night. I hoofed it to North America, tried a place in Florida but a riot broke out. Then another fire at another and there was Michigan… that’s when Finnegan sent me here.”
“As a joke.” She pursed her lips and sliced a lemon in half, squeezing some of the juice on her breakfast skillet.
“Where’d you see the mark?” Caleb said, staring at his coffee.
“Finnegan hates me, Caleb. Why would he joke about you coming here?”
“Leprechauns.” Caleb shrugged. “You said you knew a guy about a tattoo?”
Delilah’s eyes narrowed.
“Africa. I was working a charity liaison post in Nigeria. I met a man.”
“Of course.”
“Oh shut it! He was a creep. A freak of nature. He fed off pain and indecency and I’m fairly sure he’s the instigator behind genocides and I don’t want to go back. I won’t go back there and neither will you.” Delilah plated a warm kale, apple, bacon and avocado salad and a fork. Caleb scowled, poured coconut cream in his coffee and sat down to eat.
“Rabbit food.”
“I added bacon, it’s not rabbit food.”
“Monty Python rabbit food.”
“Eat it, you baby.”
“Come with me to Africa Lilah.”
“Eat your food.”
“I need to find the mark. I need to see what it takes.”
“Teetering on the precipice are we?” Delilah peered over her salad fork.
“I need to know.”
“The Heavenly Father has been inciting chaos every time you get close to a parlour with intent to ink. I’d say that shows a certain amount of faith in the Reverend Caleb Mauthisen.”
“It’s not for me, Delilah. It’s my Dad.”
Delilah returned to her cabinet and brought out a jar of salt. Sprinkling some on both dishes, she set the jar down and folded her hands on the counter.
“I’ll have Marcy pack us bags.”
*
As Caleb stared out the window of the first class cabin aboard KLM’s Amsterdam flight to Accra’s Kotoka Airport, he felt the long way round soak into his tired bones. Travelling with Delilah required education in VIP lines, Business Class Pre-Boarding lounges and hauling too many pieces of luggage. His empty passport bespoke of the unfamiliarity of travelling as most did: planes, trains and cars. Finnegan and Delilah’s war spilled frigid slush on his regular plans of a phone call and the right door knob.
‘Ought to check in…’ Caleb thought. Finnegan’s phone kept ringing, unanswered.
Delilah held up her flute glass as a steward filled it with more champagne. Her hand folded over the page of a fashion magazine. A manicured finger tapped on a picture of a girl with heavily lined eyes wearing layers of denim, silk and what Caleb thought might pass for a dress these days.
“That one. What do you think, hmm? I think she’d like it. Lilith’s into tramp vagabond.” She drew a circle around the ensemble with her thick black pen. Two lines under the price tag. Caleb whistled.
“Isn’t she old enough to dress herself?” Caleb stared out the window, hesitant to get involved in minor battles.
“Oh, a girl always needs a helping hand or two from her mother. What girl doesn’t?”
“Delilah…”
“Yes, yes, I know. You don’t do girl things.” Delilah perched her reading glasses up her nose and turned the page. She grimaced and turned another.
“You’re not going to find any peace where we’re going, Caleb. We ought to turn round. Cape Coast is lovely. We could stay in a resort and go home in a week or three. Catch the symphony in Accra. Movenpic is a beautiful hotel.”
“Stay in Accra, then. I’m going on.” Caleb pulled his blanket to his shoulders and let the seat lengthen into a small bed. His knees bent, he took what rest he could and waited to hear the end of Delilah turning pages in a mad dash to remain relevant to her bastard daughter. Once he was convinced she’d fallen asleep, Caleb brought out his father’s battered leather journal and flipped to a dog-eared page.
Transcription from the Jæren Account of Cardinal Bricius.
780 AD
Who do we have when the prowling moon strains upon an endless and somber night? Do we have our wits? Do we have our faculties of reason, loyalty, strength of arms? We have nothing in the dark. We have nothing when the ice of winter pinches into our skin through furs, leather and the embers of a dying hearth. We are nothing but our brothers’ keepers. When the moon’s argent eminence is the only vestige of our eyes, we are family or we are destroyed.
Thus, fratricide is the gravest of crimes with the north folk, for if you cannot trust your brother to hold back the cold, you become irrevocably cold yourself.
Eight winters swept in icy horror since last Ragnar and Magni drank at the same table. I thought in my ignorance that Viking pride might wane with the seasons, but in my youth I was in error. My Christian charity tamed the view I kept of both men. For Ragnar’s sake he has become as faithful a companion as the Good Lord’s Apostle John the Beloved; not that I may qualify myself near that of Our Lord. Our congregation has grown since three springs, when a band of marauders burnt all sites but our kirke and those homes which we protected with the amulet of Calvary’s Cross. Although the practice of worship to their gods remains, many are turning to torquing silver and gold into crucifix for their neck rings and brooches. It is this new jeweller’s practice I think Magni hates most of all.
Our Chieftain Jarl is forever fair, but tenuous of temper. He spends days alone up the mountain, or taking to hunting with none but his inner circle in hopes of bringing elk and such bounties to our tables. The man never seems to weary but around his peerless eyes. For my part I continue to help tend the gardens and drive fish from the sea into our nets. Ragnar plies his time with seed, timber, sod and stone, building up the many houses and structures our village requires. He is not proud. We lost four families to the winter, three buried in graves marked of stone ships. Only one of the families Ragnar and I buried in a Christian burial. We washed and dressed them in their finest under a stone cross made with Ragnar’s own hand. Their goods we distributed around the neediest of our congregation - harbouring much shock and tenuous disbelief from the more devout of their pagan kin. Ragnar itches at his left shoulder, rolling it to raucous pops and strains but does not let me see, nor tend the skin. Ragnar has taken no woman since his conversion, and neither has his brother. I hear the whispers of the village folk, their worries and fears that the next generation will not be as blessed to have Jarls of the Einridisen line. They tell the story of the Einridisens around the fire and as my hand warms to the fire in my kirke, it bears representing here and in Constantinople as truth taken that all Gentiles deserve patience in their conversion to the Way.
The ship which bore the brothers was hewn of a wood so hard no axe nor tool of man could have marred it. Frozen from the Winter’s chill, the shivering youth was bundled in white furs, and blue wool adorned with bands of gold. He held a fur mottled of white, orange and odd black lines around a chittering, weeping babe. No oars to steer with, no food to eat, the brothers’ ship coasted inland on a wind which smelled of Ash trees and blood waters. The village chieftain shook from sleep, raced to his feet and f
lung open the door of his longhouse with a speed which belayed his creaking age.
“To the ship! The ship! Gods the ship! Rouse! Rise up men of Jærenland! To your fires women!” He shouted and shouted until the village in mid-frenzy set three fish boats to the dawn waters. Once upon the boy, the men watched Magni’s cracked lips and blue cheeks wobble and croak. He pressed up the bundle in his shivering arms, offering but with the last of his life-strength his infant brother. The men towed the boat ashore as the Elder Woman, who had since childhood been wise in the spirits and magic, wandered around the beach and watched the skies.
“I hear the caws of raven twins in the distance, and to us two raven brothers. Feed them! Warm them by the fire! Oh! Oh, he will never warm.” She pointed at the elder brother carried from the beached ship, his eyes threading a cruel and tempestuous fate within them.
The babe was given to the Chieftain’s daughter whose infant girl suckled still at her breast. His half frozen lips spilled the mother’s milk, until the chill of his heart was warmed by the humming song from Aika’s loving lips. Unravelled from the wrappings and fine fabrics of his bundle, the babe was found to be blond of hair and blue of eye. Magni hovered over his brother with a terrible regard, fingers twitching to hold his infant charge.
From whence the brothers came, and where their ship was made no elder, jarl or warrior could purge from Magni’s lips. He shut his story inside his bone cage and kept the thunder of it chained to the confines of his soul. Magni sat mystified at the vessels and torques and shields and swords of the village men, having no familiarity but through the linen of a dream. The younger nursed from Aika until he ate solid food and grew hearty of leg and happy of spirit. Magni placed upon his brother the name Modthi and all the village took this as a sign of piety. Sharing the names of Thor’s sons had shared with the brothers a double helping of the village’s delight. Modthi’s joy could be shaken for naught but his fire temper and swollen knuckles. The brothers lived many winters growing but slowly toward their impending manhood. Magni in regard to wisdom, strength and piety, Modthi in regard to battle-lust, games and the skirted mantle of the girl-folk. Still the Chieftain sat for midnight hours with Magni in quest and bond. Still the Elder Woman searched the skies and the eyes of Modthi’s youthful face. The village began to dream of weaving spirits. Many seasons passed before the Jarl named his successor as Magni, son of no house but the sea, but the sky, but the corner of the Elder Woman’s eye. At the fire of his celebration Magni gave the name of his father; Einridi, he who battles alone. A strong name for a strong young man.
Son of Abel (The Judge of Mystics Book 1) Page 5