The First Book of the Pure

by Don Dewey

  He took his time burying her in the cemetery near the mausoleum. He dug under some large untrimmed bushes so that the disturbed earth wouldn’t be noticed, and spread some gravel on the grave after he flattened it as much as he could. In true death he believed one should return to the earth. He was fairly sure his wife’s remains would never be found. The mausoleum had never been meant for burial. He procured it as a secure place in case he would again need that long sleep he’d taken in the desert.

  After that, he walked the city for hours before returning to the mausoleum to be with his son. The body of Elihas was undisturbed. Geronimo knew he should wake first, so he determined to make this a short skip. He set a mental clock, lay on a shelf across from his son, and willed himself to stop breathing.

  Chapter 38

  Elihas, Son of Geronimo

  The Mausoleum was still as death itself, dank but intact. Goyahkla stirred for the first time in twenty years. His eyes opened, and he thought about where he was. He immediately looked over at Elihas, who looked good. Ah, not dead, my son, thought Goyahkla. “People who have been dead for years don’t look as good as you, boy.” He spoke aloud in a joking manner, like he was talking to Elihas and expected Elihas could hear him.

  He levered himself up, walked over to his son, and straightened his boy’s hair in the way that parents do, no matter the age of their children.

  He shook Elihas gently, speaking to him all the while. He didn’t know how to go about this; he’d never done it before. “Wake up, my son, wake up,” he urged. When there was no response after several minutes, his father struck his cheek, as one might do to someone caught up in hysteria. Again he smacked him, and again, beginning to get worried.

  Finally Elihas opened his eyes, and as Goyahkla’s hand came around for another slap, he caught it. “Stop, father. What are you doing?” Elihas looked around, somewhat confused. “Where are we? What happened?”

  “What do you remember, my son?”

  “Shots, an explosion, being at home, in bed…”

  “Yes. All that is true. The rest you don’t remember because you were shot twice and near death. I brought you here to recover.”

  “Shot?” Elihas shook his head. “No, that can’t be possible. Look at me, I’m…” he looked down at himself and saw the dark, old red stains which could be dried blood on his clothing, the rags his clothing had become, and the bullet hole in his shirt. “I’m okay though,” he said tentatively.

  “Yes, Elihas, my son. And there’s more. Your mother is dead. Dead a long time now, by the looks of your clothing and mine.”

  “How’s that possible?”

  “Ah my son.” He released a sigh. “There’s much you have to know. It grieves me to tell you the truth of some of it.”

  Elihas sat up, and seemed to gain strength as he did. He stumbled toward the door, but his father stopped him by grabbing his arm, and said harshly, “haná’an,” that is, “hidden.”

  “Tell me, father,” Elihas pleaded.

  So Goyahkla began his story, starting with his life in the west among the Apache. He told him of his life in the south, learning the ways of the gracious southerners, and their expressions he so loved. He continued with his life of revenge, and went on to his life with Ohma and Elihas.

  Elihas, perhaps because of his recent “skip,” and perhaps because he’d never heard anything like this in his life, sat silently as his father spoke. Tears began to run down his face in the silence. Geronimo grabbed his son in a fierce embrace, and together they sobbed for their loss.

  Finally Geronimo managed to speak. “Oh my son, please, please accept what I say.”

  Elihas sobbed as he took it all in. “I do father. I believe you. Mother’s dead? Truly?”

  Goyahkla embraced his tall son, desperate to help him through this terrible time. “But we are alive, Elihas. We are alive. And we must continue to live.”

  “What of those who killed mother, and shot me? What of them, since it’s been years?”

  “All dead,” Goyahkla said quietly. He picked up his two knives and offered them to his son. Elihas refused them with a shake of his head. “By my hand. By these knives, the same with which I avenged my family long ago. I killed them that very night.”

  Elihas looked at his father closely. “I see bullet holes in your clothing too, father. Are you all right?”

  “I heal quickly, and always completely. You’ll have to come to grips with the fact that you also won’t die from things like this, being shot, or stabbed. I’ve been shot more times that I can recall, and always recovered.”

  “I don’t understand,” replied Elihas.

  “I know, but you will. You will, with time. I’ve found that you and I have plenty of that. Collect yourself, and let’s go meet the world and see when it is. I hoped to never need this crypt, but I’m glad I thought ahead for it.”

  Father and son, both very tall for Apache, walked out into the new world together.

  Chapter 39

  Maximus and Robert Return

  Maximus timed his skip perfectly. He apparently revived before Robert, and immediately retrieved his certificate, first things first. He had no doubt that if Robert had already revived, the certificate would be gone. After that he took some hidden cash and got a nice room and gorged himself for a couple of days, because man, he was starving. He bought a new suit, the style of which had changed, but still was similar enough to what he had known to be comfortable, and headed out. He chuckled to himself, “A Roman soldier in a business suit and tie. Who would have thought?”

  He went to the firm of Stacy, Stacy and Abbott. They were the holders of much of his money, which was supposed to be invested but liquid enough to be retrieved without any long delays. He walked in, announced that he wanted to meet with the senior partner, and was asked his business.

  “My business is what your firm does. You’re the custodians of my money, and I’m here to take possession of it. My name is Maximus Palamos.”

  His name was legend in that office, and was built into the foundation of their growth over many years. Not one person in their organization was ignorant of that name. This outrageous claim was met with very polite concern. He was ushered into a beautiful conference room, the mahogany walls gleaming, the table fifteen feet long and a craftsman’s delight. He waited briefly while they fetched him some coffee. He had no doubt there were rapid discussions going on around him as he waited.

  Nicholas Abbott, the senior partner, approached him. “Sir, welcome to our practice. I understand you’re related to a client of ours?” His gracious manner was belied by his pallor and the beads of perspiration on his forehead.

  “Yes, I’m Maximus Palamos’ grandson, and I bear the same name as my grandfather. I’m here to claim my rights as his heir. What documentation do you require?” Max smiled because he knew exactly what the documentation was; he had written that part of the contract.

  “Well, we’ll need to start with photo identification and some other proof of identity, I suppose.”

  “I have with me the original contract with my grandfather’s signature on it. Would you like to see it, or do you want to retrieve your copy and compare them?”

  “Well, I don’t know if that will be nec…”

  “It will not,” broke in Max. “The contract is very exacting on this point. It only requires one piece of identification; no photo, no fingerprints, just that one declaration. And here it is.” With that he laid the paper on the table, inviting Mr. Romano to look at it. “Nothing else is necessary. I know that to be a fact. Do you agree, sir?” he asked with some impatience.

  “Well, you understand that we can’t be too careful about this, since we’re looking out for the interests of our client.”

  “I,” Max stressed, “am your client according to the original contract and this ID I’ve presented. I have no intention of pulling my investments away from your firm, unless of course, you don’t acknowledge what I’ve said to you, and what I know to be true. I do under
stand you’ll want to go through the originals, and have some discussion. After all, it’s been a bit over forty years since this was set up. But after that, and I mean to have that done by tomorrow at the latest, I’ll control my own interests, with your help or someone else’s. By the way, did any of your partners from that era, perhaps your own father or grandfather, say anything about being threatened by Max, my grandfather?”

  “Well, I’m sure that they…”

  “Never mind. I’m sure there’s some office legend about it. Consider them true, and still in effect.” He smiled.

  It actually took most of the week to sort it out, which had to be a record in brevity for a legal firm. Max and Robert had been very careful when they set this up, and Max had everything he needed. By week’s end he was in control of his money. He wondered what had happened to Robert, but that would sort itself out later. He took a sizable amount of cash, set up a local checking account, and established an enormous weekly stipend so he could set himself up, and began researching this new world with its wild technology. It was incredible, and far better than the simple, muscle powered Rome he remembered, or the wild ride they had as magicians, or even the years spent in New Orleans. If Robert made it, great. If not, I’ll miss him. I hope he makes it. This is more his kind of world than mine.

  Chapter 40

  Session 13

  At this point, well over three weeks after his kidnapping, Kenneth was feeling as vulnerable as ever, but had finally warmed to the stories his host was weaving. He’d been left alone with Bertram again for two days straight, and wasn’t told where his host had gone. Yet he had faithfully kept a journal of the stories, and still fleshed it out every night in lieu of anything else to do. It has the makings of a great novel, if I ever want to try that kind of thing. Who am I kidding? I’ve dreamed of doing that.

  The food was good, the pool was nice, being indoors and all, but the lack of freedom was so confining as to make him feel ill. At least this time his jailor had left instructions that he could use the facilities if he so chose. He sat at the breakfast table waiting, always waiting on his host’s schedule. Twice now that schedule made him wait for a good part of the day. It was 11:00 a.m. now and still no indication that the new story was going to start any time soon.

  Eventually his host showed, and seemed to be in a jovial mood. “Good day, Kenneth. We’ll soon be finished. There’s only so much that I’m comfortable sharing. I bet you’re more than ready to be done, eh?”

  “Well, yes, I am. That really shouldn’t be too much of a surprise to you.” Kenneth lifted his eyebrows in a question.

  “Of course, of course,” he said dismissively. “And you’ve kept notes and typed your account up?”

  “Yes, there is very little else to do here at night.” Kenneth sighed to emphasize his point.

  “Today and tomorrow, and perhaps we’ll be done. Today I’ll share about one more person, and tomorrow I plan on sharing how some of these are in conflict, and what it means to the world, and to you. Ready?”

  “Hit it,” Kenneth said with a weak smile. The end was in sight, and he was more than ready to see and hold his children again, and even looked forward to the inevitable argument with his ex-wife.

  Chapter 41

  Karl Returns, and Returns

  Karl, William the Bastard, Duke of Normandy and eventual King of England, revived. There in the hidden alcove in the dark dungeons underneath the castle, he revived. His last mistress, Trina, had served him well. She could have come back and taken the rest of the money, told the family where his body was, and a host of things that could have been very bad for him, but she’d done as he’d requested. He hoped her life had been a good one. He assumed she was long dead.

  Nobody knew these passages like he did, or had. Maybe someone did now. Maybe this entire hallway was walled off now, or perhaps someone had armed guards in these basement places now. He shrugged it off, because he still had to leave. He couldn’t acknowledge who he was without a horrible mess, including the possibility of a nasty death for himself if people believed he was a user of magic.

  He took the leather bag filled with gold, emptied it and put only what wouldn’t overtax the brittle old thing back into it. With about half of the gold, he secured it to his back and headed out. Trina had left his weapons with him for some reason. Good girl. Dagger in one hand and gold slung on his back he started out of the honeycombed basement complex, once used by him as a dungeon. He ran across only one misplaced person on his journey out, and that person unfortunately challenged him. “Let me show you what’s in this pack I have, sir.” He started the leather bag off his shoulder and continued its momentum, swinging it as hard as he could. The swinging weight of the gold took the soldier completely off his feet and slammed him to the wall. Before he could get straightened back up, Karl was on him with his knife. He drove it straight into his belly, shoving it upward to try for the heart. He was very strong, and the tip of the knife must have gone the distance, for the guard clutched at the wound in his abdomen and seemed to collapse in slow motion, like a small object dropped into thick, heavy syrup. Karl walked on, feeling a tiny twinge of regret, in his persona of William, for the killing of one of his own guards. But, so be it, and it certainly wasn’t the first of his servants and guards he’d killed in anger. He focused on what he would do now. England must be left behind, although he fleetingly wondered how his boys had done, and if either was still alive. He’d never admitted to anyone that Trina’s boy was his son, since she was just his mistress. He had no idea how many bastards he had strewn across the country. He had at least Robert and Benedict, neither worth very much thought, he decided. After a brief reflection he decided it was doubtful they were alive, so he moved on.

  He made his way outside, to the Thames, and hired a small boat to take him down river to the port. From there he booked passage to the Orient.

  He tried his hand at several things, but being a foreigner was a problem. Time after time he got in serious trouble, the kind of trouble that could have cost him his head. He always made advance preparations though, and when the Emperor was having him hunted he skipped until that Emperor was dead. Although in China he skipped three times, none were terribly long in duration. Finally while there he met someone to whom he could swear allegiance, and serve, as much as a man like Karl would ever serve another. That one was Kublai, the Khan. Even as a foreigner he worked his way into the Khan’s confidence. He served him well, and was part of the Warlord’s intelligence service from about 1253 to 1282.

  He remembered vividly the keen mind of the Khan when they spoke of Karl’s potential involvement. “Your light hair and skin may serve me well.” Kublai looked him over as one might evaluate a horse they were considering buying. “Some of my enemies could speak more freely to one not of my people, and so might some of my friends. You understand your loyalty must be to me alone! If I question it, I will do so over your corpse. Are we in agreement?”

  “We are, mighty Khan. I am your humble servant. Use me however it best suits your empire and your conquests.”

  He was part of the conquests of Kublai Khan for many years. They had a minor falling out, after which the Khan was more watchful of his foreign servant and friend. When Karl was chief advisor to the Khan in his push to invade Japan, it was disastrous. Kublai was livid at his defeat, and wasn’t known for being gracious. Karl managed to escape, and with some wealth he’d gleaned at the Khan’s court. He hid very carefully, and skipped yet again. Each time he revived he had a renewed vigor for life, and more care for how to go about living it.

  ***

  After those years he became something of a rambler, roaming through history as others would roam through an area to sightsee, stopping now and again to enjoy or take advantage of an era, then skipping to another.

  Yet there was a greatness in Karl. He had been Duke, King, advisor to the great Kublai Khan, victorious in many campaigns, and finally, in the nineteen hundreds, he returned close to home: Germany. This was
not the Germany of his early life, with tribes and duchies. This was a nation on the brink of taking on the world. He got to know, and admired the young Adolf Hitler, one day to be the Chancellor of Germany. He managed to ingratiate himself to him, and they became friends. He was amazed at how much Adolf could accomplish with his propensity to stay in bed until ten or eleven every morning. Even early in his career he had a position with great influence, always working toward more.

  They often met at cafes where they would have a drink, although Adolf rarely indulged in alcohol. The real treat at the cafes, at least for Adolf, was always pastries and sweets. Hitler was a great lover of sweets, and would eat far more chocolate than Karl. He was a moody man, and many years later even Karl decided he must have been criminally insane. Who knows, perhaps some modern medication might have saved the world all that trouble. Not likely though, nor did it matter to Karl.

  While Karl had nothing against any particular group of people, he also had no problem with Hitler’s hatred of Jews. Before the little man became Dictator of Germany, as he built his position, Karl was right there helping. The first Great War, “the war to end all wars,” was always an odd turn of a phrase to Karl. He’d seen so many wars that he couldn’t believe anything could ever end war. Certainly another war wouldn’t do it. It would take a special kind of fool to believe that.