by Ted Minkinow
But Leland Graves would show them a power that would send the feebles clawing to get the portal closed. I’ll use my own fingers to roll back those women’s breast bones and remove their beating hearts.
Leland Graves extended a preternaturally long arm in Hattie’s direction.
Time: Undefined, Place: Undefined
The Auditor gaped in disbelief. Not only does he expose the enchantment…not good enough for Leland Graves to ignore that most basic company policy, he thought. As far as the Auditor was concerned, even these bad events deteriorated to something worse.
“He dropped the masking,” the Auditor said to a feeble jostling him for a better view. “Naked Contact,” the Auditor added. The feeble did not respond and the Auditor did not care. What he cared about now was the Great Unsigned Contract.
By exposing enchantment Leland Graves broke a basic tenant—and unholy trust among all employees—but the Auditor thought that could be overcome. Men tended to dismiss evidence of enchantment.
“But by dropping his mask,” the Auditor said to the same cringing feeble, “Leland Graves marries reason with imagination.”
Still nothing from the feeble and the stupid silence seasoned the Auditor’s growing fear with a sprinkling of anger.
“You git,” the Auditor said, “Leland Graves has exposed the truth.”
“What have we here, Ishmael?”
The Auditor knew the voice…expected the voice because he had summoned it…though it might mean punishment for himself, the Auditor was glad the Old One arrived. He turned to bow.
“Ave Authority,” the Auditor said. “I greet you with…”
“Shut up, Ishmael” said Authority.
The Auditor thought the Old One sounded more amused than angry…But one can never tell for sure.
“Do you know why I’ve named you Ishmael?”
Authority used his teaching voice so the Auditor allowed himself a glimmer of hope. Besides, he thought, he allows me a one-word name. But why?
“I do not,” the Auditor said.
“Because,” said Authority, “you have witnessed a maniacal vanity striving after wind.” The Old One paused in thought for a moment, smiled, and then added, “Which is not necessarily all bad.”
With that, Authority pushed Ishmael aside and scattered the feebles for a better view. No chance Authority would risk revealing his own enchantment.
“Oh dear,” he said. Authority looked over his shoulder and said, “The time has come to clear out books.”
When nobody responded—Ishmael knew enough to keeps his mouth shut—Authority added, “Shareholder’s meeting on the new moon. We do not want to kick that off with this liability on the books.”
Authority raised his hands and muttered a few phrases in the ancient language…the one brought down by the corporate founders. After that, he turned back to Ishmael and said, “That should suffice.”
It looked to the Auditor/Ishmael that Authority was satisfied and would say no more. But the Old One leaned closer and whispered in a tone that vaguely sounded reverent, “I am told that Faith approaches…riding his white horse.”
Authority winked and closed the portal. As the Old One faded in departure, Ishmael heard him say, “I hope you are not expecting a full bonus this period.”
Ishmael thought he understood…not the part about his name…Why call me Ishmael? He understood Authority’s incantation.
“If I am correct,” Ishmael/Auditor said to the feeble making his way back to where the portal stood moments before, “Leland Graves has just had his credentials revoked.”
The feeble did not seem to understand…did not seem to hear. But Ishmael felt giddy…No punishment, one-word name, and this assignment with the less-than-stable Leland Graves was coming to an end, so he decided to play along with the feeble…make believe mutual communication existed.
“Credentials equal protection of the corporate seal.” He wondered if Leland Graves knew what Authority just did. Ishmael looked back toward the closed portal as he said, “Not only Naked Contact.” He snickered. “Now he is naked.”
Estimated: Tuesday, July 17, 10:29 pm, Copper Gulch, outside Vienna, Alabama
Leland Graves reached a bony finger towards Hattie’s chest, and he inched his hand closer to the place where he sensed the old heart beating life through…”The Aura,” he said.
After all the years—her Jerome, her Tommy, and the hope of her family’s generations—Hattie stood impassive as the thing reached out to claw away her life. She would not scream, plead, or even flinch. Hattie prayed her life would sate this thing’s hunger. She closed her eyes.
“Jerome,” Hattie said, and it sounded like a call to wait for her while she caught up to him. She could feel the thing’s fingers—If that’s what they were—radiate with evil contagion as they moved the last few inches toward her body. She felt something else, too…from behind.
A young, lean Marlin Tilbury, uniformed in jungle camouflage and sporting a forty-pound flak jacket over a bare chest raged from the scrub behind the women. Marlin brushed Hattie aside and intercepted the hand of death intended for Hattie Jackson.
Hattie saw shock on the face of the thing she knew as Leland Graves. Marlin Tilbury fell, his chest broken and blood pouring and the ground seemed to end the enchantment because when Hattie looked down it was the old janitor that lay mortally wounded at her feet. When Hattie looked back to the thing that was Leland Graves she saw something incredible over his shoulder.
A gray-clad horseman—A ghost, she wondered—came into the clearing at full gallop. He swooped low in the saddle of a horse that pounded across the marsh on soundless hooves. He did not carry one of those petite, ornamental French blades like so many of his peers on both sides of the war, but instead a weighty, Philadelphia-made cutlass designed to sever and disembowel. American steel purchased in 1858 by the future officer of the Confederacy, who now offered American steel to Leland Graves.
The cut slashed head from wide, skinny shoulders.
The Confederate officer reigned in his horse to a sliding stop and dismounted.
Leland Graves’s body and head separated enough to allow starlight to peak between. Body and head rose about ten feet into the air, hovered for a moment, and then flattened into a dusty substance that rained back to earth like the dying embers of an fireworks explosion. Each grain blazed for an instant, and then in quick random succession disappeared into nothingness.
The unseasonably frigid air circulating in this portion of Copper Gulch reverted to a steamy July midnight. Voices from uncountable species of insects erupted into the silence.
Colonel Jackson Brewton—the Gray Rider—strode the couple of steps to a spot in front of Hattie…his horse looked on with curious eyes.
Jackson bowed to his granddaughter in a crisp, chivalrous movement. He righted himself, removed a white glove, and reached a bare hand to caress her cheek, but withdrew before contact. He would not risk unknown limits.
Jackson looked down at janitor Tilbury, his chest ravaged…mortal remains of his viscera pooling into a heap.
The Colonel stooped to find Marlin’s hand. Many years before, and in the same spot, he had reached for another hand…one that belonged to a fiend…a traitor…and death rewarded Jackson’s gallantry. This night, the hand belonged to a hero, a little lion of a man in strange dress named Marlin Tilbury.
Jackson gave Marlin’s hand a strong pull and the young, fearless Marlin—body once again whole and dressed for battle in the jungles of Vietnam—rose to his feet. The never-to-be janitor smiled at Hattie and threw Cassandra a wink.
The two men turned, and without another glance toward the living, mounted Jackson’s ghostly stallion and cantered for Copper Gulch’s boundary. They faded a little with each length the horse covered until the two men and mount disappeared not more than ten feet into the brush surrounding the clearing.
“Where do you think they are going?” asked Cassandra.
“I don’t know.”
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br /> The two women did not waste time discussing matters they knew would cover in minute detail later. It took colossal self-control for Hattie to allow Cassandra to be the one to check on her Tommy. Hattie would see to the other men…she prayed she would find Jeremiah and Chief Anderson still living. A whiff of honeysuckle that lined the ditches separating Copper Gulch from the rest of the world passed Hattie’s nose as she took the first step toward the trees that bound her wounded friends.
EPILOGUE
Friday, August 10, 3:47 pm, Orange Beach, Alabama
A black disk glided inches beneath the Gulf’s surface. He monitored its progress through binoculars kept handy for such a purpose, and estimated the size at approximately five to seven feet at the widest point across the wings. The object alternated between the shore and returning to sand bars fifty yards toward the open Gulf. At times, tips of powerful wings breached within a few feet of clueless swimmers.
The animal captured Tom’s full attention. Never had he seen a manta ray of such size and grace, but then never had the surf in Gulf Shores, Alabama been smooth as a fresh layer of peanut oil in a warm frying pan. The ninth floor view also helped.
A noise behind broke his reverie, and he turned to a smiling Cassandra stepping onto the deck. She carried a tray heaped with seven pounds of steaming crayfish spiced in Cajun seasoning so burly it could make your eyes bounce across the table.
Tom kissed Cassie as she landed the acrylic tray of mudbugs and four icy-wet bottles of his favorite iced tea. Next came an empty bowl of a volume perfect for holding the drained carcasses of the lobster-like delicacies. A slight breeze thick with salt and the aromas of the sea shifted a lock of hair on Cassandra’s forehead. That stir sent electricity surging through Tom’s arms, his hands and legs…his heart.
She sensed his mood and arched an eyebrow. They both decided to give their relationship opportunity to bloom under more normal conditions before considering anything more physical than holding each other. Cassandra knew she could only commit herself to the man she would someday marry. If it ever happens, she thought. But even if marriage never came, she would not make that awful mistake she made before…several years before Tom and Aunt Hattie walked into the emergency room at Grimes.
Tom was good natured enough about it…and seemed more than willing to wait…not to pressure her. Abstinence became their private treasure…even something they could joke about.
“I’m hungry,” Cassandra said, “so I decided not to wear the bikini.”
“Good choice,” Tom replied. “I’d hate for these little critters to have died in vain.”
Cassie smiled and sat down at the glass table in the seat opposite Tom. She opened two of the fancy teas, took the first sip out of each, and then handed one to Tom. He laughed so fully that it brought a cough. Cassandra grinned. They enjoyed the quiet for a moment, each sipping tea. Both heard the tow plane’s drone. The banner read “All You Can Eat—$9—Shrimp Basket.”
“You know Cassie, we really didn’t beat him.”
The luxuriant salt-breeze continued for minutes as she considered her response.
“No we did not,” she said, and then added, “And yes we did.”
Tom thought he understood the answer; suspecting it rolled up into something about love, original sin, demigods, true human nature, and a powerful, inalienable companionship bestowed upon the race at the onset of time.
And you think I’m the only one of my kind? Tom thought that given what was going on when Leland Graves said those words, the statement seemed less important back then than it did now. He felt certain Leland Graves wasn’t the most powerful of the lot and the thought sent a shiver pulsing through his spine. Even with possible limitations, and Tom had no idea what Leland Graves’s limitations might have been or if they even existed, He was committed to be as evil as he could be. Another tingle pressed out of his heart and into his shoulders.
They enjoyed the view in silence for a moment.
“Cassie?”
She paused the bottle at her lips.
“I kind of understand some of it; but what did Nana Sally mean by love making vulnerable?”
Cassandra returned her bottle to the table and took a deep breath before answering. “It confused me too, so I asked Aunt Hattie.”
“And?”
“She told me told me to look up the word clanging symbols.”
“Clanging symbols?” Tom put down the crawfish he had just picked up. “Did you?”
“I did…found it in the book of Corinthians.”
“And?”
“It said if I speak with the tongues of men and angels but don’t have love I’m a noisy gong or clanging symbol.”
Tom thought before speaking. The tongues of angel part gave him a shiver that he worked to hide. He’d wondered about that but wasn’t ready to say anything—even to Cassandra—yet. The wounds were still raw…the confusion still swirling. The notion of angels—Fallen angels, he thought—wouldn’t leave his mind.
Something else bothered him…something he could put a finger on…an irony. When Jeremiah first mentioned Cassie’s African-American heritage it gave Tom pause…even if just for a moment. But Leland Graves did not seem to care at all. Jackson Brewton, Aunt Hattie, Jeremiah, me, Tom went through the mental list, Leland Graves wanted what was inside…what was eternal…no consideration for color of skin that rots away in the end. And the thought that pure evil could teach a lesson about how to look at—really see—fellow members of the human race made Tom ashamed for all people…made him ashamed of himself.
He picked up the crawfish and continued his lunch in silence. He let the cold tea and spicy scents wash all else to the back of his mind, and gazed at his own Lady Hamilton as the tiny airplane continued its putter down the beach.
They might go ahead and hit the Shrimp Basket one night in the nine left of their casual escape from the world. Cassie grabbed a crawfish, separated torso from tail, and sucked down fragrant juices. She brought the tail up with the other hand and in one motion pulled the meat free with her teeth. Tom used his napkin to snare the liquids leaking down her chin.
Airplane propellers, sunshine, sandy beach aromas, and ocean breezes comprised their private, romantic orchestra. He planned to dance to the music every day.
POSTSCRIPT
Citation to Accompany the Award of:
The Congressional Medal of Honor
To
Corporal Marlin Tilbury
Rank and organization: Corporal (then Private First Class), U.S. Army, Company B, 5th Battalion (Airmobile), 7th Cavalry, 1st Cavalry Division. Place and date: Republic of Vietnam, 15 January 1969. Entered service at: Chicago, Ill. Born: 19 January 1950, Rockford, Ill.
Citation: For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity in action at the risk of his life and beyond the call of duty. PFC. Tilbury’s company, while securing a key strategic position atop Hill 1215 for deployment of regimental forces, came under intense attack by a battalion-sized force of North Vietnamese regulars. PFC Tilbury, deployed as a covering sniper outside the company perimeter, employed superior skill and dauntless courage to aid in repulsing repeated attacks on his company’s base camp. As darkness reduced his effectiveness, PFC Tilbury abandoned his position, charged over 200 meters of open ground, through withering enemy automatic weapons fire, mortar fire, and rocket propelled grenades that literally exploded at his feet, to rejoin his comrades.
Though wounded, PFC Tilbury continued to pour effective fire into the enemy at point-blank range until exhausting his ammunition. His position was overrun and he lost consciousness during fierce hand-to-hand combat. Upon regaining his senses, Private Tilbury provided first aid to a wounded comrade and carried him to safety on a multi-day trek through hostile territory. During their escape, PFC Tilbury repeatedly and at great risk to his own life exposed himself to draw enemy fire away from his wounded comrade. He is credited with killing more than fifteen enemy soldiers during that period.
PFC Tilbury’s extraord
inary heroism and supreme dedication to his comrades at the risk of his life were commensurate with the finest traditions of the United States Armed Services and remain a tribute to himself, his unit, and the United States Army.
Ted Minkinow writes from his home in Northern Alabama. In addition to duties as father and husband, Ted was a fighter pilot in the USAF and a software engineer. Comments or suggestions? You can reach Ted at [email protected].