by Richard Long
“Yeah, I think you’re right,” she said, a tear streaking her cheek as she pictured her mother lying on that soft, satin bed in the mortuary. “I think we’re lucky too.”
Martin wasn’t as lucky as he thought. Neither was Rose. None of us were.
Paul stormed into the The Plaza’s lobby with both fists clenched. One of the porters rushed over to stop the huge, crazy homeless man from going any farther…until he saw his face.
“I’m terribly sorry, sir. I didn’t recognize you.”
“I can see that,” Paul barked without a trace of an accent. “Are my rooms prepared?”
“As always,” he said brightly. “Do we have any luggage this evening?”
“We don’t,” Paul hissed, rumbling past him, making sure that he kept the sides of his overcoat closed. “Bring me my key.”
“Yes, sir,” he said, scrambling over to the registration desk like a Jack Russell terrier. He whispered something to the desk clerk and scampered back to Paul’s side.
“Right this way,” he said, bowing this time. Paul had already passed him into the elevator. He pressed the penthouse button as soon as he got inside and the porter had to rush to keep from getting caught in the closing doors.
“Beautiful evening,” he said, trying to brighten the gloom.
Paul ignored him. “A tall man checked in with a short girl. Lots of metal in her face. See them?”
“Yes,” he snickered, eager to please. “Quite a pair, they were.”
“Find out what room they’re in,” he snarled. “Keep me informed: who comes, who goes and when. Use this number,” he ordered, scribbling on a slip of paper.
“Certainly, sir,” the porter said, forcing a smile. Paul said nothing, snatching the key card from his hand as soon as the elevator door opened.
The porter started to follow, but Paul blocked him. “I’ll find my way just fine, son,” he said, slipping on the brogue like a pair of well-worn slippers. “Don’t let me down, now.”
Paul entered the dark room and didn’t bother turning on the lights. He sat in his favorite chair by the window and tried to sense where Martin was at this very moment. Was he right below him? Had he changed his mind and checked out again? No, he was here. He could feel it, yet he couldn’t see him. Very strange. But now his other eyes and ears were open. Martin and the girl might as well be tagged with a radar beacon. The porter would tell him their room number in minutes, if not seconds, and then…
He rubbed his hands together, then took a long deep sniff of his armpit. Ripe. Very ripe. He debated whether to take a shower. Decided against it. Why bother at this point?
He closed his eyes instead and searched for Martin again. Still nothing. Was Johnny blocking him? Raising a cloud of mist, a bubble of safety? If so, the bubble would burst soon enough.
“Martin, Martin, why hast thou forsaken me?” he implored, raising his hands in supplication. Then he laughed so hard he hocked up a green one on the clean, white carpet. He stared out the window into the darkness of Central Park and thought about Martin and all the others that had come before. Now this new boy too. He tried to picture what Michael was doing and was pleased to find their connection still intact.
At least he made it home.
“Every mistake is an opportunity,” he reminded himself, wincing at his foolish errors. Then he congratulated himself on the fact that he was here right now…and so were they. All the players were in motion. The Turning was upon them. He smiled. Then frowned. Martin had been impeccable tonight. His uncanny displays of providence were even more astounding. Looking at it from one angle, he was magnificent, confirming his most hopeful assumptions about Martin and his power. Never had there been a more worthy candidate. On the other hand, what of his own unforeseen miscalculations?
He thought about Johnny again. In his isolation had he somehow gained in strength? Was it…the girl? Even Michael and those stupid cops seemed to be pitching in, albeit unknowingly. Michael, tripping him up, the cops pressing those buzzers right on cue. Could something else go wrong? Was his power truly waning?
No. Despite all his sins, he was still the one, he had always been the one, he would always be the one. The scales were tipped in his favor. Who held the upper hand? He did. They had come to this place—his stronghold, his fortress—of their own accord, like lambs to the knife. Yet who made the decision? Had Martin awakened to his memories? Had he told her all he knew? Were they seeking the portal, to unite and defeat him? Could Martin betray his clan and his vow so completely? And if this destination was her choice, who had lured her? Was the Intelligence steering her? Was Johnny springing a trap?
There was too much at stake to rely solely on his intuition or logic or conjecture. He had to know exactly what had occurred and why. It was an incredible risk to take on the eve of battle. It would weaken him greatly. Still, he had to know for certain what had transpired before planning his final moves. He rose and walked to the other room, to the white door. He unlocked the door and turned the handle. Soon afterward, he crossed a second threshold. The crushing force required every ounce of his considerable power to endure, until he reached the Axis and saw what had thus far escaped him.
When he returned, he was exhausted, but he knew. The girl made the choice to come here. Martin was still asleep. He had told her nothing, still loyal to his vow whether he knew it or not. Johnny was pushing them to travel west, as far away and as fast as they could travel.
Ha! Johnny had failed. Again. And the Intelligence? Did it even care? Had it ever cared? The Maelstrom certainly didn’t. He had just witnessed that undeniable truth with the same clarity he had seen on every occasion he breached its unquenchably hungry maw. It churned on and on, devouring all, creating all, grinding the gears inexorably forward, shaping, molding, driving to the Singularity, when the Becoming would occur despite all their plotting, their misguided loyalty, their quest for participation, despite any aid or resistance from all of them, all the Clans, all the Kings and Masters, all the Knights and Lords and Druids, all thinking their path was the righteous one, their knowledge and wisdom the soundest, their goal the noblest. All of them had made the sacred vow, to guide, to protect the Intelligence and its intent, to safeguard the knowledge they had been given. But that knowledge was corrupted at every turn, just as he had been in the end—he the longest to resist those urges, the longest except for Sophia’s children. Now only Johnny and his bitch were left. By sundown tomorrow there would be only Johnny, trapped in the prison of his own choosing, free to weep at his leisure for the loss of his final treasure all the years he remained alive. For the loss of love itself. Just as he had done.
Only he knew the Truth. That knowledge was gained with the price of his great sin. He had transgressed the will of the Intelligence, betraying his son, his Clan and worst of all, himself, all for his selfish need to survive. To remember. To be the One.
Selfishness. Arrogance. Pride. Without even making a conscious decision he had succumbed to the most corrupting temptation. And what had he discovered? That his sin didn’t matter! The Wheel still turned. He grew ever stronger. His lust for vengeance was slaked time and time again without the slightest repercussions. As for the Intelligence, he didn’t give a shit. The Intelligence was in him. It was his will that mattered. He had been made for this purpose and this purpose alone. He of all people of all time had been chosen. He was still chosen. Regardless of his betrayal, the interventions that followed, regardless of the Christ, whose failure to set the course straight they would celebrate tomorrow, he had been chosen, as he had chosen Martin. Together they would triumph.
He was so close to the end. The world was a stinking pile of shit. Humans were devolving. Science and its fair-haired son Technology were accelerating exponentially, barreling onward like a runaway train to the Singularity. He was the last man standing. The last true son of Light and Life. Darkness and Death. There would be no more cycles after this. Martin had proven his resilience. The vessel would endure until the prophecy was fulfilled in them. E
verything would occur according to the plan—his plan—once the girl and Johnny had been defeated. His will would be done. His Kingdom come. On Earth as it is in Heaven!
But if…
A tendril of doubt crept into his heart and he felt a surge of apprehension he’d never experienced in his very long life. He crushed it like a cockroach and exploded with another booming laugh. “Just another game of chess. Black defeats white in the end.”
With that he went back to work, sorting through every detail, considering how all these loose ends might be straightened out with the right amount of cunning and foresight. It took him less than an hour to concoct the perfect scenario, full of fun and surprises. After the final piece of the puzzle snapped into place, his mind went back to Martin. He pictured the two of them together in the early days. How good it had been. For him. He was surprised by the depth of his feelings.
“He’s just a boy, like all the rest,” he told himself, like he had so many times before, trying to keep his emotions at bay. But no, this time he wanted them to come. He needed them. His heart would take him exactly where he wanted to go.
His chest rose and fell with the pain of those indelible memories. And in the deep, dark fringes of Paul’s black heart, the feelings grew. A little layer cake of sunshine. He could no longer deny it. There was someone in this world he actually loved. He was surprised, maybe even a little shocked, but another part of him had known it all along. Love. Sweet love. He savored the feeling with each big drumbeat in his chest and swirled it like a brandy snifter. It made him feel warm inside. It made him feel happy.
It made him want to kill.
Martin was still awake, thinking about luck. The more he thought about it, the less likely it seemed that their escape could be attributed to simple good fortune. He had seen Paul battle countless adversaries. No one had ever raised a finger against him, much less a loaded weapon, and escaped unharmed. How was it possible he was still alive? That they were still alive, he corrected himself, watching Rose’s sleeping body curled up next to him, making tiny snoring sounds.
He went into the bathroom and put on the complimentary terrycloth robe hanging on the back of the door. He nodded approvingly when he examined the label. “One hundred percent Egyptian combed cotton,” he read aloud. It felt so nice when he put it on that he forgot all about Paul for twenty-two seconds.
Where is he right now? Martin wondered, easing himself into the comfortable chair overlooking the dark forests of Central Park. The streetlights sparkled like diamonds between the blue-green-blackness of the trees. It was so beautiful. And they were still alive. But why?
“Come back,” Paul said. “Come back and make the world the way it used to be.”
Martin nodded, the cobwebs of self-deception slowly clearing away. There could only be one reason why Paul showed up today and why they were still alive. Unfortunately, it didn’t have anything to do with luck. He was alive because Paul wanted him back…to finish what they started. But what was that? All he could remember were the endless duels, the clan rivalries, the treasure hunts, the planning. But he couldn’t remember why.
Martin stared out the hotel window at the dark swaying trees and thought about the other questions Rose had asked him in the taxi. He wanted to tell her, he really did, but he knew what would happen if he ever talked about Paul. What would he say the next time she asked?
“I can’t tell you,” he said, rehearsing. It would have to do. Even if Paul didn’t do all those terrible things to him for telling her, he would do all those things to Rose. “He’ll do all those things anyway,” a wiser part of him whispered. So why not tell her everything he knew?
“If she knows what you’ve done, she won’t like you anymore,” Martin answered. That was one good reason. There was another one too. He couldn’t tell her everything, because he still didn’t know what was going on. He didn’t understand why Paul was so insistent on keeping him away from Rose…or why Paul had turned on him.
“What on earth do you want with her?” he whispered, hearing the echo of Paul’s sneering voice. He hadn’t known then. He did now. He wanted to be with her. He wanted to stay. Could they run away together? Could he turn his back on Paul forever, escape to a place where he could never, ever find them? No, there wasn’t any place like that. If Paul wanted to find them, he would. He watched Rose’s chest rise and fall with each tiny breath. He saw her legs twitching in her dreams. Was she running too?
There has to be another way to stop him. Could he kill him? Actually kill him? How many had tried and failed? Warriors much stronger and more adept. Could he even be killed at all?
“The Book. The answer is in the Book,” Martin said, not sure where the notion came from or why it sounded so convincing. He breathed in and out, emptying his mind of fear, comforted by the fact that they had managed to flee and Paul didn’t seem to want him dead. Not yet, anyway.
“Yes, the Book.” Martin nodded, more sure than ever. But what was the connection? He looked out the window and forced his mind to relax. “All I have to do is remember.”
“Please, Daddy, tell me what happened to the boy and the angel. Tell me what happened when they went to the Maelstrom!” he cried to Paul in the wheat field.
“That’s a secret,” Paul whispered, cupping his hand at Martin’s tiny ear.
“Please, Daddy, please! I promise I’ll never tell anyone ever!” Martin pleaded, grinning widely. He knew Paul would tell him, it was part of their ritual. But only after he promised.
“That’s a serious promise,” Paul said with a fake frown. “Forever is a long, long time. Are you sure I can trust you with such an important secret, no matter what happens, for as long as either of us shall live?”
“Yes, Daddy, you can trust me! I promise! I promise! Just like the boy in the story!”
Daddy smiled and rubbed Martin’s head. Then he resumed the story.
“The angel took the boy deeper and deeper into the Maelstrom, but as they approached the swirling core of light and darkness at the heart of the Axis, the boy began to scream in agony. It felt like the flesh was being ripped from his bones. Like his body was disintegrating into dust. But the pain ended as suddenly as it had begun and when he could see again, he was in a completely different place, a temple with a round stone altar. There was a huge golden bowl embedded in the center, with a great wooden staff running through ring handles on opposite sides of the great cauldron. Two people, wearing robes with hoods that concealed their faces, stood across from each other, gripping the pole and chanting words he didn’t understand.”
Paul made him repeat the words in the other language, over and over and over until he pronounced them perfectly before continuing the story.
“As they continued chanting, they pushed the pole in a counter-clockwise direction.…”
“And the whole altar moved with them, like they were turning a wheel!” Martin cried.
“Yes, just like a wheel,” Paul nodded happily. “And when the wheel turned, two secret chambers opened up. One of them had a sword inside with strange marks carved into the blade. The other one had a large, square, red crystal. One of them took the sword and the other took the crystal and they went back to the altar. There was a small metal square at the bottom of the cauldron. The red crystal fit inside it perfectly. They held the sword together over the cauldron, the tip almost touching the crystal. They held it by the blade, not the handle, right where the marks were carved and began chanting the words inscribed in the steel, repeating them as they squeezed the sword. They gripped it so hard their blood ran down the blade, mixing together and flowing onto the red crystal. As their blood covered the crystal it began to glow and soften, almost as if it were made of flesh. Then they drove the sword through the crystal and the caldron, burying it deep into the stone altar.
“After the sword was lodged in the stone, they clutched the wooden staff in their bloody hands and began pushing in a clockwise direction.” Paul paused. When he spoke again, his voice trembled with emot
ion as he closed his eyes and said, “And the Great Wheel turned.”
Paul paused again, inhaling deeply. Slowly, he opened his eyes and continued, “When the stone altar turned a second time, the temple was flooded with golden light. The light was so bright the boy couldn’t see anything, as if the temple, the people and the whole world had been swallowed up in it. The angel transported him to another place and another and another. He was showing him visions of the past, the present, and the future. The visions changed faster and faster while the angel spoke without opening his lips, telling him why he had been chosen and what he’d been chosen for. The angel took him far into the future and showed him something wonderful that was going to happen, something he was part of, something he would do. Then he showed him another future and another. In each of those futures, the wonderful thing didn’t happen. Terrible things happened instead. They were so terrible that the boy became very afraid, but the angel said he would live inside him for all the days of his life and together they would have the strength, wisdom and power to guide their destiny to that wonderful thing. All the boy had to do was make a sacred vow to protect and guide the Intelligence until they completed their goal…the Becoming.
“‘‘But how can I honor my vow for thousands of years?’ the boy asked.
“‘First you must make your oath,’ the angel commanded.
“The boy nodded. He was ready. Suddenly, they were transported again, to another temple in a faraway land. They were standing on top of an ancient stone altar covered with mysterious markings. The angel wrapped his arms around the boy, hugging him so tightly almost all the air in his lungs was squeezed out. With his last gasping breaths the boy made his vow and spoke the secret words the angel told him to repeat—the magic phrase that would unlock the Maelstrom and all of its secrets.
“When the Maelstrom opened for them, they ventured together to the Axis, where all was calm and beautiful and perfect. There the angel revealed to him the greatest secrets of all—the secrets of life and death, creation and destruction. The secrets were hidden in a story, in many stories that together formed the long, long story I’m telling you now,” Paul said, his face gravely serious. “The boy had to remember every word of it, in the same sacred language the people in the temple spoke. But he was a very special boy with a very good memory.”