A Path of Oak and Ash

by M. P. Reeves

  “Now. Or we will likely be dead,” Erik’s voice dropped an octave, “before we get out the front door.” Now at six foot seven inches tall, he filled the elevator. His eyes a deep mahogany that paralleled his skin. His suit, once torn blood stained and grey, was now pure white with a black tie.

  With the metallic tang of the elevator counting down the floors from thirty to one, a slow methodical sound that would have been innocuous in most cases. Although at the moment if felt like the clock of a bomb.

  Taking a deep breath Carrick closed his eyes, focusing simply on the expansion of his chest from air flowing into his body. In his mind he pictured the star of the last movie he had seen, the spy flick with Matt. The tall dark haired man with piercing eyes, perfect features and a fancy suit. The heavy British accent, the presumed scent of Drakkar cologne. He felt warm for a moment, reminded him of when he was a small child and his mother would wrap in a hot towel fresh from the dryer after a bath. The sensation made him momentarily homesick, the headline of that terrible paper flashing in his mind.

  Carrick was brought back to his surroundings by the slight weight change of the elevator stopping, the cheerful chime thanking them for their patronage while regrettably ordering their departure.

  In the posh lobby, all eyes were on him and his uncle. Businessmen by the check in desk murmured, pointing in their direction. There were a few soft gasps, a pair of girls in pencil skirts and sling-back heels pulled cell phones out of their purses. His uncle paid them no mind, walking confidently to the exit. Carrick had to walk quickly to match his elongated pace. A lick of terror touched his heart as the girls pointed their phones at him. The flash of the camera almost made him jump as the duo strolled beneath the large crystal chandelier that dangled over the lobby. That was it. He was a front page story now being tweeted, posted, pinned and god knows what else. It would only be a minute before the police had them surrounded, cuffed and doing twenty five in federal.

  Three feet from the revolving door that marked the exit, Carrick realized it was not because he was a wanted man. His reflection in the glass was not a boy with messy brown hair and ripped jeans. Staring back at him was a man of six five, broad shouldered and sculpted from his features to his clothes. He was the star from the movie, in the flesh.

  “You could have picked something less conspicuous nephew.” Erik mumbled to him, his eyes forward.

  “Look who’s talking Mr. Ebony Adonis. You look like a NBA star.”

  Erik let out a low chuckle, his deep bass voice rumbling like a feral beast. Flashing a straight set of white teeth he smiled at a young woman who had just walked into the lobby, her cheeks flushing from his recognition, hand immediately going to smooth out her hair in an attempt to hold his attention.

  Outside between the towering concrete giants the streets were busy, taxis flowed in a sea of yellow, the sidewalks bustling with pedestrians. A series of limos and cabs awaited in the street to pick up hotel patrons.

  There were two vehicles that seemed out of place down a half block. A pair of black Escalades with their daytime running lights on. Standing against the passenger door of the closest vehicle was a man in a black suit, his legs crossed at the ankle. In his hands he was holding a smartphone, casually scrolling through whatever was on the screen, face hidden under aviator sunglasses. Casual, inconspicuous and all together terrifying. It was the same type of men who held him in that dingy vacant apartment.

  “Follow me, keep your eyes forward.” Erik murmured, his lips barely moving.

  The driver of the third yellow taxi waiting in line outside the lobby doors was clearly not expecting his passengers to be in a rush. When Carrick and his uncle piled in the back he turned around lazily. Hooded eyes lined with thick dark circles indicating a lack of sleep.

  “Bags?” He seemed surprised they carried no luggage, his eyebrows popping inquisitively.

  “No. JFK International Airport please. Quickly. We have a flight to catch.” To the left of the taxi Carrick saw one of those black suits walk by, his cell phone to his ear a frown on his face.

  “Hey don’t I know you from somewhere?” The driver squinted in his rear view mirror at Carrick.

  “He gets that all the time.” Erik tried to dismiss the question.

  “You’re one of them celebrities aren’ ya? I’ve had a few of them in my cab, remember that fella from the big space movie last year? He was out drinkin’ a bit too late and wanted a ride to some after party with couple o'blonds, well I happened to be-”

  “Drive. Please.” Erik cut him off.

  “Alright, calm down. Sorry, just conversatin' with you.”

  Carrick exhaled sharply as the vehicle pulled away from the hotel and merged into traffic. Looking behind him he caught the slim outline of another man in a black suit running out the front revolving door, meeting up with the one outside. They had begun talking excitedly, their hands pointing in various directions as the cab turned the corner, placing the luxurious hotel out of view.

  “Was that...” Carrick asked while not sure how to ask.

  “Not now.”

  For the first time, Carrick did not argue.

  The dark and deceptive SUVs did not follow them from the hotel, nor did they run into any difficulty traversing the airport. Under star studded guise they boarded a plane for Glasgow using the names John Martin and Douglas Cleary. His uncle managed to have passports with their recently transformed faces although he could not comprehend how that was possible.

  From the flight information it seemed they would have nine hours straight in the air, 1st class seating. Even in their deceptive forms they had enough leg room, the seats more akin to a lazyboy recliner than a stuffy airline bench.

  It was two hours into the flight before Carrick could relax enough to loosen his grip on the arm rests.

  Lunch was served, bruschetta with fresh mozzarella, teriyaki chicken on a bed of jasmine rice complemented with a vegetable medley and finished off with a slab of moist chocolate cake that was far too delicious to be airplane food. Erik took his meal with a small glass of white wine, when the stewardess moved to pour one for the other supposed adult, the druid intervened. Instead he requested a clear soda for him with a heavy handed smile. Not that the idea of liquor was appealing to Carrick, but he did pride himself on making his own choices. After the plates were cleared away, Erik had hardly touched his, the movie star doppelganger found himself wanting to talk while his food settled.

  "What about Arcedes?" Carrick asked, suddenly aware they left the bird behind.

  "She tucked herself in the cargo hold."

  "Oh." He wondered how a giant bird managed to bypass security, but honestly it wasn't the strangest thing that had happened so far today so he let it slide. “That necklace of yours. That symbol was in a book my mother gave me for my birthday. What is it?”

  “Awen.”

  “Awen?”

  “The most direct explanation in your world is inspiration. An ignorant word translation documented in a book called Nennius' Historia Brittonum that occurred in roughly the year 796. Based on writings by a man named Gildas sometime earlier. However, it is so much more than that. In my world, in the true meaning, Awen is the essence of life. The spirit flow that connects all living things.”

  “I wonder how they came up with inspiration then.”

  “Do not misunderstand me, it is inspiration, but an inspiration of truth. A truth of the united spirit, the connection between the tree’s and the rivers, the deer and man, the energy that was never born and will never die yet gives form to all existence.”

  Erik leaned into him. “Our abilities, our strength comes from that energy. We are one with the world and thus the world is one with us.”

  Carrick nodded, trying to make sense of it. His whole life he had considered himself to be a very scientific person. If he couldn’t see it, smell it, taste it, touch it, he didn’t believe in it. Now his uncle was trying to tell him there was some sort of invisi-force drifting around all thin
gs that could be used by a few select individuals. It made him think of old anime cartoons he had watched as a child, was Arcedes really just a Pokémon?

  With a groan, he leaned his head back against the chair. This was insane, pure insanity. There was no such thing as giant birds, trees that bent to your will, shape shifting illusions. All of it was nonsense.

  Yet nonsense he had seen with his own eyes, nonsense he had done with his own hand.

  “I see your turmoil. Worry not, when we get to our destination, you will believe.” The false bass voice tried to comfort him. On some strange level, Carrick found himself wondering what his uncle’s true form really was. He doubted any of the faces he’d seen so far were correct.

  The rest of the flight passed with little of interest. Carrick slept most of the way, dreaming of his mother. In his mind he pictured her as he always did, the smiling healthy strong woman she had been when he was eleven. They had been living in Arizona at the time. He felt the dry heat of the southwest, the warm sun tanning his skin. Saw his mother's long gauze skirts blowing in the breeze as she called to him from the porch that it was time to come inside. Smelled the spices and peppers of dinner wafting from the house carried upon the melody of the lute music she played on the radio. He ran towards her, arms outstretched, his sandaled feet pushing off the stone pathway with a loud clack.

  He always woke up before he made it to her arms. Carrick would try to go back to sleep, to finish that journey, but he’d always be back out in the yard. His mother forever out of reach. It left him more exhausted than rested when the plane landed in Glasgow.

  From Glasgow the pair boarded a train to Oban a little bay town nestled in the Firth of Lorn. A resort town that, as Erik pointed out, was used by humans since Mesolithic times. Archaeological remains of cave dwellers had apparently been found in town. It was a beautiful little place that seemed to have been recently infected with far too many tourist traps and flashy signs, but the culture from ages past could still be seen past all the glitz. Dunollie Castle, overlooked the main entrance to the bay, Erik commented that the ‘stone beast’ had stood since 7th century. Apparently in more recent years, the quiet tourist trap had acted as a major naval launch point on World War II during the battle of the Atlantic. Period memorabilia shouted that fact from a few of the shops decorated with yellow buy one get one signs.

  Unfortunately there was no enjoying the local tourist traps or ancient ruins. Erik marched them directly from the train station to the docs where Calmac ferries carried them to Iona aboard a ship designated as a tourist day vessel.

  It was a beautiful island, the kind you found on postcards with rolling hills, green meadowlands, and a sea of purple flowers on the hilltops. The beaches blanketed with white sand, water gently washing over them in crystal blue perfection. An old stone Christian monastery sat in the distance, a dirt road leading up into the isle, disappearing into the hills.

  The tour guide in his white polo shirt and crisp khaki pants droned on as the boat approached the docks. “Once we land we will explore the remains of the Benedictine Nunnery founded in 1203 by Reginald MacDonald of Islay, Lord of the Isles. Then we will have some time to explore more of the island from the hill junction, south we will find Port a’ Churaich, the Port of the Coracle, where Saint Columba first set foot on the island and later established his now famous monastery.

  Of course, centuries before the arrival of St Columba on Iona in 563 the island had been adopted as a center of religion by sun worshipping Druids. Like Columba, these Dark Age clerics must have sensed something unique in the atmosphere of Iona, a quality that still sets it apart as a spiritual oasis.

  Perhaps it was the sparkling clarity of its light that appealed to these early mystics, for here the sky seems to open directly to Heaven not only as the sun goes down in comparable splendor, but throughout any sunny day when the cloud that hangs over the mainland and Mull miraculously breaks to bathe Iona in light that seems even brighter against the somber unlit hills on the opposite shore. It’s no use pretending that Iona escapes those days of unrelieved wetness that Western Scotland provides quite regularly, but it is true that Iona enjoys a substantial amount more sunshine than places to the east.”

  The dinging of a bell and shouts from the crew announced the ship had successfully docked, drowning out the shutter clicks of many a camera. Disembarking behind the three other couples, two elderly and the family with four children, the pair hung back. Erik nodded not to the defined path in front of them, but north up the white sand beach.

  “We can drop our guise now. For there is nothing between us and our destination.”

  Carrick frowned, his words coming out in his rolling British accent. “How do I?”

  “As before, but think of you, as you.”

  Carrick paused closing his eyes he pictured his reflection in the mirror from his birthday. His dark mahogany hair, bright blue wide eyes, slightly hollowed cheeks on either side of his straight nose that sat above his average mouth and slightly dimpled chin. A tall thin, yet defined frame, covered in his worn clothes.

  Opening his eyes he looked down to find his own hands at his sides, a familiar worn tee-shirt on his chest and ripped jeans on his legs, his own tattered tennis shoes on his feet. It was refreshing to be...himself.

  “It worked! I-“ Turning to his uncle he his words caught in his throat.

  Erik Slaine was just over six feet tall and triple Carrick’s width. His frame covered with a sleeveless cloak in a midnight green, the edging done in black fur, a thick layer of muscle covered his bare chest underneath that gold medallion, chiseled abs decorated with a series of runic tattoos over his ribcage. Bistre pants came up to just under his belly button, belted by some braided leather, tucked into thick leather boots. Large hands were home to several engraved rings decorated with ruby, emerald and sapphire stones. With all that he was however, the most shocking part to Carrick was his face.

  A pair of blue eyes that mirrored his own stared back at him, aged maybe two decades more judging by the small crow’s feet. The same defined jaw and high cheeks that his mother had always claimed he had inherited from his father were pronounced on Erik. Even his hair, though far longer, was the same mahogany shade. Rather than the full beard he expected, his uncle had five 'o clock shadow, the cleft of his chin visible under the stubble.

  Carrick smiled, an expression that started out small but ended in a wide grin. This man standing next to him on the beach, half a world away from where he was raised, was his blood. There was no doubting that now. Staring at his uncle, his proud, tall uncle, he felt a tinge of sadness, he imagined his father had looked quite similar. If only he had known him.

  They walked for a good half mile, before turning inward up the slowly sloping hill. High in the air above Carrick heard the gentle call of Arcedes, as she flew circles around them in the clouds. He felt relief she had made it out of the plane and over the waters in one piece.

  Erik stopped him by grabbing his shoulder halfway across the rolling green meadow. “Here.” He gestured wide with his palm over the grass.

  Directly in front of them was a circle of stones, surrounded by a larger circle of smaller pebbles. From the grass it looked as though no human feet had been in the area for many years. Moss covered some of the larger stones, wild flowers bloomed wherever they had taken root. The air was calm, but carried with it an electrical aura that was hard for Carrick to put to words. The meadow was alive, the center of the stone circle drawing him in like a magnet.

  With the flick of his wrist, Carrick was ordered to stand within the center circle and keep still. It was an order he did not wish to disobey.

  Erik walked past him, directly into the center of the large stones, standing just off absolute middle. Placing his left hand over the amulet that hung upon his chest he whispered quietly to himself, head bowed.

  There was a rattle that started on the edge of the field. The small outer circle of pebbles rose off the ground until they were three feet in the ai
r. The light breeze stopped, with it the sounds of the forest were also removed.

  Out of the silence came a singular sound, a drop of water leaking from a sink amplified a hundred fold. In that moment of sound ringing in his ears, Carrick felt weightless, his vision blurred.

  He had fallen a thousand feet without moving.

  The silence lifted, sounds of nature flooding his ears. Crickets, birds, the babbling of a brook. The smells of fresh water not sea, thick pines not floras from a meadow.

  Blinking quickly, he tried to reacquaint himself with his surroundings as his stomach churned.

  The meadow was gone.

  The bright sun, blue skies and fluffy white clouds had been replaced with a green canopy, the leaves of the tall trees each easily the width of a small car blocking out all but small beams of light that cascaded down to the flowers and moss that lined the forest floor. Blooms seemed to glow in shades of blue purple and orange like dim strings of Christmas lights around the trees. Fireflies zipped between them in swirling patterns, a white bird let out a loud caw and took flight to the left. Its wide wing span gleaming against the floral ceiling.

  Carrick found himself listing to the side, light headed. A thick palm clapped on his shoulder. Erik was standing next to him, his face beaming with pride he spoke. “Welcome to Dre'ien. Welcome home.”

  The last words he heard before he lost consciousness, his mind falling into the black depths of the unknown.

  5

  “Come on Liz, live a little!”

  When Matt Dickinson had approached her with his idea, her first thought was to immediately reject it.

  “It’s sick. So freaking morbid.” She had snapped at him, hiding behind the blue-gray shield of her locker door. Elizabeth Waters had never enjoyed being the center of attention. So when Rick Smith had been plastered all over the evening news she about choked on her dinner. It hadn’t taken an hour before some reporter had traced out her relationship to him and the Water’s residence had a slew of news vans on the lawn, each boasting a cameraman and a overly hair sprayed, fake tanned reporter eager to ask her more personal questions than her grandmother.