The Perfect Sun

by Brendan Carroll

  “Then we’ll just have to stay, but I can’t guarantee what will happen,” he said as he sat down on the low stone fence and looked up at her. “If Yaldabaoth is behind this, then we are in great trouble.”

  ((((((((((((()))))))))))))

  Il Dolce Mio darted across the sunny patch on the forest floor and flattened himself against one of the old oaks. He was breathing hard and had to still his heart before going on the next leg of his short journey. The dappled light under the trees barely flickered as the diminutive elf King raced from one trunk to the next, creeping closer and closer to the bizarre scene working itself out in the clearing ahead. He could hear the voices, but could not imagine what the problem might be.

  At last he reached one of the gnarled old trees on the edge of the clearing and climbed nimbly into the lower branches, disappearing completely from normal human sight amongst the dark green leaves. At the end of the limb, he secreted himself securely and propped his chin in his hands. He would analyze this situation and then decide whether to intervene. His situation was not good. He recognized this area and most of the landmarks, even though the land had changed from what he remembered. Changed radically and there were none of his fellow creatures to be found. No dryads in the trees, no nymphs in the streams and no other faeries as far he could see anywhere, although there should have been countless numbers of forest dwellers.

  Two men circled each other cautiously in the clearing. Each held wicked blades in their right hands. One was dressed in the blue Ramsay kilt and the other was dressed entirely in black from head to toe.

  The elf King cleared his mind completely and concentrated on their voices.

  “Yur son? Oh ho! Now he’s yur son? Ye nevar cared aboot ’im before, did ye?” ‘John’ Ramsay spat the bitter words.

  “I preceded you in this world, Sir,” Mark Andrew answered him calmly. “You are also a product of my own folly. Give him up. Let him go.”

  “Just loike thot? Give ’im up? And wot then moight I be doin’? Look t’ yur own ’eart, Uriel. Are ye ready t’ sacrifoice yur own existence fur thot of another? I know this one bettar than you do. And, aye, I will agree with thee thot ’e desarves a loife even moreso than either one o’ us. ’is purity and honor puts us both t’ shame, and whair did ’e learn these qualities? It warn’t from you or me, thot’s fur sure. I moight be of yur imaginin’ but ye’ll ’ave t’ do bettar than thot, Uriel,” King Ramsay continued as he moved very slowly in a wide circle. “I’m not beat down now, Sir. Ye’ll ’ave a ’ard toime convincin’ me t’ lay me swoard asoide.”

  “Look in your own heart, Sir.”

  Mark Andrew was not put out by the hard words. His heart beat slowly and his blood ran almost cold as he faced the King again. Never had he expected to find him intact again, and he had not the slightest idea of what had happened. Nor did he know how Luke Matthew and Luke Andrew and the others had come to be here. He did know he needed to resolve this problem and get them out of the Seventh Gate and away from Lily Ramsay. “What have you done with him? What possible purpose could it serve to keep him?”

  “I’ll keep ’im t’ stop ye from killin’ ’im.” The King raised his chin slightly. “Killin’ ’im loike ye did me. Lettin’ me win through yur little war fur ye and then takin’ advantage o’ me condition on th’ battlefield. D’ ye not think thot a bit cowardly?”

  “What makes you think I would kill him?” Mark Andrew’s resolve was finally shaken by the suggestion. “He is not you, and he is not me. He has a right to live his life. You and I both have done him a grave disservice. You should have the gumption to admit that.”

  “I can admit it, but I dunna trust ye. I know ye loike th’ back o’ me own hand.” The King smiled slightly. “I’ll take me chances. If ye get through my swoard…”

  The King swung the twisted golden blade at Mark’s head and he had to duck back.

  “Wait!!” Il Dolce Mio dropped from the tree limb and scampered toward them.

  “Stay back, son,” Mark held out one hand to ward off the elf.

  “Son? So ye wud claim me son as well?” The King’s face turned deep red. “You had nothing to do with him!”

  “Don’t be absurd,” Mark said and picked up his pace as the King began to lose his temper. He adjusted the sword to a slightly different position, looking for the first opportunity to attack. “You and I are one and the same. We simply have a few insignificant memory differences and opinions, it seems.”

  “We ’ave a few different memories, ye say?” The King’s temper calmed to a slow burn and he’d lost his brogue. “I can think of a few o’ those differences thot are far from insignificant. You and I ’ave traveled by different paths.”

  “Please, Fathers!” Il Dolce Mio stepped between them, holding up his hands. “We can work this out. The world is a very large place. I have studied this fact in your library and yours, as well. There is room for everyone, you, you, me, us and according to your sociological surveys, diversity is a thing to be celebrated. If I can accept having two fathers, then you two can make peace with each other as fair gentlemen should.”

  Mark Andrew did not take his eyes off the King.

  “How did you get here, Your Highness?” He asked.

  “I have no idea.” The King of the Elves dropped his arms. “I was at my Royal Half-Brother’s home, and then, boomba! I was here. Where is here, my fathers? Do either of you know?”

  “We’ll discuss this a bit later, Son,” King Ramsay told him and kept his own eyes glued to Mark Andrew’s mirror image. “You and I have a great deal of catching up to do.”

  “How came you to be in this place, my Kingly Father?” Il Dolce Mio asked him. “I was informed you had passed over into Summerland.”

  “I don’t know,” he answered. “Same as you, I suppose.”

  “Please, Your Grace… my son,” Mark appealed to the elf King. “Let us handle this.”

  “I cannot do that.” The miniature monarch shook his hair and for the first time in anyone’s memory, nothing fell from it. “I cannot allow you to fight.”

  The elf King moved between them, keeping a position which completely blocked any moves either of them might make.

  They were still sparring with one futilely another with the Elven King between them, unable to do nothing more than glare at each other over his head, when they were suddenly engulfed in an icy blast of wind that seemed to come from nowhere, and then, instead of dissipating, simply stayed around them, fluffing up their hair and lifting tufts of grass and leaves from the forest floor.

  Both Ramsays lowered their swords simultaneously as they realized they were no longer in control of the situation. They were inside a cold spot which was much dimmer than the surrounding area. Outside their immediate vicinity, the sun was shining brilliantly on the trees and the verdant vegetation around the perimeter of the natural clearing. Il Dolce Mio shrieked and collapsed on the ground, covering his head with his arms.

  “Who are you?” A quivery voice, high and thin emanated from the very air.

  Both men spun around in circles, looking for the source of the question.

  “Who wants to know?” Mark Andrew squinted into the air, trying to catch some glimpse of this new apparition.

  “We are Urim and Thummin, sworn to serve the Dove,” a deeper, yet, more feminine voice answered the question.

  King Ramsay knelt beside the downed elf, but kept one eye on Mark Andrew.

  “Ahhh, so you have come here in the service of my son?” Mark Andrew kept moving, while keeping a watchful eye on the King. “Do you know where he is?”

  “Of course,” both voices answered. “Why would you kill your son, Ninnib?”

  “I would never kill my son,” Mark told them. “This man is not my son. He is not the Dove.”

  “You are mistaken, Ancient One,” the quivery voice spoke again and the faintest shimmer of green began to gather from the dimness. “This one carries the Dove within him. He has much love for the Dove and would not
harm him. Your quarrel is unfounded. There are greater things at risk and afoot here.”

  “Such as?” Mark stepped completely through the greenish form and could feel nothing.

  “Such as the health of the babe,” the deep voice took up the narrative. “Ask this one what is the name of the power coming for the child.”

  Mark frowned at the King and the King scowled back at him with the same expression.

  “What are they talking about?” He demanded.

  “There was a problem.” The King shrugged. “I cannot explain it. I came into being during a storm of your… our son’s creation. He had been invoking names of power. Marduk Kurios’ servants. One of them was about to destroy him. I struck a bargain with it. I didn’t know what child he was talking about.”

  “You promised the baby to one of Marduk’s servants?” Mark Andrew was appalled. He gradually understood where this third golden sword had come from. It was not Luke’s sword, and he still had his own. “Which one?” Mark completely forgot the presence of the twin angels and the conflict between himself and King Ramsay.

  “We must get th’ King out o’ this circle,” he said and picked up the limp body of the elf. “He canna withstand th’ presence o’ these creatures. Call a truce until we can hash this out.”

  Mark stood his ground as the King carried Il Dolce Mio away under the trees.

  “Where is the Dove? I don’t understand,” he said in a low voice when the other was gone.

  “There he goes,” the thin voice told him. “That is his body, though he carries the mind of another within his own.”

  Mark stood a few seconds digesting this information before following after the retreating figure. He snatched the purple robe from a hawthorn bush and slipped it on as he walked. The baby. They had to get the baby out of the gate. He needed to reverse the bargain. His old friend would have to help him defeat the treacherous demon. He’d seen two of them at the Djinni’s palace: Nicole’s ‘Mr. Barshak’ had stayed well out of his way, and Asaral had avoided him as well. They knew him, but he’d had no time to investigate why these two were moving about freely in the underworld. He had relegated it to a growing list of things to do.

  Barshak and Asaral were fairly benign powers without any real malice, mischievous, perhaps, but there were others far worse. As he walked along, he realized he had been talking to himself. It would be difficult enough to explain Il Dolce Mio to Lily, but at least she believed in elves and believed them to be benevolent creatures. But the twin angels? She wound never accept them, but what was he thinking? All of this was an illusion! He had created it; he could uncreate it. The thought made him shudder. The Uncreate. New understanding clicked into place. Nothing created could actually be un-created, it simply manifested itself somewhere else. The Uncreate spoken of by the Gnostics were simply creatures thrown into the Beyond.

  He could let her go. That would make things much easier, but...

  The thought of letting Lily slip away from him stopped him dead in his tracks. The entities behind him made gurgling noises as if the sudden change upset them. He didn’t want to let Lily go. He was still clinging to the material world. He had brought her from Purgatory simply to keep him company in his exile state. And again, his tampering had cost him. Now she was as real as any of them, fighting her own battles, making her own decisions. Her marriage to ‘John’ should have jolted him into the reality of what had become of his little world within a world. He had become no better than Yaldabaoth, himself, creating for his own pleasure without regard to the Divine Plan. With this serendipitous revelation came the realization that, even though he had resumed his Unity by joining with Andrea Larmenius, there was still a part of him missing and without it, he would never be able to ascend this world.

  These and other weighty thoughts were on his mind when he started forward again, fairly preoccupying his mind… unfortunately. He took no more than three steps before his attention was snapped back to the beech grove through which he had been walking. His boots slipped in something on the ground and he stopped again. He squatted near the earth and hesitantly placed two fingers in the jelly-like substance covering the leaves. It had no smell and no color, being transparent through and through and, when he rubbed it between his fingers, it dissipated into nothing more than a watery film that quickly evaporated into thin air. A sickening feeling of recognition gripped his heart and he turned on his heels, intending to warn off the two creatures following him, but they were no longer in sight ahead or behind.

  He stood up slowly and drew his sword. The forest was thick and the air blanketed by the leafy branches and dense trunks, but here was an unnatural silence as if he had stepped into a vacuum. Nothing animate was visible in any direction. He turned back the way he had come, intending to skirt the mass, but he was too late. A rustling noise in the tree branches overhead caused him to look up in time to receive a tremendous dollop of gelatinous goo directly in his face. When he tried to run, his movements were impeded as more and more of the stuff rained down on him. When he tried to scream for help, his mouth filled with the tasteless plasma and it slid effortlessly down his throat though he struggled gagged, trying to spit it out, even dropping his precious sword in the process. In a matter of seconds, he was totally engulfed in the horrid matter, knocked on his back by the sheer weight of it.

  Consciousness was leaving him rapidly as the stuff cut off his breath and made movement impossible. Just as his vision turned to dancing stars against a black tapestry, something wrapped around his left ankle and yanked viciously on his leg. The jolt and the resultant pain gave him just a wee bit more impetus, and he found himself kicking, screaming, gagging and coughing, laying the open air with movement all around him.

  The horrid jelly coated him from head to toe, causing his eyelashes to stick to his face and he blinked rapidly trying to clear his vision. His vision cleared slowly and he could hear the stuff running out of his ears, crackling and popping. The film over his eyes cleared, and he could see the worried faces above him.

  Merry Ramsay and Luke Matthew, but beyond them, strangely enough he thought he saw Nergal and Marduk also gazing down at him.

  “Brother,” Luke said desperately as he dragged him forcefully to his feet. Merry used a sweater or a shirt, he was not sure which, to wipe away the stuff on his face. “What is this? What happened?”

  He blinked at Merry, and then had to remind himself that this was his sister-in-law, not Meredith. The jelly slid down his face and dripped onto her arms.

  “Get back, Merry,” he pushed her away. “You don’t want this abomination on you!” He spat the words, and then stepped around his brother to glare at the two rather astonished Lords of the Abyss. “What is the meaning of this?” He demanded. “Why are you in my Gate without permission?”

  Luke Andrew came running with the golden sword. Slime dripped from his hand and arm. Mark took the sword and wiped the stuff away with his left hand before lowering the tip toward his two unexpected guests.

  “You would do well to thank Lord Nergal for saving your life,” Marduk said and scowled at him. “You would have been lost for eternity had it not been for his presence.”

  “Oh? And what did my friend do for me?” He snarled and shook off Luke Matthew’s attempts to stop him.

  “Your friend,” Marduk nodded toward his head. “Your little friend, who likes to tag along unexpectedly.”

  “Whattar ye talkin’ aboot?” Mark was losing his patience. He had other things to do.

  “Your braid, Mark,” Merry answered. “It was the braid that led them, and us, here. We were following them under the trees.”

  “Whattar ye talkin’ aboot?” Mark turned on her.

  “Meredith and I were walking in the forest,” Luke Matthew told him. “We saw these two fellows here acting suspicious, and we followed them. We thought we knew who they were, and so we were right.”

  Mark reached up and felt of the white braid, which was already re-attached to its preferred spot of scal
p.

  “That thing almost yanked my head off,” Nergal growled and rubbed the side of his head. “And we were not acting suspicious! We were following a disturbance.”

  “A disturbance?” Luke Andrew spoke up. “What kind of disturbance?”

  “We saw something in the tree tops and we came to see if it was friend or foe,” Marduk told them begrudgingly.

  “A friend?” Mark Andrew glanced up at the tree tops.

  “Not up there.” Nergal looked up and actually shuddered. “That was definitely not a friend.”

  “What was it, Mark?” Merry asked him as she clung to her husband’s arm.

  “I’m not sure.” He wiped his sword again and put it back in his scabbard. He would have to take a bath and wash his clothes. All except the purple robe which had come through the whole thing unscathed and perfectly clean.

  “I saw it,” Luke Andrew gasped and his face was very pale. “It was horrible beyond description. Worse even than the thing that smashed me, and then trapped you in the castle! What were they called? Fur balls?”

  “Firbolgs. Hush, now, laddie,” Mark stopped him. “Let’s get back to the house and see if everyone is all right.”

  “What about us?” Marduk asked when they started off.

  “If you promise to behave, you can come, too.” Mark waved one hand in dismissal. “Unless ye’d loike t’ keep lookin’ fur yur friend.”

  Marduk and Nergal glanced nervously at each other, and then, hurried after the Lord of the Seventh Gate.

  “We will abide by your word for the moment, Adar,” Nergal huffed as he rushed after Marduk.

  “I told you he would be here,” Marduk hissed at Nergal as they hurried along.

  “Yes, but what happened to Zaguri?” Nergal asked him quietly. “And who or what was that creature in the trees?”

  “That was something better left unnamed. Zaguri will simply have to fend for himself,” Marduk said and glanced over his shoulder every few seconds. “At least, I have one question answered. We will see them back to the house, and then take ourselves to the safety of the Fifth Gate.”