Andras: Beyond Good and Evil

by S L Zammit

“I come down here to get away from my father,” says the girl hesitantly, after a long silence. “He gets mad and scary when he’s drunk, and he’s drunk most of the time.”

  “And where’s your mother Aurora?” asks the man softly.

  “She left,” says the girl with sadness in her voice. She quickly clears her throat and the quivering is gone.

  She continues firmly, “She’s gone. She came crying into my room one night and told me she couldn’t stay. I pretended to be asleep. I didn’t want it to be true, I thought she’d get over it, but the next morning all her things were gone. She never came back.”

  Being by nature a reserved and guarded child, Aurora suddenly realizes that she’s divulging more information about herself than ever before, and to make matters worse, to a complete stranger. She gasps, but feels strangely relieved and serene.

  “I’m sorry that you lost your mother,” says the voice, sounding sincere. “Don’t you have any relatives?”

  “No,” says the girl. “I’m all alone in the world except for my father, if you can call him that.”

  “You are indeed, I can see that,” says the voice, now pensive, sounding a bit surprised. “There is no one protecting you, and in line with my knowledge, every living thing in the universe is somehow protected.”

  He pauses and the absolute silence in the crypt engulfs them, complete strangers to each other, yet mutually respectful.

  Then he says, “At least you’re not dusty and full of maggots.”

  Aurora giggles at the image.

  “And even if you were,” continues the man, “now that you have me, you can always come to me.”

  “Thanks,” says Aurora, but is interrupted by the man’s whimpering.

  “I’m sorry to be making such a fuss but I’m in searing pain,” he moans. “My skin burns and my head throbs.”

  “What can I do to help you?” asks Aurora fully wired into and strangely excited by the urgency of the situation.

  “I’m sorry my dear,” cries the voice, “but I’m afraid I’m a goner and there’s nothing you can do.”

  “No!” says Aurora determined not to lose her newfound friend. “No, you can’t let go so easily.”

  “I don’t think that’s up to us,” says the voice sadly.

  “I know what to do!” says Aurora. “Just lie still mister, I’ve seen this on TV.”

  With that, Aurora rushes towards the direction of the voice, and springing onto the moaning, reclined figure, presses her lips onto the face and breathes into the mouth, just like they do on all her favorite TV shows.

  The man smells like rain and his lips and skin are icy, colder than anything she’s ever felt. So cold, her lips burn and smart. She feels his beard bristle against her face like steel wool, and her mouth fills with an unusual metallic taste like copper or liquorish or a strange combination of both, but she blows hard into his mouth.

  Breath after breath, until she feels his chest rise beneath her, and his eyes open, and she finds herself gazing deep into a bottomless pit of glowing blue-green despite the darkness in the crypt.

  Suddenly aware of and embarrassed by her actions, Aurora stumbles away from him. “I’m sorry,” she mumbles.

  “Don’t be, silly girl,” he says softly. “You just breathed life into me.”

  “I saw them do that on TV,” says the girl, her voice brimming with pride.

  “Excellent work,” he says. “Now you have to promise not to tell anyone about my presence. I need to regain my forces before anyone finds me. Promise me.”

  “I promise,” says the little girl solemnly.

  2

  “Things are clear now,” he says, more to himself than anyone. “I’m exactly where I need to be. What I must do now is re-establish myself, collect my dues and set things back on track.”

  Aurora isn’t really paying attention. She’s looking at the walls of the crypt, mystified.

  After months and months of visiting, he finally allowed her to bring in a flashlight, and for the first time she can clearly see the etchings on the walls.

  The repeating series of symbols is similar to the drawings on the walls of the ancient Egyptian pyramids in her history books. The etchings form a complex illustration that looks like the cosmos. Miniscule designs repeated and magnified with incredible precision, covering every inch of stonewall, creating what seems to be a chaotic design at first, but the closer she looks the more aware she becomes of the astounding likeness of the big picture to each constituent etching.

  “What is this all over the walls?” she asks, delicately sweeping her fingers over the symbols. “What does it mean?”

  “I was disembodied and helpless in the dark for a very long time before you found me,” says the man, “in a place I didn’t know, for reasons I didn’t remember. During that time, all I had to occupy me were fragmented memories and circling images. I put everything down, the whole story, in a way that clarifies the picture for me. From what you’ve told me about present-day existence and experiences, I realize that much time has passed and the reality now has shifted from the one I recall.”

  Aurora has recognized strangeness in the man for some time now. Certain things he says do not make any sense to the girl, but he is kind and attentive to her and talks to her more than any other adult ever has, except for maybe Graziella’s Zia Marie next door.

  She established that the man is not a drunkard by asking him point blank.

  ‘Must be lack of light and fresh air making him loopy,’ she thinks to herself. She certainly doesn’t mind that he’s peculiar since he’s one of a very few people who seem to genuinely care about her existence.

  The design on the walls fascinates Aurora and she spends some time studying it closely trying to make sense of it.

  “What is this here?” she asks pointing to a specific block of cyphers. She recognizes the eight-pointed cross of the Knights of Malta and what looks like a heraldic griffin and a bundle of grain.

  “My mental exploration took me to an old monastery in a land at war, then to memories of the joy of good living and the taste of wine and brandy,” he says. “Beautiful, rich foods in Gascony and the noble houses of Quercy, onto recollections of medieval seamen and warriors, naval combats and fortress sieges flooding my thoughts. I was haunted by the images of knights held in captivity and sold into slavery, drowned in shipwrecks and massacred in combat. The recollected events became so clear and detailed, that it occurred to me that I was somehow involved.”

  ‘He’s really nuts poor guy,’ thinks Aurora as she illuminates his face with the flashlight.

  He looks youthful despite the long, scraggly beard and sooty skin, and she senses goodness. A comforting, gentle beauty emanates from him. She deduces that he is younger than her father or Graziella’s Zia Marie. The man squints his eyes really narrow and impatiently shoos the light off with his hand, and the girl quickly moves the flashlight.

  “A good part of what happened came back to me,” he says sounding thrilled. “One moment I’m observing a sailor in a capsized ship close to land during a fierce storm, the next I’m standing close to him, whispering his name, calming him, guiding him to a safe place. Finally, the storm abates, and he bangs on the wooden body of the vessel. He is heard, a hole is drilled into the hull of the ship, and he’s pulled out with his pet monkey! Mathurin! His name was Mathurin d’Aux de Lescout, widely known as Mathurin Romegas. This same valiant sailor clashed frequently against the fleets of Admiral Dragut. He won many sea battles and captured many important adversaries. The Turkish Sultan, Suleiman, was enraged to such an extent, that he ordered his best naval admiral to assemble a fleet of unprecedented power to invade and take over the Maltese Islands. This attack turned into the greatest siege the Turkish Empire ever lodged against the armies of Christendom.”

  He pauses, and then continues, “What I found of great interest, is a face I recognized on shore when Romegas was saved from the shipwreck. Jean de Valette, who I knew very well, witnessed this diff
icult operation and befriended Romegas. I have memories of de Valette in a hold on this island when he was younger, and later being held captive on a Turkish ship, rowing in the galleys. I was there on both occasions, assisting in his rescue, guiding him to safety. Throughout the siege itself, I sustained and protected both Romegas and de Valette, as well as several thousand knights and local soldiers, until the very end. Thus it all came flooding back to me. My post, who I used to be, and what I did to end up here.”

  The evident excitement on the man’s face disheartens Aurora. She is familiar with the two names the man has mentioned. Romegas and de Valette were both French Grandmasters of the Knights of St. John of Rhodes and Malta. She remembers them from her history lessons. The events he’s rambling about happened over five hundred years ago.

  The hope that he would somehow help her unfortunate domestic situation is the only thing that has kept her sane during the past months. If he is half as loony as he sounds, she has her misgivings as to how he can possibly be of any assistance.

  “I can assure you dear girl,” he says, interrupting her stream of thought, “that you will be safe, happy and well taken care of. You helped me, and I promise that once I clear up the misunderstanding that landed me here, I will repay your kindness. At this point I’m becoming aware of the messenger coming my way and I’m certain I’ll be able to return to my position in no time.”

  The man’s soft voice, the gentleness and compassion she reads in his eyes, somehow enrage Aurora.

  “What are you going to do about father?” she asks angrily.

  “I’m sure I can scare him straight,” says the man reassuringly. “Sometimes all it takes is a firm talking to.”

  “Are you out of your mind?” retorts Aurora. “After all he’s put me through?”

  “Don’t fret dear girl,” says the man gently. “Let’s talk more about this. Tell me about the things you need.”

  “There are so many things I don’t have, I don’t even know where to start,” says the girl feeling frustrated. “I could begin with food, clothes or being able to sleep at night without feeling threatened. None of the other girls my age seem to have to worry about these things. This girl at my school, Graziella, lives next door with her Zia Marie and they love each other so much. I hear their laughter through the walls and smell the delicious home cooking and baking, the smells of cinnamon and nutmeg and cloves. Everyday is like Christmas or at least like I imagine Christmas should be. I want that. I want to be there with them. When I switch on the TV that father picked up from a garbage dump recently, I see this rich, beautiful lady who is described as a philanthropist, the wife of a prominent lawyer. Her name is Esmeralda Montfort. She is so successful and admired and wealthy and serene. Father flies into a fit when he catches me watching her on television programs. He says wealthy people are evil and rotten inside. He says the lawyer’s success comes from corruption and affiliation with some esoteric cult. He’s mean and angry and jealous, and all I want is to stop being poor and scared. I want to look like her. I want to have what she has. I want to be her.”

  “My dear girl,” says the man, “you don’t need to be anyone but yourself. The problem with people is that they’ve become too attached to this one junction. They don’t realize that this is just a short layover along the way, a leg in the journey. But you’re right. I’ll make sure your father sees the error in his ways. I’ll make certain he reroutes his course and you are given the childhood and the opportunities you deserve.”

  But Aurora interrupts him. “You have no idea how awful he is,” she says. “I don’t like your plan. It would never work. He just needs to go… forever. And I don’t care if I never see my mother again after what she did. I reject both of them! Aren’t parents supposed to love their children? Isn’t that what they’re for? I want to be next door with Graziella and Zia Marie in the clean house that smells of cinnamon and cloves.”

  The man observes the intensity on the little girl’s face through blue-green eyes and knows that she means every word she’s saying.

  “Beware the words you speak dear girl,” he tells her softly. “Every word you utter has enormous power.”

  “I wish it were so!” she retorts angrily. “If any of the words I spoke had power, I’d be far away from here right now and exactly where I want to be.”

  Aurora has so many things to tell this guy who believes he can solve her problems with a talking to, but before she finishes her tirade, the ground quivers beneath her feet and she stops talking. The way he rushes to her side shows that he feels it too.

  The shaking is ever so subtle at first, but soon intensifies, the sound getting incrementally louder.

  “You need to go now,” whispers the man sounding excited. “He’s finally coming.”

  “What’s going on?” asks Aurora, still tense from her outburst. “Who’s coming?”

  “He’s an emissary, one of very high rank,” says the man, eyes wide. “I’ve been expecting him. We will set things straight.”

  “Are you in some kind of trouble?” yells Aurora, sick of the man’s silliness and annoyed at the futile investment of her time. “If someone bad is looking for you, you need to come away with me. This shaking feels more like an earthquake to me anyway.”

  “No my dear,” he says. “He who approaches is bountiful and righteous.”

  The quaking of the ground is now stronger; a cloud of dust and bits of rubble dislodge from the ceiling of the cave as the whole structure shudders. Aurora and the man are thrown against the wall. The seism sounds like an elephant’s trumpet and feels like its stomping hooves.

  “Wait all you want mister,” says Aurora annoyed. “I’m getting out of here and I think you should too.”

  Aurora rushes out of the crypt and crawls on the jagged ground into the basement. She scurries across the space and quickly emerges into the kitchen where her father is slumped unconscious on a chair, his face flat on the table, oblivious of the world around him.

  Aurora directs the conical illumination from the flashlight into the tunnel to check whether she is being followed. As there is no sight of her friend, she fastens the trapdoor, covering it carefully. Flattening the carpet with her feet, the trapdoor is concealed completely. The shaking she had felt under the house is negligible in the kitchen.

  She stands still, studying her surroundings, then tiptoes up to her father. His left arm is outstretched over the table, the side of his face squashing the food on his plate, and drops of saliva drool from the corner of his mouth. He is snoring softly. Shuddering with disgust at his dissolute appearance and deciding against the inclination towards waking him up and helping him to bed, she quietly moves away from him and sneaks out of the room.

  “Idiots,” she whispers to herself, completely exasperated. “I’m surrounded by idiots.”

  3

  It’s been a while since Aurora has been down in the tunnel.

  The last meeting with the man left such a bad taste in her mouth that she felt some distance was warranted. A message had to be sent.

  At first it was hard for her to break the habit of rushing down into the crawlspace after she finishes her homework. But after a few days, it becomes easier to avoid the basement altogether.

  One day, she finds herself wondering about him. She wonders if he’s still down there in the dark crypt and what he thinks of her absence. He must think badly of her being gone all this time.

  Then she starts asking herself why he never ventures out of that dark hole. The gnawing feeling that he doesn’t care enough about her to miss her visits sprouts inside her head. Wouldn’t he have attempted a visit when father was out drinking? He knows enough about his comings and goings from everything she’s told him. She saved his life so he must care about her. He ought to!

  Her thoughts obsess her throughout the evening and into the next day, so much so that right after school she decides to go down into the crawlspace.

  It is colder than she recalls, the soft hairs on her arms stick on en
d and her body trembles as it adjusts to the ambient temperature.

  The climate is gelid and feels dense and fluid, but instinctively touching her skin, she finds she’s dry. The rocks in the tunnel are cold against her knees as she crawls over them.

  The crypt is dead silent and apparently empty. Skimming over the etched walls with her flashlight, she wonders where the man went, and feels a sudden pang of nostalgia for his company.

  Staring at the primordial scribbling coating the walls, she marvels at the complexity of the final design emanating from such simple symbols. Looking closer, she makes out repetitive patterns in the squiggles, like components of some mathematical equation, creating strange, esoteric designs.

  “I thought you’d never come back,” whispers the voice unexpectedly in her ear.

  A startled shriek emanates her lips as she spins around but doesn’t see him.

  “I’m right behind you,” he says as she spins again, but he’s not there.

  The man laughs.

  Aurora composes herself and leisurely turns around pointing her flashlight. She still doesn’t see him in the faint illumination. Although she feels a buzzing anxiety germinate at the back of her head, she forces the feeling into submission and consciously submerges her being into a state of calmness.

  “So,” she says sweetly, in an attempt to lure him out of hiding and alleviate the creepiness of the situation, “how was the meeting with your friend? I did miss coming down here and spending time with you. But since you didn’t come up to the house or make any attempt to contact me, I imagined you’d be gone by now.”

  “You’re a clever little girl aren’t you?” says the man, stepping out of the shadows.

  She is bewildered by the huge transformation in him since their last encounter. He seems larger than the confines of his physical form. His whole being looms and fills most of the space beyond the outline of his body. The beautiful warmth in his eyes is gone. The bottomless blue-green eyes are now icy and hard to read. There is something about him she can’t fathom and for the first time she feels genuinely scared. She stifles an urge to scream but an icy shiver travels through her body and in panic she drops the flashlight.