Michael and Galen were stunned to silence as the angels began to ascend the walls of the wadi with the same ease in which they had descended it. The two less-capable members hurried after them, scrambling up the walls in panic as they perceived they might be left afoot in this lonely place.
When they reached the top, out of breath and terrified, they found not only their own horses, but all fifteen animals waiting for them, along with a supply of the strange, flaky food the angelic Chieftain had provided for them on previous journeys, as well as, several goatskin bags full of wine and another dozen or so full of goat’s milk. A sack contained roasted locust and a small crockery jar of honey.
“A veritable feast.” Galen sounded disgusted as he rummaged through the supplies in the horses’ packs, and then shaded his eyes against the last rays of the setting sun. Michael seemed to be watching something in the distance, but Galen saw nothing on the horizon. “Well, I guess that’s it.”
“I guess so.” Michael frowned and picked up two of the bags, hefting them across the rump of his horse.
“Where to?” Galen asked as he climbed onto his horse with the other bags slung over his shoulder.
“Do you know where the Grand Master was headed?” Michael swung onto the saddle and turned the horse toward the north.
“I would assume they will make an assault on New Babylon.” Galen told him.
“I believe I heard something about Egypt.” Michael frowned. He was frustrated that they had learned nothing of the plans of the Templars or the other armies. “I wonder which mountain Lucifer was speaking of when he said the mountain of Raguel has awakened?”
“I don’t know. Sounds like another angelic name to me, but yes. Egypt was mentioned.” Galen nodded. “I heard that as well. Perhaps my father will return to Egypt.”
“You’re probably right.” Michael agreed. “Egypt would be southwest then.”
“Southwest.” Galen reined his horse about. “We’ll need to put some distance between ourselves and this smoke signal. No telling what it will draw.”
Michael glanced at the ominous black cloud rising high into the still air. It would have been visible for miles in the daylight. The night would be cold without the presence of the warriors to keep their camp safe. There would be no campfire. Michael pulled his woolen mantel from the roll behind him and flung it across his shoulders as the final rays of the sun faded at the horizon.
“We’d best find a defensible place for the night, brother.” He glanced at Galen and was surprised to see tears on the blonde man’s face.
Galen brushed back his tangle of curls and smiled ruefully.
“I never thought I’d see the day when I would say that I miss him, Michael.” He sniffed loudly and looked away from his ‘brother’.
“We’ll see him again.” Michael assured him. “Have no doubt.”
(((((((((((((
The going was very slow as the long columns of mounted soldiers, foot-soldiers and various dusty vehicles made their way across the barren terrain toward the Mountains of Horeb. The dust was stifling at times and the monotony was broken only by miscellaneous piles of rocks and/or bones by the road. The road itself was barely visible on the ground as two worn ruts of finer material where countless wheels and feet had pulverized the desert pavement over an equally countless number of years. Lightning teased them with thoughts of cooling torrents, but chose to remain just out of reach on the ever receding horizon. No one could say if the clouds and the accompanying displays were real or simply hallucinations, mirages playing with their tired minds. Lucio and Mark Andrew had taken up riding the rear guard on the second morning and had soon become covered with dust to the extent that the Templars looked almost identical even though their attire was quite different under the layers of dirt, dust and sand. Mark’s red Tartan was a uniform gray color as was Lucio’s formerly white shirt and tan slacks. Vanni had packed more clothes for him, but he’d been unable to locate the pack after his son had left him to return to the Underworld with the elven King. Mark stopped from time to time and climbed down from his horse to dust himself off and give the horse a break. Camels would have been more suitable for the journey and there were, indeed, camels in the expedition, but Mark Andrew did not care for camels.
Very little conversation passed between the two Brothers as they rode or walked along, side by side. Lucio wore the kaffiyeh of the extinct Arab peoples who had once populated this land. Mark had borrowed a brown leather hat resembling a pith helmet from one of the soldiers and had a scarf attached to the rear brim to keep the sun and some of the grit off the back of his neck.
The sun dipped low behind them and they were immediately set upon by a pack of wolf-like creatures with heavy, ripping beaks resembling over-sized parrots and claws reminiscent of an American grizzly bear. When the ravening beasts were slain or driven off, they broke formation again and set up camp for the night. Mark stood on top of a solitary stone protruding from the bed of a dry river, shading his eyes against the last golden rays of the sun.
“What do you see up there?” Lucio’s voice drifted up to him from where the Italian was digging a hole with a small spade.
“It is not what I see that bothers me.” Mark answered him and then dropped lightly to the sand beside him. The Knight of Death knelt beside the busy Golden Eagle and watched him curiously. “It is what I hear. What are you doing?”
“Digging a bath.” Lucio muttered as water began to slowly seep into the sizable hole that he’d made in the sand. “What do you hear?”
“A bath?” Mark smiled slightly. “A bath would be nice about now. I hear a great disturbance away to the northwest.”
“Oh?” Lucio looked up at him and frowned, making creases in the dust on his face. “I don’t hear anything.”
“You will.” Mark told him and then smiled in earnest as the water began to well up quite rapidly in Lucio’s little well.
The Knight exclaimed something in Italian and then placed several smooth rocks into the hole as it filled with clear, cold water.
“What did you do?” The Italian asked him suspiciously. He’d not expected such success.
“Life is in the water, Brother, enjoy your bath. I have to be off for while and a bit. I’ll catch up with you in a day or two.” Mark scooped up a handful of the water and splashed his face, making a worse mess of himself as dirty rivulets ran down his short beard and dripped on his shirt. He wiped at the mud around his eyes with the scarf attached to his helmet, then turned abruptly and walked away.
“Wait!” Lucio was up and running after him. “Wait! Wait! Wait!”
Mark Andrew stopped beside his horse and reached for the scabbard that held his golden sword.
“You can’t just go off!” Lucio told him when he pulled the scabbard from the saddle and strapped on the belt. Lucio was still reeling from the news that the Scot would soon be leaving them, perhaps forever. It just could not be. “You have to tell someone.”
“I did. I told you. You are someone, no?” Mark’s blue eyes twinkled in the light of the nearest campfire.
“I mean you have to tell the Grand Master.” Lucio felt foolish suggesting that Mark should still report to someone. What was he doing telling this man… this creature he could not leave them without asking for leave? Mark Andrew had no Master on earth. He’d never had one.
“You can tell Edgard for me.” Mark nodded gravely, ignoring Lucio’s embarrassment. “I trust you.” He added this small, but heartfelt trio of words almost as an afterthought, but Lucio was dumbstruck to hear them from him. “Now, go on back to your bath before the animals find it.” Mark jerked his head back toward the little well. Water was flowing away down the wadi while a small torrent continued to pour from the depression.
“Santa Maria!” Lucio hurried back to his project and stooped over it, placing more stones in the bottom to give substance to the little bowl. He gathered a double handful of the water and splashed his dusty face. “You should at least clean up
a bit before you…” He began and then stopped as he realized that Mark was gone. His horse stood in the same place, happily chomping a bag of oats attached to his bridle, but the Knight of Death was nowhere to be seen.
“Hey!” Lucio stumbled to his feet again and ran back to the horse. He looked about the growing darkness in alarm and then squinted at the footprints in the sand. He followed the prints for perhaps three meters and then they simply stopped. “Damn it!!” He shouted and stomped one foot in frustration. “Damn you to hell, Mark Ramsay!! I hope you are happy!!”
The Italian spun around angrily and ran directly into Konrad von Hetz’s dusty chest.
“Oops!” Konrad caught him when he bounced off and set him firmly on his feet. Lucio stood staring up at the taller Knight. “Sorry. I didn’t interrupt something, did I?”
Lucio let out a long sigh and shook his head. His hair had grown considerably during his stay in the Egyptian wasteland as an eagle and his beard was curling next to his face in tight black spirals under the dust.
“Konrad.” The Knight of the Golden Eagle could manage only the one word. He wanted to scream and shout and jump up and down, but it seemed pointless. It was impossible to believe that Mark had left them, perhaps forever, without even a whimper or a whisper on the wind to announce it.
“I came to ask your advice… as a father.” Konrad took his arm and escorted him bodily toward the overflowing oasis, which had been discovered by a mangy jackal and a half dozen weary soldiers. They were throwing rocks at the poor beast and making themselves at home in Lucio’s well. Konrad knew already what had happened. He had felt it immediately when the Knight of Death had left their company. He had mastered his secret in the last few weeks, and now had mental links like the finely spun webs of a spider with each of his Brothers and most of the apprentices.
“I’d like to go over the particulars of the ceremony that I will be expected to perform when we get to Mt. Sinai.” He would take Lucio’s mind off of Sir Ramsay. They were all worried that their Knight of Death would be leaving them, and even Edgard d’Brouchart had told him to let him know immediately if Mark Andrew left them. But the Grand Master could wait. There was nothing to be done now and his father-in-law needed some company.
(((((((((((((
Mark Andrew sat on the tall stool next to the workbench in his lab in Lothian. Deep purple shadows reigned in the corners of the basement room and the only light was that given by an oil lamp hanging from a defunct florescent fixture overhead. The lamp swung gently on its chains and heavy shadows moved back and forth across the scarred wood of the old bench. Mark had both elbows on the table with his chin propped on his hands as he contemplated the strange device lying on a black silk cloth in front of him. He scratched his chin under the short beard that covered his face and frowned at the sparkling crystals set in either end of a figure eight frame made of gleaming silver metal. The crystals gave off a slightly greenish reflection of the lamplight. A rather sizable black spider with white dots on its abdomen crawled lazily across the table and then swung down into the darkness on a delicate silver thread. Mark leaned back to watch the arachnid until it had disappeared into the gloom under the table.
There were hundreds of things under the lab table. The various alchemical devices had been reduced to shadowy shapes covered with dust-coated cobwebs and more ovens and vessels were stacked under the table. Numberless layers of old webs crisscrossed the deeper recesses of the laboratory, the alchemical wonderland that had seen better days. The fire that he had kindled in the big oven in the corner had died to a low glow and still he pondered the object in front of him with mild curiosity.
Selwig, the healer, had brought it to him only the day before, still encased in the enigmatic yellow bag. The Tuathan had been unable to touch it and had exhibited the scars he still bore on his hands from the burns he had suffered simply scooping it into his medicine bag. And so he had come to seek Mark Andrew’s assistance in removing it from the precious bag. Mark handled the thing with ease, but Selwig had abandoned the premises as soon as it had come free, warning him that it was very powerful and should be handled as little as possible. Mark had taken the warning of his friend to heart, wrapped the thing in black cloth taken from a chest in the attic and brought it here in the lower regions of the old house in order to study it more carefully.
The Urim and Thummin. He knew the thing. He knew many things. Many, many things. Slowly, but surely, he was gaining a more sensible view of the world as the vast wealth of knowledge in his head settled into logical sequences. There were still many gaps, and it was if his thoughts resembled the folders in an upended file cabinet. Some things were perfectly clear, orderly, logical, but others were disarranged, out of order, with odd bits and pieces missing. Sometimes things would fall into place with almost audible clicks. Sophia stayed with him day and night, rarely letting him out of her sight. He didn’t know if it was because she was afraid that something would happen to him or if she was simply afraid. He thought it was a bit of both. As he sat perusing the perfectly smooth crystal balls set in the seamless mystery material comprising the frame and handle, he was again shocked and frightened when the white braid in his hair suddenly dropped onto the table. He let out an involuntary shriek and leaped back off the stool, banging his knee painfully in the process. When the thing lay still on the table, unmoving and seemingly harmless, he edged close again and reached for it uncertainly.
He ran one finger along the braid and then over the intricate designs of the silver ornaments worked into the hair. The silver was cold. The hair was smooth, silky and warm. A shudder ran up his spine as his fingers closed around the braid and then released it again. It lay on the table, alive and yet, not alive.
“Hmmm.” He commented wisely and frowned, rubbing the spot on his head where the braid had been attached. “Well.” He said after a moment when nothing else happens. “I could use a drink. How about you?” He asked no one and then laughed shortly. “Surely. Surely.” He answered himself as he rubbed the golden patch on the back of his hand absently. “A good glass of port, if you don’t mind, for me.” He nodded his head slightly. “Of course. And for me. A glass of Scotch. Neat. No. No. Not neat. On the rocks. Yes. That’s right. Rocks. Ice, you idiot. What did you think I meant?” He tilted his head to one side and frowned. “Who are you calling an idiot?”
“Mark?” Sophia’s voice made him jump in earnest. He grabbed at the silk cloth and covered the odd items on the table with it before turning to face her.
“Sophia.” He smiled at her and leaned against the stool, crossing his arms over his chest. “What are you doing down here? I thought you hated spiders.”
“I do, but I thought you were working on the plumbing under the sink. There’s water everywhere up there. What are you doing down here? Did I hear you talking to someone?” She frowned and squinted fearfully at the deep shadows in the room. They would have to clean this up eventually. It could be a fire hazard, and there was no fire department to call.
“Oh, no. Not me. You can see that I am here alone, silly girl. Only an idiot would talk to himself. Selwig came to see me and I guess I forgot about the sink. Sorry.” He tweaked her nose and took her hand. “Come on upstairs before you catch a cold.” He pulled her rapidly toward the door and then closed it behind them.
“I don’t like that word, Mark.” Sophia complained as they climbed the stairs. “I wish you would stop referring to yourself as an idiot.”
“But it is a good word. I-di-ot. I looked it up.” He explained. “According to the dictionary, the idiot is incapable of learning, and is completely helpless. An imbecile, on the other hand, may learn to communicate, but is incapable of earning his own living. A moron may take a normal place in society, but needs constant supervision. At first, I thought myself a moron because I need constant supervision, but then I realized that there is no place in society for me, and so I downgraded my opinion to imbecile because I can communicate fairly well and I am apparently
incapable of earning my own living, but upon reconsideration, I find myself quite misunderstood, and so I must not communicate as well as I had first thought. Now I have reclassified myself as an idiot because, based on what I know of my past, I am quite incapable of learning anything, and seem to be completely helpless against the tide of time.”
“Mark!” Sophia moaned as they made their way into the kitchen. “That’s ridiculous. That makes no sense whatsoever. I wish you would stay away from the dictionary. If you don’t settle down, I’m going to make the library off limits.” She poked him in the ribs playfully as he sat down on the floor, in the water, in front of the sink again. Tools were scattered all over the floor along with pieces of old galvanized and copper pipe and newer plastic pipe salvaged from the defunct bathroom under the stairs. Such luxurious things as PVC pipe were very hard to come by these days. He picked up a wrench and climbed halfway into the cabinet before lying on his back.
“Mark!” Sophia scolded him again and tried to stuff a towel under him where the water was soaking his clothes. “You’re going to get all wet. You should have let me mop the water first.”
“I rest my case.” His voice drifted back to her along with a clang, a bang and muffled curse.
Sophia shook her head and then picked up the glossy-leafed do-it-yourself book on plumbing that lay on the floor at his feet and began to study the diagrams. The back door slammed and Bari Kadif clumped down the hall and stopped to stare at her curiously. He was covered with black dirt and wild sprigs of grass and weeds. There were bits of straw and dried leaves in his hair.
“What happened?” He asked at the sight of Mark’s legs sticking out of the cabinet.
The Dove Page 33