by Nancy Madore
The Hidden Ones
Power of Gods
Masquerade
The Hidden Ones is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 by Nancy Madore
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States
ISBN: 9781479321209 (paperback)
ISBN: 9781624075148 (Epub)
ISBN: 9781624075155 (PDF)
ASIN: B009R4CJB8 (Kindle)
Edited by Mark Hackenberg
For Jenny
The Hidden Ones
Contents
Book 1: Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
“The Nephilim were on the earth in those days, and also after, when the sons of God came in to the daughters of man and they bore children to them. These were the mighty men who were of old, the men of renown.”
— Genesis 6:4
Prologue
The car crept slowly down the deserted little street. It was just after midday, so everyone was still performing salat. The sun flooded through the car windows, lulling its silent occupants into an agreeable drowsiness. The driver hesitated in the unfamiliar neighborhood. Helene Trevelyan snapped out of her stupor to speak.
“It’s the third one on the right,” she said. A small twinge of excitement shot through her, taking her by surprise.
As the car turned into the driveway, the woman sitting in the front passenger seat turned to look at Helene. “Are you sure you’ll be all right?” she asked.
“Of course,” said Helene, reaching for the door handle. She heard the trunk pop and the driver stepped out of the car.
The woman frowned. “It doesn’t feel right leaving you here by yourself,” she said.
“I’ll be fine,” said Helene. She was impatient to leave but lingered a moment longer, so as not to appear rude. Like Helene, the woman was shrouded in the all-too-familiar black, leaving nothing exposed but her eyes. The eyes were all Helene noticed now anyway. It was surprising how telling that single feature could be when it was all you had to distinguish one person from another. These eyes were distracted and weary, but they were also touched with concern. “Really,” insisted Helene, trying to keep the impatience out of her voice. “You’ve been kind enough already.” And this was true. The woman and her husband had bent the rules to help Helene—a virtual stranger—and that was saying something in this part of the world. The woman’s husband, meanwhile, had fetched Helene’s bag out of the trunk and silently stood on her stoop, waiting for her to open the front door.
“You’re sure someone’s coming?” the woman asked, still uncertain.
“Yes. My friend will be here within the hour,” Helene lied. “Thank you again. I don’t want to keep your husband waiting.” Helene got out of the car and self-consciously walked up to the house. Her heart had begun the strange fluttering, just as she knew that it would. With her eyes respectfully lowered she unlocked her front door and stepped to one side. The man went only far enough into the house to place her bag inside and then left without a word. Helene slipped inside and shut the door with a sigh of relief.
Home at last! Helene looked around. Something was different. The house was so quiet. How strange it seemed without everyone in it. When was the last time she’d been alone? Helene pondered this as she waited for her heart to resume its regular tempo, and she suddenly realized that she’d never been completely alone in this house before. A guilty thrill trickled through her. She wondered, a little bewildered, what she should do first. She was exhausted and knew that she should eat something but, of course, she would have a look in the garden before anything else.
Leaving her bag where it lay, Helene slowly made her way through the house to the courtyard Zaahid built for her. A small smile curved her lips at the thought of Zaahid. She would never forget the day she found out about her step-son—or Fa’izah, his mother. Nor would she forget the look on their faces when they found out about her! And yet, what a blessing they both had turned out to be. Of course, Helene hadn’t been particularly thrilled at the time, and neither had poor Fa’izah, but the wide-eyed little boy, Zaahid, was delighted. From the very first day he followed Helene everywhere, like a benevolent little shadow; helping her, defending her and eventually becoming her biggest supporter—especially when it came to her garden.
It seemed a crazy idea, planting a flower garden in the desert, but Helene had needed something to take her mind off her troubles and the challenge kept her distracted. And she was determined. The garden was like a lifeline for her, representing the only link to her past. In some small way it helped bridge the enormous gap between her homeland and this, defying their most obvious contrasts. For the England of her memory was vigorous and alive. It was constantly changing and full of surprises, from its bright, jolly summers to its blustery, tempestuous winters. Saudi Arabia seemed stark by comparison, but Helene refused to yield to its limitations. All of her frustration for the whole of Arabia became concentrated on that little parcel of land she set out to tame. And tame it she did, with Zaahid by her side, planting, cultivating and weeding. He even recruited the others, working his way through their extended family until he finally roped every last one of them into helping her—some more begrudgingly than others—and the project became so enormous that it pervaded every aspect of their daily lives. Table scraps were religiously collected to be converted into compost, and buckets of used water were saved for watering. Gifts almost always came in the form of a plant. And now, all these years later, there was rarely a moment in Helene’s garden when something wasn’t in bloom.
Although it wasn’t at its peak on this particular November afternoon, the garden’s effect on Helene was as powerful as ever. There was just enough color to catch the eye, and the sweet, gentle scent of the foliage hung lightly in the air. It was a splendid afternoon, warm enough to linger outdoors. Helene picked up a pair of hand shears that were lying on a nearby bench and began absently deadheading the plants, creating a pouch in her abaya to collect the wilted flowers in. She noticed that the plants had been watered and her heart swelled in gratitude for Fa’izah. The intensity of her feeling
s for the woman she shared her husband with surprised her a little. Their relationship was unexpected, to say the least. But if nothing else, life had taught Helene to expect the unexpected. Would death be the same? As she meandered through the neat little rows of plants, chopping off the dried up flower heads, Helene wondered. She didn’t feel like a woman who was dying, though she did feel weaker than usual and, too, there was that disturbing slowing and, alternately, racing of her heart. It wouldn’t bother her so much, she decided, if not for the alarm it sometimes caused. Each time it happened she couldn’t help wondering: would this be the moment when her heart stopped for good?
But at least she’d escaped that dreadful hospital. And she had to admit that the timing of it couldn’t have been better. There was no one to make her stay. For once, there was no one to make her do anything. They’d all gone to Mecca for Hajj. And she would have been forced to go too, if not for the attack. Perhaps in the end Allah had decided to be merciful, granting her this small reprieve for a lifetime of going through the motions.
Allah. The old resentment automatically rose up in her and she closed her eyes, practicing the breathing exercises the nurses taught her. She reminded herself that her aversion was not really toward God, but the people who presumed to speak for him. How she fought them! But in the end they won, just as she supposed they always had throughout history. She no longer blamed Aabid. Her husband was as much a victim as she and Fa’izah were. Poor Zaahid and Rashad! They were destined to be just like their father. How could they be any other way? His way of thinking had been ingrained in them through every aspect of their lives, not just by Aabid but by their schools, their laws and their culture. It seemed to Helene that there was no way out for any of them.
Except Gisele. She got out. Unwanted tears came to Helene’s eyes and she focused once again on breathing slowly and deeply. But this time the breathing didn’t help, and the wild fluttering became more pronounced until Helene’s heart was clamoring painfully in her chest. She felt a moment of fear. She was not ready to go yet! She crouched low, bringing her head down past her bent knees, and waited for the painful thudding to subside. A late-blooming crocus, peeking out from behind a cluster of dried-up blossoms caught her attention. The petals on the tardy little flower were a brilliant lavender that contrasted delightfully with its red and yellow center. Helene inhaled deeply, capturing the delicate scent of it and then, sufficiently calmed, stood up with an ironic laugh. There was a time when she’d prayed for death, though she never fostered any hopes of something better waiting for her in the afterlife. She envied the religious their absolute certainty of a heavenly reward, and yet she could never understand their willingness to sacrifice happiness in this life for a promise of it in the next. “A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,” was her philosophy. Yet her proverbial bird had long since flown, so she supposed the two in the bush were all she had left.
Gisele knew, and that was what frightened Helene. If there really was some kind of existence after death, wouldn’t her daughter have finally made contact, after all her thwarted efforts to do so in life? For although Helene never actually received any of Gisele’s letters she’d been made aware of each and every one. Aabid was not one to mete out retribution passively. Oh no, he’d taken great pleasure in sharing little tidbits from Gisele’s letters—not enough to quench Helene’s thirst for information about her firstborn child, but just enough to pique her interest or give her cause to worry. And to this day, Helene knew he believed he’d done it for her own good. To the bitter end he’d held his ground, never once wavering, not even when that last letter came.
“Your daughter is dead,” was all he told her. “May Allah have mercy on her infidel soul.”
As always, the garden soothed her. The stone benches, so deliciously warm, had a therapeutic effect. She thought again of the hospital, recalling how frightfully cold it had been. Her teeth had never once stopped chattering throughout her stay there. Each time she heard the air conditioning click on—a sound that could wake her out of a dead sleep once she’d been there a few days—she shuddered with dread. Although she knew it was crazy, she had the peculiar impression that they were trying to keep their patients, like meat, from spoiling. And yet she would always be grateful to the doctor for allowing her to check herself out of the hospital, which normally required the permission of a woman’s wali. Letting her go without her husband’s consent was one thing, but the doctor, a gentle, caring woman of perhaps forty-five years (judging from her eyes), had even arranged for one of the nurses to take Helene home at the closing of her shift. Such acts of kindness were rare, as they could bring terrible repercussions if challenged. Helene hoped this would not be the case for her doctor.
Helene dug out a clump of irises and began carefully separating the shoots with a sharp knife. She handled the large, bulbous roots carefully, taking her time. There was no reason to hurry. There was nothing pressing to be done. There was no one to disturb her. She let her mind wander as she worked, allowing it to lead her where it would while she remained under the comforting influence of her courtyard paradise. Her thoughts moved tentatively toward the memories that most profoundly touched her life and, for the first time in years, she thought about that fateful trip to Qumran. Breathing deeply, she brought forth the images of her father, Butch and Huxley. Her lips curved in an unconscious smile. They were like three little boys looking for a ghost in a haunted house. And damned if they didn’t find it! How different things would have been if only they’d made it out of Qumran. Helene sighed. That ‘what if’ had been played out a long time ago. They didn’t make it out. The image of her father lying dead in the road suddenly flashed through her mind and Helene was abruptly jerked out of her reverie.
It was a lifetime ago. And it involved something bigger than Helene, her father, Butch and Huxley—bigger even than the discovery they traveled so far to find, which itself was so big it would have set the entire science community, and the world, on its ear. Yes, it was even bigger than that! Helene couldn’t comprehend the extent of it, but she knew it was too big for this world. And she knew that what happened with Lilith was at the center of it.
Lilith. Helene shuddered as she remembered the creature (there was no other way to describe it) that lured them—and her father’s killer—to Qumran. Helene could still see her pointed teeth, sharp and menacing, which Lilith tried to hide behind her dark curtain of hair. And those terrible claws! There was no denying that—whatever Lilith had been in life—death had made her a monster.
Well, at least she’d been stopped. Helene had seen to that. No one would find her again.
Helene felt calmer, confident that she’d done the right thing. It was tempting to sympathize with Lilith. There was a time when Helene was in awe of her. She couldn’t help admiring Lilith’s strength and determination. Back then, Helene would have given anything to be more like her. In her darkest moments, she even considered turning to Lilith for help. Thank goodness she never succeeded! She knew now that it wasn’t really Lilith she admired, but her independence. Independence was the only thing worth envying. In a way, heroes and villains were made—not by the gods or even themselves really, but by their fathers. Their very freedom to act was often the result of the careful planning of previous generations, passed down like a legacy. More often than not, the parents set the stage for the choices their children would ultimately have. This certainly had been true in Lilith’s case—and in Helene’s as well. They were both victims of circumstances far beyond their control. Their destinies had been set and unalterable.
And yet, perhaps Helene did not envy Lilith so much after all. She’d suffered a violent death, and then lost all independence in the afterlife. Helene’s death would likely be gentler, though she couldn’t say what would happen after that. She could only hope that the place she was going would be better than the terrible place Lilith had gone.
A lush peacefulness fell over Helene like a velvety blanket. She had a strong desire to sit for a momen
t, and did so, still clutching the iris in her hand. She looked at the thick, gnarly bulb with interest, and then her gaze moved to her hand, which looked strangely similar to the root it held. It was the hand of a much older woman. Her fingers were misshapen but still strong, with thick knuckles from years of hard work and fingernails that were permanently stained grayish yellow from handling the earth. She examined them indifferently for a long moment and then closed her eyes, lifting her face toward the sky. Her heart was fluttering riotously again, but it was happening so frequently now that it wasn’t quite so alarming. She even, sometimes, welcomed the giddy lightheadedness that came along with it. But a sudden, sharp pain took her by surprise and her eyes flew open. No, she cried inwardly. I haven’t even finished separating the irises!
But the pain kept increasing as a fierce heat tore through her chest. She tried to focus on her breathing, but the air didn’t seem to be reaching her lungs.
The sun seemed inordinately bright—which was odd because Helene could have sworn it had long since slipped past the courtyard wall. She stared up at it in astonishment. It seemed to be getting bigger, taking up more and more of the sky. Helene had the dim realization that she was dying, but where were the loved ones who were supposed to rush forward to greet her?
May Allah have mercy on her infidel soul.
No! Helene cried inwardly, refusing to even contemplate what her daughter’s absence in this critical moment might signify.
As the light grew even brighter, Helene had the sensation that she was being drawn upward. She searched the encroaching whiteness frantically for signs of life. Please God, she begged, let me see her this one last time. But in a hasty, final rebellion she shut her eyes tight, refusing to look, refusing to give Him this last opportunity to smite her. In her mind’s eye she strove to conjure the image of Gisele for herself, just as she looked the last time Helene saw her. Gisele was only sixteen then, and her beautiful face, normally so amused and full of pride, had been distorted with grief. “Ummi,” she’d sobbed, squeezing Helene so tightly that it hurt. “Ummi, I won’t leave you.”