Wood, Fire, & Gold

by Jackson, Pam

  He pulled his shirt back on and turned to face her. Those wonderful emerald eyes stared sharply into his soul, and knowing their power over him, he moved closer to the table and kept his distance from the bedroom door. She must’ve picked up on his uneasiness as she sat back down on the sofa.

  “Several years back, I began to have these dreams.” He hesitated as he searched for the words. “Well, maybe not dreams that I had while I was asleep—more like visions or flashes that happened during the day. I was serving in Special Forces and stuck in some shithole at the time, and it always seemed to happen during the most intense moments on a mission. That’s not good, when the enemy is trying to kill you.” He sighed. The release of his secret was alleviating some of the pressure in his head, but unfortunately, not the pressure that was still pushing hard against his pants from the searing kiss they had just shared. “It was always the same scene: a man walking up the steps of a gallows, the crowd cheering for his death, the cold hands of the executioner fastening the noose around his neck, and then—” He stopped speaking, recalling the visual of his dream. He prayed Andie would understand all of this. “I saw the face of a beautiful woman in the crowd below.” He was leaving out certain important details, but he knew this was an easier version for Andie to handle.

  “What? You saw this? You’ve been seeing visions of Claudius hanging from the gallows and you’re just telling me now?” Andie covered her ears and closed her eyes tightly. “You told me you weren’t going to lie to me anymore, Clay!”

  He stared at her with confused and hurt eyes. He could clearly see she wasn’t going to take this well. For fuck’s sake, he still had trouble believing all of this bullshit. He swallowed hard and continued, ignoring her anger. “At the time, I didn’t think it was Claudius. These visions only lasted about a month or so, and then they seemed to disappear. I didn’t think much of it; I just chalked it up to fatigue and the regular horrors that plague you with the stress of battle. But one night in camp, when the action was low, I suddenly got this intense headache, like my eyes were on fire. I stood up, vomited, and then collapsed. The last thing I remember seeing was this wicked looking serpent with a head of a wolf and the tail was a peacock. It kept moving around in a figure eight pattern, and then the wolf ate the peacock. That’s when I suddenly woke up, but I wasn’t in the camp anymore. I was in an army hospital in Germany, and it was a week later. They told me I was in a coma for all that time, but it only seemed like seconds to me. I was cleared by my doctors and allowed back into active duty. And hell no, I didn’t dare tell them about these crazy visions. They would’ve pulled me out in a heartbeat.”

  He raked both his hands through his hair and clasped them behind his head. He took a moment to search for the words for the next part of this tale. He wanted to tell it without frightening Andie, but that was going to be an epic challenge. “I became obsessed with it. I couldn’t concentrate on the job, and that kind of distraction only gets your head blown off. I began reading books on metaphysics and existentialism, looking for something that would give me an answer for why this was happening. And then I just decided to take responsibility for the vision. Instead of it owning me, I would own it—take back my control. The next time I was on leave, I had the damn thing tattooed on my back. Well, that turned out to be a big fucking mistake, because after it was permanently inked into my skin, the visions started again. And this time they were longer and more detailed.”

  He stared at Andie’s angelic face, now clouded with bewilderment. “The man on the gallows was me. ... It was me, Andie. It just felt like I was really standing there. It started to make sense to me when you showed me that textbook with the ouroboros drawing. That’s when I realized I was seeing it all through Claudius’s eyes and that the woman in the crowd was—”

  Clay stopped speaking. He walked to a small, grimy window and peered out into the darkness, partly to assess the perimeter—a habit ingrained in him during many years of trying not to get killed by the enemy—but mainly because he was scared shitless that Andie was now a part of this nightmare. Procrastinating was better than saying it aloud.

  “Tell me, Clay. I need to know. Was there more? What else did you see? Finish what you were saying. Who did you see standing in the crowd?”

  Her questions were urgent, and when he looked at her, there were tears streaming down her face. She was dazed, but not hysterical, and his heart clutched with force as he watched her unravel.

  “Andie, darlin’, please don’t cry. I didn’t want any of this to happen, but when I saw you the first time during my surveillance detail, well ... it felt like it wasn’t the first time I saw you. And hell knows, I tried this entire time to keep my emotions out of the equation, but I just couldn’t fucking do it! Every time I looked into your beautiful eyes, the unbelievable feel of your soft skin and lips—it just brought me back to something that I had forgotten about ... but, I guess, that I once lived.”

  She moved to him, reaching for his hand. She opened his fingers and placed his palm against her face.

  Relieved, he pulled her in close, and they both remained silent. He stared into her wet eyes and wanted nothing more than to kiss her and hold her as close as he could. But he forced himself to continue with his story. “This sounds crazy, but it was ... for Christ’s sake, I don’t know how to say it.”

  She placed her hand over his mouth and silenced him, and then she finished his words.

  “It was me. I was in the crowd as you were sent to your death. Right? It was me. I watched you die as the merciless townspeople cried for your blood. I was there! Don’t you get it, Clay? Somehow you are Claudius, and ... and I am Katherine,” she sputtered it out and finally broke down. The sobs came loud and fast as she fell against him and buried her head in his chest.

  Clay kissed the top of her head, burying his fingers in the softness of her hair. He wished he could take away her fear. He was confused and agitated by this craziness. But he needed to know exactly what she saw. A certain detail haunted him more than the vision itself, and it would link them together in this bizarre dream. He needed to push her for the answer. This one detail that made his skin crawl every time he thought about it. “Baby, how do you know this?” He gently pushed her away from his chest to look into her eyes. “What else did you see, Andie?”

  “I started having these same visions right around the time I found Katherine’s diary. At first, I thought it was my subconscious playing with me, since I found myself reading her diary over and over again. I felt some crazy, strange empathy for Katherine, but I thought I was just overworked and exhausted. I would usually have the visions at night, while I was asleep, but then I began to see split-second flashes of it during the day. I could see myself in the crowd, watching the executioner place the noose around Claudius’s neck, but I could never remember the details of Claudius’s face. And then, when you and I met, it started happening again. First at your house, before I tried stealing your uncle’s map, and then, right here at the cabin, in the outside shower. I was watching a red-tailed hawk circle in the sky and it instantly hit me. I saw you, but not on the gallows. You were in the cave, coming toward me. But you were Claudius, and I was Katherine. Damn it! What the hell is going on? Are we crazy?”

  “Andie, did you see anything else when you saw me? Shit, I mean Claudius ... before his execution? Something that frightened you, maybe? Something on the executioner.”

  She squinted, and another large tear fell from her eye. “Yes, Clay. I did, and I’m sure you did, too.” She swallowed hard, wiped the tear from her pale face, and then kissed his lips softly. She looked up and then closed her eyes—her lips still brushing up against his. “The executioner—he had a terrible scar from his mouth to his ear, and a tattoo on his right hand. The same tattoo that’s on your back.”

  She saw him, too. He pulled her close and kissed her hard and long. He needed her more than ever. He had always needed her; he just didn’t know it. He didn’t know a damn thing about love or being happy, and f
inally he had found her—again. She was the only person who knew the one thing that frightened the unholy hell out of him. It was never maniacs shooting at him; it was death taking him before he could find her, before he could love her—before Claudius could love Katherine. And that’s why he owned it, that’s why he had permanently marked that wretched serpent into his skin. A brilliant reminder of a love he’d never had, but a feeling of being loved, that was lost—until now.

  Chapter 16

  Autumn, 1778

  Hudson Valley, New York

  The burlap hood that was placed over Abimal Young’s head had the distinct odor of vomit. He silently cursed the two offenders who had taken him by force from his bedchamber hours before, and he prayed that an act of God would dispose of them immediately. As he felt the coach jerk to a halt, he wondered whether they preferred bullying to murder. Perhaps his abduction was nothing more than a scare tactic; it could have been planned and paid for by any number of the irate townsmen he seemed to be offending more and more lately.

  Firm hands grabbed under his arms from both sides and swooped him effortlessly out of the coach. This concerned Abimal. Knowing his own considerable weight, he was now fully aware of the brute strength he was dealing with; it would be best not to irritate or provoke these two barbarians.

  A strong autumn wind blew against the thin layers of Abimal’s bedgown, and he wished he’d had half a second’s chance to retrieve his night robe before he was hooded and dragged from his warm house. Through the offensive hood, the pungent smell of briny water agitated his senses, and panic began to set in. Being beaten to a bloody mess was not at all appealing to him, but being drowned at sea was terrifying—especially after his latest run-in with that haughty bastard, Claudius Smith. Claudius and his men had nearly drowned Abimal in his own well over a few gold coins.

  The cries of ravenous seagulls filled the space around him, breaking the silence that he had endured for the past hours. Never once had his captors said a word—he’d heard not even a cough or a clearing of the throat from them. And then it suddenly dawned on Abimal—these men were obedient dogs. But who could be the master commanding them? Not a simple farmer or townsman—their meager offerings could not pay for obedience like this.

  He was just about to protest when he felt wooden steps under his feet. He reached out with a delicate and plump finger and felt a plastered wall rather than the rough and grimy surface of a ship’s hull. So his watery death might be postponed long enough for him to strike a bargain with his captors. However, there would be no celebrating just yet. As they reached the top of the staircase, he was tossed to the floor and kicked in his side with a hard boot. As Abimal instinctively sucked in air, he imagined that he, too, would vomit into the putrid burlap hood. But a rush of cool, stale air entered his lungs instead as the hood was torn from his head.

  “Kneel before Father.” A hollow voice rang out from behind him.

  Abimal tried to focus on the large human mass sitting in front of him, but his eyes were still adjusting to the bright sunlight that was streaming in through the dirt-streaked windows directly behind the sitting figure.

  “Sss ... sir?” Abimal stuttered, as this was the first word to emerge from his dry throat in many hours. “I will surely kneel before you, but pray tell the reason for such questioning, and why do so under a putrid hood of secrecy?” Abimal coughed up some phlegm in his hand, and he instantly realized he had no kerchief. Focusing on the sullen, dark specter in front of him, he decided that asking him for a kerchief didn’t seem like a good idea. Instead, he wiped his hand with great displeasure on his bedgown.

  Another swift kick hit Abimal’s side, and he knew it was better to kneel before the figure than to question the means of his abduction. He rolled onto his belly and did his best to kneel, but his long bedgown was stuck between his legs. To spare himself another hard kick to his side, he leaned forward and used his hands to prop up his now bruised and aching body. He looked more like a poor beggar in the streets than an affluent man of his high social rank.

  The dark figure spoke to Abimal’s pathetic form. “Is this the same gentleman who has lost the Atros Fallis? I beg for the truth, or my finest warrior, Johann here, will take your life. And not swiftly or without pain, I must warn.” The threat was delivered in a thick French accent, and Abimal watched as the figure moved from his perch to meet him on the floor. With a muscular hand, he grabbed Abimal’s chin and squeezed his chubby cheeks as if trying to force the answer out of him.

  “Yes. ... ‘Tis I. I am the owner of the Atros Fallis.” The words squeaked from Abimal’s pouting lips. The dark figure released his grip and sat back on his heels. Abimal could now see the face under the dark cloak. He realized the figure wasn’t wearing any ordinary cloak, but a black priest’s cassock with a stark white cincture fastened in a Roman knot at his waist. Abimal could not imagine why a vicar would want to bash him this badly. Abimal wasn’t a pious person, and he stayed away from his local house of worship mostly due to the prolonged screeching sounds from the farmer’s choir butchering fine church hymns on Sunday mornings.

  “Tu es completement débile!” The priest shrieked out his insult as his words vibrated off the thinly plastered walls. He rubbed his palms across his face, then brought them together to rest against his lips as though he were praying.

  Abimal was shocked by the loud French insult that had been cast his way, and he stayed motionless as well as speechless in front of the holy man.

  The priest shook his head and seemed to regain some of his composure. “I apologize for my behavior. Please forgive the offense. My name is Father Benoit. The item you possess ... or once possessed, is of great importance to a higher cause. Any earthly aspirations will pale in the shadow of the true power. Indeed, pray tell ... ah, but briefly. What happened to the Atros Fallis? You were offered a great deal of gold for that book.”

  Abimal stared into the priest’s cold, gray eyes and immediately realized that this man of God would have no remorse in giving the order for his execution. It was better to tell the truth and pray that somewhere in the priest’s heart he would have pity for Abimal’s inability to keep the Atros Fallis safe for an anonymous buyer. Now it was apparent that the anonymous buyer was the unholy priest before him.

  “Dear sir ... I mean Father. Unfortunately, the item in question was stolen from my house a fortnight ago by a despicable, vile character named Claudius Smith. He is a merciless bandit of ill fame. He had his filthy men hang me by my neck for what seemed like an anguishing eternity from my well pole! He allowed himself into my home and rummaged through my belongings. Aye, searching for some coin to give to a miserable wench to keep her husband alive on a British prison ship. I hid the enchanted book well enough, but Claudius is extremely cunning, and his keen eye sought out my hiding hole.”

  ###

  Father Benoit was silent for a moment. He stared intently at Abimal’s trembling face, searching for the kind of tell that betrayed a sinner who left out his lustful or evil thoughts from a confession. But to the priest’s bewilderment, Abimal was telling the truth and seemed honestly disturbed by the theft.

  “Monsieur Young,” the priest said, noticing the fear in Abimal’s eyes. His brotherhood knew all who were involved with the alchemical arts of the Atros Fallis. This pathetic fool groveling before him, unfortunately, had inherited the majestic book. The priest suddenly realized Abimal didn’t know what he had, and furthermore, did not know of its power. “Do you know the location of this notorious bandit? Does he still possess the Atros Fallis?” The priest was beginning to construct a new plan to retrieve the coveted book.

  “I ... I do not know, Father.” Abimal’s lips quivered. “Claudius is resourceful and has many friends amidst the local heathen Indian chiefs. ‘Tis known that he travels with a tall and terrible Mohawk man he calls Jhan. Aye, he could be concealed in any of their filthy lodges. The book? Aye, Claudius would sell his soul for gold and silver pieces. As I told you, he is a despicable man and u
nworthy to walk the same walkways and paths that we do, Father.”

  The priest stood and walked toward the grimy sunlit window. His thoughts raced through his head as he contemplated his next course of action for the retrieval of the Atros Fallis.

  Claudius would sell his soul for gold and silver pieces.

  These words gnawed at the priest like a ravenous wolf with a fleshy bone. Could this simple thief know the miracle spells that the Atros Fallis held? He couldn’t take the chance that such a powerful instrument, sent from God himself, would be used by a common criminal to create mere pence for grieving wives and widows. The slate must be wiped clean, even if it meant the Atros Fallis would be destroyed or lost for all eternity. His oath was to protect the object at all costs, even if it meant taking life—his own or any other.

  “Johann,” the priest called to his trusted servant. “See that Monsieur Young travels safely to his dwelling without a bruise more.” He told Abimal, “You are free to go, as you are no longer valuable to our cause. Merci, Monsieur Young.”

  “Aye, Father.” Johann’s toneless and obedient voice rang across the room. He knelt down to pull Abimal up with a muscular arm but was met with a protesting cry from his portly prisoner.

  “Nay, nay. I beseech you, Father!” Abimal screeched out his plea. “Oh, let me make my penance and seek out this enchanted book for your cause! I will not fail you this time. And as for Johann ...” Abimal could now see in detail the hideous, scarred face of one of the assailants who had pulled him violently from his warm bedchamber. “Let me obtain my own means for a way home. Johann is best to stay at thy holy side, Father.”