Man from Atlantis

by Patrick Duffy

  “I will not…” The skin under and around the metal of both bracelets reddened as the heat intensified. A brownish color followed a faint hissing sound.

  The smell reached Mark as he leapt forward to grab the band that was searing the flesh. In his right hand, Mark didn’t feel the heat from the burning skin, but only the natural coolness of the metal and stone. The hate, surviving even through the pain, inspired a physical outburst from Man-Den that shook Mark from his grasp.

  Mark hit the floor again, but this time with the bracelet in his hand.

  Man-Den reached for anything as a weapon to further his attack. His fingers found one of the handles of the floating ceramic-like ball that still hovered above its stand. From the moment he touched it, the two crystals emitted a pulsing greenish light. The ball started to pull on Man-Den and, as he attempted to throw it at Mark, it would at one moment rise in the air to where the large man would be almost on his toes and the next drop to just above the floor as if it weighed hundreds of pounds. In his last effort, Man-Den grabbed the other handle and raised the treasure above his head. When lifting it that high, Mark could see the small black smudges of skin on his wrist emitting tiny rivulets of smoke. He also saw the single crystal on the side of the orb facing him start to glow. Before he could say anything, the glow became an intense white, and from the crystal, a ray of light hit the pillar that stood in the far corner of the chamber. It floated into the air, and the movement startled Man-Den as he spun in its direction. That shift in position changed the angle of the ball, and it took the pillar through the air in a wide arc. It knocked several pieces of marble sculptures from their stands along the wall and sent them crashing to the floor.

  Shocked at the destruction created by the airborne stone, Man-Den lost the grip he had with his right hand, and the pillar dropped from where it hovered and broke into three large pieces. Re-securing both hands around the handles, Man-Den whirled again towards Mark. The white ray shot again from the crystal and found the Elder Nign-Ta. When the light touched her garment, it jerked her from her feet and into the air in a wide sweeping circle. Again, distracted by the mayhem he was creating, the minister released the handles and the ray disappeared.

  Mark had but an instant to brace himself before he caught the descending older woman. The impact of her weight dropping from that height slammed into his chest and shoulders. The electric shock in his left shoulder was followed shortly by the returning numbness that had been almost completely gone. He managed to hold onto her and get her to the ground, using mainly his right arm. The ceramic ball rotated in a small circle as it floated in the air directly in front of Man-Den’s chest.

  “Man-Den!” The new voice from a source he recognized stopped the minister completely. Simultaneously with the shout, the bound man kicked the royal knife, which still lay where it had dropped close to his feet, across the floor. It rattled in front of Mark, slid under the table, and came to rest behind the enraged and confused madman. Now Mark had no choice; he had to subdue Man-Den. The items he had been wielding were dangerous, but other than creating bedlam and chaos, they could be avoided. Now, this man—with no control over his twisted mental state—was inches from a weapon that could destroy everyone.

  Man-Den swayed back and forth as he scanned the room. Looking from person to person, it was impossible to tell whether he recognized the individuals or not. There was no care in his gaze—the look was cold and deliberate, whether it fell on an Elder, his wife, or his son. He did hesitate briefly when he looked at the bound man who had yelled his name and given him access to the knife. A little smile appeared on his lips, and he started to mouth a word, but the raging conflict of blood and mental processes in his body caused him to convulse and then he caught sight of Mark once again. The smile became a sneer, and he pushed away the now motionless ball that hung in the air in front of him. It sailed several yards and slowly halted, almost touching the wall closest to where they stood.

  “Con-Or!” Hate and fear combined in his voice and eyes as he stood there pointing his finger at Mark. Everyone watched the man in disbelief. Man-Den dropped his gaze, saw the knife where it had stopped, and bent to retrieve it.

  Taking the opportunity, Mark launched himself over the table and dragged several of the items with him in his flight. Mark hit the crouching man as he came up holding the knife by the sheath. The force of the collision sent both men to the floor and the weapon banging into the corner.

  With the breath partially knocked out of him, Man-Den flailed at Mark, struggling to get to his own feet and to the knife. The blows were poorly aimed, and Mark could easily deflect most before they did any real harm. Two times, however, the minister was able to connect solidly on Mark’s bruised shoulder, sending jabs of current tingling to his fingers and neck. Realizing it would be impossible to stand, Man-Den rolled to his stomach and started pulling his way to the corner. Several times he was able to break Mark’s still-weakened grip and was making progress towards the blade. With one last swing of his elbow, which hit squarely on the battered arm, Man-Den rolled his restrainer off his back and lunged the remaining few feet.

  Spinning to confront Mark once again, heaving with exhaustion, he held the knife in his open hands.

  “This time, a few drops on the palm of a glove will not be necessary.” With that, he put his right hand in the opening and held out the weapon. Mark froze as the sheath immediately began to withdraw, the gleaming point aimed at his throat. He knew, even if it resulted in his death, that he had to try, right now, to stop Man-Den.

  Pulling his legs under him, Mark was about to reach out and take hold of the knife blade. He stopped when the sheath stopped. Instead of completely folding into the handle, it began once again to cover the razor-sharp double edges.

  Man-Den stared in disbelief, and Mark could see he was straining to will the knife to obey him. Once more the covering began to withdraw.

  Mark lunged.

  He had no choice but to grab the wrist that held the knife with his damaged left hand. His only plan was to derail Man-Den’s killing spree long enough to take possession of his father’s life-thought. If, after that, he was killed, it would still be possible for someone to then transfer him and the king to the Nari-Tanta.

  He felt the roughness of the charred skin, and he heard Man-Den cry out from the renewed pain. His forward motion knocked the minister against the wall, and Mark used his own weight to compensate for his weak arm. Touching his right thumb to his lips, he jabbed it to Man-Den’s forehead and he continued driving with his legs, keeping his victim trapped in the corner. He then jammed his palm to where his thumb had been and locked his fingers to the skull that held his father.

  Without the freedom to use his right arm or hand to protect him, Mark felt the continuous blows to his face and ribcage. Man-Den’s energy doubled with the knowledge of what Mark was trying to do. He put every ounce of strength into each punch, and with every blow Mark could feel himself weakening. He could barely get a full breath of air and his head was spinning. He felt himself being pushed backwards, and then the minister and he were on their knees. Mark could see the two eyes, black with hate, burning into him from under his wrist. He knew Man-Den could see the advantage he gained with every punch.

  “You will fail, Ja-Lil, just your father failed.”

  Fail? No! Failure was to give up, and that he would never do. He was not sure he could stop the madman from killing him, but he would never stop fighting. If he were to die this day, the Elders witnessing this fight would find a way to end the reign of this crazed man. What he could not fail at was retrieving his father. Man-Den would not release him freely. All Mark could do was concentrate on the Nahum spot and rely on the blood that flowed through both their bodies.

  Man-Den now had him turned and backed against the wall. Not being able to use the full swing of his arm, he grabbed Mark by the throat.

  “The line of Con-Or is over.” As he spoke
, Man-Den began to push the weight of his body against the two hands that fought for control of the knife. The sheath was still not fully retracted and oscillated up and down the blade several inches both ways.

  Grayness hovered around the entire circle of Mark’s vision and crept slowly toward the center. In his periphery he caught the reflection from the light on the blade, and then noticed the indecisive action of the cover. If it meant what he hoped, it was his only chance left because he was losing both his strength and his battle to remain conscious.

  The knife was responding to both minds in the minister’s body. The king’s life-thought, because of the foreign blood in Man-Den was no longer in a purely latent state and had somehow, to some degree, activated. It could be the only explanation! His mother’s words at his coronation came back to him. Their blood was the same, which meant they were two but not two.

  The still exposed point of the knife pressed closer to Mark’s chest.

  Darkness tightened his vision, eliminating all but the knifepoint and the crazed face behind it. He must not fail. They must not fail! He tried to speak once, but his voice would not come. He must not fail!

  The blade touched the fabric of his tunic and still Man-Den pushed.

  “Father.” The whisper barely escaped. “Father, please…please help me.”

  Almost all was gray now, and the two dark spots of hate were all Mark could see. Somewhere, inside that, was his survival. Mark couldn’t tell whether he was getting stronger or whether the strength was leaving Man-Den, but he began to turn his hand and the blade point a little to the side. Feeling the wall behind his head, he pushed against it. He was able to catch a small bit of air, and he sucked it in. He pushed with his right arm and moved Man-Den’s head away from his face. His mind called to his father. It was not a sound or a name. It was barely a thought, but it was pure desire. He turned the blade a little more.

  He focused on the man before him and wanted him to know he would not accept failure.

  The hoarse sound gained strength and he spoke.

  “I am Ja-Lil, son of Con-Or. I am king of this city. I am of the royal blood from the time of the ancients.”

  The dark eyes blinked and stared out at him. Mark lunged with a final, desperate effort, turning his left hand as he did. Their bodies came together and he could feel the hard metal handle of the knife against his chest. Mark felt the hand drop from his throat as Man-Den gasped. The eyes were not full of hate now, but filled with confusion as they blinked again and looked down to see the blade imbedded to the hilt. The fabric of Man-Den’s garment gathered around the weapon’s handle. The area just beneath the cone-shaped hilt began to darken, and the stain worked its way rapidly down the cloth.

  He felt it first in the palm of his right hand, warmth that was charged with a growing, intense energy. It traveled into his arm and simultaneously into every cell of his body. Man-Den’s hand fell away from the knife handle and hung limply at his side like the other. His eyes once again opened and stared into Mark’s face. Mark held the man’s weight as if it almost did not exist. He knew when the transfer was complete and he took his palm from the man’s head.

  The minister slumped to the floor and rolled to his back. The knife handle stuck from his tunic like a large chainless pendant. The red life of the dying man now soaked the entire front of his garment. It continued to spread until it colored the edge of the floor where he lay. Everyone felt it in milliseconds. A rolling wave of energy left the dead body and coursed in all directions through the room and into the very walls. The light from the ceiling changed for a minute, and Mark knew the Dome itself felt the life of the minister pass through it and on out to sea. Then it was over.

  Silence. The darkness was gone now, and only a slight numbness in his left hand remained.

  The Elder rose from where she sat since being thrown through the air. She came to Mark. “I am all right.”

  Before he got to his feet, Mark pulled the remaining bracelet from Man-Den’s wrist. He noted how cold Man-Den’s skin had already become even though his life had barely ended. The bracelet was very warm to the touch, and as he held it he could hear a sound in his mind. He knew it was not audible to others or even in his own ears, but more of a sense. He had a brief image of a syncopated rhythm of half notes. Slipping the bracelet onto his left wrist, he hurried to the side of his friend, stooping to retrieve the second bracelet on his way. Kneeling beside Roi-Den, he looked into the lost eyes of his aunt. She held the lifeless head of her son in her lap.

  Not thinking of what he was doing, Mark slipped the second bracelet onto his wrist, and then tore open the top of the now blood-soaked tunic. The sound had changed. A second, a third, and then an infinite variation of notes saturated his brain. The panic that tore the fabric was gone. Swept away like water over the edge of an overflowing pool. He was looking down now at a four-inch open wound, just to the left on his friend’s chest. The knife had been thrust upward but must have been deflected by the ribcage as it then slid neatly in a forty-five degree angle, two inches upward towards the young man’s right shoulder. From the wound down, his chest was covered with browning blood, but only a small patch of moist red was seeping from the bottom of the opening. The interior flesh was pressing out from the straight clean edge of the slit and looked like pursed lips contorted in an evil frown.

  Mark placed his hands on both sides of Roi-Den’s neck. There was no heartbeat though the skin was still warm to the touch.

  “He’s dead.” The whispered words were barely sounds as Len-Wei’s own hands kept brushing back the hair from her son’s forehead. “He saw the disgrace and death of his father, and then he just stopped breathing.”

  “Yes, Len-Wei. His heart has stopped, but he is not gone. Yet.” Mark was now pulling the bloody tunic off his shoulders. “Lie him down flat.” He had no idea why he was doing this, but he felt sure of each move. When the boy’s body was no longer across his mother’s lap, death’s mouth no longer smirked, and the lips parted slightly. Mark’s hands descended to his friend’s bloody chest. From the moment of contact, the stones in both bracelets erupted in a staggering blast of colored lights. Everyone but Mark briefly closed their eyes until they could adjust to the intense flashes of color that spun and darted, filling the entire chamber. With each move orchestrated by the music, Mark slowly pressed his fingers into the open area of the chest. Still moving upwards, he felt the rough edge of the chest bone where the knife blade had hit and bounced up to the left. Just past this point, he stopped. Mark felt that the blood in his hands was no longer circulating. It was still being pumped in but was not leaving. The pressure increased, his fingers felt fatter, and it was as though the temperature had doubled.

  He didn’t go to the end of the open wound. He knew death could be stopped where he was now. He pushed his fingers deeper into the chest cavity. He touched the heart.

  Seeing nothing now except what his mind was showing his hands, he was not aware of his aunt and the Elders.

  They, however, could not believe what they were witnessing. Some, still holding their hands to their eyes and peering between their fingers, watched in awe. In the history of the city, no one was ever permitted to observe a healing of this kind. The knowledge was passed from father to son and, when rarely needed, this action was done in the king’s chamber or in an area cleared of all citizens. They also knew Mark had left the city before the king had been able to pass the knowledge to him and train him in the procedure. They stood quietly except for Nign-Ta, who sat attentively watching while she recovered from her flight across the room. Even Len-Wei stopped stroking Roi-Den’s hair and looked from her son to Mark and back. Her eyes had lost their defeated look. She saw the gems of color darting across Roi-Den’s face and streaking across the walls. She was no longer afraid, and she observed the healer of her city with calm anticipation.

  Soon Mark felt the small nick in the aorta of the heart where the knifepoint
had diverted Roi-Den’s life. His eyes now closed as they were no longer needed, and the tip of his right finger paused at the lower edge of the small opening. The left finger found its own spot—not a quarter inch away on the other side of the cut. Like building blocks, like stones being stacked up to make a fence, or like stringing beads together in a long line. All these images and many more, Mark would later use to try and describe what he was feeling as the opening along both sides of the vessel joined once again in perfect order, closing the wound and healing the artery like it had never been damaged.

  Tens of thousands of cells healed and Mark was aware of each one as it became whole again. The time it took, however, was less than a minute. With the blood vessel complete again, his fingers quickly moved to the top of the cut and he knew there was no more damage inside the body. Drawing out of the cut at the top, Mark placed his thumbs to the middle knuckle of his index fingers and then, joining the middle finger to the index fingers, he traced the edges of the cut along its angled course. The pressure of his hands pushed the skin together, and as the line passed between the tips of his fingers it disappeared and the wound closed. There was no scar. No lines where the opening had been. Just a small path unstained by the congealed blood where the healing had occurred.

  “He is healed, Ja-Lil. You have given me back my son.” Her voice was so faint that only Mark and the Elder who had knelt down beside him heard Len-Wei speak.

  “Yes, Ja-Lil. Your father’s blood flows deep in your life.” The Elder dipped his head as a show of respect as he spoke to his king.

  Mark was already rising to his feet. “Roi-Den’s wound is healed and his body is whole again, but his life has stopped.” As he spoke, he bent and put his arms under his friend’s back and legs, lifted him, and turned from the room. “All Elders come with me to the Kivs.” He was already in the corridor leading to the vestibule before the others could get to their feet and follow. They walked quickly to catch up. No one spoke. Some were still stunned by what had just happened in Man-Den’s chamber. They had not seen violence like that among their own people in their lifetime. Others were in awe of Mark’s inherent knowledge of the ways of the king’s line and followed, confident in whatever he was going to do next.