Dark Rising

by Monica McGurk

  I tried to speak, but my mouth had gone dry. Michael answered for us instead.

  “I don’t think we should go while it is open to tourists. Why don’t we settle in somewhere and have dinner?”

  Michael navigated us through the maze of streets to a tiny hotel. Enoch had done his best to adopt our somber tone, even down to his attire. Gone was the jaunty fisherman or laid-back hippie of days past. Now, a respectable and grave grandfather-type took his place, swathed in gray and black, beard shorn close to his chin, the only colorful touch in his ensemble a beret perched high on his head. He seemed to know to take charge, speaking flawless French with the concierge, managing our papers, reserving us only two rooms.

  He handed a set of keys to me and Michael, keeping the other for himself and saying nothing.

  “Hope, can you settle us into the room? I’d like to take a walk with Enoch.”

  I nodded in response to Michael’s question, dashing away the tear that sprang to the corner of my eye. He was going to tell Enoch. Picking up his duffel bag, I headed up the stairs.

  Our room was tidy and plain, almost antiseptic. I went to the lace-curtained window and looked down on the gray stones of the street below. Michael and Enoch were walking there in the square, slowly, Enoch leaning heavily on his cane as always. Michael was gesturing as he spoke, his normally proud, erect body seeming to sag from the weight of fatigue and foreknowledge. The wind caught the thin cotton of his shirt, sending it billowing out behind him; all around them, people clutched their jackets close against the cutting chill of spring, but Enoch and Michael didn’t seem fazed. Around the square they went, Enoch bending his head, listening intently as Michael continued to speak.

  Then, for an instant, Enoch stumbled. Michael caught him before he hit the stones, bearing his weight until he could steady himself.

  Enoch clung to Michael’s arms, shaking his head in denial. He stepped back, gesturing wildly, seeming to argue with Michael. Michael waited patiently, saying nothing.

  Then Enoch sat down on a park bench and began crying into his hands, broken, like the old man he pretended to be.

  So now he knew.

  Michael waited while Enoch composed himself. Tenderly, like a son, he handed Enoch back his cane and helped him struggle to his feet before pulling him on to continue their talk, tucking the old man’s free arm in his as they slowly made their way. I let the curtain fall back into place, knowing what Michael would want to discuss, once Enoch had accepted his news: how to get me out of here, once Michael’s sacrifice was complete.

  I sat down on the edge of the bed and smoothed out a wrinkle.

  Michael may have already accepted his fate, but I was not quite so ready.

  We’d been hunted like animals. I’d even been branded like one. But corner a wounded animal, and it will do more than bare its fangs. When there’s nowhere left to run, it will turn and fight you with every ounce of strength it has.

  It was my turn to fight.

  I may have been ordained to be the Bearer, but that didn’t mean I had to play nice. I refused to sit by, passively accepting what already seemed decreed. Ancient words on a scrap of paper were not going to stand in my way. My fate was my own, and I was going to seize it back with both hands. They couldn’t take Michael away from me—not if I had anything to do with it.

  My mind raced over the possibilities. I couldn’t simply disappear now—not without the rock. But what if I got to it first? What if I got to it and was able to destroy it? Then Michael would be safe and Heaven unassailable.

  It was the only way.

  And it would have to be tonight. It was my only chance.

  I lost track of myself as I feverishly began to plan how I might safely slip away from under Michael and Enoch’s watch. I had to be ready when the moment presented itself. Everything had to go flawlessly if I were to pull it off.

  Suddenly, there was a soft brush of knuckles on the door, a jingle of keys. Michael.

  He mustn’t know.

  I willed my mind blank and looked up at him expectantly as he came through the door and closed it softly behind him. He stood stiffly before the door, his customary grace leaving him as he fumbled with the keys. Hesitantly, he dropped them on the small side table before turning away from me, leaning against the door. His shoulders heaved, a silent sob wracking his body.

  I flew off the bed and wrapped my arms around him.

  He pulled away, as if he would hide, but there was nowhere he could go. Before he could escape, I slid my hand down his arm, past the rope and sinew of his straining muscles, and tangled my fingers in his, pulling him back to me like the moon coaxing the tide. I leaned into his broad back, resting my cheek in the hollow between his shoulder blades.

  “Let me help you,” I whispered. “Let me be strong for you.”

  He reached around for my other hand, wrapping it around his waist. There was no distance between us now. I could feel the staccato of his heart, could feel the surge of life in his veins, could hear the whoosh of air escaping his lungs and leaving his lips in a heavy sigh.

  “You can’t. This cup is mine to drink,” he said, his words tinged with bitterness. “I wish I—”

  “Shhh,” I whispered, squeezing his fingers more tightly. “It’s ours. Yours and mine. Together.”

  His voice cracked. “I was supposed to protect you.”

  “And you did.”

  “But how …” His words trailed off.

  “How will you protect me when you’re gone?” My voice cracked. I could hardly say the words out loud. “I don’t want your protection. I want you.”

  Beyond the thin wood of the door we could hear laughter, the sounds of a suitcase bumping along, a mother scolding her child, voices fading as they moved away down the hallway. We stood there, letting the sounds of the world wash over us, wishing the normalcy could hold back the inevitable.

  Michael turned in my arms, reaching down to lift my chin. His eyes shined, one tear welling over and running down his cheek.

  I reached up to wipe it away, letting my fingers linger. He caught them in his and pulled them to his lips, kissing them softly, his eyes never leaving mine.

  “You have me.”

  He turned my hand over, stroking the tender skin of my palm with his thumb. He bent his head, pulling me closer as he drew my wrist to his mouth and began trailing his lips across it.

  I gave an involuntary moan and leaned into him, unsure of my own feet.

  He looked at me, eyes questioning.

  I stepped away, catching his hands in mine as I began walking to the narrow bed behind me. When the back of my knees bumped against the soft chenille bedspread, I stopped, pulling him to me.

  “I—”

  “Shhh,” I interrupted, placing my finger on his lips. “We don’t have much time now.”

  I eased myself down onto the bed. Carefully, he came down after me, propping himself up on his elbows as if he were afraid to crush me.

  “I’m not made of glass,” I said, smiling at him nervously.

  He smiled back with sad eyes. “Of course you’re not,” he said, brushing a lock of hair off my forehead. “I forget sometimes how tough you are.”

  I forced myself to look at him, really look at him. I wanted to memorize every inch of his skin, the glint of sea and sky in his eyes, even the shadows that seemed to hollow out his face. I needed to remember it all, just like I needed to drink in the smell of fresh hay, honey, and leather on his skin and feel the warmth of his breath on my face, imprinting it on my soul.

  He closed his eyes and smiled ruefully before leaning his forehead to mine. “I can’t let you do this,” he whispered, his mouth not even an inch from mine. “Your grief is getting the best of you.”

  “This isn’t grief,” I whispered back before stealing a kiss. I let my mouth linger, savoring the taste of salt. Insistent, I nipped at his lips.

  He kissed me back, hard, parting my lips as his hips thrust into mine. I stretched my arms above my hea
d, arching into him as his tongue explored my mouth.

  He pulled away, breathing hard. Roughly, he twined his fingers in mine, then took my hand to his heart. His eyes were dark, almost black, as he looked at me.

  This is the last time I will kiss you, he said as his heart spoke to me.

  I turned my head away, but he was faster, lowering his head to meet me with a kiss, slowly dragging me back to his thoughts as his free hand wrapped mine tight, and forcing it once more to his heart.

  This is the last time I will touch you like this, he thought, as his hand snaked down to my hip. He pulled my blouse out from my waistband and let his fingers stray across my stomach.

  My body quivered under his touch, and I began to cry.

  This is the last time I will be able to chase away your tears, he thought, covering my face with tiny kisses, gentle as a butterfly’s wing. His tears mingled with mine, hot and desperate.

  Then nothing. Nothing but his breath coming in ragged bursts as he leaned his forehead against mine. Hesitating, he groaned before kissing the tip of my nose.

  “I can’t do this to you, Carmichael.”

  He pushed off of me, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Before I could say anything, he’d stalked away, slamming his hand against the hollow wooden door in frustration.

  I pulled my knees up into a ball, sobbing that he would push me away when my need for him was so great.

  But all the while, even through my frustrated, angry tears, I clung to my little triumph. I had managed to protect my secret, hiding my thoughts from him even in our most intimate moments.

  He still doesn’t know what I am planning to do.

  I rehearsed it over and over in my head, the thought of it carrying me forward as we lay there, curled together on that bed, marking the hours until dinner.

  The tiny bistro Enoch had found for us would have been perfect in other circumstances. It was packed with locals sitting so close together it was impossible to tell who was dining with whom. Their chatter, rising and falling, filled the dining room. Light glanced off of gleaming brass and polished glass, warding off the descending darkness. It was supposed to feel warm and welcoming, I knew. But all I felt was a hollowness from which I couldn’t escape.

  “This way,” Enoch murmured, gesturing after the host.

  We wound our way through the tables, toward the back of the restaurant, and up a narrow staircase. At the top we walked into a tiny room in which a single table, set for three, was waiting. A fire was lit and crackling in the fireplace, awaiting our arrival.

  “Messieurs, mademoiselle,” the man said, guiding us to the table. Michael slid out my chair and helped me to my seat, giving my shoulder a squeeze. I bit my lip as his hand lingered there, holding back a cry at the familiarity in his touch. Enoch, struggling to sit down with his cane, didn’t notice. The waiter handed us each a menu and pointed to the chalkboard on the wall, on which the evening’s specials had been carefully written in curly script. Then he ghosted away, leaving us alone in the upper room.

  I stared at the menu with unseeing eyes.

  Enoch, too, seemed unable to concentrate, quickly placing the creamy white card down on the table.

  “I’m not really that hungry,” he mumbled, pushing the place setting away from him.

  Michael looked at us both sharply.

  “Nonsense. We all need our strength.”

  A server interrupted him mid-speech, bringing a basket to our table before disappearing down the stairs again.

  “Besides,” Michael continued, adopting a false joviality as he unwrapped the cloth that hid the warm bread in the basket. “We’re here to celebrate our time together, are we not? Plenty of time for our planning later.” He pulled a crusty baguette out and broke off a hunk with his hands.

  “Here, take it,” he said, holding it out to me.

  I couldn’t break bread with him, pretending nothing was wrong. I couldn’t break bread knowing that we were preparing ourselves for his broken body. I recoiled, sliding my chair away from the table.

  “Michael, we are not celebrating a last supper here,” Enoch reprimanded him. “Show some sensitivity, please.” He reached out his hand to me and I clutched it blindly through my tears.

  “That’s exactly what we’re doing,” Michael said mournfully, dumping the bread I’d rejected unceremoniously back into the basket.

  I stood up. “I refuse to pretend that I accept any of this,” I stated flatly. “I refuse to let you feel sorry for yourself when you could—should—be fighting this. You finish your dinner. I’ll wait for you both back at the hotel.”

  Enoch scraped his chair across the wooden floor as if to come with me.

  “No. Let her go, Enoch,” Michael asked, putting a hand on Enoch’s arm. “She’ll be fine, and I need company tonight.”

  Enoch settled back in his chair. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and stumbled down the staircase and through the restaurant, out into the cold night air. Couples walked by, arm in arm, while the occasional car motored past. The world was moving, inexorably, when all I wanted it to do was stop.

  I waited on the corner, watching the puffs of my breath disappear into the darkness, biding my time until I could be certain they hadn’t followed me. The brassy tinkle of the bistro’s bell as the door swung open dashed my hopes. I looked over my shoulder to find Enoch thundering with his cane down the sidewalk toward me.

  “I want to be alone, Enoch,” I began arguing before he even reached the curb, and I began to walk away.

  “Hope, wait. I know what you’re doing, and I want to help.”

  I stopped and turned to face him.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Enoch’s face was unreadable. Damn those glasses, I thought, not for the first time.

  “You know as well as I do that the only solution to this mess we are in is to get to the rock tonight. Alone. Before Michael has a chance to get there himself.”

  I held my breath, not sure if I could trust him.

  He can help you. He is the only one, Henri’s urgent whisper spurred me on.

  I walked closer to Enoch.

  “Say more,” I prompted, crossing my arms.

  “We know where it is. But the Prophecy is clear. You are the Bearer. You are the one destined to retrieve it. And you can do that alone. Tonight. With my help.”

  I peered into his aviators. They were black, reflecting back the night.

  “What help?”

  “Michael will worry about you being gone, don’t you think?” In the shadows cast by the streetlights, his face looked sinister, leering. “After all, you two seem closer than ever.”

  I blushed, embarrassed by his innuendo. Still, I didn’t have time to waste. I brushed away his comment, irritated. “Michael’s going to come after you any moment. Get to your point, Enoch.”

  A little muscle in his face twitched.

  “I can keep him busy,” he continued, “keep an eye on him, while you fetch the thing. We can dispose of it together, later. He’ll never know.”

  I darted a glance over his shoulder, watching the bistro door.

  “He can’t know, Enoch. You can’t say anything to him that will make him suspicious.”

  Enoch’s face split into a grin. “You underestimate me. But even so, you don’t have much time. Now go. Take my car. Bring the rock back to me, and I’ll find a way to dispose of it.” He hobbled closer and extended his free arm, inviting me in. I stepped into his embrace, trying not to choke on his cologne.

  He held me close, leaning in to whisper in my ear. “Don’t come back until you have the rock. I’ll be waiting.”

  I stepped back. “With Michael?” I asked, needing his confirmation.

  He smiled, his teeth flashing white in the dark. “Of course.” He squeezed my shoulder. “I should go up now, before he comes after me.” He dropped his arm and fished inside his pocket, then patted himself down, perplexed. “I can’t find my keys.”

&
nbsp; “Don’t need them,” I answered. He shrugged, pushing his hands back deep into his pocket before turning and, leaning into the cane, weaving his unsteady way back to the restaurant. I waited, watching until he’d faded into the crowded tables. Finally, when I was convinced he’d returned to forestall Michael, I squared my shoulders and began to walk.

  I wasn’t going to wait for some miraculous intervention. I was going to be the intervention and put an end to this, once and for all.

  I’d memorized where we’d parked the car. I’d marked the turns, noting the street signs as I wound my way back to it. Enoch had left it unlocked, as was his habit. I slid into the front seat, grateful to my father for teaching me what seemed a useless skill at the time—how to hot-wire a car.

  “Thanks, Dad,” I mumbled to myself as the tiny engine roared to life. I shifted the car into gear and pulled away from the curb. All of my father’s crazy lessons, all his wild beliefs, didn’t seem so crazy now. I felt a touch of shame as I remembered how much I’d resented his lessons, how embarrassed I’d been by him. “I owe you an apology, Dad. As soon as I see you, you’ll get it.”

  I didn’t need a map. Michael’s chapel loomed above the town, lit from below so that it glowed, like a beacon, against the deep navy of the night sky. I pointed the car toward it, beginning the ascent. One-way streets kept forcing me to turn from the path, but I was able to keep it in my sights so that it seemed I was circling toward it. My body buzzed with excitement, purpose, and dread as I wound my way closer to the church and to the Key.

  As I approached the sheer cliffs, the stone buildings swallowed up my view. With a few blocks to go, I slid the car into an open spot on the street. I would walk from here. I fumbled under the seat, pulling out the backpack I’d stashed away, and left the car.

  I emerged from the cluster of shops and houses to face the base of the rock. It jutted dramatically toward Heaven, its tower scraping against the moon. The basalt needle was interrupted by moss and greenery, life forcing itself through the barren stone.

  I kept walking past an ornate crucifix on a pedestal and a small, octagonal building decorated with the same black and white mosaics I saw elsewhere in the city. The buildings fell behind me until I was facing the wide stone stairs that were laid into the rock, winding their way up to the church. A heavy chain was strung across the steps, a sign in French warning me that the chapel was closed.