by Aiden James
Roderick’s disdain actually began the moment we announced her pregnancy to the group. Cedric Tomlinson was the most excited, fishing out a pair of cigars from an old steamer trunk that held his most cherished belongings in this world. Amy and Jeremy, of course, were just as thrilled. I was excited, too... until Roderick told me it was a foolish and potentially regrettable move.
“But Krontos and Kaslow have disappeared,” I told him, when we met alone in the front parlor of his grand plantation home that was visited long ago by two-thirds of the gentlemen who scribbled their signatures on The Declaration of Independence. “Have you seen them? Hell, have you even sensed either one’s presence during the past year, Rod?”
“Evil doesn’t simply disappear, Judas,” he said, his demeanor and tone perturbed. “It is either vanquished by a fierce fight, or it bows to holiness.... But it never vanishes out of disinterest.”
At first, I couldn’t understand what this had to do with Beatrice and me starting over as parents. We could never replace the loss of Alistair, and truly it was never the intent. But as usually is the case with my druid buddy and his keen clairvoyant talent, he immediately discerned the specifics of my confusion.
“It can be a noble thing to bring a new life into this world, my brother,” he said, his annoyance melting as he spoke. “But I fear for you. I fear for Beatrice, too. It’s completely understandable that we must wait for these last two coins to resurface. But, my heart tells me that you must be diligent in keeping an eye out for them. And, the presence of a newborn, which must be raised and cared for, could distract you from that diligence. Is it not a potential affront to The Almighty, that you are thinking of settling in for the next twenty years—perhaps the next seventy-six of what is presently a standard lifetime—when you should instead be seeking your full restitution with Him?”
Hadn’t thought of it that way... and I wasn’t convinced The Almighty would see it that way either. Of course, this led to more discussion, and me digging my heels in until Roderick threw his hands up in frustrated surrender.
“I hope you don’t regret this, Judas. I hope not....”
The disgusted look then was the same one in the present moment, as Jeremy set out for Tuscaloosa, Alabama. I nodded and turned away, or more truthfully, back to Beatrice and her swollen belly that contained our potential salvation. Yes, Roderick was right—I did hold out hope of earthly happiness. And, I would be remiss to lie and say it didn’t come with moments of doubt that it was the right choice. But it was in fact a choice that had already been made.
We stopped in Tuscaloosa for dinner, and Beatrice had me call ahead to the B&B in Vicksburg to advise we wouldn’t arrive until just after nine o’clock, since their staff left for the night at seven-thirty. Fortunately, there wasn’t anything of critical importance from the Civil War that drew the Golden Eagle’s immediate attention—at least not important enough to push our check-in time any later than it was already going to be.
We arrived in Vicksburg at 9:00 p.m. sharp. Although the neon lights from a casino on the edge of a Mississippi River tributary called to our non-pregnant youngsters, in the next few minutes following our arrival at the Frei-Lindsay House the desire for a night of revelry died. Completely.
“Well, this is really nice!” Beatrice enthused, as we stepped into our quaintly furnished room on the second floor. The innkeeper had left our keys in an envelope tucked inside the storm door to the main entrance. “I love the décor—looks even better than the pictures on-line. And, look! There’s a bottle of champagne on ice over here on the table. How thoughtful....”
Admittedly, I was busy checking out the appointments in the room, such as the Jacuzzi bathtub in the adjacent bathroom that might bring some relief to Beatrice’s weary limbs and aching back. I didn’t hear her sobbing until I noticed her shoulders were heaving from behind. She and I were alone in the room, as Roderick and the Golden Eagles’ rooms were across the hall from us.
“What’s up?” I gently put my hands on her shoulders, to try and quiet the tremors. Emotional moments had been quite frequent during the past couple of months, and I didn’t immediately think her angst could be caused by anything else. Until I saw the letter sitting next to the ice bucket holding the expensive bottle of champagne.
“H-he... he’s been here,” she whispered hoarsely.
“Who are you talking about?”
But I already knew that answer before picking up the parchment that might’ve cost more than the bottle of pricey bubbly. It was quite old, and of a grade that only the wealthiest people had access to back in the early to mid-nineteenth century. By my guess, it came from this country instead of being imported—although difficult to say for sure....
None of that mattered. What did matter was who left it here for us to find. Someone with access to information that not even a powerful government steeped in covert operations could procure. Someone quite familiar with the workings of the supernatural and natural worlds, and could move easily between the two. And, worst of all, someone whose script was quite familiar and who forever would hold a king-sized grudge against me.
Viktor Kaslow.
Chapter Two
“How in the hell did he know we’d be here?”
I asked the question to no one in particular, even though Roderick, Amy, and Jeremy had since joined Beatrice and me in our room at the Frei-Lansing House. The magic of our supposedly light-romantic stay had been usurped entirely by our unexpected gift and its giver.
“Perhaps a better question would be why in the hell did Viktor Kaslow choose this moment to make his presence known?” observed Roderick. He stood next to a tall mantle, where he casually rested his arm holding a glass of ginger ale he had brought from his room. “I doubt he is the Civil War buff he claims to be in the letter.”
“I don’t know about that, Rod. I seem to remember how certain Nazi and Russian generals from World War II held a deep admiration for General Grant and General Lee,” I said. “And Kaslow now wants to send us on a journey to Shiloh? He had to know we were already heading there soon... Looks like we’ll be leaving here tomorrow—a couple days earlier than we had planned.”
I moved back to the table where the untouched bottle of champagne was still perched inside the ice bucket. The ice rapidly melting, I recalled how the cubes were largely intact when Beatrice and I first entered the room. Whoever had left the hospitality gift and the letter did so within an hour of our arrival—more than thirty minutes after the inn’s staff had left for the night.
Was Kaslow himself in our room before our arrival? Worse, was his essence still there... perhaps watching our worried discussion from nearby with sordid amusement?
The letter remained where Roderick had left it, after he, Amy, and Jeremy took turns reading it. Beatrice didn’t have the stomach to get past the first paragraph, because of a severe revulsion toward Kaslow from her previous encounters with him.
The longest correspondence ever between the Russian and me, I now focused on the bottom of the second page....
I am leaving a poem, William and Roderick, for you both to consider. It comes from a young man who died at Shiloh, back in April, 1862... I find Cpl. John Parker’s letter inspiring, and purchased the original copy at a recent auction held not far from where you used to live, William, in Washington D.C.....
“I don’t want to go to Shiloh anymore,” said Beatrice, right after I silently mouthed the Civil War battle site specifically mentioned by Kaslow that is now a national military park and cemetery renowned for its haunting beauty. “In fact, I don’t want to go anywhere else. I’d just like to go home... right now.”
She eyed me sullenly from the bed, where she sat next to Amy, who shared her distressed expression as they all watched me intently. Perhaps everyone expected me to discover a hidden secret inscribed upon the parchment that each of us had missed until then. Roderick was the expert for that sort of thing, and if he hadn’t noticed anything encrypted the first time he perused the letter then h
e and I likely wouldn’t detect it on a second pass.
The only thing that might’ve contained a secret was the poem itself—an odd verse that seemed as though it was missing much of the original content, given the style of the day. I had reviewed it several times before Roderick arrived in our room accompanied by Jeremy and Amy right behind him....
Enjoy the poem, William and Roderick. It’s called, “The Lot of a Soldier”....
The lot of a soldier
Driven by pride and love of home
Yet fate does fool and underscore
The lies where truth once was known
A noble adventure
How it once called to my soul!
Yet, death oversees this path unsure
Harvesting young that’ll never grow old
Who hears the whisper?
In the night’s bitter cold
A cruel harbinger
Warning I’ll soon be alone
My blood on a saber
Betrayed by brethren disowned
Will my soul be lost forevermore?
A ghost through eternity... I soon will roam
~ John Parker, 36th Indiana Infantry
“That’s just plain creepy,” Jeremy observed, after I read the poem aloud, since most everyone wanted to hear it again. We were like TV game-show contestants trying to figure out the deeper meaning behind Cpl. Parker’s ominous ode, while an unseen clock ticked away.
“Perhaps it is nothing more than a haunting moment,” said Roderick, his brow furrowed as if repeating the lines in his head while trying to catch the riddle that Kaslow hinted at. Knowing our longtime nemesis, it would be something subtle and maybe a stretch to understand. The Russian had always been given to eccentricity made worse by the crystal fragment from Iran’s Tree of Life embedded in his chest. “Or, it could be the raw, naked truth expressed by a man who knew his chances of surviving the war was a crap shoot at best.”
“I love the guy’s eloquence in expressing his sorrow over a war he had little choice but to participate in,” said Amy. “It’s dark... but anyone who has faced true uncertainty can relate, I’m sure. It’s like he was defining what might happen if he continued on the path before him—a path he could do nothing about. The soldiers could hear the gunfire from miles away, and when close to enemy regiments the cannons were deafening—that’s what one of the videos talked about a few days ago.... After seeing friends and foes die in agony on the battlefield or behind the lines on a surgeon’s table, I would imagine everyone thought in terms of honor, eternity, and... ghosts.”
I believe the rest of us were as impressed with Ms. Golden Eagle’s analysis as I was. Really, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise, since she was a top corporate attorney after graduating from college with honors in her previous life. But she hasn’t often shared her deeper thoughts and feelings with us. After losing her fiancé—my son—she became more introverted as far as sharing impressions of the world around her, although she always kept a compassionate eye on Beatrice.
“What do you think, darling?” I asked my wife, who seemed to be taking it all in. “Does anything about the poem stand out to you?”
She shook her head as an initial response. I figured that would be it from Beatrice, whose worry seemed to have raced back to the forefront when asked for her impression.
“The poem itself is heartfelt and forlorn,” she said quietly. “But considering what you all have told me about Viktor Kaslow, and what I’ve seen of the demon myself, you know the kid’s sense of futility and the fact he had given up hope in exchange for the premonition of his death at Shiloh would be a pleasurable thing for Kaslow to mull over.... I can picture him leering with delight. Like the Nazi photographs we saw in Poland, where you could tell that the guards counted a good day’s work on how many Jewish inmates they had either relentlessly harassed or killed outright.”
I couldn’t agree more, and for reasons I had never shared with Beatrice and prayed Roderick never would either. I had purposely skimmed over what he and I would find from time to time that told of Kaslow’s handiwork. The slaughter of the innocents, with no regard to age, race, or infirmity. Kaslow loved to kill as a human being, and that innate wickedness had been enhanced one hundred fold since the shard flew into his heart after a Soviet rocket freed it from the enormous crystal ‘tree’ hidden in the Alborz Mountains.
“Okay... so we all agree about the inappropriate inclusion of this poem in Victor’s correspondence to Roderick and me,” I said, turning back to the first page. “But what should we do in regard to his invitation to visit the mysterious shrine, or monument, in Shiloh? He says it will bring a truce between us... a goodwill offering that will ensure the realm of demons and the realm of angels would forever remain separate from each other.”
“And you believe him?” asked Beatrice, her tone simmering with anger and suspicion.
“Not really,” I assured her, pausing to study Roderick, who looked like he could barely contain his opinion. “What is it, Rod?”
“Let me first say that until this latest incident, I’ve always been able to feel Kaslow’s presence and his intent—which has never been good,” he advised. “This time is different... I can feel nothing in regard to his location, or whether or not we would be walking into a trap. However, the offer in the letter is for peace, and he has given us some specifics to work with. The exact statement—if I recall it correctly—is that ‘you will find a prize you have long sought obscured by the gown of a woman who might as well be a bronze angel.’ Is that how it reads, William?”
I wasn’t sure, so I took another look at the letter’s first page. Not only was Rod’s recollection exact, I noticed that Kaslow included another incentive, though apparently carelessly.
“Ahhh, I remember seeing that, too,” said Roderick, his ability to read my unprotected thoughts as strong as ever. For a moment, I envied the immortal Russian’s ability to cloak his presence and designs from my druid companion’s detection.
“What are you two carrying on about now?” Beatrice asked, wearing a slight smile that belied her irritation.
“Kaslow sounds indifferent as to whether we pick up the prize or not,” I told her, shaking my head at Roderick’s orneriness. “It could easily fall into someone else’s hands—whatever he is offering to us.... Do you think it’s my coin?”
Yes, this was my first assumption. Then again, I’d usually think every personal prize awarded to me would come from a certain collection of silver shekels.
“It could be your coin that he’s been holding for nearly two years, William,” said Roderick. “And if it is, that alone would mean we have no choice but to go to Shiloh, find this mysterious monument he refers to, and see if something isn’t there waiting for us—”
“Like a bomb?” asked Jeremy, only half joking.
“He could’ve already killed us by now if that were the case,” I said. “So, why wait to kill us at Shiloh?”
“Could be symbolic to kill you at Shiloh,” said Beatrice. “Then he could also kill the rest of us while you were transported to a new body somewhere else in the world. By the time you came back to find us, we’d likely be dead for several years.”
“Maybe. There again, Kaslow could make that scenario true right now,” countered Roderick, seemingly unaware of the surprised looks from Amy and Beatrice for his calm acceptance of the possibility of murder to come. “He doesn’t need the American Civil War’s pomp and circumstance to cash in his chips against us.... Back to my earlier point, if it is the coin we need, it might be the best chance to get it. Lord knows, if Kaslow disappears with it into the realm of Bochicha, it’s as good as gone forever.”
“Who’s to say he hasn’t already done that and is taking it out now to dangle the damned thing in front of William’s nose for spite alone?”
Beatrice had a point—a very good one. To her credit, it did feel like a trap, despite the truth of the matter being Viktor Kaslow didn’t need an elaborate trick to ensnare us. Hell, if
it was him who brought the champagne and letter into our room, then he could just as easily take us all out while we slept and be on his merry way by tomorrow’s sunrise.
“If he hates you as much as you say—and that we’ve all seen—then why trust anything he says, William?” Amy asked me. “If it’s a trap, then we’ll be royally screwed.”
“We could be screwed no matter what choice we make,” I said. “It’s like how it was for my Jewish brethren during the Holocaust, that you touched on earlier, Amy. Many of them stayed in Europe, believing it was safer to stay put than to take their chances elsewhere... that safe havens in other countries were merely traps to get them out of their homes, which the Nazis would then take possession of. In the end, the SS took what they wanted anyway.... Surely many Holocaust victims wondered about their choices when they were escorted to the gas chambers....”
I suddenly felt overwhelmed by bitter sorrow—as if the atrocities I had witnessed in my long and storied lifetime came to rest upon my soul as painfully bitter recollections all at once. I felt the urge to cry and looked away.
“What’s wrong, William?” Beatrice left the bed to come to me, and I shouldn’t have been surprised her lethargy and sadness would give way to her protective instincts.
“It’s nothing.”
“I can see the images from Galilee to America, William... and you’re right,” said Roderick, announcing to all what I would’ve preferred to keep secret. “The analogy of what you spoke of a moment ago applies to many key events in history. Yes, there is risk in stepping knowingly into danger. But, there is just as much risk in doing nothing, and hoping for the best. Krontos and Kaslow have already evicted us from whatever peaceful existences we could ever enjoy. So, regardless of what choice we make tonight—or tomorrow, if you all want to sleep on it—we can’t wait for the storm that’s coming to simply pass over us. We need to be somewhere else—whether that’s in Shiloh or some other place.”