And we failed. Did we? At what exactly? But I do feel a sense of failure somehow, thought Shady.
I must see Shadow, he decided. Tonight. It cannot wait any longer.
10
Shady’s steps took him past Pirate’s Way and the first light tree, and across Nightingale Boulevard, and wound along to one of Pera’s most famous, most revered landmarks: the Cistern.
It was first light when he arrived.
He descended the lichen-infested, worn marble steps, to the hall below. This was the cistern used to store water for Pera several millennia ago. The enormous underground hall, a thousand meters in length, and six hundred in width, was damp and dark, riddled with sixty-meter high columns, and resonated with the misty echo of his footsteps and droplets of water from the shadowy arch of the ceiling. Gas lamps provided a dark yellow glow that could not penetrate the black, oily water that seemed to lay in wait a foot below the level of the stone walkway snaking between the columns. This was a world before the light tree.
“Shadow,” he called softly. The water glistened motionless under the gas lamps. “Shadow...” Shady stood very still and waited.
Yes. It was not a sound. It was a thought in his mind: a thought as old, as recumbent as the land. The mountains and rivers would have thoughts like this, Shady mused.
“I have come to speak with you.” Shady’s voice echoed in the ancient space.
The dark below him continued to glisten yellow but, as he watched, he saw movement, small at first but growing to create minor, swirling waves. Shady stepped back and watched it emerge from the dark water.
Yes. There was the thought again. I acknowledge your presence… As the ground beneath one’s feet acknowledges one’s presence.
“Shadow.” Shady smiled as his silent companion emerged partially from the black water. Shady could see the hide of its prehistoric head that glowed a dull, cold, mossy alabaster, and it gazed at him with eyes as blue as the clear morning sky. Within those eyes, the sky too, acknowledged his presence.
The rest of its enormous body trailed, forming spiky, pale islets in the darkness.
Pera’s Shadow. Pera’s spine. Pera’s thoughts. Pera’s being, reflected through Light and Dark, in the River below.
The Crocodile.
Some say it measures some eighty meters in length. Some say it is greater still.
In the River below, who can say?
Immortal. Shadow acknowledged slowly.
“Shadow…”
Immortal, what brings you to the River?
Whom do you seek?
Judge or Forgiver?
Shady swallowed. “I do not know. I come … because there has been another death. Carl Volkswahr. Another immortal.”
Yes. I know this. There was no emotion in the thought, only knowledge.
“I fear– No, I worry that his death is related to the other deaths. The deaths of the other immortals.”
Life and death are interconnected. It is always so.
You know this.
“True… I am afraid there is something that means to harm Pera. I don’t know what it is, but I feel it.”
An ancient alabaster tail flicked in the water, casting ripples and eddies in its wake.
“I want to get in touch with Xavier. And Orion,” Shady added reluctantly.
They are beyond the Light Veil.
Shady said nothing; he was familiar with Shadow’s method of communication.
Immortal, you wish to see beyond the Veil. The word ‘Veil’ resonated around the hall with a cold echo.
“I do. Will you permit it?”
Yes.
“Thank you.”
There is a ship beyond the Veil. A ship that belongs within the Veil. It was a grave thought: it had emerged cold, hard and curious, from the depths of the River.
“That would be Patron’s ship,” Shady explained. “She told me she was going to pick up the LifeBank.”
The reflection of the yellow lights played off the swirls in the oily water. There was no sound but the echoes of water lapping lightly at the lichen-clad blocks of old stone. A bit of yellow light danced in one prehistoric blue eye.
It is the ship that travels. The chosen ship.
“Yes, her ship was chosen some years ago. Before I came to Pera. I understand there was an assembly here, right here where I’m standing–” Shady stamped his foot for emphasis.
Yes. We were here for the decision.
The ship was chosen.
It has crossed the Veil…
“She can bring someone from beyond the Veil back here.”
Orion.
“Are you sure?” Shady looked at the giant creature dubiously. If it must be Orion…so be it, but... “Do you mean Orion alone?”
Orion.
It is the Hunter’s time.
It is time for the Hunter to walk.
He has been told.
“Oh? He’s been told?” Shady was surprised.
When the Dark shall do what Light cannot,
It is time
For the Hunter to walk.
It was a final decision. The enormous pale body slipped noiselessly into the inky waters leaving Shady alone. It was done. He felt a sense of relief as though having completed an arduous duty. He sighed, listening to the hollow sound of water droplets echoing off the walls.
11
“Baby, will you do my back?” Natalya leaned back to allow him to slather coconut-scented suntan lotion on her smooth, bronzed back. “Mmmm…Thanks, babe,” she murmured, and with a satisfied sigh, settled herself comfortably on her back on the vast expanse of the beach towel spread out on chocolate-colored sand. She was careful not to let her bare skin touch the volcanic sand, which was far hotter than its light-colored cousin. This smoky dark sand devoured the sun’s heat selfishly, not allowing it to escape by reflection. And it burned like hell!
“Do you want me to do you?” she mumbled, feeling luxuriously incapacitated by the heat of the sand under her and the sun above.
“No,” Sinclair replied truculently, sitting under the shade of the beach umbrella. This wasn’t his idea of tanning: it was much too uncontrolled; too sandy, too hot and too messy. He had been perfectly happy sitting at the cool bar in the hotel, or even lounging by the pool. But she had insisted. He placed the greasy bottle of lotion next to him, and as he did so her hand shot out unexpectedly, grabbing his.
“What’s that?”
“What?” he asked defensively, pulling his hand away.
“I saw it!” she cried, sitting up. “Show it to me, baby. Show me your hand. Come on–” she cajoled, reaching for the appendage he was withholding.
“Leave me alone!” He turned away, stood up and stalked off sulkily.
At least he remembered to wear his flip-flops, she thought, looking after him. “Oh, Sinclair, what am I going to do with you?” she muttered under her breath, shaking her head gently. It was the same red mark she had seen two months ago. The same mark that had caused him such alarm and despondency, and even an emergency visit to some Godforsaken part of the world. Admittedly the hospice place had been very pretty and had included some amenities: a serviceable spa and a few very nice shops … But there was nowhere to go – outside the hospice place – and Sinclair had been terribly depressed and frightened. Not me, though, thought Natalya Davis, nee Chen. I knew it would be all right. I knew that doctor was going to give Sinclair his life. Not all his life, she admitted, but part of it. He wasn’t going to die.
So, it looks like we have to go back there, she sighed, unworried. Well, I might as well make the most of the few minutes I have in the sun, she thought, turning over to allow the sun access to her back.
* * *
How different it all looks now, thought Father Griffith, driving the same car in which he had been a passenger all those months ago: six months ago, to be exact. How differently I feel…
These bare trees that I pass idly by now were covered with life, then. This grey sky with small pee
king hints of blue was azure-bright, then. Those long days of summer are behind us, and the sun no longer warms.
And those feelings I had … are long gone.
And those people I knew as opponents are in the past.
I am returning to that same place …
But I am not the same…yet I am.
Father Griffith’s thoughts drifted to the previous afternoon. He had driven in from the retreat house in the hills of upstate New York. He had been staying there since the end of the tournament, except for a brief foray to Rome for the Installation... He had been away from people for the most part. It had been exactly what he needed.
Coming back into the city had brought to the surface some of the feelings he thought he had left behind. And then there had been the meeting with Mr. Evan Nightshade. Later than he had wanted, for he had intended to make this journey to Princeton the previous evening, but one must be willing to compromise.
Their meeting had taken place in the library of the Jesuit residence located next to the Church of Saint Francis Xavier in Manhattan. Thin, of medium height, with nondescript hair and features, Evan Nightshade had failed to make a strong impression. In addition, there had been that air of vague nervousness, a vaguely irritating twitchiness, lack of full eye contact… Is it me? Do I make him nervous? Father Griffith had wondered a little self-consciously, for he knew the impact of seeing an immortal for the first time. He had tried to put the man at ease: adopting a soft tone, smiling more than usual…with indifferent success.
“Poor man,” Father Griffith said out loud in an effort to will away the uncomfortable feeling that he had been irritated by the lack of … robustness, really. He felt ashamed to even acknowledge that he had harbored such an emotion. But I must be honest, thought the priest. Mr. Evan Nightshade had been relentlessly irritating. Father Griffith sighed. Is it me? He wondered again. Have I grown intolerant? Have I changed? And what had they talked about? It was hard to recall the details, for the man had been so completely underwhelming that his words had vaguely slipped by, leaving no more than a bare impression… Father Griffith yawned as he recalled the discomfort of having to sit through two hours – only two? Surely, it had felt like seven, or fifteen possibly! Two hours, though, of Mr. Nightshade’s company was more than enough. Deadly Nightshade, mused Father Griffith, smiling at his own joke. One might die of boredom!
“Poor man,” he repeated quickly, as feelings of guilt gained some traction. And really, the man had been under the impression that they might see each other again. Incomprehensible. Father Griffith shook his head. Certainly, poor Mr. Nightshade had spoken at length, and most earnestly, but to what end? There was some woman he kept talking about – apparently a close friend that he thought I might know? What was the name? Something old fashioned but commonplace… Viola? No. Something that began with an ‘F’ possibly…
Never mind, he thought. I don’t know who she is in any event…
He switched his attention to the road ahead.
It is the same oil-smooth road, he thought, and the same black gates that open before me. Indeed, it is the same road that I travel. It is the same parking lot, is it not? One of these cars I recognize: it is Bruce’s silver Maserati.
Father Griffith parked the Honda Accord and sat quietly for a few moments with his eyes closed.
I am ready, he thought, getting out of the car. But ready for what?
There is the glass cube. He looked towards the familiar building, built entirely out of a single piece of glass, glinting dully against the grey winter sky, surrounded on three sides by dark, barren trees, flanked on either side by two buildings built of wood and stone.
It is thus I first saw this place… But not thus…
When I was here last, this place was in bloom. It was the height of summer: the season of the harvest. And I had come for what purpose? To sow? To reap?
In the Book of Psalms, he recalled, it is said that:
They that sow in tears shall reap in joy…
“Father Griffith, welcome,” said one of the ubiquitous grey men who prowled the grounds of LiGa headquarters. He had appeared undetected. You were all wearing dark grey suits when I last saw you, Father Griffith mused. Now you wear overcoats… of a dark grey material, naturally. He inclined his head. “Thank you.”
Father Griffith stopped in his tracks. No. Not the glass cube yet. It would keep. There was another place, another thing he had to see. He deliberately turned left and made his way towards the building that stood near the cube. He noted that the grey men did not hinder his progress. He could see within the cube but did not look.
The priest walked to the back of the building, which looked the same as it had during the summer, except that the blond wood and green accents no longer blended in with the vista. Then, the trees had been all dressed up in green and gold. Then, there had been birdsong, and fresh grass under one’s feet.
Then, there had been roses…
Father Griffith stood before a small flowerbed next to the back entrance of the building. It was bereft of flowers, now. Rose bushes, then in full bloom, rested in nakedness like the trees.
It’s not your time, thought Father Griffith, feeling melancholy. Silver Dawn. He reached out to touch one of the empty bushes against the wall. Sighing, he turned his back on these remnants of summer and retraced his steps to the glass cube… He stole a look inside the cube. The sun’s weak glare was not enough to obscure the occupants within. These are people I know. These are strangers, thought Father Griffith as he approached the entrance.
As he got closer, the glass slid aside.
“Welcome, Father.” It was Peter’s familiar greeting, accessorized by the man’s usual impersonal smile.
“Hello, Peter.”
They were all assembled where they had once taken refreshments during a break in the games. And they are drinking coffee just as they did then, Father Griffith thought, regarding the five people, excluding himself and Peter, sitting variously about the glass room. Xavier was standing. He recognized all but one of the people in the room.
“Darling! Roland!” cried a dark-haired woman resplendent in a figure-enhancing dress of a becoming shade of dark plum. A diamond crocodile brooch with bright blue sapphire eyes flashed to life on her right shoulder. Before he could protest, she had jumped up from her seat, flung her arms about his neck, and planted a fragrant kiss firmly on his cheek. She drew back and laughed happily.
“Hello… Cat,” Father Griffith smiled self-consciously.
“I saw you going to the roses, again, darling!” Cat tut-tutted. “Still after your roses?”
Father Griffith gave another self-conscious laugh. “I couldn’t help it. I suppose it was all the memories.”
“Good to see you, Roland,” Bruce Saber said, coming forward with a confident tread.
“Hello, Mr. Saber – Bruce. You’re looking well.” Father Griffith appraised the man before him: this is the same person I played against, he thought, and yet… he isn’t the same. He is the same height – a little over six feet, if I am correct – and yet he seems larger, taller, and more impressive… Is it my imagination? He wears a similar dark suit to the one he wore during the game… his hair is the same dark brown – except that the flecks of grey that used to grace his temples are no more. And his eyes wear the same expression they did then: clear, steady, confident.
But you are different, Mr. Saber, Father Griffith decided. You have an inner vibrancy. I feel it.
“Yes, aren’t we all? Look at our governor!” Bruce gestured towards Cat, who twirled coquettishly.
“Welcome, Father,” Xavier said, coming forward to greet the priest. It is an entirely professional greeting, thought Father Griffith. We are peers, now. Immortals all.
“Good afternoon, Xavier. Ms. Chevalier–” The priest inclined his head politely in the direction of Blanca Chevalier sitting a few feet away. Blanca rose and approached him. Clad in ivory, her glossy black hair coiled on top of her head, she appeared not so much
to walk as to glide across the marble floor. She is a sylph… marveled Father Griffith. A faery that graces us with her fleeting presence. I feel I had not truly seen her before. And I feel I do not quite see her now…I mean the whole of her, for she does not seem to be of this world.
“Good afternoon, Father Griffith,” Blanca said, extending her long, thin, pale hand in greeting.
“Good afternoon, Madam,” Father Griffith said, bowing slightly.
“Well, we are all here,” Xavier announced, and gestured to Peter standing near the entrance. “Please, Father, take a seat.”
Father Griffith took an empty chair next to Cat.
Blanca had resumed her seat opposite Cat. Next to her sat a man with wavy, light brown hair and bright blue eyes. An unfamiliar presence. Mostly. It was an odd feeling, and Father Griffith was puzzled. I am sure I have never seen this young man in my life, he thought, casting yet a third surreptitious glance in his direction, and yet…I have a feeling…an emotional déjà vu. I know this person. Not in the traditional sense of having met him, perhaps, but a certain knowledge nonetheless. Why? How? The man, like Xavier and Peter, was dressed in a grey suit. But it’s a different cut, thought Father Griffith, curiously. Xavier’s suits always appeared timelessly classic, and Peter’s, a shade less refined, perhaps, Father Griffith considered as he regarded this new figure surreptitiously. But this man is dressed… differently. Fashionably… thought Father Griffith with surprise. A touch of vanity, perhaps, he wondered.
“I wonder who he is,” Cat whispered, leaning towards the priest. “Do you know him?”
Father Griffith shook his head.
“I feel as if I do…” she whispered. Father Griffith was about to respond that he felt the same way when he heard Xavier beginning to speak:
“Welcome, once again, to LiGa,” Xavier began. “I – we – are pleased you were all able to make it today. Before I embark on the reason I called you here, I would like to make sure all the introductions have been made.
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