by Dyrk Ashton
“Looks like you’re not going to make your conference,” Fi says apologetically. “I know how much the assistantship meant to you.”
“There’s always next year.” He thinks about where they are and what’s happening. I hope. “That paper I was working on seems silly now anyway, writing about myths as if that’s all they really are, just made up old stories.” He gives her a small smile, then replies to Edgar, “It’s okay, I understand.”
Mrs. Mirskaya crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow at Edgar, who clears his throat uncomfortably.
“You say you understand, lad,” says Edgar, “but therein lies the rub. Neither of you do.” He folds his arms on his knees. “What would you like to know?”
Zeke is stunned. There have been a bazillion questions buzzing in his head since this whole thing started, but now, with Edgar offering to tell them anything they want to hear, it’s like he’s walked into a super-mega store with unlimited cash and is faced with row after row of endless aisles packed with cool stuff. He knows there are a ton of things he needs, but his mind is suddenly blank.
“What about your oath?” Fi asks Edgar with a touch of sarcasm.
“Technically,” he replies, “my vow of secrecy was to be kept until Peter’s recovery and return, or an event occurred of sufficient magnitude to warrant its dissolution. Mrs. Mirskaya, who took the very same vow, has convinced me both criteria have been met.”
“Oh,” says Fi. “Okay.” She’s excited by the idea of hearing the truth, but scared too. Her understanding of the world, her entire belief system, everything she’s ever known or thought she knew has been slowly crumbling away all day--her whole reality, like a protective eggshell she’s lived in her entire life, cracking around her, leaving her feeling more and more raw, naked and afraid. Maybe I don’t want to know... about Peter, and Edgar and his sword and Mrs. Mirskaya and all those creatures and what they want--but she has to.
Maybe if she starts with something easier--well, maybe not easier--but something that’s been haunting her, a ghostly specter lurking in the dark corridors of her mind--a specter named Kleron. She can still see his eyes, looking at her, into her, through her.
Zeke opens his mouth to speak, but she beats him to it. “I saw something, when we were playing that song.”
“‘Brian Boru’s March?’” Zeke asks.
“Yeah.”
He looks to Edgar. “Peter told me he wrote ‘Greensleeves.’ Is that true?
“Aye, lad, he did.”
Okay, that’s crazy, but, “Did he write ‘Brian Boru’s March’ as well?”
“No,” Fi answers for Edgar, to the surprise of all. “Kleron did.” She shoves stray hair back over her ear. “But Peter was there.”
Edgar and Mrs. Mirskaya stare at her, stupefied.
Earlier, when Edgar told Mrs. Mirskaya about Fi’s visions of the baby, she’d looked at Fi in wonder and said nothing. Now she asks, “How do you know this?”
“While we were playing, Kleron was looking at me with those horrible eyes and it’s like I was suddenly there. It was so real. Sometimes I was myself, just watching, but sometimes it was like I was someone else, seeing things through their eyes, feeling everything they did.” She shudders.
Mrs. Mirskaya leans closer, an almost manic interest in her eyes. She takes Fi’s hands in hers. “Fiona, what did you see?”
Fi’s focus becomes distant and she speaks softly. “Monsters. Fighting with men in the rain, on the Field of Clontarf. That Kleron--guy--and an old king, Bóruma mac Cennétig--Brian Boru. Then Kleron stabbed him in a tent and there was a funeral and they played that song. Peter was there watching, some of the time, in the end. He wore a robe with a hood, and he had a beard. He wasn’t very happy.”
Mrs. Mirskaya is beaming--which is making Fi nervous. Edgar doesn’t seem quite so enthused.
Zeke speaks up, “I just saw what the guys in the room really look like, I guess.”
“You saw their Trueface,” says Edgar, though still preoccupied by Fi. “The song distracted them, relaxed their attention to cloaking themselves as human.
“Cloaking?”
Mrs. Mirskaya claps herself on the knees and grins at Edgar. She exclaims something in Russian Fi doesn’t catch.
Edgar harrumphs, “Mirskaya! Fiona may be a seer, and an empath as well, but she is not a witch!”
Fi’s mortified. “What?!”
Mrs. Mirskaya retorts to Edgar, “Not bad witch, durak (fool)!” Then to Fi she says, “Good kind! Very much good!”
It doesn’t seem “very much good” to Fi. Just thinking about it again has started the visions of Kleron and Boru playing over and over in her mind, like a demented movie projected behind her eyes, and she’s suddenly got a throbbing headache.
“What was going on with Kleron and Boru?” she asks. “I can’t get it out of my head!”
Edgar reflects for a moment. “I cannot address how or why you were able to experience the events that you did, because it would be mere speculation.” Mrs. Mirskaya moves to speak but Edgar gives her an earnest look and she remains silent. “But I know the story of Kleron and King Brian Boru, if it would ease your mind.”
Fi rubs her temples. “Yes, please.”
Edgar leans on his knees, the light from the lamp on the floor casting odd shadows over his features. “In the days of Bóruma mac Cennétig, known today as Brian Boru, Ireland was called Éire by its people, but the Westland Isle by others. The Romans knew it as Scotia Major and Hibernia.
“At that time, Peter and Kleron had come to an accord--rather, to say Peter was tolerating Kleron might be more apropos. Kleron had come to Peter after centuries of exile, begging once again for forbearance. He claimed he wanted to help the peoples of the isle to keep the old ways, to protect those close to nature who worshipped the earth, sun, sea and stars. Kleron had been a frequent presence in those lands for thousands of years, since it was called Fiodh-Inis, the Wooded Isle. It was he who had led the Tuatha Dé Danann to drive the Fomorians and the Fir Bolg into the sea. He seemed to be doing right by the good peoples there.”
Fi doesn’t recognize the names--but Zeke does--ancient, barbarous, magical clans from Irish mythology. He forces himself to breathe.
“Peter felt that after all the evil Kleron had done, he might be rehabilitated. And this war in Éire seemed such a small thing--to permit Kleron to aid one small population in such a tiny part of the world--what harm could it do? There was some suspicion that Kleron had a hand in the earlier battle at Camlann, in England, but there was no proof.”
Fi looks to Zeke, who says, “Camlann is the battlefield where King Arthur was killed by his nephew, Mordred, right? I mean, according to the legends.”
“That is correct,” Edgar responds.
“The stories are true?” Fi asks.
“Some parts.”
“That really happened too?” Zeke asks. “There really was a King Arthur?”
“Oh yes,” Edgar replies somberly, “but that’s a tale I shall not tell today.”
Zeke gathers from the tone of Edgar’s voice that he’d better leave it alone, which he will. For now.
“Sorry Uncle,” Fi apologizes for the interruption. She would’ve thought that what he’s telling them might have the opposite effect, but her headache is actually receding. “You were saying?”
“Peter had a tremendous desire to believe in Kleron’s reform, you see, in the possibility of real atonement for what he had done to humankind in the past. With all his heart, he wanted to believe Kleron could change--because if Kleron could, then anyone can.
“And so, in spite of Kleron’s possible involvement in Arthur’s demise in England, Peter allowed Kleron’s alliance with Boru’s forefathers. When Boru came along, he and Kleron became fast friends. That was genuine, from what I understand. It’s been said Kleron loved the king, as much as he could love any man, which I don’t believe is very much, myself. Be that as it may, Boru made a pact with a Catholic abbott behind Kleron’s b
ack, and in Kleron’s eyes betrayed him utterly. The Church wanted dominion over the land and to do away with any and all worship they did not sanction.”
“So Kleron murdered Boru and blamed it on the Vikings,” says Zeke, almost to himself.
Edgar looks up at Zeke’s quiet insight. “Exactly. After Boru’s funeral,” he proceeds, “Kleron disappeared without a trace, and Peter discovered, to his great dismay, that the whole time Kleron had been on the Isle he was clandestinely seeking ancient powers, lost technologies of domination and destruction. Peter had been blind. He spent years searching for Kleron, but to no avail. It’s haunted him ever since.
“In the last century rumors have circulated that Kleron had returned, but that was all. There’s been no hard evidence he was here or up to anything to be concerned about. Until today.”
If Zeke’s mind was a microprocessor it’d be clocking way too fast. “Mr.--Edgar, sir, if you don’t mind, from what I understand, Brian Boru would have been high king in Ireland in, like, 1000 A.D.”
“He died,” Fi interjects, “I mean, Kleron killed him, on April 23rd, Good Friday, 1014 A.D.” Off Zeke’s look she adds, “Don’t ask how I know that. I just do.”
Mrs. Mirskaya smiles approvingly, causing Fi to shrug.
Zeke continues after a quick blink and toss of his head, “And, as close as anyone can guess, the Battle of Camlann, when King Arthur was killed, might have happened five hundred years before that...”
“In the year of our Lord, 542,” says Edgar.
“But the Irish legends of the Tuatha Dé Danann and the Fomorians, I mean, there’s no proof, but if it actually happened, we’re talking something like 1700 B.C., if not earlier. Kleron was alive? Back then?”
“Aye, that he was. Kleron is one of the oldest living beings on this earth, or any other.”
“So...” Zeke queries, “like, thousands of years old?
Edgar doesn’t answer.
Zeke hazards another guess, “Tens of thousands?”
Edgar glances at Mrs. Mirskaya. She nods in encouragement. Edgar doesn’t seem entirely convinced he should tell them this, but he does anyway. “Kleron was born 63 million years ago.”
Fi and Zeke blink stupidly. Zeke feels like the wind’s been knocked out of him. Everything he’s heard is ludicrous, of course--but a 63 million year old being? That can’t be even remotely possible! Then again, he can’t believe Edgar would make up something so outrageous. Edgar could just be wrong, or have been lied to himself. But a part of Zeke--that wildly curious part from his imaginative childhood, when he’d read those old stories and be lost in them for days, then emerge depressed that he had to live in a world so lame in comparison and do chores and homework instead of slaying dragons--that part of him wants it to be true.
“Who is Kleron, then?” Fi asks with trepidation. “What is he?”
Edgar’s face turns grim. “He’s had many names, like all of his kind. ‘Kleron’ is a more recent nickname. Long ago he was known as Mechembuchus, and later Belial.”
Zeke’s eyes go wide, “But--”
Edgar raises a hand for patience. “The Dead Sea scrolls state, and fairly accurately, mind you, that Belial was High General of the Sons of Darkness. They read, ‘for corruption thou hast made Belial, an angel of hostility. All his dominions are in darkness, and his purpose is to bring about wickedness and guilt.’”
Zeke finishes for him, reciting more of the ancient texts, “‘And all the host associated with him are but angels of destruction.’”
Edgar nods, impressed once more at Zeke’s knowledge and recall.
Fi’s finding it very hard to sit still.
Mrs. Mirskaya speaks in an ominous tone. “In lands that were once my home, the peoples told stories heard from dedushka i babushka, who heard from their grandparents, and so on. They called him Chernobog, ‘black god,’ bringer of calamity, lord of darkness.”
“He has also been known as Mastema, The Deceiver,” Edgar continues, “and Merihem, as well as Neuntöter, purveyor of disease and pestilence. A single bite from him, if it isn’t immediately fatal, carries the original strain of the bubonic plague, responsible for the agonizing end of untold millions of lives over the millennia. The Norse peoples called him Surtr, ‘the swarthy one,’ master of fire. You may recognize the name Mephistopheles, ‘one who avoids the light,’ or Abaddon, also known as Apollyon.”
“The angel of death,” breathes Zeke. “Described as having the wings of a bat.”
“Aye,” Edgar confirms. “The predecessors of the Aymara and Inca of Mesoamerica considered him a deity of death who ruled Uca Pacha, the underworld, and held dominion over a race of demons. They called him Zupay. Others in that part of the world knew him as the terrible god Tohil, also known as Tezcatlipoca, which is a derivation of the much older Huitzilopochtli. Later generations, those who weren’t aware of his true history, named him Camazotz.
“There are other names, other stories about him, from every culture, old and new.” Edgar pauses, takes a deep breath. “But his first name, his Truename...” his voice falters.
Mrs. Mirskaya sees his distress and takes over. “As story is told, Kleron was born in quiet of earliest day. His papa looked up with joy, saw bright star in sky, and named him Lucifer.”
Edgar makes the sign of the cross over his heart.
“The Devil?!” Fi blurts out, incredulous.
“The image or persona of The Devil that you may be familiar with,” Edgar informs them, “is a conglomeration of a number of ancient beings, but primarily there are three: Kleron, yes, but also one who called himself Khagan, Kleron’s master, who is long dead, and then there is Kleron’s father.”
“B-but,” Zeke stammers, “Now you’re talking about God.”
Edgar responds emphatically, “No, I am not.”
Zeke’s eyes meet Fi’s. She speaks first. “When Kleron came to the hospital today, he said they were Peter’s family. Then later, Peter said they were his children. Billy too. I thought it was all crap.”
“At the house, Kleron called Peter ‘Pater,’” says Zeke. “I thought it could be another form of his name, but it also means ‘father.’ That can just be a title of honor, too, but... They really are his children?”
Edgar looks at them, one to the other, his eyes pleading. “Please do not think less of him, I beg of you.”
* * *
The pounding deep within the collapsed passage where Peter is buried grows louder. The wall of tumbled rock shakes, stones loosen. A boulder splashes into the black water, sending frothy waves into the long darkness.
* * *
Zeke’s mouth moves, but no words are coming out.
“But... how...?” Fi asks. “How can Peter be Kleron’s father?”
“The three Cerberi as well,” Edgar adds. “The legendary Cerberus has always been three brothers from the same litter, not one three-headed beast. And the dreadful Maskim Xul,” he cringes just saying the name, “the one they call Max. They are all Peter’s children, and they are called ‘Firstborn.’ But there are more, you understand, and not all are like them. Samson, for example.”
The memory of Billy stabs at Fi’s heart.
“And Kabir,” Edgar adds “Or Zadkiel, I should say.”
Zeke still hasn’t closed his mouth, but he finds the ability to speak. “Is he the Zadkiel? The angel who stopped Abraham from killing his son?
“’Angel’ is a misunderstood term, but it was he who staid the dagger of Abraham, yes.”
“And the vampires? And werewolves? That’s really what they are?”
“Yes. They are real. Always have been.”
“Are they Peter’s, too?” Fi asks.
“They are anomalies, as Firstborn progeny go. The weres are the result of some of Peter's children of the canine variety breeding with natural wolves--and amongst themselves. Somehow their bloodline retains more human-like traits, generation after generation. The wampyr are descendants of Kleron, who has a unique ability among Fir
stborn to breed with human women.”
Just when Fi’s face couldn’t go any whiter, it does. She stands unsteadily, bracing herself against the wall. She’s never thrown up, not since she would spit up as a baby. She felt like she was going to whenever they “slipped,” but now she thinks she might actually do it. She paces, trying to catch her breath, to get her blood moving again. This is completely insane! But what really has her worried is something deeper, more than what Edgar has told them--sure, that’s some crazy shit, incredible, ridiculous even--but what’s really troubling is that he knows all of this!
Edgar watches her, sympathizing with her plight. He remembers what it was like when he was first told these things by his mentor, the woman who trained him when he was a young man. He looks to Zeke, who has his head in his hands.
Mrs. Mirskaya tells Edgar, “Maybe if you start at beginning.”
Zeke looks between his fingers. Fi shakes her hands at her sides, takes a deep breath and comes back to sit down. “Okay,” she consents, takes another breath. “As long as it doesn’t start with ‘Once Upon a Time.’”
Edgar smiles in spite of himself. “I cannot tell you everything, because I don’t know everything--in spite of my occasional claims to the contrary--and I’m afraid what I say may not ease your minds, though it will, hopefully, clarify some things.”
Fi scowls. Even now, her uncle can’t just explain something, he’s got to put a spin on it. “Uncle...”
He gazes at her, his expression difficult to read. “I only say this because, as outlandish as what I’ve already told you may sound, and even in light of what you’ve now seen with your own eyes, this will most likely seem... impossible. But I assure you, it is not. I only ask that you keep an open mind,” he looks seriously at each of them, “and forget everything you know.”
Fi and Zeke exchange looks of apprehension. Edgar rubs his forehead with long calloused fingers, pinches the pronounced bridge of his nose, trying to decide how to begin. “All right,” he breathes, folding his hands in his lap.
“What he truly is or where he comes from, no one knows, not even he. His first memories are of when the earth was young and the oceans were first taking shape.”