Then suddenly she remembered a word, but from what language, she didn’t know. Labasu. Her desire to be clothed pulled the word from the deep recesses of her memories. Surely being covered would allow her mind to clear of all these sexual thoughts and memories. Nathalia loved comfortable clothing the way most people love comfort food. She would have given anything for her favorite jeans and fleece top right then.
He must have understood because she found herself dressed, only not in the way she wanted. It was better than being naked, but only slightly. The material was so fine and soft, draped in such a way to graze her skin with every move, that it distracted. She spun, twisting this way and that, enjoying the way it brushed her calves, buns and breasts. For a moment she lost herself in the feeling, before she realized that he had conjured this outfit from thin air.
Nathalia would’ve liked to ask him how he did that, but knew “how?” was a concept too difficult for a conversation between two people who spoke different languages. Eiran spoke again. His voice was melodic and manly but gentle and he sounded concerned. He recognized her discomfort and she got the feeling he asked her why that was. Blushing, she gestured toward him and said again, Labasu.
Without any effort, or even any movement, he dressed in the old style, just a pleated linen skirt with an elaborate belt. In all her years amongst the magicked Nathalia had never seen anything like this ability. Eiran was no mere man, but something completely supernatural. Guardians were more of a threat to the Daughters of Women than even she had thought. She could sense his confusion. He could conjure up whatever he wanted, but could not understand her need to hide their bodies behind clothing. Nathalia knew that Guardians could block thoughts and memories about themselves, but Eiran wasn’t doing this. She considered his nature, free of any hindrance from him. She found this, along with their added clothing, comforting.
He moved completely into the room. Her access to the door and hallway were unobstructed. Maybe she wasn’t his prisoner or maybe he was just confident in his ability to move faster than she could. She gestured to the room, asking where they were. He started talking again, his confidence raised by her speaking a word in his language, but she didn’t understand.
“Sinnis Ina Ummum Zumru.” Eiran pointed to himself and signed no, then to her and signed yes. “Sinnis” meant woman or female. He gestured to her stomach and drew a big air belly on himself with his hands.
Fat woman? Pregnant? Oh, mother?
Yes, from his reaction, she guessed correctly. He was pointing to himself and to the segment on the wall about his birth and saying ummum, mother. What did his mother have to do with where they were?
Then she realized she was in a tomb. Oh, sweet Inanna.
So obvious now. No other place would be this decorated in ancient times.
So they were in his mother’s tomb. Just as Jolie had prophesied, Nathalia had, for her friend, succumb to death a maid and with the angels’ mothers been laid. She asked him, Am I dead?
He understood and was shaking his head no, “Ul mitutu, darisam baltutu.” That couldn’t be right. Nathalia’s ancient language studies came in just handy enough to further confound her. She thought he said they were not dead, but forever living. He pointed to her and then himself back and forth; they were the same. They were “darisam baltutu.” Then he pushed aside the top marble slab that had made up her resting place and insisted that she look inside. There, resting deep in the base of the platform lay a beautiful, but elderly, woman with her arms crossed over her stomach. He pointed to her and said, “Ummum Zumru. Darisam mitu.”
Nathalia had never seen a dead body before, but this wasn’t what she expected. There was nothing gross or unpleasant about this body. This woman looked like she just slept, maybe a little bit pale, but nothing out of the ordinary. Little piles of debris huddled around her, like she had been dressed, but now the material had rotted away. That couldn’t be. A body would deteriorate quickly, probably a lot quicker than cloth. Nathalia gestured that she wanted him to close it. Yes, I understand Eiran. This is your mother’s body. She’s dead and we’re alive.
“Darisam.”
Why did he keep using the forever word? Yes, death was forever, but not life. Maybe darisam didn’t mean what she thought. He talked more and more, but she understood less and less. He pointed to a part of the picture story that looked like a meeting of men with wings standing in a circle around someone on fire. He was saying one word repeatedly, “Nephilim.”
Nathalia was no Christian, but she knew more about the bible than most. She studied it to acquaint herself with its patriarchal lies and how to combat them in her girls when she was Abbess of her sect. The Nephilim were an antediluvian race which were referred to in the bible as giants. Genesis said that the sons of god saw that the daughters of men were beautiful and took wives from among them and had children by them. Those children were the Nephilim. “Heroes of old; men renown.”
Nathalia didn’t believe in angels, but Eiran surely did look like one. His feelings toward her were not angelic, she was certain. She saw the desire in his eyes and felt it in his touch. He was good looking, to say the least, odd even in his otherworldly perfection. Nathalia was no pixie at six feet tall, but even she thought he was gargantuan. He was well over seven feet tall, and now that the dust had scattered, she could see his tan complexion. Not too bulky, he was lean and strong like a more masculine Nathalia. What little hair he had on his forearms and legs had been bleached by the sun. Although in her visions it had been very dark, the shoulder-skimming hair on his head now radiated blond. The brightness about him that she could imagine would frightened people.
He knelt down on the floor drawing in the dust. After a minute Nathalia realized she was staring at his body as he waited for her to respond to something. She snapped out of it and knelt down in front of him to better examine his drawings of ^’s and v’s.
Nathalia was familiar with the primitive male and female symbols. The first ^ was Eiran so the prior v had been his mother, who had gone on to birth other children who had children and so on down the line. After a few branches in this family tree, he pointed to the last v and then gestured toward Nathalia. She motioned that she understood they were both from the same ummum, the same mother. Then she asked him if he had any children by drawing branches from the ^, he had said was himself.
Eiran seemed very unsteady as he shook his head no and wiped the offspring lines away. He drew a straight line out, sideways from his ^ and connected it to a v, as a married couple might be written in a family tree. Then he wiped it away. Then he drew a long line from himself to her. She understood. He had loved women and tried to have children with them, but now he had her.
No one could claim her. She was her own, but she left that argument for another time.
How long? How many? Nathalia’s sexual thoughts could be really inappropriate depending on how many generations lay between them. He was a supernatural being and probably capable of living longer than one restricted to the laws of nature. Were they talking Great Great Uncle, fourth cousin or what?
“Sinnis Ina Ummum Zumru Warki Sessu Sessum-Esrum.” He drew a very intricate sign in the sand and looked up expectantly at her. She shook her head no. She had barely paid any attention in foreign languages. She definitely daydreamed during the sections concerning their mathematical systems. How could she have known it would be so relevant? English literature, theater, Shakespeare: those were her things. She could read old English fairly well. Mesopotamian numerical symbols? Not so much.
Eiran wiped it all away, drew a Y, and held up a finger. One. He drew ten Y’s and then a <. He pointed to the Y’s and held up ten fingers and then to the < and held up ten fingers. Okay, so she understood one and ten. He drew six <’s and then a new symbol. Sixty. A little was starting to come back to her. Some cultures had number systems based in sixty, with subdivisions of ten. Was he still talking about the family tree or just giving her a math lesson? He drew six signs of sixty and stood up. He pointed t
o himself, then the number, then to Nathalia.
Three hundred sixty generations. That was impossible. He was telling her he was how old? If generations were about twenty years… He couldn’t possibly be seven thousand years old. That woman, his mother, couldn’t possibly have been dead that long. Holy shit. Long lived was one thing, but immortal was entirely different. No wonder he kept using the forever word. He was darisam baltutu and she was his Sinnis Ina Ummum Zumru. She was the woman from his mother’s body; a direct descendant of his mother’s line.
She needed to get out of here. She had to get away.
She tried to tell him, but he wouldn’t hear it. She couldn’t go. She was his prisoner after all.
Nathalia’s agitation upset Eiran. He tried to hold her, comfort her, but she wouldn’t have it. She felt out of control when they touched and she didn’t like it. She slapped his arms away and took off running down the now empty hallway. She heard his boisterous laugh behind her and she felt fear. She glanced back and found he did not pursue her. He grinned at her sending a chill up her spine.
The hallway took a slight turn and then opened into a large irregularly shaped room. Eiran leaned against a large stalagmite in the center of it. He smiled still, his arms folded across his chest. Smug bastard. She didn’t know how he got there so fast. Secret passages, maybe. Stop following me. I’m leaving and I don’t want you to come.
All along the irregular walls, Nathalia found more doorways and halls. Each one led to another small room with a concrete box in it. When she came out of one close to where Eiran stood, she asked, Ummum? gesturing at the opening behind her. He nodded yes.
But how do I get out? I want to leave.
Eiran sighed and a familiar look came over his face. Nathalia knew that look. He broadcast to someone, somewhere. Abilities were supposed to be reserved for the better sex; men had brawn, women had brains. After a pause, Eiran stood and spoke in stilted English, “Be not afraid, Nathalia.”
You’re like me. You speak to people with your mind.
“Technically, you are now like us. All from this family have that same ability. I am Eiran’s brother and will act as translator. Eiran says you are upset and have forgotten all he taught you.”
The thought that a man could teach her anything was laughable to Nathalia. He’s taught me nothing. This is the first time I’ve ever laid eyes on him. Since she had never met this brother and therefore couldn’t communicate with him directly, she broadcast her statements to Eiran and waited as he forwarded the message to his brother.
“This is not your first meeting and you have taught each other much in the past. He is your Guardian, but he says you do not understand him when he speaks.”
How can I? I don’t even know what language he’s speaking. Communication this way moved slowly since Eiran had no idea what was being said, but was the vessel which must do all the talking and listening.
“You know it as Sumerian. You will remember our language in time, but for now, he wants me to speak to you in yours.”
Why do you speak English, but not him?
“I live out in the world; he does not. It is my duty to watch over our mother’s line. His is to keep the betrayers. He needs you to calm your mind. You are the most powerful telepath of your lineage and you propagate your feelings even when you don’t know it. Your fear and agitation invigorates Eiran’s prisoners and makes it harder for him to control them and keep their influence at a minimum.”
You mean the mothers? These dead women are his prisoners?
“No, they are the bodies of our mothers that we moved for safe keeping. For as long as they are intact, we have power through them. Eiran has taught you to pull from that power to work your magics.”
I told you already: I don’t know him and he hasn’t taught me anything. Then she had a thought. Maybe this brother could help her. Can you tell me how to get out? Eiran is keeping me here; I want to go home.
“You cannot go home. They would see the change in you and fear it. You cannot leave Eiran, not yet.”
Defeated, Nathalia plopped down on the dirt floor and played with the hem of her dress. The material just ended in a smooth edge, without a stitch, like it was woven into a gown, not into material and made into a gown. I’m a prisoner then.
Eiran looked disturbed when she used that word. “Not a prisoner, he keeps you safe. Your blood calls to every vile and evil thing in this world and it is Eiran’s duty to keep them from you.”
Why does my blood attract evil?
“The simple answer is because it is delicious. It is the thing we all hunger for. Some of us resist and some do not. The complicated answer is that you are the first of your kind, a curiosity and a threat. You are the Igigi’s chosen one, their champion, their warrior.”
What the hell is an Igigi?
“The Igigi are Those Who See and Observe, also known as Shinar, the Shining Ones.” He paused. “Eiran wants me to make his apologies. He did not feel your existence until your life-force faded. The binding the human man had over you blocked Eiran from sensing you.”
Michael? Michael’s binding had been the strongest they had ever known. His murder of her parents bound her and her suicide unlocked her. What do you mean “human” man?
“We are super-human, forever alive, and you are one of us. Now that we know it can be done, we are all anxious to know how. Do you know how it was done?”
Of course I don’t know. I just woke up here with a crazy naked man who only speaks a language that hasn’t been spoken aloud in thousands of years! Are you saying I’ve been made immort… Nathalia felt the tingle fade from her. It was a strange sensation completely unfamiliar. She tried to pull power to finish her sentence, but could not gain access to the Daughters communal pool. Had they cut her off from the source after all?
Eiran’s brother answered her unspoken question, “You have drained your power supply and will have to remember what Eiran taught you about our source or be truly mute. I look forward to meeting you. I am not entirely certain that Eiran is right in claiming you. You might find more pleasure with me. Goodbye my sweet.”
Nathalia could not contain the shiver at the way he said sweet. The words were right, but the tone was wrong. He said it like a food’s flavor, not personality trait. Eiran smiled at her again. Was it because he had no idea what all had been said, or because he agreed with his brother in thinking she would be a tasty treat?
I know she’s gone, but it felt so real. Aaron says it was just a pregnancy dream, but I’d have sworn I heard Nathalia say ‘Thank you, Maeve.’”
Maeve and Jolie took their daily morning tea in the zen garden. The tea was a special brew designed by their Ingenium Primo to ease their morning sickness. They compared maternity moans as they oversaw the Sophomore’s pruning and raking. The tedious work helped the younger women develop the concentration and focus needed to perform their magics. Being a Daughter of Women had its share of sacrifice, but not without benefit. These girls would someday soon be part of the same inner circle as Maeve and Jolie.
“I know what you mean. I’ve been having the most vivid dreams. I’d be sure they were true sights, if it weren’t for the subject matter.” Jolie served the sisterhood as Animaverto Primo. Lately she’d begun the study of waking prophecy, but none ever felt as sure as those she had in an unconscious state. “They’re mostly about Nathalia, so they can’t be the future.”
Her husband, JD, insisted on writing them down, even though she told him they couldn’t be important. He’d gotten quite good at interpreting her symbolical dreams, but as her pregnancy progressed her ability changed. It became more exact, more detailed. She no longer needed an interpreter, just a person to catalog them.
Maeve didn’t have prophetic dreams, but pregnancy certainly did something to a woman’s mind. Her dreams were so vivid that she could feel and smell things. It was becoming harder to separate them from reality. She spent one entire morning recently, so angry about an argument with Aaron, that several hours pa
ssed before she realized the argument happened in a dream. In the end she’d only figured it out, because during the argument the two of them were wearing bathing suits. February, even in Texas, was still winter. There was no way Aaron or her Guardian would let Maeve outside in a bathing suit right now.
Maeve caught sight of her Guardian, standing off to the side, trying to keep her in his sights, while staying out of her view. He never strayed far from her and it seemed to be getting worse with each passing day. He tried not to be obvious about it, but he worried about the baby constantly. He believed the unborn child was special, a savior of mankind, whose birth was foretold ages ago and it was his responsibility to make sure she survived. He always seemed especially nervous when Jolie was around though Maeve could not understand his apprehension. Since Nathalia’s death, Jolie had become Maeve’s best friend. They were both in a similar situation, with matched mates and unborn babies. Maeve often found her Guardian glaring at Jolie’s belly with fear and anger, the polar opposite of how he stared at her own belly, with love and devotion.
“Have you had any dreams about our little ones?” Maeve, now the acting Abbess in Nathalia’s absence, and Vinculum Primo in her own right, had asked Jolie to try to focus on getting some image of their children. She hoped to ease her own mind and the worries of the Guardian. Maeve might not be able to bare him if he got any more protective of her.
“I try to focus on them, but I keep coming up with dreams about Nathalia. How sure are we that she’s really dead?”
Maeve didn’t have to think before she answered, “Very sure.”
She had seen Nathalia’s bloody body for a second, before her Guardian placed himself between them. He could not risk losing the one she carried. He railed at Aaron for not having better control over her. Maeve had been thrilled to hear Aaron rail back at him, “Maeve’s her own person. I don’t control her. I love her.”
The Dying Art of Magic Page 2