by Dyrk Ashton
“I was called a hero,” Peter continues. “An anonymous good Samaritan who happened to be passing by, saw smoke, and saved the lives of four children. I’d left out the back, slipped to another world and was miles away when I returned. No one knew my name, and there were no photographs for the newspapers.
“Later, using my influence, I made sure all the boys were placed in good homes. But for Zeke, I arranged only the best. A kind couple, older, who’d never had children because they couldn’t. They didn’t adopt him, but let him keep his family name, Prisco. His foster parents never knew of the other boys, and I never visited them, but I would check on Zeke from time to time, from a distance.”
He looks to Zeke, and smiles. “I watched you play a few soccer games. You never noticed me, but one time you and I were in the stands together, on opposite ends, before your game began, watching the game of another special child I also kept my eye on from time to time.” He addresses the others and his smile widens. “Zeke couldn’t keep his eyes off a certain clumsy freckled girl with wild red hair.”
Zeke and Fi are both in shock. Fi looks to Edgar, who would have been there as well. “You knew about this?” she asks.
Nervous that Fi has learned yet another secret he kept from her all these years, Edgar presses his lips together in a sad, humble smile, and says nothing. Fi turns to Mrs. Mirskaya, who shrugs, acknowledging her own complicity.
Peter says, “But why would I do this? Why would I murder people I did not know to save a single child? Not even Edgar and Mirskaya know the answer to that, having always allowed me my little quirks, like so many others have.” He waves a hand toward Zeke. “Take a look at the back of his head.”
The others exchange glances, perplexed. Pratha is first to step forward.
* * *
In the communications truck, Colonel Jacqueline Bryant-Hughes bites into an apple, looking over paperwork at a counter that doubles as her desk. Behind her, the lieutenant fills in paperwork. The communications specialist, receiving checkpoint reports from patrols, calls a name and receives a reply. Next, he calls for Corporal Patel. She doesn’t answer. The colonel and lieutenant look up. The specialist calls again. Patel answers, following protocol, and the specialist acknowledges. The colonel goes back to reading, taking another bite of her apple.
* * *
In a shadowed cluster of rocks, a filthy three-fingered hand with ragged fingernails holds a throat mic covered in blood to a mouth of moldy yellow teeth above a short, forked beard. The hand lowers and drops the mic to the dirt. Behind it, in the fog, many multi-legged forms scuttle out of the ground.
* * *
Myrddin says, “Careful not to touch the Chair.”
Pratha picks through Zeke’s thick brown hair with her slim fingers while the others, crowded behind her, lean in.
Zeke’s eyes flit back and forth as he wonders what the hell this is about. His scalp flushes with warmth at Pratha’s touch, and he has to concentrate on keeping his breathing steady. He sees Peter watching him, a knowing gleam in his eyes.
Peter says to the others, “At the base of his skull, left of center, above the hairline.”
Pratha parts his hair and spies something. She moves her head back so the others can see.
Edgar says, “Dear Lord.” Mrs. Mirskaya exclaims something in Russian, while Myrddin Wyllt laughs and claps.
Fi says, “What? I don’t see anything.” The others move so she can get close, Pratha leaning away further as she still holds the hair aside. Fi pushes her hands out of the way and searches for herself. She has no idea what she’s looking for, then finds a small mark. About a quarter of an inch long, light brown, almost gold, in color. “It looks like a birthmark,” she says.
Zeke recalls, That thing? His foster mother told him about it when he was young, having seen it when bathing him. She’d even held up a couple mirrors so he could see it. He hasn’t thought about it since. That’s what this is about?
Fi says, “It looks kind of like a ‘Y,’ or a wishbone.”
Zeke remembers thinking it looked like a wrench.
“That,” says Peter, “is the Mark of Cain.”
Zeke’s expression shifts slowly from perplexed to astonished. He’s dying to ask questions, but he’s afraid to speak for fear the Chair will squeeze the living daylights out of him.
Fi stands straight and moves to Zeke’s side. “So?” she asks Peter, and without thinking, lays her hand on the back of the Chair. It creaks and tightens its hold on Zeke, who grunts in pain and terror.
She yanks her hand away. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” The Chair eases its grip and Zeke breathes more easily.
Waving a finger with each word, Myrddin says, “Do. Not. Touch. The. Chair.”
“I know, I know,” Fi apologizes. “I won’t do it again.” She recalls what she knows of the legend of Cain and Abel. “Wait, isn’t the Mark of Cain a bad thing?” She looks to Edgar and the others. Pratha has her usual thinking face on. Mrs. Mirskaya looks amused, and both Myrddin and Edgar are smiling.
“No, it’s not a bad thing,” says Edgar, “but let’s step away from the Chair, shall we?”
Fi says, “Yeah, good idea.” She mouths sorry again to Zeke as she and the group move to Peter in the aisle.
Edgar shoves his hands in his pockets and looks to the floor. “The Hebrew legends say Cain killed his brother, Abel, out of jealousy and greed, becoming the first murderer in the history of human beings. The truth of that story is not as interesting, I suppose. Or perhaps more, depending on how you look at it.
“The brothers were squabbling over how to care for a flock of sheep, as brothers do, and it was Abel, known for his quick temper, who attacked. He chased Cain up a mountain and Cain dropped a rock on him. A very large rock, I’m told. Nearly half the mountainside. Cain and Abel were Firstborn, as you might have guessed, so nothing like a rock, even one of that size, was going to harm Abel. But it did trap him there, where Cain left him for a few days to cool off. Rumors spread among the villagers that Cain had murdered his brother, and so the stories began. Cain wasn’t even aware of the suspicions at the time. He uncovered his brother, they had a laugh over the whole incident, and that was that.
“The fable continues, however, to claim that the birthmark Cain had naturally borne since birth was placed on him after the alleged murder. That he was marked by God Himself and exiled for his crime. And though God had punished Cain and sent him away, He declared that any who attempted to harm him for his sin would suffer the wrath of God himself.”
Myrddin pipes in, “I’ve always liked that part.” Mrs. Mirskaya grins this time.
“What does any of that have to do with Zeke?” Fi asks, which is exactly what Zeke would ask if he could.
Edgar continues, “After the Second Holocaust, but before The Deluge, Cain married and had his first and only child. Now, this is not clearly described in the myths of any land, because Cain and his brother were going by aliases at the time, which has been common for Firstborn for ages, as you have learned. The child was a son who bore the same birthmark as Cain, the shape of which was later incorporated into the Semitic family of languages, first as a symbol, later as a letter, called the vav or waw.”
Fi asks, “What does it mean?”
“Um,” says Edgar, “just hook, spear, or even tent peg, actually.”
“I’d go with spear.”
“Yes, well, either way, that’s not important. The important thing is that Cain’s son was named Enosh-Alargar.”
Zeke perks up more at the name, but is still, of course, very confused.
Edgar continues, “So Enosh had the birthmark, as did his son, Kenan-Enmenluanna, and his, Mehalael-Engengalanna, and so forth. Enosh, being Secondborn, lived quite a long life, as did all his sons, though their lifespans diminished gradually with each generation, until eventually they lived only as long as normal men.
“At some point the family relocated to what is now Greece,” he looks at Zeke, “where they were given
the surname Prisco, which I’m sure you know comes from the Latin ‘priscus,’ meaning ‘the old one.’” Zeke nods. “The birthmark appears only in the direct family line, and only on the first son. But its appearance began skipping generations, sometimes several at a time, and as the Prisco family multiplied and spread throughout the land, indeed the world, eventually the direct line was lost.
“But the names of Cain’s progeny I have mentioned, Zeke, I see you recognize.” Zeke swallows nervously and nods again. Edgar addresses Fi. “They are known as the Antediluvian Patriarchs—‘antediluvian’ meaning ‘pre-flood.’ In myths of Mesopotamia, they’re called the Sumerian Line of Kings.
“I’ve no idea how many generations there have been after Enosh.” He looks to Peter, who indicates he doesn’t know either. “That line, however, proceeds from pre-history, well before The Flood, to Noah himself, and all the way to the last in the greatest line of kings who have ever lived—a young man named Ezekiel Prisco.”
Zeke sits frozen, wide-eyed, with his mouth hanging open.
Fi asks Edgar, “What does all that mean, though?”
Edgar considers. “Well, I suppose it means he’s a prince, of sorts.”
Fi looks to Zeke, but he’s as bewildered as she is. She addresses Peter and the others. “But, is this why he can do that slipping thing?”
Peter replies, “No. Neither Cain nor Abel could do it, nor any of the kings.” Peter is considering something else, though.
“What are you thinking?” Fi asks.
“It also doesn’t explain why he was able to handle Gungnir.” He notices the others have tensed at the statement. “I dropped it. When Nidhogg attacked.”
Pratha says, “You dropped Gungnir?”
Mrs. Mirskaya crosses her arms. “And the mal'chik picked it up?”
Peter looks embarrassed. “That’s what Horus told me.”
Pratha gives Zeke that look, as if eyeing a particularly curious insect. “Interesting indeed.”
Baphomet, silent and unmoving, listens attentively.
Edgar watches Zeke too, but his expression is one of caring. “We should move on to the next question, but first I’m going to fetch Zeke some water.”
* * *
Edgar leans over the chair, tipping a canteen so Zeke can drink. “Enough, lad?” Zeke sighs his appreciation, and nods.
Edgar caps the canteen and places a hand on Zeke’s head. “You’re doing fine, and Peter will not lead you astray.”
He returns to the others and Peter says to Zeke, “In case it isn’t clear, and for the sake of diligence and satisfaction of the Chair, I saw your birthmark when I examined you at the hospital. I did what I did because you are the last in the line of Cain. Because I wanted to, and because I could. And that’s all I know that I have kept from you.”
Zeke’s still dumbfounded by all he’s heard, but he nods.
Peter says, “It shouldn’t surprise you that you don’t remember this. You were quite young in the first place, and it’s not uncommon for children to block early memories of abuse. In fact it’s more common than not.” Peter pauses, gazing at Zeke, then says, “I get the feeling some of those memories are coming back to you now, though. But, there may also be others.”
Zeke wonders how Peter knows, then realizes exactly what Peter’s next question will be.
“Just to clarify, it is my turn, correct?” Peter asks Edgar.
“It is, milord.”
Peter turns back to Zeke. “When we were at the bank to retrieve my belongings, including Gungnir, Fi and I came out of the manager’s office to find you returning from outside. I’d like you to tell us what happened while you were gone.”
Fi steps closer. She’d forgotten all about it in the whirlwind of events that have occurred since, but she remembers the look on Zeke’s face when he walked back into the bank. Like he’d seen a ghost.
“Remember to answer thoroughly, lad,” says Edgar.
Zeke has been planning to tell them, wanting to. Now here’s his chance. In fact, he has no choice, but the thought of dredging up the experience terrifies him. He tries to comfort himself with the thought that at least now he won’t have to worry about whether they believe him or not.
He takes a deep breath and begins, “So, I was sitting in the lobby, waiting for Peter and Fi, reading a newspaper, which is when I realized we might be on another world, not ours. I’m assuming Peter slipped us without us knowing, sometime after the weirdness with the dogs on the sidewalk and before we arrived at the bank.”
Mol’s ears perk up at the mention of dogs. Peter gives a slight nod, acknowledging Zeke’s guess at how they got to the world with the bank is correct.
“Anyway, I was going to ask the bank guard about the paper when I saw a man outside on the sidewalk carrying a guitar case. He had his hood up, but when he stopped to light a cigarette, I saw part of his face, and I freaked, because he looked like me.”
Fi’s eyes go wide. The others peer on with heightened interest.
“I don’t know why I did it, but I got the guard to let me out and I followed the guy, but he noticed and started to run. I shouted after him, but he wouldn’t stop, so I chased him. He turned down an alley. I don’t know what I was thinking, running after somebody into an alley, but I did. He was limping, like he’d hurt his leg, but still wouldn’t stop when I told him I didn’t want to hurt him. I caught up to him and he spun around, swinging his fist to hit me, but we both froze. He didn’t just look like me, he looked exactly like me. I could tell he saw it too. But he looked bad, like he was sick, and he was shaking. Then I felt something really weird, like I was being repelled from him, like we were opposite ends of a magnet. He was freaked out even more than I was, I guess, because then he did hit me. I saw his fist coming at my face, but I’m no fighter. I remember thinking, this is going to hurt. Then, soon as his hand touched my skin...”
Zeke’s voice trails off. He stares at the floor, but it’s as if he doesn’t see it, envisioning the events replaying in his head instead.
Edgar says, “It’s all right lad. Go ahead.”
Zeke looks up and swallows hard. “It’s like, reality broke. Flashing and shattering pictures of things I’d never seen or heard or done. Terrible things, most of them. Being abused as a kid, by those people Peter described. Using drugs. Stealing. Getting beaten up. Doing sick, sick things. And hurting people.
“But it was a whole life, you know, good and bad, though mostly bad. All spinning in my head. I thought maybe I was, I don’t know, dead.
“But I could hear him screaming too. We both knew this was happening to each other, because he was screaming with my mouth, and I was screaming with his. We were in the same body, somehow, with the same mind, but with two lifetimes of memories clashing, competing, fighting for... something, I don’t know what. Dominance, maybe, or survival.
“It felt like it went on forever, and I remember thinking, this is what hell must be like. And he thought it too. We were both going completely insane, I’m sure of it. But it also felt like he already was insane. And he was more scared than I was, and unstable, in a really scary way, and violent, and getting really angry. More rage than I’ve ever felt myself. A lot more. And that’s what really scared me. We were—I was— crashing around in the alley, screaming, grabbing my head, and I thought—I have to get back to Fi. I really, really have to get back to Fi. I am going to get back to Fi...”
Zeke’s staring at the floor again, engrossed in the strange recollection. He blinks, but his gaze is still far off, and he breathes as if he’s just sprinted a mile. “Then I was out of him, of me. Like I just slipped out. He staggered away from me, and it was raining really hard.
“He looked at me. The rage in his eyes was incredible. He screamed at me, clenching his fists. I didn’t know what else to do, so I turned and ran. I don’t know if he tried to follow or not. I ran out of the alley toward the bank. But, somehow, I realized I was on the wrong world. Somehow we had slipped when we were inside each ot
her, or whatever that was. I don’t know how. Anyway, I slipped back, right to the world with the bank, and came inside. But I left him there, on a world that wasn’t his, or mine.”
Zeke’s mouth hangs slack. He closes it and takes a deep breath. “Since then, every time I fall asleep those memories come back. His memories. My other memories. Like the worst nightmare ever. But it’s not only in my sleep anymore.”
Peter’s expression is severe as he processes what Zeke’s told them. The others, even Pratha, look amazed. Fi’s eyes are wet. A tear rolls down her cheek.
Zeke jerks as the telltale whine, whir and squeak shrieks through his mind, and Fi jumps at the sound of his scream.
The others move closer, but fear to act. The vines of the Chair quiver, creak and moan. Zeke roars, and there’s wrath in his eyes.
Fi shouts at Peter, Edgar and Myrddin, “Do something!” She grasps Peter’s arm. “It’s hurting him!”
Peter tightens his grip on the vine wrapped around his hand, but Myrddin grabs him. “No!” he shouts. Then, with further amazement in his voice, he says, “He’s hurting it.”
Zeke’s face is set with inhuman determination as he growls between clenched teeth. The Chair shakes violently. The vine unwraps from Peter’s arm and whips back. Other vines flap in the air, but it still keeps its hold on Zeke. Zeke continues to struggle, groaning and screaming, his mindless fury intensifying. And his eyes—whatever he’s seeing, it isn’t the group of surprised people in front of him. Not Fi crying, the utter shock in Myrddin’s eyes, the apprehension but also curiosity on Peter’s face. What Zeke sees, feels, hears, and knows, in total immersion, is something quite different.
* * *
No adjustment of signal this time, the memory blares like a television switched on at full volume.
Another world, but close. So close. Rolling, rocky hills, a river and fog, and a city. Like a blind man racing along strings in the dark, he’s tracing memories of the other. The motherfucker who did this to him. But the other isn’t here. And more agonizing, neither is Fi. He can feel it. The squirming madness and excruciating pain are unbearable. He. Will. Find her. Clenching his teeth so hard they crack. The earth trembles. His eyes flash. It all crashes and burns, and the sky begins to fall...