Awen Rising

by O J Barré

  “Are you kidding?” Peschi said, “I grew up eating here. This town wouldn’t be the same without Jocko’s Pizza. We’ve got you covered, Lu-Mac. No worries. Okay?” Lugh nodded.

  He let go of a pent-up sigh when the officers left. Peschi was right. A lot of people had grown up eating here. Jocko’s was an institution. He ignored the ache in his gut and gave the all-clear to the two cooks hovering nearby. “Go on home to your families, guys. And thank you for getting the stuff out of the rain. We’ll clean up the rest tomorrow.”

  Grateful “thank yous” and “see you thens” were Lugh’s answer.

  He cut through the kitchen and prickles danced on the back of his neck. He twisted to search for his mother’s ghost. She hovered in front of the swinging doors, a sassy apron cinching her ample waist. Smiling, she waved in that way she’d had that put everyone at ease.

  Across the room, his father stood before the pizza oven, round middle dusted in flour and secret sauce, a twinkle in his merry eyes. Lugh’s stomach lurched. Seldom did his deceased parents pop in just to visit. They usually brought bad news.

  “Don’t worry, Lughnasadh.” His mom sparkled. “Chin up, Son. You have forgotten that what seems bad is ofttimes good. This storm has reached the Otherworld.” She glanced over at the love of her life, who winked as she whispered conspiratorially, “The dragons are stirring. Draigs Talav and Ooschu now roam unfettered. And after this bit of magic,” she waved her hands over her vaporous head, “Tienu and a-Ur will be up and about, too.”

  The hairs on Lugh’s arms stood up and waved. Her ghost pointed an ethereal finger at the basement, then vanished to reappear beside him in a cool breeze.

  “The dragons are searching for Emily, Lugh. They need her for something—most likely to defend the world. It was she who saved Jocko’s. Keep her close. She needs your strength and protection. And you hers. But to fall in love with her would be most unwise.” She brushed his cheek with a hand that went right through him. Her eyes grew large with warning. “Emily would be your downfall, Lugh. Awful things have I seen on the wind.”

  She slowly faded and disappeared, no doubt whisking his father on some Otherworld adventure. But her voice floated to him, thin and fading, “And remember this—the four answer to her, only her.”

  “Goodbye,” Lugh whispered, his throat tight.

  He considered his mother’s warning about Emily and shook his head. It was too late. He’d already fallen. Disappointment wafted through him and the hairs danced on the backs of his arms. He’d finally found his somebody and wouldn’t ya know she’d be the one he couldn’t have. He muscled the cellar door open.

  “Great,” he mumbled as he headed down the stairs. “Like things weren’t bad enough already, now we have dragons and magical tornadoes. And my balls will be blue forever.”

  New Student

  S halane paused in the middle of an early dinner to stare at the television. The weather bombs had converged on a restaurant where Ebby Panera had been eating. Now her image filled the screen. Part of Shalane was thrilled that Ebby was unscathed. She hadn’t meant to hurt her, just scare the pants off her.

  And it should have worked. Devastation and pandemonium surrounded her old student. But Ebby’s eyes glittered. And not with fear. A handsome man stood beside her with a protective hand on her shoulder. Who was he? And what was he to Ebby?

  Pondering these questions, Shalane put Patrika to work clearing the table, then moseyed to the living room to prepare for lessons, a job that included shooing Cecil off to a movie. Soon Patty joined her for her first magic lesson. The girl had been vocal about her doubts but had promised to give it a try.

  “Ready?” Shalane asked. Lips a petulant moue, Patty shrugged. “The first step in meditation is to sit in a comfortable position, with your back straight.” Patty rearranged her legs on the sofa to mirror Shalane’s cross-legged lotus.

  “Now,” Shalane continued, “just follow my instructions. If your mind wanders, bring it back to my voice. Ready?”

  For the hundredth time, the girl asked, “But what if I can’t?”

  “Then we’ll try again. But believe me, Patrika, there is nothing to it. Just follow my instructions and do as I say. You’ll be a pro in no time.”

  Pout skeptical, Patty reached for a pillow and tucked it under her knee.

  Patience not her forte, Shalane clenched her teeth. When all movement ceased, she tried again. “Ready?”

  To her relief, the girl nodded.

  “Close your eyes and listen to the sound of my voice. Let all else fade away. Nothing matters but my words. All else is noise, let it go.” Shalane opened her eyes to see if Patty’s were closed. They were. “Now take a deep breath in, hold it for a count of four, then exhale.”

  She spoke slowly, pausing between instructions. “Another breath. Exhale. On your next breath, pretend you are sending imaginary roots from the base of your spine into the earth. Let them penetrate easily and effortlessly, cutting through the rock like butter.”

  The girl sniffed.

  Shalane ignored her and continued, “Keep your attention on the sound of my voice. Breathe in, hold, breathe out, hold. Breathe in, hold, breathe out, hold. Imagine your roots are going deeper into Mother Earth. When you reach the bottom, let your root tips grip the bedrock and anchor in.” She waited for the girl to do as instructed.

  **

  Nergal watched from his perch as the Reylian descended with the girl, moving fast. He doused his light and took a position directly below Patrika. She reached the bottom, moments after Shalane ascended.

  Nergal touched Patty’s leg, connecting with her consciousness long enough to make the energetic transfer. He left his body and traveled to the surface of AboveEarth with the girl. When Patrika opened her eyes, Nergal found himself seated next to the smug Reylian.

  A jolt of righteous glee sizzled through him. It was foreign, this feeling, but thrilling, too. The reptilian closed Patty’s eyes and tried to focus on the priest’s words.

  “…when you reach Father God, thank him, then slowly return to earth, to your body, bringing his divine essence back with you…”

  “This is drivel,” Nergal thought.

  “…now imagine in front of you a grand staircase leading up to the sky, higher and higher, until way up in the far reaches you see a castle gleaming in the sunlight at the very top of the stairs…”

  **

  Nergal hung around until the human fell asleep. He then returned to his own world, keeping an invisible thread attached so he could come and go.

  The day had been productive. Nergal had learned, among other things, that the source of the reverend’s power was coupling with a being she called Archangel Michael. The revelation caused Nergal some consternation. In his world, the entity was known as the Destroyer. He would have to be careful, which went against Nergal’s natural instinct to charge ahead. Instead, he would need stealth and secrecy. Meanwhile, he would learn Shalane’s magic. Then, when the time came to take AboveEarth, he would have an edge over the other generals and factions.

  Accessing the Onyx Gate, Nergal caught a chute to the main level and crossed to the officer’s hall, ignoring the riff-raff that parted for him to pass. He would eat and return to his own quarters before it was time to provide an update on the project. The latest development regarding Nergal’s brainchild he would keep to himself. For now.

  Air Dragon

  T he next day dawned chilly and bright. Emily woke to the insistent trill of the doorbell. Beside her on the bedtable, her iBlast vibrated. She picked it up and squinted at the screen. What did Wainwright want at this hour? She climbed from bed into the fuzzy robe and let the call go to voicemail. The assault on her doorbell continued, interspersed with loud knocks.

  Tugging on her Uggs, Emily made for the front door. Through the peephole, she eyed her Aunt Morgan, cheeks rosy and dressed to the nines. What the hell? Removing the deadbolt, she stepped aside to let Morgan bustle in.

  “Brr-er-ER! It�
�s c-cold out there,” the tall woman proclaimed, wringing her leather-gloved hands. “Got coffee?”

  Nodding, Emily bumped the thermostat up a few notches and shuffled to the kitchen, where she barely avoided tripping over a meowing Ralph. Morgan followed, chattering about the storm and what a miracle it was that Emily and Jocko’s Pizza were spared when the rest of Emory Hill was decimated.

  Emily started the tea and coffee brewing and opened a can of food for Ralph. Done, she propped her backside against the counter to study her still jabbering aunt.

  “What’s up?” she asked, interrupting Morgan mid-sentence.

  Her aunt sputtered, eyes widening. “Emily, I came as soon as I heard. Mitchell Wainwright and some of the druids are claiming you summoned that storm last night.”

  Emily clutched the robe to her chest and stared, heart in her throat. For the love of all that was holy.

  “Now, I know it’s not true,” Morgan hurried on, “I mean, you don’t yet have the power to summon a storm, and even if you did, you wouldn’t. But Mitchell and several of your father’s detractors are on the way here.”

  The thought of fleeing crossed Emily’s mind; these people were batshit crazy. Then the teakettle whistled and instead of running, she poured water over the leaves. Excusing herself, she hurried to the bedroom to dress.

  When she returned, Morgan sat at the dining room table, sipping a cup of rich-smelling coffee. Emily plopped in a chair beside her to wait.

  **

  One hour later, the group was still divided. Mitchell Wainwright, Olga Phagan, Frenchy Payne, and Jessie Burress believed Emily had conjured—or at least had a hand in—the Superstorm and refused to be satisfied until Morgan agreed to mount a full investigation. Lugh MacBrayer, Arthur Creeley, and Don Foster had shown up in Emily’s defense.

  “All right, all right,” an exasperated Morgan relented. “We will start an investigation. But I will tell you now, Mr. Wainwright, this is NOT endearing you to us.”

  Mitchell’s brows raised so high they nearly merged with his bangs. “I am merely trying to protect the order. What do we really know about this interloper anyway?” His steel eyes burned with so much hatred, Emily gasped.

  Lugh stood and pounded his fist on the table, rattling the cups against their saucers. “I don’t care what you think, Mitch. Emily is our grand druid and she saved us last night. If it hadn’t been for her, Jocko’s would have been flattened along with the rest of the block.” Touched by his fervor, Emily fell in love a little more.

  Mitchell rose, haughty in his self-righteousness. “Are you willing to risk the order’s safety on that?”

  “Absolutely!” Lugh shouted.

  “Boys!” Morgan stood and banged a spoon against her cup. “The claim will be investigated. Now, stop arguing.” She glared at everyone around the table. The matriarch was formidable when riled. Emily made a mental note not to get on her bad side.

  Arthur stood and the others rose, too. “I motion we table this discussion pending Morgan’s findings. All in favor?”

  All hands raised except Mitchell’s. He shoved back from the table, seething, and shot out the front door without a word. The remaining detractors mumbled goodbyes, more sheepish than defiant, and followed their leader.

  The energy in the room calmed considerably. Lugh, Morgan, and the others departed, advising Emily not to pay attention to Wainwright. But the damage was done. Her already-flagging confidence was dragging the ground. She needed to get out of the house.

  Agreeing that was a good idea, Hope gave her a new assignment. Awareness Training. In the guise of a treasure hunt.

  Emily laced her running shoes and grabbed her coat, a bottle of water, and the keys to the cold-fusion Marauder. Minutes later, she was tapping the address for Oakland Cemetery in the Global Positioning System. While the nav computed the drive, Emily pondered the confrontation. In spite of her belief that her prayer-spell had protected both her and Jocko’s Pizza, she had a sneaking suspicion she may have attracted the storms. It wouldn’t be the first time. But she had no idea why, or how.

  Oakland Cemetery had been spared by the twisters. Considering the large, fragile tent city stretching up and down the adjacent block, it was a darn good thing. A permanent soup kitchen and a mobile clinic stood in one corner of the public lot. People thronged the area, waiting. Aching for each one, Emily made a mental note to talk to Morgan about getting involved. With her Da’s riches, surely they could do a lot toward helping these people’s plight. But for the grace of God, she could’ve been one of them.

  Heart still aching, she parked near the entrance and jogged up the gentle rise. Inside the stone and iron gate, she slowed to a walk to get her bearings and take in the vista. The only sign of yesterday’s epic storm was the wet grass and an occasional puddle. Delighted anticipation filled her, emptying her mind of the attorney’s accusations. Oakland Cemetery was no mere graveyard, but a historical park filled with plots and monuments spreading in all directions into the distance.

  Traffic noise faded and Emily was back in another time, in an Atlanta rebuilt upon the ashes of a war, one fought between brothers and cousins. Chill bumps danced along the backs of her arms as she whirled in every direction like a dervish spinning, a wide grin splitting her face. Here, in Atlanta’s oldest cemetery, throbbed the heart and soul of the phoenix city.

  Finding her feet on a narrow cement lane built for horse-drawn buggies, Emily scanned the cemetery for the three “treasures” she’d been tasked to find. But the gravestones dated back to the eighteen-hundreds and the inscriptions were worn by the sands of time, some barely discernable. All manner of growing things graced the symmetrical plots, many in the early stages of bloom.

  Mature, slick-leaved magnolias capped salmon wild quince and tulips of varied hues. A row of yellow daffodils danced in the breeze, a perfect contrast to the carpet of lavender phlox blanketing the nearest grave. Ivy wound around an etched urn and trailed over the low brick wall. A whiff of rosemary tickled her nose.

  Following the aroma to the low terrace over which it tumbled, Emily ran her fingers along the base of a stalk to its feathery tip to release the pungent odor. Opening her fist, she inhaled the spicy scent and for a moment was back in Southern California, where the drought-resistant herb was a landscape staple. Homesick tendrils squeezed her heart as she breathed in its fragrance and let the memory wash through her.

  A rising wind misted her with what could’ve been ocean spray. Startled, she looked up and spied a fat robin fluttering in the leaves of a liquid amber tree. Or sweet gum, as they were called in Georgia. Thus anointed, Emily scooted out of the way, wiping her damp cheek with the sleeve of her hoodie.

  A single jogger passed Emily by, then a trio with a Lab on a leash. A sign announced the Visitor’s Center was in the opposite direction. She followed the arrow, ooo-ing and ahh-ing at statues and altars, reading names and epitaphs and snapping photos of the exquisite artwork with her iBlast. Above the narrow, grave-lined lanes, oaks provided shade and guarded the dead, along with sourwoods and sweet gum trees, resplendent in varying shades of spring green. Under these, purple-blossomed redbuds brushed against dogwoods still bare.

  The path opened to a manicured lawn lined with swaying maples. Whirly-birding seeds formed a reddish mat on the ground underneath. Behind them in the distance, the Equitable Building spiked black against a billowy sky, the white cumuli hinting of another storm. Her throat tightened.

  To quell the rush of nerves, Emily studied the monolith. Atlanta’s first high-rise, it still bore its original name a century and a half later, a feat in this day and age. She searched the cityscape for a glimpse of the Candler Building, but its whimsical lines were hidden by the trees. Seeking north, Emily rotated twenty degrees and stumbled into a black, cast-iron bench.

  “Ow!” she grumbled, rubbing her shin. “Why didn’t they paint the damn thing red?”

  The iron had been shaped into branches and leaves, and an intertwined-snake motif adorned the le
gs. Wondering if it was druid-made, she plopped down to enjoy the vista, but from this vantage point the buildings disappeared.

  Emily closed her eyes to listen to the drone of bees pillaging the nectar of some blossomed feast. A raucous crow cawed overhead. Someone laughed, a clear, melodious tinkle, and a dog barked.

  A shiver crawled up the back of Emily’s neck. Behind her, she could hear the clatter of what she hoped was a wooden chime and not the rattle of dead bones in the wind.

  **

  The air dragon blinked in the afternoon sun. Or tried to. a-Ur had been encased in stone for so long he had forgotten how. Something had awakened him.

  At first it tickled, an itch a-Ur couldn’t scratch. Or even pinpoint. But it intensified until his entire being swelled with the irritation. A flame long-dead erupted in a-Ur’s belly, calling him back to the world.

  **

  Emily was still empty-handed after scouring the entire west side of Oakland Cemetery. She had found no reference or likeness to honey bees or blackbirds, though plenty cavorted in the trees. Also in abundance were crosses, urns, willows, epitaphs, doves, olive branches, bible verses and the like, but Hope’s “treasures”— including anything related to the peacemakers passage—were nowhere to be found.

  Now it was well past lunchtime and she was frustrated and hungry. Not a good combination for anyone, much less a hypoglycemic. Chugging half the water in her bottle, her third refill, Emily sank to a stone bench. From this angle, she had an unobstructed view of the high point of the cemetery. She had dubbed it Mausoleum Row. Opening the map she’d purchased from the Visitor’s Center, Emily scanned it again, hoping to trigger a spark. The map stared back, withholding its secrets. Her irritation mounted.

  “Dammit, this is ridiculous!” she blurted out, then looked around, embarrassed. No one lurked nearby. Hot tears of frustration gathered. After the morning and afternoon, she had come up with nothing. Nothing, except doubts and fears. It was a stupid child’s game, for God’s sake. One Emily should be able to win.