by K. T. Tomb
As he passed her in the air, he grabbed her hood and pulled.
The hood came down as he landed behind her and she turned to face him. What he saw made his heart stop. It was her, of course.
The girl from his dreams.
***
“Arm yourself, mortal,” she said. “I’m not done with you yet.”
She turned to face him, leaving the Kamas in the wall and shrugging out of the black robe, which fell to her ankles. She was dressed in a tight black pullover that accentuated her fit body. Knight could now only look at her in awe.
He recognizes me, but I do not know how or from where, she thought.
She was nervous, as she circled him quietly. He only followed her with his shocked eyes. He was breathing hard. She sized up the man as she walked around him.
“Who are you?”
She stopped next to a rack of Samurai combat curved short swords, which were designed for good balance and ultimate efficiency. She had one or two at home.
She removed the first and tossed it to him. He did not seem to take his eyes off her, as he caught the weapon by the handle, spun it once, and then lowered the tip to the floor.
She removed the second one for herself.
He realized that this was something he had to do, if he wanted answers.
Not to mention, she wanted some answers herself.
“You’ve proven yourself to be efficient, mortal.” She raised her weapon in the guarded position.
He didn’t move. “Why do you call me that?”
“Because you will die like the others.”
“And you do not die?”
“No,” she said, circling.
He tilted his head, following her with his eyes. His chest was still heaving. “You are from Eden.”
Her step faltered. She said nothing.
“I dream of you,” he said. “I’ve dreamed of you my entire life.”
She saw that he was close to hyperventilating. He wasn’t just tired from their bout. He did seem to be having some sort of reaction to seeing her. She attacked, thrusting her sword forward. He parried easily, but did not riposte. He simply stepped back, as she redoubled her attack without withdrawing her arm. He parried this as well. She riposted, hacking savagely. His own sword met hers in a flash of blinding white sparks.
“What else do you dream of, mortal?”
“I dream of many things that I do not understand.”
She lunged again, attempting a dual attack that, if done right, was difficult to defend. The tip of her sword slashed twice but he defended it perfectly.
“These paintings are from your dreams,” she said.
“Yes.”
She saw that he had maneuvered himself to one section of the studio, seemingly on purpose.
“Look,” he said, and he stepped aside. It was another painting, one of a tall, angular woman with eyes that flashed with an inner fire. She held in her hand a broadsword, point down. She appeared relaxed, but something about her body position suggested she was ready to lead an attack. She had black, flowing hair, pale skin and a streak of white in her hair.
It was her, of course.
Jess almost dropped the sword. She turned to face him. There was something close to tears in his eyes. He seemed to be shaking, as if cold, but that could have been an illusion. He seemed overwhelmed with emotion, but she had never been a good judge of human emotion. At least, it seemed that he looked relieved, as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He seemed ready to collapse.
She lunged again and he raised his sword to meet her attack. For a few seconds, their swords were an utter blur. She found herself losing ground. All of her moves were met by his firm determination and he seemed to actually be gaining strength. The look in his eyes was almost frightening.
“Why do you want to hurt me?” he asked, grunting.
“You are mortal and you are male. You are unworthy. I have given my life for what must be done. I have given many lives for what must be done. You appear and then you are expected to do the job that surely the Daughters can do on their own. I can see no use for you.”
“I have no clue as to what you’re talking about.”
“Of course not. You only dream meaningless dreams, mortal.”
He resumed his attack and moved forward quickly. She found herself pinned to a far wall. “Quit calling me mortal!”
She kicked out hard, nailing him in the groin. He doubled over as she smiled and gave him a moment to recover. He stood, his face pale, and they engaged again.
She lost track of time and space and any thought process. Her body was a machine of parrying, riposting, engaging, disengaging and thrusting.
It was an uncanny final move that found both swords pointed under each other’s throats. Any false movement by either party would lead to instant death. Both swords were held steady.
“What is your name?” he asked, gasping hard with sweat dripping from his nose.
“I am Jessima IL Eve,” she said, sucking in air. “Guardian of Eden and the Tree of all Life.”
“Hello, Jessima IL Eve, Guardian of Eden and the Tree of all Life. I am Dr. Evan Knight. I’ve been waiting for you.”
Chapter Seven
Alexey Konstantin had rarely missed an opportunity to advance his pharmaceutical empire and he wasn’t going to miss this one, either, no matter what the cost and no matter how strange and surreal the circumstances. He was a billionaire, too, because of his ability to turn his gut instinct into profit. Now, his instincts were telling him there was something here. Something worth pursuing. He was sure of it. He felt it in his heart and soul and it all started with the amazing vial of oil.
“But, sir, this is crazy,” said Alexis Milek, his assistant, a little man who was paid too well to play the devil’s advocate. He was a hell of a sounding board, but Alexey was already growing tired of the man’s firm resistance to this latest scheme. They were sitting in Alexey’s suite at the Hotel Kabras in uptown Tehran, a hotel popular with visiting dignitaries and local embassy staff. As Milek spoke, Alexey moved over to the wide window and looked down upon Iran’s populous capital. Outside, nine floors below, traffic was snarled because of a broken-down bus with steam emitting from its engine. “I have calculated that this venture would cost over two million dollars in bribes, weaponry and salaries. Not to mention the potential loss of human life, if we are met with the kind of resistance we anticipate. I cannot agree with this, especially based on what little information we have received.”
Alexey did not immediately respond. Instead, he continued staring down upon the ancient capital. He saw the heat waves rising in the distance as the bus finally hiccupped to life and rolled along, freeing up the traffic. He saw the distant smoke of the many factories that populated Tehran, filling the air with their vile pallor. He saw all of this, but he didn’t really see it. No, he was thinking about the Garden of Eden. The real Garden of Eden, supposedly hidden within a dormant volcano, if it was indeed a volcano at all. He was thinking about the Tree of Life. He was thinking about the vial of oil that he, even now, held in his hand. The clear amber liquid was, in fact, sap from the Tree of Life. He believed all of it because he had seen the evidence with his own eyes.
Milek had only just flown in from Moscow, headquarters of Konstantin Pharmaceuticals. As luck would have it, Alexey had already been in town, touring his third-biggest plant here in Tehran as he did a lot of business with the Iranians, when word came from some local doctors that something unusual had been found. It was something so fantastic that they needed his laboratory to test it.
Alexey moved over to where a beautiful white cockatiel with full plumage rattled and stirred in its cage. Alexey had requested the bird to be brought for just this occasion. When Alexey requested something, the staff at the Hotel Kabras provided, instantly. He was one of their richest guests.
“Milek, I would like to show you something.” Alexey opened the cage and reached inside for the bird. It was an obedient bird an
d hopped onto his wrist. He brought it out, stroking its fine feathers. It shook its head and splayed its tail feathers affectionately. “He is a beautiful creature, is he not?”
Milek removed his round glasses and wiped the lenses on his white polo shirt, a nervous habit that Alexey found amusing. Milek eyed him warily. “Yes, sir. He is beautiful. But I do not understand—”
“Avert your eyes, Milek. You do not have the stomach for this.”
Alexey opened his palm and smothered the bird’s face, closing its beak and shutting off its air holes. The bird tried to escape, flapping madly in his hand, until he restrained it with his other hand. Small white feathers drifted lazily to the floor.
“Sir! You’re killing it!” Milek did finally look away, his face thunder-stricken and pale.
Alexey knew he was smiling and knew that he probably looked insane. Maybe he was... a little. But he wanted to prove his point and wanted to see the magic at work again. There was no better way to see it than with death. Finally, the bird ceased its resistance. It shuddered violently once and then, went limp. To make sure death had set in, Alexey held it like that for another minute, slowly ticking off the seconds in his own head.
The smile was still there. He should not be enjoying this so much, but he was.
I am a monster, he thought. But soon I shall play God.
He released the bird’s beak and held the limp figure in his palm. Its legs and head flopped over his fingers. It was definitely dead.
“Look at me, Milek.” The man did not. Alexey saw that he was shaking. “Look at me!”
Milek did, and when he turned and saw the dead bird, he stepped back against the front door. He looked at Alexey with nothing short of horror on his face.
Alexey laughed. “I am not evil, Milek. There is a point to all of this, after all.”
His assistant said nothing.
The Russian pharmaceutical giant set the dead bird on a beautiful seashell-inlaid end table. Its head, with its heavy beak, flopped to one side. Alexey removed the vial of oil from inside his jacket pocket.
“Watch closely, Milek, and do not blink.”
The amber oil was still in the original container in which it had been found, which was an ingenious little glass vial that allowed only one precious drop at a time to flow. One drop was all that was needed. Alexey turned the little bird’s head and pried open its beak. His movements were precise. After all, he had been a chemist in his former life, before his small company grew into the second largest in the world. His hands, though, despite all their practice with fine movements, were trembling with excitement.
“Watch, Milek,” he whispered hoarsely. “Watch the power of God at work.”
A single, beautiful drop of yellow liquid, like the tear of a dragon, spilled from the vial and into the open beak. To Alexey’s amusement, despite his reservations and the horror he had shown earlier, Milek moved closer. He could hear Milek breathing in short, shallow gasps.
Nothing happened.
Breathe again, thought Alexey. Breathe in the breath of God.
The bird jerked once, as if spasming. Milek gasped and stepped back. The bird jerked again, as its whole body started convulsing. It was as if it weren’t dead, but just in great pain. It continued to shudder violently.
Yes, thought Alexey. Yes. Come back to us, my little friend.
His assistant brought his hands to his face, his white-knuckled fists covering his open mouth.
The white cockatiel’s chest suddenly expanded again and again. Its little lungs began to work, but the movement seemed unnatural and forced, as if aided by a breathing machine.
Alexey reached over, picked up the bird, and held it in his hand, stroking its fine feathers tenderly. “Milek, why don’t you open the window so our little friend can have his freedom? After all, he’s had a rough day.”
Milek moved away from the couch area and, while not taking his eyes off the bird, fumbled his way to the window, where he unlatched it and pushed it open. Hot, humid air gushed into the air-conditioned room.
In his palm, the bird turned its head back and forth and was now cooing gently under his tender touch. Alexey strolled over to the open window, where he could taste the dust of Tehran.
“Are you ready to fly yet, my little friend?” he asked.
He held the bird up toward the window. It stretched its wings once and then twice and then launched itself from his palm, flapping hard through the open window.
Milek leaned out the window and Alexey put his hand on his assistant’s shoulder. Milek flinched under the touch.
“There is no price that I wouldn’t pay to have access to more of this oil. Now do you understand, Milek?”
Milek didn’t answer as a speck of white from the bird flashed across the distant rooftops.
Then it was gone.
Chapter Eight
Alexey Konstantin was sitting alone in his hotel suite, studying a slowly smoldering fire in the fireplace.
The fire was unnecessary, as the evening was plenty warm, but sitting around a fire helped him think and he had much to think about. The fire also reminded him of the cozy, although often frigid, evenings with his family growing up in St. Petersburg, where a fire had blazed in the central hearth twenty-four hours a day, virtually year round. Alexey had gotten into the habit of staring into the flames and had planned his life’s course through such concentrated contemplation. It had been a course that proved very profitable.
He had graduated with honors from Stalin University, a chemist by degree, but an entrepreneur at heart. He had moved up rapidly in a small firm, acquiring all of the skills necessary to someday launch his own company. By a move either dubious or unethical—either way, he didn’t care—he’d patented a cold medicine right under the nose of his former employer, a company which, by all rights, should have claimed the patent for itself.
He thought that they were too stupid and slow-moving and by then, he was gone, having acquired the necessary capital to start his own company. With the success of the cold medicine patent, he was well on his way. There were, in fact, many other occasions where corporate spying and outright theft had been alleged against him and his company, but none were proven. Although, if the truth be known, most had some foundation of fact. He was not above theft, bribery and even murder to get what he needed to advance his cause.
As the fire crackled, Alexey leaned forward and poured himself a glass of sherry. He sat back on the couch and took a sip. In his other hand, his thumb and forefinger flipping it casually, was the glass vial of healing oil. The vial was more than half empty, after having undergone numerous scientific testings. Now, it was his and he would allow no more testing and no more demonstrations of its power. The one for Milek was the last. The poor man needed to lie down and was now in his own suite on the floor below. Alexey chuckled, swirling his sherry. Alexey needed no further proof. He was dealing with perhaps the most powerful substance in existence on Earth and it had all begun just two weeks ago…
Alexey reflected on what he had gleaned from the local doctors and some of the Iranian witnesses who had first found the injured lady. She had been found badly injured, by the tribal shepherds who lived in the mountainous region of Northern Iran. These were people, Alexey understood, who had been shepherding since practically the dawn of time. They had their own dialect and customs and were often forgotten by the Iranian public at large. They were simple people who lived off the land and the Iranian government left them in peace.
The shepherds had referred to the injured woman as a Guardian, but would say no more. She certainly looked powerful. Alexey had seen one picture of her. She had been calculated to be well over six feet tall, with none of the normal characteristics of the local nomads. She had light-brown hair and a fair complexion.
It was suspected that the woman had been a victim of thieves who also roamed the hills, hiding out in caves and attacking anyone who might appear to have something of value. She had been found badly beaten, with nineteen gunsh
ot wounds, but she was not dead. The doctors called it a miracle. Even more amazing, she later woke up from her coma after some medical attention and drifted in and out of consciousness until she had finally passed away.
Her story, although an odd one, would have ended there, if not for the vial of oil found attached to a leather thong around her neck. It was assumed that the oil was simply anointing oil used in rituals, until one of the nurses opened it and spilled a drop on the back of her hand. The healing oil might have been forgotten if not for the fact that the nurse had been suffering from severe arthritis. She had allegedly watched as her twisted fingers healed before her eyes.
The oil was confiscated by the hospital administration. They had something amazing on their hands, but first, they needed to know what it was.
Enter Alexey and his local pharmaceutical laboratory, where the oil had been sent for further testing. He was Iran’s second-largest medicinal manufacturer, and had three different labs scattered throughout the country. The labor here was cheap and he thoroughly took advantage of that. Not to mention, his Iranian chemists were the best in the world.
Alexey, who made frequent trips to the neighboring country, while negotiating further patents and touring his facilities, happened to be in his northern Iranian facility on the day the oil arrived.
“Ah, destiny.” Alexey smiled. He was a great believer in destiny.
The oil had arrived very discreetly from the head of the local hospital. He was a man who had insisted on being there for every step of the way, and wanted to be part of this entire operation. He was a man who was now dead and buried in a shallow grave, twenty miles into the Kavir Desert.
Alexey had ushered in the head of the Ara Hospital, a thin man who looked like he had secrets. Alexey had been intrigued to learn of the oil’s reputed medical value and had personally overseen the initial tests, which blew his mind.
Initially, the administrator found a crippled chemist working in the lab and put one drop of oil on each leg. The chemist, who had suffered from paralysis for most of her adult life from a car accident, was walking in minutes, though her legs shook wildly, due to total muscle degeneration. A week later, her muscles had rebuilt quickly and she was jogging to work each morning.