by Gene Curtis
The Seventh Mountain
Chronicles of a Magi
Gene Curtis
A Prize Books Publication
Copy edited by Shirley S. Meunier, Clarkson University.
Story edited by Donna Brauda and Christina S. Brauda
Cover design and layout by Jeremy Robinson
Copyright © 2011 by Gene Curtis
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
Proudly published in the United States of America: Virgilina, Virginia.
To my wife and daughter:
for love, laughter and inspiration.
Acknowledgments:
Lyrics from “In the Garden” public domain, copyright 1912 by C. Austin Miles.
The Seventh Mountain is a purely fictional story. Many of the places in this story are real. The descriptions of these locations have been modified to fit the story. Any and all names or descriptions of people in this story are fictional. Any similarity to any real person or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Some events in this story are based on real events but are used in a purely fictional manner. This story is solely a work of fiction, nothing more.
THE
SEVENTH
MOUNTAIN
Chapter 1
The Day Before Twelve
The voices of history yet to come had spoken his name.
The desert smelled hot, like a smoldering griddle. The white-hot brightness beat Mark’s shadow into a small oval that sought solace beneath him. He knelt, touched the sand and his fingers seared. Fist sized stones baked on the desolate landscape and black distortions shimmered in the expanse that stretched before him. A stone wall blocked the way to a terraced mountain that stood far in the distance. It was a mountain unlike any he had ever seen yet it stood there, enduring, stoic, facing the onslaught of heat and time. This wasn’t the way to school.
The sun began to roast his face and neck; blisters started to form. Shade, he needed shade. The mountain was too far away. He looked around and there was nothing, nowhere to go, no shade anywhere. He knew he was going to be late for school.
Suddenly it was cool, oh, so very cool. He couldn’t remember how he had gotten there, but he was standing in an ornate room. It didn’t matter. It was good to be out of the sweltering sun. Looking around, he didn’t know where he was. Three-quarter-round couches flanked matching large marble tables, each in a different color. There were at least a dozen of them, every one big enough to seat no less than thirty people. Chalkboards lined the wall above a short stage. This wasn’t the right school.
“Hello. Is there anybody here?”
No one answered. A strange uneasiness began to settle over him. There was a fear here, tangible, like when you wake up in the middle of the night startled, laying stark still, watching for a shadow to move and straining for the slightest sound. He waited for any noise, any movement of whatever was preparing to strike.
It grew from something imperceptible at first then suddenly the danger was too real. He could feel it, taste it and smell it. He just couldn’t see it. It grabbed his stomach and squeezed, making him feel sick, like he had to puke. I’ve got to get out of here!
He opened the door into a stone hallway and looked both ways. It seemed endless, curving off out of sight in both directions. The marble floors glistened. Doorways, paintings and sculptures lined both sides of the hall.
A deep, contemptuous voice burst into his head. “This is where you’ll die.”
Mark didn’t turn to look. He darted to the next room and ducked in. It was another classroom. He looked back out. No one was there.
“You’re going to die here.” The voice boomed from nowhere and everywhere.
Mark jumped. He looked behind himself. No one was there. He backed into the hall. Every inch of hall was decorated in ornate marble, stretching high to the ceiling. The ceiling was decorated with burnished wooden beams that spanned from wall to wall, forming a diamond shaped pattern. Elaborate chandeliers dangled from every intersection.
“You’re going to die here.”
He looked around again. Still, no one was there. He started running. The hall seemed endless. Step after step took him past statues, doors and paintings. Everything looked the same.
He knew the name of the voice. He just couldn’t bring it to the front of his mind. It was an old name, ancient and evil. It was a name that held meaning. He didn’t know how he knew it, but he knew that people used to shake in fear at just the mere mention of this name. What was this name? He just couldn’t form it in his mind. It wasn’t like any of the common names that he had ever heard associated with evil like Lucifer, Satan, or the Devil. It was different. This name itself was power, subtle and deadly. It felt like suddenly realizing that a Copperhead was one step ahead and it was about to strike. What was this name?
Somehow he knew some of the rooms at this school had really bad things in them. Each of those rooms held a terrible death; only you came back to life just so you could die again. He had to stay out of those rooms, but where were they?
The voice said again, “You’re going to die.”
He was still running when he came to a corridor that crossed the one that he was in. Which way should I go? Both ways looked the same and exactly like the one that he was in. Something in him made him want to turn left and run as far as he could. Something else in him made him want to stand and fight. Which was right? How can I fight something that I can’t see?
The voice was everywhere he went. He passed several more corridors before he had the urge to turn left again. This short passage dead-ended into an odd shaped wall. Eight inside corners inset into the end of the passage. All but one corner had protruding stones. He used the stones to climb the wall.
In the darkness of the platform before him he knew that he must face this evil thing whose name he might never know. He looked down and saw a sword in his hand. It felt ever so right. Its long thin blade was sharp on both sides. The handle and hilt were some form of polished metal. It was light, too light for its size. He rested the point on the stone slab that he was standing on. The sword tip slid into the stone effortlessly. He raked it to his side, carving the stone all the way, more than an inch deep, as it went. It took no physical exertion to slash the stone.
“You’re going to die here.”
Mark saw, in his mind’s eye, a sword coursing silently through the black toward him. He raised his sword to block the blow. His assailant’s blade was sliced cleanly in two when it struck Mark’s sword.
Mark’s mind flashed an idea of escape. He jabbed his sword, hilt deep, into the stone floor and sliced a circle around himself. Gravity worked.
Mark fell to the floor below. It was a large room filled with rows of marble tables and chairs. Each row was a different color. Dining booths lined the walls. He picked himself up. Everything still worked.
“You’re going to die here.”
Mark started running again. There was no way to get away from the voice. He desperately wanted to get away from it. Running was the only thing that he could do. His thoughts reminded him of a first grade reading book, Run Mark, run. Running was his only escape.
A different level of consciousness broke over him. He realized that he was kicking the covers off his bed. He forced himself to lie still. Seconds ticked like single drops of rain before the coming storm. Is thi
s real or am I still asleep? He waited. The voice was silent.
Mark slid his robe on over his pajamas. The hardwood floor was unexpectedly cold. He almost expected it to be marble. He found a pair of socks in his old wooden dresser. He looked in the cracked mirror. The dream had been so real. He expected to have a sunburn.
Going downstairs, he paused, looking down the stairs before touching the wooden handrail. He halfway expected it to be lined with pictures and statues.
Military life didn’t afford much in the way of luxuries. Elbowroom was one of those extravagances that was lacking in this house. That was obvious in the combination kitchen-dining room where his family was seated for breakfast.
His family was in their usual morning places. Dad was sitting at the kitchen table, reading the paper; mom was busy in the kitchen, and James was at the table, drinking his usual morning orange juice. He braced his mind for the onslaught of the voice to commence again. It never came.
James, his older and only brother, was both a brother and a bother. James felt that it was his place, and only his place, to insult Mark whenever the chance presented itself. Let someone else try it and there would be strife. James was definitely somebody to be reckoned with. That was the major bother; Mark always felt like the little brother whenever James was around.
“Morning Mom. Morning Dad. Morning James. What’s for breakfast?”
“Baby’s hungry,” said James.
“Shut up!”
Steve, Mark’s dad, didn’t stir from the newspaper. “That’s enough, guys.”
Mark’s mom replied, “Biscuits and scrambled eggs.”
“Okay, sounds good.” Mark looked at his dad. “I had a strange dream last night.”
Steve looked over the newspaper. “Dream?”
“Baby had a scary dream. Poor baby.” James stuck his lower lip out.
Mark gave James a scowl. He knew that James was just trying to get under his skin. Mark almost forgot to use the etiquette that had been pounded into his head over the last almost twelve years. Being the kid of a Marine demanded that the use of terms like ma’am, sir, please and thank you, be steadfast elements of ordinary conversation.
“Yeah… I mean, yes, sir. It was like, so real. You know the kind I mean?”
Steve looked at Mark and nodded. “Yes. The kind where in the dream you think you’re awake but you’re not.” He folded the newspaper in half and laid it on the table.
“Yes sir, that’s the kind.” Mark yawned and rubbed his eyes. “The first part was kind of all right. I was just trying to find my way to school, only I didn’t know the way. I was lost in some kind of a desert only it was weird. It was too hot, even for a desert. It had rocks and junk all over. And… there was this mountain in the distance.” Mark paused here and then finished hurriedly, “I knew I had to go to school, but I couldn’t. I was lost. I didn’t know the way.”
Steve looked at Shirley. They both had a prickle of trepidation. Was this the beginning of the prediction that the hooded man had spoken of, or was it just Mark’s natural apprehension of starting junior high school next year?
Steve pulled a chair out for Mark to sit in.
“Well, let’s see. Being in the desert is kind of a normal dream. Feeling lost is kind of a normal dream too, and dreaming about a mountain up ahead is kind of common. You see a mountain looks big and imposing. It makes you think that you can never cross it. Being lost in the desert with a mountain being the only landmark; that leaves you only one way to go. The way to solve the problem is to go toward the mountain. You cross a mountain one step at a time.”
Mark said, “I think I understand.” Only he didn’t, not really. He knew that the dream had meant much more than just that. The dream had the feel of being important, very important.
“Well now, let’s see if we can tackle the other part of the dream.”
“This part was different, but kind of the same. I was in this school and everywhere that I went there was this big voice. It kept telling me I was going to die. I tried to get away but I couldn’t.”
“Baby was soooo scared.”
Steve looked at James. “Knock it off.”
James frowned. “Yes, sir.”
“Tell me what the school was like.”
“The school was different from any school I’ve ever heard of. It had marble walls and big crystal hanging light things. It felt good to be out of the desert, someplace cool. I don’t know if it was in the mountain from the first part or not. I couldn’t see outside; there weren’t any windows. It had this really long hall with lots of doors and I knew some rooms had really bad things in them. I knew I had to stay out of those rooms. I couldn’t get away from the voice that…” Mark hesitated about saying the voice was in his head, saying instead, “It was everywhere, that voice. It hated me. It kept telling me I was going to die.”
Steve paused for a moment. “It sounds to me like you might be a bit concerned about leaving grade school this year and starting junior high school next year. You don’t know what to expect. Anytime you change from something that is familiar to something that is unfamiliar, well, it’s a little strange feeling, maybe a little scary at times. You did start school a year earlier than most kids. It might be that deep down you’re feeling like you won’t be up to the task. What do you think?”
“Maybe you’re right. I never thought of it like that. Thanks.” Mark knew that his father’s explanation about this dream should have been right, but his inner voice told him that it wasn’t.
Everyone had just about finished breakfast. Steve said, “You guys are running late this morning. Go ahead and get ready for school.”
The dream was still fresh in Mark’s mind when he went to school that day. The school turned out to be the same as it had always been and he was glad that it was. The beige cinderblock walls sported a few bulletin boards and display cases. The terrazzo floor exhibited the same old and worn appearance. The faint musty smell of old paper and the unpleasant smell of copy machines lingered in the hall. Unlike his dream, spring green filled the large windows that still dominated the outside wall of his classroom. This school was nothing like the one in his dream and that reassured him that it really had been only a dream. It felt like finally being home after a really bad day when everything that could go wrong, did.
* * *
Steve and Shirley seized the opportunity to go horseback riding while the boys were in school. Shirley Young was Mark’s mother, twenty-nine on both of her last two birthdays, and she still looked like she was no older than eighteen. Sun-ray colored strands flowed across her shoulders like a magazine model’s, and her gentle azure eyes always reflected a deep felt love of all the wonders of nature. Her smile warmed even the coldest winter day. It had been here, in this very park, that Shirley had discovered her true purpose in life. To her, keeping her family safe and secure was all that really mattered.
Shirley, being raised in Georgia and then moving to North Carolina, had southern charm dripping from her voice. North Carolina had given her the habit of calling everyone honey or hon, something that even after thirteen years of marriage; Steve couldn’t quite get used to.
She held the reins lightly as her horse ambled along the familiar wooded path. The sweet smell of spring pine and daffodils wafted on the morning breeze. It was beginning to look like it would be a perfect day. It had started this same way twelve years ago. Tomorrow would complete the twelve years.
“Honey, can you believe it? Tomorrow Mark will be twelve years old.”
“It seems like yesterday.”
Steve Young was Mark’s father. His square jaw and huge biceps were standard Marine issue, nothing remarkable there. The remarkable thing about Steve was his voice. His voice was a remnant of being raised in Scotland during his formative years. He had never lost that sweet melody even though he spent the latter part of his life in the Southern United States. That southern drawl never did take hold.
Steve was just about to comp
lete his third tour of duty. Events of recent history had kept him deployed for the most part. He loved to spend what little time he had stateside with his family, and he always wanted to make the most of it. To Steve, being a practical, down to earth, get the job done kind of guy was what life was all about.
“Do you think he’ll like his new bike?”
“Yeah, he’ll love it. It’s the best there is.”
Shirley stopped. Steve brought his mount up beside her and his eyes smiled at her.
“While we are on the topic, Mark’s birthday that is, we have never fully discussed what happened here, twelve years ago.”
Steve’s eyes narrowed. “Why do we need to discuss it? What’s to discuss?”
“Steve.” She hesitated. “That horse broke both of your legs. I heard them break. When I woke up, you were healed. What happened?”
“That’s not all that horse did.” He put his hand on his collarbone. “My left collarbone was smashed, broken ribs, too. That horse hit me so hard; I know I had internal injuries.” He remembered the taste of blood gurgling up from his throat. Steve’s training as a Marine had taught him to assess his injuries. That taste definitely meant he was bleeding inside.
“Oh hon! I didn’t know.”
“Here’s the kicker; that horse wasn’t after me. She was hell bent on getting to you.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I tried to get her to come after me. When I moved, she focused on you.”
“So that’s what you were doing. You dove back in front of her to keep her from getting to me.”
“Yeah… Now you know. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” He tapped the horse with the reins to get it going again.
“Why don’t you want to talk about it?”
“I just don’t.”
Shirley started to speak, but Steve stopped and spoke before she could. He knew that she wasn’t going to leave it alone. He turned the horse to face her.
“You know, throughout my life there has never, ever been a situation where I couldn’t act in order to make a difference.”
“But honey, it was you that acted. What you did saved us both.”
“That’s not what I mean. I’ve been shot, blown up, run over, half-drowned, folded, spindled and mutilated and whatever else you can think of! I have always been able to turn the tide! ME! Always, every time… every single time, except this one time. The one time that it meant the most to me to be able to act, I was the one who needed rescuing!” The impact of his fist in his hand let her know how serious he was.
She looked deep into his eyes. “I guess that it has been eating at me too. I mean, there you were on the ground, broken and bleeding, and I was helpless to do anything. I think I kind of know what you are saying.”
“No! You don’t understand… I failed! I tried to save the most precious thing in the world and I failed! Do you understand what that means?”
“Honey, you didn’t fail. Your courage bought us a few precious moments of hope. If it weren’t for that, then it would have been too late for those two guys to help us.”
Steve looked down and shook his head. She didn’t understand. Those two guys being there was just a fluke. It wasn’t something that you could depend on. Being a soldier that could get the job done was something that you could depend on. Failure usually meant the death of what one held dearest. He knew that he needed to change the subject. He calmed his tone.
“While we’re on the topic, there is something else you don’t know.”
“What do you mean?”
“I had come around for a few minutes. Tim, the big one, told me that our son would have to leave home and go to an unusual school.”
“Unusual school? What unusual school?”
“He didn’t say. He did say that it would happen when Mark was twelve.”
“Well, I’ll tell you this; Mark isn’t going to any school that we don’t approve first.”
“We might not have any say in the matter.”
“How can we not have any say? We’re his parents.”
“I don’t know, but he told me that I would know what to do, when I needed to do it.”
“And you believed him? You don’t even know who these guys are!”
“He said they were Magi.”
“Magi? What do you mean, Magi?”
“You saw what they could do.”
“Yeah, but… Magi?”
“Yep, that’s what he said. He also said that I could trust anyone that says ‘The best people are born in stables.’”
“We have heard that a lot.”
“Yep. It’s not your common everyday saying.”
“Coincidence. That’s all it is.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
* * *
After school, the dream had faded from his memory, for the most part. Friday afternoons brought a chore that he didn’t mind so much. His father had assigned this chore in the third grade. “Mrs. Jenkins is an elderly lady. It’s hard for her to get around. I want you to stop by her house every Friday, on the way home from school. You check to see if there is anything that you can do for her. If she offers to give you money, you refuse. Rain or shine, you do this.”
Mark had no idea how old Mrs. Jenkins was. He knew that she lived alone on a small income. He also knew that his dad had been right when he had told him not to charge her for anything. Mrs. Jenkins was a nice lady. He enjoyed helping her. There weren’t too many things that she could do for herself. Today, she was out of bread and milk.
Mark was on the way back from the store when he saw Keith Green and his cohorts standing in the street up ahead. Keith Green always meant trouble for Mark. Keith Green always meant trouble for anyone smaller than he was.
Keith was a year older than Mark and twice Mark’s size. Mark thought that he might stand a chance at winning a fair fight against Keith, but with Keith, it was never fair, and it was always a fight. Keith had been in many fights. Everyone he had started. Everyone he and his buddies had won. Never was Keith anywhere to be found without his buddies.
“Mark, Mark.” Keith was letting him know that he was the next target.
Mark heard one of the cronies say, “Hah! Sounds like a harelip dog. Mark, Mark… Mark, Mark, Mark.”
Mark walked to the other side of the street. Beaufort, a ferocious German Shepherd ran to the fence that kept him in his yard. He always tried to bite anyone who got too close to his chain link fence. Vicious, he would bite at the fence, snarling, barking; twisting his head in fits, trying to rip a hole through the chain links.
Keith and his gang crossed to block Mark’s path. “Hi, Mark. I just want you to meet one of my new friends.” The group surrounded Mark and Keith pointed to the new guy. He turned to see who Keith was pointing out.
Mark only felt the blow that hit his mouth. White flashed in the back of his eyes. He felt his head wrench around from the force of the impact. The bag he was carrying hit the pavement. Anger swelled in him. He thought to return the punch.
“This is Rick. He don’t like tattletales. Neither do I.”
Someone kicked the bag that he had dropped. Milk splattered everywhere. Mark felt a hand push him back. He tripped over someone kneeling behind him and fell over backwards. Hands grabbed him. He felt himself flying through the air. They were throwing him over the fence.
The ground came up and hit him hard. He scrambled to right himself only to find himself looking square into Beaufort’s foamy grin. He didn’t dare move.
Keith’s voice came from behind him. “You said that if you ever saw anyone stealing, that you would tell. You better think that over.”
Keith made sure that Mark understood what this was about. Mark had never told on anyone for anything. That particular situation had never come up. Mark thought to himself, I just said when the teacher asked, “What would you do if you saw someone stealing?” that I would tell. What was I supposed to say? My teacher asked that question in class and Keith isn’t even
in my class. How did he find out?
Mark stayed as still as he could while he and Beaufort eyeballed each other and the bullies strolled off, laughing. He didn’t risk even a swallow. You don’t want to attack me, boy.
Something in Mark’s mind told him that Beaufort wasn’t going to harm him. In fact, somehow he knew that Beaufort wanted to go after the other guys. He was waiting for permission from Mark to do just that. It was a thought and a feeling that had just popped into his head, nowhere near logical, but he knew it, none-the-less.
Mark knew that if Beaufort jumped the fence and bit someone that Beaufort would be in a lot of trouble. Instinctively, tentatively, he reached out and scratched the dog behind the ear. He looked over his shoulder. “That’s okay, boy. They’re gone now.”
That night, before bed, Mark went to James’s room.
“What do you think it all means? I mean my dream.” Mark sat on James’s bed.
“I don’t know. It sure is strange. Dad’s probably right.”
Mark shrugged. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. What’s junior high like?”
“Well… it’s different than grade school. Like instead of being in one class all the time, you get different classes and different teachers and all. There isn’t any recess but there’s gym class. It’s not the same, but it’s pretty cool. The best thing is lunch. If you don’t like what they serve in the main line, you can get into the hamburger and fries line!”
“You’re kidding!” He gave James a friendly push.
“No, for real. They usually have really good stuff in the main line, too.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“Yesterday we had pizza. The day before there was chicken-fried rice. Their meatloaf isn’t that good. Mom’s is better.”
“What’s it like having different classes?”
“At first it was kind of… scary. You know, like in your dream. See, they give you this piece of paper with all of your classes on it with the times and room numbers and everything. I used to dream, sometimes, that I had lost the piece of paper and couldn’t find my way to class, but it was only a dream. It doesn’t take long to remember where all of the classes are. It’s automatic, like waking up and going down stairs. After a while it’s like…” James searched for another word, then shrugged and repeated, “Just automatic.”
Mark pondered for a moment before asking, “What are your classes like?”
“Well, first there’s homeroom. That’s where they take the roll and give announcements. Then I have history with Mr. Taylor. It’s kind of boring. Then there’s Mrs. Hampton in language class. She’s really nice. Then gym class with Coach Trimble.”
James deepened his voice to imitate Coach Trimble. “You’re going to do calisthenics and more calisthenics.”
“Next is lunch. Then comes music with Mrs. Byrd. Her class is okay but I’m not any good at music. Then there’s science with Mr. Gardner. He makes you take a lot of notes. Last is math with Mrs. Peabody. Math is kind of easy with her. She explains everything.”
“It sounds okay.”
“Yeah, it’s okay. You get five minutes between class bells. That’s enough time so that you don’t have to carry all of your books around all of the time. You don’t get a desk to put all of your books in, like in grade school. You get a locker in the hall. You go to your locker between classes and change books and stuff. It’s neat because you get to talk to your friends. It’s not like having to wait until recess. Everybody gets out of class at the same time and goes into the halls to their lockers. It’s different than grade school, but it’s better.”
“It sounds like they don’t treat you like a little kid anymore.”
“Well, they still treat you like a kid but not as much. You get to do more stuff, but they definitely don’t treat you like a grown up.”
“It doesn’t sound scary.”
“It isn’t scary, just different.”
There was a knock on the bedroom door and their mom’s voice sounded muffled. “Young man, you’re supposed to be in your own bed.”
“Yes ma’am.”
Mark got up and started toward the door. He turned toward James. “Thanks.”
James smiled. “You’re welcome, Dweeb.”