Читать книгу Little Red War Gods - Patrick PhD Marcus - Страница 9

Several weeks had passed since the ancient Elders arrived at their church’s sprawling Boston manor.

This has always been a comfortable place, Elder Joseph thought, even when restless soldiers lined every inch of these stone floors. He was almost certain he could remember the corner where he’d slept the night before the battle that had changed his life and the lives of so many brothers. The Elder looked entirely appropriate in the great hall, sitting tall in an austere, high-backed chair at a long, thin table, reading from an enormous cloth-bound book. Heavy tapestries depicting holy soldiers from various campaigns and black drapery covered the floor-to-ceiling windows, hiding a view to the property’s endless gardens.

All morning pleasant classical music was piped through hidden speakers, one concerto after another. It wasn’t until a mournful soliloquy infected the room that Elder Joseph looked up from his studies. Out of respect for the singer, he shifted his bones against the soft cushion, determined to let the long-dead Scottish girl’s song affect him the same way it had centuries before—the only other time he’d heard it. She had performed live at a wake. No instruments accompanied her words that day, as she sang over her only son’s grave on the day she finally let them bury him:

“Tis fine this day without you;

the sun is high and you’ll be gone till dark.

Tired I’d say,

but your feet sound lightly on the stair.

In you bound

past your supper

around and around...”

As Elder Joseph’s grief crystallized, the mother’s sadness gently pulled his wrinkled fingers down his forehead, across his eyes and down his cheeks. He let his hands fall from his chin and land over his heart.

“All is well if sadness and joy are two hands upon your soul.” His voice was weak, a whisper meant only for her to hear.

At the sound of a door opening, Elder Joseph dabbed solemnly at the tears on his cheeks with the white sleeve of his robe. He didn’t look up until the footfalls had stopped before him.

“Holiness,” said the powerful-looking lay apostolate, “I am sorry to interrupt you.” Elder Joseph said nothing, and instead waited for the tower of snow-white skin and thick blonde hair to continue. “You asked to know when Elder Fortunato returned. She comes now.”

Elder Joseph betrayed his nonchalance with the deepening wrinkles on his forehead. “She did not telephone earlier?”

“No, Your Holiness. We’ve had no communication from her since she left earlier in the week. And as you know, she refused to have an escort or communicate with the local parish. If she made it to the desert she made it there alone, and has since operated there alone.” When the man finished speaking, he looked stiffer than when he’d entered.

“Thank you, William,” said Elder Joseph, turning his attention back to his book.

“Holiness? Should I have food brought, drinks at least? She is certainly tired and hungry…” William’s tone had a level of polite insistence.

“Is every man in love with her?” Joseph wondered. “Do not worry yourself in these matters, William, Elder Fortunato is rarely in need.”

William bowed, turned on a heel, and strode out proudly.

Elder Joseph watched him go. “How many years has it been,” he thought, “since Sibella became my charge? Easily more than a hundred have passed, and still she hasn’t learned to control herself.” They hadn’t had a real conversation in nearly a week. Even during their journey to the United States, their conversations were stilted; she hardly spoke the whole way. Elder Joseph knew she was under immense pressure and understood how she felt, though some part of him also feared this new challenge, a truth that kept him from losing his patience with her.

“There will be plenty of time for casual conversation when all has been set to rights and the danger has passed,” he told himself, and quickly turned his attention to more pleasurable prospects. Sipping at his cooling coffee, Elder Joseph nibbled at the last of the chocolate cream-filled cookies. When they were gone, he pushed the white serving plate as far from him as he could. The black crumbs were evidence at any distance.

Elder Joseph listened to buzzing bees through an open window and the faint scurrying of mice in the walls. The sounds made him think of arrow volleys swarming like locusts in so many battles, from the days when fighting other men sword-to-sword had been as natural to him as prayer.

“Sibella must be a hall away,” he thought. His assessment coincided with the click-clack of expensive high-heeled shoes at the top of the nearest corridor.

Elder Joseph turned another page. It fell open easily at the well-worn binding.

“Three, two, one, zero,” he counted.

On “zero,” the shield-shaped door blew open. Elder Fortunato was bristling with energy as she slid her phone into the sleeve of her robes. Her cascading chestnut hair was resplendent around her distinctly Brazilian features. She appeared no older than twenty-five. Few in the world could match the combination of her looks, style, and grace.

“The desert is brilliant this time of year,” she said, stopping to bow low before seating herself, without bidding, at the Master’s right hand. “Though I prefer the Christian greenery of Ireland.”

Elder Joseph took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts against an irrepressible smile. In truth, Sibella could do no wrong. Her fruited perfume drew too deeply into his lungs, and he coughed an awkward “Hello, my dear.” He kissed her proffered forehead.

Sibella adjusted her white robes to reveal less cleavage. Long ago she’d sewn the traditional garment to reflect more of her character. Though the cut differed from the norm, the robe’s adornments matched Elder Joseph’s exactly: black sapphire crosses on both collars, contrasted with thin but thorny strips of blackened metal threaded around the cuffs and hem. The internal adornments laid on a purple lining, however, were quite different indeed. Sibella crossed her legs and sat up straight, her eyes tracing the circle of the empty cookie plate. “Nothing for me?” she asked, the implied disappointment never actually registering in her voice.

“There is always something for you, just not those cookies. If it is any consolation, there were only a few.”

“Twice a few, I should imagine.”

Elder Joseph chuckled halfheartedly. “I do not wish to rush my daughter, but we are pressed with business from all quarters so I will get right to the point. What news of the twins?” His face had become a mirror of his confessional mask, at once inviting and stern.

“The news from the Navajo reservation is good.” Sibella drew a dramatically deep breath. “It isn’t what we expected, but we continue to have opportunities to serve our Lord’s interests.”

Elder Joseph said nothing, accustomed to Sibella’s need to sugarcoat even the worst news.

Sibella’s left index finger rolled over the barbs on her cuffs, a drop of fresh blood spreading itself across each barbs peak like new snow. “The second and third fronts of this simple task have changed.” Sibella paused for reaction then continued. “On the second front, that of the Navajo people, one of the Indians we’ve been following is on the verge of something I have yet to define. His spiritual power is growing exponentially. It has been a long time since I’ve seen an Indian with such an impressive connection to the Other Side – not since the Conquering, if I am correct. In some respects, his strength stands to reason. He is the son of a man whom you yourself sacrificed when his knowledge of us grew too deep. It is Nastas, son of the last Navajo to walk in both worlds, Ahiga. The moment I entered the desert, my heart saw his new power, big and bold, capable of leading his people.”

“I remember Ahiga. He fought bravely. I thought his hogan would come down around our ears, so violent was our battle. Had not one of the disciples slain him, perhaps it would have,” said Elder Joseph, his reflections respectful. “What a pity.”

Sibella nodded. “Although I had not decided if I should deal with him in the way you dealt with his father, I knew I must test him.”

“A test?”

“I called to Nastas, who was at the end of a long journey. I used the voice of Black Rock as a Siren, the same voice you so brilliantly used during the Conquering. I drew him to it as you drew the animal spirits of the Navajo. When he arrived I did not imprison him; as you know, the portal door to their underworld remains closed and locked from both sides—even to us.

A torrential storm blew out of nowhere, consuming two young Christian souls in a flashflood that swept over Black Rock itself. “In I sent Nastas. He saved the girl when I would have expected all three of them to die. She was badly injured, but he delivered her to shore and rode many miles to people who could help her. During the rescue, Nastas was gravely injured, but he should survive the trial. He rests now, on the brink of death after fleeing the rescuers who took Beck—I mean...the girl from him. I do not know what has become of Nastas.” Sibella cursed herself for her slip. She reached for Elder Joseph’s coffee and drank until the mug was empty. Lying always made her thirsty.

“You are right to be concerned about this Indian,” said the Elder. “There is little doubt that for Nastas to survive such treacherous waters, he must have been aided. Perhaps his father has found a way back to this world? Though his heart lacked the will to lead his people, he never lacked the strength to cause destruction. I should not want to see Ahiga back amongst the living.”

Ahiga had done much to upset the goals of the Christian church on the reservation. He’d been the only one to discover the horrifying truth of the Conquering.

“How is the girl?”

“Oh. She’s fine…I guess. In the hospital.”

“I will say a prayer for her,” said Elder Joseph, bowing his head before getting back to the business at hand. “What of the third front? Archer.”

“The third front has spun in a new direction as well.”

“How new?” asked Elder Joseph, crossing his arms. He’d had never fully supported Sibella’s belief that the twins could be controlled.

“As you know, we are in the year prophesized by our Lord God as the Year of Conversion, the year the twins are to come to power as the Little War Gods. That is, of course, if they come to power at all. The prophecy is unclear regarding the necessary conditions for their ascension.”

Elder Joseph was well aware of the prophesy. “You know how I feel, daughter. The prophecy’s vagaries are reason enough I should have killed the twins when the Baptism failed.” Elder Joseph still looked kind, considering his murderous words. The day the twins were born, Elder Joseph had personally undertaken the task of baptizing them. He’d failed, and only succeeded in baptizing Archer before being discovered by the boys’ father.

Sibella’s nervous fingers accidently turned one of the crosses at her collar upside down. “Killing them was an option,” she said, “but staying your hand was the right choice. Baptism only ever served to open the door for the twins to embrace our God. Baptism never guaranteed the twins would come to power and use their gift as the Little War Gods to benefit our goals. Only I can influence them to this end.”

Elder Joseph had no intention of rehashing this topic for the hundredth time, even if factors of import were changing. He was convinced Sibella’s goal of using the twins’ power to grow Christianity was honorable, and he didn’t want to hurt Sibella’s ambition by terminating the project—essentially, terminating the twins. “The prophesy clearly stated that if the twins were not Baptized, their power could be used against our interests in the Navajo lands.” Elder Joseph spoke matter-of-factly, his way of making his point and signaling he wasn’t going to fight her. “Now tell me what has happened to Archer.”

“Archer has come under attack.” Sibella’s voice grew huskier with each word. “I have seen it.”

Elder Joseph squinted through his skepticism. “I do not believe it.”

“Father, I only report what I have seen. He was attacked.” Before Sibella continued, Elder Joseph interrupted.

“Tell me how.”

A picture of Alvin and Archer at the Boar’s Head pub flashed to the forefront of Sibella’s mind. “Someone has weakened him with poisonous nightmares. I stood at his hand, just last night in Dublin, and I could feel his pain. I sense at this very moment that I must return to him, that his weakened condition has left him vulnerable to more serious attacks.”

Elder Joseph spoke slowly as he tried to riddle out an explanation for what he’d just heard. “Unexpected tidings. Is it possible one of the church’s own would move against our wishes?”

The question shook Sibella. “I do not think our faithful are mixed up in it, though I admit there can be darkness even in the hearts of angels.” Sibella had been wresting with the question of church involvement for hours. In a way that terrified her, she actually did think it was possible. But the last thing in the world she wanted was for Elder Joseph to raise a formal internal inquiry.

“That only leaves the Indians. Tell me, daughter, if a Navajo knows of the twins, why would he seek to kill them when the legend tells of their role as monster killers in the defense of their own people?”

“Perhaps Keane sees the weakening of his brother as a way to draw his power?” Sibella glowed from her own revelation. “A spiritually bereft Archer might be as vulnerable to the false gods of the Navajo as Keane himself was.”

“Does Keane love his brother enough to have such an interest is his faith?”

“I cannot say. I will speed up my relationship with Archer. When he loves me and loves our God, I will know what is in his heart. So supported, Archer will never respond to his brother even if they are at the same fire in the same sweat lodge and a dozen blue eyed spirits support them.”

Elder Joseph’s pensiveness hardened. He did not share her optimism. “I trust you will protect Archer until we know more. Now tell me, what of the first front? What news Keane?”

“Keane’s unique ability to grow extraordinary gardens in the desert has not changed. I have sampled the berries and still can’t find an equal. You should see the lemon trees.”

“Is that what’s new?”

Sibella shrugged. “There are even more fresh water springs. His lands are blessed that way. Perhaps there is more than luck here. Perhaps water, the giver of life, is a sign of Keane’s growing power?”

“We have spoken of his land’s prolific water as well; many times.” Elder Joseph looked pensive. “Tell me. What is new regarding Keane’s relationship with the Navajo Governing Council? Keane will need the ongoing help of his adoptive people.”

Sibella shook her head in agreement. “Did I tell you Keane is now an honorary member of the council? He is King of the Corn and Pollen.”

“I would discount this honor as much as I would discount First Communion.” Elder Joseph was not impressed by Sibella’s lack of respect.

Talking was beginning to make her thirsty again. “I apologize. I meant no disrespect. I was just trying to say, in my own way, that Keane’s options are limited by the Navajo political landscape. Keane is the twentieth vote in a council of nineteen. Their charter would not allow for him to be a permanent member. He is there in honor alone, his only influence to even this end, healing several of the council’s children.”

Elder Joseph said nothing, so Sibella went for her big close, “When Archer is converted to Christianity, Keane will feel his power fade. It is then that the twins should be brought together. Instead of Keane converting Archer, the most likely catalyst for their emergence as the Little Red War Gods, Archer will convert Keane. And maybe, if it is not too much to hope, they will scour the world of our enemies as the Little Christian War Gods.”

“I have faith in you,” said Elder Joseph.

“And I have faith in you,” said Elder Fortunato.

They talked until Elder Joseph finally nodded off, his features peacefully bathed in a pool of red tinged orange from the setting sun.

Sibella was frustrated she’d heard nothing from her Navajo informant regarding Keane’s invitation to appear at the unexpected private Council meeting. It was clear she would have to wait until the meeting was over before she would know the outcome. She wondered how much Elder Joseph actually knew or suspected. It made her nervous to hold back information. It usually led to no good.

Sibella was sitting alone in the hall, sipping a cup of hot tea, too upset to eat the plate of fresh fruit she’d requested. Elder Joseph was supposed to have joined her before she traveled back to Ireland, but had excused himself to what he said was “important church business.”

Her teacup empty, Sibella sat sullenly for some time.

The white marble floor spread beneath her was free of dust and streaks, and entered the surrounding gardens as long, thin fingers, paths curling among brilliant sunflowers and rare Blue Moon orchids growing casually as grass. Flocks of bumblebees, some so large as to be mistaken for hummingbirds, banked this way and that, laboring through the thick air, comfortable in the clouds of pollen. The serenity of the house was unexpectedly broken by the ring of an old-fashioned rotary phone sitting atop a small table at Sibella’s hand. She gave the phone an appraising look then picked up the receiver.

“Hello,” she said, her voice calm and steady.

For the next minute Sibella said nothing, her face stoic as she listened to the caller, trying not to miss a word, trying to maintain her demeanor. The conversation over, she heard the click of her informant’s goodbye. Still, she didn’t move. With the receiver pressed to her ear, the hum from the phone’s dial tone caused her eyes to narrow with annoyance; finally she jammed the receiver home, the phone vibrating in protest.

Rising to her feet, her short frame stiff as an exclamation point, Sibella brushed at the hem of her jacket and straightened her skirt, pushing at the wrinkles. All three of the buttons on her blazer were fastened, since she wore nothing beneath. What the fabric hid seemed perfect: the right shape, the right tan, an invitation to any but the most pious.

It is time, she thought, exiting the great hall.

Halfway down the passageway, Sibella stopped to smooth out the hem of her jacket again, aligning it with the huge, sparkling buckle of her belt. The act calmed her.

“Perfect.”

She bent and unfastened the straps of her shoes, slipping her bare feet to the floor. Her brown soles blended with the rich tones of the stone.

“We will see just whose blood merges with whose in the end—we will see.” She spoke the words aloud as a warrior might, bravely and certain of her pending victory. Like few before her, it was in Sibella’s nature to go to unabashed lengths in the name of the Lord. She pushed open the door to the outside world. Her senses dulled as the damp, fresh air swallowed her. Grinning, she stepped through the threshold, her bare feet making not a sound. She felt a thrill when the blue bridge appeared as it always did. And then she was gone.