Calliope, page 17
part #2 of Divinity Series
He paused and took a long drink. “Geneveeve was everything to her family anyway. And I think they were much more important to her than we ever were as a couple. I always tried to get away from mine; she clung to her’s like glue. She was more married to them than she ever was to me. That’s the one spot in my favor, I think. Yes, I think they’re glad the serpent is away. And I’m sure many of them don’t share the most adamant condolences. The dream did not preserve itself to the faithful. It was a haunted world made ugly by stars and shadow. I tore that world apart, buried it beneath my own two hands. I never wanted it to see the light of day. Blood was a cleansing corruption, and madness made itself pure. I gave all. And sacrificed all. I cherished dreams like no one else. I wanted to live and breathe. I wanted to bathe in golden light.”
Mason was silent for a while, unsure how to continue. He turned to Sulm, who proffered the pipe, and Mason took a deep hit. “I was never prepared for that existence,” he told Sulm, looking out over the dark waves crashing against the ship as they moved through the water. “It got away from me, made me realize how much I didn’t belong. The fate of Earth could be told without me,” he said. “The goddamn automobiles, the reflections on a hot summer day, the apparent oblivious righteousness that came from everyone I knew. God, it was like curdled milk sitting in your stomach, garbage on television, limpid imagination. Greed, corruption, selfishness. Mine, too, was dying. Perhaps it is dead already. Lifelessness lies in my hands. See, they are pale and cold. I shudder to think what hell and horror await me still. My tears have never been real. They have no merit. My sorrow has always been false.”
Mason held out his hands. They were sickeningly pale. And they were icy. His touch was frozen. A part of the old world was reaching out to claim him again.
“Apparently not,” Sulm told him, suddenly breaking the spell. “The fate of at least two worlds lies in the hands of the Drifter. What do you make of it? How do you begin to battle, to prepare for exultation? The tide moves in swiftly. There is nowhere else to go. That path lies before us, untread, unwanted. How begins you toward the path of Malon and his destruction? How do you prepare for war, Mason Loveless?”
~
The night grew colder on deck, and the men made their way below to the galley. Here, they sat around a small table and ate a late meal of shrimp, sea bass, and lobster. It was delicious. The boat rocked and swayed along the rolling sea. A lantern hung from a nail, shedding a soft, yellow light. They passed around a pipe and drank ale throughout the night, getting better acquainted with one another, talking of the marauders and the beasts of Mandripore. None of them had a clue as to how to defeat Malon and his hordes.
Mason pulled the cumbersome box from his cloak and set it on the table. All of them studied it, not taking their eyes from the ash-covered object.
“‘Tis not a likable looking sort of thing,” Sulm said.
“It must be destroyed,” Gallus instructed.
Surprising everyone, Mason reached out and opened the box. Lucius hurried to stay his hand, but he wasn’t fast enough. The lantern in the galley dimmed immediately, and a suffocating dark emanated from the box with a howl of pain. Khayman stood up, knocking his chair onto the floor. A shadowy monstrosity rose from the depths of the box and looked at each of them with diabolical eyes. Claws reached out from long gangly arms. A tremble made the boat shake. The creature howled again. A black mouth opened wide, revealing a deeper dark and blacker teeth. A long, bony hand reached out and swiped at Mason’s face, knocking the Drifter to the floor. Blood spilled, warming his cheek. Stars appeared, visible in a strange mist, smoke gathering and swirling, making it difficult to see.
“Close it!” Gallus said, brows furrowed in anger.
Eric reached out and slammed the lid shut. The entity-like shadow was sucked back into the confines of the silver box. The room maintained its previous glow. The light returned to normal. Mason stood up, holding a hand to his bloody face.
“Pierce it,” Sulm said. “Drive your sword through the top of it, Drifter.”
“I don’t think it’s that easy,” Mason said.
“Then I will do it,” Sulm said, unsheathing his axe.
Gallus quickly put a hand on the Viking’s arm. “I would wait,” he said. “The results could be catastrophic.”
“I am not afraid of this thing,” Sulm said. “It is nothing more than a piece of tin. Let us be rid of it now and forever.”
“Stay your hand,” Lucius told him. “We will bury it when we see fit.”
“Put it away, Mason,” Gallus said. “This thing is too dangerous to be in plain sight.”
Mason grabbed the box, felt his arm turn black, and put it under his cloak.
“We should get some sleep,” Gallus said. “Mandripore is a long way from here. This should wait ‘til the light of day.”
Still, no one moved. They looked at Mason as if he were a leper, doubt visible in their eyes.
~
The morning was still dark and cloudy with leaden skies, the waters steely and cold. The wind was sharp and rough against Mason’s face as he stood on deck.
“I’ve had enough of this nightmare,” he said to himself. “Let’s put an end to this madness. Malon has slaughtered his last.”
They should’ve been driving toward the rising sun, but in the distance, the sky looked even darker and bloodier than just moments before. Another sudden night enveloped the horizon to the east.
You have to go away again. And when you do, it’ll be for the last time. It’s sooner than you think. At home, you’re about to die. So, begin fresh. Lift your face to this strange sky. And understand . . . there is more to life than your world. It no longer exists. Calliope is your home now.
The voice came from somewhere else. Mason wondered if it wasn’t the voice of one of the Golden Knights, ghosts from the past reaching out to him. He wouldn’t allow the worst to take control. Until the end of his days, something brighter and more beautiful was within reach. The understanding of two worlds, his position, and his role was secret. He knew, in some aspects, what he had to do: wait for the perfect moment and seize it.
“Malon knows about us,” he said to himself. “He knows we’re coming. That’s him on the horizon. He’ll capsize the ship and make the waters boil. We’ll drown in the sea.”
Looking over the rail of the ship, blood, indeed, gathered on the horizon. He could smell it, boiling lava and flame rolling across the sea.
In the distance, a massive, hulking thing emerged from the water, like a mammoth of the sea, and disappeared again.
~
“My God!” Eric said, coming to stand beside him. The others followed. They were all here now, next to Mason, at the bow of the ship. “What the hell is it?”
“Malon himself,” Mason said. “He knows.”
The seas grew angry, tumultuous. Large sprays of ocean water doused the deck of The Lorielle.
“There is no way to hold him off!” Sulm said, with fright in his eyes.
The seas did their best to claim the ship and those upon it. If a battle presented itself, it was unfolding before them now.
Lightning flashed across the sky, a purple electric current tearing a hole in the clouds. Thunder boomed, making everyone cower. Cold rain, a deluge, poured down and soaked every shipmate of The Lorielle. Again, closer this time, the hump in the ocean emerged, some beast cutting through the waters fifty yards from the hull of the ship.
“God in heaven,” Khayman said, softly.
The beginning of the fight had caught them unawares. They hadn’t prepared themselves for Malon, and perhaps that was the Black God’s strategy.
“We can’t outrun him!” Sulm shouted through the wind and the rain.
Again, the creature’s massive hump was visible. It moved closer to the ship, black, shiny integument, like a sea dragon.
That is no sea dragon, Mason thought. It’s bigger, much worse than any sea dragon could possibly be.
The sea was virtually black, boiling with fury now. Wind blew in torrential gusts, drowning the shouts of the men on The Lorielle, along with the noisome downpour. Waves of fire suddenly appeared on the horizon, rolling toward them in a towering squall. The Lorielle continued straight toward it.
Water splashed the deck. Mason was saturated, pushed back by a wall of seawater. He looked to the side and noticed Gallus with an intense expression on his face. The man held tightly to the rail, eyes fixed on the beast in the water. The wind lashed at his hair and cloak. Gallus turned to Mason, and their eyes locked. The tall, dark man smiled and nodded a single time. Were they sharing the same thoughts? It was hard to tell. But suddenly, Mason knew what they were fighting against, and knew what he had to do.
The beast emerged again from the water, its smooth, shimmering back splitting the surface. Mason pulled the talisman from his cloak and held it in his hand. Gallus nodded a single time again, barely perceptible. The man’s eyes were not the piercing, depthless black he remembered. They were made of gold.
Who are you?—Mason wanted to ask, holding tightly to the rail.
The wall of flame rushed toward the boat. In seconds, The Lorielle would be engulfed in fire. The sea was a swirling, boiling whirlpool.
With all of his might, Mason heaved the box into the air.
Eric looked at Mason, suddenly horrified, his face instantly pale, eyes wide. This wasn’t how it was supposed to end, that look said. They hadn’t even reached the shores of Mandripore!
Together, they watched the box sail above the sea. Mason looked at Gallus and noticed the tall figure studying the silver box as it moved out over the water.
The beast rose from the ocean—a nightmare creation, a physical manifestation of Malon himself. It was the size of a skyscraper. Its mouth—larger than the ship, black teeth glistening in red ocean water—clamped down, swallowing the silver box. In the next instant, the beast plunged into the depths of the ocean, sending sprays of water in all directions. Under the force, The Lorielle shook and trembled, threatening to capsize.
A tempest emerged, a vortex of wind, rain, and seawater. The Lorielle shook with destructive violence! A deafening roar split the air! The wall of flame found The Lorielle and swam over the bulwarks, mastheads, and deck, engulfing the vessel and all of its passengers. In seconds, everything turned to darkness. The ship capsized into the sea, and the whirlpool sucked them down.
Mason felt something tug at his ankles, and the whirlpool sucked him under. The ship disintegrated. Boards cracked and split. Shards of wood exploded.
The Lorielle had sailed its last voyage and sank into the Northeastern Sea.
CHAPTER X
Flames seared his skin. He couldn’t escape. He thrashed in suffocating blankets, making it impossible to breathe. The side of his face stung. He reached up and felt blood on his cheek.
Oh, God, why couldn’t he stop drinking? Why had he done this to himself?
He was pasty, sickly, and sweating! His bones were heavy and weak. The blood moving through him seemed to carry poison. His mouth was dry, a thick trail of filth. The light from the window pained his eyes. What time was it? The compression in his head felt like cracked dinner plates between his ears. He rolled over onto the floor and threw up. God, did he have to come back? Were his friends drowning in some distant sea in Calliope?
And where was Malon?
When Mason opened his eyes, he was still drunk. He couldn’t see straight. His heart beat slower than usual, or was it faster, his blood pressure rising? His heart was about to burst from the excessive intake of alcohol.
Getting onto his hands and knees took all of his strength. Massive jaws and teeth reached down from the ceiling and bit him in half, it seemed.
This is the end. This is the finality of all good things. There is nothing left.
Mason shook his head, but it only made his headache worse. He had been on the verge of death, subconscious suicide. He’d been drinking until death finally came to claim him until his heart gave out. He was only minutes, perhaps seconds away . . .
When he looked up toward the coffee table, he saw he had a third of the bottle left. The glass was still warm and full beside it. Looking at it made him want to throw up again.
But he noticed something else . . .
The heart of Malon, the silver talisman he had thrown into the Northeastern Sea, was right in front of him. For a second, his headache lessened. It surprised him to see the silver box, and for the briefest instant, he forgot how close he was to death.
A whisper echoed through his brain, the sound of wind-lashed rain. A cool breeze touched his mind, granting him strength for the moment, and his sickness passed.
Destroy it. Destroy it now while he’s far away. Pierce this metal. Banish it forever.
He didn’t know what this meant, but time unraveled quickly. The seconds were vital, like the ticking of a clock.
Darkness swam outside of him. He hadn’t awakened to a lightened world as he’d thought, not for reasons he understood. Malon was here as well—in his world. The Black God manipulated both at the same time. The ocean was not confined to the Northeastern Sea of Calliope’s waters. It had entered his world now. Malon was outside the window, waiting to destroy him, the Drifter, for the final time.
Marauders clawed at the house, ripping the floorboards apart. They entered his home one by one. They crawled up the basement steps. Windows shattered. Heat and flame scorched Mason’s flesh. He was sweating profusely!
Mason looked at the box. Suddenly, in his cloudy, drunken haze, he wondered where he’d put the weapons he’d bought at Medieval Arts. In the living room closet?
He stood up, putting a hand to his head. He was dizzy, felt as if he’d been away for centuries. He couldn’t remember where the study was, the bedroom. The entire house seemed alien to him. Was he married still, or was the divorce final? This wasn’t his home. It wasn’t his world. He’d never belonged here. He’d been born in the wrong place and time.
Calliope would be, and always had been his home.
Mason grabbed the knob to the living room closet and pulled it open. Coats and shirts, winter clothes had disappeared. A blinding, golden light made him wince, adding to the pain in his head, and he winced, taking a step back. Flames towered in the closet. His clothes, the supplies he’d bought, were all on fire!
But it wasn’t fire. It was one of the Seven Golden Knights. The figure stood in the closet, not as a constellation, a fairytale told by kings, or a giant amid the stars. The knight was the same height as Mason, a silent sentinel enamored in golden casement, holding a sword close to its chest, pointing downwards. The Golden Knight extended its arms and held it out to Mason. It nodded a single time.
Windows shattered and exploded throughout the house! A hot, torrential wind blew, throwing shards of glass and wood in all directions. Demons wailed in defiant rage. They filled the house! Dozens of them stormed through the doors, climbed over and through broken windows. Malon’s marauders were on the loose. Walls fell inward, collapsing all around him. The floor split at his feet. Roaring flames filled and licked his ears. One of the demons grabbed his ankle, and Mason took the golden sword and swung it downward, severing the hand that clutched his foot.
Forgetting about the Golden Knight, Mason turned, sword in hand, and headed back into the living room, the silver box sitting on the coffee table.
His foot slipped through part of the burning floor. His ankle snapped, broken, and he cried out in pain! Wincing, with tears of heat and pain in his eyes, Mason limped closer to the silver box.
Flames roared across the windows! Chunks of smoking plaster fell from the ceiling! The house was caving in on itself! The floor he was standing on cracked and buckled, and he fell over, losing his balance. Sweat dripped and stung his eyes, blinding him.
Mason got to his knees. He held the sword above the box with both hands. Frantic, wavering tentacles of black smoke issued from under the lid. Garbled, lunatic voices filled the air!
Mason plunged the sword into the silver box, penetrating the lid. Voices cried out in pain and defiance! The sound brought the roof down around him, the last sections of the house finally collapsing inward.
He saw Gallus in his mind, serene, yet serious, nodding in his direction, confirming what he had to do. His existence had turned to shadow. Demons wailed, dying at his feet.
Where he’d penetrated the box, a cylinder of blackness ascended, bursting a hole through the roof of the house.
The floor caved in underneath him, and Mason fell into the basement, hitting the ground, and breaking his legs. Flaming boards fell on top of him. He tried to shield himself with his arms and the sword, but the weight was too much to bear.
In the next instant, the entire house exploded, sending wood and stone across the entire neighborhood in all directions.
~
Eric Reese drove down Main Street when he saw the smoke. Sirens wailed, and fire engines roared, heading toward the north end of town. He pulled over to let them pass.
He knew. He wasn’t actually driving the Chevy down Main Street at the moment. This was only a semblance of his old self, not the real Eric Reese. He was in some distant sea clinging to a piece of driftwood, trying not to drown. This—what was happening now—was the most vital thing happening in his life, yet the most make-believe at the same time. He wasn’t thinking about Laura Gardner at all.
Their life together was already a thing of the past.
When he pulled onto his cousin’s block, red and blue lights flashed along the street. Firemen in bright yellow uniforms ran around, dousing the flames with water. Police cruisers and ambulances lined the block. A gold Camry pulled up and parked nearby.
