The First Age

The quiet pressed in on him, all the more heavy and palpable by the brief sound of Patricus' voice. Armande felt as if a bubble had descended around him, pressing the quiet deep into his soul. He felt light headed, his mind seeming to float and flitter like an untethered kite in the wind.

He looked around, the truth of Patricus' words washing over him. Between the trees and undulating land, the pillar- and there was no doubt in his mind there was one. The object the Holy Father held in his hands was proof this was not a foolish empty chase- could be anywhere.

A ground scanner might find it, given enough time. Aerial search might help too. And yet the thought of a crew out here- other men and women roaming the ground or the air darkened by swarms of drones sickened him. Defilement, he thought. Despite the dead bodies that littered the landscape, this place was sacred. They four had been called. They four would have to find it.

With their sight, however limited.

But it was not for nothing that the two women who stood by his side were called Eyes. Two eyes, one of born from darkness and passion, of earth, a chthonic goddess, the other ethereally wreathed in light and wind, twin of the sun, looked out, their vision piercing the veil of Maya to the pure truth underneath, Brahman.

The kite of his thoughts stiffened, an iron cord having snapped onto it, and it held still in the center of the sky, and the heaviness that hung over him enveloped him and he sputtered and coughed through the darkened blanket until he felt the cool sweet air and once again he was in a garden, redolent with the scent of flowers and grass and the color green itself, life pulsating with the chittering of crickets and bugs and breeze.

He was not alone. Vale, Rowan and Patricus stood with him, encircling a large pillar. He felt pulled along by the vision, a taut band of energy from Rowan on his right and Valeriya across from him on the other side of the pillar. He felt the energy seem to gather around them, the Eyes as focal points. Light flashed in the distance and the pilar responded, ancient script lighting up briefly to glow on the pillar. And then, on his left, from Patricus, he felt a swelling as lighting flashed from the black clouds in a midnight sky, to strike the pillar, pumping it full of energy until, pregnant with power and potential, it exploded and shattered, leaving only the face before the Holy Father standing.

The aftermath of the explosion left a pulsing in the air, the mirror image of Patricus carved of bronze now standing along.

Armande understood. Patricus had the Key of Cunning.

The bubble snapped and suddenly they were in the clearing. Rowan spoke and he found himself turning in the direction indicated. "West..." The vision had been strong, so much sow he could still taste the ozone from the strike in his nostrils. A smile touched the corners of his mouth. The Eyes had seen.

He looked at Valeriya and Rowan, for a moment, and then nodded. It was enough. He glanced at Patricus as he began wallking. "The Eye has spoken. We must go west."

Fate- kismet, the pattern itself- had indicated where to go. They had a mission. That was all that mattered.

The vision washed over Patricus like a wave smothering him of air. While a column rose unnaturally before his beaming blue eyes, he fought its acceptance with a mind splintered from reality. While the others wrestled with meaning of what they saw, Patricus wrestled with its source.

He knew in his soul that the sight was of mystic origin but he doubted the purity of its source. The two women in Armande’s company were not blessed saints touched by the divine. Could something unpure be the conduit of such a significant sight? He knew the answer. He knew man was flawed and that even the worst were potential vessels of truth, but he was wrapped up in this himself. So many layers of truth and doubt intertwined within him. That left the vision itself as the final answer. Were these dreams of his, these stimuli of the women, the column itself in alignment with holy truth? Or were they pulling him astray?

The end of it left him staring into a sculpture of his own face. A relief of gleaming bronze, frozen of all animation, lifeless and eternal, and then the spell released. He gasped for air as if the seconds deprived of oxygen had been eons longer. The vision was gone and he refused to let the shivers taking his spine transform into visible shakes like a feeble, old man. His jaw was tight as the tension streaking every muscle rigid. His will was formidable, and he refused to let the others see him as anything but the robe and ring.

Westward his gaze turned even as his grip upon the key tightened knuckles white. He was dirtied. His robe marred with splatter, but undeterred, he took his first steps as if walking on glass. Every step was agony, but the body endured worse.

He was trapped with these three. His escape dependent on them. It disturbed him to think he was leaving something of himself behind in this arid place. He looked back upon the sight where the pilot fell. There would be no final commendation for him, no internment, no committal. In Baltimore, as a priest, Philip presided over many funerals. The words were writ on his heart to this day, though it had been a long time since he led the final rites. Today, the Pope’s blessing stayed with a man who fell in defense of the holy father. None would know. As it should be. 

He offered the sign of the cross and lifted his gaze skyward. Even as the howls of more beasts rose like the hymns of darkness in the distance, he offered a final prayer.
“You gave him life. Receive him now in peace and give him, through our Lord, a joyful resurrection. Have mercy on us, Lord. At the moment of death and on the last day, save us, merciful and gracious Lord.”

More words followed. Somehow, the song of the beasts fell quieter the longer he spoke, until it was as if a sleep fell upon their evil that let the four companions escape.

He walked easier then, though no less in pain, into the west. Red hat shading his face scarlet, quiet for some time.

Continued at...

The Great Hunt (Oslo, Norway)