A Path of Oak and Ash (4 page)

“Where there was one, there will be others.  We must move quickly.”  Erik pushed the ground floor button on the elevator. “You must shift now, before the doors open.  It is imperative.”

“What? But...”  His mind was reeling, deadlines had never been in his favor.  Under pressure, he was known to crack.  The two minute warning on standardized tests rattled his ability to fill in the little circles with anything but a line of 'C' answers.

“Now.  Or we will likely be dead,” Erik’s voice dropped an octave, “before we get out the front door.”  Now at six foot seven inches tall, he filled the elevator.  His eyes a deep mahogany that paralleled his skin.  His suit, once torn blood stained and grey, was now pure white with a black tie.

With the metallic tang of the elevator counting down the floors from thirty to one, a slow methodical sound that would have been innocuous in most cases.  Although at the moment if felt like the clock of a bomb.

Taking a deep breath Carrick closed his eyes, focusing simply on the expansion of his chest from air flowing into his body.  In his mind he pictured the star of the last movie he had seen, the spy flick with Matt.  The tall dark haired man with piercing eyes, perfect features and a fancy suit.  The heavy British accent, the presumed scent of Drakkar cologne.  He felt warm for a moment, reminded him of when he was a small child and his mother would wrap in a hot towel fresh from the dryer after a bath.  The sensation made him momentarily homesick, the headline of that terrible paper flashing in his mind.

Carrick was brought back to his surroundings by the slight weight change of the elevator stopping, the cheerful chime thanking them for their patronage while regrettably ordering their departure. 

In the posh lobby, all eyes were on him and his uncle.  Businessmen by the check in desk murmured, pointing in their direction.  There were a few soft gasps, a pair of girls in pencil skirts and sling-back heels pulled cell phones out of their purses.  His uncle paid them no mind, walking confidently to the exit.  Carrick had to walk quickly to match his elongated pace.  A lick of terror touched his heart as the girls pointed their phones at him.  The flash of the camera almost made him jump as the duo strolled beneath the large crystal chandelier that dangled over the lobby.  That was it.  He was a front page story now being tweeted, posted, pinned and god knows what else.  It would only be a minute before the police had them surrounded, cuffed and doing twenty five in federal.

Three feet from the revolving door that marked the exit, Carrick realized it was not because he was a wanted man.  His reflection in the glass was not a boy with messy brown hair and ripped jeans.  Staring back at him was a man of six five, broad shouldered and sculpted from his features to his clothes.  He was the star from the movie, in the flesh.

“You could have picked something less conspicuous nephew.”  Erik mumbled to him, his eyes forward.

“Look who’s talking Mr. Ebony Adonis.  You look like a NBA star.”

Erik let out a low chuckle, his deep bass voice rumbling like a feral beast.  Flashing a straight set of white teeth he smiled at a young woman who had just walked into the lobby, her cheeks flushing from his recognition, hand immediately going to smooth out her hair in an attempt to hold his attention.

Outside between the towering concrete giants the streets were busy, taxis flowed in a sea of yellow, the sidewalks bustling with pedestrians.  A series of limos and cabs awaited in the street to pick up hotel patrons. 

There were two vehicles that seemed out of place down a half block.  A pair of black Escalades with their daytime running lights on.    Standing against the passenger door of the closest vehicle was a man in a black suit, his legs crossed at the ankle. In his hands he was holding a smartphone, casually scrolling through whatever was on the screen, face hidden under aviator sunglasses.   Casual, inconspicuous and all together terrifying.  It was the same type of men who held him in that dingy vacant apartment.

“Follow me, keep your eyes forward.”  Erik murmured, his lips barely moving.

The driver of the third yellow taxi waiting in line outside the lobby doors was clearly not expecting his passengers to be in a rush.  When Carrick and his uncle piled in the back he turned around lazily.  Hooded eyes lined with thick dark circles indicating a lack of sleep.

“Bags?”  He seemed surprised they carried no luggage, his eyebrows popping inquisitively.

“No. JFK International Airport please.  Quickly.  We have a flight to catch.”  To the left of the taxi Carrick saw one of those black suits walk by, his cell phone to his ear a frown on his face.

“Hey don’t I know you from somewhere?”  The driver squinted in his rear view mirror at Carrick.

“He gets that all the time.”  Erik tried to dismiss the question.

“You’re one of them celebrities aren’ ya?  I’ve had a few of them in my cab, remember that fella from the big space movie last year?  He was out drinkin’ a bit too late and wanted a ride to some after party with couple o'blonds, well I happened to be-”

“Drive.  Please.”  Erik cut him off.

“Alright, calm down. Sorry, just conversatin' with you.”

Carrick exhaled sharply as the vehicle pulled away from the hotel and merged into traffic. Looking behind him he caught the slim outline of another man in a black suit running out the front revolving door, meeting up with the one outside.  They had begun talking excitedly, their hands pointing in various directions as the cab turned the corner, placing the luxurious hotel out of view.

“Was that...” Carrick asked while not sure how to ask.

“Not now.” 

For the first time, Carrick did not argue.

The dark and deceptive SUVs did not follow them from the hotel, nor did they run into any difficulty traversing the airport.  Under star studded guise they boarded a plane for Glasgow using the names John Martin and Douglas Cleary.  His uncle managed to have passports with their recently transformed faces although he could not comprehend how that was possible.

From the flight information it seemed they would have nine hours straight in the air, 1st class seating.   Even in their deceptive forms they had enough leg room, the seats more akin to a lazyboy recliner than a stuffy airline bench.

It was two hours into the flight before Carrick could relax enough to loosen his grip on the arm rests. 

Lunch was served, bruschetta with fresh mozzarella, teriyaki chicken on a bed of jasmine rice complemented with a vegetable medley and finished off with a slab of moist chocolate cake that was far too delicious to be airplane food.  Erik took his meal with a small glass of white wine, when the stewardess moved to pour one for the other supposed adult, the druid intervened.  Instead he requested a clear soda for him with a heavy handed smile.  Not that the idea of liquor was appealing to Carrick, but he did pride himself on making his own choices. After the plates were cleared away, Erik had hardly touched his, the movie star doppelganger found himself wanting to talk while his food settled.

"What about Arcedes?"  Carrick asked, suddenly aware they left the bird behind.

"She tucked herself in the cargo hold." 

"Oh." He wondered how a giant bird managed to bypass security, but honestly it wasn't the strangest thing that had happened so far today so he let it slide.  “That necklace of yours.  That symbol was in a book my mother gave me for my birthday. What is it?”

“Awen.”

“Awen?”

“The most direct explanation in your world is inspiration.  An ignorant word translation documented in a book called Nennius' Historia Brittonum that occurred in roughly the year 796. Based on writings by a man named Gildas sometime earlier.  However, it is so much more than that.  In my world, in the true meaning, Awen is the essence of life. The spirit flow that connects all living things.”

“I wonder how they came up with inspiration then.”

“Do not misunderstand me, it is inspiration, but an inspiration of truth.  A truth of the united spirit, the connection between the tree’s and the rivers, the deer and man,  the energy that was never born and will never die yet gives form to all existence.”

Erik leaned into him.  “Our abilities, our strength comes from that energy.  We are one with the world and thus the world is one with us.”

Carrick nodded, trying to make sense of it.  His whole life he had considered himself to be a very scientific person.  If he couldn’t see it, smell it, taste it, touch it, he didn’t believe in it. Now his uncle was trying to tell him there was some sort of invisi-force drifting around all things that could be used by a few select individuals.  It made him think of old anime cartoons he had watched as a child, was Arcedes really just a Pokémon?

With a groan, he leaned his head back against the chair.  This was insane, pure insanity. There was no such thing as giant birds, trees that bent to your will, shape shifting illusions.  All of it was nonsense.

Yet nonsense he had seen with his own eyes, nonsense he had done with his own hand.

“I see your turmoil.  Worry not, when we get to our destination, you will believe.”  The false bass voice tried to comfort him.  On some strange level, Carrick found himself wondering what his uncle’s true form really was.  He doubted any of the faces he’d seen so far were correct.

The rest of the flight passed with little of interest. Carrick slept most of the way, dreaming of his mother.  In his mind he pictured her as he always did, the smiling healthy strong woman she had been when he was eleven.  They had been living in Arizona at the time. He felt the dry heat of the southwest, the warm sun tanning his skin.  Saw his mother's long gauze skirts blowing in the breeze as she called to him from the porch that it was time to come inside. Smelled the spices and peppers of dinner wafting from the house carried upon the melody of the lute music she played on the radio.  He ran towards her, arms outstretched, his sandaled feet pushing off the stone pathway with a loud clack.

He always woke up before he made it to her arms.  Carrick would try to go back to sleep, to finish that journey, but he’d always be back out in the yard.  His mother forever out of reach.  It left him more exhausted than rested when the plane landed in Glasgow.

From Glasgow the pair boarded a train to Oban a little bay town nestled in the Firth of Lorn.  A resort town that, as Erik pointed out, was used by humans since Mesolithic times. Archaeological remains of cave dwellers had apparently been found in town.  It was a beautiful little place that seemed to have been recently infected with far too many tourist traps and flashy signs, but the culture from ages past could still be seen past all the glitz.  Dunollie Castle, overlooked the main entrance to the bay, Erik commented that the ‘stone beast’ had stood since 7th century.   Apparently in more recent years, the quiet tourist trap had acted as a major naval launch point on World War II during the battle of the Atlantic.  Period memorabilia shouted that fact from a few of the shops decorated with yellow buy one get one signs.

Unfortunately there was no enjoying the local tourist traps or ancient ruins.  Erik marched them directly from the train station to the docs where Calmac ferries carried them to Iona aboard a ship designated as a tourist day vessel.

It was a beautiful island, the kind you found on postcards with rolling hills, green meadowlands, and a sea of purple flowers on the hilltops.  The beaches blanketed with white sand, water gently washing over them in crystal blue perfection.  An old stone Christian monastery sat in the distance, a dirt road leading up into the isle, disappearing into the hills.

The tour guide in his white polo shirt and crisp khaki pants droned on as the boat approached the docks.  “Once we land we will explore the remains of the Benedictine Nunnery founded in 1203 by Reginald MacDonald of Islay, Lord of the Isles. Then we will have some time to explore more of the island from the hill junction, south we will find Port a’ Churaich, the Port of the Coracle, where Saint Columba first set foot on the island and later established his now famous monastery.

Of course, centuries before the arrival of St Columba on Iona in 563 the island had been adopted as a center of religion by sun worshipping Druids. Like Columba, these Dark Age clerics must have sensed something unique in the atmosphere of Iona, a quality that still sets it apart as a spiritual oasis.

Perhaps it was the sparkling clarity of its light that appealed to these early mystics, for here the sky seems to open directly to Heaven not only as the sun goes down in comparable splendor, but throughout any sunny day when the cloud that hangs over the mainland and Mull miraculously breaks to bathe Iona in light that seems even brighter against the somber unlit hills on the opposite shore.  It’s no use pretending that Iona escapes those days of unrelieved wetness that Western Scotland provides quite regularly, but it is true that Iona enjoys a substantial amount more sunshine than places to the east.”

The dinging of a bell and shouts from the crew announced the ship had successfully docked, drowning out the shutter clicks of many a camera.  Disembarking behind the three other couples, two elderly and the family with four children, the pair hung back.  Erik nodded not to the defined path in front of them, but north up the white sand beach.

“We can drop our guise now.  For there is nothing between us and our destination.”

Carrick frowned, his words coming out in his rolling British accent.  “How do I?”