Archangel Crusader (18 page)

She screamed. Krastinios plunged the knife deeper into the abdomen, and she screamed again as the steel crushed the pelvic bone with an audible crack. Applying steady force, Krastinios bisected the heaving abdomen, all the way up through the sternum.

The screams stopped when the disemboweled victim lost consciousness. Blood and steaming insides spilled onto the warm stone and down to the floor.

Krastinios seized the exposed beating heart and cut it loose from the arteries. Blood sprayed the ceiling. The overpowering, coppery smell of it, as much as the sight, sent pulses racing and lungs breathing hard. With a hissing sound in his mother tongue, the knight placed the bloody organ on a gold plate and made a ritual offering to his Father. Then, bringing the heart still beating to his mouth, Krastinios took a bite, chewed the firm bloody morsel with relish then swallowed.

None of the followers observed the small green snake leaving the entrails of the Chosen to slither away into inconspicuous shadows, but Krastinios nodded in acknowledgment and smiled. Shaking the blood loose from the blade in a swift motion, he returned it to its hidden sheath.

On his order, the blood was poured into gold decanters and mixed with wine. In a ritualistic communion, the disciples partook of the mixture, the tormentor, winner of the contest, getting first blood and a share of the heart.

When no blood remained in the gold vessels, Krastinios turned to his disheveled and now bloody guests. They stared at him and he knew why. Not a drop had spilled on him. His face, hands and clothes remained perfectly clean. "Let the party go on!" he announced cheerfully. "I am expected elsewhere... Have fun without me. There are still a few hours before dawn."

The black knight headed toward the hidden door, a happy spring in his step, turned and waved to his friends, feeling magnificent and rejuvenated. Then he dematerialized, grinning at the surprise of his loyal subjects.

Chapter Fourteen

After Michael's struggle in the busy capital, Arkansas came as a welcome respite. A dog from a distant farm barked to the roar of his motorcycle. In front of a neighboring farmhouse, a small fire burned dead branches and leaves. Michael smelled the smoke on the cool breeze. Now close to his brother's small estate, Michael wondered how some people could enjoy the simple life of the country and ignore the problems that plagued the planet. In blissful ignorance, they partook of Earth's gifts without a care about the morrow, as Michael had done, before meeting Amrah.

On the horizon appeared the familiar blue haze of the Ouachita Mountains. In a pale green meadow, a mare and her colt grazed in the shade of a tall oak tree. Already, the sun lowered on the horizon, setting ablaze the open fields in various shades of green and brown.

The vibration of the engine had numbed Michael's arms. Throat parched from the dust of the road, he longed for the cool serenity of a house in a shaded meadow. The headband, stiff with caked dust, made him look like the half Native American he did not like to be. Boy, am I going to enjoy a shower! Soon he came to the farm's landmarks: a dirt road leading to an old barn and a trailer home, a baby-blue pick-up truck discolored by the sun and, behind it all, the skeleton of a pretentious two-story house still in the framing stages.

Dave must have heard the motorcycle first. He’d waited all day, no doubt, so relieved did he look walking toward Michael along the dirt lane. "Mike?" he yelled over the noise of the engine.

Michael turned off the ignition, stabilized the big machine, dismounted and greeted his brother with a bear hug. Even though Michael had raised him, Dave, five years younger, looked older with his bushy beard and receding hairline.

Behind Dave’s washed blue eyes, Michael could read his brother’s thoughts. For the past five years, Dave had tried to instill some wisdom in his wild, older sibling, unsuccessfully. For Dave, Michael remained a hopeless alcoholic, a manic-depressive off medications, and a suicidal renegade suffering from a persecution complex. Dave loved him nevertheless, imperfections and all. Still, Michael would have to work hard at changing the image he’d carved in his brother's mind.

A young, giggling girl ran out of the mobile home, followed by Becky, Dave's wife.

"Hi, Becky!" Michael waved cheerfully, trying to forget old grudges to see her with new innocence. Becky waved back from the house, saying something Michael did not understand.

As the running child came to a stop, Dave introduced her, puffed with pride. "This is Clara, our newly adopted ray of sunshine!"

"I'll be damned!" Unbelieving, Michael stared at the adopted child, who stared back with round brown eyes in a clever chocolate-brown face. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you what? That she's black?" Dave guffawed.

Michael was delighted. “I was just surprised... Glad to see you’ve forgotten the old man’s lectures about the evil nature of those goddamn niggers.”

"Damn right! What difference does it make? We love the kid, and the color of her skin doesn't make a bit of difference."

"Believe me, I know..." Michael looked at his brother with moist eyes, realizing the vastness of the transformation occurring in the world. Despite their upbringing, Dave had set aside his old beliefs to adopt an African American child.

Michael flashed the child a big smile and scooped her in his arms. A sudden yearning for Jennifer seized him as he held Clara. Almost the same age... Clara was younger, shorter, Michael thought, enjoying the closeness of the little girl. Inside, every child craved the same love.

When he let her down, Clara took his hand, "Come see the new house, Uncle Michael."

Wiping wet hands on her apron, Becky joined them and kissed Michael on the cheek. She looked different, plain, with glasses and no makeup, a far cry from the exotic dancer she was when Dave met her. She looked older, too. Michael could not help but think of them as older folks, although it had nothing to do with age. They seemed to have given up on youth. Michael would never give up. He would always be eighteen.

"You guys go see the house, I'll bring some cold drinks. Michael, you want a beer?" Becky asked, matter-of-factly.

"No thanks, Becky, got any soda?" There was a short hush.

"Sure... Pepsi okay?" She seemed at a loss.

"Fine... Pepsi's fine." Michael avoided looking at Becky, who stared at him in disbelief.

Dave broke the embarrassing silence. "Come see my work." He rested a hand on Michael’s shoulder. "Let me show you how far I got. Your timing's perfect. I sure can use your talents now. I need some advice on how to frame the dormer windows on the roof... See, the bedrooms on the second floor have a slanted roof, and the living room will have double-height ceiling with full-length windowpanes... And I don't know as much as you about plumbing either..."

Clara followed the two men closely, curious as any child when meeting a famous family member for the first time. They sat on sacks of concrete piled up in a corner of the future living room. The elongated shadows of the naked frame crisscrossed in an elaborate pattern in the glow of the setting sun. Becky joined them shortly and sat with them, as if finally relaxing after a long day of domestic and farming chores.

Clara stared, obviously fascinated by Michael. During a pause in the adult conversation, Michael addressed Clara. "I have a little girl like you, her name's Jennifer. You'll meet her soon. I'm sure you two will get along just fine. We go fishing together sometimes... Do you like fishing?"

Clara nodded vigorously. "But I don't know how!" She shrugged, staring at him candidly.

"Really? I'll have to teach you then... If you want to learn, of course..."

"I want to learn..." The tone in Clara's voice and the determination in the set of her mouth made Michael smile.

"I'm pretty sure you'll like it... I know a river where the fish come when you call them... I'll teach you how if you want..."

The little brown face beamed with pleasure, "Really?"

"Sure... And I can teach you much more."

Dave and Becky watched, exchanging quiet smiles and holding hands over the heavy sacks covered with gray concrete dust on which they sat.

*****

A long shower left Michael refreshed. A shave and clean clothes made him feel civilized again. The trailer proved bigger inside than it looked from the outside. Although temporary, these adequate living quarters would allow him to enjoy enough privacy without imposing on his brother's family space. As the aroma drifting from the small kitchen whetted his appetite, Michael realized that he had gone without food for a whole day.

Dinner consisted of chicken, potatoes, gravy and apple pie, all ingredients produced on the small farm. Becky was proud of her home-raised chickens. She fed them good grain, and they ran free on the grounds. She also kept rabbits in cages in the barn. Dave took care of growing the vegetables. He had a small tractor, sufficient for the acreage. What they didn’t consume, they sold at the market. Dave also hired out his services here and there as a carpenter to supplement their income.

The whole family spent the evening studying the blueprints. Dave explained his ideas, and Michael offered technical solutions to the problems encountered. Raised in Seattle by Michael since the age of ten, Dave, essentially a city-boy, had only recently returned to the land of his birth. His tastes, too sophisticated for a farmhouse, created interesting challenges. Dave wanted it all and Michael, although he did not quite understand why they needed all these luxuries, enjoyed the opportunity to show the extent of his knowledge in the craft.

Dave was a dreamer, learning the construction trade from his brother but never considering it a vocation as Michael did. The younger brother enjoyed intellectual pursuits whenever time allowed, considering physical work healthy for mind and body. He relied heavily on Michael's technical expertise for the building of the new home.

Clara helped Becky clear the dishes then joined the adults who now discussed the future house over coffee. New enthusiasm brought by Michael’s suggestions now fired the conversation. Michael's creative approach was stirring excitement into the life of the isolated family.

Late that night, since it would be morning in France, Michael called Tori in Paris. When the call finally went through, Michael was patched into an answering machine. A foreign male voice delivered a recorded message in French. It might have been Tori's husband, but since Michael did not know the man, he couldn't tell. Nevertheless, Michael left a message for Jennifer, not sure at all he had reached the right number. Lately, He had been unable to achieve a mind link with his daughter and he wondered why. Maybe the girl was having so much fun that her mind was otherwise occupied.

His dreams that night took Michael back to the infernal planet of his earlier nightmares. Below the fiery glow, at the core of the underground city, he saw the frightening alien with a snake face and a forked tongue. This time, the Reptilian laughed under the hood of the silvery robe, a dry, icy cackle that brought goose bumps to Michael's skin. But in the dream, Lufriec was not alone. Krastinios joined in the laughter with a warm, rich baritone. The two talked in riddles about two chosen doves for a sacrifice. Michael knew it concerned him and ought to know what it meant, but comprehension floated beyond his grasp.

The next morning, over a real breakfast of eggs, bacon, biscuits, and gravy, Michael discussed humanitarian and ecological ideas with Dave and Becky. He related the two-week campaign in Washington, gave Becky news of her sister Debbie and, to impress Clara, made the spoons dance by themselves on the table.

"Whoa!" the child exclaimed, big round eyes full of wonder.

“
Nice trick,” Dave commented. You’ll have to show me how it’s done.

Michael only smiled. Typical for adults to disbelieve...

But Clara now asked, “Do something else!”

Michael thoroughly enjoyed her delight. "Now, what do you bet I can throw this glass through the wall without breaking it?"

"Can you do that, Uncle Michael?"

"All right, just watch." Michael sent his glass flying in slow motion toward the flimsy wall of the trailer. It stopped as it hit, melted into the wood, then disappeared into it. "Now go get it in the dandelion patch outside!"

Without a word Clara ran out and came back with a big grin, triumphantly holding the glass high for everyone to see.

Dave and Becky laughed, but Michael knew they didn’t understand what had happened and wrote it off as a trick. Funny how we only see what our mind can comprehend and lock away any unexplained phenomena. Even when confronted with the facts, our conscious mind invokes coincidence, freaky happenstance, and still refuses the unacceptable proof. Michael didn’t condemn them. He had done it, too, on many occasions.

After Becky left for her daily chores, the mobile phone rang as the two brothers walked out the door.

"Yo!" Michael frowned at the French accent and semi-familiar male voice.

"Michael Tanner? This is Jean-Marc Fontaine, Tori's husband. I am in New York and a little concerned about Tori and Jennifer. I could not reach them on the phone, I wondered if you had heard from them..." More than the words, the inflections conveyed real concern. Michael felt an immediate affinity with this stranger worried about Jennifer.