Army of the Goddess: A Bona Dea Novel (Stormflies Book 2) (2 page)

2nd Unimont, 308 (Moonsday)

At times Axandra felt as though the last eight months of her life were imaginary. After her homecoming from her torturous stay beneath the Great Storm last Octember, she found her mind blank in certain areas, memories erased, and her mind quieter than before. Even faces appeared unrecognizable—prominent faces such as councilors and staff. Short term memory suffered, leaving her standing confused on her way to meetings or forgetting to put on her shoes when she left her suite.

Axandra was the lone survivor of the parasitic infection, as all other sufferers perished abruptly during the two days following the Stormfly exodus. For whatever reason as was still undetermined, the Stormflies had chosen to feast upon a religious sect known as the Believers. The followers of the religion believed above all else that a powerful Goddess watched over them and determined their destinies. They also believed that the Protectress was the Goddess incarnate. The victims found several shortcomings in these beliefs during their last days on this plane.

In addition to performing autopsies upon a few of the deceased, a team of Healers from the Assembly continued to study the Protectress' symptoms to determine exactly what damage the parasite inflicted upon its victim, hoping to gain insight into the phenomenon.

Few facts were known: the parasites always entered the left eye and settled most immediately within the left side of the brain, linking first with the optical nerve before penetrating deeper into the layers; the interruption of brain function sometimes resulted in hysteria and confusion; the parasite drained essential nutrients from the blood; and the infestation was greater than ninety-nine percent fatal.

So far, the Healers determined by their examinations that the location inhabited by the parasites included the hippocampus, explaining the loss of memory. Lesions occurred throughout several sections of the brain, causing a loss of inhibition, increased violent behavior, and aphasia, as was observed in other victims. The first known victim of the infestation murdered and dismembered another man in his own home. The symptoms varied depending upon the reach of the parasite's tendrils within the host. Axandra carried her parasite for the longest period of known time, so the marks of penetration should have existed farther into interior portions of the brain, including the brainstem. However, Axandra's brain, while exhibiting various scars and even holes, did not confirm this suspicion. She was an anomaly.

For now, in consideration of her other injuries and post-traumatic stress, the Healers postponed any in-depth scan or study of the Protectress' brain.

Axandra, hoping to further their research, explained that she succeeded in blocking the parasite at times. She offered to demonstrate her methods of compartmentalizing her mind to protect certain areas, and how she restricted the creature from moving as it desired. Perhaps she prevented some damage from occurring. They deferred, concerned for her health.

Axandra doubted that their diagnosis would change the outcome of her future. The damage was irreversible. The remainder of her life would be haunted by missing moments…and memories she prayed would disappear. She was even more determined to prevent the infection of any more humans by understanding the nature of creatures. The humans could form little in the way of defense until they understood how to defend.

To reeducate the Protectress to the names and faces of the staff and council, the archivists provided visual aids and brief bios at the request of Healer Phineas Gage. Axandra reviewed them in the evenings while she took dinner with her intended. Cool spring nights provided the perfect excuse for the still novice couple to snuggle on the divan, listening to recorded music on their new disc player while wrapped in wooly sherpa blankets.

“So, I'm curious what they wrote about Sara,” Quinn eyed the folder graced with a full color portrait of Councilor Sara Sunsun's freckled face bearing a wide smile full of teeth.

“She's the one I remember everything about,” Axandra said, half-grateful, half-sad. “I suspect she made the strongest impression among all the councilors.”

“Friends will do that. Can I see it?” He reached out for the papers expectantly with splayed fingers.

Handing over the dossier, she joked, “Sure. It's bland. If I only had this to go on, I might get the wrong impression.”

“Hmm.” Without his reading glasses, Quinn held the pages out at arm's length for definition. “Daughter of Councilor Miles Sunsun. Home, North Compass. Thirty-one years old. Blah, Blah. Boring demographics.”

“Exactly, but at least I'm starting to get names matched with faces again. Too bad my short term memory is a disaster.”

“Oh, I hadn't noticed,” Quinn quipped.

She rolled her green eyes ceiling-ward at his poor feigning at humility. “You'd be the only one. I don't know how I'm going to make it to our bonding.” The words were an honest fret. “I'll forget where I'm going half-way down the stairs.”

“Miri will get you there,” Quinn assured, squeezing her wearily hunched shoulders.

He didn't want to admit how worried he was about the black outs, those moments of complete disorientation he'd witnessed over the past few months. She didn't remember those either, and he was actually glad. She had lost her way through the building on several occasions; and, when confronted, she became belligerent or frightened. She had shouted at Miri a few times to get out of her house. But the moments passed. For the most part, the staff and acquaintances played along as though nothing had happened. The occurrences were dwindling in number, and Quinn prayed they would eventually end all together.

He drew her closer into the nook of his shoulder and kissed the top of her head, inhaling the fragrance of sweet laurens from her favorite hair treatment. Spring was in her hair. He chuckled at his own humor.

“What's funny now?” she questioned.

“A bad pun in my head.”

“Oh,” she acknowledged, allowing him to leave it where it was.

She failed to show any interest in laughing, and Quinn realized he missed hearing her laugh. For now, they accepted the silence of the evening.

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12
^th
Unimont 308 (Hopesday)

Holton Elgar Hannely glanced at his watch and attempted to hold his irritation at bay while Ole fumbled through his inventory of seeds. Parchment packages were stacked in precarious columns, each supported by another stack. If one collapsed, the others would scatter like dominos. Each packet rattled on a different note like a hollow gourd depending on the size and quantity of the seed inside. Ole collected these seeds from travelers as they came through Range End, and the catalog was amazing. From winged seeds of the towering Leviathanus hardwoods of the Northwest forests to the triangular seeds the size of pinheads from the creeping chime flower that struck musical chords when disturbed. And the Lacaria flower, a delicate tropical orchid from the island of the Sleeper, a dormant volcano a thousand kiloms south of the mainland.

This was Holton's last stop before catching the morning bus to Undun City in order to catch the noon bus to North Compass to get home tonight before midnight. He didn't want to be stuck in Undun overnight, not if he might run into his brother Quinn by accident. The likelihood of such an accidental meeting constituted a slim percentage of possible events, but he didn't wish to test the statistics. If his mother found out he was in Undun for any stay-over, she would needle him about spying on Quinn and his new wife-to-be or, even worse, making a visitation call.

Holton didn't want to see Quinn any more than his brother was interested in seeing him. He was quite content that his little brother, by two years, had chosen to abscond from his hometown and family and stay away. Quinn had no place interfering with the lives of the Elgars. He advised his mother to force the youngest son to surrender his family name, but she refused to relinquish hold over her child completely.

“Ole, get a move on, please,” Holton pressured, rocking on his feet. He watched the frail, white-haired man carefully navigate the collection, anticipating an avalanche of paper packets. What few tufts of hair remained on Ole's head danced like wisps in the breeze. “I have somewhere else to be.”

“Bah! You're always in a hurry,” the white bearded man scoffed his urgency. “If you wanted to make that bus, you should have showed up last night, instead of extending your visit with Miss Jenny. Stay awhile. Why do you want to get home?”

Holton felt his cheeks blaze with embarrassment. No one was supposed to know about Jenny. He didn't want any word getting back to his wife, especially if Canna felt he was being unfaithful, which he wasn't. He enjoyed her companionship when he was away from home, and she understood he was only interested in a platonic relationship, despite her flirtatious efforts. She respected the boundaries.

“I made this appointment with you weeks ago,” Holton hissed impatiently. “You knew I was to be here this morning. Why don't you have my package ready?”

Ole just waved with a shaky hand and continued to dig into his piles, careful in his movements despite his symptomatic quivers. “Ah. Here we go. Twelve Lacaria seeds, ready to germinate. You'll need to plant them in containers where you can keep them warm. Your northern temperatures are too harsh for these delicate blossoms.”

“Yes, yes. I know. Mother is planting them in the house.” Holton snatched the packet from the old man's hand. “And here are your requested juniper cones.”

“Wonderful. I want to study these. Conifers are more primitive than those flowers. It's a parallel with Old Earth I find fascinating. There are certain laws of nature that might apply to any life-bearing planet in the galaxy,” the old man prattled on.

“Fine. Fine. I have to run.” Holton tucked the gray envelop rattling with seeds into his satchel and turned on the balls of his feet to dash away, letting Ole's continued chatter fade out. He couldn't care less what the old man wanted to do with seed cones.

“Good day!” Ole shouted after him. “Say hello to Canna for me.”

Holton needed to remove Ole from his list of seed suppliers or convince his mother to stop trying to grow houseplants. Twelve seeds! How many pots was she going to cram into the house? And who was going to water all of them? Rosemary could barely move due to her weight and arthritis. Her most ambitious travels consisted of moving from bed to the divan.

Renata, his sister, must have some arrangement to take care of the forty-odd pots of varying plants from across the continent already residing in the one-level North Compass home. It was the only plausible solution to keeping that many organisms alive under his mother's care. Before her weight became a debilitating factor, Rosemary was as lithe and agile as any young woman with six children needed to be. Ten years later, she was nearly immobile, requiring a cane and assistance to move around her own home. Holton blamed Quinn, the youngest child, for pushing Rosemary into depression with his insistence on denying everything for which his family stood.

Holton would bring her the seeds as long as she didn't ask for more of his time. Perhaps Rosemary Elgar collected the plants to replace her nest-flown children, or perhaps she appreciated the silence of living things without tongues. The plants might disappoint her once in a while by dying, but that was minor compared to the disappointments caused by her children, Quinn especially. Why was he thinking of Quinn again? He hated his brother. Always had. When Quinn was born, Holton knew he would regret the twit's existence. He was not disappointed in those expectations. Quinn was a stubborn, high-nosed cark bird always flaunting his adventures and his intelligence, looking down upon his farming family. And now that he was marrying the Protectress—Holton wanted to wring his brother's neck!

Of all the people to make it to the Palace, Quinn wasn't the one he was rooting for. Renata should have been elected councilor during the last voting period, but Sara Sunsun won out simply because of her family history. Now his sister was unbearable, lamenting her loss for over a year now and conniving ways to ensure a win at the next election. She was cozying up to Morgan Mainsteer and his crazy movement, Citizens for Restructure. Holton ignored her political tirades as much as possible.

He didn't have time to dwell on these things. He had to get to that bus.

“Holton, there you are!”

Jenny's voice stopped him in his tracks.

“You didn't say goodbye this morning. Shame on you,” she scolded, though a teasing smile belied her intention.

“Sorry. I'm running behind. I'll be back around in a few months.”

The curvy brunette caught his arm and jerked him back a step. She grinned. “You let Canna know how lucky she is to have you. If I had my way, you'd never go back to the frigid North. You could stay right here with me where it's warm.”

“Oh, Jenny,” he sighed with regret. If they had met sooner… He loved Canna dearly, but she was ever so slightly like his mother in some ways, and Jenny was nothing like his mother in any way whatsoever. She was refreshing, and visits with her were regenerative. He wanted to find excuses to come more often.

“I'll see you soon,” he promised, accepting a firm embrace, her plumps breasts pressed against his chest and her breath steamy against his neck.

She whispered in his ear, “I'll be here when you get back. Write me.”

Holton released himself and turned to wave down the bus as it tried to pull away from the depot. Only because there was a seat remaining did the driver allow him on, asking him to sign the register before the engine hummed again, pulling the wheels in a forward motion.

Holton collapsed into the seat with relief.

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12
^th
Unimont

Jon Irons kissed his mother on the cheek and gave his father's back a firm and loving slap. It was time for him to head off again, to rebuild his life. He'd come home to his parents when Gammerton had evacuated preceding the tidal surges. Now Gammerton Island remained mostly underwater, the topsoil of the island washed away by the Ocean. There was no space to rebuild the village or to grow food. He had no other home.