Final Solstice (28 page)

Chapter 10

Despite the violent weather surging around the rest of the state (and the world), the conditions at the top of Solstice HQ were cool and crisp, with a southwesterly breeze driving over the trees, low humidity and a chill that would soon give way to normal temps in the ’70s. Any other day in any other part of Mason’s life, and he would have confidently predicted all of that, plus abundant sunshine and more of the same for the next couple days.

But today wasn’t any other day.

Today was, quite possibly, the last normal day anyone would see for a long time.

He stepped out through the elevator doors and closed his eyes at first, breathing in the potpourri of scents: lavender and jasmine, holly and mistletoe, ferns and violets. It brought back an immediate memory: hand in hand with Lauren, walking into a greenhouse to pick out flowers for their wedding.

Breathing deep, he wondered if with this new power he might be able to transport himself there, even across time, back to the innocence before any of this began.

Something jarred him, and he realized it was his own ivory staff, used to herd him out into the morning air and towards the congregation.

More than a hundred druids gathered solemnly around and between the stone dolmens. He saw a main block lying horizontally over two large squat stones. An altar that hadn’t been here on his earlier visit when he first met with Solomon, and he wondered if—no, he knew it now—it had been here the whole time, hidden from his mind.

It had all been here, ready for him. He saw now the deep crimson stains on the altar and sensed that all these stones exuded a sense of great age, as if plucked from primordial quarries, hewn from the same megalithic strata trod upon by ancient dinosaurs, and he imagined fossilized jawbones and claws embedded still into the rock.

Mason’s legs almost gave out as he stumbled ahead and through a section of the crowd that cleared the way at his approach.

He heard a soft humming, then realized it was chanting. Faces turned to him, expressions full of reverence and awe, tear-streaked features overwhelmed by the sheer epic nature of the moment and their part in it all. They looked upon him as the ultimate martyr, Mason realized. The perfect sacrifice, a willing conduit of energy, about to release his soul through pain and suffering, all to cleanse the entire world.

Some people reached out to touch him, as if feeling him in the flesh would part some element of the divine, of his magical essence, and grant them an iota of the courage he was about to display.

Mason wanted to tell them how wrong they were, how disappointed they would be when he refused, when he turned the tables on them and brought this whole charade crashing down.

But then the crowd thinned, his progress slowed and he was there, in the clearing with the altar and the eight black-clad druids, hoods removed, waiting for him.

At Solomon’s side, between the master and his pupil Gabriel, Shelby knelt with her wrists bound, eyes red, a curved knife to her throat. Gripping the knife—Victor, head bloodied and looking a lot worse for wear, but nonetheless back in his role and just as menacing.

Mason knew there would be no disappointment for this congregation.

They had him, and he would do what was required if Shelby could live.

O O O

There was no other choice. The world outside faded in his mind. Perhaps it didn’t exist and never had. Maybe, like the rooms downstairs and the views and the scenery on the walls, everything else was just illusion. The world was much smaller than anyone thought, the universe nothing but a black dome and twinkling electrical lights.

He had to think that way, anything else would be to invite madness and the crushing weight of guilt. If he just thought of Shelby and Lauren, even Gabriel, and reduced the world to those terms, he could act. He could sacrifice himself.
What parent wouldn’t do the same for his children?

He could do this. There was no other way.

Solomon stepped forward to greet him and he raised his ancient staff. The crowd quieted as Mason was finally left to his own motion, and the others stepped back and the circle reformed. He looked up, refusing to make eye contact with Solomon. Or Gabriel or Shelby for that matter. Not yet. First, he took in the sky, the dull metallic blue that turned azure and violet, and then black farther west, over the swaying canopy of treetops. Stars still burned through the black shield in that direction, before yielding to the soft and overpowering glow spreading like a virus from the east.

A loud stamping thud brought Mason’s attention to the ground. To the staff base Solomon had thrust against the ground. Immediately the earthen floor smoothed over, replaced with a virtual viewpoint again, this time a representation of the earth seen from space. With an arrangement of satellites blinking with red lights, larger than scale, surrounding the globe in their strategic positions.

“It’s time, my friends.” Solomon spread out his arms. “All our hard work and patience has led to this, the morning of the true Solstice! The final solstice of this age of corruption. Just as the curtain fell on the old age of Rome when it dared destroy our groves, invade our lands and disrupt the cycles of nature with greed, so has this world’s occupiers gone much farther in their travesties. And we, as caretakers, have been far too complacent. Far too passive. We bear the responsibility for this state of decay, for this imbalance.”

Now Mason did look up, meeting the eyes of his son. And for a brief moment, Gabriel caught his glance, and the fire in his eyes faded slightly. His will cracked and Mason saw the first possibility of doubt cross his features. Then it was gone and Gabriel nodded his head like the others, and resumed that disconcerting low humming.

“It all ends today,” Solomon continued, turning his attention to the west, and the congregation followed his eyes, watching over the rooftop and over the rolling hills and forests of bristling leaves, to the spreading glow of the rising sun.

“Our age is at hand. And the new world, a new life, begins as it always has. With a sacrifice, with pain and sacred death. For only through this act of ultimate sacrifice can the world be renewed. All the world mythologies have recognized this fact, and today we merely set foot firmly in the prints of our predecessors.”

Solomon withdrew from his robes the large curved ivory blade. And all the druids reached up to replace their hoods and face the altar. The chanting increased, the humming drowning out the insects and the morning song of the birds.

In the pause, Gabriel turned to Mason and spoke. “Is the sacrifice prepared?”

At his side, Shelby whimpered. She struggled and tried to rise, but another hand pressed her shoulder and kept her down. Mason looked and saw under this shorter druid’s hood—it was Annabelle.

And she met his glance—and through a scared but confident expression—winked at him.

O O O

Mason’s heart skipped. Had Annabelle succeeded? And more importantly, could he trust her? In a moment, it wouldn’t matter. The die was cast, and he had to trust her. Had to trust in the balance, in nature, and hopefully in a God that wasn’t yet prepared to wipe out his creation.

Solomon stepped forward and handed the blade, hilt first, to Mason. “Now is the time,” Solomon said just above a whisper. “Fulfill your destiny. Finish what we began as innocent children.”

“That was a game,” Mason said. But he took the knife. “A game that nearly got us all killed.”

Solomon gave him a smile. “We were saved for greater glories.” He bowed and backed away a step, then motioned to the altar.

“Dad, no …” Shelby began, but then the big man put a hand over her mouth.

Mason felt a wind pushing him toward the altar until his legs brushed against the powerful stone, and a momentary image flashed through his skull: the farmhouse, the willow trees swaying in the rising wind, the immense tornadoes dropping like funnels from the sky.

He closed his eyes and shook away the image, just as the warm breeze tugged at his wrist and seemed to lift it. Was he moving on his own? Was any of this really voluntary?

A scan of the crowd: Annabelle giving a nod to someone across the circle; other figures moving slightly as if jockeying for a better position of the coming ritual; Gabriel stepping back, turning pale, the only one besides Solomon not to draw his hood; Shelby crying, shaking her head, struggling against her wrist-bonds and Victor’s strong hands.

Below his feet, the earth’s image hung, a perfect blue-green orb of symmetry, majesty and diversity five billion years in the making. A living, breathing, feeling entity shining bright in the void of chaos. The satellites glowed and sparkled, and data points, numerals and text scrolled faster under each one.
The transmissions have begun,
Mason realized, as the servers downstairs received and transmitted a different sort of data stream—Solomon’s self-described energy-as-indistinguishable-from-magic transference.

Mason raised the knifepoint to his chest.
Now or never.

The sun cleared the edge of the trees, and its warming glow washed over his temples, his eyes and his lips, and glinted off the blade. He pressed the tip against the edge of his shirt and moved it aside to rest against the flesh, just above the heart.

With a smile to Shelby, he nodded, ostensibly to Solomon, but really to Annabelle.

Just flip the knife and throw it.
That’s all it would take. That and a lot of luck in his toss and the hope that Solomon wasn’t ready. Now—

“Wait!”

Solomon raised his staff, and the chanting halted. Annabelle froze, mouth open. Gabriel and Shelby looked up, confused. Solomon extended his free hand and the ivory knife tugged in a sudden gust filled with sparkling tinges of electricity that made Mason wince and release his grip.

The blade spun and flew into Solomon’s grasp. He stepped forward. Never taking his eyes off Mason’s, he held out his staff, and placed it firmly in Mason’s open grip.

“This is yours now. You’ve earned it.”

O O O

His smile was warm and inviting. “Much better, you’ll find, than that temporary ivory stick you’ve been carting around.”

“What—?” was all Mason could manage, his head spinning. The sun continued its rise, but still hadn’t fully pulled itself from its blanket of trees. And the visuals on the satellites below their feet flickered as the transmission faltered; lines of code blinked as if in standby mode.

Murmurs rushed through the crowd, but Solomon was quick to quiet them. With a powerful leap he landed on the flat altar stone, towering over Mason and the others. And he let the rising sun, nearly half-free now, fall upon him until he was bathed in an angelic glow.

He held the knife high, and the glow extended to the blade and sparkled along its edge, setting it ablaze.

“My brethren, this one has passed his final test and has proven himself worthy. Brothers we were once, and none is more suited to assume the mantle of leadership in my wake.”

Mason caught the look on Gabriel’s face. He had no idea any of this was coming, and seemed to have trouble registering just what was happening, the same as everyone else in the crowd.

Solomon spread out his arms, and as the fire spread from the knife down his arm, setting his robes ablaze, Mason realized the truth.

And realized that they were all too late.

Mason was never intended to be the sacrifice. He didn’t have that kind of power, the energy that Solomon needed. Didn’t have it. Not as a kid, and not now.

But Solomon, as arch-druid, leader of his people and caretaker of the natural world, surely did.

He gave one last smile to Mason, a smile of triumph. A smile punctuating a lifetime of ambition. “I consecrate myself to the world, and now you, dear Mason, can start anew.”

“No!” Mason shouted, the objection echoed by Gabriel who rushed forward. But they were both met by a blast of heat and wind, knocking them back just as Solomon, engulfed now in flames, turned the blade and plunged it into his own heart.

O O O

The building shook, buffeted by a blast of downward-spiking energy and met with tumultuous winds battering it from every side. Torches blew out, hoods flew off and people screamed.

Solomon burned.

A pillar of writhing flame on the altar, his motions slowed, arms waving as he tipped backwards, then he righted himself, dropped to his knees and continued to burn.

Mason looked away from Gabriel and met Annabelle’s eyes. He shook his head in utter dismay, but shouted, “Do it!”

And she complied, giving an order, at once obeyed. Two dozen men and women in the crowd rushed ahead and engaged the front line of Solomon’s druids, incapacitating and attacking the inner circle. Shocked and confused by their master’s sudden turn of events, awed by his personal sacrifice and the epic scene before them, those druids involved in maintaining the ritual and surrounding the altar were suddenly overwhelmed by the interlopers.

Annabelle had accomplished what Mason had hoped: she used her previous connections, having almost joined the “enemy.” Sought out those remaining white druids, those in hiding who had understood what Solomon’s ascension truly meant for the destiny of the planet, those who still resisted the plan of global rebalancing. She had brought them in, simple enough, blending with the others in the confusion of the mass ceremony.

She would have acted earlier, and if Mason had been the intended, this all still could have been prevented. The ceremony disrupted, the plans derailed.

But this …

Mason couldn’t take his eyes off the smoking, melting mass of flesh and cloth on the altar. Solomon’s cries were full of agony, yet he still roared in triumph.

He’s not dead yet,
Mason thought, and held onto that thought, just as he held onto the arch-druid’s staff, and looked away from the burning sacrifice to the ancient branch in his hands.

He raised it up, feeling the old wood vibrating with energy, picking up like a lightning rod on the elemental power coursing through the winds and the rising sun and the energy of hundreds of druids all in one location. He glanced around, saw sporadic fighting between those who had cast off their robes, revealing green garments beneath, and those still with the grey and white, struggling to regain control. Annabelle in the thick of things, and then Victor … Aiming with his gun.