The Centaur (10 page)

He pulled the heavy lab door closed and bolted the door from the inside.
Disturbances will not be tolerated!
He thought as he chuckled to himself and then frowned. Something seemed different in the lab. The changes were subtle, but obvious to him as his eyes adjusted to the dim light filtering through the dirty panes of glass in the skylight. Those would have to be cleaned. Perhaps Bari could do it. A scuttling noise in the corner made him jump and he dropped the match as he tried to light the oil lamp on the counter. The lit match hit the table and bounced off. Mark grabbed at the matchstick and was then stunned to see the match rising into the air, seemingly on its own. The flame touched the wick on the oil lamp and the interior of the dim laboratory brightened somewhat. The burned out stick of wood fell to the counter and bounced off, landing on the floor. Mark stood perfectly still in the heavy silence in which he could actually hear the minute sizzle of the oil lamp’s wick. There was nothing here. Again, he jumped at the same scuttling noise in one of the darkened corners of the lab.

Moving very slowly and deliberately, his heart pounding in his ears, he jammed a paraffin candle in a pewter candle stick and held the wick to the lamp. The flame caught and he walked cautiously toward the noise. The heavy shadows receded in front of him as he held the candle above the odds and ends littering the corner. Nothing moved. The dust coated everything here evenly. No one had disturbed these alchemical oddities. Even Nicole had not ventured into the messier parts of the lab and had confined her work to the cleaner parts of the lab. When he found nothing, not even a rat, a mouse or an errant beetle, he drew a deep breath and held it briefly before retreating to the table.

Again, his heart raced as he beheld the black silk cloth lying under the light of the lamp. The lamp swung on its chain as if it had been bumped and still nothing moved in the room other than himself… and the lamp… and the shadows on the table and the floor. The black silk cloth had been placed in the wooden crate along with the crystal skull, the spear of Longinus and the Urim and Thummin. Mark repressed the urge to bolt and run in search of Sophia, but she needed her nap and he was supposed to be her protector. Sophia had warned him about going outside and straying away from the house alone. She had also warned him not to speak to strangers if anyone ventured onto the estate, but she had not explained why she screamed in her sleep, and then sobbed deliriously about seeing ‘ghosties’ and ‘ghoulies’. He had subsequently looked up both words in the library. Therefore, he knew exactly what this was.  A classic haunting. A ghost or a ghoul was harassing him.

“Get thee behind me, Satan,” he repeated the words that he had read in the tattered book in the Ramsay library and then smiled at his own bravery before making the sign of the cross over the black cloth. When nothing happened, he reached for the cloth cautiously and took hold of the corner. He pulled it off and then stepped back quickly.

At first, he could not make out what it was he was looking at. It seemed that his ghostie or ghoulie had made a mess of his relics. The white braid had been unraveled and the hair wrapped around each of the two crystal balls in the metal frame. The two silver ornaments dangled from the frame on either side. The spear had also been wrapped about with hair on one end. If he had picked up the Urim and Thummin, the spear would have dangled point down from the centerpiece and each of the earrings would have hung below the two orbs. Another word came to his mind.
Poltergeist
. A phenomenon related to ghosts and ghouls according to the books and dictionaries. A poltergeist was a troublesome entity that often played tricks on the residents of the homes in which they took up. Tricks such as stacking the furniture in bizarre towers, throwing utensils and objects about kitchens, turning pictures up-side-down, causing coals to leap out of fireplaces, rattling…

Mark’s thoughts were interrupted by a movement more felt than seen behind him. He whirled around and found himself face to face with not one, but two ephemeral shapes. One dark like a hole in the very fabric of the space between himself and the door and the other a shimmering green glow, vaguely human in shape. His ghosts.

Again, he made the sign of the cross in front of himself and repeated, with a bit more force “Get thee behind me, Satan!”

The two enigmatic forms winked out of existence and Mark let go a long sigh. Sophia would be furious with him. He would not tell her about this. Her nightmares were bad enough already. If she learned that their basement was haunted, she would never sleep again… and neither would he.

He turned around and was again startled to find the same two figures standing or hovering behind him, between himself and the lab table.

“Dammit!” he swore and tried to calm his racing heart. He made the sign of the cross once more and virtually shouted the same words at the things. Again they disappeared and he sagged against the lab table. He pulled up the stool and sat down heavily. His hands were shaking and he was covered in a cold film of sweat. The moisture beaded on the gold film on the back of his hand. He picked up the handle of
the Urim and Thummin and squinted at the mess. The hair was wrapped smoothly around each orb, almost completely obscuring them from sight. He disentangled the spear first and slipped the silver chain over his head before continuing. Laying the relic back on the black cloth, he very carefully slipped the hair off the crystal. It came free easily. So easily, in fact, he was somewhat surprised. He pulled the hair from the opposite ball and laid the hair and the attached earrings aside in a pile. The globes seemed to be unharmed, but he sucked in a sharp breath as he remembered the crystal skull. It was not on the table.

He picked up the handle again, intending to carry the device with him while he searched for the skull and was horrified to see the two crystal spheres roll out of the frame, break smoothly in half and lie rocking slightly on the black silk.

“Heaven help us!” Mark placed one hand over his mouth and dropped the silver frame to the floor.

“Heaven? You know of Heaven?” A
wavery voice, not quite human asked the question from behind him.

He shrieked as he turned. The two forms were again visible in front of him.

“Stay back!” He shouted at the undulating figures.

“Do you wish us to get behind you again?” The question seemed to be coming from the general direction of the greenish form.

“Where is my skull? What have you done with it?” Mark demanded to know even though his own voice was almost as quivery as his supernatural visitor’s.

“Why… in your head, sir,” came the immediate response.

“Not
my
skull! The skull. The crystal skull.”

“
Ohhhh. I’m afraid it is dead.”

“Dead?” Mark’s eyes widened. “Of course it’s dead. Skulls are dead.”

“Not all of them.” The voice now sounded sad and thin. “But I’m afraid we killed it when we opened it. What is this strange language that you speak? Are you the Dove?”

“Heaven help me.” Mark stumbled against the stool.

“Ye’ll need more than ’eaven t’ ’elp ye now, laddie. Ye’ll need part o’ hell as well,” the words came from his mouth as he gripped the counter once more. He placed one hand on the lab table to steady himself and then froze as he felt something wrap around his wrist.

When he managed to turn his head to take a look at what new horror was assaulting him, he saw the white hair, once more braided together, wrapped around his wrist. He felt the cold silver ornaments on the back of his hand. A tremendous blue flash erupted behind his eyelids and pain shot through the middle of his head, down his spine, both legs and into his feet. He looked down at his feet expecting to see them ripped apart by the force of the pain that had felt like a thunderbolt ripping through him. “
Thot’s more loike it. I think I moight get me feet undar me now.” 

It was the same voice that often spoke to him inside his head, but now it was speaking outside his head. At first, Mark was terrified that he might be dying and then he felt like he was falling in a soft
warm, blanket that caught him and lifted him up. He looked up toward the dirty skylight and saw not the brown and green algae coating the old panes of glass, but rather he saw a brilliant white light and in the center of the light, he saw a white dove flying toward him. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.

His eyes rolled up in his head and he slumped onto the floor.

“Do you think he has gone to Heaven?” the quivery voice asked in the silence that followed.

“I do not think so, my brother,” the second voice had more substance, but sounded hollow as if inside a barrel. “I’m sure that he is the Dove and will soon arise from his rest. Perhaps he was overcome by your radiance.”

“Perhaps he was overcome by your dark splendor,” Urim countered.

“Perhaps,” Thummin agreed.

Chapter Four of
Seventeen

Who can stand before his indignation? and who can abide

in the fierceness of his anger?

Mark Andrew blinked rapidly in confusion as he tried to focus on the summit of the angry mountain. The lightning did not stop, the rumbling continued to dislodge rocks and boulders, sending them skittering dangerously down the mountainside into the midst of the Templar host camped at its foot. For a moment, he had lost touch with reality and seen only the face of Sophia Cardinelli. He’d hardly even thought of her since consigning her over to his son, his grandsons and his daughter. They would take care of Sophia now. She was beyond his grasp just as Meredith had always been, but at least he had been able to recognize the futility of his love before it took him into another bottomless pit of perdition. He turned as someone behind him called his name.

“Christopher!” Mark smiled and then embraced his former apprentice. The sight of his beloved face, smeared with the grime of the desert was a great comfort.

“Brother, we had given up on you!” Christopher squeezed the life out of him and kissed him on both cheeks before kissing him, lightly on the lips in the Templar fashion. Christopher was the only Knight who still gave the
Chevalier du Morte
this venerable greeting. Mark had to assume that the rest were too afraid of him now to kiss him. Even Simon had resorted to shaking his hand, refusing to look directly in his eyes unless forced. These reactions only added to his sense of isolation and loneliness. The Knights seemed unimpressed with Edgard d’Brouchart’s transformation from rough, gruff Master to angelic presence, but their fear of the Knight of Death was almost palpable no matter how hard they tried to hide it.

“I had some business away to the north.” He followed the Knight of the Holy City toward the encampment. “The siege of New Babylon is well under way.”

“That is good news and we’ve had very little.” Christopher spoke over his shoulder. “You are looking well,” he commented. The last time they had seen Mark Ramsay, he’d been wearing a filthy, borrowed kilt, smeared and caked with desert sand and grit. Now he was pristinely clean in a crisp black uniform that resembled those worn by the Fox soldiers. He wore an automatic pistol under his jacket and the indomitable golden sword on his left hip. The black, multi-pocketed trousers were tucked in the top of his shining black combat boots and the leather scabbard slapped the top of his boot as he walked. Christopher, on the other hand was only partially clean. He had made use of Lucio’s well as best he could and washed his socks, but his Templar Uniform had been replaced by desert camouflage fatigues, badly stained from the road with many small rips and tears in the fabric. He wore a Kevlar helmet on his head with a brown cloth covering the back of his neck. A dust mask hung from strings tied to one of his pockets. He did not carry his sword, but wore an assortment of weapons, mostly eastern throwing devices on a canvass belt that crisscrossed his back. He also carried an automatic rife with a laser sight and wore a pair of ivory gripped, Colt .45 revolvers in western style holsters. A cowboy Ninja. Mark had to smile as he assessed the American’s condition. Christopher had always been what was once called a ‘scrapper’. It was good to see that nothing much had changed in that respect. He also carried two water bottles and an ammo bag.

Soldiers were perched all along the path leading to the compound below, watching the summit and the desert beyond the hills for anything that might present a threat. They had erected a sort of landslide shelter that would divert the smaller rocks and debris coming down the mountain, but there were signs of damage to tents and vehicles from larger projectiles. So far, they had lost no one, but there had been some close calls and a few broken bones.

Lucio was the first to see them approaching the Grand Master’s command tent. The Italian started out to meet them, stopped, turned his back and then changed his mind again. He turned and walked more slowly toward them.

“Brother Ramsay.” Lucio smiled slightly when they stopped in front of him. “It is good of you to return.”

“Thank you.” Mark nodded to him and then waited. Lucio made no move to greet him further before turning again toward the tent.

“You might like to know the Master is rather perturbed with you. He has, as usual, been taking it out on me.”

“Thank you for standing in for me, Brother.” Mark could not help but repress a smile at the Italian’s sarcasm. So he was ticked off, still. Nothing surprising in that.