Chapter Twelve: Pursuit
Jack was acutely aware of his pursuers, the girl and her guardian. They had been following him for days now, but as to how many days, he was uncertain, he lost count of the days since he had come back from the brink of oblivion, laid to rest in his stone tomb. The air had been stale, and musty, full of death. Perhaps it had been the odors of his, but like as not it was the odors of those who had gone before him. Death shrouds, disintegrating from age had decayed from the pure white gauze they had once been to yellow patches that crumbled when touched. Since that day, when he had found himself once more among the living, he had wandered the land with death as his companion.
No, he thought, not just death, but Daniel as well. Daniel had been there from the beginning, well, since that particular beginning, had been waiting there outside the stone mausoleum, carved into the hillside, dumb as a newborn child. He hadn't been able to speak, it was true, and it seemed almost as if he was some place else, unable to care for himself. How had he come, and from where? Daniel held more questions than answers, and he could not utter a single word. So Jack had taken him into his care, had traveled with him for days, spoke to him kindly and reminisced about days since past, told him stories that he'd heard from one place or another, ancient legends of civilizations long since past. Fed him and clothed him, given him his name, the name of a boy thrown into a den of lions according to the Torah, yet still he did not speak, just sat and stared blankly ahead, or walked when Jack lead him.
He had been Healed, recovered miraculously by something Jack had done, though what he had done, exactly, he couldn't recall, nor could he remember at what point it had happened, just that it had, and they had met Michael together after that. Michael was a centurion, a guard of the Roman Army, serving under Tiberius as his commander. Jack and Daniel had both enlisted, then, and they had fought side by side by side, the Three Musketeers. All for one and one for all. All for one, he thought. All for one. It had been Michael who had first noticed his violet eyes, and commented on them. Had his eyes ever been a different color? He thought they had, though what shade they had been he could not say. Daniel's eyes had been violet also, or were they brown?
So many trivial little details that seemed so unimportant as they had been, but now as he moved to the south and the west, towards Michael's current location, the same tiny things seemed of great importance. Violet eyes. What color were Michael's eyes? That same faded violet, partly grey, but mostly violet, grey around the pupil, but only for a little ways, and then violet. Was it a color of importance? That color shaded the rest of his life the same hue, although darker, and wet with blood. Had it ever been different?
His instincts were quiet on this. Ah, Michael, my loyal friend, the last of our strange band. Daniel had left them some time in the first three hundred years. It was quite a shock, learning that one could gain years and wisdom without growing older, without his body fighting him every step of the way, yet he took it in stride, took it as a matter of course, and bugger all else.
Ah, Daniel, when did you fall astray? Yet Daniel hadn't, not really, he took his commands and orders from a distance, doing as he was told but keeping separate all the same. Why? He had never said.
Yes, they were the Three Musketeers, a triumvirate of true power, spreading their seed across the land like there was no tomorrow, screwing whores and farmer's daughters alike, without any preference for one or the other. Without preference, that is, until Jack had met Iris. Iris, he thought longingly, if only you could have seen what I've seen. She was the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen, with eyes that stopped a man in his tracks, and a body that any man who was a man would lust after, would chase after, and she had been his for the taking.
Daughter of a farmer just outside of Damascus, she had those exotic eyes, and the body of a belly dancer, yet she was just a simple farm girl, who wanted nothing of travel or of the rest of the world, had only wanted a tiny strip of land, a farmer husband, and several children to look after. Though those were the things she desired, she had read a great many books, knew a great deal of the histories, and mythologies of many cultures, and Jack and Iris had talked at great length through the nights he had stayed.
“Come with me,” he had asked.
“Stay here, with me,” she had replied.
Those emerald eyes had danced in the firelight as they made love in that tiny farmhouse, but they couldn't dance forever, and Jack could not linger. The pangs of guilt he felt stemmed from this moment, at his inability to make a simple life with a girl he could love. The questions she had not yet asked were the ones he could not stay for, the answers he would be forced to give too hard, too unbelievable, too dark. How many men had he killed? Beyond counting now. How many villages had he burned to the ground? Too many, by far. The spirits of the dead haunted him to this day, far from Damascus, in the vast deserts of Western Utah and Nevada. Yet greater deserts still waited beyond these, and the ghosts who traveled with him would have much more to say on his sins, on the destruction he had wrought.
Daniel had left when he had seen Iris, and Seth had betrayed him. Only Michael remained.
Does he know? He asked himself silently. Does he know the path we tread is the one that leads to our demise? He could only guess, guess and feel alone, as he moved southward and west to the Hoover Dam, where he would meet Michael, would talk and reminisce for the last time before waiting for his final battle.
It was a lonesome path he trod, across the centuries and across the continents of Asia, Europe, Africa, and the Americas, a hard and lonesome path indeed. The desert was a cruel place, but far crueler to pass alone, with only himself and his ghosts for company. How far he had come, a long ways from Jerusalem, and the crusaders of Rome, from sea to shining sea.
I'm the bad guy . . . he thought, and how did it happen this way? He had seen his black aura before, his glimmer that hummed with its own life and let him breathe fire and fight like a dragon. Or a devil, he thought grimly. The road to Hell is paved with good intentions, as a wise man had once said, and Jack's intentions had been the greatest. To free men from the bonds they had crafted for themselves, to let them taste its fresh air, that liberty and not fate might be their master. It was not to be, at least not in this lifetime, as long as it had been, as many millennia as it had spanned.
How he had longed to see it! How he had longed to see the day when men could till the earth for themselves, and not maneuvered about by whatever government's jurisdiction they had fallen into, by whatever church's parish they were a part of, but that was not for him to see. Could the girl even hope to change man's destiny, his slavery, his dominion? An image of a man holding a leash that was attached to a collar around his own neck sparked briefly in his mind. He thought not. The nature of men cannot change, as much as he hoped for it. So he would fight to his death, and embrace it with both arms, and with his eyes wide open, take in the last sights and sounds of his existence. Sleep the long sleep, without any dreams or nightmares to stir him, and leave the world of men in her hands.
He was a part of the frayed edges that made up the tapestry of human history, a loose end, just as his army of destrachan were, and his generals, Michael and Daniel. Loose ends needed to be tied up, tied off, cut from the pattern so that the whole would not unravel with their continued existence, and if that was the way it was supposed to be, then let it be so. So let it be written, so let it be done.
Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, he thought crazily, I will fear no evil, for I am the lord, and fate is my shepard. If he was on the losing side of this battle, then he would lose, and be glad of it. He had been ready to die since he had first learned of the mad cycle to which he had been born, and nothing had changed in the hundreds of years since then.
How many years since he had reveled in his own wickedness, satiating his darkest human desires and indulging in the most depraved acts known to man? How many? Jack grinned wickedly, to himself as no other was around. The raping and plundering of villages who could not defend themselves, and especially not against him. He laughed aloud, Am I mad? Even as I go to the place I designed for my own death, I feel my humanity slipping . . .
It slipped from his shoulders like a sack carrying a burden he could no longer lift. His demise, his end. He would fight, no holds barred, and force her to do her worst, as he would surely do his. My gladius will be glad to be of use again. He had left the small sword in the temple, his final destination, far from his current position, far to the south and the west in Mexico. Mexico, the word rolled over his brain and his memory, bringing with it the feel of white sands beneath his feet and the warm azure waves, crested with sapphires rolling ever so gently on the beach, with the sun shining high overhead. Mexico. A place where dreams came true.
He'd visit that beach once more before meeting Sera for his final battle, one where perhaps she might die as well as he, though now there was nothing altruistic about his intentions now. This was desperation. His eyes were violet, shining with the chaos and turmoil of a dead man walking, and with a glint of insanity that said he meant to do something about it. Something inside of him had changed, had left his mind, though what his maddened mind might have lost, he was no longer sure. Death is the only surety, he told himself. Death is certain, everything else is gravy.
Sera gasped awake from Gabriel's arms. The fires of last night had burned down to embers, coals changing color from red to orange, then back to red. The night was cold, and the morning still a few hours away, but she felt lost somehow.
He's really lost it, now. Her thoughts weren't muddled, but clear, the lucid thoughts of someone who had been awake all night, and this one was no different. Jack had left behind his final piece of luggage, the only thing that made him more human than monster. He had lost his conscience.
How she knew this was of no consequence, now. The only thing that mattered was that she be prepared for the final confrontation. She breathed deeply, letting her lover's arms wrap around her once again. She was ready, was always ready.
Jack laughed to himself as he made his way down the sloping hill to Hoover Dam. Sera and her boy were days away, and by the time they reached this place, the only crossing possible would be dust and debris, letting the river once again flow freely. Not that he cared about that, no. He was no conservationist. Any hindrance to her was a small time increase for him, so that he might enjoy his 'golden years.' Laughing maniacally to himself, he thought, How easily we fit into our old roles again! I the mighty beast, the man of a dark past and darker future, a dragon waiting to be slain, and she the knight in shining armor, mounted atop her armored steed with lance at the ready to spill my blood It's like something out of a fairy tale. Sera, Arthur Pendragon reincarnate, wielding that spear-knife like it was Excalibur of old, and her boy, Gabriel was her Guinevere, pre-Lancelot. What Character did he resemble then? He snapped his fingers together as he thought of it, Mordred! Seth? Did Seth have a place in it? Merlin, of course, the old man gone batty with years, thinking he knew ever so much. How easily the old roles of literature had overtaken them, with her the heroine of the tale, and he the villain. He laughed aloud again, as he moved nearer and nearer the fire around which Michael lounged.
Michael had that air about him of one who doesn't care one whit about what any one might have to say, although he did care, mostly what Jack thought. They were two of a kind, men after the same heart, talking of sexual exploits and bragging about kills. Barbaric, and hysterical. His longish brown hair was rather unkempt, but then, it was before sunrise, and he was still awake, which said something about his condition. A styrofoam cooler sat next to his lawn chair, which had another just like it nearby. The night air was cool, and he was ready for this reunion.
“Ho there, Michael!”
“Jack! It's been far to long. Far, far too long! Do we have time yet? Is she upon us?” Michael was eager to please his old friend, ready with a beer and a handshake.
“We've got some time, yes. Where'd you get these beers?” The glass he now held was frosted over, its amber liquid still slightly frothy, but it was rich and full of flavor as well as smooth, quenching his thirst and wetting his throat. “It's been far too long since I've tasted a brew so fine.”
“Yes,” Michael said, “it is a fine brew. I've been saving these for awhile now, I figured the next time I saw you we'd have cause for celebration.”
Jack nodded solemnly, savoring the flavor of the beer and foamy hops. “I'm afraid, though, that this might be the last time for a celebration like this. The girl is coming for us.”
Michael nodded, “Yeah, I thought it seemed like it was our time. We've become part of the fray, haven't we?”
“Yes, we're part of a lost history, and we need to be forgotten for mankind to continue its progress.”
His companion smiled, his teeth gleaming in the fire's light. “We made a good run of it, though, didn't we? I mean, just think of all we've accomplished! We've been around and seen shit no one alive would even believe!”
“I remember. I also remember what this devil's brew did to you back in Naples,” Jack gave a slight grin.
“Ah yes, Cassandra. She had such beautiful skin. She also weighed more than most heifers, but she had really great skin.”
Jack laughed, “and again in Nice with the hairy one. What was her name?”
“Ah, Ellen, 'not Helen but Ellen,'” Michael's thickly fake French accent was too much even for him to bear. They both doubled over and laughed. The fire was dim, and the stars bright in the sky, diamonds in a sea of black velvet. The atmosphere of the conversation abruptly lost all jubilee, jovial no longer.
“So we've become a part of what we fought against, eh? The fray is upon us . . .,” Michael began.
“I think it was always a part of us, I think I may have fucked everybody over. When I refused the fight, the whole cycle was thrown into unbalance, and so I had to bring the balance back, but I failed even at that,” he stared long and hard into his beer bottle, not wanting to dredge anything more from the depths of his soul.
Michael nodded, but said nothing, choosing instead to wait for Jack to finish his thoughts.
“She's going to kill us, both of us, but that doesn't mean we can't fight back.”
“So
what are you suggesting?”
“You have the explosives,
like I asked?” He waited for a nod, “Good, then the plan
goes ahead as we scheduled. I was the charges placed tonight, and I
want you to detonate as soon as you're clear.”
Michael nodded, draining his beer, and grabbed the two large duffels behind his folding camp chair. “I know what you're thinking Jack, and don't blame yourself. I'll come if I can, but don't wait for me. This might be the last stand,” he clapped his old friend on the shoulder before rushing off into the night, down into the bowels of the Great Hoover Dam.
What isn't said, is more often than not more important that what is ever admitted openly, and this was no different case. Jack had wanted to tell him, man to man, what exactly it was that they faced, but he had failed to find the words. This was his sadness, another stone that he had no choice but to drop by the wayside, and he did so with a grin and a tear.
In his mind he saw a flash of the glorious and retributive Sera, wielding her power like Zeus of old, lightning bolts clinging to her arms and knife striking foes down with the greatest of fervor. The thread holding them together, the tiny silver and gold strand caught his eye for just a moment, and the gold was overtaking the silver. My time is winding down, he thought, it's almost at an end. I didn't even get to say goodbye. Goodbye, old friend, he sent along the silver wire connecting himself to Michael. Goodbye and Godspeed, and may we meet in earnest beyond the veil. His friend was silent.
As he turned and left the fire behind, a tune came to his mind as he began running once more to the south and the west, a tune that he now whistled as the wind whipped his cloak of cougar-fur about his legs. He sang along in his mind.
Michael, Row the boat ashore, Hallelujah.
Copyright 2006