Antioch

  “What is it?”

  “It’s called The Six Beginnings, written by the saint, Matthew. It’s more than a hundred years old now but I’ve found it to be a useful study on the nature of paths. It helped me to understand some of the things I went through with my own. Shall I read some to you?”

  “Ok.”

  Michael flipped through to a specific passage. “Ah, here it is. Matthew says: Sadness is the noblest of these emotions, because it is through our own sadness that we understand each other’s pain. Only one without sadness could ever truly be alone. The known paths of sadness are…”

  Michael read on and Daniel sat listening, not so sure this Matthew knew what he was talking about. Daniel felt both sad and alone, terribly and all the time. But, he was also glad Michael didn’t seem to be angry with him anymore.

  Daniel spent that night in the church. Michael suggested he stay and rest for a few days, but Daniel said there was no time, that he needed to act. Michael remembered saying something similar to John once.

  ***

  The next morning, Michael left a note on the door so they could share a mediocre breakfast at the inn. Daniel didn’t want to eat at the Cauldron. Michael didn’t argue with him about it.

  Their conversation was spare. Michael prodded the bad food, remembering the last time they’d eaten together. That had been a bitter-sweet affair for them all. He said, “Ah, I know. What’s the best thing in the kitchen, Daniel?”

  Daniel said, “Not this,” without a trace of humor and ate it anyway.

  Michael chuckled. “Do you know, I think I’d like to send a letter to John. Could you stay long enough for me to write one?”

  “Ok. Maybe Grandpa won’t be so mad that way. I’ll get my horse up while you’re at it.”

  “There won’t be any need for that. I’ve the stable-boy outfitting her as we speak.” Michael smiled, happy to lessen Daniel’s burden.

  Daniel paused, bug-eyed, having just taken a mouthful of salty eggs on toast. Edward was the stable-boy. Daniel didn’t want Edward saddling Sarah - at all. Food blasted from his mouth as he shouted, “Fwah! No thanks! I’ll do that myself!” He jumped out of his chair.

  Betheford, who was coming over, cried, “My word! What’s that language for the breakfast table?”

  Michael did something of the same. “God’s mercy! Go right ahead then!”

  Daniel had already run out of the inn’s double doors. While Betheford’s common room recovered from the inappropriate outburst, Michael thought he remembered that Daniel might have just referred to John as Grandpa a moment before. He’d have to ask him about that later.

  By the time Daniel reached the stable, it was too late. The pinto was shoed, saddled and brushed. He found the precious books in her pack and some good food from the Cauldron too, which meant Edward had been through his things. Daniel burned with hatred.

  Edward walked out of the back. He was seventeen, tall and thin. Daniel was three years younger but on his way to being a giant like Horace. They both weighed one hundred and thirty five pounds. Edward smiled at him. “She’s all yours!” Then, just as he left the stable, just within earshot, he snickered.

  “What’s so funny?”

  Edward paused and then turned around; there was a little too much challenge in the way Daniel had spoken. “It’s just that, you named the horse Sarah. That’s so stupid!” He laughed, not necessarily trying to be mean, but genuinely amused. It was obvious he’d heard everything.

  Daniel was mortified. His large eyes started to water.

  “I’m sorry. You’re not going to cry, are you?” That was Edward being mean.

  Daniel did cry. He followed his path to the source, ripped it up like a thorn bush and let the riin fly. Then he grabbed Edward by the shirt and slammed him into the wall. It could have been Ares kicking the stall the way the whole stable shook. Bridles and tack trembled to fall and a jar of shoe-nails crashed to the floor.

  Edward blacked out for a split second and then gasped from having the wind knocked out of him. He swatted and scratched to get away but Daniel was too strong - impossibly strong. It seemed like an ax would’ve bounced off of him. Twisted with sadness and rage, tears spurting out of his ducts, Daniel had the expression of someone who was very, very sorry for being about to rip another person apart. Edward was terrified.

  A burlap sack of horseshoes dropped to the ground behind them - clank. “What’re you do’n, kid?”

  Daniel turned around with that terrible face.

  It was Ditch, in a sweat from the forge. The pictures on his skin snaked out from under his tank top and dipped into the clefts of his muscles. Though small for a grown man, he was a beast next to these teenagers.

  Daniel shouted, “Go away, you stupid sailor!” and turned back to Edward, who was so firmly pinned he might as well have been impaled.

  Ditch nodded, alright, promptly walked up and kicked Daniel between the legs from behind. It was beyond Daniel’s ability to concentrate through the pain. He let go and doubled over in the dirt.

  Ditch said, “Get out a’ there, Ed,” which Edward did, gladly. Ditch had heard Daniel was back in town. Guessing the kid was all pumped-up on the way, or whatever, like Michael, it didn’t seem fair to let him stomp the stable-boy. Ditch put himself between the two and said, “You wanna fight? Fight me.”

  Daniel wanted to do exactly that. He found his path again and tore it loose. It was the quickest recovery from a groin-shot Ditch had ever seen. Daniel charged, the intentions plain on his face: Let’s see how YOU like it! He brought his foot all the way back to Golgotha, ready to punt Ditch through the roof.

  Ditch almost laughed as he circled out of the way. Daniel flew past like he was jumping a hurdle. Yeah, they always wanna pay you back with the same, Ditch thought, strutting out into the open. He looked back over his shoulder, pretending to be thoroughly unimpressed.

  Daniel charged him again. Ditch circled out and - smack - slapped him in the face.

  It wasn’t the hardest slap but to Daniel it was worse than a low-blow, it was more personal. Only his father had ever hit him in the face like that. He was too shocked to concentrate. The sudden loss of riin’s strength caused a weird shift in his momentum and he dropped onto his hands and knees in the dirt again, crying.

  Ditch walked away. “Keep it up, kid. You’re gonna learn how to get hit, that’s all.”

  Ditch didn’t want to hurt him. He wanted to break his spirit. He figured Daniel was already in tears, so it wouldn’t be long before he gave up. Then he’d show him a little respect and they’d all go get something to eat together and be friends. Pfft, I might even make up with Fergus while I’m at it. It seemed like a good day to kill a feud.

  Edward cheered, “Yeah! Give it to him, Ditch!”

  Daniel headed for Edward then, who shouted and ran for his life.

  Ditch out-paced them both like it was child’s play, hook-tripped Daniel and sent him sprawling into the dirt on his face again. Walking away, he said, “Don’t worry about Ed. I’m your problem.”

  Daniel went berserk. His strength was useless. It didn’t matter what he did, he couldn’t lay a hand on either of them. Ditch was too fast, circling out of the way, slapping him, tripping him and pushing him down, over and over, all while Edward laughed and cheered. The dirt and tears turned into mud on Daniel’s cheeks. Then he remembered his rapier. He drew it without a second thought, ready to kill that stupid sailor.

  Ditch’s eyes narrowed. Playtime was over. He saw the weapon as a three foot reach advantage with a hard, sharp edge. He thought about backing off, that it might be smart, but instead decided to teach that clumsy kid a lesson about fighting dirty.

  Unfortunately, Daniel wasn’t clumsy with his sword. He feinted once, spun and shoved it up to the hilt through the sailor’s lung. Then he ripped it out and walked away, paying Ditch back with a look.

  Ditch was stunned. He couldn’t believe it. The breath hitched in his chest and he put his hand over a sputtering
hole. His lung collapsed, filling with blood. Something Jacob had said popped into his mind: John taught him how to use the way with a sword. I think it’s called cutting things in half.

  Edward didn’t know what to do. That silvery steel had been sticking out of Ditch’s back and when it pulled through, Edward realized something awful. “Ooh, you’re a murderer… Michael’s gonna cut your neck off!” He sprinted for the church to tell.

  Ditch fell to his knees. It was excruciating to breathe. He thought Daniel was about to kill him, or worse, heal him. If that kid tries to put the hospital on me, I’m a’ get him. I’m a’ get him in the eye.

  Daniel sheathed his sword, tears streaming. He didn’t know how any of it had happened but he knew he couldn’t face Michael. I’m a murderer. He wished he could take it all back, or that he could heal Ditch, but he couldn’t. He could only run away. Daniel wailed, “I’m sooorry!” and ran into the stable.

  Ditch coughed and wheezed, bewildered. “Man… that’s messed up…”

  Daniel tore out of there on Sarah, his cloak fluttering behind them. He rode hard and didn’t look back, hoping the sailor wouldn’t die, that Michael would reach him in time.

  Heading west out of the clearing, he decided not to use that gate. It was the shortest path to Golgotha. If he had any trouble leaving town, if they somehow managed to catch him, it would happen there. They’ll look for me there… because I’m a murderer. The north gate gave him the same doubts and he couldn’t bear to pass the Cauldron so he turned south on the city’s streets.

  Sarah’s hooves clashed over the cobblestones like the world was coming to an end. She wasn’t the skittish thing she’d been before. Under Daniel’s hand she was a bold charger. People dodged out of the way. Daniel tried not to worry about them. They didn’t know what had happened and wouldn’t know to tell anyone they’d seen him, not until he’d escaped from Antioch.

  The southern guardhouse and watch platform were empty, to his relief, but that gate was much different on the inside than it was on the out. Flowers, old and new, in wreathes and arrangements, leaned against its base like gifts. When he leapt down to lift the bolt, he saw words chiseled into the wood all around.

  Daniel couldn’t read but, as he opened the gate and the arrangements fell over, he began to understand. They left a bouquet on his mother’s grave every year on Becca’s birthday. Those words were names. They were the names of loved ones lost to the plague. The southern gate had become a memorial. It was Meroe’s tombstone.

  All of those people, they were never coming back. Overcome by his path again, Daniel went to his saddle bag. He took out a rough carving of a pig and left it among the flowers.

  28 The Third Meridian

  Ezekiel looked at himself in the mirror of a window-lit public restroom. He had failed. He could hold life in his hands, bend it into shapes and even stop its flow, but he couldn’t bring it back once it was gone. Not yet. He felt he’d come closer every time, with each of his daughters and his son and then his grandson, but resurrection remained just out of reach. There was an element he was missing.

  Perhaps the solution lies in those forbidden paths. But no, he wasn’t insane with grief anymore. He knew the dangers of those. In those paths he risked himself. Venturing into them for Elizabeth had been a short-sighted mistake. She was going to die anyway, he told himself, eventually. She never would have loved me if I’d just kept her alive. I’ve learned that much from the others. Truly, loving me was the only purpose she served.

  No, he’d simply have to try again within his boundaries. What was thirty years anyway? He couldn’t remember how old he really was, certainly much older than this man in the mirror. He imagined that if he were to look his age, he’d be no more than a fragile column of dust, ready to fall apart at the slightest breath of motion.

  He needed to change. The waitress out in the restaurant was pale and black haired. He’d make himself look like that. He hadn’t looked like that in a while.

  The color drained from his face, leaving a shade of waitress in its wake, down into his shirt collar. Under his clothes it did the same, pulling out of every surface and collecting into his left arm. That hand became darker and darker with lightness creeping down above it. The tip of the index finger began to distend, swelling with melanin like a blackberry. When he was almost an albino, he plucked his previous hue and left it on the sink, encased in his fingerprint.

  He squeezed the basic structures out of his recent meal, began dissolving and growing bone and sprouted straight and black hair under his old, tight and white curls. The skin elasticized on his strengthening frame as the materials of his appearance exchanged. The energy behind the shift was limitless. When he was finished, he took out a pair of scissors. He looked ridiculous.

  Ezekiel paid his tab as a different man with a sloppy haircut and stepped outside into a warm breeze. The waitress queered out at him through the window. The restaurant was a quaint little building with the bark still on its pillars, built cozily into a grove of trees. Seeking out the last of his blood relatives had taken Ezekiel deep into the country.

  An annoying stinging in his left eye made him squint. He brought his fingers up to rub it at first. When the irritation persisted, he examined his reflection. Something small and vicious was growing by division in his eye, rapidly.

  ***

  All of the Great Nations’ militaries were either ignorant or at critical security, there was no in-between. The plague was faster than the post. Major cities across the continent evacuated on their own accord. The safest response, however, was to stay out of open air.

  General Alexander, his crisp uniform armored with decorations, led a group of soldiers and scientists from the headquarters of an underground system of bunkers. Those surrounding him were alive because of his quick and tough decisions. They were absolutely loyal to him and busy at their tasks, ready for his orders.

  Then, suddenly, every one of them collapsed, hundreds across the room. In one moment, rifles clattered under combat fatigues, coffee arced from dropping cups, and papers spilled to the floor to float in low, slipping courses. Alexander stood alone in the middle of the event. He understood what had happened. It had been twenty years, but he’d seen it before. Ezekiel was coming.

  He considered drawing his pistol and holding it on the door. But, he didn’t and then the door opened and Ezekiel came through in his latest disguise. The altered appearance didn’t come as a surprise. Alexander had seen him in countless faces. He could only hope this version would be useful.

  “Oh, Alex, thank everything you’re alright. You’re the first one I thought of when I found out what was happening.”

  Alexander was unreceptive. “Are they dead?”

  “Well, I don’t know. Like I said, you’re the first one I came to see.”

  Alexander frowned and indicated his fallen company.

  Ezekiel said, “Oh, that. No, they’re asleep.”

  “What do you want?”

  “That’s fairly obvious isn’t it? I’m here to help you.”

  “Good. I’m working on the best response to the plague, the best way to move around above ground and the best way to aid the suffering holdouts on the surface. I assume you’re immune to this disease.” He strode to the wall map with his pointer. “You can find and bring in survivors from sector seven-G.”

  Ezekiel paused at having been given orders. “But, we can’t bother with these,” he said, gesturing at the sleeping men and women. “We have to find the others. They’re in danger.”

  Alexander put his hands behind his back. “I don’t care if they are. I’m not interested in abandoning my responsibilities. You can stay and help me with what I’m doing or you can carry me out of here.”

  Ezekiel was taken aback. He really means that... How sad. Alexander had always been his favorite, the oldest and wisest of his glorious immortals, his rare friends. He looks rather like a bellboy in that uniform, a fantastic genius of a bellboy. If he hadn’t met me, he’d have r
uled the world for a time.

  Ezekiel conceded. He had to hurry. The others needed and might even want his help. But before leaving, he’d do everything he could for this one. He found a pen and some paper in the mess and started writing. “I won’t do either, Alex. I know of a place where they can cure this, whatever this is. You should be safe at sea.” He stopped and looked up. “It’s very far from here. Your only other option is to come with me.”

  “I’ll take directions to the place if that’s the choice.”

  Ezekiel sighed and went back to writing. “Be careful with the men there. They’re dangerous. They’ll destroy you if they even suspect that I’ve instructed you.”

  “So, it’s finally a good thing you never did.” Alexander turned away to check on his soldiers.

  “Like I said, even if they suspect. You must appear absolutely ignorant. Promise me you will do so.”

  “They’re like you?”

  Ezekiel’s eyes darted. “Somewhat. They’re called the Circle. You must deliver them this secret note. No… have one of your, one of those give it to them.” He flicked his fingers at the sleepers again and went back to writing.

  “When did you last meet with them?”

  “The last time I collected my books from you I suppose. When was that?” He didn’t look up from writing to ask.

  Alexander put his palm over his face. That was over two hundred years ago. Ezekiel seemed to have no concept of how long that was or how much could have changed. The Great Nations were little more than warring, ethnic tribes two hundred years ago. The place in reference might be a wilderness or even a crater by now. Then again, outside of appearances, Ezekiel hadn’t changed at all in much longer than that.

  Ezekiel took out a leather-bound journal from behind his back, the record of his latest work on resurrection, and put it on top of the two notes he’d written. “This place, it’s where I take the books. You do it this time, but remember - you don’t know anything.” Alexander nodded. Then Ezekiel said, “Good luck, Alex,” and left.