Silver Knight

  It had taken ten long years before Paris fell to a thirsty sword blade, and when my Paris fell, I knew that Menelaus would not be kind to me. He had repeatedly sent word that if I would leave Troy, I could find sanctuary with him. He would still take Troy, but I would be in a better position. I think it stung his pride that I preferred Paris. I did not survive the war as poets and authors such as Homer would have people believe. I knew that I could not bear Menelaus, so I followed Sylvia from the walls.

  When all was said and done, the Trojan War was all about the gold. Troy had found gold—a large amount of it. That was what had made Tyndareus agree to my marriage to Paris in the first place. Menelaus was already rich and powerful but what do the rich and powerful always want? More.

  * * * *

  The Present

  We met up with Sam and Maggie on the connecting flight out of New York to Italy. Once on board the plane for Rome, I felt a rising tension. Sam and Maggie sat together which left me with Diana. Di, as her friends sometimes called her.

  “Tell me about yourself. If you don’t have any experience, how do you know about them?” I asked her.

  “I dream about them. Almost every night I have a different dream. What about you? How did you start?”

  “I was attacked first when I was fourteen, and I have killed a demon every year or couple of years since then. The darkness is never ending apparently. It was 1995 and the longest day of the year, my birthday, and there’d been no way I was going to stay at home and miss the Dead Can Dance performance—which is why I’d snuck out. Not that my mum would have even noticed. In fact, I lived on the street after that.

  “I’d had a spiked dog collar around my neck, a chain wrapped around my wrist and a big, clunky cross that I’d found cheap at a car boot sale. The cross was about five inches long, and when the tip was pressed and top pulled, it came apart into a small dagger—a small, silver dagger fortunately for me. Wearing torn black jeans, two shredded black t-shirts layered, and black lipstick with my died black hair, I’d been ready to go.

  “Meeting up with several other fans at the gig, we’d gone outside for a smoke when the band had taken a break. Standing at the edge of an alley leaning up against the building, I smelled it. As I looked around, no one else seemed to act as if they smelled anything rotten, just me. We’d been drinking, of course, having all the vices, but standing there and breathing in that pungent odor, I knew it was evil and knew it had to be confronted, whatever it was. But as intense as the smell was, the knowledge came just as harshly. Demon!

  “I was utterly fearless at first. That is right up until I got a look at the arms ending in long, curved claws that were reaching for me and realized I only had about a three-inch blade.

  “After that, scents would bring memories. The memories were like the scents, sometimes harsh and abrupt and complete all at once and sometimes softly clinging and slowly taking shape.”

  “Do you remember many past lives?” Diana asked.

  “Well, I guess it depends on your definition of many. And really sometimes I have to have the smell to be able to recall anything. I know it sounds strange,” I added with a smile. “How does your dreaming work? It might be similar.”

  “Well, mainly I just dream about dying…about being killed. There are times when I wake up and remember the life that went before the dream death, but usually I just remember the death scene.”

  “You don’t remember surviving. You know, actually winning?” I suppose I was fortunate to remember many aspects of my previous lives…the ones I remembered any way.

  “Sometimes but mostly it’s seeing that if I had done something differently, then I would have survived. And then too, often it’s people that kill me and not the demons.” Diana didn’t look happy about that.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, there would be a witness, and the story would get garbled somehow, and the next thing you know, I’m being stoned as a witch,” she grimaced at the thought.

  “I know all about witches,” I said with a sad smile thinking about Salem Town. It had been 1692 and people genuinely believed in witches and demons. It was part of everyday life. The devil tried to tempt you and to harm you. People blamed crop failures and sickness on the devil, demons and witches.

  “What do you remember?” Diana asked.

  “I was in Salem when some girls started acting bizarrely and finally accused three women of being witches. It escalated from there…”

  * * * *

  1692 CE

  “Helen, have you heard what has happened at the Putnam’s house?” Martha Corey asked, coming in quickly out of the bitter cold which caused her old bones to ache. It had been lightly snowing earlier, and now it lay undisturbed without even a hint of a breeze.

  “No, I’ve been stitching sheets for Goodwife Bassett. Have they started yet another congregation? Isn’t breaking away from ours enough?” I asked. I knew that it irritated most that the wealthy Putnam’s felt they could separate from the town and start their own village congregation. It was seen as prideful—a very great sin.

  “Ann Putnum, Betty Parris, and Abigail Williams have made accusations of witchcraft! They’ve charged Sarah Good, Sarah Osborne, and the Paris’ slave Tituba as being witches!” Ann and Abigail were twelve, and Betty was nine. I had heard that recently they have been afflicted with seizures, though not typical epileptic seizures. They had no control over their bodies while their arms flapped about, blurted out strange noises, and complained of feeling as if they were being pinched.

  “Witchcraft!” I exclaimed. It was a capital offense, an extremely serious charge. Cotton Mather, a minister in Boston, had told of the symptoms of being attacked by a witch in his Memorable Providences Relating to Witchcrafts and Possessions that he had written just three years ago in 1689. During the winter months, we often got together in a women’s circle to read and discuss while we worked on our mending. Tituba’s stories, in particular of fortune telling and having the ability to sway men’s minds, we found enchanting.

  “Oh, please, if Sarah Good was a witch would she not have more?” I asked. Sarah Good would go from house to house begging for food and shelter. She was a burden on the community true, but I strongly doubted witchcraft.

  “I cannot imagine. Sarah Osborne has been trying to gain control of her son’s inheritance, and if she were a witch, I would think she would be successful. Putnam did not like her marrying that indentured servant,” Martha said.

  And yet the women went before the magistrate on the complaint of witchcraft. After several days of interrogation, they were jailed. Martha was a strong voice of disapproval and questionioned the girls’ credibility. Not surprisingly a short time later, Martha was accused of witchcraft herself.

  That should have been the clue to wake the community to what was actually happening, but instead, mass hysteria seemed to descend upon them. I went to visit Martha in jail in late April only to discover that her husband Giles Corey had also been arrested.

  “Martha, I’ve brought you some fresh bread,” I handed it to her through the bars knowing that she would later share it out amonst the others she shared the cell with.

  “Thank you, Helen. Did you hear that Abigail Hobbs and Mary Warren confessed?” I shook my head in astonishment. She continued, “They have accused additional people.”

  “I cannot believe this. Has the world gone mad? Can no one see that we could not possibly be living in a community so full of witches?” At this point, almost sixty-two people had been jailed for witchcraft, just based on accusations, no physical evidence at all.

  “Giles has refused to enter a plea,” she whispered to me. That cannot be good, I thought. The magistrate would require a confession or a plea of not guilty.

  “What are they going to do?” I asked her.

  “I heard that they would force him,” she said with a tear beginning at the edge of her eye. I wished I could take her in my arms and offer comfort for we both knew what that meant. On Septembe
r 22nd, I watched my innocent friend hang.

  I watched later that week as Giles Corey was laid out to be pressed. They piled stone after stone on top of him, letting the weight bear down to crush him slowly. His torturous death took two days, and when it was over, he still had not said ‘guilty’ or ‘not guilty.’

  The final horror for the poor accused and condemned was that they were excommunicated, and none could be given a proper burial. Although, at night families would often reclaim the bodies of their kin and bury them in unmarked graves on family property.

  * * * *

  The Present

  “The ones accused were basically outsiders, at least at first. You know, ones who did not attend church or grew herbs to help the sick. But then it seemed to escalate, and family feuds became a part of the accusations. Eventually over a hundred people were accused and jailed for witchcraft without a shred of physical proof,” I said. “Ultimately, I think nineteen people were hanged, and one pressed to death.” Diana looked a little sick at that, and I wondered why.

  “Well, for me, it was usually someone who saw me either kill a demon or try to,” she added. “What’s the best way? That you’ve found to kill them, I mean?” Diana wanted to know.

  “That would be any way in which they are dead, and you are left alive.”

  The flight was uneventful and gave me time to think. I had been alone for most of my life, in fact, since that night when I was fourteen. My father had left long before, and my mother was more concerned with the bottle anyway. So it just seemed natural for me to move on. Seeing Diana with her friends gave me another little prick of envy and I sighed. I had no friends to speak of. After all, who would have believed what I did?

  So I traveled, finding demons once every year or so and successfully killing them, and earned a living as a waitress as I moved around. I always went back to London though. There had been an ex-detective inspector of Italian descent who'd looked after me some when I was a teen living on the street. He was gone now, so I don’t know what the draw was. When I hit twenty-one, I went by the old place just to see my mum, curious if she had drank herself to death or not, I suppose. Instead, my disappearance at such a young age had had a sobering effect on her, and she had turned her life around.

  While seeking help to stop drinking, she had met a wealthy man, fallen in love, and gotten married. They welcomed me like the prodigal that I was, and at least I never had to work again. My stepfather was a kind and gentle man who loved me as a long lost daughter. But still I was alone. I couldn’t very well tell them about demons, so I just told them that traveling meant everything to me. I visit their house for an extended stay about twice a year now, and it’s nice, but I never feel that I truly belong.

  I had been in London when the desire to go to New York City first entered my mind. Upon arriving, I had just walked for several days with the notion that I was there for a particular demon. So I searched, but nothing seemed to satisfy me. I kept wandering around and eventually made my way to the Prospect Park Zoo.

  Walking through the park, I got to an edge where Third Street was visible, and I had to walk down it. It was an attractive street and the houses had to be worth many millions considering how challenging finding space was in the New York City area. I finally stopped before one and just stood there looking at it. It was an exceptionally large brownstone. It looked almost double the size of most of the others on the street, and it was immaculate.

  Does a demon live there? I wondered. It was at that point that a man opened the door and walked out. He was attractive—nothing really spectacular, but attractive with broad shoulders and friendly eyes. He was dressed for running, and I assumed he was headed to the park, but when he saw me he stopped, already half way down the front steps before looking about. I’ve seen that same stunned expression on many men’s faces when they first look at me, but this time I felt a little thrill of pleasure that he found me pleasing to look at.

  “Were you coming in?” he asked in surprise.

  “I’m not sure,” I replied. We just looked at each other for a long moment of silence until I looked down with a smile of embarrassment. “I just wanted to see the house.”

  “Did Diana send you?” He continued to the bottom of the stairs, and I found myself looking up at him. Nice, he’s taller. I stood five-foot ten in my socks, so it was gratifying to look up occasionally.

  “No, I don’t know a Diana. I just…felt like I needed to be here.”

  “Like a compulsion?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you a warrior then?” he wanted to know, and I gave a big sigh and smiled.

  “Yes! You are too then?” I asked him.

  “Yes, why don’t you come in?” And he led me up the stairs and into the house…a house that felt like a home the minute I stepped through the door.

  “My name’s Jarret,” he said and then called out, “Third!”

  “I’m Helen,” I said as a young man approached from the back of the house.

  “Yes?” he asked looking down at me—another tall man. They grow them big in America.

  “This is Helen, and she needs a room. Has Jarvis gotten back from his doctor’s appointment?”

  “No, I’ll let you know what the results are as soon as he gets in,” he said to Jarret and then looking at me asked, “What color would you prefer?” He saw my hesitation as I wasn’t sure what he meant, so he said, “We’ve got the Red Room, the Ecru Room, and the White Room available.”

  “I really like white,” I said and the next thing I knew I had moved into the White Room with its light blue, almost white, carpet and diaphanous white hangings on the dark canopy bed. I never wanted to leave. But, of course, I couldn’t just lounge in my room. I was looking forward to getting to know Jarret. This was the first time I could think of that I had met another warrior, and I looked forward to being able to be just myself. No pretending to be normal.

  That evening when I walked into the dining room, we were the only ones there.

  “Where are Jarvis and Third?” I asked.

  “Jarvis retires early these days. His bones ache even in the heat of summer he says. Third had a date with a young girl named Mary. He doesn’t go out often, and as he’d already made plans, I didn’t see any need to make him stay just to wait on us.”

  “No certainly not. We can fend for ourselves,” I said looking around at the long, empty table. The dining room was a large rectangle with dark wood paneling on the walls and wooden beams criss-crossing on the ceiling. The lighting was muted with wall sconces and two crystal chandeliers overhead. The table itself was an oblong with two pedestals and would probably seat twelve comfortably.

  He grinned at me and suggested, “Why don’t we go in the kitchen and see what we can scrounge?”

  “Sounds good to me.” I was adept at scrounging because I was usually alone. We entered the kitchen through a swinging door at the far end of the dinning room. It had been completely renovated with what looked like restaurant quality appliances in a stainless steel finish. Jarret pointed me towards an island counter with high back stools, and then he opened the refrigerator.

  After looking inside for a moment, he turned and asked, “You like peanut butter sandwiches?” I burst out laughing, and he joined in.

  “That’d be great,” I said. “Do you have crisps I hope?” He looked puzzled for a moment and then went to the walk-in pantry and came out holding a bag of Ruffles in triumph.

  “So tell me about yourself,” he said when we finally sat down to our feast. I tried to give him the abbreviated version as he poured cold milk, but he stopped me.

  “You’ve been killing demons since you were fourteen?” I nodded a yes. “So, how many have you actually killed?”

  “I’d say about fifteen.”

  “What?! Are you kidding me?” I shook my head no. “Man!”

  “I didn’t kill them all at once you know,” I said. “I’ve only ever faced one at a time. How about you?”

 
“I’ve only killed one.” He looked kind of sheepish as he explained. “I didn’t know anything about demons until running into Diana and haven’t met any since. I haven’t remembered anything, smelled anything, nothing. Do you remember any previous lives where you didn’t know about demons?”

  I shook my head thoughtfully and shrugged. “No, I don't now that you mention it.”

  “Well, Diana seems to think that we have certain lives where we get a break, you know, don’t have to fight.” So he filled me in on meeting Diana and the Light House. Finally adding, “Why do you suppose you felt a compulsion to come here?”

  “I'm not sure. I usually only feel it when it’s time to fight,” I told him, which made us both wonder what was coming. “But it doesn't seem to be the case here.”

  We finished eating and walked down the hall to the library. He said it was his favorite hangout. On a hall table at the entrance to the library was a stack of mail. The top one was addressed to: Mr. Paris Jarret Cunningham. My heart seemed to stop beating.

  “Jarret, your first name is Paris?” I asked him incredulously.

  “Yep. Can you imagine being stuck with that one as a kid? I was beat up on a regular basis until I convinced my parents that I was going by my middle name.” He walked on into the library, and I followed gladly.

  The next day David had shown up on the doorstep and two days later, Solomon. That’s when Jarret began thinking that Diana would show up as well. He’d been right.

  7 Rome

  When we arrived in Rome, we grabbed a cab to the Santa Maria hotel, which was a short distance away from the Vatican. Our suite ended up containing one room for Maggie and me to share, one room for Helen, and a spacious sitting room in between. It had an arched wooden-beam ceiling allowing space for a second level loft set up with a single bed perfect for Sam. The suite was on the second floor overlooking a courtyard and garden area full of flowers, orange trees, and cement benches for sitting to enjoy the quiet, cool breezes. After settling in, I called Paul Soratino to set up a time to meet with him the next day.