The Perfect Sun Read online

  “It was the best I could do, father.” Apolonio apologized for the splint. “I still have my pistol. My rifle was on my saddle. Maybe, with a little luck, we’ll come across my horse. I had quite a store of ammunition.”

  “But there is no such thing as luck,” Konrad muttered and noted Apolonio’s skin was burned and peeling, his lips were cracked and black. “You haven’t been drinking your ration, have you?”

  “I gave mine to Leo,” his son shrugged.

  “I hope Leo misses us.” Konrad tried to smile. “I doubt the Master will.”

  “Of course he will.”

  Apolonio was the consummate optimist. Something which drove Michey up the wall.

  They began to hobble toward a tumbled down grouping of hummocks and boulders, the only thing breaking the monotony of the nearby landscape. Their only objective was to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the horse carcass baking in the sun behind them. They could still smell the blood and guts and Apolonio didn’t smell much better himself. They had gone hardly more than a few yards when one of the vultures landed on the hindquarters of the beast with a loud screech and another flapped down on top of it, challenging it immediately.

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  “Sophia?” Mark called as he walked cautiously through the stables.

  “I’m still here, Mark,” she answered from the stall in which he had left her.

  He hurried inside and knelt in front of her.

  “Sophia! It’s wonderful to see you,” he hugged her and then kissed her cheeks. “Are you in pain? Where does it hurt? Tell Mark about it, he’ll help you.”

  “Mark?” Sophia tried to lean forward, but the effort was too great. She fell back weakly. Her life was a nightmare of waking and dreaming. Nightmares and fear and now he sounded as if he’d only just discovered her discomfort and he’d been here not more than an hour before.

  “Tell Mark about it, Sophia, please?” He asked and began to unpack the burlap bag he had brought with him.

  He took out bread and cheese, milk and water as well as a jar of honey-colored liquid which he set on the ground carefully. She watched him with renewed curiosity. This sounded more like her Mark. He’d never dropped the childish play on words wherein they spoke of themselves in the third person.

  This was her old Mark, not the new and revised edition that frightened her. She could not understand what had happened to him. How he could have changed so rapidly, and she had begun to think he was regaining his old memories and with them, his old personality. She didn’t really want the old Mark back. She liked the new one better, even if he was a bit unpredictable and immature.

  “It’s my back, Mark,” she ran one hand behind her and arched her back slightly. “It hurts.”

  “All the time? Or just now and then?” He produced a wooden bowl and a spoon.

  “All the time, mostly. Sometimes it’s worse than others,” she told him and sighed. “This is awful. I need a bath, Mark, and a real bed.”

  “I know, sweet Sophia,” he said. “I am sorry this happened. I believe we were the victims of an irate spirit.” His cheeks burned with embarrassment and he looked away from her. “I’m sorry.”

  “An irate spirit? What are you talking about? What got into Galipoli? Did he go crazy or what?” She asked as he poured some of the milk into the bowl. She wanted to ask what had gotten into him, where he had been and why he had changed so radically.

  “I don’t think that was the good captain,” he explained casually as he stirred a spoonful of the honey into the milk. “I think something very bad got into him. This will make you feel better and the pain in your back is probably just pressure. Not labor.”

  “God, I hope not!” She exclaimed as he helped her into a better position and stuffed more straw behind her blanket, but she could only wonder what he knew about babies and labor and delivery.

  “Galipoli was just a handy vessel,” he continued as he stirred the milk and then tasted a tiny bit of it. “I’m afraid I made some enemies back there.”

  “Back where?” She looked around and he handed her the bowl.

  “Drink. Back there… where we were when I did the spells,” he told her. “I think one of them is after my sword.”

  “Oh. Then that would explain why he was in your room snooping around. What is he? I mean, is he an angel or a demon or something like that?” She asked as she sipped the milk. It was difficult to get used to the raw milk. It was very rich, but the honey helped its flavor.

  “I’m going to build you a bath here, Sophia,” he stood up and looked around the enclosure. “It’s a bit small and not nearly as clean as I had hoped for. If only we’d had more time.”

  “A bath? In here?” She drank down the liquid. The pain was already subsiding.

  “I’ll need some things from the house,” he nodded. “It may be a bit primitive, but it will work. Sophia will just have to make do. I should be able to make it work.”

  “Well, Sophia hopes you know what you’re doing, Mark,” she smiled and reached for the crusty brown bread. “I don’t think that Sophia can help you this time.”

  “It’s time for Mark to help Sophia.” He smiled and kissed her nose. “Now eat your bread and drink your milk. You may not like the cheese, but it’s good for you. I’ll be back before Sophia knows it.”

  Sophia nodded and dipped the bread in the milk.

  “Hurry back, Mark,” she mumbled around the bread. It was delicious. “And bring some more milk!”

  ((((((((((((()))))))))))))

  The transformation was unbelievable. The greensward stretched away to the horizon under a false, but perfectly designed sky of blue, replete with fluffy white clouds. Nearby, an oak grove’s shade offered respite from the sun and a place to sit down or recline on a blanket, while indulging in a refreshing drink or snack. In front of the grove a rectangular pavilion of red, black and white stripes, rippled in the light breeze. Beneath the canopy were long tables covered with red and white checkered table cloths. Picnic-style benches lined the table, and the tables were laid out with everything imaginable one might find at an American style cookout. Plastic eating ware, paper plates, sparkling plastic tumblers and pitchers of cold tea, fruit punch and bottles of soda. Nearby another table held galvanized washtubs full of iced down wine, beer and ale in colorful bottles. Garlands of colorful flowers were strewn on the table and hung around the pavilion’s edge. The supporting poles were wrapped in crepe paper and the streamers floated on the breeze.

  Farther down the meadow were badminton nets, volleyball nets, croquet stakes, horseshoe stakes, shuffleboard lanes. After that, was a complete playground built of sturdy plastic in all the colors of the rainbow for the smaller members of the family. There were miniature ponies in a fanciful pen, a complete carousel, a water slide and a wading pool with a splashing fountain in the center. The entertainment was endless. Nergal was appalled as he walked around the table, inspecting the flowers and seating arrangements. Cards with names neatly written in scrolling letters showed where every guest would sit for the meal. After the supper, Ereshkigal had told him, there would be a fireworks display.

  “You have outdone yourself, my love,” he looked up as she joined him, trailing a long piece of paper behind her. She pushed her glasses up her nose and smiled at him.

  “I am happy to hear you are pleased, My Lord,” she said and returned her attention to the list.

  “I did not say I was pleased. I am more surprised than anything,” he corrected her and then went to retrieve a bottle of the cold beer from one of the washtubs. “What is this?” He called over his shoulder and then pointed to several buckets with mechanical devices attached to the top.

  “Those are the homemade ice cream machines,” she answered absently. “They are required at every American function held outdoors.”

  “Oh? American? Then where is the pit?”

  “Pit?” She frowned and looked up at him as he turned up the bottle of beer. “Do
you never tire of pits and fumes and furnaces, My Lord? I don’t think it would be wise or safe to have a pit here, and I don’t believe anyone would enjoy it other than yourself.”

  “Not that sort of pit, my dear,” he said patiently as he continued to inspect the ice cream machines. “A grilling pit. It is not a pit at all, but a sort of drum or barrel in which one builds a glowing coal fire and then roasts bits of meat.”

  “Oh, that,” she gathered the paper and sat down on the bench. “It’s over there.” She nodded her head in another direction. “I took the design from King Louis’ pit at Adar’s home in Lothian.”

  “Ahhh.” Nergal headed for the big cast-iron and steel monster. “I will be interested to see it work. Who will be doing the cooking? Plotius?”

  “Not at all.” She shook her head. “Plotius is a gardener. King Louis will do the cooking. Who else?”

  “Is he a guest or a relative?” Nergal shouted back to her from other side of the pit.

  “He is married to my daughter, Oriel. That makes him family. He is my son-in-law. Traditionally, sons-in-law do not get along well with their mothers-in-law. I don’t expect him to be happy about it,” she responded and then began to check the place cards again. She changed one with another and then stood back smiling at her handiwork. “But I doubt he will be able to resist cooking after he is here. I have a wide variety of meats for him to choose from.”

  “And have you consulted with any of these people?” Nergal asked. His curiosity was piqued.

  “Of course.” She rearranged two more placards and adjusted a set of plastic tumblers. “I have been in contact with some of the family members just recently, and they were quite enamored of the idea. Everyone loves family.”

  “That is not necessarily true, my dear Queen.” Nergal closed the pit and ambled back across the grass to where she stood. “You will make me jealous. Did you never consider my feelings?”

  “Your feelings?” She was utterly shocked by his words. “Do you have regrets?”

  “No, not really,” he said and then added “I’ve not had much success with the ladies.”

  “What ladies?” She narrowed her eyes sharply.

  “There! You see,” he caught himself and realized the mistake he’d almost made. “I’ve never had the opportunity or the desire to be with another female.”

  “I believe you are lying, but I’d rather hear a lie if it is one.” She seemed to relax a bit.

  “I would never lie to you unless it was absolutely necessary,” he said in all earnestness and kissed her neck under her hair. This sort of play always took her mind off of the business at hand and made her forget what she was doing or thinking… at least temporarily.

  She turned and caught a handful of his hair and kissed him viciously as if to say ‘There! Now leave me alone!’, but instead she stared at her hand in horror.

  Nergal caught her wrist and frowned. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Are you so jealous?” She asked, suddenly angry. “Why do you dare mock Lord Adar?”

  “What are you talking about?” His scowl deepened. “I care nothing of Adar. It is you who think of him when you are with me and do you not think me able to hold my own against him?”

  “That is a lie. I do not think of him in such a manner.” She jerked his hair and his head followed her hand painfully.

  He grabbed her other wrist and twisted her arm slightly, causing her to let go of his hair.

  “I thought we might enjoy the beauty of your fantasy world before your family arrives, My Queen.” He applied more pressure and she sank into the grass. “Now tell me, my dear, what has gotten you so riled? Have you found no way to include the angel of death in your list? Surely you can find some connection with him.”

  “That is not the problem.” She looked away from him and he let go of her wrists. “I simply fail to see the humor of your jokes.”

  “Jokes? What jokes?” He was completely confused.

  “Your hair! I don’t find it amusing at all,” she blurted and turned her most malignant gaze on him.

  “What is wrong with my hair?” He felt of his curly locks. She had always preferred this form to others.

  The Queen pushed herself up and put her hands on her hips.

  “Stop playing with me, Nergal,” she snapped. “I don’t have time for it. Just get rid of it.”

  He watched in dismay as she stomped away from him, trailing another of her long lists behind her.

  He felt of his hair again and found a hard lump intertwined in it near his left shoulder. He worked the anomaly out of his curls until he could see it. Two silver ornaments, intricate of design, laced through with snow white strands and embedded in a long white braid.

  Nergal stumbled back in an effort to get away from the thing that was attached to his head. He pulled on it until the pain made him scream. When he regained his composure somewhat, he transformed himself into his favorite form, but the braid remained attached just over his left ear no matter whether he had hair on his head or horns.

  With a bellow of rage, he went off in search of Marduk.

  ((((((((((((()))))))))))))

  “To sleep, perchance to dream,” Abaddon muttered the ancient bard’s words, smiled and then stretched his arms over his head. The bed was soft; the sheets satiny smooth and cool. The sound of wind chimes and trickling water filled the fragrant air and a soft, warm breeze brushed his skin. The dream was indeed wonderful, and he seemed in full control of it. It was not an impossible thing. He knew that it could be done easily enough, but he’d never cared to waste his time in such worthless pursuits. Now, since his fate had taken a terrible downswing, it was his best diversion. Trapped against the breast of a fire-breathing dragon was not a good thing, even in the best of times. This dream was likely the last pleasure he would know in this existence, and he was unsure of what happened to dead angels. In fact, he didn’t even know if angels could die or experience anything like death. Could they be destroyed? Did they have to be made over? Would he simply wink out of existence? Impossible! Or was it?

  His overworked imagination showed him pictures of himself as dragon fodder, and then as dragon droppings, still somehow alive, still somehow conscious of what was happening to him. Impossible! Or was it? The physical form was an illusion. He should have been able to simply pull himself free of the physical body and leave its worthless hulk for the dragon, but he could not disconnect his psyche from the bag of bones and flesh to which he was connected. Huber had done something to him. Of this he was sure. She had stripped him out of the body of Ernst Schweikert where he’d lived comfortably for years and made him take on his natural form, the form in which he had lived for eons and eons before men had ruled the earth, and now, he couldn’t withdraw. The closest he could come was during the dream state in which he now drifted. Better still the lucid dream state wherein he knew exactly where his physical body was, and what was happening to it, but also allowed his subconscious mind to explore and travel at will.

  The place, in which he now rested, was not far from where he was in actuality. The same grotto, the same whispering waterfall and shimmering rainbows; the same faery fountain wherein water nymphs tested their wings in complete safety, unseen by unfriendly or prying eyes. Here was where he would have taken his precious Inanna.

  She appeared now at the foot of the bed behind gossamer draperies. Her long, black hair fluttered in the breeze created by the waterfall. Her gown was made of elusive colors resembling the wings of dragonflies. It was as he always remembered her. The form she had taken to walk among her human worshippers in the ancient cities of Mesopotamia. And he, Abaddon, was always at her elbow, just behind her, basking in the shadow of her power, completely confident in the love that would accept him and hold him in her glowing warmth. The memories would never leave him. Not even the teeth of the dragon could change that. Even should he be scorched in the flames of the wyrm’s breath for a thousand years, the memory of Inanna could not be torn from his mind.


  “My Queen,” he breathed the words and took her hand as she reached for him. It was too real, too much to bear and he fell at her feet without thought, even as he had always planned to do if ever he saw her again.

  “My Lord.” She knelt beside him and touched his hair. “You are too hard on yourself.”

  “I am nothing.” He bowed his golden head before her. Always they had been opposites in every respect. Where he was light, she was dark. Where he was rough, she was gentle. Where he was weak, she was strong and the exact reverse was also true. They were a perfect match, complimenting each other in every respect. Why had he left her? What possible evil could have driven him from her? Kept him from her side?

  “You are mine, and that makes you something, even if you will not forgive yourself. I will forgive you.”

  “I must pay for my crimes. I cannot hold you for there is too much blood on my hands and my touch will defile you,” he spoke into his hands as he covered his face. “I cannot look upon you, for my eyes have seen too much evil and my eyes will defile you. I cannot speak to your ears directly for my ears have heard too much filth and my words would profane you. I cannot caress you, for my lips have spoken words of death and my kiss would poison you. I can only think of you, and I am afraid even my thoughts of you may somehow taint your form. You stand within my living memory as an alabaster idol upon which I would pour the blood of my heart just to be near you when death approaches me. To hear your voice is beyond all heavenly delight, and to smell your perfume sends my soul in an upward spiral filling the Universe with song. I beg you not to think my love for you dissipated. The blacker my spirit becomes, the brighter your image shines before me. You embody all I have lost, and I cannot hope to regain even a tiny portion of it. Have pity upon my broken heart. Have mercy on my crushed spirit.”

  “Surely, I have never seen one in such misery as I find my love.” She sat on the bed beside him and he turned from her, holding out one hand as if to fend her off.