Rising Darkness

Chapter Six

AS MICHAEL LEARNED meditation, the first memory that he recovered was the strongest, and also the strangest to him.

It wasn’t strange because it was of that first, alien life. That ancient memory was patchy and indistinct, and it came to him much later.

No, the first memory he uncovered was strange because he was happy in it.

Happy.

What a bizarre concept, happiness. As soon as he connected to the emotion in the memory, he realized he had never felt happiness, not in this lifetime or in many others.

In this lifetime, he had never given much thought to happiness before, but when he had, the concept had seemed pastel, an insipid, shallow thing that others claimed to either desire or feel.

Happiness led to other pastel emotions like contentment. It also seemed to be connected to things he had no interest in, things like steady jobs, marriage, children and community. Or it was connected to myths that people believed. Wealth would make them happy, or popularity would, or social standing.

But when the memory surfaced, and Michael touched the actual experience of happiness, even though it was only a shadow of the real thing, the feeling was so passionate, so golden and complete it shone a light on all the rest of his life. By comparison every other emotion he had felt was fractured, dirty and gray.

The details of that former life came to him piecemeal.

He had been a Norman lord under William the Conqueror. After the Battle of Hastings, he had been given a castle in York to live in and defend on behalf of the king, and she had been there. The other half of himself.

They fit together. Such simple words and yet so profound. They fit. Interlocking pieces, contrast and confluence.

And remembering that was, completely and utterly, the most devastating thing he had ever experienced.

Over the years, he returned to that past life again and again in meditation, painstakingly recovering shards of lost treasure.

The look in her eyes when she smiled at him. She was luminous. (If only he could see the details of her face more clearly, even though he knew that what she looked like did not matter in the slightest.)

How they talked late at night, discussing everything from the latest harvest to their great enemy. (For the danger was with them always, a thundercloud of war that shrouded their entire existence.)

Flashes of a mysterious and powerful intimacy. Her arms around his neck, his face in her perfumed hair. Their bodies entwined, and his spirit expansive and vibrant. (Not this thin, sharp sword that he had become.)

Laughter. Her laughter, and his. (He never laughed anymore. He had not laughed in so long, he had forgotten that he had forgotten how.)

The person he had been in this former life: this was who he was supposed to be. He took the memory and made it the cornerstone of his soul, and he built everything else around it, until he became a fortress.

IN THE GRAY light of predawn, Michael pulled his car into the small parking lot at the bottom of a lookout point. He took advantage of the early solitude and remote location to give his body some much needed rest, dozing for an hour or so behind the wheel.

Then something made him open his eyes, turn his head.

The shimmer of a transparent figure stood by his car. It was a strong quiet, steady presence. Recognition kicked him in the teeth. He straightened, staring.

The figure was that of a tall man. In that faint shimmer he caught a glimpse of short black hair, distinguished aquiline features, copper skin.

The figure was a ghost.

Michael, it said. I have fallen.

Heaviness plummeted onto his shoulders. Maybe it was grief. He didn’t know. It was certainly disappointment. They had not been friends, not quite. More like comrades-in-arms. Michael had met him when he had traveled north to spend summers with his mentor. Each year the boys would meet again, having grown taller and stronger, and they would assess each other as possible adversaries all over again. For a brief time, many years ago, they had been sparring partners, until Michael grew too dangerous to train with other children.

Michael slowly opened his car door and stepped out. He was the same height and stood shoulder to shoulder with the tall ghost. He said, Damn, Nicholas. I’m sorry.

There was a faint gleam in the dark, intelligent eyes that regarded him with a grave expression, without self-pity. I will not leave, Nicholas told him. I will do what I can to protect him.

Michael nodded. Most humans passed on to wherever it was they went after death, but a few who were especially passionate were able to turn away from that journey.

The ghost lifted his hand in good-bye, already fading as he turned to walk away.

Semper fidelis. Always faithful. Nicholas had loved his country and his President, and his continued devotion would help, but it wouldn’t be enough.

Which was why Nicholas had been killed, of course.

MICHAEL CLIMBED UP to the lookout point and sat on a short bluff above the western shore of Lake Michigan. The lake sparkled silver and blue, while green pines dotted the broken rocks of the coast. The bluff was north of Racine, Wisconsin, south of Milwaukee, and right in the middle of nowhere.

Even though the sun shone, the weather was unseasonably cold for late May. In some parts of the Midwest, rivers were flooding and people had been forced to evacuate their homes. This close to the Lake, especially with the fading of daylight, the wind felt as though it could peel flesh from the bone.

He didn’t notice. He was deep in meditation.

He had soaked up all the teaching Astra had to offer him with the ravenous appetite of the starving. Somehow he had managed to keep alive during the process, although looking back he knew he had been close to death several times. Most importantly, he had discovered the history and reason for his rage. He had grown into the kind of man who controlled himself with complete discipline and who used his anger as sustenance and weapon.

Now and always, he hunted.

Eyes closed, breathing deep, he had entered into the mental state the Buddhists refer to as utter mindfulness. He was quite aware of his surroundings but unaffected by them. With the hard-won patience he had learned over years, he called in all his messengers and companions. He asked each of them the same questions. He did this as a process of elimination, always aware that the enemy searched with as much eagerness and relentlessness, and with much more cruelty than he.

Voices sounded behind him. Teenagers scrambled up the path to the bluff, their raucous laughter and off-color jokes whooping through the quiet, windswept area. He ignored them, letting their voices flow through him like sand flowing through a glass.

One of them, a female, said, “Mm-mm, will you look at that.”

A boy laughed. “What, a freaking weirdo on a freaking park bench? Dime a dozen, babe.”

“You got no imagination. That there’s a juicy piece of USDA prime beef. Look at them muscles. I could love me some of that. Think his organs have been injected with growth hormones?”

“Girl, you a ho.”

Another called out in a high voice, “You guys. Look at the sky.”

Various exclamations followed. “That’s like something from a horror flick. Hitchcock, right? Or was it Scorsese?”

“How do they get the birds to do that? Are we on TV?”

“What kind of birds are they?” the girl asked.

“Hawks, I think. Hundreds of them. Maybe a thousand? I’ve never seen so many circling around.”

“They look like a tornado. That’s not right. It’s not natural.”

Michael continued to speak to his people. Brothers, we keep hunting south.

Still along the Lake? one of them asked, tilting in his flight so the sun shone on proud red-tail feathers.

Always along the Lake, he answered. He and his old teacher had narrowed the search down to the shores of Lake Michigan. That was still a massive amount of territory to cover, and they were fast running out of time.

Then:

i need help!

The cry ripped across the psychic realm. Unprepared, wide open, Michael reeled from the shock. He heard the babble of teenagers as though through the roar of rushing water. Hands hooked under his arms to help him to his feet. He shook them off, focusing all the considerable force of his attention on that internal, ephemeral place.

There she was.

She was coming awake. She had ripped through the veil herself, and energy blazed from her like she was a psychic version of Chernobyl. Anyone with the capacity to see the psychic realm could see her. She was completely unprotected, and he was too far away.

His heart kicked.

He twisted, lunged down the path to his car, roared at the sky.

A whirling tower of a thousand hawks screamed in reply and hurtled southeast.