CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
Tim Wright finally persuaded his wife, Gail, to lie down and rest.
For his own part, he felt the need for a long, hot bath. As he soaked his weary
body and began to relax, he deliberately cleared his mind of present
distractions and sought in the far distant past for the purpose behind the
sudden re-opening of old wounds.
It
was an incredible tapestry of history and legend that he conjured up in the
rising steam and left him breathless.
How was it possible that none of it had touched him or Gail for so many
lifetimes?
The erstwhile Holy Seer of Mamelon let out an involuntary cry. Haven’t we endured more than enough already?
They were happy in the motherworld with their two fine sons. He groaned.
Where are Michael and Peter? He
could not bear to lose them. Why should
they be made answerable to the sins of their parents? Whatever is Astor
thinking of?
Tears
filled his eyes. Only, they did not flow for his sons or for the Keeper,
Bethan. They flowed because he could not endure the prospect of being separated
from Galia again. Hadn’t he lost her once already to Michal, childhood friend
and once Ruler, too many lifetimes ago than he cared to remember? Yet, remember he must. He sighed and the water at his chin rippled
over his naked body like a crumpled sheet. How could they have been so foolish,
Galia and he, as to believe that Ri had marked out a kinder fate for them?
“Never
mind all that now,” a voice came out of nowhere, “There is evil abroad and I
need your help.”
Timon
recognized the voice and waited, passively, for the vision to materialise.
Soon, Astor hovered nebulously on a cloud of steam.
“Greetings,
Astor, Mage of Mages,” Timon intoned the ages-old ritual.
“Greetings,
Timon, Holy Seer,” muttered Astor with indecent haste, anxious to get down to
the business in hand. “I need your help, Timon, and I need it now. There is no
time for procrastination. Trust me.”
“Why
me?” protested Timon. “Galia is your daughter, after all, and of elven stock if
the tales be true.”
“Pah,
tales…!” Astor exclaimed, “Granted, Galia has uncommon gifts. But I have no use
for them just now. As for elven magic, it is next to useless against such
forces as are abroad in Mamelon now even as we speak…” he lied.
The
vision hesitated, so rare a thing for Astor that he immediately had Timon’s
undivided attention. Pleased that his little ploy had worked, Astor allowed
himself only the briefest sigh of relief. Timon could be stubborn to a tiresome
degree when he liked. He pressed on.
Your motherworld son, Michael, stands in peril of his very soul. The other also
faced danger. I can ward one, not both”.
“Against
what exactly…?” Timon demanded. .
“Have
you grown deaf after so many lifetimes of ease and pleasure?” Astor snapped. “I
told you, there is evil abroad. Somehow, Ragund has succeeded in raising the
spirit of Ca-an.”
“But
Ca-an is…” spluttered the Holy Seer.
“Soul-less,
yes… For all his greatness, he suffered the same fate as his foolish followers.
Now, do you begin to comprehend the danger?”
“A
soul-less spirit in the hands of one such as Ragund…? It’s unbelievable!” Timon was aghast.
“Believe
it,” Astor rasped. “I am doing what I can, but I fear I fight a losing battle…”
He frowned. That was another lie. It was a battle he expected to win
although….
Much
as he would dearly have liked to claim all credit for keeping the upper hand,
Astor had long sensed the presence of an Unknown Power. Its nature completely
eluded him in spite of every probe. At
first, he had deluded himself it came from Timon. After all, the powers of a Holy Seer were
such that they should never be underestimated.
Yet, if that were true he’d have smelt it, tasted it on the tongue. No, this was an unknown quantity that defied
even druid magic. A bruised ego eventually put aside, his instincts told him
that its ultimate aim was for Good rather than Evil, to restore Light rather
than perpetuate Darkness in Mamelon. Even so, the mage remained uneasy to say
the least. How could he be sure? Ally or no ally, it was an element over which
he had no control, and Astor did not like that one bit.
“What
must I do?” Timon was pale, his
expression grim.
“Help
your son. Send your dream-self to protect him. I will do my best for the other,
although…” he made a helpless gesture. This was so uncharacteristic of Astor
that Timon needed no further proof that his son was in imminent danger. At the
same time, he was torn. “Galia will never
forgive me if I fail,” he stammered. “Besides, it requires a degree of…”
“Dark
magic, yes, that is true enough. But it is druid magic, too. You, more than
anyone, know that not all druid magic is destructive. As for Galia, a mother
will forgive anything to save her child…”
“She
has no idea…”
“That
you are a druid?” Astor permitted himself a dry chuckle, “I dare say. Like it
or not, her sons are part elf, part druid, part human. An awesome combination,
I agree, but one that may yet save Mamelon. But I digress. We are wasting time.
You know what you must do, get on with it.”
The
vision disappeared. For a split second, Tim Wright was tempted to deny
everything; Astor, Mamelon, his own druid roots. But his son needed him.
Michael was in danger. No! He felt the
pull of Dark Magic on every sinew and summoned all the Power of Will to resist,
overcome, outmanoeuvre…
It
was a terrible journey, to the nether regions of self and beyond, penetrating
dimensions of Time and Space devised to take all humanity to the brink of
madness. Time and again, Timon found himself surfing waves of pure evil vying
for supremacy over a noble spirit. Time and again, he all but lost his balance
and would have drowned. But each time
his concentration slackened, a paternal desperation came to the rescue. Yet, it
was a descent into hell. Too often, the tiny flame of sanity in the pitch
blackness, upon which all his will focused, would start to flicker and…die? No! He continued to fret and rage, drawing
upon reserves of energy he hadn’t known he possessed. After one such triumph,
the flame reared and blazed a weird aura. In its glow, he could just make out
shapes...
Until
now, he had been aware of neither heat nor cold. Now, a heat was upon him like
a furnace, but he pressed on until one of the shapes became vaguely
recognisable. Michal!
But the
figure lay inert.
Another
shape manifested itself. A head, it was, without a body. A handsome head, too,
with finely hewn features. Full sensual lips parted. Teeth, like daggers,
descended on the prostrate figure. Polished and gleaming, they were, and
deadly. Michal! Timon yelled again with every nuance of druid consciousness
at his command.
No
response.
The
daggers were poised to strike. A flash of inspiration came to the youth’s
horrified father. Mick! Tim Wright
screamed deep within his self, bursting through the druid persona like a man
possessed. Wake up! He
hadn’t the strength left to wait and see if his son would respond in time. The
flame subsided and, with it, every vestige of his selves-control. Helpless, he
could but allow himself to be sucked into an almighty vacuum…
After
what seemed an eternity, he became aware of his twenty-first century body once
more. His eyes flew open. He was home in Tunbridge Wells, contemplating his
toes in the bath. I’ve made it back! He
heaved a long sigh of relief. This time,
anyhow, his inner self added grimly. But what had become of his son? What of Michael?
“Gail!” Tim scrambled out of the bath and ran to the
bedroom, dripping pools of water everywhere. There was a sure way to find out
if their son was safe. They must consult the seer bowl. Once it would have
responded to his mere touch. Now it rejected him for his transgressions were
many and he had forfeited the right to command it long ago. Yet, he took some
pride from the fact that it chose to reveal its secrets to Astor’s daughter. As
her husband, he was not, therefore, entirely excluded.
“Galia!” cried the once Holy Seer of Mamelon, shaking the sleeping
figure none too gently, “Wake up! For Ri’s sake…”
