*****
The cavemouth was dark and Jane descended slowly.
Around her, the rocks glistened with damp and moss, promising cold to the touch and an easy slip if her steps weren’t careful. The way was lit, barely, by mottled sunlight, filtered through the jungle canopy and beneath the overhanging stone, and the light faded gradually as Jane made her way cautiously through. She had mixed feelings about caves. On the one hand they were quiet, cool, shadowed places, awash in natural tranquillity. On the other hand, it was easy to lace them with explosives or hide a neutraliser somewhere, waiting to dampen her powers before she could realise and escape. To protect against this, Jane kept a small stream of energy burning between her armpits, invisible beneath the uniform but ready to alert her should her powers start to waver.
She continued cautiously down into the cave, letting a tiny amount of light glow out around her fingers so she could see where she was going. The walls glistened, slick and wet. Her gloved hand trailed along the rock.
Jane heard and saw the rebels around the same time they saw her.
There came ahead the sound of muttering, of scrambling feet and hurried movement. Slowly, Jane rounded a large impeding boulder, glancing up as the cave’s low roof opened into an expansive cavern, a hundred feet high and at least that again across, tapering in the uneven distance into a slow and gradual downwards slope. Pinpricks of light, glow-worms or moss, speckled the stalactite ceiling. Beneath it, Jane’s gaze took in a horde of dishevelled people; men, women, children, makeshift accommodations, wooden shacks dotted with white gas lamps and battery lanterns, piles of rucksacks, food and clothes. From the depths of the cavern faces emerged, spurned out of hiding by the sound of movement – or sensing, perhaps, the sudden escalation of tension and panic brought on by the white‑gold newcomer’s arrival. Before long a crowd had gathered. Murmurs rippled, frightened and awed.
Jane stopped in place at the top of the rough-cut steps to the cavern’s entrance, not wanting to approach any further so as to maintain a clear path out and her position on the high ground, but also so as not to seem like she was advancing. She didn’t put her hands up – she wasn’t surrendering to these people – but neither did she take a stance or power up.
“Look twice, act once,” Matt repeatedly told her, “You’re not a gold-coloured hammer.”
From the massing crowd of scared, hungry Bolivians, their faces drawn and their clothes rough, a man in a patched white shirt and no shoes stepped forward.
“Dama Alba,” he murmured, and he held his hands half-up in trepidation as if scared she was going to blast him where he stood. His lips trembled, and he broke into a stream of what sounded like reverent pleading or explanation, but which unfortunately Jane could barely understand a word of. Spanish. Goddamn Spanish. Why had she decided to learn Chinese?
“No… habla… hablo… Spani- Español,” she managed, screwing up her face, trying to remember, “No… um… need… por favor… English. Ingles?”
The leader of the crowd looked at her, then called something out to the people around him. There was a flurry of murmurs around the cave, and eventually a young girl, maybe ten or twelve, with her dark hair in a long braid, was ushered forward to stand beside the spokesman. Clutching a thin green smock, she glanced up at Jane with evident anxiety.
The man spoke again and this time the girl translated his words into nervous English.
“Lady Dawn,” she said, “Please, don’t hurt us. We are not be meaning to harm you.” The man in the white shirt continued to speak low beside her and after a moment the girl continued. “We are not be meaning to harm anyone. Please. We are… desperado. Desperate. They come and to take us away.”
“I’m not here to hurt anyone,” Jane reassured them. She paused for a moment and then glanced at the girl. “Translate that.” There was a brief pause, and then mentally Jane heard Matt’s chastisement. “Please,” she added. She forced an attempt at a smile.
The girl continued to look nervous, but nevertheless translated Jane’s words. Jane took that as encouragement and pressed on.
“There’s been reports of fighting,” she said, “The men out there, they say you are fugitives. That you are stealing, attacking their town.”
“It is our town,” the leader replied, all of a sudden angry, his voice rising above his nervousness after what Jane said was translated by the girl, “They are invaders. They are trying to be taking- to take what is our properties, saying we owe them under la regla – the rules? The law.”
“What law?” Jane asked, her brow furrowed, “You all owe them money? How is that?”
“The water,” someone in the crowd piped up in English, and there were agitated mutters of agreement as their spokesman turned, backed by vigorous nods.
“Si, el agua,” he echoed, then through the girl continued: “They say the water no longer belongs to us. They say it all belongs to them. That we must pay to use it. Even the rainwater. Even the-” the girl abruptly stopped translating and looked fearfully up at Jane, clearly terrified she’d be angry at the gap in her vocabulary, “-the… person who is water? Who become water? Lo siento, I do not-”
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
“Aquarmorph,” Jane growled. She narrowed her eyes and turned back towards the cavern entrance, where outside armed soldiers were waiting for her ‘intervention’. She was not angry at the girl. “That was not what I was told.”
“Please,” the leader begged, “We do not want to be here. We are not thieves. But there are too many, and they come in force… the governor’s men… we cannot afford…”
“I understand,” said Jane. She turned her back to the cavern, cape swishing golden in the lantern‑light. “You, and you-” she pointed at the man and girl, “-come with me. We’re going to resolve this.”
There was a murmuring in the crowd. The leader glanced back at his townsfolk, seemingly afraid. He clutched the little girl’s hand.
“What are you going to do?” he asked through her.
Jane’s lips curled, and suddenly the dark of the cave shone with waves of thick, billowing light. The people amassed before her fell silent, to reverence and awe.
“Good,” she answered, as her eyes burned.
*****
“These sandwiches are actually not bad,” commented Giselle, reappearing with what appeared to be a pesto-chicken avocado from behind the fridge door. Matt glanced over from across the room, brain foggy with contract law.
“Help yourself. I forgot to eat them last night. Not soggy?”
“Nah, they’re pretty good.” Giselle’s mouth and hands momentarily blurred and the pesto‑chicken sandwich she’d been holding vanished, replaced for fresh consideration by a tuna‑salad. Matt nodded at the bag.
“Just leave a chicken-schnitzel, if I’m going to have one it’ll be-”
His phone rang. Matt glanced down at it buzzing on the table. He frowned at the unknown number.
“Don’t answer it,” Giselle told him, though it was less a warning and more an exasperated sigh.
“I can always just hang up.”
“Someone could trace you.”
“Azleena put on that scrambler VPN thingy.”
“I just don’t understand. I mean, fine. On your head.” She rolled her eyes.
Matt answered the phone.
“Hello?”
“Chosen prophet. Holy one.”
Matt sighed and put the call on speakerphone. “Hello Pastor Fredericks.”
On the other side of the room Giselle shook her beautiful head in despair. How does he keep getting your number, she mouthed.
“I witnessed Satan’s attack on you last night. Praise God for He protects you. He shields his chosen son from harm.”
“Phil,” replied Matt, “Please, we’ve been over this. I’m just a person.”
“Humility, even in the face of undeniable evidence. The Lord was humble when he first walked among men. They tried to strike him down too, the non-believers. The Romans and the Pharisees.” Fredericks’ voice over the phone was husky, laced rich with fervour and devotion. “But nothing can stop the will of God. It is a sign, Matthew Callaghan. Even in your name, a prophecy. Matthew, the great witness, the disciple. Callaghan, of war and of strife. The battle is coming for the soul of this nation. You will lead us.” The Pastor’s voice ascended into sermon. “Then I saw heaven standing open, and there before me was a white horse. And its rider is called Faithful and True. With righteousness He judges and wages war. He has eyes like blazing fire, and many royal crowns on His head. He has a name written on Him that only He Himself knows. He is dressed in a robe dipped in blood, and His name is The Word of God.”
By this point Matt had his head on the table.
“Phil, I don’t own any crowns,” he told him, “And I can’t even ride a horse.” Beside him, Giselle had tip-toed over and placed a plate of chicken‑schnitzel sandwich down in front of him. She pointed at the cellphone with silent, incredulous movements, gesturing for Matt to hang up. Matt just leaned back and rolled his eyes.
“The vessel does not matter. All that matters is the calling. Lead us, oh divine one. Tell us your will. Take up your destined mantle. Show us the way.”
“Stop picketing funerals,” Matt demanded, perhaps a bit more grumpy than usual, it having been less than twenty‑four hour since he’d been shot, “Leave the poor families alone. And stop hating gay people. No one cares anymore.”
“You would condemn the sinners to the lake of fire. Yes. They have had their chance to repent. No more ministrations. The Lord’s table is full.”
“No,” said Matt, throwing up his hands at the phone even though he knew the Pastor couldn’t see him, “No that’s not even slightly… just don’t be a dick. That’s my one commandment. Don’t be a dick to anyone.”
The phone fell momentarily silent.
“The words you speak,” Pastor Fredricks said finally, “Are of your old life. The innocence of the sacred child. Truly, God has blessed you to retain it, for only within His heart flows endless love for His children. But God is fire and iron too. So too He smites those who ignore his commandments.” He launched into another Bible verse. “But God said: ‘You shall not eat of the fruit of the tree that is in the middle of the garden, nor shall you touch it, or you shall die.’ But the serpent said to the woman, ‘You will not die; for God knows that when you eat of it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God’.” He paused. “We have all eaten of the apple Matthew Callaghan. We are all cursed by its taint. Only you have been born free of it. Only you have spat it out.”
“I’ve spat out taint,” said Matt dryly, “Gross.”
“Praise God and all his mercy.”
“Pastor, please stop calling. I’m serious, I’m begging you, this really has to stop. I’m not trying to be mean, and I appreciate you being…” he struggled for the word, “…fond of me, but I promise. I swear to you. I’m not some divine vessel.”
“Every day you say you’re not, Matthew Callaghan, witness of war, prophet of strife. Every day you denounce your calling. And every day you remain all that is pure in this world, clean against this sick corruption, and ever more we know that we must place our hands upon you nonetheless.”
“I’m going to hang up now,” Matt sighed.
“Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.”
“In the name of Christ, go away.”
Matt hung up. “That man is going to be the death of me,” he complained after a moment.
Giselle, who had sat back down at her original study position at the dining room table, shrugged, indifferent. “Better him than the other shooters?”
“Ha-ha.”
“For real though, I don’t know why you keep engaging,” said Giselle. Matt rubbed his eyes.
“He’s mostly harmless.”
“Mostly?”
“And I don’t know, I figure maybe if I keep telling them to be better people, maybe one day they’ll actually listen?”
“You’re very patient,” Giselle told him, sucking her fingers free of chicken grease, “You could just get a restraining order.”
“I think I like having at least one group dedicated to keeping me alive,” Matt mused.
“Hey,” the speedster replied, sounding insulted.
“Sorry. Two groups.”
“We can let them protect you if you like.”
“Please no,” said Matt, putting his face in his hands, “They’d make me read their leaflets.”