CHAPTER 81

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Hurtling down the map of Europe, two priests sat opposite each other, a small plastic table between them. The metallic hum of the train on its tracks surrounded them as they sat silently, each man lost in his own thoughts. A duffel bag lay alongside Father O’Connor, his hand resting on it possessively. Father Stryker stared out the window, his brow slightly furrowed, his expression anxious.

After a time, Stryker turned away from the window to look at O’Connor and found that the other man had been watching him.

‘You should have brought a book if the best entertainment you can get is my ugly mug,’ Stryker said, not entirely goodnaturedly.

A smile flicked at the corner of O’Connor’s mouth just the same. He said, ‘What have you been thinking about?’

Stryker snorted and said, ‘What do you think I’ve been thinking about?’

‘You’ve been thinking about Werner.’

‘Yup.’

‘You’ve been thinking about hurting him.’

‘Yup.’

‘And you’ve been thinking you can’t really do it.’

‘Ah…’ Stryker was lost for words. He turned back to look out the window and the scenery that whipped by. Without looking back to O’Connor, he said, ‘I can’t believe he’d have lied to me like that.’

O’Connor shifted his position on his seat and said, ‘Really? What about Werner would ever have led you to expect transparency? He’s been a walking mystery since the day I met him. Werner never told anything straight that he could tell crooked.’

‘Yeah, but this is mighty fucking different. He knows how much I've wondered about my past. He always fucking promised me that he'd help me find out, if he could. If he's known things all along and hasn't been telling me… Well, why the fuck would he do that?'

O’Connor shrugged. He said, ‘With Werner, the mystery is as much about control as it is about anything else. In his head, something untold can always be told later for a price.’

Still staring through the glass, Stryker said, ‘But why would he need to do that with me? I’m one of his, have been since almost forever. He doesn’t need to bribe me. I work for him, for fuck’s sake.’

O’Connor didn’t respond and when Stryker glanced back from the window, he found the other man just staring at him.

Stryker said, ‘What?’

O’Connor said, ‘He has less control over you than any of the rest of us.’

‘What about you? I know he didn't want you staying in the jungle. Sent ya there looking for something, this Prowler I reckon, and when that burned out he wanted you back. You wouldn't come. Course, he probably had no notion that it's because you were raising the thing's son. Technically, you shoulda destroyed it. So how does he control you?'

‘I’ve done jobs for him since then. But yes, he’d like to have me on a tighter leash. It doesn’t change my point. Most of the members of The Order are dedicated soldiers, like I most certainly was, once upon a time. You’ve never been like that for him. You’ve always been too wild.’

‘And he’s kept me around because I bring certain advantages?’

O’Connor nodded. He said, ‘And you’ve hung around because he kept your expense account topped up and gave you something to do.’

Stryker shook his head and waved the notion away with his hand, ‘Nah. More to it than that. When he first got his hands on me, I needed him. Needed the Order. A boy needs a family.’

O’Connor said nothing. This was new territory.

Stryker paused, then continued, ‘I had a family before The Order. Know that?’

O’Connor shook his head and raised his eyebrows.

‘Yup,' Stryker said. His eyes grew distant and a little unfocused. His lips formed a somber crease. ‘I loved ‘em too. Especially Hilda, my Mama. Wasn't my Mama, really, but you know.'

‘I don't, really.'

‘Well, let’s just say I outgrew my Mama and Papa. Bound to happen. I was stronger than Papa, even when I was little. It made problems. God, haven’t thought about them in a long time.’

‘How did you come to us?’ O’Connor still called The Order “us”, but he felt he was going to be losing that affiliation soon.

Stryker said, ‘Ah, you can guess most of it. Little tyke can knock Papa flat on his ass, little tyke has a temper. Little tyke doesn't remember what came in the time before Mama and Papa, but it sure as hell left a lot of scars on the ol' psyche. It makes for problems.'

‘They sent you away? To The Order?’

The faint shadow of a tear emerged at the corner of Stryker’s eye but he squeezed it away. He said, ‘Wasn’t like that. If I think about it, that was more to do with Werner than I might ever have realized. Don’t wanna talk about this anymore.’

O’Connor nodded, casting his eyes to the surface of the table, giving Stryker a moment to gather his emotions.

Stryker said, with sudden renewed vehemence, ‘I’m gonna kill him, Con. I can feel it. I’m gonna go in there, I’m gonna confront him, and he’s not gonna give me an inch. He’s gonna work me right up until I’ve got nothing left I can do but snap his ancient old neck.’

O’Connor said, ‘Then maybe we shouldn’t go in there.’

Stryker said, ‘Gotta. He knows more than he's let on. And I've gotta find out what it is. You want to know, too. That's why you brought the Almighty.'

Stryker pointed to the duffel on the seat, under O’Connor’s protective hand.

O’Connor nodded lightly, ‘That’s why we came by train, instead of air. I do want to know what he knows.’

‘And why’s it so important to you, Con?’

‘Because it’s important to Homer. And you. And to Ardia. He knows things, that’s no surprise. They might help Homer find his biological father, might help you understand where you came from. Might help Ardia find a little peace.’

Stryker narrowed his eyes, ‘There’s more too. I can see it in ya.’

O’Connor smiled thinly. He said, ‘Yes. There is more. You know I did a lot of things, in The Troubles, and elsewhere. Things I’m not proud of. I’ve pretended a long time to be doing this thing, for The Order, for God and my soul. I don’t know if I really believe in all of that. I do know I believe in redemption. I’m an old man now, Stryker, and I don’t have a whole lot of time left. I want to redeem myself, that’s what I’ve been doing for the last twenty years with Homer. But I can feel something else is growing. This Crucible that Damien speaks about. The existence of amazing beings like you and Homer, and Ardia…’

O’Connor took a deep breath and held it in for a second. He said, ‘I believe you’re good. I believe the world is better off for having Homer in it. But these other things, like the thing that attacked Damien, like The Golem. And the motivations for making all of you. It’s hard to frame in words.’

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Stryker said, ‘You think something really bad is happening?’

‘Yes. But worse than that. We're getting a fair picture that whoever or whatever made you and all the others had no qualms about doing it for the Nazis. Only, it looks like this person, or people, didn't stop when the Nazis did. Damien is fiercely eager to keep The Crucible away from someone. I have this feeling that it might be the most important thing I do with my life, to help with whatever's going on. Most important, next to raising Homer.'

‘You’re talking big scale important here, aren’t ya?’ Stryker said.

O’Connor nodded, ‘I can’t say for sure why I feel this, but I think the world as we know it, or at least big parts of it, hang in the balance of this aimless thing we’re doing.’

CHAPTER 82

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The landing was significantly less than perfect for the passengers in the cargo compartment of the plane. There were harnesses in the rear, mounted on the walls, but they were not ideal and the rough surface of the landing strip added to the discomfort of the landing.

When they had taxied to a halt, the rear ramp of the cargo compartment slid down and they were first greeted by a wall of intensely dry, hot air. As Ardia disembarked, she could feel her lungs struggling to adapt to and chew down that hot, dusty air.

The airstrip they had landed on was tarmacked, but sandy dust blew in waves across its surface. Running parallel to the strip was a series of buildings, mainly of the prefabricated description, that included a simple watchtower for the airstrip. The simple grouping of buildings carried an air, not of poverty, but of sufficiency. They were adequate to their task and nothing more. Beyond the buildings were a number of very large steel sheds.

As Ardia saw the group of people approaching them from the buildings, she glanced at Homer. They had topped up his shave and he stood alongside her wearing his awful shoes again, as well as his crude trousers. There had been no possibility that a creature of his size could be expected to bear the African heat in a concealing coat so instead, he was simply dressed in a sleeveless vest. His exposed arms were shockingly thick and muscular, and his skin carried a blue-grayish tinge. He wasn't normal, but it would be interesting to see how people reacted to him when he was presented like this. He could be mistaken for a human, especially if the observer didn't know what he really looked like.

‘The wind feels good on bare skin,' Homer said, his eyes traveling back and forth over the party that approached them.

‘Yes, but you may have to learn about waxing if you plan to keep this up,’ said Ardia.

‘Waxing?’

‘Nevermind her, Homer,’ Razmik said. He stepped up alongside them, pulling a baseball cap bearing the Dallas Cowboys logo over his head. He said, ‘These people can be discreet. Still, it should be interesting to see how much attention you draw.’

‘Yes,’ said Homer, dryly, ‘I love finding out how much attention I draw.’

‘What do they do here, Raz?’ Ardia asked.

Razmik smiled and pointed to the sheds beyond the buildings. He said, ‘They grow things.’

‘Things that get carried off in cargo planes?’ asked Ardia.

Razmik nodded. ‘Yes. They don’t work for me, I think I told you that. They work for an associate. They can be trusted, to a point, at least. Chad is not necessarily an easy country to live in. It’s especially hard to be a woman here. This little community exists here, isolated from other communities, solely because of their growing industry.’

As the group of people approached, Ardia could see that there were not just men, but women as well. The group of nine people even included a little boy, holding hands with who she presumed was the boy's mother. Beyond the approaching party, Ardia could see a forklift rumbling towards them as well, laden with a pallet of cardboard packages.

‘Is the plane going already?’ asked Ardia.

Razmik nodded, ‘Yes. Not my plane. This trip is a favor, drawn on my associate. The plane will take a delivery now, to where I don't know, and return for us tomorrow afternoon. If we're not ready to leave then, we can arrange to be collected at a later time.'

‘Oh,’ Ardia said.

The group reached them and Razmik stepped forward to shake hands with the man leading them. He, like the others, was a dark-skinned African man. He was dressed in a shirt and jeans. The others wore a mix of similar western clothing and colorful garb that Ardia assumed were local vestments.

Ardia stayed back with Homer. They might be interested to see how his appearance was received, but there was no need to draw unwanted attention to themselves. Her sharp ears could pick out the noises of Abraham and Damien packing their gear into bags inside the plane.

Razmik was engrossed in conversation with the man leading the group and Ardia let her eyes wander. They settled on the little boy that was holding hands with his mother. He had a small round face and his sparkly eyes brought a smile to her lips. The little boy’s face lit up when he saw her smile and he glanced up at his mother and tugged her hand, urging her towards them. The mother cast an embarrassed look towards Ardia. She was fine featured and pretty, but there was a definite uncertainty in her expression as well.

Ardia returned the woman's smile and this seemed to encourage her. She released her grip on the little boy's hand and he immediately dashed towards Homer and Ardia. The woman walked to join them.

The little boy skidded to a halt on the dusty ground and stared up into her face. He spoke in a rapid, breathless cadence. He had a child's enunciation and his "r"s were more like "w"s. He said, ‘My name is Hassan. What is yours?'

His English was perfect, though heavily accented, and she could see he put great effort into pronouncing all of his words.

Ardia dropped to her knees in front of him and said, ‘My name is Ardia. It's nice to meet you, Hassan.'

His little eyes darted around, hardly registering Homer. He leaned towards her and said, ‘You are here for Mettie?’

Ardia was surprised by the question and she felt her heart skip a beat as he asked it. She said, ‘Mettie?’

The little boy nodded his head vigorously.

‘Who’s Mettie, Hassan?’ Ardia asked.

He pursed his lips and thought hard, concentrating. As his mother came to a stop behind him, he carefully said, ‘Met-tis.’

‘Hassan!’ his mother said, alarm washing over her face.

‘No,’ said Ardia, careful herself now. Slowly, she rose to a standing position and looked into the other woman’s face. She said, ‘You know Metis?’

The other woman tried to remain neutral, but she could do nothing about the vigorously nodding head of the little boy at her feet. She sighed and said, ‘Yes. Are you here for her? To hurt her?’

‘Not to hurt her.’

The woman looked deep into Ardia's eyes. Then she looked towards the mountains, in the near distance, and she seemed to be listening to something. Ardia was not so sure that she wasn't listening to something. The echo of the voice that had called into her mind on board the plane was still ringing in her ears. After a few moments, the woman seemed to nod her agreement to something and returned her attention to Ardia.

The woman straightened her back and held out a hand. She said, ‘She says you can be trusted. My name is Arafa.’

Ardia took the woman’s hand and shook it. She said, not nearly as certainly as the other woman, ‘My name is Ardia. Did… Did she just speak to you?’

‘Mmmhhmmm. Yes.’

‘How, am, how do you know her?’ Ardia asked. Homer had grown bored of watching the group of people conversing with Razmik and walked over to Ardia and Arafa. Ardia saw Arafa’s eyes widen as she realized the full scale of the strange looking man.

Arafa said, ‘I help her.’

‘Help her?’

‘Yes,’ said Arafa. ‘I bring her food every few weeks. Me and Hassan do it.’

‘Where?’ asked Ardia.

Arafa pointed a finger towards the mountains and said, ‘Up there.’

‘She wikes pop-cawn,’ said Hassan. Ardia, far from fluent in small-childese, had to consider these words for a moment to understand that they meant she likes popcorn.

Homer said, ‘What is pop-cawn?’

‘Popcorn,’ Ardia said, by way of explanation.

‘Alright then, what is popcorn?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Ardia, shooing him.

He said, ‘Maybe it is important.’

Ardia turned to him, put a hand on his expansive and solid chest and earnestly said, ‘Homer. Trust me. It’s not important.’

Though possibly slightly perturbed by the dismissal, Homer seemed content to accept her judgment and allow her to continue her conversation. He wandered over towards Razmik and the others, a move that caused several of the people to back away in some distant relative to alarm.

Arafa said, quietly, ‘That is the biggest man I’ve ever seen.‘

Hassan agreed, ‘He’s hooooge.’

‘Ate all his vegetables when he was little,’ Ardia told him.

Hassan considered this information then proceeded to wear an expression of remorse for every piece of uneaten broccoli he had ever allowed to remain on his plate.

Ardia said, ‘Can you take us to Metis?’

Arafa shook her head and said, ‘No. She does not let me remember the way. She will tell you where you need to go. Drive towards the mountains and listen for her. Can you really help her?’

Ardia shrugged her shoulders, ‘We don't really know what she needs from us. We're here, though, and we mean to do anything we can.'

Ardia felt a small hand tugging at her leg. She looked down to Hassan and was greeted by two eyes that were more serious than any small boy’s ever should be. He said, ‘You gotta.’

‘Gotta what?' said Ardia, playfully, trying to break that expression of absolute seriousness.

‘Gotta stop ‘em.’

More seriously, Ardia asked, ‘Who, Hassan? Gotta stop who?’

He looked into her eyes, his sparkling and reflecting her face. He said, barely louder than whispering, ‘Twoy and Zoos.’

Ardia looked back at Arafa, awaiting a translation. The other woman returned her stare, every bit as seriously as her son had. She repeated the words, more clearly.

‘Troy… and Zeus.’