Sybal - Part 4

Here is the fourth installment of my short story, Sybal. This story is taking me in a wonderful new and unexpected direction. I have parts five and six written in draft and hope to have them both out before the end of December. If you haven't read the previous parts, you can find the start of Sybal here, part 2 here and part 3 here.
Enjoy!
Michael Ianni-Palarchio

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Brady opened his eyes.

Knocking.

He’d been roused from sleep by knocking. The digital clock on his desk read 4:37pm. He wondered if perhaps Barrett had already found him. Rising, he rubbed sleep from his face and walked to the door. He pressed his eye to the peep hole and saw Clare standing there. Pulling the door open, he smiled broadly. She stared at him, noticing again how much he had aged.

“Hi,” he said opening his arms. She came inside and into his embrace tentatively. He hugged her fiercely, the smell of her hair filling his senses. “You left work early?”
“Yes,” she said holding him. He looked different, older, but he felt the same in her arms. His voice still sounded the same. She pulled back from him and stared into his eyes. They were the same; older around his eyes, but the dark grey-blue eyes were his without doubt. “I’m really confused,” she said.
“I know. I’m sorry,” he replied. They stared at each other in the silence of the condominium. Then they kissed.

For Brady, the kiss was the culmination of desire pent up for a decade. It was a kiss that linked his insanely impossible past with the current moment.
“I have missed you so much all this time,” he said hugging her tightly. Clare smiled, words unable to form in her thoughts as the paradox of his absence and non-absence swirled in her mind.
“I’m confused when you talk like that Brady. You are talking in the past, but I just saw you yesterday.”
“I know,” he replied.
“You’re sure your not just sick?” she asked. The thought had come to her while she’d been at work and she’d searched the Internet for some kind of condition that might explain the aging and the delusion of having been gone.
“I’m not sick,” he said. “I will try and make you understand, but please, just hold me for now Clare.”

They kissed again. He wanted her and they moved slowly to his bedroom and collapsed to the bed. Clare’s uncertainty faded under his gentle touch and she kissed him fiercely, replacing fear and uncertainty with love and passion. They undressed each other, all the while holding one another, kissing and whispering to the room.

They made love.

Brady could feel an overwhelming urge to laugh and weep and then laugh again. The moment’s beauty overtook him as Clare held him and he moved inside her as he’d so often thought in the passing decade, but never dared dream it might actually come to pass.

Then silence.

Later, they lay still in each other’s warmth, breathing deeply, their bodies in restful bliss. Brady craned his head toward Clare’s head, which was resting atop his chest, and placed an affectionate kiss on her temple.
“Do you remember the first time we made love?” he asked.
“Of course I do,” she said quietly to him.
“It was raining remember,” he said rhetorically.
“Hmmmm,” Clare said with a tired smile. “It was that day at the Novotel hotel after you’d attended that writer’s conference.”
“Yeah, and the rain was pelting against the window,” he said.
“It was a nice rainy day,” she added, still smiling.
“In all the years that I’ve been away, the rain has always left me feeling melancholy,” he said. “I would brood on rainy days. Think of you. Think of us at the Novotel. I would think about whether it was raining for you too and then I’d realize that only a short amount of time had passed for you. Every time it rained, I thought of you my love.”
“Where were you Brady,” she said turning her eyes to look at his face. She could see he was being reflective. Kissing his chest she repeated the question, “Where were you?”
“Traveled to more places I can remember. There are so many other places Clare, other worlds. I know it sounds crazy, and doesn’t make any sense, but it is true.”
“But why?” Clare asked. “Why was someone trying to kill you and why did you have to leave?”
“Because I have a gift that is important for something that is going to happen. A prophecy,” he said.
“Prophecy?” she said looking intensely into his eyes.

Knock. Knock.

They both turned and looked at the bedroom door. The door was open and they both knew the knocking was coming from the front door.
“Were you expecting someone,” Clare asked in a whisper.
“Kind of,” Brady said. “Let me see who it is, quietly.” He expected it would be Barrett, but ten years on the run had taught him to always be prepared for an attack from the enemy. Dressing quickly he pointed to Clare’s clothes and said “Get dressed in case we need to go.”
“Go? Go where?” she asked.
“Clare, just get dressed. There might not be time to explain,” he said. His voice had taken on a sense of urgency that scared her. Clare quickly began pulling her clothes back on. Brady moved slowly toward the condo door. He could see it was bolted shut, but he knew that if it was someone like Fenton, a locked door would hardly stand between them for very long.

Knock. Knock. KNOCK!

The person on the other side of the door was getting impatient but Brady slid slowly toward the door maintaining silence. When he felt Clare coming out of the bedroom he turned quickly and raised his hand to his mouth to indicate she should be quiet. She stood wide-eyed and wordless at the bedroom door, watching as Brady moved in a way that she’d never seen before. He looked like some kind animal, like a wild cat, ready to pounce on something that might pass beneath its jungle tree.

Brady reached the door and waited for a moment. The person knocked again. Slowly, carefully, Brady pressed his eye to the peephole in the door and let his breath ease from his chest. It was Barrett.

“It’s ok,” Brady said turning to Clare and then back to the door. He unlocked it and pulled the heavy door open. Barrett stood there with an unhappy look on his face.

“What took you so long,” Brady said stepping aside and letting Barrett enter the apartment.

“I overslept and then got lost,” Barrett said. He tossed down two leather satchels he was carrying and surveyed the apartment. “What in the name of the gods were you thinking Brady.”

Clare stood motionless. The tension from the air had dissipated, but had been replaced by a nauseating sense of confusion.

“I’m sorry, but I had to come back, even if it was just for a few days,” Brady said as he re-locked the door. “I panicked.”
“You panicked? Panicked? By the man Jesus, do you know how dangerous this is? For you, for Clare?” Barrett waved his arm toward Clare and she recoiled in surprise. The man that had entered the apartment was a hard looking, cold man. He was dirty, unshaven, his eyes hard as steel. There was a commanding presence in him as he spoke. He was a stranger. Clare had never seen this man, and yet he seemed to know her.

“What’s going on Brady?” she asked. Her voice did not waiver. She let anger replace that feeling of fear so that any tears that might have wanted to make an appearance would be pushed deep down inside her.

“Clare, this is Barrett that I told you about,” Brady said.
“We need to go Brady,” Barrett said. “We can’t stay here.”
“I know,” Brady said.
“Brady, wait, wait…where are you going? Why do you need to go?” Clare moved across the room and Barrett watched as she took Brady’s arm affectionately. He knew that this was going to be an awkward situation.
“Clare,” Barrett said taking a seat at the small dining room table where he looked completely out of place. “Brady’s life is in danger. By being here your life is in danger.”
“Why? Why are people trying to kill Brady?”
Barrett looked at Brady with a silent questioning face. “I told her some of it,” Brady said.
“Some of it?” Barrett said.
“Some, but not all,” Brady responded.
“What is going on?” Clare demanded, his voice taking on a slight edge of hysterical anger.
“Clare, Brady has a gift. An important power that I need to protect,” Barrett said.
“What does that mean?” she said looking between the two men.
Brady sighed. “Sit down Clare. You’ll want to sit down for this.”

Clare took a chair near to Barrett. Brady left the room for a moment, then returned holding a pad of paper and a pen. He sat on the sofa looking pensive, tired suddenly.

“Think of something Clare. Think of an object,” Brady said.
“Are you going to guess? What is this like some kind of fortune telling trick,” she said.
“No. Just pick something, something not too big,” he said.
“Ok,” she said. She hesitated a moment and then thought of her bicycle. “I’m thinking of something.”
“Good. What is it?” Brady said.
“You want me to tell you?” she asked.
“Yes. It isn’t a guessing thing Clare. I just wanted you to pick the item,” he said.
“My bike. I was thinking of my bike,” she said.
“Ok, so let’s just say a bike then, I can’t remember exactly every detail of your bike,” he said. Then he looked down to the page and began to write. He wrote what looked like a line or two. Stopped. Closed his eyes. Clare could see his lips moving slightly, but the words were quiet, almost inaudible. Then Brady sat quietly. A minute passed. Then two. Clare was going to speak, but something told her to stay silent. She watched Brady. He opened his eyes, staring hard at the pad of paper. He continued to write. Barrett touched Clare’s arm and once he had her attention he pointed to the wall next to the bedroom door. He leaned close and whispered, “Just look there. Keep looking.”
Clare looked at the wall. There was nothing there. She was about to turn back to Barrett when something flickered. It looked like a light, or perhaps it was a shadow. She was unsure. She could hear the scratching sound of Brady writing on the pad of paper. The space in front of the wall seemed to shimmer. Clare blinked as though perhaps her eyes were not functioning properly. The shimmering remained. Brady stopped writing. He stared at the words he’d written, taking deep, deliberate breaths. Clare could see unbelievably something beginning to materialize in front of the wall. It was a shadowy shape, an outline at first. Several seconds passed and the shadow began to take shape and Clare could tell it was a bicycle. Swallowing thickly, her head suddenly felt heavy and full of needle pricks. She raised her hands to her face and rubbed her cheeks. A slight nausea came over her. Completely unexplainably a bicycle took shape before her. It was leaning against the wall. A blue mountain bike. The was nothing exceptional about the bike itself. It was like any bicycle you’d see in a retail store. One moment it was not there and then it was.

Clare could see a small sticker across the crossbar. She rose from her seat and walked to the bicycle on legs that felt shaky and unsure. She touched the bike as if it might not really be there, but it was there. The sticker read ‘HI LOVE.” She turned to Brady, who was looking at her, exhausted, his arm outstretched holding the pad of paper to her. She took it and read what he’d written.

There against the wall near the bedroom a brand new bicycle was present. It was blue and reminded Clare of the water in Georgian Bay. Leaning slightly against the wall, it had tires like those you normally expect on a mountain bike. Rugged tires, ready to traverse the backcountry trails they had been made for. Along the crossbar there was a sticker that had been made and placed there especially for Clare. It is my message to her: HI LOVE. There are no other markings on the bike, as it wasn’t manufactured by any one company. It had come from my mind. It was here now for Clare.

“What?” Clare said. She looked from the paper to Brady and then back to the paper. “This can’t be, this…is this a joke. Is that what’s going on here?”

“No Clare,” Barrett said. “Sit down and I’ll explain the rest to you.” She sat and looked at Brady. He was holding his head in his hands, his eyes closed. “Tapping into his power always leaves him feeling tired,” Barrett said. Clare looked at Barrett, her mouth moving but no sound being produced. “Clare, Brady comes from a very special line of descendants. There were four lines of very special people created right at the beginning of all creation.”
“Lines?” Clare asked frowning. “What do you mean?”
“I mean kinds of people,” Barrett said. “There were the readers, those people who could see the future, read it from cards or ruin stones. There were the writers, people who could tap into some kind of creative power and actual create things through what they wrote down. And then there are the casters, people who can cast energy…ah, you know, like, casting a spell I guess.”
“This doesn’t make any sense,” Clare said shaking her head.
“It’s true Clare,” Brady said with a weak smile. “I’m the last of my kind.”
“That’s right. And that’s why if we don’t get the hell out of here we might be really stuck. A few months ago another man was killed Clare. He was a reader whose name was Chris Fey. He was the first reader in the universe after many thousands of years. I never got to him in time, and he was…”
“…killed,” Clare finished the thought. Barrett nodded. “It was in the papers,” Clare said quietly. She recalled the headline: Man Saved Others with Tarots But Couldn’t Save Himself. It was a story dismissed in the mainstream media, sounding like some outrageous tale from the tabloids.

“Chris Fey was killed by a very powerful creature. This creature is hunting down anyone or anything that comes from the four sacred lines,” Barrett said.
“What was the other line?” Clare asked. “You said four. Readers, writers and casting. What was the fourth?”
“Protectors,” Brady said. Clare looked from Brady to Barrett and understood that Barrett was from the line of protectors.
“This doesn’t make sense,” she repeated. “Is this some kind of joke?
“Clare I don’t really have time to give you a complete history of the Prim. While we are here in this time and place, we are very exposed. The enemy has many things hunting us, hunting for Brady. If we stay here we will be discovered.”
“She can come with us,” Brady said.
“No,” Barrett replied immediately.
“Go? Go where?” Clare asked.
“Nowhere,” Barrett said sternly.
“I won’t leave with out her,” Brady said.
“You have no choice Brady. Think! For one moment just think,” Barrett said.
“I can’t leave here,” Clare said to Brady. “I have to work.”
Barrett rubbed his face in irritation. “You’re going to put her directly into harms way.”
“No I won’t,” Brady said.
“No? And who’s going to protect her when we’re out in the cold, when we’re wandering? When Fenton Niles finds us again? ” Barrett said.
“I will,” Brady answered.
“You will? And what about what we’re suppose to be doing? What about the prophecy?”
“What is this prophecy you keep talking about?” Clare asked. She felt like the room was spinning around her like a giant toy top. She moved over to Brady and held his hand. “Brady, I don’t understand what’s going on.”

“The four lines serve a king Clare. Actually they serve ‘the’ king,” Barrett said. “In a different place called Aniya. It is a kingdom. It was once a beautiful, sacred place. A place so close to the Prim that you could almost see God around every corner. A place where all the magic of the worlds streamed from. It was the greatest city of all times.”
“What happened to it?” Clare asked as she listened to Barrett telling her the tale, even though a part of her mind was rebelling against what sounded like some child’s nonsense play tale.
“The king, back over a thousand years, was on the brink of losing his throne and his country. He was murdered and so was his Queen, Diadra. The kingdom fell into chaos and on the second day after the king’s death, a man named Miylico invaded and claimed the throne of Aniya. Since that time, the people have suffered, but worse, Miylico has spread his evil like a cancer throughout all of creation. It has moved from Aniya to every corner of existence. There is a prophecy however that a child will be born and this child will be the king of Aniya. He will grow to become a young man and re-claim the throne of Aniya and liberate his people there, but even more important, he will free people everywhere.”
Clare sat looking at Barrett, unblinking. The tale was literally unbelievable. ‘I’m losing my mind,’ she thought silently. ‘But the bicycle and Brady’s age and this man, they’re real aren’t they.’ She looked to Brady.
“I know it sounds crazy Clare, believe me, in the last ten years there have been a lot of times that I thought it wasn’t possible, but it is. It is real,” Brady said.
“And that realness means we need to leave Brady, alone, just you and I. You know that,” Barrett said. He stood from his seat and paced over to the window letting his eyes scan the street below and then rest out on the horizon. “The enemy will find us here Brady. They could find us and then take a year to plan how to kill you and only a few hours would have passed here. I can’t easily protect you here.”

Brady took Clare’s hand. He knew that Barrett was right, but he didn’t want to accept it. “Clare….,” he said and then trailed off.
“Can’t we call the police?” Clare said despite knowing that nobody would believe them.
As Brady and Clare spoke in hushed tones, Barrett moved from the window and glanced around the many things in Brady’s apartment until his eyes came to rest on something familiar amongst the many foreign items. It was a booklet of some sort, thin, what they would call in the Prim a briefling, something that was read once and then tossed away. What caught Barrett’s eye was a picture on the face of the briefling. He stared at it unbelievingly, walked slowly toward it and let his fingers hover just above the covering page.

Brady noticed Barrett’s strange silence. Having traveled for so many years with the man, Brady had become keenly in tune with Barrett’s silence, which usually was an early warning for danger.

“Barrett?” Brady asked, holding his hand up to Clare to indicate silence. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” Barrett said smiling in disbelief. “What is this briefling?” he asked.
Brady glanced down at where Barrett was pointing to on the coffee table. “It’s just a magazine of Santa Barbara. I was planning a trip out there with Clare before I left with you.”
“Santa Barbara is a place?” Barrett said picking up the magazine.
“Yes,” Brady said. “It’s a small city in California.”
Barrett held the magazine cover out to Brady, his finger pressed against a picture on the cover. “Look,” Barrett said.
“At what?” Brady said. Clare looked and saw nothing obvious. There were pictures of the Santa Barbara vineyards, a collage of shots from the famous wharf, advertisement type photos of the museum and art gallery. Barrett had his index finger pressed against a picture from the Museum of Art that showed a glass display case with some art being displayed.
“What are we looking for?” Clare asked.
Barrett answered her question, never taking his eyes off of Brady. “The Stone of Diadra,” he said in barely a whisper.
Brady stepped closer, his eyes widening, his leg feeling weak. “The Stone of Diadra.”
The two men looked like children staring at each other. Barrett repeated, “The stone of Diadra.”

Then, without warning a hard crashing sound came at Brady’s apartment door.

Comments

[ollie]

Wow! This just keeps getting more and more interesting. Get the other parts out already! I'm dying to know what happens.
Ollie