November 11, this year
Terciera Island, Azores, Portugal
2:49pm AZOT
The weight of acceptance tips a balanced scale in Loche’s mind. He watches his little boy mop up syrup with a piece of pancake on the tip of a fork. Under the table Edwin kicks at the legs of his chair. The fuel of afternoon breakfast is already firing the engine in his body. This is my son, Loche tells himself—my Edwin. But is it? There is nothing that would prove otherwise save a barely perceptible change in the boy’s eyes. It is as if some trauma has left its mark there. Was it the fall? The estrangement of his parents? Or was there truly an eye he fell into? The same eye that Loche himself knows all too well? What ethereal, celestial character now hovers behind Edwin’s gaze? The boy lifts a bite of egg to his lips.
Both father and son still smell like the sea. Even after the hot shower, Loche can taste salt in the air around them. Edwin looks up at Loche and smiles. Yellow yolk stains the corner of his mouth. “Where’s mom?” he asks.
“She’s downstairs,” Loche answers with a smile. “How do you feel, Bug?”
“Good,” Edwin says. His voice is bright.
The last cake bite is slathered in syrup and aimed not-so-accurately at the boy’s mouth.
“Good?” Loche asks.
Edwin’s answer is a grin. A speck of flashing glitter in his eyes. There is still something there Loche cannot describe.
“We’re going to take another plane ride, Edwin.”
The boy looks up.
“Do you want to take another plane ride?”
“Sure! Where?”
“We’re going to visit a very old city called Cairo.”
“Is Mom coming?”
“I don’t know.”
“I hope she does.”
Loche places the silverware onto the empty plate, along with the napkin, and moves it to the side. “But before we leave we’re going to talk to my friend George and a few others. They want to ask you some questions about what happened this morning, okay?”
Edwin’s legs are still marching under the table. “Okay,” he replies.
“Let’s go.”
They step outside into a narrow courtyard. The near sea blasts against the cliff face. They cross the villa’s center and pass through the tall door of a long, high-peaked house. Loche follows Edwin into a sprawling wood floored hall. Monumental oil portraits line the room’s perimeter. Sitting in high-backed velvet couches and leather arm chairs are George Eversman, Julia Iris, Corey Thomas, Athelstan, Helen and several others. Leonaie Echelle’s eyes widen when Loche sees her. There are also several more men and women standing in and around the circle of furniture.
Loche notes a collective gasp when they enter—then a sudden attempt to suppress it. Feet shuffle. A few individuals reach to a wall or the back of a chair to steady themselves.
Helen waves and blows Edwin a kiss. There is a shadow of pain in her smile. She trembles. Loche acknowledges the huge man standing just behind her: Helen’s new jailor, Talan Adamsman.
George gestures to a chair. Loche sits. Edwin climbs onto his lap.
“The Rathinalya, no?” George says to the gathering. His arms open and spread out, as does his grin.
“The boy is undoubtedly thion,” Athelstan states.
“He is Godrethion if he is upon Ae!” Another shouts.
“Nay! He is beyond such a title,” Corey says. Many nod and voice affirmation. “Much, much more. He is—he is…”
George looks at Helen. He says, “Edwin is beyond Nicolas Cythe, yes?”
Helen’s answer is accompanied by a tear. “Yes,” she says.
Outside, the ocean’s voice thunders against the walls.
“He is Thi,” George whispers.
Edwin buries his face into Loche’s chest to hide from the staring and attention.
“Menkaure,” George says. “We take you to Menkaure pyramid.”
Athelstan speaks, “Anfogal, of all places, despite augury, why Menkaure? That omvide has stolen too many of our people—”
“Silence,” George says.
“What do you mean stolen?” Helen cries staring at her son.
No one stirs.
Corey Thomas answers, “Of all pyramids, Menkaure is least known to us. Those that have ventured there have not returned.”
“And you’re sending my son there?” Helen says.
George says, “Your son transcends the unknown.” He then stands and crosses the short distance to the boy and his father. He kneels. “Little one,” he says gently. Edwin clings tighter to his father.
“Edwin,” Loche says to the boy, “George wants to ask you about your fall today. Will you let him?”
The child tilts his head slightly out of Loche’s embrace. One eye peeks through.
“Little one,” George says, “today, before you jumped into the water,” he points in the direction of the cliff, “did you hear them calling?”
Edwin doesn’t answer.
“Little one, like song… did you hear a voice calling your name?” George waits.
Edwin replies but his voice is muffled.
“I no hear you, little one,” George says. “Did you hear a voice?”
Pulling away from Loche, Edwin says, “No. No. Not in my ears.”
“No hear voice?” Loche asks.
“No.”
“But someone call you to follow, yes?” says George.
Edwin nods. Someone in the gathering whispers, “Elliqui.” George glances at Loche and then back down to Edwin. “Little one, when you fall, you find who call you?”
Edwin releases his father and sits up quickly. He leans his face close to George’s inquisitive stare and places his small hands on the immortal’s cheeks. It is a strange sight. The small boy’s expression is focused, calm and chillingly confident. George holds eye contact. Across from them, Helen rises to her feet. She is pale with terror. The others, too, are showing signs of discomfort—they fidget, murmur, flinch—as if each of the audience has suddenly come under the curling crest of a massive wave.
It is hard to breathe suddenly—movement slows and suspends as if submerged—the young boy and the immortal tethered, unmoving.
Panic invades George’s face, but he does not look away. His right arm reaches to the inside of his tweed coat and he pulls out a long-bladed knife. When he aims the tip of the dagger at Edwin’s temple, Loche lifts his foot from the floor, poises it to kick at George’s throat. But the horror in George’s face fades quickly. He lowers the dagger and his gaze to the floor.
Edwin recoils and sinks deep into Loche. George settles slowly back and sits.
“What was that?” Loche gasps.
George does not answer immediately. Instead he hides the knife and allows his lungs to drink in oxygen. He blinks. Disbelief and uncertainty crowd his face.
The others, too, appear to have been submerged and are now suddenly surfacing, breathing deeply. Helen remains on her feet, her hands cupped over her mouth. Beside her, Julia’s arms are coiled around herself—glassy, squinting eyes. Loche holds his gaze to hers.
“Now I know,” George whispers.
“What is happening?” Loche asks.
George takes another long look at the little boy. “The egg. It is true. Your son and Thi are one—” he begins to cough. “It is Thi. It is Thi.”
“What are you saying?”
“The One. The All. Edwin brings with him the end. The great deluge of myth was water—this time not water, Heaven’s legions will rain down upon mortal and Itonalya.”
Loche gapes.
George struggles to his feet and turns toward the gathered immortals. “Thi has come,” he says. “And with It,” he twists and faces Edwin, “comes the flood.” With a long look at Edwin he adds, “I have seen you before.”