Melody and the Pier to Forever: Melody and the Pier to Forever, #3

By Shawn Michel de Montaigne

Anurag de Bouchard is on a mission. He's waited half his lifetime for this moment. At last he can light the beacon that will spread the news across the whole of Aquanus:

The Apprentice has come.

All across the vast, dangerous waters of that ocean world, thousands of revolutionaries are quietly mobilizing. It is time to rise against Emperor Necrolius Anaxagorius, the soul-consuming monster devouring the heart and soul of Aquanus like a cancer and growing more powerful by the day. The Apprentice is prophesied to be the only one who can destroy him before he invades Earth and consumes it, too.

But the Apprentice, Melody Singleton, is only thirteen years old, and still on the other side of the Tangent, the portal separating Aquanus from Earth. As she and Yaeko Mitsaki, her best friend, and their parents prepare for a whole new life and the distinct possibility that they'll never return home, a hidden kingdom and its king brace for all-out war with the emperor's mighty forces. Even with the Apprentice on their side, their chances for victory are next to nothing. But if they don't prevail, Melody will never get the chance to confront Necrolius, and Aquanus and Earth will fall forever to his deadly clutches.

The stakes couldn't be higher. Even so, there is time yet for much less frightening things like falling in love, traveling to Antarctica, dancing in the living room, playing in a concert, first kisses, learning how to turn into a red-tailed hawk, and laughing and singing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shawn Michel de Montaigne
• Release date: Apr 17, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201925642

Shawn Michel de Montaigne

I'm a writer, illustrator, and fractalist. A wonderer, wanderer, and an unapologetic introvert. I'm a romantic; I'm inspired by the epic, the authentic, the numinous, and the luminous. Most of all, I'm blessed.

Book preview

Melody and the Pier to Forever

Melody and the Pier to Forever, Volume 3

Shawn Michel de Montaigne

Published by Shawn Michel de Montaigne, 2022.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

MELODY AND THE PIER TO FOREVER

First edition. April 17, 2022.

Copyright © 2022 Shawn Michel de Montaigne.

ISBN: 979-8201811778

Written by Shawn Michel de Montaigne.

Melody and the Pier to Forever: Book Two

Shawn Michel de Montaigne

Copyright 2014, 2017, 2021, 2022 by Shawn Michel de Montaigne

D2D Edition

Thank you for supporting me and for respecting my hard work.

~~*~~

The manuscript to

Melody and the Pier to Forever: Book Two

has been time-stamped.

All Rights Reserved.

All characters in this novel are entirely fictional.

Any resemblance to real-life individuals is purely coincidental.

All illustrations are by Shawn Michel de Montaigne

or Kyla Cardinalis and are copyrighted (2004—2020).

Cover designed by Shawn Michel de Montaigne.

Dedicated to my pea,

without whom this story—

hell, my entire writing career—

wouldn’t be possible.

Melody and the Pier to Forever: Book Two

A Quick Recommendation

––––––––

If you haven't yet read Sole Survivor: The Story of Kaza of Theseus, I strongly recommend that you do. I am confident that his tale will add depth and pleasure to this novel, and to the story arc in general. You'll also have fewer questions as you read through Part III.

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CONTENTS

Part I: CONVERGENCE

Prologue i

Chapter 1: The Day Before Conor Kieran was Kidnapped

Chapter 2: Hippolyto de Bouchard

Chapter 3: Gardre’s Last Day

Chapter 4: When Conor was a Young Man

Chapter 5: Learning to Walk

Chapter 6: The Gift

Chapter 7: Border Patrol

Chapter 8: The Day She Woke

Chapter 9: The Fourth of Six

Part II: PREPARATION

Chapter 10: Maggie’s First Journal Entries

Chapter 11: Message Received

Chapter 12: On This Day

Chapter 13: The Silence that Followed

Chapter 14: School and Scars, Lip Balm and Ice Cubes

Chapter 15: Moments at the End of the Pier

Chapter 16: The Concert

Chapter 17: Dressing and Dating

Chapter 18: Departure

Part III: THE REBEL

Prologue iii

Chapter 19: The Constable

Chapter 20: Awful Things

Chapter 21: Amazing Water

Chapter 22: His Third Home

Chapter 23: The Battle

Chapter 24: Captured

Chapter 25: Dad

Chapter 26: Shirt O’ Cannonballs

Chapter 27: The Storyteller’s First Mate

Chapter 28: Kaza of Theseus

Chapter 29: Echo and Touch

Chapter 30: Honest with Each Other

Chapter 31: 2 for CKFBI

Part IV: 144 DAYS

Chapter 32: Born, and Born Again

Chapter 33: The Other Side of Her Heart

Chapter 34: The Love of Angels

Chapter 35: Ears of Corn

Chapter 36: Flames and Ash

Epilogue i

Epilogue ii

Epilogue iii

—Begin Transmission—

For me, there is only the traveling on paths that have heart, on any path that may have heart. There I travel, and the only worthwhile challenge is to traverse its full length, and there I travel, looking, looking breathlessly ...

—Carlos Castaneda

Part I

~convergence~

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It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.

—William Shakespeare

––––––––

A billion stars go spinning through the night, blazing high above your head. But in you is the presence that will be, when all the stars are dead.

—Rainer Maria Rilke

Prologue i

~~*~~

7,160 years ago, near present-day Imperial Beach, California, Earth

––––––––

AIYANA HAD just sat down when the tipi flap lifted. Her brother Jacy poked his head inside.

I’ve found him, he said breathlessly. He’s back at the beach. Come, Aiyana, come!

Frowning, Aiyana stood and followed him. They made their way quickly between the other tents. She didn’t look up. The sh’mulq had been settled here for many days now and she knew where everything was. Several looked at her as she passed, but no one said anything. She could feel their stares on the back of her neck. She knew what they were thinking.

They were just out of sight of the camp when Jacy suddenly stopped. Aiyana walked into him. He laughed at her clumsiness. Look up, Aiyana. That way.

With a hard frown still on her face, she followed his pointing finger.

At first she couldn’t see anything. It was bright out today, and misty with white sea haze. It was sure to get hot later. She squinted; she blinked, shook her head, and squinted harder.

I don’t see anything. She couldn’t keep the impatience out of her voice. What am I looking for?

Look harder.

She sighed, then tried one more time. It was then that she saw it: a thin, wispy, curving line, barely darker than the omnipresent opaque mist, rising within it, rising high into the late-morning sky.

Smoke?

It’s him, he said. He must have crossed the marsh late last night or early this morning.

Why isn’t he at his usual spot?

Don’t you remember? He said it wasn’t the right place. He said he would keep looking until he found it.

E’Nic-ais forbade him to.

When has that old fool ever stopped Uncle Maska?

But he’s an elder!

Jacy laughed again.

It’ll take half a day to ford this marsh, she growled. The marsh began just a few paces from where they stood now, sprawling away, left, forward, and right. Only the distant sea offered any hope, from her perspective, that there was anything else besides this salt marsh.

Let’s just leave him there, she added, scowling. He can face the elders when he comes home by himself.

He knows something, Aiyana, said Jacy, his face darkening. "He’s caught on to something. He tried to warn the fishing parties not to go out forty days ago, remember? He warned them that something was on the waters. Something in the skies. But the elders silenced him and sent the parties out anyway. Now they’re gone! You saw the lightning storm—the great cloudless ring of lightning high over the water ... you saw it! It appeared out of nowhere! And then the darkness ... it swallowed the ocean up whole! And the winds that followed, and the rain ... they lashed at us, and blew our entire camp over. We thought we were going to die! Then it all suddenly stopped—and the fishing parties were gone! Gone! Tu-chai-pai himself had come and snatched them away! And now you find your uncle tiresome?"

She didn’t respond. She felt ashamed. Her outburst was uncalled for. Worse was the fact that the stares of the camp had affected her so. Uncle Maska had been hauled bodily before the tribal council after that terrifying day, where he was roundly denounced for upsetting the Maker and ordered to stay away from that stretch of the beach, which the elders had surmised must be holy to the gods and not to be defiled by men. All nine of the fishers had been swallowed up by the fearsome lightning storm. Aiyana had known them all. Their loss was crushing. But Uncle Maska was not so affected. At the top of his voice he continually shouted, "They live! They have crossed to New Waters; they walk A-uk, the Great and Endless Highway dividing them! They live!"

Aiyana and Jacy’s father, Kachada, had drowned after falling from a sea cliff north of their present camp several years ago. Maska, Kachada’s only surviving brother, had assumed the role as their parent immediately after. Maska was a slight wisp of a man, but headstrong and unapologetically loud, and, unlike their dad, unwilling to simply follow orders because someone in a position to make them did so. Kachada had taught Aiyana and Jacy the value of obedience. Uncle Maska was now apparently trying to teach them the value of rebellion. Jacy, it was obvious, liked these lessons much more, and after his mourning quickly warmed to him. Aiyana, however, couldn’t let go of her father and found Jacy’s easy acceptance a betrayal. It hurt her.

As if reading her mind, Jacy grasped her shoulder and said, quietly, He’s our father now, Aiyana. We must support him. Mother is gone. We have no one else.

"The sh’mulq think he’s crazy, she mumbled, wincing at the mention of Mother. Worse, they think he’s dangerous. They won’t tolerate this for much longer, Jacy."

Yes they will, he replied. I’ve listened in on the elders. They may think he’s crazy, but they’re afraid if they banish him he’ll call up the lightning and the winds again.

That’s ridiculous! snorted Aiyana. He wasn’t responsible for that storm, and they know that!

"The elders have ears, sister. They listen to what the sh’mulq says. It’s the sh’mulq the elders fear, not Uncle Maska."

I hate politics, she mumbled.

It’s politics that’s keeping Uncle Maska alive, responded her brother. We should be thankful for them.

Now becomes then, and people’s hearts harden, she retorted. They won’t stay patient with Uncle Maska for long.

Jacy nodded resignedly before he could catch himself. His little sister’s quick, incisive insights into human nature always caught him off guard. They were coming more and more frequently as she reached womanhood. He loved Aiyana dearly; but it was times like this that he wished she were a boy so that he wouldn’t have to think twice about tackling her and beating her. He drew a frustrated breath and glanced at her out the corner of his eye.

We’re not far from the south path to the beach, he said, motioning away from the rising smoke, the one that runs along the river. If we start now we can reach him before the sun sets. Let’s get some water and go. C’mon.

Aiyana sighed, held up for a moment, then gave a reluctant nod. A short time later they were once again out of sight of the camp and in the marsh proper.

It was panoramic, with sudden drops into wet hollows full of virgin-white birds on long yellow legs that would take flight at their approach. The hollows curved here and there, hidden by tall, rough, blade-like grasses and wide, thorny thickets of dark green scrub. The tides rose and fell in them, and were chock full of shellfish and mollusks, more than enough to keep the sh’mulq well fed. Too, there were jackrabbits, squirrels, snakes, even deer in abundance. The sh’mulq made its home near the marsh every late spring and early summer in order to take advantage of the bounty. There had never been problems with anyone using the beach any time in the past, Aiyana considered. So why would the gods be upset with one of their own using it now? It made no sense. She glanced over her shoulder, hoping that no one saw them leave.

They made their way along the winding south path, the time passing surprisingly quickly. They hiked over a line of dunes hugging the beach just as the day’s pressing, still heat began to abate. Aiyana was hungry and hot and grumbled about being such.

I have a feeling he’s expecting us, answered Jacy. He’ll have food waiting. And you can cool off any time. He pointed at the water.

You sure put a lot of faith in him. Her feet were tired and her back ached. More fatigued still was her patience with Jacy’s continual optimism. The rich decay-scented musk of the estuary seemed to prick her desire to complain, and at points on her way here, when the odor became overpowering, she’d succumbed to her bad mood. To his credit, he never responded. Sometimes he’d chuckle under his breath; other times he would just roll his eyes. Now, facing her fully, he asked:

Do you love him?

His easygoing mood, it was obvious, was nowhere to be found as he stared at her. It was clear he had had enough.

She hesitated. Who are you talking about?

Don’t play games with me, sister, he said in a low and dangerous voice. You know who I’m talking about. Answer me.

The crashing surf was just a dozen or so quick paces away. She felt like running straight into it, least of all because she was sticky with sweat. Jacy’s stare was penetrating and demanding. When she looked away he moved his head back into her line of sight. He raised his eyebrows impatiently.

Of course I do, she eventually murmured. He’s our uncle—

Exactly, he said. And he loves us. He may be a shaman! he yelled, more powerful than Saiego himself! And yet Uncle Maska shames you!

It was a rare thing to see Jacy angry, and the surprise of his outburst stung her neck and cheeks. She bit her lip.

"I’m sorry!" she yelled; and with that she marched forward on the hard sand, leaving him behind. He stared after her, then ran to catch up. It was a good sign, in his opinion, that she wasn’t marching back into the marsh, or south, away from Uncle Maska’s camp. He strode alongside her, his gait effortless and silent.

He thought of saying something else to her, but vetoed the notion almost immediately. He’d seen that face before. She was through listening.

They walked north along the beach towards the single smoke trail in silence as the sun sank slowly into the watery horizon.

~~*~~

At the campfire they stopped. Uncle Maska was nowhere to be found. The sun was half submerged beneath the waves and the crashing surf was in retreat. Aiyana eyed the fire, which was more glowing embers than dancing flames. Maska had been here all day, and had only just left: what had to be his tracks led straight into the water. Jacy was already looking out, squinting in the bright orange light.

I don’t see him, do you? he asked over the ceaseless white roar.

She shook her head distractedly. There was plenty of food at her feet, she'd noticed; it was covered to keep the seagulls overhead from spying it. She squatted down to eat. Uncle Maska had covered several juicy bits of rabbit, as well as a small pile of berries and some acorn bread. There were piles of each. Despite herself, she smiled.

Jacy, she said as she gulped down a mouthful of rabbit, he left us food. Look. Eat.

He glanced down and grinned. When can I expect your apology?

Aiyana, her mouth full, grumbled, I’m sorry.

Think my faith in Uncle Maska is wasted still?

I said I’m sorry, she said before taking another large mouthful of food. She looked up as he joined her by the fire. It was then she noticed movement past his shoulder, in the water, very nearly lost in the dying glare of sunlight.

I think I see him.

He turned his head, squinted, swallowed the food in his mouth. Yep, that’s him. He’s quite a ways out, isn’t he? Do you think he needs our help?

He’s a man-fish, said Aiyana. Don’t you remember Dad telling us how strong a swimmer Uncle Maska is?

He’s waving—he sees us. He’s coming in.

They both waved in return.

Jacy took a long look at Aiyana after lowering his arm. She stared back.

Are you going to be a pain in the ass like you’ve been with me all day? Because if you are, you shouldn’t be eating that food, Aiyana.

She looked down, her countenance darkening. She shook her head.

Good.

Uncle Maska’s sure strokes brought him back to shore quickly. He rode in on a wave like a dolphin, and soon after was jogging towards them in waist-deep water. His long, braided hair fell over his shoulders, dripping with seawater. He was clad only in his loincloth; a moment later he fell shivering next to the fire.

The water is very cold, he said without preamble as he reached for a nearby pile of sticks and twigs, tossing several handfuls into the dying flames. The fire roared back to life. He glanced at them. I’m glad you found me. I was worried the elders would beat you here, or try to stop you from coming.

He was a small man, but he carried himself like a giant. His gait, along with the strong lines of his chin and the confident wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, made people feel as though he were much taller. He shook his hair out and crowded in closer to the flames.

Is this the spot, Uncle? asked Jacy, his eyes wide.

Despite her anger, her sore feet and back, and the day’s dust sticking to her skin like a gritty glue, Aiyana found herself interested in the answer as well. She chewed a fresh mouthful of food and waited.

Yes, said Maska. He spoke the word with the same sureness of the surf, of a great wave cresting and crashing to shore. There was not a single hint of doubt in it. It’s why I was out there. I found it. I found the place. I found where the Great Spirit will hide.

"Will hide? asked Jacy, confused. Uncle Maska had mentioned this mysterious Great Spirit before, but only in very quiet tones to the both of them, and never with any helpful information following. You mean it’s not there yet?"

He shook his head. Water dripped off the ends of his braids onto his bare chest, sending twin rivulets down to his lap. The Great Spirit is waiting, he said. He gave Aiyana a dark, cryptic glance.

Then what caused the storm forty days ago? Wasn’t that caused by the Great Spirit?

Maska shook his head again. No. Another dark glance in Aiyana's direction. "It was a storm from where the Great Spirit lives. The Storm Spirit broke through Tu-chai-pai’s sky veil and raged over the water and land. But the Maker rose up in anger against him and sent him away, then sewed the tear in the sky veil. The Storm Spirit captured the fishers, who now lodge in the Great Spirit’s ‘ewaa. The Storm Spirit couldn’t kill them; they are all safe. I’m certain of it."

He turned his gaze full to Aiyana. "You are near the time of A-Keel, yes?"

She stammered, Y-Yes ... next year. Why?

Womanhood is upon you, he said with disturbing gravity. He took a stick from the edge of the campfire, stood and came to her side. With Jacy watching intently, he drew in the sand, then looked expectantly at her. Behold, he said, the Maker’s mark is upon your spirit, Aiyana.

She flushed with the compliment. A mark—from the Maker? She studied the sand-drawing he had made.

It appeared as a snake might while lying on a trail, curving equally two ways as it suns itself. At its top was a smaller snake, coiled about the top of the larger snake and itself. The shape as drawn was oddly compelling, as if something deep inside her recognized it for what it was but was not ready to reveal its true nature to her just yet.

She stared at it. The firelight cast a flickering dance of light and shadow over the curves.

"It will come upon you at the time of A-Keel, Uncle Maska announced with that same disturbing certainty. He sat back down. Because of it, the sh’mulq will come to depend on you, for the mark of the Maker will gift you with sight into others’ spirits. You will be able to see their truth, my niece ... and their untruth. You’ll be able to help them, help the sh’mulq, as I must help you learn and grow with your purpose. That is my new task."

Aiyana didn’t know what to say. She heard Jacy ask, his voice lost in the sudden storm in her mind and the roar of the surf just a few paces away, How do you know this, Uncle Maska? How are you so sure? His gaze frightened her: he was looking at her with wide-eyed wonder.

But Uncle Maska did not answer him. Looking piercingly into her eyes (which scared her even more), he said, "You stand at the head of a mighty trail, niece. A spirit-trail. A spirit-trail that ends after meandering and roaming for sunsets uncountable. This is remarkable: for spirit-trails do not end. Each of us goes on, a piece of our spirits in all those who love us, and those we love, even after our bodies turn to dust. The pieces of our spirits go on, whole in themselves; we walk new spirit-trails, and we come into being over all known horizons. We lodge in new generations, in those who never knew we lived and who will live long after our bodies have gone back to the earth. This goes on forever and ever, for all time and numberless lives. A spirit-trail never ends. But yours, Aiyana ... the spirit-trail you stand at the head of will end."

Adrenaline laced through Aiyana’s veins. She didn’t know what to say; and when she spoke, it came out in a rush: I’m ... going to die?

Her uncle reached for her hands, which were gathered protectively in her lap. We all die, child. Your life, however, is just starting, and will last a long time in good health and prosperity. You have much to do before Tu-chai-pai casts his shadow over your life-spark. Many will love you; many will revere you. They will all take a bit of your spirit along for their journey, which must ultimately end as well. But those bits of your spirit will go on, even in distant future generations who will never know you even existed! This is how it is for everybody. You will be part of them all the same. And even though they never knew you, or that you existed, you will still influence their lives, their choices, even if but a tiny, tiny bit.

"I stand at the head of a spirit-trail that ends? she asked, her fear subsiding in stages. Why does it end?"

Uncle Maska, still holding her hands, smiled widely. He looked up, his eyes distant and dreamy. Your spirit-trail transforms, he said. It leaves the earth as the hawk launches into the sky. In the sky it becomes a song ... a ... a melody.

He nodded solemnly. This is what the Great Spirit waits for.

He brought his gaze back to Aiyana. I have heard it, the melody, at the end of your spirit-trail. I have heard it, Aiyana!

What does it sound like, Uncle Maska? asked Jacy excitedly. Sing it for us!

Maska released her hands. He stood and looked out over the sea. I cannot possibly describe it, he answered, "but yes, I can sing it for you. It is a melody with terrible power. I believe it is the only hope this world has against an evil and pitiless foe who one day will challenge Tu-chai-pai Himself and break through the sky veil to wreak great destruction here, right here, this beach, these waters, and all the peoples of the earth. The melody is the only thing that can stop the enemy. The melody you will help to create, Aiyana, by the example of your life. You are necessary to its power, as well as all who follow you on the spirit-trail you stand at the head of.

"The melody has lodged in my spirit forever. It is how I came to find this place, this spot. It sang to me one day in the sh’mulq, and my lungs ... it felt as though I could breathe ... forever. Forever! I knew there was more to the melody than just music, so I went searching for whatever it was. And now I know." He smiled at them radiantly.

Why can’t I hear it? asked Aiyana. The conviction in Uncle Maska’s voice beat like a drum in her chest, as strong as her heart was beating now. The day’s sweat, and her aches and pains, had been completely forgotten. If it is part of me, why can’t I hear it?

You will, he said. You are not old enough yet. You have not seen or felt the Maker’s mark upon your spirit. The curves he had drawn in the sand he drew now in the air with an extended index finger. But you will. You will very soon.

And with that, and with she and Jacy listening intently, Maska began to sing the melody.

Chapter One

The Day Before Kieran Conor Was Kidnapped

~~*~~

St Paul's Cathedral, London, Earth, September 24, 1600 A.D.

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Come in, my boy, come in.

The voice sounded from somewhere in the black depths of an open confession booth in the gloomy, forgotten corridor he used to sneak into the Cathedral. As he passed the voice called out. It was a baritone voice, patient and welcoming. Thinking he'd been discovered, he prepared to bolt back down the hallway and into the foggy streets of London.

There is nothing to fear, said the voice soothingly, I promise you. Shut the door behind you and have a seat.

Kieran hesitated, then stepped inside. The door creaked as he shut it. In the darkness he fumbled for a seat, found it in the back, and sat. It too creaked. He clasped his hands in his lap prayerfully, deferentially, waiting. He thought that the appropriate thing to do. When the silence became expectant and awkward, he muddled for something to say. Y-You're a priest?

Catholic, no less, admitted the voice. He heard him sigh. In an age when, many days, I wish I weren't, or even myself for that matter. Do you ever have days like that, my boy?

K-Kieran, sir. I'm Kieran. Kieran Conor.

It's nice to meet you, Kieran. My name is Monsignor Vincent de Paul.

Hi ... said Kieran unsurely, still clasping his hands prayerfully. Does one say hi to a priest? Was it disrespectful?

Is this your church?

My—? Ah. The monsignor laughed. No, not mine. It was once a Catholic church, before the eighth Henry decided he needed to divorce his wife. It now belongs to his daughter. And I'm not the good Apostle Paul, no. And most certainly not a saint. I've seen you many times, Kieran. I'm glad to finally make your acquaintance.

Kieran was shocked. He never sat anywhere but in the very back of the church, in a hidden corner, away from the condescending stares of the well-dressed worshipers up front and, perhaps especially, the direct sight of the priests. He would come in for the evening Mass—he would slink in, more like, and only after Mass had started so that the crowd would not take notice of him or his filthy, tattered clothes and unkempt hair. Even if the Cathedral was half full, he dared not sit closer. He'd sit and bow his head and pray earnestly, losing himself in the unintelligible Latin coming from the priest and his subordinates, and in the glowing, disembodied music, and in the ritual standing and sitting and kneeling and chanting. He had no idea what he was chanting, or even if what he was chanting was spoken correctly, but it did not matter. It made him feel good—no, not good, better. He did not know why.

Y-You ... you h-have? You are?

Of course I am, dear boy. One generally observes the remarkable, said the monsignor with a chuckle. Unless, of course, you're too stunted inside to do so. As so many are, Kieran, as so many are.

I ... I'm remarkable? asked Kieran. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Nobody in his entire life had ever told him he was remarkable.

Boys your age seldom walk into a church unaccompanied. And yet you do it every evening. You hide in the northeast corner, under the Fourth Station of the Cross. I've always wondered if that was significant. Is it?

Kieran lifted his chin, blinked, shook his head. I ... I don't know.

Are you Catholic or Anglican?

Uh ... I'm not sure, sir. Certain such an answer was wholly unsatisfactory, he quickly presented a different identification pass. I ... I'm Irish ...

Monsignor Vincent de Paul found that funny. Catholic indeed! Do you know the significance of the Fourth Station of the Cross, Kieran?

Uh ... I-I'm sorry, sir, no.

No need to apologize. I have no doubt you'll find out for yourself. You seem the type.

—The type, sir?

The type of young man who will learn on his own the things that will advance his life on the path of Christ. Where are your parents, Kieran?

Kieran didn't answer.

The priest broke the long silence with, Ah. Kieran could hear the compassion in that single syllable, and it stung his insides. He closed his eyes.

Are they alive?

Kieran steadied himself. My mum, no. My dad ... I don't know. I've never met him.

I take it you are homeless.

Yes, sir.

When was it that you last ate?

Two days ago ... I think. He sniffled as quietly as he could. He hoped the priest hadn't heard it.

You're ten? Eleven?

Eleven, sir.

He heard the priest next to him exhale, then mumble a few words in Latin. They did not sound like happy words.

"You come in here praying for food, I take it—?

Kieran fought with his composure. He shook his head. It was a compulsive act; he came aware that he had only after it happened. He thought he had said no as well. He wasn't sure.

The priest cleared his throat. I see.

Kieran was afraid that moment he had been discovered; that he had violated some prayer rule that says that one can only pray about Jesus, think about Jesus, meditate on Jesus—as so many had told him church was for and only for. With that in mind, and afraid he had insulted the monsignor and imperiled his immortal soul most grievously, he blurted, I-I'm sorry ...

"You're sorry—? came the angry retort. You are—? You? Oh, my dear Kieran, do not apologize for the Holy Church's failings! It is the Church that owes you an apology! We—Catholic or Anglican—have failed you in every possible way!"

Kieran didn't respond. The priest's outburst had stifled the air in the confessional.

Come by the rectory after tonight's Mass. The priest who presides over this church and I are good friends. He allows me to hear confessions from Catholics, and to give communion in an anteroom not far from here. All in the deepest secrecy, of course. I will feed you myself. Do you have friends? Other homeless boys and girls like yourself?

Kieran's voice trembled. No, sir. He wiped his nose on his sleeve.

More for you, then, said the priest defiantly. Does that sound good?

Yes, sir, sniffled Kieran Conor. Thank you, sir.

It isn't nearly adequate, said Monsignor de Paul. Not by great measure. Nor does it address the need that compels you to kneel in this Cathedral every evening. I am merely feeding your body. But it is your soul that is truly starving. I cannot bring your mother back ... and I'm not at all sure I'd have anything but contempt for your father, may God have mercy on him. But I can and I will help you bear your own cross. It's a start. Is that acceptable to you, Kieran?

Y-Yes, sir. Kieran's battle for composure was lost. He wept silently, certain the priest could hear it.

I must admit something, Kieran. I have noticed something about you—something I noticed the very first time I saw you. It's why I waited for the right moment to call you into this booth. There is a light in your eyes. It's a light that, try as they might, the wealthy and powerful who stuff themselves in the front pews of this Cathedral cannot hope to bring forth in themselves, no matter how many pounds they hoard. It is the light of God. I am sure of it. There is no way I'd've missed it—no matter how clever you were in sneaking in here.

Kieran didn't know how he mustered the courage to ask what he did next. He was certain it was heresy. Still: S-Sir—?

Yes?

"Is ... I mean, I know it's wrong to ask, so forgive me ... but ... is ... is there a God?"

Monsignor Vincent de Paul didn't immediately answer. Kieran thought he might be kicked out of the confessional, if not the church altogether. He waited for the pious outrage to descend upon him.

The priest answered gently: "It is why I wish many days—especially these days—that I wasn't a priest. Truthfully, Kieran, I am confronted daily with evidence that there isn't a God. You are a bright, intelligent young man—and here you are, starving, homeless, parentless. I am confronted daily with the greed of our countrymen, with their privation, with their willingness to do violence against their fellow men, with their persecution of their Catholic neighbors, with their silent complicity with the Crown's persecution of the same, with their endless sniveling conformity to all that is shallow, trite, and meaningless. They are anything but Christlike; instead they are filled with false piety every Sunday as they sit at the front of this beautiful Cathedral, as they throw superior, haughty glances at their neighbors! Oh, how Christlike they are! he said with deep bitterness. The sermons my Anglican colleagues write fall on deaf ears. I honestly don't know why they bother!"

He sighed.

Do you doubt, Kieran, that there is a God?

Kieran knew that men were commonly executed for answering such a question in the affirmative. Despite the monsignor's astonishing answer, he held silent, afraid.

I don't blame you for not answering, replied the priest when the quiet extended awkwardly long. He cleared his throat. Do you remember the Apostles?

Yes, answered Kieran.

The one known as Doubting Thomas? Do you remember him?

Yes, sir.

"Doubting Thomas. He's spoken of disparagingly by Christians. He's used as an example of poor faith and as a spur to wishful or magical thinking. However, the Scriptures make a unique aside for him, saying that Jesus had a special love for him. What's interesting is that nowhere in the Scriptures is given the reason why Jesus so loved Thomas. There is only speculation and hindsight and hearsay, all of which was almost certainly added by scribes long after Christ was crucified. You would think a doubter such as Thomas would have his existence—or, at minimum, his doubt—edited out of the texts. Yet they have remained, to be read sixteen centuries later by you and me. Given the proclivities of the Church these days toward freethinkers of all sorts and kinds, do you not find that fact incredible?"

Yes, sir, said Kieran. This was more like it, he thought. This was a priest being priestly. He had expected this.

"Let us speculate, then, shall we, Kieran? What if the Son of God loved Thomas because of his doubt? What if Jesus loved Thomas the Doubter because Thomas refused to simply fall into line and conform, as the eleven others did? What if Thomas was loved by our Savior precisely because Our Lord ultimately had no desire to herd sheep around, as his followers are commonly referred to, but because he wanted to reach human beings—individual human beings, those with stubborn, wholesome, uncorrupted souls, those who don't fall easily into line, those who need solid, sound convincing to become any kind of follower for anything at all, who challenge the master, the teacher, the prophet—even the Savior; those who stand on their own two feet and are not easily persuaded to kneel. Have you ever thought of that, Kieran?"

I had not, sir, no.

You are but a young man, and you are homeless and parentless. You walk the streets of London and attempt to come unnoticed into this house of God. Perhaps that it why my tongue is so loose. Forgive me. If the bishop ever heard me speak this way I would be accused of heresy and punished, even defrocked. And if the Queen or her Church ever got wind of it, especially me being Catholic ...

She'd have you beheaded, sir.

It was nowhere near a funny thought or thing to say; still, Kieran Conor couldn't hold back the chuckle that escaped his lips. He slapped his hands up to his mouth, sure he had crossed the line, his eyes wide with alarm.

But then the priest chuckled, too. And then he laughed. Kieran dropped his hands and laughed as well.

Beheaded—for speaking my truth! cried Monsignor Vincent de Paul. And so, to keep up appearances—and to keep my head firmly fixed on my shoulders—I must break the Ninth Commandment and bear false witness, every hour of every day, to my so-called flock, who, much like you, sneak in here, and to the bishop and to the pope himself. Oh, the irony, dear Kieran! The irony! He laughed some more, as did Kieran.

When the laughter dissolved into the darkness of the booth and silence once more held sway, the priest said, "We are the kings, dear boy, you and I: the kings of our own souls. It is in the end the only lordship that matters; it is our greatest responsibility in life, our greatest role, our greatest gift—both given to us, and as something we give to others. Remember that, my young friend. Because the light I see in your eyes I am quite convinced will someday inspire others. Perhaps—who knows?—many others. Give that light to them not as their ruler, Kieran, not as their lord, not to gather followers or servants, but as a beacon others may use to find their own light, their own path. Will you do that for me?"

Y-Yes, sir.

"Few choose to assume lordship over their own spirits, Kieran. And so we have wars, we have cruel leaders, we have persecution, we have a Church that refuses to stand against poverty, that refuses to offer a helping hand to those in need, kowtowing instead to the privileged, who use the Sabbath Day to flounce their outer finery. They do so because the finery inside them is tattered and rotten and utterly neglected!

"But honoring the soul inside you is precisely how you honor He who gave it to you—the most precious gift God can ever give you! To come back to your question, I am becoming more and more convinced in my advancing age that it is only he who assumes lordship over his own spirit who can discover, in the end, He who gave him that spirit. It is why I think Jesus held a special love for the one known as Doubting Thomas. When Thomas came to his faith, it was, for that very reason, stronger than all the others' combined. I'm certain of it."

Kieran’s tummy rumbled, breaking the quiet that followed the catechetical lesson.

Under the Fourth Station of the Cross he nightly sits, his head bowed, an Irish Catholic boy surrounded by hostile English Anglican sheep who are so busy comparing the wool they're wearing to their neighbors' that they never notice you! It may sound an exaggeration, Kieran Conor, but I believe the light in those mischievous eyes of yours have brought me back to my own path. For that I wish to thank you.

Thank you, sir, said Kieran meekly, unsure what else he could say.

Tonight, then, said Monsignor Vincent de Paul. Let us talk more tonight over dinner. We will also try to find a way to secure shelter for you. I will see you then, my young friend.

Chapter Two

Hippolyto de Bouchard

~~*~~

Just off the coast near present-day Imperial Beach, Earth, 1818 A.D.

––––––––

Bring her up. Search her person first! Make sure she’s properly bound. If she tries to escape, run her through!

Hippolyto de Bouchard, Captain of La Argentina, fingered the twin parallel five-inch cuts that streaked crusted and purple down his right cheek.

The nun had done this to him! In very unladylike fashion she’d pulled from the depths of her scorched linen underwear a broken fork and had lashed out in a very un-Christian attitude for him.

The men were taken completely by surprise: first by the nun’s immodest lifting of her habit, the flash of white cloth hiding a feminine form just beneath, then by the appearance of a rusted fork in her fist, then by her bulldog-like attack.

Hippolyto de Bouchard had jerked back too late: the sting of the slash across his cheek was immediate and shocking. He tripped over his fat helmsman and fell sprawling, his head knocking hard against the heavy hullwood of the bridge. The woman was on him before his men could even comprehend what had happened, the fork stabbing down into his chest, aiming for his heart, aiming for anything at all. He was wearing armor—Thank that nonexistent God!—having just returned from a trip ashore; and his men weren’t so pig-stupid that they didn’t react in the next second and pull her off him, which they did.

Her accommodations, which had been far more suited to her sex and station before her incivility, were immediately reduced to the scum he held below hard iron grates in the bowels of the Argentina. He grumbled out loud again his wish that the prisoners had repeatedly had their way with her; he had bellowed it at her yesterday as his men dragged her off. He anticipated a much more servile and malleable woman of the cloth in a few moments. Still, his unvoiced hope was that such would not be the case. He liked challenges, and it had been months since the sloppy Spanish bordellos of Monterrey.

A pure challenge, he thought, is so much sweeter than a tainted one. Or no challenge at all, save what’s in one’s purse.

But his purse had grown so fat these past few months that, ironically, conquests of that most delicious type had been taken from him. A pure challenge is a poor challenge. A destitute challenge. But more. It’s a challenge that finds joy in its poverty, in its destitution. A challenge that lives for its nonexistent God in full choice, and wants for nothing else, like those half-naked savages and their pow-wows and their old ways.

Whether or not they know it, they serve the very same nonexistent God as this woman, this slasher, this bitch. I’ve burned those brown-skins at the stake until their skin was black and flaking off their carcasses, and I let my men rape their women, and we skewered their infants and fed them to their dogs, which I shot later for sport.

And I've loved every minute of it.

Where was their God then? Where will this bitch’s God be in a few moments when I sate myself in her spotless womb?

What’s the hold-up? he yelled at no one, unaware that he was still fingering the slashes on his cheek.

Three of his men appeared soon after. Two had the nun, one to an arm; a third trailed behind, his sword drawn. The soldier grasping her right arm was bleeding from his ear and laboring to stay upright. The top of his ear appeared to have been run through a meat grinder. They hauled her writhing, twisting form up the stairs to the bridge. Bouchard noticed that she didn’t yell or scream or curse as she struggled. She merely writhed like a snake tossed in a campfire, silent.

Her habit was off, as per his late order; she was clad now only in her underwear, which covered her from neck to ankle. It was soiled and torn in spots. He felt his mood lighten considerably. The tears were few, and in all the wrong spots. The prisoners below grates had, somewhat astonishingly, not molested her.

A pure challenge. Yes.

He hoped with an expectant inhalation that she would struggle and twist like this in a few moments in his quarters. In anticipation of that he said to her: Save your energy.

He turned his attention to the sailor with the injured ear. What happened to you?

The nun spat at Bouchard’s feet. What fell on his boot was less expectorant than glistening red-colored flesh.

Have the physician look at that, he ordered the injured sailor, who appeared close to fainting. The side of his face was stained crimson, and his eyes held that blank anger indicative of early shock.

He considered that he would have to get rid of such a wimpling at the earliest available opportunity. He gazed at the nun, who had stopped struggling and was regarding him with the deepest contempt.

You should have swallowed that, he said, chuckling, motioning down at the flesh on his boot. It’s the last good meal you’ll ever get.

He grinned. The cuts crinkled painfully. What’s your name?

Silence.

He didn’t expect that she would answer, and wasn’t in the mood to dally. Not, at least, here. His English was fluent, and he knew hers was, too.

I’ll have the seaman behind you gore you if you don’t answer me immediately.

She jerked once against her captors and answered, poison in every syllable, Sister Benedict. No need to remember it; I’m sure Lucifer will brand it on your fat ass!

His sneer vanished. He took a single step forward and backhanded her as hard as he could.

It was like the bitch’s hate reflexes had been honed by the toughest battalion: her head recoiled and attacked. Quick as a rattlesnake, she struck for his hand before it could get out of range and now had half his pinkie finger firmly between her front teeth. She bit down, and he was suddenly stumped and bellowing in agony. She spat the stub on the mangled remains of the ear.

Nope! she yelled over his shrieking, blood running off her chin. Needs less salt, like that ear!

He fell to his knees clutching his throbbing right hand, the remainder of his pinkie shooting bright red arcs of his blood down to the deck. Before his men could assist him he screamed, "Tie her up in my quarters spread-eagled and naked! Clean her face! Be sure to gag her! And if any of you laggards touch her in any way reserved for me first, I’ll flay you alive! Now move!"

He didn’t see them haul her away. The pain in his right hand was as vicious as anything he’d ever felt before in his life. And he’d been shot twice.

He struggled to his feet. He tore the bandage out of the grasp of the ship's doctor who'd come rushing to his aid, wrapped it around his gushing hand. "That bitch! That BITCH! OUT OF MY WAY!"

He bowled through his men for the stairs leading below deck to his quarters.

Captain! yelled a sailor, pointing starboard.

Bouchard, his teeth gritting so hard his chin trembled, his face shining in sweat, twisted about.

Over the water flashed lightning. It was far enough away that the thunder hadn’t yet made it to them.

He glanced up. The sky was totally cloudless. High, high up laced more lightning, washed out by the sun’s glare. No clouds anywhere.

Was he in shock? No ... his own men had seen it; and now a good dozen of them were pointing up or out. The thunder had made it to them, beating down on their heads with a gentle warning, like war drums over a distant hill.

He turned to his first officer. "Raise sails. Make due south until we’re out from under whatever it is, then turn south-southwest for the Hawaiian Islands. The rest of you get back to work!"

He descended below deck as more thunder rumbled down upon La Argentina.

He’d been humiliated—twice—by this apparent demon in a habit in front of his crew; and his clear priority now wasn’t some unexplained weather phenomena (which by all indications seemed harmless), but to get some of that dignity back, and with as much regret and pain as he could extract from her.

~~*~~

He calmly closed the door to his quarters, betraying nothing of the rage he felt, staring at the young naked woman chained spread-eagle before him. She was upright, the thick black chains clinking from the ceiling and at her feet. He’d had this contraption installed for just such occasions.

This is what he desired most: the sight of helplessness before him, pink and trembling and fresh. After each of his conquests he treated himself thusly, then would give his victim over to his men. They took responsibility for piercing her heart and heaving her spent body overboard. The men enjoyed these treasures as much as he; the esprit de corps among his crew was for that reason envied by his French and Argentinean peers. Some had discovered his secret and now employed it on their own vessels. Imitation and flattery and all that.

But the sight before him disappointed him. Because this nun—she couldn’t be more than nineteen or twenty years old—appeared, amazingly, anything but helpless, as though she had chosen the chains binding her and spreading her wide. Pink was her flesh, yes; but trembling she was not. Bouchard noticed that he, however, was shaking from the intense pain of losing half a pinkie finger to the perfect teeth in that mouth, now fully gagged.

He could still do this, he told himself, and with his left arm unsheathed his sword. He brought the silver point of it up to her face. She glared at him with the deepest loathing, her blue eyes like sea ice.

He deftly flipped the blade over, fed the tip of it under the cloth gag, and pressed upward in a short jerk. The nun spat the gag out. His sword had cut deeply into her cheek—but still she made no sound or protest of pain. He looked out the windows behind her as much louder thunder rumbled over the ship ... but there was nothing out there but jade-blue ocean melting into haze-washed sky, and the hint of rose-colored, cliff-lined coastline in the distant north.

He turned his attention back to her. Blood dripped off her chin in a steady thin stream—but still she refused to show fear. He felt faint with pain, but forged ahead anyway.

Sister Benedict, he said with a slight (and detestable) quaver in his voice, I ... wish to know your real name. He smiled—a forced smile. Your given name, if you please.

He was surprised when she answered immediately. Claire ... Michelson, she said. Her white-hot gaze intensified: Captain Boris de Bouchard.

He shook his head as he unsnapped his trousers with his good hand, having leaned the sword up against the cabin wall. He glanced at the cloth covering his right hand; it was nearly soaked through. Leaning against the wall himself, his injured hand elevated, he awkwardly pulled off his boots, breeches, and underwear. He righted himself with a grunt and came behind the nun and his desk, clad only in his shirt. He inspected her body with as much lascivious fervor as the pain would allow, gruffly pulling open a drawer where an embroidered handkerchief lay folded inside. He grabbed it, considering that he’d taken it from the last woman chained like this, and wrapped it over the blood-soaked bandage.

He coldly studied her bare buttocks. Hippolyto, actually, he answered. His identical twin. I’m surprised: you’ve met Boris?

Obviously, she replied. She was so still the chains were like freakish extensions of her body.

Not a captain, he said. Few know his real name or that he’s related to me. How did you discover it?

I asked, she replied without inflection. He came to me to confess his many misdeeds.

You lie, he snarled. His finger throbbed so hard he could feel it in his ankles. Isn’t lying a sin?

I’m not lying.

You must be. My brother would never do such a thing. By the way, isn’t turning the other cheek one of your religion’s tenets as well?

If you’re referring to the slap you gave me, I did turn the other cheek. Your finger was in the way.

His pain betrayed him. "You are a headstrong wench!" he hissed. He grimaced as he tied the fresh handkerchief into a knot over the oozing stump.

And you, sir, are a brigand and a lech, and I assure you you’ll live to regret this. She eyed him as he came around to stand deeply between her thighs.

I very seriously doubt that, he replied, laughing with effort. He despised that it took effort, any effort at all. He despised this fanatic before him, and he despised that he couldn’t depersonalize her or even degrade her, despite her present degrading circumstances. She wouldn’t allow it.

I live without regrets, and when I finish with you— he licked chapped lips—when I finish with you my men will get you. I won’t regret that, either.

A flash out the windows behind her. The lightning was clear now, and much closer. Freakishly, it had no source; it came from no clouds, and was now becoming somewhat continuous. The ship shook with some of the closer strikes. Odd, he thought—but still not dangerous.

Claire Michelson had been anchored at such an angle that her head, and the teeth in it, were a good, safe distance away. Bouchard was ready, and let her know it. She gave the barest of grunts, staring hatefully at him.

My twin is not a good man, he impassively reflected, giving a hard thrust with each word. "And—neither—am—I.

If I die, he went on as though carrying on a normal conversation, "he’ll take my place. It’s an agreement we’ve had since we set—sail—years—ago. I’ll go on,