The Red Cross of Gold V:.
“Quinta Essentia”
by
Brendan Carroll
The Quinta Essentia is dedicated to everyone who has ever had the desire to meet or be an evil sorcerer.
The characters are fictional and any resemblance to real persons alive or dead is unintentional and coincidental.
Brendan Carroll can be reached at http://redcrossofgold.blogspot.com/ for comments or questions.
The Red Cross of Gold V:. The Quinta Essentia
Published Brendan Carroll
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2009 Brendan Carroll
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Preface
Mark Andrew was finally asleep on the blue leather sofa.
Camilla tossed her long hair over her shoulder and grunted as she dropped quickly to one knee in front of the couch, trying to catch the wine glass before it slipped from his hand and spilled onto the white carpet. She made a face as a few drops of the dark red liquid hit the rug and sank in immediately.
“Dammit, Addie!” she exclaimed as she rubbed at the spots with her hand. “I don’t like this at all. It was fun for a while, but I don’t like this. Not at all. It might even be illegal.”
“Look, Camilla,” Adriana spoke up from where she sat crosslegged on the floor beside the glass-topped coffee table. “Mr. McCreary offered to pay the rent… in advance… for six months. He said that Mark would never know the difference. What could it hurt?”
“It could hurt my feelings to get locked up with you two,” Sylvia quipped in passing, on her way to the kitchen with the wine glass. “I don’t like your Mr. McCreary character. He gives me the creeps. He’s like jelly, always changing. Sinister, some how.”
“Oh wot th’ ’ell, Lassie? D’ ye think mebbe ye’re soooo deep? I dunna intent t’ ’urt him if thot’s wot ye’re wurrit aboot. Th’ bloke’s been a helluva sport, a bloody gud roide,” Adriana used her best imitation of the Scot’s accent to tease her friend and sat down on the floor beside Camilla. She held up her hand and looked at a diamond goose egg sparkling there. “I kind of like him, you know and he is cute with his country ways.”
“He is more than cute, mia cara,” Camilla laughed at her friend’s description of the darkly handsome Scot. “He’s rich. Or at least he was three weeks ago. I wonder who canceled his credit card? I mean he never said anything about a credit limit or money or a job or anything like that. I don’t think he’s ever worked for a living. Look at his hands. Soft as a baby’s bottom.”
“And what would you know about working, Milla?” Sylvia asked as she joined them on the carpet. “Perhaps he is a mental case, no? Eccentric billionare. That sort of thing. Let’s get on with this. I have places to go.”
“Well, we can only hope he’s not a psycho escaped with his doctor’s wallet,” Addie muttered and pushed back her hair. She got up and kicked off her shoes. “He didn’t seem like a basket case to me. Too bad we can’t afford to keep him. But you’re right. Let’s get this over with before he wakes up. Help me with this.”
They pushed the coffee table out of the way and pushed and tugged on the chairs and ottoman, making a wide open space in front of the sofa.
Adriana marked out a circle on the floor, nine feet in diameter, using a pre-measured length of string and a sprinkling of salt.
“All right, be quiet now,” Adriana instructed as she placed the incense and candles around the circle according to the diagram Mr. McCreary had given her. Mr. McCreary knew Mark Ramsay. Another curiosity, but she didn’t understand their relationship. Mark had never admitted that he knew anyone by that name even though he declared it was Scottish enough. Sadly, Allen McCreary was paying now and Mark wasn’t. She kept telling herself that everything would come out all right. They had to pay the bills, didn’t they? “Are we ready? Do we know what we’re supposed to do?”
Her two roommates nodded and stood back, while she completed laying out the circle and then stepped inside the circle when she beckoned to them. They waited in skeptical silence as she read off the strange incantations and verses written on the back of an index card.
They waited for several seconds in silence, when she was finished.
Gradually, they noticed that the sky outside had clouded over. A warm breeze kicked up the filmy drapes at the balcony doors and the windchimes tinkled over the dining room table. They gathered closer together in the center of the circle after a few seconds and Adriana finalized the request to the powers of the Universe to come and do their bidding. Thunder answered her words as if on cue and they all jumped before giggling in unison. The sky had grown even darker and the invigorating smell of an approaching summer rainstorm wafted through the open windows.
“Here we go,” Adriana whispered when Mark moved on the couch and threw one arm over his face. “We repeat the words three times in successsion and then we wait to see what happens. Camilla, do you have the camera ready?”
“Ready,” Camilla answered and held up the small, but expensive video recorder, also provided by McCreary.
“I still don’t like this,” Sylvia protested once more in a whisper. “It’s not right.”
“I heard you the first six times,” Adriana snapped, bumped her arm and then looked down at the card in her hand. “You have your lines?”
Her friends nodded.
“On three,” Adriana said and used her fingers to tick off the numbers. “One, two, three.”
They drew a collective breath and began the final step of the ceremony.
“Chequetet. Arelich. Volmalites.”
Another loud clap of thunder shook the apartment and the drapes flapped almost horizontally in the stiffening breeze that had grown quite chilly.
“Again!” she ordered and they complied, repeating the three odd names.
“Once more!” she almost shouted when the lightning struck searingly close and the thunder startled her.
“Chequetet. Arelich. Volmalites.”
The rain broke over the city in torrents and the floor seemed to vibrate as the downpour set up a continual roar of wind and rumbling thunder. Camilla shrieked when a vase toppled over on the dining room table and shattered on the wood floor.
They stood watching and waiting as the wind wailed around their third floor apartment.
“Oh my God! What is that noise?” Sylvia gasped and pressed her hands over her ears as a low, vibrating noise filled the air with a repressive buzzing sound.
The lights blinked off after a loud bang and the wind threatened to extinguish their candles. Camilla grabbed her arm and pointed over her shoulder at the man on the sofa, outside their circle. Sylvia’s eyes grew wide and she fell back into Adriana’s arms. The three girls sank to the floor in a tight huddle as they stared at what was happening to their unsuspecting guest.
“Is this supposed to happen?” Sylvia asked in a raspy whisper.
“Keep the camera rolling!” Adriana ignored Sylvia and poked Camilla. “I don’t know. Stay inside the circle. It’s supposed to protect us.”
On the sofa, Mark Andrew Ramsay, Chevalier du Morte, poor Knight of Solomon’s Temple, lay unconscious with one arm covering his face just as he had for several minutes, but now he was encased in a glowing cocoon of light that shivered and shimmered just outside the contours of his body. While they watched, the cocoon grew outward and then separated itself into a vague twin image of blue light. The ghostly apparition sat up and put its feet on the floor, leaving Mark on the sofa in the dark. The Scotsman let out a long breath and lay absolutely still.
“Oh my God!” Camilla shouted. “We killed him!”
“Shut up!” Adriana hushed her as Sylvia began to cry. “Don’t move! Be still!”
The doppleganger stood up and they watched in morbid fascination as it took on more solid proportions. It moved its head from left to right as if searching for something. They could see two points of deeper blue light where its eyes might be. It finally seemed to focus on them and took two steps forward. Sylvia shrieked.
“Please don’t hurt us!” Adriana addressed the spectral image. “Mark? Is that you?” she asked and then nudged Camilla’s slack camera hand back into postion. “Keep filming,” she whispered.
“Who then has called me from the deep dreams of sleep?” the voice was not Mark’s at all. “Who thus has called my name thrice in vain? Know ye not that my Spirit shall ever be with thee, guiding thy feet in the pathway of Light? Mystery and wisdom have I brought to my children; knowledge and power descended from old. Know ye not that all shall be opened when ye shall find the oneness of the All?”
“I’m so sorry, sir,” Sylvia whimpered. “We didn’t know… are you an angel? Are you Mark’s guardian angel? We’re sorry for disturbing you.”
“Hush up, Sylvia,” Adriana told her. “Can you grant us three wishes?” she asked the figure hopefully.
“Get thee gone, children of darkness!” the spector answered, decidedly annoyed. “Leave now this place and seek ye the light. Follow the light, disturb not my resting, lest I return ere man has risen to call thee thyself into account for thy failings. I will break down your temple and turn loose the hounds of the barrier!” It raised one arm and pointed one finger at them menacingly.
Camilla dropped the camera and scrambled from the room. The door to the hallway banged against the wall. Sylvia shrieked once more and followed closely behind her friend. Adriana groped for the camera, grabbed it up and fled out the open door, screaming all the way down the hall, down the stairs and out into the stormy street.
Chapter One of Eighteen
This is the dream
Everything was going good as far Mark Andrew Ramsay was concerned until one morning he awoke to find two men standing over the bed, looking down at him with unsympathetic frowns on their faces.
The party was over. His credit card had been canceled and his welcome had run out along with the money. His beautiful acolytes had deserted him. The two men were definitely not Templars come to fetch him home, nor were they policemen. When they tried to pick him up, he let them know right away that he did not like their looks. Fighting them was his first thought, but the drugs his ‘friends’ had plied him with were more powerful than any of his own concoctions.
The next clear thought he had was when he awoke again in a stark white enclosure made of vinyl curtains hanging from the ceiling on metal hooks, surrounding a narrow hospital bed on which he lay in five-point restraints, usually reserved for only violently, mentally ill patients. Another stranger, totally unsympathetic, had come and administered yet more drugs to him and then he had slept again after a bit of recreational shouting, being unable to even lift his head far enough to see where he might be. The second time he awoke he was out of the restraints, but still in the hospital bed and his interior was howling for food and drink, especially drink. His tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth, his eyes felt full of sand and every joint in his body needed oiling. For the first time in life, he felt his age bearing down on him like a steam locomotive. It was unfair to think that, though he was immortal, he could suffer exceedingly for two to three days at time. At least, the pains he and his Brothers suffered on occasion kept them in touch with the suffering of humanity in general. Immortality without pain, without suffering was a disturbing thought. No mortal man could bear such a thing without becoming a tyrant or worse. The gods must have really enjoyed themselves at man’s expense. These and other disjointed thoughts bombarded his now sober mind and he was busy for quite some time just assimilating all that he could remember and retain from his month long debacle. Holiday. Hmmmmmmm. Quite the misnomer. Nothing about it had been holy.
When no one appeared around the drawn curtains armed with needles, Mark Andrew pushed himself up in the bed frowning. His immediate surroundings were stark and sterile with very few moving parts. Stainless steel, chrome, plastic, concrete and tile. Some of his least favorite artificially created materials. The place was familiar enough from what he could see in the confined space around the bed.
Mark shouted for the obnoxious doctor, wrongly assuming that he was back at the Villa, but no one answered him. After a bit, he shouted for an orderly. Again there was no response. He looked about the enclosure, taking note of the subtle differences between this foul place and the Order’s infirmary. The infirmary at the villa had been furnished with some glass and a bit of wood left over from earlier times. He slid from the bed, dressed only in a drafty hospital gown onto the very cold floor and his feet recoiled at the slick feeling. He pulled the curtain back cautiously and saw another bed on the other side of the drapery. The second bed was empty, but the covers were rumpled and the remains of a meal sat in the middle of the crumpled bed sheets. He let the curtain fall and went to the other side to survey the opposite side of the room, hoping not to see any more beds and/or patients. Spying no more beds and an open door, he tiptoed across the floor to what proved to be a bathroom and went inside the hollow-sounding room, closing and locking the door before leaning against it panting, very near panic. Hospitals and public officials were to be avoided at all costs. He had no idea what he might have said or done since being brought here. No idea how long he’d been here. No idea if anyone else knew he was here.
When he had finished the most pressing business at hand, he looked in the mirror and almost screamed. Where his long, silken black hair had been, he now had short, spiky hair on top of his head surrounded by dozens of long, tiny braids which were pulled back in a pony tail. His face was covered in a close-cropped beard and the only remaining thing he recognized of the hair he had worn for over eight hundred years, was the lone white braid peeking out from under the numerous smaller braids. The silver earrings were still attached to the end of it. Someone had taken great pains to create this hairstyle for him and he had apparently allowed it. Only his deep blue eyes staring back at him accusingly proved that he was still himself underneath the strange disguise. He turned his back to the mirror and tried to look at his shoulders for more signs of damage. There he found another shock. A gruesome, yet finely constructed figure of the grim reaper wearing a long, hooded cloak peeked from under the flimsy cover of the hospital gown on his left shoulder. In elegant Gothic script, the words ‘du Morte’ were written on the curved blade of the scythe. When the shock of this discovery had died a bit, he raised the gown tentatively to inspect the rest of his anatomy, dreading what he might find there. He drew a sharp breath as a another, more colorful piece of artwork presented itself for immediate examination. The scars on his stomach from his fight with the dragon had been cleverly decorated, surrounded by the claws of a black and green dragon that appeared to be reaching from within his body to make the wounds that caused the scars. The workmanship was quite fascinating, almost three dimensional, and apparently quite fresh, still touchy and most definitely intended to be permanent. He slapped one hand to his forehead and then had to steady himself against the stainless steel sink. His stomach turned over and he retched miserably over the stainless steel toilet, bringing up nothing. He had no idea how long it had been since he’d eaten solid food. An examination of his forearms and wrists showed the traces of needles, perhaps intravenous drugs administered by the hospital staff, perhaps illicit drug track marks. He didn’t know.
As he re-examined the tattoo on his stomach, he noticed that he had thankfully not lost his golden ring with the white stone and red cross or the silver pinky ring. They were still on his fingers. His next discovery was a single silver stud earring in his left ear depicting a gruesome death’s head skull. Oh, yes, he remembered that! Just as he was about to leave the bathroom, another fascinating bit of intrigue registered on his belabored brain. A fifth letter had been added to the silver ring on his pinky finger in matching black engraving. Instead of IAAT, for the four elements: ignus, aqua, aire, terra, it now read IAATQ. How this had happened was also unknown to him. He sat on the toilet and tried to collect his thoughts, tried to remember as much as he could of the past month. After several minutes of frustration, someone knocked loudly on the door, causing him to let a go an involuntary shriek.
“Mr. Ramsay?!” a woman’s deep voice called from the other side of the door. Imperative. Demanding. Decidedly unfriendly.
He felt sick and light-headed. A hoard of carnivorous butterflies fluttered in his empty stomach as he debated whether to open the door or hide in the shower stall. But if they found him acting bizarre, they would no doubt drug him again. The last thing he needed was more drugs. Already he could feel the telltale murmurings of addiction clawing at his soul, begging for more of whatever cocktail his beauties had been feeding it. He crossed himself quickly, said a very abbreviated prayer for help, drew a deep breath, steadying himself against the lavatory, then stepped forward to unbolt the door.
“Hello! Mr. Ramsay, open the door now!” the words though spoken in English betrayed a heavy Italian accent. He was still in Italy.
Mark Andrew opened the door a crack and looked out with one eye at the owner of the voice. A large woman of about fifty years of age stood with both hands on her hips. She wore a blue uniform and a terrible frown that cracked the coating of excessive makeup on her sagging face. Her dark eyebrows looked painted on and her dark plum lipstick made her look like a clown. He wondered perhaps if she was not one of the strange women who were actually men that he had met in his travels with his three former companions. They seemed to be quite common in Roman society these days. Poets, artists and philosophers. People with money of suspicious origin. But she wore a uniform and that was definitely not the latest fashion.
“Come on out of there, Mr. Ramsay!” she ordered, speaking to him in Italian now. “No more of your tricks! I know you speak the language.”
Tricks? He wondered how long he had been there, what he had done that passed for trickery and what he was going to do now. He couldn’t even remember the names of the three women who had rearranged his life and his appearance for him. Everything was one great blur. He was in deep trouble… again. With a sinking feeling, he thought of his cell phone for the first time and then with rising alarm, he thought of the Golden Sword and his baggage he’d last seen at the hotel. And his car? What had happened to the rented Mercedes? These thoughts brought him back to reality and there was Merry and Lucio, just waiting for him to remember them. And the twins and the Order and the Grand Master…
The woman stepped back cautiously when he opened the door and edged out of the bathroom. He had no idea what to say to her. He felt utterly ridiculous in the thin, almost papery gown and braids and he was angry. Not at her, but at himself.
“Where th’ divil am I?” he asked her in English, his Scottish brogue very thick. When her frown deepened, he switched to Italian and asked the same thing.
“We have gone through all that, Mr. Ramsay,” she answered in fairly good English and sighed heavily. “Now you just get aback in the bed like a good ragazzo. We have your medicine now.”
“I don’t want medications, sweet lady,” he sidled past her toward the bed, not feeling up to provoking the obviously peeved woman. He had nowhere else to go for the moment. He saw no signs of his clothes or any place they might have been stored. One glance at the door to the corridor and his heart sank. The window was very small and criss-crossed with wire. Only the smooth side of a brass deadbolt was visible on the inside. No doorknob. Not a good sign. The door had to be opened with a key or perhaps a key card... from the outside.
“Signor Ramsay,” the woman lowered her head as she spoke and looked at him from under her heavy black brows. “Flattery will not get you by. You want I should call Aldo again, si?” she asked.
“No.” He shook his head and forced himself into a false sense of calm. This sounded like nothing less than a threat. Who the devil was Aldo? Her ‘sister’ no doubt. “Where moight my clothes be? If ye wud be s’kind, I cud be out o’ yer hair in nae toime atoll.”
“You don’ta need clothes to take ’a this medicine. And you are not ’a going anywhere just ’a now,” she said condescendingly. “Now back ’a to bed. We are making some a’head way in a’locating your… people.”
His people? The women? Certainly not. Surely not. The Order? The Ramsay clan in Scotland? He could imagine their chagrin to receive a call from a nuthutch in Rome, talking about one of their long, lost relatives being a patient there. Most likely it was the Order she spoke of. He always carried a card listing some of his Brother’s private cell phones. Only Cambrique, Dambretti and Simon kept their cell phones charged and ready for calls. Perhaps someone had been able to reach Simon. That would be best. Mark Andrew looked at the door and then at the key card ID hanging about her neck on a long, bright yellow, curly plastic cord. He would have to have more information and he would need something to eat before he seriously considered leaving. His legs were shaking from the very effort of standing on the cold floor. What had he done to himself?
He climbed back in the bed, trying not to expose his new tattoos, among other things, to the questionably-gendered nurse. He waited while she gave him the injection she had brought for him on a little gray, plastic tray.
“And wot did ye say that was for?” he asked her after the fact. He needed food, not more drugs.
“I see you do mucha better today,” she ignored his question.
He nodded. He felt very numb. “How’d I get ’ere?”
“Like everybody else, il mio amore,” she laughed and it was very unpleasant. Her accent was worse than Lucio Dambretti’s. “They drag ’a you here, kicking and ’a screaming.”
“Oh,” he nodded again, glad that he remembered none of that.
“You will ’a be happy to know that we have… how do you say? Contracted your amico… what was his name? Dambretti? A very fine man, that one, calling to a’check on you every day,” she commented as she stuffed the remains of the syringe in her pocket after clipping the needle off in a small red box. “He says he woulda send ’a someone after you. One of your… fratellos? Brothers!”
“Oh,” Mark Andrew raised both eyebrows. Dambretti. Of course. He wondered how much they had told him and how big a laugh the Italian was having at his expense.
“You seem to have ’a good many brothers, signor,” she continued as she checked the supplies on his nightstand and the condition of his bedsheets. “They have deranged for you to be released. Your family must ’a have good attorney, no? Lotsa soldi, no?” She rubbed her thumb and index finger together and raised her painted on brows. “You shoulda not treat those poor bambinas like a’that.”
“Attorney? A barrister?” His eyes widened. What crime had he committed now? He’d had no idea that his stomach could sink any lower. Bambinas! What had he done?
“Si, signor,” she nodded and smiled at him. “Italy is’a no different from’a other countries. Drugs do not’a mix any better with alcohol here than they’a do in a’Scotland and they are just as illegal! You are a’lucky you are not guasto… dead! And you are a’lucky anche you are not a’going to jail.”
Mark Andrew said nothing. Drugs and alcohol. It could have been worse. He had done much worse in the past. She did not mention any other charges.
“You will feel ’a better after lunch,” she said as she started for the door. “Perhaps, today you can a’feeda yourself, no?”
She unlocked the door, let herself out and then closed it behind her. It clicked with an ominously final noise.
Whatever she had given him, made him feel better, wonderful, in fact, but it also made him very sleepy. The butterflies in his stomach calmed down and his legs stopped shaking. He wanted to get up and explore the rest of the room, but perhaps he would take a short nap first. His wish came true almost immediately, but his dreams were full of terrible images from his past. He awoke rudely when he fell again to the earth with the black and green dragon and almost came off the bed except for the bed rails that someone had thoughtfully raised. He threw himself against the stainless steel rods before he remembered where he was and fell back half senseless from the blow.
“So ye’re awake now, Andy?” a very strange voice spoke to him and he thought he was still dreaming. “Did ye kill th’ bloomin’ dragon again?”
Mark Andrew raised his head very slowly and parted the fence of braids obscuring his vision, trying to focus on the source of the question. His ponytail had come loose in his tossing and turning apparently. A very small man sat cross-legged on the end of his bed by his feet watching him from curiously bright blue eyes beneath bushy red eyebrows. If it had not been for the thick, full beard, he would have thought him a child. He had the reddest hair Mark Andrew had ever seen on both his head and his face. An interesting dream this.
“Top o’ th’ mornin’ t’ ye!” the little man smiled at him. The accented English was definitely Irish.
“Whoor ye?” Mark frowned. “Whattar ye doin’ in me bed, sair?”
“Now thot’s a gud question, if evar I did ’ear one,” the man nodded. “And it’s th’ furst utterance o’ intelligence I’ve ’ad from ye since they brought ye ’ere.”
“’oo brought me ’ere?” Mark pushed himself up and pulled his feet away from the man. “And where is this place?”
The man put one finger to his lips and shushed him.
“Dunna go upsettin’ yurself now, Andy, me boy,” he advised. “Ye’ve been through a tarrible ordeal. But nae warse than th’ rest o’ us.” He lowered his voice and looked around the tiny curtained enclosure. “They think ye’re stark ravin’ mad, ahh, but Paddy,” he said, thumping his chest with one pudgy thumb “’e knows bettar. I’ve been keepin’ ye comp’ny. Ye’re a verra interestin’ mon, Andy. It’s quoite oll roight, sair. They dunna believe me either. They think we’re both loose under th’ cap.”
“And whattar ye? Some koind o’ sighe no doubt? A leprechaun?” Mark was beginning to be very suspicious that this fellow was not even a dream but a hallucination, compliments of the drugs that had been pumped into his veins.
“Ah, nooo, t’ be sure,” the man laughed. “I’m a clurichaun. I’m Paddy Elrood Puffingtowne of Buttersilk Farm near th’ town o’ Kilkenny in th’ County o’ Kilkenny, Ireland. Ye can coll me His Nibs, if ye loike farmality. And loike you, Andy, I dunna know wair I am nor can I roightly divulge ’ow I got ’ere. We’re two of a koind, we air. Booth of us lost in toime.”
Mark Andrew did not believe this was real. He’d never had such an experience in all his long life. Whatever the woman had given him had side effects. Serious side effects! Cure one thing, cause something worse. He drew a deep breath and shuddered to his toes. It felt as if every muscle in his body was shaking. His breath began to come in short gasps and his face suddenly felt flushed and hot and then he felt like crying on top of it all. Subconsciously, his mind recognized these feelings as part of the withdrawal symptoms. He was ruined and there was no one to blame but himself. Now he was actually seeing faeries. Not only seeing them, but carrying on conversations with them!
“If ye be a prowlie, air ye Seelie or Unseelie?” Mark asked and frowned at him. He wanted to know if the little man was one of the ‘blessed wee folks’ or one of the ‘damned’. He knew that the faery folk were forbidden subjects according to the Order’s doctrines and that he was not supposed to believe in such things as a follower of Christianity, but he knew that things were not always as the Church said they should be and he also knew that he owned at least one rath in the meadow at his estate in Scotland. He’d heard and seen a fair amount of faery work in his day. Besides, neither the Church nor the Order’s archives mentioned anything of the Mad Arab and the gods that he worshipped and yet, they were certainly real enough. He had the scars to prove it. Beautifully decorated scars at that, he rubbed his stomach subconsciously, but none the less, he appreciated them for what they really represented: a close brush with the devil.
“Now, now, dunna be frettin’ yurself, Andy,” the little man frowned sympathetically as he spoke. “I told ye not t’ get upset. Old ’Paddy is from Ireland. Oll th’ wee folk in Ireland air blessed, Andy. But I believe ye when ye rave aboot th’ beast. I’ve seen my share o’ dragons. Nasty creatures, they air!” The little man hugged himself and shuddered, making a terrible face.
Mark watched in silence as the strange fellow crawled over the bed rail and dropped to the floor. His bright red hair barely reached the top of the bottom rail. He approaced the bed again and looked closely at him through the railing. “I’ll be roight back; dunna move a muscle.” He disappeared behind the curtains and Mark Andrew checked himself again, feeling his head and face with both hands. The dragon’s claws were still on his stomach and his hair was still braided and cut short on top. His face was still covered with a short beard. It was not a dream. How long had he been gone this time? His hands shook visibly when he held them up in front of his face. He reckoned three to four weeks, but he had reckoned wrong the last time…
Paddy Puffingtowne reappeared with a small plastic tumbler full of pink water.
“’ere ye go. This’ll make ye feel bettar,” he said and handed him the drink.
“Wot ist?” Mark asked and looked at it suspiciously. He took it in his shaking hands and almost spilled it into the bed with him. He was starving… literally. He couldn’t remember being this hungry since his ill-fated stay at Merry’s house in the summer of 2000. It seemed centuries ago.
“Just nevar ye mind aboot thot, Andy,” the man smiled up at him through the rails. “Drink up now, lad. It’s th’ last o’ me stock. And verra ’ard t’ come by in these parts. Some friends o’ yurs, t’ be sure, make th’ stuff from secret recipes thot ’ave been selfishly guarded fur ages and ages now.”
Mark held the tumbler in both hands. It didn’t really matter what it was. He didn’t really care. He turned it up and drank it down. It was very sweet and made him feel a bit queasy at first, but then it burned like hard liquor. How many times had he been warned never to accept food or drink from faeries? That was how they trapped you. But Mark Andrew was beyond caring. So what if he now became a faery himself? It would serve him and the rest of them right for sending him off on a damned fool vacation.
Holiday. Holiday, my ass! What did the Knight of Death need a holiday for anyway? Death Takes a Holiday. Bah! Death never needed a holiday before.
“Thair thot’s gud now,” Paddy Puffingtowne told him before taking hold of the rails and swinging himself lightly onto the bed without the slightest effort. “Ye cud use a friend, Mark Andrew Ramsay. Ye wud be ’avin’ a woine cellar in thot big ’ouse o’ yurs in Scotland, wud ye now?”
Mark nodded. How did this strange little fellow know of him?
“How long have I been here?” Mark asked and realized that he actually felt a bit better already. The shaking had eased a little and he was finally able to control his speech a bit better.
“Three days. Ye ’ave some verra interestin’ dreams, y’ know. D’ye olways dream so much? And in color at that?”
Mark did not answer him. A clurichaun? He was trying to remember what a clurichaun was. Some variety of faery related to the leprechaun. Leprechauns were friendly folk though supposedly full of tricks. Kilkenny was in Ireland. Paddy Elrood Puffingtowne was an Irish name for a fact. And Mark Andrew could only assume that he was, indeed, a faery. He wondered if all hospitals were infested with faeries, remembering quite clearly that there were brownies in the infirmary at the Villa. But this was Italy. Paddy was a long way from Kilkenny.
“Ye’re friends will be comin’ soon, Andy,” the clurichaun told him on a somber note. “Ye’re goin’ t’ need a protector. Someone t’ look aftar ye when ye go ’ome t’ Scotland. I’m available fer hoire fur a whoile and a bit. And I come with references, if ye prefer.”
“Really?” Mark asked in disbelief and looked around. He kept expecting to wake up again in spite of the overwhelming evidence that indicated he was already awake. The trembling had ceased and his hunger pangs had lessened considerably. He sipped the juice in the tumbler and narrowed his eyes. It tasted somehow familiar, but was the wrong color. Now there was an interesting thing. How did he know what color it should have been. “Isn’t it usually golden like mead?” he asked.
“Oh, aye. Thot is the problem with these ’ere flimsy tankards,” Paddy said as he tapped on the side of the tumbler. “They come apart at th’ drop of a hat. I’d be glad t’ accomp’ny ye back t’ Scotland,” Paddy nodded. “O carse, thair’s th’ mattar o’ a few wee foines t’ be paid and me bill ’ere at th’ doctorin’ place. Some fancy, schmancy fixin’ up thot!” he laughed and showed Mark Andrew a neat row of stitches across his shoulder. “Chimneys air not wot they used t’ be, aye? But we can work oll thot out later.”
“We can?” Mark looked doubtful.
“Signor Puffingtowne!” the nurse suddenly intervened in their conversation. She had returned and was standing inside the curtains looking at them. “I told a’ you not to be in Mr. Ramsay’s a’bed. It is against the rules.”
“Ah, my beyootiful lady Marguerite,” Paddy’s face lit up as he stood up in the bed, giving her a gracious bow while doffing an imaginary hat. “’ave ye brought us our victuals then, lassie?”
“I have a’lunch, if that isa what you mean, signor,” she smiled at the clurichaun and Mark was amazed that she could see him. Perhaps he was not a faery creature after all.
“Then bring it on over ’ere, me gurl. I’ll be ’avin’ lunch with me grand friend, Andy,” Puffingtowne told her haughtily.
She shook her head, smiled and drew back the curtain. A tall table contained two colorful plastic trays.
“Will you need’a my… help, Mr. Ramsay?” She looked at him closely.
“Nae, not atoll, lassie” he shook his head solemnly and realized that the clurichaun’s upbeat attitude was wearing off on him. He felt much better and his worries seemed to have faded to mere pinpricks of concern in the back of his mind. Everything looked and smelled sharp and clear, fresh and clean. The last thing he wanted was this woman stuffing food down his throat.
The entire time he ate the plastic food from the plastic tray with the plastic spoon, Paddy talked to him. He went on and on about Ireland and how much he missed his home in Kilkenny. He missed his afternoon tea and his long walks in the misty hills and an evening spent sitting beside a good fire with his pipe. The man was full of himself, but quite entertaining. He told Mark that everyone on the floor was crazy except the two of them, including the nurses and the medical staff. Mr. Puffingtowne had checked them all out personally. Quite the social butterfly he was in spite of the locks and keys needed to enter and leave the rooms. Mark shuddered as he thought of what demons might lie behind the other doors on their particular floor. He could easily see from the one barred window that they were at least three floors above the streets below.
“So ye dunna talk whilst ye eat?” the clurichaun stopped his running narrative long enough to ask a question when he realized that Mark Andrew was no longer talking to him.
Mark nodded and then shook his head. Suddenly, reality crashed on his head. What had he been thinking? Sitting in a hospital in the middle of Rome, conversing with a madman about Ireland. He’d not only forgotten to say his prayers, he’d forgotten everything that mattered. He leaned his head forward and pressed his forehead on the cool tabletop. The numerous braids fell around his face and he heard himself sob aloud. He had sinned terribly and now he would be punished severely. All he could think of was that he had lost everything again. Somewhere his Brothers would be wondering what had happened to him and they would demand answers he could not give them. And Dambretti! He hated him and missed him at the same time.
Meredith was in a category all by herself. It seemed that nothing she could do would ever quench his love for her. He had heard of undying love, but he’d always thought it a myth. Now he knew its meaning full well and didn’t understand it. He should have detested her… hated her for putting his heart through such a cruel torture. Somehow he did not blame her at all, but rather blamed himself. Hell, she had waited a long time for him. What more could a man ask of a woman? First, she had waited seven years and then she had waited another fifteen. Just because she had married someone else did not mean that she didn’t love him any more. It simply meant that she had accepted his loss as permanent. If she still loved him, he could win her back. Had not he and the Italian always engaged in such games? He sniffled as the clurichaun raised his chin and wiped his nose with a paper napkin like a nursemaid.
“Ahhhh, Andy,” Paddy said softly. “Ye’re in need of another nip o’ me special sauce.” He found the abandoned tumbler and poured the very last drop of pink liquid into it. “’ere ye go now. Drink this and then we’ll talk aboot th’ future. And wot moight be in store fur th’ loikes o’ you and me.”
Mark accepted the tumbler gladly and downed the stuff in one single gulp. He needed to get home. His month was up, surely. And the Golden Sword of the Cherubim. If he lost it, d’Brouchart would have his head on a pike pole! Three days in this wretched place? And before that, at least three weeks, maybe longer. Paddy was talking again. Telling him all about a place in the Irish countryside that he called Buttersilk Farm. A delightful name that almost made his mouth water. He listened abstractly as the little man poured out his heart in living color. Paddy was homesick and Mark could identify with him completely. His Brothers were already suspicious of him because of his twenty-one year absence. If the Grand Master declared him incompetent, the Council could vote on his fate. He could be sent into exile or worse, he could be executed for high treason if he had divulged any of the Order’s secrets to his “friends” in Rome. Though he had known most of his Brothers for centuries, he had very few supporters in the Council.
They had barely finished their lunch when the one called Aldo appeared. Paddy stood up quickly and leaped onto the floor on the opposite side of the bed. Aldo was big, burly and wore a shiny, shaved head over bulging neck muscles which protruded from the top of his blue uniform. Mark watched as he chased Paddy around the room, caught him up by the scruff of his neck and literally threw him down in the bed next to his own. The little man put up a good fight, but ended up secured in his own bed, shouting vulgarities in Gaelic, casting elaborate curses upon the orderly’s family. Lights and beeps and blurps emanated from a monitor hanging on the wall above Paddy’s bed as he yanked on the connections fruitlessly while hurling all sorts of insults in a steady stream that left the Scot amazed. Aldo was neither amused nor amazed.
“What are you smiling about, amico?” he turned on Mark and spoke to him in Italian.
“Nothing,” Mark answered and raised both eyebrows, trying to rid his face of the smile.
He was not ready to tangle with this fellow. He wanted no more trouble and wondered who would be coming for him. Simon, he prayed. He didn’t want to see anyone else and he needed to confess desperately. At least, he would confess everything he could remember and it would most likely leave the poor Healer in a state of catatonia to hear it. A sense of slightly sadistic pleasure washed over him at the thought of shocking the gentle Frenchman. It had become a standing joke over the centuries to try to unnerve the Healer, but these attempts usually backfired and the perpetrators ended up feeling the sting of reproach by the time Simon had finished upbraiding them and levying heavy penance upon their heads.
Aldo went back to Paddy’s bed and slapped him roundly for good measure. This set off another round of cursing and curses cast on the ugly Italian, his family and his descendants for the next five hundred years, should he have any.
Aldo looked back at Mark once more before leaving.
“You have something to say, Signor?” he asked ominously. “Would you need another spanking, sissy boy?”
Another?! “No, thank you, sir,” Mark said more solemnly and then smiled amiably at the man in spite of the danger. “Later perhaps when I am feeling a bit more… what is the word… jaunty?”
Aldo gave him a disdainful look full of contempt and shoved the foot of his bed aside as if to display his superior strength. Mark was suitably impressed and nodded to him in approval of his posturing. Under other, more favorably conditions, Mark Andrew might have had the man for lunch just for slapping the disadvantaged little fellow in the next bed, but it would have to wait. The food on the little plastic tray had not gone far to restore him mentally or emotionally. He could feel the drugs they were giving him coursing through his veins like alien invaders. He had to get the stuff out of his bloodstream and allow his own immune system take over for proper healing. He could have used another liter or two of the liquor that Paddy had provided, but it was all gone.
Aldo left them and Mark got up as fast as he could manage to rescue the ‘clurichaun’. He didn’t care for faery folk in general, but if he could rightly remember, clurichauns were beneficial faeries and he liked the little guy in spite of his annoying chatter no matter what he was. For all intents and purposes, Paddy was probably just an insane Irishmen suffering from dwarfism.
“We’re in a sorry state, little fellow,” he said and Paddy heartily agreed. The clurichaun got out of the bed and helped him back into his own when his legs began to shake from the strain of standing with nothing more than a few bites of food to sustain him and withdrawal symptoms returning to rack his body with new terrors.
“And ye’re in need o’ my sarvices, Andy,” he said as he climbed back up on the rails and fixed the pillow under Mark’s head. “Dunna furget me offer when they come fer ye. Dee tox is no place for people like us. This place isna gud enough fur th’ bloody English. If I cud foind me clothes, I’d be out o’ ’ere loike thot.” He snapped his fingers. “But wait. I ’ave something else.” He went back to his bed and fished under the mattress to come up with a bottle of Irish whiskey. Mark was truly amazed. “We’ll get gud an’ drunk an’ sing Irish diddies. Tis ollways gud fur wot ails ye.”
Mark nodded. Sure, why not? Life had a taken a terrible twist for the Chevalier du Morte. He could not begin to imagine how the little guy could manage to sneak liquor into the sanitarium and hide it in his bed, yet could not find his own clothes.
Paddy sang a tearful rendition of the Wearin’ o’ th’ Green and a number of other Celtic favorites, happy and sad. He had a good voice and wasn’t afraid to use it. Mark’s spirits lifted and he found himself laughing aloud at the little man’s antics as he sang and danced haphazardly on the foot of his bed. They they were barely finished with the bottle and halfway through a heartfelt rendition of the Drunken Sailor when Aldo returned. Mark didn’t know when he had ceased to listen and had begun to sing, but he lost his voice as soon as the bald head appeared through the curtains. The whiskey was not exactly a fit substitute for food, but it served its purpose well enough to allow him to get out of the bed in the flimsy gown and give Aldo a good go for his money.
Aldo received a black eye, a bloodied nose and wrenched shoulder. In the end, it took Aldo, Marguerite and two more male attendants from another floor to get Paddy and Mark Andrew back in their respective beds. This time, Mark could not get up to free his newfound friend. He was securely strapped in his own bed. He lay on his back staring at the ceiling in smug satisfaction as he remembered the look on Aldo’s face when he’d punched him in the nose.
Paddy was quite a scrapper for such a diminutive fellow. As soon as Aldo closed the door, Paddy began to sing Danny Boy and Mark had to cry with him. He had nothing better to do and only wished that he could scratch his nose.
The nurse brought more drugs and the rest of the day and night passed in a series of nightmares and dreams.
Bright and early the following morning, Aldo and another man showed up with a wheelchair, into which they unceremoniously dumped Mark, still groggy, and took him down the hall to another room where Simon d’Ornan paced the floor nervously. He did not get the chance to say goodbye to Paddy Elrood Puffingtowne of Kilkenny Ireland, but it was just as well. He felt bad about leaving him there at the mercy of the indomitable Marguerite and the insufferable Aldo. He was still puzzling over how the clurichaun had come to be there in the first place, but it had not been uncommon in times past for the wee folk to seek medical attention from their big brothers, if indeed he was a faery.
“Brother!” Simon exclaimed and embraced him warmly. The orderly snorted, but left them alone after warning Mark Andrew to behave himself.
“Brother!” he said again when they were alone. “What on earth has happened to you?!” The Healer helped him from the wheelchair and plopped his black leather bag on the couch.
“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I didn’t want to take a damned holiday! I told Philip as much.”
“I think he realizes that now,” Simon muttered as he shook his head and opened the bag. “I was able to find your car and the stuff that you left at the hotel. They were holding it for ransom. I don’t know if anything is missing. I paid the bills and they turned it over quickly enough.”
“My sword?” Mark asked him immediately.
“It was under the mattress, of course,” Simon told him. “They held your room. The bill was… formidable, but the Order’s credit has always been good with them. They knew someone would show up sooner or later.”
“Wait until Montague gets the bill from the Eurocard,” Mark told him darkly. “I hate plastic, Simon.”
Getting dressed was a monumental task, but he managed well enough with the Healer’s help and was soon feeling much more confident.
“There is one more thing I would like to take care of before we leave.”
His head was clearing slowly and some of his memories were returning. The three day long shopping spree with his lovely companions was quite clearly etched in his mind, he had still been fairly lucid when that had occurred. He would never be able to explain the itemized list of expenditures: lingerie, music, books, videos, shoes, bags, sex toys, cosmetics, massages, tattoos, etceteras, etceteras. “If you would be so kind. A friend of mine…. Mr. Puffingtowne.” He jerked his head toward the door. “I believe he owes some fines and medical bills. If you could take care of it for him, I would be obliged.”
Simon raised one eyebrow, but nodded solemnly.
“It’s the least I can do for him. He helped out me in a scrape,” Mark smiled ruefully.
They were about to leave the visiting room, when Aldo showed up, pushing him back forcefully from the door. He wore a white bandage across his nose and his voice contained a distinctively nasal twang.
“Back in the chair, signor,” he rasped. “Hospital policy!”
Mark lowered his head and prepared for another close encounter with the man, but Simon took his arm and physically coerced him back into the wheelchair.
“I’ll do it, sir,” Simon told Aldo as he gripped the handles on the back of the chair and Aldo stepped back, looking the Healer up and down contemptuously. “You should not make so many new friends, Brother,” Simon told the Knight in French as he pushed him out of the room.
Mark looked up and down the hall as they passed through the door into the brightly lit corridor. Muffled shouts and unintelligible noises echoed in the hall. Rows of steel doors lined either side of the hallway. “Detox,” he muttered and seemed relieved that there was nothing more insidious about the place. His suspicion that he might have been sold out to enemies of the Order by one of his lovely lady friends faded as no one else came forward to interfere with his departure. They were almost to the elevators when a commotion behind them made Simon stop. He turned the chair around at Mark’s insistence.
Paddy Elrood Puffingtowne was running down the hall toward them at breakneck speed with Aldo and his two associates in hot pursuit. The little, redheaded fellow leaped into Mark’s lap and hugged his neck.
“Dunna be furgettin’ yur dear friend Paddy, now,” he told him quickly before the attendants caught up with him. “I’ll nae be furgettin ye, my friend!” He pressed something into Mark’s hand before he was picked up bodily by two of the men and carried off down the hall singing Erin go Bragh at the top of his lungs. Just before they carried him back in his room, he shouted to them again. “’alloo an’ top o’ th’ morning t’ ye, Simon o’ Grenoble!”
“Do I know him?” Simon asked as he backed the wheelchair into the elevator.
“I don’t think so,” Mark Andrew said as he raised one eyebrow and frowned. “But he seems to know you, Brother.”
“We’ve got to do something about this,” Simon picked up a few of the braids on his shoulder and let them go again. “The Grand Master won’t like it at all. You look like something from the islands. I haven’t seen anything like it in years.”
Mark looked down at his hand where Paddy had pressed a tiny, flattened shamrock. He had to smile as the doors closed, cutting off the clurichaun’s song.
Chapter Two of Eighteen
My spirit was troubled to know the dream
Simon rode in the back seat of the Mercedes, working desperately on Mark’s hair to no avail as they drove back toward the ruins of Pompeii.
Mark was feeling much better. The addiction was wearing itself out and the enormous dinner they’d had at one of the English restaurants in Rome had gone a long way in returning strength to his limbs. Simon had been amazed at the amount of attention his companion attracted everywhere they went. He commented that he might get a similar hairdo of his own if he ever wished to become a rock star. The current style in Rome was something a bit more military and it seemed that anyone with a variation on the common bur had to be someone of importance. But as the Healer tried to remedy the problem before they reached the Villa, the braids proved too tightly constructed for him. Each one was tied in strange knot on the end. Nothing less than a knife or scissors would have gotten them loose. Mark Andrew finally became quite aggravated with the Healer’s attempts and made him cease and desist and get in the front seat. It would make very little difference to the Grand Master as far as Mark Andrew was concerned. The man would be angry no matter if he came back bald, with an eyepatch and a peg leg.