BENE-HA-ELOHIM (THE CHILDREN OF GOD) An Elena Duran-Corazon Negro Story 13/15 by Julio Cesar divad72@prodigy.net.mx Glastonbury, England March 22, 2013 An otherwise unremarkable town, Glastonbury had attracted attention far out of proportion to its physical size, natural beauty or economic importance. Next to the town and providing its most distinctive natural feature was the strange, humpbacked whale-shaped, Tor-an old west country word for hill-which stood out from the low, surrounding landscape like a sore thumb. On its summit was a tower, the mortal remains of the fourteenth century chapel of St. Michael, which gave the Tor a mysterious, gothic appearance. In the middle ages, dedications to the archangel Michael were usually for the purpose of protection or purification. That seemed appropriate since the top of Glastonbury Tor was traditionally believed to be the entrance to the Celtic underworld, the Annwn. Glastonbury was more than just an unusual landscape, though. It was a numinous place, a place that had a 'feel' to it. It seemed to have a unique ability to produce wonder and to attract speculations. Of all the places traditionally having associations with King Arthur, none can equal Glastonbury in the profusion or persistence of its Arthurian legends. Very few knew about the vast network of underground tunnels below the tower. More noticed but equally mysterious was the old house placed a few meters from the loom. The old residence was a mystery in every way. Who built it and why? No one knew. The building was over two hundred years old. No one knew the identity of its owner either, as had been the case with every owner for the past twenty decades. The rent was paid promptly each month by a cashier's check drawn on a Swiss bank. No one seemed interested in the facts that while deliveries were made to the old house nearly every day, nothing was shipped out. That the shipments, ranging from computer supplies to expensive art prints, were never seen again once they entered the building was equally perplexing. Where and how the items were removed were questions that the clerks managing the town were paid not to ask. Their salaries, much higher that they deserved, came from the same Swiss back account. Just Myrddin knew the truth lurking behind the mysteries. Power lines snaked down to his private chambers lair deep beneath the tower in the promontory. The tunnels, constructed in secret over the centuries through subterfuge and deception, provided him with access to hundreds of locations in Glastonbury. The old house belonged to him and the purchases were made through the convenience of ordering merchandise by computer. The necessary capital came from his bank account in Switzerland. The funds had been raised over the centuries. Because of his hacker skills, no one, mortal or Immortal, in the vast continent could keep a secret from the eyes and ears of Myrddin. Since he had received Zarach's message, the ancient Immortal had sat in front of a computer terminal in the main room of his lair and wondered if perhaps he had overestimated his own skills. For hours he had been trying to locate some reference about Lilitu's plans and found not one single clue. His bearded face shone by the light reflected to it toward the monitor, his long gray hair whipped around across the broad shoulders. He took time to think, then ran his hands through his hair, letting out a deep sigh. Then he lowered his gaze and hobbled rather than walked out of the shadows around him. Gimlet-eyed, his features lined with wrinkles above the beard, his half sneer as bitter as green persimmons, he looked old. He looked tired. But many Immortals had made that mistake in the past before, and they had paid with their heads, literately. Myrddin had given up being a man long ago and chosen to become instead an unyielding force. The white-gold Celtic wedding ring on his left hand was a constant reminder of that commitment. He looked at the ring, and for a moment, he touched it. "I miss you, Nimue," he whispered. When he spoke, his voice was rough and heavy, and his pain was as strong as carbolic acid. He looked at the screen one more time, asking himself how, when he had lost hope. Then he remembered how and when. When Lilitu had killed Nimue. Myrddin was obsessed with information. A scholar during his entire life, he retained the same passion for knowledge he had always felt. Some Immortals lived for Quickenings. Myrddin lived for facts-especially facts about other Immortals. He collected them into intricate patterns and made sense out of them. A thousand years ago he had conceived of his great project, researching and writing a history of his kind, when Methos had told him about the group called the Watchers. Stealing them most of their data, Myrddin had been working on this masterpiece of information ever since. It was his obsession, his dream. He was writing the most complete encyclopedia about the Immortals ever. It contained every fact, every scrap of information he had been able to learn and/or stolen from the Watchers for the past millennium. The invention of computers had greatly helped his work, eliminating the tedious work of handwriting the information into journals. Also, the powerful database he used enabled him to cross-reference millions of Immortal acts, establishing clear links between hundreds of seemingly unrelated incidents and occurrences, something the Watchers couldn't do. The centerpiece of his project was the most complete Immortal family tree ever attempted. The diagram listed many thousands of Immortals who had walked the earth for thousands of years. Along with describing each relationship to the other Immortals, the chart also featured a detailed biographical profile of every of them. By using this genealogy and history, Myrddin hoped to discover some trace of Lilitu. But so far his quest had drawn a complete blank. The profiles of the Immortals were drawn from hundreds of different sources, but most of Myrddin's data came from the mainframes used by the Watchers. Years ago, Methos had created a CD-ROM powerful enough to jeopardize the world of the Immortals, so he had given up, giving Myrddin his database. The brotherhood maintained extensive code-word systems to protect their files from any unwanted visitor. But they weren't aware that Myrddin had been stealing data from them for years since Methos passed him the CD. The American CIA, the British SAS and CID branches, the French Surete, the Israeli Mossad, and the Russian KGB also fed Myrddin information. He was insatiable in his quest to make his encyclopedia as accurate as possible. That it was never seen by anyone else didn't matter. Myrddin worked for his own satisfaction. Until this morning. Discrete taps on phone company computers throughout the world provided details of Lilitu's previous attacks in the past. The most recently was the one in Mexico City in 1985, when Quetzalcohuatl had fought against her. The Old Snake had died saving the Aztec known as Corazon Negro, and the subsequent Quickening on Holy Ground had almost destroyed the metropolis. Together with his own information on Lilitu's previous appearances through the centuries, Myrddin had fed the encapsulated data into his computer. Then he had programmed the machine to search and evaluate his files for those Headless Children powerful enough to stand besides her. A comprehensive scan had turned up twenty-five possible Immortals who might join Lilitu. A second run eliminated those Immortals engaged in major feuds between each other. That left three possible names, and none of them were good news. They were legendary figures of the past. But among the Immortals, legends often were based on fact. Myrddin pounded his keyboard in frustration. Lilitu was playing her last card, and there was no possible solution to the mystery. Still, Myrddin was not convinced he was correct. Suddenly, the red light in front of him warned Myrddin that someone had entered his lair. ======== The floor of the catacombs was covered with bones. There were hundreds upon hundreds of bones extending seemingly forever into the dark tunnels. Frederic, who often claimed he had the soul of a philosopher, though he did not believe in the supernatural, found the sight inspiring. "The Gates of Hell," he declared solemnly, as they descended into the blackness. They had long since left the entrance of the catacombs and were in a region without light. All of them were carrying torches. Oscar delighted himself in crushing the brittle, dry bones beneath his feet. "Nicely put," said Joseph. "But I think these tunnels have been used somehow in the past before by less 'demonic' forces. Immortal forces, I'd say." "Great minds think alike," Frederic commented. "I thought you told the Immortal whore that art was a waste of time," Joseph continued, as he watched Oscar plow ahead, smashing a path through mounds of skeletons. "Remember, 'milady'?" "Painting is crap," Frederic stated defensively. "Dance is shit. Music is a waste. But poetry, that is different. Poetry is philosophy. Like science, it is truth." "Ah," Joseph mocked at him. "My apologies. The difference escaped my uneducated mind. I understand now." After learning of the entrance to the catacombs from Juliet, they had traveled from Amsterdam, arrived in Glastonbury, and had searched all day before finally finding the way in. Now it was shortly after sunset, and they had all night to find and destroy Myrddin. Frederic spat blood in annoyance. "Don't mock me, Joseph; I hate-" "I found it," roared Oscar, drowning out Frederic's protest. "I found it. Here it is." It was a narrow passage leading off to the right of the main tunnel. The corridor sloped downward at a sharp angle, beneath the very heart of the Tor. The ceiling was so low that Oscar could not walk without bending his head. A thick of dust covered the floor, indicating that the passage had not seen use in many years. But, there where no skeletons. "You think this tunnel leads to Myrddin's liar?" Joseph asked. "I expect so," Frederic answered him. They were spread out in a line, with him in the lead, Oscar second, and Joseph bringing up the rear. Frederic was the quickest thinker. Oscar was the group's strong anchor, while Joseph provided the necessary dose of caution. "According to legends, this bastard always designed his hideaways with five or six exits. He is terrified of being trapped underground by his enemies. With a bit of luck, we'll surprise this fucker as he emerges from one of his own escape routes as he is trying to avoid us." "That's if we're lucky," said Joseph. He was a pessimist by nature. "What if we don't?" "Then, he'll sense our approach and flee before we arrive," answered Frederic. "It won't make a big difference. Wherever he goes, we'll follow. And squash him like a bug!" "Seems like we've been heading down forever. And the fucking passage twists and turns too much," Oscar said. "Feels like we are walking to London," Joseph joined the giant. "Isn't this damn tunnel ever going to end?" It did. Fifty feet farther, the corridor stopped abruptly at a blank wall. "Shit!" Declared Frederic. "It can't end like this." His brow wrinkled in bewilderment. "Why does this passage lead nowhere? It makes no sense." "Since when did the thoughts of the elder Immortals make sense?" Joseph remarked. "But I agree with you. These tunnels were too difficult to build for Myrddin to simply have a dead end. The tunnel cannot stop. Thus, it does not. It merely seems to." Gritting, Joseph stepped forward, into the stone. He disappeared without a sound, and then reappeared an instant later, still smiling. "As I thought," he declared. "It is nothing but an illusion. It is good enough for the mortals, but not for hunters like we. Ignore it. The corridor continues as before on the other side." A hundred feet further, the passage took a sharp turn to the left. A dim light, the first they had seen since they entered the corridor, came from around the corner. Frederic laid a cautioning hand on Oscar's arm. "Beware. I sense something strange." "I'm not afraid," Oscar said to him. "Nothing scares me. You should know that by now." His expression arrogant, the giant Immortal walked. Much more cautiously, his two companions followed. They didn't need to hurry. Oscar stood frozen in place, his eyes wide with astonishment, a step beyond the turn. They stood in a circular cavern forty feet across and ten feet high. It was the center room of a gigantic underground labyrinth. Oddly out of place, a lone electric light from the ceiling, illuminating the area with a sickly glow. "I wouldn't complain," Frederic spoke. "If these corridors wouldn't fill with this dust. Surely our friend doesn't like visitors." "Don't matter none to me," Oscar said. "I'm after his Quickening. And I'm." The sound of metal screeching interrupted the giant's words in mid-sentence. A steel blade five feet long and five wide, covered with six-inch-long spikes, swung out in a vicious arc from the right wall. Frederic shrieked in surprise. Almost casually, Oscar stepped forward and shoved Frederic out of the way. Joseph wasn't so lucky. The devise moved incredibility fast for something so huge. Joseph never had a chance. The spikes closed around his body like a child fastening on a piece of hard candy. With a click that rang through the cavern, the trap snapped its teeth together, impaling Joseph before he could even scream. He remained there, impaled to the wall. Oscar tried to free his partner. Useless. Even with his mighty force, there was no chance for him to help Joseph. "Fucking shit," croaked Frederic, numb with shock as he watched the body of his partner seriously damaged by the huge spikes. "Medieval traps? No, leave him, it's no use," he said to Oscar who was still trying to set Joseph free. "We have no time for this. Myrddin knows we are here." Around them, the cavern started to roar. "Come on, Oscar," he said, grabbing Oscar by the arm. "You want to be next? We must move!" "But we can save him!" Oscar yelled. "No, not now. On our way out after we'll kill the Mage, we'll rescue him." Oscar thought about it for a brief moment, but the sounds around them made up his mind. "Let's go, then." Stumbling clumsily through the darkness, they soon left the chamber behind. "We must be getting close to Myrddin's hideaway," Frederic declared after fifteen minutes of silence. "I can sense the presence of a powerful Immortal in the vicinity. He cannot be far from here." "Good," grunted Oscar. Now, he did not seem to be affected by Joseph unexpected demise. "I want his Quickening. Think of the power it contains." "You will get all you deserve, my friend," promised Frederic, his mind whirling. With Joseph gone, he alone was responsible for Oscar. The giant was incredibly powerful but also incredibly stupid. So far, keeping him in line had been a fulltime job. It was not something Frederic enjoyed. If Oscar also perished on this quest, Frederic would be free to feast on Myrddin's Quickening. It was a tempting prospect. And Frederic had never been able to resist temptation. ========