Bryan Davis - Eye of the Oracle

She pushed up to her hands and knees and stared at the gate in the distance. The lanterns on each side began winking out, one by one. Within seconds, half of the lights had darkened. She scrambled to her feet and jumped through the doorway. The three doors simultaneously slammed and began to warp and swell. Tongues of fire licked through the cracks at every side.

She ran to the gate, finding it unlocked, as she had left it, but as soon as she passed by the iron bars, the gate slapped closed and latched. Two more lanterns blinked off, and their glass containers shattered. The three doors, now dim in the distance, suddenly burst open and spewed fountains of lava. Three flaming rivers rampaged toward her.

Sapphira tucked her cross away and sprinted. Reaching the stairs, she leaped over three steps, but her foot slipped, and she sprawled over the steps, banging her shins and forearms. Rolling face up, she pushed with her hands and clambered backwards, stair by stair. The rivers of fire surged against the stairway, sloshing around the base and spitting globules of magma that spattered over the first step, then the second.

Her shins aching, Sapphira pushed herself higher. The step above the magma burst into flames. Snaking tongues of fire crawled toward her, bending and cracking the wooden stairway.

Finally, ignoring the pain, she turned and ran, the blistering fire licking at her heels. When she reached the top step, she lurched into the upper corridor and slammed the door.

Breathless, she sagged against the wall, barely able to stand on her throbbing legs. She paused and listened to the sounds of splintering wood. After a few seconds of quiet, she laid her palm on the door. Cool. Not a hint of fire. She opened the door a crack and peeked through. The stairway had collapsed, piled in a burning heap at least a dozen feet below. The fiery river seemed to be receding, but it still covered the stony floor.

After latching the door, she leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. The only way to the sixth circle was gone. How could she get Shiloh out now? How could the tree possibly grow quickly enough to do any good? Was there any other way to help her?

Sapphira blew out a long sigh. Staying in Morgan’s house to ponder everything didn’t make any sense. Acacia was hurt, and she needed someone to look after her. That wound could get infected. Maybe she was already home and waiting for help.

She withdrew her cross, grasping it in a tight fist. It was time to fight the snakes again.

Patrick knelt at the side of a bent oak tree. With a miniature tombstone cradled in his hands, he gazed up into the branches. The knobby limbs seemed to invite him into their embrace, calling for him to journey upward, just as he had done so many times with Shiloh. He turned away from the trunk. There was no joy remaining in that old tree, only painful memories of carefree, girlish shouts that teased his tortured mind. “Come, Daddy. Let’s climb higher! One branch higher!”

He plunged a trowel into the frozen ground and unearthed a wedge of leaf-rich soil. As he let the dirt spill, he noticed a tiny white button and plucked it with his fingertips. The smooth ivory coating sparked a stream of memories, an Easter bonnet on a towheaded Shiloh, tree climbing after church, and a lost button that brought tears from the little angel’s eyes. Could this be the same button, now drawing tears from his own eyes?

A voice drifted into his ears. “Oh, Paaaatriiick!”

He swiveled his head. Sashaying toward him, a slender woman dressed in black sighed with exaggerated sympathy. “Does a ghost from the past haunt your memories?”

He thumped the tombstone into the divot and squeezed the trowel. Redness blurred his vision. “Morgan! How dare you come to this place!”

She stood two arms’ lengths away. “Just as I dare many bold steps, my old friend. I fear no one.”

Patrick hurled the trowel at her. The sharp edge pierced her chest for a moment, but then eased back out and fell to the ground. She picked it up and shook off the remaining dirt. “I have come to see if you have changed your mind about Shiloh.”

“Never, you foul witch!” He stood and faced her toe-to-toe. “When you burn in hell, I will laugh at your torment!”

“I prefer to laugh now, for your promised dreams of heavenly bliss are merely words uttered by dead prophets. . like Merlin.” She tickled Patrick’s chin. “And where is Merlin? Where is his wife? Both swept away in the wind. Still, they are likely not suffering as much as Shiloh is suffering now.”

He knocked her hand away. “Begone, devil! I will never give you Shiloh. It would be better for her to die a miserable death than to live in torture as your hostiam.”

“As you wish.” She handed him the trowel. “But remember that I am quite capable of taking away everyone you have ever loved. Until you give me Shiloh, you will never have a moment’s rest.”

“There isn’t anyone else!” Patrick roared.

“Oh, no? How about young Markus? Or should I say, Elam? Without him, you would truly be friendless.”

Patrick clenched his teeth. A dozen retorts popped into his head, but any one of them could bring more danger to Elam. He pointed at the tor with his trowel. “Just. . leave. . me!”

“I’m going, but I’ll be back again with a report on Shiloh’s suffering. I’m sure you’ll want to hear all about it.” Morgan transformed into a raven and flew away, croaking as she circled overhead. “Your little tombstone will do no good, Valcor. The memory of Paili and Shiloh will fade into oblivion. They were little sparrows that no one cared for. . Just little sparrows.” The raven straightened its course and flew away.

He dropped to his knees again and dug frantically around the concrete marker. He sank it deep and packed dirt tightly around it. “Someone will remember Shiloh,” he said, grunting with every shove into the earth. “This stone will see to that.”

When he patted down the final clump, he read the inscription out loud. “Shiloh Nathanson, beloved daughter of Patrick and Paili Nathanson. Born 1948. Last seen at this tree on October 31, 1964.” He squinted at the carved numerals. “Nineteen forty-eight?” Moaning softly, he rolled his eyes upward. “The engravers got it wrong,” he whispered, shaking his head. “They got it wrong.”

Patrick laid a trembling hand on the tombstone. Hot tears welled in his eyes. Rubbing them away with a grimy knuckle, he sniffed hard and gritted his teeth. He couldn’t cry. Not yet. The battle for Shiloh had just begun.

Circa AD 1986

Gabriel glided through the maternity ward, eyeing the numbers on the doors as he passed. Finding room 1545, he slid under the door and re-expanded. With the lights dimmed, shadows obscured the faces of the two adults in the room, but it didn’t matter. Gabriel knew them immediately. Hannah and Timothy. Mother and Father. Twenty years of searching had led him to this hospital, and the computer in the basement pinpointed the room and included details about their baby Ashley, a daughter of dragons, a chance to redeem himself as a guardian.

He drifted toward his parents. Hannah lay in bed, nuzzling a swaddled infant with her smooth, ageless cheek. It made sense that her dragon genetics would keep her young. Easing closer to his father, Gabriel studied his wrinkle-free face. How had he maintained his youth? Becoming fully human should have started a normal aging process, but he didn’t look a day older than when he left for the States almost forty years ago.

Timothy leaned over the railing and gently pulled the baby’s slender arm from underneath her pink blanket. Cooing at his daughter, he placed his finger in her grasp. “Ashley!” he cried in mock pain. “What a strong grip you have!”