Bryan Davis - Eye of the Oracle

The woman covered her mouth but made no sound.

“This girl needs a home,” Sapphira continued, laying a hand on Paili’s shoulder. “If you are pleased to take her in, she will become your daughter.”

The woman set her lantern down and gathered Paili into her arms. “Oh!” she cried. “Oh, yes! Yes! Yes!” She hugged Paili close, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Very well.” Sapphira stepped back a few more paces. Then, wrapping her arms around herself, she whispered, “Give me light.” Her entire body exploded into a human torch. The woman lifted Paili into her arms and lurched back through the doorway. Sapphira commanded the fire to cease and dashed into the dark road.

The gloom of a cloudy night draped the outskirts of Glastonbury. Sapphira shuffled toward the city’s famous towering hill and the monument that had replaced the church of Michael, the same portal location where she had left Elam years before. Another descent into the dismal world below lay ahead, then another reemergence at the ghostly mining level. Finally, she would climb up the elevation shaft and wind through the corridors leading to the museum room where Acacia would be waiting. . alone.

Sapphira plodded forward, hoping to delay her return to the lower realms. She took a well-trodden path that promised no obstacles to a traveler who knew its twists and turns. With tears flowing, she counted her slow, careful steps out loud while struggling to conquer her tortured thoughts.

“Nine. . ten. . eleven. Seven more until I turn. . Of course Paili will be fine. Thirteen. . fourteen. . after all, now she can eat good food instead of old cabbages and dried beans. . sixteen. . seventeen. . and that woman is so sweet. . eighteen. . Turn here.” She pivoted to the left and continued. “One. . two. . All my other sisters are happy now. Four. . five. . six. . so Paili will be happy, too. . seven. . eight. And Acacia and I won’t have to worry about her getting so sick again. . nine. . ten. . That fever nearly killed Paili and Awven, and now that Penicillin’s been discovered, it doesn’t make sense to risk their lives. . twelve. . thirteen. . so now Acacia and I can concentrate on. .” She halted and tapped her finger on her chin. “Concentrate on what? Staring at each other for several more centuries?”

She turned back toward the little cottage in the distance, barely able to see two lanterns now glowing brightly at the front door. A man and woman stooped together, embracing Paili warmly.

A tear trickled down Sapphira’s cheek, but she didn’t bother to wipe it off. It didn’t matter. Nothing else mattered. Even if she and Acacia had to live under a billion tons of rocks forever, giving such a glorious new life to someone so precious was worth it all. Her sweet little sister finally had a home. . and people who loved her.

Sapphira ignited her cross and ran the rest of the way to the portal.

April, 1935

Elam slung his knapsack over his shoulder and slid a silver coin across the counter. “Will that cover it?” he asked.

“Quite well, laddie.” The innkeeper tipped his beret. “Come back again.”

Elam nodded at the floppy-eared old man, then pushed open a heavy oaken door and strode out into the misty dawn. Glasgow smelled worse than usual, oilier somehow, certainly more sulfurous than the day before. He pulled a beret from his trousers pocket and pressed it over his head. Or maybe he just noticed the odors more. When he worked in the Clydebank shipyards, the stench of tar and sweaty men masked everything else, and now that he had been out of a job for a couple of months, his sense of smell was probably more sensitive.

Elam turned back toward the one-story flat he had called home for the past two years. Although he had shared his ratty suite with a family of eight, this hostel was more than adequate in such tough times, and the innkeeper was fair and friendly. He laid his hand on the lintel, and, using the Scottish accent he had picked up over the years, whispered, “May the Lord bless the keeper of this house, and may he and his wife live long and well on the earth.”

He dug into his pocket again and felt his leather purse, fingering the few coins that still weighed it down, enough for a brick of soap now and then, but not enough for lodging. He pulled his beret low over his brow and marched toward the road leading out of town. It was best to go back to camping in the woods, at least until hard times lifted. Ever since they finished building the Queen Mary , jobs had dropped off at the docks like ailing old men in the TB sanitariums.

As he strode past his church, dozens of people streamed from the sanctuary. He stopped for a moment and enjoyed the sea of smiling faces. The sunrise service had been resplendent, filled with wondrous choruses for the risen Savior, but Elam had slipped out right before the benediction. While hardly ever missing worship, he couldn’t risk partaking in fellowship. There were always too many questions and never enough answers.

Elam marched on mile after mile. Once he passed the outskirts of the city, he took a side road, a familiar dirt and pebble path that wound its way through sheep pastures on its hilly course to Hannah’s cottage. It had been at least three weeks since he last checked on her, so making camp in the woods behind her boarding house seemed a good choice for the night.

As he strolled by a pasture of grazing horses, he reached into his pocket and felt the Ovulum. Since it had been cold and quiet for decades, his delay in visiting Hannah probably hadn’t mattered. The slayers were likely chasing down one of the hundreds of misleading clues he had left for them in London.

He stopped in front of the cottage and lowered his knapsack to the path, imagining Devin and Palin conducting their search. In his mind, they leaned over to hunt through a dustbin in a foggy London alley and bumped heads so hard they fell back on their posteriors. Elam laughed out loud.

“May I help ye, laddie?” a sweet voice called.

Elam gulped. Hannah! She had come outside, and he hadn’t noticed! Why wasn’t she working the charity breakfast lines? He tipped his beret and tried to squeeze out some intelligible words through his narrowing throat. “Uh, yes. I, uh. .”

“Are ye sick?” Hannah stepped off her porch and walked straight up to him, her long dress seeming to sweep her petite body gracefully forward. “Do ye need a place to stay?”

Elam grabbed his beret and wrung it with both hands. “Uh, yes, but I’m running short on money.”

“Atween the wind and the wa, are ye?” Hannah snatched up his knapsack, hooked him by the arm, and pulled him toward the cottage, her long auburn hair bouncing in rhythm with her gait. “Don’t let it ever be said that Hannah MacKay turned out an impoverished laddie.”

Elam gave in to Hannah’s persistent tug and followed her into the cottage’s front room. As the door swung closed, the rusty hinges squawked a loud complaint. Elam glanced around casually. Having sneaked in through the quieter back door several times to check on her, he was already familiar with the layout a small but tidy dining area to the left, a cluttered little kitchen to the right, and, lining a short hallway straight ahead, four perfectly square bedrooms, three for tenants and one for Hannah. During those visits in the wee hours, Elam sometimes crept into her room, feeling the need, as a faithful shepherd of dragons, to stand and gaze at her as she slept. Still unmarried after all these centuries, she always slept alone.

She stopped at the first bedroom on the right and peeked inside. “You’re in luck. Mr. Logan took his chimney brooms. He and his boy won’t be back until at least tomorrow night.” She laid his knapsack on the floor and pointed at a washbasin. “Water’s there if ye wants a cat’s lick before supper.”